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Proposed Roads To Freedom=
By
Bertrand Russell
Contents
PROPOSED
ROADS TO FREEDOM, SOCIALISM, ANARCHISM AND SYNDICALISM...
CHAPTER
I - MARX AND SOCIALIST DOCTRINE
CHAPTER
II - BAKUNIN AND ANARCHISM
CHAPTER
III - THE SYNDICALIST REVOLT
PART
II - PROBLEMS OF THE FUTURE
CHAPTER
V - GOVERNMENT AND LAW
CHAPTER
VI - INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS
CHAPTER
VII - SCIENCE AND ART UNDER SOCIALISM...
CHAPTER
VIII - THE WORLD AS IT COULD BE MADE.
THE a=
ttempt
to conceive imaginatively a better ordering of human society than the
destructive and cruel chaos in which mankind has hitherto existed is by no
means modern: it is at least as old as Plato, whose ``Republic'' set the mo=
del
for the Utopias of subsequent philosophers. Whoever contemplates the world =
in
the light of an ideal--whether what he seeks be intellect, or art, or love,=
or
simple happiness, or all together--must feel a great sorrow in the evils th=
at
men needlessly allow to continue, and--if he be a man of force and vital
energy--an urgent desire to lead men to the realization of the good which
inspires his creative vision. It is this desire which has been the primary
force moving the pioneers of Socialism and Anarchism, as it moved the inven=
tors
of ideal commonwealths in the past. In this there is nothing new. What is n=
ew
in Socialism and Anarchism, is that close relation of the ideal to the pres=
ent sufferings
of men, which has enabled powerful political movements to grow out of the h=
opes
of solitary thinkers. It is this that makes Socialism and Anarchism importa=
nt,
and it is this that makes them dangerous to those who batten, consciously or
unconsciously upon the evils of our present order of society.
The great majority of men and women, in ordina=
ry times,
pass through life without ever contemplating or criticising, as a whole, ei=
ther
their own conditions or those of the world at large. They find themselves b=
orn
into a certain place in society, and they accept what each day brings forth,
without any effort of thought beyond what the immediate present requires.
Almost as instinctively as the beasts of the field, they seek the satisfact=
ion
of the needs of the moment, without much forethought, and without consideri=
ng
that by sufficient effort the whole conditions of their lives could be chan=
ged.
A certain percentage, guided by personal ambition, make the effort of thoug=
ht
and will which is necessary to place themselves among the more fortunate
members of the community; but very few among these are seriously concerned =
to
secure for all the advantages which they seek for themselves. It is only a =
few
rare and exceptional men who have that kind of love toward mankind at large
that makes them unable to endure patiently the general mass of evil and
suffering, regardless of any relation it may have to their own lives. These
few, driven by sympathetic pain, will seek, first in thought and then in
action, for some way of escape, some new system of society by which life may
become richer, more full of joy and less full of preventable evils than it =
is
at present. But in the past such men have, as a rule, failed to interest the
very victims of the injustices which they wished to remedy. The more
unfortunate sections of the population have been ignorant, apathetic from
excess of toil and weariness, timorous through the imminent danger of immed=
iate
punishment by the holders of power, and morally unreliable owing to the los=
s of
self-respect resulting from their degradation. To create among such classes=
any
conscious, deliberate effort after general amelioration might have seemed a
hopeless task, and indeed in the past it has generally proved so. But the
modern world, by the increase of education and the rise in the standard of =
comfort
among wage-earners, has produced new conditions, more favorable than ever
before to the demand for radical reconstruction. It is above all the Social=
ists,
and in a lesser degree the Anarchists (chiefly as the inspirers of
Syndicalism), who have become the exponents of this demand.
What is perhaps most remarkable in regard to b=
oth
Socialism and Anarchism is the association of a widespread popular movement
with ideals for a better world. The ideals have been elaborated, in the fir=
st
instance, by solitary writers of books, and yet powerful sections of the
wage-earning classes have accepted them as their guide in the practical aff=
airs
of the world. In regard to Socialism this is evident; but in regard to
Anarchism it is only true with some qualification. Anarchism as such has ne=
ver
been a widespread creed, it is only in the modified form of Syndicalism tha=
t it
has achieved popularity. Unlike Socialism and Anarchism, Syndicalism is
primarily the outcome, not of an idea, but of an organization: the fact of
Trade Union organization came first, and the ideas of Syndicalism are those
which seemed appropriate to this organization in the opinion of the more
advanced French Trade Unions. But the ideas are, in the main, derived from
Anarchism, and the men who gained acceptance for them were, for the most pa=
rt,
Anarchists. Thus we may regard Syndicalism as the Anarchism of the market-p=
lace
as opposed to the Anarchism of isolated individuals which had preserved a
precarious life throughout the previous decades. Taking this view, we find =
in Anarchist-Syndicalism
the same combination of ideal and organization as we find in Socialist
political parties. It is from this standpoint that our study of these movem=
ents
will be undertaken.
Socialism and Anarchism, in their modern form,=
spring
respectively from two protagonists, Marx and Bakunin, who fought a lifelong
battle, culminating in a split in the first International. We shall begin o=
ur
study with these two men--first their teaching, and then the organizations
which they founded or inspired. This will lead us to the spread of Socialis=
m in
more recent years, and thence to the Syndicalist revolt against Socialist
emphasis on the State and political action, and to certain movements outsid=
e France
which have some affinity with Syndicalism-- notably the I. W. W. in America=
and
Guild Socialism in England. From this historical survey we shall pass to the
consideration of some of the more pressing problems of the future, and shall
try to decide in what respects the world would be happier if the aims of
Socialists or Syndicalists were achieved.
My own opinion--which I may as well indicate at
the outset--is that pure Anarchism, though it should be the ultimate ideal,=
to
which society should continually approximate, is for the present impossible=
, and
would not survive more than a year or two at most if it were adopted. On the
other hand, both Marxian Socialism and Syndicalism, in spite of many drawba=
cks,
seem to me calculated to give rise to a happier and better world than that =
in
which we live. I do not, however, regard either of them as the best practic=
able
system. Marxian Socialism, I fear, would give far too much power to the Sta=
te,
while Syndicalism, which aims at abolishing the State, would, I believe, fi=
nd
itself forced to reconstruct a central authority in order to put an end to =
the rivalries
of different groups of producers. The BEST practicable system, to my mind, =
is
that of Guild Socialism, which concedes what is valid both in the claims of=
the
State Socialists and in the Syndicalist fear of the State, by adopting a sy=
stem
of federalism among trades for reasons similar to those which are recommend=
ing
federalism among nations. The grounds for these conclusions will appear as =
we proceed.
Before embarking upon the history of recent mo=
vements
In favor of radical reconstruction, it will be worth while to consider some
traits of character which distinguish most political idealists, and are much
misunderstood by the general public for other reasons besides mere prejudic=
e. I
wish to do full justice to these reasons, in order to show the more effectu=
ally
why they ought not to be operative.
The leaders of the more advanced movements are=
, in
general, men of quite unusual disinterestedness, as is evident from a
consideration of their careers. Although they have obviously quite as much
ability as many men who rise to positions of great power, they do not
themselves become the arbiters of contemporary events, nor do they achieve
wealth or the applause of the mass of their contemporaries. Men who have the
capacity for winning these prizes, and who work at least as hard as those w=
ho
win them, but deliberately adopt a line which makes the winning of them
impossible, must be judged to have an aim in life other than personal
advancement; whatever admixture of self-seeking may enter into the detail of
their lives, their fundamental motive must be outside Self. The pioneers of
Socialism, Anarchism, and Syndicalism have, for the most part, experienced
prison, exile, and poverty, deliberately incurred because they would not
abandon their propaganda; and by this conduct they have shown that the hope
which inspired them was not for themselves, but for mankind.
Nevertheless, though the desire for human welf=
are is
what at bottom determines the broad lines of such men's lives, it often hap=
pens
that, in the detail of their speech and writing, hatred is far more visible=
than
love. The impatient idealist--and without some impatience a man will hardly
prove effective--is almost sure to be led into hatred by the oppositions and
disappointments which he encounters in his endeavors to bring happiness to =
the
world. The more certain he is of the purity of his motives and the truth of=
his
gospel, the more indignant he will become when his teaching is rejected. Of=
ten
he will successfully achieve an attitude of philosophic tolerance as regards
the apathy of the masses, and even as regards the whole-hearted opposition =
of
professed defenders of the status quo. But the men whom he finds it impossi=
ble
to forgive are those who profess the same desire for the amelioration of
society as he feels himself, but who do not accept his method of achieving =
this
end. The intense faith which enables him to withstand persecution for the s=
ake
of his beliefs makes him consider these beliefs so luminously obvious that =
any
thinking man who rejects them must be dishonest, and must be actuated by so=
me
sinister motive of treachery to the cause. Hence arises the spirit of the s=
ect,
that bitter, narrow orthodoxy which is the bane of those who hold strongly =
to
an unpopular creed. So many real temptations to treachery exist that suspic=
ion
is natural. And among leaders, ambition, which they mortify in their choice=
of
a career, is sure to return in a new form: in the desire for intellectual
mastery and for despotic power within their own sect. From these causes it
results that the advocates of drastic reform divide themselves into opposing
schools, hating each other with a bitter hatred, accusing each other often =
of
such crimes as being in the pay of the police, and demanding, of any speake=
r or
writer whom they are to admire, that he shall conform exactly to their prej=
udices,
and make all his teaching minister to their belief that the exact truth is =
to
be found within the limits of their creed. The result of this state of mind=
is
that, to a casual and unimaginative attention, the men who have sacrificed =
most
through the wish to benefit mankind APPEAR to be actuated far more by hatred
than by love. And the demand for orthodoxy is stifling to any free exercise=
of
intellect. This cause, as well as economic prejudice, has made it difficult=
for
the ``intellectuals'' to co-operate prac- tically with the more extreme ref=
ormers,
however they may sympathize with their main purposes and even with nine-ten=
ths
of their program.
Another reason why radical reformers are misju=
dged
by ordinary men is that they view existing society from outside, with hosti=
lity
towards its institutions. Although, for the most part, they have more belief
than their neighbors in human nature's inherent capacity for a good life, t=
hey
are so conscious of the cruelty and oppression resulting from existing
institutions that they make a wholly misleading impression of cynicism. Most
men have instinctively two entirely different codes of behavior: one toward
those whom they regard as companions or colleagues or friends, or in some w=
ay
members of the same ``herd''; the other toward those whom they regard as
enemies or outcasts or a danger to society. Radical reformers are apt to
concentrate their attention upon the behavior of society toward the latter
class, the class of those toward whom the ``herd'' feels ill-will. This cla=
ss
includes, of course, enemies in war, and criminals; in the minds of those w=
ho
consider the preservation of the existing order essential to their own safe=
ty
or privileges, it includes all who advocate any great political or economic=
change,
and all classes which, through their poverty or through any other cause, are
likely to feel a dangerous degree of discontent. The ordinary citizen proba=
bly
seldom thinks about such individuals or classes, and goes through life
believing that he and his friends are kindly people, because they have no w=
ish
to injure those toward whom they entertain no group-hostility. But the man
whose attention is fastened upon the relations of a group with those whom it
hates or fears will judge quite differently. In these relations a surprising
ferocity is apt to be developed, and a very ugly side of human nature comes=
to
the fore. The opponents of capitalism have learned, through the study of
certain historical facts, that this ferocity has often been shown by the ca=
pitalists
and by the State toward the wage-earning classes, particularly when they ha=
ve
ventured to protest against the unspeakable suffering to which industrialism
has usually condemned them. Hence arises a quite different attitude toward
existing society from that of the ordinary well-to-do citizen: an attitude =
as
true as his, perhaps also as untrue, but equally based on facts, facts
concerning his relations to his enemies instead of to his friends.
The class-war, like wars between nations, prod=
uces
two opposing views, each equally true and equally untrue. The citizen of a
nation at war, when he thinks of his own countrymen, thinks of them primari=
ly
as he has experienced them, in dealings with their friends, in their family
relations, and so on. They seem to him on the whole kindly, decent folk. Bu=
t a
nation with which his country is at war views his compatriots through the
medium of a quite different set of experiences: as they appear in the feroc=
ity
of battle, in the invasion and subjugation of a hostile territory, or in the
chicanery of a juggling diplomacy. The men of whom these facts are true are=
the
very same as the men whom their compatriots know as husbands or fathers or
friends, but they are judged differently because they are judged on differe=
nt
data. And so it is with those who view the capitalist from the standpoint of
the revolutionary wage-earner: they appear inconceivably cynical and misjud=
ging
to the capitalist, because the facts upon which their view is based are fac=
ts
which he either does not know or habitually ignores. Yet the view from the
outside is just as true as the view from the inside. Both are necessary to =
the
complete truth; and the Socialist, who emphasizes the outside view, is not a
cynic, but merely the friend of the wage-earners, maddened by the spectacle=
of
the needless misery which capitalism inflicts upon them.
I have placed these general reflections at the=
beginning
of our study, in order to make it clear to the reader that, whatever bitter=
ness
and hate may be found in the movements which we are to examine, it is not
bitterness or hate, but love, that is their mainspring. It is difficult not=
to
hate those who torture the objects of our love. Though difficult, it is not
impossible; but it requires a breadth of outlook and a comprehensiveness of
understanding which are not easy to preserve amid a desperate contest. If
ultimate wisdom has not always been preserved by Socialists and Anarchists,
they have not differed in this from their opponents; and in the source of t=
heir
inspiration they have shown themselves superior to those who acquiesce
ignorantly or supinely in the injustices and oppressions by which the exist=
ing system
is preserved.
SOCIA=
LISM,
like everything else that is vital, is rather a tendency than a strictly
definable body of doctrine. A definition of Socialism is sure either to inc=
lude
some views which many would regard as not Socialistic, or to exclude others
which claim to be included. But I think we shall come nearest to the essenc=
e of
Socialism by defining it as the advocacy of communal ownership of land and
capital. Communal ownership may mean ownership by a democratic State, but
cannot be held to include ownership by any State which is not democratic.
Communal ownership may also be understood, as Anarchist Communism understan=
ds
it, in the sense of ownership by the free association of the men and women =
in a
community without those compulsory powers which are necessary to constitute=
a State.
Some Socialists expect communal ownership to arrive suddenly and completely=
by
a catastrophic revolution, while others expect it to come gradually, first =
in
one industry, then in another. Some insist upon the necessity of completene=
ss
in the acquisition of land and capital by the public, while others would be
content to see lingering islands of private ownership, provided they were n=
ot
too extensive or powerful. What all forms have in common is democracy and t=
he
abolition, virtual or complete, of the present capitalistic system. The
distinction between Socialists, Anarchists and Syndicalists turns largely u=
pon the
kind of democracy which they desire. Orthodox Socialists are content with
parliamentary democracy in the sphere of government, holding that the evils=
apparent
in this form of constitution at present would disappear with the disappeara=
nce
of capitalism. Anarchists and Syndicalists, on the other hand, object to the
whole parliamentary machinery, and aim at a different method of regulating =
the
political affairs of the community. But all alike are democratic in the sen=
se
that they aim at abolishing every kind of privilege and every kind of
artificial inequality: all alike are champions of the wage- earner in exist=
ing
society. All three also have much in common in their economic doctrine. All
three regard capital and the wages system as a means of exploiting the labo=
rer
in the interests of the possessing classes, and hold that communal ownershi=
p,
in one form or another, is the only means of bringing freedom to the produc=
ers.
But within the framework of this common doctrine there are many divergences=
, and
even among those who are strictly to be called Socialists, there is a very
considerable diversity of schools.
Socialism as a power in Europe may be said to
begin with Marx. It is true that before his time there were Socialist theor=
ies,
both in England and in France. It is also true that in France, during the r=
evolution
of 1848, Socialism for a brief period acquired considerable influence in the
State. But the Socialists who preceded Marx tended to indulge in Utopian dr=
eams
and failed to found any strong or stable political party. To Marx, in
collaboration with Engels, are due both the formulation of a coherent body =
of
Socialist doctrine, sufficiently true or plausible to dominate the minds of
vast numbers of men, and the formation of the International Socialist movem=
ent,
which has continued to grow in all European countries throughout the last f=
ifty
years.
In order to understand Marx's doctrine, it is =
necessary
to know something of the influences which formed his outlook. He was born in
1818 at Treves in the Rhine Provinces, his father being a legal official, a=
Jew
who had nominally accepted Christianity. Marx studied jurisprudence,
philosophy, political economy and history at various German universities. In
philosophy he imbibed the doctrines of Hegel, who was then at the height of=
his
fame, and something of these doctrines dominated his thought throughout his
life. Like Hegel, he saw in history the development of an Idea. He conceive=
d the
changes in the world as forming a logical development, in which one phase
passes by revolution into another, which is its antithesis--a conception wh=
ich gave
to his views a certain hard abstractness, and a belief in revolution rather
than evolution. But of Hegel's more definite doctrines Marx retained nothin=
g after
his youth. He was recognized as a brilliant student, and might have had a
prosperous career as a professor or an official, but his interest in politi=
cs and
his Radical views led him into more arduous paths. Already in 1842 he became
editor of a newspaper, which was suppressed by the Prussian Government earl=
y in
the following year on account of its advanced opinions. This led Marx to go=
to
Paris, where he became known as a Socialist and acquired a knowledge of his
French predecessors.[1] Here in the year 1844 began his lifelong friendship
with Engels, who had been hitherto in business in Manchester, where he had
become acquainted with English Socialism and had in the main adopted its
doctrines.[2] In 1845 Marx was expelled from Paris and went with Engels to =
live
in Brussels. There he formed a German Working Men's Association and edited a
paper which was their organ. Through his activities in Brussels he became k=
nown
to the German Communist League in Paris, who, at the end of 1847, invited h=
im and
Engels to draw up for them a manifesto, which appeared in January, 1848. Th=
is
is the famous ``Communist Manifesto,'' in which for the first time Marx's
system is set forth. It appeared at a fortunate moment. In the following mo=
nth,
February, the revolution broke out in Paris, and in March it spread to Germ=
any.
Fear of the revolution led the Brussels Government to expel Marx from Belgi=
um, but
the German revolution made it possible for him to return to his own country=
. In
Germany he again edited a paper, which again led him into a conflict with t=
he
authorities, increasing in severity as the reaction gathered force. In June,
1849, his paper was suppressed, and he was expelled from Prussia. He return=
ed
to Paris, but was expelled from there also. This led him to settle in
England--at that time an asylum for friends of freedom--and in England, with
only brief intervals for purposes of agitation, he continued to live until =
his
death in 1883.
[1] C=
hief
among these were Fourier and Saint-Simon, who constructed somewhat fantastic
Socialistic ideal commonwealths. Proudhon, with whom Marx had some not whol=
ly
friendly relations, is to be regarded as a forerunner of the Anarchists rat=
her than
of orthodox Socialism.
[2] Marx mentions the English Socialists with
praise in ``The Poverty of Philosophy'' (1847). They, like him, tend to bas=
e their
arguments upon a Ricardian theory of value, but they have not his scope or
erudition or scientific breadth. Among them may be mentioned Thomas Hodgskin
(1787-1869), originally an officer in the Navy, but dismissed for a pamphlet
critical of the methods of naval discipline, author of ``Labour Defended Ag=
ainst
the Claims of Capital'' (1825) and other works; William Thompson (1785-1833=
),
author of ``Inquiry into the Principles of Distribution of Wealth Most
Conducive to Human Happiness'' (1824), and ``Labour Rewarded'' (1825); and =
Piercy
Ravenstone, from whom Hodgskin's ideas are largely derived. Perhaps more
important than any of these was Robert Owen.
The b=
ulk of
his time was occupied in the composition of his great book, ``Capital.''[3]=
His
other important work during his later years was the formation and spread of=
the
International Working Men's Association. From 1849 onward the greater part =
of
his time was spent in the British Museum, accumulating, with German patienc=
e,
the materials for his terrific indictment of capitalist society, but he ret=
ained
his hold on the International Socialist movement. In several countries he h=
ad
sons-in-law as lieutenants, like Napoleon's brothers, and in the various
internal contests that arose his will generally prevailed.
[3] T=
he
first and most important volume appeared in 1867; the other two volumes were
published posthumously (1885 and 1894).
The m=
ost
essential of Marx's doctrines may be reduced to three: first, what is called
the material- istic interpretation of history; second, the law of the conce=
ntration
of capital; and, third, the class-war.
1. The Materialistic Interpretation of History=
.-- Marx
holds that in the main all the phenomena of human society have their origin=
in
material conditions, and these he takes to be embodied in economic systems.
Political constitutions, laws, religions, philosophies--all these he regards
as, in their broad outlines, expressions of the economic regime in the soci=
ety
that gives rise to them. It would be unfair to represent him as maintaining
that the conscious economic motive is the only one of importance; it is rat=
her
that economics molds character and opinion, and is thus the prime source of
much that appears in consciousness to have no connection with them. He appl=
ies
his doctrine in particular to two revolutions, one in the past, the other in
the future. The revolution in the past is that of the bourgeoisie against
feudalism, which finds its expression, according to him, particularly in the
French Revolution. The one in the future is the revolution of the wage- ear=
ners,
or proletariat, against the bourgeoisie, which is to establish the Socialist
Commonwealth. The whole movement of history is viewed by him as necessary, =
as
the effect of material causes operating upon human beings. He does not so m=
uch
advocate the Socialist revolution as predict it. He holds, it is true, that=
it
will be beneficent, but he is much more concerned to prove that it must
inevitably come. The same sense of necessity is visible in his exposition of
the evils of the capitalist system. He does not blame capitalists for the
cruelties of which he shows them to have been guilty; he merely points out =
that
they are under an inherent necessity to behave cruelly so long as private
ownership of land and capital continues. But their tyranny will not last fo=
rever,
for it generates the forces that must in the end overthrow it.
2. The Law of the Concentration of Capital.-- =
Marx
pointed out that capitalist undertakings tend to grow larger and larger. He
foresaw the substitution of trusts for free competition, and predicted that=
the
number of capitalist enterprises must diminish as the magnitude of single
enterprises increased. He supposed that this process must involve a diminut=
ion,
not only in the number of businesses, but also in the number of capitalists.
Indeed, he usually spoke as though each business were owned by a single man.
Accordingly, he expected that men would be continually driven from the rank=
s of
the capitalists into those of the proletariat, and that the capitalists, in=
the
course of time, would grow numerically weaker and weaker. He applied this p=
rinciple
not only to industry but also to agriculture. He expected to find the
landowners growing fewer and fewer while their estates grew larger and larg=
er.
This process was to make more and more glaring the evils and injustices of =
the
capitalist system, and to stimulate more and more the forces of opposition.=
3. The Class War.--Marx conceives the wage- ea=
rner
and the capitalist in a sharp antithesis. He imagines that every man is, or
must soon become, wholly the one or wholly the other. The wage- earner, who
possesses nothing, is exploited by the capitalists, who possess everything.=
As
the capitalist system works itself out and its nature becomes more clear, t=
he
opposition of bourgeoisie and proletariat becomes more and more marked. The=
two
classes, since they have antagonistic interests, are forced into a class war
which generates within the capitalist regime internal forces of disruption.=
The
working men learn gradually to combine against their exploiters, first loca=
lly,
then nationally, and at last internationally. When they have learned to com=
bine
internationally they must be victorious. They will then decree that all land
and capital shall be owned in common; exploitation will cease; the tyranny =
of
the owners of wealth will no longer be possible; there will no longer be any
division of society into classes, and all men will be free.
All these ideas are already contained in the `=
`Communist
Manifesto,'' a work of the most amazing vigor and force, setting forth with
terse compression the titanic forces of the world, their epic battle, and t=
he
inevitable consummation. This work is of such importance in the development=
of
Socialism and gives such an admirable statement of the doctrines set forth =
at
greater length and with more pedantry in ``Capital,'' that its salient pass=
ages
must be known by anyone who wishes to understand the hold which Marxian
Socialism has acquired over the intellect and imagination of a large propor=
tion
of working-class leaders.
``A spectre is haunting Europe,'' it begins, `=
`the
spectre of Communism. All the Powers of old Europe have entered into a holy
alliance to exorcise this spectre--Pope and Czar, Metternich and Guizot, Fr=
ench
Radicals and German police-spies. Where is the party in opposition that has=
not
been decried as communistic by its opponents in power? Where the Opposition
that has not hurled back the branding reproach of Communism against the mor=
e advanced
opposition parties, as well as against its re-actionary adversaries?''
The existence of a class war is nothing new: `=
`The
history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles.=
''
In these struggles the fight ``each time ended, either in a revolutionary r=
e-constitution
of society at large, or in the common ruin of the contending classes.''
``Our epoch, the epoch of the bourgeoisie . . =
. has
simplified the class antagonisms. Society as a whole is more and more split=
ting
up into two great hostile camps, into two great classes directly facing each
other: Bourgeoisie and Proletariat.'' Then follows a history of the fall of
feudalism, leading to a description of the bourgeoisie as a revolutionary f=
orce.
``The bourgeoisie, historically, has played a most revolutionary part.'' ``=
For
exploitation, veiled by religious and political illusions, it has substitut=
ed naked,
shameless, direct, brutal exploitation.'' ``The need of a constantly expand=
ing
market for its products chases the bourgeoisie over the whole surface of the
globe.'' ``The bourgeoisie, during its rule of scarce one hundred years, has
created more massive and more colossal productive forces than have all prec=
eding
generations together.'' Feudal relations became fetters: ``They had to be b=
urst
asunder; they were burst asunder. . . . A similar movement is going on befo=
re
our own eyes.'' ``The weapons with which the bourgeoisie felled feudalism to
the ground are now turned against the bourgeoisie itself. But not only has =
the
bourgoisie forged the weapons that bring death to itself; it has also called
into existence the men who are to wield those weapons-- the modern working
class--the proletarians.''
The cause of the destitution of the proletaria=
t are
then set forth. ``The cost of production of a workman is restricted, almost
entirely, to the means of subsistence that he requires for his maintenance =
and
for the propagation of his race. But the price of a commodity, and therefore
also of labor, is equal to its cost of production. In proportion, therefore=
, as
the repulsiveness of the work increases, the wage decreases. Nay more, in
proportion as the use of machinery and diversion of labor increases, in the=
same
proportion the burden of toil also increases.''
``Modern industry has converted the little
workshop of the patriarchal master into the great factory of the industrial
capitalist. Masses of laborers, crowded into the factory, are organized like
soldiers. As privates of the industrial army they are placed under the comm=
and
of a perfect hierarchy of officers and sergeants. Not only are they slaves =
of
the bourgeois class, and of the bourgeois State, they are daily and hourly
enslaved by the machine, by the over-looker, and, above all, by the individ=
ual bourgeois
manufacturer himself. The more openly this despotism proclaims gain to be i=
ts
end and aim, the more petty, the more hateful, and the more embittering it
is.''
The Manifesto tells next the manner of growth =
of
the class struggle. ``The proletariat goes through various stages of
development. With its birth begins its struggle with the bourgeoisie. At fi=
rst
the contest is carried on by individual laborers, then by the workpeople of=
a
factory, then by the operatives of one trade, in one locality, against the =
individual
bourgeois who directly exploits them. They direct their attacks not against=
the
bourgeois conditions of production, but against the instruments of producti=
on
themselves.''
``At this stage the laborers still form an
incoherent mass scattered over the whole country, and broken up by their mu=
tual
competition. If anywhere they unite to form more compact bodies, this is not
yet the consequence of their own active union, but of the union of the
bourgeoisie, which class, in order to attain its own political ends, is
compelled to set the whole proletariat in motion, and is moreover yet, for a
time, able to do so.''
``The collisions between individual workmen an=
d individual
bourgeois take more and more the character of collisions between two classe=
s.
Thereupon the workers begin to form combinations (Trades Unions) against the
bourgeois; they club together in order to keep up the rate of wages; they f=
ound
permanent associations in order to make provision beforehand for these
occasional revolts. Here and there the contest breaks out into riots. Now a=
nd then
the workers are victorious, but only for a time. The real fruit of their
battles lies, not in the immediate result, but in the ever-expanding union =
of the
workers. This union is helped on by the im- proved means of communication t=
hat
are created by modern industry, and that place the workers of different
localities in contact with one another. It was just this contact that was
needed to centralize the numerous local struggles, all of the same characte=
r, into
one national struggle between classes. But every class struggle is a politi=
cal
struggle. And that union, to attain which the burghers of the Middle Ages, =
with
their miserable highways, required centuries, the modern proletarians, than=
ks
to railways, achieve in a few years. This organization of the proletarians =
into
a class, and consequently into a political party, is continually being upset
again by the competition between the workers themselves. But it ever rises =
up
again, stronger, firmer, mightier. It compels legislative recognition of
particular interests of the workers, by taking advantage of the divisions a=
mong
the bourgeoisie itself.''
``In the conditions of the proletariat, those =
of old
society at large are already virtually swamped. The proletarian is without
property; his relation to his wife and children has no longer anything in c=
ommon
with the bourgeois family-relations; modern industrial labor, modern subjec=
tion
to capital, the same in England as in France, in America as in Germany, has
stripped him of every trace of national character. Law, morality, religion,=
are
to him so many bourgeois prejudices, behind which lurk in ambush just as ma=
ny bourgeois
interests. All the preceding classes that got the upper hand, sought to for=
tify
their already acquired status by subjecting society at large to their
conditions of appropriation. The proletarians cannot become masters of the
productive forces of society, except by abolishing their own previous mode =
of
appropriation, and thereby also every other previous mode of appropriation.=
They
have nothing of their own to secure and to fortify; their mission is to des=
troy
all previous securities for, and insurances of, individual property. All
previous historical movements were movements of minorities, or in the inter=
est
of minorities. The proletarian movement is the self-conscious, independent =
movement
of the immense majority, in the interest of the immense majority. The
proletariat, the lowest stratum of our present society, cannot stir, cannot
raise itself up, without the whole super- incumbent strata of official soci=
ety
being sprung into the air.''
The Communists, says Marx, stand for the
proletariat as a whole. They are international. ``The Communists are further
reproached with desiring to abolish countries and nationality. The working =
men
have no country. We cannot take from them what they have not got.''
The immediate aim of the Communists is the con=
quests
of political power by the proletariat. ``The theory of the Communists may be
summed up in the single sentence: Abolition of private property.''
The materialistic interpretation of history is=
used
to answer such charges as that Communism is anti-Christian. ``The charges
against Communism made from a religious, a philosophical, and, generally, f=
rom
an ideological standpoint, are not deserving of serious examination. Does it
require deep intuition to comprehend that man's ideas, views and conception=
s,
in one word, man's consciousness, changes with every change in the conditio=
ns
of his material existence, in his social relations, and in his social life?=
''
The attitude of the Manifesto to the State is =
not altogether
easy to grasp. ``The executive of the modern State,'' we are told, ``is but=
a
Committee for managing the common affairs of the whole bourgeoisie.'' Never=
theless,
the first step for the proletariat must be to acquire control of the State.
``We have seen above, that the first step in the revolution by the working
class, is to raise the proletariat to the position of ruling class, to win =
the
battle of democracy. The proletariat will use its political supremacy to wr=
est,
by degrees, all capital from the bourgeoisie, to centralize all instruments=
of
production in the hands of the State, i.e., of the proletariat organized as=
the
ruling class; and to increase the total of productive forces as rapidly as
possible.''
The Manifesto passes on to an immediate progra=
m of
reforms, which would in the first instance much increase the power of the
existing State, but it is contended that when the Socialist revolution is a=
ccomplished,
the State, as we know it, will have ceased to exist. As Engels says elsewhe=
re,
when the proletariat seizes the power of the State ``it puts an end to all
differences of class and antagonisms of class, and consequently also puts an
end to the State as a State.'' Thus, although State Socialism might, in fac=
t,
be the outcome of the proposals of Marx and Engels, they cannot themselves =
be
accused of any glorification of the State.
The Manifesto ends with an appeal to the wage-=
earners
of the world to rise on behalf of Communism. ``The Communists disdain to
conceal their views and aims. They openly declare that their ends can be at=
tained
only by the forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions. Let the
ruling classes tremble at a Communistic revolution. The proletarians have n=
othing
to lose but their chains. They have a world to win. Working men of all
countries, unite!''
In all the great countries of the Continent, e=
xcept
Russia, a revolution followed quickly on the publication of the Communist
Manifesto, but the revolution was not economic or international, except at
first in France. Everywhere else it was inspired by the ideas of nationalis=
m.
Accordingly, the rulers of the world, momentarily terrified, were able to r=
ecover
power by fomenting the enmities inherent in the nationalist idea, and
everywhere, after a very brief triumph, the revolution ended in war and rea=
ction.
The ideas of the Communist Manifesto appeared before the world was ready for
them, but its authors lived to see the beginnings of the growth of that
Socialist movement in every country, which has pressed on with increasing
force, influencing Governments more and more, dominating the Russian Revolu=
tion,
and perhaps capable of achieving at no very distant date that international
triumph to which the last sentences of the Manifesto summon the wage-earner=
s of
the world.
Marx's magnum opus, ``Capital,'' added bulk and
substance to the theses of the Communist Manifesto. It contributed the theo=
ry
of surplus value, which professed to explain the actual mechanism of capita=
list
exploitation. This doctrine is very complicated and is scarcely tenable as a
contribution to pure theory. It is rather to be viewed as a translation into
abstract terms of the hatred with which Marx regarded the system that coins
wealth out of human lives, and it is in this spirit, rather than in that of
disinterested analysis, that it has been read by its admirers. A critical
examination of the theory of surplus value would require much difficult and=
abstract
discussion of pure economic theory without having much bearing upon the
practical truth or falsehood of Socialism; it has therefore seemed impossib=
le within
the limits of the present volume. To my mind the best parts of the book are
those which deal with economic facts, of which Marx's knowledge was
encyclopaedic. It was by these facts that he hoped to instil into his disci=
ples
that firm and undying hatred that should make them soldiers to the death in=
the
class war. The facts which he accumulates are such as are practically unkno=
wn
to the vast majority of those who live comfortable lives. They are very
terrible facts, and the economic system which generates them must be
acknowledged to be a very terrible system. A few examples of his choice of
facts will serve to explain the bitterness of many Socialists:--
Mr.
Broughton Charlton, county magistrate, declared, as chairman of a meeting h=
eld
at the Assembly Rooms, Nottingham, on the 14th January, 1860, ``that there =
was an
amount of privation and suffering among that portion of the population
connected with the lace trade, unknown in other parts of the kingdom, indee=
d,
in the civilized world. . . . Children of nine or ten years are dragged from
their squalid beds at two, three, or four o clock in the morning and compel=
led
to work for a bare subsistence until ten, eleven, or twelve at night, their
limbs wearing away, their frames dwindling, their faces whitening, and their
humanity absolutely sinking into a stone-like torpor, utterly horrible to
contemplate.''[4]
[4] V=
ol. i,
p. 227.
Three
railway men are standing before a London coroner's jury--a guard, an
engine-driver, a signalman. A tremendous railway accident has hurried hundr=
eds
of passengers into another world. The negligence of the employes is the cau=
se
of the misfortune. They declare with one voice before the jury that ten or
twelve years before, their labor only lasted eight hours a day. During the =
last
five or six years it had been screwed up to 14, 18, and 20 hours, and under=
a
specially severe pressure of holiday-makers, at times of excursion trains, =
it often
lasted 40 or 50 hours without a break. They were ordinary men, not Cyclops.=
At
a certain point their labor-power failed. Torpor seized them. Their brain c=
eased
to think, their eyes to see. The thoroughly ``respectable'' British jurymen
answered by a verdict that sent them to the next assizes on a charge of
manslaughter, and, in a gentle ``rider'' to their verdict, expressed the pi=
ous
hope that the capitalistic magnates of the railways would, in future, be mo=
re
extravagant in the purchase of a sufficient quantity of labor-power, and mo=
re
``abstemious,'' more ``self-denying,'' more ``thrifty,'' in the draining of
paid labor-power.[5]
[5] V=
ol. i,
pp. 237, 238.
In th=
e last
week of June, 1863, all the London daily papers published a paragraph with =
the
``sensational'' heading, ``Death from simple over-work.'' It dealt with the
death of the milliner, Mary Anne Walkley, 20 years of age, employed in a hi=
ghly
respectable dressmaking establishment, exploited by a lady with the pleasant
name of Elise. The old, often-told story was once more recounted. This girl
worked, on an average, 16 1/2 hours, during the season often 30 hours, with=
out
a break, whilst her failing labor-power was revived by occasional supplies =
of
sherry, port, or coffee. It was just now the height of the season. It was
necessary to conjure up in the twinkling of an eye the gorgeous dresses for=
the
noble ladies bidden to the ball in honor of the newly- imported Princess of
Wales. Mary Anne Walkley had worked without intermission for 26 1/2 hours, =
with
60 other girls, 30 in one room, that only afforded 1/3 of the cubic feet of=
air
required for them. At night, they slept in pairs in one of the stifling hol=
es
into which the bedroom was divided by partitions of board. And this was one=
of
the best millinery establishments in London. Mary Anne Walkley fell ill on =
the
Friday, died on Sunday, without, to the astonishment of Madame Elise, having
previously completed the work in hand. The doctor, Mr. Keys, called too lat=
e to
the death bed, duly bore witness before the coroner's jury that ``Mary Anne=
Walkley
had died from long hours of work in an over- crowded workroom, and a too sm=
all
and badly ventilated bedroom.'' In order to give the doctor a lesson in goo=
d manners,
the coroner's jury thereupon brought in a verdict that ``the deceased had d=
ied
of apoplexy, but there was reason to fear that her death had been accelerat=
ed by
over-work in an over-crowded workroom, &c.'' ``Our white slaves,'' cried
the ``Morning Star,'' the organ of the free-traders, Cobden and Bright, ``o=
ur
white slaves, who are toiled into the grave, for the most part silently pin=
e and
die.''[6]
[6] V=
ol. i,
pp. 239, 240.
Edwar=
d VI:
A statue of the first year of his reign, 1547, ordains that if anyone refus=
es
to work, he shall be condemned as a slave to the person who has denounced h=
im
as an idler. The master shall feed his slave on bread and water, weak broth=
and
such refuse meat as he thinks fit. He has the right to force him to do any
work, no matter how disgusting, with whip and chains. If the slave is absen=
t a
fortnight, he is condemned to slavery for life and is to be branded on fore=
head
or back with the letter S; if he runs away thrice, he is to be executed as a
felon. The master can sell him, bequeath him, let him out on hire as a slav=
e,
just as any other personal chattel or cattle. If the slaves attempt anything
against the masters, they are also to be executed. Justices of the peace, on
information, are to hunt the rascals down. If it happens that a vagabond has
been idling about for three days, he is to be taken to his birthplace, bran=
ded
with a redhot iron with the letter V on the breast and be set to work, in
chains, in the streets or at some other labor. If the vagabond gives a false
birthplace, he is then to become the slave for life of this place, of its
inhabitants, or its corporation, and to be branded with an S. All persons h=
ave
the right to take away the children of the vagabonds and to keep them as
apprentices, the young men until the 24th year, the girls until the 20th. I=
f they
run away, they are to become up to this age the slaves of their masters, who
can put them in irons, whip them, &c., if they like. Every master may p=
ut
an iron ring around the neck, arms or legs of his slave, by which to know h=
im
more easily and to be more certain of him. The last part of this statute
provides that certain poor people may be employed by a place or by persons,=
who
are willing to give them food and drink and to find them work. This kind of
parish-slaves was kept up in England until far into the 19th century under =
the
name of ``roundsmen.''[7]
[7] V=
ol. i,
pp. 758, 759.
Page =
after
page and chapter after chapter of facts of this nature, each brought up to
illustrate some fatalistic theory which Marx professes to have proved by ex=
act
reasoning, cannot but stir into fury any passionate working-class reader, a=
nd
into unbearable shame any possessor of capital in whom generosity and justi=
ce
are not wholly extinct.
Almost at the end of the volume, in a very bri=
ef chapter,
called ``Historical Tendency of Capitalist Accumulation,'' Marx allows one
moment's glimpse of the hope that lies beyond the present horror:--
As so=
on as
this process of transformation has sufficiently decomposed the old society =
from
top to bottom, as soon as the laborers are turned into proletarians, their =
means
of labor into capital, as soon as the capitalist mode of production stands =
on
its own feet, then the further socialization of labor and further
transformation of the land and other means of production into so- cially
exploited and, therefore, common means of production, as well as the further
expropriation of private proprietors, takes a new form. That which is now t=
o be
expropriated is no longer the laborer working for himself, but the capitali=
st
exploiting many laborers. This expropriation is accomplished by the action =
of
the immanent laws of capitalistic production itself, by the centralization =
of
capital. One capitalist always kills many, and in hand with this
centralization, or this expropriation of many capitalists by few, develop, =
on an
ever extending scale, the co-operative form of the labor-process, the consc=
ious
technical application of science, the methodical cultivation of the soil, t=
he transformation
of the instruments of labor into instruments of labor only usable in common,
the economizing of all means of production by their use as the means of pro=
duction
of combined, socialized labor, the entanglement of all peoples in the net of
the world-market, and with this, the international character of the
capitalistic regime. Along with the constantly diminishing number of the ma=
gnates
of capital, who usurp and monopolize all advantages of this process of
transformation, grows the mass of misery, oppression, slavery, degradation,
exploitation; but with this, too, grows the revolt of the working- class, a
class always increasing in numbers, and disciplined, united, organized by t=
he
very mechanism of the process of capitalist production itself. The monopoly=
of capital
becomes a fetter upon the mode of production, which has sprung up and
flourished along with, and under it. Centralization of the means of product=
ion
and socialization of labor at last reach a point where they become incompat=
ible
with their capitalist integument. This integument is burst asunder. The kne=
ll
of capitalist private property sounds. The expropriators are expropriated,[=
8]
[8] V=
ol. i pp.
788, 789.
That =
is
all. Hardly another word from beginning to end is allowed to relieve the gl=
oom,
and in this relentless pressure upon the mind of the reader lies a great pa=
rt
of the power which this book has acquired.
Two questions are raised by Marx's work: First=
, Are
his laws of historical development true? Second, Is Socialism desirable? The
second of these questions is quite independent of the first. Marx professes=
to
prove that Socialism must come, but scarcely concerns himself to argue that=
when
it comes it will be a good thing. It may be, however, that if it comes, it =
will
be a good thing, even though all Marx's arguments to prove that it must come
should be at fault. In actual fact, time has shown many flaws in Marx's the=
ories.
The development of the world has been sufficiently like his prophecy to pro=
ve
him a man of very unusual penetration, but has not been sufficiently like to
make either political or economic history exactly such as he predicted that=
it
would be. Nationalism, so far from diminishing, has increased, and has fail=
ed
to be conquered by the cosmopolitan tendencies which Marx rightly discerned=
in
finance. Although big businesses have grown bigger and have over a great ar=
ea
reached the stage of monopoly, yet the number of shareholders in such
enterprises is so large that the actual number of individuals interested in=
the
capitalist system has continually increased. Moreover, though large firms h=
ave
grown larger, there has been a simultaneous increase in firms of medium siz=
e.
Meanwhile the wage-earners, who were, according to Marx, to have remained a=
t the
bare level of subsistence at which they were in the England of the first ha=
lf
of the nineteenth century, have instead profited by the general increase of
wealth, though in a lesser degree than the capitalists. The supposed iron l=
aw
of wages has been proved untrue, so far as labor in civilized countries is
concerned. If we wish now to find examples of capitalist cruelty analogous =
to
those with which Marx's book is filled, we shall have to go for most of our
material to the Tropics, or at any rate to regions where there are men of
inferior races to exploit. Again: the skilled worker of the present day is =
an
aristocrat in the world of labor. It is a question with him whether he shall
ally himself with the unskilled worker against the capitalist, or with the =
capitalist
against the unskilled worker. Very often he is himself a capitalist in a sm=
all
way, and if he is not so individually, his trade union or his friendly soci=
ety
is pretty sure to be so. Hence the sharpness of the class war has not been
maintained. There are gradations, intermediate ranks between rich and poor,
instead of the clear-cut logical antithesis between the workers who have
nothing and the capitalists who have all. Even in Germany, which became the
home of orthodox Marxianism and developed a powerful Social-Democratic part=
y,
nominally accepting the doctrine of ``Das Kapital'' as all but verbally
inspired, even there the enormous increase of wealth in all classes in the =
years
preceding the war led Socialists to revise their beliefs and to adopt an
evolutionary rather than a revolutionary attitude. Bernstein, a German
Socialist who lived long in England, inaugurated the ``Revisionist'' moveme=
nt which
at last conquered the bulk of the party. His criticisms of Marxian orthodoxy
are set forth in his ``Evolutionary Socialism.''[9] Bernstein's work, as is
common in Broad Church writers, consists largely in showing that the Founde=
rs
did not hold their doctrines so rigidly as their followers have done. There=
is
much in the writings of Marx and Engels that cannot be fitted into the rigid
orthodoxy which grew up among their disciples. Bernstein's main criticisms =
of
these disciples, apart from such as we have already mentioned, consist in a
defense of piecemeal action as against revolution. He protests against the
attitude of undue hostility to Liberalism which is common among Socialists,=
and
he blunts the edge of the Internationalism which undoubtedly is part of the
teachings of Marx. The workers, he says, have a Fatherland as soon as they
become citizens, and on this basis he defends that degree of nationalism wh=
ich
the war has since shown to be prevalent in the ranks of Socialists. He even
goes so far as to maintain that European nations have a right to tropical
territory owing to their higher civilization. Such doctrines diminish
revolutionary ardor and tend to transform Socialists into a left wing of the
Liberal Party. But the increasing prosperity of wage-earners before the war
made these developments inevitable. Whether the war will have altered
conditions in this respect, it is as yet impossible to know. Bernstein
concludes with the wise remark that: ``We have to take working men as they =
are.
And they are neither so universally paupers as was set out in the Communist
Manifesto, nor so free from prejudices and weaknesses as their courtiers wi=
sh
to make us believe.''
[9] D=
ie
Voraussetzungen des Sozialismus und die Aufgaben der Sozial-Demokratie.''
In March, 1914, Bernstein delivered a lecture =
in
Budapest in which he withdrew from several of the positions he had taken up
(vide Budapest ``Volkstimme,'' March 19, 1914).
Berst=
ein
represents the decay of Marxian orthodoxy from within. Syndicalism represen=
ts
an attack against it from without, from the standpoint of a doctrine which
professes to be even more radical and more revolutionary than that of Marx =
and
Engels. The attitude of Syndicalists to Marx may be seen in Sorel's little
book, ``La Decomposition du Marxisme,'' and in his larger work, ``Reflectio=
ns
on Violence,'' authorized translation by T. E. Hulme (Allen & Unwin, 19=
15).
After quoting Bernstein, with approval in so far as he criticises Marx, Sor=
el proceeds
to other criticisms of a different order. He points out (what is true) that
Marx's theoretical economics remain very near to Manchesterism: the orthodox
political economy of his youth was accepted by him on many points on which =
it
is now known to be wrong. According to Sorel, the really essential thing in
Marx's teaching is the class war. Whoever keeps this alive is keeping alive=
the
spirit of Socialism much more truly than those who adhere to the letter of
Social-Democratic orthodoxy. On the basis of the class war, French Syndical=
ists
developed a criticism of Marx which goes much deeper than those that we have
been hitherto considering. Marx's views on historical development may have =
been
in a greater or less degree mistaken in fact, and yet the economic and
political system which he sought to create might be just as desirable as his
followers suppose. Syndicalism, however, criticises, not only Marx's views =
of
fact, but also the goal at which he aims and the general nature of the means
which he recommends. Marx's ideas were formed at a time when democracy did =
not
yet exist. It was in the very year in which ``Das Kapital'' appeared that u=
rban
working men first got the vote in England and universal suffrage was grante=
d by
Bismarck in Northern Germany. It was natural that great hopes should be
entertained as to what democracy would achieve. Marx, like the orthodox
economists, imagined that men's opinions are guided by a more or less
enlightened view of economic self-interest, or rather of economic class
interest. A long experience of the workings of political democracy has show=
n that
in this respect Disraeli and Bismarck were shrewder judges of human nature =
than
either Liberals or Socialists. It has become increasingly difficult to put
trust in the State as a means to liberty, or in political parties as
instruments sufficiently powerful to force the State into the service of th=
e people.
The modern State, says Sorel, ``is a body of intellectuals, which is invest=
ed
with privileges, and which possesses means of the kind called political for=
defending
itself against the attacks made on it by other groups of intellectuals, eag=
er
to possess the profits of public employment. Parties are constituted in ord=
er
to acquire the conquest of these employments, and they are analogous to the
State.''[10]
[10] =
La
Decomposition du Marxisme,'' p. 53.
Syndi=
calists
aim at organizing men, not by party, but by occupation. This, they say, alo=
ne
represents the true conception and method of the class war. Accordingly they
despise all POLITICAL action through the medium of Parliament and elections:
the kind of action that they recommend is direct action by the revolutionary
syndicate or trade union. The battle- cry of industrial versus political ac=
tion
has spread far beyond the ranks of French Syndicalism. It is to be found in=
the
I. W. W. in America, and among Industrial Unionists and Guild Socialists in
Great Britain. Those who advocate it, for the most part, aim also at a
different goal from that of Marx. They believe that there can be no adequate
individual freedom where the State is all-powerful, even if the State be a
Socialist one. Some of them are out-and- out Anarchists, who wish to see the
State wholly abolished; others only wish to curtail its authority. Owing to
this movement, opposition to Marx, which from the Anarchist side existed fr=
om
the first, has grown very strong. It is this opposition in its older form t=
hat
will occupy us in our next chapter.
IN the
popular mind, an Anarchist is a person who throws bombs and commits other
outrages, either because he is more or less insane, or because he uses the
pretense of extreme political opinions as a cloak for criminal proclivities.
This view is, of course, in every way inadequate. Some Anarchists believe in
throwing bombs; many do not. Men of almost every other shade of opinion bel=
ieve
in throwing bombs in suitable circumstances: for example, the men who threw=
the
bomb at Sarajevo which started the present war were not Anarchists, but Nat=
ionalists.
And those Anarchists who are in favor of bomb-throwing do not in this respe=
ct
differ on any vital principle from the rest of the community, with the
exception of that infinitesimal portion who adopt the Tolstoyan attitude of
non-resistance. Anarchists, like Socialists, usually believe in the doctrin=
e of
the class war, and if they use bombs, it is as Governments use bombs, for
purposes of war: but for every bomb manufactured by an Anarchist, many mill=
ions
are manufactured by Governments, and for every man killed by Anarchist viol=
ence,
many millions are killed by the violence of States. We may, therefore, dism=
iss
from our minds the whole question of violence, which plays so large a part =
in
the popular imagination, since it is neither essential nor peculiar to those
who adopt the Anarchist position.
Anarchism, as its derivation indicates, is the=
theory
which is opposed to every kind of forcible government. It is opposed to the
State as the embodiment of the force employed in the government of the
community. Such government as Anarchism can tolerate must be free governmen=
t,
not merely in the sense that it is that of a majority, but in the sense tha=
t it
is that assented to by all. Anarchists object to such institutions as the
police and the criminal law, by means of which the will of one part of the =
community
is forced upon another part. In their view, the democratic form of governme=
nt
is not very enormously preferable to other forms so long as minorities are
compelled by force or its potentiality to submit to the will of majorities.
Liberty is the supreme good in the Anarchist creed, and liberty is sought by
the direct road of abolishing all forcible control over the individual by t=
he
community.
Anarchism, in this sense, is no new doctrine. =
It is
set forth admirably by Chuang Tzu, a Chinese philosopher, who lived about t=
he
year 300 B. C.:--
Horses have hoofs to carry them over frost and
snow; hair, to protect them from wind and cold. They eat grass and drink wa=
ter,
and fling up their heels over the champaign. Such is the real nature of hor=
ses.
Palatial dwellings are of no use to them.
One day Po Lo appeared, saying: ``I understand=
the
management of horses.''
So he branded them, and clipped them, and pare=
d their
hoofs, and put halters on them, tying them up by the head and shackling the=
m by
the feet, and disposing them in stables, with the result that two or three =
in every
ten died. Then he kept them hungry and thirsty, trotting them and galloping
them, and grooming, and trimming, with the misery of the tasselled bridle
before and the fear of the knotted whip behind, until more than half of them
were dead.
The potter says: ``I can do what I will with C=
lay.
If I want it round, I use compasses; if rectangular, a square.''
The carpenter says: ``I can do what I will wit=
h wood.
If I want it curved, I use an arc; if straight, a line.''
But on what grounds can we think that the natu=
res of
clay and wood desire this application of compasses and square, of arc and l=
ine?
Nevertheless, every age extols Po Lo for his skill in managing horses, and
potters and carpenters for their skill with clay and wood. Those who govern=
the
empire make the same mistake.
Now I regard government of the empire from qui=
te a
different point of view.
The people have certain natural instincts:--to
weave and clothe themselves, to till and feed themselves. These are common =
to
all humanity, and all are agreed thereon. Such instincts are called
``Heaven-sent.''
And so in the days when natural instincts
prevailed, men moved quietly and gazed steadily. At that time there were no
roads over mountains, nor boats, nor bridges over water. All things were
produced, each for its own proper sphere. Birds and beasts multiplied, trees
and shrubs grew up. The former might be led by the hand; you could climb up=
and
peep into the raven's nest. For then man dwelt with birds and beasts, and a=
ll
creation was one. There were no distinctions of good and bad men. Being all
equally without knowledge, their virtue could not go astray. Being all equa=
lly without
evil desires, they were in a state of natural integrity, the perfection of
human existence.
But when Sages appeared, tripping up people ov=
er charity
and fettering them with duty to their neighbor, doubt found its way into the
world. And then, with their gushing over music and fussing over ceremony, t=
he empire
became divided against itself.[11]
[11]
``Musings of a Chinese Mystic.'' Selections from the Philosophy of Chuang T=
zu.
With an Introduction by Lionel Giles, M.A. (Oxon.). Wisdom of the East Seri=
es,
John Murray, 1911. Pages 66-68.
The modern Anarchism, in the sense in which we=
shall
be concerned with it, is associated with belief in the communal ownership of
land and capital, and is thus in an important respect akin to Socialism. Th=
is
doctrine is properly called Anarchist Com- munism, but as it embraces
practically all modern Anarchism, we may ignore individualist Anarchism alt=
ogether
and concentrate attention upon the communistic form. Socialism and Anarchist
Communism alike have arisen from the perception that private capital is a
source of tyranny by certain individuals over others. Orthodox Socialism
believes that the individual will become free if the State becomes the sole
capitalist. Anarchism, on the contrary, fears that in that case the State m=
ight
merely inherit the tyrannical propensities of the private capitalist. Accor=
dingly,
it seeks for a means of reconciling communal ownership with the utmost poss=
ible
diminution in the powers of the State, and indeed ultimately with the compl=
ete
abolition of the State. It has arisen mainly within the Socialist movement =
as
its extreme left wing.
In the same sense in which Marx may be regarde=
d as
the founder of modern Socialism, Bakunin may be regarded as the founder of
Anarchist Communism. But Bakunin did not produce, like Marx, a finished and
systematic body of doctrine. The nearest approach to this will be found in =
the
writings of his follower, Kropotkin. In order to explain modern Anarchism we
shall begin with the life of Bakunin[12] and the history of his conflicts w=
ith
Marx, and shall then give a brief account of Anarchist theory as set forth
partly in his writings, but more in those of Kropotkin.[13]
[12] An account of the life of Bakunin from the
Anarchist standpoint will be found in vol. ii of the complete edition of his
works: ``Michel Bakounine, OEuvres,'' Tome II. Avec une notice biographique,
des avant-propos et des notes, par James Guillaume. Paris, P.-V, Stock,
editeur, pp. v-lxiii.
[13] Criticism of these theories will be reser=
ved
for Part II.
Michel
Bakunin was born in 1814 of a Russian aristocratic family. His father was a
diplomatist, who at the time of Bakunin's birth had retired to his country
estate in the Government of Tver. Bakunin entered the school of artillery in
Petersburg at the age of fifteen, and at the age of eighteen was sent as an
ensign to a regiment stationed in the Government of Minsk. The Polish
insurrection of 1880 had just been crushed. ``The spectacle of terrorized
Poland,'' says Guillaume, ``acted powerfully on the heart of the young offi=
cer,
and contributed to inspire in him the horror of despotism.'' This led him to
give up the military career after two years' trial. In 1834 he resigned his
commission and went to Moscow, where he spent six years studying philosophy.
Like all philosophical students of that period, he became a Hegelian, and in
1840 he went to Berlin to continue his studies, in the hope of ultimately
becoming a professor. But after this time his opinions underwent a rapid
change. He found it impossible to accept the Hegelian maxim that whatever i=
s,
is rational, and in 1842 he migrated to Dresden, where he became associated
with Arnold Ruge, the publisher of ``Deutsche Jahrbuecher.'' By this time he
had become a revolutionary, and in the following year he incurred the hosti=
lity
of the Saxon Government. This led him to go to Switzerland, where he came i=
n contact
with a group of German Communists, but, as the Swiss police importuned him =
and
the Russian Government demanded his return, he removed to Paris, where he
remained from 1843 to 1847. These years in Paris were important in the form=
ation
of his outlook and opinions. He became acquainted with Proudhon, who exerci=
sed
a considerable influence on him; also with George Sand and many other well-=
known
people. It was in Paris that he first made the acquaintance of Marx and Eng=
els,
with whom he was to carry on a lifelong battle. At a much later period, in
1871, he gave the following account of his relations with Marx at this time=
:--
Marx =
was
much more advanced than I was, as he remains to-day not more advanced but
incomparably more learned than I am. I knew then nothing of political econo=
my.
I had not yet rid myself of metaphysical abstractions, and my Socialism was
only instinctive. He, though younger than I, was already an atheist, an ins=
tructed
materialist, a well-considered Socialist. It was just at this time that he
elaborated the first foundations of his present system. We saw each other
fairly often, for I respected him much for his learning and his passionate =
and
serious devotion (always mixed, however, with personal vanity) to the cause=
of
the proletariat, and I sought eagerly his conversation, which was always in=
structive
and clever, when it was not inspired by a paltry hate, which, alas! happened
only too often. But there was never any frank intimacy between as. Our temp=
eraments
would not suffer it. He called me a sentimental idealist, and he was right;=
I
called him a vain man, perfidious and crafty, and I also was right.
Bakun=
in
never succeeded in staying long in one place without incurring the enmity of
the authorities. In November, 1847, as the result of a speech praising the
Polish rising of 1830, he was expelled from France at the request of the
Russian Embassy, which, in order to rob him of public sympathy, spread the
unfounded report that he had been an agent of the Russian Government, but w=
as
no longer wanted because he had gone too far. The French Government, by
calculated reticence, encouraged this story, which clung to him more or less
throughout his life.
Being compelled to leave France, he went to Br=
ussels,
where he renewed acquaintance with Marx. A letter of his, written at this t=
ime,
shows that he entertained already that bitter hatred for which afterward he=
had
so much reason. ``The Germans, artisans, Bornstedt, Marx and Engels--and, a=
bove
all, Marx--are here, doing their ordinary mischief. Vanity, spite, gossip,
theoretical overbearingness and practical pusillanimity--reflections on lif=
e,
action and simplicity, and complete absence of life, action and
simplicity--literary and argumentative artisans and repulsive coquetry with
them: `Feuerbach is a bourgeois,' and the word `bourgeois' grown into an
epithet and repeated ad nauseum, but all of them themselves from head to fo=
ot,
through and through, provincial bourgeois. With one word, lying and stupidi=
ty,
stupidity and lying. In this society there is no possibility of drawing a f=
ree,
full breath. I hold myself aloof from them, and have declared quite decided=
ly
that I will not join their communistic union of artisans, and will have not=
hing
to do with it.''
The Revolution of 1848 led him to return to Pa=
ris and
thence to Germany. He had a quarrel with Marx over a matter in which he him=
self
confessed later that Marx was in the right. He became a member of the Slav
Congress in Prague, where he vainly endeavored to promote a Slav insurrecti=
on.
Toward the end of 1848, he wrote an ``Appeal to Slavs,'' calling on them to
combine with other revolutionaries to destroy the three oppressive monarchi=
es,
Russia, Austria and Prussia. Marx attacked him in print, saying, in effect,
that the movement for Bohemian independence was futile because the Slavs ha=
d no
future, at any rate in those regions where they hap- pened to be subject to
Germany and Austria. Bakunin accused Mars of German patriotism in this matt=
er,
and Marx accused him of Pan-Slavism, no doubt in both cases justly. Before =
this
dispute, however, a much more serious quarrel had taken place. Marx's paper,
the ``Neue Rheinische Zeitung,'' stated that George Sand had papers proving=
Bakunin
to be a Russian Government agent and one of those responsible for the recent
arrest of Poles. Bakunin, of course, repudiated the charge, and George Sand
wrote to the ``Neue Rheinische Zeitung,'' denying this statement in toto. T=
he
denials were published by Marx, and there was a nominal reconciliation, but
from this time onward there was never any real abatement of the hostility
between these rival leaders, who did not meet again until 1864.
Meanwhile, the reaction had been everywhere ga=
ining
ground. In May, 1849, an insurrection in Dresden for a moment made the
revolutionaries masters of the town. They held it for five days and establi=
shed
a revolutionary government. Bakunin was the soul of the defense which they =
made
against the Prussian troops. But they were overpowered, and at last Bakunin=
was
captured while trying to escape with Heubner and Richard Wagner, the last of
whom, fortunately for music, was not captured.
Now began a long period of imprisonment in many
prisons and various countries. Bakunin was sentenced to death on the 14th of
January, 1850, but his sentence was commuted after five months, and he was
delivered over to Austria, which claimed the privilege of punishing him. The
Austrians, in their turn, condemned him to death in May, 1851, and again his
sentence was commuted to imprisonment for life. In the Austrian prisons he =
had
fetters on hands and feet, and in one of them he was even chained to the wa=
ll
by the belt. There seems to have been some peculiar pleasure to be derived =
from
the punishment of Bakunin, for the Russian Government in its turn demanded =
him
of the Austrians, who delivered him up. In Russia he was confined, first in=
the
Peter and Paul fortress and then in the Schluesselburg. There be suffered f=
rom
scurvy and all his teeth fell out. His health gave way completely, and he f=
ound
almost all food impossible to assimilate. ``But, if his body became enfeebl=
ed,
his spirit remained inflexible. He feared one thing above all. It was to fi=
nd
himself some day led, by the debilitating action of prison, to the conditio=
n of
degradation of which Silvio Pellico offers a well-known type. He feared tha=
t he
might cease to hate, that he might feel the sentiment of revolt which upheld
him becoming extinguished in his hearts that he might come to pardon his
persecutors and resign himself to his fate. But this fear was superfluous; =
his
energy did not abandon him a single day, and he emerged from his cell the s=
ame man
as when he entered.''[14]
[14] =
Ibid.
p. xxvi.
After=
the
death of the Tsar Nicholas many political prisoners were amnested, but Alex=
ander
II with his own hand erased Bakunin's name from the list. When Bakunin's mo=
ther
succeeded in obtaining an interview with the new Tsar, he said to her, ``Kn=
ow, Madame,
that so long as your son lives, he can never be free.'' However, in 1857, a=
fter
eight years of captivity, he was sent to the comparative freedom of Siberia.
From there, in 1861, he succeeded in escaping to Japan, and thence through
America to London. He had been imprisoned for his hostility to governments,
but, strange to say, his sufferings had not had the intended effect of maki=
ng
him love those who inflicted them. From this time onward, he devoted himsel=
f to
spreading the spirit of Anarchist revolt, without, however, having to suffer
any further term of imprisonment. For some years he lived in Italy, where he
founded in 1864 an ``International Fraternity'' or ``Alliance of Socialist
Revolutionaries.'' This contained men of many countries, but apparently no
Germans. It devoted itself largely to combating Mazzini's nationalism. In 1=
867
he moved to Switzerland, where in the following year he helped to found the
``International Alliance of So- cialist Democracy,'' of which he drew up the
program. This program gives a good succinct resume of his opinions:--
The
Alliance declares itself atheist; it desires the definitive and entire
abolition of classes and the political equality and social equalization of
individuals of both sexes. It desires that the earth, the instrument of lab=
or, like
all other capital, becoming the collective property of society as a whole,
shall be no longer able to be utilized except by the workers, that is to sa=
y,
by agricultural and industrial associations. It recognizes that all actuall=
y existing
political and authoritarian States, reducing themselves more and more to the
mere administrative functions of the public services in their respective
countries, must disappear in the universal union of free associations, both
agricultural and industrial.
The
International Alliance of Socialist Democracy desired to become a branch of=
the
International Working Men's Association, but was refused admission on the
ground that branches must be local, and could not themselves be internation=
al.
The Geneva group of the Alliance, however, was admitted later, in July, 186=
9.
The International Working Men's Association had
been founded in London in 1864, and its statutes and program were drawn up =
by
Marx. Bakunin at first did not expect it to prove a success and refused to =
join
it. But it spread with remarkable rapidity in many countries and soon becam=
e a
great power for the propagation of Socialist ideas. Originally it was by no
means wholly Socialist, but in successive Congresses Marx won it over more =
and
more to his views. At its third Congress, in Brussels in September, 1868, it
became definitely Socialist. Meanwhile Bakunin, regretting his earlier
abstention, had decided to join it, and he brought with him a considerable
following in French-Switzerland, France, Spain and Italy. At the fourth
Congress, held at Basle in September, 1869, two currents were strongly mark=
ed.
The Germans and English followed Marx in his belief in the State as it was =
to
become after the abolition of private property; they followed him also in h=
is
desire to found Labor Parties in the various countries, and to utilize the
machinery of democracy for the election of representatives of Labor to Parl=
iaments.
On the other hand, the Latin nations in the main followed Bakunin in opposi=
ng
the State and disbelieving in the machinery of representative government. T=
he
conflict between these two groups grew more and more bitter, and each accus=
ed
the other of various offenses. The statement that Bakunin was a spy was
repeated, but was withdrawn after investigation. Marx wrote in a confidenti=
al communication
to his German friends that Bakunin was an agent of the Pan-Slavist party and
received from them 25,000 francs a year. Meanwhile, Bakunin became for a ti=
me
interested in the attempt to stir up an agrarian revolt in Russia, and this=
led
him to neglect the contest in the International at a crucial moment. During=
the
Franco-Prussian war Bakunin passionately took the side of France, especially
after the fall of Napoleon III. He endeavored to rouse the people to
revolutionary resistance like that of 1793, and became involved in an abort=
ive
attempt at revolt in Lyons. The French Government accused him of being a pa=
id
agent of Prussia, and it was with difficulty that he escaped to Switzerland.
The dispute with Marx and his followers had become exacerbated by the natio=
nal
dispute. Bakunin, like Kropotkin after him, regarded the new power of Germa=
ny
as the greatest menace to liberty in the world. He hated the Germans with a
bitter hatred, partly, no doubt, on account of Bismarck, but probably still
more on account of Marx. To this day, Anarchism has remained confined almost
exclusively to the Latin countries, and has been associated with, a hatred =
of
Germany, growing out of the contests between Marx and Bakunin in the
International.
The final suppression of Bakunin's faction occ=
urred
at the General Congress of the International at the Hague in 1872. The
meeting-place was chosen by the General Council (in which Marx was unoppose=
d),
with a view--so Bakunin's friends contend-- to making access impossible for
Bakunin (on account of the hostility of the French and German governments) =
and
difficult for his friends. Bakunin was expelled from the International as t=
he
result of a report accusing him inter alia of theft backed; up by intimidat=
ion.
The orthodoxy of the International was saved, =
but
at the cost of its vitality. From this time onward, it ceased to be itself a
power, but both sections continued to work in their various groups, and the
Socialist groups in particular grew rapidly. Ultimately a new International=
was
formed (1889) which continued down to the outbreak of the present war. As to
the future of International Socialism it would be rash to prophesy, though =
it
would seem that the international idea has acquired sufficient strength to =
need
again, after the war, some such means of expression as it found before in
Socialist congresses.
By this time Bakunin's health was broken, and = except for a few brief intervals, he lived in retirement until his death in 1876.<= o:p>
Bakunin's life, unlike Marx's, was a very stor=
my one.
Every kind of rebellion against authority always aroused his sympathy, and =
in
his support he never paid the slightest attention to personal risk. His
influence, undoubtedly very great, arose chiefly through the influence of h=
is
personality upon important individuals. His writings differ from Marx's as =
much
as his life does, and in a similar way. They are chaotic, largely, aroused =
by
some passing occasion, abstract and metaphysical, except when they deal with
current politics. He does not come to close quarters with economic facts, b=
ut
dwells usually in the regions of theory and metaphysics. When he descends f=
rom
these regions, he is much more at the mercy of current international politi=
cs
than Marx, much less imbued with the consequences of the belief that it is
economic causes that are fundamental. He praised Marx for enunciating this
doctrine,[15] but nevertheless continued to think in terms of nations. His
longest work, ``L'Empire Knouto-Germanique et la Revolution Sociale,'' is
mainly concerned with the situation in France during the later stages of th=
e Franco-Prussian
War, and with the means of resisting German imperialism. Most of his writing
was done in a hurry in the interval between two insurrections. There is
something of Anarchism in his lack of literary order. His best-known work i=
s a
fragment entitled by its editors ``God and the State.''[16]
In th=
is
work he represents belief in God and belief in the State as the two great
obstacles to human liberty. A typical passage will serve to illustrate its
style.
[15] =
``Marx,
as a thinker, is on the right road. He has established as a principle that =
all
the evolutions, political, religious, and juridical, in history are, not the
causes, but the effects of economic evolutions. This is a great and fruitful
thought, which he has not absolutely invented; it has been glimpsed, expres=
sed in
part, by many others besides him; but in any case to him belongs the honor =
of
having solidly established it and of having enunciated it as the basis of h=
is
whole economic system. (1870; ib. ii. p. xiii.)
[16] This title is not Bakunin's, but was inve=
nted
by Cafiero and Elisee Reclus, who edited it, not knowing that it was a frag=
ment
of what was intended to he the second version of ``L'Empire Knouto-Germaniq=
ue''
(see ib. ii. p 283).
The State is not society, it is only an histor=
ical
form of it, as brutal as it is abstract. It was born historically in all
countries of the marriage of violence, rapine, pillage, in a word, war and
conquest, with the gods successively created by the theological fantasy of
nations. It has been from its origin, and it remains still at present, the
divine sanction of brutal force and triumphant inequality.
The State is authority; it is force; it is the
ostentation and infatuation of force: it does not insinuate itself; it does=
not
seek to convert. . . . Even when it commands what is good, it hinders and
spoils it, just because it commands it, and because every command provokes =
and
excites the legitimate revolts of liberty; and because the good, from the
moment that it is commanded, becomes evil from the point of view of true
morality, of human morality (doubtless not of divine), from the point of vi=
ew
of human respect and of liberty. Liberty, morality, and the human dignity of
man consist precisely in this, that he does good, not because it is command=
ed, but
because he conceives it, wills it and loves it.
We do=
not
find in Bakunin's works a clear picture of the society at which he aimed, or
any argument to prove that such a society could be stable. If we wish to
understand Anarchism we must turn to his followers, and especially to
Kropotkin--like him, a Russian aristocrat familiar with the prisons of Euro=
pe,
and, like him, an Anarchist who, in spite of his internationalism, is imbued
with a fiery hatred of the Germans.
Kropotkin has devoted much of his writing to t=
echnical
questions of production. In ``Fields, Factories and Workshops'' and ``The
Conquest of Bread'' he has set himself to prove that, if production were mo=
re
scientific and better organized, a comparatively small amount of quite
agreeable work would suffice to keep the whole population in comfort. Even
assuming, as we probably must, that he somewhat exaggerates what is possible
with our present scientific knowledge, it must nevertheless be conceded that
his contentions contain a very large measure of truth. In attacking the sub=
ject
of production he has shown that he knows what is the really crucial questio=
n.
If civilization and progress are to be compatible with equality, it is
necessary that equality should not involve long hours of painful toil for
little more than the necessaries of life, since, where there is no leisure,=
art
and science will die and all progress will become impossible. The objection=
which
some feel to Socialism and Anarchism alike on this ground cannot be upheld =
in
view of the possible productivity of labor.
The system at which Kropotkin aims, whether or=
not
it be possible, is certainly one which demands a very great improvement in =
the
methods of production above what is common at present. He desires to abolish
wholly the system of wages, not only, as most Socialists do, in the sense t=
hat
a man is to be paid rather for his willingness to work than for the actual =
work
demanded of him, but in a more fundamental sense: there is to be no obligat=
ion
to work, and all things are to be shared in equal proportions among the who=
le
population. Kropotkin relies upon the possibility of making work pleasant: =
he
holds that, in such a community as he foresees, practically everyone will
prefer work to idleness, because work will not involve overwork or slavery,=
or
that excessive specialization that industrialism has brought about, but wil=
l be
merely a pleasant activity for certain hours of the day, giving a man an ou=
tlet
for his spontaneous constructive impulses. There is to be no compulsion, no
law, no government exercising force; there will still be acts of the commun=
ity,
but these are to spring from universal consent, not from any enforced
submission of even the smallest minority. We shall examine in a later chapt=
er
how far such an ideal is realizable, but it cannot be denied that Kropotkin
presents it with extraordinary persuasiveness and charm.
We should be doing more than justice to Anarch=
ism if
we did not say something of its darker side, the side which has brought it =
into
conflict with the police and made it a word of terror to ordinary citizens.=
In
its general doctrines there is nothing essentially involving violent method=
s or
a virulent hatred of the rich, and many who adopt these general doctrines a=
re
personally gentle and temperamentally averse from violence. But the general
tone of the Anarchist press and public is bitter to a degree that seems
scarcely sane, and the appeal, especially in Latin countries, is rather to =
envy
of the fortunate than to pity for the unfortunate. A vivid and readable, th=
ough
not wholly reliable, account, from a hostile point of view, is given in a b=
ook
called ``Le Peril Anarchiste,'' by Felix Dubois,[17] which incidentally
reproduces a number of cartoons from anarchist journals. The revolt against=
law
naturally leads, except in those who are controlled by a real passion for
humanity, to a relaxation of all the usually accepted moral rules, and to a
bitter spirit of retaliatory cruelty out of which good can hardly come.
[17] =
Paris,
1894.
One o=
f the
most curious features of popular Anarchism is its martyrology, aping Christ=
ian
forms, with the guillotine (in France) in place of the cross. Many who have
suffered death at the hands of the authorities on account of acts of violen=
ce
were no doubt genuine sufferers for their belief in a cause, but others,
equally honored, are more questionable. One of the most curious examples of
this outlet for the repressed religious impulse is the cult of Ravachol, who
was guillotined in 1892 on account of various dynamite outrages. His past w=
as
dubious, but he died defiantly; his last words were three lines from a
well-known Anarchist song, the ``Chant du Pere Duchesne'':--
Si
tu veux etre heureux, Nom
de Dieu! Pends ton proprietaire.
As was natural, the leading Anarchists took no
part in the canonization of his memory; nevertheless it proceeded, with the
most amazing extravagances.
It would be wholly unfair to judge Anarchist d=
octrine,
or the views of its leading exponents, by such phenomena; but it remains a =
fact
that Anarchism attracts to itself much that lies on the borderland of insan=
ity
and common crime.[18] This must be remembered in exculpation of the authori=
ties
and the thoughtless public, who often confound in a common detestation the
parasites of the movement and the truly heroic and high-minded men who have
elaborated its theories and sacrificed comfort and success to their
propagation.
[18] =
The
attitude of all the better Anarchists is that expressed by L. S. Bevington =
in
the words: ``Of course we know that among those who call themselves Anarchi=
sts
there are a minority of unbalanced enthusiasts who look upon every illegal =
and
sensational act of violence as a matter for hysterical jubilation. Very use=
ful
to the police and the press, unsteady in intellect and of weak moral princi=
ple,
they have repeatedly shown themselves accessible to venal considerations. T=
hey,
and their violence, and their professed Anarchism are purchasable, and in t=
he
last resort they are welcome and efficient partisans of the bourgeoisie in =
its
remorseless war against the deliverers of the people.'' His conclusion is a
very wise one: ``Let us leave indiscriminate killing and injuring to the
Government--to its Statesmen, its Stockbrokers, its Officers, and its Law.''
(``Anarchism and Violence,'' pp. 9-10.
Liberty Press, Chiswick, 1896.)
The
terrorist campaign in which such men as Ravachol were active practically ca=
me
to an end in 1894. After that time, under the influence of Pelloutier, the
better sort of Anarchists found a less harmful outlet by advocating
Revolutionary Syndicalism in the Trade Unions and Bourses du Travail.[19]
[19] =
See
next Chapter.
The
ECONOMIC organization of society, as conceived by Anarchist Communists, does
not differ greatly from that which is sought by Socialists. Their difference
from Socialists is in the matter of government: they demand that government
shall require the consent of all the governed, and not only of a majority. =
It
is undeniable that the rule of a majority may be almost as hostile to freed=
om
as the rule of a minority: the divine right of majorities is a dogma as lit=
tle
possessed of absolute truth as any other. A strong democratic State may eas=
ily
be led into oppression of its best citizens, namely, those those independen=
ce
of mind would make them a force for progress. Experience of democratic
parliamentary government has shown that it falls very far short of what was
expected of it by early Socialists, and the Anarchist revolt against it is =
not
surprising. But in the form of pure Anarchism, this revolt has remained weak
and sporadic. It is Syndicalism, and the movements to which Syndicalism has
given rise, that have popularized the revolt against parliamentary governme=
nt
and purely political means of emancipating the wage earner. But this moveme=
nt
must be dealt with in a separate chapter.
SYNDI=
CALISM
arose in France as a revolt against political Socialism, and in order to
understand it we must trace in brief outline the positions attained by
Socialist parties in the various countries.
After a severe setback, caused by the Franco- =
Prussian
war, Socialism gradually revived, and in all the countries of Western Europe
Socialist parties have increased their numerical strength almost continuous=
ly
during the last forty years; but, as is invariably the case with a growing
sect, the intensity of faith has diminished as the number of believers has
increased.
In Germany the Socialist party became the stro=
ngest
faction of the Reichstag, and, in spite of differences of opinion among its
members, it preserved its formal unity with that instinct for military disc=
ipline
which characterizes the German nation. In the Reichstag election of 1912 it
polled a third of the total number of votes cast, and returned 110 members =
out
of a total of 397. After the death of Bebel, the Revisionists, who received
their first impulse from Bernstein, overcame the more strict Marxians, and =
the
party became in effect merely one of advanced Radicalism. It is too soon to
guess what will be the effect of the split between Majority and Minority
Socialists which has occurred during the war. There is in Germany hardly a
trace of Syndicalism; its characteristic doctrine, the preference of indust=
rial
to political action, has found scarcely any support.
In England Marx has never had many followers. =
Socialism
there has been inspired in the main by the Fabians (founded in 1883), who t=
hrew
over the advocacy of revolution, the Marxian doctrine of value, and the
class-war. What remained was State Socialism and a doctrine of ``permeation=
.''
Civil servants were to be permeated with the realization that Socialism wou=
ld
enormously increase their power. Trade Unions were to be permeated with the=
belief
that the day for purely industrial action was past, and that they must look=
to
government (inspired secretly by sympathetic civil servants) to bring about,
bit by bit, such parts of the Socialist program as were not likely to rouse
much hostility in the rich. The Independent Labor Party (formed in 1893) wa=
s largely
inspired at first by the ideas of the Fabians, though retaining to the pres=
ent
day, and especially since the outbreak of the war, much more of the original
Socialist ardor. It aimed always at co-operation with the industrial
organizations of wage-earners, and, chiefly through its efforts, the Labor
Party[20] was formed in 1900 out of a combination of the Trade Unions and t=
he
political Socialists. To this party, since 1909, all the important Unions h=
ave
belonged, but in spite of the fact that its strength is derived from Trade
Unions, it has stood always for political rather than industrial action. Its
Socialism has been of a theoretical and academic order, and in practice, un=
til
the outbreak of war, the Labor members in Parliament (of whom 30 were elect=
ed
in 1906 and 42 in December, 1910) might be reckoned almost as a part of the
Liberal Party.
[20] =
Of
which the Independent Labor Party is only a section.
Franc=
e,
unlike England and Germany, was not content merely to repeat the old
shibboleths with continually diminishing conviction. In France[21] a new mo=
vement,
originally known as Revolutionary Syndicalism--and afterward simply as
Syndicalism-- kept alive the vigor of the original impulse, and remained tr=
ue
to the spirit of the older Socialists, while departing from the letter.
Syndicalism, unlike Socialism and Anarchism, began from an existing organiz=
ation
and developed the ideas appropriate to it, whereas Socialism and Anarchism
began with the ideas and only afterward developed the organizations which w=
ere
their vehicle. In order to understand Syndicalism, we have first to describe
Trade Union organization in France, and its political environment. The idea=
s of
Syndicalism will then appear as the natural outcome of the political and ec=
onomic
situation. Hardly any of these ideas are new; almost all are derived from t=
he
Bakunist section of the old International.[21] The old International had
considerable success in France before the Franco- Prussian War; indeed, in
1869, it is estimated to have had a French membership of a quarter of a
million. What is practically the Syndicalist program was advocated by a Fre=
nch
delegate to the Congress of the International at Bale in that same year.[22=
]
[20] =
And
also in Italy. A good, short account of the Italian movement is given by A.
Lanzillo, ``Le Mouvement Ouvrier en Italie,'' Bibliotheque du Mouvement
Proletarien. See also Paul Louis, ``Le Syndicalisme Europeen,'' chap. vi. On
the other hand Cole (``World of Labour,'' chap. vi) considers the strength =
of
genuine Syndicalism in Italy to be small.
[21] This is often recognized by Syndicalists
themselves. See, e.g., an article on ``The Old International'' in the
Syndicalist of February, 1913, which, after giving an account of the strugg=
le between
Marx and Bakunin from the standpoint of a sympathizer with the latter, says:
``Bakounin's ideas are now more alive than ever.''
[22] See pp. 42-43, and 160 of ``Syndicalism in
France,'' Louis Levine, Ph.D. (Columbia University Studies in Political
Science, vol. xlvi, No. 3.) This is a very objective and reliable account of
the origin and progress of French Syndicalism. An admirable short discussio=
n of
its ideas and its present position will be found in Cole's ``World of Labou=
r''
(G. Bell & Sons), especially chapters iii, iv, and xi.
The w=
ar of
1870 put an end for the time being to the Socialist Movement in France. Its
revival was begun by Jules Guesde in 1877. Unlike the Ger- man Socialists, =
the
French have been split into many different factions. In the early eighties
there was a split between the Parliamentary Socialists and the Communist
Anarchists. The latter thought that the first act of the Social Revolution
should be the destruction of the State, and would therefore have nothing to=
do
with Parliamentary politics. The Anarchists, from 1883 onward, had success =
in
Paris and the South. The Socialists contended that the State will disappear
after the Socialist society has been firmly established. In 1882 the Social=
ists
split between the followers of Guesde, who claimed to represent the
revolutionary and scientific Socialism of Marx, and the followers of Paul
Brousse, who were more opportunist and were also called possibilists and ca=
red
little for the theories of Marx. In 1890 there was a secession from the
Broussists, who followed Allemane and absorbed the more revolutionary eleme=
nts
of the party and became leading spirits in some of the strongest syndicates.
Another group was the Independent Socialists, among whom were Jaures, Mille=
rand
and Viviani.[23]
[23] =
See
Levine, op. cit., chap. ii.
The
disputes between the various sections of Socialists caused difficulties in =
the
Trade Unions and helped to bring about the resolution to keep politics out =
of
the Unions. From this to Syndicalism was an easy step.
Since the year 1905, as the result of a union =
between
the Parti Socialiste de France (Part; Ouvrier Socialiste Revolutionnaire
Francais led by Guesde) and the Parti Socialiste Francais (Jaures), there h=
ave
been only two groups of Socialists, the United Socialist Party and the
Independents, who are intellectuals or not willing to be tied to a party. At
the General Election of 1914 the former secured 102 members and the latter =
30,
out of a total of 590.
Tendencies toward a rapprochement between the =
various
groups were seriously interfered with by an event which had considerable
importance for the whole development of advanced political ideas in France,
namely, the acceptance of office in the Waldeck- Rousseau Ministry by the S=
ocialist
Millerand in 1899. Millerand, as was to be expected, soon ceased to be a
Socialist, and the opponents of political action pointed to his development=
as
showing the vanity of political triumphs. Very many French politicians who =
have
risen to power have begun their political career as Socialists, and have en=
ded
it not infrequently by employing the army to oppress strikers. Millerand's
action was the most notable and dramatic among a number of others of a simi=
lar kind.
Their cumulative effect has been to produce a certain cynicism in regard to
politics among the more class-conscious of French wage-earners, and this st=
ate
of mind greatly assisted the spread of Syndicalism.
Syndicalism stands essentially for the point o=
f view
of the producer as opposed to that of the consumer; it is concerned with
reforming actual work, and the organization of industry, not MERELY with se=
curing
greater rewards for work. From this point of view its vigor and its distinc=
tive
character are derived. It aims at substituting industrial for political act=
ion,
and at using Trade Union organization for purposes for which orthodox Socia=
lism
would look to Parliament. ``Syndicalism'' was originally only the French na=
me
for Trade Unionism, but the Trade Unionists of France became divided into t=
wo sections,
the Reformist and the Revolutionary, of whom the latter only professed the
ideas which we now associate with the term ``Syndicalism.'' It is quite
impossible to guess how far either the organization or the ideas of the
Syndicalists will remain intact at the end of the war, and everything that =
we
shall say is to be taken as applying only to the years before the war. It m=
ay
be that French Syndicalism as a distinctive movement will be dead, but even=
in
that case it will not have lost its importance, since it has given a new
impulse and direction to the more vigorous part of the labor movement in all
civilized countries, with the possible exception of Germany.
The organization upon which Syndicalism de- pe=
nded
was the Confederation Generale du Travail, commonly known as the C. G. T.,
which was founded in 1895, but only achieved its final form in 1902. It has
never been numerically very powerful, but has derived its influence from the
fact that in moments of crisis many who were not members were willing to fo=
llow
its guidance. Its membership in the year before the war is estimated by Mr.
Cole at somewhat more than half a million. Trade Unions (Syndicats) were
legalized by Waldeck-Rousseau in 1884, and the C. G. T., on its inauguratio=
n in
1895, was formed by the Federation of 700 Syndicats. Alongside of this
organization there existed another, the Federation des Bourses du Travail,
formed in 1893. A Bourse du Travail is a local organization, not of any one
trade, but of local labor in general, intended to serve as a Labor Exchange=
and
to perform such functions for labor as Chambers of Commerce perform for the
employer.[24] A Syndicat is in general a local organization of a single
industry, and is thus a smaller unit than the Bourse du Travail.[25] Under =
the
able leadership of Pelloutier, the Federation des Bourses prospered more th=
an
the C. G. T., and at last, in 1902, coalesced with it. The result was an or=
ganization
in which the local Syndicat was fed- erated twice over, once with the other
Syndicat in its locality, forming together the local Bourse du Travail, and
again with the Syndicats in the same industry in other places. ``It was the
purpose of the new organization to secure twice over the membership of every
syndicat, to get it to join both its local Bourse du Travail and the Federa=
tion
of its industry. The Statutes of the C. G. T. (I. 3) put this point plainly:
`No Syndicat will be able to form a part of the C. G. T. if it is not feder=
ated
nationally and an adherent of a Bourse du Travail or a local or departmenta=
l Union
of Syndicats grouping different associations.' Thus, M. Lagardelle explains,
the two sections will correct each other's point of view: national federati=
on
of industries will prevent parochialism (localisme), and local organization
will check the corporate or `Trade Union' spirit. The workers will learn at
once the solidarity of all workers in a locality and that of all workers in=
a
trade, and, in learning this, they will learn at the same time the complete=
solidarity
of the whole working-class.''[26]
[24] =
Cole,
ib., p. 65.
[25] ``Syndicat in France still means a local
union--there are at the present day only four national syndicats'' (ib., p.
66).
[26] Cole, ib. p. 69.
This
organization was largely the work of Pellouties, who was Secretary of the
Federation des Bourses from 1894 until his death in 1901. He was an Anarchi=
st Communist
and impressed his ideas upon the Federation and thence posthumously on the =
C.
G. T. after its combination with the Federation des Bourses. He even carried
his principles into the government of the Federation; the Committee had no
chairman and votes very rarely took place. He stated that ``the task of the
revolution is to free mankind, not only from all authority, but also from e=
very
institution which has not for its essential purpose the development of
production.''
The C. G. T. allows much autonomy to each unit=
in
the organization. Each Syndicat counts for one, whether it be large or smal=
l.
There are not the friendly society activities which form so large a part of=
the
work of English Unions. It gives no orders, but is purely advisory. It does=
not
allow politics to be introduced into the Unions. This decision was original=
ly
based upon the fact that the divisions among Socialists disrupted the Union=
s,
but it is now reinforced in the minds of an important section by the general
Anarchist dislike of politics. The C. G. T. is essentially a fighting
organization; in strikes, it is the nucleus to which the other workers rall=
y.
There is a Reformist section in the C. G. T., =
but it
is practically always in a minority, and the C. G. T. is, to all intents and
purposes, the organ of revolutionary Syndicalism, which is simply the creed=
of
its leaders.
The essential doctrine of Syndicalism is the
class- war, to be conducted by industrial rather than politi- cal methods. =
The
chief industrial methods advocated are the strike, the boycott, the label a=
nd
sabotage.
The boycott, in various forms, and the label, =
showing
that the work has been done under trade- union conditions, have played a
considerable part in American labor struggles.
Sabotage is the practice of doing bad work, or=
spoiling
machinery or work which has already been done, as a method of dealing with
employers in a dispute when a strike appears for some reason undesirable or
impossible. It has many forms, some clearly innocent, some open to grave
objections. One form of sabotage which has been adopted by shop assistants =
is
to tell customers the truth about the articles they are buying; this form, =
however
it may damage the shopkeeper's business, is not easy to object to on moral
grounds. A form which has been adopted on railways, particularly in Italian
strikes, is that of obeying all rules literally and exactly, in such a way =
as
to make the running of trains practically impossible. Another form is to do=
all
the work with minute care, so that in the end it is better done, but the ou=
tput
is small. From these innocent forms there is a continual progression, until=
we
come to such acts as all ordinary morality would consider criminal; for
example, causing railway accidents. Advocates of sabotage justify it as par=
t of
war, but in its more violent forms (in which it is seldom defended) it is c=
ruel
and probably inexpedient, while even in its milder forms it must tend to
encourage slovenly habits of work, which might easily persist under the new
regime that the Syndicalists wish to introduce. At the same time, when
capitalists express a moral horror of this method, it is worth while to obs=
erve
that they themselves are the first to practice it when the occasion seems to
them appropriate. If report speaks truly, an example of this on a very large
scale has been seen during the Russian Revolution.
By far the most important of the Syndicalist m=
ethods
is the strike. Ordinary strikes, for specific objects, are regarded as
rehearsals, as a means of perfecting organization and promoting enthusiasm,=
but
even when they are victorious so far as concerns the specific point in disp=
ute,
they are not regarded by Syndicalists as affording any ground for industria=
l peace.
Syndicalists aim at using the strike, not to secure such improvements of de=
tail
as employers may grant, but to destroy the whole system of employer and
employed and win the complete emancipation of the worker. For this purpose =
what
is wanted is the General Strike, the complete cessation of work by a suffic=
ient
proportion of the wage-earners to secure the paralysis of capitalism. Sorel,
who represents Syndicalism too much in the minds of the reading public, sug=
gests
that the General Strike is to be regarded as a myth, like the Second Coming=
in Christian
doctrine. But this view by no means suits the active Syndicalists. If they =
were
brought to believe that the General Strike is a mere myth, their energy wou=
ld
flag, and their whole outlook would become disillusioned. It is the actual,
vivid belief in its possibility which inspires them. They are much criticis=
ed
for this belief by the political Socialists who consider that the battle is=
to
be won by obtaining a Parliamentary majority. But Syndicalists have too lit=
tle
faith in the honesty of politicians to place any reliance on such a method =
or
to believe in the value of any revolution which leaves the power of the Sta=
te
intact.
Syndicalist aims are somewhat less definite th=
an Syndicalist
methods. The intellectuals who endeavor to interpret them--not always very
faithfully-- represent them as a party of movement and change, following a
Bergsonian elan vital, without needing any very clear prevision of the goal=
to
which it is to take them. Nevertheless, the negative part, at any rate, of
their objects is sufficiently clear.
They wish to destroy the State, which they reg=
ard
as a capitalist institution, designed essentially to terrorize the workers.
They refuse to believe that it would be any better under State Socialism. T=
hey
desire to see each industry self-governing, but as to the means of adjusting
the relations between different industries, they are not very clear. They a=
re
anti-militarist because they are anti-State, and because French troops have
often been employed against them in strikes; also because they are internat=
ionalists,
who believe that the sole interest of the working man everywhere is to free
himself from the tyranny of the capitalist. Their outlook on life is the ve=
ry
reverse of pacifist, but they oppose wars between States on the ground that
these are not fought for objects that in any way concern the workers. Their
anti-militarism, more than anything else, brought them into conflict with t=
he
authorities in the years preceding the war. But, as was to be expected, it =
did
not survive the actual invasion of France.
The doctrines of Syndicalism may be illustrate=
d by
an article introducing it to English readers in the first number of ``The
Syndicalist Railwayman,'' September, 1911, from which the following is
quoted:--
``All
Syndicalism, Collectivism, Anarchism aims at abolishing the present economic
status and existing private ownership of most things; but while Collectivis=
m would
substitute ownership by everybody, and Anarchism ownership by nobody,
Syndicalism aims at ownership by Organized Labor. It is thus a purely Trade
Union reading of the economic doctrine and the class war preached by Social=
ism.
It vehemently repudiates Parliamentary action on which Collectivism relies;=
and
it is, in this respect, much more closely allied to Anarchism, from which,
indeed, it differs in practice only in being more limited in range of actio=
n.''
(Times, Aug. 25, 1911).
In truth, so thin is the partition between Syndicalism and Anarchism that the newer and less familiar ``ism'' has been shrewdly defined as ``Organized Anarchy.'' It has been created by the Trade Unions of France; but it is obviously an international plant, whose roots h= ave already found the soil of Britain most congenial to its growth and fructification.<= o:p>
Collectivist or Marxian Socialism would have us
believe that it is distinctly a LABOR Movement; but it is not so. Neither is
Anarchism. The one is substantially bourgeois; the other aristocratic, plus=
an
abundant output of book-learning, in either case. Syndicalism, on the contr=
ary,
is indubitably laborist in origin and aim, owing next to nothing to the
``Classes,'' and, indeed,, resolute to uproot them. The Times (Oct. 13, 191=
0),
which almost single-handed in the British Press has kept creditably abreast=
of
Continental Syndicalism, thus clearly set forth the significance of the Gen=
eral
Strike:
``To
understand what it means, we must remember that there is in France a powerf=
ul
Labor Organization which has for its open and avowed object a Revolution, in
which not only the present order of Society, but the State itself, is to be
swept away. This movement is called Syndicalism. It is not Socialism, but, =
on
the contrary, radically opposed to Socialism, because the Syndicalists hold
that the State is the great enemy and that the Socialists' ideal of State or
Collectivist Ownership would make the lot of the Workers much worse than it=
is
now under private employers. The means by which they hope to attain their e=
nd
is the General Strike, an idea which was invented by a French workman about
twenty years ago,[27] and was adopted by the French Labor Congress in 1894,
after a furious battle with the Socialists, in which the latter were worste=
d.
Since then the General Strike has been the avowed policy of the Syndicalist=
s,
whose organization is the Confederation Generale du Travail.''
[27] =
In
fact the General Strike was invented by a Londoner William Benbow, an Oweni=
te,
in 1831.
Or, t=
o put
it otherwise, the intelligent French worker has awakened, as he believes, to
the fact that Society (Societas) and the State (Civitas) connote two separa=
ble spheres
of human activity, between which there is no connection, necessary or
desirable. Without the one, man, being a gregarious animal, cannot subsist:
while without the other he would simply be in clover. The ``statesman'' whom
office does not render positively nefarious is at best an expensive
superfluity.
Syndi=
calists
have had many violent encounters with the forces of government. In 1907 and
1908, protesting against bloodshed which had occurred in the suppression of
strikes, the Committee of the C. G. T. issued manifestoes speaking of the
Government as ``a Government of assassins'' and alluding to the Prime Minis=
ter
as ``Clemenceau the murderer.'' Similar events in the strike at Villeneuve =
St.
Georges in 1908 led to the arrest of all the leading members of the Committ=
ee.
In the railway strike of October, 1910, Monsieur Briand arrested the Strike
Committee, mobilized the railway men and sent soldiers to replace strikers.=
As
a result of these vigorous measures the strike was completely defeated, and=
after
this the chief energy of the C. G. T. was directed against militarism and
nationalism.
The attitude of Anarchism to the Syndicalist m=
ovement
is sympathetic, with the reservation that such methods as the General Strike
are not to be regarded as substitutes for the violent revolution which most
Anarchists consider necessary. Their attitude in this matter was defined at=
the
International Anarchist Congress held in Amsterdam in August, 1907. This
Congress recommended ``comrades of all countries to actively participate in
autonomous movements of the working class, and to develop in Syndicalist
organizations the ideas of revolt, individual initiative and solidarity, wh=
ich
are the essence of Anarchism.'' Comrades were to ``propagate and support on=
ly
those forms and manifestations of direct action which carry, in themselves,=
a
revolutionary character and lead to the transformation of society.'' It was
resolved that ``the Anarchists think that the destruction of the capitalist=
and
authoritary society can only be realized by armed insurrection and violent
expropriation, and that the use of the more or less General Strike and the
Syndicalist movement must not make us forget the more direct means of strug=
gle
against the military force of government.''
Syndicalists might retort that when the moveme=
nt is
strong enough to win by armed insurrection it will be abundantly strong eno=
ugh
to win by the General Strike. In Labor movements generally, success through
violence can hardly be expected except in circumstances where success witho=
ut
violence is attainable. This argument alone, even if there were no other, w=
ould
be a very powerful reason against the methods advocated by the Anarchist
Congress.
Syndicalism stands for what is known as indust=
rial
unionism as opposed to craft unionism. In this respect, as also in the
preference of industrial to political methods, it is part of a movement whi=
ch has
spread far beyond France. The distinction between industrial and craft unio=
nism
is much dwelt on by Mr. Cole. Craft unionism ``unites in a single associati=
on
those workers who are engaged on a single industrial process, or on process=
es
so nearly akin that any one can do another's work.'' But ``organization may
follow the lines, not of the work done, but of the actual structure of
industry. All workers working at producing a particular kind of commodity m=
ay
be organized in a single Union. . . . The basis of organization would be
neither the craft to which a man belonged nor the employer under whom he
worked, but the service on which he was engaged. This is Industrial Unionism
properly so called.[28]
[28]
``World of Labour,'' pp. 212, 213.
Indus= trial unionism is a product of America, and from America it has to some extent sp= read to Great Britain. It is the natural form of fighting organization when the union is regarded as the means of carrying on the class war with a view, no= t to obtaining this or that minor amelioration, but to a radical revolution in t= he economic system. This is the point of view adopted by the ``Industrial Work= ers of the World,'' commonly known as the I. W. W. This organization more or less corresponds in America to what the C. G. T. was in France before the war. T= he differences between the two are those due to the different economic circumstances of the two countries, but their spirit is closely analogous. = The I. W. W. is not united as to the ultimate form which it wishes society to take. There are Socialists, Anarchists and Syndicalists among its members. But it= is clear on the immediate practical issue, that the class war is the fundament= al reality in the present relations of labor and capital, and that it is by in= dustrial action, especially by the strike, that emancipation must be sought. The I. = W. W., like the C. G. T., is not nearly so strong numerically as it is suppose= d to be by those who fear it. Its influence is based, not upon its numbers, but = upon its power of enlisting the sympathies of the workers in moments of crisis.<= o:p>
The labor movement in America has been
characterized on both sides by very great violence. Indeed, the Secretary of
the C. G. T., Monsieur Jouhaux, recognizes that the C. G. T. is mild in
comparison with the I. W. W. ``The I. W. W.,'' he says, ``preach a policy of
militant action, very necessary in parts of America, which would not do in
France.''[29] A very interesting account of it, from the point of view of an
author who is neither wholly on the side of labor nor wholly on the side of=
the
capitalist, but disinterestedly anxious to find some solution of the social
question short of violence and revolution, is the work of Mr. John Graham
Brooks, called ``American Syndicalism: the I. W. W.'' (Macmillan, 1913). Am=
erican
labor conditions are very different from those of Europe. In the first plac=
e,
the power of the trusts is enormous; the concentration of capital has in th=
is
respect proceeded more nearly on Marxian lines in America than anywhere els=
e.
In the second place, the great influx of foreign labor makes the whole prob=
lem
quite different from any that arises in Europe. The older skilled workers,
largely American born, have long been organized in the American Federation =
of
Labor under Mr. Gompers. These represent an aristocracy of labor. They tend=
to work
with the employers against the great mass of unskilled immigrants, and they
cannot be regarded as forming part of anything that could be truly called a
labor movement. ``There are,'' says Mr. Cole, ``now in America two working
classes, with different standards of life, and both are at present almost i=
mpotent
in the face of the employers. Nor is it possible for these two classes to u=
nite
or to put forward any demands. . . . The American Federation of Labor and t=
he
Industrial Workers of the World represent two different principles of combi=
nation;
but they also represent two different classes of labor.''[30] The I. W. W.
stands for industrial unionism, whereas the American Federation of Labor st=
ands
for craft unionism. The I. W. W. were formed in 1905 by a union of
organizations, chief among which was the Western Federation of Miners, which
dated from 1892. They suffered a split by the loss of the followers of Dele=
on,
who was the leader of the ``Socialist Labor Party'' and advocated a ``Don't
vote'' policy, while reprobating violent methods. The headquarters of the p=
arty
which he formed are at Detroit, and those of the main body are at Chicago. =
The
I. W. W., though it has a less definite philosophy than French Syndicalism,=
is
quite equally determined to destroy the capitalist system. As its secretary=
has
said: ``There is but one bargain the I. W. W. will make with the employing
class-- complete surrender of all control of industry to the organized
workers.''[31] Mr. Haywood, of the Western Federation of Miners, is an
out-and-out follower of Marx so far as concerns the class war and the doctr=
ine
of surplus value. But, like all who are in this movement, he attaches more
importance to industrial as against political action than do the European f=
ollowers
of Marx. This is no doubt partly explicable by the special circumstances of
America, where the recent immigrants are apt to be voteless. The fourth
convention of the I. W. W. revised a preamble giving the general principles
underlying its action. ``The working class and the employing class,'' they =
say,
``have nothing in common. There can be no peace so long as hunger and want =
are found
among millions of the working people and the few, who make up the employing
class, have all the good things of life. Between these two classes, a strug=
gle
must go on until the workers of the world organize as a class, take possess=
ion
of the earth and the machinery of production, and abolish the wage system. =
. .
. Instead of the conservative motto, `A fair day's wages for a fair day's
work,' we must inscribe on our banner the revolutionary watchword, `Aboliti=
on
of the wage system.' ''[32]
[29] =
Quoted
in Cole, ib. p. 128.
[30] Ib., p. 135.
[31] Brooks, op. cit., p. 79.
[32] Brooks, op. cit., pp. 86-87.
Numer=
ous
strikes have been conducted or encouraged by the I. W. W. and the Western
Federation of Miners. These strikes illustrate the class-war in a more bitt=
er
and extreme form than is to be found in any other part of the world. Both s=
ides
are always ready to resort to violence. The employers have armies of their =
own
and are able to call upon the Militia and even, in a crisis, upon the United
States Army. What French Syndicalists say about the State as a capitalist
institution is peculiarly true in America. In consequence of the scandals t=
hus
arising, the Federal Government appointed a Commission on Industrial Relati=
ons,
whose Report, issued in 1915, reveals a state of affairs such as it would be
difficult to imagine in Great Britain. The report states that ``the greatest
disorders and most of the outbreaks of violence in connection with industri=
al
`disputes arise from the violation of what are considered to be fundamental
rights, and from the perversion or subversion of governmental institutions'=
' (p.
146). It mentions, among such perversions, the subservience of the judiciar=
y to
the mili- tary authorities,[33] the fact that during a labor dispute the li=
fe
and liberty of every man within the State would seem to be at the mercy of =
the Governor
(p. 72), and the use of State troops in policing strikes (p. 298). At Ludlow
(Colorado) in 1914 (April 20) a battle of the militia and the miners took
place, in which, as the result of the fire of the militia, a number of women
and children were burned to death.[34] Many other instances of pitched batt=
les
could be given, but enough has been said to show the peculiar character of
labor disputes in the United States. It may, I fear, be presumed that this =
character
will remain so long as a very large proportion of labor consists of recent
immigrants. When these difficulties pass away, as they must sooner or later,
labor will more and more find its place in the community, and will tend to =
feel
and inspire less of the bitter hostility which renders the more extreme for=
ms
of class war possible. When
that time comes, the labor movement in America
will probably begin to take on forms similar to those of Europe.
[33]
Although uniformly held that the writ of habeas corpus can only be suspende=
d by
the legislature, in these labor disturbances the executive has in fact
suspended or disregarded the writ. . . . In cases arising from labor
agitations, the judiciary has uniformly upheld the power exercised by the
military, and in no case has there been any protest against the use of such
power or any attempt to curtail it, except in Montana, where the conviction=
of
a civilian by military commission was annulled'' (``Final Report of the
Commission on Industrial Relations'' (1915) appointed by the United States
Congress,'' p. 58).
[34] Literary Digest, May 2 and May 16, 1914.<= o:p>
Meanw=
hile,
though the forms are different, the aims are very similar, and industrial
unionism, spreading from America, has had a considerable influence in Great
Britain--an influence naturally reinforced by that of French Syndicalism. I=
t is
clear, I think, that the adoption of industrial rather than craft unionism =
is
absolutely necessary if Trade Unionism is to succeed in playing that part in
altering the economic structure of society which its advocates claim for it
rather than for the political parties. Industrial unionism organizes men, as
craft unionism does not, in accordance with the enemy whom they have to fig=
ht.
English unionism is still very far removed from the industrial form, though=
certain
industries, especially the railway men, have gone very far in this directio=
n,
and it is notable that the railway men are peculiarly sympathetic to
Syndicalism and industrial unionism.
Pure Syndicalism, however, is not very likely =
to achieve
wide popularity in Great Britain. Its spirit is too revolutionary and
anarchistic for our temperament. It is in the modified form of Guild Social=
ism that
the ideas derived from the C. G. T. and the I. W. W. are tending to bear
fruit.[35] This movement is as yet in its infancy and has no great hold upon
the rank and file, but it is being ably advocated by a group of young men, =
and
is rapidly gaining ground among those who will form Labor opinion in years =
to
come. The power of the State has been so much increased during the war that
those who naturally dislike things as they are, find it more and more diffi=
cult
to believe that State omnipotence can be the road to the millennium. Guild
Socialists aim at autonomy in industry, with consequent curtailment, but not
abolition, of the power of the State. The system which they advocate is, I
believe, the best hitherto proposed, and the one most likely to secure libe=
rty
without the constant appeals to violence which are to be feared under a pur=
ely
Anarchist regime.
[35] The ideas of Guild Socialism were first s=
et
forth in ``National Guilds,'' edited by A. R. Orage (Bell & Sons, 1914)=
, and
in Cole's ``World of Labour'' (Bell & Sons), first published in 1913.
Cole's ``Self-Government in Industry'' (Bell & Sons, 1917) and Rickett
& Bechhofer's ``The Meaning of National Guilds'' (Palmer & Hayward,
1918) should also be read, as well as various pamphlets published by the
National Guilds League. The attitude of the Syndicalists to Guild Socialism=
is
far from sympathetic. An article in ``The Syndicalist'' for February, 1914,
speaks of it in the following terms: a Middle-class of the middle-class, wi=
th
all the shortcomings (we had almost said `stupidities') of the middle- clas=
ses
writ large across it, `Guild Socialism' stands forth as the latest lucubrat=
ion
of the middle-class mind. It is a `cool steal' of the leading ideas of
Syndicalism and a deliberate perversion of them. . . . We do protest against
the `State' idea . . . in Guild Socialism. Middle-class people, even when t=
hey
become Socialists, cannot get rid of the idea that the working-class is the=
ir
`inferior'; that the workers need to be `educated,' drilled, disciplined, a=
nd
generally nursed for a very long time before they will be able to walk by
themselves. The very reverse is actually the truth. . . . It is just the pl=
ain truth
when we say that the ordinary wage-worker, of average intelligence, is bett=
er
capable of taking care of himself than the half-educated middle-class man w=
ho
wants to advise him. He knows how to make the wheels of the world go round.=
''
The f=
irst
pamphlet of the ``National Guilds League'' sets forth their main principles=
. In
industry each factory is to be free to control its own methods of productio=
n by
means of elected managers. The different factories in a given industry are =
to
be federated into a National Guild which will deal with marketing and the
general interests of the industry as a whole. ``The State would own the mea=
ns
of production as trustee for the community; the Guilds would manage them, a=
lso
as trustees for the community, and would pay to the State a single tax or r=
ent.
Any Guild that chose to set its own interests above those of the community
would be violating its trust, and would have to bow to the judgment of a
tribunal equally representing the whole body of producers and the whole bod=
y of
consumers. This Joint Committee would be the ultimate sovereign body, the
ultimate appeal court of industry. It would fix not only Guild taxation, but
also standard prices, and both taxation and prices would be periodically re=
adjusted
by it.'' Each Guild will be entirely free to apportion what it receives amo=
ng
its members as it chooses, its members being all those who work in the indu=
stry
which it covers. ``The distribution of this collective Guild income among t=
he members
seems to be a matter for each Guild to decide for itself. Whether the Guilds
would, sooner or later, adopt the principle of equal payment for every memb=
er, is
open to discussion.'' Guild Socialism accepts from Syndicalism the view that
liberty is not to be secured by making the State the employer: ``The State =
and
the Municipality as employers have turned out not to differ essentially from
the private capitalist.'' Guild Socialists regard the State as consisting of
the community in their capacity as consumers, while the Guilds will represe=
nt
them in their capacity as producers; thus Parliament and the Guild Congress=
will
be two co-equal powers representing consumers and producers respectively. A=
bove
both will be the joint Committee of Parliament and the Guild Congress for
deciding matters involving the interests of consumers and producers alike. =
The
view of the Guild Socialists is that State Socialism takes account of men o=
nly
as consumers, while Syndicalism takes account of them only as producers. ``=
The
problem,'' say the Guild Socialists, ``is to reconcile the two points of vi=
ew.
That is what advocates of National Guilds set out to do. The Syndicalist has
claimed everything for the industrial organizations of producers, the
Collectivist everything for the territorial or political organizations of
consumers. Both are open to the same criticism; you cannot reconcile two po=
ints
of view merely by denying one of them.''[36] But although Guild Socialism
represents an attempt at readjustment between two equally legitimate points=
of
view, its impulse and force are derived from what it has taken over from
Syndicalism. Like Syndicalism; it desires not primarily to make work better=
paid,
but to secure this result along with others by making it in itself more
interesting and more democratic in organization.
[36] =
The
above quotations are all from the first pamphlet of the National Guilds Lea=
gue,
``National Guilds, an Appeal to Trade Unionists.''
Capit=
alism
has made of work a purely commercial activity, a soulless and a joyless thi=
ng.
But substitute the national service of the Guilds for the profiteering of t=
he
few; substitute responsible labor for a saleable commodity; substitute
self-government and decentralization for the bureaucracy and demoralizing
hugeness of the modern State and the modern joint stock company; and then it
may be just once more to speak of a ``joy in labor,'' and once more to hope
that men may be proud of quality and not only of quantity in their work. Th=
ere is
a cant of the Middle Ages, and a cant of ``joy in labor,'' but it were bett=
er,
perhaps, to risk that cant than to reconcile ourselves forever to the
philosophy of Capitalism and of Collectivism, which declares that work is a
necessary evil never to be made pleasant, and that the workers' only hope i=
s a
leisure which shall be longer, richer, and well adorned with municipal
amenities.[37]
[37] = ``The Guild Idea,'' No. 2 of the Pamphlets of the National Guilds League, p. 17.<= o:p>
Whatever may be thought of the practicability =
of
Syndicalism, there is no doubt that the ideas which it has put into the wor=
ld
have done a great deal to revive the labor movement and to recall it to cer=
tain
things of fundamental importance which it had been in danger of forgetting.
Syndicalists consider man as producer rather than consumer. They are more
concerned to procure freedom in work than to increase material well-being. =
They
have revived the quest for liberty, which was growing somewhat dimmed under=
the
regime of Parliamentary Socialism, and they have reminded men that what our
modern society needs is not a little tinkering here and there, nor the kind=
of
minor readjustments to which the existing holders of power may readily cons=
ent,
but a fundamental reconstruction, a sweeping away of all the sources of
oppression, a liberation of men's constructive energies, and a wholly new w=
ay
of conceiving and regulating production and economic relations. This merit =
is
so great that, in view of it, all minor defects become insignificant, and t=
his
merit Syndicalism will continue to possess even if, as a definite movement,=
it
should be found to have passed away with the war.
THE m=
an who
seeks to create a better order of society has two resistances to contend wi=
th:
one that of Nature, the other that of his fellow-men. Broadly speaking, it =
is
science that deals with the resistance of Nature, while politics and social
organization are the methods of overcoming the resistance of men.
The ultimate fact in economics is that Nature =
only
yields commodities as the result of labor. The necessity of SOME labor for =
the
satisfaction of our wants is not imposed by political systems or by the
exploitation of the working classes; it is due to physical laws, which the
reformer, like everyone else, must admit and study. Before any optimistic
economic project can be accepted as feasible, we must examine whether the
physical conditions of production impose an unalterable veto, or whether th=
ey
are capable of being sufficiently modified by science and organization. Two
connected doctrines must be considered in examining this question: First,
Malthus' doctrine of population; and second, the vaguer, but very prevalent,
view that any surplus above the bare necessaries of life can only be produc=
ed
if most men work long hours at monotonous or painful tasks, leaving little
leisure for a civilized existence or rational enjoyment. I do not believe t=
hat
either of these obstacles to optimism will survive a close scrutiny. The
possibility of technical improvement in the methods of production is, I
believe, so great that, at any rate for centuries to come, there will be no
inevitable barrier to progress in the general well-being by the simultaneous
increase of commodities and diminution of hours of labor.
This subject has been specially studied by
Kropotkin, who, whatever may be thought of his general theories of politics=
, is
remarkably instructive, concrete and convincing in all that he says about t=
he possibilities
of agriculture. Socialists and Anarchists in the main are products of
industrial life, and few among them have any practical knowledge on the sub=
ject
of food production. But Kropotkin is an exception. His two books, ``The
Conquest of Bread'' and ``Fields, Factories and Workshops,'' are very full =
of
detailed information, and, even making great allowances for an optimistic b=
ias,
I do not think it can be denied that they demonstrate possibilities in which
few of us would otherwise have believed.
Malthus contended, in effect, that population = always tends to increase up to the limit of subsistence, that the production of fo= od becomes more expensive as its amount is increased, and that therefore, apar= t from short exceptional periods when new discoveries produce temporary alleviatio= ns, the bulk of mankind must always be at the lowest level consistent with surv= ival and reproduction. As applied to the civilized races of the world, this doct= rine is becoming untrue through the rapid decline in the birth-rate; but, apart = from this decline, there are many other reasons why the doctrine cannot be accep= ted, at any rate as regards the near future. The century which elapsed after Mal= thus wrote, saw a very great increase in the standard of comfort throughout the = wage-earning classes, and, owing to the enormous increase in the productivity of labor, a far greater rise in the standard of comfort could have been effected if a m= ore just system of distribution had been introduced. In former times, when one man's labor produced not very much more than was needed for one man's subsi= stence, it was impossible either greatly to reduce the normal hours of labor, or gr= eatly to increase the proportion of the population who enjoyed more than the bare necessaries of life. But this state of affairs has been overcome by modern = methods of production. At the present moment, not only do many people enjoy a comfortable income derived from rent or interest, but about half the popula= tion of most of the civilized countries in the world is engaged, not in the production of commodities, but in fighting or in manufacturing munitions of war. In a time of peace the whole of this half might be kept in idleness without making the other half poorer than they would have been if the war h= ad continued, and if, instead of being idle, they were productively employed, = the whole of what they would produce would be a divisible surplus over and above present wages. The present productivity of labor in Great Britain would suf= fice to produce an income of about 1 pound per day for each family, even without= any of those improvements in methods which are obviously immediately possible.<= o:p>
But, it will be said, as population increases,=
the
price of food must ultimately increase also as the sources of supply in Can=
ada,
the Argentine, Australia and elsewhere are more and more used up. There must
come a time, so pessimists will urge, when food becomes so dear that the
ordinary wage-earner will have little surplus for expenditure upon other th=
ings.
It may be admitted that this would be true in some very distant future if t=
he
population were to continue to increase without limit. If the whole surface=
of
the world were as densely populated as London is now, it would, no doubt,
require almost the whole labor of the population to produce the necessary f=
ood
from the few spaces remaining for agriculture. But there is no reason to
suppose that the population will continue to increase indefinitely, and in =
any
case the prospect is so remote that it may be ignored in all practical
considerations.
Returning from these dim speculations to the f=
acts
set forth by Kropotkin, we find it proved in his writings that, by methods =
of
intensive cultivation, which are already in actual operation, the amount of=
food
produced on a given area can be increased far beyond anything that most
uninformed persons suppose possible. Speaking of the market-gardeners in Gr=
eat
Britain, in the neighborhood of Paris, and in other places, he says:--
They =
have
created a totally new agriculture. They smile when we boast about the rotat=
ion
system having permitted us to take from the field one crop every year, or f=
our
crops each three years, because their ambition is to have six and nine crops
from the very same plot of land during the twelve months. They do not
understand our talk about good and bad soils, because they make the soil
themselves, and make it in such quantities as to be compelled yearly to sell
some of it; otherwise it would raise up the level of their gardens by half =
an
inch every year. They aim at cropping, not five or six tons of grass on the
acre, as we do, but from 50 to 100 tons of various vegetables on the same
space; not 5 pound sworth of hay, but 100 pounds worth of vegetables, of the
plainest description, cabbage and carrots.[38]
[38]
Kropotkin, ``Fields, Factories and Workshops,'' p. 74.
As re=
gards
cattle, he mentions that Mr. Champion at Whitby grows on each acre the food=
of
two or three head of cattle, whereas under ordinary high farming it takes t=
wo
or three acres to keep each head of cattle in Great Britain. Even more
astonishing are the achievements of the Culture Maraicheres round Paris. It=
is
impossible to summarize these achievements, but we may note the general con=
clusion:--
There=
are
now practical Maraichers who venture to maintain that if all the food, anim=
al
and vegetable, necessary for the 3,500,000 inhabitants of the Departments of
Seine and Seine-et-Oise had to be grown on their own territory (3250 square
miles), it could be grown without resorting to any other methods of culture=
than
those already in use--methods already tested on a large scale and proved
successful.[39]
[39] =
Ib. p.
81.
It mu=
st be
remembered that these two departments include the whole population of Paris=
.
Kropotkin proceeds to point out methods by whi=
ch
the same result could be achieved without long hours of labor. Indeed, he
contends that the great bulk of agricultural work could be carried on by pe=
ople
whose main occupations are sedentary, and with only such a number of hours =
as
would serve to keep them in health and produce a pleasant diversification. =
He
protests against the theory of exces- sive division of labor. What he wants=
is
INTEGRATION, ``a society where each individual is a producer of both manual=
and
intellectual work; where each able- bodied human being is a worker, and whe=
re
each worker works both in the field and in the industrial workshop.''[40]
[40]
Kropotkin, ``Field, Factories, and Workshops,'' p. 6.
These=
views
as to production have no essential connection with Kropotkin's advocacy of
Anarchism. They would be equally possible under State Socialism, and under
certain circumstances they might even be carried out in a capitalistic regi=
me. They
are important for our present purpose, not from any argument which they aff=
ord
in favor of one economic system as against another, but from the fact that =
they
remove the veto upon our hopes which might otherwise result from a doubt as=
to
the productive capacity of labor. I have dwelt upon agriculture rather than
industry, since it is in regard to agriculture that the difficulties are
chiefly supposed to arise. Broadly speaking, industrial production tends to=
be
cheaper when it is carried on on a large scale, and therefore there is no
reason in industry why an increase in the demand should lead to an increased
cost of supply.
Passing now from the purely technical and mate=
rial
side of the problem of production, we come to the human factor, the motives
leading men to work, the possibilities of efficient organization of product=
ion,
and the connection of production with distribution. Defenders of the existi=
ng
system maintain that efficient work would be impossible without the economic
stimulus, and that if the wage system were abolished men would cease to do
enough work to keep the community in tolerable comfort. Through the alleged
necessity of the economic motive, the problems of production and distributi=
on become
intertwined. The desire for a more just distribution of the world's goods is
the main inspiration of most Socialism and Anarchism. We must, therefore,
consider whether the system of distribution which they propose would be lik=
ely
to lead to a diminished production.
There is a fundamental difference between
Socialism and Anarchism as regards the question of distribution. Socialism,=
at
any rate in most of its forms, would retain payment for work done or for wi=
llingness
to work, and, except in the case of persons incapacitated by age or infirmi=
ty,
would make willingness to work a condition of subsistence, or at any rate of
subsistence above a certain very low minimum. Anarchism, on the other hand,
aims at granting to everyone, without any conditions whatever, just as much=
of
all ordinary commodities as he or she may care to consume, while the rarer =
com-
modities, of which the supply cannot easily be indefinitely increased, woul=
d be
rationed and divided equally among the population. Thus Anarchism would not
impose any OBLIGATIONS of work, though Anarchists believe that the necessary
work could be made sufficiently agreeable for the vast majority of the
population to undertake it voluntarily. Socialists, on the other hand, would
exact work. Some of them would make the incomes of all workers equal, while
others would retain higher pay for the work which is considered more valuab=
le.
All these different systems are compatible with the common ownership of land
and capital, though they differ greatly as regards the kind of society which
they would produce.
Socialism with inequality of income would not =
differ
greatly as regards the economic stimulus to work from the society in which =
we
live. Such differences as it would entail would undoubtedly be to the good =
from
our present point of view. Under the existing system many people enjoy idle=
ness
and affluence through the mere accident of inheriting land or capital. Many
others, through their activities in industry or finance, enjoy an income wh=
ich
is certainly very far in excess of anything to which their social utility
entitles them. On the other hand, it often happens that inventors and
discoverers, whose work has the very greatest social utility, are robbed of
their reward either by capitalists or by the failure of the public to
appreciate their work until too late. The better paid work is only open to
those who have been able to afford an expensive training, and these men are
selected in the main not by merit but by luck. The wage earner is not paid =
for
his willingness to work, but only for his utility to the employer. Conseque=
ntly,
he may be plunged into destitution by causes over which he has no control. =
Such
destitution is a constant fear, and when it occurs it produces undeserved
suffering, and often deterioration in the social value of the sufferer. The=
se
are a few among the evils of our existing system from the standpoint of
production. All these evils we might expect to see remedied under any syste=
m of
Socialism.
There are two questions which need to be
considered when we are discussing how far work requires the economic motive.
The first question is: Must society give higher pay for the more skilled or
socially more valuable work, if such work is to be done in sufficient
quantities? The second question is: Could work be made so attractive that
enough of it would be done even if idlers received just as much of the prod=
uce
of work? The first of these questions concerns the division between two sch=
ools
of Socialists: the more moderate Socialists sometimes concede that even und=
er
Socialism it would be well to retain unequal pay for different kinds of wor=
k,
while the more thoroughgoing Socialists advocate equal incomes for all work=
ers.
The second question, on the other hand, forms a division between Socialists=
and
Anarchists; the latter would not deprive a man of commodities if he did not
work, while the former in general would.
Our second question is so much more fundamenta=
l than
our first that it must be discussed at once, and in the course of this
discussion what needs to be said on our first question will find its place
naturally.
Wages or Free Sharing?--``Abolition of the wag=
es
system'' is one of the watchwords common to Anarchists and advanced Sociali=
sts.
But in its most natural sense it is a watchword to which only the Anarchists
have a right. In the Anarchist conception of society all the commoner
commodities will be available to everyone without stint, in the kind of way=
in
which water is available at present.[41] Advo- cates of this system point o=
ut
that it applies already to many things which formerly had to be paid for, e=
.g.,
roads and bridges. They point out that it might very easily be extended to
trams and local trains. They proceed to argue--as Kropotkin does by means of
his proofs that the soil might be made indefinitely more productive--that a=
ll
the commoner kinds of food could be given away to all who demanded them, si=
nce
it would be easy to produce them in quantities adequate to any possible dem=
and.
If this system were extended to all the necessaries of life, everyone's bare
livelihood would be secured, quite regardless of the way in which he might
choose to spend his time. As for commodities which cannot be produced in
indefinite quantities, such as luxuries and delicacies, they also, accordin=
g to
the Anarchists, are to be distributed without payment, but on a system of
rations, the amount available being divided equally among the population. No
doubt, though this is not said, something like a price will have to be put =
upon
these luxuries, so that a man may be free to choose how he will take his sh=
are:
one man will prefer good wine, another the finest Havana cigars, another
pictures or beautiful furniture. Presumably, every man will be allowed to t=
ake
such luxuries as are his due in whatever form he prefers, the relative pric=
es
being fixed so as to equalize the demand. In such a world as this, the econ=
omic
stimulus to production will have wholly disappeared, and if work is to cont=
inue
it must be from other motives.[42]
[41]
``Notwithstanding the egotistic turn given to the public mind by the
merchant-production of our century, the Communist tendency is continually
reasserting itself and trying to make its way into public life. The penny
bridge disappears before the public bridge; and the turnpike road before the
free road. The same spirit pervades thousands of other institutions. Museum=
s,
free libraries, and free public schools; parks and pleasure grounds; paved =
and
lighted streets, free for everybody's use; water supplied to private dwelli=
ngs,
with a growing tendency towards disregarding the exact amount of it used by=
the
individual, tramways and railways which have already begun to introduce the
season ticket or the uniform tax, and will surely go much further on this l=
ine
when they are no longer private property: all these are tokens showing in w=
hat
direction further progress is to be expected.''--Kropotkin, ``Anarchist
Communism.''
[42] An able discussion of this question, at of
various others, from the standpoint of reasoned and temperate opposition to=
Anarchism,
will be found in Alfred Naquet's ``L'Anarchie et le Collectivisme,'' Paris,
1904.
Is su=
ch a
system possible? First, is it technically possible to provide the necessari=
es
of life in such large quantities as would be needed if every man and woman
could take as much of them from the public stores as he or she might desire=
?
The idea of purchase and payment is so familia=
r that
the proposal to do away with it must be thought at first fantastic. Yet I do
not believe it is nearly so fantastic as it seems. Even if we could all hav=
e bread
for nothing, we should not want more than a quite limited amount. As things
are, the cost of bread to the rich is so small a proportion of their income=
as
to afford practically no check upon their consumption; yet the amount of br=
ead
that they consume could easily be supplied to the whole population by impro=
ved
methods of agriculture (I am not speaking of war-time). The amount of food =
that
people desire has natural limits, and the waste that would be incurred would
probably not be very great. As the Anarchists point out, people at present
enjoy an unlimited water supply but very few leave the taps running when th=
ey
are not using them. And one may assume that public opinion would be opposed=
to
excessive waste. We may lay it down, I think, that the principle of unlimit=
ed
supply could be adopted in regard to all commodities for which the demand h=
as
limits that fall short of what can be easily produced. And this would be the
case, if production were efficiently organized, with the necessaries of lif=
e,
including not only commodities, but also such things as education. Even if =
all
education were free up to the highest, young people, unless they were radic=
ally
transformed by the Anarchist regime, would not want more than a certain amo=
unt
of it. And the same applies to plain foods, plain clothes, and the rest of =
the
things that supply our elementary needs.
I think we may conclude that there is no techn=
ical
impossibility in the Anarchist plan of free sharing.
But would the necessary work be done if the
individual were assured of the general standard of comfort even though he d=
id
no work?
Most people will answer this question
unhesitatingly in the negative. Those employers in particular who are in the
habit of denouncing their employes as a set of lazy, drunken louts, will fe=
el
quite certain that no work could be got out of them except under threat of
dismissal and consequent starvation. But is this as certain as people are
inclined to sup- pose at first sight? If work were to remain what most work=
is
now, no doubt it would be very hard to induce people to undertake it except
from fear of destitution. But there is no reason why work should remain the
dreary drudgery in horrible conditions that most of it is now.[43] If men h=
ad
to be tempted to work instead of driven to it, the obvious interest of the
community would be to make work pleasant. So long as work is not made on the
whole pleasant, it cannot be said that anything like a good state of society
has been reached. Is the painfulness of work unavoidable?
[43]
``Overwork is repulsive to human nature--not work. Overwork for supplying t=
he
few with luxury--not work for the well- being of all. Work, labor, is a
physiological necessity, a necessity of spending accumulated bodily energy,=
a
necessity which is health and life itself. If so many branches of useful wo=
rk
are so reluctantly done now, it is merely because they mean overwork, or th=
ey
are improperly organized. But we know--old Franklin knew it--that four hour=
s of
useful work every day would be more than sufficient for supplying everybody
with the comfort of a moderately well-to-do middle-class house, if we all g=
ave
ourselves to productive work, and if we did not waste our productive powers=
as
we do waste them now. As to the childish question, repeated for fifty years:
`Who would do disagreeable work?' frankly I regret that none of our savants=
has
ever been brought to do it, be it for only one day in his life. If there is=
still
work which is really disagreeable in itself, it is only because our scienti=
fic
men have never cared to consider the means of rendering it less so: they ha=
ve
always known that there were plenty of starving men who would do it for a f=
ew
pence a day.'' Kropotkin, ```Anarchist Communism.''
At pr=
esent,
the better paid work, that of the business and professional classes, is for=
the
most part enjoyable. I do not mean that every separate moment is agreeable,=
but
that the life of a man who has work of this sort is on the whole happier th=
an that
of a man who enjoys an equal income without doing any work. A certain amoun=
t of
effort, and something in the nature of a continuous career, are necessary to
vigorous men if they are to preserve their mental health and their zest for
life. A considerable amount of work is done without pay. People who take a =
rosy
view of human nature might have supposed that the duties of a magistrate wo=
uld
be among disagreeable trades, like cleaning sewers; but a cynic might conte=
nd
that the pleasures of vindictiveness and moral superiority are so great that
there is no difficulty in finding well-to-do elderly gentlemen who are will=
ing,
without pay, to send helpless wretches to the torture of prison. And apart =
from
enjoyment of the work itself, desire for the good opinion of neighbors and =
for
the feeling of effectiveness is quite sufficient to keep many men active.
But, it will be said, the sort of work that a =
man would
voluntarily choose must always be exceptional: the great bulk of necessary =
work
can never be anything but painful. Who would choose, if an easy life were
otherwise open to him, to be a coal-miner, or a stoker on an Atlantic liner=
? I
think it must be conceded that much necessary work must always remain disag=
reeable
or at least painfully monotonous, and that special privileges will have to =
be
accorded to those who undertake it, if the Anarchist system is ever to be m=
ade
workable. It is true that the introduction of such special privileges would
somewhat mar the rounded logic of Anarchism, but it need not, I think, make=
any
really vital breach in its system. Much of the work that needs doing could =
be
rendered agreeable, if thought and care were given to this object. Even now=
it
is often only long hours that make work irksome. If the normal hours of work
were reduced to, say, four, as they could be by better organization and more
scientific methods, a very great deal of work which is now felt as a burden=
would
quite cease to be so. If, as Kropotkin suggests, agricultural work, instead=
of
being the lifelong drudgery of an ignorant laborer living very near the ver=
ge
of abject poverty, were the occasional occupation of men and women normally
employed in industry or brain-work; if, instead of being conducted by ancie=
nt
traditional methods, without any possibility of intelligent participation by
the wage- earner, it were alive with the search for new methods and new
inventions, filled with the spirit of freedom, and inviting the mental as w=
ell
as the physical cooperation of those who do the work, it might become a joy
instead of a weariness, and a source of health and life to those engaged in=
it.
What is true of agriculture is said by Anarchi= sts to be equally true of industry. They maintain that if the great economic organizations which are now managed by capitalists, without consideration f= or the lives of the wage-earners beyond what Trade Unions are able to exact, w= ere turned gradually into self-governing communities, in which the producers co= uld decide all questions of methods, conditions, hours of work, and so forth, t= here would be an almost boundless change for the better: grime and noise might be nearly eliminated, the hideousness of industrial regions might be turned in= to beauty, the interest in the scientific aspects of production might become d= iffused among all producers with any native intelligence, and something of the arti= st's joy in creation might inspire the whole of the work. All this, which is at present utterly remote from the reality, might be produced by economic self-government. We may concede that by such means a very large proportion = of the necessary work of the world could ultimately be made sufficiently agree= able to be preferred before idleness even by men whose bare livelihood would be assured whether they worked or not. As to the residue let us admit that spe= cial rewards, whether in goods or honors or privileges, would have to be given to those who undertook it. But this need not cause any fundamental objection.<= o:p>
There would, of course, be a certain proportio=
n of
the population who would prefer idleness. Provided the proportion were smal=
l,
this need not matter. And among those who would be classed as idlers might =
be
included artists, writers of books, men devoted to abstract intellectual
pursuits--in short, all those whom society despises while they are alive and
honors when they are dead. To such men, the possibility of pursuing their o=
wn
work regardless of any public recognition of its utility would be invaluabl=
e.
Whoever will observe how many of our poets have been men of private means w=
ill
realize how much poetic capacity must have remained undeveloped through
poverty; for it would be absurd to suppose that the rich are better endowed=
by
nature with the capacity for poetry. Freedom for such men, few as they are,
must be set against the waste of the mere idlers.
So far, we have set forth the arguments in fav=
or of
the Anarchist plan. They are, to my mind, sufficient to make it seem possib=
le
that the plan might succeed, but not sufficient to make it so probable that=
it
would be wise to try it.
The question of the feasibility of the Anarchi=
st proposals
in regard to distribution is, like so many other questions, a quantitative =
one.
The Anarchist proposals consist of two parts: (1) That all the common commo=
dities
should be supplied ad lib. to all applicants; (2) That no obligation to wor=
k,
or economic reward for work, should be imposed on anyone. These two proposa=
ls
are not necessarily inseparable, nor does either entail the whole system of
Anarchism, though without them Anarchism would hardly be possible. As regar=
ds
the first of these proposals, it can be carried out even now with regard to
some commodities, and it could be carried out in no very distant future with
regard to many more. It is a flexible plan, since this or that article of
consumption could be placed on the free list or taken of as circumstances m=
ight
dictate. Its advantages are many and various, and the practice of the world
tends to develop in this direction. I think we may conclude that this part =
of
the Anarchists' system might well be adopted bit by bit, reaching gradually=
the
full extension that they desire.
But as regards the second proposal, that there=
should
be no obligation to work, and no economic reward for work, the matter is mu=
ch
more doubtful. Anarchists always assume that if their schemes were put into
operation practically everyone would work; but although there is very much =
more
to be said for this view than most people would concede at first sight, yet=
it
is questionable whether there is enough to be said to make it true for
practical purposes. Perhaps, in a community where industry had become habit=
ual
through economic pressure, public opinion might be sufficiently powerful to
compel most men to work;[44] but it is always doubtful how far such a state=
of things
would be permanent. If public opinion is to be really effective, it will be
necessary to have some method of dividing the community into small groups, =
and
to allow each group to consume only the equivalent of what it produces. This
will make the economic motive operative upon the group, which, since we are
supposing it small, will feel that its collective share is appreciably
diminished by each idle individual. Such a system might be feasible, but it
would be contrary to the whole spirit of Anarchism and would destroy the ma=
in
lines of its economic system.
[44] =
``As
to the so-often repeated objection that nobody would labor if he were not
compelled to do so by sheer necessity, we heard enough of it before the
emancipation of slaves in America, as well as before the emancipation of se=
rfs
in Russia; and we have had the opportunity of appreciating it at its just
value. So we shall not try to convince those who can be convinced only by
accomplished facts. As to those who reason, they ought to know that, if it
really was so with some parts of humanity at its lowest stages--and yet, wh=
at
do we know about it?--or if it is so with some small communities, or separa=
te
individuals, brought to sheer despair by ill-success in their struggle agai=
nst unfavorable
conditions, it is not so with the bulk of the civilized nations. With us, w=
ork
is a habit, and idleness an artificial growth.'' Kropotkin, ``Anarchist
Communism,'' p. 30.
The
attitude of orthodox Socialism on this question is quite different from tha=
t of
Anarchism.[45] Among the more immediate measures advocated in the ``Communi=
st
Manifesto'' is ``equal liability of all to labor. Establishment of industri=
al
armies, especially for agriculture.'' The Socialist theory is that, in gene=
ral,
work alone gives the right to the enjoyment of the produce of work. To this
theory there will, of course, be exceptions: the old and the very young, the
infirm and those whose work is temporarily not required through no fault of
their own. But the fundamental conception of Socialism, in regard to our
present question, is that all who can should be compelled to work, either by
the threat of starvation or by the operation of the criminal law. And, of
course, the only kind of work recognized will be such as commends itself to=
the
authorities. Writing books against Socialism, or against any theory embodie=
d in
the government of the day, would certainly not be recognized as work. No mo=
re would
the painting of pictures in a different style from that of the Royal Academ=
y,
or producing plays unpleasing to the censor. Any new line of thought would =
be
banned, unless by influence or corruption the thinker could crawl into the =
good
graces of the pundits. These results are not foreseen by Socialists, because
they imagine that the Socialist State will be governed by men like those who
now advocate it. This is, of course, a delusion. The rulers of the State th=
en
will bear as little resemblance to the pres- ent Socialists as the dignitar=
ies
of the Church after the time of Constantine bore to the Apostles. The men w=
ho
advocate an unpopular reform are exceptional in disinterestedness and zeal =
for
the public good; but those who hold power after the reform has been carried=
out
are likely to belong, in the main, to the ambitious executive type which ha=
s in
all ages possessed itself of the government of nations. And this type has n=
ever
shown itself tolerant of opposition or friendly to freedom.
[45]
``While holding this synthetic view on production, the Anarchists cannot
consider, like the Collectivists, that a remuneration which would be
proportionate to the hours of labor spent by each person in the production =
of
riches may be an ideal, or even an approach to an ideal, society.'' Kropotk=
in, ``Anarchist
Communism,'' p. 20.
It wo=
uld
seem, then, that if the Anarchist plan has its dangers, the Socialist plan =
has
at least equal dangers. It is true that the evils we have been foreseeing u=
nder
Socialism exist at present, but the purpose of Socialists is to cure the ev=
ils
of the world as it is; they cannot be content with the argument that they w=
ould
make things no worse.
Anarchism has the advantage as regards liberty=
, Socialism
as regards the inducements to work. Can we not find a method of combining t=
hese
two advantages? It seems to me that we can.
We saw that, provided most people work in mode=
ration,
and their work is rendered as productive as science and organization can ma=
ke
it, there is no good reason why the necessaries of life should not be suppl=
ied
freely to all. Our only serious doubt was as to whether, in an Anarchist
regime, the motives for work would be sufficiently powerful to prevent a da=
n- gerously
large amount of idleness. But it would be easy to decree that, though
necessaries should be free to all, whatever went beyond necessaries should =
only
be given to those who were willing to work--not, as is usual at present, on=
ly
to those in work at any moment, but also to all those who, when they happen=
ed not
to be working, were idle through no fault of their own. We find at present =
that
a man who has a small income from investments, just sufficient to keep him =
from
actual want, almost always prefers to find some paid work in order to be ab=
le
to afford luxuries. So it would be, presumably, in such a community as we a=
re
imagining. At the same time, the man who felt a vocation for some unrecogni=
zed
work of art or science or thought would be free to follow his desire, provi=
ded
he were willing to ``scorn delights and live laborious days.'' And the
comparatively small number of men with an invincible horror of work--the so=
rt
of men who now become tramps-- might lead a harmless existence, without any
grave danger of their becoming sufficiently numerous to be a serious burden
upon the more industrious. In this ways the claims of freedom could be comb=
ined
with the need of some economic stimulus to work. Such a system, it seems to=
me,
would have a far greater chance of success than either pure Anarchism or pu=
re orthodox
Socialism.
Stated in more familiar terms, the plan we are=
advocating
amounts essentially to this: that a certain small income, sufficient for
necessaries, should be secured to all, whether they work or not, and that a=
larger
income, as much larger as might be warranted by the total amount of commodi=
ties
produced, should be given to those who are willing to engage in some work w=
hich
the community recognizes as useful. On this basis we may build further. I do
not think it is always necessary to pay more highly work which is more skil=
led
or regarded as socially more useful, since such work is more interesting and
more respected than ordinary work, and will therefore often be preferred by
those who are able to do it. But we might, for instance, give an intermedia=
te
income to those who are only willing to work half the usual number of hours,
and an income above that of most workers to those who choose a specially
disagreeable trade. Such a system is perfectly compatible with Socialism,
though perhaps hardly with Anarchism. Of its advantages we shall have more =
to
say at a later stage. For the present I am content to urge that it combines
freedom with justice, and avoids those dangers to the community which we ha=
ve
found to lurk both in the proposals of the Anarchists and in those of ortho=
dox
Socialists.
GOVER=
NMENT
and Law, in their very essence, consist of restrictions on freedom, and fre=
edom
is the greatest of political goods.[46] A hasty reasoner might conclude wit=
hout
further ado that Law and government are evils which must be abolished if
freedom is our goal. But this consequence, true or false, cannot be proved =
so
simply. In this chapter we shall examine the arguments of Anarchists against
law and the State. We shall proceed on the assumption that freedom is the
supreme aim of a good social system; but on this very basis we shall find t=
he
Anarchist contentions very questionable.
[46] =
I do
not say freedom is the greatest of ALL goods: the best things come from
within--they are such things as creative art, and love, and thought. Such
things can be helped or hindered by political conditions, but not actually
produced by them; and freedom is, both in itself and in its relation to the=
se
other goods the best thing that political and economic conditions can secur=
e.
Respe=
ct for
the liberty of others is not a natural impulse with most men: envy and love=
of
power lead ordinary human nature to find pleasure in interferences with the
lives of others. If all men's actions were wholly unchecked by external
authority, we should not obtain a world in which all men would be free. The
strong would oppress the weak, or the majority would oppress the minority, =
or
the lovers of violence would oppress the more peaceable people. I fear it
cannot be said that these bad impulses are WHOLLY due to a bad social syste=
m,
though it must be conceded that the present competitive organization of soc=
iety
does a great deal to foster the worst elements in human nature. The love of
power is an impulse which, though innate in very ambitious men, is chiefly
promoted as a rule by the actual experience of power. In a world where none
could acquire much power, the desire to tyrannize would be much less strong
than it is at present. Nevertheless, I cannot think that it would be wholly
absent, and those in whom it would exist would often be men of unusual ener=
gy
and executive capacity. Such men, if they are not restrained by the organiz=
ed
will of the community, may either succeed in establishing a despotism, or, =
at
any rate, make such a vigorous attempt as can only be defeated through a pe=
riod
of prolonged disturbance. And apart from the love or political power, there=
is
the love of power over individuals. If threats and terrorism were not preve=
nted
by law, it can hardly be doubted that cruelty would be rife in the relation=
s of
men and women, and of parents and children. It is true that the habits of a
community can make such cruelty rare, but these habits, I fear, are only to=
be
produced through the prolonged reign of law. Experience of backwoods commun=
ities,
mining camps and other such places seems to show that under new conditions =
men
easily revert to a more barbarous attitude and practice. It would seem,
therefore, that, while human nature remains as it is, there will be more
liberty for all in a community where some acts of tyranny by individuals are
forbidden, than in a community where the law leaves each individual free to
follow his every impulse. But, although the necessity of some form of
government and law must for the present be conceded, it is important to
remember that all law and government is in itself in some degree an evil, o=
nly
justifiable when it prevents other and greater evils. Every use of the powe=
r of
the State needs, therefore, to be very closely scrutinized, and every
possibility of diminishing its power is to be welcomed provided it does not
lead to a reign of private tyranny.
The power of the State is partly legal, partly=
economic:
acts of a kind which the State dislikes can be punished by the criminal law,
and individuals who incur the displeasure of the State may find it hard to =
earn
a livelihood.
The views of Marx on the State are not very cl=
ear.
On the one hand he seems willing,, like the modern State Socialists, to all=
ow
great power to the State, but on the other hand he suggests that when the
Socialist revolution has been consummated, the State, as we know it, will
disappear. Among the measures which are advocated in the Communist Manifest=
o as
immediately desirable, there are several which would very greatly increase =
the
power of the existing State. For example, ``Centralization of credit in the
hands of the State, by means of a national bank with State capital and an
exclusive monopoly;'' and again, ``Centralization of the means of communica=
tion
and transport in the hands of the State.'' But the Manifesto goes on to say=
:
When,=
in
the course of development, class distinctions have disappeared, and all
production has been concentrated in the hands of a vast association of the
whole nation, the public power will lose its political character. Political
power, properly so called, is merely the organised power of one class for
oppressing another. If the proletariat during its contest with the bourgeoi=
sie
is compelled, by the force of circumstances, to organize itself as a class,=
if,
by means of a revolution, it makes itself the ruling class, and, as such,
sweeps away by force the old conditions of production, then it will, along =
with
these conditions, have swept away the conditions for the existence of class
antagonisms, and of classes generally, and will thereby have abolished its =
own
supremacy as a class.
In place of the old bourgeois society, with its
classes and class antagonisms, we shall have an association, in which; the =
free
development of each is the condition for the free development of all.[47]
[47]
Communist Manifesto, p. 22.
This =
attitude
Marx preserved in essentials throughout his life. Accordingly, it is not to=
be wondered
at that his followers, so far as regards their immediate aims, have in the =
main
become out-and-out State Socialists. On the other hand, the Syndicalists, w=
ho
accept from Marx the doctrine of the class war, which they regard as what is
really vital in his teaching, reject the State with abhorrence and wish to
abolish it wholly, in which respect they are at one with the Anarchists. The
Guild Socialists, though some persons in this country regard them as
extremists, really represent the English love of compromise. The Syndicalist
arguments as to the dangers inherent in the power of the State have made th=
em
dissatisfied with the old State Socialism, but they are unable to accept the
Anarchist view that society can dispense altogether with a central authorit=
y. Accordingly
they propose that there should be two co-equal instruments of Government in=
a
community, the one geographical, representing the consumers, and essentially
the continuation of the democratic State; the other representing the produc=
ers,
organized, not geographically, but in guilds, after the manner of industrial
unionism. These two author- ities will deal with different classes of
questions. Guild Socialists do not regard the industrial authority as formi=
ng
part of the State, for they contend that it is the essence of the State to =
be
geographical; but the industrial authority will resemble the present State =
in
the fact that it will have coercive powers, and that its decrees will be
enforced, when necessary. It is to be suspected that Syndicalists also, muc=
h as
they object to the existing State, would not object to coercion of individu=
als
in an industry by the Trade Union in that industry. Government within the T=
rade
Union would probably be quite as strict as State government is now. In sayi=
ng
this we are assuming that the theoretical Anarchism of Syndicalist leaders
would not survive accession to power, but I am afraid experience shows that
this is not a very hazardous assumption.
Among all these different views, the one which=
raises
the deepest issue is the Anarchist contention that all coercion by the
community is unnecessary. Like most of the things that Anarchists say, ther=
e is
much more to be urged in support of this view than most people would suppos=
e at
first sight. Kropotkin, who is its ablest exponent, points out how much has
been achieved already by the method of free agreement. He does not wish to
abolish government in the sense of collective decisions: what he does wish =
to
abolish is the system by which a decision is en- forced upon those who oppo=
se
it.[48] The whole system of representative government and majority rule is =
to
him a bad thing.[49] He points to such instances as the agreements among the
different railway systems of the Continent for the running of through expre=
sses
and for co-operation generally. He points out that in such cases the differ=
ent
companies or authorities concerned each appoint a delegate, and that the
delegates suggest a basis of agreement, which has to be subsequently ratifi=
ed
by each of the bodies ap- pointing them. The assembly of delegates has no c=
oercive
power whatever, and a majority can do nothing against a recalcitrant minori=
ty.
Yet this has not prevented the conclusion of very elaborate systems of
agreements. By such methods, so Anarchists contend, the USEFUL functions of
government can be carried out without any coercion. They maintain that the
usefulness of agreement is so patent as to make co-operation certain if once
the predatory motives associated with the present system of private property
were removed.
[48] =
``On
the other hand, the STATE has also been confused with GOVERNMENT. As there =
can
be no State without government, it has been sometimes said that it is the
absence of government, and not the abolition of the State, that should be t=
he
aim.
``It seems to me, however, that State and
government represent two ideas of a different kind. The State idea implies
quite another idea to that of government. It not only includes the existenc=
e of
a power placed above society, but also a territorial concentration and a
concentration of many functions of the life of society in the hands of a fe=
w or
even of all. It implies new relations among the members of society.
``This characteristic distinction, which perha=
ps
escapes notice at first sight, appears clearly when the origin of the State=
is
studied.'' Kropotkin, ``The State.'' p. 4.
[49] Representative government has accomplished
its historical mission; it has given a mortal blow to Court-rule; and by its
debates it has awakened public interest in public questions. But, to see in=
it
the government of the future Socialist society, is to commit a gross error.
Each economical phase of life implies its own political phase; and it is
impossible to touch the very basis of the present economical life--private
property-- without a corresponding change in the very basis of the politica=
l organization.
Life already shows in which direction the change will be made. Not in incre=
asing
the powers of the State, but in resorting to free organization and free
federation in all those branches which are now considered as attributes of =
the
State.'' Kropotkin, ``Anarchist Communism,'' pp. 28-29.
Attra=
ctive
as this view is, I cannot resist the conclusion that it results from impati=
ence
and represents the attempt to find a short-cut toward the ideal which all
humane people desire.
Let us begin with the question of private
crime.[50] Anarchists maintain that the criminal is manufactured by bad soc=
ial
conditions and would disappear in such a world as they aim at creating.[51]=
No
doubt there is a great measure of truth in this view. There would be little
motive to robbery, for example, in an Anarchist world, unless it were organ=
ized
on a large scale by a body of men bent on upsetting the Anarchist regime. It
may also be conceded that impulses toward criminal violence could be very
largely eliminated by a better education. But all such contentions, it seem=
s to
me, have their limitations. To take an extreme case, we cannot suppose that
there would be no lunatics in an Anarchist community, and some of these
lunatics would, no doubt, be homicidal. Probably no one would argue that th=
ey
ought to be left at liberty. But there are no sharp lines in nature; from t=
he
homicidal lunatic to the sane man of violent passions there is a continuous
gradation. Even in the most perfect community there will be men and women,
otherwise sane, who will feel an impulse to commit murder from jealousy. Th=
ese
are now usually restrained by the fear of punishment, but if this fear were
removed, such murders would probably become much more common, as may be seen
from the present behavior of certain soldiers on leave. Moreover, certain k=
inds
of conduct arouse public hostility, and would almost inevitably lead to lyn=
ching,
if no other recognized method of punishment existed. There is in most men a
certain natural vindictiveness, not always directed against the worst membe=
rs
of the community. For example, Spinoza was very nearly murdered by the mob
because he was suspected of undue friendliness to France at a time when Hol=
land
was at war with that country. Apart from such cases, there would be the very
real danger of an organized attempt to destroy Anarchism and revive ancient
oppressions. Is it to be supposed, for example, that Napoleon, if he had be=
en
born into such a community as Kropotkin advocates, would have acquiesced ta=
mely
in a world where his genius could find no scope? I cannot see what should
prevent a combination of ambitious men forming themselves into a private ar=
my,
manufacturing their own munitions, and at last enslaving the defenseless
citizens, who had relied upon the inherent attractiveness of liberty. It wo=
uld
not be consistent with the principles of Anarchism for the community to
interfere with the drilling of a private army, no matter what its objects m=
ight
be (though, of course, an opposing private army might be formed by men with
different views). Indeed, Kropotkin instances the old volunteers in Great
Britain as an example of a movement on Anarchist lines.[52] Even if a preda=
tory
army were not formed from within, it might easily come from a neighboring
nation, or from races on the borderland of civilization. So long as the lov=
e of
power exists, I do not see how it can be prevented from finding an outlet in
oppression except by means of the organized force of the community.
[50] =
On
this subject there is an excellent discussion in the before-mentioned work =
of
Monsieur Naquet.
[51] ``As to the third--the chief--objection,
which maintains the necessity of a government for punishing those who break=
the
law of society, there is so much to say about it that it hardly can be touc=
hed
incidentally. The more we study the question, the more we are brought to the
conclusion that society itself is responsible for the anti-social deeds
perpetrated in its midst, and that no punishment, no prisons, and no hangmen
can diminish the numbers of such deeds; nothing short of a reorganization o=
f society
itself. Three-quarters of all the acts which are brought every year before =
our
courts have their origin, either directly or indirectly, in the present
disorganized state of society with regard to the production and distributio=
n of
wealth--not in the perversity of human nature. As to the relatively few
anti-social deeds which result from anti-social inclinations of separate in=
dividuals,
it is not by prisons, nor even by resorting to the hangmen, that we can
diminish their numbers. By our prisons, we merely multiply them and render =
them
worse. By our detectives, our `price of blood,' our executions, and our jai=
ls,
we spread in society such a terrible flow of basest passions and habits, th=
at
he who should realize the effects of these institutions to their full exten=
t,
would be frightened by what society is doing under the pretext of maintaini=
ng
morality. We must search for other remedies, and the remedies have been
indicated long since.'' Kropotkin, ``Anarchist Communism,'' pp. 31-32.
[52] ``Anarchist Communism,'' p. 27.
The
conclusion, which appears to be forced upon us, is that the Anarchist ideal=
of
a community in which no acts are forbidden by law is not, at any rate for t=
he
present, compatible with the stability of such a world as the Anarchists
desire. In order to obtain and preserve a world resembling as closely as
possible that at which they aim, it will still be necessary that some acts
should be forbidden by law. We may put the chief of these under three heads=
:
1. Theft.
2. Crimes of violence.
3. The creation of organizations intended to
subvert the Anarchist regime by force.
We will briefly recapitulate what has been sai=
d already
as to the necessity of these prohibitions.
1. Theft.--It is true that in an Anarchist wor=
ld there
will be no destitution, and therefore no thefts motivated by starvation. But
such thefts are at present by no means the most considerable or the most ha=
rmful.
The system of rationing, which is to be applied to luxuries, will leave many
men with fewer luxuries than they might desire. It will give opportunities =
for
peculation by those who are in control of the public stores, and it will le=
ave
the possibility of appropriating such valuable objects of art as would natu=
rally
be preserved in public museums. It may be contended that such forms of theft
would be prevented by public opinion. But public opinion is not greatly
operative upon an individual unless it is the opinion of his own group. A g=
roup
of men combined for purposes of theft might readily defy the public opinion=
of
the majority unless that public opinion made itself effective by the use of
force against them. Probably, in fact, such force would be applied through
popular indignation, but in that case we should revive the evils of the
criminal law with the added evils of uncertainty, haste and passion, which =
are
inseparable from the practice of lynching. If, as we have suggested, it were
found necessary to provide an economic stimulus to work by allowing fewer l=
uxuries
to idlers, this would afford a new motive for theft on their part and a new
necessity for some form of criminal law.
2. Crimes of Violence.--Cruelty to children, c=
rimes
of jealousy, rape, and so forth, are almost certain to occur in any society=
to
some extent. The prevention of such acts is essential to the existence of
freedom for the weak. If nothing were done to hinder them, it is to be fear=
ed
that the customs of a society would gradually become rougher, and that acts
which are now rare would cease to be so. If Anarchists are right in maintai=
ning
that the existence of such an economic system as they desire would prevent =
the
commission of crimes of this kind, the laws forbidding them would no longer
come into operation, and would do no harm to liberty. If, on the other hand,
the impulse to such actions persisted, it would be necessary that steps sho=
uld
be taken to restrain men from indulging it.
3. The third class of difficulties is much the
most serious and involves much the most drastic interference with liberty. =
I do
not see how a private army could be tolerated within an Anarchist community=
, and
I do not see how it could be prevented except by a general prohibition of
carrying arms. If there were no such prohibition, rival parties would organ=
ize rival
forces, and civil war would result. Yet, if there is such a prohibition, it
cannot well be carried out without a very considerable interference with
individual liberty. No doubt, after a time, the idea of using violence to
achieve a political object might die down, as the practice of duelling has
done. But such changes of habit and outlook are facilitated by legal prohib=
ition,
and would hardly come about without it. I shall not speak yet of the
international aspect of this same problem, for I propose to deal with that =
in
the next chapter, but it is clear that the same considerations apply with e=
ven
greater force to the relations between nations.
If we admit, however reluctantly, that a crimi=
nal law
is necessary and that the force of the community must be brought to bear to
prevent certain kinds of actions, a further question arises: How is crime t=
o be
treated? What is the greatest measure of humanity and respect for freedom t=
hat
is compatible with the recognition of such a thing as crime? The first thin=
g to
recognize is that the whole conception of guilt or sin should be utterly sw=
ept
away. At present, the criminal is visited with the displeasure of the
community: the sole method applied to prevent the occurrence of crime is the
infliction of pain upon the criminal. Everything possible is done to break =
his spirit
and destroy his self-respect. Even those pleasures which would be most like=
ly
to have a civilizing effect are forbidden to him, merely on the ground that
they are pleasures, while much of the suffering inflicted is of a kind which
can only brutalize and degrade still further. I am not speaking, of course,=
of
those few penal institutions which have made a serious study of reforming t=
he
criminal. Such institutions, especially in America, have been proved capabl=
e of
achieving the most remarkable results, but they remain everywhere exception=
al.
The broad rule is still that the criminal is made to feel the displeasure of
society. He must emerge from such a treatment either defiant and hostile, or
submissive and cringing, with a broken spirit and a loss of self-respect. N=
either
of these results is anything but evil. Nor can any good result be achieved =
by a
method of treatment which embodies reprobation.
When a man is suffering from an infectious dis=
ease
he is a danger to the community, and it is necessary to restrict his libert=
y of
movement. But no one associates any idea of guilt with such a situation. On=
the
contrary, he is an object of commiseration to his friends. Such steps as
science recommends are taken to cure him of his disease, and he submits as a
rule without reluctance to the curtailment of liberty involved meanwhile. T=
he
same method in spirit ought to be shown in the treatment of what is called =
``crime.''
It is supposed, of course, that the criminal is actuated by calculations of
self-interest, and that the fear of punishment, by supplying a contrary mot=
ive
of self-interest affords the best deterrent, The dog, to gain some private end, <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Went mad and bit the man.
This is the popular view of crime; yet no dog = goes mad from choice, and probably the same is true of the great majority of criminals, certainly in the case of crimes of passion. Even in cases where self-interest is the motive, the important thing is to prevent the crime, n= ot to make the criminal suffer. Any suffering which may be entailed by the pro= cess of prevention ought to be regarded as regrettable, like the pain involved i= n a surgical operation. The man who commits a crime from an impulse to violence ought to be subjected to a scientific psychological treatment, designed to elicit more beneficial impulses. The man who commits a crime from calculati= ons of self- interest ought to be made to feel that self-interest itself, when = it is fully understood, can be better served by a life which is useful to the community than by one which is harmful. For this purpose it is chiefly necessary to widen his outlook and increase the scope of his desires. At present, when a man suffers from insufficient love for his fellow-creatures, the method of curing him which is commonly adopted seems scarcely designed = to succeed, being, indeed, in essentials, the same as his attitude toward them. The object of the prison administration is to save trouble, not to study the individual case. He is kept in captivity in a cell from which all sight of = the earth is shut out: he is subjected to harshness by warders, who have too of= ten become brutalized by their occupation.[53] He is solemnly denounced as an e= nemy to society. He is compelled to perform mechanical tasks, chosen for their wearisomeness. He is given no education and no incentive to self-improvemen= t. Is it to be wondered at if, at the end of such a course of treatment, his f= eelings toward the community are no more friendly than they were at the beginning?<= o:p>
[53] =
This
was written before the author had any personal experience of the prison sys=
tem.
He personally met with nothing but kindness at the hands of the prison
officials.
Sever=
ity of
punishment arose through vindictiveness and fear in an age when many crimin=
als
escaped justice altogether, and it was hoped that savage sentences would
outweigh the chance of escape in the mind of the criminal. At present a very
large part of the criminal law is concerned in safeguarding the rights of
property, that is to say--as things are now--the unjust privileges of the r=
ich.
Those whose principles lead them into conflict with government, like
Anarchists, bring a most formidable indictment against the law and the
authorities for the unjust manner in which they support the status quo. Man=
y of
the actions by which men have become rich are far more harmful to the commu=
nity
than the obscure crimes of poor men, yet they go unpunished because they do=
not
interfere with the existing order. If the power of the community is to be
brought to bear to prevent certain classes of actions through the agency of=
the
criminal law, it is as necessary that these actions should really be those
which are harmful to the community, as it is that the treatment of
``criminals'' should be freed from the conception of guilt and inspired by =
the
same spirit as is shown in the treatment of disease. But, if these two
conditions were fulfilled, I cannot help thinking that a society which
preserved the existence of law would be preferable to one conducted on the
unadulterated principles of Anarchism.
So far we have been considering the power whic=
h the
State derives from the criminal law. We have every reason to think that this
power cannot be entirely abolished, though it can be exercised in a wholly
different spirit, without the vindictiveness and the moral reprobation which
now form its essence.
We come next to the consideration of the econo=
mic power
of the State and the influence which it can exert through its bureaucracy.
State Socialists argue as if there would be no danger to liberty in a State=
not
based upon capitalism. This seems to me an entire delusion. Given an offici=
al
caste, however selected, there are bound to be a set of men whose whole ins=
tincts
will drive them toward tyranny. Together with the natural love of power, th=
ey
will have a rooted conviction (visible now in the higher ranks of the Civil
Service) that they alone know enough to be able to judge what is for the go=
od
of the community. Like all men who administer a system, they will come to f=
eel
the system itself sacrosanct. The only changes they will desire will be cha=
nges
in the direction of further regulations as to how the people are to enjoy t=
he
good things kindly granted to them by their benevolent despots. Whoever thi=
nks
this picture overdrawn must have failed to study the influence and methods =
of
Civil Servants at present. On every matter that arises, they know far more =
than
the general public about all the DEFINITE facts involved; the one thing the=
y do
not know is ``where the shoe pinches.'' But those who know this are probably
not skilled in stating their case, not able to say off-hand exactly how many
shoes are pinching how many feet, or what is the precise remedy required. T=
he
answer prepared for Ministers by the Civil Service is accepted by the ``res=
pectable''
public as impartial, and is regarded as disposing of the case of malcontents
except on a first-class political question on which elections may be won or
lost. That at least is the way in which things are managed in England. And
there is every reason to fear that under State Socialism the power of offic=
ials
would be vastly greater than it is at present.
Those who accept the orthodox doctrine of
democracy contend that, if ever the power of capital were removed,
representative institutions would suffice to undo the evils threatened by
bureaucracy. Against this view, Anarchists and Syndicalists have directed a
merciless criticism. French Syndicalists especially, living, as they do, in=
a
highly democratized country, have had bitter experience of the way in which=
the
power of the State can be employed against a progressive minority. This
experience has led them to abandon altogether the belief in the divine righ=
t of
majorities. The Constitution that they would desire would be one which allo=
wed
scope for vigorous minorities, conscious of their aims and prepared to work=
for
them. It is undeniable that, to all who care for progress, actual experienc=
e of
democratic representative Government is very disillusioning. Admitting-- as=
I
think we must--that it is preferable to any PREVIOUS form of Government, we
must yet acknowledge that much of the criticism directed against it by Anar=
chists
and Syndicalists is thoroughly justified.
Such criticism would have had more influence i=
f any
clear idea of an alternative to parliamentary democracy had been generally
apprehended. But it must be confessed that Syndicalists have not presented =
their
case in a way which is likely to attract the average citizen. Much of what =
they
say amounts to this: that a minority, consisting of skilled workers in vital
industries, can, by a strike, make the economic life of the whole community
impossible, and can in this way force their will upon the nation. The actio=
n aimed
at is compared to the seizure of a power station, by which a whole vast sys=
tem
can be paralyzed. Such a doctrine is an appeal to force, and is naturally m=
et
by an appeal to force on the other side. It is useless for the Syndicalists=
to
protest that they only desire power in order to promote liberty: the world
which they are seeking to establish does not, as yet, appeal to the effecti=
ve
will of the community, and cannot be stably inaugurated until it does do so=
. Persuasion
is a slow process, and may sometimes be accelerated by violent methods; to =
this
extent such methods may be justified. But the ultimate goal of any reformer=
who
aims at liberty can only be reached through persuasion. The attempt to thru=
st
liberty by force upon those who do not desire what we consider liberty must
always prove a failure; and Syndicalists, like other reformers, must ultima=
tely
rely upon persuasion for success.
But it would be a mistake to confuse aims with=
methods:
however little we may agree with the proposal to force the millennium on a
reluctant community by starvation, we may yet agree that much of what the
Syndicalists desire to achieve is desirable.
Let us dismiss from our minds such criticisms =
of parliamentary
government as are bound up with the present system of private property, and
consider only those which would remain true in a collectivist community.
Certain defects seem inherent in the very nature of representative
institutions. There is a sense of self-importance, inseparable from success=
in
a contest for popular favor. There is an all-but unavoidable habit of
hypocrisy, since experience shows that the democracy does not detect
insincerity in an orator, and will, on the other hand, be shocked by things
which even the most sincere men may think necessary. Hence arises a tone of
cynicism among elected representatives, and a feeling that no man can retain
his position in politics without deceit. This is as much the fault of the
democracy as of the representatives, but it seems unavoidable so long as the
main thing that all bodies of men demand of their champions is flattery.
However the blame may be apportioned, the evil must be recognized as one wh=
ich is
bound to occur in the existing forms of democracy. Another evil, which is
especially noticeable in large States, is the remoteness of the seat of
government from many of the constituencies--a remoteness which is psycholog=
ical
even more than geographical. The legislators live in comfort, protected by
thick walls and innumerable policemen from the voice of the mob; as time go=
es
on they remember only dimly the passions and promises of their electoral
campaign; they come to feel it an essential part of statesmanship to consid=
er
what are called the interests of the community as a whole, rather than thos=
e of
some discontented group; but the interests of the community as a whole are
sufficiently vague to be easily seen to coincide with self-interest. All th=
ese
causes lead Parliaments to betray the people, consciously or unconsciously;=
and
it is no wonder if they have produced a certain aloofness from democratic
theory in the more vigorous champions of labor.
Majority rule, as it exists in large States, i=
s subject
to the fatal defect that, in a very great number of questions, only a fract=
ion
of the nation have any direct interest or knowledge, yet the others have an
equal voice in their settlement. When people have no direct interest in a
question they are very apt to be influenced by irrelevant considerations; t=
his
is shown in the extraordinary reluctance to grant autonomy to subordinate
nations or groups. For this reason, it is very dangerous to allow the natio=
n as
a whole to decide on matters which concern only a small section, whether th=
at
section be geographical or industrial or defined in any other way. The best=
cure
for this evil, so far as can be seen at present, lies in allowing
self-government to every important group within a nation in all matters that
affect that group much more than they affect the rest of the community. The
government of a group, chosen by the group, will be far more in touch with =
its
constituents, far more conscious of their interests, than a remote Parliame=
nt
nominally representing the whole country. The most original idea in
Syndicalism-- adopted and developed by the Guild Socialists--is the idea of
making industries self-governing units so far as their internal affairs are
concerned. By this method, extended also to such other groups as have clear=
ly
separable interests, the evils which have shown themselves in representative
democracy can, I believe, be largely overcome.
Guild Socialists, as we have seen, have anothe=
r suggestion,
growing naturally out of the autonomy of industrial guilds, by which they h=
ope
to limit the power of the State and help to preserve individual liberty. Th=
ey
propose that, in addition to Parliament, elected (as at present) on a
territorial basis and representing the community as consumers, there shall =
also
be a ``Guild Congress,'' a glorified successor of the present Trade Union
Congress, which shall consist of representatives chosen by the Guilds, and
shall represent the community as producers.
This method of diminishing the excessive power=
of
the State has been attractively set forth by Mr. G. D. H. Cole in his
``Self-Government in Industry.''[54] ``Where now,'' he says, ``the State pa=
sses
a Factory Act, or a Coal Mines Regulation Act, the Guild Congress of the fu=
ture
will pass such Acts, and its power of enforcing them will be the same as th=
at
of the State'' (p. 98). His ultimate ground for advocating this system is t=
hat,
in his opinion, it will tend to preserve individual liberty: ``The fundamen=
tal
reason for the preservation, in a democratic Society, of both the industrial
and the political forms of Social organization is, it seems to me, that onl=
y by
dividing the vast power now wielded by industrial capitalism can the indivi=
dual
hope to be free'' (p. 91).
[54] =
Bell,
1917.
Will =
the
system suggested by Mr. Cole have this result? I think it is clear that it
would, in this respect, be an improvement on the existing system. Represent=
ative
government cannot but be improved by any method which brings the
representatives into closer touch with the interests concerned in their leg=
islation;
and this advantage probably would be secured by handing over questions of
production to the Guild Congress. But if, in spite of the safeguards propos=
ed
by the Guild Socialists, the Guild Congress became all-powerful in such
questions, if resistance to its will by a Guild which felt ill-used became
practically hopeless, I fear that the evils now connected with the omnipote=
nce
of the State would soon reappear. Trade Union officials, as soon as they be=
come
part of the governing forces in the country, tend to become autocratic and
conservative; they lose touch with their constituents and gravitate, by a
psychological sympathy, into co-operation with the powers that be. Their fo=
rmal
installation in authority through the Guilds Congress would accelerate this=
process.
They would soon tend to combine, in effect if not obviously, with those who
wield authority in Parliament. Apart from occasional conflicts, comparable =
to
the rivalry of opposing financiers which now sometimes disturbs the harmony=
of
the capitalist world, there would, at most times, be agreement between the
dominant personalities in the two Houses. And such harmony would filch away
from the individual the liberty which he had hoped to secure by the quarrel=
s of
his masters.
There is no method, if we are not mistaken, by=
which
a body representing the whole community, whether as producers or consumers =
or
both, can alone be a sufficient guardian of individual liberty. The only wa=
y of
preserving sufficient liberty (and even this will be inadequate in the case=
of
very small minorities) is the organization of citizens with special interes=
ts
into groups, determined to preserve autonomy as regards their internal affa=
irs,
willing to resist interference by a strike if necessary, and sufficiently
powerful (either in themselves or through their power of appealing to public
sympathy) to be able to resist the organized forces of government successfu=
lly
when their cause is such as many men think just. If this method is to be
successful we must have not only suitable organizations but also a diffused
respect for liberty, and an absence of submissiveness to government both in
theory and practice. Some risk of disorder there must be in such a society,=
but
this risk is as nothing compared to the danger of stagnation which is
inseparable from an all-powerful central authority.
We may now sum up our discussion of the powers=
of
Government.
The State, in spite of what Anarchists urge, s=
eems
a necessary institution for certain purposes. Peace and war, tariffs,
regulation of sanitary conditions and of the sale of noxious drugs, the
preservation of a just system of distribution: these, among others, are
functions which could hardly be performed in a community in which there was=
no
central government. Take, for example, the liquor traffic, or the opium tra=
ffic
in China. If alcohol could be obtained at cost price without taxation, still
more if it could be obtained for nothing, as Anarchists presumably desire, =
can
we believe that there would not be a great and disastrous increase of
drunkenness? China was brought to the verge of ruin by opium, and every
patriotic Chinaman desired to see the traffic in opium restricted. In such
matters freedom is not a panacea, and some degree of legal restriction seems
imperative for the national health.
But granting that the State, in some form, mus=
t continue,
we must also grant, I think, that its powers ought to be very strictly limi=
ted
to what is absolutely necessary. There is no way of limiting its powers exc=
ept
by means of groups which are jealous of their privileges and determined to
preserve their autonomy, even if this should involve resistance to laws dec=
reed
by the State, when these laws interfere in the internal affairs of a group =
in
ways not warranted by the public interest. The glorification of the State, =
and
the doctrine that it is every citizen's duty to serve the State, are radica=
lly
against progress and against liberty. The State, though at present a source=
of much
evil, is also a means to certain good things, and will be needed so long as
violent and destructive impulses remain common. But it is MERELY a means, a=
nd a
means which needs to be very carefully and sparingly used if it is not to do
more harm than good. It is not the State, but the community, the worldwide =
community
of all human beings present and future, that we ought to serve. And a good
community does not spring from the glory of the State, but from the unfette=
red
development of individuals: from happiness in daily life, from congenial wo=
rk giving
opportunity for whatever constructiveness each man or woman may possess, fr=
om
free personal relations embodying love and taking away the roots of envy in
thwarted capacity from affection, and above all from the joy of life and its
expression in the spontaneous creations of art and science. It is these thi=
ngs
that make an age or a nation worthy of existence, and these things are not =
to
be secured by bowing down before the State. It is the individual in whom all
that is good must be realized, and the free growth of the individual must be
the supreme end of a political system which is to re-fashion the world.
THE m=
ain
objects which should be served by international relations may be taken to be
two: First, the avoidance of wars, and, second, the prevention of the oppre=
ssion
of weak nations by strong ones. These two objects do not by any means
necessarily lead in the same direction, since one of the easiest ways of se=
curing
the world's peace would be by a combination of the most powerful States for=
the
exploitation and oppression of the remainder. This method, however, is not =
one
which the lover of liberty can favor. We must keep account of both aims and=
not
be content with either alone.
One of the commonplaces of both Socialism and =
Anarchism
is that all modern wars are due to capitalism, and would cease if capitalism
were abolished. This view, to my mind, is only a half-truth; the half that =
is
true is important, but the half that is untrue is perhaps equally important
when a fundamental reconstruction of society is being considered.
Socialist and Anarchist critics of existing
society point, with perfect truth, to certain capitalistic factors which
promote war. The first of these is the desire of finance to find new fields=
of
investment in undeveloped countries. Mr. J. A. Hobson, an author who is by =
no
means extreme in his views, has well stated this point in his book on ``The
Evolution of Modern Capitalism.''[55] He says:
[55] =
Walter
Scott Publishing Company, 1906, p. 262.
The
economic tap-root, the chief directing motive of all the modern imperialist=
ic
expansion, is the pressure of capitalist industries for markets, primarily
markets for investment, secondarily markets for surplus products of home
industry. Where the concentration of capital has gone furthest, and where a
rigorous protective system prevails, this pressure is necessarily strongest.
Not merely do the trusts and other manufacturing trades that restrict their
output for the home market more urgently require foreign markets, but they =
are
also more anxious to secure protected markets, and this can only be achieve=
d by
extending the area of political rule. This is the essential significance of=
the
recent change in American foreign policy as illustrated by the Spanish War,=
the
Philippine annexation, the Panama policy, and the new application of the Mo=
nroe
doctrine to the South American States. South America is needed as a
preferential market for investment of trust ``profits'' and surplus trust
products: if in time these states can be brought within a Zollverein under =
the
suzerainty of the United States, the financial area of operations receives a
notable accession. China as a field of railway enterprise and general
industrial development already begins to loom large in the eyes of foresigh=
ted
American business men; the growing trade in American cotton and other goods=
in
that country will be a subordinate consideration to the expansion of the ar=
ea
for American investments. Diplomatic pressure, armed force, and, where
desirable, seizure of territory for political control, will be engineered by
the financial magnates who control the political destiny of America. The st=
rong
and expensive American navy now beginning to be built incidentally serves t=
he
purpose of affording profitable contracts to the shipbuilding and metal
industries: its real meaning and use is to forward the aggressive political
policy imposed upon the nation by the economic needs of the financial
capitalists.
It should be clearly understood that this cons=
tant
pressure to extend the area of markets is not a necessary implication of all
forms of organized industry. If competition was displaced by combinations o=
f a
genuinely cooperative character in which the whole gain of improved economi=
es
passed, either to the workers in wages, or to large bodies of investors in
dividends, the expansion of demand in the home markets would be so great as=
to
give full employment to the productive powers of concentrated capital, and
there would be no self-accumulating masses of profit expressing themselves =
in
new credit and demanding external employment. It is the ``monopoly'' profit=
s of
trusts and combines, taken either in construction, financial operation, or
industrial working, that form a gathering fund of self-accumulating credit =
whose
possession by the financial class implies a contracted demand for commoditi=
es
and a correspondingly restricted employment for capital in American industr=
ies.
Within certain limits relief can be found by stimulation of the export trade
under cover of a high protective tariff which forbids all interference with
monopoly of the home markets. But it is extremely difficult for trusts adap=
ted
to the requirements of a profitable tied market at home to adjust their met=
hods
of free competition in the world markets upon a profitable basis of steady
trading. Moreover, such a mode of expansion is only appropriate to certain
manufacturing trusts: the owners of railroad, financial and other trusts mu=
st
look always more to foreign investments for their surplus profits. This
ever-growing need for fresh fields of investment for their profits is the g=
reat
crux of the financial system, and threatens to dominate the future economic=
s and
the politics of the great Republic.
The financial economy of American capitalism
exhibits in more dramatic shape a tendency common to the finance of all
developed industrial nations. The large, easy flow of capital from Great
Britain, Germany, Austria, France, etc., into South African or Australian
mines, into Egyptian bonds, or the precarious securities of South American
republics, attests the same general pressure which increases with every
development of financial machinery and the more profitable control of that
machinery by the class of professional financiers
The k=
ind of
way in which such conditions tend toward war might have been illustrated, if
Mr. Hobson had been writing at a later date, by various more recent cases. A
higher rate of interest is obtainable on enterprises in an undeveloped coun=
try
than in a developed one, provided the risks connected with an unsettled
government can be minimized. To minimize these risks the financiers call in=
the
assistance of the military and naval forces of the country which they are
momentarily asserting to be theirs. In order to have the support of public
opinion in this demand they have recourse to the power of the Press.
The Press is the second great factor to which =
critics
of capitalism point when they wish to prove that capitalism is the source of
modern war. Since the running of a big newspaper requires a large capital, =
the
proprietors of important organs necessarily belong to the capitalist class,=
and
it will be a rare and exceptional event if they do not sympathize with their
own class in opinion and outlook. They are able to decide what news the gre=
at
mass of newspaper readers shall be allowed to have. They can actually falsi=
fy
the news, or, without going so far as that, they can carefully select it,
giving such items as will stimulate the passions which they desire to stimu=
late,
and suppressing such items as would provide the antidote. In this way the
picture of the world in the mind of the average newspaper reader is made to=
be
not a true picture, but in the main that which suits the interests of
capitalists. This is true in many directions, but above all in what con- ce=
rns
the relations between nations. The mass of the population of a country can =
be
led to love or hate any other country at the will of the newspaper propriet=
ors,
which is often, directly or indirectly, influenced by the will of the great
financiers. So long as enmity between England and Russia was desired, our
newspapers were full of the cruel treatment meted out to Russian political
prisoners, the oppression of Finland and Russian Poland, and other such top=
ics.
As soon as our foreign policy changed, these items disappeared from the more
important newspapers, and we heard instead of the misdeeds of Germany. Most=
men
are not sufficiently critical to be on their guard against such influences,=
and
until they are, the power of the Press will remain.
Besides these two influences of capitalism in =
promoting
war, there is another, much less emphasized by the critics of capitalism, b=
ut
by no means less important: I mean the pugnacity which tends to be develope=
d in
men who have the habit of command. So long as capitalist society persists, =
an
undue measure of power will be in the hands of those who have acquired weal=
th
and influence through a great position in industry or finance. Such men are=
in
the habit, in private life, of finding their will seldom questioned; they a=
re
surrounded by obsequious satellites and are not infrequently engaged in
conflicts with Trade Unions. Among their friends and acquaintances are incl=
uded
those who hold high positions in government or administration, and these me=
n equally
are liable to become autocratic through the habit of giving orders. It used=
to
be customary to speak of the ``governing classes,'' but nominal democracy h=
as
caused this phrase to go out of fashion. Nevertheless, it still retains much
truth; there are still in any capitalist community those who command and th=
ose
who as a rule obey. The outlook of these two classes is very different, tho=
ugh
in a modern society there is a continuous gradation from the extreme of the=
one
to the extreme of the other. The man who is accustomed to find submission to
his will becomes indignant on the occasions when he finds opposition.
Instinctively he is convinced that opposition is wicked and must be crushed=
. He
is therefore much more willing than the average citizen to resort to war
against his rivals. Accordingly we find, though, of course, with very notab=
le
exceptions, that in the main those who have most power are most warlike, and
those who have least power are least disposed to hatred of foreign nations.
This is one of the evils inseparable from the concentration of power. It wi=
ll
only be cured by the abolition of capitalism if the new system is one which
allows very much less power to single individuals. It will not be cured by a
system which substitutes the power of Ministers or officials for the power =
of
capitalists This is one reason, additional to those mentioned in the preced=
ing
chapter, for desiring to see a diminution in the authority of the State.
Not only does the concentration of power tend =
to
cause wars, but, equally, wars and the fear of them bring about the necessi=
ty
for the concentration of power. So long as the community is exposed to sudd=
en
dangers, the possibility of quick decision is absolutely necessary to
self-preservation. The cumbrous machinery of deliberative decisions by the =
people
is impossible in a crisis, and therefore so long as crises are likely to oc=
cur,
it is impossible to abolish the almost autocratic power of governments. In =
this
case, as in most others, each of two correlative evils tends to perpetuate =
the
other. The existence of men with the habit of power increases the risk of w=
ar, and
the risk of war makes it impossible to establish a system where no man
possesses great power.
So far we have been considering what is true i=
n the
contention that capitalism causes modern wars. It is time now to look at the
other side, and to ask ourselves whether the abolition of capitalism would,=
by
itself, be sufficient to prevent war.
I do not myself believe that this is the case.=
The
outlook of both Socialists and Anarchists seems to me, in this respect as in
some others, to be unduly divorced from the fundamental instincts of human =
nature.
There were wars before there was capital- ism, and fighting is habitual amo=
ng
animals. The power of the Press in promoting war is entirely due to the fact
that it is able to appeal to certain instincts. Man is naturally competitiv=
e,
acquisitive, and, in a greater or less degree, pugnacious. When the Press t=
ells
him that so-and-so is his enemy, a whole set of instincts in him responds to
the suggestion. It is natural to most men to suppose that they have enemies=
and
to find a certain fulfillment of their nature when they embark upon a conte=
st.
What a man believes upon grossly insufficient evidence is an index to his
desires--desires of which he himself is often unconscious. If a man is offe=
red
a fact which goes against his instincts, he will scrutinize it closely, and=
unless
the evidence is overwhelming, he will refuse to believe it. If, on the other
hand, he is offered something which affords a reason for acting in accordan=
ce with
his instincts, he will accept it even on the slenderest evidence. The origi=
n of
myths is explained in this way, and much of what is currently believed in i=
nternational
affairs is no better than myth. Although capitalism affords in modern socie=
ty
the channel by which the instinct of pugnacity finds its outlet, there is
reason to fear that, if this channel were closed, some other would be found,
unless education and environment were so changed as enormously to diminish =
the
strength of the competitive instinct. If an economic reorganization can eff=
ect
this it may pro- vide a real safeguard against war, but if not, it is to be
feared that the hopes of universal peace will prove delusive.
The abolition of capitalism might, and very li=
kely
would, greatly diminish the incentives to war which are derived from the Pr=
ess
and from the desire of finance to find new fields for investment in undevel=
oped
countries, but those which are derived from the instinct of command and the
impatience of opposition might remain, though perhaps in a less virulent fo=
rm
than at present. A democracy which has power is almost always more bellicose
than one which is excluded from its due share in the government. The intern=
ationalism
of Marx is based upon the assumption that the proletariat everywhere are
oppressed by the ruling classes. The last words of the Communist Manifesto
embody this idea--
Let t=
he
ruling classes tremble at a Communistic revolution. The proletarians have
nothing to lose but their chains. They have a world to win. Working men
of all countries, unite!
So lo=
ng as
the proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains, it is not likely th=
at
their enmity will be directed against other proletarians. If the world had
developed as Marx expected, the kind of internationalism which he foresaw m=
ight
have inspired a universal social revolution. Russia, which devel- oped more
nearly than any other country upon the lines of his system, has had a
revolution of the kind which he expected. If the development in other count=
ries
had been similar, it is highly probable that this revolution would have spr=
ead
throughout the civilized world. The proletariat of all countries might have=
united
against the capitalists as their common enemy, and in the bond of an identi=
cal
hatred they might for the moment have been free from hatred toward each oth=
er.
Even then, this ground of union would have ceased with their victory, and on
the morrow of the social revolution the old national rivalries might have
revived. There is no alchemy by which a universal harmony can be produced o=
ut
of hatred. Those who have been inspired to action by the doctrine of the cl=
ass
war will have acquired the habit of hatred, and will instinctively seek new
enemies when the old ones have been vanquished.
But in actual fact the psychology of the worki=
ng man
in any of the Western democracies is totally unlike that which is assumed in
the Communist Manifesto. He does not by any means feel that he has nothing =
to
lose but his chains, nor indeed is this true. The chains which bind Asia and
Africa in subjection to Europe are partly riveted by him. He is himself par=
t of
a great system of tyranny and exploitation. Universal freedom would remove,=
not
only his own chains, which are comparatively light, but the far heavier cha=
ins
which he has helped to fasten upon the subject races of the world.
Not only do the working men of a country like =
England
have a share in the benefit accruing from the exploitation of inferior race=
s,
but many among them also have their part in the capitalist system. The fund=
s of
Trade Unions and Friendly Societies are invested in ordinary undertakings, =
such
as railways; many of the better-paid wage-earners have put their savings in=
to
government securities; and almost all who are politically active feel
themselves part of the forces that determine public policy, through the pow=
er
of the Labor Party and the greater unions. Owing to these causes their outl=
ook
on life has become to a considerable extent impregnated with capitalism and=
as
their sense of power has grown, their nationalism has increased. This must
continue to be true of any internationalism which is based upon hatred of t=
he
capitalist and adherence to the doctrine of the class war. Something more
positive and constructive than this is needed if governing democracies are =
not
to inherit the vices of governing classes in the past.
I do not wish to be thought to deny that
capitalism does very much to promote wars, or that wars would probably be l=
ess
frequent and less destructive if private property were abolished. On the
contrary, I believe that the abolition of private ownership of land and cap=
ital
is a necessary step toward any world in which the nations are to live at pe=
ace
with one another. I am only arguing that this step, necessary as it is, will
not alone suffice for this end, but that among the causes of war there are
others that go deeper into the roots of human nature than any that orthodox
Socialists are wont to acknowledge.
Let us take an instance. In Australia and
California there is an intense dislike and fear toward the yellow races. The
causes of this are complex; the chief among them are two, labor competition=
and
instinctive race-hatred. It is probable that, if race- hatred did not exist,
the difficulties of labor competition could be overcome. European immigrants
also compete, but they are not excluded. In a sparsely populated country,
industrious cheap labor could, with a little care, be so utilized as to enr=
ich
the existing inhabitants; it might, for example, be confined to certain kin=
ds
of work, by custom if not by law. But race-hatred opens men's minds to the
evils of competition and closes them against the advantages of co-operation=
; it
makes them regard with horror the somewhat unfamiliar vices of the aliens,
while our own vices are viewed with mild toleration. I cannot but think tha=
t,
if Australia were completely socialized, there would still remain the same
popular objection as at present to any large influx of Chinese or Japanese
labor. Yet if Japan also were to become a Socialist State, the Japanese mig=
ht
well continue to feel the pressure of population and the desire for an outl=
et.
In such circumstances, all the passions and interests required to produce a=
war
would exist, in spite of the establishment of Socialism in both countries. =
Ants
are as completely Socialistic as any community can possibly be, yet they pu=
t to
death any ant which strays among them by mistake from a neighboring ant-hea=
p.
Men do not differ much from ants, as regards their instincts in this respec=
t,
where- ever there is a great divergence of race, as between white men and
yellow men. Of course the instinct of race-hostility can be overcome by
suitable circumstances; but in the absence of such circumstances it remains=
a
formidable menace to the world's peace.
If the peace of the world is ever to become
secure, I believe there will have to be, along with other changes, a
development of the idea which inspires the project of a League of Nations. =
As
time goes on, the destructiveness of war grows greater and its profits grow
less: the rational argument against war acquires more and more force as the
increasing productivity of labor makes it possible to devote a greater and
greater proportion of the population to the work of mutual slaughter. In qu=
iet
times, or when a great war has just ended, men's moods are amenable to the
rational grounds in favor of peace, and it is possible to inaugurate schemes
designed to make wars less frequent. Probably no civilized nation would emb=
ark
upon an aggressive war if it were fairly certain in advance that the aggres=
sor
must be defeated. This could be achieved if most great nations came to rega=
rd
the peace of the world as of such importance that they would side against an
aggressor even in a quarrel in which they had no direct interest. It is on =
this
hope that the League of Nations is based.
But the League of Nations, like the abolition =
of private
property, will be by no means sufficient if it is not accompanied or quickly
followed by other reforms. It is clear that such reforms, if they are to be
effective, must be international; the world must move as a whole in these
matters, if it is to move at all. One of the most obvious necessities, if p=
eace
is to be secure, is a measure of disarmament. So long as the present vast
armies and navies exist, no system can prevent the risk of war. But
disarmament, if it is to serve its purpose, must be simultaneous and by mut=
ual
agreement among all the Great Powers. And it is not likely to be successful=
so
long as hatred and suspicion rule between nations, for each nation will sus=
pect
its neighbor of not carrying out the bargain fairly. A different mental and
moral atmosphere from that to which we are accustomed in international affa=
irs
will be necessary if agreements between nations are to succeed in averting
catastrophes. If once such an atmosphere existed it might be perpetuated an=
d strengthened
by wise institutions; but it cannot be CREATED by institutions alone. Inter=
national
co-operation requires mutual good will, and good will, however it has arise=
n,
is only to be PRESERVED by co-operation. The international future depends u=
pon
the possibility of the initial creation of good will between nations.
It is in this sort of matter that revolutions =
are most
useful. If the Russian Revolution had been accompanied by a revolution in
Germany, the dramatic suddenness of the change might have shaken Europe, for
the moment, out of its habits of thought: the idea of fraternity might have
seemed, in the twinkling of an eye, to have entered the world of practical
politics; and no idea is so practical as the idea of the brotherhood of man=
, if
only people can be startled into believing in it. If once the idea of frate=
rnity
between nations were inaugurated with the faith and vigor belonging to a new
revolution, all the difficulties surrounding it would melt away, for all of
them are due to suspicion and the tyranny of ancient prejudice. Those who (=
as
is common in the English-speaking world) reject revolution as a method, and
praise the gradual piecemeal development which (we are told) constitutes so=
lid
progress, overlook the effect of dramatic events in changing the mood and t=
he
beliefs of whole populations. A simultaneous revolution in Germany and Russ=
ia would
no doubt have had such an effect, and would have made the creation of a new
world possible here and now.
Dis aliter visum: the millennium is not for ou=
r time.
The great moment has passed, and for ourselves it is again the distant hope
that must inspire us, not the immediate breathless looking for the delivera=
nce.[56]
But we have seen what might have been, and we know that great possibilities=
do
arise in times of crisis. In some such sense as this, it may well be true t=
hat
the Socialist revolution is the road to universal peace, and that when it h=
as
been traversed all the other conditions for the cessation of wars will grow=
of
themselves out of the changed mental and moral atmosphere.
[56] =
This
was written in March, 1918, almost the darkest moment of the war.
There=
is a
certain class of difficulties which surrounds the sober idealist in all
speculations about the not too distant future. These are the cases where the
solution believed by most idealists to be universally applicable is for some
reason impossible, and is, at the same time, objected to for base or intere=
sted
motives by all upholders of existing inequalities. The case of Tropical Afr=
ica
will illustrate what I mean. It would be difficult seriously to advocate the
immediate introduction of parliamentary government for the natives of this =
part
of the world, even if it were accompanied by women's suffrage and proportio=
nal representation.
So far as I know, no one supposes the populations of these regions capable =
of
self- determination, except Mr. Lloyd George. There can be no doubt that,
whatever regime may be introduced in Europe, African negroes will for a long
time to come be governed and exploited by Europeans. If the European States
became Socialistic, and refused, under a Quixotic impulse, to enrich themse=
lves
at the expense of the defenseless inhabitants of Africa, those inhabitants
would not thereby gain; on the contrary, they would lose, for they would be
handed over to the tender mercies of individual traders, operating with arm=
ies
of reprobate bravos, and committing every atrocity to which the civilized
barbarian is prone. The European governments cannot divest themselves of
responsibility in regard to Africa. They must govern there, and the best th=
at
can be hoped is that they should govern with a minimum of cruelty and rapac=
ity.
From the point of view of preserving the peace of the world, the problem is=
to parcel
out the advantages which white men derive from their position in Africa in =
such
a way that no nation shall feel a sense of injustice. This problem is
comparatively simple, and might no doubt be solved on the lines of the war =
aims
of the Inter-Allied Socialists. But it is not this problem which I wish to
discuss. What I wish to consider is, how could a Socialist or an Anarchist
community govern and administer an African region, full of natural wealth, =
but inhabited
by a quite uncivilized population? Unless great precautions were taken the
white community, under the circumstances, would acquire the position and the
instincts of a slave-owner. It would tend to keep the negroes down to the b=
are
level of subsistence, while using the produce of their country to increase =
the
comfort and splendor of the Communist community. It would do this with that=
careful
unconsciousness which now characterizes all the worst acts of nations.
Administrators would be appointed and would be expected to keep silence as =
to
their methods. Busybodies who reported horrors would be disbelieved, and wo=
uld
be said to be actuated by hatred toward the existing regime and by a perver=
se love
for every country but their own. No doubt, in the first generous enthusiasm
accompanying the establishment of the new regime at home, there would be ev=
ery
intention of making the natives happy, but gradually they would be forgotte=
n,
and only the tribute coming from their country would be remembered. I do not
say that all these evils are unavoidable; I say only that they will not be
avoided unless they are foreseen and a deliberate conscious effort is made =
to
prevent their realization. If the white communities should ever reach the p=
oint
of wishing to carry out as far as possible the principles underlying the re=
volt
against capitalism, they will have to find a way of establishing an absolut=
e disinterestedness
in their dealings with subject races. It will be necessary to avoid the
faintest suggestion of capitalistic profit in the government of Africa, and=
to
spend in the countries themselves whatever they would be able to spend if t=
hey
were self-governing. Moreover, it must always be remembered that backwardne=
ss in
civilization is not necessarily incurable, and that with time even the
populations of Central Africa may become capable of democratic self-governm=
ent,
provided Europeans bend their energies to this purpose.
The problem of Africa is, of course, a part of=
the
wider problems of Imperialism, but it is that part in which the application=
of
Socialist principles is most difficult. In regard to Asia, and more
particularly in regard to India and Persia, the application of principles is
clear in theory though difficult in political practice. The obstacles to
self-government which exist in Africa do not exist in the same measure in A=
sia.
What stands in the way of freedom of Asiatic populations is not their lack =
of
intelligence, but only their lack of military prowess, which makes them an =
easy
prey to our lust for dominion. This lust would probably be in temporary
abeyance on the morrow of a Socialist revolution, and at such a moment a ne=
w departure
in Asiatic policy might be taken with permanently beneficial results. I do =
not
mean, of course, that we should force upon India that form of democratic
government which we have developed for our own needs. I mean rather that we
should leave India to choose its own form of government, its own manner of
education and its own type of civilization. India has an ancient tradition,
very different from that of Western Europe, a tradition highly valued by
educated Hindoos, but not loved by our schools and colleges. The Hindoo
Nationalist feels that his country has a type of culture containing element=
s of
value that are absent, or much less marked, in the West; he wishes to be fr=
ee
to preserve this, and desires political freedom for such reasons rather than
for those that would most naturally appeal to an Englishman in the same sub=
ject
position. The belief of the European in his own Kultur tends to be fanatical
and ruthless, and for this reason, as much as for any other, the independen=
ce
of extra-European civilization is of real importance to the world, for it i=
s not
by a dead uniformity that the world as a whole is most enriched.
I have set forth strongly all the major
difficulties in the way of the preservation of the world's peace, not becau=
se I
believe these difficulties to be insuperable, but, on the contrary, because=
I
believe that they can be overcome if they are recognized. A correct diagnos=
is
is necessarily the first step toward a cure. The existing evils in
international relations spring, at bottom, from psychological causes, from =
motives
forming part of human nature as it is at present. Among these the chief are
competitiveness, love of power, and envy, using envy in that broad sense in=
which
it includes the instinctive dislike of any gain to others not accompanied b=
y an
at least equal gain to ourselves. The evils arising from these three causes=
can
be removed by a better education and a better economic and political system=
.
Competitiveness is by no means wholly an evil.=
When
it takes the form of emulation in the service of the public, or in discover=
y or
the production of works of art, it may become a very useful stimulus, urging
men to profitable effort beyond what they would otherwise make. It is only
harmful when it aims at the acquisition of goods which are limited in amoun=
t,
so that what one man possesses he holds at the expense of another. When
competitiveness takes this form it is necessarily attended by fear, and out=
of
fear cruelty is almost inevitably developed. But a social system providing =
for
a more just distribution of material goods might close to the instinct of c=
ompetitiveness
those channels in which it is harmful, and cause it to flow instead in chan=
nels
in which it would become a benefit to mankind. This is one great reason why=
the
communal ownership of land and capital would be likely to have a beneficial
effect upon human nature, for human nature, as it exists in adult men and
women, is by no means a fixed datum, but a product of circumstances, educat=
ion
and opportunity operating upon a highly malleable native disposition.
What is true of competitiveness is equally tru=
e of
love of power. Power, in the form in which it is now usually sought, is pow=
er
of command, power of imposing one's will upon others by force, open or conc=
ealed.
This form of power consists, in essence, in thwarting others, for it is only
displayed when others are compelled to do what they do not wish to do. Such
power, we hope, the social system which is to supersede capitalist will red=
uce
to a minimum by the methods which we outlined in the preceding chapter. The=
se
methods can be applied in international no less than in national affairs. In
international affairs the same formula of federalism will apply: self- dete=
rmination
for every group in regard to matters which concern it much more vitally than
they concern others, and government by a neutral authority embracing rival
groups in all matters in which conflicting interests of groups come into pl=
ay;
lout always with the fixed principle that the functions of government are t=
o be
reduced to the bare minimum compatible with justice and the prevention of
private violence. In such a world the present harmful outlets for the love =
of
power would be closed. But the power which consists in persuasion, in teach=
ing,
in leading men to a new wisdom or the realization of new possibilities of
happiness--this kind of power, which may be wholly beneficial, would remain
untouched, and many vigorous men, who in the actual world devote their ener=
gies
to domination, would in such a world find their energies directed to the
creation of new goods rather than the perpetuation of ancient evils.
Envy, the third of the psychological causes to=
which
we attributed what is bad in the actual world, depends in most natures upon
that kind of fundamental discontent which springs from a lack of free
development, from thwarted instinct, and from the impossibility of realizin=
g an
imagined happiness. Envy cannot be cured by preaching; preaching, at the be=
st,
will only alter its manifestations and lead it to adopt more subtle forms of
concealment. Except in those rare natures in which generosity dominates in
spite of circumstances, the only cure for envy is freedom and the joy of li=
fe. From
populations largely deprived of the simple instinctive pleasures of leisure=
and
love, sunshine and green fields, generosity of outlook and kindliness of
dispositions are hardly to be expected. In such populations these qualities=
are
not likely to be found, even among the fortunate few, for these few are awa=
re,
however dimly, that they are profiting by an injustice, and that they can o=
nly
continue to enjoy their good fortune by deliberately ignoring those with wh=
om
it is not shared. If generosity and kindliness are to be common, there must=
be
more care than there is at present for the elementary wants of human nature,
and more realization that the diffusion of happiness among all who are not =
the
victims of some peculiar misfortune is both possible and imperative. A world
full of happiness would not wish to plunge into war, and would not be filled
with that grudging hostility which our cramped and narrow existence forces =
upon
average human nature. A world full of happiness is not beyond human power t=
o create;
the obstacles imposed by inanimate nature are not insuperable. The real
obstacles lie in the heart of man, and the cure for these is a firm hope, i=
nformed
and fortified by thought.
SOCIA=
LISM
has been advocated by most of its champions chiefly as a means of increasing
the welfare of the wage earning classes, and more particularly their materi=
al
welfare. It has seemed accordingly, to some men whose aims are not material=
, as
if it has nothing to offer toward the general advancement of civilization in
the way of art and thought. Some of its advocates, moreover--and among these
Marx must be included--have written, no doubt not deliberately, as if with =
the
Socialist revolution the millennium would have arrived, and there would be =
no
need of further progress for the human race. I do not know whether our age =
is
more restless than that which preceded it, or whether it has merely become =
more
impregnated with the idea of evolution, but, for whatever reason, we have g=
rown
incapable of believing in a state of static perfection, and we demand, of a=
ny
social system, which is to have our approval, that it shall contain within
itself a stimulus and opportunity for progress toward something still bette=
r.
The doubts thus raised by Socialist writers make it necessary to inquire
whether Socialism would in fact be hostile to art and science, and whether =
it
would be likely to produce a stereotyped society in which progress would be=
come
difficult and slow.
It is not enough that men and women should be =
made
comfortable in a material sense. Many members of the well-to-do classes at =
present,
in spite of opportunity, contribute nothing of value to the life of the wor=
ld,
and do not even succeed in securing for themselves any personal happiness
worthy to be so called. The multiplication of such individuals would be an
achievement of the very minutest value; and if Socialism were merely to bes=
tow
upon all the kind of life and outlook which is now enjoyed by the more
apathetic among the well-to-do, it would offer little that could inspire
enthusiasm in any generous spirit.
``The true role of collective existence,'' say=
s M.
Naquet,[57]'' . . . is to learn, to discover, to know. Eating, drinking,
sleeping, living, in a word, is a mere accessory. In this respect, we are n=
ot distinguished
from the brute. Knowledge is the goal. If I were condemned to choose betwee=
n a
humanity materially happy, glutted after the manner of a flock of sheep in a
field, and a humanity existing in misery, but from which emanated, here and
there, some eternal truth, it is on the latter that my choice would fall.''=
[57] =
``L'Anarchie
et le Collectivisme,'' p. 114.
This
statement puts the alternative in a very extreme form in which it is somewh=
at
unreal. It may be said in reply that for those who have had the leisure and=
the
opportunity to enjoy ``eternal truths'' it is easy to exalt their importanc=
e at
the expense of sufferings which fall on others. This is true; but, if it is
taken as disposing of the question, it leaves out of account the importance=
of
thought for progress. Viewing the life of mankind as a whole, in the future=
as
well as in the present, there can be no question that a society in which so=
me
men pursue knowledge while others endure great poverty offers more hope of
ultimate good than a society in which all are sunk in slothful comfort. It =
is
true that poverty is a great evil, but it is not true that material prosper=
ity
is in itself a great good. If it is to have any real value to society, it m=
ust
be made a means to the advancement of those higher goods that belong to the
life of the mind. But the life of the mind does not consist of thought and
knowledge alone, nor can it be completely healthy unless it has some instin=
ctive
contact, however deeply buried, with the general life of the community.
Divorced from the social instinct, thought, like art, tends to become finic=
ky
and precious. It is the position of such art and thought as is imbued with =
the
instinctive sense of service to mankind that we wish to consider, for it is
this alone that makes up the life of the mind in the sense in which it is a
vital part of the life of the community. Will the life of the mind in this =
sense
be helped or hindered by Socialism? And will there still be a sufficient sp=
ur
to progress to prevent a condition of Byzantine immobility?
In considering this question we are, in a cert=
ain sense,
passing outside the atmosphere of democracy. The general good of the commun=
ity
is realized only in individuals, but it is realized much more fully in some
individuals than in others. Some men have a comprehensive and penetrating
intellect, enabling them to appreciate and remember what has been thought a=
nd
known by their predecessors, and to discover new regions in which they enjoy
all the high delights of the mental explorer. Others have the power of crea=
ting
beauty, giving bodily form to impalpable visions out of which joy comes to
many. Such men are more fortunate than the mass, and also more important for
the collective life. A larger share of the general sum of good is concentra=
ted
in them than in the ordinary man and woman; but also their contribution to =
the
general good is greater. They stand out among men and cannot be wholly fitt=
ed into
the framework of democratic equality. A social system which would render th=
em
unproductive would stand condemned, whatever other merits it might have.
The first thing to realize--though it is diffi=
cult
in a commercial age--is that what is best in creative mental activity canno=
t be
produced by any system of monetary rewards. Opportunity and the stimulus of=
an
invigorating spiritual atmosphere are important, but, if they are presented=
, no
financial inducements will be required, while if they are absent, material
compensations will be of no avail. Recognition, even if it takes the form of
money, can bring a certain pleasure in old age to the man of science who has
battled all his life against academic prejudice, or to the artist who has
endured years of ridicule for not painting in the manner of his predecessor=
s;
but it is not by the remote hope of such pleasures that their work has been
inspired. All the most important work springs from an uncalculating impulse,
and is best promoted, not by rewards after the event, but by circumstances
which keep the impulse alive and afford scope for the activities which it
inspires. In the creation of such circumstances our present system is much =
at
fault. Will Socialism be better?
I do not think this question can be answered w=
ithout
specifying the kind of Socialism that is intended: some forms of Socialism
would, I believe, be even more destructive in this respect than the present=
capitalist
regime, while others would be immeasurably better. Three things which a soc=
ial
system can provide or withhold are helpful to mental creation: first, techn=
ical
training; second, liberty to follow the creative impulse; third, at least t=
he
possibility of ultimate appreciation by some public, whether large or small=
. We
may leave out of our discussion both individual genius and those intangible
conditions which make some ages great and others sterile in art and
science--not because these are unimportant, but because they are too little
understood to be taken account of in economic or political organization. The
three conditions we have mentioned seem to cover most of what can be SEEN t=
o be
useful or harmful from our present point of view, and it is therefore to th=
em
that we shall confine ourselves.
1. Technical Training.--Technical training at =
present,
whether in science or art, requires one or other of two conditions. Either a
boy must be the son of well-to-do parents who can afford to keep him while =
he
acquires his education, or he must show so much ability at an early age as =
to
enable him to subsist on scholarships until he is ready to earn his living.=
The
former condition is, of course, a mere matter of luck, and could not be
preserved in its present form under any kind of Socialism or Communism. This
loss is emphasized by defenders of the present system, and no doubt it would
be, to same extent, a real loss. But the well-to-do are a small proportion =
of
the population, and presumably on the average no more talented by nature th=
an
their less fortunate contemporaries. If the advantages which are enjoyed no=
w by
those few among them who are capable of good work in science or art could b=
e extended,
even in a slightly attenuated form, to all who are similarly gifted, the re=
sult
would almost infallibly be a gain, and much ability which is now wasted wou=
ld
be rendered fruitful. But how is this to be effected?
The system of scholarships obtained by
competition, though better than nothing, is objectionable from many points =
of
view. It introduces the competitive spirit into the work of the very young;=
it makes
them regard knowledge from the standpoint of what is useful in examinations
rather than in the light of its intrinsic interest or importance; it places=
a
premium upon that sort of ability which is displayed precociously in glib
answers to set questions rather than upon the kind that broods on difficult=
ies and
remains for a time rather dumb. What is perhaps worse than any of these def=
ects
is the tendency to cause overwork in youth, leading to lack of vigor and
interest when manhood has been reached. It can hardly be doubted that by th=
is
cause, at present, many fine minds have their edge blunted and their keenne=
ss
destroyed.
State Socialism might easily universalize the =
system
of scholarships obtained by competitive examination, and if it did so it is=
to
he feared that it would be very harmful. State Socialists at present tend t=
o be
enamored of the systems which is exactly of the kind that every bureaucrat =
loves:
orderly, neat, giving a stimulus to industrious habits, and involving no wa=
ste
of a sort that could be tabulated in statistics or accounts of public
expenditure. Such men will argue that free higher education is expensive to=
the
community, and only useful in the case of those who have exceptional abilit=
ies;
it ought, therefore, they will say, not to be given to all, but only to tho=
se
who will become more useful members of society through receiving it. Such
arguments make a great appeal to what are called ``practical'' men, and the
answers to them are of a sort which it is difficult to render widely
convincing. Revolt against the evils of competition is, however, part of the
very essence of the Socialist's protest against the existing order, and on =
this
ground, if on no other, those who favor Socialism may be summoned to look f=
or
some better solution.
Much the simplest solution, and the only reall=
y effective
one, is to make every kind of education free up to the age of twenty-one for
all boys and girls who desire it. The majority will be tired of education b=
efore
that age, and will prefer to begin other work sooner; this will lead to a
natural selection of those with strong interests in some pursuit requiring a
long training. Among those selected in this way by their own inclinations,
probably almost all tho have marked abilities of the kind in question will =
be included.
It is true that there will also be many who have very little ability; the
desire to become a painter, for example, is by no means confined to those w=
ho
can paint. But this degree of waste could well be borne by the community; it
would be immeasurably less than that now entailed by the support of the idle
rich. Any system which aims at avoiding this kind of waste must entail the =
far
more serious waste of rejecting or spoiling some of the best ability in each
generation. The system of free education up to any grade for all who desire=
it
is the only system which is consistent with the principles of liberty, and =
the
only one which gives a reasonable hope of affording full scope for talent. =
This
system is equally compatible with all forms of Socialism and Anarchism.
Theoretically, it is compatible with capitalism, but practically it is so
opposite in spirit that it would hardly be feasible without a complete econ=
omic
reconstruction. The fact that Socialism would facilitate it must be reckone=
d a
very powerful argument in favor of change, for the waste of talent at prese=
nt
in the poorer classes of society must be stupendous.
2. Liberty to follow the creative impulse.-- W=
hen
a man's training has been completed, if he is possessed of really great
abilities, he will do his best work if he is completely free to follow his
bent, creating what seems good to him, regardless of the judgment of
``experts.'' At present this is only possible for two classes of people: th=
ose
who have private means, and those who can earn a living by an occupation th=
at
does not absorb their whole energies. Under Socialism, there will be no one
with private means, and if there is to be no loss as regards art and scienc=
e,
the opportunity which now comes by accident to a few will have to be provid=
ed deliberately
for a much larger number. The men who have used private means as an opportu=
nity
for creative work have been few but important: one might mention Milton,
Shelley, Keats and Darwin as examples. Probably none of these would have
produced as good work if they had had to earn their livelihood. If Darwin h=
ad
been a university teacher, he would of course have been dismissed from his =
post
by the influence of the clerics on account of his scandalous theories.
Nevertheless, the bulk of the creative work of=
the
world is done at present by men who subsist by some other occupation. Scien=
ce,
and research generally, are usually done in their spare time by men who liv=
e by
teaching. There is no great objection to this in the case of science, provi=
ded
the number of hours devoted to teaching is not excessive. It is partly beca=
use
science and teaching are so easily combined that science is vigorous in the
present age. In music, a composer who is also a performer enjoys similar
advantages, but one who is not a performer must starve, unless he is rich or
willing to pander to the public taste. In the fine arts, as a rule, it is n=
ot easy
in the modern world either to make a living by really good work or to find a
subsidiary profession which leaves enough leisure for creation. This is pre=
sumably
one reason, though by no means the only one, why art is less flourishing th=
an
science.
The bureaucratic State Socialist will have a s=
imple
solution for these difficulties. He will appoint a body consisting of the m=
ost
eminent celebrities in an art or a science, whose business it shall be to j=
udge
the work of young men, and to issue licenses to those whose productions find
favor in their eyes. A licensed artist shall be considered to have performed
his duty to the community by producing works of art. But of course he will =
have
to prove his industry by never failing to produce in reasonable quantities,=
and
his continued ability by never failing to please his eminent judges--until,=
in
the fulness of time, he becomes a judge himself. In this way, the authoriti=
es will
insure that the artist shall be competent, regular, and obedient to the best
traditions of his art. Those who fail to fulfil these conditions will be co=
mpelled
by the withdrawal of their license to seek some less dubious mode of earning
their living. Such will be the ideal of the State Socialist.
In such a world all that makes life tolerable =
to the
lover of beauty would perish. Art springs from a wild and anarchic side of
human nature; between the artist and the bureaucrat there must always be a
profound mutual antagonism, an age-long battle in which the artist, always
outwardly worsted, wins in the end through the gratitude of mankind for the=
joy
that he puts into their lives. If the wild side of human nature is to be
permanently subjected to the orderly rules of the benevolent, uncomprehendi=
ng bureaucrat,
the joy of life will perish out of the earth, and the very impulse to live =
will
gradually wither and die. Better a thousandfold the present world with all =
its
horrors than such a dead mummy of a world. Better Anarchism, with all its
risks, than a State Socialism that subjects to rule what must be spontaneous
and free if it is to have any value. It is this nightmare that makes artist=
s,
and lovers of beauty generally, so often suspicious of Socialism. But there=
is
nothing in the essence of Socialism to make art impossible: only certain fo=
rms of
Socialism would entail this danger. William Morris was a Socialist, and was=
a
Socialist very largely because he was an artist. And in this he was not
irrational.
It is impossible for art, or any of the higher=
creative
activities, to flourish under any system which requires that the artist sha=
ll
prove his competence to some body of authorities before he is allowed to fo=
llow
his impulse. Any really great artist is almost sure to be thought incompete=
nt
by those among his seniors who would be generally regarded as best qualifie=
d to
form an opinion. And the mere fact of having to produce work which will ple=
ase
older men is hostile to a free spirit and to bold innovation. Apart from th=
is
difficulty, selection by older men would lead to jealousy and intrigue and
back-biting, producing a poisonous atmosphere of underground competition. T=
he
only effect of such a plan would be to eliminate the few who now slip throu=
gh
owing to some fortunate accident. It is not by any system, but by freedom
alone, that art can flourish.
There are two ways by which the artist could s=
ecure
freedom under Socialism of the right kind. He might undertake regular work
outside his art, doing only a few hours' work a day and receiving proportio=
nately
less pay than those who do a full day's work. He ought, in that case, to be=
at
liberty to sell his pictures if he could find purchasers. Such a system wou=
ld
have many advantages. It would leave absolutely every man free to become an
artist, provided he were willing to suffer a certain economic loss. This wo=
uld
not deter those in whom the impulse was strong and genuine, but would tend =
to exclude
the dilettante. Many young artists at present endure voluntarily much great=
er
poverty than need be entailed by only doing half the usual day's work in a
well-organized Socialist community; and some degree of hardship is not
objectionable, as a test of the strength of the creative impulse, and as an
offset to the peculiar joys of the creative life.
The other possibility[58] would be that the
necessaries of life should be free, as Anarchists desire, to all equally,
regardless of whether they work or not. Under this plan, every man could li=
ve
without work: there would be what might be called a ``vagabond's wage,''
sufficient for existence but not for luxury. The artist who preferred to ha=
ve
his whole time for art and enjoyment might live on the ``vagabond's wage''-=
-traveling
on foot when the humor seized him to see foreign countries, enjoying the air
and the sun, as free as the birds, and perhaps scarcely less happy. Such me=
n would
bring color and diversity into the life of the community; their outlook wou=
ld
be different from that of steady, stay-at-home workers, and would keep aliv=
e a
much-needed element of light- heartedness which our sober, serious civiliza=
tion
tends to kill. If they became very numerous, they might be too great an
economic burden on the workers; but I doubt if there are many with enough
capacity for simple enjoyments to choose poverty and free- dom in preferenc=
e to
the comparatively light and pleasant work which will be usual in those days=
.
[58] =
Which
we discussed in Chapter IV.
By ei=
ther
of these methods, freedom can be preserved for the artist in a socialistic
commonwealth-- far more complete freedom, and far more widespread, than any
that now exists except for the possessors of capital.
But there still remain some not altogether eas=
y problems.
Take, for example, the publishing of books. There will not, under Socialism=
, be
private publishers as at present: under State Socialism, presumably the Sta=
te
will be the sole publisher, while under Syndicalism or Guild Socialism the
Federation du Livre will have the whole of the trade in its hands. Under th=
ese
circumstances, who is to decide what MSS. are to be printed? It is clear th=
at
opportunities exist for an Index more rigorous than that of the Inquisition=
. If
the State were the sole publisher, it would doubtless refuse books opposed =
to
State Socialism. If the Federation du Livre were the ultimate arbiter, what
publicity could be obtained for works criticising it? And apart from such
political difficulties we should have, as regards literature, that very
censorship by eminent officials which we agreed to regard as disastrous whe=
n we
were considering the fine arts in general. The difficulty is serious, and a=
way
of meeting it must be found if literature is to remain free.
Kropotkin, who believes that manual and
intellectual work should be combined, holds that authors themselves should =
be
compositors, bookbinders, etc. He even seems to suggest that the whole of t=
he
manual work involved in producing books should be done by authors. It may be
doubted whether there are enough authors in the world for this to be possib=
le, and
in any case I cannot but think that it would be a waste of time for them to
leave the work they understand in order to do badly work which others could=
do
far better and more quickly. That, however, does not touch our present poin=
t,
which is the question how the MSS. to be printed will be selected. In
Kropotkin's plan there will presumably be an Author's Guild, with a Committ=
ee
of Management, if Anarchism allows such things. This Committee of Management
will decide which of the books submitted to it are worthy to be printed. Am=
ong
these will be included those by the Committee and their friends, but not th=
ose
by their enemies. Authors of rejected MSS. will hardly have the patience to=
spend
their time setting up the works of successful rivals, and there will have t=
o be
an elaborate system of log-rolling if any books are to be printed at all. It
hardly looks as if this plan would conduce to harmony among literary men, or
would lead to the publication of any book of an unconventional tendency. Kr=
opotkin's
own books, for example, would hardly have found favor.
The only way of meeting these difficulties, wh=
ether
under State Socialism or Guild Socialism or Anarchism, seems to be by makin=
g it
possible for an author to pay for the publication of his book if it is not =
such
as the State or the Guild is willing to print at its own expense. I am aware
that this method is contrary to the spirit of Socialism, but I do not see w=
hat other
way there is of securing freedom. The payment might be made by undertaking =
to
engage for an assigned period in some work of recognized utility and to hand
over such proportion of the earnings as might be necessary. The work undert=
aken
might of course be, as Kropotkin suggests, the manual part of the productio=
n of
books, but I see no special reason why it should be. It would have to be an
absolute rule that no book should be refused, no matter what the nature of =
its
contents might be, if payment for publication were offered at the standard
rate. An author who had admirers would be able to secure their help in paym=
ent.
An unknown author might, it is true, have to suffer a considerable loss of
comfort in order to make his payment, but that would give an automatic mean=
s of
eliminating those whose writing was not the result of any very profound imp=
ulse
and would be by no means wholly an evil.
Probably some similar method would be desirabl=
e as
regards the publishing and performing of new music.
What we have been suggesting will, no doubt, b=
e objected
to by orthodox Socialists, since they will find something repugnant to their
principles in the whole idea of a private person paying to have certain work
done. But it is a mistake to be the slave of a system, and every system, if=
it
is applied rigidly, will entail evils which could only be avoided by some c=
oncession
to the exigencies of special cases. On the whole, a wise form of Socialism
might afford infinitely better opportunities for the artist and the man of =
science
than are possible in a capitalist community, but only if the form of Social=
ism
adopted is one which is fitted for this end by means of provisions such as =
we
have been suggesting.
3. Possibility of Appreciation.--This conditio=
n is
one which is not necessary to all who do creative work, but in the sense in
which I mean it the great majority find it very nearly indispensable. I do =
not mean
widespread public recognition, nor that ignorant, half-sincere respect whic=
h is
commonly accorded to artists who have achieved success. Neither of these se=
rves
much purpose. What I mean is rather understanding, and a spontaneous feeling
that things of beauty are important. In a thoroughly commercialized society=
, an
artist is respected if he makes money, and because he makes money, but ther=
e is
no genuine respect for the works of art by which his money has been made. A
millionaire whose fortune has been made in button-hooks or chewing-gum is r=
egarded
with awe, but none of this feeling is bestowed on the articles from which h=
is
wealth is derived. In a society which measures all things by money the same
tends to be true of the artist. If he has become rich he is respected, thou=
gh
of course less than the millionaire, but his pictures or books or music are
regarded as the chewing-gum or the button- hooks are regarded, merely as a
means to money. In such an atmosphere it is very difficult for the artist to
preserve his creative impulse pure: either he is contaminated by his
surroundings, or he becomes embittered through lack of appreciation for the
object of his endeavor.
It is not appreciation of the artist that is
necessary so much as appreciation of the art. It is difficult for an artist=
to
live in an environment in which everything is judged by its utility, rather
than by its intrinsic quality. The whole side of life of which art is the
flower requires something which may be called disinterestedness, a capacity=
for
direct enjoyment without thought of tomorrow's problems and difficulties. W=
hen
people are amused by a joke they do not need to be persuaded that it will s=
erve
some important purpose. The same kind of direct pleasure is involved in any
genuine appreciation of art. The struggle for life, the serious work of a t=
rade
or profession, is apt to make people too solemn for jokes and too pre-occup=
ied
for art. The easing of the struggle, the diminution in the hours of work, a=
nd the
lightening of the burden of existence, which would result from a better eco=
nomic
system, could hardly fail to increase the joy of life and the vital energy,=
available
for sheer delight in the world. And if this were achieved there would
inevitably be more spontaneous pleasure in beautiful things, and more enjoy=
ment
of the work of artists. But none of these good results are to be expected f=
rom
the mere removal of poverty: they all require also a diffused sense of free=
dom,
and the absence of that feeling of oppression by a vast machine which now
weighs down the individual spirit. I do not think State Socialism can give =
this
sense of freedom, but some other forms of Socialism, which have absorbed wh=
at
is true in Anarchist teaching, can give it to a degree of which capitalism =
is wholly
incapable.
A general sense of progress and achievement is=
an
immense stimulus to all forms of creative work. For this reason, a great de=
al
will depend, not only in material ways, upon the question whether methods of
production in industry and agriculture become stereotyped or continue to ch=
ange
rapidly as they have done during the last hundred years. Improved methods of
production will be much more obviously than now to the interest of the
community at large, when what every man receives is his due share of the to=
tal
produce of labor. But there will probably not be any individuals with the s=
ame
direct and intense interest in technical improvements as now belongs to the
capitalist in manufacture. If the natural conservatism of the workers is no=
t to
prove stronger than their interest in increasing production, it will be
necessary that, when better methods are introduced by the workers in any
industry, part at least of the benefit should be allowed for a time to be r=
etained
by them. If this is done, it may be presumed that each Guild will be
continually seeking for new processes or inventions, and will value those
technical parts of scientific research which are useful for this purpose. W=
ith
every improvement, the question will arise whether it is to be used to give
more leisure or to increase the dividend of commodities. Where there is so =
much
more leisure than there is now, there will be many more people with a knowl=
edge
of science or an understanding of art. The artist or scientific investigator
will be far less cut off than he is at present from the average citizen, and
this will almost inevitably be a stimulus to his creative energy.
I think we may fairly conclude that, from the =
point
of view of all three requisites for art and science, namely, training, free=
dom
and appreciation, State Socialism would largely fail to remove existing evi=
ls
and would introduce new evils of its own; but Guild Socialism, or even
Syndicalism, if it adopted a liberal policy toward those who preferred to w=
ork less
than the usual number of hours at recognized occupations, might be immeasur=
ably
preferable to anything that is possible under the rule of capitalism. There=
are
dangers, but they will all vanish if the importance of liberty is adequately
acknowledged. In this as in nearly everything else, the road to all that is
best is the road of freedom.
IN the
daily lives of most men and women, fear plays a greater part than hope: they
are more filled with the thought of the possessions that others may take fr=
om
them, than of the joy that they might create in their own lives and in the
lives with which they come in contact.
It is not so that life should be lived.
Those whose lives are fruitful to themselves, =
to their
friends, or to the world are inspired by hope and sustained by joy: they se=
e in
imagination the things that might be and the way in which they are to be
brought into existence. In their private relations they are not pre-occupied
with anxiety lest they should lose such affection and respect as they recei=
ve:
they are engaged in giving affection and respect freely, and the reward com=
es
of itself without their seeking. In their work they are not haunted by jeal=
ousy
of competitors, but concerned with the actual matter that has to be done. In
politics, they do not spend time and passion defending unjust privileges of
their class or nation, but they aim at making the world as a whole happier,
less cruel, less full of conflict between rival greeds, and more full of hu=
man
beings whose growth has not been dwarfed and stunted by oppression.
A life lived in this spirit--the spirit that a=
ims
at creating rather than possessing--has a certain fundamental happiness, of
which it cannot be wholly robbed by adverse circumstances. This is the way =
of
life recommended in the Gospels, and by all the great teachers of the world.
Those who have found it are freed from the tyranny of fear, since what they=
value
most in their lives is not at the mercy of outside power. If all men could
summon up the courage and the vision to live in this way in spite of obstac=
les and
discouragement, there would be no need for the regeneration of the world to
begin by political and economic reform: all that is needed in the way of re=
form
would come automatically, without resistance, owing to the moral regenerati=
on
of individuals. But the teaching of Christ has been nominally accepted by t=
he
world for many centuries, and yet those who follow it are still persecuted =
as
they were before the time of Constantine. Experience has proved that few are
able to see through the apparent evils of an outcast's life to the inner joy
that comes of faith and creative hope. If the domination of fear is to be o=
vercome,
it is not enough, as regards the mass of men, to preach courage and
indifference to misfortune: it is necessary to remove the causes of fear, to
make a good life no longer an unsuccessful one in a worldly sense, and to
diminish the harm that can be inflicted upon those who are not wary in self=
- defense.
When we consider the evils in the lives we kno=
w of,
we find that they may be roughly divided into three classes. There are, fir=
st,
those due to physical nature: among these are death, pain and the difficult=
y of
making the soil yield a subsistence. These we will call ``physical evils.''
Second, we may put those that spring from defects in the character or aptit=
udes
of the sufferer: among these are ignorance, lack of will, and violent passi=
ons.
These we will call ``evils of character.'' Third come those that depend upon
the power of one individual or group over another: these comprise not only
obvious tyranny, but all interference with free development, whether by for=
ce
or by excessive mental influence such as may occur in education. These we w=
ill
call ``evils of power.'' A social system may be judged by its bearing upon
these three kinds of evils.
The distinction between the three kinds cannot=
be
sharply drawn. Purely physical evil is a limit, which we can never be sure =
of
having reached: we cannot abolish death, but we can often postpone it by sc=
ience,
and it may ultimately become possible to secure that the great majority sha=
ll
live till old age; we cannot wholly prevent pain, but we can diminish it
indefinitely by securing a healthy life for all; we cannot make the earth y=
ield
its fruits in any abundance without labor, but we can diminish the amount of
the labor and improve its conditions until it ceases to be an evil. Evils of
character are often the result of physical evil in the shape of illness, and
still more often the result of evils of power, since tyranny degrades both
those who exercise it and (as a rule) those who suffer it. Evils of power a=
re
intensified by evils of character in those who have power, and by fear of t=
he
physical evil which is apt to be the lot of those who have no power. For all
these reasons, the three sorts of evil are intertwined. Nevertheless, speak=
ing
broadly, we may distinguish among our misfortunes those which have their
proximate cause in the material world, those which are mainly due to defect=
s in
ourselves, and those which spring from our being subject to the control of
others.
The main methods of combating these evils are:=
for
physical evils, science; for evils of character, education (in the widest
sense) and a free outlet for all impulses that do not involve domination; f=
or
evils of power, the reform of the political and economic organization of
society in such a way as to reduce to the lowest possible point the
interference of one man with the life of another. We will begin with the th=
ird
of these kinds of evil, because it is evils of power specially that Sociali=
sm
and Anarchism have sought to remedy. Their protest against Inequalities of =
wealth
has rested mainly upon their sense of the evils arising from the power
conferred by wealth. This point has been well stated by Mr. G. D. H. Cole:-=
-
What,=
I
want to ask, is the fundamental evil in our modern Society which we should =
set
out to abolish?
There are two possible answers to that questio=
n,
and I am sure that very many well-meaning people would make the wrong one. =
They
would answer POVERTY, when they ought to answer SLAVERY. Face to face every=
day
with the shameful contrasts of riches and destitution, high dividends and l=
ow
wages, and painfully conscious of the futility of trying to adjust the bala=
nce by
means of charity, private or public, they would answer unhesitatingly that =
they
stand for the ABOLITION OF POVERTY.
Well and good! On that issue every Socialist is
with them. But their answer to my question is none the less wrong.
Poverty is the symptom: slavery the disease. T=
he extremes
of riches and destitution follow inevitably upon the extremes of license and
bondage. The many are not enslaved because they are poor, they are poor bec=
ause
they are enslaved. Yet Socialists have all too often fixed their eyes upon =
the
material misery of the poor without realizing that it rests upon the spirit=
ual
degradation of the slave.[59]
[59]
``Self-Government in Industry,'' G. Bell & Sons, 1917, pp. 110-111.
I do =
not
think any reasonable person can doubt that the evils of power in the present
system are vastly greater than is necessary, nor that they might be
immeasurably diminished by a suitable form of Socialism. A few fortunate
people, it is true, are now enabled to live freely on rent or interest, and=
they
could hardly have more liberty under another system. But the great bulk, not
only of the very poor, but, of all sections of wage-earners and even of the
professional classes, are the slaves of the need for getting money. Almost =
all
are compelled to work so hard that they have little leisure for enjoyment or
for pursuits outside their regular occupation. Those who are able to retire=
in
later middle age are bored, because they have not learned how to fill their
time when they are at liberty, and such interests as they once had apart fr=
om
work have dried up. Yet these are the exceptionally fortunate: the majority=
have
to work hard till old age, with the fear of destitution always before them,=
the
richer ones dreading that they will be unable to give their children the
education or the medical care that they consider desirable, the poorer ones
often not far removed from starvation. And almost all who work have no voic=
e in
the direction of their work; throughout the hours of labor they are mere
machines carrying out the will of a master. Work is usually done under
disagreeable conditions, involving pain and physical hardship. The only mot=
ive
to work is wages: the very idea that work might be a joy, like the work of =
the
artist, is usually scouted as utterly Utopian.
But by far the greater part of these evils are=
wholly
unnecessary. If the civilized portion of mankind could be induced to desire
their own happiness more than another's pain, if they could be induced to w=
ork
constructively for improvements which they would share with all the world
rather than destructively to prevent other classes or nations from stealing=
a
march on them, the whole system by which the world's work is done might be
reformed root and branch within a generation.
From the point of view of liberty, what system=
would
be the best? In what direction should we wish the forces of progress to mov=
e?
From this point of view, neglecting for the mo=
ment
all other considerations, I have no doubt that the best system would be one=
not
far removed from that advocated by Kropotkin, but rendered more practicable=
by
the adoption of the main principles of Guild Socialism. Since every point c=
an
be disputed, I will set down without argument the kind of organization of w=
ork
that would seem best.
Education should be compulsory up to the age of
16, or perhaps longer; after that, it should be continued or not at the opt=
ion
of the pupil, but remain free (for those who desire it) up to at least the =
age of
21. When education is finished no one should be COMPELLED to work, and those
who choose not to work should receive a bare livelihood, and be left comple=
tely
free; but probably it would be desirable that there should be a strong publ=
ic
opinion in favor of work, so that only comparatively few should choose
idleness. One great advantage of making idleness economically possible is t=
hat
it would afford a powerful motive for making work not disagreeable; and no =
community
where most work is disagreeable can be said to have found a solution of
economic problems. I think it is reasonable to assume that few would choose
idleness, in view of the fact that even now at least nine out of ten of tho=
se
who have (say) 100 pounds a year from investments prefer to increase their
income by paid work.
Coming now to that great majority who will not= choose idleness, I think we may assume that, with the help of science, and by the elimination of the vast amount of unproductive work involved in internal an= d international competition, the whole community could be kept in comfort by means of four hours' work a day. It is already being urged by experienced employers that their employes can actually produce as much in a six-hour day as they can w= hen they work eight hours. In a world where there is a much higher level of technical instruction than there is now the same tendency will be accentuat= ed. People will be taught not only, as at present, one trade, or one small port= ion of a trade, but several trades, so that they can vary their occupation according to the seasons and the fluctuations of demand. Every industry wil= l be self-governing as regards all its internal affairs, and even separate facto= ries will decide for themselves all questions that only concern those who work in them. There will not be capitalist management, as at present, but managemen= t by elected representatives, as in politics. Relations between different groups= of producers will be settled by the Guild Congress, matters concerning the community as the inhabitants of a certain area will continue to be decided = by Parliament, while all disputes between Parliament and the Guild Congress wi= ll be decided by a body composed of representatives of both in equal numbers.<= o:p>
Payment will not be made, as at present, only =
for work
actually required and performed, but for willingness to work. This system is
already adopted in much of the better paid work: a man occupies a certain p=
osition,
and retains it even at times when there happens to be very little to do. The
dread of unemployment and loss of livelihood will no longer haunt men like a
nightmare. Whether all who are willing to work will be paid equally, or whe=
ther
exceptional skill will still command exceptional pay, is a matter which may=
be
left to each guild to decide for itself. An opera-singer who received no mo=
re
pay than a scene-shifter might choose to be a scene-shifter until the syste=
m was
changed: if so, higher pay would probably be found necessary. But if it were
freely voted by the Guild, it could hardly constitute a grievance.
Whatever might be done toward making work agre=
eable,
it is to be presumed that some trades would always remain unpleasant. Men c=
ould
be attracted into these by higher pay or shorter hours, instead of being dr=
iven
into them by destitution. The community would then have a strong economic
motive for finding ways of diminishing the disagreeableness of these except=
ional
trades.
There would still have to be money, or somethi=
ng analogous
to it, in any community such as we are imagining. The Anarchist plan of a f=
ree
distribution of the total produce of work in equal shares does not get rid =
of
the need for some standard of exchange value, since one man will choose to =
take
his share in one form and another in another. When the day comes for
distributing luxuries, old ladies will not want their quota of cigars, nor
young men their just proportion of lap-dog; this will make it necessary to =
know
how many cigars are the equivalent of one lap-dog. Much the simplest way is=
to pay
an income, as at present, and allow relative values to be adjusted accordin=
g to
demand. But if actual coin were paid, a man might hoard it and in time beco=
me a
capitalist. To prevent this, it would be best to pay notes available only
during a certain period, say one year from the date of issue. This would en=
able
a man to save up for his annual holiday, but not to save indefinitely.
There is a very great deal to be said for the =
Anarchist
plan of allowing necessaries, and all commodities that can easily be produc=
ed
in quantities adequate to any possible demand, to be given away freely to a=
ll
who ask for them, in any amounts they may require. The question whether this
plan should be adopted is, to my mind, a purely technical one: would it be,=
in
fact, possible to adopt it without much waste and consequent diversion of l=
abor
to the production of necessaries when it might be more usefully employed
otherwise? I have not the means of answering this question, but I think it
exceedingly probable that, sooner or later, with the continued improvement =
in
the methods of production, this Anarchist plan will become feasible; and wh=
en
it does, it certainly ought to be adopted.
Women in domestic work, whether married or
unmarried, will receive pay as they would if they were in industry. This wi=
ll
secure the complete economic independence of wives, which is difficult to
achieve in any other way, since mothers of young children ought not to be
expected to work outside the home.
The expense of children will not fall, as at
present, on the parents. They will receive, like adults, their share of
necessaries, and their education will be free.[60] There is no longer to be=
the
present competition for scholarships among the abler children: they will no=
t be
imbued with the competitive spirit from infancy, or forced to use their bra=
ins
to an unnatural degree with consequent listlessness and lack of health in l=
ater
life. Education will be far more diversified than at present; greater care =
will
be taken to adapt it to the needs of different types of young people. There
will be more attempt to encourage initiative young pupils, and less desire =
to
fill their minds with a set of beliefs and mental habits regarded as desira=
ble
by the State, chiefly because they help to preserve the status quo. For the
great majority of children it will probably be found desirable to have much
more outdoor education in the country. And for older boys and girls whose
interests are not intellectual or artistic, technical education, undertaken=
in
a liberal spirit, is far more useful in promoting mental activity than
book-learning which they regard (however falsely) as wholly useless except =
for purposes
of examination. The really useful educa- tion is that which follows the
direction of the child's own instinctive interests, supplying knowledge for=
which
it is seeking, not dry, detailed information wholly out of relation to its
spontaneous desires.
[60] =
Some
may fear that the result would be an undue increase of population, but such
fears I believe to be groundless. See above, (Chapter IV, on ``Work and Pay=
.''
Also, Chapter vi of ``Principles of Social Reconstruction'' (George Allen a=
nd Unwin,
Ltd.).
Gover=
nment
and law will still exist in our community, but both will be reduced to a
minimum. There will still be acts which will be forbidden--for example, mur=
der.
But very nearly the whole of that part of the criminal law which deals with
property will have become obsolete, and many of the motives which now produ=
ce
murders will be no longer operative. Those who nevertheless still do commit
crimes will not be blamed or regarded as wicked; they will be regarded as
unfortunate, and kept in some kind of mental hospital until it is thought t=
hat
they are no longer a danger. By education and freedom and the abolition of
private capital the number of crimes can be made exceedingly small. By the
method of individual curative treatment it will generally be possible to se=
cure
that a man's first offense shall also be his last, except in the case of
lunatics and the feeble-minded, for whom of course a more prolonged but not
less kindly detention may be necessary.
Government may be regarded as consisting of two
parts: the one, the decisions of the community or its recognized organs; the
other, the enforcing of those decisions upon all who resist them. The first=
part
is not objected to by Anarchists. The second part, in an ordinary civilized
State, may remain entirely in the background: those who have resisted a new=
law
while it was being debated will, as a rule, submit to it when it is passed,
because resistance is generally useless in a settled and orderly community.=
But
the possibility of governmental force remains, and indeed is the very reason
for the submission which makes force unnecessary. If, as Anarchists desire,=
there
were no use of force by government, the majority could still band themselves
together and use force against the minority. The only difference would be t=
hat
their army or their police force would be ad hoc, instead of being permanent
and professional. The result of this would be that everyone would have to l=
earn
how to fight, for fear a well- drilled minority should seize power and
establish an old-fashioned oligarchic State. Thus the aim of the Anarchists
seems hardly likely to be achieved by the methods which they advocate.
The reign of violence in human affairs, whethe=
r within
a country or in its external relations, can only be prevented, if we have n=
ot
been mistaken, by an authority able to declare all use of force except by i=
tself
illegal, and strong enough to be obviously capable of making all other use =
of
force futile, except when it could secure the support of public opinion as a
defense of freedom or a resistance to injustice. Such an authority exists
within a country: it is the State. But in international affairs it remains =
to
be created. The difficulties are stupendous, but they must be overcome if t=
he
world is to be saved from periodical wars, each more destructive than any of
its predecessors. Whether, after this war, a League of Nations will be form=
ed,
and will be capable of performing this task, it is as yet impossible to
foretell. However that may be, some method of preventing wars will have to =
be
established before our Utopia becomes possible. When once men BELIEVE that =
the
world is safe from war, the whole difficulty will be solved: there will the=
n no
longer be any serious resistance to the disbanding of national armies and
navies, and the substitution for them of a small international force for
protection against uncivilized races. And when that stage has been reached,
peace will be virtually secure.
The practice of government by majorities, whic=
h Anarchists
criticise, is in fact open to most of the objections which they urge against
it. Still more objectionable is the power of the executive in matters vital=
ly
affecting the happiness of all, such as peace and war. But neither can be
dispensed with suddenly. There are, however, two methods of diminishing the
harm done by them: (1) Government by majorities can be made less oppressive=
by
devolution, by placing the decision of questions primarily affecting only a
section of the community in the hands of that section, rather than of a Cen=
tral
Chamber. In this way, men are no longer forced to submit to decisions made =
in a
hurry by people mostly ignorant of the matter in hand and not personally
interested. Autonomy for internal affairs should be given, not only to area=
s,
but to all groups, such as industries or Churches, which have important com=
mon
interests not shared by the rest of the community. (2) The great powers ves=
ted
in the executive of a modern State are chiefly due to the frequent need of
rapid decisions, especially as regards foreign affairs. If the danger of war
were practically eliminated, more cumbrous but less autocratic methods woul=
d be
possible, and the Legislature might recover many of the powers which the
executive has usurped. By these two methods, the intensity of the interfere=
nce
with liberty involved in government can be gradually diminished. Some
interference, and even some danger of unwarranted and despotic interference=
, is
of the essence of government, and must remain so long as government remains.
But until men are less prone to violence than they are now, a certain degre=
e of
governmental force seems the lesser of two evils. We may hope, however, tha=
t if
once the danger of war is at an end, men's violent impulses will gradually =
grow
less, the more so as, in that case, it will be possible to diminish enormou=
sly
the individual power which now makes rulers autocratic and ready for almost=
any
act of tyranny in order to crush opposition. The development of a world whe=
re
even governmental force has become unnecessary (except against lunatics) mu=
st
be gradual. But as a gradual process it is perfectly possible; and when it =
has
been completed we may hope to see the principles of Anarchism embodied in t=
he
management of communal affairs.
How will the economic and political system tha=
t we
have outlined bear on the evils of character? I believe the effect will be
quite extraordinarily beneficent.
The process of leading men's thought and
imagination away from the use of force will be greatly accelerated by the
abolition of the capitalist system, provided it is not succeeded by a form =
of
State Socialism in which officials have enormous power. At present, the
capitalist has more control over the lives of others than any man ought to
have; his friends have authority in the State; his economic power is the pa=
ttern
for political power. In a world where all men and women enjoy economic free=
dom,
there will not be the same habit of command, nor, consequently, the same lo=
ve
of despotism; a gentler type of character than that now prevalent will
gradually grow up. Men are formed by their circumstances, not born ready- m=
ade.
The bad effect of the present economic system on character, and the immense=
ly
better effect to be expected from communal ownership, are among the stronge=
st
reasons for advocating the change.
In the world as we have been imagining fit,
economic fear and most economic hope will be alike removed out of life. No =
one
will be haunted by the dread of poverty or driven into ruthlessness by the =
hope
of wealth. There will not be the distinction of social classes which now pl=
ays
such an immense part in life. The unsuccessful professional man will not li=
ve
in terror lest his children should sink in the scale; the aspiring employe =
will
not be looking forward to the day when he can become a sweater in his turn.=
Ambitious
young men will have to dream other daydreams than that of business success =
and
wealth wrung out of the ruin of competitors and the degradation of labor. In
such a world, most of the nightmares that lurk in the background of men's m=
inds
will no longer exist; on the other hand, ambition and the desire to excel w=
ill
have to take nobler forms than those that are encouraged by a commercial
society. All those activities that really confer benefits upon mankind will=
be
open, not only to the fortunate few, but to all who have sufficient ambition
and native aptitude. Science, labor-saving inventions, technical progress of
all kinds, may be confidently expected to flourish far more than at present,
since they will be the road to honor, and honor will have to replace money
among those of the young who desire to achieve success. Whether art will
flourish in a Socialistic community depends upon the form of Social- ism
adopted; if the State, or any public authority, (no matter what), insists u=
pon
controlling art, and only licensing those whom it regards as proficient, th=
e result
will be disaster. But if there is real freedom, allowing every man who so
desires to take up an artist's career at the cost of some sacrifice of comf=
ort,
it is likely that the atmosphere of hope, and the absence of economic
compulsion, will lead to a much smaller waste of talent than is involved in=
our
present system, and to a much less degree of crushing of impulse in the mil=
ls
of the struggle for life.
When elementary needs have been satisfied, the=
serious
happiness of most men depends upon two things: their work, and their human
relations. In the world that we have been picturing, work will be free, not
excessive, full of the interest that belongs to a collective enterprise in
which there is rapid progress, with something of the delight of creation ev=
en
for the humblest unit. And in human relations the gain will be just as grea=
t as
in work. The only human relations that have value are those that are rooted=
in mutual
freedom, where there is no domination and no slavery, no tie except affecti=
on,
no economic or conventional necessity to preserve the external show when the
inner life is dead. One of the most horrible things about commercialism is =
the
way in which it poisons the relations of men and women. The evils of prosti=
tution
are generally recognized, but, great as they are, the effect of economic
conditions on marriage seems to me even worse. There is not infrequently, in
marriage, a suggestion of purchase, of acquiring a woman on condition of
keeping her in a certain standard of material comfort. Often and often, a m=
arriage
hardly differs from prostitution except by being harder to escape from. The
whole basis of these evils is economic. Economic causes make marriage a mat=
ter
of bargain and contract, in which affection is quite secondary, and its abs=
ence
constitutes no recognized reason for liberation. Marriage should be a free,
spontaneous meeting of mutual instinct, filled with happiness not unmixed w=
ith
a feeling akin to awe: it should involve that degree of respect of each for=
the
other that makes even the most trifling interference with liberty an utter =
impossibility,
and a common life enforced by one against the will of the other an unthinka=
ble
thing of deep horror. It is not so that marriage is conceived by lawyers who
make settlements, or by priests who give the name of ``sacrament'' to an
institution which pretends to find something sanctifiable in the brutal lus=
ts or
drunken cruelties of a legal husband. It is not in a spirit of freedom that
marriage is conceived by most men and women at present: the law makes it an=
opportunity
for indulgence of the desire to interfere, where each submits to some loss =
of
his or her own liberty, for the pleasure of curtailing the liberty of the o=
ther.
And the atmosphere of private property makes it more difficult than it
otherwise would be for any better ideal to take root.
It is not so that human relations will be
conceived when the evil heritage of economic slavery has ceased to mold our
instincts. Husbands and wives, parents and children, will be only held toge=
ther
by affection: where that has died, it will be recognized that nothing worth
preserving is left. Because affection will be free, men and women will not =
find
in private life an outlet and stimulus to the love of domineering, but all =
that
is creative in their love will have the freer scope. Reverence for whatever
makes the soul in those who are loved will be less rare than it is now:
nowadays, many men love their wives in the way in which they love mutton, as
something to devour and destroy. But in the love that goes with reverence t=
here
is a joy of quite another order than any to be found by mastery, a joy which
satisfies the spirit and not only the instincts; and satisfaction of instin=
ct and
spirit at once is necessary to a happy life, or indeed to any existence tha=
t is
to bring out the best impulses of which a man or woman is capable.
In the world which we should wish to see, ther=
e will
be more joy of life than in the drab tragedy of modern every-day existence.
After early youth, as things are, most men are bowed down by forethought, no
longer capable of light-hearted gaiety, but only of a kind of solemn
jollification by the clock at the appropriate hours. The advice to ``become=
as
little children'' would be good for many people in many respects, but it go=
es
with another precept, ``take no thought for the morrow,'' which is hard to =
obey
in a competitive world. There is often in men of science, even when they are
quite old, something of the simplicity of a child: their absorption in abst=
ract
thought has held them aloof from the world, and respect for their work has =
led
the world to keep them alive in spite of their innocence. Such men have suc=
ceeded
in living as all men ought to be able to live; but as things are, the econo=
mic
struggle makes their way of life impossible for the great majority.
What are we to say, lastly, of the effect of o=
ur projected
world upon physical evil? Will there be less illness than there is at prese=
nt?
Will the produce of a given amount of labor be greater? Or will population =
press
upon the limits of subsistence, as Malthus taught in order to refute Godwin=
's
optimism?
I think the answer to all these questions turn=
s, in
the end, upon the degree of intellectual vigor to be expected in a community
which has done away with the spur of economic competition. Will men in such=
a
world become lazy and apathetic? Will they cease to think? Will those who do
think find themselves confronted with an even more impenetrable wall of unr=
eflecting
conservatism than that which confronts them at present? These are important
questions; for it is ultimately to science that mankind must look for their
success in combating physical evils.
If the other conditions that we have postulate=
d can
be realized, it seems almost certain that there must be less illness than t=
here
is at present. Population will no longer be congested in slums; children wi=
ll have
far more of fresh air and open country; the hours of work will be only such=
as
are wholesome, not excessive and exhausting as they are at present.
As for the progress of science, that depends v=
ery largely
upon the degree of intellectual liberty existing in the new society. If all
science is organized and supervised by the State, it will rapidly become st=
ereotyped
and dead. Fundamental advances will not be made, because, until they have b=
een
made, they will seem too doubtful to warrant the expenditure of public money
upon them. Authority will be in the hands of the old, especially of men who
have achieved scientific eminence; such men will be hostile to those among =
the
young who do not flatter them by agreeing with their theories. Under a
bureaucratic State Socialism it is to be feared that science would soon cea=
se
to be progressive and acquired a medieval respect for authority.
But under a freer system, which would enable a=
ll kinds
of groups to employ as many men of science as they chose, and would allow t=
he
``vagabond's wage'' to those who desired to pursue some study so new as to =
be
wholly unrecognized, there is every reason to think that science would flou=
rish
as it has never done hitherto.[61] And, if that were the case, I do not bel=
ieve
that any other obstacle would exist to the physical possibility of our syst=
em.
[61] =
See
the discussion of this question in the preceding chapter.
The
question of the number of hours of work necessary to produce general materi=
al
comfort is partly technical, partly one of organization. We may assume that
there would no longer be unproductive labor spent on armaments, national
defense, advertisements, costly luxuries for the very rich, or any of the o=
ther
futilities incidental to our competitive system. If each industrial guild
secured for a term of years the advantages, or part of the advantages, of a=
ny
new invention or methods which it introduced, it is pretty certain that eve=
ry
encouragement would be given to technical progress. The life of a discovere=
r or
inventor is in itself agreeable: those who adopt it, as things are now, are
seldom much actuated by economic motives, but rather by the interest of the
work together with the hope of honor; and these motives would operate more
widely than they do now, since fewer people would be prevented from obeying
them by economic necessities. And there is no doubt that intellect would wo=
rk
more keenly and creatively in a world where instinct was less thwarted, whe=
re
the joy of life was greater, and where consequently there would be more
vitality in men than there is at present.
There remains the population question, which, =
ever
since the time of Malthus, has been the last refuge of those to whom the
possibility of a better world is disagreeable. But this question is now a v=
ery
different one from what it was a hundred years ago. The decline of the
birth-rate in all civilized countries, which is pretty certain to continue,=
whatever
economic system is adopted, suggests that, especially when the probable eff=
ects
of the war are taken into account, the population of Western Europe is not
likely to increase very much beyond its present level, and that of America =
is
likely only to increase through immigration. Negroes may continue to increa=
se
in the tropics, but are not likely to be a serious menace to the white
inhabitants of temperate regions. There remains, of course, the Yellow Peri=
l;
but by the time that begins to be serious it is quite likely that the
birth-rate will also have begun to decline among the races of Asia If not, =
there
are other means of dealing with this question; and in any case the whole ma=
tter
is too conjectural to be set up seriously as a bar to our hopes. I conclude=
that,
though no certain forecast is possible, there is not any valid reason for
regarding the possible increase of population as a serious obstacle to Soci=
alism.
Our discussion has led us to the belief that t=
he communal
ownership of land and capital, which constitutes the characteristic doctrin=
e of
Socialism and Anarchist Communism, is a necessary step toward the removal of
the evils from which the world suffers at present and the creation of such a
society as any humane man must wish to see realized. But, though a necessary
step, Socialism alone is by no means sufficient. There are various forms of
Socialism: the form in which the State is the employer, and all who work
receive wages from it, involves dangers of tyranny and interference with
progress which would make it, if possible, even worse than the present regi=
me.
On the other hand, Anarchism, which avoids the dangers of State Socialism, =
has
dangers and difficulties of its own, which make it probable that, within any
reasonable period of time, it could not last long even if it were establish=
ed.
Nevertheless, it remains an ideal to which we should wish to approach as ne=
arly
as possible, and which, in some distant age, we hope may be reached complet=
ely.
Syndicalism shares many of the defects of Anarchism, and, like it, would pr=
ove
unstable, since the need of a central government would make itself felt alm=
ost
at once.
The system we have advocated is a form of Guil=
d Socialism,
leaning more, perhaps, towards Anarchism than the official Guildsman would
wholly approve. It is in the matters that politicians usually ignore-- scie=
nce
and art, human relations, and the joy of life --that Anarchism is strongest,
and it is chiefly for the sake of these things that we included such more o=
r less
Anarchist proposals as the ``vagabond's wage.'' It is by its effects outside
economics and politics, at least as much as by effects inside them, that a
social system should be judged. And if Socialism ever comes, it is only lik=
ely
to prove beneficent if non- economic goods are valued and consciously pursu=
ed.
The world that we must seek is a world in whic=
h the
creative spirit is alive, in which life is an adventure full of joy and hop=
e,
based rather upon the impulse to construct than upon the desire to retain w=
hat
we possess or to seize what is possessed by others. It must be a world in w=
hich
affection has free play, in which love is purged of the instinct for domina=
tion,
in which cruelty and envy have been dispelled by happiness and the unfetter=
ed
development of all the instincts that build up life and fill it with mental
delights. Such a world is possible; it waits only for men to wish to create=
it.
Meantime, the world in which we exist has othe=
r aims.
But it will pass away, burned up in the fire of its own hot passions; and f=
rom
its ashes will spring a new and younger world, full of fresh hope, with the
light of morning in its eyes.