The Moral and Intellectual Bankruptcy of the Left - Guglielmo Piombini, Bernardo Ferrero (Mises org)

 Rousseau, Guevara, Marx and More: The Moral and Intellectual Bankruptcy of the Left

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Guglielmo Piombini, Bernardo Ferrero 

Mises Institute, December 25, 2021

A brief look at the lives of Rousseau, Marx, Guevara, Brecht, and Sartre suggests that many of the Left's most celebrated heroes built their philosophies on a foundation of the most repugnant narcissism, violence, and inhumanity. 

Introduction

In editing David Hume’s 1766 pamphlet titled About Rousseau, Lorenzo Infantino has drawn attention to a dispute between the two philosophers that at the time caused much discussion throughout Europe. At the core of that contrast were not only two different world views, David Hume’s classical liberal and individualist Weltanschauung versus Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s egalitarian and collectivist one, but also two very different personalities: the Scottish thinker was mild mannered, humble, and reserved, while the philosopher from Geneva was megalomaniacal, paranoid, and quarrelsome.1

The relationship between the two represents an interesting historical episode. When Rousseau became wanted by the police in Continental Europe for his subversive writings, Hume, who empathized with the precarious situation in which the Swiss philosopher found himself, generously offered to host him in his house in England. In addition, he also made an effort with the authorities to get him a living and a pension. However, following a hoax organized by Horace Walpole against Rousseau (specifically a fake letter which was published in the newspapers), the latter was convinced, wrongly, that Hume was the head of a “clique” of enemies who had conspired against him. Hence the irreparable break between the two, in which Hume, unwillingly and only on the insistence of his friends, answered to Rousseau’s unpleasant public accusations.

The Moral Credentials of the Committed Intellectual

In the story of the stormy relationship between Hume and Rousseau there appears a figure that has become typical of contemporary times, the socially engaged intellectual, who emerged precisely in this period and of whom Rousseau was probably the original prototype. Indeed, in the eighteenth century, with the decline of the power of the church, a new character emerged, the lay intellectual, whose influence has continually grown over the last two hundred years. From the beginning the lay intellectual proclaimed himself consecrated to the interests of humanity and invested with the mission of redeeming it through his wisdom and teaching.

The progressive intellectual no longer feels bound by everything that belonged to the past, such as customs, traditions, religious beliefs: for him all the wisdom accumulated by humanity over the centuries is to be thrown away. In his boundless presumption, the socially engaged intellectual claims to be able to diagnose all of society’s ills and to be able to cure them with the strength of his intellect alone. In other words, he claims to have devised and to possess the formulas thanks to which it is possible to transform the structures of society, as well as the ways of life of human beings, for the better.

But what moral credentials do committed intellectuals like Rousseau and his many heirs, who claim to dictate standards of behavior for all of humanity, have? In fact, if we look at their lives, we often find a constant: the more they proclaimed their moral superiority, their dedication to the common good, and their selfless love for humanity, the more despicably and unworthily they behaved with the people they dealt with in everyday life, with family members, friends, and colleagues.2

The Distorted Jean-Jacques Rousseau

Jean-Jacques Rousseau, for instance, opposed all aspects of civilization, starting from the arts and the sciences. As he wrote in his famous 1750 Discours sur les sciences et les artes, which gave him overnight fame: “When there is no effect, there is no cause to seek. But here the effect is certain, the depravity real, and our souls have been corrupted in proportion to the advancement of our Sciences and Arts to perfection.”3

In his second Discourse on Inequality and in his other works, this contempt for the arts and the sciences quickly extended to a contempt for industry, capital accumulation, commerce, private property, and the family.

Institutions that many would regard as responsible for the development of civilization were, according to Rousseau, the source of human corruption and evil. Man was originally good, and he was made bad solely by institutions and the development of civilizing forces. Telling, in this regard, are the words with which he began The Social Contract: “Man is born free, yet everywhere he is in chains.”4 In the eyes of Thomas Sowell this phrase neatly summarized the heart of the vision of the anointed intellectual. According to Rousseau, writes Sowell, “[t]he ills of society are seen as ultimately an intellectual and moral problem, for which intellectuals are especially equipped to provide answers, by virtue of their greater knowledge and insight as well as their not having vested economic interests to bias them in favor of the existing order and still the voice of conscience.”5

Rousseau’s sentimentalist view of human nature and his prejudice toward institutions, observed Roger Scruton, was typically adolescent, immature, prejudicial, and hysterical, throwing “to the winds the common sense and political sagacity which motivated Hobbes and Locke.”6

Rousseau was the first to repeatedly proclaim himself a friend of all mankind, but while he loved mankind in general, he was prone to quarrel constantly with concrete, flesh-and-blood human beings and to exploit everyone he had to deal with, especially those who made the mistake of treating him well, such as the loveable David Hume, the mild-mannered Denis Diderot, the great physician Théodore Tronchin, the deist François-Marie Arouet (better known as Voltaire), and the numerous women who supported him.7 Tibor Fischer described him as “a man who made a career out of spite.”8

Rousseau’s biographers paint him as a monster of vanity, selfishness, and ingratitude, which is why he has been characterized as one of the least likeable of all political philosophers. As the historian of political thought Gerard Casey writes,

Rousseau is a figure whom many people love to hate. And there’s good reason for this. He was self-centred, vain, self-pitying, narcissistic, and he yoked all these unattractive traits to an irrepressible lust for self-publicity. An Angry Young Man before his time, he made the common mistake of confusing rudeness and boorishness with honesty and integrity, betraying a bumptiousness that probably resulted in knowing that he could never hope to move by right in the highest social circles to which he aspired.9

Rousseau portrayed himself as a man devoted to love, but never showed any real affection toward his parents, his brother, his partner, nor, above all, his children. In fact, Rousseau, even though he stood out as a master of pedagogy, pretending with his treatise Emile to set the basis for a new and better way of approaching education, behaved in the most unnatural and unpleasant way toward his children. With his domestic partner and mistress, Marie-Thérèse Levasseur, he had five children and decided to abandon each of them in an orphanage. What was even worse was his justification for he claimed that at the hôpital des Enfants-Trouvés they would be better provided for in every way. Like all his contemporaries, however, Rousseau knew very well indeed that in those days the living conditions in the orphanages were terrible: only five to ten children out of a hundred survived into adulthood, and almost all of those who survived ended up as beggars or vagrants. The real reason for the abandonment was the philosopher’s lack of care and love toward his five children. Demonstrating this was the fact that Rousseau did not even note their date of birth and never worried about their fates.10

Karl Marx, the Racist Exploiter

Such personalities are surprisingly common among revolutionary intellectuals. Karl Marx’s taste for verbal violence and for overpowering his opponents were also well known, as was his tendency to exploit those around him, a fact which was noticed by many of his contemporaries. One of these was the Italian revolutionary of the Risorgimento Giuseppe Mazzini, who once described the philosopher from Trier as

a destructive spirit whose heart was filled with hatred rather than love of mankind … extraordinarily sly, shifty and taciturn. Marx is very jealous of his authority as leader of the Party; against his political rivals and opponents he is vindictive and implacable; he does not rest until he has beaten them down; his overriding characteristic is boundless ambition and thirst for power. Despite the communist egalitarianism which he preaches he is the absolute ruler of his party … and he tolerates no opposition.11

Marx quarreled furiously with all those with whom he associated, unless he could dominate them. Gustav Techow, a Prussian military officer who got to spend time with Marx when the revolutionary group he was associated with in Switzerland sent him to London, upon returning reported to his associates that “[d]espite all of his assurances to the contrary … personal domination is the end-all of his every activity.”12 Marx despised his opponents, uttering words and comments we would squarely call racist.13 Well known, for instance, are the words Marx employed to discredit a fellow socialist, Fernand Lassalle, in one of his correspondences with Friedrich Engels on July 30, 1862:

The Jewish Nigger Lassalle who, I am glad to say, is leaving at the end of this week … had the insolence to ask me whether I would be willing to hand over one of my daughters to la Hatzfeldt as a “companion”, and whether he himself should secure Gerstenberg’s (!) patronage for me! … Add to this, the incessant chatter in a high, falsetto voice, the unaesthetic, histrionic gestures, the dogmatic tone! … It is now absolutely clear to me that, as both the shape of his head and his hair texture shows—he descends from the Negros who joined Moses’s flight from Egypt…. Now this combination of Germanness and Jewishness with a primarily Negro substance creates a strange product. The fellow’s importunity is also nigger-like.

Marx’s racism explains his infatuation for the theories of the French ethnologist Pierre Trémeaux, who in an obscure book claimed that “[t]he backward negro is not an evolved ape, but a degenerate man.” In light of this “finding,” the author of The Communist Manifesto, considered Trémeaux and his works to be “a very significant advance over Darwin,” as he wrote to Engels in 1866. This racism, moreover, led him to support with enthusiasm the United States’ aggressive war on Mexico, the annexation of Texas and California, the French conquest of Algeria, and the ruthless colonial rule of the British in India.14 These events were all lauded under the banner of “progress.” Marx believed that the “Negro race” stood outside of history, a view he got from reading Hegel’s account of sub-Saharan Africa in his Lectures on the Philosophy of History.15 Like Hegel, moreover, he believed that slavery could not be abolished in one fell swoop without destroying civilization. Not only was the “Negro race” not ready for freedom, but slavery served an indispensable economic function. As he wrote in The Poverty of Philosophy:

Without slavery you have no cotton; without cotton you have no modern industry. It is slavery that gave colonies their value; it is the colonies that created world trade, and it is world trade that is the precondition of large-scale industry. Thus slavery is an economic category of the greatest importance…. Wipe out North America from the map of the world and you will have anarchy—the complete decay of modern commerce and civilization. Abolish slavery and you will have wiped America off the map of nations.16

What Marx shared most notably with Rousseau was a tendency to quarrel with friends and benefactors. He made Friedrich Engels subsidize him, demanded money from everyone, and regularly squandered the money on the stock market or in other ways, condemning family members to a precarious life. What stands out was Marx’s tyrannical treatment of his wife and daughters. In his own works Marx complained about the low wages of the working class, yet he never had the courage nor the humility to visit a factory. He referred to proletarians as “dolts” and “asses.”

The only member of the working class Marx knew was his own indefatigable housekeeper, Helen Demuth, whom he exploited indecently. Throughout all his life he never gave her a penny, just food and accommodation. While living under the same roof with his wife and his legitimate children, Marx was accustomed to use her as a sex object, up to the point of getting her pregnant. In 1851, out of this adulterous relationship, a son, Frederick Demuth, was born, yet Marx never wanted to have anything to do with him. Freddy was forbidden to be around when Marx was at home and his access was restricted to the kitchen. In order to avoid any social embarrassment he refused to recognize the child, asking Engels to privately acknowledge him instead.

Che Guevara, the Cold-Blooded Killing Machine

In the biographies of so many other leftist icons we find, with surprising regularity, the same moral and personality traits as those present in Rousseau and Marx. Men who are still exalted today, such as Vladimir Lenin, Mao Zedong, and Ernesto “Che” Guevara, were thirsty for power and domination over others, and their fierce language expressed all their contempt for human life.

One of the most extraordinary objects of false propaganda is Ernesto “Che” Guevara de la Serna, the iconic revolutionary behind the Castrist takeover of Cuba. Che Guevara, in fact, has been exalted by the most important maîtres a penser of the Left. Nelson Mandela, for instance, referred to him as an “inspiration for every human being who loves freedom,” while Jean Paul Sartre in 1961 went as far as to write that Che was “not only an intellectual but the most complete human being of our age.”17 Testimonies from people who were close to him, however, tell a different story, for they describe Che Guevara as a “killing machine.” He took great pleasure in cold killing, and personally shot or executed hundreds of people without trial, only on the basis of suspicion. As a perfect Machiavellian, Che believed that everything, even the cruelest of all methods and actions, was justified in the name of the revolution. Equality before the law, judicial proof, habeas corpus, the principle of in dubio pro reo, were all remnants of bourgeois society that would have to be subordinated to the prime objective: the communist revolution and the making of the new socialist man. As he put it: “To send men to the firing squad, judicial proof is unnecessary. These procedures are an archaic bourgeois detail. This is a revolution! A revolutionary must become a cold killing machine motivated by pure hatred.”18 Speaking from experience, in his “Message to the Tricontinental” of April 1967, Che summarized his idea of justice: “[H]atred as an element of struggle; unbending hatred for the enemy, which pushes a human being beyond his natural limitations, making him into an effective, violent, selective, and cold-blooded killing machine.”19

Che Guevara’s propensity for violence is something that characterized his persona even before the actual takeover of Cuba. During his period of preparation in the Movimiento 26 de Julio, Che’s psychotic personality, along with his hatred and his systematic prejudices, did not go unnoticed among his fellow fighters, who in fact called him “el saca muelas”—the molar puller. It was at a young age that he developed the view that there is an inextricable link between violence and social change. “Revolution without firing a shot? You’re crazy,” he told his friend Alberto Granado during their journey across South America.

This man’s lust for power and love for killing is best illustrated by his period in charge of La Cabaña prison in the aftermath of the revolution. Between January and June of 1959, as head of the Comisión Depuradora, which was responsible for cleansing the country of political opponents and dissenters, Che was directly responsible for the killing of over five hundred men, inaugurating one of the darkest periods of Cuban history. The dynamics of the procedures used at La Cabaña were well captured by a member of the judicial body, José Vilasuso: “The process followed the law of the Sierra: there was a military court and Che’s guidelines to us were that we should act with conviction, meaning that they were all murderers and the revolutionary way to proceed was to be implacable…. Executions took place from Monday to Friday, in the middle of the night…. On the most gruesome night I remember, seven men were executed.”20

For Che Guevara violence was not only permissible but necessary for the triumph of the revolution: “The peaceful way is to be forgotten and violence is inevitable. For the realization of socialist regimes, rivers of blood will have to flow in the name of liberation, even at the cost of millions of atomic victims.” As Leonardo Facco thus concludes: “Hatred, violence, murder, shooting, death, revenge, torture, are the words that best describe Ernesto Che Guevara.”21

Bertolt Brecht, Servile Flatterer of Tyrants

The German playwriter Bertolt Brecht, still much studied in schools today, is a typical example of the left-wing intellectual who puts himself at the service of a ruthless dictatorship in exchange for official honors and privileges. This Faustian deal had a significant imprint on his life and works. In the 1930s Brecht justified all of Joseph Stalin’s crimes, even when the purges concerned his friends. Like Che Guevara, Brecht did not care whether Stalin’s victims were innocent human beings or not. Quite the contrary. When Sidney Hook brought to his attention that innocent former Communists, like Grigory Zinoviev and Lev Kamenev, were being arrested and imprisoned, he answered: “As for them, the more innocent they are, the more they deserve to be shot.”22

After World War II Brecht served the East German regime, endorsing all its international initiatives and becoming the most trusted of all the writers recruited by the Communist Party. In return for this, he received enormous privileges. He always had large sums of foreign currency at his disposal and traveled constantly abroad, where he and his wife did most of their shopping; even in East Germany he had access to stores that were open only to party officials and other privileged people.

In the meanwhile, however, the masses of whom he claimed to be a champion (but whom he privately despised) were at the mercy of the regime’s rationing policy and almost starving. Around six thousand citizens had in fact taken refuge in West Berlin alone. On June 15, 1953, a workers’ revolt against the socialist regime broke out in East Berlin, and it was soon suppressed with the help of Soviet tanks. Brecht seized the opportunity to earn further recognition and appreciation from the regime by publicly accusing the rioters of being a “fascist and warmongering rabble” composed of “all kinds of déclassé young people.”23 As his private diaries illustrate, however, Brecht knew the truth: these were no fascist agitators at all, but rather common German workers who could not stand a regime that was expropriating their liberties and means of sustenance. The playwright, however, like Marx before him, while dressing like a prole and pretending to be one, was absolutely disinterested in the conditions of the working class—a point that was so evident as to cause fellow socialists, like Theodore W. Adorno, Max Horkheimer, and Herbert Marcuse, to look down upon him. Since he despised German workers, he opposed every attempt of democratization. When a plumber approached him claiming he wanted free elections in order to have the ability to discard corrupt politicians, he answered that under free elections the Nazis would take over, indicating that there was no viable escape route from Soviet colonialism. One had to stick with it.

Like Rousseau and Marx, Bertolt Brecht had, to say the least, a promiscuous and disorderly sexual and family life. He very much liked to run sexual collectives with himself as the master and used to play around with many women in tandem, marrying and divorcing multiple times. This promiscuous sexual life ultimately led him to have two illegitimate children. Like his intellectual predecessors, however, he never showed any interest in his children, whether legitimate or illegitimate. He saw them very rarely, and when he did, he could not stand the time he passed with them, for in his view they destroyed his peace of mind. In this sense he perfectly expressed that kind of intellectual idealism which has distinguished the “anointed intellectual” since the times of Rousseau, caring not one iota about the people around him. One of his former collaborators, W.H Auden, described Brecht as “a most unpleasant man, an odious person,” going as far as to state that in light of his immoral behavior he deserved the death penalty.

Paul Johnson summarized very well the main tenets of Brecht’s corrupt personality: “Ideas came before people, Mankind with a capital ‘M’ before men and women, wives, sons or daughters. Oscar Homola’s wife Florence, who knew Brecht well in America, summed it up tactfully: ‘in his human relationships he was a fighter for people’s rights without being overly concerned with the happiness of persons close to him. Brecht himself argued, quoting Lenin, that one had to be ruthless with individuals to serve the collective.”24

Jean-Paul Sartre, the Spiritual Father of Pol Pot

One of the most hailed maîtres à penser of the Left, but whose influence was disastrous for humankind, was Jean-Paul Sartre. During World War II, when France was occupied by the National Socialists, Sartre behaved with extreme opportunism. He was called to teach philosophy at the famous lycée Condorcet, whose teachers were mostly in exile, hidden, or in concentration camps. He did nothing for the resistance. For the deported Jews he did not move a finger and did not write a word. Rather, he concentrated exclusively on his own career.

After the war ended, Sartre took advantage of the situation and became a celebrity by espousing the causes of the radical Left while preaching his smoky existentialist philosophy. At its core, existentialism was a philosophy of action, a belief that it is a man’s actions not his words, deeds, or ideas, that determine his character and significance. The French socialist, however, came short of applying this principle in his life. Throughout his entire career, as Albert Camus once wrote, Sartre “tried to make history from his armchair.”25

Sartre was linked to the writer Simone de Beauvoir, who behaved throughout her life as his submissive slave, accepting that Sartre openly cheated on her with the many women in his harem. “In the annals of literature,” observes Paul Johnson, “there are few worse cases of a man exploiting a woman.”26 This was all the more extraordinary since Beauvoir was the progenitor of the so-called second-wave feminism. While in her works, specifically in her most important book, The Second Sex, Beauvoir repeatedly opposed male domination and incited females to escape from their biologically determined status of subordination and become full-fledged women, her life represented the opposite of what she preached.27 Feminism and male domination went hand in hand.

Sartre always maintained an embarrassed silence on the topic of Stalin’s concentration camps. The two-hour interview he gave in July 1954, on his return from a trip to the Soviet Union, is among the most abject descriptions of the Soviet state that a renowned intellectual has given to the Western world since that of George Bernard Shaw in the early 1930s.28 Many years later he declared that he had lied. In the following years he extolled with meaningless words Fidel Castro’s Cuba (“The country that emerged from the Cuban revolution is a direct democracy”), Josip Broz Tito’s Yugoslavia (“It is the realization of my philosophy”), and Gamal Abdel Nasser’s Egypt (“Until now I have refused to speak of socialism in connection with the Egyptian regime. Now I know I have been wrong”).29 Particularly warm, moreover, were the words he reserved for Mao’s China.

His preaching had deleterious consequences. Although he was not a man of action, he continually incited others to engage in violence. Because he was widely read among the young, he soon became the theoretical godfather of many terrorist movements in the 1960s and 1970s. By inflaming African revolutionaries, he contributed to the civil wars and mass murders that convulsed that continent after decolonization. But even more baleful was his influence in Southeast Asia. Pol Pot and almost all the other leaders of the Khmer Rouge, who brutally murdered more than a quarter of the Cambodian population from 1975 to 1979, had studied in Paris during the 1950s, and it was there that they had absorbed the Sartrean doctrine of the necessity of violence. Those mass murderers were therefore his ideological children.30

When Sartre died in 1980, a huge crowd composed mainly of young people gathered at his funeral and paid him the same honors Rousseau received in his time. Over fifty thousand people decided to follow his corpse into the Montparnasse Cemetery. “To what cause had they come to do honor?” wondered puzzled Paul Johnson, “What faith, what luminous truth about humanity, were they asserting by their mass presence? We may well ask.”31

The True Masters

It is very difficult to find a bad teacher of thought who was not also a bad teacher of life. John Maynard Keynes, for instance, as Murray N. Rothbard recalled in his intriguing Keynes, the Man, was an arrogant and sadistic individual, a bully intoxicated by power, a deliberate and systematic liar, an irresponsible intellectual, a short-lived hedonist, a nihilist enemy of bourgeois morality who hated savings and wanted to annihilate the creditor class, an imperialist, an anti-Semite and a fascist.32

If, on the other hand, we look at those thinkers who defended individual freedom, we almost always find men of very different temperament. David Hume was the opposite of Rousseau: a mild, quiet, affable, commonsense person who devoted his entire life to academia and high theory. Adam Smith, Immanuel Kant, Frédéric Bastiat, and Luigi Einaudi had similar characters.

Emblematic is the story of the great French economist Jean-Baptiste Say, who in 1799 was appointed one of the hundred members of the Tribunate and in 1803 published his main work, the brilliant Treatise on Political Economy. Napoleon Bonaparte offered him forty thousand francs a year if he rewrote some parts of the book in order to justify his interventionist economic projects. Say, however, refused the bribe to betray his convictions and was removed from his position as tribune. As the founder of the French liberal school explained in his first letter to Pierre Samuel du Pont de Nemours on April 5, 1814: “During my period as tribune, not wanting to deliver orations in favour of the usurper, and not having the permission to speak against him, I drafted and published my Traite de Economie Politique. Bonaparte commanded me to attend him and offered me 40 thousand francs a year to write in favour of his opinion. I refused, and was caught up in the purge of 1804.”33

In order to earn a living, Say decided to engage in entrepreneurial activity, opening an avant-garde cotton factory that employed almost five hundred people.

The English classical liberal philosopher Herbert Spencer also gives us a lesson in method, in character, and in industriousness. He accomplished an extraordinary, to say the least, amount of cultural work with uncommon perseverance and stubbornness, and made his living in the free market of culture with his successful articles and books, refusing the academic positions or offices that were offered to him.34

Closer to our days we can take the examples of Ludwig von Mises, Friedrich A. von Hayek, Murray N. Rothbard, Henry Hazlitt, and Bruno Leoni, all personalities who were respected and admired by those around them, who never sought positions of power, and who sometimes gave up important professional positions in order to remain consistent with their ideas. Refusing to adhere to the cultural fashions of the moment, they did not receive the recognition that they deserved, and that was commensurate with their intellectual greatness and personal integrity.

Intellectual, Moral, and Existential Misery

The Italian essayist Giovanni Birindelli has called socialists “stupid” because of their inability to understand the concept of spontaneous social order.35 It must be understood that this is not a gratuitous insult. Intelligence, in fact, has many faces: there is logical, mathematical, musical, emotional, social, etc. intelligence. Many socialists may be brilliant engineers, scientists, chess players, or artists, but they are decidedly obtuse in their understanding of social phenomena, which explains the thunderous and repeated failure of their ideas whenever they have been put into practice. The central idea of socialism, that a central planning authority can improve upon the conditions of society through its commands, prohibitions, and coercion, is indeed incredibly puerile and denotes a mind unprepared to grasp the complexity of social and economic phenomena. Society, in fact, is not a black box, and individuals are not motionless pieces on a chessboard that can be moved arbitrarily. Rather, as Jesús Huerta de Soto explains in treatise Socialism, Economic Calculation and Entrepreneurship, society is a dynamic structure, a highly complex process composed of human interactions which are motivated and kept together by the creative and coordinative force of unhampered entrepreneurs.36

Intellectual misery manifests itself first and foremost in the intellectual errors, ideological delusions, and complete lack of common sense that characterize much of the socialist literature. The biographies of the masters of left-wing thought show, with few exceptions, that there is less of a distance between thinking badly and behaving badly than we think, because poverty of thought is often accompanied by moral and existential poverty.

The moral misery of many left-wing intellectuals manifests itself in verbal ferocity, exhortations to violence, demonization of opponents, and lack of respect for the dignity of individuals. It is no coincidence that in the last 150 years, as noted by George Watson, all those who have theorized or advocated the extermination of peoples or social groups have called themselves “socialists.” No exception to this rule can be found.37

Moral misery is frequently linked to existential misery, which expresses itself in pathological egocentricity, vanity, the frenzied desire to always be in the limelight by espousing all the cultural fashions of the moment, servility, opportunism, parasitism toward one’s neighbors, the inconsistency between lofty proclamations, and crude or evil actions.

The revolutionary intellectual has no title to boast of any personal superiority nor to set himself up as the master of society. On the contrary, with his rambling ideologies and his bad human example, which has corrupted the minds and behavior of millions of young people, the revolutionary intellectual is undoubtedly the most pernicious figure of our times.

• 1.David Hume, A proposito di Rousseau, ed. Lorenzo Infantino (Soveria Mannelli, Italy: Rubbettino, 2017).
• 2.Paul Johnson, Intellectuals (New York: Harper and Row, 1989).
• 3.Cited in Roger D. Masters, The Political Philosophy of Rousseau (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1976), p. 218.
• 4.Jean-Jacques Rousseau, "Discourse on Political Economy" and "The Social Contract," trans. Christopher Betts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), p. 45.
• 5.Thomas Sowell, Intellectuals and Society (New York: Basic Books, 2010), pp. 130–31.
• 6.Roger Scruton, A Short History of Modern Philosophy, 2d ed. (London: Routledge, 1995), p. 201.
• 7.Johnson, Intellectuals, p. 10.
• 8.Tibor Fischer, The Thought Gang (1994; repr., London: Vintage Books, 2009), p. 124.
• 9.Gerard Casey, Freedom’s Progress? A History of Political Thought (Exeter: Imprint Academic, 2017), p. 505.
• 10.Johnson, Intellectuals, pp. 21–22.
• 11.Quoted in Gary North, “The Marx Nobody Knows,” in Requiem for Marx, ed. Yuri Maltsev (Auburn, AL: Ludwig von Mises Institute, 1993), p. 107.
• 12.Quoted in Richard M. Ebeling, “Marx the Man,” Foundation for Economic Education, Feb. 14, 2017.
• 13.Nathaniel Weyl, Karl Marx: Racist (New Rochelle, NY: Arlington House, 1979).
• 14.Nathaniel Weyl, Karl Marx: Racist, pp. 24–72. Engels, of course, was not immune to Marx’s racism. For example, upon learning about the candidacy of Paul Lafargue—Marx’s son-in-law, who had some black blood in his veins—for the Municipal Council of the Fifth Arrondissment, a district which included the Paris Zoo, he wrote that Lafargue “is undoubtedly the most appropriate representative of that district” being “in his quality as a nigger a degree nearer to the rest of the animal kingdom than the rest of us.” Quoted in Saul Padover, Karl Marx, an Intimate Biography (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1978), p. 502.
• 15.“The Negroes indulge … that perfect contempt for humanity, which in its bearing on Justice and Morality is the fundamental characteristic of the race…. The undervaluing of humanity among them reaches an incredible degree of intensity … want of self-control distinguished the character of the Negroes. This condition is capable of no development or culture, and as we see them at this day, such have they always been … Africa … is no historical part of the World; it has no movement or development to exhibit. Historical movements in it … belong to the Asiatic or European World…. What we properly understand by Africa, is the Unhistorical, Undeveloped Spirit, still involved in the conditions of mere nature, and which had to be presented here only as on the threshold of the World’s History.” George Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, The Philosophy of History (1837; repr., Kitchner, ON: Batoche Books, 2001), pp. 113–17.
• 16.Karl Marx, The Poverty of Philosophy (1847; repr., Charleston: Nabu Press, 2010), pp. 74–75.
• 17.John Lee Anderson, Che Guevara: A Revolutionary Life (New York: Grove Press, 1997), p. 468.
• 18.Quoted in José E. Urioste Palomeque, “A Murderer Called “CHE,” Yucatan Times, Mar. 7, 2019.
• 19.Quoted in Alvaro Vargas Llosa, “The Killing Machine: Che Guevara, from Communist Firebrand to Capitalist Brand,” Independent Institute, July 11, 2005.
• 20.Quoted in Vargas Llosa, “The Killing Machine.”
• 21.Leonardo Facco, Che Guevara il comunista sanguinario: La storia sconosciuta del mitologico mercenario argentino (Bologna: Tramedoro, 2020), p. 64.
• 22.Quoted in Johnson, Intellectuals, p. 180.
• 23.Johnson, Intellectuals, p. 194.
• 24.Johnson, Intellectuals, p. 187.
• 25.Quoted in Johnson, Intellectuals, p. 245.
• 26.Johnson, Intellectuals, p. 235.
• 27.Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex, trans. Constance Borde and Sheila Malovany-Chevalier (1949; repr., New York, Vintage, 2011).
• 28.While embarking on his return trip from the Soviet Union, for instance, Shaw, neglecting all the atrocities that were being committed in the name of socialism, described the USSR as “a land of hope.” Quoted in Paul Hollander, Political Pilgrims: Western Intellectuals in Search of the Good Society (1981; repr., New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 2009), pp. 38–39.
• 29.Johnson, Intellectuals, p. 245.
• 30.Johnson, Intellectuals, p. 246.
• 31.Johnson, Intellectuals, p. 251.
• 32.Murray N. Rothbard, Keynes, the Man (Auburn, AL, Ludwig von Mises Institute, 2010), p. 56. 
• 33.Quoted in Evelyn L. Forget, The Social Economics of Jean-Baptiste Say: Markets and Virtue (London: Routledge, 1999), pp. 262–63.
• 34.For a survey of Spencer’s life and work, see Guglielmo Piombini, “Herbert Spencer, un uomo contro lo Stato,” Miglioverde, Oct. 20, 2016.
• 35.Giovanni Birindelli, Legge e mercato (Treviglio, Italy: Leonardo Facco Editore, 2017).
• 36.In particular, see Jesús Huerta de Soto, Socialism, Economic Calculation and Entrepreneurship, trans. Melinda Stroup (Cheltenham: Edward Elgar, 2010), p. 52.
• 37.George Watson, The Lost Literature of Socialism (Cambridge: Lutterworth Press, 1989).

Authors: 

Guglielmo Piombini

Guglielmo Piombini is an Italian journalist who has collaborated in various magazines and newspapers including Liberal, il Domenicale, and Elite.  His articles have also appeared at Ludwig von Mises Italia. Piombini is also the founder of Tramedoro: the online platform that provides a detailed overview of every major classic of the social sciences. Specializing in medieval institutions he is the author of the book “Prima dello Stato, il medioevo della liberta” (“Before the State: The Middle Ages Of Liberty”). 

Bernardo Ferrero

Bernardo Ferrero earned a double degree in Economics and Politics from SOAS, University of London and received his Master’s degree in Austrian Economics at Universidad Rey Juan Carlos.

Da liberdade dos antigos comparada à dos modernos (1819) - Benjamin Constant - Ralph Raico (Mises), Paulo Roberto de Almeida

 Cinco anos atrás, na minha série "clássicos revisitados", eu aproveitei o famoso discurso de Benjamin Constant – o constitucionalista que influenciaria a nossa primeira constituição como Estado independente, com o "poder moderador" – para compor um texto criticando a diplomacia do lulopetismo comparando-a com a diplomacia normal do Itamaraty. 

Agora o site do Mises coloca a versão em inglês desse famoso texto (eu havia usado a versão original, que está citada no meu texto), o que pode fazer com que mais pessoas possam conhecer esse famoso discurso do constitucionalista franco-suíço.

Quanto ao meu texto, quem quiser ler, está aqui: 

2822. “Da diplomacia dos antigos comparada à dos modernos”, Hartford, 4-7 maio 2015, 12 p. Artigo, da série clássicos revisitados, comparando a diplomacia dos antigos, ou seja, pré-2003, com a dos modernos, ou seja, dos companheiros, tomando como modelo o texto de Benjamin Constant, “De la liberté des anciens comparée à celle des modernes”. Mundorama (20/05/2015); disponível em Academia.edu (link: http://www.academia.edu/12507205/2822_Da_diplomacia_dos_antigos_comparada_%C3%A0_dos_modernos_2015_). Disseminado no blog Diplomatizzando (link: http://diplomatizzando.blogspot.com.br/2015/05/da-diplomacia-dos-antigos-comparada-dos.html); novamente informado em 12/10/2015 (link: http://diplomatizzando.blogspot.com/2015/10/da-diplomacia-dos-antigos-comparada-dos.html). Relação de Publicados n. 1178.

Paulo Roberto de Almeida

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On the Liberty of the Ancients Compared with That of the Moderns

• 

Mises

12/17/2020

Benjamin Constant

[This lecture was given by the Swiss-French thinker Benjamin Constant in 1819. The French title is "De la liberté des anciens comparée à celle des modernes."]

https://mises.org/library/liberty-ancients-compared-moderns?utm_source=Mises+Institute+Subscriptions&utm_campaign=150efcf23a-EMAIL_CAMPAIGN_2020_10_02_06_25_COPY_01&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_8b52b2e1c0-150efcf23a-227934593

Introduction by Ralph Raico

"He loved liberty as other men love power," was the judgment passed on Benjamin Constant by a 19th-century admirer.

His great public concern, all throughout his adult life, was the attainment of a free society, especially for his adopted country, France; and if a (by no means uncritical) French commentator exaggerated in calling him the inventor of liberalism,1 it is nevertheless true that in the second and third decades of the 19th century, when liberalism was the specter haunting Europe, Constant shared with Jeremy Bentham the honor of being the chief theoretical champion of the creed.

His influence—particularly because his involvement in French politics under the Restoration regime gave him a platform in the most attentively watched legislature on the Continent—was widespread; he had important groups of followers in France, Italy and south Germany, and disciples as far away as Russia.2

The comparison of Constant with Bentham is one worth making in detail, although this will not be attempted here. While each can be taken as representative of one of the great streams of early 19th century liberal thought, their differences were almost as significant as their similarities. Bentham (and his disciples) refined the rationalist and utilitarian position of most of 18th-century French liberalism; Constant, on the other hand, occupied himself with breaking through this mold, and attaching liberalism to the romantic and historicist thought emerging into prominence in his day, especially in Germany. Associated with this is his effort, which was to be repeated in differing forms by Tocqueville and Acton, to end the centuries-old hostility between Christianity and liberal thought, and to turn religious faith to the advantage of the free society, now confronting new and peculiarly dangerous enemies.

For 19th-century liberalism, the question of the nature of the political organization of classical antiquity had at least two important aspects. In the first place, the Jacobin and Napoleonic periods, by their free use of the rhetoric and of some of the outward political forms of antiquity, had suggested that classical republicanism might be connected with anti-liberal movements. In the second place, for any liberal exploring the connection between freedom and Christianity, the thought and practice of ancient politics becomes immediately relevant, as representing the state of affairs in the Western world before the introduction of Christianity.

As a recent historian of the intellectual background of Jacobinism has said: "The strongest influence on the fathers of totalitarian democracy was that of antiquity, interpreted in their own way."3 What was of particular concern to the post-Revolutionary liberal was that many had accepted the incessant protestations of love of liberty on the part of the Leaders of the Mountain at face value;4 this in turn had led to a rejection of liberty by all those who were disgusted by the course of French political developments after about 1792.

Many persons were tempted to conclude that the tyrannical acts of Jacobins and other revolutionary groups were somehow connected with an "excess" of liberty, and resolved that in the future Jacobin tyranny would be avoided by a ruthless suppression of all liberal demands. Thus the question of the true meaning of ancient liberty was of direct political consequence in Constant's own time.

On the Liberty of the Ancients Compared with that of the Moderns

Gentlemen,

I wish to submit for your attention a few distinctions, still rather new, between two kinds of liberty: these differences have thus far remained unnoticed, or at least insufficiently remarked. The first is the liberty the exercise of which was so dear to the ancient peoples; the second the one the enjoyment of which is especially precious to the modern nations. If I am right, this investigation will prove interesting from two different angles.

Firstly, the confusion of these two kinds of liberty has been amongst us, in the all too famous days of our revolution, the cause of many an evil. France was exhausted by useless experiments, the authors of which, irritated by their poor success, sought to force her to enjoy the good she did not want, and denied her the good that she did want. Secondly, called as we are by our happy revolution (I call it happy, despite its excesses, because I concentrate my attention on its results) to enjoy the benefits of representative government, it is curious and interesting to discover why this form of government, the only one in the shelter of which we could find some freedom and peace today, was totally unknown to the free nations of antiquity.

I know that there are writers who have claimed to distinguish traces of it among some ancient peoples, in the Lacedaemonian republic for example, or amongst our ancestors the Gauls; but they are mistaken. The Lacedaemonian government was a monastic aristocracy, and in no way a representative government. The power of the kings was limited, but it was limited by the ephors, and not by men invested with a mission similar to that which election confers today on the defenders of our liberties. The ephors, no doubt, though originally created by the kings, were elected by the people. But there were only five of them. Their authority was as much religious as political; they even shared in the administration of government, that is, in the executive power. Thus their prerogative, like that of almost all popular magistrates in the ancient republics, far from being simply a barrier against tyranny became sometimes itself an insufferable tyranny.

The regime of the Gauls, which quite resembled the one that a certain party would like to restore to us, was at the same time theocratic and warlike. The priests enjoyed unlimited power. The military class or nobility had markedly insolent and oppressive privileges; the people had no rights and no safeguards.

In Rome the tribunes had, up to a point, a representative mission. They were the organs of those plebeians whom the oligarchy—which is the same in all ages—had submitted, in overthrowing the kings, to so harsh a slavery. The people, however, exercised a large part of the political rights directly. They met to vote on the laws and to judge the patricians against whom charges had been leveled: thus there were, in Rome, only feeble traces of a representative system.

This system is a discovery of the moderns, and you will see, gentlemen, that the condition of the human race in antiquity did not allow for the introduction or establishment of an institution of this nature. The ancient peoples could neither feel the need for it, nor appreciate its advantages. Their social organization led them to desire an entirely different freedom from the one this system grants to us. Tonight's lecture will be devoted to demonstrating this truth to you.

First ask yourselves, gentlemen, what an Englishman, a Frenchman, and a citizen of the United States of America understand today by the word "liberty."

For each of them it is the right to be subjected only to the laws, and to be neither arrested, detained, put to death, or maltreated in any way by the arbitrary will of one or more individuals. It is the right of everyone to express his opinion, choose a profession and practice it, to dispose of property, and even to abuse it; to come and go without permission, and without having to account for his motives or undertakings. It is everyone's right to associate with other individuals, either to discuss their interests, or to profess the religion that he and his associates prefer, or even simply to occupy their days or hours in a way that is most compatible with his inclinations or whims. Finally it is everyone's right to exercise some influence on the administration of the government, either by electing all or particular officials, or through representations, petitions, demands to which the authorities are more or less compelled to pay heed. Now compare this liberty with that of the ancients.

The latter consisted in exercising collectively, but directly, several parts of the complete sovereignty; in deliberating, in the public square, over war and peace; in forming alliances with foreign governments; in voting laws, in pronouncing judgments; in examining the accounts, the acts, the stewardship of the magistrates; in calling them to appear in front of the assembled people, in accusing, condemning or absolving them. But if this was what the ancients called liberty, they admitted as compatible with this collective freedom the complete subjection of the individual to the authority of the community. You find among them almost none of the enjoyments we have just seen form part of the liberty of the moderns. All private actions were submitted to a severe surveillance. No importance was given to individual independence, neither in relation to opinions, nor to labor, nor, above all, to religion. The right to choose one's own religious affiliation, a right that we regard as one of the most precious, would have seemed to the ancients a crime and a sacrilege.

In the domains that seem to us the most useful, the authority of the social body interposed itself and obstructed the will of individuals. Among the Spartans, Therpandrus could not add a string to his lyre without causing offense to the ephors. In the most domestic of relations the public authority again intervened. The young Lacedaemonian could not visit his new bride freely. In Rome, the censors cast a searching eye over family life. The laws regulated customs, and as customs touch on everything, there was hardly anything that the laws did not regulate.

Thus among the ancients the individual, almost always sovereign in public affairs, was a slave in all his private relations. As a citizen, he decided on peace and war; as a private individual, he was constrained, watched and repressed in all his movements; as a member of the collective body, he interrogated, dismissed, condemned, beggared, exiled, or sentenced to death his magistrates and superiors; as a subject of the collective body he could himself be deprived of his status, stripped of his privileges, banished, put to death, by the discretionary will of the whole to which he belonged.

Among the moderns, on the contrary, the individual, independent in his private life, is, even in the freest of states, sovereign only in appearance. His sovereignty is restricted and almost always suspended. If, at fixed and rare intervals, in which he is again surrounded by precautions and obstacles, he exercises this sovereignty, it is always only to renounce it.

I must at this point, gentlemen, pause for a moment to anticipate an objection that may be addressed to me. There was in antiquity a republic where the enslavement of individual existence to the collective body was not as complete as I have described it. This republic was the most famous of all: you will guess that I am speaking of Athens. I shall return to it later, and in subscribing to the truth of this fact, I shall also indicate its cause. We shall see why, of all the ancient states, Athens was the one that most resembles the modern ones. Everywhere else social jurisdiction was unlimited. The ancients, as Condorcet says, had no notion of individual rights. Men were, so to speak, merely machines, whose gears and cog-wheels were regulated by the law. The same subjection characterized the golden centuries of the Roman Republic; the individual was in some way lost in the nation, the citizen in the city. We shall now trace this essential difference between the ancients and ourselves back to its source.

All ancient republics were restricted to a narrow territory. The most populous, the most powerful, the most substantial among them, was not equal in extension to the smallest of modern states. As an inevitable consequence of their narrow territory, the spirit of these republics was bellicose; each people incessantly attacked their neighbors or was attacked by them. Thus driven by necessity against one another, they fought or threatened each other constantly. Those who had no ambition to be conquerors, could still not lay down their weapons, lest they should themselves be conquered. All had to buy their security, their independence, their whole existence at the price of war. This was the constant interest, the almost habitual occupation of the free states of antiquity. Finally, by an equally necessary result of this way of being, all these states had slaves. The mechanical professions and even, among some nations, the industrial ones, were committed to people in chains.

The modern world offers us a completely opposing view. The smallest states of our day are incomparably larger than Sparta or than Rome was over five centuries. Even the division of Europe into several states is, thanks to the progress of enlightenment, more apparent than real. While each people, in the past, formed an isolated family, the born enemy of other families, a mass of human beings now exists, that under different names and under different forms of social organization are essentially homogeneous in their nature. This mass is strong enough to have nothing to fear from barbarian hordes. It is sufficiently civilized to find war a burden. Its uniform tendency is towards peace.

This difference leads to another one. War precedes commerce. War and commerce are only two different means of achieving the same end, that of getting what one wants. Commerce is simply a tribute paid to the strength of the possessor by the aspirant to possession. It is an attempt to conquer, by mutual agreement, what one can no longer hope to obtain through violence. A man who was always the stronger would never conceive the idea of commerce. It is experience, by proving to him that war, that is the use of his strength against the strength of others, exposes him to a variety of obstacles and defeats, that leads him to resort to commerce, that is to a milder and surer means of engaging the interest of others to agree to what suits his own. War is all impulse, commerce, calculation. Hence it follows that an age must come in which commerce replaces war. We have reached this age.

I do not mean that amongst the ancients there were no trading peoples. But these peoples were to some degree an exception to the general rule. The limits of this lecture do not allow me to illustrate all the obstacles that then opposed the progress of commerce; you know them as well as I do; I shall only mention one of them.

Their ignorance of the compass meant that the sailors of antiquity always had to keep close to the coast. To pass through the pillars of Hercules, that is, the straits of Gibraltar, was considered the most daring of enterprises. The Phoenicians and the Carthaginians, the most able of navigators, did not risk it until very late, and their example for long remained without imitators. In Athens, of which we shall talk soon, the interest on maritime enterprises was around 60%, while current interest was only 12%: that was how dangerous the idea of distant navigation seemed.

Moreover, if I could permit myself a digression that would unfortunately prove too long, I would show you, gentlemen, through the details of the customs, habits, way of trading with others of the trading peoples of antiquity, that their commerce was itself impregnated by the spirit of the age, by the atmosphere of war and hostility that surrounded it. Commerce then was a lucky accident, today it is the normal state of things, the only aim, the universal tendency, the true life of nations. They want repose, and with repose comfort, and as a source of comfort, industry. Every day war becomes a more ineffective means of satisfying their wishes. Its hazards no longer offer to individuals benefits that match the results of peaceful work and regular exchanges.

Among the ancients, a successful war increased both private and public wealth in slaves, tributes and lands shared out. For the moderns, even a successful war costs infallibly more than it is worth. Finally, thanks to commerce, to religion, to the moral and intellectual progress of the human race, there are no longer slaves among the European nations. Free men must exercise all professions, provide for all the needs of society.

It is easy to see, gentlemen, the inevitable outcome of these differences. Firstly, the size of a country causes a corresponding decrease of the political importance allotted to each individual. The most obscure republican of Sparta or Rome had power. The same is not true of the simple citizen of Britain or of the United States. His personal influence is an imperceptible part of the social will that impresses on the government its direction.

Secondly, the abolition of slavery has deprived the free population of all the leisure that resulted from the fact that slaves took care of most of the work. Without the slave population of Athens, 20,000 Athenians could never have spent every day at the public square in discussions. Thirdly, commerce does not, like war, leave in men's lives intervals of inactivity. The constant exercise of political rights, the daily discussion of the affairs of the state, disagreements, confabulations, the whole entourage and movement of factions, necessary agitations, the compulsory filling, if I may use the term, of the life of the peoples of antiquity, who, without this resource would have languished under the weight of painful inaction, would only cause trouble and fatigue to modern nations, where each individual, occupied with his speculations, his enterprises, the pleasures he obtains or hopes for, does not wish to be distracted from them other than momentarily, and as little as possible.

Finally, commerce inspires in men a vivid love of individual independence. Commerce supplies their needs, satisfies their desires, without the intervention of the authorities. This intervention is almost always—and I do not know why I say almost—this intervention is indeed always a trouble and an embarrassment. Every time collective power wishes to meddle with private speculations, it harasses the speculators. Every time governments pretend to do our own business, they do it more incompetently and expensively than we would.

I said, gentlemen, that I would return to Athens, whose example might be opposed to some of my assertions, but will in fact confirm all of them. Athens, as I have already pointed out, was of all the Greek republics the most closely engaged in trade, thus it allowed to its citizens an infinitely greater individual liberty than Sparta or Rome.

If I could enter into historical details, I would show you that, among the Athenians, commerce had removed several of the differences that distinguished the ancient from the modern peoples. The spirit of the Athenian merchants was similar to that of the merchants of our days. Xenophon tells us that during the Peloponnesian war, they moved their capitals from the continent of Attica to place them on the islands of the archipelago. Commerce had created among them the circulation of money.

In Isocrates there are signs that bills of exchange were used. Observe how their customs resemble our own. In their relations with women, you will see, again I cite Xenophon, husbands, satisfied when peace and a decorous friendship reigned in their households, make allowances for the wife who is too vulnerable before the tyranny of nature, close their eyes to the irresistible power of passions, forgive the first weakness and forget the second. In their relations with strangers, we shall see them extending the rights of citizenship to whoever would, by moving among them with his family, establish some trade or industry.

Finally, we shall be struck by their excessive love of individual independence. In Sparta, says a philosopher, the citizens quicken their step when they are called by a magistrate; but an Athenian would be desperate if he were thought to be dependent on a magistrate. However, as several of the other circumstances that determined the character of ancient nations existed in Athens as well; as there was a slave population and the territory was very restricted; we find there too the traces of the liberty proper to the ancients. The people made the laws, examined the behavior of the magistrates, called Pericles to account for his conduct, sentenced to death the generals who had commanded the battle of the Arginusae. Similarly ostracism, that legal arbitrariness, extolled by all the legislators of the age; ostracism, which appears to us, and rightly so, a revolting iniquity, proves that the individual was much more subservient to the supremacy of the social body in Athens, than he is in any of the free states of Europe today.

It follows from what I have just indicated that we can no longer enjoy the liberty of the ancients, which consisted in an active and constant participation in collective power. Our freedom must consist of peaceful enjoyment and private independence. The share that in antiquity everyone held in national sovereignty was by no means an abstract presumption as it is in our own day. The will of each individual had real influence: the exercise of this will was a vivid and repeated pleasure. Consequently the ancients were ready to make many a sacrifice to preserve their political rights and their share in the administration of the state. Everybody, feeling with pride all that his suffrage was worth, found in this awareness of his personal importance a great compensation.

This compensation no longer exists for us today. Lost in the multitude, the individual can almost never perceive the influence he exercises. Never does his will impress itself upon the whole; nothing confirms in his eyes his own cooperation. The exercise of political rights, therefore, offers us but a part of the pleasures that the ancients found in it, while at the same time the progress of civilization, the commercial tendency of the age, the communication amongst peoples, have infinitely multiplied and varied the means of personal happiness.

It follows that we must be far more attached than the ancients to our individual independence. For the ancients when they sacrificed that independence to their political rights, sacrificed less to obtain more; while in making the same sacrifice! we would give more to obtain less. The aim of the ancients was the sharing of social power among the citizens of the same fatherland: this is what they called liberty. The aim of the moderns is the enjoyment of security in private pleasures; and they call liberty the guarantees accorded by institutions to these pleasures .

I said at the beginning that, through their failure to perceive these differences, otherwise well-intentioned men caused infinite evils during our long and stormy revolution. God forbid that I should reproach them too harshly. Their error itself was excusable. One could not read the beautiful pages of antiquity—one could not recall the actions of its great men—without feeling an indefinable and special emotion, which nothing modern can possibly arouse. The old elements of a nature, one could almost say, earlier than our own, seem to awaken in us in the face of these memories.

It is difficult not to regret the time when the faculties of man developed along an already trodden path, but in so wide a career, so strong in their own powers, with such a feeling of energy and dignity. Once we abandon ourselves to this regret, it is impossible not to wish to imitate what we regret. This impression was very deep, especially when we lived under vicious governments, which, without being strong, were repressive in their effects; absurd in their principles; wretched in action; governments that had as their strength arbitrary power; for their purpose the belittling of mankind; and which some individuals still dare to praise to us today, as if we could ever forget that we have been the witnesses and the victims of their obstinacy, of their impotence and of their overthrow.

The aim of our reformers was noble and generous. Who among us did not feel his heart beat with hope at the outset of the course they seemed to open up? And shame, even today, on whoever does not feel the need to declare that acknowledging a few errors committed by our first guides does not mean blighting their memory or disowning the opinions the friends of mankind have professed throughout the ages.

But those men had derived several of their theories from the works of two philosophers who had themselves failed to recognize the changes brought by two thousand years in the dispositions of mankind. I shall perhaps at some point examine the system of the most illustrious of these philosophers, of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and I shall show that, by transposing into our modern age an extent of social power, of collective sovereignty, which belonged to other centuries, this sublime genius, animated by the purest love of liberty, has nevertheless furnished deadly pretexts for more than one kind of tyranny.

No doubt, in pointing out what I regard as a misunderstanding that it is important to uncover, I shall be careful in my refutation, and respectful in my criticism. I shall certainly refrain from joining myself to the detractors of a great man. When chance has it that I find myself apparently in agreement with them on some one particular point, I suspect myself; and to console myself for appearing for a moment in agreement with them on a single partial question, I need to disown and denounce with all my energies these pretended allies.

Nevertheless, the interests of truth must prevail over considerations that make the glory of a prodigious talent and the authority of an immense reputation so powerful. Moreover, as we shall see, it is not to Rousseau that we must chiefly attribute the error against which I am going to argue; this is to be imputed much more to one of his successors, less eloquent but no less austere and a hundred times more exaggerated. The latter, the Abbé de Mably, can be regarded as the representative of the system that, according to the maxims of ancient liberty, demands that the citizens should be entirely subjected in order for the nation to be sovereign, and that the individual should be enslaved for the people to be free.

The Abbé de Mably, like Rousseau and many others, had mistaken, just as the ancients did, the authority of the social body for liberty; and to him any means seemed good if it extended his area of authority over that recalcitrant part of human existence whose independence he deplored. The regret he expresses everywhere in his works is that the law can only cover actions. He would have liked it to cover the most fleeting thoughts and impressions; to pursue man relentlessly, leaving him no refuge in which he might escape from its power. No sooner did he learn, among no matter what people, of some oppressive measure, than he thought he had made a discovery and proposed it as a model. He detested individual liberty like a personal enemy; and whenever in history he came across a nation totally deprived of it, even if it had no political liberty, he could not help admiring it. He went into ecstasies over the Egyptians, because, as he said, among them everything was prescribed by the law, down to relaxations and needs: everything was subjected to the empire of the legislator. Every moment of the day was filled by some duty; love itself was the object of this respected intervention, and it was the law that in turn opened and closed the curtains of the nuptial bed.

Sparta, which combined republican forms with the same enslavement of individuals, aroused in the spirit of that philosopher an even more vivid enthusiasm. That vast monastic barracks to him seemed the ideal of a perfect republic. He had a profound contempt for Athens, and would gladly have said of this nation, the first of Greece, what an academician and great nobleman said of the French Academy: What an appalling despotism! Everyone does what he likes there. I must add that this great nobleman was talking of the Academy as it was thirty years ago.

Montesquieu, who had a less excitable and therefore more observant mind, did not fall into quite the same errors. He was struck by the differences I have related; but he did not discover their true cause. The Greek politicians who lived under the popular government did not recognize, he argues, any other power but virtue. Politicians of today talk only of manufactures, of commerce, of finances, of wealth and even of luxury. He attributes this difference to the republic and the monarchy. It ought instead to be attributed to the opposed spirit of ancient and modern times. Citizens of republics, subjects of monarchies, all want pleasures, and indeed no one, in the present condition of societies can help wanting them. The people most attached to their liberty in our own days, before the emancipation of France, was also the most attached to all the pleasures of life; and it valued its liberty especially because it saw in this the guarantee of the pleasures it cherished. In the past, where there was liberty, people could bear hardship. Now, wherever there is hardship, despotism is necessary for people to resign themselves to it. It would be easier today to make Spartans of an enslaved people than to turn free men into Spartans.

The men who were brought by events to the head of our revolution were, by a necessary consequence of the education they had received, steeped in ancient views that are no longer valid, which the philosophers whom I mentioned above had made fashionable. The metaphysics of Rousseau, in the midst of which flashed the occasional sublime thought and passages of stirring eloquence; the austerity of Mably, his intolerance, his hatred of all human passions, his eagerness to enslave them all, his exaggerated principles on the competence of the law, the difference between what he recommended and what had ever previously existed, his declamations against wealth and even against property; all these things were bound to charm men heated by their recent victory, and who, having won power over the law, were only too keen to extend this power to all things.

It was a source of invaluable support that two disinterested writers anathematizing human despotism, should have drawn up the text of the law in axioms. They wished to exercise public power as they had learnt from their guides it had once been exercised in the free states. They believed that everything should give way before collective will, and that all restrictions on individual rights would be amply compensated by participation in social power.

We all know, gentlemen, what has come of it. Free institutions, resting upon the knowledge of the spirit of the age, could have survived. The restored edifice of the ancients collapsed, notwithstanding many efforts and many heroic acts that call for our admiration. The fact is that social power injured individual independence in every possible war, without destroying the need for it. The nation did not find that an ideal share in an abstract sovereignty was worth the sacrifices required from her. She was vainly assured, on Rousseau's authority, that the laws of liberty are a thousand times more austere than the yoke of tyrants. She had no desire for those austere laws, and believed sometimes that the yoke of tyrants would be preferable to them. Experience has come to undeceive her. She has seen that the arbitrary power of men was even worse than the worst of laws. But laws too must have their limits.

If I have succeeded, gentlemen, in making you share the persuasion that in my opinion these facts must produce, you will acknowledge with me the truth of the following principles. Individual independence is the first need of the moderns: consequently one must never require from them any sacrifices to establish political liberty. It follows that none of the numerous and too highly praised institutions that in the ancient republics hindered individual liberty is any longer admissible in the modern times.

You may, in the first place, think, gentlemen, that it is superfluous to establish this truth. Several governments of our days do not seem in the least inclined to imitate the republics of antiquity. However, little as they may like republican institutions, there are certain republican usages for which they feel a certain affection. It is disturbing that they should be precisely those that allow them to banish, to exile, or to despoil.

I remember that in 1802, they slipped into the law on special tribunals an article that introduced into France Greek ostracism; and God knows how many eloquent speakers, in order to have this article approved, talked to us about the freedom of Athens and all the sacrifices that individuals must make to preserve this freedom! Similarly, in much more recent times, when fearful authorities attempted, with a timid hand, to rig the elections, a journal that can hardly be suspected of republicanism proposed to revive Roman censorship to eliminate all dangerous candidates.

I do not think therefore that I am engaging in a useless discussion if, to support my assertion, I say a few words about these two much vaunted institutions. Ostracism in Athens rested upon the assumption that society had complete authority over its members. On this assumption it could be justified; and in a small state, where the influence of a single individual, strong in his credit, his clients, his glory, often balanced the power of the mass, ostracism may appear useful. But amongst us individuals have rights that society must respect, and individual interests are, as I have already observed, so lost in a multitude of equal or superior influences, that any oppression motivated by the need to diminish this influence is useless and consequently unjust.

No one has the right to exile a citizen, if he is not condemned by a regular tribunal, according to a formal law that attaches the penalty of exile to the action of which he is guilty. No one has the right to tear the citizen from his country, the owner away from his possessions, the merchant away from his trade, the husband from his wife, the father from his children, the writer from his studious meditations, the old man from his accustomed way of life. All political exile is a political abuse. All exile pronounced by an assembly for alleged reasons of public safety is a crime that the assembly itself commits against public safety, which resides only in respect for the laws, in the observance of forms, and in the maintenance of safeguards.

Roman censorship implied, like ostracism, a discretionary power. In a republic where all the citizens, kept by poverty to an extremely simple moral code, lived in the same town, exercised no profession that might distract their attention from the affairs of the state, and thus constantly found themselves the spectators and judges of the usage of public power, censorship could on the one hand have greater influence: while on the other, the arbitrary power of the censors was restrained by a kind of moral surveillance exercised over them. But as soon as the size of the republic, the complexity of social relations and the refinements of civilization deprived this institution of what at the same time served as its basis and its limit, censorship degenerated even in Rome. It was not censorship that had created good morals; it was the simplicity of those morals that constituted the power and efficacy of censorship.

In France, an institution as arbitrary as censorship would be at once ineffective and intolerable. In the present conditions of society, morals are formed by subtle, fluctuating, elusive nuances, which would be distorted in a thousand ways if one attempted to define them more precisely. Public opinion alone can reach them; public opinion alone can judge them, because it is of the same nature. It would rebel against any positive authority that wanted to give it greater precision. If the government of a modern people wanted, like the censors in Rome, to censure a citizen arbitrarily, the entire nation would protest against this arrest by refusing to ratify the decisions of the authority.

What I have just said of the revival of censorship in modern times applies also to many other aspects of social organization, in relation to which antiquity is cited even more frequently and with greater emphasis. As for example, education; what do we not hear of the need to allow the government to take possession of new generations to shape them to its pleasure, and how many erudite quotations are employed to support this theory!

The Persians, the Egyptians, Gaul, Greece and Italy are one after another set before us. Yet, gentlemen, we are neither Persians subjected to a despot, nor Egyptians subjugated by priests, nor Gauls who can be sacrificed by their druids, nor, finally, Greeks or Romans, whose share in social authority consoled them for their private enslavement.

We are modern men, who wish each to enjoy our own rights, each to develop our own faculties as we like best, without harming anyone; to watch over the development of these faculties in the children whom nature entrusts to our affection, the more enlightened as it is more vivid; and needing the authorities only to give us the general means of instruction they can supply, as travelers accept from them the main roads without being told by them which route to take.

Religion is also exposed to these memories of bygone ages. Some brave defenders of the unity of doctrine cite the laws of the ancients against foreign gods, and sustain the rights of the Catholic church by the example of the Athenians, who killed Socrates for having undermined polytheism, and that of Augustus, who wanted the people to remain faithful to the cult of their fathers; with the result, shortly afterwards, that the first Christians were delivered to the lions.

Let us mistrust, gentlemen, this admiration for certain ancient memories. Since we live in modern times, I want a liberty suited to modern times; and since we live under monarchies, I humbly beg these monarchies not to borrow from the ancient republics the means to oppress us.

Individual liberty, I repeat, is the true modern liberty. Political liberty is its guarantee, consequently political liberty is indispensable. But to ask the peoples of our day to sacrifice, like those of the past, the whole of their individual liberty to political liberty, is the surest means of detaching them from the former and, once this result has been achieved, it would be only too easy to deprive them of the latter.

As you see, gentlemen, my observations do not in the least tend to diminish the value of political liberty. I do not draw from the evidence I have put before your eyes the same conclusions that some others have. From the fact that the ancients were free, and that we cannot any longer be free like them, they conclude that we are destined to be slaves. They would like to reconstitute the new social state with a small number of elements that, they say, are alone appropriate to the situation of the world today. These elements are prejudices to frighten men, egoism to corrupt them, frivolity to stupefy them, gross pleasures to degrade them, despotism to lead them; and, indispensably, constructive knowledge and exact sciences to serve despotism the more adroitly.

It would be odd indeed if this were the outcome of forty centuries during which mankind has acquired greater moral and physical means: I cannot believe it. I derive from the differences that distinguish us from antiquity totally different conclusions. It is not security that we must weaken; it is enjoyment that we must extend. It is not political liberty that I wish to renounce; it is civil liberty that I claim, along with other forms of political liberty. Governments have no more right at present than they did in the past to arrogate to themselves an illegitimate power. But the governments that emanate from a legitimate source have even less right than before to exercise an arbitrary supremacy over individuals.

We still possess today the rights we have always had, those eternal rights to assent to the laws, to deliberate on our interests, to be an integral part of the social body of which we are members. But governments have new duties; the progress of civilization, the changes brought by the centuries require from the authorities greater respect for customs, for affections, for the independence of individuals. They must handle all these issues with a lighter and more prudent hand.

This reserve on the part of authority, which is one of its strictest duties, equally represents its well-conceived interest; since, if the liberty that suits the moderns is different from that which suited the ancients, the despotism that was possible amongst the ancients is no longer possible amongst the moderns. Because we are often less concerned with political liberty than they could be, and in ordinary circumstances less passionate about it, it may follow that we neglect, sometimes too much and always wrongly, the guarantees that this assures us. But at the same time, as we are much more preoccupied with individual liberty than the ancients, we shall defend it, if it is attacked, with much more skill and persistence; and we have means to defend it that the ancients did not.

Commerce makes the action of arbitrary power over our existence more oppressive than in the past, because, as our speculations are more varied, arbitrary power must multiply itself to reach them. But commerce also makes the action of arbitrary power easier to elude, because it changes the nature of property, which becomes, in virtue of this change, almost impossible to seize.

Commerce confers a new quality on property, circulation. Without circulation, property is merely a usufruct; political authority can always affect usufruct, because it can prevent its enjoyment; but circulation creates an invisible and invincible obstacle to the actions of social power.

The effects of commerce extend even further: not only does it emancipate individuals, but, by creating credit, it places authority itself in a position of dependence. Money, says a French writer, "is the most dangerous weapon of despotism; yet it is at the same time its most powerful restraint; credit is subject to opinion; force is useless; money hides itself or flees; all the operations of the state are suspended."

Credit did not have the same influence amongst the ancients; their governments were stronger than individuals, while in our time individuals are stronger than the political powers. Wealth is a power that is more readily available in all circumstances, more readily applicable to all interests, and consequently more real and better obeyed. Power threatens; wealth rewards: one eludes power by deceiving it; to obtain the favors of wealth one must serve it: the latter is therefore bound to win.

As a result, individual existence is less absorbed in political existence. Individuals carry their treasures far away; they take with them all the enjoyments of private life. Commerce has brought nations closer, it has given them customs and habits that are almost identical; the heads of states may be enemies: the peoples are compatriots.

Let power therefore resign itself: we must have liberty and we shall have it. But since the liberty we need is different from that of the ancients, it needs a different organization from the one that would suit ancient liberty. In the latter, the more time and energy man dedicated to the exercise of his political rights, the freer he thought himself; on the other hand, in the kind of liberty of which we are capable, the more the exercise of political rights leaves us the time for our private interests, the more precious will liberty be to us.

Hence, sirs, the need for the representative system. The representative system is nothing but an organization by means of which a nation charges a few individuals to do what it cannot or does not wish to do herself. Poor men look after their own business; rich men hire stewards. This is the history of ancient and modern nations. The representative system is a proxy given to a certain number of men by the mass of the people who wish their interests to be defended and who nevertheless do not have the time to defend them themselves.

But, unless they are idiots, rich men who employ stewards keep a close watch on whether these stewards are doing their duty, lest they should prove negligent, corruptible, or incapable; and, in order to judge the management of these proxies, the landowners, if they are prudent, keep themselves well informed about affairs, the management of which they entrust to them. Similarly, the people who, in order to enjoy the liberty that suits them, resort to the representative system, must exercise an active and constant surveillance over their representatives, and reserve for themselves, at times that should not be separated by too lengthy intervals, the right to discard them if they betray their trust, and to revoke the powers they might have abused.

For from the fact that modern liberty differs from ancient liberty, it follows that it is also threatened by a different sort of danger. The danger of ancient liberty was that men, exclusively concerned with securing their share of social power, might attach too little value to individual rights and enjoyments.

The danger of modern liberty is that, absorbed in the enjoyment of our private independence, and in the pursuit of our particular interests, we should surrender our right to share in political power too easily. The holders of authority are only too anxious to encourage us to do so. They are so ready to spare us all sort of troubles, except those of obeying and paying!

They will say to us: what, in the end, is the aim of your efforts, the motive of your labors, the object of all your hopes? Is it not happiness? Well, leave this happiness to us and we shall give it to you. No, sirs, we must not leave it to them. No matter how touching such a tender commitment may be, let us ask the authorities to keep within their limits. Let them confine themselves to being just. We shall assume the responsibility of being happy for ourselves.

Could we be made happy by diversions, if these diversions were without guarantees? And where should we find guarantees, without political liberty? To renounce it, gentlemen, would be a folly like that of a man who, because he only lives on the first floor, does not care if the house itself is built on sand.

Moreover, gentlemen, is it so evident that happiness, of whatever kind, is the only aim of mankind? If it were so, our course would be narrow indeed, and our destination far from elevated. There is not one single one of us who, if he wished to abase himself, restrain his moral faculties, lower his desires, abjure activity, glory, deep and generous emotions, could not demean himself and be happy.

No, sirs, I bear witness to the better part of our nature, that noble disquiet that pursues and torments us, that desire to broaden our knowledge and develop our faculties. It is not to happiness alone, it is to self-development that our destiny calls us; and political liberty is the most powerful, the most effective means of self-development that heaven has given us.

Political liberty, by submitting to all the citizens, without exception, the care and assessment of their most sacred interests, enlarges their spirit, ennobles their thoughts, and establishes among them a kind of intellectual equality that forms the glory and power of a people.

Thus, see how a nation grows with the first institution that restores to her the regular exercise of political liberty. See our countrymen of all classes, of all professions, emerge from the sphere of their usual labors and private industry, find themselves suddenly at the level of important functions that the constitutions confers upon them, choose with discernment, resist with energy, brave threats, nobly withstand seduction.

See a pure, deep and sincere patriotism triumph in our towns, revive even our smallest villages, permeate our workshops, enliven our countryside, penetrate the just and honest spirits of the useful farmer and the industrious tradesman with a sense of our rights and the need for safeguards; they, learned in the history of the evils they have suffered, and no less enlightened as to the remedies these evils demand, take in with a glance the whole of France and, bestowing a national gratitude, repay with their suffrage, after thirty years, the fidelity to principles embodied in the most illustrious of the defenders of liberty.

Therefore, sirs, far from renouncing either of the two sorts of freedom I have described to you, it is necessary, as I have shown, to learn to combine the two together. Institutions, says the famous author of the history of the republics in the Middle Ages, must accomplish the destiny of the human race; they can best achieve their aim if they elevate the largest possible number of citizens to the highest moral position.

The work of the legislator is not complete when he has simply brought peace to the people. Even when the people are satisfied, there is much left to do. Institutions must achieve the moral education of the citizens. By respecting their individual rights, securing their independence, refraining from troubling their work, they must nevertheless consecrate their influence over public affairs, call them to contribute by their votes to the exercise of power, grant them a right of control and supervision by expressing their opinions; and, by forming them through practice for these elevated functions, give them both the desire and the right to discharge these.

• 1.Emile Faguet, Politiques et moralistes du XIXe siècle, 1re série (Paris: Boiven, 1891), p. 255.
• 2.William Holdheim, Benjamin Constant (New York: Hillary, 1961), p. 73.
• 3.J.L. Talmon, The Origins of Totalitarian Democracy (London: Mercury, 1961), p. 11.
• 4.The "Leaders of the Mountain" were Maximilien Robespierre, Georges Jacques Danton, and Jean Paul Marat. The Mountain dominated a powerful political club called the Jacobin Club.

Author:

Benjamin Constant

Benjamin Constant \(1767–1830\) was born in Switzerland and became one of France’s leading writers, as well as a journalist, philosopher, and politician. His colorful life included a formative stay at the University of Edinburgh; service at the court of Brunswick, Germany; election to the French Tribunate; and initial opposition and subsequent support for Napoleon, even the drafting of a constitution for the Hundred Days. Constant wrote many books, essays, and pamphlets. His deepest conviction was that reform is hugely superior to revolution, both morally and politically. Sir Isaiah Berlin called Constant “the most eloquent of all defenders of freedom and privacy” and believed to him we owe the notion of “negative liberty,” that is, what Biancamaria Fontana describes as “the protection of individual experience and choices from external interferences and constraints.” To Constant it was relatively unimportant whether liberty was ultimately grounded in religion or metaphysics—what mattered were the practical guarantees of practical freedom—“autonomy in all those aspects of life that could cause no harm to others or to society as a whole.”