La Philosophie de l'histoire et la pratique historienne d'aujourd'hui 9782760310339, 9782760316232

Table of contents :
Frontmatter
Préface (page VII)
Preface (page IX)
SÉANCES PLÉNIÈRES / PLENARY SESSIONS
La science historique comme anthropologie sociale: Playdoyer pour une «méthodologique» (GÉRARD BOUCHARD, page 3)
L'histoire, science et fiction (MICHEL DE CERTEAU, page 19)
General and Special Histories: the Problem of Objectivity in Cultural Histories (A.P. FELL, page 41)
Circumstantial Evidence in «Scientific» and Traditional History (R.W. FOGEL, page 61)
Concepts of Historical Time and Social History (REINHART KOSELLECK, page 113)
Philosophie de l'histoire ou philosophie des civilisations (RAYMOND POLIN, page 127)
Narrative Form, Significance and Historical Knowledge (LEON POMPA, page 143)
L'éclipse de l'événement dans l'historiographie française moderne (PAUL RICOEUR, page 159)
What Can We Learn from Historians? (W.H. Walsh, page 179)
TABLE RONDE / ROUND TABLE
Narration, Reduction and the Uses of History (W.H. DRAY, page 197)
La philosophie de l'histoire et la pratique historienne d'hier et d'aujourd'hui (FERNAND OUELLET, page 215)
L'historien en quête d'un langage (CLAUDE PANACCIO, page 235)
On Being a Centipede: an Anthropod's Eye-View of Philosophy of History (HAROLD J. PERKIN, page 243)
ATELIERS DU SOIR / EVENING WORKSHOPS
Historical Testimony in R.G. Collingwood's Theory and Practice (G.S. COUSE, page 259)
What Do Historians Mean When They Say That One Cause is More Important than Another? (ROSS EAMAN, page 271)
History as Myth (GERALDINE FINN, page 279)
Ambivalence et pertinence de la philosophie marxiste de l'histoire (MAURICE LAGUEX, page 293)
The Athenaeum Theory of Historical Facts (PAUL LANGHAM, page 309)
Historical Facts (P.H. NOWELL-SMITH, page 317)
Peuples sans histoire (JOSEPH PESTIEAU, page 325)
Kant philosophie de l'histoire: critique ou visionnaire? (MARYVONNE ROTH, page 337)
The Method of Difference and Species of Singular Causal Judgements in History (MARTIN SCHATZ, page 347)
Specifically Historical Terms: The Historian's own Technical-Theoretical Vocabulary (ROGER WEHRELL, page 363)
ÉPILOGUE / EPILOGUE
History New and Old (DAVID CARR, page 377)
Pour une prochaine rencontre? (HUBERT WATELET, page 383)
Index des noms / Index of names (page 389)

Citation preview

LA PHILOSOPHIE DE L’HISTOIRE ET LA PRATIQUE HISTORIENNE

| D’AUJOURD’HUI

PHILOSOPHY OF HISTORY AND CONTEMPORARY HISTORIOGRAPHY

Printed and bound in Canada , Imprimé et relié au Canada PHILOSOPHICA

, | dirigée par

GuY LAFRANCE, directeur BENOIT GARCEAU WILLIAM DRAY

, Vol. N° 23

| © Editions de l'Université d’Ottawa, 1982 ISBN-2-7603-1033-7

PHILOSOPHICA N° 23

LA PHILOSOPHIE DE L’HISTOIRE ET LA PRATIQUE HISTORIENNE D’AUJOURD’HUI PHILOSOPHY OF HISTORY AND CONTEMPORARY HISTORIOGRAPHY

édite par / edited by DAVID CARR WILLIAM DRAY THEODORE F. GERAETS FERNAND OUELLET HUBERT WATELET

EDITIONS DE L’UNIVERSITE D’OTTAWA THE UNIVERSITY OF OTTAWA PRESS Ottawa, Canada 1982

CANADIAN CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION DATA

Main entry under title:

La philosophie de l’histoire et la pratique historienne aujourd’hui = Philosophy ond history and contemporary historiography. (Philosophica; n° 23) Processings of an international conference on philosophy of history and contemporary

| historiography held at the University of Ottawa on April 18-20 1980. Text in French and English.

Includes bibliographical references. | ISBN 2-7603- 1033-7

1. History—Philosophy—Congresses. 2. Historiography—Congresses. I. Carr, David, 1940- II. Title: Philosophy of history and contemporary historiography. HI. Series: Collection Philosophica; n° 23.

D16.8.P46 1980 901 C82-09113-Xe DONNEES DE CATALOGAGE AVANT PUBLICATION (CANADA)

Vedette principale au titre: La Philosophie de l’histoire et la pratique historienne aujourd’hui = Philosophy of history and contemporary historiography (Philosophica; n° 23)

Compte-rendu d’un colloque international sur la philosophie de lhistoire, tenu a P Université d’ Ottawa du 18 au 20 avril 1980.

Textes en francais et en anglais. | Comprend des réferences bibliographiques. ISBN 2-7603-1033-7

1. Histoire—Philosophie—Congres. 2. Historiographie—Congres. I. Carr, David, 1940- II. Titre: Philosophy of history and contemporary historiography. II. Collection: Collection Philosophica; n° 23.

D16.8.P46 1980 , 901 C82-09113-XF

PREFACE

Les textes rassemblés ici proviennent de contributions faites au Colloque international sur la philosophie de histoire, tenu a Ottawa du 18 au 20 avril 1980!. Sauf quelques exceptions?, ils n’ont pas été substantiellement remaniés, méme si leurs auteurs ont eu la liberté

de les réviser en vue de cette publication. Toutes les communications présentées aux séances plénieéres, de méme que les quatre exposés faits a la table-ronde qui servit de séance de cloture du Colloque sont ici reproduits. I] n’a malheureusement pas été possible d’inclure dans le présent volume toutes les contributions aux ateliers du soir, ni les discussions auxquelles ont donné lieu les exposés des séances pléniéres. En guise d’Epilogue, deux membres du Comité d’édition offrent leurs réflexions sur |’ensemble du Colloque.

Le but visé par les organisateurs du Colloque fut d’abord de promouvoir un échange de vues entre philosophes et historiens sensibles aux chevauchements de la philosophie contemporaine de I’ histoire et de la théorie de la pratique historienne d’aujourd’hui, puis de rendre possible la rencontre de diverses conceptions de la connaissance et de la recherche historiques, conceptions liées a des traditions habituellement isolées l'une de l’autre. Pour réaliser ce but, les organisateurs ont fortement misé sur le caractere bilingue du Colloque, espérant que l’emploi du francais et de l’anglais, tant dans les discussions que dans les exposés, faciliterait le dialogue entre theoriciens francophones et anglophones de histoire. Le principal résultat, comme le lecteur de ces Actes pourra s’en rendre compte, a été de mettre en lumiere la difference entre deux manieéres, celle des his-

toriens et celle des philosophes, d’aborder le probleme de la

connaissance historique. C’est dans cette difference que se manifestent le mieux les apports les plus valables des deux traditions anglosaxonne et francaise, car c’est de la méthode prédominante dans les milieux britanniques et nord-américains que se réclame Il’approche «analytique» des philosophes, tandis que c’est surtout de |’historio'll s’agissait du troisieme Colloque de ce genre organisé par le département de philosophie (cette fois-ci en collaboration avec le département d’histoire) de Il’ Uni-

versité d’Ottawa. Les Actes des deux colloques précédents, ‘“Kant dans les traditions anglo-américaine et occidentale’’ (10-14 octobre 1974), ‘‘La rationalité aujourhui’ (27-30 octobre 1977) ont été publiés en 1976 et 1979 respectivement par les Editions de l’ Université d’Ottawa.

2 C'est le cas notamment des textes des professeurs Fogel et Ricceur, ainsi que de la derniere partie de celui du professeur Dray.

VIII W.H. DRAY | eraphie francaise contemporaine que nombre d’historiens ont appris a se méfier de tout ce qui ressemble a histoire «traditionnelle».

Il nous reste a exprimer, en terminant, notre reconnaissance envers les personnes et les organismes qui ont rendu possible la tenue de ce colloque et la publication de ce volume. Nous ne pouvons pas tous les nommer, mais nous tenons a remercier tout spécialement le professeur Théodore Geraets, le premier a avoir eu l’idée de ce colloque et celui qui, en tant que responsable du Comite d’organisation, a le plus fait pour sa réalisation. Nous disons également no-

tre gratitude au Conseil de recherches en sciences humaines du Canada et au Comité de recherche de I’ Université d’Ottawa pour leur

aide financiere. Il nous faut aussi souligner lesprit de cooperation dont ont fait preuve les départements d’histoire et de philosophie de l Université d’Ottawa, malgré leur facon différente au depart d’envisager ce colloque. Enfin, les éditeurs remercient le Comité de direction de la Collection Philosophica de I) Universite d’Ottawa d’avoir accepté de publier ce volume et d’avoir montré tant de patience devant les nombreux délais imprévus que nous avons du lui imposer

pour rassembler ici des textes révisés et approuvés par leurs au-

teurs. |

oo | W.H. Dray

Pour le comité d’édition

PREFACE

The papers collected in this volume all derive from presentations made at the International Conference on Philosophy of History and Contemporary Historiography held at the University of Ottawa on April 18-20, 1980.' While speakers were given an opportunity to revise their contributions as much or as little as they wished after the Conference itself, most remain substantially as read.? All the papers presented at plenary sessions are included, as well as the four read at the Round Table discussion on the final day. It has unfortunately not been possible to publish more than a selection from contributions to the evening workshops, or to include a transcript of the general discussion. Two brief comments on the Conference by members of the Editorial Committee appear as an Epilogue. The purpose of the Conference was to encourage an exchange of views between philosophers and historians interested in the overlap between contemporary philosophy of history and theory of historical practice, and, more generally, to bring together conceptions of historical knowledge and inquiry arising out of traditions that ordinarily

make little contact. It was hoped especially that the use of both French and English at the Conference would provide an opportunity, in informal discussion as much as in the formal presentations, for dialogue between the rather different approaches that have been characteristic of francophone and anglophone theorists of history. From the

standpoint of this desideratum, one obvious departure from true eclecticism may not have been unwarranted. This 1s that, while most of the historians who participated were highly suspicious of anything resembling ‘‘traditional’’ history of the sort much questioned nowa-

days in French historiography, most of the philosophers took a roughly ‘‘analytical’’? approach to problems of historical knowledge of

the sort now most prominent in Great Britain and anglophone North America. It remains to express thanks to those persons and organizations

whose hard work, cooperation or benevolence helped to make the ' This was the third Conference of this kind organized by the Department of Philosophy at Ottawa (in this case in association with the Department of History). The proceedings of the first, on “‘Kant in the Anglo-American and Continental Traditions’’, held October 10-12, 1974, were published by the University of Ottawa Press in 1976, and those of the second, on ‘‘Rationality Today’’, held October 27-30, 1977, in 1979. * The chief exceptions are the papers by Professors Fogel and Ricoeur and the latter part of the one by Professor Dray.

xX W.H. DRAY Conference and the volume possible. Most of these must remain un-

~mentioned; but special thanks are due to Professor T. Geraets, who first conceived the idea of an interdisciplinary conference on theory of history, and who, as chairman of the organizing committee, did most to bring it about. Grateful acknowledgment is also made of the finan-

cial support provided both by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada and by the Research Committee of the

University of Ottawa, and of the cooperative spirit shown by the Departments of History and Philosophy at Ottawa in spite of initially rather different views of what should be attempted. The editors are ~ grateful also to the Committee of the Collection Philosophica of the University of Ottawa, not only for agreeing to publish the volume in its series but also for patience in the face of many unexpected delays in assembling the final versions of the papers.

, W.H. DRAY

for The Editorial Committee

TABLE DES MATIERES / TABLE OF CONTENTS

Préface .. 0. eee eee ete teense eee eeseerereeecenee VIET Preface oo. ccc eee ete eee eee e eee e ence tet eeenteeeeeeee IX SEANCES PLENIERES / PLENARY SESSIONS GERARD BOUCHARD

La science historique comme anthropologie sociale: Playdoyer

pour une «méthodologique» ...... 0... cee eee 3

MICHEL DE CERTEAU

L’ histoire, science et fiction ........ 00... cc cece eee ee ee ee nanes 19 A.P. FELL General and Special Histories: the Problem of Objectivity in Cul-

tural Histories 20... 0... ccc cee cee eet e ee eeeae Al

R.W. FOGEL

Circumstantial Evidence in «Scientific» and Traditional History. 61 REINHART KOSELLECK

Concepts of Historical Time and Social History ............... 113 ,

RAYMOND POLIN Philosophie de (histoire ou philosophie des civilisations ......... 127 LEON POMPA

PAUL RICOEUR ,

Narrative Form, Significance and Historical Knowledge ........ 143 L’éclipse de l’événement dans Vhistoriographie francaise mo-

CeErme 2. eee cece eee eee eet een reeeceee TSI

W.H. WALSH

What Can We Learn from Historians?........................ 179 TABLE RONDE / ROUND TABLE

W.H. DRAY

Narration, Reduction and the Uses of History ................. 197 FERNAND QUELLET

La philosophie de Vhistoire et la pratique historienne d’hier et

Vaujourd@’hul .. 0... ccc ce eee teen eee ccna 21S

CLAUDE PANACCIO

L’historien en quéte dun langage ......0.0 0.0.0. ccc cee ee eee 235 HAROLD J. PERKIN

On Being a Centipede: an Anthropod’s Eye-View of Philosophy

OF HIStOry .. eee eee teen e eee e eee 243

XII - TABLE DES MATIERES/TABLE OF CONTENTS

G.S. COUSE , Ross EAMAN . ATELIERS DU SOIR / EVENING WORKSHOPS

Historical Testimony in R.G. Collingwood’s Theory and Practice 259 , What Do Historians Mean When They Say That One Cause 1s

More Important than Another? .......... 0.0. e eee eee QFE , GERALDINE FINN History as Myth ..... 0... cece ccc cette tere ee ee eeeane 2/9 MAURICE LAGUEUX

PAUL LANGHAM | The Athenaeum Theory of Historical Facts ................... 309 P.H. NOWELL-SMITH oe Historical Facts 2.0... ccc cc ce eet eet ee ee eeeeeeee SLT

- Ambivalence et pertinence de la philosophie marxiste de histoire 293

Joseph PESTIEAU , Peuples sans histoire ... 0... cece ee teen eee e eee 325

~ Maryvonne Rotu

, Kant philosophe de l’histoire: critique ou visionnaire? ......... 337

Martin SCHATZ , ,

The Method of Difference and Species of Singular Causal Judge-

, ments in HIStOTY ..... eee ee eee eee eee ees SAT Roger WEHRELL

, Specifically Historical Terms: The Historian’s own Technical-

Theoretical Vocabulary ..... 0... cece eect eee eee ee 363

EPILOGUE / EPILOGUE | ~ David CARR

Hubert WATELET ,

History New and Old... .. 1. ccc eee ete ee eens SFT

Pour une prochaine rencontre? 2.0... 0... cece eee eee ee eee 383

Index des noms/Index of names ... 0... cee eee ee eee eee 389

SEANCES PLENIERES PLENARY SESSIONS

Blank Page

La science historique comme anthropologie sociale: Playdoyer pour une « méthodologique » par GERARD BOUCHARD

Université du Québec a Chicoutimi

I. — POSITION DU PROBLEME

L’historien, comme le philosophe, n’est guére accablé par les sollicitations et commandites des administrations publiques et privées. En quelque sorte mis en marge des choses de la cité, il a le privilege de les observer, d’étudier comment et pourquoi elles se font ou se défont, et de mener une réflexion critique sur les significations qu’on voudrait leur préter. C’est la fonction sociale, ou la fonction critique de l’historien. Ce faisant pourtant, il est vrai de dire que Phistorien et ses semblables, d’une maniere implicite ou explicite, oppo-

sent a ces significations d’autres significations et mettent ainsi de avant des éclairages, des interprétations, des jugements qu’ils voudraient assortis d’une autorité particuliere qui est celle de la science. Je voudrais m’interroger sommairement sur ce qui fonde la spécificité de ce savoir. A propos de Vhistorien, je demanderai: quels sont les procédés qui accréditent ses énoncés, qui leur conferent autorité, et quels ces procédés devraient étre? Je le ferai toutefois d’une

facon tres empirique, en adoptant le point de vue du métier et en essayant de définir les problemes tels qu’ils apparaissent a ce niveau, au risque de commettre quelques énoncés maladroits ou peu orthodoxes. Au coeur de la production de la connaissance historique, il existe une tension entre deux impératifs ou deux principes antinomiques. Le premier est ce que j’appellerais un principe d’exactitude. Discourant sur des objets, l’historien doit viser 4 des constructions rigoureuses et

durables appuyées sur des instruments fiables et des opérations verifiables. C’est ce qu’on appelait jadis la reconnaissance et la mise en ordre des faits. En deuxieme lieu, le savoir historique doit obéir a

un principe de signification ou de vérité. Au-dela des compilations minutieuses et des contraintes de l’atelier, historien doit proposer des interpretations, dégager des sens au jour le jour, affirmer des

4 GERARD BOUCHARD choix, bref discourir sur des valeurs. Jignore si ces deux reégles, exactitude et verite, sont intrinsequement contradictoires mais |’historiographie enseigne qu’elles ont souvent été vécues comme telles. A la limite, on observe une rupture de la science historique et la consti-

tution de deux discours autonomes. Les historiens positivistes francais , de la fin du 19¢ siecle fournissent ici un exemple facile — trop facile peut-étre, dans la mesure ot on leur préte volontiers des conceptions simplificatrices — d’une science trop vouce a ne pas laisser la subjec-

| tivité ou quelque autre arbitraire brouiller onde de la réalité. A l’op-

posé, on accusera les historiographes de cours, les historiens doctri, naux ou méme les philosophes de l’histoire de pratiquer un commerce tres libéral des idées et des images du passé!. Ce sont la en effet des positions extrémes: |’histoire « exacte» est un discours qui renonce a _ la parole, tandis que l’histoire « vraie» ou signifiante menace de n’étre guere plus qu’un écho des idées du temps. Entre ces deux limites, la

science historique a construit des itinéraires changeants, souvent éclectiques, sacrifiant tanto6t a un principe, tantot a l’autre, suivant une dynamique qu’on ne saurait réduire a un quelconque mouvement cyclique.

Sous ce rapport, la derniere grande mutation opérée est celle qui depuis une quarantaine d’années, a affranchi l’historien de la dictature du fait pour le rappeler a ses devoirs sociaux et culturels. Cette

, libération a été pour beaucoup le fait des philosophes qui ont dénoncé le projet positiviste, en montrant la fonction nourriciere de la subjec- , tivité au coeur de la connaissance historique et le relativisme de nos , constructions scientifiques. Sans manquer a |’éthique professionnelle, les historiens pouvaient eux aussi émettre des idées, méme personnelles, effectuer des choix et le dire. Ce dégel, on le sait, a permis la trés grande période de I’histoire sociale au sein de laquelle les Annales Economies, Sociétés, Civilisations de Lucien Febvre et Marc Bloch ont joue un role si capital. Et dans la foulée, tous les historiens sont devenus nominalistes, savent maintenant et enseignent, décontractés,

que leur science n’est pas exacte et n’a pas a l’étre, que la connaissance historique est le produit de l’actuel, que les vérités historiographiques naissent et meurent non pas par le «bas», c’est-a-dire par le

jeu des vérifications et contre-preuves, ou par l’arbitrage implacable des données empiriques, mais par le «haut», c’est-a-dire au gré de glissements qui affectent les préoccupations, les fagons de percevoir,

les valeurs, les idées, tout ce qui fonde et oriente la construction théorique du savoir. En marge de ces énoncés qui composent le nouveau crédo de l’historien, je soumets les deux remarques suivantes:

| ' Comme cet abbé du XVII® siecle, historien du siege de Malte, a qui on rapportait de nouvelles données: trop tard, disait-il, mon siege est fait...

LA SCIENCE HISTORIQUE COMME ANTHROPOLOGIE SOCIALE 5

a) Au point ou les choses en sont, il est utile de se demander si et dans quelle mesure ces nouvelles définitions en sont venues a cautionner un laisser-faire méthodologique et une grande désinvolture dans la formation et l’ affirmation des idées dites scientifiques. En effet, si la connaissance du passé rend d’abord ses comptes a la praxis, il y a des chances que Il’atelier de historien soit de moins en moins fréquenté et que l’essentiel des livres d’histoire tiennent de plus en plus dans les introductions ou dans les préfaces.

b) S’agissant du relativisme du savoir historique, on peut

affirmer que les historiens se sont parfaitement accommodeés de cette idée. Il n’est pas str cependant qu’ils en aient vu toutes les implications dans la pratique de leur métier: comment Vhistorien doit-il dé-

sormais se comporter devant son fichier? Comment lhistoire se

constitue-t-elle en discours scientifique, c’est-a-dire en discours qui prétend faire prévaloir ses énoncés sur ceux du sens commun, des opinions, des idéologies, des vogues, des modes, etc.?

La réponse a cette derniére question, si elle existe, doit forcément se trouver du coté de la pratique historienne: d’une part dans la succession ou le circuit des opérations, des plus théoriques jusqu’ aux plus empiriques, au gré desquelles Phistorien élabore son savoir; et d’autre part, dans un ensemble de normes par lesquelles toutes ces

opérations devraient étre gouvernées et qui pourraient constituer cette «méthodologique» évoquée dans l’intitulé du présent commen| taire. Les remarques qui suivent amorcent une reflexion sur ce theme.

Celle-ci empruntera, comme je l’ai dit, une allure tres concrete puisqu’elle prendra a temoin une expérience scientifique collective a

laquelle je suis associé de tres pres depuis 1972 a l Universite du Québec a Chicoutimi. Je prends aussi le soin de préciser que cette réflexion ne vise évidemment pas a résoudre la tension évoquée au départ et encore moins a restaurer l’empire de |’histoire exacte, mais plutot a suggérer une position épistémologique qui, tout en préservant cette tension irrémédiable, correspondrait a une sorte de compromis entre les sollicitations pressantes et ¢phémeres du présent et la tentation d’exactitude et de permanence de la connaissance scientifique. Je crois que cette position épistéemologique correspond a un projet d’an-

thropologie sociale rétrospective qui promet d’assurer a I’historien une tres riche et authentique prise de parole a l’échelle la plus fondamentale.

Il. - UNE ANTHROPOLOGIE HISTORIQUE La place de cette anthropologie historique et les taches inhéren-

tes a sa construction seront présentées en trois temps. J’aimerais

6 GERARD BOUCHARD d’abord revenir sur ces rapports qui rendent l’analyse historique tributaire de l’actuel et sur l’imprécision qui entourent leur définition. En deuxieme lieu, j’indiquerai les principales directions d’une importante réforme méthodologique en cours et a venir. Enfin, j’essaierai de montrer ce que pourraient étre les coordonnées ou la position épistemologique de cette anthropologie. 1. L?’HISTOIRE «SUBJECTIVE »

En général, ceux qui ont voulu établir le relativisme de la connaissance historique se sont reportés a la place centrale de la subjectivite de Vhistorien dans l’élaboration de son savoir. Cette référence parait restrictive. Elle comporte aussi une certaine ambiguité dans la mesure ou l’irruption de la subjectivité dans le champ de la

science, selon la maniere dont on lenvisage, peut étre percue soit comme une contamination, soit comme une fécondation, un déclencheur dont tout le reste dépend. En conséquence, il semble opportun de distinguer les trois dimensions suivantes dans la notion de relativisme.

a) La connaissance historique est d’abord tributaire de son époque dans la mesure ou celle-ci lui suggére ou lui impose des caté- | gories, des plans d’interrogations, des avenues d’enquéte et de réflexion. Par exemple, les historiens francais du 19¢ siecle ont été mobilisés par le probleme du changement politique et social que posaient heritage de la Révolution et l’essor du capitalisme industriel. Aussi, et presque parallelement, au gré de la déchristianisation, ils se sont inquiétés de voir poindre un projet de société dont la religion ne serait pas le fondement, d’ot la grande ferveur pour l’histoire des religions durant une bonne partie de ce siécle. b) L/’histoire est encore liée a l’actuel, non seulement sous le rapport des conditions ou des modalités générales qui entourent la production du savoir, mais sous le rapport direct des contenus de ce savoir. Ici, Vhistorien se voit désigner non seulement des angles d’observation mais les observations elles-mémes; non seulement des questions mais des esquisses de réponses. I] est connu que les postulats qui fondent les idées scientifiques et les modeéles d’analyse s’ali-

, mentent a meme des expériences collectives fondamentales et des projets sociaux plus ou moins explicités. On sait aussi que ces expériences et ces projets ne sont jamais unanimes du fait méme qu’ ils font écho a la diversité et aux divisions du tissu social lui-méme, dont les classes représentent la figure la plus concréte et la plus vivante.

, Irreductibles, ces divisions sont a l’origine d’un pluralisme idéologique d’abord, théorique ensuite, qui nourrit dans des directions paralleles ou opposées les constructions scientifiques de l’historien.

c) Enfin, la connaissance historique est tres évidemment dépendante de la subjectivité de lhistorien, dans la mesure ou cette

LA SCIENCE HISTORIQUE COMME ANTHROPOLOGIE SOCIALE 7

connaissance ne surgit pas spontanement d’un réel préexistant mais d’une action qui lui est en quelque sorte extrinséque. Voici donc trois maniéres différentes, pour la science historique, d’étre subjective, relativisée ou, selon l’expression familiére, d’étre liée a l’«actuel». On voit que la premiere maniere ne fait pas probleme — il est inévitable que ’historien ajuste ses priorités d’enquéte sur les inquiétudes du present? — et pas davantage la troisieme, qui n’est pas exclusive a la science historique, mais renvoie plut6t a une condition générale de toute connaissance. En fait, la vraie question réside dans la seconde maniere: ces visées, ces grilles d’analyse, ces idéologies, que fournissent les enracinements et les projets sociaux, a quelles conditions sont-elles tantot une falsification du savoir et tantot Pimpulsion initiale, le fondement indispensable sur lequel il va veritablement se constituer? A quel type de travail, a quel genre d’opérations et a quelles regles Phistorien doit-il soumettre ce matériau idéologique pour en tirer son bien? Convenons que ce travail, ces opérations et ces regles circonscrivent le lieu de la science et, des lors que impulsion premiere est donnée, ce lieu peut étre tenu pour autonome et le siege d’une authentique objectivité?. Ceci n’exclut donc pas que sur une question donnée viennent se greffer plusieurs discours parfaitement scientifiques, et cependant menés dans des directions tout a fait opposées, comme sur des orbites transversales (en dehors de la science historique, pensons aux théories physiques de la lumiére, aux théories sociologiques de lintégration et du conflit, aux geométries

euclidiennes et non-euclidiennes, etc.).

A ce point, toute attention se tourne donc vers la pratique historienne et sur ces opérations et regles qui devraient la constituer en pratique scientifique. Ce sujet appelle a son tour deux remarques: a) Les attaques qui ont été portees — le plus souvent par des non-historiens* — contre la connaissance historique pechent généralement par une méconnaissance totale de la dimension meéthodologique qui constitue le métier de ’historien et qui fonde la spécificite de son savoir.

2 Par exemple, la chute radicale de la fécondité au 20¢ siecle attire attention sur les origines de la contraception et sur les comportements des populations premalthusiennes. La pollution industrielle et la destruction de environnement suscitent une histoire éecologique. Aux luttes de libération, aux mouvements d’émancipation de la

personne font écho des études sur les systemes d’oppression et d’exclusion sociale, culturelle et politique, etc. 3 Ceci est d’ailleurs vrai non seulement de (histoire mais aussi bien des sciences naturelles. Par exemple, pour avoir été appuyée sur une idée religieuse — spinoziste — de l’univers, la demarche de Einstein n’en est certes pas moins scientifique. 4 Pensons a Raymond Aron, [ntroduction a la philosophie de l'histoire. Essai sur les limites de l objectivité historique, Paris, Gallimard, 1948.

8 GERARD BOUCHARD | b) Ceci dit, je confesserai qu’a mon goit, cette pratique historienne est largement défectueuse aux deux extrémités, eu égard a la fois a la construction des concepts ou modeéles et au traitement ou a lélaboration des données. Il y a place, de ce point de vue, pour une grande réforme qui est du reste déja engagée et dont j aimerais indiquer maintenant quelques lignes directrices. 2. UNE REFORME METHODOLOGIQUE

Ramenée a sa dimension essentielle, la méthodologie scientifique consiste dans le choix et dans la rectitude des procédés. Mais il est d’usage de la confiner aux opérations d’élaboration et de traitement des données ainsi qu’aux instruments sur lesquels elles reposent. Or il est indispensable d’étendre cette notion a l’ensemble des opérations scientifiques en y incluant, en tout premier lieu, le travail dialectique de la construction théorique, en quoi consiste la partie la plus noble de la science, en définitive. Ainsi concue, la méthodologie renvoie a l’ensemble des regles qui devraient gouverner toutes les - Opérations impliquées dans la production et la révision du savoir depuis le décantage du matériau idéologique qui sert de déclencheur jusqu’a la création et la gestion du corpus de données empiriques. Le but de la réforme évoquée ici est d’abord de définir et ces opérations et ces regles qui sont propres a assurer une construction critique de objet et a procurer a la connaissance historique un statut scientifique

qui la distingue des autres entreprises de récupération du passé. |

, gnale, rapidement: ,

Parmi les carences particulierement visées par cette réforme, je si-

— Le peu d’attention portée a la critique et a la validation des données (a bien distinguer de la traditionnelle étude du document). — L’inadéquation entre les questions et hypotheses formulées et le corpus des données mises en ceuvre.

, — Le peu d’empressement a expliciter les procédés de traitement des | données, en regard de la complaisance qui entoure ordinairement l’énumeération des sources documentaires. — L’absence d’une concertation préalable entre chercheurs, si indispensable a l’uniformisation des procédés, a la comparaison et a linterprétation des résultats. — Le travail hatif, qui pousse aux reconstitutions partielles et voue les conclusions a une existence éphémere. — L’impossibilité de refaire Vitinéraire du chercheur, du fait que les données ne sont pas accessibles ou n’ont pas été conservées ou, encore, parce que toutes les étapes et tous les détails de cet itinéraire n'ont pas été soigneusement consignés. — Le refus d’exécuter toutes les opérations requises par la construction critique de l’objet, la séquence des opérations étant amputée

LA SCIENCE HISTORIQUE COMME ANTHROPOLOGIE SOCIALE 9

soit par le haut (formulation théorique deéficiente), soit par le bas (élaboration empirique insuffisante). Cette derniere difficulté contient en quelque sorte toutes les autres. Il y a un circuit de la connaissance scientifique, qui consiste dans

la sequence des opérations a realiser et que enqueéte doit parcourir dans les deux sens, en étendant chaque fois son registre, en vue d’une validation, d’une révision et d’un enrichissement continuel du savoir.

Ce qui discrédite la science historique, ce n’est pas le pluralisme théorique ni le matériau grossier (et parfois méme suspect) qui I’ ali-

mente, mais la liberteé permise avec les regles de ce circuit scientifique, et en particulier le refus de le parcourir dans sa totalité.

Cette notion tres englobante de circuit se confond donc avec la scientificité du savoir historique et elle constitue le premier point de la réforme méthodologique. En deuxieme lieu, s’il est vrai que les interprétations proposées

par Vhistorien doivent tot ou tard périr avec les préoccupations qui les avaient suscitées et auxquelles elles devaient leur pertinence, il ne s’ensuit pas que tout l’édifice qui les appuyait soit condamné a périr en meme temps, en sorte que chaque question nouvelle posée a I’ historien entrainerait de continuelles reconstitutions a nouveaux frais. II

appert au contraire que toutes les parties du circuit scientifique ne sont pas également périssables. En particulier, tout ce qui concerne la mise sur pied de corpus de données, |’élaboration de techniques et de procédés de traitement devrait étre récupérable et constituer une infrastructure de la recherche, susceptible de perfectionnement et d’accumulation, pouvant servir plusieurs questions et autant de réponses. La fragilite de la connaissance historique ne devrait donc pas entratner le gaspillage des moyens de cette connaissance et vouer chaque génération @historiens a de coiteux recommencements. Or j aurai occasion de montrer tout a Pheure comment les ressources actuelles de la technologie autorisent des mutations spectaculaires dans cette direction. Au-dela de la reforme qu’elles appellent, les remarques qui preécedent suggerent que la scientificité ou lobjectivité en histoire ne reéside ni dans la « vérité», ni dans «exactitude» du savoir de l’historien et pas davantage dans son impartialité, mais bien plutot dans la

logique des procéedés qui composent le circuit de lTenquéte scientifique et que j’ai enveloppee dans le concept de methodologie.

Voici donc une premiere fagon de prémunir le savoir historique contre les contaminations ou les falsifications @voqueées plus haut.

Mais ces conditions générales étant admises, il semble que les sollicitations des projets sociaux ou, plus généralement, de lactuel agissent de diverses facons sur la connaissance historique, en fonction des divers modes sur lesquels elle s’élabore. Ces modes corres-

, 10 GERARD BOUCHARD pondent a ce qu’on voudra bien appeler des niveaux d’ancrage ou des positions épistémologiques spécifiques.

Il sera utile de les identifier afin de bien marquer la nature de

, lanthropologie a construire, avant d’en présenter succinctement par

la suite un exemple.

3. LES STRATES DE L’ACTUEL | Comme il a été remarqué plus haut, dans la langue des commentateurs et des gens du métier qui ont réfléchi sur la connaissance his-

torique, |l’actuel désigne aussi bien la situation ou la conjoncture d’une société globale que certaines divisions fondamentales et irreconciliables qui découpent des provinces au sein du present. Mais ce concept est le siege d’une autre imprécision. En effet, la connaissance historique est bel et bien tributaire de l’actuel, mais cette relation

prend des formes différentes selon la durée qu’on lui assigne. Je m’appuierai, pour exposer cette idée, sur une distinction qui a été présentée par Fernand Braudel dans un texte bien connu consacré aux durées dans l’histoire>. Braudel identifiait d’abord un temps bref qui est le lieu des individus — surtout les plus grands — et de l’éveéenement, en proie au foisonnement, a la turbulence du quotidien. Puis le temps, déja plus épais, de la conjoncture, qui se compte en décen-

, nies et au sein desquelles les fluctuations précipitées du temps court s’aplanissent et se prolongent dans des oscillations: c’est le temps des

évolutions économiques et sociales, des conflits, des classes et de leurs idéologies. Enfin le temps long, d’ampleur séculaire ou multiséculaire, est celui des structures et des mutations lentes, presqu’im-

perceptibles, ou se marque la respiration des sentiments collectifs profonds, des mentalités, du biologique et de la géographie. Je voudrais faire remarquer que la notion d’actuel dans l’usage courant qu’on en fait, enveloppe chacune de ces trois durées, et je voudrais suggérer que selon l’aire ou le temps considéré, le probleme du relativisme de la connaissance historique ne se pose pas du tout de la méme maniere.

Le temps bref découpe une aire de réflexion spécifique reflétée dans un genre historique particulier qui est histoire événementielle, c’est-a-dire l’etude des faits jugés marquants dans le passe proche ou lointain d’une société. Mais ce jugement sur le caractére important ou négligeable du fait passé de méme que la signification dont il convient

de le revétir, tout cela est dicté par d’autres événements, qui sont

préecisément ceux de l’heure présente, et par leurs urgences bien , éphémeres. Aussi, les reconstitutions et les vérités de cette histoire sont les plus passageres, les plus perméables au bouillonnement des 5 (Cf. «Histoire et sciences sociales: la longue durée», Annales E.S.C., n° 4, octobre-déecembre 1958, pp. 725-753.

LA SCIENCE HISTORIQUE COMME ANTHROPOLOGIE SOCIALE 11

Opinions et des rumeurs qui remplissent le temps bref. Ne disons pas pour autant que ces représentations ne sont pas scientifiques et n’accusons pas d’emblée les procédés qui les ont fabriquées; seulement, les intuitions, les sentiments, les certitudes dont elles sont nourries dans l’instant constituent un matériau tres fragile qui livre la seule vérité dont ils soient porteurs et cette vérite est de ordre de I’ instantané et de la circonstance. En regard, les reconstitutions des évolutions et des structures qui s’étalent dans la seconde durée procédent de preoccupations, de questions et d’éclairages qui ne sont plus ceux de ’@vénement mais

de situations et de contextes mieux reconnus, mieux assimilés, en voie de se structurer eux-mémes et objet d’une connaissance presque fondamentale. Ces reconstitutions sont le propre de l’histoire sociale au sens large, laquelle demeure cependant une histoire trés politisée (au sens le plus large et le plus noble du terme) et tres engagée dans la mesure ou, a la difference de la sociologie traditionnelle, elle ne vise pas une connaissance théorique ou formelle de l’objet social et de son évolution, mais un savoir appliqué a telle société en particulier, a laquelle elle suggere discretement des choix, des directions a suivre. Dans cette mesure, cette connaissance historique acquiert une dimension, une €paisseur qui est circonscrite par le champ de la réflexion politique elle-méme, c’est-a-dire la capacité de reconnaitre l’itinéraire d’un segment, d’une classe ou d’une société globale, de statuer sur sa praxis et sa vocation. Enfin, au-dela, c’est ’étendue du temps long, des structures pro-

fondes et des totalités, a échelle du village, de la ville ou de la région, mais aussi de la famille ou du quartier. Et c’est aussi le lieu de cette anthropologie historique €voquée plus haut et dont objet pourrait se définir tres rapidement comme |’étude de soi en tant qu’autre®. A ce niveau, histoire vise une connaissance de la condition humaine concrete, dont elle veut réaliser non pas un inventaire, bien sur, mais un échantillon ou une série de prélevements ; elle est une sorte de phi-

losophie empirique, adonnée a |’ étude de homme collectif dans espace et dans le temps, Cette connaissance historique, notons-le, est tout aussi étroitement li¢e a l’actuel mais dans ce qu'il a de plus profond, de plus riche et de plus universel, c’est-a-dire plus affranchi

de linstantané et de la circonstance, a une échelle ou les climats sociaux ne connaissent plus de régions, ou lhistorien se dégage de ses mois les plus accidentels. C’est aussi le lieu ou la plénitude de la subjectivite se confond avec le maximum d’objectivité.

Ainsi il y a des étendues dans l’actuel et des couches dans la subjectivite, auxquelles correspondent différents modes d’appréhen6 Cette formule apparente l’anthropologie historique a l’ethnologie classique. Elle voudrait pourtant étre bien autre chose, dans la mesure ot l’analyse ethnologique traditionnelle appliquée a l'étude des sociétés primitives en a fourni des représentations tres glacées, vidées du vécu de ces sociétés, comme s'il s’agissait d’especes végetales.

12 GERARD BOUCHARD sion du passé et des types, des qualités différentes de vérités. Il existe. également des temporalités de la recherche elle-méme. L’histoire événementielle doit se hater pour répondre aux commandes d’une actualite changeante: Mai 1968 rappelle la Commune de Paris, la Crise _ d’octobre au Québec renvoie a la Conscription de 1918, le décés de tel homme d’Etat est P occasion d’une rétrospective, etc. Tandis que, a autre extrémité, l’anthropologie historique, au contraire, chemine lentement, ne s’inquiete pas et méme redoute d’« étre de son temps», dans la mesure ou sa durée est celle des profondeurs déployées dans -

des totalités.

En résumé de tout ce qui précéde, on pourrait dire que la critique de la connaissance historique devrait tenir compte de trois facteurs jusqu’ici tres peu ou mal reconnus par les historiens autant que ,

par les non-historiens: |

a) Une épaisseur méthodologique qui invite a voir la connaissance du passé non pas comme un ensemble de produits finis mais comme un processus réglé, continu et alterné d’affirmations et de negations dans une direction donnée, parcourue dans les deux sens. b) Une différence de niveau, un étagement dans le mode d’articulation de la connaissance et de l’actuel, qui donne lieu a des positions ou des aires é€pistemologiques spécifiques, et qui invite a mieux définir ce qu’on appelle le relativisme de la connaissance historique.

c) La possibilité d’ériger, pour la science historique, une véritable infrastructure qui soit une source de rigueur, d’accélération et

d’enrichissement de la connaissance. |

Hil. - LE PROGRAMME DE RECHERCHES SUR LA SOCIETE SAGUENAYENNE Ce programme de recherches a été créé en 1972 a Il’ Université

du Québec a Chicoutimi. Il est le fait d’une équipe constituée aujourd’hui de demographes, d’historiens, de sociologues, d’informaticiens, de généticiens et de médecins. Sur le plan des objectifs, des procédés et des instruments, il veut reproduire les définitions et les _ orientations de la recherche historique qui viennent d’étre présentées. En premier lieu, comme anthropologie historique, ce programme _ vise a reconstituer le devenir d’une société régionale a partir du moment de sa création en 1840 jusqu’a la période actuelle. Pris globalement, ce devenir doit étre représenté dans chacune de ses parties, et chacune de celle-ci dans ses rythmes propres. Les notions de structures et de totaliteés sont donc ici essentielles; car cette entreprise, au moins dans son intention dominante et explicite, procede de la curiosite la plus simple et la plus ample a l’égard des situations, des expériences et des €vénements qui constituent les existences humaines et

LA SCIENCE HISTORIQUE COMME ANTHROPOLOGIE SOCIALE 13

en dessinent le cours si contrasté a la fois matériellement et culturellement. Pour autant, bien sur, cette curiosité n’est pas naive et elle n’est pas neutre; elle a un parti pris resolument humaniste, contre tout ce qui abaisse, et tout ce qui divise, elle cherche a imputer des responsabilités collectives, et a agencer dans des reconstitutions complexes, selon des modeles a choisir ou a construire, les diverses composantes de la vie sociale. Mais le souci premier n’est pas un pari a tres court terme, d’ordre économique ou politique, sur le présent immédiat de cette société régionale ou de l’une de ses parties. En deuxieme lieu, sur le plan de la méthodologie, notre démarche s’aligne sur le projet de reforme annoncé précédemment et dont Vessentiel consiste dans ce que j’ai appelé le circuit scientifique. Je rappelle que cette notion, qui comprend |’ensemble des opérations au eré desquelles le savoir s’*élabore, inclut: a) le choix et la formulation des idées directrices, b) la décomposition de ces idées maitresses en modeles et hypotheses en fonction desquels s’organisent les données

empiriques, c) la possibilite d’un retour critique sur les énoncés de depart, ce qui suppose que les conditions d’une véritable vérification auront été réunies. Dans la perspective d’une construction critique de objet et dun enrichissement de la connaissance, il est évidemment necessaire que le circuit soit ouvert aux deux extrémités, en sorte que des elements nouveaux puissent lui étre intégrés soit par le «haut», soit par le «bas». Tout ceci appelle un travail d’explication, d’épuration, de spéculation et d’articulation dont les regles sont encore bien loi d’étre codées.

Le troisieme facteur, sur lequel je voudrais insister, consiste dans l’edification d’une infrastructure indispensable pour la connaissance historique. Le programme de Recherches sur la Société saguenayenne s’appuie sur l’exploitation d’un fichier-réseau d’une popula-

tion régionale, dont la construction, débutée il y a huit ans, entre maintenant dans une phase finale. Les principales caractéristiques de ce fichier-réseau sont les suivantes:

a) 1 doit d’abord étre constitué d’un fichier central donnant le signalement de la plupart des individus et des familles ayant séjourné dans la région du Saguenay depuis 1840. Ce fichier central sera consti-

tué a partir du dépouillement de plus de 400 000 actes de baptémes, mariages, sepultures et de plusieurs dizaines de milliers de fiches de meénages tirées de divers recensements. A ce jour, plus des deux tiers de ces dépouillements sont terminés. b) Autour de ce fichier central viendra se greffer un tres large éventail de fichiers sectoriels, dont sept ou huit sont présentement en construction, et dont les données sont de caractere économique, culturel, social, médical, etc. Ces fichier sectoriels servent d’appuis a des enquétes particuliegres menées par divers collaborateurs. Chacun de ces fichiers sectoriels sera jumelé par ordinateur au fichier central

14 GERARD BOUCHARD | et aux données qu’il contient. Grace a cette opération, le chercheur enquétant sur telle ou telle sous-population de malades, d’entrepreneurs forestiers, de propriétaires fonciers, d’étudiants, de criminels ou de politiciens, sera en mesure de connaitre les parametres démographiques, familiaux, sociaux et culturels de telle maladie, de telle forme d’enrichissement, de acces a l’enseignement supérieur, de la

, mobilité sociale, de l’exercice du pouvoir, etc. En retour, au terme de cette operation, les données des fichiers sectoriels s’integrent au

fichier-réseau dont elles font désormais partie; d’ot la possibilité a long terme d’ériger, au fur et ad mesure de son utilisation, un fichier individuel et familial, a caractere universel, entierement informatisé, et qui rassemble sur les mémes personnes un maximum d’informa-

tions. , _

~ ©) Ces fichiers, central et sectoriels, sont gérés par ordinateur

et sont d’ores et déja assortis de programmes de traitement automatique Gumelage de dossiers, reconstitution des familles). L’ensemble

doit prendre la forme technique d’un fichier-réseau (traduction de «data base»), c’est-a-dire une structure et un mode de gestion des données qui permettent une exploitation ultra-rapide et trés souple, | en meme temps qu’un acces multiple a cette masse d’informations.

Du point de vue des progres de la connaissance historique, ce fichier-reseau autorise de grandes espérances. Par exemple: 1. Une des proprietes du fichier est de permettre une observation continue, véritablement longitudinale des réalités collectives et selon un cadre chronologique et spatial qu’il est possible de redéfinir a

volonté.

2. La regle de l’exhaustivité des dépouillements, |’élaboration systematique des données et la construction de programmes généraux de traitement peuvent mettre fin aux éternels recommencements des etapes préalables et au gaspillage de fichiers partiels, d’une enquéte a

autre, tout en garantissant la possibilité d’un recours permanent et quasi instantané a un corpus de données parfaitement nettoyées, controlables a volonté et capables d’appuyer les analyses les plus ri-

goureuses. , 3. Le fichier-reseau est une machine a explorer méthodique-

ment l’objet social, sous des éclairages, des jeux d’ hypotheses interchangeables. Il permet de tester des modeéles plus audacieux et en plus grand nombre, libere en quelque sorte l’imagination scientifique

-et provoque en définitive une accélération, non plus de l’histoire

rique. | , ,

comme le voulait le mot de D. Halévy, mais de la connaissance histo-

4. Cette faculteé décuplée de recherches, d’essais et de rem-

placements a partir des hypothese initiales est primordiale. Car il y a bien peu d’analyses qui sauraient résister a la question: a-t-on minutieusement exploité toutes les avenues pertinentes et toute la gamme

LA SCIENCE HISTORIQUE COMME ANTHROPOLOGIE SOCIALE 15

des réponses vraisemblables? Et s’est-on ménagé la possibilite tech-

nique de les explorer et de faire apparaitre telle relation ou telle combinaison’? L’exemple a suivre ici est peut-étre celui de la nouvelle archéologie qui procede par approximations successives et par simulations a l’aide de Vordinateur, a la lumiéere de différents mo-

deles de reconstitution correspondant a autant d’hypotheses et d’idées directrices —- qui se ménage donc une faculté a la fois d’exploration et de révision. 5. Les fichiers de population, par leur nature méme, sont aussi de merveilleux alliés de l’enquéte interdisciplinaire. Celle-ci, on le sait, méme aujourd’hui, est entrée dans les esprits bien plus que dans les faits. Certes les cloisonnements professionnels, les problemes humains, les mésententes théoriques, etc., y sont pour beaucoup, mais aussi l’absence d’une technologie et d’une infrastructure approprices

qui plieraient les données aux exigences nouvelles de questionnements et de schémas d’interprétation de plus en plus englobants. Or c’est le propre du fichier-réseau que de créer des convergences entre les données et des axes parmi les disciplines et leurs modes d’interrogation.

6. Enfin, au-dela des sciences sociales que sont V’histoire, la démographie ou la sociologie, je signale en passant les applications médicales auxquelles se préte le fichier-réseau et l’essai que nous faisons depuis 1979 sur une maladie héréditaire, en collaboration avec une équipe de médecins et de généticiens québécois et francais. De cette méthodologie trés informatisée, et qu’on voudra bien ne pas assimiler d’emblée a histoire quantitative, il ressort que le fichier-réseau est un instrument de synthese et de convergence qul invite a comprendre les comportements et les faits sociaux en les rapportant a leurs auteurs, et qui privilégie de cette facon la connaissance des individus, des groupes, des classes, lesquels sont bien, en définitive, les acteurs de "histoire. Il vise aussi a reformer la production du savoir, dans un esprit d’économie, de rigueur et de souplesse ala fois. Mais on ne doit pas lui preter d’autres ambitions; il n’est pas question ici de créer une nouvelle physique sociale, ni d’amputer de quelque facon le circuit de la recherche, mais plutot de le consolider. IV. — CONCLUSION

Ce commentaire avait pour but de: ’ Cette question ne s’adresse d’ailleurs pas qu’aux historiens. Sous ce rapport,

méme un scientifique célebre comme Claude Lévi-Strauss pourrait constituer un exemple a ne pas imiter. Les confidences qu’il a livrées sur ses méthodes de travail, en particulier sur sa recherche des homologies structurales et des relations pertinentes ou significatives, suscitent l’étonnement et quelque doute (voir une longue entrevue donnée au journal Le Monde, 21 juin 1974, p. 26).

16 GERARD BOUCHARD a) tenter de préciser la relation qui fait dériver la connais, sance historique de ce qu’on appelle trop vaguement |’« actuel » ; b) distinguer au sein de cette relation des niveaux ou des cou-

| ches qui dessinent des ensembles ou des positions épistemologiques | specifiques, lune d’elles correspondant au projet d’anthropologie his-

torique ;

c) faire valoir la fonction essentielle de la méthodologie ou dune «méthodologique» qui est en partie a construire et qui est le seul véritable fondement de la scientificité de l’histoire ; d’ot la notion d’une science historique intégrale, c’est-a-dire d’une histoire qui résiste a toutes les formes de découpages ou d’escamotages du circuit

~ de la recherche; , , !

: d) montrer la réforme a opérer, en particulier sur le plan d’une infrastructure de la connaissance historique, en vue d’une accumulation non pas du savoir mais de conditions du savoir;

e) illustrer ces traits par un exemple, en l’occurrence le Programme de Recherches sur la Société saguenayenne. | Fondamentalement, ces remarques veulent étre un plaidoyer pour constituer la science historique non pas comme mémoire mais comme conscience, non pas comme un écho mais comme une voix, et faire de historien non pas un rapporteur mais un témoin.

En tout ceci, et je m’en excuse, il n’a guere été question de

philosophie de Vhistoire. Ce n’est pas un oubli. Cette forme de

reflexion sur l’avenir, qui prend le passé a témoin, attire moins I’ historien de métier. D’abord, les téléologies inhérentes aux philosophies de histoire supposent des croyances ou des convictions sociales qui font de plus en plus défaut. Pour l’historien, le passé a cessé d’étre un mouvement, une pesanteur qui commanderait le cours actuel des choses. Le passé est devenu l’univers opaque de référence, que I’historien balaie au jour le jour de ses questions et de ses schémas de réponses, un peu comme l’espace de l’astrophysicien. Le passe et le present ne sont plus donnés, mais a reconstruire sans cesse. A propos de cette absence de certitudes fondamentales, on ne doit pas forcément conclure a une crise du sens ou de la culture. Il est possible en effet que les grandes idées sociales héritées des 18¢ et 19¢ siecles (le pro-

gres, la croissance,...) aient définitivement amorcé leur déclin. Et

roles de l’historien. .

cette mutation, si elle s’aveérait, pourrait entrainer une redéfinition des

Au-dela du probleme des croyances, il y a celui de la connaissance. Sous ce rapport, lhistorien est devenu tres modeste, trés incertain de ses moyens, tres conscient de ses limites (cet exposé en témoigne lui-meme, a sa facon). II serait éclairant de savoir comment la

philosophie de histoire résout pour son compte cette tension ou cette antinomie entre ce que j’ai appelé le principe de vérité et le principe d’exactitude.

LA SCIENCE HISTORIQUE COMME ANTHROPOLOGIE SOCIALE 17

La définition qui a été donnée plus haut du projet d’anthropo-

logie historique suggere que, pour I’historien, le mouvement en direction de la philosophie devrait procéder moins par un élargissement de l’échelle et des cadres d’enquéte — qui est ordinairement le fait de la philosophie de I histoire — que par un approfondissement de Pobjet, fit-ce a une échelle microscopique. Il y a par ailleurs un sujet sur lequel, me semble-t-il, le philosophe pourrait en priorité porter son attention, et ce sujet concerne les fonctions contradictoires asstenéees a l’historien. I] est connu que, sur le terrain social, l’histoire exerce une fonction critique qui la voue a dénoncer les entreprises de falsification du passe a des fins politiques ou autres. En vertu de ce

premier role, Vhistorien vit continuellement a distance, sinon en marge, et en rupture. Mais Vhistoire exerce aussi une importante fonction d’intégration culturelle. Pour les contemporains, l’événement qui survient n’est pas tolerable tant qu’il demeure étranger, inapprivoisé, c’est-a-dire ininterprété. Par rapport a l’inconnu et a l’insécurité que suscitent ces innovations du présent, l’historien remplit une fonction d’acculturation et de mise a jour; il désamorce l’inédit de Pévénement, il lui trouve des filiations, des racines, il lui invente des empreintes dans le passé et il lintegre a la conscience historique — quitte a ajuster, a reordonner ce qui dans le passé était tenu jusque-la pour acquis. Ainsi ’historien, cet enchaineur d’événements, ce fabricant de convergences, s’emploie a refermer les failles que le présent

pratique dans la culture et a dissoudre ces décrochages dans des continuites: le voici donc ennemi de la rupture. Ce paradoxe entourant le métier de l’historien n’est pas accidentel et il appellerait une réflexion approfondie. Je voudrais seulement suggérer ici que cette opposition entre Vhistorien qui dénonce et lhistorien qui accrédite est sans doute un autre visage de la méme antinomie entre histoire signifiante et histoire exacte. fl est enfin une troisieme fonction, plus noble et plus fondamentale peut-étre que les deux autres, qui fait de ’historien un observateur, un temoin de la condition humaine et un partisan inconditionnel de son relevement. Dans cette direction, histoire vise a insérer les experiences du présent (mais d’un présent confirmé) dans des conjonctures plus englobantes, dans un registre plus étendu ou elles acquie-

rent une autre substance. Ici histoire est réflexion, approfondissement de la condition humaine considérée a |’échelle collective, et ce

de deux fagons au moins: elle est d’abord un déclencheur de cette réflexion; elle constitue ensuite le champ ou elle se nourrit.

Blank Page |

L’histoire, science et fiction par MICHEL DE CERTEAU University of California

« FICTIONS »

Fiction est un mot périlleux, tout comme son corrélatif, science. Pour avoir essayé, ailleurs', d’en définir le statut, je préciserai seulement ici, a titre de note préliminaire, quatre fonctionnements possibles de la fiction dans le discours historien.

|.) Fiction et histoire. — L’historiographie occidentale lutte

contre la fiction. Entre (histoire et les histoires, cette guerre intestine remonte tres loin. C’est une querelle familiale qui, d’emblée, fixe des positions. Mais par sa lutte contre l’affabulation généalogique, contre les mythes et les légendes de la mémoire collective ou contre les dérives de la circulation orale, historiographie crée un écart par rapport au dire et au croire communs, et elle se loge précisément dans cette difference qui accrédite comme savante en la distinguant du discours ordinaire. Non qu'elle dise la vérité. Jamais historien n’a eu pareille pretention. Plutot, avec l’appareil de la critique des documents, l’¢rudit

enleve de l’erreur aux «fables». Le terrain qu’il gagne sur elles, il lacquiert en diagnostiquant du faux. I] creuse dans le langage recu la place gqu’il donne a sa discipline, comme si, installé au milieu des narrativites stratifices et combinées d’une société (tout ce qu’elle se raconte ou s’est raconte), il s’°employait a pourchasser le faux plus qu’a construire le vrai, ou comme s’il ne produisait de la vérité qu’en déterminant de l’erreur. Son travail serait celui du négatif, ou, pour

emprunter a Popper un terme mieux approprie, un travail de la «falsification». De ce point de vue, dans ’élement d’une culture, la fiction est ce que l’historiographie institue comme erroné, en se taillant ainsi un territoire propre.

2. Fiction et réalité. — Au niveau des procédures d’analyse

(examen et comparaison des documents) comme au niveau des interpretations (produits de l’opération), le discours technique capable de

determiner les erreurs qui caractérisent la fiction s’autorise par la1 M. pe Cerreau, L’Ecriture de Vhistoire, 2° éd. Paris, Gallimard, 1978, pp. 312-358 (« La fiction de Vhistoire»).

70 MICHEL DE CERTEAU méme a parler au nom du réel. En posant d’aprés ses propres criteres le geste qui départage les deux discours — I’un, scientifique, et l’autre, de fiction, — Vhistoriographie se crédite d’un rapport au reéel parce que son contraire est placé sous le signe du faux.

Cette détermination réciproque se retrouve ailleurs, quoique avec d’autres moyens et d’autres visées. Elle implique un double deécalage qui consiste, d’une part, a rendre plausible du vrai en démontrant une erreur, et, en méme temps, a faire croire du réel en dénoncant du faux. Elle suppose donc que ce qui n’est pas avére faux doit étre réel. Ainsi jadis en argumentant contre de «faux» dieux, on faisait croire a l’existence d’un vrai. Le procédé se répéte jusque dans

| Vhistoriographie contemporaine. I] est simple: a prouver des erreurs, le discours fait passer pour réel ce qu’il leur oppose. Bien que logiquement illégitime, le procédé «marche» et il «fait marcher». Des lors, la fiction est déportée du cété de l’irréel, tandis que le discours techniquement armé pour désigner de l’erreur est affecté du privilege supplémentaire de représenter du réel. Les débats entre «littérature » et histoire permettraient facilement d’illustrer cette partition. 3. Fiction et science. — Par un retournement assez logique, la fiction se retrouve aussi dans le camp de la science. Au discours (metaphysicien et théologien) déchiffrant l’ordre des étres et les volontés de leur Auteur, une lente révolution instauratrice de modernité a subs-

titué les écritures capables d’instaurer des cohérences a partir des- | quelles produire un ordre, un progres, une histoire. Détachées de leur fonction épiphanique de représenter les choses, ces langues formelles donnent lieu, dans leurs applications, a des scénarios dont la pertinence tient non plus a ce qu’ils expriment mais a ce qu’ils rendent possible. C’est une nouvelle espéce de fiction. Artefact scientifique,

elle ne se juge pas au réel qui est supposé lui manquer, mais a ce

qu’elle permet de faire et de transformer. Est «fiction» non ce qul photographie le débarquement lunaire, mais ce qui le prévient et l’organise. L’historiographie utilise aussi les fictions de ce type lorsqu elle

construit des systemes de corrélations entre des unites définies comme distinctes et stables; lorsque, dans l’espace d’un passé, elle fait fonctionner des hypotheses et des régles scientifiques présentes et

, qu’elle produit ainsi des modéles différents de société; ou lorsque, plus explicitement, comme dans le cas de Il’économétrie historique, elle analyse les conséquences probables d’ hypotheses contrefactuel-

les (par exemple: que serait devenu l’esclavage aux U.S.A. si la guerre de Sécession mavait pas eu lieu?)*. Pourtant, a ’egard de cette fiction devenue scientifique, ’historien ne demeure pas moins © , soupconneux. II l’accuse de «détruire» Vhistoriographie: les débats 2 Ce. Ralph ANDREANO (éd.), La nouvelle histoire économique, trad., Paris, Gallimard, 1977, pp. 258 s.

L’ HISTOIRE, SCIENCE ET FICTION 21 sur Peconométrie ont bien montré. Cette résistance peut encore faire appel a lappareil qui, en s’appuyant sur des «faits», démontre des erreurs. Mais, plus encore, elle se fonde sur le rapport que le discours historien est supposé entretenir avec le réel. Dans la fiction,

, meme celle-la, ?historien combat un manque de référentiel, une lésion du discours « réaliste », une rupture du mariage qu’il suppose entre les mots et les choses. 4. La fiction et le «propre». — La fiction est enfin accusée de ne pas étre un discours univoque, autrement dit de manquer de « proprete» scientifique. Elle joue en effet sur une stratification de sens, elle raconte une chose pour en dire une autre, elle se trace dans un langage dont elle tire, indefiniment, des effets de sens qui ne peuvent

etre ni circonscrits ni controlés. A la différence de ce qui se passe

dans une langue artificielle, en principe univoque, elle n’a pas de lieu propre. Elle est «metaphorique». Elle se meut, insaisissable, dans le champ de l’autre. Le savoir ne s’y trouve pas en lieu sir, et son effort consiste a analyser de maniére a la réduire ou traduire en elements stables et combinables. De ce point de vue, la fiction lése une regle de scientificite. C’est la sorciere que le savoir travaille a fixer et classer, en lexorcisant dans ses laboratoires. Elle n’est plus marquée ici par le signe du faux, de lirréel ou de l’artefact. Elle désigne une dérive

sémantique. C’est la sirene dont Vhistorien doit se défendre, tel Ulysse attaché a son mat. En fait, malgré le quiproquo de ses statuts successifs ou simul-

tanés, la fiction, sous ses modalités mythiques, littéraires, scientifiques ou métaphoriques, est un discours qui «informe» le réel, mais ne prétend ni le représenter ni s’en créditer. Par la, elle s’oppose

fondamentalement a une historiographie qui s’articule toujours sur ambition de dire le réel — et donc sur l’impossibilité d’en faire son deuil. Cette ambition semble la présence et la force d’un originaire. Elle vient de tres loin, telle une scéne primitive dont l’ opaque perma-

nence déterminerait encore la discipline. En tout cas, elle demeure essentielle. Ce sera donc le centre obscur des quelques considérations que je voudrais introduire sur le jeu de la science et de la fiction, en abordant seulement trois questions: 1. le «réel» produit par l’historiographie est aussi le legendaire de l institution historienne; 2. l’appareil scientifique, par exemple l informatique, a aussi des aspects de fiction dans le travail historien; 3. a envisager le rapport du discours avec ce qui le produit, c’est-a-dire tour a tour avec une institution professionnelle et avec une méthodologie scientifique, on peut considerer ’historiographie comme un mixte de science et de fiction, ou comme un lieu ou se réintroduit le temps.

oy) MICHEL DE CERTEAU I. — LE LEGENDAIRE DE L’ INSTITUTION D’une facon générale, tout récit qui raconte ce-qui-se-passe (ou ce qui s’est passé) institue du réel, dans la mesure ou il se donne pour la représentation d’une réalité (passée). Il tire son autorité de se faire passer pour le temoin de ce qui est, ou de ce qui a été. Il séduit, et il s’impose, au titre des événements dont il se prétend l’interpréte, par exemple les dernieres heures de Nixon a la Maison Blanche ou I|’économie capitaliste des haciendas mexicaines. Toute autorité se fonde

en effet sur le réel qu’elle est supposée déclarer. C’est toujours au nom d’un réel qu’on «fait marcher» des croyants et qu’on les produit. L’historiographie acquiert ce pouvoir en tant qu’elle présente et interprete des «faits». Qu’est-ce que le lecteur pourrait opposer au discours qui lui dit ce qui est (ou a été)? I] lui faut consentir a la loi qui s’énonce en termes d’événements. Pourtant le «réel» représenté ne correspond pas au réel qui determine sa production. Il cache, derriére la figuration d’un passé, le présent qui l’organise. Exprimé sans ménagement, le probleme est le

suivant: la mise en scene d’une effectivité (passée), c’est-a-dire le discours historiographique lui-méme, occulte l'appareil social et technique qui la produit, c’est-a-dire l’institution professionnelle. L’ opéra- tion en cause semble assez rusée: le discours se rend crédible au nom | de la réalité qu’il est supposé représenter, mais cette apparence autorisée sert précisément a camouflier la pratique qui la détermine réellement. La représentation déguise la praxis qui |’ organise.

1. Le discours et/de institution. — L’historiographie savante n’échappe pas aux contraintes des structures socio-économiques qui déterminent les representations d’une société. Certes, en s’isolant, un milieu spécialisé a tenté de soustraire la production de cette historiographie a la politisation et a la commercialisation des récits qui nous racontent notre actualite. Ce retrait, qui a forme tantot fonctionnaire (un corps d’Etat), tantot corporatiste (une profession), a permis la

circonscription d’objets plus anciens (un passé), la mise a part d’un , matériau plus rare (des archives) et la définition d’opérations contr6lables par la profession (des techniques). Mais tout se passe comme Si les procédures générales de la fabrication de nos «histoires » communes ou de nos légendes quotidiennes étaient non pas éliminées de ces laboratoires, mais plutdot mises a l’épreuve, critiquées et vérifiées par les historiens sur leurs terrains d’expérimentation. Avant d’ analyser la technicité propre aux recherches savantes, il faut donc reconnaitre ce qu’elles ont en commun avec la production générale de nos histoires par les média. Et c’est Pinstitution historienne elle-méme qui, en soutenant ces recherches, les rattache aux pratiques communes dont elles prétendent se distinguer.

L’érudition n’est plus que marginalement une oeuvre individuelle. C’est une entreprise collective. Pour Popper, la communauté

L’HISTOIRE, SCIENCE ET FICTION 23 scientifique corrigeait les effets de la subjectivité des chercheurs. Mais cette communauté est aussi une uSine, distribuée en chaines, soumise a des exigences budgétaires, liée donc a des politiques et aux contraintes croissantes d’un outillage sophistiqué (infrastructures archivistiques, computer, modalités de l’édition, etc.); déterminée par

un recrutement social assez étroit et homogeéne; orientée par des schémas ou des postulats socioculturels qu’imposent ce recrutement, état des recherches, les intéréts du patron, les courants du moment, etc. Bien plus, elle est intérieurement organisée par la division du travail: elle a ses patrons, son aristocratie, ses «chefs de travaux » (souvent prolétaires des recherches patronales), ses techniciens, ses pigistes sous-payés, ses manutentionnaires. Et je laisse de coté les aspects psychosociologiques de cette entreprise; par exemple la « rhetorique de la respectabilité universitaire » que Jeanine Czubaroff analysait dernierement?.

Or les livres, produits de cette usine, ne disent rien de leur fabrication, ou si peu que rien. Ils cachent leur relation a cet appareil hiérarchisé et socio-économique. Est-ce que la these, par exemple, explicite son rapport au patron dont dépend la promotion, ou aux impératifs financiers auxquels le patron doit obéir, ou aux pressions qu’exerce le milieu professionnel sur les sujets choisis et les méthodes employées? Inutile d’insister. Mais il faut insister sur le fait que ces déterminations ne concernent ni des impératifs proprement scien-

tifiques, ni des idéologies individuelles, mais le poids d’une réalité historique actuelle sur des discours qui n’en parlent guére tout en prétendant représenter le réel. Certes, cette représentation historienne a son role, nécessaire, dans une société ou un groupe. Elle répare incessamment les déchirures entre le passé et le présent. Elle assure un «sens» qui surmonte les violences et les divisions du temps. Elle crée un théatre de références et de valeurs communes qui garantissent au groupe une unité et une communicabilité symboliques. En somme, comme disait Michelet, elle est le travail de vivants pour «calmer les morts» et rassembler toutes les sortes de séparés en un semblant de présence qui est la re-présentation méme. C’est un discours de la conjonction, qui lutte contre les disjonctions produites par la compétition, le labeur, le temps et la mort. Mais cette tache sociale appelle précisément I’ occultation de ce qui particularise la représentation. Elle amene a éviter le retour de la division présente sur la scene symbolisante. Le texte substitue donc la représentation d’un passé a l’élucidation de l’opération institutionnelle qui le fabrique. IJ donne un semblant de réel (passé) au lieu de la praxis (présente) qui le produit: l’un est mis a la place de l autre. 3 Jeanine CZUBAROFF, «Intellectual respectability: a rhetorical problem», dans Quarterly Journal of Speech, 59, 1973, pp. 155-164.

24 | MICHEL DE CERTEAU 2. Du _ produit savant aux média: Uhistoriographie générale. — Sous cet angle, le discours savant ne se distingue plus de la narrativité prolixe et fondamentale qu’est notre historiographie quoti-

dienne. Il participe au systeme qui organise par des «histoires» la | communication sociale et ’habitabilite du présent. Le livre ou [I article professionnel, d’une part, et, d’autre part, le journal imprimé ou télevisé ne se différencient qu’a l’intérieur du méme champ historio- © graphique, constitué par l’innombrable des récits qui racontent et _ iInterpretent les événements. L’historien « spécialisé» s’acharne, bien sur, a récuser cette solidarité compromettante. Vaine dénégation. La part savante de cette historiographie y forme seulement une espece ! particuliére, qui n’est pas plus «technique» que les espeéce voisines , mais a seulement d’autres techniques. Elle releve aussi d’un genre qui

prolifere: les récits qui expliquent ce-qui-se-passe. ,

Sans arret, du matin au soir, (histoire en effet se raconte. Elle privilegie ce qui ne va pas (l’événement est d’abord un accident, un malheur, une crise), parce qu’il faut d’urgence recoudre d’abord ces

dechirures avec un langage de sens. Mais réciproquement, les malheurs sont inducteurs de récits, ils en autorisent l’inlassable pro-

duction. Naguere le «réel» avait la figure d’un Secret divin autorisant , interminable narrativité de sa révélation. Aujourd’hui le «réel» continue a permettre indéfiniment du récit, mais il a la forme de Pévenement, lointain ou étrange, qui sert de postulat nécessaire a la

production de nos discours de révélations. Ce dieu fragmenté ne

cesse de faire parler. Il bavarde. Partout des nouvelles, des informations, des statistiques, des sondages, des documents, qui compensent par de la conjonction narrative la disjonction croissante créée par la division du travail, par latomisation sociale et par la spécialisation professionnelle. Ces discours fournissent a tous les séparés un referentiel commun. Ils instituent, au nom du «réel», le langage symbolisateur qui fait croire a la communication et qui forme la toile d’arai-

— gnée de «notre» histoire. , | De cette historiographie générale, je noterai seulement trois traits propres au genre tout entier, bien qu’ils soient plus visibles dans Pespece «média» et mieux contrdolés (ou modalisés différemment)

dansa) Lalespeéce « scientifique ». | représentation des réalités historiques est le moyen de camoufler les conditions réelles de sa production. Le « documentaire »

ne montre pas qu'il est d’abord le résultat d’une institution socio€conomique sélective et d’un appareil technique codificateur, le jour-

nal ou la télévision. Tout se passe comme si, a travers Dan Rather, l Afghanistan se montrait. En fait il nous est conté dans un récit qui est le produit d’un milieu, d’un pouvoir, de contrats entre l’entreprise et ses clients, de la logique d’une technique. La clarté de l’informa-

tion cache les lois du travail complexe qui la construit. C’est un trompe-l’ ceil qui, a la différence du trompe-l’ ceil d’autrefois, ne four-

L’ HISTOIRE, SCIENCE ET FICTION 95 nit plus ni la visibilité de son statut de théatre ni le code de sa fabrication. L’«élucidation» professionnelle du passé en fait autant. b. Le récit qui parle au nom du réel est injonctif. I « signifie » comme on signifie un ordre. A cet égard, l’actualité (ce réel quotidien) joue le méme role que la divinité de jadis: les prétres, les temoins ou les ministres de lactualité la font parler pour ordonner en son nom. Certes, «faire parler» le réel, ce n’est plus révéler les secrets vouloirs

d’un Auteur. Désormais, des chiffres et des données tiennent lieu de ces secrets «révélés». Pourtant la structure reste la méme: elle consiste a dicter interminablement, au nom du «reel», ce qu'il faut dire, ce qu’il faut croire et ce qu’il faut faire. Et qu’opposer a des «faits»? La loi qui se raconte en données et en chiffres (c’est-a-dire en termes fabriqués par des techniciens mais présentes comme la manifestation de l’autorite derniere, le Réel) constitue notre orthodoxie, un immense discours de l’ordre. On sait qu’il en va de meme pour la littérature historiographique. Bien des analyses le montrent aujourd’ hui: elle a toujours été un discours pédagogique et normatif, nationaliste ou militant. Mais en enoncant ce qu'il faut penser et ce qu'il faut faire, ce discours dogmatique n’a pas besoin de se justifier, puisqu il parle au nom du réel. c. Bien plus, ce récit est efficace. En pretendant raconter du réel, il en fabrique. Il est performatif. Il rend croyable ce qu’il dit, et il

fait agir en conséquence. En produisant des croyants, il produit des pratiquants. L’ information déclare: « L’anarchisme est dans vos rues, le crime est a votre porte!» Le public aussitot s’arme et se barricade.

L’information ajoute: «Les criminels sont des étrangers, on a des indices». Le public cherche des coupables, dénonce des gens et va voter leur mort ou leur exil. La narration historienne dévalue ou privilégie des pratiques, elle exorbite des conflits, elle enflamme des nationalismes ou des racismes, elle organise ou déclenche des comportements. Elle fait ce qu’elle dit. Jean-Pierre Faye l’a analysé dans ses Langages totalitaires*, a propos du nazisme. Nous connaissons bien

d’autres cas de ces récits fabriqués en série et qui font histoire. Les voix charmeuses de la narration transforment, déplacent et regulent l’espace social. Elles exercent un pouvoir immense, mais un pouvoir qui échappe au controéle puisqu’il se présente comme la vraie représentation de ce qui se passe ou de ce qui s’est passe. L’histoire professionnelle, par les sujets qu’elle sélectionne, par les problematiques qu’elle privilégie, par les documents et les modeles qu’elle utilise, a une opérativité analogue. Sous le nom de science, elle arme aussi et elle mobilise des clienteles. Aussi, souvent plus lucides que les historiens eux-mémes, les pouvoirs politiques ou Economiques se sont toujours efforcés de la mettre de leur coété, de la flatter, de la payer, de lPorienter, de la controler ou de la mater. 4 Jean-Pierre FAYE, Les langages totalitaires, Paris, Hermann, 1973.

% MICHEL DE CERTEAU II. - SCIENTIFICITE ET HISTOIRE: L’INFORMATIQUE Pour combiner une mise en scene et un pouvoir, le discours se rattache a l’institution qui lui vaut a la fois une légitimité a l’égard du public et une dépendance par rapport au jeu des forces sociales. L’entreprise garantit le papier ou l'image comme discours du réel pour les lecteurs ou spectateurs, en méme temps que, par son fonctionnement interne, elle articule la production sur ensemble des pratiques sociales. Mais il y a chassé-croisé entre ces deux aspects. Les représentations ne sont autorisées a parler au nom du réel que dans la mesure ou elles font oublier les conditions de leur fabrication. Or c’est l’institution aussi qui opere l’alliage de ces contraires. De ces luttes, réegles , et procédures sociales communes, elle impose les contraintes 4 |’ acti- -vité productrice et elle en autorise |’ occultation par le discours produit. Assurées par le milieu professionnel, ces pratiques peuvent des lors étre cachées par la représentation. Mais la situation est-elle si para— doxale? L’élément exclu du discours est justement ce qui fait la cohe-

| sion pratique du groupe (savant).

Cette pratique n’est €videmment pas réductible a ce qui la fait

classer dans le genre de lhistoriographie générale. Comme , « scientifique», elle a des traits spécifiques. Jen prendrai pour exem-

ple le fonctionnement de l’informatique dans le champ du travail his-

toriographique spécialisé, ou professionnel. Avec |’informatique, s’est ouverte la possibilité du quantitatif, étude sérielle des rapports variables entre unités stables, sur une longue durée. Pour l’historien, c’est lle Fortunée. Enfin il va pouvoir arracher l’historiographie 4 ses relations compromettantes avec la rhétorique, avec tous les usages métonymiques ou métaphoriques du détail supposé significatif d’un ensemble, avec toutes les ruses oratoires de la persuasion. I] va pouvoir

la degager de sa dépendance a l’égard de la culture ambiante, dont les prejuges découpent a l’avance des postulats, des unités et des interprétations. Grace a l’informatique, il devient capable de maitriser le nombre, de construire des régularités et de déterminer des périodicités d’apres des courbes de corrélations, — trois points névralgiques dans la stratégie de son travail. Une ivresse statisticienne a donc saisi ’historiographie. Les livres se remplissent de chiffres, garants d’une

objectivité. ,

Hélas, il a fallu désensorceler ces espoirs, méme sans aller —

jusqu’a parler, comme Jack Douglas ou Herbert Simons le faisaient dernierement, de «rhétorique des chiffres>». L’ambition de mathé> Jack D. DouGLas, «The rhetoric of science and the origins of statistical social thought», dans Edward A. TiRYAKIAN (ed.), The Phenomenon of Sociology,

New York, Appleton-Century-Crofts, 1969, pp. 44-57; Herbert W. Simons, «Are scientists rhetors in disguise? An analysis of discursive processes within scientific . communities», dans Eugene E. WHITE (ed.), Rhetoric in Transition. The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1980, pp. 115-130.

L’HISTOIRE, SCIENCE ET FICTION 97 matiser Vhistoriographie a pour contrepartie une historicisation de cette mathématique particuliére qu’est la statistique. Dans cette analyse mathématicienne de la société, il faut en effet souligner 1° son rapport a ses conditions de possibilité historiques, 2° les reductions techniques qu’elle impose, et donc la relation entre ce qu'elle traite et ce qu’elle laisse hors d’elle, 3° enfin son fonctionnement effectif dans le champs historiographiques, c’est-a-dire le mode de sa récupération ou de son assimilation par la discipline qu’elle est supposée transformer. Ce sera une autre manieére d’assister aux retours de la fiction dans une pratique scientifique.

1. Apparemment, rien de plus étranger aux avatars de l’histoire que cette scientificite mathématicienne. En sa pratique theorisante, la mathématique se définit par la capacité qu’a son discours de déterminer les regles de sa production, d’étre «consistant» (c’est-a-

dire sans contradiction entre ses énoncés), «propre» (c’est-a-dire sans équivocité) et contraignant (interdisant par sa forme tout refus de son contenu). Son écriture dispose ainsi d’une autonomie qui fait de

«lélégance» le principe interne de son développement. En fait, son application al’ analyse de la société releve de circonstances de temps et de lieu. Méme si, au 17¢ siecle, John Craig, avec ses «rules of historical evidence», envisage déja de calculer les probalités du temoignage dans sa Theologia ... mathematica®, c’est au 18¢ siecle que Condor-

cet fonde une «mathématique sociale» et entreprend un calcul des « probabilités » qui régissent, pense-t-il, les « motifs de croire» et donc

les choix pratiques des individus réunis en société’. Alors seulement prend forme l’idée d’une société mathématisable, principe et postulat de toutes les analyses qui, depuis, traitent mathématiquement la réalité sociale.

Cette «idée» n’allait pas de soi, bien que le projet d’un société régie par la raison remonte a la République de Platon. Pour que la «langue des calculs», comme disait Condillac, définisse le discours dune science sociale, il a fallu d’abord qu’une société soit tenue pour une totalité composée d’unités individuelles et combinant leurs vouloirs: cet «individualisme», né avec la modernité §, est le présupposeé d’un traitement mathématique des rapports possibles entre ces unités, 6 John CraiGc, Theologiae christianae principia mathematica, London, 1699. Cf. le texte latin et une traduction des «rules of historical evidence» dans History and Theory, Betheft n° 4, 1964. 7’ Conporcet, Mathématique et société, Paris, Hermann, 1974. La question traitée par Condorcet en 1785 avait déja été abordée par Jean-Charles de Borda (Mémoire Sur les élections au scrutin, 1781). Reprise par Kenneth J. Arrow (Social Choice and Individual Values, New York, 1963), elle a recu un traitement qui a valu a son auteur un prix Nobel. 8 Cf. C.B. MAcCPHERSON, The Political Theory of Possessive Individualism, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1962; Alan MACFARLANE, The Origins of English Individualism, Cambridge University Press, 1978.

28 MICHEL DE CERTEAU | tout comme il est, a la méme époque, le présupposé de la conception

, d’une société démocratique. De plus, trois conditions circonstantielles lent cette idee a une conjoncture historique: un progres technique

des mathematiques (le calcul des probabilités, etc.), indissociable d’ailleurs de approche quantitative de la nature et de la déduction des lois universelles, caractéristiques de la scientificité au 18¢ siecle? ; P organisation sociopolitique d’une administration uniformisant le territoire, centralisant l’ information et fournissant le modele d’une gestion

, genérale des citoyens; enfin la constitution d’une élite bourgeoise | idéologiquement persuadée que son propre pouvoir et la richesse de | la nation seraient assurés par une rationalisation de la société.

, Cette triple determination historique, l’une technique, |’ autre - sociopolitique, la troisieme idéologique et sociale, a été — et demeu-

re — la condition de possibilité des opérations statistiques. Au-

jourd’hui encore, un progres scientifique, un appareil étatique ou international et un milieu technocrate soutiennent l’entreprise informaticienne'®, Autrement dit, la mathématisation de la société n’échappe pas alhistoire. Elle dépend au contraire de découvertes savantes, de structures institutionnelles et de formations sociales dont les implications historiques se développent a travers tout le champ d’une méthodologie anhistorique.

| 2. De plus, la rigueur mathématique se paie d’une stricte restriction du domaine ou elle peut s’exercer. Déja Condorcet procédait a une triple reduction. Dans sa «mathématique sociale», il supposait a) qu’on agit selon ce qu’on croit, b) que la croyance peut se ramener

a des «motifs de croire», et c) que ces «motifs» se réduisent a des probabilités. I lui faut bien découper dans le réel un objet mathématisable. I] laisse donc hors de ses calculs un énorme déchet, toute la complexité sociale et psychologique des choix. Sa «science des stratégies» combine des simulacres. Génie mathématicien, que calcule-til finalement de la société qu’il prétend analyser? La rigoureuse nouveauté de la méthode a pour prix la transformation de son objet en

, fiction. Des la fin du 18¢ siecle d’ailleurs, comme l’a montré Peter Hanns Reill a propos des débuts de lhistoricisme allemand!!, le

en histoire. ,

modele mathématique est récusé au profit d’un évolutionnisme (qui va

, de pair avec I’historicisation de la linguistique) '?, avant que le structuralisme macro-economique du 20¢ siecle ne restaure aussi ce modéle

° Cf. Morris KLINE, Mathematics in Western Culture, Oxford University Press, 1972, pp. 190-286. | , | 10 Cf. par exemple «IBM ou |’émergence d’une nouvelle dictature», dans Les Temps modernes, n° 351, octobre 1975. , '' Cf. Peter Hanns REILL, The German Enlightenment and the Rise of Historicism, University of California Press, 1975, p. 231, etc. '* Cf. M. DE CERTEAU et al., Une politique de la langue, Paris, Gallimard, 1975, chap. 4, « Théorie et fiction (1760-1780): De Brosses et Court de Gébelin».

L’ HISTOIRE, SCIENCE ET FICTION 29 Aujourd’hui, des restrictions drastiques permettent seules, en histoire, usage de la statistique, forme pourtant élémentaire de la mathématique. Ainsi, au départ méme de l’opération, on ne peut retenir du matériau que ce qui est susceptible d’étre constitué en séries (ce qui favorisera une histoire urbanistique ou une histoire électorale, au détriment d’autres histoires, laissées en friche ou abandonnées a un artisanat d’amateurs). On doit aussi définir les unités traitées de maniere que le signe (objet chiffré) ne soit jamais identifié aux choses ou aux mots, dont les variations historiques ou sémantiques compromettraient la stabilite du signe et donc la validité du calcul. Aux restrictions exigées par le «lavage» des données, s’ajoutent celles qu’ imposent les limites des instruments théorique Par exemple, il faudrait une «logique floue» capable de traiter les catégories du genre «un peu», «assez», « peut-étre», etc., qui sont caractéristiques du champ historique. Malgré les recherches récentes qui, a partir des notions de « pro-

ximité» ou de «distance» entre objets, introduisent des ensembles «flous» dans l’analyse!, les algorithmes informatiques se réduisent a

trois ou quatre formules. ,

Nous avons tous l’expérience des éliminations qu’il a fallu effectuer dans le matériau parce qu’il n’était pas traitable selon les régles imposées. Je pourrais raconter les avatars de recherches historiques,

par exemple sur les Etats généraux de 1614 ou sur les Cahiers de doleance de 1789, objets finalement rejetés hors du champ clos de informatique. Des le niveau élémentaire des unités a découper, et pour de trés bonnes raisons, l’opération mathématique exclut des régions entieres de Vhistoricité. Elle crée d’immenses déchets, refusés par le computer et amoncelés autour de lui. 3. Dans la mesure ou elles sont respectées dans la pratique effective de lhistorien, ces contraintes produisent un apurement technique et méthodologique. Elles génerent des effets de scientificité. Pour caractériser ces effets, on pourrait dire, d’une facon générale, que la ou il s’introduit, le calcul multiplie les hypotheses et permet de falsifier certaines d’entre elles. D’une part les combinaisons entre les éléments qu’on a isolés suggerent des relations jusque-la insoupconnées. D’autre part le calcul sur de grands nombres interdit des interprétations fondées sur des cas particuliers ou sur des idées recues. I] y a donc augmentation des possibles et détermination d’impossibles. Le calcul ne prouve rien. [I] accroit le nombre des relations formelles légitimes entre éléments abstraitement définis, et il désigne les hypo-

theses a rejeter parce que mal formulées, ou pas traitables, ou contraires aux résultats de l’analyse "4.

Larousse, 1975. |

[3 Cf. par exemple Charles CorGE, Informatique et démarche de Il’ esprit, Paris,

‘4 Sur Panalyse historique par computer, cf. Charles TiLLy, «Computers in historical analysis», dans Computers and the Humanities, vol. 7, n° 6, 1973, pp. 323-335.

30 MICHEL DE CERTEAU , Mais, de la sorte, le calcul ne s’occupe plus fondamentalement du «réel». C’est une gestion d’unités formelles. L’histoire effective est, en fait, mise a la porte de ses laboratoires. Aussi la réaction des historiens est-elle tres ambigué. Simultanément, ils en veulent et ils n’en veulent pas. A la fois séduits et rebelles. Je ne parle pas ici d’une compatibilité théorique, mais d’une situation de fait. Elle doit avoir un sens. A l’examiner telle qu’elle se présente, on peut repérer trois aspects au moins de ce fonctionnement effectif de l’informatique en historiographie.

a) A distinguer, comme il se doit, l’informatique (ou la statistique joue un faible role), le calcul des probabilités, la statistique elleméme (et la statistique appliquée), l’analyse des données, etc., on peut dire que, généralement, les historiens se sont cantonnés dans ce dernier secteur: le traitement quantitatif des données. C’est essentiellement pour constituer de nouvelles archives que le computer est utilisé. Ces archives, publiques ou privées, doublent et progressivement remplacent les anciennes archives. Il existe de remarquables banques de données, ainsi l’Inter University Consortium for Political and Social Research (1.C.P.S.R.) de l’Université de Michigan (Ann Arbor), | grace au systeme Fox, ou les banques archivistiques créées en France aux Archives Nationales par Remi Matthieu et Ivan Cloulas en ce qui concerne |’administration communale du 19¢ siécle ou au Minutier central des notaires parisiens. Ce développement considérable n’en est pas moins circonscrit dans l’archivistique, discipline traditionnellement tenue pour « auxiliaire» et distinguée du travail interprétatif que l’historien se réservait comme son champ propre. Bien qu’en transformant la documentation il transforme aussi les possibilités de l’interprétation!5, le computer _ est donc logé dans une case particuliére de |’entreprise historiographique, a l’intérieur du cadre préétabli qui protégeait l’autonomie de hermeéneutique. On ne lui alloue qu’une place d’« auxiliaire », encore _ déterminée par le modele ancien qui distinguait le rassemblement des données et l’élucidation du sens, et qui hiérarchisait les techniques. Cette combinaison permet en principe a l’historien d’ utiliser le calcul, - sans avoir a Se plier a ses regles. Elle explique sans doute qu’il y ait, au niveau des démarches intellectuelles, comme le constatait Charles Tilly!®, si peu de confrontations épistémologiques entre |’opération mathématique et l’opération interprétative, et que, malgré des tensions, des porosités et des déplacements réciproques, se maintienne ainsi une sorte de bilinguisme épistémologique. b) Utilisee par les historiens comme un fournisseur de données plus sures et plus étendues au lieu d’étre pratiqué au titre des opéra'S Cf. Francois Furet, «Le quantitatif en histoire», dans Jacques LE GorF et Pierre Nora (éds.), Faire de l’histoire, Paris, Gallimard, 1974, I, pp. 42-61. '© Charles TILLY, op. cit., pp. 333-334.

L’HISTOIRE, SCIENCE ET FICTION 3] tions formelles qu’il met en jeu, le computer apparait dans leurs travaux sous Sa figure actuelle de pouvoir technocratique. I] s’introduit dans Vhistoriographie au titre d’une réalité socio-économique plutot

qu’au titre dun ensemble de regles et d’hypotheses propres a un champ scientifique. C’est d’ailleurs une réaction d’historien, et non de

mathématicien. Le computer s’inscrit dans le discours du premier comme une donnée contemporaine massive et déterminante. L’institution historienne se réfere au pouvoir qui modifie transversalement toutes les régions de la vie socio-économique. Aussi chaque livre d’histoire doit-il comporter une base statistique minimale qui tout a la fois garantit le sérieux de l’étude et rend

hommage au pouvoir réorganisateur de notre appareil producteur.

Les deux gestes, l'un de conformité a une méthode technique

contemporaine et l’autre de dédicace a |’autorité regnante, ne sont pas séparables. C’est le méme geste. De ce point de vue, le tribut que Pérudition contemporaine paie au computer serait |’équivalent de la « Dédicace au Prince» dans les livres du 17¢ siecle: une reconnais-

sance de dette a l’égard du pouvoir qui surdétermine la rationalite dune époque. L’institution informaticienne aujourd’ hui, comme I’institution princiére et généalogique hier, apparait dans le texte sous la figure d’une force qui a raison et s’impose au discours de la représentation. Par rapport a ces deux pouvoirs successifs, l’historien est d’ailleurs €galement dans la position de leur étre proche mais étranger. II est «aupres» du computer comme naguere il était « aupres» du roi. I

analyse et mime des opérations qu'il n’effectue que de loin. Il les utilise mais il n’en est pas. En somme il fait de histoire, mais il ne fait pas histoire. Il la re-présente. c) Par contre, la dédicace a cette scientificité accrédite son texte. Elle joue le role de citation autorisante. Entre toutes les autorités auxquelles le discours historiographique se refere, elle est celle qui lui vaut le plus de légitimité. En effet, ce qui accrédite, c’est en dernier ressort toujours le pouvoir, car 11 fonctionne comme une ga-

rantie de réel, a la maniere dont un capital-or valide les papiers et billets de banque. Cette raison, qui porte le discours de la représentation vers le pouvoir, est plus fondamentale que des motivations psychologiques ou politiques. Or le pouvoir a aujourd’hui la forme technocrate de l’informatique. Le citer, c’est donc, grace a cette «autorite», donner de la crédibilité a la représentation. Par le tribut qu’elle

| paie a l’ informatique, (historiographie fait croire qu’elle n’est pas de la fiction. Ses démarches scientifiques articulent encore quelque chose qui ne lest pas: ’ hommage rendu au computer soutient l’ antique ambition de faire passer le discours historique pour un discours du reéel. A cette problématique du «faire croire» par la citation du pouvoir, S’ajoute, comme son corollaire, une problématique du «croire »

qui est liée a la citation de l’autre. Les deux sont liées, le pouvoir

3? MICHEL DE CERTEAU étant autre du discours. Je prendrai pour exemple le rapport qu’une discipline particuli¢re entretient avec une autre. Dans |’expérience que j'ai des collaborations entre historiens et informaticiens, une illu-

sion réciproque fait supposer, de chaque cote, que |’autre discipline ,

lui garantira ce qui lui manque, — une référence a du reel. A l’informatique, les historiens demandent d’étre accredités par un pouvoir

scientifique susceptible de fournir du «sérieux» a leur discours. A

lhistoriographie, les informaticiens, inquiets de leur habileté méme a manipuler des unités formelles, demandent un lestage de leurs calculs par le «concret» et par les particularités de l’érudition. Sur le bord de chaque territoire, on fait jouer au champ voisin le role de compenser les deux conditions de toute recherche scientifique moderne, d’une part sa limitation (qui est renoncement a la totalisation) et d’autre part sa nature de langage artificiel (qui est renoncement a étre un discours du réel), ou de représentation. Pour se constituer, une science doit faire son deuil et de la tota-

lite et de la réalite. Mais ce qu'il lui faut exclure ou perdre pour se former revient sous la figure de Il’autre, dont on continue a attendre une garantie contre le manque qui est a l’origine de nos savoirs. Un «croire a l'autre» est le mode sur lequel se présente le fantome d’ une

science totalisante et ontologique. La réintroduction plus ou moms | marginale de ce modele de science traduit le refus du deuil qu’a marqué la rupture entre le discours (l’écriture) et le «réel» (la présence). Il n’est pas surprenant que l’historiographie, de toutes les disciplines

sans doute la plus antique et la plus hantée par le passé, soit un

champ privilégié pour le retour du fantome. L’usage du computer, en particulier, y est indissociable de ce qu’il permet aux historiens de faire croire, et de ce qu’il suppose de croyance chez eux. Ce surcroit (cette super-stition) de passé joue dans leur maniere d’employer les

techniques modernes. Aussi est-ce dans sa relation méme a la

scientificité, a la mathématique, a l’informatique, que I’ historiographie est «historique». Non plus au sens ou elle produit une interpreé-

tation de périodes anciennes, mais au sens ou le passé (ce que les sciences modernes ont rejeté ou perdu et constitué comme passé — une chose finie, séparée) se produit en elle et se raconte.

Ill. - SCIENCE-FICTION, OU LE LIEU DU TEMPS Ce combiné serait I’historique méme: un retour du passé dans le discours présent. Plus largement, ce mixte (science et fiction) trouble

la coupure qui a instauré Vhistoriographie moderne comme rapport entre un «présent» et un «passé» distincts, Pun «sujet» et l'autre «objet» d’un savoir, l'un producteur du discours et lautre representé. En fait, cet ob-jet, ob-jectum, supposé extérieur au laboratoire,

| en détermine du dedans les opérations.

L’HISTOIRE, SCIENCE ET FICTION 33 Ce combiné passe fréquemment pour l’effet d’une archéologie qu’il faudrait peu a peu éliminer de la bonne science, ou pour un « mal nécessaire» a tolérer comme une inguérissable maladie. Mais il peut

aussi, comme je le crois, constituer index d’un statut epistémologique propre, et donc d’une fonction et d’une scientificité a reconnaitre pour elles-mémes. En ce cas, il faut tirer au jour les aspects « honteux » que l’historiographie croit devoir cacher. La formation discursive qul apparait alors est un entre-deux. Elle a ses normes, qui ne correspon-

dent pas au modele, toujours transgressé, auquel on veut croire ou faire croire qu’elle obéit. Science et fiction, cette science-fiction joue, comme d’autres hétérologies, a la jointure du discours scientifique et du langage ordinaire, la aussi ou le passé se conjugue au présent, et ou les interrogations qui n’ont pas de traitement technique reviennent en métaphores narratives. En terminant, je voudrais seulement préciser quelques-unes des questions qu’aurait pour objectifs ? élucidation de ce mixte.

{. Une repolitisation. — Nos sciences sont nées avec le geste historique «moderne» qui a dépolitisé la recherche en instaurant des champs «désintéressés» et «neutres», soutenus par des institutions scientifiques. Ce geste continue bien souvent a organiser l’idéologie qu’affichent certains milieux scientifiques. Mais le développement de

ce que ce geste a rendu possible en a inversé la portée. Depuis

longtemps, les institutions scientifiques, muées en puissances logistiques, s’emboitent dans le systeme qu’elles rationalisent mais qui les connecte entre elles, qui leur fixe des orientations et qui assure leur intégration socio-économique. Cet effet d’assimilation est naturellement plus lourd dans les disciplines dont [élaboration technique est plus faible. C’est le cas de l’historiographie. I] faut donc aujourd’hui «repolitiser» les sciences. J’entends par la: réarticuler leur appareil technique sur les champs de forces a] inté-

rieur et en fonction desquels il produit des opérations et des discours. Cette tache est par excellence historienne. L’historiographie s’est toujours logee sur la frontiere du discours et de la force, telle une guerre entre le sens et la violence. Mais apres trois ou quatre siecles pendant lesquels on a cru pouvoir dominer ce rapport, le situer a Pextérieur du savoir pour en faire son «objet», et l’analyser sous la forme d’un «passé», il faut aujourd’ hui reconnaitre que le conflit du discours et de la force surplombe Vhistoriographie en méme temps qu'il lui est intérieur. L’élucidation se déploie sous la domination de

ce quelle traite. Elle doit expliciter un rapport interne et actuel au pouvoir (comme c’était le cas hier pour la relation au prince). Elle évitera seule a ’historiographie de créer des simulacres qui, en supposant une autonomie scientifique, ont précisément pour effet d’eéliminer tout traitement sérieux de la relation que le langage (de sens ou de communication) entretient avec des jeux de force.

34 | | MICHEL DE CERTEAU Techniquement, cette «repolitisation» consiste a « historiciser » _ [Phistoriographie elle-méme. Par réflexe professionnel, lhistorien reéfére tout discours aux conditions socio-économiques ou mentales de sa production. I] lui faut effectuer aussi cette analyse sur son propre discours, de maniére a rendre sa pertinence aux forces présentes qui

- organisent des représentations du passé. Son travail meme sera le laboratoire ou experimenter comment une symbolique s’articule sur

- une politique. | |

2. Penser le temps. — Par la se trouve modifiée l’épistémologie qui différenciait du sujet un objet et qui, par voie de consequence, réduisait le temps a la fonction de classifier les objets. En historiographie, les deux causes, celle de l’objet et celle du temps,

sont en effet liées, et sans doute |’ objectivation du passé, depuis trois siecles, a-t-elle fait du temps l’impensé d’une discipline qui ne cesse de l’utiliser comme un instrument taxinomique. Dans l’épistémologie

née avec les lumieres, la difference entre le sujet du savoir et son objet fonde celle qui sépare du présent le passé. A l’intérieur d’une

actualité sociale stratifiée, Ihistoriographie définissait comme «passé» (comme un ensemble d’altérités et de «résistances» a , comprendre ou a rejeter) ce qui n’appartenait pas au pouvoir (politi- | , que, social, scientifique) de produire un présent. Autrement dit, est «passé» lobjet dont un appareil de production se distingue pour le , transformer. Depuis le geste qui a constitué des archives jusqu’a celui

qui a fait des campagnes le musée de traditions mémorables et/ou

, superstitieuses, la coupure qui, a l’intérieur d’une société, circonscrit un «passé» releve du rapport qu’une ambition productrice entretient

a avec ce qui n’est pas elle, avec le milieu dont elle s’arrache, avec

environnement qu’elle doit conquérir, avec les résistances qu’elle rencontre, etc. Elle a pour modele le rapport d’une entreprise avec son extériorité, dans le méme champ économique. Les documents «passés» sont donc relatifs a un appareil fabricateur, et traités selon

ses regles. |

Dans cette conception typique de économie «bourgeoise» et - conquérante, frappe le fait que le temps, c’est l’extériorité, c’est l autre. Aussi n’apparait-il, a la maniere d’un systeme monétaire, que comme un principe de classification pour les données situées dans cet — espace objectif externe. Muée en mesure taxinomique des choses, la chronologie devient l’alibi du temps, un moyen de se servir du temps

sans le penser et d’exiler hors du savoir ce principe de mort et de passage (ou de métaphore). Reste le temps interne de la production, mais, transformée a l’intérieur en une sérialité rationnelle d’opérations, et objectivée au dehors en un systeme métrique d’unités chro-

nologiques, cette expérience n’a plus qu’un langage éthique: |’ impéra- |

tif de produire, principe de l’ascese capitaliste. Peut-étre qu’a restaurer l’ambiguité qui saisit le rapport objet-

sujet ou passé-présent, Vhistoriographie reviendrait a sa tache an-

L’ HISTOIRE, SCIENCE ET FICTION 35 cienne, philosophique autant que technique, de dire le temps comme Pambivalence méme qui affecte le lieu ot elle est, et donc de penser Péquivocité du lieu comme le travail du temps a l’intérieur méme de la place du savoir. Par exemple, l’archéologie qui métaphorise |’emploi, pourtant technique, de l’informatique, fait apparaitre dans I effectivité de la production historiographique cette expérience, essen-

tielle au temps, qu’est Vimpossibilité de s’identifier au lieu. Que «lautre» soit déja la, dans la place, c’est le mode sur lequel s’y insinue le temps'’. Le temps peut revenir aussi dans la pensée historiographique par une modification corollaire qui concerne la pratique et

| la conception de objet, et non plus celles du lieu. Ainsi «l’ histoire

immeédiate» n’autorise plus a se distancer de son « objet» qui, en fait, la domine, l’enveloppe et la replace dans le réseau de toutes les autres

«histoires». De méme, «l’histoire orale», quand elle ne se contente pas de transcrire et d’exorciser ces voix dont jadis la disparition etait la condition de l’historiographie: s’il se met a entendre, sans s’arréter ace qu’il peut voir ou lire, le professionnel découvre en face de lui des interlocuteurs qui, bien que non spécialistes, sont eux aussi des sujets producteurs d’histoires et des partenaires du discours. Du rapport sujet-objet, on passe a une pluralité d’auteurs et de contractants. Elle substitue a la hiérarchie des savoirs une différenciation mutuelle des sujets. Des lors, la relation qu’entretient avec d’autres la place particuliere ou se tient le technicien, introduit une dialectique de ces places, c’est-a-dire une expérience du temps. 3. Le sujet du savoir. — Que la place ou se produit le discours soit pertinente, cela apparait naturellement davantage la oti le discours

historiographique traite de questions qui mettent en cause le sujet historien: histoire des femmes, des Noirs, des Juifs, des minorites culturelles, etc. Certes, dans ces secteurs, on peut tour a tour soutenir que le statut personnel de I’auteur est indifférent (par rapport a I’ objectivité de son travail) ou que lui seul autorise ou invalide le discours

(selon qu’on «en est» ou pas). Mais ce débat appelle précisément ’explicitation de ce qui a été occulté par une épistémologie, a savoir impact des relations de sujets a sujets (femmes et hommes, Noirs et Blancs, etc.) dans l’emploi des techniques apparemment « neutres» et dans ]’organisation de discours peut-étre également scientifiques. Par exemple, du fait de la différenciation entre sexes, doit-on conclure

qu’une femme produit une autre historiographie que celle d’un homme? Je ne réponds évidemment pas, mais je constate que cette interrogation met en cause la place du sujet, et oblige a en traiter, contrairement a l’épistémologie qui a construit la « vérité » de l’ceuvre

sur la non-pertinence du locuteur. Interroger le sujet du savoir, c’est ‘7 Sur ce «retour» du passé dans le présent, cf. M. de Certeau, « Histoire et psychanalyse», dans Jacques LE GorF et al., La nouvelle histoire, Paris, CEPL, Retz, 1978, pp. 477-487.

36 MICHEL DE CERTEAU également avoir a penser le temps, s’il est vrai que le sujet s’ organise comme une stratification de temps hétérogenes et que, femme, Noir

ou basque, il est structuré par son rapport a l’autre'®. Le temps est précisément lVimpossibilité de l’identité au lieu. Par la commence donc une réflexion sur le temps. Le probleme de l’histoire s’inscrit dans la place de ce sujet qui est en lui-méme jeu de la différence, historicité de la non-identité a sol. Par le double mouvement qui trouble dans leur sécurité le lieu et l objet de V’historiographie en y introduisant le temps, revient aussi le

discours de laffect ou des passions. Apres avoir été centrale dans analyse d’une société jusqu’a la fin du 18¢ siecle (Gjusqu’a Spinoza,

, Hume, Locke, ou Rousseau), la théorie des passions et des intéréts a

été lentement éliminée par l’é€conomie objectiviste qui, au 19¢ siecle, lui a substitué une interprétation rationnelle des rapports de production et n’a gardé de l’ancienne élaboration qu’un reste, permettant de donner au nouveau systeme un ancrage en des «besoins». Apres un

siecle de rejet, économie des affects a fait retour sur le mode freudien d’une économie de l’inconscient. Avec Totem et Tabou, Malaise dans la civilisation ou Moise et le monothéisme, se présente, nécessairement relative a un refoulé, l’analyse qui articule de nouveau les investissements du sujet sur les structurations collectives. Ces affects sont des revenants dans l|’ordre d’une raison socio-économique. Ils permettent de formuler, dans la théorie ou dans la pratique historiographique, des questions dont il existe déja bien des expressions, depuis les essais de Paul Veyne sur le désir de l’historien!?, celui d’ Albert Hirschman sur le disappointment en économie ”°®, celui de Martin Duberman sur l’inscription du sujet sexué dans son objet historique ?',

ou celui de Régine Robin sur la structuration de l’étude par les scénes mythiques de l’enfance*?. De la sorte s’inaugure une épistémologie differente de celle qui définissait la place du savoir par un lieu « propre» et qui mesurait l’autorité du «sujet du savoir» a l’élimination de toute question relative au locuteur. En explicitant cet éliminé, |’historiographie se trouve de nouveau renvoyée a la particularité d’une place ordinaire, aux affects réciproques qui structurent des représen18 Sur le plan collectif, le méme probleme se pose, comme le montre, par exemple, la relation difficile qu’entretient la nouvelle historiographie noire africaine, de type nationaliste, avec la pluralité ethnique de son objet-sujet. Cf. Bogumil JEwsre+

wickI, «L’histoire en Afrique et le commerce des idées usagées», dans Canadian Journal of African Studies, vol. 13, n° 1-2, 1979, pp. 69-87. ‘9 Paul VEYNE, Comment on écrit histoire, Paris, Seuil, 1971. (20 Albert O. HIRSCHMAN, The Passions and the Interests. Political Arguments for Capitalism before its Triumph, Princeton University Press, 1977 et Private Interest and Public Action, ibid., 1982. 21 Martin DUBERMAN, Black Mountain. An exploration in community, New York, Dutton, 1973.

22, Régine Rosin, Le cheval blanc de Lénine ou V’histoire autre, Bruxelles, Complexe, 1979.

LY HISTOIRE, SCIENCE ET FICTION 37 tations, et aux passés qui déterminent de l’intérieur l’usage des techniques.

4. Science et fiction. — Que les identités de temps, de lieu, de sujet et d’objet supposées par Vhistoriographie classique ne «tiennent» pas et soient atteintes d’un «bougé» qui les trouble, la prolifération de la fiction le marque depuis longtemps. Mais c’est une part tenue pour honteuse et illégitime —- une obscure moitié que la discipline denie. Il est d’ailleurs curieux que l’historiographie ait été, au 17¢ siecle, placée a l’extreme opposé: l’historien généraliste se faisait

gloire, alors, de pratiquer le genre rhétorique par excellence23. En trois siecles, la discipline a passé d’un pole a l’autre. Cette oscillation est déja le symptome d’un statut. Il faudrait en préciser la courbe et analyser, en particulier, la progressive différenciation qui, au 18¢ siecle, a séparé des «lettres» les «sciences»: lhistoriographie s’est trouvee distendue entre les deux continents auxquels l’attachait son role traditionnel de science «globale» et de conjonction symbolique sociale. Elle Vest restée, quoique sur des modes variables. Mais

amelioration de ses techniques et l’évolution générale du savoir l’'amenent de plus en plus a camoufler ses liens, scientifiquement ina-

vouables, avec ce qui, pendant ce temps, a pris forme de «|littérature». Ce camouflage y introduit précisément le simulacre qu’elle

refuse d’étre. Pour rendre sa légitimité a la fiction qui hante le champ de [’historiographie, il faut d’abord «reconnaitre» dans le discours légitimé comme scientifique le refoulé qui a pris forme de «littérature». Les

ruses du discours avec le pouvoir afin de utiliser sans le servir, les apparitions de objet comme acteur fantastique dans la place méme du «sujet du savoir», les répétitions et les retours du temps supposé passé, les déguisements de la passion sous le masque d’une raison, etc.: tout cela releve de la fiction, au sens «litteraire» du terme. La fiction n’en est pas pour autant étrangere au réel. Au contraire, Jeremy Bentham le notait déja au 18¢ siecle, le discours fictitious en est plus proche que le discours « objectif»*+. Mais une autre logique est ici en jeu, qui n’est pas celle des sciences positives. Elle a commenceé

a faire retour avec Freud. Son élucidation serait une des taches de

Vhistoriographie. Sous ce premier aspect, la fiction est reconnaissable

la ot il n’y a pas un lieu propre et univoque, c’est-a-dire la ou de 23. Cf. Marc FUMAROLI, « Les Mémoires du XVII¢ siecle au carrefour des gen-

res en prose», dans XVIT¢ siecle, n° 94-95, 1971, p. 7-37; F. Smith FUSSNER, The Historical Revolution. English Historical Writing and Thought, 1580-1640, Westport, Greenwood Press, 1962, pp. 299-321.

*4 Une théorie des fictions linguistiques (manipulations et projets dans le champ du langage) et du symbolisme (en particulier des «incomplete symbols») permet a Jeremy Bentham d’analyser les effets de réel propres au fictitious et les opérations effectives liées a une logique du «comme si». Cf. C.K. OGDEN, Bentham’s Theory of Fictions, London, Kegan Paul, 1932.

38 , MICHEL DE CERTEAU - Vautre s’insinue dans la place. Le réle si important de la rhétorique — _ dans le champ historiographique est précisément un symptome massif

, de cette logique différente.

Envisagée ensuite comme « discipline», ’historiographie est une

- science qui n’a pas les moyens de l’étre. Son discours prend en charge ce qui résiste le plus a la scientificité (le rapport social a l’événement, a la violence, au passé, ala mort), c’est-a-dire ce que chaque

discipline scientifique a dt éliminer pour se constituer. Mais dans cette position difficile, il cherche a soutenir, par la globalisation tex-

tuelle d’une synthese narrative, la possibilité d’une explication , scientifique. Le « vraisemblable» qui caractérise ce discours défend le

principe d’une explication et le droit a un sens. Le «comme si» du - raisonnement (le style enthymématique des démonstrations historiographiques) a la valeur d’un projet scientifique. Il maintient une croyance a l’intelligibilite des choses qui lui résistent le plus. Aussi

Vhistoriographie juxtapose-t-elle des éléments non cohérents ou _ méme contradictoires, et elle fait souvent semblant de les «expliquer»: elle est le rapport des modeles scientifiques avec leurs déficits.

Cette relation des systémes avec ce qui les déplace ou métaphorise correspond aussi a la manifestation et a notre expérience du temps. Dans cette perspective, le discours historiographique est en lui-méme,

comme discours, la lutte d’une raison avec le temps, mais une raison qui ne renonce pas ace dont elle est encore incapable, une raison en son mouvement éthique. II serait donc a l’avant-garde des sciences comme la fiction de ce qu’elles réussissent partiellement. Une affirma— tion de scientificité régit le discours qui, en lui-méme, conjugue |’ ex-

plicable a ce qui ne l’est pas encore. Ce qui s’y raconte, c’est une fiction de la science méme. | , Tenant toujours sa fonction traditionnelle d’étre une « conjonction», l’historiographie lie ainsi la culture — le légendaire — d’un

- temps ace qui en est déja controlable, corrigible ou interdit par

des pratiques techniques. Elle ne peut etre identifiée a ces pratiques, mais elle est produite par ce qu’elles tracent, enlevent ou confirment dans le langage recu d’un milieu. Le modele traditionnel d’un discours global, symbolisateur et légitimant s’y retrouve donc, mais tra__-vaillé par des instruments et des controles qui appartiennent a l’appareil producteur de notre société. Aussi ni la narrativité totalisante de nos légendes culturelles ni les opérations techniques et critiques ne

| peuvent étre, sans arbitraire, supposées absentes ou éliminables de ce qui aboutit a une représentation au texte ou a l’article d’histoire. Sous

ce biais, chacune de ces représentations, ou la masse qu’elles forment | ensemble, pourrait étre comparée au mythe, si l’on définit le mythe comme un récit troué par les pratiques sociales, c’est-a-dire un discours global articulant des pratiques qu’il ne raconte pas mais qu'il doit respecter et qui, tout a la fois, lui manquent et le surveillent. Nos pratiques techniques sont souvent aussi muettes, aussi circonscrites

L’ HISTOIRE, SCIENCE ET FICTION 39 et aussi essentielles que l’étaient jadis celles de l’initiation, mais elles

sont désormais de type scientifique. C’est relativement a elles que s’élabore le discours historique, en leur assurant une légitimité symbolique mais en les «respectant». Il est nécessaire a leur articulation sociale et pourtant controlé par elles, I] serait ainsi le mythe possible a une société scientifique qui rejette les mythes, la fiction du rapport social entre des pratiques spécifiées et des légendes générales, entre des techniques qui produisent des lieux et des legendes qui symbolisent effet du temps. Je conclurai d’une formule. Le lieu instauré par des procédures de contrdle est lui-méme historicisé par le temps, passé ou futur, qui s’y inscrit comme retour de «Il autre» (un rapport au pouvoir, a des précédents, ou a des ambitions) et qui, « métaphorisant» ainsi le discours d’une science, en fait également une fiction.

Blank Page |

General and Special Histories: The Problem of Objectivity in Cultural Histories by A.P. FELL Queen’s University

Klio hatte eine ganze Schar von Enkeln in threm Haus aufwachsen sehen. Ich meine hier die speziellen Studienfacher, deren Wesen historisch ist, ohne mit Geschichte als solcher zusammenzufallen.

J. HutzinGca, Im Bann der Geschichte. ! I. — INTRODUCTION

In Maurice Mandelbaum’s 1965 article on “‘The History of Ideas, Intellectual History, and the History of Philosophy’’,* I found

the passage from one of the later books by Johan Huizinga which serves as the motto for this paper: ‘‘Clio had seen grow up in her house a whole host of grandchildren. I have in mind here those specific

areas of study which are historical in nature, but which are not identical with history as such.’’ It seemed an appropriate choice because it points so directly to the problem I would like to discuss — that of some basic similarities and differences between histories written by the group of scholars known as professional historians, and those produced by scholars in other areas who have written histories of philosophy, literature, art, science or law — to mention a few examples of what could be a very long list. There is no need to argue for the multifarious character of historical studies. The history of historiography demonstrates the fact with its successive epochs of theologically, morally, and metaphysically informed history. And even when, in the nineteenth century, history was transformed into a professional area of scholarship purposefully { 6. Hurzinca, Im Bann der Geschichte, Zurich-Bruxelles, 1942, p. 16. Quoted in Maurice MANDELBAUM, ‘‘History of Ideas, Intellectual History, and the History

of Philosophy’’, in The Historiography of the History of Philosophy, History and Theory, Betheft 5, 1965, p. 42 nt. 2 Maurice MANDELBAUM, op. cit.

42 A.P. FELL extricating itself from what was perceived to be unnecessary involvement in philosophical and moral concerns, differences in scope and

scale, in strategy of analysis, in modes of expression, and most importantly in aims and preoccupation, produced a wealth and variety of historical accounts plain for the reader to see. Philosophers of history have sometimes been accused of imposing on history models of explanation and concepts of objectivity not adequate to do justice to the diversity of historical practice, but quite independently of the soundness or otherwise of the theories involved, a careful reading of the philosophical works in question seldom reveals insensitivity to the

variety of history. Occasionally a philosopher or historian has made it a program to push the practice of history in a certain direction — J.B. Bury’s inaugural address at Cambridge in 1902, entitled ‘‘The Science of History’’, would serve as an example — but historians have resisted these recommendations insofar as they were seen to have the effect of compromising the richness of their undertakings. But to have

become aware of variety is not to have analyzed and understood it, and as philosophers and historians reflect more deeply on the character of, and reasons for, this diversity, the conclusions reached may have interesting implications for a philosophical grasp of the nature of historiography. Mandelbaum’s second book on the philosophy of history, The Anatomy of Historical Knowledge, which appeared in 1977, some forty years after his first,? was occasioned in large measure by his wish to analyze some neglected differences between types of his-

. tory, and for this reason I have in this paper worked out my own ideas by commenting on Mandelbaum’s considered views, paying special attention to his contention that special histories cannot attain the same level of objectivity as general histories. Naturally the case

depends on how the distinction between these two categories is drawn and on how the concept of objectivity is understood. I will deal

with each of these issues in turn. , ,

, IT. - MANDELBAUM ON GENERAL AND SPECIAL HISTORIES | In focussing on the distinction between general and special histories, Mandelbaum does not wish to deny that a definition of history can be given which covers all types of historical inquiry. He wants to

insist both on the unity and the diversity of history. All historical accounts, he says, ‘‘are concerned to establish through inquiry, and to 3 Maurice MANDELBAUM, The Anatomy of Historical Knowledge (Baltimore and London: the Johns Hopkins University Press, 1977); The Problem of Historical Knowledge: An Answer to Relativism (New York: Live-right Publishing Corporation, 1938). Page references in the text of the paper are to The Anatomy.

GENERAL AND SPECIAL HISTORIES 43 validate through evidence, occurrences that relate to the nature of and changes in a particular society, or —- using the same methods — to trace continuity and changes in those human activities that we may designate forms of culture’ (p. 14). Several general features of Historiography are implicit in this definition. History is idiographic rather than nomothetic in its aims, and depends upon inquiry which makes use of data — not all the data that is accessible concerning the human past, but only that concerning human activities either in their societal context and with their social implications or with reference to some facet of culture.? Also found in this definition of history are the two terms ‘so-

ciety’ and ‘culture’ the meaning of which must be specified more carefully since much depends on the distinction between the two. A society for Mandelbaum “‘consists of individuals living in an organized community that controls a particular territory ; the organization of such a community is provided by institutions that serve to define the status occupied by different individuals and ascribe to them the roles they are expected to play in perpetuating the continuing existence of the community’’ (p. 11). Culture, for Mandelbaum, (following E.B. Tylor) does not include institutions or communal rules of behaviour It is rather a generic term covering “‘language, technology, the arts, religious and philosophical attitudes and beliefs, and whatever other objects, skills, habits, customs, explanatory systems and the like are included in the social inheritance of various individuals living in a particular society’’ (p. 12). Any of these “‘facets of culture’’ as he frequently calls them may, of course, cross the boundaries separating societies. Louis Mink has pointed out that this distinction between society and culture runs so deep that it might well be said to be ontological in

character. ‘‘Societies and their parts and aspects over time are independently real, with structures and characteristics which do not depend on the way we choose to view them. Culture, on the other hand, consists of artifacts and actions; as individual objects and events these are independently real, and so are their resemblances and differ-

ences, and so even are ‘influences’ of the work on another, but they are not parts of any independently real, independently structured whole.’’° There can be a semblance of wholeness to a facet of culture such as philosophy, literature, music, or science, but the boundaries which delineate that wholeness are stipulations of scholars, manifest * Contrary to Mandelbaum’s formulation here, I think it best to consider as historical data all data concerning the human past and to distinguish history in this broad sense from that part of the past which historians have seen fit to write about in their histories. This point, however, is not crucial to the argument of this paper. > Louis MINK, Review Essay on The Anatomy of Historical Knowledge, in History and Theory, XVI, No. 2, 1978, p. 214.

44 , A.P. FELL their idiosyncracies, and are not controlled by the data they are |

considering. ,| , It is with reference to this distinction between society and cul- ©

ture that Mandelbaum’s two types of history, general history and special histories, can be made intelligible. One might even call them ideal

types since any given concrete instance of historiography could exemplify one or other or, in varying degrees, both types of history. | General histories are institutionally oriented histories and they are concerned with the nature of and changes in particular societies. They

focus on politics, economic organization, foreign affairs, changes in forms of social life and of educational and religious institutions and so on, relationships of power being frequently in the limelight, and they differ widely in scope and scale. This web of societal facts with which historians deal forms what Mandelbaum calls ‘‘an indefinitely dense

series’? (p. 15) of interconnected occurrences the intractability of which manifests itself in the data with which historians deal, exercising a salutary control on the historian’s activity of expressing in lan- guage his grasp of what happened in the past. Where such a dense series exists, one historical account can lead to more specialized stu-

dies and these, together with other efforts within general history stemming, perhaps, from quite different preoccupations, can be expected to mesh together — supplementing and complementing each other so that historical scholarship, as a cooperative enterprise, will _be self-corrective, and historical knowledge cumulative. , What Mandelbaum means by ‘general history, it is clear, has nothing to do with popular history as distinguished from specialized pieces of historical research, and it does not mean universal history or history of wide scope as opposed to analyses of minute parts of the past — Siegfried Kracauer mistakenly interprets it in this way.°® By general history he means what professional historians do — “‘history as a discipline’, as it is sometimes called, or “‘integral history’’.’ ‘‘Integral’’ is a useful word here because it fits the claim that professional historians try to comprehend a dense series of interconnected occurrences. Special histories in Mandelbaum’s use of the expression, “‘trace _ various aspects of culture as they arise and change in a society, or as they cross the boundaries separating societies’ (p.12). The category includes histories of art, literature, philosophy, religion, etc. And the subject-matter of each of these is made up of a ‘‘class’’ of separate

activities and works, or perhaps of the more important examples of that class, which are no doubt related to each other in a number of 6 Siegfried KRACAUER, History: The Last Things Before the Last (New York: Oxford University Press, 1969). See Chapter 7, ‘‘General History and the Aesthetic

Approach’’, pp. 164 ff. | ’ “Tntegral history’ is the suggestion of W.H.B. Court; see MANDELBAUM, The Anatomy of Historical Knowledge, p. 12.

GENERAL AND SPECIAL HISTORIES A5 ways but which do not constitute a single functioning whole, as is the case with the subject-matter of general history. A history of France or of some aspect or period of French society deals with such a function-

ing whole and is thus properly called general history. A history of French literature, on the other hand, is concerned with a group of works related only by resemblance and by influence. French literature has a discontinuous existence in which “‘genuine innovation’’ is very prominent, as it is in other areas of cultural activity. Mandelbaum refers to cultural products in any particular area of culture in rather mechanical terms, speaking of a ‘“‘class’’ or a ‘‘collection’’ of works (p. 33) and even, by implication on one occasion, of

an ‘‘agglomeration’’ (p. 189). This is perhaps intentional, since he wishes to draw his reader’s attention to the fact that boundaries that

define the subject-matter of cultural histories — whether that subject-matter be the Canadian novel, Western philosophy, painting in the Italian Renaissance, or whatever — are themselves products of human choice or stipulation rather than being implicit in the data with which cultural historians work. He poses the question how cultural

historians decide which actions and works to include within the compass of their studies. And the answer he gives is that though a network of influences connecting some works to some others can usually be established on the basis of evidence, an ineradicable element of (subjective) stipulation remains in the scholar’s definition of the subject. What is at issue here is not the decision, say, to write a

history of philosophy rather than one of science, but rather the

decision as to what constitutes philosophy or science, and what ac-

tivities and works are to be included under these rubrics. The claim is that disagreements about such matters are in principle unresolvable. Mandelbaum does acknowledge that traditions have some impor-

tance in cultural histories, though I will suggest in due course that much more weight should be attached to this concept. “‘One cannot understand a literary work simply in terms of its author’s character and life [he says]; one must also take into account the traditions of his

craft that he absorbed — or against which he rebelled....’’ (p. 20) Emphasizing such traditions rather than the connections between cultural products and the societies in which they were created reflects

the ‘‘semi-autonomous”’’ status of cultural life, and insofar as influences can be established, a measure of continuity can be found in the subject-matter. Another set of distinctions which Mandelbaum draws, cutting

across the distinction between general and special histories, is between sequential, explanatory, and interpretive histories. Again, these several types — based on the structural form of historical works — can be mixed in various ways in particular historical writings. I will

20 into their differentiation only as far as it is necessary to the later argument of the paper. In the sequential history type, the historian

46 | A.P. FELL chooses a subject that exhibits a degree of continuity and he seeks to trace the strand of events making up that history. It is not given over

| to an analysis of the independent factors at work in the series but

singles out a dominant story line which has a beginning and a terminal point. Explanatory accounts seek to answer the definite question — ‘‘Granted that this event did occur, what factors were responsible for its occurrence ?’’ (p. 28). It tends to trace events back from the pre-

sent to the past and the event to be explained is not necessarily the end point of a continuous process. The interpretive history type aim at “‘revealing the characteristic feature of some form of life’’ (p. 29).

, G.M. Young’s Victorian England and Burckhardt’s Civilization of the Renaissance in Italy are mentioned as examples of this type.

Works which are primarily interpretive naturally include sequential and explanatory elements within them. Indeed, the adequacy of inter-

pretive histories depends on the accuracy of the sequential and explanatory accounts on which they depend for part of their structural framework and which are cognitively more basic in the sense that in a

conflict between an interpretive account and a sequential or explanatory account, it will be the interpretive account in the final analysis which will have to be altered.

I will say a little more about the interpretive dimension of his-

tory since, when the question of objectivity is raised, the interpretive , is more problematical than the sequential or explanatory dimensions.

These latter involve descriptions and causal hypotheses, which are more readily related to the evidence available to the historian, whereas in the former it is the interpretive theme itself more than a particular series of intrinsically related occurrences which accounts for the _ historian having brought certain elements together for consideration. These themes are not arbitrary constructions, of course. Historians will have their reasons for developing the particular ones they do and,

more importantly, the themes will have to fit the evidence and withstand criticism. But they derive in the final analysis from the historian’s personal views concerning what features in the period he is considering ‘‘were most characteristic, pervasive, and fundamental _ for the pattern of life he is attempting to portray’’ (p. 40). Thus in interpretive histories, judgments of importance are made which are often not reducible to judgments which can be publicly adjudicated with reference to some theoretical framework such as is provided by | an explanatory theory. It was in acknowledgement of this point that Pieter Gey] said in criticism of Arnold Toynbee that, though interpreting the past is the greatest function of the historian, it is at the same time ‘‘the least scientific, the most inevitably subjective of his functions’’.® The situation is aggravated in the case of interpretive studies | 8 Pieter GEYL and Arnold TOYNBEE, Can We Know the Pattern of the Past? — A Debate, BBC broadcast on January 4 and March 7, 1948, published by F.G.

GENERAL AND SPECIAL HISTORIES 47 of some aspect of culture, as I mentioned earlier, by the fact that the very definition of, say, philosophy, literature, or art with which the scholar begins is a personal decision, and thus the data cannot successfully function to resolve disagreement.

If. - THE BASIS OF THE DISTINCTION Does Mandelbaum’s distinction between general and special histories stand up to critical examination? I think that the distinction is an important one and that he has identified a number of crucial fea-

tures in it. But I will try to show that the weight or significance he attaches to some of these features — which is traceable in the end to his commitment to a particularly radical form of epistemological realism — is questionable, and leads to an uncalled-for scepticism with regard to the possibility of truly objective cultural histories. In quite ordinary ways, the distinction between general and special histories is recognized. ‘‘It is not usual [wrote Mandelbaum] to regard historians of literature, of science, of painting, or of philoso-

phy as ‘historians’, even though it cannot be denied that they are concerned with establishing and delineating historical connections in the fields within which they work’’ (pp. 18-19). This fact is reflected in the academic structures of universities where writers of the so-called special histories are not normally in history departments but in departments of literature, philosophy, or art, to mention only a few possibi-

lities. Intellectual history, on the other hand, is normally taught in history departments because it considers ideas in their integral relation with social and political facts. This situation is explained — and perhaps, contrary to Mandelbaum’s thinking, adequately explained — by the dual preoccupation of the scholar in each of these fields, who, in addition to writing the history of his subject, is a critic and connoisseur of literature, art, or music, a practitioner of science or philosophy, or a student of law or

technology. The dual commitment of these scholars keeps them on the straight and narrow path, so to speak, and gives them an orientation necessarily, and fruitfully, narrower than that of the general historian whose subject-matter keeps drawing him into a study of the complexities of societal facts. This is not to assert that writers of spe-

cial histories neglect altogether the connections between their subject-matter and social developments which certainly exist. But it is to claim that without in some measure isolating his particular aspect

of culture from other such aspects and from society — i.e. without considering it in its autonomous life — his specialized cultural history KROONDER, Bussum, Holland. Reprinted in Patrick GARDINER (ed.), Theories of History (Glencoe, Illinois: The Free Press, 1959), p. 315.

A& A.P. FELL would never get written, or if written, would lack the interest appropriate to cultural history, which is an interest in the problems, values, innovations and achievements within a particular form of cultural life. Scholars in the humanities have become increasingly sensitive to

, the importance of keeping a fruitful and correctly understood balance between these two, and perhaps more than two, preoccupations. Er-

, nest Gombrich, in his review of Arnold Hauser’s major work, The

Social History of Art, laments that a work which ostensibly 1s about the changing social conditions under which art was produced, throwing light on the works so produced, is in fact, rather, a social history of the western world as reflected in the diverse modes of artistic expression.’ The claim is not that social history is not a legitimate and important activity in itself. Nor is it that art works are not useful documents to analyze in studying social history. The claim is, rather, that

Hauser’s is one kind of history of art and that the balance which |

would give adequate weight to the explanation and understanding of artistic qualities was not achieved. John Passmore, in his analysis of | types of history of philosophy, argues persuasively that the only kind from which the philosopher as such has much to learn — in the sense

, that it can help him become a better philosopher — is problem-

oriented, philosophy being approached not as a mere reflection of culture but as an intellectual pursuit in its own right. He is rather critical of J.H. Randall’s The Career of Philosophy From the Middle Ages to the Enlightenment because of its cultural-historical approach which

misses somewhat the ‘‘delicate balance’’ of emphasis on historical ,

roots and on contribution to philosophy which is required in consider-

ing philosophies of the past.'° W.H. Walsh concurs in the general point, suggesting that in any proper history of philosophy, historical

inquiries will have to remain ancillary to the philosopher’s primary interest in the tenability of past philosophical positions. !! These brief references to art and its history and philosophy and its history are illustrative of a whole host of relationships between history and other activities which have just begun to be explored. It would be foolhardy to generalize about these multiple preoccupations without further detailed study. It is clear that the relation between the history of philosophy and the pursuit of philosophy is particularly intimate and quite unlike the relationship between the history of a natural science and the pursuit of that science, and the bearing of art history on art criticism is different again. English-speaking scholars

| ” E.H. GOMBRICH, review of Arnold HAUSER’s Social History of Art (New York and London, 1951), in The Art Bulletin, March 1953. Reprinted in Meditations on

a Hobby Horse and Other Essays on the Theory of Art, by E.H. Gomsricu (London: | Phaidon Press, 1963), p. 86. '0 John PAssmore, ‘‘The Idea of a History of Philosophy’’, in The Historio| graphy of the History of Philosophy, History and Theory, Beiheft 5, 1965, pp. 16-18. 't W.H. Watsu, ‘‘Hegel on the History of Philosophy’’, in The Historiography of the History of Philosophy, History and Theory, Beiheft 5, 1965, p. 82.

GENERAL AND SPECIAL HISTORIES 49 tend to think of these branches of history atomistically, emphasizing

their autonomy and distinctive characteristics, whereas European scholars have sometimes thought of many of these as falling under the

umbrella idea of an integrated cultural history (Kulturgeschichte). Gombrich has referred to a ‘‘crisis of confidence’’ in cultural history related to a “‘threat of fragmentation’? stemming from the gradual crumbling of the Hegelian idea that all cultural forms and products could be made intelligible as manifesting a common spirit of the time (Zeitgeist), a conviction which gave a certain perspective and direc-

tion to cultural history even among scholars such as Burckhardt, Dilthey, Huizinga, Riegl, and Panofsky, who were not aware of the extent to which the Hegelian concept still informed their work. !? The ensuing fragmentation could be seen as a positive development, however, allowing for the free development of studies with diverse aims and methods. For Mandelbaum, the breakdown of an integrated cultural history fits well with his long-held commitment to

historical pluralism as opposed to monism. He would see it as a candid admission by scholars of the way things are, and he would say, [ think, that the “‘uncertainty of perspective’? which Gombrich

worries about 1s endemic to the special histories area — a function of their “‘constructivist’’ character as opposed to the radically ‘‘realist’’ character of general history. '?

The idea to which Mandelbaum returns time and again as the ultimate ground of his delineation of the distinction between general and special histories is that the former deal with independently existing and functioning entities, and the later do not, but this ground 1s questionable. No doubt social, political, economic, and religious institutions have an existence more concrete than that of artistic, literary, or philosophical traditions, with all the sub-currents one might want to identify within these cultural rivers. But not only are works of art, of literature, and of philosophical thought every bit as much independently existing entities as institutions —- so much Mandelbaum would admit — but so are the traditions in which they have their place. Philosophers of very different general persuasion have argued for the independent existence of the world of cultural traditions — R.G. Collingwood and Karl Popper, to mention only two. Popper has argued that we should recognize, in addition to the world of physical objects (world 1) and the world of states of consciousness (world 2), a

world of objective contents of thought (world 3) — i.e. a world of problems, theories, arguments, and cultural products —- which 1s the result of human activity but which transcends its makers and takes on

an existence largely autonomous in relation to individuals who in'2 BH. Gompricn, In Search of Cultural History (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969).

” 13. This way of stating the contrast is derived from Louis MINK, op. cit., p. 215.

50 A.P. FELL teract with it and introduce changes into it. '* These same properties

belong to each of the many cultural traditions. The concepts humanists construct to get a hold on one of these traditions or a sub-current within it are controlled, or at least constrained, contrary to Mandelbaum’s claims, by the data of the cultural world. The reference to Collingwood may occasion some surprise since he is singled out for criticism as a subjectivist by both Mandelbaum and Popper, though I think erroneously. Collingwood advanced the thesis that all history is the history of thought. It is not to my purpose to defend this thesis in its generality — I am not sure it can be defen-

ded in every respect — but one aspect of the theory is sound and relevant to the problem at hand. Cultural traditions exist through the activity of thought. In the arts, works are created, enjoyed, criticized, transmitted, and sometimes transformed, and exert an influence on others through an effort of thought, including imagination. Mandelbaum mentions, as evidence of subjectivism, Collingwood’s metaphor of historical facts having an outside and an inside or thought dimension, which the historian has to grasp. But Collingwood is careful to distinguish between the subjective side of the act of thinking and the thought content, or what is thought, which is independent of any person’s particular attempt to grasp it.'* Thus, for Collingwood, cultural traditions such as art and philosophy do not differ from political insti-

tutions with respect to their having an existence independent of the mind which knows them. Mandelbaum attaches weight to the contention that an art historian’s definition of art is not controlled by the data encountered in the

field, and that there is therefore no way of resolving a dispute

between two art historians as to what properly falls within the category of art. But surely this is mistaken. Cultural traditions do exercise

a severe restraint on the scholar’s delineation of his subject and are seen to do so. Collingwood, again, in the Introduction to The Principles of Art, outlines the duty of the Aesthetician correctly to identify the character of art as a tradition. '® Traditions are not static. They undergo changes of direction, contain numerous subcurrents, and can die out. But institutions and political constitutions are subject to the same vicissitudes. A philosophical theory of art — or a definition of art — must comprehend the uses of the word art. The tradition 1s 14 Karl R. PoprPer, Objective Knowledge: An Evolutionary Approach, (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972), pp. 106 ff. Popper acknowledges the similarity of his world 3 concept to Plato’s theory of Forms and Hegel’s objective spirit and more particularly to Bolzano’s theory of a universe of propositions in themselves and to Frege’s objective contents of thought. IS R.G. COLLINGWOOD, The Idea of History (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1946),

.1938), 292. oe pp. 1 ff. |

P 16 R.G. CoLLINGwoob, The Principles of Art (Oxford: Clarendon Press,

GENERAL AND SPECIAL HISTORIES 51 elusive, but it exists independently of the scholars, and the subtlety of an art historian’s work is found in his procedure of sorting out what properly belongs to the tradition and why. It seems to me that Man-

delbaum errs when he says that cultural historians feel no unease when they do not circumscribe their fields of interest in the same way, or at least in very similar ways. Mandelbaum notes that concepts such as art, literature and music sometimes derive from a general aesthetic theory and, in the main body of the text, he expresses his scepticism about the possibility of achieving an objectively valid aesthetic theory. This scepticism, indeed, seems to be required to give both consistency and force to his thesis. However, in a footnote (p. 222), he is not so sceptical, and if the possibility of such theories is conceded, one ground for doubting the objective validity of definitions of forms of culture will have been removed. In at least two other substantial pieces of writing, Mandelbaum has supported the less sceptical line of thought of the footnote rather than the more sceptical line of thought of the text of The Anatomy. In his 1965 article, ‘‘Family Resemblances and Generalizations Concer-

ning the Arts’’, though he did not argue for a particular aesthetic theory, he did argue vehemently against the tendency of many analytical philosophers at that time to dismiss the possibility of developing sound aesthetic theories on the grounds of the inherent creativity and novelty which is obviously characteristic of any cultural tradition. Mandelbaum then argued for the relevance of facts to philosophical theories, for the importance of the traditional ‘“synoptic tasks’’ of phi-

losophy, and for the possibility of sound definitions of cultural concepts. *‘Thus to define a particular form of art [he writes] — and to define it truly and accurately [my italics] — is not necessarily to set oneself in opposition to whatever new creations may arise within that particular form.’’ !’ Is this an excessively sanguine view of the possibility of achieving objectively valid conceptual frameworks in cultural histories? Perhaps Mandelbaum has in some measure lost confidence in the pos-

sibility of agreement among humanistic scholars on these crucial points. In The Anatomy he argues that whereas among historians in the core area of the discipline (general history) there is a presumption of coherence, an expectation that conflicts between accounts of the

past can be reconciled, this is not the case with historians of art, literature, or philosophy once they get beyond single factual statements and explanatory arguments. But I do not think this fits the be'7 Maurice MANDELBAUM, ‘‘Family Resemblances and Generalizations Concerning the Arts’’, The American Philosophical Quarterly, Vol. 2, No. 3, 1965S. Reprinted in Morris WEITz (ed.), Problems in Aesthetics, (New York: Macmillan, 1970), p. 193.

52 A.P. FELL liefs of scholars in these areas. Agreement on key definitions may be | difficult to arrive at. Increasing specialization may have led to a plethora of conceptual constructs used to comprehend and analyze cultural products, but I believe that the expectation of, and demand for, the reconciliation of conflicting accounts is as evident among cultural _ historians as it is among general historians and scholars in other branches of learning. Madelbaum correctly maintains that whether or not the expectations can be met depends on the characteristics of traditions in the cultural area, and in the 1965 essay I referred to at the beginning of my paper, he himself makes a number of points which constitute a

case for the firmness and independence of cultural traditions. He makes the following observations about the tradition of western | philosophy, having before his mind’s eye a putative history of philoso-

phy from Plato to Mill: (1) the history exhibits a preoccupation among the writers considered, with a number of common problems; _ (2) the methods employed by the philosophers were not wholly dissimilar; (3) the aims of the philosophical writers considered were not

, widely divergent; (4) the writers discussed are regarded as philosophers, most of the problems they deal with are regarded a philosophic

problems, and there is general agreement as to what constitutes the

main line of the history of philosophy in the west; (5) the series of philosophical efforts are bound together in some measure by the influence of one upon the other. More explicitly, he says that what

‘‘accounts for the existence of that network of relations among

philosophic doctrines which constitutes the philosophical tradition is

the fact that particular men were moved to think and to write in a way that they regarded as having a bearing upon what their prede-

cessors wrote’’;'® (6) (and closely related to the previous point) the | history of philosophy, like the histories of art, music, or science, to some degree possesses its own ‘internal history’ which should not be submerged in general intellectual history — or in social history, or biography, for that matter. The concept of an ‘internal history’ draws attention to the fact that the explanations of philosophical systems most appropriate to a history of philosophy refer to other systems, problems, and arguments — to elements within philosophy itself — rather than to the personal and social context within which philosophical argument takes place, which would be the frame of reference

of causal explanations. ,

Collectively, these points attest to the existence of a philosophical tradition which is both semi-autonomous in relation to other cultural traditions and social institutions, and independent of the scholars who are trying to understand it. Assuming that comparable cases can 18 Maurice MANDELBAUM, ‘‘The History of Ideas, Intellectual History, and the History of Philosophy’’, op. cit., p. 59.

GENERAL AND SPECIAL HISTORIES §3 be made for each of the special histories, it would appear that what distinguishes them all from general histories is the peculiar character of their dual or multiple preoccupations, and not the tractable or malleable nature of the data with which they are forced to deal. IV. - MANDELBAUM ON OBJECTIVITY To assess Mandelbaum’s contention that special histories cannot be expected to achieve the same level of objectivity as is possible and expected in general history, it is necessary to examine briefly Man-

delbaum’s account of several uses of the concept of the objectivity common in reflections on history. In doing so I will pay particular attention to how the problem is set up, because it is so designed as to make a certain point very clearly, but in the process it obscures other important aspects of the topic. He distinguishes three uses of the concept. Objectivity in the first sense, to put the matter briefly, has to do with the historian being unprejudiced in his inquiry. No doubt all persons have their biases — their predilections, interests, points of view — but to be objective in his thinking these should not be allowed to warp the judgment of the historian in his use of evidence. These is-

sues have been much written about but Mandelbaum thinks that all this effort has been to little account because when interpreted in this sense objectivity ““does not provide any test of whether or not a statement or set of statements is true or false, either in history or elsewhere’’ (p. 147). Like Karl Popper Gin The Open Society and Its Enemies '?), Mandelbaum thinks that a question about objectivity in history is precisely and exclusively one concerned with the accuracy and reliability of hnowledge — i.e. with the truth of what is said — and, as 1s well known, one can be unprejudiced or objective in one’s inquiry and obtain results which are found, in the end, to be demonstrably false. And one can be prejudiced or lacking in objectivity in a variety of ways and obtain conclusions which are, as far as one can determine, true. This lack of necessary connection between the objectivity of the investigator and the truth of the conclusion arrived at is sufficient for Mandelbaum to dimiss these considerations as irrelevant to the question at hand.

For these same reasons, Mandelbaum dismisses the second sense of objective. Here the concept is used to discriminate within the

knowing process between what is subjective or attributable to the knower and what is objective or attributable to a reality independent 9 Karl R. Popper, The Open Society and Its Enemies (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1950), ch. 23.

54 A.P. FELL of the knower. The debates between the idealists, realists and phenomenalists fall into this area and Mandelbaum finds them unhelpful in the attempt to understand what are the requirements of accurate and reliable knowledge. In every field of knowledge, he argues, in the natural sciences as well as in the human studies, the background and experience of the investigator will affect in various ways his investigations. But this effect is irrelevant to the truth or falsity of particular assertions. For a number of reasons, which I will mention below, I do not think these first two senses of objective should be dismissed so quickly. But to give Mandelbaum his due, the third sense of objective

should be mentioned before my reservations are presented. ,

‘*A judgment can be said to be objective [he writes] not merely because it was not due to self-interest, prejudice, or the like, and not merely because it refers to events and relationships that existed independently of the experience of the person judging, but because we regard its truth as excluding the possibility that its denial can also be true’ (pp. 149-150). Objectivity in this third sense is a basic epistemological principle presupposed in trying to establish judgments concer-

ning matters of fact. It claims that tests must be applied to what is being affirmed or denied and it asserts the logical principle of non-

, contradiction and the absoluteness of truth. It reaffirms the conceptual point that truth is objective. Mandelbaum reviews the ways in which the efforts of historians vary widely in scope and scale, the use of laws and theories to explain

, historical occurrences, the different perspectives from which any gi-

ven historical subject can be viewed, and the varying judgments of importance which historians make in treating their subjects. But the question of objectivity always boils down to the question of the objective and indeed absolute character of truth — the question whether or not we have to acquiesce in actual disagreements among historians about what actually occurred in the past and why.

And he infers from his accounts of general and special histories ,

and from his analysis of the concept of objectivity that general histories can reasonably aim at achieving objective accounts of societal facts both at the level of description and at the level of explanation, so long as any causal theories employed are themselves properly testable. Conceptualization of the subject-matter should be unproblema-

tic as inquiry proceeds, since it emerges from the interrelated data with which the general historian deals. Special histories share the good fortune of general history at the level of description and explanation — especially when social explanations are involved. But the limits to objectively valid accounts are more quickly reached in the special histories, as the scholar’s concept of his field (e.g. philosophy)

, and many of the more particular concepts he employs in grouping cultural products in his field (e.g. rationalism, empiricism, idealism and realism) are idiosyncratic constructs which do not designate any

GENERAL AND SPECIAL HISTORIES 55 independently functioning entities and which do not function within any testable explanatory theory. V. —- OBJECTIVITY AND HISTORY

It is not easy to fault Mandelbaum’s position on grounds of tncoherence. He follows the argument resolutely where it takes him. In this final section, however, I would like to question (a) the adequacy of his treatment of the concept of objectivity and, in this connection, the accuracy ot his perception of what scholars known as historical

relativists have considered important, and (b) the adequacy of the

particular form of philosophical realism which underlies all his thinking. Both considerations will lead to the conclusion that there would

appear to be no good reason to differentiate between the levels of objectivity attainable in general and special histories. (a) Objectivity in Mandelbaum’s third sense — the requirement of rejecting at least one of two conflicting accounts of the past — is

entirely acceptable, and is a salutary emphasis on a fundamental point. It undercuts one form of relativism, which I prefer to call subjectivism or scepticism, which denies the objective character of histo-

rical knowledge and the objective and absolute character of truth and it shows why some sophisticated and forceful forms of relativism, such as that of Karl Mannheim, which do not espouse subjectivism or

scepticism, must at least revise their historicist treatments of the concept of truth. But Mandelbaum’s discussion of objectivity rules out as irrelevant some of the most interesting claims in the stand of the relativists. Most of the relativists — I cite Charles Beard and Karl

Mannheim as examples — do not deny the objectivity (intersubjective validity) of knowledge. Mannheim in his statements on the epistemological implications of the sociology of knowledge is quite explicit on the subject,?° and Beard, in his review of Mandelbaum’s

The Problem of Historical Knowledge, explains his continuing

commitment to truth as objective and absolute. ?! The position in critical philosophy of history which came to be known as historical relativism had a quarrel with, indeed came into existence through its opposition to, one concept of objectivity (which Mandelbaum nowhere mentions) which projected the image of an 1mpersonal mind, divested of its humanity, mirroring the object known. But it did not have a quarrel with objectivity in other more defensible 20 Karl MANNHEIM, Jdeology and Utopia, Tr. by Louis WirTH and Edward SHILS (New York: Harcourt, Brace and Co. ; London: Routledge and Kegan Paul Ltd., 1952), pp. 269 ff.

21 Charles A. BEARD, Review of The Problem of Historical Knowledge by Maurice MANDELBAUM, The American Historical Review, XLIV, 1939, pp. 571-72.

| 56 , A.P. FELL senses. In emphasizing how the characteristics of the knower — his philosophical, political and religious convictions, his aesthetic and moral sensibility, his professional training, experience and conception of the problem to be dealt with — inform or shape (not control!) the ~ accounts of the past which he subsequently gives, they did not wish ~ to jettison the goal of objective knowledge or to deny the constraints which the data they dealt with put on their thinking. In fact, they saw

their reflections on the “‘relativizing elements’’ as contributing to self-knowledge, better theory of knowledge, and more objective ac-

counts of the world. Objectivists argue that conflicts or apparent

conflicts often arise between historical accounts ‘‘because the referents of the two sets of judgments have not been spelled out with sufficient care’’ (150). Relativists argue that the situation is more

complicated than that and encourage methodical study of points of

view, conceptual framworks, and rhetorical modes, so as to minimize the phenomenon which Mannheim graphically called ‘‘talking past one another’. The debate on these matters has been so protracted partly because of a failure on the part of both relativists and objecti- | vists to distinguish between subjectivism (the denial of the objectivity — or inter-subjectivity of knowledge) and relativism (the contention that

accurate and reliable accounts of the past will still manifest in a variety of interesting and sometimes problematic ways the point of view of the historian). Another reason is that the relativists did not articulate a positive concept of objectivity to replace the inadequate one they rejected. My claim is that the central tenets of the objectivists and those of the relativists are compatible with each other and that

our use of the terms ‘relative’ and ‘objective’ should reflect this compatibility. *2

In saying that the truth of an historical account is logically independent of the point of view of the historian Mandelbaum did not go so far as to say that keeping predilection, bias and sensibility under control — being objective in this sense — has no bearing at all on the discovery of truth, but he apparently thinks it of little consequence (as do Popper and other ‘‘objectivists’’). But this position ignores two significant facts. One is that there is an empirical connection between objectivity in this sense and the discovery of truth and the writing of adequate and balanced histories. It does not guarantee these results, but it is conducive to their attainment. Secondly, he ignores the fact

that it is on the basis of a developed imagination and sensibility that

, an art historian, for example, makes contact with his appropriate

subject-matter, and that objectivity here involves both an aesthetic

distance, as a characteristic of the aesthetic experience, and an , 22 For a clear discussion of the advantages of not taking ‘‘relative’’ as the opposite of ‘‘objective’’, see R. F. ATKINSON, Knowledge and Explanation in History: An Introduction to the Philosophy of History, (London: Macmillan, 1978), ch. II.

GENERAL AND SPECIAL HISTORIES 57 openness of mind and readiness to explore the object of study and to see it if possible from a number of points of view. What this amounts to in the case of art is no doubt different in its particulars from whatis — involved in the study of literature, or philosophy, but the point is a general one. Mandelbaum writes of the virtue of historians being able to see their subjects from a number of perspectives (p. 154), but he does not recognize that the positive cultivation of this capacity is part

of ‘‘being objective’’, as opposed to being cripplingly limited or viciously partisan in one’s investigation.

The virtue of objectivity as a characteristic of the inquirer, or ‘‘being objective’’, is a double-barrelled control of interest and senstbility. It has a negative side — the avoidance of compromising bias —

but also a positive side — attaching value to certain skills, abilities and attitudes of mind. The positive dimension has not been sufficiently

attended to by philosophers, especially in the English-speaking world. One exception that comes to mind is Kracauer, who writes of the ‘‘active passivity’? required of the historian in encountering the evidence.’* The element of paradox in his phrase is intentional and captures the antinomy of educated receptivity or openness appropriate at a certain stage in exploring a subject. This insight was anticipated in several of his writings by Friedrich Nietzsche, who, with his penchant for the dramatic, speaks of the desirable ‘‘hostile calm”’ of the scholar in not responding too immediately in his examination of

a cultural product.74 Paul Ricoeur makes these same points, and more, in his paper, “‘Objectivity and Subjectivity in History’’. ‘“‘There is no history... [he says] without an epoché of everyday subjectivity, 23 Siegfried KRACAUER, op. cit., p. 84. The whole of ch. 4, ‘‘The Historian’s Journey’’, is an essay on ‘‘being objective’’ in the sense under discussion in this paper. 24 Friedrich NIETZSCHE, Twilight of the Idols, in The Portable Nietzsche, tr. by Walter Kaufmann (New York: the Viking Press, 1954), p. 512. See also The Use and Abuse of History, tr. by Adrian CoLLins (Liberal Arts Press), p. 39.

‘But this requires above all a great artistic faculty, a creative vision from a

height, the loving study of the data of experience, the free elaboration of a given type — objectivity, in fact, though this time as a positive quality. Objectivity is so often merely a phrase. Instead of the quiet gaze of the artist that is lit by an inward flame, we have an affectation of tranquility; just as a cold detachment may mask a lack of moral feeling.’’

and The Genealogy of Morals, Third Essay, section 12, in The Basic Writings of Nietzsche, tr. by Walter KAUFMANN (New York: The Modern Library, 1968), p. 555.

‘‘But precisely because we seek knowledge, let us not be ungrateful to such resolute reversals of accustomed perspectives and valuations with which the spirit has, with apparent mischievousness and futility, raged against itself for so

long: to see differently in this way for once, to want to see differently, is no small discipline and preparation of the intellect for its future ‘objectivity’ — the latter understood not as ‘contemplation without interest’ (which is a nonsensical

absurdity), but as the ability to contro! one’s Pro and Con and to dispose of them, so that one knows how to employ a variety of perspectives and affective interpretations in the service of knowledge.’

68 A.P. FELL without the establishment of this investigative ego from which history

draws its excellent name. For historia is precisely the ‘availability’

and ‘submission to the unexpected’, that ‘openness to others’,

whereby bad subjectivity is overcome.’’ 2 This extension of Mandel- baum’s first type of objectivity to include a positive dimension seems

to be important, and there appears to be no reason to think special historians more limited than general historians in its attainment. (I have not discussed here the way in which the objectivity of inquiry is |

a function of the public and critical character of that inquiry, since | this is much written about and well understood.)

, (b) Finally, I would like to mention two metaphysical principles which underlie Mandelbaum’s philosophy of history — historical pluralism and epistemological realism. Pluralism asserts that the historical process consists of an indefinitely large number of components which do not form a completely interrelated set. Realism, in its most general form, affirms the independent existence of the object known,

, and is coupled with the view that truth is some sort of correspon-

dence of thought to the reality known. These are metaphysical princi_ ples because they are not refutable, though they are arguable. I cannot here defend these principles, but I work comfortably within their ambit in considering Mandelbaum’s thesis, and I want only to show that his particular version of realism — which leads to his claim with regard to the limited objectivity attainable in cultural histories, is not plausible. He has argued that in general history the evidence compels _ the formation of a certain conceptual structure in the historian’s mind

, but that this is not true in the case of cultural histories. He takes this very far and his realism in my view approaches, by implication if not by explicit statement, the naivety of the discredited mirror concept of — objectivity. This is evident in his contribution to the New York Symposium of 1963, where he defended a position he himself characteri-

, zed as an “‘unmitigated objectivism’’, and argued that historians working cooperatively should approach as nearly as possible to understanding and narrating the whole truth about man’s past.*° Now it

is one thing to strive to give wholly true accounts of some part or aspect of the past. But the request to tell the whole truth about anything only makes sense in some limited context which makes it clear what is required. Apart from such a context, it suggests replicating or mirroring the reality known. Mandelbaum quite explicitly criticizes

the idea of replication (p. 153) but his commitment to it is a conse-

quence of his emphasis on both dense series of interconnected occur_ rences and a one-sided theory of the data entirely controlling concep| #3 Paul RicoEuR, History and Truth, tr. by Charles A. KELBLEY (Evanson: Northwestern University Press, 1965), p. 31. 26 Maurice MANDELBAUM, ‘“‘Objectivism in History’? in Sidney Hook (ed.), Philosophy and History: A Symposium (New York University Press, 1963), p. 53.

GENERAL AND SPECIAL HISTORIES 59 tual structures. Does not the very articulation of this goal of approxtmating the whole truth seem strange and implausible in the light of recent investigations by Thomas Kuhn, Hayden White, J.H. Hexter and others, which suggest that in general history as well as in special histories the construction of concepts and decisions with regard to rhetorical form introduce an element of relativity into all history — an element which need not be at odds, however, with claims to objecti-

vity of the sort I have argued to be defensible in this paper? The concept of accurate and reliable knowledge is not worked out in terms

of approximating the whole truth, but rather in terms of accounts being thoroughly tested, and judged adequate relative to certain questions posed. I have tried to show (1) that the distinction between general and

special histories is genuine and is based on crucial differences of preoccupation, and (2) that objectivity is a reasonable goal of both general and special histories, since in both cases “‘being objective’ is important and attainable, as is the public and critical character of the inquiry, and in both cases the data can exert a control on thinking — not such as to ensure unanimity among historians but such as to preclude the non-complementarity of well-corroborated accounts.

: Blank Page |

re - 2 t=) e @ ; @

Circumstantial Evidence in ‘‘Scientific’’ and Traditional History * by Robert W. FOGEL University of Chicago

This paper explores some of the methodological issues arising

from the employment of circumstantial evidence in historical research. The opening section examines the proposition that direct evidence is more reliable than circumstantial (or indirect) evidence in historical work. It argues that the two types of evidence are often tightly interwoven and integral to each other. The next section defines some categories of circumstantial arguments that are commonly encountered in both “‘scientific’’ and traditional history. '! The third sec* [am indebted to Professor William H. Dray and the other members of the organizing committee of the International Conference on the Philosophy of History and Contemporary Historiography, held in Ottawa during April 1980, who commissioned

this paper. The theme of the paper was inspired by a conversation with Frederic C. Lane which made me more aware than I had been of the ubiquity of circumstantial evidence in historical research and led me to ponder the novel aspects of cliometric approach to such evidence. An exchange with Morton J. Horwitz enhanced my understanding of the legal analogies to the historiographic issues. Wallace T. MacCaffrey guided

me through the remarkable work with circumstantial evidence in Tudor history. I benefited from discussions of earlier versions of this paper at the Ottawa conference and at seminars in Caltech and Stanford, as well as from comments and criticisms by William O. Aydelotte, Per Boje, Lord Bullock, A.W. Coats, Paul A. David, Lance E. Davis, Carl N. Degler, Barry Eichengreen, Geoffrey R. Elton, Stanley L. Engerman, Don E. Fehrenbacher, Daniel Field, Roderick Floud, Thelma Foote, Gerald Friedman, David Galenson, Clifford Geertz, Claudia Goldin, Charles Gray, Randall Grossman, Mark R.

Horowitz, Henry Horwitz, Richard Jensen, Charles Kahn, Morton Keller, Morgan | Kousser, Maurice Levy-Leboyer, Peter D. McClelland, Donald McCloskey, Maurice Mandelbaum, Robert Margo, Wanda Minge-Klevana, Patrick O’Brien, Charles Plott, Clayne Pope, Jacob M. Price, J.J. Scarisbrick, Roger Schofield, Theodore W. Schultz, James Sheehan, Richard B. Sheridan, Daniel Smith, Kenneth Sokoloff, Richard H. Steckel, Robert P. Swierenga, Peter Temin, Kenneth Wachter, W.H. Walsh, Steven B. Webb, Thomas Weiss, and E.A. Wrigley. | The term ‘‘scientific’’ is. intended to designate a large group of practicing historians in the United States and elsewhere who refer to themselves as ‘‘scientific,’’ ‘‘social-scientific,’’ or ‘‘cliometric’’ historians. The exact number of American scholars who fall into this class is not certain, but it includes virtually the entire memberships of the Social Science History Association (with about 700 members) and of the Economic History Association (with about 900 members), as well as a goodly number of historically-oriented scholars throughout the social sciences and some ‘‘socialscientific’? historians who are not members of either association. Since there is relati-

62 ROBERT W. FOGEL | tion describes certain differences in the way that ‘“‘scientific’’ and tra-

ditional historians construct their circumstantial cases. The differen-

ces relate to the blend of direct and indirect evidence, the typical length of the string of inferences, the role of sensitivity analysis, and _ the methods of verifying the underlying observations. The fourth section deals with the ways that historians use the ‘‘principle of highest

probability’’ in choosing between alternative circumstantial cases, and points to certain limitations of these practices. The concluding section discusses criticisms of the hypothesis-testing approach to circumstantial evidence. The weaknesses identified by these criticisms, it is argued, are not inherent in the approach but stem from superficial

applications of it. Parallels and divergencies in the circumstantial arguments found in three major historiographic controversies (the transformation in government during the Tudor era, the economics of slavery, and English demographic history) are paid special attention. I. — ASPECTS OF CIRCUMSTANTIAL AND DIRECT

, EVIDENCE AND OF THEIR INTERRELATIONSHIPS Before proceeding further, terms need to be defined. Webster’s Third Edition provides the following definition of ‘‘circumstantial evi-

dence.”’ |

Circumstantial evidence : evidence that tends to preve a fact in issue by proving other events or circumstances which according to the common experience of mankind are usually or always attended by the fact in issue and that therefore affords a basis for a reasonable inference by the jury or court of the occurrence of the fact in issue.

The critical ideas in this definition are, first, that certain events (va— rlables) are systematically related to other events. Second, these rela- tionships are not necessarily invariant, but are sufficiently frequent to afford ‘‘a basis for a reasonable inference.’’ It is immediately obvious, then, that ‘“‘circumstantial evidence’’ is fundamentally a statisvely little overlap in the memberships of the SSHA and the EHA, I would guess that there are somewhere between two and three thousand ‘‘scientific’’ historians in the United States today. Although the group under consideration does not account for a

majority of the professional historians in the United States, it includes a substantial , minority of the profession and it is growing. ‘‘Scientific’’ appears in quotation marks whenever it is used to designate this group, partly in order to emphasize that the usur-

| pation of the term is questioned by scholars outside of the group, and partly to remove any moral advantage that might otherwise be attached to the term. For a general discussion of the differences between ‘‘scientific’’ and traditional historians on subject matter, methodology and style see Robert W. FOGEL, ‘“‘Scientific’ History and Traditional History,’ in L. J. CoHEN, J. Los, H. PFEIFFER and K. P. PODEWSKI (eds.), | Logic, Methodology and Philosophy of Science, VI (Amsterdam: North-Holland Publishing Company, forthcoming).

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 63

tical concept, and so can easily be given mathematical expression, although it may not always be illuminating to do so. Consider the stochastic equation

Y=ad¢ bX + €, where € is arandom variable with a known distribution. This equation

permits ‘‘reasonable inferences’? about Y from a knowledge of X, provided that the correlation between X and Y is sufficiently strong. Notice that the definition in Webster’s does not supply criteria for how strong the correlation has to be for the inference from X to Y to be “‘reasonable,’’ nor does it indicate how doubts about the adequacy of inferences based on particular correlations may be resolved. We also need a definition of the term ‘‘direct evidence.’’ Let us begin with the following: Direct evidence is information about an event or circumstance that was directly observed or perceived by one of the senses. Such evidence may be reported orally or in documents.

If it is true (believed, accepted), direct evidence proves the fact at issue without further presumption or inference, and it is this character-

istic of direct evidence which sets it apart from indirect evidence. Despite the increasing attention to oral history, most of the direct evidence employed by historians is in documentary form — letters, diaries, newspaper reports, reports of parliamentary investigations, printed edicts, transcripts of trials, and so forth. It might be argued that such documents are not equivalent to oral statements of individuals about sensory information, since there are always issues about the authenticity of the documents, the intent of their authors, and the reliability of the information that the documents contain. But these issues also exist when sensory information is reported orally. Direct evidence, whether presented orally or in documentary form, is not necessarily more truthful than circumstantial evidence. Both categories of evidence require authentication and, as we shall see, it cannot 4 The primary definition of direct evidence in Black’s Law Dictionary (Sth ed.) is: ‘‘Evidence in [the] form of testimony from a witness who actually saw, heard or touched the subject of interrogation.’’ In the definition presented in the text (which has been fashioned to apply to historical rather than legal problems) I have added the point that such evidence when reported in documents is the equivalent of oral testimony, in the same sense that a deposition is the equivalent of oral testimony. I avoided using the word “‘testimony,’’ which implies evidence presented under oath, since it is not the taking of an oath which is the essential quality differentiating direct from indirect evidence. The essential quality of direct evidence is that such evidence, “‘if believed, proves [the] existence of [the] fact in issue without further inference or presumption’ (Black’s Law Dictionary, p. 413; my italics). This quality of direct evidence is also stressed in the definition set forth in the California Evidence Code: ‘‘Evidence that directly proves a fact, without an inference or presumption, and which in itself, if true, conclusively establishes that fact’’ (bid., p. 414).

64 ROBERT W. FOGEL be assumed that direct evidence is necessarily more reliable or easier to authenticate than circumstantial evidence. Direct evidence may be either qualitative or quantitative. Censuses of populations, manufacturing, and agriculture, as well as probate records, accounting records, and the like, which present large

quantities of numerical information, are also forms of direct evidence. | , They are documentary reports of counts made by census takers, businessmen, accountants, lawyers, and other agents. Of course, even carefully designed and executed censuses will have errors in them, but this is a feature of all forms of direct evidence, whether qualitative or quantitative at some level. It is an unavoidable feature of evidence, whether direct or circumstantial, bearing on the characteristics

of large collections of individuals, institutions, or events. Consequently, one cannot automatically assume that direct evidence, whether culled from the testimony of expert witnesses or from a published census, is more reliable than the circumstantial (inferential) evidence

provided by a sample. It is quite possible that the errors in a welldesigned sample are less than those in what was intended to be a complete census.? | Whether or not a given body of evidence should be classified as _ direct or circumstantial depends not only on its inherent characteris— tics, but also on the way that it is used. The same body of evidence could be direct in one context and yet be only circumstantial in ano-

ther context. Samples are an obvious case in point. If a sample is used as a basis for statements about the individuals (or items) in the © sample, then it can provide direct evidence. But if the sample is used to make inferences about the characteristics of the larger population from which the sample is drawn then, regardless of the form of the information in the sample, that information is circumstantial. Thus when Lawrence Stone uses a sample of letters, diaries, poems and other works to conclude that a majority of pre-industrial English marrilages were not based on romantic love, he is employing circumstantial evidence, even if it can be established that the families covered by | 3 For an assessment of the errors in the census counts of the U.S. population, as well as for a demonstration of the role of indirect methods in such assessments, see Ansley J. COALE and Melvin ZELNICK, New Estimates of Fertility and Population in the United States (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1963); and Ansley J. CoALE and Norfleet W. Rives, Jr., ‘‘A Statistical Reconstruction of the Black Population of the United States 1880-1970: Estimates of True Numbers by Age and Sex, Birth Rates, and

Total Fertility,’ Population Index, 39, Jan. 1973, pp. 3-36. |

. When the sample is retrieved from different documents than those on which the published census is based, characteristics of the sample are not restricted by the cha-

, racteristics of that census. But even when the sample is drawn from the manuscript Schedules of the published census, it is often possible to improve upon the published census by making use of information in the sample (information that cannot be obtained from the published census) to reweight components of the census, and thus to correct some of the deficiencies in the census.

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 65

his sources are a well-designed random sample of the target population.* Since random samples contain sampling errors of variable degree, there is always the question of whether the observed sample is sufficiently representative of the target population for the purposes for which it is being employed.*° Moreover, since many historical samples are not drawn from a well-defined population by a welldefined random procedure, there are often questions about the population to which the samples apply and the nature of the biases that may afflict a particular sample when it is used to estimate particular population parameters. ° 4 Lawrence STONE, The Family, Sex and Marriage 1500-1800 (New York: Harper and Row, 1977). Evaluations of Stone’s methodology include Christopher HILL,

“Sex, Marriage, and the Family in England,’? Economic History Review, 31, Aug. 1978, pp. 450-463; Alan MACFARLANE, review of The Family, Sex, and Marriage 1500-1500, by Lawrence STONE, History and Theory, 118, 1979, pp. 103-126 ; and John R.

GILLIs, ‘‘Affective Individualism and the English Poor,’ Journal of Interdisciplinary History, X, Summer 1979, pp. 121-128. > Even large, well-designed samples will deviate substantially from the population parameters of some characteristics. It is not usually possible to minimize simultaneously the sampling errors in all the variables of samples which contain large numbers of variables. For a discussion of the range and sources of large deviations from population parameters in such samples see James D. Foust, “‘The Yeoman Farmer and Westward Expansion of United States Cotton Production,’’ Ph.D. dissertation, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 1968 (which evaluates the Parker-Gallman sample) ; Fred BATEMAN and James D. Foust, ‘‘A Sample of Rural Households Selected from the 1860 Manuscript Censuses,’’ Agricultural History, XLVIII, January, 1974, pp. 7593; and A. Gordon DARROCH and Michael D. ORNSTEIN, ‘‘Errors in Historical Data Files: A Research Note on the Automatic Detection of Errors and on the Nature and Sources of Errors in Coding,’’ Historical Methods, 12, Fall 1979, pp. 157-167. Other fine examples of the way that cliometricians go about assessing whether particular samples are sufficiently representative of the populations to which they pertain for particular tasks include Lee SoLtow, Patterns of Wealthholding in Wisconsin Since 1850 (Madison: Univ. of Wisconsin Press, 1971); Lee So_ttow, Men and Wealth in the United States 1850-1870 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1975); Richard K. VEDDER and Lowell E. GALLAWAY, ‘‘The Profitability of Antebellum Manufacturing: Some New Estimates,’’ Business History Review, LIV, Spring 1980, pp. 92-103; Fred BATEMAN and Thomas WE1ss, A Deplorable Scarcity: The Failure of Industrialization in the Slave Economy (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1981).

6 Use of sample estimates of population parameters for statements about specific individuals or events must be approached with caution (see the section below on the highest probability principle). Such information can be used, however, to reject observations suspected of being errors or outliers. Thus, large samples drawn from the Union Army revealed that the mean final height of native-born adult recruits was 68.2 inches and the standard deviation was 2.47 inches, with a standard error of less than 0.01 inches. Since the distribution of final heights is normal, this information provides a reasonable basis for assuming that the listing of the height of an inductee at 7’0” was due to a recording error. The inference is supported by an actual investigation of the heights of all individuals over 76.8 inches tall whose records could be verified ; it revealed that about 40 percent of these entries were recording errors, usually by exactly one foot. This fraction might on first consideration seem shockingly high, but it requires

only one such recording error in every 5,500 forms to yield the result. See B. A. GOULD, /nvestigations in the Military and Anthropological Statistics of American Soldiers (Cambridge, MA: Riverside Press, 1869), pp. 93, 152-169; and Robert W. FOGEL

66 ROBERT W. FOGEL | It is sometimes said that direct evidence provides a more reliable basis for historical reconstructions than circumstantial evidence. — Such unqualified statements are misleading because they do not take account of the extremely difficult problems of authenticating evidence. Once allowance is made for the need to authenticate all evidence, whether direct or indirect, the sharp line that some scholars

draw between these two classes of evidence tends to fade away.

Consider Jefferson’s letter to Jared Sparks (dated February 2, 1824), which some historians have used to conclude that Jefferson favored the gradual emancipation of slaves.’ That letter might deserve to be treated as direct evidence of Jefferson’s view on the issue, since in that letter he proposed a scheme for gradual emancipation. Yet the

a authenticity of the letter to Sparks has never actually been established. No doubt one could do so by demonstrating that it was found among Sparks’s artifacts, by establishing the approximate age of the paper and the ink, by comparing the chemical composition of the ink and the paper in that letter with the chemical composition of the ink

and paper of other letters by Jefferson, and by comparing the

handwriting in that letter with that of other letters by Jefferson. Yet -each and every one of these findings would provide only circumstantial evidence that the letter is authentic. Although it is highly improbable that Jefferson’s letter to Sparks was a forgery, there is another issue of authenticity that cannot be dismissed so easily: that is the authenticity of Jefferson’s opposition to slavery and his devotion to the cause of emancipation, gradual or rapid. David B. Davis has published a weighty essay which questions whether Jefferson was in fact an authentic opponent of slavery. Davis brings the genuineness of Jefferson’s various declarations on slavery and emancipation into question by examining the consistency of his statements on these and related issues, and by examining Jefferson’s behavior at times when he had the opportunity to perform deeds that — would effectuate his announced sentiments. Both Davis’s argument and the criticisms of his argument turn on circumstantial evidence. ® et al, “‘Long-Term Changes in Nutrition, Labor Welfare, and Labor Productivity,’’ National Bureau of Economic Research, Cambridge, MA, mimeo, March 1980. On the other hand, it would be absurd to argue that John Wilkes Booth did not assassinate Lincoln because individuals who assassinate U.S. presidents are extremely rare. 7 See ‘To Jared Sparks,’’ in Thomas Jefferson RANDOLPH, Memoirs, Correspondence and Private Papers of Thomas Jefferson (London: Henry Colburn and Richard Bentley, 1829), vol. IV, pp. 397-400; cf. James C. BALLAGH, A History of Slavery in Virginia (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 1902), pp. 128-134. 8 David B. Davis, Was Thomas Jefferson an Authentic Enemy of Slavery?

| (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1970). Those who have debated the issue include Winthrop

D. JoRDAN, White Over Black: American Attitudes Toward the Negro, 1550-1812 , (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1968); William H. FREEHLING, ‘*The

Founding Fathers and Slavery,’ American Historical Review, LXXVII, February | 1972, pp. 81-93; Edmund S. MorGan, American Slavery, American Freedom: The

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 67

One of the more common confusions between direct and circumstantial evidence occurs when a highly respected witness gives

direct testimony about a matter.on which he could only have had circumstantial knowledge. A case in point is the manner in which Fredrick Law Olmsted’s statements on economic and social conditions in the antebellum South are cited, and frequently given the authority of direct evidence. Consider Olmsted’s statement that most cotton planters on the eve of the Civil War were poorer than most day laborers in the North.’ This testimony has weight because it was based on observations made by Olmsted during three extensive trips through the South. There can be little doubt that Olmsted saw the farms of some cotton planters during his trips, and it may be that he was able to make sound inferences about the net worth of these farmers from the size of their farms, the nature of their houses, and the

number of their slaves. But it is hardly likely that he had direct knowledge of their actual net worth, nor it is likely that he actually knew the net worth of many day laborers in the North. But even if he did, Olmsted could only have provided direct evidence about the individuals in these samples. His attempts to generalize from the samples were necessarily inferential.

In recent years, large random samples have been drawn from the manuscript schedules from the 1850 and 1860 censuses. These samples, which contain information about the wealth of cotton farmers and day laborers, indicate that the average wealth of cotton farmers (about $13,000 in 1860) was more than forty times as great as

that of northern day laborers (whose average wealth was about $300). '° How could Olmsted have reached the conclusion that typical cotton farmers were poorer than typical day laborers, when the statistical evidence shows that advantage was clearly in the opposite direction? The misstatement cannot be rationalized on the ground that the margin of error was small. Nor can it be supposed that Olmsted visited only the poorer cotton farms, since he stressed the wide range of farms that he observed. But even if Olmsted only visited the poorer

half of the distribution of cotton farmers, he was far off the mark, since the census data indicate that the average wealth of the poorer half of the cotton farmers exceeded the average wealth of the day laborers by more than 4 to 1. There is little doubt that cotton farmers as a Ordeal of Colonial Virginia (New York: W.W. Norton, 1975); and John Chester MILLER, The Wolf By the Ears: Thomas Jefferson and Slavery (New York: New American Library, 1977). ° Olmsted wrote as follows: ‘‘A majority of those who sell the cotton crop of the United States must be miserably poor — poorer than the majority of our day labourers at the North.’’ Frederick Law OLMSTED, The Cotton Kingdom, edited, with an introduction, by Arthur M. SCHLESINGER (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1953), p. 16. '0 The estimates were computed from the Parker-Gallman and Bateman-Foust samples. If the medians are used, the ratio is somewhat over 30 to 1 (3,269 to 100).

— «668 ROBERT W. FOGEL class were rich by the standards of the time, while day laborers as a

class were quite poor. , , Analyses of large bodies of census and other data indicate that wealth was only one of a number of points on which Olmsted’s testtmony about economic conditions in the slave South was far off the mark. Among his other errors were the underevaluation of the productivity and profitability of slave plantations, his exaggeration of the problem of soil erosion and his portrayal of non-slaveholding southern farmers as an inefficient, destitute class, especially when compared with northern farmers. Such a run of errors, all in the same direction, raises questions, not about Olmsted’s rectitude and his overall reputa-

tion as a keen observer, for which there is ample evidence, but as to |

whether or not he was so moved by the political passions of the era that his capacity to report objectively on southern economic conditions was impaired.'! Evidence tending to corroborate this possibility is found in Olmsted’s reaction to criticisms made by Daniel R. | Goodloe, the antislavery journalist that he hired to help him condense

his three previous volumes about the South into The Cotton

Kingdom. Goodloe raised criticisms of Olmsted’s economic judgments

that are similar to those that have arisen from statistical analyses of the data in the manuscript schedules and other sources. The following is Arthur Schlesinger’s description of Olmsted’s response: Olmsted stuck by his guns... when Goodloe queried certain statistical conclusions in the newly written chapter. The editor thought it misleading to state that a Negro produced only a bale and a third of cotton annually when the figure was arrived at by dividing the total crop by the total number of slaves, including the aged and children: ‘“‘this is not what you talk of elsewhere, when you say that on large plantations they make ten bales to the hand.’’ Usually the field workers did not comprise more than a third of the slaves, he pointed out. On the same basis he considered that Olmsted had underrated the profits of the small cotton farmers. These men, he added, gave a good deal of attention also to grain growing, hog raising etc., with the help of house servants and children. He argued that if such farms didn’t really pay they would be abandoned. Olmsted likewise did nothing with Goodloe’s suggestion that the situation in Virginia and North Carolina had substantially improved since 1853-1854, thanks to the buil-

_ ding of additional railroads. '?

The preceding evaluation of Olmsted’s testimony, which was based on circumstantial evidence, illustrates both the strengths and

limitations of such evidence. The various statistical analyses of

wealth data all show that cotton planters as a class were quite well off, and that the largest planters dominated the upper reaches of the U.S. wealth distribution. While there might be room for doubt about the exact margin by which the wealth of the average cotton planter '! Cf. Robert W. FoGeL and Stanley L. ENGERMAN, Time on the Cross (2

vols.; Boston: Little, Brown, 1974), I, pp. 170-190, 196-199, 204-209, 218-223. 12) The quote is from SCHLESINGER’S introduction to The Cotton Kingdom, p. XAX,

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 69

exceeded the wealth of an average day laborer in the North, there is little doubt that it was large. On the other hand, the validity of inferences aimed at explaining Olmsted’s errors on economic issues is much less certain. The weight of evidence may be enough to convince a jury of experts that Olmsted’s normally keen senses were diminished by his hostility to slavery, but it is hardly likely to produce a unanimous vote. There are relatively few historical problems in which arguments based mainly on circumstantial evidence will lead to unanimous verdicts among the experts. Even under the most favorable conditions, and on the simplest issues, circumstantial cases hold only with some degree of probability. The longer the chain of inference on which a circumstantial case rests, and the larger the number of probabilities that need to be multiplied in order to assess the likelihood that the overall case is valid, the more uncertain the outcome of a jury vote (even though the probability assigned to each element in the case is high). Circumstantial cases that rest on relatively long chains of inferences tend to be controversial and to yield split decisions. It is not likely that such cases will yield more than a preponderance of opinion among the experts, and some of these cases will leave the experts too badly divided to yield a clear preponderance of opinion. Whether the overall cases are strong or weak, the assessment of evidence which

rarely runs exclusively in one direction must ultimately be es-

tablished through a juridical process, not usually in a court of law, but through a process of scholarly debate which has characteristics similar to legal proceedings. This is so, not just because circumstantial cases hold only with a degree of probability, but also because in many complex situations the degree of probabily cannot be established by purely objective criteria. Is the distinction between direct and circumstantial evidence so

misleading that it ought to be abandoned? Some readers of earlier drafts of this paper argued that since virtually every piece of evidence employed in historical studies, whether direct or indirect, is afflicted by some degree of error, the perpetuation of the distinction exaggerates the relative reliability and importance of direct evidence. They also emphasized that even when a given piece of direct evidence is both reliable and important, the historical argument in which it is embedded is usually circumstantial, either because other points of evidence in the argument are circumstantial or because the structure of

the argument is inherently .circumstantial. According to this view direct evidence qua direct evidence plays a minor part in historical analysis; it 1s limited mainly to establishing simple or background facts. Direct evidence becomes interesting only when it is used for ‘“something else,’’ when it is made an element in a broader argument and so acquires far greater importance than it otherwise would have had.

70 ROBERT W. FOGEL There are, of course, historical problems for which the distinction between direct and circumstantial evidence loses all value. For reasons suggested later in this paper, such situations are encountered sy more often in those newer branches of history which tend to focus on the behavior of large groups than in those older branches which tend to focus on the behavior of individuals. It is also true that the impor-

tance of a particular piece of direct evidence depends on the context

within which it is used, and that the context is often circumstantial. Nevertheless, the distinction between direct and circumstantial evidence remains useful because many issues in history turn on the accuracy of simple details, of mere background facts, which in principle could be established either by direct evidence or by circumstantial

evidence. Time and again the interpretation of major historical events, sometimes of whole eras, has been radically transformed by corrections of apparently trivial details — by the demonstration that _ the authorship of a document, the exact sequence of a series of bills or amendments, the identity of the individuals at a particular meeting, the date on which a piece of information became known, the size of a

, population, the extent of the indebtedness of a given class, the vo-

lume of trade in a particular commodity, or some other detail initially treated as ‘‘mere’’ background information had been erroneously re-

- ported. Since the reliability of ‘‘simple’’ facts, of ‘‘mere’’ background information, is often of the highest moment in historical analysis, the evaluation of the procedures used to establish these details is one of the main tasks of historians. There are numerous instances, in all the

fields of history, when scholars have been forced to settle for circumstantial procedures in order to establish details that could have been established with a far greater degree of reliability if direct evi-

dence had been available. '° | The distinction between direct and circumstantial evidence is important, then, not because of what it reveals about the strength of direct evidence, but because it provides a standard for assessing the

'3 The points made in this paragraph are illustrated by the issues in Tudor history discussed below. See pp. 72-73, 87-88, 100-101, and the sources cited in the footnotes to these pages; cf. the discussion on pp. 93-94. Debates on such fundamental questions as the economics of U.S. slavery and the Tudor revolution in government often continue to be vigorous after disagreements about details that initiated the debates have been settled. The subsequent rounds are usually on related but different sets of issues. If these extensions of old debates were conducted under courtroom procedures, judges would rule that the extensions were new cases and would call for new indictments or new bills of particulars. In other instances the change in the argument, forced by the resolution of particular details is analogous to a court case in which the evidence forces a defense attorney to shift the | plea of his client from not guilty (he did not do it) to not guilty by reason of insanity (he did do it but he is not liable for his behavior).

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 71 circumstantial evidence that is offered in its place. The main objective

of this paper is not to add to the already large literature for the evaluation of the various categories of direct evidence employed in histo-

rical work, but to contribute to the further development of historiographic standards for the evaluation of circumstantial evidence. Despite the rapidly increasing role of circumstantial evidence in historical work, current standards for assessing the reliability of such evidence have not yet received the attention they deserve. fl. - SOME CATEGORIES OF CIRCUMSTANTIAL ARGUMENTS IN HISTORY Tudor political and administrative history provides some of the finest examples of the use of circumstantial evidence, and I will draw on these examples to define certain categories of circumstantial arguments. '* Reconstructions of the legislative history of critical Parliamentary enactments have made a major contribution to the reinterpretation of the Tudor era. The notable works of this genre include those by I.D. Thornley on the treason legislation of Henry VIII, by

G.R. Elton on the act of appeals, by J.E. Neale on the Elizabethan act of untformity, and by S.T. Bindoff on the statute of artificers. '> | 14 Although the arguments involving circumstantial evidence that illustrate this paper are drawn from modern history, equally fine arguments are found in the historiography of earlier periods. The following excerpt from a letter by Frederic C. Lane cites three examples from the medieval period:

As illustration of the aspect of history I mentioned in our luncheon conversation, namely that historians depend less on testimony of witnesses and more on inference from circumstances, i mentioned the medievalist practice of discovering who constituted the kings’s councillors, the curia regis, not from any documents that list membership in any such council or office, but from compiling the recurrence of names of witnesses to documents, royal charters (even if forged) which purported to say what lands or revenues had been granted to this or that monastery or vassal. Another example would be the whole history of the expansion of settlement and population in Europe, 1050-1250, which is based on archeology or on

reference to Villeneuves and Newtowns at places previous called woods or waste in documents designed to record something unrelated to agriculture or population, such as a miracle or a battle. In my own recent work I have been wrestling with little success to determine daily wages in the Venetian mint. The statements purporting to give the amounts per month or per pound don’t fit together to make sense. But what the documents do show beyond dispute is some division of labor which is revealed indirectly by the mention of different categories of workmen. From a letter to Robert W. Fogel, dated November 24, 1979. 'S T. D. THORNLEY, ‘‘The Treason Legislation of Henry VIII (1531-1534),” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 3d ser., vol. XI, 1917, pp. 87-123; G.R. ELTon, Studies in Tudor and Stuart Politics and Government (2 vols.; Cambridge:

72 ROBERT W. FOGEL Bindoff’s reconstruction of the legislative history of the statute of artificers, a piece of detective work worthy of Sherlock Holmes, demonstrates that the statute was not a unified whole, as had been widely supposed. It consists of ‘‘an initial bill of some twenty clauses’’ to which twenty additional clauses were added during its passage through Parliament and to the Queen.'® Bindoff built his case partly on a careful internal analysis of the constituent parts of the act, calling attention to aspects of the organization of the clauses as well

as repetitions and inconsistencies within and between clauses that

Suggest an amalgam of many minds and of conflicting interests. He also made use of external evidence obtained from visual examination of the drafts and from brief entries in the Commons Journal. Much of Bindoff's case depends on Parliamentary procedures that he took as sufficiently regular to provide a basis for reliable inference: bills were engrossed before the third reading; Journal entries which list a name after the title of the bill mean that the bill was sent

to a committee (headed by the person so named) to resolve issues

that arose after the reading. Such regularities have the force of a

law; when combined with additional statements about specific conditions, they permit inferences. Thus Bindoff inferred that the original bill must have been substantially altered in the committee from the fact that there were two first-readings of the bill instead of the usual one. That conclusion followed from an empirically established premise: ‘‘minor amendments’’ would not have necessitated a ‘‘depar-

ding.’’ !7 a

ture from routine’’; they “‘could have been taken at a second rea-

Such reconstructions of legislative history are models with relatively short chains of inferences. The premises of the models are not generalizations that hold everywhere, at every time, but pertain to a particular institution or setting during a particular period of time. EI-

ton, for example, develops the following generalization about the drafts of government-sponsored bills introduced into Parliament

between 1529 and 1540: |

Cambridge University Press, 1974), Hl, pp. 82-106; J. E. NEALE, “‘The Elizabethan

Acts of Supremacy and Uniformity,’ English Historical Review, 65, July 1950, pp. |

304-332; S. T. BINDOFF, ‘“The Making of the Statute of Artificers,’’ in S. T. BINDOFF,

J. HURSTFIELD, and C. H. WiLtiams, eds., Elizabethan Government and Society (London: Athlone Press, 1961), pp. 56-94. 16 BINDOFF, “‘Making of the Statute of Artificers,’’ pp. 79-80. '7 TIbid., pp. 73-74. Although the premise is set forth in a counterfactual form, it is fundamentally a descriptive generalization, as can be seen when it is reformulated as

follows: Minor amendments did not require a new first reading but were taken at a , second reading. See Donald Woopwarpb, ‘‘The Background to the Statute of Artificers: The Genesis of Labour Policy, 1558-63,’’ Economic History Review, 2nd ser., vol. XX XIII, February 1980, pp. 32-44, for an evaluation of some aspects of Bin-

doff's argument.

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 73 They are written on one side only of large sheets of paper (about 18 in. by 12 in.); Spaces one to one and a half inches wide are left between the lines for corrections; they are almost invariably in a typical clerical script otherwise found in the offices of the privy seal and especially the signet; corrections [and, Elton later adds, endorsements] on them, when not by the drafting clerk, are nearly always in an identifiable government hand, either Cromwell’s or Lord Chancellor Audley’s. In other words, they are obvious drafts, written out so as to make correction easy, and in fact are as a rule corrected. '8

In this instance, the generalization is based on some ‘‘sixty-odd extant.

drafts... whose government provenance can nearly always be taken for granted.’’ Elton also considered those cases in which government drafts deviated in some respect from strict conformity with his rule. These differences, he concluded, were in such ‘‘minor details’? and for such *‘special reasons’’ that they did not diminish the applicability of his rule. '? Elton used his rule to determine whether a number of drafts of

unknown provenance ought to be accepted as government drafts. Among the items considered was a document that proposed the creation of a standing army. Lawrence Stone called attention to this document, which was found among the papers of Thomas Cromwell, by ascribing it either to Cromwell or to others in his office. According to Stone the document was especially important because it revealed that the ultimate intent of Cromwell and Henry was to impose a ‘‘renaissance despotism’’ on England, and because the proposal for a standing army, although never enacted, was the ‘‘natural coping stone to the whole programme.’’ Elton dismissed both Stone’s interpretation and his ascription on the ground that the document did not conform to

proper government drafts. It was ‘“‘written on both sides of small sheets with hardly any spacing between lines’’ and the handwriting was not in a clerical script. Elton suggested that the bill was one of many sent to Cromwell by private individuals, and that the author was Thomas Gybson, whose name was endorsed on the draft. Stone argued that ‘‘the endorsement belongs to a much later period, possibly Elizabethan,’’ but Elton pointed out that there was a contemporary Thomas Gybson, a printer who had written to Cromwell on another occasion. Moreover, the endorsement was ‘‘in the familiar hand

of a Cromwellian clerk much employed in endorsing the names of senders on Cromwell’s incoming correspondence.’’ Elton also called attention to internal evidence, such as the ‘‘absurdly small’’ sum allocated to the upkeep of fortifications, which marked the document as the product of an uninformed outsider. Here again the deduction rests on implicit premises (Cromwell knew what the actual expenditures on fortifications had been and he had no reason, or it was out of charac18 ELTON, Studies, I, p. 64 for the quote and p. 67 for the addendum. 19 Tbid., p. 65-67.

- 74. ROBERT W. FOGEL _ ter for him, to deliberately and grossly understate this expense) for which empirical evidence could no doubt be marshalled. 7°

, The foregoing examples belong to a category of circumstantial , , cases which are common among traditional historians and which often yield a high degree of consensus among the experts. An important characteristic of these cases is that the range of behavior with which they deal is narrowly enough defined so that in principle it 1s possible to derive generalizations about the behavior on the basis of an examination of every element in the specified universe. Either the potential number of the data points is sufficiently small, or the number extant is sufficiently small, so that the quality of each observation can be evaluated individually. The chain of inference involved in reaching a conclusion is usually short, so that the confidence in the conclusion Is high when the confidence in the elements entering into the argument is high. Quite often the cases are built on parallel inferential systems which lead to the same conclusion. Bindoff, for example, uses argu-

ments derived from both internal and external evidence, each of which has its own premises. The fact that both lines of argument lead to the same conclusion enhances the overall case. A multiplication of largely independent lines of argument leading to the same conclusion tends to make a case ironclad, since if the confidence in each separate case is high, the probability that all the lines of argument are simultaneously wrong approaches zero.

It is worth noting that the generalizations which underlie various of the circumstantial cases in this category could be subjected to formal statistical analysis. It is possible, for example, to use regression analysis to evaluate Elton’s rule for identifying government drafts. In this instance the dependent variable would be a dichotomous variable

taking the value one if the document in question was government sponsored. The independent variables would include those singled out

by Elton: size of the sheets and space between lines could be treated as continuous variables, and such factors as whether or not both sides

of the sheet contained writing, the type of hand in which the document was inscribed, and the attribution of the handwriting of corrections and endorsements could be represented by dichotomous variables. One potential advantage of a formal statistical approach is that it

may provide weights on the relative importance of each of these pre- a dictive characteristics. Moreover, one could test the predictive power of measurable characteristics not explicitly included in Elton’s rule,

such as the number of separable proposals included in any given draft, or the watermark on the paper. It is doubtful, however, that ~ such an exercise would add much to the information already elicited

II, pp. 72, 74. |

20 Lawrence STONE, ‘‘The Political Programme of Thomas Cromwell,” Bulletin of the Institute of Historical Research, XXIV, 1951, pp. 1, 4, 11; ELTON, Studies,

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 75

by Elton. From his description of the evidence, it seems likely that multicollinearity (too high a correlation between the independent variables) would foil the attempt to attach separate weights to the individual variables. Moreover, the proportion of the variance apparently explained by the handwriting in which the document and endorsements were written, the size of the paper, and the space between lines seems to be so high, that there may be little room for increasing the predictive power by the addition of new variables.

There is a second category of circumstantial cases that has emerged from Tudor historiography in recent years. These cases are based on fairly long chains of inference and so have not produced as

high a degree of consensus as is characteristic of cases in the first category. The cases of the second category go far beyond the recons-

truction of the legislative history of a particular act; they aim at defining an extended period of change in government practices or at accounting for fundamental shifts in institutions and institutional relationships. Such cases not only involve the reconstruction of the legislative histories of many acts, but also involve the reconstruction of the changing balance of power within the sovereign’s councils, as well as the interpretation of the motivations of a relatively large number of individuals at various points in time. To lay bare the structure of the models on which cases of the second category rest is too complex a task for this paper. Such books as Elton’s Reform and Reformation, A. G. Dickens’s The English Reformation, J. J. Scarisbrick’s Henry VII, A. L. Rowse’s The England of Elizabeth, or Wallace T. MacCaffrey’s The Shaping of the Elizabethan Regime rest on a large number of closely interrelated models, each of which involves one or more premises and a number of specific conditions from which conclusions are derived that are vital to the argument of the book. To assess the empirical validity of the many premises in the interrelated models of any one of these books, to authenticate each of the items offered as facts, and to determine the internal consistencies in, and between, the submodels would re-

quire not another book but a career — or more likely several careers. 7!

Large synthetic cases tend to yield somewhat diminished levels of overall confidence partly because they are composed of relatively long strings of cases of the type assigned to the first category — that is, because the multiplication of many probabilities yields a reduced 21° G. R. Etron, Reform and Reformation: England, 1509-1558 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1977); A. G. Dickens, The English Reformation (Lon-

don: Batsford, 1964); John J. Scarissprick, Henry VIIT (London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1968); A. Leslie Rowse, The England of Elizabeth ULondon: Macmillan, 1950); Wallace T. MACCAFFREY, The Shaping of the Elizabethan Regime (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968).

76 ROBERT W. FOGEL overall probability, even when the probabilities assigned to each of the subcases is high. There is, however, another reason for diminished confidence in the large synthetic models that comprise the se-

| cond category: many of the submodels on which these cases rest are

far more problematical than the models belonging to the first category. Indeed, it is necessary to define a third category of circumstantial cases which (like the first category) involves models with relatively short chains of inference but (unlike the first category) these cases are based on premises that are difficult to confirm or disconfirm empirically, although they are often widely accepted. Elton, in a paragraph from his Political History, Principles and Practice, provides — an excellent example of this type of case: In the years 1529-1534 two men were working their way up in the service of King Henry VIII: Stephen Gardiner and Thomas Cromwell. The first began ahead of

the other, then fell well behind, but came to the fore again after Cromwell’s fall

, and death in 1540. Their careers in office and in the king’s favor can be fully _ and properly documented. Much is correctly demonstrable about their personali-

ties — Gardiner the bishop and diplomatist, writer, and defender of his order, irascible and rash but also intellectually distinguished and capable of generous | friendship; Cromwell the layman and administrator, policy-maker and radical reformer, drastic and often ruthless, with a circle of close personal friends and a

, wider circle of close personal enemies. Yet the evidence that they were rivals

, and that Gardiner took the lead in overthrowing Cromwell is not primary and permits of no perfect proof. Apart from some near-contemporary comment (from

John Foxe, the martyrologist), it is strictly inferential; their own correspondence, for instance, shows nothing but a straightforward business relationship with touches of mutual appreciation. However, it can be shown that Cromwell acquired a crucial office which Gardiner had held, just after a known false step in

| policy had for a time lost Gardiner the king’s favor; that throughout Cromwell’s

ascendancy Gardiner was rarely at court and often on embassy abroad; and that the issues of the final crisis (final for Cromwell) resolved themselves into a

, victory for the views known to have been held by Gardiner and a defeat for those known to have been held by Cromwell. From all this, the historian may, quite legitimately and without any risk of rashness, conclude the fact of their rivalry,

, oe and — applying a generalized understanding of the ways of the human mind to | the known facts of the rivals’ characters — may fairly infer the existence of jealousy and resentment on Gardiner’s side, manifestations which in turn came , to play an important causal role in the fall of Cromwell. The feelings and motives ascribed to Gardiner are not provable from the evidence nor are they in any way peculiar to the historical setting; but the ‘‘laws’’ of human behavior are here in

| no way contradicted by the known facts which rather corroborate the con-

clusions based on these ‘‘laws.’’ As for the argument that this search for motive

| is superfluous and historically uninteresting, especially since conjecture must

enter into it, the truth is that without an understanding of what Gardiner was up ©

, to, and why, the crisis of 1540 would not properly be explained. In this instance, the reconstruction of story, causes, and motives, compounded of proven detail and ~ conjectured detail and in accord with a generalized understanding of how men behave, may claim the certainty of an established case; and the example is in fact typical of the way in which historical explanation, always complex and mixed, invariably works in practice. 22

22, GR. ELTON, Political History, Principles and Practice (London: Allen Lane The Penguin Press, 1970), pp. 147-149.

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY T7

Elton is obviously aware that this type of case lacks the authority of his demonstration that the draft bill for a standing army did not originate with the government, or his reconstruction of the legislative

history of the act of appeals. As he points out, not only some of the details, but also the central premise in this explanation of Cromwell’s fall lack adequate confirmation. Indeed, the central premise is so vaguely defined that different readers may reach quite different conclusions as to what that premise actually is. Unlike Elton’s rule regarding government drafts, the rule or “‘law’’ of behavior to which he appeals in this instance does not summarize behaviour during a specific period of time and for a narrowly defined set of instances. Elton does not provide the set of observations from which this “‘law’’ of behavior is derived, nor does he test the applicability of the “‘law’’ by consider-

ing deviant cases, as he did in his assessment of his rule about government drafts. Instead Elton appeals to a ‘‘a generalized understanding of how men behave’’ although, as his writings show, he recognizes that different men will react in quite different ways when

confronted with a similar set of circumstances. When Elton states that his interpretation of the role of Gardiner in Cromwell’s downfall, and of Gardiner’s motivation, ‘‘may claim the certainty of an established case,’’ he does not mean that this interpretation 1s beyond

challenge, but only that he has reason to treat it as if it were an established case, using it as a submodel in his overall interpretation of the reign of Henry VIII. Elton accepts this explanation of

Cromwell’s fall because it is consistent with all of the evidence available to him and, in his opinion, superior to other possible explana-

tions.

It might be argued that the two examples that I have drawn from

Elton’s work are quite different from each other and should not be compared. The first deals with the provenance of a document; the second with the role assigned to an actor. For some sets of issues such distinctions would be important, but it is the similarity in the logical structure of the two arguments that | want to emphasize here. In both examples inferential arguments are used to settle issues of causation (Cromwell was not the author of the document; Gardiner played a critical role in Cromwell’s downfall). Both arguments involve relatively short strings of inferences and both are based on explicit behavioral “‘laws.’’ The details of each case are more or less accepted. It is differences in the nature of the ‘‘laws’’ that makes one deduction more problematic than the other. In the first example the ‘“‘law’’ pertains to a limited range of behavior during a limited period

of time and, for that period, has relatively few exceptions, none of any consequence. The second ‘“‘law’’ is not explicitly bounded in time, is wide in the range of circumstances to which it apparently applies, and has many exceptions. Elton explained Gardiner’s role in the manner he describes be-

72 , ROBERT W. FOGEL | cause he had no practical alternative, as is often the case in the cons- | truction of large synthetic models. The large synthetic models of ca-

tegory two, then, consist not only of long strings of submodels, but | the submodels in these strings are usually of uneven reliability. The , overall strength of such multifaceted cases depends both on the length | of the chain of inference and on the number and role of the unreliable elements in the chain. The fewer the number of the unreliable elements, and the more circumscribed the consequences of including an ! unreliable — or false — element, the greater the confidence in the

overall case. One of the more important contributions of the cliometricians, as we shall see, is that they have worked out systematic procedures for assessing the impact of the inclusion of unreliable or false elements on the conclusions of circumstantial cases.

, | Ul. —- SOME COMPARISONS BETWEEN THE STRUCTURES OF CIRCUMSTANTIAL ARGUMENTS IN “SCIENTIFIC” AND TRADITIONAL HISTORY

Although the categories of circumstantial cases constructed by ‘*scientific’’ historians are similar to those encountered in traditional

history, there are differences in structure that warrant discussion. These differences, which have been a source of misunderstandings between the two groups of scholars, are not due to deviations from good practices, but to intellectual problems and categories of data that require specialized procedures. The aim of this section is to re-

, late the practices employed by each group to the specific sets of problems and sources of information with which it is grappling and to show why practices that may seem odd, if not unsound, in one context are quite appropriate in another. The caveat that I have invoked in previous comparisons between the work of ‘‘scientific’’? and

traditional historians also applies to the discussion of these issues. While it is convenient to characterize practices of each group by their

central tendencies, there is a good deal of dispersion around each central tendency and there are overlapping practices; an increasing share of the scholars in each group fall into these overlapping areas. The blend of direct and indirect evidence. Circumstantial cases

in both “‘scientific’’ and traditional history, especially the large syn- _

thetic cases, are blends of direct and indirect evidence, but

‘“scientific’’? historians tend to favor indirect evidence while traditional historians tend to favor direct evidence. I do not mean to suggest that direct evidence is excluded from ‘‘scientific’’ history but that it

tends to play a subordinate role in the construction of a case.

-“‘Scientific’’ historians tend to use direct evidence to set the stage for the presentation of indirect evidence, or to evaluate the quality of the observations from which an indirect case will be constructed, or to

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 79

provide ancillary, or additional, support for a premise or a conclusion in a circumstantial case, rather than as the central form of evidence in

their cases.

In The Rebellious Century, Charles, Louise, and Richard Tilly made use of testimony by such observers as Balzac, Marx, police spies in Paris and other cities, newspaper reporters, and demonstrators in order to identify the rifts that gave rise to violent conflicts in France, Italy, and Germany between 1830 and 1930. As Lawrence Stone pointed out, however, the ‘‘major findings’’ in this work ‘“*stand

or fall on the reliability’? of the indirect evidence summarized in eraphs and on the reliability of ‘‘the multivariate analysis used for explaining the ups and downs of the graphs.’’ E.A. Wrigley and R.S. Schofield made use of direct evidence culled from government regulations and laws, from canon laws, from early censuses, and from tes-

timony provided by knowledgeable churchmen and government officials in order to assess the coverage and quality of the data contain-

ed in parish records. Yet their dramatic reinterpretation of the population history of England does not turn on such direct evidence, but on the various indirect techniques of analysis that they applied to the data, including the ‘‘back projections’’ that they employed in order to estimate simultaneously annual time series on the size of the English

population and on the net migration rate. Although Wrigley and Schofield have thoroughly reviewed the direct evidence bearing on the limitations of parish records for the construction of vital rates, much of what they found was already known. If the new direct evi-

dence were excluded from The Population History of England, confidence in some of the findings of Wrigley and Schofield would be reduced but much of the authority of the book would remain intact,

since the principal tests of the reliability of their evidence and their conclusions are indirect. On the other hand, if one excluded the indirect evidence, little would remain of their effort to revise the population history of England during the three centuries beginning in 1541. These examples of the extremely heavy emphasis that ‘‘scientific’’ historians place on indirect evidence could be multiplied manyfold,

and similar examples could be drawn from every field itn which ‘‘scientific’’ historians are active.*?

The penchant of cliometricians for indirect evidence is due to their concentration on aspects of behavior that cannot be observed directly but must be inferred. The point here is not that cliometricians are more concerned with explaining (modelling) behavior than tradi23 Charles TiLLy et al., The Rebellious Century, 1830-1930 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1975), pp. 39-40; Lawrence STONE, ‘‘History and the Social Sciences in the Twentieth Century,’ in Charles F. DELZELL, The Future of History (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 1977), p. 31; E. A. WRIGLEY and R. S. ScHoFIELD, The Population History of England 1541-1871: A Reconstruction (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1981).

SO ROBERT W. FOGEL tional historians, but that even the purely descriptive data (the ‘‘observations’’) that they employ are often obtained by indirect means. Consider the question of the relative efficiency of slave labor, which occupied the thought of such figures as Montesquieu, David Hume,

} Benjamin Franklin, Adam Smith, and Jean Baptiste Say, and which emerged as a central political issue during the last three decades of , the antebellum era. Antislavery politicians in the United States made the inefficiency of slave labor a major plank in their ideological campaign to win white support, arguing that the spread of slavery threatened the living standards of white workers everywhere, and that the ending of slavery would improve the economic lot of the masters as

well as the slaves. *4 , , An issue that loomed so large in economic and philosophical

thought and in politics would naturally become an issue for later his-

torians, and such eminent scholars as U.B. Phillips, Lewis C. Gray, | Allan Nevins, Kenneth M. Stampp, Eugene D. Genovese, Moses Finley, David B. Davis, Richard Sheridan, and Roger Anstey have dealt with it. Until recently the problem was approached mainly by citing

the testimony of experts with first-hand knowledge of the operation of ,

slave plantations, free farms, and non-agricultural enterprises that ,

operated with and without slave labor, but the issue was not resolved in this way. The witnesses called upon were deeply divided, as one would expect on any issue that involved passions fierce enough to produce a Civil War, and efforts to demonstrate that witnesses favor-

ing one viewpoint were more reliable than those who favored the contrary viewpoint came to nought. *5 The point here is not merely that historians have so far failed to

resolve the issue by direct evidence, but that this issue cannot be resolved by such evidence. Neither the witnesses actually called by historians nor any other witnesses could have had direct knowledge of the relative efficiency of slave labor because efficiency is an un** The evolution of thought on this question is reviewed in David B. Davis, The Problem of Slavery in Western Culture (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1966) esp. ch. 14; Roger ANSTEY, The Atlantic Slave Trade and British Abolition 1760-1810 (Atlantic Highlands, N.J.: Humanities Press, 1975), esp. ch. 4; M. I. FINLEY, Ancient Slavery and Modern Ideology (New York: Viking Press, 1980), esp. ch. 1; and Robert W. FOGEL, Without Consent or Contract: The Rise and Fall of American Slavery (New

York: W. W. Norton, forthcoming), ch. 3. ,

25 In addition to the works cited in the previous note, see Ulrich B. PHILLIPS, American Negro Slavery (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1966); Lewis C. GRAY, History of Agriculture in the Southern United States to 1860 (2 vols., Washington, D.C.: Carnegie Institution of Washington, 1933); Allan NEVINS, Ordeal of

the Union (New York: Scribner’s, 1947); Kenneth M. Stampp, The Peculiar Institution: Slavery in the Ante-Bellum South (New York: Knopf, 1956); Eugene D. GENoVESE, The Political Economy of Slavery (New York: Pantheon, 1965); Richard SHERI| DAN, Sugar and Slavery: An Economic History of the British West Indies, 1623-1775 (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins Press, 1974).

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 81

observable, theoretical abstraction. Consequently, comparisons between the relative efficiency of two classes of workers can only be carried out by indirect means. It was Benjamin Franklin who initiated efforts to measure the relative efficiency of slave and free labor. Although modern research on the problem of efficiency has been carried out along the lines that he suggested, there have been significant advances of both a theoretical and empirical nature. The main theoretical advance involves the careful formulation of a distinction between profitability and ‘‘technical’’ efficiency, a distinction that Franklin,

Smith, and Olmsted, among others, often blurred.26 Technical

efficiency refers to the effectiveness with which inputs are used in a productive process. One productive process is said to be technically more efficient than another, if it yields more output from the same

quantity of inputs. Profitability, which bears on the efficiency of markets, does not necessarily imply technical efficiency, especially in

the slave context, since even processes that were technically inefficient could have been profitable if masters expropriated some of the income that would otherwise have accrued to labor. Methods for comparing the economic performance of slave and

free farms have now been worked out for each criterion, but the comparison of profitability required analytical structures and bodies of data that were quite different from those required to compare technical efficiency. It took nearly two decades of research and debate by a large number of cliometricians to refine the analytical models need-

ed to measure profitability and to obtain the required data, but a consensus was finally achieved. Although work aimed at the resolution of the issue of technical efficiency began later, it has proceeded more rapidly, partly because the intensity of the debate led to an unusually large allocation of resources to the problem. There is now wide agreement among cliometricians that the previous view that slave farms were less efficient than free farms is incorrect, but the exact margin of advantage enjoyed by the slave farms and the explanation for this advantage are still under debate. 27 76 Benjamin FRANKLIN, ‘‘Observations Concerning the Increase of Mankind, Peopling of Countries, &c.,’’ in Leonard W. LABAREE et al. (eds.), The Papers of Benjamin Franklin: Volume 4, July 1750, through June 30, 1753 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1961), pp. 229-231; Adam SmituH, The Weath of Nations (New York: Modern Library, 1937), pp. 80-81, 156-160, 364-367.

*” The theoretical and empirical contributions of cliometricians to the profitability of slavery are summarized in FoGEL and ENGERMAN, ZJime on the Cross, I. ch. 3

and II, pp. 54-87; and in Robert W. FoGEL et al., Without Consent or Contract: Sources and Methods (New York: W.W. Norton, forthcoming), Part I. The major cliometric works on technical efficiency include FOGEL and ENGERMAN, Tinie on the Cross, UU,

pp. 126-215; Paul A. DAviD et al, Rockoning With Slavery (New York: Oxford University Press, 1976), chs. 5 and 7; Robert W. FOGEL and Stanley L. EGERMAN, ‘“‘Explain-

ing the Relative Efficiency of Slave Agriculture in the Antebellum South,’ American Economic Review, 67, June 1977, pp. 275-296; Paul A. DAvip and Peter TEMIN, *“‘Ex-

y) | ROBERT W. FOGEL The class of historical ‘‘observations’’ that are inherently inferential is neither small nor confined to isolated branches of history. Quite the contrary, such ‘‘observations’’ form part of the foundation for historical analysis in virtually every field of inquiry. Whether they

are concerned with politics, diplomacy, economics, intellectual thought, social behavior, or institutional arrangements, historians

must deal with abstract attributes that defy direct knowledge, such as influence, power, motivation, intent, social or occupational mobility, religious or political cohesion, inflation, false consciousness, fraud,

, treachery, hegemony, and family mores. Take the matter of intent, which is often a critical element in historical interpretations of the policies of political leaders. Despite their thoroughness Tudor historians, for example, have not been able to provide direct evidence of the deliberateness with which Henry VIII pursued a break with Rome. Although much progress has been

, made in disentangling the different motivations and objectives of Henry, Cromwell, Cranmer, Gardiner, Norfolk, and other leading figures in Henry’s councils during the last two decades of his reign, and particularly during the revolutionary decade of the 1530s, the advances have rested almost entirely on circumstantial evidence and arguments.*> The difficulty in uncovering Henry’s motivations is due partly to the absence of documents that provide information bearing on his aims and beliefs. That the absence of such documentary evi-

dence is not the principal source of the difficulty can be seen by considering a case where the documentation is ample. Jefferson’s es-

says and letters deal at length with various aspects of slavery and

emancipation, but his true attachment to the cause of emancipation remains one of the most perplexing issues in the political history of the Revolutionary and early national eras. Careful studies of these documents have produced quite different conclusions regarding his beliefs and intentions because of the inconsistencies in certain of his positions and because of his evasiveness on certain issues. Surely no one besides Jefferson could have had direct knowledge of his actual

, intent with respect to emancipation, since no one could have crept inside his mind. Scholars who have wrestled with the problem have been able to provide direct evidence only on what Jefferson professed or did at various points in time. Particular letters dealing with emanplaining the Relative Efficiency of Slave Agriculture in the Antebellum South:

| Comment,’ American Economic Review, 69, March 1979, pp. 213-218; Donald F. , SCHAEFER and Mark D. Scumirtz, ‘‘The Relative Efficiency of Slave Agriculture: A : Comment,’’ American Economic Review, 69 March 1979, p. 208-212; Gavin WRIGHT, “The Efficiency of Slavery: Another Interpretation,’ American Economic Review, 69, March 1979, pp. 219-226; Robert W. FoGEL and Stanley L. ENGERMAN, ‘‘Explaining the Relative Efficiency of Slave Agriculture in the Antebellum South: Reply ,’’ American Economic Review, 70, Sept. 1980, pp. 672-690, hereinafter referred to as “‘Reply.”’

| 28 See ELTON, Reform and Reformation, esp. chs. 5-8.

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 83 cipation cannot be classified as direct evidence of his intent, since it is quite possible that his letters to Sparks and others were not aimed at

revealing his intent but at producing political effects that involved misleading the readers of these letters. We cannot even be certain that Jefferson really knew his true intent, or if he did, that it remained constant from one situation to another. David B. Davis, John Chester Miller, or some future scholar may be able to build a case that garners a majority vote for one verdict or the other, but that case will of necessity be purely circumstantial. 29 The typical length of the string of inferences. The typical string of inferences in “‘scientific’’ history is quite long. Of course, the synthetic works of traditional history also involve long strings, but these

works are created from more narrowly focused studies (building blocks) with relatively short strings. In ‘‘scientific’’ history, however, even the building blocks involve long strings. Consider, for example,

the length of the string of inferences involved in the attempt to compare the relative efficiency of slave and free agriculture in 1860, which is just one issue, although an important issue, in recent reinter-

pretations of the economy and society of the South during the late antebellum era. When one considers the wide range of data and the complex series of measurements involved in attempting to compare the average efficiency of tens of thousands of slave and free farms, it

is clear that none of the witnesses previously called by historians could have possessed the necessary data. During the 1960s cliometricians began the task of retrieving the necessary data and of performing the appropriate measurements on them. One of the indexes that they employed to measure technical efficiency is output per worker,

which is referred to as the index of ‘‘labor productivity.’’ A more comprehensive index, called ‘“‘total factor productivity,’ was also constructed. It is the ratio of output per average unit of all of the inputs, which in the case of agriculture are mainly land, labor, and capital. 3°

The computations are based partly on data published in the 1860 census and partly on data in samples drawn from a variety of sources,

including the manuscript schedules of the 1860 census, probate records, plantation account books, and commercial journals. The first question that arose, then, was whether the samples were representa29 See the sources cited in notes 7 and 8. I have dealt here with the problem of attempting to infer the intent of a particular individual from a collection of his statements and deeds, which involves an implicit or explicit system for weighting various implications and inconsistencies in these statements and deeds. A similar system of weights is needed to infer the collective intent of a group, as when jurists or scholars attempt to infer the intent of Congress with respect to a given piece of legislation. 30 For a fuller discussion of these measures see FOGEL and ENGERMAN, Time on the Cross, U, pp. 126-131 and the other sources cited in note 27.

| 84 | ROBERT W. FOGEL tive of the populations to which they applied. The evaluation of this question involved too many tests to recapitulate here. Suffice it to say - the tests were nearly all inferential, so that even before a single step

was taken toward construction of the desired indexes, there was |

already a long chain of inferences involved in assessing the quality of

theEvenunderlying data. >! if the samples are adequate for the task, many complicated

problems remain. The data could not be used in their raw form but had to be combined in various ways to produce the desired measures. While productivity is measured by the ratio of outputs to inputs, farms are multiproduct enterprises, and different farms produce diffe-

rent mixtures of qualitatively different products. Consequently, to ,

compare the total output of two or more farms it 1s necessary to ag-

, gregate the different products of each farm into a single figure repre-

senting its total output. A number of indexes could have been constructed for this purpose. The most comprehensive of these, called ‘““sross farm product,’’ which uses prices to aggregate the output of the various products into a single measure, was chosen. Some cliometricians challenged the validity of an output index — derived with 1860 prices on the ground that the high price of cotton in that year, relative to its long-term trend, biased the output index in

favor of slave farms. The contention that the 1860 price of cotton

exceeded its long-term trend (or equilibrium) value was based on a model regarding the determinants of the equilibrium path of prices, | and this theoretical path was then estimated by still another model, which relates the unobservable (theoretical) equilibrium path of cot-

ton prices to the actual observations of cotton prices. There are a

number of ways of estimating this theoretical path and of measuring the deviation of the observed price in 1860, although in this case the alternative procedures yielded similar results; they all showed that the effect of the proposed correction on the indexes of productivity

was quite small. Furthermore, it was established that the prices of

northern commodities also deviated from their equilibrium paths in 1860. Since the average deviation of northern prices was greater than that of cotton prices, the use of 1860 prices led to an underestimation

: labor. 3?

rather than to an exaggeration of the relative efficiency of slave

The debate over how to aggregate output, which I have described briefly, is only one of more than a score of issues that arose about | the proper way to measure some component of either the numerator 31 Some of the tests are described in Foust, ‘‘The Yeoman Farmer.’’ Additional

| tests are described in FoGEL et al., Without Consent: Sources and Methods, Part I. : +2 The debate on this issue is described in more detail in Robert W. FoGEL and _ Stanley L. ENGERMAN, (eds.), Without Consent or Contract: Technical Papers on Slavery (New York: W. W. Norton, forthcoming), ch. 14.

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 85

or the denominator of the efficiency indexes. Each of these issues involved models of the production or marketing process of antebellum agriculture. In each instance it was necessary to evaluate empirically the effects deduced from these models, and each empirical test involv-

ed additional models. It is easy to see why the resolution of the cliometric debate over the relative efficiency of slave agriculture was so protracted. The empirical evaluation of most of the points under

contention involved the processing of large quantities of data. For some of the issues the original samples had to be augmented, which took both time and money. The programming of the computer for a given computation was often quite difficult, and sometimes required many trials before it was worked out.

The role of sensitivity analysis. A question naturally arises: How can anyone have confidence in a conclusion that involves so many premises, and so many operations, any one of which might be wrong? Even if the probability of being right on any given step in the logical chain is fairly high, should we not attach a low probability to a conclusion which is the result of such a long string of premises and operations ?

There is no simple yes or no answer that applies to all cases; each one must be evaluated on its own merits. Generally speaking, the more extensive the debate around a given problem the more likely

errors are to be discovered and corrected. In the case of the measurement of the relative efficiency of slave agriculture, virtually every premise of the computation was challenged, and the implications of alternative premises were explored. Each operation in the computation was repeated many times, in a variety of ways, often by scholars at odds with each other and pressing hard to overturn the result that they disputed. Such exchanges did uncover errors, some small, some large, but none so large that they overturned the basic finding. The net effect of all of the corrections so far has been a slight increase in the measured efficiency of slave plantations relative to free farms. It is not always possible, even after protracted investigation by many scholars, to know whether a given procedure is right or wrong. Cliometricians will then evaluate the effect of plausible ranges of potential errors in the procedure on the final outcome. Such an evaluation is called “‘sensitivity analysis.’’ Table 1 illustrates the application of sensitivity analysis to the evaluation of alternative procedures for measuring the land input on the measured efficiency of different clas-

ses of southern farms.?* The problem here arose from the fact that | farms used lands with differing levels of natural fertility and had different amounts of capital invested in the improvement of these lands. Since not all acres were equally productive, it was necessary to work 33, The method of constructing the table is reported in FOGEL and ENGERMAN, “Reply,” p. 674.

oo | ous |

R6 ‘ROBERT W. FOGEL Ue S£Eoatd

Oo .S c 654 | SO ae sera ous esesg = @ lomar Shee 6«CO -mval ‘© | me gwpeBayaeEor | Sonn x S \o SCep> oom & SSeS = — | SO” [els Sic & Used Fao 2's ao ef qGOoU

P5 on qaPaLP q# 2° ran;

,

yo rel ay ~a O > uw > Ac asZoo& a a >=2SmoSoea©sed SHRP aes Qrqaohe ; ae jonnan =002 2 SF OPHmM lSOawonrn + No

> cE 's FO =>” aea

Qae ke . @ n . Oo Soy a's . 55

— ; om)

| eo mq — fb2Foor ars) ~ fo£3B ROR

he = , , w 5 So see 7 |

ge eRa eQoanrt > 74 9 ome | ©CSant an en & ao oes Se = _ 2Cy 3) ESS Ss ora Z § >om rmOG + eog

|.|. |>>Ebp al rb icmi] 7 2 Pe Wy O a s eSo fennay 00 mE| om | OneAtm o +o > |rrgear Soorn oOo + | ss ic 96 aEE

:

cavs MO Se A ee oe | — — oO =

: | ee!

gS aR S55

Soo&yoO SPOa an STO wa” IY Ogs8 2208 Do Ae 2 BScSen FOS 3" leXtstnhato !n+ Lampe Sno| os

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 87

out a procedure for converting each acre of land that was actually in use to a uniform standard of quality. Table 1 shows the effect of alternative schemes of adjusting for differences in land quality and improvements. The indexes of efficiency shown in column one were based on the land-adjustment scheme that Engerman and I reported in Time on the Cross. The indexes shown in the other columns were obtained by using the three alternative schemes that were proposed in the course of the debate. One of the proposed alternatives reduced the relative efficiency of slave farms below the levels reported in Time on the Cross, but the reduction was slight. The other two alternatives increased the margin of advantage.

It is clear that regardless of which procedure is adopted, the

conclusion that gang-system farms were substantially more efficient than free farms remains intact. Although the margin of advantage cannot be established precisely, it falls somewhere 38 and 66 percent. Whether or not uncertainty about the validity of a premise or procedure is tolerable depends on the issue at hand. In this case, sensitivity analysis revealed that a given conclusion was robust to plausible alternative procedures. ** In other cases it has shown that the points at issue could not be resolved because slight differences in premises led to sharply different conclusions. Sensitivity analysis, then, is the knife that cliometricians use to cut the Gordian knot created by long strings of inferences. Although it cannot provide a precise answer to a given problem, sensitivity analysis establishes the range within which that answer lies. For many problems the range is sufficiently narrow to resolve the points in dispute. For other problems sensitivity analysis reveals that the range is too wide to eliminate any of the contending hypotheses. Applications of the technique that fail to produce winners should not be construed as mistrials. They do yield a verdict: insufficient evidence. Sensitivity analysis is also practiced by traditional historians. Elton’s careful analysis of exceptions to his rule for identifying bills of 34 Sensitivity analysis not only requires an examination of the separate effects of particular plausible adjustments but also requires the examination of the combined effect of all of these adjustments. The combined effect may be greater or less than the sum of the individual adjustments, depending on the sign of the interaction effects. In the case of the relative efficiency of southern agriculture, examination of the combined effect of the principal adjustments proposed by critics led to the surprising finding that on net the adjustments increased the relative advantage of southern agriculture from 34.7 percent to 44.8 percent. Some of the original conjectures about the direction of particular adjustments turned out to be incorrect. If only the adjustments that reduced the measured advantage of southern agriculture were made, the index would fall from 134.7 to 117.9. Even this extreme test, which omits corrections that raise the southern index relative to that of the North, and makes all the adjustments that reduce it (including several that are unwarranted), does not reverse the conclusion that southern slave agriculture was more efficient than northern free agriculture, although it does cut the margin of advantage by about 50 percent. See FOGEL and ENGERMAN, ‘“‘Explaining the

Relative Efficiency,’ esp. n. 23, p. 287.

88 , ROBERT W. FOGEL government provenance is a case in point. Indeed, much of the reinterpretation of Tudor history may be conceived of as a protracted exercise in sensitivity analysis — the sensitivity of an interpretation to the completeness and accuracy of the sources. The interpretation of critical events changed dramatically when scholars shifted their attention from the summaries in documents contained in the Calendar of Letters and Papers of Henry VIIT to the actual documents. I.D. Thornley, for example, discovered that the calendar misordered the successive drafts of a proposed new treason act, a fact which, toge- _

ther with information on the corrections and amendments in the successive drafts, and on the hand in which the corrections were made, cast the treason legislation of Henry VIII in a new light, and revealed that Cromwell had, as early as 1531, attained greater influence on Parliamentary legislation than was suspected. Subse-

quent research by Elton uncovered drafts overlooked by Thornley and corrected errors in her identification of the handwriting of some of the documents she did examine. These corrections altered some of

Thornley’s conclusions about the evolution of the treason statute; they provided a sharper distinction between the bills drafted in 15301532 and the act of 1534 and they more clearly delineated the ob-— jectives of the government in pressing for new treason legislation. *° Although sensitivity analysis has been employed with great effect by some traditional historians, it occupies a more limited role in their work than in the work of cliometric historians. This difference in emphasis is due to the differences in the problems on which the two

classes of historians tend to concentrate. Sensitivity analysis is a more useful device when the values that a test variable may assume are tightly limited than when they are virtually unlimited. For this reason demographic historians, for example, make much more use of sensitivity analysis than political historians. Sensitivity analysis is the principal device employed by Wrigley and Schofield to assess the esti-

mates of migration produced by their technique of “‘back project-

— tion.’’ The estimates, they point out, are , influenced by the structure of the family of life tables employed in allocating deaths to individual age groups, by the age-specific schedule of net migration used, by the decision about the size of the age group 90-94 introduced at the top of the age pyramid of the starting population, and by the way in which data from earlier passes are used as the program makes further passes through the data. Fortunately, the extent of the potential inaccuracies introduced by these factors can be estimated by carrying out simulations in which the effects of making extreme assumptions about alternative possibilities are examined. It can be shown that their influence, though not insignificant, could not be such as to change the results obtained in a way which would modify any major findings other than marginally. 3°

35" THORNLEY, ‘‘The Treason Legislation’’: G.R. ELton, Policy and Police: The Enforcement of the Reformation in the Age of Cromwell (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1972), ch. 4. 36 WRIGLEY and SCHOFIELD, Population History of England, p. 455.

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 89

The power of the tests arose in part because the range that the demographic variables in question could take was quite narrow. Although unknown, the size of the age group 90-94, for example, had to be a small fraction of the population at all other ages. It could not have been 10 or 20 times larger than the rest of the population; indeed, it must have been a number that was less than 10 percent of the rest of the population but greater than zero percent. Even this range, which is quite narrow, was further compressed because the estimate of the age group had to be consistent with other parameters, such as the net

migration rate. |

Political historians cannot usually solve their problems by

narrowly restricting the alternatives that they will entertain. Henry’s role in the subjugation of the clergy cannot be usefully bounded by considerations of ‘“‘normal’’ behavior. One cannot rule out a highly articulated campaign in which Henry foresaw and closely directed all of the major moves, manipulating his councillors, Parliament, and the clergy as the situation required. Nor can one rule out a train of events in which Henry was sometimes led in directions he had not seriously contemplated by crafty servants who influenced him to take actions

and endure consequences that he did not foresee, and often later regretted. These extremes are obviously much too wide to restrict current debates among Tudor historians in any meaningful way. One cannot say, as Wrigley and Schofield have said about their problem, that no plausible alternative within the range of uncertainly would

have more than a marginal effect on the major points at issue in Tudor history.

Approaches to verifying the observations on which the cases rest. The technical papers of Tudor historians, particularly the work on administrative and Parliamentary history, are impressive examples of meticulous scholarship. The remarkable reinterpretation of the revolution in government under Henry VIII has involved exhaustive examinations of the bills enacted by Parliament, with minute consideration of variations in the wording or in the order of sentences and clauses from draft to draft, and with scrutiny of the handwriting of amendments and corrections. By dwelling on these and other details, Tudor historians have been able to establish the provenance of the various documents, to reconstruct much of the legislative history of particular enactments, and to define the different political positions, as well as the ebb and flow of influence, among the men surrounding Henry. Cliometricians rarely devote such intense scrutiny to each of the data points from which their generalizations are derived. It was patently impossible for Wrigley and Schofield to have assessed the authenticity of each separate observation in a sample of baptism and burials covering 404 parishes over a period of 330 years. The techniques employed in verifying the underlying observations depend, to a consider-

90 ROBERT W. FOGEL able degree, on the volume of these observations. Elton could examine in detail each and every bill enacted by Parliament between 1529 and 1540 because the total number was not excessive. Moreover, the provenance of a single document could affect the interpretation of a whole era, as the debate between Stone and Elton over the Gybson document points up. Wrigley and Schofield, on the other hand, were dealing with millions of observations, in which no one observation,

right or wrong, could have much influence on the issues they sought to illuminate. Rather than seeking to assess separately the validity of each and every item in the sample, their evaluation turned on the characteristics of the distributions of items. Various individual observations, sometimes the observations for whole parishes, were discarded because they were inconsistent with known properties of demo-

graphic variables. , The criteria that led Wrigley and Schofield to accept particular observations did not require perfect accuracy, but only that the dis-

, tribution of observations did not have implausible characteristics or yield misleading implications. Such an approach was indispensable since it was known from the outset that the underlying data set was

defective in numerous respects. The issue was whether the data could, despite these defects, yield valid inferences about English population history. Sensitivity analysis was the critical device in the as-

- sessments of the data. Most of the very long book by Wrigley and Schofield is devoted to reporting the results of a series of tests, each one aimed at evaluating the reliability of the underlying data set fora _

specific purpose. ,

, Traditional historians do not often use sensitivity analysis to

evaluate the properties of data sets thought to be defective. Some prefer to discard defective data and are appalled by the failure of

cliometricians to do likewise. Since cliometricians believe that vir- | tually every body of data is defective in some respect, they are reluc-

tant to discard any data set unless it can be shown that the biases

which afflict it cannot be estimated (and hence corrected), or that the uncertainty surrounding the magnitude of the biases is so great that it -vitiates the usefulness of the data set for the purposes to which it is

being applied. It requires a great deal of information about a large data set crammed with many different kinds of information to justify the allegation that it is so riddled with bias that no useful information on any issue can be elicited from it. Such an allegation calls for exactly _ the same thorough assessment that is required when a scholar claims that a defective body of data may nevertheless yield acceptable estimates for his purposes.

The way that cliometricians go about investigating the potential , usefulness of defective bodies of data is illustrated by the recent debate over the average age of slave mothers at the birth of their first

child. In Time on the Cross, Engerman and I made extensive use of ,

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 9] plantation inventories of slave populations on given dates. Such lists,

or any other censuses of households at a point in time, are called ‘‘cross sections.’’ Even when accurate, cross sections have statistical

properties that are different from family histories. A cross section only contains data on mothers and children living with them at the

time that the cross section was compiled, but a family history contains data on the sequence of births to a mother over her entire childbearing span. Family histories are the preferred body of data for estimating the average age of a cohort of mothers at the birth of their first children, but Engerman and I believed that it was possible to derive an appropriate statistic from cross-sectional lists. Herbert Gutman, and others, pointed out that such cross sections tended to yield upward biased estimates of the mean age of mothers at first birth. The fundamental flaw in these lists, he argued, was that the oldest recorded child in a family was not necessarily the firstborn child, but might have been preceded by one or more siblings who died, were sold, or were otherwise separated from the maternal house-

hold. Consequently, the calculation of the average age of the mother at the birth of the oldest child living with her would be greater than the average age of the mother at the birth of her first child. >’ The issue provoked by Gutman’s criticisms was not whether the bias that he identified existed (it clearly does), but the magnitude of that bias, and whether or not offsetting biases were also present. Gutman did not discuss offsetting biases although they are clearly present. Since the slave population was growing rapidly, women who bore children at young ages were overrepresented while women who bore children at older ages were underrepresented in both family histories and cross-sectional lists. Mortality introduces a similar downward bias, since it removes from consideration women of childbearing age who died before they had an opportunity to give birth. Thus even when two plantations have identical underlying schedules of first birth, one will yield a lower mean age of first-birth than the other simply because it experienced more severe mortality. There is a downward bias which is peculiar to cross-sectional lists: “‘truncation bias.”’ Women of a given age (say 20) who had children before the list 37 Herbert G. GUTMAN, ‘‘The World Two Cliometricans Made: A Review Essay of F+ E= T/C,” Journal of Negro History, LX, Jan. 1975, pp. 53-227. This review was reprinted with revisions as Herbert G. GUTMAN, Slavery and the Numbers Game: A Critique of Time on the Cross (Urbana, Ill.: Univ. of Illinois Press, 1975), see esp. pp. 140-150. Similar points were made by Edward SHorTER, ‘‘Protein, Puberty and Premarital Sexuality: American Blacks v. French Peasants,’’ unpublished paper presented at the MSSB-University of Rochester Conference: “‘Time on the Cross: A First Appraisal,’’ October 24-26, 1974; Richard Sutcn, ‘‘The Treatment Received by American Slaves: A Critical Review of the Evidence Presented in Time on the Cross,’ Explorations in Economic History, 12, Oct. 1975, pp. 418-421; and Oscar HANDLIN, “The Capacity of Quantitative History,’ Perspectives in American History, UX, 1975, pp. 10-13.

92 ROBERT W. FOGEL was compiled, will be included in the calculation; but 20-year-old women who gave birth after the date of the list, are excluded. In other words, the maternity experience of the young mothers is overrepresented because the calculation does not allow for the fact that most of

the 20-year-old women who did not bear a child before the list was , prepared, did have children at a later age. 38

, The problem, then, was to find a procedure capable of measuring the net effect of the upward and downward biases that were caused

by the defects in the data source. Some rough tests that Engerman and I performed suggested that the upward and downward biases were of about equal magnitude, but these tests were far from conclusive. Gutman disputed our finding and offered evidence that the

true mean age at first birth was about 18, which means that our estimates were biased upward by about four years. Gutman derived his estimate from two bodies of data, a sample of six plantation lists, and several samples drawn from the 1880 census of population. Evaluation of these samples, and of the computational procedures that were employed, revealed large downward bi-

ases. The means computed from the sample of plantation lists were biased downward by 3 to 4 years, partly because the plantations

were not only growing more rapidly than the overall slave population but also had higher fertility and mortality rates. Similar factors

| , affected the attempt to use the 1880 census.*? But the main element of bias in this calculation arose from Gutman’s decision to exclude all

households in which the age of the mother at the birth of her first recorded child was not under 30. In so doing Gutman assumed that births shown to have occurred at older ages could not have been first-births. That assumption was quite unwarranted and, by itself, biased his estimate of the mean downward by about 2 years. *° 38 For a more detailed discussion of these biases see James TRUSSELL and Richard STECKEL, ‘‘The Age of Slaves at Menarche and Their First Birth, Journal of _Interdisciplinary History, 8, Winter 1978, pp. 477-505; and Richard STECKEL, ‘“The Economics of U.S. Slave and Southern White Fertility,’’ Ph.D. thesis, University of

Chicago, 1977. |

39 An additional difficulty with turning to the 1880 census is the assumption that the age at first birth was the same in 1880 as in 1860, a point which is by no means resolved. See Reynolds FARLEY, Growth of the Black Population: A Study of Demographic Trends (Chicago: Markham Pub. Co., 1970), p. 53, which shows a rise in fertility between 1860 and 1880; and CoALE and Rives, ‘‘A Statistical Reconstruction,’’ p.

, 26, which reports that total fertility fell between 1850-59 and 1860-69, but rose again during the decade 1870-79. Still another difficulty with the use of the 1880 census 1s that

the mortality rate of blacks increased between 1860 and 1880, which accentuates the downward bias. Cf. Edward MEEKER, ‘‘Mortality Trends of Southern Blacks, 18501910: Some Preliminary Findings,’ Explorations in Economic History, 13, January

1976, pp. 13-42. |

40 The most conspicuous indication that Gutman’s procedure introduced a substantial downward bias was his report that the means of his various samples were less than the medians, which implies a negatively skewed distribution of age at first

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 93

The search for a computational procedure that could cope with the variety of biases in slave lists reached fruition with the publication of a paper by James Trussell and Richard Steckel in 1978.4! They showed that these biases could be largely eliminated by using a measure called the ‘‘singulate mean.’’ The new measure required information, not on whether a child recorded as living in a household was actually the first child, but only on the proportion of mothers at given ages who had any child at all living with them. Trussel and Steckel were able to demonstrate that the singulate mean corrected the biases caused by differential mortality rates among adult women, by differential rates of population growth, and by cross-sectional truncation; and it reduced the bias caused by infant mortality (or other factors that led to the separation of children born before the first recorded child) to negligible levels. The singulate mean is vulnerable to situations in which all of the children have left the maternal household. Such cases, which are concentrated among women over age 40, bias

the singulate mean downward, but by smaller amounts than other

procedures. When they applied their procedure to the cross-sectional lists, Trussell and Steckel estimated that the mean age of slave mothers at first birth was about 21 years, which is about one and a half years less than Engerman and I had estimated, and about two and a half years more than Gutman had estimated. Although the estimate of Trussel and Steckel 1s downward biased, sensitivity analysis indicated

that plausible adjustments for the absence of all children from the households of older mothers would not increase the estimated mean much more than half a year beyond 21. The preceding discussion was intended to illustrate how cliometricians go about estimating and correcting biases in defective bodies of data. To some readers it may appear to illustrate, inadvertently, a

more significant characteristic: the enormous effort in time and money that cliometricians devote to correcting sterile and uninteresting

birth. In a wide range of studies including one for India in which 42 percent of women began regular sexual intercourse before age 13, the distribution is positively skewed. In the Indian case, for example, the mean age at first birth exceeded the median by 0.5 years. But in the eight cases for which Gutman presented data on both the mean and median, the mean fell below the median by about 0.8 years. GUTMAN, Slavery and the Numbers Game, pp. 147-148. See TRUSSELL and STECKEL, ‘‘Age of Slaves,’’ and the sources cited there, as well as P. P. TALWaAr, ‘‘ Adolescent Sterility in an Indian Population,’ Human Biology XXXVIII, 1965, pp. 256-261. Cf. Ansley CoALE, ‘‘The Development of New Models of Nuptiality and Fertility,’ Population, 32, September 1977, pp. 131-150, which suggests a theoretical rationale for the positive skewness in first marriage distributions. One would expect a similar convolution of distributions to be involved in the distribution of first births. In the case of the Fripp plantation, Gutman transposed the mean and the median, as can be seen by computing these measures from the distribution he presented. For a more complete discussion of Gutman’s procedure and of alternative approaches to the estimation of mean age at first birth, see FOGEL et al., Without Consent: Sources and Methods. 41 "TRUSSELL and STECKEL, ‘““Age of Slaves.’’

94 ROBERT W. FOGEL statistics. Considered in isolation, this sort of statistical analysis is far _ removed from the ultimate concerns of historians of the antebellum South. Yet pinning down the average age at first birth was critical to

the interpretation of several issues that have troubled historians, including the profitability of slave breeding, the causes of the high rates of natural increase among U.S. slaves and of natural decrease

among West Indian slaves, the variations in the severity of different regimes, and the sexual mores of slaves. The discovery that the mean age of slave mothers at first birth was above 20 startled many of the

historians who had worked on these issues. The debate over the statistic was intense because it was obvious that if the original finding was confirmed, fundamental issues in southern and in black history would have to be reconsidered. Mean age at first birth is one of a series of critical statistics that have contributed to the recent revolution in thought about the nature of slave societies. Estimates of the - average rate of return on investments in slaves, of the rate of growth - in southern per capita income, of birth and death rates, of the proportion of slaves raised in households with both parents present, and of total factor productivity have done as much to change thought about the slave South as information on the provenance of various state documents did to change thought about the transformation in govern-

- mentunder the Tudors. |

IV. — THE PRINCIPLE OF HIGHEST PROBABILITY , One does not have to read very far into the circumstantial cases

of either traditional or ‘‘scientific’’ historians to realize that these cases are usually built and defended (or criticized) on what might be

called ‘‘the principle of highest probability.’’ When events cannot be , directly observed, they invariably permit more than one plausible interpretation. The principle of highest probability provides a widely used, although not always explicit, criterion for choosing among the

competing explanations. |

_ The nature and operation of the principle is illustrated in Table , 2, which is intended to show the dilemma of a doctor who is called to a remote area to treat a sick patient. Upon arriving he discovers that the patient has symptoms that are found in three diseases. These diseases, which are designated as A, B, and C in Table 2, occur in the population with equal frequency. The symptoms that the doctor can _ observe clinically are listed as symptoms 4, 5, and 6, and these symp- _ toms are observed only when one of the three diseases has occurred. From Table 2, it can be seen that in 69 percent of the cases in which symptoms 4, 5, and 6 occur jointly, the cause is disease A, in 22 percent of such cases the cause is disease B, and in 10 percent of the cases the cause is disease C. If the doctor applied the principle of

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 95

highest probability in the treatment of his patient, and had to base his decision solely on the clinical evidence, he would treat the patient for disease A, since that is the disease that yields the highest probability for the joint occurrence of symptoms 4-6. Table 2 FREQUENCY OF OCCURENCE OF SYMPTOMS

IN DISEASES A, B, AND C

Probabilities of Occurance The number of cases in of Symptoms (in percent) which symptoms 4, 5, and 6

Disease |= ————— appear jointly out of i 2 3 4 5 6 1,000 cases of each disease

A 100 0 0060 £40 50 120 B 0 100 45 30-28 C 0 0 100 15 57 = 20 38 17

Comment. Out of 1,000 individuals who contracted one of the three diseases, only 770 would have clinical symptoms. The distribution of persons with at least one clinical symptom would be: A, 293; B, 241; C, 236. These results follow the information in the table and from the statement on p. 94 that the three diseases occur with

equal frequency in the population. |

If doctors decided the course of treatment on the basis of the principle of highest probability and on clinical evidence alone, they would always treat patients for disease A whenever symptoms 4, 5, and 6 appeared simultaneously, or if any two of these three symptoms appeared simultaneously. Patients would be treated for disease C if only symptom 5 appeared, and for disease A if only symptom 4 or only symptom 6 appeared. Notice that with clinical evidence alone, the highest probability principle would never lead doctors to treat patients for disease B, even though about 31 percent of the cases in which at least one of the three clinically-observed symptoms appeared would

be caused by disease B. }

The treatment for disease A would be ordered in 74 percent of the cases with clinical symptoms if doctors made decisions on the basis of clinical symptoms alone, and if they followed the principle of highest probability. The treatment for disease C would be ordered in 26 percent of the cases with clinical symptoms. Under the circumstances specified, 23 percent of those who contracted one of the three diseases would go untreated if doctors relied only on clinical evidence to detect the presence of the disease.

The doctor hesitated to proceed with the cure for disease A, because the treatment for each disease had fatal consequences when the wrong cure was employed. In other’ words the treatment for disease A would kill the patient if he had either disease B or C. Unless the patient was promptly treated, however, he would soon die. It can also be seen from Table 2 that each disease has a symptom that is

exclusive to it (symptoms 1, 2, and 3), so that if the doctor could determine which of these 3 symptoms the patient had, he could choose the proper treatment with certainty. Symptoms 1-3 can be determined only with a blood test and the doctor lacked the equipment

96 ROBERT W. FOGEL to perform such a test. The doctor proceeded with preparations to

, treat the patient for disease A, but he called for a rescue helicopter in

the hope that it could deliver the equipment needed for the blood test — in time. This story has a happy ending, The helicopter did arrive in time to perform the blood test, and the test conclusively demonstrated that the patient had disease C. So the actual cause of symptoms 4-6 was the disease that the doctor had deemed the least likely possibility on the basis of the information available to him before he had the results

of the blood test. The patient was treated for disease C and quickly recovered. *,

Here then is the dilemma of historians when dealing with circumstantial cases. They rarely have conclusive information of the type provided by symptoms 1-3 but must rest judgements on evidence such as that provided by symptoms 4-6, which hold only with a de-

gree of probability. Of course every historian would dearly love to

| discover evidence that conclusively decides a case, but more often

than not, the new evidence that an historian turns up merely shifts the , 42 Tn an earlier draft the term ‘‘maximum likelihood principle’? was used, rather than the ‘‘principle of highest probability,’’ to describe the preceding example. Kenneth W. Wachter pointed out that to statisticians the original phrase suggested the procedure of R. A Fisher, which does not entail the use of prior information. Since the example employed here uses information on the distribution of diseases to compute the distribution of symptoms, and since I did not mean to suggest that historians neglected available information in forming their estimates of probabilities, it seemed appropriate to switch to the ‘‘principle of highest probability.’’ The following excerpt from a letter by Wachter describes the difference between the maximum likelihood principle and the

| procedure employed in this section: The use made of the prior information can be understood by considering how different prior information would lead to a different choice of treatment by the pattern of reasoning that has been described. Suppose, for instance, that the probabilities of occurrence of the symptoms remained the same, but the frequencies of the diseases A, B, and C in the population were 1/100, 4/100, and 5/100. Then 100,000 people in the population would result in 1,000 cases of A, 4,000 of B, and 5,000 of C, producing patients with symptoms 4, 5, 6 in numbers 120, 4 x 38 = 152, and 5 x 17 = 85 respectively, in all 357 patients with the

| three symptoms. Then 152 out of these 357 would actually have disease B, a higher proportion than A or C. The higher frequency of B than of A in the

| general population is prior information that outweighs the symptom rates. The choice of B would be the Bayseian solution. Maximum likehood would still lead to the choice of A, for the likehood of showing the symptoms if one has A is 120/ 1000, higher than the likelihoods of

38/1000 if one has B or of 17/1000 if one has C. A third rule of inference which |

might lead to still different conclusions would be to quantify the risks involved, for instance the risk of killing a patient suffering from C by wrongly administering the treatment for A. A rule which sought to minimize the expected loss might

then be in order. In historical situations, of course, it is hard to quantify the losses that result from being wrong in different ways. From a letter to Robert W. Fogel, dated April 22, 1981.

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 97

odds, and not necessarily by enough to make the case that he is championing the most likely one. The debates over Tudor history provide many examples of the invocation of the principle of highest probability. It was invoked by

Elton when he argued that the known facts of the relationship

between Gardiner and Cromwell, and an understanding of the usual ways of behavior between rivals, make it highly likely that Gardiner played a major role in Cromwell’s downfall.+3 The highest probability

principle was also invoked by Penry Williams when he challenged Elton’s conclusion that Cromwell was responsible for the changes in the Privy Council during the 1530s: If the direct evidence for Cromwell’s role is slender, it must also be said that the role itself was a strange one for him to have played. Why should he have created

the very institution which enabled Henry to rule without him? Dr. Elton says that “‘Cromwell did not want a rival faction, but he wanted organized government. He solved his dilemma by organizing the privy council but keeping it in tutelage by the force of his personal rule’... In other words he was so far obsessed with tidy administration that he was prepared to organize his rivals into an executive board. It is not easy to credit.“

Elton invoked the principle again when he argued that Cromwell’s role was decisive in the formulation of the moves that led to the break with Rome and the subjugation of the clergy.*° G. L. Harriss and Williams invoked the same principle when they challenged this interpre-

tation, arguing in favor of A. F. Pollard’s view that Henry was the

main architect.

If Henry’s theology was traditional, his political sense would have warned him against taking unnecessary risks. To blame him for not initiating a breach with Rome in 1529 is unrealistic ; but it is equally so to assume that he never contemplated this as the ultimate step. *°

The principle of highest probability is intuitively appealing, so it

is not surprising that many historians, both traditional and ‘“scientific’’, frequently invoke it when arguing their circumstantial cases. Surely one would normally prefer to accept the most likely explanation of an event, rather than a less likely explanation. It 1s a standard result of mathematical statistics that adherence to such a principle will result in fewer mistakes than would a policy of choosing

a less likely alternative or a policy of choosing at random. But the advantage of the highest probability principle should not be exaggerated. Relying on this principle does not guarantee that one will be right 43 See above, p. 76. 44 Penry WILLIAMS, ““The Tudor State,’’ Past and Present, No. 25, July 1963, pp. 49-50. 45° Reform and Reformation, Ch. 6, esp. pp. 136-138, 143-44.

46 G. L. Harriss, ‘‘Medieval Government and Statecraft,’ Past and Present, No. 25, July 1963, p. 19.

98 ROBERT W. FOGEL , most of the time or that the advantage over random selection, or even over the policy of selecting the least likely alternative, is necessarily large. In the case shown in Table 2, the doctor who pursued the principle of highest probability would have been right more often than he

was wrong, but not by much (right in 52 percent of the cases and wrong in the other 48 percent). Had he chosen the cure randomly, he would have been right in 33 percent of the cases. Persistent choice of the least likely cause would have made him right in 31 percent of the cases. - Still another limitation of the highest probability principle ought

- to be noted. It will never lead an investigator who depends on it (perhaps I should say, who is prepared to settle for it) to discover those instances in which the unlikely explanation is the true one. This.

| point is illustrated by Table 2. It shows that if the doctor is content to base his conclusions on the clinical evidence alone, and to resolve doubt by sticking strictly to the highest probability principle, he will never correctly diagnose patients who have disease B, which under every possible combination of clinical symptoms will be deemed an inferior explanation, even though it will be the correct explanation for

the observed symptoms in 31 percent of the cases. Interestingly enough, in the present case the highest probability principle would

lead the doctor to choose disease C as the explanation for clinical _ evidence in 34 percent of the cases, and never to choose disease B as

the explanation, even though B will be the actual cause of these

symptoms more often than will C. The principle of highest probability, then, provides a reasonable basis for discriminating among plausible alternatives in a world of un-

certainty but it by no means follows that the most likely behavior ,

actually occurred. Moreover, the explanation that seems most likely in one state of incomplete evidence may be replaced by a much differ-

, ent explanation as new bits of evidence are added. To rest a case on

the highest probability principle may be the best an historian can do, but it is a poor substitute for finding evidence that is decisive, or at

sen one. 47 |

least weighty, in choosing among credible alternatives, especially when the rejected alternatives are only marginally inferior to the cho-

| In the case illustrated by Table 2, the probabilities associated |

with symptoms 4, 5, and 6 are known. In actual practice it is usually | . quite difficult, and often impossible, to estimate objectively the pro— babilities attached to particular historiographic alternatives. When 47 Preoccupation with the highest probability principle can be quite misleading in situations where the most likely explanation for a given event has a very low probability. Then any factor that is chosen to explain an event is likely to be wrong. Such

_ situations often give rise to rhetorical slugfests in which some scholars back their favo— rite hypothesis, while others show that none of these hypotheses are very likely. |

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 99

Harriss and Williams dismiss Elton’s interpretation of Cromwell’s role on various issues as improbable, they offer only their own sense of the odds on these points. That is the typical situation in much of political history and in other fields that must deal with aspects of be-

havior about which so little is known that attempts to construct frequency distributions would be fruitless.

- Opportunities for the objective estimation of probabilities are substantially greater in such fields as economic and demographic history, partly because these fields emphasize collective rather than individual behavior, and partly because the abundance of data makes it feasible to construct frequency distributions. A case in point is provided by the work on the relative efficiency of slave and free agriculture in 1860. Some scholars argued that the index of total factor producti-

vity computed for slave agriculture was invalid, or at least greatly exaggerated by the use of the output data in the 1860 census, because unusually favorable weather made the average per acre yield of cot-

ton far above normal. There was, however, no direct evidence on what the average yield in 1860 actually was, or whether the actual yield was far above normal. Evaluation of the conjecture therefore required information on the distribution of known yields, which was obtained by fitting a log-normal curve to the reported yields of cotton per acre during the last third of the nineteenth century, the earliest period for which such data are available. The computation showed that those who were conjecturing that yields in 1860 were between 31 and 44 percent above normal were claiming that an exceedingly unlikely

event had occurred, since such bumper yields would have occurred less than once in 350 years. Yet the agricultural and commercial journals which regularly reported on the condition of the cotton crop, and which called attention to unusual circumstances attending each crop, did not report remarkably high per acre yields. Those who comment-

ed on the cause of the large cotton crop of 1860, attributed its size, not to remarkable per acre yields, but to the decision of many farmers to shift land out of corn and into cotton. The ability to measure objectively the odds on yields that were 31 percent or more above normal, and the absence of evidence that such an unusual event had actually occurred, undermined the claim that the data in the 1860 census were misleading. 48 “8 The argument for extremely high per acre yields in 1860 was initially advanced by Gavin WriGut in ‘‘Slavery and the Cotton Boom,’’ Explorations in Economic History, 12, Oct. 1975, pp. 439-451; and subsequently taken up by Roger L. RANSOM and Richard SUTCH in One Kind of Freedom: The Economic Consequence of Emancipation (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1977), p. 7. A preliminary analysis of the data relevant to Wright’s argument was reported in FOGEL and ENGERMAN, “Explaining teh Relative Efficiency,’’? pp. 281-282. A more complete analysis of data relevant to both arguments is contained in FOGEL and ENGERMAN, Without Consent: Technical Papers. ch. 15. The details of our curve-fitting procedure are also reported there.

100 ROBERT W. FOGEL Historians who study Henry VIII, Cromwell, or other figures at the pinnacle of government do not now have access to data needed to

, measure objectively the probabilities that attach to those aspects of political behavior with which they are concerned, and it is quite unlikely that the necessary data will become available in the future. Discussions of the causes of such behavior will, of necessity, continue to involve hunches that cannot be verified in any conclusive way.

| Nevertheless, careful work can reduce the range of uncertainty. By un- , covering evidence that eliminates some explanations and enhances Others, it is possible to change the subjective odds that the experts attach to the array of potential explanations. One cannot but be impressed with the way that Tudor historians have constructed webs of evidence that have significantly shifted judgements as to what actually ,

occurred. | ,

The effort to reconstruct the legislative history of the Elizabethan Acts of Supremacy and Uniformity is a striking example of this process. Tudor historians agree that a religious settlement was one of

the most urgent tasks facing the new Queen and a keen test of her capacity to reign. But gaping holes in the information on the legislative events that preceded these acts have led to divided judgements about the balance of forces at play in Parliament and about the extent to which the enactments conformed to the original design of Elizabeth ©

and her Councillors. The central point at issue is whether the religious settlement that emerged from Parliament was more or less the one that the Queen had desired from the outset, or whether it was ‘‘a compromise between her wishes and those of a powerful, determined,

and organized party’’ within Parliament. The question is important

because it bears on the interpretation of the politics of Elizabeth's entire reign, especially on the question of when and how Protestant radicals coalesced ‘“‘into a political force.’’ 4°

Reconstruction of the legislative history is especially difficult in this instance because the first two of the three bills on supremacy and the first bill on uniformity have not survived. Consequently, there are not only differences of opinion about the provisions of the missing bills but also about their provenance. The absence of information on these points has led to conflicting interpretations of governmental intentions and to conflicting assessments of the relative strength of the radical Protestant faction, the conservative Catholic faction, and the faction committed to support the government’s policies. Diligent work by a long succession of scholars, including James Froude, Leopold , 49° MACCAFFREY, The Shaping of the Elizabethan Regime, p. 62; John E. NEALE, Elizabeth I and Her Parliament, [559-158] (London: Jonathan Cape. 1953), _ esp. 57-64, 82-84, 420-421. Norman Leslie JONES, ‘‘Faith by Statute; The Politics of Religion in the Parliament of 1559,’ Ph.D. dissertation, Cambridge University, 1977,

p. 264. |

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 101

von Ranke, and F.W. Maitland, has uncovered a number of critical details from such sources as the ambassadorial reports of Spain and Venice, the letters of Protestant exiles, and the state papers of Elizabeth’s reign that were made more accessible by the work on calendaring and classification at the Public Record Office.°°

Maitland’s careful analysis of erasures, cancellations, and interlineations on the acts, for example, showed that the lords modified the supremacy bill in directions contrary to the desires of the radical

Protestants, that is, ‘‘in a conservative and also a tolerant sense.’’ Jones’s analysis of the religious composition of the Commons and the

Lords revealed that only a quarter of ‘‘Neale’s ‘Puritan choi’ sat in 1559”? and that the 12 to 16 returned exiles in the Commons, who Neale supposed were leading the campaign, ‘‘shrinks to four men’”’ whose influence stemmed not from their opposition to government policies but from ‘‘their close relations with Cecil and Elizabeth.’’ According to letters of the exiles, the resistance to Protestant plans

for a radical prayerbook came not from the Queen but from the

bishops in the House of Lords. The bishops were abetted by a group of at least 21 ‘‘ardent Catholics’’ in the Commons and 24 conservative temporal Peers.>!

The gradual accumulation of these and other details has not settled all of the political issues surrounding Elizabeth’s first Parliament. Whether the ‘“‘Device for the Alteration of Religion’’ actually set forth the strategy of the government or was merely a communication to the government by outsiders is one of many remaining open issues. Nevertheless, the fragments of evidence marshalled by Jones diminished the likehood that the act of Uniformity was prematurely forced on Elizabeth by an incipient Puritan faction; and they enhance the likelihood that the Act as passed, or something close to it, was desired from the outset by the government and the majority of Commons, but was nearly defeated by the conservative opposition in the House of Lords. Not all efforts to shift the subjective odds involve such careful, detailed research into the available evidence. Historical literature, both ‘“‘scientific’’ and traditional, is replete with arguments in which the unsupported judgements of the authors are the sole basis for the probabilities that are implicitly invoked. It is often rhetoric rather than evidence that carries these arguments forward. Such essays are admirable, not because they add much to historical knowledge, but 50 JoNEs, ‘‘Faith by Statute,’’ ch. 1; NEALE, ‘‘The Elizabethan Acts of Supremacy and Uniformity.’’

St FLW. MAITLAND, ‘‘Elizabethan Gleanings. V. Supremacy and Uniformity, English Historical Review, 18, 1903, p. 521; JoNrEs, “‘Faith by Statute,” pp. 101-111.

} 102 ROBERT W. FOGEL because of their literary excellence. That brilliant writers, both ‘scientific’? and traditional, frequently carry arguments that are un-

, justified by their evidence, points up the difficulty of drawing a sharp line between the scientific and literary aspects of the historical craft. One should not, however, dismiss all unsupported judgements as rhetorical devices. When issued by scholars who have long and

deeply studied the historical events to which they pertain, such judg, ments are best viewed as informed conjectures, as intuition, or, to borrow a phrase suggested by W.H. Walsh, as ‘‘unanalysed experience.’’ That these conjectures often lack precision, that they are inadequately supported (sometimes entirely unsupported) by articulat-

ed points of evidence, and that they are often too amorphous to be subjected to critical tests without reframing them, does not mean that the conjectures are wrong or that they make no contribution to the advance of historical knowledge. If it is unwise to treat the intuitions of competent scholars as reliable evidence, it is also unwise to dismiss them as vacuous without further investigation. Some historians are willing to accord a relatively high evidential

status to unanalysed experience, often blending judgements based on , it with points that have been more formally established in such a way

that it is difficult for a reader to disentangle them. This tendency,

which has led some scholars to argue that historical knowledge lies on a different ontological plane than scientific knowledge, might more appropriately be viewed as a difference in style. The stylistic differ-

ence does not turn so much on how research is pursued, since both

historians and natural scientists rely heavily on intuition in the formulation and execution of research programs, but on how the re-

sults of the research are reported. , |

The line between conjectures and formal proofs, which is sharply drawn by natural scientists when reporting the results of their

, research, is often fuzzy or nonexistent in historical narratives. Be, hind this difference in style is the willingness of historians to plunge

into issues that outrun the available evidence or the technological capacity to construct critical tests. The point here is not that history is lacking in critical tests and formal proofs, but that requirements of the narrative form often force the historian to conjecture on issues that lie, at least for the time being, beyond the reach of formal methods. In

| recent years historians have increasingly turned to narrative forms that include critical analysis of the evidence, and so are able to achieve coherence and literary excellence without obscuring the distinction between reliable evidence and conjecture. In the hands of a first rate writer analysis of the evidence is neatly woven into the narra-

, tive and enhances it, much in the way that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle | enhanced his stories by analysing the evidence uncovered by Holmes. Tudor history provides some notable examples of the genre including

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 103

Scarisbrick’s Henry VHT, MacCaffrey’s The Shaping of the Elizabethan Regime, and Elton’s Reform and Reformation. *? VI. —- THE FULL-INFORMATION APPROACH TO HYPOTHESIS TESTING

So far I have discussed various characteristics of the models that are involved in the circumstantial evidence and arguments employed in historical work, as well as some of the issues involved in evaluating the reliability of the inferences obtained from these models. This section of the paper is concerned with the problem of choos-

ing between alternative empirical methods of research when each purports to be more effective than the other in evaluating circumstantial arguments. The methodological contest that is of interest here is between what might be called the ‘‘hypothesis-testing’’ approach and the ‘‘descriptive’’ approach. ‘‘Scientific’’ historians tend to favor the hypothesis-testing approach, while traditional historians tend to favor the descriptive approach. ‘Scientific’? historians have paid little heed to criticisms of the hypothesis-testing style of research. Some of these criticisms can be set down as the nonsense of scholars who simply do not understand scientific methods and hence cannot appreciate their power. But the same criticisms are also made by highly respected social scientists, by historians who have paved the way for ‘‘scientific’’ history, and by prominent cliometricians. What is it that these critics are getting at and why is it that their criticisms are so little heeded? The answer to the question requires consideration of the context within which this debate has been conducted. The highest and most prestigious craft of the social sciences: is

the modeling of social behavior. Those who practice it are called theorists and the business of theorists is to show the logical intercon-

nections between causes and effects. As the problems considered have become more complex (which means both that more variables are taken into account, and that the chains which interconnect them 52 The extended, technical nature of cliometric assessments of evidence has made it difficult to find forms that adequately combine narratives and critical assessments without impairing literary quality. Examples of attempts to solve this problem include Stephan THERNsTROM, Poverty and Progress: Social Mobility in a Nineteenth Century City (Cambridge, MA.: Harvard Univ. Press, 1964); Peter LASLETT, The World We Have Lost (London: Methuen, 1965); J. Morgan Kousser, The Shaping

of Southern Politics: Suffrage Restriction and the Establishment of the One-Party South, 1880-1910 (New Haven: Yale Univ. Press, 1974); FoGEL and ENGERMAN, Tie

on the Cross; TILLy et al., The Rebellious Century; Philip D. CuRTIN, Economic Change in Precolonial Africa: Senegambia in the Era of the Slave Trade (2 vols., Madison: Univ. of Wisconsin Press, 1975).

| 104 ROBERT W. FOGEL have become longer and more intricate), the characterization of these relationships has taken more and more advanced mathematical form. The modeling of social behavior, once so simple that some scholars considered it child’s play, has become a difficult and intriguing intellectual feat, which captivates not only social scientists, but also mathematicans, statisticians, physicists, biologists, and engineers. A large (some believe disproportionate) share of the talent in — the social sciences has been devoted to behavioral modeling. Some of those who construct these models are stimulated by the issues raised _ by the empirical social scientists or by policy makers in and out of government, with whom they are in close contact. The ‘‘pure’’ theorists, who are more remote from empirical issues, specialize in developing new types of mathematics and statistics designed to cope with

the problems that concern the ‘‘applied’’ (more empirically-oriented) , theorists. The theoretical establishment is so huge and multilayered that it has developed a complex culture and an array of subcultures. One of the issues between the competing subcultures is whether

the relevance of a model should enter into the evaluation of its quality. Some argue that the relevance of models is irrelevant, that like pure mathemetics the intellectual challenge of the enterprise is sufficient justification for its being. Others argue that the relevance of models is difficult to determine and that many models once considered

useless toys have subsequently become major tools of empirical research. But the predominant view, especially among the more numerous applied theorists, is that models should be relevant, and some testing of the empirical validity of models has become a standard fea-

ture of applied theoretical work. The types of tests usually undertaken in such work are fairly superficial. The creator of a model will

, typically do enough empirical work to show that certain signs or rela-

rical evidence. |

_ tive magnitudes predicted by the model are consistent with the empi-

Since other, often conflicting, models are also consistent with |

the available data, demonstration that a model is consistent with empirical evidence does not mean that it is the best explanation of the

behavior that it purports to describe. Superficial empirical tests of candidate models do not establish their validity but only provide an initial boundary between the plausible and the implausible ones. The work of determining which, if any, of the plausible alternatives ought to be accepted as the principal basis for interpreting particular behavior is usually a long, arduous task beset with greater difficulties than are sometimes appreciated by those who create the models. The main criticisms of the hypothesis-testing style are aimed not , at eliminating models from the study of behavior, but at reforming the way that they are constructed and applied. If by the term ‘‘model’’ we mean interconnected statements about regularities, including de-

viations from these regularities, then Elton’s rule for identifying

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 105 government bills during Cromwell’s regime, and Clifford Geertz’s inter-

pretation of an encounter between a Jew, the Berbers and the French in Morocco in 1912, both qualify.°? Elton and Geertz are critical of the hypothesis-testing style partly because the models that flow from it are frequently derived from abstract principles rather than from observation, and partly because they believe that models so constructed frequently fail to capture vital aspects of the behavior that need to be dealt with. The alternative strategies that they advocate are designed to provide more efficient paths toward the goal of best relevant models.

, Elton argues that scholars will be incapable of understanding past societies unless they shed inhibiting preconceptions and open their minds to questions suggested by the data. As an example of the way that extraneous generalizations have been inflicted on history, he points to attempts to use anthropological theories derived from studies of ‘‘Bantus and Polynesians’’ to explain ‘*‘pre-Columbian

America’ and ‘‘German forest tribes.’ Because of the ‘‘enormous differences’’ between the “‘circumstances and situations’’ presuppo-

sed by the theories and those that actually existed in the historical communities, the value of the theories, ‘‘even their capacity to suggest new questions and insights,’’ are ““very problematical.’’ Elton believes that scholars are vulnerable to the lure of extraneous but fashionable theories because ‘“‘the historical evidence by itself’ often fails to suggest an “‘obvious generalization’’; they succumb to such theories because they need ‘‘a coherent framework’’ for arranging

their evidence. He warns that ‘‘preconceived notions are a much greater danger to historical truth than either deficiency of evidence or error in detail,’’ and that ‘“‘nothing entrenches them so deep as the approval of some other form of study which seems to rest on independent thought.’’ While welcoming ‘‘new methods’’ that ‘‘may improve’’ the handling of evidence, Elton insists that innovations will be useful ‘‘only if they are controlled by the historical method, which grounds detail upon evidence and generalization upon detail.’’ 54

53. Above pp. 72-74; and Clifford GEERTZ, The Interpretation of Cultures (New York: Basic Books, 1973), pp. 7-9. 54 G. R. ELTON, ““The Historian’s Social Function,’ Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, Fifth Series, 7, 1977, esp. pp. 200-204; and G. R. ELTON, The Practice of History (Glasgow: Collins, Fontana, 1969), esp. pp. 36-56. Elton’s concern with the tendency of social scientists to impose extraneous models on historical evidence is widely shared by traditional historians, See, for example, Charlotte ERICKSON, *‘Quan-

titative History,’ American Historical Review, 80, April 1975, pp. 351-365; Alan BULLOCK, “‘Is History Becoming A Social Science?, “History Today 29, November 1979, pp. 760-67 ; and Oscar HANDLIN, Truth in History (Cambridge: Harvard University

Press, 1979), esp. ch. 10. But as J. H. Hexter has emphasized, the problem is not confined to the work of “‘scientific’’ historians. See his On Historians (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1979).

106 ROBERT W. FOGEL Geertz advocates ‘‘thick description,’’ by which he means a

searching, detailed consideration of the multiplicity of behavioral codes specific to each culture. The strategies that both scholars advocate are similar because they rest on the proposition that there are

subtle but critical variations in behavioral codes from society to

society, and that the identification of such subtleties is a precondition for the successful building of relevant models. To produce valid state-

ments about the behavioral codes prevailing within a particular culture, writes Geertz, a scholar has ‘‘to pick his way’’ through ‘‘piled up structures of inferences and implications’ which are often | -_ **superimposed upon or knotted into one another.’’ He illustrates his point by describing the different messages conveyed by the contrac- © tion of an eyelid — a conspiratorial signal, a fake wink intended to

mislead those watching the conspirators, a parodied wink intended to |

ridicule the original winker, an involuntary twitch, and so on — differences which cannot be adequately interpreted without a sensitive , understanding of the context within which the gesture is made. He also dwells on a note from one of his field journals. It describes a convoluted series of incidents in Morocco during 1912 which make sense only if one understands the prevailing conventions of Jews and Berbers in that particular time and place, and the ways that French officials exploited the conflicts between them. *°

The salient point in the arguments of both Elton and Geertz is that there is no substitute for getting deeply into the data and squeezing from them all the information that they contain about the historical problems under investigation. There are several good ways to do that and, when properly employed, the hypothesis-testing approach is

one of them. When hypotheses are treated as aids in the search for evidence, rather than as substitutes for it, they provide effective in-

struments of research. That this approach can result in a penetrating 5S GEERTZ, Interpretation of Cultures, pp. 5-10. Lip reading provides many examples of the critical role of context in the interpretation of behavior. A skilled practioner of the art estimates that only about 30 percent of phonemes are visible on the

lips. Moreover, some words with quite different meanings have identical lip movements: ‘“‘baby’’ and “‘paper’’ are an example. Consequently, a lip reader who does not

know the context of a conversation may become badly confused. The question, ‘‘Where is the baby ?’’ could elicit the reply, ‘‘In the trash can.’’ Lip readers not only

| make use of the logical context to interpret a conversation but also lean heavily on | information conveyed by the gamut of gestures that accompany conversation: eye move-

ments, facial expressions, arm movements, and so on. A person who wears sun

| glasses is much more difficult to ‘‘lip read’’ than one who does not. Lip readers are _ constantly aware that they may misunderstand a point and continually check their interpretations against the stream of information conveyed by the on-going conversation, gestures, and other circumstances, such as the reactions of other persons listening to the conversation. Not only does spoken language differ from one culture to another, but

| the array of gestures and their meanings are also culturally determined, a factor which complicates the effort to lip read in a foreign language. I am indebted to Kim Shive for the points made in this note.

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 107

investigation of the unique characteristics of a particular culture has been demonstrated by the work on the economics of slavery. Debates spawned by competing hypothetico-deductive models promoted wide searches for relevant data. The new data in turn revealed numerous

practices on both slave and free farms that were unknown or only dimly perceived at the outset. As a result of the rich interaction between theoretical models and new evidence, a deeper, more subtle understanding of the slave method of production gradually emerged. It is quite true that hypothesis-testing tends to produce tunnels of knowledge, but this characteristic of the method neither condemns

nor sanctifies it. As Elton remarked in a similar context, “‘there is really nothing wrong with thinking in tunnels, provided one remembers that there is earth above and around the tunnel.’’** The fault with hypothesis-testing is not in the method but in those superficial applications that bring hardly any information out of the tunnels. Low

yields are not intrinsic to the method; numerous applications of hypothesis-testing can be cited that have produced rapid and thorough exploitation of rich seams of information. The debate over the length of the work year of free farmers and slaves illustrates how the hypothesis-testing approach can be used as an effective device for mining information from mountains of data.>*’

The issue arose when the initial efforts to compare the total factor productivity of free and slave farms revealed that the latter were more

efficient. This strange and unexpected result turned attention to the 56 ELTON, Practice of History, p. 28. For criticisms of the the tendency of the social scientists and of historians influenced by social-scientific methods to think ‘‘in tunnels,’ see J. H. HEXTER, Reappraisals in History (2nd ed., Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1979), esp. pp. 258-265; and Douglas F. Dowp, ‘“‘The Economic His-

tory of the United States in the Twentieth Century,’ in Herbert J. Bass, (ed.), The State of American History (Chicago: Quadrangle Books, 1970), pp. 262-263. 57 The debate on this issue is reviewed in FOGEL, Without Consent: The Rise and Fall, ch. 4. The principal research on the problem is reported in John R. OLSON, ‘*Clock-Time vs. Real-Time: A Comparison of the Lengths of the Northern and Southern Agricultural Work Years,’’ mimeo, University of Connecticut, 1976 (which will be ch. 8 in FoGeL and ENGERMAN, Without Consent: Technical Papers) ; Olson’s findings were summarized in FOGEL and ENGERMAN, ‘‘Explaining the Relative Efficiency,’’ pp. 285-288. Similar findings, based on different plantations than those used by Olson, are reported in Ralph V. ANpERSon, ‘‘Labor Utilization and Productivity, Diversification and Self Sufficiency, Southern Plantations, 1800-1840,’ Ph.D. dissertation, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 1974. Cf. Davin et al., Reckoning with Slavery, pp. 209214; Yoram BARZEL, “‘An Economic Analysis of Slavery,’’ mimeo. Workshop in Industrial Organization, University of Chicago, 1975; and Yoram BARZEL, ‘‘An Economic Analysis of Slavery,” Journal of Law and Economics, 20, April 1977, pp. 87-110; Jacob METZER, “‘Rational Management, Modern Business Practices, and Economies of Scale in the Ante-Bellum Southern Plantations.’’ Explorations in Economic History, 12, April 1975, pp. 123-150. Giorgio CANARELLA and John A. TOMASKE, ‘‘The Optimal

Utilization of Slaves,’ Journal of Economic History, XXXV, September 1975, pp. 621-629; Ronald FINDLAY, “‘Slavery, Incentives, and Manumission: A Theoretical Model,’ Journal of Political Economy, 83, October 1975, pp. 923-933.

108 ROBERT W. FOGEL way that the labor input was measured. It was argued that the measure-

ment of labor in man-years rather than in man-hours was responsible for the spurious result. Hypothetico-deductive models were con-

structed which predicted that slaves should work more hours per day and more days per year than free farmers. The fact that slavery deve~ loped in the South but not in the North was taken as confirmation of | these models. The regional concentration of slavery was attributed to the greater number of daylight hours and the greater number of frost-

free days in the South than in the North. The plausibility of these hypotheses touched off an extensive search for data bearing on the length of the northern and southern work years, and on labor schedules generally, in order to determine if the hypothesized differences in

| productivity. ,

~ annual work hours could account for the differences in total factor The results of the effort to test the hypothesis about work schedules were surprising and highly informative. As it turned out, free

northern farmers worked about ten percent more hours than southern

slaves, and not fewer hours as had been hypothesized. The stress on ,

the number of daylight hours turned out to be quite misleading. Al-

though the South had more daylight hours than the North during the winter, it had less during the summer, and the annual totals were virtually the same. The number of frost-free days turned out to have a _ bearing on which plants could be raised, but little effect on the length of the period from seedtime to harvest and only a relatively small effect on the work schedules, which depended more heavily on the mix between crops and livestock than on the mixture of crops. Spe— Clalization in livestock and dairying not only led to longer workdays than crop production but also increased the number of hours worked

on Sundays. The principal reason for the longer work year in the North than on slave plantations was that the North specialized in livestock and dairying, but on the large slave plantation hardly 5 per-

cent of output originated in these activities.

| , The hypothesis-testing approach proved to be quite fruitful in

this case, even though the original hypotheses about work schedules proved to be wrong, because it provided a systematic basis for sifting

| through huge quantities of data by identifying categories of information relevant to an understanding of the nature of the gang system. The hypothesis-testing approach was not limited, in this instance, to a narrow search for information bearing on just one or another implica-

tion of the models, but was used to identify various types of evidence | , bearing on work routines. As a consequence large bodies of data were

efficiently drained of relevant information about work patterns and many unsuspected features of the slave mode of production, such as

the highly regular pattern of days worked per week (and hours worked per day) over the seasons, were revealed. It soon became evident that the greater intensity of work per hour, rather than more |

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 109 hours of labor per day or more days of labor per year, was the principal form of the exploitation of slave labor. The gang-system played a role comparable to the factory system or, at a later date, the assembly line, in regulating the pace of labor. It was, in other words, an early device for labor speed-up. The implications of the new discoveries about work schedules

have not yet run their full course. Current research touched off by these discoveries, and by concomitant discoveries about manufacturing, are leading to wide-ranging reconsideration of the initial phases of the Industrial Revolution. New hypotheses are being formulated which emphasize, not labor saving, but the more efficient exploitation of the existing labor supply as the principal result of the factory system. More particularly, it is argued that factory technology was designed to make use of forms of labor, particularly the labor of women and children, that could not be as effectively employed as the labor of adult males in certain agricultural contexts. According to this hypothesis, the relative effectiveness of women and children in the production of cotton inhibited the growth of the factory system, while the inability of grain farming to effectively exploit such labor spurred the factory system. These hypotheses have led to a deeper search for the information locked away in previously examined censuses and factory reports and to searches for new bodies of data capable of revealing the sources of increased productivity in the early factories, and for data bearing on the relationship between factory growth and the relative productivity of women and children in agriculture. °° The preceding example was aimed at differentiating between the superficial approach to hypothesis-testing and what might be called the ‘‘full-information approach.’’ The full-information approach is not limited to showing that certain implications of a model are consistent with some of the available data, but uses models to identify the kinds of data that need to be examined in order to assess the whole range of issues encompassed by the model. In such work all of the hypotheses that initially guide the search for evidence are considered to be provi*8 See Claudia GOLDIN and Kenneth SOKOLOFF, ‘‘Women, Children and Industrialization in the Early Republic: Evidence from the Manufacturing Censuses,”’ presented to a conference on ‘‘Economic Growth and Social Change During the Early Republic,’’ mimeo, April 1980; and Claudia GOLDIN and Kenneth SOKOLOFF, ‘‘The Relative Productivity Hypothesis of Industrialization: The American Case 1820 to 1850,’’ mimeo, University of Pennsylvania, March 1981. Cf. David S. LANDEs, The Unbound Prometheus (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1969), pp. 114-115; 318-322; E. P. THompson, ““Time, Work-Discipline and Industrial Capitalism,’’ Past and Present, No. 38, December 1967, pp. 56-97; E.J. HoBSBAWwM, Industry and Empire: The making of Modern English Society (New York: Pantheon Books, 1968), pp. 66-

67: S.A. MARGLIN, “‘What Do Bosses Do?: The Origins of Hierarchy in Capitalist Production,’’ Review of Radical Political Economy, 6, Summer 1974, pp. 60-112; Eugene D. GENOVESE, Roll Jordan Roll: The World the Slaves Made (New York: Pantheon Books, 1974), pp. 285-324.

110 ROBERT W. FOGEL | sional. It is anticipated that in the course of research they will be elaborated, qualified, revised, or replaced, as is required by the accumulation of evidence. The success or failure of the work does not turn on the capacity of the initial hypotheses to survive weak tests of plausibility but on their capacity to yield the evidence needed for de-

| tailed descriptions of the behavior under investigation. Indeed, initial

hypotheses that turn out to be false are often as fruitful as those that are warranted.

, When approached in this way, the formulation and testing of hypothetico-deductive models help to reveal aspects of the information carried by data that might otherwise be overlooked and to drain these data of all of the information bearing on the points at issue. The full-information approach builds tunnels into the data in order to in_ crease the effectiveness with which these data are drained of relevant information. It is, of course, possible that a shaft guided by hypothetico-

deductive models may land at the edge of a seam rather than at the

, center, or miss the seam entirely; but wild probes also occur when | the shaft is guided by models created in what Geertz calls ‘‘the clini, cal style of theoretical formulation.’’>° The conditions of the full-

information approach will be satisfied as long as the successive probes are used to locate and then to extract the entire seam of historical

, information. °°

— I have introduced the term ‘‘full-information approach’’ in order _to emphasize that there are significant differences in both the aims and the quality of different types of hypothesis testing. Much of what ‘is often called hypothesis testing in ‘‘scientific’’ history (and in the social sciences generally) is really the last step of hypothesis formula-

Oo ting. Despite the rhetoric in which they are reported, such tests are not really aimed at demonstrating the superiority of a newly proposed

, hypothesis over all other serious contenders, but merely at demonstrating that the new hypothesis is worthy of serious attention. The full-information approach takes account of all serious hypotheses and searches for information capable of discriminating among them, including the hypothesis that none of the current contenders is an adequate description of the behavior at issue. °! 59 GEERTZ, Interpretation of Cultures, p. 26.

| °° For another view of the role of hypothetico-deductive models in history, see | Peter D. MCCLELLAND, Causal Explanation and Model Building in History, Economics, }

| and the New Economic History (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1975).

6! The stylized approaches to hypothesis testing now current in textbooks and | , elsewhere do little to inform students about the wide variation in the quality of tests or to. provide standards to guide them in formulating high-quality tests. Some tests that fail to reject an hypothesis are so weak that they supply no useful information about either the

quality of the hypothesis or about the underlying reality. Some tests that reject an hypothesis throw out the baby with the bath water because they fail to indicate that a powerful hypothesis has been rejected as a result of a trivial flaw in its formulation, a flaw that could easily be remedied. Nor is the choice always dichotomous. Often the

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE IN ... HISTORY 111

Some scholars argue that while the descriptive approach may be more effective than hypothesis testing in suggesting new or additional

hypotheses, it is less effective in rejecting false hypotheses. Since I have already stated my reasons for questioning the first clause of this

statement, it is the second one that commands attention here. Is it obvious that the capacity to formulate new hypotheses of high quality and to formulate effective tests of either new or pre-existing hypotheses are as uncorrelated as the statement suggests? There is reason to

believe that the quality of each activity is enhanced by a deep knowledge of the societies to which the hypotheses apply. As Elton and Geertz have suggested, and as examples cited in this paper have illustrated, many false hypotheses have been cleared away by the mastery of detail acquired through the descriptive approach. Nor 1s the value of the information gained from falsifying an hypothesis independent of the quality of the hypothesis that has been falsified. History and social science are huge establishments that turn out avalanches of hypotheses of low quality. It is possible to make a career of rejecting such low-quality hypotheses without appreciably increasing knowledge about a society. Falsification of an hypothesis usually adds significantly to knowledge when the hypothesis is widely held and was previously thought to have been well-grounded. Even then the addition to knowledge arises not merely because of the negative role of the test, but because the surge in research stimulated by the test usually uncovers features of behavior previously obscured. ° Which, then, is the more effective approach to the evaluation of

circumstantial arguments? My response to the question has two parts. The first part asserts that the formulation of hypotheticodeductive models (including the casual presentation of evidence intended to demonstrate the plausibility of the model) is an important antecedent of empirical research but not by itself a method of empirical research. The second part asserts that the full-information approach to hypothesis testing and the descriptive approach are similar in both their objectives and their relative effectiveness in the extraction of information. Each approach recognizes the necessity of having at least some issue is where and under what circumstances the hypothesis is accepted or rejected. Often the problem at hand is not one of rejecting or accepting an hypothesis but of comparing its range and power with that of several alternative hypotheses. It is necessary to provide students preparing to become empirical researchers in the social sciences or “‘scientific’’ history with a more detailed and more subtle set of standards to guide their work, standards more rooted in best actual practice than are the current stylized descriptions of hypothesis testing. 62 Effective tests of hypotheses are often quite expensive in time and money,

and resources are not unlimited. Deep knowledge of the societies and situations to which the hypotheses apply improves the chances that the available resources will be allocated among potential projects in a manner that maximizes the flow of information from these tests.

| 112 ROBERT W. FOGEL minimal hypothesis about the behavior under investigation: each cautions against embracing preliminary hypotheses too strongly ; each stresses the need to be sufficiently open-minded to the new evidence

that is uncovered to allow it to modify the initial hypotheses, often

radically; each recognizes that the new hypotheses produced by intensive searches of evidence must also be tested. Despite my personal

_ preference for the hypothesis-testing approach, I am inclined to attribute outstanding successes (or failures) experienced by the practitioners of either method more to the skillfulness (or luck) of the practioners than to their adherence to one or the other method of evaluating

circumstantial arguments.

Concepts of Historical Time and Social History* by REINHART KOSELLECK Universitat Bielefeld

During the last thirty years, roughly since the Second World War, there have been significant changes on the scientific scene of the historical sciences. One of these concerns a field of history which has been fashionably termed ‘social history’. This term can be likened to a

rubber band, that is to say it is flexible enough to embrace several more or less heterogeneous areas. But the term social history seems to exclude, wrongly, I think, that kind of history which limits itself strictly to factual events and which is, again wrongly, linked with political history. It is only for reasons of scientific polemics that the history of

events or political history are presumed not to be part of social his-

tory, as are for instance the long-term changes in the relations

between different strata and classes. A second change on the scientific scene is the fact that theoretical debates are exerting a significant and growing influence on historical science. The subject of theory is rejected by the determined advocates of the history of events as an imposition and aberration, but is welcomed by social historians. In this context, we have to single out

those theories of the social sciences which have had a general

influence on the science of history and which have stimulated many ideas and questions. [ am referring to those theories which originated in economics, sociology, the political sciences, anthropology, linguistics and other research areas in the humanities and which have extended into the diachronic optics of our field of science. Another strand of the theoretical debate has remained, at least in Germany, relatively ineffective. I am referring to those epistemological problems which are being discussed by Anglo-Saxon philosophers and which since Hempel and Popper have developed a lively exis-

tence of their own. Their influence on practical research has been limited, unlike the theories of the social sciences which have strongly

influenced our particular field. The reason for this seems clear: the empirical examples which are examined by an analytically and lin* Translated into English by Adelheid Baker.

114 REINHART KOSELLECK guistically inspired philosophy have been dissected very cleverly, it is — true, but mostly they are of such simplicity that they have no immediate methodological value for the practising historian. This is not to

say that they are of no epistemological interest. But, as we well know, the theory of knowledge does not necessarily have an effect on the practical research to which it refers. The situation is different for those materially and sociologically based theories which originated from economics, mathematics, the political sciences, sociology etc. and which have inspired a great many models and hypotheses found ~ in modern historical research.

, So, under the heading of social history, the subject area of historical research has greatly expanded. Today there is nothing which does not fit somehow into the historical sciences. The history of wa-

ges and prices, the economic climate, productivity, economic development in general belong to the best established research areas which after a period of isolation, are increasingly being taken back into social history. But it does not stop there when we look at all the subjects which have been added since: demography, the history of family relationships, of childhood, even the history of death which, as we know, is beyond human experience; or the history of diseases, of modes of behavior, customs, rites and of legends, as well as of routes of traffic, the press and communication networks, the history of verbal and non-verbal relationships, of mentalities and unconscious behavior, not to mention the particular history of the various sciences.

All this can be more or less covered by the umbrella of social history, although it has — under a different name — had quite a long tradition in our field, going back to Herodotus. Anyhow, we can say that

there is hardly a relic from the past which is not considered worth preserving (thanks to the technical acceleration of our living conditions) and which has not been declared a subject for research. The boundary with archaeology, too, is becoming less well defined since even the unwritten and silent sources of tradition have become a theme for social historians who are concerning themselves with every_ thing without exception.

So we are faced with two facts, firstly a research into history which is becoming increasingly theoretical, and secondly, an enormous extension of empirical questions. Both facts are closely related, of course. The more use is made of them in differing and numerous ways, the more confusing are the results. Small wonder that the theo-

| rists have come to the fore to establish boundaries, fit together sub-

ject areas or make them comparable. Theorems, models, and hypotheSes accompany and order the surge of curiosity. On the other hand, it should be considered that the enormous extension of historical fields of interest calls for theoretical clarification so that they don’t lapse into the antiquarian or the anecdoteal.

CONCEPTS OF HISTORICAL TIME AND SOCIAL HISTORY 115

Extension of research and a need for theory are thus obviously connected and seem to be complementary phenomena of our science. It is against this background that the catchword of social history has come to play a key role. Its concepts have been frequently described by Braudel, Hobsbawm or Kocka inter alia, so that I don’t have to list them ail. In any case, the boundaries are not strictly defined: at one end, there is the so-called non-political history of human relationships of groups, communities or specific societies, and at the other, the history of politically organized societies which is virtually claiming to interpret social history as the totality of history. Social history can for instance mean the history of individual classes or individual areas as well as the history of all mankind. Nothing is gained by this. Before I begin to ask questions about historical time in relation to social historical models, I would like to raise two methodological cautions. The first is aimed at the concept of a total history and the second at the use of the term ‘social’ history.

Anyone who attempts to integrate the sum total of individual histories into one single total history is bound to fail. This can only be

attempted if and when a theory has been developed which would make a total history possible. This would in turn reveal that any total

history would always be the product of a necessary perspective. It

would have to be established for instance whether it is the relations of production or the market conditions which play a primary role. The same applies to power and social stratifications, or to religious attitu-

des and expectations in a social context, which for instance remain open for discussion in relation to the Reformation period. In developing such a model, we would be joining in the controversies Over possible theories. All this is happening in the area of empirical research, however abundant the empirical results may be which emerge from the various theoretical premises. The second warning concerns the casual use of the word ‘social’. Talk about social history obviously dates from the 19th and 20th centuries. This expression reveals a modern problem whose implications

cannot necessarily claim validity for earlier centuries. Before the French Revolution, every society was always a ‘societas civilis et politica’. The economics of trading companies or of the territorial states remained integral parts of the estates which were characterized by the fact that economic, social and political definitions converged. Only

since the development of world trade and the rise of national eco-

nomic systems has it become possible to define economics as a separate

area alongside the State, society, culture or religion. And only since then has it been possible, from the point of view of historical devel-

opment, to distinguish empirically between political rule, social

constitutions and economic structure-differentiations which were not possible for people living in a feudal world.

116 REINHART KOSELLECK It is permissible, of course, to take such modern distinctions and apply them analytically to an earlier past, but always remembering _. that they were not meant for the dimensions of human experience of that time. As I said, an estate could be defined politically, socially and

economically at the same time whereas a class of the 19th century — could be defined differently from any of these angles. Nevertheless,

these modern categories can be projected onto the past so that, in | analyzing it, results may be obtained, something which could not be done by those who were alive then. After these two reservations against the naive notion of a total

, history and against the uncritical use of ‘‘social’’, I would like to propose three items for discussion. First, I would like to say something on the origin of an awareness of a specifically historical time. Secondly, I would like to speak on the various dimensions of time which are

part of events and structures, and thirdly and lastly, I would like to _ make a proposal as to how, in the area of political and social semantics, something like historical time can be investigated. I. - THE DEVELOPMENT OF AN UNDERSTANDING OF SPECIFICALLY HISTORICAL TIME

It is a truism that history has always to do with time. But it took a long time until something like historical time came to be explicitly defined. Its discovery probably occurred during the Age of Enlightenment, I would think. Before then, the historical time-plan was divided up according to mythical or theological categories and had a

beginning, a middle and an end. We also know of the doctrine of aeons into which individual historical events were made to fit. Everyday chronology was based on the natural measurements of the solar

and lunar orbits, just as it is today. In cases where this chronology _

was historically enriched, we find the recurrent rites of seasonal cal-

| endars or the biological ages of ruling dynasties and their representatives. All these definitions of time placed the many histories existing then into a certain order, but they did not attempt to deduce the criteria

of time from the course of history itself. , The invention of the Middle Ages was a first step toward building out of historical events something like a historically immanent construction which did not have to justify itself by referring to persons, nature or mythology. But three to four centuries went by until the 18th century when the Middle Ages had gradually become accepted as a specific name for a period. The notion of Renaissance became a general historical name for a period only in the 19th century. During those centuries which enabled history to be rearranged ex post facto

only, the notion of modern time became established just as slowly. , My thesis would be that only this notion of modern time has gained a

CONCEPTS OF HISTORICAL TIME AND SOCIAL HISTORY 117

genuinely historical meaning, distinct from mythical, theological or natural chronological origins. As Kant put it: so far history had followed chronology: and now it was necessary that chronology should follow history. That was the programme of the Age of Enlightenment: to subject historical time to criteria which could only be derived from an understanding of history itself. Then and only then did people begin to organize history according to generalized aspects of politics, later economics, or of a history of societies relating to the churches or peoples, or according to aspects of the history of scientific discoveries, or to ask about cultural achievements which were supposed to provide a criterion for a historically immanent structure. In the 18th century, the fruit was picked which had grown since rebirth, the Renaissance. For the new position to be developed further, reflexion on crite-

ria of historical time became necessary. This reflexion took place through the medium of the philosophy of history which is a product of

the 18th century, even if that to which it refers, had been described before during previous ages. But the level of reflexion can be deduced from the use of two central notions of time: that of modern time and that of progress. Modern time differs from earlier ‘‘age’’ theories in that it is experienced, not ex post facto but directly. This is one of the novelties of this particular new notion. It is less of a retrospective notion because it has arisen from the present which is opening out toward the future. The future of modern time is thought to be open and without boundaries. The vision of last things or the theory of the return of all things has been radically pushed aside by the venture of opening up a new future: a future which, in the emphatic sense of the notion, 1s totally different from all that has passed before. Through this experience of historical time as modern time, many conclusions became possible. I would like to mention a few. Modern time was identified with progress, since it was progress which conceptualized the difference between the past so far and the coming future. This meant that time gained a new historical quality which, within the horizon of sameness and recurrence of the exemplary, it did not possess before. One could also say that progress is the first genuinely historical definition of time which has not derived its meaning from other areas of experience such as theology or mythical foreknowledge. Progress could be discovered only when people began to reflect on historical time itself. It is a reflexive notion. In practice this means that progress can only occur, if people want it and plan for it. That the future should be a horizon of planning, not only of days, weeks or even years, but of the long-term kind in terms of changes, is one of the features of an historical time which is seen as progressive. Furthermore, to name another criterion related to the discovery of progress, there is the discovery of the historical world. The historical and the progressive views of the world have a common origin.

118 , REINHART KOSELLECK They complete one another like the faces of Janus. If the new time Is offering something new all the time, the different past has to be discovered and recognized, that is to say, its strangeness which increa_ ses with the passing of years. History becomes a modern science at the point where the break in tradition qualitatively separates the past from the future. Since then it has been necessary to develop special methods which teach us to recognize the different character of the past. Since then it has been _ possible that the truth of history changes with the changing time, or to

, be more exact, that historical truth can become outdated. Since then historical method has also meant having to define a point of view from which conclusions can be drawn. Since then an eyewitness is no longer the authentic principal witness of an event; he will be questioned in the light of changing and advanced perspectives which are applied

to the past.

Finally, it is only since then that the axiom of the uniqueness of all history and its individuality has become conceivable. This was a

, counter-move against previous historical experience which, in the

~ sense both of antiquity and Christianity, had not expected anything fundamentally new, but something similar or analogous in the future. With Lovejoy one could call these processes which I have briefly described the temporalization of history. | So far I have only talked about methodological criteria which have served to expose historical time, particularly within our disci-

, pline. This means, of course, that we are dealing with implications | . referring to factual history. The consequences for the concepts of so-

cial history are clear. If we, the historians, want to develop a genuine theory which is to be distinct from the social sciences’ theories in general, it obviously has to be a theory which makes it possible to accommodate the changes in temporal experience. The discovery of temporalization, to use this ex post facto expression, was certainly a reflexion of the intellectual elite at first. But with it, new modes of behavior emerged which reached beyond the world of estates, that is to say the ancien régime. We see an accel-

eration in the changes which, since the advent of technology and industry, have provoked an additional and specific experience of

time. The transition from the coach, via trains and motor-cars to jetplanes has fundamentally changed all time-space relations and with them our working conditions, social mobility, war technology, global communication networks — all of them factors which constitute the history of our world as it proceeds on this finite planet of ours. Tempolarization and acceleration constitute the temporal framework which will probably have to be applied to all concepts of modern social his-

tory. This framework makes possible diachronic and synchronic comparisons, and provokes one central question, the question about what has changed (in the sense of historical times) when the time has

CONCEPTS OF HISTORICAL TIME AND SOCIAL HISTORY 119

remained the same (in a chronological sense). I am thinking of the classic work by Barrington Moore.

Or to mention an example from Prussian history: after the French Revolution, Prussia was faced with the challenge of reforming its social system of estates, a challenge which was taken up with the intention to introduce a written constitution. Although the latter was promised several times, it was introduced as late as 1848 and only by force. Let us look at this process from a temporal perspective. During the reform period after 1807, the first thing was to liber-

alize the economy in order to create a free market of property and labor. It was necessary to create the economic conditions for the establishment of a functioning liberal constitution in which the estates would be represented, not because of birth right, but because of education and property. So there was a practical priority for economic reforms, if a liberal constitution was to be implemented. In temporal terms: first the economic reforms and then the political consequen-

ces. Hardenberg clearly saw the alternative. If, under the ruling

powers as they existed at the beginning of the reform era, he had imme-

diately convened a parliamentary chamber, the result for the economic reforms would have been disastrous. The nobility were the first to insist on a constitution, and they would have been sufficiently powerful to act against the weak bourgeoisie and the politically ignorant peasantry and put back any legislation for economic reform. In short, the economic condition for a liberalization would have been made impossible. [It was too early in 1815 to introduce a written constitution. Paradoxically, the result of this was that at any time after that it was always too late. The more successful the reforms were, the easier it became for the nobility to pull the leading bourgeois classes over to their side. Around 1848, nearly half of the estates of the nobility were

in bourgeois hands, but with the result that the nobility became a modernized propertied class and financially secure. Important sections of the bourgeoisie had been absorbed, a prerequisite for the failure of the 1848 revolution and the liberal hopes placed in it. In one sentence, one could say that the economic modernization based on the principles of Adam Smith prevented a political modernization in the sense of a western constitutional system. The economic dimension of time and the political dimension of time lead to contradictory results, if they are measured against the initial planning data. The outcome was the so-called specifically Prussian solution in which the traditional estates, who were politically reactionary, provided the resources for an economic modernization. The transformation of an old society of estates into a class society must therefore be ieasured with different time scales in order to explain the specifically Prussian implications against the horizon of European industrialization. This would be a rough outline of how temporalization can be utilized for social historical questions. I am not assuming that the temporal priori-

120 REINHART KOSELLECK | ties of economic reforms which I have described, and their political consequences, namely that the constitutional opportunities were missed in this way, provide an adequate explanatory model for the longterm social changes in Prussia. However, it seems to me that the question about the temporal structures is a conditio sine qua non of

social historical knowledge. |

Il. - RELATIONS OF EVENTS TO SOCIAL STRUCTURES

TI now come to the second part of my talk. I shall speak about the relationship of events to so-called structures, but allow me first to comment on something before I proceed. It is one of the false simplifications to regard historical time as either linear or circular. This approach has dominated historical thought for too long, until Braudel made (and implemented) an important proposal, namely to analyze historical time on several levels. The antonyms event and structure are suited to throw a light on these levels.

Progress, too, and modern time, which I described earlier, contain simplifications which were understandable in the 18th century

because the discovery of modern time also conceptualized modern experience. In the case of our own science, however, this category of the forever modern time, in which we are supposedly living, does not fit. Progress, which can only be thought of as a linear time process, conceals the broad foundation of all those structures which have survived and which, in the temporal terms, are based on repetition. Events and structures are of course interlocked in historical reali-

ty. It is the historian’s task to take them apart methodologically on the assumption that he cannot discuss both of them at the same time. One could compare this process to a photographic lens which cannot | at the same time take a close-up and a long-distance shot. What, then, is the temporal structure of an event? Events can be perceived as interconnected or as a unit of meaning by those affected. This was the reason for the methodological priority of eyewitnesses whose accounts were considered as particularly reliable up to the 18th century. This fact also accounts for the high reliability of traditional stories which tell of countless events. The first framework in which a number of incidents combine into an event is natural chronology. Only a minimum of before-and-after constitutes a unit of mean-

ing which makes an event out of single incidents. The inner cohe-

rence of an event, its before-and-after, may be extended, but its consistency remains linked to the progression of natural time. We only need to think back to the events at the outbreak of war, 1914 or 1939, What really happened, the interdependence of actions and omissions, became clear only in the subsequent hour, the next day and

SO On. |

CONCEPTS OF HISTORICAL TIME AND SOCIAL HISTORY 121

The transposition, too, of past actions and experiences into historical knowledge remains inseparable from the chronologically measurable sequence. The before-and-after constitutes the semantic horizon of a story which can hardly be briefer than Caesar’s short story ‘venl, vidi, vici’. Every event has to conform to the inevitable progression of time. It is in this sense that Schiller’s dictum — that world history is at once the trial and judgement of the world — should be

read. What is lost in one minute, eternity will not replace. As we know, sequences of events are not incidental. Events, too, have their diachronic structures. The before-and-after or the too early and too late prescribe the inevitable sequences of things which could be called diachronic structures. Only in this way is it possible to compare the sequence of revolutions, of wars or of constitutions on a specific level of abstraction or of typology.

Apart from these diachronic structures of events there are longer-term structures whose temporal characteristic is repetition. Whereas in the case of events, the before-and-after is virtually constitutive, the exactness of chronological definitions seems less important

when describing the state of something or a long-term process. All events are based on pre-existent structures which do become a part of the events concerned, but which existed before the events in a different way from the chronological sense of the before. Let me mention some structures in this connection: consider constitutional forms and

modes of power which are based on the repetition of well-known rules. Or take the productive forces and the relations of production which change slowly, with sudden bursts in between. Their effect derives from the repetition of certain procedures and from the rational constancy of general market conditions. I could also mention the given geographical and spatial factors which in the long-term stabilize every-day life or which may also provoke political conflict situations which in the course of history are similar to and repeat one another. Furthermore there are conscious and even more subconscious modes of behavior which may be determined by institutions or which can in

turn shape their own institutions, and whose characteristic is their longue durée. They include customs and legal systems whose strength tends to arrange and outlive individual events. Finally, I would like to mention the generative behavior which despite all love affairs or tragedies of love implies supra-individual continuities or long-term chan-

term. ,

ges. This list could easily be continued, but enough is enough. The temporal characteristic of such structures lies in the repetition of the same, even if the same changes successively in the long or medium

Events and structures thus seem to have within the historical

movement different temporal dimensions which should be studied separately by historical science. Usually the account of structures tends to become a description, and that of events a narrative. But it would

122 REINHART KOSELLECK

dent. '

mean setting the wrong priorities to lay down history in one way or another. Both levels, of events and of structures, remain interdepenMy proposition would be that events can never be fully explained by assumed structures, just as structures cannot only be explained by events. There is an epistemological aporia involving the two levels so that one can never entirely deduce one thing from another. The before and after of an event gives it its own temporal quality which can never be entirely reduced to its longer-term conditions. Every event is more and at the same time less than what is indicated

in such conditions: hence its always surprising novelty.

Let me give you an example. The structural prerequisites for the battle of Leuthen cannot adequately explain why Frederick the Great ~won the battle in the way he did. There were certainly pre-existent

structures for this event: the Prussian army regulations, its re-

cruitment system and the fact that it was firmly rooted in the social and agrarian constitution of Ostelbien, as well as the tax system and the war chest based on that constitution. All these factors made the victory at Leuthen possible, but the Sth December, 1757, remains a unique event in its chronologically immanent sequence.

I will give you another example: a court case involving labor law may be a dramatic event for the person concerned. But at the same time, it may be an indicator of social, legal and economic conditions of long standing. Depending on how the questions are asked, the emphasis of the described event is shifted, just as the way in which it is told changes. The account is then looked at from different temporal angles. Either the exciting before-and-after of the incident, of the case and its outcome are discussed, including all the consequences, or the event is taken apart into its elements, giving indicators of those social conditions which provide an insight into the structure of the event and into how it happened. In that case the description of such structures

can sometimes be more dramatic than the account of the court proceedings themselves. | So we could say that history can only be investigated if the va-

| rious temporal dimensions are kept separate. I want to repeat my | - proposition: events and structures are interlocked with one another,

but one can never be reduced to the other.

Two conclusions may be drawn for the practice of social history. In keeping apart the different temporal levels the conditions and

- limitations of possible prognosis are revealed. Single events are

, difficult to forecast since they are unique in themselves. But the prerequisites for what is possible in the future can be predicted insofar as

| certain possibilities keep repeating themselves within the structural frame. So we can forecast the conditions of possible events, for which _ there is ample evidence in the history of prognostication.

CONCEPTS OF HISTORICAL TIME AND SOCIAL HISTORY 123

Secondly, I would like to draw attention to the peculiarity of modern social history. It seems to be characterized by the fact, that since the French Revolution and the industrial revolution, the structu-

res themselves have changed more rapidly than they did before. Structural changes have taken on the quality of an event so to speak.

But this statement does not apply to all structures, and to examine their different temporal dimensions, will remain a subject for research.

Ill. - HOW HISTORICAL TIME COULD BE EXAMINED WITHIN THE LIFE CYCLES OF THE VARIOUS GENERATIONS

I am now coming to my third and final part, and at this stage I would like to make some suggestions as to how historical time could be examined within the life cycles of the various generations. As we all know, historical time is a difficult thing to put across; it lives on spatial background connotations and can be expressed in metaphorical terms only. But there is a way of analyzing sources with respect to historical time. This purpose is served by two anthropological categories which are suited for deducing from the written sources the notion of time contained in them. I am talking about the categories of the scope of experience and the horizon of expectation. There is no historical act which is not based on the experiences and expectations of those who are involved. To this extent we have a pair of metahistorical categories which set out the condition of potential history. And both these categories are excellently suited for discussing historical time, for the past and the future are joined together in the presence of both experience and expectation. These categories are suited also for discovering historical time in empirical research, since, through their content, they are guiding the concrete agents in their actions relating to social and political movement. I will give you a simple example: the experience of the execution of Charles I opened up Turgot’s horizon of expectation when he insisted that Louis XVI should introduce reforms so that he might be spared the same fate. Turgot warned his king, but to no avail. However, a temporal connection between

the past English and the coming French Revolution could now be experienced and explored, and this connection pointed beyond mere chronology. Through the medium of certain experiences and certain expectations concrete history is produced. Unfortunately, I cannot analyze in detail the interplay of expe-

rience and expectation on this occasion. But let me say this much, that both temporal extensions are dependent on one another in very different ways. In experience, historical knowledge is stored which cannot be transformed into expectation without a break. If this were

124 REINHART KOSELLECK possible, history would always repeat itself. Just like memory and hope, these dimensions have a different status. This is highlighted by

a political joke from Russia: ‘‘On the horizon, we can see commu~ nism’’, Khrushchev, remarked in a speech. Someone interrupted and asked, ‘‘Comrade Khrushchev, what is a horizon?’’ ‘‘Look it up in the dictionary’’, he replied. Back home, the inquisitive fellow found the following definition: “‘horizon: an imaginary line which separates the earth from the sky and which moves away when being approach-

ed’’. ,

That which is expected in the future is apparently limited in a different way from that which has been experienced in the past. Expectations which one may be entertaining can be superseded, but

, experiences one has had are being collected. The scope of expe-

rience and the horizon of expectation cannot therefore be related to one another in a static way. They constitute a temporal difference within the here and now, by joining together the past and the future in

bility. a

| an asymmetric manner. All this means that we have found a characteristic of historical time which at the same time demonstrates its varia~My historical thesis would be that in modern time, the difference

between experience and expectation has steadily increased. To be more exact, modern time has only been conceived as such since the expectations have moved away from all previous experiences. In the , beginning, I explained how the expression “‘progress’’ conceptualized this difference for the first time. At this point, I would like to add that since the 18th century, the entire political and social vocabulary has completely changed. Political and social concepts have a temporal internal structure which tells us that since the 18th century the weight

latter. | |

of experience and the weight of expectation have shifted in favour of the

It has been a consistent finding from Aristotle to the Age of Enlightenment that the concepts of political language have primarily ser-

, ved to collect experiences and develop them theoretically. The notions obtained from this, such as monarchy, aristocracy, democracy | and their degenerate varieties, were sufficient for conclusions to be drawn for the future from the past experiences processed in this way.

And this is true despite changing social structures. What could be | expected from the future could be derived directly from previous experience. Since the Age of Enlightenment this has changed radically.

Let us look at the old general term ‘res publica’ under which the specific forms of rule were listed. During the Age of Enlightenment, all.

types of constitution were forced into an alternative choice. There

, was only the Republic; everything else was despotism. The decisive

aspect of these antonyms is their temporalization. All constitutions were given a temporal indicator. The path of history led away from the tyranny of the past — toward the republic of the future. The no-

CONCEPTS OF HISTORICAL TIME AND SOCIAL HISTORY 125

tion of republic which was filled out with experiences became a concept of expectation. [t was a change of perspective which can be demonstrated by taking Kant for example. The republic was for him a historical objective which could be deduced from practical reason. In anticipation of this future, he used the new expression ‘republicanism’. Republicanism indicated a principle of historical movement, the promoting of which was a moral and political imperative. Republicanism meant a concept of movement which achieved for political action what progress promised to achieve for history in general. It served to anticipate the forthcoming historical movement

in theory and to influence it in practice. The temporal difference between the forms of rule previously experienced and the constitution to be expected and intended, was conceptualized by this term.

I have now defined the temporal structure of a concept which recurs in numerous subsequent concepts, and the projections based on it have been superseding and outdoing one another. Republicanism was followed by democratism, liberalism, socialism, communism, and fascism. Considered from a temporal angle, all of them have something in common. At the time when these concepts were created, they had no content in terms of experience. Whereas the Aristotelian notions of constitution were directed at the finite possibilities of political

organization so that one could be deduced from another, the new concepts of movement were meant to open up a new future. The lower

their content in terms of experience, the greater were the expectations they created — this would be a short formula for the new type of political and historical concepts. Our anthropological premise can thus be verified semantically. Modern time is characterized by the fact that the difference between experience and expectation has increased. Of course, the elements of experience and of expectation change positions to the extent that the projected systems are being realized. But the temporal tension which was once created has left its mark on our political and social language

to this day. The new concepts of movement served the purpose of reorganizing the masses, released from the system of estates, under the banner of new slogans. In this respect they also had a sloganforming effect which could be instrumental in creating parties. Political and social concepts become the navigation instruments of changing historical movement. They do not only indicate or record

given facts. They themselves become factors in the formation of consciousness and the control of behavior. This brings us to the point where linguistic analysis of experiences of time merges into social history. Properly speaking, the latter would require some differentiation as to level-specificity and pragmatism of language. But in view of our initial theme, the above will suffice. The linguistic reflection of the changing experiences of time is probably one of the specifically histo-

126 REINHART KOSELLECK oe

rations. , , ing on social history. |

rical contributions to the concepts of social history, regardless of the extent to which they are otherwise controlled by systematic conside-

I. have attempted, in three steps, to formulate the challenge

which arises out of the question about historical time and has a bearI have tried to show historiographically that temporalization was

, at the beginning of the modern history which today is being studied from a social historical angle with regard to general change.

Secondly, I have tried, by using the antonyms of event and structure, to show theoretically that we depend on the distinction

, between different time levels in order to be able to work within social

history. _

Thirdly, I have employed the metahistorical categories of experience and expectation in order to show how the change of historical time itself can be made empirically transparent.

Philosophie de Vhistoire ou philosophie des civilisations par RAYMOND POLIN Université de Paris-Sorbonne

En présence du probleme général posé par le rapport entre culture et société, le philosophe demande avant toute chose qu’il lui soit permis de se livrer a sa tache favorite: établir, a titre d’ hypotheses de travail, des distinctions et des définitions préalables.

_yT-

Nous ne nous attarderons guere sur le concept de société: il est, certes, inévitable, mais il est si global et indéterminé qu’il ne saurait

échapper aux ambiguités, aux €quivoques, aux confusions. Ne désigne-t-il pas tout ce qui, dans l’espace et dans le temps, concerne un ensemble d’hommes vivant traditionnellement en commun, ainsi que toutes les manifestations que cette communauté entraine dans leur existence et tout ce qui résulte du fait qu’ils sont, en fait, nolentes volentes, et sous quelque rapport, socii, associés? Ce n’est pas un ensemble inconsistant, car une société a un territoire et une histoire en commun, des traditions, elle vit sur un fond de représentations

collectives, de mythes et de valeurs plus ou moins communs et communicables. Mais le mot est si vague qu’on ne |’emploie guere sans le déterminer par un terme ou un adjectif (société politique, société industrielle, société de consommation) ou en l’opposant a des

sociétés a vocation deéfinie (Eglise, Armée, Administration, etc.). De meme, l’adjectif «social» ne prend de sens que s’il qualifie des affaires ou des relations s’opposant a des affaires ou a des relations, non moins sociales, mais d’un type particulier, politique, culturel, technique, religieux, etc. Le terme « social» dévie au point que l’on appellera Ministere des Affaires Sociales, dans certains Etats, l’institution qui prend en charge, au nom d’une certaine conception de la Justice, des relations qui, dans d’autres Etats, releveraient exclusivement du domaine privé. En revanche, les concepts de culture et de civilisation, qui sont

d’invention récente, désignent des réalités bien déterminées, mais

128 RAYMOND POLIN | lusage philosophique ou scientifique a varie avec les €poques et avec les langues employées. Il convient donc de les bien définir. Une civilisation, au sens le plus large du terme — celui que l’on -emploie lorsque l’on dit d’un homme qu'il est civilisé — c’est un or-

dre plus ou moins parfait de choses pensées, vécues, accomplies ou produites par un tres large ensemble d’hommes associés, a travers un grand nombre de générations, ala poursuite plus ou moins consciente

de certaines valeurs ou de certaines fins. Dans une civilisation, se trouvent ainsi mises en ordre, ordonnées selon des facons pleines de sens, des convictions, des manieres de vivre, des moeurs, des institutions, des ceuvres qui constituent un art de vivre en homme, un art de se faire homme. Une civilisation porte le temoignage de la liberté de

homme; elle en est la preuve, car elle en est l’ceuvre. On ne peut comprendre une ceuvre d’>homme, ni |’ceuvre d’un homme, indépendamment de la civilisation a laquelle elle appartient, bien qu’une civi-

, libre. , | |

lisation ne suffise jamais a faire comprendre une oeuvre, ni un homme, dans ce qu’ils ont d’unique et d’irréductible, c’est a dire de

Au sens étroit du terme, le mot de civilisation insiste sur ce qu'il

~ yad’accompli et d’achevé en elle, et le présente comme I|’ceuvre, le témoignage, le monument d’un passé. C’est pourquoi, la civilisation au sens étroit apparait d’abord sous son aspect matériel, comme le _ résultat des actions humaines, inscrit dans la matérialité des choses et les ordonnant de facon significative. La civilisation désigne les attaches de ’ homme avec la nature, ses points d’accrochage, d’ancrage, d’impact, d’insertion dans la nature donnée, et toutes les transforma-

tions de cette nature en ceuvres humaines.

Plus profondément, cette civilisation, entendue au sens etroit, s’affirme comme le systeme des moyens qu’emploie un ensemble d’>hommes pour constituer le cadre de leur existence, pour établir un | ordre de choses approprié a leur art de vivre en homme. (Il y a beaucoup de facons tres différentes et meme incompatibles de vivre en homme). Parmi ces moyens, il faut compter les sciences, qui, loin de placer ’ homme a distance de la nature, se situent dans l’axe de la continuité avec la nature, assurent l’assimilation de ’ homme a la nature. | L’homme ne maitrise la nature que de l’intérieur de la nature et en

obéissant a ses lois. I] ne connait d’elle que ce en quoi il y a interac- a

tion entre elle et lui. Il ne connait vraiment d’elle que les transforma-

a tions qu’il lui fait subir et par lesquelles il la mesure. L’activité scientifique n’est jamais qu’une opération d’immanence et, ala limite, _ une technique d’ identification. Pour ’ homme, connaitre est une acti-

vité conforme a sa nature. ,

Parmi ces moyens, il faut compter aussi l’ensemble des techniques et des industries, l’activité de l’-homme industrieux. Les techni-

ques caractérisant une civilisation sont de toutes sortes. Les classer, ,

PHILOSOPHIE DE L’ HISTOIRE 129 c’est en mieux faire comprendre le sens. Mentionnons d’abord les techniques qui, adaptant, autant qu'il leur est possible, les choses de la nature aux besoins tant naturels qu’artificiels des hommes, ainsi qu’a leurs insatiables désirs, transforment des choses naturelles en objets humains: ce sont les techniques de la production et de la fabrication. Viennent ensuite les techniques de usage et de la consommation qu’il s’agisse des choses naturelles ou des objets déja produits. On fera une place a part enfin aux techniques de la communication et de la circulation, qu’on les applique aux personnes, aux biens, ou aux

informations. Reste le domaine tres particulier des techniques qui prennent homme lui-méme pour objet, qu’il s’agisse des techniques de la vie en commun, dans la paix ou dans la guerre, ou des techniques de la santé, dans la mesure ow elles concernent la nature physique de Vhomme, son corps. Au sens étroit ou j’entends cette civilisation-la, méme s’il s’agit de ce qu’elle produit de plus subtil ou de plus sophistiqué, ou de ce qui peut témoigner de la maitrise la plus efficace de la nature, elle n’est jamais faite que de moyens et de techniques, de choses transformées ou de choses fabriquées. C’est la civilisation des techniques, des produits et des machines. Au sein de la civilisation au sens large, et par opposition a cette civilisation des techniques et des choses matérielles, il convient de

situer la culture. Rappelons que le cultus est originellement [art d’honorer les dieux et les valeurs sacrées, de les adorer, de les «cul-

tiver». La forme premiere de la culture est active, la culture est d’abord une action. Le mot a trouvé son application primitive dans l’art de cultiver, de cultiver les arbres, les plantes, en les soignant, en coopérant a leur croissance. En s’étendant a lanthropologie, cette métaphore théologique, puis naturaliste, prendra parfois un sens plus actif encore, de l’art du jardinier, qui cultive ce qui est en germe, ce qui est donné dans une semence, elle s’étendra a l’art du potier ou du sculpteur qui, transformant le tas de glaise amorphe en vase ou en statue, procedent a un modelage, a une véritable création, que le mot de Bildung évoque plus directement que celui de culture. Mais elle désignera aussi, en un sens passif, qu'il s’agisse de culture ou de Bildung, la culture comme resultat et d’abord comme produit de tous les efforts de culture, au sein d’un ensemble civilisé. Elle désigne ensuite, par rapport a un homme donné, la culture qu’il a recue et qu’il s’est donnée, sa culture. Le mot de culture désigne enfin, en un troisieme sens, l’ensemble de tous ces efforts de culture et leurs résultats, lorsqu’on parle de la culture d’un peuple, de la culture grecque par exemple. Ces remarques sémantiques vont peser d’un grand poids sur |’interprétation que l’on peut faire de la place de la culture dans V’histoire dune civilisation ou d’une société.

— 130 ~ RAYMOND POLIN | , Au sein dune civilisation entendue au sens large, la culture désigne l'ensemble des valeurs qui animent la sociéte historique qui en est le support avec les actions qu’elle suscite, les oeuvres qu’elle inspire, les institutions qu’elle engendre, les moeurs qu’elle gouverne.

C’est proprement le domaine de l’action humaine entendue, non comme la technique d’application d’une connaissance, mais comme un art de vivre, d’agir de fagon proprement humaine. Agir humainement, c’est agir de facon réfléchie et libre, de facon originale, a partir,

, mais, au-dela, de tout le donné recu, biologique, social, historique, de | toutes les traditions. Cette action proprement humaine, par laquelle il exprime sa nature d’homme et se fait humain, par laquelle il donne a sa forme générale d’homme une figure concrete, unique et originale,

c’est la création. La culture est a la fois l’activité créatrice et son

ceuvre. La civilisation, entendue au sens large, qui comprend la cul‘ture, est l’ceuvre de ce qu’il y a de proprement humain en I’homme - -vivant en société, sa capacité de connaitre et de réfléchir, je veux dire sa conscience, sa capacité d’user d’un langage et de communiquer avec autrui, sa capacité de vivre en fonction d’un avenir qu'il imagine, sa capacité d’exister pour des valeurs et pour des fins, sa voca_ tion a comprendre et a mettre de l’ordre, sa liberté enfin. La culture,

au sein de la civilisation au sens large et par opposition a la civilisation au sens étroit, est, a la fois, l’acte et oeuvre de sa vocation aux valeurs et a la liberte. | J’entends ici par liberté cette faculté propre a ’ homme de prendre de la distance par rapport a la totalité du donné, de l’apprécier et

d’agir sur lui pour l’ordonner et lui donner du sens. Fort de son pouvoir d’exister librement, tout homme est capable d’aller au-dela de , lui-méme et tout le donné qui l’environne, d’ajouter a ce qui existe

déja, d’étre, sous quelque rapport, a lorigine de lui-méme, et

d’affirmer ainsi sa radicale difference par rapport a tout autre homme. | Original, different, ’? homme vit son indépendance dans la réalite avant de la revendiquer. L’animal opere selon ce qu’il est et selon le | milieu quil’environne. L’> homme existe a la fois a partir de ce qu’il est et de ce qu'il recoit, et a partir de ce qu'il fait. Se faire, c’est agir et travailler. L’> homme n’est capable d’action et de travail que parce qu'il

est libre. , ,

| ~. C’est pourquoi, alors que la civilisation est d’abord une affaire sociale, une ceuvre collective, la culture est d’abord une affaire indi-

, viduelle avant d’étre aussi une affaire sociale. Une affaire individuelle d’abord. Il est absurde de faire dire a Hegel que tout homme n’est que le fils de son temps ou a Sartre que

chaque homme est a lui-méme son propre pere. Tout homme nait

deux fois. Chaque animal humain est fils d’un pére et d’une mere dont | il regoit des déterminations naturelles génétiques. Chaque homme civilisé est né, en outre, d’une naissance ultérieure et quasiment conti-

PHILOSOPHIE DE L’ HISTOIRE 131 nuce tout au long de son existence, d’une mere, qui est la civilisation qui ’englobe et d’un pere, qui n’est autre que lui-meéme. Quelle que soit la part de la création de chaque homme par luimeme, si faible soit-elle, elle est irrépréssible, comme sa liberté qui en est l’essence. C’est pourquoi chaque homme est unique et constitue a lui seul, a la limite, une espéce dont il est unique exemplaire, selon la formule de Bergson. La culture, au sens social du mot, c’est, sur fond de civilisation

historiquement recue, ensemble des faits et des activités nés de la composition de toutes les cultures individuelles qui s’affrontent pour mieux s’équilibrer en un accord mouvant fait de domination, de soumission, de compromis, et vécu sous la forme d’une éducation permanente réciproque. La culture au sens fort, qui est un sens actif, est, a chaque époque, affaire de création, si imprégnée soit-elle des coutumes recues et de la vie sous-jacente d’une sorte de conscience collective historique. C’est elle qui fait vivre et survivre cette conscience collective en la transformant. La merveille, en effet, c’est que, a chaque époque donnée, une culture ait une unité, un style, et constitue un ordre susceptible d’étre décrit, interprété, compris. Ce permanent feu d’artifice de créations individuelles, fusant dans des directions libres de toute détermination, compose merveilleusement un ensemble historique cohérent et ordonné, qui vit d’une vie de conscience collective. Merveilleusement, mais non pas miraculeusement, et cela pour trois raisons. La premiere, c’est que la liberté proprement humaine

n’est pas simple contingence, elle est liberté pour du sens, liberté pour exister de fagon sensée, compréhensive et comprise. La liberté existe en vue d’un ordre sensé. La seconde raison, c’est que toutes les libertes, au sein d’une civilisation historique, se développent audela, mais aussi en fonction de cette civilisation maternelle, contre elle, mais aussi par rapport a elle, avec elle. Etre libre, ce n’est pas exister de facon gratuite et arbitraire. Tout n’est pas possible a IV’ humaine liberté. L’élément créateur n’est jamais que l’élément paternel de la culture: la civilisation, ¢lement maternel, constitue le crible, le filtre du possible pour une creation mise a l’épreuve. Car, troisieme raison,

toutes les créations ne sont pas viables: une sélection s’opere en fonction des moyens accumulés par la civilisation, des mythes pregnants, des traditons en vigueur. L’ordre historique en quoi consiste la culture envisagée cette fois comme un résultat, nait de la composition qui résulte de Vinertie d’une civilisation en mouvement et de la vitalité creatrice d’une culture en acte. Pour Vensemble d’une civilisation, entendue au sens le plus large, comme pour chaque individu, la culture en acte est le lieu de la liberté, le lieu de la création ot! se manifeste l’esprit, le vouloir, la vie. La culture inspire la civilisation tout entiere, elle est le moteur de la civilisation et de la société humaine. Le compréhensible n’est jamais

132 RAYMOND POLIN | donné; par essence, il ne réside jamais que dans ce que |’on fait; on ne comprend jamais tout a fait que l’ordre que l’on accomplit, que lon construit soi-méeme. On ne comprend que ce que |’on pratique. L’ordre mieux compréhensible est toujours en avant de soi, dans un avenir a faire. C’est par essence le probleme d’une liberté qui n’existe

que pour du sens: c’est le probleme de l’esprit. Une civilisation ou

| s’éteint le feu de lesprit, ot se refroidit |’ardeur a comprendre et a

croire en ce que l’on comprend, ou se détend la tension créatrice, ou la liberté cesse d’étre en cessant d’étre en acte, est une civilisation qui se meurt: elle meurt de l’épuisement de sa culture. Elle meurt quand elle perd son ame.

A cette culture en acte, il convient d’associer, non seulement la culture comme résultat et comme oeuvre, la culture inscrite et installée dans ses monuments, mais la culture passive, l'éducation, dans la

mesure ou elle est recue. C’est déja vrai au niveau des individus: chaque homme est plus ou moins créateur de sa propre culture; ilaa faire face a une pression éducatrice qui s’exerce sur lui de toute part, ala fois bénéfique et menacante, mais il porte en lui l’irrépressible principe de sa propre formation. C’est vrai plus encore de la culture collective; sans l’apport global de la civilisation, il n’y aurait pas

, d’existence humaine possible. Mais sans doute faut-il distinguer entre apport de la civilisation, avec ses systemes de représentations, |’ en- , semble de ses moyens et de ses techniques, sa conscience collective avec ses traditions, ses valeurs, ses mythes, sa richesse linguistique, et la pression éducative des systemes sociaux et politiques. Plus l’apport de la civilisation est considérable, plus la culture est en mesure d’exercer sa formation créatrice, méme si un grand nombre d’individus, la masse, préfere se conformer et se soumettre. Ce sont les civilisations des premiers ages qui ont évolueé le plus lentement. Ce sont les plus riches civilisations contemporaines qui accélerent le plus leurs transformations et leurs innovations, bien que ce soit surtout

vrai des sciences et des techniques et non pas des valeurs et des

moeurs. En revanche les systemes sociaux et politiques sont capables d’exercer des pressions qui, sous forme d’éducation, d’information ou de propagande, sont en mesure d’exercer les plus graves contraintes sur ’autonomie du jugement et de l’action des individus. [ls peuvent

méme en arriver a bloquer le devenir d’une civilisation dans un , conformisme mortel.

La culture active engendre une inertie qui lui est, a échéance, pernicieuse. La culture en acte tend toujours a s’endormir et a se scleroser en culture passive. Une culture vivante vit de ses traditions a condition de les renouveler, d’aller plus loin. C’est le sort de tout ce

qui est libre par nature, de vivre de sa différence dans la fidélitée a elle-méme. Etre libre, c’est rester soi-méme en devenant différent. Seule, la différence cultivée d’un étre libre assure la continuité de ce qu’il a été et l’affirmation de ce qui lui est propre.

PHILOSOPHIE DE L’ HISTOIRE 133

_ TJ Ul faut maintenant tirer les conséquences de ces definitions. Chaque culture, ainsi que la civilisation tout entiere qu’elle anime, forme un ensemble historique a part, qui nait, se développe, va de sommet en sommet, d’acmee en acmée, dépérit et meurt sur un territoire donné, dans une société donnée, de facon relativement indépendante, de facon radicalement contingente, comme un ensemble original, spécifique, unique. Puisque chaque culture nait de la composition des efforts et des

ceuvres d’une multitude de libertés individuelles et créatrices,

puisqu’elle est une manifestation de liberte, elle trouve en elle-méme son origine et son existence, son style; elle représente une signification originale de ’ humain; elle ne comporte en elle-méme aucune né-

cessite intrinseque. Au-dela des conditions de son apparition, elle affirme sa propre contingence. Pour ce qu’elle apporte de plus sienificatif, de plus original, elle est a elle-méme sa propre origine, dans

une radicale discontinuité avec tout ce qui la précede. Elle marque cette séparation, cette indépendance, cette contingence par sa différence. L’histoire des hommes, de l’espéce humaine, est faite de l appa-

rition et de la disparition d’une multitude de civilisations que les sciences ethnologiques et historiques nous révelent par leurs découvertes dans leur pluralite, dans leur radicale irréductibilite. Certes, les circonstances géographiques et temporelles peuvent provoquer des rencontres entre certaines d’entre elles, des communications, des interférences, des influences, ou bien des conflits, des conquétes, des invasions, des exterminations. Mais, pour subsister, chacune d’entre elles doit conserver sa personnalité, sauver son ame, sous peine de dégénérer et de mourir. Il faut donc renoncer au mythe d’une «société générale du genre humain», chere aux Stoiciens. L’>humanité n’est qu’une espece biologique. La nature des hommes qui la composent se définit, au plan de la culture, par un certain nombre de capacités dont lexercice donne

lieu a cette diversité de civilisations et de cultures, a une pluralité historique d’ordres humains et de facons de vivre en homme. I] ne faut pas se laisser leurrer par l’existence, dans toutes les civilisations développées, de structures du méme type, de forme générique de lactivité humaine: en toute civilisation, on trouve certes du religieux, du culturel, du. politique, du juridique, de l’économie,

des mythes, de l’art, des moeurs, de la guerre, etc. Ces structures génériques et ces types d’activités sont les formes nécessaires de la manifestation de la nature humaine, de l’existence de homme en societé. Ces structures sont vides, leur universalité est purement formelle. Des que l’on prétend découvrir ou imposer des traits de civilisation universels, on se heurte a d’insurmontables obstacles: la theo-

134 RAYMOND POLIN rie du droit naturel, par exemple, échoue devant l’irréductible diversité des droits positifs, comme la théorie du meilleur régime politique,

en face de lirrépressible diversité des régimes politiques effectivement viables et vivables. — L’homme générique est un étre abstrait, définissable par les fa-

—cultés et les conditions d’existence de l’essence de homme, de ce que l’on appelle sa nature. Les hommes qui existent ne prennent une réalité concréte et un sens humain qu’en fonction de la civilisation a laquelle ils participent. Il y a autant de manieres d’exister de facon humaine, autant d’especes d’>hommes, au sein du genre humain qu’ il y a de civilisations.

La civilisation contemporaine s’est tout particuli¢rement adonnée a l’exploration des autres civilisations passées ou présentes, et a reussi fort brillamment a en pousser parfois tres loin la connaissance. Mais si affinée soit celle-ci, cette compréhension d’une autre civilisation demeure une connaissance de I|’extérieur, plus a l’aise dans ce qui constitue la civilisation au sens étroit, la civilisation des moyens

et des techniques, que dans l’approche de la culture, dans ce que celle-ci a d’original, d’unique et, a la limite, d’imperméable. I] peut arriver parfois que cette recherche aille jusqu’a se muer, comme il

arrive pour les religions, en une conversion. Mais ces exceptions - confirment la regle. La régle qui se dégage des meilleures de ces recherches: c’est la nécessité de ne pas réduire, de ne pas assimiler, et, dans la connaissance comme dans la pratique, de reconnaitre et de respecter les differences.

| Aussi longtemps qu’elle garde sa vitalité, la propension propre d’une culture, fille de la liberté, est de rendre toujours plus manifeste sa difference, de laisser proliférer en son propre sein des particularismes accusés, comme autant de variations musicales sur un méme theme. On peut ainsi parler de civilisation francaise ou italienne, ou germanique, au sein de la civilisation chrétienne d’Occident. On peut. aussi constater que, par exemple, au sein de la civilisation francaise, telle ou telle province peut accentuer certains traits qui marquent son particularisme. L’extension du concept de culture est fort élastique puisque, nous l’avons fait remarquer, on peut aussi bien parler pro-

tuées. |

prement de la culture de l’Occident (qui embrasserait |’Europe et ~PAmeérique du Nord) que de la culture d’un seul homme. Le moteur de la création culturelle, qui est individuelle, ne cesse pas de jouer un role séparateur et, pour ainsi dire, différenciel, au sein de ordre des cultures les plus pregnantes et les plus fermement constiSous l’action de la culture qui l’anime, une civilisation apparait comme une personne, aussi bien dans son histoire que dans son ceu— vre. C’est la merveille du phénomeéne «civilisation» que nous avons

déja signalé: sur le fonds de ses traditions historiques, a partir de

, P action a la fois conservatrice et créatrice de la multitude des individus

PHILOSOPHIE DE L’ HISTOIRE 135 qui la composent, en dépit du caractere essentiellement incoordonné et contingent de leurs actes, une civilisation manifeste une personnalité,

elle demeure identique a elle-méme, a travers ses aventures et ses avatars, elle ne survit qu’a condition de demeurer elle-méme, de garder fidelement ce qui fait son style, d’affirmer et de défendre son identité. Comme une personne, elle constitue un univers aelle, relativement clos, un ordre d’existence qui a sa consistance al’ intérieur de lui-méme. Par nature, elle demeure a distance des autres civilisations que les conditions d’espace et de temps lui permettent de rencontrer. Les contacts

sont normalement rares, perturbants, suspects, relevant parfois de Paventure individuelle. Les échanges, que les circonstances imposent ou favorisent, sont difficiles; ils sont d’abord économiques. Les influences qui s’ensuivent apparaissent comme des infiltrations plus sou-

vent menacantes que bénéfiques, et provoquent plus souvent des adaptations, des compensations, que des assimilations. Le noyau culturel demeure a part et particulierement protégé. Ces transformations sont souvent mal supportées et suscitent des réactions de rejet, de défense, d’intégrité. Les rencontres de grande ampleur tournent d’ordinaire en conflit politique et se résolvent par l’invasion, l’absorption, ou extermination et l’élimination. — III —

Jusqu’au XVIITe Siecle, une fois de plus le siecle clef, dont le X1Xe Siecle reprend si volontiers les idées en s’efforcant de les accomplir, les civilisations vivaient enfermées sur elles-mémes, éparpillées sur l’énorme globe terrestre, séparées souvent par les espaces immenses de terrae incognitae. Leurs rencontres étaient rares, faites

d’échanges économiques qui prenaient lallure d’expéditions et d’aventures, ou de conflits qui tournaient en guerres, en conquétes exterminatrices, en invasions, en migrations. Or, voici qu’il se passe, a notre €poque, un évenement extraordinaire dans les sociétés contemporaines, avec l’irradiation planétaire effective de la civilisation occidentale issue des Grecs, des Juifs et des Chrétiens. La civilisation de l’Occident sort des limites de l’épure et transgresse les caracteres essentiels des civilisations. Cette transgression remet en question l’existence et le concept méme de civilisation, aussi

bien que l’existence et le concept de culture: elle s’affirme comme une civilisation de l’universel, comme la civilisation du genre humain. Le principe et, en tout cas, le symbole de cet universalisme, c’est la foi de ’Occident en la raison, comme structure universelle de l’ esprit humain, comme principe de toute connaissance scientifique, et peutetre meme, a la limite, comme principe axiomatique de la réalité. L’ efficacité et le progrés en constante accélération des sciences construites

136 RAYMOND POLIN | | sur ce principe, prétend imposer a toutes les civilisations, en dépit de leurs métaphysiques propres et de leurs propres théories de la connais-

sance, un systeme des sciences unique et universel. Et, de fait, a quelque civilisation qu’ils appartiennent, tous les hommes de notre temps viennent apprendre la science de |’Occident et, parfois, colla-

borer a son progres. N’est-elle pas la seule science possible, la science de tous les hommes, une science effectivement universelle qui , efface les frontieres des civilisations ? ,

Et, s’il en fallait une preuve, on la trouverait dans l’efficacité de ses applications, dans la technologie merveilleusement efficace qui suit de cette science. Les techniques occidentales sont |’émerveillement permanent de ce temps, par leur efficacité constamment accrue, par l’accélération de leurs progres, qui tiennent du prodige. Les autres civilisations étaient plus ou moins industrieuses: la civilisation _ occidentale, elle, est industrielle. Les techniques débouchent sur des

, industries qui en mettent les produits 4 la disposition de la masse des civilisés: la technologie a permis al’Occident l’usage et la maitrise de la ~ nature, l’exploitation des ressources du monde. Elle a permis a l’Occi-

dent, pendant de longues années, la domination des sociétés humaines qui relevaient des autres civilisations. Et l’Occident n’a trouvé de résis-

tance efficace et de limites a ses volontés que dans les sociétés qu'il

| avait lui-méme initiées a sa science et a ses techniques.

On trouverait Villustration et le symbole de cette réussite tech-

nique lancée a la conquéte de l’univers dans les techniques de la circulation, de la communication et de l’ information. La terre des autres

hommes était sans mesure et sans fin. Les techniques des Occidentaux ont réduit le monde a l’espace d’un petit canton, en tout point — duquel on peut transporter soi-méme et toute chose en quelques instants, dont on peut connaitre et faire connaitre a tous, tout ce qui en est actuellement connu. Le temps de la communication réduit 4 un petit instant, est devenu disponible comme la surface de la terre, ce petit canton. Comme I|’empereur des images de majesté, homme occidental ou, en tout cas, la civilisation occidentale, tient le monde

dans sa main dressée, et peut-étre un jour l’univers.

Sur cette terre rétrécie, rassemblée, instantanéifiée, informati-sée, n’y aurait-il plus de place que pour une seule civilisation, qui serait effectivement universelle et unique, |’occidentale? L’universel — concret serait-il en passe d’étre réalisé sous la forme d’une civilisa-

tion? Et non pas seulement du fait des membres de la civilisation occidentale, mais du fait et avec l’aveu des peuples appartenant aux oe autres civilisations, qu’ils se considérent comme sous-developpés ou , comme en voie de développement. Ce sont eux qui sont avides d’apprendre les sciences et les techniques occidentales, d’exercer ses industries, de partager son efficacité et sa puissance, de pratiquer son genre de vie, que ce soit l’art de vivre francais ou italien, Ll’ efficacité

germanique, |’English ou 1’American way of life. Non seulement ils | ,

PHILOSOPHIE DE L’ HISTOIRE 137 en ont envie, mais ils revendiquent la connaissance des sciences et des techniques, l’usage et la maitrise de la nature, |’art et la maniére de vivre des Occidentaux comme des droits. Is affirment ainsi le droit de tous les hommes a étre membre a part entiere de la civilisation universelle initialement chrétienne et occidentale. Ainsi se forme l’idée d’une civilisation du monde, d’une civilisation mondiale, grace aux progrés et a Puniversalité des sciences et des techniques, une civilisation qui poserait et résoudrait tous les grands problemes humains a |’échelle de la planete terrestre.

TV — Cette idée d’une civilisation universelle, dune civilisation du genre humain, répond peut-étre, a la rigueur, a l’idée d’une philosophie du genre humain a la maniére hégélienne, et a la réalisation d’un universel concret. Mais elle est en contradiction complete avec Il’ expérience que histoire, la linguistique, l’ethnologie nous apportent depuis cent quarante ans. Cette expérience nous permet de conclure a la pluralité, a Virréductibilité, a limperméabilité, a l’incompatibilité des civilisations.

Nous n’étudierons pas ici impact de cette invasion « civilisatrice» sur les autres civilisations. Nous nous bornerons a mettre en

évidence les conséquences de ce «changement de nature» sur le concept et existence méme de la civilisation occidentale. Il est important de noter que notre civilisation universelle, étendue d’un bout a l’autre de la terre, releve exclusivement de ce que nous avons appelé la civilisation au sens étroit, la civilisation des moyens, des techniques, rehaussée de la présence ambigte des sciences mathémathiques et des sciences de la nature. Cette irresistible invasion mondiale est le fruit de leur extreme efficacité. Mais cette extreme réussite de la civilisation des moyens s’accompagne de la ruine de la culture et de ses vertus spirituelles, de ses

fonctions créatrices. Au sein de la civilisation au sens large, une étonnante déchirure se produit entre l’enrichissement constant et Vefficacité croissante des techniques, et l’écrasement, la stérilisation, Vaffolement de la culture de la liberté.

L’impact de lune sur l'autre prend plusieurs formes, bien connues d’ailleurs, si leur cause est souvent difficile a analyser.

En premier lieu, la civilisation des moyens et des techniques tend a se suffire a elle-méme et a4 prendre pour fin son propre succés.

Parmi les fins humaines, prennent le pas sur toutes les autres et les excluent, l’efficacité pour lefficacité, la puissance pour la puissance, la réussite pour la réussite. Ce qui compte, ce n’est plus la qualité, c’est la dimension, la quantité, le nombre.

, 138 | RAYMOND POLIN , En second lieu, incroyable puissance de production des techniques humaines met a la disposition de tous des instruments et des objets avec une telle abondance et avec un souci si artificiel de leurs _besoins et de leurs désirs, que, litteralement, ils ne savent plus qu’en faire, qu’ils ne savent plus s’en servir. Au premier abord et de l’exté-rieur, on se laisse prendre a la joie de voir les besoins naturels et nécessaires enfin satisfaits et rassasiés, la pénurie vaincue, les miseres étan-

~ chées. Mais on constate bientot que l’abondance dont il s’agit est | Pabondance des biens mateériels, et que leur profusion offerte sans discrimination a pour objet, non pas de satisfaire aussi des désirs naturels et non nécessaires, mais de faire tourner les industries productrices, sans tenir aucun compte, et d’ailleurs au grand détriment, des

vocations et des désirs spirituels. Les productions industrielles, les systemes de circulation, de communication, d’information industriels,

sont essentiellement massifs et uniformes. L’abondance est assurée, non pas a des hommes reconnus dans leur particularité, dans leur différence, non pas a des personnes, mais a des masses tenues pour grossie-

| rement homogenes. Ceteffet de « massification » entrainelamécanisation des services et des usages, leur réduction al’ homogeéne, al’élémentaire,

, bref au matériel, dans tout ce qu’ilad’inhumain. Au sein de la masse qui, seule, compte désormais, chaque homme, bien oublié en tant que personne spirituelle, est reduit al’ état d’ objet. Il est soumis a tant de méca-

| nismes, a tant de machines, de plus en plus automatisées, et qui dépen-

, dent de moins en moins de lui, qu’il est réduit a Vétat d’animal-

machine lui-cméme. L’homme le plus civilisé est nourri, habillé, soigne, transporté, informé, diverti, comme un bétail de grand prix, mais

| en troupeau et comme un bétail tout de méme. |

, En troisieme lieu, et en conséquence, l’immense machine industrielle civilisatrice qui fonctionne exclusivement en vue de sa propre expansion et universalisation, prend le gouvernement des hommes, leur dicte leurs institutions et leurs moeurs, ce qui leur tient d’art et jusqu’a leurs désirs. Elle a besoin, pour bien fonctionner, de satis-

, faire, de rassasier, de bien intégrer aux mécanismes de production,

des étres massifs, passifs, qui ont renoncé a toute autonomie, a toute

initiative, a toute responsabilité, 4 toute autorité personnelle. Plus | homme, de nos jours, est intégré a sa civilisation, plus il attend , d’elle la facilité, la sécurité, la streté pour le présent et l’avenir: il se remet entre les mains de la grande machine, il se trouve satisfait, rassasié, s’il joue son role de producteur et de consommateur, comme un rouage du grand tout, comme une machine hautement perfection-

née dans la grande machine, et s’il est traité, soigné, sauvegardé - comme tel. Cette fois-ci, iln’est meme plus réduit au rang d’ animal, mais

a celui de machine, de machine de série. |

Ces masses réduites a leurs besoins matériels €lementaires, pour lesquelles seules comptent leurs fonctions de consommation et de re-

production, rassasiés selon des modeles qui ne dépendent pas d’ eux, ,

PHILOSOPHIE DE L’ HISTOIRE 139 dont la conservation et la sécurité est assurée par l’ensemble, voila qu’elles constituent les nouveaux barbares, les barbares standards, les barbares universels, la fine fleur de notre civilisation. —_V—

Non seulement la civilisation des moyens et des techniques tend a expulser la culture et la vie de l’esprit, comme l’esprit de liberté, mais elle tend a se substituer a elle, a en tenir lieu. L’art de vivre, lart de vivre libre, l'art de vivre en esprit, est remplacé par des techniques du comportement. Nous assistons, tous les jours, hélas, a cet €crasement des forces vivantes de la nature, a cette exténuation des forces créatrices des in-

dividus. Lélan de la science suscite, et peut-étre de plus en plus, de grands savants. Mais des conditions de plus en plus difficiles sont faites a l apparition de talents authentiquement originaux, a l’ existence d’esprits vraiment créateurs. Ce sont les masses et leur déploiement meécani- —

que qui deviennent les sujets moteurs de histoire, et non plus les individus.

Ces faits suscitent des réactions inverses qui sont tout aussi catastrophiques que le mal qu’elles cherchent a combattre, car elles perdent, comme lui, toute mesure. On pourrait les décrire sous le nom générique d’individualismes surexcités. Au niveau des groupes, on voit des minorités culturelles se re-

beller contre Venvahissement de la civilisation technique et des moeurs qu’elle véhicule et impose. On assiste de tous cotés a la reviviscence inattendue de cultures minoritaires endormies dans leur province et longtemps satisfaites de leurs traditions et de leur existence

folklorique. Sous la pression conformiste de la civilisation technicienne, faute de pouvoir se faire reconnaitre comme des cultures originales et sauvegarder leur existence comme telles, elles transposent leurs revendications d’originalité et d’autonomie sur le plan politique. Minorités dépourvues des forces nécessaires a une existence indépendante, elles cherchent a s’imposer par la violence et font usage de chantage et de terreur. On voit ainsi d’absurdes terrorismes particularistes exploser au quatre coins de |’ Europe. Mais c’est surtout au niveau des individus que la surexcitation de la revendication a étre soi-méme et différent provoque un profond désordre culturel. Certains, refusant le passé comme l’avenir, écartant tous les devoirs et s’arrogeant, au nom de leur individualité unique, exclusive, indépendante, tous les droits, prétendent exister dans Il’ assouvissement immeédiat de n’importe quelle jouissance et de n’importe quelle violence. D’ autres cherchent a vivre de rien ou presque, en marge de la société, en recueillant les miettes qu’elle leur abandonne, dans une

140 RAYMOND POLIN sorte de far niente que certains climats propices rendent parfois pos-

sible. Les uns et les autres vivent en parasites, d’une vie toute

artificielle et provisoire. D’ autres prétendent échapper al ’étreinte de la civilisation en constituant des communautés dont ils esperent assumer eux-mémes la gestion, au mépris de toutes les expériences et de tous

les échecs du passé. D’autres encore essaient de pratiquer un retour a la nature et tentent, sur des terres abandonnées en raison de leur pauvreté, de subsister a l'aide de moyens rustiques depuis longtemps périmés. Pour un peu, comme Voltaire le disait par dérision de JeanJacques Rousseau, dont ils osent se réclamer, ils se mettraient a marcher a quatre pattes. Certains enfin, comme les minorités culturelles que plusieurs rejoignent et animent, se lancent dans I’ anarchisme politique militant et recourrent, comme les minorités culturelles, au piege

, du terrorisme, sinon pour se faire entendre, du moins pour «se ven- |

ger» avec l’énergie du désespoir. : Les uns et les autres commettent l’erreur de confondre la civill-

gation des moyens et la culture. Pour se libérer de l’emprise de la civilisation des moyens, c’est a la culture, a ses exigences et a ses

dus. ,

vertus qu’ils s’attaquent. Tout a l’opposé de la barbarie des masses civilisées, ces individus qui se dressent contre toute culture, sont tout -autant des barbares, mais des barbares singuliers, des barbares perTous revendiquent leur droit a ces diverses sortes d’anarchismes

culturels au nom de la «liberté» contre les servitudes de la civilisa- ,

tion. Mais il s’agit, en fait, d’une conception bien confuse et caricatu-

rale de la liberté. Confusion d’abord, parce qu’ils confondent la liberté avec le pouvoir de faire ce que l’on désire, alors que le désir est

_ déterminé et ne dépend pas de soi. Seconde confusion, parce que la liberté est d’abord une maitrise de soi-meéeme, une activité de réflexion

, et non pas une soumission au spontané, a l’immeédiat et a I irréfléchi. Troisiéme confusion, parce que la liberté de l’homme est |’ activité d’un étre éminemment social, inséparable de la présence et de la

| - considération des autres, et non pas le caprice ou l’arbitraire d’un individu solitaire, d’un sujet originaire de son exclusive subjectivite.

Confusion enfin, parce que la liberté va contre la nature en méme temps qu’elle la suit, parce qu’elle fait partie de la nature de homme tout en consistant a aller au-dela d’elle et a y ajouter. Ces différentes manifestations d’un mauvais individualisme au nom d’une pseudo-liberté relevent d’un autisme qui tourne bien faci-

lement a la schizophrénie.

—~ VI — ,

Bien loin de réaliser l’universel concret, la civilisation univer— selle qui tend a s’établir sous nos yeux, comporte une déchirure et

PHILOSOPHIE DE L’ HISTOIRE 14] une contradiction interne qui la ruinent et la détruisent. En fait, il s’agit dune civilisation faussement universelle puisqu’elle réduit son

universalité a la civilisation des moyens. Et celle-ci se heurte 4 la pluralite irréductible des cultures, lorsqu’elle ne détruit pas purement et simplement la réalité vivante de la culture en se substituant 4 elle. Il ne s’agit pas de s’opposer a l’expansion ou au progres de la

civilisation des moyens. Celle-ci représente l'un des accomplissements les plus extraordinaires et les plus admirables de humanité, Pune de ses oeuvres les plus caractéristiques. On ne remonte d’ailleurs pas le cours dune civilisation; on ne revient pas en arriere pour

se fixer a un stade antérieur. A Végard des autres civilisations de la planéte, l’universalisme intrinséque de la civilisation des moyens, fondé sur l’universalisme de la science et de ses applications, place la civilisation de l’?Occident dans une situation inouie, peut-étre sans issue. L’assimilation dont elle les menace est pire que la guerre, qui laisse des vainqueurs et des vaincus. L’ assimilation ne laisse que des corrompus de part et d’au-

tre, des incultes, des barbares.

A son propre égard, la double maladie, la double barbarie qui le menace n’est peut-étre pas sans remede. Si on veut lutter pour le salut ou la régénération de la civilisation de ’Occident, il faut rétablir un équilibre entre la civilisation des moyens et la culture des valeurs et des fins au sein de chaque civilisation globale particuliere. [] faut équilibrer le systeme des besoins et des moyens matériels dans le cadre-d’un royaume des fins qui est du domaine de l’esprit. La civilisation des moyens doit retrouver sa véritable fonction, qui est d’étre au service de l’esprit. Les techniques ne gardent de sens et de valeur que si elles sont au service de la pratique

de la liberté. Pour qu’il en soit ainsi, il faut rendre a la culture sa

fonction créatrice, et inventer une nouvelle culture. Pour une civilisation, comme pour un homme, il est essentiel d’avoir une ame et une ame libre.

Blank Page |

Narrative Form, Significance and Historical Knowledge by LEON POMPA University of Birmingham

J Much of the debate over the concept of historical knowledge in this century has centred round the question whether historical knowledge is in some sense autonomous. One tendency has been to deny that it is, on the ground that it isa form of knowledge only in so far as it satisfies criteria, particularly those to do with objectivity, which are satisfied paradigmatically in the natural sciences. This view has been resisted, however, by a number of thinkers who have been impressed by the fact that historiographical narratives are written to persuade specific audiences with specific interests, and who claim consequently that the rhetorical elements which they incorporate draw them closer

to forms of fiction than to scientific knowledge. Nevertheless, the questions raised here have been largely to do with the forms of presentation of historical knowledge rather than with that knowledge itself. Recently, however, there has been a resurgence of interest in the nature of historical narratives, which has led to the view that narrative form is not merely a form given to historiographical works for purposes of communication and persuasion, but a form which its also

partly constitutive of historical knowledge as such. And given the further claim that this form originates in the literary imagination, the

way iS open to saving history from science by connecting it more intrinsically with fiction than on any of the previous views. My purpose in this paper is to examine this more extreme view and to argue that it leads to conclusions about historical knowledge and historical reality which are philosophically unacceptable and that it ought therefore to be rejected. The view in question, which for convenience I shall call the new metahistory, has become prominent through recent works by Hayden

White,' Peter Munz* and Louis Mink.? These writers have drawn ' — Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth Century Europe (Baltimore: The John Hopkins University Press, 1973); Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978). 2 The Shapes of Time (Wesleyan University Press, 1977).

144 a LEON POMPA upon the emphasis which much current literary criticism lays upon the

free creativity involved in the interpretation of a literary text. The

| main tendency of such theory is to deny that a literary text has a

single determinate meaning which it is the task of the critic or reader to discover. Their task is, rather, to give it meaning or significance, which is done by bringing any of a variety of different interpretative strategies to bear upon it. We cannot say, therefore, that the text has one correct meaning or that there is one correct way to read it. Applying these considerations to the construction of an histori-

a cal account, the metahistorians deny that we can think of the past asa _ determinate reality, with a meaning of its own, traces of which are in

| the evidence, waiting to be discovered by the historian. The picture | should be, rather, of past actuality as a ‘‘meaningless flux’’ upon which the historian must impose meaning, which he does by interpret-

ing, describing and organising it by means of some narrative form. Given the plurality of forms available, however, it follows that there 18 no one right way to view the past, no way in virtue of which we can say we have captured its meaning, but rather a number of different irreconcilable meanings we ourselves can give to it. The historian is thus free to interpret the past in accordance with his vision, rather as the novelist is free to tell his story in accordance with his. When we ~come to ask why we prefer one interpretation of history to another, the account will be largely in the same terms as those we would use to justify one interpretation of a work of fiction over another: its capacity to illuminate and give more meaning or significance to the literary artifact. The ground of our preference, that is to say, is to be found in _ the capacity of certain metahistorical forms, common to fictitious and

, historical narratives alike, to render what is in itself meaningless meaningful for us. Meaning or significance, then, do not exist objectively in, or as, features of the world, but subjectively in the imagina-

tion of the historian, novelist or reader. ,

, It is no part of the metahistorian’s case, however, to deny al-

together the distinction between historical and fictitious narratives. 4 In the case of historical narratives there is still evidence to which to

appeal, facts or statements of fact to be included, and this is not so in the case of fiction. But with this allowed, the meaning which the his-

a torian gives to the facts by relating them as elements in his narrative is of precisely the same sort as that which the novelist gives to the elements of his story by relating them to the over-all plot or structure. | Nevertheless, in distinguishing the factual from the significant in this | way, the metahistorians are committed to allowing for some conception of the past as a determinate actuality, i.e., the past as that which 3 ‘Narrative Form as a Cognitive Instrument’ in The Writing of History, Eds. — R.H. CANARY and H. Kozicki (The University of Wisconsin Press, 1978). 4 MINK, op. cit., pp. 148-9, WHITE, Tropics, p. 121.

NARRATIVE FORM, SIGNIFICANCE 145 corresponds to the factual element in the narrative. There is some disagreement about what this includes but Mink, who seems to me to have thought most about this aspect of the theory, suggests that the past, as a determinate reality, is constituted not by a complex referent corresponding to all the elements in the narrative — an untold story, as it were, waiting to be discovered — but only by the referents, or truth conditions, of the statements of fact it contains. The other elements in the narrative — those which give meaning or significance to the facts it contains — have no such counterparts in the past.* The fundamental claim in the metahistorian’s thesis, then, is that the historian is free to give meaning or significance by the imposition

of a form, which is a product of his own or his culture’s creative

imagination, upon a factual content which would otherwise be unintel-

ligible. In the first part of what follows I shall argue that it is not

possible to accept this identification of the factual with the insignificant on the one hand and the formal with the significant on the

other. In the later parts I shall go on to argue for a version of the traditional view that meaning is something that belongs to past actuality in and of itself and that it is the function of the historical narrative

to reveal and establish this meaning rather than to impose it on the past.

_TLI shall begin my argument against the metahistorian’s position by some very general considerations. It is not difficult to see some affinity between the metahistorian’s account of the role of narrative form in historical knowledge and Kant’s account of the role of the categories in knowledge in general, and some of the metahistorians have suggested that their position might gain a degree of support from this affinity.° For it is true that at times Kant writes as though it is the function of the categories to impose an order or a variety of kinds of

order, upon a content, the manifold of intuition, which in itself is meaningless: as Kant put it, ‘intuitions without concepts are blind’. It might thus seem that the form of a narrative could be thought of as fulfilling the same role in relation to its meaningless content as the categories in relation to the sensible content of knowledge. This is,

however, a very gross reading of Kant and it is evident that the metahistorian could not derive support from him if we read him in this way. For, given the sharp distinction the metahistorian wants to draw between the factual and the significant, the facts to which the narra5 MINK, op. cit., p. 148. 6 WHITE, Tropics, pp. 84-5.

146 LEON POMPA tive is to give significance must at least be able to be facts independently of the form which is imposed on them. Whereas there could be nothing for intuitions to be if, as on this interpretation of Kant, they were required to conform to a condition under which we could think what they would be like if they were uncategorised. — We might here, however, look briefly at a more attractive interpretation of Kant, according to which his claim is not that through the categories the understanding imposes intelligibility upon what, in itself, is unintelligible, but that we can have no conception of what a world would be like if it lacked order, form or structure. We are not, therefore, required to understand a dichotomy between the unintellig-

, ible and the intelligible in themselves, but to grasp the nature of the

intelligible by understanding, ab intra, as it were, the status and func-

tion of certain structuring relations. The metahistorian could then claim that in the same way as the Kantian a priori makes knowledge in general possible, the structuring relations which constitute the form of an historical narrative make historical knowledge possible.

But this analogy is also quite unacceptable and its failure exposes an important difference between the role of the Kantian a priori and that of the form of an historical narrative. The form of, for exam-

ple, a narrative account of the origin and course of the First World War cannot determine the form of the facts involved in the narrative, ,

for the simple reason that the same statements of fact, hence a fortiori facts of the same form, can enter into different competing accounts of the war. One of the difficulties, indeed, in deciding between different

, narrative accounts of the same occurrence is that many statements of fact are common to both. For in so far as they are facts they are common to the whole community of historians, having been established, often as well as any empirical facts can be established, by techniques of historical scholarship which have been devised precisely to establish facts which are logically independent of any particular narratives into which they may be introduced. This is not to - say, of course, that the facts which historical scholarship establishes do not presuppose certain forms common to the conceptual scheme ~ employed by the community of historians. It is to say, however, that the latter do not include the forms which govern the construction of narratives as such. If this is correct, neither the facts nor the form of the facts which are common to two different narrative accounts of the

First World War can be a consequence of the different narrative forms which, ex hypothesi, the competing accounts must possess. It may be, however, that the metahistorian will accept this insofar as it applies to the statements of fact in a narrative but reject it as irrelevant to the question of the epistemological status of the narrative as a whole which, he will claim, involves considerations over and above those connected with the conditions of the legitimacy of the

NARRATIVE FORM, SIGNIFICANCE 147 Statements of facts which it includes.’ But in this case his invocation of Kant seems even more inappropriate. For the Kantian a priori 1s intended to form an interdependent and comprehensive system of categories which we have no option but to apply, whereas, in the case of history, according to the metahistorian, different narrative forms are In competition and we can choose, at will, which of these different, incompatible forms to apply. It would seem, then, that the metahistorian can derive no support from his appeal to Kant. For this cannot be taken to mean that the form of the narrative, like the categories, determines the form of the facts we can know, since the same statements of fact and facts of the same form, can appear in different narratives. Yet neither can it mean that there is a single form of the narrative, analogous to the system of categories, which determines any narrative which we can know, for tf we are under no compulsion to accept any given narrative we cannot be under compulsion to accept any given natrative in virtue of its possessing one form rather than another. At this point it is worth enquiring whether the metahistorian’s case needs any of this metaphysical buttressing at all. For he might claim, as some have,*® that we can understand perfectly well what it means to say that narrative form imposes meaning upon the meaningless by noting the difference between one’s lived experience of one’s life, which does not necessarily have the form of a narrative, and one’s capacity, retrospectively, to give some parts of its content the form of a narrative by making it the subject of a story. The analogous

case in fiction would be the difference between a stream of consciousness novel and a traditional narrative covering the same experi-

ence of events. In recasting our lived experience of our lives in a narrative form we shall have to redescribe many of our experiences in

order that they may be subsumed under the new ordering relations which constitute that form. This is something, indeed, upon which the

metahistorian must insist. But it will not, he will claim, in any way diminish the force of his suggestion that here we can see two modes of cognition of the same experiences, in one of which they lack meaning and in the other of which meaning is conferred upon them by their being related retrospectively to a certain end. This is a useful suggestion to consider because it derives whatever plausibility it has from a crucial but unacknowledged assumption. In equating our lived experience with our experience of a stream

of consciousness it assumes that we experience the stream of con7 Tam grateful to my friend, Dr. Jonathan L. Gorman for his helpful critical comments upon a first draft of this paper, as a result of which I have recognised the need to acknowledge and meet this point. I hasten to add that Dr. Gorman is not responsible for the way in which I try to do so. 8 MINK, op. cit., p. 133.

148 LEON POMPA sciousness directly and without the mediation of some condition of intelligibility such as is given by structuring relations and that the latter are introduced only when we wish to give our experiences meaning by incorporating them into a story. The metahistorian thus cont-

rives to suggest that reality, or the way things are, is a meaningless content to which, through the structuring relations which the narrative form brings to it, meaning can be given. But what justification could there be for this identification of reality with some bare, unstructured experience? To experience anything in a cognisable way 1s

| to experience it in relation to other things, as part of one process and © not another, as an instance of one kind of thing and not another, and

so on. It is, in other words, to experience it under some possible

, description, although one is not explicitly asserting such a descrip-

tion. Nor would the appeal to experience of a stream of consciousness as described in a novel avail to show that this was not so. For, | setting aside the trivial point that descriptions of such streams of consciousness in novels require descriptive terms, it remains true that our capacity to adopt such a stance with regard to our experience is a sophisticated capacity, requiring us to consider in isolation prior - modes of experiencing which we acquire in learning how to describe and relate things via a public language. If we are prepared to admit the primacy of public language in learning how to describe and experience things, then we must look upon our capacity to experience the events of our lives as a stream of consciousness, or as a stream of ‘‘loose and fleeting’? experiences, as presupposing the descriptions under which we are taught publicly to experience them. And if this is so then we must reject the suggestion that we experience our lives as we live them as ‘unintelligible’ sequences of experiences, to which we later give intelligibility by making them the subjects of narratives. For this is to mistake sequences of described experiences of events, in which the structuring relations normally given with the descriptions are replaced by a bare, non-descriptive, chronological structuring re-

lation, for sequences of undescribed experiences of events, which never had associated structuring relations. This is not to say, of course, that after one has acquired the capacity to experience events under public descriptions and their associated structuring relations one cannot experience the events of one’s life under descriptions divorced from their normal relations; but it is to say that there are no good grounds for taking the latter to be the meaningless stuff of reality, which is then transformed by the imposition of imagined forms

- Into a meaningful story. _ ,

The points I have made so far may seem so obvious that one

might wonder how the metahistorians can have overlooked them and, indeed, whether what I have said accurately reflects their position. If it does, however, the metahistorians seem to be trying to maintain two irreconcilable propositions. First, in order to preserve the distinc-

NARRATIVE FORM, SIGNIFICANCE 149 tion between fiction and history, they have to allow that there are some components in historical narratives, i.e., the statements of fact, the truth value of which is independent of their place in the narrative. These might be the facts established by the community of historians in general. Second, however, by taking these statements of fact to be meaningless in themselves and then trying to show how they become meaningful, they have to claim that they are rendered meaningful by being redescribed and related to one another by descriptions and ordering relations which are logically dependent upon the form which is given to the narrative as a whole. Such truth value as they would then have must depend upon these new descriptions and are thus dependent upon the form of the narrative itself rather than upon forms independent of the narrative. More generally the metahistorian’s strategy has been to preserve the historian’s autonomy by maintaining a dichotomy between the meaninglessness of past actuality as such and the significance to be

found in historical narratives and then to locate the source of the latter in the historical imagination where, protected from rational assessment, it serves to support the metahistorian’s claim that the historian is free to impose his own sense of meaning upon the past. The motivation here is a desire to do justice to the creative impulse in the historian but, in the way the thesis has been developed, the effect has been to portray the historian as the artificer of the historical world. And if the motivation is admirable the price required is too high, for the metahistorian seeks to buy the historian’s freedom at the expense of meaning in historical reality as such, since the more meaning is seen to be something imposed on the past the less can it be a property of historical reality itself.

-—ttI want now to investigate three kinds of meaning which may occur in historical narratives and to argue that acceptance of any or all of these kinds of meaning is compatible with thinking of the historical past as significant in and of itself, but that only the second kind 1s both necessary and sufficient for its being so. My aim in this section 1s to show that the historian’s task is, as it has often been thought to be,

to discover rather than to create meaning. For convenience I shall frequently use the term ‘‘significance’ rather than ‘“‘meaning’ in what follows.

The first kind of significance I shall mention is what I shall call agent significance, 1.e., the significance which belongs to things in virtue of certain cognitive relations in which they stood to agents of the past. The point I wish to establish is that the metahistorian cannot avoid conceding that certain events or occurrences in the past had a

150 LEON POMPA , certain significance for past agents and that therefore it is a fact that the human past contains at least that sort of significance in and of itself. To establish this we may consider briefly what is involved in interpreting even the barest of chronicles. Now the metahistorians tend to accept that there is an element of chronicle involved in most - narratives, for a chronicle can be understood as a set of statements related by a purely chronological structuring relation, the relation of

| ‘and then... and then... and then,’ and, as we saw from the analogy

with the stream of consciousness, the metahistorian tends to think of actuality, be it past or present, as the set of occurrences which would

be stated in a chronicle. But since the mere relation of chronological |

Sequence does not constitute the form of a story, the metahistorian envisages the historian’s problem to be that of giving the chronicle | — such a form by superimposing upon the statements it contains different descriptions and structuring relations. But this is to presuppose that everything in the chronicle is without significance and if we turn , to a statement of the sort we would find in a chronicle this would appear not to be correct. For the statements most characteristically to be found in chronicles are statements of actions, statements such as ‘William, Duke of Normandy, crossed the channel’ or ‘Barbarossa invaded Italy’, and actions logically require motives, intentions, aims, and desires, which explain why they were undertaken and thus give them the significance they had for the agent concerned. Of course, it is not the case that in stating a fact which involves a verb of action we have thereby shown the significance of the action. That remains to be ascertained and if we cannot do so we may well have to withdraw the

verb in terms of which the event has been described in favour of

another. We have nevertheless described the event in such a way as to imply that it was significant at least for the agent who was involved in it and that this significance can be ascertained by a further investigation into his beliefs, desires, aims and so on, i.e., by ascertaining further facts about him. Of course many verbs of action of the sort

| that would be found in the simplest of chronicles are such that they , imply that the action will possess a different meaning for others than it will for the agent. If we take the example, “Barbarossa invaded Italy’, it is evident that this implies that Barbarossa did not already reign in Italy and that his action, which will have one significance for

him in the light of his hopes and ambitions, will have a different

| significance for those who did reign there and may not have shared |

| complication. , , _

| his hopes and ambitions. However, for simplicity, I shall ignore this It may be that the metahistorian will be prepared to allow this -- - point, 1.e., that in statements which imply agent significance the his-

torian is committed to the objectivity of significance, i.e., that

significance is a determinable property of the past. But if he is not, I can think of two ways in which he might be inclined to dispute it.

NARRATIVE FORM, SIGNIFICANCE 151 The first is that in interpreting some word, as it occurs in a chronicle, the historian is ascribing to, or conferring upon, the past a

significance which it never had in itself. The objection is not, of course, that in asserting that Barbarossa invaded Italy rather than that he entered Italy we may be implying that his action had a different significance for him than it had, for that would be to admit that it had

some significance for him. It is that it never had any significance for him at all and that it is given its significance for him by the historian.

But this is really too implausible to be a serious objection, for to maintain it the metahistorian would have to show how, in describing the event in such a way as to imply that it was significant in terms of Barbarossa’s intentions, the historian was exercising a preference for descriptions in terms of actions over some other possible descriptions in non-actional terms. But there is simply no alternative system available which is compatible with the view that the past was inhabited and partly constituted by human beings, i.e., by beings who were, at least formally, as we understand ourselves to be. So, as long as we think of ourselves as we do and want to think also that human beings

existed in the past, we cannot avoid thinking of certain actions as having a significance for them. And if we cannot avoid thinking in this

way the metahistorian cannot treat our doing so as the exercise of a preference among various options. The second objection the metahistorian might offer is that as soon as the historian begins to ascribe significance to events as described in a chronicle, he has both to go beyond the statement of it given in the chronicle, i.e., he has to redescribe it, and introduce new structuring relations to bring in the various considerations relevant to

the significance he ascribes to it. And in none of this can he be

thought of as offering a representation of past actuality in the way in which he is when he endorses the statement of an event as given ina chronicle. To see why this is so we must note that an important feature of a

chronicle, qua chronicle, is its inconsequentiality. If a chronicle is considered to be a statement of events arranged in a purely chronological sequence, then there is nothing in their temporal sequence alone which would give them even the minimal degree of followability or

consequentiality we require of a narrative; the sequence a, then e, then g where a, e, and g, are totally unrelated events, satisfies the purely chronological demands of mere chronicle, just as well as a, then b where ‘a’ 1s William’s crossing the Channel and b is William’s

defeating Harold. Even the simple sequence ‘William crossed the Channel and defeated Harold’ becomes intelligible only in virtue of structuring relations other than the merely chronological relation, and

the historian is thus forced to use his own imagination and sensibility to guide him in his choice of the structuring relations and the descrip-

152 LEON POMPA tions which will enable him to create an intelligible story out of these

otherwise random statements.

But although this is so, it goes no way towards supporting the metahistorian’s fundamental claim. It is certainly true that. in narrat-

| ing the Norman Conquest of England, say, the historian will want to a show that, for example, William thought that he had a valid claim to the kingdom of England or that, if the validity of his claim was not obvious, it was perhaps arguable enough for William to be able to use

it to further some more personal ambitions. And in describing the Conquest in the light of one or other of these competing explanations, the historian will certainly have to enquire into the questions whether — William’s claim was of clear or only dubious validity by the standards of the time, and what sort of man William was, both by temperament

, and by training. So one ordering relation which will be introduced will

, refer to William’s genealogy and to the conventions of heredity and inheritance as they existed at the time, while another will refer to

— certain formative events in William’s education and upbringing, and so on. And it is equally true that in pursuing these enquiries the historian may reveal a partiality towards one kind of explanation rather

, than another, explanation, say, in terms of personal character rather

than of hereditary rights. But although this may guide the direction of _ his enquiries and even his selection of what to include in his narrative, it will have no bearing whatsoever either upon the truth of any state-

ments which, as a result of his enquiries, he wishes to assert about William, or upon the acceptability of his narrative as a whole. If, for _ example, a predilection to read history in terms of character forces him to construe William as a very ambitious man in order to maintain his account, the assertions which he will make as a result of this will nevertheless still be matters of fact, the truth or falsity of which will be established not by the place of these assertions in his narrative but by evidence which is independent of his narrative. Nor is there any-

thing in the fact that a plurality of descriptive terms and associated ordering relations is available to historians from which to choose how to construct their accounts, to entail the conclusion that the resultant accounts are immune from rational assessment. So if the statements

within the narratives are in conflict we have evidence to decide whether they are true or false; and if the narratives as a whole are in conflict we can surely ask whether the interpretational theories upon which one account rests are as fruitful in helping us to understand the actions of the various agents involved in it as those upon which some rival account rests.

‘These considerations suggest that the metahistorian must accept agent significance as a part of historical reality. And it may be that he

will be prepared to do so. But, he may say, this is not the case when | we turn to a different sort of significance which a narrative must possess — what I shall call historical significance. And this, he will say,

NARRATIVE FORM, SIGNIFICANCE 153 can be shown by the fact that when the historian relates events and actions which have agent significance to one another, he must redescribe them and introduce new ordering relations to do so and thus fit them together in accordance with a form which transcends, and can-

not logically be reduced to, or analysed in terms of, agent

significance. Thus, to take a different example, if the historian offers a

narrative account of the outbreak of the First World War, he will discuss the various political alignments which preceded it. And in so doing he is bound, for example, to discuss the various fears and hopes which motivated Bismarck’s part in these alignments and thus make sense of some part of things in terms of agent significance. But he will

not be constrained to take everything in which Bismarck was involved merely in terms appropriate to their significance for Bismarck. Some treaty which may, from Bismarck’s point of view, be described as the fulfilment of his intention, may, when looked at from the point of view of the outbreak of the war, or of particular political alignments

which occurred in the war, be shown to have a quite different

significance from that which it had for Bismarck, and for this to be done it will have to be redescribed in terms in which Bismarck never thought of it, and related to other events by new and different ordering relations of a wholly different kind. The essential point here, then, is that the outbreak of the First World War will be, for the historian, the end of his story and everything which he introduces into his narrative will be redescribed and reordered in such a way as to lead us to be able to see how that end came about. Now it is no part of my argument to dispute a substantial aspect of this claim. A large number of considerations can be advanced to show that the structure of a historical narrative cannot be simply a function of different narratives conceived wholly in terms of agent significance. In recent writings this point has been made most forcefully by Professor Danto, who has emphasised two types of redescription required in historical writing.’ The first arises from the capacity which historians possess to look at the events of the past with hindsight, by stating them in terms of narrative sentences. This allows the

historian to see the events, occurrences and trends of the past in a much wider temporal context than that which was available to the agents who were involved in them. Moreover, as Danto has emphasised, as the historian’s own temporal vantage-point changes, the possibility of looking at the same event in the past in the light of its relation to new and different subsequent events perpetually arises. Thus, although the historian occupies a privileged vantage-point visa-vis the historical agent, there are no historical vantage-points which are, as such, themselves privileged. In other words, there can be no once and for all way of construing the past. 9 Analytical Philosophy of History (Cambridge University Press, 1975).

154 LEON POMPA The second kind of redescription to which Danto has drawn attention is that which arises from the fact that different generations of historians tend to have access to different kinds of explanatory theory and the latter can often be brought to bear upon events only by means of redescribing them. Thus a military defeat which may be explained in one kind of way by one generation of historians may be explained in an entirely different kind of way by another, but in order that this

torians. , ,

be done some events, at least, may need to be redescribed by later _

historians in ways which would have been unavailable to earlier hisBut although both of these points seem to me to be substantially correct, neither of them does anything to support the metahistorian’s claim that, because the historian is using descriptions and ordering relations which transcend those available to historical agents of the

past, he must thereby be imposing something, a certain kind of significance, on the past, which it cannot possess in itself. The latter conclusion follows only if it can be shown that in writing history in

these ways the historian is either making statements about the past |

with regard to which we would not know what it would be for them to

be true or false, or that he is asserting modes of relation which are beyond any form of rational assessment.

, But neither of these suggestions is plausible. Taking the question of truth first, it is, of course, widely accepted that the more long-term

the perspective in which an historian views past events, the more _ difficult it is to establish the truth or falsity of assertions about them. Were an historian to assert a relation between Socrates’ decision to accept his sentence of death and the development of liberalism in nineteenth-century England, this would certainly be very difficult to establish, since so much research would be required to establish the sequence of events necessary to support the claim. Nevertheless we would know what it would be for the claim to be true or false and, as long as we knew that, it would follow that the sequence as stated

could be a part of the historical past.

And the same applies when we turn to the question of historical significance. It is true, of course, that there are many different kinds of significance: an event can be significant for its causal consequences, a man’s life can be significant for its role as an example to others, a literary work can be significant for the part it plays in teaching people to see themselves in various ways. And it is equally true that the historian’s search for such significance will be motivated by

current interests within his own society. But when these allowances oe have been made, it is still the case that he has to show that the events, lives, works of literature and so on to which he refers, had the

significances he claims for them, and this means that he will have to show that the various kinds of relationships which constitute these various kinds of significance, really obtained. And that, surely, is a

NARRATIVE FORM, SIGNIFICANCE 155 matter of establishing certain historical facts from a cognitive standpoint which, theoretically at least, gives us access to all that we require to establish them. Such is the standpoint of the historian rather than that of the historical agent. To the metahistorian, I suspect, this will seem altogether too simplistic. How, he will demand, can we seriously think that the past could really have included as part of it what is stated by means of a long narrative, in the course of the construction of which the historian changes from one type of description to another, introduces a variety of different ordering relationships, looks at the same event under dit-

ferent descriptions and so on? But if this is the problem then it arises, I suggest, from an unacceptably thin sense of historical reality, for it then looks as though for the metahistorian the past as a determinate actuality can consist only in the sorts of statements of fact which would have been available, in principle at least, to historical agents in

the past. For, once the notion of /Aistorical as distinct from agent significance is removed from that of historical reality that is all that is

left. But if that is so, the metahistorian’s complaint is largely an expression of his refusal to take historical reality seriously, and he still needs to produce some reasons why we should join him in this refusal.

This brings me to the third kind of significance, metahistorical significance, about which I shall be brief. This is the significance which derives from the fact, or the alleged fact, that any given set of events can be dressed up in the guise of comedy, tragedy, romance or satire. The crucial feature of this kind of significance, which has been drawn out mainly by Hayden White, is that since its origins lie in the literary imagination, it is beyond any form of rational assessment. Accordingly, when an historian identifies his propensity to write in terms of one or other of these imaginative forms, he will come also to see that he is free to write in terms of any other, depending upon his

own aesthetic preferences. Moreover, however he responds in the face of this possibility, in recognising it at all he will be released from the delusion that he ought to narrate things as they really were, since the latter expression can have no sense for the historian. If White’s view were acceptable, historiography would indeed draw

closer to fiction and we should need to adopt a different conception of it altogether, a conception in which the notion of the rational assess-

ment of theory had no part to play. Fortunately, however, no such Draconian measure is necessary, for it does not follow from the fact that any given set of events can be written up in a number of different

ways, that one must write them up in one of these ways in order to give an historical account of them. What needs to be shown, then, in order to establish the metahistorian’s claim is not that it is possible to write up a set of events in one of these ways but that it is necessary to do so, if what we offer is to be an historical account of them. And it

156 LEON POMPA seems clear that this cannot be shown, for historical and poetic discourse are separated by an unbridgeable conceptual gap. There is simply nothing in an historical narrative as such which forces us to decide whether the events and careers it portrays are tragic, comic and so on. This is not to deny, of course, that we may ask whether they are tragic or comic, nor to suggest that these would be unimportant questions. It may, indeed, be from a desire to find an answer to such questions that we are stimulated to make specific historical en- quiries. But none of this will suffice to show that the questions an historical narrative is designed to answer are of the same kind as those which arise for the poetic sensibility. And even less does it , show that the considerations which it is appropriate to raise in assessing a narrative historically presuppose those which it is appropriate

_ to raise when we assess it aesthetically.

—IV - | If the foregoing arguments are correct and if we want also to maintain that narrative accounts are an adequate vehicle for the ex-

pression of historical knowledge we must be prepared to take the reality of the historical past more seriously than the metahistorian and allow that it includes everything which constitutes a possible object of knowledge for the historian gud historian. This is not, of course, to deny that historical agents may have knowledge, but it is to insist that it will count as historical only when it conforms to the standards of historical knowledge accepted by a current generation of historians. For to accept anything less than this would be to deprive historiography of too

possess it. |

, much for it to count as a proper form of knowledge for those who — .- It does not follow, however, from what I have argued that the

metahistorians have exercised themselves over a pseudo-problem, for some explanation is certainly required for the fact that a variety of differ-

ent narrative accounts can be offered to describe and explain the oc--

- currence of what are, in many cases, recognisably the same events.

The metahistorians have, in fact, quite correctly realised that the only sense we can give to the notion of the reality of the past is to think of

it as that which would render present historical accounts true and acceptable. But, overimpressed by the degree of imagination and literary skill which goes into the construction of such accounts and, above all, by the mistaken view that since the latter often use descriptions inaccessible to past agents they cannot be accepted as true and acceptable accounts of these agents, they have incorrectly concluded that we are at liberty to choose on non-rational grounds between dif-

ferent, incompatible narratives. _ , |

NARRATIVE FORM, SIGNIFICANCE 157 This conclusion is, however, fallacious and to avoid it all we have to do, in addition to accepting the above points, 1s to hold fast to

the traditional distinction between the cognitive and non-cognitive content of a narrative. In insisting so strongly upon the objectivity of the meaning which is ascribed to the past in any narrative account I | do not, of course, want to be taken to suggest that we should think of such accounts as standing to past reality as a geographical map may stand to the physical world. This, indeed, is a suggestion which, though for the wrong reasons, the metahistorians have themselves denied. '!° For, taken as a human construction, an historical narrative may be influenced by many factors, including such things as the ques-

tions it is designed to answer, the information it must include to be helpful to the audience to which it is addressed, the kinds of theory currently available to the historian, the stylistic and rhetorical devices

to which he is prone and so on. Some of these factors will operate because of the requirements which any form of knowledge must satisfy, whereas others will do so in response to the demands of literary sensibility. Given the many ingredients which go into their construction and, in particular, the many non-epistemological demands we make upon them, it would be absurd, therefore, to think that historical narratives could stand to that of which they give an account in anything like the kind of isomorphic relations in which a photograph Or map can stand to the physical world. But it does not follow from the fact that they cannot be related to the historical past in such a way as to be a copy of it that they must be imposed upon it in some way which is beyond cognitive and rational assessment. The very fact that we can discern these various aspects in them shows that we know how to decide which elements belong to them in virtue of their being vehicles for the expression of knowledge and which belong to them in virtue of such non-cognitive considerations as style and rhetoric, and that we can assess these different aspects, both cognitive and non-

cognitive, in accordance with the different criteria appropriate to

them. As literary artifacts, then, they can, indeed must, have a quite different form from the actions, events, conditions, states of affairs, motives, reasons, causes and so on, which they narrate and explain, just as a sentence may have a different form from a statement it is used to make. But this is quite compatible with their being vehicles for the expression of knowledge of historical reality. And if this is so

then the traditional view of the historical narrative, that it be the handmaiden rather than the mistress of historical knowledge, remains substantially correct.

(0 WHITE, Tropics, p. 88.

Blank Page

L’eclipse de ’@vénement dans l’historiographie francaise moderne par PAUL RICOEUR University of Chicago

— Le concept d’événement historique est un des concepts les plus élusifs, les plus intriguants et les plus irritants de ceux avec lesquels la théorie de la connaissance historique doit se mesurer. Au début de notre investigation nous prendrons la notion d’évenement en son sens non critique, tel qu’il apparait dans le langage ordinaire. A ce niveau il bénéficie de l’évidence trompeuse de la plupart des notions de sens commun. Il implique deux groupes de présuppositions: ontologiques et épistémologiques, les secondes étant basées sur les premieres. D’un coté nous appelons événement ce qui est effectivement arrivé dans le passé. Cette présupposition ontologique élémentaire présente elle-méme divers aspects: nous admettons

dabord que la qualité d’avoir existé differe radicalement de celle d’etre encore a venir; du méme coup nous admettons que le passé est déterminé et fixé (ce qui a été fait ne peut étre défait) tandis que le futur est encore ouvert et indéterminé. Si maintenant nous soulignons le caractére historique de l’événement — et non plus seulement le fait d’étre arrivé, que les événements historiques partagent avec les événements physiques —- nous devons considerer que des événements

sont historiques dans la mesure ou des étres humains semblables a nous (et aussi différents de nous) les font arriver. Le terme d’événement, des lors, désigne les actions faites et subies par les hommes du passé, telles que ceux-ci ont compris qu’ils les faisaient ou les subissaient. Enfin a la notion du passé humain semble etre liée celle d’altérite ou de différence a l’intérieur de notre compétence pour la communication. [1 semble en effet que ce soit une implication de notre compétence a rechercher l’accord et l’entente, telle qu’ Habermas la définit dans son interprétation de la pragmatique universelle, que ce

que les hommes ont fait effectivement dans le passé puisse étre compris sans perdre son altérité, a savoir la qualité absolue d’étre effectivement arrivé et d’avoir appartenu a la sphere d’ intervention

des hommes dans le cours des €vénements physiques du monde. A cette triple présupposition ontologique — étre effectivement arrivé, avoir effectivement été fait, avoir effectivement différé dans le champ de la communication, — correspondent des présuppositions

160 | PAUL RICOEUR - @pistémologiques spécifiques: d’abord, nous opposons la singularité de l’événement a la répétition d’occurences susceptibles d’étre traitées comme de simples exemples de dispositions, de séquences régu_ lieres ou de relations fonctionnelles. Les événements, pensons-nous, | arrivent une fois et une seule fois. Deuxiemement, nous opposons la contingence de ce qui aurait pu arriver autrement a la nécessité de ce

qui ne peut étre autrement. Troisiemement, a l’altérité de l’événement dans la sphere de la communication correspond l’écart de tout événement pensable par rapport aux modeles ou aux invariants que la science vient a reconstruire. Tel est, esquissé a grands traits, ce que nous tendons a admettre comme définissant un événement historique.

Au début de Vinvestigation critique nous ne savons pas si nous avons affaire a de simples préjugés, a des sédiments de pensée philosophique ou théologique, ou a des contraintes normatives universelles. A mon avis, seul l’effort de la connaissance historique pour se défaire des présuppositions ontologiques et épistémologiques attachées au terme d’événement pourrait dégager ce qui doit étre tenu comme une

de histoire.

| présupposition normative ultime de | activité constitutive de l’écriture Je partirai de la contribution de lhistoriographie frangaise a la

discussion et plus précisément de celle de l’Ecole francaise des Anna-

les, prenant le célébre ouvrage de Braudel —- La Méditerranée et le monde méditerranéen a l’époque de Philippe II} — pour référence principale. On peut déplorer que l’historiographie francaise soit géné- , ralement moins préoccupée d’analyse logique et épistemologique que la théorie de l’histoire de langue anglaise, mais elle a l’avantage de se tenir plus pres du chantier et du métier de lhistorien.

I. - VERS UNE HISTOIRE NON EVENEMENTIELLE

A lépoque a peu prés ot Lucien Febvre et Marc Bloch fondaient les Annales d’histoire économique et sociale (1939, qui depuis 1945 s’appellent Annales. Economies. Sociétés. Civilisations.), il est

| paru un livre qui a laissé une empreinte durable, sinon sur |’ historiographie proprement dite, du moins sur le traitement philosophique de _ Phistoire: V/ntroduction a la philosophie de l’histoire: Essai sur les

limites de Vobjectivité historique de Raymond Aron’. Cet ouvrage mérite d’étre €voqué en cet endroit parce qu’il a contribué a ruiner la

, premiere présupposition ontologique du sens commun concernant les , événements, la présupposition de l’avoir-été absolu, ainsi que son | corrélat épistémologique, la singularité absolue de 1l’événement.

rev. et aug., Paris, Colin, 1966. , 21 2¢ed., Paris, Gallimard, 1969, c 1968. :

L’ECLIPSE DE L’EVENEMENT DANS L’ HISTORIOGRAPHIE 161

L/ oeuvre d’Aron peut étre située, au point de vue philosophique, dans la mouvance de la philosophie allemande du Verstehen (Dilthey, Rickert, Simmel et Max Weber, ausquels Aron a consacré une étude

entiére, outre son ceuvre magistrale). La question des «limites de lobjectivité historique» a un impact direct sur notre probleme du statut ontologique et épistemologique de l’événement, dans la mesure ou implication de Vhistorien dans sa tentative pour comprendre et expliquer les événements passés exclut que quoi que ce soit ressemblant

aun événement absolu soit admis dans le discours historique. La compréhension, aussi bien la compréhension d’autrui dans la vie quotidienne que la compréhension de soi, n’est jamais une intuition di-

recte de lexpérience vécue, mais déja une reconstruction. La compréhension est toujours plus que la simple sympathie. On a retenu

du livre d’Aron un slogan, celui de la «dissolution de l|’objet» (p. 120). En fait il s’agit d’un argument anti-positiviste plutot que d’un argument anti-ontologique: «il n’existe pas une réalité historique, toute faite avant la science, qu’il conviendrait simplement de reproduire avec fidélité. La réalité historique, parce qu’elle est humaine, est équivoque et inépuisable» (p. 120). Que «Jean Sans Terre soit passé par ici» est un fait historique en raison seulement du systeme d’intentions, de motifs et de valeurs qui le rattache a un ensemble intelligible. Des lors, les diverses reconstructions expriment seulement l’écart initial qui se creuse entre l’ objectivité revendiquée par le travail de la compréhension et l’expérience vécue non répétable. Si la

«dissolution de Vobjet» est deja accomplie par la plus humble compréhension, la disparition de lV objet est plus complete encore au niveau de la pensée causale, pour employer le vocabulaire d’ Aron a cette époque. Pour Aron, comme pour Max Weber, la causalité histo-

rique est certes une relation du particulier au particulier, mais par Vintermédiaire de la probabilité rétrospective. Je rappelle l argument de Max Weber: Vinfiuence d’un facteur historique peut étre évalué seulement si par la pensée on le suppose supprimé ou modifié et si on

construit une évolution irréelle que Pon compare ensuite avec le cours réel des événements. On peut dans cette mesure établir une échelle de probabilité ou le degré le plus bas définit la contingence et le degré le plus haut ce que Weber appelle la cause adéquate. Mais si Vadéquation differe de la nécessité logique ou physique, la contin-

gence n’est pas non plus l’équivalent de la singularité absolue. Le jugement d’adéquation ou de contingence est dans notre esprit et non dans les choses (p. 168). L’ estimation historique de la probabilité differe de la logique du savant dans la mesure ot elle se rapproche de

cellle du juge. Pour le philosophe, la discussion a pour résultat la destruction de toute illusion rétrospective de fatalité et P ouverture de la théorie de histoire a la spontanéité de l’action orientée vers le futur. Mais le passé, en tant que somme de ce qui s’est réellement produit, échappe a toute prise par lhistorien en tant que tel.

162 , PAUL RICOEUR | Nous pouvons passer maintenant a la contribution décisive de V’Ecole des Annales a notre discussion. Comme je l’ai dit, cette contri-

oe bution differe grandement non seulement de celle de l’oeuvre d’ Aron, dont la tournure d’esprit reste encore philosophique, mais méme de celle de la philosophie analytique de l’histoire, de Carl Hempel a Wil-

liam Dray, Arthur Danto, Louis O. Mink ou Hayden White. Avec cette école, et avec l’oeuvre majeure sur laquelle nous allons nous concentrer, a savoir: La Méditerranée et le monde méditerranéen a , l’époque de Philippe IT de Fernand Braudel, nous avons affaire a l’historiographie d’historiens professionnels, largement étrangers a la pro-

blématique allemande du Verstehen. Meme les essais théoriques écrits par ces historiens sont des traités d’artisans réfléchissant sur

, leur métier. Cette faiblesse marque aussi leur force, dans la mesure

ou ils codifient les changements drastiques advenus dans |’école historique francaise au niveau méme de Sa pratique.

Par souci de clarté didactique, je soulignerai dans ces écrits théoriques les déclarations qui portent directement contre la seconde de nos présuppositions initiales, a savoir que les événements sont ce que les hommes font arriver et que corrélativement ils partagent la contingence propre a l’action humaine. Ce qui est ici mis en question, c’est le modéle d’action impliqué par la notion méme de faire arriver

(et corollairement, de subir) les événements. L’action, selon ce mo- | — déle implicite, peut toujours étre attribuée a des agents individuels, tenus pour les auteurs et les victimes de l’action. Méme si nous ajoutons le concept d’interaction a celui d’action, nous n’abandonnons

agent identifiable. ,

pas la présupposition que l’auteur de l’action doit toujours étre un Cette présupposition tacite est minée indirectement par la critique de deux autres présuppositions étroitement solidaires de la premiere et qui tombent directement sous le feu de la critique de Braudel et de ses successeurs, a savoir la présupposition que |’ individu est le porteur ultime du changement historique et la presupposition que les changements les plus significatifs sont des changements brefs, ceux —

, qui précisément affectent la vie des individus en raison de leur brie| — veté et de leur soudaineté. A lencontre de la premiere présupposition qu’on peut rattacher a l’individualisme méthodologique dans les sciences sociales, la these de nos historiens est que l’objet de histoire n’est pas individu mais le «fait social total» dans toutes ses dimensions humaines: économique, sociale, politique, culturelle, spirituelle etc. A la notion conventionelle d’événement, concu comme un saut temporel, ils opposent la notion d’un temps social, empruntée a l’économie, a la démographie, a la sociologie, ou l’on _. parle de structure, de conjoncture, de tendance, de cycle, de crois-

sance etc. | Il importe de bien comprendre le lien entre ces deux refus: celui

de individu comme atome ultime de l’ investigation historique et ce-

L’ECLIPSE DE L’>EVENEMENT DANS L’HISTORIOGRAPHIE — [63

lui de lévénement, au sens ponctuel et chronologique, en tant qu’atome ultime du changement social. Ces refus ne résultent d’aucune spéculation sur l’action et sur le temps. Ils sont impliqués dans le déplacement imposé a la recherche historique par la fin de la suprématie de histoire politique et par la montée de la nouvelle suprematie de l’histoire sociale. Si en effet histoire érudite et empirique mettait tellement accent sur l’ individu, c’est parce que elle était particulierement tournée vers Vhistoire politique et diplomatique. C’est la que les individus, chefs de guerre, ministres, diplomates etc. sont supposés faire l’histoire. C’est la aussi que l’événement, comparable a une explosion, occupe le centre de l’intéret. L’ histoire guerriere et histoire événementielle sont solidaires. Ce sont les deux corollaires indissociables de la predominance de l’histoire politique. I] est a noter que la critique de Vhistoire événementielle ne résulte aucunement d’une critique de la philosophie de histoire de style hégélien; elle résulte plutot de la bataille méthodologique menée contre la tradition positiviste qui a prévalu dans l’histoire francaise jusque dans les années 30. Selon cette tradition, la chaine des événements est deja tracée dans les archives, tandis que ces archives sont elles-mémes déja instituées autour des péripéties et des accidents affectant la distribution du pouvoir politique. Ainsi la double dénonciation de histoire de batailles et de histoire événementielle constitue l’envers polémique du plaidoyer pour Vhistoire du phénomene humain total, l’accent principal tombant sur les conditions economiques et sociales. A cet

égard les ceuvres les plus remarquables de I’Ecole des Annales concernent Vhistoire sociale; dans ces oeuvres ce sont des groupes, des catégories sociales et des classes, la ville et la campagne, les bourgeois, les artisans, les paysans et les travailleurs qui deviennent les héros collectifs de V’histoire. Avec Braudel, Vhistoire devient méme une géo-histoire dont le héros est la Méditerranée et son monde environnant; plus récemment, avec Chaunu, a l’histoire de la Méditerranée fait suite celle de Il’ Atlantique entre Séville et le Nouveau Monde.

C’est a occasion de ce combat contre l’histoire de batailles et Vhistoire événementielle, a la faveur de l’émergence de I’histoire sociale, que la notion de longue durée est venu occuper la place jadis tenue par celle d’événement. Les événements de histoire événementielle sont a l’échelle de Vindividu: «méfions-nous de cette histoire brilante encore, telle que les contemporains |’ ont sentie, décrite, vecue, au rythme de leur vie, breve comme la notre... un monde aveugle, comme tout monde vivant, comme le notre, insouciant des histoires de profondeurs, de ces eaux vives sur lesquelles notre bateau file

comme le plus ivre des bateaux?». Sous cette histoire et son temps individuel, se déploie «une histoire lentement rythmée» et sa «longue 3 Préface a La Méditerranée... dans Ecrits sur l'histoire, Paris, Flammarion, 1969, p. 12.

164 PAUL RICOEUR | durée»: c’est Vhistoire sociale, celle des groupes et des tendances

profondes. Cette longue durée, c’est l’économiste qui l’enseigne a / Vhistorien avec ses notions de conjoncture, de tendance, de cycle; _ mais la longue durée est aussi le temps des institutions politiques et : celui des mentalités. Enfin, plus profondément enfouie, regne «une histoire quasi immobile, celle de homme dans ses rapports avec le milieu qui l’entoure»; pour cette histoire, il faut parler d’un «temps

| — géographique ». oe Cet étagement des durées est une des contributions les plus remarquables de l’historiographie francaise a l’épistémologie de lhistoire — a défaut d’une discussion plus raffinée des idées de cause et de loi. L’idée que l’individu et lévénement sont a dépasser simultanément restera le point fort de l’Ecole. Avec Braudel, le plaidoyer pour Vhistoire devient un plaidoyer pour «l’histoire anonyme, profonde et silencieuse» et, par la-méme, un «temps social a mille vitesses, a mille lenteurs*». Un plaidoyer est un credo: «je crois ainsi a une histoire particulicerement lente des civilisations». Mais c’est le -métier d’historien, non la réflexion philosophique, affirme | auteur

dans «La longue durée», qui suggére «cette opposition vive», au coeur méme de la réalité sociale, «entre l’instant et le temps lent a s’écouler» (ibid., p. 43). Poussant l’axiome au voisinage du paradoxe,

l’auteur va jusqu’a dire: «la science sociale a presque horreur de l’événement. Non sans raison: le temps court est la plus capricieuse et la plus trompeuse des durées» (ibid. p. 46).

| Avant d’engager la discussion du concept de longue durée, je

voudrais évoquer un développement récent de lhistoriographie fran-

caise qui est lié a l’introduction massive en histoire des procédures , quantitatives empruntées a l’économie et étendues a l’histoire sociale et méme culturelle et spirituelle. Avec ce développement, c’est la troisieme présupposition initiale concernant la nature de l’événement qui

est mise en question, a savoir la présupposition que, étant unique, l’événement est non répétable. L’histoire quantitative ou plus précisément «sérielle» — pour employer le concept de Pierre Chaunu —

| -_ s’attaque directement a l’idée de la non-répétabilité des événements.

Quant a la quantification, elle est déja impliquée dans le concept de conjoncture définie par l’intersection de multiples variables en un

temps donné; elle est également impliquée dans celle de tendance, résultant de la corrélation entre des séries homogenes d’items. La , notion de structure ajoute a celle de conjoncture l’idée d’une stabilité a long terme, par conséquent celle d’une transformation lente derriere

la scéne des faits individuels. Les trois concepts de conjoncture, de , tendance et de structure requiérent la constitution de séries homogenes ditems, éventuellement capables d’une investigation par les ordi4 Lecon inaugurale au Collége de France, dans Ecrits sur l'histoire, p. 23.

L°ECLIPSE DE L’EVENEMENT DANS L’ HISTORIOGRAPHIE 165

nateurs. Pierre Chaunu, l’auteur de louvrage immense Séville et l’ Atlantique*, est devenu le porte-parole de «lhistoire sérielle» qui vise en méme temps a s intégrer a une vaste sociologie de homme en société et a rester résolument historique en tant que garant de la dimension temporelle des sciences sociales, plus précisement en tant que témoin de la longue durée dans la constitution des societés humaines.

Ce qui intéresse notre enquéte ce n’est pas seulement l’éclipse de l’événement, en tant qu’oscillation bréve, rapide et nerveuse, mais

celle de ’événement en tant qu’occurence non-répétable. L’histoire sérielle repose au contraire sur la constitution de séries homogenes de , faits répétables. Ces séries ditems sont maintenant constituées au niveau des attitudes et des croyances spirituelles, qu’il s’agisse du travail, de la sexualité, de la mort, de la religion ou méme du temps. De nouvelles sources de documents, appropriés aux recherches sérielles, sont déterrés. tels les cahiers de doléances, les régistres paroissiaux, les dispensations écclésiastiques ou les dispositions testamentaires. Pour cette nouvelle sorte de recherche, Vhistorien ne s’appuie plus sur les archives déja constituées; il devient un inventeur des documents. Aucune des sources qu’on vient d’énumérer n’était en effet destinée a constituer des archives réservées aux historiens futurs. En chaque cas — qu’il s’agisse d’histoire économique et démographique ou d’histoire des mentalités, instrument quantitatif est seulement le médiateur destiné a faire apparaitre une structure, ou mieux, une mutation, voire la fin d’une structure, dont le rythme de désagrégation est soumis a la pesée fine. C’est ainsi que le quantitatif sauve le qualitatif, mais «un qualitatif trié et homogénéisé® ». A cet égard le rapport 4 la mort, auquel plusieurs ouvrages im-

portants ont été consacrés dans la derniere décade, est peut étre l’exemple le plus significatif et le plus fascinant de cette reconquéte du qualitatif par le quantitatif. Quoi de plus intime en effet, quoi de plus solidaire et quoi de plus intégré a la vie que la mort, ou plutot que le mourir? Mais quoi de plus public que les attitudes en face de la mort, inscrites dans les dispositions testamentaires ? Quoi de plus social que les anticipations par le vif du spectacle de ses propres funerailles? Quoi de plus culturel que les représentations de la mort? On comprend des lors que la typologie d’un Philippe Aries, dans son grand livre: L’>homme devant la mort’, (avec son modele en quatre temps: Mort acceptée de patriarche de |’Ancienne Alliance, de preux chevalier des chansons de geste, du paysan de Tolstoil, mort baroque des 16¢-17¢ siecles, — mort intimiste du 18¢ et du 19¢, — mort interdite 5 Paris, Colin, 1955-60. 6 CHAUNU, Un champ pour Uhistoire sérielle: (histoire au troisiéme niveau, repris dans CHAUNU, L’ histoire quantitative et sérielle, Paris, Colin, 1978, p. 207. 7 Paris, Seuil, 1977.

166 PAUL RICOEUR , et dissimulée des sociétés post-industrielles) — ait pu a la fois fournir une articulation conceptuelle a des études sérielles comme celles de

Vovelle et de Chaunu, et recevoir de celles-ci la seule vérification dont histoire est capable en l’absence de toute expérimentation du passé, a savoir la fréquence chiffrée du répétable. Il - LA RESISTANCE DE L’EVENEMENT Au terme de ce voyage sous la conduite des nouveaux historiens la question, pour nous philosophes, est de savoir si lhistoriographie peut entierement renoncer a la notion d’événement sans abolir le caractére distinctif de histoire parmi les sciences sociales. Ma these est

qu’une histoire ne peut devenir radicalement non événementielle, parce qu’elle ne peut rompre ses liens avec la sorte de discours qui est le «lieu» originaire de la notion d’événement, a savoir le discours narratif. L’histoire continue d’étre au sujet des événements, parce — qu’elle continue d’étre reliée, directement ou indirectement, au dis-

cours narratif. ,

Aucune de nos présuppositions initiales concernant la nature de , Pévénement n’a pris en compte la relation des €vénements a I’ activité de raconter une histoire. Quelle que puisse étre la relation de I’ écri-

ture de l’histoire a l’acte de raconter une histoire — et la troisieme

partie de ma contribution sera consacrée a cette relation complexe, — _c’est fondamentalement en liaison avec l|’activité de raconter une histoire que les événements sont qualifiés comme événements histori-

| ques. La distinction de base entre un événement physique, qui sim— - plement se produit, et un événement historique, résulte du fait que le dernier a déja recu son statut historique d’avoir été raconté dans des chroniques, des récits légendaires, des mémoires, etc. Afin d’étre historique, un événement doit pouvoir étre raconté, c’est-a-dire rapporté dans des énoncés singuliers, eux-mémes inclus dans des configura- _ tions d’une certaine sorte qui, a proprement parler, constituent une histoire. Nous appellerons intrigue l’arrangement des actions molécu-

laires au sein de l’action molaire qui est histoire racontée. Je soutiens que |’intrigue n’est pas seulement le theme de l’histoire, en tant qu’ opposée aux caracteres et aux autres composantes de histoire; je

, prends le terme au sens large forgé par Aristote, a savoir comme |’ensemble des procédures qui transforment des incidents isolés en une action «totale et complete», ou réciproquement qui de multiples incidents tirent une seule histoire. En ce sens large, l’intrigue englobe les

personnages, leurs buts, leurs actions et le résultat, voulu ou non voulu, de leurs actions. On a objecté a toute tentative pour dériver directement l’histo-

riographie de l’acte de raconter une histoire:

L’ECLIPSE DE L’EVENEMENT DANS L’HISTORIOGRAPHIE 167 |

a) qu’une conception «narrativiste» de l’investigation historique rend l’histoire dépendante de l’ordre chronologique b) qu’elle soumet de facon non critique la force explicative de Vhistoriographie a la compréhension confuse que les agents historiques eux-meémes peuvent avoir de la signification de leur action.

Contrairement a Vidée qu’un récit est lié a lordre purement chronologique des événements, je dirais que tout récit combine, dans

des proportions variées, deux dimensions, lune chronologique, l’autre non chronologique. La premiere peut etre appelée la dimension

épisodique du récit. A cette dimension correspondent les hasards et les surprises qui affectent le développement du récit et qui suscitent des questions de la forme: «et puis?», «Qu’est-il arrivé ensuite?», « Quelle a été Pissue?», etc. Mais, en méme temps, I’ activité de raconter ne consiste pas purement a empiler les épisodes les uns

sur les autres. Elle extrait également des totalités signifiantes des éveénements isolés. A cet aspect de l’acte de raconter correspond, du cdété

de celui de suivre une histoire, l’effort pour «saisir ensemble» les événements successifs. L’ art de raconter et sa contre-partie I? art de suivre une histoire exigent que nous puissions tirer une configuration

dune succession. Cette opération «configurationnelle», pour employer une expression de Louis O. Mink, constitue la seconde dimension de l’activité narrative. C’est cette dimension qui est complete-

ment méconnue par les auteurs anti-narrativistes qui tendent a dépouiller P activité narrative de sa complexité et d’abord de son aptitude a combiner séquences et figures. Cette activité est en effet si paradoxale qu’on peut voir en tout récit la compétition entre ces dimensions épisodique et configurationnelle, entre sequence et figure. Les récits de fiction nous fournissent quantité d’exemples de solutions variées apportées a cette dynamique antithétique. Dans le cas de Vhistoire, en tant que récit «vrai», cette structure complexe implique que le récit le plus humble est toujours plus qu’une série chronologique d’événements et qu’en retour la dimension configurationnelle ne peut supprimer la dimension épisodique sans abolir en méme temps la structure narrative elle-méme. Si histoire peut s’étre greffée, en tant qu’ investigation, sur l’activité narrative, c’est parce que la dimension de configuration a toujours frayé la voie a une activité que Maurice Mandelbaum caractérise justement comme la subsomption de parties sous un tout. Cette activité ne marque pas une rupture radicale avec

Vactivité narrative dans la mesure ou celle-ci combine déja lordre chronologique et l’ordre configurationnel. Mais la reconnaissance pléniere de cette continuité entre recit et

histoire suppose que nous répondions aussi a l’autre these antinarrativiste, a savoir que le récit serait lié a la complexité aveugle du présent tel qu’il est €prouvé par les acteurs eux-mémes, et par conséquent qu'il serait tributaire de V interprétation que ces agents donnent de leur propre action.

168 PAUL RICOEUR | | Contrairement a cette these, Mink observe que, en «saisissant ensemble» les événements par un acte de configuration, |’ opération narrative prend le caractere d’un jugement, plus précisement du jugement réflexif, au sens kantien du terme. Raconter et suivre une his- _ toire, c’est déja réfléchir sur les événements afin de les saisir dans des

totalités successives. , , Il est donc faux d’affirmer que le récit confine |’auditeur ou le

lecteur a la perspective que les agents prennent de leurs propres actions. Dans la notion de jugement réflexif appliqué aux événements

| est déja contenue la notion de « point de vue». Il appartient toujours a Part narratif de lier un récit a un narrateur. Cette relation inclut la gamme entiére des attitudes possibles d’un narrateur a l’égard de son — récit. Et cette relation, selon Scholes et Kellog dans The Nature of

Narrative’, est «inéluctablement ironique». La disparité dans la compréhension, caractéristique de l’ironie, rend possible l’émergence d’un nouveau type de narrateur, I’historien précisément, dont |’ auto-

_-rité dérive des documents qu’il lit et non plus des traditions qu’il re-

coit. Mais cette mutation se produit a l’intérieur du concept méme de | «point de vue», dont l’importance est égale a celui d’acte configura-

~ tionnel et d’acte réflexif. | Cette continuité entre récit et histoire implique que les procédures explicatives de l’histoire scientifique ne se substituent pas purement et simplement au récit mais se greffent sur sa structure configu-

rationnelle. ,

III. - LA REFERENCE INDIRECTE DE L’HISTOIRE AU RECIT Notre probleme des lors est de montrer de quelle maniere indirecte Vhistoire, telle que les historiens modernes la pratiquent, renvoie a la compréhension narrative, en tant que «lieu» originaire de la

notion d’événement.

J’essaierai de frayer un chemin difficile entre la these d’une his-

- toire entiérement non narrative et celle d’une histoire dérivant directement du récit. Il n’est pas question en effet de plaider pour une forme encore narrative de lhistoire. [l serait aussi vain d’attendre des historiens qu’ils retournent a l’histoire narrative du passé que d’exiger qu’ils se plient aux exigences du modele de subsomption (coveringlaw model). C’est dans l’histoire elle-méme, telle que les historiens la pratiquent, qu’il nous faut trouver les indices, s’il en est, d’une réfé-

rence de Vhistoire scientifique a la compréhension narrative, donc ,

d’une dérivation plus élaborée que la connexion directe et simple - énoncée par Gallie. L’histoire n’est pas une espece du genre «story ».

8 London: Oxford University Press, 1966. |

L’ECLIPSE DE L’EVENEMENT DANS L’HISTORIOGRAPHIE — 169

Son lien a la compréhension narrative et pratique est plus indirect et plus caché aussi.

Partons de la résistance que les historiens les plus hostiles a histoire €événementielle opposent a toute réduction de leur discipline a la sociologie. Le cas de Fernand Braudel est exemplaire a cet égard. De deux facons: d’abord son concept de longue durée est aussi étranger a la méthode structurale de Lévi-Strauss qu’elle lest a V’histoire événementielle; méme si |’ attaque principale est dirigée contre la derniére par souci d’intégrer histoire au champ des sciences socia-

les, Vauteur n’entend aucunement pousser sa querelle contre le «temps court» jusqu’au point ou le temps lui-méme disparaitrait de Vhorizon de Vhistoire. Celui-ci peut bien opposer le «récitatif de la conjoncture» au «récit précipité, dramatique, de souffle court», (p. 46): le terme méme de récitatif est un signal que l’historien adresse au

sociologue qui serait tenté de renchérir sur lTargument anti-

évéenementiel et de faire l apologie de structures intemporelles de nature logico-mathématique. Ce pas, Vhistorien ne le franchira pas. La longue durée est encore de la durée. Les modeles de l’école sociologique de Lévi-Strauss « valent le temps que vaut la réalité qu’ils enre-

gistrent... car, plus significatifs encore que les structures profondes de la vie, sont leurs points de rupture, leurs brusques ou lentes déteériorations sous |’effet de pressions contradictoires» (p. 71). C’est le cas de le dire: chassez l’événement, il revient au galop! Peut-étre, accorde l’auteur, est-il certains modeles qui, issus des mathématiques

qualitatives, «circulent sur une seule des innombrables routes du temps, celle de la longue, trés longue durée, a l’abri des conjonctures, des ruptures» (p. 72). Ainsi en est-il d’une regle comme la prohibition

de linceste, qui met en valeur «un phénomene d’une extréme lenteur, comme intemporel» (p. 73). Mais il ne faut pas que la trop longue durée nous cache la longue durée: l’insistance sur la longue duree

ne peut donc se muer en négation du temps, elle doit plutdt étre comprise comme un plaidoyer pour la pluralité du temps social. Une méfiance semblable, concernant toute tentative pour dis, soudre I’histoire dans la sociologie, jointe a un vif désir d’étre accepté dans la famille des sciences sociales, se rencontre parmi les successeurs de Braudel. L’ histoire pour eux tous porte toujours sur le changement. Qu’elle concerne l’ascension et la chute des empires, le dé-

veloppement d’un courant social, la transformation d’une institu-

tion, lévolution des croyances, des mentalités, des attitudes spirituelles, Phistoire est en jeu des qu’une différence se produit entre un état de choses initial et un état de choses terminal. C’est la tache de l’histoire de rendre compte de cette différence, de la décrire, de la caractériser et de l’expliquer. Si toute histoire est, comme on l’a dit, Il’histoire de..., un caractere temporel est inhérent a l’objet corrélatif de telle et telle histoire de...: le titre de louvrage de Braudel refléte cette condition contraignante, La Méditerranée et le monde méditerranéen

que. | 170 PAUL RICOEUR _

a l’ époque de Philippe II. Méme si l’accent passe de Philippe II a la Méditerranée — mais nous mettrons en question dans un moment ce déplacement — c’est la référence a Philippe II qui détermine la dimension temporelle de |’oeuvre et en méme temps sa nature histor-

. Cette derniere remarque nous conduit au second enseignement qu’on peut tirer de l’oeuvre de Braudel concernant la relation de l’histoire a la sociologie. Nous avons déja décrit la maniére dont Braudel articule les trois niveaux temporels de son investigation. Le premier est celui des hommes dans leur rapport a l’environnement: ce « temps

géographique » implique une «histoire presque immobile». Puis vient | le niveau des institutions sociales, des formes et des courants profonds avec leurs rythmes lents: ce niveau intermédiaire est le niveau historique proprement dit, le niveau de I’histoire de longue durée. C’est seulement au troisieme niveau, celui de histoire des individus, que se produisent les événements a court terme. Mais on peut se demander si ce qui caractérise le premier niveau en tant qu’historique nest pas sa relation au second, dont il est Vinfrastructure, et si le second niveau lui-méme ne tire pas du troisieéme sa portée historique ou ce que j’appelle ici son intentionnalité historique. Des lors ne pouvons-nous pas dire que la relation entre les trois niveaux demande

a étre lue dans les deux sens, si ’histoire doit conserver sa dimension

historique aussi bien que son caractere scientifique? Plus précise- | ment, ne peut-on pas dire que l’histoire doit sa parenté avec les sciences sociales a la dérivation épistémologique de l’histoire événementielle a partir de Vhistoire de longue durée et finalement de la géohistoire presque immobile, tandis qu’elle doit son caractere historique a une émergence du niveau II hors du niveau I et du niveau III hors de niveau If? Si la force explicative progresse selon l’ordre d’exposition

de l’ouvrage, lintentionnalité historique repose sur le mouvement

, régressif partant du niveau événementiel vers la longue durée et vers le temps géographique.

C’est cette intentionnalité historique que je voudrais explorer par-dela oeuvre de Braudel. D’elle procede le renvoi de l’ explication historique a la compréhension narrative. Mon entreprise est comparable a celle de Husserl dans la Krisis lorsqu’il tente, par une méthode de questionnement a rebours — de Riickfrage —, de désimpliquer de la

science galiléenne les structures significatives enracinées dans le monde de la vie. C’est par un semblable questionnement en retour qu'il nous faut ramener l’interpretation la plus anti-narrativiste de la connaissance historique aux racines qu’elle plonge dans la compreé- _ hension de base que nous avons du champ pratique. Ce questionnement a rebours doit s’appliquer a la fois aux enti-

tés construites par les historiens et aux procédures associées a ces constructions. Puisque les oeuvres des historiens modernes contiennent des entités et des procédures de niveaux différents d’ abstraction,

L’ECLIPSE DE L’EVENEMENT DANS L’HISTORIOGRAPHIE 171

nous allons procéder degré par degré a partir des entités et des procédures les moins abstraites en direction des plus abstraites. Au premier niveau nous trouvons les entités semi-abstraites que Maurice Maudelbaum, dans son Anatomie de la Connaissance Historique ?, tient pour objet direct et irréductible de l’ investigation historique, a savoir les entités a développement continu que nous appelons nations, peuples, classes, groupes sociaux, communautés. Ces entités procurent le fil de continuité a investigation historique elle-méme. A ces entités de premier ordre correspondent des procédures explicati-

ves qui, selon Maurice Mandelbaum, visent a la reconstruction de tous les liens manquants du développement continu. Selon ces procédures, la «cause» d’un événement est le processus entier qui le précede et conduit jusqu’a lui. On peut certes isoler tel ou tel facteur comme «la cause principale», parce qu’elle est la plus variable et parce que c’est celle dont absence, dans une expérience imaginaire, entrainerait la plus grande différence par rapport au cours effectif des évenements. Mais ce qu’on appelle cause principale n’est qu’un aspect ou un fragment de la cause complete qui est le processus antérieur dans son intégralité. Appliquons maintenant a ces entités et aux procédures explicatives correspondantes la méthode de questionnement a rebours qui devrait révéler leur intentionnalité historique. II

est facile de montrer, je pense, de quelle maniére ces entités renvoient a la sphere de l’action, et les procédures correspondantes aux processus narratifs. En ce qui concerne les entités — nations et peuples, communautés, groupes sociaux et classes — leur lien a la sphere de Il’action est assure par le lien d’appartenance participative qui relie ces entités aux porteurs de l’action sensée, a savoir les agents auxquels |’action est attribuée. Ce lien peut étre éprouvé avec une grande intensité de sentiments. Il peut aussi étre oublié, méconnu, dissimulé, ou méme nié avec véhémence. Ce peut étre la tache d’une critique des idéologies de démasquer cette allegeance cachée. Mais cette critique méme présuppose a la fois l’existence de ce lien antérieur a la conscience et la possibilité d’élever a la conscience explicite ce lien constitutif. A la faveur de ce lien effectif d’appartenance participative, il est toujours possible de relier les entités que Vhistorien tient pour son objet premier aux jeux d’interaction entre les agents individuels capables d’attribuer une signification a leur action en tenant compte de I’action des autres. A cet égard le concept weberien «d’action sociale», tel qu’il est défini au commencement de Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft, fournit la transition requise entre le niveau de l’action individuelle et le niveau des entités de premier ordre forgées par les historiens. » The Anatomy of Historical Knowledge, Johns Hopkins University Press, 1977.

172, PAUL RICOEUR | , En ce qui concerne les procédures explicatives correspondant a ces entités de premier ordre, leur référence au procédé narratif décrit

ci-dessus est facile a discerner. Pour ma part, je ne vois aucune difficulte a rattacher les connexions causales que Maurice Mandelbaum attribue a l’explication historique au procédé de mise en intrigue caractéristique de la compréhension narrative. S’il est vrai que la cause complete d’un événement est le processus entier qui conduit a cet événement, il n’y a pas d’abime épistémologique entre cause et intrigue. Il y aurait un abime si d’un coteé la force explicative de l’historiographie était attachée seulement a des énoncés en forme de lois et si d’autre part l’intelligibilité de la mise en intrigue était méconnue.

L’écart a été réduit de part et d’autre: l explication historique vise - toujours a des attributions causales singuliéres, tandis que la mise en intrigue rend intelligible une chaine d’événements grace a Il’acte

configurationnel que la mise en intrigue implique. ;

Cette parenté entre l’implication causale singuliére et la mise en intrigue a été reconnue par au moins un historien francais, le seul en vérité qui montre quelque intérét pour l’analyse épistémologique. Je

veux dire Paul Veyne, professeur au College de France, dans son Comment on écrit ’ histoire }©. Pour lui les différentes interprétations | que les historiens donnent en fait des mémes événements — mais sont-ils les mémes ? — doivent étre rapportés a des intrigues différentes que l’historien construit. L’investigation historique peut parler en termes d’intrigues parce que celles-ci sont pleinement intelligibles.

Elle comportent des questions, sur le quoi, sur le pourquoi, sur le qui, et sur le comment de l’action. Elles composent ensemble des buts, des causes (au sens humien) et des hasards. De cette maniere elles comblent l’écart entre l’explication et la compréhension. Avec des

| mieux. 7 , - |

intrigues hautement élaborées, expliquer plus, c’est comprendre ,

Je parlerai brievement des entités de second et de troisiéme ordre, construites par les historiens et les procédures explicatives cor-

respondantes. Maurice Maudelbaum ici encore est un bon guide, , meme si nous sommes en désaccord avec son refus répété de toute continuité entre récit et histoire. Mais la distinction fondamentale

qu'il fait entre «histoire générale» et «histoires spéciales» est tres éclairante. Par histoire générale il entend l’histoire dont nous venons | de parler, a savoir histoire de ces entités a développement continu telles que les nations et les peuples. Par histoires spéciales il en-

, tend histoire de fonctions culturelles telles que lart, la science, la

religion, etc. Son argument est que ces fonctions sont discontinues, qu’elles sont en outre délimitées par Vhistorien luicméme qui pose la _définition de ce qui vaut comme art, science ou religion, qu’elles sont par conséquent moins capables d’objectivité que lhistoire géné-

10 Paris, Seuil, 1971. , |

L;ECLIPSE DE L’EVENEMENT DANS L’HISTORIOGRAPHIE 173

rale. Puisque mon sujet ici n’est pas lobjectivite en histoire, mais

le degré d’abstraction des entités construites par lhistorien, je laisserai de coté ce que Maurice Mandelbaum dit du degre d’arbitraire permis aux histoires spéciales et me concentrerai sur ce qu'il dit

concernant la relation de dérivation qui regle la relation des histoires spéciales a l’histoire générale. Je fais de cet argument de dérivation un segment de ma these selon laquelle la connaissance historique comporte une référence indirecte au niveau de compre-

hension pratique et narrative. La référence des histoires spé-

ciales a histoire générale fonde la référence indirecte des entités de second ordre aux entités de premier ordre. Cette référence indirecte implique que Vhistoire de l’art, de la science ou de toute autre fonction culturelle d’une société donnée, n’a pas de sens en dehors d’un apercu au moins implicite des entités plus concretes dont elles ont été

abstraites. En d’autres termes, ces histoires n’ont pas de sens par elles-mémes, mais seulement par référence aux entités a développement continu qui sont les porteurs de ces fonctions. Mais la these concernant la référence indirecte du sujet des histoires spéciales a celui de l’histoire générale ne serait pas complete si on ne pouvait attribuer également une référence indirecte de l'appareil conceptuel employé par les histoires spéciales al’ égard de la connexion causale inhérente aux procédures explicatives propres al’ histoire générale. Avec les entités de second ordre, nous avons affaire a des « constructions » dont la base dans l’expérience est de moins en moins discernable. Ce n’est pas la du tout un signe de faiblesse, c’est une implication

inéluctable du degré d’abstraction caractéristique des criteres selon lesquels ces champs spéciaux d’investigation sont découpés. II en résulte que nous ne pouvons plus reconnaitre dans ces constructions l équivalent de ce que nous pourrions tenir pour un projet, un but, un moyen, une stratégie ou méme Une Occasion, ou une circonstance. Le langage approprié au theme des histoires spéciales est trop éloigné de celui de la pratique pour conserver les indices de cette dérivation indirecte. C’est seulement a travers la relation des histoires spéciales a

histoire générale que cette dérivation peut étre reconnue. Néanmoins ce mode de dérivation de second ordre donne une certaine légi-

timité au nominalisme modéré professé par maints épistémologues concernant le statut de Pappareil conceptuel employé par les nouveaux historiens. La plupart des concepts introduits dans le champ par l’historien luicméme peuvent étre assimilés aux types-idéaux de Max Weber; c’est en particulier le cas des constructions tres élaborées de l’économie, de la démographie et de la théorie sociale. L’histoire quantitative et sérielle va encore plus loin dans la direction d’une conceptualisation a priori comparable aux processus rationnels auxquels nous devons les termes théoriques et axiomatiques dans les sciences physiques. Seule la méthode de questionnement a rebours est apte a reconstituer les canaux de dérivation par lesquels les histoi-

, - 74 , PAUL RICOEUR ,

maine. , oe

res spéciales peuvent encore étre réferées au champ de l’action hu-

, On pourrait en dire autant des entités de troisiéme ordre, telles | que la Renaissance, la Revolution francaise, la revolution industrielle, etc., qui integrent dans des nouvelles entités holistiques les themes, les procédures et les résultats des histoires spéciales. Ces «totalités» ne - sont aucunement comparables aux totalités concrétes caractéristiques des entités de premier ordre. Elles en sont séparées par les procédu-

| res complexes des histoires spéciales. Leur caractere synthétique est : la contrepartie de l approche analytique qui gouverne la construction des entités de second ordre. En ce sens, en dépit de leur concrétude apparente, ces entités sont les plus abstraites de toutes. C’est pour- quoi les procédures synthétiques qui valent a ce niveau sont aussi éloignées que possible des procédures de mise en intrigue qui peuvent encore étre étendues par analogie aux «héros» collectifs de l’histoire. Seule par conséquent une méthode particulierement raffinée de « questionnement a rebours» est susceptible de reconstruire les canaux grace auxquels les entités et les procédures de l’investigation

, historique renvoient indirectement au domaine de la compréhension

narrative. -

IV. - LE STATUT ONTOLOGIQUE ET EPISTEMOLOGIQUE DE L°>EVENEMENT EN HISTOIRE

, En conclusion, retournons aux présuppositions qui régissent le — statut épistémologique et ontologique des événements. Je suggere de traiter séparement les deux groupes de postulats. 1. En ce qui concerne les postulats épistemologiques — singu-

jarité, contingence, écart, — le probleme n’est pas de les éliminer, mais de les reformuler en fonction de la connexion que | intrigue instaure entre événement et récit. Comme on |’a montré, I’ intelligibilité de l’intrigue confere aux événements eux-mémes une intelligibilite dé-

, rivée, a savoir I’ intelligibilité propre ala contribution des événements a

, la progression de l’intrigue. Des lors a) singularité b) contingence c) écart doivent étre sérieusement modifiés.

, a) Les intrigues sont elles-mémes a la fois singuliéres et non

singulieres. Elles parlent d’événements qui n’arrivent que dans cette , intrigue. Mais il y a des types de mise en intrigue, comme nous le

rappelle la théorie des genres littéraires. ,

b) Les intrigues aussi combinent contingence et contrainte.

Comme la peripeteia dans la Poétique d’Aristote, les événements arrivent de facon inattendue et changent la fortune en infortune. Mais l intrigue fait de la contingence elle-méme une composante de ce que

: Gallie appelle a juste titre la «followability» du récit. Et, comme Louis O. Mink Vobserve, c’est plutot dans la situation de re-raconter

L’ECLIPSE DE L’>EVENEMENT DANS L’HISTORIOGRAPHIE 175

que, en lisant histoire a rebours de sa conclusion vers son commencement, nous comprenons que les choses doivent avoir tourné comme elles Pont fait effectivement dans le récit. c) Finalement, les intrigues combinent la soumission aux paradigmes et la déviance. Le processus de mise en intrigue oscille entre la simple obéissance concernant les paradigmes traditionnels et l’innovation hardie confinant a la rébellion contre toute tradition recue. Mais la conformité servile et la déviance erratique sont seulement les points extremes d’une gamme de combinaisons entre sédimentation et invention. A cet égard aussi les événements suivent le destin de I’intrigue: eux aussi obéissent a des regles et brisent des regles, le point moyen entre ces extremes étant ce qu’André Malraux appelait « déformation réglée». Il n’y a pas de raison de penser que les événements historiques different a cet égard des événements encadrés par les intrigues. La référence indirecte de Vhistoire a la structure de base du récit nous permet d’étendre aux événements historiques les mémes modifications que la notion d’événement mis en intrigue impose aux concepts de singularité, de contingence et d’écart. En tant que raconteés, les

événements sont a) singuliers et typiques, b) contingents et

contraints, c) déviants et paradigmatiquement référés, éventuellement sur le mode ironique. Cette rectification de nos hypotheses épistémologiques initiales

a un corollaire important. De la méme maniére que nous avons dt relativiser le plaidoyer classique en faveur de lunicité et de la non répétabilité des événements, il nous faut relativiser la these opposée selon laquelle les €vénements seraient incompatibles avec la longue durée et avec le changement social. Le lien entre é€vénement et mise

en intrigue nous autorise a étendre la notion d’événement a tout changement de fortune, soudain ou continu, rapide ou lent, affectant individus ou communautés. En ce sens, l’ascension et la chute des

empires, le développement de courants sociaux, |’évolution de ~ croyances, de mentalités, et d’attitudes spirituelles sont des événements. Ni la brieveté ni application aux seules actions individuelles ne sont des criteres contraignants d’un emploi sensé du terme événement. D’un coté un changement long et lent peut étre résumé dans de brefs récits qui le dramatisent sous forme de quasi-occurence ou de quasi-evénement. Il n’est pas essentiel que les changements aient eu lieu rapidement ou lentement. L’ histoire de longue durée, en ce sens, est encore événementielle, le seul critere pour |l’emploi du terme évé-

nement est qu'il constitue un «tournant» dans l’intrigue. D’autre part, de tels «tournants» affectent le destin des communautés aussi bien que celui des individus. Les historiens n’hésitent pas a traiter les nations, les peuples et les communautés en quasi-individus auxquels quelque chose arrive, qui sont menacés ou aidés, qui réussissent ou échouent. Les corps collectifs sont aussi responsables que les indivi-

176 PAUL RICOEUR , dus. La raison de telles analogies est a chercher dans la structure meme de la notion d’agent, comme celui qui «fait». Rien ne nous empéche d’appliquer cette catégorie a des entités collectives aussi bien qu’a des individus, dans la mesure ou toutes les autres catégories

| appropriées a l’action humaine — motifs, moyens, circonstances, etc. — sont susceptibles du méme transfert analogique des individus aux communautés.

Cette double extension du concept d’événement a la longue durée et au temps social, a l’encontre du double refus de histoire non événementielle, est directement impliquée dans les rectifications que la théorie de la mise en intrigue apporte a la description habituelle des

événements comme singuliers, contingents et déviants. Les événements sont construits en méme temps que le sont les

cédent. 7 |

récits qui les englobent.

2. Nous pouvons maintenant revenir aux postulats ontologi-

ques que nous avons mis entre parentheses en vue de |’ argument pré-

Ces postulats, on s’en souvient, définissaient un événement ,

comme ayant eu lieu absolument, comme ayant été fait absolument,

comme étant autre absolument. Ces postulats aussi doivent étre conservés mais au prix de modifications considérables. Je commence par les modifications. Nous avons appris d’ Augustin et de Heidegger que tout avoir-été est la contrepartie de quelque attente. Il n’y a pas

d’histoire qui ne soit prise dans la dialectique de la mémoire et de l’espérance. Cette dialectique implique que le passé n’est pas a tous égards inaltérable. Danto nous a appris a soutenir le paradoxe d’un événement qui devient apres coup la cause d’un événement antérieur parce qu'il est placé sous une nouvelle description par de nouveaux historiens. En ce sens le passé ne cesse de changer. Quant a Il’altérité absolue, cette notion aussi doit étre modifiée. Il y a différence la ou il

ya ressemblance, et la différence elle-méme doit étre construite comme une variable imaginaire par rapport a quelque invariant , comme Paul Veyne nous demande de le faire dans l’/nventaire des

Différences '!. Mais je suis prét a accorder qu’avec cette notion de difference nous nous heurtons a quelque chose qui résiste a |’ intégra-

tion. La réside la vérité irréductible des postulats ontologiques de évéenement. Mais ces postulats n'ont aucune portée ontologique; ils ne conferent aucune information. Ils fonctionnent plut6t comme des

concepts-limites. Or les concepts-limites n’accroissent pas notre connaissance, mais seulement limitent sa prétention a l’absolu. En ce sens la notion d’événement comme ce qui a effectivement eu lieu joue deux roles: un role négatif et un role positif. D’une part, elle impose une limite a nos interprétations en nous rappelant que ce sont seule11 Paris, Seuil, 1976.

L°’ECLIPSE DE L’EVENEMENT DANS L’HISTORIOGRAPHIE 177

ment des constructions. Et ces constructions n’épuisent pas Il’ objet historique dans le réseau de relations tissé par historien. D’un autre cété, ce qui a réellement eu lieu est impliqué positivement dans I in-

tentionnalité de la compréhension historique, dans la mesure ou celle-ci vise a une concrétude proche de la croissance d’autrui et s’ef-

force de s’égaler a l’amitié. La notion de ce qui a effectivement eu lieu fournit par conséquent a la fois une /imite a nos reconstructions et une orientation en direction de la concrétude et de la singularité qui projettent la connaissance historique au-dela de ses propres constructions.

Blank Page

What Can We Learn from Historians ? by W.H. WALSH University of Edinburgh

If you ask historians what they are concerned with, you often get the reply that it is individual happenings in the past, or rather a particular class of such happenings. It does not require much knowledge of actual historical work to see that this account is incorrect if only because it is incomplete. Historians study continuing conditions and long-term processes as well as short-term changes, and thus have their attention focused on states of affairs as much as on events. An event, after all, is a change introduced into a more or less stable condition of things. But though historians are thus often wrong to single out events as the exclusive subject-matter of their studies, they may not be wrong in claiming that their interest in what they do study has a special quality of its own. History, we are told repeatedly, is about what individually happened or obtained; the items it 1s concerned with are taken to be of interest in themselves or for their own sake, rather than as instances of something more general. The words emphasised serve to define or at least lend colour to the claim that, despite all that has been done in recent years to bring the methods of social science to bear on particular historical problems, history itself is not a social science but, along with the study of literature, belongs to that elusive group of disciplines we know as ‘the humanities’. It 1s a mark of the humanities as here spoken of first to be occupied with

the study of man, his works and fortunes, and then to take these as

being of individual interest without reference to anything further, as | an individual work of art might be thought to be. The social and even some of the natural sciences are also concerned with man, but I take it than their interest is not in the individual but in the particular, the case or instance which exemplifies something general and is studied just because of that fact. I ought to acknowledge at this point that I know very well that the claim I have been expounding, that history is primarily and properly a study of individual happenings or states of affairs, has come

under vigorous challenge in recent years from cliometricians and others. It is not my object in the present paper to discuss this challenge directly. Rather what I want to do is to take the traditional or standard concept of history as being in order, and then to raise a particular difficulty which is involved in its acceptance. I shall state

180 , W.H. WALSH the difficulty at first in terms which may seem crude and which certainly leave many important issues unexamined, for example what it

means to study something ‘as an individual’ or ‘for its own sake’. I hope that light will be thrown on some of these issues as I proceed, and in particular that there will be some elucidation of the claim that

history belongs to the humanities. |

Let us suppose, then, that history is as described, a study of specific

events or continuing states undertaken not for any further reason but because of their interest in themselves. Let us suppose again, more boldly but not necessarily without justification, that historians can attain some knowledge of the human past and are thus in a position, given favourable conditions, to say what things were like in the parts of

the past that come under their investigation. (That the second sup---- position is not idle might be argued by reference to the many technical advances historians have made in the last two centuries in discovering

a and exploiting evidence, and the extent to which historians have come

, in that period to think of themselves as members of a profession,

as opposed to isolated literary characters relying on personal insight.) |

In other words, let us suppose that we have some real historical knowledge, including, | must add, some knowledge of the thoughts, _ intentions, motives and reasonings of past persons. The question at once arises what such knowledge amounts to. Is it knowledge that can be described as significant or put to any serious use? The first thing to

notice in this connection is that the knowledge we are speaking ,

of is none of it expressible in universal terms. The propositions to which historians give their assent doubtless include many that begin, or could

~ be made to begin, with the words ‘“‘All’’? and ‘‘None’’, but that is

not proof of the falsity of what has just been claimed. When an historian makes a pronouncement containing phrases like ‘All French- | , men’ or ‘Frenchmen generally’ we can be pretty sure that he is speaking

of the closed class of Frenchmen who lived in a particular period, previously specified in his text, or at most of the closed class of

-Frenchmen who have lived in the past or are alive now. He will not mean

by ‘All Frenchmen’ whatever is, has been, will or might be human,

_ French and perhaps male. The reason for this is to be found in the sup-

positions from which we set out: it is not the business of historians to frame propositions of unrestricted generality, but to describe what

~ individually happened or obtained at this time or that. Yet given that we

can come by such descriptions and have good reason to think them

authentic, the question still arises: what can we do with them? | I will put the problem in another way which will perhaps make what troubles me clearer. There was a time, stretching from antiquity

to the 18th century, when history was described as ‘philosophy teaching by examples’ and when its study was in consequence com- ©

mended as a way of acquiring practical wisdom. On this view philosophy produced universal truths, history conveyed such truths in

WHAT CAN WE LEARN FROM HISTORIANS? 181 an immediate form by presenting particular instances or embodiments

of them. History as it were dramatised or made concrete what philosophy knew, but knew only in abstract form. If this account is correct, any lessons history has to teach will be lessons borrowed from philosophy: all that history contributes of itself will be the power

to make the universal come alive in a particular instance, together with the capacity to authenticate that instance. There are people today (followers of Hempel, for instance) who would accept that account of history, provided that the term ‘philosophy’ were replaced

| by ‘science’ or ‘social science’. History is thus seen as, on a plausible interpretation, social science teaching by examples, if you like social science without tears, or without offensive jargon. History so conceived can certainly be instructive, but only because the historian stands in a client relationship to practitioners of other disciplines, is as it were a retailer of what they manufacture. Now it happens that this account of history is far from popular with historians. The time when students of history took philosophy seriously is long past, while

the average historian’s attitude to social science remains hostile rather than deferential: so far from thinking of himself as in debt to social science he tends to see the way social scientists think about human situations as profoundly alien. As he sees it, to understand

what goes on in the human world you have to investigate it in its individual detail, not bring to bear a body of abstract theory which | may well have no application at all. [In writing up his results an historian may well use terminology which originated in some technical

context, but this will be either because his subject-matter 1s

specialised (developments in methods of agricultural production, for example) or because such terminology has become part of the vocabulary of educated men generally, as for instance some of Freud’s has. In general, historians think that they can do their job without inventing any special terms of their own: they can deal with individual events or conditions in the language of educated common sense. Yet if this claim is correct the question at once arises how their

discipline can be instructive. If history is as described, how can it teach any lessons? I do not want to deny that, if history is an account of individual events and situations, any knowledge it produces can be put to some

| use. Anything I learn from history may come in useful at some time or other, just as may anything I learn by using my eyes and ears as I go about the world. If you ask me whether Queen Mary reigned before Queen Anne, my study of history can ensure that I am in a postition to answer this question correctly. But if this sort of thing is all

that history can do for me it is not going to do very much. Why should I stuff my mind with a mass of facts of that sort, as it were against the bare possibility that I shall at some time have occasion to produce this one or that? If I am going to stuff my mind with particu-

182 W.H. WALSH | lar facts of any sort, would it not be better to look for facts about the

present and the very recent past, rather than the remoter, more esoteric, facts with which most historians are concerned? Descartes in The Search after Truth' makes one of his characters say that he is

‘persuaded’ that , , —

it is no more the duty of an ordinary well-disposed man to know Greek and Latin than it is to know the languages of Switzerland or Brittany; or that the history of the Empire should be known any more than that of the smallest state in Europe.

In the same passage history is grouped with ‘languages, geography, etc.,’ as being among ‘those simple forms of knowledge which can be acquired without the aid of reasoning’, depend on experience alone and generally contrast most unfavourably with the products of ‘the sciences’. That. Descartes believed that empirical conviction of this

, sort could be dispensed with altogether, being replaced by clear and , distinct truths methodically come by and scientifically authenticated, is perhaps unlikely. But whether he did or not, he plainly had little

use for the conclusions of historical study, quite apart from the doubts voiced in the Discourse? about whether such study could result in real knowledge. Familiarity with past cultures, he tells us, may

serve to broaden the mind, just as travel does, but we should remember that one who travels too much becomes a stranger in his own country. Curiosity about what happened in past centuries often goes

along with ignorance of what is happening now. The implication is that history is at best a backward extension of experience, providing or claiming to provide knowledge of particular fact, and that its re-

— sults, though perhaps having a certain human interest, are of no seri- | — ous scientific significance. They lack any wider bearing, and accordingly someone who knew no history would not be at a cognitive dis-

advantage. The attitude I am here ascribing to Descartes is one to which many scientifically-minded persons are at least sympathetic today. The question we must now face is whether humanists could —

| find anything to say on the other side.

To begin on an answer, let us consider first what might be meant by describing history as a backward extension of experience. This

: phrase could be taken in at least two different ways. It might be understood, as it was when I just used it, to mean that history fulfils a _ function broadly analogous to that fulfilled by perception: it gives us

access to the detail of the past as perception gives us access to the present. History is not of course a form of perception, but becomes

on this account a substitute for it which comes into operation when |

what is in question can no longer be perceived. On this view the results of historical enquiry should have the same logical status as the

| ' New York: Dover, 1955, Vol. 1, p. 309. } 2 Op. cit., p. 85.

WHAT CAN WE LEARN FROM HISTORIANS? 183

results of exercising our various senses. In fact, however, they are much more varied, for in addition to offering statements of particular fact and descriptions of general tendencies (a rise in the standard of living, the spread of scepticism among the more highly educated) historians notoriously engage in explanatory discourse of many kinds. Not only is historical writing dominated by verbs of action, used to record immediate causal transactions; historians are constantly con-

cerned to trace the effects of some action, event, development or state of affairs, or alternatively to diagnose its causes. Some historians fight shy of explicit causal analysis, if only because of its difficulties in practice, and some theorists of history argue that the word ‘cause’ is out of place in history; it remains true, nevertheless,

that no historian can avoid causal language altogether (as H.A.

Prichard said to an Oxford Crocean: “Did Brutus ki/l Caesar?’) and that for most the tracing of causal connections is a major preoccupation. In short, historians speak as if it were in their power not only to give us information, but also to provide understanding, in some degree at least. If that is so and the claim has any substance we must clearly look for another interpretation of the view that history is a backward extension of experience. I suggest that the study of history might be thought to extend our experience not just by making available to us facts which would otherwise have escaped us, but also by affording understanding which in other circumstances might not have been ours. The deep student of history can be compared with the experienced man of the world: both can come to possess a peculiar knowledge which covers how things are and what makes them go. Such a student will be superior to less in-

formed persons not only in the range and variety of the facts he knows, but also in his handling of the facts, in his ability to see or divine their connections. He understands as a man of experience understands, and accordingly possesses a kind of wisdom which less fortunate people may be without.

Let me try to substantiate what may well be seen as a quite unplausible claim by first specifying in what the understanding referred to consists. It consists in a concrete grasp of such things as: how human beings with specified characters and specified aims react to situations

apprehended under this or that description; what sorts of obstacle people encounter in pursuing goals of certain kinds in certain describ-

able conditions; what sorts of consequences, other than intended consequences, human actions can have, again in circumstances of particular kinds; what general possibilities of action are open in determinate situations and what possibilities are closed. I describe all this as a ‘concrete’ grasp because the knowledge in question always comes in individual form. Variables play little or no explicit part in the historian’s vocabulary: what he deals with is always this man or that, engaged in this or that concrete situation, pursuing this indi-

| 184 W.H. WALSH vidual end and with just these specific ideas about his situation and prospects. But though the form of historical knowledge is thus irretrievably individual, and though historians are never tired of insisting on the concrete nature of their thought, it is not in practice difficult for writers and readers of history alike to move from sheer individuality to something more general. They may not —- indeed, they almost certainly will not — try to formulate this something in abstract terms,

but that is not to say that they will not get a grip on the principle concerned. That they have a grip on it is shown in their ability to use it, in examining other situations which resemble the one first consi-

dered but which may or may not turn out to be different from it in

vital respects. | How is this done? The first thing to point out is that the indi-

viduals we encounter in works of history under proper names — Alexander, Sparta and the rest of them — also satisfy certain descriptions, and that they do so is something which historians are constantly concerned to stress. You don’t have to go far with the history of Alexander before you realise that he was a man of spirit, a youthful king, a great general, and so on. Now admittedly it would take a rash man to argue without further ado that because Alexander reacted in such and such a way to such and such a challenge men of spirit who are also youthful

kings and great generals may generally be expected to react similarly when similarly circumstanced: to leap from the individual case to a conclusion of unrestricted generality in this incautious way is clearly

quite unwarranted. But this does not mean that all general conclusions in a case of that sort are ruled out. To start with something relatively trivial: from information that Alexander was both a great general and cruel, we can infer that a great general can be cruel, and this sort of conclusion is one we often draw from historical study. When people say that history is full of surprises one thing they could have in mind is that it demonstrates that certain possibilities — combinations of characteristics, for example — which antecedently seem

improbable are nevertheless found to be realised in fact. A person who has studied the career of Alexander knows not just that Alexan-

der did this or that, but further that being a great general is not incompatible with being cruel. You may say that the knowledge does not amount to much, and of course in the instance given I agree. You may object again that on my own account the knowledge is not likely to be explicit, but will rather be something that its possessor has at the back of his mind; I have no quarrel with that either. But I do not

tions.

think these admissions bar the conclusion that in at least one clear way we can learn from history about the possibilities of human nature, and do it by studying concrete cases under appropriate descripBut this is not all we learn. There is a sense in which a student of history, while focussing attention on an individual happening or a

WHAT CAN WE LEARN FROM HISTORIANS ? 185

series of such happenings, can also treat the events in question as typical, despite the dangers of hasty generalisation. He can do this thanks to the fact that historians are above all lovers of detail: in presenting their story of what took place they take care that we know in full what sorts of persons, with what particular sorts of background, were concerned in the action, just what was special in their situation, and so on. By offering that amount of detail they put the reader on his guard against false inferences, making him see, for example, that in Alexander we have to do not just with a great general, but with one who became answerable to no-one at an early age,

was brought up in an environment in which the martial virtues counted above all others, was passionate in his attachments and hatreds. [t may be false that great generals always behave thus and so in this or that situation, but not necessarily that great generals with the sort of background and other characteristics mentioned do so,

other things being equal. That we keep our eye on whether other things are equal the historian seeks to ensure by constantly emphasising the special or peculiar features of the situation he describes. But we need not infer from this that historical thought is exclusively concerned with what is unique, as so many historians say it is. Stu-

dents of history must of course be alive to the differences which mark off the activities or conditions they examine from others like

them, but the very fact that they have this obligation means that they must also be interested in making comparisons. They deal with

a subject-matter which has its own individual nature, but which nevertheless admits of being described in general terms. The fact that they are concerned to investigate events and processes taking place at particular times and in particular locations means that their descriptions can be given a reference which no comparable descriptions have; this is the respect in which history really deals with the unique. But the uniqueness in question is not absolute or total: although that very condition of things cannot be found elsewhere or elsewhen, something significantly like it may well turn up. My submission is that, despite their ex cathedra pronouncements, historians are well aware of this in practice; they are not really reluctant to move at the general level too, provided they can do it in their own special way. They do not pass from the individual happening or condition to the generality which underlies it with the ease or alacrity of the social scientist; the whole cast of their minds is different. Yet historians too can be got to agree that what matters about an event they are investigating is sometimes not so much that it happened at just this point of time and in just this place as that it came about in such and such a situation, where ‘such and such’ is to be understood in universally applicable rather than individuating terms.

It is because their subject-matter has this double aspect, being at once individual yet pointing beyond itself to something of general

186 _W.H. WALSH | significance, that they can claim to be humanists but still believe that history has lessons to teach. The important point, however, is that the lessons of history are not normally made explicit in universal _ propositions; indeed if they are they become objects of suspicion in the profession (does all power corrupt?). They are rather carried at

, the back of the mind as principles relevant to a series of cases which are significantly similar but also manifest significant differences. They do not need to be put in abstract terms to be used with suc-

cess in practice. ,

To recapitulate: historical thought is concerned with things that are strictly unrepeatable, but that does not mean that it is concerned with what has absolutely no counterpart anywhere. Similar situations keep cropping up, each in its unique spatial and temporal setting, and historians can hardly fail to take notice of that fact. What they contrive to do, if I interpret the matter correctly, is to take account of the similarities whilst not relinquishing their hold on the differences. They take account of the similarities in so far as they offer general descriptions, they pay attention to the differences by filling _ out those descriptions to an ever greater extent, thus progressively

, diminishing the area of their possible application. It is interesting to observe that historians are quite apt to discuss parallel cases to-

gether — the successful German air attack on Crete in 1942 alongside the unsuccessful Germain air attack on Britain in 1940 is a case in point? — with a view to bringing out both what they had in common

and what was peculiar to each. It hardly makes sense to suppose that no general knowledge is involved in a comparison of this sort. | But as has already been claimed, the general knowledge is rarely if

ever deployed in the form of explicitly formulated general laws (neither the historian nor his readers are equipped to produce such laws), but rather as something which underlies and is manifested in

| the handling of concrete cases. | , The strength of historical thought is in its sensitivity to relevant differences. In this it resembles the thought of the common lawyer, who also avoids abstractions but nevertheless contrives to embody

principle in his decisions while concentrating on the special features of , the case before him. In a court of common law the question whether such and such a course of action is legal or illegal depends on establishing relevant similarities to or differences from the details of some previously de-

cided case. No abstract principle is here laid down, as where mat- | ters of law are decided by statute; it is enough that what was de-

, cided previously is taken to have the force of law. But lawyers

, under this system are acutely conscious of the difference that changed circumstances can make, and are skilled in arguing about

3 See J. R. Lucas, ‘‘The Lesbian Rule’’, Philosophy, 1955, a perceptive article to which I owe a substantial debt.

WHAT CAN WE LEARN FROM HISTORIANS? 187

the weight to be attached to such variations. Their whole attention is directed on individual sets of happenings — what went on in this case

as opposed to that — yet they consider them not simply for their own sake, but with the aim of making comparisons. For this purpose they need something more than proper names, particular dates and places: they need general descriptions of the actions or omissions involved, explicitly set out or implicitly agreed. Common law proceeds on a case by case basis, but introduces generality through such descriptions. It is much the same in history, though of course there is nothing in that discipline to correspond to the definitive decisions of common law. And just as common lawyers can claim that their system

has an advantage over statute law in point of flexibility, so can historians argue that the way they bring in generality is more subtle and more successful than when explicit generalisations are appealed to. In common law and in history alike principles respond to variations in cases, rather than the other way around.

There are points here to which [ shall have to return. Meantime let me note that the expedient for introducing generality I have described is the only one open to historians, given their prevailing

attitude to theory. History contains no theory peculiar to itself (theories. in history are simply particular hypotheses), and historians

in general are unfamiliar with or unsympathetic to theories developed by others. It is true that more recent historians of the traditional type (Lawrence Stone is an example) have tended to lean on the social sciences more heavily than their predecessors, but as yet the dependence is not as great as proclaimed intentions suggest: theory is invoked to eke out otherwise defective historical analysis, rather than seen as informing and dominating the entire process of histo-

rical enquiry. Marxist historians come closest to offering us

philosophy (or in their case sociology) teaching by examples, but just for that reason their work is suspect to other members of the profession. As Isaiah Berlin pointed out, to call a man a theorist is

still a reproach in historical circles. Traditional historians are emphatically not men of theory, even in those cases where they pay lip service to theory: how then should they be characterised? The answer is perhaps as men of judgment. History as I have stressed throughout is concerned with individual

activities, and it is on the exact course and connections of a set of historical events and on the precise nature and effect of their background conditions that the historian is expected to pronounce. Just as solicitors are not called on to enter into legal generalities but to

offer advice about concrete cases, and just as doctors are con-

cerned, as Aristotle put it, not to cure man as such but to cure Callias, a particular patient suffering from a particular disease, so historians are required to handle particular transactions and circumstances and are valued for their ability to do so. The faculty most

188 + W.H. WALSH necessary to all three is the faculty of judgment, the capacity to get particular things right.The solicitor must tell his client the right thing

to do in his special circumstances, the doctor must cure the sick man before him, the historian must clarify and illuminate just that bit

of the past in which he and his readers are especially interested. Judgment is obviously more important in all three instances than abstract knowledge, however impressive, since clearly someone who possesses the latter but cannot bring it to bear on particular cases is

a failure from the practical point of view. And to make correct judgments in each of the spheres matters more than to be able to offer general reasons in support of such judgments. Solicitors and doctors and historians can all be relatively inarticulate, but that will , not necessarily prevent them from doing the essential part of their

jobs. Nor is it true that being inarticulate in cases of this sort in- , volves failure to think, whether voluntary or involuntary. If I am correct persons of this sort must constantly make comparisons and to that extent invoke generalities; their activity is not only intellectual, but intellectual in a peculiarly subtle way. That they seldom appeal to explicit general principles is not a reason for thinking this false.

How does one acquire judgment, and in particular how does one acquire historical judgment? Partly of course it is a matter of good fortune and natural endowment: some people just happen to be

gifted in this sort of way, just-as some people display a talent for singing or playing an instrument from the first. A talent of that kind needs to be developed and trained, but is nevertheless an enviable

asset in itself, as we can see by reflecting on cases where it is wholly or nearly absent. We have all come across persons who seem to have a genius for jumping to the wrong conclusions, whose read-

ing of a situation may well be very clever but is at the same time profoundly wrong-headed. Lacking natural judgment as they do, | such persons are hardly likely to be competent historians.

However, what I have just called ‘natural judgment’ is no

more than a necessary condition of historical competence, and we must go on to ask what more is required. Part of the answer must be given in terms of width of experience. Ability to handle particular cases, in history as among lawyers and doctors, often increases as experience accrues: old hands tend to have seen more of the world, and

to that extent to be shrewder — more alive to possible variations and significant differences — than beginners. They judge a present problem against a wider background of comparable cases, and often possess superior discrimination as a result. It would be absurd to suggest

that discrimination is automatically acquired as experience expands, or that it results exclusively from wide experience. But it would be equally wrong to deny that experience and judgment often go hand

in hand. ,

WHAT CAN WE LEARN FROM HISTORIANS? 189

So far as history is concerned, the ‘experience’ of which I have been speaking is not all of a piece. Some of it might be described as general experience of human nature, familiarity with the manifold ways of mankind. Experience of this kind is both necessary in some degree if historical enquiry is to begin and is added to progressively as historical knowledge accumulates. Historians are not of course alone in needing this sort of experience — we all do — nor could they claim

to be the only people capable of adding to it or improving its

sophistication: we can gain.a knowledge of human nature which is comparable or better by reading great works of literature or simply by

conversing with certain men and women of the world. What we achieve under this head depends on curiosity in ourselves and good luck with our mentors, but not, I think, on our receiving any specific form of training: there is no discipline which imparts the secrets of the human heart. It is otherwise with the other type of experience the budding historian needs, which is experience of diverse historical situations and their handling. Because history is a form of enquiry which largely makes do with the vocabulary of educated common

sense we are apt to underestimate the extent to which historical judgment is a matter of positive instruction. Historians see themselves as belonging to a profession, a craft which is _ practised according to rules that need to be inculcated, criticised and consciously improved on. The training of properly qualified historians is

by now a large-scale operation, not so impressive, perhaps, as the training of properly qualified doctors, but not so different as to make the comparison absurd. Not surprisingly, it covers a variety of topics or areas. One very prominent need in beginning students of history is ability to identify and interpret historical evidence; another is to acquire what might be called a proper sense of the past, a capacity to

avoid anachronism. In practice the two can be satisfied together, since learning what evidence is available and what it means involves confronting the past in its own terms and thus discovering how mistaken our first assumptions about it can be. As for the form of the training, it consists hardly at all in the inculcation of general precepts but is rather instruction in the handling of individual cases: the student discovers how to think historically by tackling a specific piece of historical work under the guidance of a master in the subject. The master will correct the student’s misapprehensions on this point of detail or that, will show him how to make more of the resources available to him, will lead him to better and more authentic knowledge of the situations and thoughts of the agents concerned. An examination of cases which look superficially alike but are in fact very different, or of others where the position is reversed, must obviously bulk large in the whole proceeding. And in making such comparisons the hope is that the student will be able to acquire some of his master’s skill in spotting similarities and descrying differences, something

190 W.H. WALSH which I have already argued involves an implicit appeal to generalities. A person who undergoes this type of training should emerge in possession of a certain skill or skills. What I want to say now ts that

these skills are not merely technical, having to do with finding and interpreting evidence, but also comprise the intelligent handling of a variety of historical situations. Student ‘research’ in history is supposed, like student research in the sciences, to lead to the discovery of new knowledge; in both cases a more important result is the acquisition of professional competence and a form of general understanding. In the case of beginning scientists the general understanding consists largely in ability to specify which among the known laws of nature are relevant to the explanation of a given phenomenon; this 1s a matter of the acquisition of judgment, but of judgment depending on general knowledge in an explicit form.* In the corresponding histori-

cal case the judgment concerned has the appearance of being more

self-contained, in that the student moves from particular to particular ,

without invoking anything which is openly general. Yet even if the rule underlying such judgment is not and perhaps even cannot be set out in abstract terms, that does not deny its reality. It informs the concrete decisions of the teacher and can be conveyed to the student in the form of a skill in handling individual situations which he previously lacked but now has. In this way it can be said that the historian as well as the scientist acquires from his training a better overall com-

prehension of his world. , , | Henry Buckle in the mid-19th century argued that historians are

intellectually inferior because they stick to the particular and are afraid to generalise. As Buckle saw it there were only two possibilities : either history must continue as it was, which meant that it could not

claim to be a science but at best to provide raw material for science, or it must reform itself and draw explicit general conclusions, in the

form of laws of human nature, from the comparison of one historical | transaction or situation with another. Many social scientists and some historians of a modern cast of mind are inclined to think that Buckle’s

challenge has not yet been met. But if the case I have put forward in | | this paper is correct, there may be no need to meet it, since it can be _ claimed that historical thought involves generality without formulat- | ing conclusions which are explicitly general. History can claim to

teach lessons, even to convey a particular kind of wisdom, even though it remains true that historians concentrate on individual facts and show no tendency to move from them to universal laws of human

behaviour. By studying history as presented by those with a proper historical training and/or a real flair for their subject we can not merely 4 Beginning scientists also have to learn how to proceed in particular experimental situations, and this involves judgment not dependent on previously formulated rules.

WHAT CAN WE LEARN FROM HISTORIANS? 19]

add to our stock of particular facts, but increase our general understanding as well. We can arrive in fact at what amounts to informal general knowledge of the workings of the human mind, the varieties of human nature and the predicaments of mankind. Such knowledge is carried in the form of a series of contrasting items each taken to be of interest in itself; to that extent it falls short of the formal requirements of science. But to deny that it is instructive in the sense of pointing to some truth beyond the individual facts concerned is simply not plausible. How history can instruct without transforming the individual into a mere particular is what I have tried to show. I can add now only that the procedure of history is the procedure of the humanities, and that knowledge in the humanities generally combines generality with specificity exactly as history does. Yet we cannot leave the matter at that. I hinted above at a claim some humanists are inclined to make that the sort of knowledge their studies result in is not only comparable to scientific knowledge, but actually superior to the latter, in that it is not so rough-and-ready but

can take account of individual differences as propositions of unrestricted generallity cannot. In science the universal dictates to the particulars, imposing on them rigid rules; in the humanities rules, just because they are not abstractly formulated, accommodate themselves to individual fact. But there is a case on the other side. For many social scientists the suggestion that the study of history results in serious general knowledge is little short of absurd. Even if the case argued above is granted, i.e. even if it is allowed that historical knowledge has a generality of its own, it will be claimed in opposition that the knowledge in question is at once limited and superficial: limited because it extends no further than cases actually examined and thus lacks universal applicability, superficial because the supposed insights it embodies are no more than the insights of common sense. The admitted facts that historical thought is generally untechnical and makes no claim to be esoteric are important in this connection; so too 1s the further fact that the terms used in typical historical analyses are just those we use in everyday life in commenting on human situations. We

assume for the purposes of common life that individual men and women initiate actions and generally know what they are doing, despite having to act in circumstances which in large part are not of

their choosing; we claim to be able to penetrate their minds to a sufficient degree to be able to pronounce with some accuracy on their

intentions and motives. But these claims or assumptions (‘assump-

tions’ is the better word, since they are normally unargued) are widely disputed among social scientists, who distinguish sharply between the reasons men put forward as lying behind their actions and the real causes which lead them to behave as they do. That human beings in normal circumstances have a correct perception of what they are and what they are doing appears to such thinkers demonstra-

192 W.H. WALSH bly false: to discover what is causing what we need something more

than educated common sense. Yet it is at the level of educated com- | | ~ mon sense that the traditional historian moves.

Our reaction to this controversy clearly depends very much on our attitude to conventional ways of thinking about men and their activities. Two extreme positions can be distinguished: one which maintains that the commonly accepted categories of action, intention,

motive and responsibility are the obvious instruments for making sense of what people do and are applicable without serious difficulty,

the other which holds that there are no objective criteria for their

application, with the result that they should be discarded in favour of

concepts that are vouched for scientifically. On the second view his-

tory will have nothing to offer but reports of surface phenomena couched in subjective terms and eked out with chat that purports to convey understanding but is in fact idle. History may perhaps entertain, as Descartes was prepared to believe, but it cannot instruct. It hardly needs to be added that history is not the sole object of this: kind of disparagement: the study of literature is a further target, the

practice of law another. Now inasmuch as the anti-humanist case here rests on doubts about the objective applicability of action concepts, it

seems to be very weak. Some people say that we have no proper means of talking about other people’s minds and should confine ourselves to description of their external behaviour. I suggest that their

_ actions confute their conclusions: there is no difficulty in such a case

in moving from the words to the thoughts which lie behind them and in grasping those thoughts as the speaker formulated them. The complaint that knowledge of the human mind is especially elusive in one

, sense has no foundation: we are constantly acquiring knowledge of the human mind in our daily dealings with each other. If I give you access to my diaries and secret memoranda, to tape recordings of what I say publicly and privately and to any third-person reports that may be available, you should have no great difficulty in reconstituting my intentions, ambitions, hopes and fears; with a bit of luck you will

get my motives right too. In particular cases, where for instance , someone is more than usually secretive or positively tries to mislead, knowledge of what another person is feeling or thinking may be hard to come by. But there are, as we know, means of getting round problems of that sort, means which are especially familiar to biographers

and historians. , |

If this is correct there is no reason in principle why the study of ~ history should not lead to the acquisition of significant general knowledge of the type described above. It will not be possible at this stage

, to claim that history offers the truth, or a part of the truth, about the human condition; the most that can be said is that it offers truth at a certain level — the level at which we move when we acquire know— ledge of the world in our daily experience. In so far as gifted individu-

WHAT CAN WE LEARN FROM HISTORIANS? 193 als who have seen life can convey general lessons through the making of particular judgments, so can historians. This is perhaps the point to ask whether their reliance on implicit generality, i.e. on rules which

are used but not formulated, is an advantage or a disadvantage. We noticed above that humanists were inclined to claim superiority for history over science just because generalities in history were subtle rather than rigid; against that social scientists argued that any such generalities must be of limited application. My sympathies here are with both sides. Certainly it is a point of strength in historians that they do not have to commit themselves to explicit generalisations whose subsequent use might lead them to distort the facts; implicit generality has the enormous advantage of being no more than provisional, covering actually experienced cases but liable to be revised as fresh ones occur. Nor is it true that limited experience precludes the further application of what has been learnt, as the critics argued. But to remain at the level of particulars, as historians on our theory do, is nevertheless an intellectual disadvantage. There are many good doctors who rely more on the width of their experience than on medical theory: their grasp of generality is in practice very like that we have been attributing to historians. We might all the same wonder whether they might not benefit from a refresher course conducted at a more theoretical level. Similarly with historians: although the procedures they adopt keep them close to the concrete, they are also constricting. Were it possible for them to invoke reliable general knowledge of an explicit kind it might help at least to the extent of suggesting comparisons and widening intellectual horizons. If historians have a fault, it lies in a certain provincialism in their thought: they know what they

know, and are all too apt to stick to it. Compel them to move out of their native environment and consider wider possibilities, and they might well do an altogether better job. They need not abandon their distinctive ways of thinking, as covering-law theorists urge them to do; they need only supplement them. They could treat the generalisations offered as no more than helpful suggestions, to be used where profitable and forgotten where not. But they should not turn their back on them as they do now. The question is, however, whether there is any explicit general knowledge they could invoke. Social scientists of course say that there is, and that it has the advantage of going much deeper than such general knowledge as common sense commands. You will not expect

me to discuss these claims at this stage of my paper. Instead I will end with one or two passing comments on the issues. First, it seems to me that in so far as social scientists insist that they alone know about the true forces which actuate man in society they necessarily devalue history by confining it to the handling of sur-

face appearances. An historian who was persuaded by their arguments, instead of widening his horizons on the lines suggested just

194 W.H. WALSH now, ought in logic to abandon history and become a social scientist ~ himself. If history is to draw on social science, the latter must recognise that history is an independent source of knowledge, and not just of knowledge of particular fact. Secondly, I think there is an argument for the view that history

, must be seen by the social scientist as an autonomous discipline. The _ argument runs as follows. Every social science contains an empirical element: if it does not proceed by arguing inductively from particular

| cases, it at least needs to adduce particular cases to test the theories it offers. In either case the cases in question must be comparable. Now

historians are rightly suspicious of the empirical material used by some social scientists on the ground that the cases paraded are only superficially alike. Social situations in one epoch or society are as-

similated, often on the evidence of similar external behaviour, to | others in another epoch or society, when closer examination shows that they are significantly different. To see whether cases are compar-

able two things are necessary. One is to free oneself from the grip of overarching theory, which readily distorts the shape of the facts; the

other is to use what resources one can to arrive at independent and authentic descriptions of the conditions concerned. Among the disciplines appealed to in this connection are anthropology and history, the

, _ first where it is a question of what goes on in another society, the

second where different epochs come in. Since social science needs to draw on a wide range of material to ground or check its conclusions,

it will thus be forced to concede that history is a proper source of knowledge, with a way of thinking of its own.

Finally, those who cannot bring themselves to think that there are any true general laws in the sphere of human affairs, on the ground that their existence would preclude free action, can perhaps allow the appeal to social science in a weakened form. Although there may be nothing to establish that one social situation or condition 1s

| necessarily though not analytically connected with another, two such , items may nonetheless be correlated, either invariably or for the most part, in such a way that the first as it were points to or prepares us for the second. Correlations of this sort will not have explanatory power, but they could all the same enable us to predict or anticipate future experiences. At the least they can indicate where to look and what to

look for. I suggest that historians who are not ready to accept the claims of social science at their full face value might still profit from its results if they saw them in this form. They could use such explicit generalisations about man in society as were available, but think of them as pointers or instruments rather than acknowledged truths.

TABLE RONDE ROUND TABLE

~ Blank Page

Narration, Reduction and the Uses of History by W.H. Dray University of Ottawa

Je Let me begin with some general remarks, after which I shall exercise the privilege of a panelist of offering a few critical observations on selected points made in some major papers. I briefly entertained the idea of trying to ‘‘sum up’’ the conference, but I soon gave that up as unprofitable (or, at any rate, too difficult). We at least accomplished what Professor Ouellet has already mentioned: we came together as an assorted group of philosophers and historians, showed a good deal of curiosity about each other’s points of view — more, I

think, than appears in the major papers themselves — and had no difficulty talking with each other amicably, if sometimes disputatiously, for more than two days. One thing of which the philosophers were reminded is that historical inquiry 1s not one, but many things — although this not because the historians disputed very much among themselves about what they were doing or ought to be doing. In fact, they were largely agreed on such questions as the central importance

of social history and the viability of social science techniques in history; and they were alike also in being largely historians of the

relatively recent past, and in their strongly ‘‘presentist’’ conception of the significance of their work. The reminder of variety came more obliquely through contrasts stated and implied, both in papers (like

that of Professor Fell) and in discussion; and it surfaced most

thoughtfully (and certainly most amusingly) in Professor Fogel’s mas-

terly efforts to ensure, both by allusion and direct quotation, that at least the spirit of one formidable, if still benighted ‘‘traditional’’ historian, Geoffrey Elton, should have a share in our deliberations. But if there was clearly a selective factor at work on the historical side of the conference, the same could be said of the philosophical. For example, the philosophers taking part showed little inclination to theorize about history in the sense of elaborating overviews of the historical process — this in spite of occasional remarks by_historians (for example, in the paper of Professor Bouchard) implying that this must surely be what any philosopher of history ultimately aims at. The concern of the philosophers was chiefly with what, in

198 , W.H. DRAY recent Anglo-American philosophy of history (largely through the influence of the writings of Professor Walsh) has come to be called ‘‘critical’’ philosophy of history, and which seems not too far removed from what francophones mean by the “‘epistemology’’ of the subject. In fact, most of the favourite problems of so-called critical philosophy of history were treated in some degree at this conference: the kinds and strengths of historical evidence, the nature of historical

, understanding, the sense in which history can be called objective, whether the narrative form is a peculiarly appropriate historical technique, how claims about individuals and groups are to be related, and, finally, what the value of historical knowledge is once you have it. Those working within this tradition will find rather surprising Professor Bouchard’s (ironical) apology for not having got involved in the philosophy of history at all; for it will seem to them that much of his paper falls squarely within that field. This suggests some convergence of interest, at least, on the part of some philosophers and some his- torians, if a bit clouded by differences of terminology. It nevertheless needs to be emphasized that critical philosophy

of history cannot be strictly identified with epistemology of history in the usual English sense of the word. For it passes quite naturally into metaphysical questions — questions about the nature of things — and did so on various occasions at this conference, historians making the

transition as easily as philosophers. A couple of examples will show oe What I mean. Professor Fell, in endeavouring to clarify and assess Maurice Mandelbaum’s distinction between general and special histories, felt it necessary to resist an ontological thesis. He denied that

a basis for the distinction could be found in the allegedly different ways cultures and societies exist, as one might be tempted to think it

could after reading Mandelbaum’s book. Professor Bouchard advanced an apparently holistic account of methodology, claiming that history should be about collective action. The response of Professor Ricoeur (in discussion) was not at the methodological level at all: it was ontological. It pointed out that so-called collective actions just

are various people doing various things, and insisted that we must never employ a concept of collective action which fails to take this into account. This is a good example of the way what may at first look like a purely linguistic (or, at any rate, conceptual) question becomes

epistemological, and then eventually ontological as well. I might , add that even those who prefer to call themselves ‘‘analytical’’ philosophers of history nowadays — epigone of a philosophical

movement in the English-speaking world that began by saying that all metaphysics is literally nonsense — would be unlikely to resist what I

have just said. | ,

Critical philosophy of history involves itself also in value judg-

ment. It does this overtly, for example, when it raises Professor Walsh’s question: ‘‘What is the value of historical knowledge ?’’ One

NARRATION, REDUCTION AND USES OF HISTORY 199

could ask a similar question, however, about critical philosophy of history itself — and historians, at least, often ask it, having in view especially the way they find the latter practiced by philosophers. The uncompromising answer is offered in a book which was referred to a couple of times during the conference: R.F. Atkinson’s Knowledge and Explanation in History.' Atkinson is responding to criticisms by historians (among them, Geoffrey Elton) to the effect that the kind of

critique of historical thinking typically engaged in by critical

philosophers of history — that is, essentially analyses of basic concepts employed both in doing history and talking about it — 1s quite useless to historians. It doesn’t help them to investigate the past any better, Elton complains; it yields methodologically inert knowledge. He alleges further (and some of my own students have told me this without ever having read Elton) that preoccupation with questions of the sort critical philosophers of history discuss is a positive hindrance to historians in their work: it represents, at best, a digression, and may even itself promote confusion. The response of Atkinson ts that there is no need to show philosophical knowledge to be useful: it is enough that it is good for its own sake (the same argument, of course, that historians sometimes apply to themselves). According to Atkinson, philosophy is nobody’s ‘‘handmaiden’’; you do it if you like it. I must admit that, despite its rather bracing insouciance, I don’t myself like that argument very much. I wouldn’t say that it can ever entirely disappear from the rationale for any philosophical study; but

I am particularly unhappy with it when it is applied without qualification to a branch of the subject describing itself as a

philosophy ‘‘of’’. However, there is another, even more common answer to the question ‘“‘Why should we do critical philosophy of history??? which can seem equally arrogant, although in a different way. This is the Wittgensteinian view that the task of the philosopher

is to ‘‘let the fly out of the fly-bottle’’: in this case, to show the practitioner of a first-order discipline how to escape from his conceptual confusions. At least in the more diplomatic form given it by John Locke a long time ago — that the philosopher is an ‘‘underlabourer’’ who clears away the rubbish in the path of knowledge — I think that something must be allowed to this view of critical philosophy too. Perhaps none of the historians at this conference could be described

as needing to be let out of a fly-bottle. But there have surely been cases which could fairly be so described, and one or two notorious ones

were in fact cited by various speakers. Professor Fell mentioned Charles Beard, who has been dead long enough to be talked about in this derogatory way: he needed to be let out of the fly-bottle of confusing

relativity with subjectivity; and Professor Fell obliged. Professor Nowell-Smith, in one of the workshops, reminded us of an almost ' dthaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1978), pp. 7-8.

200 | W.H. DRAY | | irresistible confusion about historical facts in which Carl Becker floundered for years (I sometimes wonder what critical philosophers of history would do without Becker and Beard). Becker obviously thought that facts must be things; and Professor Nowell-Smith, with

, elegant economy, explained why they can’t be, and hence why their

failure to exist in the way things exist need pose no theoretical problem for historical claims. Confusion of a conceptual sort seemed also to lurk in some of Elton’s dicta about historical evidence discussed by Professor Fogel. Elton apparently believed that there was an important distinction to be drawn between direct and indirect evidence; but

that distinction disappeared or was rendered innocuous by a little philosophical therapy. That the latter was provided largely by Professor Fogel himself highlights something worth emphasizing, although it

has already, in effect, been conceded: that historicians can be their own critical philosophers of history. I would simply observe that

those whose professional obligation it is to perform this function ,

would nevertheless like to think that they had some distincitve contribution to make with regard to it. There remains the question whether it is quite right to hold that philosophical analysis has no effect on practice, or can have no value for it. It is hard to know what exactly to say about such a contention. I certainly find it difficult myself to believe that the clarification of fundamental concepts has no value for practice. It is doubly hard for a philosopher to believe this when he sees historical controversies raging in which historians talk past one another, at least partly because of conceptual problems.” (I hope I shall be taken to say this

more in a Lockean than a Wittgensteinian tone of voice.)

But there is still a further reason why philosophy of history of the critical kind ought to be pursued. Historians owe their readers — their ‘‘consumers’’ — some cogent account of what their sort of in-

quiry claims to be accomplishing, and on what authority. Such an

obligation seems to me even more pressing with regard to a subject - like history than it would be with regard to one like (for example) physics. Most people — and I am thinking especially of the taxpayers

| who ultimately foot the bill — don’t particularly want to know the

rationale for physical theorizing. They don’t particularly want to

know whether physics is conceptually sound: what they want to ,

know is whether its results are good. Their interest is in its social , consequences, not in physics itself; and as long as they are satisfied about these, they will be content to go on paying for it. I take it that history, unlike physics (although old-style and new-style historians _ may not take precisely the same view on this) yields a product that is itself to be consumed. It is therefore a crucial question for the histori* For an example see my Perspectives on History (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1980), ch. 4.

NARRATION, REDUCTION AND USES OF HISTORY 201

cal profession what the rationale for offering that product is. Analysis

of the conceptual structure of historical thinking, with a view to clarifying its possibilities, limitations and relations to other kinds of intellectual endeavour, is surely an essential part of the elaboration of such a rationale. If practicing historians are too preoccupied with the actual pursuit of historical knowledge to be able to devote more than passing attention to such matters —- and many of them understandably say they are — this is, at any rate, not true of critical philosophers of history. One could go on to ask, of course, how well the latter have in fact provided such a rationale. Let me just say that conferences like the present one, at which historians and philosophers actually talk with each other, should surely help them to do it better.

_ TI —

Let me turn now to a somewhat more detailed consideration of some specific doctrines advanced by various speakers at the conference. I cannot attempt to treat more than a small sample of these, but others are touched on by my fellow-panelists. I shall begin with some claims made by Professor Pompa about historical narrative, then pass to Professor Ricoeur on individuals and collectivities, and look finally

at some observations made by Professor Walsh on why anyone should study history at all. As is the rather ungrateful academic custom, | shall concentrate on points of disagreement. — III -

A focal point of Professor Pompa’s paper was the contrast he drew between three types of significance that can be found asserted or implied in an historical narrative.The first, which he calls agent

significance, 1s that ascribed to past events by those who lived

through them: for example, Bismarck’s regarding Austria as a threat to German nationalist aspirations or English common lawyers’ seeing

their own opposition to the Stuarts as an attempt to restore the ‘‘balance’’ of the ‘‘ancient constitution’? (to take cognizance of things

both suffered and done). The second, historical significance, is that

ascribed to past events from a later vantage point, generally the historian’s own age: for example, seeing Hitler’s invasion of Russia as the beginning of the end of the Nazi regime or interpreting Luther’s visions in Freudian terms (to take examples involving knowledge of future consequences and theories formulated only after the event).

The third, metahistorical significance, is that conveyed by what Pompa regards as distinctively literary categories and structures: for

202. - -W.H. DRAY | example, the characterization or display of past events as tragic, comic or ironic. Marx’s description of the rise of Napoleon III as

““farce’’ would presumably be a case in point. ,

Pompa makes three important claims with regard to this

account of significance in historical work. First, he alleges that one

cannot even state facts about the past, at least to the extent that these include actions, without claiming to find significance in the first sense, since to report an action is necessarily to ascribe beliefs and aims to an agent, and thus to ascribe agent significance to what happened. Second, he holds that, although one might state various facts, one cannot construct an historical narrative out of them without bringing hindsight and post facto theorizing to bear, thus ascribing historical significance as well. Third, he maintains that, although | historians may go on to ascribe a metahistorical significance to things

that happened in the past, there is nothing in the nature of either

fact-stating or story-telling that positively requires them to do this.

From the first claim he derives a refutation of the doctrine that all , significance asserted by historians is imposed by them on the past , rather than discovered in it. On the basis of the third, he offers those tempted by the position just rejected the consolation of claim-

ing that at least one kind of significance commonly ascribed by historians to the past is indeed imposed on it. In the discussion, although not in the paper itself, he extended this ‘‘constructionist’’

thesis to historical significance as well. |

Pompa’s first claim seems to me indisputable. I can make no > sense of any denial that agents’ self-understandings were an element of ‘“‘what actually happened’’ once it is conceded that past facts include human actions. His second claim is more questionable. That historical narratives in fact make use of hindsight is true enough; but Pompa isn’t offering merely to analyze what narrative historians - characteristically do; he is arguing (unless I seriously misunderstand him) that they must assert what he calls historical significance if they are to succeed in constructing narratives at all. Now it is of interest in this connection, that at least some historians — and, oddly enough,

especially those who, like Dame Veronica Wedgwood, tend to be

| referred to as “‘mere’’ narrative historians — deliberately try to

exclude such significance from their accounts. Their aim, they say, is to get back into the past to see it exclusively from the standpoints of the original agents, this requiring a blocking off of the real future. ? ,

I don’t think that such historians ever entirely succeed in doing this — certainly Wedgwood doesn’t, although she comes close to it _ at times. What needs to be asked, however, is whether this lack of success is just a kind of lapse — due only, perhaps, to a desire

lan, 1956), pp. 15-17. , |

| > See, for example, her Introduction to The King’s Peace (New York: Macmil-

NARRATION, REDUCTION AND USES OF HISTORY 203

on the historian’s part to do more, after all, than merely ‘‘revive’’ the past, or even to an awareness of the fact that readers, at any

rate, will generally desire more. Pompa seems committed to a considerably stronger claim than this; but it is not easy to see what

its theoretical foundations could be. In discussing the role of historical significance in narratives,

Pompa tends to take such authors as L..O. Mink and A.C. Danto as his models; and one could hardly complain about that were the probJem simply to clarify the logical features of narratives as historians in

fact generally offer them. However, with regard to the question whether there is some theoretically grounded compulsion for the historian to move from Pompa’s first level significance to his second, something like the thesis of an earlier philosophical narrativist, W.B. Gallic, might also have been given critical consideration. I have in mind the latter’s claim that a narrative, or story, may have the function simply of allowing a person to ‘‘follow’’ a series of actions or events understandingly, in a way analogous (1 hope that historians will not find the comparison too offensive) to that in which a sports announcer makes it possible for listeners to follow a game which is in progress. 4 There is a sense in which accounts of this nature involve hindsight — but only that of taking into consideration at each stage the actual con-

sequences of what happened at an earlier stage as posing a problem or : providing an opportunity for the agent presently in view. The success or failure of what agents attempt, the relevance of which to narratives Pompa underlines, are relevant even in narratives of Gallie’s kind; but they are so only to the extent that they show themselves within the story being told. There is no necessary reference to ultimate success or failure, or to consequences seen from the vantage point of any

real future later than the story’s own terminal point. I do not want to suggest that such blow-by-blow accounts are, in fact, all that historians should aim at, even in the most self-consciously narrative history (any more than I would say that all historical conclusions should take narrative form). It does seem to me, however, that accounts of the kind Gallie points to constitute a recognizable narrative genre;

that they ascribe significance to what is reported to have occurred (indeed, even, to a degree, explain it); but that the significance ascribed, in spite of a certain cumulative dimension to it, need not exceed what Pompa calls agent significance. Pompa’s third claim with respect to his scheme of significance — that there is, at any rate, no compulsion for the historian to move

to the third, the metahistorical level in composing a narrative — seems acceptable enough. But the associated implication that this is * See, for example, his Philosophy and the Historical Understanding (New

York: Schocken, 1964), chs. 2-5.

204 — W.H.DRAY | rather fortunate, since third-level significance belongs only to the historian’s account of the past, and not to the past itself, deserves _ further examination. And so, even more, does any extension of this

claim to cover historical significance as well. ,

To take the extension first: good fortune vanishes quickly if historical as well as metahistorical significance must be seen as “‘imposed’’, especially if Pompa’s further contention that historians can-

not avoid moving to the second level is accepted. As Professor Carr | pointed out in discussion, Pompa here seems to grant much of what the so-called metahistorians were claiming: only a narrative’s con-

, stituent “‘facts’’ (as Mink seems to have argued), not its ‘‘structures’’, are seen as representing the real nature of the past. But this is surely a questionable doctrine. For example, according to Pompa, beginnings, middles and ends characterize stories about the past, not the

past itself, the latter being a continuous process. But — to follow Professor Carr once again — surely there is a fundamental difference between, say, the beginning of the first world war and the beginning

| of an account of it. The former is a feature of reality as it existed

in August 1914; the latter is a feature of reality as it still exists in the form, say, of Professor X’s history of the war (it occurs on page 26, or in the second chapter). A further puzzle arises out of Pompa’s insistence | that acceptable historical claims, including those ascribing historical _ significance, have ‘‘truth conditions’? in the reality of the past. This seems to mean at least that our knowledge of what actually happened

in the past gives us good reasons for making statements that go | beyond the assertion of discrete facts — for saying, for example, that the first world war began in August 1914. But if that is so, what sense can

, of an account of it? |

be given to the notion that what is said is not true of the past, but only

Arguments such as these seem to me to have some force even when applied to what is asserted by historians at Pompa’s level three. , Must there not also be ‘‘truth conditions’’ for calling a past sequence _ tragic or ironic? Pompa seems to me to accept too easily the contention of some extreme metahistorians that, when it comes to using such ‘“‘literary’’ categories, the historian is free to interpret the past as he likes. But is this really so? Wouldn’t it be either insensitive or in bad faith to characterize Auschwitz as ‘‘comic’’; and could it be any-

thing more than a joke to call the failure of Switzerland to acquire a colonial empire “‘tragic’’? If two historians disagree about whether

the same sequence of events, with respect to the same aspects of

them, were ‘‘tragic’’, must not one of them be wrong? They could at , , any rate argue the point. We may perhaps speak of concepts like the Ones In question as ‘‘originating in the literary imagination’’; but the problem is not one of origins, but of use; and we cannot plausibly say that “‘the facts’ never offer us better reasons for applying one of them rather than another. I might add that, although the argument, as

NARRATION, REDUCTION AND USES OF HISTORY 205

considered by Pompa, takes account only of the problem of applying aesthetic categories, similar questions clearly arise with regard to the historian’s use of moral and other value concepts, not only in passing overt and specific judgments on past actions and omissions, but also

in tracing out many of the larger units which are the very stuff of history. For many of these are partly value-constituted: for example,

‘the Enlightement’’ as a movement of thought which is rationally appraised in a certain way. Indeed, Pompa’s insistence upon the historian’s interest in the success or failure of past actions itself raises essentially the same problem; for these, once the self-denying ordi-

nance of the extreme narrative historians is put aside, will not be judged only from the standpoint of the original agent. | —~TV—

In the section of his paper preceding his account of the fortunes of the concept of ‘‘historical event’’ in the work of various members

of the Annales school, Professor Ricoeur offers an analysis of the concept itself in terms of three criteria.* Like any other kind of events, an historical event must, first of all, be a change between two states, a difference, a rupture of some sort. Secondly, to be singled out as historical, it must be a change which has human significance, something ‘‘done or suffered’’. Thirdly, it must, of course, be in the past; it must be something over and done with, to be got at by historical inference from present remains, and not merely remembered or cognized in some other direct or privileged way. Ricoeur’s first criterion is hardly a matter for controversy. As he

says, it 1s no more than the notion of an event as such, and it thus applies as well to events in nature as it does to those in history. That in either case we tend, as he points out, to fix upon the more striking or even catastrophic changes, while true, is presumably not intended as a further elaboration of the criterion itself (although our ordinary employment of the concept may, in fact, absorb some such further ideas, as when we speak of an ‘‘uneventful’’ journey, meaning only that nothing very important or disturbing happened). What seems to me a bit more questionable is the emphasis which Ricoeur, with particular reference to historical inquiry, seems to place upon ‘‘event’’

by contrast with ‘‘state of affairs’’. At one point he even characterizes the interest of the historian by contrast with that of the sociologist as searching out reasons for change rather than reasons for things remaining as they are. A more satisfactory way of distinguishing between historian and sociologist (as noted by Walsh) would, I * This section responds to Professor Ricoeur’s paper as read at the Conference, not as revised for this volume (Editors).

206 | W.H. DRAY , think, base itself upon the former’s interest in the particular as such versus the latter’s interest in it only as an instance. But it is not, in

any case, very fruitful to ask whether history is basically about change or basically about stability, since it is clearly about both, and both can be treated either idiographically or nomologically. Thus if

some Annales historians show more interest in relatively permanent | conditions than in drastic changes, that hardly convicts them of a lack of historical-mindedness. Their apparent theory that they can get along without the notion of an event is another matter; and this does indeed - seem to be mistaken for much the reasons that Ricoeur brings out.

The second criterion can also hardly be refused, at any rate in its most general form as the requirement that, to be historical, events must have a significance for human action and experience. I do think that Ricoeur has a tendency, however — which is present also in Collingwood, whom he cites with approval in this connection — to place too much emphasis on action, along with all those considerations of

reasons, motives, intentions and aims that lead us to distinguish it from , mere natural happening. It can surely only be from an excessively _ activist standpoint that Ricoeur could complain as forcefully as he does about some of the topics which have especially concerned his-

torians influenced by Annales, this being true even of what he regards as the most extreme case: a history of death. Death was, in fact, given its due as an historical concern by Ricoeur himself (in the discussion) when, with a view to putting his emphasis on action into better perspective, he appropriated as historical what was offered by

a critic as an example of a purely natural occurrence: the Lisbon earthquake. This, he said, was an historical event because of the destruction of human life it entailed. Such an event could, of course,

have been of historical interest in action-related ways: for example, |

-as something to flee from, or even something to put up with. But the

latter can hardly be made a requirement for calling an event

historical; and, of course, death isn’t strictly even something suffered, in the sense of being experienced. It might be added that there

is some suspicion of tautology attaching to Ricoeur’s second

criterion ; for it could plausibly be contended that only human history - necessarily concerns itself with what is of human significance in his sense. An account of the development of the solar system, for exam-

ple, would not do so. Collingwoodians would deny that the latter, since it deals largely with natural changes out of relation to human ‘doing and suffering’’, would constitute a history. But it is difficult to see how this would amount to more than an appeal to their own

stipulative definition. oe , ,

Ricoeur’s third criterion is, once again, in itself unexceptionable. But the problems he sees arising by virtue of the ‘‘pastness’’ of historical events are certainly often puzzling. We might perhaps distinguish between more theoretical and more practical ones. The first

NARRATION, REDUCTION AND USES OF HISTORY 207

would include paradoxes of the kind Ricoeur mentioned, deriving from the supposed ontological difference between past and future, especially for an indeterminist, the future being seen as still open while the past is regarded as fixed — ‘“‘there’’ for all time — which may incline us to say that while the future doesn’t exist at all yet, the past in some sense must exist still. By more practical difficulties I mean such problems as how we can claim knowledge of events which we can never directly perceive: the problem of the justifiable use of

‘‘traces’’. Dealing with the latter, it seems to me, is principally a matter of investigating the structure of arguments from evidence — keeping always at bay the tendency to fall back into an acquaintance theory of knowledge: the seductive notion (destructive of much more than historical claims) that we can really only know what we can stare at. Dealing with the former, as stated, would rapidly open up deep metaphysical issues, most of which it would not be very appropriate to get involved with here. We might, however, ask, with Ricoeur, how well the assumption that the significance which historians attri-

bute to past events, and hence the descriptions under which they bring them, change, and must be expected to change.

So far as such changes are a consequence of factors like the discovery of new evidence or the availability of new theories, we surely have little reason to speak of the past itself as changing. What changes is our view of what the past was like: when one view succeeds another, we do not say the past used to be x but now is y; we say we used to think the past was x but now we see it was y all along. Reflection on the latter claim may raise the epistemological problem of the apparently indefinite corrigibility of empirical knowledge; but it hardly raises that of the ontological stability of the past. The situation

is rather different, however, when what leads to the re-

characterization of a past event is the historian’s discovery of a later consequence which changes the significance previously ascribed to it. If the nature of a past event includes its significance (the latter certainly enters into its characterization), and its significance is at least partly a function of its consequences, then it does seem that, not just the historian’s account of past events, but the very nature of those events, may to some extent change through time. An event simply doesn’t have a given consequential significance, it might be argued, until the relevant consequences have accrued. Ido not know how to avoid this conclusion while retaining the assumption of indeterminism (short of accepting Pompa’s denial that consequential significance belongs to

past events themselves). None of this, of course, poses a problem for

a determinist. For him an event, when it first occurs, can be said to possess all the significance implied by the consequences it is inevitably going to have. Much of what Ricoeur has to say, especially in his survey of the work of French historians, seems to me to suggest still a fourth criter-

208 W.H. DRAY 7 ion for calling an event historical. This is that it either be itself a _ change of a social rather than a merely individual kind, or, if an indi-

vidual action, that it be one which has social significance. Barborossa’s complaints to his cook on the eve of his invasion of Italy, for example, will hardly be considered historical events. His orders to his generals may be, but surely only because their consequence was a considerable ‘‘rupture’’ within a politico-social structure which is of antecedent historical interest. What history is about, it might be held — Ricoeur’s second criterion notwithstanding — is not the actions of individuals but the careers of social units: nations, classes, institutions and the like. If Ricoeur never explicitly recognizes this further criterion — and the latter does seem to me quite clearly to operate in what is generally considered to be history — it may be because of the strong strain of methodological individualism which runs through his presentation: the doctrine that social affairs, being

constituted by the actions of individuals, can and should be ‘‘reduced”’ to a collection of such actions when the historian endeavours to understand what occurred. If this is so, however, it seems to me to

~ be an error. For the claim that historical events are limited to what happens at the social level is not dissolved by the further claim that

| social events are themselves composed, or largely composed, of individual actions. —

| ~ The whole problem of ‘‘reducibility’’? is too large to be gone into here. There is one form that it takes, however, and one which came in for some attention in the discussion of Ricoeur’s paper, that may be worth a further mention (it was alluded to in Section I above). Ricoeur was invited by a critic to agree that history is indeed about

actions, but about the actions of groups, not individuals. His reply

was that talk of the actions of groups can only be metaphorical; for

the only genuine agents are human beings ‘‘like you and me’. It | seems to me that he is not only correct but importantly so in taking this position. For the metaphor of collective action can be, not only misleading, but also a dangerous one. If social groups are genuine ~ agents, then what is true of agents as such must be true of them. For example, they must be capable of possessing collective rights, and they must be able to incur collective guilt. In our time there has been

much talk of collective guilt, and some of collective rights. The danger is that if it is is only to the group that the rights or guilt can be ascribed, and groups are not reducible to individuals, then the ascription of collective rights or guilt may turn out to be compatible with the complete denial of such at the individual level (not to mention the likely appearance of self-appointed custodians of group rights or the _

| singling out of scapegoats for collective guilt). This is not to imply that there are no characteristics or attributes which can be ascribed to

eroups but not to their component individuals: ‘“‘heterogeneous’’ would be an example to the contrary. Nor is it to imply that what can

NARRATION, REDUCTION AND USES OF HISTORY 209

be ascribed to a group never entails the ascription of the same thing to at least some of its members: ‘‘healthy’’ would be a case in point. It doesn’t even commit one to holding that groups cannot “‘do’”’ any-

thing (on this, methodological individualists are themselves sometimes misleading). It only means that they cannot do things in the sense of ‘‘do’’ which Ricoeur takes so much trouble to expound.

_V— ,

For Professor Walsh, the problem of what historical studies are for is made difficult by reason of the individuality, the concreteness of

the historian’s interest in the past. As he notes, historians do make comparisons; they even state generalizations; but comparisons still

yield knowledge of an individual, not of a general kind, and the grammatically general statements that historians typically make, such as ‘‘English puritans in the seventeenth century were on the whole opposed to religious toleration’’, are not universal truths but (besides being somewhat vague) assertions about closed classes of things. If historical inquiry is to yield knowledge which is applicable to the solution of present problems — and this seems to be what is really envisaged here by the question ‘‘What is historical knowledge for ?’’ — it must have some dimension that goes beyond generalizing in this

sense. ,

With a view to reinforcing this judgment, let me say something further about historians’ generalizations about closed classes. This seems to me appropriate because some historians, including, I think, Professor Fogel, were inclined to welcome the admission of generality in history in this form as moving it agreeably closer to the social sciences, the utility of which is generally assumed. According to Fogel,

the social sciences themselves seldom claim to establish more than ‘“‘Jimited’’ generalizations — his term for those asserted to hold only

of examined individuals or groups. But even if this is so, there remains a special difficulty for a utilitarian view of history. For while, in

the social sciences (as was pointed out by Walsh), such generalizations as are asserted are usually about the present, or at any rate the very recent past, the limited generalizations formulated by historians refer to subject matters that stretch back to antiquity. Knowing the cited generalization about English puritans, even though it is not universal in form, is of considerable value for finding one’s way about the seventeenth century. It is of no value at all, however, for finding one’s way about the twentieth. The penchant of historians for enun-

| ciating limited or closed class generalizations would thus seem to show, at most, that contemporary history may be useful: or, more generally it suggests that history’s utility would vary inversely with the temporal remoteness of its subject matter. That is not a rationale

210 W.H. DRAY for seeking historical knowledge that takes one very far, although it may give some comfort to the particular group of historians attending this conference. It will perhaps be objected that we shall obtain transferable general knowledge from historians to the extent that they go on, as they

should, to ask about the circumstances under which their limited generalizations hold. They might ask, for example, what made seven-

teenth century puritans assume the attitudes they did, the ensuing explanation bringing their behaviour under unrestricted general principles. But this, even if we let pass unchallenged the implied view of explanation as subsumption under laws, would hardly offer support for the contention that the limited generalizations are themselves useful. For, first, it is the explanatory generalizations, presumably universal ones, and not the latter, which might in that case be applicable

to the historian’s own present. And, second, what the explanation would in any case exhibit would not be historical knowledge being made available for the better understanding of the present, but rather general knowledge (presumably derived from the present, but at any rate from some other source than historical inquiry itself) being made

available for the understanding of the past. It would be a case,

perhaps, of what Walsh calls social science teaching by examples. There is an important difference which should be noted in this connection between generalizations which are limited in the way described, and those which are limited only in the sense that, although universal in form, they seldom find application because the conditions of their applicability seldom occur. The latter seems to be the sense, for example, in which Professor Perkin speaks of limited generalizations when he alleges that, even in the most “‘scientific’’ of the social sciences, economics, there are no really universal principles. Even

the laws of classical economics, he points out, which are as likely candidates as any for being regarded that way, apply only in free market conditions of the sort approximated to in the mid-nineteenth century. But generalizations of the latter sort are limited only in the sense of applying under rare conditions, the latter still being describa_ ble in general terms. The generalizations to which Walsh has drawn

attention are limited in the more radical and peculiarly historical sense of applying only to a certain designated object of inquiry: a

certain historical ‘‘individual’’.

But Walsh wants to claim that historians also gain from their study of the past a kind of general knowledge that goes beyond closed

class generalizations: an informal knowledge of human nature, circumstances, possibilities, and so on, that makes history an educative discipline in a very practical sense. He concedes that this knowledge is very difficult to characterize, but tries to get at it by noting that it is implicit, provisional, and shows itself as much in a diagnostic skill as

it does in a set of formal pronouncements. It seems to me — and I

NARRATION, REDUCTION AND USES OF HISTORY P11

think Walsh would agree — that, although all these ideas point help-

fully towards something which (despite Descartes) it is intuitively tempting to believe, none of them go all the way towards elucidating it satisfactorily. Let me try to show this by looking briefly at each of

them in turn. ,

To say that the general knowledge derived by the historian from his studies is largely implicit is to say at least that it is left unstated. The latter may well be the case; but the question then arises whether what the historian is alleged to know can be judged true and hence perhaps useful unless it can be made explicit and critically examined. In fact, to call knowledge implicit seems to mean more than merely its being left unstated ; it surely means that it is in some sense implied by what is stated. However, attempts by critical philosophers of history to say what is implied by the claims that historians commonly make have led to notoriously unsatisfactory results. In the case of explanation, for example, some have argued that, since any singular ‘‘because’’ statement logically requires the truth of a corresponding gen-

eral statement, every explanation which an historian gives is implicitly an assertion of a universal law. But they have had great difficulty determining what a ‘‘corresponding’’ general statement is to mean where, as is typically the case in history, the original explanatory statement links what is referred to by definite descriptions rather than specifications of the classes into which those things are taken to fall, and by virtue of which they are seen as connected.

The notion that general historical knowledge is provisional seems to mean that historians are prepared to abandon supposed cases of it if they meet examples to the contrary. If this is to signify anything more than acceptance of the principle of the corrigibility of all empirical assertions, the claim must be that the supposed general knowledge is not treated as something established; it is seen merely as something which, since it has been true of certain examined cases, may well be true of others, so that it may be regarded as a fruitful source of hypotheses regarding further cases. As Walsh seems to suggest, the form of such knowledge is “‘All A’s are B’s other things being equal’, where one doesn’t know how to fill out the qualifying phrase (if one did, one would have knowledge expressible as a universal generalization). But isn’t it to pitch the claims of historians to attain transferable general knowledge rather low to say that the latter is just the assurance that certain sorts of things happen under conditions not in fact known by them? The point is perhaps linked with Walsh’s notion that what history teaches is possibilities, not necessities, and perhaps not even probabilities most of the time. But if, on the basis of our knowledge of Alexander, we say ‘“‘Brave generals can be cruel’’, the sense in which we can be considered to have general knowledge applicable in the present is surely rather tenuous. It follows, certainly, from the statement made that generals can be cruel

212 W.H. DRAY under some conditions or other; but can they be so now? The faith most of us probably have in a considerable uniformity of human nature, despite cultural and epochal differences, may lead us to regard this particular example with indulgence. But what about arguing

, “The English ruling class could speak French in the thirteenth cen-

tury, so itcando sonow’? | The idea that historians acquire a knowledge of human affairs

that shows itself, not theoretically but practically in a diagnostic skill has a certain appeal. It was given eloquent expression, for example, ~ in the latter part of R.G. Collingwood’s Autobiography, > where that author argued that the very fate of civilization depends on the cultivation of historical skills — and not just in professional historians. As he - does not do when claiming that historians possess general knowledge

which is implicit, Walsh suggests with respect to alleged general knowledge of this further, practical kind a test for its possession: that

investigators get answers to particular questions right. Now if the problem were that of the existence of some non-formalizable capacity

among natural scientists, an application of Walsh’s principle here

might perhaps be that skilful investigators constantly come up with , correct predictions. But it is difficult to see what the parallel to this

VI

would be in historical inquiry. For the problem there is precisely how we can know that investigators do get answers to particular questions right. The correctness of a given prediction of the future is independently checkable; the correctness of a given interpretation of the past 1s not. In fact, any attempt to appraise an historian’s particular answer will raise all over again the question of the role of general know- , _ ledge in reaching conclusions about the past.

, This far from exhausts the many ideas put forward by Walsh in considering the question of how historical knowledge may be of prac-

tical use in dealing with present problems. However, in some final remarks I should like to go off briefly on a different tack, mainly be-

, cause of Walsh’s claim to be speaking for history as a type of study

belonging to the humanities. I see no reason why history, as a branch of the humanities, should not have the kind of utility for practice that Walsh’s paper has chiefly in view. It is nevertheless worth remember_ Ing that people in fact study history for many other reasons than the one alternative he mentions — idle curiosity. For some of these seem

closely related to the common insistence that history is not just a , social science, but belongs also to the humanities. > (London: Oxford University Press, 1939), especially pp. 99 ff.

NARRATION, REDUCTION AND USES OF HISTORY 213

One of these reasons, to put it rather baldly, is less to gain con-

trol of the present than to escape from it. This is not a “‘use’’ of history that [ particularly want to recommend, and I should probably not have mentioned it had J not, somewhat to my surprise, found a trace of it in the writings of our absent standard-bearer for traditional history, Geoffrey Elton. In the opening chapter of his The Practice of History Elton writes: ‘‘The future is dark, the present burdensome; only the past, dead and finished, bears contemplation.’’® One could of course seek escape through imaginative literature; but there is clearly a special satisfaction to be derived from contemplating a human world

that is complete but also real. Some relationship could perhaps be found between this motivation and Walsh’s comparison of historical

study with foreign travel. But the analogy would be with foreign travel, not for the sake of the good ideas brought home, but for its own sake. I suspect that this reason for studying history, although seldom avowed, is comparatively widespread among professional historians, at least as a contributory motivation. Not only among them, however. Another not directly practical reason for studying history, and a

frequently mentioned one, is to get clearer about one’s identity as a member of a social group. In this connection, the function of historical knowledge is often represented as an expansion of that of individual memory: one doesn’t really know who one is without knowing something of one’s origins. Through an inexcusable confusion, this characteristically humanistic reason for studying history often gets an

undeservedly bad name. I have heard it repudiated by professional historians as a reduction of historical study to myth-making, or at least to myth-conserving. While admitting that many people can only face life equipped with suitable ego-supporting views of their past, they ask why professional historians should feel obliged to minister to

, this rather contemptible need. What I am talking about, however, 1s not the elaboration of (perhaps needed) myths, but the discovery of the truth about one’s origins, aiming at genuine self-understanding. And this, it seems to me, is a task that professional historians ought not to refuse. A more plausible objection to this view of why histortcal studies ought to be pursued is that it provides a rationale only for an investigation of a very selected portion of the past, namely that which produced the social group of which the historian or his readers are members. How important an objection this is, however, depends on the breadth of a person’s search for identity. Some can manage an interest only in the history of their own family or neighbourhood; some only in that of their own class, nation or institution. But some are capable of seeking their identity as human beings; and for these

the whole human past may be relevant. The resulting self6 (London: Fontana, 1969), p. 11.

214 W.H. DRAY understanding may, of course, help the persons concerned to cope better with present problems. But the sense in which this is so is quite different from the directly practical one, involving only the application of general knowledge of various orders to fresh cases, which Walsh was talking about. Let me mention one more non-practical reason for studying history which I think it would be natural to call humanistic. This might

be described most simply as ‘‘seeking to set the record straight’’. This, I fancy, is not a particularly fashionable idea. But it is one that , has long motivated historical studies; and it has found rather moving expression recently in a paper by that unashamedly traditional his-

| torian, J.H. Hexter — a paper, it is significant to note, which was | delivered at a congress held in a country notorious for its ‘‘official’’ perversions of its past.? Hexter was commenting on studies by Gar_ rett Mattingly of the Armada fiasco, and especially on the latter’s at-

tempts to rehabilitate the Spanish admiral, the Duke of Medina Sidonia. Mattingly had noted an increased willingness among his fel-

| low historians to acknowledge the Duke’s many splendid qualities — his courage and administrative ability, for example; but this, he observed, would have been little comfort to Medina Sidonia, who was a man for whom nothing but complete success in his undertakings was

ever enough. Mattingly went on: ‘‘Nor does it matter at all to the dead whether they receive justice at the hands of succeeding generations. But to the living, to do justice, however belatedly, should matter’’. Hexter adds the comment: ‘‘Not to be concerned with justice to - one or many encountered in the record of the past is to diminish not their human nature but ours’’.

oe Doing justice to the dead could, of course, become an unreasonable obsession — for example, if it led to a neglect of the problem of

doing justice to the living. But human beings have a variety of | obligations; and these always to some extent conflict. It seems to me ©

| that Hexter is right to imply that one, at least, of our obligations —

| and it must be called a moral one — is to see our predecessors Straight and right side up, it being one of the functions of historical inquiry to enable us to do this. Or, to put it another way: it is part of | a humanistic rationale for history that the human past, because it is

human, deserves our respect. ,

7 **History, the Social Sciences and Quantification’, Proceedings of the XIII International Congress of Historical Sciences (Moscow: Nauka Publishing House,

— 1970), pp. 31-32. |

| La philosophie de l’histoire | et la pratique historienne d’hier et d’aujourd’hui

, par FERNAND OQUELLET Université d’Ottawa

La philosophie de Vhistoire s’est constituée par rapport a une pratique historienne dont |’évolution échelonnée sur des siecles avait , abouti vers la fin du XIX¢ siécle a l’enracinement de la tradition positiviste: au cours de cette lente mutation, on était passé de la chronique narrative a l’histoire critique qui n’était, apres tout, qu’une autre forme de récit, valorisée par Vhistorien lui-méme. Presque partout, excepté en France, lorsque ]’enseignement de histoire avait été insti-

tutionnalisé et incarné dans les programmes cohérents, ceux-ci

avaient presque toujours comporté un fort ingrédient de philosophie de histoire. Celle-ci avait non seulement eu pour fonction d’analyser les fondements apparents et caches de la pratique historienne mais d’en garantir jusqu’a un certain point la pérennité en démontrant que lhistorien ne pouvait en fin de compte échapper a son destin qui était de raconter. Critique ou justificatrice de ’historien et de ses fagons de faire et de dire, cette forme de philosophie s’était imposée a lui plus ou moins comme une sorte de lointaine et inacessible référence méthodologique. C’est Jacques Le Goff qui, a propos de la domination exercée dans certains pays par certains chefs-de-file de la philosophie de Vhistoire, tels Vico, Hegel, Carlyle, Spengler, Croce et Toynbee, attire attention sur cette fonction de freinage de la philosophie de

Vhistoire. I] écrit a cet égard: «la tradition historiographique, en France, s’est plus ou moins protégée de deux influences qui, ailleurs, en Allemagne, en Italie, dans les pays anglo-saxons notamment, |’ ont plus ou moins asservie, stérilisée ou, en tout cas, détournée de cette

histoire du quotidien et du concret ov l’histoire nouvelle a puisé sa meilleure inspiration. Je veux parler de la philosophie — et plus particulierement de la philosophie de histoire — et du droit inspirant une

histoire juridique trop souvent coupée du réel'...» Ce que le D

W.H. Walsh, philosophe de histoire, dit de lattitude des praticiens 1 J. Le Gorr, R. CHARTIER et J. REvEL, La Nouvelle Histoire, Paris, C.E.P.L., 1978, p. 228.

416 FERNAND OUELLET des sciences sociales et des stéréotypes que souvent ils vehiculent a propos de l’historien, s’applique aussi d’une certaine fagon a bien des philosophes de Vhistoire: «it seems to me, écrit-il, that in so far as

social scientists insist that they alone know about the true forces which actuate man in society they necessarily devalue history by

confining it to the handling of surface appearances”... » | ‘Tl est certain que la transformation radicale de la pratique historienne, amorcée depuis la seconde décennie du XXeé siécle, n’a pas

été engendrée au départ par les réflexions des philosophes sur le métier d’historien. On pourrait aisément avoir le sentiment qu'il existe encore actuellement plus qu’un décalage chronologique entre celles-ci et celle-l4; mais trop insister sur cet aspect du probleme serait jusqu’a un certain point méconnaitre le fait que la pensée épistemologique s’est maintenant éveillée a la complexité croissante des pratiques historiennes et que les historiens eux-mémes commencent a admettre l’utilité pour leurs ceuvres d’un certain regard philosophique | qu’il vienne de leur milieu ou d’ailleurs. I faut dire que l’épistemologie et ’historiographie ou Vhistoire de histoire, qu’elles soient pratiquées par des philosophes ou des historiens, sont devenues des specialités exercées dans la grande majorité des cas par des individus qui

ignorent presque tout du travail concret de Vhistorien et qui, par

conséquent, risquent de le juger de haut et de loin.

La prise de conscience de cette transition historiographique et

de la difficulté d’en mesurer la portée est évidente entre autres dans le

— livre de Gérard Mairet, Le discours et l’historique*, dans lequel 1 tente d’analyser ce qu’il nomme la crise de l’historiographie caractéri- _ sée, dit-il, par le passage de l’événement a la structure, et dans le texte de Paul Ricoeur, Contributions de l’historiographie francaise a la notion d’ événement*, ou parlant de eclipse de l’événement, il decrit essentiellement cette mutation comme un effort pour décrocher l’écriture de l’histoire de la référence actantielle ou narrative. Cette version du role novateur de l’école des Annales aboutit finalement a

| un constat d’échec et elle se trouve ainsi a appuyer jusqu’a un certain point la démonstration que veut faire Michel de Certeau a propos de cette faillite, selon lui, inévitable. Au terme de son exposé dans lequel celui-ci attire l’attention sur l’effort des historiens pour se liberer du carcan narratif, il déclare: « Envisagée comme discipline, \ historiographie est une science qui n’a pas les moyens de l’étre*.» Ce jugement pessimiste sur l’issue de la crise historiographique, bien que

jue. .

2 W.H. Wacsu, «What Can We Learn from Historians?» Texte de ce collo-

, 3G. Marret, Le discours et Vhistorique. Essai sur la représentation histo-

rienne du temps, Tours-Paris, Mame, 1974. |

4 Texte présenté a ce colloque. — 5 M. DE CERTEAU, «L’histoire, science et fiction». Texte de ce colloque.

LA PHILOSOPHIE DE L’ HISTOIRE 217 plus représentatif qu’on pourrait le croire de la pensée des philosophes, mérite cependant d’étre revu a la lumiere du contexte plus large dans lequel se situe l’évolution de la pratique historienne.

I. LE POIDS DE LA TRADITION POSITIVISTE ET LE MALENTENDU DE L’OBJECTIVITE La tradition positiviste s’était donc cristallisée au terme d’une évolution qui, en cours de route, avait été marquée par l’émergence de la pensée critique®. A la base de la démarche narrative, persistait une conception de ?événement et du fait historiques comme uniques a tous égards. Uniques et originaux, les faits historiques [étaient parce qu’ils étaient inassimilables les uns aux autres et parce qu’ils ne pouvaient se répéter. Impossible par conséquent de les regrouper en une serie homogene afin de pouvoir aller au-dela de leur signification individuelle. A ce niveau, la fonction de Vhistorien n’était pas d’expliquer mais de rendre compte de ce caractére unique de l’événement

en le disant selon un ordre approprié: ordre chronologique. La dimension du temps était celle de lenchainement causal des événements, d’un enchainement d’accidents, peut-on dire. L’ historien éve-

nementiel était par son approche voueé a privilégier individu et ses actes et, davantage encore, sa vocation était de porter ses regards sur les hommes marquants, sur ceux qui modifient le destin de la nation, particulierement dans le royaume de la politique. C’est dans cette perspective que la biographie des grands hommes prenait tous son sens dans la pratique historienne. Ainsi congue, lhistoire était une

, discipline unique, fondée sur unique, sur le non-répétitif, sur |’ exceptionnel, voire sur le grandiose. Méme lorsqu’il était question de groupes ou de collectivités d’une sorte ou d’une autre, il s’agissait finalement dans le propos de l’historien de catégories sociales traitées comme des individus isolés. André Burguiere écrit a ce sujet: « Tout phénomene qui n’apparait pas sur la scene publique peut étre ignoré

par Vhistorien, non seulement parce qu’il ne correspond pas a une action consciente et volontaire, mais parce qu’il est censé échapper au mouvement historique’.» Cette forme d’histoire, fascinée par Punivers politique, theatre principal ou devait se dérouler le destin de la nation, et lieu privilégié, avec le militaire et le diplomatique, des actions d’éclat individuelles, était, il va sans dire, pratiquée aussi bien par des amateurs que par des historiens de métier. Sa survivance ex-

, plique pourquoi la professionnalisation de la discipline ne sera jamais 6 J. GLENISSON, Vingt-cing ans de recherche historique en France (1940-1965), Paris, C.N.R.S., 1965, 2 vol. Voir aussi La Nouvelle Histoire, pp. 460 ss. ? La Nouvelle Histoire, p. 40.

218 FERNAND OUELLET | telle qu’elle provoquera le remplacement total des premiers par les seconds: |’historien amateur a toujours droit de cité parmi les historiens, bien que de plus en plus marginal. L’histoire positiviste puise aussi ses racines dans le courant rationaliste qui se constitue depuis le XVI¢ siecle et donne naissance a la pensée scientifique. Elle repose sur une certaine idée de homme , - comme un étre rationnel, conscient et capable par la force de sa volonté de dominer l’univers. L’historien serait le bénéficiaire de cette vision du monde qui justifierait sa prétention et sa quéte de I’ objectivité absolue. Savant, il le serait donc par sa capacité de transcender - son milieu et son temps, d’échapper aux idéologies qu’ils secrétent,

en un mot, il le serait par sa puissance d’impassibilité; il le serait

| aussi par sa méthode qui lui permettrait de transformer l’événement en fait historique, de passer ainsi d’une connaissance indirecte a une connaissance quasi-directe de son objet®. C’est en ce sens seulement qu’on peut parler d’histoire positiviste a propos de cette tradition historiographique qui, parce qu’elle

se represente le fait historique comme unique, rejette la philosophie ,

positiviste au meme titre que toutes les autres. La raison en est que lobjectif de Vhistorien, forcément limité par la nature de son objet, n’est pas en bonne logique positiviste de dégager des lois et d’élaborer des théories mais de parvenir a la «vérité». Sa démarche doit nécessairement étre érudite, empirique et orientée vers la constitution du récit. Retracer les documents écrits, en établir l’authenticité et la véracité a laide de la méthode critique, en extraire les faits et les exposer en toute objectivité sans prétendre aller plus loin, tel est le

but ultime de cette pratique historienne. «Héritier de trois siecles d’érudition patiente et modeste, affirme J. Glénisson, pénétré de la | | critique mise au point par la philologie classique? », lhistorien positiviste disposait selon ses maitres a penser, Langlois et Seignobos, d’une méthode stre et parfaitement rationnelle. Ainsi, la discipline historique qui s’était élaborée en réaction contre les rhéteurs et les moralistes, avait, par sa méthode et par l’aptitude de l’historien a _ §’abstraire de son temps, un caractére scientifique incontestable. | D’un autre coté, en mettant au rancart toute prétention philosophique et théorique, en recherchant sa finalité dans le récit et non dans I’ explication, elle tendait a se définir en méme temps comme une humanite, apparentée a certains égards a la littérature et a l’art. Cette tradition positiviste, dont l’?emprise s’exerce a peu pres partout jusqu’en 1930, est celle qui a presque exclusivement attiré -jusqu’a tout récemment l’attention des philosophes et inspiré leurs § C.-V. LANGLolIs et C. SEIGNOBOS, Introduction aux études historiques, Paris, Hachette, 1898. Voir aussi G.J. GARRAGHAN, A Guide to Historical Method, New York, Fordham University Press, 1946. —? J. GLENISSON, Vingt-cing ans de recherche historique en France..., p. XII.

LA PHILOSOPHIE DE L’ HISTOIRE 219 analyses. Quand, dans son exposé, le Dr. W.H. Walsh se demande: « What can we learn from historians?», sa réponse se résume a un long récitatif qui, de paragraphe en paragraphe, ne fait qu’énumérer les éléments de la pratique historienne positiviste: History is about the individual... historians are before all lovers of detail... history really deals with the unique... historical thought is concerned with things that are strictly unrepeatable... History contains no theory peculiar to itself (theories in history are simply particular hypotheses)... no more than the insights of common sense... no jargon... correlations with no explanatory power... the procedure of history is the procedure of humanities !°...

Il est évident que cette approche tend a réduire la pratique historienne d’aujourd’ hui a ce qu’elle était en 1930 lorsque débuta sa remise en question et a ne voir dans les évolutions subséquentes que des ajustements superficiels sans grande signification. Pourtant, hors les regles toujours valables de la critique interne et externe des sources, du recours aux sources les plus authentiques et les plus valables, tous les fondements de l’approche positiviste ont été contestés par les historiens eux-meémes. Les premiers coups ont d’ailleurs été portés contre un credo de base, la prétention de Vhistoire positiviste a lobjectivité absolue. Dans Combats pour Uhistoire, Lucien Febvre écrivait: non, la science ne se fait pas dans une tour d’ivoire, par l’opération intime et secrete des savants désincarnés vivant, en dehors du temps et de l’espace, une vie de pure intellectualité... la Science se fait par des hommes baignant dans le milieu de leur €poque.. elle ne se sépare pas du milieu social dans lequel elle s’élabore!!...

S’il est une croyance qui fait probleme, c’est bien celle de /’ objectivité

absolue de Vhistorien. Il n’est pas besoin de creuser bien longtemps les ceuvres des chercheurs positivistes, de ceux mémes qui paraissent avoir recherché davantage le supréme détachement et poussé le plus loin une stricte application des regles du métier, pour comprendre que le récit a un sens et que cette signification, peut-étre parce que I’ histo-

rien positiviste néglige ou ignore la puissance de l’inconscient, provient d’abord d’une invasion inconsciente du travail de lhistorien par son idéologie, en particulier, par ses propres valeurs. Parmi les historiens canadiens, G. Frégault, dont oeuvre ne tranche pas sur celle de la plupart de ses collegues a cet égard, est sur ce plan un exemple interessant: lorsqu’il publie en 1944 sa Civilisation de la NouvelleFrance '7, ceuvre de synthese qui puise l’essentiel de sa cohérence dans Vidéologie nationaliste canadienne-francaise traditionnelle, G. Frégault avait déja amorcé la méme année la publication d’une série de biographies qui seront toutes construites, apparemment, selon les 10 Texte présenté a ce colloque. 11 LL. FeEBvre, Combats pour U histoire, Paris, Colin, 1953, p. 56. 12 Publié a Montréal en 1944. ,

90) FERNAND OUELLET normes du positivisme le plus rigoureux: érudition poussée le plus loin possible, démarche empirique appuyée sur un esprit critique | acheve et, dans la mesure du possible, prise de distance par rapport a tout jugement moral. Pourtant, prises ensemble et situées dans un contexte plus large, ces trois études spéciales, Iberville, le conqué-

| rant, Le grand marquis. Pierre de Rigaud de Vaudreuil et Francois

Bigot, administrateur francais '*, sont elles aussi des contributions a Pidéologie nationaliste traditionnelle et les hommes illustres qui en

sont Pobjet trouvent finalement leur place au Panthéon national, les

deux premiers parmi les héros et le dernier dans la galerie des anti-

| héros. Ici, la distinction, dont parle A.P. Fell!*, entre histoires géné-

rales et histoires spéciales ne vaut pas. Il ne fait pas de doute que l’historien, quel qu’il soit, entretient - des rapports plus ou moins complexes et subtils avec le présent, qu’il

se situe dans un milieu social donné qu’il assume ou rejette a des degrés divers, qu’il appartient a une classe sociale et qu’il posséde , ~ une idéologie. Ces diverses formes d’engagement impreégnent d’une fa¢on ou d’une autre son ceuvre scientifique. Mais il serait faux de

croire que, parmi les spécialistes des sciences de homme, il fait

constatation. |

figure d’exception a cet égard ou qu’il se trouve dans une situation plus délicate que ses voisins sociologues, économistes, politicologues,

demographes, géographes ou autres. Un exemple éclairera cette Au cours de la décennie 1950-1960, le modele le plus fréquem-

ment utilise par les sociologues québécois est celui de la Folk Society

, qui avait eté élaboré par l’anthropologue américain Redfield. On peut _ prétendre, sans crainte d’exagérer, que la vogue dont jouit alors ce schéma d’analyse tenait moins a ses vertus scientifiques qu’au sentiment qui prévalait parmi les intellectuels québécois d’alors que leur

société et ses institutions étaient mal adaptées aux exigences du

monde industriel et qu’il fallait les réformer. A ces hommes engagés dans la remise en question des bases de la société d’autrefois, il appa- yut avec plus ou moins de netteté que l’emploi d’un instrument d’analyse fondé sur le contraste entre la société traditionnelle et la société industrielle serait fécond. C’est pourquoi, les Essais sur le Québec

, contemporain |, édités par J.-C. Falardeau et publiés en 1953, consti-

| tuent dans cette perspective a la fois une critique du milieu canadien- frangais et un programme de recherche sur le phénomene de |’ indus- , trialisation et ses conséquences. Malheureusement, les grandes en- | '5 Le premier publié en 1944, le second en 1948 et le troisieme en 1952.

'* «General and Special Histories: The Problem of Objectivity in Cultural History.» Texte présenté a ce colloque. — 41S J.C. FALARDEAU (éd.), Les Essais sur le Québec contemporain, Québec,

| Les Presses universitaires Laval, 1953; M. Rioux et Y. MARTIN (eds.), French Cana- , dian Society, vol. I, Toronto, McClelland and Stewart, 1964: collection d’articles qui inclut les textes de Falardeau.

LA PHILOSOPHIE DE L’ HISTOIRE 221 quéetes préconisées dans le but de vérifier adéquatement ce modeéle ne

furent jamais menées bien loin. L’article de J.-C. Falardeau publié a cette epoque sur La paroisse canadienne-francaise au XVIT¢ siécle, illustre bien la nature de ces constructions intellectuelles faiblement appuyces sur une recherche empirique mais dont les conclusions étaient dictées par l’idéologie de leur auteur. II n’est pas étonnant de constater que la mise au rancart a peu pres complete vers 1960 du modele de la Folk

Society ne sera pas le resultat direct du labeur empirique mais le fruit arrivé a terme de la résurgence dans le milieu intellectuel québécois de Pidéologie nationaliste, hostile a toute tentative de comparaison entre les Canadiens franc¢ais et les primitifs. Marcel Rioux, un de ceux qui avaient poussé le plus loin Putilisation de la théorie de Redfield en Pappliquant a des habitats insulaires, écrivait en 1962, eépoque ou il est devenu sensibilisé a une idéologie indépendantiste et marxisante: S'il existe une sociologie de la dépendance comme celle que notre collégue Georges Ballandier a étudiée, il doit bien exister aussi une sociologie de l’indépendance; quelle que soit celle que chacun choisira selon son tempérament et ses aptitudes, les études qui en découleront pourront non seulement nous renseigner sur notre société, mais influer peut-étre sur la conjoncture méme'°...

Ce rapport intime entre lidéologie et le travail scientifique, qui existe aussi bien dans les travaux des historiens que dans ceux des spécialis-

tes des sciences sociales, a eté d'une facon mis en évidence dans exposé de Gérard Bouchard: que les vérités historiographiques naissent et meurent non pas par le «bas», c’est-a-dire par le jeu des vérifications et des contre-preuves, ou par |’ arbitrage implacable des données empiriques, mais par le «haut», c’est-a-dire au gré des glissements qui affectent les préoccupations, les facons de percevoir, les valeurs, les idées, tout ce qui fonde et oriente la construction du savoir !’.

Il est vrai que le présent, ce qui inclut des options idéologiques et Videntification a une classe sociale particuliére, exerce une fonction nourriciere pour Phistorien accomplissant son ceuvre; il est également vrai que la formulation la plus complete possible, a toutes les étapes de la recherche, des objectifs visés, des modeles et des procédés em-

ployés contribue d’une facon fondamentale a la réalisation d’une oeuvre scientifique. Mais, sil suffisait de faire conflance aux suggestions du présent, si riches soient-elles, et de recourir a une méthodologie.

bien au point pour atteindre tous les résultats désirés, alors les vérités historiographiques seraient dans tous les cas remises en question par les seuls tests empiriques ou, sans eux, elles ne le seraient pas. Mais il arrive aussi, méme fréquemment, que I|’historien soit écrasé par le 16 KF, OueELLET, «La recherche historique au Canada frangais», dans L. BEAUDOIN (éd.), La recherche au Canada francais, Montréal, Les presses de P Université de Montréal, 1968, p. 88. 17 «La science historique comme anthropologie sociale.» Texte présenté a ce colloque.

222 , FERNAND OUELLET présent et par ses appartenances: c’est alors que sa vérité tire son , origine de son idéologie et s’y accomplit. A ce niveau, l’idéologie a une fonction de contamination et peut méme stériliser tout l’ effort

scientifique. I] semble nécessaire d’admettre que le degré de

conscientisation de lhistorien est limité, qu’a cet égard il n’est pas différent des praticiens des autres sciences sociales et qu’il ne saurait, meme s’il le voulait, tout formuler a propos de sa démarche. Pour que sa méthodologie puisse conduire a des résultats scientifiquement ac-

quis, il est cependant un geste indispensable de sa part: c’est qu'il prenne conscience des conditions dans lesquelles il opere, qu’il marque une certaine distance entre lui et les sollicitations du présent et

, qu'il admette le relativisme de ses explications. Trop croire a l’objectivité ou accorder trop de crédit a la subjectivité revient au méme, c’est plus ou moins consciemment gager en faveur de l’histoirepropagande. Il est vrai que le discours de l’historien porte sur des valeurs et qu’en conséquence son discours est un discours de classe mais la science figure aussi parmi les valeurs de la société. Dans tout

, milieu ou la tradition scientifique est assez bien enracinée, les vérités historiographiques se font et se défond autant par le «haut» que par

le «bas», puisque, pour construire son objet, lhistorien qui désire faire ceuvre scientifique, doit étre actif a ces deux niveaux.

Il. - LA PRATIQUE HISTORIENNE D’AUJOURD’ HUI La remise en question de la croyance positiviste en l’ objectivité absolue avait conduit a insister sur le fait que lhistorien n’échappait pas ala regle commune, que lui aussi, en fin de compte, construisait son objet et que, par conséquent, il opérait des choix, qui, faut-il le souligner, ne devaient pas étre arbitraires. L. Febvre, le principal cri-

oe tique de histoire «historisante» ou «événementielle», affirmait a propos de la révolution scientifique qui avait touché toutes les disci-

plines: «Or, que nous enseignent ces sciences solidaires, dont exemple doit peser sur lhistoire? Bien des choses, mais ceci notamment: que tout fait scientifique est «inventé » — et non pas donné

brut au savant !8. » ,

La transformation de Vhistoriographie qui s’amorce avec les fondateurs du mouvement des Annales, L. Febvre et M. Bloch, tend a faire de Vhistoire, non plus une science du particulier, mais une science sociale comme les autres. L’ attention de lhistorien se porte alors sur le régulier, le répétitif, le quantifiable, le quotidien et le collectif. F. Braudel écrit a ce sujet: | - L’historien s’est voulu attentif a toutes les sciences de !homme. Voila qui donne

sa notre métier d’étranges frontiéres et d’étranges curiosités. Aussi bien, n’imagi-

oe 18 1, FeEBvre, Combats..., p. 57.

LA PHILOSOPHIE DE L’ HISTOIRE 223 nons pas entre l’historien et l observateur des sciences sociales les barrieres et différences d’hier. Toutes les sciences de homme, y compris lhistoire, sont contaminées les unes par les autres. Elle parlent le meme langage ou peuvent le parler !?...

Cette nouvelle histoire proposée par l’Ecole des Annales sera donc avant tout sociale, explicative et globale. Elle s’intéressera moins aux événements qu’aux structures, moins aux individus qu’aux groupes, moins a la causalité qu’aux interactions et aux interdépendances. Au départ, ses défenseurs eurent tendance a privilégier les rapports avec la science économique, a affirmer la suprématie des conditionnements économiques, pour aboutir ensuite a une vision du social sous l’angle

des classes et méme des luttes de classes; puis, avec le temps, des liens furent tissés avec la démographie et |l’anthropologie, ce qui aura pour effet de déplacer l’attention des chercheurs vers le probleme de la formation des communautés, qu’elles soient villageoises ou régionales, et vers les phénomenes d’ordre culturel. Pour bien marquer la

primauté du socio-économique, les premiers directeurs de la revue Les Annales précisent en 1929 dans le titre: «Les Annales d'histoire économique et sociale»; puis, dix ans plus tard ils publient sous le vocable: Les Annales d’histoire sociale. Le changement de titre de 1946: Les Annales: économies, sociétés, civilisations, annonce une lente évolution de lhistoriographie vers le socio-culturel. La révision de la notion d’événement se situe donc au coeur d’un processus qui tend a modifier d’une facon radicale l’exercice du mé-

tier d’historien. L’événement est toujours présent dans son univers mais il s’agit pour ’historien non-positiviste d’en prendre la mesure et de le dépasser. Au lieu de le représenter sous sa forme unique, isolée, il Papercoit qui se meut en faisceaux, relié a d’autres en un ensemble intégré qui, comme tel, possede ses propres caractéristiques et sa dynamique. C’est cette relation d’interdépendance des éléments qui le constituent, de ceux qui le soutendent et gui gravitent autour de lui et dont il dépend finalement, qui permet de déboucher sur le concept fondamental de structure et, du méme coup, sur les notions de temps et d’espace. Alors Vhistorien est incité a revoir ses postulats concernant le temps linéaire et la causalité simple qui Vhabite et le détermine. Le Goff écrit a ce sujet: Une structure n’est pas seulement un ensemble cohérent d’éléments ou la transformation d’un seul provoque a terme la transformation de tous les autres... En particulier, il (cet ensemble) doit se maintenir pendant une période pluriséculaire, il doit étre un phénomeéne de longue durée?°...

Ainsi, chez Braudel dont Le Goff s’inspire ici, la structure se confond

avec la longue durée, voire la tres longue durée de préférence, alors | que le temps court est celui de l’événement. « Dépasser |’evénement, 19 FB, BRAupDEL, Ecrits sur l'histoire, Paris, Flammarion, 1969, p. 55.

20 La Nouvelle Histoire, p. 530.

224 | FERNAND OUELLET dira Braudel, c’était dépasser le temps court qui le contient, celui de la chronique, ou du journalisme... L’histoire s’est employée, dés lors, a saisir les faits de répétition aussi bien que les singuliers, les réalités conscientes aussi bien que les inconscientes?!...» F. Braudel, au lieu de rattacher intimement l’événement et le temps court a la structure, les isole, affirme en quelque sorte leur autonomie, les annexe au passager, a l’aléatoire et recrée autour du court terme une sorte de lieu privilegié ou le récit positiviste est toujours de rigueur. Paul Ricoeur”? note d’une certaine facon cette difficulté lorsque, généralisant a partir

de ce cas, il signale que Braudel, dans sa tentative pour dépasser Pévénement, n’entreprend d’abolir le temps, de viser a l’immuable, que pour retrouver, a l’instar des autres historiens qui ont posé le

-méme geste, l’événementiel au terme de son aventure. a

Chez Braudel, la longue durée s’identifie a des réalités qui s’étalent sur des siecles, dont l’existence peut méme étre millénaire: c’est, a proprement parler, celle des civilisations ot la notion d’espace pa-

rait se confondre avec un ou plusieurs continents et ou elle vise a

- englober une grande partie de l’-humanité. Vus a cette échelle, les changements a | intérieur d’une société donnée et les luttes de classes sont a peine significatifs, tellement cette conception de la longue durée tend a la limite A se confondre avec l’immobile. A cette vitesse de | croisiere presque imperceptible, l’évolution de l’homme se modeéle sur celle des structures les plus lentes: les climatiques et les géographiques, et elle parait méme coller au rythme de la «nature». Un pas

de plus et Braudel aurait pu s’interroger sur les regles qui gerent univers et rendent compte de la formation des civilisations, ce mot,

qu’a linstar de Lucien Febvre, il affectionne tellement.

G. Mairet aurait donc raison de déceler deux courants al’ intérieur de l’Ecole des Annales: «Ce n’est pas tout a fait la méme histoire qui va de L. Febvre a F. Braudel d’une part, et qui, de |’ autre, va de Marc Bloch a Ch.-E. Labrousse et P. Vilar... Deux lignes sont perceptibles, une qui va de L. Febvre a F. Braudel et qui infléchit Vhistoire du coté d’un savoir de la civilisation, ou des civilisations, l'autre qui va de M. Bloch a Ch.-E. Labrousse, plus préoccupée d’un objet: la société 27...» La structure dont il est vraiment question chez ces derniers, c’est la structure sociale. Pour Bloch, la société est for_ mée de classes, de groupes et de communautés rurales, dont I’ équilibre ne cesse de se transformer. L’histoire serait avant tout la science

du changement social. Elle l’était déja, d’ailleurs, pour Georges Lefebvre qui, en 1924, avait publié ses Paysans du Nord, ceuvre centrée

, sur la répartition sociale de la propriété et portant directement

, 21 FB, BRAUDEL, Ecrits..., p. 103. 22 P. RICOEuR, «La critique de l’evénement dans I’historiographie contempo- . raine.» Texte de ce colloque [La référence est a la présentation orale — Editeurs]. 23 GG. Maret, Le discours et [’ historique, p. 96.

LA PHILOSOPHIE DE L’ HISTOIRE 225 Vinfluence de Marx. Cette inclination marxienne se retrouve non seulement chez M. Bloch mais chez Ernest Labrousse qui, tout en main-

tenant une certaine distance a l’égard de la revue des Annales a laquelle il ne collabore pas régulierement, est néanmoins un des chefsde-file de la communauté intellectuelle qui est a l’origine de cette nouvelle tradition historiographique connue sous le nom de Ecole des

Annales **. Parlant de ses premiers rapports avec Labrousse qui, comme Febvre et Bloch, se rattachait dune certaine fagon a F. Smiand, Pierre Vilar écrira: Je sus, dés ce contact, que Vhistoire des prix, histoire conjoncturelle, ne demeurerait pas, comme chez Simiand, le support de généralisations psychologiques, ou sociologiques mais qu’elle pouvait fonder Vhistoire sociale la plus profonde, celle des classes dans la dynamique de leurs contradictions, et finalement éclairer, dans leurs origines et leur développement, non seulement des mouvements économiques, mais des pensées, des doctrines, des institutions, des événements?>...

La durée a laquelle s’adresse Labrousse n’est pas celle de Braudel, il s’agit du temps de la société. Celui des structures et des mouvements sociaux. La méthode de classement des différentes durées, depuis les mouvements saisonniers jusqu’aux intercycles, depuis le Kondratieff

jusqu’aux fluctuations séculaires, que Labrousse utilisera, n’est pas destinée a lemprisonner dans le conjoncturel. Elle sert a dégager de la masse des faits analyses les éléments les plus durables qui, finalement, constituent l’essentiel de la structure et permettent de

mettre en relief la dynamique du changement social. L’ approche conjoncturelle ne valorise la périodisation qu’en apparence puisqu il s’agit en substance de s’en abstraire pour la dépasser. Cela pose inévitablement le probleme de la modelisation et de la construction de théories.

L. Febvre est sans doute celui qui, parmi les batisseurs de V’Ecole des Annales, semble avoir le plus résisté a l engagement théorique. Pourtant, des le moment ou le mot structure fut lancé, le besoin

d’hypotheses, de modeles ou de cadres théoriques se faisait sentir. Une fois admise l’idée que I’historien construisait lui-méme son objet d’une facgon rationnelle, tout en s’alimentant au présent, la nécessité de l’élaboration d’un arriere-plan conceptuel pouvait aller de soi. L. Febvre écrivait sa sympathie a ce sujet: | Alors, ala base de votre histoire, des «théories » ? Le mot n‘a rien qui puisse me faire reculer?®... —

Plus tard, il ira meme jusqu’a affirmer avec vigueur la nécessité d’une approche appuyée sur une théorie: 24 La Nouvelle Histoire, p. 29. 2S J. GLENISSON, Vingt-cing ans..., p. XXIVs., n. 3. 26 L. FEBVRE, Combats..., p. 58.

926 , , FERNAND OUELLET Or sans théorie préalable, sans théorie préconcue, pas de travail scientifique possible. Construction de l’esprit qui correspond a notre besoin de comprendre,

: | la théorie est ’expérience méme de la science?’...

[Il n’en reste pas moins que, malgré ces déclarations bien claires, la - plupart des historiens de l’Ecole des Annales, suivant en cela l’exemple de leur maitre a penser, marquerent dans la pratique beaucoup de lenteur et méme beaucoup de réticence a s’engager sur cette voie qui __- inceitait a formaliser les moyens de rechercher |’ explication. Cette attitude s’explique en partie par la difficulté que ces historiens éprouve-

| rent a se liberer completement de la tradition positiviste si hostile a

toute visée théorique. A défaut de pouvoir inventer leurs propres modeles, ce qui constitue |’idéal a atteindre pour plusieurs, ces historiens auraient pu emprunter aux practiciens des sciences sociales ces cadres conceptuels dont ils avaient besoin. Mais la crainte de I’ anachronisme et la conviction que ces modeles pouvaient difficllement étre transposés tels quels dans le passé furent un autre obstacle au renou| vellement historiographique. I] n’est pas étonnant dans ces conditions _ que le recours a la gamme variée des outils conceptuels générés par les sciences sociales ait été, pendant longtemps et le plus souvent,

pratiqué par des historiens qui, en France et surtout ailleurs,

n’avaient pas été touchés pas l’influence des Annales ou qui ne partageaient pas leur préventions. Ceci s’applique surtout a certains courants historiographiques américains. Il ne faudrait toutefois pas exa- ,

gérer le poids de ces résistances, passageres il faut dire, qui finiront inévitablement par s’émousser avec le temps. Dans son exposé intitulé Concepts of Social history and historical time, Reinhart Koselleck a raison de dire que le concept de totalité appelle celui de perspective et, partant, celui de théorie: «anyone who attempts to integrate the sum total of individual histories into one single total history

is bound to fail. This can only be attempted if and when a theory has , been developed which would make a total history possible. This

would in turn reveal that any total history always be the product of a necessary perspective’’.» Les historiens qui, d’une facon ou d’une autre, avaient été touchés par le marxisme adopterent plus facilement des démarches qui pouvaient étre qualifiées de théoriques. Ainsi, la société féodale de Marc Bloch?? n’est pas un événement isolé, perdu dans le temps et confine dans l’espace: au contraire, elle evoque des

, formes sociales complexes, durables et intégrées ayant leurs racines

dans un lointain passé et leurs aboutissants dans le présent. Elle avait force de modele et vertu théorique. I] en est de méme des schémas d’Ancien régime économique et social définis au terme d’une longue | 27 LL. FEBVRE, ibid., p. 117. ~~ *8 Texte de ce colloque. 29M. Biocu, La société féodale. Les classes et le gouvernement des hommes, | Paris, Michel, 1939; Les caractéres originaux de l’histoire rurale francaise, Paris, Colin, 1968, 2 vol.

LA PHILOSOPHIE DE L’HISTOIRE 227 experience de recherche par E. Labrousse*°. C’est lui d’ailleurs qui avait été en 1933 un des premiers historiens a décrire a l’intention de

ses lecteurs les procédés utilisés pour construire son Esquisse du mouvement des prix et des revenus en France au XVIITe siécle. A mesure que le temps passe, les ambitions théoriques inspirent de plus en plus le travail de ’historien qui hésite de moins en moins a emprunter aux autres disciplines, a vérifier des modeles et a vouloir a son tour en créer de nouveaux mieux adaptés a la compréhension des sociétés du passé. Sans reléguer individu dans l’oubli, il prend davantage conscience de l’intensité de la présence du collectif dans le processus historique. Alors que lhistorien positiviste avait tendance a tout individualiser, meme la nation, Vhistorien social s’intéresse d’abord au collectif et au caractere représentatif de Vindividu. En 1968, Robert Mandrou écrivait sur ce propos: En ce sens, l’avenement du collectif est une conquéte essentielle de la problématique historique; contrairement a ce que pensent des esprits légers, il ne signifie pas la condamnation ou la fin de la biographie; ni la négation du role de l’individu dans lhistoire: ce qui serait un non-sens; cet avenement signifie leur renouvellement en profondeur?',..

Cet avenement du collectif dans la pratique historienne qui, avant qu’on éprouve le besoin d’y revenir, cette fois, pour les renouveler, avait occasionné un recul du genre biographique et de l’histoire politique, traduisait une transformation radicale des préoccupations des historiens. Désormais, pour ceux-ci, ce seront les collectivités qui

seront objet premier de leurs entreprises et ce seront elles qu’ils érigeront en agents du mouvement historique. Il est bien évident que

cette mutation reflete linfluence directe ou indirecte de la pensée marxiste. Car les collectivités dont il est surtout question ici sont le plus souvent le produit des forces économiques qui fixent leur statut et déterminent leur action. Le livre de G. Rudé, The Crowd in the French Revolution illustre cependant par son titre méme la vitalité des masses et, par implication, celle des classes et des groupes qui forment la société. Egalement suggestif a cet égard est le livre de Eugene Genovese sur les esclaves américains: Roll, Jordan, Roll. The World the Slaves Made insiste moins sur les forces qui déterminent l’exploitation dont les Noirs américains étaient victimes que sur leur role créateur: «The slaves made an indispensable contribution to the development of black culture and black national consciousness as well as to American nationality as a whole??...» E.P. Thompson ne parle pas autrement dans The Making of the English Working Class: 30° Le mouvement ouvrier et les théories sociales en France de 1815 a 1848, pp. 16-38. Cours de la Sorbonne. 3!) Primat de U histoire sociale. Propos sans paradoxes, Histoire sociale/Social History, 1968, pp. 7-15. 32, Publié a New York en 1972, voir p. XVI.

| 328 FERNAND OQUELLET explicitant son titre, il écrit en preface: «Making, because it is a study in an active process, which owes as much to agency as to conditioning. The working class did not rise like the sun at an appoin-

ted time. It was present at its own making ??. » D’ailleurs cette notion d’agent collectif, tellement centrale dans Vhistoire nouvelle, n’est pas limitée a Vhistoriographie marxiste. Elle

, se retrouve sous des formes diverses chez la plupart des historiens

sociaux. Les uns, il est vrai, n’attribuent un role actif et créateur

qu’aux élites et aux classes dirigeantes ; mais, pour tous ceux qui pensent la société en termes de classes et de luttes de classes, celles-ci,

- qu’elles soient dirigeantes ou dominées, jouent presque toujours un

| role actif dans les rapports sociaux. Parce qu’elle influence I’ intensite et la nature des conflits, la question des consciences de classes est toujours un élément qui entre en jeu dans la discussion. Ces distinctions permettent de comprendre pourquoi les Bourgeois de Paris au XIX siécle d’ Adeline Daumard34 semblent naturellement maitres de leur destin alors que les Paysans du Languedoc de E. Le Roy Ladurie paraissent évoluer dans un univers plus complexe et plus insai-

sissable. , |

Cette notion d’agent collectif ne vaut pas seulement pour les classes sociales, elle s’applique aussi a des ensembles auxquels les historiens sont de plus en plus sensibilisés: les communautés rurales _ et les milieux familiaux. Pour les études portant sur ces groupes, dont le nombre croit tres rapidement, les modeles susceptibles d’inspirer la

démarche des historiens ne manquent pas tant chez les sociologues que chez les anthropologues. Le village immobile 3° de G. Bouchard comme la République au village *’ de M. Agulhon et Le village occitan 78 de E. Le Roy Ladurie en sont de bons exemples. Mais, la n’est

pas la fin de Vhistoire puisque les formes de regroupements humains

, sont tellement nombreuses dans tous les domaines qu’il est impossi-

ble de les €numérer toutes afin de rendre compte de la fagon la plus concrete possible de cette présence massive du collectif dans le present et dans le passé. Vouloir en rester a l'image de l’agent historique , individuel et a l’unique pour définir la pratique historienne, c’est ignorer la mutation profonde qui s’est engagée dans I’historiographie de-

puis Marc Bloch, de celui qui ne pouvait discuter le ciment des communautés villageoises sans, en méme temps, soulever a leur propos la question de leur stratification. Pour celui-ci, histoire était une science sociale comme une autre et son authenticité ne faisait pas de

doute. La théorie du résidu que semble soutenir M. de Certeau lui

, | 33 Publié A Harmondsworth, 1974, voir p. 8. | 34 Paris, Flammarion, 1970. 35 Paris, S.E.V.P.E.N., 1969. Publié pour la premiere fois en 1966. 36 Le village immobile. Sennely-en-Sologne, Paris, Plon, 1972. 37. Publié a Paris en 1970. — ,

| 38° Montaillou. Village occitan, de 1294 a 1324, Paris, Gallimard, 1975.

LA PHILOSOPHIE DE L’ HISTOIRE 229 aurait sans doute paru paradoxale pour ne pas dire frivole: «son discours, déclare ce dernier en parlant de lhistorien, prend en charge ce qui résiste le plus a la scientificité (le rapport social a l’événement, a la violence, au passé, a la mort), c’est-a-dire ce que chaque discipline

scientifique a du éliminer pour se constituer*®...» Quand E. La-

brousse en arrive au milieu des années 1960 a centrer son intervention sur histoire des structures sociales et des mouvements sociaux, il la

situe au coeur meme de ce qui constitue la substance de l’analyse sociale; /e collectif. Quand G. Lefebvre écrit la Grande Peur, il oeuvre non pas sur les marges mais précisément la ot fermente la psychologie sociale. S’il fallait pointer du doigt la visée la plus spécifique

de Vhistorien, il faudrait sans aucun doute le fixer sur la notion de changement social.

L’entrée en scene du collectif dans la pratique historienne

constituait d’elle-méme une invitation a mettre accent sur le caractere repétitif de ’Pévenement et sur ses éléments quantifiables. L’histoire sérielle, telle que ’entendra Pierre Chaunu a l’époque de la pu-

blication de son Séville et [ Atlantique *°, ne se limite pas a accumuler des successions chronologiques de données chiffrées, elle vise 4 mettre en place des séries paralleles dépendantes les unes des autres pour leur signification globale. Des lors, le role du chiffre dans l’historiographie n’est plus seulement d’illustrer le propos de Vhistorien, d’en

fournir la preuve directe ou circonstancielle mais bien de servir de cadre d’analyse. C’est a partir de cette perspective que Chaunu avait décidé de jauger le phénomene de I’émergence des Amériques espagnoles en s’appuyant principalement sur le mouvement des trafics portuaires: «mettre le chiffre au coeur de l’entreprise, avait-il déclaré dans son oeuvre, refuser délibérément de ne rien accepter qui ne fut mesurable, de ne rien construire qui ne vint s’ordonner autour de la série élaborée*! ». Ce furent des preoccupations semblables qui inspirerent notre Histoire €cono-

mique et sociale du Québec *?. Cette fagon de voir avait été exprimée des 1932 par le sociologue Francois Simiand dans son livre: Le sa-

laire, ’ évolution sociale et la monnaie* et, une année plus tard, par E. Labrousse qui, lui aussi, voulait «abattre les cloisons entre les sciences humaines » et s’intéressait alors aux rapports entre les prix et les revenus. A ce niveau, l’historien ne pratique pas un langage étranger a celui du sociologue, de l’économiste et du démographe. Lors-

39 Texte de ce colloque. |

40 Immense étude publiée de 1955 a 1960, 12 vol. de statistiques et d’analyse dont 4000 pages consacrées a celle-ci. 41 Compte rendu de F. OUELLET dans la Revue d’histoire de Amérique fran-

caise, 1956, p. 436. | 42°F. OUELLET, Histoire économique et sociale du Québec, 1760-1850. Structu-

res et conjoncture, Montrell, Fides, 1966; Le Bas-Canada, 1791-1840. Changements structuraux et crise, Ottawa, Editions de l Université d’Ottawa, 1976. 43 Publié a Paris en 1932. Voir aussi J. Bouvier, «Feu Francois Simiand?», Les Annales, 1973, pp. 1173-1193.

930 FERNAND OUELLET qu'il construit pour une localite, pour une region ou pour un pays donnés des séries, échelonnées sur des périodes plus ou moins longues, de naissances, de mariages et de déces, il ne procede pas a Vaddition de faits uniques, il s’engage a l’instar de son collegue des > sciences sociales dans une démarche visant a la reconnaissance d’une

structure. S’il veut aller plus loin et mettre en rapport les séries ainsi

| construites avec les prix, la production agricole et les quantites de | terres disponibles, il emprunte une voie qui le conduit a dégager des

sociaux. ,

ensembles beaucoup plus complexes, mobilisés par des forces éco-

, nomiques et démographiques ayant un impact direct sur les rapports S’il désire introduire /a mesure dans sa pratique de facon a

~ Vajuster a ’exploration chiffrée du collectif, ?historien est obligé de s’intéresser beaucoup moins aux documents individuels qu’a de vastes ensembles archivistiques bien conservés, bien intégrés et riches en données chiffrées ou quantifiables. Car la réponse aux questions qu’il se pose, nécessite plus que |’élaboration de modeles ou |’utilisation de théories toutes faites; elle suppose la mise en ceuvre d’une démarche empirique dont les résultats ne sont pas acquis d’emblée. Le travail de vérification des hypotheses débouche le plus souvent sur l’invention de nouveaux tests, sur la découverte de nouveaux indicateurs et la quéete de nouvelles sources d’informations. Ainsi, pour les mémes fins que l’économiste et le sociologue, Vhistorien de l’économie ou de l’ agriculture a besoin de connaitre le volume, |’éventail et les tendances de la production agricole. S’il dispose pour une longue période de recensements annuels, bien faits, suffisamment détaillés, son travail d’analyse s’en trouve d’autant simplifié. Mais si les recensements officiels sont sporadiques, partiels ou font simplement défaut, il est bien forcé, en prenant toutes les précautions nécessaires, de recourir a toutes sortes d’indicateurs, directs ou indirects, des quantités produites et des tendances de la production. Dans les pays ou le clergé -percevait la dime (un pourcentage de la récolte des grains), ou celle-ci n’était pas affermée et ou la population était homogene sur le plan religieux, cette taxe, a condition que les archives ecclésiastiques aient | éte bien conservées, peut étre employée pour estimer la production

des grains. Cette démarche suppose naturellement que l’évasion fiscale n’était pas trop considérable dans ce cas. C’est en partant des

- rapports faits par les curés du Québec a leur évéque a propos des

grains versés en dime que nous avons pu reconstituer** le recensement de 1784 qui ne faisait état que des quantités semées et des troupeaux pour chaque localité. Mais il existe bien d’autres indicateurs du mouvement et de la structure de la production: les exportations, lors-

, que le marche intérieur est faible, constituent la reproduction négo- _ | 44 EF, OUELLET, « Libéré ou exploité! Le paysan québécois d’avant 1850», His— toire sociale/Social History, 1980, pp. 339-369.

LA PHILOSOPHIE DE L’ HISTOIRE 231 ciée; la Quéte de l’ Enfant-Jésus, dons volontaires mais institutionnalisés de produits agricoles faits sur une base annuelle par les paysans a leurs curés, peut refléter la structure et l’allure de la production; la portion de la rente seigneuriale payée en nature par les censitaires; la rente que les locataires de moulins versent a leurs propriétaires. Tout cela prouve le caractere de plus en plus complexe de la pratique historienne en regard des objectifs nouveaux qu’elle s’est fixee.

Malgré toutes les difficultés de recourir a la quantification pour les périodes ou le chiffre n’ était pas le pain quotidien des institutions qui produisaient des documents pour servir leurs fins, l’aire du quantitatif ne cesse de s’étendre dans le temps et dans l’espace. De méme les possibilités d’ utilisation de la statistique, de l informative et méme

de la mathématique s’accroissent en méme temps que les taux de réussite en ce domaine. C’est dans cette foulée qui ne justifie aucunement les propos caricaturaux de M. de Certeau**, que s’est développée ce qu’on appelle la New Economic History. Bien que celle-ci ait tendance a reléguer le qualitatif dans l’ oubli,

elle n’exprime pas a cet égard un point de vue représentatif de celui de ensemble du milieu historien attiré par histoire quantitative. Car le temoignage ne se comprend vraiment bien qu’en fonction du cadre quantitatif dans lequel il s’insére et celui-ci ne livre toute sa richesse que dans la mesure ou il est mis en rapport avec les dires des contemporains. Parlant de son approche conjoncturelle, P. Chaunu déclarait: «La conjoncture... serait donc une méthode qui permettrait de révéler le plus de corrrélations possibles entre les séries apparemment les plus éloignées. Mais cette méthode n’entend pas seulement saisir ce qui se préte au chiffre, a la série, elle vise a y incorporer le maximum d’humain que les documents expriment*...» Explicitant davantage son ambition d’intégrer, sans laisser de résidu, toute la réalité humaine dans son analyse, Chaunu ajoutait a son propos: Loin d’étre le domaine de l’événementiel et par conséquent de |’accidentel, par opposition au continu et au logique du structurel, la conjoncture tenterait, au contraire, si la chose est possible, de reculer le domaine de |’ accidentel et d’introduire des liens logiques dans les secteurs abandonnés, jusqu’alors, a l’aberrant*’...

En somme, c’est en prenant en charge ce qui Se mesure et s’apprécie, ce qui dure et ce quireleve du temps court, tout en n’oubliant pas que

celui-ci se rattache aussi a une structure, que Vhistorien social parviendra a réaliser jusqu’a un certain point sa visée totalisante. Ce n’est pas un hasard si les Annales naissent en 1929, au moment ou la grande dépression, en accentuant les tensions de toutes sortes, allait revéler avec une unique intensité le caractere précaire de 45 Texte de ce colloque. 46 P, CHAUNU, Séville et l’ Atlantique, t. VI12, 1, p. 10. 47 Idem.

232 FERNAND OUELLET existence des masses et des classes populaires dans la société in-

dustrielle. La sensibilisation de Vhistorien au destin des collectivités et a la puissance des déterminismes économiques et sociaux était suggérée en partie par le milieu méme dans lequel baignait désormais celui qui avait charge d’interroger le passé et de jeter quelque lumieére ‘sur le present. L’histoire nouvelle serait donc pour une part le produit d’une certaine maturation, mise en évidence par la crise, de |’age industriel et il est par conséquent normal que cette pratique historienne

| en voie de renouvellement se soit engagée sous le signe du socio-

économique en tant qu’instrument privilégié de représentation globale

du passé. Si le premier grand livre de Labrousse avait contribué a lancer les études sur les prix: celles de J. Meuvret*® en particulier, | son second livre publié en 1943, La crise de l’ économie francaise a la fin de Ancien Régime et au début de la Révolution, avait donné un élan décisif a la tendance socio-économique. I] avait ouvert la voie

a aux travaux de P. Chaunu et de F. Mauro’? et a une floraison de

livres sur les ports et les trafics. Dans la mesure ou V’histoire nouvelle avait confirmé la fonction polarisante de la Révolution francaise dans

Vhistoriographie nationale, elle avait contribué a accroitre l’intérét des chercheurs pour |’ Ancien Régime au détriment des périodes les

plus récentes. C’est ainsi qu’elle avait suscité d’un mouvement presque naturel une multitude d’études sur les bourgeoisies et, plus tard, sur les nobles mais, de tout temps, sur les paysans. Le propos d’in-

troduction de E. Le Roy Ladurie a ses Paysans du Langedoc est significatif a cet égard: au départ, dit-il, auteur était déterminé a retracer les origines du capitalisme et de la bourgeoisie agraires mais, |

- en cours de route, il avait aussi découvert une paysannerie. Des étu-

des, comme celles de G. Duby, L’ économie rurale et la vie des cam-

pagnes de |’ Occident médiéval (parue en 1962) et Guerriers et Pay-

sans (parue en 1973), traduisent bien les diverses tendances de cette , historiographie totalisante et centrée sur le socio-économique. II faut dire que lintéret pour 1 Ancien Régime n’a pas été aussi exclusif que

notre analyse peut le laisser supposer: les livres de P. Léon, de B. , Gille, de J. Bouvier et de C. Fohlen*® sur le crédit bancaire et le développement industriel au XIXe siecle en témoignent. La these de

Paul Bois, Les Paysans de l'Ouest. Des structures économiques et sociales aux options politiques, depuis l époque révolutionnaire, dans

la Sarthe (parue en 1960), se rattache en plus au courant marxiste minoritaire mais fort bien représenté par P. Vilar et A. Soboul?!. 48 M. BAULANT et J. MEUVRET, Prix des céréales; extraits de la mercuriale de

| Paris, 1520-1698, 2 vol., Paris, S.E.V.P.E.N., 1960-62.

49 F. Mauro, Le Portugal et l’Atlantique au XVII¢ siécle, Paris,

S.E.V.P.E.N., 1960.

| | 50 J. GLENISSON, Vingt-cing ans..., p. XXIX, n. 1. >! Le livre de VILLAR sur la Catalogne a été publié en 1962, quatre ans apres les Sans-Culottes.

LA PHILOSOPHIE DE L’ HISTOIRE 233 Comme Les Sans-Culottes, son livre annonce une ouverture de I’ histoire nouvelle vers le politique que les historiens des Annales avaient eu tendance a reléguer dans l’oubli avec tout ce qui représentait |’ héritage positiviste. Mais, vers 1960, la recherche historique était déja orientée de-

puis nombre d’années vers les monographies régionales et locales. Cette tendance avait été accélérée par Il’entrée en scene de la démographie historique qui devait avoir a certains points de vue des répercussions capitales sur lévolution de la pratique historienne. Non pas que lutilisation de la démographie ait apporte une facon différente d’aborder les problemes. L’approche demeure globale ainsi qu’elle était lorsque la perspective principale était économique et géographique; mais, maintenant, elle s’enrichit d’un nouvel élement moteur, dune voie supplémentaire d’acces, peut-on dire, a la totalité. II suffit

pour s’en convaincre de lire les titres des chapitres de la premiere grande étude de ce genre, Beauvais et le Beauvaisis de P. Goubert, publi¢ée en 1960: les structures (1) géographiques, (2) démographiques, (3) économiques, (4) sociales rurales et urbaines; /a conjoncture (1) prix, (2) production, (3) démographie, (4) société. Le livre de R. Baehrel, Une croissance: La Basse-Provence du XVI¢-1789, publié année suivante, n’est pas vraiment construit autrement. Ce modele alors devenu classique s’applique aussi bien a Il’ceuvre de Deyon, Amiens, capitale provinciale qu’a celle de L. Pérouas, Le diocese de la Rochelle, 1648-1724, éditée en 1964, qui au surcroit integre des perspectives venues, a travers G. Lebras, de la sociologie religieuse. Cette emergence de la démographie historique confirme des facons de faire mais, en meme temps, prépare le terrain pour une insertion du culturel et de lanthropologique dans la démarche historienne. C’est icl que convergent les deux courants issus de M. Bloch et de L. Febvre qui, il faut le reconnaitre, avaient imprégné, bien que d’une facon inégale d’un individu a lautre et d’une génération a I’ au-

tre, les membres de l’Ecole. Ainsi, il ne fait pas de doute que F.

Braudel, directeur des Annales a partir de 1956, est celui qui a davantage assumé l’héritage de L. Febvre. Son ceuvre maitresse, La Méditerranée et le monde méditerranéen a I époque de Philippe I, pouvait apparaitre en 1948 comme la réalisation la plus spectaculaire d’une histoire, entrevue par le fondateur des Annales, a échelle des civilisations et des continents. Dérive également en ligne droite de L. Febvre l’histoire des mentalités dont R. Mandrou s’est fait le promoteur.

nature >?. ,

C’est une tendance qui n’hésite pas a faire appel a la psychologie sociale et, dans le cas de A. Dupront, a la psychanalyse. Les travaux de P. Aries et de M. Foucault relevent de préoccupations de méme 82, RY MANDROU , Introduction @ la France moderne, Essai de psychologie historique, 1500-1640, Paris, Michel, 1961: Classes et luttes de classes en France au début du XVIT° siécle, Messine, Casa editrice G. d’Anna, 1965; P. Aries, L’enfant et la vie

, (234 FERNAND OUELLET — -- Des 1965, au coeur méme de la fermentation historiographique, il

était possible de noter une réorientation des études historiques. Le recul de l’approche socio-économique en faveur d’une approche socio-culturelle, sans étre spectaculaire, n’en était pas moins percep-

, tible. La sensibilisation croissante des historiens aux phénomenes d’ordre communautaire et culturel qu’il traduisait, avait peut-étre sa source principale dans les nouvelles interrogations scientifiques des

historiens mais elle dépendait aussi de réactions, partagées par les ,

historiens, de certains groupes sociaux contre le caracteére impersonnel et aliénant de la société industrielle contemporaine. Cette nouvelle

, sensibilité historienne, qui se retrouve aussi parmi les praticiens des autres sciences sociales, incitait a un relachement relatif des rapports avec |l’économique et a un renforcement des liens avec la démogra_ phie et ’anthropologie. Au cours de la période 1964-68, 18% des articles publiés dans les Annales avaient un caractere anthropologique et,

de 1969 a 1976, ce pourcentage monte a 34%. Cette progression

, sujet: |

continue depuis 1960 touchait d’ailleurs les livres au méme titre que les articles de revues et elle affectait aussi bien les productions des _ historiens marxistes*? que celles des autres. A. Burguiere écrit a ce L’anthropologie historique correspond peut-étre beaucoup plus a un moment qu’a un secteur de la recherche historique. Elle attire a elle aujourd’ hui les nouvelles méthodes et les nouvelles problématiques, comme ce fut le cas pour l’histoire économique et sociale dans les années 19505.

Au fond et a plus long terme, tout ce que cela veut dire, une fois que

le bilan peut étre dressé de ces multiples expériences, c’est que la nouvelle pratique historienne est en train de se construire et de se perfectionner en un lieu qui est désormais le sien: celui des sciences de homme. Le livre de André Burgiere, Bretons de Plozévet, publié en 1971, illustre bien cette conclusion. Environ cent chercheurs de presque toutes les disciplines avaient participé a la recherche et aux enquétes sur cet isolat francais. Plus de quarante articles avaient été écrits au cours de cette expérience de recherche collective. C’est a Vhistorien Burguiére que fut confiée la tache d’en consigner les résul-

tats dans un livre qui, a n’en pas douter, reléve de cette pratique _ historienne nouvelle, que nous avons décrite comme sensible au collectif et interdisciplinaire.

familiale sous l Ancien Régime, Paris, Plon, 1960; Essais sur histoire de la mort en Occident ; L’>homme devant la mort, Paris, Seuil, 1977; M. VOYELLE, Piété baroque et déchristianisation en Provence au XVIII¢ siécle, Paris, Plon, 1978. °° History Workshop Journal, 1978, pp. 79-100. Voir aussi le texte de ce colloque de M. LAGUEUx, « Ambivalence et pertinence de la philosophie marxiste de I|’his-

toire. »

°4 La Nouvelle Histoire, p. 45. |

L’historien en quete d’un langage par CLAUDE PANACCIO Université du Québec a Trois-Rivieres

LE MARCHAND DE LANGAGES

Ce qui m’a le plus frappé au cours de nos délibérations de ces derniers jours, c’est la question du choix d’un langage pour I’histotre comme discipline académique. Je voudrais, pour résumer quelques-

unes des idées et des interrogations qui me sont venues a l’esprit, vous proposer d’abord une allégorie. Supposons qu'il existe, dans une quelconque ville universitaire du sud des Etats-Unis, un marchand de langages. Imaginons-le dans son immense boutique. Un rayon est consacré aux langues naturelles:

le francais, anglais, allemand, le bantou, le dialecte de telle tribu iroquoise..., il les a toutes en stock. Ailleurs, ce sont les langages formels; on y trouve le systeme de Frege, celui des Principia Mathematica, ceux de Lesniewski et de tous les autres logiciens polonais, tous les langages mathématiques dont, bien str, celui des probabilités: ici encore, notre marchand dispose d’un éventail complet. Mais il y aplus: il vend des langages-machines, des codes secrets, des langa-

ges spécialisés comme ceux de la physique, de la chimie ou de la biologie. Et surtout, il vend des pieces détachées, des morceaux de rechange, des accessoires: vous pourriez vous procurer la tout un lexique, ou bien des regles syntaxiques, des regles d’inférence, des postulats de signification, des définitions, des regles de dénotation, des connecteurs logiques, des quantificateurs, et vous pourriez, Si vous en aviez la patience, vous bricoler votre propre langage ou en tout cas enrichir considérablement celui que vous utilisez déja.

La supposition n’est pas si farfelue: je connais déja bien des gens qui gagnent leur vie a vendre des accessoires linguistiques, — les philosophes peut-étre sont de ceux-la. La seule difference est qu’en général leurs stocks sont plus restreints. Or voici que dans la fabuleuse boutique entre un client. Je voudrais, dit-il, un langage pour écrire des livres d’histoire. Le marchand, lui, n’est pas historien; 11 demande des précisions: que voulez-vous

faire au juste? Mes langages, ce sont des outils. Certains sont tres précisément adaptés a des fins bien précises; d’autres sont moins spécifiques et plus malléables. Votre choix, dit-il au client, dépend de vos objectifs et des contraintes auxquelles vous étes soumis. Et ne me

236 CLAUDE PANACCIO dites pas que vous voulez pouvoir produire des énoncés vrais: tous mes langages, ou presque, en sont capables. Dites-moi plutot quels intéréts vous voulez servir, quels effets vous voulez provoquer, quel-

les fins vous voulez atteindre.

L’allégorie, vous le devinez, pourrait étre exploitée longuement.

, Quel plaisir ce serait que d’imaginer la suite du dialogue, le marchandage, les tergiversations du client, les boniments du vendeur, le dé-

pouillement des catalogues, les promenades dans les rayons, et combien d’autres épisodes tout aussi palpitants. Sans doute y reconnaitrait-on plusieurs des débats qui ont eu lieu ici méme. Mais le

temps nous presse et je dois couper court. La ou je veux en venir pour l’instant, c’est a ceci: si nous cherchons a évaluer le discours de

| Vhistorien — et, malgre toutes les dénégations polies des philosophes diplomates, c’est bien de cela qu'il s’agit quand on se demande si lhistorien peut dire le vrai, s’il peut étre objectif, s’il peut expliquer

Jes phénomenes, assigner des causes, formuler des lois — si donc nous cherchons a évaluer ce discours, la premiere chose (ou en tout cas lune des plus importantes) a évaluer, c’est le langage dans lequel Phistorien construit son discours. Les regles logico-linguistiques que de fait ii emploie — regles sémantiques, regles de définition, regles d’inférence, regles de construction du texte, etc. — sont-elles les plus appropriées? Or la discussion de telles questions suppose non seulement qu’on décrive le langage de l’historien avec ses propriétés syntaxiques et sémantiques, mais également qu’on en formule les objectifs généraux. _ L’HISTOIRE POLYMORPHE

, A s’engager dans une telle entreprise, on s’apercevra sans doute

tres tot gu’il n’est pas possible d’assigner a tous les travaux qu’on , appelle « historiques » un ensemble unifie d’ objectifs communs, pour la

bonne et simple raison que les historiens n’essaient pas tous de faire la meme chose. Certains voudraient proposer des modeles éthiques,

, des valeurs, des exemples a imiter: songeons a ce que nous disait Raymond Polin en parlant de la «résurrection des grand hommes». D’autres peut-étre voudraient rendre possible des prédictions sur avenir, ou en tout cas permettre, comme le suggérait monsieur Koselleck, d’orienter nos attentes collectives. D’autres encore visent davantage, explicitement ou non, a répondre a ce que j’appellerais I’ « in-

téret dramatique», cet intérét, plus émotif qu’intellectuel et probablement-assez complexe, que nous trouvons aux recits de toutes sortes, romans, films, potins ou anecdotes, surtout lorsqu’ils nous sont

présentés comme véeridiques. ,

Nous sommes en face d’objectifs tres différents ou, si vous voulez, d’intéréts pratiques fort variés, et la liste pourrait en étre facilement allongée. Il me parait douteux qu’on puisse atteindre tous ces

L’HISTORIEN EN QUETE D’UN LANGAGE 937

térét). |

objectifs a la fois a Paide d’un ensemble unifié de regles linguistiques. En tout cas, ce n’est pas nécessaire: on pourrait aussi bien dissocier les objectifs (ou les intéréts) et recourir a des langages (ou des jeux de langage) spécifiquement appropriés a chaque objectif (ou a chaque in-

Cela revient a dire que l’on fait probablement fausse route en

parlant, comme tant d’ auteurs, de l’histoire au singulier. Pensons seulement au Séville de Chaunu, a L’Ethique protestante de Max Weber, ala biographie d’ Auguste Comte par Henri Gouhier, au Descartes de Martial Guéroult, a Pouvrage de Panofsky sur l’architecture médiévale, a Phistoire de la revolution francaise de Michelet ou aux travaux de Fogel sur le chemin de fer américain. Que tout cela soit de I’ histoire prouve a l’envie qu'il n’y a pas une discipline unifiée qui s’appelle «Vhistoire», et que ]’on ne saurait s’attendre par conséquent a

trouver pour les historiens un langage commun. Si les objectifs va-

rient a ce point, il n’y a pas de raison de penser que les moyens puissent étre les mémes. C’est la, me semble-t-il, une conclusion qui ressort clairement du présent colloque. Mais cela ne signifie pas non plus qu'il y ait autant d’histoires que d’historiens. La pluralité des jeux de langage historiographiques, si elle ne se laisse pas réduire a Punité, demeure sans doute raisonnablement limitée, et il y aurait certainement lieu pour les épistémologues, quils soient historiens ou pas, d’essayer de les classer. Monsieur Fogel nous a proposé une division binaire: histoire traditionnelle [histoire scientifique; monsieur Fell nous a parlé de la distinction de Mandelbaum entre histoire générale et histoires spéciales; monsieur Ricoeur nous a entretenu de la répartition ternaire de Braudel, basée sur sa distinction des trois durées. Ce sont la de bons points de de_ part, mais on pourrait, me semble-t-il, pousser beaucoup plus avant et de facon plus systématique en élaborant une taxonomie des objectifs poursuivis par les historiens. Non seulement cela permettrait de décrire état actuel des pratiques historiographiques, mais cela fournirait aussi une base indispensable pour lévaluation de leur degré de succes, ce qui, qu’on l’admette ou non, demeure une préoccupation constante de tous ceux qui s’intéressent a histoire comme discipline académique. L” HISTOIRE SCIENTIFIQUE

Une telle entreprise de classification des objectifs se heurtera, cela est certain, a de nombreux obstacles d’ordre conceptuel et psychologique. Nous sommes tellement familiers des langages que nous employons qu’il nous devient fort difficile de prendre le recul nécessaire pour les considérer comme des instruments parmi d’autres. Nous avons tellement bien intériorisé certaines regles linguistiques, celles notamment de notre langue maternelle, que nous €prouvons

238 CLAUDE PANACCIO de fortes reticences a en admettre la contingence et la relativité. Trop facilement, nous sommes portés a croire que notre langage nous sert

tout simplement a dire les choses telles qu’elles sont.

Et cela est particulierement vrai, me semble-t-il, dans le domaine de l’histoire. Le fameux adage de von Ranke «montrer

comment les choses se sont produites» résumerait encore, malgré toutes les critiques dont il a fait P objet, 1’ épistémologie spontanée de bien des historiens. Lorsque Michel de Certeau nous parle des procédés de fabrication du récit historique, on a, encore aujourd’hui, faci-

lement impression qu’il fait ceuvre d’iconoclaste, qu’il adresse a Pobjectivité de Vhistoriographie un soupcon radical et qu’il dévoile impitoyablement quelque chose de «honteux» (pour reprendre sa

, propre expression). Lorsque plus haut j’ai mentionné, parmi les objectifs possibles des entreprises historiographiques, |’ édification morale ou la satisfaction de l’intérét dramatique, certains d’entre vous sans doute se seront dit que je passais completement a coté de l’es- _

| sentiel, la recherche d’une connaissance objective de ce que fut réellement le passé de l’humanité. En fin de compte, plusieurs des débats que nous avons eu ici ont continué de tourner autour du vieux pro-

bleme de la relativité de la connaissance historique. , , Aussi convient-il de s’arréter quelque peu a cette idée, si galvaudeée, de la scientificité du discours historiographique. Loin de moi - de vouloir contester que la recherche d’une connaissance objective fasse effectivement partie des objectifs de nombreux historiens. Mais il faut voir d’abord que ce n’est qu’un objectif parmi d’autres. Et | surtout il faut essayer de comprendre ce que ¢a veut dire. Or, a mon sens, la tentative de produire un discours scientifique (ou objectif) nest rien d’autre que la recherche d’un discours qui soit, en principe, intersubjectivement contrdlable, d’un discours tel que l’on puisse, au terme d’un nombre fini d’opérations explicites, établir entre les cher- — cheurs compétents un consensus quant a la valeur de vérité (ou l|’ac-

ceptabilité) des énoncés qui le composent. |

Un tel consensus est grandement favorisé, comme le montre

exemple des disciplines scientifiques les plus avancées, par Il’ utilisation d’un langage comportant des regles explicites de formation et de transformation des énoncés, des définitions précises des termes généraux (sauf pour un petit nombre de primitifs) et des regles explicites de correspondance entre les énoncés généraux et les observations in-

tersubjectives. Je ne vois aucune objection de principe a ce que l’his- | , torien, dans la mesure ou il vise la scientificité —- et uniquement dans cette mesure — recourre a un tel langage. II n’y a en tout cas aucune contradiction entre la these de la relativité historique, géographique ou culturelle des langages (méme des langages scientifiques) et celle, d’autre part, de la possibilité d’une historiographie objective. L’ objectiviteé, entendue comme le recours systématique a des procédures ex___plicites par lesquelles l’ acceptabilité des énoncés puisse étre intersub-

L’HISTORIEN EN QUETE D’UN LANGAGE 239 jectivement controlée, impose sans doute au choix d’un appareil lineuistique certaines contraintes séveres, mais elle demeure certainement compatible avec plusieurs langages bien différents les uns des autres tant au niveau du vocabulaire qu’a celui des regles de formation et de transformation des énoncés. D’ou l’on peut tirer les conclusions suivantes: (1) Iln’y arien d’illicite en principe a ce que certains historiens assignent a leur propre entreprise discursive certains objectifs prioritaires autres que la scientificite ou l’objectivité (par exemple la satisfaction de l’intérét dramatique). Certes iis devront, s’ils veulent éviter de donner dans la fiction pure et simple, continuer d’appuyer leurs constructions narratives sur certaines données intersubjectivement attestables, mais l’objectivité ne jouera alors dans leurs travaux que le role d’une contrainte accessoire susceptible de préserver la plausibilité des scénarios qu’ils proposeront. Le

genre biographique et, plus généralement, lhistoire dite humaniste seraient de bons exemples de ce dont je parle ici. (2) Ceux pour qui, au contraire, l objectivité scientifique constituerait un objectif prioritaire n’auront pour leur part d’ autre

choix que de se plier a de sévéres exigences de précision terminologique, de testabilite empirique et de rigueur logique. Il ne fait pas de doute qu’un langage formalisé (ou mathématisé) serait pour leur propos Vinstrument le plus approprié. (3) Méme dans ce dernier cas cependant, la recherche de I’ objectivité scientifique ne saurait constituer un critére absolument decisif pour le choix de tel langage plut6t que de tel autre, puisque l’objectivité est compatible avec plusieurs langages différents. C’est dire qu’il faudra de toute facon la compléter par le recours a d’autres criteres qui sans doute

devraient étre formulés de facon plus précise. Celui par exemple qui, a l instar de Gérard Bouchard, entendrait assurer la «récupérabilité» de certains corpus de données devrait sans doute recourir a un appareil linguistique différent de celui qui chercherait a formuler des lois statistiques de la croissance économique ou, comme Derek de Sola Price, de la croissance scientifique. LE LANGAGE ACTANTIEL

Je voudrais pour terminer m’arréter brievement sur un type de langage particulierement intéressant et que les historiens utilisent fréquemment, celui que Paul Ricoeur, ici meme, a appelé «le langage actantiel». Il s’agit de ce jeu de langage dans lequel la responsabilité

240 CLAUDE PANACCIO — de certaines actions est imputée a certains agents et, en général, mise en relation avec les intentions, les croyances et les motivations des agents en question. La question de la pertinence d’un tel langage pour les sciences humaines a donné lieu depuis plusieurs decennies a de nombreux débats, quelquefois apres et violents. On reconnait la certains aspects de l’opposition entre la psychologie behavioriste et la psychologie humaniste, ou encore entre la sociologie positiviste et la sociologie interprétative. L’histoire bien stir n’y échappe pas, c’est ce que nous a rappelé avec éloquence l’exposé de monsieur Ricceur. Or il s’agit encore la d’une question de choix de langage, qui

gagnerait, me semble-t-il, a étre discutée en termes d’avantages et d’inconvénients (ce que d’ailleurs M. Ricceur accepte volontiers de faire) plutot qu’en termes métaphysiques ou ontologiques (les agents existent-ils vraiment? les intentions existent-elles vraiment? etc.). Et il y aurait lieu, pour ce faire, de commencer par caractériser de facon plus précise la notion de langage actantiel. En guise de premiére approximation, je suggérerais la définition suivante. On appellera «langage actantiel» tout langage:

(1) qui comporte certains foncteurs engendrant des contextes référentiellement opaques (au sens de Quine), c’est-a-dire des contextes linguistiques a l’intérieur desquels le remplacement d’une expression par une autre ayant ordinairement méme dénotation (par exemple le nom « Walter Scott» par

la description définie «l’auteur de Waverley») entraine — quelquefois une modification de la valeur de veriteé de ’énonce dans lequel figurent ces expressions. Comme

exemples familiers de tels foncteurs, que l'on songe a ceux qui renvoient a ce que Russell appelle des «attitudes propo-

‘sitionnelles» comme «penser que...», «croire que...», —.-— «vouloir que...», «espérer que...» etc.; dans les phrases

formées a l’aide de ces foncteurs, il est bien connu que la substitution des identiques n’est pas toujours possible salva veritate: Si par exemple je remplace |’expression «l’ auteur

| de Waverley» par le nom « Walter Scott» dans « Edouard

pense que Walter Scott est auteur de Waverley », j obtiens un nouvel énoncé («Edouard pense que Walter Scott est Walter Scott») qui n’a pas nécessairement la meme valeur de vérité que |’ original ;

(2) qui comporte un prédicat de responsabilité de forme «— est responsable de —» et certains predicats PA1, PA2,..., PAn

, Oo (que j’appellerai « prédicats actantiels») tels que:

, pour tout individu x, si PAix alors il existe un certain état de choses p tel que x | est responsable de p. (par exemple: si Oswald a fait telle ou telle action, alors il

est responsable de la mort de Kennedy). |

L’HISTORIEN EN QUETE D’UN LANGAGE QA] Je ne m’attaquerai pas ici au redoutable probleme de définir le prédicat de responsabilité; je me contenterai de signaler ce qui me parait étre lune des composantes essentielles d’une telle définition: pour tout individu x, s’il existe un état de choses p tel que x est responsable de p, alors (en absence de circonstances spéciales) si p est bon, x est louable, et si

pest mauvais, x est condamnable,

ce qui fait apparaitre le caractere évaluatif du discours dans lequel figure un tel prédicat de responsabilité.

Si donc nous nous interrogeons sur linteret d’un tel langage pour l’historiographie, il nous faudra d’abord preéciser de quelle historiographie, nous entendons parler (notamment quels sont ses objectitfs) et ensuite évaluer les avantages et les inconvénients d’un langage ac-

tantiel relativement aux objectifs en question. On remarquera par exemple que pour les fins d’une histoire objective (au sens évoqué plus haut), le langage actantiel présente de tres sérieux inconvénients. D’abord les conditions empiriques d’identification des attitudes propositionnellles, on l’a tres souvent fait observer, sont difficiles a caractériser. Mais il y beaucoup plus grave: la logique et la sémantique d’un langage qui admet les contextes réferentiellement opaques paraissent, encore aujourd’hui, assez énigmatiques; et surtout le carac-

tere implicitement évaluatif du prédicat de responsabilité — et par conséquent des prédicats actantiels — semble compromettre en principe l’établissement de consensus et donc l’atteinte de ce que j’al appelé plus haut lV objectivité scientifique.

En réponse a de telles objections, Paul Ricoeur, dans la discussion qui a Suivi son exposé, attirait attention sur les inconvénients que représenterait Vabandon du langage actantiel par les historiens. Un tel abandon occasionnerait, disait-il en substance, une perte de signifiance du discours historiographique. Je dois admettre que pour ma part je n’ai pas une compréhension intuitive immediate de la notion de «signifiance» utilisée dans un tel contexte, mais je soupconne qu’elle renvoie ici a deux choses (d’ailleurs étroitement li¢ées Pune a lautre): dune part la familiarité du langage quotidien, qui est effectivement un langage actantiel; et d’autre part la capacité pour un langage donné de satisfaire ce que j'ai appelé lintérét dramatique. Ce sont la deux choses qui en effet seraient compromises par l’abandon du langage actantiel. Tout depend donc encore une fois de ce que nous recherchons. Ce qu’il me semble important de faire remarquer ici, c’est que I’ interet scientifique et Pintérét dramatique ne peuvent probablement pas étre satisfaits en méme temps et au méme degré: il y a la un choix a effectuer. Si on opte prioritairement pour le premier, le langage actantiel présente sans doute plus d’inconvénients que d’avantages. Si on

privilégie le second ou si on veut incorporer au récit historique une composante implicitement ou explicitement évaluative (si par exem-

242 | CLAUDE PANACCIO ple on cherche, comme c’est le cas dans la poursuite d’un proces, a imputer des responsabilités), alors le langage actantiel parait beaucoup plus approprié. Le principal obstacle a la discussion rationnelle de ces questions tient, me semble-t-il, au privilege spontané qu’émotivement et idéologiquement nous accordons a notre langage quotidien, cet instrument

extrémement riche, complexe et polymorphe qui tant bien que mal remplit, dans la vie de tous les jours, toutes sortes de fonctions fort diverses (c’est la son grand avantage), mais qui n’est spécifiquement approprié a aucune d’entre elles (c’est la son inconvénient majeur) et qui, de part en part, est traversé par les préjugés idéologiques les plus © profondément enracinés. |

On Being a Centipede: An Arthropod’s Eye- View of Philosophy of History

| by HAROLD PERKIN University of Lancaster

For a historian, contributing to a conference on the philosophy of history is rather like becoming the traditional centipede who was asked how he managed to walk. When he stopped walking to think about it, he fell flat on his low-slung face. But, although painful, it is sometimes therapeutic to stop what you are doing and consider how and why you do it. So I propose to be a centipede, a specimen, an exemplar of the species historian, and offer myself to the philosophic entomologists for critical examination. If that means raising my eyes from the grubby empirical world which I centipodally perambulate and try to become a high-flying, self-conscious, philosophising insect,

you will no doubt make the same generous allowance which Dr.

Johnson made for women preachers and bipedal dogs. On raising my eyes from the grass roots, the first thing I notice

is that few historians worry much about the problem which seems from my slight acquaintance to be the central concern of philosophers of history, the epistemological status of historical facts. Philosophers generally distinguish two kinds of history, what happened and what

historians make of it, and they seem to worry endlessly about the relation between the two: whether the first exists and whether the second is the arbitrary creation of historians. Historians know there are three kinds. History 1 is what happened, and may or may not be accessible to present inquiry. History 2 is what the past left behind

for us to inquire about: not only traditional written and printed sources, but all the physical and institutional remains of the past,

from buildings and their contents to laws and language. This kind is what we mean when we say that history is all around us, that it still

exists and is inescapable. History 3 is what we make of it which, because of History 2 against which it is constantly tested, can never be arbitrary, since so much incontrovertible evidence still exists. Surprising as it may seem, historians rarely argue about what happened. Most historical facts can easily be checked — more readily indeed than in the natural and social sciences, where an experiment or a survey may be inordinately expensive to repeat and has often to be taken on trust — though in cliometrics, the new ‘‘scientific his-

244 HAROLD PERKIN tory’ to use Robert Fogel’s term, there may be a good deal of argu- | ment about what is being counted and whether apples and oysters can be brought home in the same barrels. For example, how do you com_ pare the material and moral effects of the British industrial revolution on the standard of living, or the economic and humane advantages of

ante-Bellum slavery? But discussions about how we know that , Caesar crossed the Rubicon (which he seems to have crossed far oftener in philosophy than in life) are about as interesting to historians as the question whether the table exists when no-one is in the room (that other ignis fatuus of my philosophic youth) is to a carpenter. What historians do argue about is why Caesar crossed the Rubi— con and with what consequences ; or, since they are more often concerned with complex events and situations, why the Roman Republic was unable to govern an empire without resorting to military dictator-

, ship by acclamation. They are primarily concerned not with single

| discrete events taken in isolation, but with their significance in a chain of causation and consequence, their place in the explanation or interpretation of complex situations. ‘‘Significance’’ may be taken to mean the comparative importance of some fact, event or factor in the ensemble which make up the complex situation or chain of events. It often |

| implies a counterfactual proposition (‘‘if this had not occurred, history

, would have been different’’) but counterfactuals do not worry his-

_ torians. They belong to History 3, not History 1, and are a rhetorical device for bringing home to the historian and his readers the precise significance of an event or circumstance. They are merely one kind of step on the way to ‘‘explanation,’’ which may be taken to be a short-

term answer to the question ‘‘why?’’, or to ‘‘interpretation’’, the longer-term answer involving an elaborate chain of reasoning. All three terms refer ultimately to the main activity of historians which, surprisingly, is not the discovery of new facts — though this is often the starting point of an inquiry — but explaining them, which means asking ‘‘why?’’ with the persistence of a private eye or an examining magistrate. Philophers will appreciate this: asking “‘why ?’’ was how

, torical fact, ought to be. , . Yet “‘why?’’ is a deceptively simple question, and can entail _ | Socrates turned sophistry into philosophy — which, if it is not a his-

many sorts of answers. Most philosophers think that a satisfactory _ answer, whether in science or in history, involves an appeal to some

_ kindofcovering law, suchas Boyle’s law concerning the temperature and

pressure of gases or Say’s ‘‘law’’ that one half of the goods in the market buys the other half (thus rendering gluts impossible!). Yet | there seems to be a profound difference between the way in which, or , the persistence with which, a historian and a scientist answer the question. ‘‘Why?’’ for the historian means something both Jess and more than it does for the scientist: less, because he is not looking for universal generalizations or covering laws; more, because he expects

ON BEING A CENTIPEDE IAS to go on asking long after a scientist would have quit. He is like a small child who continues to ask ‘‘why?’’ until the adults lose patience and say, ‘‘That’s enough’’. He is not satisfied with the scientists’

answers, and the answer which will satisfy him goes beyond their standards of proof. Asked why a stone falls to the ground and a space satellite does not, a physicist will appeal to the covering law of gravitation. But if you ask him ‘‘why?’’, or ‘‘what is gravity?’’, he will answer ‘‘That is the way things are’’ and stop the questioning there (unless his name is Einstein, in which case he may attempt an answer in terms of unified field theory, but he will still come down in the end to ““That’s the way the universe is made’’). Now the historian too is constrained by the

laws of nature, as in the Defenestration of Prague or the Battle of Britain, both of which obeyed the law of gravity but neither of which it adequately explains; and even by the so-called laws of social sci-

ence, as in the inflation of the 16th century or the Terror in the French Revolution, whose historical significance went far beyond their economic or psychological causes. For an adequate explanation, the historian must press beyond the immediate ‘‘scientific’’ explanations to regions where covering laws, if such exist, are trivial or un-

helpful. The Battle of Hastings (that other ‘‘Rubicon’’ beloved of philosophers of history) was lost by King Harold because of the covering law that leaders with an arrow in their brains (if that is the way he died) are generally ineffective; or because of the excessively particular covering law that infantry with battle-axes are no match for

armoured cavalry with lances and broadswords, especially if the

former have just marched 250 miles from another battle, shedding deserters and morale on the way.

If this sounds like a reductio ad absurdum of the covering law argument, that may be because centipedes lack proper respect for covering laws. They sometimes even allow themselves to doubt whether they are /aws at all. The word ‘‘law’’ is not ambiguous but

‘‘triguous’’: it can refer to laws of nature, rules of logic and the normative laws by which human beings govern their affairs (from games of chance to the empire of the Medes and Persians). Human laws are prescriptive, rules of logic are analytic; both may be broken, though

with different consequences. But laws of nature cannot be broken since, if they are, they are no longer laws but exploded hypotheses. As for the unexploded ones, a naive centipede may ask, ‘‘If they are

laws, who made them? If the answer is God, why does He keep changing them, as when Newton claims that light travels in straight lines and Einstein says it does not, and yet both are in their own way

right ?”’ '

The answer is that scientific laws are not laws but observed regularities of nature (within carefully designated parameters). They are descriptive generalizations, not prescriptive commands. We call them

246 HAROLD PERKIN laws because of a bit of History 2 which still has power over our ways

of thinking, a historical remnant of Thomist or Enlightenment “natural law’’ which is still embedded in our vocabulary, inherited

from the pre-scientific belief that the laws of nature were made by God, like the laws of Moses but with tighter constraints. (You can still believe that God made the underlying reality if you like, but not the ‘‘laws’’ in which men feebly try to formulate it.) A similar bit of , History 2 we take less seriously, the pre-scientific belief that the heart

, is the seat of the emotions and the moon an influence on sanity. We

know that the latter are harmless (or not so harmless) metaphors, but we still talk about “‘losing one’s heart’’, ‘‘cordial relations’’, ‘‘lunacy’’ and ‘‘moon-struck’’ and sing ‘‘You’ve gotta have heart’’ and ‘‘Moonin’.’’ If we had more heart and less gall, perhaps, we would abandon ‘“‘legal’’ terminology in science and talk instead about ‘‘tentative formulations of descriptive regularities’’. That, I think, would leave the equanimity of most natural scientists undisturbed, though it - might upset some social scientists who still try to claim more author-

- ‘ity than their disciplines warrant by appealing to an outmoded

19th-century “‘scientism’’. | The hermeneutic advantage of the descriptive regularity is that it

does not claim to be absolute. It can work adequately enough, like Newton’s straight-line optics, within a limited context, the solar sys-

| tem, while giving way to a more sophisticated regularity, like

Einstein’s curvilinear optics, in a wider or more refined cosmology. Neither regularity, be it noted, answers the question why light travels in straight lines or gravitationally bent ones: it just does, and that, unless we are theologians or metaphysicians, is all we need to know. Nor does a descriptive regularity need to be 100 per cent true within its own limited context. It can be ‘‘probably’’ or ‘‘statistically’’ true, a tendency or likelihood that in an estimated percentage of cases a given cause will produce a certain result: e.g. accelerated neutron bombardment of atomic nuclei will produce certain particle traces in a

, cloud chamber, or a given level of exposure to radiation will produce

cancer in a certain proportion of people but not in the rest. Probabilistic or statistical regularities are especially useful in the life sciences, Where plants and animals of the same species do not all behave alike, and more so in the human sciences where men and women with similar motivations and desires can gratify or repress them either at will

or unconsciously but often do so in statistically predictable ways. Free will is not denied by such predictive regularity, which does not

doHistorians so.can, and do take account of such regularities of

determine how people behave but merely describes how they tend to human behaviour. Marriage rates and norms of family size, for exam-

, ple, differ systematically from one society to another, or from one generation to the next, and have profound effects on economic

ON BEING A CENTIPEDE 247 growth and comparative international relations. But the historian is never satisfied merely to find such a regularity: he still persists in asking why it exists. Why, for instance, did the French birth rate decline in the 19th century with such dire consequences for French industrialization and military strength? The answer may lie in the Re-

volution land settlement and the Code Napoleon and the effects of partible inheritance on peasant attitudes to family size. The regularity, limited as it is to one European country, is not a final explanation of French decline as a world power but an invitation to look for peculiarly French and therefore non-universal causes (which nevertheless throw light on the connection between property and inheritance laws and population growth elsewhere). A great deal of ‘“‘scientific’’ or

cliometric history is predicated on such observed statistical regularities, but in the first place they are “‘societal’’ or “‘ecumenical’’ regularities (Robert Fogel’s ‘‘limited generalizations’’), limited to one society or civilization (like the generally higher age of marriage in

pre-industrial western Europe than elsewhere) and in the second place where they occur they exist to be explained (e.g. by the spread of ‘‘acquisitive individualism’’ discussed below). Are there no universal generalizations or principles to which his-

torians appeal? There are some historians who like to quote homespun generalizations about human nature, like ‘‘All power corrupts’’, but on examination they prove to be tautologies, truisms or simply untrue. ‘‘All power corrupts’’ is not only untrue but a misquotation: Lord Acton said “‘All power fends to corrupt’, a probabilistic formu-

lation which, whether true or not, cannot explain the behaviour of any particular ruler. ‘‘All men must die’’ is a truism with profound implications for historical problems, from conflicts over political succession to the much neglected generational change in the arts, but it is of little value in explaining the Black Death or the Japanese kamikaze

pilots. As for universal “‘laws’’, I once discovered one myself, the ‘Jaw of the conservation of freedom’’. It states that in every society there is always the same amount of freedom, which differs only in its distribution: in Hitler’s Germany or Pharaoh’s Egypt one man had it all and the rest none; under early industrial capitalism factory owners had a great deal and factory children very little; in modern America workers, blacks and women have come to demand a larger share of it from employers, whites and males.' On closer scrutiny, of course, this turns out to be a near-tautology, an analytic proposition akin to a rule of logic, 4 premiss which contains its own conclusion. It is useful

because it exposes the naive liberal fallacy that everybody can be

free, in the negative sense of freedom from state intervention, | See my “Individualism versus Collectivism in 19th-century Britain: a False Antithesis,’’ Journal of British Studies, Fall 1977, pp. 105-118.

248 HAROLD PERKIN , whereas to achieve the positive freedom for factory children, the poor, the sick, the uneducated and the aged to have life more abundantly may require the positive intervention of the state. It does not explain, however, the distribution of freedom in any particular society | or why it changes over time. For that one has to have recourse to particularistic explanations, such as the rise of Nazism in Germany,

the factory reform movement in 19th-century Britain, or the trade union, racial minority and women’s movements in the modern U.S.A. This lack of satisfaction with answers based on universal principles or even limited generalizations may seem to preclude the discovery of any useful knowledge by historians, in the sense of knowledge which is transferable from one unique situation to any more general plane. History, it has been said, is ‘‘idiographic’’, concerned to explain unique events, rather than ‘‘nomothetic’’, concerned to establish

‘causal laws’ or descriptive regularities, but this offers too sharp a dichotomy between the generality of one sort of knowledge and the discrete particularity of another. Just as most descriptive generalizations

turn out on examination to be less universal than has been claimed | (unless they are self-validating propositions), so the most discrete | events, if they can be described at all, contain an element of general-

| _ ity. This is in the nature of human experience and in the structure of

the language in which we express it. History books are full of concepts like ‘‘revolution’’, ‘“‘monarchy’’, “‘feudalism’’, “‘capitalism’’,

— “nation’’, ‘‘class’’, ‘‘family’’, even ‘‘murder’’, ‘“‘treason’’ and | ‘“plot’’?, which imply comparison with similar events, movements and institutions and therefore a recognition of the generality of such concepts and the transferability of knowledge about them from one soci- |

| ety or period to another. That historians are primarily concerned to discriminate between them, to show how one revolution, say, differs from another, is no bar to a general understanding of revolutions. As W.H. Walsh perceptively suggests in his paper to this conference, ‘“‘historical thought involves generality without formulating conclusions which are explicitly general’’; ‘‘it offers truth at a certain level — the level at which we move when we acquire knowledge of the world in our daily experience.’’ And he goes on to suggest that

the historian treats historical cases like a good doctor treats a patient,

not in order to generalize about the disease but to diagnose and cure it by the application of his knowledge and experience — though the doc-

, tor, like the historian, might sometimes benefit from a refresher

course at the theoretical level. I find this approach sympathetic: it

| comes very near to what the historian is trying to do. History is a practical, problem-solving activity which brings to bear on a particular problem all the knowledge and experience (including vicarious experience of other societies and periods) which the historian can mus-

ter, but the reference to daily experience (while a hint in the right direction) suggests a much more amateurish, unsystematic activity ©

ON BEING A CENTIPEDE 249 than it is, and the historian may still doubt whether he is operating a hidden agenda of implicit generalizations which, if only he were cleverer, he could make explicit. What historians themselves mean by explanation is the unravel-

ling of the causes and/or consequences of particular (usually very

complex) events or situations in the light not of causal laws or

generalizations, implicit or explicit, but of the knowledge that human _ beings, though constrained by the physical, biological and societal pressures of their existence, are nonetheless free to respond to their ‘“total social situation’ in diverse because autonomous ways. To say that they have free will is not to say that they can, like T.S. Eliot’s McCavity the mystery cat, break the law of gravity, still less impose their will indiscriminately upon their friends and enemies. But it is to say that they can use their free will, along with others, to maintain or change their situation in ways which cannot wholly be predicted but can be ‘‘understood’’ in the sense of being expected or expectable by a person of experience, especially a person of organized vicarious experience like the historian. For the most important lesson that history teaches the historian ts the capacity not to be surprised. Understanding in this sense (Verstehen, not logical explanation) is akin to knowing another person, i.e. to being able to recognize him without necessarily describing him in photographic detail, and to knowing something of his character and personality and how he 1s likely to behave in various situations. To ‘‘explain’”’ his behaviour in a

particular situation is not to ‘‘explain him away’’ by proving under some covering law that he could not have acted otherwise, for in the

vast majority of cases he could have acted differently if he had wanted to. It is to make his behaviour intelligible to yourself or a third party by showing that it was consistent with all the rest that you know about him and his background so that you are no longer surprised by

it. This ability is empathy, the capacity to put oneself in someone

else’s place, to see and feel what he sees and feels, while still having all one’s wits, insights and values about one. To use Coleridge’s famous dichotomy, it is an act of imagination not of the fancy: it is the disciplined capacity to imagine what is, or what is probable, not the arbitrary whimsy which dreams up whatever one likes. The equivalent of empathy in the process of understanding history is the historical imagination. It applies to a historical personage, a society, a period the same combination of sympathetic insight and judgmental detachment which one ideally (i.e. if one really wishes to understand them) applies to one’s contemporaries. Whether, in the words of R.G. Collingwood, it is ‘‘a self-dependent, self-determining, and self-justifying form of thought’’* I leave to the philosophers to 2 The Historical Imagination: an Inaugural Lecture (Oxford, 1935), p. 21.

2960 HAROLD PERKIN decide, though I find it difficult to accept that ‘‘the idea of the past 1s an ‘innate’ idea’’ which the historical imagination provides with de-

tailed content (except perhaps in the sense that we have an innate

concept). , |

, capacity for language but not for any particular language, word or Nor do I agree that the sole function of the historian is to recreate the thought of the past, even if we extend this from individual | contemplation to ‘‘thought in action’’ or to collective thought.? For one thing, a centipede is bound to prefer putting himself in the shoes of another person rather than into his head, that is to see and feel his total social situation rather than what he consciously thinks about it (which in most cases is irrecoverable). For another, a concatenation of recreated psyches, however complete, would not provide the com-

| plete understanding the historian seeks. Since Collingwood’s day we have discovered a whole range of factors, often measurable factors like population changes, price movements, social mobility, rates of economic growth and technological innovation, which were perceived

only dimly or not at all by contemporaries, and we can no longer

, accept that they knew their own situation better than we do. Even their thought itself 1s capable of analysis in ways unperceived by contemporaries, in terms of the underlying assumptions and hidden im-

plications of the concepts they used. “‘Feudalism’’ and ‘‘capitalism’’ , are both examples of historians’ labels for systems of thought and social relationships which were not consciously perceived as such by the original people who inhabited them. The historical imagination must recreate not merely the conscious mind of the past but its whole environment, the ‘“‘total social situation’’ not merely of the individual but of the society as a whole. I can best explain what I mean by historical explanation with an example from my own work. My own career as a historian began (before I went to university) with the question, why did the Industrial Revolution happen at all, and why in Britain first rather than some other country? There were plenty of answers available — climate, geography, resource endowment, the ‘‘accident’’ of technological innovations, economic factors such as plentiful supplies of labour and capital, and so on — but I found them all not untrue or even unimportant but simply unsatisfying. Other western European countries had much the same or greater material advantages and yet could not bring them to produce the same result (until Britain had shown the way). So in The Origins of Modern English Society, 1780-18804 I went on ask-

, ing ‘‘why?’’ until I was satisfied. The question took me beyond the technological and economic causes, the inventions and the factory system, to the people who created them, the inventors and indus3. The Idea of History (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1946). 4 | (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1969).

ON BEING A CENTIPEDE 251 trialists, the landowners and the workers. Why did inventors put so much effort into inventing, the industrialists “‘scorn delights and live laborious days’’, the landlords provide the land and legislation for agricultural enclosures, factories, towns, canals, roads and railways,

and the workers exchange (in some cases at least) rural self-

employment for urban wage-slavery? Above all, why did people in large and increasing numbers buy what the new factory system produced, the mass consumer goods made by the new machines ? The answers led me back to the peculiar nature and structure of English society as it had evolved, increasingly differently from continental Europe, in the previous three centuries. At some time between : the Black Death and the English Civil War, England had ceased to be a largely peasant society dominated by feudal lords and had become an open aristocracy based on property and patronage. The landlords had become real owners of the land, able to exploit it as they would

and to benefit in higher rents from every improvement or change of use. The peasant had been replaced by larger capitalist farmers

employing landless labourers, whose surplus children had become industrial workers, mostly working in their own homes on mat-

erials and sometimes with tools provided by merchant employers. The towns thrived as organizing centres of this expanding capitalist outwork system. The old status barriers had broken down, and there was no obstacle (except poverty) to prevent a man from rising first into the rapidly growing middle class of farmers, industrialists and

professional men and then, if he made sufficient money, into the landed class itself. This open hierarchy encouraged social mobility to a far greater degree than in Europe, and men strove to enrich themselves in any way they could with the ultimate objective of buying themselves into the ruling class, which was difficult if not impossible elsewhere. At the same time, since status followed wealth, rising men strove to claim and express their status by social emulation, ‘‘keeping

up with the Joneses’’, a habit of spending up to the limit of their incomes which created a potential market for fashionable consumer goods which could expand inordinately with every reduction in price.

Emulative spending, the essentially social factor underlying the economic factor of elastic consumer demand, was the single most important driving force of the Industrial Revolution. It will readily be seen that this explanation, while imputing certain attitudes and motivations to large groups of people — landowners, farmers, inventors, industrialists, workers —- does not require any of them to be conscious of the consequences of their activities or

their involvement in a movement which was to change the face of Britain and the world. Their thoughts, if they stopped to formulate them, were almost entirely in the direction of benefiting themselves and, in a general sense, their neighbours and surroundings and, perhaps, doing their duty to God of multiplying the talents with which

252 HAROLD PERKIN he had endowed them. To recreate their thought, even in its entirety, does not begin to explain the Industrial Revolution, because for them

it did not consciously exist. It needed the historian (systematically, | only from Arnold Toynbee, senior’s Lectures on the Industrial Re-volution of the 18th Century in England, 1902, delivered in 1881-82),

, to identify and describe the phenomenon to be explained. Oo Even so, this was not yet a full or satisfactory, interpretation. In

, history attitudes, motivations, desires, especially when imputed to large numbers of people, are not autonomous causes but have themselves to be explained. Large numbers of people (though by no means

everyone, and the proportion differs greatly from one society to another, so we are not appealing to a covering law) like to enrich themselves, raise their status and express it in fashion and display. Why did the English by the 18th century manifest these attitudes so much more intensely than other Europeans, and far more than contemporary non-Europeans? I was thus forced back to consider what other historians, notably R. H. Tawney, had called the rise of ‘‘acquisitive individualism’’. I will not disgress into the Weber thesis of the influence of Protestantism on capitalism, which I believe inverts cause and effect: acquisitive individualism, not only in Eng-

, land, began before the Reformation and affected many preReformation merchants and bankers, not to say rulers and churchmen, in southern Germany and northern Italy where Protestantism

never took hold. All one can reasonably say is that capitalism and Protestantism both appealed to minds ‘‘infected’’ by acquisitive indi— vidualism and the ‘“‘postponement of pleasure principle’’, which might

also account for the late age of marriage in pre-industrial western Europe, where even peasants were tending to put economic security before sexual gratification.5 But why did acquisitive individualism

take firmer hold in England than in continental Europe and produce ,

such startlingly different effects? © ,

To answer this question I was forced back to consider the roots of acquisitive individualism in the late medieval decline of feudalism

| and the rise of a new system of relationships based on absolute ownership of the land. The latter cannot be described as the rise of capitalism since it was a prerequisite of capitalism: without a new concept of property created by non-capitalists, industrial capitalism in

the classical or Marxist sense of an economic system based on the

, exploitation of wage labour could not have arisen (outside a comparatively few towns and city states where such a form of property, - burgess tenure or ‘‘borough English’’, had long existed). It would take too long to expound these changes but in brief they amounted to the transformation by English landlords of lordship into ownership, of , > See John HAJNAL, ‘‘European Marriage Patterns in Perspective,’’ in Population in History, eds. D.V. GLass and D.E.C. EvERSLEY, (London: Arnold, 1965).

ON BEING A CENTIPEDE 753 contingent property subject to the claims of king, church and peasants

into absolute property to be let or not let, sold or exploited as one would. “‘May I not do what I will with mine own?’’ was a question which made no sense to the medieval mind; it was the heart not only of property ownership but of social relationships and political theory by the time of John Locke. © | In one sense the evolution of feudal lordship into absolute ownership was ‘‘all in the mind’’, though it is unlikely that any individual contemporary mind ever embraced both. Different men at different times held, not necessarily consciously, varying assumptions about property which can be thought of as stages in the evolution of acquisitive individualism, and sometimes men with different assumptions clashed violently, as in the struggles over enclosures which lasted from the late {Sth century down to the Civil War. But to say it was ‘‘in the mind’’ ts not to say that the causes were mental, in the sense of autonomously ideological. The concept of absolute property was established in the law courts, in parliament and on the battlefield by English landlords fighting not for an intellectual concept but for what they saw as their “natural rights’’. In the process they defeated the competing rights of the peasants, the church and the crown. It was a legal, political and, finally, a military struggle in which one set of assumptions about property triumphed over all the others. The concept of absolute property, confirmed by the abolition of feudal tenures in 1660 and celebrated, not originated, by Locke’s Treatises on Civil Government, changed the social structure of England. The landlords benefited from their right to do what they would with their land: to Jet it to large, capitalist farmers employing wage labour, to enclose it, mine it, build towns and factories, canals and railways on it, or sell or lease it to those who wished to do so, and to leave it to their eldest sons for them to do the same. But the price of this was to let others benefit too: improving farmers, mining and factory entrepreneurs, canal and railway builders, merchants and bank-

ers and, when they succeeded, to let them buy land on the same terms and admit them to all the privileges of the ruling class, thus generating the social nobility and social emulation which powered economic growth. There were other unintended consequences too: a continuous downflow of younger sons and dowried daughters to match the upflow of new men and heiresses into the landed class, thus further increasing the fluidity of English society; a large and growing surplus of landless workers, ripe for wage labour in industrial emp-

loyment and paid in wages which they spent on food (hence the enclosures), beer (hence the brewing revolution), clothes (hence the revolution in textiles) and other cheap consumer goods (hence the industrial revolution generally); and the onset of modern forms of poverty, unemployment and the business cycle (hence the unique English poor law and, ultimately, the welfare state).

254 HAROLD PERKIN Thus the chain of causation leads back from modern industrial , capitalism to changes in the concept of property originated not by the | capitalists themselves (who could not have existed without it) but by

, English landlords who sought only to defend their rights against the encroachments of king, church and peasants (some of whom, be it . noted, in turn defeated them, over some kinds of taxation, tithes and | small rentless freeholds) without any notion of the consequences of their success. To trace the chain back does indeed require the historian to recover the throughts, the assumptions, even the precise meanings of the legal terminology, of past actors, but it also requires

him to make connections of which no contemporary could possibly have been aware. The historical imagination operates on at least two levels, the level of the individual whose ‘‘total social situation’’ (not

just his thoughts) must be recovered, and also the level of the _ privileged observer who can see before and after, can enter into conflicting minds simultaneously, and can comprehend chains of cau-

sation and consequence which were unperceivable by contemporaries. The historian is not God but he ts a privileged observer, |

is privileged to see. | though only if he has the historical imagination to understand what he

, This is not of course the last word on the causes of the Industrial Revolution in Britain. My questioning stopped there, but others might

wish to go on asking ‘‘why?’’ Recently Alan Macfarlane in The Origins of English Individualism® has taken it back much further and

has argued that individualistic attitudes to property can be found in England as far back as the records go to the 12th and 13th centuries. English peasant land, it appears, was not, as in Eastern Europe, family property but the individual holding of the peasant himself, who could sell or bequeath his rights in it to anyone he liked, and disinherit his family even on his deathbed. If this is so it does not upset my | interpretation, though it makes the problem of timing more acute. Macfarlane does not deny, however, since he does not deal with, the

change from lordship to ownership in the later medieval and Tudor - period, or the accompanying consolidation of small peasant holdings

, into large farms with landless labour. But he certainly shows that the

historian can go on asking ‘‘why?’’ long after most scientists, natural or social, would have stopped. What does this example from a critical problem in history tellus |

, ~ about the nature of historical explanation? It suggests that when historians ask ‘‘why ?’’ they are not looking for covering laws or descrip-_

tive regularities but for the same kind of understanding we should apply to a friend who does something unexpected, like abandoning a spouse and children, or to a group of friends who suddenly decide,

, 6 (Oxford: Blackwell, 1979).

ON BEING A CENTIPEDE 255 quite independently, to change their jobs, or go back to college, or take up a religion. We may not know the answer immediately, but after a few enquiries we find ourselves saying, ‘“‘Yes, I can understand why they did that, at this time, and in that way’’. The process 1s what Walsh (following Whewell) calls ‘‘colligation’’,’ the explanation of puzzling actions, beliefs or situations by connecting them in a sys-

tematic way with other facts which we find less puzzling, but it is more than that I think. The end result is not the last link in the causal

chain but a thorough grasp of the whole chain and what it tries to explain, a comprehension of the coherence or consistency of the whole which leads us to say, ““Yes, that is how it must have been; that is how men and women must have behaved not in all times and places but at that time in that place.’’ The knowledge is particular and

tells you nothing specific about other times and places, but it is nevertheless transferable, in that the same processes of imaginative empathy and systematic reasoning can be applied elsewhere with the

confident expectation of obtaining equally valid results. Like

succeeds.

Shakespeare’s, a great historian’s imaginative talent is not confined to

one plot or period, and the more ‘‘plays’’ he writes the better he The covering law philosopher is a hornet: he flies straight at his prey, hovers while he sizes it up, and then either seizes it and bears it triumphantly home or kills it dead with his logical sting. The historian is a centipede: he walks busily all over his patch of ground with his hundred inquisite feet and finally says, ‘‘I know this ground. I know it not like a map, which is a mere abstraction, but like it is, with every

blade of grass and change of texture and hidden, lurking insect. It gives me some notion of other terrains, too: if transferred to them, I should know how to cope, I would not easily be surprised. If you want to know what it is like down here amongst the grass roots, I can tell you. But don’t ask me why grass is green and roots are not. That is just the way they are.”’ The natural scientist can tell you why grass is green and roots

are not but not what it feels like to live amongst them. He is more easily satisfied than the historian, much readier to stop the questioning. But at the end of their inquiries both the scientist and the historian are at some point forced to say, in the nightly words of Walter Cronkite, ““That’s the way it is.’’

7 An Introduction to Philosophy of History, 3rd edn. (London: Hutchinson, 1967), pp. 59-63.

| | Blank Page | |

ATELIERS DU SOIR EVENING WORKSHOPS

| | Blank Page | |

Historical Testimony in R. G. Collingwood’s Theory and Practice by G.S. COUSE Carleton University

R.G. Collingwood’s views on the role of testimony in our reconstruction of the past are to be found mainly in his essay “‘ Historical Evidence,’’ which was evidently written in 1939.' Here he identifies belief in testimony with ‘‘scissors-and-paste history,’’ which for him is not really history at all. Testimony consists of statements ‘‘purporting to be made by actors in the events concerned, or by eyewitnesses

of them, or by persons repeating what actors or eyewitnesses have told them, or have told their informants, and so on.’’ Scissors-andpaste history is ‘‘constructed by excerpting and combining the tes-

timony of different authorities,’ including historians such as

Thucydides who have been primary sources of information about their times.’ ““Critical history,’’ though it is an improvement on crude scissors-and-paste history, is “still only a form of scissors and paste,”’

for the object of historical criticism is to determine whether testimonies are true or false and therefore to be incorporated into the historical account or rejected. ? In addition, historical criticism is an imperfect instrument. To de-

termine the truth or falsity of a statement, the critical historian examines ‘‘the credibility of the author in general and of this statement in particular....”’+ If the answer is negative, if he finds the author untrustworthy or the statement implausible, he is obliged to reject the statement. If the answer is positive, that does not oblige him to accept the statement as eligible for incorporation into his account; at most it gives him permission to incorporate it. For the positive conclusion ts in effect that the man who made the statement is not known to be either ignorant or mendacious, and the statement itself bears upon it no recognizable marks of being untrue. But it may be untrue for all that: and the man who made it, though in general he bears a good name for being well

| T.M. KNox, in his preface to COLLINGWOOD, The Idea of History (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1946), pp. v-vi. * COLLINGWooD, The Idea of History, pp. 257, 260, and 269. 3 Thid., p. 259. 4 Tbid., pp. 258-59.

, 260 | G.S. COUSE | , informed and honest, may on this occasion have fallen a victim to misinformation about his facts, misunderstanding of them, or a desire to suppress or distort — what he knew or believed to be the truth.> |

In consequence of this supposedly inescapable uncertainty about the truth of historical testimonies, Collingwood upholds the al-.

| ternative model of ‘‘scientific history.’’ The scientific historian reconstructs the past without giving credence to testimony. That is done in | part by exploiting ‘‘unwritting sources’’ such as archaeological remains, which convey no testimony. It is done also by treating testimony itself not as statements whose truth or falsity must be deter- |

, - mined but as evidence. That is to say, the scientific historian puts

testimonies, even false ones, to the torture, ““twisting a passage ostensibly about something quite different into an answer to the question he has decided to ask,’’ and thereby he finds out things that they have not told him in so many words.°® Thus scientific history, whether

as the historian’s body of knowledge or his written account of a sub-

ss ject, ‘‘contains no ready-made statements at all.’’’ , In addition, the scientific historian is concerned to solve some well defined problem. To do so, he must know the right questions to

- .-ask himself about testimonies and other evidence, and he must ask and answer these questions in the right order. Thus, proceeding in the manner of a well trained detective, he is able, by inferential reasoning, to reach a conclusion that follows inevitably from the evidence. ° ~ Given Collingwood’s understanding of the procedures of historical criticism, his judgment that they are incapable of establishing the truth of testimonies is not surprising. Nor is it unprecedented. At the

turn of the century Charles Seignobos, in a much cited manual of , historical method, described the criticism of testimonies in essentially the same way and concluded that all its positive results were subject to doubt.° To assess this shared conclusion one must ask whether the _ shared description presents all the grounds for belief in historical tes-

ing historical practice. | | | It is especially fitting that Collingwood’s theory be examined in

| timonies. That is a question that is to be answered in part by consider| the light of his practice. In 1938 he represented his recent writings in the philosophy of history as reflections on his own historical research.

In particular, it was his involvement in the archaeology of Roman Britain that had opened his eyes to the possibility of dispensing with

> Ibid., p. 261.

a 6 I[bid., pp. 269-70. — 7 Tbhid., p. 275. :

8 Tbid., p. 268. 9 C.-V. LANGLOIS and C. SEIGNOBOS, Introduction aux études historiques _ (Paris: Hachette et Cie, 1898), pp. 47, 132-37, and 166-67.

HISTORICAL TESTIMONY 261 belief in what authorities tell us and of solving historical problems by rigorously applying his logic of question and answer. '° Collingwood’s major historical writings, however, were published between 1930 and 1937, and in that period both his theory and his practice fell short of the scientific ideal of 1939. In a lecture of 1936 on ““The Historical Imagination’? he made some of the distinctive assertions of 1939, but he still found a legitimate place for assessment of the ‘‘the truthfulness and the information’’ of authorities and for incorporation of their credible statements into the historian’s body of knowledge. '' In the mid-thirties he also wrote ten chapters on Roman Britain for a collective economic history of Rome. '* In it he distinguished and cited three types of evidence — literary, epigraphic, and archeological. The literary evidence consisted largely of particulars

reported by ancient Roman authors and incorporated into his

text.'> The epigraphic evidence was made up especially of inscrip-

tions which recorded the erection and repair of various types of construction or identified the makers and the owners of articles of manufacture. In a number of instances the recorded information was plainly incorporated into Collingwood’s account of his subject. '* The archaeological evidence included coins and a great variety

of unwritten remains. Further, in a substantial work of 1930, The Archeology of Roman Britain, it was evident that he considered the knowledge of Roman archaeological remains themselves — especially of

roads, camps, and stone structures — to depend partly upon testimony contained in the works of ancient authors, in inscriptions, and in pictorial representations such as those on Trajan’s column. '° These evidences of incongruity between Collingwood’s historical practice and his theory of 1939 do not necessarily undermine the latter. There could be effective anticipations of the theory within his historical writing. That is to be expected especially of his crowning achievement as historian, the first four books of Roman Britain and the English Settlements ,'© which he evidently wrote in 1935. Looking back on it from 1938, he saw it as an attempt to display in concrete © ~CoLLINGWoop, An Autobiography (London: Oxford University Press, 1939), pp. 79-82, 116-17, and 122; preface dated Oct. 1938.

"Idea of History, pp. 235, 237-38, and 244-45. Cf. G.S. Couse, ‘‘Neglected Implications of R.G. Collingwood’s Attack on ‘Scissors-and-Paste History’,’’ The Canadian Historical Association: Historical Papers, 1972, pp. 31-32. 12) COLLINGWOOD, ‘‘Roman Britain,’’ pp. 1-118 in Tenney FRANK, ed., An Economic Survey of Ancient Rome, Ul (Paterson, N.J.: Pageant Books, 1959); first published in 1937, Collingwood’s section written, according to his own account, in 1934,

'3 Some twenty-five authors are cited on a total of seventy-seven occasions. 14 “Roman Britain,’’ pp. 57 and 113-14 for example. 'S London: Methuen; see pp. 5, 7-10, 23-24, 35, 56, 65-66, 85, 90, and 166-71. ‘6 First published in 1937. The fifth book was written by J.N.L. Myres. Citations here will be to the second edition (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1937).

262 -G.S. COUSE a form the principles of historical thinking as he had come to understand them, in particular the importance of carefully defining one’s questions and selecting the appropriate evidence. !”

, Here we do find an approximation to Collingwood’s scientific history in the account of Caesar’s invasion of Britain in 55-54 B.C. Three questions are posed. What motives induced Caesar to attack Britain? What did he intend to bring about by the invasion? How long had the project been forming in his mind? They are questions to which Caesar himself has left us no answer. Collingwood arrives at his own answers by working entirely from literary sources. He recon-

structs Caesar’s thinking by inference from various circumstances and events, some of them obviously drawn from Caesar’s narrative in

| the Commentaries on the Gallic Wars. From Caesar’s account of — Close relations between Britain and Gaul and of his repression of re- , bellions in Gaul it is inferred that he was increasingly concerned about the restlessness of the Gaulish tribes and the assistance that

they might receive from the Britons. A desire to render Britain harm-

less, therefore, motivated the invasion. The conclusion has been

reached by focussing on the situation as Caesar saw it. Yet, as if to

confirm this explanation, Collingwood presents Caesar’s impression , of the situation as a correct one; Caesar’s testimony is taken to be , essentially true.'® The answers to the other two questions emerge | similarly through ingenious inferences from various circumstances and events the knowledge of which is drawn here and there from Caesar’s testimony, in one instance from that of the geographer Strabo, but largely from unidentified sources.'? Thus, although Collingwood’s answers do transcend what the authorities tell us in their testimony, many of the data from which the answers are inferred

, simply reproduce that testimony. | oe

| We come closer to a circumvention of testimony in Collingwood’s discussion of the purpose of the so-called ‘‘Vallum,”’ a deep, flat-bottomed ditch that ran beside Hadrian’s Wall to the south > of it and was flanked on either side by a parallel mound of earth some

twenty feet away. The layout of the Vallum, in relation to certain forts and one milecastle (or fortlet) along the Wall that are datable to

Hadrian’s reign, show that it was built about the same time as the Wall. The Vallum would have been a formidable obstacle to traffic, but its structure gave no advantage to forces on either side of it: it could not have been a work of defence or fortification. Causeways had been built across it opposite the Wall forts, each causeway being

provided with a stone gateway and access through gaps in the

17 Autobiography, pp. 121-24. | ,

‘8 Roman Britain and the English Settlements, p. 32.

. '9 [bid., pp. 33-34. For a full analysis see Alan DONAGAN, The Later Philosophy of R.G. Collingwood (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1962), pp. 182-83.

HISTORICAL TESTIMONY 263 mounds. To this archaeological evidence Collingwood adds, without

citing sources, the information that previously existing Roman frontier-works had had not only a military function but also a financial

one as barriers obliging traffic across the frontiers to pass through controlled openings and pay duty; the financial service, under the procurators, was quite separate from the military service, which was under the provincial governors. He suggests, therefore, that the Wall

was controlled by the governor of Britain and the Vallum was designed for the use of the customs officers of the procurator; persons crossing the frontier would be required to go through both a Wall fort and a corresponding passage across the Vallum. 7° This explanation, however, is explicitly tentative. It rests in part upon an analogy with administrative practice on other Roman frontiers, our knowledge of which has ordinarily been derived from Iiterary and epigraphic sources. There was no proof that the same practice prevailed or was intended to prevail on Hadrian’s British frontier.

Such proof would surely have to be based on some kind of verbal evidence, but whether it could be accomplished without incorporating testimony is, in the absence of this evidence, a matter of conjecture. Collingwood’s discussion of the Vallum, in turn, was set neces-

sarily within his account of Hadrian’s Wall. The study of this immense and complex structure clearly foreshadowed his concept of scientific history. The Wall had been subjected to four decades of systematic collective investigation, an activity in which Collingwood

had taken part mainly as an interpreter of successive discoveries.

Through the excavation and structural analysis of deliberately selected sites, archaeologists had seemingly established the construction sequence of the main components of the Wall — of sections of stone Wall in three different widths, a length of wall in turf underlying the westernmost third of the Stone Wall, fourteen forts distributed along the Wall, milecastles at intervals of one Roman mile, and two turrets in every space between milecastles, the whole extending about seventy-three miles, or eighty Roman miles, from the mouth of the Tyne to Solway Firth.

To identify the Wall with Hadrian, however, had required more than the evidence of unwritten, physical remains. According to his ancient biographer Spartian, Hadrian (emp. 117-38)

had built a wall eighty miles long to separate barbarians and Romans in Britain, but a reference by another author to a turf

wall built later by Antoninus Pius (emp. 161-80) seemed to imply that Hadrian’s was also a turf wall. The Stone Wall, then, was commonly attributed in England to Septimius Severus (emp. 193-211), whose ancient biographer had credited him with building a wall across the is-

land, and he was thought to have built it on the line of Hadrian’s 20 Roman Britain and the English Settlements, pp. 124-27 and 132-34.

264 : G.S. COUSE supposed turf wall of the same length. In Collingwood’s judgment this theory had been decisively disproved in 1911. In that year a milecastle and three turrets on the Stone Wall were excavated in

the Birdoswald area, where the Turf Wall diverges from the Stone

Wall; here remains from the two walls could not be confused. , These buildings were structurally of a piece with the Stone Wall and the earliest occupation of them was now dated by deposits of

coins and pottery to the first half of the second century.?! Presumably because of the imprecision of this dating, Collingwood referred also to epigraphic proof of the Hadrianic origin of the Wall.?* In or

| near four milecastles east of Birdoswald there had been found remnants of inscriptions which recorded construction by the Second Legion under Aulus Platorius Nepos, who was known — through literary and epigraphic evidence not cited by Collingwood — to have

been Hadrian’s governor in Britain approximately from 122 to 126.73 |

Ina brilliant piece of epigraphic reconstruction in 1935, Collingwood , himself dated the Turf Wall to the governorship of Platorius Nepos from a fragment of a similar inscription in wood which had just been discovered at a Turf Wall milecastle.?+ In each case the testimony that the building in question took place under Platorius Nepos was assumed to be true, and, as with Collingwood’s explanation of the Vallum, the argument extended into the relevant political history with

its generally unacknowledged verbal sources. ,

, Inscriptions had served another purpose as well. Some 150 of

them on the face of the Wall recorded the construction of respective _ sectors of it by diverse units of Roman legionaries. On the assumption that these records were true, the organization of the legionaries’

work had been reconstructed from them. ”>

Finally Collingwood had made a notable contribution to the determination of the Wall’s purpose. For a number of reasons the Wall

, 21 COLLINGWOOD, ‘‘Hadrian’s Wall: A History of the Problem,’’ The Journal of Roman Studies (hereafter cited as JRS), XI, 1921, 60-62. The findings had been reported in F.G. Simpson and others, ‘‘Excavations on the line of the Roman Wall in Cumberland During the Years 1909-12,’ Transactions of the Cumberland and Westmorland Antiquarian and Archaeological Society, New Series (hereafter cited as CW ”),

XIII, 1913, pp. 335-59. _

, *2 “Hadrian’s Wall,’ History: The Quarterly Journal of the Historical Association, New Series, X, Apr. 1925-Jan. 1926, p. 197.

, 23 J.C. Bruce, The Handbook of the Roman Wall: A Guide to Tourists

. Traversing the Barrier of the Lower Isthmus, ninth edition, rewritten by R.G. CoLLINGWOOD (London: Longmans Green and Co.), pp. 133, 136, 143-44, and 148. For evidence on the term of Platorius Nepos see Donald ATKINSON, ‘‘The Governors of Britain from Claudius to Diocletian,’’ JRS, XII, 1922, pp. 60-73.

136. a

oo 24 COLLINGWOOD, ‘‘Note on the Inscription,’’ in F.G. Simpson and J.A. | RICHMOND, “The Turf Wall of Hadrian, 1895-1935,’ JRS, XXV, 1935, pp. 16-18.

x6 29 COLLINGWOOD and Myres, Roman Britain and the English Settlements, p.

HISTORICAL TESTIMONY 265 could not, in his view, have been intended as a fortification from the top of which hostile armies were to be repelled. The parapet walk, four feet wide at the most, was too narrow to permit freedom of defensive military action. Similarly, access to it from the ground was

too restricted to allow rapid concentration of troops at threatened points. A soldier on the Wall would be equipped, according to Roman

practice, with two spears and a sword; he would have no way of countering preparations for a breach or escalade once he had thrown

his two spears. For that purpose long-range weapons would have been appropriate, but at the time of the Wall’s construction Roman armies were virtually without archers; they were armed and trained, rather, for hand-to-hand fighting. They did have artillery, but there were no emplacements for catapults or ballistae on the Wall itself. The turrets could have carried catapults, but pictures on Trajan’s column of similar turrets on the Danubian frontier made it certain that structures of this type were signalling-stations, and no ammunition had been found in the Wall turrets. Therefore artillery could have been located only at milecastles and forts. The Wall was intended,

rather, to mark unmistakably the line at which Roman territory ended, in keeping with Hadrian’s previous building of a line of palisades on the German frontier, as reported by Spartian and confirmed by surviving traces of them. The Wall also constituted an elevated sentry-walk which facilitated the patrolling of the frontierline against unauthorized crossing by smugglers and raiding parties — the latrunculi against whom Commodus (emp. 180-192) tells us, as recorded in inscriptions, that he fortified the banks of the Danube with forts and fortlets.*© As with other aspects of the Wall, Colling-

wood’s reasoning here goes well beyond the physical remains to

draw upon general information about Roman antiquities, and that information, as here presented, includes the content of literary, epigraphic, and pictorial testimony. It is not that significant knowledge about the Wall has been unat-

tainable without the incorporation of testimony. An impressive number of seemingly unassailable conclusions concerning techniques,

sequences and intervals of construction, about damage and reconstruction, have been inferred from the physical remains of the Wall alone.*’ To explore, however, its more distinctly historical aspects —

the time, the purpose, and the organization of its construction or its actual employment initially and in subsequent periods — has required 26 COLLINGWOOD, ‘“‘The Purpose of the Roman Wall,’’? The Vasculum, VIU, Oct. 1921, pp. 4-9; ‘‘Hadrian’s Wall,’ History, X, pp. 197 and 200-202; ‘‘The Roman Frontier in Britain,’ Antiquity, I, 1927, pp. 19-20; and The Archaeology of Roman Britain, p. 78. 27 Cf. the excavation of a prehistoric site directed by COLLINGWooD in his “King Arthur’s Round Table. Interim Report on the Excavations of 1937,’ CW?, XXXVIII, 1938, pp. 1-31.

266 G.S. COUSE an interworking of the evidence from physical remains with informa-

tion received on the word of various informants. ,

By reason of the collective and progressive nature of archaeol-

ogy, it was also necessary for Collingwood to accept the word of

modern investigators concerning their findings. That was especially so

with respect to certain excavations such as those near Birdoswald, for, once done, they could not be repeated.?8 Such excavations, of course, have yielded remains which can still be examined, but not in their original locations. For example, the four inscriptions which to

oe Collingwood were crucial for the dating of the Stone Wall had been

discovered in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and had long

, since been removed to archaeological repositories ; knowledge of their - provenance rested on the word of supposedly trustworthy informants.?? — Finally, he made a point of recovering observations by early antiquaries

of surface features of the Wall that had subsequently disappeared and could not otherwise be known. ?° To judge from Collingwood’s own practice, then, his scientific

procedure is of limited applicability even to an archaeologically , oriented reconstruction of the past. It can hardly be more applicable

to the predominantly documentary history of post-classical times. |

Here the counterpart of unwritten remains is represented by docu-

ments that give direct access to the past, unmediated by human observation and testimony: charters, treaties, contracts, decrees, laws, instructions, petitions, and the like. Yet these ‘‘direct indicators’’

, have generally been used in conjunction with testimony, and for obvious reasons. A respectable constitutional history of a country might be produced from constitutional legislation alone, but how much more

, we learn about the motives behind a constitutional act and about the , intended interpretation of its clauses from reports of the circumstances, the critical events, the debates, and the negotiations that went , into its making. In keeping with Collingwood’s model of scientific history, the competent historian will sometimes put a piece of testimony to the torture and extract from it information that it was not intended to convey. At the same time, he will also be found to incorporate the

a literal content of testimonies. Indeed, some of the more advanced techniques of historical investigation are founded on masses of data which have been assembled from various forms of social bookkeeping — parish registers, census manuscript schedules, election returns, re-

| 14-12. St |

28 Kor the destructive and unrepeatable nature of excavation see Philip

BARKER, Techniques of Archaeological Excavation (London: B.T. Batsford, 1977), pp. |

29 Bruce, Handbook, pp. 133, 136, 143, and 148; Eric BrrLEy, Research on Hadrian’s Wall (Kendal, Eng.: T. Wilson, 1961), pp. 20, 60-61, and 248.

30 For an eighteenth-century observation taken as a decisive testimony for the width of the Wall at Harlow Hill see COLLINGWOOD, ‘‘John Horsley and Hadrian’s | Wall,’ Archaeologia Aeliana, XV, 1938, p. 4.

HISTORICAL TESTIMONY 267 cords of legislative voting, police reports, court records, school records, hospital records, military recruitment records — sources in which every entry is someone’s testimony to the effect that something has taken place.?' Of course, the historian, in using such data to answer questions about comparative levels of social mobility, for exam-

ple, or the correlation between voting behaviour and ethnic origin, will reach conclusions that are not stated in the testimonies themselves. But the reliability of the conclusions will depend upon the truth of at least a preponderance of the testimonies. Thus the exclusion of ready-made statements from the historian’s body of knowledge and his account of a subject would dispose of many seemingly fruitful works of documentary historical scholarship.

Also the exploitation of historical documents, like that of the remains of Hadrian’s Wall, reaches beyond the evidence at hand to related historical information that is likely to incorporate testimony. In ‘‘The Historical Imagination’’ Collingwood represents historical knowledge as a self-contained ‘‘web of imaginative construction.’’

That is to say, it is only by virtue of an already existing body of historical knowledge that we can learn anything from a new piece of

evidence.

It is only our historical knowledge which tells us that these curious marks on paper are Greek letters; that the words which they form have certain meanings in the Attic dialect; that the passage is authentic Thucydides, not an interpolation or corruption; and that on this occasion Thucydides knew what he was talking about and was trying to tell the truth. *?

All but the last of these four elements of evaluation would be required of scientific history. Yet determination, in particular, of the authenticity of a document or a passage in it, of its real authorship and date of composition, often depends crucially upon information about the life of a supposed author or about the peculiarities of his handwriting, his

beliefs, and so on as represented by other documents that are assumed to have been written by him. Much of the information about his life will ordinarily have been built up from testimony, and one may have to rely ultimately upon someone’s word for the provenance of the other documents that have been attributed to him. In Collingwood’s recognition of the interconnectedness of historical knowledge there also lies a way out of his skepticism in regard to historical testimony. His comments of 1939 on the criticism of tes-

timony imply that each item of testimony is criticized in isolation. Manuals on historical method do commonly give that impression. But

they also describe further operations in which the historian is con31 Bor examples see Felix GILBERT and Stephen R. GRAUBARD, edd., Histori-

cal Studies Today (New York: W.W. Norton and Co., 1972), pp. 62, 64-67, 81, 120, 128, 131, 322 and 325-26. Cf. Alan MacFarlane, Reconstructing Historical Communities (London: Cambridge University Press, 1977), pp. 27-80. 32 The Idea of History, p. 244; see also p. 247.

268 | , G.S. COUSE | cerned, among other things, with the bearing of testimonies upon one another.

The mutual corroboration of testimonies from independent wit- | nesses has long been regarded as a secure foundation of ‘historical knowledge. When an historian asserts the occurrence of an event thus attested, it is not by reason of the trustworthiness of the witnesses or

of the plausibility of the event that he is considered to be justified in doing so. It is rather because the historian’s assertion follows by way of inference from the mere fact that two or more witnesses happen to | have reported independently that this event occurred. An accidental

concurrence upon essential details of the event would involve, as A.-A. Cournot observed, “‘un si prodigieux hasard, que la raison ne peut se résoudre a admettre une telle explication, tandis qu’il y ena une Si naturelle, a savoir la réalité de ’événement raconteé.’’ 33

oe Diverse testimonies can corroborate one another also by reporting not the same things but different things that are related to one another, such as different stages in a medieval king’s itinerary. Again, an individual testimony concerning any one stage in the itinerary is

not accepted simply because the author of it is considered to be _ trustworthy or the event in question plausible. Rather the various tes- timonies are taken to confirm one another in that the respective events that they describe form a coherent whole. According to Charles Seignobos, this concurrence of otherwise imperfectly proven conclusions yields a collective certainty. *4

Finally, in the words of Ernst Bernheim, another eminent man- ,

ual writer at the turn of the century, “‘there is no sounder guarantee of the factuality of an event than when the report of it stands in harmony with the unmistakable traces of the event itself.’’3° Collingwood appears to have recognized this kind of corroboration in a brief reference in ‘‘Historical Evidence’’ to testimony that has come to be

reinforced by what he vaguely calls evidence. He insists, however,

that ‘‘our acceptance of it is no longer the acceptance of testimony as

such; it is the affirmation of something based upon evidence....’’*° | That would be to say that the testimony has been replaced by the evidence, as when the report of an agreement is confirmed by discov-

ery of a copy of the agreement itself. We have seen, however, that some testimonies. serve to elucidate or complement non-testimonial

traces of the past and are not replaced by them. ,

The incorporation of such testimonies is very much a part of existing historical inquiry, and through corroboration our acceptance : , | 33. A.-A. Cournot, Essai sur les fondements de nos connaissances et sur les , caractéres de la critique philosophique (Paris: Hachette et Cie, 1851), I, p. 156.

, 34 LANGLOIS and SEIGNOBOS, p. 175. 7

/ 35. BERNHEIM, Lehrbuch der historischen Methode und der Ges-

chichtsphilosophie (New York: Burt Franklin, 1960), II, p. 531. | 36 The Idea of History, p. 257.

HISTORICAL TESTIMONY 269 of the truth of them can rest on solid inferential foundations. Historical inquiry thus constituted has produced a multitude of particulars about the past that are generally considered to be beyond reasonable doubt. To take Cournot’s explanation of this confidence: Nous croyons fermement a |’existence de ce personnage que l’on nomme Auguste, non-seulement a cause du grand nombre d’écrivains originaux qui en ont parlé, et dont les temoignages, sur les circonstances principales de son histoire, sont d’accord entre eux et d’accord avec le temoignage des monuments, mais encore et principalement parce qu’ Auguste n’est pas un personnage isole, et que son histoire rend raison d’une foule d’événements contemporains et postérieurs, qui manqueraient de fondement et ne se relieraient plus entre eux si l’on supprimait un anneau de cette importance dans la chaine historique. *’

Whether belief of that kind constitutes genuine certainty has been a matter of long and seemingly inconclusive debate. But it is not manifestly less compelling than the conviction that we would expect to have about the conclusions of Collingwood’s scientific history.

37 Cournot, pp. 157-58. Cf. F. PILLON, review of Ernest NAVILLE’s Mémoire sur le fondement logique de la certitude du témoignage, in La critique philosophique, politique, scientifique, littéraire, 2nd year, vol. IL, 18 Sept. 1873, pp. 102-3 and 105.

a ~ Blank Page ,

What Do Historians Mean When They Say That One Cause is More Important Than Another? by Ross EAMAN

Carleton University ,

Students of history have been duly warned by Cantor and Schneider that ‘‘a passionate interest in the problems of the philosophy of history can actually inhibit the historian’s craft by making him so painfully self-conscious about the theoretical nature of his work that he is unable to write a line of historical prose.’’' Nonethe-

less, the question of what is involved in attributions of causal significance in historical writing is worth considering for practical as well as philosophic reasons. Although the longstanding debate about the nature of causal explanation in historical studies has not noticeably changed the explanatory modes employed by historians, there is reason to believe that future students of the past could benefit from clarification of the processes whereby the major causes of an event in history can be distinguished from the minor ones in a meaningful way.

At the same time, this kind of analysis could also stimulate a rethinking of the general nature of causal relations by clearing away certain misconceptions which have arisen over the years. In particular, it should make evident that analyses of causation offered by R. G.

Collingwood, Curt Ducasse, and H. L. A. Hart and A. M. Honore, among others, are actually descriptions of specific criteria of causal importance rather than accounts of causality itself. In Experience and Its Modes, Michael Oakeshott writes at one point that ‘‘every historical event is necessary, and it is impossible to distinguish between the importance of necessities.’’? This statement can be interpreted in two ways, depending upon whether one has log-

ical or causal necessity in mind. In terms of logical relations, it 1s quite correct to say, for example, that the birth of Napoleon, the growth of a state called France, and so forth, were necessary conditions for the collapse of the Napoleonic Empire. Indeed, in the same ' Norman F. CANTOR and Richard I. SCHNEIDER, How to Study History (New York: Thomas Y. Crowell, 1967), p. 254.

“ Quoted from “‘Historical Continuity and Causal Analysis’’ in William H. mY (ed.), Philosophical Analysis and History (New York: Harper and Row, 1966), p.

, 272 ROSS EAMAN way that the sun’s rising is a necessary condition for the sun’s setting, the rise of Napoleon’s Empire was necessary for its fall. One could

, not, however, normally say that Napoleon’s birth or the growth of

France ‘‘caused’’ the collapse of that Empire. In terms of causality, the kind of thing that would be considered as having been necessary for the collapse of the Empire would be the failure of Napoleon’s continental system to work as intended, or his disastrous Russian campaign, or perhaps even certain flaws in his character. While any

given historian might well reject one or more of these suggested causes as not having been operative in point of fact, he would not do so on the same grounds that he would dismiss Napoleon’s birth as being causally unrelated to the collapse of his Empire. The failure ofa neo-mercantilist economic strategy or an unsuccessful military cam-

paign would at least be regarded as the kind of event that might conceivably cause the collapse of an empire, whereas the birth of its

creator clearly would not. © |

- AJjthough the concern of this paper is with causally rather than logically necessary conditions, it should be noted that a clear distinc- > tion between the two would require a full explication of the concept of causality. As a rule of thumb, we can regard one event as being only logically necessary for the occurrence of another event if we cannot conceive of the first event (or an event of its type) as happening

at the same time as the second event (or event-type). On this basis, Napoleon’s birth could be rejected as a cause of the collapse of his Empire. At the same time, however, there would still be certain logically necessary conditions for the event in question which this would not

, enable us to rule out, such as the continued existence of the state of France. Moreover, to avoid dismissing a number of causally related conditions, it would be necessary to keep in mind the distinction between direct and indirect causal relations, the latter involving an intervening causal factor between the stated cause and effect. In the final analysis, causally necessary conditions can only be distinguished

from logically necessary conditions by seeing the ‘‘causes”’’ of an |

event as being identical with the ‘‘elements’’ which comprise that event. For example, we can say either that the disastrous Russian , campaign of 1812 was one of the causes of the collapse of Napoleon’s Empire or, what amounts to the same thing, that the declining fortunes of his Empire continued with the devastation wreaked upon his Grande Armée while in Russia. But we cannot say that the rise of the Napoleonic Empire was an element of or in any way involved in its fall.

While an identity account of causality in history has been antictpated by Oakeshott, Collingwood, and most recently by Maurice Mandelbaum, the task remains to develop it fully. The purpose of this paper is in part to smooth the way for the fulfillment of this task, for it

can be accomplished more readily by first considering what is in-

WHAT DO HISTORIANS MEAN...? 173 volved in claims about causal importance in history. On the surface, of course, it would seem absurd to suggest that among the necessary conditions for the occurrence of an event, some were more necessary than others. This is certainly the case with logically necessary conditions and it would appear to apply to causally necessary conditions as well. Yet as any perusal of historical literature makes clear, historians frequently attempt to provide some indication of the relative importance of the several causes of an event which they are concerned to explain. For example, after noting a number of conditions contributing to British military security in Canada in 1760-61, Hilda Neatby asserts that “‘the essential condition for the security of the army was

the establishment of just and orderly government of the civilian population.’’?’ Similarly, in the course of explaining the failure of the revolution of 1848 in Germany, A. J. P. Taylor argues that ‘‘the re-

fusal of the National Assembly at Frankfort to go with the masses, the failure to offer a social programme, was a decisive element in the failure of the German liberals.’’ Even at that, it is not thought to be the most critical factor involved, for two sentences later he tells us that “‘there was another, and even more important cause of failure, a disastrous mistake which Marx, Engels, and most German radicals

shared.’’ This mistake, according to Taylor, was to support the weakened Prussian and Austrian armies in their nationalist struggles against the Czechs, the Poles, and the Danes.‘ There is no need to multiply examples of cases where historians

have assigned varying degrees of importance to the causes of an event. It is common knowledge that historians not only seek a plural-

ity of causes for events which they wish to explain but also try to avoid what David Hackett Fischer has called the fallacy of indiscriminate pluralism, which “‘appears in causal explanations where the number of causal components is not defined, or their relative weight is

not determined, or commonly both.’’> What is not clear either in Fischer’s discussion or in the works of historians generally are the grounds upon which claims of causal importance are made. It may be that in some cases such claims are based upon purely subjective con-

siderations, such as a desire to attribute moral responsibility for a particular deed or to provide support for some theory concerning human affairs. But closer scrutiny of the matter reveals that there are a number of reasonably objective criteria of importance which could conceivably be used depending upon the type of event being consi3. Hilda NeatsBy, Quebec: The Revolutionary Age, 1760-1791 (Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1966), p. 21. My emphasis.

4 A.J.P. TAytor, The Course of German History (London: Methuen, 1961), pp. 79-80. My emphasis. 5 David Hackett FISCHER, Historians’ Fallacies: Toward a Logic of Historical Thought (New York: Harper and Row, 1970), p. 175.

274 ROSS EAMAN , dered. It also suggests that use of these different criteria is quite compatible with the notion that the causally necessary conditions for an event are all equally necessary. © By way of illustrating some of these criteria of importance, let

us briefly consider the immigration movement to Canada during

Laurier’s tenure as Prime Minister and the Crimean War of 1854, both of which indicate the value of using two or more criteria when assess-

ing the causes of a complicated event. In the first case, a relatively straightforward quantitative criterion could be used initially, on the

basis of which the economic opportunities perceived to exist in the Canadian West would probably be considered as more important than the persecution of certain religious groups in Europe and Russia. It is

likely, however, that in the course of determining that more people were motivated by the former than the latter, one would realize that some immigrants were affected by both factors and that people did not emigrate in as large numbers before 1896 as after, even though

both factors were present in the earlier period. On the basis of what | might be called a “‘new factor’ criterion of importance, therefore, emphasis might be placed instead on the decline of economic opportunities in the American West, the completion of the C.P.R., or the

- immigration policy of Clifford Sifton. It has been suggested by

Ducasse that the last of the necessary conditions for an event to be

fulfilled is the one that we consider to be the cause. But the argument of this paper is that isolating the new factor is just one of many ways of making a judgment about causal significance. It is not that historians consider that among the necessary conditions for an event, there is one (and only one) that may be called the cause; it is rather that historians assume that among the causally necessary conditions

for an event, some are more important than others from the stand-

point of any given criterion of importance. Apart from being applicable to an immigration movement as a , whole, the new factor criterion could be used to assess the relative

importance of the incentives affecting particular groups or individuals within the movement. But in such cases a more appropriate criterion ~ would perhaps be one distinguishing between goals pursued as means

_ to an end and goals pursued as ends in themselves. If, for instance, , economic weath was sought by a group or individual only insofar as it contributed to religious freedom, then a desire for the former could be | _ gaid to be less important in this sense than a quest for the latter. It is quite possible, of course, that a cause which is regarded as primary in terms of the new factor criterion of importance would be considered as secondary in terms of the means-end criterion of importance. This

does not mean, however, that the resultant interpretations are incom- , patible. Differences of interpretation or emphasis can be reconciled if it can be shown that they are the result of employing different criteria

, of causal importance. It is likely, indeed, that many historiographical

WHAT DO HISTORIANS MEAN...? 975 confrontations could be eliminated if historians were to make such criteria more explicit.

In contrast with the broad range of event-types to which a means-end criterion could be applied, use of what might be called a ‘‘conflict resolution’? criterion would be restricted to events such as the French Revolution or the Crimean War. According to this criterion, the most important cause of a conflict between social groups or states would be the one that transformed an initial state of tension or friction into outright conflict or warfare and that would, therefore, have to be removed before there could be a return to the initial state-

of-affairs in question. For example, although conflicting economic interests have been regarded by some historians as an important cause of the Crimean War of 1854, the removal of such differences was not actually necessary to put an end to armed conflict in the Crimea. It is true that economic considerations go further to explain the outbreak of war than the religious dispute that arose over the rights of Christ-

lans in certain Holy Places in the Ottoman Empire. But from the standpoint of the crisis resolution criterion of causal importance, the

most important cause was probably the difference of opinion that arose between the Great Powers as to whether the so-called Concert of Europe applied to Turkey; whereas Britain, supported by France, maintained that the conference system should extend to Turkish affairs, Russia believed that she had a right to deal unilaterally with the Ottoman Empire since it lay outside the sphere in which the principles of the Concert were operative. In his chapter entitled ‘‘Fallacies of Causation,’’ Fischer was forced to conclude that “‘historians do different things when they attempt to construct causal explanations.’’® He would have us believe,

indeed, that there are eight different bases upon which historians could attribute causal efficacy to one or more antecedent conditions considered necessary for the occurrence of an event. If we are not to commit yet another fallacy, however, it is essential to distinguish between criteria of causal importance and features of causality itself. Most of the things listed by Fischer are actually criteria of causal importance rather than criteria for the existence of a causal relation as such. This is the case with R. G. Collingwood’s notion of controllable

antecedents as set forth in An Essay on Metaphysics. According to Collingwood, we sometimes understand the cause of an event to refer to that ‘‘event or state of things which it is in our power to produce or prevent, and by producing or preventing which we can produce or prevent that whose cause it is said to be.’’’ Given its obvious irrelevance for phenomena like sunspots or earthquakes, this 6 [bid., p. 183. 7 R.G. CoLLinGwoob, An Essay on Metaphysics (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1940), p. 296.

276 ROSS EAMAN a cannot be a criterion for the existence of a causal relation per se, although it may help us to make a causal identification in human affairs. Rather it is yet another possible criterion for assessing causal _ significance. The same is true of the claim of H. L. A. Hart and A. M. Honoré in Causation in the Law® that the causes of an event are to be distinguished from the ‘‘mere conditions’’ for it by virtue of the ab-

normality of the former and the normality of the latter. If the

, analysis of Hart and Honoré were to be accepted as stated, historians would be forced to conclude in many instances that an event had no cause but only ‘‘mere conditions.’’ For there are many cases, such as the collapse of the Napoleonic Empire, in which the notion of abnormal-

ity, no matter how well defined, would either be inapplicable or else , constitute a denial of the essential historicity of human development.

The question which remains is how the existence of various

criteria of causal importance is compatible with the notion that the causally necessary conditions for the occurrence of any particular event must all have been equally necessary. The answer lies in mak‘ing a further distinction between two kinds of causal necessity. On the one hand, there are causal condition which are necessary for the occurrence of the general type of event indicated by the label (for , example, ‘revolution,’ ‘migration,’ ‘inflation,’ and so forth) which has been applied to a given event. On the other hand, there are causal conditions which are necessary for the occurrence of the specific or peculiar elements by which the given event may be distinguished from other events of the same type. For éxample, it could be argued that the

mid-eighteenth century attacks upon the Christian religion by the philosophes were not a causally necessary condition for a revolution in France beginning in 1789 or thereabouts, but that they were a caus-

ally necessary condition for the revolutionary de-Christianization movement which was an intrinsic element of the French Revolution which actually transpired. That no such movement was embodied in the revolutions in France in 1830 and 1848 is proof enough that it is quite

possible to have a revolution in France without an attempt to elimi~ nate the Christian religion. Nonetheless, any explanation of the French Revolution of 1789 which failed to consider this particular element would be incomplete, regardless of whether this ingredient was

considered to be of much significance. 7

This distinction between what is causally necessary for a certain

kind of event to occur and what was causally necessary for the occurrence of certain unique elements or features of a particular event may itself be used as a criterion of causal importance. To make use of it, however, the historian must draw upon either his own general ex-

perience regarding the nature of event-types or the generalizations

§ (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1959). ,

WHAT DO HISTORIANS MEAN...? 277 which it is the raison d’étre of the social sciences to produce. According to nomological or ‘‘covering law’’ models of historical explanation, historians must employ generalized knowledge to arrive at, if not

to justify, the causal relations which they postulate. It may be that historians make use of theories of revolution and the like, not to establish or verify causal connections as such, but rather as a basis for attributing significance to causes established independently of such theories. Whether this is the only use made of general laws need not be established here. It is sufficient to demonstrate that the distinction in question comprises one more possible criterion of causal importance and provides further proof of the variety of such criteria available to the historian.

Blank Page

History as Myth by GERALDINE FINN University of Ottawa

The purpose of this paper is threefold: firstly, to present and defend Claude Lévi-Strauss’s arguments in support of his conclusion

in the last chapter of The Savage Mind, that ‘‘in Sartre’s system, history plays exactly the part of myth’’ (S.M. 254);' secondly, to consider whether Lévi-Strauss’s points against Sartre’s treatment of ‘“‘history’’ can be generalized to cover all talk about “‘history’’, more

specifically that of historical materialism which aspires to

‘“scientificity’’; and, finally, to suggest a revision of the assumed distinction between myth and history, such that their difference becomes

one of degree rather than one of kind. On this account, historical

materialism will be seen to qualify as the first ‘‘scientific’’ history, in that it, at one and the same time, made possible both the distinction

and the mediation between myth (pre-history) and history proper (‘scientific’’ history).

I begin, therefore, with an exposition and defense of

Levi-Strauss’s argument against Sartre. While these remarks are specifically directed towards Sartre’s views of History as they are expressed in his Critique de la raison dialectique,* my own interest, as indicated above, is broader than this: it is to determine the relevance of Lévi-Strauss’s ideas for historical discourse in general and historical materialism in particular. I would ask the reader, therefore, to bear the larger issues in mind in considering the acceptability and significance of what follows. My own view is: (1) that Sartre’s notion

of History’? does qualify as ‘‘myth’’, not only according to Levi-Strauss’s criteria, but also on its own purported Marxist principles; (2) that this assessment of the epistemological status of Sartre’s “‘history’’, is probably true of most other ‘‘histories’’; (3) ' (University of Chicago Press, 1973); hereafter refered to in the text by the initials S.M. ,

* (Bibliotheque Des Idées, Gallimard, 1960); hereafter referred to in the text by the initials C.R.D. > The use of the capital in ‘‘History’’ reflects Sartre’s own usage (indicative of its priority in his system). In this paper the capitalized History will refer specifically to the history which is the focus of Sartre’s interest i.e. history which is in some sense consciously made, and characteristic of Western industrialized civilization.

——-280 GERALDINE FINN | that historical materialism, however, can be construed in such a way as to avoid this judgment, and more properly qualify as ‘‘scientific’’.4

In an earlier chapter of The Savage Mind, ‘‘The Science of the Concrete’’, Lévi-Strauss describes mythological thought as a kind of ‘“bricolage’’. The constituent elements of myths, he says, are ‘‘signs’’

| and like the instruments of the bricoleur* they are already ‘‘at hand’’.

, They are part of a “‘closed’’ universe or system, and they are already

laden with significance — suggesting certain meanings or uses and © excluding others. They are thus ‘‘pre-constrained’’, in that their pos-

, sible combinations ‘“‘are restricted by the fact that they are drawn from the language where they already possess a sense which sets a limit on their freedom of manoeuvre’’. (For example, in philosophical

, discourse the word ‘‘emotion’’ is laden with ‘‘significations’’, such that any attempt to discuss ‘‘emotion’’ is pre-constrained to, at the

| - Same time, consider rationality, objectivity and truth, to which emo- | tion is traditionally opposed, and their antitheses, irrationality, sub-

jectivity and the distortion of truth, with which it is traditionally aligned. Even if you want to reverse, or challenge the traditional ‘philosophy’ of emotion you are constrained to do so within the pre-determined limits of a particular discourse. Heidegger, for exam-

ple, recognized this point very well, and attempted in his

, phenomenology to break through the constraints of philosophical and ordinary discourse by inventing what some consider to be a new language for philosophy). Whilst emphasizing that the modern scientist is , 4 Since presenting this paper, and on the basis of the discussion which followed, I have come to the conclusion that the very demand for historical or an-

thropological ‘‘scientificity’’ as such is itself ideological (or mythological in the given sense), and not therefore appropriate to Marxist practice which aims to demystify traditional perceptions and descriptions of social reality. Marxists, however, following Marx himself, constantly invoke ‘‘science’’ and ‘“‘scientificity’’ to legitimize their own theoretical practices; this is because they are still mystified by the bourgeois ideology and ideal of science according to which science is normative, objective and essentially _ - Self-validating. While what legitimizes historical materialism and distinguishes it from other interpretations of social reality, is not some ambiguous quality of “‘scientificity’’, | but its specifically dialectical, historical and essentially revolutionary perspective; its determination to see through the reified objectivity of the given world, including that produced and reproduced under the aegis of ‘“‘science’’. Arguing about science and the constitution of “‘scientific’’ practice is arguing about ideas, about words; it reproduces rather than ‘‘deconstructs’’ ideology and diverts attention from what is really at issue — the political implications of thought. Historical materialism has enabled us to see this and thus distinguish the more, from the less ‘‘mystified’’ versions of reality. But I think now that it is misleading and unnecessarily confusing as well as strategically inappropriate, to regard historical materialism as ‘‘scientific’’ on this account: it is conceding too much to the bourgeois ideology to which Marxism stands opposed. > The ‘‘bricoleur’’ has no precise equivalent in English. He is a man who undertakes odd jobs and is a jack of all trades or a kind of professional do-it-yourself man, but, as the text makes clear, he is of a different standing from, for instance, the English

‘odd job man’’ or handyman. (Translator’s note, S.M. p. 17) |

HISTORY AS MYTH 281 also very much a bricoleur, Lévi-Strauss contrasts the ‘‘concepts’’ of science, with the signs which are the tools of mythology. The basic difference is that concepts open up and extend the set being worked upon, while signs can only reorganize it. In other words, the scientist strives to go beyond the constraints imposed by his civilization and

language; the bricoleur, by necessity, must always remain within

them:

whereas concepts aim to be wholly transparent with respect to reality, signs allow and even require the interposing of a certain amount of human culture and reality. (S.M. p. 20)

Thus mythical thought builds up structures out of the “‘debris of events’’, whilst remaining firmly imprisoned within those events. The

scientist, by comparison, strives to distinguish the contingency of events from the necessity of structure, and aspires to the discovery of

“objectively necessary’’ structures, I.e. to systems which owe nothing to lived experience or particular events. This distinction between science and mythology is not unlike that made by Marx between science and ‘“‘philosophy’’: the latter being only “‘the alienated world-mind thinking within the bounds of its self-alienation’’,® and the former, science, somehow able to trans-

cend the limitations of ideology and avoid mystification. It 1s the ‘‘how’’ of this ‘‘somehow’’ which interests me. Does _ historical materialism (as opposed to existential-phenomenology) fulfil the requirements of science, by Lévi-Strauss’s standards? Does it employ concepts to ‘‘open up’’ the closed set of language and culture? To what extent does historical materialism remain “‘bricolage’’ — the reorganisation of traditional, given, pre-constrained signs? Although Lévi-Strauss does not make this connection, it is clear

that Sartre’s Marxism, at least, fits perfectly this description of mythological thought. As an intellectual bricoleur, confined within the events he describes, Sartre builds “‘ideological castles out of the de-

bris of what was once a social discourse’ (S.M. p. 21). Thus, only ‘relative’, historically conditioned ‘‘truth’’ is available to him. Lévi-Strauss, on the other hand, as a structuralist and a scientist, can (and does) aspire to ahistorical and necessary structural truths, which owe nothing to the contingency of events. (To what extent this is possible, even for a “‘structuralist’’ is, of course, at issue here.)

Sartre can be revealed as a myth-maker and bricoleur as follows. In the Critique he attempts to marry existentialism and Marxism and thus provide the latter with the necessary anthropological foundation, which Sartre thinks Marxism lacks, as long as it con-

tinues to overlook its necessary foundation in individual human 6 Karl MARX, Early Writings, Ed. and Trans. by T.B. Borromore (London: McGraw-Hill, 1964), p. 200.

282 GERALDINE FINN praxis. He shares the view that History is dialectical, but, he main, tains, the ground of the dialectical movement, which is History, is to be located in the individual human being, and not in classes or groups

of men, nor in “‘inorganic’’ nature. Only individual men are dialectical; and if History moves dialectically it is because it is made

by individuals. An understanding of History, therefore, must, for Sartre, be founded upon an understanding of the individual man and his individual praxis. Sartre, thus, defines History, the dialectic and man in terms of each other, giving logical (if not chronological) priority to the individual: History is dialectical, and men make History, because men are essentially dialectical. He maintains that ‘‘alienation’’, especially our alienation from others, 1.e. from our speciesbeing, is a consequence of scarcity, and like Marx looks forward to the reign of freedom when men no longer work from “‘need’’.’ Lévi-Strauss’s criticism of Sartre in ‘“‘History and Dialectic’? — concerns the very fundamentals of Sartre’s position: the identification

of History with Humanity, and of Historical understanding with

| ~ “scientific’’? anthropology.

In the first place, Sartre cannot make the former identification work. His notion of History, for example, effectively excludes socalled ‘‘primitive’’ peoples from the class of Humanity — since they | do not have a History in the sense which interests Sartre, and on his

account defines man. He refers to them as ahistorical, repetitive

- societies, existing in cyclical time and closer to the biological and - natural, than the human and cultural, realms of being; and he contrast | ‘la temporalité primitive’’ with “‘le temps de la praxis élémentaire’’ (C.R.D. p. 168). He describes primitive man as: , cet étre rabougri, difforme mais dur a la peine qui vit pour travailler de Paube a

, la nuit avec les moyens techniques (rudimentaires) sur une terre ingrate et

| menagante. (C.R.D. p. 203) | ,

, and primitive societies as: — | , des groupes humains demeurés au cycle de la répétition, produisant leur vie avec des techniques et des instruments rudimentaires, et s’ignorant parfaitement les

, uns les autres. (C.R.D. p. 203)

He even goes so far as to deny to them a capacity for abstract thought

comparable to our own. Of the diagrams drawn in the sand by the

riage, he comments: ,

| Ambrym natives, illustrating the complexities of their rules of mar- _

7 The two terms ‘‘rareté’’ and ‘‘besoin’’ (scarcity and need) are constantly

confused and conflated in the Critique. Sartre’s failure to provide any concrete specifications for either term is, in my opinion, one of the most fundamental weaknesses of this work, undermining the success of his projected reconciliation of existen-

tialism and marxism. |

HISTORY AS MYTH 283 cette construction n’est pas une pensée: c’est un travail manuel contr6dlé par une connaissance synthétique qu’il n’exprime pas. (C.R.D. p. 505)

Of course. Lévi-Strauss, as a structuralist, finds nothing wrong with this description; it conforms to his own thesis that unconscious structures determine thought. But as he reminds Sartre, his reduction (of ‘“pensée’’ to ‘‘travail’’) is equally applicable to all other cases of socalled “‘abstract’’ thought; to the professor at the Ecole Polytechnt-

que, for example, demonstrating a proof on the blackboard: “‘the

situation is the same in both cases.’’ So, EITHER, primitive people are men, therefore dialectical, and

therefore historical — and Sartre has to explain why these men, dialectical as they are, and existing in what are generally considered ‘to be conditions of extreme scarcity, do not have a history, (do not even appear to be ‘‘alienated’’); OR, primitive people, since they do

not have a history, are not men — and Sartre has an even bigger problem; OR, Sartre’s analysis of History in terms of man, and man in terms of the dialectic is fundamentally misguided — which is my own argument.

However, it is not so much Sartre’s elaboration of the

identification of man and History which is the object of Lévi-Strauss’s criticism (and our own) as the point of departure itself. His choice of History as the defining characteristic of man reveals an ethnocentri-

cism and an ideological absorption in the “‘superstructures’’ of his own language and culture which belie any aspiration he may have to anthropological science, as such. For, according to Lévi-Strauss, scientific anthropology should

be a theoretical enterprise, which studies diverse human societies with the goal of discovering general laws of formation by which all

societies can be understood. To guarantee objectivity the anthropologist must take up a position outside the society he is observing, and have no direct personal i.e. subjective or practical interest

which might distort or interfere with the ‘‘truth’’ to be discovered about the society in question. Sartre, by contrast, studies his own society, from the inside and is very much interested in the “‘truths’’ to be discovered. In fact, his stated objective is to provide an existential foundation for Marxism: that is, a theoretical foundation in individual human freedom, for a theory of history which regards revolutionary

social change as both necessary and inevitable. Sartre’s interest is overtly practical: he wants to change the society whose conditions of

possibility he is inquiring into.® And that very commitment, to change, is itself part of the ideological baggage of that same society’s 8 Raymond ARON argues in History and the Dialectic of Violence, tr. B. Cooper (Oxford: Blackwell, 1975), that Sartre’s ‘‘achievement’’ in the Critique was to establish the necessity of violence: «il ne peut choisir la non-violence qu’en sortant de Phistoire ou en s’aveuglant sur sa destinée’’ (p. 102).

— 284 oe ~ GERALDINE FINN

tivity. 7 ,

self-consciousness. Sartre may ‘‘recover meaning’’ by looking inside, from the inside, in this way; but he will not achieve scientific objecThe proper object of scientific anthropology, for Lévi-Strauss, is

not the concrete, but the symbolic: what he calls ‘‘objectified

— thought’’, i.e. the conscious representations by which societies interpret and define themselves — in the case of primitive societies, their rules of marriage, residence and exchange; their religions, rites, and |

tituals and taboos: their totemic systems; their magic, and their

myths. Following Freud and Marx, Lévi-Strauss maintains that the fundamental determinants of consciousness are not to be found at the level of consciousness itself, but at the level of the wnconscious ; and it is unconscious laws of thought, which remain constant throughout

all the variations in conscious content, that he seeks to discover through the methods of structural anthropology. Thus, he sees his

contribution to the science of man as complementary to that of Marx:

, ‘‘without questioning the undoubted primacy of infra structures...’’, he maintains that “‘there is always a mediator between praxis and practices, namely the conceptual scheme’’, and it is to ‘‘this theory of Superstructures scarcely touched on by Marx’’ that he hopes to make acontribution(S.M. p. 130). Heaccepts the dialectic between the material

| infrastructure and the conscious superstructure and between praxis and process, and addresses himself to the problem, neglected by | Marx, of explaining the movement and development within superstructure and between it and social practice. ? Unless the scientist adopts a position outside the consciousness of the society he is examining, he will be seduced by the very thought he is inquiring into, and thus perpetuate, rather than explain or transcend, society’s. mythology. Which is what Sartre does; without realizing or acknowledging it he contributes to, and thus strengthens, current “‘myths’’ of Western civilization, which defines and evaluates itself historically, in terms of progress, change, and individual action. And so we end up in the paradox of a system which invokes the criterion of

a historical consciousness to distinguish the ‘‘primitive’’ from the “‘civilized’’ but

— contrary to its claim — is itself ahistorical. (S.M. p. 254)

According to Lévi-Strauss, superstructures are but ‘‘faulty acts which have made it socially’? (S.M. p. 254); they should, therefore, be the object of anthropological study and not its unreflective medium. Lévi-Strauss does not reject the significance of History for an-

thropological science, only the reduction of one to the other which Sartre operates in the Critique. Both philosophy and History interro- , gate meaning ‘“‘from the inside’’, and are extremely important to a society’s self-definition and self-understanding: but they can never | ? [think Foucault addresses himself to the same problem area.

HISTORY AS MYTH 285 transcend their historical and “‘subjective’’ position, as part of the very consciousness they are examining — and, therefore, they can never arrive at ‘‘objective’’, scientific “‘truths’’. It is Sartre’s weakness not to acknowledge this limitation, and to imagine that in doing phenomenology he is doing scientific anthropology. The question is to know whether what we are trying to attain is what is true in and of the consciousness we have of it or outside this consciousness. I believe it is perfectly legitimate to look inside, by a recovery of meaning, except that this recovery, this interpretation philosophers or historians give of their own mythology, I treat simply as a variant of that mythology itself. In my analysis, it becomes matter, objectified thought once again. !°

Indeed, the situations from which Sartre extracts the formal conditions of social realty in the Critigue are far from exemplary. They are culture-specific, “‘secondary incidentals of life in society’’

— bus queues, football matches, strikes, the hit-parade of popular music, boxing matches — ‘“‘they cannot therefore serve to disclose its foundations.’ (S.M. p. 250)

Furthermore, the very word ‘‘History’’, is itself amenable to several distinct meanings and Sartre, at no point in the Critique, indicates to which of these he is appealing when he invokes History: one is hard put to it to see whether it is meant to be the history men make

unconsciously, history of men consciously made by historians, the philosopher’s interpretation of the history of men or his interpretation of the history of men or his interpretation of the history of historians. (S.M. p. 251)

If he means the history men make unconsciously (though it is probably not the case for Sartre) then it makes no sense to talk about some societies having no history, as Sartre does. All societies have a

history; the past of primitive societies extends as far back as our own, and they have undergone all sorts of transformations, crises, migrations, wars and adventures. '! When we describe them as being without a history, in this sense, we can only mean “‘that their history is and will always be unknown to us, not that they actually have no history.’ !? It is rather their attitude towards the history (which men make unconsciously) which distinguishes ‘“‘primitive’’ societies from our

own, and not any lack of history. Primitive peoples do not define themselves in terms of progress and change as we do, but in terms of enduring structures, and timelessness. They exist in ‘‘primordial’’ 10 Tevi-Srrauss, ‘‘Confrontation over Myths,’ New Left Review, 62, 1970, pp. 57-74, 68.

lt Levi-STrauss, Structural Anthropology, Vol. I, Trans. Monique LAYTEN

(New York: Basic Books, 1976), p. 28.

12 Levi-Strauss, ‘‘Race and History’, in Structural Anthropology, Vol. I;

also published by U.N.E.S.C.O. as The Race Question in Modern Science (1953), p. 19.

286 GERALDINE FINN time, defining the ‘‘real’’ as that which has always been the case since the original creation of the society by the ‘‘ancestors’’. The present thus acquires meaning only if it can be interpreted in terms of the past, and reality only when incorporated within the continuing structures of thought and practice. All societies have to face and accomodate somehow the real tension between diachrony and synchrony, between contingent and shifting events and necessary and unchanging structures. This tension is resolved, in primitive societies by subor-

, dinating diachrony to synchrony, i.e. History to system; while our

own society reverses this subordination. Thus primitive societies endure through time apparently ‘‘unchanged’’.

Lévi-Strauss replaces the traditional distinction we make between people without, and people with a history, by the distinction between ‘‘cold’’ and ‘“‘hot’’ societies:

the former seeking, by the institutions they give themselves, to annul the possible effects of historical factors on their equilibrium and continuity in a quasiautomatic fashion; the latter resolutely internalizing the historical process and making the moving power of their development. (S.M. p. 234)

‘“Hot societies are therefore characterized by ‘‘cumulative’’ History, and “‘cold’’ ones by ‘“‘stationary’’ History. The former is a “‘progres-

sive, acquisitive type, in which inventions are accumulated to build up great civilizations’’, and the latter, ‘‘equally active and calling for the utilization of as much talent’’ but absorbing innovations ‘“‘with a

sort of undulating tide, which once in motion, could never be

canalized into a permanent direction.’’ !3

Lévi-Strauss realizes, however that even this distinction, between cumulative and stationary history may, itself be suspect, and derive more from our own ethnocentric point of view than from anything intrinsic to the cultures in question. He points out that any culture developing in a similar direction to our own would be perceived

as “‘cumulative’’ and others would seem “‘stationary’’ , - not necessarily because they are so in fact, but because the line of their development has no meaning for us, and cannot be measured in terms of the criteria we employ. '4

Thus, “‘eventfulness’’, like ‘“‘speed’’, may depend upon the position

of the observer. Just as for the traveller in a moving train, the perceived speed and length of other trains varies according to which direction they are moving in, so from the position of our own culture, we can observe others, only through the distorting lens of our own cultural system. If they are moving in a different direction from our own, it will be much more difficult for us to get them into any kind of

13 Tbid.

‘4 Op. cit., p. 23.

HISTORY AS MYTH 987 focus. Sartre’s inability to situate primitive societies in his own system would illustrate the truth of this limitation. Lévi-Strauss maintains that societies develop and change only

through the action of external factors — biological, geographical, economic, demographic, etc., and that, therefore, an inquiry into the conditions of possibility of history is not the proper task of structural

anthropology whose interest is superstructure. He does, however, offer the following comments in his conversation with Charbonnier, identifying writing as the necessary pre-condition for Historical consciousness, (in the Sartrian sense), and of the ‘‘accumulation’’ of knowledge which it (.e. History) assumes: A people can only take advantage of previous acquisitions in so far as these have been made permanent in writing... writing had to be invented so that the knowledge of experiments, the happy or unhappy experiences of each generation could accumulate, so that, working on the basis of this capital succeding generations would be able not only to repeat the same endeavours, but also turn all previous ones to good account in order to improve techniques and achieve fresh progress. !5

Since writing emerged at a fixed time and place — in the Eastern Mediterranean, three or four thousand years B.C. — it provides us with an historical focus for an inquiry into History. Furthermore, Lévi-Strauss argues that the establishment of hierarchical societies coincided with this appearance of writing, which first and foremost was connected with power — inventories, catalogues, laws, censures, instructions — exercised by some men over others, and over possessions.

Given this view of the ‘‘origin’’ and foundation of History, then,

Sartre’s efforts to ground History in the individual praxis of the

‘‘travailleur isolé’’, existing within conditions of scarcity, appears doubly misguided. In the first place, the isolated individual (which

Sartre makes foundational) emerges along with Historical consciouness

(according to Lévi-Strauss), together with the notion of the specific event (which can be appropriated). It cannot, therefore, act as the eround of that same History. Indeed by privileging the individual and individual freedom, as he does in all his works, Sartre adopts the very standpoint of bourgeois individualism, which as a Marxist, he should be attacking. One of the principal failures of the Critique is that, despite its explicit intent, it actually establishes the insuppressibility of ‘‘alienation’’. According to Sartre, there is a “‘primary alienation’”’

(which provides the condition of possibility of alienated labour), which is a necessary consequence of every human praxis, as a result

of two conditions of man’s existence: his ‘‘matérialite’’ and ‘‘sérialité’’, i.e. his basic biological need to objectify himself in the

iS Levi-Srrauss, Conversations with Claude Lévi-Strauss, ed. G. CHARBONNEAU, Trans. John and Doreen WEIGHTMANN (London: Jonathan Cape, 1969), p. 27.

288 GERALDINE FINN material world, and his co-existence with others with whom only a ‘‘false’’ and ‘‘negative’’ (i.e. antagonistic) reciprocity is available.

_ (Hell is still other people.)

But, as in Being and Nothingness, so in the Critique, Sartre’s vision of human being and freedom is constrained by the (culturally and historically determined) conditions of alienation within which he is situated. Himself an alienated man, he describes the structures of that alienation as if they were ahistorical, universal features of human

existence. His thought, therefore, ‘‘is equally to be condemmed as another form and mode of existence of human alienation.’ '® Like Hegel, he takes as his point of departure “‘man as bourgeois and not man as a citizen who is considered the true and authentic man.’’!’ This bourgeois individual, according to Marx, (and confirmed I believe by anthropological research), is not primordial as Sartre would have him; he is the product of the particular economic and political conditions of capitalism, which estranges man from his own essential nature, as sensuous, self-creating, species-being. Sartre can thus be accused of mystification; by presenting the historically specific, alienation (and indeed History itself), as a necessary structure of praxis, he neutralizes the political impact of a Marxist critique of capitalism.

Indeed, if consciousness is the product of history, then any

-—“*phenomenology’’ of conscious experience will be vulnerable to the

same critique: it can discover only historically and culturally ‘‘relative’ truths. In other words, phenomenology creates more myths,

and can make no claim to scientificity.

The second way in which Lévi-Strauss’s analysis of History challenges Sartre’s is with respect to scarcity. It would seem that sur- ,

| plus (and the accumulation thereof made possible by writing), rather than scarcity, provided History’s motor — and that the removal of scarcity would not, therefore, provide a necessary condition for the

, removal of alienation (and the end of ‘‘History’’, according to _ Sartre’s theory) and the establishment of the reign of freedom. Not scarcity, but surplus made History possible: the accumulation, in the

hands of the few, of knowledge, goods and energy (i.e. capital) provided the foundation for History, in the sense of Sartre (i.e. History consciously made by men, historians and philosophers). Accumulation made possible society’s self-definition in terms of change, progress and individual action and distinction. By contrast, primitive

| societies, which are more obviously characterized by scarcity, do not , have a ‘“‘History’’, and do not appear to suffer from ‘‘alienation’’.

Indeed, they are afflicted with it only after they are disturbed by the intrusion of so-called civilized (i.e. Historical) societies. The experi-

16 MARX, op. cit. p. 197. 17 Op. cit., p. 26.

HISTORY AS MYTH 989 ence of deprivation, exploitation, and subordination better explain ‘‘alienation’’ than does the experience of scarcity. Lévi-Strauss’s critique and comments lead us, therefore, to the

following conclusions. Sartre’s History, and perhaps all Historical discourse, denotes, not a set of concrete events, but rather a symbolic system of representation. Like all knowledge, it can be regarded as a species of “‘superstructure’’ and as such is to be subjected to a more radical, critical and structural analysis. Like all mythical thought it serves to inform and explain society to itself on its own terms, but it can serve only as a point of departure in the pursuit of a specifically scientific understanding of man. As an indispensable source of material, History has the status of an ‘‘auxiliary’’? science: but it will always remain at the level of ‘‘superstructure’’ and as such be always subordinate to any true science of man.

Furthermore, historical materialism, which claims to be

scientific, would appear, at least at face value, to be vulnerable to the same critique and ultimately reducible to a species of myth. Is this in fact the case?

I believe that historical materialism can and does escape mythology, because it is the very foundation of its recognition as such, and as distinct from ‘‘scientific’’ history. Marx’s discovery that material conditions of production are in the “‘last instance’’ the determinants of social and cultural structures, made possible the scienceideology distinction itself, and the description of all previous social and political thought as necessarily ideological; it also made possible the ‘‘transcendence”’ of ideology. Historical materialism, having revealed the ideological base of previous histories (1.e. their “‘mythological’’ or closed space), established for the first time in the history of thought the possibility of scientific, non-mythological history 1.e. of a history free from ideology. It made it possible, but did not necessarily realize

it in any ‘“‘pure’’ form. Before that moment in history (that epistemological “*break’’), the “‘screen’’ of ideology was invisible and therefore insuperable. For that reason, all history before Marx was necessarily ideological, and necessarily ignorant of that fact. Since then, those historians and philosophers of history who remain ignorant of or indifferent to historical materialism, continue to produce descriptions and analyses of events which remain thoroughly and necessarily ideological (i.e. mythological) in both aspiration and effect, while those who have seen and acknowledged the ““screen’’ of ideology revealed by Marx, are ‘‘scientific’’, at least in aspiration, though not necessarily so in effect. Sartre, for example, as we have seen, aspires to scientific history, but does not succeed in his aspiration,

since he is more entrenched in the ideology of his time, i.e. in

bourgeois thought, than he either realizes or cares to admit. Because contemporary historical discourse can be scientific in intention, while remaining largely mythological (though not necessar-

— 290 GERALDINE FINN ily so) in effect, I suggest the following revision of the science/ideology distinction. The radical discontinuity between myth and science (proposed by Lévi-Strauss), or between ideology and science (proposed by Althusser, for example), is appropriate for distinguishing what Marx called ‘‘pre-historical’’ thought from ‘‘historical’’ thought; but it does not help us to judge between different ‘‘historical’’ versions of history, and tends, at the same time, to obscure the very real difference between all of these and all of ‘‘pre-historical’’ thought. I suggest, therefore, that the radical distinction be replaced

by a science-ideology continuum, whereby the difference between

theoretical accounts becomes one of degree rather than one of kind; reserving “‘pre-historical’’ to distinguish clear-cut cases of ignorantly or stubbornly ‘ideological’ systems, from those, like Sartre’s, which are only, in some sense, accidently so. Theories could then be judged, compared and preferences justified, as they more closely approximate the ideal of scientificity, originally specified by Marx, and elaborated

upon by his successors (Lévi-Strauss and Althusser, for example), and as they more thoroughly purge themselves of ideological or mythological content (which will, of course, be a never-ending pro-

ject). A constant vigilance and self-criticism (a permanent revolution?) is therefore required of “‘scientific’’ history, if it is to avoid slipping towards the ideological end of the continuum. It is my opinion that Marx’s discovery of historical materialism is much more

| ‘“scientific’’ than it is ‘‘ideological’’, since it initiated the very possibility of a scientific history. Nevertheless, it is not for that reason, itself entirely free from ideological distortion; for example, the notion of history itself, as progressive, rational and teleological; the concept

of man as self-creating and of labour as his medium; and the

idea of a “‘natural’’ division of labour between the sexes — these could all be subjected to further scientific analysis, in the interest of discovering their ideological, and I would suggest patriarchal, base.

By contrast, some Marxists, those who insist on a certain kind of ‘‘orthodoxy’’ and refuse to ‘‘revise’’ some of the original ideological elements in Marx’s formulation of historical materialism, could, perhaps, be considered more ‘‘ideological’’ than ‘‘scientific’’ in their refusal of self-criticism.

In conclusion, then, I suggest: (1) that a// history before Marx was necessarily mythological, though perhaps best described as _ ‘“pre-history’’ for that reason, since the ideology/science distinction _

became relevant only after its discovery; (2) that much history since Marx remains mythological, in that it is either unaware of its ideologi-

cal character or indifferent to it; (3) that those histories inspired by

| Marx are ‘‘scientific’’ in intention, but not necessarily so in effect: they are more or less scientific, and more or less ideological or , mythological in their conclusions, despite their awareness of the pos-

sibilities of ideological distortion.

HISTORY AS MYTH 291 I have argued that Levi-Strauss’s identification of mythological

thought and the analysis of its structures is equally applicable to ideology. However, the radical opposition he maintains between mythological and scientific understanding of man, whereby the latter can never be attained by a culture of itself, is rejected, in favour of a continuum. This is because, once men have been made aware of the unconscious determinants of their thought, then the sharp distinction between mythological or pre-scientific and scientific thought is no longer applicable. All thought is then in a position to take those determinants into account, and does so to varying degrees: to that extent resulting theories or histories, will be more or less scientific, and more or less mythological. —

| Blank Page

Ambivalence et pertinence de la philosophie marxiste de V’histoire* par MAURICE LAGUEUX Université de Montréal

Il y a quelques années, dans certains milieux philosophiques francophones influents, il aurait paru malvenu de parler de la «philosophie marxiste de histoire» tant il paraissait acquis que le materialisme historique devait etre considéré comme une science, étant souvent meme considéré comme /a science de Vhistoire. Bref, ce qui

paraissait fournir la clé de Panalyse de lévolution des sociétés ne

pouvait décemment étre ravalé au rang de philosophie de l’histoire et devenir ainsi une illustration parmi d’autres d’un «genre littéraire » qui, il faut bien le reconnaitre, éveille de nos jours plus de méfiance que d’enthousiasme. Pourtant, tly afort a parier qu’ une personne non prévenue, sommée dillustrer sur le champ, a l’aide de quelques exemples, I’ influence présumeément toujours importante a notre époque des grandes philosophies

speculatives de histoire, serait aussitOt amenée a répondre que |’immense intérét encore suscité par la vision marxiste de Il’ histoire constitue une des plus remarquables manifestations d’une telle influence, et meme ne parviendrait pas sans quelque embarras a pousser ne fiit-ce que jusqu’au deuxieme la liste des exemples supposés pertinents. Son embarras, il est vrai, ne serait pas insurmontable et il paraitrait bientot légitime de faire également une place a cette philosophie du progres, qui, a n’en pas douter, continue de hanter l’imagination et de véhiculer une représentation de histoire comme marche en avant symbolisée par le processus cumulatif du développement des sciences et des techniques. On pourrait méme ajouter que ces deux facons de se représenter |’histoire, sans étre les seules auxquelles on puisse se

référer a notre époque, occupent ensemble une position tout a fait privilegiée parmi les philosophies de histoire en ce qu’elles sont assez typiques des deux grandes traditions qui, au XI Xe siecle, avaient permis a ce «genre littéraire» de connaitre ses heures de gloire. En effet, la tradition germanique et la tradition francaise en philosophie * Ce texte paraitra concurremment dans un ouvrage de l’auteur qui sera consacré aux débats engendrés au cours des récentes années par divers aspects du marxisme et qui sera publié aux éditions Hurtubise H.M.H. a Montréal.

294 , MAURICE LAGUEUX de Vhistoire differaient en ceci que la seconde — illustrée par Condorcet, Saint-Simon et Comte — appuyait ses conclusions sur les , , vertus reconnues a l'éducation de ’humanité comme facteur déterminant dans le développement d’une conscience sociale éclairée et guidée par la science, alors que la premiere — magistralement mise en forme par Hegel — se faisait plus méfiante a l’égard des agents histo-

riques mus bien plus a ses yeux par leurs passions et leurs intéréts | que par les lumieéres de la science, et entendait plutot s’en remettre pour rendre compte du mouvement historique a un processus laborieux dont le philosophe, mais non les agents qui y contribuaient a leur insu, pouvait entrevoir l’orientation et les résultats significatifs. — , Marx était a la fois trop lucide a propos des véritables mobiles

des agents historiques et trop familier avec les theses hégéliennes pour ne pas, sur ce plan, s’étre franchement inscrit dans cette tradition germanique, ce qui lui permettait d’ailleurs de regarder d’assez

- haut les socialistes francais qui eux n’avaient rien compris a Hegel et croyaient naivement que la diffusion des sciences et l’application de - leurs méthodes a l’analyse des phénoménes sociaux allaient avoir un

impact suffisant pour assurer le triomphe de la société a laquelle ils aspiraient. Aussi, que l’on parle carrément de philosophie de l’his—toire a propos de la conception de Marx ou que l’on évite soigneusement de la presenter comme une philosophie de peur que cela ne soit pergu comme Il’aveu d’une sorte d’incapacité théorique a emporter - une adhesion bien ferme, on reconnaitra aisément qu’il y a chez Marx ©

, une théorie de l’histoire connue depuis Engels sous le nom de « materialisme historique » qui, au premier coup d’ceil du moins, s’apparente davantage a une tradition hégélienne bien germanique qu’a une tradition francaise, fut-elle socialiste. Il faudrait pourtant se garder de sous-estimer de ce fait I’ origina-

lite de la pensée de Marx a l’égard de celle de Hegel. Nul besoin en

effet de donner dans l’exégese althussérienne de l’idée de renverse- ment, pour constater que la «remise sur ses pieds» de la dialectique hégélienne constituait bel et bien une transformation décisive d’une approche jugée trop idéaliste: le matérialisme percu comme mode : d’analyse, la place privilégiée accordée aux facteurs économiques, la méfiance instinctive a l’égard d’ arguments jugés trop essentialistes, le

souci de ne pas perdre de vue, fiit-ce au milieu de développements

hautement théoriques, les données concretes susceptibles d’illustrer , , , une analyse, méme le ton railleur ou désinvolte adopté pour parler , des traditions les plus respectées d’une époque encore fortement atta- chée a ses traditions, tout contribuait a conférer au discours de Marx cette étonnante modernité qui explique, en bonne part, non seulement le fait qu'il ait relegué dans un lieu accessible aux seuls théoriciens de la philosophie le discours plus ontologique de Hegel, mais encore le fait qwil soit regu comme un point de référence tout actuel en regard

- duquel le discours de Comte ou celui de Proudhon ne parviennent pas ,

AMBIVALENCE ET PERTINENCE DE LA PHILOSOPHIE... 295

a faire le poids, handicapés qu’ils sont par ce petit air dix-neuvieme qui leur injecte une sorte de respectabilité sans autorité. Sans vouloir confondre, donc, le matérialisme historique avec la philosophie hégélienne de l’histoire, il est légitime de se demander s’il faut le considérer comme une autre philosophie de lhistoire plus intéressante peut-étre et plus actuelle sans doute, ou bien comme un discours d’un tout autre type que les efforts d’ Althusser auraient voulu

faire reconnaitre comme «la» science de lhistoire, c’est-a-dire

comme le canevas forcé de toute recherche historique a prétention scientifique. En réponse a cette léegitime question, je soutiendrai ici,

sommairement, une triple these: I) le matérialisme historique comporte tous les caracteres d’une philosophie de Vhistoire (qu’on rattacherait de prime abord a la tradition germanique) et rien, sur ce plan, ne justifierait de le présenter comme une science ; II) cette philosophie toutefois est suffisamment ambivalente pour qu’on ait pu — avec de bonnes raisons —— y voir tantét une philosophie de histoire fort differente et beaucoup plus proche de la tradition francaise, tantot une hypothese scientifique d’ailleurs assez malmenée par les tentatives de verification auxquelles on l’aura soumise, tant6t une théorie beaucoup moins «spéculative» (sinon vraiment scientifique) et portant sur la pratique de Il’ histoire comme science; ITI) ce caractere ambivalent est pour beaucoup dans la pertinence que |’on reconnait avec

raison a notre époque a la théorie marxiste de histoire, d’une part, en effet, c’est dans la mesure ou elle sert de toile de fond a une approche féconde de la pratique de l’historien que la vision marxiste de Phistoire, ou ce qui en subsiste encore, est parvenue a s’imposer philosophiquement et d’autre part, c’est inversement dans la mesure ou elles laissent entrevoir la possibilité de déboucher sur une théorie globale de Vhistoire qu’ont pris une sorte de résonnance nouvelle les réflexions plutot éparses et assez sommaires auxquelles se résume exposé de cette approche — effectivement assez neuve pour |’ époque ~~ de la pratique historienne. I. — QUATRE DIMENSIONS DES PHILOSOPHIES DE L’ HISTOIRE

Pour mieux dégager quelques arguments a l’appui de cette triple

these, il sera utile de distinguer, dans les grandes philosophies de Vhistoire qui ont illustré surtout le XLXe siecle, quatre dimensions que

certains peut-étre ne jugeront pas forcément essentielles au matérialisme historique, mais en regard desquelles il parait difficile de ne pas au moins chercher a caracteriser celui-ci. Ces quatre dimensions, a vrai dire, ne se situent pas toutes au méme niveau: la premiere d’entre elles renvoie a une intuition fondamentale -- celle d'un mouvement encore imprécis traversant l’en-

296 MAURICE LAGUEUX semble de l’histoire humaine — qui soutient toute philosophie de Vhistoire et peut-étre toute théorie un peu globale de l’histoire. Les trois autres, qui font qu’une philosophie de l’histoire n’est pas seulement une théorie globale de histoire, caractérisent respectivement - quant a sa source, a sa forme et a sa finalité ce «mouvement» dont les grandes philosophies de l’ histoire du XIX¢ siecle ne pouvaient, il va

sans dire, se contenter de souligner banalement |’ existence. , La premiere dimension donc se reconnaitra a l’affirmation d’un | certain mouvement, ou mieux d’une certaine orientation, qui serait repérable dans le déroulement historique. Une telle orientation suppose en particulier la formation de totalités historiques, puisqu elle signifie que quelque chose prend forme peu a peu avec le développement de lVhistoire de ’humanité. Cette dimension impliquerait donc avant tout le rejet de la conviction, chére a certains historiens souvent qualifiés de positivistes, selon laquelle toute histoire du monde serait en quelque sorte, comme disait quelque part Montherlant, «une his- toire de nuages qui se construisent en des combinaisons différentes sans plus de signification ni d’importance dans le monde que dans le ciel». Voila bien en effet le genre de conception qu’a I’ instar de toute

— théorie globale de Vhistoire, le matérialisme historique rejetterait d’autant plus résolument qu’il entend se donner le droit de discerner dans l’histoire ce qui est progressiste de ce qui est réactionnaire, ce qui va dans le sens de l’histoire de ce qui tend a en arréter le mouvement. Désignons ici simplement par le nom de «dimension dynamique» cette dimension propre a toute théorie globale de histoire. _ Les trois autres dimensions par contre appartiennent seulement

aux philosophies de l’histoire comprises en un sens plus strict. La ,

deuxieme tient a Il’ affirmation de la primauté — souvent nuancée il est

vrai — d’une instance tenue plus €minemment responsable du mou- vement historique. On logera en effet la source de ce mouvement tan-

, tot du coté des idées, tantot du coté de la force politique ou militaire, tantot du coté de l’ économie, tantot du coté de quelque autre facteur social, psychologique ou naturel. On le voit, cette dimension se retrouve, on ne peut plus clairement, dans le matérialisme historique puisqu il s’agit de la dimension considérée quand on y reconnait un privilege a l’instance économique, ne serait-ce que pour rappeler que,

, dans cette approche, les moments décisifs ne sont pas des ages ou des cultures, mais des « modes de production», et que la recherche des me-

, canismes significatifs y est tournée moins vers les passions humaines et la diffusion du savoir que vers les conflits d’intéréts entre classes et vers le développement des forces productives. Parce qu’il est ques-

| tion a tout le moins d’une sorte d’instigation au mouvement, je me référerai ici, faute de mieux, a une «dimension instigatrice» sans me faire trop d’illusions sur |’a-propos d’une telle désignation.

La troisieme dimension met plutot accent sur le caractere né— cessaire et régulier du processus historique que les philosophies de

AMBIVALENCE ET PERTINENCE DE LA PHILOSOPHIE... 297

Vhistoire croient pouvoir mettre en lumiere. L’ assimilation a des lois scientifiques des présumées lois de Vhistoire ainsi dégagées a d’ailleurs été le fait de la plupart de ces entreprises comme par exemple celle de Comte qui met sur le meme plan sa loi des trois états et celle de la gravitation de Newton. Chez Marx, la «loi de l’histoire» qui parait se dégager

n’a pas clairement cette prétention, mais comme elle renvoie a des phénomenes économiques assez aisément repérables sinon mesurables, on a été d’autant plus frequemment tenté de la rapprocher des lois scientifiques. Cette dimension de caractére nomologique pourra assez commodément étre qualifiée de « dimension régulatrice ».

La quatrieme dimension tres caractéristique des grandes philosophies de histoire du passé est celle qui, en vertu d’une sorte d’extension au plan éthique de la rationalite présumément reconnue a Vhistoire, garantit que (histoire est non seulement emportée par un mouvement intelligible mais par un mouvement qui tend a favoriser la

réalisation dune société éthiquement plus acceptable comme par exemple la société positiviste chez Comte ou la société communiste chez Marx. Parce qu’elle est généralement percue comme apportant a

homme la libération d’un joug qui empéchait sa pleine réalisation, cette dimension sera appelée ici «dimension libératrice ».

La théorie de histoire proposée par Marx est bien assez riche, on le voit, pour étre déployée selon chacune de ces quatre dimensions. Sur ce plan, elle n’a rien a envier aux théories de Hegel ou de Comte dont elle ne s’écarte vraiment que par l’orientation opposée, en un sens, adoptée tant en ce qui a trait a sa dimension « instigatrice» qu’a sa dimension «liberatrice». Néanmoins, il reste a voir sil n’y a pas lieu de considérer comme une science, a un titre auquel les autres philosophies de |’histoire ne sauraient prétendre, cette philosophie de Vhistoire au destin quand méme assez particulier.

Dans les premieres périodes de lhistoire du marxisme, alors qu’aucun démenti historique n’était encore venu confondre le cours présumé de Vhistoire du capitalisme et qu’on attendait avec une assurance imperturbable leffondrement des sociétés capitalistes les plus avancées pour en faire le berceau du socialisme, il était sans doute bien tentant de se tourner vers la dimension «régulatrice» de cette théorie, c’est-a-dire vers les lois de histoire qu’elle mettait en relief, pour y chercher les fondements de la scientificité du matérialisme his-

torique. Pour bien des marxistes de jadis, il a pu en effet paraitre raisonnable de voir en cette doctrine la plus respectable des hypotheses scientifiques dont la vérification aurait permis d’établir les grandes

lois de (histoire permettant de prédire l'avenir des sociétés humaines; mais, a notre €poque, ce sont plutot les adversaires de la pensée de Marx, comme Sir Karl Popper, qui s’attachent a cette interprétation pour montrer triomphalement que ces présumées lois historiques a prétention universelle sont manifestement falsifiées par le cours ultérieur de Vhistoire.

298 ~ MAURICE LAGUEUX Aussi, est-ce plutot P orientation assez particuliere de ses dimen-

sions «instigatrice» et «libératrice» que les défenseurs du marxisme invoqueraient plus spontanément aujourd’hui pour soutenir l’idée que le matérialisme historique est bel et bien une science de l’histoire. A

vrai dire, ’idée de faire appel fit-ce indirectement a la dimension «libératrice» du marxisme pour justifier l’affirmation de sa scientificité peut paraitre singuliere; elle est pourtant caractéristique de la position — dAdam Schaff ou de Michel Lowy qui voient dans le caracteére privilegie du prolétariat dont le matérialisme historique annoncerait |’ascension, la garantie un peu précaire d’une scientificité qui ne peut étre fondée autrement. L’argument pourtant, comme j’ai eu l’occasion de le montrer ailleurs', repose sur une pétition de principe mal dissimu-

, lée dont la mise en évidence devrait normalement émousser quelque peu le pouvoir persuasif.

De fait, c’est plutot la place réservée a l’instance économique qu’on a surtout invoquée depuis Engels pour soutenir l’idée que le

matérialisme historique n’est rien de moins que le socialisme

scientifique qu'il s’agissait d’opposer aux socialismes utopiques. Le privilege reconnu d’emblée a |’économique sur le politique et sur Vidéologique tenait en bonne part a la conviction selon laquelle des mécanismes économiques inconscients pour les agents historiques détermineraient largement les actions politiques et les mouvements idéo-

- logiques considérés comme des phénomeénes relativement su-

perficiels. Pourtant le développement des sciences sociales au XXe siecle devait montrer qu’il faut nuancer considérablement cette facon | de voir, car des rapports sociaux d’ordre politique ou méme idéologique engendrent souvent eux-mémes des mécanismes également in- conscients qui peuvent avoir leur efficace propre. D’ailleurs on a fini

par comprendre qu’il ne suffit pas d’accorder aux facteurs économiques une place privilégiée pour quitter le terrain de la philosophie et

s’engager sur celui de la science, sans quoi il serait assez génant de devoir reconnaitre, en vertu de cet étonnant privilege concédé a l’économuie, la scientificité de diverses entreprises théoriques cyniquement _disposées a tout expliquer par l’économie quitte a tirer des conclusions _ radicalement opposées a celles du matérialisme historique.

Aussi ceux qui, comme Althusser, ont proné avec le plus de consistance, au cours des années 60, l’idée voulant que le matéria- | lisme historique soit une science ont plutot cherché a atténuer le caractere massif et un peu honteux du privilege reconnu a l’instance

économique, sans toutefois prendre soin de valider le préjugé favora- |

ble entretenu dans bien des milieux a Il’égard du «caractere

a 264. ,

scientifique» de cette doctrine. Ce préjugé favorable, reconnaissons-

, , ' Voir a ce sujet: Maurice LAGUEUX, «La fonction épistémologique de la sociologie de la connaissance», dans Dialogue, vol. XVII, n° 2 (juin 1978); en particulier, pp. 260 -

AMBIVALENCE ET PERTINENCE DE LA PHILOSOPHIE... 299

le, etait trop largement répandu alors pour qu’ il ait été trés tentant pour un marxiste engage de s’interroger de fagon vraiment critique sur les fondements théoriques d’une conviction aussi bienvenue.

Il. - UN DEBAT DEJA VIEUX MAIS TOUJOURS ACTUEL

A vrai dire le débat sur ces questions était engagé depuis belle lurette dans Vhistoire du marxisme. Ce débat qui n’avait rien de purement theorique refaisait régulierement surface chaque fois qu’il s agissait d’appliquer a l’histoire concrete ou a la pratique révolutionnaire une doctrine qu’en d’autres occasions on n’avait que trop tendance a ramener a quelques principes rigides. La ot! cependant ils devaient composer avec une histoire souvent rebelle, les meilleurs théoriciens du marxisme savaient trouver un langage plus souple qui,

tout en se gardant bien de mettre explicitement en cause la

scientificité de lentreprise, ne manquait pas d’écarter une interprétation trop littérale, au risque toutefois d’occasionner certains glissements dramatiques dans la signification théorique de l’ensemble.

C’est ainsi que des la fin du XIXe siecle, a une époque fort tourmentée de histoire du marxisme, Plékhanov, |’un des tout premiers sans doute, a repensé l’ensemble de la question du matérialisme

historique en ouvrant au nom méme de Marx la voie que devaient emprunter a leur tour ceux qui, tout au long de V’histoire du marxisme et singulierement au cours des années 60, se sont montrés préoccupés

de trouver chez Marx un moyen de comprendre Vhistoire concrete plutot qu’une théeorie aux contours bien définis. Aussi est-il indiqué pour qui veut comprendre |’état actuel des débats sur le matérialisme historique de s’arreter un moment sur cette réflexion d’une étonnante modernité qui a su, avec un sens aigu de la pertinence historique, tirer

parti de ambivalence des vues de Marx sur histoire. Dans un ouvrage que, pour détourner la censure, il prétendait consacrer ala «conception moniste de l’histoire », Plekhanov explique d’abord que le matérialisme historique qu’il déguisait sous ce nom,

prend ses sources non seulement chez Hegel et chez les socialistes francais —- qui, dirions-nous, ont mspiré respectivement les dimensions «dynamique» et «libératrice» de sa pensée — mais également chez les matérialistes francais du XVIII¢ siecle et chez les historiens de la restauration — qui ont manifestement contribué a la mise en place de ses dimensions «régulatrice» dans le cas des premiers et «instigatrice» dans celui des seconds. En repérant les principales sources du matérialisme historique, Plekhanov reconnait donc impli-

citement dans le marxisme la présence des quatre dimensions

identifiées ici; mais la portée des theses qui sont associées a chacune d’entre elles doit étre pour lui sérieusement relativisée. Par exemple, bien des «disciples» russes de Marx trouvaient normal d’applaudir a

300 MAURICE LAGUEUX -Vavenement du capitalisme dans leur pays parce qu’ils y voyaient un pas douloureux mais nécessaire a franchir dans la marche vers le socialisme; Plekhanov — vingt ans avant la révolution de 1917 ou de telles idées, par la force des choses, allaient devenir monnaie courante — estimait que c’était la trahir la pensée de Marx: [...] le matérialisme dialectique [...] ne prescrit aucune voie générale et « obligatoire» pour chaque peuple a chaque instant donné

Pour soutenir sa these, il avait beau jeu, car il pouvait citer une lettre que Marx en 1877 écrivait a propos d’un article de Mikhailovski

dont Plékhanov entendait justement dénoncer la conception du

| marxisme:

I] lui faut absolument, disait Marx, métamorphoser mon esquisse historique de la

genese du capitalisme dans l?Europe occidentale en une théorie historicophilosophique de la marche générale, fatalement imposée a tous les peuples, quelles que soient les circonstances historiques ou ils se trouvent placés... Mais je lui demande pardon. C’est me faire, en méme temps, trop d’honneur et trop

de honte?.

Ce que Marx désigne par «esquisse historique», c’est analyse de accumulation primitive du capital, qu’on peut étre en effet tenté d’insérer dans une théorie générale de Vhistoire. Ce serait pourtant une erreur, semble dire Marx ici, et Plekhanov de renchérir, car selon lui il faut renoncer a chercher dans l’entreprise marxiste une « ‘formule du progres’ englobant le passé et prédisant lavenir du mouvement économique de toutes les sociétés*.» Ainsi, Plekhanov aurait-il raison que Sir Karl Popper devrait en quelque sorte se le tenir pour

dit, car Marx n’aurait alors jamais tenté de prédire l’avenir de I’his-

toire humaine. |

Qu’ aurait-il donc voulu faire alors? Une simple « esquisse histo-

rique» qu’il faut sans cesse reprendre a la lumiere des circonstances historiques qui se modifient continuellement. Il en va d’ailleurs de

méme du supposé privilege de léconomie: «Mais qu’est-ce que _

Péconomie?» de demander Plékhanov pour répondre aussitot que c’est «l’ensemble des rapports de fait, a l’intérieur du processus de production, entre les hommes constituant une société donnée», rap-

ports, explique-t-il ensuite, qui «se modifient sans cesse sous influence du développement des forces productives aussi bien que

du milieu historique*». Circonstances historiques et milieu historique en mutation constante tiennent ici un role déterminant et interdisent * Georges PLEKHANOV, Essai sur le développement de la conception moniste de (histoire, Paris-Moscou, éd. Sociales-éd. du Progreés, 1973 (original russe publié sous le pseudonyme de N. BELTOV en 1895); p. 243. Cet ouvrage sera désigné par la suite par le sigle: EDCMH. 3. Cité par ibid., pp. 244-245. 4 Ibid., p. 246; le souligné est de Plékhanov (selon trad.). 5 I[bid., p. 245.

AMBIVALENCE ET PERTINENCE DE LA PHILOSOPHIE... 301

du méme souffle d’invoquer une loi absolue de I’histoire et une instance économique strictement déterminante. Est-ce a dire que, pour Plékhanov, il faudrait délester le matérialisme historique de ses dimensions «instigatrice» et «régulatrice » ? Pas vraiment, car, assure-t-il, «le mouvement des sociétés a ses lois, et nul ne la mieux expliqué que Marx» puisqu’il suffit que certains

«rapports de faits a intérieur du processus de production » soient donnés pour que «certaines consequences en découlent fatalement® ». Plékhanov peut d’ailleurs la-dessus citer Marx explicitant son point

de vue a propos de la Russie des Tsars: «une fois sous le joug du régime capitaliste, il lui faudra (a la sainte Russie) se soumettre aux lois inexorables du capitalisme exactement comme les autres peuples profanes 7».

Les lois donc demeurent importantes, mais la différence est de taille: ce ne sont plus des «lois de Vhistoire» qui permettraient de prévoir l’avenir des sociétés humaines, ce sont des lois visant a rendre compte de certains rapports économiques qui s’établiraient nécessairement a l’intérieur de tel type de société dont la réalisation effective n'est qu’une possibilité parmi d’autres. Popper aurait sans doute été passablement rassuré par cette interpretation: plus aucune trace chez Marx de cet «historicisme» qu’il pourchassait sans merci dans lceuvre de ce dernier; seules seraient invoquées des lois concernant en propre le fonctionnement d’une structure économique donnée. De telles lois n’auraient rien de choquant pour un epistémologue positiviste, car elles comporteraient tous les caracteres des lois générales typiques de la science moderne et pourraient normalement s’appliquer aux sociétés ou seraient réunies les conditions initiales requises. Sans doute, comme pour toutes les présumées lois que proposent les diverses sciences sociales, leur validité, ou mieux la possibilité méme de les formuler adéquatement ou de les établir de facon concluante, pourrait étre mise en cause, mais c’est la une toute autre question. Il aura suffi ici de prendre note qu’une telle interprétation du matérialisme historique tend a éloigner le spectre troublant des lois diachroniques de l’histoire, a la grande satisfaction a la fois des épistemologues positivistes, qui alors peuvent cesser de redouter les atteintes portées a la notion de «loi scientifique», et des historiens, qui peuvent respirer et se remettre au travail, car, comme l’assure Plékhanov, «la vérité est toujours concrete; tout dépend des circonstances de temps et de lieu®».

Si la théorie marxiste de Vhistoire devait étre qualifiée de

scientifique a un titre particulier, ce ne pourrait donc étre en vertu de

lois scientifiques qui lui seraient propres en tant que theorie de 6 [bidem. 7 Cité par PLEKHANOV dans EDCMH, p. 247.

8 EDCMH. p. 246. Dans cette traduction, on trouve une virgule entre « circonstances» et «de temps».

302 MAURICE LAGUEUX histoire. Tout au plus pourrait-on, en utilisant les categories de Popper, concéder a Plékhanov qu’elle pourrait étre «scientifique » dans la mesure ou elle tirerait parti, pour rendre compte de |’évolution historique des sociétés concretes, des résultats d’une sortedescience « généralisante », l'économie marxiste, qui elle serait présumée avoir , pu établir des lois vraiment scientifiques et universelles. Cependant pour _ accepter la these ainsi formulée du caractere scientifique du mateéria-

lisme historique, il faudrait admettre d’une part que le marxisme apu © établir que tels rapports économiques entrainent telles conséquences

, «fatalement» comme dit Plékhanov — «universellement » comme di-

rait Popper — et d’autre part que ces lois peuvent s’appliquer, selon des régles bien définies, aux diverses « circonstances de temps et de , lieu » qui font l’ histoire concrete. La réalisation de la premiere condition ne faisait pas de doute pour Plékhanov, mais il pourrait s’avérer plus difficile que prévu de trouver dans Le Capital un seul exemple indis—cutable de telles lois. Quoi qu’il en soit, la seconde condition ne parait

guere réalisable s’il est vrai, comme l’assure Plékhanov, que «le

mouvement économique de chaque société revét un aspect ‘spécifique’ par suite de la ‘spécificité’ des conditions ou il s’accomplit?» et qu’au surplus les rapports économiques dont il s’agirait de

- guivre les conséquences historiques «se modifient sans cesse» sous linfluence justement du «milieu historique». La vision globale de histoire qui, selon le matérialisme historique, oriente les sociétés historiques concreétes vers une révolution socialiste peut ainsi conserver une certaine valeur heuristique, mais ne peut reposer directement

- pi sur des analyses économiques aux lois trop générales ni sur une

, impossible «loi de histoire».

- Y a-t-il lieu alors de repenser la dynamique méme de ce mouvement historique que le matérialisme historique entend mettre en lumiere? Peut-étre est-ce la la seule voie qui reste ouverte pour garantir la réalisation du projet social que cette théorie est censée soutenir et pour asseoir sur des bases renouvelées une éventuelle scientificite dont les fondements paraissent maintenant compromis. Pour Plékhanov en tout cas, cette possibilité ne devait surtout pas étre exclue au

nom de quelque dogmatisme servil.

La conception marxienne de histoire, on l’a vu, s’inscrivait

dans la tradition germanique pour laquelle lorientation de l’histoire demeurait cachée aux agents historiques dont les actions étaient re-

- cupérées sans qu’ils en soient conscients. C’est ainsi que le capitaliste, guidé par sa recherche aveugle du profit, demeure inconscient

du mouvement historique qu’il contribue a accélérer et se fait en quelque sorte son «propre fossoyeur», pour employer le langage as2 EDCMH: p. 245: les soulignés sont de Plékhanov (selon trad.). Pour les catégories de Popper, voir K. Popper, The Open Society and its Enemies, Princeton,

Princeton University Press, 1971, tome II, pp. 261-265. |

AMBIVALENCE ET PERTINENCE DE LA PHILOSOPHIE... 303

sez expressif de Marx. Toutefois, si, pour orienter ce processus vers une révolution socialiste, l’on ne peut s’en remettre aux forces mécaniques de l’économie et s’il n’y a en histoire rien d’ obligatoire, on ne peut plus guére parler d’un mouvement de histoire qui échapperait a la conscience des agents, étant bien entendu qu'il n’est plus question ici d’invoquer a la maniere de Hegel une quelconque version rationaliste de la Providence. Pour pouvoir rendre compte adéquatement de

la complexité historique et de la diversité des «circonstances de temps et de lieu», la théorie marxiste de Vhistoire devait sacrifier toutes garanties métaphysiques sans parvenir vraiment, comme on a VU, a leur substituer une sorte de garantie scientifique. Fallait-il alors, comme bien des marxistes décus qui se sont vu

contraints de parcourir ce chemin que Plékhanov semblait pourtant parcourir avec enthousiasme, conclure, avec Merleau-Ponty par exemple, que la logique de Vhistoire proposée par le matérialisme his-

torique n’est, somme toute, «qu’une des possibilités parmi d’autres!» qui ne serait dotée d’aucune garantie particuliere? Pas vraiment, car, comme bien d’autres plus pres de nous, Plékhanov était bien loin de verser pour autant dans cette sorte d’agnosticisme: s1 aucune loi de histoire ne s’impose aux hommes malgré eux, du moins peut-on penser que l’évolution historique leur permettra de se libérer de leurs carcans sociaux comme, grace au progres technique, il se sont libérés de tant de contraintes qui leur étaient imposées par la nature: [...] de méme, assurait en effet Plékhanov, que le milieu naturel a offert aux hommes la possibilité premiere de développer leurs forces de production, et, par suite, de se délivrer peu a peu de l’empire de la nature, de méme les rapports de production, les rapports sociaux, de par la logique meme de leur développement, amenent ’homme a prendre conscience des causes de son asservissement a la nécessité économique. Par la, se trouve offerte la possibilité d’une nouvelle victoire, de la victoire finale de la conscience sur la nécessité, dela raison sur la loi aveugle!!.

Cette possibilité d’une prise en charge par ’ homme de son destin, puisqu’elle n’est qu’une possibilité, élimine, a n’en pas douter, «linéluctable fatalisme propre au matérialisme métaphysique '?». Si telle est bien la pensée de Marx, il faut certes en conclure que, a la question de savoir si une sorte de loi d’airain doit toujours regir im-

placablement Vhistoire humaine, celui-ci aurait repondu par un «non» sans équivoque. Selon Plékhanov, il aurait aussitot fait valoir qu’une fois «cette loi d’airain connue, c’est de nous qu’il depend de rejeter son joug, de nous qu’il dépend de transformer la nécessité en docile esclave de la raison'?». 10° M. MERLEAU-PontTy, Sens et Non-sens, Paris, Nagel, 1948; p. 213.

1! EDCMH, pp. 223-224; les soulignés sont de Plekhanov (selon trad.) 12 [bid., p. 224; les soulignés sont de Plékhanov (selon trad.)

3 [hid., p. 225; les soulignés sont de Plekhanov (selon trad.)

304 MAURICE LAGUEUX A premiere vue, cette facon de voir les choses peut paraitre as- sez coutumiere. Engels lui-méme, largement responsable de |’inter-

pretation la plus orthodoxe du matérialisme historique, ne parle-t-il pas comme d’un moment décisif du «bond de ’humanité, du regne de la nécessité dans le régne de la liberté'!*»? Toutefois la question cruciale parait étre ici celle de savoir ad quel moment cette mise au rancart de la nécessité doit intervenir dans l’histoire. Pour Engels, c’ était «avec la prise de possession des moyens de production par la société'>», au moment ou, en quelque sorte, les jeux seraient déja faits, ot le joug de la loi d’airain aurait été brisé. L’interprétation que propose Plékhanov suggeére par contre qu’il suffit de connaitre cette loi, d’en prendre conscience, pour étre appelé a en briser librement le joug. Le glissement est décisif car, avec le caractere inconscient du processus qui assure une libération li¢e a l’effondrement de la pro-

priété privée des moyens de production, il emporte ce qui aux yeux

, d’Engels consacrait la supériorité de la théorie marxiste sur celle des utopistes francais. L’interprétation de Plékhanov rameéne en effet cette théorie de l’histoire au niveau de celle de Saint-Simon, pour qui , la libération des hommes passait essentiellement par la victoire de la conscience et de la raison dont le progres des sciences nous donnait un apercu des plus prometteurs. En somme, pour n’avoir pu se résigner a loger ailleurs que dans la conscience libre des hommes, guidés par la science et la raison, les ressorts qui doivent forcément agir sur

histoire humaine (si l’on tient a ne pas rendre trop aléatoire la dimension «libératrice» du matérialisme historique), Plékhanov s’est trouvé réduit a faire de celui-ci une version, hardiment révolutionnaire il est vrai, de la philosophie saint-simonienne de l’histoire, qui prend appui sur la maitrise de la nature grace aux sciences‘naturelles, - pour inviter a la maitrise prochaine, par les sociétés humaines, de leur

rances.

- propre destinée grace cette fois a une science de histoire dont les

promesses semblent bien a ses yeux légitimer les plus grandes espé-

7 Si je me suis attardé longuement sur l’interprétation plékhanovienne, c’est qu’elle met en relief une ambivalence certaine du maté- -rlalisme historique, ambivalence qui devait fatalement se refléter dans bien des débats qui, par la suite, allaient s’efforcer de préciser la nature de cette théorie de l’histoire. Présenté, dans un premier temps et dans un esprit tres germanique, comme une théorie pour laquelle le

- mouvement de l’histoire ne doit rien a l’action consciente des sujets historiques et tout a un processus objectif qui échappe a la conscience

des hommes, le matérialisme historique, dans un deuxieme temps, semble avoir laissé cet énigmatique processus prendre la forme, bien

1S [bid., p. 117.

14 F. ENGELS, Socialisme utopique et socialisme scientifique, Paris, ed. Sociales, 1971, p. 118.

AMBIVALENCE ET PERTINENCE DE LA PHILOSOPHIE... 305

familicre dans la tradition francaise, de action concertée d’une humanité guidée par la voix non-équivoque de la raison et stimulée par les succes de toutes les sciences. Cette ambivalence, soulignons-le, nest pas forcement une incohérence, car rien ne s’oppose a ce que le processus secretement a l’ceuvre dans l’histoire se soit révélé en étre un qui, a travers les diverses contradictions des formations sociales pré-socialistes, arrive a établir des conditions objectives favorables a une prise de conscience de ses intéréts et de ses ressources, culturelles et autres, par une classe appelée a prendre sur elle le destin de Phumanité. Nulle incohérence donc; mais comment qualifier encore de «science de histoire» plutot que de « philosophie de Vhistoire», cette vision généreuse des destinées d’une humanité qui, par des voies convergentes mais variées et souvent mystéricuses, se fraie un chemin vers un avenir ou chacun de ses membres puisse enfin se réaliser pleinement? A moins en effet de vouloir revenir 4 une théorie trés orthodoxe

du matérialisme historique, théorie qui serait une proie trop facile pour ceux qui comme Popper cherchent a prendre en défaut ses prédictions, il faut s’en tenir a une vision globale de Vhistoire qui se ramene a peu de choses pres a la description ci-dessus. C’est ce qu’avait admirablement compris Plekhanov et qu’ont bien compris également tous les marxistes contemporains pour qui la vision de histoire de Marx est une inspiration beaucoup plus qu’une théorie explicative précise. On pourrait évoquer ici les divers auteurs marxistes qui n’ont pas hésité a déplacer vers d’autres niveaux (niveau de la marginalité sociale, niveau de la société des loisirs, niveau écologique) les contradictions qui sont censées miner le capitalisme; mais il sera plus intéressant de faire ressortir la chose en soulignant I’ existence et l’importance d’une autre manifestation de l ambivalence de la vision marxiste de histoire, celle qui est attachée a la nature méme de la société socialiste, en tant qu’elle n’est pour Marx qu’une sorte d’antichambre a la société authentiquement communiste!®. L’abolition de la propriété privée des moyens de production peut permettre linstauration d’une société socialiste, mais seul le plein développe-

ment des ressources de celle-ci doit rendre possible la société

communiste. Cette sorte de dédoublement de la dimension «libératrice» de la théorie marxiste de lhistoire ne peut que la distinguer encore plus nettement d’une théorie scientifique potentiellement vérifiable. Il n’y aurait guere de sens en effet a vérifier —- comme on serait tente de le faire avec Popper si l’on avait affaire a une théorie scientifique — jusqu’a quel point correspondent a nos attentes les résultats des différentes expériences historiques de révolutions socialistes fondées sur l’ abolition de la propriété privée des moyens de produc'@ Voir a ce sujet MARX, Critique du Programme du parti ouvrier allemand (Programme de Gotha de 1875).

306 MAURICE LAGUEUX tion, car il est toujours possible d’expliquer les insuffisances et les , déceptions, en insistant sur le fait que tout dépend encore de I élimi-

nation de la rareté et de l’avenement d’une société d’abondance. C’est ainsi qu’ Ernest Mandel, l’un des auteurs marxistes les plus res- | pectés durant les années 60, nous explique que «la distribution gra-

tuite du pain, du lait et de toute la nourriture de base déclencherait , une révolution psychologique sans précédent dans Vhistoire de l’hu-

manité!’». Sans doute, mais si c’est a ce niveau que tout se joue, si la |

, simple abolition de la propriété privée des moyens de production ne donne pas de résultats tres convaincants, on revient, par une autre

voie que Plékhanov, a l’idée qu’il faut voir dans le progres technolo, gique une sorte de garant du mouvement de [’/histoire, non plus cette fois en ce qu'il invite a une prise en main par les hommes de leur destin collectif, mais plutot en ce que, débouchant manifestement sur une société d’abondance (pour peu qu’on fasse taire tout pessimisme éecologique), il promet, par le biais de transformations psychologiques

radicales, la réalisation tant attendue d’une société plus humaine. |

| Tl. - VISION HISTORIQUE ET PRATIQUE HISTORIENNE Une telle interprétation de la théorie marxiste de l’histoire est certes légitime; mais elle montre assez qu’il serait absurde de voir dans celle-ci une sorte de théorie scientifique de histoire sujette a

verification. Bien plutot faut-il y voir la version la plus convaincante |

peut-étre, en dépit ou plutdt a cause de son ambivalence, de cette vieille et indéracinable idée assurant que c’est une societe plus juste et plus humaine qui doit finalement sortir de ces continuels bouleverse-

- ments socio-économiques qui, avec le capitalisme et surtout avec la révolution industrielle, prenaient pour les hommes du XIXé siecle des

proportions plutot troublantes. Cette idée qui contraste avec l’utopisme anhistorique et nostalgique des siecles précédents, et que Marx aura en bonne part reprise de ses prédécesseurs francais pour lui preter temporairement tout le tonus philosophique que pouvait lui confé- , rer la vision dialectique de Hegel, constitue probablement l’élément le

plus représentatif de cette philosophie sociale que le XIX¢ siecle asu

, élaborer en méme temps qu’il perfectionnait ces outils essentiels que sont l’analyse et surtout la synthese en historiographie. Peut-étre aussi est-ce justement le caractere difficilement séparable de ces deux fruits de la réflexion inspirée par l’histoire au XIX¢

siecle, peut-étre est-ce justement (quoi qu’en penseront bien des his— toriens choqués de ce rapprochement) ce lien étroit entre vision phi- |

10/18), tome IV, p. 170. | , | 17 EB. MANDEL, Traité d’économie marxiste, Paris, René Julliard, 1962 (coll

AMBIVALENCE ET PERTINENCE DE LA PHILOSOPHIE... 307

losophique de Vhistoire et sens de la pratique de l’historien qui explique le mieux la séduction théorique qu’exerce encore a notre époque

la theorie marxiste de l’histoire, comme si Marx avait di passer par une conception dialectique de histoire pour acquérir cette aptitude a l’appréhension de l’essentiel en histoire qu’on lui reconnait volontiers aujourd’ hui encore. Moins que lidée d’un dynamisme univoque de l’histoire, c’est

Vidée des totalités historiques qui s’affirmerait décisivement chez Marx, l’idée que le féodalisme et le capitalisme sont des moments de histoire qu’il faut parvenir a cerner, l’idée, chere a Lucien Febvre, que l’histoire ne se fait pas seulement avec des faits et des dates, mais

avec la perception de rapports de force attestant que tout n’est pas dans histoire jeu de nuages qui se forment et se déforment au gré du vent, bref ’idée que Vhistoire, si elle n’est pas rationnelle, est au moins intelligible.

Moins qu’une affirmation dogmatique de la primauté des forces economiques, c’est idée que les rapports de production, qui relient les hommes souvent malgré eux, se modifient forcément et que, de ce fait, ils sont eux-mémes sujets d’une histoire au rythme plus lent (celui de la longue ou de la moyenne durée selon la terminologie de Fernand Braudel) mais aux répercussions plus décisives et souvent plus intéressantes. Enfin, moins que l’apologie d’une loi globale de histoire, c’est Vidée que sont a Pceuvre dans lhistoire des lois multiples dont les effets peuvent étre mis en lumiere, de facon plus ou moins décisive, a partir d’analyses économiques, sociologiques ou autres, susceptibles en se complétant de rendre possible une compréhension suffisamment synthétique — «interdisciplinaire», dirait avec enthousiasme Lucien Febvre encore, en soulignant sans doute que Vhistorien qui connait son métier est celui qui sait organiser cet ensemble d’analyses disparates. Une fois disloquée, ou a peu pres, la philosophie marxiste de

histoire, ce qui reste de cette grandiose entreprise, ce n’est pas, comme le suggéraient chacune a sa facon les interprétations de Plékhanov et de Mandel, une sorte de récupération par une téléologie socialiste des progres de la conscience et de la technique, c’est plutot une conception extreémement féconde de la pratique du métier d’his-

torien qui ne se trouvait apparemment pas exprimée avec autant d’envergure et de cohérence avant Marx et qui, en France par exemple, n’a fini par s’imposer qu’apres plusieurs décennies grace en particulier aux efforts des historiens de Pécole des Annales évoqués cidessus et a quelques autres pionniers. Aussi quand Althusser s’est avisé de proclamer, avec tout l’éclat que l’on sait, que Marx devait étre classé, a coté de Galilée, parmi les

fondateurs de science pour avoir ouvert a l’analyse scientifique le

308 —Ci(it*é*‘ MAURICE LAGUEUX | «continent histoire» '®, la communauté intellectuelle n’a pas été tellement heurtée par ces velléités épistémologiques, pourtant pas tres

_ -convaincantes, puisque les historiens les plus remarquables avaient justement adopté une facon de concevoir leur métier assez proche de celle proposée par Marx et qu’on pouvait voir dans ce vibrant hommage d’Althusser une facon, tout au plus épistemologiquement géné- reuse et idéologiquement rentable, de rendre pleinement justice a la -_-perspicacité géniale que Marx avait manifestée sur ce plan. Ceci pourtant n’avait rien a voir avec des «coupures épistémologiques » ou des > «effets de rupture»; le mérite de Marx n’était pas d’avoir défini par construction et par exclusion un espace socio-historique autorisant _ Papplication d’une méthode scientifique rigoureuse basée sur la me-

, sure et la vérification: on discute encore aujourd’hui la question de

savoir Si un tel pas pourra jamais étre franchi. Son mérite est plutot d’avoir refusé de séparer l’historique du social, du politique, de l’éco-

nomique et du culturel, bref d’avoir tenté, en réorientant décisivement l’analyse socio-économique, une synthese historique qui annongait celles que des historiens allaient bientot réclamer mais qui, dans

une large mesure, prolongeait celles que les philosophes de histoire —

—avaient depuis longtemps proposées. ,

, Que cette perception aigué des besoins de la recherche histori-

que ait été mise au service d’une philosophie de l’histoire, en définitive assez semblable aux autres, n’enleve rien a sa pertinence et que la dite philosophie de histoire, de temps a autre, se soit laissée reviser de maniere a ce que cette meéthodologie historique ne soit pas

indument durcie et rendue inopérante ne fait que mettre en évidence |

les secretes vertus de son ambivalence.

'8 Voir en particulier L. ALTHUSSER, Lénine et la philosophie, petite collection | Maspero n° 99, Paris, éd. Francois Maspero, 1975, pp. 21 et 53.

The Athenaeum Theory of Historical Facts by PAUL LANGHAM University of New Brunswick

It seems perfectly simple and non-problematic to draw a distinction between history and historiography: history comprises all those

events that have happened in the past, while historiography represents attempts to reconstruct what happened in the past. There are, however, a number of views that militate against this distinction, views which hold that historical facts are not in the past at all or that, even if they are, they are so bound up with the present as to make the history-historiography distinction untenable. ‘‘Ogni storia,’’ writes Croce, ‘‘é storia contemporanea.’’! Collingwood and Popper expand on this point in almost identical fashion. ‘‘[E]very age must write history afresh. Everyone brings his own mind to the study of history, and approaches it from the point of view characterictic of himself and his generation.’’* Elsewhere Collingwood, like Popper, even maintains that history, as the course of events itself, does not exist.* Such comments have often been taken to signal the collapse of traditional ideas of history and historiography. They have even been taken as implying that objectivity in history is never possible. It has been asserted, moreover, that the view is sanctioned by commonsense. Marrou, for example, assures us that: [E]n dehors des moments OU la pensée du logicien se fixe volontairement sur cette distinction, le génie du langage, exprimant (comme il arrive souvent) la sagesse implicite des nations, se réfuse a |’ intériner.*

Although the epistemological positions suggested, inter alia, by Col-

lingwood and Popper may require us to reevaluate traditional ap-

proaches to history, several authors have offered dangerously oversimplified and misleading treatments of historical facts which ' Benedetto Croce, History: Its Theory and Practice (New York: Russell & Russell, 1960), p. 12.

2 R.G. CoLLinGwoop, ‘‘The Philosophy of History,’’ reprinted in Essays in the Philosophy of History (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1966), p. 138; cf. Karl R. Poprer, The Open Society and Its Enemies (New York: Harper & Row, 1967), Vol. I, p. 268. ° R.G. CoLLINGwoop, “‘The Limits of Historical Knowledge,’’ Essays in the Philosophy of History, p. 99; cf. POPPER, ibid., p. 269.

4 Henri-Iréné MArrou, De la connaissance historique, Sth rev. ed. (Paris: Seuil, 1966), p. 39.

310 ~ PAUL LANGHAM might be taken as extrapolations from the basic epistemological posi-

: tion. Among these is the Athenaeum theory of historical facts.

The Athenaeum is a rather exclusive London men’s club. What is important for our purposes is precisely the fact that it 1s exclusive. It

has been said that only slightly fewer bishops wander through the corridors of the Athenaeum than wander through the pages of history. An analogy has been drawn between the process involved in gaining

membership to an exclusive club and that involved in something , becoming an historical fact. This analogy has been championed, inter alia, by Carr and Marrou. The analogy is intended to answer the question

as to what the criterion is “‘which distinguishes the facts of history from other facts about the past’’.>

To become a member of the Athenaeum, one must first seek out, or be sought out by, a certain number of responsible and accre- dited sponsors. Having been sponsored, one’s case is reviewed by a

— selection committee which decides whether or not the candidate is the kind of person that the club wants, whether or not it should admit the

candidate to membership. Not all members of the Athenaeum, of course, are bishops. Indeed, the Athenaeum has quite a varied

membership: there are the eminent and the influential, the rich and

the famous, then there are the typical Establishment people who just

, manage to muddle through and then there are those who are not quite what they seem. The selection committee does sometimes repent its decisions: as in the case of Mr. Kim Philby, whose membership was suddenly terminated when it was discovered that he was the proud possessor of the Star of Lenin (First Class). Thus, not only are there members who are a credit to the club and members who just hang around, there are also are those who suddenly find themselves out in the cold — and, of course, those who fail to get in or who are never considered.

oe On the other side of the analogy, we have the claim made by Carr and Marrou that there is a select club of historical facts.

, Let us look [suggests Carr] at the process by which a mere fact about the past is transformed into a fact of history. At Stalybridge Wake in 1850, a vendor of

, - gingerbread, as the result of some petty dispute, was deliberately kicked to death by an angry mob. Is this a fact of history? A year ago I should unhesitatingly have said ‘no’.®

7 But then something happened that may lead to a change of mind: A year ago Dr Kitson Clark cited it in his Ford lectures in Oxford. Does this make it a historical fact? Not, I think, yet. Its present status, I suggest, is that it has been proposed for membership of the select club of historical facts. It

. awaits a seconder and sponsors.’ , , 5 E.H. Carr, What is History ? (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1964), p. 10.

| 6 Tbid., p. 12. 7 Loc. cit.

THE ANTHAENEUM THEORY OF HISTORICAL FACTS 311

Carr points out, however, that it may fail to obtain these, that its application may be refused. Less blatant is a statement by Marrou. Dans Pune des charmantes petites villas du front de la mer que les fouilles récentes ont mises au jour dans la cité enfouie d’ Herculanum, on lit, legerement gravé a la pointe sur le mur des latrines, le texte suivant: Apollinaris, medicus Titi imp[eratoris], hic cacauit bene. Nul, j imagine, n’ira qualifier ?événement mentioné d’ ‘‘historique’’, car le réle officiel joué par ce personnage, Apollinaire, médecin de |’empereur Titus, n’a pas été tel que le fonctionnement de son systeme digestif mérite de retenir l’attention.... Est historique le fait que Phistorien juge digne d’étre retenu comme tel. ®

The last sentence is somewhat ambiguous, and its ambiguity is symptomatic of much of what Carr and Marrou have to say. It is difficult to decide whether ‘as such’ refers to ‘fact’, or ‘worthy’ or to ‘historic-

[al]’. Is Marrou claiming that any fact is historic[al] which the historian deems to be so? A rather circular and uninformative assertion. Is he claiming that anything that he deems to be a fact is, eo ipso, historic[al]? A rather empty assertion. Or is he claiming that anything deemed worthy of retaining as a fact is historic[al] ?

These confusions are at root dependent on a fundamental ambiguity between ‘historic’ and ‘historical’. It is fairly well agreed that neither the mob-killing of the gingerbread vendor nor the egestive satisfaction of Apollinaris is historic. One is tempted to say, ‘Neither will go down in history’. In a sense, however, that is precisely what is likely to happen to both of them. Both Carr and Marrou, after admit-

ting that their respective facts are not historic, see the possibility of turning them into historical facts. All that is required is the decision of a certain number of historians. Into what have these facts really been

turned, have they really become historic at the whim of some historians? In what sense, if any, have they become historical? If something, anything, has occurred, then it is historical in the sense of being a fact of history. Common-or-garden occurrences of the past do not need to be proposed or sponsored to gain their lowly status. The class of things that have happened is not exclusive: anything can and must join. It does not make sense to talk of things that have happened becoming historical in this sense: once they have happened, they are historical. Similarly, no fact can become historic just by being men-

tioned by one or more historians: no matter how many historians mention the mob-killing or Apollinaris’ egestive satisfaction, neither will become historic, neither will suddenly become historically important. If facts can become historical in any sense simply by being mentioned by historians, it is in the sense of becoming historiographical, i1.e., In becoming facts mentioned in historiographies. This reduces to a tautology the claim of Carr and Marrou that facts become historical by being mentioned by historians. * Henri-Iréné Marrou, ‘“‘Comment comprendre le métier d’historien,”’ reprinted in L’ histoire et ses méthodes (Bruges, 1961), p. 1496.

Oo 312 PAUL LANGHAM If the confusion could be cleared up as easily as this, it would | appear that the Carr-Marrou thesis would lead to no serious problems concerning the status of history. Part of the Carr-Marrou thesis, how-

ever, is that it is the historian alone who decides which facts should

, go down in histories. This gives credence to the view that history a lacks an objectivity that might be demanded of sciences like sociol-

more. ,

ogy. But the view rests on a further confusion: one which can most easily be eradicated by considering the analogy of the Athenaeum once On Carr’s account, one can imagine the fact of the Stalybridge

incident filling out its application form and mentioning that it had been

nominated by Clark and seconded by Carr. A significant breakdown

in the analogy occurs here. In the club example, it is the fellowmembers of the club who nominate and second, who elect and reject. In the case of historical facts, accoring to Carr and Marrou, it is the

historians who do these things. But historians are not of the same category as historical facts: they are people, alive now; historical facts are not people and have never been alive. Why should the cases differ at this point? Why can the facts themselves not decide which of

, them is to be a member of the club and which is not? oo Before expanding on this suggestion, it will be of profit to consider something of what Carr says about the facts of history and mere >

| facts of the past. There is no doubt in his mind as to their ontological status. Thus, he phrases his thesis in terms of an attack not on the facticity of facts about the past but on the objectivity of such facts. The commonsense view of history, according to Carr, holds that: History consists of a corpus of ascertained facts. The facts are available to the

, historian in documents, inscriptions.and so on, like fish on the fishmonger’s slab.

The historian collects them, and takes them home, and cooks and serves them in | whatever style appeals to him. ? :

The commonsense view finds no favour with Carr. ““The belief in a —

hard core of historical facts existing objectively and independently of the interpretation [sic] of the historian is,’’ he insists, “‘a preposterous fallacy.’ '!° The similarity at this point with Collingwood and Popper

is striking; but Carr goes on to maintain that:

, _ The facts are really not at all like fish on the fishmonger’s slab. They are like fish swimming about in a vast and sometimes inaccessible ocean; and what the historian catches will depend, partly on chance, but mainly on what part of the ocean he chooses to fish in and what tackle he chooses to use — these two oo factors, of course, being determined by the kind of fish he wants to catch. '!

_ Extended metaphors generally prove more mystifying than illuminating and the very thought of fish swimming around in uncharted oceans

10 Ibid., p. 12. :

| 9 What is History? p . 9. , 1 Tbid., p. 23.

THE ANTHAENEUM THEORY OF HISTORICAL FACTS 313

waiting to be sponsored for membership to the Athaeneum is perhaps slightly too much; but at least Carr’s target is obvious. Carr is concerned to combat the naive positivist view that the facts of history are “‘given’’, either by the authorities or by chronicles and records, and that the historian has merely to add the garnish to them and present them to the public. For earlier historians, the problem was not which facts to include but only how they should serve them, or at least so they seemed to believe. ‘‘Acton, whose culinary tastes were austere,’’ comments Carr, ‘‘wanted them served plain.’’ !2 For Gibbon, however, the fish were secondary to the sauce. Under the aegis of Acton, The Cambridge Modern History was to become the

grand supermarket or warehouse for historians, a place where the ungarnished historical facts would be collected and wholesaled to the Gibbons of the world for preparation and retailing to the public. !° On this matter of historical facts Carr sides more with Croce and Collingwood, whom he often cites with favour. When he comes to elucidate his objection to the thesis of basic historical facts, however, his expositions do not reflect the whole of the Croce-Collingwood-

Popper concern but only part of it. He focuses, as we have seen, almost entirely on the notion of selection in history ; but in doing so he omits the most important aspect of the problem and leaves us with no more than a slightly altered positivist view of historical facts. He maintains that the commonsense view that ‘‘there are certain basic

facts which are the same for all historians and which form, so to speak, the backbone of history,’ although true, is unimportant. In the first place, he argues, accuracy on these matters is ‘‘a necessary condition of [the historian’s] work, but not his essential function’’. '4 In the second place, which facts are chosen even as basic rests on ‘an a priori decision of the historian’’. '° The only reason why we are interested to know that the battle was fought at Hastings in 1066 is that the historians regard it as a major historical event. It is the historian who has decided for his own reasons that Caesar’s crossing of that petty stream, the Rubicon, is a fact of history, whereas the crossing of the Rubicon by millions of other people before or since interests nobody at all. '®

This state of affairs is complicated by the fact that our picture of the

past has been ‘‘preselected and predetermined for us’’ by past historians: ““The dead hand of vanished generations of historians, scribes and chroniclers has determined beyond the possibility of appeal the pattern of the past.’’ !’ 12 Tbid., p. 9. 13 Loc. cit.

4 Thid., p. 11. 1S Loc. cit.

'6 Loc. cit. 7 Thid., p. 14.

314 PAUL LANGHAM | -Carr’s position confuses two doctrines which, although sounding similar, are actually quite different. The two doctrines are: (1) That

the facts of history are determined, but which facts are important must be decided by the individual historian and cannot be contested;

(2) That the facts of history are not determined at all. The first of these can be seen to parallel Croce’s Zanzarra theory of historiography. ‘‘[H]owever remote in time events there recounted may seem

to be,’’ Croce observes, ‘“‘the history in reality refers to present needs and present situations wherein those events vibrate.’’'® And on the decision as to which events are important, he writes: ‘‘as though the importance of facts were not relative to the situation in which we find ourselves, and as though for a man annoyed by a mosquito the evolutions of the minute insect were not of greater importance than the expedition of Xerxes!’’!9 But that sometimes we will study the mos-quito and sometimes the expedition of Xerxes, depending on our inclinations and present interests, is of little theoretical importance: the same is true of researchers in all sciences, both natural and human. — Carr’s position would make sense only if there were implications concerning the content of historiographies once the subject matter were

chosen and then only if that content reflected an arbitrary choice of

individual historians. , Actually, the basic thrust of the Collingwood-Popper theory of

historical facts, the theory hinted at by Carr and expressed by Marrou

in De la connaissance historique as opposed to ‘‘Comment com-

prendre le métier d’historien,’’ is not at the selection of facts, but the interpretation of facts. Collingwood and Popper both insist, as in (2), that the facts of history are not determined, that they must be inter-

; preted. Speaking of the facts of history as a domain of things-inthemselves, Collingwood maintains: ‘‘What really happened”’ in this —

sense of the phrase is simply the thing in itself, the thing defined as out of all relation to the knower of it, not only unknown but unknowable, not only unknowable but non-existent.’ 2 But an insistence on

this epistemological point will not provide any distinction between history and sociology, or even between history and the natural sciences, based on a necessity in history of ‘‘a priori decisions’’.*'! The epistemological point made in (2) applies equally to all sciences — indeed, to all perception and knowledge whatsoever. ‘‘History in its fundamental and elementary form,’’ writes Collingwood, ‘‘is perception. Perception is the simplest case of historical thinking; it is the '8 Benedetto Croce, History as the Story of Liberty (New York: Gateway, | 1970), p. 19.

19 Croce, History: Its Theory and Practice, p. 18. 20 COLLINGWOOD, “‘The Limits of Historical Knowledge,”’ p. 99.

| 71 Carr’s use of ‘a priori’ is reminiscent of Collingwood, but the word is actually employed in a totally different sense by the latter. See R.G. COLLINGWooD, The Idea of History (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1946), pp. 240-1.

THE ANTHAENEUM THEORY OF HISTORICAL FACTS 315

most elementary determination of fact.’’*? And in analyzing perception, he continues: Reflection shows in all perception two elements, sensation and thought: thought ‘““interpreting’’ or reflecting upon the ‘‘data of sensation’’. Sensation here is a

mere abstraction, the limiting case in which we are supposed to receive unreflectively a pure datum: In actual experience we never get such a pure datum: whatever we call a datum is in point of fact already interpreted by thought. The object of perception is a ‘‘given’’ which is itself an interpretation of a further ‘‘given’’ and so on, ad infinitum. 73

According to this account, it would make no sense to speak of selecting facts on the basis of an interpretation: ““Thoughts without content

are empty,’ as Kant observed, ‘‘intuitions without concepts are

blind.’ Not ail historical interpretations, however, are equally fundamental. When we speak of Caesar crossing the Rubicon, for example,

we are already speaking of an interpreted fact. What will decide whether it should be included as an historic fact is the position that it occupies in relation to other facts. Had the Roman Senate arrested Caesar, charged him with mutiny and sedition, and successfully defused his uprising, the crossing of the Rubicon probably would not “have gone down in history’’. In a very real sense, therefore, it is the fellow facts that decide which of their number shall join the select club. What gives a certain credence to the Carr-Marrou position is that there are historical interpretations which do appear to structure facts and select among them. The works of Wedgwood and Polisensky

on the Thirty YearsWar, for example, seem to have nothing in common: the former speaks in terms of ‘‘chaps doing things’’ and the

latter m terms of ‘‘economic forces’. But the theories expressed in these works are scarcely the kind that an historian selects: they rep-

resent the bed-rock of his conceptualizations about history and human life. Between fundamental interpretations of this kind and simple hypotheses concerning the importance of individual facts, there exists a spectrum of more or less fundamental theories. It is this

complicating factor that the Carr-Marrou thesis dangerously oversimplifies.

22 R.G. COLLINGWoob, “The Nature and Aims of a Philosophy of History,”’ reprinted in Essays in the Philosophy of History, p. 49.

23 Tbid., p. 50. For Popper’s account, see especially Conjectures and

Refutations: The Growth of Scientific Knowledge (New York: Harper & Row, 1968), pp. 33-65.

Blank Page

Historical Facts by P.H. NOWELL-SMITH York University

Philosophers and historians often use the word ‘fact’ and cognate expressions with the unselfconscious expertise that we all share. For example, when Kitson Clark writes “‘he (Macaulay) was blinded by the fact that he was an optimistic, self-confident, whig of the first half of the 19th century’’! none of us would pause to wonder what he

meant by ‘fact’. Why is it, then, that when philosophers and historians address themselves to the questions ‘what is a fact?’ and ‘what is an historical fact?’ they flounder so badly? Their answers range from the uninformative to the downright incomprehensible. I shall argue in this paper that the concept of a ‘fact’ is a purely epistemological one, that to call something a fact is to comment on its epistemological status, and that the floundering is due to treating the concept as ontological, to thinking that a fact is some sort of entity.

As an example of the uninformative, consider E.H. Carr’s re-

mark that an historical fact is a fact that has been elected by the corpus of historians a member ‘‘of the select club of historical facts’’.? Aside from the fact that this is like telling us that a bishop is anyone who has been appointed to a bishopric, the remark is unen-

lightening because Carr has not told us what gives something the status of fact in the first place, and hence of being a candidate for election to the club. Examples of the second genre, the unintelligible,

are frequent especially in Idealist writings; one will suffice. Carl

Becker tells us that historical facts exist here and now in the minds of historians, an incomprehensible conclusion to which he finds himself forced by the pertinacity with which he tries to answer three illegitimate questions: ‘What, when, and where is the historical fact?’> I call his questions illegitimate and his answers incomprehensible because that is precisely what they are, and I shall argue for this position later; but I certainly do not wish to deny that Becker was wrestling with a serious and difficult problem. My complaint is that by pos! The Critical Historian (London: Heinemann, 1967), p. 38. * What is History ? (New York: Vintage, 1961), p. 10. 3. **What are Historical Facts?’’ in H. MEYERHOFF (ed.), The Philosophy of History in Our Time (New York: Anchor, 1959), pp. 120-37.

| 318 P.H. NOWELL-SMITH ing this problem as one about the existence and nature of historical

facts he has greatly hampered his attempt to solve it.

- The genuine problem is an epistemological one of a familiar kind. Historians make statements about the human past ranging in scope from ‘Caesar crossed the Rubicon’ to Gibbon’s assertion that , the fall of the Roman Empire was due to the triumph of barbarism and | Christianity ; one of the philosopher’s tasks is to set out and examine the criteria for accepting or rejecting such statements. Can historians ever establish the truth of what they tell us beyond reasonable doubt? If so, how? This is not a question about how they discover what they do, but about how their conclusions are supported by evidence and argument. But puzzling over the existence and nature of facts in general and of historical facts in particular is, I shall argue, an unfruitful ~ way of approaching the philosopher’s task. Why, then, have so many of us, philosophers and historians alike, slipped into adopting this

approach?

, The answer to this last question is, I believe, a very simple one;

, we are the victims of an unconscious line of argument which has only

to be brought out into the open to be seen to be spurious. In our unselfconscious moments, when we use the word ‘fact’ without reflecting on our use of it, we say such things as that ‘it is a fact that

Lincoln was assassinated’ or ‘that Lincoln was assassinated is anes- |

- tablished fact’. It follows that there must be such things as facts; and if there are such things as facts, it must be reasonable to ask what facts are, what sort of entities they are, and then to ask what disting-ulshes historical facts from facts of other sorts. If, returning to Kitson _

Clark’s impeccably lucid statement about Macaulay, we try, so to , speak, to put pressure on the word ‘fact’, we might try to put the fact of Macaulay’s being a whig on some sort of ontological map. We might ask what sort of entity ‘being a whig’ is, whether such entities are basic entities to which we have an ontological commitment or ©

~ whether they are reducible to entities of other sorts in the way in which numbers are (perhaps) reducible to classes; or we might ask whether being a whig is the sort of entity that is able to cause someone to be blind to something. I have no wish to deny the value and importance of such conceptual cartography; my point is that these

questions arise about the concept of ‘being a whig’ or about

Macaulay’s having been one, not about the fact (if it is a fact) that he was one. My thesis is that such questions, which must be askable if facts are entities of some sort, are in fact idle and serve only to confound confusion. But it is time to argue for this thesis.

First, the train of thought which starts from the legitimacy of statements of the form ‘it is a fact that p’ and issues in perplexed _ discussion about the nature and ontological status of facts is clearly mistaken if it happens to be the case that expressions involving the

, word ‘fact’ are idiomatic in the sense that they are not to be con-

HISTORICAL FACTS 319 strued in accordance with their surface grammar. From ‘it is a fact that Lincoln was assassinated’ we can no more infer the existence of facts than from ‘it is the case that Lincoln was assassinated’ we can infer the existence of cases. The word ‘fact’, like other epistemological words, often has a parenthetical use. Just as ‘I know that Ottawa is the capital of Canada’ could often (but not always) be re-written as ‘Ottawa is, I know, the capital of Canada’, so ‘it is a fact that Lincoln was assassinated’ could be re-written as ‘Lincoln was, in fact, assassinated’. Such idioms are used to express what the speaker takes to be a well-founded confidence in the truth of the relevant statement. But, while reflection on such idiomatic uses may take us some way towards resisting the temptation to think of facts as entities, it cannot take us the whole way. As John Searle has pointed out* the tllocutionary force of an expression does not always exhaust its meaning. The word ‘fact’ in a sentence of the form ‘if it is a fact that p, it must also be a fact that gq’ carries no illocutionary force. secondly, speculation as to what sort of entities facts are must

be idle for the following reason. If we try to place them on some ontological map we run into the difficulty that their place will be everywhere and nowhere. There have been and still are things, persons, qualities, times, places, and so on through the Aristotelian or

any other list of categories; but facts cannot constitute a distinct category because there are facts in every category. It is a fact that Socrates. was a man, lived in the Sth century 4.c., was snub-nosed,

was married to Xanthippe, and so on. But are these really facts? When I say that they are, my utterance has an illocutionary force; I am claiming to have good grounds for asserting whatever it is that I

do assert about Socrates, that the truth of the assertion is beyond reasonable doubt. But the illocutionary force of the phrase ‘it is a fact that’ does not exhaust its meaning, since if Socrates was not married to Xanthippe I should have been mistaken however well supported by evidence or argument my assertion was. (Any historical statement

may be untrue; and to say that is only to say that historical statements are not a priori truths.) However, being false is not the only way in which my assertion may be, to use Austin’s word, ‘‘unhappy’. [f we discovered that the belief that Socrates was married to Xanthippe was founded on nothing better than idle gossip, though the belief might still be true, it would be improper for anyone to go on referring to Socrates’ being married to Xanthippe as a fact. The third point is the most important. ‘Fact’ is a contrast word typically used to contrast questions or matters of fact with questions or matters of a number of other kinds, among which are fiction, law, value, opinion, theory, and interpretation. Failure to keep this fact in mind is, I believe, responsible for much of the puzzlement over the * Speech Acts (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1969).

390 P.H. NOWELL-SMITH nature of facts. This is so because something that is undoubtedly a fact in terms of one of these contrasts may very well not be a fact in terms of one of the others. It is, for example, a fact in terms of the

| fact/opinion contrast that Mr. Pickwick was fat, but not in terms of the fact/fiction contrast. So, forgetting that the meaning of the word ‘fact’ will vary with the contrast we have in mind, we are inclined to say that something both is a fact and is not a fact, and contradictory

made. re

| inclinations are the stuff of which philosophical pseudo-problems are It is undoubtedly a fact, in terms of the fact/opinion contrast,

that contributory negligence of plaintiff will normally bar recovery of damages in a negligence suit, and any lawer advising a client will tell him so flatly. Yet the proposition ‘contributory negligence etc.’ is not -a proposition of fact but a proposition of law. The lawyer will call it a fact to inform his client that it is a well-established proposition of law, so that if his client’s negligence in any way contributed to the damage

- he sustained he had better drop his case. , When facts are contrasted, not with beliefs or opinions, but with theories, a theory is always thought of as something larger than a fact,

something which encompasses or explains many facts or collects them into some significant whole. This being so, it is not surprising that the difference between fact-as-opposed-to-theory and fact-asopposed-to-opinion tends to pass unnoticed, since it will normally be the case that the theory is less well-established than the facts which it

, encompasses. Hence to refer to something as a theory will usually be to suggest that the set of statements which together constitute the theory have not been established beyond reasonable doubt. But from this, of course, it by no means follows that the theory cannot be established beyond reasonable doubt. Avogadro’s hypothesis can become Avogadro’s law without there being any change other than in the status accorded to it by chemists. As far as the logic of ‘fact’ and

, ‘theory’ go, it could be the case that the entire Marxist theory of historical change could achieve the status of fact in terms of the

fact/opinion contrast. 7

_ A discussion of the fact/theory contrast would, however, take us

into the epistemology of the natural sciences, that being the place where the word ‘theory’ has its natural home. In history, facts are

, more commonly contrasted, not with theories, but with interpretations. Leo Gershoy, dissatisfied with the standard account of the character and conduct of Bertrand Barére which derives from Macaulay, undertook a re-examination of the evidence and produced a very different one.* In July 1793 Barere took the lead in the impeachment of the Girondin leaders with whom he had formerly been 5 Bertrand Barére: A Reluctant Terrorist (Princeton: Princeton University ,

Press, 1962), ch. 9. ,

HISTORICAL FACTS 321 associated, and Macaulay accuses him of doing so in order to save his

own skin. Gershoy’s account of Barére is that he was a “reluctant terrorist?’ who impeached the Girondin leaders because he thought it essential to do so save France from its internal and external enemies. Anyone who accepts Gershoy’s account as proven by documentary evidence will say that is is a fact that Barere impeached the Girondins for the reason that Gershoy gives — in terms of the fact/opinion contrast, meaning thereby that, in his view, Gershoy has made out his case beyond reasonable doubt. But in terms of the fact/interpretation contrast what Gershoy offers us is clearly not a fact, but an interpretation of Barere’s conduct. An interpretation of Barere’s conduct? Or an interpretation of

the evidence? The word ‘interpretation’ leads a double life in the

philosophy of history and this leads to trouble even within the fact/interpretation contrast itself. All claims to historical knowledge rest, obviously, on the interpretation of documents, of traces that the past has left behind. Now since these documents are the only data (données) from which an historian can start and by reference to which

everything he tells us must be substantiated, it is natural that we should come to identify documents with facts. For the documents are

the only things of which the existence is beyond doubt. (Why it should be thought that the present existence of something perceptible can be established beyond doubt while the occurrence of past events cannot is never made clear. But that is another story.) Whatever else

an historian may be able to doubt he cannot, it is said, doubt that what he has before him is, for example, “‘paper over the surface of which ink has been distributed in certain patterns’’.® Items of this sort, then, are the only things that, strictly speaking, may be called ‘facts’, so that whatever an historian tells us about Barere’s conduct must be on the ‘interpretation’ side of the fact/interpretation contrast. From the true premise that an historian’s thesis is based on the interpretation and criticism of documents idealist philosophers arrive at the conclusion that Barere’s conduct is an interpretation of documents. Explicit identification of facts with documents is rare in English writers, perhaps because the type-fallacy jars one’s sensibility. But it is to be found in the following sentence of Croce: “‘“what were narratives or judgements before are now themselves facts, ‘documents’ to

be interpreted and judged’’.’ Croce is making the valid point that a judgement or narrative written at the time of an event or later can only be treated by a subsequent historian as a document, something

to be interpreted. And it would be unduly severe to press the © BECKER, op. cit., p. 12.

7 B. Croce, Theory and History of Historiography, tr. Douglas AINSLIE (London: Harrap, 1921), p. 12.

392 P.H. NOWELL-SMITH identification of documents with facts if it were not the case that this identification is one of the foundations of his entire philosophy of history. It is responsible, in part, for his view that all history is contem-

, porary history, that real, ‘live’ history is ‘‘the history that one really

_ thinks in the act of thinking’’,® and so forth. | But for the most part historians, even when they are reflecting

, on the concept of a ‘fact’, do not use the fact/interpretation contrast , in this way at all. For an historian who is not wholly convinced by — Gershoy and thinks that, after all, Macaulay might have been right, or

, who offers a new interpretation of Barere’s conduct, will certainly say that it is afact that Barere did impeach the Girondins, for all that that proposition too is something that has to be established by the interpretation of documents. It is in this sense that Kitson Clark refers to the ‘‘framework of fact’’? around which historians weave interpretations. ‘Fact’ here cannot mean, as it does for Croce, ‘document’ since the example that Kitson Clark gives of a fact is the fact that the battle of Waterloo was fought on Sunday, 18 June 1815, and neither the

battle itself nor the assertion that it was fought on that date could possible be called a document. His reason for calling this a fact is

clear. ‘‘If the common opinion ... was wrong then most of the history

of Europe in the 19th century would be inexplicable, and a great

| spurious.’’? | |

many contemporary records ... would have to be rejected as

- Now if the philosophizing historian sometimes thinks of histori-

cal facts as the documents which constitute his data and sometimes thinks of them as what has been established beyond reasonable doubt

_ by inference from these data and if this duality in the reference of the

_ phrase ‘historical fact’ is not noticed, it is hardly surprising that he ties himself in knots. Becker provides a very clear example. He first insists, correctly, on distinguishing the fact that Lincoln was assasstnated, which is still a fact here and now, from the event, Lincoln’s assassination, which occurred more than a century ago and is not now occurring. But he goes on to ask about the historical facts questions which, while appropriate enough when asked about events, make no

| sense at all when asked about facts. ‘When and where was Lincoln | assassinated?’ are questions which are readily intelligible and, as it

happens, easily answered. He was assassinated on the 14th of April,

1865, in Ford’s Theatre in Washington. But these questions make no

, sense if asked about the fact that Lincoln was assassinated, since

facts exist nowhere and nowhen. And this is not because they are timeless entities not located in space, but because they are not en-

tities at all. To say that Lincoln’s assassination is a fact is simply to say that it cannot reasonably be doubted that Lincoln was

5 Op. cit., p. 13. a

2 Op. cit., pp. 41-2.

HISTORICAL FACTS | 323 assassinated; and the reason why it cannot be doubted is that if we took seriously the hypothesis that he was not assassinated at that time and place most of the subsequent history of the United States would be mexplicable and a great many contemporary records would have to be rejected as spurious. The sceptical thrust of Becker’s essay is due to his very proper

realization of the fact that to establish an historical proposition

beyond reasonable doubt is no easy matter when we get beyond the Lincoln-was-assassinated stage; like others of his generation he was familiar with the way in which revisionist historians could undermine the most solid-seeming historical structures, and he was led to believe that historical knowledge was impossible. But he was hampered in his attempt to come to grips with the problem posed by revisionism by raising questions which, when asked about facts, are literally incomprehensible. Confidence in historical theses can wax and wane, and

the more ambitious the thesis, the greater the probability that reexamination of the evidence, the availability of new types of evidence, and new uses of old evidence will cause it to be modified or rejected. When an historian refers to something as a fact, he expresses the view that it has been established beyond reasonable doubt and signals his intention to treat it as such. Since historical propositions are contingent, there is always, perhaps, a possibility (of some sort) that he may be mistaken; but since that possibility is in some cases negligible he is fully entitled to speak of a ‘framework of fact’. Nor need he be deterred by the fact that the probability of error is a continuum, that there is no mechanical way of distinguishing the sheep, facts that will never lose their status, from the goats. To be worried about this absence of a criterion is like suggesting that we can never be sure that So-and-So is bald on the grounds that there are people whom we hesitate to call bald or not bald. Historical knowledge is no worse off in this respect than most other kinds of knowledge.

I know that in some quarters the remarks that I have made

about the idiomatic use of English expressions are thought to be trivial and to have no philosophical point; but they are neither trivial nor pointless if they serve to clear the air. In this instance, one point is to enable philosophers to get on with their proper job, which ts to characterize and to assess the cogency of historians’ claims to knowledge. (In effect, this boils down to answering questions about the

relation between an historian’s conclusions and the evidence for them.) Another is to assuage the anxieties of historians who may,

from time to time, be held up by the philosophical-looking question ‘What is a fact?’

Blank Page |

Peuples sans histoire par JOSEPH PESTIEAU College Saint-Laurent

INTRODUCTION

Dans cette communication, je voudrais contribuer a une réflexion sur le rapport des hommes a leur devenir collectif et cela a partir cle quelques données de l’anthropologie sociale. I] n’y a rien d’étonnant a ce que l’étude des «primitifs» donne a penser sur ce sujet et sur bien d’autres. En effet, les anthropologues, comme les historiens, mettent en question leur propre culture et les catégories habituelles des sciences sociales pour comprendre les «autres ». Certains renverseraient méme la proposition et diraient qu’on tente de comprendre les «autres» afin de se mettre soi-méme en question (de Certeau, 1975; Veyne, 1971). Les peuples que l’on dit sans histoire, vivent leur histoire d’une

certaine maniere. C’est cette maniére que je tenterai de comprendre et dont je voudrais discuter ici. Je commencerai par une remarque a propos de l’insouciance apparente des chasseurs-cueilleurs, insouclance qui n’est pourtant pas de l’infantilisme. En deuxieme lieu, je parlerai de la confusion fréquente entre ordre social et ordre cosmique. Dans beaucoup de peuples bantu, c’est Pun et l’autre que |’on veut conserver et la peur de mauvaises recoltes devient une garantie contre les bouleversements politiques. En troisieme lieu, j envisagerai le refus du changement social et de Vhistoire comme Il’ expression d’un conservatisme radical, timoré a certains égards, raisonné et prudent a d’autres égards. Enfin, je noterai que l’anthropologue et I’ historien construisent leur objet de fagon quasi antinomique: le premier, apparemment, ne retient que les structures stables ou récurrentes, Pautre semble ne s’intéresser qu’aux évolutions singulieres et aux ruptures d’équilibre. Il y a pourtant la deux lectures complémentaires de toute réalité sociale. Méme les peuples qui ne veulent pas d’histoire en ont une, lente sans doute, mais qu’il faut déchiffrer pour rendre compte de leur culture. D’autre part, pour apprécier un événement singulier ou une rupture d’equilibre, il faut établir ce qui est rompu, quelle est la toile de fond sur laquelle l’événement prend sens.

326 JOSEPH PESTIEAU INSOUCIANCE ET SOUCI DES CHASSEURS-CUEILLEURS

oe Apres avoir expliqué quelle conception mythique les aborigénes australiens ont de leur passé et de leur espace, Elkin (1967) nous dit

| combien ils sont incapables de comptabiliser le temps, méme le temps | requis pour leurs projets. S’ils estiment qu’un voyage se fera en neuf

étapes ou campements d’une nuit, cela ne signifie aucunement quils le feront en autant de jours. Si, en cours de route, ils rencontrent une nourriture abondante ou des amis, leur route s’arrétera la, le temps de __profiter de la bonne occasion. Méme s’il leur faut se rendre a un ras-

! semblement tribal, ils ne se pressent pas. Les premiers arrivés chercheront nourriture et amusement en attendant les autres.

En quelque lieu qu’une personne se trouve et a quelque moment que ce soit, . seule la collecte des aliments et les relations sociales lintéressent au premier chef — elles constituent la ‘réalité concrete’ de l’instant. Et ce qui doit se passer

au-dela de cette heure présente ne revét pas encore un caractére de réalité (Elkin, 1967, p. 275).

- Pourtant, cette insouciance apparente des chasseurs-cueilleurs, qu’ils soient du Kalahari ou du désert australien, va de pair avec une explottation systématique des ressources rares de leur milieu. D’une part, 1 | semble que le temps qu’ils allouent a la collecte de la nourriture soit relativement réduit. Le temps qu’ils consacrent au loisir est plus long

que dans n’importe quelle autre culture plus évoluée (cf. Sahlins,

1976, 1& chap.). D’autre part, ils utilisent leur environnement avec une rationalité remarquable. Lee (1965) a démontré que les Bushmen choisissaient leurs aliments selon un ordre de preference constant et

cohérent compte tenu des distances, de la dispersion des points , d’eau, des techniques de transport et des saisons. Il n’y a aucune

sur ce point. - |

raison de penser que les aborigénes d’ Australie leur soient inférieurs

Ces nomades planifient leurs mouvements et optimisent leurs

chances non seulement de survie mais de bonne vie. Leur producti- | vité ainsi que leur adaptation a l’écologie demeurent un objet de fas-

| cination. Leur monde et leur horizon temporel sont structurés non pas en fonction d’une maitrise a long terme de la reproduction des ressources, comme chez les agriculteurs, mais en fonction des occcasions qui se présentent, occasions vis-a-vis desquelles il faut s’adapter

| sans cesse parce qu’on ne les commande pas (Lee et De Vore, 1968). Détienne et Vernant (1974) ont donné des lettres de noblesse fort

classiques a cette attitude ou la disponibilité, la subtiliteé et la ruse comptent plus que la prévision a terme, attitude caractéristique des

chasseurs et de toutes les especes d’écumeurs !. | Tl est piquant de noter que |’entrepreneur moderne méprise volontiers le margoulin qui tente sa chance tous azimuts pour compenser un manque de fonds. L’en- | trepreneur veut et peut maitriser ses opérations, si diverses qu’elles soient. Il n’agit que dans le cadre de lois et de conventions connues. I] encourage peut-étre son jeune

PEUPLES SANS HISTOIRE 397 Ce qui est notable néanmoins, c’est le conservatisme des « primitifs» dont je viens de parler. Leurs migrations suivent des routes parcourues depuis toujours. Les mouvements des aborigenes australiens ne dérogent pas a des facons de faire ancestrales, garanties par le faire des ancétres mythiques, répétées scrupuleusement. Leur information sur le milieu est déja encyclopédique et il ne serait probablement pas économique pour eux d’essayer de nouveaux Savoir-

faire. Selon les theories concernant les cotits de l'information et

de organisation (Arrow, 1974), ils agissent rationnellement en s’en tenant aux traditions en matiére de production et de distribution. Cela dit, il faut s’interroger sur le caractere quasi sacré de leur traditionalisme, méme si, par ailleurs, 11 parait fonctionnel. Pour mieux saisir ce

qu’il en est de ce caractere, je vais envisager le traditionalisme de sociétés mieux connues et beaucoup plus développées. ORDRE COSMIQUE ET ORDRE SOCIAL

Dans beaucoup de peuples bantu, l’ordre du monde semble aussi fragile que l’ordre social et les deux paraissent se confondre. On veut les conserver un comme l’autre et on craint leur commune désagrégation (Randles, 1975, pp. 635-639). Dans les royautés dites sacrées, durant les interregnes, l’anarchie resurgit au moins symboliquement et c’est la création elle-méme qui alors menace de s’écrouler (Girard, 1972, pp. 150-166). Les cosmos comme la concorde ne sont maintenus

que par de bonnes mceurs et des rites appropriés.Ceux-ci, en |’absence d’un pouvoir central, ont des fonctions eminemment politiques. Ils célebrent et garantissent, en les solennisant, les roles de chacun. Ils contribuent ainsi a ’ équilibre social. Par ailleurs, ils rythment aussi bien les saisons que les travaux saisonniers, les ages de la vie que les

passages d’un statut a un autre (Turner, 1957; Gluckman, 1962). L’ordre ancestral, transmis et représenté par les chefs de lignée ou par les rois des Etats embryonnaires, concerne la nature comme la culture et semble n’étre jamais établi une fois pour toutes. La paix, il

est vrai, est sans cesse menacée par les fissions ou la rivalité des factions mais on craint aussi que les récoites et l’ordre des saisons ne soient compromis par la discorde. Et cette crainte contribue a sauvegarder la paix et l’autorité du chef ou des anciens.

En fait, dans une telle culture, ce ne sont pas les bouleversements sociaux qui l’emportent mais la continuité (Turner, 1957). On veut conjurer le désordre. On est sans cesse en train de proner et de rétablir un ordre public mal assuré. Tant qu’un Etat monopolisant la force et imposant effectivement sa loi n’est pas établi, il n’y a pas de paix incontestable. Et c’est justement parce qu’il n’y a pas un tel Etat et une telle paix sur lesquels se reposer, que la société craint les boufils a courir les pourboires et les risques mais lui-méme vise a réduire les incertitudes de ses affaires. [l en a les moyens mais il n’a pas le monopole de la rationalité.

328 JOSEPH PESTIEAU © ——--— Jeversements?. Ne sachant pas ou ils s’arréteront, elle craint le pire, elle a peur de toute querelle, de toute confusion des roles et des sta| tuts comme s’il s’agissait d’une souillure maléfique ou d’une atteinte a léquilibre cosmique (Douglas, 1971). I] lui arrive de dénoncer toute

| innovation comme dangereuse. , CONSERVATISME DES PEUPLES SANS ETAT

En l’absence d’un pouvoir judiciaire souverain, il faut bien entretenir la crainte des dieux et le respect des traditions. On s’en tient aux regles et aux rites qui passent pour immémoriaux et sont donc

indiscutables. Le conformisme et le ritualisme obsessionnels ne sont , ni naifs ni irréfléchis dans ces circonstances, puisqu’ils visent a - maintenir des formes de coexistence qui ont réussi. Girard (1972, p. 217) voit l’ origine de la peur de toute démesure chez les Grecs dans

cette prudente observance d’un ordre coutumier antérieur a celui de

l’Etat. Il ne s’agit pas d’une pusillanimité bourgeoise ou d’un asservissement vis-a-vis d’un sur-moi arbitraire, mais de la prescience qu’au-dela de cette prudente observance, il n’y a plus d’humaniteé. Girard parle a dessein de prescience, c’est-a-dire d’une science qui ne se Sait pas. D’une part, les formes observées sont bien pensées et efficaces. D’autre part, il importe qu’on ne sache pas qu’elles ne sont que conventions humaines afin qu’elles demeurent efficaces.

Sans doute pourrait-on rapprocher une telle attitude de la sa- | gesse ou des préjugés d’ Edmund Burke ou de Louis de Bonald. Pourtant, il faut bien comprendre qu’une société sans Etat n’a pas d’autre

option qu’un conservatisme quasi absolu si elle veut subsister. Clastres (1974 et 1976) a fait la théorie de la difference entre la sociéte sans Etat et la société étatique: la premiere serait resolument contre tout pouvoir séparé d’elle-méme et contre toute différenciation de classes, elle serait choix pour l’égalité et la réciprocité. Cette these a - sguscité divers commentaires soulignant la répression et l’immobilisme

: idéologiques la ou l’ordre n’est pas garanti par un maitre?. En tout cas, le sujet est a la mode (cf. Augé, 1977; Lapierre, 1977; Birnbaum, 1977; Gauchet, 1977 et 1978).

On peut sans doute dire qu’en l’absence d’une spécialisation — | et d’une personnification des roles politiques, les hommes se différencient

difficilement de l’ordre et de l’autorité morale qui les régissent, car il y a dans toute société un certain ordre qui s’impose et va de

soi. Si la loi d’un maitre écrase, au moins peut-on reconnaitre et la 2 La société, en l’occurrence, c’est le groupe local vivant en autarcie. D/ailleurs, méme dans une société étatique, des communautés traditionnelles subsistant relativement indépendantes de l’ordre étatique, manifestent les mémes craintes vis a vis

de toute dérogation aux usages. | . 3 D. Legros (1978) rapporte des faits ethnographiques qui contredisent jusqu’a un certain point la these de Clastres.

PEUPLES SANS HISTOIRE 329 loi et le maitre, se liguer contre l’un et l’autre et les changer. On voit en quel sens l’histoire commencerait avec la stratification sociale et les luttes pour le pouvoir.

Par ailleurs, Gauchet (1978), dans la foulée de Clastres, remarque que le refus du pouvoir implique le refus de lhistoire. Une société qui veut légalité entre ses membres s’ oppose a tout changement de ses moeurs parce qu’elle s’oppose 4 quiconque en prendrait I’ initiative et gagnerait par le fait méme un certain ascendant. Ainsi raisonneraient les membres d’une telle société: Personne parmi les hommes comme nous ne peut changer quelque chose a nos regles et a nos usages — c’est-a-dire exercer un pouvoir au sens proprement politique du mot. Car le pouvoir c’est toujours dans le fait de poser des lois nouvelles et de casser des lois anciennes qu’il consiste. Le pouvoir c’est d’abord le droit de redéfinir en permanence ce que doit étre la société. Chose que juste-

ment la religion primitive décide impossible. Le conservatisme dicté par la croyance religieuse est ici le moyen de |’égalité politique. Car proclamer intangible la loi héritée, soustraire l’ordre collectif a la prise transformatrice des hommes, c’est empécher le pouvoir en son ambition essentielle (Gauchet, 1978, p. 62).

Le refus d’un pouvoir séparé de la société irait de pair non seulement avec un refus de l’histoire mais aussi avec un refus de la pro-

duction de surplus qui ne seraient pas consommés par les producteurs, chacun produisant ou pour soi ou pour des échanges réciproques* (Clastres, 1976, Gauchet, 1978). Ni ’immobilisme des regles et

des usages, ni l’économie de subsistance ne correspondraient a un manque, ils seraient voulus. Il ne s’agirait pas d’un conservatisme timoré ou d’une incapacité d’améliorer le statu quo mais plutot d’un choix qui a ses raisons. Selon Claude Lefort, Les sociétés «stagnantes» ne se situent pas en dega de l’ere du développement historique, elles élaborent les conditions de leur stagnation. De méme, les societés historiques ne sont pas le produit d’un développement, elles en aménagent la possibilité, et, au demeurant, sans cesser de résister au changement et de tenter de dénier histoire (1978, p. 11).

Il me semble cependant qu’il faille nuancer la notion de choix en faveur de la stagnation. Ce n’est certainement pas un choix explicite.

En reprenant Girard, je dirais qu’une société se voue au statu quo parce que celui-ci a fait ses preuves, mais elle ne peut reconnaitre qu’il n’est que conventions. II lui faut bien y voir la volonté des dieux pour s’y conformer scrupuleusement et pouvoir subsister sans Leviathan.

Une société sans histoire n’est certes pas sans événements perturbateurs mais elle ne voit dans ces événements aucune possibilité d’innovation. Elle s’adapte a ce qui lui arrive mais pour essayer d’en neutraliser et d’en assimiler les effets (Lefort, 1978, p. 39). S’il y a des 4 En fait, il y a toujours des surplus. C’est le mode d’appropriation et usage des surplus qui comptent. Sont-ils transférés a une classe dominante ou sont-ils consommeés par les producteurs? Telle est la question importante.

| 330 | JOSEPH PESTIEAU | conflits dans une telle société, on tente de les étouffer et l’ordre des choses se rétablit plus ou moins comme un organisme se rétablit apres

, avoir été perturbé par la maladie. Cependant, comme le dit encore Lefort,

la stagnation n’est pas un fait de nature, mais un fait de coexistence; elle est impliquée dans la maniere dont les hommes se percoivent et se rapportent les uns aux autres, c’est-a-dire dans une praxis collective (1978, p. 45). |

| Si une société de ce type ne se transforme guere et ne reconnait | pas les possibilités d’avenir que lui offrent les circonstances qui surviennent, c’est donc moins parce qu’elle est incapable de changements que parce qu’elle tient @ demeurer comme elle est. Mais elle tient a demeurer comme elle est parce qu’elle craint le changement ou ne voit pas le parti qu’on pourrait en tirer. I] ne s’agit pas d’idéaliser — les «primitifs» sans maitres et sans histoire, mais de reconnaitre que notre présence a l’histoire n’est ni la seule ni nécessairement la plus sage. En fait, nous n’avons laissé aucune culture a sa sagesse, nous

| les avons toutes acculées a s’intégrer plutot mal que bien a notre propre histoire’. Apres ce gachis, a gauche comme a droite, on réve de bons sauvages libertaires ou anarchistes qui n’ont jamais existé. On évite ainsi de reconnaitre, de rencontrer, d’entendre les hommes du Tiers et du Quart Monde, irrémédiablement engages dans un avenir qui leur échappe (Leiris, 1963). SYNCHRONIE ET DIACHRONIE

En terminant, je voudrais comparer |’ optique historique et celle de l’anthropologie, et montrer combien elles sont complémentaires. Avant tout, il me faut prévenir une objection. N’est-ce pas notre ignorance du devenir des peuples sans écriture® qui nous les fait apparaitre sans histoire et nous amene a privilégier le point de vue des

, structures sociales stables en ce qui les concerne? Ceux qui ont pris la peine de discerner dans la culture de ces peuples les traces d’un

devenir, ont découvert que les divers éléments de leur culture n’ étaient pas tous en harmonie, qu’ils n’existaient pas de toute éter-

nité, qu’ils manifestaient parfois des adaptations laborieuses, non définitives, a des événements qu’on devine plus ou moins. Au cceur meme de ce qu'il est convenu d’appeler la personnalité de base, on

, peut retracer des ajustements en cours. Pourtant, on ne peut ramener

a une erreur d’optique le conservatisme radical que je viens d’évo5 Qui est ce «nous»? Quelles classes ont pris l’initiative de « notre» histoire? Et par quels cheminements les peuples font-ils confiance au progres industriel ou aux

prophetes de la révolution? «Le pouvoir, c’est d’abord le droit de redéfinir en perma-

pouvoir dans «notre» société? ; | , 6 Ceux-ci sont beaucoup plus nombreux que les peuples sans Etat. nence ce que doit étre la société » disait Gauchet. Qui s’empare de ce droit et exerce le

PEUPLES SANS HISTOIRE 33] quer. C’est bien plutot le fait de ce conservatisme qui invite a adopter un point de vue synchronique plutot que diachronique. Encore faut-il etre capable de changer de point de vue et ce qui paraissait retour au passé ou refus de (histoire apparaitra parfois innovation fondamentale. Les exemples ne manquent pas. Les Mélanésiens qui devaient faire face a Virruption des biens industrialisés, importés dans leurs iles par les blancs ont pu assimiler ces biens a des dons que leur destinaient leurs ancétres. [ls rendaient ainsi compte de l’événement et on ne peut comprendre cette réaction -qu’en se référant a la mentalité et a la culture indigenes. Mais Vhis-

toire ne s’arréte pas la. Elle ne fait que commencer. En affirmant

leurs droits d’héritier sur les biens des blancs, les indigenes faisaient

bien plus que neutraliser un événement perturbateur. Ils se préparaient comme ils pouvaient, sans trop le savoir, a la lutte anticoloniale. Ce qu’on appelle les cultes du cargo ont été interprétés comme des réactions nativistes par les uns (cf. Lawrence, 1974) mais, pour d’autres observateurs, il s’agissait d’une premiere étape dans un long cheminement des Mélanésiens vers la reprise en main de leur destin (cf. Worsley, 1968). On a démontré une ambivalence similaire dans les cultes millénaristes des églises noires en Afrique (Balandier, 1963, Dozon, 1974) et dans plusieurs mouvements de libération nationale (Lanternari, 1962, Pereira de Queiros, 1968; Muhlemann, 1968). De nombreux anthropologues se sont faits historiens (par exemple Horton, 1969 et 1971; Terray, 1971; Dupré et Massala, 1975) et de

nombreux historiens ont repris le point de vue et les méthodes de Panthropologie (par exemple Bloch, 1939; Wachtel, 1971; Le Roy Ladurie, 1975 et 1979; Vansina, 1965). Les uns et les autres reconnaissent qu’une lecture diachronique des faits sociaux appelle une lecture

synchronique et vice versa. Ce sujet a été traité maintes fois (Smith, 1962: Shapera, 1962; Lévi-Strauss, 1949; Lewis, 1968; Gluckman, 1968; Carmack, 1972; Gaboriau, 1963; Pouillon, 1972; CoqueryVidrovitch, 1969; Person, 1971; Vansina, Mauny et Thomas, 1964). Je voudrais ’aborder a nouveau en m/’inspirant du dernier livre de Marc Augé (1979). L’ anthropologie s’intéresse a une société en tant que totalite. Ce

qu’elle veut saisir, c’est la culture en tant qu’intégration de fonctions diverses, en tant que distribution de roles complémentaires. Cependant une culture ne correspond jamais a un équilibre parfait et stable. Elle recele bien des possibilités de conflits. En un sens, ce sont les disfonctions et les conflits qui révélent la culture comme processus concret, comme cadre ot! des hommes coexistent et sont acculturés, comme cadre que des hommes reproduisent mais tachent aussi de faire évoluer parce qu’il ne leur convient pas a tous également. La culture apparait des lors comme condition et produit de l’intersubjectivité. Les individus et les groupes n’agissent que

, (332 JOSEPH PESTIEAU dans un champ déja constitué, fait d’institutions, de coutumes, de pratiques, de significations et de traces multiples, qui a la fois résistent et donnent prise a l’action humaine. Ces structures préétablies imposent leurs régles aux diverses

| praxis a l’ceuvre dans le devenir, qui a leur tour les utilisent comme des instruments au service de leur travail de réinterprétation et de création: dialectique au cours de laquelle agissent et réagissent la force d’inertie du passé et l’ effort créateur du présent; les hommes tout a la fois subissent les héritages recus et les adaptent dans un projet vers l’avenir (Wachtel, 1971, p. 309).

L’histoire s’intéresse d’abord aux projets et aux €vénements qui entrainent des changements significatifs dans les configurations sociales. Cependant il n’y a de changements que sur fond de continuité de

«longue durée» de ces configurations et de tout ce qui les explique (Braudel 1966). Les projets et les événements n’ont d’incidence qu’en fonction des possibles et ceux-ci sont eux-mémes définis par le systeme culturel. Ce dernier est a la fois systeme de sens, de pouvoirs et d’intéréts. On y distingue des facteurs, des paliers, des «instances», __ interdépendants mais non nécessairement lies en un tout monolithique. Le systeme n’est donc pas achevé ni completement stabilisé. S’il | y a dans une société des mouvements de contestation, c’est qu’on y | trouve des tensions et des rivalités, des besoins et des aspirations insatisfaits. C’est aussi parce que l’imaginaire social (Castoriadis, 1975) offre les moyens de dénoncer le présent et de viser un avenir

différent. | ,

Les représentations accréditées dans la culture, représentations qui sont la matiere premiere et le produit de l’imaginaire social, ne sont pas que reflet des rapports. de production ou légitimation des pouvoirs établis ou superstructures insignifiantes. Elles sont aussi ce qui permet a des perspectives nouvelles de se dessiner, a une contestation de se dire, a des forces éparses de se reconnaitre une cause -commune et de se rassembler. L’anthropologie a certainement contribué a distinguer les multiples aspects des représentations par lesquelles une culture s’exprime, se cherche, se reproduit et se transforme,

par lesquelles les hommes s’identifient, s’unissent ou s’opposent, jouent leur rdle, révent et font parfois histoire, dans la finitude de leur condition. Premierement, il y a l’aspect idéologique ou fonction-

nel: le rapport des forces sociales et le rapport des significations s’épaulent mutuellement. Deuxiemement, il y al’aspect structural: la logique des significations a sa cohérence et celle-ci ne se laisse pas - réduire a la fonction de légitimation. Troisiemement, cette logique ne correspond pas a un jeu fermé sur lui-méme: elle peut servir a ouvrir des perspectives neuves (Duby, 1974; Augé, 1975; Savard, 1977). Or ces trois aspects se retrouvent mélés mais décelables dans les phénomeénes d’acculturation et de crise sociale. Ces phénomenes sont des objets de choix pour l’histoire et pour l’anthropologie. En eux les possibilités et les résistances d’un systeme culturel, d’une part, |’initiative et le patir singuliers et individuels, d’autre part, prennent tout leur sens parce que mis en relation. On comprend alors comment les

PEUPLES SANS HISTOIRE 333 hommes comprennent leur condition, la modifient ou la reproduisent,

tout en étant, dans leurs compréhensions et leurs actions, soumis a cette condition.

BIBLIOGRAPHIE

Arrow, K.J. (1974). The Limits of Organization, New York, W.W. Norton and Cy. AucE, M. (1975). Théorie des pouvoirs et idéologie (Etude de cas en Céte d’ Ivoire), Paris, Hermann. AucE, M. (1977), Pouvoirs de vie, pouvoirs de mort (Introduction a une anthropologie de la répression), Paris, Flammarion. AucE, M. (1979). Symbole, fonction, histoire (Les interrogations de |’anthropologie), Paris, Hachette. BALANDIER, G. (1963). Sociologie actuelle de l Afrique noire, 2° éd., Paris, P.U.F. BIRNBAUM, P. (1977). «Sur les origines de la domination politique. A propos de la Boétie et de Pierre Clastres», Revue francaise de sciences politiques, 27 (1), pp. 5-21.

Biocu, M. (1939). La Société féodale (La formation des liens de dépendance), Paris, Albin Michel. BRAUDEL, F. (1966). La Méditerranée et le monde méditerranéen a l époque de Philippe IT, 2° éd., Paris, Colin. CARMACK, R. M. (1972). « Ethnohistory: a Review of its Development, Definitions, Methods, and Aims», Annual Review of Anthropology (Palo Alto), vol. 1, pp. 227246.

CASTORIADIS, C. (1975). L’Institution imaginaire de la société, Paris, Le Seuil. CeRTEAU, M. pg (1975). L’Ecriture de histoire, Paris, Gallimard. CLastres, P. (1974). La Société contre l’ Etat, Paris, Editions de Minuit. CLASTRES, P. (1976). «Préface» dans Age de pierre, Gge d’abondance par M. Sahlins, Paris, Gallimard. COQUERY-VIDROVITCH, C. (1969). « Anthropologie politique et histoire de |’ Afrique noire», Annales, janv.-fév. 1969, pp. 142-163. DETIENNE, M. & VERNANT, J.P. (1974). Les Ruses de lVintelligence, Paris, Flammarion. Douctas, M. (1971). De la souillure, Paris, Maspero (Paru en anglais en 1967).

Dozon, J.P. (1974). «Les Mouvements politico-religieux», dans La Construction du monde, Edite par M. Augé, Paris, Maspero. Duy, G. (1974). « Histoire sociale et idéologies des sociétés», dans Faire de I’ histoire, (Tome J), édité par J. LE GorFF & P. Nora, Paris, Gallimard, pp. 147-168. Dupre, A. & MASSALA, A. (1975). «Création et développement des marchés chez les Beembé. 1870-1911», Annales, nov.-déc. 1975, pp. 1447-1476. ELKIN, A.P. (1967). Les Aborigénes australiens, Paris, Galimard (paru en anglais, la le édition en 1939). GABORIAU, M. (1963). « Anthropologie structurale et histoire», Esprit, nov. 1963, pp. 579-595,

| 6334 ~~ JOSEPH PESTIEAU GAuCHET, M. (1977). «La Dette du sens et les racines de l’Etat. Politique et religion

| primitive», Libre, 77-2, Paris, Payot, pp. 5-43. |

GAuCcHET, M. (1978). « Pierre Clastres», Libre, 78-4, Paris, Payot, pp. 55-68.

| GIRARD, R. (1972). La Violence et le sacré, Paris, Grasset. GLUCKMAN, M. (1962). Essays on the Ritual of Social Relation (éd.), Manchester Uni-

versity Press. , oe

GLUCKMAN, M. (1968). «The Utility of the Equilibrium Model in the Study of Social Change», American Anthropologist, vol. 70, n° 2, pp. 219-37.

Horton, R. (1969). «From Fishing Village to City-State», dans Man in Africa, édité | par M. DoucLas & P.M. Kaserry, Londres, Tavistock Publications, pp. 37-58. ~ Horton, R. (1971). «Stateless Societies in the History of West Africa», dans History

: of West Africa, édité par J.F.A. Asay! & M. CRowbDer, Londres, Longman, pp.

78-119. |

LANTERNARI, V. (1962). Les mouvements religieux des peuples opprimés, Paris, Maspero (paru en italien en 1960). LAPIERRE, W. (1977). Vivre sans Etat? (Essai sur le pouvoir politique et l’innovation

Cy. | | Gallimard. | sociale), Paris, Le Seuil. , |

~ LAWRENCE, P. (1974). Le Culte du cargo, Paris, Fayard (paru en anglais en 1964). Lee, R.B. (1965). Subsistence Ecology of Kung Bushmen. These non publiée.

| LEE, R.B. & De Vore, I. (éds.), (1968). Man the Hunter, Chicago, Aldine Publishing LeFort, C. (1978). Les Formes de l'histoire (Essais d’anthropologie politique), Paris,

Lecros, D. (1978). « Dualisme de moitié et stratification sociale chez les Athapaskan Tutchone septentrionaux du Yukon», dans Actes du XLIT¢ Congres international des Américanistes (Congres du centenaire, Paris, 2-9 septembre 1976), volume V, Paris, Publié par la Société des Américanistes, pp. 335-359.

Lerris, M. (1969). «L’Ethnographie devant le colonialisme», dans Cing études

d’ethnologie, Paris, Gonthier. - ,

Le Roy LapurRig, E. (1975). Montaillou, village occitan de 1294 a 1324, Paris, Gallimard. Le Roy LApurig, E. (1979). Le Carnaval de Romans, Paris, Gallimard. Levi-Strauss, C. (1949). « Histoire et ethnologie», Revue de métaphysique et de mo-

rale, 54, pp. 363-391. |

_vistock Publications. _ |

Lewis, I.M. (1968). «Introduction», History and Social Anthropology, Londres, Ta-

MUHLEMANN, W. E. (1968). Messianismes révolutionnaires du Tiers Monde, Paris, Gallimard (paru en allemand en 1961). PEREIRA DE QUEIROS, M.I. (1968). Réforme et révolution dans les sociétés traditionnel-

les (Histoire et ethnologie des mouvements messianiques), Paris, Anthropos.

| PERSON, Y. (1971). «L’ Anthropologie et histoire africaine », Canadian Journal of African Studies — Revue canadienne des études africaines, V.1, pp. 1-17. PoUILLON, J. (1972). « Postface», dans Les Systemes politiques des hautes terres de

| Birmanie par Edmund Leach, Paris, Maspero. }

RANDLES, W.G.L. (1975). «Echanges de marchandises et échanges de dieux. Un |

, , | 635-653. a |

chassé-croisé culturel entre Européens et Bantu», Annales, juillet-aoat 1975, pp.

, SAHLINS, M. (1976). Age de pierre, dge d’abondance (L’ Economie des sociétés primi-

, tives), Paris, Gallimard (Paru en anglais en 1972). | SAVARD, R. (1977). Le Rire précolombien dans le Québec d’aujourd’hui, Montréal,

L” Hexagone-Parti pris. | a

PEUPLES SANS HISTOIRE 335 SHAPIRA, I. (1962). «Should Anthropologists be Historians?» Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, pp. 143-156. SMITH, M.G. (1962). «History and Social Anthropology», Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, pp. 73-85. TERRAY, P.P. (1971). Colonialisme, néo-colonialisme et transition au capitalisme, Paris, Maspero. TURNER, V. (1957). Schism and Continuity in an African Society, Manchester University Press. VANSINA, J. (1965). Oral Tradition, Londres, Routledge & Kegan Paul. VANSINA, MAuUNY & THOMAS (1964). «Sommaire d’ introduction», in The Historian in Tropical Africa, I, édité par les memes), Oxford University Press. VEYNE, P. (1971). Comment on écrit (histoire, Paris, Gallimard. WACHTEL, N. (1971). La Vision des vaincus (Les Indiens du Pérou devant la conquéte espagnole), Paris, Gallimard. WorsLEY, P. (1968). The Trumpet shall sound, 2° éd., New York, Schocken books.

| | Blank Page

Kant philosophe de V’histoire: Critique ou visionnaire? par MARYVONNE LONGEART-ROTH Université d’ Ottawa

La réflexion philosophique sur histoire peut prendre deux formes, soit celle d’une étude méthodologique de l’histoire comme discipline et de son statut dans le corps des connaissances, soit celle d’une réflexion sur histoire comme suite d’événements, réflexion qui aboutit le plus souvent a la reconstruction spéculative d’un ordre!. Spéculative ou critique? La philosophie de histoire de Kant est certainement déroutante. I] est vrai que Kant n’aborde le probleme de lhistoire en lui-méme et pour luic-méme que dans de petits opuscules ? coupés de leur base théorique qu’est la Critique de la Faculté de Juger. Il s’ensuit que, surtout chez les philosophes du courant analytique, les theses de Kant sur histoire, quand elles ne sont pas simplement ignorées, sont trop souvent abusivement simplifiées. C’est ainsi

que la réflexion de Kant sur histoire n’est pas toujours distinguée des entreprises philosophiquement plus naives, de Concorcet ou de Herder, ses contemporains?: On se borne a n’y voir qu’une philosophie spéculative de lhistoire parmi d’autres, et qui plus est, de moindre envergure. Nous tacherons de montrer que la critique a souvent sousestimeé la profondeur et I’ originalité de cet aspect de la pensée Kantienne. Kant s’interroge d’abord sur le sens de Vhistoire et non sur la méthode historique. Cependant, dans le cadre de sa philosophie critique, cette réflexion ne peut pas ne pas étre, en définitive méthodologique. La question du sens de l’histoire posée par Kant est indisco-

ciable de la question des principes de la connaissance historique, puisque c’est le sujet qui donne un sens a l’histoire dans son effort pour la comprendre. On a eu raison de remarquer que Kant ne s était ' Pour un bon apercu des problematiques classiques et contemporaines de la

philosophie de histoire, voir W. Dray, La philosophie de I’ histoire , Ottawa, Editions de PUniversité d’ Ottawa, 1981.

2 Kant, La philosophie de histoire. Intr. et trad. de S. Piopetrra, Paris, Aubier-Montaigne, 1947.

3 ConporceT, Esquisse d’un tableau historique des progrés de lesprit humain, Paris, Vrin, 1970; HERDER, Une autre philosophie de P’ histoire pour contribuer a

Véducation de -humanité, trad. et notes par Max Roucue, Paris, Aubier, 1943.

| 338 MARYVONNE LONGEART-ROTH , pas intéressé a l’histoire en tant que telle. C’est sa philosophie morale et sa philosophie de la connaissance qui lui ont imposé cette question. A la jonction de deux types de problémes distincts bien que corréla—tifs, celui de la compréhension du monde par homme d’une part, et

celui de la situation de homme dans le monde d’autre part, se situe

, le probleme spécifique de histoire. Seule (histoire pour Kant peut concretement résoudre |’ opposition radicale entre le déterminisme na-

turel connu par la science et la liberté de ’ homme dans I’action. | La réflexion kantienne sur l’histoire est donc d’inspiration speculative. En effet, il s’agit de trouver une intelligibilité dans le cours

des evénements. L’histoire est un probleme non en tant que discipline, mais en tant que suite d’évenements a laquelle il faut attacher un sens. Il ne faut pas cependant oublier que le Kantisme est une philosophie critique qui pose une question de droit: comment et dans

, quelle mesure les prétentions tant théoriques que pratiques de la rai, son sont-elles légitimes ? La critique est un tribunal assurant a la rai— son «la tranquilité d’un état legal». Quelle est la place de l’histoire dans cet état? Comment une philosophie de Vhistoire telle que Kant

a l’entend peut-elle ne pas transgresser les interdits posés dans la Critique de la Raison Pure? Le rationalisme ne doit pas étre visionnaire — mais critique disait déja Kant dans un opuscule de 1766 intitulé « Les , réves d’un visionnaire expliqués par les réves de la métaphysique». Mais quand il veut rendre compte du sens de l’histoire, Kant ne se fait-il pas malgré lui visionnaire? Ainsi, ce qui est intéressant dans - l’ approche kantienne du probleme de |’histoire, est cette tension entre une question d’esprit spéculatif et les exigences d’une philosophie cri-

tique. -

| Nous allons voir d’abord plus précisément quel est le probleme que Kant se pose quand il réfléchit sur l’histoire, puis a quelles difficul-

tés il se heurte quand il tente de le résoudre par un usage original du jugement teléologique. Cela permettra de comprendre comment Kant

, peut étre a la fois la source des grandes philosophies spéculatives de Vhistoire et le premier critique de ces philosophies.

I. - DETERMINISME ET LIBERTE:

| LEUR SYNTHESE DANS L’HISTOIRE Quand il recherche les principes de la morale, Kant parle de _ Létre raisonnable en général. Mais quand il recherche les principes de Vhistoire, Kant parle des hommes. Or, ’humanité comme disposition s’oppose a la fois a l’animalité et a la personnalité. Elle est une sorte

de moyen terme entre les deux et histoire des hommes doit étre

Phistoire du passage du premier état (étre de nature) au second (étre de raison, ou étre libre). Ainsi, au moment ou il va aborder l’idée d’une histoire universelle, Kant rappeile le cadre dans lequel (histoire

KANT PHILOSOPHE DE L’ HISTOIRE 339 se pose comme probleme philosophique, a savoir, opposition, en Vhomme, de la nature et de la liberté. C’est donc dans un contexte moral que Kant souleve la question de Vhistoire. Mais la liberté n’est-elle qu’une illusion?

Le probleme du déterminisme et de la liberté est celui de leur coéxistence sur un méme territoire. Pour ne pas étre fictive, la liberté doit avoir des effets, étre effective dans le monde phenomeénal. Or celui-ci est soumis au déterminisme. [] faut donc que la nature se préte a ’exercice de la liberté. C’est la «ruse de la nature dans lhistoire» et le role de Vhistorien est de la mettre en évidence. Ainsi Vhistoire est pour Kant le terrain sur lequel doit se réaliser Vaccord de la nature et de la raison, de ordre physique et de l’ordre moral. Qu’elle commence par le mal semble a Kant indéniable. Pour reprendre une formule célebre des «Conjectures sur les débuts de Vhistoire humaine», «histoire de la nature commence par le bien car elle est P oeuvre de Dieu. L’ histoire de la liberté commence par le mal car elle est Poeuvre de Vhomme.» Ii veut pouvoir affirmer cependant que le point d’arrivée est qualitativement different du point de départ

et que cette différence est positive. Pourquoi? Parce que Vhomme a en lui une disposition a la personnalité* dont Vhistoire doit étre l’actualisation, envers et contre la mauvaise volonte individuelle ou «liberté pervertie», et grace a une complicité de la nature déterminée. Autrement dit, Vhomme, qui est la seule créature qui doive étre édu-

quée, n'est qu’un possible. Cette possibilité est une possibilite de progres inscrite dans la finalité de la nature elle-méme. Ainsi, par l affirmation du progres, la finalité est étendue des actions individuelles a Phistoire par le biais d’une finalité naturelle. Si Pon s’en tient a cet exposé superficiel des doctrines de Kant

sur histoire, on voit tout de suite les difficultés que souleve cette facon de traiter Vhistoire et corrélativement, la tache de lhistorien. La premiere porte sur la démarche elle-méme. C’est sur ce point que W.H. Walsh* insiste dans sa critique de Kant a qui il reproche une démarche abusivement a priori. Cependant, nous verrons que si la

synthese historique du déterminisme et de la liberté se présente

d’abord comme une exigence morale a priori, du point de vue historique le seul qui nous intéresse ici, c’est un jugement empirique. Kant est clair sur ce point; on ne peut tirer a priori ni du concept de liberté ni du concept de déterminisme qu'il y a en fait reconciliation des deux dans la nature. Kant a bien affirmé a priori que c’était moralement requis, mais c’est a posteriori qu’il a voulu montrer que c’était réellement le cas. 4 Kant, La religion dans les limites de la simple Raison, trad. J. GIBELIN, Paris, Vrin 1968, part. I, I, 1, p. 45. > W.H. Wacsn, Philosophy of History, New York, Harper and Row, 1960, p. 119-132.

340 MARY VONNE LONGEART-ROTH La deuxieme difficulté porte donc sur la valeur des indices empiriques sur lesquels Kant appuie son analyse. Nous serons ici amenés a faire une étude critique de la notion de signe historique dont Kant

étudiées. | |

,: Cefait usage. , , sont ces difficultés qui vont étre reprises et successivement Il. - LES PRINCIPES DE LA CONNAISSANCE HISTORIQUE

, On a souvent méconnu les deux plans d’analyse philosophique qui interviennent dans les textes de Kant sur Vhistoire. Qu’ils aient été méconnus n’est pas surprenant du fait que Kant lui-méme ne les _ sépare pas. C’est d’ailleurs la ce qui rend la lecture des opuscules sur lhistoire particulierement ardue. Ces deux plans d’ analyse répondent en fait a deux questions différentes; «pourquoi étudier l’histoire? » d’une part, «comment la connaissance historique est-elle possible? » d’autre part. C’est la reponse a la premiere question que nous avons jusqu’a présent envisagée. En effet, a l’origine de l’intérét que |’on porte a la connaissance historique, se trouve la préoccupation morale quant a la possibilité d’un progres de ’humanité; a Phorizon de la recherche historique elle-méme, se trouve l’accord possible de la connaissance et des aspirations, c’est-a-dire la constatation d’un pro-

, gres effectif. La commence la tache de l’historien et s’arréte celle du _ philosophe. Cependant, si le philosophe n’a pas a se substituer a I’ his-

, torien, il peut encore s’interroger non plus sur l’histoire comme suite d’évenements passés, mais sur l’histoire comme mode de connaissance. C’est ce que prétend faire Kant quand il se propose de fournir

, a Vhistorien un fil directeur pour sa recherche. Ce que peut le philo— sophe pour Vhistorien c’est lui indiquer ce qu’il doit chercher et comment il doit le chercher et non ce qu’il va trouver. En ce sens, la philosophie de Vhistoire telle que Kant la pratique n’est pas une reconstitution a priori d’un ordre dans l’histoire comme suite d’évene~ ments, mais l’indication a priori d’une méthode pour I’histoire comme

discipline. Que peut dire le philosophe de lhistoire comme discipline ?

, Il est intéressant de noter que le probleme ne se pose pas pour Kant en terme d’unité du savoir. Le statut de lhistoire comme discipline ne dépend pas de sa relation a la physique. C’est pourquoi, au

début de V/dée d’une histoire universelle...© Kant met sur le méme plan ce que pourrait réaliser pour l’histoire un historien de génie et l’ceuvre de Kepler et Newton en physique sans pour autant supposer 6 «Jdée d’une histoire universelle d’un point de vue cosmopolitique » (1784), in Kant, La philosophie de l’histoire, op. cit., p. 61.

KANT PHILOSOPHE DE L’ HISTOIRE 34] une unité de méthode entre ces deux branches du savoir. L’ histoire peut étre un corps de connaissances au méme titre que la physique sans étre du méme type qu'elle. Tout ce qu’il lui faut est un objet observable et un principe de liaison de ses observations. Dégager ce principe revient au philosophe, en faire usage revient a l’historien. La liberte en tant que telle n’est pas observable. Elle ne peut donc pas etre directement l’objet de la connaissance historique. Ce qui est observable, c’est l’effet de la liberté dans le monde, a savoir, les actions humaines. La premiere tache de V’historien est de rapporter ces actions. Mais, comme nous l’avons vu, si Vhistoire est une forme de connaissance, elle ne doit pas simplement collectionner des faits, mais aussi apporter un certain ordre dans le donné. I] n’y a pas Cd intelligibilité sans ordre. La seconde tache de l’historien est donc de

discerner un cours régulier dans ces actions. Cependant, parce que ’homme dans son comportement ne suit ni uniquement son instinct, ni tout a fait sa raison, «une histoire ordonnée ne semble pas possible

enComment ce qui le concerne». | le jugement historique peut-il introduire rétrospectivement un ordre? Autrement dit quel est le principe de la connaissance historique? Telle est la question que Kant se pose et a laquelle

il tente de répondre dans les opuscules sur V’histoire. « Puisqu’il est impossible de présupposer dans l’ensemble chez les hommes et dans le jeu de leur conduite le moindre dessein raison-

nable personnel, il faut rechercher du moins si lon ne peut pas découvrir dans le cours absurde des choses humaines un dessein de la nature’.» De cette affirmation, deux choses sont a retenir: premiérement, le principe de la connaissance historique est le principe de fina-

lité, et deuxiemement, le jugement téléologique en histoire n’est qu'une application particuliere de la téléologie naturelle. Pour comprendre comment l’idée de finalité doit étre le fil direc-

teur de lhistorien, il faut rappeler les résultats de la Critique de la faculté de juger sur le statut du jugement téléologique en général.

Comprendre, que ce soit par la causalité ou par la finalité, consiste, pour Kant, a conceptualiser les intuitions. De deux choses lune, ou le concept est donné, produit par |l’entendement, et il faut en trouver une application sensible, c’est la démarche de |’ explication

causale; ou une certaine réalité est donnée et il faut rechercher le

concept selon lequel elle a été instituée, c’est l’explication finale. La causalité exprime une relation nécessaire entre des existants, la finalité exprime la raison d’étre d’un existant ou d’un ensemble d’existants (elle ne prétend pas cependant répondre a la question de l’Etre en général, « pourquoi y-a-t-il quelque-chose plut6t que rien? », mais

elle répond a la question «pourquoi l’existence prend-t-elle telle

forme plutot qu’une autre?»). La relation de cause a effet est néces7 Idem, p. 60.

, 342 MARY VONNE LONGEART-ROTH , Saire mais la finalité est toujours contingente. Donner la raison d’étre - permet lintelligib:lité dune occurence mais ne dit pas que c’est nécessairement le cas. Qu’il doit y avoir des fins de la nature, personne ne peut I’ établir

a priori. Mais observation met en évidence un certain ordre dans la diversité des formes empiriques de la nature, ordre qui échappe a toute explication causale. C’est pour rendre compte de cet accord contingent entre une exigence subjective d’unité et l’organisation de la multiplicité des formes particulieres de la nature que |’on fait appel au principe de finalité. Il ne s’agit donc pas d’un exercice de la fina-

, lité, ce pouvoir de produire quelque chose conformément a un plan, mais de faire usage, pour la connaissance, du principe de finalité, usage consécutif au constat d’une diversité ordonnée. C’est pourquoi ce jugement par lequel on se représente le fondement de I intelligibilité de existence d’une certaine forme est simplement réfléchissant.

Il s’agit de se représenter la nature comme si elle avait été voulue telle par un autre entendement. L’>homme n’étant pas le sujet producteur, createur de la nature, la finalité n’est jamais constitutive de |’ ob-

jet mais régulatrice pour la démarche de la connaissance. Kant échappe donc a |’anthropomorphisme. II ne projette ni sur un Dieu

createur, ni sur la nature ce qui est propre a homme: 1’exercice | _ dune finalité. Ainsi dit Kant, «On ne peut jamais inventer une force fondamentale analogue a notre volonté dans la nature ou hors de la nature. Il deviendrait alors trop facile d’expliquer tout ce que l’on

veut comme on le veut®.» Des que l’on quitte le domaine des actions

- individuelles, le jugement téléologique devient simplement réfléchissant et régulateur. I] ne fournit qu’un fil directeur a la recherche, mais on aurait tort de sous-estimer importance de cette fonction car dit Kant, «par le seul tatonnement empirique et sans un principe conducteur qui oriente la recherche, rien n’aurait jamais été découvert car organiser l’expérience méthodiquement cela s’appelle simplement ob_ server, Le voyageur purement empirique, quand il s’agit d’arriver a

une connaissance cohérente dont la raison doit se servir pour

confirmer une théorie, répond ordinairement a toute question qu’on lui

pose: ‘je l’aurais bien remarqué si j’avais su qu’on m ‘interrogerait la-dessus’ ? »

Ainsi, la finalité ne peut jamais étre affirmée a priori et si le donné se préte a un jugement téléologique, ce n’est jamais qu’a titre régulateur. Or, ces restrictions s’appliquent aussi bien a la téléologie

historique qu’a la téléologie naturelle puisque nous avons vu que la ,

premiere n’est qu’un cas particulier de la seconde. (Il s’agit de re-

chercher quel est le plan de la nature eu égard a la destination de ~ 8 «Sur lemploi des principes téléologiques dans la philosophie» (1788), in KANT, La philosophie de Uhistoire, op. cit., p. 207.

° Idem, p. 178. -

KANT PHILOSOPHE DE L’ HISTOIRE 343 humanité.) C’est donc toujours par une mauvaise lecture des textes que l’on peut reprocher a Kant d’avoir affirmé a priori la forme et la qualité du changement historique a savoir le progres. Alors méme qu'il préconisait ’emploi de l’explication téléologique en histoire, Kant en énongait les limites. En tout état de cause, le progres, s’il est affirmé, ne peut l’etre qu’a titre régulateur. Autrement dit, homme n’en connaitra jamais la nécessité. De plus, le jugement téléologique ne peut s’exercer qu’a propos d’une régularité constatée, c’est-a-dire a posteriori. Ce qui est a priori, c’est le principe de finalité en tant que principe, mais son usage quel qu’il soit ne peut étre qu’a posterior. II doit étre suggéré par le donné empirique.

Cependant, ce que l’on peut encore reprocher a Kant, c’est d’avoir voulu indiquer a Vhistorien le fil directeur de sa démarche, préjugeant ainsi du type de rationalité a ccuvre dans la connaissance historique, au lieu de prendre le discours de |’historien pour objet de réflexion et de se demander quel est le statut de ses propositions générales, quels sont ses énoncés de base et quelles sont leurs conditions de vérification. Ainsi, la véritable objection a faire a la philosophie de V’histoire

de Kant a cet égard se situe sur un tout autre plan que celui des objections traditionnelles. Elle consiste non pas a reprocher a Kant d’avoir fait de la philosophie spéculative de Vhistoire, mais d’avoir fait de la philosophie critique (au sens que R. Aron donne a ce terme) inadéquate. Tout en rendant justice a la réflexion de Kant sur I’his-

toire, cette objection est plus radicale que les autres puisqu elle ébranle non seulement la philosophie de Vhistoire de Kant, mais le criticisme dans son ensemble comme philosophie de la connaissance. Mais approfondir ce point nous aménerait trop loin dans le débat actuel concernant le statut de la philosophie comme épistémologie. Ce

n'est pas object de cet exposé. I] reste encore a examiner rapidement une deuxieme objection. Puisque l’idée de progres, en tant qu’application particuliere a I’ histoire du principe de finalité, doit étre suggérée par le donné lui-méme, il faut étudier les fondements empiriques sur lesquels cette application repose.

Ill. - LES SIGNES EMPIRIQUES DU PROGRES

- Dune part, Kant admet que la difficulté de l’application du jugement téléologique a [histoire tient a l’absence d’ordre apparent dans les actions humaines, ce qui semble ruiner l’idée de développement régulier. D’autre part, Kant insiste, en particulier dans La religion dans les limites de la simple raison, sur le fait que tout se passe comme si /homme était mauvais par nature; c’est le probleme du mal

radical qui semble ruiner l’idée de progres. Or nous avons vu que

| 344 MARYVONNE LONGEART-ROTH c’ était le constat empirique d’un ordre dans la multiplicité des formes particuliéres de la nature qui amenait a appliquer a celle-ci le principe

| de finalité. Il faut donc rechercher pour l’histoire Il’ équivalent de cette base empirique sans laquelle on ne peut faire usage du jugement

réfléchissant. | Les indices de progres que Kant propose sont de deux sortes.

Les premiers sont extérieurs a l’histoire en tant que telle. Ce sont certaines lois empiriques de la nature déja établies dans le cadre de la téléologie naturelle. C’est a partir de ces lois qu’est écrit l’opus| cule Idée d’une histoire universelle d’un point de vue cosmopolitique. La premiere proposition dit par exemple «toutes les dispositions naturelles d’une créature sont déterminées de fagon a se développer un

| jour complétement et conformément a un but». Ce qui pourrait étre encore exprimé ainsi: la nature ne fait rien en vain. Appliquée a I’espece humaine, cette loi permet de supposer que toutes les disposi-

tions de homme, y compris sa disposition a la moralité seront un jour actualisées. Contrairement a ce que croit W.H. Walsh, il ne -s’agit pas d’un principe a priori mais d’une proposition empirique que Kant pense assez bien confirmée en biologie. Mais comme toute lot empirique de ce genre établie a l’aide du jugement réfléchissant, elle n’est tout a fait assurée ni dans son universalité, ni dans sa nécessité.

De ce fait, ce que l’on doit reprocher a Kant est d’avoir accordeé, a cette loi plus de généralité que ne le permettait la base empirique sur laquelle elle était fondée, si tant est qu’elle I était. Par ailleurs, Kant lui-méme considérait que si |’extension et la

portée de cette loi était justifiée, on devait pouvoir en trouver des > effets dans l’expérience. C’est pourquoi un deuxieme type d’ indices,

| historique cette fois, est nécessaire. C’est occurrence dans I’histoire d’événements significatifs, marquant de fagon incontestable un pro-

gres par rapport a ce qui les précede.

7 Pour comprendre ce que peut étre un signe historique de progres il faut préciser que pour Kant, le progres n’est pas un concept de l’Entendement, mais une idée de la Raison. Par conséquent, les si, gnes de progres n’en sont pas des exemples mais des symboles !°. En effet, d’une idée que seule la Raison peut penser, il n’y a pas de représentation sensible directement adéquate. La Faculté de Juger fait

alors correspondre a cette idée une intuition par analogie. Cette hypo- ,

, typose ou présentation sensible est dite symbolique.

Si le signe historique de progres est non un exemple mais un symbole du progres, ce signe n’a pas a ressembler au progres dans son contenu, mais seulement dans la forme de la réflexion qu’il sus| cite. Ainsi, si comme nous Il’avons vu l’idée d’un progres de l’humanité est Pidée d’un développement moral de l’étre humain, le signe 10 KANT, Critique de la Faculté de Juger, trad. A. PHILONENKO, Paris, Vrin,

1968. Part. I, sect. II, 59. |

KANT PHILOSOPHE DE L” HISTOIRE 345 historique du progres doit non pas étre l’exemple d’un tel développement, mais un événement éveillant en ? homme des sentiments correspondants a un tel développement. Prenons par exemple la Révolution Francaise. Kant la tient pour un signe incontestable de progres en tant qu’elle manifeste une emancipation intellectuelle, illustration de la devise des Lumieres «aie le courage de te servir de ton entendement!!», et une Emancipation politique, réalisation d’un contrat d’association tel que defini par Rousseau. Témoin de la terreur, Kant dans Le conflit des Facultés (section VI intitulée «d’un événement de notre temps qui prouve cette tendance morale de ’humanité'?»), affirme qu’il faut chercher non pas dans l’événement lui-méme mais dans les sentiments qu’il éveille chez les spectateurs, la marque d’un progres réel. Cela s’accorde avec ce que nous avons dit de l’hypotypose symbolique. Cependant, la Révolution est un événement complexe dont les differentes phases sont

loin de dénoter une unité d’esprit. Peut-on supposer que les sentiments qu’elle est susceptible d’éveiller ne sont pas ambivalents? « Peu importe, dit Kant, si la Révolution réussit ou échoue, peu importe si elle accumule miseres et atrocités...» Mais alors, interpréter un €vénement comme un signe de progres, est-ce faire autre chose qu’une pétition de principe dans laquelle

la these qu’il s’agit d’étayer est tenue pour accordée? Il semble en effet que tout événement puisse étre considéré comme un signe de progres. Autrement dit, rien ne peut passer pour un contre exemple. Il s’ensuit qu’il est impossible pour Kant de prouver un progres réel en se fondant sur cette théorie du signe historique, justement parce qu’il parait impossible de définir ce que pourrait étre un signe du

contraire. On ne peut pas dire que la theorie de Kant conduise directement

a Vidée qu’il est possible de déterminer completement a priori une quelconque période historique. C’est méme comme nous L’avons vu, tout a fait contraire a l’esprit de sa philosophie en ce sens, Kant ne se

fait pas visionnaire. Cependant, on peut se demander si Robert Flint !3 n’avait pas raison de penser que le principe Kantien de finalité incitait, malgré les mises en garde émanant de Kant lui-méme, a ralsonner non pas des faits aux causes finales, mais des causes finales aux faits. Aussi bien, Kant lui-méme ne laisse pas d’étre conscient de la difficulté. Ne dit-il pas dans Le Conflit des Facultés que celui qui glane dans le passé des signes historiques de la réalisation d’un plan de la

nature en accord avec les principes de la moralité est semblable au 1! «Réponse a la question — qu’est-ce que «les lumiéres » ? » (1784), in KANT, La philosophie de U histoire, op. cit., p. 83. 12) Le conflit des Facultés in KANT, La philosophie de Uhistoire, op. cit. 13° Robert Fuint, La philosophie de l histoire en Allemagne, trad. L. CARRAU,

Paris, Bailliere, 1978.

| 346 MARY VONNE LONGEART-ROTH malade qui guette les signes de sa guérison et «se meurt a force d’al-

ler mieux !4»? |

Kant aurait pu faire sienne cette remarque de Lowith, «there is

, always something pathetic if not ludicrous in belief of this kind. To

| , all times. » oe , | the critical mind, neither a providential design nor a natural law of

progressive development is discernible in the tragic human comedy of ,

| CONCLUSION | Que peut-on retenir de la démarche de Kant eu égard aux deux problemes qu’elle veut résoudre, celui du sens de l’histoire et consécutivement, celui de la méthode historique? Dans sa critique de l’ouvrage de Herder Idées en vue d’une phi-

| losophie de l'histoire de V-humanité, Kant définit ce que doit apporter,

a son avis, une philosophie de lhistoire et que le livre de Herder n’apporte pas: la rigueur logique dans la détermination des concepts

, ainsi que la discrimination et la justification des principes. La philo-

sophie dit-il doit guider «non par de vagues appercus, mais par des

| concepts précis; non par des supputations mais par |’ observation des lois; non par l’imagination mais par une raison hardie dans le dessein

mais prudente dans l’exécution!*». Or, ce que Kant partage avec toute philosophie spéculative de Vhistoire est un dessein hardi: l’in- ,

- terprétation systématique de l’histoire universelle selon un principe par lequel les €venements historiques et leur succession sont unifiés et orientés vers un but ultime. Mais quand il envisage l’exécution de ce dessein, Kant est prudent au point de se refuser les moyens d’éta-

, blir ses conclusions — d’ou l’embarras des textes partagés entre sd Pampleur d’un projet (établir par le passé et assurer pour |’avenir le , progres moral) et la rigueur restrictive d’une méthode (le jugement | téléologique ne peut étre que régulateur et doit pouvoir s’appuyer sur

, des faits observés). La philosophie de l’histoire de Kant est un échec

en ce sens que I’histoire telle que Kant en concoit le contenu ne peut pas étre écrite; mais c’est un succes en ce sens que cette impossibilite s’accorde avec |’idée méme que Kant se fait de ce que doit étre une

_ philosophie de histoire digne de ce nom.

| 14 Le conflit des Facultés, op. cit., p. 233.

oe 1s «Compte rendu de louvrage de Herder», /dées en vue dune philosophie : de l'histoire de Vhumanité, in KANT, La philosophie de histoire, pp. 95-96.

The Method of Difference and Species of Singular Causal Judgments in History by MARTIN SCHATZ University of Ottawa

The aim of this paper is to show that J.S. Mills Method of Dif-

ference constitutes a genus for several species of singular causal judgments one finds in historical works. Two such species that I shall be particularly concerned with in this paper are (1) judgments of ‘‘the cause’ of a particular event, and (2) judgments of causal importance.

An example of the first species is, the cause of the collapse of the

Mediterranean Commonwealth was the invasion of the Moslems. An example of the second species of singular causal judgments is, inadequate housing is a more important cause of violence among workingclass adult males in Liverpool than is insufficient income. My reason for calling these species of a common genus is that while these two types of causal judgments differ insofar as those of the first type contrast “‘the cause’’ with other “‘mere conditions’’ of an event whereas

those of the latter type contrast the relative importance of two or more causal factors to the occurrence of some event, the procedure employed to arrive at both kinds of causal judgments is the same, 1.e. the Method of Difference. The approach I will use to establish this claim is primarily ex-

pository, but expository with a difference. What I intend to do is to draw upon what appear to be two independent analyses of causal judgments the one corresponding to the former species of causal judgments and the second corresponding to the latter, and to show where

these analyses intersect and why they do so. The first analysis I would associate with the work of several writers who have sought to undermine Mill’s claim that when ‘‘the cause’’ of an event is disting-

uished from the other conditions necessary for its occurrence, the cause is Selected arbitrarily. The second analysis I shall identify with

. Ernest Nagel’s examination of judgments of causal importance in his book, The Structure of Science. Book three of the System of Logic contains Mill’s classic discussion of the ‘‘cause-conditions’’ distinction. The passage in which

| he expresses the view that such a distinction is philosophically untenable reads as follows:

—6848 MARTIN SCHATZ , Since, then, mankind are accustomed with acknowledged propriety so far as the ordinances of language are concerned, to give the name of cause to almost any one of the conditions of a phenomenon, or any portion of the whole number,

, | arbitrarily selected, without excepting even those conditions which are purely

negative, and in themselves incapable of causing anything; it will probably be

| admitted without longer discussion, that no one of the conditions has more claim to that title than another, and that the real cause of the phenomenon is the assemblage of all its conditions. !

Without denying that the co-presence of a number of necessary condi-

| tions of a given event may constitute a sufficient condition for that

event to occur and so, quite intelligibly be called the cause of that event, several writers have claimed that Mill was wrong to suggest that when we oppose one necessary condition to all the rest and de-

signate it ‘‘the cause’’ while relegating the other necessary conditions | to the status of ‘“‘mere conditions’’ for that event, the process of selecting the cause is an arbitrary one. To support this claim these writ-

ers have adduced various principles which, they claim, can serve as - criteria for discriminating between ‘‘the cause’’ and other conditions

_ that are taken to be necessary for the occurrence of a particular event. Before we go on to consider the first challenge to Mill’s view of

the cause-conditions distinction, that of C.J. Ducasse, it is pertinent =~ to note an example Mill introduces when he is discussing applications of the Method of Difference. At one point Mill tells us that ‘‘when a

, man is shot through the heart, it is by this method (of difference) we - _ know that it was the gun-shot which killed him; for he was in the | fullness of life immediately before, all circumstances being the same, ~ except the wound’’.? Apart from any reflection on more sophisticated applications of the Method of Difference, having recognized that it is

a this method which enables us to know that the gun-shot was the cause of the victim’s death, Mill should have been alerted to the fact that this method bears upon a wide range of common-sense, non-technical

causal judgments. In fact, the example Ducasse presents us with to | challenge Mill’s claim that the cause of an event is selected arbitrarily

_ is in all respects like the one Mill offers us! In his Causation and the Types of Necessity, Ducasse presents the reader with his analysis of what is involved in singular causal judgments by considering an ex, ample drawn from our everyday, practical lives. Writes Ducasse,

if the engine of my car stops, and I ask ‘‘why’’ ... what I wish to discover is the single difference between the circumstances of the engine when it was running, and at the moment when it was not ... If it is the cause that we seek, we look for a difference in those circumstances between the moment when the phenomenon

| occurred and the preceding moment. And the field among the entities of which the conditions lie is thereby also denied: It is that of circumstances which remain constant over the two moments. ?

' J.S. MILL, A System of Logic (New York: Harper, 1857), p. 403. ,

23 €.Ibid., p. 225. a , J. DUCASSE, Causation and the Types of Necessity (New york: Dower, |

1969), p. 19. ,

THE METHOD OF DIFFERENCE 349 I think it will become clear later on that Ducasse’s analysis of this simple case does contain the essential elements with which to construct a fully satisfactory account of the non-arbitrary character of the cause-conditions distinction. His reference to a set of circumstances that remain constant over a period of time and his identtfication of the cause of a particular event with a difference between two sets of circumstances are two very important points to have made. Nevertheless, the fact that Ducasse views the two sets of circumstances that need to be contrasted in order to find the relevant difference solely in terms of their temporal proximity limits the scope of his analysis. For, as Samuel Gorovitz has pointed out, if A is in the habit of turning on his radio each morning when he gets into his car, and B one night wires the radio switch to a bomb so that the car explodes the next morning when A turns on the radio, we would be required by Ducasse to say that the cause of the explosion was A’s turning of the switch. 4

In Gorovitz’ example we would want to say that A’s action in turning the radio switch, though a necessary condition for the explosion, was part of the normal functioning of his daily life and so, a mere condition of the explosion. B’s action, on the other hand, though it occurred many hours before A’s is, like A’s action, a necessary condition of the explosion, but it is something more than this. And it is in virtue of this something more that we deem it the cause of the explosion and not A’s action. Whatever the additional feature possessed by B’s action may be, it clearly goes beyond anything that Ducasse had to say in his analysis of singular causal judgments. This analysis, then, cannot be a fully satisfactory account of the basis on which a distinction between the cause and other necessary conditions of an event is drawn. A second, and more promising attempt to understand the nature of singular causal judgments is to be found in R.M. MaclIver’s book, Social Causation. In his discussion of ‘‘Cause as Precipitant’’ Mac-

Iver presents us with an account of singular causal judgments that, like Ducasse’s analysis of the example he offered, emphasizes the context in which causal questions arise. According to MaclIver, it is the perception of difference that prompts our causal inquiries. We do not usually raise the question why so long as things pursue what we regard as their normal or typical course. It is the exception, the deviation, the interference, the abnormality, that stimulates our curiosity and seems to call for explanation. And we often attribute to some one ‘‘cause’’ all the happenings that characterize the new or unanticipated or altered situation. Somewhat more strictly, we mean by

, ‘precipitant’? any specific factor or condition regarded as diverting the preestablished direction of affairs, as disrupting a pre-existing equilibrium, or as releasing hitherto suppressed or latent tendencies or forces. >

4 Samuel Gorovitz, ‘‘Causal Judgments and Causal Explanations,” Journal of Philosophy, vol. 62, no. 23, December 1965, p. 695.

, > R. M. MaclIver, Social Causation (New York; Peter Smith, 1942), pp.

172-73.

350. MARTIN SCHATZ Like Ducasse before him and, as we shall see shortly, H.L.A. Hart _ and A.M. Honoré after him, MaclIver regards the perception of difference as the motivating factor in our quest to discover the causes of particular events. We presume that states of affairs, whatever their nature, will continue unchanged unless and until some condition inter-

| feres with, disrupts, or diverts that continuity. The condition that in-

trudes into such an established pattern is then deemed the cause of the resulting changes. Obviously this notion of ‘‘the cause’’ is much wider than that of

Ducasse, for it imposes no temporal restriction on the discovery of causes and, though Hart and Honoré never acknowledge MaclIver’s work, their analysis of causal judgments made in ‘“‘explanatory con- , texts’’ starts from the very same observations MaclIver made. To

, avoid redundancy I will now proceed to examine Hart and Honore’s

analysis of singular causal judgments, for while they begin where MacIver began, their analysis is more refined and detailed than his in that —

, they draw several important distinctions that have no counterparts in

Maclver’s discussion. ® | As I have just said, Hart and Honoré begin their discussion of singular causal judgments (in Causation in the Law) by drawing atten-

tion to the contexts in which causal questions arise. They suggest, in the first instance, that it is when we are puzzled or surprised by some , change that we go about searching for its cause. Requests for causal explanations, they maintain, are prompted by some “‘particular con-

tingency the occurrence of which is puzzling because it is a departure ,

from the normal, ordinary, or reasonably expected course of

events’’.’ When such situations confront us, the condition we regard as ‘‘the cause’’ will be something that interferes with or ‘‘makes a difference’ in the course of events that would normally have taken

, place. In short, ‘“‘the cause’’ is an abnormal condition. On the other

_ hand, conditions that are conceived of as ‘‘normal’’, and therefore Classified as ‘“‘mere conditions’’ will be those ‘‘which are present as

7 part of the usual state or mode of operation of the thing under in-

quiry’’ (pp. 32-33). However, in order to fully appreciate the way in

which the contrast between abnormal and normal conditions func- ,

: | © Hart and Honoré suggest that there are two criteria that serve to distinguish | causes from conditions, abnormality and voluntariness. Moreover, they draw a distinc-

tion between two sorts of contexts in which causal questions arise, explanatory and attributive. Finally, they distinguish two ways in which the contrast between abnormal , and normal conditions can be drawn. In this paper I will not say anything about the voluntariness criterion and causal questions that arise in attributive contexts, though I

wi examine the contrast between abnormal and normal conditions at some length eiow. 7 H.L.A. Hart and A.M. Honore, Causation in the Law (Oxford: Claren, don Press, 1959), p. 23. Hereafter page numbers of passages cited from this book will

appear in parentheses after the quoted passages. |

THE METHOD OF DIFFERENCE 35] tions in particular cases, Hart and Honoré insist upon the importance of recognizing that ‘‘what is normal and what is abnormal is relative to the context of any inquiry in two ways’’ (p. 33). The first type of relativity to context Hart and Honoré speak of we may refer to as relativity to context of occurrence. In cases that exemplify this type of relativity to context we find that a certain type of factor which is a ‘‘mere condition’’ in some sets of circumstances

may be cited as ‘‘the cause’’ in others. On the other hand, what is typical of the second type of relativity to context is that two or more people cite different conditions of a single event as its cause. Let me call this relativity to point of view. As an example of how the first type of relativity to context works, Hart and Honoré invite us to consider an occasion on which a fire destroys a building. Here, ‘‘‘mere conditions’ will be factors such as the oxygen in the air, the presence of combustible material or the dryness of the building’’ (p. 32). The reason why we reject all of these conditions as “‘the cause’’ of the fire is that they ‘‘are present alike both in the case where such accidents occur and in the normal cases where they do not’’ (p. 32). Upon learing that an arsonist set aflame a pile of newspapers in the basement of the building our desire to have the occurrence of the fire explained would have been satisfied, for citing the arsonist’s action would serve to distinguish the occasion on which the fire occurred from the sum of previous occasions where conditions in the building were more or less

the same as on the occasion when the fire did occur, yet no fires occurred. On the other hand, if a fire breaks out in a laboratory or in a factory, where special precautions are taken to exclude oxygen during part of an experiment or manufacturing process, since the success of this depends on safety from fire, there would he no absurdity at all in such a case in saying that the presence of oxygen was the cause of the fire. The exclusion of oxygen in such a case, and not its presence, is part of

the normal functioning of the laboratory and the factory, and hence a mere condition: so the presence of oxygen in such a case is not a feature common both to the disaster and normal functioning (p. 33).

What makes for the relativity to context of occurrence is the fact that while regularities are part and parcel of the natural world, human interventions in the normal course of natural events may themselves

establish regularities, i.e. conventions, thereby creating new standards of normality. For example, with the invention of the umbrella its use has become conventional, such that a failure to bring an um-

| brella with you may be cited as the cause of your being all wet when you arrive at work. However, not only may the use of technological inventions establish standards of normality, so too may the conduct of people who enter into agreements or contracts. And what is true of individual people holds also for communities and nation-states. Apart

| from any moral significance that such agreements may have, the behavior established by treaties, alliances, and acknowledged spheres of

| 352 | MARTIN SCHATZ interest may constitute standards of normality in a purely statistical

, sense. Henceforth, deviations from such patterns of behavior will count as departures from the normal and so, as causes of whatever

, consequences may follow in the wake of these deviations. While I shall make no attempt here to apply this notion of creating standards of normality to the sorts of singular causal judgments historians sometimes make, I do think that an analysis of this connection would yield

positive results. | |

The foregoing indicates the manner in which causal judgments

, are arrived at when there is a relativity to context of occurrence. In , going on now to consider an example Hart and Honoré give to illus-

trate the operation of relativity to point of view we will find that the

very same procedure is employed to establish singular causal judg- -

ments in these contexts. Thus, Hart and Honoré ask us to imagine a man who has had an ulcerated stomach for some time. This man usually has no digestion problems, but one evening after supper he comes down with a severe attack of indigestion. In searching for an explana- , tion of his attack, his wife decides that the parsnips he ate must be the

cause of his present condition. Unsure of her diagnostic abilities, however, she calls a doctor in. The doctor, of course, disagrees with the wife’s causal judgment. According to him, the ulcerated condition of his patient’s stomach was the cause of his indigestion, not his eat-

- Ing parsnips. Ostensibly the wife and doctor are asking the same

question about this man’s attack of indigestion, but their presuppositions or background assumptions lead them to select different conditions of that attack as its cause: the wife is contrasting her husband’s —

present condition with what normally happens after he has a meal , whereas the doctor is contrasting his patient’s present condition with what normally happens after healthy men and women eat meals.

, The liberty which the wife and doctor exercise in choosing their

respective standards of normality may, in some minds, confirm Mill’s

Claim that the condition cited as the cause is selected arbitrarily. But it is doubtful that Mill had anything of the sort in mind when he made that claim, for as we saw, he apparently thought that this arbitrariness reflected only the ‘‘ordinances of language’’. Nevertheless it would be

| dishonest to refuse to acknowledge the element of choice that ulti-

mately determines which condition is elevated to the status of ‘‘the cause’’. But equally important is the fact that the respective standards of normality chosen by the wife and doctor do represent statistical norms. As such, it would be a mistake to argue that causal judgments _ typical of this type of relativity to context are completely subjective in nature, which is what Mill may have been implying. Having sifted through a number of examples Hart and Honoré employ to illustrate how the contrast between abnormal and normal

, conditions functions in the two kinds of relativity to context, we are now in a position to see just how singular causal judgments based on

THE METHOD OF DIFFERENCE 353 the cause-conditions distinction are to be viewed as species of the Method of Difference. To begin, I find it nothing short of astonishing that after writers like Ducasse, MacIver, and Hart and Honoré have all identified ‘‘the cause’’ as something which “‘makes a difference’’, nobody has yet suggested it is the Method of Difference that constitutes the basis for singular causal judgments. Moreover, given Mill’s analysis of the gun-shot example we introduced earlier it is perhaps even more astonishing that he did not recognize this fact and correct his views on the arbitrariness of such judgments. Be that as it may, before I can establish that Hart and Honore’s analysis of the causeconditions distinction does indeed conform to the requirements of the Method of Difference let me present Mill’s formal statement of this

| method, viz:

If an instance in which the phenomenon under investigation occurs, and an instance in which it does not occur, have every circumstance save one in common, that one occurring only in the former; the circumstance in which alone the two instances differ, is the effect, or the cause, or a necessary part of the cause, of the phenomenon. ®

Now when Hart and Honore tell us that a ‘‘‘mere condition’ is one that 1s present alike in the case where the effect occurs and in normal cases where it does not’’, in my- view we can replace their talk about

‘cases’ and ‘conditions’ with Mill’s terminology of ‘instances’ and ‘circumstances’, without any loss of meaning. The only objection I can foresee to the comparison I have drawn has to do with the fact that Mill speaks of comparing one instance (wherein the phenomenon

occurs) with another instance (in which the phenomenon does not occur), whereas Hart and Honoré suggest a comparison between one case (which contains the abnormal condition) and normal cases. To

counter this objection we need only point out that what Hart and Honore refer to as ‘‘normal cases’’ are periods of a certain duration wherein the effect does not occur, e.g. previous occasions on which experiments were conducted in the laboratory and no fires occurred, or what is typical of most individuals in whom the effect (indigestion) does not occur. Since these time periods can be analyzed into smaller

| units (.e. days, weeks, months) and what is typical of a certain group

can be reduced to what happens to each individual member of that group over a period of time, talk about ‘‘normal cases’’ is really but

, an elliptical way of referring to what has been observed on a number of previous occasions. As such, we can either speak of the result of each observation considered apart from the others or we can summarize the results of our observations when these are considered together. When we do the latter we can express Our Summary as an mstance. — One consequence of adopting this procedure ts that the instance

in which the effect occurs will often be of a much shorter duration 8 MILL, op. cit., p. 225.

| 354 MARTIN SCHATZ than the instance with which it is being compared or contrasted. Moreover, use of the summative approach is quite apparent in Hart and Honoreé’s discussion of what they call the ‘‘provision of opportun-

ity cases’’. In these, as we shall see shortly, it is the frequency of a certain type of harm occurring in a specific manner that constitutes the basis of singular causal judgments. While it is the frequency as such that constitutes the comparison instance, there can be no doubt

| _ that it can be reduced to the isolated occasions which are its components. Prior to discussing these cases, it is worthwhile to mention that

, there have been a number of writers who have attempted to present | concise analyses of cases like the ones we have been examining. One

, such writer, Raymond Martin, has produced what he calls a ‘‘consensus account’’ which allegedly incorporates what all of these writers accept. On this account a causal factor is correctly regarded as “‘the cause’ of a certain result ‘‘only if it differentiates between the actual

situation which included the occurrence of that result (hereafter, — the ef-fect-sit-uation) and certain actual or hypothetical situations

with which the ef-sit is being compared (hereafter, the com- |

parison-sit-uation)’’.° This account explains, in a_ preliminary way, the difference in the causal judgments made in the four examples presented to this point. In the case of the fire in the building the -_arsonist’s action is part of the ef-sit but not the com-sit, whereas in the laboratory the presence of oxygen is part of the ef-sit but not the com-sit. Again, for the wife of the man who suffered indigestion, parsnips are part of the ef-sit but not the com-sit, whereas for the doctor, ulcers are part of the ef-sit but not the com-sit.

While the examples hitherto discussed do conform to Martin’s ‘“consensus account’? when we compare an ef-sit with an actual com-sit, none of these bear upon the contrast between an ef-sit and a hypothetical com-sit. To indicate how this contrast works I want to introduce a historical example that probably goes beyond anything that Martin had in mind when he drew this contrast, but nonetheless

does make his point. This example is taken from Robert Fogel’s well-known work, Railroads and Economic Growth. In this work

, Fogel attempts to determine the net contribution of the railroad to American economic growth in the year 1890. To determine this amount he employs a standard to measure what he calls “‘social savings’’, this being the difference between the actual level of national income in 1890 and that level of national income that would have prevailed if the economy had made the most efficient possible adjustment to the absence of the ... railroad. !9

9 Raymond Martin, “‘Singular Causal Explanations,’ Theory and Decision, vol. 2, no. 3, March 1972, p. 166.

'0 Robert FoGeL, Railroads and American Economic Growth (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1964), p. 20.

THE METHOD OF DIFFERENCE 355 Peter McClelland, in a critique of the work of Fogel and of another

economic historian, Albert Fishlow, indicates just how Fogel’s definition of “social savings’? involves certain assumptions about what was not, but might have been. According to McClelland, if one wants to know how much of a difference railroads made to aggregate

American economic growth one must ‘‘mentally remove factor X (railroads) from the economy, speculate on the total impact of that removal on aggregate growth, and then compare those hypothetical results with the growth that was actually achieved’’. !!

This is, in fact, what Fogel has tried to do. In order to succeed in the task he sets for himself he must assume that in the absence of railroads either no new modes of transportation would have been developed or that the existent modes would have been extended and improved. Here Fogel chooses to make an assumption that provides the foundation for his entire analytical framework, he assumes that an extended system of canals would have replaced the existent network of railroads and that these would have been used in the most efficient way possible. While I am quite aware of the fact that, despite the ingenuity Fogel displays in his work, he has been criticized for biting off more than any economic historian can chew, !* it does appear that the results he obtained (correct or not) depended upon a contrast between an ef-sit (actual economic growth in 1890) and a hypothetical com-sit (an economy wherein there exists an extended system of canals which are used with optimum efficiency). One thing that is brought out by Fogel’s explanation of American economic growth in 1890 is the importance of quantifying the elements contained in the ef-sit and the com-sit. Neither Hart and Honoré nor Martin mentions this in their accounts of singular causal judgments, though it is easy to see that what Hart and Honoré call ‘“normal cases’’ are, as I have already suggested, the sum of previous occasions on which certain types of conditions prevailed. However, the importance of quantification is perhaps even more apparent in what Hart and Honoré call ‘‘provision of opportunity’’ cases, for in these the basis for making singular causal judgments is the existence of statistical asymmetries. While Hart and Honoré fail to generalize on this aspect of their theory of causation, their treatment of such cases makes it clear that for a causal condition to differentiate between an ef-sit and an actual com-sit it need not be the case that condition has never appeared in the com-sit, although such a situation is the optimal one when making such a contrast. So long as the number of times that condition has appeared the com-sit is small, it cannot be : ‘1 Peter MCCLELLAND, ‘‘Railroads, American Growth, and the New Economic History,’ Journal of Economic History, vol. 27, no. 1, 1968, p. 102. 12 McClelland makes this charge in his paper (bid., p. 121).

, 356 MARTIN SCHATZ said to be typical of that com-sit and thus, will not suffice as the basis

, of reasonable expectation.

As Hart and Honoré correctly suggest, we would want to distin-

, guish a case where a man’s storing of firewood in the basement of his house provided a pyromaniac with an opportunity to burn the house

down from a case in which a friend, entrusted with the keys to a house while its occupants were away on vacation, left the house un-

| locked and a thief entered and stole some furniture. In general, the chances of a pyromaniac setting aflame the firewood one has stored in

his basement is low, whereas the chances of a thief entering an unlocked house and stealing furniture is much greater. Our assessment of the likelihood of these types of harm occurring depends upon our observations of the frequency with which such harm, produced in the relevant manner, has occurred in the past. It is these observations which form the basis of our causal judgments in such cases, for where | the frequency of a certain type of harm occurring as the result of providing a certain type of opportunity is low, we do not call the provision of an opportunity of this type the cause of the subsequent harm, whereas when the frequency is high the reverse is true. But it is

very important that we recognize that these observations are themselves relative to some context of occurrence, be it a country, city, or neighborhood. If it were the case that a great majority of the adolescents in a particular neighborhood were pyromaniacs then it would

not be improper to say that the fire caused by one of them was the consequence of the householder’s storing wood in his basement.

Similarly, if you lived in a country where stealing seldom occurred we -would not hesitate to say that the loss of furniture was not a consequence of your friend’s having left your house unlocked.

| We have now reached the juncture where, as I suggested at the outset, the two analyses of singular causal judgments intersect. As we have already seen, singular causal judgments in the provision of opportunity cases depend upon the existence of statistical asymmetries. This, I want to claim, is what characterizes Nagel’s analysis of judgments of causal importance. Moreover, I want to show that the ‘‘in-

stances’’ in the Method of Difference are also statistical in nature. Like Hart and Honoré’s ‘‘normal cases’’, ‘‘instances’’ are really only , the sum total of what Nagel has called ‘‘the recorded data of observa-

tion’’. This claim is based on a passage in Nagel’s The Structure of Science, where he is trying to show how it is possible to do what Mill

thought impossible, i.e. to perform controlled experiments when we cannot manipulate the factors we suspect of having had a causal influence on some phenomenon, viz: | Since by hypothesis the relevant factors cannot be overtly manipulated in these investigations, the control must be achieved in some other manner... this control is achieved if sufficient information can yield symbolic constructions in which

: some of the factors are represented to be constant (and hence without influence

THE METHOD OF DIFFERENCE 357 upon any alterations in the phenomenon under study), in contrast to the correlations between the recorded data on variations in the other factors and the recorded phenomenon. Accordingly, the subjects manipulated in these investigations are the recorded (or symbolically represented) data of observation on relevant factors, rather than the factors themselves. '°

By employing this procedure it is sometimes possible to determine

which of several factors was a more important cause of some

phenomenon. The basis for my claim that this procedure does constttute a species of the Method of Difference is twofold, (1) that causal

judgments resulting from the application of the procedure depend upon there being variations against a background of constancy and, (2) that the recorded data of observation from which these variations are derived constitute the ‘‘instances’’ that need to be contrasted in order to determine which of two or more factors contributes most to the occurrence of some phenomenon. Bearing this in mind, we can now give an account of the example of a judgment of causal importance presented at the outset along these lines. If a historian or a social scientist has access to government files from which he can compute the total number of violent crimes committed in Liverpool, the social status of the criminal (working-class, unemployed, etc.), the level of income and kind of dwelling lived in, this historian or social scientist would be in a position to conduct a demographic survey employing all of these statistics. Given access to the kind of information I have specified, the purpose of his survey might be to answer this question: Of the total number of violent acts committed by working-class adult males in Liverpool, was the incidence of such acts greater in neighborhoods where such people had insufficient income but received adequate housing, or in neighborhoods where such people had sufficient income but lacked adequate housing? Now supposing it was discovered that the incidence of violent acts among working-class adult males in Liverpool is 30% lower when they have insufficient income but receive adequate housing than when they have sufficient income but lack adequate housing. Given these findings it would not be inappropriate to conclude that **inadequate housing is a more important cause of violence among working-

class adult males in Liverpool than is insufficient income’’.'* The same analysis applies to an example Nagel offers, i.e. ““broken homes

are a more important determinant of juvenile delinquency than 1s poverty’’.'> What this judgment of causal importance implies is that

, the relative frequency of delinquents coming from broken homes

which are not poverty-ridden is greater than among delinquents

| whose parents are poor but live together amicably.

13 Ernest NAGEL, The Structure of Science (New York: Harcourt, Brace, and World, 1961), p. 458.

| '4 This example is taken from R.G. FREy’s ‘‘Judgments of Causal Importance in the Social Sciences,’ Philosophy of the Social Sciences, 6, 1976, pp. 245-48. IS NAGEL, op. cit., p. 586.

358 , MARTIN SCHATZ , A historical example which better illustrates the fact that judgments of causal importance constitute a species of the Method of Difference than the two examples just considered is described by Walter Metz-

ger. In a book entitled Communism, Conformity, and Civil Liberties, , Samuel Stouffer asks whether regional differences, urban-rural differences, or differences in educational level account for differences in

, political tolerance in various parts of a country. '® According to Metzger, Stouffer was able to show that regional differences were the most - important cause of political tolerance by using ‘‘a simple trick of the

sociological trade’’,'’ which in this instance happens to be the

Method of Difference together with the Method of Agreement. What Stouffer did was to hold the urban-rural factor constant by comparing urban westerners with urban southerners, and rural westerners with

rural southerners, estimating in percentage terms which group in each pair was more tolerant. Having found that among both urban and rural people, westerners were more tolerant than southerners, Stouffer then compared better-educated westerners with better-educated southerners, again finding that those in the first group were more to-

lerant than those comprising the second. As Metzger points out, while | _. Stouffer did not know how the regional factor operated to produce the

differences in results, the variations in the statistically represented _ factors enabled him to assert with a good deal of confidence that the regional factor was a more important cause of political tolerance than

was the educational or urban-rural factors. ,

Stouffer’s work clearly illustrates what Nagel had in mind when he spoke of ‘‘manipulating the recorded data of observation’’. And since the procedure Nagel described applies to the manner in which Stouffer arrived at his causal judgment as well as to the causal judgments that were drawn in the provision of opportunity cases, I think I

have established my claim that both are species of the Method of , Difference. However, by emphasizing the statistical nature of these two kinds of causal judgments I have not meant to imply that only | those causal explanations that contain statistics are justified or warranted. While the manipulation of recorded data can be achieved by | feeding information into a computing device and receiving a print-out of the factors that are represented statistically (and no doubt Fogel and Stouffer employed such devices), it must be remembered that a computer is only an extension of the human mind. Consequently, we -musn’t overlook the fact that even in the quite simple, everyday kinds of examples that Mill, Ducasse, and Hart and Honore offer we can speak of one who makes a singular causal judgment as having ‘‘man'6 Samuel STOUFFER, Communism, Conformity, and Civil Liberties (New York: Doubleday, 1955). | , '7 Walter METZGER, ‘‘Generalization about National Character,’’ in Generali-

Press, 1963), p. 99. | -

zation in the Writing of History, ed. L. GOTTSCHALK (Chicago: University of Chicago

THE METHOD OF DIFFERENCE 359 ipulated the recorded data of observation’’. In such cases, ‘“‘recorded data’’ is stored in a person’s memory rather than on sheets of paper or in a computer’s memory bank. What I am saying, quite simply, is that the procedure codified in the Method of Difference applies to a wide range of cases, from everyday, singular causal judgments that do

not require the explicit use of statistics to more sophisticated judgments of causal importance that do require their explicit use. If, as | suspect, the examples of judgments of causal importance that I have presented have left the reader with the impression that I think that all historians who issue causal judgments must be engaged in statistical research, [ would like to dispell this impression and, at

the same time, conclude this paper by analyzing the structure of Henri Pirenne’s causal explanation of the collapse of the Mediterranean Commonwealth one finds in his book, Medieval Cities. Better than any arguments I can advance to establish the claims I have just

made, this explanation will support my view that singular causal judgments based on the cause-conditions distinction are a species of

the Method of Difference and that the causal judgment made by Pirenne (which is based on this distinction) does not involve the explicit use of statistics. In addition to writers like Raymond Martin who have attempted to simplify Hart and Honore’s account of the contrast between normal and abnormal conditions, there have also been a few philosophers who have sought to apply Hart and Honoré’s account to the causal

judgments historians make. In Foundations of Historical Knowledge, Morton White, who was the first philosopher to develop and apply Hart and Honoré’s doctrine of ‘‘Abnormalism’’ (as he calls it) to the sphere of history, offers us an account of how Abnormalism applies to Henri Pirenne’s explanation of the collapse of the Mediterranean Commonwealth in the last quarter of the seventh and first quarter of the eight century. The following is White’s synopsis of this explanation: Pirenne’s explanation of the collapse of what he calls the ‘‘Mediterranean Commonweath’’ is one in which the Moslem invasion in the seventh and eighth cen-

| turies 1s said to be the cause. He thinks of this collapse as an unusual or abnormal event in the history of Europe, and for that reason thinks it demands explanation. Therefore, the opening chapter of Pirenne’s Medieval Cities is devoted to showing the continuity in European life from ancient times down to the eighth century, when the overthrow occurred. Culturally, politically, and economically, he argues, an uninterrupted unity persisted on the shores of the Mediterranean, which was the center of gravity of European thought and culture. Moreover, one of Pirenne’s most important efforts is to show that the invasion of the barbaric tribes, which had, of course, preceded the Moslem invasion, did not destroy the civilization of antiquity. But what survived the Germans, he maintains, did not survive the Moslems. '8

18 Morton WuHitE, Foundations of Historical Knowledge (New York:

| Harper and Row, 1965), pp. 116-17.

360 , MARTIN SCHATZ In a formal sense, then, Pirenne’s manner of selecting the cause of the collapse of the Mediterranean Commonweath is analogous to the considerations brought to bear in the example where the wife sought to

, _ discover the cause of her husband’s attack of indigestion. As White points out, “‘the husband is the analogue of the Mediterranean Com-

monwealth, his indigestion is the analogue of the collapse of the ~ Commonwealth, and his eating parships is the analogue of the Moslem invasion. The indigestion and the collapse are unusual events and

their causes are also unusual events’’. 9 , , In Pirenne’s view, then, it was the Moslem invasions, not the _ Germanic ones, that constitute the abnormal factor which explains

, the collapse of the Commonwealth. However, based on the evidence , available to him, Pirenne not only offers us his specific causal conclu- | sion, he also takes into account certain states of affairs characteristic of life in those lands included in the Commonwealth, both before and after the Moslem invasions. In this respect he attempts to establish continuity and change in the Roman Empire’s commercial relations,

the standard of its monetary system, and the location of its largest

- cities. He finds, for example, that subsequent to the Germanic inva- | ~ sions trade continued to flourish in the Empire :‘‘Both manufactured

and natural products were still excessively dealt in; textiles from Constantinople, Odessa, Antioch and Alexandria; wines and spices Syria; papyrus from Egypt, Africa, and Sapin; wines from Gaul | andfromItaly.’’ 2° | The Moslem invasions changed all this; once in full swing they ,

reduced the flow of these articles to a trickle. Similar changes are noted in the monetary policy of the Empire and in its migration patterns. After the Germanic invasions and the Empire’s loss of political autonomy gold continued to be the standard of the monetary system

, and all the largest cities in the Empire were strung along the shores of , _ the Mediterranean. With the advent of the Moslems, Pirenne notes, —-- $ilver replaced gold as the standard of the money system and large numbers of people were deflected northward, such that the largest cities in the post-invasion period were located north of the Loire river. It is this contrast between long periods of stability and sudden

change that leads Pirenne to claim that it was the Moslem invasions

that, in effect, ‘‘made the difference’.

While it must be acknowledged that scarcely a single aspect of |

Pirenne’s explanation of the collapse of the Mediterranean Commona _ weath has escaped historical criticism?! I am not concerned here with

1925), p. 14. | | 19 Tbid., p. 116.

20 Henri PIRENNE, Medieval Cities (Princeton: Princeton University Press, ,

21 See A.F. HAviGcHurst (ed.), The Pirenne Thesis: Analysis, Criticism, and

, Revision (Boston: D.C. Heath, 1958).

THE METHOD OF DIFFERENCE 261 the truth or falsity of his conclusion but with the structure of his explanation. Schematically, we might sketch the structure of his explana-

tion as follows: where T1, T2, and T3 represent, respectively, the periods from A.D. 284-395 (from the beginning of the reign of Diocle-

tian to the end of the reign of Theodosius), from 378-639 (from the battle of Adrianople where the Visigoths defeated the Romans to the establishment of the Merovingian kingdom of Franks in Gaul), and from 637-713 (from the Islamic overthrow of the Persian Empire to the seizure of Constantinople). Also let X stand for the Germanic invasions, Y forthe Moslem invasions, A, B,andC represent, respectively, active trade in spices, wines, papyrus, and cloth; gold coins as stan-

dard currency, and the largest cities present on the shores of the Mediterranean. Finally, let a and p designate the absence or presence of a given factor or state of affairs: if

II

xa Ap B C Th p To p p p pp Y A B C T2 a p p Ts p a a pa

This representation of the structure of Pirenne’s explanation shows, I

believe, that his causal conclusion is arrived at by employing the

Method of Difference. In I this Method allows Pirenne to claim that the Germanic Invasions made no difference in the nature of the commercial relations, monetary policy, or in the location of the largest cities in the Empire. In II, on the other hand, we see that the Moslem invasions made all the difference, the presence of the Moslems radically altered the states of affairs represented by A, B, and C. Finally, Pirenne’s singular causal judgment quite obviously does not depend upon representing the factors he contrasts statistically, even though his causal judgment does presuppose a contrast between continuity and discontinuity occurring within periods of a specified duration, which does imply a numerical comparison.

_ Blank Page | | 7

Specifically Historical Terms: The Historian’s Own Technical- Theoretical Vocabulary by ROGER WEHRELL University of Ottawa

One way of approaching the question of history’s status vis-a-vis the other sciences is through an analysis of the historian’s descriptive vocabulary. To the extent the historian employs terms which are recognizably the technical and theoretical terms of other sciences, to that extent one has a case for the view that history involves the applica-

tion of the theory of other sciences. To the extent it lacks a

specialized vocabulary of its own the definition of which is undertaken in the course of formulating historical theory, to that extent one may suspect that history involves merely the application of theories developed by other sciences, that it lacks any theory of its own, or that it lacks independent status as a.science in its own right. In light of the emphasis in philosophy of science on the logical analysis of scientific theory, of the language the scientist uses and of the way he uses it, one would expect similar emphasis on this approach and similar sophistication in pursuing it with respect to history. I believe that unfortunately such expectations are disappointed. Some analysis of the historian’s descriptive vocabulary has been done. Two views have emerged as a result. One holds that historians employ only technical vocabulary borrowed from other disciplines —

from the physical and biological sciences as well as the social sciences -— whose theories they presuppose and apply. The other holds that the historian for the most part employs no special terminologies, either of his own or borrowed from other sciences. The concepts and terms he employs are said to be largely non-technical, to be derived from ordinary language, to be shared with common sense. Thus both views agree that the historian lacks his own specialized technicaltheoretical vocabulary. I hold that both these views are misguided and that both are the

result of some inadequate analysis of the historian’s vocabulary. I shall try to show this by criticizing an example of such incorrect analysis. I then discuss what I consider to be an exemplary case of a technical term of history in order to show how the historian does

364. REGER WEHRELL define and employ his own special terminology. I thereby hopefully blunt some of the force of the foregoing views even though limitations of space prevent me from considering what is right in each of them. I consider Morton White’s article ‘Historical Explanation’! a landmark because in it he first raises the problem of analyzing the historian’s descriptive vocabulary. After considering several examples of apparently ‘‘specifically historical terms’’, he argues that ‘‘no examination of history books will yield terms that cannot be classified

, as terms from [i.e. borrowed from] other sciences.’’* He analyzes

many of the terms he finds as terms borrowed from the physical and

| biological sciences and others as terms borrowed from disciplines like economics and psychology. The remainder after the foregoing are - subtracted, terms like ‘barbarian invasions’ and ‘revolution’, are said to be characteristically historical terms. According to White, analysis reveals them to be sociological. An actual study of the predicates which the historian is especially concerned to apply will not permit any sharp distinction between them and what are commonly called sociological predicates. 3

_ White’s position concerning the predicates which the historian is especially concerned to apply is actually somewhat ambiguous. On the one hand, in keeping with his analyses of terms the historian is

said to borrow from biology, physics, psychology, etc., the charac-

teristically historical predicates might be held to be borrowings from sociology. Sociological theory is concerned with developing its own

technical vocabulary. Insofar as the historian imports it and the ~ theoretical framework within which it is defined, history would be

a construed as applied sociology.

On the other hand, White might be construed as suggesting that _ no sharp distinction can be drawn between sociology and history and

that characteristically historical terms are also characteristically sociological in that they are shared by the two disciplines. They are

shared rather than borrowed by one from the other in that the ; historian’s use of such a term would not presuppose any sociological theory in which the term is defined, and sociological theory presuma- | bly would use the shared terms without presupposing any historical

theory. ,

, Of course the position embodied in the second reading of White

leaves open the question of how the historian does use terms he

| All references to White’s article (hereafter referred to as HE) are to its reprint and White’s additional remarks in Theories of History, ed, Patrick GARDINER (Glencee, Ill.: Free Press, 1959), pp. 356-372. - HAE, p. 368.

| 3 HE, p. 369. White also remarks in the same vein that ‘‘the terms which are

specific to sciences dealing with purposive human behavior seem so characteristic of

| history that we are not able to say whether they are terms from a presupposed science

or specific to history itself’ (HE, p. 368). , |

SPECIFICALLY HISTORICAL TERMS 365 shares with the sociologist. The latter does try to use many of them, like ‘revolution’ in a special and possibly technical sense. The his-

torian in his use may not follow the sociologist’s theoretical

| definition, but in that case each of them is using the term in a different way and with a different sense. To say they share the term in that case would be misleading. They would be using the same word, but different concepts would be at issue. The question would still remain as to whether the historian was employing his term in a special way. This would be a question of whether his use of it is tied to his own efforts to define it either implicitly or explicitly in the course of historical work such that anyone wishing to use the term in the same way as he does would have to look to his definition for guidance rather than either having to, or being able to, look to ordinary usage or to the theory of other disciplines. Stanley Palluch formulates and favors the second interpretation of White.*+ Palluch seems to follow Gardiner in espousing the view that the historian’s use of characteristically historical terms does not for the most part differ from their ordinary use.° The historian is said to ‘‘have no grounds for believing that the term ‘revolution’ has either a precise definition in some allegedly presupposed discipline or that there are strict criteria for its employment.’’ It is said to be an open concept as the historian uses it — one of those ‘‘nontechnical concepts, belonging to no particular theory.’’ The historian’s employment of such concepts manifests ‘‘nothing more more than a common sense understanding of human actions.’’ History and sociology may share these terms because they are terms based in the natural language (and its everyday use) which these disciplines employ.® Therefore, although the historian employs some technical special vocabulary borrowed from the natural sciences, the predicates he is charac-

teristically and especially concerned to employ are not borrowed technical terms because they are not technical terms at all. Palluch’s views may well be correct for some terms like ‘revolution’, ‘defeat’, ‘cruel’ and other examples he gives. It might possibly

be the case that the historian would not employ these as technical terms. Palluch is certainly correct in rejecting the position implicit in the first reading of White’s article — namely the analysis of all the historian’s descriptive vocabulary as technical borrowings from the various other theoretical sciences and most importantly from sociology. However, he is surely incorrect in implying what Gardiner explicitly claims and what White also suggests — namely, that the historian employs no technical vocabulary of his own. 4 ‘The Specificity of Historical Language,’’ History and Theory, no. 7, 1968, pp. 76-82. > Patrick GARDINER, The Nature of Historical Explanation (Oxford University Press, 1961), p. 63. 6 PALLUCH, SCHL, p. 81.

366 , REGER WEHRELL It is time to examine some of the analysis on which this last contention rests. At no time during the course of his search for specifically histor-

| ~ ical terms does White spell out in a formal way exactly what he is

S.8 , ,

searching for. Indeed, he disclaims any attempt to define the notion of

a ‘specifically historical term’.’ Nevertheless, he does make some claims about the general case of specifically S-ical terms where ‘S’

he claims: , ,

, represents a distinct discipline like biology or chemistry. In the course of discussing the analysis of a rather simple biological theory

1) Specifically S-ical terms are descriptive of the subject matter of

a 2) They do not appear (for the most part) in scientific discussions

not dealing with S-ical matters.’ 3) Where specifically S-ical terms do appear in scientific discussions belonging to disciplines other than S, these discussions

presuppose some or all of the S-ical theory in which the

| S-ical term appear. !°

His search for the specifically historical seems to be guided by all three claims but particularly the last one. With regard to the further elaboration of the third claim, he argues that ‘‘every theory can have its statements divided into two classes — those which are statements of the discipline presupposed by the theory, and those which are specific to the theory.’’'' The terms employed in statements presupposed by S are used by S in the formulation of the axioms, theorems and definitions of S without any expla- _

nation of the meaning of these terms. That is to say, the non-specifically S-ical terms are borrowed by S from other disciplines

within whose scope it is to define these non-specifically S-ical terms. , It is also within their scope (not S’s) to establish the validity of the -. theoretical statements presupposed by S in its use of the borrowed — | non-specifically S-ical terms. In the simple biological theory cited as an example ‘cell’ is said to be specifically biological while ‘or’ and ‘and’ are said to borrowed by the biologist from logic, within whose scope it is to define these terms and their use, and whose theory the biologist presupposes in using these non-specifically biological terms

, in, One hismight biological theory. | put the matter in the following way: Specifically S-ical terms are terms at home in a theory of S. They derive their

an 987HE,HE, HE, 367., , p. 362.p. |p.364. 0 HE, p. 362.

"HE, p. 362.

SPECIFICALLY HISTORICAL TERMS 367 meaning from their place within the theory — a theory which has

been constructed and established as a result of efforts within the discipline of S. Terms are borrowed from other disciplines by S insofar as S uses terms at home in theories belonging to other disciplines and presupposes theoretical statements drawn from these theories in its use of the borrowed terms. Although lacking precision, this way of putting White’s position accords with his emphasis on the extent to which the historian’s use of various terms does or does not presuppose theories from other sciences when he, White, considers and rejects various candidates for the status of specifically historical term.

One sort of candidate he considers is the names of historical states, principalities, places, regions, etc. These are rejected because they are said to be obviously physical terms. The historian’s use of

them is said to presuppose physics insofar as he uses them to refer to

places and locations.'* Examples offered by White include ‘Normandy’, ‘Anjou’ and ‘Gascony’, !? all used by Luchaire in the follow-

ing sentence from an account of the frame of mind of the people of 13th century France: Earthquakes, especially, dismayed them. Anjou was shaken in 1207; Normandy, in 1214; Gascony in 1223. '4

White takes it to be obvious that these are physical terms. But a little reflection shows that they are not.

If ‘Normandy’ were the name merely of a region defined by physical spatial coordinates, there might be something to be said for White’s analysis. However, it is the name of a region associated with a particular historical group of people — namely, the Normans — and the region is defined by historians with reference to them and to certain important activities and relationships in which they engaged. The limits of their conquest, administration and military organization are relevant to fixing the location and boundaries of Normandy as is the particular pattern of feudal relationships that lent whatever unity it had to Normandy. When describing the region and its people historians do cite some physical geographical features as boundaries the Bresle and Epte on the east, the Selune and Couesnon on the west, the Avre on the south. Yet these rivers mark the region referred to by ‘Normandy’ in only a rough way; they can hardly be said to define it. '° 12 HE, p. 368. 13 HE, p. 365. 14 Achille LUCHAIRE, Social France at the Time of Philip Augustus, trans. Edward Krehbiel (New York: Harper and Row, 1967), p. 1. 15 David Douglas, who cites these ‘‘inconspicuous’’ land frontiers in the course of ‘‘defining’’ Normandy emphasizes that medieval Normandy should be considered a ‘‘“creation of history’’ rather than of nature. The Norman Achievement (London: Eyre and Spottiswoode, 1969), p. 22.

368 , REGER WEHRELL This is so firstly because the physical dimensions of Normandy changed over the years especially in the first 150 years of its exis-

, tence. Conquest and further grants from the French king resulted in its expansion, often at the expense of other regions, for example,

Maine. The vicissitudes of medieval wars and conflict would defeat any hope of specifying one physically defined boundary. Secondly, the boundaries were never precisely or neatly defined in physical terms by the Normans or by surrounding and intermingling peoples. Not only was the art of surveying not advanced in 13th century France, but the nature of feudal ties between a lord and his man made for ‘‘fluid frontiers’’ for any administrative unit.'® Precision surveying would have been largely irrelevant to delimiting the region defined with reference to such a unit, of which Normandy, the area subject to the Duke of Normandy, was an example. The limits of his influence and authority and of Norman influence would never be defined primarily in physical terms especially at its limits. _ That ‘Normandy’ is not to be defined primarily in physical terms is further evidenced by the historian’s reluctance to use the name to _ refer to those physical regions that were in fact to be occupied by the

, Normans when speaking of the regions at times prior to the Normans’ occupying them.'’ There was a Carolingian administrative unit that roughly coincided with the future Normandy. Historians dealing with Carolingian France usually refer to it by its name — Neustria — and not

, as Normandy. '!8 Normandy is Normandy only insofar as it was peo-

pled with and influenced by Normans. |

To grasp the extent of White’s confusion on this issue, contrast ‘Normandy’ to ‘Arctic region’. The latter is also the name of a place and a region, but it is defined solely in terms of spatial or physical geographical considerations. The Arctic region is that region of the

| -earth’s surface bounded on the south by the Arctic Circle, which in

turn is defined in terms of the latitude sixty-six degrees north. Pre- |

~sumably the concept of ‘latitude’ is at home in the theory of physical geography (a theory concerning the shape of the earth, etc.), which in turn might be said to presuppose certain theories of physics. In any ‘6 R. Allen BRown, The Normans and the Norman Conquest (New York: Thomas Y. Crowell, 1968), p. 12. At the same time it is only fair to point out his claim that Normandy’s boundaries were more precise than those of other principalities. They

more or less coincided with those of earlier administrative units (pp. 20-21). , 17 As an example of this, in their comprehensive history of the province Mabire and Ragache title the first chapter ‘‘La ‘Normandie’ avant les normands’’, and they use other qualifications in addition to the scare quotes when referring to the region. Jean

MABIRE and Jean-Robert RAGACHE, Histoire de la Normandie (Paris: Librairie Hachette, 1976).

18 Kor a more historically accurate and detailed statement of the relationship between Normandy and earlier administrative units see DOUGLAS, NA, 22; BROWN, NNC, 20-21; and R.H.C. Davis, The Normans and Their Myth (London: Thames and Hudson, 1976), p. 58.

SPECIFICALLY HISTORICAL TERMS 369 case, there is an analytic relationship between ‘Arctic region’ and ‘latitude sixty-six degrees north’. Say the one and you have said the other as indicating the boundary of the region named by the first. And there is nothing more to be said, except perhaps for an empirical description of the conditions prevailing in this region. ‘Arctic region’ is the name of an area and a place but not the name of the place of an historical community. Insofar as it names a physically defined region, it might be analyzed as a physical term. If ‘Normandy’ is not a physical term the use of which presupposes physics, is it a specifically historical term? Several considerations suggest that it might be. [t is to the historian of western Europe — either to Luchaire or to some other — that one would look for a delineation of the connection between ‘Normandy’ and the Normans. One would find it traced

and explicated in works on Carolingian and Medieval Europe — works presenting views and theories about the origins and development of the Norman people and the Duchy of Normandy. One might regard such works as presenting an implicit definition of ‘Normandy’ insofar as those unacquainted with the term would look to them, or to information extracted from them, to discover what Normandy was and therefore to discover how the historian would use the word. They would hardly look to either physics or sociology for even a mention of Normandy. Certainly Luchaire would be presupposing some of these historical theories in locating an earthquake in Normandy in the 13th century. It also seems obvious that one could not consider Luchaire’s use of the name a matter of contemporary ordinary usage as Palluch and Gardiner might have us do. Ordinarily ‘Normandy’ is taken to be the name of a modern French province. Luchaire was hardly referring to the modern province and was not necessarily referring to a region

physically coincident with it. Luchaire’s use of the name and

contemporary ordinary usage are in fact related, but one looks to historical investigation to trace the connection, not to ordinary usage.

Weighing against these considerations is the fact that ‘Nor, mandy’ is a proper name. The sense in which it might be said to have a meaning and be a descriptive term is a matter of philosophical dispute. Many philosophers have argued that proper names do not have a meaning and are not themselves descriptive. Therefore, according to this line of thought, whatever else historians may be doing when making clear the relationship between ‘Normandy’ and the Normans,

they are not explicating the term’s meaning. To clarify what and where Normandy was is not, properly speaking, to define ‘Nor-

mandy’. If so, “Normandy’ would fail to qualify as a specifically historical term because it could not meet all of White’s requirements. In view of this one might wonder why White bothered to include ‘Normandy’ among the candidates for specifically historical terms.

-370,—CO—™ | REGER WEHRELL | But there is little cause of wonder. Names of peoples, places, events,

nations, peoples, etc. play such a prominent role in works of history ,

that it is difficult to avoid taking them into consideration. Historians are concerned with identifying and distinguishing the bearers and re-

, ferents of these names. Proper names seem to have an importance in history that they do not have in other disciplines, and concern with

their use is especially characteristic of history.

However, whether or not ‘Normandy’ is to count as a

specifically historical term, there are other terms to be found which are descriptive and with the use of which the historian is especially concerned. They are subject to conscious definitional efforts by the

historian such that to use them in the way or sense he employs them , 7 is to presuppose his explication of their meaning. It is not to presuppose the theory of other disciplines nor to be a matter of ordinary usage (except of course to the extent that the latter may have incor_ porated the historian’s definition). They are, I shall argue, to count as specifically historical terms, and they stand in special relationships

, with some of the proper names with which the historian is concerned.

The example I offer for analysis is ‘feudalism’ and the related adjective ‘feudal’ as they are employed by historians of Europe — particularly of medieval Western Europe. It is to be noted first that the term is a descriptive one. The noun is used to characterize certain patterns of human relationships in certain historical communities and regions. Certain arrangements in 11th

| century Northern France are said to be clear examples of feudalism while certain arrangements in pre-Christian Scandinavia would be clear examples of non-feudalism. In other cases, for example, preconquest Anglo-Saxon Britain, there is some dispute.'? The adjective gets used to characterize various roles and institutions occurring in the historical communities that are cases of feudalism.

, Next it should be noted that many historians of Europe employing the term are explicitly concerned with formulating definitions, or with explicating its meaning in some other way, and with justifying them, all in the course of historical works in which the terms get used descriptively. Disagreement over the correct or proper or more accurate or most useful definition is characteristic of much of the litera-

ture. For example, some historians, like Ganshof, use ‘feudal’ in a

sense in which the word is meaningfully applied only to certain sorts

of legal institutions involving medieval lords and their vassals. —

Others, like Bloch, want to use it in such a way that it is meaningful to characterize the whole way of life of a specified community (includ-

Ing its social, political and economic arrangements) as feudal. ?° Other , '? For one account of the controversy see R. Allen BRown, Origins of English _ Feudalism, (New York: Barnes and Noble, 1973), pp. 18 ff. 7° Norman CANTOR, Medieval History: The Life and Death of a Civilization

| (London: Macmillan, 1963), pp. 238-240. For Ganshof’s own views on the different

SPECIFICALLY HISTORICAL TERMS 371 controversies center around questions of what a definition of the term should include. Is it to be defined in terms of the institution of the fief

alone, or is vassalage the essential component, or must both be mentioned ?

The importance of the fact that historians do discuss their use of the term is this. One must look to historical views and theories about medieval Europe and its way of life for an explication of the way the historian employs the term. For example, in The Origins of English Feudalism R. Allen Brown argues that preconquest England was not

characterized by feudal institutions. Apparently aware of the

definitional problem, he first argues that there are four elements essential to a feudal society: (1) a ruling class of knights among whom one finds (2) the institution of vassalage, (3) land predominently held by the knights as fiefs in return for knightly service, and (4) castles. Historical considerations are put forward to justify what in effect amounts to a definition of ‘feudalism’.?! Then after an examination of evidence concerning preconquest England — evidence which, according to him, shows Anglo-Saxon society to have lacked the four elements — he concludes that it was not a feudal society. The sense in which the term is employed in the conclusion obviously presupposes the historical spadework and argument of the first part of the work. It hardly represents a borrowing from other disciplines, and Brown’s definition is much too precise to be a mere formulation of

ordinary usage. ,

Thus I advance ‘feudal’ and ‘feudalism’ as examples of

specifically historical terms in effect meeting all of White’s requirements for specifically S-ical terms.

In reply it might be objected that if a discipline is to have a technical specialized vocabulary, it must consist of terms employed in the same specialized sense by all or most practitioners of the discip-

line. If each practitioner of discipline S employs a given word (or should I say ‘‘sound’’?) in his own idiosyncratic way, one could hardly call it a specifically S-ical term as opposed to a collection of homonyms. My account of ‘feudalism’ makes it sound as though it gets defined all which ways by different historians who thereby use a

| common label for distinct concepts.

My account so far may make it sound that way, but there 1s a common element that seems to be found in all explications of the term’s meaning. They all involve reference to post-Carolingian Europe between the Loire and.the Rhine — to its institutions and way of life, This region and the historical community found there has been

senses of ‘feudalism’ at issue see F.L. GANSHOF, Feudalism, trans. Philip GRIERSON (New York: Harper and Row, 1961), pp. xv-xvil.

2! Brown, OLF, pp. 23-32.

372 REGER WEHRELL called the home of feudalism proper.?* This is the agreed upon paradigm case among historians. What feudalism is may to some extent be a matter of controversy, but there is agreement that whatever

it is the community named above was an example of it. It is to an examination of the evidence concerning this community that historians like Brown turn to justify formulations of definitions?? and

that some comparative historians turn when making judgements as to

whether other historical communities and their institutions can be

characterized as feudal. 7 Thus it is that all definitions of ‘feudalism’ contain reference to

what might be called a ‘logically privileged paradigm’ of the term’s application. It is inconceivable that post-Carolingian Europe between

the Loire and the Rhine not be counted as a feudal society, whatever one may say about preconquest England, Southern France or Christian Spain. Reference to that paradigm gets built into the definition or

explication of the term’s meaning insofar as mention of the

paradigm’s name is a part of complete definition. Indeed, this is as it should be so that where disputes over definitions arise, the disputants - have some surety that they are not engaged in mere semantics while

troversy. , |

| talking past each other — that they are engaged in meaningful con_ This brings me to the final point, for the point of this paper is not

merely to argue (contra White, Gardiner and Palluch) that historians do employ a specialized vocabulary of their own with at least one member, ‘feudalism’. I also want to suggest that at least part of that vocabulary has some special logical features that distinguish it from specialized vocabularies of other disciplines. _ ,

, In constructing and applying theories the sociologist, for example, tends, as far as I can tell, to treat his theoretical terms like ‘revolution’ as thoroughly general terms the meaning of which can in principle be explicated in further general terms, or at least that can be

explicated without reference to some one particular logically

privileged paradigm of the term’s application. One formulates a clear

idea of what a revolution is such that it is not inconceivable that either the Russian Revolution or the French Revolution or the Puritan

Revolution or the Cuban Revolution might turn out upon closer ex-

amination not to have been a revolution after all. If my analysis of ‘feudalism’ is correct, this descriptive term does not get treated in this

fashion by historians. Rather, it gets treated more like many proper adjectives do. Indeed, I would count many proper adjectives like ‘Puritan’, ‘Elizabethan’ and ‘Christian’ as specifically historical

press the same thought. 22 ‘| get the expression from GANSHOF, F, xvii, who calls this region ‘‘the origi-

nal home of feudalism’’. However, other historians have used similar phrasing to ex23 In OEF Brown titles the chapter in which he defines the term and justifies the definition ‘Frankish Feudalism’. .

SPECIFICALLY HISTORICAL TERMS 373 terms. Like a proper adjective, ‘feudalism’ is analytically tied tied to a

proper name. One gets some sense of this even from dictionary definitions like the following: the system of political organization prevailing in Europe from the 9th to about the 15th century, having as its basis the relation of lord to vassal with all land held in fee and as chief characteristics homage, the service of tenants under arms and in court, wardship, and forieiture.

Whatever its historical accuracy or worth, the definition makes men-

tion of one particular case important enough to be included in the definition. I suggest that this feature distinguishes the historian’s vocabulary from that of other disciplines. [ also suggest that this point is integrally tied to the earlier rather obvious and not very profound remark about the historian’s concern with proper names. His concern with distinguishing and identifying the referents or names of movements, peoples, periods, institutions, and even events and individuals may in part be essential for defining some of the important descriptive terminology he uses. If so, one has

some reason to expand White’s concept of a specifically historical term so that these proper names might clearly qualify for the honor. In any event one must conclude that historians would be unable to borrow all their descriptive terms from other disciplines, including sociology, even if they wanted. No other discipline coins and defines terms in a way that gives them the features historians require in at least some of their descriptive vocabulary. Although, like other disciplines, history may borrow, it also has its own distinctive specialized technical vocabulary. It is the philosopher’s task, heretofore largely neglected, to make its logical features clear and to investigate how it is employed.

Blank Page

EPILOGUE EPILOGUE

Blank Page |

History New and Old by DAvID CARR University of Ottawa

Like most conferences whose purpose is to initiate interdisciplinary dialogue, the one from which these papers are drawn originally

had litthe more than its title as a source of unity. Representative philosophers and historians were invited to participate more because of their prominence than their common interests; as usually happens,

some declined and others were added to the list; and the resulting collection of participants was rather fortuitous than planned. A philosopher working in a field as restricted as the philosophy of history knows how little unity of interest, doctrine and method prevails

even there; still less could one expect such unity among a group drawn randomly from prominent practicing historians. In view of this it is all the more remarkable that some unity did

in fact emerge — or so it seems to this observer. The unity to be perceived in this collection of papers is not to be confused with unanimity ; in fact it is a unity of theme which shapes up into a rather

interesting conflict. At issue — in a great many though not all the papers — is the conflict between two sorts of historiography and accompanying historical research. Though names are hard to choose, one might be called the ‘‘traditional’’ and the other the ‘‘new’’ history. The first is characterized by a narrative account of some development or change, is often centered in the history of political events, is written in a style addressed to the general public by one author who is frequently as much praised (or condemned) for the literary quality as for the accuracy and objectivity of his or her work. The second, a more recent development, tends to look for unchanging

states or structures, concentrates on society at large rather than its political leadership, prefers quantitative or quantifiable data if available, and is often the work of teams of researchers, whose product is addressed rather to specialists than the general reader. In these ways

it emulates the style and the methods of the social sciences. It can easily be seen that these clusters of features are very vague, and one could expect many works of history to share characteristics of both groups. Assuming, however, that they succeed in distinguishing two eroups of historians or two types of history, the outsider might be surprised to find that the distinction could generate controversy. The

378 | DAVID CARR fact 1s, however, that some ‘‘new’’ historians have insisted that

their methods render traditional history obsolete or at least superficial, and traditional historians have not suffered these charges

in silence. Within the discipline of history itself, the picture may seem to be the familiar one of the young turks or avant garde attacking the establishment. In any case, the battle has raged over the last decade and more in both the English-speaking and French-speaking worlds,

| though among different antagonists and over somewhat different is-

sues.

How did this controversy make itself felt in our encounter bet-. ween historians and philosophers? At first glance we seem to find a rough division between historians and philosophers. In the papers of R. Bouchard, R. Fogel and F. Ouellet, we find strong presentations and defenses of quantitative methods, of social history, of team research. And, at least in the case of Ouellet’s paper, we find the strong suggestion, not only that traditional historiography has been supplanted, but also that philosophers of history are taking their point of departure from this now obsolete approach. And indeed, if we examine the papers of L. Pompa, W.H. Walsh, and to some extent that of A. Fell, we discover that the “‘history’’ under discussion is either

expressly or tacitly conceived in traditional terms. And in P.

Ricoeur’s contribution we find an explicit critique of certain basic elements of the new history, at least in its French structuralist form, and an implicit defense of some of the concepts (purposive action, narrative) that underlie traditional history. (It is interesting to note, by the way, that each side of this division contains English-speaking and French-speaking representatives.) This first glance suggests a serious, even critical situation for philosophers. The philosophy of history has always to some extent

, been parasitic on the work that historians do and, by implication, the methods they use. Even in the heyday of the speculative philosophy of history it was existing knowledge of the past, delivered by his-

| torians, that was worked into the large-scale tapestries philosophers produced. Since the wane of historical speculation and the rise of analytic or critical philosophy of history, this relation has been differ-

ent but still one of dependency. For a short time, it is true, , philosophers thought they could dictate to historians an ideal of

scientific knowledge to which they ought to conform. But since world

war II most philosophers of history have agreed that philosophers should take their point of departure from what historians actually do. (It is interesting to note that a similar opinion has established itself, though more recently, concerning the relation between the philosophy

of the physical sciences and work done in those disciplines.) Are

philosophers of history now being accused of not doing their homework, of not keeping up with what is going on, of concerning themselves with a form of study that is obsolete? If this is the charge,

HISTORY NEW AND OLD 379 and if it is well founded, philosophers must heed it, make sure they are aware of current historical research, and subject its methods to their conceptual and epistemological analysis.

This first glance must give way to a second, however, which reveals a somewhat more complicated picture. The first thing to be noted is that, even within our own conference, no unanimity is to be found even among historians. M. de Certeau and R. Koselleck, both historians (though admittedly with a decidedly philosophical bent), explicitly focus on the new history and take issue with certain aspects

of it: de Certeau satirizes its deification of the quantitative while Koselleck warns of the danger of anachronism in imposing the categories of our social sciences on historical periods to which these categories do not apply. We have already noted that the controversy over the new history is still raging among historians, and the views of de Certeau and Koselleck suggest that it is disingenuous to characterize traditional history as being defended by an aged and entrenched establishment unable to change its ways. The second thing to be noted is that the philosophers are hardly unaware of these recent developments among historians. We have already pointed out that Ricoeur examines in detail certain key concepts of the new history, and W.H. Dray also has something to say about it in his contribution to the Round Table. It is true that both of these philosophers are somewhat critical, not so much of the new history and its methods, as of its pretentions to have supplanted the old. But after all, the injunction that philosophers take their point of departure from what historians are actually doing does not require that they be slavishly uncritical. If many historians themselves are critical, philosophers may be permitted to join in the fracas from their point of view. [t may be argued that they are not qualified, that this is an affair for practising historians, and that philosophers are, as usual,

only meddling in something which does not concern them. Philosophers however, while they must concede their lack of experi-

ence in historical research, should not accept this dismissal too easily: what they lack in practice they may make up for in several ways. First, their very distance from the subject may be an advantage

, that historians do not share; second, they are able to bring to bear

techniques of logical and conceptual analysis, as well as concepts of philosophy of mind and philosophical anthropology that are not 1rrelevant to the issue; and third, there is a long tradition in both conti-

, nental Europe and the English-speaking world, of philosophical analysis and criticism of precisely those social sciences that are now

, being brought in as aids to the historical researcher. These sciences have not been without difficulties and confusions in their conceptual foundations, and historians may be acquiring more problems than solu-

tions if they take over uncritically the methods of these sciences

380 DAVID CARR | without considering at the same time some of the difficulties un-

earthed, in many cases, by philosophers. ,

Some of these problems were indeed brought up in the confer-

ence, either in papers or in discussions. If there is one concept or issue around which all these problems seem to center, it is perhaps that of the consciousness or intentionality of social agents. Tra_ ditional history, of course, has often concerned itself with reconstructing the thoughts, reasons or motives behind the actions that figure on the

historical stage. Such reconstruction can be done well or poorly, yet it is very hard to achieve for it the kind of objectivity and repeatability one would wish for a scientific discipline. The new historians seem to pride themselves on having moved to a plane where such tenuous reconstruction is unnecessary and where concepts of mind and motive can be avoided. By focusing on large groups and

long-term social and economic patterns, they can make use of statistics and describe phenomena objectively. What they discover in this

way are factors that, while they were imperceptible to historical agents, nevertheless determine their conduct. Hence the claim that tradi-

tional history is superficial by comparison. But consciousness may reassert itself in different ways into this picture. Agents may not per-

, ceive the same patterns that later historians perceive, but it may be their perceptions, however erroneous, that determine their actions. These, in turn, may affect subsequent social patterns. In addition, there is the problem of the reasons or motives behind the original selection, classification and preservation of the statistical data on which the historian relies. This has been a problem even for those social sciences which focus on contemporary societies that are supposedly consciencious about keeping records. Clearly it is more of a problem for societies of the past about whose record-keeping prac-

tices we cannot be so sure. | |

, By raising these issues, then, the philosophers may be able to contribute to the debate and defend themselves against the charge that they are out of date. In this way they will at least be doing

justice to and not overlooking striking and significant new ways of acquiring knowledge of the past. For there is no doubt that the new

history is at least this. Whether it constitutes a genuine revolution, however, is another question, and here the relative tranquility of the

uninvolved spectator may be of value. The new historians may perhaps be excused the enthusiasm of riding the crest of a new wave, but they may be guilty of inflating the significance of their new tech- | niques beyond appropriate proportions. In order to assert the value -and importance of the new history is it in fact necessary to call into question the old? Does concern with unchanging or slowly changing social and economic patterns, indeed the recognition of the impor-

tance of these phenomena, rule out concern with short-term change and development, or with individuals and their actions and intention,

HISTORY NEW AND OLD 38] especially in the political sphere ? Does the use of statistical and other quantitative methods exclude the kind of imaginative reconstruction

that traditional historians have been noted for? Perhaps beyond all the heated controversy over priority and posteriority, superficiality and depth lies the simple, if somewhat less exciting truth that the battle concerns two sets of interests, methods and styles that are not only quite compatible but even complementary. If the detachment of the philosophers makes it possible to demonstrate the feasibility of such

a compromise solution, then perhaps the controversy can be laid to rest with their help.

Blank Page

| Pour une prochaine rencontre? par H. WATELET Université d’Ottawa

_ Au terme d’un colloque, on en vient évidemment a tenter d’en évaluer l’apport dans une perspective plus large et de facon plus glo-

bale qu’au cours des débats auxquels il a pu donner lieu. Or a cet égard, une rencontre comme celle-ci offre précisément l’intérét de prises de position en deux temps, puisqu’apres deux jours de présentations et de discussions de points de vue de philosophes et d’historiens, sur «la pratique historienne», on a eu l’occasion de prendre du recul, et de réfléchir, de part et d’autre, a la portée de ces débats, au cours d’une fructueuse table ronde récapitulative. Au total, on a pu assister, au cours du premier temps, a la confrontation de la pensée de neuf personnalités de premier plan — tant6t du monde philosophique, tantot des milieux historiens — en séance pléniére, c’est-a-dire sans compter les intéressants prolongements qui eurent parfois lieu en ateliers; puis, au cours du deuxieme temps, a la réflexion de quatre autres personnalités de renom —- deux philosophes et deux historiens — s’appuyant notamment sur les travaux et les échanges des deux premieres journées. Dans ces conditions, plutot que de revenir sur le colloque lui-meme, on en vient a penser a la suite qu’on pourrait lui donner et a souhaiter une nouvelle rencontre. Et a ce propos, je ferais deux observations, du point de vue de l’historien (formé a l’école des Annales) tout au moins.

_y| La premiere, c’est que ce colloque nous a réunis autour d’un theme qui comportait des ’abord, en francais du moins, une certaine ambiguité. Non pas a cause de la premiere partie de sa formulation — encore que nous aurions peut-étre eu intérét a préciser qu'il s’agissait

de philosophie critique de (histoire — mais a cause de la seconde: car il est évident que nous n’avons pas affaire a une pratique historienne, mais a plusieurs. Les conclusions de Claude Panaccio vont d’ailleurs fort justement dans ce sens. De méme il serait trop simple, a mon sens, de regrouper ces pratiques sous deux étiquettes.

384 H. WATELET Histoires traditionnelle et ... «scientifique»? Mais aux EtatsUnis, il y a quelques années a peine, et pour le seul domaine de l’histoire économique, l’Economic History Association Wa pu s’y résou-

dre, puisqu’elle a consacré une session d’ensemble de son trente- | septieme congres annuel aux réalisations de trois «écoles» d’histoire économique particuli¢rement influentes: la New Economic History,

Vhistoire économique marxiste que nous avons trop négligee, et celle du mouvement des Annales. Il est vrai que David Landes, qui

ouvrit la séance, exprima son inquiétude devant l’écart qu’il constatait entre les deux courants de la typologie chere a Robert Fogel — écart dont les dangers évoquaient aux yeux du premier l’aventure de la construction de la tour de Babel. Cependant Landes exprima simplement, a cette occasion, le malaise des historiens de l'économie, _ face aux prétentions des créateurs de la New Economic History: ces économistes de l’histoire, dont la plupart des historiens de métier sont encore incapables de lire les formules, sinon le vocabulaire. Mais

par ailleurs, comme Douglass C. North le laissa entrevoir dans son commentaire, l'image de la tour de Babel aurait également pu étre rappelée pour caractériser l’absence de communication entre les partisans de la New Economic History et les historiens marxistes. Et 1c1, lécart tient évidemment aux divergences idéologiques, mais aussi aux fondements théoriques tout différents, tout en étant de part et d’autre restreints ou trop autosuffisants. Ce qui n’empéche pourtant pas les « cliométriciens » notamment, de s’opposer parfois dans de violentes controverses!...

La pratique historienne d’aujourd’ hui? Mais Lawrence Stone, |

, dans un article récent, en distingue quatre aux prétentions « scientifiques»: d’abord celle qui se fondait sur l’étude de sources nouvelles et que l’on peut rattacher a Ranke. Décriée depuis, certes, cette pratique positiviste n'est pourtant pas totalement abandonnée. Et puis les trois autres: celles qui se sont appuyées, au cours des quelque cinquante dernieres années, sur l’économique et qui correspondent aux trois orientations étudiées par | Economic History Association: le mouvement des Annales, le courant marxiste et celui de la New Economic History?. Et puis, dit-il, il y a ’histoire des mentalités, qui aurait renoncé — ou qui hésite plutot — a s’affirmer comme « scientifique », depuis que |’on a perdu bien des illusions, notamment en France, sur les possibilités explicatives d’une historiographie fon-

dée sur le primat de l’économique. Dans ce pays du reste, le désen- : chantement est d’autant plus net qu’il va de pair avec une prise de 1D. S. LANDEs, «On Avoiding Babel» et Douglass C. NoRTH, «Comment», dans The Journal of Economic History, t. 38, n° 1, 1978, pp. 3-12 et 76-80. 2 L. STongE, «The Revival of Narrative: Reflections on a New Old History »,

dans Past and Present, n° 85, nov. 1979, pp. 3-24, traduit dans Le débat, n° 4, sept. 1980, pp. 116-142.

POUR UNE PROCHAINE RENCONTRE? 385 conscience évidente, mais relativement tardive en histoire, des limites

de la connaissance. Ainsi, le glissement du socio-€conomique au socio-culturel, signalé par Fernand Ouellet, y atteste certainement ce double mouvement. L’histoire des mentalités tend a devenir moins analytique et moins structurale, selon Stone. Elle semble en effet souvent moins soucieuse de rigueur, de méthode, voire d’érudition que Vhistoire socio-économique, et temoigne en méme temps d’un retour au récit. A tel point qu’on se trouve aujourd’ hui en présence de deux extrémes: d’un coté, une New Economic History dont la formulation mathématique est poussée au point de devenir inintelligible a la

plupart des historiens de métier et, je presume, des philosophes de Vhistoire... Et d’autre part, une histoire des mentaliteés beaucoup plus

soucieuse de la vie des hommes que d’abstractions et qui pose, comme le dit Stone, des questions qui nous préoccupent tous aujourd’hui —- notamment sur les sentiments, la sexualité, la mort, questions qui correspondent, ajoute-t-il du reste tres justement, a

Vidéal de Lucien Febvre — mais tout en revenant donc au récit tant meéprisé par bien des «scientifiques». Si bien que cette histoire-la tend a séduire un tres large public, comme le suggere tout particulierement le Montaillou d’ Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie, un des livres d’histoire qui s’est le plus vendu au XX¢ siecle. Et ces pratiques historiennes, en quoi different-elles les unes des autres? Landes et Stone le disent fort bien tous deux, ce qui permet d’aller de suite a l’essentiel. Au total, elles peuvent différer a tous égards: au niveau des objectifs, des problématiques, des methodes, des autres disciplines influencant les démarches, des types de sources et de la facon de les utiliser, du contenu, de l organisation, de l’écriture... Au surplus, Stone n’a évidemment pas tout dit. C’ est ainsi que le courant

, positiviste dont il parle, a luicméme fortement évolué et que ses objectifs se sont sensiblement rétrécis, comparativement a ceux de Ranke par exemple, autour de la Premiere Guerre mondiale?. Ou encore que la poussée récente vers le socio-culturel ne va pas seulement dans le sens d’une histoire-récit des mentalités, mais également vers une histoire quantitative qui prolonge, sur ce plan, acquis des grandes ceuvres du champ socio-économique*. Et puis, on pourrait situer les courants historiques de tendance scientifique entre deux poles, deux autres extremes: non plus au point de vue des possibilités de diffusion que l’on a signalées il y a un instant, mais au point de vue des objectifs. D’une part en effet, il y a histoire qui se refuse a viser autre chose que la formation de lesprit, et qui s’apparente a ce que Panaccio appelle 3 Voir le bel article de J. DHoNDT, « L’histoire récurrente», dans Diogéne, n° 75, 1971, pp. 26-59; également F. STERN (ed.), The Varieties of History from Voltaire

| to the Present, Cleveland and New York, The World Publishing Company, 1956, p. 55. 4 Voir par exemple P. CHAUNU, «Le quantitatif au troisieme niveau», dans son livre Histoire quantitative, histoire sérielle, Paris, Colin, 1978, pp. 216-230.

326 H. WATELET | Vorientation vers linteret dramatique*. Et d’autre part, I’histoire immédiate, qui elle, met accent sur l’action collective et la praxis

plus ou moins revolutionnaire®.

Il convient donc d’aller dans le sens de Claude Panaccio: le dialogue entre philosophes et historiens risquerait de rappeler lui aussi

- Vaventure de la tour de Babel, si nous le poursuivions sans tenir compte, de facon plus précise et plus systématique, de la diversiteé,

, voire de l’éclatement des pratiques historiennes. Tandis qu’il yatout _ lieu de croire qu’il continuerait de progresser, si nous précisions davantage, a cet égard, nos propres objectifs ; a une condition toutefois, et cela m’ameéne a la seconde observation.

_ Il , , Trop souvent, en effet, les problemes posés a propos des études | historiques a tendance scientifique m’ont paru concerner, non seule-

ment certaines pratiques historiennes mais, ad des degrés divers, tou- tes les sciences humaines et méme toutes les sciences. Et c’est la, il me semble, une seconde ambiguité rencontrée au cours de ce collo-

que.

, Prenons par exemple, et pour étre bref, le cas de la physique. II | est évident que les problemes qu’elle se pose sur elle-méme valent également, mutatis mutandis, pour les autres disciplines, puisque la | _ physique est, de toute évidence, la plus prestigieuse des sciences. Or,

qu’il s’agisse de la causalité, de létablissement des lois et de leur valeur, de l’objectivité, du role du chercheur et de ses appareils aux différentes étapes de la recherche, de la production d’ information, de

la place centrale en somme de l’homme dans la discipline, et de la relation explication/compréhension, toutes ces questions se posent - aujourd’hui dans une perspective nettement plus comparable que naguere, a la facon de les envisager en sciences humaines et notamment en histoire’.

| 1974, -

| 5 Voir par exemple J. Barzun, Clio and the Doctors. Psycho-History, Quanto-History, and History, Chicago et London, The University of Chicago Press,

6 Voir notamment B. VERHAEGEN, /ntroduction Ga l'histoire immédiate. Essai de méthodologie qualitative, Gembloux, Duculot, 1974; J. CHESNEAUxX, Du passé fai-

| _gons table rase ?, Paris, Maspero, 1976. Il faudrait également mentionner les débuts de _ histoire prospective, dont les travaux de P. Chaunu sur la dénatalité, recente et prochaine, constituent un bon exemple; et en méme temps une objection susceptible de

a étude du passé. oe |

stimuler peut-étre les auteurs qui décident un peu vite que lhistoire a pour objet |

7 E.H. Hutren «The Future of Science: Mechanization or Humanization? », dans C. Macy (ed.), Science, Reason and Religion, Buffalo, Prometheus Books, 1974,

pp. 83-111; Ip., « Physique des symétries et théorie de l’information», dans Diogéne, n° | 72, 1970, pp. 3-26; voir aussi Quanta and Reality. A symposium for the non-scientist on the physical and philosophical implications of quantum mechanics, Cleveland et New

| York, The World Publishing Company, 1964. |

POUR UNE PROCHAINE RENCONTRE? 387 De la méme maniere, des physiciens admettent clairement au-

jourd’hui que la physique n’a pas pour objet de rejoindre le réel comme tel. Elle s’efforce d’en construire une représentation, extremement mathématisante, donc tres rigoureuse sans doute, mais surtout tres cohérente du réel. La justification de la représentation physicienne du monde réside précisément dans la cohérence de celle-ci. C’est donc dire qu’ici également, il y a un rapprochement sensible avec les sciences humaines, et avec lhistoire®. Dans ces conditions, la prise de conscience du role de l’idéologie dans les sciences de la nature, et en physique, ne saurait étonner. Et les travaux qui en témoignent le montrent de plus en plus claire-

ment’.

Des lors, on est en droit de se poser la question de la spécificité

de la philosophie critique de Vhistoire. Trop souvent, on semble consideérer Phistoire comme une discipline d’un type particulier, par rapport aux autres sciences humaines ou par rapport aux sciences de la nature, alors qu’il faudrait l’étudier dans une optique comparative!®, Dans la mesure ou toutes les disciplines connaissent, au fond, les memes problemes, a des degrés divers, il faudra bien un jour en venir a une étude critique comparée de ces problemes qu’elles rencontrent et qu’elles soulevent!!. Ce n’est que dans une perspective comparative il me semble, que l’on pourra progresser de facon plus substantielle.

8 B. p’EspaGnat, A la recherche du réel. Le regard d’un physicien, Paris, Bordas, 1979; voir aussi, notamment, LECOMTE DU Nouy, L’homme devant la science , Paris, Flammarion, 1969.

° Par exemple, H. Rose et al., L’idéologie deldans la science, Paris,

Seuil, 1977; A. JAcQUARD, Eloge de la différence. La génétique et les hommes, Paris, Seuil, 1978, chap. 7 notamment. Bien entendu, le role de lidéologie n’est pas simplement négatif, au contraire. Voir par exemple le bel article de C. DAGuM, «Idéologie et méthodologie de la recherche en science économique», dans Economies et sociétés, t. 11, n° 3, 1977, p. 553-586. Cette étude distingue clairement les étapes d’une recherche oli ’idéologie peut étre stimulante, de celles ou elle entraine des déviations inacceptables. 10 Voir, par exemple encore, les pages de S. Gagnon sur les limites de l’objectivité en sciences humaines et plus particulierement en sociologie, dans son article «La nature et le role de ’historiographie. Postulats pour une sociologie de la connaissance historique», dans Revue d’histoire de l Amérique francaise, t. 26, n° 4, 1973, pp. 527

SV.

‘1 Je rejoins ici F. Braudel, qui écrivait il y a trente ans: «...Nous penserions aujourd’hui qu’aucune science sociale, y compris histoire, n’est prophétique et, par suite, selon les regles anciennes du jeu, aucune d’entre elles n’aurait droit au beau nom de science ... Mais a quoi bon discuter sur ce mot trouble de science, et sur tous les faux problemes qui en dérivent? Autant s’engager dans le débat, plus classique, mais plus stérile encore, de l’objectivité et de la subjectivité en histoire dont nous ne nous délivre-

rons pas tant que des philosophes, par habitude peut-étre, s’y attarderont, tant qu’ils n’oseront pas se demander si les sciences les plus glorieuses du reel ne sont pas, elles aussi, objectives et subjectives a la fois». Voir son recueil Ecrits sur (histoire, Paris, Flammarion, 1969, p. 20.

388 -—H. WATELET | - Vaste programme! Car ce que je disais il y a un instant, a propos

de la pluralité des pratiques historiennes, vaut également pour bien | d’autres disciplines: il est évident qu'il y a plusieurs €conomies, plu-

| sieurs sociologies, etc. Il n’y a pas que lhistoire qui connait des divisions qui font penser a la tour de Babel. Ici donc, plus que jamais, il s agirait de préciser, aussi rigoureusement que possible, les objectifs. _ Javais commencé ces quelques lignes en vue d’un prochain colloque: n’était-ce pas trop peu dire? Ce qu'il faudrait envisager, c’est une série de rencontres plutot, pluridisciplinaires et comparatives. Et ou l’on pourrait examiner successivement, mais chaque fois pour plusieurs disciplines en méme temps, les principaux problemes que la philosophie critique se pose, a propos de l’histoire.

INDEX DES NOMS INDEX OF NAMES

Acton, Lord, 247, 313 Barzun, J., 286n

Agulhom, M., 228 Bass, H.J., 107n Ainslie, D., 321 Bateman, F., 65n, 67n Alexander the Great, 184-5, 212 Baulant, M., 232n Althusser, L., 290, 295, 307-8 Beard, C., 55, 199, 200

Anderson, R.V., 107n Beaudoin, L., 221n Andreano, R., 20 Becker, C., 200, 317, 322-23. Anne, Queen of England, 181 Bentham, J., 37n

Anstey, R., 80 Bergson, H., 131 Antonius Pinus, 263 Berlin, [., 187 Apollinaris, 311 Bigot, F., 220

Aries, P., 165, 233 Bindoff, S.T., 71-2, 74

Aristote / Aristotle, 125, 166, 174, 187 = Birley, E., 266n

Aron, R., 7n, 160-2, 343 Birnbaum, P., 328, 333 Arrow, KK. J., 27, 327, 333 Birnheim, E., 268 Arthur, legendary King of England, Bismarck, O. von, 153, 201

265n Bloch, M., 3, 160, 222, 224-6, 228,

Atkinson, D., 264n 233, 331, 333

Atkinson, R. F., S6n, 199 Bois, P., 232

Auge, M., 328, 331-3 Boje, P., 61n

Augustin, 176 Bolzano, B., 50n

, Aulus Platorius Nepos, 264 Bonald, L. de, 328

Austin, J. L., 319 Borda, J.-C. de, 27

Avogadro, 320 Bouchard, G., 3-17, 197-8, 221, 228,

Avon, R., 283n 239, 378

Aydelotte, W.O., 61n Bouvier, J., 229

: mA X., Braudel, F.233. 0,17,162Bachrel, 233 on 993.95. 307 33.3, Boyle, R., 244

Ballagh, C., 66n 287n

Ballandier, G., 221 331, 333 Brown, R.A., 368n, 370n, 371-2

Balzac, H. de, 79 Bruce, J.-C., 264n, 266n

Barbarossa, 150-1, 208 Brutus, 183 Barere, B., 320-22 Bullock, A., 61n, [0Sn

Barker, P., 266n Burckhardt, J., 46

Barzel, Y., 107n Burguiere, A., 217, 234

390

Burke, E., 328 Couse, G., 259-69 , Bury, J.B., 42 _ oe Craig, J., 27

| Cranmer, T., 81 , Caesar, J., 121, 183, 244, 262, 313, Croce, B., 215, 309, 313-14, 321-22

315, 318 Cromwell, T., 73, 74n, 76-7, 81, 88, Callias, 187 a 97, 100, 104

, Canarella, G., 107n Cronkite, W., 255 _ Canary, R.H., 144n Curtin, P.D., 103n

Carlyle, T., 215

Cantor, N.F., 271, 370n oe Czubaroff, J., 23 |

, Carmack, R.M., 331, 333. | |

Carr, D., 204, 377-81 — - Dagum, C., 387n | Carr, E.H., 310-15, 317 Danto, A., 153-4, 162, 176, 203

Carrau, L., 345n , , Darrock, A.G., 65n

, Castoriadis, C., 332-3 Daumard, A., 228 Cecil, Sir R., 101 , , David, 107n Certeau, M. de, 19-39, 216, 228, 231, David, P.A., 6in, 81n 238, 325, 333, 379 , David. D.B., 66, 80, 83

, Charbonnier, G., 287 - Davis, L.E., 61n |

a Charbonneau, G., 287n Davis, R.H.C., 368n ~ Charles I., King of England, 123 Degler, C.N., 61n

Chartier, R., 215n Delzell, C.F., 79n Chesneaux, J., 386n Descartes, 182, 192, 211 Chester, J., 83 D’Espagnat, B., 387n Clastres, P., 328-9, 333 | — -Détienne, M., 326, 333

Cloulas, I., 30 De Vore, L., 326, 333 |

Coale, A., 64n, 92n, 93n Dhondt, J., 385n

, Coats, A.W., 6In Dickens, A.G., 75 , Cohen, L.J.,62n Dilthey, W., 49, 161 Coleridge, S.T., 249 Donagan, A., 262n Collingwood, R.G., 49-50, 206, 212, Douglas, J.D., 26n 249-50, 259-69, 271-72, 275, 309, Douglas, D., 367n

SEA Douglas, M., 328, 333 | Collins, A., 57n Doyle, A.C., 102 Commodus, 265 Dozon, J.P., 331, 333

Comte, A., 237, 294, 297 Dray, W.H., viin, viii, ixn, x, 61n,

Condillac, 27 162, 197-214, 271n, 337, 379

~ Condorcet, 27-8, 294, 337n Duberman, M., 36

Coquery-Vidrovitch, C., 331 Duby, G., 232, 332, 333

Corge, C., 29n , Ducasse, C., 271, 274, 348-50, 352,

Corper, B., 283n , 358 |

Cournot, A.-A., 268-9 Dupré, A., 331, 333 , | Court, W.B., 44n Dupont, 233

391

Kaman, R., 271-77 Freehling, W.H., 66n Eichengreen, B., 61n. Frégault, G., 219 Einstein, A., 7n, 245 Freud, S., 37, 201, 284

Eliot, T.S., 249 Frey, R.G., 357n

Elizabeth [, Queen of England, 100-1, Friedman, G., 6in

3720 Froude, J., 100 Elkin, A.P., 326, 333 Furet, F., 30n

Elton, G., 61n, 71-77, 82n, 90, 97,99, Fussner, F.S., 37n 103-7, 111, 197, 199, 200, 213 Engels, F., 273, 294, 298, 304

Engerman, S.L., 61n, 68n, 8in, 82n, Gaborian, M., 331, 334 83n, 84n, 85n, 87, 90-3, 99n, 103n, Gagnon, S., 387n

107n Galilée, 307

Erickson, C., [05n Gallie, W.B., 168, 174, 203 Eversley, D.E.C., 252 Galloway, L.E., 65n Ganshof, F.L., 370-1In, 372n

Falardeau, J.-C., 200-1 Gardiner, P.L., 47n, 364n, 365, 372

; Gardiner, S., 76-7, 81, 97

Farley, R., 92n

Faye, J.-P., 25 Garraghan, G.J., 218n Febvre. L., 4, 160, 219, 222, 224-5, Gauche, M., 328-9, 330n, 334

226n, 233, 307, 385 Geertz, C., 105-6, 110-1]

Fell, A.P., 41-59, 197-9, 220, 378 Genovese, E.D., 80, 109n, 227

Feyrenbacher, D.E., 61n Geraets, T., vill, x

Field, D., 61n Gershoy, L., 320-2

Findlay, R., 107n Geyl, P., 46 ,

Finley, M., 180 Gibbon, E., 313, 318 Fischer, D.H., 273, 275 Gibelin, J., 339n Fisher, R.A., 96n Gilbert, F., 26/7n Fishlow, A., 355 Gille, de B., 232 Flint, R., 345 Gillis, J.R., 65 , Floud, R., 61n Girard, R., 327-9, 333 Fogel, R.W., viin, ixn, 61-112, 197, Glass, D.V., 252 200, 209, 237, 244, 247, 284, 354-5, Glenisson, J., 217n, 218, 225n, 232n

358, 378 Gluckman, M., 327, 333 Fohlen, C., 232 Golden, C., 109n Foote, T., 61n Goodloe, D.R., 68 Foucault, M., 233, 284n Gorovitz, S., 349

Foust, J.D., 65n, 67n, 84n Gottschalk, L., 358n

Foxe, J., 76 Goubert, P., 233

Frank, T., 261 Gouhier, H., 237

Franklin, B., 80-1 Gould, B.A., 65n

Frederick the Great, 122 Graubard, B.R., 267n

, Frege, G., 50n, 235 , Gray, L.C., 80

392 ae | Grierson, P., 371n , Jefferson, T., 66, 81, 83

Guéroult, M., 237 oe ee Jenson, R., 61n |

— Gutman, H., 91-2, 93n — , ~ Jewsiewicki, B., 36n

— Gybson, T., 73, 90 © | Johnson, D.V., 243

| | , Jones, N.L., 100n, 101

-Hajnal, J., 252 oe

Hadrian, 262-5, 266n, 267 Jordan, W.B., 66n Halévy, D., 14 | , Kahn, R., 61n Handlin, O., 91n, 105n | Kalahari, 226

Hardenberg, Baron, 119 Kant, [., viin, ixn. 117, 125, 145-47,

Hariss, G.L., 97, 99 | — 315, 337-46 Harold II, King of England, 151,245 Kaufmann, W., 57n | Hart, H.L.A., 271, 276, 350-6, 358-9 Kelbley, C.A., 58n

Hauser, A., 48 - Keller, M., 61n

- -Havighurst, A. F., 360n_ Kellogg, R., 168 Hegel, G.W.F., 50n, 130, 137, 215, Kennedy, J.L., 240

288, 294, 297, 299, 303, 306 Kepler, J., 340 Heidegger, M., 176, 280 Kitson Clark, G.S.R., 310, 312, 317-

Hempel, C.G., 113, 162, 181 18, 322 Henry VIII, King of England, 71, 73, Kline, M., 28

76-7, 81, 97, 100, 103 Knox, T.M., 259

Herder, J.G. von, 337, 346 , Kocka, J., 115

Herodotus, 114 _ Kondratieff, 225 Hirschman, A.O., 36 Koselleck, R., 113-26, 379 Hexter, J.H., 59, 105n, 107n, 214 Kousser, M., 61n, 103n

Hill, C., 65n Kozixki, H., 144n ,

. Hilter, A., 201, 247 , Kracauer, S., 44, 57 - Holmes, S., 72, 102 Krushchev, N., 124 - _Hobsbawm, E.J., 109n, 115 , Krehbiel, E., 367n

- Honore, A.M., 271, 276, 350-6, 358-9 Kuhn, T., 59

Horsley, J., 266n , , , _ Horowitz, M.R., 61n | | Labaree, L.W., 81n

Horton, R., 331, 334 _ Labrousse, Ch.-E., 224-5, 227, 229 _ Horwitz, H., 61n | — Lagueux, M., 234n, 293-308

Huizinga, J., 41, 49 Landis, D., 284-5

‘Hume, D., 36,8000 Landes, P.S., 109n

_ Hurstfield, J., 72n | Lane, F.C., 61n, 71n | Husserl, E., 170 oO Langham, P., 309-315 | Hutten, E.H., 386n ‘Langlois, C.V., 218, 260n, 268n

Lapierre, W., 328, 334 | ,

Jacquard, A., 387n Laslett, P., 103n

Janus, 118 , Lanternari, V., 331, 334 ,

393

Lawrence, P., 331, 334 Mandrou, R., 227, 233

Laurier, W., 274 Mannheim, K., 55-6 Layten, M., 285n. Marglin, S.A., 109n

Lebras, G., 233 Margo, R., 61n

Lee, R.B., 236, 334 Marrou, H.-I., 309, 311-12, 314-5 Lefebvre, G., 224, 229 Martin, Raymond, 354, 359 Lefort, C., 329-30, 334 Martin, Y., 220n Le Goff, J., 30n, 35n, 215, 223 Marx, K., 79, 202, 225, 252, 273,

Legros, D., 328n, 334 279-84, 287-90, 293-5, 297, 299-

Leon, P., 232 301, 303, 305-8, 320

Leiris, M., 330, 344 Mary [, Queen of England, 181 Le Roy Ladurie, E., 228, 232, 331, Mattingly, G., 214

334, 385 Matthieu, R., 30 ,

Lesniewski, S., 235 Mauro, F., 232 : Levi-Strauss, C., 15, 169, 279-91, 331, Massala, A., 331

334 McClelland, P.D., 61n, 110n, 355

Lewis, [.M., 331, 334 McCloskey, D., 6I[n Levy-Labayer, M., 61n Meeker, E., 92n

Lincoln, A., 318-19, 322 Merleau-Ponty, M., 303 Locke, J., 36, 199-200, 253 Metzer, J., 107n Longeart-Roth, M., 337-46 Metzger, W., 358

Los, J., 62n Meuvret, J., 232

Louis XVI, King of France, 123 Meyerhoff, H., 317n

Lovejoy, A.O., 118 Michelet, J., 23, 237 Lowith, K., 346 Mill, J.S., 52, 347-8, 352, 358

Lowy, M., 298 Miller, J.C., 67n, 83

Lueas, J.R., 186 Ming-Klevana, E.S., 66n Luchaire, A., 367n, 369 Mink, L.O., 43, 49n, 143-5, 162, 167-

Luther, M., 201 8, 174, 203-4

Montesquieu, 80

Mabire, J., 368n Moore, B., 119

Macaulay, 317-18, 320-22 Morgan, E.S., 66n MacCaffrey, W.T., 61n, 75, 100n, 103 Motherlant, 296 Macfarlane, A., 27n, 65n, 254, 267n Muhlemann, W.E., 331, 334

Maclver, R.M., 349-50, 352 Munz, P., 143 Macpherson, C.B., 27n Miyres, J.N.L., 261n, 264n Macy, C., 386n

Mairet, G., 216, 224 Nagel, E., 347, 356-8 Maitland, F.W., [01 Napoleon I, 247, 271-2, 276

Malraux, A., 175 Napoleon Til, 202

Mandel, E., 306-7 Neale, J.E., 71, 72n, 100n, 101 Mandelbaum, M., 41-7, 49-58, 6In, Nevins, A., 80

167, 171-3, 198, 272 Newton, I., 245-6, 340

394

Nietzsche, F., 57 Price, D de S., 239

Nixon, R., 22 Price, J.N., 61n

Nora, P., 30n Prichard, H.A., 183

Norfolk, Duke of, 82 Proudhon, P.S., 294 ,

North, D.C., 384

Nowell-Smith, P.H., 199-200, 317-23 Quine, W.V., 240. ,

Oakeshott, M., 271-2 | Ragache, J.-R., 368n

O’Brien, P., 61n Randall, J.H., 48 — Ogen, C.K., 37n Randles, W.G.L., 327, 334 | Olmsted, F.L., 67-9, 81 Randolph, T.J., 66n

| Olson, J.R., 107n Ranke, L. von, 101, 238, 384-5

Ornstein, M.D., 65n | ~ Ransom, R., 99n

Oswald, L.H., 240 | Rather, D., 24 oe Ouellet, F., 197, 215-34, 378, 385_ Revel, J., 215n , Redfield, R., 220

Paluch,2 S., 365, 372 Ra —_, sen159-77, 150.77 , icoeur, P., |viin, ixn, 28 57,