Chapter VII: Front Matter (7)

It is absolutely certain, however, that the five or six propositions which have appeared to us not only false, but absurd, when applied to the island of Juan Fernandez, appear, when applied to our own country, so incontestably true, that they serve as the basis of our whole economic legislation. On the other hand, the axiom which appears to us to be truth itself when applied to an individual, is never invoked in the name of society without calling forth a smile of contempt.

Is it true, then, that Exchange so alters our individual organization that what makes individual poverty constitutes social riches?

No, it is not true, but it is plausible—so very plausible as to be generally believed.

Society consists in this—that we work for one another. The more services we render, the more services we receive, and we receive more in proportion as our own are more appreciated—more in demand. On the other hand, the separation of occupations, the division of labour, causes each of us to apply his efforts to the removal of obstacles which stand in the way of the enjoyments of others. The agricultural labourer combats the obstacle called hunger—the physician, the obstacle called disease—the clergyman, the obstacle called vice—the author, the obstacle called ignorance—the coal miner, the obstacle called cold, etc., etc.

And as those around us are more disposed to remunerate our services in proportion as they feel more keenly the particular obstacle which stands in their own way, it follows that we are all disposed, in this point of view, and as producers, to magnify the obstacle which it is our peculiar business to overcome. We consider ourselves richer if such obstacles are multiplied, and we reason from particulars to generals—from our own individual advantage to the public good.[29] . . . . [p131]

V. OF VALUE.

All dissertations are wearisome—a dissertation on Value the most wearisome of all.

What unpractised writer, who has had to face an Economic problem, but has tried to resolve it without reference to any definition of value?

Yet he soon finds he has engaged in a vain attempt. The theory of Value is to Political Economy what numeration is to arithmetic. In what inextricable confusion would not Bezout have landed himself, if, to save labour to his pupils, he had undertaken to teach them the four rules and proportion, without having previously explained the value which the figures derive from their form and position?

The truth is, if the reader could only foresee the beautiful consequences deducible from the theory of Value, he would undertake the labour of mastering the first principles of Economical Science with the same cheerfulness that one submits to the drudgery of Geometry, in prospect of the magnificent field which it opens to our intelligence.

But this intuitive foresight is not to be expected; and the more pains I should take to establish the distinction between Value and Utility, or between Value and Labour, in order to show how natural it is that this should form a stumbling-block at the very threshold of the science, the more wearisome I should become. The reader would see in such a discussion only barren and idle subtleties, calculated at best to satisfy the curiosity of Economists by profession.

You are inquiring laboriously, it may be said, whether wealth consists in the Utility of things, or in their Value, or in their rarity. Is not this like the question of the schoolmen, Does form reside in the substance or in the accident? Are you not afraid [p132] that some street Molière will hold you up to public ridicule at the Théâtre des Variétés?

Yet truth obliges me to say that, in an economical point of view, Society is Exchange. The primary element of Exchange is the notion of ‹Value›, so that every truth and every error which this word introduces into men’s minds is a social truth or error.

I undertake in this work to demonstrate the Harmony of those laws of Providence which govern human society. What makes these laws harmonious and not discordant is, that all principles, all motives, all springs of action, all interests, co-operate towards a grand final result, which humanity will never reach by reason of its native ‹imperfection›, but to which it will always approximate more and more by reason of its unlimited ‹capability of improvement›. And that result is, the indefinite approximation of all classes towards a level, which is always rising; in other words, the ‹equalization› of individuals in the general ‹amelioration›.

But to attain my object. I must explain two things, namely,

‹1st›, That ‹Utility› has a tendency to become more and more ‹gratuitous›, more and more ‹common›, as it gradually recedes from the domain of individual ‹appropriation›.

‹2d›, That ‹Value›, on the other hand, which alone is capable of appropriation, which alone constitutes property legitimately and in fact, has a tendency to diminish more and more in relation to the utility to which it is attached.

Such a demonstration—founded on Property, but only on the property of which Value is the subject, and on Community, but only on the community of utility,—such a demonstration, I say, must satisfy and reconcile all schools, by conceding to them that all have had a glimpse of the truth, but only of partial truth, regarded from different points of view.

Economists! you defend property. There is in the social order no other property than that of which ‹Value› is the subject, and that is immovable and unassailable.

Communists! you dream of Community. You have got it. The social order renders all ‹utilities› common, provided the exchange of those values which have been appropriated is free.

You are like architects who dispute about a monument of which each has seen only one side. They don’t see ‹ill›, but they don’t see ‹all›. To make them agree, it is only necessary to ask them to walk round the edifice.

But how am I to reconstruct the social edifice, so as to exhibit to mankind all its beautiful harmony, if I reject its two corner stones. Utility and Value? How can I bring about the desired [p133] reconciliation of various schools upon the platform of truth if I shun the analysis of these two ideas, although the dissidence has arisen from the unhappy confusion which they have caused?

I have felt this kind of introduction necessary, in order, if possible, to secure from the reader a moment’s attention, and relieve him from fatigue and ennui. I am much mistaken if the consoling beauty of the consequences will not amply make up for the dryness of the premises. Had Newton allowed himself to be repulsed at the outset by a distaste for elementary mathematics, never would his heart have beat with rapture on beholding the harmonies of the celestial mechanism; and I maintain that it is only necessary to make our way manfully to an acquaintance with certain first principles, in order to be convinced that God has displayed in the social mechanism goodness no less touching, simplicity no less admirable, splendour no less magnificent.

In the first chapter we viewed man as both ‹active› and ‹passive›, and we saw that ‹Want› and ‹Satisfaction›, acting on ‹sensibility› alone, were in their own nature personal, peculiar, and intransmissible; that ‹Effort›, on the contrary, the connecting link between Want and Satisfaction, the ‹mean› term between the motive principle of action and the end we have in view, proceeding from our ‹activity›, our spontaneity, our will, was susceptible of conventions and of transmission. I know that, metaphysically, no one can contest this assertion, and maintain that Effort also is personal. I have no desire to enter the territory of ideology, and I hope that my view of the subject will be admitted without controversy when put in this vulgar form:—We cannot ‹feel› the wants of others—we cannot ‹feel› the satisfactions of others; but we can ‹render service› one to another.

It is this transmission of efforts, this exchange of services, which forms the subject of Political Economy; and since, on the other hand, economical science is condensed and summed up in the word ‹Value›, of which it is only a lengthened explanation, it follows that the notion of value would be imperfectly, erroneously, conceived if we were to found it upon the extreme phenomena of our sensibility—namely, our ‹Wants› and ‹Satisfactions›—phenomena which are personal, intransmissible, and ‹incommensurable› as between two individuals, in place of founding it on the manifestations of our ‹activity›, upon ‹efforts›, upon reciprocal ‹services›, which are interchanged because they are susceptible of being compared, appreciated, ‹estimated›, and which are capable of being estimated precisely because they are capable of being interchanged.

In the same chapter we arrived at the following formulas:— [p134]

“‹Utility› (the property which certain things and certain acts have of serving us, of being useful to us) is complex,—one part we owe to the action of nature, another to the action of man.”—“With reference to a given result, the more nature has done the less remains for human action to do.”—“The co-operation of nature is essentially ‹gratuitous›—the co-operation of man, whether intellectual or muscular, exchanged or not, collective or solitary, is essentially ‹onerous›, as indeed the word ‹Effort› implies.”

And as what is ‹gratuitous› cannot possess ‹value›, since the idea of ‹value› implies ‹onerous› acquisition, it follows that the notion of Value would be still erroneously conceived, if we were to extend it, in whole or in part, to the gifts or to the co-operation of nature, instead of restricting it exclusively to human co-operation.

Thus, from both sides, by two different roads, we arrive at this conclusion, that ‹value› must have reference to the ‹efforts› which men make in order to obtain the ‹satisfaction› of their ‹wants›.

In the third chapter we have established that man cannot exist in a state of isolation. But if, by an effort of imagination, we fancy him placed in that chimerical situation, that state ‹contrary to nature›, which the writers of the eighteenth century extolled as the ‹state of nature›, we shall not fail to see that it does not disclose to us the idea of Value, although it presents the manifestation of the active principle which we have termed ‹effort›. The reason is obvious. Value implies comparison, appreciation, ‹estimation›, measure. In order that two things should measure each other, it is necessary that they be commensurable, and, in order to that, they must be of the same kind. In a state of isolation, with what could we compare effort? With want? With satisfaction? In that case, we could go no farther than to pronounce that the effort was more or less appropriate, more or less opportune. In the social state, what we compare (and it is this comparison which gives rise to the idea of Value) is the effort of one man with the effort of another man,—two phenomena of the same nature, and, consequently, ‹commensurable›.

Thus, the definition of the word Value, in order to be exact, must have reference not only to human efforts, but likewise to those efforts which are exchanged or exchangeable. Exchange does more than exhibit and measure values—it gives them existence. I do not mean to say that it gives existence to the acts and the things which are exchanged, but it imparts to their existence the notion of ‹value›.

Now, when two men transfer to each other their present efforts, or make over mutually the results of their anterior [p135] efforts, they ‹serve› each other; they render each other reciprocal ‹service›.

I say, then, «Value is the relation of two services exchanged».

The idea of ‹value› entered into the world the first time that a man having said to his brother, Do this for me, and I shall do that for you—they have come to an agreement; for then, for the first time, we could say—The two ‹services› exchanged are ‹worth each other›.

It is singular enough that the true theory of value, which we search for in vain in many a ponderous volume, is to be found in Florian’s beautiful fable of ‹l’Aveugle et le Paralytique›,—

Aidons—nous mutuellement,
La charge des malheurs en sera plus légère.
. . . . . . . A nous deux
Nous possédons le bien à chacun nécessaire.
J’ai des jambes, et vous des yeux.
Moi, je vais vous porter; vous, vous serez mon guide:
Ainsi, sans que jamais notre amitié décide
Qui de nous deux remplit le plus utile emploi,
Je marcherai pour vous, vous y verrez pour moi.

Here you have value discovered and defined. Here you have it in its rigorous economic exactitude, excepting the touching trait relative to friendship, which carries us into another sphere, that of sympathy. We may conceive two unfortunates rendering each other reciprocal ‹service›, without inquiring too curiously ‹which of the two discharged the most useful employment›. The exceptional situation imagined by the fabulist explains sufficiently that the principle of sympathy, acting with great force, comes to absorb, so to speak, the minute appreciation of the services exchanged—an appreciation, however, which is indispensable in order to disengage completely the idea of Value. That idea would be complete if all men, or the majority of them, were struck with paralysis or blindness; for the inexorable law of supply and demand would then predominate, and, causing the permanent sacrifice accepted by him who fulfils the more useful employment to disappear, would restore the transaction to the domain of justice.

We are all blind or impotent in some respects, and we soon come to understand that, by assisting each other, ‹the burden of misfortune is lightened›. Hence «Exchange». We labour in order to feed, clothe, shelter, enlighten, cure, defend, instruct one another. Hence reciprocal «Services». We compare, we discuss, we ‹estimate› or ‹appreciate› these services. Hence «Value».

A multitude of circumstances may augment the relative importance of a Service. We find it greater or less, according as it is more or less useful to us—according as a greater or less number of [p136] people are disposed to render it to us—according as it exacts from them more or less labour, trouble, skill, time, previous study,—and according as it saves more or less of these to ourselves. Value depends not only on these circumstances, but on the judgment we form of them; for it may happen, and it happens frequently, that we esteem a service very highly because we judge it very useful, while in reality it is hurtful. This is the reason why vanity, ignorance, error, exert a certain influence on the essentially elastic and flexible relation which we denominate ‹value›; and we may affirm that the appreciation of services tends to approximate more to absolute truth and justice in proportion as men become more enlightened, more moral, and more refined.

Hitherto the principle of Value has been sought for in one of those circumstances which augment or which diminish it, materiality, durableness, utility, scarcity, labour, difficulty of acquisition, judgment, etc., and hence a false direction has been given to the science from the beginning; for the accident which modifies the phenomenon is not the phenomenon itself. Moreover, each author has constituted himself the sponsor, so to speak, of some special circumstance which he thinks preponderates,—the constant result of generalizing; for all is in all, and there is nothing which we cannot comprehend under a term by means of extending its sense. Thus the principle of value, according to Adam Smith, resides in materiality and durability; according to Jean Baptiste Say, in utility; according to Ricardo, in labour; according to Senior, in rarity; according to Storch, in the judgment we form, etc.

The consequence has been what might have been expected. These authors have unwittingly injured the authority and dignity of the science by appearing to contradict each other; while in reality each is right, as from his own point of view. Besides, they have involved the first principles of Political Economy in a labyrinth of inextricable difficulties; for the same words, as used by these authors, no longer represent the same ideas; and, moreover, although a circumstance may be proclaimed fundamental, other circumstances stand out too prominently to be neglected, and definitions are thus constantly enlarged.

The object of the present work is not controversy, but exposition. I explain what I myself see, not what others have seen. I cannot avoid, however, calling the attention of the reader to the circumstances in which the foundation of Value has hitherto been sought for. But, first of all, I must bring Value itself before him in a series of examples, for it is by divers applications that the mind lays hold of a theory. [p137]

I shall demonstrate how all is definitely resolved into a barter of services; but it is necessary to keep in mind what has been said on the subject of barter in the preceding chapter. It is rarely simple—sometimes it forms a circular or round-about transaction among several parties,—most frequently, by the intervention of money, it resolves itself into two factors, ‹sale› and ‹purchase›; but as this complication does not change its nature, I may be permitted, for the sake of perspicuity, to assume the barter to be direct and immediate. This will lead to no mistake as to the nature of Value.

* * * * *

We are all born with an imperious material want, which must be satisfied under pain of death, I mean that of breathing. On the other hand, we all exist in a medium which, in general, supplies that want without the intervention of any effort on our part. Atmospheric air, then, has utility without having ‹value›. It has no Value, because, requiring no Effort, it gives rise to no service. To render a service to any one is to save him trouble; and where it is not necessary to take pains in order to realize a satisfaction, no trouble can be saved.

But if a man descend to the bottom of a river in a diving-bell, a foreign substance is interposed between the air and his lungs, and, in order to re-establish the communication, a pump must be employed. Here there is an effort to make, pains to take, and the man below desires the exertion, for it is a matter of life or death, and he cannot possibly secure to himself a greater ‹service›.

Instead of making this effort himself, he calls on me to make it for him, and, in order to induce me to do so, he undertakes in turn to make an exertion from which I may reap satisfaction. We discuss the matter, and come to an agreement. Now, what do we discover here? two wants, two satisfactions, which are not inconsistent with each other; two efforts, which are the subject of a voluntary transaction; two ‹services›, which are exchanged,—and ‹value› makes its appearance.

Now, we are told that utility is the foundation of value; and as utility is inherent in the air, we are led to think that it is the same in regard to value. There is here an evident confusion of ideas. The air, from its nature, has physical properties in harmony with one of our physical organs, the lungs. The portion which I draw from the atmosphere in order to fill the diving-bell does not change its nature—it is still oxygen and azote. No new physical quality is combined with it, no reacting power brings out of it a new element called ‹value›. ‹That› springs exclusively from the service rendered. [p138]

If, in laying down the general principle, that Utility is the foundation of Value, you mean that the Service has value because it is useful to him who receives it and pays for it, I allow the truth of what you say. It is a truism implied in the very word ‹service›.

But we must not confound the utility of the air with the utility of the service. They are two utilities distinct from each other, different in nature, different in kind, which bear no proportion to one another, and have no necessary relation. There are circumstances in which, with very slight exertion, by rendering a very small service, or saving very little trouble, I may bring within the reach of another an article of very great intrinsic ‹utility›.

Take the case of the diving-bell, and consider how the parties to the supposed bargain manage to estimate the value of the ‹service› rendered by the one to the other in supplying him with atmospheric air. We must have a point of comparison, and that point of comparison can only be in the ‹service› which the diver renders in return. Their reciprocal demands will depend on their relative situation, on the intensity of their desires, on the greater or less need they have of each other, and on a multitude of circumstances which demonstrate that the value is in the Service, since it increases with the service.

The reader may easily vary the hypothesis, so as to convince himself that the Value is not necessarily proportionate to the intensity of the efforts,—a remark which I set down here as a connecting link in the chain of reasoning, and of which I shall afterwards have occasion to make use; for my object is to prove that Value no more resides in labour than it does in utility.

Nature has so constituted me that I must die if I am deprived of an opportunity, from time to time, of quenching my thirst, and the well is a league from the village. For this reason, I take the trouble every morning to go thither to fetch the water of which I have need, for in water I have recognised those ‹useful› qualities which are calculated to assuage the suffering called thirst. Want, Effort, Satisfaction—we have them all here. I have found Utility—I have not yet found Value.

But, as my neighbour goes also to the fountain, I say to him—“‹Save me the pains› of this journey—‹render me the service› of bringing me water. During the time you are so occupied, I shall do something for you, I shall teach your child to spell.” This arrangement suits us both. Here is an exchange of two services, and we are enabled to pronounce that the one is ‹worth› the other. The things compared here are two efforts, not two wants and two [p139] satisfactions; for by what common standard should we compare the benefit of drinking water and that of learning to spell?

By-and-by I say to my neighbour—“Your child troubles me—I should like better to do something else for you. You shall continue to bring me water, and I shall give you twopence.” If the proposal is agreed to, the Economist may, without fear of mistake, pronounce that ‹the service› «IS WORTH» ‹twopence›.

Afterwards, my neighbour no longer waits to be requested. He knows by experience that every day I want water. He anticipates my wishes. At the same time, he provides water for the other villagers. In short, he becomes a water merchant. It is then that we begin to say, ‹the water› «IS WORTH» ‹twopence›.

Has the water, then, changed its nature? Has the Value, which was but now in the service, become materialized and incorporated in the water, as if it were a new chemical element? Has a slight modification in the form of the arrangement between my neighbour and me had the power to displace the principle of ‹value› and change its nature? I am not purist enough to find fault with your saying that the ‹water is worth twopence›, just as you say ‹the sun sets›. But we must remember that metaphors and metonymies do not affect the truth of facts; and that, in strict scientific language, value can no more be said to reside in the water than the sun can be said to go to rest in the sea.

Let us attribute, then, to things the peculiar qualities which belong to them—to air, to water, ‹utility›—to services, ‹value›. We may say with propriety that water is ‹useful›, because it has the property of allaying thirst; and it is the service which ‹has value›, because it is the subject of a convention previously debated and discussed. So true is this, that if the well is brought nearer, or removed to a greater distance, the Utility of the water remains the same, but its value is diminished or increased. Why? because the ‹service› is less or greater. The ‹value›, then, is in the ‹service›, seeing that it is increased or diminished according as the service is increased or diminished.

The ‹diamond› makes a great figure in works of Political Economy. It is adduced as an illustration of the laws of Value, or of the supposed disturbance of those laws. It is a brilliant weapon with which all the schools do battle. The English school asserts that “Value resides in labour.” The French school exhibits a diamond, and says—“Here is a commodity which exacts no labour and yet is of immense value.” The French school affirms that the foundation of value is utility, and the English school immediately brings forward the diamond in opposition to the [p140] illustrations drawn from air, light, and water. “The air is very useful,” says the English Economist, “but it possesses no value; the ‹utility› of the diamond is almost inappreciable, and yet it possesses more ‹value› than the whole atmosphere;” and the reader is inclined to say with Henri Quatre—“In sooth, they are both right.” They end by landing themselves in an error more fatal than both the others, and are forced to avow that ‹value› resides in the works of nature, and that that value is ‹material›.

My definition, as it seems to me, gets rid of these anomalies, and is confirmed rather than invalidated by the illustration which has been adduced.

I take a walk along the sea-beach, and I find by chance a magnificent diamond. I am thus put in possession of a great ‹value›. Why? Am I about to confer a great benefit on the human race? Have I devoted myself to a long and laborious work? Neither the one nor the other. Why, then, does this diamond possess so much value? Undoubtedly because the person to whom I transfer it considers that I have rendered him a great ‹service›,—all the greater that many rich people desire it, and that I alone can render it. The grounds of his judgment may be controverted—be it so. It may be founded on pride, on vanity—granted again. But this judgment has, nevertheless, been formed by a man who is disposed to act upon it, and that is sufficient for my argument.

Far from the judgment being based on a reasonable appreciation of ‹utility›, we may allow that the very reverse is the case. Ostentation makes great sacrifices for what is utterly ‹useless›.

In this case, the value, far from bearing a necessary proportion to the labour ‹performed› by the person who renders the service, may be said rather to bear proportion to the labour ‹saved› to the person who receives it. This general law of value, which has not, so far as I know, been observed by theoretical writers, nevertheless prevails universally in practice. We shall explain afterwards the admirable mechanism by which value tends to proportion itself to labour when it is free; but it is not the less true that it has its principle and foundation less in the effort of the person who ‹serves› than in the effort saved to him who ‹is served›.

The transaction relative to the diamond may be supposed to give rise to the following dialogue:—

“Give me your diamond, Sir.”

“With all my heart; give me in exchange your labour for an entire year.” [p141]

“Your acquisition has not cost you a minute’s work.”

“Very well, Sir, try to find a similar lucky minute.”

“Yes; but, in strict equity, the exchange ought to be one of ‹equal labour›.”

“No; in strict equity, you put a value on your own services, and I upon mine; I don’t force you; why should you lay a constraint upon me? Give me a whole year’s labour, or seek out a diamond for yourself.”

“But that might entail upon me ten years’ work, and would probably end in nothing. It would be wiser and more profitable to devote these ten years to another employment.”

“It is precisely on that account that I imagined I was rendering you a ‹service› in asking for only one year’s work. I thus save you nine, and that is the reason why I attach great ‹value› to the ‹service›. If I appear to you exacting, it is because you regard only the labour which I have performed; but consider also the labour which I save you, and you will find me reasonable in my demand.”

“It is not the less true that you profit by a work of nature.”

“And if I were to give away what I have found for little or nothing, it is you who would profit by it. Besides, if this diamond possesses great value, it is not because nature has been elaborating it since the beginning of time: she does as much for a drop of dew.”

“Yes; but if diamonds were as common as dew-drops, you could no longer lay down the law to me, and make your own conditions.”

“Very true; because, in that case, you would not address yourself to me, or would not be disposed to recompense me highly for a ‹service› which you could easily perform for yourself.”

The result of this dialogue is, that Value no more resides in the diamond than in the air or in the water. It resides exclusively in the ‹services› which we suppose to be rendered and received with reference to these things, and is determined by the free bargaining of the parties who make the exchange.

Take up the ‹Collection des Économistes›, and read and compare all the definitions which you will find there. If there be one of them which meets the cases of the air and the diamond, two cases in appearance so opposite, throw this book into the fire. But if the definition which I propose, simple as it is, solves, or rather obviates, the difficulty, you are bound in conscience, gentle reader, to go on to the end of the work, or it is in vain that we have placed an inviting sign-board over the vestibule of the science.

Allow me to give some more examples, in order to elucidate clearly my thoughts, and familiarize the reader with a new definition. By exhibiting this fundamental principle in different aspects, [p142] we shall clear the way for a thorough comprehension of the consequences, which I venture to predict will be found no less important than unexpected.

Among the wants to which our physical constitution subjects us is that of food; and one of the articles best fitted to satisfy that want is Bread.

As the need of food is personal to me, I should, naturally, myself perform all the operations necessary to provide the needful supply of bread. I can the less expect my fellow-men to render me gratuitously this service, that they are themselves subject to the same want, and condemned to the same exertion.

Were I to make my own bread, I must devote myself to a labour infinitely more complicated, but strictly analogous to that which the necessity of fetching water from the spring would have imposed upon me. The elements of bread exist everywhere in nature. As J. B. Say has judiciously remarked, it is neither possible nor necessary for man to create anything. Gases, salts, electricity, vegetable life, all exist; my business is to unite them, assist them, combine them, transport them, availing myself of that great laboratory called the earth, in which mysteries are accomplished from which human science has scarcely raised the veil. If the operations to which I must devote myself in the pursuit of my design are in the aggregate very complicated, each of them, taken singly, is as simple as the act of drawing water from the fountain. Every effort I make is simply a service which I render to myself; and if, in consequence of a bargain freely entered into, it happens that other persons save me some of these efforts, or the whole of them, these are so many ‹services› which I receive. The aggregate of these services, compared with those which I render in return, constitute the value of the Bread and determine its amount.

A convenient intermediate commodity intervenes to facilitate this exchange of services, and even to serve as a measure of their relative importance—Money. But this makes no substantial difference,—the principle remains exactly the same, just as in mechanics the transmission of forces is subject to the same law, whether there be one or several intermediate wheels.

This is so true that, when the loaf is worth fourpence, for example, if a good bookkeeper wishes to analyze its value, he will succeed in discovering, amid the multiplicity of transactions which go to the accomplishment of the final result, all those whose services have contributed to form that value,—all those who have saved labour to the man who finally pays for it as the consumer. He discovers, first of all, the baker, who retains his five per cent., [p143] and from that percentage remunerates the mason who has built his oven, the wood-cutter who prepares his billets, etc. Then comes the miller, who receives not only the recompense of his own labour, but the means of remunerating the quarryman who has furnished his millstones, the labourer who has formed his dam, etc. Other portions of the total value go to the thresher, the reaper, the labourer, the sower, until you account for the last farthing. No part of it assuredly goes to remunerate God and nature. The very idea is absurd, and yet this is rigorously implied in the theory of the Economists, who attribute a certain portion of the value of a product to matter or natural forces. No; we still find that what ‹has value› is not the Loaf, but the series of ‹services› which have put me in possession of it.

It is true that, among the elementary parts of the value of the loaf, our book-keeper will find one which he will have difficulty in connecting with a ‹service›, at least a service implying effort. He will find of the fourpence, of which the price is made up, a part goes to the proprietor of the soil, to the man who has the keeping of the laboratory. That small portion of the value of the loaf constitutes what is called the ‹rent of land›; and, misled by the form of expression, by the metonymy which again makes its appearance here, our calculator may be tempted to think that this portion is allotted to natural agents—to the soil itself.

I maintain that, if he exercises sufficient skill, he will find that this is still the price of real ‹services›—services of the same kind as all the others. This will be demonstrated with the clearest evidence when we come to treat of ‹landed property›. At present, I shall only remark, that I am not concerned here with property, but with ‹value›. I don’t inquire whether all services are real and legitimate, or whether men do not sometimes succeed in getting paid for services which they do not render. The world, alas! is full of such injustices, but ‹rent› must not be included among them.

All that I have to demonstrate here is, that the pretended value of ‹commodities› is only the value of ‹services›, real or imaginary, received and rendered in connexion with them—that value does not reside in the commodities themselves, and is no more to be found in the loaf than in the diamond, the water, or the air—that no part of the remuneration goes to nature—that it proceeds from the final consumer of the article, and is distributed exclusively among men,—and that it would not be accorded to them by him for any other reason than that they have rendered him services, unless, indeed, in the case of violence or fraud.

Two men agree that ice is a good thing in summer, and coal a [p144] still better thing in winter. They supply two of our wants—the one cools, the other warms us. We do not fail to remark that the Utility of these commodities consists in certain ‹material› properties suitably adapted to our ‹material› organs. We remark, moreover, that among those properties, which physics and chemistry might enumerate, we do not find ‹value›, or anything like it. How, then, have we come to regard value as inherent in matter and material?

If the two men we have supposed wished to obtain the satisfaction of their wants, without acting in concert, each would labour to provide for himself both the articles wanted. If they came to an understanding, the one would provide coal for two from the coal-mine, the other ice for two from the mountain. This presupposes a bargain. They must then adjust the relation of the two services exchanged. They would take all circumstances into account—the difficulties to be overcome, the dangers to be braved, the time to be spent, the pains to be taken, the skill to be displayed, the risks to be run, the possibility of providing for their wants in some other way, etc., etc. When they came to an understanding, the Economist would say, The two ‹services› exchanged ‹are worth› each other. In common language, it would be said by metonymy—Such a quantity of coal ‹is worth› such a quantity of ice, as if the value had passed physically into these bodies. But it is easy to see that if the common form of expression enables us to state the results, the scientific expression alone reveals to us the true causes.

In place of two services and two persons, the agreement may embrace a greater number, substituting a complex Exchange for simple Barter. In that case, money would intervene to facilitate the exchange. Need I say that the principle of value would be neither changed nor displaced?

But I must add here a single observation ‹àpropos› of coal. It may be that there is only one coal-mine in a country, and that an individual has got possession of it. If so, this man will make conditions; that is to say, he will put a high price upon his ‹services›, or pretended ‹services›.

We have not yet come to the question of right and justice, to the distinction between true and loyal services, and those that are fraudulent and pretended. What concerns us at this moment is, to consolidate the true theory of value, and to disembarrass it of one error with which Economical science is infected. When we say that what nature has done or given, she has done or given ‹gratuitously›, and that the notion of ‹value› is excluded, we are answered by an analysis of the price of coal, or some other natural product. It is acknowledged, indeed, that the greater part of this [p145] price is the remuneration of the services of man. One man has excavated the ground, another has drained away the water, another has raised the fuel to the surface, another has transported it to its destination; and it is the aggregate of these works, it is allowed, which constitutes ‹nearly› the entire ‹value›. Still there remains one portion of the ‹value› which does not correspond with any labour or ‹service›. This is the value of the coal as it lies under the soil, still virgin, and untouched by human labour. It forms the share of the proprietor; and, since this portion of Value is not of human creation, it follows necessarily that it is the creation of nature.

I reject that conclusion, and I premonish the reader that, if he admits it to a greater or less extent, he cannot proceed a single step farther in the science. No; the action of nature does not create Value, any more than the action of man creates matter. Of two things one: either the proprietor has usefully co-operated towards the final result, and has rendered real services, and then the portion of value which he has conferred on the coal enters into my definition; or else he obtrudes himself as a parasite, and, in that case, he has had the address to get paid for ‹services› which he has not rendered, and the price of the coal is unduly augmented. That circumstance may prove, indeed, that injustice has entered into the transaction; but it cannot overturn the theory so as to authorize us to say that this portion of value is material,—that it is combined as a physical element with the gratuitous gifts of Providence. Here is the proof of it. Cause the injustice to cease, if injustice there be, and the corresponding value will disappear, which it assuredly would not have done had the value been inherent in matter and of natural creation.[30]

* * * * *

Let us now pass to one of our most imperious wants, that of ‹security›.

A certain number of men land upon an inhospitable coast. They begin to work. But each of them finds himself constantly drawn away from his employment by the necessity of defending himself against wild beasts, or men still more savage. Besides the time and the exertion which he devotes directly to the work of defence, he has to provide himself with arms and munitions. At length it is discovered that, on the whole, infinitely less power and effort would be wasted if some of them, abandoning other work, were to devote themselves exclusively to this ‹service›. This [p146] duty is assigned to those who are most distinguished for address, courage, and vigour—and they improve in an art which they make their exclusive business. Whilst they watch over the public safety, the community reaps from its labours, now no longer interrupted, more satisfactions ‹for all› than it loses by the diversion of ten men from other avocations. This arrangement is in consequence made. What do we see in it but a new progress in the ‹division of occupations›, inducing and requiring an exchange of ‹services›?

Are the services of these soldiers, guards, militiamen, or whatever you may call them, ‹productive›? Undoubtedly they are, seeing that the sole object of the arrangement is to increase the proportion which the aggregate Satisfactions of the community bear to the general efforts.

Have they ‹Value›? They must have it, since we esteem them, appreciate them, ‹estimate› their worth, and, in fine, pay for them with other ‹services› with which they are compared.

The form in which this remuneration is stipulated for, the mode of levying it, the process we adopt in adjusting and concluding the arrangement, make no alteration on the principle. Are there efforts saved to some men by others? Are there satisfactions procured for some by others? In that case there are ‹services› exchanged, compared, ‹estimated›;—there is ‹Value›.

The kind of services we are now discussing, when social complications occur, lead sometimes to frightful consequences. The very nature of the services which we demand from this class of functionaries requires us to put into their hands Power,—power sufficient to subdue all resistance,—and it sometimes happens that they abuse it, and turn it against the very community which employs them. Deriving from the community services proportioned to the want we have of ‹security›, they themselves may cause insecurity, in order to display their own importance, and, by a too skilful diplomacy, involve their fellow-citizens in perpetual wars.

All this has happened, and still happens. Great disturbances of the just equilibrium of reciprocal services are the result of it. But it makes no change in the fundamental principle and scientific theory of Value.

* * * * *

I must still give another example or two; but I pray the reader to believe that I feel quite as much as he can how tiresome and fatiguing this series of hypotheses must be—throwing us back, as they all do, on the same kind of proof, tending to the same [p147] conclusion, expressed in the same terms. He must understand, however, that this process, if not the most interesting, is at least the surest way of establishing the true theory of Value, and of thus clearing the road we have to traverse.

We suppose ourselves in Paris. In that great metropolis there is a vast fermentation of desires, and abundant means also of satisfying them. Multitudes of rich men, or men in easy circumstances, devote themselves to industry, to the arts, to politics—and in the evening they are all eager to obtain an hour’s recreation. Among the amusements which they relish most is the pleasure of hearing the music of Rossini sung by Malibran, or the admirable poetry of Racine interpreted by Rachel. There are in the world only two women who can furnish these noble and delicate kinds of entertainment, and unless we could subject them to torture, which would probably not succeed, we have no other way of procuring their services but by addressing ourselves to their good will. Thus the services which we expect from Malibran and Rachel are possessed of great ‹Value›. This explanation is prosaic enough, but it is true.

If an opulent banker should desire to gratify his vanity by having the performances of one of these great ‹artistes› in his ‹salons›, he will soon find by experience the full truth of my theory. He desires a rich treat, a lively satisfaction—he desires it eagerly—and only one person in the world can furnish it. He cannot procure it otherwise than by offering a large remuneration.

Between what extreme limits will the transaction oscillate? The banker will go on till he reaches the point at which he prefers rather to lose the satisfaction than to pay what he deems an extravagant price for it; the singer to that point at which she prefers to accept the remuneration offered, rather than not be remunerated at all. This point of equilibrium determines the value of this particular service, as it does of all others. It may be that in many cases custom fixes this delicate point. There is too much taste in the ‹beau monde› to ‹higgle› about certain services. The remuneration may even be gracefully disguised, so as to veil the vulgarity of the economic law. That law, however, presides over this transaction, just as it does over the most ordinary bargain; and Value does not change its nature because experience or urbanity dispenses with discussing it formally on every occasion.

This explains how ‹artistes› above the usual standard of excellence succeed in realizing great fortunes. Another circumstance favours them. Their services are of such a nature that they can render them, at one and the same time, and by one and the same effort, to [p148] a multitude of individuals. However large the theatre, provided the voice of Rachel can fill it, each spectator enjoys the full pleasure of her inimitable declamation. This is the foundation of a new arrangement. Three or four thousand people, all experiencing the same desire, may come to an understanding, and raise the requisite sum; and the contribution of each to the remuneration of the great ‹tragedienne› constitutes the equivalent of the unique service rendered by her to all at once. Such is ‹Value›.

As a great number of auditors may combine in order to witness an entertainment of this description, so a number of actors may combine in order to perform in an opera or play. Managers may intervene, to save them the trouble of a multiplicity of trifling accessory arrangements. Value is thus multiplied, ramified, distributed, and rendered complex—but it does not change its nature.

We shall finish with some exceptional cases. Such cases form the best test of a sound theory. When the rule is correct, exceptions do not invalidate, but confirm it.

An aged priest moves slowly along, pensive, with staff in hand, and breviary under his arm. His air is serene, his countenance expressive,—he looks inspired! Where is he going? Do you see that church in the distance? The youthful village parson, distrustful as yet of his own powers, has called to his assistance the old missionary. But first of all he has some arrangements to make. The preacher will find, indeed, food and shelter at the parsonage—but he must live from one year’s end to another. Mons. le Curé, then, has promoted a subscription among the rich people of the village, moderate in amount, but sufficient; for the aged pastor is not exacting, and answered the person who wrote to him—“Du pain pour moi, voilà mon nécessaire; une obole pour le pauvre, voilà mon superflu.”

Thus are the economic preliminaries complied with; for this meddling Political Economy creeps into everything, and is to be found everywhere—‹Nil humani a me alienum puto›.

Let us enlarge a little on this example, which is very apposite to what we are now discussing.

Here you have an exchange of services. On the one hand you have an old man who devotes his time, his strength, his talents, his health, to enlighten the minds of a few villagers, and raise them to a higher moral level. On the other hand, bread for a few days, and a hat and cassock, are assured to the man of eloquence.

But there is something more here. There is a rivalry of sacrifices. The old priest refuses everything that is not absolutely indispensable. Of that poor pittance the curé takes one half on his [p149] own shoulders; the village Crœsuses exempt their brethren from the other half, who nevertheless profit by the sermons.

Do these sacrifices invalidate our definition of value? Not at all. Each is free to render his services only on such terms as are agreeable to himself. If these conditions are made easy, or if none are stipulated for, what is the consequence? The ‹service›, preserving its utility, loses its value. The old priest is persuaded that his services will find their reward in another world, and he cares not for their being recompensed here below. He feels, no doubt, that he is rendering a service to his auditors in addressing them, but he also feels that they do him a service in listening to him. Hence it follows that the transaction is based upon advantage to one of the contracting parties, with the full consent of the other. That is all. In general, exchanges are determined and estimated by reference to self-interest; but, thank God, that is not always the case: they are sometimes based on the principle of sympathy, and in that case we either transfer to another a satisfaction which we might have reserved for ourselves, or we make an effort for him which we might have devoted to our own profit and advantage. Generosity, devotion, self-sacrifice, are impulses of our nature, which, like many other circumstances, influence the actual ‹value› of a particular service, but they make no change on the general law of ‹values›.

In contrast to this consoling example, I might adduce another of a very opposite character. In order that a service should possess value, in the economical sense of the word, it is not at all indispensable that it should be a real, conscientious, and useful service; it is sufficient that it is accepted, and paid for by another service. The world is full of people who palm upon the public services of a quality more than doubtful, and make the public pay for them. All depends on the ‹judgment› which we form in each case; and this is the reason why morals will be always the best auxiliary of Political Economy.

Impostors succeed in propagating a false belief. They represent themselves as the ambassadors of Heaven. They open at pleasure the gates of heaven or of hell. When this belief has once taken firm root, “Here,” say they, “are some little images to which we have communicated the virtue of securing eternal happiness to those who carry them about their persons. In bestowing upon you one of these images, we render you an immense ‹service›. You must render us, then, certain ‹services› in return.” Here you have a ‹Value› created. It is founded on a false appreciation, you say, and that is true. We might say as much of many material things [p150] which possess a certain value, for they would find purchasers if set up to auction. Economic science would become impossible if we admitted as values only values correctly and judiciously appreciated. At every step we must begin a new course of the moral and physical sciences. In a state of isolation, depraved desires and a warped intelligence may cause a man to pursue with great effort and exertion a chimerical satisfaction—a delusion. In like manner, in the social state, it sometimes happens, as the philosopher says, that we buy regret too dear. But if truth is naturally more in keeping with the human mind than error, all these frauds are destined to disappear—all these delusive services to be spurned and lose their ‹value›. Civilisation will, in the long-run, put everybody and everything in the right place.