not appear to be in a
worse (or better) position than one employing magic wands, crystal balls,
wishing wells, and cloaks of invisibility. Their means of assessment would
seem, at any rate, to be strictly comparable. All that is required is to
translate the technique of the fairy story into a form applicable to the
modern world. In this, as we shall see, there is no essential difficulty.
The first step in the process is to decide on the qualities a Prime Minister
ought to have. These need not be the same in all circumstances, but they
need to be listed and agreed upon. Let us suppose that the qualities deemed
essential are (i) Energy, (2) Courage, (3) Patriotism, (4) Experience, (5)
Popularity, and (6) Eloquence. Now, it will be observed that all these are
general-qualities which all possible applicants would believe themselves to
possess. The field could readily, of course, be narrowed by stipulating (4)
Experience of lion-taming, or (6) Eloquence in Mandarin. But that is not the
way in which we want to narrow the field. We do not want to stipulate a
quality in a 56 special form; rather, each quality in an exceptional degree.
In other words, the successful candidate must be the most energetic,
courageous, patriotic, experienced, popular, and eloquent man in the
country. Only one man can answer to that description and his is the only
application we want. The terms of the appointment must thus be phrased so as
to exclude everyone else. We should therefore word the advertisement in some
such way as follows:
Wanted-- Prime Minister of Ruritania. Hours of work: 4 A.M. to 11.59 P.M.
Candidates must be prepared to fight three rounds with the current
heavyweight champion (regulation gloves to be worn). Candidates will die for
their country, by painless means, on reaching the age of retirement (65).
They will have to pass an examination in parliamentary procedure and will be
liquidated should they fail to obtain 95% marks. They will also be
liquidated if they fail to gain 75% votes in a popularity poll held under
the Gallup Rules. They will finally be invited to try their eloquence on a
Baptist Congress, the object being to induce those present to rock and roll.
Those who fail will be liquidated. All candidates should present themselves
at the Sporting Club (side entrance) at 11.15 A.M. on the morning of
September 19. Gloves will be provided, but they should bring their own
rubber-soled shoes, singlet, and shorts.
Observe that this advertisement saves all trouble about application
forms, testimonials, photographs, references, and short lists. If the
advertisement has been correctly worded, there will be only one applicant,
and he can take office immediately-- well, almost immediately. But what if
there is no applicant? That is proof that the advertisement 57 needs
rewording. We have evidently asked for something more than exists. So the
same advertisement (which is, after all, quite economical in space) can be
inserted again with some slight adjustment. The pass mark in the examination
can be reduced to 85 per cent with 65 per cent of the votes required in the
popularity poll, and only two rounds against the heavyweight. Conditions can
be successively relaxed, indeed, until an applicant appears.
Suppose, however, that two or even three candidates present themselves.
We shall know that we have been insufficiently scientific. It may be that
the pass mark in the examination has been too abruptly lowered-- it should
have been 87 per cent, perhaps, with 66 per cent in the popularity poll.
Whatever the cause, the damage has been done. Two, or possibly three,
candidates are in the waiting room. We have a choice to make and cannot
waste all the morning on it. One policy would be to start the ordeal and
eliminate the candidates who emerge with least credit. There is,
nevertheless, a quicker way. Let us assume that all three candidates have
all the qualities already defined as essential. The only thing we need do is
add one further quality and apply the simplest test of all. To do this, we
ask the nearest young lady (receptionist or stenographer, as the case may
be), "Which would you prefer?" She will promptly point out one of the
candidates and so finish the matter. It has been objected that this
procedure is the same thing as tossing a coin or otherwise letting chance
decide. There is, in fact, no element of chance. It is merely the
last-minute insistence on one other quality, one not so far taken into
account: the quality of sex appeal. 58
6. PLANS AND PLANTS, OR THE ADMINISTRATION BLOCK
EVERY STUDENT of human institutions is familiar with the standard test
by which the importance of the individual may be assessed. The number of
doors to be passed, the number of his personal assistants, the number of his
telephone receivers-- these three figures, taken with the depth of his
carpet in centimeters, have given us a simple formula that is reliable for
most parts of the world. It is less widely known that the same sort of
measurement is applicable, but in reverse, to the institution itself.
Take, for example, a publishing organization. Publishers have a strong
tendency, as we know, to live in a state of chaotic squalor. The visitor who
applies at the obvious entrance is led outside and around the block, down an
alley and up three flights of stairs. A research establishment is similarly
housed, as a rule, on the ground floor of what was once a private house, a
crazy wooden corridor leading thence to a corrugated iron hut in what was
once the garden. Are we not all familiar, moreover, with the layout of an
international airport? As we emerge from the aircraft, we see (over to our
right or left) a lofty structure wrapped in scaffolding. Then the air
hostess leads us into 59 a hut with an asbestos roof. Nor do we suppose for
a moment that it will ever be otherwise. By the time the permanent building
is complete the airfield will have been moved to another site.
The institutions already mentioned-- lively and productive as they may
be-- flourish in such shabby and makeshift surroundings that we might turn
with relief to an institution clothed from the outset with convenience and
dignity. The outer door, in bronze and glass, is placed centrally in a
symmetrical facade. Polished shoes glide quietly over shining rubber to the
glittering and silent elevator. The overpoweringly cultured receptionist
will murmer with carmine lips into an ice-blue receiver. She will wave you
into a chromium armchair, consoling you with a dazzling smile for any slight
but inevitable delay. Looking up from a glossy magazine, you will observe
how the wide corridors radiate toward departments A, B, and C. From behind
closed doors will come the subdued noise of an ordered activity. A minute
later and you are ankle deep in the director's carpet, plodding sturdily
toward his distant, tidy desk. Hypnotized by the chief's unwavering stare,
cowed by the Matisse hung upon his wall, you will feel that you have found
real efficiency at last.
In point of fact you will have discovered nothing of the kind. It is
now known that a perfection of planned layout is achieved only by
institutions on the point of collapse. This apparently paradoxical
conclusion is based upon a wealth of archaeological and historical research,
with the more esoteric details of which we need not concern ourselves. In
general principle, however, the method pursued has been to select and date
the buildings which appear 60 to have been perfectly designed for their
purpose. A study and comparison of these has tended to prove that perfection
of planning is a symptom of decay. During a period of exciting discovery or
progress there is no time to plan the perfect headquarters. The time for
that comes later, when all the important work has been done. Perfection, we
know, is finality; and finality is death.
Thus, to the casual tourist, awestruck in front of St. Peter's, Rome,
the Basilica and the Vatican must seem the ideal setting for the Papal
Monarchy at the very height of its prestige and power. Here, he reflects,
must Innocent III have thundered his anathema. Here must Gregory VII have
laid down the law. But a glance at the guidebook will convince the traveler
that the really powerful Popes reigned long before the present dome was
raised, and reigned not infrequently somewhere else. More than that, the
later Popes lost half their authority while the work was still in progress.
Julius II, whose decision it was to build, and Leo X, who approved Raphael's
design, were dead long before the buildings assumed their present shape.
Bramante's palace was still building until 1565, the great church not
consecrated until 1626, nor the piazza colonnades finished until 1667. The
great days of the Papacy were over before the perfect setting was even
planned. They were almost forgotten by the date of its completion.
That this sequence of events is in no way exceptional can be proved
with ease. Just such a sequence can be found in the history of the League of
Nations. Great hopes centered on the League from its inception in 1920 until
about 1930. By 1933, at the latest, the experiment was seen to have failed.
Its physical embodiment, however, the Palace 61 62 of the Nations, was not
opened until 1937. It was a structure no doubt justly admired. Deep thought
had gone into the design of secretariat and council chambers, committee
rooms and cafeteria. Everything was there which ingenuity could devise--
except, indeed, the League itself. By the year when its Palace was formally
opened the League had practically ceased to exist.
It might be urged that the Palace of Versailles is an instance of
something quite opposite; the architectural embodiment of Louis XIV's
monarchy at its height. But here again the facts refuse to fit the theory.
For granted that Versailles may typify the triumphant spirit of the age, it
was mostly completed very late in the reign, and some of it indeed during
the reign that followed. The building of Versailles mainly took place
between 1669 and 1685. The king did not move there until 1682, and even then
the work was still in progress. The famous royal bedroom was not occupied
until 1701, nor the chapel finished until nine years later. Considered as a
seat of government, as apart from a royal residence, Versailles dates in
part from as late as 1756. As against that, Louis XIV's real triumphs were
mostly before 1679, the apex of his career reached in 1682 itself and his
power declining from about 1685. According to one historian, Louis, in
coming to Versailles "was already sealing the doom of his line and race."
Another says of Versailles that "The whole thing... was completed just when
the decline of Louis's power had begun." A third tacitly supports this
theory by describing the period 1685-1713 as "The Years of Decline." In
other words, the visitor who thinks Versailles the place from which Turenne
rode forth to victory is essentially mistaken. It 63 would be historically
more correct to picture the embarrassment, in that setting, of those who
came with the news of defeat at Blenheim. In a palace resplendent with
emblems of victory they can hardly have known which way to look.
Mention of Blenheim must naturally call to mind the palace of that name
built for the victorious Duke of Marlborough. Here again we have a building
ideally planned, this time as the place of retirement for a national hero.
Its heroic proportions are more dramatic perhaps than convenient, but the
general effect is just what the architects intended. No scene could more
fittingly enshrine a legend. No setting could have been more appropriate for
the meeting of old comrades on the anniversary of a battle. Our pleasure,
however, in picturing the scene is spoiled by our realization that it cannot
have taken place. The Duke never lived there and never even saw it finished.
His actual residence was at Holywell, near St. Alban's, and (when in town)
at Marlborough House. He died at Windsor Lodge and his old comrades, when
they held a reunion, are known to have dined in a tent. Blenheim took long
in building, not because of the elaboration of the design-- which was
admittedly quite elaborate enough-- but because the Duke was in disgrace and
even, for two years, in exile during the period which might otherwise have
witnessed its completion.
What of the monarchy which the Duke of Marlborough served? Just as
tourists now wander, guidebook in hand, through the Orangerie or the Galerie
des Glaces, so the future archaeologist may peer around what once was
London. And he may well incline to see in the ruins of Buckingham Palace a
true expression of British monarchy. He 64 will trace the great avenue from
Admiralty Arch to the palace gate. He will reconstruct the forecourt and the
central balcony, thinking all the time how suitable it must have been for a
powerful ruler whose sway extended to the remote parts of the world. Even a
present-day American might be tempted to shake his head over the arrogance
of a George III, enthroned in such impressive state as this. But again we
find that the really powerful monarchs all lived somewhere else, in
buildings long since vanished-- at Greenwich or Nonesuch, Kenilworth or
Whitehall. The builder of Buckingham Palace was George IV, whose court
architect, John Nash, was responsible for what was described at the time as
its "general feebleness and triviality of taste." But George IV himself, who
lived at Carlton House or Brighton, never saw the finished work; nor did
William IV, who ordered its completion. It was Queen Victoria who first took
up residence there in 1837, being married from the new palace in 1840. But
her first enthusiasm for Buckingham Palace was relatively short-lived. Her
husband infinitely preferred Windsor and her own later preference was for
Balmoral or Osborne. The splendors of Buckingham Palace are therefore to be
associated, if we are to be accurate, with a later and strictly
constitutional monarchy. It dates from a period when power was vested in
Parliament.
It is natural, therefore, to ask at this point whether the Palace of
Westminster, where the House of Commons meets, is itself a true expression
of parliamentary rule. It represents beyond question a magnificent piece of
planning, aptly designed for debate and yet provided with ample space for
everything else-- for committee meetings, for 65 quiet study, for
refreshment, and (on its terrace) for tea. It has everything a legislator
could possibly desire, all incorporated in a building of immense dignity and
comfort. It should date-- but this we now hardly dare assume-- from a period
when parliamentary rule was at its height. But once again the dates refuse
to fit into this pattern. The original House, where Pitt and Fox were
matched in oratory, was accidentally destroyed by fire in 1834. It would
appear to have been as famed for its inconvenience as for its lofty standard
of debate. The present structure was begun in 1840, partly occupied in 1852,
but incomplete when its architect died in 1860. It finally assumed its
present appearance in about 1868. Now, by what we can no longer regard as
coincidence, the decline of Parliament can be traced, without much dispute,
to the Reform Act of 1867. It was in the following year that all initiative
in legislation passed from Parliament to be vested in the Cabinet. The
prestige attached to the letters "M.P." began sharply to decline and
thenceforward the most that could be said is that "a role, though a humble
one, was left for private members." The great days were over.
The same could not be said of the various Ministries, which were to
gain importance in proportion to Parliament's decline. Investigation may yet
serve to reveal that the India Office reached its peak of efficiency when
accommodated in the Westminster Palace Hotel. What is more significant,
however, is the recent development of the Colonial Office. For while the
British Empire was mostly acquired at a period when the Colonial Office (in
so far as there was one) occupied haphazard premises in Downing Street, a
new phase of colonial policy began when the department moved 66 into
buildings actually designed for the purpose. This was in 1875 and the
structure was well designed as a background for the disasters of the Boer
War. But the Colonial Office gained a new lease of life during World War II.
With its move to temporary and highly inconvenient premises in Great Smith
Street-- premises leased from the Church of England and intended for an
entirely different purpose-- British colonial policy entered that phase of
enlightened activity which will end no doubt with the completion of the new
building planned on the site of the old Westminster Hospital. It is
reassuring to know that work on this site has not even begun.
But no other British example can now match in significance the story of
New Delhi. Nowhere else have British architects been given the task of
planning so great a capital city as the seat of government for so vast a
population. The intention to found New Delhi was announced at the Imperial
Durbar of 1911, King George V being at that time the Mogul's successor on
what had been the Peacock Throne. Sir Edwin Lutyens then proceeded to draw
up plans for a British Versailles, splendid in conception, comprehensive in
detail, masterly in design, and overpowering in scale. But the stages of its
progress toward completion correspond with so many steps in political
collapse. The Government of India Act of 1909 had been the prelude to all
that followed-- the attempt on the Viceroy's life in 1912, the Declaration
of 1917, the Montagu-Chelmsford Report of 1918 and its implementation in
1920. Lord Irwin actually moved into his new palace in 1929, the year in
which the Indian Congress demanded independence, the year in which the Round
Table Conference opened, the 67 year before the Civil Disobedience campaign
began. It would be possible, though tedious, to trace the whole story down
to the day when the British finally withdrew, showing how each phase of the
retreat was exactly paralleled with the completion of another triumph in
civic design. What was finally achieved was no more and no less than a
mausoleum.
The decline of British imperialism actually began with the general
election of 1906 and the victory on that occasion of liberal and
semi-socialist ideas. It need surprise no one, therefore, to observe that
1906 is the date of completion carved in imperishable granite over the
British War Office doors. The campaign of Waterloo might have been directed
from poky offices around the Horse Guards Parade. It was, by contrast, in
surroundings of dignity that were approved the plans for attacking the
Dardanelles.
The elaborate layout of the Pentagon at Arlington, Virginia, provides
another significant lesson for planners. It was not completed until the
later stages of World War II and, of course, the architecture of the great
victory was not constructed here, but in the crowded and untidy Munitions
Building on Constitution Avenue.
Even today, as the least observant visitor to Washington can see, the
most monumental edifices are found to house such derelict organizations as
the Departments of Commerce and Labor, while the more active agencies occupy
half-completed quarters. Indeed, much of the more urgent business of
government goes forward in "temporary" structures erected during World War
I, and shrewdly preserved for their stimulating effect on administration.
Hard by the Capitol, the visitor will also observe the imposing
marble-and-glass 68 headquarters of the Teamsters' Union, completed not a
moment too soon before the heavy hand of Congressional investigation
descended on its occupants.
It is by no means certain that an influential reader of this chapter
could prolong the life of a dying institution merely by depriving it of its
streamlined headquarters. What he can do, however, with more confidence, is
to prevent any organization strangling itself at birth. Examples abound of
new institutions coming into existence with a full establishment of deputy
directors, consultants and executives; all these coming together in a
building specially designed for their purpose. And experience proves that
such an institution will die. It is choked by its own perfection. It cannot
take root for lack of soil. It cannot grow naturally for it is already
grown. Fruitless by its very nature, it cannot even flower. When we see an
example of such planning-- when we are confronted for example by the
building designed for the United Nations-- the experts among us shake their
heads sadly, draw a sheet over the corpse, and tiptoe quietly into the open
air. 69
7. PERSONALITY SCREEN, OR THE COCKTAIL FORMULA
ESSENTIAL TO the technique of modern life is the Cocktail Party. Upon
this institution hinges the international, the learned, and the industrial
congress. Without at least one cocktail party these gatherings are known to
be impossible. So far there has been too little scientific study of their
function and possible use. The time has come to give this subject some
careful thought. In planning a cocktail party what, exactly, do we hope to
achieve?
This question can be answered in various ways, and it soon becomes
evident that the same party can serve a variety of purposes. Let us take one
possible object at random and see how it could be attained more completely
and quickly by the application of scientific method. Take, for example, the
problem of discovering the relative importance of the people there. We may
assume that their official status and seniority is already known. But what
of their actual importance in relation to the work being done? It often
happens that the key men and women are not those of highest official
standing. That these others are influential will be apparent by the end of
the conference. How much more useful if we could have assessed their
importance 70 at the beginning! It is in this assessment that a cocktail
party, held on the second day of the congress, may give invaluable aid.
For the purposes of the investigation it will be assumed that the space
in which the party is to be held is all on one level and that there is only
one formal entrance. It will be assumed, further, that the whole affair is
to last two hours according to the invitation cards but two hours and twenty
minutes in actual fact. It will be assumed, finally, that the drinks
circulate freely throughout the area with which we have to deal; for a bar
in visible operation would alter the nature of the problem. Given these
assumptions, how are we to assess the real as opposed to the theoretical
importance of the guests present?
The first known fact upon which we can base our theory is the direction
of the human current. We know that the guests on arrival will drift
automatically toward the left side of the reception floor. This leftward set
of the tide has an interesting and partly biological explanation. The heart
is (or to be exact, appears to be) on the left side of the body. In the more
primitive form of warfare some form of shield is therefore used to protect
the left side, leaving the offensive weapon to be held in the right hand.
The normal offensive weapon was the sword, worn in a scabbard or sheath. If
the sword was to be wielded in the right hand, the scabbard would have to be
worn on the left side. With a scabbard worn on the left, it became
physically impossible to mount a horse on the off side unless intending to
face the tail-- which was not the normal practice. But if you mount on the
near side, you will want to have your horse on the left of the road, so that
you are clear of the 71 traffic while mounting. It therefore becomes natural
and proper to keep to the left, the contrary practice (as adopted in some
backward countries) being totally opposed to all the deepest historical
instincts. Free of arbitrary traffic rules the normal human being swings to
the left.
The second known fact is that people prefer the side of the room to the
middle. This is obvious from the way a restaurant fills up. The tables along
the left wall are occupied first, then those at the far end, then those
along the right wall, and finally (and with reluctance) those in the middle.
Such is the human revulsion to the central space that managements often
despair of filling it and so create what is termed a dance floor. It will be
realized that this behavior pattern could be upset by some extraneous
factor, like a view of the waterfall from the end windows. If we exclude
cathedrals and glaciers, the restaurant will fill up on the lines indicated,
from left to right. Reluctance to occupy the central space derives from
prehistoric instincts. The caveman who entered someone else's cave was
doubtful of his reception and wanted to be able to have his back to the wall
and yet with some room to maneuver. In the center of the cave he felt too
vulnerable. He therefore sidled round the walls of the cave, grunting and
fingering his club. Modern man is seen to do much the same thing, muttering
to himself and fingering his club tie. The basic trend of movement at a
cocktail party is the same as in a restaurant. The tendency is toward the
sides of the space, but not actually reaching the wall.
If we combine these two known facts, the leftward drift and the
tendency to avoid the center, we have the biological explanation of the
phenomenon we have all observed 72 in practice: that is the clockwise flow
of the human movement. There may be local eddies and swirls-- women will
swerve to avoid people they detest, or rush crying "Darling!" toward people
they detest even more-- but the general set of the tide runs inexorably
round the room. People who matter, people who are literally "in the swim,"
keep to the channel where the tide runs strongly. They move with the general
movement and at very much the average speed. Those who appear to be glued to
the walls, usually deep in conversation with people they meet every week,
are nobodies. Those who jam themselves in the corners of the room are the
timid and feeble. Those who drift into the center are the eccentric and
merely silly.
What we have next to study is the time at which people arrive. Now we
can safely assume that the people who matter will arrive at the time they
consider favorable. They will not be among those who have overestimated the
length of their journey and so arrive ten minutes before the party is due to
begin. They will not be among those whose watches have stopped and who rush
in, panting, when the party is nearly over. No, the people we want to
identify will choose their moment. What moment will it be? It will clearly
be a time fixed by two major considerations. They will not want to make an
entrance before there are sufficient people there to observe their arrival.
But neither will they want to arrive after other important people have gone
on (as they always do) to another party. Their arrival will therefore be at
least half an hour after the party begins and at least an hour before it is
due to end. That gives us a bracket, suggesting the formula that the optimum
arrival time will be exactly three-quarters of an hour after the time given
on 73 the invitation card: 7.15, for example, if the party is supposed to
start at 6.30. The temptation at this point is to conclude that the
discovery of the optimum arrival time is the solution to the whole problem.
Some students might say, "Never mind what happens afterwards. Observe the
door with a stop watch and you have the answer." The more experienced
investigator will treat that suggestion with gentle derision. For who is to
know that the person arriving at 7.15 precisely was aiming to do just that?
Some may arrive at that time because they meant to be there at 6.30 but
could not find the place. Others may arrive at that hour thinking that the
time is later than it is. A few might turn up then without even being
invited-- guests expected somewhere else and on another day. So, although
safely concluding that the people who matter should arrive between 7.10 and
7.20, we would be entirely wrong to regard as important all who appear at
about that time.
It is at this stage in the research project that we need to test and
complete our theory by experimental means. Fully to understand the social
current, we should resort to the technique used in a hydraulic laboratory.
In such an establishment the scientist who wants to ascertain how water will
flow round a bridge pier of a certain shape will add cochineal to the water
which he sets flowing over a sheet of glass. On the glass he places his
model pier. Then from above he photographs the pattern made by the color
streaks in the water. What we should like to do would be to mark the people
of known importance at a cocktail party-- stain them, as it were, with
cochineal-- and photograph their progress from a gallery. It may be supposed
that there are difficulties about pursuing an investigation on these lines.
74 Luckily, however, information came to hand about a certain British Colony
where the "staining" of some specimens had already been done.
What had happened was that a former Governor, perhaps a century ago,
tried to persuade the respectable male population to wear black evening
dress instead of white. His persuasion and example failed completely so far
as the merchants, bankers and lawyers were concerned but he was necessarily
obeyed by the civil servants, who had no option in the matter. The result
was that a tradition grew up and has been observed to this day. High
government officers wear black and everyone else wears white. Now, as the
officials are still important in this particular society, it was easy for
investigators to follow their movement from a gallery. It was possible,
moreover, to photograph their movement pattern on different occasions,
confirming the theories so far described and leading us to the final
discovery which we are now in a position to disclose. Careful observations
proved, beyond a shadow of doubt, that the black coats arrived at some time
between 7.10 and 7.20; that they circled left and so proceeded around the
floor; that they avoided the corners and the walls; and that they shunned
the middle. So far their behavior closely conformed to our theory. But we
now noted a further and unexpected phenomenon. Having reached a point near
the far right corner of the room-- which they did in half an hour-- they
lingered in the same area for ten minutes or more. They then tended to leave
rather abruptly. It was only after long and careful study of the films taken
that we realized what this behavior meant. The pause, we finally concluded,
was to allow the other important people to 75 catch up, those who had
arrived at 7.10 waiting for those who had arrived at 7.20. The actual
foregathering of the important people did not take long. They each merely
wanted to be seen by the others, as proof that they were there. This done,
the withdrawal began and was, in every instance, complete by 8.15.
What we learned by observation in this one society is now believed to
be applicable to any other; and the formula is easy to apply. To find the
people who really matter, divide the whole floor area (mentally) into
squares. Letter these from left to right, as you enter, as A, B, C, D, E,
and F. Number the squares from the entrance to the far end as 1 to 8. The
hour at which the party begins should be termed H. The moment when the last
guest leaves will be approximately two hours and twenty minutes after the
first people arrive. We shall call this H + 140. To find the people who
really matter is now perfectly simple. They are the people grouped in square
E/7 between H + 75 and H + 90. The most important person of all will be in
the very center of the group.
Students will realize that the validity of this rule must depend upon
its not being generally known. The contents of this chapter should therefore
be treated as confidential and kept strictly under lock and key. Students of
social science must keep this information to themselves and members of the
general public are not on any account to read it. 76
77
8. INJELITITIS, OR PALSIED PARALYSIS
WE FIND everywhere a type of organization (administrative, commercial,
or academic) in which the higher officials are plodding and dull, those less
senior are active only in intrigue against each other, and the junior men
are frustrated or frivolous. Little is being attempted. Nothing is being
achieved. And in contemplating this sorry picture, we conclude that those in
control have done their best, struggled against adversity, and have finally
admitted defeat. It now appears from the results of recent investigation,
that no such failure need be assumed. In a high percentage of the moribund
institutions so far examined the final state of coma is something gained of
set purpose and after prolonged effort. It is the result, admittedly, of a
disease, but of a disease that is largely self-induced. From the first signs
of the condition, the progress of the disease has been encouraged, the
causes aggravated, and the symptoms welcomed. It is the disease of induced
inferiority, called Injelititis. It is a commoner ailment than is often
supposed, and the diagnosis is far easier than the cure.
Our study of this organizational paralysis begins, logically, with a
description of the course of the disease from the 78 first signs to the
final coma. The second stage of our inquiry concerns symptoms and diagnosis.
The third stage should properly include some reference to treatment, but
little is known about this. Nor is much likely to be discovered in the
immediate future, for the tradition of British medical research is entirely
opposed to any emphasis on this part of the subject. British medical
specialists are usually quite content to trace the symptoms and define the
cause. It is the French, by contrast, who begin by describing the treatment
and discuss the diagnosis later, if at all. We feel bound to adhere in this
to the British method, which may not help the patient but which is
unquestionably more scientific. To travel hopefully is better than to
arrive.
The first sign of danger is represented by the appearance in the
organization's hierarchy of an individual who combines in himself a high
concentration of incompetence and jealousy. Neither quality is significant
in itself and most people have a certain proportion of each. But when these
two qualities reach a certain concentration-- represented at present by the
formula I3J5-- there is a chemical reaction. The two
elements fuse, producing a new substance that we have termed "injelitance."
The presence of this substance can be safely inferred from the actions of
any individual who, having failed to make anything of his own department,
tries constantly to interfere with other departments and gain control of the
central administration. The specialist who observes this particular mixture
of failure and ambition will at once shake his head and murmur, "Primary or
idiopathic injelitance." The symptoms, as we shall see, are quite
unmistakable. 79
The next or secondary stage in the progress of the disease is reached
when the infected individual gains complete or partial control of the
central organization. In many instances this stage is reached without any
period of primary infection, the individual having actually entered the
organization at that level. The injelitant individual is easily recognizable
at this stage from the persistence with which he struggles to eject all
those abler than himself, as also from his resistance to the appointment or
promotion of 80 anyone who might prove abler in course of time. He dare not
say, "Mr. Asterisk is too able," so he says, "Asterisk? Clever perhaps-- but
is he sound? I incline to prefer Mr. Cypher." He dare not say, "Mr. Asterisk
makes me feel small," so he says, "Mr. Cypher appears to me to have the
better judgment." Judgment is an interesting word that signifies in this
context the opposite of intelligence; it means, in fact, doing what was done
last time. So Mr. Cypher is promoted and Mr. Asterisk goes elsewhere. The
central administration gradually fills up with people stupider than the
chairman, director, or manager. If the head of the organization is
second-rate, he will see to it that his immediate staff are all third-rate;
and they will, in turn, see to it that their subordinates are fourth-rate.
There will soon be an actual competition in stupidity, people pretending to
be even more brainless than they are.
The next or tertiary stage in the onset of this disease is reached when
there is no spark of intelligence left in the whole organization from top to
bottom. This is the state of coma we described in our first paragraph. When
that stage has been reached the institution is, for all practical purposes,
dead. It may remain in a coma for twenty years. It may quietly disintegrate.
It may even, finally, recover. Cases of recovery are rare. It may be thought
odd that recovery without treatment should be possible. The process is quite
natural, nevertheless, and closely resembles the process by which various
living organisms develop a resistance to poisons that are at first encounter
fatal. It is as if the whole institution had been sprayed with a DDT
solution guaranteed to eliminate all ability found in its way. For a period
of years this practice achieves the desired result. 81 Eventually, however,
individuals develop an immunity. They conceal their ability under a mask of
imbecile good humor. The result is that the operatives assigned to the task
of ability-elimination fail (through stupidity) to recognize ability when
they see it. An individual of merit penetrates the outer defenses and begins
to make his way toward the top. He wanders on, babbling about golf and
giggling feebly, losing documents and forgetting names, and looking just
like everyone else. Only when he has reached high rank does he suddenly
throw off the mask and appear like the demon king among a crowd of pantomime
fairies. With shrill screams of dismay the high executives find ability
right there in the midst of them. It is too late by then to do anything
about it. The damage has been done, the disease is in retreat, and full
recovery is possible over the next ten years. But these instances of natural
cure are extremely rare. In the more usual course of events, the disease
passes through the recognized stages and becomes, as it would seem,
incurable.
We have seen what the disease is. It now remains to show by what
symptoms its presence can be detected. It is one thing to detail the spread
of the infection in an imaginary case, classified from the start. It is
quite a different thing to enter a factory, barracks, office, or college and
recognize the symptoms at a glance. We all know how an estate agent will
wander round a vacant house when acting for the purchaser. It is only a
question of time before he throws open a cupboard or kicks a baseboard and
exclaims, "Dry rot!" (acting for the vendor, he would lose the key