Chapter V: Front Matter (5)

Right or wrong, many economical laws owe their origin to this singular reasoning. Such laws cannot be otherwise than subversive of every sound principle in relation to the development and distribution of wealth; and this it is which justifies me in preparing beforehand, by the explanation of truths very trivial in appearance, for the refutation of the deplorable errors and prejudices under which society is now labouring.

Let us analyze the co-operation of Nature of which I have spoken. Nature places two things at our disposal—‹materials› and ‹forces›.

Most of the material objects which contribute to the satisfaction of our wants and desires are brought into the state of ‹utility› which renders them fit for our use only by the intervention of labour, by the application of the human faculties. But the elements, the atoms, if you will, of which these objects are composed, are the gifts, I will add the ‹gratuitous› gifts, of Nature. This observation is of the very highest importance, and will, I believe, throw a new light upon the theory of wealth.

The reader will have the goodness to bear in mind that I am inquiring at present in a general way into the moral and physical constitution of man, his wants, his faculties, his relations with Nature—apart from the consideration of Exchange, which I shall enter upon in the next chapter. We shall then see in what respect, and in what manner, social transactions modify the phenomena. [p089]

It is very evident, that if man in an isolated state must, so to speak, ‹purchase› the greater part of his satisfactions by an exertion, by an effort, it is rigorously exact to say that prior to the intervention of any such exertion, any such effort, the materials which he finds at his disposal are the ‹gratuitous› gifts of Nature. After the first effort on his part, however slight it may be, they cease to be ‹gratuitous›; and if the language of Political Economy had been always exact, it would have been to material objects in this state, and before human labour had been bestowed upon them, that the term ‹raw materials› (‹matières premières›) would have been exclusively applied.

I repeat that this ‹gratuitous› quality of the gifts of Nature, anterior to the intervention of labour, is of the very highest importance. I said in my second chapter that Political Economy was the ‹theory of value›; I add now, and by anticipation, that things begin to possess ‹value› only when it is given to them by labour. I intend to demonstrate afterwards that everything which is ‹gratuitous› for man in an isolated state is gratuitous for man in his social condition, and that the gratuitous gifts of Nature, ‹whatever be their› «UTILITY», have no value. I say that a man who receives a benefit from Nature, directly and without any effort on his part, cannot be considered as rendering himself an ‹onerous service›, and, consequently, that he cannot render to another any service with reference to things which are common to all. Now, where there are no services rendered and received there is no ‹value›.

All that I have said of ‹materials› is equally applicable to the ‹forces› which Nature places at our disposal. Gravitation, the elasticity of air, the power of the winds, the laws of equilibrium, vegetable life, animal life, are so many forces which we learn to turn to account. The pains and intelligence which we bestow in this way always admit of remuneration, for we are not bound to devote our efforts to the advantage of others gratuitously. But these natural forces, in themselves, and apart from all intellectual or bodily exertion, are ‹gratuitous› gifts of Providence, and in this respect they remain destitute of ‹value› through all the complications of human transactions. This is the leading idea of the present work.

This observation would be of little importance, I allow, if the co-operation of Nature were constantly uniform, if each man, at all times, in all places, in all circumstances, received from Nature equal and invariable assistance. In that case, science would be justified in not taking into account an element which, remaining always and everywhere the same, would affect the services [p090] exchanged in equal proportions on both sides. As in geometry we eliminate portions of lines common to two figures which we compare with each other, we might neglect a co-operation which is invariably present, and content ourselves with saying, as we have done hitherto, “There is such a thing as natural wealth—Political Economy acknowledges it, and has no more concern with it.”

But this is not the true state of the matter. The irresistible tendency of the human mind, stimulated by self-interest and assisted by a series of discoveries, is to substitute natural and gratuitous co-operation for human and onerous concurrence; so that a given utility, although remaining the same as far as the result and the satisfactions which it procures us are concerned, represents a smaller and smaller amount of labour. In fact, it is impossible not to perceive the immense influence of this marvellous phenomenon on our notion of value. For what is the result of it? This, that in every product the ‹gratuitous› element tends to take the place of the ‹onerous›; that ‹utility›, being the result of two ‹collaborations›, of which one is remunerated and the other is not, Value, which has relation only to the first of these united forces, is diminished, and makes room for a ‹utility› which is identically the same, and this in proportion as we succeed in constraining Nature to a more efficacious co-operation. So that we may say that mankind have as many more ‹satisfactions›, as much more ‹wealth›, as they have less ‹value›. Now, the majority of authors having employed these three terms, ‹utility›, ‹wealth›, ‹value›, as synonymous, the result has been a theory which is not only not true, but the reverse of true. I believe sincerely that a more exact description of this combination of natural forces and human forces in the business of production, in other words, a juster definition of Value, would put an end to inextricable theoretical confusion, and would reconcile schools which are now divergent; and if I am now anticipating somewhat in entering on this subject here, my justification with the reader is the necessity of explaining in the outset certain ideas of which otherwise he would have difficulty in perceiving the importance.

Returning from this digression, I resume what I had to say upon man considered exclusively in an economical point of view.

Another observation, which we owe to J. B. Say, and which is almost self-evident, although too much neglected by many authors, is, that man ‹creates› neither the ‹materials› nor the ‹forces› of nature, if we take the word ‹create› in its exact signification. These materials, these forces, have an independent existence. Man can only combine them or displace them, for his own benefit or that [p091] of others. If for his own, ‹he renders a service to himself›,—if for the benefit of others, ‹he renders service to his fellows›, and has the right to exact an ‹equivalent› service. Whence it also follows that ‹value› is proportional to the service rendered, and not at all to the absolute ‹utility› of the thing. For this ‹utility› may be in great part the result of the ‹gratuitous› action of Nature, in which case the human service, the onerous service, the service to be remunerated, is of little value. This results from the axiom above established—namely, that ‹to bring a thing to the highest degree of utility, the action of man is inversely as the action of Nature›.

This observation overturns the doctrine which places value in the ‹materiality› of things. The contrary is the truth. The materiality is a quality given by Nature, and consequently ‹gratuitous›, and devoid of ‹value›, although of incontestable utility. Human action, which can never succeed in ‹creating› matter, constitutes alone the service which man in a state of isolation renders to himself, or that men in society render to each other; and it is the free appreciation of these ‹services› which is the foundation of ‹value›. Far, then, from concluding with Adam Smith that it is impossible to conceive of value otherwise than as residing in material substance, we conclude that between Matter and Value there is no possible relation.

This erroneous doctrine Smith deduced logically from his principle, that those classes alone are ‹productive› who operate on material substances. He thus prepared the way for the modern error of the ‹socialists›, who have never done representing as ‹unproductive› parasites those whom they term ‹intermediaries› between the producer and consumer—the merchant, the retail dealer, etc. Do they render services? Do they save us trouble by taking trouble for us? In that case they create ‹value›, although they do not create matter; and as no one can create matter, and we all confine our exertions to rendering reciprocal services, we pronounce with justice that all, including agriculturists and manufacturers, are ‹intermediaries› in relation one to another.

This is what I had to say at present upon the co-operation of Nature. Nature places at our disposal, in various degrees, depending on climate, seasons, and the advance of knowledge, but ‹always gratuitously›, materials and forces. Then these materials and forces are devoid of ‹value›; it would be strange if they had any. According to what rule should we estimate them? In what way could Nature be paid, remunerated, compensated? We shall see afterwards that ‹exchange› is necessary in order to determine ‹value›. We don’t purchase the goods of Nature—we gather them; and if, in order to appropriate them, a certain amount of effort is [p092] necessary, it is in this ‹effort›, not in the gifts of Nature, that the principle of ‹value› resides.

Let us now consider that action of man which we designate, in a general way, by the term ‹labour›.

The word ‹labour›, like almost all the terms of Political Economy, is very vague. Different authors use it in a sense more or less extended. Political Economy has not had, like most other sciences, Chemistry for example, the advantage of constructing her own vocabulary. Treating of subjects which have been familiar to men’s thoughts since the beginning of the world, and the constant subject of their daily talk, she has found a nomenclature ready made, and has been forced to adopt it.

The meaning of the word ‹labour› is often limited exclusively to the muscular action of man upon materials. Hence those who execute the mechanical part of production are called the ‹working classes›.

The reader will comprehend that I give to this word a more extended sense. I understand by ‹labour› the application of our faculties to the satisfaction of our wants. ‹Wants›, ‹efforts›, ‹satisfactions›, this is the circle of Political Economy. ‹Effort› may be physical, intellectual, or even moral, as we shall immediately see.

It is not necessary to demonstrate in this place that all our organs, all or nearly all our faculties, may concur, and, in point of fact, do concur, in production. Attention, sagacity, intelligence, imagination, have assuredly their part in it.

M. Dunoyer, in his excellent work, ‹Sur la Liberté du Travail›, has included, and with scientific exactness, our moral faculties among the elements to which we are indebted for our wealth—an idea as original and suggestive as it is just. It is destined to enlarge and ennoble the field of Political Economy.

I shall not dwell here upon that idea farther than as it may enable me to throw a faint light upon the origin of a powerful agent of production, of which I shall have occasion to speak hereafter—I mean ‹Capital›.

If we examine in succession the material objects which contribute to the satisfaction of our wants, we shall discover without difficulty that all or nearly all require, in order to their being brought to perfection, more time, a larger portion of our life, than a man can expend without recruiting his strength, that is to say, without satisfying his wants. This supposes that those who had made those things had previously reserved, set aside, accumulated, provisions, to enable them to subsist during the operation. [p093]

The same observation applies to satisfactions which have nothing material belonging to them.

A clergyman cannot devote himself to preaching, a professor to teaching, a magistrate to the maintenance of order, unless, by themselves, or by others, they are put in possession of means of subsistence previously created.

Let us go a little higher. Suppose a man isolated and forced to live by the chase. It is easy to comprehend that if every night he consumed the whole game which his day’s hunting had furnished, he could never set himself to any other work, to build a cottage, for example, or repair his arms or implements. All progress would be interdicted in his case.

This is not the proper place to define the nature and functions of Capital. My sole object at present is to show that certain moral virtues co-operate very directly in the amelioration of our condition, even when viewed exclusively with reference to wealth,—among other virtues, order, foresight, self-control, economy.

To ‹foresee› is one of our noblest privileges, and it is scarcely necessary to say that, in all situations of life, the man who most clearly foresees the probable consequences of his acts and determinations has the best chance of success.

To ‹control his appetites›, to govern his passions, to sacrifice the present to the future, to submit to privations for the sake of greater but more distant advantages—such are the conditions essential to the formation of capital; and capital, as we have already partially seen, is itself the essential condition of all labour that is in any degree complicated or prolonged. It is quite evident that if we suppose two men placed in identically the same position, and possessed of the same amount of intelligence and activity, that man would make the most progress who, having accumulated provisions, had placed himself in a situation to undertake protracted works, to improve his implements, and thus to make the forces of nature co-operate in the realization of his designs.

I shall not dwell longer on this. We have only to look around us to be convinced that all our forces, all our faculties, all our virtues, concur in furthering the advancement of man and of society.

For the same reason, there are none of our vices which are not directly or indirectly the causes of poverty. Idleness paralyzes efforts, which are the sinews of production. Ignorance and error give our efforts a false direction. Improvidence lays us open to deceptions. Indulgence in the appetites of the hour prevents the accumulation of capital. Vanity leads us to devote our efforts to factitious enjoyments, in place of such as are real. Violence and [p094] fraud provoke reprisals, oblige us to surround ourselves with troublesome precautions, and entail a great waste and destruction of power.

I shall wind up these preliminary observations on man with a remark which I have already made in relation to his wants. It is this, that the elements discussed and explained in this chapter, and which enter into and constitute economical science, are in their nature flexible and changeable. Wants, desires, materials and powers furnished by Nature, our muscular force, our organs, our intellectual faculties, our moral qualities, all vary with the individual, and change with time and place. No two men, perhaps, are entirely alike in any one of these respects, certainly not in all—nay more, no man entirely resembles himself for two hours together. What one knows another is ignorant of—what one values another despises—here nature is prodigal, there niggardly—a virtue which it is difficult to practise in one climate or latitude becomes easy in another. Economical science has not, then, like the exact sciences, the advantage of possessing a fixed measure, and absolute unconditional truths—a graduated scale, a standard, which can be employed in measuring the intensity of desires, of efforts, and of satisfactions. Were we even to devote ourselves to solitary labour, like certain animals, we should still find ourselves placed in circumstances in some degree different; and were our external circumstances alike, were the medium in which we act the same for all, we should still differ from each other in our desires, our wants, our ideas, our sagacity, our energy, our manner of estimating and appreciating things, our foresight, our activity—so that a great and inevitable inequality would manifest itself. In truth, absolute isolation, the absence of all relations among men, is only an idle fancy coined in the brain of Rousseau. But supposing that this antisocial state, called the ‹state of nature›, had ever existed, I cannot help inquiring by what chain of reasoning Rousseau and his adepts have succeeded in planting Equality there? We shall afterwards see that Equality, like Wealth, like Liberty, like Fraternity, like Unity, is the end; it is not the starting point. It rises out of the natural and regular development of societies. The tendency of human nature is not away from, but towards, Equality. This is most consoling and most true.

Having spoken of our ‹wants›, and our ‹means› of providing for them, it remains to say a word respecting our ‹satisfactions›. They are the result of the entire mechanism we have described.

It is by the greater or less amount of physical, intellectual, and moral ‹satisfactions› which mankind enjoy, that we discover whether [p095] the machine works well or ill. This is the reason why the word ‹consommation› [‹consumption›[24]], adopted by our Economists would have a profound meaning if we used it in its etymological signification as synonymous with ‹end›, or ‹completion›. Unfortunately, in common, and even in scientific, language, it presents to the mind a gross and material idea, exact without doubt when applied to our physical wants, but not at all so when used with reference to those of a more elevated order. The cultivation of corn, the manufacture of woollen cloth, terminate in ‹consumption› [consommation]. But can this be said with equal propriety of the works of the artist, the songs of the poet, the studies of the lawyer, the prelections of the professor, the sermons of the clergyman? It is here that we again experience the inconvenience of that fundamental error which caused Adam Smith to circumscribe Political Economy within the limits of a material circle; and the reader will pardon me for frequently making use of the term ‹satisfaction›, as applicable to all our wants and all our desires, and as more in accordance with the larger scope which I hope to be able to give to the science.

Political Economists have been frequently reproached with confining their attention exclusively to the ‹interests of the consumer›. “You forget the producer,” we are told. But satisfaction being the end and design of all our efforts—the grand ‹consummation› or termination of the economic phenomena—is it not evident that it is there that the touchstone of progress is to be found? A man’s happiness and well-being are not measured by his ‹efforts›, but by his ‹satisfactions›, and this holds equally true of society in the aggregate. This is one of those truths which are never disputed when applied to an individual, but which are constantly disputed when applied to society at large. The phrase to which exception has been taken only means this, that Political Economy estimates the worth of what we do, not by the labour which it costs us to do it, but by the ultimate result, which resolves itself definitively into an increase or diminution of the general prosperity.

We have said, in reference to our wants and desires, that there are no two men exactly alike. The same thing may be said of our ‹satisfactions›: they are not held in equal estimation by all, which verifies the common saying, that ‹tastes differ›. Now it is by the intensity of our desires, and the variety of our tastes, that the direction of our efforts is determined. It is here that the influence of morals upon industry becomes apparent. Man, as an individual, may be the slave of tastes which are factitious, puerile, and [p096] immoral. In this case it is self-evident that, his powers being limited, he can only satisfy his depraved desires at the expense of those which are laudable and legitimate. But when society comes into play, this evident axiom is marked down as an error. We are led to believe that artificial tastes, illusory satisfactions, which we acknowledge as the source of individual poverty, are nevertheless the cause of national wealth, as opening a vent to manufactures. If it were so, we should arrive at the miserable conclusion, that the social state places man between poverty and vice. Once more, Political Economy reconciles, in the most rigorous and satisfactory manner, these apparent contradictions. [p097]

IV. EXCHANGE.

Exchange is Political Economy—it is Society itself—for it is impossible to conceive Society as existing without Exchange, or Exchange without Society. I shall not pretend in this chapter to exhaust so vast a subject. To present even an outline of it would require the entire volume.

If men, like snails, lived in complete isolation, if they did not exchange their ideas and exertions, and had no bargain or transactions with each other, we might have multitudes, indeed—human units—individuals living in juxtaposition—but we could not have ‹Society›.

Nay, we should not even have individuals. To man isolation is death. But then, if he cannot live out of society, the legitimate conclusion is that the social state is his natural state.

All the sciences tend to establish this truth, which was so little understood by the men of the eighteenth century that they founded morals and politics on the contrary assertion. They were not content with placing the state of nature in opposition to the social state—they gave the first a decided preference. “Men were blessed,” said Montaigne, “when they lived without bonds, without laws, without language, without religion.” And we know that the system of Rousseau, which exercised, and still exercises, so powerful an influence over opinions and facts, rests altogether on this hypothesis—that men, unhappily, ‹agreed› one fine morning to abandon the innocent ‹state of nature› for the stormy ‹state of society›.

It is not the design of this chapter to bring together all possible refutations of this fundamental error, the most fatal which has ever infested the political sciences; for if society is the fruit of invention and convention, it follows that every one may propose a new model, and this, since Rousseau’s time, has in fact been the [p098] direction in which men’s minds have tended. I could easily demonstrate, I believe, that isolation excludes language, as the absence of language excludes thought; and man, deprived of thought, instead of being a child of nature, ceases to be man at all.

But a peremptory refutation of the idea upon which Rousseau’s doctrine reposes, flows naturally from some considerations on Exchange.

‹Want›, ‹Effort›, ‹Satisfaction›,—such is man in an economical point of view.

We have seen that the two extreme terms are essentially intransmissible, for they terminate in sensation, they are sensation, which is the most personal thing in the world, as well the sensation which precedes the effort and determines it, as the sensation which follows the effort and rewards it.

It is then the ‹Effort› which is exchanged; indeed, it cannot be otherwise, since exchange implies action, and Effort alone manifests the principle of activity. We cannot suffer or enjoy for one another, unless we could experience personally the pains and pleasures of others. But we can assist each other, work for one another, render reciprocal ‹services›, and place our faculties, or the results of their exercise, at the disposal of others, in consideration of a return. This is society. The causes, the effects, the laws, of these exchanges constitute the subject of political and social economy.

We not only can exchange efforts and render reciprocal services, but we do so necessarily. What I affirm is this, that our organization is such that we are obliged to work for one another under pain of death, of instant death. If it be so, society is our state of nature, since it is the only state in which we can live at all.

There is one observation which I have to make upon the equilibrium between our wants and our faculties, an observation which has always led me to admire the providential plan which regulates our destinies:—

‹In the state of isolation our wants exceed our powers;›

‹In the social state our powers exceed our wants.›

Hence it follows that man in an isolated state cannot subsist, whilst in the social state his most imperious wants give place to desires of a higher order, and continue to do so in an ascending career of progress and improvement to which it is impossible to set limits.

This is not declamation, but an assertion capable of being [p099] rigorously demonstrated by reasoning and analogy, if not by experience. And why can it not be demonstrated by experience, by direct observation? Precisely because it is true—precisely because, man not being able to exist in a state of isolation, it becomes impossible to exhibit in actual nature the effects of absolute solitude. You cannot lay hold of a nonentity. You can prove to me that a triangle never has four sides, but you cannot, in support of your demonstration, place before my eyes a tetragonal triangle. If you could, the exhibition of such a triangle would disprove your assertion. In the same way, to ask me for experimental proof, to ask me to study the effects of isolation in actual nature, is to palm a contradiction upon me; for life and isolation being incompatible, we have never seen, and never shall see, men without social relations.

If there are animals (of which I am ignorant) destined by their organization to make the round of their existence in absolute isolation, it is very clear that nature must exactly proportion their wants and their powers. It is possible to conceive that their powers have the superiority, in which case these animals would be progressive and capable of improvement. An equilibrium of wants and powers would render them stationary beings; but the superiority of their wants to their powers it is impossible to conceive. From their birth, from their first appearance in life, their faculties must be complete—relatively to the wants for which they have to provide, or at least both must be developed in just proportion. Otherwise the species would die the moment they came into existence, and, consequently, could not be the subject of our observation.

Of all the species of living beings which surround us, undoubtedly none have so many wants as man. In none is infancy so long, so feeble, and so helpless—in none is maturity loaded with so much responsibility—in none is old age so frail and so liable to suffering. And, as if we had not enough of wants, man has tastes also, the satisfaction of which exercises his faculties quite as much as his wants. Scarcely has he appeased his hunger than he begins to pamper himself with dainties—no sooner has he clothed himself than he sighs for finery—no sooner has he obtained shelter than he proceeds to embellish and decorate his residence. His mind is as restless as his body is exacting. He seeks to fathom the secrets of nature, to tame animals, to control the elements, to dive into the bowels of the earth, to traverse broad seas, to soar above the clouds, to annihilate time and space. He desires to know the motions, the springs, the laws, of his mind and heart—to [p100] control his passions—to conquer immortality—to become a god—to bring all things into subjection; nature, his fellow-men, himself. In a word, his desires and aspirations expand continually, and tend towards the infinite.

Thus, in no other species are the faculties so susceptible of vast development as in man. It is his alone to compare and to judge, to reason and to speak, to foresee, to sacrifice the present to the future. He alone can transmit, from generation to generation, his works, his thoughts, the treasures of his experience. He alone is capable of a perfectibility which is indefinite, which forms a chain the countless links of which would seem to stretch beyond the limits of the present world.

Let me here set down an observation which belongs properly to Political Economy. However extended may be the domain of our faculties, they do not reach the length of ‹creating› anything. Man cannot, in truth, augment or diminish the number of existing particles of matter. His action is limited to subjecting the substances which he finds around him to modifications and combinations which fit them for his use.[25]

To modify substances, so as to increase their utility in relation to us, is to ‹produce›, or rather it is one mode of producing. From this I conclude that value (as we shall afterwards more fully explain) does not reside in these substances themselves, but in the effort which intervenes in order to modify them, and which exchange brings into comparison with other analogous efforts. This is the reason why value is simply the appreciation of services exchanged, whether a material commodity does or does not intervene. As regards the notion of value, it is a matter of perfect indifference whether I render to another a direct service, as, for example, in performing for him a surgical operation, or an indirect service, in preparing for him a curative substance. In this last case the ‹utility› is in the substance, but the ‹value› is in the service, in the effort, intellectual and muscular, made by one man for the benefit of another. It is by a pure metonymy that we attribute value to the material substance itself, and here, as on many other occasions, metaphor leads science astray.

I return to the subject of man’s organization. If we adhere to the preceding notions, he differs from other animals only in the greater extent of his wants, and the superiority of his powers. All, in fact, are subject to the one and provided with the other. A bird undertakes long journeys in search of the temperature which suits it best—the beaver crosses the river on a bridge of [p101] his own construction—the hawk pursues his prey openly—the cat watches for it with patience—the spider prepares a snare—all labour in order to live and multiply.

But while Nature has established an exact proportion between the wants of animals and their faculties, if she has treated man with greater bounty and munificence, if, in order to force him to be ‹sociable›, she has decreed that in a state of isolation his wants should surpass his faculties, whilst, on the contrary, in the social state, his powers, superior to his wants, open to him an unlimited field for nobler enjoyments, we ought to acknowledge that, as in his relation with the Creator man is elevated above the beasts by the religious sentiment, in his relations with his fellow-creatures by his sense of justice, in his relations with himself by the moral principle—in like manner, in relation to the means of living and multiplying, he is distinguished by a remarkable phenomenon, namely, «Exchange».

Shall I essay to paint the state of poverty, of destitution, and of ignorance, in which, but for the power of exchanging, the human species would have been sunk, had it not, indeed, as is more likely, disappeared altogether.

One of the most popular philosophers, in a romance which has been the charm of the young from generation to generation, has shown us man surmounting by his energy, his activity, his intelligence, the difficulties of absolute solitude. For the purpose of setting clearly before us what are the resources of that noble creature, the author has exhibited him as accidentally cut off from civilisation. It was part of Defoe’s plan to throw Robinson Crusoe into the Island of Juan Fernandez alone, naked, deprived of all that the union of efforts, the division of employments, exchange, society, add to the human powers.

And yet, although the fancied obstacles are but imaginary, Defoe would have taken away from his tale even the shadow of probability if, too faithful to the thought which he wished to develop, he had not made forced concessions to the social state, by admitting that his hero had saved from shipwreck some indispensable things, such as provisions, gunpowder, a gun, a hatchet, a knife, cords, planks, iron, etc.; a decisive proof that society is the necessary medium in which man lives, and out of which not even a romance writer could figure him as existing.

And, observe, that Robinson Crusoe carried with him into solitude another ‹social› treasure, a thousand times more precious than all these, and which the waves could not engulf, I mean his ideas, his recollections, his experience, above all, his language, [p102] without which he would not have been able to hold converse with himself, that is to say, to think.

We have the unfortunate and unreasonable habit of attributing to the ‹social state› the sufferings which we see around us. We are right so far, if our object be to compare society with itself in different degrees of advancement and improvement; but we are wrong if our object be to compare the social state, however imperfect, with a state of isolation. To authorize us to assert that society impairs the condition, I do not say of man in general, but of some men, and these the poorest and most wretched of the species, we must begin by proving that the worst provided of our fellow-creatures have to support in the social state a heavier load of privations and sufferings than the man whose lot has been cast in solitude. Now, examine the life of the humblest day-labourer. Pass in review, in all their details, the articles of his daily consumption. He is covered with some coarse clothing, he eats a little common bread, he sleeps under shelter, and on boards, at least, if he has no better couch. Now, let us ask if man in a state of isolation, deprived of the resources of Exchange, could by any possibility procure for himself that coarse clothing, that common bread, that rude bed, that humble shelter? Rousseau himself, the passionate enthusiast of the ‹state of nature›, avows the utter impossibility of it. Men dispensed with everything, he says; they went naked, they slept in the open air. Thus Rousseau, to exalt the state of nature, was led to make happiness consist in privation. And yet I affirm that this negative happiness is a chimera, and that man in a state of isolation would infallibly perish in a very few hours. Perhaps Rousseau would have gone to the length of saying that that would have been the perfection of his system; and he would have been consistent, for if privation be happiness, death is perfection.

I trust the reader will not conclude from what precedes that we are insensible to the social sufferings of our fellow-men. Because these sufferings are less even in an imperfect state of society than in a state of isolation, it does not follow that we should not invoke, with all earnestness, that progress which constantly diminishes them. But if isolation is something worse than all that is bad in the social state, then I am justified in saying that it places our wants, even the most imperious, far above our faculties and our means of providing for wants.

In what way does Exchange advantageously reverse all this, and place our faculties above our wants?

And first this is proved by the very fact of civilisation. If our [p103] wants surpassed our faculties, we should be beings invincibly retrograde; if there were an equilibrium between them, we should be invincibly stationary. But we advance; which shows that at every stage of social life, as compared with the period that preceded it, a certain portion of our powers, relatively to a given amount of satisfactions, is left disposable. We shall endeavour to explain this marvellous phenomenon.

The explanation which Condillac has given appears to me to be quite unsatisfactory and empirical—in fact, it explains nothing. “From the very fact,” he says, “that an exchange is made, it follows that there must be profit for the two contracting parties, for otherwise it would not take place. Then each exchange includes two gains for humanity.”

Holding this proposition as true, we see in it only the statement of a result. It is in this way that the ‹Malade Imaginaire› explains the narcotic virtue of opium:—

Quia est in eo
Virtus dormitiva
Quæ facit dormire.

Exchange includes two gains, you say. How? Why? It results from the fact that it takes place. But why does it take place? What motive has induced the contracting parties to effect the exchange? Has Exchange in itself a mysterious virtue, necessarily beneficial, and incapable of explanation?

Others make the advantage consist in this, that the one gives away a commodity of which he has too much in order to receive another of which he has too little. Exchange, they say, is a ‹barter of the superfluous for the necessary›. This is contradicted by facts which pass under our own eyes; for who can say that the peasant, in giving away the corn which he has raised, but which he is never to eat, gives away a superfluity? I see in this axiom very clearly how two men may make an accidental arrangement, but I see no explanation of progress.

Observation gives us a more satisfactory explanation of the power of Exchange.

Exchange has two manifestations—namely, union of forces, and separation of occupations.

It is very clear that in many cases the united force of several men is superior, all things considered, to the sum of their individual forces. Suppose that what is wanted is to remove a heavy load. Where a thousand men in succession may fail, it is possible that four men may succeed by uniting their efforts. Just let us reflect how few things were ever accomplished in this world without union! [p104]

And yet this is only the concurrence of muscular forces in a common design. Nature has endued us with very varied physical, intellectual, and moral faculties. There are in the co-operation of these faculties endless combinations. Is it wished to accomplish a useful work, like the construction of a road, or the defence of a country? One gives the community the benefit of his strength, another of his agility, another of his courage, another of his experience, foresight, imagination, even of his reputation. It is easy to comprehend that the same men acting singly could not have attained, or even conceived, the same results.

Now, union of forces implies Exchange. To induce men to co-operate, they have the prospect of participating in the benefit to be obtained. Each makes the other profit by his Efforts, and he profits by the other’s Efforts in return, which is Exchange.

We see how Exchange in this way augments our Satisfactions. The benefit consists in this, that efforts of equal intensity tend, by the mere fact of their union, to superior results. There is here no trace of the pretended ‹barter of the superfluous for the necessary›, any more than of the double and empirical profit alleged by Condillac.

The same remark applies to division of labour. Indeed, if we regard the matter more closely, we shall be convinced that the separation of employments is only another and more permanent manner of uniting our forces—of co-operating, of ‹associating›; and it is quite correct to say, as we shall afterwards demonstrate, that the present social organization, provided Exchange is left free and unfettered, is itself a vast and beautiful association—a marvellous association, very different, indeed, from that dreamt of by the Socialists, since, by an admirable mechanism, it is in perfect accordance with individual independence. Every one can enter and leave it at any moment which suits his convenience. He contributes to it voluntarily, and reaps a satisfaction superior to his contribution, and always increasing—a satisfaction determined by the laws of justice and the nature of things, not by the arbitrary will of a chief. But this is anticipating. All we have to do at present is to explain how the division of labour increases our power.

Without dwelling much on this subject, as it is one of the few which do not give rise to controversy, a remark or two may not be out of place. Its importance has perhaps been somewhat disparaged. In order to demonstrate the powerful effects of the Division of Labour, it has been usual to describe its marvellous results in certain manufactures—in the making of pins, for [p105] example. But the subject admits of being viewed in a more general and philosophical light. The force of habit has the singular effect of concealing from us, and rendering us unconscious of, the phenomena in the midst of which we live and move. No saying is more profoundly true than that of Rousseau, “Much philosophy is needed for the observation of what we see every day.” It may not then be without use to recall what we owe to Exchange, without perceiving it.

In what way has the power of exchanging elevated mankind to the height of civilisation we have now attained? I answer, by the influence which it exerts on ‹Labour›, upon the co-operation of ‹natural agents›, upon the ‹powers and faculties› of man, and upon ‹Capital›.

Adam Smith has clearly demonstrated its influence on Labour.

“The great increase in the quantity of work, which, in consequence of the division of labour, the same number of people are capable of performing, is owing to three circumstances,” says that celebrated Economist: “‹First›, to the increase of dexterity in every particular workman; ‹secondly›, to the saving of time which is commonly lost in passing from one species of work to another; ‹thirdly›, to this, that men are much more likely to discover easier and readier methods of attaining an object when the whole attention of their minds is directed to that single object, than when it is dissipated among a great variety of things.”

Those who, like Adam Smith, see in Labour the exclusive source of wealth, confine themselves to inquiring in what way the division of labour increases its efficiency. But we have seen in the preceding chapter that labour is not the sole agent in procuring us satisfaction. ‹Natural forces› co-operate. That is beyond doubt.

Thus, in agriculture, the action of the sun and of the rain, the moisture of the earth, and the gases diffused in the atmosphere, are undoubtedly agents which co-operate with human labour in the production of vegetable substances.

Manufacturing industry owes analogous services to the chemical qualities of certain substances, to water-power, to the elasticity of steam, to gravitation, to electricity.

Commerce has turned to the profit of man the vigour and instincts of certain races of animals, the force of the winds which fill the sails of his ships, the laws of magnetism, which, acting on the compass, direct the course of these ships through the pathless ocean.

There are two verities which are beyond all dispute. The [p106] first is, that ‹the more man avails himself of the forces of nature, the better he is provided with everything he requires›.

It is sufficiently evident that, with equal exertion, we obtain more corn from a rich loamy soil than from sterile rocks or arid sands.

The second is, ‹that natural agents are unequally diffused over the various countries of the world›.

Who would venture to maintain that all soils are equally well fitted for all kinds of culture, or all countries for the same description of manufactures?

Now, if it be true on the one hand that natural forces are unequally diffused in the different countries of the world, and on the other that men are richer in proportion as they avail themselves of them, it follows that the faculty of Exchange immeasurably augments the useful co-operation of these forces.

And here we recur once more to gratuitous and onerous utility, the former being substituted for the latter by virtue of Exchange. Is it not very clear, that if men were deprived of the power of Exchange, and were obliged to produce ice under the equator, and sugar at the poles, they must spend much pains in doing what heat and cold do gratuitously, and that for them an immense proportion of the Forces of nature would remain inoperative? Thanks to Exchange, these forces are rendered useful to us wherever we encounter them. Corn land is sown with wheat—in wine-growing countries the land is planted with vines—there are fishermen on the coasts, and wood-cutters among the mountains. In one place a wheel which does the work of ten men is set in motion by water—in another, by wind. Nature becomes a slave, whom we have neither to feed, nor to clothe, nor to pay—who costs nothing either to our purse or our conscience.[26] The same amount of human efforts, that is to say, the same services, the same value, realizes a constantly increasing amount of utility. For each given result a certain portion only of human exertion is absorbed; the remainder, by means of the intervention of natural Forces, is rendered disposable, and it sets to work to overcome new obstacles, to minister to new desires, to realize new utilities.

The effects of Exchange upon our intellectual Faculties are so great, that we can scarcely even imagine their extent.

“Knowledge,” says M. de Tracy, “is the most precious of all our acquisition, since it directs and governs the employment of our forces, and renders them more prolific, in proportion as it is sounder and more extensive. No man can himself observe [p107] everything, and it is much easier to learn than to invent. But when several men communicate with each other, what is observed by one is soon known to the rest; and if there be among them but one person of superior ingenuity, precious discoveries speedily become the property of all. In such circumstances, knowledge is much more rapidly increased than it could be in a state of isolation, without taking into account the power of preserving it, and consequently of accumulating it from one generation to another.”

If the resources which nature has accumulated around man and placed at his disposal are varied, the human faculties themselves are not less so. We are not all equally endowed with strength, courage, intelligence, patience, or with artistic, literary, and industrial aptitudes. Without exchange, this diversity, far from contributing to our well-being, would contribute to our misery, each feeling less the advantage of those Faculties he possessed than the deprivation of those he wanted. Thanks to exchange, a man possessed of bodily strength may, up to a certain point, dispense with genius, and a man of intelligence with bodily strength; for by the admirable community which the power of exchange establishes among men, each individual participates in the distinctive qualities of his neighbours.

In order to obtain the satisfactions he desires, it is not enough, in most cases, to work—to exercise his faculties upon, or by means of, natural agents. He requires also to have tools, instruments, machines, provisions—in a word, Capital. Suppose a small tribe, composed of ten families, each, in working exclusively for itself, being obliged to engage in ten different employments. In that case each family must have ten sets of industrial apparatus. The tribe would require to possess ten ploughs, ten teams of oxen, ten forges, ten joiner’s and carpenter’s workshops, ten looms, etc.; while, with the power of exchange, a single plough, a single team, a single forge, a single loom, would be sufficient. It is impossible to conceive the economy of Capital which we owe to exchange.

The reader now sees clearly what constitutes the true power of exchange. It is not, as Condillac says, that it implies ‹two gains›, because of each of the contracting parties valuing more highly what he receives than what he gives. Neither is it that each gives away what is superfluous for what is necessary. It lies simply in this, that when one man says to another, “Do you only this, and I shall do only that, and we shall divide,” there is a better and more advantageous employment of labour, of faculties, of natural agents, of capital, and consequently there is ‹more› to divide. And these results take place to a still greater extent when [p108] three, ten, a hundred, a thousand, or several millions of men enter into the association.

The two propositions which I have laid down, then, are rigorously true, viz.:—

‹In isolation our wants exceed our powers;›

‹In society our powers exceed our wants.›

The first is true, seeing that the whole surface of our country would not maintain one man in a state of absolute isolation.

The second is true, seeing that, in fact, the population which is spread over that same surface multiplies and grows richer.

‹Progress of Exchange.›—The primitive form of exchange is ‹Barter›. Two persons, one of whom desires an object, and is possessed of an object which the other desires, agree to cede these objects reciprocally, or they agree to work separately, each at one thing, but for the purpose of dividing the total product of their labour in arranged proportions. This is ‹Barter›, which is, as the Socialists would say, Exchange, traffic, commerce ‹in embryo›. We observe here two Desires as motives—two Efforts as means—two Satisfactions as results, or as the termination and completion of the entire cycle; and this evolution is not essentially different from the same evolution accomplished in a state of isolation, except that the desires and satisfactions have, as their nature requires, remained intransmissible, and that Efforts alone have been exchanged. In other words, the two persons have worked for each other, and have rendered each other reciprocal ‹services›.

It is at this point that Political Economy truly begins, for it is here that ‹value› first makes its appearance. Barter takes place only after an arrangement, a discussion. Each of the contracting parties is governed by considerations of self-interest. Each of them makes a calculation, which in effect comes to this, “I shall barter if the barter procures me the ‹satisfaction› I ‹desire› with a less ‹Effort›.” It is certainly a marvellous phenomenon that diminished efforts can yet keep pace with undiminished desires and satisfactions; and this is explained by the considerations which I have presented in the first part of this chapter. When two commodities or two services are ‹bartered›, we may conclude that they are of ‹equal value›. We shall have to analyze afterwards the notion of ‹value›, but this vague definition is sufficient for the present.

We may suppose a ‹round-about barter›, including three contracting parties. ‹Paul› renders a service to ‹Peter›, who renders an equivalent service to ‹James›, who in turn renders an equivalent service to ‹Paul›, by means of which all is balanced. I need not say that this round-about transaction only takes place because it [p109] suits all the parties, without changing either the nature or the consequences of barter.

The essence of Barter is discovered in all its purity even when the number of contracting parties is greater. In my ‹commune› the vine-dresser pays with wine for the services of the blacksmith, the barber, the tailor, the beadle, the curate, the grocer; while the blacksmith, the barber, the tailor, in turn deliver to the grocer, for the commodities consumed during the year, the wine which they have received from the vine-dresser.

This round-about Barter, I cannot too often repeat, does not change in the least degree the primary notions explained in the preceding chapters. When the evolution is complete, each of those who have had part in it presents still the triple phenomenon, ‹want›, ‹effort›, ‹satisfaction›. We have but to add, the exchange of efforts, the transmission of services, the separation of employments, with all their resulting advantages—advantages to which every one of the parties has contributed, seeing that isolated individual labour is a ‹pis aller›, always reserved, and which is only renounced in consideration of a certain advantage.

It is easy to comprehend that Barter in kind, especially the indirect and round-about barter which I have described, cannot be much extended, and it is unnecessary to dwell upon the obstacles which set limits to it. How could he manage, for example, who wished to exchange his house against the thousand articles which enter into his annual consumption? In any case, Barter could never take place but among the few persons who happen to be acquainted with each other. Progress and the Division of Labour would soon reach their limits if mankind had not discovered the means of facilitating exchanges.

This is the reason why men, from the earliest ages of society, have employed an intermediate commodity to effect their transactions—corn, wine, animals, and almost always, the precious metals. Such commodities perform this function of facilitating exchanges more or less conveniently; still any one of them can perform it, provided that, in the transaction, Effort is represented by ‹value›, the transmission of which is the thing to be effected.