#title The Essential Works of Anarchism
#author Marshall Shatz
#date 1971
#source <[[https://archive.org/details/essentialworksof0000mars][www.archive.org/details/essentialworksof0000mars]]>
#lang en
#pubdate 2023-10-29
#topics half-finished error-correcting, anarchism,
#publisher Quadrangle Books
#cover m-s-marshall-shatz-the-essential-works-of-anarchis-1.jpg

THE<br> ESSENTIAL WORKS<br> OF ANARCHISM<br> Edited by Marshall S. Shatz

Quadrangle Books<br> **NEW YORK I CHICAGO**

**A New York Times Company**

Copyright© 1972 by MAHSHALL s. SHAT.£.

*All* rights reserved,<br> including the right to reproduce this book<br> or portions thereof in any form.

For information, address:

QUADRAXGLE BOOKS, IXC., 330 MADISON AVEXUE,

NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10017.

Manufaclurcd in the United States of America.

Published simultaneously in Canada

by <em>fl’ELSO</em>N<em>. FOSTER</em> & *SCOTT, LTD., TORONTO.*

( Published by arrangement with Banlam Books.)<br> Library of Congress Card Number: 71–183192

*COPYRIGHTS AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS*

*Tire copyrighl nolices are lisled below and on the page following, wlrich consti1u1es “” e:r1e11sion of this copyright page.*

*Excerpt from “Prometl1e11s U11hound,” hr Percy SlrelleJ’. From The Complele Prac1ical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley, Vol. II. edited bJ• W oodberr)·.*

*Excerpls from Enquiry Concerning Political Jus1ice hJ’ Willium Godwin. G. G. & J. Robinson, London, 1798.*

*Excerpts from The Ego and His Own by Ma:r Stirner. Tram- luted hr Ste1·e11 T. BJ•ington. Benj. R. Tm:ker, New York, 1907.*

*Excerpts from General Idea of lhe Revolu1ion in lhe Nine1eenih Cenlury b)’ Pierre-Joseph Proudhon. Translated by Jahn Berer<sub>·</sub> le)• Robinson. Freedom Press, London, 192.1.... <sup>·</sup>*

*Excerpts from God and 1he S1a1e hr Michael Bt1k1min. Trans- lared hJ’ Benjamin Tucker. Doi·er Puhlic’alions, foe., New York, 1916. RefJrillted by perminion of tl1e publisher.*

*Excerpts from “Slalisnr ond Ant1rchr.” hr Mid111d Buku11i11. Tra11sla1ed ,,,, Mar:rlwll Slwt:.. From ARCHIVl:.S HAKOUNINE. Vol. Ill, edited /1)· Arth11r Lelining. Reprinted hJ’ permiuio11 of E. J. Brill, Leiden, Netherla11ds.*

*Excerpts from The Conquesl of Dread h)’ Peter Kropotki11. Jfr- prinled bJ· permission of Chapmmr mrd Hall. Ltd., London.*

*Excerpt from The Kingdom of God Is Within You bJ• Leo Tolstor. Tra11sla1ed by Louise a11d AJ”lmer Maude. Reprinled h)’ permission of Oxford Unil’ersit>’ Press, London.*

*Excerpt from The 01her Shore b)’ Ale:rander Herun. Coprrig/11 ® 1956 hJ• GeorRe Braz.iller, Inc.. and reprinted with their permission.*

*Excerpt from Memoirs of a Revolulionil>I l1J’ Peter Kro1101ki11. Reprilllf’d h)’ permissi011 of Hougliton MiOlin C’vmp1111y.*

*Excerpts from* Livin^ My Life *by Emma Goldma11. Copfriglil 19.11 bJ’ Al/red A. K11opf, l11t<sup>·</sup>.. and reprillled with tl1eir 11ermfa.^io11.*

*Excerpts from Prison Memoirs of an Anarchisl l1r Alext1nder Berkman. Mother Earth Publishing Assodalion, New York, 1912.*

*Excerpts from The London Years bJ• R11dolf Rocker. Tran:rlated hr Joseph Leftwich. Robert Anscomhe & Co., Ltd., London, 1956.*

*Excerpt from My Life, An Allempl At An Aulobiography b)’ Leon Trotsk)”. Cht1rles Scribner’s Sons, New York, 1930.*

*Excerpts from Prac1ical De1ails in Equitable Commerce b)’ Josiah Warren. Fowler and Well.f P11blishf’r:r, New York, 1852.*

*Excerpt Jrom Practical Applications of the Elemen1ary Prim:iplcs **of** “True Civilization” by Josiah Warren. Princl’lon, Moss., l/JlS.*

*Excerpts from The Unknown Revolulion by Voline. Translated by Holley Can1ine. Reprinted b)’ permission of Libertarian Book Club, Box 842, G.P.O., New York, New Yori!: 10001.*

*Excerpls from The Spanish Cockpit by Franz Borkenu11. Copr- right 1937 by The UnfrersilJ” of Michigan Press and reprinted with their permission.*

*Excerpt from “Anarchism Rerisiled,” by George Woodcock. From COMMENTARV, A11g11S1, 1968. Copyright © 1968 by the American Jewish Commillee. Reprinled by permission of Com- menlarJ’ and George Woodcock.*

*“Existenlialism, Marxism and Anarchism,” **by** Herberl Read. From Anarchy and Order b1· Herberl Read. First p11blished i11 1954 by Faber and Faber, Ltd., London. Reprinled by permission of Beacon Press and Da1·id Higham Associates, Lid., London.*

*“Anarchism,” by Daniel G11hin. Trunslated by Mary Klopper. From Anarchism From Theory to Practice by Doniel Gmfri11. Copyright © JfJ65 by Editions Gallimurd. English lranslation copyright © 1970 by MonrhlJ’ Rniew Press and reprinted with their permission.*

*Excerpts from Obsolele Communism: The Left-Wing Alternative by Daniel and Gabriel Cohn-Bendit. Englisl1 1ranslu1ion COPJ’- right © 1968 by Andrl Deutsch, Ltd., London, and reprinred with lheir permission and that of McGraw-Hill Booll CompanJ’.*

*Excerpt from Communitas: Means of Livelihood and Ways of Life hr Percil’al and Paul Goodman. Copyright lfJ47, © 1960 **hr** Percil’al and Paid Goodman. Reprinted b)’ permission of Random Ho11Se, Inc.*

** Contents

Preface ... ix

Introduction ... xi

Part I. Anarchism in Theory: Classics of Anarchist Thought ... 1

WILLIAM GODWIN: The Father of Anarchism

*Enquiry Concerning Political Justice* ... 3

MAX STIRNER: Individualist Anarchism

*The Ego and His Own* ... 42

PIERRE-JOSEPH PROUDHON: Mutualist

Anarchism

*General Idea of the Revolution in the Nineteenth Century*

MICHAEL BAKUNIN: Revolutionary Anarchism<br> *God and the State*

*Statism and Anarchy*

PETER KROPOTKIN: Anarchist Communism

*Tlie Conquest of Bread*

LEO TOLSTOY: Christian Anarchism

*The Kingdom of God Is Wit/1in You*

Part II. The Mind of the Anarchist: Memoirs and Autobiographies

PETER KnoPoTKIN: The ‘“Hepentant<br> Nobleman”

*Memoirs of a Revolutionist*

EM”fA GoLD>.JAN: Anarchism and the

Liberated Woman

*Living My Life*

AL>:XAxo.:11 BERD!A:<: “Propaganda by<br> the Deed”

*Prison Memoirs of an Anorc/1ist*

RuooLF HocKER: The Anarchist “Melting Pot” *The London Years*

Part III. Anarchism in Practice: Firsthand

Descriptions

JosrAH WARREN: Tlw Cincinnati Time Store<br> and the ‘.\lodern Times Colony

*Practical Details in Equitable Commerce*

*Practical Applications of the Elementary Principles of “True Ci1’ilization”*

VouNE: Nestor Makhno and Anarchism in the<br> Russian Revolution

*The Unkno1cn Revolution*

FRANZ BORKENAU: The Anarchists in the<br> Spanish Civil War

*The Spanish Cockpit*

Part IV. Anarchism Today: Anarchist Themes in the Contemporary World

HERBERT READ: Anarchism and \Ian’s<br> Freedom

*Existentialism, Marxism and Anarcl1ism*

DAX!EL GUERIN: Workers’ Self-’.\lanagement<br> of Industry

*A1u1Tcl1ism*

DANIEL A^D CABHIEL CoHK-BENDIT:<br> Anarchism and Student Revolt

*Obsolete Communism: The Left-Wing Alternative*

RoEL VA” Duv”: The Kabouters of Holland

*Proclamation of the Orange Free State*

PAUL AND PEHClVAL Gooo^tAN: Restoration<br> of the Community

*Communitas*

Suggestions for Further Reading

Index of Persons

** Preface

The purpose of this volume is to introduce the student of anarchism to the most original and illuminating primary sources on the subject. 1’.fany of these works arc unwieldy, out of print, or otherwise difficult to utilize in their original form. No secondary works have been included, and with the exception of Franz Borkenau every author represented in this volume was or is an adherent of the anarchist tradition. Obviously no single volume can hope to embrace every aspect of a tradition so rich and manysided. Limitations of space as well as the availability of suitable texts have precluded the separate consideration of certain topics. Some of these, however, arc touched upon in the introductory notes to the selections. In parts I-III an effort has been made to provide excerpts of sufficient length to convey the full character of the author or episode involved; in the opinion of the editor this is preferable to an all-embracing but at the same time confusing collection of smaller pieces. Part IV, on anarchism in the highly fluid political environment of today, can do no more than sample some of the recent manifestations of anarchist theory and practice. Now, as in the past, the word “anarchism” is often applied indiscriminately to all terrorists, nihilists, and other advocates of violence and destruction. Although echoes of historical anarchism can be heard in many quarters today, the selections in Part IV have purposely been restricted to those individuals or groups who explicitly call themselves anarchists. The reader may wish to determine for himself the extent to which other movements on the political scent’ today can rightly be termed “anarchist.” It is hoped that this anthology of the essential works of anarchism will provide him with the theoretical and historical perspective from which to make an informed judgment.

A number of friends and colleagues contributed to the preparation of this book by allowing me to sound out some of my ickas in conversations with them, and I would like to thank them for their help as well as their forbearance. I am grateful to Professor Paul Avrich of Queens College for reading the manuscript and giving me the benefit of his extensive knowledge of anarchism. It is a special pleasure to acknowledge my indebtedness to Jean Highland of Bantam Books, who added to the duties of an editor those of a friend, and performed both with patience, understanding, and unflagging encouragement. \11/hile these people share credit for the merit this book may have, the responsibility for its failings remains entirely my own.

** Introduction

Anarchism, of all the major currents of modern social and political thought, has probably been subject to the grossest misunderstandings of its nature and objectives. Anarchism can trace its intellectual lineage back more than a century and a half, and political movements inspired by it have been appearing in most of the countries of the Western world for about a hundred years. Yet today it is still necessary to ask, just what is anarchism? In part, this confusion is the price anarchism has had to pay for being on the losing side of history. Never having come to power as a ruling ideology (a concept abhorrent to anarchism in any case ), it has failed to attract as much attention from scholars and historians as its more successful rivals. And in part the elusiveness of what anarchism stands for is inherent in the doctrine itself, which is hostile to rigorous intellectual formulations. What anarchists have actually said and done in respect to specific eCOnomic, social, and political issues is best learned from the texts contained in this book. What follows here is an attempt to delineate the underlying character of anarchism, first by distinguishing it from other doctrines to which it is related and then by placing it in historical perspective.

A useful starting place for a discussion of anarchism is the succinct definition that Peter Kropotkin formulated for the doctrine he did so much to advance. Anarchism, according to Kropotkin, is

<quote>
the name given to a principle or theory of life and conduct under which society is conceived Without government-hannony in such a society being obtained, not by submission lo law, or by obedience to any authority, but by free agreements concluded between the various groups, territorial and professional, freely conslitutecl for the sake of production and consumption, as also for the satisfaction of the infinite variety of needs and aspirations of a civilized being.[1]
</quote>

Kropotkin’s definition sounds the basic theme of anarchism and yet is broad enough to encompass all of its many variations. It offers a convenient reference point for determining in greater depth what anarchism is and, equally important, what it is not.

First of all, it is necessary to point out that anarchism is a positive social doctrine embodying a critique of human society as it exists and a vision of a better form of social orckr. Although the words “anarchism” and “anarchy” arc often confused and arc sometimes used interchangeably even in anarchist literature, there is a vital difference between them. The word “anarchy” is generally associated with a state of chaos, confusion, disorder. Some anarchists, to be sure, regarded such a condition as a necessary or even desirable means of achieving their ends. And in the words and deeds of figures such as \lichacl Bakunin, with his glorification of the spirit of rebellion, one can detect a touch of sheer pyromania. But even the most revolution-minded anarchist regarded “anarchy” only as a stepping-stone to “anarchism,” a transitional phase in which the old would be destroyed so that the new might emerge. As William Godwin, who stands at the very beginning of the anarchist tradition, gracefully stated, “anarchy as it is usually understood, and a wdl conceived form of society without government. arc exceedingly different from each other.”[2]

By the same token, anarchism is not synonymous with terrorism (or, as it is sometimes, and misleadingly, termed, “nihilism”). Of all the misconceptions of anarchism, the one that dies hardest is the belief that anarchism is inseparable from assassination, bomb-throwing, and dynamiting. This is not to deny that anarchists frequently have engaged in these and other equally threatening activities, or to suggest that the unsavory reputation they acquired was wholly undeserved. For a time in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, anarchists carried out a number of acts of terror which went by the general name of “propaganda by the deed.” And there are elements of anarchist theory, such as its stress on the efficacy of individual action, that make it receptive to the use of terrorism as a tactic. By no means, however, has terrorism been universally adopted or advocated by anarchists; and its use has certainly not been limited to anarchist groups. The most consistent practitioners of terrorism in tsarist Russia, for example, were not the anarchists but the agrarian socialists who called themselves Narodniks ( Populists ). Despite the widespread fear of the “anarchist menace” that gripped governments and public opinion in the early years of the twentieth century, it was not anarchists but nationalists who touched off the First World ‘vVar with the assassination at Sarajevo. And although most \farxists repudiated terrorism, considering it both useless and corrupting, the Russian Bolsheviks were not above using armed robberies to finance their operations. The meaning of anarchism is not exhausted by the acts of violence carried out at certain periods by some of its adherents.

[1] Peter A. Kropotkin, “Anarchism,” *Encyclopaedia Britannica,* 11<sup>th</sup> ed. (1’l’w York, 1910), 1, **p.** 914.

[2] William Godwin, *Enquiry Concerning Political Justice,* 3d ed. (Lnndnn, 1798), **II, p. 366.**

To identify still more specifically the philosophical sphere to which anarchism belongs, it should be stressed that anarchism is an antipolitical, and not merely apolitical doctrine. It regards political authority, and its modern embodiment the state, as the root of all evil, and the extirpation of that evil as its cardinal task. The political realm is the starting point of anarchism, and its objective is a political one, even if it calls for the abolition of politics altogether and the replacement of the state by new forms of human association. Therefore, anarchism is distinct from varieties of thought that are basically indifferent to politics, though they may have far-reaching political implications. Some forms of religious thought, for instance, particularly those with a strong millenarian element, may display distinctly anarchistic tendencies, but they are directed primarily to religious problems, and only secondarily do they address themselves to secular political issues. (Tolstoy may be considered an exception, but only a partial one, since the relationship of the Christian to the state is at the very center of his religious concerns.) Similarly, many ethical and even aesthetic critiques of modern Jifc arrive at condusions similar to anarchism, but only as derivatives from a basically unpolitical outlook. The history of anarchism is part of the history of secular political thought, and failure to distinguish it clearly from other modes of thought risks blurring its character beyond all recognition.

Thus anarchism’s foremost rivals and objects of criticism have always been liberalism, on the one hand, and socialism, or more specifically, \farxism, on the other. Anarchism not only occupies itself with the same range of issues as these two syskms, hut it shares many of their premises and aspirations. At one end of the anarchist spectrum it is sometimes difficult to tell the anarchist individualist from the liberal, while at the other the anarchist communist becomes almost indistinguishable from the socialist. It has been observed that anarchism employs a liberal critique of socialism and a socialist critique of liberalism.[3] Nonetheless, in doing so anarchism retains its separate identity, and in actuality liberalism and Marxism prove to have more in common with each other than either docs with anarchism.

Most anarchists share with liberals their high valuation of individualism. Such disparate contributors to the anarchist tradition as Max Stimer and Josiah Warren proclaimed the sovereignty of the individual, and even those anarchists who advocated some form of communism generally justified it as the social arrangement that would prove most conducive to the full flowering of the individual. Liberalism’s traditional hostility to encroachment by the state on individual freedom finds an echo in anarchism’s abhorrence of state authority. There is a point at which the anarchist and the liberal defender of civil rights seem to be speaking the same language, as they criticize the intrusion of the state into the private life of the individual and denounce bureaucratic despotism. Emma Goldman, for instance, was frequently able to make common cause with American liberals over civil liberties issues. The anarchists, however, go considerably further in their criticism, for they wish not merely to restrict the authority of the state but to abolish it altogether. Liberalism regards consitutional government and the rule of law as essential instruments for safeguarding the freedom of the individual in society. Anarchism regards both the very principle of government, however democratic its forms, and the notion that law is a necessary framework for the life of society, as instruments solely of tyranny.

[3] David E. Apter, “The Old Anarchism and the New-Some Comment,” ***Government and Ojjposition*** (Autumn, **1970** ), **pp. 397–98.**

In economic matters, anarchism denies the sanctity of private property and the free marketplace, institutions that liberalism, even in its modern welfare-state form, has traditionally upheld. From William Godwin onward, anarchists have criticized the exploitative character of capitalism in much the same terms as the socialists. Even those anarchists who did not favor the complete abolition of private property agreed that an individual’s economic rewards should be limited to the proceeds of his own labor, and accordingly they advocated restrictions on the accumulation and utilization of property that would be unacceptable to most liberals. With the advent of Marxism, the majority of anarchists accepted the main outlines of its critique of capitalism and its objective of abolishing private ownership of the means of production. At least until the expulsion of Bakunin and his followers from the First International in 1872, l\larxism and anarchism were but two branches of the international socialist movement, and even thereafter they proceeded in many respects along parallel lines.

Throughout their history, however, the anarchists have repudiated the authoritarian clement in socialism, an element which, in their estimation, had first appeared in the utopian projects of the early socialists and then been enshrined in Marxism. They suspected that socialism harbored a conception of society as something greater than the sum of its parts, as a collective entity with claims of its own which might override the claims of the individuals composing it. To the anarchists this seemed to represent little improvement over the submission to authority demanded by the state. Their suspicions appeared confirmed by the program of the Marxists, who insisted that the capitalist state must first be seized and put to use before it could be abolished forever, that it would without fail gradually wither away hut could not merely be annihilated on the day of the revolution. Marxism and anarchism, therefore, though united in their antipathy to the existing order and their devotion to the cause of tlw laboring class, remained distinct and mutually hostile movements. In a sense too socialist for the liberals and too liberal for the socialists, the anarchists found capitalism and Marxism equally distasteful-a distaste reciprocated in full measure by their opponents, who vied with each other in dl’nouncing the “forces of anarchy.”

The specific economic doctrines and political programs of anarchism, however, are themselves n•Hections of a more fundamental anarchist vision of things. It is this undl’rlying vision cven more than the quarrel over state authority that explains the truly passionate animosity toward \1arxism that runs as a leitmotiv through so much of anarchist history, from Bakunin to the anarchist ele- nwnts in the New Ldt today, from the Russian Revolution to the Spanish Civil War. To the anarchists, Marxism has always represented not just a misguided and potentially dangerous set of tactics for achieving the downfall of an order they both ostensibly rejected, but a fundamentally dilkrcnt perception of the world and of man’s purpose in it. If the anarchists have devoted nearly as much energy to denouncing Marxism as they ha,·e to denouncing the “bourgeois” system, it is because they have n•garded the \1arxists as potential heirs of the system rather than its sworn l’nemics.

The most basic: and far-reaehing antagonisms between anarchism and Marxism stem from their different conceptions of the relationship between man and nature. In Marxism, nature is something that man must master; he asserts himself over it, exploits it, and harnesses it to his own purposes. There is an inherent opposition between man and nature that is expressed in man’s quest to gain control over the forces of nature through his labor, to tum them to productive economic purposes, and to create the man-made world in which his own nature will realize itself. The modem industrial system, for all the evils it perpetrates and the sufferings it inflicts in its <sub>^</sub>apitalist form, carries out this task with stunning efficiency. Thus tloe *Communist Manifesto,* while condemning the capitalist system, is filled with admiration for the productive forces it has created:

<quote>
The bourgeoisie, during its rule of scarce one hundred years, has created more massive and more colossal productive forces than have all preceding generations together. Subjection of Nature’s forces to man, machinery, application of chemistry to industry and agriculture, steam-navigation, railways, electric telegraphs, clearing of whole continents for cultivation, canalisation of rivers, whole populations conjured out of the ground-what earlier century had even a presentiment that such productive forces slumbered in the lap of social labour?[4]
</quote>

In the country where it first became an official ideology, !llarxism itself has been the instrument for creating those “colossal productive forces.” One of Marxism’s primary functions in the Soviet Union has been to provide ideological sanction for an unparalleled drive to transform a backward agrarian society into a modem industrial one, the ultimate result of which is to be the advent of communism. Writing in 1924, just a few years before the introduction of the first Five Ycar Plan, Leon Trotsky painted this picture of the future: “Through the machine, man in _Socialist_ society will command nature in its entirety, with its grousl’ and its sturgeons. He will point out places for mountains and for pass!‘s. He will change the course of the rivers. and he will lay down rules for the oceans.”[5]

[4] Karl Marx and Frederick Engels, *Selected Work^ in Tu:o Volumes* .(Moscow, 1955 ), **I, pp.** 3<sup>th</sup>’l9. For a similar passage, published some two years after the *Commun;,, Alanife\IO,* sec George Lichtheim, *Marxi.m1:* **An** *Historical aud Critical Study* ( London, 1961 ), pp. 134–35.

If it is man’s purpose to master nature and subject it to his will, he must consciously control and channel his own l’Twrgies into productive endeavor. Labor, the purposeful application of human forces to the environment, IJecom!‘s the central, ev!‘n the defining charact!‘ristic of mankind; and it was in terms of improvC’ments in the organization of human labor that Marx interpreted man’s entire• history. At the very least, such an outlook places a premium on self-discipline, organization, rationalism, and all the other personal and social qualities that enable nwn to make the concl’rkd and persistent effort creation of a man-made environment requires. CarriC’d further, it can inspire the vision of man’s self-mastery with which Trotsky follo\\‘ed his vision of man’s mastery of nature. “Communist life,” he wrote, ‘\viii not be formed blindly, like coral islands, but will be built consciously, will be testpd by thought, will be directed and corrected. Life will cease to be elemental, and for this reason stagnant.”[6]

Such, in the briefest terms, is the Marxist conception of the road man must take to the ultimate attainment of freedom and self-realization. In this resp<·ct the spirit of Marxism is very similar to the spirit of liberalism, which also envisages the improvement of mankind in terms of material progreSS through the development of science and technology.[7] Both differ radically from anarchism, which is animated by quite another spirit. Anarchism views the relationship between man and nature essentially as one of harmony, not as one of opposition. Human society is not a collective mterprise for the mastery of nature but an organic outgrowth of nature, and the ills of society stem from efforts to impose artificial constraints on its free, spontaneous development. This sentiment manifests itself in anarchist thought and practice in a variety of ways. It is expressed, for instance, in the recurrent anarchist image of human life as an unpatterncd flow of free creativity, just as spontaneous and unplanned, but also as intrinsically harmonious, as nature itself. Michael Bakunin put it this way: “Life is wholly fugitive and temporary, but also wholly palpitating with reality and individuality, sensibility, sufferings, joys, aspirations, needs, and passions. It alone spontaneously creates real things and beings.”[8] Peter Kropotkin cast his image of the free society in the following terms: “No ruling authorities, then. No government of man by man; no crystallization and immobility, but a continual evolution such as we see in Nature.”[9]

[5] Leon Trntstky, ***Literature and Rewlution*** (Ann Arhor, 1960), **p.** 252.

[6] *Ibid.,* **p. 254.**

[7] “The belief in the all-encompassing, b(‘O(‘volent powers of industrialization is the cenlral point of the liberal spirit, lhe belief which in its most fonalical and unconditional form is the legacy of liberalism lo ^·1arxian socialism.” Adam B. Ulam, ***The Unfi11isl1ed Re”olution*** (l\ew York, 1960), **pp.** 95–96.

“Spontaneity” is one of the key words of anarchism. Seeking to restore man to nature rather than conquer it, anarchism celebrates the free play of human impulses. It wishes to release the natural forces of the personality rather than control them the better to direct them into economically productive areas. For this reason, while Marx dismissed the “idiocy of rural life,” the anarchists traditionally felt a strong affinity for the peasantry. It seemed to them that the peasants lived in exemplary harmony with their physical and social environment; their labor was meaningful in that it directly satisfied their material needs, and their communities and personal relationships were formed naturally, in response to the demands of life. It was precisely the “elemental” quality of their existence that the anarchists, in contrast to Trotsky, found so attractive.

To say that anarchism “rejected” modern industry and technology is too simple a judgment. The anarchists did view productive labor differently from the Marxists, however, and their attitude toward its modern industrial form was consequently qualified and ambiguous. Work, to most anarchists, is an activity meant to fulfill the basic material needs of the individual and, in addition, to satisfy his spiritual need for self-expression. Anarchism views work in terms of the spontaneous creativity of the individual artist rather than in terms of the collective and planned creativity of man reshaping his environment. To borrow a distinction drawn by the Dutch historian Johan Hui- zinga-a distinction borrowed also by a contemporary Dutch anarchist group represented in this book-the anarchist sees man kss as *Homo faber,* man the maker, than as *Homo ludens,* man the player.[10] The function of his labor is not to remake the world around him but to manifest the creative forces of his personality.

[8] Michael Bakunin, ***Goe/ and the State (New*** York, **19J6), p.** 55.

[9] Peter **A.** Kropotkin, ***Modem Science arul Anarchism,*** 2d eel. (London, 1923), **p.** 45.

With this as its central aspiration, anarchism sees no need for large and complex forms of social or economic organization. It is in the small community, with its numerous voluntary associations of like-minded individuals, that a man can best satisfy both his material and his spiritual needs. Anarchism condemns the state not merely because it deems it exploitative and coercive, but because it considers it an artificial and unnatural framework for the life of society. A communal organization welling up from below, in direct response to the true needs· of its members, represents the proper social arena for their activities. The state, with its powerful administrative and economic bureaucracies, imposes its authority from above, without the direct sanction of the individual or his immediate community. Regardless of its form, it inevitably develops objectives of its own, and without fail it will seek to harness the energies of the society it rules and turn them to the pursuit of purposes alien to it.

For much the same reason anarchism has always contained a broad streak of anti-intellectualism, a distrust of rigorous intellectual constructs, and an exaltation of “life” over “thought.” The anarchists’ suspicion of intellectuals and intellectualism reached its shrilkst pitch in Bakunin’s denunciations of the Marxists, but it had bl’en voiced before him by Stinwr and Proudhon, and a century later echoes of it can be found in Cohn-B,•ndit’s criticism of the communists. To the anarchists, the attl’mpt to impose order on reality by nwans of rational consciousness, and l’ncompass it within abstract theory, robs life of its infinite variety and individuality. It literally ckhumanizes individuals by reducing living, Sl’nsate beings to tlw status of categories. Those who insist on doing so arc at best niisguidcd and at worst intent on bending otlwrs to their will and exploiting them. It is a long way, both culturally and chronologically, from Michael Bakunin to Herbert Read, yet the British pod could join the Russian revolutionary in cekbrating the “organic freedom of life”-and branding as “totalitarian” the effort to imposc• a rational framework on this spontmwous creative process.[11]

[10] J. Huizinga, ***Homo Ludens:*** A ***Stucly of the Play Element in Culture*** (London, 1949), **p.** ix.

From this perspective the “unhistorical” character of the anarchist outlook IJecomes more intelligible. \larxism, with its theory of historical materialism, and liberalism, with a concept of prop;rC’ss that is less detC’rrninatl’ but also linked to economic development, pl’rcl’iVl’ the world in strictly historical terms. Both embody a sc•nse of dc- vclopnwnt through time, of a gradual unfolding of human capacity as history procC’eds. This sC’nse of historical time is eithc•r ahsl’llt or w<·akly developed in th<· “iews of the anarchists.[12] The anarchist does not feel that tlw defects of human sod(‘ty stPm from underdC’velopnwnt, from incomplete mastery of thl’ forces of the environment, and lack of fulfillment of human potential, whieh mat<>rial progress can hP e.xpC’dPd to rPmPcly in the course of tinw. If man’s hcttcr impulsps do not now manifest themselves fully, it is IJecause they are being re[Jressed and thwarted by eXtPrnal conditions. Hl·movp thoSl’ conditions, allow men to act in accordancl’ with their trrn• nah<sub>1</sub>n’, and they will spontaneously create the harmonious form of social organization that Kropotkin sketches in his definition of anarchism.

[11] J. Herht’rl H(•ad, *Arum.:liy and Orclc-1: Enays* **iri l’olitin** (London, 1954) **, p.** 22.

[12] For om analysis of the “bislc1rit·al lim1·-Sl’ll\t.’., in mmlt·rn idcoloi:i;ics, indudini:i; anarchism set’ Karl Mannlwim, *lcleologr1 and Uto11i<1 (New* York, HJ.16), **pp.** 190–222.

This is the manner of thinking that has prompted anarchists to regard mere abolition of the state-the source and support of all the artificial institutions that misdirect human behavior-as the beginning of the end of mankind’s problems, a belief that critics of anarchism have generally found inexplicably na”ive. Some anarchists have conceived of the destruction of the state in almost religious terms, as a kind of emergence of the Kingdom of Heaven on earth; others have viewed it less dramatically, as an eruption of healthy common sense at last breaking through the crust of inertia and error. But all have shared the assumption that things can be set to rights at any moment in time merely by breaking the external bonds that impede the natural and spontaneous life of the community. Hence comes the familiar anarchist belief in direct action, the conviction that it is necessary only to arise and strike down the walls that have somehow managed to constrict the free flow of human life and force it into narrow, inhuman, exploitative channels.

With anarchism’s underlying character in mind, it should not be too difficult to understand why liberalism and Marxism have had so much greater success ·in the modern world. The relationship they perceive between man and nature is a productive and dynamic one, and it has enabled them to serve as highly effective ideologies of industrialization. ^luch of the remarkable industrial expansion of Western Europe and North America in the nineteenth century owed its vigor to the liberal ideology and the social, political, and economic institutions it created.. And twentieth-century Soviet Marxism, with its endless exhortations to increase production, develop industry and technology, and thereby lay the foundations for communism, has exhibited some of the basic assumptions and aspirations of nineteenth-century capitalism; it has thus been able to serve as a substitute for the entrepreneurial spirit that was too weakly developed in most of Eastern Europe to assume the task of industrialization itself. The anarchists, on the other hand, have alwavs been more skeptical about modern industrial civilization, not only rejecting the hardships it visited on the worh’rs and the sheer ugliness it producl’d, as did r.larxism, but questioning its ultimate purpose. It is very difficult to imagine an anarchist sitting down to write such a work as *Das Kapital,* with its minute-and enthralled-investigation of the intricacies of the capitalist economic system. An anarchist would simply not be sufficiently intl’rested in the details of economic production or deem them of sufficient importance to devote himself to such an mtl’rprise.

This does not mean that historical anarchism was inherently anti-industrial, or that all anarchists merely wished to turn the clock back to a world of simple peasants and inck•pendent craftsmen (though some, of course, such as Tolstoy, would have liked nothing better). Peter Kropotkin, for instance, appreciated many aspects of modern technology and tried to integrate them into his vision of the anarchist society; anan:ho-syndicaJism tried to adapt anarchist principles to the modern factory system and trade-union organization; and the anarchist movements that sprang up among the Jewish garmmt workers of London and New York Wl’re entirclv urban-oriented. But it is true that anarehism called into ;1uestion the very essence of industrial-technological civilization: the seemingly compulsive urge to maximize economic production, and the mammoth scale of the institutions which that urge generated. Such a civilization, the anarchist believed, uproots the individual from his natural environment, isolates him from his fellows, and thwarts his sdf-develop- ment and self-enjoyment. The latter can he achieved only in the small, voluntary community where the individual can engage in meaningful personal relationships and truly creative labor. To be sure, these arc the ultimate objectives of Marxism, too. But the Marxist utopia, the classless society in which the state has withered away-really an anarchist utopia, as has often been pointed out--rnn dawn only at the encl of the long historical process of economic development, and not before; it is relegated to a future which, in the history of Marxism, has tended to grow ever more remote. The anarchist insists on releasing the spon- tanl’ous impulses of the human personality right now, rather than damming them up for the presmt in order to generate a better future. As a result, even those anarchists who acknowledgl’d thl’ benefits of modern industry proposed coursl’s of action that would probably have proved incompatible with it. Even if they acceptl’d the factory and the railroad, they rejected the pattern of political and l’Conomic organization that had made them possible, planning to restructure the industrial order as a vast network of autonomous producl’rs’ associations, l’ach managing its own segment of the industrial system and entering into voluntary agreements with others. During the great industrial expansion of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, therefore, anarchism appeared to be running counter to the prevailing forces of history, making a heroic but futik’ effort, if not actually to turn back the clock, then at least to stop its furthl’r progress.

If the character of anarchism as we have described it helps to explain its failure in the past, however, it also helps to explain its remarkable revival in recent years, a revival, one senses, that has astonished even the remnants of the anarchist movement. If historical anarchism, as its critics so often asserted, was nothing hut a throwback to an earlier age, inapplicable to modem life and suitable, if at all, to backward peasant or semi-industrial countries, then how is one to account for its contemporary reemergence in the most industrially advanced nations of the West? Although nothing like the anarchist movement of thl’ past has been resurrected, till’ anarchist tradition has been rediscovered, tlw literature of anarchism is being read once again, and an assortment of soeial thinkers and political groups arc claiming to have found inspiration in anarchist ideas. Tlw renewal of interest in anarchism today can be traced to the growing awarl’lless of the price that has bcl’ll paid for the immense productivity and material abundance of modern industrial technology: industrial man has become separated from living nature as he has surroundl’d himself with more and mor_e_• of his own products-and more and more of his own wastes; he has grown estranged from his neighbors and increasingly subject to the authority of remote, impersonal bureaucracies, both public and private; and he has felt his personal significance diminish as he has come to be regarded primarily as a producer and consumer of goods rather than as an individual whose true purpose is self-expression and self-growth. Many of the values against which the achievements of industrial society are increasingly being measured and found wanting are values that have long been harbored and defended by the anarchist tradition, and the growing consciousness of those values in the contemporary mind has been accompanied by a rediscovery of anarchism.

It might well be argued that anarchism is in fact a luxury which the postindustrial world is only now beginning to be able to afford. The material abundance provided by modern technology, in conjunction with the vastly increased leisure available, has at last created conditions in wt.ich serious attention can be paid to the preservation and enjoyment of the natural environment, to a more balanced and multifaceted kind of personal growth, and to a more intensive cultivation of communal relationships. In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, when strong concentrations of political and economic power, hierarchical forms of organization, and the self-discipline of the work ethic were required to forge the modern industrial system, anarchism seemed an anachronism, a nostalgic longing for a freer and simpler age. In the contemporary context, however, the traditional doctrines of anarchism take on new meaning, as modern society begins to shift its emphasis from the task of generating material wealth to the task of utilizing it to enrich social and personal life.’[13]

The changing significance of anarchism in the postindustrial age is indicated by the marked change that has occurred in its social base. From Proudhon to the Spanish Civil War, the mainstream of anarchism addressed itself to thP working classes (though some important currents of anarehist thought remained aloof from them), regarding as its natural constituency the masses of industrial workers and pPasants. Now, however, the ..mass” base of anarchism consists not of manual workers but of students, “hippies,” youthful dissidents, intellectuals, and professional workers. Anarchist inHuenccs and values today are most in evidence among the educated, affiucnt, middleclass young of the industrially ck•veloped countries. These arc the people who, by education, material security, and social freedom, arc most sensitive to the.· nPed for new forms of personal and group life and arc in the best position to seek them, and at least some of them have found sanction for their aspirations in the anarchist tradition.[14]

[13] In a way this might be considered a vindication of lhe Marxist \‘iew of historical development, hut, if so, it is taking a form Marx would have had great clifficully recognizing, as the following remarks suggcsl.

It must be emphasized that we are still rl’frrring to anarchism as a positive political and social doctrine which addresses itself directly, though not always systematically, to the problems of man in society. Anarchism has always sought to change reality, not to escape from it. The mindless violence, the indulgence in drugs, and the dabbling in occult mysticism that have been all too prevalent among the groups to which anarchism now makes its appl’al have nothing to do with anarchism in any meaningful sense of the word. The distinction between “anarchy” and “anarchism” has not lost its validity. The political orientation of anarchism has of course altered greatly as anarchism has lost most of its former connections with the labor movement. Yet its basic character and aspirations remain unchanged in their broad out· lines. The anarchists of an earlier age, looking to the working classes for the realization of their ideals, tended _to roman_ticize their simple, spontaneous, “natural” way of life and their innate sense of justice and equity. \,Vith the virtual disappearance of the “peasant” and the assimilation by most industrial workers of what arc deemed to be “bourgeois” values and conventions, anarchism in the latter twentieth century has found a new constituency among the educated but restive middle-class young. Today, the youthful dissenters from the pressures and purposes of urban industrial civilization are seen as the exemplars of anarchist values and as the agents for spreading them to the rest of society.

[14] In addilion lo Lhc scl<·ctions in Part **IV** of this volume, <<sub>’</sub>X· pressions of very similar senlimenls, anarchist in dll hut naml’, can be found in two recent publications: William Hedgepeth and Dennis Slock, ***The Alternative: Communal Life in New America*** (New York, 1970), and Charles A. Heich, ***The Gn:ening of America*** (New York, 1970).

To point out the relevance of anarchism today is hardly to advocate uncritical acceptance of it; on the contrary, awareness of its defects becomes all the more important as its attractiveness increases. Some of the questions raised by anarchism’s critics in the past have never been adequately answered and must still be asked today. Let us consider just two of them. First, anarchism has yet to prove itself a viable approach to economic organization. Even if anarchism docs seem more applicable to a postindustrial society of abundance and leisure than to a society in the proc1•ss of industrializing, the problem still remains of maintaining in some way the economic productivity that has generated such abundance and leisure. To individuals surfeited and bored with the products and services of modern technology, a more simple and unencumbered way of life may have considerable appeal- cspecially when their communal experiments form mere enclaves in the larger society and can still fall back upon those products and services when necessary. Subsequent generations might find it more difficult to appreciate the simple life or to devote themselves to self-cultivation if most of their energies must be taken up by a struggle for subsistence. As in the past, anarchism as a social philosophy faces the delicate task of finding a practical adjustment to modern conditions rather than turning its back upon them.

Another set of problems is raised by the conception of community that lies at the very heart of anarchism. One of the basic assumptions of anarchism is that there exists an intrinsic harmony and social solidarity among men that is prevented from manifesting itself, or is perverted, by the authoritarianism of the state, the repressiveness of law, and the exploitative character of the economic system. If those institutions were eliminated, mutual interest and natural sociability would be sufficient to resolve all major conflicts. From Godwin’s proposal for the settlement of disputes by local juries to Volinc’s account of a Ukrainian peasant assembly, from Kropotkin on mutual aid to Cohn-Bendit on studl’nt groups, anarchists have always maintained that the informal consensus of the small community, in which individuals know each other and can reason with one another on a personal basis, is the best instrument for assuring justice. George Orwell, however, in a less optimistic appraisal of public opinion, suggested that on the whole it may be less tolerant of deviant behavior than formal law: “When human beings arc governed by ‘thou shalt not’, the individual can practise a certain amount of eccentricity; when they are supposedly governed by ‘love’ or ‘reason’, he is under continuous pressure to make him behave and think in exactly the same way as everyone else.”[15] Orwell might well have added that “love” is one of the most arbitrary forms of human relations ever devised. A community governed by group consensus might be a warmer and more affectionate kind of social organization; but it might also prove to be one that intruded more deeply into the life of the individual and exercised a greater degree of coercion over him than a community governed by less personal but fixed and predictable norms.

These reservations suggest that anarchism as an allembracing social and political ideology, as a total alternative to the existing structure of society, is as fraught with contradictions today as it was in the past ( though of course Marxism and liberalism have hardly proved themselves free of contradictions of their own). But anarchism docs have the capacity to offer a timely and provocative challenge to prevailing values and institutions which, many people feel, arc now beginning to yield diminishing returns. And in fact, contemporary anarchist currents do not seem to harbor the ambition, last displayed in the Spanish Civil War, of capturing a society, whether by violent or nonviolent means, and totally reconstructing it on anarchist principles. Instead, they appear to be drawing upon the most fruitful and creative facets of the anarchist tradition, approaching it as a relatively untapped source of inspiration rather than as a program or blueprint. If anarchism has a living role to play in social and political thought today, it is as an instrument of constructive criticism, a refreshing antidote to some of the self-infficted poisons of life in the urban-industrial society. By no means does it have all of the answers to the problems of modern man and his society. But the questions it asks, though they trace their origins all the way back to the eighteenth century, seem remarkably fresh and inspiriting today.

[15] Sonia Orwell and Ian Angus, ed., **<em>The Collected E.uays, Journalism and Letters of George O</em>r**<em>well</em> (London, 1968), IV, **pp.** 215–16.

* The Essential Works of Anarchism

** Part I. ANARCHISM IN THEORY: Classics of Anarchist Thought

<quote>
*The loathsome mask has /alien, the man remains*

*Sceptreless, free, uncircumscribed, but man Equal, unc/assed, tribe/ess, and nationless, Exempt from awe, worship, degree, the king*

*Over himsell ...*

**-Percy Bysshe Shelley,** *Prometheus Unbound*
</quote>

The classic works of anarchist philosophy span a little more than a hundred years, from Godwin at the end of the eighteenth century to Tolstoy at the beginning of the twentieth. To a large extent anarchist theory developed independently of anarchist practice, for of the six major theorists only three, Proudhon, Bakunin, and Kropotkin, were political activists. Godwin lived well before the rise of the labor and socialist currents from which the organized anarchist movement sprang; Stimer was entirely a philosopher; and Tolstoy’s fundamentally religious outlook created an impenetrable barrier between him and the revolutionary anarchists. Nevertheless, the body of anarchist thought from which the activists drew inspiration if not practical guidance was the work of these six individuals. Their writings contain the classical formulations of anarchist theory from all of its major perspectives. Other anarchist thinkers have for the most part merely adapted, refined, or built upon the principles expounded by these masters.

On many of the basic issues of political and social life the classical theorists of anarchism display a surprising variety of opinions: they range from unmitigated individualism to complete communism, from militant revolutionism to nonviolence, from trust in reason to faith in will and instinct. Despite these polarities, however, the “family resemblance” that unites them is unmistakable. Each in his own way displays the hallmark of anarchism: the vision of a community devoid of political authority, formed by voluntary association of its members on the basis of interest and affinity, and providing a maximum of freedom, equality, and opportunity for self-development. Some emphasize one element of this formula and some emphasize another. But they all share this characteristically anarchist frame of reference, which lends an underlying unity to the diversity of their views on specific issues.

The significance of these thinkers in the history of philosophy and social thought goes far beyond their contribution to the theory of anarchism, and in their writings they apply themselves to a wide variety of topics. The selections here have singled out the specifically anarchist elements of their thinking. In each one, three distinct phases of their thought can be distinguished more or less clearly: a critique of the world as it exists and an explanation of the ills that beset it; an image of the anarchist future when those ills will have been healed; and the means by which the transition is to be made.from present reality to ideal future. It is this last point that confronted the anarchists with their most intractable problem and provoked the sharpest disagreements among them, in theory as well as in practice.

*** Enquiry Concerning Political Justice

*William Gadwin:* The Father af Anarchism

William Godwin (1756–1836) came from an English Nonconformist family that had been producing Calvinist ministers for several generations. He himself followed the family tradition for a few years, but under the influence of the French Enlightenment writers he began to question his religious convictions and move toward the position that was to find expression in *Political Justice.* He finally abandoned the ministry and devoted the rest of his life to writing. Both influences, Puritanism and the Enlightenment, left their mark on his thought. To the former can be traced, among other things, his emphasis on individual judgment and his hostility to state control, and to the latter his belief in the perfectibility of man and his conception of rational progress.

Godwin’s masterwork, *Enquiry Concerning* Po*litical Justice, and /Ls Influence on Morals and Happiness,* to give it its full title, was first published in 1793. Its two volumes cover a wide variety of moral, metaphysical, and psychological topics as well as political and social issues. Embedded in the work are also the passages that unmistakably mark Godwin as the father of modern anarchism, although he himself did not use the term to describe his views. Among the central tenets that virtually every subsequent anarchist will reiterate are Godwin’s belief that government corrupts society; his abiding faith in human nature; and his conviction that life is best lived in small, personal communities. Many of Godwin’s successors placed more trust in revolution as the method of achieving the just society than he did. But his perception of the dangers inherent in the nature of revolution foreshadows the warning later voiced so frequently by the anarchists against the attempt to secure liberty by authoritarian means.

*Political Justice* earned Godwin a widespread but fleeting fame; within a few years after its publication he sank into obscurity and deepening financial distress. He remained a fixture of English literary and intellectual life, however. His first wife was Mary Wollstonecraft, a pioneer feminist; he was intimately acquainted with Coleridge and Lamb; and he had a strong philosophical influence on Shelley-who, incidentally, elopPd with Godwin’s daughter Mary. Godwin continued to write voluminously and his enormous literary output included histories, biographies, novels, plays, essays, and pamphlets. None of these works remotely approaches the significance of his one great work, although his best novel, *Things As They Are; Or the Adventures* of *Caleb Williams,* is an interesting literary reflection of some of the views contained in *Political Justice.* <sub>.</sub>

Godwin revised *Political Justice* twice in order to improve and clarify the presentation of his ideas, the third edition representing the most considered exposition of his thought. The text used here is ...*The. Third Edition Corrected, in Two Volumes* (London: G. G. and J. Robinson, 1798), I, 1–24, 265–79; II, 191–212. A photographic facsimile of this edition was published by the University of Toronto Press in 1946, with an additional volume containing a useful introduction and notes by the editor, F. E. L. Priestley. Works on Godwin include George Woodcock, *William Godwin: A Biographical Study* (London, 1946); H. N. Brailsford, *Shelley, Godwin, and Their Circle* (London, 1913); and David Fleisher, *William Godwin: A Study in Liberalism* (London, 1951).

**** **I**

The object proposed in the following work is an investigation concerning that form of public or political society, that system of intercourse and reciprocal action, extending beyond the bounds of a single family, which shall be found most to conduce to the general benefit. How may the peculiar and independent operation of each individual in the social state most effectually be preserved? How may the security each man ought to possess, as to his life, and the employment of his faculties according to the dictates of his own understanding, be most certainly defended from invasion? How may the individuals of the human species be made to contribute most substantially to the general improvement and happiness? The enquiry here undertaken has for its object to facilitate the solution of these interesting questions.

In entering upon this investigation nothing can be more useful than to examine into the extent of the influence that is to be ascribed to political institutions; in other words, into the powers of man, as they have modified, or may hereafter modify his social state of existence. Upon this subject there has been considerable difference of opinion.

The most usually received hypothesis is that which considers the effects of government or social institutions, whether acting by express regulations or otherwise, as rather of a negative than positive nature. No doubt the purposes for which government was established are in their strictest sense negative; to maintain us in the possession of certain advantages against the occasional hostility either of domestic or foreign invaders. But does the influence of government stop at the point for the sake of which mankind were first prevailed on to adopt it?

Those who believe that it does or can stop at this point necessarily regard it as a matter of subordinate disquisition, or at most only co-ordinate with several others. They survey man in his individual character, in his domestic connections, and in the pursuits and attachments which his feelings may incline him to adopt. These of course fill the principal part of the picture. These are supposed, by the speculators of whom we now speak, to be in ordinary cases independent of all political systems and establishments. It is only in peculiar emergencies and matters that depart from the accustomed routine of affairs that they conceive a private individual to have any occasion to remember, or to be in the least affected by the government of his country. If he commit or is supposed to commit any offence against the general welfare, if he find himself called upon to repress the offence of another, or if any danger from foreign hostility threaten the community in which he resides, in these cases and these only is he obliged to recollect that he has a country. These considerations impose upon him the further duty of consulting, even when no immediate danger is nigh, how political liberty may best be maintained, and maladministration prevented.

Many of the best patriots and most popular writers on the subject of government appear to have proceeded upon the principles here delineated. They have treated morality and personal happiness as one science, and politics as a different one. But, while they have considered the virtues and pleasures of mankind as essentially independent of civil policy, they have justly remarked, that the security with which the one can be exercised and the other enjoyed will be decided by the wisdom of our public institutions and the equity with which they are administered; and have earnestly pressed it upon the attention of mankind not to forget, in the rectitude or happiness of the present moment, those precautions and that “generous plan of power” which may tend to render it impregnable to the stratagems of corruption or the insolence of tyranny.

But, while we confess ourselves indebted to the labours of these writers, and perhaps still more to the intrepid language and behaviour of these patriots, we are incited to enquire whether the topic which engaged their attention be not of higher and more extensive importance than they suspected. Perhaps government is not merely in some cases the defender, and in other the treacherous foe of the domestic virtues. Perhaps it insinuates itself into our personal dispositions, and insensibly communicates its own spirit to our private transactions. Were not the inhabitants of ancient Greece and Rome indebted in some degree to their political liberties for their excellence in art, and the illustrious theatre they occupy in the moral history of mankind? Are not the governments of modern Europe accountable for the slowness and inconstancy of its literary efforts, and the unworthy selfishness that characterizes its inhabitants? Is it not owing to the governments of the East that that part of the world can scarcely be said to have made any progress in intellect or science?

{1} Acldison: Cato, Act iv.

{1} These remarks will for the most part apply to the English writers upon politics, from Sydney and Locke to the author of the Rights of Man. The more comprehensive view has been strikingly delineated by Rousseau and Helvetius.

When scepticism or a spirit of investigation has led us to start these questions, we shall be apt not to stop at them. A wide field of speculation opens itself before us. If government thus insinuate itself in its effects into our most secret retirements, who shall define the extent of its operation? If it be the author of thus much, who shall specify the points from which its influence is excluded? May it not happen that the grand moral evils that exist in the world, the calamities by which we are so grievously oppressed, are to be traced to political institution as their source, and that their removal is only to be expected from its correction? May it not be found that the attempt to alter the morals of mankind singly and in detail is an injudicious and futile undertaking; and that the change of their political institutions must keep pace with their advancement in knowledge, if we expect to secure to them a real and permanent improvement? To prove the affirmative of these questions shall be the business of this first book.

The method to be pursued for that purpose shall be, first, to take a concise survey of the evils existing in political society; secondly, to show that these evils are to be ascribed to public institutions; and thirdly, that they are not the inseparable condition of our existence, but admit of removal and remedy.

**** **II**

The extent of the influence of political systems will be forcibly illustrated by a concise recollection of the records of political society.

It is an old observation that the history of mankind is little else than a record of crimes. Society comes recommended to us by its tendency to supply our wants and promote our well being. If we consider the human species, as they were found previously to the existence of political society, it is difficult not to be impressed with emotions of melancholy. But, though the chief purpose of society is to defend us from want and inconvenience, it effects this purpose in a very imperfect degree. We are still liable to casualties, disease, infirmity and death. Famine destroys its thousands, and pestilence its ten thousands. Anguish visits us under every variety of form, and day after day is spent in languor and dissatisfaction. Exquisite pleasure is a guest of very rare approach, and not less short continuance.

But, though the evils that arise to us from the structure of the material universe are neither trivial nor few, yet the history of political society sufficiently shows that man is of all other beings the most formidable enemy to man. Among the various schemes that he has formed to destroy and plague his kind, war is the most terrible. Satiated with petty mischief and retail of insulated crimes, he rises in this instance to a project that lays nations waste, and thins the population of the world. Man directs the murderous engine against the life of his brother; he invents with indefatigable care refinements in destruction; he proceeds in the midst of gaiety and pomp to the execution of his horrid purpose; whole ranks of sensitive beings, endowed with the most admirable faculties, are mowed down in an instant; they perish by inches in the midst of agony and neglect, lacerated with every variety of method that can give torture to the frame.

This is indeed a tremendous scene! Are we permitted to console ourselves under the spectacle of its evils by the rareness with which it occurs, and the forcible reasons that compel men to have recourse to this last appeal of human society? Let us consider it under each of these heads.

War has hitherto been found the inseparable ally of political institution. The earliest records of time are the annals of conquerors and heroes, a Bacchus, a Sesostris, a Semiramis and a Cyrus. These princes led millions of men under their standard, and ravaged innumerable provinces. A small number only of their forces ever returned to their native homes, the rest having perished by diseases, hardship and misery. The evils they inflicted, and the mortality introduced in the countries against which their expeditions were directed, were certainly not less severe than those which their countrymen suffered.

No sooner does history become more precise than we are presented with the four great monarchies, that is, with four successful projects, by means of bloodshed, violence and murder, of enslaving mankind. The expeditions of Cambyses against Egypt, of Darius against the Scythians, and of Xerxes against the Greeks, seem almost to set credibility at defiance by the fatal consequences with which they were attended. The conquests of Alexander cost innumerable lives, and the immortality of Caesar is computed to have been purchased by the death of one million two hundred thousand men.

Indeed the Romans, by the long duration of their wars, and their inflexible adherence to their purpose, are to be ranked among the foremost destroyers of the human species. Their wars in Italy continued for more than four hundred years, and their contest for supremacy with the Carthaginians two hundred. The Mithridatic war began with a massacre of one hundred and fifty thousand Romans, and in three single actions five hundred thousand men were lost by the Eastern monarch. Sylla, his ferocious conqueror, next turned his arms against his country, and the struggle between him and Marius was attended with proscriptions, butcheries and murders that knew no restraint from humanity or shame. The Romans, at length, suffered the evils they had been so prompt to inflict upon others; and the world was vexed for three hundred years by the irruptions of Goths, Vandals, Ostrogoths, Huns and innumerable hordes of barbarians.

I forbear to detail the victorious progress of Mahomet and the pious expeditions of Charlemagne. I will not enumerate the crusades against the infidels, the exploits of Tamerlane, Gengiskan and Aurungzebe, or the extensive murders of the Spaniards in the new world. Let us examine Europe, the most civilized and favoured quarter of the world, or even those countries of Europe which are thought the most enlightened.

France was wasted by successive battles during a whole century, for the question of the Salic law, and the claim of the Plantagenets. Scarcely was this contest terminated, before the religious wars broke out, some idea of which we may form from the siege of Rochelle, where, of fifteen thousand persons shut up, eleven thousand perished of hunger and misery; and from the massacre of Saint Bartholomew, in which the numbers assassinated were forty thousand. This quarrel was appeased by Henry the fourth, and succeeded by the thirty years war in Germany for superiority with the house of Austria, and afterwards by the military transactions of Louis the fourteenth.

In England the war of Cressy and Agincourt only gave place to the civil war of York and Lancaster, and again after an interval to the war of Charles the first and his parliament. No sooner was the constitution settled by the revolution than we were engaged in a wide field of continental hostilities by king William, the duke of Marlborough, Maria Theresa and the king of Prussia.

And what are in most cases the pretences upon which war is undertaken? What rational man could possibly have given himself the least disturbance for the sake of choosing whether Henry the sixth or Edward the fourth should have the style of king of England? What English man could reasonably have drawn his sword for the purpose of rendering his country an inferior dependency of France, as it must necessarily have been if the ambition of the Plantagenets had succeeded? What can be more deplorable than to see us first engage eight years in war rather than suffer the haughty Maria Theresa to live with a diminished sovereignty or in a private station; and then eight years more to support the free-booter who had taken advantage of her helpless condition?

The usual causes of war are excellently described by Swift. “Sometimes the quarrel between two princes is to decide which of them shall dispossess a third of his dominions, where neither of them pretends to any right. Sometimes one prince quarrels with another, for fear the other should quarrel with him. Sometimes a war is entered upon because the enemy is too strong; and sometimes because he is too weak. Sometimes our neighbours want the things which we have, or have the things which we want; and we both fight, till they take ours, or give us theirs. It is a very justifiable cause of war to invade a country after the people have been wasted by famine, destroyed by pestilence, or embroiled by factions among themselves. It is justifiable to enter into a war against our nearest ally, when one of his towns lies convenient for us, or a territory of land that would render our dominions round and compact. If a prince sends forces into a nation where the people are poor and ignorant, he may lawfully put the half of them to death, and make slaves of the rest, in order to civilize and reduce them from their barbarous way of living. It is a very kingly, honourable and frequent practice, when one prince desires the assistance of another to secure him against an invasion, that the assistant, when he has driven out the invader, should seize on the dominions himself, and kill, imprison or banish the prince he came to relieve.”{1}

If we turn from the foreign transactions of states with each other to the principles of their domestic policy, we shall not find much greater reason to be satisfied. A numerous class of mankind are held down in a state of abject penury, and are continually prompted by disappointment and distress to commit violence upon their more fortunate neighbours. The only mode which is employed to repress this violence, and to maintain the order and peace of society, is punishment. Whips, axes and gibbets, dungeons, chains and racks are the most approved and established methods of persuading men to obedience, and impressing upon their minds the lessons of reason. There are few subjects upon which human ingenuity has been more fully displayed than in inventing instruments of torture. The lash of the whip a thousand times repeated and flagrant on the back of the defenceless victim, the bastinado on the soles of the feet, the dislocation of limbs, the fracture of bones, the faggot and the stake, the cross, impaling, and the mode of drifting pirates on the Volga, make but a small part of the catalogue. When Damiens, the maniac, was arraigned for his abortive attempt on the life of Louis XV of France, a council of anatomists was summoned to deliberate how a human being might be destroyed with the longest protracted and most diversified agony. Hundreds of victims are annually sacrificed at the shrine of positive law and political institution.

{1} Gulliver’s Travels, Parl IV. Ch. V.

Add to this the species of government which prevails over nine tenths of the globe, which is despotism: a government, as Locke justly observes, altogether “vile and miserable,” and “more to be deprecated than anarchy itself.”{1}

Certainly every man who takes a dispassionate survey of this picture will feel himself inclined to pause respecting the necessity of the havoc which is thus made of his species, and to question whether the established methods for protecting mankind against the caprices of each other are the best that can be devised. He will be at a loss which of the two to pronounce most worthy of regret, the misery that is inflicted, or the depravity by which it is produced. If this be the unalterable allotment of our nature, the eminence of our rational faculties must be considered as rather an abortion than a substantial benefit; and we shall not fail to lament that, while in some respects we are elevated above the brutes, we are in so many important ones destined for ever to remain their inferiors.

{1} Locke on Government, Book **I.** Ch. i. §I; and Book **II.** Ch. vii. §91.

{1} \lost of the ahovc arguments may be found much more at larµ;e in Burke’s Vindicalion of l\atnral Society; a tre:1tise, in which the evils of existing political Iinstitutions are displayed wilh incomparable force of reasoning and lustre of eloquence, while the intention of the author was to show tho1t these evils were lo **lw** considered as trivial.

**** **III**

Additional perspicuity will be communicated to our view of the evils of political society if we reflect with further and closer attention upon what may be called its interior and domestic history.

Two of the greatest abuses relative to the interior policy of nations, which at this time prevail in the world, consist in the irregular transfer of property, either first by violence, or secondly by fraud. If among the inhabitants of any country there existed no desire in one individual to possess himself of the substance of another, or no desire so vehement and restless as to prompt him to acquire it by means inconsistent with order and justice, undoubtedly in that country guilt could scarcely be known but by report. If every man could with perfect facility obtain the necessaries of life, and, obtaining them, feel no uneasy craving after its superfluities, temptation would lose its power. Private interest would visibly accord with public good; and civil society become what poetry has feigned of the golden age. Let us enquire into the principles to which these abuses are indebted for their existence.

First then it is to be observed that, in the most refined states of Europe, the inequality of property has risen to an alarming height. Vast numbers of their inhabitants are deprived of almost every accommodation that can render life tolerable or secure. Their utmost industry scarcely suffices for their support. The women and children lean with an insupportable weight upon the efforts of the man, so that a large family has in the lower orders of life become a proverbial expression for an uncommon degree of poverty and wretchedness. If sickness, or some of those casualties which are perpetually incident to an active and laborious life, be added to these burdens, the distress is yet greater.

It seens to be agreed that in England there is less wretchedness and distress than in most of the kingdoms of the continent. In England the poors’ rates amount to the sum of two millions sterling per annum. It has been calculated that one person in seven of the inhabitants of this country derives at some period of his life assistance from this fund. If to this we add the persons who, from pride, a spirit of independence, or the want of a legal settlement, though in equal distress receive no such assistance, the proportion will be considerably increased.

I lay no stress upon the accuracy of this calculation; the general fact is sufficient to give us an idea of the greatness of the abuse. The consequences that result are placed beyond the reach of contradiction. A perpetual struggle with the evils of poverty, if frequently ineffectual, must necessarily render many of the sufferers desperate. A painful feeling of their oppressed situation will itself deprive them of the power of surmounting it. The superiority of the rich, being thus unmercifully exercised, must inevitably expose them to reprisals; and the poor man will be induced to regard the state of society as a state of war, an unjust combination, not for protecting every man in his rights and securing to him the means of existence, but for engrossing all its advantages to a few favoured individuals, and reserving for the portion of the rest want, dependence and misery.

A second source of those destructive passions by which the peace of society is interrupted is to be found in the luxury, the pageantry and magnificence with which enormous wealth is usually accompanied. Human beings are capable of encountering with cheerfulness considerable hardships when those hardships are impartially shared with the rest of the society, and they are not insulted with the spectacle of indolence and ease in others, no way deserving of greater advantages than themselves. But it is a bitter aggravation of their own calamity, to have the privileges of others forced on their observation, and, while they are perpetually and vainly endeavouring to secure for themselves and their families the poorest conveniences, to find others revelling in the fruits of their labours. This aggravation is assiduously administered to them under most of the political establishments at present in existence. There is a numerous class of individuals who, though rich, have neither brilliant talents nor sublime virtues; and, however highly they may prize their education, their affability, their superior polish and the elegance of their manners, have a secret consciousness that they possess nothing by which they can so securely assert their pre-eminence and keep their inferiors at a distance as the splendour of their equipage, the magnificence of their retinue and the sumptuousness of their entertainments. The poor man is struck with this exhibition; he feels his own miseries; he knows how unwearied are his efforts to obtain a slender pittance of this prodigal waste; and he mistakes opulence for felicity. He cannot persuade himself that an embroidered garment may frequently cover an aching heart.

A third disadvantage that is apt to connect poverty with discontent consists in the insolence and usurpation of the rich. If the poor man would in other respects compose himself in philosophic indifference, and, conscious that he possesses every thing that is truly honourable to man as fully as his rich neighbour, would look upon the rest as beneath his envy, his neighbour will not permit him to do so. He seems as if he could never be satisfied with his possessions unless he can make the spectacle of them grating to others; and that honest self-esteem, by which his inferior might otherwise attain to tranquillity, is rendered the instrument of galling him with oppression and injustice. In many countries justice is avowedly made a subject of solicitation, and the man of the highest rank and most splendid connections almost infallibly carries his cause against the unprotected and friendless. In countries where this shameless practice is not established, justice is frequently a matter of expensive purchase, and the man with the longest purse is proverbially victorious. A consciousness of these facts must be expected to render the rich little cautious of offence in his dealings with the poor, and to inspire him with a temper overbearing, dictatorial and tyrannical. Nor does this indirect oppression satisfy his despotism. The rich are in all such countries directly or indirectly the legislators of the state; and of consequence are perpetually reducing oppression into a system, and depriving the poor of that little commonage of nature which might otherwise still have remained to them.

The opinions of individuals, and of consequence their desires, for desire is nothing but opinion maturing for action, will always be in a great degree regulated by the opinions of the community. But the manners prevailing in many countries are accurately calculated to impress a conviction that integrity, virtue, understanding and industry are nothing, and that opulence is everything. Does a man whose exterior denotes indigence expect to be well received in society, and especially by those who would be understood to dictate to the rest? Does he find or imagine himself in want of their assistance and favour? He is presently taught that no merit can atone for a mean appearance. The lesson that is read to him is, “Go home; enrich yourself by whatever means; obtain those superfluities which are alone regarded as estimable; and you may then be secure of an amicable reception.” Accordingly poverty in such countries is viewed as the greatest of demerits. It is escaped from with an eagerness that has no leisure for the scruples of honesty. It is concealed as the most indelible disgrace. While one man chooses the path of undistinguishing accumulation, another plunges into expenses which are to impose him upon the world as more opulent than he is. He hastens to the reality of that penury the appearance of which he dreads; and, together with his property, sacrifices the integrity, veracity and character which might have consoled him in his adversity.

Such are the causes that, in different degrees under the different governments of the world, prompt mankind openly or secretly to encroach upon the property of each other. Let us consider how far they admit either of remedy or aggravation from political institution. Whatever tends to decrease the injuries attendant upon poverty decreases at the same time the inordinate desire and the enormous accumulation of wealth. Wealth is not pursued for its own sake, and seldom for the sensual gratifications it can purchase, but for the same reasons that ordinarily prompt men to the acquisition of learning, eloquence and skill, for the love of distinction and the fear of contempt. How few would prize the possession of riches if they were condemned to enjoy their equipage, their palaces and their entertainments in solitude, with no eye to wonder at their magnificence, and no sordid observer ready to convert that wonder into an adulation of the owner? If admiration were not generally deemed the exclusive property of the rich, and contempt the constant lacquey of poverty, the love of gain would cease to be an universal passion. Let us consider in what respects political institution is rendered subservient to this passion.

First then, legislation is in almost every country grossly the favourer of the rich against the poor. Such is the character of the game-laws, by which the industrious rustic is forbidden to destroy the animal that preys upon the hopes of his future subsistence, or to supply himself with the food that unsought thrusts itself in his path. Such was the spirit of the late revenue-laws of France, which in several of their provisions fell exclusively upon the humble and industrious, and exempted from their operation those who were best able to support it. Thus in England the land-tax at this moment produces half a million less than it did a century ago, while the taxes on consumption have experienced an addition of thirteen millions per annum during the same period. This is an attempt, whether effectual or no, to throw the burthen from the rich upon the poor, and as such is an example of the spirit of legislation. Upon the same principle robbery and other offences, which the wealthier part of the community have no temptation to commit, are treated as capital crimes, and attended with the most rigorous, often the most inhuman punishments. The rich are encouraged to associate for the execution of the most partial and oppressive positive laws; monopolies and patents are lavishly dispensed to such as are able to purchase them; while the most vigilant policy is employed to prevent combinations of the poor to fix the price of labour, and they are deprived of the benefit of that prudence and judgement which would select the scene of their industry.

Secondly, the administration of law is not less iniquitous than the spirit in which it is framed. Under the late government of France the office of judge was a matter of purchase, partly by an open price advanced to the crown, and partly by a secret douceur paid to the minister. He who knew best how to manage his market in the retail trade of justice could afford to purchase the good will of its functions at the highest price. To the client justice was avowedly made an object of personal solicitation; and a powerful friend, a handsome woman, or a proper present were articles of much greater value than a good cause. In England the criminal law is administered with greater impartiality so far as regards the trial itself; but the number of capital offences, and of consequence the frequency of pardons, open a wide door to favour and abuse. In causes relating to property the practice of law is arrived at such a pitch as to render its nominal impartiality utterly nugatory. The length of our chancery suits, the multiplied appeals from court to court, the enormous fees of counsel, attorneys, secretaries, clerks, the drawing of briefs, bills, replications and rejoinders, and what has sometimes been called the “glorious uncertainy” of the law, render it frequently more advisable to resign a property than to contest it, and particularly exclude the impoverished claimant from the faintest hope of redress.

Thirdly, the inequality of conditions usually maintained by political institution is calculated greatly to enhance the imagined excellence of wealth. In the ancient monarchies of the East, and in Turkey at the present day, an eminent station could scarcely fail to excite implicit deference. The timid inhabitant trembled before his superior; and would have thought it little less than blasphemy to touch the veil drawn by the proud satrap over his inglorious origin. The same principles were extensively prevalent under the feudal system. The vassal, who was regarded as a sort of live stock upon the estate, and knew no appeal from the arbitrary fiat of his lord, would scarcely venture to suspect that he was of the same species. This however constituted an unnatural and violent situation. There is a propensity in man to look further than the outside; and to come with a writ of enquiry into the title of the upstart and the successful. By the operation of these causes the insolence of wealth has been in some degree moderated. Meantime it cannot be pretended that even among ourselves the inequality is not strained so as to give birth to very unfortunate consequences. If, in the enormous degree in which it prevails in some parts of the world, it wholly debilitate and emasculate the human race, we shall feel some reason to believe that, even in the milder state in which we are accustomed to behold it, it is still pregnant with the most mischievous effects.

**** **IV**

 There is one extensive view upon the subject of revolutions which will be of great consequence in determining the sentiments and conduct we ought to maintain respecting them. The wise man is satisfied with nothing. It is scarcely possible there should be any institution in which impartial disquisition will not find defects. The wise man is not satisfied with his own attainments, or even with his principles and opinions. He is continually detecting errors in them; he suspects more; there is no end to his revisals and enquiries. Government is in its nature an expedient, a recourse to something ill to prevent an impending mischief; it affords therefore no ground of complete satisfaction. Finite things must be perpetually capable of increase and advancement; it would argue therefore extreme folly to rest in any given state of improvement, and imagine we had attained our summit. The true politician confines neither his expectations nor desires within any specific limits; he has undertaken a labour without end. He does not say, “Let me attain thus much, and I will be contented; I will demand no more; I will no longer counteract the established order of things; I will set those who support them at rest from further importunity.” On the contrary, the whole period of his existence is devoted to the promotion of innovation and reform.

 The direct inference from these sentiments seems to be unfavourable to revolutions. The politician who aims at a limited object, and has shut up his views within that object, may be forgiven if he manifest some impatience for its attainment. But this passion cannot be felt in an equal degree by him who aims at improvement, not upon a definite, but an indefinite scale. This man knows that, when he has carried any particular point, his task is far from complete. He knows that, when government has been advanced one degree higher in excellence, abuses will still be numerous. Many will be oppressed; many will be exposed to unjust condemnation; discontent will have its empire and its votaries; and the reign of inequality will be extensive. He can mark therefore the progress of melioration with calmness; though it will have all the wishes of his heart, and all the exertions of his understanding. That progress, which may be carried on through a longer time, and a greater variety of articles, than his foresight can delineate, he may be expected to desire should take place in a mild and gradual, though incessant advance, not by violent leaps, not by concussions which may expose millions to risk, and sweep generations of men from the stage of existence.{1}

 And here let us briefly consider what is the nature of revolution. Revolution is engendered by an indignation against tyranny, yet is itself ever more pregnant with tyranny. The tyranny which excites its indignation can scarcely be without its partisans; and, the greater is the indignation excited, and the more sudden and vast the fall of the oppressors, the deeper will be the resentment which fills the minds of the losing party. What more unavoidable than that men should entertain some discontent at being violently stripped of their wealth and their privileges? What more venial than that they should feel some attachment to the sentiments in which they were educated, and which, it may be, but a little before, were the sentiments of almost every individual in the community? Are they obliged to change their creed, precisely at the time at which I see reason to alter mine? They have but remained at the point at which we both stood a few years ago. Yet this is the crime which a revolution watches with the greatest jealousy, and punishes with the utmost severity. The crime which is thus marked with the deepest reprobation is not the result of relaxation of principle, of profligate living, or of bitter and inexorable hatred. It is a fault not the least likely to occur in a man of untainted honour, of an upright disposition, and dignified and generous sentiments.

 Revolution is instigated by a horror against tyranny, yet its own tyranny is not without peculiar aggravations. There is no period more at war with the existence of liberty. The unrestrained communication of opinions has always been subjected to mischievous counteraction, but upon such occasions it is trebly fettered. At other times men are not so much alarmed for its effects. But in a moment of revolution, when everything is in crisis, the influence even of a word is dreaded, and the consequent slavery is complete. Where was there a revolution in which a strong vindication of what it was intended to abolish was permitted, or indeed almost any species of writing or argument, that was not, for the most part, in harmony with the opinions which happened to prevail? An attempt to scrutinize men’s thoughts, and punish their opinions, is of all kinds of despotism the most odious; yet this attempt is peculiarly characteristic of a period of revolution.

 The advocates of revolution usually remark “that there is no way to rid ourselves of our oppressors, and prevent new ones from starting up in their room, but by inflicting on them some severe and memorable retribution.” Upon this statement it is particularly to be observed that there will be oppressors as long as there are individuals inclined, either from perverseness, or rooted and obstinate prejudice, to take party with the oppressor. We have therefore to terrify not only the man of crooked ambition but all those who would support him, either from a corrupt motive, or a well-intended error. Thus, we propose to make men free; and the method we adopt is to influence them, more rigorously than ever, by the fear of punishment. We say that government has usurped too much, and we organize a government tenfold more encroaching in its principles and terrible in its proceedings. Is slavery the best project that can be devised for making men free? Is a display of terror the readiest mode for rendering them fearless, independent and enterprising?

During a period of revolution, enquiry, and all those patient speculations to which mankind are indebted for their greatest improvements, are suspended. Such speculations demand a period of security and permanence; they can scarcely be pursued when men cannot foresee what shall happen tomorrow, and the most astonishing vicissitudes are affairs of perpetual recurrence. Such speculations demand leisure, and a tranquil and dispassionate temper; they can scarcely be pursued when all the passions of man are afloat, and we are hourly under the strongest impressions of fear and hope, apprehension and desire, dejection and triumph. Add to this, what has been already stated, respecting the tendency of revolution, to restrain the declaration of our thoughts, and put fetters upon the licence of investigation.

 Another circumstance proper to be mentioned is the inevitable duration of the revolutionary spirit. This may be illustrated from the change of government in England in 1688. If we look at the revolution strictly so called, we are apt to congratulate ourselves that the advantages it procured, to whatever they may amount, were purchased by a cheap and bloodless victory. But, if we would make a solid estimate, we must recollect it as the procuring cause of two general wars, of nine years under king William, and twelve under queen Anne; and two intestine rebellions (events worthy of execration, if we call to mind the gallant spirit and generous fidelity of the Jacobites, and their miserable end) in 1715 and 1745. Yet this was, upon the whole, a mild and auspicious revolution. Revolutions are a struggle between two parties, each persuaded of the justice of its cause, a struggle not decided by compromise or patient expostulation, but by force only. Such a decision can scarcely be expected to put an end to the mutual animosity and variance.

 Perhaps no important revolution was ever bloodless. It may be useful in this place to recollect in what the mischief of shedding blood consists. The abuses which at present exist in political society are so enormous, the oppressions which are exercised so intolerable, the ignorance and vice they entail so dreadful, that possibly a dispassionate enquirer might decide that, if their annihilation could be purchased by an instant sweeping of every human being now arrived at years of maturity from the face of the earth, the purchase would not be too dear. It is not because human life is of so considerable value that we ought to recoil from the shedding of blood. Alas! the men that now exist are for the most part poor and scanty in their portion of enjoyment, and their dignity is no more than a name. Death is in itself among the slightest of human evils. An earthquake, which should swallow up a hundred thousand individuals at once, would chiefly be to be regretted for the anguish it entailed upon survivors; in a fair estimate of those it destroyed, it would often be comparatively a trivial event. The laws of nature which produce it are a fit subject of investigation; but their effects, contrasted with many other events, are scarcely a topic of regret. The case is altogether different when man falls by the hand of his neighbour. Here a thousand ill passions are generated. The perpetrators, and the witnesses of murders, become obdurate, unrelenting and inhuman. Those who sustain the loss of relations or friends by a catastrophe of this sort are filled with indignation and revenge. Distrust is propagated from man to man, and the dearest ties of human society are dissolved. It is impossible to devise a temper more inauspicious to the cultivation of justice and the diffusion of benevolence.

 To the remark that revolutions can scarcely be unaccompanied with the shedding of blood, it may be added that they are necessarily crude and premature. Politics is a science. The general features of the nature of man are capable of being understood, and a mode may be delineated which, in itself considered, is best adapted to the condition of man in society. If this mode ought not, everywhere, and instantly, to be fought to be reduced into practice, the modifications that are to be given it in conformity to the variation of circumstances, and the degrees in which it is to be realized, are also a topic of scientifical disquisition. Now it is clearly the nature of science to be progressive in its advances. How various were the stages of astronomy before it received the degree of perfection which was given it by Newton? How imperfect were the lispings of intellectual science before it attained the precision of the present century? Political knowledge is, no doubt, in its infancy; and, as it is an affair of life and action, will, in proportion as it gathers vigour, manifest a more uniform and less precarious influence upon the concerns of human society. It is the history of all science to be known first to a few, before it descends through the various descriptions and classes of the community. Thus, for twenty years, and Principia of Newton had scarcely any readers, and his system continued unknown; the next twenty perhaps sufficed to make the outlines of that system familiar to almost every person in the slightest degree tinctured with science.

 The only method according to which social improvements can be carried on, with sufficient prospect of an auspicious event, is when the improvement of our institutions advances in a just proportion to the illumination of the public understanding. There is a condition of political society best adapted to every different stage of individual improvement. The more nearly this condition is successively realized, the more advantageously will the general interest be consulted. There is a sort of provision in the nature of the human mind for this species of progress. Imperfect institutions, as has already been shown, cannot long support themselves when they are generally disapproved of, and their effects truly understood. There is a period at which they may be expected to decline and expire, almost without an effort. Reform, under this meaning of the term, can scarcely be considered as of the nature of action. Men feel their situation; and the restraints that shackled them before vanish like a deception. When such a crisis has arrived, not a sword will need to be drawn, not a finger to be lifted up in purposes of violence. The adversaries will be too few and too feeble to be able to entertain a serious thought of resistance against the universal sense of mankind.

 Under this view of the subject then it appears that revolutions, instead of being truly beneficial to mankind, answer no other purpose than that of marring the salutary and uninterrupted progress which might be expected to attend upon political truth and social improvement. They disturb the harmony of intellectual nature. They propose to give us something for which we are not prepared, and which we cannot effectually use. They suspend the wholesome advancement of science, and confound the process of nature and reason.

 We have hitherto argued upon the supposition that the attempt which shall be made to effect a revolution shall be crowned with success. But this supposition must by no means be suffered to pass without notice. Every attempt of this sort, even if menaced only, and not carried into act, tends to excite a resistance which otherwise would never be consolidated. The enemies of innovation become alarmed by the intemperance of its friends. The storm gradually thickens, and each party arms itself in silence with the weapons of violence and stratagem. Let us observe the consequence of this. So long as the contest is merely between truth and sophistry, we may look with tolerable assurance to the progress and result. But, when we lay aside arguments, and have recourse to the sword, the case is altered. Amidst the barbarous rage of war, and the clamorous din of civil contention, who shall tell whether the event will be prosperous or adverse? The consequence may be the riveting on us anew the chains of despotism, and ensuring, through a considerable period, the triumph of oppression, even if it should fail to carry us back to a state of torpor, and obliterate the memory of all our improvements.

 If such are the genuine features of revolution, it will be fortunate if it can be made appear that revolution is wholly unnecessary, and the conviction of the understanding a means fully adequate to the demolishing political abuse. But this point has already been established in a former part of our enquiry. It is common to affirm “that men may sufficiently know the error of their conduct, and yet be in no degree inclined to forsake it.” This assertion however is no otherwise rendered plausible than by the vague manner in which we are accustomed to understand the term knowledge. The voluntary actions of men originate in their opinions.

Whatever we believe to have the strongest inducements in its behalf, that we infallibly choose and pursue. It is impossible that we should choose anything as evil. It is impossible that a man should perpetrate a crime in the moment that he sees it in all its enormity. In every example of this sort, there is a struggle between knowledge on one side, and error or habit on the other. While the knowledge continues in all its vigour, the ill action cannot be perpetrated. In proportion as the knowledge escapes from the mind, and is no longer recollected, the error or habit may prevail. But it is reasonable to suppose that the permanence, as well as vigour, of our perceptions is capable of being increased to an indefinite extent. Knowledge in this sense, understanding by it a clear and undoubting apprehension, such as no delusion can resist, is a thing totally different from what is ordinarily called by that name, from a sentiment seldom recollected, and, when it is recollected, scarcely felt or understood.

The beauty of the conception here delineated, of the political improvement of mankind, must be palpable to every observer. Still it may be urged “that, even granting this, truth may be too tardy in its operation. Ages will elapse,” we shall be told, “before speculative views of the evils of privilege and monopoly shall have spread so wide, and been felt so deeply, as to banish these evils without commotion or struggle. It is easy for a reasoner to sit down in his closet, and amuse himself with the beauty of the conception, but in the meantime mankind are suffering, injustice is hourly perpetrated, and generations of men may languish, in the midst of fair promises and hopes, and leave the stage without participating in the benefit. Cheat us not then,” it will be said, “with remote and uncertain prospects; but let us embrace a method which shall secure us speedy deliverance from evils too hateful to be endured.”

 In answer to this representation, it is to be observed, first, that every attempt suddenly to rescue a whole community from an usurpation the evils of which few understand has already been shown to be attended, always with calamity, frequently with miscarriage.

Secondly, it is a mistake to suppose that, because we have no popular commotions and violence, the generation in which we live will have no benefit from the improvement of our political principles. Every change of sentiment, from moral delusion to truth, every addition we make to the clearness of our apprehension on this subject, and the recollectedness and independence of our mind, is itself abstracted from the absolute change of our institutions, an unquestionable acquisition. Freedom of institution is desirable chiefly because it is connected with independence of mind; if we gain the end, we may reasonably consent to be less solicitous about the means.

In reality however, wherever the political opinions of a community, or any considerable portion of a community, are changed, the institutions are affected also. They relax their hold upon the mind; they are viewed with a different spirit; they gradually, and almost without notice, sink into oblivion. The advantage gained in every stage of the progress without commotion is nearly the precise advantage it is most for the interest of the public to secure.

 In the meantime it is impossible not to remark a striking futility in the objection we are endeavouring to answer. The objectors complain “that the system which trusts to reason alone is calculated to deprive the present generation of the practical benefit of political improvements.” Yet we have just shown that it secures to them great practical benefit; while, on the other hand, nothing is more common, than to hear the advocates of force themselves confess that a grand revolution includes in it the sacrifice of one generation. Its conductors encounter the calamities attendant on fundamental innovation, that their posterity may reap the fruits in tranquillity.

 Thirdly, it is a mistake to suppose that the system of trusting to reason alone is calculated to place fundamental reform at an immeasurable distance. It is the nature of all science and improvement to be slow, and in a manner imperceptible, in its first advances. Its commencement is as it were by accident. Few advert to it; few have any perception of its existence. It attains its growth in obscurity; and its result, though long in the preparation, is to a considerable degree sudden and unexpected. Thus it is perhaps that we ought to regard the introduction of printing as having given its full security to the emancipation of mankind. But this progressive consequence was long unsuspected; and it was reserved for the penetrating mind of Wolfey to predict almost three centuries ago, speaking in the name of the Romish clergy, “We must destroy the press; or the press will destroy us.” At present, It requires no extraordinary sagacity to perceive that the most enormous abuses of political institution are hastening to their end. There is no enemy to this auspicious crisis more to be feared than the well meaning, but intemperate, champion of the general good.

**** **V**

 We have already seen that the only legitimate object of political institution is the advantage of individuals. All that cannot be brought home to them, national wealth, prosperity and glory, can be advantageous only to those self-interested impostors who, from the earliest accounts of time, have confounded the understandings of mankind, the more securely to sink them in debasement and misery.

 The desire to gain a more extensive territory, to conquer or to hold in awe our neighbouring states, to surpass them in arts or arms, is a desire sounded in prejudice and error. Usurped authority is a spurious and unsubstantial medium of happiness. Security and peace are more to be desired than a national splendour that should terrify the world. Mankind are brethren. We associate in a particular district or under a particular climate, because association is necessary to our internal tranquillity, or to defend us against the wanton attacks of a common enemy. But the rivalship of nations is a creature of the imagination. If riches be our object, riches can only be created by commerce; and the greater is our neighbour’s capacity to buy, the greater will be our opportunity to sell. The prosperity of all is the interest of all.

 The more accurately we understand our own advantage, the less shall we be disposed to disturb the peace of our neighbour. The same principle is applicable to him in return. It becomes us therefore to desire that he may be wise. But wisdom is the growth of equality and independence, not of injury and oppression. If oppression had been the school of wisdom, the improvement of mankind would have been inestimable, for they have been in that school for many thousand years. We ought therefore to desire that our neighbour should be independent. We ought to desire that he should be free; for wars do not originate in the unbiased propensities of nations, but in the cabals of government and the propensities that governments inspire into the people at large.

If our neighbour invade our territory, all we should desire is to repel him from it, and, for that purpose, it is not neccessary we should surpass him in prowess, since upon our own ground his match is unequal. Not to say that to conceive a nation attacked by another, so long as its own conduct is sober, equitable and moderate, is an exceedingly improbable suppositions.

Where nations are not brought into avowed hostility, all jealousy between them is an unintelligible chimera. I reside upon a certain spot because that residence is most conducive to my happiness or usefulness. I am interested in the political justice and virtue of my species because they are men, that is, creatures eminently capable of justice and virtue; and I have perhaps additional reason to interest myself for those who live under the same government as myself because I am better qualified to understand their claims, and more capable of exerting myself in their behalf. But I can certainly have no interest in the infliction of pain upon others, unless so far as they are expressly engaged in acts of injustice. The object of sound policy and morality is to draw men nearer to each other, not to separate them; to unite their interests, not to oppose them.

 Individuals ought, no doubt, to cultivate a more frequent and confidential intercourse with each other than at present subsists; but political societies of men, as such, have no interests to explain and adjust, except so far as error and violence may tender explanation necessary. This consideration annihilates, at once, the principal objects of that mysterious and crooked policy which has hitherto occupied the attention of governments. Before this principle, officers of the army and the navy, ambassadors and negotiators, all the train of artifices that has been invented to hold other nations at bay, to penetrate their secrets, to traverse their machinations, to form alliances and counter-alliances, sink into nothing. The expense of government is annihilated, and, together with its expense, the means of subduing and undermining the virtues of its subjects.

Another of the great opprobriums of political science is, at the same time, completely removed, that extent of territory, subject to one head, respecting which philosophers and moralists have alternately disputed whether it be most unfit for a monarchy, or for a democratical government. The appearance which mankind, in a future state of improvement, may be expected to assume is a policy that, in different countries, will wear a similar form, because we have all the same faculties and the same wants but a policy the independent branches of which will extend their authority over a small territory, because neighbours are best informed of each others concerns, and are perfectly equal to their adjustment. No recommendation can be imagined of an extensive rather than a limited territory, except that of external security.

{1} Ilnme’s Essays, Pnrt I. Essay V.

 Whatever evils are included in the abstract idea of government, they are all of them extremely aggravated by the extensiveness of its jurisdiction, and softened under circumstances of an opposite nature. Ambition, which may be no less formidable than a pestilence in the former, has no room to unfold itself in the latter. Popular commotion is like the waters of the earth, capable where the surface is large, of producing the most tragical effects, but mild and innocuous when confined within the circuit of a humble lake. Sobriety and equity are the obvious characteristics of a limited circle.

 It may indeed be objected ‘that great talents are the offspring of great passions, and that, in the quiet mediocrity of a petty republic, the powers of intellect may be expected to subside into inactivity’. This objection, if true, would be entitled to the most serious consideration. But it is to be considered that, upon the hypothesis here advanced, the whole human species would constitute, in some sense, one great republic, and the prospects of him who desired to act beneficially upon a great surface of mind would become more animating than ever. During the period in which this state was growing, but not yet complete, the comparison of the blessings we enjoyed with the iniquities practising among our neighbours would afford an additional stimulus to exertion.

Ambition and tumult are evils that arise out of government, in an indirect manner, in consequence of the habits, which government introduces, of concert and combination extending themselves over multitudes of men. There are other evils inseparable from its existence. The object of government is the suppression of such violence, as well external as internal, as might destroy, or bring into jeopardy, the well being of the community or its members; and the means it employs are constraint and violence of a more regulated kind. For this purpose the concentration of individual forces becomes necessary, and the method in which this concentration is usually obtained is also constraint. The evils of constraint have been considered on a former occasion.

Constraint employed against delinquents, or persons to whom delinquency is imputed, is by no means without its mischiefs. Constraint employed by the majority of a society against the minority, who may differ from them upon some question of public good, is calculated, at first sight at least, to excite a still greater disapprobation.

 Both these exertions may indeed appear to rest upon the same principle. Vice is unquestionably no more, in the first instance,than error o judgethent, and nothing can justify an attempt to correct it by force, but the extreme necessity of the case.

The minority, if erroneous, fall under precisely the same general description, though their error may not be of equal magnitude. But the necessity of the case can seldom be equally impressive. If the idea of secession, for example, were somewhat more familiarized to the conceptions of mankind, it could seldom happen that the secession of the minority from difference of opinion could in any degree compare, in mischievous tendency, with the hostility of a criminal offending against the most obvious principles of social justice. The cases are parallel to those of offensive and defensive war. In putting constraint upon a minority, we yield to a suspicious temper that tells us the opposing party may hereafter, in some way, injure us, and we will anticipate his injury. In putting constraint upon a criminal, we seem to repel an enemy who has entered our territory, and refuses to quit it.

 Government can have no more than two legitimate purposes, the suppression of injustice against individuals within the community, and the common defence against external invasion. The first of these purposes, which alone can have an uninterrupted claim upon us, is sufficiently answered by an association, of such an extent, as to afford room for the institution of a jury to decide upon the offences of individuals within the community, and upon the questions and controversies respecting property which may chance to arise. It might be easy indeed for an offender to escape from the limits of so petty a jurisdiction; and it might seem necessary, at first, that the neighbouring parishes{1}, or jurisdictions, should be governed in a similar maner, or at least should be willing, whatever was their form of government, to co-operate with us in the removal or reformation of an offender whose present habits were alike injurious to us and to them. But there will be no need of any express compact, and still less of any common centre of authority, for this purpose. General justice, and mutual interest, are found more capable of binding men than signatures and seals. In the meantime, all necessity for causing the punishment of the crime, to pursue the criminal would soon, at least, cease, if it ever existed. The motives to offence would become rare: its aggravations few: and rigour superfluous. The principal object of punishment is restraint upon a dangerous member of the community; and the end of this restraint would be answered by the general inspection that is exercised by the members of a limited circle over the conduct of each other, and by the gravity and good sense that would characterize the censures of men, from whom all mystery and empiricism were banished. No individual would be hardy enough in the cause of vice to defy the general consent of sober judgement that would surround him. It would carry despair to his mind, or, which is better, it would carry conviction. He would be obliged, by a force not less irresistible than whips and chains, to reform his conduct.

 In this sketch is contained the rude outline of political government. Controversies between parish and parish would be, in an eminent degree, unreasonable, since, if any question arose, about limits, for example, the obvious principles of convenience could scarcely fail to teach us to what district any portion of land should belong. No association of men, so long as they adhered to the principles of reason, could possibly have an interest in extending their territory. If we would produce attachment in our associates, we can adopt no surer method than that of practising the dictates, of equity and moderation; axid, if this failed in any instance, it could only fail with him who, to whatever society he belonged, would prove an unworthy member. The duty of any society to punish offenders is not dependent upon the hypothetical consent of the offender to be punished, but upon the duty of necessary defence.

{1} The word parish, is here used, without regard to its orij;^in, and merely in c:onsideralion of its heinJ,!; a word, descriptive of a certain small portion of territory, whl’ther in population or extent, which custom has rendered familiar to us.

 But however irrational might be the controversy of parish with parish in such a state of society, it would not be the less possible. For such extraordinary emergencies therefore, provision ought to be made. These emergencies are similar in their nature to those of foreign invasion. They can only be provided against by the concert of several district declaring and, if needful, enforcing the dictates of justice.

One of the most obvious remarks that suggests itself, upon these two cases, of hostility between district and district, and of foreign invasion which the interest of all calls upon them jointly to repel, is that it is their nature to be only of occasional recurrence, and that therefore the provisions to be made respecting them need not be, in the strictest sense, of perpetual operation. In other words, the permanence of a national assembly, as it has hitherto been practised in France, cannot be necessary in a period of tranquillity, and may perhaps be pernicious. That we may form a more accurate judgement of this, let us recollect some of the principal features that enter into the constitution of a national assembly.

**** **VI**

In the first place, the existence of a national assembly introduces the evils of a fictitious unanimity. The public, guided by such an assembly, must act with concert, or the assembly is a nugatory excrescence. But it is impossible that this unanimity can really exist. The individuals who constitute a nation cannot take into consideration a variety of important questions without forming different sentiments respecting them. In reality, all questions that are brought before such an assembly are decided by a majority of votes, and the minority, after having exposed, with all the power of eloquence, and force of reasoning, of which they are capable, the injustice and folly of the measures adopted, are obliged, in a certain sense, to assist in carrying them into execution. Nothing can more directly contribute to the depravation of the human understanding and character. It inevitably renders mankind timid, dissembling and corrupt. He that is not accustomed exclusively to act upon the dictates of his own understanding must fall inexpressibly short of that energy and simplicity of which our nature is capable. He that contributes his personal exertions, or his property, to the support of a cause which he believes to be unjust will quickly lose that accurate discrimination, and nice sensibility of moral rectitude, which are the principal ornaments of reason.

 Secondly, the existence of national councils produces a certain species of real unanimity, unnatural in its character, and pernicious in its effects. The genuine and wholesome state of mind is to be unloosed from shackles, and to expand every fibre of its frame, according to the independent and individual impressions of truth upon that mind. How great would be the progress of intellectual improvement if men were unfettered by the prejudices of education, unseduced by the influence of a corrupt state of society, and accustomed to yield without fear, to the guidance of truth, however unexplored might be the regions, and unexpected the conclusions to which she conducted us? We cannot advance in the voyage of happiness unless we be wholly at large upon the stream that carry us thither: the anchor that we at first looked upon as the instrument of our safety will, at last, be found to be the means of detaining our progress. Unanimity of a certain sort is the result to which perfect freedom of enquiry is calculated to conduct us; and this unanimity would, in a state of perfect freedom, become hourly more conspicuous. But the unanimity that results from men’s having a visible standard by which to adjust their sentiments is deceitful and pernicious.

 In numerous assemblies, a thousand motives influence our judgements, independently of reason and evidence. Every man looks forward to the effects which the opinions he avows will produce on his success. Every man connects himself with some sect or party. The activity of his thought is shackled, at every turn, by the fear that his associates may disclaim him. This effect is strikingly visible in the present state of the British parliament, where men, whose faculties are comprehensive almost beyond all former example, may probably be found influenced by these motives sincerely to espouse the grossest and most contemptible errors.

 Thirdly, the debates of a national assembly are distorted from their reasonable tenour by the necessity of their being uniformly terminated by a vote. Debate and discussion are, in their own nature, highly conducive to intellectual improvement; but they lose this salutary character, the moment they are subjected to this unfortunate condition. What can be more unreasonable than to demand that argument, the usual quality of which is gradually and imperceptibly to enlighten the mind, should declare its effect in the close of a single conversation? No sooner does this circumstance occur than the whole scene changes its character. The orator no longer enquires after permanent conviction, but transitory effect. He seeks rather to take advantage of our prejudices than to enlighten our judgement. That which might otherwise have been a scene of patient and beneficent enquiry is changed into wrangling, tumult and precipitation.

 Another circumstance that arises out of the decision by vote is the necessity of constructing a form of words that shall best meet the sentiments, and be adapted to the pre-conceived ideas, of a multitude of men. What can be conceived at once more ludicrous and disgraceful than the spectacle of a set of rational beings employed for hours together in weighing particles, and adjusting commas? Such is the scene that is incessantly witnessed in clubs and private societies. In parliaments, this sort of business is usually adjusted before the measure becomes a subject of public inspection. But it does not the less exist; and sometimes it occurs in the other mode, so that, when numerous amendments have been made to suit the corrupt interest of imperious pretenders, the Herculean task remains at last to reduce the chaos into a grammatical and intelligible form.

 The whole is then wound up, with that flagrant insult upon all reason and justice, the deciding upon truth by the casting up of numbers. Thus everything that we have been accustomed to esteem most sacred is determined, at best, by the weakest heads in the assembly, but, as it not less frequently happens, through the influence of the most corrupt and dishonourable intentions.

 In the last place, national assemblies will by no means be thought to deserve our direct approbation if we recollect, for a moment, the absurdity of that fiction by which society is considered, as it has been termed, as a moral individual. It is in vain that we endeavour to counteract the laws of nature and necessity. A multitude of men, after all our ingenuity, will still remain a multitude of men. Nothing can intellectually unite them, short of equal capacity and identical perception. So long as the varieties of mind shall remain, the f6rce of society can no otherwise be concentrated than by one man, for a shorter or a longer term, taking the lead of the rest, and employing their force, whether material, or dependent on the weight of their character, in a mechanical manner, just as he would employ the force of a tool or a machine. All government corresponds, in a certain degree, to what the Greeks denominated a tyranny. The difference is that, in despotic countries, mind is depressed by an uniform usurpation; while, in republics, it preserves a greater portion of its activity, and the usurpation more easily conforms itself to the fluctuations of opinion.

 The pretence of collective wisdom is among the most palpable of all impostures. The acts of the society can never rise above the suggestions of this or that individual, who is a member of it. Let us enquire whether society, considered as an agent, can really become the equal of certain individuals, of whom it is composed. And here, without staying to examine what ground we have to expect that the wisest member of the society will actually take the lead in it, we find two obvious reasons to persuade us that, whatever be the degree of wisdom inherent in him that really superintends, the acts which he performs in the name of the society will be both less virtuous and less able than the acts he might be expected to perform in a simpler and more unencumbered situation. In the first place, there are few men who, with the consciousness of being able to cover their responsibility under the name of a society, will not venture upon measures less direct in their motives, or less justifiable in the experiment, than they would have chosen to adopt in their own persons. Secondly, men who act under the name of a society are deprived of that activity and energy which may belong to them in their individual character. They have a multitude of followers to draw after them, whose humours they must consult, and to whose slowness of apprehension they must accommodate themselves. It is for this reason that we frequently see men of the most elevated genius dwindle into vulgar leaders when they become involved in the busy scenes of public life.

 From these reasonings we seem sufficiently authorized to conclude that national assemblies, or, in other words, assemblies instituted for the joint purpose of adjusting the differences between district and district, and of consulting respecting the best mode of repelling foreign invasion, however necessary to be had recourse to upon certain occasions, ought to be employed as sparingly as the nature of the case will admit. They should either never be elected but upon extraordinary emergencies, like the dictator of the ancient Romans, or else sit periodically, one day for example in a year, with a power of continuing their sessions within a certain limit, to hear the complaints and representations of their constituents. The former of these modes is greatly to be preferred. Several of the reasons already adduced are calculated to show that election itself is of a nature not to be employed but when the occasion demands it. There would probably be little difficulty in suggesting expedients, relative to the regular originating of national assemblies. It would be most suitable to past habits and experience that a general election should take place whenever a certain number of districts demanded it. it would be most agreeable to rigid simplicity and equity that an assembly of two or two hundred districts should take place, in exact proportion to the number of districts by whom that measure was desired.

 It will scarcely be denied that the objections which have been most loudly reiterated against democracy become null in an application to the form of government which has now been delineated. Here we shall with difficulty find an opening for tumult, for the tyranny of a multitude drunk with unlimited power, for political ambition on the part of the few, or restless jealousy and precaution on the part of the many. Here the demagogue would discover no suitable occasion for rendering the multitude the blind instrument of his purposes. Men, in such a state of society, might be expected to understand their happiness, and to cherish it. The true reason why the mass of mankind has so often been made the dupe of knaves has been the mysterious and complicated nature of the social system. Once annihilate the quackery of government, and the most homebred understanding might be strong enough to detect the artifices of the state juggler that would mislead him.


**** **VII**

IT remains for us to consider what is the degree of authority necessary to be vested in such a modified species of national assembly as we have admitted into our system. Are they to issue their commands to the different members of the confederacy? Or is it sufficient that they should invite them to co-operate for the cornmon advantage, and, by arguments and addresses, convince them of the reasonableness of the measures they propose? The former of these might at first be necessary. The latter would afterwards become sufficient.{1}

{1} Such is the idea of the author of Gulliver’s Travels [Part IV.], a man who appears to have had a more profound insight into the true principles of political justice, than any preceding or contemporary author. It was unfortunate, that a work of such inestimable wisdom failed, at the period of its puhlicalion, from lhe mere playfulness of its form, in communicating adequate inslruction to mankind. Posterity only will be able to estimate it as it deserves.

The Amphictyonic council of Greece possessed no authority but that which flowed from its personal character. In proportion as the spirit of party was extirpated, as the restlessness of public commotion subsided, and as the political machine became simple, the voice of reason     would be secure to be heard. An appeal, by the assembly,     to the several districts would not fail to unite the approbation of reasonable men unless it contained in it     something so evidently questionable as to make it perhaps desirable that it should prove abortive.

This remark leads us one step further. Why should not the same distinction between commands and invitations, which we have just made in the case of national assemblies, be applied to the particular assemblies or juries of the several districts? At first, we will suppose that some degree of authority and violence would be necessary. But this necessity does not appear to arise out of the nature of man, but out of the institutions by which he has been corrupted. Man is not originally vicious. He would not refuse to listen to, or to be convinced by, the expostulations that are addressed to him, had he not been accustomed to regard them as hypocritical, and to conceive that, while his neighbour, his parent, and his political governor pretended to be actuated by a pure regard to his interest or pleasure, they were, in reality, at the expense of his, promoting their own. Such are the fatal effects of mysteriousness and complexity. Simplify the social system in the manner which every motive but those of usurpation and ambition powerfully recommends; render the plain dictates of justice level to every capacity; remove the necessity of implicit faith; and we may expect the whole species to become reasonable and virtuous. It might then be sufficient for juries to recommend a certain mode of adjusting controversies, without assuming the prerogative of dictating that adjustment. It might then be sufficient for them to invite offenders to forsake their errors. If their expostulations proved, in a few instances, ineffectual, the evils arising out of this circumstance would be of less importance than those which proceed from the perpetual violation of the exercise of private judgement. But, in reality, no evils would arise: for, where the empire of reason was so universally acknowledged, the offender would either readily yield to the expostulations of authority; or, if he resisted, though suffering no personal molestation, he would feel so uneasy, under the unequivocal disapprobation, and observant eye, of public judgement, as willingly to remove to a society more congenial to his errors.

The reader has probably anticipated the ultimate conclusion from these remarks. If juries might at length cease to decide, and be contented to invite, if force might gradually be withdrawn and reason trusted alone, shall we not one day find that juries themselves and every other species of public institution may be laid aside as unnecessary? Will not the reasonings of one wise man be as effectual as those of twelve? Will not the competence of one individual to instruct his neighbours be a matter of Sufficient notoriety, without the formality of an election? Will there be many vices to correct, and, much obstinacy to conquer? This is one of the most memorable stages of human improvement. With what delight must every well informed friend of mankind look forward to the auspicious period, the dissolution of political government, of that brute engine which has been the only perennial cause of the vices of mankind, and which, as has abundantly appeared in the progress of the present work, has mischiefs of various sorts incorporated with its substance, and no otherwise removable than by its utter annihilation!

*** The Ego and His Own

Max Stirner: Individualist Anarchism

Johann Kaspar Schmidt, better known by his pen name Max Stimer, was born in Bavaria in 1806. He studied philosophy at several German universities and was associated with the Young Hegelian circles in Berlin in the early 1840s. Stirner’s thinking issued from the context of the Hegelian philosophy in which he was steeped, even while representing in many ways an extreme reaction to it. The *Ego and His Own (Der Einzige und sein figentum)* appeared in 184S. It brought a brief moment of public attention and even notoriety into the life of its author-who, incongruously, had been teaching in an academy for young ladies while writing it-but interest in it soon faded. Stir- ner spent the rest of his life enduring an unending series of hardships and failures, and he died penniless in 1856.

Stimer assumes the most extreme individualist position in the history of anarchist thought. He recognized no reality beyond the individual, and his chief task was to liberate the individual from what he viewed as the tyranny of all supraindividual abstractions, whether religious, moral, philosophical, or political. He acknowledged the need for social intercourse, however, and his “union of egoists” was an attempt to postulate a kind of ideal community in place of the state; whether there could be any real cooperation among individuals enjoying the kind of freedom Stimer gives them remains open Lo question. Like Godwin, Stimer stood outside of any organized political movement. Nevertheless, he made an important philosophical contribution to the stock of ideas from which anarchism was drawn, and *The Ego and His Own* stands as one of the classic works of the anarchist tradition. Embedded in this long-winded, frequently repetitive, and chaotically organized book is one of the most vigorous assertions ever penned of the sovereignty of the individual and the self-enjoyment of the personality. These are among the most basic tenets of anarchism and find expression in the thought and actions of its most varied adherents.

Stirner was “rediscovered” toward the end of the nineteenth century when Nietzsche’s views were popular, and his “egoist” was hailed as a precursor of the “superman.” More recently, some have found in his thinking anticipations of elements of existentialist philosophy. Stirner’s reputation rests entirely on *The Ego and His Own,* the most important and best known of his writings. Also available in English translation is his essay *The False Principle of Our Education* (Colorado Springs, 1967). Two works on Stirner in German are the biography Max *Stimer: sein Leben und Sein Werk* (Berlin, 1898), by the anarchist poet John HenryMackay; and the more recent study by Hans G. Helms, *Die /deologie der anonymen Gese//- schall* (Cologne, 1966). A useful essay in French is Henri Arvon’s *Aux Sources de /‘exislen!ialisme:* Max *Stimer* (Paris, 1984). There is now a full-length study available in English, R. W. K. Paterson, *The Nihilist Egoist:* Max *Stimer* (Oxford, 1971). The text used here is *The* Ego *and His Own,* translated by Steven T. Byington (New York: Benj. R. Tucker, Publisher, 1907), pages 203–14, 225–34, 278–85, 331–44, 384–91, 393–95. The notes in brackets are those of the translator.

**** I

“Does not the spirit thirst for freedom?” — Alas, not my spirit alone, my body too thirsts for it hourly! When before the odorous castle-kitchen my nose tells my palate of the savory dishes that are being prepared therein, it feels a fearful pining at its dry bread; when my eyes tell the hardened back about soft down on which one may lie more delightfully than on its compressed straw, a suppressed rage seizes it; when — but let us not follow the pains further. — And you call that a longing for freedom? What do you want to become free from, then? From your hardtack and your straw bed? Then throw them away! — But that seems not to serve you: you want rather to have the freedom to enjoy delicious foods and downy beds. Are men to give you this “freedom” — are they to permit it to you? You do not hope that from their philanthropy, because you know they all think like you: each is the nearest to himself! How, therefore, do you mean to come to the enjoyment of those foods and beds? Evidently not otherwise than in making them your property!

If you think it over rightly, you do not want the freedom to have all these fine things, for with this freedom you still do not have them; you want really to have them, to call them <em>yours</em> and possess them as <em>your property</em>. Of what use is a freedom to you, indeed, if it brings in nothing? And, if you became free from everything, you would no longer have anything; for freedom is empty of substance. Whoso knows not how to make use of it, for him it has no value, this useless permission; but how I make use of it depends on my personality.{1}

{1} [<em>Eigenheit</em>]

I have no objection to freedom, but I wish more than freedom for you: you should not merely <em>be rid</em> of what you do not want, you should also *have* what you want; you should not only be a “freeman,” you should be an “owner” too.

Free — from what? Oh! what is there that cannot be shaken off? The yoke of serfdom, of sovereignty, of aristocracy and princes, the dominion of the desires and passions; yes, even the dominion of one’s own will, of self-will, for the completest self-denial is nothing but freedom — freedom, to wit, from self-determination, from one’s own self. And the craving for freedom as for something absolute, worthy of every praise, deprived us of ownness: it created self-denial. However, the freer I become, the more compulsion piles up before my eyes; and the more impotent I feel myself. The unfree son of the wilderness does not yet feel anything of all the limits that crowd a civilized man: he seems to himself freer than this latter. In the measure that I conquer freedom for myself I create for myself new bounds and new tasks: if I have invented railroads, I feel myself weak again because I cannot yet sail through the skies like the bird; and, if I have solved a problem whose obscurity disturbed my mind, at once there await me innumerable others, whose perplexities impede my progress, dim my free gaze, make the limits of my <em>freedom</em> painfully sensible to me. “Now that you have become free from sin, you have become servants of righteousness.”[50] Republicans in their broad freedom, do they not become servants of the law? How true Christian hearts at all times longed to “become free,” how they pined to see themselves delivered from the “bonds of this earth-life”! They looked out toward the land of freedom. (“The Jerusalem that is above is the freewoman; she is the mother of us all.” Gal. 4. 26.)

Being free from anything — means only being clear or rid. “He is free from headache” is equal to “he is rid of it.” “He is free from this prejudice” is equal to “he has never conceived it” or “he has got rid of it.” In “less” we complete the freedom recommended by Christianity, in sinless, godless, moralityless, etc.

Freedom is the doctrine of Christianity. “Ye, dear brethren, are called to freedom.”{1} “So speak and so do, as those who are to be judged by the law of freedom.”{1}

{1} Rom. 6. 18.

{1} Pet. 2. 16.

{1} James 2. 12.

Must we then, because freedom betrays itself as a Christian ideal, give it up? No, nothing is to be lost, freedom no more than the rest; but it is to become our own, and in the form of freedom it cannot.

What a difference between freedom and ownness! One can get <em>rid</em> of a great many things, one yet does not get rid of all; one becomes free from much, not from everything. Inwardly one may be free in spite of the condition of slavery, although, too, it is again only from all sorts of things, not from everything; but from the whip, the domineering temper, of the master, one does not as slave become <em>free</em>. “Freedom lives only in the realm of dreams!” Ownness, on the contrary, is my whole being and existence, it is I myself. I am free from what I am <em>rid</em> of, owner of what I have in my <em>power</em> or what I <em>control. My own</em> I am at all times and under all circumstances, if I know how to have myself and do not throw myself away on others. To be free is something that I cannot truly <em>will</em>, because I cannot make it, cannot create it: I can only wish it and — aspire toward it, for it remains an ideal, a spook. The fetters of reality cut the sharpest welts in my flesh every moment. But <em>my own</em> I remain. Given up as serf to a master, I think only of myself and my advantage; his blows strike me indeed, I am not <em>free</em> from them; but I endure them only for <em>my benefit</em>, perhaps in order to deceive him and make him secure by the semblance of patience, or, again, not to draw worse upon myself by contumacy. But, as I keep my eye on myself and my selfishness, I take by the forelock the first good opportunity to trample the slaveholder into the dust. That I then become <em>free</em> from him and his whip is only the consequence of my antecedent egoism. Here one perhaps says I was “free” even in the condition of slavery — to wit, “intrinsically” or “inwardly.” But “intrinsically free” is not “really free,” and “inwardly” is not “outwardly.” I was own, on the other hand, my own, altogether, inwardly and outwardly. Under the dominion of a cruel master my body is not “free” from torments and lashes; but it is <em>my</em> bones that moan under the torture, <em>my</em> fibres that quiver under the blows, and <em>I</em> moan because <em>my</em> body moans. That <em>I</em> sigh and shiver proves that I have not yet lost <em>myself</em>, that I am still my own. My leg is not “free” from the master’s stick, but it is my leg and is inseparable. Let him tear it off me and look and see if he still has my leg! He retains in his hand nothing but the — corpse of my leg, which is as little my leg as a dead dog is still a dog: a dog has a pulsating heart, a so-called dead dog has none and is therefore no longer a dog.

If one opines that a slave may yet be inwardly free, he says in fact only the most indisputable and trivial thing. For who is going to assert that any man is <em>wholly</em> without freedom? If I am an eye-servant, can I therefore not be free from innumerable things, <em>e.g.</em> from faith in Zeus, from the desire for fame, etc.? Why then should not a whipped slave also be able to be inwardly free from un-Christian sentiments, from hatred of his enemy, etc.? He then has “Christian freedom,” is rid of the un-Christian; but has he absolute freedom, freedom from everything, <em>e.g.</em> from the Christian delusion, or from bodily pain?

In the meantime, all this seems to be said more against names than against the thing. But is the name indifferent, and has not a word, a shibboleth, always inspired and — fooled men? Yet between freedom and ownness there lies still a deeper chasm than the mere difference of the words.

All the world desires freedom, all long for its reign to come. Oh, enchantingly beautiful dream of a blooming “reign of freedom,” a “free human race”! — who has not dreamed it? So men shall become free, entirely free, free from all constraint! From all constraint, really from all? Are they never to put constraint on themselves any more? “Oh yes, that, of course; don’t you see, that is no constraint at all?” Well, then at any rate they — are to become free from religious faith, from the strict duties of morality, from the inexorability of the law, from — “What a fearful misunderstanding!” Well, <em>what</em> are they to be free from then, and what not?

The lovely dream is dissipated; awakened, one rubs his half-opened eyes and stares at the prosaic questioner. “What men are to be free from?” — From blind credulity, cries one. What’s that? exclaims another, all faith is blind credulity; they must become free from all faith. No, no, for God’s sake — inveighs the first again — do not cast all faith from you, else the power of brutality breaks in. We must have the republic — a third makes himself heard, — and become — free from all commanding lords. There is no help in that, says a fourth: we only get a new lord then, a “dominant majority”; let us rather free ourselves from this dreadful inequality. — O, hapless equality, already I hear your plebeian roar again! How I had dreamed so beautifully just now of a paradise of <em>freedom</em>, and what — impudence and licentiousness now raises its wild clamor! Thus the first laments, and gets on his feet to grasp the sword against “unmeasured freedom.” Soon we no longer hear anything but the clashing of the swords of the disagreeing dreamers of freedom.

What the craving for freedom has always come to has been the desire for a <em>particular</em> freedom, <em>e.g.</em> freedom of faith; <em>i.e.</em> the believing man wanted to be free and independent; of what? of faith perhaps? no! but of the inquisitors of faith. So now “political or civil” freedom. The citizen wants to become free not from citizenhood, but from bureaucracy, the arbitrariness of princes, etc. Prince Metternich once said he had “found a way that was adapted to guide men in the path of <em>genuine</em> freedom for all the future.” The Count of Provence ran away from France precisely at the time when he was preparing the “reign of freedom,” and said: “My imprisonment had become intolerable to me; I had only one passion, the desire for <em>freedom</em>; I thought only of it.”

The craving for a <em>particular</em> freedom always includes the purpose of a new <em>dominion</em>, as it was with the Revolution, which indeed “could give its defenders the uplifting feeling that they were fighting for freedom,” but in truth only because they were after a particular freedom, therefore a new <em>dominion</em>, the “dominion of the law.”

Freedom you all want, you want <em>freedom</em>. Why then do you haggle over a more or less? <em>Freedom</em> can only be the whole of freedom; a piece of freedom is not <em>freedom</em>. You despair of the possibility of obtaining the whole of freedom, freedom from everything — yes, you consider it insanity even to wish this? — Well, then leave off chasing after the phantom, and spend your pains on something better than the — <em>unattainable</em>.

“Ah, but there is nothing better than freedom!”

What have you then when you have freedom, <em>viz</em>., — for I will not speak here of your piecemeal bits of freedom — complete freedom? Then you are rid of everything that embarrasses you, everything, and there is probably nothing that does not once in your life embarrass you and cause you inconvenience. And for whose sake, then, did you want to be rid of it? Doubtless <em>for your</em> sake, because it is in <em>your</em> way! But, if something were not inconvenient to you; if, on the contrary, it were quite to your mind (<em>e.g.</em> the gently but <em>irresistibly commanding</em> look of your loved one) — then you would not want to be rid of it and free from it. Why not? For <em>your sake</em> again! So you take <em>yourselves</em> as measure and judge over all. You gladly let freedom go when unfreedom, the “sweet service of love,” suits <em>you</em>; and you take up your freedom again on occasion when it begins to suit <em>you</em> better — <em>i. e.</em>, supposing, which is not the point here, that you are not afraid of such a Repeal of the Union for other (perhaps religious) reasons.

Why will you not take courage now to really make <em>yourselves</em> the central point and the main thing altogether? Why grasp in the air at freedom, your dream? Are you your dream? Do not begin by inquiring of your dreams, your notions, your thoughts, for that is all “hollow theory.” Ask yourselves and ask after yourselves — that is <em>practical</em>, and you know you want very much to be “practical.” But there the one hearkens what his God (of course what he thinks of at the name God is his God) may be going to say to it, and another what his moral feelings, his conscience, his feeling of duty, may determine about it, and a third calculates what folks will think of it — and, when each has thus asked his Lord God (folks are a Lord God just as good as, nay, even more compact than, the other-worldly and imaginary one: <em>vox populi, vox dei)</em>, then he accommodates himself to his Lord’s will and listens no more at all for what <em>he himself</em> would like to say and decide.

Therefore turn to yourselves rather than to your gods or idols. Bring out from yourselves what is in you, bring it to the light, bring yourselves to revelation.

How one acts only from himself, and asks after nothing further, the Christians have realized in the notion “God.” He acts “as it pleases him.” And foolish man, who could do just so, is to act as it “pleases God” instead. — If it is said that even God proceeds according to eternal laws, that too fits me, since I too cannot get out of my skin, but have my law in my whole nature, <em>i.e.</em> in myself.

But one needs only admonish you of yourselves to bring you to despair at once. “What am I?” each of you asks himself. An abyss of lawless and unregulated impulses, desires, wishes, passions, a chaos without light or guiding star! How am I to obtain a correct answer, if, without regard to God’s commandments or to the duties which morality prescribes, without regard to the voice of reason, which in the course of history, after bitter experiences, has exalted the best and most reasonable thing into law, I simply appeal to myself? My passion would advise me to do the most senseless thing possible. — Thus each deems himself the — devil; for, if, so far as he is unconcerned about religion, etc., he only deemed himself a beast, he would easily find that the beast, which does follow only <em>its</em> impulse (as it were, its advice), does not advise and impel itself to do the “most senseless” things, but takes very correct steps. But the habit of the religious way of thinking has biased our mind so grievously that we are — terrified at <em>ourselves</em> in our nakedness and naturalness; it has degraded us so that we deem ourselves depraved by nature, born devils. Of course it comes into your head at once that your calling requires you to do the “good,” the moral, the right. Now, if you ask <em>yourselves</em> what is to be done, how can the right voice sound forth from you, the voice which points the way of the good, the right, the true, etc.? What concord have God and Belial?

But what would you think if one answered you by saying: “That one is to listen to God, conscience, duties, laws, and so forth, is flim-flam with which people have stuffed your head and heart and made you crazy”? And if he asked you how it is that you know so surely that the voice of nature is a seducer? And if he even demanded of you to turn the thing about and actually to deem the voice of God and conscience to be the devil’s work? There are such graceless men; how will you settle them? You cannot appeal to your parsons, parents, and good men, for precisely these are designated by them as your <em>seducers</em>, as the true seducers and corrupters of youth, who busily sow broadcast the tares of self-contempt and reverence to God, who fill young hearts with mud and young heads with stupidity.

But now those people go on and ask: For whose sake do you care about God’s and the other commandments? You surely do not suppose that this is done merely out of complaisance toward God? No, you are doing it — <em>for your sake</em> again. — Here too, therefore, <em>you</em> are the main thing, and each must say to himself, <em>I</em> am everything to myself and I do everything <em>on my</em> account. If it ever became clear to you that God, the commandments, etc., only harm you, that they reduce and ruin <em>you</em>, to a certainty you would throw them from you just as the Christians once condemned Apollo or Minerva or heathen morality. They did indeed put in the place of these Christ and afterward Mary, as well as a Christian morality; but they did this for the sake of <em>their</em> souls’ welfare too, therefore out of egoism or ownness.

And it was by this egoism, this ownness, that they got <em>rid</em> of the old world of gods and became <em>free</em> from it. Ownness <em>created</em> a new <em>freedom</em>; for ownness is the creator of everything, as genius (a definite ownness), which is always originality, has for a long time already been looked upon as the creator of new productions that have a place in the history of the world.

If your efforts are ever to make “freedom” the issue, then exhaust freedom’s demands. Who is it that is to become free? You, I, we. Free from what? From everything that is not you, not I, not we. I, therefore, am the kernel that is to be delivered from all wrappings and — freed from all cramping shells. What is left when I have been freed from everything that is not I? Only I; nothing but I. But freedom has nothing to offer to this I himself. As to what is now to happen further after I have become free, freedom is silent — as our governments, when the prisoner’s time is up, merely let him go, thrusting him out into abandonment. ...

**** II

I — do I come to myself and mine through liberalism? Whom does the liberal look upon as his equal? Man! Be only man — and that you are anyway — and the liberal calls you his brother. He asks very little about your private opinions and private follies, if only he can espy “Man” in you.

But, as he takes little heed of what you are <em>privatim</em> — nay, in a strict following out of his principle sets no value at all on it — he sees in you only what you are <em>generatim</em>. In other words, he sees in you, not you, but the <em>species;</em> not Tom or Jim, but Man; not the real or unique one,{1} but your essence or your concept; not the bodily man, but the <em>spirit</em>.

{1} [<em>Einzigen</em>]

As Tom you would not be his equal, because he is Jim, therefore not Tom; as man you are the same that he is. And, since as Tom you virtually do not exist at all for him (so far, to wit, as he is a liberal and not unconsciously an egoist), he has really made “brother-love” very easy for himself: he loves in you not Tom, of whom he knows nothing and wants to know nothing, but Man.

To see in you and me nothing further than “men,” that is running the Christian way of looking at things, according to which one is for the other nothing but a <em>concept</em> (<em>e.g.</em> a man called to salvation, etc.), into the ground.

Christianity properly so called gathers us under a less utterly general concept: there we are “sons of God” and “led by the Spirit of God.”[55] Yet not all can boast of being God’s sons, but “the same Spirit which witnesses to our spirit that we are sons of God reveals also who are the sons of the devil.”[56] Consequently, to be a son of God one must not be a son of the devil; the sonship of God excluded certain men. To be <em>sons of men</em> — <em>i. e.</em>, men — on the contrary, we need nothing but to belong to the human <em>species</em>, need only to be specimens of the same species. What I am as this I is no concern of yours as a good liberal, but is my <em>private affair</em> alone; enough that we are both sons of one and the same mother, to wit, the human species: as “a son of man” I am your equal.

What am I now to you? Perhaps this <em>bodily</em> I as I walk and stand? Anything but that. This bodily I, with its thoughts, decisions, and passions, is in your eyes a “private affair” which is no concern of yours: it is an “affair by itself.” As an “affair for you” there exists only my concept, my generic concept, only <em>the Man</em>, who, as he is called Tom, could just as well be Joe or Dick. You see in me not me, the bodily man, but an unreal thing, the spook, <em>i.e.</em> a <em>Man</em>.

In the course of the Christian centuries we declared the most various persons to be “our equals,” but each time in the measure of that <em>spirit</em> which we expected from them — <em>e.g.</em> each one in whom the spirit of the need of redemption may be assumed, then later each one who has the spirit of integrity, finally each one who shows a human spirit and a human face. Thus the fundamental principle of “equality” varied.

Equality being now conceived as equality of the <em>human spirit</em>, there has certainly been discovered an equality that includes <em>all</em> men; for who could deny that we men have a human spirit, <em>i. e.</em>, no other than a human!

But are we on that account further on now than in the beginning of Christianity? Then we were to have a <em>divine spirit</em>, now a <em>human;</em> but, if the divine did not exhaust us, how should the human wholly express what <em>we</em> are? Feuerbach <em>e.g.</em> thinks, that if he humanizes the divine, he has found the truth. No, if God has given us pain, “Man” is capable of pinching us still more torturingly. The long and the short of it is this: that we are men is the slightest thing about us, and has significance only in so far as it is one of our <em>qualities</em>,{1} <em>i. e.</em> our property.{1} I am indeed among other things a man, as I am <em>e.g.</em> a living being, therefore an animal, or a European, a Berliner, etc.; but he who chose to have regard for me only as a man, or as a Berliner, would pay me a regard that would be very unimportant to me. And wherefore? Because he would have regard only for one of my <em>qualities</em>, not for <em>me</em>.

{1} [<em>Eigenschaften</em>]

{1} [<em>Eigentum</em>]

{1} Rom. 8. 14.

{1} Cf. 1 John 3. 10 wilh Rom. 8. 16.

It is just so with the <em>spirit too</em>. A Christian spirit, an upright spirit, etc. may well be my acquired quality, my property, but I am not this spirit: it is mine, not I its.

Hence we have in liberalism only the continuation of the old Christian depreciation of the I, the bodily Tom. Instead of taking me as I am, one looks solely at my property, my qualities, and enters into marriage bonds with me only for the sake of my — possessions; one marries, as it were, what I have, not what I am. The Christian takes hold of my spirit, the liberal of my humanity.

But, if the spirit, which is not regarded as the <em>property</em> of the bodily ego but as the proper ego itself, is a ghost, then the Man too, who is not recognized as my quality but as the proper I, is nothing but a spook, a thought, a concept.

Therefore the liberal too revolves in the same circle as the Christian. Because the spirit of mankind, <em>i.e.</em> Man, dwells in you, you are a man, as when the spirit of Christ dwells in you are a Christian; but, because it dwells in you only as a second ego, even though it be as your proper or “better” ego, it remains otherworldly to you, and you have to strive to become wholly man. A striving just as fruitless as the Christian’s to become wholly a blessed spirit!

One can now, after liberalism has proclaimed Man, declare openly that herewith was only completed the consistent carrying out of Christianity, and that in truth Christianity set itself no other task from the start than to realize “man,” the “true man.” Hence, then, the illusion that Christianity ascribes an infinite value to the ego (as <em>e.g.</em> in the doctrine of immortality, in the cure of souls, etc.) comes to light. No, it assigns this value to <em>Man</em> alone. Only <em>Man</em> is immortal, and only because I am Man am I too immortal. In fact, Christianity had to teach that no one is lost, just as liberalism too puts all on an equality as men; but that eternity, like this equality, applied only to the <em>Man</em> in me, not to me. Only as the bearer and harborer of Man do I not die, as notoriously “the king never dies.” Louis dies, but the king remains; I die, but my spirit, Man, remains. To identify me now entirely with Man the demand has been invented, and stated, that I must become a “real generic being.”{1}

The HUMAN <em>religion</em> is only the last metamorphosis of the Christian religion. For liberalism is a religion because it separates my essence from me and sets it above me, because it exalts “Man” to the same extent as any other religion does its God or idol, because it makes what is mine into something otherworldly, because in general it makes out of what is mine, out of my qualities and my property, something alien — to wit, an “essence”; in short, because it sets me beneath Man, and thereby creates for me a “vocation.” But liberalism declares itself a religion in form too when it demands for this supreme being, Man, a zeal of faith, “a faith that some day will at last prove its fiery zeal too, a zeal that will be invincible.”{1} But, as liberalism is a human religion, its professor takes a <em>tolerant</em> attitude toward the professor of any other (Catholic, Jewish, etc.), as Frederick the Great did toward every one who performed his duties as a subject, whatever fashion of becoming blest he might be inclined toward. This religion is now to be raised to the rank of the generally customary one, and separated from the others as mere “private follies,” toward which, besides, one takes a highly <em>liberal</em> attitude on account of their unessentialness.

{1} *E.* **I!-** Marx in llw *’“Dc11tsch-frm1=ii.ti.tclll’ Jahrhiicl1l’r,”* **p. Hl7.** i Br. Bauer, “)ude11/rc1g’”” **p.** 61.

One may call it the <em>State-religion</em>, the religion of the “free State,” not in the sense hitherto current that it is the one favored or privileged by the State, but as that religion which the “free State” not only has the right, but is compelled, to demand from each of those who belong to it, let him be <em>privatim</em> a Jew, a Christian, or anything else. For it does the same service to the State as filial piety to the family. If the family is to be recognized and maintained, in its existing condition, by each one of those who belong to it, then to him the tie of blood must be sacred, and his feeling for it must be that of piety, of respect for the ties of blood, by which every blood-relation becomes to him a consecrated person. So also to every member of the State-community this community must be sacred, and the concept which is the highest to the State must likewise be the highest to him.

But what concept is the highest to the State? Doubtless that of being a really human society, a society in which every one who is really a man, <em>i. e.</em>, <em>not an un-man</em>, can obtain admission as a member. Let a State’s tolerance go ever so far, toward an un-man and toward what is inhuman it ceases. And yet this “un-man” is a man, yet the “inhuman” itself is something human, yes, possible only to a man, not to any beast; it is, in fact, something “possible to man.” But, although every un-man is a man, yet the State excludes him; <em>i.e.</em> it locks him up, or transforms him from a fellow of the State into a fellow of the prison (fellow of the lunatic asylum or hospital, according to Communism).

To say in blunt words what an un-man is not particularly hard: it is a man who does not correspond to the <em>concept</em> man, as the inhuman is something human which is not conformed to the concept of the human. Logic calls this a “self-contradictory judgment.” Would it be permissible for one to pronounce this judgment, that one can be a man without being a man, if he did not admit the hypothesis that the concept of man can be separated from the existence, the essence from the appearance? They say, he <em>appears</em> indeed as a man, but <em>is</em> not a man.

Men have passed this “self-contradictory judgment” through a long line of centuries! Nay, what is still more, in this long time there were only — <em>un-men</em>. What individual can have corresponded to his concept? Christianity knows only one Man, and this one — Christ — is at once an un-man again in the reverse sense, to wit, a superhuman man, a “God.” Only the — un-man is a <em>real</em> man.

Men that are not men, what should they be but <em>ghosts?</em> Every real man, because he does not correspond to the concept “man,” or because he is not a “generic man,” is a spook. But do I still remain an un-man even if I bring Man (who towered above me and remained otherworldly to me only as my ideal, my task, my essence or concept) down to be my <em>quality</em>, my own and inherent in me; so that Man is nothing else than my humanity, my human existence, and everything that I do is human precisely because <em>I</em> do it, but not because it corresponds to the <em>concept</em> “man”? <em>I</em> am really Man and the un-man in one; for I am a man and at the same time more than a man; <em>i.e.</em> I am the ego of this my mere quality.

It had to come to this at last, that it was no longer merely demanded of us to be Christians, but to become men; for, though we could never really become even Christians, but always remained “poor sinners” (for the Christian was an unattainable ideal too), yet in this the contradictoriness did not come before our consciousness so, and the illusion was easier than now when of us, who are men act humanly (yes, cannot do otherwise than be such and act so), the demand is made that we are to be men, “real men.”

Our States of today, because they still have all sorts of things sticking to them, left from their churchly mother, do indeed load those who belong to them with various obligations (<em>e.g.</em> churchly religiousness) which properly do not a bit concern them, the States; yet on the whole they do not deny their significance, since they want to be looked upon as <em>human societies</em>, in which man as man can be a member, even if he is less privileged than other members; most of them admit adherence of every religious sect, and receive people without distinction of race or nation: Jews, Turks, Moors, etc., can become French citizens. In the act of reception, therefore, the State looks only to see whether one is a <em>man</em>. The Church, as a society of believers, could not receive every man into her bosom; the State, as a society of men, can. But, when the State has carried its principle clear through, of presupposing in its constituents nothing but that they are men (even the North Americans still presuppose in theirs that they have religion, at least the religion of integrity, of responsibility), then it has dug its grave. While it will fancy that those whom it possesses are without exception men, these have meanwhile become without exception <em>egoists</em>, each of whom utilizes it according to his egoistic powers and ends. Against the egoists “human society” is wrecked; for they no longer have to do with each other as <em>men</em>, but appear egoistically as an <em>I</em> against a <em>You</em> altogether different from me and in opposition to me.

If the State must count on our humanity, it is the same if one says it must count on our <em>morality</em>. Seeing Man in each other, and acting as men toward each other, is called moral behavior. This is every whit the “spiritual love” of Christianity. For, if I see Man in you, as in myself I see Man and nothing but Man, then I care for you as I would care for myself; for we represent, you see, nothing but the mathematical proposition: A = C and B = C, consequently A = B — <em>i.e.</em> I nothing but man and you nothing but man, consequently I and you the same. Morality is incompatible with egoism, because the former does not allow validity to <em>me</em>, but only to the Man in me. But, if the State is a <em>society of men</em>, not a union of egos each of whom has only himself before his eyes, then it cannot last without morality, and must insist on morality.

Therefore we two, the State and I, are enemies. I, the egoist, have not at heart the welfare of this “human society,” I sacrifice nothing to it, I only utilize it; but to be able to utilize it completely I transform it rather into my property and my creature; <em>i. e.</em>, I annihilate it, and form in its place the <em>Union of Egoists</em>. ...

The Christian people has produced two societies whose duration will keep equal measure with the permanence of that people: these are the societies <em>State</em> and <em>Church</em>. Can they be called a union of egoists? Do we in them pursue an egoistic, personal, own interest, or do we pursue a popular (<em>i.e.</em> an interest of the Christian <em>people</em>), to wit, a State, and Church interest? Can I and may I be myself in them? May I think and act as I will, may I reveal myself, live myself out, busy myself? Must I not leave untouched the majesty of the State, the sanctity of the Church?

Well, I may not do so as I will. But shall I find in any society such an unmeasured freedom of maying? Certainly no! Accordingly we might be content? Not a bit! It is a different thing whether I rebound from an ego or from a people, a generalization. There I am my opponent’s opponent, born his equal; here I am a despised opponent, bound and under a guardian: there I stand man to man; here I am a schoolboy who can accomplish nothing against his comrade because the latter has called father and mother to aid and has crept under the apron, while I am well scolded as an ill-bred brat, and I must not “argue”: there I fight against a bodily enemy; here against mankind, against a generalization, against a “majesty,” against a spook. But to me no majesty, nothing sacred, is a limit; nothing that I know how to overpower. Only that which I cannot overpower still limits my might; and I of limited might am temporarily a limited I, not limited by the might <em>outside</em> me, but limited by my <em>own</em> still deficient might, by my <em>own impotence</em>. However, “the Guard dies, but does not surrender!” Above all, only a bodily opponent!

<verse>
I dare meet every foeman
Whom I can see and measure with my eye,
mettle fires my mettle for the fight — etc.
</verse>

Many privileges have indeed been cancelled with time, but solely for the sake of the common weal, of the State and the State’s weal, by no means for the strengthening of me. Vassalage, <em>e.g.</em>, was abrogated only that a single liege lord, the lord of the people, the monarchical power, might be strengthened: vassalage under the one became yet more rigorous thereby. Only in favor of the monarch, be he called “prince” or “law,” have privileges fallen. In France the citizens are not, indeed, vassals of the king, but are instead vassals of the “law” (the Charter). <em>Subordination</em> was retained, only the Christian State recognized that man cannot serve two masters (the lord of the manor and the prince); therefore one obtained all the prerogatives; now he can again <em>place</em> one above another, he can make “men in high place.”

But of what concern to me is the common weal? The common weal as such is not <em>my weal</em>, but only the furthest extremity of <em>self- renunciation</em>. The common weal may cheer aloud while I must “down”;{1} the State may shine while I starve. In what lies the folly of the political liberals but in their opposing the people to the government and talking of people’s rights? So there is the people going to be of age, etc. As if one who has no mouth could be <em>mündig</em>!{1} Only the individual is able to be <em>mündig</em>. Thus the whole question of the liberty of the press is turned upside down when it is laid claim to as a “right of the people.” It is only a right, or better the might, of the <em>individual</em>. If a people has liberty of the press, then I, although in the midst of this people, have it not; a liberty of the people is not <em>my</em> liberty, and the liberty of the press as a liberty of the people must have at its side a press law directed against <em>me</em>.

{1} [<em>Kuschen</em>, a word whose only use is in ordering dogs to keep quiet]

{1} [This is the word for “of age”; but it is derived from <em>Mund</em>, “mouth,” and refers properly to the right of speaking through one’s own mouth, not by a guardian]

This must be insisted on all around against the present-day efforts for liberty:

<verse>
Liberty of the <em>people</em> is not <em>my</em> liberty!
</verse>

Let us admit these categories, liberty of the people and right of the people: <em>e.g.</em>, the right of the people that everybody may bear arms. Does one not forfeit such a right? One cannot forfeit his own right, but may well forfeit a right that belongs not to me but to the people. I may be locked up for the sake of the liberty of the people; I may, under sentence, incur the loss of the right to bear arms.

Liberalism appears as the last attempt at a creation of the liberty of the people, a liberty of the commune, of “society,” of the general, of mankind; the dream of a humanity, a people, a commune, a “society,” that shall be of age.

A people cannot be free otherwise than at the individual’s expense; for it is not the individual that is the main point in this liberty, but the people. The freer the people, the more bound the individual; the Athenian people, precisely at its freest time, created ostracism, banished the atheists, poisoned the most honest thinker.

How they do praise Socrates for his conscientiousness, which makes him resist the advice to get away from the dungeon! He is a fool that he concedes to the Athenians a right to condemn him. Therefore it certainly serves him right; why then does he remain standing on an equal footing with the Athenians? Why does he not break with them? Had he known, and been able to know, what he was, he would have conceded to such judges no claim, no right. That <em>he did not escape</em> was just his weakness, his delusion of still having something in common with the Athenians, or the opinion that he was a member, a mere member of this people. But he was rather this people itself in person, and could only be his own judge. There was no <em>judge over him</em>, as he himself had really pronounced a public sentence on himself and rated himself worthy of the Prytaneum. He should have stuck to that, and, as he had uttered no sentence of death against himself, should have despised that of the Athenians too and escaped. But he subordinated himself and recognized in the <em>people</em> his <em>judge;</em> he seemed little to himself before the majesty of the people. That he subjected himself to <em>might</em> (to which alone he could succumb) as to a “right” was treason against himself: it was <em>virtue</em>. To Christ, who, it is alleged, refrained from using the power over his heavenly legions, the same scrupulousness is thereby ascribed by the narrators. Luther did very well and wisely to have the safety of his journey to Worms warranted to him in black and white, and Socrates should have known that the Athenians were his <em>enemies</em>, he alone his judge. The self-deception of a “reign of law,” etc., should have given way to the perception that the relation was a relation of <em>might</em>.

It was with pettifoggery and intrigues that Greek liberty ended. Why? Because the ordinary Greeks could still less attain that logical conclusion which not even their hero of thought, Socrates, was able to draw. What then is pettifoggery but a way of utilizing something established without doing away with it? I might add “for one’s own advantage,” but, you see, that lies in “utilizing.” Such pettifoggers are the theologians who “wrest” and “force” God’s word; what would they have to wrest if it were not for the “established” Word of God? So those liberals who only shake and wrest the “established order.” They are all perverters, like those perverters of the law. Socrates recognized law, right; the Greeks constantly retained the authority of right and law. If with this recognition they wanted nevertheless to assert their advantage, every one his own, then they had to seek it in perversion of the law, or intrigue. Alcibiades, an intriguer of genius, introduces the period of Athenian “decay”; the Spartan Lysander and others show that intrigue had become universally Greek. Greek <em>law</em>, on which the Greek <em>States</em> rested, had to be perverted and undermined by the egoists within these States, and the <em>States</em> went down that the <em>individuals</em> might become free, the Greek people fell because the individuals cared less for this people than for themselves. In general, all States, constitutions, churches, have sunk by the <em>secession</em> of individuals; for the individual is the irreconcilable enemy of every <em>generality</em>, every <em>tie</em>, <em>i.e.</em> every fetter. Yet people fancy to this day that man needs “sacred ties”: he, the deadly enemy of every “tie.” The history of the world shows that no tie has yet remained unrent, shows that man tirelessly defends himself against ties of every sort; and yet, blinded, people think up new ties again and again, and think, <em>e.g.</em>, that they have arrived at the right one if one puts upon them the tie of a so-called free constitution, a beautiful, constitutional tie; decoration ribbons, the ties of confidence between “— — —,” do seem gradually to have become somewhat infirm, but people have made no further progress than from apron-strings to garters and collars.

<em>Everything sacred is a tie, a fetter</em>.

Everything sacred is and must be perverted by perverters of the law; therefore our present time has multitudes of such perverters in all spheres. They are preparing the way for the break-up of law, for lawlessness.

Poor Athenians who are accused of pettifoggery and sophistry! poor Alcibiades, of intrigue! Why, that was just your best point, your first step in freedom. Your Æeschylus, Herodotus, etc., only wanted to have a free Greek <em>people;</em> you were the first to surmise something of <em>your</em> freedom.

A people represses those who tower above <em>its majesty</em>, by ostracism against too-powerful citizens, by the Inquisition against the heretics of the Church, by the — Inquisition against traitors in the State.

For the people is concerned only with its self-assertion; it demands “patriotic self-sacrifice” from everybody. To it, accordingly, every one <em>in himself</em> is indifferent, a nothing, and it cannot do, not even suffer, what the individual and he alone must do — to wit, <em>turn him to account</em>. Every people, every State, is unjust toward the <em>egoist</em>.

As long as there still exists even one institution which the individual may not dissolve, the ownness and self-appurtenance of Me is still very remote. How can I, <em>e.g.</em> be free when I must bind myself by oath to a constitution, a charter, a law, “vow body and soul” to my people? How can I be my own when my faculties may develop only so far as they “do not disturb the harmony of society” (Weitling)?

The fall of peoples and mankind will invite <em>me</em> to my rise.

Listen, even as I am writing this, the bells begin to sound, that they may jingle in for tomorrow the festival of the thousand years’ existence of our dear Germany. Sound, sound its knell! You do sound solemn enough, as if your tongue was moved by the presentiment that it is giving convoy to a corpse. The German people and German peoples have behind them a history of a thousand years: what a long life! O, go to rest, never to rise again — that all may become free whom you so long have held in fetters. — The <em>people</em> is dead. — Up with <em>me</em>!

O thou my much-tormented German people — what was thy torment? It was the torment of a thought that cannot create itself a body, the torment of a walking spirit that dissolves into nothing at every cock-crow and yet pines for deliverance and fulfillment. In me too thou hast lived long, thou dear — thought, thou dear — spook. Already I almost fancied I had found the word of thy deliverance, discovered flesh and bones for the wandering spirit; then I hear them sound, the bells that usher thee into eternal rest; then the last hope fades out, then the notes of the last love die away, then I depart from the desolate house of those who now are dead and enter at the door of the — living one:

<quote>

For only he who is alive is in the right.

</quote>

Farewell, thou dream of so many millions; farewell, thou who hast tyrannized over thy children for a thousand years!

Tomorrow they carry thee to the grave; soon thy sisters, the peoples, will follow thee. But, when they have all followed, then — — mankind is buried, and I am my own, I am the laughing heir! ...

**** III

Proudhon (Weitling too) thinks he is telling the worst about property when he calls it theft (<em>vol</em>). Passing quite over the embarrassing question, what well-founded objection could be made against theft, we only ask: Is the concept “theft” at all possible unless one allows validity to the concept “property”? How can one steal if property is not already extant? What belongs to no one cannot be <em>stolen;</em> the water that one draws out of the sea he does <em>not steal</em>. Accordingly property is not theft, but a theft becomes possible only through property. Weitling has to come to this too, as he does regard everything as the <em>property of all:</em> if something is “the property of all,” then indeed the individual who appropriates it to himself steals.

Private property lives by grace of the <em>law</em>. Only in the law has it its warrant — for possession is not yet property, it becomes “mine” only by assent of the law; it is not a fact, not <em>un fait</em> as Proudhon thinks, but a fiction, a thought. This is legal property, legitimate property, guarantied property. It is mine not through <em>me</em> but through the — <em>law</em>.

Nevertheless, property is the expression for <em>unlimited dominion</em> over somewhat (thing, beast, man) which “I can judge and dispose of as seems good to me.” According to Roman law, indeed, <em>jus utendi et abutendi re sua, quatenus juris ratio patitur</em>, an <em>exclusive</em> and <em>unlimited right;</em> but property is conditioned by might. What I have in my power, that is my own. So long as I assert myself as holder, I am the proprietor of the thing; if it gets away from me again, no matter by what power, <em>e.g.</em> through my recognition of a title of others to the thing — then the property is extinct. Thus property and possession coincide. It is not a right lying outside my might that legitimizes me, but solely my might: if I no longer have this, the thing vanishes away from me. When the Romans no longer had any might against the Germans, the world-empire of Rome <em>belonged</em> to the latter, and it would sound ridiculous to insist that the Romans had nevertheless remained properly the proprietors. Whoever knows how to take and to defend the thing, to him it belongs till it is again taken from him, as liberty belongs to him who <em>takes</em> it.—

Only might decides about property, and, as the State (no matter whether State or well-to-do citizens or of ragamuffins or of men in the absolute) is the sole mighty one, it alone is proprietor; I, the unique,{1} have nothing, and am only enfeoffed, am vassal and as such, servitor. Under the dominion of the State there is no property of <em>mine</em>.

{1} [<em>Einzige</em>]

I want to raise the value of myself, the value of ownness, and should I cheapen property? No, as I was not respected hitherto because people, mankind, and a thousand other generalities were put higher, so property too has to this day not yet been recognized in its full value. Property too was only the property of a ghost, <em>e.g.</em> the people’s property; my whole existence “belonged to the fatherland”; <em>I</em> belonged to the fatherland, the people, the State, and therefore also everything that I called <em>my own</em>. It is demanded of States that they make away with pauperism. It seems to me this is asking that the State should cut off its own head and lay it at its feet; for so long as the State is the ego the individual ego must remain a poor devil, a non-ego. The State has an interest only in being itself rich; whether Michael is rich and Peter poor is alike to it; Peter might also be rich and Michael poor. It looks on indifferently as one grows poor and the other rich, unruffled by this alternation. As <em>individuals</em> they are really equal before its face; in this it is just: before it both of them are — nothing, as we “are altogether sinners before God”; on the other hand, it has a very great interest in this, that those individuals who make it their ego should have a part in <em>its</em> wealth; it makes them partakers in <em>its property</em>. Through property, with which it rewards the individuals, it tames them; but this remains <em>its</em> property, and every one has the usufruct of it only so long as he bears in himself the ego of the State, or is a “loyal member of society”; in the opposite case the property is confiscated, or made to melt away by vexatious lawsuits. The property, then, is and remains <em>State property</em>, not property of the ego. That the State does not arbitrarily deprive the individual of what he has from the State means simply that the State does not rob itself. He who is State-ego, <em>i.e.</em> a good citizen or subject, holds his fief undisturbed as <em>such an ego</em>, not as being an ego of his own. According to the code, property is what I call mine “by virtue of God and law.” But it is mine by virtue of God and law only so long as — the State has nothing against it.

In expropriations, disarmaments, and the like (as, when the exchequer confiscates inheritances if the heirs do not put in an appearance early enough) how plainly the else-veiled principle that only the <em>people</em>, “the State,” is proprietor, while the individual is feoffee, strikes the eye!

The State, I mean to say, cannot intend that anybody should <em>for his own sake</em> have property or actually be rich, nay, even well-to-do; it can acknowledge nothing, yield nothing, grant nothing to me as me. The State cannot check pauperism, because the poverty of possession is a poverty of me. He who <em>is</em> nothing but what chance or another — to wit, the State — makes out of him also <em>has</em> quite rightly nothing but what another gives him. And this other will <em>give</em> him only what he <em>deserves</em>, <em>i.e.</em> what he is worth by <em>service</em>. It is not he that realizes a value from himself; the State realizes a value from him.

National economy busies itself much with this subject. It lies far out beyond the “national,” however, and goes beyond the concepts and horizon of the State, which knows only State property and can distribute nothing else. For this reason it binds the possessions of property to <em>conditions —</em> as it binds everything to them, <em>e.g.</em> marriage, allowing validity only to the marriage sanctioned by it, and wresting this out of my power. But property is my property only when I hold it <em>unconditionally</em> : only I, an <em>unconditional</em> ego, have property, enter a relation of love, carry on free trade.

The State has no anxiety about me and mine, but about itself and its: I count for something to it only as its <em>child</em>, as “a son of the country”; as <em>ego</em> I am nothing at all for it. For the State’s understanding, what befalls me as ego is something accidental, my wealth as well as my impoverishment. But, if I with all that is mine am an accident in the State’s eyes, this proves that it cannot comprehend <em>me: I</em> go beyond its concepts, or, its understanding is too limited to comprehend me. Therefore it cannot do anything for me either.

Pauperism is the <em>valuelessness of me</em>, the phenomenon that I cannot realize value from myself. For this reason State and pauperism are one and the same. The State does not let me come to my value, and continues in existence only through my valuelessness: it is forever intent on <em>getting benefit</em> from me, <em>i.e.</em> exploiting me, turning me to account, using me up, even if the use it gets from me consists only in my supplying a <em>proles</em> (proletariat); it wants me to be “its creature.”

Pauperism can be removed only when I as ego <em>realize value</em> from myself, when I give my own self value, and make my price myself. I must rise in revolt to rise in the world.

What I produce, flour, linen, or iron and coal, which I toilsomely win from the earth, etc., is my work that I want to realize value from. But then I may long complain that I am not paid for my work according to its value: the payer will not listen to me, and the State likewise will maintain an apathetic attitude so long as it does not think it must “appease” me that <em>I</em> may not break out with my dreaded might. But this “appeasing” will be all, and, if it comes into my head to ask for more, the State turns against me with all the force of its lion-paws and eagle-claws: for it is the king of beasts, it is lion and eagle. If I refuse to be content with the price that it fixes for my ware and labor, if I rather aspire to determine the price of my ware myself, <em>e.g.</em>, “to pay myself,” in the first place I come into a conflict with the buyers of the ware. If this were stilled by a mutual understanding, the State would not readily make objections; for how individuals get along with each other troubles it little, so long as therein they do not get in its way. Its damage and its danger begin only when they do not agree, but, in the absence of a settlement, take each other by the hair. The State cannot endure that man stand in a direct relation to man; it must step between as —<em>mediator</em>, must <em>— intervene</em>. What Christ was, what the saints, the Church were, the State has become — to wit, “mediator.” It tears man from man to put itself between them as “spirit.” The laborers who ask for higher pay are treated as criminals as soon as they want to <em>compel</em> it. What are they to do? Without compulsion they don’t get it, and in compulsion the State sees a self-help, a determination of price by the ego, a genuine, free realization of value from his property, which it cannot admit of. What then are the laborers to do? Look to themselves and ask nothing about the State?

But, as is the situation with regard to my material work, so it is with my intellectual too. The State allows me to realize value from all my thoughts and to find customers for them (I do realize value from them, <em>e.g.</em> in the very fact that they bring me honor from the listeners, etc.); but only so long as <em>my</em> thoughts are —<em>its</em> thoughts. If, on the other hand, I harbor thoughts that it cannot approve (<em>i.e.</em> make its own), then it does not allow me at all to realize value from them, to bring them into <em>exchange</em> into <em>commerce. My</em> thoughts are free only if they are granted to me by the State’s <em>grace</em>, <em>i.e.</em> if they are the State’s thoughts. It lets me philosophize freely only so far as I approve myself a “philosopher of State”; <em>against</em> the State I must not philosophize, gladly as it tolerates my helping it out of its “deficiencies,” “furthering” it. — Therefore, as I may behave only as an ego most graciously permitted by the State, provided with its testimonial of legitimacy and police pass, so too it is not granted me to realize value from what is mine, unless this proves to be its, which I hold as fief from it. My ways must be its ways, else it distrains me; my thoughts its thoughts, else it stops my mouth.

The State has nothing to be more afraid of than the value of me, and nothing must it more carefully guard against than every occasion that offers itself to me for <em>realizing value</em> from myself. <em>I</em> am the deadly enemy of the State, which always hovers between the alternatives, it or I. Therefore it strictly insists not only on not letting <em>me</em> have a standing, but also on keeping down what is <em>mine</em>. In the State there is no property, <em>i.e.</em> no property of the individual, but only State property. Only through the State have I what I have, as I am only through it what I am. My private property is only that which the State leaves to me of <em>its, cutting off</em> others from it (depriving them, making it private); it is State property.

But, in opposition to the State, I feel more and more clearly that there is still left me a great might, the might over myself, <em>i.e.</em> over everything that pertains only to me and that <em>exists</em> only in being my own.

What do I do if my ways are no longer its ways, my thoughts no longer its thoughts? I look to myself, and ask nothing about it! In <em>my</em> thoughts, which I get sanctioned by no assent, grant, or grace, I have my real property, a property with which I can trade. For as mine they are my <em>creatures</em>, and I am in a position to give them away in return for <em>other</em> thoughts: I give them up and take in exchange for them others, which then are my new purchased property.

What then is <em>my</em> property? Nothing but what is in my <em>power!</em> To what property am I entitled? To every property to which I — <em>empower</em> myself.{1} I give myself the right of property in taking property to myself, or giving myself the proprietor’s <em>power</em>, full power, empowerment.

{1} [A German idiom for “take upon myself,” “assume”]

Everything over which I have might that cannot be torn from me remains my property; well, then let might decide about property, and I will expect everything from my might! Alien might, might that I leave to another, makes me an owned slave: then let my own might make me an owner. Let me then withdraw the might that I have conceded to others out of ignorance regarding the strength of my <em>own</em> might! Let me say to myself, what my might reaches to is my property; and let me claim as property everything that I feel myself strong enough to attain, and let me extend my actual property as far as <em>I</em> entitle, <em>i. e.</em> — empower, myself to take.

Here egoism, selfishness, must decide; not the principle of <em>love</em>, not love-motives like mercy, gentleness, good-nature, or even justice and equity (for <em>justitia</em> too is a phenomenon of — love, a product of love): love knows only <em>sacrifices</em> and demands “self-sacrifice.”

Egoism does not think of sacrificing anything, giving away anything that it wants; it simply decides, what I want I must have and will procure.

All attempts to enact rational laws about property have put out from the bay of <em>love</em> into a desolate sea of regulations. Even Socialism and Communism cannot be excepted from this. Every one is to be provided with adequate means, for which it is little to the point whether one socialistically finds them still in a personal property, or communistically draws them from the community of goods. The individual’s mind in this remains the same; it remains a mind of dependence. The distributing <em>board of equity</em> lets me have only what the sense of equity, its <em>loving</em> care for all, prescribes. For me, the individual, there lies no less of a check in <em>collective wealth</em> than in that of <em>individual others;</em> neither that is mine, nor this: whether the wealth belongs to the collectivity, which confers part of it on me, or to individual possessors, is for me the same constraint, as I cannot decide about either of the two. On the contrary, Communism, by the abolition of all personal property, only presses me back still more into dependence on another, <em>viz</em>., on the generality or collectivity; and, loudly as it always attacks the “State,” what it intends is itself again a State, a <em>status</em>, a condition hindering my free movement, a sovereign power over me. Communism rightly revolts against the pressure that I experience from individual proprietors; but still more horrible is the might that it puts in the hands of the collectivity.

Egoism takes another way to root out the non-possessing rabble. It does not say: Wait for what the board of equity will — bestow on you in the name of the collectivity (for such bestowal took place in “States” from the most ancient times, each receiving “according to his desert,” and therefore according to the measure in which each was able to <em>deserve</em> it, to acquire it by <em>service</em>), but: Take hold, and take what you require! With this the war of all against all is declared. I alone decide what I will have.

“Now, that is truly no new wisdom, for self-seekers have acted so at all times!” Not at all necessary either that the thing be new, if only <em>consciousness</em> of it is present. But this latter will not be able to claim great age, unless perhaps one counts in the Egyptian and Spartan law; for how little current it is appears even from the stricture above, which speaks with contempt of “self-seekers.” One is to know just this, that the procedure of taking hold is not contemptible, but manifests the pure deed of the egoist at one with himself.

Only when I expect neither from individuals nor from a collectivity what I can give to myself, only then do I slip out of the snares of —love; the rabble ceases to be rabble only when it <em>takes hold</em>. Only the dread of taking hold, and the corresponding punishment thereof, makes it a rabble. Only that taking hold is <em>sin</em>, crime — only this dogma creates a rabble. For the fact that the rabble remains what it is, it (because it allows validity to that dogma) is to blame as well as, more especially, those who “self-seekingly” (to give them back their favorite word) demand that the dogma be respected. In short, the lack of <em>consciousness</em> of that “new wisdom,” the old consciousness of sin, alone bears the blame.

If men reach the point of losing respect for property, every one will have property, as all slaves become free men as soon as they no longer respect the master as master. <em>Unions</em> will then, in this matter too, multiply the individual’s means and secure his assailed property.

According to the Communists’ opinion the commune should be proprietor. On the contrary, <em>I</em> am proprietor, and I only come to an understanding with others about my property. If the commune does not do what suits me, I rise against it and defend my property. I am proprietor, but property is <em>not sacred</em>. I should be merely possessor? No, hitherto one was only possessor, secured in the possession of a parcel by leaving others also in possession of a parcel; but now <em>everything</em> belongs to me, I am proprietor of <em>everything that I require</em> and can get possession of. If it is said socialistically, society gives me what I require — then the egoist says, I take what I require. If the Communists conduct themselves as ragamuffins, the egoist behaves as proprietor.

All swan-fraternities,{1} and attempts at making the rabble happy, that spring from the principle of love, must miscarry. Only from egoism can the rabble get help, and this help it must give to itself and — will give to itself. If it does not let itself be coerced into fear, it is a power. “People would lose all respect if one did not coerce them into fear,” says bugbear Law in <em>Der gestiefelte Kater</em>.

Property, therefore, should not and cannot be abolished; it must rather be torn from ghostly hands and become <em>my</em> property; then the erroneous consciousness, that I cannot entitle myself to as much as I require, will vanish.

“But what cannot man require!” Well, whoever requires much, and understands how to get it, has at all times helped himself to it, as Napoleon did with the Continent and France with Algiers. Hence the exact point is that the respectful “rabble” should learn at last to help itself to what it requires. If it reaches out too far for you, why, then defend yourselves. You have no need at all to good-heartedly — bestow anything on it; and, when it learns to know itself, it — or rather: whoever of the rabble learns to know himself, he — casts off the rabble-quality in refusing your alms with thanks. But it remains ridiculous that you declare the rabble “sinful and criminal” if it is not pleased to live from your favors because it can do something in its own favor. Your bestowals cheat it and put it off. Defend your property, then you will be strong; if, on the other hand, you want to retain your ability to bestow, and perhaps actually have the more political rights the more alms (poor-rates) you can give, this will work just as long as the recipients let you work it.{1}

In short, the property question cannot be solved so amicably as the Socialists, yes, even the Communists, dream. It is solved only by the war of all against all. The poor become free and proprietors only when they — <em>rise</em>. Bestow ever so much on them, they will still always want more; for they want nothing less than that at last — nothing more be bestowed.

{1} In a registration bill for Irdaml the government madc the proposal to let those be electors who pay **£5** sterling or poor-rates. He who gives alms, therefore, acquires political rights, or elsewhere becomes a swan-knight.

It will be asked, but how then will it be when the have- nots take heart? Of what sort is the settlement to be? One might as well ask that I cast a child’s nativity. What a slave will do as soon as he has broken his fetters, one must —await. ...

**** IV


Intercourse hitherto has rested on love, <em>regardful</em> behavior, doing for each other. As one owed it to himself to make himself blessed, or owed himself the bliss of taking up into himself the supreme essence and bringing it to a <em>vérité</em> (a truth and reality), so one owed it to <em>others</em> to help them realize their essence and their calling: in both cases one owed it to the essence of man to contribute to its realization.

But one owes it neither to himself to make anything out of himself, nor to others to make anything out of them; for one owes nothing to his essence and that of others. Intercourse resting on essence is an intercourse with the spook, not with anything real. If I hold intercourse with the supreme essence, I am not holding intercourse with myself, and, if I hold intercourse with the essence of man, I am not holding intercourse with men.

The natural man’s love becomes through culture a <em>commandment</em>. But as commandment it belongs to <em>Man</em> as such. not to me; it is my <em>essence</em>,{1} about which much ado{1} is made. not my property. <em>Man</em>, <em>i.e.</em> humanity, presents that demand to me; love <em>is demanded</em>, it is my <em>duty</em>. Instead, therefore, of being really won for <em>me</em>, it has been won for the generality, <em>Man</em>, as his property or peculiarity: “it becomes man, every man, to love; love is the duty and calling of man,” etc.

{1} [<em>Wesen</em>]

{1} [<em>Wesen</em>]

Consequently I must again vindicate love for <em>myself</em>, and deliver it out of the power of Man with the great M.

What was originally <em>mine</em>, but <em>accidentally</em> mine, instinctively mine, I was invested with as the property of Man; I became feoffee in loving, I became the retainer of mankind, only a specimen of this species, and acted, loving, not as <em>I</em>, but as <em>man</em>, as a specimen of man, the humanly. The whole condition of civilization is the <em>feudal system</em>, the property being Man’s or mankind’s, not <em>mine</em>. A monstrous feudal State was founded, the individual robbed of everything, everything left to “man.” The individual had to appear at last as a “sinner through and through.”

Am I perchance to have no lively interest in the person of another, are <em>his</em> joy and <em>his</em> weal not to lie at my heart, is the enjoyment that I furnish him not to be more to me than other enjoyments of my own? On the contrary, I can with joy sacrifice to him numberless enjoyments, I can deny myself numberless things for the enhancement of <em>his</em> pleasure, and I can hazard for him what without him was the dearest to me, my life, my welfare, my freedom. Why, it constitutes my pleasure and my happiness to refresh myself with his happiness and his pleasure. But <em>myself, my own self</em>, I do not sacrifice to him, but remain an egoist and — enjoy him. If I sacrifice to him everything that but for my love to him I should keep, that is very simple, and even more usual in life than it seems to be; but it proves nothing further than that this one passion is more powerful in me than all the rest. Christianity too teaches us to sacrifice all other passions to this. But, if to one passion I sacrifice others, I do not on that account go so far as to sacrifice <em>myself</em>, nor sacrifice anything of that whereby I truly am myself; I do not sacrifice my peculiar value, my <em>ownness</em>. Where this bad case occurs, love cuts no better figure than any other passion that I obey blindly. The ambitious man, who is carried away by ambition and remains deaf to every warning that a calm moment begets in him, has let this passion grow up into a despot against whom he abandons all power of dissolution: he has given up himself, because he cannot <em>dissolve</em> himself, and consequently cannot absolve himself from the passion: he is possessed.

I love men too — not merely individuals, but every one. But I love them with the consciousness of egoism; I love them because love makes <em>me</em> happy, I love because loving is natural to me, because it pleases me. I know no “commandment of love.” I have a <em>fellow-feeling</em> with every feeling being, and their torment torments, their refreshment refreshes me too; I can kill them, not torture them. <em>Per contra</em>, the high-souled, virtuous Philistine prince Rudolph in <em>The Mysteries of Paris</em>, because the wicked provoke his “indignation,” plans their torture. That fellow-feeling proves only that the feeling of those who feel is mine too, my property; in opposition to which the pitiless dealing of the “righteous” man (<em>e.g.</em> against notary Ferrand) is like the unfeelingness of that robber [Procrustes] who cut <em>off</em> or stretched his prisoners’ legs to the measure of his bedstead: Rudolph’s bedstead, which he cuts men to fit, is the concept of the “good.” The for right, virtue, etc., makes people hard-hearted and intolerant. Rudolph does not feel like the notary, but the reverse; he feels that “it serves the rascal right”; that is no fellow-feeling.

You love man, therefore you torture the individual man, the egoist; your philanthropy (love of men) is the tormenting of men.

If I see the loved one suffer, I suffer with him, and I know no rest till I have tried everything to comfort and cheer him; if I see him glad, I too become glad over his joy. From this it does not follow that suffering or joy is caused in me by the same thing that brings out this effect in him, as is sufficiently proved by every bodily pain which I do not feel as he does; his tooth pains him, but his pain pains me.

But, because I cannot bear the troubled crease on the beloved forehead, for that reason, and therefore for my sake, I kiss it away. If I did not love this person, he might go right on making creases, they would not trouble me; I am only driving away <em>my</em> trouble.

How now, has anybody or anything, whom and which I do not love, a <em>right</em> to be loved by me? Is my love first, or is his right first? Parents, kinsfolk, fatherland, nation, native town, etc., finally fellowmen in general (“brothers, fraternity”), assert that they have a right to my love, and lay claim to it without further ceremony. They look upon it as <em>their property</em>, and upon me, if I do not respect this, as a robber who takes from them what pertains to them and is theirs. I <em>should</em> love. If love is a commandment and law, then I must be educated into it, cultivated up to it, and, if I trespass against it, punished. Hence people will exercise as strong a “moral influence” as possible on me to bring me to love. And there is no doubt that one can work up and seduce men to love as one can to other passions — if you like, to hate. Hate runs through whole races merely because the ancestors of the one belonged to the Guelphs, those of the other to the Ghibellines.

But love is not a commandment, but, like each of my feelings, <em>my property. Acquire</em>, <em>i.e.</em> purchase, my property, and then I will make it over to you. A church, a nation, a fatherland, a family, etc., that does not know how to acquire my love, I need not love; and I fix the purchase price of my love quite at my pleasure.

Selfish love is far distant from unselfish, mystical, or romantic love. One can love everything possible, not merely men, but an “object” in general (wine, one’s fatherland, etc.). Love becomes blind and crazy by a <em>must</em> taking it out of my power (infatuation), romantic by a <em>should</em> entering into it, <em>i.e.</em> by the “objects” becoming sacred for me, or my becoming bound to it by duty, conscience, oath. Now the object no longer exists for me, but I for it.

Love is a possessedness, not as my feeling — as such I rather keep it in my possession as property — but through the alienness of the object. For religious love consists in the commandment to love in the beloved a “holy one,” or to adhere to a holy one; for unselfish love there are objects <em>absolutely lovable</em> for which my heart is to beat, <em>e.g.</em> fellow-men, or my wedded mate, kinsfolk, etc. Holy Love loves the holy in the beloved, and therefore exerts itself also to make of the beloved more and more a holy one (a “man”).

The beloved is an object that <em>should</em> be loved by me. He is not an object of my love on account of, because of, or by, my loving him, but is an object of love in and of himself. Not I make him an object of love, but he is such to begin with; for it is here irrelevant that he has become so by my choice, if so it be (as with a <em>fiancée</em>, a spouse, etc.), since even so he has in any case, as the person once chosen, obtained a “right of his own to my love,” and I, because I have loved him, am under obligation to love him forever. He is therefore not an object of <em>my</em> love, but of love in general: an object that <em>should</em> be loved. Love appertains to him, is due to him, or is his <em>right</em>, while I am under <em>obligation</em> to love him. My love, <em>i.e.</em> the toll of love that I pay him, is in truth <em>his</em> love, which he only collects from me as toll.

Every love to which there clings but the smallest speck of obligation is an unselfish love, and, so far as this speck reaches, a possessedness. He who believes that he <em>owes</em> the object of his love anything loves romantically or religiously.

Family love, <em>e.g.</em> as it is usually understood as “piety,” is a religious love; love of fatherland, preached as “patriotism,” likewise. All our romantic loves move in the same pattern: everywhere the hypocrisy, or rather self-deception, of an “unselfish love,” an interest in the object for the object’s sake, not for my sake and mine alone.

Religious or romantic love is distinguished from sensual love by the difference of the object indeed, but not by the dependence of the relation to it. In the latter regard both are possessedness; but in the former the one object is profane, the other sacred. The dominion of the object over me is the same in both cases, only that it is one time a sensuous one, the other time a spiritual (ghostly) one. My love is my own only when it consists altogether in a selfish and egoistic interest, and when consequently the object of my love is really <em>my</em> object or my property. I owe my property nothing, and have no duty to it, as little as I might have a duty to my eye; if nevertheless I guard it with the greatest care, I do so on my account.

Antiquity lacked love as little as do Christian times; the god of love is older than the God of Love. But the mystical possessedness belongs to the moderns.

The possessedness of love lies in the alienation of the object, or in my powerlessness as against its alienness and superior power. To the egoist nothing is high enough for him to humble himself before it, nothing so independent that he would live for love of it, nothing so sacred that he would sacrifice himself to it. The egoist’s love rises in selfishness, flows in the bed of selfishness, and empties into selfishness again.

Whether this can still be called love? If you know another word for it, go ahead and choose it; then the sweet word love may wither with the departed world; for the present I at least find none in our <em>Christian</em> language, and hence stick to the old sound and “love” <em>my</em> object, my — property. …

If I first said, I love the world, I now add likewise: I do not love it, for I <em>annihilate</em> it as I annihilate myself; I <em>dissolve it</em>. I do not limit myself to one feeling for men, but give free play to all that I am capable of. Why should I not dare speak it out in all its glaringness? Yes, I <em>utilize</em> the world and men! With this I can keep myself open to every impression without being torn away from myself by one of them. I can love, love with a full heart, and let the most consuming glow of passion burn in my heart, without taking the beloved one for anything else than the <em>nourishment</em> of my passion, on which it ever refreshes itself anew. All my care for him applies only to the <em>object of my love</em>, only to him whom my love <em>requires</em>, only to him, the “warmly loved.” How indifferent would he be to me without this — my love! I feed only my love with him, I <em>utilize</em> him for this only: I <em>enjoy</em> him.

Let us choose another convenient example. I see how men are fretted in dark superstition by a swarm of ghosts. If to the extent of my powers I let a bit of daylight fall in on the nocturnal spookery, is it perchance because love to you inspires this in me? Do I write out of love to men? No, I write because I want to procure for <em>my</em> thoughts an existence in the world; and, even if I foresaw that these thoughts would deprive you of your rest and your peace, even if I saw the bloodiest wars and the fall of many generations springing up from this seed of thought — I would nevertheless scatter it. Do with it what you will and can, that is your affair and does not trouble me. You will perhaps have only trouble, combat, and death from it, very few will draw joy from it. If your weal lay at my heart, I should act as the church did in withholding the Bible from the laity, or Christian governments, which make it a sacred duty for themselves to “protect the common people from bad books.”

But not only not for your sake, not even for truth’s sake either do I speak out what I think. No —

<verse>
I sing as the bird sings
That on the bough alights;
The song that from me springs
Is pay that well requites.
</verse>

I sing because — I am a singer. But I <em>use</em>{1} you for it because I — need{1} ears.

{1} [<em>gebrauche</em>]

{1} [<em>brauche</em>]

Where the world comes in my way — and it comes in my way everywhere — I consume it to quiet the hunger of my egoism. For me you are nothing but —my food, even as I too am fed upon and turned to use by you. We have only one relation to each other, that of <em>usableness</em>, of utility, of use. We owe <em>each other</em> nothing, for what I seem to owe you I owe at most to myself. If I show you a cheery air in order to cheer you likewise, then your cheeriness is of consequence to <em>me</em>, and my air serves <em>my</em> wish; to a thousand others, whom I do not aim to cheer, I do not show it. ...

*** General Idea of the Revolution in the Nineteenth Century

Pierre-Joseph Proudhon: Mutualist Anarchism

Pierre-Joseph Proudhon was that rarity among theorists of anarchism-and of socialism, for that matter-a man of working-class origins. He was born in 1809 in the city of Besan^on in eastern France, where his father, who came of peasant stock, was an artisan and then an innkeeper. Proudhon had some formal education, but he acquired much of his considerable erudition, including a knowledge of Hebrew, on his own. He was apprenticed as a printer and later, when he embarked on his career of social criticism, he put this knowledge to good use as editor of a series of radical newspapers. Except for a brief episode as deputy to the National Assembly in 1848-49-a disillusioning experience that confirmed his view that political institutions were worthless-he devoted his adult years to writing, which earned him a precarious livelihood.

His first major publication was *What Is Property?* of 1840. In this work, which brought him his fame, Proudhon became the first advocate of a society without government to call himself an anarchist. Here and in his subsequent works he voiced the fundamental anarchist premise that men are freest in small communities where they can give voluntary assent to the decisions affecting their lives. But he added a significant new element to anarchist theory by viewing those communities as primarily economic associations. To Proudhon man is fundamentally a producer, and society, which he regards as the essential context for the development of the individual, is built upon the economic relationships among individuals. In *Genera/ Idea of the Revolution in the Nineteenth Century* he carried this idea a step further by adapting it to the specific economic conditions of modern industrial society. The community now becomes a voluntary association of producers making reciprocal agreements in pursuit of their economic interests; the principles of “mutual ism” within these associations and free federation among them for the pursuit of larger purposes were to become the twin pillars of Proudhon’s philosophy. Proudhon applied these principles to the modern factory with the notion of workers running their own plants. In the form of the anarcho-syndicalist theory of workers’ control of industry, this idea was later to have a strong influence on the labor movement of France and other countries. More broadly, with Proudhon hostility to modern capitalism as well as to the state becomes one of the permanent features of anarchism.

Besides his importance as a theorist, Proudhon also contributed to the development of anarchism as a political movement. He himself was active in the radical politics of his day, and his personal acquaintances ranged from Marx, with whom he sharply disagreed, to Bakunin, whom he strongly influenced. (He also knew and influenced Tolstoy, though in a very different way.) In 1664, the year before his death, a group of French workers who adhered to his ideas participated in the founding of the First International, thereby introducing an anarchist current into the international socialist movement.

*Genera/ Idea* of *the Revolution in the Nineteenth Century (!dee generate de la revolution au XIX’ siec/e)* was published in 1651. The text used here is a translation by John Beverley Robinson (London: Freedom Press, 1923), pages 40- 45, 205–7, 215–24, 240–7, 270–87. Other major works by Proudhon available in English are *Whal Is Properly?* (Princeton, Mass., 1876), and *System of Economic Contradictions: or, The Philosophy of Misery,* Volume I (Boston, 1888). Stewart Edwards, ed., *Selected Writings of Pierre-Joseph Proudhon* (London, 1969), is an anthology of extracts from Proudhon’s works. The best English-language biography is George Woodcock, *Pierre-Joseph Proudhon* (London, 1956). Other studies include Henri de Lubac, S. )., *The Un-Marxian Socia/isl: A Study of Proudhon* (London, 1948); J. Hampden Jackson, *Marx, Proudhon and European Socialism* (London, 1957); and Alan Ritter, *The Political Thought of PierreJoseph Proudhon* (Princeton, N.J., 1969).


**** I

A revolution is an act of sovereign justice, in the order of moral facts, springing out of the necessity of things, and in consequence carrying with it its own justification; and which it is a crime for the statesman to oppose it. That is the proposition which we have established in our first study.

Now the question is to discover whether the idea which stands out as the formula of the revolution is not chimerical; whether its object is real; whether a fancy or popular exaggeration is not mistaken for a serious and just protest. The second proposition therefore which we have to examine is the following:

<em>Is there today sufficient reason in society for revolution?</em>

For if this reason does not exist, if we are fighting for an imaginary cause, if the people are complaining because, as they say, they are too well off, the duty of the magistrate would be simply to undeceive the multitude, whom we have often seen aroused without cause, as the echo responds to one who calls.

In a word, is the occasion for revolution presented at the moment, by the nature of things, by the connection of facts, by the working of institutions, by the advance in needs, by the order of Providence?

It should be possible to determine this at a glance. If a long philosophical dissertation were necessary, a cause might exist, but it would be only in the germ, only potentially. To weigh arguments in such a cause would be prophecy, not practical history.

To solve this question I will take a rule, as simple as it is decisive, with which the occurrences in past revolutions furnish me. It is that the motive behind revolutions is not so much the distress felt by the people at a given moment, as the prolongation of this distress, which tends to neutralize and extinguish the good.

Thus the trial which is instituted by a revolution, and the judgment which later it puts into execution, are related to <em>tendencies</em> rather than to mere facts: society, as it were, paying little attention to principles, and directing its course solely toward <em>ends</em>…

Usually good and evil, pleasure and pain, are inextricably entangled in human dealing. Nevertheless, despite continual oscillations, the good seems to prevail over the evil, and, taking it altogether, there is marked progress toward the better, as far as we can see.

The reasoning of the masses is built upon this idea. The people is neither optimistic nor pessimistic; it admits the absolute not at all. Let is stay as it believes.

Always at each reform, each abuse to be destroyed, each vice to be combated, it confines itself to seeking for something better, something less evil, and works for its own sanctification by labor, by study, by good behavior. Its rule of conduct is therefore: <em>A tendency toward comfort and virtue;</em> it does not revolt until it can see nothing for it but <em>A tendency toward poverty and corruption</em>.

Thus there was no revolution in the seventeenth century, although the retrograde feeling which was manifested in 1614 was already the principle of royal policy, and although the poverty was frightful, according to the witness of La Bruyere, Racine, Fénélon, Vauban and Boisguilbert. Among other reasons for resignation was that it had not been proved that poverty was anything more than the accidental effect of some temporary cause: the people remembered having been much more wretched not very long ago. The absolute monarchy under Louis XIV could not have appeared to them worse than feudalism.

Nor was there any revolution under Louis XV, except in the intellectual realm. The corruption of principles, visible to philosophers, remained hidden from the masses, whose logic never distinguishes an idea from a fact. Popular experience, under Louis XV, was far from being at the level of philosophical criticism. The nation still supposed that with a well-behaved and honest prince, its ills might have an end. Louis XVI too, was welcomed with fervor; while Turgot, the unbending reformer, was received without sympathy. The support of public opinion was lacking to this great man. In 1776, one might have said that a worthy man, who wanted to bring about reforms peacefully, had been betrayed by the people. It was not within his power to accomplish the Revolution by action from above without disturbance, I had almost said, without revolutionaries.

Fifteen years more of chaos were needed, under a monarch personally irreproachable, to prove to the most thoughtless that the trouble was not accidental but constitutional, that the disorganization was systematic, not fortuitous, and that the situation, instead of improving, was according to the usual fate of institutions, daily growing worse and worse. The publication of the Red Book in 1790, demonstrated this truth by figures. Then it was that the Revolution became popularized and inevitable.

The question which we have taken for the text of this study:—<em>Is there sufficient reason for a revolution in the nineteenth century?</em>—resolves itself into the following:—<em>What is the tendency of society in our day?</em>

Hence, but a few pages will suffice to support the answer which I do not hesitate to point out now. Society, as far as it has been able to develop freely for half a century, under the distractions of ‘89–‘93, the paternalism of the Empire and the guaranties of 1814, 1830, and 1848, is on a road radically and increasingly wrong.

Let us take our point of view at the very beginning of present society, in 1789.

In 1798 the task of the Revolution was to destroy and rebuild at the same time. It had the old rule to abolish but only by producing a new organization, of which the plan and character should be exactly the opposite of the former, according to the revolutionary rule: Every negation implies a subsequent contradictory affirmation.

Of these, the Revolution, with great difficulty, accomplished only the first; the other was entirely forgotten. Hence this impossibility of living, which has oppressed French society for 60 years.

The feudal order having been abolished on the night of the 4<sup>th</sup> of August, and the principles of liberty and civil equality proclaimed, the consequence was that in future society must be organized, not for politics and war, but for work. What in fact was the feudal organization? It was one entirely military. What is work? The negation of fighting. To abolish feudalism, then, meant to commit ourselves to a perpetual peace, not only foreign but domestic. By this single act, all the old politics between State and State, all the systems of European equilibrium, were abrogated: the same equality, the same independence which the Revolution promised to bring about among individuals, must exist between nation and nation, province and province, city and city …

What was to be organized after the 4<sup>th</sup> of August was not the Government, inasmuch as in restoring government nothing but the ancient landmarks would be restored; it was the national economy and the balance of interests. It was evident that the problems of the Revolution lay in erecting everywhere the reign of equality and industry, in place of the feudal order which had been abolished; inasmuch as, by the new principles, birth no longer counted in determining the condition of the citizen, work was all, even property itself was subordinate: inasmuch as, in foreign affairs, the relations of nations among themselves had to be reformed upon the same principles, since civil law, public law and the law of nations are one in principle and sufficient. The progress in agriculture which was exhibited after the division of the national treasure, the industrial impulse which the nation experienced after the fall of the Empire, the growing interest in all countries since 1830 in economic questions, all these go to prove that it was really in the field of political economy that the efforts of the Revolution should be exerted.

This so manifest, so inevitable conclusion from the act of the 4<sup>th</sup> of August, 1789, was not understood by those who made themselves its interpreters, even up to 1814.

All their ideas were of politics only. The counter-revolutionary forces aiding, the revolutionary party forced for the moment to place itself on the defensive and to organize itself for war, the nation was again delivered into the hands of the warriors and lawyers. One might say that nobility, clergy and monarchy had disappeared, only to make way for another governing set of Anglomaniac constitutionaries, classic republicans, militaristic democrats, all infatuated with the Romans and the Spartans, and above all, very much so with themselves; on the other hand, caring but very little for the real needs of the country; which, understanding nothing of what was going on, permitted itself to be half destroyed at their leisure, and finally attached itself to the fortune of a soldier.

To put my thought in one word, however little edifying it may seem, the revolutionaries failed in their mission after the fall of the Bastille, as they have failed since the abdication of Louis Philippe, and for the same reasons: the total lack of economic ideas, their prejudice in favor of government, and the distrust of the lower classes which they harbored. In ‘93, the necessity of resistance to invasion demanding an enormous concentration of forces, the error was consummated. The principle of centralization, widely applied by the Committee of Public Safety, passed into dogma with the Jacobins, who transmitted it to the Empire, and to the governments that followed it. This is the unfortunate tradition which, in 1848, determined the retrograde movement of the Provisory Government, and which still constitutes the whole of the science which nourishes the politics of the republican party.

Thus the economic organization called for as a necessary consequence of the complete abolition of feudalism, left without guidance from the first day, politics taking the place of industry in the minds of everybody, Quesnay and Adam Smith giving way to Rousseau and Montesquieu; it necessarily followed that the new society, scarcely conceived, should remain in embryo; that, instead of developing according to economic laws, it should languish in constitutionalism, that its life should be a perpetual contradiction, that, in place of the orderly condition which is characteristic of it, it should exhibit everywhere systematic corruption and legal inefficiency; finally, that the power which is the expression of this society, reproducing with the most scrupulous fidelity the antinomy of its principles, should find itself continually in the position of fighting with the people and the people in continual need of attacking power.

To sum up: the society which the Revolution of ‘89 should have created, does not yet exist. That which for sixty years we have had, is but a superficial, factitious order, hardly concealing the most frightful chaos and demoralization. ...

**** II

Rousseau said truly: No one should obey a law to which he has not consented; and M. Rittinghausen too was right when he proved that in consequence the law should emanate directly from the sovereign, without the intermediary of representatives.

But it was in the application that both these writers failed. With suffrage, or the universal vote, it is evident that the law is neither direct nor personal, any more than collective. The law of the majority is not my law, it is the law of force; hence the government based upon it is not my government; it is government by force.

That I may remain free; that I may not have to submit to any law but my own, and that I may govern myself, the authority of the suffrage must be renounced: we must give up the vote, as well as representation and monarchy. In a word, everything in the government of society which rests on the divine must be suppressed, and the whole rebuilt upon the human idea of CONTRACT.

When I agree with one or more of my fellow citizens for any object whatever, it is clear that my own will is my law; it is I myself, who, in fulfilling my obligation, am my own government.

Therefore if I could make a contract with all, as I can with some; if all could renew it among themselves, if each group of citizens, as a town, county, province, corporation, company, &c., formed by a like contract, and considered as a moral person, could thereafter, and always by a similar contract, agree with every and all other groups, it would be the same as if my own will were multiplied to infinity. I should be sure that the law thus made on all questions in the Republic, from millions of different initiatives, would never be anything but my law; and if this new order of things were called government, it would be my government.

Thus the principle of contract, far more than that of authority, would bring about the union of producers, centralize their forces, and assure the unity and solidarity of their interests.

The <em>system of contracts</em>, substituted for the <em>system of laws</em>, would constitute the true government of the man and of the citizen; the true sovereignty of the people, the REPUBLIC.

For the contract is Liberty, the first term of the republican motto: we have demonstrated this superabundantly in our studies on the principle of authority and on social liquidation. I am not free when I depend upon another for my work, my wages, or the measure of my rights and duties; whether that other be called the Majority or Society. No more am I free, either in my sovereignty or in my action, when I am compelled by another to revise my law, were that other the most skilful and most just of arbiters. I am no more at all free when I am forced to give myself a representative to govern me, even if he were my most devoted servant.

The Contract is Equality, in its profound and spiritual essence.—Does this man believe himself my equal; does he not take the attitude of my master and exploiter, who demands from me more than it suits me to furnish, and has no intention of returning it to me; who says that I am incapable of making my own law, and expects me to submit to his?

The contract is Fraternity, because it identifies all interests, unifies all divergences, resolves all contradictions, and in consequence, give wings to the feelings of goodwill and kindness, which are crushed by economic chaos, the government of representatives, alien law.

The contract, finally, is order, since it is the organization of economic forces, instead of the alienation of liberties, the sacrifice of rights, the subordination of wills.

Let us give an idea of this organism; after liquidation, reconstruction; after the thesis and antithesis, the synthesis. …

In France, two-thirds of the inhabitants are interested in land owning; and even this proportion must increase. Next to credit, which controls everything, it is the greatest of our economic forces; through it, therefore, we must proceed to the revolutionary organization in the second place.

Agricultural labor, resting on this basis, appears in its natural dignity. Of all occupations it is the most noble, the most healthful, from the point of view of morals and health, and as intellectual exercise, the most encyclopædic. From all these considerations, agricultural labor is the one which least requires the societary form; we may say even more strongly, which most energetically rejects it. Never have peasants been seen to form a society for the cultivation of their fields; never will they be seen to do so. The only relations of unity and solidarity which can exist among farm workers, the only centralization of which rural industry is susceptible, is that which we have pointed out which results from compensation for economic rent, mutual insurance, and, most of all, from abolishing rent, which makes accumulation of land, parceling out of the soil, serfdom of the peasant, dissipation of inheritances, forever impossible.

It is otherwise with certain industries, which require the combined employment of a large number of workers, a vast array of machines and hands, and, to make use of a technical expression, a great division of labor, and in consequence a high concentration of power. In such cases, workman is necessarily subordinate to workman, man dependent on man. The producer is no longer, as in the fields, a sovereign and free father of a family; it is a collectivity. Railroads, mines, factories, are examples.

In such cases, it is one of two things; either the workman, necessarily a piece-worker, will be simply the employee of the proprietor-capitalist-promoter; or he will participate in the chances of loss or gain of the establishment, he will have a voice in the council, in a word, he will become an associate.

In the first case the workman is subordinated, exploited: his permanent condition is one of obedience and poverty. In the second case he resumes his dignity as a man and citizen, he may aspire to comfort, he forms a part of the producing organization, of which he was before but the slave; as, in the town, he forms a part of the sovereign power, of which he was before but the subject.

Thus we need not hesitate, for we have no choice. In cases in which production requires great division of labor, and a considerable collective force, it is necessary to form an ASSOCIATION among the workers in this industry; because without that, they would remain related as subordinates and superiors, and there would ensue two industrial castes of masters and wage-workers, which is repugnant to a free and democratic society.

Such therefore is the rule that we must lay down, if we wish to conduct the Revolution intelligently.

Every industry, operation or enterprise, which by its nature requires the employment of a large number of workmen of different specialties, is destined to become a society or a company of workers.

That is why I said one day, in February or March, 1849, at a meeting of patriots, that I rejected equally the construction and management of railroads by companies of capitalists and by the State. In my opinion, railroads are in the field of workmen’s companies, which are different from the present commercial companies, as they must be independent of the State. A railroad, a mine, a factory, a ship, are to the workers who use them what a hive is to the bees, at once their tool and their home, their country, their territory, their property. It is surprising that they who so zealously maintain the principle of association should have failed to see that such was its normal application.

But where the product can be obtained by the action of an individual or a family, without the co-operation of special abilities, there is no opportunity for association. Association not being called for by the nature of the work, cannot be profitable nor of long continuance: I have given the reasons elsewhere.

When I speak of either <em>collective force</em> or of an extreme division of labor, as a necessary condition for association, it must be understood from a practical point of view, rather than in a rigorous logical or mathematical sense. Liberty of association being unrestricted, it is evident that if the peasants think well to associate, they will associate, independently of the considerations against it; on the other hand, it is not less clear that if one must live up to the rigorous definitions of science, the conclusion would be that all workers must associate, inasmuch as collective force and division of labor exist everywhere, to however slight a degree.

We must supplement the deficiencies of language, and do for political economy what naturalists do in their classifications, that is to select always not doubtful but marked characteristics, upon which to base our definitions.

I mean to say, therefore, that the degree of associative tendency among workers must be in proportion to the economic relations which unite them, so that where these relations are inappreciable or insignificant, no account need be taken of them; where they predominate and control, they must be regarded.

Thus I do not consider as falling within the logical class division of labor nor of collective force the innumerable small shops which are found in all trades, and which seem to me the effect of the preference of the individuals who conduct them, rather than the organic result of a combination of forces. Anybody who is capable of cutting out and sewing up a pair of shoes can get a license, open a shop, and hang out a sign, <em>So-and-So, Manufacturing Shoe Merchant,</em> although there may be only himself behind his counter. If a companion, who prefers journeyman’s wages to running the risk of starting in business, joins with the first, one will call himself the employer, the other, the hired man; in fact, they are completely equal and completely free. If a youth of fourteen or fifteen wants to learn the trade, there may be a certain division of labor with him; but this division of labor is the condition of apprenticeship, there is nothing remarkable about it. If orders come in freely, there may be several journeymen and apprentices, besides helpers, perhaps a clerk: then it will be what is called a shop, that is, six, ten, fifteen persons, all doing about the same thing, and working together merely to increase the product, not at all to contribute to its perfection by their different abilities. If suddenly the employer’s affairs fall into confusion, and he goes into bankruptcy, they whom he employed will have only the trouble of finding another shop; as for his customers, they run no risk, each of the journeymen, or all of them together, may resume the business.

In such a case, I see no reason for association, unless for individual preference. What collective force there is counts for too little; it does not counterbalance the risks of the venture. Journeymen may wish to be admitted to the advantages of a prosperous establishment: I see no difficulty, if the employer consents, and the law does not forbid it. It may be that all, both employer and journeymen, find it to their advantage; that brings it among special cases, which cannot enter into consideration here. But according to the economic law which guides us, such participation cannot be demanded: it is entirely outside of the provision of the new rule of right. To order or prescribe association under such conditions, would be to re-erect, through a mean and jealous spirit, the unfortunate feudal corporations which the Revolution abolished: it would be unfaithful to progress, and a backward step, which is impossible. That is not the future of association, considered as an economic and revolutionary institution. I cannot but repeat what I have already said elsewhere, that the workingmen’s associations which have formed at Paris for industries of this nature, as well as the heads of concerns who have given their employees a share in their dividends, ought to consider themselves as serving the Revolution from an entirely different point of view, and for a different object. I shall speak of this again shortly.

But when the enterprise requires the combined aid of several industries, professions, special trades; when from this combination springs a new product, that could not be made by any individual, a combination in which man fits in with man as wheel with wheel; the whole group of workers forms a machine, like the fitting of the parts of a clock or a locomotive; then, indeed, the conditions are no longer the same. Who could arrogate the right to exploit such a body of slaves? Who would be daring enough to take one man for a hammer, another for a spade, this one for a hook, that one for a lever?

The capitalist, you will cry, alone runs the risk of the enterprise, like the employing shoemaker of whom we spoke just now. No doubt that is true, but the comparison holds no further. Could the capitalists alone work a mine or run a railroad? Could one man alone carry on a factory, sail a ship, play a tragedy, build the Pantheon or the Column of July? Can anybody do such things as these, even if he has all the capital necessary? And the one who is called the employer, is he anything more than a leader or captain?

It is in such a case that association seems to me absolutely necessary and right.

The industry to be carried on, the work to be accomplished, are the common and undivided property of all those who take part therein: the granting of franchises for mines and railroads to companies of stockholders, who plunder the bodies and souls of the wage-workers, is a betrayal of power, a violation of the rights of the public, an outrage upon human dignity and personality.

Certainly the Parisian workmen, who were the first to mark the course of the Revolution, and assert the principle of identity of interests, were unable at the outset to carry out such a method. It was not for them to organize themselves into manufacturing companies and railroads. Heaven forbid that I should reproach them for it! The position was captured (it will again be captured) and held by thousands of bayonets. The capital which it would be necessary to reimburse was enormous; institutions of credit, indispensable in such a case, did not exist. The workmen could do nothing in this direction: the force of circumstances threw them into industries in which association is least useful. Moreover their work was wholly one of devotion, and provisional in character, nor had it any other aim than to put down usurious commerce, to drive out parasitical speculation, and to form a chosen body of artisans, who would be able to renew the tactics of industrialism, and organize victory for the lower classes, like the young generals of the old revolution.

Thus the outline of the Revolution begins to display itself: already its aspect is grandiose.

On the one hand, the peasants, at last masters of the soil which they cultivate, and in which they desire to take root. Their enormous, unconquerable mass, aroused by a common guaranty, united by the same interests, assures forever the triumph of the democracy, and the permanence of <em>Contract</em>.

On the other hand there are myriads of small manufacturers, dealers, artisans, the volunteers of commerce and industry, working in isolation or in small groups, the most migratory of beings; who prefer their complete independence to the sovereignty of the soil; sure of having a country wherever they can find work.

Finally appear the workingmen’s associations, regular armies of the revolution, in which the worker, like the soldier in the battalion, manoeuvres with the precision of his machines; in which thousands of wills, intelligent and proud, submit themselves to a superior will, as the hands controlled by them engender, by their concerted action, a collective force greater than even their number.

The cultivator had been bent under feudal servitude through rent and mortgages. He is freed by the land bank, and, above all, by the right of the user to the property. The land, vast in extent and in depth, becomes the basis of equality.

In the same way the wage-worker of the great industries, had been crushed into a condition worse than that of the slave, by the loss of the advantage of collective force. But by the recognition of his right to the profit from this force, of which he is the producer, he resumes his dignity, he regains comfort; the great industries, terrible engines of aristocracy and pauperism, become, in their turn, one of the principal organs of liberty and public prosperity.

Our readers must understand by this time that the laws of social economy are independent of the will of any man or any legislator: it is our privilege to recognize them, our honor to obey them.

This recognition and this submission, in the present state of our prejudices, and under the rule of the traditions which beset us, can be brought about only by the mutual consent of the citizens, in a word, by contract. what we have done for credit, housing, agriculture, we must do for the great industries: in this case, as in the others, legislative authority will intervene, only to write its last will and testament.

Let us then lay down the principles of the agreement which must constitute this new revolutionary power.

Large-scale industry may be likened to a new land, discovered, or suddenly created out of the air, by the social genius; to which society sends a colony to take possession of it and to work it, for the advantage of all.

This colony will be ruled by a double contract, that which gives it title, establishes its property, and fixes its rights and obligations toward the mother-country; and the contract which unites the different members among themselves, and determines their rights and duties.

Toward Society, of which it is a creation and a dependence, this working company promises to furnish always the products and services which are asked of it, at a price nearly as possible that of cost, and to give the public the advantage of all desirable betterments and improvements.

To this end, the working company abjures all combinations, submits itself to the law of competition, and holds its books and records at the disposition of Society, which, upon its part, reserves the power of dissolving the working company, as the sanction of its right of control.

Toward the individuals and families whose labor is the subject of the association, the company makes the following rules:

That every individual employed in the association, whether man, woman, child, old man, head of department, assistant head, workman or apprentice, has an undivided share in the property of the company;

That he has the right to fill any position, of any grade, in the company, according to the suitability of sex, age, skill, and length of employment;

That his education, instruction, and apprenticeship should therefore be so directed that, while permitting him to do his share of unpleasant and disagreeable tasks, they may also give variety of work and knowledge, and may assure him, from the period of maturity, an encyclopædic aptitude and a sufficient income;

That all positions are elective, and the by-laws subject to the approval of the members;

That pay is to be proportional to the nature of the position, the importance of the talents, and the extent of responsibility;

That each member shall participate in the gains and in the losses of the company, in proportion to his services;

That each member is free to leave the company, upon settling his account, and paying what he may owe; and reciprocally, the company may take in new members at any time.

These general principles are enough to explain the spirit and scope of this institution, that has no precedent and no model. They furnish the solution of two important problems of social economy, that of <em>collective force</em>, and that of the division of labor.

By participation in losses and gains, by the graded scale of pay, and the successive promotion to all grades and positions, the collective force, which is a product of the community, ceases to be a source of profit to a small number of managers and speculators: it becomes the property of all the workers. At the same time, by a broad education, by the obligation of apprenticeship, and by the co-operation of all who take part in the collective work, the division of labor can no longer be a cause of degradation for the workman: it is, on the contrary, the means of his education and the pledge of his security.

We may add that the application of these principles at an epoch of transition would entail that at which every man of heart, every true revolutionary, should rejoice, the privilege of beginning the reform for the middle class, and its fusion with the lower class.

It must be admitted that, although the laboring class, by its numerical preponderance, and by the irresistible pressure which it is able to exercise upon the decisions of an assembly, is quite capable, with the aid of a few enlightened citizens, of bringing about the first part of the revolutionary programme, social liquidation and the settlement of property in land; it is, nevertheless, by the narrowness of its view and its inexperience in business, incapable of carrying on such large interests as those of commerce and great industry; and in consequence cannot attain its true destiny.

Men are lacking in the lower class, as well as in the democracy: we have seen it too clearly for three years. They who have reached the greatest celebrity as officials are the last to merit the confidence of the people in matters relating to labor and social economy. Ask the Parisian associations, enlightened by their experience, what they think to-day of the crowd of little great men, who recently waved the banner of fraternity before them. It would be unavoidable then, in what relates to the carrying on of large industries, that some commercial and industrial experts should be associated with the liberated workers, to teach them the management of affairs. They can be found in abundance; there is not one of the mercantile class, acquainted with commerce and industry and their innumerable risks, who would not prefer a fixed salary and honorable position in a working association to all the worries of a private business; there is not an exact and capable clerk who would not leave a precarious position to accept an appointment in a great association. Let the workers consider it; let them get rid of a mean and jealous spirit; there is room for everybody in the sunlight of the Revolution. They have more to gain by such self-conquest than by the interminable and always destructive squabbles which are inflicted upon them by their leaders, who are sincere, no doubt, but incapable. ...


**** III

Given:

Man, <em>The Family</em>, Society.

An individual, sexual and social being, endowed with reason, love and conscience, capable of learning by experience, of perfecting himself by reflection, and of earning his living by work.

The problem is to so organize the powers of this being, that he may remain always at peace with himself, and may extract from Nature, which is given to him, the largest possible amount of well-being.

We know how previous generations have solved it.

They borrowed from the Family, the second component part of Humanity, the principle which is proper to it alone, AUTHORITY, and by the arbitrary use of this principle, they constructed an artificial system, varied according to periods and climates, which has been regarded as the natural order and necessary for humanity.

This system, which may be called the system of order by authority, was at first divided into spiritual and temporal authority.

After a short period in which it preponderated, and long centuries of struggle to maintain its supremacy, sacerdotalism seems at last to have given up its claim to temporal power: the Papacy, with all its soldiery, which the Jesuits and lay brothers of to-day would restore, has been cast out and set below matters of merely human interest.

For two years past the spiritual power has been in a way to again seize supremacy. It has formed a coalition with secular power against the Revolution, and bargains with it upon a footing of equality. Both have ended by recognizing their differences arose from a misunderstanding; that their aim, their principles, their methods, their dogmas, being absolutely identical, Government should be shared by them; or rather, that they should consider themselves the completements of each other, and should form by their union a one and indivisible Authority.

Such at least would have been the conclusion which Church and State would have perhaps reached, if the laws of the progress of Humanity rendered such reconciliations possible; if the Revolution had not already marked their last hour.

However that may be, it is desirable, in order to convince the mind to set alongside each other the fundamental ideas of, on the one hand, the politico-religious system (Philosophy, which has for so long drawn a line between the spiritual and the temporal, should no longer recognize any distinction between them); on the other hand, the economic system.

Government, then, that is to say, Church and State indivisibly united, has for its dogmas:

 1. The original perversity of human nature;

 1. The inevitable inequality of fortunes;

 1. The permanency of quarrels and wars;

 1. The irremediability of poverty.

Whence it is deduced:

 1. The necessity of government, of obedience, of resignation, and of faith.

These principles admitted, as they still are, almost universally, the forms of authority are already settled. They are:

 1. The division of the people into classes or castes, subordinate to one another; graduated to form a pyramid, at the top of which appears, like the Divinity upon his altar, like the king upon his throne, AUTHORITY;

 1. Administrative centralization;

 1. Judicial hierarchy;

 1. Police;

 1. Worship.

Add to the above, in countries in which the democratic principle has become preponderant:

 1. The separation of powers;

 1. The intervention of the People in the Government, by vote for representatives;

 1. The innumerable varieties of electoral systems, from the Convocation by Estates, which prevailed in the Middle Ages, down to universal and direct suffrage;

 1. The duality of legislative chambers;

 1. Voting upon laws, and consent to taxes by the representatives of the nation;

 1. The rule of majorities.

Such is broadly the plan of construction of Power, independently of the modifications which each of its component party may receive; as, for example, the central Power, which may be in turn monarchical, aristocratic or democratic; which once furnished publicists with a ground for classification, according to superficial character.

It will be observed that the governmental system tends to become more and more complicated without becoming on that account more efficient or more moral, and without offering any more guaranties to person or property. This complication springs first from legislation, which is always incomplete and insufficient; in the second place, from the multiplicity of functionaries; but most of all, from the compromise between the two antagonistic elements, the executive initiative and popular consent. It has been left for our epoch to establish unmistakeably that this bargaining, which the progress of centuries renders inevitable is the surest index of corruption, of decadence, and of the approaching dissolution of Authority.

What is the aim of this organization?

To maintain <em>order</em> in society, by consecrating and sanctifying obedience of the citizen to the State, subordination of the poor and to the rich, of the common people to the upper class, of the worker to the idler, of the layman to the priest, of the business man to the soldier.

As far back as the memory of humanity extends, it is found to have been organized on the above system, which constitutes the political, ecclesiastical or governmental order. Every effort to give Power a more liberal appearance, more tolerant, more social, has invariably failed; such efforts have been even more fruitless when they tried to give the People a larger share in Government; as if the words, Sovereignty and People, which they endeavored to yoke together, were as naturally antagonistic as these other two words, Liberty and Despotism.

Humanity has had to live, and civilization to develop, for six thousand years, under this inexorable system, of which the first term is <em>Despair</em> and the last <em>Death</em>. What secret power has sustained it? What force has enabled it to survive? What principles, what ideas, renewed the blood that flowed forth under the poniard of authority, ecclesiastical and secular?

This mystery is now explained.

Beneath the governmental machinery, in the shadow of political institutions, out of the sight of statesmen and priests, society is producing its own organism, slowly and silently; and constructing a new order, the expression of its vitality and autonomy, and the denial of the old politics, as well as of the old religion.

This organization, which is as essential to society as it is incompatible with the present system, has the following principles:

 1. The indefinite perfectibility of the individual and of the race;

 1. The honorableness of work;

 1. The equality of fortunes;

 1. The identity of interests;

 1. The end of antagonisms;

 1. The universality of comfort;

 1. The sovereignty of reason;

 1. The absolute liberty of the man and of the citizen.

I mention below its principal forms of activity:

 1. Division of labor, through which classification of the People by INDUSTRIES replaces classification by <em>caste;</em>

 1. Collective power, the principle of WORKMEN'S ASSOCIATIONS, in place of <em>armies</em>;

 1. Commerce, the concrete form of CONTRACT, which takes the place of <em>Law</em>;

 1. Equality in exchange;

 1. Competition;

 1. Credit, which turns upon INTERESTS, as the governmental hierarchy turns upon <em>Obedience</em>;

 1. The equilibrium of values and of properties.

The old system, standing on Authority and Faith, was essentially based on <em>Divine Right</em>. The principle of the sovereignty of the People, introduced later, did not change its nature; and it is a mistake to-day, in the face of the conclusions of science, to maintain a distinction which does not touch underlying principles, between absolute monarchy and constitutional monarchy, or between the latter and the democratic republic. The sovereignty of the People has been, is I may say so, for a century past, but a skirmishing line for Liberty. It was either an error, or a clever scheme of our fathers to make the sovereign people in the image of the king-man: as the Revolution becomes better understood, this mythology vanishes, all traces of government disappear and follow the principle of government itself to dissolution.

The new system, based upon the spontaneous practice of industry, in accordance with individual and social reason, is the system of <em>Human Right</em>. Opposed to arbitrary command, essentially objective, it permits neither parties nor sects; it is complete in itself, and allows neither restriction nor separation.

There is no fusion possible between the political and economic systems, between the system of laws and the system of contracts; one or the other must be chosen. The ox, while it remain an ox, cannot be an eagle, nor can the bat be at the same time a snail. In the same way, while Society maintains the slightest degree of political form, it cannot become organized according to economic law. How harmonize local initiative with the preponderance of a central authority, or universal suffrage with the hierarchy of officials; the principle that no one owes obedience to a law to which he has not himself consented, with the right of majorities?

If a writer who understood these contradictions should undertake to reconcile them, it would prove him, not a bold thinker, but a wretched charlatan.

This absolute incompatibility of the two systems, so often proved, still does not convince writers who, while admitting the dangers of authority, nevertheless hold to it, as the sole means of maintaining order, and see nothing beside it but empty desolation. Like the sick man in the comedy, who is told that the first thing he must do is to discharge his doctors, if he wants to get well, they persist in asking how can a man get along without a doctor, or a society without a government. They will make the government as republican, as benevolent, as equal as possible; they will set up all possible guaranties against it; they will belittle it, almost attack it, in support of the majesty of the citizens. They tell us: You are the government! You shall govern yourselves, without president, without representatives, without delegates. What have you then to complain about? But to live without government, to abolish all authority, absolutely and unreservedly, to set up pure <em>anarchy</em>, seems to them ridiculous and inconceivable, a plot against the Republic and against the nation. What will these people who talk of abolishing government put in place of it? they ask.

We have no trouble in answering.

It is industrial organization that we will put in place of government, as we have just shown.

In place of laws, we will put contracts.—No more laws voted by a majority, nor even unanimously; each citizen, each town, each industrial union, makes its own laws.

In place of political powers, we will put economic forces.

In place of the ancient classes of nobles, burghers, and peasants, or of business men and working men, we will put the general titles and special departments of industry: Agriculture, Manufacture, Commerce, &c.

In place of public force, we will put collective force.

In place of standing armies, we will put industrial associations.

In place of police, we will put identity of interests.

In place of political centralization, we will put economic centralization.

Do you see now how there can be order without functionaries, a profound and wholly intellectual unity?

You, who cannot conceive of unity without a whole apparatus of legislators, prosecutors, attorneys-general, custom house officers, policemen, you have never known what real unity is! What you call unity and centralization is nothing but perpetual chaos, serving as a basis for endless tyranny; it is the advancing of the chaotic condition of social forces as an argument for despotism—a despotism which is really the cause of the chaos.

Well, in our turn, let us ask, what need have we of government when we have made an agreement? Does not the National Bank, with its various branches, achieve centralization and unity? Does not the agreement among farm laborers for compensation, marketing, and reimbursement for farm properties create unity? From another point of view, do not the industrial associations for carrying on the large-scale industries bring about unity? And the constitution of value, that cnotract of contracts, as we have called it, is not that the most perfect and indissoluble unity?

And if we must show you an example in our own history in order to convince you, does not that fairest monument of the Convention, the system of weights and measures, form, for fifty years past, the corner-stone of that economic unity which is destined to replace political unity?

Never ask again then what we will put in place of government, nor what will become of society without government, for I assure you that in the future it will be easier to conceive of society without government, than of society with government.

Society, just now, is like the butterfly just out of the cocoon, which shakes its gilded wings in the sunlight before taking flight. Tell it to crawl back into the silken covering, to shun the flowers and to hide itself from the light!

But a revolution is not made with formulas. Prejudice must be attacked at the foundation, overthrown, hurled into dust, its injurious effects explained, its ridiculous and odious nature shown forth. Mankind believes only in its own tests, happy if these tests do not addle its brains and drain its blood. Let us try then by clear criticism to make the test of government so conclusive, that the absurdity of the institution will strike all minds, and Anarchy, dreaded as a scourge, will be accepted as a benefit. …

Propose the following questions to the people, and you can be quite sure of the replies in advance.

Question. Shall instruction be free and compulsory?

Answer. Yes.

 1. Who shall give the instruction?

 1. The State.

 1. Who shall bear the cost?

 1. The State.

 1. Shall there be a Minister of Public Instruction?

 1. Yes.

Nothing easier, you see, than to make the People legislate. Everything depends on the way in which the questions are put. It is the method of Socrates, arguing against the Sophists.

 1. Shall there be also a Minister of Public Works?

 1. Certainly, since there will be public works.

 1. Also a Minister of Agriculture and Commerce?

 1. Yes.

 1. A Minister of Finance?

 1. Yes.

How marvelous! The People talks like the child Jesus in the midst of the elders. However little you may like it, I am going to make it say that it wants tithes, the right of the first night, and the kingdom of Dagobert.

Let us once more examine the plea which serves as a pretext for the existence of the State.

The People, because they are so many, are supposed not to be able to carry on their own affairs, neither instruction, nor proper behavior, nor protection; like a great lord who does not know what his fortune is, and who is not quite right in his mind; but who pays for the management of his property, for his domestic economy, and for the care of his person, agents, subordinates and superintendents of all kinds; some who take account of his revenues and regulate his expenses, others who deal in his name with supply merchants and bankers, still others who watch over the safety of his person, &c., &c..

Thus the budget of expenses of the sovereign is composed of two parts: 1<sup>st</sup>. Real services and actual materials of which are composed his support, his pleasures and his luxuries. 2<sup>nd</sup>. The remuneration of servants, aids, commissioners, representatives, assistants, almoners, solicitors, guards, who act for him.

The second part of the budget is much the largest: it is composed:

1<sup>st</sup>. Of interest due to bankers with whom the People hold a current account; interest which to-day, together with the sinking fund, amounts to $69,200,000, and constitutes the public debt.

2<sup>nd</sup>. Salaries of the important officers, direct representatives of the sovereign, and heads of each branch. These amount to $1,800,000.

3<sup>rd</sup>. Salaries of employees, clerks, assistants, menials of every grade and degree. Of $161,000,000 allowed for the various ministers, at least three-quarters are used for such payments.

4<sup>th</sup>. Cost of excise, assessment, and collection of the public revenues. These come to $29,800,000.

5<sup>th</sup>. Pensions paid by the public to old employees, after thirty-five years of service, of which the total is $9,000,000.

6<sup>th</sup>. Finally, unexpected expenditures, uncollected returns, nominal receipts, all charged to the account of profit and loss, $16,000,000.

Thus, for from forty to sixty millions, at most, of real servies and actual materials of which the yearly expenditure of the People is composed, the governmental system makes them pay $286,800,000, say 200 to 240 millions of profit, that the servants of the People draw from their appointments. And in order to assure themselves forever of this immense prey, in order to prevent any notion of reform and emancipation from entering their master’s head, the said servants have made their master declare himself in perpetual minority, and incapable of executing his civil and political rights.

The worst of this system is not so much the inevitable ruin of the master, as the hatred and scorn which his servants bear toward him; not knowing him, knowing only his head superintendents, from whom they receive their appointments and take their orders, and whose part they always take against the sovereign People.

Attacking this system on the front, we have said:

The People is a collective entity.

They who have exploited the People from time immemorial still hold it in servitude, stand upon this collectivity of its nature, and deduce from this its legal incapacity, which requires their personal control. We, on the contrary, from that collectivity of the People, draw proof that it is completely and perfectly capable, that it can do anything, and needs no one to restrain it. The only question is how to give full play to its powers.

Thus, in speaking of the public debt, we have shown that the People precisely because it is multiple, could organize its own credit very well, and has no need to enter into relations with money lenders. And we have done away with debts: no more loans, no more ledger account, no more intermediaries, no more State, between the capitalists and the People.

Public worship has been disposed of in the same way. What is the priest? we have asked. An intermediary between the People and God. What is God himself? Another supernatural and imaginary intermediary between the natural instincts of man and his reason. Cannot man do what his reason points to, without being constrained by respect for a Creator? That would be a contradiction. In any case, faith being free and optional, and each one constructing his own religion, worship becomes a matter for the inward tribunal an affair of conscience, not of material use. Almsgiving has been suppressed.

The judiciary too has gone. What is Justice? Mutual guaranties; that which for two hundred years we have called the Social Contract. Every man who has signed this contract is fit to be a judge: justice for all; authority for none. As for procedure, the shortest is the best. Down with tribunals and jurisdictions!

Last came administration, accompanied by the police. Our decision was taken quickly. Since the People is multiple and unity of interest constitutes its collectivity, centralization comes about through this unity; there is no need of centralizers. Let each household, each factory, each association, each municipality, each district, attend to its own police, and administer carefully its own affairs, and the nation will be policed and administered. What need have we to be watched and ruled, and to pay, year in and year out, 25 millions? Let us abolish prefects, commissioners, and policemen too.

The next question is of schools. This time there is no idea of suppression, but only of converting a political institution into an economic one. If we preserve the methods of teaching now in use, why should we need the intervention of the State?

A community needs a teacher. It chooses one at its pleasure, young or old, married or single, a graduate of the Normal School or self-taught, with or without a diploma. The only thing that is essential is that the said teacher should suit the fathers of families, and that they should be free to entrust their children to them or not. In this, as in other matters, it is essential that the transaction should be a free contract and subject to competition; something that is impossible under a system of inequality, favoritism, and university monopoly, or that of a coalition of Church and State.

As for the so-called higher education, I do not see how the protection of the State is needed, any more than in the former case. Is it not the spontaneous result, the natural focus of lower instruction? Why should not lower instruction be centralized in each district, in each province, and a portion of the funds destined for it be applied to the support of higher schools that are thought necessary, of which the teaching staff should be chosen from that of the lower schools. Every soldier, it is said, carries a marshal’s baton in his knapsack. If that is not true, it ought to be. Why should not every teacher bear in his diploma the title of university professor? Why, after the example of what is done in workingmen’s associations, as the teacher is responsible to the Academic Council, should not the Academic Council be appointed by the teachers?

Thus even with the present system of instruction, the university centralization in a democratic society is an attack upon paternal authority, and a confiscation of the rights of the teacher.

But let us go to the bottom of the matter. Governmental centralization in public instruction is impossible in the industrial system, for the decisive reason that <em>instruction</em> is inseparable from <em>apprenticeship</em>, and scientific education is inseparable from professional education. So that the teacher, the professor, when he is not himself the foreman, is before everything the man of the association of the agricultural or industrial group which employs him. As the child is the pledge, <em>pignus</em>, between the parents, so the school becomes the bond between the industrial associations and families: it is unfitting that it should be divorced from the workshop, and, under the plea of perfecting it, should be subjected to external power.

To separate teaching from apprenticeship, as is done to-day, and, what is still more objectionable, to distinguish between professional education and the real, serious, daily, useful practice of the profession, is to reproduce in another form the separation of powers and the distinction of classes, the two most powerful instruments of governmental tyranny and the subjection of the workers.

Let the working class think of this.

If the school of mines is anything else than the actual work in the mines, accompanied by the studies suitable for the mining industry, the school will have for its object, to make, not miners, but chiefs of miners, aristocrats.

If the school of arts and crafts is anything but the art or craft taught, its aim will soon be to make, not artisans, but directors of artisans, aristocrats.

If the school of commerce is anything but the store, the counting house, it will not be used to make traders, but captains of industry, aristocrats.

If the naval school is anything but actual service on board ship, including even the service of the cabin boy, it will serve only as a means of marking two classes, sailors and officers.

Thus we see things go under our system of political oppression and industrial chaos. Our schools, when they are not establishments of luxury or pretexts for sinecures, are seminaries of aristocracy. It was not for the People that the Polytechnic, the Normal School, the military school at St. Cyr, the School of Law, were founded; it was to support, strengthen, and fortify the distinction between classes, in order to complete and make irrevocable the split between the working class and the upper class.

In a real democracy, in which each member should have instruction, both ordinary and advanced, under his control in his home, this superiority from schooling would not exist. It is contradictory to the principle of society. But when education is merged in apprenticeship; when it consists, as for theory, in the classification of ideas; as for practice, in the specialization of work; when it becomes at once a matter of training the mind and of application to practical affairs in the workshop and in the house, it cannot any longer depend upon the State: it is incompatible with government. Let there be in the Republic a central bureau of education, another of manufactures and arts, as there is now an Academy of Sciences and an Office of Longitude. I see no objection. But again, what need for authority? Why such an intermediary between the student and the schoolroom, between the shop and the apprentice, when it is not admitted between the workman and the employer?

The three bureaus, of Public Works, of Agriculture and Commerce, and of Finance, will all disappear in the economic organism.

The first is impossible, for two reasons: 1<sup>st</sup>, the control undertaking such works will belong to the municipalities, and to districts within their jurisdiction. 2<sup>nd</sup>, the control of carrying them out will rest with the workmen’s associations.

Unless democracy is a fraud, and the sovereignty of the People a joke, it must be admitted that each citizen in the sphere of his industry, each municipal, district or provincial council within its own territory, is the only natural and legitimate representative of the Sovereign, and that therefore each locality should act directly and by itself in administering the interests which it includes, and should exercise full sovereignty in relation to them. The People is nothing but the organic union of wills that are individually free, that can and should voluntarily work together, but abdicate never. Such a union must be sought in the harmony of their interests, not in an artificial centralization, which, far from expressing the collective will, expresses only the antagonisms of individual wills.

The direct, sovereign initiative of localities, in arranging for public works that belong to them, is a consequence of the democratic principle and the free contract: their subordination to the State is an invention of ’93, and a return to feudalism. This was the especial work of Robespierre and the Jacobins, and the most deadly blow at popular liberty. The fruits of it are well known: without centralized Power, we should never have had the absurd competition of two roads from Paris to Versailles; without centralized Power, we should never have had the fortifications of Paris and of Lyons, with detached forts; without centralized Power, the radial system of railroads would never have obtained the preference; without centralized Power, which always draws to itself the most important matters, in order to use them, to work them, in the interest of its creatures and hangers-on, we should not see every day public property given away, public service monopolized, taxes wasted, squandering remunerated, the fortune of the people eagerly sacrificed by their legislators and ministers.

I may add that, contrary as is the supremacy of the State to democratic principles in the matter of public works, it is also incompatible with the rights of workers created by the Revolution.

We have already had occasion to show, especially in connection with the establishment of a National Bank and the formation of workers’ societies, that in the economic order labor subordinated to itself both talent and capital. This the more, because that under the operation, sometimes simultaneous, sometimes independent, of the division of labor and of collective power, it becomes necessary for the workers to form themselves into democratic societies, with equal conditions for all members, on pain of a relapse into feudalism. Among the industries which demand this form of organization, we have already mentioned railroads. We may add to these the construction and support of roads, bridges and harbors, and the work of afforestation, clearing, drainage, &c., in a word, all that we are in the habit of considering in the domain of the State.

If it becomes thenceforth impossible to regard as mere mercenaries the workmen who are closely or distantly connected with the associations for buildings, for waters and forests, for mines; if we are to be forced to see this low mob as sovereign societies; how can we maintain the the hierarchical relations of the minister to the heads of departments, of heads of departments to engineers, and of engineers to workers; how, in short, preserve the supremacy of the State?

The workmen, much elated by the use of the political rights conferred upon them, will desire to exercise them in their fullness. Associating themselves, they will first choose leaders, engineers, architects, accountants; then they will bargain directly, as one power with another, with municipal and district authorities for the execution of public works. Far from submitting to the State, they will themselves be the State; that is to say, in all that concerns their industrial specialty, they will be the direct, active representative of the Sovereign. Let them set up an administration, open credit, give pledges, and the Country will find in them a guaranty superior to the State; for they will be responsible at least for their own acts, while the State is responsible for nothing.

Shall I speak of the Ministry of Agriculture and Commerce? The budget for this department amounts to $5,500,000, which is squandered in <em>subsidies</em>, <em>bonuses</em>, <em>allowances</em>, <em>premiums</em>, <em>remittances</em>, <em>secret funds</em>, <em>supervision</em>, <em>central service</em>, &c. Translated, this means, <em>favors,</em> <em>corruptions</em>, <em>sinecures</em>, <em>parasitism</em>, <em>robbery</em>.

Thus for instruction in agriculture and its various aids, I find $640,000. It is safe to say, notwithstanding my respect for the estimable professors, that $640,000 worth of guano would be of more use to the peasants than their lessons.

For the veterinary school and the stud, I find $685,000. Despite these, the horses in France are continually deteriorating, and there are not enough of them. We can let the Jockey Club go then, and let the breeders alone.

For the manufactures of Sevres, Gobelins, Beauvais, for the Conservatory, the Schools of Arts and Crafts, the subsidies to commerce and manufactures, $759,615. What do these manufactures produce? Nothing, not even masterpieces. What progress do our schools effect in industry? None. They do not even teach there the true principles of international economics. What end do these encouragements to commerce serve? None, evidently. The portfolio of the Bank empties itself every day!

For sea fishing, $800,000, intended to encourage the sailor population. There is moreover in the budget $800,000 received for licenses levied upon these same fisheries: it follows that we are paying $1,600,000 extra that we may eat sea fish, and that without this we could not meet the competition of foreign fishing fleets! Would it not be easier to remove the $1,600,000 of taxes and expenses of every sort, which weigh down the owners of the vessels; that is to say, to abolish ministerial action as far as they are concerned?

The most curious of the articles of this department is that which deals with workmen’s associations. I am not joking: since 1848, the Government has set itself to pay a license for Socialism. For the supervision of associations, $15,400.

Let the Government give as much to them instead. They will be glad to get it, and the Government will have so much the less trouble.

Finally, to support, direct, supervise, pay for, all this parasitism, $142,630, for what is called the central administration. Double that sum: double the budget for Agriculture and Commerce, and let the State refrain from interfering with agriculture, commerce, industry, horse-raising, and fisheries, and let it turn them over to workmen’s associations, who will make them worth something, under the direction of men of science and artists; and the State, paid for doing nothing, will for the first time have aided order.

As for the Ministry of Finance, it is evident that its functions are entirely confined to the other Ministries. The finances are to the State what the hayrack is to the ass. Suppress the political machine, and you will have left an administration of which the sole object is to procure and distribute subsistence. Districts and municipalities, resuming the control of their public works, are as capable of paying their own expenses as of planning them: the financial intermediary disappears: at the most we might retain, as a general bureau of statistics, the Chamber of Accounts.

<em>He that is guilty of one is guilty of all,</em> says the Gospel. If the Revolution allows any portion of government to remain, it will soon return in its entirety. But how can we dispense with government in dealing with foreign affairs?

A nation is a collective being which continually deals with other collective beings like itself; which therefore must establish an organ, a representative, in short, a government for its international relations. Here at least, then, is not the Revolution about to be false to its own principle; and to justify its lapse by quoting the stupid pretence that <em>the exception proves the rule?</em> That would be deplorable, and moreover is inadmissible. If the government is indispensable for diplomacy, it is as much so for war and for the navy; and, as all is comprised in power and society, we should soon see governmentalism reestablish itself in the police, then in the administration, then in the judiciary, and then where would the Revolution be?

This dwelling upon foreign politics is what best shows how weak is still the conception of the Revolution among us. It shows a prejudiced fidelity to the traditions of despotism, and a dangerous leaning toward counter-revolution in European democracy, unceasingly busy in maintaining the balance of power among the nations.

Let us try, in this as in other matters, to reconstruct our ideas, and to free ourselves from habit.

After the Revolution has been accomplished at home will it also be accomplished abroad?

Who can doubt it? The Revolution would be vain if it were not contagious: it would perish, even in France, if it failed to become universal. Everybody is convinced of that. The least enthusiastic spirits do not believe it necessary for revolutionary France to interfere among other nations by force of arms: it will be enough for her to support, by her example and her encouragement, any effort of the people of foreign nations to follow her example.

What then is the Revolution, completed abroad as well as at home?

Capitalistic and proprietary exploitation stopped everywhere, the wage system abolished, equal and just exchange guaranteed, value constituted, cheapness assured, the principle of protection changed, and the markets of the world opened to the producers of all nations; consequently the barrier struck down, the ancient law of nations replaced by commercial agreements; police, judiciary administration, everywhere committed to the hands of the workers; the economic organization replacing the governmental and military system in the colonies as well as in the great cities; finally, the free and universal commingling of races under the law of contract only: that is the Revolution.

Is it possible that in this state of affairs, in which all interests, agricultural, financial and industrial, are identical and interwoven, in which the governmental protectorate has nothing to do, either at home or abroad, is it possible that the nations will continue to form distinct political bodies, that they will hold themselves separate, when their producers and consumers are mingled, that they will still maintain diplomacy, to settle claims, to determine prerogatives, to arrange differences, to exchange guaranties, to sign treaties, &c., without any object?

To ask such a question is to answer it. It needs no demonstration; only some explanations from the point of view of nationalities.

Let us recall the principle. The reason for the institution of government, as we have said, is the economic chaos. When the Revolution has regulated this chaos, and organized the industrial forces, there is no further pretext for political centralization; it is absorbed in industrial solidarity, a solidarity which is based upon general reason, and of which we may say, as Pascal said of the universe, that <em>its centre is everywhere, its circumference nowhere</em>.

When the institution of government has been abolished, and replaced by the economic organization, the problem of the universal Revolution is solved. The dream of Napoleon is realized, and the chimera of the Dean of St. Peter’s becomes a necessity.

It is the governments who, pretending to establish order among men, arrange them forthwith in hostile camps, and as their only occupation is to produce servitude at home, their art lies in maintaining war abroad, war in fact or war in prospect.

The oppression of peoples and their mutual hatred are two correlative, inseparable facts, which reproduce each other, and which cannot come to an end except simultaneously, by the destruction of their common cause, government.

This is why nations will inevitably remain at war, as long as they remain under the rule of kings, tribunes, or dictators; as long as they obey a visible authority, established in their midst, from which emanate the laws which govern them: no Holy Alliance, Democratic Congress, Amphictyonic Council, nor Central European Committee can help the matter. Great bodies of men thus constituted are necessarily opposed in interests; as they cannot merge, they cannot recognize justice: by war or by diplomacy, not less deadly than war, must quarrel and fight.

Nationality, aroused by the State, opposes an invincible resistance to economic unity: this explains why monarchy was never able to become universal. Universal monarchy is, in politics, what squaring the circle or perpetual motion are in mathematics, a contradiction. A nation can put up with a government as long as its economic forces are unorganized, and as long as the government is its own, the nationalism of the power causing an illusion as to the validity of the principle; the government maintains itself through an interminable succession of monarchies, aristocracies, and democracies. But if the Power is external, the nation feels it as an insult: revolt is in every heart, it cannot last.

What no monarchy, not even that of the Roman emperors, has been able to accomplish; what Christianity, that epitome of the ancient faiths, has been unable to produce, the universal Republic, the economic Revolution, will accomplish, cannot fail to accomplish.

It is indeed with political economy as with other sciences: it is inevitably the same throughout the world: it does not depend upon the fancies of men or nations: it yields to the caprice of none. There is not a Russian, English, Austrian, Tartar, or Hindoo political economy, any more than there is a Hungarian, German, or American physics or geometry. Truth alone is equal everywhere: science is the unity of mankind.

If then science, and no longer religion or authority, is taken in every land as the rule of society, the sovereign arbiter of interests, government becoming void, all the legislation of the universe will be in harmony. There will no longer be nationality, no longer fatherland, in the political sense of the words: they will mean only places of birth. Man, of whatever race or color he may be, is an inhabitant of the universe; citizenship is everywhere an acquired right. As in a limited territory the municipality represents the Republic, and wields its authority, each nation on the globe represents humanity, and acts for it within the boundaries assigned by Nature. Harmony reigns, without diplomacy and without council, among the nations: nothing henceforward can disturb it.

What purpose could there be for entering into diplomatic relations among nations who had adopted the revolutionary programme:

<verse>
No more governments,
No more conquests,
No more custom houses,
No more international police,
No more commercial privileges,
No more colonial exclusions,
No more control of one people by another, one State by another,
No more strategic lines,
No more fortresses?
</verse>

Russia wants to establish herself at Constantinople, as she is established at Warsaw; that is to say, she wants to include the Bosphorus and the Caucasus in her sphere. In the first place, the Revolution will not permit it; and to make sure, it will begin by revolutionizing Poland, Turkey, and all that it can of the Russian provinces, until it reaches St. Petersburg. That done, what becomes of the Russian relations at Constantinople and at Warsaw? They will be the same as at Berlin and Paris, relations of free and equal exchange. What becomes of Russia itself? It becomes an agglomeration of free and independent nationalities, united only by identity of language, resemblance of occupations, and territorial conditions. Under such conditions conquest is meaningless. If Constantinople belonged to Russia, once Russia was revolutionized Constantinople would belong to it neither more nor less than if it had never lost its sovereignty. The Eastern question from the North ceases to exist.

England wants to hold Egypt as she holds Malta, Corfu, Gibraltar, &c. The same answer from the Revolution. It notifies England to refrain from any attempt upon Egypt, to place a limit upon her encroachments and monopoly; and to make sure, it invites her to evacuate the islands and fortresses whence she threatens the liberty of the nations and of the seas. It would be truly a strange misconception of the nature and the scope of the Revolution to imagine that it would leave Australia and India the exclusive property of England, as well as the bastions with which she hems in the commerce of the continent. The mere presence of the English in Jersey and Guernsey is an insult to France; as their exploitation of Ireland and Portugal is an insult to Europe; as their possession of India and their commerce with China is an outrage upon humanity. Albion, like the rest of the world, must be revolutionized. If necessary to force her, there are people here who would not find it so hard a task. The Revolution completed at London, British privilege extirpated, burnt, thrown to the winds, what would the possession of Egypt mean to England? No more than that of Algiers is to us. All the world could enter, depart, trade at will, arrange for the working of the agricultural, mineral and industrial resources: the advantages would be the same for all nations. The local power would extend only to the cost of its police, which colonists and natives would defray.

There are still among us the <em>chauvinists</em> who maintain absolutely that France must recapture her <em>natural</em> frontiers. They ask too much or too little. France is everywhere that her language is spoken, her Revolution followed, her manners, her arts, her literature adopted, as well as her measures and her money. Counting thus, almost the whole of Belgium, and cantons of Neufchatel, Vaud, Geneva, Savoy, and part of Piedmont belong to her; but she must lose Alsace, perhaps even a part of Provence, Gascony and Brittany, whose inhabitants do not speak French, and some of them have always been of the kings’ and priests’ party against the Revolution. But of what use are these repetitions? It was the mania for annexations which, under the Convention and the Directory, aroused the distrust of other nations against the Republic, and which, giving us a taste for Bonaparte, brought us to our finish at Waterloo. Revolutionize, I tell you. Your frontiers will always be long enough and French enough if they are revolutionary.

Will Germany be an Empire, a unitary Republic, or a Confederation? This famous problem of Germanic unity, which made so much noise some years ago, has no meaning in the face of the Revolution; which proves indeed that there has never been a Revolution. What are the States, in Germany, as elsewhere? Tyrannies of different degrees of importance, based on the invariable pretexts, first, of protecting the nobility and upper class against the lower classes; second, of maintaining the independence of local sovereignty. Against these States the German democracy has always been powerless, and why? Because it moved in the sphere of political rights. Organize the economic forces of Germany, and immediately political circles, electorates, principalities, kingdoms, empires, all are effaced, even the Tariff League: German unity springs out of the abolition of its States. What the ancient Germany needs is not a confederation but a liquidation.

Understand once for all: the most characteristic, the most decisive result of the Revolution is, after having organized labor and property, to do away with political centralization, in a word, with the State, and as a consequence to put an end to diplomatic relations among nations, as soon as they subscribe to the revolutionary compact. Any return to the traditions of politics, any anxiety as to the balance of power in Europe, based on the pretext of nationality and of the independence of States, any proposition to form alliances, to recognize sovereignties, to restore provinces, to change frontiers, would betray, in the organs of the movement, the most complete failure to understand the needs of the age, scorn of social reform, and a predilection for counter-revolution.

The kings may sharpen their swords for their last campaign. The Revolution in the Nineteenth Century has for its supreme task, not so much the overthrow of their dynasties, as the destruction to the last root of their institution. Born as they are to war, educated for war, supported by war, domestic and foreign, of what use can they be in a society of labor and peace? Henceforth there can be no more purpose in war than in refusal to disarm. Universal brotherhood being established upon a sure foundation, there is nothing for the representatives of despotism to do but to take their leave. How is it that they do not see that this always increasing difficulty of existence, which they have experienced since Waterloo, arises, not as they have been made to think, from the Jacobin ideas, which since the fall of Napoleon have again begun to beset the middle classes, but from a subterranean working which has gone on throughout Europe, unknown to statesmen, and which, while developing beyond measure the latest forces of civilization, has made the organization of those forces a social necessity, an inevitable need of revolution?

As for those who, after the departure of kings, still dream of consulates, of presidencies, of dictatorships, of marshalships, of admiralties and of ambassadorships, they also will do well to retire. The Revolution, having no need for their services, can dispense with their talents. The people no longer want this coin of monarchy: they understand that, whatever phraseology is used, feudal system, governmental system, military system, parliamentary system, system of police, laws and tribunals, and system of exploitation, corruption, lying and poverty, are all synonymous. Finally they know that in doing away with rent and interest, the last remnants of the old slavery, the Revolution, at one blow, does away with the sword of the executioner, the blade of justice, the club of the policeman, the gauge of the customs officer, the erasing knife of the bureaucrat, all those insignia of government which young Liberty grinds beneath her heel. …

*** God and the State

**Michael Bakunin: Revolutionary Anarchism**

Michael Bakunin’s first major act of rebellion was to abandon the military career traditional in his Russian noble family and take up the life of a bohemian intellectual. A journey to Western Europe brought him in contact with radical and socialist circles and led to his enthusiastic participation in the various revolutions of 1646 and 1649. He was arrested during an unsuccessful insurrection in Dresden and extradited to Austria, where he was wanted for his involvement in an earlier uprising; and from Austria he was returned to Russia, where he had previously been condemned in absentia for his European activities. For fifteen years he languished in prison and then Siberian exile, from which he escaped across the Pacific and the United States to resume his revolutionary pursuits in Western Europe. It was in the last decade of his life that he fully developed the ideas that made him one of the foremost theorists of anarchism. He died in 1676 at the age of sixty-two.

Rebellion was the keynote of Bakunin’s philosophy as well as his life. He believed that mankind could assert its full human dignity only by revolting against all hierarchical authority: that of the state, the church, or even of God. Early in his career, while still under the influence of Hegelian philosophy, he wrote the famous line that sums up so much of his subsequent thought and activity: “The urge to destruction is also a creative urge.” He regarded social revolution as a positive, vivifying force rather than just a means of achieving the anarchist utopia. Bakunin’s image of the latter derived mainly from Proudhon and memories of the Russian peasant commune, and it remained vague and insubstantial. The revolutionary passion that he displayed in his career and celebrated in his writings was his foremost contribution lo the development of anarchism.

On political matters Bakunin seems in many ways the least dated of all the nineteenth-century anarchist thinkers. It was Bakunin who inspired anarchists Lo look Lo the fully disinherited elements of modern society-the most wretched and downtrodden strata of the working class, criminals, and other “outsiders”-rather than to the industrial proletariat for the true agents of rebellion. His emphasis on despair, passion, and instinct as the motive forces of social revolt distinguished him in this pre-Freudian age from those who placed their faith entirely in reason, science, or the laws of history, and anticipated the nature of many of the upheavals of the twentieth century. His belief that revolutionary instincts were stronger in the backward countries of southern and eastern Europe, particularly Italy, Spain, and Russia, than in the prosperous countries of the north bears a strong resemblance to the distinctions sometimes drawn today between the nations of the “third world” and the developed countries of Europe and North America. And his criticism of the Marxists, distorted though it was by his anti-German and antisemitic sentiments, contained a remarkably accurate prophecy of the kind of authoritarian socialism the Marxist theory was capable of inspiring.

Bakunin’s writings vividly reflect his personality: they are lively and colorful, but disorganized, impulsive, and completely undisciplined. *God and the State,* the only sizable piece of his writing in English translation, was actually part of a larger work, *The Knouto-Germanic Empire and the Socia/ Revolution* (<em>L’Empir</em>e *knouto-germanique* et /a *revolution* socia/e), written in 1670–71. It was published separately after Bakunin’s death. The original translation was made by the American anarchist theorist and publisher Benjamin Tucker; the selections below are from the revised version of Tucker’s translation published in New York in 1916 by the Mother Earth Publishing Association, pages 9–17,23–35,56–64.

*Statism and Anarchy* was published in Russian in 1673. (A less exact but more meaningful rendering of 1he title would be *Statism and Anarchism.)* Two themes are interwoven in this work: Bakunin’s fear of Prussian domination of Europe in the wake of France’s defeat in the war of 1671 ; and his condemnation of Marx’s version of socialism, to which he contrasts his own revolutionary aspirations. It was Bakunin’s last major statement in his prolonged quarrel with Marx, a monumental clash both of personalities and of social philosophies which destroyed the First International and produced a permanent schism between the Marxists and the anarchists. The passages below were translated and annotated for this volume by Marshall Shatz, from the authoritative Russian text edited by Arthur Lehning in *Archives Bakounine* (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1967), Ill, 111–15, 147–50, 1&6–79 (Appendix A). The volume also contains a French translation by Marcel Body<sup>.</sup>

A number of brief excerpts from Bakunin’s writings are contained in G. P. Maximoff, editor, *The Political Philosophy* of *Bakunin: Scientific Anarchism* (Glencoe, Ill., 1953); some more extensive selections can be found in James M. Edie et al., editors, <em>Russian Phil</em>o<em>s</em>o<em>phy</em> (Chicago, 1965), I, 365423. The major biography in English is E. H. Carr’s *Michael Bakunin* (London, 1937). Two other works are K. J. Kenafick, *Michael Bakunin and Karl Marx* (Melbourne, 1946), and Eugene Pyziur, *The* <em>Doctrine of Anarchism of Michael A. Bakunin (</em>Mi<em>l</em>waukee, 1955). There is an interesting discussion of the concept of the “social bandit” in chapter 2 of E. J. Hobsbawm’s *Primitive Rebels* (Manchester, 1959).

**** I

Who arc right, the idealists or the materialists? The question once stated in this way hesitation becomes impossible. Undoubtedly the idealists arc wrong and the materialists right. Yes, facts arc before ideas; yes, the ideal, as Proudhon said, is but a flower, whose root lies in the material conditions of existence. Yes, the whole history of humanity, intellectual and moral, political and social, is but a reflection of its economic history.

All branches of modem science, of true and disinterested science, concur in proclaiming this grand truth, fundamental and decisive: The social world, properly speaking, the human world-in short, humanity-is nothing other than the last and supreme development-at least on our planet and as far as we know-the highest manifestation of animality. But as every development necessarily implies a negation, that of its base or point of departure, humanity is at the same time and l’Ssentially the deliberate and gradual negation of the animal element in man; and it is precisely this negation, as rational as it is natural, and rational only because natural-at once historical and logical, as inevitable as the development and realization of all the natural laws in the world-that constitutes and creates the ideal, the world of intellectual and moral convictions, ideas.

Yes, our first ancestors, our Adams and our Eves, were, if not gorillas, very near relatives of gorillas, omnivorous, intelligent and ferocious beasts, endowed in a higher degree than the animals of any other species with two precious faculties-the *power to think* and *tlie desire to* rebel.

These faculties, combining their progressive action in history, represent the essential factor, the negative power in the positive dcvdopmcnt of human animality, and create consequently all that constitutes humanity in man.

The Bible, which is a very interesting and here and there very profound book when consiclcrccl as one of the oldest surviving manifestations of human wisdom and fancy, expresses this truth very naively in its myth of original sin. Jehovah, who of all the good gods adored by men was certainly the most jealous. the most vain, the most ferocious, the most unjust, the most bloodthirsty, the most despotic, and the most hostile to human dignity and liberty-Jehovah had just created Adam and Eve, to satisfy we know not what caprice; no doubt to while away his timt\ which must weigh heavy on his hands in his eternal egoistic solitucle, or that he might have some new slaves. He generously placed at their disposal the whole earth, with all its fruits and animals, and set but a singk limit to this complete l’lljoyment. He expressly forbade them from touching the fruit of the tree of knowledge. He wished, therefore, that man, destitute of all understanding of himself, should remain an eternal beast, ever on all-fours before the eternal Goel, his creator and his master. But here steps in Satan, the eternal rebel, the first frel’thinker and the l’mancipator of worlds. He makes man ashamt’d of his bestial ignorance and obt’dit’nl’t’; he t’mancipates him, stamps upon his brow the seal of liberty and humanity, in urging him to disobey and eat of the fruit of knowledge.

We know what followed. The good Goel, whoSe foresight, which is one of the divine faculties, should have warned him of what would happl’n, flt·w into a tl’rriblc and ridiculous rage; he cursed Satan, man, and the world cn•ated by himself, striking himself so to speak in his own creation, as children do wlll’n tlll’y gl’t angry; and, not content with smiting our a1K·estors themsl’ivl’S, he cursed them in all the generations to coml’, innoel’nt of the crime committed by their forl’fathers. Our Catholic and Protestant theologians look upon that as very profound and very just, precisely because it is monstrously iniquitous and absurd. Then, remembering that he was not only a God of vcngeance and wrath, but also a Goel of love, after having tormented the existence of a few milliards of poor human beings and condemned them to an eternal hell, he took pity on the rest, and, to save them and reconcile his eternal and divine love with his eternal and divine anger, always greedy for victims and blood, he sent into the world, as an expiatory victim, his only son, that he might be killed by men. That is called the mystery of the Redemption, the basis of all the Christian religions. Still, if the divine Savior had saved the human world! But no; in the paradise promised by Christ, as we know, such being the formal announcement, the elect will number very few. The rest, the immense majority of the generations present and to come, will burn eternally in hell. In the meantime, to console us, God, ever just, ever good, hands over the earth to the government of the Napoleon Thirds, of the William Firsts, of the Ferdinands of Austria, and of the Alexanders of all the Russias.

Such are the absurd talcs that are told and the monstrous doctrines that are taught, in the full light of the nineteenth century, in all the public schools of Europe, at the express command of the government. They call this civilizing the people! Is it not plain that all these governments are systematic poisoners, interested stupe- liers of the masses?

I have wandered from my subject, because anger gets hold of me whenever I think of the base and criminal means which they employ to keep the nations in perpetual slavery, undoubtedly that they may be the better able to Reece them. Of what consequence are the criml’s of all the Tropmanns in the world compared with this crime of treason against humanity committed daily, in broad day, over the whole surface of the civilized world, by those who dare to call themselves the guardians and the fathers of the people? I return to the myth of original sin.

God admitted that Satan was right; he recognized that the devil did not deceive Adam and Eve in promising them knowledge and liberty as a reward for the act of disobedience which he had induced them to commit; for, immediately they had eaten of the forbidden fruit, God himself said (sec Bible): “Bebold, the nmn is become as one of the gods, to know good and evil; prevent him, therefore, from eating of the fruit of eternal life, lest he become immorta] Hkc Oursdvcs.”

Let us disregard now the fabulous portion of this myth and consider its true meaning, which is very dear. Man has emancipated himself; he has separated himself from animality and constituted himself a man; Ill’ has begun his distinctively human history and dcvclopnlent by an act of disobedience and sciencc^that is, by *re/Jellion* and by *tlw11g/1t.*

Three elements or, if you like, three fundamental principles constitute the essential conditions of all human devclopnlent, collective or individual, in history: *( 1) human animality;* (2) *tlioug/it;* and (3) *rebellion.* To the first properly corresponds *social and private economy;* to the second, *science;* to the third, *liberty.*

Idealists of all schools, aristocrats and *bourgeois,* theologians and mctaphysicians, politicians and moralists, religionists, philosophers, or poets, not forgetting the liberal economists-unbounded worshippers of the ideal, as we know-arc much offended when told that man, with his magnificent intelligence, his sublime ideas, and his boundless aspirations, is, like all else existing in tlw world, nothing but matter, only a product of *vile matter.*

We may answer that the matter of which malerialists speak, matter spontaneously and eternally mobile, active, productive, matter chemically or organically determined and manifested by the properties or forces, mechanical, physical, animal, and intelligent, which necessarily IJe- long to it-that this matter has nothing in common with the *vile matter* of the idealists. The latter, a product of their false abstraction, is indeed a stupid, inanimate, immobile thing, incapable of giving birth to the smallest product, a *caput mortuum,* an *ugly* fancy in contrast to the */Jeautiful* fancy which they call *God;* as the opposite of this supreme being, matter, their matter, stripped by them of all that constitutes its real nature, necessarily represents supreme nothingness. They have takm away from matter intelligence, life, all its determining qualities, active relations or forces, motion itself, without which matter would not even have weight, leaving it nothing but impenetrability and absolute immobility in space; they have attributed all these natural forces, properties, and manifestations to the imaginary being created by their abstract fancy; then, interchanging *roles,* they have called this product of Lheir imagination, this phantom, this God who is nothing, “supreme Being,” and, as a necessary consequence, have declared that the real being, matter, the world, is nothing. After which they gravely tell us that this matter is incapable of producing anything, not even of setting itself in motion, and consequently must have been created by their God.

At the end of this book I exposed the fallacies and truly revolting absurdities to which one is inevitably led by this imagination of a God, let him be considered as a personal being, the creator and organizer of worlds; or even as impersonal, a kind of divine soul spn·ad over the whole universe and constituting thus its eternal principle; or let him be an idea, infinite and divine, alway• present and active in the world, and always maniksted by the totality of material and definite bl’ings. Here I shall deal with one point only.

The gradual development of the material world,. as well as of organic animal life and of the historically progressive intelligence of man, individually or socially, is perfectly conceivable. It is a wholly natural movement from the simple to the complex, from the lower to the higher, from the inferior to the superior; a movement in confom1ity with all our daily experiences, and consequently in conformity also with our natural logic, with the distinctive laws of our mind, which being formed and developed only by the aid of these same experiences, is, so to speak, but the mental, cerebral reproduction or reflected summary thereof.

The system of the idealists is quite the contrary of this. It is the reversal of all human experiences and of that universal and common good sense which is the essential condition of all human understanding, and which, in rising from the simple and unanimously recognized truth that twice two are four to the sublimest and most complex scientific considerations-admitting, moreover, nothing that has not stood the severest tests of experience or observation of things and facts-becomes the only serious basis of human knowledge.

Very far from pursuing the natural order from the lower to the higher, from the inferior to the superior, and from the relatively simple to the more complex; instead of wisely and rationally accompanying the progressive and real movement from the world called inorganic to the world organic, vegetables, animal, and then distinctivdy human-from chemical matter or chemical being to living matter or living being, and from living being to thinking being-the idealists, obsessed, blinded, and pushed on by the divine phantom which they have inherited from theology, take precisely the opposite course. They go from the higher to the lower, from the superior to the inferior, from the complex to the simple. They begin with God, either as a person or as divine substance or idea, and the first step that they take is a terrible fall from the sublime heights of the eternal ideal into the mire of the material world; from absolute perfection into absolute imperfection; from thought to being, or rather, from supreme being to nothing. When, how, and why the divine being, eternal, infinite, absolutely perfect, probably weary of himself, decided upon this desperate *salto mortale* is something which no idealist, no theologian, no mctaphysician, no poet, has ever been able to understand himself or explain to the profane. All religions, past and present, and all the systems of transcendental philosophy hinge on this unique and iniquitous mystery. 0 Holy men, inspired lawgivers, prophets, messiahs, have searched it for life, and found only torment and death. Like the ancient sphinx, it has devoured them, because they could not explain it. Great philosophers, from Heraclitus and Plato down to Descartes, Spinoza, Leibnitz, Kant, Ficht!’, Schelling, and Hegel, not to mention the Indian philosophers, have written heaps of volumes ancl built systems as ingenious as sublime, in which they have said by the way many beautiful and grand things and discovered immortal truths, but they have left this mystery, the principal object of their transcendental investigations, as unfathomable as before. The gigantic efforts of the most wonderful geniuses that the world has known, and who, one after another, for at least thirty centuries, have undertaken anew this labor of Sisyphus, have resulted only in rendering this mystery still more incomprehensible. Is it to be hoped that it will be unveiled to us by the routine speculations of some pedantic disciple of an artificially warmed-over metaphysics at a time when all living and serious spirits have abandoned that ambiguous science born of a compromise-histori- cally explicable no doubt-between the unreason of faith and sound scientific reason?

{1} I caH it “iniquitous” hccause, as I bdieve I have provcd in the Appendix alluded to, this mystery has heen and slill continues to be the consecration **of** all the horrors which have hecn and an· being committed in the world; I call it unique, because all the other theological and metaphysical absurdities which dchasc the human mind are but ils necessary cnnSl’fJm’nc1·s.

It is evident that this tcrribk· mystery is inexplicable- that is, absurd, because only the absurd admits of no explanation. It is evidmt that whoewr finds it essential to his happiness and life must renounce his reason, and return, if he can, to naive, blind, stupid faith, to repeat with Tertullianus and all sincere believers these words, which sum up the very quintessence of theology: *Credo quia absurdum.* Then all discussion ceases, and nothing remains but the triumphant stupidity of faith. But immediately there arises another question: *How comes an intelligent and icell-informed man ever to feel the need of believing in this mystery?*

Nothing is more natural than that the bdief in God, the cn•ator, regulator, judge, master, curser, savior, and benefactor of the world, should still prevail among the people, especially in the rural districts, where it is more widespread than among the proletariat of the cities. The people, unfortunately, are still very ignorant, and are kt·pt in ignorance by the systematic efforts of all the governments, who consider this ignorance, not without good reason, as one of the essential conditions of their own power. Weighted down by their daily labor, deprived of leisure, of intellectual intercourse, of reading, in short of all the means and a good portion of the stimulants that develop thought in men, the people generally accept religious traditions without criticism and in a lump. These traditions surround them from infancy in all the situations of life, and artificially sustained in their minds by a multitude of official poisoners of all sorts, priests and laymen, are transformed therein into a sort of mental and moral habit, too often more powerful even than their natural good sense.

There is another reason which explains and in some sort justifies the absurd beliefs of the people-namely, the wretched situation to which they find themselves fatally condemned by the economic organization of society in the most civilized countries of Europe. Reduced, intellectually and morally as well as materially, to the minimum of human existence, confined in their life like a prisoner in his prison, without horizon, without outlet, without even a future if we believe the economists, the people would have the singularly narrow souls and blunted instincts of the bourgeois if they did not feel a desire to escape; but of escape there are but three meth- ods-two chimerical and a third real. The first two are the dram-shop and the church, debauchery of the body or debauchery of the mind; the third is social revolution. Hence I conclude this last will be much more potent than all the theological propagandism of the freethinkers to destroy to their last vestige the religious beliefs and dissolute habits of the people, beliefs and habits much more intimately connected than is generally supposed. In substituting for the at once illusory and brutal enjoyments of bodily and spiritual licentiousness the enjoyments, as refined as they are real, of humanity developed in each and all, the social revolution alone will have the power to close at the same time all the dram-shops and all the churches.

Till then the people, taken as a whole, will believe; and, if they have no reason to believe, they will have at least a right ...

**** II

I have stated the chief practical reason of the power still exercised today over the masses by religious beliefs. These mystical tendencies do not signify in man so much an aberration of mind as a deep discontent at heart. They are the instinctive and passionate protest of the human being against the narrowness, the platitudes, the sorrows, and the shame of a wretched existence. For this malady, I have already said, there is but one remedy-Social Revolution.

In the meantime I have endeavored to show the causes responsible for the birth and historical development of religious hallucinations in the human conscience. Here it is my purpose to treat this question of the existence of a God, or of the divine origin of the world and of man, solely from the standpoint of its moral and social utility, and I shall say only a few words, to better explain my thought, regarding the theoretical grounds of this belief.

All religions, with their gods, their demigods, and their prophets, their messiahs and their saints, were created by the credulous fancy of men who had not attained the full development and full possession of their faculties. Consequently, the religious heaven is nothing but a mirage in which man, exalted by ignorance and faith, discovers his own image, but enlarged and reversed- that is, *divinized.* The history of religion, of the birth, grandeur, and decline of the gods who have succeeded one another in human belief, is nothing, therefore, but the development of the collective intelligence and conscience of mankind. As fast as they discovered, in the course of their historically progressive advance, either in themselves or in external nature, a power, a quality, or even any great defect whatever, they attributed them to their gods, after having exaggerated and enlarged them beyond measure, after the manner of children, by an act of their religious fancy. Thanks to this modesty and pious generosity of believing and credulous men, heaven has grown rich with the spoils of the earth, and, by a necessary consequence, the richer heaven became, the more wretched became humanity and the earth. God once installed, he was naturally proclaimed the cause, reason, arbiter, and absolute disposer of all things: the world thenceforth was nothing, God was all; and man, his real creator, after having unknowingly extracted him from the void, bowed down before him, worshipped him, and avowed himself his creaturP and his slave.

Christianity is precisely the religion *par excellence,* because it exhibits and manifests, to the fullest extent, the very nature and essence of every religious system, which is *tlie impoverishment, enslavement, and annihila*tion *of humanity for the benefit of divinity.*

God being everything, the real world and man are nothing. God being truth, justice, goodness, beauty, power, and life, man is falsehood, iniquity, evil, ugliness, impotence, and death. God being master, man is the slave. Incapable of finding justice, truth, and eternal life by his own effort, he can attain them only through a divine revelation. But whoever says revelation says revealers, messiahs, prophets, priests, and legislators inspired by God himself; and these, once recognized as the representatives of divinity on earth, as the holy instructors of humanity, chosen by God himself to direct it in the path of salvation, necessarily exercise absolute power. All men owe them passive and unlimited obedience; for against the divine reason there is no human reason, and against the justice of God no terrestrial justice holds. Slaves of God, men must also be slaves of Church and State, *in so far as the State is consecrated by the Church.* This truth Christianity, better than all other religions that exist or have existed, understood, not excepting even the old Oriental religions, which included only distinct and privileged nations, while Christianity aspires to embrace entire humanity; and this truth Roman Catholicism, alone among all the Christian sects, has proclaimed and realized with rigorous logic. That is why Christianity is the absolute religion, the final religion; why the Apostolic and Roman Church is the only consistent, legitimate, and divine church.

With all due respect, then, to the metaphysicians and religious idealists, philosophers, politicians, or poets: *The idea of God implies the abdication of human reason and ;ustice; it is the most decisive negation of human li11erly, and necessarily ends in the enslavement of mankind, both in theory and practice.*

Unless, then, we desire the enslavement and degradation of mankind, as the Jesuits desire it, as the *momiers,* pietists, or Protestant Methodists desire it, we may not, must not make the slightest concession either to the God of theology or to the God of metaphysics. He who, in this mystical alphabet, begins with A will inevitably end with Z; he who desires to worship God must harbor no childish illusions about the matter, but bravely renounce his liberty and humanity.

If God is, man is a slave; now, man can and must be free; then, God does not exist.

I defy anyone whomsoever to avoid this circle; now, therefore, let all choose.

Is it necessary to point out to what extent and in what manner religions debase and corrupt the people? They destroy their reason, the principal instrument of human emancipation, and reduce them to imbecility, the essential condition of their slavery. They dishonor human labor, and make it a sign and source of servitude. They kill the idea and sentiment of human justice, ever tipping the balance to the side of triumphant knaves, privileged objects of divine indulgence. They kill human pride and dignity, protecting only the cringing and humble. They stiffe in the heart of nations every feeling of human fraternity, filling it with divine cruelty instead.

All religions are cruel, all founded on blood; for all rest principally on the idea of sacrifice-that is, on the perpetual immolation of humanity to the insatiable vC’n- geance of divinity. In this bloody mystery man is always the victim, and the priest-a man also, but a man privileged by grace-is the divine executioner. That explains why the priests of all religions, the best, the most humane, the gentlest, almost always have at the bottom of their hearts-and, if not in their hearts, in their imaginations, in their minds (and we know the fearful influence of either on the hearts of men )-something cruel and sanguinary.

None know all this better than our illustrious contemporary idealists. They are learned men, who know history by heart; and, as they are at the same time living men, great souls penetrated with a sincere and profound love for the welfare of humanity, they have cursed and branded all these misdeeds, all these crimes of religion with an eloquence unparalleled. They reject with indignation all solidarity with the God of positive religions and with his representatives, past, present, and on earth.

The God whom they adore, or whom they think they adore, is distinguished from the real gods of history pn·- cisely in this-that he is not at all a positive god, defined in any way whatever, theologically or even metaphysically. He is neither the supreme being of Robespierre and J. J. Rousseau, nor the pantheistic god of Spinoza, nor even the at once immanent, transcendental, and very equivocal god of Hegel. They take good care not to give him any positive definition whatever, feeling very strongly that any definition would subject him to the dissolving power of criticism. They will not say whether he is a personal or impersonal god, whether he created or did not create the world; they will not even speak of his divine providence. All that might compromise him. They content themselves with saying “God” and nothing more. But, then, what is their God? Not even an idea; it is an aspiration.

It is the generic name of all that seems grand, good, beautiful, noble, human to them. But why, then, do they not say, “Man.” Ah! because King William of Prussia and Napoleon III, and all their compeers are likewise men: which bothers them very much. Real humanity presents a mixture of all that is most sublime and beautiful with all that is vilest and most monstrous in the world. How do they get over this? Why, they call one *divine* and the other *bestial,* representing divinity and animality as two poles, between which they place humanity. They either will not or cannot understand that these three terms arc really but one, and that to separate them is to destroy them.

They arc not strong on logic, and one might say that they despise it. That is what distinguishes them from the pantheistical and deistical mctaphysicians, and gives their ideas the character of a practical idealism, drawing its inspiration much less from the severe development of a thought than from the experiences, I might almost say the emotions, historical and collective as well as individual, of life. This gives their propaganda an appearance of wealth and vital power, but an appearance only; for life itself becomes sterile when paralyzed by a logical contradiction.

This contradiction lies here: they wish God, and they wish humanity. They persist in connecting two terms which, once separated, can come together again only to destroy each other. They say in a single breath: “God and the liberty of man,” “God and the dignity, justice, equality, fraternity, prosperity of mcn”-regardless of the fatal logic by virtue of which, if God exists, all these things are condemned to non-existence. For, if God is, he is necessarily the eternal, supreme, absolute master, and, if such a master exists, man is a slave; now, if he is a slave, neither justice, nor equality, nor fraternity, nor prosperity are possible for him. In vain, flying in the face of good sense and all the teachings of history, do they represent their God as animated by the tenderest love of human liberty: a master, whoever he may be and however liberal he may desire to show himself, remains none the less always a master. His existence neccssari1y implies the slavery of all that is beneath him. Therefore, if God existed, only in one way could he serve human libcrty- by ceasing to exist.

A jealous lover of human liberty, and deeming it the absolute condition of all that we admire and respect in humanity, I reverse the phrase of Voltaire, and say that, *if God really existed, it would be necessary to abolish /1im.*

The severe logic that dictates these words is far too evident to require a development of this argument. And it seems to me impossible that the illustrious men, whose names so celebrated and so justly respected I have cited, should not have been struck by it themselves, and should not have perceived the contradiction in which they involve themselves in speaking of God and human liberty at once. To have disregarded it, they must have considered this inconsistency or logical license *practically* necessary to humanity’s well-being.

Perhaps, too, while speaking of *liberty* as something very respectable and very dear in their eyes, they give the term a meaning quite different from the conception entertained by us, materialists and Revolutionary Socialists. Indeed, they never speak of it without immediately adding another word, *authority-a* word and a thing which we detest with all our heart.

What is authority? Is it the inevitable power of the natural laws which manifest themselves in the necessary concatenation and succession of phenomena in the physical and social worlds? Indeed, against these laws revolt is not only forbidden-it is even impossible. We may misunderstand them or not know them at all, but we cannot disobey them; because they constitute the basis and fundamental conditions of our existence; they envelop us, penetrate us, regulate all our movements, thoughts, and acts; even when we believe that we disobey them, we only show their omnipotence.

Yes, we are absolutely the slaves of these laws. But in such slavery there is no humiliation, or, rather, it is not slavery at all. For slavery supposes an external master, a legislator outside of him whom he commands, while these laws are not outside of us; they are inherent in us; they constitute our being, our whole being, physically, intellectually, and morally: we live, we breathe, we act, we think, we wish only through these laws. Without them we are nothing, *u;e are not.* Whence, then, could we derive the power and the wish to rebel against them?

In his relation to natural laws but one liberty is possible to man-that of recognizing and applying them on an ever-extending scale in conformity with the object of collective and individual emancipation or humanization which he pursues. These laws, once recognized, exercise an authority which is never disputed by the mass of men. One must, for instance, be at bottom either a fool or a theologian or at least a metaphysician, jurist, or bourgeois economist to rebel against the law by which twice two make four. One must have faith to imagine that fire will not burn nor water drown, except, indeed, recourse be had to some subterfuge founded in its tum on some other natural law. But these revolts, or, rather, these attempts at or foolish fancies of an impossible revolt, are decidedly the exception; for, in general, it may be said that the mass of men, in their daily lives, acknowledge the government of common scnsc^that is, of the sum of the natural laws generally recognized-in an almost absolute fashion.

The great misfortune is that a large number of natural laws, already established as such by science, remain unknown to the masses, thanks to the watchfulness of these tutelary governments that exist, as we know, only for the good of the people. There is another difficulty-namely, that the major portion of the natural laws connected with the development of human society, which arc quite as necessary, invariable, fatal, as the laws that govern the physical world, have not been duly established and recognized by science itself.

Once they shall have been recognized by science, and then from science, by means of an extensive system of popular education and instruction, shall have passed into the consciousness of all, the question of liberty will be entirely solved. The most stubborn authorities must admit that then there will be no need either of political organization or direction or legislation, three things which, whether they emanate from the will of the sovereign or from the vote of a parliament elected by universal suffrage, and even should they conform to the system of natural laws-which has never been the case and never will be the case-are always equally fatal and hostile to the liberty of the masses from the very fact that they impose upon them a system of external and therefore despotic laws.

The liberty of man consists solely in this: that he obeys natural laws because he has *himself* recognized them as such, and not because they have been externally imposed upon him by any extrinsic will whatever, divine or human, collective or individual.

Suppose a learned academy, composed of the most illustrious representatives of science; suppose this academy charged with legislation for and the organization of society, and that, inspired only by the purest love of truth, it frames none but laws in absolute harmony with the latest discoveries of science. Well, I maintain, for my part, that such legislation and such organization would be a monstrosity, and that for two reasons: first, that human science is always and necessarily imperfect, and that, comparing what it has discovered with what remains to be discovered, we may say that it is still in its cradle. So that were we to try to force the practical life of men, collective as well as individual, into strict and exclusive conformity with the latest data of science, we should condemn society as well as individuals to suffer martyrdom on a bed of Procrustes, which would soon end by dislocating and stiffing them, life ever remaining an infinitely greater thing than science.

The second reason is this: a society which should obey legislation emanating from a scientific academy, not because it understood itself the rational character of this legislation (in which case the existence of the academy would become useless ), but because this legislation, emanating from the academy, was imposed in the nam<” of a science which it venerated without comprehending -such a society would be a society, not of men, but of brutes. It would be a second edition of those missions in Paraguay which submitted so long to the government of the Jesuits. It would surely and rapidly descend to the lowest stage of idiocy.

But there is still a third reason which would render such a government impossible — namely that a scientific academy invested with a sovereignty, so to speak, absolute, even if it were composed of the most illustrious men, would infallibly and soon end in its own moral and intellectual corruption. Even today, with the few privileges allowed them, such is the history of all academies. The greatest scientific genius, from the moment that he becomes an academician, an officially licensed *savant,* inevitably lapses into sluggishness. He loses his spontaneity, his revolutionary hardihood, and that troublesome and savage energy characteristic of the grandest geniuses, ever called to destroy old tottering worlds and lay the foundations of new. He undoubtedly gains in politeness, in utilitarian and practical wisdom, what he loses in power of thought. In a word, he becomes corrupted.

It is the characteristic of privilege and of every privileged position to kill the mind and heart of men. The privileged man, whether politically or economically, is a man depraved in mind and heart. That is a social law which admits of no exception, and is as ·applicable to entire nations as to classes, corporations, and individuals. It is the law of equality, the supreme condition of liberty and humanity. The principal object of this treatise is precisely to demonstrate this truth in all the manifestations of human life.

A scientific body to which had been confided the government of society would soon end by devoting itself no longer to science at all, but to quite another affair; and that affair, as in the case of all established powers, would be its own eternal perpetuation by rendering the society confided to its care ever more stupid and consequently more in need of its government and direction.

But that which is true of scientific academies is also true of all constituent and legislative assemblies, even those chosen by universal suffrage. In the latter case they may renew their composition, it is true, but this does not prevent the formation in a few years’ time of a body of politicians, privileged in fact though not in law, who, devoting themselves exclusively to the direction of the public affairs of a country, finally form a sort of political aristocracy or oligarchy. Witness the United States of America and Switzerland.

Consequently, no external legislation and no authority -one, for that matter, being inseparable from the other, and both tending to the servitude of society and the degradation of the legislators themselves.

Does it follow that I reject all authority? Far from me such a thought. In the matter of boots, I refer to the authority of the bootmaker; concerning houses, canals, or railroads, I consult that of the architect or engineer. For such or such special knowledge I apply to such or such a *savant.* But I allow neither the bootmaker nor the architect nor the *savant* to impose his authority upon me. I listen to them freely and with all the respect merited by their intelligence, their character, their knowledge, reserving always my incontestable right of criticism and censure. I do not content myself with consulting a single authority in any special branch; I consult several; I compare their opinions, and choose that which seems to me the soundest. But I recognize no infallible authority, even in special questions; consequently, whatever respect I may have for the honesty and the sincerity of such or such an individual, I have no absolute faith in any person. Such a faith would be fatal to mv<sub>.</sub> n•ason, to my liberty, and even to the success of my undertakings; it would immediately transform me into a stupid slave, an instrument of the will and interests of others.

If I bow before the authority of the specialists and avow my readiness to follow, to a cerlain extent and as long as may seem to me necessary, their indications and even their directions, it is because their authority is imposed upon me by no one, neither by men nor by God. Otherwise I would repel them with horror, and bid the devil take their counsels, their directions, and their services, certain that they would make me pay, by the loss of my liberty and self-respect, for such scraps of truth, wrapped in a multitude of lies, as they might give me.

I bow before the authority of special men because it is imposed upon me by my own reason. I am conscious of my inability to grasp, in all its details and positive developments, any very large portion of human knowledge. The greatest intelligence would not be equal to a comprehension of the whole. Thence results, for science as well as for industry, the necessity of the division and association of labor. I receive and I give-such is human life. Each directs and is directed in his tum. Therefore there is no fixed and constant authority, but a continual exchange of mutual, temporary, and, above all, voluntary authority and subordination.

This same reason forbids me, then, to recognize a fixed, constant, and universal authority, because there is no universal man, no man capable of grasping in that wealth of detail, without which the application of science to life is impossible, all the sciences, all the branches of social life. And if such universality could ever be realized in a single man, and if he wished to take advantage thereof to impose his authority upon us, it would be necessary to drive this man out of society, because his authority would inevitably reduce all the others to slavery and imbecility. I do not think that society ought to maltreat men of genius as it has done hitherto; but neither do I think it should indulge them too far, still less accord them any privileges or exclusive rights whatsoever; and that for three reasons: first, because it would often mistake a charlatan for a man of genius; second, because, through such a system of privileges, it might transform into a charlatan even a real man of genius, demoralize him, and degrade him; and, finally, because it would establish a master over itself.

To sum up. We recognize, then, the absolute authority of science, because the sole object of science is the mental reproduction, as well-considered and systematic as possible, of the natural laws inherent in the material, intellectual, and moral life of both the physical and the social worlds, these two worlds constituting, in fact, but one and the same natural world. Outside of this only legitimate authority, legitimate because rational and in harmony with human liberty, we declare all othl’r authorities false, arbitrary and fatal.

We recognize the absolute authoritv of scicncl’, but we reject the infallibility and universality of the *savant.* In our church-if I may be permittl’d to use for a moment an expn·ssion which I so detest: Church and State arc my two */Ji!tes noires*-in our church, as in the Protestant church, we have a chief, an invisible Christ, science; and, like the Protestants, more logical even than the ProteS- tants, we will suffer neither popl’, nor council, nor conclaves of infallible cardinals, nor bishops, nor even priests. Our Christ differs from the Protestant and Christian Christ in this-that the latter is a personal being, ours impersonal: the Christian Christ, already compll’lrd in an eternal past, presents himself as a perfect bl’ing, while the completion and perfection of our Christ, scicnl’c, arc ever in the future: which is equivalent to saying that they will never be realized. Therefore, in recognizing *a/1solute science* as the only absolute authority, we in no way compromise our liberty.

I mean by the words “absolute science,” the truly universal science which would reproduce ideally, to its fullest extent and in all its infinite detail, the universe, the system or co-ordination of all the natural laws manifested by the incessant development of the world. It is evident that such a scil’llce, the sublime object of all the efforts of the human mind, will never be fully and absolutdy realized. Our Christ, then, will remain eternally unfinished, which must considerably take down tlw pride of bis licensed representatives among us. Against that God the Son in whose name they assume to impose upon us their insolent and pedantic authority, we appeal to God the Father, who is the real world, real life, of which he (the Son) is only a too imperfect expression, whilst we real beings, living, working, struggling, loving, aspiring, enjoying, and suffering, are its immediate representatives.

But, while rejecting the absolute, universal, and infallible authority of men of science, we willingly bow before the respectable, although relative, quite temporary, and very restricted authority of the representatives of special sciences, asking nothing better than to consult them by turns, and very grateful for such precious information as they may extend to us, on condition of their willingness to recC’ive from us on occasions when, and concerning matters ahout which, we are more learned than they. In general, we ask nothing better than to see men endowed with great knowledge, great experience, great minds, and, above all, great hearts, exercise over us a natural and legitimate influence, freely accepted, and never imposed in the name of any official authority whatsoever, celestial or terrestrial. We accept all natural authorities and all influences of fact, but none of right; for every authority or every influence of right, officially imposed as such, becoming directly an oppression and a falsehood, would inevitably impose upon us, as I believe I have sufficiently shown, slavery and absurdity.

In a word, we reject all legislation, all authority, and all privileged, licensed, official, and legal influence, even though arising from universal suffrage, convinced that it can turn only to the advantage of a dominant minority of exploiters against the interests of the immense majority in subjection to them.

This is the sense in which we are really Anarchists.

**** III

Science cannot go outside of the sphere of abstractions. In this respect it is infinitely inferior to art, which, in its turn, is peculiarly concerned also with general types and general situations, but which incarnates them by an artifice of its own in forms which, if they are not living in the sense of real life, none the less excite in our imagination the memory and sentiment of life; art in a certain senSe individualizes the types and situations which it conceives; by means of the individualities without flesh and bone, and consequently permanent and immortal, which it has the power to create, it recalls to our minds the living, real individualities which appear and disappear under our eyes. Art, then, is as it were the return of abstraction to life; science, on the contrary, is the perpetual immolation of life, fugitive, temporary, but real, on the altar of eternal abstractions.

Science is as incapable of grasping the individuality of a man as that of a rabbit, being equally indifferent to both. Not that it is ignorant of the principle of individuality: it conceives it perfectly as a principle, but not as a fact. It knows very well that all the animal species, including the human species, have no real existence outside of an indefinite number of individuals, born and dying to make room for new individuals equally fugitive. It knows that in rising from the animal species to the superior species the principle of individuality becomes more pronounced; the individuals appear freer and more complete. It knows that man, the last and most perfect animal of earth, presents the most complete and most remarkable individuality, because of his power to conceive, concrete, personify, as it were, in his social and private existence, the universal law. It knows, finally, when it is not vitiated by theological or metaphysical, political or judicial doctrinairisme, or even by a narrow scientific pride, when it is not deaf to the instincts and spontaneous aspirations of life-it knows (and this is its last word) that respect for man is the supreme law of Humanity, and that the great, the real object of history, its only legitimate object, is the humanization and emancipation, the real liberty, the prosperity and happiness of each individual living in society. For, if we would not fall back into the liberticidal fiction of the public welfare represented by the State, a fiction always founded on the systematic sacrifice of the people, we must clearly recognize that collective liberty and prosperity exist only so far as they represent the sum of individual liberties and prosperities.

Science knows all these things, but it docs not and cannot go beyond them. Abstraction being its very nature, it can well enough conceive the principle of real and living individuality, but it can have no dealings with real and living individuals; it concerns itself with individuals in general, but not with Peter or James, not with such or such a one, who, so far as it is conccrncd, do not, cannot, have any existence. Its individuals, I repeat, are only abstractions.

Now, history is made, not by abstract individuals, but by acting, living and passing individuals. Abstractions advance only when borne forward by real men. For these beings made, not in idea only, but in reality of flesh and and blood, science has no heart: it considers them at most as *material for intellectual and social development.* What does it care for the particular conditions and chance fate of Peter or James? It would make itself ridiculous, it would abdicate, it would annihilate itself, if it wished to concern itself with them otherwise than as examples in support of its eternal theories. And it would be ridiculous to wish it to do so, for its mission lies not there. It cannot grasp the concrete; it can move only in abstractions. Its mission is to busy itself with the situation and the *general* conditions of the existence and development, either of the human species in general, or of such a race, such a people, such a class or category of individuals; the *general* causes of their prosperity, their decline, and the best *general* methods of securing their progress in all ways. Provided it accomplishes this task broadly and rationally, it will do its whole duty, and it would he really unjust to expect more of it.

But it would be equally ridiculous, it would be disastrous to entrust it with a mission which it is incapable of fulfilling. Since its own nature forces it to ignon’ the existence of Peter and James, it must never be permitted, nor must anybody be permitted in its name, to goven1 Peter and James. For it were capable of treating them almost as it treats rabbits. Or rather, it would continue to ignore them; but its licensed representatives, men not at all abstract, but on the contrary in very active life and having very substantial interests, yielding to the pernicious influence which privilege inevitably exercises upon men, would finally fleece other men in the name of science, just as they have been fleeced hitherto by priests, politicians of all shades, and lawyers, in the name of God, of the State, of judicial Right.

What I preach then is, to a certain extent, the *revolt of life against science,* or rather against the *government of science,* not to destroy science-that would be high treason to humanity-but to remand it to its place so that it can never leave it again. Until now all human history has been only a perpetual and bloody immolation of millions of poor human beings in honor of some pitiless abstraction-God, country, power of State, national honor, historical rights, judicial rights, political liberty, public welfare. Such has been up to to-day the natural, spontaneous, and inevitable movement of human societies. We cannot undo it; we must submit to it so far as the past is concerned, as we submit to all natural fatalities. We must believe that that was the only possible way to educate the human race. For we must not deceive ourselves: even in attributing the larger part to the Machiavellian wiles of the governing classes, we have to recognize that no minority would have been powerful enough to impose all these horrible sacrifices upon the masses if there had not been in the masses themselves a dizzy spontaneous movement which pushed them on to continual self-sacrifice, now to one, now to another of these devouring abstractions, the vampires of history, ever nourished upon human blood.

We n·adily understand that this is very gratifying to the theologians, politicians, and jurists. Priests of these abstractions, they live only by the continual immolation of the people. Nor is it more surprising that metaphysics, too, should give its consent. Its only mission is to justify and rationalize as far as possible the iniquitous and absurd. But that positive science itself should have shown the same tendencies is a fact which we must deplore while we establish it. That it has done so is due to two reasons: in the first place, because, constituted outside of life, it is represented by a privileged body; and in the second place, because thus far it has posited itself as an absolute and final object of all human development. By a judicious criticism, which it can and finally will be forced to pass upon itself, it would understand, on the contrary, that it is only a means for the realization of a much higher object-that of the complete humanization of the *real* situation of all the *real* individuals who’ are born, who live, and who die, on earth.

The immense advantage of positive science over theology, metaphysics, politics, and judicial right consists in this-that, in place of the false and fatal abstractions set up by these doctrines, it posits true abstractions which express the general nature and logic of things, their general relations, and the general laws of their development. This separates it profoundly from all preceding doctrines, and will assure it for ever a great position in society: it will constitute in a certain sense society’s collective consciousness. But there is one aspect in which it resembles all these doctrines: its only possible object being abstractions, it is forced by its very nature to ignore real men, outside of whom the truest abstractions have no existence. To remedy this radical defect positive science will have to proceed by a different method from that followed hy the doctrines of the past. The latter have taken advantage of the ignorance of the masses to sacrifice them with delight to their abstractions, which, by the way, are always very lucrative to those who represent them in flesh and bone. Positive science, recognizing its absolute inability to conceive real individuals and interest itself in their lot, must definitely and absolutely renounce all claim to the gowrnment of societies; for if it should meddle therein, it would only sacrifice continually the living men whom it ignores to the abstractions which constitute the sole object of its legitimate preoccupations.

The true science of history, for instance, does not yet exist; scarcely do we begin to-day to catch a glimpse of its extremely complicated conditions. But suppose it were definitely developed, what could it give us? It would <·xhibit a faithful and rational picture of the natural development of the general conditions-material and ideal, economical, political and social, religious, philosophical, aesthetic, and scientific-of the societies which have a history. But this universal picture of human civilization, however detailed it might be, would never show anything beyond general and consequently *abstract* estimates. The milliards of individuals who have furnished the *living an</ suffering materials* of this history at once triumphant and dismal-triumphant by its general results, dismal by the immense hecatomb of human victims “cruslwd under its car”-those milliards of obscure individuals without whom none of the great abstract results of history would have been obtained-and who, bear in mind, have never benefited by any of these results-will find no place, not even the slightest, in our annals. They have lived and been sacrificed, crushed for the good of abstract humanity, that is all.

Shall we blame the science of history? That would be unjust and ridiculous. Individuals cannot be grasped by thought, by reflection, or even by human speech, which is capable of expressing abstractions only; they cannot be grasped in the present day any more than in the past. ThPrefore social science itself, the science of the future, will necessarily continue to ignore them. All that we have a right to demand of it is that it shall point us with faithful and sure hand to the *general causes of individual* suff<em>er</em>i<em>n</em>g-among these causes it will not forgl’t the immolation and subordination (still too frequent, alas!) of living individuals to abstract generalities-at the same time showing us the *general conditions necessary to tlie real emancipation of tlie individuals living in society.* That is its mission; those are its limits, beyond which the action of social science can be only impotent and fatal. Beyond those limits being the *doctrinaire* and governmental pretentious of its licensed representatiVl’s, its priests. It is time to have done with all popes and priests; we want them no longer, even if they call themsdvcs Social Democrats.

Once more, the sole mission of science is to light the road. Only Life, delivered from all its governmental and *doctrinaire* barriers, and given full liberty of action, can create.

How solve this antinomy?

On the one hand, science is indispensable to the rational organization of society; on the other, being incapable of interesting itself in that which is real and living, it must not interfere with the real or practical organization of society.

This contradiction can be solved only in one way: by the liquidation of science as a moral being existing outside the life of all, and represented by a body of breveted *savants;* it must spread among the masses. Science, being called upon to henceforth represent society’s collective consciousness, must really become the property of everybody. Thereby, without losing anything of its universal character, of which it can never divest itself without ceasing to be science, and while continuing to concern itself exclusively with general causes, the conditions and fixed relations of individuals and things, it will become one in fact with the immediate and real life of all individuals. That will be a movement analogous to that which said to the Protestants at the beginning of the Reformation that there was no further need of priests for man, who would henceforth be his own priest, every man, thanks to the invisible intervention of the Lord Jesus Christ alone, having at last succeeded in swallowing his good God. But here the question is not of Jesus Christ, nor good God, nor of political liberty, nor of judicial right-things all theologically or metaphysically revealed, and all alike indigestible. The world of scientific abstractions is not revealed; it is inherent in the real world, of which it is only the general or abstract expression and representation. As long as it forrns a separate region, specially represented by the *savants* as a body, this ideal world threatens to take the place of a good God to the real world, reserving for its licensed representatives the office of priests. That is the reason why it is necessary to dissolve the special social organization of the *savants* by general instruction, equal for all in all things, in order that the masses, ceasing to be flocks lecl and shorn by privileged priests, may take into their own hands the direction of their destinies.{1}

{1} Scil•nee, in hl’eoming tl1c palrimo11y of l’Vcryhmly, will wed itself in a <:l•rtain sense to **the** immediate and rl•al life of each. It will gain in utility and grace what it losl’s in pride, ambition, aml ***cloctririaire*** pedantry. This, however, will not prl’vcnl ml·n of genius, better organized for scientific speculation than the majority of their fellows, from devoting themselves exclusively to the cultivation of the sciences, and rendering great services to humanity. Only, they will **he** ambitious for no other social influence than the narural influence exercise<] upon its surroundings hy every snpC’rior intelligence, and for no other reward than lhe high delight which a noble mind always finds in the satisfaction of a nohle passion.

But until the masses shall have reached this degree of instruction, will it be necessary to leave them to the government of scientific men? Certainly not. It would be better for them to dispense with science than allow themselves to be governed by *savants.* The first consequence of the government of these men would be to render science inaccessible to the people, and such a government would necessarily be aristocratic, because the existing scientific institutions are essC’ntially aristocratic. An aristocracy of learning! from the practical point of view the most implacable, and from the social point of view the most haughty and insulting-such would be tlw power established in the name of science. This *regime* would be capable of paralyzing the life and movement of society. The *savants* always pn•sumptuous, ever sdf-sufficimt and ever impotent, would desire to meddle with everything, and the sources of life would dry up under the breath of their abstractions.

Once more, Life, not science, creates life; the spontaneous action of the people themselves alone can create liberty. Undoubtedly it would be a very fortunate thing if science could, from this day forth, illuminate the spontaneous march of the people towards their emancipation. But better an absence of light than a false and feeble light, kindled only to mislead those who follow it. After all, the people will not lack light. Not in vain have they t_raverSe_d a long historic career, and paid for their errors by centuries of misery. The practical summary of their painful experiences constitutes a sort of traditional science, which in certain respects is worth as much as theoretical science. Last of all, a portion of the youth- those of the bourgeois students who feel hatred enough for the falsehood, hypocrisy, injustice, and cowardice of the bourgeoisie to find courage to tum their backs upon it, and passion enough to unreservedly embrace the just and human cause of the proletariat-those will be, as I have already said, fraternal instructors of the people; thanks to them, there will be no occasion for the government of the *savants.*

*** Statism and Anarchy

**** I

In science the living, concretely rational method of procedure is to go from the actual fact to the thought that embraces it, expresses it, and thereby explains it. In the practical world it is the movement from social life to the most rational possible organization of it in accordance with the indications, conditions, needs, and more or less passionate demands of life itself.

That is the broad popular way, the way of real and total liberation, open to anyone and therefore truly popular. It is the way of the *anarchistic* social revolution, which arises of itself among the people and destroys everything that obstructs the broad flow of popular life, in order then to create new forms of free social existence from the very depths of the people’s being.

The way of the metaphysicians is quite different. The people we call metaphysicians are not just the followers of Hegel’s doctrines, who are no longer very numerous, but also the positivists and all the contemporary devotees of the goddess science; all those who, by one means or another, such as a meticulous but necessarily always imperfect study of the past and present, have devised an ideal of social organization to which, like a new Procrustes, they want to make the life of future generations conform whatever the cost; in a word, all those who, instead of regarding thought or science as one of the necessary manifestations of natural and social life, regard this poor life as a practical manifestation of their own thought and their own science, which, of course, is always imperfect.

Whether metaphysicians or positivists, all these knights of science and thought, in the name of which they believe themselves called to prescribe the laws of life, are conscions or unconscious reactionaries. This is exceedingly easy to prove.

Without speaking of metaphysics in general, which only a few individuals studied during the periods of its most brilliant Aowcring, science in the broader sense of the word, any serious science at all worthy of the name, is accessible even now only to an extremely insignificant minority. For cxample, in Russia, with its eighty million inhabitants, how many serious scholars can you count? The people who talk about science may perhaps number in the thousands, but you will find scarcely a few hundred who arc at all closely acquainted with it. But if science is to prescribe the laws of life, then the vast majority of the population, millions of people, are to be governed by a hundred or two hundred scholars, or in substance even a much smaller number, since it is not just any science that makes a man capable of governing society but the science of sciences, the crown of all the sciences-soci- ology, which assumes in the fortunate scholar a prior knowledge of all the other sciences. And arc there many such scholars, not just in Russia but in the whole of Europe? ^!aybc twenty or thirty! And these twenty or thirty scholars arc to govern the whole world! Can you imagine a more absurd and repulsive depotism than that?

In the first place these twenty scholars will most likely <1uarrcl among themsdves, but if they do unite it will be to the detriment of all mankind. A scholar by his very nature is inclined to all sorts of intellectual and moral corruption, his main vice being the exaltation of his knowledge and his own intellect, and scorn for all the ignorant. Let him govern and he will bewme the most unbearable tyrant, for scholarly pride is repulsive, offensive, and more oppressive than any other kind. To be the slaves of pedants-what a fate for mankind! Give them free rein and they will start performing the same experiments on human society that they now perform for the benefit of science on rabbits, cats, and dogs.

We will respect scholars for their services, but for tbc salvation of their intellect and tbeir morality we must not grant them any social privileges or accord tbem any right other than the general right of freedom to propagate their convictions, thoughts, and knowledge. We must not give power to them any more than to anyone else, for whoever is invested with power by an immutable socialist law[1] will without fail become the oppressor and exploiter of societv.

But it will be said that science will not always be the property of just a few people; the time will come when it will be accessible to everyone. Well, that time is still a long way off, and many social upheavals will have to take place before it comes. Until then, who will consent to put his fate in the hands of scholars, in the hands of the priests of science? Why bother wresting it from the hands of the Christian priests?

It seems to us that those who imagine that aftt-r the social revolution everyone will be equally learned arc severely mistaken. Then as now, science as science will remain one of the numerous social specializations. The only difference is that this specialization, now accessible only to members of the privileged classes, will then, with class distinctions abolished once and for all, become accessible to anvonc who has the vocation and inclination to study it-tho’ugh not at the expense of general manual labor, which will be obligatory for everyone.

Only general scientific education will become common property, and particularly a familiarity with scientific method, the habit of thinking scientifically, i.e., of generalizing facts and drawing more or less correct conclusions from them. But mcyclopedic minds, and therefore learned sociologists, will always be very few. Woe to mankind if thought should ever become the source and sole guide of life, if the sciences and learning should direct the government of society. Life would run dry and human society would turn into a dumb and servile herd. The government of life by science could have no other result than the stupefaction of the whole of humanity.

As revolutionary anarchists we advocate universal education, liberation, and the broad development of social life, and therefore we are enemies of the state and of any kind of state administration. In contrast to all metaphysicians, positivists, and learned or unlearned worshipers of the goddess science, we maintain that natural and social life always precedes thought (which is only one of its functions) but is never its result; that life develops from its own inexhaustible depths by means of ‘a series of diverse facts, not a series of abstract reflections; and that the latter, always produced by life but never producing it, are like milestones, merely indicating its direction and the different phases of its autonomous and natural development.

[1] Bakunin perhaps meant “social law.”

In accordance with this conviction, not only do we have neither the intention nor the least desire to impose upon our own or any other nation any ideal of social organization that we have found in books or invented; but in the belief that the masses bear all the elements of their future pattern of organization in their own more or less historically developed instincts, in their own vital demands, and in their own conscious or unconscious aspirations, we seek this ideal in the people themselves. Since any state power, any government by its nature and position stands outside and above the people, and must necessarily try to subordinate them to alien regulations and purposes, we declare ourselves the enemies of all governmental or state power, the enemies of state organization altogether. We believe that the people will bC’ happy and free only when they build their own life by organizing themselves from below upward, by means of autonomous and totally free associations, subject to no official tutelage but exposed to the influence of diverse individuals and parties enjoying mutual freedom.

These are the convictions of social revolutionaries, for which we arc called anarchists. We do not object to the name because we are indeed enemies of all power, knowing that power corrupts those in whom it is vested just as much as those who arc forced to submit to it. Under its pernicious influence the former become ambitious and self-seeking despots, exploiting society for their own benefit or the benefit of their class, and the latter become slaves.

Idealists of all sorts, metaphysicians, positivists, champions of the predominance of science over life, doctrinaire revolutionaries-with different arguments but identical fervor they all defend the idea of the state and of state power, which they see, *perfectly logically* from their point of view, as the sole salvation of society. *Perfectly logically* because they take as their foundation the principle, which we believe to be utterly false, that thought precedes life, that abstract theory precedes social practice, and that sociological science must therefore be the starting point for social revolution and reconstruction; and from this they necessarily draw the conclusion that since thought, theory, and science are at least for now the property of a very few people, those few ought to be the directors of social life-not just the agents but the managers of all popular movements. On the day after the revolution a new organization of society is to be created not by the free union of popular associations, communes, counties, and districts from below upward, in conformity with the people’s needs and instincts, but solely by the dictatorial power of this learned minority which is *supposed* to express the will of the whole people.

The fiction of popular representation, and the actual fact of government of the masses by an insignificant handful of privileged individuals elected-or even not elected-by hordes of people driven to the polls without ever knowing what or whom they arc voting for; the false and abstract expression of an imaginary popular thought and will of which the real and living people haven’t the slightest idea-these are the foundations of both the theory of the state and the theory of the so-called revolutionary dictatorship.

The differences between a revolutionary dictatorship and a state are merely external. In essence they both represent government of the majority by a minority in the name of the alleged stupidity of the former and the alleged intelligence of the latter. Therefore they are equally reactionary, both of them having the direct and unavoidable result of consolidating the political and economic privileges of the ruling minority and the political and economic slavery of the masses.

Now it is clear why the *doctrinaire revolutionaries,* who have as their objective the overthrow of the existing governments and regimes in order to found their own dictatorship on the ruins, have never been and will never be enemies of the state. On the contrary, they have always been and will always be its most ardent defenders. They are enemies only of the existing authorities, because they want to take their place, enemies of the existing political institutions because these preclude the possibility of their own dictatorship. But at the same time they are the warmest friends of state power, for if it were not retained the revolution, once it had truly liberated the masses, would deprive this pseudo-revolutionary minority of all hope of putting them in a new harness and conferring on them the benefits of its own governmental decrees.

So true is this that now, when reaction is triumphing all over Europe, when all states are gripped by a malicious spirit of self-preservation and popular repression, clad from head to toe in the triple armor of military, political, and financial power, and, under the supreme command of Prince Bismarck, preparing for a desperate struggle against social revolution-now, when it would seem that all sincere revolutionaries ought to unite in order to repulse the desperate attack of international reaction, we see instead the doctrinaire revolutionaries under the leadership of Mr. Marx everywhere taking the side of the state and the statesmen against popular revolution.

In France from 1870 they stood by the statist republican-reactionary Gambetta against the revolutionary League of the South (La Ligue du Midi ),[2] which alone could have saved France from both German enslavement and the still more dangerous ancl now triumphant coalition of clericalists, legitimists, Orleanists, ancl Bonapart- ists. In Italy they flirt with Garibaldi and the rC’mnants of Mazzini’s party. In Spain they openly took the side of Castelar, Pi y Margall, ancl the Madrid Constituent Cortes.[3] Lastly, in Germany and around it, in Austria, Switzerland, Holland, and Denmark, they renclC’r service to Prince Bismarck, whom by their own admission they regard as a highly useful revolutionary, by assisting him in the pan-Gcrmanization of all those countries.

[2] Leon Gambetta, a radical lawyer and statesman, was one of the leaders of the Government of Naticmal Defense after the fall of Napoleon III, and a prominent parliamentary figure in the early years of the Third Republic. The League of the South, which had federalist tendencies, challenged the authority of the Government of National Defense am] was brought to order by Gambctta.

Now it is clear why most of the doctors of philosophy of Hegel’s school, for all their fiery revolutionism in the world of abstract ideas, in actuality in 1848 and 1849 proved to be not revolutionaries but reactionaries, and why the majority of them have now become confirmed partisans of Prince Bismarck.

**** II

We have several times voiced a deep aversion to the theory of Lassalle[4] and Marx, which recommends to the workers as their immediate main goal, if not their ultimate ideal, *the establishment of a people’s state.* This, they explain, will be nothing other than “the proletariat raised to the position of ruling class.”[5]

[3] In 1873 a Constituent Cortes declared Spain it republic. The first president of Lhe republic was Pi y ^forgall, the leading advo- <:ate of federalism in Spain. Though nol himself an ;marchist, his views were very dose to those of the anarchisls-he himself had translaled several of Proudhon’s works-all(l lw is considere<I om• of the inspirers of Spanish anarchism. I lis fedcralisl principles did not prevent him from suppressing the more extreme advocates of local autonomy, the cantonalists.<br> <br> Emilio Castelar y Ripoll serve<] as president of the republic for several months until il’i demise at the beginning of 1874.

[4] Ferdinand Lassalle, a highly flamboyant personality, was killed in a duel in 1864. He was the creator of the General German Workers’ Association, which later became part of the German Social Democratic party. Lao;salle’s views were an amalgam of Marxism and Ilegelianism, and Marx in fact disagreed with his conviction that socialism could he realized wilhin Lhe existing state system.

If the proletariat is to be the ruling class, one may ask whom will it govern? There must be yet another proletariat that will be subjected to this new domination, this new state. It might be the peasant rabble, for instance, which we know docs not enjoy the favor of the Marxists and, with its lower level of culture, will probably be governed by the urban factory proletariat. Or, if we look at the question from a national point of view, then for identical reasons the Slavs will be reduced to the same servile position in relation to the victorious German proletariat that the latter now occupies under its own bourgeoisie.

If there is a state there is necessarily domination and consequently slavery. A state without slavery, open or disguised, is inconceivable-that is why we arc enemies of the state.

What docs it mean, the proletariat elevated to a ruling class? Is the whole proletariat going to direct the administration? There arc about forty million Germans. Are all forty million going to be members of the government? The whole people will govern, and no one will be governed. Then then’ will be no government and no state; but if therc is a state, people will be governed and there will be slaves.

This dilemma in the Marxists’ theory is resolved quite simply. By popular government they mean government of the people by a small number of representatives elected by the people. Election of so-called popular representatives and directors of the state by universal suffrage-the last word of the Marxists, as well as of the democratic school-is a lie which eonceals the despotism of a ruling minority, a lie that is all the more dangerous because it is presented as the expression of the alleged will of the peopk’.

And so, from whateVPr angle you look at this question you come to the same sad conclusion: government of the vast majority of the masses by a privileged minority. But this minority, the Marxists say, will consist of workers. Yes, of *former* workers, perhaps, who as soon as they become rulers or representatives of the people will cease to be workers and will start viewing the laborer’s world from the heights of the state; they will no longer represent the people, only themselves and their pretensions to rule the people. Anyone who doubts this is just not familiar with the nature of man.

[5] ***Sec The Commu11ist*** Mm1ifesto, sl•dion II.

But these elected representatives will be passionately committed as well as learned socialists. The words “learned socialists” and “scientific socialism” which recur constantly in the writings and speeches of the Lassalleans and Marxists are themselves proof that the fictitious people’s state will be nothing but a highly despotic rule of the masses by a new and highly restricted aristocracy of real or pretended scholars. The people are not learned, and therefore they will be liberated entirely from the cares of governing and cast into the governed herd. A fine liberation!

The Marxists sense this contradiction, and while admitting that a government of scholars-the most burdensome, offensive, and contemptible kind of government there is-will be a true dictatorship regardless of its democratic forms, they offer the consolation that this dictatorship will be provisional and brief. They say that its sole concern and purpose will be to educate the people and to raise them economically and politically to such a level that all government will soon become unnecessary. The state will then shed its political, or authoritarian, character and will of itself **tum** into a totally free organization of economic interests and communes.

There is a flagrant contradiction here. If their state is really a people’s state, then why abolish it? And if it is necessary to abolish it in order to achieve true liberation of the people, then how do they dare to call it a people’s state? By our polemics against them we have brought them to the recognition that freedom, or anarchy, i.e., the free organization of the working masses from below upward, is the ultimate goal of social development, and that any state, including even their people’s state, is a yoke which engenders despotism on the one hand and slaverv on the other.

Th<<sup>:</sup>y say that this yoke of theirs is a transitional device for the attainment of total popular liberation: anarchy, or frt’edom, is the end, and the state, or dictatorship, the means. Thus, to liberate the masses it is necessary to enslave them first.

For the moment our polemics have focused on this contradiction. They maintain that only a dictatorship-- theirs, of course-can create popular liberty. We reply that no dictatorship can have any goal but self-perpetuation, and that it is capable only of engendering and inculcating slavery in a nation that puts up with it. Freedom can be created only by freedom, that is, by a national uprising and the free organization of the working masses from below upward.

In the second part of this book[6] we will apply a closer and more detailed analysis to this question, around which the interest of contemporary history revolves. Now, however, let us direct the attention of our readers to the following highly significant and constantly recurrent fact.

The political and social theory of the antistate socialists, or anarchists, l<<sub>’</sub>ads them resolutely and din<sub>’</sub>ctly to a complete break with all governments and all forms of bourgeois politics, leaving them no alternative but social revolution. Meanwhile the converse theory, the theory of the state communists and scientific authority, just as resolutely entangles its adherents, on the pretext of political tactics, in a constant succession of deals with governments and various bourgeois political parties. In other words, it pushes them straight into reaction.

The best proof of this is Lassalle. Who is unaware of his relations and negotiations with Bismarck? The liberals and democrats against whom he waged a merciless and highly successful war took advantage of these activities to accuse him of venality. Marx’s personal followers in Germany whispered the same thing among themselves, though not so openly. But both parties were talking nonsense. Lassalle was rich and had no reason to sell himself; he was too intelligent and too proud not to prefer the role of an independent agitator to the unseemly position of an agent of the government or of anyone else.

[6] This sequel was never completed.

We have said that Lassalle was not a man of the people, because he was too much of a kid-gloved dandy to socialize with the proletariat outside of meetings, where he usually mesmerized the workers with his clever and brilliant speeches. He was too spoiled by wealth and refined tastes to find enjoyment among the people, too much of a Jew to feel comfortable with them, and, finally, too conscious of his intellectual superiority not to feel a certain scorn for the ignorant laboring rabble, whom he approached more as doctor to patient than as brother to brother. Within these limits he was earnestly devoted to the popular cause, as an honest physician is devoted to curing his patient, whom he views, however, ll’ss as a man than as a case. We are deeply convinced that he was so honest and so proud that he would not have betrayed the people’s cause for anything in the world.

It is quite unnecessary to resort to base suppositions in order to c•xplain Lassalle’s relations and agreements with the Prussian minister. Lassalle, as we have said, was openly at war with liberals and democrats of all shades, and he was terribly contemptuous of those naive rhetoricians whose helplessness and failure he saw dearly. Bismarck, though for different reasons, was also at loggerheads with them, and this was the initial basis of their rapprochement. But its main foundation was Lassalle’s political and social program, the communist theory created by Mr. Marx.

The basic point of this program is the liberation ( imaginary) of the proletariat *solely by means of tlie state.* But this requires that the state agree to be the liberator of the proletariat from the yoke of bourgeois capital. And how is the state to be instilled with such a desire? There can be only two ways. The proletariat must make a revolution for the purpose of seizing the state-this is the heroic way. In our opinion, once it is seized it must immediately be destroyed as the age-old prison of the masses; but according to Mr. Marx’s theory the people not only must not destroy it but on the contrary must reinforce it and make it stronger and in this form put it at the full disposal of their benefactors, guardians, and teachers-the communist party chiefs, in a word, Mr. Marx and his friends, who will proceed to liberate the people in their own way. They will gather up the reins of government in a strong hand because the ignorant people need strong guardians; they will establish a single state bank, concentrating in their own hands all commercial and industrial, agricultural, and even scientific production; and they will divide the mass of the people into two armies, one industrial and one agrarian, under the direct command of state engineers, who will form a new privileged scientific-political caste.[7]

See what a splendid goal the school of German communists sets up for the people! But to attain all these blessings one innocent little step has to be taken first- a revolution! And just try waiting until the Germans make a revolution! They will endlessly discuss revolution, perhaps, but as for making one .

**** III

The two primary clements which we can identify as the necessary preconditions of social revolution exist on the broadest scale in the Russian people. They can boast of extreme poverty and of exemplary bondage. Their sufferings arc without number, and they endure them not with patience but with a deep and passionate despair which has already found historical expression in two terrible outbursts, the revolts of Stenka Razin and Pugachev.[8] Nor has their despair ceased to manifest itself even to this day in a continual series of local peasant riots.

[7] See *The Communist Manifesto,* section II.

[8] Stenka Razin and Emilian Pugachev, bolh Cossacks, were the leaders of two great peasant rcvolto; in Russia, the first in the seventeenth century and the second in the eighteenth.

What prevents the people from carrying out a victorious revolution? Is it the lack of a common ideal capable of conceiving a popular revolution and giving it a definite goal? Without an ideal, as we have already said, a simultaneous and universal uprising of the entire nation, and hence the very success of the revolution, arc impossible. But it would hardly be correct to say that such an ideal has not yet developed in the Russian people.

If it did not exist, if it had not taken shape in the popular consciousness, at least in its main outlines, then all hope of a Russian revolution would have to be abandoned. Such an ideal arises from the Vl’ry depths of popular life. It is nccl’Ssarily the product of the people’s historical experiences, their aspirations, sufferings, protests, and struggle, while at the same time it is a figurative expression, so to speak, always simple and comprehensible to all, of their real demands and hopes.

It is clear that if the people do not develop this ideal from within themselves, no one will be able to give it to them. In general it should be observed that no one, nC’ither an individual, a society, nor a nation, can he given anything that does not already exist within him, not just in embryo but developed to some degree. Let us take the individual. Unless an idea already l’xists within him as a living instinct and as a more or ll•ss cll’ar concPption which serves as the initial expression of that instinct, you cannot explain it to him, and more important, you cannot pound it into him. Look at a bourgeois, content with his lot. Can you ever hope to explain to him the proletarian’s right to full human development and to an equal share in all the pleasures, gratifications, and blessings of social life, or prove to him the legitimacy and the salutary necessity of social revolution? No, and unless you had gone out of your mind you wouldn’t even try. And why not? Because you would be certain that even if this bourgeois were by nature good, wise, noble, magnanimous, and inclined to justice-you sec the concl•ssions I am making, there being few such bourgeois in existence -even if he were highly educated and even erudite, he would still not understand you and would not become a social revolutionary. And why wouldn<sup>’</sup>t he? For the simple reason that his life has not aroused in him the instinctive urges that would correspond to your socialrevolutionary idea. If, however, he did have those urges, in embryo or even in the most absurd conceptual forms, then whatever pleasure and pride his social position brought him he could not be content with himself.

On the other hand, take the most uneducated, uncouth fellow. If truly you discover in him the instincts and the honest though obscure yearnings that correspond to the social-revolutionary idea, then don’t be frightened no matter how primitive his actual notions may be, just apply yourself to him seriously, with love, and you will see how broadly and passionately he will embrace and assimilate your idea-- r, more precisely, his own idea, because it is nothing but the clear, complete, and logical expression of his own instinct. In essence, then, you will not have given him anything, you will not have brought him anything new but will merely have clarified what lived within him long before he met you. That is why I say that no one can give anyone anything.

But if this is true in respect to an individual, it is all the more true in respect to an entire people. You have to be a total innocent or an incurable doctrinaire to imagine that you can give anything to the people, that you can make them a gift of material prosperity or a new mentality or morality, a new truth, and arbitrarily give their lives a new direction, or, as the late Chaadayev[9] said thirty-six years ago, referring specifically to the Russian people, write what you will on them as on a blank sheet of paper.

Among the greatest geniuses hitherto there have been few who have really done anything for the people. A nation’s genius!‘s arc highly aristocratic, and everything they have done until now has served only to C’ducate, strengthen, and enrich the exploiting minority. The poor masses, forsaken and stiffed by all, with great martyrdom have had to forge their own way toward freedom and light by an endless succession of obscure and fruitless efforts. The greatest geniuses did not bring society a new content, nor could they. Created by society themselves, they have carried on and augmented the work of many centuries, bringing only new forms to the old content which is constantly being regenerated and expanded by the very movement of social life.

[9] Peter Chaadayev, a prominenl Russian intellectual of the 1830s and ‘40s, lamented what he felt Lo be Russia’s cultural underdevelopment. In his *Philo<>ophical Letter,* published in 1836, he a’iserted Lhat Russia’s relii.,rious separation from the Catholic West had turned her into a cultural wasteland. The reference here is to a subsequent essay, *Apology of a Madman,* in which he took a more pnsitive view of Russia’s future.

But, I repeat, the most celebrated geniuses have done nothing, or very little, specifically for the people, that is, for the many millions of laboring proletarians. ^e people’s life, development, and progn·ss belong exclusively to the people themselves. This progress is achieved, of course, not by book learning but by a natural accumulation of experience and thought, transmitted from generation to generation and necessarily broadened, deepened, perfected, and given form very slowly. It is achieved by an unending succession of painful and bitter experiences which have at last, in our own time, brought the masses of all countries, or at least of all the European countries, to the realization that they can expect nothing from the privileged classes and existing states, or from political revolutions in general, and that they can be liberated only by their own efforts, by means of social revolution. This in itself defines the universal ideal which now lives in the peoples of Europe and animates them.

Does such an ideal exist in the Russian people? There is no doubt that it does, nor is it even necessary to go very deeply into the historical consciousness of our people in order to delineate its principal features.

The first of these features is the nationwide conviction that the land, all the land, belongs to the people, who have watered it with their own sweat and fertilized it with their labor. The second is the conviction that the right to use the land belongs not to the individual but to the entire commune, the *mir,* which temporarily divides it up among its members. The third feature, equal in importance to the other two, is the commune’s quasiabsolute autonomy, its self-government, and, as a result, its resolutely hostile attitude toward the state.

Those are the three main features that lie at the basis of the Russian popular ideal. In their essence they correspond fully to the ideal that has been developing of late in the consciousness of the proletariat of the Latin countries, which today are immeasurably closer to social revolution than the Germanic countries. The Russian popular ideal, however, is obscured by three other features which distort its character and seriously impede and delay its realization. Against these features we must struggle with all our might, a task made easier by the fact that the people themselves are already struggling against them.

These three negative features are ( l) patriarchalism; ( 2) the swallowing up of the individual by the *mir;* ( 3) faith in the tsar.

We might have added as a fourth characteristic the Christian religion, in its official Orthodox or sectarian form. But in our opinion this question is not nearly as important in Russia as it is in Western Europe, not just in the Catholic countries but even in the Protestant ones. Social revolutionaries, of course, do not ignore it, and they take every opportunity to speak the murderous truth, in the presence of the people, to the Lord of Hosts and his theological, metaphysical, political, juridical, police, and bourgeois-economist representatives on earth. But they do not make the religious question the primary one, convincl’d as they arc that the people’s superstition, while it is a natural concornitant of their ignorance, is not rooted so much in ignorance as in poverty, in the physical sufferings and unheard-of oppressions of every sort which they l’!ldurl’ each day; that their religious notions and fables, their fantastic penchant for the absurd, is more practical than thl’oretical, less a delusion of the mind than a protest of life, will, and passion against the intolerable narrowness of their lives; that the church represents for the people a kind of celestial tavern, just as the tavern represents a kind of heavenly church on earth. In church as in the tavern they forget their hunger, oppression, and humiliation, at least for a minute, and they try to dull the memory of their daily woes either with mindless faith or with wine. One intoxicant is as good as the other.

Social revolutionaries know this and arc therefore convinced that religious sentiment among the people can be eliminated only by social revolution and not by the abstract and doctrinaire propaganda of the so-called freethinkers. These gentlemen are bourgeois from head to toe, incorrigihle metaphysicians in their nwthods, habits, and way of life, even when they call themselves positivists and fancy themselves materialists. It still seems to them that life Hows from thought, that it is the realization of a preestablislll’d idea, and consequently they maintain that thought, meaning their wretched ideas, must direct life. They do not understand that thought, on the contrary, flows from lifr, and to change thought you must first change life. Give the people a broad human existence and they will astonish you with the profound rationality of their thinking.

Inveterate doctrinaires who call themselves freethinkers have yet another reason for making theoretical, anti- rcligious propaganda a precondition for practical activity. For the most part they are poor revolutionaries, just vain egotists and cowards. Moreover, by their social position they belong to the educated classes and cherish dearly the comfort and refined elegance, the intellectual vanity with which the life of these classes is filled. They understand that a popular revolution, by its nature as well as its objective, is harsh and unceremonious, and will not stop short of destroying the bourgeois world in which life treats them so well. Therefore, besides the fact that they have no intention of exposing themselves to the considerable inconvenience that accompanies honest service to the revolutionary cause, or of arousing the indignation of their less liberal and daring but still valued patrons, admirers, friends, and comrades to whom they arc linked by education, worldly tics, and a taste for elegance and comfort, they are simply afraid of, and do not want, a revolution that would pull them down from their pedestals and suddenly deprive them of all the advantages of their present position.

But meanwhile they have no desire to acknowledge this, and they have to astonish the bourgeois world with their radicalism and draw the revolutionary youth, and if possible the people themselves, behind them. But how is this to be done? They must shock the bourgeois world but not anger it; they must attract the revolutionary youth but at the same time avoid the revolutionary abyss! There is only one way to do this: to direct all of their pseudorevolutionary fury against God. They are so sure of his nonexistence that they do not fear his wrath. It is a different story when it comes to the authorities-any authority, from the tsar to the lowest policeman! It is a different story when it comes to the rich and influential, from the banker and the Jewish tax farmer to the last grasping merchant or landowner! Their wrath might be expressed all too painfully.

On the basis of these considerations they declare merciless war on Goel. In the most radical krms they renounce religion in every shape and form. They inveigh against theology and metaphysical nonsense and all popular superstitions in the name of science, which of course they carry around in their pockets and with which all their long-winded writings are saturated. But at the same time they treat all the political and social powers of this world with extraordinary delicacy, and if they do permit themselves to denounce them, compelled by logic or public opinion, they do so in such polite and gentle terms that it would seem to require an extremely sharp temper to get angry at such authorities; and they invariably leave them loopholes and express hope for their reform. Their capacity for hoping and believing in the authorities is so great that these freethinkers even suppose it possible that our Governing Senate”[10] may sooner or later become an instrument of popular liberation. (See the latest program, the third, of the nonperiodical publication ***Forward/*** which is about to start coming out in Zurich.[11]

[10] The Governing Senate was the hi^hest administrative and judicial body in Imperial Russia, regarded by some as a possible foundation for Russian constitutional development.

[11] The review *Forward!* was published by Peter Lavrov, an expatriate Russian radical who was Bakunin’s chief rival for intellectual influence over the young Russian revolutionaries at this time. Lavrov believed that the main task at hand was an educational one, to spread socialist propaganda among the peasants and develop their revolutionary consciousness.[11]

But let us leave these charlatans and take up our own question.

Under no pretext must the people ever be deceived, whatever the objective. This would not only be criminal but detrimental to the revolutionary cause. Deceit by its very nature *is* shortsighted, petty, and narrow, always stitched together with frayed thread so that inevitably it tears and is exposed, and it is the falsest course for the revolutionary youth to take, one that is arbitrary, willful, and repugnant to the people. A man is strong only when he is defending his own truth, when he is speaking and acting in accordance with his deepest convictions. Then, whatever his situation, he always knows what he has to say and do. He may fall, but he cannot compromise himself or his cause. If we try to liberate the people with lies we will inevitably ensnare ourselves, stray from our path, and lose sight of our goal, and if we have any influence on the people we will lead them astray as well. We will be acting in the spirit of the reactionaries and to their advantage.

Therefore, since we ourselves arc deeply convinced atheists, enemies of every religious creed, and materialists, whenever we have to speak to the people about religion we are obliged to disclose the full extent of our atheism, and, further, our hostility toward religion. We must answer all their questions on this subject honestly, and when necessary, that is, when we anticipate success, we must even try to explain and prove to them the correctness of our views. But we must not seek out occasions for such discussions. We must not put the question of religion in the forefront of our propaganda among the people. To do that, we are deeply convinced, is the same as betraying the people’s cause.

The people are neither doctrinaires nor philosophers. They do not have the leisure to concern themselves with many issues at the same time, and they arc not in the habit of doing so. When they become engrossed in one, they forget about all the rest. Therefore we have a teal obligation to place before them the main question on which their liberation depends more than on any other. But that question is indicated by their very circumstances, by their entire existence-it is the economic-political question, economic in the sense of social revo]ution and political in the sense of the destruction of the state. To occupy them with the religious question is to distract them from the real issue and to betray their cause.

That cause consists solely of bringing the people’s ideal into being, correcting it, perhaps, in accordance with the wishes of the people themselves and putting it on a better, faster, and more direct course. We have pointed out the three unfortunate traits that most obscure the Russian people’s ideal. Let us now note that the last two, absorption of the individual by the *mir* and worship of the tsar, follow naturally from the first one, patriarchal- ism. Therefore patriarchalism is the main historical but, unfortunately, thoroughly popular evil that we have to fight against with all our might.

It has distorted the whole of Russian life and given it those features of obtuse immobility, impenetrable sordidness, congenital lying, grasping hypocrisy, and servile bondage that make it insufferable. The despotism of the husband, the father, and then the oldest brother turned the family-which was already immoral in its legal and economic foundations-into a school of exultant violence and willfulness, of daily domestic baseness and depravity. A whited sepulcher is the perfect expression to describe the Russian family. The good Russian family man, if he is in fact good but lacking in character, is simply a good- natured hog, innocent and meek, a creature who has no clear consciousness of anything, no specific desires, and indifferently and inadvertently does good and evil almost at the same time. His actions arc determined much less by a goal than by his circumstances, his situation at the moment, and especially his surroundings. Accustomed to obeying within the family, he continues to obey and to bend with the wind in society as well. He is made to be and to remain a slave, but he will not be a despot. He lacks the strength for that. Therefore he will not flog anyone himself, but he will always hold down the poor wretch, guilty or innocent, whom authority wants to flog, authority presenting itself to him in three principal and sacred forms: father, *mir,* and tsar.

But if he has character and mettle he will be both a slave and a despot. He will tyrannize over everyone below him and dependent on his will, but his masters arc the *mir* and the tsar. If he is the head of a family he will be an unbounded despot at home but a servant of the *mir* and a slave of the tsar.

The commune is his world. It is nothing but a natural extension of his family, his clan. Therefore within it the same patriarchal principle, the same vik• despotism, and the same abject submissiveness prevail as within the family, and lwnce also the same innah• injustice and radical denial of all individual rights. The decisions of the *mir,* whatever they may he, arc law. “Who dares go against the *mir!”* till’ Hussian peasant exclaims in amazement. We shall sec that besides the tsar, his officials, and the nobles, who stand outside the *mir,* or, more precisely, above it, there is one individual among the Russian people who dares to go against the *mir:* it is the bandit. That is why banditry is an important historical phenomenon in Russia-the first n·bcls, the first revolutionaries, Pugachev and Stenka Hazin, were bandits.

In the *mir* only the ciders, the heads of households, have the right to votl’. The unmarried young men, or even those who arc married but do not have their own homes, must obey tlwm and carry out tlleir decisions. But over the commune, over all the commtmes, stands the tsar, the universal patriarch and progenitor, the father of all Russia. Therefore his power is unlimited.

Each commune forms a self-contained whole, and as a result-this is one of Russia’s chief misfortunes-no commune has any autonomous organic bond with other communes or feels it necessary to have one. They are joined together only through the “little father,” the tsar, only by his supreme patriarchal power.

We say that this is a great misfortune. It is clear that such fragmentation cripples the people and dooms all their uprisings, which are almost always local and sporadic, to inevitable defeat, thereby securing the triumph of despotism. Therefore one of the chief duties of the revolutionary youth must be the establishment of a living insurrectionary bond between the separate communes, by all possible means and whatever the cost. The task is difficult but it is not impossible, for history shows us that during troubled times-the False Dmitry’s civil war,[12] for instance, the Stenka Razin and Pugachev revolutions, and the Novgorod uprising at the beginning of Emperor Nicholas’s reign[13] — the communes themselves have tried to establish this salutary bond on their own initiative.

The number of communes is incalculable, and their common “little father” stands too high above them-just a little lower than God-to govern all of them personally. If God himself needs the services of a host of celestial orders and forces to govern the world-seraphim, cherubim, archangels, six-winged angels, and two-winged angels-the tsar can hardly be expected to manage without officials. He needs an entire military, civil, judicial, and police administration. Hence the military, police, bureaucratic, and, inevitably, strictly centralized state comes to stand between the tsar and the people, between the tsar and the commune.

Thus the imaginary tsar-father, the guardian and benefactor of the people, is raised high, high above us, almost into the heavens, while the real tsar, the tsar-knout, the tsar-thief, the tsar-destroyer-the state-takes his place. A natural result is the strange fact that our people at one and the same time venerate an imaginary, fantastic tsar and hate the real tsar who is manifcsted in till’ state.

[12] The False Dmitry was a pretender to the Russian throne during the Time of Troubles, a period of political breakdown and social upheaval at the beginning of Lhe seventeenlh century.

[13] Bakunin meant Tsar Alexis, who reigned from 1645 lo 1676. i\ovgorod was an important commercial city of northern Russia, independent in the Middle Ages and conquered by Moscow in lhe fifteenth century.

Our people deeply and passionately hate the state and all its representatives, whatever form they take. Not long ago their hatred was still divided between the nobles and the officials, and sometimes they even seemed to hate the former more than the latter, although in fact they hated them equally. But when tlw nobility, as a fl’sult of the abolition of serfdom, began visibly to decay, to disappear, and to revert to its original role as a class exclusively devoted to state service, the people included it in their general hatred for tlw whole caste of officials. Need we prove how l<·gitimatc that hatred is!

The state crushed and completed the corruption of the Russian commune, which was already corrupted enough by its patriarchal foundations. Under the yoke of the state, communal elections became a fraud and the temporary representatives elected hy the people themsl’IVl’s, the chiefs, ciders, tithingmen, and foremen, turned into tools of the government, on the one hand, and bribed servants of the rich peasants on the other. Under these conditions the last vestiges of justice, truth, and plain humanity finally disappeared from the communes, which in addition were ravaged by state taxes and dues and thoroughly downtrodden by the arbitrariness of the authorities. More than ever, banditry remained the sole recourse for the individual, and for the people as a whole a universal insurrection, a revolution.

Under these circumstances, what can our intellectual proletariat do, our social-revolutionary Russian youth, honest, sincere, and totally dedicated? Without doubt they must go to the people because nowhere today, and least of all in Russia, is there life or a cause or a future outside of the people, outside of the multimillion-strong laboring masses. But how, and why, should they go to the people?

At the moment, after the unfortunate outcome of the Nechayev affair,[14] opinions on this score seem to be very much divided. But out of the genl’ral confusion of thought two main opposing tendencies arc now crystallizing. One is of a more pacific and preparatory character; the other is insurrl’ctionary and aims directly at the organization of the people’s defense.

The advocates of the first tendency do not believe that the revolution is a n•al possibility. But since they do not want to remain, and cannot remain, passive spectators of the people’s misfortunl’s, they arc resolving to go to the people and share these misfortunes fraternally with them while at the same time ll’aching and preparing them, not theoretically but practically, by their own living example. Sonw will go among the factory workers, to work beside them as equals and try to spread the spirit of association among thl’m.

Others will try to establish agrarian colonies where, besides the principle of common use of the land, which is so well known to our peasan ts, they will pursue and apply a principle which is still totally unfamiliar but economically indispl’llsablc to them. That is the principle of collective cultivation of the common land and the equal division of its products, or the value of its products, in accordance with the strictest rules of justice-not juridical justicl’ but human justicl’, which demands more work from tlw capable and strong, and less from the incapable and weak, and distributes earnings not according to each onl”s work but according to his needs.

They hope to entice the peasants by their example and particularly by the advantages which they hope to derive from thl’ organization of colll’ctive labor. It is the same hope that Cabet nursed after the unsuccessful revolution of 1848, when he set out for America with his lcarians and founded New Icaria.[15] The colony lasted only a very short while, and American soil, it should be noted, was more favorable than Russian for such an experiment. In America the fullest freedom reigns, while in our blessed Hussia the tsar reigns.

[14] Sergei Nedlilyev was a hizarrl’ imlividual who d.1imcd to **lie** llw lwacl of a network of revolutionary cells m:ross Hussi;i. 1 lis organizalion proved to he larg:ely imaginary, hut for a lime he won lhc suppnrt and collahoralion of Bakunin himsdf. Nedrnyt.•v was (‘Xtraditl’cl to Russia hy lhe Swiss a-. a common criminal, in conncc- lion with tlw murder of a student who h;1d hclong(‘d lo his p;roup in Moscow. **I le** was convicled and died in prison.

But the hopes of those who want to prepare the people and influence them by peaceful persuasion go further. By organizing their own domestic life on a foundation of complete freedom of person, they want to counteract the vile patriarchalism that lies at the basis of our Russian slavery. That is, they want to strike our principal social evil at its very root and thereby contribute directly to the correction of the people’s ideal and the dissemination among them of practical notions of justice, freedom, and the means of liberation.

All this is beautiful, extremely magnanimous and noble, but scarcely realizable. Even if they do succeed somewhere it will be a drop in the ocean, and a drop is far from sufficient to prepare, rouse, and liberate our people; it will take many resources and a great deal of vital energy, and the results will be negligible.

Those who draw up such plans and sincerely intend to carry them out doubtlessly do so with their eyes closed so as not to sec our Russian reality in all its ugliness. We can predict in advance all the terrible, painful disappointments that will befall them right at the start, for except in a few, a very few fortunate cases the majority of them will get no further than the initial stages and will not have the strength to go on.

Let them try it if they see no alternative, but at the same time let them recognize that this is too little, much too little to liberate and save our poor martyred people.

The other path is the militant one of insurrection. That is the one we believe in, and it is the only one from which we expect salvation.

_Our p_eople are in obvious need of help. They are in such dl’spl•ratl’ straits that a n•volt can he raised in any village without difficulty. But although an uprising. even if tmsuccessful, is always useful. sporadic outbursts an· not enough. All the villagps must rise at once. The vast popular movements ll’d by Stenka Razin and Pugachev prove that this is possible. They prove that an ideal does in fact live in thP consdousnpss of our pPople which they aspire to realize, while we conclude from the faihm’ of these movrnwnts that this ideal has fundamental defects which have obstructed it and arc continuing to obstruct it.

[15] Etienne Cabet wa’i a French socialist thinker, the author of a utopian novel called ***Voyage to lcaria.*** His American colony, in which he hoped to implement his communistic principles, was first established in Texas and later transferred to Illinois.

We have identified those defects and voiced our conviction that the immediate obligation of our revolutionary youth is to counteract them and to exert all their forces to O\‘Prcomc them in the popular consciousness. In order to demonstrate the possibility of such a struggle we shmn’d that it began long ago among the people them- sdvcs.

The war against patriarchalism is being waged today in 1warly every village and every family. The commune, the *mir,* have turned into instruments of the detested state and bureaucracy to such a degree that an uprising against the latter becomes at the same time an uprising against the despotism of the commune and the *mi1-.*

Ve1wration of the tsar remains, hut **Wl’** bPliPvc that it has palled and grown considerably weaker in the popular consciousness over the last ten or twdvP years, thanks to Emperor All•xander the Bcncvolcnt’s[16] wisdom and love of the people. Tlw nohk, sNfowner is no more, and he used to S<·rve as tlw main lightning rod for the thunderbolts of popular hatred. Tlw nobk or bourgeois landowner has n·maincd, tlw rich peasant, and particularly the official, the angd or archangel of the tsar. But the official execuks the tsar’s will. Befogged though our peasant may be by his insane historical faith in the tsar, he is finally beginning to unckrstand this. And how can he not help understanding it! For ten years, from all corners of Russia, he has been sending his deputies to petition the tsar, and they all hear from the tsar’s own lips just one answer: *”}‘ou **trill** get no other freedom!”*

[16] An ironic reference to Alexander II, who t’manl’ipalcd lhe serfs in **1861** hut failed Lo satisfy all of their demands. Ile was assassinakd by revol11tionarics in **1881.**

No, the Russian peasant may very well be ignorant but he is no fool. And in view of the facts staring him in the face and the many proofs carried out on his own hide, he would have to be a perfect fool not to begin to understand at last that he has no worse enemy than the tsar. This must be explained to him, he must be made to fed it by every possible means. All the lamentable and tragic incidents that fill the daily life of the people must be used to show him how the actions of the officials, landowners, priests, and rich peasants, the violence, robbery, and pillaging that make life impossible for him, emanate directly from the tsar’s authority, rely upon it, and are possible only because of it. In a word, he must be shown that the state which is so hateful to him is the tsar himself and nothing but the tsar. That is the immediate and at the moment the chief duty of revolutionary propaganda.

But that is not all. The main defect which paralyzes a general insurrection of the people in Russia and has hitherto made it impossible is the self-containment of the communes, the isolation and separation of the local peasant communities. At all costs this self-containment must be breached and a living current of revolutionary thought, will, and deed created between the separate communes. The best peasants of all the villages, counties, and districts (if possible ), the forward-looking individuals, the natural revolutionaries of the Russian peasant world, must be linked together, and wherever possible the same living link must be created between the factory workers and the peasantry. This link can only be a personal one. While observing the utmost circumspection, the best or most advanced peasants of each village, each county, and each district must get to know their counterparts in every other village, county, and district.

The first task is to convince these forward-looking individuals, and through them, if not all the people then at least a sizable segment of them, the most energetic segment, that the people as a whole, all the villages, counties, and districts throughout Russia, and outside of Hussia as well, suffer from a common misfortune and therefore have a common cause. They must be convinced that an invincible force lives in the people which nothing and no one can withstand; and that if this force has not yet emancipated the people it is because it is powerful only when unified and acting everywhere at the same time, in concert, with one aim, and until now it has not been unified. In order to unify it the villages, counties, and districts must be linked together and organized according to a common plan and with the single goal of liberating the entire people. In order to create in our people a feeling and consciousness of real unity, some kind of popular newspaper must be started-printed, lithographed, handwritten, or even oral-that would immediately publicize throughout Russia every local popular uprising, of peasants or of factory workers, breaking out now in one place, now in another, as well as the major revolutionary movements of the West European proletariat. Then our peasant and our worker would no longer feel himself to be alone but would know that behind him, laboring under the same yoke but with the same passion and will to liberate itself, stands a vast, innumerable world of laboring masses preparing a universal explosion.

That is the task and, frankly speaking, the sole object of revolutionary propaganda. It is inconvenient to put in writing just how this object is to be achieved by our young people.

Let us say one thing only: the Russian people will acknowledge our educated youth as their own only when they see them taking part in their lives, their misfortunes, their cause, and their desperate revolt. From now on the youth must be present not as witnesses but as activists who arc ready to sacrifice themselves and participate in all popular disturbances and uprisings, big ones and small ones, wherever and whenever they break out. By acting according to a rigorously conceived and prescribed plan, and subjecting all their actions to the strictest discipline in order to create the unanimity without which victory is impossible, they must learn for themselves and must teach the people not only how to resist desperately but how to attack boldly.

In conclusion let us say one word more. The class which we call our intellectual proletariat and which in Russia is already in a social-revolutionary situation, a situation that is simply desperate and impossible, must now become imbued with conscious passion for the social-revolutionary cause if it does not want to perish shamefully and futilely. This is the class that today is called upon to prepare, that is, to organize the popular revolution. It has no alternative. To bl’ sure, it could try to use the education it has received to win a more or less advantageous place for itself in the already overcrowded and extremely inhospitable ranks of the robbers, exploiters, and oppressors of the people. But such places are becoming fewer and fewer, accessible only to a very small minority. Tbe majority will be lPft only with the shame of treason and will die in want, mediocrity, and baseness. We are addressing ourselves, however, only to those for whom treason is unthinkable and impossible.

Once they have irrevocably broken all their ties with the world of the exploiters, destroyers, and enemies of the Russian people, they must consider themsdves a precious capital that belongs exclusively to the cause of the people’s liberation, a capital that must be expended only on popular propaganda and on gradually arousing and organizing a universal uprising.

*** The Conquest of Bread

Peter Kropotkin: Anarchist Communism

Peter Kropotkin (1842–1921) came from a social background similar to Bakunin’s. He was born into a titled Russian noble family-he was Prince Kropotkin until he renounced his aristocratic privi- leges-and like Bakunin he was expected to follow a military career in the tsarist army. He too rejected the life of an officer in order to pursue his intellectual interests, in his case geography and geology, and ultimately joined the Russian revolutionary movement and embraced anarchism.

There the resemblance ends. Although Kropotkin was actually more militant in his early revolutionary days than he indicated in his memoirs, the brand of anarchism he later developed was as restrained, pragmatic, and constructive as Bakunin’s was untamed and destructive. At its heartwas the concept of mutual aid, which Kropotkin elaborated in a book of that title. In opposition to some of the social concepts drawn from Darwinian theory, Kropotkin argued that within species mutual aid and cooperation had been a more decisive factor in evolution than the struggle for survival. This concept underlay his image of the anarchist society. Extending a theory of social labor that Proudhon had voiced earlier, Kropotkin advocated anarchist communism: all labor is social labor, for all the producers in a society are so mutually interdependent that it is impossible to measure the contribution of any particular individual. Therefore all have an equal claim to the goods of society, and each should be rewarded according lo his needs rather than according to his work.

As a scientist himself, Kropotkin placed a high value on scientific validation of his social theories, and he took great pains to demonstrate that anarchism was not a utopian dream but a natural and logical outgrowth of prevailing economic and institutional trends. His view of human nature, however, was less a product of scientific investigation than of moral faith in the reasonableness of human beings. Although he was not totally opposed to revolutionary acts of violence where they seemed necessary, his image of the anarchist revolution was that of an organic process, a constructive and more or less peaceful displacement of the old system of social production and distribution by the new. This same optimism led him to rely exclusively on the power of public opinion as the social cement of the anarchist society, overlooking the threat that unrestricted community pressure might pose to individual creativity and self-development.

Despite the weaknesses of Kropotkin’s anarchist theory, some of its features have shown remarkable durability. His plea for a human environment combining the benefits of both urban and rural life; his strong sense of communal solidarity and cooperation; and his appreciation of the immense productivity of modern technology as the basis for a communism of abundance remain of relevance to the postindustrial world and continue to inspire social critics today.

*The Conquest* of *Bread* contains the most detailed description of anarchist communism as Kropotkin conceived it. Originating as a series of newspaper articles, it was published in book form in 1892 as *La Conquete du pain.* The translation was published in London in 1906 by Chapman and Hall, Ltd.; used here is ...*New and Cheaper Edition* of 1913, pages 1–15, 32–46, 69–87, 102–10, 201–7. Kropotkin was a prolific writer and many of his works are available in English. The most important of them for his anarchist philosophy are *Fields, Faclories and Workshops* (London, 1899); *Mulual Aid, a Factor of Evolution* (London, 1902); and *Modern Science and Anarchism* (London, 1912). Also available are three anthologies of his writings, *Kropotkin’s Revolutionary Pamphlets,* ed. Roger Nash Baldwin (New York, 1927); *Kropotkin: Selections from His Writings,* ed. Herbert Read (London, 1942); and *Selected Writings on Anarchism and Revolution: P. A. Kropotkin,* ed. Martin A. Miller (Cambridge, Mass., and London, 1970).

**** I

The human race has travelled a long way, since those remote ages when men fashioned their rude implements of Hint and lived on thl’ precarious spoils of hunting, leaving to their children for their only heritage a shelter beneath the rocks, some poor utensils-and Nature, vast, unknown, and terrific, with whom they had to fight for their wretched existence.

During the long succession of agitated ages which have elapsed since, mankind has neverthdess amassed untold treasures. It has cleared the land, dried the marshes, hewn down forests, made roads, pierced mountains; it has been building, inventing, observing, reasoning; it has created a complex machinery, wrested her sccrl’ts from Nature, and finally it pressed steam and electricity into its service. And tlw result is, that now the child of the civilized man finds at its birth, ready for its use, an immense capital accumulated by those who have gone before him. And this capital enables man to acquire, merdy by his own labour combined with the labour of others, riches surpassing the dreams of the fairy talcs of the Thousand and One Nights.

The soil is cleared to a great extent, fit for the reception of the best seeds, ready to give a rich return for the skill and labour spent upon it-a return more than sufficient for all the wants of humanity. The methods of rational cultivation are known.

On the wide prairies of America each hundred men, with the aid of powerful machinery, can produce in a few months enough wheat to maintain **Im** thousand people for a whole year. And where man wishes to double his produce, to treble it, to multiply it a hundred-fold, he *makes* the soil, gives to each plant the requisite care, and thus obtains enormous returns. While the hunter of old had to scour fifty or sixty square miles to find food for his family, the civilized man supports his household, with far less pains, and far more certainty, on a thousandth part of that space. Climate is no longer an obstacle. When the sun fails, man replaces it by artificial heat; and we sec the coming of a time when artificial light also will be used to stimulate vegetation. Meanwhile, by the use of glass and hot water pipes, man renders a given space ten and fifty times more productive than it was in its natural state.

The prodigies accomplished in industry are still more striking. With the co-operation of those intelligent beings; modern machincs--thcmselves the fruit of three or four generations of inventors, mostly unknown-a hundred men manufacture now the stuff to provide ten thousand persons with clothing for two years. In well-managed coal mines the labour of a hundred miners furnishes each year enough fuel to warm ten thousand families under an inclement sky. And we have lately witnessed the spectacle of wonderful cities springing up in a few months for international exhibitions, without interrupting in the slightest degrl’e the rPgular work of the nations.

And if in manufactures as in agriculture, and as indeed through our whole social system, the labour, the discoveries, and the inventions of our ancestors profit chiefly the few, it is none the less certain that mankind in general, aided by the creatures of steel and iron which it already possesses, could already procure an existence of wealth and ease for every one of its members.

Truly, we arc rich-far richer than we think; rich in what “”’ alrl’ady possl’sS, riclwr still in thl’ possibilities of production of our actual mechanical outfit; richest of all in what we might win from our soil, from our manufactures, from our scil’nCl’, from our technical knowledge, Wl’rc they but applil’d to bringing about the well-being of all.

In our civilized societies we arc rich. Why then are the many poor? Why this painful drudgery for the masses? Why, evl’n to the best paid workman, this uncertainty for thl’ morrow, in the midst of all the wealth inherited from the past, and in spite of the powerful means of production, which could ensure comfort to all, in rl’turn for a few hours of daily toil?

The Socialists haVl’ said it and rcpeated it unwcary- ingly. Daily they reiterate it, demonstrating it by arguments taken from all thl’ sciences. It is because all that is necessary for production-the land, the mines, the highways, machi1wry, food, shelter, l’ducation, knowledg,^all haVl’ bl’en seized by the few in till’ course of that long story of robbery, cnforcl’d migration and wars, of igno- rancl’ and oppression, which has been the lifr of till’ human race before it had learned to subdue the forces of Nature. It is because, taking advantage of alleg<·d rights acquired in till’ past, these few appropriate to-day two- thirds of the products of human labour, and then squander them in the most stupid and shameful way. It is because, having reduced the masses to a point at which they have not the means of subsistence for a month, or even for a week in advance, the few can allow the many to work, only on ‘ the condition of themselvl’s receiving the lion’s sharl’. It is hl’cause these few prevent the remainder of men from producing the things they need, and force them to produce, not the necessaries of life for all, but whatever offers the greatest profits to the monopolists. In this is the substance of all Socialism.

Take, indeed, a civilized country. The forests which once covered it have been cleared, the marshes drained, the climate improved. It has been made habitable. The soil, which bore formerly only a coarse vegetation, is covered to-day with rich harvests. The rock-walls in the valleys are laid out in terraces and covered with vines. The wild plants, which yielded nought but acrid berries, or uneatable roots, have been transformed by generations of culture into succulent vegetables or trees covered with delicious fruits. Thousands of highways and railroads furrow the earth, and pierce the mountains. The shriek of the engine is heard in the wild gorges of the Alps, the Caucasus, and the Himalayas. The rivers have been made navigable; .the coasts, carefully surveyed, are easy of access; artificial harbours, laboriously dug out and protected against the fury of the sea, afford shelter to the ships. Deep shafts have been sunk in the rocks; labyrinths of underground galleries have been dug out where coal may be raised or minerals extracted. At the crossings of the highways great cities have sprung up, and within their borders all the treasures of industry, science, and art have been accumulated.

Whole generations, that lived and died in misery, oppressed and ill-treated by their masters, and worn out by toil, have handed on this immense inheritance to our century.

For thousands of years millions of men have laboured to clear the forests, to drain the marshes, and to open up highways by land and water. Every rood of soil we cultivate in Europe has been watered by the sweat of several races of men. Every acre has its story of enforced labour, of intolerable toil, of the people’s sufferings. Every mile of railway, every yard of tunnel, has received its share of human blood.

The shafts of the mine still bear on their rocky walls the marks made by the pick of the workman who toiled to excavate them. The space between each prop in the underground galleries might be marked as a miner’s grave; and who can tell what each of these graves has cost, in tears, in privations, in unspeakable wretchedness to the family who depended on the scanty wage of the worker cut off in his prime by fire-damp, rock-fall, or Hood?

The cities, bound together by railroads and waterways, are organisms which have lived through centuries. Dig beneath them and you find one above another, the foundations of streets, of houses, of theatres, of public buildings. Search into their history and you will see how the civilization of the town, its industry, its special characteristics, have slowly grown and ripened through the co-operation of generations of its inhabitants before it could become what it is to-day. And even to-day, the value of f’ach dwelling, factory, and warehouse, which has been created by the accumulated labour of the millions of workers, now dead and buried, is only maintained by the very presence and labour of legions of the men who now inhabit that special corner of the globe. Each of the atoms composing what we call the Wealth of Nations owes its value to the fact that it is a part of the greht whole. What would a London dockyard or a great Paris warehouse be if they were not situated in these great centres of international commerce? What would become of our mines, our factories, our workshops, and our railways, without the immense quantities of merchandise transported every day by sea and land?

Millions of human beings have laboured to create this civilisation on which we pride ourselves to-day. Other millions, scattered through the globe, labour to maintain it. Without them nothing would be left in fifty years but ruins.

There is not even a thought, or an invention, which is not common property, born of the past and the present. Thousands of inventors, known and unknown, who have died in poverty, have co-operated in the invention of each of these machines which embody the genius of man.

Thousands of writers, of poets, of scholars, have laboured to increase knowledge, to dissipate error, and to create that atmosphere of scientific thought, without which the marvels of our century could never have appeared. And these thousands of philosophers, of poets, of scholars, of inventors, have themselves been supported by the labour of past centuries. They have been upheld and nourished through life, both physically and mentally, by legions of workers and craftsmen of all sorts. They have drawn their motive force from the environment.

The genius of a Seguin, a Mayer, a Grove, has certainly done more to launch industry in new directions than all the capitalists in the world. But men of genius are themselves the children of industry as well as of science. Not until thousands of steam-engines had been working for years before all eyes, constantly transforming heat into dynamic force, and this force into sound, light, and electricity, could the insight of genius proclaim the mechanical origin and the unity of the physical forces. And if we, children of the nineteenth century, have at last graspNI this idea, if we know now how to apply it, it is again because daily experience has prepared the way. The thinkers of the eighteenth century saw and declared it, but the idea remained undevdopcd, because the eighteenth century had not grown up like ours, side by side with the steam-engine. Imagine the decades that might have passed while we remained in ignorance of this law, which has revolutionized modern industry, had Watt not found at Soho skilled workmen to embod<sub>·</sub>v his ideas in metal, bringing all the parts of his engine to perfection, so that steam, pent in a complete mechanism, and n·n- dcred more docile than a horSl’, more manageable than water, became at last the very soul of modern industry.

Every machine has had the same history-a long record of sleepless nights and of poverty, of disillusions and of joys, of partial improvements discovered by several generations of nameless worh•rs, who have added to the original invention these little nothings, without which the most fertile idm would remain fruitless. More than that: every new inVl•ntion is a synthesis, the resultant of innumerable inventions which have preceded it in the vast field of mechanics and industry.

Science and industry, knowledge and application, dis- coveryand practical realization leading to new discoveries, cunning of brain and of hand, toil of mind and musclc- all work together. Each discovery, each advance, each increase in the sum of human riches, owes its being to the physical and mental travail of the past and the present.

By what right then can any one whatever appropriate the least morsel of this immense whole and say-This is mine, not yours?

It has come about, however, in the course of the ages traversed by the human race, that all that enables man to produce and to increase his power of production has been seized by the few. Some time, perhaps, we will relate how this came to pass. For the present let it suffice to state the fact and analyse its consequences.

To-day the soil, which actually owes its value to the needs of an ever-increasing population, belongs to a minority who prevent the people from cultivating it-or do not allow them to cultivate it according to modern methods.

The mines, though they represent the labour of several generations, and derive their sole value from the requirements of the industry of a nation and the density of the population-the mines also belong to the few; and these few restrict the output of coal, or prevent it entirely, if they find more profitable investments for their capital. Machinery, too, has become the exclusive property of the few, and even when a machine incontestably represents the improvements added to the original rough invention by three or four generations of workers, it none the less belongs to a few owners. And if the descendants of the very inventor who constructed the first machine for lacemaking, a century ago, were to present themselves to-day in a lace factory at Bale or Nottingham, and claim their rights, they would be told: “Hands off! this machine is not yours,” and they would be shot down if they attempted to take possession of it.

The railways, which would be useless as so much old iron without the teeming population of Europe, its industry, its commerce, and its marts, belong to a few shareholders, ignorant perhaps of the whereabouts of the lines of rails which yield them revenues greater than those of medieval kings. And if the children of those who perished by thousands while excavating the railway cuttings and tunnels were to assemble one day, crowding in their rags and hunger, to demand bread from the shareholders, they would bl’ met with bayonets and grapeshot, to disperse them and safeguard “vested interests.”

In virtue of this monstrous syslem, the son of the worker, on entering life, finds no field which he may till, no machine which he may tend, no mine in which he may dig, without accepting to leave a great part of what he will produce to a master. He must sell his labour for a scant and uncertain wage. His father and his grandfather have toiled to drain this field to build this mill, to perft’ct this machine. They gave to the work the full measure of their strength, and what more could they give? But their heir comes into the world poorer than the lowest savage. If he obtains leave to till the fields, it is on condition of surrendering a quarter of the produce to his master, and another quarter to the government and tht’ middlemen. And this tax, levied upon him by the State, the capitalist, the lord of the manor, and the middleman, is always increasing; it rarely leaves him the power to improve his system of culture. If he turns to industry, he is allowed to work-though not always even that--0nly on condition that he yield a half or two-thirds of the product to him whom the land recognises as the owner of the machine.

We cry shame on the feudal barons who forbade the peasant to turn a clod of earth unless he surrendered to his lord a fourth of his crop. We called those the barbarous times. But if the forms have changed, the relations have remained the same, and the worker is forced, under the name of free contract, to accept feudal obligations. For, turn where he will, he can find no bettl’r conditions. Everything has become private property, and he must accept, or die of hunger.

The result of this stall’ of things is that all our production tends in a wrong direction. Entefprist’ takes no thought for the needs of the community. Its only aim is to increase the gains of the speculator. Hence the constant fluctuations of trade, the periodical industrial crises, each of which throws scores of thousands of workers on the streets.

The working people cannot purchase with their wages the wealth which they have produced, and industry seeks foreign markets among the monied classes of other nations. In the East, in Africa, everywhere, in Egypt, Tonkin or the Congo, the European is thus bound to promote the growth of serfdom. And so he does. But soon he finds that everywhere there arc similar competitors. All the nations evolve on the same lines, and wars, perpetual wars, break out for the right of precedence in the market. Wars for the possession of the East, wars for the empire of the sea, wars to impose duties on imports and to dictate conditions to neighbouring states; wars against those “blacks” who revolt! The roar of the cannon never ceases in the world, whole races arc massacred, the states of Europe spend a third of their budgets in armaments; and we know how heavily these taxes fall on the workers.

Education still remains the privilege of a small minority, for it is idle to talk of education when the workman’s child is forced, at the age of thirteen, to go down into the mine or to help his father on the farm. It is idle to talk of studying to the worker, who comes home in the evening wearied by excessive toil, and its brutalizing atmosphere. Society is thus bound to remain divided into two hostile camps, and in such conditions freedom is a vain word. The Radical begins by demanding a greater extension of political rights, but he soon secs that the breath of liberty leads to the uplifting of the proletariat, and then he turns round, changes his opinions, and reverts to repressive legislation and government by the sword.

A vast array of courts, judges, executioners, policemen, and gaolers is needed to uphold these privileges; and this array gives rise in its turn to a whole system of espionage, of false witness, of spies, of threats and corruption.

The system under which we live checks in its turn the growth of the social sentiment. We all know that without uprightness, without self-respect, without sympathy and mutual aid, human kind must perish, as perish the few races of animals living by rapine, or the slave-keeping ants. But such ideas arc not to the taste of the ruling classes, and they have elaborated a whole system of pseudo-science to teach the contrary.

Fine sermons have been preached on the text that those who have should share with those who have not, but he who would carry out this principle would be speedily informed that these beautiful sentiments are all very well in poetry, but not in practice. “To lie is to degrade and besmirch oneself,” we say, and yet all civilized life becomes one huge lie. \‘Ve accustom ourselves and our children to hypocrisy, to the practice of a double-faced morality. And since the brain is ill at ease among lies, we chC’at ourselves with sophistry. Hypocrisy and sophistry become the second nature of the civilized man.

But a society cannot live thus; it must return to truth, or cease to exist.

Thus the consequences which spring from the original act of monopoly spread through the whole of social life. Under pain of death, human societies are forced to return to first principles: the means of production being the collective work of humanity, the product should be the collective property of the race. Individual appropriation is neither just nor serviceable. All belongs to all. All things are for all men, since all men have need of them, since all men have worked in the measure of their strength to produce them, and since it is not possible to evaluate every one’s part in the production of the world’s wealth.

All things for all. Here is an immense stock of tools and implements; here arc all those iron slaves which we call machines, which saw and plane, spin and weave for us, unmaking and remaking, working up raw matter to produce the marvels of our time. But nobody has the right to seize a single one of these machines and say: “This is mine; if you want to use it you must pay me a tax on each of your products,” any more than the feudal lord of medieval times had the right to say to the peasant: “This hill, this meadow belong to me, and you must pay me a tax on every sheaf of corn you reap, on every rick you build.”

All **is** for all! If the man and the woman bear their fair share of work, they have a right to their fair share of all that is produced by all, and that share is enough to secure them well-being. No more of such vague formulas as “The right to work,” or “To each the whole result of his labour.” What we proclaim is THE RIGHT TO WELL-BEING: WELL-Bt:ING FOii ALLI

**** II

Every society, on abolishing private property will be forced, we maintain, to organize itself on the lines of Communistic Anarchy. Anarchy IPads to Communism, and Communism to Anarchy, both alike being expressions of the predominant tendency in modern societies, the pursuit of equality.

Time was when a peasant family could consider the corn it sowed and reaped, or the woollen garments woven in the cottage, as the products of its own soil. But even then this way of looking at things was not quite correct. There were the roads and the bridges made in common, the swamps drained by common toil, the communal pastures enclosed by hedges which were kept in repair by each and all. If the looms for weaving or the dyes for colouring fabrics were improved by somebody, all profited; and even in those days a peasant family could not live alone, but was dependent in a thousand ways on the village or the commune.

But nowadays, in the present state of industry, when everything is interdependent, when each branch of production is knit up with all the rest, the attempt to claim an Individualist origin for the products of industry is absolutdy untenable. The astonishing perfection attained hy thl’ tl’xtill’ or mini11g industries in civilized countries is dm• to tlw simultaneous development of a thousand other industries, great and small, to the extension of the railroad system, to inter-oceanic navigation, to the manual skill of thousands of workers, to a certain standard of culture reached by the working classes as a whok^to the labours, in short, of men in every corner of the globe.

The Italians who died of cholera while making the Suez Canal, or of anchylosis in the St. Gothard Tunnel, and the Americans mowed down by shot and shell while fighting for the abolition of slavery, have helped to develop the cotton industry in France and England, as well as the work-girls who languish in the factories of Manchester and Rouen, and the inventor who ( following the suggestion of some worker) succeeds in improving the looms.

How, then, shall we estimate the share of each in the riches which ALL contribute to amass?

Looking at production from this general, synthetic point of view, we cannot hold with the Collectivists that payment proportionate to the hours of labour rendered by each would be an ideal arrangement, or even a step in the right direction.

Without discussing whether exchange value of goods is really measured in existing societies by the amount of work necessary to produce it-according to the teaching of Adam Smith and Ricardo, in whose footsteps Marx has followed-suffice it to say here, leaving ourselves free to return to the subject later, that the Collectivist ideal appears to us untenable in a society which considers the instruments of labour as a common inheritance. Starting from this principle, such a society would find itself forced from the very outset to abandon all forms of wages.

The mitigated individualism of the Collectivist system certainly could not maintain itself alongside a partial communism-the socialization of land and the instruments of production. A new forrn of property requires a new form of remuneration. A new method of production cannot l’Xist sicle by sicle with the olcl forms of consumption, any more than it can adapt itself to the old forms of political organization.

The wage system arises out of the incliviclual ownership of the land and the instruments of labour. It was the necessary condition for the development of capitalist production, and will perish with it, in spite of the attempt to disguise it as “profit-sharing.” The common possession of the instruments of labour must necessarily bring with it the enjoyment in common of the fruits of common labour.

We hold further that Communism is not only desirable, but that existing societies, founded on Individualism, *are inevitably impellRd in the direction of Communism.* The development of Individualism during the last three centuries is explained by the efforts of the individual to protect himself from the tyranny of Capital and of the State. For a time he imagined, and those who expressed his thought for him declared, that he could free• himself entirely from the State and from society. “By means of money,” he said, “I can buy all that I need.” But the individual was on a wrong track, and modern history has taught him to recognize that, without the help of all, he can do nothing, although his strong-boxes are full of gold.

In fact, along this current of Individualism, we find in all modem history a tendency, on the one hand to retain all that remains of the partial Communism of antiquity, and, on the other, to establish the Communist principle in the thousand developments of modern life.

As soon as the communes of the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth centuries had succeeded in emancipating themselves from their lords, ecclesiastical or lay, their communal labour and communal consumption began to extend and develop rapidly. The township-and not private persons-freighted ships and equipped expeditions, for the export of their manufacture, and the benefit arising from the foreign trade did not accrue to individuals, but was shared by all. At the outset, the townships also bought provisions for all their citizens. Traces of these institutions have lingered on into the nineteenth century, and the people piously cherish the memory of them in their legends.

All that has disappeared. But the rural township still struggles to preserve the last traces of this Communism, and it succeeds-except when the State throws its heavy sword into the balance.

Meanwhile new organizations, based on the same prin- ci<em>p</em>l<em>e-to every man according to his needs-</em>spring up under a thousand different forms; for without a certain leaven of Communism the present societies could not exist. In spite of the narrowly egoistic tum given to men’s minds by the commercial system, the tendency towards Communism is constantly appearing, and it influences our activities in a variety of ways.

The bridges, for the use of which a toll was levied in the old days, have become public property and are free to all; so are the high roads, except in the East, where a toll is still exacted from the traveller for every mile of his journey. Museums, free libraries, free schools, free meals for children; parks and gardens open to all; streets paved and lighted, free to all; water supplied to every house without measure or stint-a11 such arrangements are founded on the principle: “Take what you need.”

The tramways and railways have already introduced monthly and annual season tickets, without limiting the number of journeys taken; and two nations, Hungary and Russia, have introduced on their railways the zone system, which permits the holder to travel live hundred or eight hundred miles for the same price. It is but a short step from that to a uniform charge, such as already prevails in the postal service. In all these innovations, and in a thousand others, the tendency is not to measure the individua] consumption. One man wants to travd eight hundred miles, another live hundred. These are personal requirements. There is no sufficient reason why one should pay twice as much as the other because his need is twice as great. Such are the signs which appear even now in our individualist societies.

Moreover, tlll’re is a tendency, though still a fr<·ble one. to consider the needs of the individual, irrespective of his past or possible services to the community. We arc beginning to think of society as a whole, each part of which is so intimately bound up with the others that a service rendered to one is a service rendered to all.

When you go into a public library-not indeed the National Library of Paris, but, say, into the British Museum or the Berlin Library-the librarian docs not ask what services you have rendered to society before giving you the book, or the fifty books, which you require; he even comes to your assistance if you do not know how to manage the catalogue. By means of uniform credentials — and very often a contribution of work is preferred — the scientific society opens its museums, its gardens, its librarv, its laboratories, and its annual conversaziones to each of its members, whether he be a Darwin, or a simple amateur.

At St. Petersburg, if you are elaborating an invention, you go into a special laboratory, where you are given a place, a carpenter’s bench, a turning lathe, all the necessary tools and scientific instruments, provided only you know how to use them; and you are allowed to work there as long as you please. There are the tools; interest others in your idea; join with fellow workers skilled in various crafts, or work alone if you prefer it. Invent a flying machine, or invent nothing-that is your own affair. You are pursuing an idea-that is enough.

In the same way, those who man the lifeboat do not ask credentials from the crew of a sinking ship; they launch their boat, risk their lives in the raging waves, and sometimes perish, all to save men whom they do not even know. And what need to know them? “They are human beings, and they need our aid-that is enough, that establishes their right-- To the rescue!”

Thus we find a tendency, eminently communistic, springing up on all sides, and in various guises, in the very heart of theoretically individualist societies.

Suppose that one of our great cities, so egotistic in ordinary times, were visited tomorrow by some calamity -a siege, for instance-that same selfish city would decide that the first needs to satisfy were those of the children and the aged. Without asking what services they have rendered, or were likely to render to society, it would first of all feed them. Then the combatants would be cared for, irrespective of the courage or the intelligence which each had displayed, and thousands of men and women would outvie each other in unselfish devotion to the wounded.

This tendency exists, and is felt as soon as the most pressing needs of each are satisfied, and in proportion as the productive power of the race increases. It becomes an active force every time a great idea comes to oust the mean preoccupations of everyday life.

How can we doubt, then, that when the instruments of production are placed at the service of all, when business is conducted on Communist principles, when labour, having recovered its place of honour in society, produces much more than is necessary to all-how can we doubt that this force ( already so powerful ), will enlarge its sphere of action till it becomes the ruling principle of social life?

Following these indications, and considering further the practical side of expropriation, of which we shall speak in the following chapters, we are convinced that our first obligation, when the revolution shall have broken the power upholding the present system, will be to realize Communism without delay.

But ours is neither the Communism of Fourier and the Phalansteriens, nor of the German State Socialists. It is Anarchist Communism, Communism without government — the Communism of the Free. It is the synthesis of the two ideals pursued by humanity throughout the ages — Economic and Political Liberty.

In taking “Anarchy” for our ideal of political organization we are only giving expression to another marked tendency of human progress. Whenever European societies have developed up to a certain point, they have shaken off the yoke of authority and substituted a system founded more or less on the principles of individual liberty. And history shows us that these periods of partial or general revolution, when the old governments were overthrown, were also periods of sudden progress both in the economic and the intellectual field. So it was after the enfranchisement of the communes, whose monuments, produced by the free labour of the guilds, have never been surpassed; so it was after the great peasant uprising which brought about the Heformation and imperilled the papacy; and so it was again with the society, free for a brief space, which was created on the other side of the Atlantic by the malcontents from the Old World.

And, if we observe the present development of civilized nations, we see, most unmistakably, a movement ever more and more marked tending to limit the sphere of action of the GovernnH’nt, and to allow more and more liberty to the individual. This evolution is going on before our eyes, though cumbered by the ruins and rubbish of old institutions and old superstitions. Like all evolutions, it only waits a revolution to overthrow the old obstacles which block the way, that it may find free scope in a regenerated society.

After having striven long in vain to solve the insoluble problem-the problem of constructing a government “which will constrain the individual to obedience without itself ceasing to be the servant of society,” men at last attempt to free themselves from every form of government and to satisfy their need for organization by free contracts between individuals and groups pursuing the same aim. The independence of each small territorial unit becomes a pressing need; mutual agreement replaces law in order to regulate individual interests in view of a common object-very often disregarding the frontiers of the present States.

All that was once looked on as a function of the Government is to-day called in question. Things arc arranged more easily and more satisfactorily without the intervention of the State. And in studying the progress made in this direction, we arc led to conclude that the tendency of the human race is to reduce Government interference to zero; in fact, to abolish the State, the personification of injustice, oppression, and monopoly.

We can already catch glimpses of a world in which the bonds which bind the individual arc no longer laws, but social habits-the result of the need felt by each one of us to seek the support, the co-operation, the sympathy of his neighbours.

Assuredly the idea of a society without a State will give rise to at least as many objections as the political economy of a society without private capital. We have all been brought up from our childhood to regard the State as a sort of Providence; all our education, the Roman history we learned at school, the Byzantine code which we studied later under the name of Roman law, and the various sciences taught at the universities, accustom us to believe in Government and in tbc virtues of the State providential.

To maintain this superstition whole systems of philosophy have been elaborated and taught; all politics are based on this principle; and each politician, whatever his colours, comes forward and says to the people, “Give my party the power; we can and we will free you from tbe miseries which press so heavily upon you.”

From the cradle to the grave all our actions are guided by this principle. Open any book on sociology or jurisprudence, and you will find there the Government, its organization, its acts, filling so large a place that we come to believe that there is nothing outside the Government and the world of statesmen.

The Press teaches us the same in every conceivable way. \\/hole columns arc devoted to parliamentary debates and to political intrigues; while the vast everyday life of a nation appears only in the columns given to economic subjects, or in the pages devoted to reports of police and law cases. And when you read the newspapers, you hardly think of the incalculable number of beings-all humanity, so to say-who grow up and die, who know sorrow, who work and consume, think and create outside the few encumbering personages who have been so magnified that humanity is hidden by their shadows, enlarged by our ignorance.

And yet as soon as we pass from printed matter to life itself, as soon as we throw a glance at society, we are struck by the infinitesimal part played by the Government. Balzac already remarked how millions of peasants spend the whole of their lives without knowing anything about the State, save the heavy taxes they are compelled to pay. Every day millions of transactions are made without Government intervention, and the greatest of them — those of commerce and of the Exchange — are carried on in such a way that the Government could not be appealed to if one of tlw contracting parties had the intention of not fulfilling his agreement. Should you speak to a man who understands commerce, he will tell you that the everyday business transacted by merchants would be absolutdy impossible were it not based on mutual confidence. The habit of keeping his word, the desire not to lose his credit, amply suffice to maintain this relative honesty. The man who docs not feel the slightest remorse when poisoning his customers with noxious drugs covered with pompous labels, thin ks he is in honour bound to keep his engagements. But if this relative morality has ckVl•loped under present conditions, when enrichment is thl’ only incentive and the only aim, can we doubt its rapid progress when appropriation of the fruits of others’ labour will no longer be the basis of society?

Another striking fact, which especially characterizes our generation, speaks still more in favour of our ideas. It is the continual extension of the field of enterprise due to private initiative, and the prodigious development of free organizations of all kinds. We shall discuss this more at length in the chapter devoted to *Free Agreement.* Suffice it to mention that the facts arc so numerous and so customary that they arc the essence of the second half of the ninetecnth century, even though political and socialist writers ignore them, always preferring to talk to us about the functions of the Governml’nt.

Thcsl’ organizations, frl’e and infinitely varied, are so natural an outcome of our civilization; they expand so rapidly and federate with so much ease; they are so necessary a result of the continual growth of the needs of civilized man; and lastly, they so advantageously replace governmental interference, that we must recognize in them a factor of growing importance in the life of societies. If they do not yet spread over the whole of the manifestations of life, it is that they find an insurmountable obstacle in the poverty of the worker, in the divisions of present society, in the private appropriation of capital, and in the State. Abolish these obstacles, and you will see them covering the immense field of civilized man’s activity.

The history of the last fifty years furnishes a living proof that Representative Government is impotent to discharge all the functions we have sought to assign to it. In days to come the nineteenth century will be quoted as having witnessed the failure of parliamentarianism.

This impotence is becoming so evident to all; the faults of parliamentarianism, and the inherent vices of the representative principle, are so self-evident, that the few thinkers who have made a critical study of them (J. S. Mill, Leverdays ), did but give literary form to the popular dissatisfaction. It is not difficult, indeed, to see the absurdity of naming a few men and saying to them, “Make laws regulating all our spheres of activity, although not one of you knows anything about them!”

We are beginning to see that government by majorities means abandoning all the affairs of the country to the tide-waiters who make up the majorities in the House and in election committees; to those, in a word, who have no opinion of their own.

Mankind is seeking and already finding new issues. The International Postal Union, the railway unions, and the learned societies give us examples of solutions based on free agn•ement in place and stead of law.

Today. when groups scattered far and wid1· wish to organize themselves for some object or other, they no longer elect an international parliament of Jacks-of-all- trades. They proceed in a different way. Where it is not possible to meet directly or come to an agreement by correspondence, delegates versed in the question at issue are sent, and they are told: “Endeavour to come to an agreement on such or such a question, and then return, not with a law in your pocket, but with a proposition of agreement which we may or may not accept.”

Such is the method of the great industrial companies, the learned societies, and numerous associations of every description, which already cover Europe and the United States. And such will be the method of a free society. A society founded on serfdom is in keeping with absolute monarchy; a society based on the wage system and the exploitation of the masses by the capitalists finds its political expression in parliamentarianism. But a free society, regaining possession of the common inheritance, must seek, in free groups and free federations of groups, a new organization, in harmony with the new economic phase of history.

Every economic phase has a political phase corresponding to it, and it would be impossible to touch private property unless a new mode of political life be found at the same time ...

**** III

That we are Utopians is well known. So Utopian are we that we go the length of believing that the Revolution can and ought to assure shelter, food, and clothes to all -an idea extremely displeasing to middle-class citizens, whatever their party colour, for they are quite alive to the fact that it is not easy to keep the upper hand of a people whose hunger is satisfied.

All the same, we maintain our contention: bread must be found for the people of the Revolution, and the question of bread must take precedence of all other questions. If it is settled in the interests of the people, the Revolution will be on the right road; for in solving the question of Bread we must accept the principle of equality, which will force itself upon us to the exclusion of every other solution.

It is certain that the coming Hevolution-like in that respect to the Revolution of 1848-will hurst upon us in the middle of a great industrial crisis. Things have been seething for half a century now, and can only go from bad to worse. Everything tends that way-new nations entering the lists of international trade and fighting for possession of the world’s markets, wars, taxes ever increasing. National debts, the insecurity of the morrow, and huge colonial undertakings in every comer of the globe.

There are millions of unemployed workers in Europe at this moment. It will be still worse when Revolution has burst upon us and spread like fire laid to a train of gunpowder. The number of the out-of-works will be doubled as soon as barricades are erected in Europe and the United States. What is to be done to provide these multitudes with bread?

We do not know whether the folk who call themselves “practical people” have ever asked themselves this question in all its nakedness. But we do know that they wish to maintain the wage system, and we must therefore expect to have “national workshops” and “public works” vaunted as a means of giving food to the unemployed.

Because national workshops were opened in 1789 and 1793; because the same means were resorted to in 1848; because Napoleon III. succeeded in contenting till’ Parisian proletariat for eighteen years by giving them public works-which cost Paris to-day its debt of £80,00 ,00 , and its municipal tax of three or four pounds a-head; 0 because this excellent method of “taming the beast” was customary in Rome, and even in Egypt four thousand years ago; and lastly, because despots, kings, and emperors have always employed the ruse of throwing a scrap of food to the people to gain time to snatch up the whip-it is natural that “practical” men should extol this method of perpetuating the wage system. What need to rack our brains when we have the time-honoured method of the Pharaohs at our disposal?

Yet should the Hcvolution be so misguided as to start on this path, it would be lost.

In 1848, when the national workshops were opened on February 27, the unemployed of Paris numbered only 8,000; a fortnight later they had already increased to 49,000. They would soon have been 100,00 , without counting those who crowded in from the provinces.

Yet at that time trade and manufacturers in France employed half as many hands as to-day. And we know that in time of RPvolution exchange and industry suffer most from the genrcal upheaval. We have only to think, indeed, of the number of workmen whose labour depends directly or indirectly upon export trade, or of the number of hands employed in producing luxuries, whose consumers are the middle-class minority.

{1} The municipal debt of Paris amounted in 1904 to 2,266,579,100 francs, and the charµ;es for it were 121,000,000 fran<:s.

A revolution in Europe means, then, the unavoidable stoppage of at least half the factories and workshops. It means millions of workers and their families thrown on the streets. And our “practical men” would seek to avert this truly terrible situation by means of national relief works; that is to say, by means of new industries created on the spot to give work to the unemployed!

It is evident, as Proudhon had already pointed out more than fifty years ago, that the smallest attack upon property will bring in its train the complete disorganization of the system based upon private enterprise and wage labour. Society itself will be forced to take production in hand, in its entirety, and to reorganize it to meet the needs of the whole people. But this cannot be accomplished in a day, or even in a month; it must take a certain time to reorganize the system of production, and during this time millions of men will be deprived of the means of subsistence. What then is to be done?

There is only one really *practical* solution of the prob- lem-boldly to face the great task which awaits us, and instead of trying to patch up a situation which we ourselves have made untenable, to proceed to reorv;anize production on a new basis.

Thus the really practical course of action, in our view, would be that the people should take immediate possession of all the food of the insurgent communes, keeping strict account of it all, that none might be wasted, and that by the aid of these accumulated resources every one might be able to tide over the crisis. During that time an agreement would have to be made with the factory workers, the necessary raw material given them, and the means of subsistence assured to them, while they worked to supply the needs of the agricultural population. For we must not forget that while France weaves silks and satins to deck the wives of German financiers, the Empress of Russia, and the Queen of the Sandwich Islands, and while Paris fashions wonderful trinkets and playthings for rich folk all the world over, two-thirds of the French peasantry have not proper lamps to give them light, or the implements necessary for modern agriculture. Lastly, unproductive land, of which there is plenty, would have to be turned to the best advantage, poor soils enriched, and rich soils, which yet, under the present system, do not yield a quarter, no, nor a tenth of what they might produce, would be submitted to intensive culture, and tilled with as much care as a market garden or a flower plot. It is impossible to imagine any other practical solution of the problem; and, whether we like it or not, sheer force of circumstances will bring it to pass.

The most prominent characteristic of our present capitalism is *tlie tcage system,* which in brief amounts to this:-

A man, or a group of men, possessing the necessary capital, starts some industrial enterprise; he undertakes to supply the factory or workshops with raw material, to organize production, to pay the employes a fixed wage, and lastly, to pocket the surplus value or profits, under pretext of recouping himself for managing the concern, for running the risks it may involve, and for the fluctuations of price in the market value of the wares.

To preserve this system, those who now monopolize capital would be ready to make certain concessions; to share, for example, a part of the profits with the workers, or rather to establish a “sliding scale,” which would oblige them to raise wages when prices were high; in brief, they would consent to certain sacrifices on condition that they were still allowed to direct industry and to take its first fruits.

Collectivism, as wc know, does not abolish the wage system, though it introduces considerable modifications into the existing order of things. It only substitutPs the State, that is to say, some form of Representative Government, national or local, for the individual employer of labour. Under Collectivism it is the representatives of the nation, or of the Commune, and their deputies and officials who are to have the control of industry. It is they who reserve to themselves the right of employing the surplus of production-in the interests of all. Moreover, Collectivism draws a very subtle but very far-reaching distinction between the work of the labourer and of the man who has learm•d a craft. Unskilled labour in the eyes of the collectivist is *simple* labour, while the work of the craftsman, the mechanic, the engineer, the man of science, etc., is what Marx calls *complex* labour, and is entitled to a higher wage. But labourers and craftsmen, weavers and men of science, are all wage-servants of the State-” all officials,” as was said lately, to gild the pill.

Well, then, the coming Revolution could render no greater service to humanity than by making the wage system, in all its forms, an impossibility, and by rendering Communism, which **is** the negation of wage-slavery, the only possible solution.

For even admitting that the Collectivist modification of the present system is possible, if introduced gradually during a period of prosperity and peace-though for my part I question its practicability even under such con- ditions-it would become impossible in a period of Revolution, when the need of feeding hungry millions would spring up with the first call to arms. A political revolution can be accomplished without shaking the foundations of industry, but a revolution where the people lay hands upon property will inevitably paralyse exchange and production. The millions of public money flowing into the Treasury would not suffice for paying wages to the millions of out-of-works.

This point cannot be too much insisted upon; the reorganization of industry on a new basis (and we shall presently show how tremendous this problem is) cannot he accomplished in a few days; nor, on the other hand, will the p<·opk· submit to be half starved for years in order to oblige the theorists who uphold the wage system. To tide over the period of stress they will demand what they have always demanded in such cases--communiza- tion of supplies-the giving of rations.

It will be in vain to preach patience. The people will be patient no longer, and if food is not forthcoming they will plunder the bakeries.

Then, if the people arc not strong enough to carry all before them, they will be shot down, to give Collectivism a fair field for experiment. To this end *“order”* must be maintained at any price-order, discipline, obedience! And as the capitalists will soon realize that when the people are shot down by those who call themselves Revolutionists, the Revolution itself will become hateful in the eyes of the masses, they will certainly lend their support to the champions of ore/er-even though they are collectivists. In such a line of conduct, the capitalists will see a means of hereafter crushing the collectivists in their turn. And if “order is established” in this fashion, the consequences are easy to foresee. Not content with shooting down the “marauders,” the faction of “order” will search out the “ringleaders of the mob.” They will set up again the law courts and reinstate the hangman. The most ardent revolutionists will be sent to the scaffold. It will be 1793 over again.

Do not let us forget how reaction triumphed in the last century. First the “Hebertists” and “the madmen,” were guillotined-those whom Mignet, with the memory of the struggle fresh upon him, still called “Anarchists.” The Dantonists soon followed them; and when the party of Robespierre had guillotined these revolutionaries, they in their tum had to mount the scaffold; whereupon the people, sick of bloodshed, and seeing the revolution lost, threw up the sponge, and let the reactionaries do their worst.

“If “order is restored,” we say, the social democrats will hang the anarchists; the Fabians will hang the social democrats, and will in their tum be hanged by the reactionaries; and the Revolution will come to an end.

But everything confirms us in the belief that the energy of the people will carry them far enough, and that, when the Revolution takes place, the idea of anarchist Communism will have gained ground. It is not an artificial idea. The people themselves have breathed it in our ear, and the number of communists is ever increasing, as the impossibility of any other solution becomes more and more evident.

And if the impetus of the people is strong enough, affairs will take a very different tum. Instead of plundering the bakers’ shops one day, and starving the next, the people of the insurgent cities will take possession of the warehouses, the cattle markets,-in fact of all the provision stores and of all the food to be had. The well- intentioned citizens, men and women both, will form themselves into bands of volunteers and address them- sdves to the task of making a rough general inventory of the contents of each shop and warehouse.

If such a revolution breaks out in France, namely, in Paris, then in twenty-four hours the Commune will know what Paris has not found out yet, in spill’ of its statistical committees, and what it never did find out during the siege of 1871-the quantity of provisions it contains. In forty-eight hours millions of copies will be printed of the tables giving a sufficiently exact account of the available food, the places where it is stored, and the means of distribution.

In every block of houses, in every street, in every town ward, groups of volunteers will have hel’ll organized, and these commissariat volunteers will find it easy to work in unison and keep in touch with each other. If only the Jacobin bayonets do not get in the way; if only the self-styled “scil’lltific” theorists do not thrust themselves in to darken counsel! Or rather let them expound their muddle-headed theories as much as they like, provided they have no authority, no power! And that admirable spirit of organization inherent in the people, above all in every social grade of the French nation, but which they have so seldom been allowed to exercise, will initiate, even in so huge a city as Paris, and in the midst of a Revolution, an immense guild of free workers, ready to furnish to each and all the necessary food.

Give the people a free hand, and in ten days the food service will be conducted with admirable regularity. Only those who have never seen the people hard at work, only those who have passed their lives buried among documents, can doubt it. Speak of the organizing genius of the “Great Misunderstood,” the people, to those who have seen it in Paris in the days of the barricades, or in London during the great dockers’ strike, when half a million of starving folk had to be fed, and they will tell you how superior it is to the official ineptness of Bumbledom.

And even supposing we had to endure a certain amount of discomfort and confusion for a fortnight or a month, surely that would not matter very much. For the mass of the people it would still be an improvement on their former condition; and, besides, in times of Revolution one can dine contentedly enough on a bit of bread and cheese while eagerly discussing events.

In any case, a system which springs up spontaneously, under stress of immediate need, will be infinitely preferable to anything invented between four walls by hidebound theorists sitting on any number of committees.

The people of the great towns will be driven by force of circumstances to take possession of all the provisions, beginning with the barest necessaries, and gradually extending Communism to other things, in order to satisfy the needs of all the citizens. The sooner it is done the helter; the sooner it is done the less misery there will be and the ICss strife.

But upon what basis must society be organized in order that all may have their due share of food produce. This is the question that meets us at the outset.

We answer that there are no two ways of it. There is only one way in which Communism can be established equitably, only one way which satisfies our instincts of justice and is at the same time practical; namely, the system already adopted by the agrarian communes of Europe.

Take for example a peasant commune, no matter where, even in France, where the Jacobins have done their best to destroy all communal usage. If the commune possesses woods and copses, then, so long as there is plenty of wood for all, every one can take as much as he wants, without other let or hindrance than the public opinion of his neighbonrs. As to the timber-trees, which are always scarce, they have to be carefully apportioned.

The same with the communal pastnre land; while there is enough and to spare, no limit is put to what the cattle of each homestead may consume, nor to the number of beasts grazing upon the pastures. Grazing grounds are not divided, nor is fodder doled out, unless there is scarcity. All the Swiss communes, and scores of thousands in France and Germany, wherever there is communal pastnre land, practise this system.

And in the countries of Eastern Europe, where there are great forests and no scarcity of land, you find the peasants felling the trees as they need them, and cultivating as much of the soil as they require, without any thought of limiting each man’s share of timber or of land. But the timber will be allowanced, and the land parcelled out, to each household according to its needs, as soon as either becomes scare, as is alrPady the case in Russia.

In a word, the system is this: no stint or limit to what the community possesses in abundance, but equal sharing and dividing of those commodities which are scarce or apt to run short. Of the 350 millions who inhabit Europe, 200 millions still follow this system of natnral Communism.

It is a fact worth remarking that the same system prevails in the great towns in the distribution of one commodity at least, which is found in abundance, the water supplied to each house.

As long as there is no fear of the supply running short, no water company thinks of checking the consumption of water in each house. Take what you please! But dnring the great droughts, if there is any fear of the supply failing, the water companies know that all they have to do is to make known the fact, by means of a short advertiseml’nt in the papers, and the citizens will reduce their consumption of water and not let it run to waste.

But if water were actually scarce, what would be clone? Recourse would be had to a system of rations. Such a measure is so natural, so inhC”rcnt in common sense, that Paris twice asked to be put on rations during the two sieges which it underwent in 1871.

Is it necessary to go into details, to prepare tables, showing how the distribution of rations may work, to prove that it is just and equitahle, infinitely more just and equitahlc than the existing state of things? All these tables and details will not serve to convince those of the middle classl’s, nor, alas, those of the workers tainted with middle-class prejudices, who regard the people as a mob of savages ready to fall upon and devour each other, as soon as the Government ceases to direct affairs. But those only who have never seen the people resolve and act on their own initiative could douht for a moment that if the masses were masters of the situation, thev would distribute rations to each and all in strictest accordance with justice and equity.

If you were to give utterance, in any gathering of people, to the opinion that delicacics--ganll’ and such- likc--shoulcl be resen·ed for the fastidious palates of aristocratic idlers, and black bread given to the sick in the hospitals, you would be hissed. But say at the same gathering, preach at the street corners and in the market places, that the most tempting delicacies ought to be kept for the sick and fcehk^especially for the sick. Say that if there arc only five brace of partridge in the entire city, and only one case of sherry, they should go to sick people and convalesceuts. Say that after the sick come the children. For them the milk of the cows and goats should be reserved if there is not enough for all. To the children and the aged the last piece of meat, and to the strong man dry hn•ad, if the community be reduced to that extremity.

Say, in a word, that if this or that article of consumption runs short, and has to be doled out, to those who have most need most should be given. Say that and sec if you do not meet with universal agreement.

The man who is full-fed does not understand this, but the people do understand, and have always understood it; and even the child of luxury, if he is thrown on the street and comes into contact with the masses, even he will learn to understand.

The theorists-for whom the soldier’s uniform and the barrack mess table are civilization’s last word-would like no doubt to start a regime of National Kitchens and “Spartan Broth.” They would point out the advantages thereby gained, the economy in fuel and food, if such huge kitchens were established, where every one could come for their rations of soup and bread and vegetables.

We do not question these advantages. We are well aware that important economics have already been achieved in this direction-as, for instance, when tlw handmill, or quern, and the baker’s oven attached to each house were abandoned. We can sec perfrctly well that it would be more economical to cook broth for a hundred families at once, instead of lighting a hundred separate fires. We know, besides, that there are a thousand ways of preparing potatoes, but that cooked in one huge pot for a hundred families they would he just as good.

We know, in fact, that variety in cooking being a matter of the seasoning introduced by each cook or housewife, the cooking together of a hundredweight of potatoes would not prevent each cook or housewife from dressing and serving them in any way she pleased. And we know that stock made from meat can he converted into a hundred different soups to suit a hundred different tastes.

But though we are quite aware of all these facts, we still maintain that no one has a right to force the housewife to take her potatoes from the communal kitchen ready cooked if she prefers to cook them herself in her own pot on her own fire. And, above all, we should wish each one to be free to take his meals with his family, or with his friends, or even in a restaurant, if it seemed good to him.

Naturally large public kitchens will spring up to take the place of the restaurants, wh!‘re people arc poisoned nowadays. Already the Parisian housewife gets the stock for her soup from the butcher, and transforms it into whatever soup she lik!‘s, and London hous!‘keepers know that they can have a joint roasted, or an apple or rhuharh tart baked at the baker’s for a triffing sum, thus economizing time and fuel. And when the communal kitchen-the common bakehouse of the future-is established, and people can get their food cooked without the risk of being cheated or poisoned, the custom will no doubt become general of going to the communal kitchen for the fundamental parts of the meal, leaving the last touches to be added as individual taste shall suggest.

But to make a hard and fast rule of this, to make a duty of taking home our food ready cooked, that would be as repugnant to our modern minds as the ideas of the convent or the barrack-morbid ideas horn in brains warped by tyranny or SU[Jl’rstition.

Who will have a right to the food of the commune? will assuredly he till’ first question which we shall have to ask oursdVes. Every township will answer for itself, and **Wl’ an’** convinced that the answers will all be dictated by the sentiment of justice. Until labour is reorganized, as long as the disturbed period lasts, and while it is impossible to distinguish between inveterate idlers and genuine worh’rs thrown out of work, th!’ available food ought to be shared by all without exception. Those who have been enemies to the new order will hastm of their own accord to rid the commune of their presence. But it seems to us that the masses of the people, which have always hecn magnanimous, and have nothing of vindictiveness in their disposition, will he ready to share their bread with all who remain with them, conquered and conquerors alike. It will be no loss to the Revolution to be inspired by such an idea, and, when work is set agoing again, the antagonists of yesterday will stand side by side in the same workshops. A society where work is free will have nothing to fear from idlers.

“But provisions will run short in a month!” our critics at once exclaim.

“So much the better,” say we. It will prove that for the first time on record the people have had enough to cat. As to the question of obtaining fresh supplies, we shall discuss the means in our next chapter.

**** IV

Those who have closely watched the growth of Socialist ideas among the workers must have noticed that on one ro1omcntous question-the housing of the people-a definite conclusion is being imperceptibly arrived at. It is a fact that in the large towns of France, and in many of the smaller ones, the workers arc coming gradually to the conclusion that dwclling-houses are in no sense the property of those whom the State recognizes as their owners.

‘fhis idea has evolved naturally in the minds of the people, and nothing will ever convince them again that the “rights of property” ought to extend to houses.

The house was not built by its owner. It was erected, decorated, and furnished by innumerable workers-in the timl>l’r yard, the brick field, and the workshop, toiling for clear ]ifr at a minimum wage.

The money spent by the owner was not the product of his own toil. It was amassed, like all other riches, by paying the workers two-thirds or only a half of what was their due.

Moreover-and it is here that the enormity of the whole proceeding becomes most glaring-the house owes its actual value to the profit which the owner can make out of it. Now, this profit results from the fact that his house is built in a town-that is, in an agglomeration of thousands of other houses, possessing paved streets, bridges, quays, and fine public buildings, well lighted, and affording to its inhabitants a thousand comforts and conveniences unknown in villages; a town in regular communication with other towns, and itself a centre of industry, commerce, science, and art; a town which the work of twenty or thirty generations has made habitable, healthy, and beautiful.

A house in certain parts of Paris is valued at many thousands of pounds sterling, not because thousands of pounds’ worth of labour have been expended on that particular house, but because it is in Paris; because for centuries workmen, artists, thinkers, and men of learning and letters have contributed to make Paris what it is to- day-a centre of industry, commerce, politics, art, and science; because Paris has a past; because, thanks to literature, the names of its streets are household words in foreign countries as well as at home; because it is the fruit of eighteen centuries of toil, the work of Gfty generations of the whole French nation.

Who, then, can appropriate to himself the tiniest plot of ground, or the meanest building in such a city, without committing a flagrant injustice? Who, then, has the right to sell to any bidder the smallest portion of the common heritage?

On that point, as we have said, the workers begin to be agreed. The idea of free dwellings showed its existence very plainly during the siege of Paris, when the cry was for an abatement pure and simple of the terms demanded by the landlords. It appeared again during the Commune of 1871, when the Paris workmen expected the Council of the Commune to decide boldly on the abolition of rent. And when the New Revolution comes, it will be the Grst question with which the poor will concern themselves.

Wbether in time of revolution or in time of peace, the worker must be housed somehow or other; he must have some sort of roof over his head. But, however tumbledown and squalid his dwelling may he, there is always a landlord who can evict him. True, during the Revolution the landlord cannot find bailiffs and policc-serjcants to throw the workman<sup>’</sup>s rags and chattels into the street, but who knows what the new Government will do to-morrow? Who can say that it will not call coercion to its aid again, and set the police pack upon the tenant to hound him out of his hovels? Have we not seen the Commune of Paris proclaim the remission of rents due up to the first of April only! 0 After that, rent had to be paid, though Paris was in a state of chaos, and industry at a standstill; so that the “federate” who had taken arms to defend the inck•pcndence of Paris had absolutely nothing to depend upon-he and his family-but an allowance of fifteen pence a day!

Now the worker must be made to sec clearly that in refusing to pay rent to a landlord or owner he is not simply profiting by the disorganization of authority. He must understand that the abolition of rent is a recognized principle, sanctioned, so to speak. by popular assent; that to be housed rent-free is a right proclaimed aloud by the people.

Arc we going to wait till this measure, which is in harmony with every honest man’s sense of justice, is taken up by the few Socialists scattered among the middle class elements, of which the Provisionarv Government will be composed? If it were so, the peopie should have to wait long-till the return of reaction, in fact!

This is why, refusing uniforms and badges-those outward signs of authority and servitude-and remaining people among the people, the earnest revolutionists will work side by side with the masses, that the abolition of rent, the expropriation of houses, may become an accomplished fact. They will prepare the ground and encourage ideas to grow in this direction; and when the fruit of their labours is ripe, the people will proceed to expropriate the houses without giving heed to the theories which will certainly be thrust in their way-theories about paying compensation to landlords, and finding first the necessary funds.

On the day that the expropriation of houses takes place, on that day, the exploited workers will have realized that new times have come, that Labour will no longer have to bear the yoke of the rich and powerful, that Equality has been openly proclaimed, that this Revolution is a real fact, and not a theatrical make-believe, like so many others preceding it.

{1} The decree of Lhe 30 March: by this dl·cree renls due up to tht’ terms of October, 1870, and Janua^ **and** April, 1871, were an**nulled.**

If the idea of expropriation be adopted by the people it will be carried into effect in spite of all the “insurmountable” obstacles with which we are menaced.

Of course, the good folk in new uniforms, seated in the official arm-chairs of the Hotel de Ville, will be sure to busy themselves in heaping up obstacles. They will talk of giving compensation to the landlords, of preparing statistics, and drawing up long reports. Yes, they would be capable of drawing up reports long enough to outlast the hopes of the people, who, after waiting and starving in enforced idleness, and seeing nothing come of all these official researches, would lose heart and faith in the Revolution and abandon the field to the reactionaries. The new bureaucracy would end by making expropriation hateful in the eyes of all.

Here, indeed, **fr** a rock which might shipwreck our hopes. But if the people turn a deaf ear to the specious arguments used to dazzle them, and realize that new life needs new conditions, and if they undertake the task themselves, then expropriation can hl’ effected without any great difficulty.

“But bow? How **can** it Ul’ done?” you ask us. We shall try to reply to this question, but with a reservation. We have no intention of tracing out the plans of expropriation in their smallest details. We know beforehand that all that any man, or group of men, could suggest to-day would be far surpassed by the reality when it comes. Man will accomplish greater things, and accomplish them better and by simpler methods than those dictated to him beforehand. Thus we shall merely indicate the manner by which expropriation might be accomplished without the intervention of Government. We do not propose to go out of our way to answer those who declare that the thing is impossible. We confine ourselves to replying that we are not the upholders of any particular method of organization. V/e are only concerned to demonstrate that expropriation *could* be effected by popular initiative, and *could not* be effected by any other means whatever.

It seems very likely that, as soon as expropriation is fairlystarted, groups of volunteers will spring up in every district, street, and block of houses, and undertake to inquire into the number of flats and houses which are empty and of those which arc overcrowded, the unwholesome slums, and the houses which are too spacious for their occupants and might well be used to house those who arc stilled in swarming tenements. In a few days these volunteers would have drawn up complete lists for the street and the district of all the flats, tenements, family mansions and villa residences, all the rooms and suites of rooms, healthy and unhealthy, small and large, fretid dens and homes of luxury.

Freely communicating with each other, these volunteers would soon have their statistics complete. False statistics can be manufactured in board rooms and offices, but true and exact statistics must begin with the individual and mount up from the simple to the complex.

Then, without waiting for anyone’s leave, those citizens will probably go and find their comrades who were living in miserable garrets and hovels and will say to them simply: “It is a real Revolution this time, comrades, and no mistake about it. Come to such a place this evening; all the neighbourhood will be there; we arc going to redistribute the dwelling-houses. If you arc tired of your slum-garret, come and choose one of the flats of five rooms that are to be disposed of, and when you have once moved in you shall stay, never fear. The people are up in arms, and he who would venture to evict you will have to answer to them.”

“But every one will want a fine house or a spacious flat!” we are told.-No, you are quite mistaken. It is not the people’s way to clamour for the moon. On the contrary, every time we have seen them set about repairing a wrong we have been struck by the good sense and instinct for justice which animates the masses. Have we ever known them demand the impossible? Have we ever seen the people of Paris fighting among themselves while waiting for their rations of bread or fin•wood during the two sieges or during the terrible years of 1792–1794? The patience and resignation which prevailed among them in 1871 was constantly presented for admiration by the foreign Press correspondents; and yet these patient waiters knew full well that the last comers would have to pass the day without food or fire.

We do not deny that there are plenty of egotistic instincts in isolated individuals. We arc quite aware of it. But we contend that the very way to revive and nourish these instincts would be to confine such questions as the housing of the people to any board or committee, in fact, to the tender mercies of officialism in any shape or form. Then indeed all the evil passions spring up, and it becomes a case of who is the most influential person on the board. The least inequality causes wranglings and recriminations. If the smallest advantage is given to any one, a tremendous hue and cry is raised-and not without reason.

But if the people themselves, organized by streets, districts, and parishes, undertake to move the inhabitants of the slums into the half-empty dwellings of the middle classes, the trilling inconveniences, the little inequalities will be easily tided over. Rarely has ap1Jeal been made to the good instincts of the masses-only as a last resort, to save the sinking ship in times of revolution-hut m•ver has such an appeal bcen made in vain; the heroism, the self-devotion of the toiler has never failed to respond to it. And thus it will be in the coming lkvolution.

But, when all is said and done, some i1wqualities, some inevitable injustices, undoubtedly will remain. There arc individuals in our societies whom no great crisis can Hft out of the deep mire of egoism in which they arc sunk. The question, however, is not whether there will be injustices or no, but rather how to limit the number of them.

Now all history, all the experil’nce of the human race, and all social psychology, unite in showing that the best and fairest way is to trust the decision to those whom it concerns most nearly. It is they alone who can consider and allow for the hundred and one details which must necessarily be overlooked in any merely official redistribution ...

Those who have seriously studied the question do not deny any of the advantages of Communism, on condition, be it well understood, that Communism be perfectly free, that is to say, Anarchist. They recognize that work paid with money, even disguised under the name of “labour cheques,” to Workers’ associations governed by the State, would keep up the characteristics of wagedom and would retain its disadvantages. They agree that the whole system would soon suffer from it, even if Society came into possession of the instruments of production. And they admit that, thanks to an “integral” complete education given to all children, to the laborious habits of civilized societies, with the liberty of choosing and varying their occupations and the attractions of work done by equals for the well-being of all, a Communist society would not be wanting in producers who would soon make the fertility of the soil triple and tenfold, and give a new impulse to industrv.

This our opponents agree to. “But the danger,” they say, “will come from that minority of loafers who will not work, and will not have regular habits, in spite of the excellent conditions that would make work pleasant. To-day the prospect of hunger compels the most refractory to move along with the others. The one who does not arrive in time is dismissed. But one black sheep suffices to contaminate the whole flock, and two or three sluggish or refractory workmen would lead the others astray and bring a spirit of disorder and rebellion into the workshop that would make work impossible; so that in the end we should have to return to a system of compulsion that would force such ringleaders back into the ranks. And then,-Is not the system of wages, paid in proportion to work performed, the only one that enables compulsion to be employed, without hurting the feelings of independence of the worker? All other means would imply the continual intl’rvention of an authority that would bl’ repugnant to free men.” This, we believe, is the objl’etion fairly stated.

To begin with, such an ohjl’ction hl’longs to the category of arguments which try to justify the Stat<·. the Penal Law, the Judge, and the Gaoler.

“As there arc people, a feeble minority, who will not submit to social customs,” the authoritarians say, “we must maintain magistrates, tribunals and prisons, although thl’Se institutions become a source of new evils of all kinds.”

Therefore we can only repeat what we have so often said concerning authority in gellcral: “To avoid a possihlc evil you have recourse to means which in themselves are a greater evil, and become the source of those same abusl’s that you wish to remedy. For, do not forget that it is wagcdom, the impossibility of living otherwise than by selling your labour, which has created the prl’sent Capitalist system, whose vicl’s you begin to recognize.” Bl’sidcs, this way of reasoning is merely a sophistical justification of the evils of the present system. Wagcdom was *not* instituted to remove the disadvantages of Communism; its origin, like that of the State and private ownl’rship, is to be found elsewhere. It is born of shn-ery and serfdom imposed by force, and only wears a more modern garb. Thus the argument in favour of wagcdom is as valueless as those by which they seek to apologize for private property and the State.

We arc, nevertheless, going to examine th_(_’ objl’ction, and sec if there is any truth in it.

First of all,-Is it not cvidl’nt that if a society, founded on the principle of free work, were really menaced by loafers, it could protect itself without the authoritarian organization we have nowadays, and without having recourse to wagcdom?

Let us take a group of volunteers, combining for some particular enterprise. Having its succl’SS at heart, thC’y all work with a will, save one of the associates, who is frequently absent from his post. Must they on his account dissolve the group, elect a president to impose fines, and work out a code of penalties? It is evident that ncith<·r the one nor the other will be done, but that some day the comrade who imperils their enterprise will be told: “Friend, we should like to work with you; but as you are often absent from your post, and you do your work negligently, we must part. Go and find other comrades who will put up with your indifference!”

This way is so natural that it is practised everywhere, evm nowadays, in all industrks, in competition with all possible systems of fines, docking of wages, supervision, etc.; a workman may entl’r the factory at the appointed time, but if he does his work badly, if he hinders his com- radl’s by his laziness or other defects, if he is quarrdsome, there is an end of it; h<· is compelled to leave the workshop.

Authoritarians pretend that it is the almighty employer and his overseers who maintain regularity and quality of work in factories. In reality, in every somewhat compli- catl’d enterprise, in which the goods produced pass through many hands before being finished, it is the factory itsdf, thl’ workml’n as a unity, who sec to th<· good quality of the work. Therefore the best factories of British private industry have few oversl’l’rs, far less on an average than the Fn•nch factoril’s, and less than the British State factories.

A certain standard of public morals is maintained in the sanw way. Authoritarians say it is due to rural guards, judgl’S, and poJiecmen, whereas in reality it is maintained *in spite* of judges, policemen, and rural guards. “Many are the laws producing criminals!” was said long ago.

Not only in industrial workshops do things go on in this way; it happens cverywherc, every day, on a scale that only bookworms have as yl’t no notion of. Whm a railway company, fcdl’rated with other companies, fails to fulRI its cngagements, wlwn its trains arc late and goods Ii<· Jll’glected at the stations, the other companies threaten to caned the contract, and that threat usually suffices.

It is generally !Jl•licved, at any rat!’ it is taught in Statc- appron•d schools, that commerce only keeps to its engage- nwnts from fear of lawsuits. Nothing of the sort; nine times in ten thl’ trad<·r who has not kept his word will not appear bl’forc a judge. Thcre, ““here trade is very active, as in London, the sole fact of having driven a creditor to bring a lawsuit suffices for the immense majority of merchants to refuse for good to have any dealings with a man who has compelled one of them to go to law.

This being so, why should means that arc usl’d to-day among workers in the workshop, traders in the trade, and railway companies in the organization of transport, not be made use of in a society based on voluntary work?

Take, for example, an association stipulating that each of its members should carry out the following contract: “We undertake to give you the use of our houses, stores, streets, means of transport, schools, museums, etc., on condition that, from twenty to forty-five or fifty years of age, you consecrate four or five hours a day to some work recognized as necessary to existence. Choose yourself the producing groups which you wish to join, or organize a new group, provided that it will undertake to produce necessaries. And as for the remainder of your time, combine together with whomsoever you like, for recreation art, or science, according to the bent of your taste.

“Twelve or fifteen hundred hours of work a year, in one of the groups producing food, clothes, or houses, or employed in public sanitation, transport, and so on, is all we ask of you. For this amount of work we guarantee to you the free use of all that these groups produce, or will produce. But if not one, of the thousands of groups of our federation, will receive you, whatever be their motive; if you are absolutely incapable of producing anything useful, or if you refuse to do it, then live like an isolated man or like an invalid. If we arc rich enough to give you the necessaries of life we shall be delighted to give them to you. You arc a man, and you have the right to liw. But as you wish to live under special conditions, and IC’aVe the ranks, it is more than probable that you will suffer for it in your daily relations with other citizens. You will be looked upon as a ghost of bourgeois society, unless some friends of yours, discovering you to he a talent, kindly free you from all moral obligation towards society by doing all the necessary work for you.

“And finally, if it docs not please you, go and look for other conditions clsewhere in the wide world, or else seek adherents and ^^ganize with them on novel principles. We prefer our own.

This is what could be done in a communal society in order to turn away sluggards if they became too numerous.

*** The Kingdom of God Is Within You

Leo Tolstoy: Christion Anarchism

Count Leo Tolstoy (1828–1910), like the two other outstanding Russian theorists of anarchism, belonged to a wealthy and distinguished noble family. Although his doctrines differed greatly from those of Bakunin and Kropotkin, his personality was just as vivid and intense as theirs. Tolstoy was a passionate and contradictory man who did nothing by halves. In his youth he indulged freely in wenching, gambling, and other forms of social amusement that his wealth and position afforded him-and recorded everything in his diary, which he showed to his eighteen-year-old fiancee on the eve of their wedding. Settling down on his country estate, he wrote War *and* Peace and *Anna* Karenina, and then, at the height of his literary powers and achievement, he experienced a mystical religious “conversion” that turned him from novelist into moralist and prophet. Although he continued to write fiction, he now devoted most of his efforts Lo philosophical and theological works. At the age of eighty-two he abruptly left his wife and home in qu·est of spiritual peace, only to die a few days later at an obscure railway station.

The version of Christianity Lhat Tolstoy advocated differed considerably from that of the official Russian Orthodox Church, which eventually excommunicated him. Within Russia many of his works were censored or prohibited, but he became so venerated a figure both at home and abroad that the tsarist government refrained from direct action against him, even when his rejection of the church was followed by rejection of the state. Tolstoy’s religion was an entirely ethical one which ignored ecclesiastical dogma and affirmed universal love and brotherhood. This led him to a renunciation of violence in any form and to the doctrine of nonresistance to evil. From here it was but one further step to political anarchism, for true Christianity as Tolstoy saw it was incompatible with the state and its array of coercive institutions-an incompatibility exemplified in the system of military conscription, which Tolstoy discusses in the opening passage below.

Tolstoy’s contribution to the development of anarchist doctrines cannot be denied. His brand of anarchism was cast in a religious mold, however, and it was therefore alien to most contemporary anarchists. Tolstoy sought the solution to man’s ills in inward, moral change, and he never hid the fact that he considered the revolutionaries of his time severely misguided. Within the anarchist movement he was appreciated mainly for his moral sincerity and for his role as a thorn in the flesh of the tsarist regime. His influence in other quarters, however, was widespread. He found many disciples, the most famous of whom, Mahatma Gandhi, adapted Tolstoy’s principles of nonviolent protest to considerable effect against the British in India. Even today, those principles continue to inspire some forms of social protest in the United States.

*The Kingdom of God Is Within You* (1893) is the most complete expression of Tolstoy’s anarchist position. The selections here are drawn from the translation by Aylmer Maude in *The Kingdom of God and Peace Essays* (Oxford: Oxford University Press, World’s Classics Edition, 1936), pages 197220, 249–56, 265–81. Other nonfiction works by Tolstoy of relevance to his anarchism are *A Confession* (1882), *What I* Believe (1884), *What Then*

Must We Do? (1886), and The Slavery of Our *Times* (1900). Many of his strictures against church and state are embodied in his last major novel, <em>Resur</em>rection (1899). Two major biographies are Ernest Simmons, Leo Tolstoy (Boston, 1946), and Henri Troyat, Tolstoy (Garden City, N.Y., 1967). Theodore Redpath’s Tolstoy, second edition (London, 1969), is a convenient brief guide to Tolstoy’s thought and to the vast literature on him.

**** I

Educated people of the upper classes try to stiAe the consciousness-which is becoming clearer and clearer all the time-of the necessity of changing the existing social system. But life continues to move in the same direction, becoming more and more complex, increasing the contradictions and sufferings, and bringing men to the extreme limits beyond which matters cannot go. And universal military conscription is such a final limit of inconsistency.

People generally think that military conscription and the ever-increasing arming connected with it, as well as the consequent increase among all nations of taxation and national debts, is an accidental phenomenon due to some particular political condition of Europe which may be removed by certain political considerations without changing the inner structure of our lives.

That is quite erroneous. General military service is the final limit and the exposure, at a certain stage of material development, of the inner contradiction that has crept into the social conception of life.

As we have seen, the social understanding of life consists in the transfrr of the aim of life from the individual to groups and their continuance; to the tribe, family, race, or State.

According to the social conception of life it is understood that since the meaning of life is contained in a group of individuals, the individuals themselves voluntarily sacrifice their interests for those of the group. So it has been and still is in certain groups: in the family, tribe, race, or even in a patriarchal State. As a result of habit transmitted by education and confirmed by religious suggestion, individuals of their own free will mingle their interests with those of the group and sacrifice themselves for the general welfare.

But the more complex these groups becanll’ and the larger they grew, and ( especially ) the more often people became amalgamated into a State by conquest, the more frequently did individuals try to attain their own aims to the public detriment, and the more frequently did the government have to employ its power-that is, to use violence-to check these insubordinate individuals.

Defenders of the social understanding of life usually try to confuse the conception of power (violence) with the idea of moral inffuence, but the two are quite incongruous.

The effect of moral inffuencc on a man is to change his desires and make them correspond with what is demanded of him. A man controlled by moral inffuencc acts in accord with his wishes. But power-as that word is generally understood-is a means of forcing a man to act contrary to his desires. A man who submits to power does not do as he chooses, but as he is compelled to do by that power. To compel a man to act contrary to his desires instead of as he wishes to, can only be done by physical force or by the threat of it-that is, by depriving him of freedom, by blows, mutilation, or by easily executed threats of such punishment. This has always been, and still is, the nature of power.

In spite of the unceasing efforts of those in power to conceal this and to attribute some other significance to it, power has always meant for man the chain with which he can be bound and dragged along, or the whip with which he can be Hogged, or the knife or axe with which his hand, foot, nose, ears, or head can be cut off-and the use of these means or at least the threat of them. So it was under Nero and Genghis Khan, and so it is now under the most liberal governments in the American and French republics. If men submit to power it is only because they fear that those measures will be applied to them in case of non-submission. All governmental demands for tax-payments, all performance of state business, all submission to punishment (banishments, fines, and the like) to which people seem to submit voluntarily, have physical violl’Ilce or the threats of it always at their base.

The basis of power is physical violence. And the possibility of inHicting physical violence on people is afforded chieHy by an organization of anncd men trained to act in unison in submission to one will. Such bands of armed men submissive to a single will arc what constitute an army. An army has always been and still is the basis of power. Power always lies in the hands of those who control the army, and every ruler-from the Roman Caesar to the Russian and German Emperors-is concerned first of all about the army and courts popularity in the army, knowing that if the army is with him, power is in his hands.

And this very formation and augmentation of the army essential for the maintenance of power, has brought into the social understanding of life the principle that is decomposing it.

The object of power and its justification lies in the restraint of those who would wish to attain their own interests to the detriment of society. But however the power has been obtained-whether by the formation of a new army, by inheritance, or by election-those who possess power by means of an army differ in no way from other men, and arc therefore no more disposed than others to subordinate their own interests to the interests of society. On the contrary, having in their hands the power to do so, they are more disposed than others to subordinate public interests to their own. Whatever men have devised to deprive those in power of the possibility of subjecting the general interest to their own, or for entrusting power only to infallible people, no means of attaining these objects has yet been discovered.

All the methods employed: Divine consecration, selection, succession, voting and elections, assemblies, parliaments and senates-have proved and still prove ineffective. Everybody knows that not one of these methods has succeeded either in preventing the misuse of power or in entrusting it only to immaculate men. Everybody knows on the contrary that men possessed of power-be they emperors. ministers, chiefs of police, or policemen-are for that very reason more apt to become demoralized (that is, to subordinate the public interest to their own) than men who do not possess power, nor can it be otherwise.

The social conception of life could justify itself only as long as men voluntarily sacrificed their own interests to the interests of the community. But as soon as there were individuals who did not voluntarily do so and power was needed to restrain them, there crept into the social lifeconception and the structure of life founded on it the disintegrating principle of violence, that is, coercion exerted by some people against others.

For power (of some men over others) to attain its object of restraining those who for personal aims strive to override the public interest, it ought to be placed only in the hands of the irnpeccabk’, as it is supposed tobe among the Chinese and as it was supposed to be in the Middle Ages and is even now supposed to be by those who believe in the beneficent effect on consecration. Only under that condition would the social structure be justified.

But as that is not so, but on the contrary those who possess power arc for that very reason never holy, a social organization based on power has no justification.

If there ever was a time when, owing to a low standard of morality and the general tendency of individuals to violence, the existence of a government which restrained such violence was advantageous (that is, governmental violence was less than the violence inflicted by individuals on one another), this advantage could evidently not be permanent. As the tendency of individuals towards violence decreased and manners became less harsh, while those in authority became more demoralized owing to the lack of restraint upon them, the advantages of gov- ernmcnt diminished more and more. The whole history of the last two thousand years consists of this alteration of relations between the moral development of the masses and the demoralization of governments.

In its simplest form this is what happened. Men lived in families, tribes, and races, at enmity with one another- doing violence, plundering, and killing one another. Such violence occurred on a large and on a small scalc-indidividual fighting with individual, trihe with tribe, family with family, race with race, and nation with nation. Larger and more powerful communtics conquered the weaker, and the larger and stronger they became the less internal violence there was within the group, and the more secure did the continuance of the group appear to be.

Members of a family or tribe uniting into one community were less hostile among themselves, and families and tribes do not die like individuals, but continue their existence. Between the members of one State subject to one authority, strife appeared still weaker and the life of the State still more secure.

These unions into larger and larger aggregates were not the result of a conscious recognition that such unions were more advantageous (as is told in the legend of the invitation to the Vaningians to rule over the Russian land) but were produced on the one hand by natural growth and on the other by struggle and conquest.

When the conquest was accomplished the power of the conqueror really put an end to civil wars, and so the social conception of life received a justification. But that justification was only temporary. Internal dissensions disappeared only to the extent of the pressure exerted by the authorities over those formerly in conAict. The violence of the internal feud suppressed by the authority, reappeared within that authority itself. The men constituting that authority-not being different from other men and having power in their hands-were often ready to sacrifice the general welfare for the sake of their own personal advantage, but with this difference-that their violence was not moderated by any opposition from the oppressed, and they were consequently exposed to all the demoralizing inAuence of power. Thus the evil of violence, passing into the hands of a government, always tends to increase and become greater than that which it is supposed to destroy, while it becomes less and less necessary as the tendency to use violence among the individual members of society progressively diminishes.

Governmental power, even if it suppresses private violence, always introduces fresh forms of violence into the lives of men ancl cloes this increasingly as it continues and grows stronger.

So that though governmental violence (being expressed not in strife but in submission ) is less noticeable than incliviclual violence committed by members of a society against one another, it nevertheless exists and generally to a greater degree than in former times.

And it could not be otherwise, since apart from the fact that the possession of power corrupts men, the interest or even the unconscious tendency of those employing force will always be to reduce those subject to violence to the greatest degree of weakness, for the weaker the oppressed the less effort is needed to keep them in subjection.

And so the oppression always grows to the farthest limit to which it can go without killing the goose that lays the golden eggs. If that goose do<·s not lay, as in the case of the American Indians, the Fijians,• and the Negroes, it is killed despite the sincere protests of philanthropists.

The best confirmation of this is supplied by the condition of the working classes of our epoch, who are in reality in the position of a conquered people.

Despite all the prctPncll’d efforts of the upper clasSeS to ameliorate the position of the workers, the working classes of the present day are helei clown by an inffexiblc iron law by which they get only what is barely necessary, so that, while retaining strength to work, they arc constantly im- pellecl to labour for their employers-that is, for their conquerors.

{1} Readers may have noticed Lhat in Chapter XVIII of *What 1’hen Must* **We *Do?*** TnlstOy accepts is reliable an account Pro- [essor Y3nzhnl had given of the annexation of the Fiji Islands and the suhscr1uent fote or its inhahilanls. Thal account constitutes an indictment of our Colonial methods which, I imaJJ;ine, would hardly be accepted as reliable by those more folly ac<1uainted with the historical focls.-A.M.

So it has always been. In proportion to the duration and strengthening of authority its advantages for those under subjection have always decreased and its disadvantages increased.

So it has been and is, independently of the forms of government under which nations have lived. The difference is only this, that under a despotic form of government the power is concentrated in the hands of a small number of oppressors and the violence is cruder, while in constitutional monarchies, and republics like France and America, the power is divided among a larger number of oppressors and is expressed less crudely. But the fact of violence, under which the advantages of a government are exceeded by its disavantages, and the process by which it reduces the oppressed to the farthest limits of enfeeble- ment to which they can be reduced with advantage to the oppressors, remains the same everywhere.

Such has been and still is the condition of all who are subject to violence, but hitherto they have not recognized the fact. In most cases they have naively believed that governments exist for their benefit, that without the State they would perish, that the very idea of people living without governments is sacrilegious and must not even be expressed-that it is the doctrine of anarchism, with which for some reason is associated the conception of all sorts of horrors.

People have believed, as though it were something fully proven and therefore needing no proof, that since up to the present all nations have developed in a governmental form, that form must always be a necessary condition of humanity’s development.

So it has gone on for hundreds and thousands of years, and governments-that is men in power-have tried, and now try still harder, to maintain that mistake in people’s minds.

So it was under the Roman emperors, and so it is now. Despite the fact that the sense of the uselessness and even the harmfulness of governmental violence penetrates men’s consciousness more and more, things might have gone on so for ever, had it not been necessary for governments to increase their armies in order to maintain power.

It is generally supposed that governmmts increase their armies only to defend the state from other govern- ments-oblivious of the fact that armies arc needed by governments first of all for their own defence against their oppressed and enslaved subjects.

This was always necessary, and became increasingly necessary with the diffusion of education among the masses and with the increase of intercourse between nationalities, and it has become particularly necessary now in face of communism, socialism, anarchism, and the labour movement generally. And governments feel this to be so, and increase their chief strength-the disciplined armies.0

Recently in the German Reichstag in reply to a question as to why money was needed for an increase of the salary of non-commissioned officers, the German Chancellor frankly declared that reliable non-commissioned officers were necessary for the struggle against socialism. Caprivi only said aloud what everybody knows, though it is usually carefully hidden from the people. What he said explains just why Swiss and Scottish guards were hired by the French kings and by the Popes, and why in Russia recruits are carefully distributed so that regiments stationed in the central districts are made up of men from the border provinces, while the regiments in those provinces are made up of recruits from central Russia. The meaning of Caprivi’s speech, put into plain language, is that funds were needed not for defence against foreign foes but to bribe non-commissioned officers to be ready to act against the oppressed labouring classes.

{1} The fact that abuses of power exist in America despilc the small size of its army, not only docs not refute hut confirms this proposition. In America there is a smaller army than in other countries, and that is why there is nowht>rc less opprt’ssion of the working classes and nowhere docs Lhe aholition of lhc abuses of the government, and of government itself, seem so m•ar. But of late, as the solidarity of the workers gains in strength, demands for an increase of the army are heard more and more frequently, though no attack from abroad Lhrcatens America. The upper, rulinJ,!’. classes, knowing that fifty thousand Lroops will soon he insufficient, and no longer relying on Pinkerton’s army, feel that only an increase of the army c;m safeguard their posilion.-L.T.

Caprivi accidentally uttered what everyone well knows or feels if he does not know, namely, that the existing order of life is what it is not because it is natural or because people wish it, but because it is maintained by governmental violence-by the armies with their bought noncommissioned officers, officers, and generals.

If a labouring man has no land and cannot avail himself of the natural right of every man to obtain subsistence for himself and his family from the land, that is not because the people wish it to be so, but because some people (the landowners) have been given the right of allowing or refusing admission to the land. And this unnatural state of things is maintained by the army. If the immense wealth produced by the workers is regarded as belonging not to them but to some exceptional people, if the power to collect taxes from toil and to use that money as they think fit, is left to certain people, if workmen’s strih•s arc repressed while coalitions of capitalists arc encouraged, if it is left to certain people to decide the form of civil and religious instruction and the education of ehildn•n, and if certain people have the right to formulate the laws which all must obey, and to dispose of the lives and property of human beings-all this occurs not because the people wish it and because it naturally should be so, but because the governments and the ruling classes desire it for their own benefit and establish it by means of physical violence.

Every man who docs not already know this will find it out at his first attempt to disobey or alter the existing order of things. And so all the governnwnts and ruling classes need armies chiefly to maintain this order, which has not grown from the needs of the people but is often plainly detrimental to them and advantageous only to the government and the ruling classes.

Armies arc needed by all gov<·rnments first of all to keep their subjects in submission and to exploit their labour. But a government is not alone; beside it there is another government exploiting its subjects by violence in the same way and always ready to rob its neighbour of the toil of its already enslaved subjects. And so every government needs an army not only for use at home but also to protect its booty from neighbouring brigands. Every government is thus involuntarily led to increase its army in rivalry with others, and the increase of armies is infectious as Montesquieu already remarked a hundred and fifty years ago.

Every increase of the army in a State, though directed mainly against its own subjects, is dangerous to its neighbours also and evokes an increase in their forces.

The armies have reached their present millions not merely because the governments were threatened by their neighbours, but chiefly from the necessity of suhduing any attempt at revolt on the part of their own subjects. The increase of armies arises simultaneously from two causes, each of which reciprocally evokes the other: armies are needed both against enemies at home and to maintain the position of a State against its neighbours. The one conditions the other. The despotism of a government at home increases in proportion to the increase and strengthening of its army and its external successes; and the aggressiveness of governments grows in proportion to the increase of their internal despotism.

As a result of this the European governments, constantly increasing their armies against one another, arrived at the unavoidable necessity of universal military service, since that was the way to get the greatest number of soldiers in time of war with the least expense. Gennany was the first to hit on this plan, and as soon as one State had adopted it the others had to do the same. And as soon as this happened all citizens were under arms to maintain all the injustices inflicted on them, and all the citizens became their own oppressors.

Universal military service was an inevitable logical necessity, but at the same time it is the final expression of the contradiction inherent in the social conception of life which began when violence became necessary for its maintenance. With universal military service this contradiction becomes obvious. Indeed the significance of the social conception of life consists in this, that man recognizing the cruelty of the struggle between individuals and the transitoriness of personal life transfers the aim of his life to an aggregate of human beings.

But the result of general military conscription is that men, after making every sacrifice to release themselves from the cruelty of strife and the transitoriness of their personal lives, are again called on to bear all the dangers from which they thought they had freed themselves, and besides that the State itself-for whose sake they had renounced their personal interests-is again subjected to the same risk of destruction which in previous times threatened the individual himself.

Governments were to free men from the cruelty of individual strife, to give them security in the permanence of a group life. But instead of that they subject men to the same necessity of strife, merely substituting strife with other States for strife with individual neighbours, and the danger of destruction both for the individual and for the State they leave just as it was.

The establishment of general military service resembles what happens when a man wants to prop up a rotten house. The walls bend inwards and he inserts supports, the roof sags down and other supports arc put up, boards give way between the supports and still more supports are erected. And it comes to this, that though the supports hold the house up they render it impossible to live in it.

It is the same with universal military service. It destroys all the benefits of the social order of life which it was employed to maintain.

The advantages of the social form of life consist in the security given to property and labour, and in associated action for the general wclfan’, but ge1wral military service destroys all this.

The taxes collected from the people for war preparations consume most of the production of labour that the army was intended to protect.

The tearing away of all men from their customary course of life infringes the possibility of labour itself.

The threat of war, ready to break out at any moment, renders all reforms of social life vain and useless.

In former times if a man were told that if he did not acknowledge the authority of the State he would be exposed to the attacks of evil men-domestic and foreign enemies-and would have to fight them himself and be liable to be murdered, and that therefore it was to his advantage to put up with some hardships to secure himself from such evils, he might well believe it, since the sacrifices he made for the State were only private sacrifices and afforded him the hope of a tranquil existence in a permanent State. But now when the sacrifices have heen increased tmfold, and not only this, but the promised advantages havC’ disappeared. it is natural for anyone to conclude that submission to authority is quite usdess.

But the fatal significance of universal military service as a manifestation of the contradiction inhC’rent in the social conception of life is not seen in that alone. The chid manifestation of this contradiction is contained in the fact that under universal military service every citizen, on being made a soldier, becomes a prop of the governmental organization and a participant in all thr things the government does-the rightness of which he dors not admit.

GoVl’rnments assert that armies are chil’Ay needed for external defence, but that is not true. Thry arc needed first of all against their own subjects, and l’vcry man who performs military service involuntarily becomes an ac- complicl’ in all thl’ acts of violence’ the governnll’nt inAicts on its subjects.

To convince onsclf of this one need only rl’nll’mber what things are done in every State in the name of order and public welfare and the execution of which always falls on the army. All thC’ civil outbreaks arising from dynastic or party reasons, all the executions following such disturbances, all the repressions of insurrection, and the employment of military forces to disperse nwetings and suppress strikes, all forcible collection of taXl’s, all unjust distribution of land, all the restrictions on labour-arc either carried out directly by the army or by the police supportl’d by the army. Anyone performing military ser- vi<“e shares n•sponsibility for all these things, about which he is in some cases dubious and which in many cases arc dirC’ctly opposed to his consciC’l Cl’. People arl’ unwilling to be ejl’cted from land thl’y ha\‘l’ cultivatC’d for generations, or are unwilling to displ•rsc wlll’n ordered to do so by the authorities, or thl’y an• unwilling to pay taxes demanded of them, or to acknowledge laws as binding on them when they have had no hand in making them, or to be dC’prived of their nationality-and I, ful6lling my military service, have to go and beat these men. Having to take part in these things how can I avoid asking myself whether they arc right, and whetlwr I ought to assist in carrying them out?

Universal military service is the last stage of violence that governments need for the maintenance of the whole structure, and it is the extreme limit to which submission on the part of their subjects can go. It is the keystone of the arch holding up the l’difice, and its removal would bring down the whole building.

The time has come when the ever-increasing misuse of their power by governments, and their mutual strife, has ll’d to their demanding such sacrifices (not only material but also moral) from their subjects, that every man has to reflect and ask himself: Can I make these sacrifices? And for whose sake must I make them? The sacriRces are demanded of me for the sake of the State. For its sake I am required to renounce all that can bl’ precious to man: tranquillity, family, security, and human dignity. What is this State for whose sake such terrible sacrifices are demanded? And why is it so absolutely nl’cessary?

‘The State’, they tell us, ‘is absolutdy necessary, first because without it we should have no protection from violence and the attack of evil men; secondly becausl’ except for the State we should he savages and have no religious, educational, commercial, or cultural institutions, or other public establishments, or roads of communication, and thirdly because without a State we should be subject to enslavement by neighbouring States.’

‘Without a State’, we are told, ‘we should also be subjec:t to violence and attacks from l’Vil men in our own country.’

But who arc these evil men in our midst from whose attacks and violence we are prl’served by the State and its army? If three or four centuries ago, when nwn boasted of their warlike prowess and weapons and when it was considered heroic to kill people, such evil men really did pxist; there are none now, for nobody to-day carries arms and all profess humane principles and sympathy for their neighbours, and wish-as we all do-for the possibility of a quiet and peaceful life. So that these special users of violence from whom the State must defend us arc no longer there. And if by people from whom the State saVl’s us Wl’ are to understand thosP who commit crinws, we know that they are not different creatures-like lll’asts of prey among sheep-but arc just such people as oursdves and no more naturally inclined to commit crimes than are those against whom they commit them.

We know that threats and violence cannot decrease till’ number of such people, hut that that can only be donl’ by a change of surroundings ancl by moral influenCl’. So that the justification of State violence on the ground of the defence it affords from thost’ who do violence, if it had any foundation three or four centuries ago, has none now. At present the contrary may rather be said: namely, that the action of the govcrnnll’nts with their cruel methods of punishment so far bcl1ind the ge11l’ral level of morality, with prisons, exiles, penal servitude, and guillotines, tends to brutalize till’ people rather than humanize them, and consl’Qlll’ntly to incn•ase rather than diminish the number of those who have resorted to violence.

‘Excl’pt for the State’, we arc also told, ‘we should have no religion, education, culture, or means of communication, and so on. Without the State pcople would bl’ unable to organize the social institutions Wl’ all need.’ But that argument could only have had a basis some centuries ago.

If there was a time when people were so disunited and the means of association and interchange of ideas were so little developed that they could not co-operate and agree together in any common affair, commercial, economic, or educational, without the State as a centre, such isolation no longer exists. The widely developed means of intercourse and interchange of ideas have made men quite able to form societies, associations, corporations, and learned, economic, and political institutions; and for men of our time in most cases the State hinders rather than helps the attainment of thesl’ objects.

Since the end of the eighteenth century almost every step in advance made by humanity has been hindered rather than encouraged hy governments. Such was the case with the abolition of corporal punishment, of torture, and of slavery, as well as the attainment of liberty of the press and the right of public meeting. In our day the governments, far from being an assistance arc actually a hindrance to the activities by which mm work out for themselves new forms of life. The solution of the problems relating to labour and land, as well as political and religious questions, arc not merely not helped but are directly hindered by the governmental authorities.

‘Without governments nations would be enslaved by their neighbours.’

It is scarcely necessary to refute that last argument. It contains its own refutation.

The government with its army, we are told, is necessary to defend us from neighbouring states. But that is what all governments say of one another, and yet e\·eryone knows that all the European nations profess the same principles of liberty and brotherhood and so are in no need of defence against themselves. And if they mean defence against barbarians, then a one-thousandth part of the troops now under arms would suffice. So it turns out that what actually happens is quite contrary to what is asserted. The power of the State, far from saving us from attacks by our neighbours, is on the contrary itself the cause of the danger of such attacks.

So that every man whose compulsory service forces him to reflect on the meaning of the State, for whose sake the sacrifice of his peace, his security, and sometimes his very life, is demanded, must see that there is now no justification for such a sacrifice.

But apart from the theoretical point of view, every man must sec that the sacrifices demanded by the State have no justification even from a practical standpoint. No man, weighing all the burdens laid on him by the State, can help seeing that compliance with its demands and acceptance of military service is in most cases less advantageous for him personally than refusal.

If most men choose to submit rather than refuse, that is not the result of a sober balancing of advantages and disadvantages, but because they arc induced to submit by the hypnotization to which they are subjected. When submitting they simply yield to the demands of the State without having to reflect or make any effort of will. Resistance calls for independent thought, and an effort of will of which not everyone is capable. But apart from the moral significance of compliance or non-compliance, and considering it merely from the standpoint of personal advantage, refusal will generally be more advantageous for a man than submission.

Whoever I may be, whether I bdong to the well-to-do dominating class or to the oppressed labouring class, the disadvantages of non-submission arc less and its advantages greater than those of submission.

If I belong to the dominating minority, the disadvantages of non-submission to the government’s demands will consist in my being tried for refusing to comply and at best I shall be discharged, or (as is done with the Mennonites in Russia) I shall be obliged to serve my time at some non-military work. At worst I shall be condemned to exile or imprisonment for two or three years (I speak from examples that have occurred in Russia), or possibly for an even longer term, or to death-though the probability of such a penalty is very small.

These are the disadvantages of non-submission. But the disadvantages of submission are these: at best I shall escape being sent to kill people and shall escape being myself exposed to great danger of being maimed or killed, and shall merely be enrolled into military slavery. I shall be dressed up like a clown and domineered over by every man above me in rank from a corporal to a field-marshal. I shall be forced to contort my body as they please, and after being kept from one to five years I shall for another ten years have to hold myself in readiness to be called up at any moment to go through all these things again. In the worst case I shall, in addition to all these conditions of slavery, be sent to war, where I shall be compelled to kill men of other nations who have done me no harm, and where I may be maimed or killed or (as happened in Sevastopol and as happens in every war) sent to certain death, or ( most terrible of all) be sent against my own countrymen and compelled to kill my brothers for dynastic or other reasons quite alien to me.

Such are the comparative disadvantages.

The comparative advantages of submission and nonsubmission are these:

For a man who submits, the advantages are that after enduring all the humiliations and performing all the cruelties demanded of him, he may if he is not killed receive a gaudy reel or gold decoration for his clown’s dress, and may even, if he is very fortunate. obtain command of hundreds of thousands of men as brutalized as himself, and be called field-marshal and reeeivc a lot of money.

The advantages of a man who refuses arc the preservation of his human dignity, the respect of good men, and above all the certainty that he is doing God’s work and so is indubitably doing good to his fellow-man.

Such are the advantages and disadvantages on both sides for a man of the oppressing, wealthy classes. For a man of the poor working class the advantages and disadvantages are the same, but with an important addition to the disadvantages. The disadvantages for a man of the labouring classes who has not refused military Service comprise also this, that by entering the military Sl’rvicc he by his participation and apparent approval, confirms the oppression to which he himself is subject.

But the question of the necessity of thl’ State or its abolition will not be clccidecl by reAections as to how necessary or unnecessary to men is the government they arc called on to support by their participation in military service, still less will it be decided by consideration of the advantages and disadvantages to each man of his submission or rejection of State demands. That question will be decided irrevocably and beyond appeal by the religious consciousness or conscience of (•very man who in connexion with universal military service has involuntarily to face the question of whether the State is to continue to exist or not..

**** II

The condition of Christian peoples to-day remains as cruel as it was in pagan times. In many respects, especially as to the oppression of men, it has become C’vcn more cruel than it was then.

But between the condition of men then and now, there is the same difference as between the last days of autumn and the first days of spring for plant life. In autumn the external lifelessness of Nature corresponds to its internal condition, but in spring it is in the sharpest contradiction to the inward condition of vitality and of its transition to a new form of life. The same is true of the external resemblance between ancient pagan life and the life of to-day. The resemblance is only external. The inward condition of men now is quite different from what it was in the days of paganism.

In pagan times the external condition of cruelty and slavery corresponded to men’s inner consciousness. and every forward movement increased this conformity. But now the external condition of cruelty and slavery is in complete contradiction to men’s Christian consciousness, and every step forward only increases the contradiction.

Sufferings are being endured that are, as it were, unnecessary and useless. What goes on resembles the pangs of childbirth. All is ready for the new life, but that new life still does not appear.

There seems to be no way out of the position. And there would be none if a man (and therefore all men) had not the possibility of reaching another, higher, understanding of life which at once freeS him from the bonds by which he seemed permanently fettered.

And such an understanding is the Christian view of life revealed to mankind cightel’ll hundred years ago.

A man need only make that understanding of life his own, and the fetters which secnwd to bind him so securely will drop off of themselves and he will feel himself perfectly free, as a bird fcl’ls itself free when it spreads its wings and flies over the fence b<sub>-</sub>v which it was surrounded.

People talk about emancipating the Christian Church from the State, about granting or not granting freedom to Christians. In all such thoughts and expressions there is some strange misconception. Freedom cannot be granted to or taken away from Christians. Freedom is their inalienable possession.

If we talk of giving freedom to Christians or withholding it from them, we are evidently not talking of real Christians but of people who arc such only in name. A Christian cannot but be free, because the attainment of the aim he sets before himself cannot he prevented or even hindered by anyone or anything.

A man has only to understand his life as Christianity teaches him to understand it-that is, he need only understand that his life docs not belong to himself or his family or the Stale but to Him who sl’llt him into the world, all(] that he must therefore fulfil not the law of his personality or family or State but the infinite law of Him from Whom he has eome-aml lw will feel himself absolutely free from all human authorities and will even cease to regard them as able to trammel anyone.

Let a man but realize that the purpose of his life is to fulfil the law of Cod, and that law will dominate him and supplant all other laws, and by its supreme dominion will in his eyes deprive all human laws of their right to command or restrict him.

A Christian is free from every human authority by the fact that he regards the divine law of love implanted in the soul of every man, and of which Christ has made us conscious, as the sole guide of his life and of the lives of others.

A Christian may suffer external violence, he may be deprived of bodily freedom, may not bP free from his passions (he that sins is the slave of sin ), but he cannot be in bondage in the sense of being forced by any threat of external harm to commit an action which is contrary to his conscience.

He cannot be forced in this way because the deprivations and sufferings inflicted by violence, which form a powerful instrument against men of the State conception of life, have for him no compulsory force. Deprivations and sufferings which take from men of the social lifc- conception the welfare for which they live cannot infringe the happiness of a Christian, which consists in consciousness of fulfilling the will of God, but when they are endured for the sake of fulfilling that will can only increase it.

And therefore a Christian is bound only by the inner and divine law and can 1wither obey the requirements of external laws when they are incompatible with the divine law of love of which he is conscious (as occurs with regard to governmental exactions) nor acknowledge an obligation to submit to any individual or institution or the duty of what is called allegiance. For a Christian tlw oath of allegiance to any government whatever-the very act that is considered the basis of political life-is the direct negation of Christianity. For the man who promises in advance unconditional obediPnce to all the laws which have been and will be enacted by certain men, by that very promise absolutely renounces Christianity which consists in exclusive and unconditional obedience to the divine law of love man is conscious of within himself.

It was possible under the pagan conception of life to promise obcdimce to the temporal authorities without infringing the will of God, which was supposed to consist in circumcision, keeping the Sabbath, fixed times for prayer, abstinence from certain kinds of food, and so on.

The one law did not contradict the other. But that is just the difference between Christianity and paganism- that Christianity docs not require certain external negative actions but sets man in a different relation to his fellows from which most various actions may result which cannot be defined in advance. And so a Christian cannot promise to do another person’s will without knowing what will be required of him, nor can he submit to transitory human laws or promise to do or abstain from doing any specified thing at any given time, for he cannot know what may be required of him at any time by that Christian law of love, obedience to which constitutes the purpose of his life. A Christian by promising unconditional obedience to the laws of men in advance, would indicate by that promise that the inner law of Cod does not constitute the sole law of his life.

For a Christian to promise obedience to men or to laws made by men is as though a workman, having hired himself out to one master, should at the same time promise to carry out any order given him by someone else. Man cannot serve two masters.

A Christian is independent of human authority because he only acknowledges the authority of Cod, whose law revealed by Christ he recognizes in himself and voluntarily obeys.

And this liberation is gained not by means of struggle, not by the destruction of existing forms, but only by a change in the understanding of life. A Christian recognizes the law of love revealed to him by his teacher, as perfectly sufficient for all human relations, and therefore regards all use of violence as unnecessary and wrong. He also, with his different conception of life, regards those deprivations, sufferings, or threats of deprivation and suffering, by which a man of the social conception of life is reduced to the necessity of obedience, merely as inevitable conditions of existence (like sickness, hunger, and all sorts of calamities ), which he patiently endures without forcible resistance, but not as anything that can serve as a guide for his actions. The only guide for a Christian<sup>’</sup>s actions is to be found in the divine principle that dwells within him, which cannot he checked or governed by anything else.

A Christian acts according to the prophetic words that were applied to his teacher: ‘He shall not strive nor cry; neither shall anv man hear his voice in the streets. A bruised recd shall he not break, and smoking flax shall he not quench, *till he send fort/1 ;udgment unto t>ictory.’* (Matt. xii. 19, 20.)

A Christian will not quarrel with anyone or attack anyone or use violence against anyone. On the contrary he will endurr violence. And by that very attitude towards violence he not only frees himself from all external power, but the world also.

‘Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.’ ( John viii. 32. ) If there were any doubt of Christianity being the truth, that prrfcct liberty which a man experiences as soon as he has assimilated the Christian understanding of life and which nothing can curtail, would be an indubitable proof of it.

!\.1en in their present condition are like a swarm of bees hanging from a branch in a duster. The position of the hecs on that branch is temporary and must inevitably be changed. They must bestir themselves and find a new dwelling. Each of till’ bees knows this and wishes to change its position and that of the others, but no one of them is willing to move till the rest do so. And the whole swarm cannot move at once because one bcl’ hangs on to anotlll’r and hinders it from separating from the swarm, and so they all continue to hang there. It would seem that there was no way out of this state for the bees, just as there seems no escape for worldly men who arc entan- glrd in the toils of the social conception of lifr. And there would he no escape for the bees if each of them were not a separate living creature possessing a pair of wings. Nor would there be any deliverance for men if each individual were not a separate living being endowed with capacity to assimilate the Christian life-conception. If each bee who could fly would not do so, the others too would not stir and the whole swarm would remain as it was. And if every man who has assimilated a Christian understanding of life waited for other people before beginning to live in accordance with that understanding, the condition of mankind would never be altered. Yet as it is enough for one bee to spread her wings, rise up and fly away, and a second, a third, a tenth, and a hundredth, will do the same and the cluster that hung inertly becomes a freely-flying swarm of bees; so let but one man understand life **as** Christianity teaches us to understand it, and begin to live accordingly, and a second, a third, and a hundredth will do the same, till the enchanted circle of social life from which there seemed to be no escape will be destroyed.

But people think that the deliverance of mankind by this means is too slow, and that they must discover and employ some other method by which to set all men free at once. It **is** as if the bees, wishing to start to fly away, should consider it too long a process to wait till the whole swarm started one by one, and that some method must be devised by which the whole swarm could fly where it wanted to go without its being necessary for each bee to spread its own wings separately and fly. But that is impossible. Until the first, second, third, and hundredth bee spreads its wings and flies away of its own accord, the swarm cannot fly off and find a new life. Until each individual man makes the Christian understanding of life his own and begins to live in accord with it, the contradiction in human life will not be solved nor will a new form of life hl’ establislwd ...

The secular powers have been brought by the course of life to this position, that for their maintenance they have to demand from all men actions which cannot be performed by men who cherish true Christianity.

And therefore at the present time every profession of true Christianity by any individual man saps the power of government in what is most essential to it, and inevitably conduces to the emancipation of all men.

What it would seem is there important in such an incident as the refusal of some dozens of ‘crazy’ (as they are called) men to take an oath of allegiance to the government, to pay taxes, or to take part in trials at law, or in military service? These people are punished and removed, and life goes on as before. It would seem that these incidents were of no importance, but yet it is just these things more than anything else that undermine the power of the State and prepare the way for man’s emancipation. These arc the individual bees who are bcginni,ng to detach themselves from the swarm, and hover around it waiting for what must soon happen-that is, for the whole swarm to rise and follow them. And the governments know this, and fear such incidents more than all the socialists, communists, and anarchists, with their plots and dynamite bombs.

A new reign is beginning.{1} According to the general rule and established order all subjects have to take an oath of allegiance to the government. General orders arc issued and all are bidden to assemble in the Cathedral to take the oath. Suddenly a man in Perm, another in Tula, a third in Moscow, and a fourth in Kaluga, declare that they will not take the oath, and without having consulted together they all explain their refusal in one and the same way, namely, that swearing is forbidden by the law of Christ, and that even if swearing were not forbidden, the spirit of the Christian law would prevent their promising to perform the evil actions demanded of them by the oath: such as informing against all those opposed to the interests of the government, defending their government by armed force, or attacking its enemies. They are brought before police officers, district police captains, priests, and governors. They are admonished, urged, threatened, and punished, but they hold to their resolution and do not take the oath. And among the millions who swear, there are some doZens who do not. And they arc questioned:

<sup>’</sup>How is it you didn’t take the oath?’

{1} Nicholas II ascended the throne in 1894, shorlly after this book was wrilten.-A.M.

‘I just didn’t.’

‘And didn’t anything happen?<sup>’</sup>

‘Nothing.’

The subjects of the State arc all bound to pay taxes. And they all pay, till on<· day a man in Kharkov, another in Tver, and a third in Samiira, refuse to, and again they all say the same things as if by agreement. One says he will only pay when he knows how the money he pays will be spent. ‘If it is for a good purpose,’ says he, ‘I will give of my own accord even more than is demanded of mC”.’ But if for evil purpose he will give nothing voluntarily because by the law of Christ, which he obeys, he cannot take part in evil deeds. The others say the same, though in different words, and will not voluntarily pay the taxes.

Those who have anything that can be takl’ll, have it taken from them by fore<”, while those who have nothing are left alone.

‘Well, didn’t you pay the tax?<sup>’</sup>

‘No.’

‘And did nothing happen?’

‘Nothing.’

Passports arc instituted. Everyone who ]eaves his place of rl’sidcncc has to tah• one and to pay a tax for it. Suddenly in various places people appear who say that passports should not be taken out, for they an• an acknowledgement of dependence on tlw State which exists by violence. And these people do not tak<” out passports or pay the tax on them. And again thl’rc is no way of obliging them to do what is rl’quired. They arc put in prison and let out again, and continu(• to Jivp without passports.

All the peasants arc bound to perform tlu• policl’ dutil’s of village constable and so on. Suddl’nly in Klu\rkov a peasant refuses to p(‘rform this duty, explaining his refusal on the ground that by tlw law of Christ which he olwys h(’ could not hind any man, or imprison him, or drag him from place to place. Tlw saml’ is announced by a peasant in Tver and another in Tamb<iv. Thesl’ peasants arc abused, bl’alen and put in prison, hut they hold to their resolution and do not do the things that are contrary to their convictions. And they arc not chosen to do police duty again, and again nothing happens.

All citizens have to take part as jurymen in the lawcourts. Suddenly people of different classes, carriagebuilders, professors, tradesmen, peasants, and gentlemen, as though by agreement refuse that duty, and not on grounds recognized by the law but because the law-courts themselves, according to their convictions, are wrong and unchristian and ought not to exist. These people arc fined -those in power trying not to allow them to explain their motives in public-and their places arc taken by others.{1} Others who on similar grounds refuse to appear as witnesses, are dealt with in just the same way. And again nothing can be done.

All young men at the age of twenty-one haVl’ to draw lots for military service. Suddenly one young man in Moscow, another in Tver, a third in Kharkov, and a fourth in Kiev, appear at the recruiting station and as if by previous agreement declare that they will not take the oath or serve, because they arc Christians. Hen• are details of one of the first of such cases since they recently became more frequent. It is a case well known to me. t Almost the same things happened in all the other cases.

At the Moscow Town Hall a young man of average education was refusing military service. No attention was paid to what he said and they demanded that he should pronounce the words of the oath like the others. He refused, pointing to the particular passage in the Gospels where swearing is forbidden. They paid no attention to his reasons and demanded compliance with the order, but he did not comply with it. Then it was assumed that he was a sectarian and therefore did not understand Christianity properly-that is to say, not as it is under_stood by_ priests in the pay of the government. And the young man was sent under escort to the priests to be admonished. The priests began to reason with him, but their efforts to persuade him to renounce Christ in Christ’s name evidently did not convince him and he was pronounced incorrigible and sent back to the army. He still did not take the oath and openly refused to perform military duties. Such a case had not been provided for by the laws. Hefusal to comply with the orders of the government cannot be allowed, but to treat such a case as a simple breach of discipline is also impossible. After deliberating among themselves the military authorities decided to get rid of this troublesome young man by treating him as a revolutionary, and they sent him under guard to the secret police. The police and gendarmes examined him, but nothing that he said fitted in with the crimes dealt with in their department and and there was no way of accusing him of revolutionary acts or conspiracy, as he declared that he did not wish to destroy anything, but on the contrary repudiated all violence, concealed nothing, and sought occasion to say and do everything in the most open manner. And the gendarmes, though they arc not restricted by the laws, found no reason to accuse the young man, and like the priests returned him to the army authorities.

{1} TolstOy had an experience of that kind himself in the autumn of 1883, when he was summonecl to serve as a juryman al a small town near Yasnaya Poly{rna, and refusecl to do so.-A.M.

{1} All the details of this case ancl of the preceding ones are anthentic.-L.T.

Again the commanders consulted together and decided to take the young man, though he had not taken the oath, and enroll him among the soldiers. He was put in uniform, allotted to a company, and sent under guard to army quarters. There the commander of the unit to which he had been assigned again required him to perform military duties. Again the young man refused, and in the presence of the other soldiers gave the reasons for his refusal, saying that as a Christian he could not voluntarily prepare himself to murder, which is forbidden even b<sub>·</sub>v the law of Moses.

The affair took place in a provincial town. It aroused interest and sympathy not only among outsiders but even among the officers, and so the commanders decided not to employ the disciplinary measures usual in cases of insubordination. For the sake of appearance however the young man was put in prison, and they wrote to the hi!(her military authorities asking what they were to do with him. From the official point of view a refusal to serve in the army, in which the Tsar himself serves and which is blessed by the Church, presents itself as insanity; and so they wrotl’ from Petersburg that as the young man must be out of his mind they should, without <·mploying severe measures against him, send him to an insane asylum for his ml’ntal condition to be inquired into and treatecl. Ik was sent to the asylum in the hope that he would remain then’, as had happl’necl ten years before in Ttila to another young man who rdusccl military service and who was ill-treated in a lunatic asylum till he submitted. But even this measure did not frel’ the military authorities from this inconwnient young man. The doctors examined him, were much interested by him, and as they naturally did not find any indications of mental derangement, they sent him hack to the army. There his superiors received him and, as if thl’y had forgotten about his refusal and its motivl’, hl’ was again told to go to drill and again refused in th!’ prl’sencc of the othl’f soldiers, and stated thl’ reasons of his refusal.

The affair attractl’cl increasing attention both among the soldiers and thl’ inhabitants of the town. Again they wrote to Petersburg, and from there recl’ivl’d a decision to transfer tlw young man to a regiment stationed on the frontier, where thl’ army was on a war footing and he could be shot for a refusal to obey, and where moreover such a thing could pass without attracting attention, as in that distant wgion there were frw Russians and Christians, the local inhabitants being chieffy natives and Mohammedans. So it was done. Thl’ young man, in company with a party of convicts, was transfcrrl’cl to a division stationed in the Transcaspian district and commanded by an offic:cr known for his harshness and severity.

All that time, during all thesl’ transportations from place to place, the young man was treated roughly, kept in cold, hunger, and dirt, and in all ways his life was made a torment to him. But these sufferings did not make him change his decision. In the Transcaspian Territory, where he was again ordered to go on guard, he again declined to obey. He did not refuse to go and stand beside some haystacks where he was sent, but refused to carry a weapon, declaring that in no cast’ would he use violence against anyone. All this took place in the presence of other soldiers. To let such a refusal pass unpunished was impossible, and the young man was put on trial for breach of discipline. The trial took place and he was sentenced to confinement in a military prison for two years. Again he was sent under convoy with a party of convicts to the Caucasus, and there he was put in prison and came under the irresponsible power of the gaoler. He was tormented for a year and a half, but still did not alter his decision not to bear arms, and explained why he would not do this to everyone with whom he came in contact, and towards the end of the second year he was set free before his term was up, those in authority accounting his confinement in prison as military service (contrary to the law) and anxious only to get rid of him as quickly as possible.

In just the same way as if by preconcerted agreement other men in different parts of Russia act in the same way, and in all these cases the government behaves in a similarly timorous, undecided, and secretive manner.

Some of these people are sent to insane asylums, some are enrolled as clerks and transferred to service in Siberia, some arc sent to labour in the forests, some arc shut up in prison, and some arc fined. And at the present time some such men, who have refused, are in prison not for their main offence-that is, denying the legality of the actions of the government-but for non-fulfilment of special demands made by the authorities. Thus not long ago an officer of the reserve who did not report a change of residence, and who declared that he would not serve in the army again, was fined thirty rubles for noncompliance with the authorities’ order-a fine he also declined to pay voluntarily. And similarly some peasants and soldiers who recently refused to be drilled and to bear arms were placed under arrest for breach of discipline and for answering their superiors.

And such cases of refusal to comply with State demands that arc contrary to Christianity, and especially of refusals of milita1y service, occur of late not only in Russia but everywhere.

Thus I happen to know that in Serbia men of the so- calk·d sect of Nazarenes steadily refuse military service, and the Austrian Government for some years has struggled with thl’m in vain, punishing them with imprisonment.{1} In 1885 there were a hundred and thirtv such cases. In Switzerland I know that in the eighteen <sup>^</sup>ighties there were men incarcerated in the castk of Chillon for refusal of military service, and their resolution had not been shaken by their punishnwnt. Similar refusals have occurred in Sweden, and in just the same way the men who refused obedience were sent to prison and the government carefully concealed thl’ matter from the public. There were similar cases also in Prussia. I know of a non-commissioned officer of the Guards who, in 1891, announced to the authorities in Berlin that he, as a Christian, would not continue to serve, and despite all admonitions, thn·ats, and punishments, he held to his resolution. In the south of France a community has arisen called the Hinschists ( this information 1 take from *The Peace Herald* of July 1891 ) the members of which refuse military service on the ground of their Christian principles. At first they were sent to serve in the hospitals, but now, as their numbers increase, they undergo punishment for insubordination, but they still do not take arms.

The socialists, communists, and anarchists, with their bombs, riots, and revolutions, are not nearly so much dreaded by governments as these scattered individuals in various countries all justifying their refusals on the ground of one and the same familiar doctrine. Every government knows how and with what to defend itself against revolutionaries, and has the means of doing so, and therefore does not dread these external foes. But what arc governments to do against these people who show the uselessness, superffuity, and harmfulness of all governments, and instead of contending with them merely show that they do not need them, that they can get along without them and therefore are unwilling to take part in them?

{1} Tolstby’s statement is not quite clear; hut the facts arr that Serbia thoug:h not actually under Austrian rule was much umlPr its influence, and there were also many Slav Nazarenes in Austria.- A.^!.

The revolutionaries say: ‘The government organization is bad in this and that respect. It must be destroyed and replaced by this and that.’ But a Christian says: ‘I know nothing about the governmental organization or in how far it is good or bad, and for that reason I do not wish to overthrow it, but for the same reason I do not want to support it. And I not only do not want to, but I cannot, because what it demands of me is against my conscience.’

And all the State obligations are against the conscience of a Christian: the oath of allegiance, taxes, law proceedings, and military service. And the whole power of the government rests on these very obligations.

The revolutionary enemies attack the government from outside. But Christianity does not attack it at all, it destroys the foundation of government from within.

Among the Russian people, especially since the time of Peter I, the protest of Christianity against the government has never ceased, and the social organization has been such that people migrate in whole communities to Turkey, to Cltina, and to uninhabited districts, and not only need no government but always regard it as an unnecessary burden only to be endured as an affiiction, whether it be Turkish, Russian, or Chinese. Among these Russian people, cases of conscious self-emancipation on Christian grounds from subjection to the State occur of late more and more frequently.

These occurrences have become more and more alarmingly frequent, and are feared by the government now because the refusers are often not members of the so- called lower uneducated classes but are men of fair or higher education, and because they do not explain their refusals by any mystical and exceptional beliefs, as used to be the case, and do not connect them with different superstitions and fanaticisms as is done by the Russian sects of self-immolators and ‘Fugitives’ ( Beguni), but present very clear and simple reasons for their refusal, understandable and recognized as true by everybody.

So they refuse voluntary payment of taxes, because taxes are spent on deeds of violcnce, on the pay of users of violence, on the military, and on building prisons, fortresses, and cannon. As Christians they regard it as sinful and immoral to take part in such affairs. Those who refuse to take the oath of allegiance do so because to promise obedience to the authorities ( that is, to men who employ violence) is contrary to the sense of the Christian teaching. Those who refuse to take the oath in the lawcourts do so because oaths are plainly forbidden in the Gospels. They refuse to fulfil police duties because those duties require them to use violence against their fellowmen and to ill-treat them-things a Christian cannot do. They refuse to take part in trials at law because they consider all prosecutions a fulfilment of the law of vengeance and incompatible with the Christian law of forgiveness and love. They refuse to take any part in preparations for war or in the army, because they do not wish to be, and cannot be, executioners, and arc unwilling to prepare themselves to be such.

The motives in all these cases arc such that however despotic governments may be they cannot openly inffict punishments for them. To punish such refusals it would be necessary for the governments themselves finally to renounce reason and goodness-in whose name they assure people they rule.

What are governments to do against such people?

They can of course crush, execute, or keep in perpetual imprisonment or in convict settlements an enemies who wish to overthrow them by violence, can bribe and lavish gold on the people they need, and can keep in subjection to themselves millions of armed men prepared to destroy all their enemies. But what can they do against men who, not wishing to destroy anything, simply wish for their part, for their own life, to do nothing contrary to the law of Christ, and therefore refuse to perform the most ordinary (and therefore for the governments the most indispensable) duties?

If these men were revolutionaries, advocating and practising violence and murder, it would be easy to resist them: some of them could be bought over, some duped, and some terrorized, while those who could neither be bought, duped, nor terrorized, could be exposed as evildoers and enemies of society and forthwith imprisoned or executed-and people would approve the action of the government. If they were fanatics preaching some peculiar doctrine, it might be possible, while refuting the superstitious errors mixed up in their teaching, to discredit also the truth they professed, But what is to be done with men who neither advocate revolution nor preach any peculiar religious dogmas, but simply because they do not wish to harm any man refuse to take oaths, pay taxes, take part in legal proceedings, or serve in the army-- bligations on which the whole fabric of the State rests? What is to be done with such men? They cannot be bought over, the risks to which they voluntarily expose themselves prove their disinterestedness, To dupe them into believing that these things are required by God is also impossible, for their refusal is based on the clear and indubitable law of God, professed even by those who try to compel men to act contrary to that law. To terrify them by threats is still more impossible because the privations and sufferings they will be subjected to for their belief only strengthens their desire to proclaim it, and in their law it is plainly said that man should obey God rather than men and should fear not those who can kill the body but Him who can destroy both the body and the soul. To kill these people or keep them in perpetual confinement is also impossible. They have a past and they have friends, and their way of thinking and acting is well known. Everybody knows them to be gentle, good, peaceable people, and it is impossible to pronounce them evil-doers who must be removed for the safety of society. And to execute men everybody knows to be good causes others to take their part and to explain their refusal. And it is only necessary to explain the reasons why these Christians refuse to fulfil the governments’ requirements, to make it plain to everyone that those reasons apply equally to all men, and that they all ought long ago to have done the same.

Faced by the refusals of Christians, the ruling powers find themselves in a desperate position. They see that the prophecy of Christianity is coming to pass-that it is breaking the bonds of the captives and setting free those who arc in bondage, and they realize that this deliverance must inevitably be the end of those who hold mankind in bondage. The ruling authorities sec this and know that their hours are numbered, but cannot help themselves. All they can do for their safety is to postpone the hour of their ruin. And this they do, but still their position is desperate.

The position of the governments is like that of a conqueror who wishes to preserve a city set on fire by its own inhabitants.{1} As soon as he extinguishes the fire in one place it is alight again in two others; as soon as he separates the burning portion of a building from the rest of the edifice, the same building starts burning from both ends. These separate fires may as yet be few, but they burn with a flame which, starting from small sparks, will not be extinguished till everything has been consumed.

And now, when the governments, faced by people who profess Christianity, find themselves in such a defenceless position, and but little is needed for all this apparently majestic power built up through so many centuries to crumble away-social reformers are busy teaching that it is not only unnecessary but even harmful and immoral for each man separately to free himself from this slavery!

It is as if one set of men, wishing to free a dammed-up river, had worked hard and dug a canal, and all that remained was to open the flood-gates and let the water do the rest, when another set of people came along and began advising them that instead of releasing the water it would be much better to construct a machine with buckets, which would bale the water out on one side and pour it into the same river again on the other.

{1} Tolst6y evidently had in mind lhe fate of Moscow when captured by Napoleon in 1812.-A.M.

But things have already gone too far. The governments already feel their weakness and defencelessness and men of Christian conciousness are awakening from their apathy and already begin to feel their strength.

‘I am come to send fire on the earth,’ said Christ, ‘and how I am straitened till it is kindled.’”

And this lire is beginning to bum.

{1} The allusion is evidently to Luke xii. 49–50, but the Russian translation, as often happens, is not identical with our Authorized Version.-A.M.

** Part II. THE MIND OF THE ANARCHIST: Memoirs and Autobiographies

<quote>
*We do not build, we destroy; we do not proclaim a new revelation, we eliminate the old lie. Modern man, that melancholy Pontifex Maximus, only builds a bridge -it will be for the unknown man of the future to pass over it. You may be there to see him ...But do not, I beg, remain on this shore ... Belter to perish with the revolution than to seek refuge in the almshouse of reaction.*

*-Alexander Herzen, From the Other Shore*
</quote>

Doctrines and ideals make up only one side of the history of anarchism. In order to become a living creed, anarchism had to be taken up by individuals who not only accepted its doctrines but set out to implement them. With its stress on individual liberation and its belief in the efficacy of individual action, anarchism attracted more than its share of strong and colorful personalities for whom anarchism was a way of life as well as a social philosophy. Their character and behavior constitute the human dimension of anarchism through which it became an active historical force.

What kinds of people became anarchists? One way of approaching their psychology is through the medium of fiction. Because anarchists often led highly adventurous lives they formed ready subjects for novels such as Henry james’s *The Princess Casamassima* and Joseph Conrad’s *The Secret Agent.* Fictional works, however, tend to concentrate on the more sensational aspects of anarchism and cannot be relied upon to give an accurate and well-balanced picture of its adherents. Nor is that their purpose: the characters created by a James or a Conrad are designed to give us insight into the universal traits of human nature rather than the specific traits of anarchists. The latter purpose is best served by autobiographical works in which individuals trace their personal growth and try to explain their beliefs and motivations. These explanations, of course, must be examined critically, but they provide a rich stock of information on which we can base our own interpretations of the psychology of their authors.

The risks to life and limb that many anarchist activists took enriched fiction but seriously decreased their output of autobiographies, for they often failed to survive long enough to write them. But the four works presented here are sufficient to indicate that their personalities were as varied as the theories of their philosophical mentors. The implacability of an Alexander Berkman, for instance, seems worlds apart from the warm humanitarianism of a Peter Kropotkin. Yet in all four cases there was an intimate connection between their life experiences and the anarchist ideals they adopted. What each one reveals as he describes his development is a keen sense of individuality combined with a deeply personal sense of injustice, feelings which ultimately found expression in his particular interpretation of anarchism.

*** Memoirs of a Revolutionist

Peter Kropotkin: The “Repentant Nobleman”

The Russian revolutionary movement of the nineteenth century attracted a number of individuals who came to be known as “repentant noblemen.” These were men (and women) of wealth and rank who, conscience-stricken, renounced their privileges in order to devote their lives to the cause of the people. The most outstanding example of this type was Peter Kropotkin, who started life as the heir of an ancient and distinguished princely family and died the dean of European anarchists. In his memoirs Kropotkin describes his social origins and the considerations that led him to repudiate them, thus shedding some light on the motivations of the many anarchists who came from comfortable backgrounds.

Kropotkin was educated at the Corps of Pages, an exclusive school for young nobles in St. Petersburg whose students served as attendants at the imperial court. Upon graduation he was assured of a brilliant military career. But he was repelled by the prospect of a life of parade drills and balls, and much to the distress of his father he chose to join a remote and lowly Cossack regiment in Siberia. There he explored and mapped large areas of eastern Siberia and also served in the government administration, which was then implementing the various reforms that followed the serf emancipation of 1861. Disillusioned by his experiences in the tsarist bureaucracy he returned to St. Petersburg and embarked on a new career as a geographer and geologist. Just as he was on the verge of recognit1on and success he renounced the life of a scholar and turned instead to the revolutionary activities that were to occupy him for the rest of his life. The passages from his memoirs below highlight some of the experiences and impressions of his early years that foreshadowed this momentous turning point in his life.

In the early 1870s Kropotkin joined a revolutionary group in St. Petersburg. He was arrested, made a daring escape from a prison hospital, and fled abroad, intending to return to Russia shortly. Instead, he was to remain an emigre for more than forty years. He eventually settled in England and devoted himself to the elaboration of his anarchist theories and to the international anarchist movement. By the time the Revolution of 1917 permitted him to return to Russia he no longer exerted any real influence in revolutionary circles-partly because of age and poor health, and partly because the respect he had acquired for West European democracy during his long years in its midst led him to support the Allied side in the war when most anarchists were taking a pacifist position. Nevertheless, he remained widely revered as a moral figure, so much so that like Tolstoy under the tsars he was left unmolested by the Bolsheviks. Emma Goldman’s vivid description of Kropotkin in his last days appears later in this volume.

Kropotkin’s personal example was one of his foremost contributions to anarchism. As Rudolf Rocker wrote, “There was no cleavage between the man and his work. He spoke and acted in all things as he felt and believed and wrote.” All who :net him found him as generous and compassionate as his social doctrines, and even those who disagreed with him drew inspiration from his sincerity and moral integrity.

As a result of his long sojourn in England Kropotkin became fluent in the English language, and when an American magazine asked to publish his memoirs he was able lo write them directly in English. They were first published in the *Atlantic Monthly* and then reprinted in book form. The selections here are from *Memoirs* of a *Revolutionist* (Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1899), pages 1–20, 49–60, 168–73, 179–81, 215–17, 224, 234–41. There is a biography of Kropotkin by George Woodcock and Ivan Avakumo- vic, *The Anarchist Prince: A Biographical Study* of *Peter Kropotkin* (London and New York, 1950).

Moscow is a city of slow historical growth, and down to the present time its different parts have wonderfully well retained the features which have been stamped upon them in the slow course of history. The Trans-Moskva River district, with its broad, sleepy streets and its monotonous gray-painted, low-roofed houses, of which the entrance-gates remain securely bolted day and night, has always been the secluded abode of the merchant class, and the stronghold of the outwardly austere, formalistic, and despotic Nonconformists of the “Old Faith.” The citadel, or Kreml, is still the stronghold of church and state; and the immense space in front of it, covered with thousands of shops and warehouses, has been for centuries a crowded beehive of commerce, and still remains the heart of a great internal trade which spreads over the whole surface of the vast empire. The Tverskaya and the Smiths’ Bridge have been for hundreds of years the chief centres for the fashionable shops; while the artisans’ quarters, the Pluschikha and the Dorogomilovka, retain the very same features which characterized their uproarious populations in the times of the Moscow Tsars. Each quarter is a little world in itself; each has its own physiognomy, and lives its own separate life. Even the rail- ways-when they made an irruption into the old capital -grouped apart in special centres on the outskirts of the old town their stores and machine-works, their heavily loaded carts and engines.

However, of all parts of Moscow, none, perhaps, is more typical than that labyrinth of clean, quiet, winding streets and lanes which lies at the back of the Kreml, between two great radial streets, the Arbat and the Pre- chistenka, and is still called the Old Equerries’ Quarter, -the Staraya Konyushennaya.

Some fifty years ago, there lived in this quarter, and slowly died out, the old \loscow nobility, whose names were so frequently mentioned in the pages of Russian history before the times of Peter I., but who subsequently disappeared to make room for the newcomers, “the men of all ranks,” called into service by the founder of the Russian state. Feeling themselves supplanted at the St. Petersburg court, these nobles of the old stock retired either to the Old Equerries’ Quarter in Moscow, or to their picturesque estates in the country round about the capital, and they looked with a sort of contempt and secret jealousy upon the motley crowd of families which came “from no one knew where” to take possession of the highest functions of the government, in the new capital on the banks of the Neva.

In their younger days, most of them had tried their fortunes in the service of the state, chiefly in the army; but for one reason or another they had soon abandoned it, without having risen to high rank. The more successful ones obtained some quiet, almost honorary position in their mother city,-my father was one of these,-whilc most of the others simply retired from active service. But wheresoever they might have been shifted, in the course of their careers, over the wide surface of Russia, they always somehow managed to spend their old age in a house of their own in the Old Equerries’ Quarter, under the shadow of the church where they had been baptized, and where the last prayers had been pronounced at the burial of their parents.

New branches budded from the old stocks. Some of them achieved more or less distinction in different parts of Russia; some owned more luxurious houses in the new style in other quarters of Moscow or at St. Petersburg; but the branch which continued to reside in the Old Equerries’ Quarter, somewhere near to the green, thC’ yellow, the pink, or the brown church which was endeared through family associations, was considered as the true representative of the family, irrespective of the position it occupied in the family tn•e. Its old-fashioned head was treated with great respect, not devoid, I must say, of a slight tinge of irony, even by those younger representatives of the same stock who had left their mother city for a more brilliant career in the St. Petersburg Guard or in the court circles. He personified for them the antiquity of the family and its traditions.

In these quiet streets, far away from the noise and bustle of the commercial Moscow, all the houses had much the same appearance. They were mostly built of wood, with bright green sheet-iron roofs, the exteriors stuccoed and decorated with columns and porticoes; all were painted in gay colors. Nearly every house had but one story, with seven or nine big, gay-looking windows facing the street. A second story was admitted only in the back part of the house, which looked upon a spacious yard, surrounded by numbers of small buildings, used as kitchens, stables, cellars, coach-houses, and as dwellings for the retainers and servants. A wide gate opened upon this yard, and a brass plate on it usually bore the inscription, “House of So and So, Lieutenant or Colonel, and Commander,”-very seldom “Major-General” or any similarly elevated civil rank. But if a more luxurious house, embellished by a gilded iron railing and an iron gate, stood in one of those streets, the brass plate on the gate was sure to bear the name of “Commerce Counsel” or “Honorable Citizen” So and So. These were the intruders. those who came unasked to settle in this quarter, and were therefore ignored by their neighbors.

No shops were allowed in these select streets, except that in some small wooden house, belonging to the parish church, a tiny grocer’s or greengrocer’s shop might have been found; but then, the policeman<sup>’</sup>s lodge stood on the opposite comer, and in the daytime the policeman himself, armed with a halberd, would appear at the door to salute with his inoffensive weapon the officers passing by, and would retire inside when dusk came, to employ himself either as a cobbler, or in the manufacture of some special snuff patronized by the elder mak• servants of the neighborhood.

Life went on quietly and peacefully-at least for the outsider-in this Moscow Faubourg Saint-Germain. In the morning nobody was seen in the streets. About midday the children made their appearance under the guidance of French tutors and GPrman nurses who took them out for a walk on the snow-covered boulevards. Later on in the day the ladies might be seen in their two-horSe sledges, with a valet standing behind on a small plank fastened at the end of the runners, or ensconced in an old-fashioned carriage, immense and high, suspended on big curved springs and dragged by four horses, with a postilion in front and two valets standing behind. In the evening most of the houses were brightly illuminated, and, the blinds not being drawn down, the passers-by could admire the card-players or the waltzers in the saloons. “Opinions” were not in vogue in those days, and we were yet far from the years when in Pach one of these houses a struggle began between “fathers and sons,”-a struggle that usually ended Pither in a family tragedy or in a nocturnal visit of the state police. Fifty years ago nothing of the sort was thought of; all was quiet and smooth,-at least on the surface.

In this old Equl’l’ries’ Quarter I was born in 1842, and here I passed the first .fifteen years of my life. Even after our father had sold the house in which our mother died, and bought another, and when again he had sold that house, and we spent several winters in hired houses, until he had found a third one to his taste, within a stone’s throw of the church where he had been baptized, we still remained in the Old Equerries’ Quarter, leaving it only during the summer to go to our country-scat.

A high, spacious bedroom, the corner room of our house, with a white bed upon which our mother is lying, our baby chairs and tables standing close by, and the neatly served tablt’s covered with sweets and jellies in pretty glass jars,-a room into which we children are ushered at a strange hour,-this is the first half-distinct reminiscence of my life.

Our mother was dying of consumption; she was only thirty-five years old. Before parting with us forever, she had wished to have us by ht’r side, to caress us, to feel happy for a moment in our joys, and she had arranged this little treat by the side of her bed, which she could leave no more. I remember her pale thin face, her large, dark brown eyes. She looked at us with love, and invited us to eat, to climb upon her bed; then all of a sudden she burst into tt’ars and began to cough, and we were told to go.

Some time after, we children-that is, my brother Alexander and myself-were removed from the big house to a small side house in the court-yard. The April sun filled the little rooms with its rays, but our German nurse, Madame Burman, and Uliana our Russian nurse, told us to go to bed. Their faces wet with tears, they were sewing for us black shirts fringed with broad white tassels. We could not sleep: the unknown frightened us, and we listened to their subdued talk. They said something about our mother which we could not understand. We jumped out of our beds, asking, “Where is mamma? Where is mamma?

Both of them burst into sobs, and began to pat our curly heads, calling us “poor orphans,” until Uliana could hold out no longer, and said, “Your mother is gone there, -to the sky, to the angels.”

“How to the sky? Why?” our infantile imagination in vain demanded.

This was in April, 1846. I was only three and a half years old, and my brother Sasha not yet five. Where our elder brother and sister, Nicholas and Helene, had gone I do not know: perhaps they were already at school. Nicholas was twelve years old, Helene was eleven; they kept together, and we knew them but little. So we remained, Alexander and I, in this little house, in the hands of \1adame B{mnan and Uliana. The good old German lady, homeless and absolutely alone in the wide world, took toward us the place of our mother. She brought us up as well as she could, buying us from time to time some simple toys, and over-feeding us with ginger cakes when ever another old German, who uspd to sell such cakcs,-probably as homeless and solitary as llerself,- paid an occasional visit to our house. **\i\Tp** seldom saw our father, and the next two years passed without leaving any impression on my memory.

Our father was very proud of the origin of his family, and would point with solPmnity to a piece of parchment which hung on a wall of bis study. It was decorated with our arms,-the arms of the principality of Smolensk covered with the ermine mantle and the crown of the Mo- nom:ichs,-and then· was written on it, and certified by the Heraldry Department, that our family originated with a grandson of Rostishiv Mstisl{1vkh the Bold (a name familiar in Russian history as that of a Grand Prince of Kieff), and that our ancestors had bcPn Grand Princes of Smolensk.

“It cost me three hundred rubles to obtain that parchment,” our father used to say. Likl· most people of his generation, he was not much versed in Russian history, and valued the parchment more for its cost than for its historical associations.

As a matter of fact, our family is of very ancient origin indeed; but, like most dcscPndants of Rurik who may be regarded as representative of the feudal period of Russian history, it was driven into the background when that period ended, and the Romanolfs, enthroned at Moscow, began the work of consolidating the Hussian state. In recent times, none of the Krop6tkins seem to have had any special liking for state functions. Our great-grandfather and grandfather both retired from the military service when quite young men, and hastened to return to their family estates. It must also be said that of these estates the main one, Urt1sovo, situated in the government of Ryazan, on a high hill at the border of fertile prairies, might tempt any one by the beauty of its shadowy forests, its winding rivers, and its endless meadows. Our grandfather was only a lieutenant when he left the service, and retired to Urusovo, devoting himself to his estate, and to the purchase of other estates in the neighboring provinces.

Probably our generation would have done the same; but our grandfather married a Princess Gagarin, who belonged to a quite different family. Her brother was well known as a passionate lover of the stag<·. He kept a private theatre of his own, and went so far in his passion as to marry, to the scandal of all his relations, a serf,- the genial actress Semy6nova, who was one of the creators of dramatic art in Russia, and undoubtedly one of its most sympathetic figures. To the horror of “all Moscow,” she continued to appear on the stage.

I do not know if our grandmother had the same artistic and literary tastes as her brothcr,-I remember her when she was already paralyzed and could speak only in whispers; but it is certain that in the next generation a leaning toward literature became a characteristic of our family. One of the sons of the Princess Gagarin was a minor Russian poet, and issued a book of poems,-a fact which my father was ashamed of and always avoided mentioning; and in our own generation several of our cousins, as well as my brother and myself, have contributed more or less to the literature of our period.

Our father was a typical officer of the time of Nicholas I. Not that he was imbued with a warlike spirit or much in love with camp life; I doubt whether he spent a single night of his life at a bivouac fire, or took part in one battle. But under Nicholas I. that was of quite secondary importance. The true military man of those times was the officer who was enamored of the military uniform, and utterly despised all other sorts of attire; whose soldiers were trained to perform almost superhuman tricks with their legs and riffes (to break the wood of the riffe into pieces while “presenting arms” was one of those famous tricks ); and who could show on parade a row of soldiers as perfectly aligned and as motionless as a row of toy-soldiers. “Very good,” the Grand Duke Mikhael said once of a regiment, after having kept it for one hour presenting arms,-“only, *they breatlie!”* To respond to the then current conception of a military man was certainly. our father’s ideal.

True, he took part in the Turkish campaign of 1828; but he managed to remain all the time on the staff of the chief commander; and if we children. taking advantage of a moment when he was in a particularly good temper, asked him to tell us something about the war, he had nothing to tell but of a fierce attack of hundreds of Turkish dogs which one night assailed him and his faithful servant, Fro!, as they were riding with dispatches through an abandoned Turkish village. They had to use swords to extricate themselves from the hungry beasts. Bands of Turks would assuredly have better satisfied our imagination, but we accepted the dogs as a substitute. When, however, pressed by our c1uestions, our father told us how he had won the cross of Saint Anne “for gallantry,” and the golden sword which he wore, I must confess we felt really disappointed. His story was decidedly too prosaic. The officers of the general staff were lodged in a Turkish village, when it took fire. In a moment the houses were enveloped in flames, and in one of them a child had been left behind. Its mother uttered despairing cries. Thereupon, Fro!, who always accompanied his master, rushed into the flames and saved the child. The chief commander, who saw the act, at once gave father the cross for gallantry.

“But, father,” we exclaimed, “it was Fro! who saved the child!”

“What of that?” replied he, in the most naive way. “Was he not my man? It is all the same.”

He also took some part in the campaign of 1831, during the Polish Revolution, and in \<Varsaw he made the acquaintance of, and fell in love with, the youngest daughter of the commander of an army corps, General Sulima. The marriage was celebrated with great pomp, in the Lazienki palace; the lieutenant-governor, Count Paskiewich, acting as nuptial godfather on the bridl’- groom’s side. “But your mothl’r,” our father used to add, “brought me no fortune whatever.”

This was true. Her father, Nikolai Semv6novich Sulima, was not versed in the art of making a career or a fortune. He must have had in him too much of the blood of those Cossacks of the Dnycpef, who knew how to fight the well-equipped, warlike Poles or armies of the Turks, three times more than themselves, but km•w not how to avoid the snares of the Moscow diplomacy, and, after having fought against the Poles in till’ terrible insurrection of 1648, which was the beginning of the end for the Polish rl’public, lost all their liberties in falling under the dominion of the Russian Tsars. One Sulima was captured by the Poles and tortured to death at Warsaw, but the other “colonels” of the same stock only fought the more fiercely on that account, and Poland lost Little Russia. As to our grandfather, during Napoleon L’s invasion he had cut his way, at the head of his regimmt of cuirassiers, into a French infantry squarl’ bristling with bayonets, and after having been ldt for ckad on till’ battlefi<·ld, had recovered with a deep cut in his head; but Ill’ could not become a valet to the favorite of All’xander I., the omnipotent Arakehceff, and was consequently sent into a sort of honorary exile, first as a governor-getll’ral of West Siberia, and later of East Sihl’fia. In those times such a position was consickred more lucrative than a gold mine, but our grandfatlll’r returned from Siberia as poor as he Wl’nt, and left only modest fortunes to his three• sons and three daughters. When I went to Sibl’ria, in 1862, I often heard his name mentioned with respect. He was driven to despair by the wholesale stealing which went on in those provinces, and which he had no mpans to repress.

Our mother was undoubtedly a remarkahll’ woman for the times she lived in. Many years after her death, I discovered, in a corner of a store-room of our countryhouse, a mass of papl’rs cowrl’d with her firm but pretty handwriting: diaries in which she wrote with delight of the scenery of Germany, and spoke of her sorrows and her thirst for happiness; books which she had filled with Russian verses, prohibited by ccnsorship,-among them the beautiful historical ballads of Ryleeff, the poet, whom Nicholas I. hanged in 1826; other books containing music, French dramas, verses of Lamartine, and Byron’s poems that she had copied; and a great number of water-color paintings.

Tall, slim, adorned with a mass of dark chestnut hair, with dark brown eyes and a tiny mouth, she looks quite lifelike in a portrait in oils that was painted *con amore* by a good artist. Always lively and often careless, she was fond of dancing, and the peasant women in our village would tell us how she would admire from a balcony their ring-dances,-slow and full of grace,-and how finally she would herself join in them. She had the nature of an artist. It was at a ball that she caught the cold that produced the inflammation of the lungs which brought her to the grave.

All who knew her loved her. The servants worshiped her memory. It was in her name that Madame Burman took care of us, and in her name the Russian nurse bestowed upon us her love. While combing our hair, or signing us with the cross in our beds, Uliana would often say, “And your mamma must now look upon you from the skies, and shed tears on seeing you, poor orphans.” Our whole childhood is irradiated by her memory. How often, in some dark passage, the hand of a servant would touch Alexander or me with a caress; or a peasant woman, on meeting us in the fields, would ask, “Will you be as good as your mother was? She took compassion on us. You will, surely.” “Us” meant, of course, the serfs. I do not know what would have become of us if we had not found in our house, among the serf servants, that atmosphere of love which children must have around them. We were her children, we bore likeness to her, and they lavished their care upon us, sometimes in a touching form, as will be seen later on.

Men passionately desire to live after death, but they often pass away without noticing the fact that the memory of a really good person always lives. It is impressed upon the next generation, and is transmitted again to the children. Is not that an immortality worth striving for?

Two v<sub>.</sub> cars after the death of our mother our father married again. He had already cast his eyes upon a nice- looking young person, who belonged to a wealthy family, when the fates decided anotlwr way. One morning, while he was still in his dressing-gown, the servants rushed madly into his room, announcing the arrival of General Timofecff, the commander of the sixth army corps, to which our father belonged. This favorite of Nicholas I. was a terrible man. He would order a soldier to be flogged almost to death for a mistake made during a parade, or he would degrade an officer and send him as a private to Siberia because he had met him in the street with the hooks of his high, stiff collar unfastened. With Nicholas General Timofeeff’s word was all-powerful.

The general, who had never before been in our house, came to propose to our father to marry his wife’s niece, Mademoiselle Elisabeth Karandin6, one of several daughters of an admiral of the Black Sea llcet,-a young lady with a classical Greek profile, said to have been very beautiful. Father accepted, and his second wedding, like the first, was solemnized with pomp.

“You young people understand nothing of this kind of thing,” he said in conclusion, after having told me the story more than once, with a very line humor which I will not attempt to reproduce. “But do you know what it meant at that time,-the commander of an army corps? Above all, that one-eyed devil, as we used to call him, coming himself to propose? Of course she had no dowry; only a big trunk filled with their ladies’ finery, and that Martha, her one serf, dark as a gypsy, sitting upon it.”

I have no recollection whatever of this event. I only remember a big drawing-room in a richly furnished house, and in that room a young lady, attractive, but with a rather too sharp southern look, gamboling with us, and saying, “You see what a jolly mamma you will haw;” to which Sasha and I, sulkily looking at her, replied, “Our mamma has flown away to the sky.” We regarded so much liveliness with suspicion.

Winter came, and a new life began for us. Our house was sold, and another was bought and furnished completely anew. All that could convey a reminiscC’ncc of our mother disappeared,-her portraits, her paintings, her embroideries. In vain :Vladame B1’irman implored to be re- tained in our house, and promisC’d to devote herself to the baby our stepmother was expecting as to her own child: she was sent away. “Nothing of the Sulimas in my house,” she was told. All connection with our uncles and aunts and our grandmother was broken. UliUna was married to Fro!, who became a major-domo, whik• she was made housekeeper; and for our education a richly paid French tutor, M. Poulain, and a miserably paid Russian student, N. P. Smirnoff, were engaged.

Many of the sons of the ‘\foscow nobles Were educated at that time by Frenchmen, who represented the debris of Napoleon’s Grande Armee. M. Poulain was one of them. He had just finished the education of the youngest son of the novelist Zagoskin, and his pupil, Serge, enjoyed in the Old Equerries’ Quarter the reputation of being so well brought up that our father did not hesitate to engage M. Poulain for the considerable sum ofsix hundred rubles a year.

M. Poulain brought with him his setter, Tresor, his coffee-pot Napoleon, and his French textbooks, and he began to rule over us and the serf Matvei who was attached to our service.

His plan of C’ducation was very simple. After having woke us up he attended to his coffee, which he used to take in his room. While we were preparing the morning lessons he made his toild with minute care: he shampooed his gray hair so as to conceal his growing baldness, put on his tail-coat, sprinkled and washed himself with eau-de- cologne, and then escorted us downstairs to say good- morning to our parents. We used to find our father and stepmother at breakfast, and on approaching them were cited in the most official way, “Bonjour, mon cher papa,” and “Bonjour, ma cherc maman,” and kissed their hands. M. Poulain made a very complicated and elegant obeisance in pronouncing the words, “Bonjour, monsieur le prince,” and “Bonjour, madame la princesse,” after which the procession immediately wit;1drew and retired upstairs. This ceremony was repeated every morning.

Then our work began. M. Poulain changed his tail-coal for a dressing-gown, covered his head with a leather cap, and dropping into an easy-chair said, “Recite the lesson.”

We recited it “by heart,” from one mark which was made in the book with the nail to the next mark. M. Poulain had brought with him the grammar of Noel and Chapsal, memorable to more than one generation of Russian boys and girls; a book of French dialogues; a history of the world, in one volume; and a universal geography, also in one volume. We had to commit to memory the grammar, the dialogues, the history, and the geography.

The grammar, with its well-known sentences, “What is grammar?” “The art of speaking and writing correctly,” went all right. But the history book, unfortunately, had a preface, which contained an enumeration of all the advantages which can be derived from a knowledge of history. Things went on smoothly enough with the first sentences. We recited: “The prince finds in it magnanimous examples for governing his subjects; the military commander learns from it the noble art of warfare.” But the moment we came to law all went wrong. “The jurisconsult meets in it”-but what the learned lawyer meets in history we never came to know. That terrible word “jurisconsult” spoiled all the game. As soon as we reached it we stopped.

“On your knees, *gros pouff!”* exclaimed Poulain. (That was for me.) “On your knees, *grand dada!”* (That was for my brother. ) And there we knelt, shedding tears and vainly endeavoring to learn all about the jurisconsult.

It cost us many pains, that preface! We were already learning all about the Romans, and used to put our sticks in Uliana’s scales when she was weighing rice, “just like Brennus;” we jumped from our table and other precipices for the salvation of our country, in imitation of Curtius; but M. Poulain would still from time to time return to the preface, and again put us on our knees for that very same jurisconsult. Was it strange that later on both my brother and I should cntNtain an undisguised contempt for juris- pruclPnce?

I do not know what would hav!’ happe1wd with geography if Monsieur Poulain’s book had had a preface. But happily the first twenty pages of the book had been torn away (Sergi’ Zag6skin, I suppose, rendered us that notable service ), and so our lessons commenced with the twenty- first pa\le, which began, “of the rivers which water France.<sup>,</sup>

It must be confessed that things did not always end with kneeling. There was in the class-room a birch rod, and Poulain resorted to it when there was no hope of progress with the preface or with some dialogue on virtue and propriety; but ont’ day siskr Helene, who by this time had left the Catherine Institut des Demoisellcs, and now occupied a room underneath ours, hearing our cries, rushed, all in tears, into our father’s study, and bitterly reproached him with having handed us over to our stepmother, who had abandoned us to “a retired French drummer.” “Of course,” she cried, “there is no one to take their part, but I cannot sec my brothers being treated in this wayby a drummer!”

Taken thus unprepared, our father could not make a stand. He began to scold Helene, but ended by approving her devotion to her brothers. Thereafter the birch rod was n•servcd for teaching the mks of propriety to the setter, Tresor.

No sooner had M. Poulain discharged himself of his heavy educational duties than he became quite another man,-a lively comrade instead of a gruesome teacher. After lunch he took us out for a walk, and there was no end to his tales: we chattered like birds. Though we never went with him beyond the first pages of syntax, we soon learned, nevertheless, “to speak correctly;” we used to *think* in French; and when he had dictated to us half through a book of mythology, correcting our faults by the book, without ever trying to explain to us why a word must be written in a particular way, we had learned “to write correctly.”

After dinner we had our lesson with the Russian teacher, a student of the faculty of law in the Moscow University. He taught us all “Russian” subjects,-grammar, arithmetic, history, and so on. But in those years serious teaching had not yet begun. In the meantime he dictated to us every day a page of history, and in that practical way we quickly learned to write Russian quite correctly.

Our best time was on Sundays, when all the family, with the exception of us children, went to dine with Madame la Generale Timofeelf. It would also happen occasionally that both M. Poulain and N. P. Smirnoff would be allowed to leave the house, and when this occurred we were placed under the care of Uliana. After a hurriedly eaten dinner we hastened to the great hall, to which the younger housemaids soon repaired. All sorts of games were started.- blind man, vulture and chickens, and so on; and then, all of a sudden, Tikhon, the Jack-of-all-trades, would appear with a violin. Dancing began; not that measured and tiresome dancing, under the direction of a French dancingmaster “on india-rubber legs,” which made part of our education, but free dancing which was not a lesson, and in which a score of couples turned round any way; and this was only preparatory to the still more animated and rather wild Cossack dance. Tikhon would then hand the violin t^ one of the older men, and would begin to perform with his legs such wonderful feats that the doors leading to the hall would soon be filled by the cooks and even the coachmen, who came to see the dance so dear to the Russian heart.

About nine o’clock the big carriage was sent to fetch the family home. Tikhon, brush in hand, crawled on the floor, to make it shine with its virgin glance, and perfect order was restored in the house. And if, next morning, we two had been submitted to the most severe cross-examination, not a word would have been dropped concerning the previous evening’s amusements. We never would have betrayed any one of the servants, nor would they have betrayed us. One Sunday, my brother and I, playing alone in the wide hall, ran against a bracket which supported a costly lamp. The lamp was broken to pieces. Immediately a council was held by the servants. No one scolded us; but it was decided that early next morning Tikhon should at his risk and peril slip out of the house, and run to the Smiths’ Bridge in order to buy another lamp of the same pattern. It cost fifteen rubles,-an enormous sum for the servants; but it was bought, and we never heard a word of reproach about it.

When I think of it now, and all these scenes come back to my memory, I remember that we never heard coarse language in any of the games, nor saw in the dances anything like the kind of dancing which children arc now taken to admire in the theatres. In the servants’ house, among themselves, they assuredly used coarse expressions; but we were children,-/ier children,-and that protected us from anything of the sort..

**** II

Serfdom was then in the last years of its existence. It Is recent history,-it seems to be only of yesterday; and yet, even in Russia, few realize what serfdom was in reality. There is a dim conception that the conditions which it created were very bad; but those conditions, as they affected human beings bodily and mentally, are not generally understood. It is amazing, indeed, to see how quickly an institution and its social consequences are forgotten when the institution has ceased to exist, and with what rapidity men and things change. I will try to recall the conditions of serfdom hy telling, not what I heard, but what I saw.

Uliana, the housekeeper, stands in the passage leading to father’s room, and crosses herself; she dares neither to advance nor to retreat. At last, after having recited a prayer, she enters the room, and reports, in a hardly audible voice, that the store of tea is nearly at an end, that there are only twenty pounds of sugar left, and that the other provisions will soon be exhausted.

“Thieves, robbers!” shouts my father. “And you, you are in league with them!” His voice thunders throughout the house. Our stepmother leaves Uli,\na to face the storm. But father cries, “Fro!, call the princess! Whcre is she?” And when she enters, he receives her with the same reproaches.

“You also are in league with this progeny of Ham; you are standing up for them;” and so on, for half an hour or more.

Then he commences to verif<sub>’</sub>y the accounts. At the same time, he thinks about the hay. Fro! is sent to weigh what is left of that, and our stepmother is sent to be present during the weighing, while fatlwr calculates how much of it ought to be in the barn. A considerable quantity of hay appears to be missing, and Uliana cannot account for several pounds of such and such provisions. Father’s voict’ becomC’s more and more menacing; UliUna is trembling; but it is the coachman who now enters the room, and is stormed at by his master. Father springs at him, strikes him, but he keeps repeating, “Your highness must have made a mistake.”

Father repeats his calculations, and this time it appears that there is more hay in the barn than there ought to be. The shouting continues; he now reproaches the coachman with not having given the horses their daily rations in full; but the coachman calls on all the saints to witness that he gave the animals their due, and Frol invokes the Virgin to confirm the coachman’s appeal.

But father will not be appeased. He calls in Makar, the piano-tuner and suh-butk•r, and reminds him of all his recent sins. He was drunk last week, and must have bl’cn drunk yesterday, for he broke half a dozen plates. In fact, the breaking of these plates was the real cause of all the disturbance: our stepmother had reported the fact to father in the morning, and that was why Uli,\na was received with more scolding than was usually the case, why the verification of the hay was undertakl’ll, and why father now continues to shout that “this progeny of Ham” deserve all thl’ punishments on earth.

Of a sudden there is a lull in the storm. My father takes his seat at the table and writes a note. “Take Makar with this note to the police station, and let a hundred lashes with the birch rod be given to him.”

Terror and absolute mutcm’ss reign in the house.

The clock strikt>s four, and we all go clown to dinner; but no one has any appctite, and the soup remains in the plates untouched. We arc ten at table, and behind each of us a violinist or a trombone-player stands, with a clean plate in his left hand; but \fak:1r is not among them.

“Whcre is Makar?” our skpmother asks. “Call him in.” \fabr does not appear, and the order is repeated. He enters at last, pale, with a distorted face, ashamed, his eyes cast down. Father looks into his plate, while our stepmother, seeing that no one has touchl’d the soup, tries to encourage us.

“Don’t you find, childrl’ll,” she says, “that the soup is delicious?”

Tears suffocate me, and immediately after dinner is over I run out, catch Makar in a dark passage, and try to kiss his hand; but he tears it away, and says, either as a reproach or as a question, “Let me alone; you, too, when you are grown up, will you not be just the same?”

“No, no, never!”

Yet father was not among the worst of landowners. On the contrary, the servants and the peasants considered him one of the best. What we saw in our house was going on evcr<sub>.</sub>vwherc, often in much more crud forms. The flogging of the serfs was a regular part of the duties of the police and of the fire brigade.

A landowner once made the remark to anotlwr, “Why is it that the number of souls on your estate increases so slowly? You probably do not look after their marriages.”

A few days later the general returned to his estate. He had a list of all the inhabitants of his village brought him, and picked out from it the names of the boys who had attained the age of eighteen, and the girls just past six- tccn,-these arc the legal ages for marriage in Russia. Then he wrote, “John to marry Anna, Paul to marry Parashka,” and so on with five couples. “The five weddings,” he added, “must take place in ten days, the next Sunday but one.”

A general cry of despair rose from the village. Women, young and old, wept in every house. Anna had hoped to marry Gregory; Paul’s parents had already had a talk with the FedOtolfs about their girl, who would soon be of age. ^forcovcr, it was the season for ploughing, not for weddings; and what wedding can be prepared in ten days? Dozens of peasants canw to sec the landowner; peasant women stood in groups at the back entrance of the estate, with pieces of fine linen for the landow1ll’r’s spouS<<sub>’</sub>, to secure her intervention. All in vain. The master had said that the weddings should take place at such a date, and so it must be.

At the appointed time, the nuptial processions, in this case more like burial processions, went to the church. The wornen cried with loud voices, as they arc wont to cry during burials. One of the house valets was sent to the church, to report to the master as soon as the wedding ceremonies were over; but soon he came running back, eap in hand, pale and distressed.

“Parashka,” he said, “makes a stand; she refuses to be married to Paul. Father” (that is, the priest) “asked her, ‘Do you agree?’ but she replied in a loud voice, ‘No, I don’t.’ ”

The landowner grew furious. “Go and tell that longmaned dnmkard” (meaning the priest; the Hussian cl<·rgy wear their hair long) “that if Parashka is not married at once, I will report him as a drunkard to till’ archbishop. How dares he, clerical dirt, disobey me? Tell him he shall be sent to rot in a monastery, and I shall exile Pan\shka’s family to the steppes.”

The valet transmitted the message. Par{1shka’s relatives and the priest surrounded the girl; her mother, weeping, fell on her knees before her, entreating her not to ruin the whole family. The girl continued to say **“I** won’t,” but in a weaker and weaker voice, then in a whisper, until at last she stood silent. The nuptial crown was put on her head; she made no resistance, and the valet ran full speed to the mansion to announce, “They are married.”

Half an hour later, the small bells of the nuptial processions resounded at the gate of the mansion. The five couples alighted from the cars, crossed the yard, and entered the hall. The landlord received them, offering them glasses of wine, while the parents, standing behind the crying daughters, ordered them to bow to the earth before their lord.

Marriages hy order were so common that amongst our servants, each time a young couple foresaw that they might be ordered to marry, although tlll’y had no mutual inclination for each other, they took the precaution of standing together as godfather and godmotlll’r at the christening of a child in one of the peasant families. This rendered marriage impossible, according to Russian Church law. The stratagem was usually successful, but once it ended in a tragedy. Andrei, the tailor, fell in love with a girl belonging to one of our neighbors. He hoped that my father would permit him to go free, as a tailor, in exchange for a certain yearly payment, and that by working hard at his trade Ill’ could manage to lay aside some mmu’y and to buv<sub>.</sub> freedom for the girl. Otherwise, in marrying one of my father’s serfs she would have become the serf of her husband’s master. However, as Andrei and one of the maids of our household foresaw that they might be ordered to marry, they agreed to unite as godparents in the christening of a child. What they had feared happened: om• day tlll’y Were called to the master, and the dreaded order was given.

“We an’ always obedil’llt to your will,” they replied, “but a frw weeks ago we aeted as godfatlll’r and god- rnotlwr at a christPning.” Andrei also explained his wishes and intC’ntions. The result was that he was sent to the recruiting board to become a soldier.

Under Nicholas I. tlll’re was no obligatory military service for all, such as now exists. Nobles and m<>rchants were cxPmpt, and when a new levy of recruits was ordered, the landowners had to supply a certain number of men from their serfs. As a rule, the peasants, within their village communitil’S, kept a roll amongst themselves; but the house servants wen’ entirl’ly at the mercy of their lord, and if he was dissatisfied with one of them, he sent him to the recruiting board and took a recruit acquittance, which had a considerable money value, as it could be sold to any one whose turn it was to become a soldier.

Military service in those times was terrible. A man was required to serve twenty-five years under the colors, and the life of a soldier was hard in the extreme. To become a soldier meant to be torn away forever from one’s native village and surroundings, and to be at the mercy of officers like Timofeeff, whom I have already mentioned. Blows from the officers, flogging with birch rods and with sticks, for thC’ slightest fault, were normal affairs. The cruPlty that was displayed surpasses all imagination. Even in the corps of cadets, where only noblemen’s sons were educated, a thousand blows with birch rods were sometimes administered, in the presence of all the corps, for a cigarette,-the doctor standing by the tortured boy, and ordering the punishment to encl only when he ascertained that the pulse was about to stop beating. The bleeding victim was carried away unconscious to the hospital. The commander of the military schools, the Grand Duke Mikhael, would quickly have removed the director of a corps who had not had one or two such cases every year. “No discipline,” he would have said.

With common soldiers it was far worse. When one of them appeared before a court-martial, the sentence was that a thousand men should be placed in two ranks facing each other, every soldier armed with a stick of the thickness of the little finger ( these sticks were known under their German name of Spitzrut/1e11 ), and that the conclenmecl man should be dragged three, four, five, and seven times between these two rows, each soldier administering a blow. Sergeants followed to sec that full force was used. After one or two thousand blows had been given, the victim, spitting blood, was taken to the hospital and attcnclccl to, in order that the punishment might be finished as soon as he had more or less recovered from the effects of the first part of it. If he died under the torture, the execution of the sentence was completed upon the corpse. Nicholas I. and his brother Mikhacl were pitiless; no remittance of the punishment was ever possible. “I will send you through the ranks; you shall be skinncd under the sticks,” were threats which made part of the current language.

A gloomy terror used to spread through our house when it became known that one of the servants was to be sent to tlw recruiting board. The man was chained and placed under guard in the office, to prevent suicide. A peasantcart was brought to tlw office door, and the doomed man was taken out between two watchmen. All the servants surrounded him. He made a deep bow, asking every one to pardon him his willing or unwilling offenses. If his father and mother lived in our village, they came to set’ him off. He bowed to the ground before them, and his mother and his other female relatives began loudly to sing out their lanll’ntations,-a sort of half-song and halfrecitative: “To whom do you abandon us? Who will take care of you in the strange lands? Who will protect you from crud nll’n?”-cxactly in the same way in which they sang their lamentations at a burial, and with the same words.

Thus Andrei had now to face for twenty-five years tlw terrible fate of a soldier: all his schemes of happiness had eomc to a violent end.

The fate of one of the maids, Pauline, or P6lya, as she used to be called, was even more tragical. She had been apprenticed to make fine embroidery, and was an artist at the work. At Nik6lskoye her embroidcry frame stood in sister Helene’s room, and she often took part in th<· conversations that went on between our sister and a sister of our stepmother who stayed with Helene. Altogether, by her behavior and talk P6lya was more like an educated young person than a housemaid.

A misfortune befell her: she realized that she would soon be a mother. She told all to our stepmother, who burst into reproaches: “I will not have that creature in my house any longer! I will not permit such a shame in my house! oh, the shameless creature!” and so on. The tears of Helene made no difference. P6lya had her hair cut short, and was exiled to the dairy; hut as she was just embroidering an extraordinary skirt, she had to finish it at the dairy, in a dirty cottage, at a microscopical window. She finished it, and made many more fine embroideries, all in the hope of obtaining her pardon. But pardon did not come.

The father of her child, a servant of one of our neighbors, implored permission to marry her; but as he had no money to offer, his request was refused. P6lya’s “too gentlewoman-like manners” were taken as an offense, and a most bitter fate was kept in reserve for her. There was in our household a man employed as a postilion, on account of his small size; he went under the name of “bandy-legged Filka.” In his boyhood a horse had kicked him terribly, and he did not grow. His legs were crooked, his feet were turned inward, his nose was broken and turned to one side, his jaw was deformed. To this monster it was decided to marry P61ya,-and she was married by force. The couple were sent to become peasants at my father’s estate in Ryazan.

Human feelings were not recognized, not even suspected, in serfs, and when Turgueneff published his little story “Mumu,” and Grigor6vich began to issue his thrilling novels, in which he made his readers weep over the misfortunes of the serfs, it was to a great number of persons a startling revelation. “They love just as we do; is it possible?” exclaimed the sentimental ladies who could not read a French novel without shedding tears over the troubles of the noble heroes and heroines.

The education which the owners occasionally gave to some of their serfs was only another source of misfortune for the latter. My father once picked out in a peasant house a clever boy, and sent him to be educated as a doctor’s assistant. The boy was diligent, and after a few years’ apprenticeship made a decided success. When he returned home, my father bought all that was required for a well-equipped dispensary, which was arranged very nicely in one of the side houses of Nik6lskoye. In summer time, Sasha the Doctor-that was the familiar name under which this young man went in the household-was busy gathering and preparing all sorts of medical herbs, and in a short time he became most popular in the region round Nik61skoye. The sick people among the peasants came from the neighboring villages, and my father was proud of the success of his dispensary. But this condition of things did not last. One winter, my father came •to Nik6lskoye, stayed there for a few days, and left. That night Sasha the Doctor shot himself,-by accident, it was reported; but there was a love-story at the bottom of it. He was in love with a girl whom he could not marry, as she belonged to another landowner.

The case of another young man, Gherasim Krugl61f, whom my father educated at the Moscow Agricultural Institute, was almost equally sad. He passed his examinations most brilliantly, getting a gold medal, and the director of the Institute made all possible endeavors to induce my father to give him freedom and to let him go to the university,-serfs not being allowed to enter there. “He is sure to become a remarkable man,” the director said, “perhaps one of the glories of Russia, and it will be an honor for you to have recognized his capacities and to have given such a man to Russian science.”

“I need him for my own estate,” my father replied to the many applications made on the young man’s behalf. In reality, with the primitive methods of agriculture which were then in use, and from which my father would never have departed, Gherasim Krugl61f was absolutely useless. He made a survey of the estate, but when that was done he was ordered to sit in the servants’ room and to stand with a plate at dinner-time. Of course Gherasim resented it very much; his dreams carried him to the university, to scientific work. His looks betrayed his discontent, and our stepmother seemed to find an especial pleasure in offending him at every opportunity. One day in the autumn, a rush of wind having opened the entrance gate, she called out to him, “Garaska, go and shut the gate.”

That was the last drop. He answered, “You have a porter for that,” and went his way.

My stepmother ran into father’s room, crying, “Your servants ipsult me in your house!”

Immediately Gherasim was put under arrest and chained, to be sent away as a soldic>r. The parting of his old father and mother with him was one of the most heart-rending scenes I ever saw.

This time, however, fate took its revenge. Nicholas I. died, and military service became more tolerable. Ghera- sim’s great ability was soon remarked, and in a few years he was one of the chief clerks, and the real working force in one of the departments of the ministry of war. Meanwhile, my father, who was absolutely honest, and, at a time when almost every one was receiving bribes and making fortunes, had never let himself be bribed, departed once from the strict rules of the service, in order to oblige the commander of the corps to which he belonged, and consented to allow an irregularity of some kind. It nearly cost him his promotion to the rank of general; the only object of his thirty-five years’ service in the army seemed on the point of being lost. My stepmother went to St. Petersburg to remove the difficulty, and one day, after many applications, she was told that the only way to obtain what she wanted was to address herself to a particular clerk in a certain department of the ministry. Although he was a mere clerk, he was the real head of his superiors, and could do everything. This man’s name was-Gherasim Ivanovieh Krugl61f!

“Imagine, our Garaska!” she said to me afterward. “I always knew that he had great capacity. I went to see him, and spoke to him about this affair, and he said, ‘I have nothing against the old prince, and I will do all I can for him.’ ”

Gherasim kept his word: he made a favorable report, and my father got his promotion. At last hc> could put on the long-coveted red trousers and the red-lined overcoat, and could wear the plumage on his helmet.

These were things which I myself saw in my childhood. If, however, I were to relate what I heard of in those years, it would be a much more gruesome narrative: stories of men and women torn from their familil’s and their villages, and sold, or lost in gambling, or exchanged for a couple of hunting dogs, and then transported to some remote part of Russia for the sake of creating a new estate; of children taken from their parents and sold to cruel or dissolute masters; of flogging “in the stables,” which occurred every day with unheard-of cruelty; of a girl who found her only salvation in drowning herself; of an old man who had grown gray-haired in his master’s service, and at last hanged himself under his master’s window; and of revolts of serfs, which were suppressed by Nicholas I.‘s generals by flogging to death each tenth or fifth man taken out of the ranks, and by laying waste the village, whose inhabitants, after a military execution, went begging for bread in the neighboring provinces. As to the poverty which I saw during our journeys in certain villages, especially in those which belonged to the imperial family, no words would be adequate to describe the misery to readers who have not seen it.

**** III

The five years that I spent in Siberia were for me a genuine education in life and human character. I was brought into contact with men of all descriptions: the best and the worst; those who stood at the top of society and those who vegetated at the very bottom,-the tramps and the so-called incorrigible criminals. I had ample opportunities to watch the ways and habits of the peasants in their daily life, and still more opportunities to appreciate how little the state administration could give to them, even if it was animated hy the very best intentions. Finally, my extensive journeys, during which I traveled over fifty thousand miles in carts, on board steamers, in boats, but chiefly on horseback, had a wonderful effect in strengthening my health. They also taught me how little man really needs as soon as he comes out of the enchanted circle of conventional civilization. With a few pounds of bread and a few ounces of tea in a leather bag, a kettle and a hatchet hanging at the side of the saddle, and under the saddle a blanket, to be spread at the camp-fire upon a bed of freshly cut spruce twigs, a man feels wonderfully independent, even amidst unkno\\11 mountains thickly clothed with woods, or capped with snow. A book might be writtl’n about this part of my life, but I must rapidly glide over it here, there being so much more to say about the later periods.

Siberia is not the frozen land buried in snow and peopled with exiles only, that it is imagined to be, even by many Hussians. In its southern parts it is as rich in natural productions as are the southern parts of Canada, which it resembles so much in its physical aspects; and beside half a million of natives, it has a population of more than four millions of Russians. The southern parts of West Siberia are as thoroughly Russian as the provinces to the north of Moscow. In 1862 the upper administration of Siberia was far more enlightened and far better all round than that of any province of Russia proper. For several years the post of governor-general of East Siberia had been occupied by a remarkable personage, Count N. N. Mura- vioff, who annexed the Amur region to Russia. He was very intelligent, very active, extremely amiable, and desirous to work for the good of the country. Like all men of action of the governmental school, he was a despot at the bottom of his heart; but he held advanced opinions, and a democratic republic would not have quite satisfied him. He had succeeded to a great extent in getting rid of the old staff of civil service officials, who considered Siberia a camp to be plundered, and he had gathered around him a number of young officials, quite honest, and many of them animated by the same excellent intentions as himself. In his own study, the young officers, with the exile Bakunin among them (he l’Scaped from Siberia in the autumn of 1861 ), discussed the chances of creating the United States of Siberia, federated across the Pacific Ocean with the United States of America.

When I came to Irkutsk, the capital of East Siberia, the wave of reaction which I saw rising at St. Petersburg had not yet reached these distant dominions. I was very well received by the young governor-general, Korsakolf, who had just succeeded i\foravic\lf, and he told me that he was delighted to have about him men of liberal opinions. As to the commander of the ge1ll’ral staff, Kl’.1kel,-a young general not yet thirty-five years old, whose personal aide- de-camp I bccame,-hc at once took me to a room in his house, where I found, together with the best Russian reviews, complete collections of the London revolutionary editions of HCrzcn. We were soon warm friends.

General Kl’.1kel temporarily occupied at that time the post of governor of Transbaik,\lia, and a few weeks later we crossed till’ beautiful Lake Baik:tl and Wl’llt further cast, to the little town of Chit{>, the capital of the province. Then• I had to give myself, heart and soul, without loss of time, to the great reforms which Wl’l”l’ then under discussion. The St. Pl’tcrsburg ministries had applied to till’ local authorities, asking tlll’m to \\“Ork out schemes of complete reform in the administration of the provinces, the organization of the police, the tribunals, the prisons, the system of exile, the self-government of the townships, -all on broadly liberal bases laid down by the Emperor in his manifestoes.

Kl’.1kcl, supported by an intelligent and practical man, Colonel Pcdashenko, and a couple of well-meaning civil service officials, worh•d all day long, and often a good deal of the night. I became the secretary of two com- mittees,-for the reform of the prisons and the whole system of exile, and for preparing a scheme of municipal sclf-governmcnt,-and I set to work with all the enthusiasm of a youth of nineteen years. I read much about the historical development of these institutions in Hussia and their present condition abroad, excelll’llt works and papers dealing with these subjects having been published by the ministries of the interior and of justice; but what we did in Transbaikcllia was by no means merely theoretical. I discussed first the general outlines, and subse- c1uently every point of detail, with practical men, well acquainted with the real needs and the local possibilities; and for that purpose I met a considerable number of men both in town and in the province. Then the conclusions we arrived at were re-discussed with Kukel and Peda- shenko; and when I had put the results into a preliminary shape, every point was again very thoroughly thrashed out in the committees. One of these committees, for preparing the municipal government scheme, was composed of citizens of Chita, elected by all the population, as freely as they might have been elected in the United States. In short, our work was very serious; and even now, looking back at it through the perspective of so many years, I can say in full confidence that if municipal self-government had been granted then, in the modest shape which we gave to it, the towns of Siberia would be very different from what they are. But nothing came of it all, as will presently be seen.

There was no lack of other incidental occupations. Money had to be found for the support of charitable institutions; an economic description of the province had to be written in connection with a local agricultural exhibition; or some serious inquiry had to he mad<>. “It is a great epoch we live in; work, my dear friend; remember that you are the secretary of all existing and future committees,” Kukel would sometinws say to me,-and I worked with doubled energy.

An example or two will show with what results. There was in our province a “district chief’-that is, a police officer invested With very wide and indeterminate rights -who was simply a disgrace. He robbed the peasants and flogged them right and left,--cven women, which was against the law; and when a criminal affair fell into his hands, it might lie there for months, men being kept in the meantime in prison till they gave him a bribe. Kukel would have dismissed this man long before, but the governor-general did not like the idea of it. because he had strong protectors at St. Petersburg. After much hesitation, it was decided at last that I should go to make an investigation on the spot, and collect evidence against the man. This was not by any means easy, because the peasants, terrorized by him, and well knowing an old Russian saying, “God is far away, while your chil’f is your next-door neighbor,” did not dare to testify. Even the woman he had flogged was afraid at first to make a written statement. It was only after I had stayed a fortnight with the peasants, and had won their confidence, that the misdeeds of their chief could be brought to light. I collected crushing evidence, and the district chil’f was dismissed. \‘Ve congratulated ourselves on having got rid of such a pest. \\1hat was, howcVl’r, our astonishment when, a few months later, we learned that this same man had been nominaied to a higher post in Kamchatka! There he could plunder the natives free of any control, and so he did. A few years later he returned to St. Petersburg a rich man. The articles he oecasionallv contributes now to the reactionary press are, as one migl;t expect, full of high “patriotic” spirit.

The wave of reaction, as I have already said, had not then reached Siberia, and the political exiles continued to be treated with all possible leniency, as in l\1uravi61f’s time. When, in 1861, the poet MikMiloff was condemned to hard labor for a revolutionary proclamation which he had issued, and was sent to Siberia, the governor of the first Siberian town on his way, Tob6lsk, gave a dinner in his honor, in which all the officials took part. In Transbaikalia he was not kept at hard labor, but was allowed officially to stay in the hospital prison of a small mining village. His health being very poor,-hc was dying from consumption, and did actually die a few months later,- General Kukcl gave him permission to stay in the house of his brother, a mining engineer, who had rented a gold mine from the Crown on his own account. Unofficially that was well known all over Siberia. But one day we learned from lrklitsk that, in consequence of a secret denunciation, the general of the gendarmes (state police) was on his way to Chita, to make a strict inquiry into the affair. An aide-de-camp of the governor-general brought us the news. I was dispatched in great haste to warn Mikhailoff, and to tell him that he must return at once to the hospital prison, while the general of the gendarmes was kept at Chita. As that gentleman found himself every night the winner of considerable sums of money at the green table in Kukel’s house, he soon decided not to exchange this pleasant pastime for a long journey to the mines in a temperature which was then a dozen degrees hclow the freezing-point of mercury, and eventually went back to Irkutsk, quite satisfied with his lucrative mission.

The storm, however, was coming nearer and nearer, and it swept everything before it soon after the insurrection broke out in Poland ...

The disastrous consequences for Poland of this revolution are known; they belong to the domain of history. How many thousand men perished in battlc, how many hundreds were hanged, and how many scores of thousands were transported to various provinces of Russia and Siberia is not yet fully known. But even the official figures which were printed in Russia a few years ago show that in the Lithuanian provinces alone-not to speak of Poland proper-that terrible man, !\likhacl Muravi61f, to whom the Russian government has just erected a monument at Wilna, hanged by his own authority 128 Poles, and transported to Russia and Siberia 9423 men and women. Official lists, also published in Hussia, give 18,672 mcn and women exill’d to Siberia from Poland, of whom 10,407 were s<;nt to East Siberia. I remember that the govl’rnor- gencral of East Siberia ml’ntioned to me the same num- lwr, about 11,00 perso11s, Sl’llt to hard labor or exile i11 his domains. I saw them then{1}, and witnessed their sufferings. Altogether, something like 60,000 or 70,00 persons. if not mOre, were torn out of Poland and transported to different provinces of Russia, to the Urals, to Caucasus, and to Siberia.

For Russia the consequences were equally disastrous. The Polish insurrection was the definitive close of the reform period. True, the law of provincial self-government ( Zemstvos) and the reform of the law courts were promulgated in 1864 and 1866; but both were ready in 1862, and, moreover, at the last moment Alexander II. gave preference to the scheme of self-government which had been prepared by the reactionary party of Valuelf, as against the scheme that had been prepared by Nicholas Milutin; and immediately after the promulgation of both reforms, their importance was reduced, and in some cases destroyed, by the enactment of a number of by-laws.

Worst of all, public opinion itself took a further step backward. The hero of the hour was Katk61f, the leader of the serfdom party, who appeared now as a Russian “patriot,” and carried with him most of the St. Petersburg and \loscow society. After that time, those who dared to speak of reforms were at onee classed by Katk61f as “traitors to Russia.”

The wave of reaction soon reached our remote province. One day in March a paper was brought by a special messenger from Irkutsk. It intimated to General Kukel that he was at once to leave the post of governor of Transbaikalia and go to Irkutsk, waiting there for further orders, and that he was not to reassumc the post of commander of the general staff.

Why? What did that mmn? There was not a word of explanation. Even the govcrnor-gcm•ral, a personal friend of Kukel, had not run the risk of adding a single word to the mysterious order. Did it mean that K!1kcl was going to be taken between two gendarmes to St. Petersburg, and immured in that huge stone coffin, the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul? All was possible. Later on we learned that such was indeed the intention; and so it would have been clone but for the energetic intervention of Count Nicholas Muravi61f, “the conqueror of the Amur,” who personally implored the Tsar that K!1kel should be spared that fate.

Our parting with K!1kcl and his charming family was like a funeral. My heart was very heavy. I not only lost in him a dear personal friend, but I felt also that this parting was the burial of a whole epoch, full of long-cherished hopl•s,-“full of illusions,” as it became the fashion to say.

So it was. A new governor came,-a good-natured, “lcavc-mc-in-pcacc” man. With renewed energy, seeing that there was no time to lose, I completed our plans for the reform of the system of exile and municipal self- governmcnt. The governor n1adc a few objections here and there for formality’s sake, but finally signed the schemes, and they were sent to headquarters. But at St. Petersburg reforms were no longer wanted. There our projects lie buried still, with hundreds of similar ones from all parts of Russia ...

The years that I spent in Siberia taught me many lessons which I could hardly have learned elsewhere. I soon realized the absolute impossibility of doing anything really useful for the mass of the people by means of the administrative machinery. With this illusion I parted forever. Then I began to understand not only men and human character, but also the inner springs of the life of human society. The constructive work of the unknown masses, which so seldom finds any mention in books, and the importance of that constructive work in the growth of forms of society, fully appeared before my eyes. To witness, for instance, the ways in which the communities of Dukhobortsy ( brotlwrs of those who are now going to settle in Canada, and who find such a hearty support in the United States) migrated to the Amur region, to sec the immense advantages which they got from their semicommunistie brotherly organization, and to realize what a wonderful success their colonization was, amidst all the failures of state colonization, was karning something which cannot be learned from books. Again, to live with natives, to sec at work all the complex forms of social organization which they have elaborated far away from the influence of any civilization, was, as it were, to store up floods of light which illuminated my subseqm•nt reading. The part which the unknown masses play in the accomplishment of all important historieal events, and even in war, became evident to me from direct observation, and I came to hold ideas similar to those which Tolstoy expresses concerning the leaders and the masses in his monumental work, “War and Peace,”

Having been brought up in a serf-owner’s family, I entered active life, like all young men of my time, with a great deal of confidence in the necessity of commanding, ordering, scolding, punishing, and the like. But when, at an early stage, I had to manage serious enterprises and to deal with men, and when each mistake would lead at once to heavy consequences, I began to appreciate the difference between acting on the principle of command and discipline and acting on the principle of common understanding. The former works admirably in a military parade; but it is worth nothing where real life is concerned, and the aim can bl’ achieved only through the severe effort of many converging wills. Although I did not then formulate my observations in terms borrowed from party struggles, I may say now that I lost in Siberia whatever faith in state discipline I had cherished before. I was prepared to become an anarchist.

From the age of nineteen to twenty-five I had to work out important schemes of reform, to deal with hundreds of men on the Amur, to prepare and to make risky expeditions with ridiculously small means, and so on; and if all these things ended more or less succeSsfully, I account for it only by the fact that I soon understood that in serious work commanding and discipline are of little avail. Men of initiative arc required everywhere; but once the impulse has been given, the enterprise must be conducted, especially in Hussia, not in military fashion, but in a sort of communal way, by means of common understanding. I wish that all framers of plans of state discipline could pass through the school of real life before th<·y begin to frame their state Utopias. We should then hear far less than at present of schemes of military and pyramidal organization of society.

With all that, life in Siberia became less and less attractive to me, although my brother Alexander had joined me in 1864 at Irkt’itsk, where he commanded a squadron of Cossacks. We were happy to be together; we read a great deal, and discussed all the philosophical, scientific, and sociological questions of the clay; but we hoth longed after intellectual life, and there was none in Siberia. The occasional passage through Irkl1tsk of Raphael Pumpclly or of Adolph Bastian-the only two men of science who visited our capital during my stay ther<^was quite an event for both of us. The scientific and especially the political life of Western Europe, of which we heard through the papers, attracted us, and the return to Russia was the subject to which we continually came back in our conversations. Finally, the insurrection of the Polish exiles in 1866 opened our eyes to the false position we both occupied as officers of the Russian army.

**** IV

Early in the autumn of 1867 my brother and I, with his family, were settled at St. Petersburg. I entered the university, and sat on the benches among young men, almost boys, much younger than myself. What I so longed for five years before wa• accomplishecl,-I could study; and, acting upon the idea that a thorough training in mathematics is the only solid basis for all subsequent work and thought, I joined the physico-mathematical faculty in its mathematical section. My brother entered the military academy for jurisprudence, whilst I entirely gave up military service, to the great dissatisfaction of my father, who hated the very sight of a civilian dress. We both had now to rely entirely upon ourselves.

Study at the university and scientific work absorbed all my time for the next five years. A student of the mathematical faculty has, of course, very much to do, but my previous studies in higher mathematics permitted me to devote part of my time to geography; and, morcvcr, I had not lost in Siberia the habit of hard work ...

... I was sent out by the Geographical Society for a modest tour in Finland and Sweden, to explore the glacial deposits; and that journey drifted me in a quite different direction.

The Russian Academy of Sciences sent out that summer two of its members-the old geologist General Helmersen and Frederick Schmidt, the indefatigable explorer of Si- beria-to study the structure of those long ridges of drift which arl’ known as *tisar* in Sweden and Finland, and as *eskers, kames,* and so on, in the British Isles. The Geographical Society sent me to Finland for the same purpose. We visited, all three, the beautiful ridge of Pungah,\rju and then separated. I worked hard during the summer. I traveled a great deal in Finland, and crossed over to Sweden, where I spent many happy hours in the company of A. Nordenskjiild. As early as then-1871-he mentioned to me his schemes for reaching the mouths of the Siberian rivers, and even the Behring Strait, by the northern route. Returning to Finland I continued my researches till late in the autumn, and collected a mass of most interesting observations relative to the glaciation of the country. But I also thought a great deal during this journey about social matters, and these thoughts had a decisive influence upon my subsequent development.

All sorts of valuable materials relative to the geography of Russia passed through my hands in the Geographical Society, and the idea gradually came to me of writing an exhaustive physical geography of that immense part of the world. My intention was to give a thorough geographical description of the country, basing it upon the main lines of the surface strncture, which I began to disentangle for European Russia; and to sketch, in that description, the different forms of economic life which ought to prevail in different physical regions. Take, for instance, the wide prairies of Southern Hussia, so often visited by droughts and failure of crops. These droughts and failures must not be treated as accidental calamities: they are as much a natural feature of that region as its position on a southern slope, its fertility, and the rest; and the whole of the economic life of the southern prairies ought to be organized in prevision of the unavoidable recurrence of periodical droughts. Each region of the Russian Empire ought to be treated in the same scientific way, just as Karl Ritter has treated parts of Asia in his beautiful monographs.

But such a work would have required plenty of time and full freedom for the writer, and I often thought how helpful to this end it would be were I to occupy some day the position of secretary to the Geographical Society. Now, in the autumn of 1871, as I was working in Finland, slowly moving on foot toward the seacoast along the newly built railway, and closely watching the spot where the first unmistakable traces of the former extension of the post-glacial sea would appear, I received a telegram from the Geographical Society: “The council begs you to accept the position of secretary to the Society.” At the same time the outgoing secretary strongly urged me to accept the proposal.

My hopes were realized. But in the meantime other thoughts and other longings had pervaded my mind. I seriously thought over the reply, and wired, “Most cordial thanks, but cannot accept.”

It often happens that men pull in a certain political, social, or familiar harness simply because they never have time to ask themselves whether the position they stand in and the work they accomplish are right; whether their occupations really suit their inner desires and capacities, and give them the satisfaction which every one has the right to expect from his work. Active men are especially liable to find themselves in such a position. Every day brings with it a fresh batch of work, and a man throws himself into his bed late at night without having completed what he had expected to do; then in the morning he hurries to the unfinished task of the previous day. Life goes, and there is no time left to think, no time to consider the direction that one’s life is taking. So it was with me.

But now, during my journey in Finland, I had leisure. When I was crossing in a Finnish two-wheeled karria some plain which offered no interest to the geologist, or when 1 was walking, hamnll’r on shoulder, from one gra\‘el-pit to another, I could think; and amidst the un- douhtedly interesting geological work I was carrying on, one idl’a, which appealed far more strongly to my inner self than geology, persistently worked in my mind.

I saw what an immense amount of labor the Finnish peasant spends in clearing the land and in breaking up the harcl houlder-clay, and 1 said to myself: “I will write the physical geography of this part of Hussia, and tell the peasant the best means of cultivating this soil. Herc an American stump-extractor would be invaluable; there certain methods of manuring would be indicated by science ... But what is the use of talking to this peasant about American machim’S, when he has barely enough bread to live upon from one crop to the next; when the rent which he has to pay for that boulder-clay grows heavier and heavier in proportion to his success in improving the soil? He gnaws at his hard-as-a-stone rye-flour cake which he bakes twice a year; he has with it a morsel of fearfully salted cod and a drink of skimmed milk. How dare I talk to him of American machines, when all that he can raise must be sold to pay rent and taxes? He needs me to live with him, to help him to become the owner or the free occupier of that lancl. Then he will read books with profit, but not now.”

And my thoughts wandered from Finland tu our Nikol- skoyc peasants, whom I had lately seen. Now they are free, and they value freedom wry much. But they have no meadows. In one way or another, the landlords have got all the meadows for themselves. When I was a child, the Savokhins used to send out six horses fur night pasture, the Tolkaeh6ffs had seven. Now, these families have only three horses each; other families, which formerly had three horses, have onlv one, or none. What can be done with one miserable horse? No meadows, no horses, no manure! How can I talk to them of grass-sowing? They arc already ruined,-poor as Lazarus,-and in a few years they will be made still poorer by a foolish taxation. How happy they were when I told them that my father gave them permission to mow the grass in the small open spaces in his K6stino forest! “Your Nik6lskoye peasants are *ferocious* for work,”-that is the common saying about them in our neighborhood; but the arable land, which our stl·pmothcr has taken out of their allotments in virtue of the “law of minimum,”-that diabolic clause introduced by the serf-owners when they were allowed to revise the l’maneipation law,-is now a forest of thistles, and the “ferocious” workers arc not allowed to till it. And the same sort of thing goes on throughout all Russia. Even at that time it was evident, and official commissioners gave warning of it, that the first serious failure of crops in Middle Russia would result in a terrible famine,-and famine came, in 1876, in 1884, in 1891, in 1895, and again in 1898.

Science is an excellent thing. I knew its joys and valued them,-perhaps more than many of my colleagues did. Even now, as I was looking on the lakes and the hillocks of Finland, new and beautiful generalizations arose before my eyl’S. I saw in a remote past, at the very dawn of mankind, the ice accumulating from year to year in the northern archipelagoes, over Scandinavia and Finland. An immense growth of ice invaded the north of Europe and slowly spread as far as its middle portions. Life dwindled in that part of the northern hemisphere, and, wretchedly poor,. uncertain, it fled further and furtlll’r south before the icy breath which came from that immcnsl’ frozen mass. Man-miserable, weak, ignorant-had every difficulty in maintaining a precarious existence. Ages passed away, till the melting of the ice began, and with it came the lake period, when countless lakes were formed in the cavities, and a wretched subpolar vegetation began timidly to invade the unfathomable marshes with which every lake was surrounded. Another series of ages passed before an extremely slow process of drying up set in, and vegetation began its slow invasion from the south. And now we arc fully in the period of a rapid desiccation, accompanied by the formation of dry prairies and steppes, and man has to find out the means to put a check to that desiccation to which Central Asia already has fallen a victim, and which menaces Southeastern Europe.

Belief in an ice-cap reaching Middle Europe was at that time rank heresy; but before my eyes a grand picture was rising, and I wanted to draw it, with the thousands of details I saw in it; to use it as a key to the present distribution of floras and faunas; to open new horizons for geology and physical geography.

But what right had I to these highest joys, when all around me was nothing but misery and struggle for a mouldy bit of bread; when whatsoever I should spend to enable me to live in that world of higher emotions must needs be taken from the very mouths of those who grew the wheat and had not bread enough for their children? From somebody’s mouth it must be taken, because the aggregate production of mankind remains still so low.

Knowledge is an immense power. Man must know. But we already know much! What if that knowledge-and only that-should become the possession of all? Would not science itself progress in leaps, and cause mankind to make strides in production, invention, and social creation, of which we are hardly in a condition now to measure the speed?

The masses want to know: they are willing to learn; they *can* learn. There, on the crest of that immense moraine which runs between the lakes, as if giants had heaped it up in a hurry to connect the two shores, there stands a Finnish peasant plunged in contemplation of the beautiful lakes, studded with islands, which lie before him. Not one of these peasants, poor and downtrodden though they may be, will pass this spot without stopping to admire the scene. Or there, on the shore of a lake, stands another peasant, and sings something so beautiful that the best musician would envy him his melody, for its feeling and its meditative power. Both deeply feel, both meditate, both think; they are ready to widen their knowl- edge,-only give it to them, only give them the means of getting leisure.

This is the direction in which, and these are the kind of people for whom, I must work. All those sonorous phrases about making mankind progress, while at the same time the progress-makers stand aloof from those whom they pretend to push onwards, are mere sophisms made up by minds anxious to shake off a fretting contradiction.

So I sent my negative reply to the Geographical Society.

*** Living My Life

**Emma Goldman: Anarchism and the Liberated Woman**

As her autobiography makes abundantly clear, Emma Goldman always demanded the utmost honesty both from herself and from others; and she never ran from a fight. A life lived in scrupulous adherence to such principles was not destined lo be an easy one. Emma Goldman was born in Russia of poor Jewish parents in 1869 and at the age of seventeen emigrated to America, where her family settled in Rochester. Several years later, her social conscience aroused by the execution of the Chicago anarchists following the Haymarket explosion of 1886, and her personal life made intolerable by a disastrous marriage, she came to New York City. There she fell under the influence of Johann Most, the fiery anarchist leader. (Their relationship did not endure, however, and at one point in her subsequent career an indignant Emma publicly horsewhipped her former mentor.) As she describes in the opening passage below, within just a few months she was embarking on the speaking, writing, and organizing activities in behalf of the anarchist cause that were to occupy her for the next half century.

She could do battle for the liberation of others only after she had achieved self-liberation. The liberation of women was a theme that had appeared in anarchist thought, at least in embryonic form, as far back as Godwin, who condemned traditional marriage in his Political Justice. Most of the great anarchist theorists ignored the subject, however, and some, such as Proudhon and Tolstoy, took a very dim view of it. To Emma Goldman, the emancipation of women was an integral part of the general personal and social liberation that anarchism signified for her. In quest of that liberation she campaigned constantly in support of civil liberties, the labor movement, and American and international anarchism; she made a study of modern drama from an anarchist viewpoint and gave numerous lectures on the subject; and somehow she also found the time to publish a libertarian magazine called *Mother Earth.* In many of these endeavors she worked closely with her friend of over forty years, Alexander Berkman (“Sasha”), with whom she was deported to Russia in 1919 for their agitation against American participation in the First World War and against military conscription. There she faced the most severe trial her ideals had ever undergone, her growing perception of the dictatorial nature of the Bolshevik regime. Unlike many of her contemporaries she refused to close her eyes to unpleasant reality, and her account of her stay in Russia provides a further example of her personal integrity as well as an additional chapter in the historical confrontation between Marxism and anarchism. In 1921, dismayed at the bloody suppression of the popular uprising at the Kronstadt naval base, she and Berkman left Russia. After publishing her views on the situation in Russia she resumed her varied writing and lecturing activities. Indefatigable to the last, she died in 1940 while on a lecture tour of Canada to raise money for the Spanish anarchists. Except for a ninety-day visit in 1934 she was permitted to return to the United States only after her death, and she was buried in Chicago.

*Living My* Life (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1931) is one of the truly great works in the libertarian tradition. Some thousand pages long, it richly illustrates the breadth of Emma Goldman’s interests as well as the depth *of* her character. The passages below are drawn from I, 50–62, 462–63, 465–67; II, 555–57, 726–32, 763–71, 886–88, 927. Among her other publications are *Anarchism and Other Essays* (New York, 1911), and two volumes on her experiences in Russia: *My Disillusionment in Russia* (Garden City, N.Y., 1923), and *My Further Disillusionment in Russia* (Garden City, N.Y., 1924). Much of the material in these two books is included in her autobiography. Also available is *Rebe/ in Paradise: A Biography* of *Emma Goldman,* by Richard Drinnon (Chicago, 1961).

**** I

I had begged [Johann] Most not to give the time of my arrival to the German Union in Rochester, before which I was to speak. I wanted to sec my bcloVl’d sister Helena first. I had written her about my coming, but not the pnr- posc of my visit. She met me at the station and we clung to each other as if we had been separated for decades.

I cxphiirn..d to Helena my mission in Hochester. She stared at me open-mouthed. How could I undertake such a thing, face an audiencl’? I had been away only six months; what could I have learned in such a brief time? Wherc did I get the courage? And in Rochester, of all cities! Onr parents would never get over the shock.

I had nl’ver before been angry with Hell’na; there never had lll’en occasion for it. In fact, it was always I who tried her patience to the breaking-point. But the reference to our parents made me wroth. It brought back Popclan, Hclma’s crushed young love for Susha, and all the other ghastly pictnres. I broke out in a bitter arraignment of onr people, especially picking out my father, whose harshness had heen the nightmare of my childhood, and whose tyranny had held me even after my marriage. I reproached Helena for having allowl’d onr parents to rob her of her youth. “They came near doing it to me, tool” I cried. I had finished with them when they joined the Rochester bigots and cast me out. My life was now my own, the work I had chosen more precious to me than my life! Nothing could take me from it, least of all consideration for my parents.

The pain in my darling’s face checked me. I took her in my arms and assured her that there was nothing to worry about, that our family need not know about my plans. The meeting was to be only before a German union; no publicity would be connected with it. Besides, the Jews on St. Joseph’s Street knew nothing about the advanced Germans, or about anything else, for that matter, outside of their own colourless, petty lives. Helena brightened up. She said that if my public speech was as eloquent as my arguments to her, I would make a hit.

When I faced the audience the next evening, my mind was a blank. I could not remember a single word of my notes. I shut my eyes for an instant; then something strange happened. In a flash I saw it-every incident of my three years in Rochester: the Garson factory, its drudgery and humiliation, the failure of my marriage, the Chicago crime. The last words of August Spies rang in my ears: “Our silence will speak louder than the voices you strangle today.”

I began to speak. Words I had never heard myself utter before came pouring forth, faster and faster. They came with passionate intensity; they painted images of the heroic men on the gallows, their glowing vision of an ideal life, rich with comfort and beauty: men and women radiant in freedom, children transformed by joy and affection. The audience had vanished, the hall itself had disappeared; I was conscious only of my own words, of my ecstatic song.

I stopped. Tumultuous applause rolled over me, the buzzing of voices, people telling me something I could not understand. Then I heard someone quite close to me: “It was an inspired speech; but what about the eight-hour struggle? You’ve said nothing about that.” I felt hurled down from my exalted heights, crushed. I told the chairman I was too tired to answer questions. and I went home feeling ill in body and mind. I let myself quietly into Ilcl<“na”s apartnwnt and threw myself on the bed in my clothes.

Exas1wration with Most for forcing the tour on me, anger with myself for having so easily succumbed to his influence, till’ conviction that I had cheated the audience -all seethed in my mind together with a new revelation. I could sway people with words! Strange and magic words that wclk·d up from within me, from some unfamiliar depth. I wept with the joy of knowing.

I went to Buffalo, determined to make another effort. The prdiminaries of the meeting threw me into the same nervous tension, but when I faced the audience, there were no visions to inflame my mind. In an endless, repetitious manner I made my speech about the waste of energy and time the eight-hour struggle involved, scoffing at the stupidity of the workers who fought for such triffes. At the end of what seemed to me several hours I was complimented on my clear and logical presentation. Some questions were asked, and I answered them with a sureness that brooked no gainsaying. But on the way home from the meeting my heart was heavy. No words of exaltation had come to me, and how could one hope to reach other hearts when one’s own remaiill’d cold? I decided to wire Most the next morning, begging him to relieve me of the necessity of going to Cleveland. I could not bear to repeat once more the meaningless prattle.

After a night’s sleep my decision seemed childish and weak. How could I .give up so soon? Would Most have given up like that? Would Sasha? Well, I, too, would go on. I took the train for Cleveland.

The meeting was large and animated. It was a Saturday night, and the workers attended with their wives and children. Everybody drank. I was surrounded by a group, offered refreshments, and asked questions. How did I happen to come into the movement? Was I German? What was I doing for a living? The petty curiosity of people supposed to be interested in the most advanced ideas reminded me of the Rochester grilling on the day of my arrival in America. It made me thoroughly angry.

The gist of my talk was the same as in Buffalo, but the form was different. It was a sarcastic arraignment, not of the system or of the capitalists, but of the workers them- selves-their readiness to give up a great future for some small temporary gains. The audience seemed to enjoy being handled in such an outspoken manner. They roared in some places, and in others vigorously applauded. It was not a meeting; it was a circus, and I was the clown!

A man in the front row who had attracted my attention by his white hair and lean, haggard face rose to speak. He said that he understood my impatience with such small demands as a few hours less a day, or a few dollars more a week. It was legitimate for young people to take time lightly. But what were men of his age to do? They were not likely to live to see the ultimate overthrow of the capitalist system. Were they also to forgo the rclease of perhaps two hours a day from the hated work? That was all they could hope to sec realized in their lifetime. Should they deny themselves even that small achievement? Should they never have a little more time for reading or being out in the open? Why not be fair to people chained to the block?

The man’s earnestness, his clear analysis of the principle involved in the eight-hour struggle, brought home to me the falsity of Most’s position. I realized I was committing a crime against myself and the workers by serving as a parrot repeating Most’s views. I understood why I had failed to reach my audience. I had taken refuge in cheap jokes and bitter thrusts against the toilers to cover up my own inner lack of conviction. My first public experience did not bring the result Most had hoped for, but it taught me a valuable lesson. It cured me somewhat of my childlike faith in the infallibility of my teacher and impressed on me the need of independent thinking.

In New York my friends had prepared a grand reception for me; our flat was spotlessly clean and filled with flowers. They were eager for an account of my tour and they felt apprehensive of the effect upon Most of my changed attitude.

The next evening I went out with Most, again to Terrace Garden. He had grown younger during my two weeks’ absence: his rough beard was trimmed neatly and he wore a natty new grey suit, a red carnation in his buttonhole. He joined me in a gay mood, presenting me with a large bouquet of violets. The two weeks of my absence had been unbearably long, he said, and he had reproached himself for having let me go just when we had grown so close. But now he would never again let me go-not alone, anyhow.

I tried several times to tell him about my trip, hurt to the quick that be had not asked about it. He had sent me forth against my will, he bad been so cager to make a great speaker of me; was he not interested to know whether I had proved an apt pupil?

Ycs, of course, he rcpliecl. But he had alrcacly received the reports from Rochester that I hacl been eloquent, from Buffalo that my presentation hacl silenced all opponents, and from Cleveland that I hacl llayecl the clullards with biting sarcasm. “What about my own reactions?”’ I asked. “Don’t you want me to tell you about that?” “Yes, another time.” Now he wanted only to feel me near—his *Blondkopf,* his little girl-woman.

I llarccl up, declaring I would not be treatecl as a mere female. I blurted out that I would never again follow blinclly, that I had macle a fool of mysdf, that the five- minute speech of the olcl worker had convinced me more than all his persuasive phrases. I talked on, my listener keeping very silent. When I hacl finished, he called the waiter and paid the bill. I followed him out.

On the street he burst out in a storm of abuse. He had reared a viper, a snake, a heartless coquette, who had playecl with him like a cat with a mouse. He had sent me out to pleacl his cause and I had betrayecl him. I was like the rest, but he would not stand for it. He would rather cut me out of his heart right now than have me as a lukewarm friend. “Who is not with me is against me,” he shouted: “I will not have it otherwise!” A great sadness overwhelmed me, as if I had just experienced an irreparable loss.

Returning to our flat, I collapsed. My friends were disturbed and did everything to soothe me. I related the story from beginning to end, en•n to the violets I had mechanically carried home. Sasha grew indignant. “Violets at the height of winter, with thousands out of work and hungry!” he exclaimed. He had always said that Most was a spendthrift, living at the expense of the movement. And what kind of a revolutionist was I, anyway, to accept Most’s favours? Didn’t I know that he only cared for women physically? Most of the Germans were that way. They considered women only as females. I would have to choose once for all between Most and him. Most was no longer a revolutionist; he had gone back on the Cause.

Angrily he left the house, and I remained bewildered, bruised, with my new-found world in debris at my feet. A gentle hand took mine, led me quietly into my room, and left me. It was Fedya.

Soon a new call came to me, of workl’rs on strikL>, and I followed it eagerly. It came from Joseph Barondcss, whom I had previously met; he was of the group of young Jewish socialists and anarchists who had mwmized till’ cloakmah•rs and other Yiddish unions. The aggregation numbered more informed men and abler speakers than Barondess, but he stood out by reason of his grmtcr simplicity. There was no bombast about this attractive, lanky chap. His mind was not of a scholarly type; it was of a practical turn. He was just the man the workers needed to help them in their daily struggle. Barondess was now at the head of the union, directing the cloakmah•rs<sup>’</sup> strike.

Everybody on the East Side who was able to say a few words in public was drawn into till’ struggk{1}. They were nearly all men, except Annie Netter, a young girl who had already made a name for herself by lll’r untiring activity in the anarchist and labour ranks. She had been one of the most intelligent and indefatigable women workers in various strikes, including those of till<sub>’</sub> Knights of Labor, an organization which had been for a number of years the storm-centre of the intense campaigns of the eighties. It had reached its zenith in thl’ l’ight-hour fight led by Parsons, Spies, Fielden and the other men who had died in Chicago. It began its downward course when Terence V. Powderly, Grand Master of the Knights of Labor, had allied himself with the enemies of his comrades who were being rushed to their doom. It was well known that Powderly, in retum for thirty pieces of silver, had helped to pull the strings that strangled the men in Chicago. Militant workers withdrew from the Knights of Labor, and it becaml’ a dumping-ground for unscrupulous job-hunters.

Annie Netter had been among the first to turn from the Judas organization. She was now a member of the Pioneers of Liberty, to which most of the active Jewish anarchists in New York belonged. An ardent worker, she gave unstintingly of her time and meagre earnings. In hl’r efforts she was sustained bv her father who had developed himself out of religions orthodoxy to atheism and socialism. He was a man of exceptional quality, a great scholar, of warm humanity, a lover of life and youth. The Netter home, behind their little grocery store, became the oasis for the radical element, an intellectual Cl’ntrl’. Mrs. Netter kept open house: the *samovar* and a generous spread of *zakusky* were never off the table. We young rehels were appreciative, if not profitable, customers of of the Netter grocery.

I had never known a real home. At the Nettl’rs’ I basked in the sunny atmosphere of the beautiful understanding that existed between the parents and their cihldren. The gatherings there were intensely interesting, the evenings spent in discussions, enlivened by the entertaining banter of our kindly host. Among the frequenters were some very able young men whose names were well known in the New York ghetto; among others, David Edelstadt, a fine idealistic nature, a spiritual petrel whose songs of revolt were beloved by every Yiddish-speaking radical. Then there was Bovshover, who wrote under the name of Basil Dahl, a high-strung and impulsive man of eXceptional poetic gifts. Young Michael Cohn, M. Katz, Girzhdansky, Louis, and other young mm of ability and promise used to meet at the Netters’, all helping to make the evenings real intellectual feasts. Joseph Barondess oftm participated, and it was he who sent for me to help in the strike.

I threw myself into the work with all the ardour of my being and I became absorbed in it to the exclusion of everything else. My task was to get the girls in the trade to join the strike. For that purpose nwdings, concerts, socials, and dances were organized. At these affairs it was not difficult to press upon the girls the need of making common cause with their striking brothers. I had to speak often and I became less and less disturbed when on the platform. My faith in the justice of the strike hclped me to dramatize my talks and to carry conviction. Within a few weeks my work brought scon•s of girls into the ranks of the strikers.

I became alive once more. At the dances I was one of the most untiring and gayest. One evening a cousin of Sasha, a young boy, took me aside. vVith a grnve face, as if he were about to announce the death of a dear comrade, he whispered to me that if it did not behoove an agitator to dance. Certainly not with such reckless abandon, anyway. It was undignified for one who was on the way to become a force in the anarchist movement. My frivolity would only hurt the Cause.

I grew Furious at the impudent interferenet’ of the boy. I told him to mind his own business, I was tired of having the Cause constantly thrown into my face. I did not ^- lieve that a Cause which stood For a beautiful ideal, for anarchism, for release and freedom from conventions and prejudice, should demand the denial of lift· and joy. I insisted that our Cause could not expect me to became a nun and that the movemmt should not be turned into a cloister. If it meant that, I did not want it. “I want freedom, the right to self-expression, everybody’s right to beautiful, radiant things.” Anarchism meant that to me, and I would live it in spite of the whole world-prisons, persecution, everything. Yes, even in spite of the condemnation of my own closest comrades I would live my heautiful ideal.

I had worked myself into a passion, my voice ringing out. I found myself surrounded by many people. There was applause, mingled with protests that I was wrong, that one must consider the Cause above everything. All the Russian revolutionists had done that, they had never been conscious of self. It was nothing but narrow egotism to want to enjoy anything that would take om’ away from the movement. In the hubbub Sasha’s voice was the loudest.

I turned in his direction. He was standing near Anna \finkin. I had noticed their growing interest in each other long before our last altercation. Sasha had then moved out of our Hat, where Anna used to be almost a dailv visitor. It was now the first time in weeks that I had seen either of them. My heart contracted with yearning for my impetuous, headstrong lover. I longed to call him by the name he loved best, Duslienka-to stretch out my arms to him-but his face was set, his eyes full of reproach, and I chech•d myself. I danced no more that evening.

Presmtly I was called into the committee room, where I found Joseph Barondess and other strike leaders already at work. Next to Barondess I noticed Professor T. H. Garside, a Scotchman, formerly lecturer for the Knights of Labor, and now at tlw head of the strike. Garside was about thirty-five, tall, pale, and languid-looking. His manner was gentle and ingratiating, and he resembled somewhat the pictures of Christ. He was always trying to pacify conflicting clements, to smooth things over.

Garside informed us that the strike would he lost if we did not consent to a compromise. I disagreed with him and objected to his proposal. Several members of the cmnmittee upheld me, but Garside’s influence prevailed. The strike was settled according to his suggestions.

The strenuous weeks of the strike now gave way to less arduous activities: lectures, evenings at the Netters’ or at our Hat, and efforts to secure employment again. Fedya had begun to work with crayons, enlarging photographs; he declared that he could not keep on wasting our money, Helena’s and mine, on paints. He felt he would never become a great painter, anyway. I suspected it was something else: no doubt his desire to cam money so that he could relieve me of hard work.

I had not been feeling very well, especially during periods, on which occasions I always had to take to bed, in excruciating pain for days. It had been so since my great shock when Mother slapped my face. It grew worse when I caught a cold on our way from Konigsberg to St. Petersburg. We had to be smuggled across the border, Mother, my two brothers, and I. It was in the latter part of 1881 and the winter was particularly severe. The smugglers had told Mother that we would have to wade through deep snow, even across a half-frozen brook. Mother worried about me because I was taken sick a few days earlier than my time, owing to the excitement of our departure from Konigsberg. At five in the morning, shivering with cold and fear, we started out. Soon we reached the brook that separated the German and Russian frontiers. The very anticipation of the icy water was paralysing, but there was no escape; we had to plunge in or be overtaken and perhaps shot hy soldiers patrolling the border. A few roubles finally induced them to tum their backs, but they had cautioned us to be quick.

We plunged in, Mother loaded with bundles and I carrying my little brother. The sudden chill froze my blood; then I felt a stinging sensation in my spine, abdomen, and legs, as if I were being pierced with hot irons. ***1*** wanted to scream, but terror of the soldiers checked me. Soon we were over, and the stinging ceased; but my teeth kept chattering and I was in a hot sweat. We ran as fast as we could to the inn on the Russian side. I was given hot tea with ***maliny,*** packed in hot bricks, and eovered with a large feather bed. I felt feverish all the way to St. Petersburg, and the pain in my spine and legs was racking. I was laid up for weeks, and my spine remained weak for years afterwards.

In America I had consulted Solotaroff about my trouble, and he took me to a specialist, who urged an operation. He Sl’emed surprised that I could have stood my condition so long and that I had been at all able to have phvsical contact. My friends informed me that the physician had said I would never he free from pain, or experience full sexual release, unless I submitted to the operation.

Solotaroff asked me whether I had ever wanted a baby. “Because if you have the operation,” he explained, “you will he abk· to have a child. So far vour condition has made that impossible.”

A child! I had loved children madly, eH’r since I could rt’member. As a little girl I used to look with envious eyes on the strange little babies our neighbour’s daughter played with, dn•ssing them up and putting tlwm to sleep. I was told they “·ere not real habit’s, they were only dolls, although to mt’ they \\“l’re living things because they were so beautiful. I longed for dolls. hut I never had any.

\\‘hen Ill\’ brotlwr Herman was born, I was onlv four years old. He replaced the need of dolls in my life. The arrival of little Leibale two ymrs later filled me with ecstatic joy. I was always near him, rocking and singing him to slet’p. Once when he was about a year old, Mother put him in my bed. After she left, the child began to cry. !fr must be hungry, I thought. I remembered how 1\fother gave him the breast. I, too, would give him my breast. I picked him up in my arms and pressed his little mouth dose to mt’, rocking and cooing and urging him to drink. Instead he began to choke, turned blue in the face, and gasped for breath. Mother canw running in and demanded to know what I had done to Baby. I explained. Slw broke ant into laughter, thci1 slapped and scolded me. I wept, not from pain, but because my breast had no milk for Leihalt{1}.

My compassion for our servant Amalia had surdy been due to the circumstance that she was going to have *ein Kindclien.* I loved babies passionately, and now-now I might have a child of my own and experience for the first time the mystery and wonder of motherhood! I closed my eyes in blissful day-dreaming.

A cruel hand clutched at my heart. My ghastly childhood stood before me, my hunger for affection, which Mother was unable to satisfy. Father’s harshness towards the children, his violent outbreaks, his beating my sisters and me. Two frightful experiences were particularly fresh in my mind: Once Father lashed me with a strap so that my little brother Herman, awakened by my cries, came running up and bit Father on the calf. The lashing stopped. Helena took me to her room, bathed my bruised back, brought me milk, held me to her heart, her tears mingling with mine, while Father outside was raging: “I’ll kill her! I will kill that brat! I will teach her to obey!”

Another time, in Konigsberg, my people, having lost everything in Popelan, were too poor to afford decent schooling for Herman and myself. The city’s rahbi, a distant relative, had promised to arrange the matter, but he insisted on monthly reports of our behaviour and progress at school. I hated it as a humiliation that outraged me, but I had to carry the report. One day I was given a low mark for bad behaviour. I went home in trembling fear. I could not face Father-I showed my paper to Mother. She began to cry, said that I would be their ruin, that I was an ungrateful and wilful child, and that she would have to let Father see the paper. But she would plead with him for me, although I did not deserve it. I walked away from her with a heavy heart. At our bay window I looked. out over the fields in the distance. Children were playing there; they seemed to belong to another world- there never had been much play in my life. A strange thought came to me: how wonderful it would be if I were stricken with some consuming disease! It would surely soften Father’s heart. I had never known him soft save on Sukkess, the autumnal holiday of rejoicing. Father did not drink, except a little on certain Jewish fetes, on this day especially. Then he would grow jolly, gather the children about him, promise us new dresses and toys. It was the one bright spot in our lives and we always eagerly looked forward to it. It happened only once a year. As long as I could think back, I remembered his saying that he had not wanted me. He had wanted a boy, the pig woman had cheated him. Perhaps if I should become very ill, near death, he would become kind and never beat me again or let me stand in the corner for hours, or make me walk back and forth with a glass of water in my hand. “If you spill a drop, you will get whipped!” he would threaten. The whip and the little stool were always at hand. They symbolized my shame and my tragedy. After many attempts and considerable punishment I had learned to carry the glass without spilling the water. The process used to unnerve me and make me ill for hours after.

My father was handsome, dashing, and full of vitality. I loved him even while I was afraid of him. I wanted him to love me, but I never knew how to reach his heart. His hardness served only to make me more contrary. Why was he so hard, I was wondering, as I looked out of the bay window, lost in recollections.

Suddenly I felt a terrific pain in my head, as if I had been struck with an iron bar. It was Father’s fist that had smashed the round comb I wore to hold my unruly hair. He pounded me and pulled me about, raging: “You are my disgrace! You will always be so! You can’t be *my* child; you don’t look like me or like your mother; you don’t act like us!”

Sister Helena wrestled with him for m<sub>·</sub>v life. She tried to tear me away from his grip, and the blows intended for me fell upon her. At last Father became tired, grew dizzy, and fell headlong to the floor. Helena shouted to Mother that Father had fainted. She hurried me along to her room and locked the door.

All my love and longing for my father were turned to hatred. After that I avoided him and never talked to him, unless in answer. I did what I was told mechanically; the gulf between us widened with the years. My home had become a prison. Every time I tried to escape, I was caught and put back in the chains forged for me by Father. From St. Pctersburg to America, from Rochester to my marriage, there were repeated attempts to escape. The last and final one was before I left Rochester for New York.

Mother had not been feeling well and I went over to put her house in order. I was on the floor scrubbing while Father was nagging me for having married Kershner, for having left him, and again for returning to him. “You arc a loose character,” he kept on saying; “you have always disgraced yourself in the family.” He talked, while I continued scrubbing.

Then something snapped within me; my lone and woeful childhood, my tormented adolescence, my joyless youth-I flung them all into Father’s face. He stood aghast as I denounced him, emphasizing every charge by beating my scrubbing-brush on the floor. Every cruel incident of my life stood in my arraignment. Our large barn of a home, Father’s angry voice resounding through it, his ill- treatment of the servants, his iron grip on my mothereverything that had haunted my days and terrorized my nights I now recalled in my bitterness. I told him that if I had not become the harlot he repeatedly called me, it was not his fault. I had been on the verge even of going on the street more than once. It was Helena’s love and devotion that had saved me.

My words rushed on like a torrent, the brush pounding the floor with all the hatred and scorn I felt for my father. The terrible scene ended with my hysterical screams. My brothers carried me up and put me to bed. The next morning I left the house. I did not sec Father again before I went to New York.

I had learned since then that my tragic childhood had been no exception, that there were thousands of children born unwanted, marred and maimed by poverty and still more by ignorant misunderstanding. No child of mine should ever be added to those unfortunate victims.

There was also another reason: my growing absorption in mv new-found ideal. I had determined to serve it completely. To ful61 that mission I must remain unhampered and untied. Years of pain and of suppressed longing for a child-what were they compared with the price many martyrs had already paid? I, too, would pay the price, I would endure the suffering, I would find an outll’t for my mother-need in the love of *all* children. The operation did not take place.

’Several weeks’ rest and the loving care of my friends of Sasha, who had returned to the house, the Minkin sisters, Most, who called often and sent flowers, and, above all, the artist boy-gave me back to health. I rose from my sick-bed renewed in faith in my own stn·ngth. Like Sasha I now felt that I, too, could overcome every difficulty and face every test for my ideal. Had I not overcome the strongest and most primitive craving of a woman -the desire for a child?

During those weeks Fedya and I bccanle lovers. It had grown clear to me that my feelings for Fcdya had no bearing on mv love for Sasha. Each called out different emotions in my being, took me into different worlds. They created no conflict, they only brought fulfilment.

I told Sasha about my love for Fedya. His response was bigger and more beautiful than I had expected. “I believe in your freedom to love,” he said. He was aware of his possessive tendencies and hated thC’m like everything else he had got from his *bourgeois* background. Perhaps if Fedya were not his friend, he might bC’ jealous; he knew he had a large streak of jealousy in his make-up. But not only was Fedya his friend, he was his comrade in battle; and I was more to him than merely a woman. His love for me was intense, but the revolutionist and the lighter meant more to him.

When our artist friend came home that day, the boys embraced. Late into the night we talked of our plans for further activities. When we separated, we had made a pact-to dedicate ourselves to the Cause in some supreme deed, to die together if necessary, or to continue to live and work for the ideal for which one of us might have to give his life.

The days and weeks that followed were illumined by the glorious new light in us. We became more patient with each other, more understanding.

**** II

In my travels through the United States I had always found university towns the most indifferent to the social struggle. American student bodies were ignorant of the great issut’s in their native land and laeked sympathy with the masses. I was therefon· not enthusiastic when Ill’n [Heitman] suggested our invading \ladison, Wisconsin.

Cr(‘at was my surprisl’ wlwn I diseoV(‘rC’d an (‘ntirdy new not(• in the University of \\‘isc:onsin. I found the professors and pupils vitally inll’rl’stl’d in social ideas, and a library containing the hest sdection of books, papl’rs. and magazines. Professors Hoss, Commons, and Jastrow and several others proV(•d to he exceptions to the average American educator. They wen• progrt’SSi\’(’, alive to tlw probll’ms of the world, and mocl<-rn in till’ interpretation of tlll’ir subjects.

A group of stud<·nts invited us to ll’cture in the Y.M.C.A. hall on the campus. Ben spokl’ on thl’ relation between education and agitation, and I discussed till’ dilfl’rl’nce be- twel’n Hussian a11d Ameriean colll’p;e men. It was news to our hearers to learn that the Russian intelligl’ntsia saw in education, not a men• means to a career, but something to enable them to undl’rstand life and the pl’Ople, so that tlwy could kach and help them. American stndl’nts, on the other hand, were interested mostly in their diplomas. As to the social struggk, American university men knew little about it and cared still ll’ss. Our talks on this occasion were followl’d by spirill’d discussions and proved to us that our audiences had become very much aware of their relation to thl’ masses and of their debt to th<· workl’l’s who produced all wealth.

The trustel’S of thl’ Y.l\‘1.C.A. building could think of nothing wiser than to rl’fusc thl’ hall for our further gatherings. It was, of cottrSL’, thl’ best advertising for our meetings. It brought scores of studl’nts to the hall we had secured in town and made them more cager than ev£‘T to hear us speak. Subsec1uently I learned from the librarian that there had bl’en a greater demand for books on anarchism since I had come to the city than during the <·ntire prl’vious existl’ncc of the library.

The excitement my presence in \fadison created and the large attendance at our meetings were too much for the conservative townsfolk. Their spokesman, the Democrat, sounded the alarm against “the spirit of anarchy and the revolution rampant in college.” The editor chose as his special target Professor Hoss, who had been my host and who had also advised the students to go to my lectures and had even attended them himself. The newspaper almost caused the dismissal of the professor. Fortunately he had left on a long-planned trip to China shortly after my visit. The ravings of the *Democrat* soon died out, and when Dr. Ross returned from the Orient, he was ahle to take up his work without further molestation ...

Michigan State University is only ten hours removed from the University of Wisconsin, but in spirit it was fifty years behind. Instmd of broad-minded professors and keen students, I was confronted with five hundred university rowdies in our hall, whistling, howling, and acting like lunatics. I had addressed difficult crowds in my day-longshoremen, sailors, steel-workers, miners, men aroused by war hysteria. They resembled boarding-school girls compared with the tough gang that had come this time, evidently intent upon breaking up the meeting. Before I reached the hall, these believers in the sanctity of private property had torn up all our literature. This done, they were amusing themselves by throwing pieces of coal at the cut-glass vase on the platform. The place was packed with men, only one other woman besides myself being presl’llt, Dr. Maud Thompson. She, poor soul, was jammed in at the door and could not reach the platform. In any event she would have done no good, as I had no intention of appealing to the “chivalry” of these adolescents.

Several students who had entertained us at a fraternity dimwr grew anxious about my safety and offered to call the police. I felt that such a step would only aggravate the situation and perhaps cauSe a riot. I infornll’d them that I would face the music myself and take the consequences.

My appearance on the platform was greeted with shouts, hells, stamping of feet, and cries of “Here she is, the anarchist bomb-thrower; here’s the free lover! You can’t sr^<sub>;</sub>ak in our town, Emma! Get out-you’d better get out!

I saw clearly that if the situation was to be met, I must not show nervousness or lose patience. I folded my arms and stood there facing the young savages while the deafening noises continued. During a slight lull I said: “Gentlemen, I can see you are in a sporting mood, you want a contest. Very well, you shall have it. Just go on with the noise. I will wait until you are through.”

There was an amazed silence for a moment, and then they again broke loose. I continued to stand, my arms folded, all my will-power concentrated in my stare. Gradually the yelling subsided and then someone cril’d: “All right, Emma, let’s hear abont your anarchism!” The cry was taken up by others, and after a while comparative quiet prevailed. Then I began to speak.

I talked for an hour amid repeated interruptions, but before long, silence settled over the assembly. Their behaviour, I told them, was the best proof of the effects of authority and of its system of education. “You are the result of it,” I said; “how can you know the meaning of freedom of thought and speech? How can you feel respect for others or be kind and hospitable to a stranger in your midst? Authority at home, in the school, and in the body politic destroys those qualities. It turns the individual into a parrot repeating time-worn slogans, until he becomes incapable of thinking for himself or of feeling social wrongs. But I believe in the possibilities of youth,” I continued, “and you arc young, gentlemen, very, very young. That is fortunate, because you are still uncorrupted and impressionable. The energy you have so ably demonstrated this afternoon could be put to better use. It could be applied for the benefit of your fellows. But you have wasted your efforts in smashing a beautiful vase and in destroying the literary labours of men and women who live, work, and often die for their vision of a helter future.”

As soon as I had finished, they broke out with the college yell. It was the highest tribute, I was told later, that I could receive. Towards the evening a committee of students came to my hotel to offer apologies for the behaviour of their comrades and to pay the damage for the literature and vase. ‘“You won, Emma Goldman,” they said, “you have made us ashamed. Next time you visit our c:ity, we will give you a different welcome.” ...

As the divorce-mill of the country, Reno attracts a certain class of women. They Rock there to buy their freedom from one owner in order to sell themselves more profitably, as oftl’ll is the case, to another. Respectability has it easy. No hmrt-achcs, no soul-struggle of the free woman, who suffers a thousand torments in the readjustment from an old to a new emotional experience. Just a piece of paper, l’asily obtainable when one has money to appeaSe public opinion and one’s own conscience. Yet the divorcees in the hotd where we had registered were scandalized.

“What, Emma Goldman under the same roof with us! Emma Goldman, the champion of free love! Such a person cannot be tolerated,” they declared. What could the poor owner do? The divorcees, like the poor, arc always there and arc profitable guests. I had to leave the hotel. The humour of the situation was that the very women who had objected to my staying in the same place with them hdped to crowd my lectures on “The Failure of Marriage” and “The Meaning of Love.” ...

My tour this year [ 1915] met with no police inkrfcrencc until we reached Portland, Oregon, although the subjects I treated were anything but tame: anti-war topics, the fight for Caplan and Schmidt, freedom in love, birth-control, and the problem most tabooed in polite society, homosexuality. Nor did Comstock and his purists try to suppress me, although I openly discussed methods of contraception before various audiences.

Censorship came from some of my own comrades because I was treating such “unnatural” themes as homosexuality. Anarchism Was already enough misunderstood, and anarchists considered depraved; it was inadvisable to add to the misconceptions by taking up perverted scx- forms, they argued. Believing in freedom of opinion, even if it went against me, I minded the censors in my own ranks as little as I did those in the enemy’s camp. In fact, censorship from comrades had the same effect on me as police persecution; it made me surer of myself, more determined to plead for every victim, be it one of social wrong or of moral prejudice.

The men and women who used to come to see me after my lectures on homosexuality, and who con6ded to me their anguish and their isolation, were often of finer grain than those who had cast them out. Most of them had reached an adequate understanding of their differentiation only after years of struggle to stifle what they had considered a disease and a shameful affliction. One young woman confessed to me that in the twenty-five years of her life she had never known a day when the nearness of a man, her own father and brothers even, did not make her ill. The more she had tried to respond to sexual approach, the more repugnant men became to her. She had hated herself, she said, because she could not love her father and her brothers as she loved her mother. She suffered excruciating remorse, but her revulsion only increased. At the age of eighteen she had accepted an offer of marriage in the hope that a long engagement might help her grow accustomed to a man and cure her of her “disease.” It turned out a ghastly failure and nearly drove her insane. She could not face marriage and she dared not confide in her fiance or friends. She had never met anyone, she told me, who suffered from a similar alHiction, nor had she ever read books dealing with the subject. My lecture had set her free; I had given her back her selfrespect.

This woman was only om· of the **many** who sought **llll’** out. Their pitiful stories made the social ostracism of the invert seem more dreadful than I had ever realized before. To me anarchism was not a mere theory for a distant future; it was a living influence to free us from inhibitions, internal no less than external, and from the destructive barriers that separate man from man.

Los Angeles, San Diego, and San Francisco were record-breaking in the size of our meetings and the interest shown. In Los Angeles I was invited by the Women’s City Club. Five hundred members of my sex, from the deepest red to the dullest grey, came to hear me speak on “Feminism.” They could not excuse my critical attitude towards the bombastic and impossible claims of the suffragists as to the wonderful things they would do when they got political power. They branded me as an enemy of woman’s freedom, and club-members stood up and denounced me.

The incident reminded me of a similar occasion when I had lectured on woman’s inhumanity to man. Always on the side of the under dog, I resented my sex’s placing every evil at the door of the male. I pointed out that if he were really as great a sinner as he was being painted by the ladies, woman shared the rt’sponsibility with him. The mother is the first influence in his life, the first to cultivate his conceit and self-importance. Sisters and wives follow in the mother’s footsteps, not to mention mistresses, who complete the work begun by the mother. Woman is naturally perverse, I argued; from the very birth of her male child until he reaches a ripe age, the mother leaves nothing undone to keep him tied to her. Yet she hates to see him weak and she craves the manly man. She idolizes in him the very traits that help to enslave her-his strength, his egotism, and his exaggerated vanity. The inconsistencies of my sex keep the poor male dangling between the idol and the brute, the darling and the beast, the helpless child and the conqueror of worlds. It is really woman’s inhumanity to man that makes him what he is. \\‘hen she has learned to be as self-centred and as determined as he, when she gains the courage to delve into life as he docs and pay the price for it, she will achieve her liberation, and incidentally also help him become free. Whereupon my women hearers would rise up against me and cry: “You’re a man’s woman and not one of us.”

**** III

Soviet Russia! Sacred ground, magic people! You have come to symbolize humanity’s hope, you alone are destined to redeem mankind. I have come to serve you, beloved matushka. Take me to your bosom, let me pour myself into you, mingle my blood with yours, find my place in your heroic struggle, and give to the uttermost to your needs!

At the border, on our way to Pl’trograd, and at the station there, we were received like dear comrades. We who had been driven out of America as felons were welcomed on Soviet soil as brothers by her sons and daughters who had helped to set her free. Workers, soldiers, and peasants surrounded us, took us by the hand, and made us feel akin to them. Pale-faced and hollow-cheeked they were, a light burning in their sunken eyes, and determination breathing from their ragged bodies. Danger and suffering had steeled their wills and made them stern. But underneath beat the old childlike, generous Hussian heart, and it went out to us without stint.

M usie and song greeted us everywhere and wondrous talcs of valour and never-failing fortitude in the face of hunger, cold, and devastating disease. Tears of gratitude burned in my eyes and I felt great humility before those simple folk risen to greatness in the fire of the revolutionary struggle.

In Petrograd, after a third reception, Tovaris/1tcl1 Zarin, in whose company we had made the trip, invited Sasha and me to come with him to a waiting automobile. Darkness covered the big city, fantastic shadows over till’ glistening snow on the ground. The streets were entirely deserted, the grave-like silence disturbed only by the rattling of our car. We sped on, several tinll’S halted by human forms suddenly emerging from the blackness of the night. Soldiers they were, heavily armed, their flashlights searchingly on us, “Propusk, tovarisl1tcl1! ( Passcard, comrade! ),” was their curt demand. “Military precautions,” our escort explained; “Petrograd has only recently escaped the menace of Yudenich. Too many counter-revolutionists arc still lurking about for us to take any chances.” We continued on our way, and as the automobile turned a corner and passed a brightly lighted building, Zorin remarked: “The Cheka and our jail- gencrally empty, though.” Presently we halted before a large house, lights streaming from its many windows. “The Astoria, a fashionable hotel in tsarist times,” Zorin informed us, “now the First House of the Petro-Soviet.” We were to room there, he added, while the rl’st of the deportees would be housed in the Smolny, formerly the most exclusive boarding-school for the daughters of the aristocracy. “And the girls?” I inquired. “Ethel Bernstein and Dora Lipkin-I could not bear to be Sl’paratcd from them.” Zorin promised to secure a room for them in the Astoria, although only party members were quartered in that Soviet house, mostly high officials, as well as special guests. He led us to his apartment, while places for us were being prepared.

Liza, Zorin’s wife, bade us a hearty wclconll’, her greeting as kindly as Zorin’s attitude had been throughout the day. She felt sure we were hungry. She had not much to offer us, but we should partake of everything she had, which proved to be herring, *kaslw,* and tea. Thl’ Zorins looked none too well fed themselves, and I promised myself to replenish their scanty larder when our trunks were unpacked. Our American friends had provided us with a huge trunkful of supplies and we had also rescued some of the rations given us on leaving the *Buford.* I chuckled inwardly at the thought of the United States Government unwittingly feeding the Russian Bolsheviks.

The Zorins had lived in America, though we had never met them there. But they knew us, and Liza said that she had attended some of my lectures in New York. Both spoke English with a strong foreign accent, but more fluently than we did Russian. Thirty-five years in the States with almost no practice in our native tongue had paralysed our ability to use it. Besides, the Zorins had much to relate to us and they could do it in English. They told us of the Revolution, its achievements and hopes, and many other things we wanted to learn about. Their story of the events leading up to October and the developments since, though more detailed, was somewhat repetitious of what we had already heard at our receptions. It concerned the blockade and its fearful toll; the iron ring that surrounded Russia and the devastating sabotage of the interventionists; the armed attacks by Dcnikin, Kolchak, and Yudenich; the havoc wrought by them and the revolutionary spirit that kept at its hC’ight against terrible odds, fighting on numerous fronts and routing its enemies. Fighting also on the industrial front, building the new Russia out of the ruins of the old. Already much constructive work had becn achieved, they informed us; we should have the opportunity to sec it with our own eyes. Schools, workers’ colleges, social protection of mother and child, care of the aged and the sick, and much more were made possible by the dictatorship of the proletariat. Of course, Russia was very far yet from perfection, with every hand raised against her. The blockade, the intervention, the counter-revolutionary plot- ters-foremost amongst them the Hussian intclligentsia- they were the greatest menace. It was they who were responsible for the fearful obstacles the lkvolution encountered and for the ills the country was suffering.

The herculean tasks facing Russia now made our past struggles in America appear pitifully insignificant; our real test by fire was yet before us! I trembled at the thought of my possible failure, my inability to scale the heights already attained by the obscure and dumb millions. In their earnestness and obvious consecration the Zorins symbolized this greatness and I felt proud to have them as friends. It was past midnight before WC’ could tear ourselves away from them.

In the hotel corridor we ran into a young woman who told us that she was on her way to the Zorins’ to call us. A friend from America was waiting, eager to sec us. We followed her to an apartment on the fourth floor, and when the door was opened, I found myself in the embrace of our old comrade Bill Shatoff. “Bill, you here!” I cried in surprise; “why, Zorin told me you had left for Siberia!”

“Why were you not at the bordC’r to meet us? Didn’t you receive our radio?” Sasha chimed in.

“None of your American speed,” Bill laughed: “let me hug you first, dear Sasha, and let’s have a glass to your safe arrival in revolutionary Russia. Then we11 talk.” He led us to a divan, placing himself between us. The others present greeted us warmly: Anna ( Bill’s wife ), her sister Rose, and the latter’s husband. I had met the girls in New York, but I had not recognized Rose in the dim light of the corridor.

Bill had put on considcrahie weight since the farewell send-off we had given him in New York. His military uniform accentuated his bulging lines and made his face look rathl’r hard. But he was the same old Bill, impulsive, affectionate, and jovial. He pelted us with a volley of questions about America, the San Francisco labour cases, our imprisonment and deportation. “Never mind all that for the present,” we parried; “better tell us first about yourself. How do you happen still to be in Pctrograd? And why Wl’re you not on the reception committee for the American deportees?” Bill looked somewhat embarrassed and sought to dodge our questions, but we were insistent. I could not bear the uncertainty about Zorin and I was not willing to suspect him of deliberate deception. “I sec you have not changed,” Bill teased; “you are the same old persistent pest.” He tried to explain that in the strenuous life of Russia people had no time for mere sociability. He and Zorin, having different duties, rardy ml’t. That might explain Zorin<sup>’</sup>s impression that he had departed. His Siberian journpy had bel’n settled upon weeks previously, but, owing to the difficulty of procuring the necessary equipment for his trip, had been delayed. Even now much was to be attended to before he would be ready to leave. It might keeP him in the city for another fortnight, but he did not mind it now that we were with him-it would give us time to talk things over, about America and Russia. He had received our radio and be had asked to be on the committee, but he was refused. It had been considered unwise to allow him to give us our first impressions of Russia, in order not to prejudice us. “It! It!” both Sasha and I l’Xclaimed. “Who is that dictatorial ‘it’ that orders your Siberian trip and that refuses you the right to meet your old comrades and friends? And why could you not have come on your own account?” “The dictatorship of the proletariat,” Bill replied, patting me on the back indulgently; “but of that some other time. Now I just want to tell you,” he continued earnestly, “that the Communist State in action is exactly what we anarchists have always claimed it would be-a tightly centralized power, still more strmgthened by the dangers to the Revolution. Under such conditions one cannot do as one wills. One does not just hop on a train and go, or even ride the bumpers, as I used to in the United States. One needs permission. But don’t get the idea that I miss my American ‘blessings.’ Me for Russia, the Revolution, and its glorious future!”

Bill was certain we would come to feel just as he did about things in Russia. No need to worry about trifles like propusks during our first hours together. “Propusks! I have a whole trunkful of them, and so will you soon,” he concluded, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. I caught his mood and dismissed my questions. I was dazed by the impressions that had crowded the day. Was it really only one day, I wondered. I seemed to have lived years since our arrival.

Bill Shatoff did not leave for another fortnight, and we spent together most of our time, often into the wee hours of the morning. The revolutionary canvas he unrolled before us was of far larger scope than had been painted before by anyone else. It was no longer a few individual figures thrown on the picture, their role and importance accentuated by the vast background. Great and small, high and low, stood out in bold relief, imbued with a collective will to hasten the complete triumph of the Revolution. Lenin, Trotsky, Zinoviev, with their small band of inspired comrades, had a tremendous part to play, Bill declared with enthusiastic conviction; but the real power behind them was the awakened revolutionary consciousness of the masses. The peasants had expropriated the masters’ land all through the summer of 1917 ... workers had taken possession of the factories and shops ... the soldiers had flocked back by the hundred thousands from the warring fronts ...the Kronstadt sailors had translated their anarchist motto of direct action into the everyday life of the Revolution ...the Left Socialist Revolutionists, as also the anarchists, had encouraged the peasantry in socializing the land ... All tlll’se forces had helped to e1ll’rgize the storm that broke over Hussia, finding full expression and release in the terriffic sweep of October.

Such was the epic of dazzling beauty and overwhdm- ing power, infused with palpitating life by the ardour and eloquence of our friend. Prcsl’lltly Bill himself broke the spell. He had shown us the transformation in the soul of Russia, Ill’ continued; he would have to let us see her ills of the body as well. “Not to prejudice you,” he emphasized, “as has bel’ll fcan’d by people whose criterion of revolutionary integrity is a membership card.” Before long we would ourselves meet the appalling afflictions that were sapping the country’s strength, he said. His object was merely to prepare us-to help us diagnose the source of the disease, to point out the danger of its spreading and enable us to see that only till’ most drastic measures could effect a cure. The Hussian experience had taught him that we anarchists had been the romanticists of revolution, forgetful of the cost it would entail, the frightful price the enemies of the HeVolution would exact, the fiendish methods they would resort to in order to destroy its gains. 01ll’ cannot fight fire and sword with only the logic and justice of one’s ideal. The counterrevolutionists had combined to isolate and starve Russia, and the blockade was taking frightful toll of human life. The intervention and the dcstruetion in its wakl{1}, the numerous White attacks, costing oceans of blood, the hordes of Denikin, Kolchak, and Yudenich; their pogroms, bestial revenge, and the ge1ll’ral havoc wrought had imposed on the .Revolution a warfan· that its most farsighted exponents had never dreamed about. A warfare not always in keeping with romantic ideas of revolutionary ethics, indispensable none the less to drive off the hungry wolves ready to tear the Revolution limb from limb. He had not ceased to be an anarchist, Bill assured us; he had not become indifferent to the menace of a Marxian State machine. That danger was no longer a subject for theoretic discussion, but an actual reality because of the existing bureaucracy, inefficiency, and corruption. He loathed the dictatorship and its hand-maiden, the Cheka, with their ruthless suppression of thought, speech, and initiative. But it was an unavoidable evil. The anarchists had been the first to respond to Lenin’s essentially anarchistic call to revolution. They had the right to demand an accounting. “And we will! Never doubt that,” Bill fairly shouted, “we will! But not now, not now! Not while every nerve must be strained to save Russia from the reactionary elements which arc desperately fighting to come back to power.” He had not joined the Communist Party, and never would, Bill assured us. But he was with the Bolsheviki and he would continue until every front had been liquidated and the last enemy driven to cover, like Yudenich, Denikin, and the rest of the tsarist gang. “And so will you, dear Emma and Sasha,” Bill concluded; “I am certain of it.”

Our comrade was the enthusiastic bard of old, his song the saga of the Revolution, the most stupendous event of our time. Its miracles were many, its horrors and woe the martyrdom of a people nailed to the cross.

Bill was entirely right, we thought. Nothing was of moment compared with the supreme need of giving one’s all to safeguard the Revolution and its gains. The faith and fervour of our comrade swept me along to ecstatic heights. Yet I could not entirely free myself from an undercurrent of uneasiness one often feels when left alone in the dark. Resolutely I strove to drive it back, moving like a sleep-walker through enchanted space. Sometimes I would stumble back to earth only halfaroused by a hard voice or an ugly sight. The gagging of free speech at the session of the Petro-Soviet that we had attended, the discovery that better and more plentiful food was served Party members at the Smolny diningroom and many similar injustices and evils had attracted my attention. Model schools where the children were stuffed with sweets and candies, and side by side with them schools dismal, poorly equipped, unheated, and filthy, where the little ones, hungry all the time, were herded together like cattle. A special hospital for Communists, with every modern comfort, while other institution lacked the barest medical and surgical necessities. Thirty-four different grades of rations-under alleged *Communism!-while* some markets and privileged stores were doing a lively business in butter, eggs, cheese, and meat. The workers had their womenfolk standing long hours in endless queues for their ration of frozen potatoes, wormy cereals, and decayed fish. Groups of women, their faces bloated and blue, accompanied by Red soldiers and bargaining with them for their pitiful wares ...

When Angelica [Balabanoff] had suggested that I go to see Lenin, I decided to work out a memorandum of the most salient contradictions in Soviet life, but, not having heard anything more about the proposed interview, I had not done anything about the matter. Angelica’s telephone message one morning, informing me that “Ilich” was waiting to see Sasha and me, and that his auto had come for us, was therefore most disconcerting. We knew Lenin was so crowded with work that he was almost inaccessible. The exception in our favour was a chance we could not miss. We felt that even without our memorandum we should find the right approach to our discussion; moreover, we should have the opportunity to present to him the resolutions our Moscow comrades had entrusted to us.

Lenin’s auto rushed at furious speed along the congested streets and into the Kremlin, past every sentry without being halted for *propusks.* At the entrance of one of the ancient buildings that stood apart from the rest, we were asked to alight. An armed guard was at the elevator, evidently already apprised of our coming. Without a word, he unlocked the door and motioned us within, then locked it and put the key into his pocket. We heard our names shouted to the soldier on the first floor, the call repeated in the same loud voice at the next and the next. A chorus was announcing our coming as the elevator slowly ascended. At the top a guard repeated the process of unlocking and locking the elevator, then ushered us into a vast reception hall with the announcement: “Tova- *rishtchy* Goldman and Berkman.” We were asked to wait a moment, but almost an hour passed before the ceremony of leading us to the seat of the highest was resumed. A young man motioned us to follow him. We passed through a number of offices teeming with activity, the click of typewriters, and busy couriers. We were halted before a massive door ornamented with beautifully carved work. Excusing himself for just a minute, our attendant disappeared behind it. Presently the heavy door opened from within, and our guide invited us to step in, himself vanishing and closing the door behind us. We stood on the threshold awaiting the next cue in the strange proceedings. Two slanting eyes were fixed upon us with piercing penetration. Their owner sat behind a huge desk, everything on it arranged with the strictest precision, the rest of the room giving the impression of the same exactitude. A board with numerous telephone switches and a map of the world covered the entire wall behind the man; glass cases filled with heavy tomes lined the sides. A large oblong table hung with red; twelve straight- backed chairs, and several arm-chairs at the windows. Nothing else to relieve the orderly monotony, except the bit of flaming red.

The background seemed most fitting for one reputed for his rigid habits of life and matter-of-factness. Lenin, the man most idolized in the world and equally hated and feared, would have been out of place in surroundings of less severe simplicity.

“Ilich wastes no time on preliminaries. He goes straight to his objective,” Zorin had once said to me with evident pride. Indeed, every step Lenin had made since 1917 testified to this. But if we had been in doubt, the manner of our reception and the mode of our interview would have quickly convinced us of the emotional economy of Jlich. His quick perception of its supply in others and his skill in making the utmost use of it for his purposp werc extraordinary. No less amazing was his glee over anything he considered funny in himself or his visitors. Especially if he could put one at a disadvantage, the great Lenin would shake with laughter so as to compel one to laugh with him.

His sharp scrutiny having bared us to the bone, we were treated to a volley of questions, one following the other like arrows from his Hint-like brain. America, her political and economic conditions-what werc the chances of revolution there in the near future? The American Federation of Labor-was it all honeycombed with *bourgeois* ideology or was it only Gompers and his clic1uc, and was the rank and file a fertile soil for boring from within? The I.W.W.-what was its strength, and wcre the anarchists actually as effective as our recent trial would seem to indicate? He had just finished reading our speeches in court. “Great stuff! Clear-cut analysis of the capitalist system, splendid propaganda!” Too bad we could not haVP remained in the United Staks, no matter at what price. We were most welcome in Soviet Russia, of course, but such fighters were badly needed in America to help in the approaching revolution, “as many of your best comrades had been in ours.” “And you, *Tovarishtc/1* Berkman, what an organizer you must be, like Shatoff. True metal, your comrade Shatoff; shrinks from nothing and can work like a dozen men. In Siberia now, commissar of railroads in the Far Eastern Republic. Many other anarchists hold important positions with us. Everything is open to them if they are willing to co-operate with us as true *ideiny* anarchists. You, *Tovarishtch* Berkman, will soon find your place. A pity, though, that you were torn away from America at this portentous time. And you, *Tovarishtch* Goldman? What a field you had! You could have remained. Why didn’t you, even if *Tovarishtch* Berkman was shoved out? Well, you’re here. Have you thought of the work you want **to** do? You are *ideiny* anarchists, I can sec that by your stand on the war, your defence of ‘October,’ and your fight for us, your faith in the soviets. Just like your great comrade Malatesta, who is entirely with Soviet Russia. What is it you prefer to do?”

Sasha was the first to get his breath. He began in English, but Lenin at once stopped him with a mirthful laugh. “Do you think I understand English? Not a word. Nor any other foreign languages. I am no good at them, though I have lived abroad for many years. Funny, isn’t it?” And off he went in peals of laughter. Sasha continued in Hussian. He was proud to hear his comrades praised so highly, he said; but why were anarchists in Soviet prisons? “Anarchists?” Ilich interrupted; “nonsense! Who told you such yarns, and how could you lll’lie\‘l’ tlll’m? We do have bandits in prison, and Makhnovtsy, but no *ideiny* anarchists.”

“Imagine,” I broke in, “capitalist America also divides the anarchists into two categories, philosophic and criminal. The first are accepted in highest circles; one of them is ewn high in the councils of tlw Wilson Administration. The second category, to which we haw the honour of belonging, is persecuted and often imprisoned. Yours also seems to be a distinction without a differl’llce. Don’t you think so?” Bad reasoning on my part, Lenin replied, sheer muddle-lwadedness to draw similar conclusions from different premises. Free speech is a */Jourgeois* prejudice, a soothing plaster for social ills. In the Worh’rs’ Republic economic well-being talks louder than speech, and its freedom is far more secure. The proletarian dictatorship is steering that course. Just now it faces very grave obstacles, the greatest of them the opposition of the peasants. They need nails, salt, textiles, tractors, electri- fication. When we can give them these, they will be with us, and no counter-revolutionary power will be able to swerve them back. In the present state of Russia all prattle of freedom is merely food for the reaction trying to down Russia. Only bandits are guilty of that, and they must be kept under lock and key.

Sasha handed Lenin the resolutions of the anarchist conference and emphasized the assurance of the ^loseow comrades that the imprisoned comrades were *ideiny* and not bandits. “The fact that our people ask to he legalized is proof that they arc with the Revolution and the Soviets,” we argued. Lenin took the document and promised to submit it to the next session of the Partv Executive. We would be notified of its decision, he said, but in any event it was a mere trifle, nothing to disturb any true revolutionist. Was there anything else? We had fought in America for the political rights even of our opponents, we told him; the denial of them to our own comrades was therefore no trifle to us. I, for one, felt, I informed him, that I could not co-operate with a regime that persecuted anarchists or others for the sake of mere opinion. Moreover, there were even more appalling evils. How were we to reconcile them with the high goal he was aiming at? I mentionl’d some of them. His reply was that my attitude was *bourgeois* sentimentality. The proletarian dictatorship was engaged in a life-and-death struggle, and small considerations could not be permitted to weigh in the scale. Hussia was making giant strides at home and abroad. It was igniting the world revolution, and here I was lamenting over a little blood-letting. It was absurd, and I must get over it. “Do something,” he advised; “that will be the best way of regaining your revolutionary balance.”

Leniu might be right, I thought. I would take his advice. I would start at once, I said. Not with any work within Russia, but with something of propaganda value for the United States. I should like to organize a society of Russian Friends of American Freedom, an active body to give support to America’s struggle for liberty, as the American Friends of Hussian Freedom had done in aid of Russia against the tsarist regime.

Lenin had not moved in his seat during the entire time, but now he almost leaped out of it. He swung round and stood facing us. “That’s a brilliant idea!” he exclaimed, chuckling and rubbing his hands. “A fine practical proposal. You must proceed to carry it out at once. And you, *Tovarishtch* Berkman, will you co-operate in it?” Sasha replied that we had talked the matter over and had already worked out the details of the plan. We could start immediately if we had the necessary equipment. No difficulty in that, Lenin assured us; we would be supplied with everything-an office, a printing outfit, couriers, and whatever funds would be needed. We must send him our prospectus of work and the itemized expenses involved in the project. The Third International would take care of the matter. It was the proper channel for our venture, and it would afford us every help.

In blank astonishment we looked at each other and at Lenin. Simultaneously we began to explain that our efforts could prove effective only if free from any affiliation with known Bolshevik organizations. It must be carried out in our own way; we knew the American psychology and how best to conduct the work. But before we could proceed further, our guide suddenly appeared, as unobtrusively as he had left, and Lenin held out his hand to us in good-bye. “Don’t forget to send me the prospectus,” he called after us.

The methods of the “clique” in the politbureau of the party were also pervading the International and poisoning the entire labour movement, Angelica’s friend had told me. Was Lenin aware of it? And was that also a mere trifle in his estimation? I was certain now that he knew everything that was going on in Russia. Nothing escaped his searching eye, nothing could take place without first having been weighed in his scale and approved by his authoritative seal. An indomitable will easily bending everyone to its own curve and just as easily breaking men if they failed to yield. Would he also bend or break us? The danger was imminent if we made the first false step, if we accepted the tutelage of the Communist International. We were eager to help Russia and to continue our work for America’s liberation, to which we had given the best years of our lives. But it would mean a betrayal of our entire past and the complete abrogation of our independence to submit to the control of the clique. We wrote Lenin to that effect and enclosed a detailed outline of our plan, carefully prepared by Sasha.

We agreed with Lenin in one thing, the need of getting to work. Not, however, in any political capacity or in a Soviet bureau. We must find something that would bring us in direct touch with the masses and enable us to serve them. Moscow was the seat of the Government with more State functionaries than workers, bureaucratic to the last degree. Sasha had visited a number of factories, all of them in a palpably neglected and deserted condition. In most of them the Soviet officials and members of the Communist yaclieika (cell) far outnumbered the actual producers. He had talked with the workers and found them embittered by the arrogance and arbitrary methods of the industrial bureaucracy. Sasha’s impressions only served to strengthen my conviction that Moscow was no place for us. If at least Lunacharsky had kept his promise! But he was swamped with work, he wrote, and unable just then to call the teachers’ conference. It might take weeks before it could be done. He understood how difficult it was for people used to doing things in their own independent manner to fit themselves into a groove. But it was the only effective place in Russia and I would have to reconcile myself to that. Meanwhile I must k<·cp in touch with him, his letter concluded.

It was a subtle hint that the dictatorship was all- pcrvading and that it would hrook no independent effort. Not in Moscow, at any rate. After all, every scat of government inevitably breeds the martinet and the flunkey, the courtier and the spy, a herd of hangers-on fed by the official hand. Moscow was evidently no exception. We could not find our place there, nor come close to the toiling masses. One more thing we would attempt-get to sec our comrade Kropotkin and then back to Pctrograd, we decided.

We learned that George Lansbury and Mr. Barry were about to go to Dmitrov in a special train. We decided to ask permission to join them, though we were not elated over the prospect of seeing Peter in the presence of two newspaper men. We had not been able to arrange a trip to Dmitrov, and this was an unexpected and exceptional opportunity. Sasha hastened to see Lansbury. The latter consented to have us accompany him and even expressed his willingness that we bring with us anyone else we might want. He assured Sasha that he had long wanted to see me again and that he would be delighted at the chance. Considering that he had all along known of my presence in Moscow and that he had not taken the trouble to look me up, his delight seemed rather questionable. But the main thing was to meet Peter, and we also invited our comrade Alexander Schapiro to come with us.

The train crawled snail-like, stopping at every water-tank. It was late evening when we at last reached the house. We found Peter ill and worn-looking. He appeared a mere shadow of the sturdy man I had known in Paris and London in 1907. Since my coming to Russia I had been repeatedly assured by the most prominent Communists that Kropotkin lived in very comfortable circumstances and that he lacked neither food nor fuel; and here were Peter, his wife, Sophie, and their daughter, Alexandra, actually living in one room by no means sufficiently heated. The temperature in the other rooms was below zero, so that they could not be inhabited. Their rations, sufficient to exist on, had until recently been supplied by the Dmitrov co-operative society. That organization had since been liquidated, like so many other similar institutions, and most of its members arrested and taken to the Butirky prison in Moscow. How did they manage to exist, we inquired. Sophie explained that they had a cow and enough produce from her garden for the winter. The comrades from the Ukraine, particularly Makhno, had contrived to supply them with extra provisions. They would have managed to better advantage had not Peter been ailing of late and in need of more nourishing food.

Could nothing be done to rouse the responsible Communists to the fact that one of the greatest men of Russia was starving to death? Even if they had no interest in him as an anarchist, they must know his worth as a man of science and letters. Lenin, Lunacharsky, and the others in high position were probably not informed about Peter’s situation. Could I not call their attention to his condition? Lansbury agreed with me. “It is impossible,” he said, “that the big people in the Soviet Government would let so great a personality as Peter Kropotkin want for the necessaries of life. We in England would not stand for such an outrage.” He would immediately take the matter up with the Soviet comrades, he declared. Sophie had been repeatedly pulling at his sleeve to make him stop. She did not want Peter to hear our talk. But that dear soul was deeply immersed in conversation with the two Alexanders, quite unaware that we were discussing his welfare.

Peter would accept nothing from the Bolsheviki, Sophie told us. Only a short time previously, when the rouble still stood well, he had refused the offer of 250,00 roubles from the Government Publication Department for the right to issue his literary work. Since the Bolsheviki had expropriated others, they might as well help themselves to his hooks, he had said. But it would not be done with his consent. He had never willingly dealt with any government and he had no intention of doing so with the one that in the name of socialism had abrogated every revolutionary and ethical value. Sophie had not even been able to induce Peter to accept the academic ration Lunacharsky had ordered for him. His increasing feebleness had compelled her to take it without his knowledge. His health, she apologized, was more important to her than his scruples. Besides, as a scientific botanist she was herself entitled to the academic ration.

Sasha was speaking to Peter of the maze of revolutionary contradictions we had found in Hussia, the varied interpretations we had heard of the cauSl’S of the crying evils, and our interview with Lenin. We were eager to hear Peter’s view-point and get his reactions to the situation. He replied that it was what it had always been to Marxism and its theories. He had foreseen its dangers and he had always warned against them. All anarchists had done so, and he himself had dealt with them in nearly every one of his writings. True, none of us had fully realized to what proportions the Marxian menace would grow. Perhaps it was not so much Marxism as the Jesuitical spirit of its dogmas. The Bolsheviki were poisoned by it, their dictatorship surpassing the autocracy of the Inquisition. Their power was strengthened by the blustering statesmen of Europe. The blockade, the Allied support of the counter-revolutionary elements, the intervention, and all the other attempts to crush the Revolution had resulted in silencing every protest against Bolshevik tyranny within Russia itself. “Is there no one to speak out against it?” I demanded, “no one whose voice would carry weight? Yours, for instance, dear comrade?” Peter smiled sadly. I would know better, he said, after I had been awhile longer in the country. The gag was the most complete in the world. He had protested, of course, and so had others, among them the venerable Vera Figner, as well as Maxim Gorki on several occasions. It had no effect whatever, nor was it possible to do any writing with the Cheka constantly at one’s door. One could not keep “incriminating” things in one’s house nor expose others to the peril of discovery. It was not fear; it was the realization of the futility and impossibility of reaching the world from the inner prisons of the Chcka. The main drawback, however, was the enemies surrounding Russia. Anything said or written against the Bolslll’viki was bound to be interpreted by the outside world as an attack upon the Revolution and as alignment with the reactionary forces. The anarchists in particular were between two fires. They could not make peace with the formidable power of the Kremlin, nor could they join hands with the enemies of Russia. Their only alternative at present, it seemed to Peter, was to find some work of direct benefit to the masses. He was glad that we had decided on that. “Ridiculous of Lenin to want to bind you to the apron-strings of the party,” he declared. “It shows how far mere shrewdness is from wisdom. No one can deny Lenin’s shrewdness, but neither in his attitude to the peasants nor in his appraisal of those within or outside the reach of corruption has he shown real judgment or sagacity.”

It was growing late and Sophie had bel’!l trying to prevail upon Peter to retire. But he persistently declined. He had been so long cut off from his comrades-indeed, from any kind of intellectual contact, he said. Our visit at first seemed to exert a bracing effect upon him. But presently he began to show signs of exhaustion, and **we** felt it was high time to go. Gentle and gallant was our Prtcr even in his fatigue. Nothing would do but he must sec us to the exit and once more clasp us lovingly to his heart ...

The cannonade of Kronstadt continued without let-up for ten days and nights and then came to a sudden stop on the morning of March 17. The stillness that fell over Petrograd was more fearful than the ceaseless firing of the night before. It held everyone in agonized suspense, and it was impossible to learn what had happened and why the bombardment had ceased. In the late afternoon the tension gave way to mute horror. Kronstadt had been subdued-tens of thousands slain-the city drenched in blood. The Neva a grave for masses of men, *kursanty* and young Communists whose heavy artillery had broken through the ice. The heroic sailors and soldiers had defended their position to the last breath. Those not fortunate enough to die fighting had fallen into the hands of the enemy to be executed or sent to slow torture in the frozen regions of northernmost Russia.

We were stunned. Sasha, the last thread of his faith in the Bolsheviki broken, desperately roamed the streets. Lead was in my limbs, unutterable weariness in every nerve. I sat limp, peering into the night. Petrograd was hung in a black pall, a ghastly corpse. The street-lamps flickered yellow, like candles at its head and feet.

The following morning, March 18, still heavy with sleep after the lack of it during seventeen anxious days, I was roused by the tramp of many feet. Communists were marching by, bands playing military tunes and singing the *International.* Its strains, once jubilant to my car, now sounded like a funeral dirge for humanity’s flaming hope.

March 18-the anniversary of the Paris Commune of 1871, crushed two months later by Thiers and Gallifet, the butchers of thirty thousand Communards. Emulated in Kronstadt on March 18, 1921.

The full significance of the “liquidation” of Kronstadt was disclosed by Lenin himself three days after the frightfulness. At the Tenth Congress of the Communist Party, staged in Moscow while the siege of Kronstadt was in progress, Lenin unexpectedly changed his inspired Communist song to an equally inspired prean to the New Economic Policy. Free trade, concessions to the capitalists, private employment of farm and factory labour, all damned for over three years as rank counter-revolution and punished by prison and even death, were now written by Lenin on the glorious banner of the dictatorship. Brazenly as ever he admitted what sincerc and thoughtful persons in and out of the party had known for seventeen days: that “the Kronstadt men did not really want the counter-revolutionists. But neither did they want us.” The na·ive sailors had taken seriously the slogan of the Revolution: “All power to the Soviets,” by which Lenin and his party had solemnly promised to abide{1}. That had been their unforgivable offence. For that they had to die. They had to be martyred to fertilize the soil for Lenin’s new crop of slogans, which completely reversed the old. Their *chef d’CEuvre* the New Economic Policy, the NEP.

Lenin’s public confession in regard to Kronstadt did not stop the hunt for the sailors, soldiers, and workers of the defeated city. They were arrested by the hundreds, and the Cheka was again busy “target-shooting.”

Strangely enough, the anarchists had not been mentioned in connexion with the Kronstadt “mutiny.” But at the Tenth Congress Lenin had declared that the most merciless war must be waged against the “petty *bourgeoisie,”* including the anarchist elements. The anarchosyndicalist leanings of the labour opposition proved that these tendencies had developed in the Communist Party itself, he had said. Lenin’s call to arms against the anarchists met with immediate response. The Petrograd groups were raided and scores of their members arrested. In addition the Cheka closed the printing and publishing offices of the *Golos Truda,* belonging to the anarchosyndicalist branch of our ranks. We had purchased our ticket to Moscow before this happened. When we learned about the wholesale arrests, we decided to stay a little longer in case we too should be wanted. We were not molested, however, perhaps because it was necessary to have a few anarchist celebrities at large to show that only “bandits” were in Soviet prisons.

In Moscow we found all except half a dozen anarchists arrested and the *Golos Truda* book-store closed. In neither city had any charges been made against our comrades, nor had they been given a hearing or brought to trial. Nevertheless, a number of them had already been sent away to the penitentiary of Samara. Those still in the Butirky and the Taganka prisons were being subjected to the worst persecution and even physical violence. Thus one of our boys, young Kashirin, had b<”<“n beaten by a Chl’kist in th<” presl’llcc of tlw prison wanlPn. Maximov and oth<“r anarchists who had fought on the revolutionary fronts, and who W<“re known and respect<“d by many Communists, had be(‘ll forced to dl’clan• a lmnger-strike against the t<“rriblc conditions.

The first thing we were asked to do on our return to :Moscow was to sign a manifesto to the Soviet authorities denouncing the concerted tactics to exterminate our people.

We did so of course, Sasha now as emphatic as I that protl’sts from within Russia by the handful of politicals still out of prison were entirely futile. On the othl’r hand, no l’ffcctiVl’ action could be eXpected from the Hussian masses, even if we could reach them. Years of war, civi1 strife, and suffering had sapped their vitality, and terror had sikncccl them into submission. Our recourse. Sasha declared, was Europ<” and the United States. The time had come when the workers abroad must learn about the shaml’ful bl’lrayal of “October.” The awakl’ned conscience of the proletariat and of other liberal and radical clements in ev<“ry country must be crystallized into a mighty outcry against th<” ruthless pNsecution for opinion’s sake. Only that might stay the hand of the dictatorship. Nothing else could.

This much till’ martyrdom of Kronstadt had already done for my pal. It had demolished the last vestiges of his bl’lil’f in th<” Bolshevik myth. Not only Sasha, but also the other comrades who had formerly ddendcd the Com- numist methods as inevitable in a revolutionary period, had at last bel’n forced to sec the abyss bl’twc(‘ll “October” and till’ dictatorship ...

Bl’lo-Ostrov, January 19, 1920. 0 radiant dream, 0 burning faith! 0 *Matuslika Rossiya,* reborn in the travail of tlw Revolution, purged by it from hate and strife, liberated for true humanity and embracing all. I will dedicate myself to you, 0 Russia!

In the train, December l, 1921! My dreams crushed, my faith broken, my heart like a stone. Matushka Rossiya bleeding from a thousand wounds, her soil strewn with the dead.

I clutch the bar at the frozen window-pane and grit my teeth to suppress my sobs.

*** Prison Memoirs of on Anarchist

**Alexander Berkman: “Propaganda by the Deed”**

Although the anarchists were never alone in the use of terrorism, they have always been most closely identified with this particular form of political action. The idea of “propaganda by the deed,” as individual acts of political violence came to be called, was first developed by some of Bakunin’s Italian followers in the 1870s. It was felt that terroristic attacks on the authorities would show the masses the vulnerability of the existing system and thereby encourage them to revolt against it. In the next several decades anarchists in a number of countries perpetrated a series of assassinations and bombings. Aside from inspiring some excellent novels, it is doubtful that acts of this sort ever had any constructive effect. The masses either failed to respond or were posi tively repelled; innocent bystanders were frequently killed or maimed; and the opportunity for violence sometimes attracted psychopaths and criminals whose ideological commitment was, to say the least, highly suspect. Terrorism was condemned by many anarchists, but it was difficult to eliminate this kind of behavior entirely from a movement that placed such stress on the autonomy of the individual and the value of individual action.

In 1892, during the bitter steelworkers’ strike in Homestead, Pennsylvania, Alexander Berkman resolved to assassinate Henry Clay Frick of the Carnegie Steel Company. Berkman was twenty-two years old, an immigrant from Russia, where he had been born into a prosperous Jewish family. He was inspired by the example of the Russian Populists (or “Nihilists,” as they are sometimes called), who had adopted terrorism as a weapon against the tsarist government and in 1881 succeeded in assassinating Alexander II. Berkman was passionately devoted to the cause of social justice, but it was a passion that burned with a cool flame. As Emma Goldman (“the Girl” in his account) confirms in her autobiography, his anarchism was of an ascetic variety which stressed self-discipline and self-renunciation rather than self-enjoyment.

Berkman wounded Frick but did not kill him. He served fourteen years in prison and upon his release he resumed his work in the labor and anarchist movements. He also served as editor of Emma Goldman’s magazine *Mother Earth.* In 1919 he was deported with her to Russia, shared her disappointment there, and left in 1921. In 1936, living in the south of France penniless and ailing, he committed suicide.

Berkman’s *Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist* was published in New York in 1912 by the Mother Earth Publishing Association. Most of the book consists of a moving description of his life in prison; it is a harrowing study of the mentality of the prison inmate as well as an indictment of the penal system. The. passages here are drawn from the first part of the book (pp. 1–35, 66–72, 89–92), in which Berkman recounts the events of 1892. Alexander Berkman’s other major writings were *The Bolshevik Myth* (New York, 1925), on his stay in Bolshevik Russia, and Now *and Alter: The ABC of Communist Anarchism* (New York, 1929).

**** I

Clearly every detail of that day is engraved on my mind. It is the sixth of July, 1892. We are quietly sitting in the back of our little llat-Fedya and I-when suddcnly the Girl enters. Her naturally quick, energetic step sounds more than usually resolute. As I tum to her, I am struck by the peculiar gleam in her eyes and the heightened color.

“Have you read it?” she cries, waving the half-open newspaper.

“What is it?”

“Homestead. Strikers shot. Pinkertons have killed women and children.”

She speaks in a quick, jerky manner. Her words ring like the cry of a wounded animal, the melodious voice tinged with the harshness of bitterness-the bitterness of helpless agony.

I take the paper from her hands. In growing excitement I read the vivid account of the tremendous struggle, the Homestead strike, or, more correctly, the lockout. The report details the conspiracy on the part of the Carnegie Company to crush the Amalgamated Association of Iron and Steel Workers; the selection, for the purpose, of Henry Clay Frick, whose attitude toward labor is implacably hostile; his secret military preparations while designedly prolonging the peace negotiations with the Amalgamated; the fortification of the Homestead steelworks; the erection of a high board fence, capped by barbed wire and provided with loopholes for sharpshooters; the hiring of an army of Pinkerton thugs; the attempt to smuggle them, in the dead of night, into Homestead; and, finally, the terrible carnage.

I pass the paper to Fedya. The Girl glances at me. We sit in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. Only now and then we exchange a word, a searching, significant look.

It is hot and stuffy in the train. The air is oppressive with tobacco smoke; the boisterous talk of the men playing cards near by annoys me. I turn to the window. The gust of perfumed air, laden with the rich aroma of fresh- mown hay, is soothingly inYigorating. Green woods and yellow fields circle in the distance, whirl nearer, close, then rush by, giving place to other circling fields and woods. The country looks young and alluring in the early morning sunshine. But my thoughts arc busy with Homestead.

The great battle has been fought. Never before, in all its history, has American labor won such a signal victory. By force of arms the workers of Homestead have compelled three hundred Pinkerton invaders to surrender, most humbly, ignominiously. What humiliating defeat for the powers that be! Does not the Pinkerton janizary represent organized authority, forever crushing the toiler in the interest of the exploiters? Well may the enemies of the People be terrified at the unexpected awakening. But the People, the workers of America, have joyously acclaimed the rebellious manhood of Homestead. The steel-workers were not the aggressors. Resignedly they had toiled and suffered. Out of their flesh and bone grew the great steel industry; on their blood fattened the powerful Carnegie Company. Yet patiently they had waited for the promised greater share of the wealth they were creating. Like a bolt from a clear sky came the blow: wages were to be reduced! Peremptorily the steel magnates refused to continue the sliding scale previously agreed upon as a guarantee of peace. The Carnegie firm challenged the Amalgamated Association by the submission of conditions which it knew the workers could not accept. Foreseeing refusal, it flaunted warlike preparations to crush the union under the iron heel. Perfidious Carnegie shrank from the task, having recently proclaimed the gospel of good will and harmony. “I would lay it down as a maxim,” he had declared, “that there is no excuse for a strike or a lockout until arbitration of diffen•nces has been offered by one party and refused by the other. The right of the workingmen to combine and to form trades-unions is no less sacred than the right of the manufacturer to enter into association and conference with his fellows, and it must sooner or later he conceded. Manufacturers should meet their mm *more tlian lwlf-tcay.”*

With smooth words the great philanthropist had persuaded the workers to indorse the high tariff. Every product of his mills protected, Andrew Carnegie secured a reduction in the duty on steel billets, in return for his generous contribution to the Republican campaign fund. In complete control of the billet market, the Carnegie firm engineered a depression of prices, as a seeming consequence of a lower duty. But *the market jJTice of billets was the sole standard of wages in tlie Homestead mills.* The· wages of the workers must be reduced! The offer of the Amalgamated Association to arbitrate the new scale met with contemptuous refusal: there was nothing to arbitrate; the men must submit unconditionally; the union was to be exterminated. And Carnegie selected Henry C. Frick, the bloody Frick of the coke regions, to carry the program into execution.

Must the oppressed forever submit? The manhood of Homestead rebelled: the millmm scorned the despotic ultimatum. Then Frick’s hand fell. The war was on! Indignation swept the country. Throughout the land the tyrannical attitude of the Carnegie Company was bitterly denounced, the ruthless brutality of Frick universally execrated.

I could no longer remain indifferent. The moment was urgent. The toilers of Homestead had defied the oppressor. They were awakening. But as yet the steel-workers were only blindly rebellious. The vision of Anarchism alone could imbue discontent with conscious revolutionary purpose; it alone could lend wings to the aspirations of labor. The dissemination of our ideas among the proletariat of Homestead would illumine the great struggle, help to clarify the issues, and point the way to complete ultimate emancipation.

My days were feverish with anxiety. The stirring call, “Labor, Awaken!” would fire the hearts of the disinherited, and inspire them to noble deeds. It would carry to the oppressed the message of the New Day, and prepare them for the approaching Social Revolution. Homestead might prove the first blush of the glorious Dawn. How I chafed at the obstacles my project encountered! Unexpected difficulties impeded every step. The efforts to get the leaflet translated into popular English proved unavailing. It would endanger me to distribute such a fiery appeal, my friend remonstrated. Impatiently I waved aside his objections. As if personal considerations could for an instant be weighed in the scale of the great Cause! But in vain I argued and pleaded. And all the while precious moments were being wasted, and new obstacles barred the way. I rushed frantically from printer to compositor, begging, imploring. Nmw dared print the appeal. And time was fleeting. Suddenly flashed the news of the Pinkerton carnage. The world stood aghast.

The time for speech was past. Throughout the land the toilers echoed the defiance of the men of Homestead. The steel-workers had rallied bravely to the defenee; the murderous Pinkertons were driven from the city. But loudly called the blood of Mammon’s victims on the banks of the Monongahela. Loudly it calls. It is the P<·ople calling. Ah, the People! The grand, mysterious, yet so near and real, People ...

In my mind I sec myself back in the little Russian college town, amid the circle of Petersburg students, home for their vacation, surrounded by the halo of that vague and wonderful something we called “Nihilist.” The rushing train, Homestead, the five years passed in America, all turn into a mist, hazy with the distance of unreality, of centuries; and again I sit among superior beings, reverently listening to the impassioned discussion of dimly understood high themes, with the oft-recurring refrain of “Bazarov, Hegel, Liberty, Chemishevsky, **o** nar6d.” To the People! To the beautiful, simple People, so noble in spite of centuries of brutalizing suffering! Like a clarion call the note rings in my cars, amidst the din of contending views and obscure’ phraseology. The People! My Greek mythology moods have often pictured **HIM** to me as the mighty Atlas, supporting on his shoulders the weight of the world, his back bent, his face the mirror of unutterable misery, in his eye the look of hopeless anguish, the dumb, pitiful appeal for help. Ah, to help this helplessly suffering giant, to lighten his burden! The way is obscure, the means uncertain, but in the heated student debate the note rings clear: to the People, become Dill’ of them, share their joys and sorrows, and thus you will teach them. Yes, that is the solution! But what is that red-headed Misha from Odessa saying? “It is all good and well about going to the People, but the ener- gl’lic men of the deed, till’ Hakhmetovs, blaze the path of popular revolution by individual acts of revolt against-”

“Ticket, please!” A heavy hand is on my shoulder. With an effort I realize the situation. The card-players arc t’xchanging angry words. With a deft movement the conductor unhooks the board, and calmly walks away with it under his arm. A roar of laughter greets the players. Twitted by the other passengers, they soon suhsid<» and presently the car grows quiet.

I have difficulty in keeping myself from falling back into reverie. I must form a definite plan of action. My purpose is quitl’ clear to me. A trt’mcndous struggle is taking place at Honwstead: the People arc manifesting the right spirit in resisting tyranny and invasion. \1y heart exults. This is, at last, what I have always hoped for from the American workingman: once aroused, he will brook no interference; he will fight all ohstacles, and conquer even more than his original demands. It is the spirit of the heroie past reincarnated in the steel-workers of Home- sll’ad, Pennsylvania. What supreme joy to aid in this work! That is my natural mission. I feel the strength of a great undertaking. No shadow of doubt crosses my mind. The People-the toilers of the world, the producers -comprise, to rnc, the universe. They alone count. The rest arc parasites, who have no right to l’Xist. But to the Peopl.. belongs the l’arth-by right, if not in fact. To make it so in fact, all means arc justifiable; nay, advisable, even to the point of taking life. The question of moral right in such matters oft<·n agitated the revolutionary circles I used to frequent. I had always taken the extreme view. The more radical the treatment, I held, the quicker the curl’. Society is a patient: sick constitutionally and functionally. Surgical treatment is often imperative. The removal of a tyrant is not merely justifiable; it is the highest duty of every true revolutionist. Human life is, indeed, sacred and inviolate. But the killing of a tyrant, of an enemy of the People, is in no way to be considered as the taking of a life. A revolutionist would rather perish a thousand times than be guilty of what is ordinarily called murder. In truth, murder and *Attentat* 0 are to me opposite terms. To remove a tyrant is an act of liberation, the giving of life and opportunity to an oppressed people. True, the Cause often calls upon the revolutionist to commit an unpleasant act; but it is the test of a true revolutionist-nay, more, his pride-to sacrifice all merely human feeling at the call of the People’s Cause. If the latter demands his life, so much the better.

Could anything be nobler than to die for a grand, a sublime Cause? Why, the very life of a true revolutionist has no other purpose, no significance whatever, save to sacrifice it on the altar of the beloved People. And what could be higher in life than to be a true revolutionist? It is to be a *mnn,* a complete **MAN.** A being who has neither personal interests nor desires above the necessities of the Cause; one who has emancipated himself from being merely human, and has risen above that, even to the height of conviction which excludes all doubt, all regret; in short, one who in the very inmost of his soul feels himself revolutionist first, human afterwards.

Such a revolutionist I feel myself to be. Indeed, far more so than even the extreme radicals of my own circle. My mind reverts to a characteristic incident in connection with the poet Edelstadt. It was in New York, about the year 1890. Edelstadt, one of the tenderest of souls, was beloved by every one in our circle, the *Pioneers of* Lib*erty,* the first Jewish Anarchist organization on American soil. One evening the closer personal friends of Edelstadt met to consider plans for aiding the sick poet. It was decided to send our comrade to Denver, some one suggesting that money be drawn for the purpose from the revolutionary treasury. I objected. Though a dear, personal friend of Edelstadt, and his former roommate, I could not allow-I argued-that funds belonging to the movement he devoted to private purposes, however good and even necessary those might be. The strong disapproval of my sentiments I met with this challenge: “Do you mean to lwlp Eclclstaclt, the poet and man, or Eclelstadt the revolutionist? Do you consider him a true, active revolutionist? Ilis poetry is beautiful, indeed, and may indirectly even prove of some propagandistic value. Aid our friend with your private funds, if you will; but no money from the movcmc·nt can l)(’ given, except for direct revolutionary activity.”

{1} An act of political assassination.

“Do you mean that the poet is less to you than the revolutionist?” I was asked by Tikhon, a young medical studl’llt, whom we playfully clubbed “Lingg,” because of his rathef successful affeetation of the celebrated revolutionist’s physical appearance.

“I am revolutionist first, man afterwards,” I replied, with conviction.

“You are either a knave or a hero,” he retorted.

“Lingg” was quite right. He could not know me. To his *bourgeois* mind, for all his imitation of the Chicago martyr, my words must have sounded knavish. Weil, some day he may know which I am, knave or revolutionist. I do not think in the term “hero,” for though the type of revolutionist I feel myself to be might popularly be so called, the word has no significance for me. It 1m•rcly means a revolutionist who docs his duty. There is no heroism in that: it is neither more nor less than a revolutionist should do. Rakhmetov clicl more, too much. In spite of my great admiration for Chernishevsky, who had so strongly influenced the Russian youth of my time, I can not suppress the touch of rescntnwnt I feel because the author of “What’s To Be Done?” represented his areh- revolutionist Rakhmetov as going through a system of unspeakable, self-inflicted torture to prepare himself for future exigencies. It was a sign of weakness. Docs a real revolutionist need to prepare himself, to steel his nerves and harden his body? I feel it almost a personal insult, this suggestion of the revolutionist’s mere human clay.

No, the thorough revolutionist needs no such selfdoubting preparations. For I know I do not need them. The feeling is quite impersonal, strange as it may seem. My own individuality is entirely in the background; aye, I am not conscious of any personality in matters pertain· ing to the Cause. I am simply a revolutionist, a terrorist by conviction, an instrument for furthering the cause of humanity; in short, a Rakhmetov. Indeed, I shall assume that name upon my arrival in Pittsburgh.

The piercing shrieks of the locomotive awake me with a start. My first thought is of my wallet, containing important addresses of Allegheny comrades, which I was trying to memorize when I must have fallen asleep. The wallet is gone! For a moment I am overwhelmed with terror. What if it is lost? Suddenly my foot touches something soft. I pick up, feeling tremendously relieved to find all the contents safe: the precious addresses, a small newspaper lithograph of Frick, and a dollar bill. My job at recovering the wallet is not a whit dampened by the meagerness of my funds. The dollar will do to get a room in a hotel for the first night, and in the morning I’ll look up Nold or Bauer. They will find a place for me to stay a day or two. “I won’t remain there long,” I think, with an inward smile.

We’an· 11eari11g Wasl1i11glu11, **U. C.** Till’ Lrail1 is Lu 111<t”-e a six-hour stop there. I curse the stupidity of tlw dday: something may be happening in Pittsburgh or Homestead. Besides, no time is to be lost in striking a telling blow, while public sentiment is aroused at the atrocities of the Carnegie Company, the brutality of Frick.

Yet my irritation is strangely dispelled by the beautiful picture that greets my eye as I step from the train. The sun has risen, a large ball of deep red, pouring flood of gold upon the Capitol. The cupola rears its proud head majestically above the pile of stone and marble. Like a living thing the light palpitates, trembling with passion to kiss the uppermost peak, striking it with blinding brilliancy, and then spreading in a broadening embrace down the shoulders of the towering giant. The amber waves entwine its flanks with soft caresses, and then rush on, to right and left, wider and lower, flashing upon the stately trees, dallying amid leaves and branches, finally unfolding themselves over the broad avenue, and ever growing more golden and generous as thP,y scatter. And cupola-headed giant, stately trees, and broad avenue quiver with new-born ecstasy, all nature heaves the contented sigh of bliss, and nestles closer to the golden giver of life.

At this moment I realize, as perhaps never before, the great joy, the surpassing gladness, of being. But in a trice the picture changes. Before my eyes rises the Monongahela river, carrying barges fillecl with armed men. And I hear a shot. A boy falls to the gangplank. The blood gushes from the centre of his forehead. The hole ploughed by the bullet yawns black on the crimson face. Cries and wailing ring in my ears. I sec men running toward the river, and women kneeling by the side of the dead.

The horrible vision revives in my mincl a similar incident, lived through in imagination before. It was the sight of an executecl Nihilist. The Nihilists! How much of their precious blood has been shccl, how many thousands of them line the road of Russia’s suffering! Inexpressibly near ancl soul-kin I feel to those men ancl women, the adored, mysterious ones of my youth, who hacl left wealthy homes and high station to “go to the People,” to become one with them, though despisccl· by all whom they held dear, persecuted and ridiculed even by the benightecl objects of their great sacrifice.

Clearly there flashes out upon my memory my first impression of Nihilist Russia. I had just passed my seconcl year’s gymnasium examinations. Overflowing with blissful excitement, I rushed into the house to tell mother the joyful news. How happy it will make her! Next week will be my twelfth birthday, but mother need give me no present. I have one for her, instead. “Mamma, mammal” I called, when suddenly I caught her voice, raised in anger. Something has happened, I thought; mother never speaks so loudly. Something very peculiar, I felt, noticing the door leading from the broad hallway to the diningroom closed, contrary to custom. In perturbation I hesitated at the door. “Shame on you, Nathan,” I heard my mother’s voice, “to condemn your own brother because he is a Nihilist. You are no better than”-her voice fell to a whisper, but my straining car distinctly caught the dread word, uttered with hatred and fear-“a *pa/titch.”* •

I was struck with terror. Mother’s tone, my rich uncle Nathan’s unwonted presence at our house, the fearful word paltitch-something awful must have happened. I tiptoed out of the hallway, and ran to my room. Trembling with fear, I threw myself on the bed. What has the *paltitc/1* done? I moaned. *“Your* brother,” she had said to uncle. Her own youngest brother, my favorite uncle Maxim. Oh, what had happened to him? My excited imagination conjured up horrible visions. There stood the powerful figure of the giant *paltitch,* all in black, his right arm bare to the shoulder, in his hand the uplifted ax. I could see the glimmer of the sharp steel as it began to descend, slowly, so torturingly slowly, while my heart ceased beating and my feverish eyes followed, bewitched, the glowing black coals in the *paltitch’s* head. Suddenly the two fiery eyes fused into a large ball of Haming red; the figure of the fearful one-eyed cyclop grew taller and stretched higher and higher, and everywhere was the giant-on all sides of me was he-then a sudden Hash of steel, and in his monster hand I saw raised a head, cut close to the neck, its eyes incessantly blinking, the dark-red blood gushing from mouth and cars and throat. Something looked ghastly familiar about that head with the broad white forehead and expressive mouth, so sweet and sad. “Oh, Maxim, Maxim!” I cried, terror-stricken: the next moment a Hood of passionate hatred of the paltitc/1 seized me, and I rushed, head bent, toward the one-eyed monster. Nearer and nearer I came,-another quick rush, and then the violent impact of my body struck him in the very centre, and he fell, forward and heavy, right upon me, and I felt his fearful weight crushing my arms, my chest, my head ...

{1} Hangman.

“Sasha! Sashenka! What is the matter, golubchik?” I recognize the sweet, tender voice of my mother, sounding far away and strange, then coming closer and growing more soothing. I open my eyes. Mother is kneeling by the bed, her beautiful black eyes bathed in tears. Passionately she showers kisses upon my face and hands, entreating: “Golubchik, what is it?”

“Mamma, what happened to Uncle Maxim?” I ask, breathlessly watching her face.

Her sudden change of expression chills my heart with fear. She turns ghostly white, large drops of perspiration stand on her forehead, and her eyes grow large and round with terror. “Mamma!” I cry, throwing my arms around her. Her lips move, and I feel her warm breath on my cheek; but, without uttering a word, she bursts into vehement weeping.

“Who-told-you? You-know?” she whispers between sobs.

The pall of death seems to have descended upon our home. The house is oppressively silent. Everybody walks about in slippers, and the piano is kept locked. Only monosyllables, in undertone, are exchanged at the dinner-table. Mother’s scat remains vacant. She is very ill, the nurse informs us; no one is to see her.

The situation bewilders me. I keep wondering what has happened to Maxim. Was my vision of the pawtch a presentiment, or the echo of an accomplished tragedy? Vaguely I feel guilty of mother’s illness. The shock of my question may be responsible for her condition. Yet there must be more to it. I try to persuade my troubled spirit. One afternoon, finding my eldest brother Maxim, named after mother’s favorite brother, in a very cheerful mood, I call him aside and ask, in a boldly assumed confidential manner: “Maximushka, tell me, what is a Nihilist?”

“Go to the devil, *molokossoss 0* you!” he cries, angrily. With a show of violence, quite inexplicable to me, Maxim throws his paper on the floor, jumps from his scat, upsetting the chair, and !caws the room.

The fate of Uncle Maxim remains a mystery, the question of Nihilism unsolved. I am absorbed in my studies. Yct a deep interest, curiosity about the mysterious and forbidden, slumbers in my consciousness, when quite unexpectedly it is roused into keen activity by a school incident. I am fifteen now, in the fourth grade of the classic gymnasium at Kovno. By direction of the Ministry of Education, compulsory religious instruction is being introduced in the State schools. Special classes have been opened at the gymnasium for the religious instruction of Jewish pupils. The parents of the latter resent the innovation; almost every Jewish child receives religious training at home or in *cheiclar.* f But the school authorities have ordered the gymnasiasts of Jewish faith to attend classes in religion.

The roll-call at the first session finds me missing. Summoned before the Director for an explanation, I state that I failed to attend because I have a private Jewish tutor at home, and,-anyway, I do not believe in religion. The prim Director looks inexpressibly shocked.

“Young man,” he addresses me in the artificial guttural voice he affects on so]cmn occasions. “Young man, when, permit me to ask, did you reach so profound a conclusion?”

His manner disconcerts me; but the sarcasm of his words and the offensive tone rouse my rcsmtmmt. Impulsively, defiantly, I discover my cherished secret. “Since I wrote the essay, ‘There Is No God,’ “ I n·ply, with secret exultation. But the next instant I realize the recklessness of my confession. I have a fleeting sense of coming trouble, at school and at home. Yet somehow I feel I have acted like a 771l n. Uncle Maxim, the Nihilist, would act so in my position. I know his reputation for uncompromising can- clor, ancl low him for his bole!, frank ways.

{1} Literally, milk-sucker. A contemptuous **tl’nn** appliL’d to inexperienced youth.

{1} Schools for instruction in Jewish religion and laws.

“Oh, that is interesting,” I hear, as in a clream, the unpleasant guttural voice of the Director. “When die! you write it?”

‘Three years ago.”

“How olcl were you thm?”

“T\ve]ve.”

“Have you the essay?”

“Yes.”

“Whel”e?”

“At home.”

“Bring it to me to-morrow. Without fail, rcmemher.”

His voice grows stern. The worcls fall upon my cars with the harsh metallic souncl of my sister’s piano that memorable evening of our musicale when, in a spirit of mischief, I hie! a piece of gas pipe in the instrument tunecl for the occasion.

“To-morrow, then. You are dismissed.”

The Educational Boarcl, in conclave assembled, reacls the essay. ^1y disquisition is unanimously condemned. Exemplary punishment is to be visitccl upon me for “precocious godlessness, dangerous tendencies, and insubordination.” I am publicly reprimanded, and reduced to till’ third class. The peculiar sentence robs me of a year, and forces me to associate with the “childrm” my senior class looks clown upon with undisguisecl contempt. **I** feel disgraced, humiliated.

Thus vision chases **v1s10n,** memory succeeds memory, while the interminable hours creep toward the afternoon, and the station clock clrones lih• an encllcss old woman.

Over at last. “All aboarcl!”

On and on rushes the engine, l’\·cry moment bringing me **nearer** to my destination. The conductor drawling out the stations, the noisy going ancl coming procluce almost no conscious impn•ssion on my senses. Seeing and hl’aring every d«tail of my surroundings, I am nevertheless oblivious to them. Faster than the train rushes my fancy, as if reviewing a panorama of vivid scenes, apparently without organic connection with each other, yet somehow intimately associated in my thoughts of the past. But how different is the present! I am speeding toward Pittsburgh, the very heart of the industrial struggle of America. America! I dwell wonderingly on the unuttered sound. Why in America? And again unfold pictures of old scenes.

I am walking in the garden of our well-appointed country place, in a fashionable submb of St. Petersburg, where the family generally spends the summer months. As I pass the veranda, Dr. Semeonov, the celebrated physician of the resort, steps out of the house and beckons to me.

“Alexander Ossipovitch,” be addresses me in his courtly manner, “your mother is very ill. Arc you alone with her?”

..We have servants, and two nurses arc in attendance,” I reply.

“To be sure, to be sure,” the shadow of a smile hovers about the corners of his delicately chiseled lips. “I mean of the family.”

“Oh, yes! I am alone here with my mother.”

“Your mother is rather restless to-day, Alexander Ossipo- vitch. Could you sit up with her to-night?”

“Certainly, certainly,” I quickly assent, wondering at the peculiar n’qucst. Mother has bcen improving, the nurses have assured me. My presencc at her bedside may prove irksome to her. Our rdations have been strained since the day when, in a fit of anger, she slapped Rose, our new chambcnnaid, whereupon I resented mother’s right to inflict physical punishment on the servants. I can see her now, erect and haughty, facing me across the dinner-table, her eyes ablaze with indignation.

“You forget you arc speaking to your mother, Al-l”X-an- dcr”; she pronounces the name in four distinct syllables, as is her habit when angry with me.

“You have no right to strike the girl,” I retort, defiantly.

“You forget yourself. My treatment of the menial is no concern of yours.”

I cannot suppress the sharp reply that springs to my lips: “The low sC’rvant girl is as good as you.”

I sel’ mothl’r’s long, slendl’r fingers grasp the heavy ladle, and the next instant a sharp pain pierces my ldt hand. Our eves meet. Her arm remains motionless, her gaze direct<·(! to the spreading blood stain on the white tabk· cloth. The ladle falls from her hand. She closC’s her e)‘l’S, mid hl’r body sinks limply to the chair.

Anger and humiliation extinguish my momentary impulse to rush to her assistance. Without uttering a word, I pick up thl’ heavy saltcdlar, and fling it violently against the Frellch mirror. At the crash of the glass my mother opens her eyes in amazement. I rise and leave the house.

My heart beats fast as I enter mother’s sick-room. I fear she may resent my intrusion: the shadow of the past stands hctwe(’)] us. But she is lying quietly on the bed, and has apparl’ntly not noticed my entrance. I sit clown at tlw hedside. A long time pasws in silence. ^fother scems to bl’ asleep. It is growing dark in the room, and I settle dmn1 to pass tlw night in the chair. Suddl’nly I bear “Sasha!” called in a weak, faint voice. I bend over her. “Drink of water.” As I hold the glass to ber lips, sbc slightly turns away bcr head, saying very low, “Ice water, please.” I start to leave the room. “Sasha!” I hear behind me, and, quickly tiptoeing to the bed, I bring my face closely, very closely to hers, to catch the faint words: “Help me turn to the wall.” Tenck•rly I \\“rap my arms around the weak, emaciated body, and an overpowering longing seizes me to touch her hand with my lips and on my knl’es beg her forgivenl’ss. I feel so near to her, my heart is ovcrnowing with compassion and love. But I dare not kiss ber-we have become estranged. Alfcetionatcly I hold her in my arms for just the shadow of a second, dreading lest sbe suspect tbc storm of emotion ranging within me. Caressingly I turn her to the wall, and, as I slowly withdraw, I feel as if some mysterious, yet definite, something bas at the very instant left her body.

In a few minutes I return witb a glass of iee water. I bold it to her lips, but sbc seems oblivious of my presence. “She cannot have gone to sleep so quickly,” I wonder. “Mother!” I call softly. No reply. “Little mother! Ma- motchka!” She does not appear to hear me. “Dearest, *golubchik!”* I cry, in a paroxysm of sudden fear, pressing my hot lips upon her face. Then I become conscious of an arm upon my shoulder, and hear the measured voice of the doctor: “My boy, you must bear up. She is at rest.”

“Wake up, young feller! Whatcher sighin’ for?” Bewildered I turn around to meet the coarse, yet not unkindly, face of a swarthy laborer in the seat back of me.

“Oh, nothing; just dreaming,” I reply. Not wishing to encourage conversation, I pretended to become absorbed in my book.

How strange is the sudden sound of English! Almost as suddenly had I been transplanted to American soil. Six months passed after my mother’s death. Threatened by the educational authorities with a “wolf’s passport” on account of my “dangerous tendencies”-which would close every professional avenue to me, in spite of my otherwise very satisfactory standing-the situation aggravated by a violent quarrel with my guardian, Uncle Nathan, I decided to go to America. There, beyond the ocean, was the land of noble achievement, a glorious free country, wlwre men walked erect in the full stature of manhood,-the very realization of my youthful dreams.

And now I am in America, the blessed land. The disillusionment, the disappointments, the vain struggles! ... The kaleidoscope of my brain unfolds them all before my view. Now I see myself on a bench in Union Square Park, huddled close to Fedya and Mikhail, my roommates. The night wind sweeps across the eheerless park, chilling us to the bone. I feel hungry and tired, fagged out by the day’s fruitless search for work. My heart sinks within me as I glance at my friends. “Nothing,” each had morosely reporkd at our nightly meeting, after the day’s weary tramp. Fedya groans in uneasy sleep, his hand groping about his knees. I pick up the newspaper that had fallen under the seat, spread it over his legs, and tuck the ends underneath. But a sudden blast tears the paper away, and whirls it off into the darkness. As I press Fedya’s hat down on his head, I am struck by his ghastly look. How these few weeks have changed the plump, rosy-cheeked youth! Poor fellow, no one wants his labor. How his mother would suffer if she knew that her carefully reared boy passes the nights in the ...What is that pain I feel? Some one is bending over me, looming unnaturally large in the darkness. Half-dazed I sec an arm swing to and fro, with short, semicircular backward strokes, and with every movement I feel a sharp sting, as of a lash. Oh, it’s in my soles! Bewildered I spring to my feet. A rough hand grabs me by the throat, and I face a policeman.

“Are you thieves?” he bellows.

Mikhail replies, sleepily: “‘Ve Russians. ‘Vant work.” “Git out o’ here! Off with you!”

Quickly, silently, we walk away, Fedya and I in front, Mikhail limping behind us. The dimly lighted streets are deserted, save for a hurrying figure here and there, closely wrapped, flitting mysteriously around the corner. Columns of dust rise from the gray pavements, arc caught up by the wind, rushed to some distance, then carried in a spiral upwards, to be followed by another wave of choking dust. From somewhere a tantalizing odor reaches my nostrils. “The bakery on Second Street,” Fedya remarks. Unconsciously our steps quicken. Shoulders raised, heads bent, and shivering, we keep on to the lower Bowery. Mikhail is steadily falling behind. “Dammit, I feel bad,” he says, catching up with us as we step into an open hallway. A thorough inspection of our pockets reveals the possession of twelve cents, all around. Mikhail is to go to bed, we decide, handing him a dime. The cigarettes purchased for the remaining two cents arc divided equally, each taking a few puffs of the “fourth” in the box. Fedya and I sleep on the steps of the city hall.

“Pitt-s-burgh! Pitt-s-burgh!”

The harsh cry of the conductor startles me with the violence of a shock. Impatient as I am of the long journey, the realization that I have reached my destination comes unexpectedly, overwhelming me with the dread of unprPparedness. In a flurry I gather up my things but, noticing that the other passengl’rs kcqJ their places, I pr!‘cipi- tately resume my scat, fearful lest my agitation be noticed. To hide my confusion, I turn to th!’ opl’n window. Thick clouds of smoke overcast the sky, shrouding the morning with sombre gray. The air is heavy with soot and cinders; the smell is nauseating. In the distance, giant furnaces vomit pillars of fire, the lurid flashes accentuating a line of frame structures, dilapidated and misl’rable. They arc the homes of the workers who have created the industrial glory of Pittsburgh, reared its millionaires, its Camegies and Fricks.

The sight fills me with hatred of the perverse social justice that turns the needs of mankind into an Inferno of brutalizing toil. It robs man of his soul, drives the sunshine from his life, degrades him lower than the beasts, and between the millstones of divine bliss and hellish torture grinds flesh and blood into iron and steel, transmutes human lives into gold, gold, countless gold.

The great, noble People! But is it really great and noble to be slaves and remain conknt? No, nol Thcv<sub>.</sub> arc awakening, awakening!

**** II

Contentedly peaceful the Monongahela stretches before me, its waters lazily rippling in the sunlight, and softly crooning to the murmur of the woods on the hazy shore. But the opposite bank presenls a picture of sharp contrast. Near the edge of the river rises a high board fl’nce, topped with barbed wire, the menacing aspect heightened by warlike watch-towers and ramparts. The sinister wall looks down on me with a thousand hollow eyes, whose evident murderous purpose fully justifies the name of “Fort Frick.” Groups of excited people crowd the open spaces between the river and the fort, filling the air with the confusion of many voices. ^lcn carrying Winchcstcrs arc hurrying by, their faces grimy, eyes bold yet anxious. From the mill-yard gape the black mouths of cannon, dismantled breastworks bar the passages, and the ground is strewn with burning cinders, empty shells, oil barrels, broken furnace stacks, and piles of steel and iron. The place looks the aftennath of a sanguinary conllict,-the symbol of our industrial life, of the ruthless struggle in which the *stronger,* the sturdy man of labor, is always the victim, because he acts *tceakly.* But the charred hulks of the Pinkerton barges at the landing-place, and the blood- bespattered gangplank, bear mute witness that for once the battle went to the *really strong, to the victim who dared.*

A group of workingmen approaches me. Big, stalwart men, the power of conscious strength in their step and bearing. Each of them carries a weapon: some Winchesters, others shotguns. In the hand of one I notice the gleaming barrel of a navy revolver.

“\\‘ho are you?” the man with the revolver sternly asks me.

“A friend, a visitor.”

“Can you show credentials or a union card?”

Presently, satisfied as to my trustworthiness, they allow me to proceed.

In one of the mill-yards I come upon a dense crowd of men and women of various types: the short, broad-faced Slav, elbowing his tall American fellow-striker; the swarthy Italian, heavy-mustached, gesticulating and talking rapidly to a cluster of excited countrymen. The people are surging about a raised platform, on which stands a large, heavy man.

I press forward. “Listen, gentlemen, listen!” I hear the speaker’s voice. “Just a few words, gentlemen! You all know who I am, don’fyou?”

“Yes, yes, Sheriff!” several men cry. “Go on!”

“Yes,” continues the speaker, “you all know who I am. Your Sheriff, the Sheriff of Allegheny County, of the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.”

“Go ahead!” some one yells, impatiently.

“If you don’t interrupt me, gentlemen, I’ll go ahead.” “S-s-sh! Order!”

The speaker advances to the edge of the platform. “Men of Homestead! It is my sworn duty, as Sheriff, to preserve the peacl’. Your city is in a state of lawl(‘ssn(‘ss. I have asked the Governor to smd the militia and I hope-”

“No! No!” many voices protest. “To hdl with you!” The tumult drowns the words of the Shl’rilf. Shaking his clenched fist, his foot stamping the platform, 11e shouts at the crowd, but his voice is lost amid the genera] uproar.

“O’Donnell! O’Donnell!” comes from several sides, the cry swelling into a trenlendous chorus, “O’Donnell!”

I sec the popular leader of the strike nimbly asn•nd the platform. The assembly becomes hushed.

““Brothers,” O’Donnell begins in a flowing, ingratiating manner, “we have won a great, noble victory over the Company. We have driven the Pinkerton invaders out of our city-”

“Damn the murderers!”

“Silence! Order!”

“You have won a big victory,” O’Donnell continues, “a great, significant victory, such as was never before known in the history of labor’s struggle for better conditions.”

Vociferous cheering interrupts the speaker. “But,” he continues, “you must show the world that you desire to maintain peace and order along with you rights. The Pinkcrtons were invaders. We defended our homes and drove them out; rightly so. But you are law-abiding citizens. You respect the law and the authority of the State. Public opinion will uphold you in your struggle if you act right. Now is the time, friends!” He raises his voice in waxing enthusiasm, “Now is the time! Welcome the soldiers. They arc not sent by that man Frick. They are the people’s militia. Tlley arc our friends. Let us welcome them as friends!”

Applause, mixed with cries of impatient disapproval, greets the exhortation. Arms arc raised in angry argument, and the crowd sways back and forth, breaking into several excited groups. Presently a tall, dark man appears on the platform. His stentorian voice gradually draws the assembly closer to the front. Slowly the tumult subsides.

“Don’t you believe it, men!” The speaker shakes his finger at the audience, as if to emphasize his warning. “Don’t you believe that the soldiers arc coming as friends. Soft words these, Mr. O’Donnell. They’ll cost us dear. Remember what I say, brothers. The soldiers arc no friends of ours. I know what I am talking about. They arc coming hen• because that damned murderer Frick wants them.”

“Hear! Hear!”

“YC’s!” the tall man continuC’S, his voice quivering with emotion, <sup>.</sup>.I can tell you just how it is. The scoundrel of a Sheriff then• asked the Governor for troops, and that darrnwd Frick paid the Sheriff to do it, I say!”

“No! YC’s! No!” the clamor is n•newed, but I can hear the speaker’s voice rising above the din : “Yes, bribed him. You all know this cowardly Sheriff. Don’t you let the soldiers come, I tell you. First they’ll come; then the black!C’gs. You want ‘em?”

“No! No!” roars the crowd.

“\‘Veil. if you don’t want the damned scabs, keep out the soldiNs, you umk•rstand? If you don’t, they’ll drive you out from the homes you have paid for with your blood. You and your wives and children they’ll drive out, and out you will go from thcsc”-the speaker poiuts in the direction of the mills-“that’s what they’ll do, if you don’t look out. WP haw sweated and bled in these mills, our brothers haw been killed and maiml’cl thcre, wr have madl’ the damned Company rich, and now they smd the soldiers here to shoot us down like the Pinkerton thugs have tried to. And you want to welcome the murderers, do you? Keep them out, I tell you!”

Amici shouts and yells the speaker leaves the platform.

“McLuckic! ‘Honest’ McLuckic!” a voice is heard on the fringe of the crowd, and as one man the assembly takes up the cry, “ ‘HonC’st’ McLuckie!”

I am cager to sec till’ popular Burgess of Homestead, himsdf a poorly paid employee of the Carnegie Company. A largP-boncd, good-natured-looking workingman elbows his way to the front, the men readily making way for him with noels and pleasant smiles.

“I haven’t prepared any speech,” the Burgess begins haltingly, “but I want to say, I don’t sec how you arc going to fight the soldiers. There is a good deal of truth in what the brother before me said; but if you stop to think on it, he forgot to tell you just one little thing. The *hou:?* How is he going to do it, to keep the soldiers out? That’s what I’d like to know. I’m afraid it’s bad to let them in. The blacklegs *might* be hiding in the rear. But then again, it’s bad *not* to let the soldiers in. You can’t stand up against ‘cm: they arc not Pinkcrtons. And we can’t light the Government of Pennsylvania. Perhaps the Governor won’t send the militia. But if he does, I reckon the best way for us will be to make friends with them. Guess it’s the only thing we can do. That’s all I have to say.”

The assembly breaks up, dejected, dispirited.

**** III

Like a gigantic hive the twin cities jut out on the banks of the Ohio, heavily breathing the spirit of feverish activity, and permeating the atmosphere with the rage of life. Ceaselessly flow the streams of human ants, meeting and diverging, their paths crossing and recrossing, leaving in their trail a thousand winding passages, mounds of structure, peaked and domed. Their huge shadows overcast the yellow thread of gleaming river that curves and twists its painful way, now hugging the shore, now hiding in affright, and again timidly stretching its arms toward the wrathful monsters that belch lire and smoke into the midst of the giant hive. And over the whole is spread the gloom of thick fog, oppressive and dispiriting-the symbol of our existence, with all its darkness and cold.

This is Pittsburgh, the heart of American industrialism, whose spirit moulds the life of the great Nation. The spirit of Pittsburgh, the Iron City! Cold as steel, hard as iron, its products. These are the keynote of the great Republic, dominating all other chords, sacrificing harmony to noise, beauty to bulk. Its torch of liberty is a furnace lire, consuming, destroying, devastating: a country-wide furnace, in which the bones and marrow of the producers, their limbs and bodies, their health and blood, are cast into Bessemer steel, rolled into armor plate, and converted into engines of murder to be consecrated to ^fammon by his high priests, the Carncgics, the Fricks.

The spirit of the Iron City characterizes the negotiations carried on bdwl’en till’ Carnegie Company and the Homestead mm. Henry Clay Frick, in absolute control of the firm, incarnaks thl’ spirit of the furnace, is the living em- bll’m of his trade. The olive branch held out by the workNs aftl’r their victory owr the Pinkertons has been rC’fuse<I. The ultimatum issued by Frick is the last word of Cal’sar: the union of the stl’d-workers is to he crushed, compll’tdy and absolutely, ewn at the cost of shedding thl’ blood of the last man in Hmm·stcad; the Company will deal only with individual workers, who must accept the terms offered, without qul’stion or discussion; he, Frick, will opl’ratc the mills with non-union labor, even if it should n•quire the combinl’d military powl’r of the State and the Union to carry the plan into cxl’cution. Millmen disobeying the orckr to return to work under the new schedule of rl’dueed wages arc to be discharged forthwith, and cvidl’d from thl’ Company houses.

In an obscurl’ alley, in the town of Homl’stcad, there stands a OJll’-story frame house, looking old and forlorn. It is occupied by the widow Johnson and hl’r four small childrl’n. Six months ago, the breaking of a eranl’ buried her husband under two hundred tons of metal. Whcn the body was carril’d into the house, thl’ distracted woman rl’fused to rl’cognizc in the mangll’d remains her big, strong ..Jack.” For weeks the neighborhood resounded with her frenzied cry, “My husband! Where’s my husband?” But the loving care of kind-hearted neighbors has now somewhat restored the poor woman’s reason. Accompanied by her four little orphans, she recently gained admittance to Mr. Frick. On her knees she implored him not to drive her out of her home. Her poor husband was dead, she pll<sub>’</sub>adcd; she could not pay off the mortgage; the children were too young to work; she herself was hardly able to walk. Frick was very kind, she thought; he had promised to sec what could be done. She would not listen to the neighbors urging her to sue the Company for damages. “The crane was rotten,” her husband’s friends informed her; “the government inspector had condemned it.” But Mr. Frick was kind, and surely he knew best about the crane. Did he not say it was her poor husband<sup>’</sup>s own carelessness?

She feels very thankful to good Mr. Frick for extending the mortgage. She had lived in such mortal dread lest her own little home, where dear John had been such a kind husband to her, be taken away, and her children driven into the street. She must never forget to ask the Lord’s blessing upon the good Mr. Frick. Every day she repeats to her neighbors the story of her visit to the great man; how kindly he received her, how simply he talked with her. “Just like us folks,” the widow says.

She is now telling the wonderful story to neighbor Mary, the hunchback, who, with undiminished interest, hears the recital for the twentieth time. It rellects such importance to know some one that had come in intimate contact with the Iron King; why, into his very presence! and even talked to the great magnate!

“ ‘Dear Mr. Frick,’ says I,” the widow is narrating, “ ‘dear Mr. Frick,’ I says, ‘look at my poor little angels-’ ”

A knock on the door interrupts her. “Must be one-eyed Kate,” the widow observes. “Come in! Come in!” she calls out, cheerfully. “Poor Kate!” she remarks with a sigh. “Her man’s got the consumption. Won’t last long, I fear.”

A tall, rough-looking man stands in the doorway. Behind him appear two others. Frightened, the widow rises from the chair. One of the children begins to cry, and runs to hide behind his mother.

“Beg pard’n, ma’am,” the tall man says. “Have no fear. We arc Deputy Sheriffs. Read this.” He produces an official-looking paper. “Ordered to dispossess you. Very sorry, ma’am, but get ready. Quick, got a dozen more of-<sup>,,</sup>

Therc is a piercing scream. The Deputy Sheriff catches the limp body of the widow in his arms.

East End, the fashionable residence quarter of Pittsburgh, lies basking in the afternoon sun. The broad avenue looks cool and inviting: the stately trees touch their shadows across the carriage road,. gently nodding their heads in mutual approval. A steady procession of equipages fills the avenue, the richly caparisoned horses and uniformed flunkies lending color and life to the scene. A cavalcade is passing me. The laughter of the ladies sounds joyous and care-free. Their happiness irritates me. I am thinking of Homestead. In mind I see the sombre fence, the fortifications and cannon; the piteous figure of the widow rises before me, the little children weeping, and again I hear the anguished cry of a broken heart, a shattered brain ...

And here all is joy and laughter. The gentlemen seem pleased; the ladies are happy. Why should they concern themselves with misery and want? The common folk are fit only to be their slaves, to feed and clothe them, build these beautiful palaces, and be content with the charitable crust. “Take what I give you,” Frick commands. Why, here is his house! A luxurious place, with large gardens, hams, and stable. That stable there,-it is more cheerful and habitable than the widow’s home. Ah, life could be made livable, beautiful! Why should it not be? Why so much misery and strife? Sunshine, flowers, beautiful things are all around me. That is life! Joy and peace ... No! There can be no peace with such as Frick and these parasites in carriages riding on our backs, and sucking the blood of the workers. Fricks, vampires, all of them-I almost shout aloud-they are all one class. All in a cabal against *my* class, the toilers, the producers. An impersonal conspiracy, perhaps; but a conspiracy nevertheless. And the fine ladies on horseback smile and laugh. What is the misery of the People to *them?* Probably they are laughing at me. Laugh! Laugh! You despise me. I am of the People, but you belong to the Fricks. Well, it may soon be our turn to laugh...

Returning to Pittsburgh in the evening, I learn that the conferences between the Carnegie Company and the Advisory Committee of the strikers have terminated in the final refusal of Frick to consider the demands of tlw millmcn. The last hope is gmw! The master is determined to crush his rebellious slaves.

**** IV

The door of Frick’s private office, to the left of the reception-room, swings open as the colored attendant emerges, and I catch a Hitting glimpse of a black-bearded, well-knit figure at a table in the b.1ck of the room.

“Mistah Frick is engaged. He can’t sec you now, sah,” the negro says, handing back my card.

I take the pasteboard, return it to my case, and walk slowly out of the reception-room. But quickly retracing my steps, I pass through the gate separating the clPrks from the visitors, and, brushing the astounded attendant aside, **I** step into the office on the left, and find myself facing Frick.

For an instant the sunlight, streaming through the windows, dazzles me. I discern two men at the further end of the long table.

“Fr-,” I begin. The look of terror on his face strikes me speechless. It is the dread of the conscious presence of death. “He understands,” it flashes through my mind. With a quick motion I draw the revolver. As I raise tlw weapon, I sec Frick clutch with both hands the arm of the chair, and attempt to rise. I aim at his head. “Perhaps he wears armor,” I reflect. With a look of horror he quickly a\“l’rts his face, as I pull the trigger. There is a Hash, and the high-ceilinged room rcvcrheratl’S as with the booming of cannon. I hear a sharp, piercing cry, and see Frick on his knees, his head against the arm of the chair. I fed calm and possessed, intC’nt upon every movement of the man. He is lying head and shoulders under the large armchair. without sound or motion. “Dead?” I wonder. I must make sure. About twenty-five feet separate us. 1 take a few steps toward him, when suddenly the other man. whose presence I had quite forgotten, leaps upon me. I struggle to loosen his hold. Ile looks slender and small. I would not hurt him: I have no business with him. Suddenly I hear the cry, “Murder! Help!” My heart stands still as I realize that it is Frick shouting. “Alive?” I wonder. I hurl the stranger aside and fire at the crawling figure of Frick. The man struck my hand,-1 have missed! He grapples with me, and we wrestle across the room. I try to throw him, but spying an opening between his arm and body, I thrust the revolver against his side and aim at Frick, cowering behind the chair. I pull the trigger. There is a click-but no explosion! By the throat I catch the stranger, still clinging to me, when suddenly something heavy strikes me on the back of the head. Sharp pains shoot through my eyes. I sink to the floor, vaguely conscious of the weapon slipping from my hands.

“Where is the hammer? Hit him, carpenter!” Confused voices ring in my ears. Painfully I strive to rise. The weight of many bodies is pressing on me. Now-it’s Frick’s voice! Not dead? ...I crawl in the direction of the sound, dragging the struggling men with me. I must get the dagger from my pocket-I have it! Repeatedly I strike with it at the legs of the man near the window. I hear Frick cry out in pain-there is much shouting and stamping-my arms are pulled and twisted, and I am lifted bodily from the floor.

Police, clerks, workmen in overalls, surround me. An officer pulls my head back by the hair, and my eyes meet Frick’s. He stands in front of me, supported by several men. His face is ashen gray; the black beard is streaked with red, and blood is oozing from his neck. For an instant a strange feeling, as of shame, comes over me; but the next moment I am filled with anger at the sentiment, so unworthy of a revolutionist. With defiant hatred I look him full in the face.

“Mr. Frick, do you identify this man as your assailant?” Frick nods weakly.

The street is lined with a dense, excited crowd. A young man in civilian dress, who is accompanying the police, inquires, not unkindly:

“Are you hurt? You’re bleeding.”

I pass my hand over my fact’. I feel no pain. but there is a peculiar sensation about my eyes.

“I’ve lost my glasses,” I remark, involuntarily.

“You’ll be damn lucky if you don’t lose your head,” an officer retorts....

**** V

In agitation I pace the cell. Frick didn’t die! Ik has almost recovered. I have positive information : the “blind” prisoner gave me the clipping during exercise. “You’re a poor shot,” he teased me.

The poignancy of the disappointment pierces my heart. I feel it with the intensity of a catastrophe. \fy imprisonment, the vexations of jail life, the futur<^all is submerged in the Hood of misery at the realization of my failure. Bitter thoughts crowd my mind; self-accusation overwhelms me. I failed! Failed! ...It might have been different, had I gone to Frick’s residence. It was my original intention, too. But the house in the East End was guarded. Besides, I had no time to wait: that very morning the papers had announced Frick’s intended visit to New York. I was determined he should not escape me. I resolved to act at once. It was mainly his cowardice that saved him-he hid under the chair! Played dead! And now he lives, the vampire ... And Homestead? How will it affect conditions there? If Frick had died, Carnegie would have hastened to settle with the strikers. The shrewd Scot only made use of Frick to destroy the hated union. He himself was absent, he could not be held accountable. The author of “Triumphant Democracy” is sensitive to adverse criticism. With the elimination of Frick, responsibility for Homestead conditions would rest with Carnegie. To support his role as the friend of labor, he must needs terminate the sanguinary struggle. Such a development of affairs would have greatly advanced the Anarchist propaganda. However some may condemn my act, the workers could not be blind to the actual situation, and the practical effects of Frick’s death. But his recovery ...

Yet, who can tell? It may perhaps have the same results. If not, the strike was virtually lost when the steelworkers permitted the militia to take possession of Homestead. It afforded the Company an opportunity to fill the mills with scabs. But even if the strike be lost,-our propaganda is the chief consideration. The Homestead workers arc but a very small part of the American working class. Important as this great struggle is, the cause of the whole People is supreme. And their true cause is Anarchism. All other issues are merged in it; it alone will solve the labor problem. No other consideration deserves attention. The suffering of individuals, of large masses, indeed, is unavoidable under capitalist conditions. Poverty and wretchedness must constantly increase; it is inevitable. A revolutionist cannot he inffuenccd by mere sentiim•ntality. We bleed for the People, we suffer for them, hut we know the real source of their misery. Our whole civilization, false to the core as it is, must be destroyed, to be born anew. Only with the abolition of exploitation will labor gain justice. Anarchism alone can save the world.

These reffections somewhat soothe me. My failure to accomplish the desired result is grievously exasperating, and I feel deeply humiliated. But I shall be the sole sufferer. Properly viewed, the merely physical result of my act cannot affect its propagandistic value; and that is, always, the supreme consideration. The chief purpose of my Attentat was to call attention to our social iniquities; to arouse a vital interest in the sufferings of the People by an act of self-sacrifice; to stimulate discussion regarding the cause and purpose of the act, and thus bring the teachings of Anarchism before the world. The Homestead situation offercd the psychologic social moment. What matter till’ personal consequences to Frick? the merely physical results of my Attentat? The conditions necessary for propaganda arc there: the act is accomplished.

As to myself-my disappointment is bitter, indeed. I

wanted to die for the Cause. But now they will send me to prison-they will bury me alive ...

Involuntarily my hand reaches for the lapel of my coat, when suddenly I remember my great loss. In agony, I live through again the scene in the police station, on the third day after myarrest ... Rough hands seize my arms, and I am forced into a chair. My head is thrust violently backward, and I face the Chief. He clutches me by the throat.

“Open your mouth! Damn you, open your mouth!”

Everything is whirling before me, the desk is circling the room, the bloodshot eyes of the Chief gaze at me from the Boor, his feet flung high in the air, and everything is whirling, whirling ...

“Now, Doc, quick!”

There is a sharp sting in my tongue, my jaws are gripped **as** by a vise, and my mouth is tom open.

“What d’ye think of *that,* eh?”

The Chief stands before me, in his hand the dynamite cartridge.

“What’s this?” he demands, with an oath.

“Candy,” I reply, defiantly ...

My meditation is interrupted by a guard, who informs me that I am “wanted at the office.” There is a letter for me, but some postage is due on it. Would I pay?

“A trap,” it Bits through my mind, as I accompany the overseer. I shall persist in my refusal to accept decoy mail.

“\lore letters from Homestead?” I tum to the Warden.

He quickly suppresses a smile. “No, it is postmarked, Brooklyn, N. Y.”

I glance at the envelope. The writing is apparently a woman’s but the chirography is smaller than the Girl’s. I yearn for news of her. The letter is from Brooklyn-perhaps a *Deckadresse!*

*“111* take the letter, Warden.”

•All right. You will open it here.”

“Then I don’t want it.”

I start from the office, when the Warden detains me:

“Take the letter along, but within ten minutes you must return it to rne. You may go now.”

I hast<·n to the cell. If there is anything important in the letter, I shall destroy it: I owe the l’llemy no obligations. As with trembling hand I tear open the envelope, a paper dollar flutters to the floor. I glance at the signature, but the name is unfamiliar. Anxiously I scan the lines. An unknown sympathizer sends greetings, in the name of humanity. “I am not an Anarchist,” I read, “but I wish you well. My sympathy, however, is with the man, not with the act. I cannot justify your attempt. Life, human life, especially, is sacn•d. None has the right to take what he cannot give.”

I pass a troubled night. My mind struggles with the probk·m presented so u1l!‘xepectedly. Can any one understanding my motives, doubt the justification of the Attentat? The legal aspect aside, can the morality of the act be questioned? It is impossible to confound law with right; they are opposites. The law is immoral: it is the conspiracy of rulers and priests against the workers, to continue their subjection. To be law-abiding means to acquiesce, if not directly participate, in that conspiracy. A revolutionist is the trulv moral man: to him the interests of humanity arc supreme; to advance them, bis sole aim in life. Government, with its laws, is the common enemy. All weapons an· justifiable in the noble struggle of the People against this terrible curse. The Law! It is the arch-crime of the cmturies. The path of \fan is soaked with the blood it has shed. Can this great criminal determine Right? Is a revolutionist to respect such a trawsty? It would mean the perpetuation of human slav<>ry.

No, the revolutionist owes no duty to capitalist morality. He is the soldier of humanity. He has consecrated his life to the People in their great struggle. It is a bitter war. The revolutionist cannot shrink from the service it imposes upon him. Aye, eVen the duty of death. Cheerfully and joyfully he would die a thousand times to hasten the triumph of liberty. His life belongs to the People. He has no right to live or enjoy while others suffer.

**** VI

The courtroom breathes the chill of the graveyard. The stained windows cast sickly rays into the silent chamber. In the sombre light the faces look funereal, spectral.

Anxiously I scan the room. Perhaps my friends, the Girl, have come to greet me ... Everywhere cold eyes meet my gaze. Police and court attendants on everv side. Several newspaper men draw near. It is humiiiating that through them I must speak to the People.

“Prisoner at the bar, stand up!”

The Commonwealth of Pl’llnsylvania-thc clerk vocif- erates--h arges me with felonious assault on II. C. Frick, with intent to kill; felonious assault on John C. A. Leishman; feloniously entering the offices of the Carnegie Company on three occasions, each constituting a separate indictment; and with unlawfully carrying concealed weapons.

“Do you plead guilty or not guilty?”

I protest against the multiplication of the charges. I do not deny the attempt on Frick, but the accusation of having assaulted Leishman is not true. I have visited the Carnegie offices only-

“Do you plead guilty or not guilty?” tlw judge interrupts.

“Not guilty. I want to explain-”

“Your attorneys will do that.”

“I have no attorney.”

“The Court will appoint one to dcfmd you.”

“I need no defence. I want to make a statement.”

“You will be given an opportunity at the proper time.”

Impatiently I watch the proceedings. Of what use arc all these preliminaries? My conviction is a foregone conclusion. The men in the jury box there, they arc to decide my fate. As if they could understand! They measure me with cold, unsympathetic looks. Why were the talesmen not examined in my presence? They were already seated when I entered.

“When was the jury picked?” I demand.

“You have four challenges,” the prosecutor retorts.

The names of the talcsmen sound strange. But what matter who are the men to judge me? They, too, belong to the enemy. They will do the master’s bidding. Yet I may, even for a moment, clog the wheels of the Juggernaut. At random, I select four names from the printed list, and the new jurors file into the box.

The trial proceeds. A police officer and two ncgro employees of Frick in turn take the witness stand. They had seen me three times in the Frick office, they testify. They speak falsely, but I feel indifferent to the hired witnesses. A tall man takes the stand. I recognize the detective who so brazenly claimed to identify me in the jail. He is followed by a physician who states that each wound of Frick might have proved fatal. John G. A. Leishman is called. I attempted to kill him, he testifies. “It’s a lie!” I cry out, angrily, but the guards force me into the seat. Now Frick comes forward. He seeks to avoid my eye, as I confront him.

The prosecutor turns to me. I decline to examine the witnesses for the State. They have spoken falsely; there is no truth in them, and I shall not participate in the mockery.

“Call the witnesses for the defence,” the judge commands.

I have no need of. witnesses. I wish to proceed with my statement. The prosecutor demands that I speak English. But I insist on reading my prepared paper, in German. The judge rules to permit me the services of the court interpreter.

“I address myself to the People,” I begin. “Some may wonder why I have declined a legal defence. My reasons are twofold. In the first place, I am an Anarchist: I do not believe in man-made law, designed to enslave and oppress humanity. Secondly, an extraordinary phenomenon like an *Attentat* cannot be measured by the narrow standards of legality. It requires a view of the social background to be adequately understood. A lawyer would try to defend, or palliate, my act from the standpoint of the law. Yet the real question at issue is not a defence of myself, but rather the *explanation* of the deed. It is mistaken to believe *me* on trial. The actual defendant is Society-the system of injustice, of the organized exploitation of the People.”

The voice of the interpreter sounds cracked and shrill. Word for word he translates my utterance, the sentences broken, disconnected, in his inadequate English. The vociferous tones pierce my ears, and my heart bleeds at his meaningless declamation.

“Translate sentences, not single words,” I remonstrate. With an impatient gesture he leaves me.

“Oh, please, go on!” I cry in dismay.

He returns hesitatingly.

“Look at my paper,” I adjure him, “and translate each sentence as I read it.”

The glazy eyes are turned to me, in a blank, unseeing stare. The man is blind!

“Let-us-continue,” he stammers.

“We have heard enough,” the judge interrupts.

“I have not read a third of my paper,” I cry in consternation.

“It will do.”

“I have declined the services of attorneys to get time to-”

“We allow you five more minutes.”

“But I can’t explain in such a short time. I have the right to be heard.”

“We’ll teach you differently.”

I am ordered from the witness chair. Several jurymen leave their seats, but the district attorney hurries forward, and whispers to them. They remain in the jury hox. The room is hushed as the judge rises.

“Have you anything to say why sentence should not be passed upon you?”

“You would not let me speak,” I reply. “Your justice is a farce.”

“Silence!”

In a daze, I hear the droning voice on the bench. Hurriedly the guards lead me from the courtroom.

“The judge was easy on you,” the Warden jeers. “Twenty-two years! Pretty stiff, eh?”

*** The London Years

**Rudolf Rocker: The Anarchist “Melting Pot”**

The warm human sympathy and toleration that characterized Peter Kropotkin also pervade the memoirs of his long-time friend Rudolf Rocker. In the decades before World War I, Rocker, a German by birth, became a leader of the Jewish anarchist movement in London’s East End. He not only won acceptance from a tightly knit community with an innate suspicion of outsiders, but even mastered Yiddish and became a busy editor and lecturer in the Jewish community. Though a less imposing personality than a Kropotkin or an Emma Goldman, he also lived his life in adherence to the anarchist spirit of personal liberation, as demonstrated by the amusing incident below concerning his common-law marriage.

Rocker’s memoirs highlight the international character of the anarchist movement. The anarchists strongly upheld the principle of internationalism, believing that their loyalty lo cerein shJrec.l concepts and aspirations overroc.le dll national c.lif- ferences. Like the socialists, however, they founc.l their methods and outlook shaped by the specific conditions of the countries in which they lived, as well as by their own national temperament. As a German working among Jews in England and trying to cope with comrades freshly arrived from Eastern Europe, Rocker was in a unique position to appreciate the cross-cultural dimension of anarchism.

Rocker’s career in Britain came to an end with the outbreak of the First World War. Because of his German birth, and perhaps also because of his opposition lo the war, he was interned as an “enemy alien.” He was deported in 1918 and went back lo Germany, where he became a leading figure in the syndicalist International Workingmen’s Association, established in 1922. He was forced to flee when Hitler came Lo power and eventually he settled in the United States. He died in New York City in 1958, at the age of eighty-five. The part of his memoirs that has been translated into English deals with his activities in London and ends with his departure from Great Britain. The selections here are from Rudolf Rocker, *The London Years,* translated by Joseph Leftwich (London: Robert Anscombe **&** Co. Ltd., 1956), pages 78–82, 98–106, 135–39, 188–96.

Other works by Rocker include *Nationalism and Culture* (Los Angeles, 1937); *Anarcho-Syndicalism* (London, 1938), one of the best expositions of that variety of anarchism; and *Pioneers of American Freedom* (Los Angeles, 1949).

**** I

My plan, which brought me from Paris, to settle my position with the German Consulate in London and to go back to Germany, came to nothing. At the Consulate they told me brusquely that I could not have the usual medical examination; I must go back to Germany for that. I asked why they refused me the ordinary procedure of a medical examination. They said I ought to know that myself.

Now it was clear. I hadn’t expected the officials in the London Consulate would know about me. Thev<sub>.</sub> did. At that time it was no doubt the practice of the German Government to keep its Consulates posted about people like me.

I realised that the road back to my native land was closed to me for ever, unless there was a revolution there, and that was too much to expect even of my youthful enthusiasm. Germany seemed to me at that time the one State in Europe that was most firmly and most solidly established. There was nothing to do but make the best of it, and to adjust myself to the conditions in London. Even so, I had no idea then that London would he my home for so many years.

As I was remaining in London for the time being I thought I should know more about this vast city. I had heard and read much about “Darkest London”, a lot of it in the writings of John Henry Mackay. I wanted to see these places of poverty and misery for myself. Otto Schreiber had lived in London for years and also moved by Mackay, had made a number of excursions through the slum areas. I asked him to show me round.

We chose Saturday afternoons for our expeditions. England was at that time the only country in Europe where work stopped on Saturdays around 1 p.m. or 2 p.m. The whole picture of the town changed. Factories, workshops, offices, banks were closed. The City which, on all other days was alive with people and traffic, full of their roar and bustle, was dead on a Saturday afternoon and Sunday. The businessmen and the clerks stayed at home or Wl’nt out on pleasure. Few pcopk· lived in the City except caretakers. The residential parts of London, on the other hand, were more alive than ever, especially in the neighbourhood of the big market places, where people came to do their week-end shopping.

We had arranged to meet every Saturday afternoon, if the weather were at all favourable, and to make our way into the districts where the London poor lived, Betbnal Green and Hackney, Shoreditch and Whiteehapcl, Shadwell and Limehouse, the grim streets of Dockland, and across the river, Deptford, Rotherhithe, and Lambeth. It was worse than my reading and what I had been told had led me to expect. I came back from our excursions physically and spiritually exhausted. It was an abyss of human suffering, an inferno of misery.

Like many others I had believed in my youth that as social conditions became worse, those who suffered so much would come to realise the deeper causes of their poverty and suffering. I have since been convinced that such a belief is a dangerous illusion, like many beliefs and slogans **Wl’** had taken over from the older generation. My wanderings through the distressed parts of London shook this early faith of mine, and finally dl’stroyed it. There is a pitch of material and spiritual degradation from which a man can no longer rise. Those who have been born into miserv and never knew a bettl’r state are rarely able to resist and revolt.

Then• \H’f!’ at that time thousands of pcoplc in London who had ne\·er slept in a bed, who just crept into some filthy hole where till’ police would not disturb them. I saw with my own eyes thousands of human beings who could hardly he still considered such, people who were no longer capable of any kind of work. Thcy went about in foul rags, through which their skin showed, dirty and lousy, never free from hunger, starving, scavenging their food out of dustbins and the refuse heaps that were left behind after the markets closed.

There were squalid courts and alley-ways, with dreary, tumbledown hovels, whose stark despair it is impossible to describe. And in thesc cesspools of poverty children were horn and people lived, struggling all their lives with poverty and pain, shmm<·d like lepcrs by all decent members of societv.

Could anything spiritual grow **011** these dung-hcapsP These were the dregs of a society whose champions still claimed that man was madc in God’s image, but who evaded meeting the image face to face in the slums of London. I have seen pictures of social misery in other countries, hut nowhere was the contrast so vast between assertive wealth and indescribable poverty as in the great cities of Britain. Riches and poverty lived almost on top of each other, separated by a street or two. You need only leave the fine main road and plunge into a side-street to find yourself in the most horrible slum.

It seemed to me that people took less notice of such things in England than elsewhere. Even the leaders of the Trade Union movement took them for granted. I remember a talk I had with Ben Tillet, who was not only one of the most promi1wnt Trade Union leaders, but also one of the best known figures in the Social Democratic Federation, the only purdy ^larxist body in Great Britain at the time. His view was that an improvement of social conditions was possible only where the urge to work and the hope of a better future had not been completely extinguished. He thought many of those who li\‘ed in the black spots of misery had been so demoralised by want that they no longer had any desire for anything better. In times of revolution, he said, it was from these quagmires of degeneration that the hyenas of the revolution emerged. A Socialist Government would therefore ha\‘e to think of ways and means to get rid of this scum; false pity for them would harm the Socialist cause.

Certainly the old slogan, “The worse the better”, was based on an erroneous assumption. Like that other slogan, “All or nothing”, which made many radicals oppose any improvement in the lot of the workers, even when the workers demanded it, on the ground that it would distract the mind of the Proletariat, and turn it away from the road which leads to social emancipation. It is contrary to all the experimce of history and of psychology; people who are not prepared to fight for the betterment of their living conditions arc not likely to fight for social emancipation. Slogans of this kind are like a cancer in the revolutionary movement.

My expeditions in Darkest London brought me again in touch with the Jewish comrades. Since I left Paris I had rarely found the opportunity to visit them, in the East End. I was busy with my own affairs and with my German comrades. I had met a few of the Jewish comrades in Grafton Hall, William Wess, his sister Doris, A. Frumkin and L. Baron. Frumkin, who was then editing the “Arbeter Fraint”, had asked me in 1896 to contribute an article to his Commune Number. It was my first contribution to the Jewish Press.

One day coming back from an expedition to Poplar, Schreiber and I met Baron in Commercial Road. He asked us into his house. Several Jewish comrades were there, and we spent an interesting evening with them. I learned a good deal about the Jewish Labour moveml’nt in the East End of London. And whm the comrades asked me to come to their meetings sometimes, I was glad, and went there quite often, with some of the other German comrades.

The meetings were held every Friday evening in a public house in Hanbury Street; they were always attended by about a hundred people. I took part in the discussions, and I was invited to deliver lectures, so that I soon became a frequent guest of the Jewish workers.

Hanbury Street is a long, narrow, winding street, leading from Spitalfields to Whitechapel. It looked a drab, miserable place. The Spitalfields and Whitechapel area had been a notorious criminal quarter. The influx of Jewish immigrants from Russia and Poland had gradually displaced the old inhabitants, and this unsavoury part of London had become the home of the Jewish working class. It was now possible to walk through these streets at night without being molested. But it was still a slum district.

There was a church at the corner of Commercial Street, at the Spitalfields end, where at any time of the day you would sec a crowd of dirty, lousy men and women, looking like scarecrows, in filthy rags, with dull hopeless faces, scratching themselves. That was why it was called Itchy Park.

At the Whitechapel end of Hanbury Street was the public house, “The Sugar Loaf”, where the Jewish comrades held their weekly meetings in a back room. There was no separate entrance, so we had to go through the pub, which was not pleasant, because therl’ were always several drunks there, men and women, who used foul language and became abusive when they saw a foreigner.

But it was hard to find other accommodation; so we made the best of it. The meetings themselves were good, and I enjoyed them. I was struck by the difference between the meetings of the Jewish Anarchists in Paris and in the London ghetto. In Paris they were held in a pleasant cafe in the Boulevard Barbis, where the proprietor went out of his way to make us comfortable. The people too were different. The Jewish workers in Paris were mostly skilled artisans. Many had received a higher education in Russia, and when they came to France they spent years learning their trade. They were usually well- dressed, and had adopted the jaunty Parisian manner. The Londoners looked sad and worn; they were sweatshop workers, badly paid, and half-starved. They sat crowded together on hard benches, and the badly lighted room made them seem paler than they really were.

But they followed the speaker with rapt attention, and as the discussion afterwards showed, with understanding. There were a good many women at the meetings, who showed the same intelligent interest in the proceedings as the men. It was an intellectual elite, who met every week in this common public house room, and in time brought into existence a movement that contributed an interesting chapter to the history of Libertarian Socialism ...

**** II

I continued my visits to the Jewish comradeS in Whitechapel. I was working at the time in Lambeth, and I found the journey easier from the East End. So I rented a room in Shoreditch, in the house of a Jewish comrade, Aaron Atkin. He kept a small shop. Some comrades in the Jewish movement used to meet in his shop parlour. I spent many pleasant hours with them, talking and discussing.

It was in that circle I really got to know Milly Witcop, who afterwards became my life’s partner. She was one of the most devoted members of the “Arbeter Fraint” group. I had met her before in the West End, among the German comrades. She used to go there to sell papers and pamphlets, and to collect funds for the activities of her movement. She was 18 or 19, a slim young !!;irl, simple and unaffected, with thick black hair and deep, large eyes, earnest and eager and zealous for our cause. Everybody held her in high regard. But it was only when I came to live in the ghetto that I got to know her rare and beautiful character. We became close friends.

I had met a girl at home in Germany, who followed me to Paris. We had a child, my son Rudolf. We lived together in Paris, and afterwards in London, but without ever discovering any spiritual bond between us. We parted. She insiskd on keeping the child. Later, when she married another man, the child was in his way, and Milly and I took him. He was six at the time. Milly and I had meanwhile found our way to each other. She was a good mother to my son.

Milly and I have been together for a very long time now. Our union has withstood all the blows and bulfet- tings of fate. We have been happy together. We have never regretted our choice. Our companionship has brought out certain qualities in me that could never have developed under less favourable conditions. A man who has stood as I have from his earliest youth in the crush and throng of a movement must have a place where he can find inner peace, and another human being who is not only his wife, but his friend and comrade, to whom he can open his heart and trust her with everything.

Not even the freest and most emancipated ideas about the relationship of the sexes can alter this fact. I know there is no golden rule in these matters, that human beings are very different in their nature, and that one can’t lay down any general principle that will apply to everybody. I realise that I have been a very lucky man in this regard. We have gathered no worldly treasures on our life’s road. We have. been richly acc1uainted with hardships and dang<-rs. But we have carried the burden together; we have lived and worked and fought as good comrades; we never had reason to reproach each other, for our cause was the same for both of us. But in return we have had much joy, such as is given only to people for whom the struggle for a great cause has become a vital need. We did not have to go searching for the blue bird. He was always with us.

Milly was born in Zlatapol, a small town in the Ukraine. She had a hard childhood. Her parents were very poor. Her father was a tailor, who made and repain’d clothes for the estate owners round about. However hard he workl’d thl’re was always want in the house{1}.

Her mother was a deeply religious JeWeSS, a fin<· woman, who is spite of her own poverty was always helping others poorer than herself. Sh!’ did the same after- wards in London. She devoted hersl’lf to tlw rPlil’f of lhl’ poorest of her Jewish fellow-beings. lier reward was that she was venerated in her own circle as almost a saint. She was always looking for something to do for others. And she was so modest and unassuming about it that every- body had to respect her.

Milly had been very religious as a chikl. The family was proud of her piety. She came to London in 1894. hardly more than a child. She went to work in the tailoring sweatshops of the East End, and for years grudged herself a bite of bread to save up the fan’ to bring her parents and sisters to London and provide a home for them.

But meanwhile she had undergone a change. At home. in the small town in the Ukraine, her world had been one of simple folk, who held strictly to the traditions of their Jewish faith and practice. In London she found people for whom religion had bccoml’ a dead ritual. The conditions under which she lived and worked forcPd her to draw conclusions which she could not reconcile with her old beliefs. Her young spirit was tormented by doubts. Milly was **OIU’** of those natures who cannot accept anything by halves. Slw a]w,l)‘S looked for a who!e. It must have been agony to her to Ill’ a dividPd being.

She came upon a strike nwcting of Jewish bakl’l’y workers in the East End. The speeclws made a tremendous impression on her. She felt that she must join the fight against injustice. She had started on tlw road that led her to the meetings of the Jewish Anarchists at the “Sugar Loaf’ public house. The rest followed. Milly read our literature, attended our meetings regularly. She had lost her old religion, but she had replaced it with a new faith.

When her parents at last arrived in London with the other children they no longer found the daughter they had known before. She was a grown, mature person, standing on her own feet. She was still devoted to them, helpful, affectionate.

But one could hardly expect these old people, completely untouched by modern ideas, to understand the inner transformation in their daughter. They showed the same love to her as always, but they frlt they had losl her. The father could not help reproaching her sometimes. The mother never did. She kept her grief hidden in her heart. To her, utterly absorbed in her religion, the calamity that had struck her was God-ordained, something against which man must not complain, but must accept and make the best of it. The three other daughters, Polly, Fanny and Rose later went the same road as Milly. It was a heavy blow for their parents.

When I first got to know her Milly was living with her parents and her three sisters. There is no doubt that she felt and was moved by the grief of her parents, but what could she do? Should she hide her real beliefs, and play a game of pretence? That her nature would not allow. She had to be completely, wholly lll’rself. She could give her parents everything in her power, but she could no longer think as they thought.

In Dcccml)(‘r 1897 I had a letter from an old frimd in New York, proposing that I should come to America. He said I was sure to find a good job there. He offered to send me the tickets for the passage as soon as I would be ready to come.

But I felt I belonged to Europe. To go to the New World seemed to me an act of desertion. Therefon· I wrote to my friend that I couldn’t think of it.

Yet four months later the idea came back to me. There was a strike where I worked, against a rC”duction of wages. We lost the strike. I lost my job; and it didn’t look as if I could find anotlll’r for a long time. So I thought of America as a way out of my difficulty. I wrote to my friend and he sent me the ticket.

Of course I spoh• about it to Milly. We were not living together yet. We had no relationship as man and wife. But we had now been close and intimate friends for over a year. She agreed at once to go to America with me.

We had arranged to go in the middl<” of April; but war broke out between the United Statc>s and Spain, and the American Government requisitio1wd all the big passenger ships for war service. The shipping companic>s could offer us accommodation only on a small boat leaving Southampton on May 15<sup>th</sup>. We had registered for the passenger list as married, which meant we would have a small cabin to ourselves. I mention this private matter only because it became the subject of a big State action against us, which occupied the attention of the American Press for weeks.

The “Chester” was an old tub, that had been hastily got ready for the purpose. Our cabin, which was hetween- decks, was tiny and gloomy, without any comfort at all. Yet we did not mind, for we were two young people about to step over the threshold into our new life together. The voyage took two whole weeks, but the weather was favourable, and we had few other passengers on board, which was just what we wanted. We were due to arrive in New York on the morning of May 29<sup>th</sup>. But we were delayed outside N cw York harbour by a sudden thick fog. The engines had to he stopped, and we lay there all that morning. The fog signals were kept going all the time. The fog began to lift about noon. Soon we saw the blm· sky again and the sun shining on the sea. New York lay before us, and in the distance the Statue of Liberty, holding the torch.

We stood on deck the whole time, fec>ling almost sorry that the voyage was over, for it had scaled our union. It was not till late in the afternoon that we reached the landing pier. After the first formalities were over we were driven like a herd of cattle on to a small boat that took us to an island. That was the place where the immigrants were put through their examination. The old building where the immigrants had to wait till they were given permission to go ashore had been burned down a short while before. A temporary building had been hastily erected.

Sometimes immigrants had to wait several days before a decision was reached about them. and **as** there was no sleeping accommodation there the immigrants were put at night on an old ship, where the men had a dormitory between-decks, and the women slept on the upper deck. Next morning we were all brought back to the island, where we had our meals, in a vast hall. It was empty and ugly, making us fed very unhappy and dejected. \l’,le didn’t expect comfort, but this place was filthy and verminous.

When we first <·ntered it till’ hall was packed with immigrants, who had arrived on two other boats the day before. We were dividl’d by the alphabet into small groups, to the accompaninwnt of a continuous shouting and bellowing in every language under the sun, so that it sounded like a madhouse. Soml’times the officials poked tlll’ir sticks into those of us who did not understand, to show us whC’rc they wanted us to go. \\‘e noticed that it was those who looked shabby or less intelligent who were mostly subjected to this treatmmt. When it came to our turn we were taken, a group of us, into a smaller room, wlwre a gn•at many officials sat at their desks, which were heaped with papers. The official who dealt with us asked me several questions. I answered briefly. Then he asked for our marriage papers.

We hadn’t any. He noted this down, and told us to go. The next day we were taken to another room, where four high officials and an elderly lady sat round a table. We were offered two chairs. One of the officials addressed me in German : “You say you have forgotten your marriage certificate. People don’t forget such things when they come on a journey like this.”

“I didn’t say that,” I answered. “I said we have no marriage certificate. Our bond is one of free agreement betwel’n my wife and mysdf. It is a purely private matter that concerns only ourselves, and it needs no confirmation from the law.”

The old lady looked straight at Milly, and said to her: “But you can’t as a woman agree with that. Don’t you sec the danger you are in? Your husband can leave you whenever he pleases, and you have no legal hold on him.”

“Do you suggest,” Milly answered, “that I would consider it dignified as a woman and a human being to want to keep a husband who doesn’t want me, only by using the powers of the law? How can the law h•ep a man’s love?”

“This is the first time I have heard a woman speak like that,” the old lady said reproachfully. “If everyone ignored the law in respect of marriage, we should have free love.”

“Love is always free,” Milly answered. “When love ceases to be free it is prostitution.”

The old lady bit her lip, and said no more.

Then the official who had addressed me before asked if I would swear that I was not legally married to another woman. He said I need not answer the question, if I didn’t wish to. I said I could answer it, and would. I was not married to any other woman. He handed me a Bible, and asked me to swear on it. I said my word would have to do, because neither of us belonged to any church.

Next morning a number of people came to question us. Wc assumed they were police agents. They were very polite to us, and the officials too treated us very courteously. Some were most friendly. One of the officials, who was born in France, to whom I had mentioned that I had lived in Paris for a few years, remarked that people looked at these things differently in France; America was a Puritan country, and he was afraid that unless we agreed to get married we would both be sent back. He told us he had held his post on the island for kn years, and had never come across a case like ours before.

My friend who had sent me the tickd for the journey came to see me. He knew what had happened. Those people who had questioned us were newspaper reporters. The papers were full of us. He brought a batch of papNs with him for me to sec. Most of the reports in the big dailies were sensational and unfriendly. The reporter of the Yiddish Social Democratic paper “ArbetC’r Zeitung” brought us a copy of his paper, which headed its report: “Love without marriage, rather than marriage without love.”

Then an old gentleman came to sec us. We were taken to a very comfortable room, and offered coffee and cakes. The old gentleman assured us that he had no doubt about the purity of our intentions, but society could not exist if everybody thought and behaved as we did. “You are young people,” he said, “trying to break through a brick wall with your heads. One day you will discover that it is impossible.”

He told us there would be a proposal made to us, which would solve our difficulty, and he advised us to accept it. We found afterwards that the old gentleman was T. V. Powderly, who had been President of the Knights of Labour, once a great trade union organization; he was the Commissioner-General of Immigration.

Two days later the proposal was made to us. It was that we would be admitted if we first got legally married. We might have agreed, for there seemed no other way. But we could not see why we were being ordcn·d to do something for which there was no law in the United States to justify such intervention in our private life. The only people who were excluded by the immigration laws were criminals, feeble-minded and those with incurable diseases. We were none of these. The law against the admission of foreign Anarchists, which has not been properly tested juridically even now, came into force five years later. Therefore our case was unique. We said we would prefer the journey back to Europe, as we considered the decision taken with regard to us contrary to the law, and we did not believe that we had clone anything wrong, for which we ought to reproach ourselves. Honest people had sometimes to sacrifice material advantages for the sake of their self-respect.

The day before we left I had another unpleasant experience. My friend had promised to come again, to say goodbye to us. We were sitting in our usual places when an official came to say that there was a letter for us. It was from my friend, who had written that he found it impossible to get away in time. But I did not know that. They did not give me the letter. They took me to a room, where an official I had never seen before asked my name. I told him. He then produced a letter, and instead of giving it to me slit it open, and started to read it. That made me furious. After all, we WPrc not criminals in prison, but passengers who had paid our fares.

So I snatched the letter away from him, and put in my pocket. That made him mad. He stormed and rag<·d at me, and said I must give him back my letter. I refused. Our voices rose higher and higher, till two officials came running in from the next room to see what the row was about. When I explained, one of them, who behaved very decently, assured me that this was the procedure with all letters for immigrants; it was a precaution they had to take to prevC”nt immigrants who came without money, as required by the immigration regulations, getting it sent to them by friends outside.

“Then I should have been told that,” I answered. “I would have opened my letter, and I would have let you see that there was no money there. But I will not have you open my letters.”

Next morning we were taken back on board the “Chester”, where everyone, of course, knew our story. But we were treated there with the utmost consideration. It was a beautiful, bright summer’s day when we started our journey back to England. We stood on deck, and watched the green bnnks of the Hudson glide past. When we saw the Statue of Liberty again she looked to me as though she wore the dress of a nun.

There were few passengers on board, and as the weather continued good all the way the voyage on this old tub turned out to be more of a pleasure trip for us than a punishment. The first morning out from New York we were approached on deck by one of the ship’s officers, with a steward carrying a great bowl of fruit, which he handed us very politely. He introduced himself as the first engineer. He said he had come to express his personal sympathy at the way we had been treated in New York. He said he sharl’d our views, and res1wckd us because we had stood up for them. He asked if we knew Benjamin Tucker. I said we did not know him personally, hut we knew of him, and we knew his views, and we knew his paper “Liberty”. He said he was a follower of Tucker’s, and a regular reader of “Liberty”. He cam<‘ to see us every day, each time bringing gifts of fruit, chocolate and cigarettes. We spent many hours together, talking.

Then the purser asked to sec us. He wanted to know whv we had been sent back. We told him. “Yes,” he said, “that is what the newspapers reported. But that isn’t what the immigration authorities told the Company.” We asked him what the Company had been told. He said it was that we hadn’t the minimum amount of money required for entry under the immigration laws. I took out my wallet and showed him my money. “Thank you,” he said, “that is all I wanted to know.”

Now why did the immigration authorities tell the shipping Company this untruth? I can only suggest it was because the real reason gave them no legal ground for sending us back.

Our little adventure caused more stir than we had thought. Friends in America sent us batches of newspapers and periodicals from all parts of the States, with reports and articles about us. C. E. Walker had a long article in the Chicago “Lucifer” telling our story, and condemning the behaviour of the immigration authorities. It completely supported our attitude. But there were points of detail that were misreported; they had heen copied from the reports in the daily Press. I wrote to Walker, explaining the facts, and dealing with the whole general question of the way the immigrants wew treated. My letter appeared in “Lucifer” as an article running to two whole pages, and with a note on the front pag<· directing special attention to it.

When we reached Southampton, and were landed without any questions being asked, without any examination, we felt doubly welcome after our experiences in New York ...

**** III

The “Arbeter Fraint” group had its printing press and administrative office at that time in Chance Street, a narrow small bleak street in Bethnal Green, which was a typical London working-class district, poverty-stricken and depressing. It had something over a doz(”)] actiw members. I owe it to them to record their names: I. Kaplan, D. Isakovitz, T. Eygcs, I. Sabclinsky, B. Schatz. S. Ploshansky, J. Blatt, S. Freedman, II. Greenberg, J. Taplcr, M. Kerkclcvitch, B. Rubinstein and A. Banolf. Milly had been a member of the group for a few years. I had known most of thl’sl’ comradcs heforl’. I was no stranger among them.

Of course the circle of Jewish Anarchists in thc East End was larger than this group. But most of thc comrades didn’t belong to any particular group. Thcy Wl’re nearly all active in the trades unions; they came regularly to all our meetings, they spread our papcr and our pamphlets, and supported our moveml’nt in every way they could. The “Arbcter Fraint” group was only a sort of inner circle of the movemmt, responsibk· for thl’ publication of the paper and thl’ various obligations connected with it.

The first group mcl’ting I attended dC’alt mainly with the financial possibilities of getting thl’ paper out n•gu- larly. They didn’t look bright. Collection-shl’cts had been going round, and had brought in about Twelve Pounds. The group had raised in addition about Twcnty Pounds at its annual Yorn Kippur gathering, and thl’re were a few Pounds sent by the comrades in Lc•l’ds. This was the entire sum with which the “Arbeter Fraint” had to bC’ brought back to lifc{1}. But the comrades kit confident that it could be done. They counted on some assistance from America, especially as the group thcrt’ had no Yiddish publication at the time, except till’ monthly “Frcie Gc- sellshaft”.

Their confidence was not misplaccd. Most of thc Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe who came to Great Britain continued their journey sooner or later to America or to other countries overseas. They took with them to the United States, Canada, Argcntine or South Africa the Socialist ideas they had first pickC’d up in London. They formed groups in their new homes, and maintained contact with their original group in Britain, which rl’mained the motherland of the movement. They imported thc “Arbeter Fraint” and other literature, and when they could, sent us financial contributions. London was a clearing house for the Jewish revolutionary labour movement. The threads went out from London to all countries where there were large numbers of Jewish immigrants, and later even to their original homes in Russia and Poland, when the first anarchist undNground groups began to form in Bialystock, Grodno, Vilna, Warsaw, Lodz and other places.

The reappearance of the “Arbcter Fraint” was hailed with joy by the comrades both in Britain and abroad, especially in Anwrica. Messages poured in from all sides, which encouraged us in our task. But it did not make things easier for me. I had all the material and other difficulties which had defeated my predecessors and, in addition, I had to devote myself to learning the Yiddish language, in which the paper I edited was written. I had plunged into a new life, with new people, and a new tongue, all quite foreign at first to me. I knew the inner circle of comrades, but not the mass of my readers. I think I could have adapted myself more quickly to living and working among any other European people and language. There is a certain common cultural heritage among the peoples of Western and Central Europe. Their history is closely linked. This new world in which I found myself was differently moulded. There were of course the same human qualities, but these people had grown up in entirely different conditions. Their spiritual development was not the same. What we call the Christian civilisation, no matkr how we judge it, had created the European man, who started out with a common belief, held together for c<·nturies by the bonds of the Church. The Jew was outside this development. In order to find himself in this hostile world he had to create a world of his own, which was different from the Christian world. In tlw western countri(.‘s where the Jews achieved emancipation they gradually bridged the gulf that had separated them for centuril’s from their Christian fcllow-citizPns, and were able to take their part in the general cultural life. But in the Ghetto-towns of Eastern Europe, under the Russian despotism, the gulf remained for another century, so that the East European Jew was in many ways a different creature from the Jew in the West.

It is not a matter of national peculiarities. Zionism was at that time a negligible factor among the Jewish workers in London.

My job was not only to edit and write for the “Arbeter Fraint”. I had also to do a lot of public speaking. I spoke at our own weekly meetings and at a great many propaganda meetings of the trades unions. I was particularly engaged in the work of instructing the comrades in our own inner circle in the deeper meaning of our libertarian ideas. The active comrades in the Jewish movement were all at that time still strongly under the influence of the Marxist doctrine of economic determinism. I tried to show them how economic materialism could not be reconciled with the conception of anarchism. I didn’t find it easy. Yet those talks over our various differences of opinion have remained among my most delightful memories of that early period of my work in the Jewish labour movement. What amazed me most was the thirst for knowledge among those ordinary working people who had received so little general education, yet had so much natural intelligence that they could easily grasp things about which they had been completely uninformed before. It made me happy to see with what zeal they pursued knowledge. I learned a great deal myself by accompanying them in their pursuit. I was inspired by them to discover new ideas, to think about things which in a different environment less foreign to me I would have taken for granted; I had to probe more deeply, to think for myself.

Of course, I put forward my critical observations on the subject of historical materialism in public. The opportunity arose at our weekly meetings at the Sugar Loaf, which were regularly attended at that time by a number of Jewish Social Democrats, who joined in the discussions. Those discussions, the arguments which were opposed to mine, and my repli<.-s to them, prompted me to formulate my ideas concerning historical materialism in writing. This was my first literary work.

It appeared during the first year of my editorship in a series of 25 essays **in** the “Arbeter Fraint”. For most of my readers it was completely unknown territory. So I had to be careful not to write above their heads, to try to explain the problems to them in a way they could understand. For the important point about the “Arbeter Fraint” was that it had to be a propaganda sheet; it was no use filling it \\ith stuf that its readers could not follow. I intended going through those articles afterwards, to put them into shape, to add to them, tighten them up, make them more complete, and publish them as a book. I never managed it. Wben I look back now on that work I am well aware of its shortcomings. But it should be judged not by the standards of to-day, but by the conditions and the needs of that time. I had no predecessor in that field in Yiddish. As far as I know it was the first attempt in that language to subject the ^arxist conception of history to a critical examination. I don’t think anything more was done in that field til Dr. Chaim Jitlovsky took up the same question some years later in America.

It is a puzzle to me how the “Arbeter Fraint” managed to appear regularly every week for a whole year during that early period of my editorship. The small sum with which we had started was soon used up, and we found ourselves in a financial crisis. We never knew how we would get out the next issue. We always worried how to find the money to pay the printer. The Editor didn’t matter so much. I had ben promised One Pound a week for my work as Editor. The promise was rarely kept. I was paid when there was enough money. If there wasn’t I had to go without. The amounts owing to me were entered **in** a bok . When the total owing to me became too large to consider even paying so much, they put a pen through it, and the debt was wiped out. We started afresh. It was a splendid way of keeping boks , but it didn’t do me any good. We lived from hand to mouth, and it was only by Milly working and by my odd jobs of bookbinding that we kept going.

The comrades did what they could. They didn’t live any better than we did. They gave more than they could afford to the paper and the movement. I was always full of admiration for their devotion to the cause. The German comrades in the West End gave more, both for their movement here and for sending home to Germany to help the movement tlwre. But they were well-paid craftsmen who could afford much more than the poor Jewish proletariat in the East End. Every penny these sweatshop workers gave us was something taken away from their own mouths. They denied themselves essentials; and they gave it willingly, gladly, ungrudgingly. If they didn’t give more it was only because they hadn’t any more to give. They would have pawned their last few small possessions for us. People who have not themselves lived through that dreadful period of poverty can have no idea to-day what it meant, under what incredibly difficult conditions the “Arbeter Fraint” appeared week after week. There was a change, later, but only with the improvement of labour conditions, as a result of the unceasing struggle which was waged by the trades unions. After that the movement made swift progress. The existence of the “Arbeter Fraint” became assured, and we even established a fair sized publishing concern, which issued books and pamphlets, that went to help to cover the cost of producing the “Arbeter Fraint” ...

**** IV

We had a lot of trouble with a number of our young comrades who had been in the underground mowment in Russia and couldn’t adjust themselves to life in England. Many went back to Russia in the end, though they knew it might mean imprisonment or death. Perhaps the danger attracted them.

We did what we could to help them to find their feet. But it was hard. They had come to regard themselves as engaged in a war against established society, and they could see no difference between England and Russia. Some of them were dangerous people. There were also Russian police agents and spies among them. The Azeff Affair had shown how widespread the Hussian police spy network was in the revolutionary movl’mcnt; we didn’t know whom to trust.

There were also rogues among them. There was one man who came to us with a letter from the International Group in Warsaw. which had sent him abroad to buy propaganda literature and arms. He was boastful and aggressive. He wanted us to give him a quantity of our pamphlets. W **c** agreed. He wanted more copies than we had. We offered him stereos, so that the group in Warsaw could print as many as it wanted. Then he demanded money from us, to pay the cost of the paper and printing. We had no money. We had sent our literature free for years to Russia. But the “Arbeter Fraint” group was never a rich organisation, with money to give away. He Hew into a rage. He was abusive. He told us that our work was useless, that we were wasting our time. What wc were doing in England was of no importance. The only thing to do was to give money for those who did the work in Hussia. It was very unpleasant.

The next thing we heard was from comrades in Paris that he was there, and living rather extravagantly. Then I got a letter from Warsaw, through roundabout channels, asking if we knew where he was; they hadn’t heard from him for a long time. The letter said the group had given him four thousand roubles for buying literature and other things.

I wrote back to tell them of our t’Xperience with him. I said we were surprised that they had found no better man to send on such a mission.

About a week later he came to sec me in London. He said he had completed his mission, and wanted to go back to Warsaw. He had spent all his money on his purchases for the group, and hadn’t enough left for the return fare. Would I lend him the money?

I asked him how much the comrades in Warsaw had given him. Two hundred roubles, be said. I brought out my letter from Warsaw. He went white. He tried to argue that the figure in the letter was a mistake. I saw no point in arguing with the man. **I** showed him the door.

He went back to Paris. We had warned our comrades there, and he was cold-shouldered. We heard afterwards that he did go back to Russia, and was unmasked there as a police spy. That was the story we got. I don’t know whether it is true that he was a police spy. I shouldn’t be surprised. He was a very unpleasant fellow, and no good to any movement.

There was a much worse case, a man who called himself Tchishikoff. He had been engaged in Russia in a number of “expropriations”, armed raids on banks, and suchlike, to get the funds for the revolutionary work. The police had caught him on one of his raids, and had put him in prison in Vilna. He escaped, while awaiting trial. He climbed the prison wall, and fell and broke his lPg. Comrades waiting for him outside carried him off, hid him, and helped him to escape abroad. He went to Paris, and then came to London, where the Russian comrades welcomed him with open arms. His leg had healed by the time he came to London. But he limped.

I met the man several times. He seemed to me to talk much too much about his daring deeds. He was something of a dare-devil. His ideas about revolution and about Anarchism were very crude. That was not surprising. Lots of people had joined the Russian revolutionary movement to fight, and not to study. I thought that with all his faults he was devoted to the cause.

He collected a group of young people round him, who had worked in the underground in Russia, and admired the kind of work he had done. This group spoke only about Russian affairs, and planned activities in Hussia. They had no patience for our work in England. We wrrc not revolutionary enough for them.

Revolutionary work without “expropriations”, without armed bank raids meant nothing to Tchishikoff. ThP fact that we held public meetings and conducted our activity openly was sufficient proof to him that we wcrp not really against the authorities. Otherwise they would not have allowed us to hold meetings and distribute our publications. Revolutionary activity, as he saw it, had to be secret, conspirativc.

Then something happened which made me decide not to have anything more to do with this man. There was a nice young girl in our movement, whom we all knew by her first name, Zlatke. She was naive, impulsive, all heart. She had little theoretic knowledge of our movement; she had come into it believing that we were working to improve conditions for all people, and she was devoted to us. There was nothing too hard for her to do for us. We were all very fond of her.

Tchishikolf got hold of that poor girl. He told her all about his deeds of daring for the movement, made her think of him as a great hero. They took a room, and went to live together. It lasted a couple of months. Then we heard that Tchishikolf had turned Zlatke out of the house one night. She was pregnant. A few days later his wife arrh·ed from Vilna, and those two lived togetlwr in the same room where he had lived with Zlatke.

I was furious at this blackguardly behaviour. So were most of our comrades. We refused to have anything to do with Tchishikolf. But his own group remained loyal to him. They said that his private life did not concern them.

Shortly after there was a wave of arrests in our movement in Russia. Clearly there was a spy at work in the movement. Thirty of our most active comrades were caught by the police. As a result the contacts were broken with our groups in Poland and Lithuania. Tchishikolf proposed to his group that he should go Russia, to restore the contacts. The group agreed, and started to raise the money for his journey and for the work he would have to do in Russia.

One of our comrades, Nagel, an engineer, who had been a political refugee in London for some years, and whom we all held in high regard, came to ask me to help to raise some of the money. I told him I didn’t like Tchi- shikolf, and I wouldn’t do anything to help him.

“I know,” said Nagel. “He did behave like a skunk. But that is his private life. I am concerned with his usefulness for the movement. We need him to restore the broken contacts between our groups.”

I repeated what I had said. I didn’t like till’ man, and I didn’t trust him. After all, I said, a man’s character matters. His private life showed the sort of man lw was. I didn’t believe that he could be one man in his privall’ life, and another in his public life.

Nagel tried to make me sec his point about the good of the movement. I was firm in my attitmk. He went away disappointed with me.

They managed to raise the money. Tchishikolf went to Russia. He succeeded in restoring the contacts between the groups; he organised a secret conference which comrades from Poland and Lithuania attended. The conference was raided by the police; everybody tllere was arrested.

Tchishikolf was the traitor. It was all proved against him. Even his escape from the prison in Vilna had been arranged by the police, to win for him the confidence of the comrades.

Fearing the vengeance of the comrades he Aed to Switzerland. A young Russian student entered his home there, and shot him dead.

Of course, not everybody who came from Russia at that time was like that. But there were many who couldn’t possibly fit in with our activity in England. It wasn’t their fault. They had been brought up with the idea that revolutionary activity meant secrecy, conspiracy, and terrorism. They couldn’t understand the difference in the political and social conditions in England. Our work in the trades unions was meaningless to them. They treated us as though we were playing at being Anarchists. There were often unpleasant scenes between them and our older comrades, who had lived for years in England.

We were haunted by the fear that some of them might do something desperate that would put our whole movement in danger. I discussed that danger with Kropotkin, Tcherkesov and other Russian comrades, who wen• as much worried by it as we were. Our fears Werc not unfounded. One day, at the beginning of November 1909, a young Russian comrade came to sec me. He told me that a small group to which he belonged had completed a plan to throw a bomb at the Lord Mayor’s Show.

I couldn’t believe my cars. But the young man gave me naml’s and dl’tails; he convincl’d me. I asked him why he had revealed the plan to me. Hl’ said that he had thought it over, and hl’ had realised that many innocent people watching the Show would be hurt or killed. I explained that it would also have raised an outcry against all political refugees in England; it might have meant the withdrawal of the political asylum we enjoyed.

We discussl’d how to prevent the plan being carried out. He told me that the group was to mel’t the following evening at the home of one of its members in Whitchorse Lant’, in Stepney. I arranged with my friend Lazar Sabe- linsky to go there with me, to talk to these young people. We found five of them there, including my informant, and one young girl. I told them we knew of their plan. I explained what a terrible blow it would be to all the people who had bem able to find refngl’ in England. I asked them why they wanted to kill the Lord Mayor, and inno- cmt spt’ctators. At first they denied the whole story. In the end they admitted it was true. I said that I was sure some Russian police agent had incited them to such a stupid and St’llscless outrage, to discrl’dit the whole revolutionary mowml’nt, and to close England to all political refugees.

I don’t know whether I convinced them by my arguments, or whether it was only the fact that their plot had been discovered that decided them to drop it. Thl’rc may have been a Russian police agent who had incited them for the reasons I feared. Or they may have been simply blind fanatics who had come from the unhealthy atmosphere of the conditions in Hussia, where every policC’man and every public dignitary, Governor or Mayor was an instrunwnt of despotism and oppression. Those conditions in Hussia had given rise to such terrible things as the theory of unmotivated terror, dirl’ctcd against the entire bourgeoisie as a class, no matter \vhom it hit.

That small group in London broke up soon after. All the members went back to Russia, excepl the young man who had revealed the plot to me. He was active afterwards for years in our movement; he was one of my most devoted followers. He told me once that the group had seriously discussed killing Kropotkin, to get him out of the way, because his moderate views were holding back the revolutionary forces. That is the sort of thing fanatics can do.

But the great majority of the immigrants from Russia who joined our movement in London in those years did gradually manage to adjust themselves to the new conditions. Many rendered great service to the movement. One of them, S. Freedman, was afterwards for many years manager of the “Freie Arbeter Shtimmc” in New York.

There was an interesting young woman named Judith Goodman among the comrades who found refuge in London in those years. She had been a ieading figure in the movement in Bialystock. She wore a wig, because the Cossacks had torn all the hair out of her head.

Judith arrived in London with the same terrorist ideas as many others who had worked in the Russian underground. She had her own group round her in London. But she came to our meetings, and she talked to us. She was willing to listen, and to learn. She became a frequent visitor to our house; she was very friendly with Milly. At first she was a little distrustful of us, as though she feared that we would try to damp down her revolutionary zeal. But I think she came to understand us in the end. We tried to make her see that there were methods that might be unavoidabk· in Russia that were impossible in other countries.

She emigrated afterwards to America with her husband. She died there in 1943. All the comrades in New York knew her, this quiet, modest woman, with her wise, kindly eyes; few knew what a turbulent past she had behind her. For she was one of those who do not talk about themselves.

Her London group included a young man, Moishe Tokar, whose daring in the terrorist activity had won him a great name in Russia. He had laughing blue eyes, and fair hair; no “race scientist” would have believed that hl’ was a Jew. He was a member of the International Group in Warsaw. By incredible good luck he escaped arrest with a group of sixteen of his comrades, who were shot out of hand, without trial. He was for a time a hunted fugitive; the police caught him in the end. His luck held again. He had no papPrs on him to identify him, and they put him in the notorious Citadel in Warsaw, where they tortured him, to make him say who he was. The torture did not mah’ him sp!‘ak. In 1907 he escaped. He got away to Paris; then he came to London.

He didn’t like the life in Paris or in London. It was too tame for him. He left London. He went back to Paris, intending to return to Russia. In Paris he met a group of young Russians, who also wanted to retun1 to Russia. They wanted to take back funds for their revolutionary activity, so they plamll’d to rob a Paris bank. One of the group informed the Paris police. They were all arrested, and were told at the Paris Prefecture that they must leave Paris by the first train. If one of them were found in France ten hours later he would be punished with the full severity of the law.

This was in February 1908. It seems strange that the French police treated them so leniently. It appears that Clemenceau, who was then Prime Minister, had been informed of the affair, and he said he didn’t want to punish young idealists, who didn’t realise that what they were trying to do was criminal. It shows how easy it was to misdirect the revolutionary ardour of thl’se young people into the wrong channels.

Moishe Tokar came back to London. He stayl’d nearly a year in London. He couldn’t stand it any longer. He told us that he was going back to Russia. He didn’t care what happened there. We could not dissuade him. In January 1909 he returned to Russia. There were reports in the Press in England and elsewhere at the time about terrible tortures inflicted on political prisoners in the Vilna Fortress. The man responsible for this was the military commander of Vilna, whose name was Hershel- man.

Tokar, who was living in Lodz, read these reports, and decided that he would assassinate Hershelman. He went to Vilna. On December 6<sup>th</sup> he fired at Hershelman as he drove in his carriage through the street. Hershelman escaped uninjured. General Fenga, who was in the carriage with him, was wounded.

On January 13<sup>th</sup>, 1910, Tokar was sentenced to death. A couple of days before the execution he poured the paraffin in the lamp in his cell over his clothes, and set fire to himself. When the warders unlocked the cell he was still alive. But his burns were too terrible for them to save him. He died soon after.

The most important member of Judith Goodman’s group in London was Baruch Rifkin, who became an outstanding Yiddish writer, and exercised an important influence on Yiddish literature, as a critic and a thinker. His early writings appeared in the “Arbeter Fraint” and in “Germinal”. He had joined the Anarchist movement in Russia when he was very young. But I am sure he must have felt from the beginning that there was much more to the Anarchist idea than a barbaric warfare against the barbaric system which ruled in Russia. He was a man who thought and searched, and could not be kept in the narrow limits of his Party group. His later development as a writer proved it. What bound him to his group in London was much more the memory of common youthful experiences in Russia than any intellectual understanding they could have for his groping, questing and questioning character.

He was, like Judith, a frequent visitor at our home, and at the Frumkins’. We discussed all sorts of things, not only party matters and the ideas of the movement. One evening we came to discuss materialism and idealism. I said they were both only different views on life, by means of which we tried to explain life, without really discovering its true secret. Life had its material and its spiritual aspects, but however much we tried we could never find absolute truth.

He was taken aback. He had clearly not expected that from me. “If that is so,” he said, “then Anarchism is no final goal for the future.”

“Of course not,” I answered. “There is never an end to the future. So it can have no 6nal goal. I am an Anarchist not because I believe Anarchism is the final goal, but because I believe there is no such thing as a final goal. Freedom will lead us to continually wider and expanding understanding and to new social forms of life. To think that we have reached the end of our progress is to enchain ourselves in dogmas, and that always leads to tyranny.”

** Part III. ANARCHISM IN PRACTICE: Firsthand Descriptions

*The firsl Lime I ever met a living anarchist was in the Moscow transfer prison. He was a village school-teacher, Luzin, a man reserved and uncommunicative, even cruel. In prison he always pre/erred lo be wilh the criminals and would listen intenlly to their tales of robbery and murder. He avoided discussions of theory. Bui once when I pressed him lo tell me how railways would be managed by anlonomous communities, he answered: “Why the hell should I want lo travel on railways under anarchism?”*

*Leon **Trotsky,** My Lile*

In the popular mind anarchism has long been identified primarily with the attitude voiced by Joseph Conrad’s bomb concoctor in The Secret Agent: “What’s the good of thinking of what will be! ...To the destruction of what is.” But the terrorism and destructiveness which anarchists frequently practiced represent only one side of their activities and have distracted attention from their positive and constructive social efforts. Anarchism has always contained a vision of the new libertarian society that was lo arise from the ashes-literal or figurative-of the old. On a few occasions anarchists have had the opportunity to put their plans into practice. Though ultimately unsuccessful, their attempts lo construct an anarchist community merit close scrutiny. They are fascinating experiments in social reorganization and important tests of anarchist principles, which here descend from the lofty heights of philosophical speculation and idealistic fervor to encounter harsh reality.

The selections that follow describe two quite different approaches to the application of anarchist theory to social practice: the microcosmic and the macrocosmic. Josiah Warren’s “Time Store” is an example of the former. In the nineteenth-century American tradition of utopian colonies-a tradition lately revived in the formation of “communes”-it was a single economic enterprise founded on anarchist principles and intended to serve as a model for society as a whole. The Russian Revolution and the Spanish Civil War, on the other hand, saw the only significant attempts ever made to construct anarchism on a broad territorial scale. At various times anarchism has been a force in other countries, notably France and Italy, but only during the great upheavals in Russia and Spain did anarchists actually set out to reorganize large geographical areas in accordance with their ideas.

The first two writers presented here were anarchists who participated themselves in the episodes they describe; the third, a highly observant journalist, recorded his impressions as an eyewitness. These are not the detached, judiciously balanced treatments of the facts that are to be found in historical works. Their value lies in the sense of immediacy they convey, their ability to capture the spirit and atmosphere, the intellectual and psychological climate in which these experiments were conducted. They are vivid word pictures, drawn from life, of anarchists at work. As such, they raise one of the central issues of historical anarchism: whether the consistent failure of the ·anarchists Lo implement their ideal was due lo unfavorable external circumstances, as the anarchists themselves have claimed, or to the limitations of the ideal itself and of the understanding of human nature on which it depended.

*** Practical Details in Equitable Commerce

**Josioh Warren: The Cincinnati Time Stare and the Modern Times Colony**

Despite the prominence of foreign-born anarchists such as Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman, American anarchism was by no means entirely an import from abroad. There was a long native tradition of hostility to the authority of the state firmly rooted in the American experience. Strong elements of anarchism can be found in some early American religious sects, in such groups as the abolitionists, and in individuals like Thoreau. But the most systematic philosophy of native American anarchism originated with Josiah Warren, who lived from 1798 to 1874.

Like most of the other adherents of this variety of anarchism, Warren came from an old New England family. He was a highly inventive and practical-minded individual who in the course of his life worked as a musician and orchestra leader, invented and manufactured a lard-burning lamp, contributed to the improvement of the printing press, and devised an original system of musical notation. In 1826 he moved to Robert Owen’s community at New Harmony, Indiana, where he lived forover a year. In what was perhaps the earliest anarchist critique of socialism, he attributed the failure of New Harmony to its communal property arrangements and system of authority. He concluded that the true principle of social organization lay in voluntary association, with each individual owning property equal to the value of his own labor.

Never content merely to propound a theory, Warren proceeded to test its validity in practice. His first experiment was the “Time Store,” the operation of which he describes in the first of the selections below. Some years later he opened another store utilizing a somewhat more refined system of labor notes (an idea originally conceived by Owen). In addition he made several attempts to implement his theories on a larger scale by founding an anarchist colony. The first of these, the Village of Equity in Ohio, soon came to grief. The other two, Utopia, located not far from Cincinnati, and Modern Times, on Long Island, were more enduring and at least for a time followed Warren’s principles of social organization and used labor notes as a medium of exchange. Modern Times, the most ambitious of Warren’s efforts, was founded in 1851, changing its name after a few years to Brentwood, which it remains today. Warren himself left the colony in 1863, and even within his lifetime it lost much of its unique character and began to settle into more conventional patterns. Nevertheless, Warren looked upon it as a success and as a vindication of his principles. The second selection contains his account, amused yet indignant, of the misunderstandings that arose in the public mind over this attempt to create an anarchist community.

Warren independently arrived at some of the mutualist ideas that Proudhon was soon to elaborate in France. Warren’s Time Store in many ways anticipated the mutual bank that Proudhon tried to establish in 1849, an institution designed to provide for the exchange of products among the workers by means of labor checks. The strain of individualist anarchism that Warren initiated found a number of exponents in America throughout the nineteenth century, among them William B. Greene, an advocate of mutual banking, Stephen

Pearl Andrews, a disciple of Warren, and Benjamin Tucker, who from 1BB1 to 190B published an anarchist newspaper called *Liberty.* This native individualist anarchism remained distinct from the communistic and labor-oriented anarchism of the immigrants, and although there was some interaction and cooperation between them the two branches of American anarchism were far apart both in regard to the form the future anarchist society was to take and the means to be used in achieving it.

The first selection here is from Warren’s *Practical Details in Equitable Commerce* (New York: Fowler and Wells, Publishers, 1652), I, pp. 11–25, 31, 39–40. No further volumes were published under this title. The second selection is from *Practical Applications of the Elementary Principles of “True Civilization,” to the Minute Details of Every Day Lile* (Princeton, Mass.: Published by the Author, 1673), pages 16–23. Warren’s major theoretical works were *Equitable Commerce: A New Development of Principles* (New York, 1652; an enlarged version of a work first published in 1646), and *True Civilization* (Boston, 1663). There is a biography of him by William Bailie entitled *Josiah Warren: The First American Anarchist* (Boston, 1906). Two studies of American individualist anarchism are Eunice Minette Schuster, *Native American Anarchism: A Study of Left-Wing American Individualism* (Smith College Studies in History, Vol. XVII, 1931–32); and James J. Martin, *Men Against the State: The Expositors of Individualist Anarchism in America,* 1827–1908 (New York, 1957).

The present state of society, whether we look at home or abroad, is that of general agitation and confusion. Although time and property, to an amount which defies calculation, have been expended in attempts to teach and establish Justice, Humanity, Religion, and LIBERTY, we see a still greakr strife for property and power pervading the whole fabric of society, in which Justice, Humanity, Religion, Libt’rty, and Life arc *practically disregarded.*

Confidence in legislators is rapidly diminishing. Every government in the world is tottering; society, like a ship in a dark tempest, is torn and tost by contending elements; the power of men at the helm sinks into the weakness of babes; our shattered fabric is no longer manageable, and we arc evidently drifting toward somt’ unknown destination.

From one end of society to the other we hear the clash of Hevolution, and the watchword is LIBEHTY! LmrnTY! LIBEHTY! There is a chord in every human breast that vibrates with the sacred sound, but, alas! *only* with the *sound!* Wlwre is liberty in practice? Where is it understood? Where does any organization of society permit its exiskncc? Revolution has succeeded revolution, change has succeeded change, age has succeeded age in struggles for *U/Jerty!* LIBERTY! has been the battle-cry, and I i b c r t y ! the last sound that hung upon the dying martyr’s quivering lips-yet */il>erty* is still but a sound. It refers to no condition in civilized life; it has no archetype in society; but, like sweet music in the dead of night, it bursts upon the car and enchants the soul, only to die away, leaving us nothing but the memory of a departed sound.

But LIBERTY is the vital principle of human happiness; and human nature seeks its *lilierty* as the magnet seeks the north, or as water seeks its level; and society can never know peace until its members know LIBEHTY; but it can never be realized under any organization of society now known to us, nor can it ever be attained upon any of the theories upon which societies are now acting! \\lhether any true theory is ever to be put in practice-whether justice is ever to take up its abode among us-whether LIBERTY is ever to be understood and enjoyed, are questions which yet remain to be determined in the uncertain future.

The inventions which have, from time to time, been adopted by society and by men in power, for the preservation of order and the establishment of justice, have had a long, full, and fair trial; and all of them have proved fallacious and abortive; and, upon close examination, they are found to be too full of error to compensate society for the evils they produce. The total failure of all plans of government and schemes of legislators, and the general confusion into which society is thrown, call forth and excuse the proposal of

A NEW STATE OF SOCIETY, different from any heretofore attempted.

There are a few individuals who will at once recognize more or less of their own feelings and conclusions in what has already been said, and who are already too familiar with the vices, the follies, and miseries which surround them, and with the repeated failures of proposed remedies, With these, therefore, I need not dwell upon the disease, nor have I ventured to bespeak their attention to remedies merely theoretical, but shall proceed at once to the *practical* part of my subject, and shall speak of *results already attained,* rather than of the uncertain future.

The foundation of these experiments is laid in the broadly-admitted principles of human nature, and in the experience of the Communistic experiments in New Harmony during the two years 182.5 and 1826, which may, with truth, be called the experience of a world.

I will not now delay to detail the reasonings which led to the conclusion that SOCIETY MUST DE so CONSTRUCTED AS TO PRESERVE THE *SOVEREIGNTY OF EVERY INDIVIDUAL* INVIOLATE. *Tliat it must avoid all combinations **and** connections of persons **and** interests, **and** all otlier arrangements, wliich tcill not leave every individual at all times at* LIBERTY *to dispose of his or lier person, and time, and property, in any manner in which his or her feelings or judgment may dictate,* WITI-IOUT INVOLVING THE PERSONS OR INTERE.STS OF OTHERS.

<verse>
That there must be
Individuality of Interests,
Individuality of Responsibilities,
Individuality in the deciding power; and, in one sense,
Individuality of action.
</verse>

The idea of the sovereignty of each over his own property made it necessary to determine what is truly and legitimately one’s property. The answer seemed to be, *the whole produce or results of his **0tcn** lal1or.* This would result, of course, if each lived on a separate island, and supplied all his own wants, and he would use the sunshine, air, water, stone, and other minerals, land, spontaneous fruits, and al !other NATURAL WEALTH, without paying any other persons for the privilege; but how could all these considerations he adjusted through the complicated ramifications of exchange and division of labor, and yet the individual retain at all times an amount equal to the product of his own labor? This could only be effected by an exchange for *equivalents-Labor for Lah*a<em>r-</em>and by not giving any labor for the use of NATURAL WEALTH. Now came in the proposition of Robert Owen to exchange *hour for hour.* This was seen not to be perfect, because some labors were harder than others; but, then, as the sovereignty of every one was to be preserved through all the operations, each could make such exceptions to the rule as he or she might choose to make, and all would be comparatively harmless.

With these views an individual went to Cincinnati, Ohio, after the experiments in New Harmony; and, without waiting for the concurrence of others, opened, on the 18<sup>th</sup> of May, 1827, a store on a very small scale, on the northwest corner of Fifth and Elm streets, for the purpose of testing the views in their practical bearings in the mercantile line-that being a branch of business (particularly the retail branch) in which every citizen is immediately interested. The predetermination was-if the operation was successful and promising-that this store was to be wound up, and land was to be taken outside of the city to build up a model village, all without saying much to the public till it should be in successful operation, so as to demonstrate every particular *practically* beyond all possible doubt or cavil, so that there would be nothing left to do but to *erplnin liotc it was done,* and to multiply these villages or cities. On the other hand, if, upon bringing the views to this severe test, it should appear that there was some unforeseen radical defect, or unconquerable obstacle, then the keeper had determined to convert the store into one of the ordinary kind, and let all systematic reforms entirely alone, and abandon them as hopeless; and, in view of this possible result, he did not give out any public pledges nor scarcely any public announcements.

In this store the principal peculiar feature was, that the compensation of the merchant was to be measured by the labor performed and exchanged, hour for hour, *0* with other labors. Of course it became necessary to *“disconnect”* the compensation of the merchant from the price of the goods, because he might purchase and sell a hundred barrels of Hour in the same time that he could purchase and sell one barrel: and, if his compensation was charged on one barrel, he would be a hundred times paid in selling a hundred barrels; but by *sepnrating-“Individualiz- ing”*—the two elements, he would be just paid, and no more nor less than paid, whether he sold one pound or a thousand barrels.

A clock stood n·ady to measure the time employed in every transaction, which completely demolished all the chances of disputes about the compensation, *and made it for the interest* of the purchaser not to take up the time of the keeper in higgling about price or any thing else; for the more of this was done the farther the clock moved on, and the more time there was to pay for!

Then, as money does not represent any definite quantity of labor, and can not be made to do so (a dollar sometimes commanding twenty pounds of Hour, and sometimes double that quantity ), and all other supplies of our wants being subject to similar fluctuations while bought and sold for money, therefore money could not be made to work as the medium for the exchange of equivalents; and, as purchasers could not possibly foresee how much labor they would owe the storekeeper till after the purchase was completed, it was impossible to come provided with any article of labor that would exactly compensate him. At this point came in the *labor-note* proposed by Robert Owen, as a medium of exchange between different organized communities, but which had never been reduced to practice, and the form of which had not been practically digested. When the purchaser had received the goods, and paid the keeper for their cost, then he was to pay him for his labor in buying and selling them in an equal amount of his own labor, for which he gave his labornote; or he deposited some article of labor with the keeper, for which the keeper gave his own labor-note, for labor in merchandizing, and the purchaser afterward paid the keeper in his own notes till they were exhausted- these being divisible, like money, into any amounts, from one minute up to ten or a hundred hours.

{1} This has since been resolved into **tlw** *“Co.,I **Principle.”***

A *report of the derrwnd,* corrected every morning, or as often as the supply came in, showed at all times what articles would be received by the keeper for his labor, he being governed by his own wants or the known wants of others. A notice was put up in the store, of which the following is a copy:

<quote>
“NOTICE.

“Whatever arrangements may be made from time to time in this place, they will always be subject to alteration, or to be abolished, whenever circumstances or increasing knowledge may exhibit the necessity of change.”
</quote>

These were all the peculiar preparations that were made; the greatest peculiarity of all being that which was left unmade or what was left **UNDONE.** For instance, the avoiding very scrupulously all “constitutions,” all artificial machinery of “organization,” avoiding every thing that produced either direct or indirect *“combined interests,” or united Responsibilities; refraining from laying dotcn lows, rules, and regulations, assuming control over any interest but that of the store-keeper; avoiding all necessity for appointing governors, heads, etc.; or establishing rules or creeds, assuming control over individual iudgment and* **fl\EED°”** *of action. Slmnning all pledges, promises, and contracts that tcould not leave each individual at* LIBERTY *to clumge u:ith clwnging circumstances.* All this was done in simple regard to the great, ever-present, and uncontrollable instinct of **SELF-PHESEil- VATION,** which taught the kecpt’r that *the very first* step toward doing any good to others was to prove to them that he possessed no power to do them harm, and to **nm** *away* from power with as much alacrity as it had hitherto been pursued. Yet, notwithstanding the utmost pains had been taken to show that thert’ was no possibll’ chance for the keeper to take any advantage of the customer in any manner whatever, neither by the delegated power of office, nor by any of the operations in trade, such were the effects of all past attempts of this kind, especially on the very heels of our recent failure in New Harmony, that no one would listen, except through personal courtesy, to any proposition to co-operate in the design. Strangers denounced it as some new visionary Utopian scheme, or a new-fangled trick for speculation or swindling, and real friends begged the keeper not to pursue any longer the *ignis fatuus* of reform, but to turn round now, and look to his own interests to repair the damages of the Harmony defeats, and let others, if they chose, hear the burden of new experiments; and they offered to aid him in commencing a profitable business. But thl<sub>’</sub> experimenter saw that his advisers had not the least idea of what he intended, and, therefore, their opinions could haw no weight; but he went to a friend, and Pndeavored to induce him to come to the store and purchase an article or two, as the means of learning what the operation was to be; through courtesy he consented to come at a certain hour. The keeper was there in waiting, but he never camel He then went to a second friend, who also promisc•d to come at a certain hour, but he came not! He went to a third, who promised to come and try the experiment at a certain hour; the keeper was on the spot at that hour, but no friend came! Desperate with disappointment and chagrin, he went to a relation and said, “G., *you,* perhaps, will allow that I haw no design to swindle *you,* at least. If you will come and purchase a few articles for your family, and if you do not like the results, I will take the goods back, and give you your money. You know, of course, that you do not join any society, nor in any way compromise your frc!‘dom of person or property. You do not in any way bPcome responsible for my acts, nor, consequently, for my success or that of the experiment; you arc as much an individual in all things aftl’r the transaction as you arc now, and I can get nobody to try the first experiment.” G. promised to come and make a purchase. He did come, and purchased to the amount of about one dollar and fifty Cl’llts, and by exchanging his labor for that of the kc!‘pcr, sav!‘d about fifty Cl’llts, or the proceeds of about three hours of his labor by the equal cxchange of about fifteen minutes! and this in the purchase of coffee, sugar, writing-paper, and other articles of cornrnon necessity. II!’ was not desirous of giving hack the articles, but let the transaction stand, and the keeper held G.‘s labor-note for fiftel’n minutes’ labor on demand.

G. spok!’ of the transaction to P., who came immediately to the star!’, and l’xclainwd, “’.\ly God! what fools we were at Harmony! Why did we not sec such a simple thing as this? Herc, give me (such and such) articles.” He purchas!‘d about fiv!’ dollars’ worth of common neces- sari!‘s, and saved about a dollar and fifty c!‘nts in about twenty minutes! He W!‘nt away imm!‘diatcly, and report!‘d to a female acquaintance, who was supporting a sick husband with h!‘r needle. She came and purchased two artick•s of medicin!’, the common pricl’ of which would haw hem 62^ cents, but, upon this principle, the price was 17 cents, and she saved the proceeds of about ninc- t!‘en hours of her labor, and paid the h’ePl’r for his labor with ten minutes of her ncedle-work! Jlad th!’ keepcr received the common price for these two articles, amounting to only 62^ cents, his profit of ten minutes would have !‘nahled him to command a hundred and fourteen times as much of the labor of the woman as he gave her in return!

The information spread from the last purchaser to another, and from to others, so that on about the fifth day, a Mr. F., a very much respected member of the Methodist Episcopal Church, came in and said, “Sir, I am a stranger to you, but my neighbor, Mr. N., was trying last night to initiate me into your new mode of dealing, and I, without giving much thought to it, called it some new humbug; but when I went to bed, I could not sleep; there were some striking points about it, that the more I thought upon them, the more impossible it was for me to sleep, and I have not slept all night; and I came to ask you (if you can spare the time) if you will give an understanding of the enterprise?”

‘“Yes, sir, certainly, with pleasure; my great difficulty has been to get inquirers or listeners.” A kind of outline of the subject was then given, and the prices of various articles stated-

Mr. F.-“There! You need go no further; I see it-I see it all. I will send some corn-meal here. You must give me small labor-notes for it, and I will explain it to my friends. Good-by, till I see you again.” The corn-meal came, and the keeper paid for it all in five and ten minute notes, and from that time the customers increased rapidly, and it was not more than three months before there was a throng in the store that amounted almost to confusion. The storekeeper on the next corner came to the keeper and said, “I can sell nothing. I must either open a store like this or shut up. I wish you would tell me how to do it.”

“Certainly, sir;” and the next store-keeper opened a second *“Time Store”* (as the public called it), because of the clock measuring the time of the merchant. There was a constantly increasing rush of customers to both stores, and the retail trade all over the city began to be affected by it; and this is not surprising when the prices upon this principle are contrasted with the common prices in the ordinary way. Not that retailers of groceries, etc., always get extravagant profits in the long run, but the new arrangement gave rise to economics that are entirely unknown to and impossible in the ordinary way. A retailer may make twenty-five cents in one minute twice in a day, and sell twenty other articles so nearly their cost, that his inconw for the whole day, over and above rent, may not exceed a dollar, but he is employed, perhaps, not a quarter of his time; but being employed all his time at the same rate (the rent being no more), his income might amount to six dollars. The keeper of this place was employed *all* the time. Then, again, there was no higgling about price, none of that petty warfare and roundabout maneuvering between the seller and the buyer, that consumes so much time in the common way. It was all cntirc1y stopped by the simple principle of equivalents, which admits of no variation of price, when once set, and the keeper has no time to throw away in inveigling customers, nor setting traps, spreading nets, or any thing of the kind, therefore the time generally consumed in this way was saved and employed in selling. There was an account kept, always open to the inspection of the customers, in which they could sec all the items of expenditure and income of the establishment; where the items of rent, firewood, cartage, breakage, leakage, etc., were recorded, and where all the time spent by the keeper in the management was also recorded, and a regular per centage was added to the prime cost of articles to pay all these contingencies. If this per centage proved more than sufficient for these purposes, it was to be reduced, and if insufficient it was to be increased, but never without previous notice to that effect. The goods were exposed to view with the prices all marked, so that customers had only to examine and decide for themselves, without ever taking up any of the time’ of the keeper, as, according to the common practice, by which he is obliged to repeat the whole catalogue of answers, perhaps a hundred times a day. With these and other economies, growing out of the fact, that as much time as the customer took up of the keeper, *so mucli lie liad to 1my for,* enabled the keeper of that establishment to retail as many goods in an hour as are commonly retailed in a day or two, and all with the best possible feelings between both buyer and seller, growing out of the well-established fact that the whole was perfectly equitable toward both parties. The bills of all the purchases were carefully and promptly posted up before the eyes of all the customers, who, by this means, perceived that there was no departure from, no violations of, the professions and principles announced. A few notes, taken during the bustle of business, will show some of the practical bearings upon the minds and interests of the dealers better, perhaps, than any abstract description could:

June, 1827.-Mr. M. purchased-

Cost ... Common

price.... price.

1 quart brandy, ... **371’ ...** 62^

I pair men’s shoes, ... 90 ... $1 50

4 pounds mackerel, ... 16 ... **25**

4 oz. ess. lemon, ... 5 ... 25

$148if ... $2 ... 62«

148);

Gain, ... $1 ... 14

In this case the purchaser was a blacksmith. I have given the articles to show that they were of the most ordinary kind; yet in this simple operation of spending $1 48, he saved $1 14 in twenty minutes, which last he paid to the keeper in blacksmith’s work. The blacksmith in this simple operation saved nearly the whole proceeds of a day’s work. Had the articles been sold in the common way, the keeper would have obtained nine or ten hours of the work of the blacksmith for twenty minutes of his own, although the labor of the blacksmith is much more repugnant than that of store-keeping.

A widow with a family of children dependent on the proceeds of her needle, and who obtains about twenty-five cents a day, purchased a few of the common necessaries of life, paid the keeper in an hour of her labor, and saved $1 52, or the proceeds of six days of her labor! Had these articles been sold in the common way, the keeper could have obtained sixty or seventy times an equivalent for his labor from the widow!

Three instances have occurred this week in which the purchasers have saved one dollar in the equal exchange of about ten minutes! The article purchased was boots, the price of which in the common way would have been $3 50. The cost price, or *Equita/Jle* price, was $2 50. (Refer to Mr. S. N., who purchased a pair).

We arc now receiving the services of a very superior teacher for our children (Mr. E. E. ), who divides his time equally among them, each paying him eight hours per quarter for each child. The notes given out by the keepC’r of the store arc worth to the one who holds them, from about one to three dollars per hour. The high value of these to the teacher compl’llsating him for taking the notes of the needle-women and others, whose labor docs not now command equivalents-thus arc the falsely high brought down, and the falsely low raised up to Equilibrium.

*June* 12.-\1rs. G., a widow lady, purchased some common necessaries, and saved $1 13 in forty minute’s; remarked as she was going out, that “this is the work of Providence in favor of the oppressed.”

Mrs. S. saved, on seven common articles of clothing, $3 50, the whole amount of the bill being $5 31. Her saving in this case was about the proceeds of fourt<·cn days of needle-work! Had these articles been sold in the common way, the seller could have obtained fourteen whole days of the purchaser’s labor for the labor of handling and selling $5 31 worth of clothing, or about forty minutes of his labor!

16.-A young man, by the name of J. P., pmchased two yards of broadcloth for a coat, price per yard, $2 93; common price $5 00. Difference ( after deducting the time of the keeper ), $4 00! He said he was working at learning the carpenter’s trade, at $5 00 a month and his board; therefore, he saved the proceeds of twenty days’ labor in this simple transaction!

*Oct.* 1, 1827.-Upon balancing the contingent fund, *i. e.,* the per centage added to pay contingent expenses, against the amount of expenses incurred since the beginning, there arc 86 cents gain!

Four per cent. is the amount at this time added to prime cost to pay the contingences.

M. M. saved on two pairs of shoes and cotton, $1 44. Time, five minutes. The saving in this case was the proceeds of about one day’s lahor of the man, or six of that of his wife, or about seventy hours of the labor of his children!

In other words, the store-keeper, by selling these three simple articles in the common way, could have obtained om• hundred and twenty times an equivalent for his labor from the purchaser, or seven hundred and twenty times an equivalent from his wife, or about nine hundred times an equivalent in the labor of his children!

*Nov.* 10, 1827.-Mr. Samuel Hyde Saunders generously offers 1,500 acres of land in Logan County, or in some other situation that may br preferred, out of about 30,000 acres in different parts of the United States, to be used and occupied by any persons who desire to carry out these principles. How does this fact agn•c with the common remark, that “men arc */Jy nature* too sordid to cherish or promote such principles!”

Miss L. N. bought six yards batist at 14 cents per yard; the common price for the same article is .50 cents per yard. Also bought a shawl, price $1 50-common price, $2 25; three dozen buttons, 2.5 cents-common price, 37J> cents. In this case the young woman saved 82 99 by exchanging twenty minutes of her labor equitably for that of the store-kccp<·r! That is, she saved ti](’ proceeds of twelve whole days of females’ labor in an equitable exchange of twenty minutes!

Same day the same person retunwd and bought three more shawls, $4 54, and saved $1 40, or the price of about six days’ labor in five minutes! The prices of some of these articles appear to be incredibly low when contrasted with the common retail prices, but it is explained by their having been bought at public auction, and they were often sacrificed. But common store-keepers also purchasrd at auction as much as the keeper of the Equitable store.

Mrs. P. bought eight yards Levantine silk-whole cost, $4 SO-common price would have been at least $10 00. The purchaser obtained about 30 cents a day for her labor. She saved $5 20, or the proceeds of about scvmtccn whole days’ labor, by the equitable exchange of ten minutes!

Had this silk been sold in the common way, the srllcr would have received $5 20 for ten minutes of his labor, or ONE THOUSAND AND TWENTY TIMES AS MUCH AS THE PUR- CIIASEll IlECElVED FOR HERS!!

Mr. B. says, that “he just now, for the first time, begins to comprehend this principle; and that it is the most stupendous, most sublime, the most magnificent discovery that it is possible to conceive-that the results of these principles must be all that can be desired by human nahuc.”

I have just learned that Mrs. --, the wife of a speculator, says, I am the agent of the merchants down in town to sell off their old damaged goods. I am also told that a grocer said I was the agent of Mr. Owen, who had come here to undermine our Republic! These different views of the same facts, illustrate the *“Individuality”* of minds, and confirm the fundamental principle of the whole of the operations.

Great interest is exhibited toward raising a capital for the purpose of extending the store; but it does not comport with the original nor present design. This storekeeping is only one application of great universal principles, and it is not the wish or design to interfere too severely with one class of the community until we open the door to them in another direction. The store-keepers are only acting precisely upon the same principle as all other buy<·rs and sellers, and even all other classes-all *get whatever tliey can* for what they do; there are no regulating principles known to any class or party; the whole fabric of society has to be begun anew from the foundation. This requires .removal from cities as they arc now constituted, and the building up of new ones upon entirely new pecuniary principles. If we can not introduce some true, scientific, and regulating principles, and thereby change the general modes of action, I look for no permanent improvement in the social condition. The pecuniary principle in operation in this store, as far as buying and selling goods is concerned, is already as well tested (to my mind) as it could be by being conducted on ever so large a scale.

Mr. J. P. bought seven small articles (chiefly medicines ), cost 41 cents-the common price would have been $1 *03;* saved 67 cents in twenty-five minutes by the equal exchange of labor! in spending 41 cl’nts. Four strangers who stand by and witness the transaction, are astonished that they should so long have bPen “blind to till’ rights of property.” ...

It has often bem asked what will induce lawycrs, physicians, etc., to exchange equally with till’ now unpaid labor? Such is thc individuality of persons that they may have different motives for it, and a proper n·spcct for this teaches me to leave the explanation of their motives with each one for himself; but the *fact* is, that we can at any time have the Sl’rviccs of a lawyer upon this principle, whom we should prefer to all others that we know, on account of his long l’Xpcriencc and his unconquerable integrity; and I have on hand, at this moment, the labornotes of three physicians, promising their attmdancc on this principle, on demand, and two of them would be preferred to any others within our knowledgt’. for their superior integrity, experience, and general intelligence.

*March 30,* 1829.-1 am now proposing to wind up what is popularly denominated “The Time Store,” which I have kept in operation since the 18<sup>th</sup> of May, 1827, an interval of nearly two years, during which time I have had ample opportunities to satisfy mysdf, and a few othl’fs who can understand the design, of the practicability of the principles, so far, at least, as buying and sclling constitutes a part of the business of society. It now remains to carry out the principles into the other ramifications of social life, on a permanent location, where land can be had at a price that we can pay ...

The store was gradually wound up, and the keeper came out of it with just about the same amount of property with which he commenced it, having tested the principle, and cleared all he consumed while engaged in it, but nothing more; a large portion of the time having been occupied in answering questions, and giving explanations, which the just development of the principles rendered neccssary; but in villages where the subject had once become familiar, this expenditure of time would not be necessary. Let it be particularly observed here, that throughout all the ramifications of this business, it was rcgulatcd by entirely new *principles,* and that these principles *did regulate,* instead of the customary machinery of organization, constitutions, laws, rules, and rulers. No organized or artificial power of any description was Prccted *a/10ve tlie individual.* No votes of majorities were taken for any other purpose than as an economical mode of learning the wishes of others, but not to compel any one to conform to them any further than he or she chose to yield to the wishes of others. The vote of an unanimous meeting was not intended nor expected to rise above or assume control over the inclination of the individual-al! *necessity for such compulsion lwd been provided against* and avoided in the strict individuality of interests which enabled each to move in his own particular sphere, time, and mode, without involving the persons or interests of others. ‘Ve have, therefore, thus far demonstrated that *tlie erection of any potcer over the individual is unnecessary.*

*** Practical Applications of the Elementary Principles of “True Civilization”

The Third Village was commenced on Long Island, N. Y. in March, 1851; on the Long Island R. H. *40* miles from New York.

One man went on the ground alone, and built a little shanty, ten or twelve feet square. There was not, at that time, even a cow path in sight, among the scrub oaks that were every where breast high. In a few days two others joined him: they built the first house with funds supplied by a sympathizing friend.

The soil was so poor that it was generally considered worthless. Many attempts of capitalists to turn it to account had failed: but a few persons were very anxious to try the new principles and thought that the soil might answer for gardens, while Mechanism might furnish the principal employments.

There was nothing on the land to make lumber of, and even the winter fud ( coal ) had to be brought from thl’ city. Even with these drawbacks, houses seemed to go up, as they did in the other village, without means: and those who never had homes of their own before suddenly had them.

We were going on very pleasantly without notoriety; but one of the most active pioneers published an article in the “Tribune” relative to the movement at “Modern Times” (as the village had been named ). Tlw effect was, a rush of people, ignorant of the principles upon which the enterprize was projected: among these were some that were full of “crotchets”!--cach one seeming to think that the salvation of the world depended on his displaying his particular hobby. One regular impostor travelled over the Island announcing *himself* as the founder of the village; and he put forth such crude theories, especially with regard to Marriagl’, that his audiences were disgusted, not only with him, but with what they supposed the village to be; and some very good neighbors who had kindly wdcomcd us to the neighborhood shut their doors in the facl’ of one who was offering tlwm hand bills to countl’ract the blasting inffuence of this lying impostor!

Anotlll’r favorite crotchet of his was that childrm ought to be brought up without clothing! and he inffietcd some crazy experiments on his children in the coldest weather! A woman, too, got this notion, and kept her infant naked in the midst of winter! With all his genius and noble efforts, Lord Bacon has not entirely secured us against the delusions of mere fancit·s, instead of building our theories upon experience!

A German who was wholly or partly blind, paraded himself nakt·d in the streets, with the theory that it would help his sight! He was stopped by an appeal to the over seer of the Insane Asylum.

He could see well enough to take a neighbor’s coat from a fence where the owner of it had been at work. This gave the neighbors an idea that we were a nest of thieves as well as fanatics. To counteract this, hand bills were printed and circulated describing the person, and advising the neighbors who might miss any thing to come to that village and look for it in his premisl’s. This placed the rPsponsibility upon *him, Individually,* when’ it belonged, and put an md to his pilfering.

One woman took a notion to parade the streets in men’s clothing-having a bad form, the clothes a bad fit and of the worst possible color and texture, she cut such a hideous figure, that wonwn shut down their windows and men averted thl’ir heads as she passed; yet it was very easy for the s!‘llsation nl’ws paper reportl’rs to say that “the *Women* of ‘Modern Times’ wore men’s clothes and looked hideously enough”!

I can believe thl’ woman dressed in this manner, for the purpose of breaking in upon the tyranny of fashions; and to vindicate the right to dress as she pleased: but there was no need of any vindication where her absolute *Sovereignty* in all things ( within her own sphere) was already admitted-It seemed not to have occurred to her that this sanw right of Sovereignty in other people should secure them against being unnecessarily disgusted and offended: hut, it is nothing new, especially with reformers, to “lose our manners in learning our philosophy.”

It seemed not to have occurred to the woman in men’s clothes that the influence of Woman is one of the greatest civilizing powers we have; and we need to know when we are in their presence.

It had gone abroad that “the Women of Modern Times wear men’s clothes” and those who were disgusted at the imputation had no means of defending themselves against it. This *Communistic* reputation is the most formidable obstacle to peace and progress that the world has to overcome. All the inhabitants of a village, or a nation, all the members of a party, a sect or a family, arc involved by it, in the acts or words of every or any member, sane or insane; on the horrid principle of the old Japanese law that condemned a whole family to death, when any member of it had offended. There is no escape from this monstrosity, till the public generally can he taught something about the great, preservative fact that we are INDIVIDUALS: and that no one should be made responsible for the act or word of another, without his or her known consent.

There must be FllEEDOM **TO** DIFFEll before there can be peace or progress; and this freedom can come only by *Placing Responsibility where it /1elongs.*

The world needs new experiences and it is suicidal to set ourselves against experimmts, however absurd they may appear: and we can afford to tolerate them if we are not too closely mixed up with them. Some people can learn nothing from the experience of others; they must have the measles, the whooping cough and the small pox for themselves, before they can be secured against them. All we can demand of them is that they do not endanger the health of others.

A young woman of the village had the diet mania to such a degree that she was said to live almost wholly on beans without salt. She tottered about a living skeleton for about a year, and then sank down and died (if we can say there was enough of her left to die ). Though her Brother also had the diet theory dangerously, he had the candor to acknowledge at her funeral that he believed the poor girl had died in consequence of thl’Oretical speculations about diet.

The next report was *“those Jleople* there, arc killing themselves with fanatical theories about their food.”

*Another trial.* A man came there with three young women to live with as wives in the same house: and they started a paper to vindicate themselves, full of sickly, silly, maudlin sentimentality that perfectly disgusted the surrounding neighborhood so that even the name of the place was something like an emetic. But, the settlers, faithful to the great sacred right of Freedom even to do silly things, and knowing that opportunity to get experience would work the best cure, they were suffered to go on entirely undisturbed, though the effects of their conduct were disturbing every other settler in the village.

They seemed to be totally ignorant of the fact that no four people, nor even any two people, can govern one house or drive om· horse at the same time-that nature demands and will have an *Individual* deciding power in every sphere, whether that government is a person, an idea or anything else, it must be an *Individuality* or all will be confusion. Three months trial taught them this inevitable lesson; but the effects towards the place were much more enduring.

These are a frw of the trials to which such enterprises arc always exposed, and that keep people of culture and sensibility from taking any part in them unless they arc impelled by motives that arc irresistible.

It is impossible, and perhaps unnecessary, to give an account of all the obstacles that beset the village: but I will give one more. There was a man (I suppose we must call him) came there-planted himself in our midst — publicly slandered and abused the most active friends of the movement, apparently with a view to discourage them. He deliberately wrote the most unqualified falsehoods, and sent them to England where the subject was beginning to get respectful attention from men of inAu — ence. He actually made a particular point of saying and doing those very things that he afterwards caused to be published as a disgrace to the place, and which had the effect to disgust friends abroad and tum their eyes away from us; just as the enemies of Liberty did in the French Revolution: they mixed in with the crowd and urged on and committed such monstrous crimes that the world recoiled in disgust and horror at the idea of revolutions and even of Liberty itself.

Another case. A man (a preacher) of some inAuencc came there to investigate and returned to Cincinnati and delivered a public discourse from the pulpit, which was afterwards published in the Cincinnati “Gazette” under the heading of “Bohemianism.” Of twenty-six statements made, twenty-6ve were wholly or partly false and one was equivocal. The Citizens felt outraged-A letter was sent to him and he promised to rectify his stupid statements, but he never did.

With such infernal clements as these to contend with, is it not a wonder that there is any village at all left? Yet, there is a very pretty one, and it is improving faster than any other in the neighborhood. Where many capitalists have lost all their investments in attempting to turn the soil to account, a few industrious individuals with nothing but their hands and their good sense have made themselves homes and business. Where there was not even a cow path at the beginning, there is now an avenue straight as a line, a hundred feet wide, nearly a mile long, and other avenues and streets crossing each other at right-angles. There is a Hail Hoad station and a post office tlwre, and an excellent road six miles long, running out into the country in one direction and extending to the South Bay in the other, and running right through the town. The name of the place is changed and the annoyance from that source is at an end.

One of the most common remarks of the citizl’ns was that the village was “the greatest school they ever knew or heard of.”

But, it is not only what they have got, but what they have *not got* that constitute the gains of the residents. They have no quarrels about what is called “religion.” No demand for jails-No grog shops, No houses of prostitution. No fighting about politics-No man there has dashed his wife’s brains out with an axe, nor cut her throat, nor murdered her in any other way. No wife there has poisoned her husband-No starving Child has been torn from its home there, and sent to prison for “unlawfully” taking “a penny’s worth of potatoes.” No poor, suffering Girl nor Woman has been persecuted to death there, for that misfortune which is, of itself, too grievous to be borne-No man or Woman has murdered another from rivalry, jealousy, or any other cause.

The• Gardens and Strawberry beds arc mostly without feneeS, yet no one ( */Jelonging to the village)* is seen in them without the owners’ consent. Few if any doors are locked at night, and the fear of robbers and *fire* probably disturbs no one’s sleep.

“We have heard,” says an enquirer, “that the movement was a failure, and that the principles were abandoned by all the inhabitants.” *(Second speaker)* Yes, so have I heard the same-I heard one of the most devoted friends of the movement propose to make a public announcement to that effect, to protect themselves against the annoyances of too much public notoriety. He was not afraid that the laws of nature would fail, whatever might be said of them.

*Individuality* is the great prevailing fad i11 all p<·rsons and things; this never fails-any denial of this only illustraks it. *Self-Sovereignty* is a form of expressing our natural promptings to have our own way. This, also, is illustrated by all that is said, for or against it; it is a universal propensity-a Natural, Primitive, Divine *law.* The *Cost* principle is intended to express the idea that it is the *Sacrifices* or trouble incurred in the performance of a piece of service that should measure its price: this is derived from our instinctive aversion to that which is painful-another natural *law. Adapting supplies to our de71 nds or wants* is what we all aim at in every move we make: whether we succeed or not; no one ever ..abandons” the dt’sire to have what he wants. This is a natural *laic* that there is no escape from, and that never “fails.” Thc *Equita/Jle Money* is the only human contrivann• in the five Elementary Principles of the movement: the four others are not the work of man, but arc natural phenomena, every wherl’, and at all tinws around and within us, whether recognised or not; like the process of hreathing, like the digestion of food or like the circulation of the blood, they are eonstantly acting, whether wc will or no, either with or against our surroundings; and to talk of “abandoning” them, is like an attempt to run away from one’s legs: it is an effort to do as they want to, and which brings their right of *Self-Sovereignty* into more active operation.

No body talks of the principles of Arithmetic having failed: if results disappoint thc operator, he attributes it to some mistake of his own; because he knows that Arithmetical laws never fail. The blunder of our critic is in not knowing that our enterprise is not based on human inventions, but on Natural Laws, that are as old as the creation; and yet so new to most people’s comprehension that the whole subject appears to them at first like a dream.

*** The Unknown Revolution

**Voline: Nestor Mokhno ond Anarchism in the Russian Revolution**

The Makhno movement in the Ukraine, though not as well known as the activities of the anarchists in the Spanish Civil War, was one of the two nationwide efforts ever made to implement anarchism. In the Ukraine, as in Spain two decades later, the anarchist experiment took place in conditions of political chaos and civil strife and proved unable to endure.

The leader of the movement, Nestor Makhno, was a perfect incarnation of Bakunin’s bandit. He was adored by the peasants as a Robin Hood figure, a familiar image in other backward peasant societies such as southern Italy and Spain. But Makhno was unusual in that he was motivated not only by peasant traditions and instincts but by conscious anarchist ideas, and for this reason he merits a place in the annals of anarchism. He was born in 1889 of Ukrainian peasant stock. During the 1905 Revolution in Russia he was arrested for participation in radical activities and spent the next nine years in a Moscow prison. There he came under the influence of a fellow prisoner and anarchist, Peter Arshinov, who had a considerable impact on his intellectual development. Upon his release in 1917 Makhno returned to his native district and organized a peasant partisan army. Under the black flag of anarchy, Makhno’s partisans battled the various forces seeking control of the Ukraine in the civil war that followed the Bolshevik seizure of power: first the Germans and Austrians who had occupied the region during the world war, then the Whites, and finally the Bolsheviks themselves. Unable to hold out against the superior forces of the latter, Makhno eventually fled to Romania. He died in Paris in 1934.

The pages that follow describe the efforts of Makhno and his adherents to reorganize the areas under their control along anarchist lines, efforts that were necessarily sporadic and restricted. Military considerations overrode all others, and these often clashed with libertarian principles. The Makhnovists attracted a number of anarchist intellectuals, such as Voline, to their camp, but Makhno himself and his chief aides were rough- and-ready warriors rather than social planners; they were brilliant practitioners of guerrilla warfare but not well equipped to deal with long-range problems of political and social reorganization, even if circumstances had allowed. Most important, this was primarily a peasant movement- despite Voline’s optimistic appraisal, the Makhnovists’ efforts in the towns were not very successful -and the fundamental desire of the peasants was less the creation of an anarchist utopia than the expulsion of all the outside forces that exploited them and disrupted their traditional way of life. Their commitment to specifically anarchist ideals, therefore, was at best limited. Nevertheless, many anarchist principles were quite compatible with traditional peasant aspirations and would not have been unacceptable to them. The Makhno movement thus stands as a serious and revealing practical test of anarchist theory.

Voline was the pen name of Vsevolod Eichenbaum. His account of the anarchists’ activities in the Russian Revolution and civil war was first published in French as La *Revolution inconnue.* An abridged translation of this work has appeared in two volumes published by the Libertarian Book Club: *Nineteen-Seventeen: The Russian Revolution Betrayed* (New York, 1954), and *The Unknown Revolution (Kronstadt* 1921, *Ukraine* 1918–21) (New York, 1955), both translated by Holley Cantine. The passages here are from the latter and comprise pages 66–93, 105–9, 157–71, 174–76. The spelling of Russian names has been slightly amended. Peter Arshinov’s history of the Makhno movement, from which Voline quotes extensively, was published in Russian in 1923, in Berlin. Makhno himself wrote a three-volume account in Russian of his activities, but it goes only through 1916. A good brief history of the movement is contained in David Footman’s *Civil* War *in Russia* (London, 1961).

At the tinll’ of the occupation of the Ukraine by the Austro-Germans, a secret revolutionary committee came into immediate existence, and gave Makhno the task of creating fighting units of peasants and workers to struggle against till’ invaders and the native rull’rs.

“He did what he could,” Arshinov records, “but was forced to rl’treat with his partisans from the cities of Taganrog, Hostov and. Tsaritsyn, fighting every step of the way. The local bourgeoisie, who had been strengtlwned by the military support of the Austro-Cermans, put a price on his head, and he had to hide for sonll’ time. In revenge, the Ukrainian and German military author- itieS burned his mother’s house and shot his cider brother Emclian, who was a crippled war veteran.

“In Jun<\ 1918, Makhno went to Moscow to consult several old Anarchist militants on methods and directions to follow in his revolutionary libertarian work among the peasants of the Ukraine. But the Anarchists whom he met were at this time indecisive and passive in their attitude,{1} and he obtained no satisfactory suggestions or advice.”<sup>.453</sup>

It is worth mentioning that during his br<cf stay in Moscow ^lakhno had a conversation with the old Anarchist theoretician, Peter Kropotkin, and another with Lenin. He gave a detailed account of them-especially of his conversation with Lenin-in his memoirs. He said that he greatly appreciated certain of Kropotkin’s suggestions. As for his interview with Lenin, it dealt with four points, namely: the mentality of the Ukrainian peasants, the immediate prospects for the country, the necessity for the Bolsheviks of creating a regular army (the Hed Army), and the discord between the Bolsheviks and the Anarchists. The conversation, while of some interest, was too short and superficial to have any real importanee. We should mention that the Bolsheviks gave Makhno a certain amount of help in the precautions he took in crossing the Ukrainian frontier and getting home with the least possible risk.

Makhno considered the peasant mass to be a particularly potent historical force. “For a long time,” continues Arshinov, “he considered the idea of how to organise the vast peasant masses, in order to bring out the revolu- tionaiy energy that had been accumulated in them for centuries and to hurl this formidable power against the existing regime of oppression. He felt that the moment had arrived to put this idea into execution.”

Therefore, after a brief stay in Moscow, he returned to the Ukraine in July, 1918, seeking to get back to his own Guliai-Polie region.

“The trip was accomplished,” says Arshinov, “with great difficulty, and very secretly, so as not to fall into the hands of the Hetman’s authorities. Once Makhno was almost killed; he was arrested by an Austro-German detachment and was unfortunately carrying libertarian pamphlets at the time. A rich Jew from Guliai-Polie, who had known Makhno personally for a long time, succeeded in saving him by paying a considerable sum of money for his liberation.

{1} This was right after the hrutal repression [of the Anarchists] in April, 1918. In his conversation with Makhno, Lenin made a brief reference to this event, pretending that lhe Moscow Anarchists “were harbouring bandil.; from all over the place”. Makhno asked Lenin if he had definite proof. After an evasive reply by Lenin-he invoked the competence of the Cheka-the conversation was broken off by the introduction of another subject by a Bolshevik [who was present]. Tims Makhno ne\‘er got the matter cleared up.

“On his way back, the Communists proposed to Makhno that he should select a certain region of the Ukraine and carry on secret revolutionary work there in their name. Naturally, be refused even to discuss this offer; the tasks he had set himself to accomplish had nothing in common with that of the Bolsheviks.”

Back in Guliai-Polie, Makhno came to the decision to die or obtain victory for the peasants, and in no event to leave the region. The news of his return spread rapidly from village to village. He did not delay starting his mission openly among the great masses of peasants, speaking at improvised meetings, writing and distributing letters and tracts. By pen and mouth, he called on the peasants for a decisive struggle against the power of Skoropadsky and the landlords. He declared tirelessly that the workers should now take their fates into their own hands and not let their freedom to act be taken from them. His stirring appeal was heard, in a few weeks, by many villages and whole districts, preparing the masses for the great events of the future.

Besides his appeals, Makhno proceeded immediately to direct action. His first concern was to form a revolutionary military unit, sufficiently strong to guarantee freedom of propaganda and action in the villages and towns and at the same time to begin guerilla operations. This unit was quickly organised, for among the villages there were marvellously combative clements, ready for action. They only lacked a good organiser. Makhno was the man.

His first unit undertook two urgent tasks, namely, pursuing energetically the work of propaganda and organisation among the peasants and carrying on a stubborn armed struggle against all their enemies. The guiding principle of this merciless struggle was as follows. No lord who persecuted the peasants, no policeman of the Hetman, no Russian or German officer who was an implacable enemy of the peasants, deserved any pity; he must be destroyed. All who participated in the oppression of the poor peasants and workers, all who sought to suppress their rights, to exploit their labour, should be executed.

Within two or three weeks, the unit had already become the terror, not only of the local bourgeoisie, hut also of the Austro-German authorities. \1akhno’s fidd of revolutionary military action was wid,^, it extended from Lozovaia to Berdiansk, Mariupol and Taganrog, and from Lugansk to Ekaterinoslav, Alexandrovsk and Melitopol.

Rapidity of movement was his special tactic. Thanks to it and also to the size of the region, he could always appear suddenly where he was least expected. In a short time he enveloped within a circle of iron and fire the whole region in which the local bourgeoisie were re-establishing their power. All those who, during the past two or three months, had succeeded in settling back into their old estates, all those who enslaved the peasants, stole their lands and enjoyed the fruits of their labour, all those who ruled over them as masters, found themselves suddenly under the merciless hand of Makhno and his partisans.

Swift as the wind, intrepid, pitiless towards their enemies, they fell thunderously on some estale, massacred all the swom enemies of the peasants and disappeared as rapidly as they had come. The next day, Makhno would be more than *100* kilometres away, would appear in some town, massacre the “national guard” ( *varta*), officers and noblemen, and vanish before the German troops (despite the fact that they were all prcpared for him ) had time to realise what had happened. The next day he would be 100 kilometres away, taking action against a detachment of Hungarians who were taking reprisals, or hanging some guards of the *varta.*

Both the *varta* and the Austro-German authorities were alarmed (by Makhno’s activities], and several units were sent to capture him. It was in vain. Excellent horsemen since childhood, his partisans could not be caught, for in a day they could cover distances that were impossible for regular cavalry.

Often, as though to mock his enemies, Makhno would suddenly appear in the very centre of Guliai-Polie, or in Polugai, where many Austro-German troops were always stationed, or in some other place where troops were concentrated, killing the officers who fell into his hands and escaping, safe and sound and without leaving the slightest indication of the route he was taking. Or else, when it seemed to his pursuers that they had at last found a fresh trail, when they were expecting to overtake and capture him in a town that had been pointed out to them by some peasant, he himself, in the uniform of the varta, would penetrate, along with a small number of his partisans, into the very midst of the enemy, learning their plans and preparations. Then he would set out with a detachment of the guard “in pursuit of Makhno”, and would exterminate them on the way.

The whole peasant population gave the partisans devoted, active and skilful support. Everywhere along their routes they were sure of finding, whenever they needed it, a safe lodging, food, horses, even arms. Often the peasants would hide them in their homes at the risk of their own lives. Many times, the inhabitants of some village put the pursuing troops on to a false trail, while Makhno himself and his horsemen were right in the village, or were going in the opposite direction to that which had been pointed out to the pursuers.

Many villages were pitilessly punished for their attitude towards the insurgents, all the men being atrociously beaten with ramrods and some of the more strongly suspcckd peasants being shot on the spot. Some villages were even burned down in revenge. But nothing could reduce the fierce resistance of the working people to the invaders and their agents, the landed nobility and the counter-revolutionaries.

The partisans held to the following general rule in regard to the Austrian, German and Hungarian troops they encountered: they would kill the officers and set the captured soldiers fret{1}. They would suggest that the latter should return to their own countries, tell what the Ukrainian peasants were doing, and work for the Social Hevo- lution. Libertarian literature and sometimes money were distributed among them. Only soldiers known to have been guilty of acts of violenc_e•_ against the peasants were executed. This way of treating the captun•d Austrian, German and Hungarian soldiers bad a certain revolutionary Influence upon them.

During this first period of his insurrectionary activity, Makhno was not only the organiser and gnidc of the peasants, but also a redoubtable avenger of the oppressed people. [Through his initiative] hundreds of nests of the nobility were destroyed, thousands of oppressors and active enemies of the people were mercilessly wiped out.

His bold and resolute method of acting, the rapidity of bis appearances and disappearances, the precision of his blows and the manifest impossibility of capturing him, dead or alive, soon made his namC’ famous in the region. It was a name that made the bourgeoisie and the authorities tremble with terror and hatred. On the other hand, among the working people, it gave rise to fcl’lings of deep satisfaction, pride and hope. To them, Makbno bad already become a legendary figure.

And in Makhno’s character and his actions tht’re were in fact qualities worthy of legend: his extraordinary boldness, his stubborn will, his resourcefulness in all circumstances and, finally, the delightful humour that frequently accompanied his actions-all tlll’se qualities impn•ssed the people.

But these were 11ot all thl<sub>’</sub> i111porti.l11l qualili_c_•s in Makhno’s personality. The warlike spirit that was shown in his insurrcctionary undertakings of this early period of his activity, was only the first manifestation of an enormous talent as a warrior and organiser, only lakr revealC’d in its full scope. Not merely a rcmarkable military guid<· and organiser, but also a good agitator, \fakhno constantly increased the number of meetings that took place in the region where he operated. He made reports on the tasks of the moment, on the Social Revolution, on the frpe and independent communal life for the workers that was the final goal of the insurrection. He also published pamphlets to this effect, as well as appeals to the peasants and workers, the Austrian and German soldiers, the Don and Kuban cossacks, etc.

“Conquer or die-such is the dilemma which faces the Ukrainian peasants and workers at this historic moment. But we cannot all die, for we are innumerable-we are mankind! Thcrefon• we will conquer ...But we will not conquer in order to repeat the errors of the past years, that of putting our fate into the hands of new masters. We will conquer in order to take our destinies into our own hands, to conduct our lives according to our own will and our own conception of the truth.” Thus, in the words of one of his first appeals, Makhno spoke to the vast masses of the Russian peasants.

**** II

The Makhnovist peasants took advantage of the freedom and relative peacefulness of their region-which unfortunatdy was of shmt duration-to accomplish certain positive tasks.

For some six months, from December 1918 to June 1919, the peasants of Guliai-Polie lived without any political power. Not only did they not break the social bonds between them, but, quite to the contrary, they created new forms of social organisation: frpc workers’ communes and Soviets.

Latl’r on, the Makhnovists formulated their social ideas -and particularly their cont’l•ption of the Soviets-in a pamphlet entitled “General Tlll’ses of the Revolutionary Insurgents ( Makhnovists) concerning the Free Workers’ Soviet.” According to the insurgents, the Soviets should be absolutely independent of all political parties; they should be part of a gc1ll’ral economic system based on social equality, their members should be real workers, should serve the interests of the working masses and obey only their will, and their initiators should not exercise any power.

As for the communes, in several places attempts were made to organise social life on a communal, just and equalitarian basis, and the very peasants who showed themselves hostile to the official communes [of the Bolsheviks] proceeded enthusiastically to set up free communes.

The first commune, called “Rosa Luremburg”, was organised near the town of Prokovskoie. At first it only contained a few dozen members, but later the number exceeded three hundred. This commune was created by the poorest peasants of the locality. In consecrating it to the memory of Rosa Luxemburg, they gave witness to their impartiality and nobility of sentiment. They had known for some time that Rosa Luxemburg was a martyr of the revolutionary struggle in Germany. The basic principles of the commune did not correspond at all to the doctrines for which Rosa Luxemburg had struggled. But the peasants justly wanted to honour a victim of the social struggle. This commune was based on the non-authoritar- ian principle. It accomplished very good results and ultimately exercised a great inffuence over the peasants of the neighbourhood.{1}

Seven kilometres from Guliai-Polie another commune was established, which was simply called “Commune No. l of the Guliai-Polie Peasants.” It was also the work of poor peasants. Twenty kilometres away were communes Nos. 2 and 3. There were also some in other places.

All these communes were created freely, by a spontaneous impulse of the peasants themselves, with the help of a few good organisers, for the purpose of providing the necessities of life for the working people. They had no resemblance to the artificial and so-called “exemplary communes” which were run very inefficiently by the Communist authorities, where there were usually assembled ill-assorted elements, who had been gathered together at random, and were incapable of doing serious work. These so-called “communes” of the Bolsheviks did nothing but waste grain and ruin the land. Subsidised by the State, that is by the government, they lived off the labour of the people while pretending to teach them to work.

{1} It was destroyed on June 9 and 10, 1919, by the Bolsheviks during their general campaign against the Makhnovist region.

The communes [at Guliai-Polic] with which we arc here concerned were real working: communes. They gathered authentic peasants, accustomed from infancy to hard work. They were based on real material mutual aid and on the principle of equality. Everyone-men, women and children-had to work, each to the extent of his ability. The organising functions were confided to comrades who could fulfil them adequately. Their task accomplished, these comrades rejoined the common work side by side with the other members of the commune. These, sound, serious principles were due to the fact that the communes arose from the workers themselves and their development followed a natural course.

The Makhnovist partisans never exerted any pressure on the peasants, confining themselves to propagating the idea of free communes. The latter were formed on the initiative of the poor peasants thl’mselvcs.

It is interesting and significant to observe that the ideas and activities of the Makhnovist peasants were similar in all respects to those of the Kronstadt rebels in 1921. This proves that when the labouring masses have the opportunity of thinking, seeking and acting freely, they gradually find the same course, whatever the place, the surroundings, or even-we might acid-the time, as one can see by examining previous revolutions. Independent of all other reasoning, this should lead us to believe that, on the whole, this course is the *rig/it, ;ust and true course for tlie tcorkers.* To be sure, for many reasons, the labouring masses have up to the present never been able to keep to this course. But the possibility of not abandoning it, or following it to the end, is only a question of time and development.

The constructive activity of the peasants was not confined to these experiments in free communism. Task.{1} that were much vaster and more important were not slow in presenting themselves. It was necessary to find a common practical solution for various problems which concerned the whole region, and for this it was indispensable to establish general institutions, first embracing a district, later a department, and finally the whole region.

The peasants did not fail. They had recourse to periodic congresses of peasants, workers and partisans. During the period that the region remained free, there were three such regional congresses. They permitted the peasants to strengthen their contacts, to orient themselves more certainly in the complex circumstances of the moment, and to determine clearly the economic, social and other tasks that had to be done.

The First Regional Congress took place on January 23<sup>rd</sup>, 1919, in the town of Greater Mikhailovka. It was primarily concerned with the danger of the reactionary movements of Petliura and Denikin. The Petliurists were in the process of reorganizing their forces in the west of the country for a new offensive. As for Denikin, his preparations for civil war disturbed the peasants and partisans still more. The congress formulated measures for resistance to the two forces. Moreover, patrol action, increasingly important, was already occurring nearly every day on the southeastern border of the region.

The Second Congress met three weeks later, on February 12, 1919, at Guliai-Polie. Unfortunately, the imminent danger of an offensive by Denikin against the free region prevented the congress from devoting itself to the problems, however important, of peaceful construction. The sessions were entirely occupied by questions of defence ·and lighting against the new invaders.

The insurrectionary army of the *Maklmovtsy* numbered at this moment around 20,00 volunteer fighters. But many of them were worn out by fatigue, having had to fight incessantly on the frontier against Denikin’s advance guard and other attempts at penetration. Moreover, Denikin’s troops were rapidly growing stronger.

After long and passionate debates, the congress resolved to call all the inhabitants of the region to a *general voluntary and equalitarian mobilisation.* By “voluntary mobilisation” it meant that while this appeal, sanctioned by the moral authority of the congress, emphasised the need for fresh troops in the insurrectionary army, no one was compelled to enlist: the appeal was directed to everyone’s conscience and good will. By “equalitarian mobilisation” it meant that in filling out the army, attention would be given to the personal situation of each volunteer, so that the weight of the mobilisation would be distributed and supported by the population as equally and justly as possible.

As a kind of general directing body for the fight against Petliura and Denikin, to maintain and support, during the fighting, the economic and social relations among the workers themselves and also between them and the partisans, to take care of the needs for information and control, finally to put into practice the various measures which were adopted by the congress and which might be taken up by succeeding conferences, this Second Congress established a regional Revolutionary Military Council (Soviet) of peasants, workers and partisans.

This council embraced the whole free region. It was supposed to carry out all the economic, political, social and military decisions made at the congress. It was thus, in a certain sense, the supreme executive of the whole movement. *But it 1cas not at all an authoritarian organ.* Only strictly executive functions were assigned to it. It confined itself to carrying out the instructions and decisions of the congress. At any moment, it could be dissolved by the congress and cease to exist.

Once the resolutions of this Second Congress were made known to the peasants of the region, each new town and village began to send to Guliai-Polie, *en masse,* new volunteers desiring to go to the front against Denikin. The number of these new fighters was enormous and surpassed all expectations. If it had been possible to arm and train all of them, the tragic events which followed would never have occurred. Moreover, the whole Russian Revolution might have been switched to a new course. The “miracle” which the libertarians had hoped for might have happened.

Unfortunately, arms were scarce in the region. That is why they did not succeed in forming new detachments at the opportune moment. They had to turn away ninety per cent. of the volunteers who came to enlist. This had unavoidable consequences for the region during Denikin’s general offensive in June 1919.

**** III

The permanent armed struggle, the life of a “kingdom on wheels” which denied the population of the Makhnovist region any kind of stability, also denied them, inevitably, the possibility of extensive positive and constructive activity. Nevertheless, whenever it was possible, the movement gave evidence of great organic vitality and the working masses demonstrated a remarkable creative will and capacity.

Let us give a few examples. We have spoken, more than once, of the Makhnovist press. Despite the various obstacles and difficulties of the time, the Makhnovists, who remained in direct contact with the Anarchist “Nabat” Federation, continued to publish leaflets, newspapers, etc. They even found time to produce a sizeable booklet, under the title *General Theses of t/1e Revolutionary (Makhnovist) Insurgents Concerning tlie Free Soviets.*

The newspaper *Road to Freedom* which sometimes appeared daily and sometimes weekly, was primarily devoted to the popular and concrete exposition of libertarian ideas. *Na/Jat,* concerned more with theory and doctrine, appeared every week. We should also mention *The Maklmovist Voice,* a newspaper which dealt primarily with the interests, problems and tasks of the Makhnovist movement and its army.

As for *General Theses,* this pamphlet summarised the Makhnovist’s views on the burning problems of the hour: the economic organisation of the region and the free Soviets; the social basis of the society that was to be built, the problem of defence, the exercise of justice, etc.

A question frequently asked is: How did the Makhnovists behave in the cities and towns that they took in the course of the struggle? In what way did they organise the civil population? In what way did they organise the life of the conquered cities, i.e. administration, production, trade, municipal services, etc.?

Since a great many myths and slanders have circulated on this subject, it is necessary to expose them and establish the truth. And since I was with the Makhnovist army at the very time when, after the battle of Peregonovka, they took several important cities, such as Alexandrovsk, Ekaterinoslav and others, I can give the reader a 6rst- hand and accurate account.

The 6rst concern of the Makhnovists, as soon as they entered some city as conquerors, was to remove the dangerous misunderstanding that they were a new power, a new political party, a kind of dictatorship. They immediately posted on the walls large notices in which they said approximately the following to the population:

“To all the workers of the city and its environs!

“Workers, your city is for the present occupied by the Revolutionary Insurrectionary ( Makhnovist) Army. This army does not serve any political party, any power, any dictatorship. On the contrary, it seeks to free the region of all political power, of all dictatorship. It strives to protect the freedom of action, the free life of the workers, against all exploitation and domination.

“The Makhnovist Army does not therefore represent any authority. It will not subject anyone to any obligation whatsoever. Its role is confined to defending the freedom of the workers. The freedom of the peasants and the workers belongs to themselves, and should not suffer any restriction.

“It is up to the workers and peasants themselves to act, to organise themselves, to reach mutual understanding in all fields of their lives, in so far as they desire it, and in whatever way they may think right.

“They must, therefore, know right away, that the Makhnovist Army will not impose on them, will not dictate to them, will not order them to do anything. The Makhnovists can only help them, by giving them opinions or advice, by putting at their disposal the intellectual, military and other forces that they need. But they cannot, and, in any case, will not Aovern them or presnibe for them in any way.” 0

Nearly always these notices ended with an invitation to the working population of the city and its environs to attend a big meeting where the Makhnovist comrades would set forth their views in a more detailed manner, and give, if necessary, some practical advice for beginning to organise the life of the region on a basis of freedom and economic equality, without authority and without the exploitation of man by man.

When, for some reason, such an invitation could not appear on the same notice, it was made a little later, by means of a small special notice.

Usually, although at first a little surprised by this absolutely new way of acting, the population quickly got used to the situation, and set about the task of free organisation with great enthusiasm and success.

It goes without saying that in the meantime, reassured about the attitude of the “military force”, the city simply resumed its normal appearance and its usual way of life; the shops reopened, work started again where it was possible, the various administrations resumed their functions, the markets were held. Thus, in an atmosphere of peace and freedom, the workers prepared for positive activity to replace the old worn-out system in a methodieal manner.

In each liberated region, the Makhnovists were the only organisation with enough forces to be able to impose their will on the enemy. But they never used these forces for the purpose of domination or even for any political influence. They never used them against their purdy political or ideological opponents. The military opponents,

a In certain cities the Makhnovists appointed a “commander”; his function consisted only of serving as a rnnlad man lwlwC’en the troops and the population, to take certain measures dictated by military necessity, which mij!’.ht have certain rC’percussions on the life of the inhabitants, and which the military (”(Jmmand fdt it opportune to take. These commanclC’rs hnd no authority over the population and did not interfere in any way with tl^cir dvil life.

the conspirators against the freedom of action of the workers, the police, the prisons, these were the elements against which the efforts of the Makhnovist army were directed.

As for free ideological activity, exchange of ideas, discussion, propaganda and the freedom of organisations and associations of a non-authoritarian nature, the Makhnovists guaranteed, everywhere and integrally, the revolutionary principles of freedom of speech, press, conscience, assembly, and political, ideological or other association. In all the cities and towns that were occupied, they hegan by lifting all the prohibitions and repealing all the restrictions imposed on the organs of the press and on political organisations by whatever power.

At Berdiansk, the prison was dynamited, in the presence of an enormous crowd, which took an active part in its destruction. At Alexandrovsk, Krivoi-Rog, Ekaterinoslav and elsewhere, the prisons were demolished or burned. Everywhere the workers cheered this act.

Complete freedom of speech, press, assembly and association of any kind and for everyone was immediately proclaiml’d. Herc is the authentic text of the *Declaration* in which the Makhnovists made known this proposition in the localities they occupied.

<quote>
“I. Al1 Socialist 0 political parties, organisations and tendencies have the right to propagate their ideas, theories, views and opinions freely, both orally and in writing. No restriction of Socialist freedom of speech and press will be allowed, and no persecution may take p)ace in this domain.

“Remark:-Mi1itary communiques may not be printed unless Lhey are supplied by the management of the central organ of the revolutionary insurgents, the ***Road to Freedom.***

“II. In allowing all political parties and organisations full and complete freedom to propagate their ideas, the Makhnovist Insurgent Anny wishes to inform all the parties that any attempt to prepare, organise and impose a ***political aut1writy*** on the working masses will not be permitted by the revolutionary insurgents, such an act having nothing in common with freedom of ideas and propaganda.

Ekaterinoslav, November 5<sup>th</sup>, 1919.

Revolutionary Military Council of the Makhnovist Insurgent Anny.”
</quote>

{1} They spoke here of Socialist parties and other org^misalions not because they wanted lo keep these rights from lhe non-Socialisls, hut only because in the midst of a popufar revolution the rightisl elements were not aclive. There was not even any queslion of them. It was natural that the bourgeoisie would not dare, in the circumstances, to publish its press, and that lhe printing workers, masters of the printing houses, would flatly refuse lo print it. It was therefore not worth speaking of it. The logical accent fell on “all” and not on “Socialist”. If, nevertheless, **the** reactionaries succeeded in printing and publishing their work.‘i, no one was disturbed by il. For, in the new situation, this did not represent any danger.

In the course of the whole Russian Revolution, the period of the Maklmovshchina in the Ukraine was the only one in which the true freedom of the working masses found full expression. While the region remained free, the workers of the cities and districts occupied by the Makhnovists could say and do, for the first time, anything they wanted and as they wanted. And furthermore, they at last had the opportunity to organise their life and work themselves, according to their own judgment, according to their own feelings of justice and truth.

During the few weeks that the Makhnovists spent at Ekaterinoslav, five or six newspapers of various political orientations appeared with full freedom-the Right Social-Revolutionary paper Narodovlastie (The People’s Power ), the Left Social-Revolutionary ZMmia Vostania (The Standard of Revolt ). the Bolshevik ***Star,*** and others. To tell the truth, the Bolsheviks had less right to freedom of press and association, because they had destroyed, everywhere that they could, the freedom of press and association for the working class, and also because their organisation at Ekaterinoslav had taken a direct part in the criminal invasion of the Guliai-Polie region in June 1919 and it would have been only justice to inflict a Sl’\‘l’H’ punishment on thPm. But, in order not to injure the great principles of freedom of speech and assembly, they “”””’ not disturbed and could enjoy, along with all other political tendencies, all the rights inscribed on the banner of the social revolution.

The only restriction that the Makhnovists considered necessary to impose on the Bolsheviks, the Social-Revolutionaries and other statists was the prohibition against the formation of those Jacobin “revolutionary committees” which sought to impose a dictatorship on the people. Several occurrences proved that this measure was not unjustified.

As soon as the Maklmovist troops took Alexandrovsk and Ekaterinoslav, the local Bolsheviks, coming out of their hiding places, hastened to organise this kind of committee (the “Rev-Cams”) seeking to establish their political power and goVl’rn the population. At Alcxan- drovsk, the members of such a committee went so far as to propose to Makhno a “division of spheres of action”, leaving him the military power and reserving for the committee full freedom of action and all political and civil authority. Makhno advised them to “go and take up some honest trade”, instead of seeking to impose their will on the labouring population. A similar incident occurred at Ekatcrinoslav.

This attitude of the Makhnovists was just and logical. Precisely because they wanted to insure and defend full freedom of speech, press, organisation, etc., they could without any hesitation take any measure against those formations which sought to stifle this freedom, to suppress other organisations and impose their will and dictatorial authority on the working masses.

And the Makhnovists did not hesitate to do so. At Alex- androvsk, ^fakhno threatened to arrest and shoot all the members of the “Rev-Com” if they made the least attempt of this nature. He acted in the same way at Ekaterinoslav. And when, in November 1919, the commander of the 3<sup>rd</sup> Insurrectionary ( Makhnovist) Regiment, Polansky, who had Communist leanings, was convicted of having participated in this kind of action, he was executed along with his accomplices.

At the end of the month. the Makhnovists were forced to leave Ekaterinoslav. But they had time to demonstrate to the working masses that true freedom resided in the hands of the workers themselves, and that it began to radiate and develop as soon as the libertarian spirit and true equality of rights were established among them.

Alexandrovsk and the surrounding region were the first places in which the Makhnovists remained for a fairly long time. Immediately, they invited the working population to participate in a general conference of the workers of the city.

The conference began with a detailed report by the Makhnovists on the military situation in the district. Then it proposed that the workers organise the life of the liberated region themselves, that is to say reconstruct their organisation that had been destroyed by the reaction; get the factories and shops back into production as soon as possible, organise Consumers’ Co-operatives, get together right away with the peasants of the surrounding countryside and establish direct and regular relations between the workers’ and peasants’ organisations for the purpose of exchanging products, etc.

The workers enthusiastically acclaimed all these ideas. But, at first, they hesitated to carry them out, troubled by their novelty, and moreover, uncertain because of the nearness of the front. They feared the return of the Whites --Or the Reds-in tlw near future. As always, the i11sta- hility of the situation prevented positive work.

Nevertheless, matters did not rest then>. A few days later, a second conference took place. The problems of organising life according to the principles of self-administration by the workers were examined and discussed with animation. Finally the conference reached the crucial point-the precise way to go about it, the first step to take.

The proposition was made to form a Commission of Initiative, composed of delegates of several actiw labour unions. The conference would give this Commission the task of working out a project for immecliate action. Several members of the railwaymen’s and the shoemakers’ unions declared that they were ready to organise immediately this Commission of Initiative which would proceed to create the indispensable workers’ organs, to reactivate, as quickly as possible, the economic and social life of the region. The Commission went energetically to work. Soon the railway workers got the trains running again, several factories reopened their doors, several unions were reestablished, etc.

While waiting for more fundamental reforms, it was decided that the money in use-a kind of paper money of various issues-would continue to serve as a means of exchange. But this problem was of secondary importance, since for some time the population had been using other methods of exchange.

Shortly after the workers’ meetings, a big regional congress of workers was callccl at Alexanclrovsk for October 20<sup>th</sup>, 1919. This congress clescrves particular attention, since it was very exceptional in the way it was organised, in its proceclures ancl in its accomplishments. I was an active participant and can give a detailecl account.

In taking the initiative of calling a regional workers’ congress, the Makhnovists had assumed a very delicate task. They hoped to give an important impetus to the activity of the population, which was necessary, praiseworthy and understandable. But on the other hand, they had to avoid imposing themselves on the congress and the population, they had to avoid the appearance of dictating.

It was important, above all, that this congress should be different from those called by the authorities of a political party (or a dominant caste), who would submit to the congress reacly-made resolutions, destined to be adoptecl docilely, after a semblance of discussion, and imposed on the so-called delegates, under threat of the repression of all eventual opposition. Moreover, the Makhnovists hacl a number of questions concerning the Insurrectionary Army to submit to the congress. The fate of the army ancl the whole task it had undertaken depended on the way the congress answered these quL•stions. But, even in this special field, the Makhnovists tried to avoid any kind of pressure on the delegates.

To avoid all pitfalls, the following was decided:

 1. No “electoral campaign” would take place. The Makhnovists confined themselves to notifying the villages, organisations, etc. that they should elcct and send a delegate or delegates, to a workers’ congress at Alexandrovsk on October 20<sup>th</sup>. Thus the population could <ksignate and instruct their delegates in complete freedom. 2. At the opening of the congress, a representative of the Makhnovists would explain to the delegates that the congress had been called, this time by the Makhnovists themselves, since problems concerning th<” Insurrcctionary Army as such were the main questions to be discussed; that, at the same time, the congress certainly had to settle problems concerning the life of the population; that in both cases, its deliberations and decisions would be absolutely free from all pressure, and the delegates would not be exposed to any danger, whatever their attitude might be; and, finally, that this congress should be considered an extraordinary one, and that the workNs of the region should subsequently call, on their own initiative, their own congress, which they should c:arry on as they wished, to settle the problems of their liveS. 3. Directly after the opening, the delegates should themselves elect the board of the congress, and modify to suit themselves the agenda which was proposed to them-and not imposed on them-by the Makhnovists.

Two or three days before the congress, I experienced a curious episode. One evening, a very young man presented himself to me. He identified himSelf as Comrade Liubim, a member of the local conunittee of the Left Social-Revolutionary party. I inunediately noticed his overwrought condition, and, in great exciknwnt. he wL•nt to the point that had led him to come to me without any preliminaries.

“Comrade V.”, he cried, pacing up and down in the little hotel room in which we were, “Excuse my cruckncss, but the danger is immense. You are certainly not aware of it. And there is not a minute to lose. Very well, you are Anarchists, therefore utopians, and therefore naive. But you can’t carry your naivete to the point of stupidity. You haven’t even the right to do it, smce it isn’t only a question of yourselves, but of other people and of a whole cause.”

I confessed that I did not understand a word of this tirade.

“Now then,” he continued, more and more excited, “you call a congress of peasants and workers. This congress will have enormous importance. But you arc such babies! in. your ineffable naivete, what do you do? You send out little slips of paper on which is scrawled that a congress will take place! That is all. It’s frightening, it’s crazy. No explanation, no propaganda, no electoral campaign, no list of candidates, nothing, nothing! I beg you, Comrade V., open your eyes a little! In your situation, you have to be a little realistic, after all! Do something, while there is still time. Send agitators, present candidates to the voters. Give us time to make a little campaign. For what would you say if the population-who are mainly peas- ants-send you reactionary delegates who demand the calling of the Constituent Assembly, or even the restoration of the monarchy? The people are seriously influenced by the counter-revolution. And what would you do if the majority of the delegates are counter-revolutionary and sabotage your congress. Act, therefore, before it is too late! Postpone the congress a little while and take some steps.”

I understood. As a member of a political party, Liubim saw things in that way.

“Listen, Liubim,” I said to him, “If, in the existing conditions, in the midst of a popular revolution, and after everything that has happened, the working masses send counter-revolutionaries and monarchists to their own congress, then the whole of my life’s work will have been a profound error, and I shall have only one thing to do- to blow out my brains with that revolver you see on my desk.”

‘“We must talk seriously,” he interrupted, “and not dramatise ...”

“I assure you, Comrade Liubim, that I am talking very seriously. We will change nothing in our procedure, and if the congress is counter-revolutionary, I will kill myself. I could not survive such a terrible disillusionment. And now, please take note of one basic fact. It is not I who am calling the congress, nor was it I who decided how to call it. All that is the work of a group of comrades. I have no power to alter anything.”

“Yes, I know, but you have great influence. You could propose a change. They would listen to you.”

“I have no desire to propose it, Liubim, since we arc all in agreement.”

The conversation ended, and Liubim, unconsoled, left me.

On October 20<sup>th</sup>, 1919, more than two hundred delegates, peasants and workers, met in the congress hall. Beside the delegates, several places were reserved for representatives of the right-wing Socialist Parties-SocialRevolutionaries and Mensheviks-and those of the Left Social-Revolutionaries. They all attended the congress with a consultative voice. Among the Left Social-Revolutionaries I saw Comrade Liubim.

What struck me especially on that first day of the congress was a coldness or rather a mistrust which nearly all the delegates seemed to manifest. We learned later that they expected a congress like so many others; th1•y 1•xpected to see on the platform men with revolvers in their belts who would manoeuvre the delegat1•s and mak1· them vote for resolutions which had been prepared in advance. The meeting was frozen, and it took some time to thaw it.

I had the job of opening the congress, and I gave the delegates the agreed explanations and declared that they should first elect an executive committee and then consider the agenda proposed by the Makhnovists.

The members of the congress wished me to preside over their meetings. I consulted my comrades and then agreed. But I declared to the delegates that my role would be strictly limited to the technical conduct of the congress, that is, to following the agenda that was adopted, to recognising the speakers, giving them the floor, facilitating the order of businl’ss, etc., and that the delegates should deliberate and reach their decisions in complete freedom, without fearing any pressure or manoeuvring from me.

Immediately a right-wing Socialist asked for the floor. He delivered a violent attack on the organisers of the congress. “Comrade delegates,” he said, “we Socialists consider it our duty to warn you that a disgraceful comedy is being acted hen{1}. They are not imposing anything on you, they say! Yet already they have very adroitly imposed an Anarchist chairman on you, and you will continue to be manoeuvred by these people.”

Makhno, who had arrived a few minutes earlier to wish the congress good luck and excuse himself for having to leave for the front, took the floor and replied sharply to the Socialist speaker. He reminded the delegates of the complete freedom of their election, and, accusing the Socialists of heing the faithful defenders of the bourgeoisie, he advised their representatives not to disturb the work of the congress by political interventions. “You arc not delegates,” he ended, “Therefore, if the congress does not please you, you arc free to leave.”

Nobody opposed this, and four or five Socialists demonstratively left the hall, prote.;ting vehemently at such an “expulsion”. Nobody seemed to regret their departure. On the contrary, the meeting seemed satisfied and a little less frigid than before.

After this interruption, one of the delC’gatcs got up to speak. “Comrades,” he said, “before passing to the agenda, I would like to submit a preliminary quPstion which, in my opinion, is of great importance. Just now, a word was mentioned here-the bourgeoisie. Clearly, the bourgeoisie is being attacked as if we knew perfectly what it is, and as if everyone were in agreement about it. But this seems to me a great error. The term *bourgeoisie* is not clear to everybody. And I am of the opinion that because of its importance it would be useful, before we set to work, to define it precisely and know what exactly we mean by it.”

Despite the orator’s skill (I felt that notwithstanding his simple peasant costume he was not a real peasant ), the gist of his speech demonstrated clearly that we had among us a defender of the bourgeoisie and that his intention was to sound out the congress and if possible to undermine the spirit of the delegates. He certainly expected to be supported-consciously or ingenuously- by an appreciable number of delegates. If he had succeeded, the congress would have been in danger of falling into ridiculous confusion, and its work might have been seriously disturbed.

The moment was tense. I had, as I had just explained to the congress-no right to impose myself and eliminate by some simple device the delegate’s unfortunate proposal. It was up to the congress, to the other delegates, to decide the question in complete freedom. Their mentality was not yet evident. All of them were unknowns, and obviously very distrustful unknowns at that. Deciding to let the incident take its course, I asked myself what was going to happen. And Liubim’s apprehensions occurred to me.

As all these thoughts passed rapidly through my mind, the delegate finished his speech and sat down. For a moment, I saw distinctly, the gathering was puzzled. Then, quite suddenly and almost as if it had been arranged in advance, delegates began to call out from all over the hall.

“Hey, what kind of a bird is this delegate? WhNe does he come from? Who sent him? If he doesn’t know what the bourgeoisie is after everything that has happened, they made a queer choice in sending him here! Tell us old boy, haven’t you found out yet what the bourgeoisie is? Well, you must have a thick skull. You’d bettl’r go home and find out, or else keep quiet and don’t take us for idiots.”

“We have other things to do than waste time splitting hairs,” cried other delegates. “There are questions to settle which arc important for the whole region. And for more than an hour “”<sub>’</sub> have been fooling around instead of working. It’s beginning to look like sabotage. Let’s get to work.”

“Yes, yes, enough fooling, let’s get down to work,” came the shouts from all sides.

The pro-bourgeois delegate swallowed it all without a word. He had made a mistake. He was completely silent for the rest of till’ conference, which lasted nearly a week, and during that whole time, he remained isolated from the other delegates.

While the dl’iegates were thus berating their unfortunate collmgue, I looked at Liubim. He seemed surprised and pleased. However, the preliminary incidents were not yet finished, for the storm had hardly died down over the last interruption when Liubim himself leaped to the platform.

“Comrades,” he began, “excuse my intervention. It will be brief. I make it in the name of the local committee of the Left Social-Hevolutionary Party. This time it is a really important qu<>stion. According to our chairman’s declaration, he doesn’t want to preside effectively. And you must be aware that he is not in fact fulfilling the real function of chairman of the congress. Comrades, we Left Social-Revolutionaries find that very bad and fear it will be harmful. It means that your congress has to work without a head, without direction. Comrades, have you ever seen an organism without a head? No, comrades, that is not possihle. It would mean disorder and chaos. We have had enough of that already. No, it is impossible to work usefully, fruitfully and unconfusedly under these conditions. You need a *head,* for the congress, you need a real chairman, a real head.”

As Liubim delivered his diatribe in a rather tragic and imploring tone, his intervention sounded more and more ridiculous with each repetition of the word “head”. But, since my method of procedure had not yet proved itself, I wondered if the delegates might not be impressed by Liubim’s ideas. “We have had enough of those heads,” came shouted from all over the hall. “Always heads and more heads! Let us try and do without them for once. Let us try to work really freely. Comrade V. has explained that he will help the congress technically. That is enough. It is up to us to observe our own discipline, to work well and keep our eyes open. We don’t want any more of these ‘heads’ who lead us like puppets and who call that ‘work and discipline’.”

Liubim could do nothing but sit down. This was the last incident. I set about reading the agenda and the congress began its work. Arshinov was quite correct when he said that in its discipline, in the orderliness of its work, in the prodigious enthusiasm that animated the delegates, in its serious and concentrated character, in the importance of its decisions and in the results it achieved, this congress was exceptional.

The work was accomplished rapidly, and in perfect order, with remarkable unanimity, intimacy and ardour. By the end of the third day, all signs of distrust had disappeared. The delegates were thoroughly inspired by the freedom of their activity and the importance of their task. They consecrated themselves to it without reservations. They were convinced that they were working on their own and for their own cause.

There were no grand speeches or grandiose resolutions. The work assumed a practical and down-to-earth character. When a rather complicated problem 1wcdcd reducing to simple terms, or when the delegates wanted clarification before they began their work, they asked to be presented with a detailed report, and I or some other qualified comrade would give an explanation. After a short discussion, the delegates would then set about working for definite results. Once agreed on the basic principles of a question, they usually created a special commission, which would draw up a very thoughtful project and arrive at practical solutions instead of composing literary resolutions. In this way a number of immediate and concrete questions, of great interest to the life of the region or the defence of its freedom, were eagerly discussed and worked over in their smallest detail by the committees and the delegates.

In my capacity of Technical Chairman, as I was called, I had only to supervise the order of business, formulate and announce the results of each completed task, call upon the ddegates to consider and adopt certain ruks of procedure, etc. The most important thing was that the congress functioned under the auspices of ahsolute and genuine freedom. No influence from above, no element of constraint, was felt.

The idea of free Soviets, genuinely functioning in the interests of the working population; the question of direct rdations between peasants and city workers, based on mutual exchange of the products of their labour; the launching of a libertarian and egalitarian social organisation in the cities and the country; all these questions were seriously and closely studied by the delegates themselves, with the assistance and co-operation of qualified comrades.

Among other things, the congress resolved numerous problems concerning the Insurrectionary Army, its organisation and reinforcement. It was decided that the whole male population, up to the age of 48, would go to serve in this army. In keeping with the spirit of the congress, this enrolment would be voluntary, but as general and numerous as possible, in view of the extremely dangerous and precarious situation in which the region found itself.

The congress also decided that the supplying of the army would be done primarily by free gifts from the peasants, in addition to the spoils of victory and requisitions from the privileged groups. The size of these gifts would be carefully established, according to the size of each family.

As for the purely “political” question, the congress decided that the workers, doing without any authority, would organise their economic, political and administrative life for themselves, by means of their own abilities, and through their own direct organs, united on a federative basis ...

A final incident n•mains to be told. Yet another delegate rose to his feet. “Comrades,” he said, “since the congress is acting against certain defects and weaknesses, let me mention another regrettable incident. It is not very important, but all the same it merits our attention because of the sad state of mind of which it gives evidence. All of you must have read the notices posted on the walls of our city several days ago, bearing the signature of Comrade Klein, military commander of Alcxandrovsk. In this notice, Commander Klein calls on the population to abstain from drinking alcoholic beverages to excess, and especially not to go out in the street drunk. That is very fair and good. The form of the notice is not at all insulting or gross, it is not insolent or authoritarian, and one can only congratulate Comrade Klein on it. Only, comrades, not later than the day before yesterday, a popular evening party took place here with music, dancing and otlwr distractions, in this Very building where the congress is sitting. Not only insurgents, but also citizens and citizen- esses attended it. I hasten to say to you that there is absolutely nothing reprehensibk about that. The young people amused themselves and relaxed. That is entirely human and natural. But there was also a great deal of drinking at this party. Many insurgents and citizens got blind drunk. To see for yourselves you have only to look at the number of empty bottles piled up in the passage. ( Laug/1ter). Wait, comrades, the principal object of my intervention is not that. One amuses onescJf, mw drinks, one gets drunk. That isn’t so bad. But what is more serious is the fact that one of those who got as drunk as a pig was our Comrade Klein, one of the commanders of the army, military commander of the city and the signatory of the excellent notice against drunkenness! Comrades, he was so drunk that he couldn’t walk and had to be put in a carriage and taken home in the early morning. And, on the way, he behaved scandalously, cursing and so forth. So, comrades, a question arises: in drawing up and signing his notice did Comrade Klein believe that he himself was above the rest of the ci tizcns, exempt from the good conduct that he preaches for others? Should he not, on the contrary, be the first to set a good example? In my opinion, he has committed a fault so serious that it should not be disregarded.”

While Klein’s conduct was really fairly harmless, and the delegates considered the incident as rather comic, it aroused a certain amount of feeling. The annoyance at Klein was general, for his behaviour might be the expression of a culpable state of mind, that of a “chid” who considered himself above the “mass” and believed that he could do anything.

“Klein must be called right away!” someone proposed. “Let him come and explain himself before the congress!” Directly, three or four delegates were sent after Klein, with the mission of bringing him back. A half hour later, the delegates returned with him.

I was very curious to see what his attitude would be. Klein was one of the best commanders of the Insurrectionary Army. Young, courageous, very energetic and combative-physically a big, well-built fellow, with a hard appearance and warlike gestures-he always threw himself into the hottest part of the battle and feared nothing and nobody. He had been wounded many times. Well liked, as much by his colleagues as by the ordinary soldiers, he was one of those who had thrown over the Bolsheviks and brought Makhno several regiments of the Red Army. The son of a peasant family of German origin, if I am not mistaken, he was rough and uncouth in manner.

He knew that in any circumstances, he would be vigorously supported and defended bv his colleagnrs-the othl’r eommanc.ll’rs and \laklrno himsdf. VVould he havl’ enough knowledge to realise that a congress of working People was above him and above the army and Makhno? Would he understand that the workers and thl’ir congress were the masters: that the army, Makhno, etc. were only the servants of the common cause, bound to be held accountable at all times hy the workers and their organs? Such were the questions that preoccupied me while the congress awaited the return of the mission.

Such a conception was entirely nl’w. Thl<sub>’</sub> Bolsheviks had done l’Vcrything to wipe it out of the spirit of the masses. It would be something to **see,** for example, if a workers’ congress called a commissar or a commander of the Reel Army to order! Of course, that is absolutely inconcPivablc. But even supposing that somehow a workers’ congress would dare to do it, with what indignation, with what self-possession would this commissar or commander denounce the congress, while playing with his WPapons on the platform and singing his own praises: “What!” he would shout, “you, a simple collection of workers, have the nerve to call to account a commissar, a practical leader, with exploits, wounds, citations to his credit, an esteemed, celebrated, decorated leader? You have no such right! I am only responsible to my superiors. If you have anything to reproach me for, address yourselves to them.”

Would not Klein be tempted to use similar language? Would he sincerely understand an entirely different situation and an entirely different psychological attitude?

Smartly clad in his uniform and well armed, Klein mounted the platform. He had a rather surprised air, and it seemed to me that he was uneasy.

“Comrade Klein,” the questioning delegate asked him, “you arc the military commander of our city?”

“Yes.”

“You arc the one who drew up and had posted the notice against the abuse of beverages and drunkenness in public places?”

“Yes, comrade, it was I.”

“Tell me, Comrade Klein, as a citizen of our city, and its military commander, do you consider yourself morally obliged to obey your own recommendations or do you believe yourself outside of or above this notice?”

Visibly uneasy and confused, Klein took a few steps to the edge of the platform and said very sincerely in an uncertain voice.

“Comrades, I was wrong. I know it. I macle a mistake in getting disgracefully drunk the other day. But, listen to me a little and try to understand. I am a fighting man, a man of the front, a soldier. I am no bureaucrat. I don’t know why in spite of my protests they landed me with this job of commander of the city. As commander I don’t have a bloody thing to do, except stay all day at a desk and sign papers. That isn’t for me! I need action, the open air, the front, companions. I am bored to death here. And that’s why I got drunk the other evening. Comrades, I would like to make up for my mistake. For that, you have only to ask that I be Sl’nt back to the front. There, I can give real service. But here, at this cursed post of commander, I can’t promise you anything. Let them find an- otlll’r man for my place, a man who can do this job. Forgive me, comrades, and have me sent to thl’ front.”

The delegates asked him to go out for a few minutes. He obeyed docilely. They dclibcrall’d on his case. It was eddent that his conduct was not due to the mentality of a vainglorious, overbearing leader. That was all they wanted to know. The congress ve1y clearly recognised his sincerity and his reasons. They called him back to tell him that, taking account of his explanation, they would not hold his mistake against him and would do what was necessary to have him sent back to the front. He thanked till’ dclegall’s and left very simply, as he had come. The delegates intervened in his favour, and a few days later he returned to the front.

To some rcadl•rs, these Ppisodcs may seem trivial and insignificant, and not worth so many pages. I would venture to say that from a revolutionary standpoint, I consider them infinitely more important, more suggestive, and more useful in their slightest cktails than all the speeches of Lc•nin, Trotsky and Stalin, ddiVC’red before’, during and after the revolution.

[And I would like to] relate one more little episode-a (ll’rsonal om^which took place outside the congress itself. As I was leaving, I met Liubim, who was smiling radiantly. “You cannot imagine,” he told me, “why I am so pkasl’d. You must haVl’ seen how busy I was during the congress. Do you know what I did? I have specialised in the formation of scouting units and special detachments. This very question came up on the agenda. Well, for two days, I worked with the committee of delegates in charge of studying it, and finding a practical solution. I gave them a lot of help. They thanked me for my work. And I have really done something good and necessary. I know that is going to help the cause, and I am very pleased.”

“Liubim,” I said to him, “tell me sincerely: in the course of this good and necessary work, did you think for a single instant of your political role? Did you recall your position as a member of a political party? Did you think of being responsible before your party? Was not your useful work, in fact, an apolitical task, concrete and precise, a work of collaboration and co-operation, and not that of a ‘head’, of a ‘direction that imposes itself’, of governmental action?”

Liubim looked at me pensively.

“The congress was very fine, very successful, I admit it,” he said.

“There, Liubim,” I concluded, “reflect well upon it. You really played your part and did a good job at the moment when you left your political activity! And very simply hdped your colleagues as a comrade who knew about the task. You should realise that that is the whole secret of th« success of the congress. And that is also the whole secret of the success of the revolution. It is like this that all rPvolutions should act, both on a local level and on a vaster scale. When the revolutionists and the masses have learned that, the real victory of the revolution is assured.”

I never saw Liubin1 again. I do not know what hPcamc of him. If he is alive. I do not know what he thinks to-day. But I hope these lines may come to his eyes, and that he remembers.

*** The Spanish Cockpit

**Franz Borkenau: The Anarchists in the Spanish Civil War**

In one form or another anarchism appeared in almost every country in Europe, but only in Spain did it become a genuine mass movement. Consequently the Spanish Civil War of 1936–39, in which the anarchists were one of the main political forces, presented them with a unique opportunity to put their ideals into practice.

The history of anarchism in Spain begins in 1868, when Michael Bakunin dispatched one of his disciples to proselytize the Spanish. Anarchism took root chiefly in two areas, Catalonia and Andalusia, where it won the allegiance of two quite different social groups. Catalonia, in the northeast of Spain, was one of the country’s principal manufacturing centers, and anarchism became the leading ideology of its industrial workers. The decentralizing aspects of anarchist doctrine had a particular appeal in Catalonia, which had its own national tradition and had long agitated for regional autonomy. With its stronghold in the city of Barcelona, anarchism here took on a syndicalist form, organized around trade unions and cultivating the general strike as its principal weapon. In 1910 the CNT (National Confederation of Labor), the anarchist trade-union organization, was founded, and in 1927 the FAI (Iberian Anarchist Federation), an inner circle of dedicated anarchists which became the political arm of the CNT. By contrast Andalusia, in the south, was an agricultural region of huge estates worked by wretchedly poor landless laborers. Here, most observers agree, anarchism took on a strongly millenarian tinge, the peasants adopting il with an almost religious enthusiasm and finding in it the promise of the imminent dawn of a new age of freedom. In addition, anarchism appealed to the age-old communal traditions which were still strong here and in other parts of Spain.

In the summer of 1936, at the start of the Civil War, most of the large industrial enterprises in the Barcelona area were taken over by the workers under the leadership of the CNT-FAI. At the same time a number of agricultural communes were formed under anarchist auspices in the villages of Andalusia and elsewhere in eastern and southern Spain. Because of the conditions of warfare, confusion, and party rivalry that prevailed at the time, information on these experiments in anarchist organization is sparse and unreliable. All the more valuable, then, is the eyewitness testimony of a shrewd and objective observer. Franz Borkenau was not himself an anarchist but a disillusioned Marxist. He was the son of an Austrian judge and had held a post in the Comintern in the early twenties. Later he took a doctoral degree in sociology, and although he had abandoned communism he remained a perceptive student of the subject. *The Spanish Cockpit* is an account of his two trips to Spain during the Civil War, the first shortly after its outbreak and the second at the beginning of 1937, when the position of the anarchists had begun to deteriorate. In the passages here he describes the workings of Spanish anarchism at its height, in the earlydaysof the war. His account not only provides details of the institutional arrangements of anarchist enterprises and communities but conveys the intense moral fervor that was one of their essential characteristics.

Somewhat like Makhno, the Spanish anarchists found themselves fighting two implacable enemies: the right-wing forces, who were opposed to social revolution, and the communists, who were opposed to social revolution in anarchist form. Under these pressures the anarchists were forced increas- ingly-and fatally-to compromise their ideals and accept centralized military and political organization. Whether their principles would have proved more workable under peaceful conditions is a question that may well be asked but cannot be answered conclusively on the basis of this experience. In any case, the Spanish Civil War remains the most extensive and sustained attempt in the history of anarchism Lo usher in the new libertarian age.

The Spanish Cockpit was published in 1937 in London by Faber and Faber Ltd. The selections below are taken from pages 66–76, 78–83, 85–93, 101–4, and 166–67. Borkenau was also the author of The Communist International (London, 1938), and European Communism (London, 1953). Two other eyewitness accounts of the civil war containing descriptions of anarchists at work are H. E. Kaminski, Ceux de Barcelone (Paris, 1937), and GeorgeOrwell, Homage to Catalonia (London, 1938). The agrarian collectives are evaluated in Hugh Thomas, “Anarchist Agrarian Collectives in the Spanish Civil War,” A Century of Conflict, 1BS0-19SO, Martin Gilbert, editor (New York, 1967). Burnett Bolloten, The Grand Camouflage: The Communist Conspiracy in the Spanish Civil War (New York, 1961), written from a strongly anticommunist viewpoint, deals with relations between the anarchists and communists.

**** .5 August [ 1936], 6 p.m., in tlie tram from Port Bou to Barcelorw.

In spite of many rumours to the contrary, the French train, as usual, crossed the frontier and went through to Port Bou. Ami there things, far from being unpleasant, as everybody had foretold, were peaceful to an almosl ludicrous extent.

In the train from Toulouse I had made the acc1uaintancc of an Englishman who was going to Spain as delegate of one of the British socialist organizations. He knew no Spanish, so I offered to act as his interpreter and we decided to travd together. We were received, at Port Bou station, not by an armed guard pointing his bayonet at our breasts-as I had almost expected after all the silly rumours in London and Paris-but by a porter, offering to carry our luggage with as much politeness and doing so with as much laziness as one could possibly expect from a Spanish porter in peace-time. We had to wait for hours, which also was no new experience to me, knowing the country in normal times-and there, in the hall where we Wl’rc waiting, sat dozens of peasant women, chatting peacefully and not even mentioning the revolution. There were the usual armed guardias, and in addition a few armed workers; young boys in their ci”ilian clothes. One’ of them was chatting with us when he was called away, not to perform any specifically revolutionary duty, but in order to find a drink for a crying baby.

Still, there were signs of critical events, and of problems both political and social. From a previous journey in Catalonia I knew that the Catalans, though usually knowing standard ‘Spanish’ ( which, in reality, is the dialect of Castile) fairly well, hate to talk it. If talked to by foreigners in Spanish, they were in tlw habit of replying in French-or, rather what they believed to be French-or, worse, with a curse in Catalan which no foreigner understands. So had it been under Primo. Now, every question in Spanish got an answer in Spanish, and when I repeatedly asked people in the station how it was that they now spoke Castilian without reluctance’ the reply invariably was that they had no reason now to hate it, since Catalonia had bcl’ll granted its rights by the n•public in 1931.

Another change, more important, dated only from recent days. Whcn our passports were examined, we were faced with a queer distribution of administrative power, a practical outcome of the civil war. The Barcelona police, as we had already been told on the French side of the border, had ordPrcd the frontier policl’ at Port Bou not to admit any foreigners, even with rpgular visas. I knew the civil servants who controlled passports at Port Bou from previous crossings; they had been at their post for many years, first under the orders of the Madrid Ministry of the Interior, and now, since 19 July 1936, undl’r the orders of the Catalan Regional Government, the ‘Generalitat’. For with the defeat of the Spanish military in the streets of Barcelona, the executive power of the Madrid Government in Catalonia had disappeared, and all administrative powers of the central Madrid Government, even that of controlling the Spanish frontier, had passed automatically into the hands of the Catalan Regional Government. But the change did not stop there. Even the Catalan ‘Gen- eralitat’ had obviously no power to put its orders through. My English companion had his documents as a delegate from a socialist organization, and I had a letter of recommendation from a fairly well-known Spanish socialist. When the officials at the passport-control told us that they could not admit us, we showed these credentials, with the result that the police officials at once declared our case out of their competence. Wc had to go to the ‘committee’, which seemed to retain the real power of decision in cases of a political character.

There were, in fact, two committees in Port Bou, one for the railway station, the other for the town. The first was composed of representatives of both the CNT (anarchist) and the UGT (socialist) railway union in equal numbers; the latter consisted of one representative respectively of every pro-Government party existing in the town. This composition of the committees on the basis of complete parity between the parties concerned derived from a decree of the Catalan Generalitat, identical in content with a dceree of tlw ^ladrid Government. It had bcen religiously obcycd; in consequenee, the composition of the committees did not give any indication as to the balance of powcr betwcl’ll the individual political partics on the spot.

We went to the officcs of the town eommittce, which had takcn its seat in the building of the ayrmtamiento (the municipality), where it was officiating side by side with the old municipal officials and the old local police. Outside there ffoated a huge red flag with hammer and sickle. Thc atmosphen• was not much agitated inside either. A few peasant women, again, waiting quietly for somdhing. Much chatter, little excitcment. After five minutes we appeared before the president of the committee ( obviously a working-man ), presented our credentials, got his permit to pass the bordcr, and, provided with it, went back to the station police, who, with sour faces, stamped our passports. The committee had been stronger than the police. We set off into the country of revolution, then, in one of the most peaceful trains I ever met, carrying first- class and dining-cars, starting and procccding according to time-table. A few militia-men and guardias in arms went with the train, and a few patrolled the stations. The country-side seemed peaceful, the factories were mostly working.

In the train there was at any rate excited political talk. The guardias, to be sure, were very rcscrved-thcy could hardly like the position into which they had drifted, fighting, together with armed workers, against the military. I asked one of them how it was that the guardia had sided with the Left, and got the characteristic rcply: ‘We had our orders, you know, and **Wl’** guardias arc not political people.’ The civilians were less reluctant to talk. There was a group of four in our compartment, eager to tell the foreigners about the days of fighting and about the present situation. One of them was an Esquerra secretary, another an active socialist. Their views, however, were indistinguishable. They seemed to be concerned mainly with one thing, the danger from the anarchists. ‘Criminal elements, sacking and burning!’ Obviously they had no intention of making the outside of things look smooth to the foreigner. Soon, they contended, an armed clash between the anarchists and the Generalitat (in other words, the nationalist Esquerra) would come. And it was dangerous, hl’cause the anarchists were strong. Of the railwaymen they had, according to our companions, something like .50 per cent. behind them. (I wondered whether 50 per cent. of the railwaymen were criminals.) They scemcd upset in talking of things to come. Their eyes shone, on the contrary, when they spoke about the 19<sup>th</sup> of July and the glory of their victory over the gem•rals. What had brought about so swift a success, we asked? Partly it was the fact that General Coded had been captured at an early moment of the revolt, and had consented to order his troops by wireless to surrender. But a large section of theSe troops had simply dropped their arms and gone home, without any ordl’r, as soon as they realized that thC’ir officers wen• not acting undC’r orders from the Government, but in revolt against it. Anyway, the dcfl’ction of the troops, whether spontaneous or by command of General Coded, seempd to be the chief factor in the defeat of the insurrection.

**** 11 p.m., Barcelo1w.

Again a peaceful arrival. No taxi-cabs, hut instead old horSe-cabs, to carry us into the town. Few people in the Pasl’o de Colon. And, then, as we turned round the corner of the Hambias (the chief artery of Barn•lona) came a tre- nwndous surprise: before our eyes, in a flash, unfolded itself tlw revolution. It was overwhelming. It was as if we had been landed on a continent different from anything I had seen before.

The first impression: armed workers, rifles on their shoulderS, hut wearin!( their civilian clothes. P<“rhaps 30 1wr cent. of the males on the Rambias were carrying rifles, though there were no police, and no regular military in uniforms. Arms, arms, and again arms. Very few of these armed proletarians wore the new dark-blue pretty militia uniforms. They sat on the benches or walked the pavement of tlw Ramblas. their rifles over the right shoulder, and often their girls on the left arm. They started off, in groups, to patrol out-lying districts. They stood, as guards, before the entrances of hotels, administratiVl’ buildings, and the larger stores. They crouched behind the few still standing barricades, which were competently constructed out of stones and sand-bags ( most of .the barricades had already been removed, and the destroyed pavement had been speedily restored ). They drove at top speed innumerable fashionable cars, which they had expropriated and covered, in white paint, with the initials of thl’ir respective organizations: CNT-FAI, UGT, PSUC (United Socialist-Communist Party of Catalonia), POUM (Trotskyists ), or with all these initials at once, in order to display their loyalty to the movement in general. Some of the cars simply wore the letters UHP (Unite, proletarian brothers!), the slogan glorified by the Asturias rising of 1934. The fact that all these armed men walked about, marched, and drove in their ordinary clothes made the thing only more impressive as a display of the power of the factory workers. The anarchists, recognizable by badges and insignia in red and black, were obviously in overwhelming numbers. And no ‘bourgeoisie<sup>’</sup> whatever! No more well-dressed young women and fashionable sci\oritos on the Ramblas! Only working men and working women; no hats even! The Cencralitat, by wireless, had advised people not to wear them, because it might look ‘bourgeois’ and make a bad impression. The Ramblas are not less colourful than before, because there is the infinite variety of blue, red, black, of the party badges, tlw neckties, the fancy uniforms of the militia. But what a contrast with the pretty shining colours of the Catalan upper-class girls of former days!

The amount of expropriation in the few days since 19 July is almost incredible. The largest hotels, with one or two exceptions, have all been requisitioned by workingclass organizations (not burnt, as had been reported in many newspapers). So were most of the larger stores. Many of the banks are closed, the others bear inscriptions declaring them under the control of the Gencralitat. Practically all the factory-owners, we were told, had either fled or been killed, and their factories taken over by the workers. Evcrywhen• large posters at the front of impressive buildings proclaim the fact of l’Xpropriation, explaining either that the management is now in the hands of tlw CNT, or that a particular organization has appropriated this building for its organizing work.

In many res1wcts, however, life was much less disturbed than I expected it to be after newspaper reports abroad. Tramways and buses were running, water and light functioning. At the door of the Hc>td Continental stood an anarchist guarcl; and a large number of militia had been billeted in the rooms. Our driwr, with a g<·stun· of regret, explained that this obviously was no longer an hotel but a militia barrack, but the manager and the anarchist guards at once retorted that not all the rooms wefl’ occupied by militia-ml’ll, and that wc <.‘Ould stay then’, at smrle\\‘hat reduced rat_<_•s. So \\‘l’ did, and wen• wdl cared for, as to food and service.

All the churches had been burnt, with the l’Xcl’ption of thl’ cathedral with its invaluable art treasures, which the Generalitat had managed to saVl’. The walls of the churches arc standing, but thl’ interior has in every case been completdy destroyed. Some of the churches arc still smoking. At the corner of thl’ Ramblas and the Pasco Colon tlw building of the Cosulich Lim• (the Italian steamship company) is in ruins; Italian snipers, we arc told, had taken cover there and the building had been stormed and burnt by the workers. But l’XCl’pt for the churches and this Oile Sl’cuhn building tlwn· has been no arson.

Tlws(_• wl’rl’ the first impressions. Aftl’r a hasty dinner I went out again, in spite of warnings that the streets would not be safe aftc•r dark. I did not sec any confirmation of this. Life, as usual in Barcelona, was even more Sl’ething after nine o’clock at night. True, the turmoil now abated earlier than in peace times, and long before midnight streets were empty.

Now when I went out the streets were full of excited groups of young men in arms, and not a few armed women as well; the latter behaving with a self-assurance unusual for Spanish women when they appear in public (and it would have been unthinkable before for a Spanish girl to appear in trousers, as the militia-girls invariably do) but with decency. Particularly numerous groups gathered before the fashionable buildings now requisitioned as party centres. The enormous Hotel Colon, dominating the splendid Plaza de Cataluiia, has been taken over by the PSUC. The anarchists, with an eye for striking contrasts, have expropriated the offices of the Fomento del Trabajo Nacional, in the fashionable Calle Layetana. The Trotskyists have settled down in the HOtel Falcon, on the Ramblas. A tremendous group of cars and motor-lorries, with one or two armoured cars, was standing before the door of their newly acquired offices, and a group of young people in arms was standing about, in excited and eager discussion.

I do not understand Catalan. I was glad to hear German spoken. In this atmosphere of general enthusiasm there **is** no difficulty in talking to anybody. I soon discover that one of the militia-women in the group is the wife of a Swiss newspaper correspondent, and now I can begin to gather ‘stories’. The care to find out whether they are true or not will come later. Let’s listen to what people want tosay ...

It is interesting to listen to what these Marxists say about the anarchists. Immediately after the defeat of the military, they explain, there was quite a lot of looting in the Ramblas, on the pretence of anarchist action. Then the CNT interfered, disclaiming any responsibility for these acts; now, the first thing that catches the eye on the walls of the houses are big anarchist posters menacing every looter with execution on the spot. But there are other tales, of a more surprising character. In sacking and burning the churches, the militia naturally made a considerable loot in money and valuable objects. This loot should properly have gone to the CNT. It did not, however; but the anarchist rank and file themselves preferred to bum the stuff wholesale, including bank-notes, in order to allay any suspicion of robbery. The question of anarchist criminality, settled in such a sweeping manner by our Esquerra and PSUC friends in the train, seems really to be somewhat complex.

On my way home I saw the burning of a church, and again it was a big surprise. I imagined it would be an act of almost demoniac excitement of the mob, and it proved to be an administrative business. The burning church stood in a corner of the big Plaza de Catalufia. Flames were devouring it rapidly. A small group of people stood about (it was about 11 p.m.) silently watching, certainly not regretting the burning, but as certainly not very excited about the matter. The fire-brigade did service at the spot, carefully limiting the Hames to the church and protecting the surrounding buildings; nobody was allowed to come near the burning church-in order to avoid acci- dents-and to this regulation people submitted with surprising docility. Earlier church burnings must have been more passionate, I suppose.

**** 6 August.

It is impossible, of course, under present conditions, to get in touch with Spanish friends of the insurgents, or with members of those foreign colonies which sympathize with them, notably the Germans and Italians. These latter, if they are not refugees sympathizing with the republicans, have left; not a few have been killed in the fighting. But there are, among the members of the neutral foreign colonies, quite a lot of sympathizers with the rebels, who speak fairly openly. I met such a man this morning, and it was revealing to see the other side of the picture.

His first words were about terrorism. Executions, executions, executions: that seems to be the thing which is in the heads of the wealthy, the Catholic, the Right wing, in these days, and it drives them almost crazy. ‘The Spaniards are absolutely panicky,’ this foreigner tells me. He has a lot of Spanish friends, who are all more or less business people, as he is himself. The shudder about the massacres of these latter days is still in his voice. ‘The foreigners are fairly safe,’ he says, ‘but the Spaniards, the Spaniards’- meaning by Spaniards, naturally, that group of Spaniards with whom he has contact, the people around the Fonwnto and the Lliga-‘hundreds and thousands were killed in the first days. Immediately after till’ defeat of the military the workers started *to settle Jlersonal accounts.’* This expression I had heard once already, and insisted on being told about the exact facts. It turned out that the accounts which were settled were perhaps not so entirely personal, What really happt’lled, it Secms. was that priests were killed, not bccause they were individually disliked by somebody ( *tlwt,* in my opinion, is what can fairly be called settling of personal accounts ), but becausc they were priests; the factory-ow1wrs, notably in the textile centres around Barcclona, were killed by their workers, ii they did not manage to escape in time. Directors of large companies, such as the Barcelona tramway company, known as opponents of the labour movement, were killcd by piekcts of the appropriate trade union; and the leading politicians of the Hight by special anarchist pickets. It is only natural that my interlocutor, who has lost friends, perhaps even close friends, in this massacre, is horror- struck. Perhaps it is as natural that he has obviously lost all sense of proportion. ‘What a horror,’ hc exclaims. ‘People killed without trial, without even the allegation of a crime, on the simple acknowledgement of their identity, for nothing but their social position and their political and religious faith, by their personal enemies! These anarchists! These POU M people! These gangsters! The socialists and communists, it is true, arc better, and the Gencral- itat, with the Esquerra, is horrified and terrorized itself.’ I venture mildly to hint that it is perhaps not so peculiarly anarchist to massacre. The British Press, and espccially those correspondents sympathizing with the fascists, haw enlarged in reports on the systematic killing of all republicans, socialists, communists, and anarchists in the Franco camp, from the first day onwards. I venture to suggest that perhaps it is not so much an anarchist but a Spanish habit to massacre one’s enemies wholesale. But though he does not deny the facts about the other camp, he is wholly impermeable to the argument.

His information allows of gencra1izations concerning what I observed yesterday in Port Bou: The ‘double regime’ between the ordinary administration and the committees which I found there exists in Barcelona too, and seems to exist all over Spain. In Barcelona there rules, besides the old regional administration of the Catalan Gcneralitat, the new Comite Central de Milicias (Central Militia Committee), composed, on a basis of a parity, of all anti-Franco political parties and trade unions, but in fact under the preponderant influence of the anarchists. Its president, as a matter of fact, is not an anarchist; it is Scfior Jaume Miravittles, a young man of twenty-eight, member of the Esquerra, former adjutant of Macia in some of his attempts at *coups d’etat,* but originally an anarchist, who has participated, as a youngster, in anarchist terrorism. ‘But there is only one real power in Barcelona,’ says my foreign interlocutor, ‘the CNT.’ So far does this go that documents signed only by the regular administration are worthless. A man will do well to bear with him, besides some document from the Generalitat, either a recommendation from CNT headquarters or, better still, a pass from the Generalitat countersigned both by the CNT and the UGT. There is no authority besides the trade unions, and, in Barcelona, the anarchist CNT is by far the greatest among the trade-union organizations ...

In the afternoon, I had my first interview with the PSUC, the unified Socialist-Communist Party. The ‘Colon’, their headquarters, is a beehive, and on the ground floor is a recruiting office, which makes the muddle worse. Still, after some time we find the foreign Press bureau of the party. Everything is in transition from chaos to genesis; this particular bureau has just been created; my English socialist companion and I are their first visitors and we have all the benefit of it.

The party has arisen out of the union of four political groups, of which the Catalan socialists and the communists (who, in the rest of Spain, have still their independent party organizations) are the most important. This union was already prepared before the revolt, and effected immediately aftl’rwards. It is an important indication of how much the antagonism between communists and socialists has abated, not only in Catalonia, and not even in Spain only; for nothig could bC’ dmll’ without the assC’l t of the Communist International. Gerwrally s1waking, the communists seem to havt’ had the better of the socialists in the negotiations. They had by far the weaker organization, but have secured the affiliation of the unifled party to the Communist International. But the rml strength of the PSUC is neither in the old socialist nor in the old communist membership; it lies in the affiliation of the UGT, the socialist trade unions, I question my informants of the Press bureau about the groups which the UGT is controlling in Barcelona. It holds, I am told, the allegiance of about half of the railwaymen, of the banking employees, and of a very large percentage of till’ State and municipal employees; a few days ago the CADZI, the central union of the private employees, joined it. My PSUC informants are frank in admitting that among the manual workers the CNT is by far the stronger element.

Then briefly we touch on the burning questions of the day. There are political and militia committees everywhere, representing the parties and trade unions. How is it, I ask, that there are no Soviets proper (as in Asturias, in 1934) formed out of deputies elected directly by thC’ workers in their factories. ‘It is because everything turns upon the military problems,’ is the answer, which docs not sound very convincing to me. One talk with either a militia-man or a reactionary will convince any observcr that in Barcelona things are far from turning entirl’ly upon military matters. Or were the wholesale killings of priests and employers and the burning of churches ‘military matters’? Perhaps the PSUC would like things to be so concentrated on military matters, but the CNT obviously would not. So I am reduced to inferences. It is the CNT which is in a position to decide whether Soviets ought to be created or not to be created. If there arc no Soviets, it is probably because the CNT does not want Soviets. If it wanted them, the UGT could not prevent it. And I muse that after all the attitude of the CNT is explicable by the fact that it holds the factories through its powerful tradeunion organization, and that Soviet elections could contribute nothing to its power, but would, inevitably, give every othl’r party a chance to test its strength in the factories. In Russia, too, the communists, in 1917, became less interested in the Soviets when they had a safe hold over the country as a *party.*

What is happening in the countryside? It seems, according to my PSUC informants, that things there arc much less quiet than they look if you pass through it in the train. There has been, obviously, the same kind of massacres, mainly directed against the landowners, and, if these were absentees, against their representatives on the spot. ‘What has been done with their lands?’ I ask. Again the answl’r lacks definiteness, as it did about the Soviet problem. Every party, it appears, has its own land policy, and only one fact is certain; the large landowners and in general the partisans of the military rising have been ex- propriated. The anarchists, it seems, favour the cn•ation of agricultural communities somewhat after the model of the Russian kolchozes; the villages should work the land in common, both that formerly belonging to the large landowners and the peasants’ own land, and distribute the produce out of communal granaries. Their practice would be more ‘enthusiastic’, more imitative of a kingdom of heaven than in Russia; for the anarchists, where they arc in supreme command of the villages, try to abolish money and to procure the products of the outsidl’ world through direct l’xchange with the urban trade unions. This, of course, is an ideal and the anarchists have put it into effect only in a few cases. Still, the PSUC people dislike this playing at Utopia. Thl’y themselves arc in favour of private peasant propl’rty, and, where th<“y haVl’ things in hand, try to persuade thl’ richer peasants to give part of their land to thl’ poor, in ordl’!” to equalize landt’d property. This idl’al also is realized only in a few cases. To nw it seems very Christian, but I wonder what sort of ‘persuasion’ can induce rich peasants to give part of their land to the poor; it seems to me at least as Utopian a policy as the anarchist panacea of abolishing money. ‘Why’, I ask, ‘is there no central decree regulating the whole matter?’ The Madrid Government is opposed to that, and the expropriations are made ***de** facto,* is the answer. Again, I am not satisfied. The Madrid Government has no practical say whatsoever in Catalonia, which was already passing independent decrees about its agrarian problems in 1932. If there is no general legislation, it is because the Gener- alitat, not the Madrid Government, does not want to make laws about the matter. And this is quite intelligible. Why legislate where there is no power to enforce laws? The anarchists, on their side, perhaps do not feel strong enough to impose their ideals upon all the villages of Catalonia. So things are allowed to drift.

Next question: How will the militia be organized? On this point, which, in fact, is the decisive political problem of the moment, the antagonism between PSUC and anarchists becomes overt. The anarchists arc in favour of the ‘militia system’. This means, my PSUC man explains, that they organize columns from among their members and sympathizers, under the political control of the anarchist organizations, and paid mainly by the factories which the anarchists control; these columns are commanded by elected political commissaries, who appoint their own officers, purely in the capacity of technical advisers. In this shape, the militia, I am induced to think, must be a powerful instrument of th<· strongest political group, which, in the circumstances, is the anarchists. And now a few occasional remarks from reactionary foreigners come back to my mind. They spoke about the anarchists having kept not only thousands of rifles, but even cannon, captured in the barracks of the military, which they keep out of town, for an emergency in the course of the revolution. And everybody seemed to expect a second anarchist coup, this time not directed against the fascists but against the Esquerra, with which the PSUC seems to be more or less at one; anyway, two days ago, they sent three of their members to join the Generalitat, whereas the CNT and the Trotskyists continue to abstain from participation in the legal Government.

The PSUC, on the contrary, I am told at their foreign Press bureau, is in favour of the ‘army system’, as opposed to the ‘militia system’, and in that are at one with both the Generalitat and the official Madrid Governmmt. Whal the army system is goes without saying: A regular army with officers in command and political cornmissars only as advisers in political matters; the officers not ek•cted but named by the higher commands; the units not grouped together as men of the same political faith, but from ex- clusin•ly military considerations; the whole at the orders of the legal Government, the Generalitat. In one word, the PSUC want an army at the orders of the Government in which they participate, whereas the anarchists want an army at their O\rn orders. Al the same time the PSUC idea of an army reAects both the communist and the socialist tcndencv towards centralization, whereas the anarchists follow ti1eir lib<·rtarian ideals. The formation of an ‘army’ would probably increase the efficiency of the forces of the republic. The formation of a ‘militia’, though certainly dctrinlental to tlle fight against Franco, would favour the next step forward of the social revolution. This time, in contrast to all the problems discussed before, the issue is clear. The depth of the antagonism bdween Esquerra and PSUC on the one hand and CNT and POU^1 on the other becomes intelligible. In the evening, surprisingly, the newspapers brought the news that the three PSUC members of the Gencralitat had n•signed, kaving the Esquerra alone in charge again. \\1hat had happened? A conAict between Esquerra and PSUC? I could not believe it. But what else could one believe?

Puzzled, I went out into the streets again; they were seething as ever. Before one of the churches in the Ramblas, now completely in ruins, a group of militia-men is chatting with some women, and they arc making fun at the expense of the church and of the clergy. The conversation is in Catalan, yet I am able to grasp its general trend. There arc two main themes which call forth that special kind of laughter that expresses both hatred and contempt. The one is the greediness of the clergy: the church of the poor, the church whose realm is not of this world, has proved very clever in securing the best of the pk•asurcs of this world. The second, proffered, of course, with still more laughter, is the alleged objectionable conduct of the priests, who, if you are to believe them, are professionals of chastity. The whole conversation is neither original nor, I believe, in any way revealing as to the deeper motives of the church-burning. But it is interesting to watch, how, in its attack against the Church, Spanish anarchism has taken over and adapted to its own use all the arguments used against the Catholic Church by the Protestant pamphleteers of the sixteenth century. Is the Spanish Church itself similar to the English and German Catholic Church of the Reformation era? A young American business man, whose acquaintance I made late in the afternoon, and who, surprisingly, is very much in sympathy with the anarchists-true, he has lived so long in Barcelona as to become half a Catalan-says things to this effect, comparing the Spanish clergy detrimentally with his French brethren; the latter cultured, devout, sincere, and decent, and the former, on the average, he says, just the contrary.

This young American is an interesting personality in more than one respect, and 6rst of all because he shows, by his own attitude, the enormous sway of the revolution over the souls of people one would not expect to be touched by the revolutionary spirit. The business of this young man is ruined, he says. He has been well to do, and in a few days has lost practically all his wealth, so that he can only just manage to continue to live decently. He has never been involved in politics before. One would expect him to be furious, full of hatred against the revolutionaries. But he is not. He could go any day and start a new life at home, being a 6rst-rate specialist in his trade. But he does not want to. He loves this soil and this people; and he does not mind, he says, the loss of his property, provided there will be instead of the old order of things a better, nobler, and happier commonwealth.

He is full of admiration for the anarchists, who obviously are little less than saviours in the opinion of some and little less than devils in the opinion of others. What is most sympathetic to him is obviously their contempt of money. The communists, he says, the 6rst day after the victory, put in economic claims, such as allowances for the widows of the fighters killed in the defence of the republic. The anarchists did not say a single word about allowances or wages, or working hours. They simply contend that every sacrifice must be made in support of the revolution, without reward. The determinate fact, anyway, is that wages have been increased hardly anywhere since 19 July, least of all in the factories managed by the CNT ...

**** 7 August.

I spent most of the morning in an unavailing attempt to get passes for my English companion and for myself. The disorder in the Government offices is not a pleasant sight. Nobody seems to know about anything and when you happen to find the man in charge, it takes an hour to get a document of a few lines typewritten. Sick of such incompetence, I managed, in the afternoon, to get an interview at the German section of the CNT (the CNT, or more correctly, the AIT, its international organization, has sections in most European nations). They have their seat in the palatial building of the Fomcnto de Trabajo Nacional, where Camb6 had his private apartments as well as his offices; they keep this building in model cleanliness and order. The reception is polite, even friendly, but in their behaviour there is much more of the traditional *grandeza* of the Spanish aristocracy than was the case at the PSUC; in every word they say these people of CNT headquarters display an inner conviction that now they are the real masters of the country, that it is of their own free choice that they are not yet masters officially, and that, in consequence, they can allow themselves the luxury of friendliness, but need not court anybody.

The young German I am talking with is obviously not a man used to political diplomacy; he says what he thinks, and with the ***naivete*** so characteristic of many people in these days he admits more than he ought to from the point of view of propaganda. His information concentrated on two aspects, the one concerning the past, the other the future. To be true, it was I who forced the discussion of the past upon him. The conviction had grown on me in these two days of my stay in Barcl’]ona that thl” change in anarchist policy as compared with only a frw years ago was a vc1y big one, and I wanted to know what the anarchists themselves thought about it. How was it, I asked my young man, that the anarchists, anti-parliamentarians and opponents of every sort of government, did not launch the slogan of electoral abskntion in February 1936, and did participate in the armed defence of the Esquerra Government in July? An awkward question for him, and the answer ran on lines only too well known from other labour movements. It seems that socialism and anarchism have that in common with catholil”ism that, whatever their change of attitude in practice, the dogma is never allowed to change. My German anarcho-syndicalist did not deny that the facts I alleged were true, and hl’ did not attempt to deny that there was innovation in them. But, of course, it was innovation on till’ lines of thl’ old principles of anarchism. In February they had allowl’d their followers to vote for the Popular Front only in order to free their own comrades in jail; and in July they had fought, not for the defence of the legal Government, hut in order to move swiftly towards the abolition of thl’ State. This sterile scholasticism was brought forth with a nice display of genuine conviction. I dropped the subject, convinced, on my side, that it is useless to argue about thl’ dogma with the faithful unless one shares their faith. The discussion of the future promised to he more interesting.

And it was, because it contained a full confirmation of everything I had heard about the intentions of the anarchists, and at the same time put it into an intelligible context. The eyes of the CNT leaders ar<” fixed upon the Saragossa front. They makl” their policy depemll’nt upon the tum things down there would takl’. As long as Saragossa is in the hands of the insurgents, thl’y haw obviously no intention of attempting a change of rcginw; as soon as Saragossa is taken, it will make all thl’ dilferl”nce. At present, he explains, the anarchists do not consider wholcsall’ abolition of private property. They have introducl’d <em>comu</em>nismo *libertario,* i.e. full community of goods and abolition of money, in certain villages where they arc supreme, but have no intention of forcing it upon the peasants at present. Neither do they intend wholesale socialization of industry. On the contrary, wherever the owners of factories and shops are available, they force them to continue to manage their business. This docs not matter very much in the large factories, whose owners generally arc not available, but it matters a lot-as every look about the streets confirms-in the small shops and factories. Neither do the anarchists attempt, at present, to do away with the Gencralitat and to create instead a regime exclusively based on the committees. All they do for the time being is to make preparations for more complete change later. These preparations consist in the local introduction of *comun!smo libertario* where there is no resistance; in the organization of the management by the CNT of those factories whose owners are not available; in the development of CNT control in the other factories; in the creation and extension of the militia; and, last, not least, in the strengthening of the political committees and the gradual extension of their sphere of action, to make them able, at the decisive hour, to take over power without much difficulty. And I am given to understand that the fall of Saragossa- which he seems to think is near-will bring the decisive hour. ‘Then’, he explains, ‘we shall consider a policy nearer to the fulfilment of our maximum programme, i.e. the full abolition of the State (meaning by that the replacing of the Generali tat by the committees ), even if other parties resist our aims.’ In one word: before the fall of Saragossa, only preparatory steps; afterwards, a revolution to abolish the double regime and make tbe CNT supreme. The surprising thing about it is the limitation of the outlook to Catalonia. These people know that at present a second revolution would sever them from Madrid and catch them between Madrid, Franco, and foreign intervention. But why in the world the fall of Saragossa should make all the difference I am at a loss to understand.

What about the resignation of the three PSUC members of the Generalitat? It appears that they have been forced to resign because their attempt to join the Government had been prompted by the desire to cross precisely those ‘preparatory moves’ of the CNT which my informant had just mentioned. The PSUC wanted to relieve thC’ Cen- cralitat from the stigma of being a government of “bourgeois nationalists’ only, and attempted to strip the CNT of the claim to be the one legitimate representativC’ of the working-class as against the bourgeois Government. Joining the Ceneralitat, they could proclaim the Ceneralitat to be a joint government of both the nationalist Esquerra *arul* of the trade union. That is precisely why the anarchists claimed, in the form of an ultimatum, the immediate resignation of the PSUC ministers, and threatened to leaw the central militia committee if their claim was not granted. This latter step would have meant immediate civil war in the streets of Barcdona; the Ceneralitat could not govern without the connivance of the anarchists as expressed by their co-operation within the militia committee, which, in its turn, co-operates with the CPneralitat. And as the PSUC are trade unionists, but far weaker than the anarchists, and cannot genuinely claim to represent the Barcelona working class, they had to give in to this pressure, and resign. Nothing can be done, at present, without the consent of the CNT.

**** 8 August.

This morning I visited one of the colledivizpd factorieS, workshops of the general bus company. Success or failure of the revolution will depend, to a large extent. upon tlw ability of the trade unions to manage tlw expropriated factories. In Russia socialization meant at first, and for a long time, hardly anything but wholesale disintegration of industry. How is the situation in Spain?

Undeniably, the factory which I saw is a hig success for the CNT. Only three weeks after the beginning of the civil war, two weeks after the end of th<· general strike, it seems to run as smoothly as if nothing had happened. I visited the men at their machines. The rooms looked tidy, the work was done in a regular manner. Since socialization this factory had repaired two buses, finished one which had been under construction, and constructed a complet<-ly new one. The latter wore the inscription ‘constructed under workers’ control’. It had been completed, the rnanagcnu•nt claimed, in five days, as against an average of seven days under the previous management. Com- plek success, then.

It is a large factory, and things could not have been made to look nice for the !Jenefit of a visitor, had they really beell in a bad muddle. Nor do I think that any preparations Wl’re made for my visit. Still, one must certainly not gl•neralizc from this one expPriencC’. There an• many facts which make this particular concern a privileged **mw.** Firstly, and speaking quite generally, Catalonia is not Spain; tlw Catalans as a whole are a people with a kf’en SC’nse of business, and the managing committee ( eomposed entirely of fornler worh•rs ) discussed with me the various aspects of financial management with an interest characteristic of the Catalans, hut which would be strange with true Castilians. These Catalan workers have actually started their management with the introduction of cuts in eX[Wnditure, and there is nothing they arc more proud of. Secondly, this factory is nm by engineers, who all over the world arc one of the most intelligent Sections of the working class. What would happen in the tcxtik• industry in Catalonia? 0 Thirdly, tlw CNT was careful to select, for my bellefit, a thoroughly anarchist factory, without any competition bl’tween CNT and UGT. The new management had !Jeen formally elected, when work was n•sumed, by tlle workers them- selw•s; but in fact it seenled to be the old factorv committee of the CNT, which was an establislled at;thority among the men long before the civil war. It must be easy for such a managcnwnt to make itself obeyed. The technical side of the work of the bus company is easy. Aftl’r all, Barcelona has no urgent need of new buses and much the most of the work done is simple repairing; the mechanics, whether CNT or Esciuerra, arc ready to cooperate, and the factory, in consequence, is rid of the prohlPm which was so catastrophic in Russia: the obstruc^ tion of the higher technical personnd. Being mainly a repair shop, this particular factory needs littk• raw material, and is thus free from what is the biggest difficulty of the Catalan industry at present. There is much talk in the town of serious difficulties with the raw material for most factories. Finally, the bus company is in a privileged position as regards finance. It gets its income from bus fares, which come in almost exactly as in peacetime. There is no problem of marketing its product.

{1} Back in London, **I lwnrd** hitter complainls about Llw mismanagement of Lhe trxlilc industry and the d<·strudion of its machinery. l lere again, prohahly, one ought to abstain from hasty generaliza- linns.

But if it would be hasty to generalize from the very favourable impression made by this particular factory, one fact remains: it is an extraordinary achievement for a group of workers to take over a factory, under however favourable conditions, and within a few days to make it run with complete regularity. It bears brilliant witness to the general standard of efficiency of the Catalan worker and to the organizing capacities of the Barcelona trade unions. For one must not forget that this firm has lost its whole managing staff. I had the opportunity to look at the wages and salary list, which showed that the president, the directors, the chief engineer, and the second engineer had ‘disappeared’ (which is a mild way of saying that they have been killed). It meant economics for the factory, the members of the committee explained calmly, exactly as the suppression of pensions to private friends of the former management and the fixing of a maximum salary of 1,00 pesetas a month (the wages of the workers had not been increased since socialization ). Ruthless cruelty in the civil war went together, in these people, with a keen business sense, an attitude characteristic of the Catalan.

In the afternoon I acted as an interpreter in a confidential conference of my British friend with a leader of the PSUC. So much can be said, that the leaders of the PSUC are perfectly well aware of what the anarchists intend after the fall of Saragossa, and are much perturbed by this prospect. Their dislike of the anarchists is at least as great as tlw anarchists<sup>’</sup> dislih· of them, and is bv no means a product of the events of these last days. To break anarchist domination in thl’ Barcelona trade-union movenwnt sl’ems to lw tl}(‘ir chief aim. In the nwantinw, conditions sepm to be pretty had. A few days ago the three leaders of the UGT minority among the port workers we1T killed by the anarehists, am! though the CNT has offieially disclaimed responsibility and condemned the erime, nobody believes that there is any eertainty that sueh things will not happen aµ;ain.

Anarchist violence is not limited to their spl’cial enemies. Yesterday the POU\1 was the object of anarehist attack. A group of POU\I militia had assembled with their arms in a building for on<· of their regular gatherings, when anarchist motor-lorril’s :.urh·cd, machine-guns were placed before the doors of the POU^! nll’eting, and its participants disarmed under this pressure, the anarchists openly declaring that they saw no reason why the POUM should be allowed to incrcasl’ its armanwnts and so threatm the domination of the CNT. A protest has hem loclg<·d hy the POUM with the Militia Central Committee. hut the *fait accompli* was unchangeable.

**** 9 August.

This Sunday morning I 1iste1wd to an anarchist mass meeting in the ‘Olympia’. Being late, I did not get into the building; many thousands of people stood outside listening to the loud-speakers. There was no loud enthusiasm, hut silent and concentratl’d attl’ntion with oeca- sional C’Xprl’ssions of assent. The speah•rs protcstl’(l emphatically against the plan of till’ Madrid Governnll’nt to reorganiz<· the old army, and cl<frmkcl the anarchist ‘militia system’. They expressly rcjcckcl the Russian authoritarian system; Spain ought not to imitate the Hussian Hevolution. Garcia Oliver, the actual kader of the Barcelona organization, admitted the stalemate at the Saragossa front, first excused it hy the inevitable slowness of the reorganization of industry for the production of ammunition, but then went on: ·Now, comradl’s, we do not talk about the six-hour clay or the eight-hour day or even of any fixed number of working hours. How many hours have we to work now? As many as arc necessary for the victory of the revolution.’ There was a dead silence when these words were uttered, and it is difficult to say whether this silence indicated support or opposition. Definitely, Oliver has a way with him to tell the masses unpleasant truths. But *Solidaridacl O/Jrem,* the anarchist daily, did not repeat this sentence in its report of the meeting.

In the afternoon I went to the Tibidabo, a suburban country resort which was, in the early days and probably still is, the scene of many nightly executions. But on this Sunday afternoon it was crowded with peaceful people, both young and old, who enjoyed themselves without, apparently, thinking of the horrors either of war or of revolution. Below, in and outside the port, lay the men- of-war of four nations under their eye>.

**** 10 August.

I spent the whole day at various offices but finally succeeded in procuring documents and a car to take me to the front.

**** 13 August.

We have been stuck in Seriiiena for twenty-four hours, first to my disgust and then to my increasing satisfaction. It was a fight to get *vales* (chits) for our meals and lodging, each meal having to be claimed separately from the local committee. Regular provision is only made for inhabitants and the militia, but Wt’ were invited, after some discussion, to take our meals in the common refectory of the militia, and so we got to know many of them.

After a pleasant chat with the head of the local committee, an anarchist baker, we left the refectory late at night for our *fonda.* As we were leaving the guard at the entry of the refectory told the president of the committee something, and he invited us to follow him to the Plaza, where a few days ago the church had been burned. There have been executions in Serificna, **as** everywhere else. Among the total of about a dozen victims was the notarypublic, whose house and offices, immediately behind the Plaza, contained all the documents relating to rural property and many other financial matters. Now these documents, together with all others found in his offices, were being burned in a huge bonfire in the middle of the Plaza, so that no valid written evidence of former property rights will survive. The Hames rose higher than the roof of the church, and young anarchists went on carrying more material from the notary’s house, which they threw upon the Hames with triumphant gestures. A number of other people silently glared into the Aames. It was by no means just a matter-of-fact destruction of some unwanted documents, but an act carrying for its participants a deep significance as a symbol of the destruction of the old economic order.

What was the reality corresponding to this symbolic act? Evidently the burning of documents concerning rural property would have concrete meaning only if the private ownership of this property itself was being abolished at the same time. Nothing of the kind had been done. The local committee under anarchist guidance had abolished rents and expropriated four large estates with the agricultural machines belonging to them. Peasant property, with the exception of the property of those executed, had not been touched, but many of the notary’s documents must refer to it. Something else, however, had been achieved! In contrast with Fraga the peasants had not just stood bewildered before the achievements of the revolution, they had utilized them. In conversation the expropriated machines were mentioned again and again.

I had become suspicious of much of the talk about the agrarian revolution, and was doubtful whether the peasants were really using these machines, as some of them said they were, or were only vaguely hoping to do. But I was convinced of the reality of the improvement by my own eyes. In the morning I picked up the first two anarchist youngsters I met in the streets and asked them to show me the threshing machines. They led me to a group of granaries outside the village. In front of them stood four of the expropriated machines, threshing enormous heaps of wheat. At every one of them a group of about ten peasants was at work. One could see, even from their clothes, and they confirmed it in conversation, that they were all peasants (not landless agricultural labourers ); togelher they were threshing the wheat of one of them; they were going to move the machine the next day to another granary, to thresh the wheat of the next member of the group. Work was swift, faces were shining, and as far as I could judge the handling of the machines was competent. A village mechanic was available for repairs. All evidence pointed to the lack of compulsion in this arrangement for the collective use of expropriated machines; there were other granaries where people worked with their out-of-date tools and were frank to admit that they did not want to work the machines; most of these belonged to the older generation. The committee intended to use the machines for threshing the harwst of the expropriated estates, as soon as the peasant collectives had finished their threshing, and to use this harvest as a wheat store for the militia, to be stored in till’ church.

To sum up: as in Fraga so in Scrifil•na there was a numerous politically indiffen•nt clement, and an active anarchist nucleus, mostly of the younger generation. In Fraga this nucleus, under the influence of the Durutti militia column, had helped to kill an l’normous number of people in the village, but they had achieved nothing else. In Seriiiena a similar nucleus was left to its own devices, for ahead lay not an anarchist but a POUM column, and relations bet”·cen the anarchist village and the POUM militia were far from good. But in spite of this, with much k•ss killing, till’ anarchist nucleus had achieved a considerable improvement for the peasants, and yet was wise enough not to try to force the conversion of the reluctant part of the village, but to wait till the example of the others should take effect.

One important result of this was that the relations between the peasants and part of the village intelligentsia were decidedly good. In the streets of Serifiena, for the first time in many days, I met a man dressed in bourgeois clothes; he was surrounded by a large group of peasants and talking with them in a friendly and animated way. He looked like a higher Catalan official, but turned out to be the village veterinary surgeon. Obviously he was not afraid of maintaining his bourgeois appearance. Later on I met his daughter, a nurse in the hospital which had been improvised in the village for the militia. She was evidently serving there more competently than the volunteer nurses from Barcelona, and was very proud of her service for the revolution. There seem to be many intellectuals who, though Catalan nationalists in their political opinions, wholeheartedly collaborate with the anarchists; others, like the aviators I met, are more reluctant.

The hospital seemed quite decent for an improvised establishment. It was under the charge of the local doctor, but when I visited it only four out of sixteen beds were occupied by patients suffering from disease. The adjacent hospital for wounded had only one case. Anyway, this war is not producing many casualties; only the massacres in the hinterland are.

**** 6 September.

We passed the night at Pozoblanco, together with some Spanish journalists, who were in no doubt about the disastrous result of the day, in spite of their eloquent and optimistic telegrams to their newspapers. One of them called my attention to the southern sector of the Cordova front, not from the military, but from the political and psychological point of view. I was well advised in following his hint. In the afternoon, after a long and trying drive, we entered Castro de! Rio.

Castro, a typically populous and wretched Andalusian ***pueblo,*** is one of the oldest anarchist centres in Andalusia. Its CNT group looks back upon an existence of twenty-six years, and, since the defeat of the guardia in Castro, the anarchists are the one existing organization. The beginning of the revolution in Castro was very similar to that in Pozoblanco; revolt of the guardia together with the caziques and the rich against the republic, first successful, then leading to the siege of the village by its own inhabitants, the starving out of the guardia, their surrender, and finally the inevitable wholesale massacre. The insurgents, whose main lines run a few miles from the village, had attacked it twice since, but without success. All entries were heavily barricaded and watched with unusual technical competence. And so the local anarchists had had time to introduce their anarchist Eden, which, in most points, resembled closely the one introduced hy the Anabaptists in Munster in 1534.

The salient point of the anarchist regime in Castro is the abolition of money. Exchange is suppressed; production has changed very little. The land of Castro belonged to three of the greatest magnates of Spain, all of them absentees, of course; it has now hcen expropriated. The local *ayuntamiento* has not merged with the committee, as everywhere else in Andalusia, but has been dissolved, and the committee has taken its place and introduced a sort of Soviet system. The committee took over the estates, and runs them. They have not even been merged, but are worked separately, each by the hands previously employed on its lands. Money wages, of course, have hcen abolished. It would be incorrect to say that they have been replaced by pay in kind. There is no pay whatever; the inhabitants are fed directly from the village stores.

Under this system, the provisioning of the village is of the poorest kind; poorer, I should venture to say, than it can possibly have been before, even in the wretched conditions in which Andalusian ***brazeros*** arc wont to live. The *pueblo* is fortunate in growing wheat, and not only olives, as many other ***pueblos*** of its kind; so tlwrc is a any rate bread. Moreover, the village owns large herds of sheep, expropriated with the estates, so there is some meat. And they still have a store of cigarettes. That’s all. I tried in vain to get a drink, either of coffee or wine or lemonade. The village bar had been closed as nefarious commerce. I had a look at the stores. They Were so low as to foretell approaching starvation. But the inhabitants seemed to be proud of this state of things. They were pleased, as they told us, that coffee-drinking had come to an end; they seemed to regard this abolition of useless things as a moral improvement. What few commodities they needed from outside, mainly clothes, they hoped to get by direct exchange of their surplus in olives (for which, however, no arrangement had yet been made). Their hatred ofthe upper class was far less economic than moral. They did not want to get the good living of those they had expropriated, but to get rid of their luxuries, which to them seemed to be so many vices. Their conception of the new order which was to be brought about was thoroughly ascetic.

** Part IV. ANARCHISM TODAY: Anarchist Themes in the Contemporary World

<quote>
*Anarchism can claim, almost alone among modern ideologies, the equivocal merit of never having really been tried out. Not having come to power, it was never discredited in power, and in this sense it presents an untarnished image, the image of an idea which, in practical terms, has had nothing but a future. Success has not sullied it, and with the young in their present mood this is a unique and powerful advantage.*

*-George Woodcock, Anarchism Revisited*
</quote>

The defeat of the anarchists in the Spanish Civil War spelled the end of anarchism as a mass movement. Anarchist groups and federations continued to exist in a number of places, but they functioned as lillle more than ideological sects. Anarchism by and large lost those close ties with the labor and socialist movements which, since the time of the First International, had made it a rival of Marxist socialism. This continues to be the case today, and there have been no significant signs in recent years of a revival of anarchism as a political movement in its own right.

But just as the anarchist idea antedated the rise of the modern industrial labor movement, it has survived the loss of its connection with that movement. Once again it is exerting an influence, though one that is highly diffuse and not always easy to identify. The astonishing resurgence of interest in anarchism in the last decade or so suggests that it is as relevant to the problems of today as it was to the problems of the nineteenth century-and possibly even more so. For if the rise of modern industry seemed to prove the efficacy of centralization, large economic and political units, and hierarchical modes of authority rather than their anarchist alternatives, postindustrial society now seems in dire need of some dose of the latter. Thus the traditional anarchist values of voluntary association, communal life, and autonomy of the individual appear increasingly attractive as antidotes to the excesses of modern industry and technology, whether capitalist or socialist. The following pages illustrate some of the varied ways in which anarchist themes have consciously been applied to contemporary issues and needs. Unlike the anarchist masters represented in Part I of this book, present-day exponents of anarchist ideas are less concerned with the immediate reconstruction of society as a whole than with utilizing those ideas to pinpoint some of the ills of the advanced industrial nations and prescribe treatment for them. The ease with which they find inspiration in the anarchist tradition indicates the vitality of a body of thought that was formerly believed applicable, if at all, to a few poor and backward countries on the fringes of Europe. This suggests the need for a new look at historical anarchism, a reappraisal of its contribution focusing not on its success or failure as a socioeconomic system but on its acute diagnosis of some of the central problems that have confronted man and his society in the Western world since the eighteenth century.

*** Existentialism, Marxism and Anarchism

**Herbert Read: Anarchism and Man’s Freedam**

Sir Herbert Read (1893–1968) was probably the best-known philosophical spokesman of anarchism in modern Britain. During his long literary career he won distinction as a poet and as a critic of art, literature, and society. He also found time, particularly in the years just before, during, and after World War II, to write a series of essays and pamphlets defending the principles of anarchism. Much of his social thought was derived from the anarchist masters, especially Kropotkin and Proudhon, and Read added little to it, but he did help to keep it before the public eye. His allegiance to anarchism was of a highly individualistic sort, and it did not prevent him from accepting a knighthood in 1953, an act which created some stir in anarchist circles.

The most interesting feature of his anarchism was the central place of art in his conception of the libertarian society. An artist himself, Read saw anarchism largely in aesthetic terms, as the political condition that best fosters the free creative powers of the individual. To Read it was art rather tha’n work that enabled man to improve the quality of his environment. “Every human being is potentially an artist,” he wrote, and in his vision of the future the standards of art were to be applied to every variety of work, so that each man would become an artist in his own way. He also advocated a system of education based on art, in the belief that an aesthetic education would release the spontaneous creative energy of the child and thereby produce harmonious individuals and a healthy society. These views brought him close to two earlier Englishmen with anarchist leanings, William Morris and Oscar Wilde, who also stressed the intimate connection between art and libertarianism, the former most notably in his utopian *News from* No*where* and the latter in the essay *The Soul* of *Man under Socialism.*

*Existentialism, Marxism and Anarchism develops* Read’s anarchist concept of freedom by comparing it to Marxist and existentialist concepts. Anarchism’s affinities with existentialism can, of course, be traced as far back as Stimer, whom Read mentions, and perhaps also Bakunin. In this discussion Read reaffirms his view of anarchism as the form of social organization which gives full play to the individual’s creative spontaneity in closest harmony with his own nature and with physical nature.

The essay was first published as a pamphlet by Freedom Press in 1949. It is reprinted here in its entirety from a collection of Read’s essays entitled *Anarchy and Order: Essays in Politics* (London: Faber and Faber Ltd., 1954), pages 141–58. This volume gathers together all of Read’s previous writings dealing specifically with anarchism. Read was also the author of a vast number of works of poetry, fiction, and criticism. A valuable source of information about him is *Sir Herbert Read **(18931968):** A Memorial Symposium* (London, 1970), edited by Robin Skelton, first published as a special issue of *The Malahat Review* (Victoria, B.C., Canada), January 1969. George Woodcock’s contribution to this symposium surveys Read’s career as an anarchist.

The origins of the existentialist movement are usually traced back to Kierkegaard, whose main philosophical works appeared between 1838 and 1855. As these were written in Danish, they did not immediately get into general circulation. Various selections made by Barthold were published in Germany between 1873 and the end of the nineteenth century, but the first complete German translation of his works only appeared between 1909 and 1923, and the Anglo-American translation began as late as 1936. However, there is no excuse for making Kierkegaard the founder of existentialism. It is true that he gave the movement a specifically Christian twist, but all the main ideas were already present in the philosophy of Schelling, and one should remember that Kierkegaard, however much he may have criticized Schelling, was nevertheless at first profoundly influenced by this great German philosopher, and in 1841 made a special voyage to Berlin in order to sit at his feet.

Incidentally, long before Kierkegaard our own Coleridge had been reading Schelling’s early works, and we find in Coleridge’s lesser-known writings a good deal of existentialist thought. As I have pointed out elsewhere, 0 all the main concepts of modem existentialism-Angst, the abyss, immediacy, the priority of existence to essence -are to be found in Coleridge, and most of these concepts Coleridge no doubt got from Schelling.

It is necessary for my present purpose to give some general description of the existentialist attitude in philosophy, but I am not a professional philosopher and I do not intend to use the technical terminology in which quite obvious facts or ideas are often clothed. It would seem that the philosopher who calls himself an existentialist begins with an acute attack of self-consciousness, or ***inwardness,*** as he prefers to call it. He is suddenly aware of his separate lonely individuality, and he contrasts this, not only with the rest of the human species, but with the whole goings-on of the universe, as they have been revealed by scientific investigation. There he is, a 6nite and insignificant speck of protoplasm pitched against the infinite extent of the universe. It is true that modem physicists may have succeeded in proving that the universe itself is also finite, but that only makes matters worse, for now the universe shrinks to littleness and is pitched against the still more mysterious concept of Noth*ingness.* This is not merely something infinite; it is something humanly inconceivable. Heidegger has devoted one of his most intriguing essays to an attempt-not to define the indefinable-but to define the negation of Being, NonBeing, or Nothingness.

*{1} Coleridge* **as** *Critic **( Faber, 19–19 ),*** **pp. *29–30.***

So there we have the Little Man gaping into the abyss, and feeling-for he still retains an infinite capacity for sensation-not only very small, but terrified. That feeling is the original *Angst,* the dread or anguish, and if you do not feel *Angst* you cannot be an existentialist. I am going to suggest presently that we need not necessarily feel *Angst,* but all existentialists do, and their philosophy begins in that fact.

There are two fundamental reactions to *Angst:* we can say that the realization of man’s insignificance in the universe can be met by a kind of despairful defiance. I may be insignificant, and my life a useless passion, but at least *I* can cock a snook at the whole show and prove the independence of my mind, my consciousness. Life obviously has no meaning, but let us pretend that it has. This pretence will at any rate give the individual a sense of responsibility: he can prove that he is a law unto himself, and he can even enter into agreement with his fellowmen about certain lines of conduct which, in this situation, they should all adopt. He is free to do this, and his freedom thus grows into a sense of responsibility. This is Sartre’s doctrine, but he does not make very clear what would happen supposing he could not persuade his fellowmen to agree on certain lines of conduct, or certain values. I think he would probably say that a measure of agreement is ensured by our human predicament: that being what we are, when our existential situation is made clear, we are bound to act freely in a certain way. Our necessity becomes our freedom. But I am not sure about this. The characters in Sartre’s novels and plays tend to act absurdly, or according to their psychological dispositions, and are not noticeably responsible to any ideal of social progress.

This aspect of existentialism Sl’l’llls to mt· to have a good deal in common with Vaihingl’r<sup>’</sup>s philosophy of ‘as if’. We cannot be sure that Wl’ arl’ frl’e, or that Wl’ arl’ responsible For our own destiny, but behave ‘as if’ Wl’ were. And by a natural extension existentialism l’Stablislll’s a relationship with pragmatism-it is significant that many of Sartre’s literary enthusiasms arc Anwrican, and America is the home of pragmatism. But, from Sartre<sup>’</sup>s point of view, pragmatism of any kind is too superficial: it is based on day-to-day procpdures, a sort of balancC’-Shel’I of SUe- cess and failure, whereas the l’Xislcntialist must for l’\‘C’r keep in view the terrifying nature of our human predicament. To that extl’nt, perhaps, existentialism repn•sents an advance in philosophical n·ctitude.

More profoundly still, the existentialists object to pragmatism and other such practical philosophiC’S (including, as we shall sec presently, marxism) on the ground that they are materialistic. Any Form of materialism, by making human values dependent on economic or social conditions, deprives man of his freedom. Fn•edom is the capacity to rise above one’s material environment. ‘The possibility of detaching oneself from a situation in ordN to take a point of view concerning it (says Sartre) is precisely what we call freedom. No sort of matC’rialism will ever explain this transcendence of a situation, followl’d by a turning back to it. A chain of causes and dfeds may well impel me to an action, or an attituck, which will itself be an effect and will modify till’ stall’ of the world: it cannot cause me to turn hack to my situation to apprehend it in its totality.<sup>’</sup>{1}

That turning-back to a situatio11 is the mctaphyskal act: there is nothing in our environment to compel us to adopt a metaphysical attitude. That is a process of rising supe- rior to our environment, of seeing things, of Sl’Cing all nature, from a point of view cxtcnml to nature. ThC” marxist may protest that that is all poppy-cock-there is no possibility of lifting ourselves outside nature by our own shoe-straps. But that is the crux of the whole question. The existentialist, it seems to me, is bound to assert that mankind has developed a special faculty, consciousness, or intellectual self-awareness, which enables him to do precisely that trick. In this matter I am inclined to be on the side of the existentialist. The higher forms of animal consciousness are connected with this impulse to detachment-detachment from the herd, from society, from any situation including the situation of man *vis a vis* the universe. It can be argued with force that precisely such capacity for detachment is the cause of our social disease, our disunity, and aggressiveness; but it must also be admitted that our major advances in scientific thought are also due to the development and use of this same faculty.

But there is a danger inherent in detachment which the existentialist fully realizes. It is the danger of idealism. In detachment we elaborate a philosophy, a social utopia, which has no relevance to the conditions we arc at any moment living through. The existentialist therefore says that man, having experienced his sense of detachment or freedom, must throw himself back into the social context with the intention of changing those conditions. Hence the doctrine of *engagement.* To quote Sartre again: ‘Revolutionary man must be a contingent being, unjustifiable but free, entirely immersed in the society that oppresses him, but capable of transcending this society by his effort to change it. Idealism mystifies him in that it binds him by rights and values that are already given; it conceals from him his power to devise roads of his own. But materialism also mystifies him, by depriving him of his freedom. The revolutionary philosophy must be a philosophy of transcendence.’

Before examining this doctrine from the point of view of marxism and anarchism, let us pause for a moment to examine the other typical reaction to *Angst,* the religious reaction, for that is an idealist attitude to which Sartre is also objecting. I am not sure that I can do justice to this attitude, but as it takes shape in the thought of Schelling, Coleridge, and Kierkegaard (and mrlier still, in Saint Augustine ), it seems to amount to this: We have the existential position-man confronted by the abyss of nothingness. It just does not make sense. Why am I here? Why all this complex structure, of which I am a part, a part become aware of itself? It is complete nonsense, but a simple hypothesis will make sense of it all-the prior existence of God. A transcendent creator responsible for the whole phantasmagoria of existence, responsible for me too, and my consciousness-how logical it all becomes ***I*** There may be difficult snags left over-the problems of evil and pain, for example-but a little ingmuity will soon get over them. We can’t expect even a celestial omnibus to work without a little friction. And so we get, immensely elaborated, the mystical Christian existentialism of Kierkegaard and Gabriel Marcel. I am not suggesting that this is the point of view of the average Christian, or the average theist of any kind; they usually rely on revelation, on sacred scriptures and ecstatic illumination; but in so far as the religious point of view competes in the philosophical field, it is independent of these special pleas, and relies on logical argument. It is another philosophy of ‘as if; it might be called the philosophy of ‘only thus’--0nly thus docs our existence make sense.

The sense, in such a case, is identical with what these philosophers call ‘essence’, and Sartre, if not Heidegger before him, has said that the fundamental thesis of existentialism is that existence precedes essence. Professor Ayer has attacked this proposition on logical grounds,{1} and it is indeed difficult to give it any precise meaning. ‘Essence’ has a confusing history as a philosophical term. It usually means what we can assert about anything apart from the mere fact of its existence ( i.e. subsistence ): the possibilities inherent in a thing: the Platonic ‘Idea’. Santayana, whose use of the term is a little peculiar, but nevertheless valuable in being what an avowed materialist can admit, defines the difference between existence and essence **as** that between what is always identical with itself and immutable and what, on the contrary, is in llux and indefinable. This agrees with Sartre’s notion of contingency; it is essence which allows for the possibility of change in the world. Santayana has a pretty little myth to describe the relationship: ‘Becoming, we might say, in the fierce struggle to generate he knew not what, begat Difference; and Differcnce, once born, astonished its parent by growing into a great swarm of Differences, until it exhibited all possible Differences, that is to say, until it exhibited the whole realm of essencc. Up to that time Becoming, who was a brisk bold lusty Daemon, had thought himself the cock of thc walk; but now, painful as it was for him to sec any truth whatever, he couldn’t help suspecting that he lived and moved only through ignorance, not being able to maintain the limitations of any moment nor to escape the limitations of the next, like a dancing Dervish that must lift one foot and then the other from the burning coals.’ {1}

{1} ***Horizon. July*** and ***August 1945. Ratimialist Annual,*** 1948.

That is by the way, but Santayana does bring out more clearly than any other philosopher I know the fact that it is by its very ideality, its non-existence, that essence is inwardly linked with existence-it is not a mere extension or part of that which exists. I do not think Professor Ayer appreciates this point, but I would not like to argue it out with him, because it is not mypoint, nor one to which I attach particular importance. But it does explain why Sartre can support a notion like freedom without being committed to that kind of idealism which involves a whole system of absolute values. I do not think it would make much difference to Sartre’s philosophy if for *freedom* we substituted the word flux. What we apprehend of the nature of things is subject to constant change, and the change is not so much inherent in the thing itself-in matter-as in our consciousness or apprehension of these essences. According to this view essences do not change, neither do they subsist in space or time. They are merely there when we perceive them. They belong to the object, but can exist without its material presence, like the grin of the Cheshire cat in *Alice in Wonderland.*

{1} Apologia pro mente.’ ***The Philosophy of Santayana.*** Ed. Paul Arthur Schilpp ( Northwestern University, Evanston, 1940), p. 526.

Rousseau’s mistake was to treat freedom as an essence, as an eternally subsisting value in mankind. Man is not in this sense ‘born free’. He is born a mere bundle of ffesh and bones, with freedom as one of the possibilities of his existence. The onus is on man to create the conditions of freedom.

Now all this may seem to be of merely theoretical interest, but on the contrary this is where existentialism is making its greatest contribution to philosophy. It is eliminating all systems of idealism, all theories of life or being that subordinate man to an idea, to an abstraction of some sort. It is also eliminating all systems of materialism that subordinate man to the operation of physical and economic laws. It is saying that man is the reality-not even man in the abstract, but the human person, you and I; and that everything else-freedom, love, reason, God-is a contingency depending on the will of the individual. In this respect existentialism has much in common with Max Stimer’s egoism. An existentialist like Sartre differs from Stimer in that he is willing to engage the ego in certain super-egoistic or idealistic aims. He has less **in** common with dialectical materialism which requires him to subordinate his personal freedom to political necessity; less still with Catholicism which requires him to subordinate his personal freedom to God. He seeks alliance with a militant humanism which by political and cultural means will in some unspecified way guarantee his personal freedom.

Let me admit at this stage of the argument that I find it possible to accept some of the fundamental principles of Sartre’s existentialism. I believe, for example, that all philosophy must begin in subjectivity. There are certain concrete bases of experience-the so-called scientific facts -to which we can give an existential reality, but though philosophy may use them as jumping-off ground, they do not in themselves involve the acceptance of a particular philosophy. If they did, we should 6<sup>nd</sup> all scientists professing the same philosophy, which is very far from being the case. Philosophy begins when we depart from existential facts and flounder about in the realm of essences. In that realm our subjective faculties-intuition, aesthetic sensibility, the esemplastic power (as Coleridge called it) of subsuming the many under the one-with all these personal and uncertain means we begin to construct a philosophy. We should still be guided by practical reason, scienti6c method, and logic; but these are the methods and not the substance of our discourse (a fact often forgotten by the logical positivists ). By virtue of this subjective activity, we reduce irrational essences into some kind of order, the order of a carefully constructed myth or fairy-tale (as in religion ) or the order of a coherent utopia (as in political idealism).{1}

The rationalist and materialist may protest that we are merely trying to reduce everything to the terms of our romantic idealism, but we can turn on him and prove that his philosophical structure, in spite of the pseudo- scienti6c jargon in which it is expressed, is in no way different. It is a structure of reason, and it is idealistic in that it depends on faith-faith that tomorrow will be the same as today, faith that human beings will behave in a way he can calculate beforehand, faith in reason itself, which is, after all, only the means by which the scientist kids himself that he understands existence. Scienti6c method may be one thing, and productive of separately ascertained truths between which there can only be relative discontinuity, a chaos of atomized facts; or scienti6c method may be something quite different and move towards some ideal of harmony, of wholeness and order. But such harmony (the ideal of a Marx no less than of a Plato) is a subjective perception. The communist in this respect docs not differ from the royalist or the anarchist; we are all idealists, and I do not see how we can be anything else so long as we believe that man is what he makes of himself. The difference is between those who believe that a particular ideal should predetermine man’s existence (which is the official communist line) and those who believe (as the existentialists and anarchists do) that the personality of man, that is to say, his own subjectivity, is the existing reality and that the ideal is an essence towards which he projects himself, which he hopes to realize in the future, not by rational planning, but by inner subjective development. The essence can only be grasped from the particular stage of existence which you and I have at any particular moment reached. Hence the folly of all so-called ‘blue-prints for the future’; the future will make its own prints, and they won’t necessarily be blue.

{1} The marxists pretend that their Utopia is scientific, **but** it is just as idealistic as any other projection of our conslruclivc faculties into an unpredictable future; and by !heir day-to-day modifications of their plans, marxislo; as a matter of fact admit how idealistic their original conceptions must have been.

To most people all this involves a sense of insecurity, as though they were sailing strange seas without a chart, perhaps even without a compass. But that, as Sartre has pointed out, is the whole point. He quotes Dostoevsky- ‘if God did not exist, all would be permissible’. ‘In fact,’ admits Sartre, ‘everything is permissible if God does not exist, and consequently man is adrift, because he cannot find, either within himself or without, anything to cling to. At 6rst he is without excuses. If in fact existence precedes essence, one cannot explain things in terms of a given and fixed human nature; in other words, there is no determinism, man is free, man is freedom. On the other hand, if God does not exist, we do not find ready at hand values or formulas which will justify our conduct. Thus, neither in front of us nor behind us can we find, in the realm of values, justification or excuse. We arc alone, without excuse.’ • Which is what Sartre means when he says that man is condemned to be free. In my metaphor, he is condemned to be adrift, and he has to invent the instruments by means of which he can steer a murse; having invented these instruments, he has to set out on a voyage of discovery. He has no idea of where he will get to, where he will land himself. His life, his existence, is the voyage: his reality is the fact that he is moving in a direction which he himself has freely determined.

{1} ***L’existentialisme e.d*** un ***humanirnw*** ( 1946), **pp.** 3^**7.**

For the moment I want to leave on one side the problem of agreement; for after all, we can’t move about an ocean in separate boats; we are passengers on ships which contain many other people, and we have to reconcile our freedom of movement with theirs. We shall be in a better position to consider this problem when we have confronted existentialism and marxism.

The marxists have already taken up a position of uncompromising opposition to existentialism. In view of the association of the French existentialist writers with the resistance movement during the occupation, it is a little difficult to follow the usual practice and label existentialism as a philosophy of fascism, so it seems to have been agreed to damn it as Trotskyism. Anyone less of an existentialist than Trotsky it would be difficult to conceive, so it is equally difficult to see how an existentialist can be a Trotskyite: it is merely, of course, a convenient term of abuse. But the examination of existentialism made by George Lukacs, whom I regard as the most intelligent marxist critic of our time, is more serious than such tactics would suggest.{1} It is, of course, comparatively simple to establish a connection between fascist imperialism and the philosophy of Heidegger-the connection was historical and actual during the Nazi regime. But such an association might have been fortuitous-it is difficult for a philosopher to resist the flattery which a totalitarian State seems willing to bestow on him. For philosophical purposes we must seek for some more fundamental connection, and this undoubtedly lies in the nihilism which is the philosophical disease of our time. Now nihilism is merely that condition of despair which I have already described, a despair that overcomes man whenever he looks into the abyss of nothingness and realizes his own insignificance. It is a condition from which you can react in various ways: you can, of course, affirm its fundamental reality-you can remain a nihilist and refuse to believe in anything but your own selfish interests. You can react as Dostoevsky did, and become a pessimistic Christian, or you can react as the Nazis did and become a ‘realistic’ power politician. Heidegger (and Sartre when it comes to his turn) reacts far more metaphysically: he constructs an elaborate 6re-escape, a life-saving apparatus by means of which man can escape from nihilism, though not denying that it still remains the fundamental nahire of reality. Now that is precisely what the marxist cannot accept. To begin with, what is this pessimistic nihilism but a reHection of the bankruptcy of the capitalist system? It has no reality: the Nothingness which Heidegger and Sartre write about is a subjective state of mind. Lukacs calls it a typical fetish of bourgeois psychology, a myth created by a society condemned to death. Its existence is only made possible by an abandonment of reason, and this is a characteristic trend of modern philosophy, a trend that includes, not only Heidegger and Husserl, but also Dilthey and Bergson.

The marxist is really more existentialist than the existentialists. In theory (but not always in practice) he does not admit the existence of essences. There is only one reality, and it is historical, temporal. Man is an animal who has evolved in historic time. At a certain stage in his evolution he developed the faculty of consciousness, but there is nothing mysterious about it, and its nature and scope will no doubt change again in the future. ‘Man’, says Lukacs, ‘has created himself by his work. When man 6nally winds up his pre-history and establishes socialism in a complete and definite form, then we shall see a fundamental transformation of the nature of man ... Creating himself historically, transforming himself historically, man is naturally ( egalemEnt) attached to the world by certain constant factors (work and certain fixed relationships which arise out of it ). But that does not in any way effect a compromise between such an objective dialectic of history and the timeless ontology of subjectivity. No compromise is possible between these two conceptions: it is necessary to make a choice. Nor is any compromise possible between the existentialist conception of freedom and the historical and dialectical unity of freedom and nccessity established by marxism.’ •

Lukacs seems above all concerned to disallow the possibility of a third way in philosophy and politics. There is idealism and there is dialectical materialism; if you are not a dialectical materialist, you must be an idealist of some sort; if you are a dialectical materialist, you must be a marxist. I think this is playing with words. There is a fundamental opposition between a purely mechanistic materialism and all forms of idealism, but Lukacs, like most modem marxists, is very careful to dissociate himself from the mechanistic school. But as soon as materialism becomes dialectical, it associates itself with contradictions, and the contradictions of matter arc essences. You cannot be dialectical in thought or anything else unless you posit a realm of essence over against the realm of matter. But as soon as you admit a realm of essences, you give substantial existence to a state of subjectivity, for it is only in a state of subjectivity that we become aware of essences. If man had created himself merely by his work, he would have remained within a sensational and instinctual world, like the ant. The development of consciousness, which I agree with marxists in treating as an existential, historic event, means that subjective factors, essences, entered into the dialectical process; and only that fact can explain the evolution of man to his present moral and intellectual stature. And, of course, it is quite ridiculous to confine . the evolutionary factors to work. The struggle for existence, especially in unfavourable climatic conditions, has always been a grim business. But the higher faculties of man, such as ethical consciousness, probably developed in temperate zones-in Egypt and the Mediterranean basin-and it was play rather than icork which enabled man to evolve his higher faculties- everything we mean by the word ‘culture’. Anyone who doubts this should read Huizinga’s *Homo Lmlens. 0* There is no aspect of culture-language, war, science, art, or philosophy, not even religion-in whose evolution play does not enter as the creative factor. Play is freedom, is disinterestedness, and it is only by virtue of disinterested free activity that man has created his cultural values. Perhaps it is this theory of all work and no play that has made the marxist such a very dull boy.

{1} Op. cit., **p.** 201.

An animal at play-animals do play and man is only an animal that has learned to play more elaborately-an animal at play is not very conscious of Angst, of the existentialist’s abyss of nothingness. The existentialist and the marxist may retort that only a despicable character like Nero fiddles while Rome is burning, but considering the corruption of Rome at that time, there was perhaps something to be said for Nero’s playful disinterestedness. Nero, however, is really beside the point, which is the relevance of Angst. To the marxist the whole business-Angst, shipwreck, nothingness-is merely another myth, like the myth of the End of the World, or the Last Judgement. But the point of view I now want to bring forward, and recommend as the true one, admits the facts upon which the existentialist bases his Angst, but draws a different conclusion from them. There is no generally accepted name for this other fellow standing by the side of the existentialist on the edge of the abyss, but he has some resemblance to Aristotle. He surveys the scene, the little speck of protoplasm which is man, the universe, finite or infinite, on which he finds himself, and, if he thinks of the universe as finite, the dreaded gulf of nothingness beyond. His feelings are feelings of profound interest, excitement, wonder. He sees Fire and Air, Earth and Water, elementary qualities giving birth to all sorts of contrarieties-hot-cold, dry-moist, heavy-light, hard- soft, viscous-brittle, rough-smooth, coarse-fine-secs these combining and inter-acting and producing worlds and life upon these worlds, and he is lost in wonder. His greatest wonder is reserved for the fact that he, man, stands on the apex of this complex structure, its crown of perfection, alone conscious of the coherence of the ‘Vhole.

{1} Routledge **&** Kegan Paul, London, HJ49.

I recommend, as an antidote to the existentialists, a reading not only of Aristotle, but also of Lucretius-par- ticularly those passages where he breaks off from his description of the nature of things to praise Epicurus, the father of his philosophy, the discoverer of truth, who had parted the walls of the world asunder, so that we might **Sl’C** all things moving on through the void: ‘The quarters of Acheron arc nowhere to be seen, nor yet is earth a barrier to prevent all things being descried, which are carried on underneath through the void below our feet. At these things, as it were, some godlike pleasure and thrill of awe seizes on me, to think that thus by thy power nature is made so clear and manifest, laid bare on every side.’ What Lucretius called ‘the fear of Acheron ... douding all things with the blackness of death, and suffering no pleasure to be pure and unalloyed’ is our familiar bogy *Angst,* and Lucretius’s great poem was written to dispel *Angst.* ‘For often ere now’, he says, ‘men have betrayed country and beloved parents, seeking to shun the realms of Acheron. For even as children tremble and fear everything in blinding darkness, so we sometimes dread in the light things that arc no whit more to be feared than what children shudder at in the dark, and imagine will come to pass. This terror, then, this darkness of the mind, must needs be scattered, not by the rays of the sun and the gleaming shafts of day, but by the outer view and the inner law of nature.’ *0*

Aristotle and Lucretius are not exceptions; there is throughout the history of philosophy a tradition that, while taking its origin in the same full look into the nature of things as the existentialists affect, is based on the completely contrary reaction-a reaction of curiosity rather than of shipwreck.

It cannot be said that this positive reaction (or *resononce* as Woltereck has called it 0) is any more unjustified, any less profound than the negative reaction of the existentialist. It is a question of what Santayana has called ‘animal fa\th’, ‘an athcoretical force which, tom from the data of experience, constructs and guarantees and extends the world of man’-or as Santayana puts it, ‘the life of reason.‘f

{1} Trans. by Cyril Bailey (Oxford, 1910).

Animal *faith,* faith in nature-I do not think the marxist likes the word faith-he is afraid of being committed to a god. I agree that it would be better to avoid the word God. As Santayana again has said: ‘If by calling nature God or the work of God, or the language in which God speaks to us, nothing is meant except that nature is wonderful, unfathomed, alive, the course of our being, the sanction of morality, and the dispenser of happiness and misery-there can be no objection to such alternative terms in the mouth of poets; but I think a philosopher should avoid the ambiguities which a too poetical tenn often comports. The word nature is poetical enough: it suggests sufficiently the generative and controlling function, the endless vitality and the changeful order of the world in which I live.’ I

The philosophy which I am trying to present-a philosophy based on a positive reaction to cosmic experience-might well be called humanism-it is an affirmation of the significance of our human destiny. Humanism is a term which Sartre has adopted and which even an intransigent marxist like Lukacs does not disdain-he calls the Leninist theory of knowledge a militant humanism ( *un humanisme combatif ),* but he qualifies this acceptance of the term by pointing out that the notion is inseparable from practical action and work. This brings me to the anarchist position, which only now, at the end of this long disquisition, can be revealed in all its logical clarity. Like the marxist--Qr should we say the leninist-the anarchist rejects the philosophical nihilism of the existentialist. He just doesn’t feel that *Angst,* that dreadful shipwreck on the confines of the universe, from which the existentialist reacts with dcspairful energy. He agrees with the marxist that it is merely a modern myth. He draws in his metaphysical horns and explores the world of nature. He again finds himself agreeing with the leninist that life is a dialectical process, the end of which is the conquest of what Lukacs calls *‘la totalite humaine’,* which presumably means a world dominated by human values. But whereas the leninist conceives of this conquest in terms of a consciously directed struggle-practical action and work-the anarchist sees it in terms of mutual aid, of symbiosis. ^:larxism is based on economics; anarchism on biology. Marxism still clings to an antiquated darwinism, and sees history and politics as illustrations of a struggle for existence between social classes. Anarchism does not deny the importance of such economic forces, but it insists that there is something still more important, the consciousness of an overriding human solidarity. ‘It is’, says Kropotkin, ‘the unconscious recognition of the force that is borrowed by each man from the practice of mutual aid; of the close dependency of everyone’s happiness upon the happiness of all; and of the sense of justice, or equity, which brings the individual to consider the rights of every other individual as equal to his own. Upon this broad and necessary foundation the still higher moral feelings are developed.’{1}

*{1} Ontologie des Lebendigen* ( *S*tutt<em>g</em>art, 1940). The translations of passages from this book which follow have been kindly supplied by **Mr.** R. F. C. Hull.

{1} Antonio Banfi, ‘Crisis of Contemporary Philosophy’, *Tlie Philosophy of George Santayana* (Evanston, 1940), p. 482.

{1} *Scepticism and Animal Faith* ( 1923), pp. 237–8.

There is no need to repeat here the evidence from biology, anthropology, and social history which Kropotkin brought to the support of his thesis. Even the existentialist Sartre recognizes that the liberty he desires for himself implies that he must desire liberty for others. Even the marxist talks of human solidarity, to which capitalism is the only obstacle. But biology is not enough: we are selfconscious animals, animals conscious of “being’, and we need a science of such consciousness: it is called ontology.

{1} *Mutual **Aid,*** **lntroduclion.**

There is, that is to say, a science of existence which we call *biology;* there is a science of essence which we call *ontology.* The purpose of these two sciences is to detrr- mine the nature of the process of life and the place of our human existence in that total process. There are people who say that this cannot be dom• with till’ instruments of reason; that there is a Ground of Being only accessible to super-rational intuition. and not understandable in the terms of rational thought. Some people regard that Ground of Being as transcl’lldent, as more or less actively intervening in the development of existence, particularly in the unfolding of our human destiny; others treat it as merely an unknown quantity; still others, the materialists among us, deny its existence altogether.

The point of view I have adopted myself is not dualistic; I do not recognize two orders of reality, known or unknown. Nor is my point of view materialistic in the marxist sense. I believe, in the words of Woltereck, that *‘one* stream of events embraces everything that can in any way be experienced as real: whether the events be material or non-material, a-biotic, organic, psychic, conscious or unconscious ...The psychic or spiritual life of man is also part of this *one stream of events* we call “Nature”, even though under special names and with special contents: science, technics, civilization, politics, history and art. The organism “Man” produces these things-in the last analysis no differently from the bird its song and its building of its nest, the tree its blossom and fruit. Also the dawning of consciousness, conscious acting and conscious thinking, are natural processes just likC’ till’ reactions, instinctive acts and affects in the animal kingdom.<sup>’</sup> The biologist does not make a distinction between physical events (Nature), and non-physical events (Spirit): there is but one stream of events with as it were a visible (material ) surface and a fluid ( immaterial) depth, and this distinction between visible surface and fluid depth is, for me, the same distinction that Santayana makes between material existence and Auid essence. Santayana also says that essence is not an extension or a portion of that EJ(islenlialism, Mau.ism and Anarchism which exists, but that it is intimately interwoven with existence; meaning, I think, that there is this flexible Inside and Outside division, but no merging across this division. There is always a division between the gas inside a balloon and the atmosphere outside: they cannot mix, but they are intimately related as pressures, as specific gravities, and react in correspondence one with the other. Essence and existence are in this manner interwoven throughout the whole evolution of life.

What is important to emphasize in all this is the presence, throughout the one life-process, of *freedom.* The presence of this element is indicated by the process of evolution itself, which is an ***uptvard*** process, ‘leading from the elementary physical states of the cosmic nebulre to a-biotic differentiation, then to simple and increasingly differentiated life, and finally to spiritual events, spiritual creativity and spiritual freedom’.{1} There has existed throughout the whole process of evolution an ability to move on to new planes of existence, to create novelty. Freedom is not an essence only available to the sensibility of man; it is germinatively ***at tcork*** in all living things as spontaneity and autoplasticity.

‘This “biological” freedom and what becomes of it,’ (I am again quoting Woltereck) ‘has an on tic significance quite different from the “existential” compulsion of free decision. The latter *cripples* our sense of vitality and consequently the advancing life of man. The freedom of spontaneous events born of the ontic centre and the freedom to mould things in such and such a way enhances our sense of vitality<sup>.</sup>and makes life ***more intense.*** The joy of creating things of value, self-conquest (freeing the self from selfishness and its instincts ), rising above the world, and finally the spontaneous creation of new forms, new norms, new ideas in the minds of individuals-all that is the possible result of man’s *positive freedom.’*

Freedom, says the marxist, is the knowledge of necessity. Freedom, says Engels, ‘consists in the control over ourselves and over <“Xtcnrnl nature whic:h is founded **011** knowledge of natural necessity: it is therdore necessarily a product of historical devdopnwnt’. The only thing wrong with this definition is that it is too narrow. The chick that is pecking its way out of its shell has no *knou;leclge* of natural necessity: only a spontanC’ous instinct to behave in a way that will secure it frcedom. It is an important distinction because it is till’ distinction underlying the marxist and the anarehist philosophies. From the anarchist point of view it is not sufficient to *control* ourselves and external nature; we must allow for *spontaneous* dt--‘vdopmcnts. Such opportunities occur only in an open society; they cannot develop in a doscd society such as the marxists have established in Russia. There is also to be observed in Engcls and Marx an esscntial confusion between freedom and liberty: what tlll’y mmn by freedom is political liberty, man’s relations to his economic environment; freedom is the relation of man to the total life process.{1}

I am afraid that these observations will secm sonwwhat irrelevant to the practical problems of life, but that is a dangerous assumption. rvtarxism as militant politics throughout the world today had its origins in such philosophical distinctions, and still today rests unshaken on such a philosophical basis. We cannot meet marxism and expect to overcome it unless we have a philosophy of equal force. I do not believe that any of the prcvailing idealistic systems of philosophy will serve our purpose: the marxists have proved that they have weapons powerful enough to demolish that kind of structure. Th<·y have now shown that in their opinion l’Xistentialism docs not constitute a danger to their philosophical position. I believe that another philosophical attitude is possible, and that it preserves the concept of freedom without which life becomes brutish. It is a matcrialistic philosophy, but it is also an idealist philosophy; a philosophy that combines existence and essence in dialectical counkrplay.

If finally you ask me whether there is any necessary connection between this philosophy and anarchism, I would reply that in my opinion anarchism is the *only* political theory that combines an essentially revolutionary and contingent attitude with a philosophy of freedom. It is the only militant libertarian doctrine left in the world, and on its diffusion depends the progressive evolution of human consciousness and of humanity itself.

{1} [See **Reacl, Anarcl1y ancl Dreier, pp.** 161–72.]

*** Anarchism

Daniel Guerin: Workers’ Self-Management of Industry

Daniel Guerin is one of the most articulate exponents of anarchist ideas in France today, seeking not only to demonstrate the value of anarchist thought but to rehabilitate Lhe libertarian elemen’s within Marxism. He was born in Paris in 1904 and has written a number of works of journalism, sociology, and history, including several on the United States. His *Anarchism* is a historical survey of the subject that stresses anarchism’s contribution as a constructive social doctrine and its applicability to contemporary industrial society.

Guerin places particular importance on the idea of workers’ self-management, which derives from the anarcho-syndicalist current in historical anarchism. Anarcho-syndicalism was the most concerted effort the anarchists made to adapt their principles to the structure of modern industry. It sought to achieve the libertarian society by means of trade-union organizations, through which the producers themselves would take over the direction of the economy and replace the coercive machinery of capitalism and the state. The trade union was to be the nucleus of the new society and at the same time, with its weapon of the general strike, the revolutionary agency that would achieve it. This theory owed much to Proudhon and first arose in France, where labor organization had proceeded largely according to Proudhon’s teaching. It was infused into the French trade-union movement by Fernand Pelloutier, an energetic labor leader, and it attracted intellectuals such as Georges Sorel, who adapted it to his own purposes in his *Reflec- lions on Violence.* Anarcho-syndicalism declined in influence in France after the First World War but echoes of it recurred in the labor unrest of May 1968, suggesting that it has never completely disappeared from the French labor movement. Spain, however, was the country where anarchosyndicalism had its strongest impact, and it was there, during the Civil War, that it underwent its greatest test.

Guerin sees signs of a revival of workers’ selfmanagement. He is careful to point out, however, that its viability had not yet been proved conclusively. The objection so often voiced by the Marxists that anarchist decentralization and localism are not compatible with the requirements of complex modern industry is a difficult one to overcome. In addition, it might well be asked to what extent industrial workers really want to help run their factories rather than striving to minimize their work- related activities and maximize their leisure time. Nevertheless, as Guerin rightly insists, an idea which has reemerged several decades after most people had thought it laid permanently to rest must be taken seriously and studied carefully.

Guerin’s book was first published in Paris in 1965 by Editions Gallimard as *L’Anarchisme: de* la *doc- lrine* a */‘aclion.* The excerpt that follows is from pages 144–54 of the English translation by Mary Klapper, *Anarchism: From Theory to Praclice,* with an introduction by Noam Chomsky (NewYork and London: Monthly Review Press, 1970). The English version includes a postscript in which Guerin hails the May 1968 events in France as evidence of the renaissance of libertarian ideas, particularly among the youth, and pays tribute to Daniel Cohn-Bendit, the coauthor of the next piece in this volume. Guerin’s other works on anarchism are a volume of essays: *Jeunesse du socialisme /ibertaire* (Paris, 1959), and an anthology: *Ni Dieu ni maitre: histoire* et *antho/ogie de /‘anarchie* (Paris, 1965). Rudolf Rocker’s *Anarcho-Syndica/ism* (London, 1938) traces the development of this aspect of anarchism.

The defeat of the Spanish Hevolution deprived anarchism of its only foothold in the world. It came out of this trial crushed, dispersed, and, to some extent, discredited. History condemned it severely and, in certain respects, unjustly. It was not in fact, or at any rate alone, responsible for the victory of the Franco forces. What remained from the experience of the rural and industrial collectives, set up in tragically unfavorable conditions, was on the whole to their credit. This experience was, however, underestimated, calumniated, and denied recognition. Authoritarian socialism had at last got rid of undesirable libertarian competition and, for years, remained master of the field. For a time it seemed as though state socialism was to be justified by the military victory of the U.S.S.R. against Nazism in 1945 and by undeniable, and even imposing, successes in the technical field.

However, the very excesses of this system soon began to generate their own negation. They engendered the idea that paralyzing state centralization should be loosened up, that production units should have more autonomy, that workers would do more and better work if they had some say in the management of enterprises. What medicine calls “antibodies” were generated in one of the countries brought into servitude by Stalin. Tito’s Yugoslavia freed itself from the too heavy yoke which was making it into a sort of colony. It then proceeded to re-evaluate the dogmas which could now so clearly be seen as antieconomic. It went back to school under the masters of the past, discovering and discreetly reading Proudhon. It bubbled in anticipation. It explored the too-little-known libertarian areas of thinking in the works of Marx and Lenin. Among other things it dug out the concept of the withering away of the State, which had not, it is true, been altogether eliminated from the political vocabulary, but had certainly become no more than a ritual formula quite empty of substance. Going back to the short period during which Bolshevism had identified itself with proletarian democracy from below, with the soviets, Yugoslavia glea1ll’d a word which had been enunciated by the k’ackrs of till’ October ReVolution and tlwn quickly forgotten: self-management. Attention was also turned to the embryonic factory councils which had arisen at the same time, through revolutionary contagion, in Germany and Italy and, much later, Hungary. As reported in the Frmch **revieW** *Arguments* by the Italian, Roberto Gui- ducci, the question arose whether “the idea of the councils, which had been suppressed by Stalinism for obvious reasons,” could not “be taken up again in modern terms.”

When Algeria was decolonized and became indepcn- dmt its new leaders sought to institutionalize the spontaneous occupations of abandoned European property by peasants and workers. They drew their inspiration from the Yugoslav precedent and took its legislation in this matter as a model.

If its wings are not clipped, self-management is undoubtedly an institution with democratic, even libertarian tendencies. Following the example of the Spanish collectives of 1936–1937, self-management seeks to place the economy under the management of the producers themselves. To this end a three-tier workers’ representation is set up in each enterprise, by means of elections: the sovereign general assembly; the workers’ council, a smaller deliberative body; and, finally, the management committee, which is the executive organ. The legislation provides certain safeguards against the threat of bureaucratization: representatives cannot stand for rl’-election too often, must be directly involved in production, etc. In Yugoslavia the workers can be consulted by referendum as an alternative to general assemblies, while in very large enterprises general assemblies take place in work sections.

Both in Yugoslavia and in Algeria, at least in theory, or as a promise for the future, great importance is attributed to the commune, and much is made of the fact that self-managing workers will be represented there. In theory, again, the management of public affairs should tend to become decentralized, and to be carried out more and more at the local level.

These good intentions are far from being carried out in practice. In these countries self-management is coming into being in the framework of a dictatorial, military, police state whose skeleton is formed by a single party. At the helm there is an authoritarian and paternalistic authority which is beyond control and above criticism. The authoritarian principles of the political administration and the libertarian principles of the management of the economy are thus quite incompatible.

Moreover, a certain degree of bureaucratization tends to show itself even within the enterprises, in spite of the precautions of the legislators. The majority of the workers are not yet mature enough to participate effectively in self-management. They lack education and technical knowledge, have not got rid of the old wage-earning mentality, and too willingly put all their powers into the hands of their delegates. This enables a small minority to be the real managers of the enterprise, to arrogate to themselves all sorts of privileges and do exactly as they like. They also perpetuate themselves in directorial positions, governing without control from below, losing contact with reality and cutting themselves off from the rank-and-file workers, whom they often treat with arrogance and contempt. All this demoralizes the workers and turns them against self- munagement. Finally, state control is often exercised so indiscreetly and so oppressivdy that the “self-managers” do not really manage at all. The state appoints directors to the organs of self-management without much caring whether the latter agree or not, although, according to the law, they should be consulted. These bureaucrats often interfere excessively in management, and sometimes be· have in the same arbitrary way as the former employers. In very large Yugoslav enterprises directors are nominated entirely by the State; these posts are handed out to his old guard by Marshal Tito.

Moreover, Yugoslavian self-management is extremely dependent on the State for finance. It lives on credits accorded to it by the State and is free to dispose of only a small part of its profits, the rest being paid to the treasury in the form of a tax. Revenue derived from the self-management sector is used by the State not only to develop the backward sectors of the economy, which is no more than just, but also to pay for the heavily bureaucratized government apparatus, the army, the police forces, and for prestige expenditure, which is sometimes quite excessive. When the members of self-managed enterprises are inadequately paid, this blunts the enthusiasm for self-management and is in conflict with its principles.

The freedom of action of each enterprise, moreover, is fairly strictly limited, since it is subject to the economic plans of the central authority, which arc drawn up arbitrarily without consultation of the rank and file. In Algeria the self-managed enterprises arc also obliged to cede to the State the commercial handling of a considerable portion of their products. In addition, they are placed under the supervision of “organs of tutelage,” which arc supposed to supply disinterested technical and bookkeeping assistance but, in practice, tend to replace the organs of self-management and take over their functions.

In general, the bureaucracy of the totalitarian State is unsympathetic to the claims of self-management to autonomy. As Proudhon foresaw, it finds it hard to tolerate any authority external to itself. It dislikes socialization and longs for nationalization, that is to say, the direct management by officials of the State. Its object is to infringe upon self-management, reduce its powers, and in fact absorb it.

The single party is no less suspicious of self-management, and likewise finds it hard to tolerate a rival. If it embraces self-management, it does so to stifle it more effectively. The party has cells in most of the enterprises and is strongly tempted to take part in management, to duplicate the organs elected by the workers or reduce them to the role of docile instruments, by falsifying elections and setting out lists of candidates in advance. The party tries to induce the workers’ councils to endorse decisions already taken in advance, and to manipulate and shape the national congresses of the workers.

Some enterprises under self-management react to authoritarian and centralizing tendencies by becoming isolationist, behaving as though they were an association of small proprietors, and trying to operate For the sole benefit of the workers involved. They tend to reduce their manpower so as to divide the cake into larger portions. They also seek to produce a little of everything instead of specializing. They devote time and energy to getting around plans or regulations designed to serve the interests of the community as a whole. In Yugoslavia free competition between enterprises has been allowed, both as a stimulant and to protect the consumer, but in practice the tendency to autonomy has led to flagrant inequalities of output and to economic irrationalities.

Thus self-management itself incorporates a pendulumlike movement which makes it swing constantly between two extremes: excessive autonomy or excessive centralization; authority or anarchy; control from below or control from above. Through the years Yugslavia, in particular, has corrected centralization by autonomy, then autonomy by centralization, constantly remodeling its institutions without so far successfully attaining a “happy medium.”

Most of the weaknesses of self-management could be avoided or corrected if then• were an authentic tradc- union movement, independent of authority and of the single party, springing from the workers themselves and at the same time organizing them, and animated by the spirit characteristic of Spanish anarcho-syndicalism. In Yugoslavia and in Algeria, however, trade unionism is either subsidiary or supernumerary, or is subject to the State, to the single party. It cannot, therefore, adequately fulfill the task of conciliator between autonomy and ccntralization which it should undertake, and could perform much better than totalitarian political organs. In fact, a trade unionism which genuinely issued from the workers, who saw in it their own reflection, would be the most l’ffective organ for harmonizing the centrifugal and centripetal forces, for “creating an equilibrium” as Proudhon put it, between the contradictions of self-management.

The picture, howevcr, must not be secn as entirely black. Self-management certainly has powerful and tenacious opponents, who have not given up hope of making it fail. But it has, in fact, shown itself quite dynamic in the countries where experiments arc being carried on. It has opened up new pcrspectivcs for thc workers and restored to them some pleasure in their work. It has opened their minds to the rudiments of authentic socialism, which involves the progressive disappearance of wages, the dis- alicnation of the producer who will become a free and self-determining being. Sclf-managemcnt has in this way increased productivity and registered considerable positive results, even during the trials and errors of the initial period.

From rather too far away, small circles of anarchists follow the development of Yugoslav and Algerian selfmanagement with a mixture of sympathy and disbelief. They fc·el that it is bringing some fragments of their ideal into reality, but the experiment is not developing along the idealistic lines foreseen by libertarian communism. On the contrary it is being tried in an authoritarian framework which is repugnant to anarchism. There is no doubt that this framework makes self-management fragile: there is always a danger that it will be devoured by the cancer of authoritarianism. However, a close and unprejudiced look at self-management seems to reveal rather encouraging signs.

In Yugoslavia self-management is a factor favoring the democratization of the regime. It has created a healthier basis for recruitment in working-class circles. The party is beginning to act as an inspiration rather than a director, its cadres arc becoming better spokesmen for the masses, more SPnsitive to their problems and aspirations. As Albert Meister, a young Swiss sociologist who set himself the task of studying this phenomenon on the spot. comments, self-management contains a “dl’mocratic virus” which, in the long run, invades the single party itself. He regards it as a “tonic.” It welds the lower party echelons to the working masses. This development is so clear that it is bringing Yugoslav theoreticians to use language which would not disgrace a libertarian. For cxamplc, one of them, Stane Kavcic, states: “In future the striking force of socialism in Yugoslavia cannot be a political party and the State acting from the top down, but the people, the citizens, with constitutional rights which enable them to act from the base up.” He continues bravely that sclf- management is increasingly loosening up “the rigid discipline and subordination which are characteristic of all political parties.”

The trend is not so clear in Algeria, for the experiment is of more recent origin and still in danger of being callcd into question. A clue may be found in the fact that at the end of 1964, Hocine Zahouane, then head of orientation of the National Liberation Front, publicly condemned the tendency of the “organs of guidance” to place themselves above the members of the self-management groups and to adopt an authoritarian attitude toward them. He went on: “When this happens, socialism no longer exists. There remains only a change in the form of exploitation of the workers.” This official concluded by asking that the producers “should be truly masters of their production” and no longer be “manipulated for ends which are foreign to socialism.” It must be admitted that Hocine Zahouane has since been removed from office by a military *coup* tf<em>etat</em> and has become the lcading spirit of a clandestine socialist opposition. He is for the time being 0 in compulsory residence in a torrid area of the Sahara.

To sum up, self-management meets with all kinds of difficulties and contradictions, yet, even now, it appears in practice to have the merit of enabling the masses to pass through an apprenticeship in direct democracy acting from the bottom upward; the merit of developing, encouraging, and stimulating their free initiative, of imbuing them with a sense of responsibility instead of perpetuating age-old habits of passivity, submission, and the inferiority complex left to them by past oppression, as is the case tmdcr state communism. This apprenticeship is sometimes laborious, progresses rather slowly, loads society with extra burdens and may, possibly, be carried out only at the cost of some “disorder.” Many observers think, however, that these difficulties, delays, extra burdens, and growing pains arc less harmful than the false order, the false luster, the false “efficiency” of state communism which reduces man to nothing, kills the initiative of the people, paralyzes production, and, in spite of material advances obtained at a high price, discredits the very idea of socialism.

{1} As of July 1969.

The U.S.S.R. itself is re-evaluating its methods of economic management, and will continue to do so unless the present tendency to liberalization is cancelled by a regression to authoritarianism. Before he fell, on October 15, 1964, Khrushchev seemed to have understood, however timidly and belatedly, the need for industrial decentralization. In December 1964 *Pravda* published a long article entitled “The State of the Whole People” which sought to define the changes of structure that differentiate the form of State “said to be of the whole people” from that of the “dictatorship of the proletariat”; namely, progress toward democratization, participation of the masses in the direction of society through self-management, and the revitalization of the soviets, the trade unions, etc.

The French daily ***Le Moru/e*** of February 16, 1965, published an article by Michel Tatu, entitled “A Major Problem: The Liberation of the Economy,” exposing the most serious evils “affecting the whole Soviet bureaucratic machine, especially the economy.” The high technical level this economy has attained makes the rule of bureaucracy over management even more unacceptable. **As** things are at present, directors of enterprises cannot make decisions on any subject without referring to at least one office, and more often to half a dozen. “No one disputes the remarkable technical, scientific, and economic progress which has been made in thirty years of Stalinist planning. The n·sult, however, is precisely that this economy is now in the class of developed economies, and that the old structures which enabled it to reach this level arc now totally, and ever more alarmingly, unsuitable.” “Much more would be needed than detailed reforms; a spectacular change ol thought and method, a sort of new de-Stalinization would be required to bring to an end the enormous inertia which permeates the machine at every level.” **As** Ernest Mandel has pointed out, however, in an article in the French review *Les-Temps Modemes,* decentralization cannot stop at giving autonomy to the directors of enterprises, it must lead to real workers’ self-management.

The late Georges Gurvitch, a left-wing sociologist, came to a similar conclusion. He considers that tendencies to decentralization and workers’ self-management have only just begun in the U.S.S.R., and that their success would show “that Proudhon was more right than one might have thought.”

In Cuba the late state socialist Che Guevara had to quit the direction of industry, which he had run unsuccessfully owing to overcentralization. ln *Cuba: Socialism and Development,* Rene Dumont, a French specialist in the Castro economy, deplores its “hypercentralization” and bureaucratization. He particularly <·mphasized the “authoritarian” errors of a ministerial department which tries to manage the factories itself and ends up with exactly the opposite results: “‘By trying to bring about a strongly centralized organization one ends up in practice ...by letting any kind of thing be done, because one cannot maintain control over what is essential.” He makes the same criticism of the state monopoly of distribution: the paralysis which it produces could have been avoided “if each production unit had preserved the function of supplying itself directly.” “Cuba is beginning all over again the useless cycle of economic errors of the socialist countries,” a Polish colleague in a very good position to know confided to Rene Dumont. The author concludes by adjuring the Cuban regime to turn to autonomous production units and, in agriculture, to federations of small farm-production cooperatives. He is not afraid to give the remedy a name, self-management, which could perfectly well be reconciled with planning. Unfortunately, the voice of Rene Dumont has not yet been heard in Havana.

The libertarian idea has recently come out of the shadow to which its detractors had relegated it. In a large part of the world the man of today has been the guinea pig of state communism, and is only now emerging, reeling, from the experience. Suddenly he is turning, with lively curiosity and often with profit, to the rough drafts for a new self-management society which the pioneers of anarchism were putting forward in the last century. He is not swallowing them whole, of course, but drawing lessons from them, and inspiration to try to complete the task presented by the second half of this century: to break the fetters, both economic and political, of what has been too simply called “Stalinism”; and this, without renouncing the fundamental principles of socialism: on the contrary, thereby discovering-or rediscovering-the forms of a real, authentic socialism, that is to say, socialism combined with liberty.

Proudhon, in the midst of the I848 Hevolution, wisely thought that it would have been asking too much of his artisans to go, immediately, all the way to “anarchy.” In default of this maximum program, he sketched out a minimum libertarian program: progressive reduction in the power of the State, parallel development of the power of the people from below, through what he called clubs, and which the man of the twentieth century would call councils. It seems to be the more or less conscious purpose of many contemporary socialists to seek out such a program.

Although a possibility of revival is thus opened up for anarchism, it will not succeed in fully rehabilitating itself unless it is able to belie, both in theory and in practice, the false interpretations to which it has so long been subject. As we saw, in 1924 Joaquin Maurin was impatient to finish with it in Spain, and suggested that it would never be able to maintain itself except in a few “backward countries” where the masses would “cling” to it because they are entirely without “socialist education,” and have been “left to their natural instincts.” He concluded: “Any anarchist who succeeds in improving himself, in learning, and in seeing clearly, automatically ceases to be an anarchist.”

The French historian of anarchism, Jean ^laitron, simply confused “anarchy” and disorganization. A few years ago he imagined that anarchism had died with the nineteenth century, for our epoch is one of “plans, organization, and discipline.” More recently the British writer George Woodcock saw fit to accuse the anarchists of being idealists swimming against the dominant current of history, feeding on an idyllic vision of the future while clinging to the most attractive features of a dying past. Another English specialist on the subject, James Joli, insists that the anarchists are out-of-date, for their ideas are opposed to the development of large-scale industry, to mass production and consumption, and depend on a retrograde romantic vision of an idealized society of artisans and peasants, and on a total rejection of the realities of the twentieth century and of economic organization. 0

In the preceding pages I have tried to show that this is not a true picture of anarchism. Bakunin’s works best express the nature of constructive anarchism, which depends on organization, on self-discipline, on integration, on federalist and noncoercive centralization. It rests upon large- scale modem industry, up-to-date techniques, the modern proletariat, and internationalism on a world scale. In this regard it is of our times, and belongs to the twentieth century. It may well be state communism, and not anarchism, which is out of step with the needs of the contemporary world.

In 1924 Joaquin Maurin reluctantly admitted that throughout the history of anarchism “symptoms of decline” had been “followed by sudden revival.” The future may show that only in this reluctant admission was the Spanish Marxist a good prophet.

{1} James Joli recenlly wrole lo lhc autltor llrnl aher n·aclin^ Ibis book he had to some extent revised his views.

*** Obsolete Communism: The Left-Wing Alternative

**Daniel and Gabriel Cohn-Bendit: Anarchism and Student Revolt**

During the May 1968 upheaval in France, anarchism emerged as a conscious element in contemporary student revolt, providing ideological inspiration for so1.1e of the individuals who found themselves at the center of events. One of the leading figures in that upheaval was Daniel Cohn-Bendit, twenly- three years old at the time and a sociology student at the University of Nanterre outside Paris. Although Cohn-Bendit generally eschews labels he does explicitly refer lo himself as an anarchist. Through “Dany the Red,” as he came to be known, anarchist notions, in a dynamic and free-wheeling form, became an active ingredient in the political ferment of 1968.

Cohn-Bendit was one of the militants who created the March 22 Movement, which arose during the student disturbances at Nanterre and played a role in the labor unrest that followed. The group put forward no specific program or organizational structure, placing a premium on spontaneity, improvisation, and self-expression. Cohn-Bendil’s social criticism owes much to Marx but, as he admits, the strongest influence on him has been that of Bakunin. Like Bakunin, he considers revolution an energizing, liberating, and positive act and holds that the revolutionary movement itself must serve as a model for the new society. Many of the basic doctrines of anarchism reappear in Cohn- Bendit’s views: antipathy to the stale as well as to capitalism; advocacy of workers’ self-management and of initiative from below in general; and condemnation of the authoritarian character of Soviet communism. But these familiar anarchist positions are mediated through a number of contemporary New Left elements. Thus Cohn-Bendit admits affinities with some of the ideas of Trotsky and Mao (while criticizing them as political figures) as well as of Marcuse, and made use of some of the tactics developed by student movements in other countries. Like other adherents of the New Left, Cohn- Bendit in 1968 set out to attack not just the specific economic and political institutions of industrial society but the very quality of contemporary life, its hierarchical organization of authority, its bureaucratization and “dehumanization.”

*Obsolete Communism: The Left-Wing Alternative,* translated by Arnold Pomerans (New York, St. Louis, San Francisco: McGraw-Hill Book Company, 1968), was coauthored by Daniel Cohn- Bendit and his older brother Gabriel, a teacher. It is a compilation of materials on a variety of subjects and ranges from a detailed discussion of the spring 1968 outburst to a libertarian interpretation of the Russian Revolution. The passages presented here (pp. 103–12, 249–55) indicate some of the anarchist principles that underlay Cohn-Bendit’s campaign to direct the energies of student revolt and worker discontent into revolutionary channels. Further expressions of his views can be found in *The French Student Revolt: The Leaders* Speak (New York, 1968), and the volume *This Is Only a Beginning* (New York, 1969), pages 37–56.

A society without exploitation is inconceivable where the management of production is controlled by one social class, in other words where the division of society into managers and workers is not totally abolished. Now, the workers arc told day after day that they are incapable of managing their own factory, let alone society, ancl they have come to believe this fairy tale. This is precisely whal leads to their alienation in a capitalist society, and this is precisely why socialists must do their utmost to restore the people’s autonomy and not just doctor the economic ills of the West.

It is not by accident that liberals, Stalinist bureaucrats and reformists alike, all reduce the evils of capitalism to economic injustice, and exploitation to the unequal distribution of the national income. And when they extend their criticism of capitalism to other fields, they still imply that everything would be solved by a fairer distribution of wealth. The sexual problems of youth and the difficulties of famil} life are ignored-all that apparently needs to be solved is the problem of prostitution. Problems of culture come down to the material cost of dispensing it. Of course, this aspect is important, but a man is more than a mere consumer, he can not only get frd, he can get fed up as well. While most of man’s problems are admittedly economic, man also demands the right to find fulfilment on every other possible level. If a social organization is repressive it will be so on the sexual and cultural no less than on the economic planes.

As our society becomes more highly industrialized, the workers’ passive alienation turns into active hostility. To prevent this happening, there have been many attempts to ‘adapt the workers’, ‘give them a stake in society’, and quite a few technocrats now think this is the only hope of salvaging ‘the democratic way of life’.

But however comfortable they may make the treadmill, they are determined never to give the worker control of the wheel. Hence many militants have come to ask themselves how they can teach the workers that their only hope lies in revolution. Now, this merely reintroduces the old concept of the vanguard of the proletariat, ancl so threatens to create a new division within society. The workers need no teachers; they will learn the correct tactics from the class struggle. And the class struggle is not an abstract conflict of ideas, it is people fighting in the street. Direct control can only be gained through the struggle itself. Any form of class struggle, over wages, hours, holidays, retirement, if it is pushed through to the end, will lead to a general strike, which in tum introduces a host of new organizational and social problems. For instance, there cannot he a total stoppage of hospitals, transport, provisions, etcetera, and the responsibility for organizing these falls on the strikers. The longer the strike continues, the greater the number of factories that have to be got going again. Finally the strikers will find themselves running the entire country.

This gradual restoration of the economy is not without its dangers, for a new managerial class may emerge to take over the factories if the workers are not constantly on their guard. They must ensure that they retain control over their delegated authorities at all times. Every function of social lifr^planning, liaison and coordination-must be taken up by the producers themselves, as and when the need arises.

It is certain that the managerial class will do everything they can to prevent a real revolution. There will be intimidation and violent repression, prophets both new and old of every shape and form will be held up to bamboozle the workers. There will be election campaigns, referenda, changes in the cabinet, electoral reforms, red herrings, bomb plots and what have you. At the same time, the experts will preach about the dire threat to the national economy and international prestige of the country. And should the workers turn a deaf car to them, and persist in restarting production under their direct control, the managerial class will end up, as always, hy calling in the army and police. This is precisely what happened in France in 1968, and not for the first time either.

What of the future? We cannot produce a blueprint- thc future alone can evolve that. What we must agree on, rather, arc the general principles of the society we want to create. The politicians tell us we live in an age of technological miracles. But it is up to us to apply them to a new society, to use the new media so as to gain greater mastery over the environment. While people today simply watch television as a surrogate for the lives they have ceased to live, in the new society they will use it as a means of widening their experience, of mastering the environment and of keeping in touch with the real lives of other people. If television programmes were to be put on for their social value and not solely because they induce the maximum hypnosis in the greatest numbers, they would enable us to extend the real democracy to the entire population.

Just imagine the preliminary Grenelle talks transmitted as a whole; just imagine the ‘dialogues’ between the bosses and the professional trade union pundits transmitted straight to the workshops. The workers would just laugh themselves sick, and throw the lot out of office.

Or take the question of planning the economy. Clearly, even in the future, planning will have to be done, but not just for the sake of profit or balancing the books. Once the workers have learned to manage their own affairs, in full equality and collective effort, they will try quite naturally to place the whole system of production and distribution on an entirely new basis. As Vaneigem has put it: ‘For my part, the only equality that really matters is that which gives free rein to my desires while recognizing me as a man among men.’ ( *Traite de savoir-vivre* a *[usage des ;eunes generations,* Paris, *1947. )*

Contemporary history has shown that the abolition of the private ownership of the means of production, essential though it is, does not necessarily mean the end of exploitation. Under capitalism, wages and prices ffuctuate more or less with the law of supply and demand. Hence we are led to believe that the amelioration of the workers’ lot is-a simple marketing (or planning) problem, and that all our pressing social questions can be solved by ‘dialogues’ between officials or parliamentary representatives.

Similarly the wage system hides the reality of exploitation by suggesting that pay is simply a matter of productive capacity-but how do you evaluate the productive capacity of, say, a schoolteacher?

In the capitalist system, the only standard of value is money, hence the worker himself has a price tag that fits him neatly into a social pigeon-hole and is set apart from the rest. He has become just another commodity, not a man but an economic abstraction, whose relationship with other men is governed by arbitrary laws over which he has no control. The time each worker spends on a particular job is expressed in working hours; it is only when the workers themselves take control, and appropriate the fruits, of their own production, that work will be determined by real needs and not by blind and arbitrary market forces. Social relationships will no longer be vertical- from top to bottom, from director to worker-but horizontal, between equal producers working in harmony. And the product of their toil will no longer be appropriated by parasitic organisms, but shared out fairly between one and all.

All this is doubtless a far cry from the general strike of May and June which, though it gave spontaneous expression to popular disgust at the present system and showed the workers their real power on a scale unprecedented in recent French history, failed precisely because the workers themselves failed to take the next logical step: to run the economy by themselves as free and equal partners. As Coudray puts it in *La lmkhe:* ‘It should he said firmly and calmly: in May, 1968, in France, the industrial proletariat, far from being the revolutionary vanguard of society, was its dumb rearguard. In May, 1968, the most conservative, the most mystified stratum of society, the one most deeply ensnared in the traps of bureaucratic capitalism, was the working class, and more particularly that fraction of the working class which belongs to the Communist Party and the CGT.’

Now this failure cannot be explained simply in terms of treachery by the working-class organizations, for it is basically due to the erosion of initiative within the capitalist system. The ideological submissiveness and servility of the wage-slaves must not be condemned, which serves no purpose, nor deplored, which helps to engender a moral superiority, nor accepted, which can only lead to complete inaction-it must be fought by an active and conscious assault, if necessary by a minority, on the system in every sphere of daily life.

The differences between the revolutionary students and the workers spring directly from their distinct social positions. Thus few students have had real cxpcrienee of grinding poverty-their struggle is about the hierarchical structure of society, about oppression in comfort. They do not so much have to contend with a lack of material goods as with unfulfilled desires and aspirations. The workers on the other hand suffer from direct economic oppression and misery-earning wages of less than 500 francs per month, in poorly ventilated, dirty and noisy factories, where the foreman, the chief engineer and the manager all throw their weight about and conspire to keep those under them in their place.

French society in general, and Gaullist society in particular, is but the expression of modern bureaucratic capitalism, which must constantly expand or disintegrate. Hence the State must increasingly intervene to prl’vent stagnation. This in no way removes the inner contradictions of capitalism, or stops it from wasting rcsourcl’s on a gigantic scale. True, capitalism has heen able to raise real wages, indeed it must do so if it is to foist its mass- produccd rubbish on the working class, but it is quite incapable of harnessing the forces of production to rational goals-only socialism can do that.

Meanwhile, the increasing bureaucratization and automation of the economy is helping to split the producing class more and more into distinct strata: unskilled workers who serve as mere robots, skilled craftsmen, staff grades, technical experts, scientists and so on, each with special interests and grievances of their own. As a result, workers in the lowest and highest categories do not seem to have any common interests-other than unmasking the trickery of a system that robs Peter to pay Paul, and going on to see that the only solution to their individual problems is a joint one-revolution and a new society, in which objective logic and necessity will decide the claims of all.

This solution can only be reach<·d hy the association of all the non-exploitative categories of industry: manual workers as well as intellectuals, office workers and technicians. Every attempt to achieve workers’ managcnwnt by l’Xcluding any one category is bound to fail, and will merely help to re-introduce bureaucratic methods of control. Modern society has become ‘proletarianized’ to the extent that the old ‘petty bourgeois’ class is disappearing, that most people have been transformed into wage earners and have been subjected to the capitalist division of labour. However, this proletarianization in no way represents the classical Marxist image of a society moving towards two poles, a vast mass of increasingly impoverished workers and a handful of immensely rich and powerful capitalists. Rather has society been transformed into a pyramid, or, more correctly, into a complex set of bureaucratic pyramids. As a result, there are not the two poles of Marx but a whole Jacob’s ladder, and there are no signs that this will be reversed. Hence the revolutionary movement must learn to translate the language of yesterday into the language of today. Just as it was difficult to explain collectivization to the peasantry in the unmechanized Russia at the time of the Revolution, so it is difficult in the modem world of increasingly specialized skills to put across to the workers the idea of direct control. Now this specialization is, in fact, just another aspect of the capitalist principle of divide and rule, since most skills can be taught much more widely than they are today, and there is no reason why the workers should not pool their information.

Capitalists, on the other hand, cannot do this because they work in competition. Moreover, few of them can even produce their own blueprints, and this applies equally well to all the.ministers and permanent secretaries, who only endorse the reports of their experts. And even these work in separate groups, each concentrating on a special field and each using jargon appropriate to that field. The ruling class deliberately fosters this proliferation of tongues, and as long as they arc allowed to have their way, the workers will continue to be kept in ignorance, and hence remain like sailors who dare not mutiny because the art of navigation is kept a secret from them.

The revolutionary students can play a very important part in changing this picture. Having been trained as future managers, they arc in a position to make their knowledge available to all. To that end, the ‘critical university’ must be transformed into a people’s university. If only a handful of ‘technocrats’ proclaim loudly enough that the monopoly of knowledge is a capitalist myth, the workers will not be long in realizing that they arc being led by the nose, and that knowledge is theirs for the asking.

The events of May and June have demonstrated that when driven into a corner, the capitalists will use violence to defend their bureaucratic hold on society. Part of the hierarchy is concerned with maintaining political domination, another with administrative domination, a third with economic domination, but all are agreed to preserve the system. Or rather, all were agreed until the spontaneity and freedom released by the student movement blew like a breath of fresh air through all the petrified institutions, organizations and professional bodies of France, and forced many who had been among the staunchest defenders of the system to question its basis for the 6rst time. A case in point is the action of schoolteachers, who came from far and wide to join in the deliberation of the far-left militants of the Federation of National Education when, only two months earlier, the Federation had found it quite impossible to interest them in even the most tempting pedagogical debates. Now, teachers appeared in their thousands to discuss such fundamental problems as pupil participation, the dangers of a repressive environment, the fostering of the child’s imagination, and allied topk-s.

It is difficult not to adopt a paternalistic tom• when speaking of the struggle of high school boys and girls, whose refusal to be cowed often expressed itself in childish ways, all the more touching for that. As they occupied their schools, forced their teachers to enter into a dialogue with them, and joined the students on the barricades, often without fully appreciating what the stmggle was about, they matured almost overnight. They had been spoon-fed on Rousseau and £mile for years, and at last they realized that it is not enough just to read about freedom in education.

Moreover, as they came home at night and WC’rc faced with utter lack of understanding by their parents, were threatened and locked up, they began to question the whole basis of French family life. Having once tasted freedom in aC’tion, they would not submit to the authority of those who had never dared to question the power of the State, and had meekly become conscripts at the age of eighteen, to be sent off to fight in the colonies. The liberty these parents refused to give to their children, the children now took for themselves.

The same kind of courage and determination was also shown by many technicians and staff of the ORTF ( French Radio and Television ). True, the majority of them were not ‘revolutionaries’ but thev nevertheless challenged the authorities, if only by refu^ing to continue as slavish dispensers of State-doctored information. In so doing, they sabotaged the system at its moment of greatest danger, and robbed it of one of its chief ideological weapons. The ORTF strike highlighted how much can be achieved if just a handful of technicians begin to question society, and showed that what had previously passed as objectivity of information and liberty of expression was no more than a farce.

The ‘premature’ Revolution of 1968 has introduced an entirely new factor into the revolutionary process: the entry into the struggle of youth, often privileged, but in any case disgusted with present society and thus acting as rallying points for the toiling masses. The crisis of our culture, the break-up of all true values and the crushing of individuality will continue for as long as capitalism and its basic contradictions arc allowed to persist. We have just lived through a major tremor, a ‘cultural crisis’ of capitalist ‘life’, a crisis in which the exploited themsdvcs not only transformed society but also transformed them- sdves, so much so that when the struggle starts up again it is bound to be carried to a higher stage. The maturation of socialist thought can never be a purely objective process (because no social progress is possible without human activity, and because the idea that the revolution is preordained by the logic of events is no less ridiculous than trying to forecast it from the stars ). Nor is it purely subjective in the psychological sense. It is a historical process which can only be realized in action, in the class struggle. It is not guaranteed by any law, and though probable, it is by no means inevitable. The bureaucratization of society explicitly poses the problem of management, by whom, for whom and by what means. As bureaucratic capitalism improves the general standard of living, it becomes possible to turn the workers’ attention to the vacuity of their present lives (as seen, for instance, in their sexual, family, social and work relationships ). Individuals find it increasingly difficult to solve this problem by applying the norms they have been taught, and even when they do conform they do so without any real conviction. Many will go on to invent new responses to their situation, and in so doing they assert their right to live as free men in a vital community. The real meaning of revolution is not a change in management, but a change in man. This chan!(e we must make in our own lifetime and not for our children’s sake, for the revolution must be born of joy and not of sacrifice …

There is no such thing as an isolated revolutionary act. Acts that can transform society take place in association with others, and form part of a general movement that follows its own laws of growth. All revolutionary activity is collective, and hence involves a degree of organization. What we challenge is not the need for this but the need for a revolutionary leadership, the need for a party.

Central to my thesis is an analysis of the bureaucratic phenomenon, which I have examined from various viewpoints. For example, I have looked at the French workers’ unions and parties and shown that what is wrong with them is not so much their rigidity and treachery as the fact that they have become integrated into the overall bureaucratic system of the capitalist state.

The emergence of bureaucratic tendencies on a world scale, tlw continuous concentration of capital, and the increasing intervention of the State in economic and social matters, haw produced a new managerial class whose fate is no longer bound up with that of the private ownership of the means of production.

It is in the light of this bureaucratization that the Bolshevik Party has been studied. Although its bureaucratic nature is not, of course, its only characteristic, it is true to say that Communists, and also Trotskyists, Maoists and the rest, no less than the capitalist State, all look upon the proletariat as a mass that needs to be directed from above. As a result, democracy degenerates into the ratification at the bottom of decisions taken at tlw top, and the class struggle is forgotten while the leaders jockey for power within the political hierarchy.

The objections to Bolshevism are not so much moral as sociological; what we attack is not the evil conduct of some of its leaders but an organizational set-up that has become its one and only justification.

The most forceful champion of a revolutionary party was Lenin, who in his *Wliat is to he done?* argued that the proletariat is unable by itself to reach a ‘scientific’ understanding of society, that it tends to adopt the prevailing, i.e. the bourgeois, ideology.

Hence it was the essential task of the Party to rid the workers of this ideology by a process of political education which could only come to them *from without.* Moreover, Lenin tried to show that the Party can only overcome the class enemy by turning itself into a professional revolutionary body in which everyone is allocated a fixed task. Certain of its infallibility, a Party appoints itself the natural spokesman and sole defender of the interests of the working class, and as such wields power on their be- half-i.c. acts as a bureaucracy.

We take quite a different view: far from having to teach the masses, the revolutionary’s job is to try to understand and express their common aspirations; far from being Lenin’s ‘tribune of the people who uses every manifestation of tyranny and oppression ...to explain his Socialist convictions and his Social Democratic demands’ the real militant must encourage the workers to struggle on their own behalf, and show how their every struggle can be used to drive a wedge into capitalist society. If he does so, the militant acts as an agent of the people and no longer as their leader.

The setting up of any party inevitably reduces freedom of the people to freedom to agree with the party.

In other words, democracy is not suborned by bad leadership but by the very existence of leadership. Democ- racy cannot even exist within the Party, because the Party itself is not a democratic organization, i.e. it is based upon authority and not on representation. Lenin realized full well that the Party is an artificial creation, that it was imposed upon the working class ‘from without’. Moral scruples have been swept aside: the Party is ‘right’ if ii can impose its views upon the masses and wrong if it fails to do so. For Lenin, the whole matter ends there. In his *State and Revolution,* Lenin did not even raise the problem of the relationship between the people and the Party. Revolutionary power was a matter of fact, based upon people who are prepared to fight for it; the paradox is that the Party’s programme, endorsed by these people, was precisely: All power to the Soviets! But whateVl’r its programme, in retrospect we can see that the Party, because of its basic conception, is bound to bring in privilege and bureaucracy, and we must wash our hands of all organizations of this sort. To try and pretend that the Bolshevik Party is truly democratic is to deceive oneself, and this, at least, is an error that Lenin himself never committed.

What then is our conception of the role of the revolutionary? To begin with, we are convinced that the revolutionary cannot and must not be a leader. Revolutionaries are a militant minority drawn from various social strata, people who band together because they shan• an ideology, and who pledge themselves to struggle against oppression, to dispel the mystification of the ruling classes and the bureaucrats, to proclaim that the workers can only defend themselves and build a socialist society by taking their fate into their own hands, believing that political maturity comes only from revolutionary struggle and direct action.

By their action, militant minorities can do no more than support, encourage, and clarify the struggle. They must always guard against any tendency to become a pressure group outside the revolutionary movement of the masses. When they act, it must always be with the masses, and not as a faction.

For some time, the 22 March Movement was remarkable only for its radical political line, for its methods of attack — often spontaneous-and for its non-bureaucratic structure. Its objectives and the role it could play became clear only during the events of May and June, when it attracted the support of the working class. These militant students whose dynamic theories emerged from their practice, were imitated by others, who developed new forms of action appropriate to their own situation. The result was a mass movement unencumbered by the usual chains of command. By challenging the repressive nature of their own institution-the university-the revolutionary students forced the state to show its hand. and the brutality with which it did so caused a general revulsion and led to the occupation of the factories and the general strike. The mass inkrvcntion of the working class was the great· est achievement of our struggle; it was the first step on the path to a bctter socil’ly, a path that, alas, was 11ot followed to the end. The militant minorities failed to get the masses to follow their example: to take collective charge of the running of soci<“ty. We do not believe for a single moment that the workers arc incapable of taking the next logical step beyond occupying the factories — which is to run them on their own. We arc sure that they can do what we ourselves have done in the univcrsiti<“S. The militant minorities must continue to wage their revolutionary struggle, to show the workers what their trade unions try to make them forget: their own gigantic strength. The distribution of petrol by the workers in the refineries and the local strike committees shows clearly what the working class is capable of doing once it puts its mind to it.

During the recent struggle, many student militants became hero-worshippers of the working class, forgetting that every group has its own part to play in dl’fcnding its own interests, and that, during a period of total confrontation, these interests converge.

The student movement must follow its own road-only thus can it contribute to the growth of militant minorities in the factories and workshops. We do not pretend that we can be leaders in the struggle, but it is a fact that small revolutionary groups can, at the right time and place, rupture the system decisively and irreversibly.

During May and June, 1968, the emergence of a vast chain of workers’ committees and sub-committees bypassed the calcified structure of the trade unions, and tried to call together all workers in a struggle that was their own and not that of the various trade union bureaucracies. It was because of this that the struggle was carried to a higher stage. It is absurd and romantic to sp<“ak of revolution with a capital R and to think of it as n•sulting from a single, decisive action. The revolutionary process grows and is strengthened daily not only in revolt against the boredom of a system that prevents people from se<“ing the ‘beach under the paving stonl’s’ but also in our dl’termina- tion to make the beach open to all.

If a revolutionary movement is to succet’d, no form of organization whatever must be allmvcd to dam its spontaneous flow. It must evolve its own forms and structures …

… Every small action committee no less than every mass movement which seeks to improve the lives of all men must resolve:

 1. to respect and guaraniee thl’ plurality and diversity of political currents within the revolutionary mainstream. It must accordingly grant minority groups tlw right of independent action-only if tlw plurality of ideas is allowed *to express itself in social /JTaclicc* does this idea have any real meaning;

 2. to ensure that all delegates arc accountable to, and subject to immediate recall hy, those who have elected

them, and to oppose the introduction of specialists and specialization at every step by widening the skill and knowledge of all;

 3. to ensure a continuous exchange of ideas, and to oppose any control of information and knowledge;

 4. to struggle against the formation of any kind of hierarchy;

 5. to abolish all artificial distinctions within labour, in particular between manual and intellectual work, and discrimination on grounds of sex;

 6. to ensure that all factories and businesses are run by those who work in them;

 7. to rid ourselves, in practice, of the Judaeo-Christian ethic, with its call for renunciation and sacrifice. There is only one reason for being a revolutionary-because it is the best way to live.

*** Proclamation of the Orange Free State

*Roel van Duyn:* The Kabouters of Holland

Of all the anarchist-inspired groups that have surfaced in recentyears, the Dutch Kaboulers display the keenest sense of humor-a quality which has never been in oversupply among anarchists. The Kabouters (meaning pixies, or elves) are an outgrowth of the Provo movement, a Dutch variant of the international New Left active for several years in the late 1960s. The Provos-short for provoca- teurs-devoted themselves to bringing political and social issues to public attention by means of protests, demonstrations, and “happenings.” Their activities were nonviolent and contained a large element of playfulness; indeed, many Provos considered it their purpose to bring out in their fellow citizens the repressed Homo ludens, or man of play, a term originally coined by the noted Dutch historian Johan Huizinga.

Like the Kabouters today, the Provos were particularly concerned with environmental issues, a subject of special significance in the highly industrialized and thickly populated Netherlands. In their journal Provo they published a series of so- called White Plans designed to combat urban problems. These ranged from the White Bicycle Plan for relieving automobile congestion in the center of Amsterdam to the White Chicken Plan (“kip,” or chicken, is Dutch slang for policeman), which would have garbed the police in white uniforms and assigned them the task of dispensing band-aids, contraceptives, and chicken drumsticks to the citizenry. The agents of the “social revolution” the Proves had in mind were to be not the proletariat but what they termed the “provotariat,” meaning hippies, students, and young protesters in general.

The foremost theorist of the Proves was Roel van Duyn, a philosophy student at Amsterdam University who was born in 1943. Van Duyn is now the leading spirit of the Kabouters. He identifies himself with the anarchist tradition, once declaring of the Provo movement that it regarded “anarchy as the inspirational source of resistance” and aimed “to revive anarchy and teach it to the young.” More specifically, he extols the ideas of Peter Kropotkin, particularly his vision of a harmonious balance between urban and rural life. In February 1970 the Kabouters announced the formation of their alternative community, calling it the Orange Free State (the Dutch royal house is the House of Orange). Among the “people’s departments” they established was a Housing Department, which proceeded to take over empty buildings in Amsterdam and make them available to the homeless; this activity proved unpopular with the authorities but drew considerable public support. In June 1970 the Kabouters ran in the municipal elections in Holland, winning seats on the city councils of several towns and capturing five of the forty-five places on the Amsterdam city council. Such political activity would appear to contradict the anarchist element of the movement, but van Duyn’s views manage to combine reformist tactics with the aspiration lo a wholly new society embodying anarchist principles.

The proclamation of the Orange Free State illustrates that combination. It was issued in an English- language version, which, though faulty, has a playful spirit of its own. Some minor corrections of spelling, punctuation, and English usage have been made. I am grateful to Mr. Rudolf de Jong of the International Institute for Social History in Amsterdam for making this document available to me.

Roel van Duyn is the author of two books, which unfortunately are not available in English. The best source of information on the Provos is the Autumn 1967 issue of the magazine *Delta: A Review of Arts, Lile and Thought in the Netherlands* (Amsterdam), which was devoted entirely to this movement.

How does a new society emerge out of the old society? Like a toadstool upon a rotting trunk. Out of the subculture of the existing order grows an alternative community. The underground community of the mutinous youth emerges and is going to develop independently of the still existing authorities.

This revolution is taking place now. This is the end of the underground of protest and of demonstration; from now on we’re investing our energy in constructing an anti-authoritarian society.

What we can use from the old society we will use: knowledge, socialist ideals and the best of the liberal traditions. The toadstool of the new society will feed itself with the juices of the rotting trunk until it’s gone. The old society will wear out before our eyes; we will consume it. Here and there the toadstools of the new society will be dispersed. Elfin cities will federate themselves into circles of toadstools and they will create a world-embracing net: the Orange Free State.

Why is the old society perishing? Because it<sup>’</sup>s unable to solve the problems it creates. The political tension between the existing authoritarian governments can result any moment now in a military catastrophe. The aggression of the official technology and industry towards Nature is systematically breaking down the biological environment and will result in apocalyptic disaster. Unknown epidemics, food poisoning and starvation, mass mortality amongst human beings and animals are inevitable unless the rise of a new society prevents it. A new culture with a new human being: the culture-elf, who will bring the tension betwem Nature and the old culture to an end. Who understands the animals and unites people in love, who will restore the unity of every living thing.

The culture-elf in the new society will have to solve the conflicts of the old society, which is doomed to disappear. His task will be to take away the tension between city and countryside by means of a marriage, the tension between “responsible” commander and non-responsible soldier, between authority and subject, between government and people, by creating a new society in which everybody is responsible and is able to determine his own destiny, to conquer the tension between riches and poverty by collectivating property. The culture-elf will contract the total marriage between the contradictions of the old society.

Across the old established order a new society will guide itself. To the provotariat the government in London is but a shadow cabinet, its mayors but shadow mayors, its cudg<·ling policemen but phantoms of a disappearing existence. Their laws, official chains and cudgels are losing their grip upon a new reality which we arc creating ourselves.

The old society can’t take control over the struggle against the new one, not to mention winning that war. All by itself it is not capable of solving the problems of authoritarianism and mutilation of Nature. The old society can only survive by assuming the characteristics of the new one. Given the choice between destruction and assimilation with the new society it is forced to take the road of the nice revolution.

This revolution is in a hurry. The new society will therefore have to use all its knowledge about sabotage techniques to speed up the change from an authoritarian and dirty society to an anti-authoritarian and cleaner one. Actually the existence of an autonomous new society in the midst of the old order is the most effective kind of sabotage. But whatever the techniques the people’s army of saboteurs uses, it must always realize that it may not look like the armies of the old world in any respect. The non-responsible soldier in the old army is the symbol of what has to be overcome by the responsible saboteur of the anti-authoritarian people’s army. His sabotage will be selective because of that and by means of a persistent striving towards non-violence. And sabotage is not the only thing we have at our disposal. Erotics and pseudoerotics are the other means of revealing the new world for everybody without exception.

What will the new society look like? It would be fundamentally wrong to try to give a complete view of the new society, which is the same thing as not knowing your new lover completely. It is the unknown that makes her attractive. But although we still have to explore our new lover, we already know her. Likewise the new society. It is not governed. It steers itself by involving evC’rybody in taking of decisions about economics, planology, defense, environmental hygiene and all other affairs of public interest. Except for taking political dC’cisions, for that can be forgotten, because the politicians as they exist now will disappear. When everybody is involved in taking decisions politicians will be superfluous and politics, which have always been power politics, will expire.

The new self-governing society is a council democracy. In factories, offices, universities and schools, councils will be formed by those who work there. In quarters, villages and c;ties the people who live there will also form councils. All councils will engage into one another in co-ordinating councils which can survey problems nationally and internationally and can act in a regulating manner. These councils will never use sheer force. They won’t have to, because they are directly and constantly controlled by their electors who give them strict instructions. The new society is a socialist one because it has abolished private possession of the means of production. But this socialism has nothing to do with the burcaucractic and centralised socialism of before. It is decentralised and anti-authoritarian. It leaves **as** many decisions as possible to the people on the spot, in their councils. It is not the socialism any more of the clenched fist, but of the interlaced fingers, of the erect penis, of the flying butterfly, of the moved glance, of the Holy Cat. It is anarchism.

In the first elfin city, in the first commune of the Orange Free State, Amsterdam, the provotariat took on February 5<sup>th</sup>, 1970 the following measures in order to proceed towards a new self-governing and independent society:

 1. The foundation of people’s departments, steer-groups of voluntary unsalaried civil servants. All their documents will be public. They have to answer to weekly meetings in which everyone can criticise.

 1. For the time being the town hall of the new society will be: Athcnaeum, Spui, Amsterdam.

 1. The town hall of the old society will function as the Embassy for relations with the old community. The provo-counsellor will be appointed Ambassador.

 1. The publication of a National Gazette of the Orange Free State and a municipal gazette from the elfin city Amsterdam. In these gazettes new measures will be announced.

 1. The planting of a new National Monument at the Dam: an orange tree, symbol for the new society. You are invited to dance around it singing the new national anthem, “The Cuckoo Song.”

<quote>
AMSTERDAM ELFIN CITY

February 5<sup>th</sup> [1970]
</quote>

*** Communitas

**Paul and Percival Goodman: Restoration of the Community**

Paul Goodman is the leading adherent of the libertarian tradition in America today. Born in 1911, he is a teacher, essayist, poet, novelist, and critic. In his numerous books and articles he has set out to apply some of the principal tenets of historical anarchism to the problems of urbanized, affluent, but restive contemporary America.

One of Goodman’s central themes, the anarchist lineage of which goes all the way back Lo William Godwin, is the value of the community, the small, “face-to-face” voluntary association of individuals united by a common interest or function. This strong sense of community underlies many of his criticisms of contemporary American life-bigness, urban sprawl, impersonal administration-and pervades his proposals for reform, particularly in the spheres of education and urban planning. And it is this sense of community that has given his views their widespread appeal, especially among young people, in whom he has always taken a particular interest. At a time of increasing awareness of the human costs of material advancement and technological progress, Goodman has contributed lo the search for a new harmony between the individual and his social and physical environment.

One of the most engaging features of Goodman’s writings is their concreteness. He strives constantly to demonstrate the workability of his principles and their applicability to daily life. The selection here is a prime example of that preoccupation, in the form of an updated version of the anarchist utopia. It is contained in a book on urban planning that Goodman wrote with his brother Percival, an architect. Although it was first written well over two decades ago, it is still remarkably fresh and up-to-date in its attempt to rehabilitate the urban environment. As an integral plan for applying fundamental anarchist values to the needs and conditions of present-day urban life it is probably the most positive and creative expression of the anarchist tradition in print today.

*Communitas: Means of Livelihood and Ways* of *Lile* was first published in 1947. The selection here is from the second edition, revised (New York: Vintage Books, 1960), pages 153–86. Other works by Paul Goodman of particular significance for anarchist thought are *Art and Social Nature* (New York, 1946); The *Community of Scholars* (New York, 1962); *People or Personnel* (New York, 1965); and *New Reformation: Notes of a Neolithic Conservative* (New York, 1970).

<center>
**A New Community:**

**The Elimination of the Difference Between**

**Production and Consumption.**

**Quarantining the Work, Quarantining the Homes**
</center>

Men like to make things, to handle the materials and see them take shape and come out as desired, and they arc proud of the products. And men like to work and be useful, for work has a rhythm and springs from spontaneous feelings just like play, and to be useful makes people feel right. Productive work is a kind of creation, it is an extension of human personality into nature. But it is also true that the private or state capitalist relations of production, and machine industry as it now exists under whatever system, have so far destroyed the instinctive pleasures of work that economic work is what all ordinary men dislike. (Yet unemployment is dreaded, and people who don”t like their work don’t know what to do with their leisure.) In capitalist or state-socialist economies, efficiency is measured by profits and expansion rather than by handling the means. Mass production, analyzing the acts of labor into small steps and distributing the products far from home, destroys the sense of creating anything. Hhythm, neatness, style belong to the machine rather than to the man.

The division of economy into production and consumption as two opposite poles means that we arc far from the conditions in which work could be a way of life. A way o[ life requires merging the means in the end, and work would have to be thought of as a continuous process of satisfying activity, satisfying in itself and satisfying in its useful end. Such considerations have led many moralisteconomists to want to tum back the clock to conditions of handicraft in a limited society, where the relations of guilds and small markets allow the master craftsmen a say and a hand in every phase of production, distribution, and consumption. Can we achieve the same values with modem technology, a national economy, and a democratic society? With this aim, let us reanalyze efficiency and machine production.

Characteristic of American offices and factories is the severe discipline with regard to punctuality. (In some states the law requires time clocks, to protect labor and calculate the insurance. ) Now no doubt in many cases where workers cooperate in teams, where business is timed by the mails, where machines use a temporary source of power, being on time and on the same time as everybody else is essential to efficiency. But by and large it would make little difference at what hour each man’s work began and ended, so long as the job itself was clone. Often the work could be clone at home or on the premises indifferently, or part here part there. Yet this laxity is never allowed, except in the typical instances of hackwriting or commercial art-typical because these workers have an uneasy relation to the economy in any case. (There is a lovely story of how William Faulkner asked M-G-M if he could work at home, and when they said, “Of course,” he went back to Oxford, Mississippi.)

Punctuality is demanded not primarily for efficiency but for the discipline itself. Discipline is necessary because the work is onerous; perhaps it makes the idea of working even more onerous, but it makes the work itself much more tolerable, for it is a structure, a decision. Discipline establishes the work in an impersonal secondary environment where, once one has gotten out of bed early in the morning, the rest easily follows. Regulation of time, separation from the personal environment: these arc signs that work is not a way of life; they are the methods by which, for better or worse, work that cannot be energized directly by personal concern can get done, unconfused by personal concern.

In the Garden City plans, they “quarantined the technology” from the homes; more generally, we quarantine tlw work from the homes. But it is even truer to say that we quarantine the homes from the work. For instance, it is calamitous for a man’s wife or children to visit him at work; this privilege is reserved for the highest bosses.

**** Reanalyzing Production

In planning a region of satisfying industrial work, we therefore take account of four main principles:

 1. A closer relation of the personal and productive en- vironml’llts, making punctuality reasonahle instead of disciplinary, and introducing phases of home and small-shop production; and vice versa, finding appropriate technical uses for personal relations that have come to be considered unproductive.

 2. A role for all workers in all stages of the production of the product; for experienced workers a voice and hand in the design of the product and tht’ design and operation of the machines; and for all a political voice on the basis of what they know best, their specific industry, in the national economy.

 3. A schedule of work designed on psychological and

moral as well as technical grounds, to give the most well- rounded employment to each person, in a diversified environment. Even in technology and economics, the men are ends as well as means.

 4. Relatively small units with relative self-sufficiency, so that each community can enter into a larger whole with solidarity and independence of viewpoint.

These principles are mutually interdependent.

 1. To undo the present separation of work and home environments, we can proceed both ways: (a) Return certain parts of production to home-shops or near home; and ( b) Introduce domestic work and certain productive family-relations, which are now not considered part of the economy at all, into the style and relations of the larger economy.

 a. a) Think of the present proliferation of machine-tools. It could once be said that the sewing machine was the only widely distributed productive machine; but now, especially because of the last war, the idea of thousands of small machine shops, powered by electricity, has become familiar; and small power-tools are a best-selling commodity. In general, the change from coal and steam to electricity and oil has relaxed one of the greatest causes for concentration of machinery around a single drivingshaft.

 b. b) Borsodi, going back to the economics of Aristotle, has proved, often with hilarious realism, that home production, such as cooking, cleaning, mending, and entertaining has a formidable economic, though not cash, value. The problem is to lighten and enrich home production by the technical means and some of the expert attitudes of public production, but without destroying its individuality.

But the chief part of finding a satisfactory productive life in homes and families consists in the analysis of personal relations and conditions: e.g., the productive cooperation of man and wife as it exists on farms, or the productive capabilities of children and old folk, now economically excluded. This involves sentimental and moral problems of eXtreme depth and delicacy that could only be solved by the experiments of integrated communities.

 2. A chief cause of the absurdity of industrial work is that each machine worker is acquainted with only a few processes, not the wholl’ ordl’r of production. And thl’ thousands of products arc distributed he knows not how or where. Efficiency is organized from above by expert managcrs who first analyze production into its simple proceSSl’S, thl’n synthesize thesl’ into combinations built into the machines, then arrange tbe logistics of supplies, etc., and then assign the jobs.

As against this cfficiency organized from aboVl’, **Wl’** must try to give this function to the workers. This is fea- sibll’ only if the workers have a total grasp of all thl’ operations. There must be a school of industry, academic and not immediately productive, connected with tbe factory. Now let us distinguish apprentices and graduates. To the apprentices, along with thcir schooling, is assigned the more monotonous work; to the graduates, the executive and coordinating work, the fine work, the finishing touches. The masterpiece that graduates an apprentice is a new invention, method, or other practical contribution advancing the industry. The masters are teachers, and as part of their job hold free discussions looking to basic changes.

Such a sl’tup detracts greatly from the schedule of continuous production; but it is a question whether it would not prove more efficient in the long run to have the men working for themselves and having a say in the distribution. By this we do not mean merely economic democracy or socialist ownership. These are necessary checks but are not the political meaning of industrialism as such. What is nel’ded is the organization of economic democracy on the basis of the productive units, where each unit, relying on its own expertness and the bargaining power of what it has to offer, cooperates with the whole of society. This is syndicalism, simply an industrial town meeting. To guarantee the independent power of each productive unit, it must have a relative regional sdf- sufficiency; this is the union of farm and factory.

 3. Machine work in its present form is often stultifying, not a “way of life.” The remedy is to assign work on psychological and moral as well **as** technical and <·conomic grounds. The object is to provide a well-rounded employment. Work can be divided as team work and individual work, or physical work and intellectual work. And industries can be combined in a neighborhood to give the right variety. For instance, cast glass, blown glass, and optical instruments; or more generally, industry and agricultun’, and factory and domestic work. Probably most important, but difficult to conjure with, is the division in terms of faculties and powers, routine and initiation, obeying and commanding.

The problem is to envisage a well-rounded schedule of jobs for each man, and to arrange the buildings and the farms so that the schedule is feasible.

 4. The integration of factory and farm brings us to the idea of regionalism and regional relative autonomy. These are the following main parts:

 a. (a) Diversified farming as the basis of self-subsistence and, therefore, small urban centers ( 2,0).

 b. (b) A number of mutually dependent industrial centers, so that an important part of the national economy is firmly controlled. (The thought is always to have freedom secured by real power.)

 c. (c) These industries developed around regional resources of field, mine, and power.

Diversified farmers can be independent, and small fanns have therefore always been a basis of social stability, though not necessarily of peasant conservatism. On the other hand, for the machines now desirable, the farmer needs cash and links himself with the larger economy of the town.

The political problem of the industrial worker is the reverse, since every industry **is** completely dependent on the national economy, for both materials and distribution. But by regional interdependence of industries and the close integration of factory and farm work-factory workers taking over in the fields at peak seasons, farmers doing factory work in the winter; town people, especially children, living in the country; farmers domestically making small parts for the factories-the industrial region as a whole can secure for itself independent bargaining power in the national whole.

The general sign of this federal system is the distinction of the local regional market from the national market. In transport, the local market is served by foot, bicycle, cart, and car; the national market by plane and trailer-truck.

(Now all of this-decentralized units, double markets, the selection of industries on political and psychological as well as economic and technical grounds-all this seems a strange and roundabout way of achieving an integrated national economy, when at present this unity already exists with a tightness that leaves nothing to be desired, and an efficiency that is even excessive. But we are aiming at a different standard of efficiency, one in which invention will flourish and the job will be its own incentive; and most important, at the highest and nearest ideals of external life: liberty, responsibility, self-esteem as a workman, and initiative. Compared with these aims the present system has nothing to offer us. )

**** A Piazza in the Town

With us at present in America, a man who is fortunate enough to have useful and important work to do that is called for and sociaJly accepted, work that has initiative and exercises his best energies-such a man (he is one in a thousand among us) is likely to work not only very hard but too hard; he finds himself, as if compulsively, always going back to his meaningful job, as if the leisurely pursuits of society were not attractive. But we would hope that where every man has such work, where society is organized only to guarantee that he has, that people will have a more good-humored and easygoing attitude. Not desiring to get away from their work to a leisure that amounts to very little (for where there is no man’s work there **is** no man’s play ), people will be leisurely about their work-it is all, one way or another, making use of the time.

Now, the new community has *closed squares* like those described by Camillo Sitte. Such squares are the *definition* of a city.

Squares are not avenues of motor or pedestrian traffic, but are places where people remain. Place of work and home are close at hand, but in the city square is what is still more interesting-the other people.

The easygoing leisure of piazzas is a long simple interim, just as easygoing people nowadays arc often happiest on train trips or driving to work, the time in-between. Conscience is clear because a useful task will begin at a set time (not soon ). The workers of the new community give themselves long lunchtimes indeed. For, supposing ten men are needed on a machine or a line for four hours’ work: they arrange to start sometime in midaftemoon, and where should they 6<sup>nd</sup> each other, to begin, but in the piazza.

On one side of the piazza opens the factory; another entrance is a small library, provided with ashtrays. As in all other squares, there is a clock with bells; it’s a reminder, not a tyrant.

The leisure of piazzas is made of n•pl’liti\“l’ small plt·a- sures like feeding pigeons and watching a fountain. Tlll’se are ways of being with the other people and striking up conversations. It is essential to have outdoor and indoor tables with drinks and small food.

There is the noise of hammering, and till’ explosions of tuning a motor, from small shops a little way off. But if it’s a quieter square, there may be musicians. Colored linen and silk are blowing on a line-not flags but washing! For everything is mixed up here. At the same time, there is something of the formality of a coll•·ge campus.

Another face of the piazza is an apartment house, where an urban family is making a meal. They go about this as follows. The ground floor of the building is not only a restaurant but a foodstore; the farmers deliver their produce here. The family cook.{1} upstairs, phones down for their uncooked meat, vegetables, salad, and fixings, and these are delivered by dumbwaiter, cleaned and peeled-the potatoes peeled and spinach washed by machine. They dress and season the roast to taste and send it back with the message: “Medium rare about 1845.” The husband observes, unfortunately for the twentieth time, that when he was a student in Paris a baker on the corner used to roast their chickens in his oven. Simpler folk, who live in smaller row houses up the block, consider this procedure a lot of foolishness; they just shop for their food, prepare it themselves, cook it, and cat it. But they don’t have factory jobs: they run a lathe in the basement.

The main exit from the square is almost cut off by a monument with an inscription. But we cannot decipher the future inscription. The square seems enclosed.

In the famous piazzas described and measured in all their asymmetry by Camillo Sitte, the principal building, the building that gives its name to the place, as the Piazza San Marco or the Piazza dei Signori, is a church, town hall or guild hall. What are such principal buildings in the squares we are here describing? We don’t know.

The windmill and water tower here, that work the fountain and make the pool, were put up gratuitously simply because such an ingenious machine is beautiful.

**** A Farm and Its Children

Let us rear all the children in the natural environment where they are many and furnish a society for one another. This has an immense pedagogic advantage, for the business of the country environment is plain to the eyes, it is not concealed in accounts and factories. The mechanism of urban production is clear to adult minds; the nature of farm production is not much clearer to the adults than to the children of ten or eleven.

Integrating town and country, we are able to remedy the present injustice whereby the country bears the burden of rearing and educating more than its share of the population, then loses 50% of the investment at maturity. (And then the cities complain that the youth have been educated on rural standards!) If the city childrm go to the country schools, the city bears its pro rata share of the cost and has the right to a say in the policy.

The parents who work in the city live in small houses on nearby farms: that is home for the children. But when they leave for work, the children are not alone but arc still at home on the farm. Some such arrangement is necessary, for .it is obvious that we cannot, as the urban home continues to break down, be satisfied with the pathos of crechcs, nursery-schools, and kindergartl’ns.

To the farmers, the city families are the most valuable source of money income.

The best society for growing children, past the age of total dependency, is other children, older and younger by easy grades. It is a rough society but characterized at worst by conHict rather than by loving, absolute authority. These children, then, no longer sleep with their parents, but in a dormitory.

From quite early, children arc set to work feeding the animals and doing chores that are occasionally too hard for them. Perhaps urban sentiment can here alleviate the condition of farm and city children both.

Everybody praises diversified farming as a way of life. Yet the farm youth migrate to the city when they can. (Just as everybody praises lovely Ireland, but the young Irish leave in droves.) This is inevitable when all the advertised social values, broadcast by radio and cinema, are urban values. It is universally admitted that these valul’S are clap-trap; but they are more attractive than nothing. To counteract this propaganda, the farm-sociologists try to establish a social opinion specifically rural, they revive square dances and have 4-H clubs and contests, organized by the farmers’ collectives and cooperatives.

But is it necessary for ‘“farm” and ‘”‘city” to compete? All values are human values.

**** Regional and National Economy

The large number of diversified farms means, on the one hand, that the region is self-subsistent, but on the other that the farmers have little crop to export outside the region. Their cash comes, however, from the city market, from domestic industry, from some industrial agriculture, and from housing the city folk. If farmers have a specialized crop, such as grapes or cotton, it is processed in the town. All this guarantees a tight local economy.

Now, even apart from political freedom, such a tight local economy is essential if there is to be a close relation between production and consumption, for it means that prices and the value of labor will not be so subject to the fluctuations of the vast general market. A man’s work, meaningful during production, will somewhat carry through the distribution and what he gets in return. That is, within limits, the nearer a system gets to simple household economy, the more it is an economy of specific things and services that arc bartered, rather than an economy of generalized money.

“Economy of things rather than money”-this formula is the essence of regionalism. The persons of a region draw on their local resources and cooperate directly, without tlw intermediary of national bookkeeping with its millions of clashing motives never resoluble face-to-face. The regional development of the TVA brought together power and fertilizer for farms, navigation and the prevention of erosion, the control of floods and the processing of foods, national rccn•ation, and in this natural cooperation it produced a host of ingenious inventions. All of this (in its inception) was carried on in relative autonomy, under tlw loose heading of “general wdfare.”

The kind of life looked for in this new community depends on the awareness of local distinctness, and this is also the eondition of political freedom as a group of industries and farm cooperatives, rather than as a multitude of abstract votes and consumers with cash.

Yet t’Vcry machine economy *is* a national and international economy. The fraction of 1wc<·ssary goods that can be produced in a planned region is very substantial, but it is still a fraction. And this fact is the salvation of regionalism! For otherwise regionalism succumbs to provincialism-whether we consider art or literature or the characters of the people, or the fashions in technology. The regional industrialists in their meeting find that, just because their region is strong and productive, they are subject to wide circles of influence, they have to keep up.

**** Refinement

Let us try to envisage the moral ideal of such a community as we are describing.

In the luxury city of consumers’ goods, society was geared to an expanding economy-capital investment and consumption had to expand at all costs, or even especially at all costs. In the third community that we shall describe in this book, “maximum security, minimum regulation,” we shall find that, in order to achieve the aim of social security and human liberty, a part of the economy must never be allowed to expand at all.

But in this present, middle-of-the-road, plan there is no reason why the economy either must expand or must not expand. Every issue is particular and comes down to the particular question: “Is it worthwhile to expand along this new line? ls it worth the trouble to continue along that old line?”

This attitude is a delicate one, hard for us Americans to grasp clearly: we always like to do it bigger and better, or we jump to something new, or we cling. But when people are accustomed to knowing what they are lending their hands to, when they know the operations and the returns, when they don’t have to prove something competitively, then they are just in the business, so to speak, of judging the relation of means and ends. They are all efficiency experts. And then, curiously, they may soon hit on a new conception of efficiency itself, very unlike that of the engineers of Veblen. When they can say, “It would be more efficient to make it this way,” they may go on to say, “And it would be even *more* efficient to forget it altogether.”

Efficiellt for what? For th<· way of life as a whole. Now in all times honorable people have used this criterion *as* a negative check: *“We* don’t do that kind of thing, even if it<sup>’</sup>s eonvl’nient or profitable.” But envisage doing it posi- tiwly and inventivdy: “Let’s do it, it becomes us. Or let’s omit it and simplify, it’s a lag and a drag.”

Suppose that ont’ of the masters, away on his two months of individual work, drafting designs for furniture, should, having studied the furniture of till’ Japanese, de- cidl’ to displ’llSe with chairs. Such a problem might create a bitter struggle in the national economy, one thing leading to another.

The economy, lih· any machine economy, would expand, for it creates a surplus. It would expand into rcfine- ment. The Japanese way is a powerful example. They cover the floor with deep washable mats and dispense with chairs and dispense with the floor. It is too much trouble to dutter the room with furniture. It is not too much trouble to lavish many days’ work on the minute carving on till’ inside of a finger pull of a shoji. They dispense with the upholstery but take pains in arranging the flowers. They do not build permanl’nt partitions in a room because the activities of life arc always varying.

When production becomes an integral part of life, the workman becomes an artist. It is the definition of an artist that he follows the medium, and finds new possibilities of eXpression in it. He is not bound by till’ fact that things have always bl’cn made in a certain way, nor even by the fact that it is these things that have been made. Our in- dustrialists--cvcn International Business Machines-are very much concerned these days to get “creative” people, and they make psychological studies on how to foster an “atmosphere of creativity”; but they don’t sufficiently conjure with the awful possibility that truly creative people might tell them to shut up shop. They wish to use creativity in just the way that it cannot be used, for it is a process that also generates its own ends.

**** Notes on Neo-Functionalism: The Ailanthus and the Morning-Glory

In the Introduction to this book, we called this attitude neo-functionalism, a functionalism that subjects the funclion to a formal critique. The neo-functionalist asks: Is the use as simple, ingenious, or clear as the efficicnt means that produce it? Is the using a good experience? For instance, these days they sell us machines whose operation is not transparent and that an intelligent layman cannot repair. Such a thing is ugly in itself, and it enslaves us to repairmen.

There is one abuse of present-day production, however, that is not only ugly and foolish but morally outrageous, and the perpetrators should be ostracized from decent society. This is building obsolescence into a machine, so it will wear out, be discarded, and replaced. For instance, automobile-repair parts are now stocked for only five years, whereas previously they were stocked for ten. Does this mean that the new cars, meant to last a shorter time, are cheaper? On the contrary, they are more expensive. Does it mean that there are so many new improvements that there is no point in keeping the older, less efficicnt models runn’ng? There are no such improvements; the new models are characterized merely by novel gimmicks to induce sales-just as the difficulty of repair and the obsolescence are built in to enforce sales.

Neo-functionalists are crotchety people, for they are in love with the goddess of common sense, and the way we do things catches them by the throat. They take exception to much that is universally accepted, because it doesn’t add up; they stop to praise many things universally disregarded, such as the custom of sitting on slum stoops and sidewalks, with or without chairs: Park Avenue docs not provide this amenity. To a neo-functionalist, much that is insisted on seems not worth all that bother, and he is often easygoing; his attitude is interpreted as laziness, but he sees no reason to be busy if he is not bored. He praises the ailanthus.

Of all trees and shrubs it seems to be only the locust and especially the ailanthus that flourish of themselves in the back alleys and yard-square plots of dirt that arc gardens of Manhattan Island. They bloom from the mouths of basements. But the maple saplings and the elms that are transplanted there at large expense and are protected from 1)(‘sts with doses of a nauseating juice, languish and die in that environment of motor fumes and pavements.

Should our native city not, out of simple respect and piety, exalt the ailanthus to be our chief ornamental scenery, and make places for it everywhere? For the ailan- thus loves us and thrives in our balance of nature. Our city is rich enough, it could become ell’gant l’nough, to Haunt a gardPn of native wl’cds. There is everywhere a prejudice against the luxuriating plantain weed, which as abstract design is as lowly as can be. Why should not this weed be raisl’d to the dignity of grass-it is only a matter of name-and then carefully be weeded in, in rows and stars, to dl’corate the little si<kwalk plots?

**** The Rivers of New York

Traim•d in the New Commune, the neo-functionalist mentions also the ludicrous anomaly of New York<sup>’</sup>s bathing places. During the heat of summer tens of thousands of 1\1anhattanitcs daily travel from two to three hours to go swimming and boating on far-off shores. 1\fany millions of dollars were spent in developing a hathing place no less than 40 miles from midtown Manhattan, and this place-it is the darling of our notorious Park Commissioner-has been comwctcd with thl’ city by remarkable highways on which at peak hours the traffic creeps at four miles an hour, while the engines boil.

Meantime the venturesome poor boys of the city swim daily, as they always have, in the Hudson Hiver and the East niver-under the sidelong surveillance of usually reasonable police; it is quite illl’gal. It is illegal because the water is polluted. No strenuous effort is made by the Park Commissioner to make it unpolluted; and the shore is not developed for bathing. Yct to the boys it seems the obvious thing to do on a hot day, to dive into the nearest water, clown the hill at the end of the street, into

<verse>
*Our lordly lluclsoll liardly flowing*
*under the green-grown cliffs*
*--and has no peer in Europe or the East.*
</verse>

**** The Museum of Ari

Suppose again, says our neo-functionalist friend, that a number of mighty maskrpiecl’S of painting and statuary were decentralized from tlw big muSeum and placed, one• in this neighborhood church (as in Rome one l’ncmmkrs astounded, *Moses),* and onp on this fountain in a local square, whercvl’r there is a quiet placl’ to pause. A few of the neighbors would come to have a friendly and perhaps somewhat proprietary acquaintance with their master· piece. Are they not to be trusted so close to thc trcasurc?

One cannot help but think of Florence that has come down to **us** not as a museum city ( like Vcnice ), but as a bustling modern town, yet still a continuous home for those strange marble and bronze monsters of thc Hcnais- sance, in the squares. It would be very int<>rcsting for a sociologist to study, with his qupstionnaires, thc effect of those things on the Florentines. Thcy have had an clfcct.

When there is such a work in a ncighborhood, a stranger, who from afar has heard of its fame, will comc to visit the local square whcre he would oth<>rwisc n<·n·r have ventured. Then the childrcn noticc how cardully and reverently he is looking at thc statue thcy climb on.

**** Nurses’ Uniforms

The washing and ironing of all Ncw York’s city hospitals is to be done at a great mtmicipal laundry. Ancl it eOm<·s out on investigation that thc grmt part of thc work can be done by a small fraction of the labor and machincry, but the small remainder of the work n·quin•s all thc n·st of the labor. It is the kind of situation that puts a neo-fune- tionalist on the alert. It is that most of tlw labor goes into ironing the uniforms of doctors and nursl’S, hut estlecially into ironing the frilly bonnets and aprons. Till’ washing and the llatwork is done by machinl’ and m;mglc, but thl’ frills rcquire hand-finishing.

It’s not worth it. :Make the uniforms of Sl’(‘rsuckcr or anything dse that docsn<sup>’</sup>t nccd ironing. Mak!’ till’ hats in the form of colored kerchiefs that could equally well indicate the schools from which the nurses have come.

These conclusions arc offered to the city fathers who have ordered a functional laundry to be designed; but they decide that they’re not practical.

**** The Morning-Glory

Yct our nco-functionalist friend, who is a great lover of oriental anecdotes, also approvingly tells the following story.

“In the sixteenth century, the morning-glory was as yet a rare plant in Japan. Rikiu had an entire garden planted with it, which he cultivated with assiduous care. The fame of his convolvuli reached the car of the Taiko, and he expressed a desire to sec them; in consequence Rikiu invited him to a morning tea at his house. On the appointed day the Taiko walked through the garden, but nowhere could he sec any evidence of the flower. The ground had been leveled and strewn with fine pebbles and sand. With sullen anger the despot cnten•d the tearoom, but a sight restored his humor. In the tokonoma, in a rare bronze of Sung workmanship, lay a single morning- glory-the queen of the whole garden.” (Kakuzo Oka- kura)

**** The Theory of Packages

In general, when the consumption of a product is **rc-** moved from its production, hy the g<·ographical distance between factory and home, by the economic distance of sale and resale up to retail, and the temporal distance be- tween making and use, the product is encased in a series of packages. There are the shipper’s crate and the wholesaler’s case and the middleman’s carton and the retailer’s box and the waterproof, airtight cellophane wrapper that must be kept inviolate and untouched except by the ultimate cater.

These packages are the career of physical goods as a commodity, and once the last wrapper is broken, the commodity is dl’stroyed, it is unsak•abl!’. It has ln’en corrupted by the moisturl’ and air and germs of lift{1}, by thl’ passionate fact that someone wants the thing l’not1^h to touch it rather than sell it. Economil’ally, then, this is a sacramental moment when a man or woman brutally breaks the wrapper and takl’s the brmd out of circulation. (From any point of view, tlw insipid taste is ll’ss interesting.)

The principle of packagt·s is a corollary of Halph Bor- sodi’s blanket principle that as the cost of production pl’r unit decreases by mass production, ti](’ cost of distribution increases because of the intermcdiaril’s involved in mass distribution. From this principle hl’ deriVl’S thl’ paradox of prosperity and insecurity: the copiousness of commodities entails the subordination of thl’ eonsumt·r to a vast economic machine which can become derangC’d in different parts and leave him without ell’ml’ntary neccs- sities. Borsodi’s principle does not mean that machim• production and labor-saving devicl’s arl’ humanly inefficient, but only when they become too geographically and economically centralized. Borsodi himself is an l’nthusiast for domestic machines and home industries, but there is also the possibility of a rl’asonably large community of integrated industrial, agricultural, domestic and culturl’d life, where the efficiency of machinl’s can bl’ exploited without insecurity.

**** Time

Al present, a iiiaii”s **tiiiii’** ol lilt- **is** ab.o pul **into** packages. We speak, as the British auard1ist Woodcock has pointl’d out, of “lengths of time as if they Wl’re ll’ngths of calico.” He concludes that the clock, thl’ time dock that thl’ worker aggressively “punchl’s,” is the chief machine of industrial exploitation, for it cnables human labor to hl’ quantified and priced as a commodity.

This commodity-time is the time of not-life that people step into when they take ll’ave of their hl’arts, their homes, and even their heads, l’arly in th<· moruing. It is the time of a secondary environment which is, however, still loud with the authoritative but inner and forgotten mice of parents who seemed to wish (so children get to think) to deprive one of pleasure and ease. Especially in the morning at twenty to eight, and late in the afternoon at twenty after four, the fatherly face of the clock is frowning, deeper first on the left side, then on the right.

**** Advertising

Every one of the packages is printed with its own mumho-jumbo of words.

In the nature of the case, when the consumer is far from the producer; has not ordered the production nor handled the means of it; nor estimated the cost of the means in proportion to tlw satisfaction enjoyed; it is necessary to *interest* him in the product, to create a want for it that has not hcl’n fired by any previous activity. ( Whl’n we make or command something to be made, there arc goal gradients toward the use. ) Also, he must he persuaded to buy it if it is sonwthing that is, perhaps, not absolutely indispensahle. All these functions arc fulfilled by advertising, which draws less and less on the direct relation bctwl’en the excellence of the product and the cost of its making-the word “cheap” is never used-but more and n1orc on the cornparative cstimates of social opinion, emulation, foar of inferiority or not belonging. These drives require a handsome fund of insecurity to begin with.

Pictures and slogans are repl•akd again and again, and it is now classical theory, and pPrhaps even somewhat true, that repetition leads to belief and even overt action. This theory is true under certain conditions, namdy that the USP of words is rPAPx hPhavior, rather than an action of 1wed, passion, invention, observation, and reflection. It is a poor usp of speech, and unfortunately it docs damage to English, for free poets must now take pains to use outlandish ways of speech to make sure that their words will not he taken in thl• meanings to which people have be- conw accustomed, instead of relying on, and striving to reach, the meanings to which people arc accustomPd.

**** The Theory of Home Furnishings

The furniture of a home expresses, in its quantity and kind, the division of the concerns of the soul; in different community arrangements this division falls in different places.

On the principle of nco-functionalism, the place where the chief material outlay is made should give the chic! satisfaction, otherwise why bother? If this rule is neglected, the material outlay becomes a dead weight, discouraging by its initial cost and even more by its continuing presence.

Now except in the woods, the chief material outlay we see about us is the public city with its services. But in America these streets, squares, and highways do not pretend to compete in satisfaction with the private homes or the theaters of fantasy. They arc a dead weight on these other satisfactions. One emerges from the theater into an environment that is less exciting, and one emerges from home into an environment that is quite impersonal and uninteresting. In late medieval times, they spent no effort on the streets, but burgher and baron adorned their homes.

Let us rather take a lesson from the Greeks who were often practical in what concerned the chief end and did not complicate their means. An Athenian, if free and male, experienced in the public places, the market, the law court, the porticoes, the gymnasia, most of the feelings of ease, intimacy, and personal excitemmt that we reserve for home and private clubs. He lived in the city more than at home. He had for his public objects the affairs of empire, civic duties, and passions of friendship. There was no sharp distinction between public and private affairs.

On the civic places and public institutions, thm, they lavished an expense of architecture, mulcted from an empire and slaves in the silver mines, that with us would be quite deadening in its pretentiousness. But the thousands of free men were at home there.

An Athenian’s domestic home was very simple; it was not an asylum for his personality. It did not have to be filled with furniture, mirrors, keepsakes, curiosa, and games.

But a bourgeois gentleman, when he is about to leave his home in the morning, kisses his wife and daughter, steps before a mirror and adjusts his tie, and then, the last thing before emerging, puts on a public face.

The most curious examples of heavily furnished homes that arc the insane asylums of the spirit frozen and rejected in the city square can be found among the middle classes at the be•ginning of the t\\‘entieth century. And the most curious room of this most curious home was not the bedroom. the dining room, or the parlor, where after all there existed natural and social satisfactions, but the master’s den, till’ jungle and the cavern of his reveries. In our decade>, this dl’ll of nostalgic revcry is in print in the stories of *TheNeic Yorker* magazine.

**** Public Faces in Private Places

It is always a qnestion whether the bourgeois den is worse or i>l’ttcr than no private• home at all, the norm of the states ancient and n1odcrn which consider men as public animals, and homes as army barracks.

But it has remained for our own generation to perfect the worst possible community arrangement, the home of the average American. This home is liberally supplied with furniture and the comforts of private life>, but these private things are neither made nor chosen by personal creation or idiosyncratic taste, but arc made in a distant factory and distribut<·d by unresisted advertising. At home they exhaust by their presence-a bare cell would give more peace or arouse restlessness. They print private life with a public meaning. But if We tum to read this public meaning, we find that the only moral aim of society is to provide private satisfactions called the Standard of Living. This is remarkable. The private places have public faces, as Audl’ll said, but the public faces are supposed to imitate private faces. What a booby trap!

**** A Japanese Home

“One of the surprising features that strikes a foreigner as he becomes acquainted with the Japanese house is the entire absence of so many things that with us clutter the closets and make squirrels<sup>’</sup> nests of the attie. The reason for this is that the people have never developed the miserly spirit of hoarding truck and rubbish with the idea that some day it will come into **use.”** (Ed ward Morse)

“Swallows are often encouraged to build nests in the home, in the room most often used by the family. A shelf is built below the nest. The children watch the construction of the nest and the final rearing of the young hirds.” (Ibid.)

“One comes to realize how few are the essentials necessary for personal comfort ... and that personal comfort is enhanced by the absence of many things deemed indispensable. In regard to the bed and its arrangement, the Japanese have reduced the affair to its simplest expression. The whole floor, the whole house indeed, is a bed, and one can fling oneself clown on the soft mats. in the draft or out of it, upstairs or down and find a smooth, 6rm and level surface upon which to sleep.” ( Ibid. )

“When a tea master has arranged a Hower to his satisfaction, he will place it in the tokonoma, the place of honor in a Japanese room. Nothing else will be placed near it which might interfere with its effect, not even a plant; unless there be some special esthetic reason for the combination. It rests then• like an enthroned prince, and the guests or disciples on mtering tlw room will salute it with profound bows.” ( Okakura )

A Japanese house is essentially one big room, divided by sliding screens as desired, for the activity of life is ever varying. Outside and inside arc also opm to one another.

** Suggestions for Further Reading

The following is a selected list of English-language writings on anarchism, intended to supplement the references contained in the introductory notes to the selections. In both places the citations are to the original edition unless otherwise indicated. More and more reprints of the literature of anarchism are coming out every day, however, and many of the books cited in this volume can now be found in inexpensive paperback editions.

<biblio>
Avrich, Paul. *The Russian AuarclJi’it.\·.* Princeton, N.J., 1967. A fine scholarly history of the rise and fall of the Russian anarchist movement ancl its practitioners.

Ilrcnan, Gerald. *The Spanis/1 Labyrinth: An Account of the Social and Political Background of the Spanish Civil War.* Cambridge, 1943. Chapters 7 and Bare an excellent account of the historical development of Spanish anarchism.

Carter, April. *The Political Theory of Anarc/1im1.* London, 1971. A succinct exposition of anarchism’s political concepts in comparison with other major political traditions.

Cole, G. D. H. *Socialist Thought: Marxism and Anarchism,* **1850–1890.** London, 1954. Volume **11** of Cole’s classic *History of Socialist Thought,* with several well-balanced chapters on anarchism.

Eltzbacher, Paul. *Anarchism.* Translated from the German by Steven T. Byington. New York, 1908. A dry, tedious analysis of the views of seven anarchist theorists, with copious quotations from their works.

*Government and Opposition: A Journal of Comparatim Politics.* London. Autumn 1970 issue devoted to “Anarchism Today,” with articles on contemporary anarchist currents in various countries. Includes an up-to-date bibliographical article.

Herbert, Eugenia W. *The Artist and Social Reform: France* *and Belgium,* 1885–1898. New Haven, 1981. Traces the relations between artistic currents and the anarchist and socialist movements at the end of the nineteenth century.

Horowitz, Irving L., ed. *The Anarchists.* New York, 1964. An anthology of primary sources and secondary materials.

Hostetter, Richard. *The Italian Socialist Movement. I: Origins* (1860--1882). Princeton, N.J., 1958. A detailed account of the spread of Bakunin’s influence in Italy and the rise of Italian anarchism.

Jacker, Corinne. *The* Black *Flag of Anarchy: Antistatism in the United States.* New York, 1968. A popularly written history of anarchism in America.

Joli, James. *The Anarchists.* London, 1964. Along with George Woodcock’s *Anarchism,* this is the best overall treahncnt of anarchism available.

Kedward, Roderick. *The Anarch;.1 s.* London and New York, 1971. A look at the historical activities of the anarchists, richly illustrated.

Krimerman, Leonard I., and Perry, Lewis, eds. *Patterns of Anarcl1y: A Collection of Writings on the Anarchist Tradition.* Carden City, N.Y., 1966. An anthology of numerous brief selections from a wide range of sourees, arranged topically rather than historically. Contains a good bibliography.

Mackay, John Henry. *The Anarcliisf.>: A Picture of Civilization at the Close of the Nineteent/1 Century.* Translated from the German by George Schumm. Boston, 1891. A tract in defense of individualist anarchism, thinly disguised as a novel.

Novak, D. “The Place of Anarchism in the History of Political Thought.” *The Review of Politics,* July 1958, pp. 307–29. A brief introduction to the historical and philosophic:al foundations of anarchism.

Plechanofl [Plekhanov]. George. *Anarcl1i•m and Social•nn.* Translated by Eleanor Marx Avcling. Chic:ago, n.d. A c:on- descending critique of anarehism hy the foremost tlworist of Russian Marxism.

Richard, Vernon, ed. *Enrico J\lalate.\ta:* **Iii.-.** *l...ifc• am/ ldc·a.-..* London, 1965. Consists mostly **0£** extracts from the writings of the longtime aclivisl and propagandist of Italian anar· chism.

Savage, Hichard Henry. *The Anarc/iL,1: A Story of To-Day.* 2 vols. Leipzig, 1894. A potboiler novel of anarchism viewed as a nihilist infection emanating from the clccaclent lands of Slavic and Latin Europe.

Vizetelly, Ernest Alfred. *The Anarchists: Their Faith and Their Record.* London, 1911. A popularized chronicle of anarchist terrorism of the turn of the century.

Woodcock, George. *Anarchism: A History of Li/1erlarian Ideas and Movements.* Cleveland and New York, 1962. Dy far the most thorough history of anarchist thought and practice available, the essential starting point for any study of the subject. Includes an extensive bibliography.

-- . “Anarchism Revisited.” *Commentury,* August 1968, pp. 54–60. A stimulating article on the revival of anarchism in the sixties.

Zenker, E. V. *Anarchism: A Criticism and History of the Anarchist Theory.* Translated from the German. London, 1898. The most useful of the older trealments of anarchism.
</biblio>

** Index of Persons

<biblio>
Andrews, Stephen Pearl, 426427

Aristotle, 531, 532, 579

Arshinov, Peter, 450, 477;

quoted, 452–453, 453–454

Atkin, Aaron, 399

Auden, W. H., 596

Ayer, A. J., 523, 524

Bakunin, Michael, xii, xv, xvi, xxi, 1, 82, 123–126, 173 n., 178 n., 184, 229, 356, 450, 484, 518, 551, 553; quoted, xix, 126–183

Balabanoff, Angelica, 342

llanoff, A., 409

llaron, L., 397

Barondess, Joseph, 319, 321, 322

Bastian, Adolph, 305

fiergson, Henri, 529

Berkman, Alexander (“Sasha”), 268, 313, 322, 328, 335–354 *passim,* 356–357; quoted, 357–392

Bernstein, Ethel, 336

Bismarck, Otto, 160, 161, 165 lllatt, J., 409

Boisguillcbert ( lloisguilbert).

Pierre le Pesant, 85

Borkenau, Franz, ix, 48.5486; quoted, 487–514

Borsodi, Ralph, 579, 593 llurke, Edmund, 12 n.

Cahet, ^tienne, 178, 179 *n.*

Caprivi, Count von, 238, 239

Carnegie, Andrew, 360, 385; quoted, 359

Chaadayev, Peter, 168 and *n.*

Chernyshevsky (Chemishev- sky), Nikolay, 361, 364

Chomsky, Noam, 540

Clemenceau, Georges, 420

Cohn, Michael, 321

Cohn·Hcndit, Daniel, xxi, xxviii, 540, 553–5.54;

quoted, 554–568

Cohn-Bendit. Gabriel, 5.54; quoted, 554–568

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 4, 519, 523, 525

Comstock, Anthony, 332

Conrad, Joseph, 267, 268, 423

Coudray, J. M., quoted, 558

Dahl, Basil, 320–321

Descartes, RenC, 132

Dilthey, Wilhdm, 529

Dosloievski { Dostoevsky), Fyodor. 527, 529

Dumont, Hem\ quoled, 549550

Edelstadt, David, 320, 363364

En^cls, Friedrich, fJUOled, 536–537

Epil’urus, 532

Eyg<·S, *T.,* 409

Fl·nclon, fraiu1:ois. 84

Fid1tc, Johann, 132

Figm-r, Vera, 351

Fourier, Charles, 201

Franco, Francisco, 541

Freedman, S., 409, 419

Frick, Henry Clay, 356, 357, 358, 360, 365, 380–390 passim

Frumkin, A., 397, 421

Gambetta, Leon, 160 and **n.**

Gandhi, Mahatma, 230

Garibaldi, Giuseppe, 161

Garside, T. H., 322

Coded, General, 490

Godwin, William, xii, xv, xxviii, 1, 3–4, 42, 312, 575;

quoted, 5–41

Goldman, Emma, xv, 270, 312–314, 357, 393; quoted, 314–355

Goodman, Judith, 419, 421

Goodman, Paul, 575–576;

quoted, 576–597

Goodman, Percival, 576;

quoted, 576–597

Gorki, Maxim, 351

Greenberg, H., 409

Greene, William B., 426

Guerin, Daniel, 539–54 1;

quoted, 541–552

Guevara, Che, 549

Guiducci, Roberto, quoted, 542

Curviteh, Georges, 549

Hegel, Georg, 132, 137, 1.55, 161

Heidegger, Martin, 520, 523, 528, 529

Helmersen, General, 306

Helvetius, Claude Adrien, 6 **11.**

Heraclitus, 132

Huizinga, Johan, xx, 531, 56U

Husserl, Edmund, 529

lsakovitz, D., 409

James, Henry, 267, 268

Jitlovsky, Chaim, 412

Joli, James, 551 and **n.**

Kant, Immanuel, 132

Kaplan, I., 409

Katz, M., 321

Kavcic, Stane, quoted, 547

Kerkelevitch, M., 409

Khrushehev, Nikita, 548

Kierkegaard, S\jren, 518–519, 523

Kropotkin, Peter, xxii, xxiii, xxviii, 1, 184–186, 229, 268, 269–271, 348–351, 393, 417, 419, 453, 517, 570; quoted, xi-xii, xix, 186–228, 271–311, 534

La Bruyere, Jean de, 84

Lamb, Charles, 4

Lansbury, George, 348, 349

Lassalle, Ferdinand, 161 and **n.,** 164, 165

Lavrov, Peter, 173 and **n.**

Leibnitz, Gottfried Wilhelm von, 132

Leishman, John G. A., 389, 390

Lenin, V. I., 339, 341, 342347, 350, 352–353, 453 and **n.,** 541, 564–565

Lipkin, Dora, 336

Locke, John, 6 **n.;** quoted, 12

Lueretius, quoted, 532

Lukacs, George, 528, 529, 533, 534; quoted, 529–530

Lunacharsky, Anatoly V., 348, 349, 350

Luther, Martin, 62

Luxemburg, Rosa, 459

Mackay, John Henry, 395

Maitron, Jean, 551

Maklmo, Nestor, 450–458 **,,a.,;m,** 468, 474, 480, 486

Mandel, Ernest, 549

Mao Tse-tung, 554

Marcel, Gabriel, 523

Marcuse, Herbert, 554

Marx, Karl, xviii, xix, xxv *u.,* 82, 125, 160, 161 and **11.,** 164, 165, 166, 197, 210, 525, 537, 541, 553, 560

Maurin, Joaquin, quotl^d, 551, 552

Mazzini, Giuseppe, 161

Meister, Albert, 547

Metten1ich, Princ:e, quoted,

48

Mill, John Stuart, 205

Minkin, Anna, 322, 328

Montesquieu, Baron dt’, 88, 240

Morris, William, 518

Morse, Edward, quoted, 597

Most, Johann, 312, 314–319 **1>a.<sim,** 328

Nechayev, Sergei, 17H and **n.**

Netter, Annie, 319, .120

Newton, **Isaac,** 24

Nietzsche, Friedrich, 43

Nordenskjold, A., 306

Oliver, Garcia, 506–509

Orwell, George, quoted, xx.viii

Owen, Robert, 425, 426, 430, 432

Pelloutier, Fcrna11d, 53H

Plato, 132, 526

Ploshansky. S., 409

Powderly. Terence V., 320, 406

Proudhon, Pierre-Joseph, xxi, xxvi, 1, 64, 65, 81–83, 124, 161 n., 184, 208, 312, 426,

517, 539, 541, .544, 546,

549, 550; quoll’d, 83–122

Pugachev, Emilian, 166 and

 11. **,** 175, 176, 180

P11111pelly, Raphael. 305

Qm·snay, Fram;ois, 88

Haci11c, Jcau, 84

Raz.in, Stc11ka, 166 aud **n.,**

 175. 176, 180

Head, Herbert, xxi, 517-.5111;

quoted, 516–538

Reitman, lien, 329

Ricardo, David, 197

Rifkin, Baruch, 421

Hiltinghauscn, M., 88

Rocker, Rudolf, 393–394,

54 1; quoted, 394–422

Rousseau, J. J .. 6 n., 88, 137, 525, 562

Rubinstein, B., 409

Sabcliusky, **I.,** 409

Sabelinsky, Lazar, 418

St. Augustine, 523

Santayana, George, 523, 535;

quoted, 524, 533

**Sartre,** Jean-Paul, 520. 523.

 524. 525, 529, 533, 534;

quoted, 521. 522, 527

Schapiro, Alexander, 348

Sdiatz, II., 409

Schelling, Friedrich, 132,

519, 522

Schmidt, Frederit·k. 306

Sdireibcr, Otto, 395, 397

Shatolf, Bill, 337–34 1, 344

Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 4

Sidney (Sydney), Algernon, 6 n.

Sitte. Camillo, 583, 584

Smith, Adam, **BR,** 197

Socrates, 61, 62, 106

Sorel, Georges, 540

Spinoza, Baruch, *132, 137*

Stalin, Josef, *541*

Stirner. Max, xiv, xxi, *1, 4243, 518, 525;* quoted, *4480*

Swift, Jonathan, quoted, *11*

Tapler, *J., 409*

Tatu, Michel, quoted, *548, 549*

Tertullian (Tertullianus), *132*

Thompson, Maud, *330*

Tillet, Beil, *397*

Tito, ^larslrnl, *541, 544*

Tokar, Moishe, *419, 420–421*

Tolstoy, Leo, xiv, xxiii, *1, 82, 229–231, 256* **11.,** *270, 304, 312;* quoted, *231–265*

Trotsky, Leon, *339, 528, 554;* quoted, xvii-xviii

Tucker, Benjamin, *125, 407, 427*

Vaihinger, Hans, *521*

Van Duyn, Roel, *570–571;*

qnoted, *571–574*

Vaneigem, Raoul, quoted, *557*

Vauban, Sebastien le Prestre, *84*

Veblen, Thorstein, *587*

\Toline (Vsevolod Eichenbaum), xxviii, *451–452;* quoted, *452–483*

Voltaire, *138*

Walker, C. E., *408*

Warren, Josiah, xiv, *424,*

*42.5–427;* quoted, *427–449*

Weitling, Wilhelm, *64;*

quoted, *63*

Wess, William, *397*

Wilde, Oscar, *518*

Witcop, Milly, *399–413*

*passim, 419*

Wollstonecraft, Mary, *4*

Wolsey, Thomas, quoted, *28*

Woltereck, Richard, *533;*

quoted, *535, 536*

Woodcock, George, *551, 593*

Zahouane, Hocine, quoted, *547*

Zinoviev, Grigori, *339*
</biblio>

** About the Editor

MARSHALL S. SHATZ holds a B.A. degree from Harvard College and an M.A. and Ph.D. from Columbia University. In 1960–61 he was a Fulbright scholar at SI. Antony’s College, Oxford University, and in 1964–65 he studied at Leningrad State University, USSR, under the auspices of the Soviet-American cultural exchange program. He has taught at Columbia and Brandeis universities, and is currently Assistant Professor of History, University of Massachusetts at Boston. He is the author of several articles and translations in the 6elcl of Russian political and intellectual history.