Nobody expects... the real Spanish Inquisition (II)

Continues from Part I:

In the previous post I began a personal reflection on the Spanish Inquisition, to be structured around three questions, by answering the first: what did the Inquisition do? Because we can't attempt to understand the motivations behind its establishment, much less to examine them critically, without knowing the facts. And these facts have been falsified by the “Black Legend”, whose favorite target is the Spanish Inquisition, not even bothering to carefully manipulate them, but -rather successfully- spreading outright lies.

Once we have laid down some of the most unknown facts about the Inquisitorial trial, forming a better idea of what it actually did, we can now ask:

Why did it do it?

First of all, I want to clear up a point. By the term Spanish Inquisition we refer to a particular institution created by Sixtus IV's Papal Bull Exigit Sinceras Devotionis Affectus at the request of the Catholic Monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella, giving the Crown special influence over it in matters such as the appointment of the members of the Council of the Supreme and General Inquisition (one of the many Councils within the polysynodic structure of the Spanish Monarchy) and the appointment of the Inquisitor General himself, though he had to be approved by the Pope. In this it was different from the Roman or Medieval Inquisition, which depended on local Bishops or the Pope himself. The Inquisition, in a wider sense, was neither a creation of the Catholic Monarchs nor exclusive to Spain. Medieval Inquisition spread over many kingdoms in Christendom (it reached Aragon but not Castile), and wherever it sprung it was because, it was deemed, heresy was not sufficiently persecuted in that place. Which means heresy was persecuted anyway. It didn't take an Inquisition to do it: 

“We have the «Fuero Real» (1255 Castilian law), ordering that he who turns Jew or Moor, die for it and the death for this deed be of fire. We have the «Partidas» (ley II, tít. VI, Part. VII) telling us that the preaching heretic should be burnt by fire, so he should die, and not only the preacher but also the believer, that is, he who listens to and receives his teachings.” 

-Menéndez Pelayo, Historia de España, ed. Jorge Vigón.

Heresy was also punished outside of Spain, before and after the time of the Catholic Monarchs, and not only in Catholic countries. The Spanish Inquisition's uniqueness lies in its particular structure and Crown dependence, but not in persecuting heresy.

Catholic martyrs of the English "Reformation"

Why, then, did the Inquisition in general, and the Spanish one in particular, exist?

Because heresy is contagious. And if something is understood to be harmful, it is natural to want to stop it spreading. I'm not -for now- evaluating whether heresy is actually harmful of not, I'm merely stating that it was perceived as such. Its contagion has two consequences, one that affects the individual and the other affecting society as a whole.

First consequence: through the fault of one the souls of many are lost. If a doctrine is considered instrumental for salvation, or at least extremely useful in order to reach it, naturally it will be considered desirable and good, whereas its corruption condemnable and bad. Let us say a certain soccer player decides that it is a better idea to pass the ball with his hands rather than with his feet, since it will be easier to maintain the ball's possession and therefore to win the game, which is, needless to say, the team's objective. All the other players think it a good idea, and when they try it in the next game, they receive a red card one after the other. They lose the game, naturally. Now, suppose the day before the coach says to him: look here, you have a pretty good imagination, but the rules of the game are these, and if we try your brilliant idea we are going to lose. The player doesn't take heed, so the coach leaves him in the bench and eventually kicks him out of the team. For the benefit of the other players, who believed him in good faith. And got the red card anyway. This is the idea. Freedom of speech isn't the central problem: it is the truth or falsity of what is said, and the consequences it may have. 

I'm feeling quite the demagogue comparing the bench with the pyre. True, the Inquisition burned relapsed and unrepentant heretics at the stake. This is perhaps the most shocking thing about it for modern sensibilities, especially to those who have come to think of Christianity as a sort of Hippie pacifism. Doesn't Saint Thomas Aquinas say: "In obedience to Our Lord's institution, the Church extends her charity to all, not only to friends, but also to foes who persecute her"? He does, and he continues:

"Now it is part of charity that we should both wish and work our neighbor's good. Again, good is twofold: one is spiritual, namely the health of the soul, which good is chiefly the object of charity, since it is this chiefly that we should wish for one another. Consequently, from this point of view, heretics who return after falling no matter how often, are admitted by the Church to Penance whereby the way of salvation is opened to them.

The other good is that which charity considers secondarily, viz. temporal good, such as life of the body, worldly possessions, good repute, ecclesiastical or secular dignity, for we are not bound by charity to wish others this good, except in relation to the eternal salvation of them and of others. Hence if the presence of one of these goods in one individual might be an obstacle to eternal salvation in many, we are not bound out of charity to wish such a good to that person, rather should we desire him to be without it, both because eternal salvation takes precedence of temporal good, and because the good of the many is to be preferred to the good of one. Now if heretics were always received on their return, in order to save their lives and other temporal goods, this might be prejudicial to the salvation of others, both because they would infect others if they relapsed again, and because, if they escaped without punishment, others would feel more assured in lapsing into heresy. For it is written (Ecclesiastes 8:11): "For because sentence is not speedily pronounced against the evil, the children of men commit evils without any fear."

For this reason the Church not only admits to Penance those who return from heresy for the first time, but also safeguards their lives, and sometimes by dispensation, restores them to the ecclesiastical dignities which they may have had before, should their conversion appear to be sincere: we read of this as having frequently been done for the good of peace. But when they fall again, after having been received, this seems to prove them to be inconstant in faith, wherefore when they return again, they are admitted to Penance, but are not delivered from the pain of death." (Summa Theologica, II-IIae, q.11, a.4)

Precisely because man lives within society, and he can't be taken into account as an abstraction separated from it, it isn't unjust to punish heresy with death for the good of that society, just as it can be done for other crimes: "if the health of the whole body demands the excision of a member, through its being decayed or infectious to the other members, it will be both praiseworthy and advantageous to have it cut away. Now every individual person is compared to the whole community, as part to whole. Therefore if a man be dangerous and infectious to the community, on account of some sin, it is praiseworthy and advantageous that he be killed in order to safeguard the common good, since "a little leaven corrupteth the whole lump" (1 Corinthians 5:6)." 

A little leaven corrupteth the whole lump. Heresy not only puts in peril the souls of individuals, it has a second consequence visible in the social sphere, of lesser salvific importance (1) but more tangible in our worldly surroundings: the spread of heterodox doctrines subverts the political order.

Be it a Catholic or Protestant country, be it one that worships the Emperor or goddess democracy, the powers that be are never thrilled about the subversion of the pillars on which they rest. This is common to every age. If heresy on the subject of religion has become irrelevant to modern States it isn't because they have suddenly been enlightened with the tolerance that has eluded societies ever since, let's see, the beginning of time. It is a matter of indifference because religion has been confined to the realm of the private, and the foundation of political loyalty has radically veered: 

“Hobbes and Bodin both prefer religious uniformity for reasons of state, but it is important to see that once Christians are made to chant "We have no king but Caesar," it is really a matter of indifference to the sovereign whether there be one religion or many. Once the State has succeeded in establishing dominance over, or absorbing, the Church, it is but a small step from absolutist enforcement of religious unity to the toleration of religious diversity. In other words, there is a logical progression from Bodin and Hobbes to Locke. Lockean liberalism can afford to be gracious toward "religious pluralism" precisely because "religion" as an interior matter is the State's own creation.” 

-William T. Cavanaugh, The Wars of Religion and the Rise of the State.

Modernity's “heresy” is not about theology. It is about refusing to accept what we have recently come to call political correction, an ever-advancing ideological amalgam that rests on an individualistic anthropological vision that is completely demential and divorced from reality (since it postulates that individual liberty is and should be sovereign, that is, devoid of all limits, included those given by the nature of things). This enslaving compendium of follies, social engineering as some call it, has been developing itself since the Revolution -drawing from Lutheranism- sowed its premises, taking more radical forms as people get accustomed to earlier stages. Every day we see this new “orthodoxy” is no matter of indifference to those in power, as is religious orthodoxy. In fact, it is absolutely essential for them. Whenever someone publicly refuses to accept its vertiginous evolution, panic takes over. Behind all the media abuse this person receives, one can detect a certain feeling of uneasiness, of urgency. And with good reason: his attitude is a threat, with veritably subversive potential if its spread isn't halted. He has called their bluff.

Clearly, heresy has consequences. Every idea does. Heresy isn't subversive because of the fact that it is different. It is subversive because of the content that makes it different. This should be the thought we keep in mind as we try to pass judgment on the Inquisition, answering the third and last of the questions asked at the beginning of the previous post. This I leave for next time.

To be continued.

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(1) I say of lesser rather than without salvific importance, since it may be argued that a society, however amoral it may be, insofar it is a society it is a desirable good. Materially and, I venture, spiritually desirable. I am thinking of Antiquity's Just man, a Socrates, one who doesn't know Revelation. The order of the city offers the chance of self-perfecting in a manner impossible, or less probable, in a state of anarchy or in the jungle.

Nobody expects... the real Spanish Inquisition (I)

Today I would like to share some personal thoughts on the Spanish Inquisition, without attempting to give even a short historical overview nor entering the debate on numbers (though they are amazingly eloquent), revolving around three questions: what did the Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition actually do? Why did it do so? And finally: was it right?

What did the Inquisition do?

Everybody knows this: it persecuted heresy. It tried heretics. What not everybody knows is what a heretic actually is. Not everyone who is not Christian is a heretic. In fact, to be a heretic it is necessary first to be a Christian, or at least to pretend to be. "Consequently he that holds the Christian faith aright, assents, by his will, to Christ, in those things which truly belong to His doctrine", says Saint Thomas Aquinas. But, he continues, one may deviate from the rectitude of the Christian faith: "though he intends to assent to Christ, yet he fails in his choice of those things wherein he assents to Christ, because he chooses not what Christ really taught, but the suggestions of his own mind." (Summa Theologica, II-IIae, q.11, a.1) Someone who isn't Christian cannot deviate from a faith that was never his, and therefore cannot be a heretic. And not being a heretic, he can't be tried by the Inquisition.

Generally speaking, the Spanish Inquisition did not order the execution of any Jew or Mahometan, nor even tried any in court, for the simple reason that there were no Jews or Mahometans in Spain. The Inquisition was established in 1478 and began to act in 1480; the Jews were expelled from Spain in 1492 and the Moriscos in 1502. In the relatively short space of time between the creation of the Holy Office and the expulsions, I only know of one case (the Holy Child of La Guardia) of non-converted Jews being tried (though not because of their faith; they were accused of ritual murder). I haven't found any reliable sources, however, with information on whether these two Jews were tried by the Inquisition, as were the other six Conversos involved, or rather by the ordinary courts.

In any case, after the expulsions there were ―officially― only Christians in Spain: those who weren't had either left or converted. The Catholic Monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella, establishing the Inquisition a decade before the expulsions, offered a clear-cut alternative: either you stay and convert, or you leave; but if you stay, you had better be serious about it. Undoubtedly, this choice is made in less than favorable circumstances, considering how toilsome it must be for a family to move to another country with a few months' notice, losing money in the hurried sale of properties that have to be left behind (which weren't all). But conversions weren't forced. Many, naturally, preferred to convert insincerely, putting their purse before their religion. That they did not take their faith seriously, however, does not make it an injustice that the Catholic Monarchs did theirs.

For Catholics, the Inquisition wasn't a reign of terror where no one dared utter a word that might be misinterpreted and carry him to the pyre. "Heresy is derived from a Greek word meaning choice, whereby a man makes choice of that school which he deems best", as Saint Thomas quotes Saint Jerome, and then Saint Augustine: "By no means should we accuse of heresy those who, however false and perverse their opinion may be, defend it without obstinate fervor, and seek the truth with careful anxiety, ready to mend their opinion, when they have found the truth." (Summa Theologica, II-IIae, q.11, a.2) The Inquisitorial trial was, as its name implies, a judicial proceeding of inquiry. It was strictly regulated by law, offering many guarantees that prevented arbitrariness. There were many opportunities throughout the trial to clear up misunderstandings and for the accused to show repentance.

Torture or torment was a common means of gathering evidence in Spanish and European tribunals of the time, by no means restricted to the Inquisition, and in any case much less widespread there than in other ordinary courts. It was only applied if the declarations of the defendant were contradictory, and all confessions obtained this way had to be ratified within twenty-four hours, this time without torment. If the contradiction persisted, it could be applied up to two times more, and after the third the prisoner had to be let free. Torment had to be applied in the presence of a doctor, who could stop it, postpone it, or limit it to the healthy parts of the body. The only approved methods were the garrucha (strappado), the toca (a sort of waterboard), and the potro (the rack). Considering that other methods far more horrendous were used at the time across the Pyrenees and that the waterboard, for reasons known to all, remains as infamous as ever, to portray the Spanish Inquisition as history's torturer par excellence is not only a falsification of historical truth, but utterly Pharisaical. In any case, torment was applied on a scant 2% of the people tried.

Not all those found guilty were burned at the stake. Only those who did no repent or relapsed for a second time suffered capital punishment, though up until the very end they were offered a chance for repentance and a quicker death by garrote, before their bodies were burned. But there were also several lesser punishments given for less serious offenses, such as the sambenito (a sack of cloth worn for public shame), lashes, imprisonment, and galleys for men and “galley-houses” (casas de galeras) for women, where they worked and learned a trade. The jails or Penitential Houses of Mercy of the Inquisition were renowned for a more benevolent treatment compared to ordinary jails, and in fact prisoners were known to fake heresy or blaspheme in order to be transferred to the Inquisition's jurisdiction. How far is this reality from the widespread misconception, evidenced in the film Alatriste, that a man could suffer no worse fate ―even cutting his own throat― than to be arrested by the Inquisition!

The Inquisition, properly speaking, did not kill convicts: it relaxed them to the secular arm, which carried out the punishment. This may seem at first glance an exercise of sophistry made to avoid taking responsibility for the dirty work, but there is a reason behind it. And this detail, apparently trivial, is absolutely essential in order to begin to understand what the Inquisition really was. Once again, Saint Thomas makes us see:

"For it is a much graver matter to corrupt the faith which quickens the soul, than to forge money, which supports temporal life. Wherefore if forgers of money and other evil-doers are forthwith condemned to death by the secular authority, much more reason is there for heretics, as soon as they are convicted of heresy, to be not only excommunicated but even put to death.

On the part of the Church, however, there is mercy which looks to the conversion of the wanderer, wherefore she condemns not at once, but after the first and second admonition, as the Apostle directs: after that, if he is yet stubborn, the Church no longer hoping for his conversion, looks to the salvation of others, by excommunicating him and separating him from the Church, and furthermore delivers him to the secular tribunal to be exterminated thereby from the world by death. For Jerome commenting on Galatians 5:9, A little leaven, says: Cut off the decayed flesh, expel the mangy sheep from the fold, lest the whole house, the whole paste, the whole body, the whole flock, burn, perish, rot, die. Arius was but one spark in Alexandria, but as that spark was not at once put out, the whole earth was laid waste by its flame." (Summa Theologica, II-IIae, q.11, a.3)

The secular powers want to persecute heresy. They have always wanted to, because heresy is always a real threat. And they would do so even if there wasn't an Inquisition. But the Inquisition serves as a buffer, it administers this task through a special process of inquiry and lets the authorities know its conclusion. The secular authority benefits from this separate jurisdiction, led by theologians and canonists, because it provides a specialized knowledge of Theology that isn't strictly the competence of princes. And competent knowledge of theological complexity serves to mitigate the zealous tendency of secular powers to punish heresy where there isn't any, as is evidenced by the witch hunts that took place beyond the Pyrenees and the across the North Atlantic.

Through this mediation the Church not only contributes to serve justice: it also brings in a chance for mercy. One can imagine the Church, standing between the heretic and the prince, saying to the latter: I will help you to better administer your Justice, but first you will let me offer my mercy. Thanks to the Inquisition, someone who is found guilty of so grave an offense is given the unheard-of opportunity to repent and leave the Court completely forgiven, with a second chance and a new life. "On the part of the Church, however, there is mercy which looks to the conversion of the wanderer."

Which is easier, to say to the sick of the palsy: Thy sins are forgiven thee; or to say: Arise, take up thy bed, and walk? (Mark 2,9)

To be continued.

Madrid: capital of Asia

Ruy González de Clavijo

“More than a century and a half before the word Uzbekistan was heard in Spain, a city by the name of Madrid was founded in Central Asia. Today it is a borough of Samarkand, the legendary capital of Tamerlane the Great. As Santiago Ruiz-Morales pointed out, Tamerlane, conqueror of the second largest empire of its time after Genghis Khan's, named his new city honoring the birthplace of the only European who visited him, Ruy González de Clavijo, who documented in great detail the beauty of Samarkand and the splendor of its gardens, palaces, and parties.

The Embassy's origins are explained by the perception held by the King of Castile, Henry III of Trastámara, that the overwhelming Ottoman advance in Europe could only be stopped by a pincer movement, maintaining two fronts. Thus he sent Clavijo, who fortunately kept a very beautiful account of his journey.

Clavijo's journey (1403-1406)

Clavijo was thus Europe's first ambassador to Asia, since other travellers –Genoese, Venetians, Frenchmen...– had only acted as messengers, merchants, missionaries, or mercenaries –«the four M's»–. Clavijo, however, would act with the title of plenipotentiary. Mohammed El-Kesh, the first ambassador from Asia in Europe, whom Tamerlane had sent not to Rome, nor to Paris, Vienna, or London, but to Segovia! had previously invited Clavijo. We can therefore say that Spain and Uzbekistan maintain the oldest diplomatic relations between Europe and Asia."

-Santiago Velo de Antelo, director of Diplomacia Siglo XXI, in Ferrer-Dalmau Magazine.

Sacral Society

Sign, Faith and Society: a truly delightful essay by the late Frederick D. Wilhelmsen, published in the annals of the Elías de Tejada Foundation. Here is an extract:

“I once knew, without knowing, an old man whom I saw on the bus every day at the same time when I was studying at the University of San Francisco after the War. This fellow always crouched in the back of the bus and muttered to himself: «Don't give your money to her; put your money in the bank; don't give it to her; put it in the bank.» This was not, as some shallow people insist, a mark of insanity. Talking in this way to yourself is a last grip on sanity. Old people do this very often because there is nobody who cares to talk to them.[...]

To understand is to communicate to both self and other and in this act man becomes himself. A Christianity cut off from the other man is not only not Christianity which is a corporate religion but it is not even human. [...]

In Europe today we see the remains of a Christian Order, and they are of an unsurpassed beauty, but we have lost faith in what they portend. [...] 

Unless man —most men at the very least— are buoyed up by a society surrounding them that breathes the Faith symbolically they are going to fall and, in most cases, they will fall badly. I am thinking, among other things, of a sys­tem of education in which the Cross presides over the classroom. And I am ut­terly unconvinced by the argument of the followers of Jacques Maritain that the Cross can preside in the heart of the teacher without publicly being nailed to the wall of the classroom itself. Our Faith is incarnational and if the Cross weaves its grace into my heart and mind, then I will gesture it into physical existence by nailing it to my desk, office, place of business, and certainly in any building in which I presume to teach. [...] If I know The Good News, I proclaim it everywhere. If to understand and to love are communicative, then I cannot love and understand the Faith unless I sign the world, scribble my signature, on every wall and tower, in every legislative assembly, and in every chancery to which I might be privy. [...]  

  

A sacral society appeals not only to the intellect and to the will but to man's sensibility and emotions. We might recall here with benefit St. Thomas Aqui­nas's insistence that the human person is the totem, the totality of any man in existence. [...] To dis­sect one part of him —the religious— from the whole —the political from the religious, man as worker from man as player: homo fabor from homo ludens: the economic from the familial; the aesthetic from the social, is to sunder into smithereens he who is a unity in existence. [...] So too with a social and political order. Secularism in the west has divor­ced man's religious affirmations from his political life. The sacral unity which once covered this continent is now gone —except, as I pointed out earlier, in the visual reminders of what Europe once was.

I take it as evident that something is awry in a man who is a Catholic and who has to forget that truth when he becomes a politician or a professor or anything else. Such a man is harmed psychologically because he is harmed ontologically. He has to wear two or three masks at once, shifting from one to the other as he moves through life. We have become so accustomed to this masked ball, this charade, that often enough we are not even aware of the damage being wrought in the depths of our being. We have become «Sunday Catholics» and we behave ourselves at work, in our parliaments, in our daily walk through life, as though what we most deeply believe must not be articulated publicly for fear of offending secularist sensibilities. All I can say here is that let secularists look to their sensibilities; ours have been offended ever since the French Revolution and it is time that in re-evangelizing the West we occupied the homes of power that are our own by inheritance.”

The entire essay can be downloaded here.

The equilibrium of Orthodoxy

"It is true that the Church told some men to fight and others not to fight; and it is true that those who fought were like thunderbolts and those who did not fight were like statues. [...] And sometimes this pure gentleness and this pure fierceness met and justified their juncture; the paradox of all the prophets was fulfilled, and, in the soul of St. Louis, the lion lay down with the lamb. But remember that this text is too lightly interpreted. It is constantly assured, especially in our Tolstoyan tendencies, that when the lion lies down with the lamb the lion becomes lamb-like. But that is brutal annexation and imperialism on the part of the lamb. That is simply the lamb absorbing the lion instead of the lion eating the lamb. The real problem is—Can the lion lie down with the lamb and still retain his royal ferocity? That is the problem the Church attempted; that is the miracle she achieved.

Saint Thomas Becket

[...] This was the big fact about Christian ethics; the discovery of the new balance. Paganism had been like a pillar of marble, upright because proportioned with symmetry. Christianity was like a huge and ragged and romantic rock, which, though it sways on its pedestal at a touch, yet, because its exaggerated excrescences exactly balance each other, is enthroned there for a thousand years. In a Gothic cathedral the columns were all different, but they were all necessary. Every support seemed an accidental and fantastic support; every buttress was a flying buttress. So in Christendom apparent accidents balanced. Becket wore a hair shirt under his gold and crimson, and there is much to be said for the combination; for Becket got the benefit of the hair shirt while the people in the street got the benefit of the crimson and gold. It is at least better than the manner of the modern millionaire, who has the black and the drab outwardly for others, and the gold next his heart. But the balance was not always in one man's body as in Becket's; the balance was often distributed over the whole body of Christendom. [...] This is what makes Christendom at once so much more perplexing and so much more interesting than the Pagan empire; just as Amiens Cathedral is not better but more interesting than the Parthenon. [...]

Last and most important, it is exactly this which explains what is so inexplicable to all the modern critics of the history of Christianity. I mean the monstrous wars about small points of theology, the earthquakes of emotion about a gesture or a word. It was only a matter of an inch; but an inch is everything when you are balancing. The Church could not afford to swerve a hair's breadth on some things if she was to continue her great and daring experiment of the irregular equilibrium. Once let one idea become less powerful and some other idea would become too powerful. It was no flock of sheep the Christian shepherd was leading, but a herd of bulls and tigers, of terrible ideals and devouring doctrines, each one of them strong enough to turn to a false religion and lay waste the world. [...] If some small mistake were made in doctrine, huge blunders might be made in human happiness. A sentence phrased wrong about the nature of symbolism would have broken all the best statues in Europe. A slip in the definitions might stop all the dances; might wither all the Christmas trees or break all the Easter eggs. Doctrines had to be defined within strict limits, even in order that man might enjoy general human liberties. The Church had to be careful, if only that the world might be careless.

Protestant iconoclasm

This is the thrilling romance of Orthodoxy. People have fallen into a foolish habit of speaking of orthodoxy as something heavy, humdrum, and safe. There never was anything so perilous or so exciting as orthodoxy. It was sanity: and to be sane is more dramatic than to be mad. It was the equilibrium of a man behind madly rushing horses, seeming to stoop this way and to sway that, yet in every attitude having the grace of statuary and the accuracy of arithmetic. The Church in its early days went fierce and fast with any warhorse; yet it is utterly unhistoric to say that she merely went mad along one idea, like a vulgar fanaticism. She swerved to left and right, so exactly as to avoid enormous obstacles. She left on one hand the huge bulk of Arianism, buttressed by all the worldly powers to make Christianity too worldly. The next instant she was swerving to avoid an orientalism, which would have made it too unworldly. The orthodox Church never took the tame course or accepted the conventions; the orthodox Church was never respectable. It would have been easier to have accepted the earthly power of the Arians. It would have been easy, in the Calvinistic seventeenth century, to fall into the bottomless pit of predestination. It is easy to be a madman: it is easy to be a heretic. It is always easy to let the age have its head; the difficult thing is to keep one's own. It is always easy to be a modernist; as it is easy to be a snob. To have fallen into any of those open traps of error and exaggeration which fashion after fashion and sect after sect set along the historic path of Christendom—that would indeed have been simple. It is always simple to fall; there are an infinity of angles at which one falls, only one at which one stands. To have fallen into any one of the fads from Gnosticism to Christian Science would indeed have been obvious and tame. But to have avoided them all has been one whirling adventure; and in my vision the heavenly chariot flies thundering through the ages, the dull heresies sprawling and prostrate, the wild truth reeling but erect."

-G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy

Hereditary Evils of the French Revolution: Constitutional Monarchy (and IV)

Spain is not a monarchy. It ceased to be one in 1837, with the adoption of the Constitution, and previously during the brief constitutional periods when that of 1812 was in force. Only a few years before, when the Regency of María Cristina of Bourbon refused to recognize Charles V as King (an act that would spark the First Carlist War), dynastic legitimacy was forsaken as a principle for succession. With the Constitution, monarchy itself was forsaken. Maybe it was chance, or maybe a wink of Providence to the Catholic Monarchy that had been Christendom's strongest bastion in two worlds, that its legitimate princes were not the ones who perpetrated its destruction.

The position of the so-called "monarch" became a decision of the constituent, an election. Some instances in Spanish history accentuate this elective character: the short reign of Amadeus of Savoy (who became king upon taking an oath of loyalty to the 1869 Constitution), the enthronement of Juan Carlos as successor to Francisco Franco in 1975 (two years before his father, Juan of Bourbon and Battenberg, renounced his own claim to the throne), and even the picturesque attempt to crown general Espartero as "Baldomero I", whose refusal made the generals that led the 1868 coup pick the excommunicated Italian prince as their second choice. But even during periods of normalized succession, the line that goes from Isabella "II" to Juan Carlos "I", passing through Alfonso "XII", "XIII" and the dispossessed Juan of Bourbon and Battenberg, cannot be considered a dynasty, because the monarchial principle of hereditary succession did not exist in the regimes they presided. This, perhaps more than their lack of dynastic legitimacy, justifies writing the number that follows their name between quotation marks. The fact that the son succeeded the father or mother has no explanation other than the attachment of the Spanish people to their old Monarchy, which the liberal monarchs wanted to link themselves with by keeping its appearances but losing its substance.

Isabella "II" crowns Manuel Quintana as poet laureate. Her reign "crowned" the people (in practice a parliamentary oligarchy), destroying the Monarchy that the first queen Isabella had exalted.

Conclusions

This series of posts is not meant to limit itself to historical or legal speculation. I conclude with a thought to reflect upon by both monarchists and non-monarchists. Those who do not consider themselves monarchists should know that the realities that are known today as constitutional monarchies have absolutely nothing to do with authentic monarchy, except in the remaining pomp and ceremonies meant to fool whoever wants to be fooled into thinking otherwise. Monarchy is not only a form of government that stands out for its tremendous practical advantages, but is also inseparably united to our Christian civilization, sadly known today as "Western" in order to obscure its universal projection. It is so especially in Spain, for it was a dynastic union that gave political form to an already existing cultural and religious brotherhood, it was a royally-sponsored enterprise that brought Christ to a New World, and it was royal legislation that included its inhabitants in that fraternity of many peoples, bound by one God and one king, known as the Spanish Monarchy.

Many who consider themselves monarchists regard their defense of constitutional monarchy as their duty to support the last remaining obstacle against republicanism. But I ask myself: are constitutional monarchies really so different from republics? Are they made different by the fact that the Head of State is titled "King" instead of "President"? Is that what being a monarchist means?

It is true that the constitutional monarchies that survive today may have a certain value towards a future restoration, keeping the monarchial institution -even if it is just a ghost of it- close to everyday life, alive in the collective imagery and not a distant memory from the Middle Ages. One may even admit that the work of constitutional kings as Heads of State is useful, acting as experienced diplomats and securing foreign investment. They are not, however, the functions of a monarch, at least not the only ones. And precisely because of this, those who defend constitutional monarchies find themselves to be wielding a doble-edged sword: because when these monarchies fall, having erased from recent memory the traditional image of the monarch, replacing it with its modern residual version through years of constitutional experience, there will be no voices clamoring for restoration: why bring back to life something that lost its meaning a long time ago, something that still exists in our days only because of historical inertia? 

Some monarchists will perceive nothing short of treason in the criticism I have made in this series of posts. Should we not put aside our differences and close ranks around the monarchies that remain? If we do not do this, are we not helping republicans? I do not think so. Quite the contrary: I think that only a total defense of monarchy, without compromising with its constitutional degenerations, can efficiently combat republican ideas. Ideas, I insist, just as much put in practice in crowned republics as in uncrowned ones. 

I conclude by asking: is it worth it to renounce a heritage over two thousand years old in exchange for an external appearance? Is it worth it to defend nominal monarchies at all costs, even paying the price of forever burying the meaning they once stood for? I think not. And that is why I am a monarchist.

THE END

Parts: (I), (II), (III), (and IV)

 

Hereditary Evils of the French Revolution: Constitutional Monarchy (III)

Ever since Rome ceased to be governed by its decrepit republican constitution, a unique understanding of monarchy began to be forged, eventually proving to be inseparable from what we now rather aseptically call Western civilization, which is nothing but the Roman Empire continued and perfected in Medieval Christendom. It was distinguished from other monarchies existing in other times or places by an absolutely singular characteristic, unknown to man and never put into practice until it was instituted by Our Lord Jesus Christ: "Render therefore to Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's" (Mark 12:17)

Hereditary succession, almost equally original and important, also became characteristic of this monarchy. What does hereditary mean? Not only that the crown can be passed from father to son, which has always been a usual way to pass on power in many cultures, but that it must be passed on from father to son. It means that there is always one single person that can be determined as the legitimate heir at a given time. In this way the throne, the supreme office, the most coveted prize for the ambitious, becomes unattainable. With a hereditary succession that leaves no doubt about who is the king and who can be king, the monarch can govern justly and selflessly, safe in knowing that no rival candidates can possibly threaten his position. He can devote himself to his duty in a way that he never could if he had to worry about keeping the throne. But even more importantly, the kingdom will be freed from the plague of civil war, always lurking whenever succession is disputed. History proves this abundantly.

Critics of monarchy often stress that hereditary succession leaves too much to chance, that it does not guarantee that the king will possess the qualities of a good ruler. They forget that other manners of elevation to power, like popular election or coup d'état, assure with almost complete certainty that he will not possess these qualities. These critics fail to understand that the most valuable thing for good government is not whether this or that particular person is king, but that it can be no one else but him. That the monarchy be inaccessible. A king will stand out if he is a genius or a villain. Probably, he will be neither. As with most kings, the office eclipses the man behind it: "A Monarch is a physical person as well as a moral and historical one. The physical person may be worth very little, he may be inferior to the majority of his subjects, but the moral and historical person has much value; it is of such a nature that it makes up for what the other person is lacking, and it does so often in excess" (Juan Vázquez de Mella).

A constitutional monarchy can never possess this advantage, because it is neither a monarchy nor hereditary. It is not a monarchy because the crown's existence itself, the identity of the man who wears it and his attributed powers are all subject to a decision by a higher body: parliament. The king, in submission to popular sovereignty, ceases to have the position of supremacy necessary for the independent exercise of his function of government. He becomes simply another institution within the State, a sort of notary public that signs laws and a lifetime ambassador. He occupies an elective office (elected by parliament, that is), not necessarily for life (as he may be legally deposed at any time). His existence depends on popularity as much as that of the average politician. His position is prostituted to public opinion in a way that renders him useless as an arbiter of politics. By the same token, neither is constitutional monarchy hereditary. There may be laws of succession, but they depend on parliament as much any other law. They are no longer conferred the distinguished protection of fundamental laws, traditionally upheld in Spain by the balance between Cortes and king. Rather, they can change from one day to the next if sovereign parliament wills it.

«The "right of succession to the throne" [...] should not be understood as an absolute right against a possible constitutional reform. On the contrary, it is a relative and expectant juridical situation [...] It is the Constitution that grants these rights and that can modify or abolish them, without it being admissible that their circumstantial holders allege any acquired right whatsoever, if the modification or abolition do take place» (Again Spain's Council of State)

The only law of succession is the will of the parliament in its next session.

The true value of a constitution

But is the position of a constitutional monarch really so fragile? Can he not be protected by a special process of constitutional reform? Certainly. The monarchy may even be outside the limits of constitutional reform, if the text of the constitution establishes so. Even some monarchical constitutions of the 19th century (for example those of 1845 and 1876 in Spain and of 1830 in France under Louis-Philippe of Orléans) make no mention at all of the word sovereignty, be it national or popular! How can it be said that the king is threatened by a sovereignty not recognized by the constitution?

Here we can see one of the great mirages of constitutionalism, perhaps its greatest paradox. Written constitutions aspire to codify the highest laws of the political system, allegedly to establish rule of law against arbitrary monarchies. And yet, what matters most about a constitution is not what is written in it, but what is not. What is implied, what is taken for granted. And what is this? The postulates of liberalism, the underlying ideology in modern constitutions. Among them is popular sovereignty, presupposed in every constitution even if it is not contained within its pages. It is assumed to exist previously and independently, as a part of reality, whether a constitution recognizes it or not. History proves it:

1848 revolutions

Throughout the 19th and 20th centuries a series of regimes and constitutions have succeeded one another often violently, through wars and revolutions. It is to be expected that the first constitutions that break off with the Ancien Régime do so forcibly, outside the limits of previous legality. But what about the next ones? The first constitutions established a procedure of constitutional reform that was almost never observed. If they are taken to be legal, if they are considered expressions of popular sovereignty, how can later constitutions also be considered legal if they sprang out of a revolution and did not respect the reform procedures in force?

They are considered legal because they too claim to be the expression of popular sovereignty. If a constitution is overthrown by a coup d'état, and its promoters call for the election of a new constituent parliament that elaborates a new constitution, constitutional theory is forced to admit that popular sovereignty has been at work. In order for it to be this way one must assume that popular sovereignty always exists, legally recognized or not. One must assume that it cannot be held back by the rules set down in a constitution regarding its reform or anything else, for it can always act spontaneously against it. It can always take back its word, with or without violence, and break free from the straitjacket of previous decisions. That is, it can always be sovereign.

As one can see, behind every constitution there is always a latent ideological content. And because it is ideological, it is partial, distorted, deceptive, and false: it does not adjust ideas to reality, but reality to ideas. A constitution cannot be the universally accepted law, the frame of coexistence to which everyone can agree. It should, on the contrary, not be accepted by anyone at all.

"Saints Firmus and Rusticus
suffered martyrdom for refusing to
sacrifice to the Roman Empire's idols..."

To be concluded in the next post.

Parts: (I), (II), (III), (and IV)

 

Hereditary Evils of the French Revolution: Constitutional Monarchy (II)

"Napoleon I": a constitutional monarch with few limits to his power

Let us not tire from repeating this: constitutional monarchy IS NOT EQUAL to limited monarchy. They are two different things. There may be constitutional monarchies with an autocratic king with many powers, and non-constitutional monarchies where the king's power is limited in many ways. The Spanish Monarchy (before its 19th century adoption of liberal constitutions, that is), though taking a more authoritarian turn towards the beginning of 16th century, always was strictly limited. At its peak, Philip II, king over much of the Old world and almost all of the New, spent his life travelling to and from each of the Cortes of his many kingdoms (representative parliaments of medieval origin, the first one in all Europe taking place in León in 1188, almost a century before the first English Parliament) negotiating tax levies for his armies, not always with success. To present constitutional monarchies as the only possible kind of limited monarchy is simply not true. Consciously confusing the two terms is an act of propaganda.

Rather, the adjectives "limited" and "constitutional" refer to two different aspects of monarchy that can be separated conceptually but must always jointly define it. These are: 1) The power of the king, and 2) The legitimacy from which he derives his position.

Power

The government of one, actual command. In a previous post we made some basic considerations on the nature of human society. Let us for now copy the two first ones:

"1^st. Man, as the social being he is, tends to associate with others in order to achieve ends that he by himself would be unable to achieve. This process starts with family, and from there associations grow in size and complexity.

2^nd.  Having reached a certain point an organized society needs an authority in order to resolve the conflicts that occur in every human collective. This conflict resolution is done proportionately and in keeping with with the end of each particular association (a court of arbitration does not need the power of life and death over litigants in order to accomplish its function). This authority has been held, as the human associative process has grown throughout history, by institutions ranging from the paterfamilias to the State."

The king has this position of authority over the association "political community" as the head of the family has it over the association "family". If the king is to carry out this function, evidently he must have the necessary power to achieve this end. If he could do this by being a ceremonial figurehead and a symbol of unity, as constitutional monarchies often justify themselves, why not replace him with a totem pole to be exhibited in a museum? 

This power, however, does not have to be tyrannical. In fact, if it ever becomes so it frustrates its purpose. It is here that the principle of subsidiarity, taken for granted in the Ancien Régime and denied in the New, plays its part: if the human process of association builds larger societies by grouping together previously-existing smaller ones, these will continue to exist by their own right, not by delegation of the central power. The king, therefore, has no right to intrude in spheres that are not his own. On the other hand, in the sphere that truly belongs to him, his power must be absolute. Does this mean unlimited? Clearly not: the principle of subsidiarity, embodied in a wide range of historical manifestations depending on the time and place (for example, the Spanish fueros, or local charter law), is a stern boundary that limits his power from without (and "the limits [of power] are external, as are all limits; there where an independence begins, so the limits of a thing will end", according to Vázquez de Mella). But within his boundaries the king's power must remain whole, not artificially partitioned into three "powers". The king must be king absolutely. It is in this sense that the word was employed in the Ancien Régime, before the Revolution portrayed it as a synonym of tyranny (1). The fist constitutional kings of the 19th century, heads of the "executive branch", were already doubly degenerating the royal function: first, by abandoning their legislative capability, thus shredding that which must be maintained whole; secondly, by cooperating with liberal parliaments in the destruction of the intermediate bodies that they were perpetrating armed with their newly self-awarded sovereignty, thus invading that which must be separated.

19th-century Spain: under a liberal monarchy, Church properties are confiscated and sold to the new bourgeoisie, landlords with feudal obligations become private proprietors with no restriction, and tenants become proletariats.

It may seem that we are without any justification dismissing the separation of "three powers" as artificial. Perhaps some might think that it has proven a valid alternative in our days to the preceding conception of absolute power. It may be so in Constitutional Law textbooks, but the strength of political parties in most democratic systems proves that reality is different. Wherever there is a system that provides efficient government, the three branches breach behind the scenes their nominal separation. Wherever there is no anarchy, there is always someone who commands, who leads. The benefit of monarchy is the ability to point at the head upon which the crown sits.

Legitimacy

What position exactly does the king occupy? By whom or by what is he legitimized to occupy it? These questions have found a wide range of answers throughout history, but their importance surpasses the merely historical. Behind them lies a constant dilemma of tremendous practical importance: does the king have a right to reign, or does it depend on someone else's will? Despite the variety of historical experience, this question has received a surprisingly uniform response.

Justinian I

Throughout the Middle Ages, as the type of monarchy that is to survive until the end of the Ancien Régime is forged, different ideas about the king's position begin to appear. On one hand, those drawing from the legacy of Justinian's Roman law -rediscovered in the West five hundred years later- especially attractive to kings aspiring to give their tribal-styled leadership a more Caesarian, autocratic turn. On the other hand, those giving a greater importance to the realm's laws and institutions. Christian doctrine has always understood that power comes from God (2), but does the kingdom play any role in this transfer? Father Francisco Suárez, 16th-century Spanish theologian, considered the political community as a necessary intermediate between God and the king in His cession of the right to rule, since it is the laws of men that determine who is to be king. When theory is put into practice, a certain patrimonial sense of the king's position has always lived together with a certain institutional presence of the realm, in a mix that varies in proportions in every time and place. It is hard to imagine that it could be any other way, since ancient constitutions were not the ideal construction of a few legislators that are modern ones, but the product of centuries' experience. In constant evolution, not revolution, they allowed both aspects (the king's independence and the moderation of the realm, both essential to good government) to materialize in the correct proportion for every moment. The laws of succession of the Spanish Monarchy, for example, could only be modified by common accord of the king and the Cortes. The king could not on whim designate his successor, nor the Cortes deny the crown to his son in order to bargain for political concessions.

Together with the more or less significant institutional presence of the realm in historical monarchial systems, the patrimonial aspect of the king's position has always been considered inseparable from the very meaning of monarchy. Even in elective monarchies, once elected, the king was the king. He had a right to rule. Certain objective causes like tyranny might justify his deposition, certainly, but there never was a higher body empowered to freely depose him, to "take back" the laws of succession or the election that brought him to the throne. Could it be any different without contradicting the meaning of monarchy? Let us continue with the next two of our previously quoted considerations on the nature of society:

"3^rd. This authority is subservient to the well-being of the society it directs, to the common good. This way, society does not exist to the benefit of the authority, but rather authority exists to the benefit of society.

4^th.  Though it is true that authority –considered in abstract– is teleologically (that is, according to its end or purpose) subordinated to society –considered in abstract–, it is also true that those who hold authority –in a specific moment– must be independent from those who form a society –in a specific moment–. If it were not so, as soon as the authority made a decision that was legitimate but unfavorable to a sector of society, that sector would put forward the preceding (3^rd) argument in order to disobey the decision, thus rendering useless the existence of an authority ."

A monarchy cannot depend on another higher institution if it is to carry out its function of authority over the political community. It must have a position of supremacy, of hierarchic superiority over all other political institutions within the realm. It is the keystone of the arch: only it can complete it, but it cannot seek to replace the pillars that precede it, logically and chronologically. Consequently, no other institution can exist over the monarchy, nor it obey any other temporal authority. How else can it be expected to carry out its function of coordination and leadership, of government, with impartiality and justice?

Ferdinand VII of Spain gives his oath to the Constitution of 1812, when in 1820 some officers commanding the army he sent to quell rebellions in America mutinied, marched towards Madrid, and demanded a liberal monarchy.

Constitutions, with their acceptance of the principle of popular sovereignty, subvert this second aspect of monarchy by having the king's legitimacy depend on parliament. Parliament, in turn, becomes the true "king". This new monarch of many heads, keeping a nominal king as "symbolic figurehead", transform the old royal supremacy into the modern parliamentary sovereignty: an unlimited power in theory, always tyrannical in practice. Furthermore, by ending the king's supremacy, legitimizing his existence on the "constituent's decision", parliament ends up denying his actual power of government: why would it not, when parliament itself can exercise power? The old monarchies that accepted popular sovereignty in the 19th or 20th centuries, initially conserving ample powers, gave up their autonomy and have consequently degenerated into figureheads empty of power and significance. It is exact to call them crowned republics.

To be continued.

Parts: (I), (II), (III), (and IV)

 

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(1) Of course, the abuses of regalism hid behind the word "absolutism", but just as regalism was a deviation from the original monarchy, so is "absolutism" from its authentic meaning.

(2) See for example John 19:11 ("You would have no power over me if it had not been given to you from above") and Romans 13:1+ ("Let every person be subordinate to the higher authorities, for there is no authority except from God, and those that exist have been established by God"). However, the protestant theory of the divine right of kings, as understood by James I of England, does not belong to this medieval patrimony: "And as ye see it manifest that the King is overlord of the whole land, so is he master over every person that inhabiteth the same, having power over the life and death of every one of them (compare this "tolerant" anglican doctrine with the the "fanaticism" of the Spanish Inquisition). For although a just prince will not take the life of any of his subjects without a clear law, yet the same laws whereby he taketh them are made by himself or his predecessors, and so the power flows always from himself". In a typically protestant style, something true (that the power of kings comes from God) is developed in an exaggerated manner, with a fanatical simplicity that neutralizes the complexity and delicacy behind every truth, degenerating into something grotesque (that the king is sovereign; that is, he has direct and unlimited power over everything, including pontifical authority and natural law itself).