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 Praise for the First Edition of
Democracy’s Discontent

“An impor­tant book about the meaning of liberty. . . . ​By revealing

the shallowness of liberal and conservative views of democracy,
[Sandel] inspires us to reevaluate what American politics is ­really
about.”
—­J ohn B. Judis, Washington Post Book World

“Sandel gives us one of the most power­ful works of public philos-

ophy to appear in recent years. . . . ​A brilliant diagnosis.”
—­F ouad Ajami, U.S. News & World Report

“A profound contribution to our understanding of the present

discon­tents.”
—­Paul A. Rahe, Wall Street Journal

“An elegant reading of constitutional controversies and po­liti­cal

arguments, this book is bound to change the course of American
historiogra­phy, po­liti­cal philosophy, and ­legal scholarship.”
—­J ane Mansbridge, author of Beyond Adversary
Democracy and Why We Lost the E.R.A.

“Among liberalism’s critics, few have been more influential or in-

sightful than Michael Sandel. . . . ​This carefully argued, consis-
tently thought-­provoking book is grounded in a sophisticated
understanding of past and pre­sent po­liti­cal debates.”
—­E ric Foner, The Nation

“A detailed, coherent and marvelously illuminating narrative of

American po­liti­cal and ­legal history. Recounting the debates over
ratifying the Constitution, chartering a national bank, abolishing
slavery, the spread of wage l­abor, Progressive Era reforms and the
New Deal, Sandel skillfully highlights the presence (and, increas-
ingly, absence) of republican ideology, the shift from a ‘po­liti­cal
economy of citizenship’ to a po­liti­cal economy of growth.”
—­G eorge Scialabba, Boston Globe
“Sandel’s wonderful new book . . . ​­will help produce what he de-
sires—­a quickened sense of the moral consequences of po­liti­cal
practices and economic arrangements. . . . ​[A] splendid explana-
tion of our rich po­liti­cal tradition.”
—­G eorge F. Will, Newsweek

“A brilliant book. . . . ​Sandel suggests that we w

­ on’t heal our frac-
tured body politic u ­ nless we revive an American civic tradition
that understands freedom not only as liberty from coercion but
also as the freedom to govern ourselves together. It w ­ ill chal-
lenge liberals and conservatives, moderates and radicals in ways
they have not been challenged before.”
—­E . J. Dionne, Jr., author of Why Americans Hate Politics

“Democracy’s Discontent is a wonderful example of immanent social

criticism, which is to say, of social criticism as it o
­ ught to be written.”
—­M ichael Walzer, in Debating Democracy’s Discontent

“Michael Sandel’s Democracy’s Discontent is an inspired and

deeply disturbing polemic about citizenship. . . . ​The most com-
pelling . . . ​account I have read of how citizens might draw on
the energies of everyday life and the ties of civil society to rein-
vigorate the public realm.”
—­R ichard Sennett, Times Literary Supplement

“Beautifully argued. . . . ​American history is, in Mr. Sandel’s tell­ing,

a story of the tragic loss of civic republicanism—­the notion that
liberty is not about freedom from government, but about the
capacity for self-­government, which alone makes the practice of
freedom pos­si­ble.”
—­A ndrew Sullivan, New York Times Book Review

“A bold and compelling critique of American liberalism that chal-

lenges us to reassess some basic assumptions about our public life
and its dilemmas. It is a remarkable fusion of philosophical and
historical scholarship.”
—­A lan Brinkley, author of The End of Reform:
New Deal Liberalism in Recession and War
Democracy’s Discontent
 Democracy’s
Discontent

A NEW EDITION FOR OUR PERILOUS TIMES

Michael J. Sandel

The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press

c a m b r i d g e , m as­sa­c h u­s e t t s
l o n d o n , ­e n g l a n d
2022
 Copyright © 1996, 2022 by Michael J. Sandel

First edition published as Democracy’s Discontent:

Amer­i­ca in Search of a Public Philosophy by the Belknap
Press of Harvard University Press, 1996

First paperback edition published by the Belknap Press of

Harvard University Press, 1998

All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of Amer­i­ca

First printing

Cover design by Tim Jones

9780674287440 (EPUB)

9780674287433 (PDF)

The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed

edition as follows:

Names: Sandel, Michael J., author.

Title: Democracy’s discontent : a new edition for our perilous
times / Michael J. Sandel.
Description: Cambridge, Mas­sa­chu­setts : The Belknap Press
of Harvard University Press, 2022. | “First edition published
as Democracy’s Discontent: Amer­i­ca in Search of a Public
Philosophy by the Belknap Press of Harvard University Press,
1996”—­Title page verso. | Includes bibliographical references
and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022002887 | ISBN 9780674270718
(paperback)
Subjects: LCSH: Democracy—­United States. | Liberalism—­
United States. | Civil rights—­United States. | Citizenship—­
United States. | Politics, Practical.
Classification: LCC JK1726 .S325 2022 | DDC 320.973—­
dc23/eng/20220318
LC rec­ord available at https://­lccn​.­loc​.­gov​/­2022002887
For Kiku
 Contents

preface to the new edition xi

preface to the original edition xiii

Introduction to the New Edition: Democracy’s Peril 1

1 The Po­liti­cal Economy of Citizenship 10

2 Economics and Virtue in the Early Republic 18

3 ­Free ­Labor versus Wage ­Labor 64

4 Community, Self-­Government, and

Progressive Reform 107

5 Liberalism and the Keynesian Revolution 170

6 The Triumph and Travail of the Procedural Republic 201

Conclusion: In Search of a Public Philosophy 250

Epilogue: What Went Wrong: Capitalism and

Democracy since the 1990s 284

notes 343

index 399

ix
 Preface to the New Edition

In the years since the first edition of this book was published,
democracy’s discontent has deepened, becoming so acute as to
raise doubts about the ­future of American democracy. In this
new edition, which takes the story through the Clinton-­Bush-­
Obama years to the presidency of Donald Trump and the
COVID-19 pandemic, I try to explain why. The first edition
consisted of two parts, one on the American constitutional tra-
dition, the other on public discourse about the economy, and
showed how the public philosophy of con­temporary liberalism
unfolded in each of ­these domains. For the new edition, I have
dropped the constitutional account and focus instead on debates
about the economy. Seeing how ­these debates evolved during
the age of globalization may help us understand how we arrived
at this perilous po­liti­cal moment.

Since Democracy’s Discontent appeared in 1996, I have accu-

mulated a mountain of debts to ­those who responded to the
book. I owe special thanks to Anita L. Allen and Milton C.
Regan, who convened a memorable symposium at Georgetown
University Law Center. The symposium, hosted by Dean Judith
Arens, was an all-­star gathering of l­egal and po­liti­cal theorists
who offered searching critical commentaries on the book. Allen

xi
 Preface to the New Edition

and Regan edited a collection of ­these and other commentaries

and review essays in a volume called Debating Democracy’s
Discontent, published in 1998. I learned a ­great deal from ­these
critical essays and am deeply grateful to the contributors: Chris-
topher Beem, Ronald S. Beiner, William E. Connolly, Jean Bethke
Elshtain, Amitai Etzioni, James E. Fleming, Bruce Frohnen,
William A. Galston, ­Will Kymlicka, Linda C. McClain, Clifford
Orwin, Thomas L. Pangle, Philip Pettit, Milton C. Regan,
Richard Rorty, Nancy L. Rosenblum, Richard Sennett, Mary
Lyndon Shanley, Andrew W. Siegel, Charles Taylor, Mark Tushnet,
Jeremy Waldron, Michael Walzer, Robin West, and Joan C.
Williams.
For helpful comments on the epilogue to the new edition,
I am grateful to Kiku Adatto, George Andreou, and David M.
Kennedy. Katrina Vassallo copyedited the manuscript with
­professionalism and care. I owe special thanks to Ian Malcolm,
my editor at Harvard University Press, who, over a number of
years, helped develop the idea for this new edition. Along with
his superb editorial judgment, Ian has an uncanny ability to
provide just the right balance of guidance and patience. My sons
Adam and Aaron, joyful presences for the first edition, w ­ ere
sounding boards and insightful critics for this one. I am indebted
to them, and above all to Kiku. This book is still for her.

xii
 Preface to the Original Edition

Po­liti­cal philosophy seems often to reside at a distance from

the world. Princi­ples are one t­hing, politics another, and even
our best efforts to live up to our ideals seldom fully succeed.
Philosophy may indulge our moral aspirations, but politics
deals in recalcitrant facts. Indeed, some would say the trou­ble
with American democracy is that we take our ideals too seri-
ously, that our zeal for reform outruns our re­spect for the gap
between theory and practice.
But if po­liti­cal philosophy is unrealizable in one sense, it is
unavoidable in another. This is the sense in which philosophy
inhabits the world from the start; our practices and institutions
are embodiments of theory. We could hardly describe our
­po­liti­cal life, much less engage in it, without recourse to a lan-
guage laden with theory—of rights and obligations, citizenship
and freedom, democracy and law. Po­liti­cal institutions are not
simply instruments that implement ideas in­de­pen­dently con-
ceived; they are themselves embodiments of ideas. For all we
may resist such ultimate questions as the meaning of justice and
the nature of the good life, what we cannot escape is that we
live some answer to ­these questions—we live some theory—­all
the time.
In this book I explore the theory we live now, in con­temporary
Amer­ic­ a. My aim is to identify the public philosophy implicit

xiii
 Preface to the Original Edition

in our practices and institutions and to show how tensions in

the philosophy show up in the practice. If theory never keeps
its distance but inhabits the world from the start, we may find
a clue to our condition in the theory that we live. Attending to
the theory implicit in our public life may help us to diagnose
our po­liti­cal condition. It may also reveal that the predicament
of American democracy resides not only in the gap between our
ideals and institutions, but also within the ideals themselves,
and within the self-­image our public life reflects.

Part I of this book took form as the Julius Rosenthal Founda-

tion Lectures at Northwestern University School of Law in
1989. I am grateful to Dean Robert W. Bennett and the faculty
for their warm hospitality and searching questions, and also
for their permission to incorporate the lectures into this larger
proj­ect. I also benefited from opportunities to try out portions
of this book on faculty and students at Brown University, the
University of California at Berkeley, Indiana University, New
York University, Oxford University, Prince­ton University, the
University of Utah, the University of ­Virginia, the Institute for
­Human Sciences in Vienna, and at sessions of the American Po­
liti­cal Science Association, the Association of American Law
Schools, the Society for Ethical and L­ egal Philosophy, and the
Harvard University Law School Faculty Workshop. Portions of
Chapters 3 and 4 appeared, in e­ arlier versions, in Utah Law
Review 1989, no. 3 (1989): 597–615; and in California Law
Review 77, no. 3 (1989): 521–538, respectively.
For generous support of the research and writing of this
book, I am grateful to the Ford Foundation, the American
Council of Learned Socie­ties, the National Endowment for the
Humanities, and Harvard Law School’s Summer Research Pro-

xiv
 Preface to the Original Edition

gram. Colleagues in the Department of Government and the

Law School at Harvard provided a constant source of stimu-
lating conversation on the themes of this book. I am especially
indebted to the Harvard gradu­ate and law students in my
course, “Law and Po­liti­cal Theory: The Liberal and Repub-
lican Traditions,” who subjected my arguments to vigorous crit-
ical scrutiny. I owe special thanks to friends who, at vari­ous
stages of this proj­ect, gave me the benefit of extensive written
comments on parts or all of the manuscript: Alan Brinkley,
Richard Fallon, Bonnie Honig, George Kateb, Stephen Macedo,
Jane Mansbridge, Quentin Skinner, and Judith Jarvis Thomson.
John Bauer and Russ Muirhead provided research assistance
that went far beyond the gathering of information and did
much to inform my thinking. At Harvard University Press, I
was fortunate to work with Aida Donald, an exemplary editor
and a patient one, and with Ann Hawthorne, who saw the book
through its final stages with skill and care. My greatest regret
about this book is that my friend and colleague Judith N.
Shklar did not live to see it finished. Dita disagreed with much
of what I had to say, and yet from my first days at Harvard was
a wellspring of encouragement and advice, of buoyant and
bracing intellectual camaraderie.
During the time I worked on this book, my sons Adam and
Aaron grew from babies to boys. They made t­hese years of
writing a season of joy. Fi­nally, this work reflects much that I
have learned from my wife, Kiku Adatto, a gifted writer on
American culture. She did more than anyone ­else to improve
this book, which I dedicate to her with love.

xv
Democracy’s Discontent
 Introduction to the New Edition

DEMOCRACY’S PERIL

Our civic life is not g ­ oing very well. A defeated

president incites an angry mob to invade the U.S. Capitol, in a
violent attempt to prevent Congress from certifying the elec-
tion results. More than a year into the presidency of Joe Biden,
most Republicans continue to believe the election was stolen
from Donald Trump. Even as a pandemic claims more than a
million American lives, angry disputes over masks and vaccines
reveal our polarized condition. Public outrage at police killings
of unarmed Black men prompts a national reckoning with ra-
cial injustice, but states across the country enact laws making
it more difficult to vote.
Trump’s presidency and its rancorous aftermath cast a dark
shadow over the ­future of American democracy. But our civic
trou­bles did not begin with Trump and did not end with his
defeat. His election was a symptom of frayed social bonds and
a damaged demo­cratic condition.

1
 Democracy’s Discontent

For de­cades, the divide between winners and losers has been
deepening—­poisoning our politics, setting us apart. Since the
1980s and 1990s, governing elites carried out a neoliberal global-
ization proj­ect that brought massive gains for ­those at the top but
job loss and stagnant wages for most working p ­ eople. The pro-
ponents argued that the gains to the winners could be used to
compensate globalization’s losers. But the compensation never
arrived. The winners used their bounty to buy influence in high
places and consolidate their winnings. Government ceased to be a
counterweight to concentrated economic power. Demo­crats and
Republicans joined in deregulating Wall Street, reaping hand-
some campaign contributions. When the financial crisis of 2008
brought the system to the brink, they spent billions to bail out the
banks but left ordinary homeowners to fend for themselves.
Anger at the bailout and the offshoring of jobs to low-­wage
countries fueled populist protest across the po­liti­cal spectrum—
on the left, the Occupy movement and Bernie Sanders’s surpris-
ingly strong challenge to Hillary Clinton in 2016; on the right,
the Tea Party movement and the election of Trump.
Some of Trump’s supporters ­were drawn to his racist
appeals. But he also exploited anger born of legitimate griev-
ances. Four de­cades of neoliberal governance had brought in-
equalities of income and wealth not seen since the 1920s. Social
mobility stalled. ­Under relentless pressure from corporations
and their po­liti­cal allies, ­labor u
­ nions went into decline. Pro-
ductivity increased, but workers received a smaller and smaller
share of what they produced. Finance claimed a growing share
of corporate profits but invested less in new productive enter-
prises than in speculative activity that did l­ittle to help the real
economy. Rather than contend directly with in­equality and
stagnant wages, the mainstream parties told workers to im-
prove themselves by getting a college degree.

2
 Introduction to the New Edition

Trump’s economic policies did ­little for the working ­people

who supported him, but his animus against elites and their glo-
balization proj­ect struck a resonant chord. His pledge to build
a wall along the border with Mexico, and to make Mexico pay
for it, is a case in point. His audiences found this promise
thrilling, not only ­because they believed it would reduce the
number of immigrants competing for their jobs. The wall stood
for something bigger: the reassertion of national sovereignty,
power, and pride. At a time when global economic forces con-
strained the assertion of American power and w ­ ill, and when
multicultural, cosmopolitan identities complicated traditional
notions of patriotism and belonging, the border wall would
“make Amer­i­ca g­ reat again.” It would reassert the certitudes
that the porous bound­aries and fluid identities of the global
age had put in doubt.

In 1996, when the first edition of Democracy’s Discontent

appeared, the Cold War had ended, and Amer­ic­ a’s version of
liberal capitalism seemed triumphant, the only system left
standing. The end of history, and of ideology, beckoned. A
Demo­cratic president reduced the federal deficit to win the con-
fidence of the bond market. Economic growth was up, and
unemployment was down. And yet, amidst the peace and pros-
perity, anx­i­eties about the proj­ect of self-­government could be
glimpsed beneath the surface:

To the extent that con­temporary politics puts sovereign

states and sovereign selves in question, it is likely to pro-
voke reactions from ­those who would banish ambiguity,
shore up borders, harden the distinction between insiders
and outsiders, and promise a politics to “take back our

3
 Democracy’s Discontent

culture and take back our country,” to “restore our sov-

ereignty” with a vengeance.1

The vengeful backlash arrived two de­cades ­later. But the

grievances that elected Trump ­were not put to rest by his pres-
idency, or by his defeat ­after a single term in office. Democra-
cy’s discontent persists. Abetted by pandemic, hyper partisan-
ship, recalcitrant racial injustice, and toxic social media, the
discontent is now more acute than it was a quarter c­ entury
ago—­more rancorous, even lethal.
In the 1990s, the discontent took the form of inchoate
­anx­i­eties—­a growing sense that we w ­ ere losing control of the
forces that govern our lives, and that the moral fabric of com-
munity was unraveling. As the global economy mattered more,
the nation-­state, traditionally the site of self-­government, mat-
tered less. The scale of economic life was exceeding the reach
of demo­cratic control.
As the proj­ect of self-­government became more attenuated,
so did the bonds among citizens. Institutions of global gover-
nance ­were unlikely to cultivate the shared understandings and
mutual obligations that demo­cratic citizenship requires. Na-
tional loyalties and allegiances w ­ ere eroded by the declining
economic significance of national borders. The credentialed
elites who flourished in the new economy ­were discovering they
had more in common with their fellow entrepreneurs, innova-
tors, and professionals around the world than with their fellow
citizens. As companies could find workers, and for that m ­ atter,
consumers, half a world away, they became less dependent on
­those closer to home.
Workers whose livelihoods ­were tied to neighborhood and
place took note. The new way of organ­izing economic activity
heightened in­equality, eroded the dignity of work, and devalued

4
 Introduction to the New Edition

national identity and allegiance. For the winners, the po­liti­cal

divide that mattered was no longer left versus right but open
versus closed. ­Those who questioned ­free trade agreements, the
offshoring of jobs to low-­wage countries, and the unfettered
flow of capital across national borders w ­ ere cast as close-­
minded, as if opposition to neoliberal globalization w ­ ere on a
par with bigotry. By this logic, patriotism seemed atavistic, a
flight from the open, frictionless world that beckoned, a con-
solation for the left-­behind.
I worried at the time that impor­tant transnational proj­ects—­
environmental accords, ­human rights conventions, the Eu­ro­
pean Union—­would founder for their failure to cultivate the
shared identities and civic engagement necessary to sustain them.
“­People ­will not pledge allegiance to vast and distant entities,
what­ever their importance, ­unless ­those institutions are somehow
connected to po­liti­cal arrangements that reflect the identity of
the participants.”2 Even the Eu­ro­pean Union, “one of the most
successful experiments in supranational governance, has so far
failed to cultivate a common Eu­ro­pean identity sufficient to sup-
port its mechanisms of economic and po­liti­cal integration.”3
In 2016, Britain’s vote to leave the Eu­ro­pean Union shocked
well-­credentialed, metropolitan elites, as did Trump’s election
several months ­later. Brexit and the border wall both symbolized
a backlash against a market-­driven, technocratic mode of gov-
erning that had produced job loss, wage stagnation, rising in­
equality, and the galling sense among working ­people that elites
looked down on them. The votes for Brexit and for Trump w ­ ere
anguished attempts to reassert national sovereignty and pride.
The discontent that rumbled beneath the surface in the
1990s, during the heyday of the Washington Consensus, now
took on a harder edge, and upended mainstream politics. Inti-
mations of the disempowering effects of global capitalism gave

5
 Democracy’s Discontent

way to the blunt recognition that the system was rigged in ­favor
of big corporations and the wealthy. Anx­ie­ ties about the loss of
community gave way to polarization and mistrust.
Self-­government requires that po­liti­cal institutions hold eco-
nomic power to demo­cratic account. It also requires that citi-
zens identify sufficiently with one another to consider them-
selves engaged in a common proj­ect. ­Today, both conditions
are in doubt.
Across the po­liti­cal spectrum, many Americans see that gov-
ernment has been captured by power­ful interests, leaving the
average citizen ­little say in how we are governed. Campaign
contributions and armies of lobbyists enable corporations
and the wealthy to bend the rules in their ­favor. A handful of
power­ful companies dominate big tech, social media, internet
search, online retailing, telecommunications, banking, phar­ma­
ceu­ti­cals, and other key industries—­destroying competition,
driving up prices, heightening in­equality, and defying demo­
cratic control.
Meanwhile, Americans are deeply divided. Culture wars rage
over how to contend with racial injustice; what to teach our
­children about our country’s past; what to do about immigra-
tion, gun vio­lence, climate change, COVID-19 vaccine refusal,
and the flood of disinformation that, amplified by social media,
pollutes the public sphere. Residents of blue states and red
states, metropolitan centers and rural communities, ­those with
and ­those without college degrees, live increasingly separate
lives. We get our news from dif­fer­ent sources, believe in dif­fer­ent
facts, and encounter few p ­ eople with opinions or social back-
grounds dif­fer­ent from our own.
­These two aspects of our predicament—­unaccountable eco-
nomic power and entrenched polarization—­are connected.
Both disempower demo­cratic politics.

6
 Introduction to the New Edition

The culture wars are so contentious, and so irresistible, that

they distract us from working together to unrig the system.
­Those who foment and inflame ­these wars help insulate eco-
nomic arrangements from broad-­based movements for reform.
It is no won­der our public discourse feels hollow. What
passes for po­liti­cal discourse consists e­ ither of narrow, techno-
cratic talk, which inspires no one; or ­else shouting matches, in
which partisans denounce and declaim, without ­really listening.
The shrill, fevered tone of cable tele­vi­sion news—to say nothing
of social media—is emblematic of this condition.
To revitalize American democracy, we need to debate two
questions that the technocratic politics of recent de­cades has
obscured: How can we reconfigure the economy to make it
amenable to demo­cratic control? And how can we reconstruct
our social life to ease the polarization and enable Americans
to become effective demo­cratic citizens?
Holding economic power to account and invigorating citi-
zenship might appear to be dif­fer­ent po­liti­cal proj­ects. The first
is about power and institutions; the second is about identity
and ideals. A central theme of Democracy’s Discontent is that
­these two proj­ects are connected. Unwinding the oligarchic
capture of demo­cratic institutions depends on empowering
citizens to think of themselves as participants in a shared
public life.
This way of thinking cuts against the grain. Most of the
time, we think of ourselves less as citizens than as consumers.
When we worry about the concentration of power in big cor-
porations, we worry mainly that monopolies drive up prices.
Relying on big pharma means paying more for lifesaving drugs.
Less competition in banking means higher fees for credit cards
and checking accounts. Having just a few big airlines means
paying more to fly to Cincinnati.

7
 Democracy’s Discontent

But “the curse of bigness,” as Louis D. Brandeis called it, is

not only a prob­lem for consumers; it is also a prob­lem for self-­
government. If the phar­ma­ceu­ti­cal industry is too power­ful, it
­will obstruct health care reform, and insist on long-­term patent
protections that prohibit the manufacture of generic drugs and
vaccines, even during a pandemic. If the banks are too big
to fail, they ­will engage in risky speculation, knowing that
taxpayers w ­ ill have to cover the downside if their bets go bad.
And they w ­ ill defeat attempts to regulate their irresponsible
be­hav­ior.
Throughout American history, politicians, activists, and re-
formers have debated the civic consequences of corporate
power. In its origins, for example, the antitrust movement aimed
at reining in the po­liti­cal power of big business. Averting high
consumer prices was not the primary concern. ­After the Second
World War, the civic rationale for antitrust faded, and the con-
sumer rationale gained ascendance.
But ­today, the rise of big tech and social media reminds us
that the curse of bigness does not consist only in higher con-
sumer prices. Facebook is ­free. The harm it inflicts is to democ-
racy. Its vast, un­regu­la­ted power enables foreign interference
in our elections and the unfiltered spread, on an unpre­ce­dented
scale, of hate mongering, conspiracy theories, fake news, and
disinformation. ­These pernicious civic consequences are now
recognized. Less obvious is the corrosive effect on our atten-
tion spans. Commandeering our attention, harvesting our per-
sonal data, and selling it to advertisers who pitch us ads in line
with our tastes not only threatens our privacy; it also under-
mines the patient, undistracted stance t­oward the world that
demo­cratic deliberation requires.
We are not accustomed to attending to the civic consequences
of economic power. For the most part, our debates about eco-

8
 Introduction to the New Edition

nomic policy are about economic growth and, to a lesser extent,

distributive justice. We argue about how to increase the size of
the pie, and how to distribute the pieces. But this is too narrow
a way of thinking about the economy. It wrongly assumes
that the purpose of an economy is to maximize the welfare of
consumers. But we are not only consumers; we are also demo­
cratic citizens.
As citizens we have a stake in creating an economy hospitable
to the proj­ect of self-­government. This means that economic
power must be subject to demo­cratic control. It also requires
that every­one be able to earn a decent living u
­ nder dignified con-
ditions, have a voice in the workplace and in public affairs,
and have access to a broadly diffused civic education that equips
them to deliberate about the common good.
Figuring out what economic arrangements are best suited to
self-­government is a contestable ­matter. Compared to familiar
debates about how to promote GDP, increase employment, and
avoid inflation, arguments about the civic consequences of eco-
nomic policy are less technical and more po­liti­cal. I call this
broader, civic tradition of economic argument “the po­liti­cal
economy of citizenship.”
This tradition, though eclipsed in recent de­cades, has s­ haped
the terms of public discourse throughout much of American
history. At times invoked in defense of odious ­causes, it has
also inspired radical, demo­cratic movements for reform. One
of the aims of Democracy’s Discontent, the old edition and the
new, is to ask w ­ hether the empowering, demo­cratic strand of
our civic tradition might help us imagine an alternative to the
neoliberal, technocratic mode of economic argument familiar
in our time.

9
 1

The Po­liti­cal Economy

of Citizenship

Times of trou­b le prompt us to recall the ideals by which

we live. But in Amer­i­ca ­today, this is not an easy ­thing to do.
At a time when demo­cratic ideals are faltering abroad, ­there is
reason to won­der ­whether we have lost possession of them at
home. Our public life is rife with discontent. Americans do not
believe they have much say in how they are governed and do
not trust government to do the right t­ hing.1 Trust in our fellow
citizens is in precipitous decline.2
The po­liti­cal parties, meanwhile, are unable to make sense
of our condition. The main topics of national debate—­the
proper scope of the welfare state, the extent of rights and en-
titlements, the proper degree of government regulation—­take
their shape from the arguments of an ­earlier day. ­These are not
unimportant topics; but they do not reach the two concerns
that lie at the heart of democracy’s discontent. One is the fear
that, individually and collectively, we are losing control of the
forces that govern our lives. The other is the sense that, from
­family to neighborhood to nation, the moral fabric of commu-
nity is unraveling around us. ­These two fears—­for the loss of

10
 The Political Economy of Citizenship

self-­government and the erosion of community—­together de-

fine the anxiety of the age. It is an anxiety that the prevailing
po­liti­cal agenda has failed to answer or even address.
Why is American politics ill equipped to allay the discon-
tent that now engulfs it? The answer lies beyond the po­liti­cal
arguments of our day, in the public philosophy that animates
them. By public philosophy, I mean the po­liti­cal theory implicit
in our practice, the assumptions about citizenship and freedom
that inform our public life. The inability of con­temporary
American politics to speak convincingly about self-­government
and community has something to do with the public philos-
ophy by which we live.
A public philosophy is an elusive ­thing, for it is constantly
before our eyes. It forms the often unreflective background to
our po­liti­cal discourse and pursuits. In ordinary times, the
public philosophy can easily escape the notice of ­those who
live by it. But anxious times compel a certain clarity. They force
first princi­ples to the surface and offer an occasion for critical
reflection.

Liberal and Republican Freedom

The po­liti­cal philosophy by which we live is a certain version
of liberal po­liti­cal theory. Its central idea is that government
should be neutral ­toward the moral and religious views its cit-
izens espouse. Since p ­ eople disagree about the best way to live,
government should not affirm in law any par­tic­ul­ar vision of
the good life. Instead, it should provide a framework of rights
that re­spects persons as f­ree and in­de­pen­dent selves, capable
of choosing their own values and ends.3 Since this liberalism
asserts the priority of fair procedures over par­tic­ul­ar ends, the
public life it informs might be called the procedural republic.4

11
 Democracy’s Discontent

In describing the prevailing po­liti­cal philosophy as a version

of liberal po­liti­cal theory, it is impor­tant to distinguish two dif­
fer­ent meanings of liberalism. In the common parlance of
American politics, liberalism is the opposite of conservatism;
it is the outlook of ­those who ­favor a more generous welfare
state and a greater mea­sure of social and economic equality.5
In the history of po­liti­cal theory, however, liberalism has a dif­
fer­ent, broader meaning. In this historical sense, liberalism de-
scribes a tradition of thought that emphasizes toleration and
re­spect for individual rights and that runs from John Locke,
Immanuel Kant, and John Stuart Mill to John Rawls. The
public philosophy of con­temporary American politics is a ver-
sion of this liberal tradition of thought, and most of our de-
bates proceed within its terms.
The idea that freedom consists in our capacity to choose our
ends finds prominent expression in our politics and law. Its
province is not ­limited to ­those known as liberals rather than
conservatives in American politics; it can be found across the
po­liti­cal spectrum. Republicans sometimes argue, for example,
that taxing the rich to pay for welfare programs is a form of
coerced charity that violates p ­ eople’s freedom to choose what
to do with their own money. Demo­crats sometimes argue that
government should assure all citizens a decent level of income,
housing, and health, on the grounds that ­those who are crushed
by economic necessity are not truly ­free to exercise choice in
other domains. Although the two sides disagree about how
government should act to re­spect individual choice, both as-
sume that freedom consists in the capacity of persons to choose
their values and ends.
So familiar is this vision of freedom that it seems a perma-
nent feature of the American po­liti­cal and constitutional tra-
dition. But Americans have not always understood freedom in

12
 The Political Economy of Citizenship

this way. As a reigning public philosophy, the version of liber-

alism that informs our pre­sent debates is a recent arrival, a de-
velopment of the last half of the twentieth c­ entury. Its distinc-
tive character can best be seen by contrast with a rival public
philosophy that it gradually displaced. This rival public philos-
ophy is a version of republican po­liti­cal theory.
Central to republican theory is the idea that liberty depends
on sharing in self-­government. This idea is not by itself incon-
sistent with liberal freedom. Participating in politics can be one
among the ways in which p ­ eople choose to pursue their ends.
According to republican po­liti­cal theory, however, sharing in
self-­rule involves something more. It means deliberating with
fellow citizens about the common good and helping to shape
the destiny of the po­liti­cal community. But to deliberate well
about the common good requires more than the capacity to
choose one’s ends and to re­spect ­others’ rights to do the same.
It requires a knowledge of public affairs and also a sense of
belonging, a concern for the ­whole, a moral bond with the com-
munity whose fate is at stake. To share in self-­rule therefore
requires that citizens possess, or come to acquire, certain qual-
ities of character, or civic virtues. But this means that repub-
lican politics cannot be neutral ­toward the values and ends its
citizens espouse. The republican conception of freedom, unlike
the liberal conception, requires a formative politics, a politics that
cultivates in citizens the qualities of character self-­government
requires.

What Is an Economy For?

The contrast between liberal and republican conceptions of
freedom suggests two dif­fer­ent ways of thinking about the
economy, two dif­fer­ent answers to the question, “What is an

13
 Democracy’s Discontent

economy for?” The liberal answer to this question was offered

by Adam Smith in The Wealth of Nations (1776), where he
wrote that “consumption is the sole end and purpose of all pro-
duction.”6 John Maynard Keynes reiterated this answer in the
twentieth ­century: “Consumption—to repeat the obvious—is
the sole end and object of all economic activity.”7 Most con­
temporary economists would agree.
But what seemed obvious to Keynes is not the only way of
conceiving the purpose of the economy. According to the re-
publican tradition, an economy is not only for the sake of con-
sumption but also for the sake of self-­government. If freedom
depends on our capacity to share in self-­rule, the economy
should equip us to be citizens, not just consumers. This ­matters
for the way we debate economic policies and arrangements. As
consumers, our primary interest is in the output of the economy:
What level of consumer welfare does it make pos­si­ble, and how
is the national product distributed? As citizens, we also have
an interest in the structure of the economy: What conditions
of work does the economy make pos­si­ble, and how does it or­
ga­nize productive activity?
From the standpoint of liberal freedom, the primary eco-
nomic question is the size and distribution of the national
product. This reflects the liberal resolve to govern in a way that
is neutral ­toward ends. In pluralist socie­ties, p
­ eople have dis-
parate preferences and desires. Maximizing GDP and distrib-
uting it fairly does not pass judgment on the worthiness of ­these
preferences and desires; it simply enables ­people to satisfy them
as fully as circumstances permit.
From the standpoint of civic freedom, an economy cannot
be neutral in this way. The organ­ization of work shapes the
way we regard one another, the way we allocate social recog-
nition and esteem. The organ­ization of production and invest-

14
 The Political Economy of Citizenship

ment determines ­whether citizens have a meaningful say in

shaping the forces that govern their lives, in the workplace and
in politics. In this sense, the republican conception of freedom
is more demanding than the liberal conception. A bountiful,
prosperous economy would enable consumers to fulfill their in-
dividual preferences more amply than an economy with a
lesser GDP. But if the conditions of work in such an economy
­were stultifying or degrading, or if the structure of the economy
defied demo­cratic control, it would fail to answer the aspiration
for self-­government central to freedom in the republican sense.

Both the liberal and republican conceptions of freedom have

been pre­sent throughout our po­liti­cal tradition, but in shifting
mea­sure and relative importance. Broadly speaking, republicanism
predominated ­earlier in American history, liberalism ­later. Since
the mid-­twentieth ­century, the civic or formative aspect of our
politics has largely given way to the liberalism that insists on neu-
trality ­toward competing conceptions of the good life.
This shift sheds light on our pre­sent po­liti­cal predicament.
For despite its appeal, the liberal vision of freedom lacks the
civic resources to sustain self-­government. This defect ill-­equips
it to address the sense of disempowerment that afflicts our
public life. The public philosophy by which we live cannot se-
cure the liberty it promises, b­ ecause it cannot inspire the sense
of community and civic engagement that liberty requires.
How the liberal conception of freedom gradually crowded
out the republican conception is a long and winding tale. It be-
gins with debates between Jefferson and Hamilton about the role
of finance in American life, and about w ­ hether Amer­i­ca should
be a manufacturing nation. It includes Jacksonian-­era debates
over banking and government-­funded internal improvements

15
 Democracy’s Discontent

(“infrastructure,” in ­today’s parlance), followed by explosive an-

tebellum arguments over the moral status of slavery and wage
­labor. As the industrial age forged a national economy, liberal
and republican themes could be glimpsed in Progressive era debates
about how to contend with trusts and big business. Attempts to
hold economic power to demo­cratic account informed the early
New Deal, but soon lost out to a growing focus on managing
macroeconomic demand. ­After the Second World War, the po­
liti­cal economy of citizenship gave way to a po­liti­cal economy of
growth. During the age of globalization, a rising faith in markets
and a growing role for finance all but extinguished the civic strand
of economic argument. And yet, public frustration with the
hollow, technocratic terms of public discourse suggests that the
aspiration for self-­government endures.
The interpretation of the American po­liti­cal tradition that
follows is an attempt to diagnose our current po­liti­cal condi-
tion. It is also an attempt to reclaim certain civic ideals and
possibilities—­not in a spirit of nostalgia but in the hope of
thinking our way beyond our privatized, polarized po­liti­cal
moment. The historical account I offer does not reveal a golden
age when all was right with American democracy. The repub-
lican tradition coexisted with slavery, with the exclusion of
­women from the public realm, with property qualifications for
voting, and with nativist hostility to immigrants; indeed it
sometimes provided the terms within which ­these practices
­were defended.
And yet, for all its episodes of darkness, the republican tra-
dition, with its emphasis on community and self-­government,
may offer a corrective to our impoverished civic life. Recalling
the republican conception of freedom as self-­rule may prompt
us to pose questions we have forgotten how to ask: What eco-
nomic arrangements are hospitable to self-­government? How

16
 The Political Economy of Citizenship

might our po­liti­cal discourse engage rather than avoid the

moral and religious convictions ­people bring to the public
realm? And how might the public life of a pluralist society cul-
tivate in citizens the expansive self-­understandings that civic
engagement requires? If the public philosophy of our day leaves
­little room for civic considerations, it may help to recall how
­earlier generations of Americans debated such questions, be-
fore the procedural republic took hold.

17
 2

Economics and Virtue

in the Early Republic

Consider the way we think and argue about economics

­today, by contrast with the way Americans debated economic
policy through much of our history. In con­temporary American
politics, most of our economic arguments revolve around two
considerations: prosperity and fairness. What­ever tax policies or
bud­get proposals or regulatory schemes ­people may ­favor, they
usually defend them on the grounds that they ­will contribute to
economic growth or improve the distribution of income; they
claim that their policy w­ ill increase the size of the economic pie,
or distribute the pieces of the pie more fairly, or both.
So familiar are t­ hese ways of justifying economic policy that
they might seem to exhaust the possibilities. But our debates
about economic policy have not always focused solely on the
size and distribution of the national product. Throughout much
of American history they have also addressed a dif­fer­ent ques-
tion, namely, what economic arrangements are most hospitable
to self-­government? Along with prosperity and fairness, the
civic consequences of economic policy have often loomed large
in American po­liti­cal discourse.

18
 Economics and Virtue in the Early Republic

Thomas Jefferson gave classic expression to the civic strand

of economic argument. In his Notes on the State of ­Virginia
(1787), he argued against developing large-­scale domestic man-
ufactures on the grounds that the agrarian way of life makes for
virtuous citizens, well suited to self-­government. “­Those who
­labour in the earth are the chosen ­people of God,” the embodi-
ments of “genuine virtue.” The po­liti­cal economists of Eu­rope
may claim that e­ very nation should manufacture for itself, but
large-­scale manufacturing undermines the in­de­pen­dence that
republican citizenship requires. “Dependance begets subservi-
ence and venality, suffocates the germ of virtue, and prepares fit
tools for the designs of ambition.” Jefferson thought it better
to “let our work-­shops remain in Eu­rope” and avoid the moral
corruption they bring; better to import manufactured goods
than the manners and habits that attend their production.1
Jefferson’s cele­bration of “­those who ­labour in the earth” as
virtuous republican citizens was starkly at odds with the system
of ­labor that sustained his plantation at Monticello. Although
Jefferson deplored slavery in princi­ple, calling it “the most un-
remitting despotism,”2 he owned more than six hundred en-
slaved African Americans during his lifetime. They farmed his
land, served in his home, and produced nails in his nail factory.
The work they ­were forced to perform, skilled or unskilled,
could hardly equip them to be citizens, given the system of
­racial subordination that excluded them from public life. Like
Jefferson’s ringing words in the Declaration of In­de­pen­dence,
his po­liti­cal economy of citizenship articulated an ideal far­
­removed from the life he led.3 But the ideal expressed a compel-
ling civic aspiration—­that economic arrangements should be
judged, at least in part, by the kinds of citizens they produce.
In the end, Jefferson’s agrarian vision did not prevail. But
his notion that the economy should cultivate the qualities of

19
 Democracy’s Discontent

character self-­government requires found broader support and

a longer c­ areer. From the Revolution to the Civil War, the po­
liti­cal economy of citizenship played a prominent role in Amer-
ican national debate.
Jefferson’s argument against large-­scale manufactures re-
flected a way of thinking about politics that had its roots in
the classical republican tradition. Central to republican theory
is the idea that liberty requires self-­government, which depends
in turn on civic virtue. This idea figured prominently in the po­
liti­cal outlook of the founding generation. “Public virtue is the
only foundation of republics,” wrote John Adams on the eve
of in­de­pen­dence. “­There must be a positive passion for the
public good, the public interest, honour, power and glory, es-
tablished in the minds of the ­people, or ­there can be no repub-
lican government, nor any real liberty.”4 Benjamin Franklin
agreed: “Only a virtuous p ­ eople are capable of freedom. As
nations become corrupt and vicious, they have more need of
masters.”5
The found­ers also learned from the republican tradition that
they could not take civic virtue for granted. To the contrary,
public spirit was a fragile ­thing, susceptible of erosion by such
corrupting forces as luxury, wealth, and power. Anxiety over
the loss of civic virtue was a per­sis­tent republican theme.
“Virtue and simplicity of manners are indispensably necessary
in a republic among all ­orders and degrees of men,” wrote John
Adams. “But ­there is so much rascality, so much venality and
corruption, so much avarice and ambition, such a rage for
profit and commerce among all ranks and degrees of men even
in Amer­i­ca, that I sometimes doubt w ­ hether t­here is public
virtue enough to support a republic.”6
If liberty cannot survive without virtue, and if virtue tends
always to corruption, then the challenge for republican poli-

20
 Economics and Virtue in the Early Republic

tics is to form or reform the moral character of citizens, to

strengthen their attachment to the common good. The public
life of a republic must serve a formative role, aimed at culti-
vating citizens of a certain kind. “It is the part of a ­great poli-
tician to make the character of his p ­ eople,” Adams declared,
“to extinguish among them the follies and vices that he sees,
and to create in them the virtues and abilities which he sees
wanting.”7 Republican government cannot be neutral ­toward
the moral character of its citizens or the ends they pursue.
Rather, it must undertake to form their character and ends in
order to foster the public concerns on which liberty depends.
The Revolution was itself born of anxiety about the loss of
civic virtue, as a desperate attempt to stave off corruption and
to realize republican ideals.8 In the 1760s and 1770s the Amer-
ican colonists viewed their strug­gle with ­England in repub-
lican terms. The En­glish constitution was imperiled by minis-
terial manipulation of Parliament, and, worse, the En­glish
­people had become “too corrupted, too enfeebled, to restore
their constitution to its first princi­ples and rejuvenate their
country.”9 In the de­cade following the Stamp Act, attempts by
Parliament to exercise sovereignty in Amer­i­ca appeared to the
colonists a “conspiracy of power against liberty,” a small part
of a larger assault on the En­glish constitution itself. It was this
belief “above all ­else that in the end propelled [the colonists]
into Revolution.”10
Republican assumptions did more than animate colonial
fears; they also defined the Revolution’s aims. “The sacrifice of
individual interests to the greater good of the ­whole formed
the essence of republicanism and comprehended for Americans
the idealistic goal of their Revolution. . . . ​No phrase except
‘liberty’ was invoked more often by the Revolutionaries than
‘the public good,’ ” which for them meant more than the sum

21
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
“George would—it was just the dare-devil sort of thing that George
Whitford would do!”
“Well, you’re not troubled about me any more!” he laughed. “A little
while ago you thought Connie had designs on me! Has it got to be
someone?”
“That’s exactly it! It’s got to be someone with Connie!”
But when he had left her and was driving on to his apartment it was
of Millicent he thought, not of Constance and Whitford. It was
astonishing how much freer he felt now that the Atlantic rolled
between him and Franklin Mills.

III
Bruce, deeply engrossed in his work, was nevertheless aware that
the performance of “The Beggar” had stimulated gossip about
Constance Mills and Whitford. Helen Torrence continued to fret
about it; Bud Henderson insisted on keeping Bruce apprised of it;
Maybelle deplored and Dale Freeman pretended to ignore. The
provincial mind must have exercise, and Bruce was both amused
and disgusted as he found that the joint appearance of Constance
and Whitford in Whitford’s one-act play had caused no little
perturbation in minds that lacked nobler occupation or were
incapable of any very serious thought about anything.
It had become a joke at the University Club that Bruce, who was
looked upon as an industrious young man, gave so much time to
Shepherd Mills. There was a doglike fidelity in Shep’s devotion that
would have been amusing if it hadn’t been pathetic. Bud Henderson
said that Shep trotted around after Bruce like a lame fox terrier that
had attached itself to an Airedale for protection.
Shep, inspired perhaps by Bruce’s example, or to have an excuse
for meeting him, had taken up handball. As the winter wore on this
brought them together once or twice a week at the Athletic Club.
One afternoon in March they had played their game and had their
shower and were in the locker room dressing.
Two other men came in a few minutes later and, concealed by the
lockers, began talking in low tones. Their voices rose until they were
audible over half the room. Bruce began to hear names—first
Whitford’s, then unmistakably Constance Mills was referred to. Shep
raised his head as he caught his wife’s name. One of the voices was
unmistakably that of Morton Walters, a young man with an
unpleasant reputation as a gossip. Bruce dropped a shoe to warn
the men that they were not alone in the room. But Walters continued,
and in a moment a harsh laugh preluded the remark:
“Well, George takes his pleasure where he finds it. But if I were Shep
Mills I certainly wouldn’t stand for it!”
Shep jumped up and started for the aisle, but Bruce stepped in front
of him and walked round to where Walters and a friend Bruce didn’t
know were standing before their lockers.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Walters, but may I remind you that this is a
gentleman’s club?”
“Well, no; you may not!” Walters retorted hotly. He advanced toward
Bruce, his eyes blazing wrathfully.
The men, half clothed, eyed each other for a moment.
“We don’t speak of women in this club as you’ve been doing,” said
Bruce. “I’m merely asking you to be a little more careful.”
“Oh, you’re criticizing my manners, are you?” flared Walters.
“Yes; that’s what I’m doing. They’re offensive. My opinion of you is
that you’re a contemptible blackguard!”
“Then that for your opinion!”
Walters sprang forward and dealt Bruce a ringing slap in the face.
Instantly both had their fists up. Walters’s companion grasped him by
the arm, begging him to be quiet, but he flung him off and moved
toward Bruce aggressively.
They sparred for a moment warily; then Walters landed a blow on
Bruce’s shoulder.
“So you’re Mrs. Mills’s champion, are you?” he sneered.
Intent upon the effect of his words, he dropped his guard. With
lightning swiftness Bruce feinted, slapped his adversary squarely
across the mouth and followed with a cracking blow on the jaw that
sent him toppling over the bench. His fall made considerable noise,
and the superintendent of the club came running in to learn the
cause of the disturbance. Walters, quickly on his feet, was now
struggling to shake off his friend. Several other men coming in
stopped in the aisle and began chaffing Walters, thinking that he and
Bruce were engaged in a playful scuffle. Walters, furious that his
friend wouldn’t release him, began cursing loudly.
“Gentlemen, this won’t do!” the superintendent admonished. “We
can’t have this here!”
“Mr. Walters,” said Bruce when Walters had been forced to sit down,
“if you take my advice you’ll be much more careful of your speech. If
you want my address you’ll find it in the office!”
He went back to Shep, who sat huddled on the bench by his locker,
his face in his hands. He got up at once and they finished dressing in
silence. Walters made no further sign, though he could be heard
blustering to his companion while the superintendent hovered about
to preserve the peace.
Shep’s limousine was waiting—he made a point of delivering Bruce
wherever he might be going after their meetings at the club—and he
got into it and sat silent until his house was reached. He hadn’t
uttered a word; the life seemed to have gone out of him.
Bruce walked with him to the door and said “Good night, Shep,” as
though nothing had happened. Shep rallied sufficiently to repeat the
good-night, choking and stammering upon it. Bruce returned to the
machine and bade the chauffeur take him home.
He did no work that night. Viewed from any angle, the episode was
disagreeable. Walters would continue to talk—no doubt with
increased viciousness. Bruce wasn’t sorry he had struck him, but as
he thought it over he found that the only satisfaction he derived from
the episode was a sense that it was for Shep that he had taken
Walters to task. Poor Shep! Bruce wished that he did not so
constantly think of Shep in commiserative phrases....
Bud Henderson, who was in the club when the row occurred,
informed Bruce that the men who had been in the locker room were
good fellows and that the story was not likely to spread. It was a pity,
though, in Bud’s view, that the thing had to be smothered, for Walters
had been entitled to a licking for some time and the occurrence
would make Bruce the most popular man in town.
“If the poor boob had known how you used to train with that middle-
weight champ in Boston during our bright college years he wouldn’t
have slapped you! I’ll bet his jaw’s sore!”
Bruce was not consoled. He wished the world would behave itself;
and in particular he wished that he was not so constantly, so
inevitably, as it seemed, put into the position of aiding and defending
the house of Mills.
 CHAPTER NINETEEN
I
Bruce worked at his plans for the Laconia memorial determinedly
and, he hoped, with inspiration. He looked in at the Hardens’ on a
Sunday afternoon and found Millicent entertaining several callow
youths—new acquaintances whom she had met at the functions to
which Mills’s cautious but effective propaganda had admitted her.
Bruce did not remain long; he thought Millicent was amused by his
poorly concealed disappointment at not finding her alone. But he
was deriving little satisfaction from his self-denial in remaining away
and grew desperate for a talk with her. He made his next venture on
a wild March night, and broke forth in a pæan of thanksgiving when
he found her alone in the library.
“You were deliciously funny when you found me surrounded! Those
were nice boys; they’d just discovered me!”
“They had the look of determined young fiends! I knew I couldn’t stay
them out. But I dare ’em to leave home on a night like this!”
“Oh, I know! You’re afraid of competition! After you left that Sunday
mamma brought in ginger cookies and we popped corn and had a
grand old time!”
“It sounds exciting. But it was food for the spirit I needed; I couldn’t
have stood it to see them eat!”
“Just for that our pantry is closed to you forever—never a cookie!
Those boys were vastly pleased to meet you. They knew you as a
soldier of the Republic and a crack handball player—not as an
eminent architect. That for fame! By the way, you must be up to
something mysterious. Dale gave me just a tiny hint that you’re
working on something prodigious. But of course I don’t ask to be let
into the secret!”
“The secret’s permanent if I fail!” he laughed.
He was conscious that their acquaintance had progressed in spite of
their rare meetings. Tonight she played for him and talked
occasionally from the organ—running comment on some liturgical
music with which she had lately been familiarizing herself. Presently
he found himself standing beside her; there seemed nothing strange
in this—to be standing where he could watch her hands and know
the thrill of her smile as she invited his appreciation of some passage
that she was particularly enjoying....
“What have you been doing with your sculpting? Please bring me up
to date on everything,” he said.
“Oh, not so much lately. You might like to see some children’s heads
I’ve been doing. I bring some of the little convalescents to the house
from the hospital to give them a change.”
“Lucky kids!” he said. “To be brought here and played with.”
“Why not? They’re entitled to all I have as much as I am.”
“Revolutionist! Really, Millicent, you must be careful!”
Yes; no matter how little he saw of her, their amity and concord
strengthened. Sometimes she looked at him in a way that quickened
his heartbeat. As they went down from the organ his hand touched
hers and he thrilled at the fleeting contact. A high privilege, this, to
be near her, to be admitted to the sanctuary of her mind and heart.
She had her clichés; harmony was a word she used frequently, and
colors and musical terms she employed with odd little meanings of
her own.
In the studio she showed him a plaque of her mother’s head which
he knew to be creditable work. His praise of it pleased her. She had
none of the amateur’s simpering affectation and false modesty. She
said frankly she thought it the best thing she had done.
“I know mamma—all her expressions—and that makes a difference.
You’ve got to see under the flesh—get the inner light even in clay. I
might really get somewhere if I gave up everything else,” she said
pensively as they idled about the studio.
“Yes; you could go far. Why not?”
“Oh, but I’d have to give up too much. I like life—being among
people; and I have my father and mother. I think I’ll go on just as I
am. If I got too serious about it I might be less good than now, when I
merely play at it....”
In their new familiarity he made bold to lift the coverings of some of
her work that she thought unworthy of display. She became gay over
some of her failures, as she called them. She didn’t throw them away
because they kept her humble.
On a table in a corner of the room stood a bust covered with a cloth
to which they came last.
“Another magnum opus?” he asked carelessly. She lifted the cloth
and stood away from it.
“Mr. Mills gave me some sittings. But this is my greatest fizzle of all; I
simply couldn’t get him!”
The features of Franklin Mills had been reproduced in the clay with
mechanical fidelity; but unquestionably something was lacking.
Bruce studied it seriously, puzzled by its deficiencies.
“Maybe you can tell me what’s wrong,” she said. “It’s curious that a
thing can come so close and fail.”
“It’s a true thing,” remarked Bruce, “as far as it goes. But you’re right;
there’s something that isn’t there. If you don’t mind, it’s dead—
there’s—there’s no life in it.”
Millicent touched the clay here and there, suggesting points where
the difficulty might lie. She was so intent that she failed to see the
changing expression on Bruce’s face. He had ceased to think of the
clay image. Mills himself had been in the studio, probably many
times. The thought of this stirred the jealousy in Bruce’s heart—
Millicent and Mills! Every kind and generous thought he had ever
entertained for the man was obliterated by this evidence that for
many hours he had been there with Millicent. But she, understanding
nothing of this, was startled when he flung round at her.
“I think I can tell you what’s the matter,” he said in a tone harsh and
strained. “The fault’s not yours!”
“No?” she questioned wonderingly.
“The man has no soul,” he said, as though he were pronouncing
sentence of death.
That Millicent should have fashioned this counterfeit of Mills,
animated perhaps by an interest that might quicken to love, was
intolerable. Passion possessed him. Lifting the bust, he flung it with a
loud crash upon the tile floor. He stared dully at the scattered
fragments.
“God!” he turned toward her with the hunger of love in his eyes. “I—I
—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to do that!”
He caught her hand roughly; gently released it, and ran up the steps
into the library.
Millicent remained quite still till the outer door had closed upon him.
She looked down at the broken pieces of the bust, trying to relate
them to the cause of his sudden wrath. Then she knelt and began
mechanically, patiently, picking up the fragments. Suddenly she
paused. Her hands relaxed and the bits of clay fell to the floor. She
stood up, her figure tense, her head lifted, and a light came into her
eyes.

II
He had made a fool of himself: this was Bruce’s reaction to the
sudden fury that had caused him to destroy Millicent’s bust of
Franklin Mills. He would never dare go near her again; and having
thus fixed his own punishment, and being very unhappy about it, a
spiteful fate ordained that he should meet her early the next morning
in the lobby of the Central States Trust Company, where, out of
friendly regard for Shepherd Mills, he had opened an account.
“So—I’m not the only early riser!” she exclaimed, turning away from
one of the teller’s windows as he passed. “This is pay day at home
and I’m getting the cook’s money. I walked down—what a glorious
morning!”
“Cook—money?” he repeated stupidly. There was nothing
extraordinary in the idea that she should be drawing the domestic
payroll. Her unconcern, the deftness with which she snapped her
purse upon a roll of new bills and dropped it into a bead bag were
disconcerting. Her eyes turned toward the door and he must say
something. She was enchanting in her gray fur coat and feathered
hat of vivid blue; it hadn’t been necessary for her to say that she had
walked four miles from her house to the bank; her glowing cheeks
were an eloquent advertisement of that.
“Please,” he began eagerly. “About last night—I made a dreadful
exhibition of myself. I know—I mean that to beg your forgiveness
——”
“Is wholly unnecessary!” she finished smilingly. “The bust was a
failure and I had meant to destroy it myself. So please forget it!”
“But my bad manners!”
She was making it too easy for his comfort. He wished to abase
himself, to convince her of his contrition.
“Well,” she said with a judicial air, “generally speaking, I approve of
your manners. We all have our careless moments. I’ve been guilty
myself of upsetting bric-a-brac that I got tired of seeing in the house.”
“You ought to scold me—cut my acquaintance.”
“Who’d be punished then?” she demanded, drawing the fur collar
closer about her throat.
“I might die!” he moaned plaintively.
“An irreparable loss—to the world!” she said, “for which I refuse to
become responsible.” She took a step toward the door and paused.
“If I may refer to your destructive habits, I’ll say you’re some critic!”
She left him speculating as to her meaning. To outward
appearances, at least, she hadn’t been greatly disturbed by the
smashing of Mills’s image.
When he had concluded his errand he went to the enclosure where
the company’s officers sat to speak to Shep, whom he had been
avoiding since the encounter with Walters at the Athletic Club. Shep
jumped up and led the way to the directors’ room.
“You know,” he began, “I don’t want to seem to be pursuing you,
but”—he was stammering and his fine, frank eyes opened and shut
quickly in his agitation—“but you’ve got to know how much I
appreciate——”
“Now, old man,” Bruce interrupted, laying his hand on Shep’s
shoulder, “let’s not talk of ancient history.”
Shep shook his head impatiently.
“No, by George! You’ve got to take my thanks! It was bully of you to
punch that scoundrel’s head. I ought to have done it myself, but——”
He held out his arms, his eyes measuring his height against Bruce’s
tall frame, and grinned ruefully.
“I didn’t give you a chance, Shep,” said Bruce, drawing himself onto
the table and swinging his legs at ease. “I don’t believe that bird’s
been looking for me; I’ve been right here in town.”
“I guess he won’t bother you much!” exclaimed Shep with boyish
pride in his champion’s prowess. “You certainly gave him a good
one!”
“He seemed to want it,” replied Bruce. “I couldn’t just kiss him after
he slapped me!”
“I told Connie! I didn’t care for what Walters said—you understand—
but I wanted Connie to know what you did—for her!”
His eyes appealed for Bruce’s understanding. But Bruce, who had
hoped that Shep wouldn’t tell Connie, now wished heartily that Shep
would drop the matter.
“You made too much of it! It wasn’t really for anyone in particular that
I gave Walters that little tap—it was to assert a general principle of
human conduct.”
“We’ll never forget it,” declared Shep, not to be thwarted in his
expression of gratitude. “That anyone should speak of Connie—
Connie—in that fashion! Why, Connie’s the noblest girl in the world!
You know that, the whole world knows it!”
He drew back and straightened his shoulders as though daring the
world to gainsay him.
“Why, of course, Shep!” Bruce replied quietly. He drew a
memorandum from his pocket and asked about some bonds the trust
company had advertised and into which he considered converting
some of the securities he had left with his banker at Laconia which
were now maturing. Shep, pleased that Bruce was inviting his advice
in the matter, produced data from the archives in confirmation of his
assurance that the bonds were gilt-edge and a desirable investment.
Bruce lingered, spending more time than was necessary in
discussing the matter merely to divert Shep’s thoughts from the
Walters’ episode.

III
Bruce had never before worked so hard; Freeman said that the
designer of the Parthenon had been a loafer in comparison. After a
long and laborious day he would drive to the Freemans with
questions about his designs for the memorial that he feared to sleep
on. Dale remarked to her husband that it was inspiring to see a
young man of Bruce’s fine talent and enthusiasm engrossed upon a
task and at the same time in love—an invincible combination.
Carroll had kept in mind the visit to Laconia he had proposed and
they made a week-end excursion of it in May. Bruce was glad of the
chance to inspect the site of the memorial, and happier than he had
expected to be in meeting old friends. It was disclosed that Carroll’s
interest in Bruce’s cousin was not quite so incidental as he had
pretended. Mills’s secretary had within the year several times visited
Laconia, an indication that he was not breaking his heart over Leila.
Bruce stole away from the hotel on Sunday morning to visit his
mother’s grave. She had lived so constantly in his thoughts that it
seemed strange that she could be lying in the quiet cemetery beside
John Storrs. There was something of greatness in her or she would
never have risked the loss of his respect and affection. She had
trusted him, confident of his magnanimity and love. Strange that in
that small town, with its brave little flourish of prosperity, she had
lived all those years with that secret in her heart, perhaps with that
old passion tormenting her to the end. She had not been afraid of
him, had not feared that he would despise her. “O soul of fire within a
woman’s clay”—this line from a fugitive poem he had chanced upon
in a newspaper expressed her. On his way into town he passed the
old home, resenting the presence of the new owner, who could not
know what manner of woman had dwelt there, sanctified its walls,
given grace to the garden where the sun-dial and the flower beds still
spoke of her.... Millicent was like Marian. Very precious had grown
this thought, of the spiritual kinship of his mother and Millicent.
Traversing the uneven brick pavements along the maple arched
street, it was in his mind that his mother and Millicent would have
understood each other. They dreamed the same dreams; the garden
walls had not shut out Marian Storrs’s vision of the infinite. A church
bell whose clamorous peal was one of his earliest recollections
seemed subdued today to a less insistent note by the sweetness of
the spring air. Old memories awoke. He remembered a sermon he
had heard in the church of the sonorous bell when he was still a
child; the fear it had wakened in his heart—a long noisy discourse on
the penalties of sin, the horror in store for the damned. And he
recalled how his mother had taken his hand and smiled down at him
there in the Storrs pew—that adorable smile of hers. And that
evening as they sat alone in the garden on the bench by the sun-dial
she had comforted him and told him that God—her God—was not
the frightful being the visiting minister had pictured, but generous
and loving. Yes, Millicent was like Marian Storrs....
After this holiday he fell upon his work with renewed energy—but he
saw Millicent frequently. It was much easier to pass through the
Harden gate and ring the bell now that the windows of the Mills
house were boarded up. Mrs. Harden and the doctor made clear
their friendliness—not with parental anxiety to ingratiate themselves
with an eligible young man, but out of sincere regard and liking.
“You were raised in a country town and all us folks who were brought
up in small towns speak the same language,” Mrs. Harden declared.
She conferred the highest degree of her approval by receiving him in
the kitchen on the cook’s day out, when she could, in her own
phrase, putter around all she pleased. Millicent, enchantingly
aproned, shared in the sacred rites of preparing the evening meal on
these days of freedom, when there was very likely to be beaten
biscuit, in the preparation of which Bruce was duly initiated.
Spring repeated its ancient miracle in the land of the tall corn. A
pleasant haven for warm evenings was the Harden’s “back yard” as
the Doctor called it, though it was the most artistic garden in town,
where Mrs. Harden indulged her taste in old-fashioned flowers; and
there was a tea house set in among towering forest trees where
Millicent held court. Bruce appearing late, with the excuse that he
had been at work, was able to witness the departure of Millicent’s
other “company” as her parents designated her visitors, and enjoy an
hour with her alone. Their privacy was invaded usually by Mrs.
Harden, who appeared with a pitcher of cooling drink and plates of
the cakes in which she specialized. She was enormously busy with
her work on the orphan asylum board. She was ruining the orphans,
the Doctor said; but he was proud of his wife and encouraged her
philanthropies. He was building a hospital in his home town—thus,
according to Bud Henderson, propitiating the gods for the enormity
of his offense against medical ethics in waxing rich off the asthma
cure. The Doctor’s sole recreation was fishing; he had found a
retired minister, also linked in some way with the Hardens’ home
town, who shared his weakness. They frequently rose with the sun
and drove in Harden’s car to places where they had fished as boys.
Bruce had known people like the Hardens at Laconia. Even in the
big handsome house they retained their simplicity, a simplicity which
in some degree explained Millicent. It was this quality in her that
accounted for much—the sincerity and artlessness with which she
expressed beliefs that gained sanctity from her very manner of
speaking of them.
On a June night he put into the mail his plans for the memorial and
then drove to the Hardens’. Millicent had been playing for some
callers who were just leaving.
“If you’re not afraid of being moonstruck, let’s sit out of doors,” she
suggested.
“It’s a habit—this winding up my day here! I’ve just finished a little job
and laid it tenderly on the knees of the gods.”
“Ah, the mysterious job is done! Is it anything that might be assisted
by a friendly thought?”
“Just a bunch of papers in the mail; that’s all.”
They talked listlessly, in keeping with the langurous spirit of the night.
The Mills house was plainly visible through the shrubbery. In his
complete relaxation, his contentment at being near Millicent, Bruce’s
thoughts traveled far afield while he murmured assent to what she
was saying. The moonlit garden, its serenity hardly disturbed by the
occasional whirr of a motor in the boulevard, invited to meditation,
and Millicent was speaking almost as though she were thinking
aloud in her musical voice that never lost its charm for him.
“It’s easy to believe all manner of strange things on a night like this! I
can even imagine that I was someone else once upon a time....”
“Go right on!” he said, rousing himself, ready for the game which
they often played like two children. He turned to face her. “I have a
sneaking idea that a thousand years ago at this minute I was sitting
peacefully by a well in an oasis with camels and horses and strange
dark men sleeping round me; that same lady moon looking down on
the scene, making the sandy waste look like a field of snow.”
“That sounds dusty and hot! Now me—I’m on a galley ship driving
through the night; a brisk cool wind is blowing; a slave is singing a
plaintive song and the captain of the rowers is thumping time for
them to row by and the moon is shining down on an island just
ahead. It’s all very jolly! We’re off the coast of Greece somewhere, I
think.”
“I suppose that being on a ship while I’m away off in a desert I really
shouldn’t be talking to you. I couldn’t take my camel on your yacht!”
“There’s telepathy,” she suggested.
“Thanks for the idea! If we’ve arrived in this pleasant garden after a
thousand-year journey I certainly shan’t complain!”
“It wouldn’t profit you much if you did! And besides, my feelings
would be hurt!” she laughed softly. “I do so love the sound of my own
voice—I wonder if that’s because I’ve been silent a thousand years!”
“I hope you weren’t, for—I admire your voice! Looking at the stars
does make you think large thoughts. If they had all been flung into
space by chance, as a child scatters sand, we’d have had a badly
scrambled universe by this time—it must be for something—
something pretty important.”
“I wonder....” She bent forward, her elbow on the arm of the chair,
her hand laid against her cheek. “Let’s pretend we can see all
mankind, from the beginning, following a silken cord that Some One
ahead is unwinding and dropping behind as a guide. And we all try to
hold fast to it—we lose it over and over again and stumble over
those who have fallen in the dark places of the road—then we clutch
it again. And we never quite see the leader, but we know he is there,
away on ahead trying to guide us to the goal——”
“Yes,” he said eagerly, “the goal——”
“Is happiness! That’s what we’re all searching for! And our Leader
has had so many names—those ahead are always crying back a
name caught from those ahead of them—down through the ages.
But it helps to know that many are on ahead clutching the cord, not
going too fast for fear the great host behind may lose their hope and
drop the cord altogether!”
“I like that; it’s bully! It’s the life line, the great clue——”
“Yes, yes,” she said, “and even the half gods are not to be sneered
at; they’ve tangled up the cord and tied hard knots in it—— Oh, dear!
I’m soaring again!”
There had been some question of her going away for the remainder
of the summer, and he referred to this presently. He was hoping that
she would go before the return of Mills and Leila. The old intimacy
between the two houses would revive: it might be that Millicent was
ready to marry Mills; and tonight Bruce did not doubt his own love for
her—if only he might touch her hand that lay so near and tell her! In
the calm night he felt again the acute loneliness that had so beset
him in his year-long pilgrimage in search of peace; and he had found
at the end a love that was not peace. After the verdict of the judges
of the memorial plans was given it would be best for him to leave—
go to New York perhaps and try his fortune there, and forget these
months that had been so packed with experience.
“We’re likely to stay on here indefinitely,” Millicent was saying. “I’d
rather go away in the winter; the summer is really a joy. A lot of the
people we know are staying at home. Connie and Shep are not
going away, and Dale says she’s not going to budge. And Helen
Torrence keeps putting off half a dozen flights she’s threatened to
take. And Bud and Maybelle seem content. So why run away from
friends?”
“No reason, of course. The corn requires heat and why should we be
superior to the corn?”
“I had a letter from Leila today. She says she’s perishing to come
home!”
“I’ll wager she is!” laughed Bruce. “What’s going to happen when she
comes?”
He picked up his hat and they were slowly crossing the lawn toward
the gate.
“You mean Freddie Thomas.”
“I suppose I do mean Fred! But I didn’t mean to pump you. It’s Leila’s
business.”
“I’ll be surprised if a few months’ travel doesn’t change Leila. She
and Freddy had an awful crush on each other when she left. If she’s
still of the same mind—well, her father may find the trip wasn’t so
beneficial!”
From her tone Bruce judged that Millicent was not greatly concerned
about Leila. She went through the gates with him to his car at the
curb.
“Whatever it is you sent shooting through the night—here’s good
luck to it!” she said as he climbed into his machine. “Do you suppose
that’s the train?”
She raised her hand and bent her head to listen. The rumble of a
heavy train and the faint clang of a locomotive bell could be heard
beyond the quiet residential neighborhood. He was pleased that she
had remembered, sorry now that he had not told her what it was that
he had committed to the mails. She snapped her fingers, exclaiming:
“I’ve sent a wish with it, whether it’s to your true love or whatever it
is!”
“It wasn’t a love letter,” he called after her as she paused under the
gate lamps to wave her hand.
 CHAPTER TWENTY
I
Franklin Mills landed in New York feeling that his excursion abroad
had been well worth while. Leila had been the cheeriest of
companions and Mills felt that he knew her much better than he had
ever known her before. They had stopped in Paris and he had
cheerfully indulged her extravagance in raiment. Throughout the trip
nothing marred their intercourse. Mills’s pride and vanity were
touched by the admiring eyes that followed them. In countries where
wine and spirits were everywhere visible Leila betrayed no inclination
to drink, even when he urged some rare vintage upon her. The child
had character; he detected in her the mental and physical energy,
the shrewdness, the ability to reason, that were a distinguishing
feature of the Mills tradition. Shep hadn’t the swift, penetrating
insight of Leila. Leila caught with a glance of the eye distinct
impressions which Shep would have missed even with laborious
examination. Shep, nevertheless, was a fine boy; reluctant as he
was to acknowledge an error even to himself, Mills, mellowed by
distance, thought perhaps it had been a mistake to forbid Shep to
study medicine; and yet he had tried to do the right thing by Shep. It
was important for the only son of the house of Mills to know the
worth of property.
The only son.... When Mills thought of Shep and Leila he thought,
too, of Storrs—Bruce Storrs with his undeniable resemblance to
Franklin Mills III. There were times when by some reawakening of
old memories through contact with new scenes—in Venice, at
Sorrento, in motoring into Scotland from the English lake country—in
all places that invited to retrospective contemplation he lived over
again those months he had spent in Laconia.
Strangely, that period revived with intense vividness. Released from
the routine of his common life, he indulged his memories, estimating
their value, fixing their place in his life. That episode seemed the
most important of all; he had loved that woman. He had been a
blackguard and a scoundrel; there was no escaping that, but he
could not despise himself. Sometimes Leila, noting his deep
preoccupation on long motor drives, would tease him to tell her what
he was thinking about and he was hard put to satisfy her that he
hadn’t a care in the world. Once, trying to ease an attack of
homesickness, she led him into speculation as to what their home-
folks were doing—Shep and Connie, Millicent, and in the same
connection she mentioned Bruce.
“What an awful nice chap he is, Dada. He’s a prince. You’d know him
for a thoroughbred anywhere. Arthur Carroll says his people were
just nice country town folks—father a lawyer, I think Arthur said. The
Freemans back him strong, and they’re not people you can fool
much.”
“Mr. Storrs is a gentleman,” said Mills. “And a young man of fine
gifts. I’ve had several talks with him about his work and ambitions.
He’ll make his mark.”
“He’s good to look at! Millicent says there’s a Greek-god look about
him.”
“Millicent likes him?” asked Mills with an effort at indifference which
did not wholly escape Leila’s vigilant eye.
“Oh, I don’t think it’s more than that. You never can tell about Millie.”
This was in Edinburgh, shortly before they sailed for home. All things
considered the trip abroad had been a success. Leila had not to the
best of his knowledge communicated with Thomas—she had made a
point of showing him the letters she received and giving him her own
letters to mail. Very likely, Mills thought, she had forgotten all about
her undesirable suitor, and as a result of the change of scene and
the new amity established between them, would fulfill her destiny by
marrying Carroll.
 II
The town house had been opened for their return, this being a
special concession to Leila, who disliked Deer Trail. Mills yielded
graciously, though he enjoyed Deer Trail more than any other of his
possessions; but there was truth in her complaint that when he was
in town all day, as frequently happened, it was unbearably lonely
unless she fortified herself constantly with guests.
Mills found all his business interests prospering. Though Carroll was
no longer in the office in the First National Building, the former
secretary still performed the more important of his old functions in his
rôle of vice-president of the trust company. Mills was not, however, to
sink into his old comfortable routine without experiencing a few
annoyances and disturbances. His sister, Mrs. Granville Thornberry,
a childless widow, who had taken a hand in Leila’s upbringing after
Mrs. Mills’s death—an experience that had left wounds on both sides
that had never healed—Mrs. Thornberry had lingered in town to see
him. She had become involved in a law suit by ignoring Mills’s
advice, and now cheerfully cast upon him the burden of extricating
her from her predicament. The joy of reminding her that she would
have avoided vexatious and expensive litigation if she had heeded
his counsel hardly mitigated his irritation. But for his sense of the
family dignity he would have declined to have anything to do with the
case.
Carroll had been present at their interview, held in Mills’s office, and
when he left Mrs. Thornberry lingered. She was tall and slender,
quick and incisive of speech. She absorbed all the local gossip and
in spite of her wealth and status as a Mills was a good deal feared
for her sharp tongue. It was a hot day and Mills’s patience had been
sorely tried by her seeming inability to grasp the legal questions
raised in the law suit.
“Well, Alice,” he said, with a glance at his desk clock. “Is there
anything else?”
“Yes, Frank; there’s a matter I feel it my duty to speak of. You know
that I never like to interfere in your affairs. After the trouble we had