Property
is Impossible, because, if it exists, Society devours itself.
Proudhon - What is Property? An Inquiry into the Principle of Right and of Government
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Title: What is Property?
An Inquiry into the Principle of Right and of Government
Author: P. J. Proudhon
Posting Date: July 10, 2008 [EBook #360]
Release Date: November, 1995
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHAT IS PROPERTY? ***
Produced by Mike Lough
WHAT IS PROPERTY?
AN INQUIRY INTO THE PRINCIPLE OF RIGHT AND OF GOVERNMENT
By P. J. Proudhon
CONTENTS.
P. J. PROUDHON: HIS LIFE AND HIS WORKS
PREFACE
FIRST MEMOIR
CHAPTER I.
METHOD PURSUED IN THIS WORK. --THE IDEA OF A REVOLUTION
CHAPTER II.
PROPERTY CONSIDERED AS A NATURAL RIGHT. --OCCUPATION AND CIVIL LAW
AS EFFICIENT BASES OF PROPERTY. --DEFINITIONS
% 1. Property as a Natural Right.
% 2. Occupation as the Title to Property.
% 3. Civil Law as the Foundation and Sanction of Property.
CHAPTER III.
LABOR AS THE EFFICIENT CAUSE OF THE DOMAIN OF PROPERTY
% 1. The Land cannot be appropriated.
% 2. Universal Consent no Justification of Property.
% 3. Prescription gives no Title to Property.
% 4. Labor. --That Labor has no Inherent Power to appropriate
Natural Wealth.
% 5. That Labor leads to Equality of Property.
% 6. That in Society all Wages are Equal.
% 7. That Inequality of Powers is the Necessary Condition of
Equality of Fortunes.
% 8. That, from the stand-point of Justice, Labor destroys
Property.
CHAPTER IV.
THAT PROPERTY IS IMPOSSIBLE
DEMONSTRATION. AXIOM.
Property is the Right of Increase claimed by the Proprietor over
any thing which he has stamped as his own.
FIRST PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because it demands Something for Nothing.
SECOND PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because, wherever it exists, Production
costs more than it is worth.
THIRD PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because, with a given Capital, Production
is proportional to Labor, not to Property.
FOURTH PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because it is Homicide.
FIFTH PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because, if it exists, Society devours itself.
Appendix to the Fifth Proposition.
SIXTH PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because it is the Mother of Tyranny.
SEVENTH PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because, in consuming its Receipts, it
loses them; in hoarding them, it nullifies them; and, in
using them as Capital, it turns them against Production.
EIGHTH PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because its Power of Accumulation is
infinite, and is exercised only over Finite Quantities.
NINTH PROPOSITION
Property is Impossible, because it is powerless against Property.
TENTH PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because it is the Negation of Equality.
CHAPTER V.
PSYCHOLOGICAL EXPOSITION OF THE IDEA OF JUSTICE AND IN JUSTICE,
AND A DETERMINATION OF THE PRINCIPLE OF GOVERNMENT AND OF RIGHT.
PART 1.
% 1. Of the Moral Sense in Man and the Animals.
% 2. Of the First and Second Degrees of Sociability.
% 3. Of the Third Degree of Sociability.
PART I 1.
% 1. Of the Causes of our Mistakes. The Origin of Property.
% 2. Characteristics of Communism and of Property.
% 3. Determination of the Third Form of Society. Conclusion.
SECOND MEMOIR
LETTER TO M. BLANQUI ON PROPERTY
P. J. PROUDHON: HIS LIFE AND HIS WORKS.
The correspondence [1] of P. J. Proudhon, the first volumes of which we
publish to-day, has been collected since his death by the faithful
and intelligent labors of his daughter, aided by a few friends. It was
incomplete when submitted to Sainte Beuve, but the portion with which
the illustrious academician became acquainted was sufficient to allow
him to estimate it as a whole with that soundness of judgment which
characterized him as a literary critic.
He would, however, caution readers against accepting the biographer's
interpretation of the author's views as in any sense authoritative;
advising them, rather, to await the publication of the remainder
of Proudhon's writings, that they may form an opinion for
themselves. --Translator.
In an important work, which his habitual readers certainly have not
forgotten, although death did not allow him to finish it, Sainte Beuve
thus judges the correspondence of the great publicist:--
"The letters of Proudhon, even outside the circle of his particular
friends, will always be of value; we can always learn something from
them, and here is the proper place to determine the general character of
his correspondence.
"It has always been large, especially since he became so celebrated;
and, to tell the truth, I am persuaded that, in the future, the
correspondence of Proudhon will be his principal, vital work, and that
most of his books will be only accessory to and corroborative of this.
At any rate, his books can be well understood only by the aid of his
letters and the continual explanations which he makes to those who
consult him in their doubt, and request him to define more clearly his
position.
"There are, among celebrated people, many methods of correspondence.
There are those to whom letter-writing is a bore, and who, assailed with
questions and compliments, reply in the greatest haste, solely that the
job may be over with, and who return politeness for politeness, mingling
it with more or less wit. This kind of correspondence, though coming
from celebrated people, is insignificant and unworthy of collection and
classification.
"After those who write letters in performance of a disagreeable duty,
and almost side by side with them in point of insignificance, I should
put those who write in a manner wholly external, wholly superficial,
devoted only to flattery, lavishing praise like gold, without counting
it; and those also who weigh every word, who reply formally and
pompously, with a view to fine phrases and effects. They exchange words
only, and choose them solely for their brilliancy and show. You think
it is you, individually, to whom they speak; but they are addressing
themselves in your person to the four corners of Europe. Such letters
are empty, and teach as nothing but theatrical execution and the
favorite pose of their writers.
"I will not class among the latter the more prudent and sagacious
authors who, when writing to individuals, keep one eye on posterity.
We know that many who pursue this method have written long, finished,
charming, flattering, and tolerably natural letters. Beranger furnishes
us with the best example of this class.
"Proudhon, however, is a man of entirely different nature and habits.
In writing, he thinks of nothing but his idea and the person whom he
addresses: ad rem et ad hominem. A man of conviction and doctrine, to
write does not weary him; to be questioned does not annoy him. When
approached, he cares only to know that your motive is not one of futile
curiosity, but the love of truth; he assumes you to be serious, he
replies, he examines your objections, sometimes verbally, sometimes
in writing; for, as he remarks, 'if there be some points which
correspondence can never settle, but which can be made clear by
conversation in two minutes, at other times just the opposite is the
case: an objection clearly stated in writing, a doubt well expressed,
which elicits a direct and positive reply, helps things along more than
ten hours of oral intercourse! ' In writing to you he does not hesitate
to treat the subject anew; he unfolds to you the foundation and
superstructure of his thought: rarely does he confess himself
defeated--it is not his way; he holds to his position, but admits the
breaks, the variations, in short, the EVOLUTION of his mind. The history
of his mind is in his letters; there it must be sought.
"Proudhon, whoever addresses him, is always ready; he quits the page
of the book on which he is at work to answer you with the same pen, and
that without losing patience, without getting confused, without
sparing or complaining of his ink; he is a public man, devoted to the
propagation of his idea by all methods, and the best method, with him,
is always the present one, the latest one. His very handwriting, bold,
uniform, legible, even in the most tiresome passages, betrays no haste,
no hurry to finish. Each line is accurate: nothing is left to chance;
the punctuation, very correct and a little emphatic and decided,
indicates with precision and delicate distinction all the links in the
chain of his argument. He is devoted entirely to you, to his business
and yours, while writing to you, and never to anything else. All the
letters of his which I have seen are serious: not one is commonplace.
"But at the same time he is not at all artistic or affected; he does
not CONSTRUCT his letters, he does not revise them, he spends no time in
reading them over; we have a first draught, excellent and clear, a jet
from the fountain-head, but that is all. The new arguments, which he
discovers in support of his ideas and which opposition suggests to
him, are an agreeable surprise, and shed a light which we should vainly
search for even in his works. His correspondence differs essentially
from his books, in that it gives you no uneasiness; it places you in
the very heart of the man, explains him to you, and leaves you with an
impression of moral esteem and almost of intellectual security. We feel
his sincerity. I know of no one to whom he can be more fitly compared in
this respect than George Sand, whose correspondence is large, and at the
same time full of sincerity. His role and his nature correspond. If
he is writing to a young man who unbosoms himself to him in sceptical
anxiety, to a young woman who asks him to decide delicate questions of
conduct for her, his letter takes the form of a short moral essay, of a
father-confessor's advice. Has he perchance attended the theatre (a
rare thing for him) to witness one of Ponsart's comedies, or a drama of
Charles Edmond's, he feels bound to give an account of his impressions
to the friend to whom he is indebted for this pleasure, and his letter
becomes a literary and philosophical criticism, full of sense, and like
no other. His familiarity is suited to his correspondent; he affects no
rudeness. The terms of civility or affection which he employs towards
his correspondents are sober, measured, appropriate to each, and honest
in their simplicity and cordiality. When he speaks of morals and the
family, he seems at times like the patriarchs of the Bible. His command
of language is complete, and he never fails to avail himself of it. Now
and then a coarse word, a few personalities, too bitter and quite unjust
or injurious, will have to be suppressed in printing; time, however, as
it passes away, permits many things and renders them inoffensive. Am I
right in saying that Proudhon's correspondence, always substantial, will
one day be the most accessible and attractive portion of his works? "
Almost the whole of Proudhon's real biography is included in his
correspondence. Up to 1837, the date of the first letter which we have
been able to collect, his life, narrated by Sainte Beuve, from whom we
make numerous extracts, may be summed up in a few pages.
Pierre Joseph Proudhon was born on the 15th of January, 1809, in
a suburb of Besancon, called Mouillere. His father and mother were
employed in the great brewery belonging to M. Renaud. His father, though
a cousin of the jurist Proudhon, the celebrated professor in the faculty
of Dijon, was a journeyman brewer. His mother, a genuine peasant, was a
common servant. She was an orderly person of great good sense; and, as
they who knew her say, a superior woman of HEROIC character,--to use the
expression of the venerable M. Weiss, the librarian at Besancon. She
it was especially that Proudhon resembled: she and his grandfather
Tournesi, the soldier peasant of whom his mother told him, and whose
courageous deeds he has described in his work on "Justice. " Proudhon,
who always felt a great veneration for his mother Catharine, gave
her name to the elder of his daughters. In 1814, when Besancon was
blockaded, Mouillere, which stood in front of the walls of the town, was
destroyed in the defence of the place; and Proudhon's father established
a cooper's shop in a suburb of Battant, called Vignerons. Very honest,
but simple-minded and short-sighted, this cooper, the father of five
children, of whom Pierre Joseph was the eldest, passed his life in
poverty. At eight years of age, Proudhon either made himself useful in
the house, or tended the cattle out of doors. No one should fail to read
that beautiful and precious page of his work on "Justice," in which he
describes the rural sports which he enjoyed when a neatherd. At the age
of twelve, he was a cellar-boy in an inn. This, however, did not prevent
him from studying.
His mother was greatly aided by M. Renaud, the former owner of the
brewery, who had at that time retired from business, and was engaged in
the education of his children.
Proudhon entered school as a day-scholar in the sixth class. He was
necessarily irregular in his attendance; domestic cares and restraints
sometimes kept him from his classes. He succeeded nevertheless in his
studies; he showed great perseverance. His family were so poor that they
could not afford to furnish him with books; he was obliged to borrow
them from his comrades, and copy the text of his lessons. He has himself
told us that he was obliged to leave his wooden shoes outside the door,
that he might not disturb the classes with his noise; and that, having
no hat, he went to school bareheaded. One day, towards the close of his
studies, on returning from the distribution of the prizes, loaded with
crowns, he found nothing to eat in the house.
"In his eagerness for labor and his thirst for knowledge, Proudhon,"
says Sainte Beuve, "was not content with the instruction of his
teachers. From his twelfth to his fourteenth year, he was a constant
frequenter of the town library. One curiosity led to another, and he
called for book after book, sometimes eight or ten at one sitting. The
learned librarian, the friend and almost the brother of Charles Nodier,
M. Weiss, approached him one day, and said, smiling, 'But, my little
friend, what do you wish to do with all these books? ' The child raised
his head, eyed his questioner, and replied: 'What's that to you? ' And
the good M. Weiss remembers it to this day. "
Forced to earn his living, Proudhon could not continue his studies. He
entered a printing-office in Besancon as a proof-reader. Becoming,
soon after, a compositor, he made a tour of France in this capacity. At
Toulon, where he found himself without money and without work, he had a
scene with the mayor, which he describes in his work on "Justice. "
Sainte Beuve says that, after his tour of France, his service book being
filled with good certificates, Proudhon was promoted to the position
of foreman. But he does not tell us, for the reason that he had no
knowledge of a letter written by Fallot, of which we never heard until
six months since, that the printer at that time contemplated quitting
his trade in order to become a teacher.
Towards 1829, Fallot, who was a little older than Proudhon, and
who, after having obtained the Suard pension in 1832, died in his
twenty-ninth year, while filling the position of assistant librarian at
the Institute, was charged, Protestant though he was, with the revisal
of a "Life of the Saints," which was published at Besancon. The book was
in Latin, and Fallot added some notes which also were in Latin.
"But," says Sainte Beuve, "it happened that some errors escaped his
attention, which Proudhon, then proof-reader in the printing office,
did not fail to point out to him. Surprised at finding so good a Latin
scholar in a workshop, he desired to make his acquaintance; and soon
there sprung up between them a most earnest and intimate friendship: a
friendship of the intellect and of the heart. "
Addressed to a printer between twenty-two and twenty-three years of age,
and predicting in formal terms his future fame, Fallot's letter seems to
us so interesting that we do not hesitate to reproduce it entire.
"PARIS, December 5, 1831.
"MY DEAR PROUDHON,--YOU have a right to be surprised at, and even
dissatisfied with, my long delay in replying to your kind letter; I will
tell you the cause of it. It became necessary to forward an account of
your ideas to M. J. de Gray; to hear his objections, to reply to them,
and to await his definitive response, which reached me but a short time
ago; for M. J. is a sort of financial king, who takes no pains to be
punctual in dealing with poor devils like ourselves. I, too, am careless
in matters of business; I sometimes push my negligence even to disorder,
and the metaphysical musings which continually occupy my mind, added to
the amusements of Paris, render me the most incapable man in the world
for conducting a negotiation with despatch.
"I have M. Jobard's decision; here it is: In his judgment, you are
too learned and clever for his children; he fears that you could not
accommodate your mind and character to the childish notions common
to their age and station. In short, he is what the world calls a good
father; that is, he wants to spoil his children, and, in order to do
this easily, he thinks fit to retain his present instructor, who is not
very learned, but who takes part in their games and joyous sports with
wonderful facility, who points out the letters of the alphabet to
the little girl, who takes the little boys to mass, and who, no less
obliging than the worthy Abbe P. of our acquaintance, would readily
dance for Madame's amusement. Such a profession would not suit you, you
who have a free, proud, and manly soul: you are refused; let us dismiss
the matter from our minds. Perhaps another time my solicitude will be
less unfortunate. I can only ask your pardon for having thought of thus
disposing of you almost without consulting you. I find my excuse in the
motives which guided me; I had in view your well-being and advancement
in the ways of this world.
"I see in your letter, my comrade, through its brilliant witticisms and
beneath the frank and artless gayety with which you have sprinkled it,
a tinge of sadness and despondency which pains me. You are unhappy, my
friend: your present situation does not suit you; you cannot remain in
it, it was not made for you, it is beneath you; you ought, by all
means, to leave it, before its injurious influence begins to affect your
faculties, and before you become settled, as they say, in the ways of
your profession, were it possible that such a thing could ever happen,
which I flatly deny. You are unhappy; you have not yet entered upon the
path which Nature has marked out for you. But, faint-hearted soul, is
that a cause for despondency? Ought you to feel discouraged?
Property is Impossible, because, if it exists, Society devours itself.
Appendix to the Fifth Proposition.
SIXTH PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because it is the Mother of Tyranny.
SEVENTH PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because, in consuming its Receipts, it
loses them; in hoarding them, it nullifies them; and, in
using them as Capital, it turns them against Production.
EIGHTH PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because its Power of Accumulation is
infinite, and is exercised only over Finite Quantities.
NINTH PROPOSITION
Property is Impossible, because it is powerless against Property.
TENTH PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because it is the Negation of Equality.
CHAPTER V.
PSYCHOLOGICAL EXPOSITION OF THE IDEA OF JUSTICE AND IN JUSTICE,
AND A DETERMINATION OF THE PRINCIPLE OF GOVERNMENT AND OF RIGHT.
PART 1.
% 1. Of the Moral Sense in Man and the Animals.
% 2. Of the First and Second Degrees of Sociability.
% 3. Of the Third Degree of Sociability.
PART I 1.
% 1. Of the Causes of our Mistakes. The Origin of Property.
% 2. Characteristics of Communism and of Property.
% 3. Determination of the Third Form of Society. Conclusion.
SECOND MEMOIR
LETTER TO M. BLANQUI ON PROPERTY
P. J. PROUDHON: HIS LIFE AND HIS WORKS.
The correspondence [1] of P. J. Proudhon, the first volumes of which we
publish to-day, has been collected since his death by the faithful
and intelligent labors of his daughter, aided by a few friends. It was
incomplete when submitted to Sainte Beuve, but the portion with which
the illustrious academician became acquainted was sufficient to allow
him to estimate it as a whole with that soundness of judgment which
characterized him as a literary critic.
He would, however, caution readers against accepting the biographer's
interpretation of the author's views as in any sense authoritative;
advising them, rather, to await the publication of the remainder
of Proudhon's writings, that they may form an opinion for
themselves. --Translator.
In an important work, which his habitual readers certainly have not
forgotten, although death did not allow him to finish it, Sainte Beuve
thus judges the correspondence of the great publicist:--
"The letters of Proudhon, even outside the circle of his particular
friends, will always be of value; we can always learn something from
them, and here is the proper place to determine the general character of
his correspondence.
"It has always been large, especially since he became so celebrated;
and, to tell the truth, I am persuaded that, in the future, the
correspondence of Proudhon will be his principal, vital work, and that
most of his books will be only accessory to and corroborative of this.
At any rate, his books can be well understood only by the aid of his
letters and the continual explanations which he makes to those who
consult him in their doubt, and request him to define more clearly his
position.
"There are, among celebrated people, many methods of correspondence.
There are those to whom letter-writing is a bore, and who, assailed with
questions and compliments, reply in the greatest haste, solely that the
job may be over with, and who return politeness for politeness, mingling
it with more or less wit. This kind of correspondence, though coming
from celebrated people, is insignificant and unworthy of collection and
classification.
"After those who write letters in performance of a disagreeable duty,
and almost side by side with them in point of insignificance, I should
put those who write in a manner wholly external, wholly superficial,
devoted only to flattery, lavishing praise like gold, without counting
it; and those also who weigh every word, who reply formally and
pompously, with a view to fine phrases and effects. They exchange words
only, and choose them solely for their brilliancy and show. You think
it is you, individually, to whom they speak; but they are addressing
themselves in your person to the four corners of Europe. Such letters
are empty, and teach as nothing but theatrical execution and the
favorite pose of their writers.
"I will not class among the latter the more prudent and sagacious
authors who, when writing to individuals, keep one eye on posterity.
We know that many who pursue this method have written long, finished,
charming, flattering, and tolerably natural letters. Beranger furnishes
us with the best example of this class.
"Proudhon, however, is a man of entirely different nature and habits.
In writing, he thinks of nothing but his idea and the person whom he
addresses: ad rem et ad hominem. A man of conviction and doctrine, to
write does not weary him; to be questioned does not annoy him. When
approached, he cares only to know that your motive is not one of futile
curiosity, but the love of truth; he assumes you to be serious, he
replies, he examines your objections, sometimes verbally, sometimes
in writing; for, as he remarks, 'if there be some points which
correspondence can never settle, but which can be made clear by
conversation in two minutes, at other times just the opposite is the
case: an objection clearly stated in writing, a doubt well expressed,
which elicits a direct and positive reply, helps things along more than
ten hours of oral intercourse! ' In writing to you he does not hesitate
to treat the subject anew; he unfolds to you the foundation and
superstructure of his thought: rarely does he confess himself
defeated--it is not his way; he holds to his position, but admits the
breaks, the variations, in short, the EVOLUTION of his mind. The history
of his mind is in his letters; there it must be sought.
"Proudhon, whoever addresses him, is always ready; he quits the page
of the book on which he is at work to answer you with the same pen, and
that without losing patience, without getting confused, without
sparing or complaining of his ink; he is a public man, devoted to the
propagation of his idea by all methods, and the best method, with him,
is always the present one, the latest one. His very handwriting, bold,
uniform, legible, even in the most tiresome passages, betrays no haste,
no hurry to finish. Each line is accurate: nothing is left to chance;
the punctuation, very correct and a little emphatic and decided,
indicates with precision and delicate distinction all the links in the
chain of his argument. He is devoted entirely to you, to his business
and yours, while writing to you, and never to anything else. All the
letters of his which I have seen are serious: not one is commonplace.
"But at the same time he is not at all artistic or affected; he does
not CONSTRUCT his letters, he does not revise them, he spends no time in
reading them over; we have a first draught, excellent and clear, a jet
from the fountain-head, but that is all. The new arguments, which he
discovers in support of his ideas and which opposition suggests to
him, are an agreeable surprise, and shed a light which we should vainly
search for even in his works. His correspondence differs essentially
from his books, in that it gives you no uneasiness; it places you in
the very heart of the man, explains him to you, and leaves you with an
impression of moral esteem and almost of intellectual security. We feel
his sincerity. I know of no one to whom he can be more fitly compared in
this respect than George Sand, whose correspondence is large, and at the
same time full of sincerity. His role and his nature correspond. If
he is writing to a young man who unbosoms himself to him in sceptical
anxiety, to a young woman who asks him to decide delicate questions of
conduct for her, his letter takes the form of a short moral essay, of a
father-confessor's advice. Has he perchance attended the theatre (a
rare thing for him) to witness one of Ponsart's comedies, or a drama of
Charles Edmond's, he feels bound to give an account of his impressions
to the friend to whom he is indebted for this pleasure, and his letter
becomes a literary and philosophical criticism, full of sense, and like
no other. His familiarity is suited to his correspondent; he affects no
rudeness. The terms of civility or affection which he employs towards
his correspondents are sober, measured, appropriate to each, and honest
in their simplicity and cordiality. When he speaks of morals and the
family, he seems at times like the patriarchs of the Bible. His command
of language is complete, and he never fails to avail himself of it. Now
and then a coarse word, a few personalities, too bitter and quite unjust
or injurious, will have to be suppressed in printing; time, however, as
it passes away, permits many things and renders them inoffensive. Am I
right in saying that Proudhon's correspondence, always substantial, will
one day be the most accessible and attractive portion of his works? "
Almost the whole of Proudhon's real biography is included in his
correspondence. Up to 1837, the date of the first letter which we have
been able to collect, his life, narrated by Sainte Beuve, from whom we
make numerous extracts, may be summed up in a few pages.
Pierre Joseph Proudhon was born on the 15th of January, 1809, in
a suburb of Besancon, called Mouillere. His father and mother were
employed in the great brewery belonging to M. Renaud. His father, though
a cousin of the jurist Proudhon, the celebrated professor in the faculty
of Dijon, was a journeyman brewer. His mother, a genuine peasant, was a
common servant. She was an orderly person of great good sense; and, as
they who knew her say, a superior woman of HEROIC character,--to use the
expression of the venerable M. Weiss, the librarian at Besancon. She
it was especially that Proudhon resembled: she and his grandfather
Tournesi, the soldier peasant of whom his mother told him, and whose
courageous deeds he has described in his work on "Justice. " Proudhon,
who always felt a great veneration for his mother Catharine, gave
her name to the elder of his daughters. In 1814, when Besancon was
blockaded, Mouillere, which stood in front of the walls of the town, was
destroyed in the defence of the place; and Proudhon's father established
a cooper's shop in a suburb of Battant, called Vignerons. Very honest,
but simple-minded and short-sighted, this cooper, the father of five
children, of whom Pierre Joseph was the eldest, passed his life in
poverty. At eight years of age, Proudhon either made himself useful in
the house, or tended the cattle out of doors. No one should fail to read
that beautiful and precious page of his work on "Justice," in which he
describes the rural sports which he enjoyed when a neatherd. At the age
of twelve, he was a cellar-boy in an inn. This, however, did not prevent
him from studying.
His mother was greatly aided by M. Renaud, the former owner of the
brewery, who had at that time retired from business, and was engaged in
the education of his children.
Proudhon entered school as a day-scholar in the sixth class. He was
necessarily irregular in his attendance; domestic cares and restraints
sometimes kept him from his classes. He succeeded nevertheless in his
studies; he showed great perseverance. His family were so poor that they
could not afford to furnish him with books; he was obliged to borrow
them from his comrades, and copy the text of his lessons. He has himself
told us that he was obliged to leave his wooden shoes outside the door,
that he might not disturb the classes with his noise; and that, having
no hat, he went to school bareheaded. One day, towards the close of his
studies, on returning from the distribution of the prizes, loaded with
crowns, he found nothing to eat in the house.
"In his eagerness for labor and his thirst for knowledge, Proudhon,"
says Sainte Beuve, "was not content with the instruction of his
teachers. From his twelfth to his fourteenth year, he was a constant
frequenter of the town library. One curiosity led to another, and he
called for book after book, sometimes eight or ten at one sitting. The
learned librarian, the friend and almost the brother of Charles Nodier,
M. Weiss, approached him one day, and said, smiling, 'But, my little
friend, what do you wish to do with all these books? ' The child raised
his head, eyed his questioner, and replied: 'What's that to you? ' And
the good M. Weiss remembers it to this day. "
Forced to earn his living, Proudhon could not continue his studies. He
entered a printing-office in Besancon as a proof-reader. Becoming,
soon after, a compositor, he made a tour of France in this capacity. At
Toulon, where he found himself without money and without work, he had a
scene with the mayor, which he describes in his work on "Justice. "
Sainte Beuve says that, after his tour of France, his service book being
filled with good certificates, Proudhon was promoted to the position
of foreman. But he does not tell us, for the reason that he had no
knowledge of a letter written by Fallot, of which we never heard until
six months since, that the printer at that time contemplated quitting
his trade in order to become a teacher.
Towards 1829, Fallot, who was a little older than Proudhon, and
who, after having obtained the Suard pension in 1832, died in his
twenty-ninth year, while filling the position of assistant librarian at
the Institute, was charged, Protestant though he was, with the revisal
of a "Life of the Saints," which was published at Besancon. The book was
in Latin, and Fallot added some notes which also were in Latin.
"But," says Sainte Beuve, "it happened that some errors escaped his
attention, which Proudhon, then proof-reader in the printing office,
did not fail to point out to him. Surprised at finding so good a Latin
scholar in a workshop, he desired to make his acquaintance; and soon
there sprung up between them a most earnest and intimate friendship: a
friendship of the intellect and of the heart. "
Addressed to a printer between twenty-two and twenty-three years of age,
and predicting in formal terms his future fame, Fallot's letter seems to
us so interesting that we do not hesitate to reproduce it entire.
"PARIS, December 5, 1831.
"MY DEAR PROUDHON,--YOU have a right to be surprised at, and even
dissatisfied with, my long delay in replying to your kind letter; I will
tell you the cause of it. It became necessary to forward an account of
your ideas to M. J. de Gray; to hear his objections, to reply to them,
and to await his definitive response, which reached me but a short time
ago; for M. J. is a sort of financial king, who takes no pains to be
punctual in dealing with poor devils like ourselves. I, too, am careless
in matters of business; I sometimes push my negligence even to disorder,
and the metaphysical musings which continually occupy my mind, added to
the amusements of Paris, render me the most incapable man in the world
for conducting a negotiation with despatch.
"I have M. Jobard's decision; here it is: In his judgment, you are
too learned and clever for his children; he fears that you could not
accommodate your mind and character to the childish notions common
to their age and station. In short, he is what the world calls a good
father; that is, he wants to spoil his children, and, in order to do
this easily, he thinks fit to retain his present instructor, who is not
very learned, but who takes part in their games and joyous sports with
wonderful facility, who points out the letters of the alphabet to
the little girl, who takes the little boys to mass, and who, no less
obliging than the worthy Abbe P. of our acquaintance, would readily
dance for Madame's amusement. Such a profession would not suit you, you
who have a free, proud, and manly soul: you are refused; let us dismiss
the matter from our minds. Perhaps another time my solicitude will be
less unfortunate. I can only ask your pardon for having thought of thus
disposing of you almost without consulting you. I find my excuse in the
motives which guided me; I had in view your well-being and advancement
in the ways of this world.
"I see in your letter, my comrade, through its brilliant witticisms and
beneath the frank and artless gayety with which you have sprinkled it,
a tinge of sadness and despondency which pains me. You are unhappy, my
friend: your present situation does not suit you; you cannot remain in
it, it was not made for you, it is beneath you; you ought, by all
means, to leave it, before its injurious influence begins to affect your
faculties, and before you become settled, as they say, in the ways of
your profession, were it possible that such a thing could ever happen,
which I flatly deny. You are unhappy; you have not yet entered upon the
path which Nature has marked out for you. But, faint-hearted soul, is
that a cause for despondency? Ought you to feel discouraged? Struggle,
morbleu, struggle persistently, and you will triumph. J. J. Rousseau
groped about for forty years before his genius was revealed to him.
You are not J. J Rousseau; but listen: I know not whether I should have
divined the author of "Emile" when he was twenty years of age, supposing
that I had been his contemporary, and had enjoyed the honor of his
acquaintance. But I have known you, I have loved you, I have divined
your future, if I may venture to say so; for the first time in my life,
I am going to risk a prophecy. Keep this letter, read it again fifteen
or twenty years hence, perhaps twenty-five, and if at that time the
prediction which I am about to make has not been fulfilled, burn it as
a piece of folly out of charity and respect for my memory. This is my
prediction: you will be, Proudhon, in spite of yourself, inevitably,
by the fact of your destiny, a writer, an author; you will be a
philosopher; you will be one of the lights of the century, and your name
will occupy a place in the annals of the nineteenth century, like those
of Gassendi, Descartes, Malebranche, and Bacon in the seventeenth, and
those of Diderot, Montesquieu, Helvetius. Locke, Hume, and Holbach in
the eighteenth. Such will be your lot! Do now what you will, set type in
a printing-office, bring up children, bury yourself in deep seclusion,
seek obscure and lonely villages, it is all one to me; you cannot escape
your destiny; you cannot divest yourself of your noblest feature, that
active, strong, and inquiring mind, with which you are endowed; your
place in the world has been appointed, and it cannot remain empty. Go
where you please, I expect you in Paris, talking philosophy and the
doctrines of Plato; you will have to come, whether you want to or not.
I, who say this to you, must feel very sure of it in order to be willing
to put it upon paper, since, without reward for my prophetic skill,--to
which, I assure you, I make not the slightest claim,--I run the risk of
passing for a hare-brained fellow, in case I prove to be mistaken: he
plays a bold game who risks his good sense upon his cards, in return
for the very trifling and insignificant merit of having divined a young
man's future.
"When I say that I expect you in Paris, I use only a proverbial phrase
which you must not allow to mislead you as to my projects and plans.
To reside in Paris is disagreeable to me, very much so; and when this
fine-art fever which possesses me has left me, I shall abandon the place
without regret to seek a more peaceful residence in a provincial town,
provided always the town shall afford me the means of living, bread, a
bed, books, rest, and solitude. How I miss, my good Proudhon, that dark,
obscure, smoky chamber in which I dwelt in Besancon, and where we spent
so many pleasant hours in the discussion of philosophy! Do you remember
it? But that is now far away. Will that happy time ever return? Shall
we one day meet again? Here my life is restless, uncertain, precarious,
and, what is worse, indolent, illiterate, and vagrant. I do no work, I
live in idleness, I ramble about; I do not read, I no longer study; my
books are forsaken; now and then I glance over a few metaphysical works,
and after a days walk through dirty, filthy, crowded streets. I lie
down with empty head and tired body, to repeat the performance on the
following day. What is the object of these walks, you will ask. I make
visits, my friend; I hold interviews with stupid people. Then a fit of
curiosity seizes me, the least inquisitive of beings: there are museums,
libraries, assemblies, churches, palaces, gardens, and theatres to
visit. I am fond of pictures, fond of music, fond of sculpture; all
these are beautiful and good, but they cannot appease hunger, nor take
the place of my pleasant readings of Bailly, Hume, and Tennemann, which
I used to enjoy by my fireside when I was able to read.
"But enough of complaints. Do not allow this letter to affect you too
much, and do not think that I give way to dejection or despondency; no,
I am a fatalist, and I believe in my star. I do not know yet what my
calling is, nor for what branch of polite literature I am best fitted;
I do not even know whether I am, or ever shall be, fitted for any: but
what matters it? I suffer, I labor, I dream, I enjoy, I think; and, in a
word, when my last hour strikes, I shall have lived.
"Proudhon, I love you, I esteem you; and, believe me, these are not mere
phrases. What interest could I have in flattering and praising a poor
printer? Are you rich, that you may pay for courtiers? Have you a
sumptuous table, a dashing wife, and gold to scatter, in order to
attract them to your suite? Have you the glory, honors, credit, which
would render your acquaintance pleasing to their vanity and pride? No;
you are poor, obscure, abandoned; but, poor, obscure, and abandoned,
you have a friend, and a friend who knows all the obligations which that
word imposes upon honorable people, when they venture to assume it. That
friend is myself: put me to the test.
"GUSTAVE FALLOT. "
It appears from this letter that if, at this period, Proudhon had
already exhibited to the eyes of a clairvoyant friend his genius for
research and investigation, it was in the direction of philosophical,
rather than of economical and social, questions.
Having become foreman in the house of Gauthier & Co. , who carried on
a large printing establishment at Besancon, he corrected the proofs of
ecclesiastical writers, the Fathers of the Church. As they were printing
a Bible, a Vulgate, he was led to compare the Latin with the original
Hebrew.
"In this way," says Sainte Beuve, "he learned Hebrew by himself, and,
as everything was connected in his mind, he was led to the study of
comparative philology. As the house of Gauthier published many works
on Church history and theology, he came also to acquire, through this
desire of his to investigate everything, an extensive knowledge of
theology, which afterwards caused misinformed persons to think that he
had been in an ecclesiastical seminary. "
Towards 1836, Proudhon left the house of Gauthier, and, in company
with an associate, established a small printing-office in Besancon. His
contribution to the partnership consisted, not so much in capital, as
in his knowledge of the trade. His partner committing suicide in 1838,
Proudhon was obliged to wind up the business, an operation which he did
not accomplish as quickly and as easily as he hoped. He was then urged
by his friends to enter the ranks of the competitors for the Suard
pension. This pension consisted of an income of fifteen hundred francs
bequeathed to the Academy of Besancon by Madame Suard, the widow of the
academician, to be given once in three years to the young man residing
in the department of Doubs, a bachelor of letters or of science, and
not possessing a fortune, whom the Academy of Besancon SHOULD DEEM BEST
FITTED FOR A LITERARY OR SCIENTIFIC CAREER, OR FOR THE STUDY OF LAW
OR OF MEDICINE. The first to win the Suard pension was Gustave Fallot.
Mauvais, who was a distinguished astronomer in the Academy of Sciences,
was the second. Proudhon aspired to be the third. To qualify himself, he
had to be received as a bachelor of letters, and was obliged to write a
letter to the Academy of Besancon. In a phrase of this letter, the terms
of which he had to modify, though he absolutely refused to change
its spirit, Proudhon expressed his firm resolve to labor for the
amelioration of the condition of his brothers, the working-men.
The only thing which he had then published was an "Essay on General
Grammar," which appeared without the author's signature. While
reprinting, at Besancon, the "Primitive Elements of Languages,
Discovered by the Comparison of Hebrew roots with those of the Latin and
French," by the Abbe Bergier, Proudhon had enlarged the edition of his
"Essay on General Grammar. "
The date of the edition, 1837, proves that he did not at that time think
of competing for the Suard pension.
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Title: What is Property?
An Inquiry into the Principle of Right and of Government
Author: P. J. Proudhon
Posting Date: July 10, 2008 [EBook #360]
Release Date: November, 1995
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHAT IS PROPERTY? ***
Produced by Mike Lough
WHAT IS PROPERTY?
AN INQUIRY INTO THE PRINCIPLE OF RIGHT AND OF GOVERNMENT
By P. J. Proudhon
CONTENTS.
P. J. PROUDHON: HIS LIFE AND HIS WORKS
PREFACE
FIRST MEMOIR
CHAPTER I.
METHOD PURSUED IN THIS WORK. --THE IDEA OF A REVOLUTION
CHAPTER II.
PROPERTY CONSIDERED AS A NATURAL RIGHT. --OCCUPATION AND CIVIL LAW
AS EFFICIENT BASES OF PROPERTY. --DEFINITIONS
% 1. Property as a Natural Right.
% 2. Occupation as the Title to Property.
% 3. Civil Law as the Foundation and Sanction of Property.
CHAPTER III.
LABOR AS THE EFFICIENT CAUSE OF THE DOMAIN OF PROPERTY
% 1. The Land cannot be appropriated.
% 2. Universal Consent no Justification of Property.
% 3. Prescription gives no Title to Property.
% 4. Labor. --That Labor has no Inherent Power to appropriate
Natural Wealth.
% 5. That Labor leads to Equality of Property.
% 6. That in Society all Wages are Equal.
% 7. That Inequality of Powers is the Necessary Condition of
Equality of Fortunes.
% 8. That, from the stand-point of Justice, Labor destroys
Property.
CHAPTER IV.
THAT PROPERTY IS IMPOSSIBLE
DEMONSTRATION. AXIOM.
Property is the Right of Increase claimed by the Proprietor over
any thing which he has stamped as his own.
FIRST PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because it demands Something for Nothing.
SECOND PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because, wherever it exists, Production
costs more than it is worth.
THIRD PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because, with a given Capital, Production
is proportional to Labor, not to Property.
FOURTH PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because it is Homicide.
FIFTH PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because, if it exists, Society devours itself.
Appendix to the Fifth Proposition.
SIXTH PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because it is the Mother of Tyranny.
SEVENTH PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because, in consuming its Receipts, it
loses them; in hoarding them, it nullifies them; and, in
using them as Capital, it turns them against Production.
EIGHTH PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because its Power of Accumulation is
infinite, and is exercised only over Finite Quantities.
NINTH PROPOSITION
Property is Impossible, because it is powerless against Property.
TENTH PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because it is the Negation of Equality.
CHAPTER V.
PSYCHOLOGICAL EXPOSITION OF THE IDEA OF JUSTICE AND IN JUSTICE,
AND A DETERMINATION OF THE PRINCIPLE OF GOVERNMENT AND OF RIGHT.
PART 1.
% 1. Of the Moral Sense in Man and the Animals.
% 2. Of the First and Second Degrees of Sociability.
% 3. Of the Third Degree of Sociability.
PART I 1.
% 1. Of the Causes of our Mistakes. The Origin of Property.
% 2. Characteristics of Communism and of Property.
% 3. Determination of the Third Form of Society. Conclusion.
SECOND MEMOIR
LETTER TO M. BLANQUI ON PROPERTY
P. J. PROUDHON: HIS LIFE AND HIS WORKS.
The correspondence [1] of P. J. Proudhon, the first volumes of which we
publish to-day, has been collected since his death by the faithful
and intelligent labors of his daughter, aided by a few friends. It was
incomplete when submitted to Sainte Beuve, but the portion with which
the illustrious academician became acquainted was sufficient to allow
him to estimate it as a whole with that soundness of judgment which
characterized him as a literary critic.
He would, however, caution readers against accepting the biographer's
interpretation of the author's views as in any sense authoritative;
advising them, rather, to await the publication of the remainder
of Proudhon's writings, that they may form an opinion for
themselves. --Translator.
In an important work, which his habitual readers certainly have not
forgotten, although death did not allow him to finish it, Sainte Beuve
thus judges the correspondence of the great publicist:--
"The letters of Proudhon, even outside the circle of his particular
friends, will always be of value; we can always learn something from
them, and here is the proper place to determine the general character of
his correspondence.
"It has always been large, especially since he became so celebrated;
and, to tell the truth, I am persuaded that, in the future, the
correspondence of Proudhon will be his principal, vital work, and that
most of his books will be only accessory to and corroborative of this.
At any rate, his books can be well understood only by the aid of his
letters and the continual explanations which he makes to those who
consult him in their doubt, and request him to define more clearly his
position.
"There are, among celebrated people, many methods of correspondence.
There are those to whom letter-writing is a bore, and who, assailed with
questions and compliments, reply in the greatest haste, solely that the
job may be over with, and who return politeness for politeness, mingling
it with more or less wit. This kind of correspondence, though coming
from celebrated people, is insignificant and unworthy of collection and
classification.
"After those who write letters in performance of a disagreeable duty,
and almost side by side with them in point of insignificance, I should
put those who write in a manner wholly external, wholly superficial,
devoted only to flattery, lavishing praise like gold, without counting
it; and those also who weigh every word, who reply formally and
pompously, with a view to fine phrases and effects. They exchange words
only, and choose them solely for their brilliancy and show. You think
it is you, individually, to whom they speak; but they are addressing
themselves in your person to the four corners of Europe. Such letters
are empty, and teach as nothing but theatrical execution and the
favorite pose of their writers.
"I will not class among the latter the more prudent and sagacious
authors who, when writing to individuals, keep one eye on posterity.
We know that many who pursue this method have written long, finished,
charming, flattering, and tolerably natural letters. Beranger furnishes
us with the best example of this class.
"Proudhon, however, is a man of entirely different nature and habits.
In writing, he thinks of nothing but his idea and the person whom he
addresses: ad rem et ad hominem. A man of conviction and doctrine, to
write does not weary him; to be questioned does not annoy him. When
approached, he cares only to know that your motive is not one of futile
curiosity, but the love of truth; he assumes you to be serious, he
replies, he examines your objections, sometimes verbally, sometimes
in writing; for, as he remarks, 'if there be some points which
correspondence can never settle, but which can be made clear by
conversation in two minutes, at other times just the opposite is the
case: an objection clearly stated in writing, a doubt well expressed,
which elicits a direct and positive reply, helps things along more than
ten hours of oral intercourse! ' In writing to you he does not hesitate
to treat the subject anew; he unfolds to you the foundation and
superstructure of his thought: rarely does he confess himself
defeated--it is not his way; he holds to his position, but admits the
breaks, the variations, in short, the EVOLUTION of his mind. The history
of his mind is in his letters; there it must be sought.
"Proudhon, whoever addresses him, is always ready; he quits the page
of the book on which he is at work to answer you with the same pen, and
that without losing patience, without getting confused, without
sparing or complaining of his ink; he is a public man, devoted to the
propagation of his idea by all methods, and the best method, with him,
is always the present one, the latest one. His very handwriting, bold,
uniform, legible, even in the most tiresome passages, betrays no haste,
no hurry to finish. Each line is accurate: nothing is left to chance;
the punctuation, very correct and a little emphatic and decided,
indicates with precision and delicate distinction all the links in the
chain of his argument. He is devoted entirely to you, to his business
and yours, while writing to you, and never to anything else. All the
letters of his which I have seen are serious: not one is commonplace.
"But at the same time he is not at all artistic or affected; he does
not CONSTRUCT his letters, he does not revise them, he spends no time in
reading them over; we have a first draught, excellent and clear, a jet
from the fountain-head, but that is all. The new arguments, which he
discovers in support of his ideas and which opposition suggests to
him, are an agreeable surprise, and shed a light which we should vainly
search for even in his works. His correspondence differs essentially
from his books, in that it gives you no uneasiness; it places you in
the very heart of the man, explains him to you, and leaves you with an
impression of moral esteem and almost of intellectual security. We feel
his sincerity. I know of no one to whom he can be more fitly compared in
this respect than George Sand, whose correspondence is large, and at the
same time full of sincerity. His role and his nature correspond. If
he is writing to a young man who unbosoms himself to him in sceptical
anxiety, to a young woman who asks him to decide delicate questions of
conduct for her, his letter takes the form of a short moral essay, of a
father-confessor's advice. Has he perchance attended the theatre (a
rare thing for him) to witness one of Ponsart's comedies, or a drama of
Charles Edmond's, he feels bound to give an account of his impressions
to the friend to whom he is indebted for this pleasure, and his letter
becomes a literary and philosophical criticism, full of sense, and like
no other. His familiarity is suited to his correspondent; he affects no
rudeness. The terms of civility or affection which he employs towards
his correspondents are sober, measured, appropriate to each, and honest
in their simplicity and cordiality. When he speaks of morals and the
family, he seems at times like the patriarchs of the Bible. His command
of language is complete, and he never fails to avail himself of it. Now
and then a coarse word, a few personalities, too bitter and quite unjust
or injurious, will have to be suppressed in printing; time, however, as
it passes away, permits many things and renders them inoffensive. Am I
right in saying that Proudhon's correspondence, always substantial, will
one day be the most accessible and attractive portion of his works? "
Almost the whole of Proudhon's real biography is included in his
correspondence. Up to 1837, the date of the first letter which we have
been able to collect, his life, narrated by Sainte Beuve, from whom we
make numerous extracts, may be summed up in a few pages.
Pierre Joseph Proudhon was born on the 15th of January, 1809, in
a suburb of Besancon, called Mouillere. His father and mother were
employed in the great brewery belonging to M. Renaud. His father, though
a cousin of the jurist Proudhon, the celebrated professor in the faculty
of Dijon, was a journeyman brewer. His mother, a genuine peasant, was a
common servant. She was an orderly person of great good sense; and, as
they who knew her say, a superior woman of HEROIC character,--to use the
expression of the venerable M. Weiss, the librarian at Besancon. She
it was especially that Proudhon resembled: she and his grandfather
Tournesi, the soldier peasant of whom his mother told him, and whose
courageous deeds he has described in his work on "Justice. " Proudhon,
who always felt a great veneration for his mother Catharine, gave
her name to the elder of his daughters. In 1814, when Besancon was
blockaded, Mouillere, which stood in front of the walls of the town, was
destroyed in the defence of the place; and Proudhon's father established
a cooper's shop in a suburb of Battant, called Vignerons. Very honest,
but simple-minded and short-sighted, this cooper, the father of five
children, of whom Pierre Joseph was the eldest, passed his life in
poverty. At eight years of age, Proudhon either made himself useful in
the house, or tended the cattle out of doors. No one should fail to read
that beautiful and precious page of his work on "Justice," in which he
describes the rural sports which he enjoyed when a neatherd. At the age
of twelve, he was a cellar-boy in an inn. This, however, did not prevent
him from studying.
His mother was greatly aided by M. Renaud, the former owner of the
brewery, who had at that time retired from business, and was engaged in
the education of his children.
Proudhon entered school as a day-scholar in the sixth class. He was
necessarily irregular in his attendance; domestic cares and restraints
sometimes kept him from his classes. He succeeded nevertheless in his
studies; he showed great perseverance. His family were so poor that they
could not afford to furnish him with books; he was obliged to borrow
them from his comrades, and copy the text of his lessons. He has himself
told us that he was obliged to leave his wooden shoes outside the door,
that he might not disturb the classes with his noise; and that, having
no hat, he went to school bareheaded. One day, towards the close of his
studies, on returning from the distribution of the prizes, loaded with
crowns, he found nothing to eat in the house.
"In his eagerness for labor and his thirst for knowledge, Proudhon,"
says Sainte Beuve, "was not content with the instruction of his
teachers. From his twelfth to his fourteenth year, he was a constant
frequenter of the town library. One curiosity led to another, and he
called for book after book, sometimes eight or ten at one sitting. The
learned librarian, the friend and almost the brother of Charles Nodier,
M. Weiss, approached him one day, and said, smiling, 'But, my little
friend, what do you wish to do with all these books? ' The child raised
his head, eyed his questioner, and replied: 'What's that to you? ' And
the good M. Weiss remembers it to this day. "
Forced to earn his living, Proudhon could not continue his studies. He
entered a printing-office in Besancon as a proof-reader. Becoming,
soon after, a compositor, he made a tour of France in this capacity. At
Toulon, where he found himself without money and without work, he had a
scene with the mayor, which he describes in his work on "Justice. "
Sainte Beuve says that, after his tour of France, his service book being
filled with good certificates, Proudhon was promoted to the position
of foreman. But he does not tell us, for the reason that he had no
knowledge of a letter written by Fallot, of which we never heard until
six months since, that the printer at that time contemplated quitting
his trade in order to become a teacher.
Towards 1829, Fallot, who was a little older than Proudhon, and
who, after having obtained the Suard pension in 1832, died in his
twenty-ninth year, while filling the position of assistant librarian at
the Institute, was charged, Protestant though he was, with the revisal
of a "Life of the Saints," which was published at Besancon. The book was
in Latin, and Fallot added some notes which also were in Latin.
"But," says Sainte Beuve, "it happened that some errors escaped his
attention, which Proudhon, then proof-reader in the printing office,
did not fail to point out to him. Surprised at finding so good a Latin
scholar in a workshop, he desired to make his acquaintance; and soon
there sprung up between them a most earnest and intimate friendship: a
friendship of the intellect and of the heart. "
Addressed to a printer between twenty-two and twenty-three years of age,
and predicting in formal terms his future fame, Fallot's letter seems to
us so interesting that we do not hesitate to reproduce it entire.
"PARIS, December 5, 1831.
"MY DEAR PROUDHON,--YOU have a right to be surprised at, and even
dissatisfied with, my long delay in replying to your kind letter; I will
tell you the cause of it. It became necessary to forward an account of
your ideas to M. J. de Gray; to hear his objections, to reply to them,
and to await his definitive response, which reached me but a short time
ago; for M. J. is a sort of financial king, who takes no pains to be
punctual in dealing with poor devils like ourselves. I, too, am careless
in matters of business; I sometimes push my negligence even to disorder,
and the metaphysical musings which continually occupy my mind, added to
the amusements of Paris, render me the most incapable man in the world
for conducting a negotiation with despatch.
"I have M. Jobard's decision; here it is: In his judgment, you are
too learned and clever for his children; he fears that you could not
accommodate your mind and character to the childish notions common
to their age and station. In short, he is what the world calls a good
father; that is, he wants to spoil his children, and, in order to do
this easily, he thinks fit to retain his present instructor, who is not
very learned, but who takes part in their games and joyous sports with
wonderful facility, who points out the letters of the alphabet to
the little girl, who takes the little boys to mass, and who, no less
obliging than the worthy Abbe P. of our acquaintance, would readily
dance for Madame's amusement. Such a profession would not suit you, you
who have a free, proud, and manly soul: you are refused; let us dismiss
the matter from our minds. Perhaps another time my solicitude will be
less unfortunate. I can only ask your pardon for having thought of thus
disposing of you almost without consulting you. I find my excuse in the
motives which guided me; I had in view your well-being and advancement
in the ways of this world.
"I see in your letter, my comrade, through its brilliant witticisms and
beneath the frank and artless gayety with which you have sprinkled it,
a tinge of sadness and despondency which pains me. You are unhappy, my
friend: your present situation does not suit you; you cannot remain in
it, it was not made for you, it is beneath you; you ought, by all
means, to leave it, before its injurious influence begins to affect your
faculties, and before you become settled, as they say, in the ways of
your profession, were it possible that such a thing could ever happen,
which I flatly deny. You are unhappy; you have not yet entered upon the
path which Nature has marked out for you. But, faint-hearted soul, is
that a cause for despondency? Ought you to feel discouraged?
Property is Impossible, because, if it exists, Society devours itself.
Appendix to the Fifth Proposition.
SIXTH PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because it is the Mother of Tyranny.
SEVENTH PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because, in consuming its Receipts, it
loses them; in hoarding them, it nullifies them; and, in
using them as Capital, it turns them against Production.
EIGHTH PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because its Power of Accumulation is
infinite, and is exercised only over Finite Quantities.
NINTH PROPOSITION
Property is Impossible, because it is powerless against Property.
TENTH PROPOSITION.
Property is Impossible, because it is the Negation of Equality.
CHAPTER V.
PSYCHOLOGICAL EXPOSITION OF THE IDEA OF JUSTICE AND IN JUSTICE,
AND A DETERMINATION OF THE PRINCIPLE OF GOVERNMENT AND OF RIGHT.
PART 1.
% 1. Of the Moral Sense in Man and the Animals.
% 2. Of the First and Second Degrees of Sociability.
% 3. Of the Third Degree of Sociability.
PART I 1.
% 1. Of the Causes of our Mistakes. The Origin of Property.
% 2. Characteristics of Communism and of Property.
% 3. Determination of the Third Form of Society. Conclusion.
SECOND MEMOIR
LETTER TO M. BLANQUI ON PROPERTY
P. J. PROUDHON: HIS LIFE AND HIS WORKS.
The correspondence [1] of P. J. Proudhon, the first volumes of which we
publish to-day, has been collected since his death by the faithful
and intelligent labors of his daughter, aided by a few friends. It was
incomplete when submitted to Sainte Beuve, but the portion with which
the illustrious academician became acquainted was sufficient to allow
him to estimate it as a whole with that soundness of judgment which
characterized him as a literary critic.
He would, however, caution readers against accepting the biographer's
interpretation of the author's views as in any sense authoritative;
advising them, rather, to await the publication of the remainder
of Proudhon's writings, that they may form an opinion for
themselves. --Translator.
In an important work, which his habitual readers certainly have not
forgotten, although death did not allow him to finish it, Sainte Beuve
thus judges the correspondence of the great publicist:--
"The letters of Proudhon, even outside the circle of his particular
friends, will always be of value; we can always learn something from
them, and here is the proper place to determine the general character of
his correspondence.
"It has always been large, especially since he became so celebrated;
and, to tell the truth, I am persuaded that, in the future, the
correspondence of Proudhon will be his principal, vital work, and that
most of his books will be only accessory to and corroborative of this.
At any rate, his books can be well understood only by the aid of his
letters and the continual explanations which he makes to those who
consult him in their doubt, and request him to define more clearly his
position.
"There are, among celebrated people, many methods of correspondence.
There are those to whom letter-writing is a bore, and who, assailed with
questions and compliments, reply in the greatest haste, solely that the
job may be over with, and who return politeness for politeness, mingling
it with more or less wit. This kind of correspondence, though coming
from celebrated people, is insignificant and unworthy of collection and
classification.
"After those who write letters in performance of a disagreeable duty,
and almost side by side with them in point of insignificance, I should
put those who write in a manner wholly external, wholly superficial,
devoted only to flattery, lavishing praise like gold, without counting
it; and those also who weigh every word, who reply formally and
pompously, with a view to fine phrases and effects. They exchange words
only, and choose them solely for their brilliancy and show. You think
it is you, individually, to whom they speak; but they are addressing
themselves in your person to the four corners of Europe. Such letters
are empty, and teach as nothing but theatrical execution and the
favorite pose of their writers.
"I will not class among the latter the more prudent and sagacious
authors who, when writing to individuals, keep one eye on posterity.
We know that many who pursue this method have written long, finished,
charming, flattering, and tolerably natural letters. Beranger furnishes
us with the best example of this class.
"Proudhon, however, is a man of entirely different nature and habits.
In writing, he thinks of nothing but his idea and the person whom he
addresses: ad rem et ad hominem. A man of conviction and doctrine, to
write does not weary him; to be questioned does not annoy him. When
approached, he cares only to know that your motive is not one of futile
curiosity, but the love of truth; he assumes you to be serious, he
replies, he examines your objections, sometimes verbally, sometimes
in writing; for, as he remarks, 'if there be some points which
correspondence can never settle, but which can be made clear by
conversation in two minutes, at other times just the opposite is the
case: an objection clearly stated in writing, a doubt well expressed,
which elicits a direct and positive reply, helps things along more than
ten hours of oral intercourse! ' In writing to you he does not hesitate
to treat the subject anew; he unfolds to you the foundation and
superstructure of his thought: rarely does he confess himself
defeated--it is not his way; he holds to his position, but admits the
breaks, the variations, in short, the EVOLUTION of his mind. The history
of his mind is in his letters; there it must be sought.
"Proudhon, whoever addresses him, is always ready; he quits the page
of the book on which he is at work to answer you with the same pen, and
that without losing patience, without getting confused, without
sparing or complaining of his ink; he is a public man, devoted to the
propagation of his idea by all methods, and the best method, with him,
is always the present one, the latest one. His very handwriting, bold,
uniform, legible, even in the most tiresome passages, betrays no haste,
no hurry to finish. Each line is accurate: nothing is left to chance;
the punctuation, very correct and a little emphatic and decided,
indicates with precision and delicate distinction all the links in the
chain of his argument. He is devoted entirely to you, to his business
and yours, while writing to you, and never to anything else. All the
letters of his which I have seen are serious: not one is commonplace.
"But at the same time he is not at all artistic or affected; he does
not CONSTRUCT his letters, he does not revise them, he spends no time in
reading them over; we have a first draught, excellent and clear, a jet
from the fountain-head, but that is all. The new arguments, which he
discovers in support of his ideas and which opposition suggests to
him, are an agreeable surprise, and shed a light which we should vainly
search for even in his works. His correspondence differs essentially
from his books, in that it gives you no uneasiness; it places you in
the very heart of the man, explains him to you, and leaves you with an
impression of moral esteem and almost of intellectual security. We feel
his sincerity. I know of no one to whom he can be more fitly compared in
this respect than George Sand, whose correspondence is large, and at the
same time full of sincerity. His role and his nature correspond. If
he is writing to a young man who unbosoms himself to him in sceptical
anxiety, to a young woman who asks him to decide delicate questions of
conduct for her, his letter takes the form of a short moral essay, of a
father-confessor's advice. Has he perchance attended the theatre (a
rare thing for him) to witness one of Ponsart's comedies, or a drama of
Charles Edmond's, he feels bound to give an account of his impressions
to the friend to whom he is indebted for this pleasure, and his letter
becomes a literary and philosophical criticism, full of sense, and like
no other. His familiarity is suited to his correspondent; he affects no
rudeness. The terms of civility or affection which he employs towards
his correspondents are sober, measured, appropriate to each, and honest
in their simplicity and cordiality. When he speaks of morals and the
family, he seems at times like the patriarchs of the Bible. His command
of language is complete, and he never fails to avail himself of it. Now
and then a coarse word, a few personalities, too bitter and quite unjust
or injurious, will have to be suppressed in printing; time, however, as
it passes away, permits many things and renders them inoffensive. Am I
right in saying that Proudhon's correspondence, always substantial, will
one day be the most accessible and attractive portion of his works? "
Almost the whole of Proudhon's real biography is included in his
correspondence. Up to 1837, the date of the first letter which we have
been able to collect, his life, narrated by Sainte Beuve, from whom we
make numerous extracts, may be summed up in a few pages.
Pierre Joseph Proudhon was born on the 15th of January, 1809, in
a suburb of Besancon, called Mouillere. His father and mother were
employed in the great brewery belonging to M. Renaud. His father, though
a cousin of the jurist Proudhon, the celebrated professor in the faculty
of Dijon, was a journeyman brewer. His mother, a genuine peasant, was a
common servant. She was an orderly person of great good sense; and, as
they who knew her say, a superior woman of HEROIC character,--to use the
expression of the venerable M. Weiss, the librarian at Besancon. She
it was especially that Proudhon resembled: she and his grandfather
Tournesi, the soldier peasant of whom his mother told him, and whose
courageous deeds he has described in his work on "Justice. " Proudhon,
who always felt a great veneration for his mother Catharine, gave
her name to the elder of his daughters. In 1814, when Besancon was
blockaded, Mouillere, which stood in front of the walls of the town, was
destroyed in the defence of the place; and Proudhon's father established
a cooper's shop in a suburb of Battant, called Vignerons. Very honest,
but simple-minded and short-sighted, this cooper, the father of five
children, of whom Pierre Joseph was the eldest, passed his life in
poverty. At eight years of age, Proudhon either made himself useful in
the house, or tended the cattle out of doors. No one should fail to read
that beautiful and precious page of his work on "Justice," in which he
describes the rural sports which he enjoyed when a neatherd. At the age
of twelve, he was a cellar-boy in an inn. This, however, did not prevent
him from studying.
His mother was greatly aided by M. Renaud, the former owner of the
brewery, who had at that time retired from business, and was engaged in
the education of his children.
Proudhon entered school as a day-scholar in the sixth class. He was
necessarily irregular in his attendance; domestic cares and restraints
sometimes kept him from his classes. He succeeded nevertheless in his
studies; he showed great perseverance. His family were so poor that they
could not afford to furnish him with books; he was obliged to borrow
them from his comrades, and copy the text of his lessons. He has himself
told us that he was obliged to leave his wooden shoes outside the door,
that he might not disturb the classes with his noise; and that, having
no hat, he went to school bareheaded. One day, towards the close of his
studies, on returning from the distribution of the prizes, loaded with
crowns, he found nothing to eat in the house.
"In his eagerness for labor and his thirst for knowledge, Proudhon,"
says Sainte Beuve, "was not content with the instruction of his
teachers. From his twelfth to his fourteenth year, he was a constant
frequenter of the town library. One curiosity led to another, and he
called for book after book, sometimes eight or ten at one sitting. The
learned librarian, the friend and almost the brother of Charles Nodier,
M. Weiss, approached him one day, and said, smiling, 'But, my little
friend, what do you wish to do with all these books? ' The child raised
his head, eyed his questioner, and replied: 'What's that to you? ' And
the good M. Weiss remembers it to this day. "
Forced to earn his living, Proudhon could not continue his studies. He
entered a printing-office in Besancon as a proof-reader. Becoming,
soon after, a compositor, he made a tour of France in this capacity. At
Toulon, where he found himself without money and without work, he had a
scene with the mayor, which he describes in his work on "Justice. "
Sainte Beuve says that, after his tour of France, his service book being
filled with good certificates, Proudhon was promoted to the position
of foreman. But he does not tell us, for the reason that he had no
knowledge of a letter written by Fallot, of which we never heard until
six months since, that the printer at that time contemplated quitting
his trade in order to become a teacher.
Towards 1829, Fallot, who was a little older than Proudhon, and
who, after having obtained the Suard pension in 1832, died in his
twenty-ninth year, while filling the position of assistant librarian at
the Institute, was charged, Protestant though he was, with the revisal
of a "Life of the Saints," which was published at Besancon. The book was
in Latin, and Fallot added some notes which also were in Latin.
"But," says Sainte Beuve, "it happened that some errors escaped his
attention, which Proudhon, then proof-reader in the printing office,
did not fail to point out to him. Surprised at finding so good a Latin
scholar in a workshop, he desired to make his acquaintance; and soon
there sprung up between them a most earnest and intimate friendship: a
friendship of the intellect and of the heart. "
Addressed to a printer between twenty-two and twenty-three years of age,
and predicting in formal terms his future fame, Fallot's letter seems to
us so interesting that we do not hesitate to reproduce it entire.
"PARIS, December 5, 1831.
"MY DEAR PROUDHON,--YOU have a right to be surprised at, and even
dissatisfied with, my long delay in replying to your kind letter; I will
tell you the cause of it. It became necessary to forward an account of
your ideas to M. J. de Gray; to hear his objections, to reply to them,
and to await his definitive response, which reached me but a short time
ago; for M. J. is a sort of financial king, who takes no pains to be
punctual in dealing with poor devils like ourselves. I, too, am careless
in matters of business; I sometimes push my negligence even to disorder,
and the metaphysical musings which continually occupy my mind, added to
the amusements of Paris, render me the most incapable man in the world
for conducting a negotiation with despatch.
"I have M. Jobard's decision; here it is: In his judgment, you are
too learned and clever for his children; he fears that you could not
accommodate your mind and character to the childish notions common
to their age and station. In short, he is what the world calls a good
father; that is, he wants to spoil his children, and, in order to do
this easily, he thinks fit to retain his present instructor, who is not
very learned, but who takes part in their games and joyous sports with
wonderful facility, who points out the letters of the alphabet to
the little girl, who takes the little boys to mass, and who, no less
obliging than the worthy Abbe P. of our acquaintance, would readily
dance for Madame's amusement. Such a profession would not suit you, you
who have a free, proud, and manly soul: you are refused; let us dismiss
the matter from our minds. Perhaps another time my solicitude will be
less unfortunate. I can only ask your pardon for having thought of thus
disposing of you almost without consulting you. I find my excuse in the
motives which guided me; I had in view your well-being and advancement
in the ways of this world.
"I see in your letter, my comrade, through its brilliant witticisms and
beneath the frank and artless gayety with which you have sprinkled it,
a tinge of sadness and despondency which pains me. You are unhappy, my
friend: your present situation does not suit you; you cannot remain in
it, it was not made for you, it is beneath you; you ought, by all
means, to leave it, before its injurious influence begins to affect your
faculties, and before you become settled, as they say, in the ways of
your profession, were it possible that such a thing could ever happen,
which I flatly deny. You are unhappy; you have not yet entered upon the
path which Nature has marked out for you. But, faint-hearted soul, is
that a cause for despondency? Ought you to feel discouraged? Struggle,
morbleu, struggle persistently, and you will triumph. J. J. Rousseau
groped about for forty years before his genius was revealed to him.
You are not J. J Rousseau; but listen: I know not whether I should have
divined the author of "Emile" when he was twenty years of age, supposing
that I had been his contemporary, and had enjoyed the honor of his
acquaintance. But I have known you, I have loved you, I have divined
your future, if I may venture to say so; for the first time in my life,
I am going to risk a prophecy. Keep this letter, read it again fifteen
or twenty years hence, perhaps twenty-five, and if at that time the
prediction which I am about to make has not been fulfilled, burn it as
a piece of folly out of charity and respect for my memory. This is my
prediction: you will be, Proudhon, in spite of yourself, inevitably,
by the fact of your destiny, a writer, an author; you will be a
philosopher; you will be one of the lights of the century, and your name
will occupy a place in the annals of the nineteenth century, like those
of Gassendi, Descartes, Malebranche, and Bacon in the seventeenth, and
those of Diderot, Montesquieu, Helvetius. Locke, Hume, and Holbach in
the eighteenth. Such will be your lot! Do now what you will, set type in
a printing-office, bring up children, bury yourself in deep seclusion,
seek obscure and lonely villages, it is all one to me; you cannot escape
your destiny; you cannot divest yourself of your noblest feature, that
active, strong, and inquiring mind, with which you are endowed; your
place in the world has been appointed, and it cannot remain empty. Go
where you please, I expect you in Paris, talking philosophy and the
doctrines of Plato; you will have to come, whether you want to or not.
I, who say this to you, must feel very sure of it in order to be willing
to put it upon paper, since, without reward for my prophetic skill,--to
which, I assure you, I make not the slightest claim,--I run the risk of
passing for a hare-brained fellow, in case I prove to be mistaken: he
plays a bold game who risks his good sense upon his cards, in return
for the very trifling and insignificant merit of having divined a young
man's future.
"When I say that I expect you in Paris, I use only a proverbial phrase
which you must not allow to mislead you as to my projects and plans.
To reside in Paris is disagreeable to me, very much so; and when this
fine-art fever which possesses me has left me, I shall abandon the place
without regret to seek a more peaceful residence in a provincial town,
provided always the town shall afford me the means of living, bread, a
bed, books, rest, and solitude. How I miss, my good Proudhon, that dark,
obscure, smoky chamber in which I dwelt in Besancon, and where we spent
so many pleasant hours in the discussion of philosophy! Do you remember
it? But that is now far away. Will that happy time ever return? Shall
we one day meet again? Here my life is restless, uncertain, precarious,
and, what is worse, indolent, illiterate, and vagrant. I do no work, I
live in idleness, I ramble about; I do not read, I no longer study; my
books are forsaken; now and then I glance over a few metaphysical works,
and after a days walk through dirty, filthy, crowded streets. I lie
down with empty head and tired body, to repeat the performance on the
following day. What is the object of these walks, you will ask. I make
visits, my friend; I hold interviews with stupid people. Then a fit of
curiosity seizes me, the least inquisitive of beings: there are museums,
libraries, assemblies, churches, palaces, gardens, and theatres to
visit. I am fond of pictures, fond of music, fond of sculpture; all
these are beautiful and good, but they cannot appease hunger, nor take
the place of my pleasant readings of Bailly, Hume, and Tennemann, which
I used to enjoy by my fireside when I was able to read.
"But enough of complaints. Do not allow this letter to affect you too
much, and do not think that I give way to dejection or despondency; no,
I am a fatalist, and I believe in my star. I do not know yet what my
calling is, nor for what branch of polite literature I am best fitted;
I do not even know whether I am, or ever shall be, fitted for any: but
what matters it? I suffer, I labor, I dream, I enjoy, I think; and, in a
word, when my last hour strikes, I shall have lived.
"Proudhon, I love you, I esteem you; and, believe me, these are not mere
phrases. What interest could I have in flattering and praising a poor
printer? Are you rich, that you may pay for courtiers? Have you a
sumptuous table, a dashing wife, and gold to scatter, in order to
attract them to your suite? Have you the glory, honors, credit, which
would render your acquaintance pleasing to their vanity and pride? No;
you are poor, obscure, abandoned; but, poor, obscure, and abandoned,
you have a friend, and a friend who knows all the obligations which that
word imposes upon honorable people, when they venture to assume it. That
friend is myself: put me to the test.
"GUSTAVE FALLOT. "
It appears from this letter that if, at this period, Proudhon had
already exhibited to the eyes of a clairvoyant friend his genius for
research and investigation, it was in the direction of philosophical,
rather than of economical and social, questions.
Having become foreman in the house of Gauthier & Co. , who carried on
a large printing establishment at Besancon, he corrected the proofs of
ecclesiastical writers, the Fathers of the Church. As they were printing
a Bible, a Vulgate, he was led to compare the Latin with the original
Hebrew.
"In this way," says Sainte Beuve, "he learned Hebrew by himself, and,
as everything was connected in his mind, he was led to the study of
comparative philology. As the house of Gauthier published many works
on Church history and theology, he came also to acquire, through this
desire of his to investigate everything, an extensive knowledge of
theology, which afterwards caused misinformed persons to think that he
had been in an ecclesiastical seminary. "
Towards 1836, Proudhon left the house of Gauthier, and, in company
with an associate, established a small printing-office in Besancon. His
contribution to the partnership consisted, not so much in capital, as
in his knowledge of the trade. His partner committing suicide in 1838,
Proudhon was obliged to wind up the business, an operation which he did
not accomplish as quickly and as easily as he hoped. He was then urged
by his friends to enter the ranks of the competitors for the Suard
pension. This pension consisted of an income of fifteen hundred francs
bequeathed to the Academy of Besancon by Madame Suard, the widow of the
academician, to be given once in three years to the young man residing
in the department of Doubs, a bachelor of letters or of science, and
not possessing a fortune, whom the Academy of Besancon SHOULD DEEM BEST
FITTED FOR A LITERARY OR SCIENTIFIC CAREER, OR FOR THE STUDY OF LAW
OR OF MEDICINE. The first to win the Suard pension was Gustave Fallot.
Mauvais, who was a distinguished astronomer in the Academy of Sciences,
was the second. Proudhon aspired to be the third. To qualify himself, he
had to be received as a bachelor of letters, and was obliged to write a
letter to the Academy of Besancon. In a phrase of this letter, the terms
of which he had to modify, though he absolutely refused to change
its spirit, Proudhon expressed his firm resolve to labor for the
amelioration of the condition of his brothers, the working-men.
The only thing which he had then published was an "Essay on General
Grammar," which appeared without the author's signature. While
reprinting, at Besancon, the "Primitive Elements of Languages,
Discovered by the Comparison of Hebrew roots with those of the Latin and
French," by the Abbe Bergier, Proudhon had enlarged the edition of his
"Essay on General Grammar. "
The date of the edition, 1837, proves that he did not at that time think
of competing for the Suard pension.
