Utopian thought in the Western World 9780674931855, 9780674040564

Table of contents :
Frontmatter
INTRODUCTION The Utopian Propensity (page 1)
PART I The Ancient and Medieval Wellsprings
1. Paradise and the Millennium (page 33)
2. The Golden Age of Kronos (page 64)
3. The Great Transmission (page 93)
PART II The Birth of Utopia
4. The Passion of Thomas More (page 117)
5. A Città Felice for Architects and Philosophers (page 150)
6. Heaven on Earth for the Common Man (page 181)
PART III Flowering and Death of the Christian Utopia
7. Pansophia: A Dream of Science (page 205)
8. Bruno, the Magus of Nola (page 222)
9. Bacon, Trumpeter of New Atlantis (page 243)
10. Campanella's City of the Sun (page 261)
11. Andreae, Pastor of Christianopolis (page 289)
12. Comenius and His Disciples (page 309)
13. Topsy-Turvy in the English Civil War (page 332)
14. The Sun King and His Enemies (page 367)
15. Leibniz: The Swan Song of the Christian Republic (page 392)
PART IV Eupsychias of the Enlightenment
16. The Philisophes's Dilemma (page 413)
17. The Monde Idéal of Jean-Jacques (page 436)
18. Freedom from the Wheel (page 453)
19. Turgot on the Future of Mind (page 461)
20. Condorcet: Progression to Elysium (page 487)
21. Kant: Beyond Animality (page 519)
PART V A Revolutionary Diptych
22. New Faces of Love (page 535)
23. Equality or Death (page 556)
PART VI The Union of Labor and Love
24. The Battle of the Systems (page 581)
25. Saint-Simon: The Pear is Ripe (page 590)
26. Children of Saint-Simon: The Triumph of Love (page 615)
27. Fourier: The Burgeoning of Instinct (page 641)
28. Owen's New Moral World (page 676)
PART VII Marx and Counter-Marx
29. Marx and Engels in the Landscape of Utopia (page 697)
30. Comte, Hight Priest of the Positivist Church (page 717)
31. Anarchy and the Heroic Proletariat (page 735)
PART VIII The Twilight of Utopia
32. Utopia Victoriana (page 759)
33. Darwinism, the Ambiguous Intruder (page 773)
34. Freudo-Marxism, a Hybrid for the Times (page 788)
EPILOGUE The Utopian Prospect (page 801)
Notes (page 817)
Selected Bibliography (page 869)
Index (page 877)

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UTOPIAN THOUGHT IN THE WESTERN WORLD

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EES EeeS ae Be ES cg eg “Ee BAL UE ESS ee Sere a ar oe Cones septaeee Se ARTS ha SadaR oko Cai a eeeR Re aeser Re a0 RRR eT RS ae ee ao ERE: RS 2 aR RR1 ee iUS eG LO he ES eeeLE a 2 EeBIE Bo Spare See ste Serene cae as nm SS eR CS SRR SUN RES RUSS SE Sar RRR SS i Le RR RR oT SES SNe GREER ROLES oo 2 OB Set Sea fe ae b Agu aes aaetnes IRD ME DRS Estioe cic tenarninerccat ne ns Me Sen ny Se Rg RSS WSS GEOR Maas HO AEN Spey URRY ORS RDN SEROON cn a Rd Ree 4 a Soe RRR BERR ES SRR RRS ee a BR AR a oe RE eS: rote ae Teg ESE Re Sr EA Sn one Se Sette caeEe Sete RSE nk Pes 2 SS SO ace 17 7 Eee ned DLsSeo Aye aNgeAes RAS SS apsRNS eo SRR SR JadsSea Ne RERN Sa,a ae aaSRORRRMEED asc RASS 2 Sekt SE image—he was the master architect, founder of circular cities. About 445 B.c.

he was supposed to have built Piraeus, then to have journeyed to Sicily or southern Italy, where he was entrusted with the construction of Thurioi, a city that men of the Renaissance found described in Diodorus Siculus’ Library of

, History. The radial city must have been talked about in the time of Aristophanes in connection with the colonial movement of the fifth century B.c. and —

the establishment of new settlements—witness the passage in the Birds that ridicules a city to be built in the clouds, with streets laid out in star shape. One can reach far back to Indian and Persian culture and discover parallels or remote origins for the circular city with a temple in the center. Some of these early Asiatic experiences with urban plans were recorded by Alexander’s histo-

riographers, by Diodorus, and by Strabo, and their reports were there for the Renaissance architects to read. The architecture in Plato’s Republic is related to

the conceptions of Hippodamus: It is clearly monocentric, with all public buildings concentrated in one area. In the Laws, the identity of all the dwellings

is explicit, the purpose of structural uniformity being to make everything in the city appear part of one great house. In the Timaeus and the Critias the lost city of Atlantis is circular. Echoes of the Platonic city reverberated through the ancient world, and many details of Plato’s plans in both his utopia and his antiutopia are reflected in the writings of the Renaissance architects. But of all the sources, the treatise of Vitruvius, De architectura, was by far the richest inspiration to Renaissance planners, because of the abstract principles it enunciated and the circumstantial descriptions of ancient cities it included. Vitruvius, an imperial official involved in the rebuilding of Rome, is said to have written his work before 27 B.c., and it was one of the early classical texts to be recovered. There are extant manuscripts dated to the Carolingian period, and the memory of Vitruvius seems never to have entirely faded. The De architectura was one of the first books on architecture to be printed (the editio princeps

CITTA FELICE 163 is Rome, ca. 1486), but it was also available to architects in many fourteenth-

and fifteenth-century manuscripts. ,

In a eulogistic dedication to Augustus, Vitruvius set the pattern for the ideal relationship between princely patron and architect. He voiced the proud con-

viction that Augustus and he were together building a “memorial to future ages,’ and the Renaissance architects later wrote of themselves in similar vein.2” They too were building, though perhaps on a smaller scale, eternal Romes. Vitruvius’ preference for the radial form seems to have been dictated chiefly by hygienic concerns. His aim was to protect the many arteries of a city from the prevailing winds by allowing the streets to radiate from a single center. Appended to his texts was a radial, octagonal city plan, so conceived as to prevent gusts of air from swirling through the streets and breeding illness.”® This matter-of-fact Roman does not seem to have been aware of the transcendental aspects of his plan; practical and unmystical, his object was to eliminate drafts, not reflect the divine. His description of the city of Halicarnassus, with a form “‘like the curvature of a theatre,” built on the mainland over against Cos by Mausolus, King of Caria (377-353 B.c.), provided a concrete historical example for the Renaissance theorists.”*

For fifteen hundred years after Vitruvius the radial city had not played a great role in practice. The Romans did not generally follow his plan in establishing new cities, preferring the grid pattern of their camps for provincial towns like Nimes, Arles, Turin, and Padua. In the Middle Ages, images of the circular city were perhaps best preserved in visions of the heavenly Jerusalem and in manuscript illuminations depicting its earthly counterpart. Illustrations of Saint Augustine’s two cities, a heavenly city of angels and an earthly city in

strife, sometimes gave the earthly city a circular shape. To please Frances Yates, the influence of the magical city of Adocentyn that Hermes founded in Egypt should be mentioned. Its description in Picatrix, a twelfth-century Arabic work well known in the Renaissance, does not firmly establish its circularity, but the central castle with four gates leading in four different directions, the adjacent Temple of the Sun, the guardian spirits posted around the circumference of the city, as well as the presence within of a philosopher-ruler, are elements that reappear in many later utopias. Despite medieval antecedents, however, the radial circular or starlike city plan came as a great revival in Italy of the fifteenth century, if not a complete innovation. In Filarete’s Sforzinda the basic shape of the city is a star, in the center of which are grouped communal structures from which eight streets radiate to

, the gates and eight canals lined with columns radiate to the towers of the outer circle. At the intersections of the inner circle with the streets there are eight major squares on which churches are erected and eight smaller squares without them. Nearly a century later, when Doni adopted the stellar form for his utopian mondo savio, he carried it to numerically obsessive extremes: a hundred doors to the cathedral in the center of the circle leading to a hundred avenues divided into streets, each devoted to a separate trade or occupation, a hundred priests in charge of the hundred avenues, and one capo della terre who was the oldest of the priests. Doni, of course, emphasized the sacerdotal or mystical meaning of the radial city far less than its utility: You could not get lost in it, for wherever you were you had only to return to the center and start all over again. (Many European countries built their railroad systems on this pattern.)

«164 THE BIRTH OF UTOPIA Francesco di Giorgio included in his treatises all manner of diagrams of circular

hill cities that had in common a castle or church at the summit. In perusing these fantasy plans, one is struck by the analogy to the mountain of paradise in Eastern and Western religions. As the authority of Vitruvius was a determinant in the Renaissance preference for the radial city, so was it again Vitruvius whom the architect-planners

invoked in propounding the doctrine that bodily proportions should be the measure of all manmade structures. Treating Vitruvius as a sacred text on ideal forms, the Renaissance theorists quoted him as a preacher might the Gospel, and applied his theories at every point, to parts of individual buildings and to the city as a whole. In Book I Vitruvius had written: ‘Proportion implies a graceful semblance; the suitable display of details in their context. This is attained when the details of the work are of a height suit-

able to their breadth, of a breadth suitable to their length; in a word, when everything has a symmetrical correspondence. “Symmetry also is the appropriate harmony arising out of the details of the work itself; the correspondence of each given detail among the separate details to the form of the design as a whole. As in the human body, from cubit, foot, palm, inch and other small parts comes the symmetric quality of eurythmy; so

is it in the completed building.” |

The last sentence became crucial for the Renaissance concept of misura, the architectural law of the ideal city and the ultimate humanist commandment.

The late Erwin Panofsky has traced it back to the Stoics and from them through their followers Vitruvius, Cicero, Lucian, and Galen. It was enshrined by Alberti as the primary law of nature and the universal principle of aesthetics. Filarete, who derived from him, wrote in the second folio of his treatise that man was “‘fatto colla misura,’’ and to imitate his form was both natural and true, for the human figure was geometrically perfect and had an ideal harmony of parts. ““As everyone knows, man was created by God; the body, the soul, the intellect, the mind, and everything was produced in perfection by Him. The body [was] organized and measured and all its members proportioned according to their qualities and measure.’’*' This ideal system of relationships was to govern the basic form of all great structures like cathedrals and the design of the city itself. In the Sforzinda, Filarete provided a historical justification for the idea of misura that rooted the concept in the earliest acts of civilization-building. Man’s first care after his eviction from Paradise was bread; next was architecture. “The first need and necessity of man, after food, was habitation; thus he endeavored to construct a place where he could dwell. From this, then, public and private buildings were derived . . . Since man is made with the measure stated above, he decided to take the measures, mem_ bers, proportions, and qualities from himself and to adapt them to this method of building.” *? The central aesthetic problem was to discover the exact proportions of the parts that would achieve perfect harmony and balance. The proportions could be gleaned from diverse places: the writings of the ancients, numerological theory (often with mystical implications), and observation. But whatever the source, this canon dominated the aesthetic conceptions not only of Alberti, Filarete, and Francesco di Giorgio, but of Lorenzo Ghiberti, Luca Pacioli, Leonardo da Vinci, Pomponius Gauricus, and Albrecht Durer. Like Filarete, Francesco di Giorgio extended to the city, “un organismo

CITTA FELICE 165 unico e complesso,”’ the precept of Vitruvius that the proportions of a work of

art should follow those of the body: All the parts of the city were to correspond and be proportionate to the human body. A manuscript of Francesco’s treatise in the Biblioteca Reale of Turin depicts anthropomorphically a fortified city including within its circumference a human figure with arms outstretched and legs akimbo. In the middle is a circular piazza dominated by a ‘“tempio’’; the head is the citadel; towers at four points correspond to the ex-

tremities of the limbs.** In the margin of a manuscript, now in the Biblioteca | Laurenziana in Florence, that describes many octagonal radial cities, Francesco di Giorgio again draws human bodies enclosed in circles to illustrate the correspondence between man and city.** Leonardo may well have seen this codex. Book III of Francesco di Giorgio’s treatise, which also covers the ‘economia generale’ and the “‘perimetri della citta,” follows the Vitruvian precept to the letter by establishing analogies between the parts of the three orders of columns and the human body. An Ionic column encases a female nude, the head fitting into the capital, the rest of the body below the shoulders being the shaft

of the column. The city was a human body; each structure within it was human; each column of whatever order had human proportions. But the city of man also had necessary correspondences with the heavens. The ideal city of the Renaissance was by no means a totally secular conception, and even when its originators were immersed in technical particulars and exigencies of warfare, there was a sacral meaning to their art. While Italian Renaissance planners were anything but indifferent to the mundane problems of military security, comfort, and hygiene, they do not seem to have fixed on the radial city only for reasons of defense and sanitation. Feelings that were more

metaphysical, hermetic, and religious were constantly brought into play. Doubtless practical considerations and ideal images were interwoven. It may be that only those willing to delve into the history of the human unconscious can fathom the full meaning, the profound transformation in the psyche of Europeans, that this predilection for the radial, circular city bespeaks. And it long remained a utopian fantasy of urban perfection. Perhaps its most noteworthy embodiments were the plans of L’Enfant for the city of Washington, when America was still a utopia. In pursuit of symbolic forms architect-engineers sometimes even sacrificed military advantages. In the context of an eighteenthcentury utopian city plan the circular form might represent pure Cartesian reason secularized; in the Renaissance the same form reflected divine Platonic reason.

Platonic ideas of the perfect were translated into mathematical terms. The zodiac with its division of the heavens into twelve constellations was an astronomic form that could be reproduced in a radial city of hexagonal shape. Sacred numerical relationships were implicit in its axes and gates, the height and

breadth of its walls. Though a discrete, perfect, and complete unit, the ideal city was not isolated or independent from the general schema of the universe. It stood midway between the cosmic order of nature and, at the other end of the scale, corporeal man. Related to both realities, the city reflected them in its very structure, which incorporated divine and human proportions. These two

, analogues of the city, the human body and the heavens, did not seem incongruent to an intellectual society that could assimilate on different levels multiple interpretations of the same scriptural text.

166 THE BIRTH OF UTOPIA Diverse elements flowed together and coalesced in the ideal city of the Re- | naissance philosophical architects. The preference for the symbolic form of the radial city, with its roots in prehistory, was strengthened by the prestige of a revived Greek antiquity and the canon of Vitruvius. Christian significations were attached to the city, sanctified by the central position of the church and the symbolic number of its gates. Military objectives were served by the bastions at the end of each avenue, points in the star-shaped octagon or hexagon of the ideal form. Designating quarters for different occupations satisfied civil,

hygienic, and aesthetic requirements. In serving a multiplicity of purposes simultaneously the architect gave expression to the fullness of his own and his patron’s needs, religious, military, aesthetic, hygienic, and economic. There is no evidence that the architects established a hierarchy among these needs, and attempts of latter-day Marxist architectural historians to demonstrate the primacy of economic considerations over all others have not been convincing. _ After the completion of the city of Sforzinda, a visiting nobleman, who has been identified as Lodovico Gonzaga, Marchese of Mantua, had an aesthetic experience as moving as a religious rebirth. ““My lord,” he said to the prince, “I seem to see again the noble buildings that were once in Rome and those that we read were in Egypt. It seems to me that I have been reborn on seeing (rinascere a vedere) those noble buildings. They seem very beautiful to me.’’*’ The architect had so thoroughly convinced his patron of the superiority of the ancient over the modern (which in his lexicon meant the Gothic, a corruption of the natural, antique way) that the prince vowed never again to heed praise for any other forms*®°—though it would require an extraordinary flight of imagination to recognize in Filarete’s drawings anything that even remotely resembles what we know of Roman architecture. In the architectural utopias of the Renaissance, existing social relations were ennobled by being placed in a more beautiful and more perfect setting. A conception of life that Italian humanists, beginning with Leonardo Bruni, had expressed in words was now to be concretely realized in cities planned by architectural geniuses. The ideal city of Alberti reflected the natural order and then transcended it in an image of a Platonic republic adapted and transformed. The worldly order was meant to endure, to legitimize a social structure whose class divisions would be perpetuated in stone, but the hope for eternity imparted to the buildings an otherworldly dimension. There was acute awareness of the

mutability of things and the tendency to corruption in all natural works; yet, _ paradoxically, the philosophical architect was preoccupied with planning the individual edifice and the organic complex of the whole city so that, insofar as humanly possible, they might be immune to change. The architect and the prince together composed the Platonic philosopher-king who would create the ideal city. In Filarete’s Sforzinda the prince was recognized as the seminal ele-

ment, the architect as the mother who carried the child, nourished it, and brought it to life. This duumvirate had a number of ancient models to imitate: Plato and Dionysius, Dinocrates and Alexander, Aristotle and Alexander, but especially Vitruvius and Augustus.°”

Inspired by such relationships, the authors of the architectural treatises aimed to instruct their patrons and other architects in the art of building. Inno _ sense was it their initial purpose to construct an ideal society de novo. The Renaissance architects were not rebels but respected members of the dominant

CITTA FELICE , 167 establishments of the city-states in which they worked, whether republican, aristocratic, or tyrannical. Though their individual inclinations may have manifested themselves, they were not men bent on unseating the political powers for whom they drafted plans. Their intention was to provide housing for the inhabitants of the city without upsetting the existing order, to clothe its institutions in grand vestments that would help prolong its life. A more orderly, beautiful city would strengthen internal allegiances and prove invulnerable to foreign enemies, so that it would survive until kingdom come, or at least as long as had the ancient Roman buildings. The Beleaguered City

The Italian Renaissance utopias, architectural and philosophical, were almost uniformly aristocratic. While the ideal city was ruled by a single prince, the general tone of life was usually set by a noble elite and the architectural plan was fashioned to serve them. There was a great divide between the gentlemen and the commoners. In the Renaissance utopian fantasies attempts were made to resolve the tensions in the physical and spiritual relationships between potentially hostile classes, and a surface appearance of harmonious calm prevailed. But if the Platonic aura surrounding most of the Italian utopias of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries is lifted, one sees embattled cities into which problems of security internal and external obtrude to dim the luster of the ideal vision. The foreign wars and class conflicts endemic in the real world were inevitably reflected in the optimum commonwealths. The radial city of the Renaissance architects was enveloped in an atmosphere of suspicion. In these beleaguered ideal citics planning was directed toward the retention of power by the aristocratic elite as well as the enhancement of beauty and utility. For all their absorption with numerological mysteries and correspondences with configurations in the heavens and the proportions of the human body, the great architects were also skillful military engineers. With rare exceptions like Doni and Agostini, the Renaissance utopia was courtly and answered to aristocratic needs. But Plato’s sovereign disregard of the men of brass and of their living arrangements and conduct had given way in the Renaissance to a realization that the commoners were a potential political and sanitary menace, which made it unutopian to disregard them. The architect-planners were keenly aware that in the city all the inhabitants were subject to a common fate, particularly when a pestilence raged. The Black Death and recurrent plagues were grim reminders that even an aristocratic utopia could not neglect the plebeians and survive. (Leonardo submitted to Ludovico Sforza his grand design for the reorganization of Milan after the plague of 1484/5 had taken 50,000 lives.) The architects of the ideal city were under some constraint to deal with the choice of salubrious sites, with drainage, with communal hygiene, with a rational and orderly communications system, and with housing for the lower classes as well as the nobili. Both the architectural and the philosophical treatises usually begin with a circumstantial description of the best possible location for their city. (Even , shrewd, realistic observers like Claudio Tolomei, Ludovico Guicciardini, Giovanni Botero discussed ideal locations for cities.) As in classical visions of the Islands of the Blessed, a mild climate is an important element in the happiness

168 THE BIRTH OF UTOPIA of Patrizi’s citta felice. Extreme heat and cold are to be avoided and, to take account of the changing seasons, he summons the aid of an architectural planner who knows the ways of the winds. Freely circulating air is a requirement, __ and if the site of the citta felice is wisely chosen, its inhabitants will be spared

, the savage ministrations of doctors, surgeons, barbers. Part of Patrizi’s city is built on a ‘‘colle rilevato,”’ for climatic reasons as well as purposes of fortification and to assure a pleasant view. Alberti had been aware of contradictory opinions among philosophical architects about the optimum site for the city. Some chose a harsh climate and an

inaccessible natural environment for greater security from enemy forces; others favored fertile lands where produce was plentiful and easily available. For Filarete, for example, a healthy and salubrious valley plain surrounded by mountains was the optimum site. On balance, Alberti appeared to favor the pleasant atmosphere and the rich soil, though he sided with Plato in giving precedence to the internal structure of the society, letting the inhabitants accommodate themselves to the necessities of the place. He did, of course, pre-

, suppose a propitious environment that would facilitate the founding of an optimum city, for neither he nor Plato envisaged the good society as one whose members would have to expend their energies in fighting for sustenance. Alberti’s summary of Plato’s remarks in the Republic interpreted them as favoring an ideally situated city endowed with all conceivable natural advantages.*® In working out the building patterns of their ideal cities, the utopian architects took as their point of departure the social arrangements that had been inherited from past ages. Medieval groupings of artisans in guilds had been preserved, and workers’ quarters and shops were generally isolated from noble habitations. In the opening of the fourth book of his De Re Aedificatoria Alberti divided the city into different social orders after the manner of the ‘“‘wise Founders of ancient Republicks,’’®? Theseus, Solon, Romulus, the Panchaians of Euhemerus, Hippodamus, the Indians as described by Diodorus Siculus— all eminent utopian forebears. Alberti would first identify the men of reason and entrust them with the care of the city and the power to moderate in all disputes. The next in place were those who created wealth either by husbandry or commerce. “All the other Orders of Men ought in Reason to obey and be subservient to these as chief.’ *° The architecture was to reflect the social order. ‘“‘Now if any Thing is to be gather’d from all this to our Purpose, it is certainly that of the different Kinds of Building, one Sort belongs to the Publick, another to the principal Citizens, and another to the Commonality.”’ *! In the end the major distinction was between the principal citizens and the common sort, and the housing plans were drawn up accordingly. Everywhere a reasonable distance had to separate the noble from the ignoble, the mature from the infantile. The houses of the prince and the magistrates would be situated far from the noisy populace so that the nobili might repose in peace just outside the city. The second chapter of Book V of Alberti’s treatise on architecture provides further for the removal of the master’s apartments away from children and maids, among whom there was incessant chatter. Also out of sight would be ‘‘the Dirtiness of the Servants.” ** Nunneries and monasteries were located midway from the center of the city to the outskirts—not too remote lest they be overrun by robbers, not too near lest their inmates be distracted from their religious purposes. Filarete’s Sforzinda had also made model

CITTA FELICE 169 houses for “each class of person,” using Doric proportions for gentlemen, Corinthian for merchants, and Ionic for artisans, the sizes running from 200 by 100 braccia for the first to 30 by $0 for the last, not a very dramatic range. And Francesco di Giorgio designed four types of houses for the four lower orders of the city’s inhabitants, peasants (villani), artisans (artefici), intellectuals (studenti), and merchants (mercanti), as well as residences for the nobili.® For all its rational orderliness, the ideal city remained a threatened utopia. Since criminal passions could not be entirely extirpated, and cupidity and resentment nourished malevolent designs among domestic and foreign enemies,

the planners exercised their ingenuity in devising means to discourage or suppress rebellion against authority and to protect the city from external attack. Military installations were vital fixtures of the Renaissance utopia. A shrewd architect and engineer like Francesco di Giorgio prudently placed the arsenal near the central palaces where it would be available for defense, limited the number of doors to the seigneury so that the mobs might not invade from all sides, and constructed special listening devices for the prince that were an adaptation of the ear of Dionysius. Taking cognizance of the differing needs of various types of government, Alberti understood that the palace of a free republic would be unlike that of a recent usurper, who would have to rely on more elaborate security measures. Crenelated walls betrayed a fearful tyrant prepared to do evil. But despite Alberti’s abhorrence of tyranny and his preference for a mild paternal authority, the possibility of foreign war or of an uprising of seditious inhabitants in his own ideal city was clearly present in his mind. Arsenals and granaries were strategically located; buildings were thickly walled and fortified, bastions within the city. The senate chamber had many porticoes and anterooms so that retainers could protect the aristocrats from sudden mass incursions. Filarete planned Sforzinda for a podesta; the unity of the city and the fusion of the sentiments of the inhabitants depended upon his person. In the dedication ceremony of the newly built city this cohesiveness was to be symbolized by a vase of honey to indicate that the city should resemble a beehive. The negative associations that such an analogy would now evoke would not have occurred to a Renaissance philosophical architect constructing an orderly, productive society. The animals that produce honey are industrious, severe, and just. They desire and have a lord and ruler over themselves and they follow all his commands. Everyone has his task and everyone obeys. When their ruler becomes so old that he can no longer fly, through justice and clemency they carry him. Thus should the men of the city be. They should

be industrious, do their duties, and do what their superiors command them. They should love and obey their lord and when he needs them, either because of war or some other necessity, they should aid him like their own father. The lord should be just and severe when it is needful and at times clement and merciful.”

Whenever the prince made his appearance on the building site he was greeted with tumultuous cries of ‘“‘Viva, viva, il nostro Signiore!”’* Schools for the sons and daughters of the poor and other charitable institutions draw Sforzinda closer to the populist utopia, but Filarete was far from espousing egalitarian conceptions. Though God created man in perfection, there were differences, often attributable to celestial constellations and plane-

170 THE BIRTH OF UTOPIA , tary influences. “‘As is seen, [some] have more intellect than others.’’4® Filarete’s description of the prison expresses the prevalent merciless attitude toward any common lawbreakers who were a threat to the city. His punish, ments were, in the temper of the age, cruel. The idea of utility had penetrated Sforzinda to the extent that the death penalty was abolished as wasteful of productive capacity; instead, in the ideal prison of the ideal city as described in

King Zogalia’s golden book those who deserved to be hanged, beheaded, burned, or quartered, each according to his merits, served in a different area called either Hard Labor, Torment, Hunger, or No Peace, wearing the symbol of the death he deserved embroidered on his clothing.‘ It was Leonardo da Vinci who proposed the most radical architectural solu- _ tion to the problem of plebeians in an aristocratic utopia. He advised the decentralization of crowded agglomerations like Milan into about ten separate communes, and in a famous sketch he designed a two-level city, the lower level for the commoners, the upper for the nobles, who would be free to move about without being molested by carriages and wagons and provisions, which were confined to the roads of the lower city. Public toilets would be set on landings between the flights of stairs joining the levels.*® There would literally be two

layers of existence: the nobles on the elevated platform in the sun, and the common people down below with the canals, sewers, and carts. If a whole segment of a radial hexagonal city were given over to the refuse and smells and _ noise of the artisans, its perfect balance could not be maintained. Butifthe city _ were so constructed that carriers and workmen were relegated to the world underneath and the upper level was one vast area for free movement on foot by the patricians, then the beauty of the superior parts would not be spoiled. The hierarchy of values in the aristocratic utopia would receive concrete embodi-

ment in the city plan. Leonardo’s text accompanying the sketch in Manuscript B, now in the Institut de France, is a stark statement of the

aristocratic character of the Italian Renaissance utopia.*® , , | , The most forthright philosophical apology for the aristocratic utopia was written by Patrizi. There was a necessary division between those who could afford to devote themselves with their whole souls to civil and contemplative virtue and those who could not. Citizenship in the citta felice was therefore limited to three classes who enjoyed leisure: the soldiers, the magistrates, and the priests. It was denied to the classes whose lives were spent in low occupations and burdensome labor: the peasants, the artisans, and the merchants. Patrizi’s bifurcation of the city was absolute; there were two kinds of human beings with two different destinies—one servile and poor, the other noble and happy. The term citizen was reserved for those who enjoyed the honors and dignities of the republic and participated in its rule.°? There were slaves in Patrizi’s Citta felice as there were in Plato’s Republic and More’s Utopia; but since

they might not accept their servitude as philosophically as he did, he counseled precautionary measures: Slaves with blood ties were not to be allowed to live

, together lest they conspire and revolt. The slaves and the common people had

before him. ,

inferior souls and the only reason for their existence was the role they played in

facilitating the noble’s way to the river of happiness by leveling the ground

To label the utopian ruling classes aristocratic is, to be sure, insufficiently descriptive. Were the aristocrats to be warrior-guardians, priests, nobles, high

CITTA FELICE _ 171 bourgeois, patricians, moneyed men, scientist-priests, engineers, artists, inspired prophets, bureaucrats? In Plato’s city they had been warrior-guardians;

in Alberti’s Florence they were rich, educated merchants for whom Plato would have had nothing but contempt; in Castiglione’s Urbino they were learned and witty courtiers, humanists, for whom More would have had great personal sympathy but who would not have found a place in his egalitarian utopia of workers. The character of Alberti’s ideal ruling class was spelled out in De Iciarchia. The tone of life would be very different under his businesslike aristocrats, who organized commerce and were patrons of literature, from that under the rather ascetic warrior-guardians of Plato or, to make a historical leap, under Burke’s Whig landed gentry. What separated Alberti’s elite from commoners were the same qualities that differentiated men from brutes—reason and the knowledge of useful arts, to which could be added prosperity of fortune. A small number of men outstanding for one or another of these gifts would be entrusted with the chief offices of the city. The verbal ideal was still Platonic, the reign of reason and justice; but implementation had changed the very nature of the ideal by finding in the rationalist, upper-class merchantpatricians and their friends the embodiment of reason. In the same tradition, Francesco di Giorgio in the opening of his architectural treatise would have men of reason rule because this attribute elevated them above the other levels of the hierarchy. Patrizi’s nobles were perhaps more contemplative than Alberti’s, and Agostini’s more pious and ascetic. But none of them mirrored the rough old feudal nobility. The centuries-long class war that convulsed the communes had been definitively settled in favor of the new patricians, at least in utopia. Among the aristocrats themselves equality prevailed. The free and easy manner of the conversationalists in Castiglione’s The Courtier (1528) is fitting aristocratic behavior. Castiglione’s ‘‘speaking picture’’ is a pendant to the argument about the nature of an aristocratic utopia set forth in Patrizi’s Citta felice. Perhaps Castiglione’s courtiers are engaged in somewhat livelier exchanges than the Bishop of Cherso’s nobles; surely they are not grave enough to inhabit Agostini’s imaginary republic, in which the somber spirit of the Counter-Reformation has taken over. But if there is an Italian Renaissance aristocratic utopia in action, it emerges from Castiglione’s report of the learned witty society of Urbino, with its admixture of nobles and scholars occupied in pleasant converse about the parts and accomplishments of a perfect courtier, an aesthetic utopian ideal concentrated on itself.

The maintenance of carefully measured equality in the distribution of powers and dignities among aristocrats eliminated noble feuds. Patrizi would give every noble citizen access to the magistracy in turn and thus all would participate in the honors of the city. Invidia would be banished. But Patrizi counsels that only the savi and the prudenti should rule, leaving some doubt as to whether all citizens automatically would take turns at the helm or only the wise and prudent. His other attempts to eradicate aggressive hostility among the powerful families are equally feeble and simplistic, if set against the background of the private wars of the Renaissance city, immortalized by Shakespeare. Patrizi divides the city into clans so that there may be no formless irresponsible hordes. Starting from the banality that there will be no internecine wars when people love one another, and that to love they must know one an-

172 THE BIRTH OF UTOPIA other, he proposes a series of public festivals for all the inhabitants at least once a month, reviving the ancient practices of mythical King Italo.*' The fruits of a piece of public land would be reserved exclusively for these celebrations. With peace thus ensured, the aristocrats of the citta felice would go their happy way unperturbed. Plato would never have countenanced such fraternization.

The hostility to mercenaries is as sharp in Patrizi as it was in Plato and Machiavelli, but the future bishop, knowing the frailties of human nature in a world somewhat less ideal than Plato’s, is prepared to combine mechanisms of appeal to private interest with the call to communal loyalty in defense of the state. Each man’s property is so divided that only a part of it lies within the city itself; the rest is on the outskirts, so that the citizens are moved to unite quickly in war before an enemy reaches the walls. In his later years, when the Turks were menacing the Venetian empire and the Spaniards became a pressing danger to the whole of Italy, Bishop Patrizi turned from writing about the citta felice to treatises on military affairs. In Agostini’s imaginary republic of the 1580s, while the rule of the nobility is still recognized, a leveling influence penetrates the aristocratic citadel. Men of all classes must work set hours, and the privileged nobility and those engaged in the contemplative sciences enjoy only half an hour a day more rest than do other citizens of the citta nuova. Laziness is prohibited, the infistoliti oziosi (inveterate idlers) are denounced, and everyone has to busy himself, ac-

cording to his capacity, with manual labor, commerce, or the pursuit of knowledge, on which an especially high value has been placed. Agostini is imbued with a monastic reverence for work and a suspicion of idleness. The supreme need of the free citizen of antiquity, leisure for contemplation, is con- |

spicuously absent, and much like a Lutheran, Agostini gives worth to all callings and rejects the traditional distinction between noble arts and vile occupations. The regulation of commerce and of the labor of artisans and peasants was left to representatives after the manner of medieval communal regulations | —each universita of artisans or merchants had its confraternity and procurator to defend it against the depredations and encroachments of the powerful. Essentially Agostini preserved the existing system of corporations, perhaps emphasizing the importance of the protector saint of each trade. It should be remembered that the divine Plato in the Republic wasted no time on the details of organization for the men of brass engaged in commerce and agriculture and mechanics.

The work ethic of the post-Trentine European world was not restricted to Calvinists. In fact, the rule of work was respected among Italian utopians as far back as Alberti and Filarete. Filarete, for example, saw to it that each artisan group had its guild statutes and separate quarter, as in a medieval city. Both in More and in Alberti, good Catholics, all men work; idleness not only is a great moral evil for Alberti, but in the creation of any object—and he does not limit this to the fine arts—there is something of the divine. The ideal of work and the appreciation of creative effort penetrated Alberti’s conception of the aristo-

cratic utopia, even if it did not alter the average Italian aristocrat’s attitude toward labor. The Renaissance artist, to exalt the products of his own labor, ended up bestowing new respect on the work of all artisans. In Doni, work is light and there are days of rest, devoted for the most part to religious worship. __ There is no strife or litigation, hence no need for lawyers, because there is

CITTA FELICE 173 nothing to fight about, neither food, nor clothing, nor women. Government is sacerdotal, but the priests do not bear a very heavy burden in regulating the polity. The city is built on a specialized division of labor, though it is less a psychological division into human types as in Plato than a medieval functionalism.

The exclusive role of the nobility in political affairs was still safeguarded in Agostini’s imaginary republic. Since Christ sanctioned civil law, armed rebellion was forbidden on religious as well as secular grounds; an erring authority

was to be admonished through the mouth of the bishop. The nobility were conceived of as loving elder brothers in Christ, and Agostini chided the Venetian and Genoese aristocrats for their aloofness. Though trenchant criticism of the existing order was a frequent concomitant of utopias, attacks against social conditions in Italy rarely had the bite of Thomas More’s invective. They can

occasionally be found—in Alberti’s depiction of the contemporary family, in | Marco Girolamo Vida’s denunciation of the vice-ridden city, in Uberto Foglietta’s diatribes against the ancient Genoese nobility—but the violence of Agostini’s castigation of the “inhuman rich” is exceptional. His sermons against the speculators and engrossers were not published in his lifetime and this may account for their free-flowing acerbity, or they may simply represent a resurgence of the medieval social doctrine of the just price expressed with religious passion. “‘Contrary to human piety and Christian charity,” he wrote, ‘they traffic in the blood of the poor without any deep feeling of pity.”’ Christ had never been absent from the Italian utopia, but this minor poet, author of the fervent Cries to God, no longer turned away from ordinary men with the cold indifference of Francesco Patrizi, Bishop of Cherso. Agostini even allowed himself a seditious utterance that ran sharply contrary to his own prevailing social doctrine, which countenanced no civil disobedience: “If the poor classes, whose ranks are more numerous than the others, were also more courageous and united, they could not do better in similar cases than turn on the inhuman rich and make of them what the Licaonians made of the monstrous serpents who advanced on them.””

Commoditas without Luxuria In the aristocratic utopias of the Italian Renaissance, happiness or felicity was a state of harmony in which material needs were so satisfied that free play was allowed the spiritual forces of man’s nature. This implied neither a surfeit that suffocated the spirit with material luxuries, nor so meager an appeasement that the spirit remained tormented with fleshly hunger because of the inadequacy of the body’s restoration. Confronted by the polarities of luxury and minimal ne-

cessity, the Italian utopians usually assumed a position midway between sumptuary extremes; and often their regimen approximated the liberal temper

of Aristotle’s Politics more closely than the austerity laid down for Plato’s guardians. An ideal of commoditas was defined that was far more generous than mere necessity and yet did not lapse into luxuria. In Della famiglia, Alberti’s treatise on rules of conduct for a perfect aristocratic family, he struck a golden mean between niggardliness and reckless profli-

gacy of expenditure. The patrician family was obligated to save, use up less than it earned, for there was no point to eating beyond what was necessary; but

174 THE BIRTH OF UTOPIA | the ideal of parsimony was balanced by an injunction that the family household should live in beauty and splendor. Thrift was not encouraged for its own sake or in pursuit of an ascetic goal. Alberti’s family was advised to be continent for reasons quite different from those of Weber’s Protestant ethic—the family needed a surplus in order to dispense Christian charity freely, to embellish the household, and to support artists. This was a unique ideal, neither Pla-

tonic nor Protestant. Alberti would combine the Aristotelian virtue of lib-

erality toward friends with the Christian virtue of beneficence and the

household economy. | Renaissance ideal of magnificence, all made possible through the practice of

Alberti wrote at least two utopias that are readily connected, one ‘for the gentleman’s family, the other for the city. The family utopia was a block in the total utopian edifice. The perfection of the household should correspond to the

, perfection of the city, which corresponded to the perfection of the divine cosmic order. The two mundane orders reflected the celestial one insofar as it was feasible; they could not be absolutely perfect. The more excellent the order of the city in its stone structure, the greater would be the tendency of the family to incorporate its virtues; the greater the number of aristocratic families that were disciplined to the ideal order of Alberti, the more excellent the city might be. The ultimate model was in the heavens. The Della famiglia took the form of a dialogue in which a number of Albertis were gathered in the house of the dying Lorenzo, natural father of Leone Battista. Lorenzo gave his final counsel on the ideal measures for raising a gentle-

man’s family. There was stress on the inculcation of a love of God and of learning, physical exercises were recommended, and the acquisition of an honorable art or trade as a hostage to fortune was prescribed. The distinction between animal love and conjugal affection was explored. The psychic ideals were tranquillity and honor. Commerce was not disapproved as long as the occupation, free from evil passions, could be exercised with sobriety and honesty. In the treatment of family economics, both the stingy and the prodigal were deprecated. The Albertis had suffered the humiliations of exile and there was a nostalgia for the good old days when the family devoted to virtu found its rewards and recognition in the city. But Alberti did not succumb to a totally privatized family utopia despite strong arguments presented on its behalf. The city, even when at fault, was preserved as the human ideal. Patrizi’s sumptuary idea of a century later was still an abundance of food and clothing and other necessities of life. Necessities were not restricted to a bare minimum, since even Plato in the Laws had emphasized that mere subsistence was insufficient for the good life. After Patrizi, however, there was a break in the continuum of Italian utopias, and by the time Agostini was writing in the closing decades of the sixteenth century, the voice of the Counter-Reformation was making itself heard and the ideal of moderate abundance was transformed into meticulously controlled communal feeding. In Agostini’s imagi-

nary republic, at public houses staffed by expert chefs, each head of a household could purchase no more than his family allotment, a rule that might

_ be suspended only on holidays and with episcopal permission. To make up for this festive gorging, twice a week all adults had to observe a partial fast and content themselves with one meal a day. When Finito, the weak character in

CITTA FELICE 175 Agostini’s stilted dialogue, pleads for more feasts and time for play in the ideal society, he is disdainfully rebuffed by Infinito.

Even Agostini’s aristocrats are rigidly confined in.their enjoyment to “everything that is allowable and honest’’ (ogni cosa lecita e onesta), an almost literal translation of More’s “honest pleasures.” ** The pleasures turn out to be limited to conversation and physical exercise and to exclude pomp and cere-

mony and masquerades, as well as dancing, a pastime that Agostini feared might lead to violations of the Decalogue’s prohibition against coveting. Stringent rules governed personal adornment, and garments of many colors were the sole prerogative of the magistrates. Sleep was curtailed to seven hours a night, and no one was allowed to lie abed during the day. At the appointed mealtimes, music was freely provided in the vicinity of the palaces, but when this entertainment was over everybody returned to work; no eating between

meals was permitted and there were no taverns to frequent. Harsh punishments from Deuteronomy or the Laws were meted out for violations. Again, when Finito, speaking for poor, feeble, human nature, complains that Infinito is bent on tearing up all pleasures by the roots, he is brushed aside by the superhuman Infinito, who sternly observes that he is not depriving anyone of temperate pleasures, only of those conducive to vice. In the Republic Plato allowed the lower classes to go more or less their own concupiscent way, and limited austerity to the aristocratic guardians. Agostini, in the new ascetic egalitarian spirit of the Counter-Reformation, imposed prohibitions upon all men. No matter how rich a noble might be, the plan of his

house required approval by the architect of the city, and nothing that overstepped the bounds of uniformity was sanctioned. No one escaped Agostini’s revivalist censures; he was particularly vehement against those clergy “‘who live scandalous lives with excessive display and gluttony, sensuality, and covetousness.’’** The earlier utopian ideal of happiness in Alberti and Patrizi had been spiritual without being quite so ascetic and monastic, since commoditas— comfort, convenience—was conceived as an aid rather than an impediment to spirituality.

Commoditas was a general moral and philosophical ideal. In its pursuit, many Renaissance utopias, especially those in architectural treatises, had shown an interest in new technology, and had introduced hygienic measures to prevent the ravages of pestilence. Waterworks, harbor construction, canals, and drainage systems were all part of Filarete’s Sforzinda. Francesco di Giorgio designed lavatories and stables, and they figured prominently in what remains of Leonardo’s sketch of the two-level city. Francesco di Giorgio’s treatise is divided into sections on general principles, the essential features of a commo-

dious city constructed for a social animal, the ornaments of cities and fortresses, the temple to God, the fortifications for dominion, and the technology necessary for construction. The lodestar of this architectural dreamer remains

commodiousness, as he moves from the perfect stable through the perfect chimney to the perfect lavatory. Even Doni, whose egalitarian laws do not quite fit into the general pattern, nevertheless recognizes the principle of commodiousness without luxury, though in a different way. His espousal of community of property in the satire “Mondo Savio,” in which the dialogue of Savio and Pazzo reflects Doni’s am-

176 THE BIRTH OF UTOPIA bivalence about the utopian world, is idiosyncratic, like his sexual arrangements. There is absolute equality among citizens and private ownership is excluded. All people dress alike, banishing jealousy, though the simple garments are colored differently for the various age groups. Common kitchens are open to all the hungry, and when one hostelry has finished distributing its allotted victuals, people repair to another. Much of this is patently under Morean influence, but a novel element is introduced: There is an almost Platonic emphasis upon the specialization of a wide variety of tasks, while at least half the inhabitants of More’s Utopia engage in simple agriculture. The underlying assumption in Doni’s fantasy is that for every thing and every person there is an optimum use, and an ideal world is the consequence of utilizing each object and each human being in a perfect way. In this freak satire of Renaissance Italy, we are jauntily on the way to “‘each according to his abilities.” In virtually all com-

munist utopias from More to the nineteenth century, repression of desires makes egalitarian commonality possible. Excess or surplus is associated with vices that are likely to disrupt the calm of the polity. Hence there is no money in Doni’s city, and anyone who requires goods applies directly to the specialized artisan-producer, from whom he freely receives what he needs. But production is regulated by the standard of elementary need, and no accumulation that could breed luxuria is permitted. The inhabitants of Doni’s mondo nuovo make the same crucial decision that underlies the ordinances of More’s King Utopus. They prefer to work less, quitting two hours before dark, rather than to consume more. There is a little of everything, but not too much of anything. Commoditas without luxuria. The appeasement of sexual needs was not usually considered an aspect of commoditas. Nevertheless, sexual regulations, a province normally reserved for ecclesiastical authorities and therefore discreetly avoided by most Italian Renaissance writers, were brazenly incorporated into the utopias of two writers, Filarete and Doni. At their hands, need and commodita received a realistic extension neglected by other Italian utopians. Filarete provided for a House of Virtue and a House of Vice in the very center of Sforzinda, places for Venus and Bacchus, for baths, taprooms, and such like appurtenances, as well as

‘‘games and other swindles, as is the custom, though an unfortunate custom.’’*> Courtesans, brought to the House of Vice by their neighbors for violating decent behavior, were nevertheless respected. Luxuria was appropriately condemned in the symbolic decorations of Sforzinda, but necessary vices were

tolerated—though this is no wildly licentious society and there are punishments for ‘things that cannot be permitted,” ** even in the House of Vice. Portraits of Nero, Elagabalus, Sardanapalus, and unidentified contemporaries accused of monstrous crimes were displayed to discourage unnatural proclivities

among the frequenters of these establishments. ,

The sexual regulations spelled out in early editions of Doni’s work would have been totally unacceptable to any other Renaissance utopian, since they designated a section of the radial city for all women, who would be “‘used”’ in common. The rationale for this arrangement is, one suspects, mostly tonguein-cheek. Consider how many evils would be avoided by this community of women, Doni’s Savio tries to convince the reluctant Pazzo. The absence of identifiable progeny eliminates from the city much weeping and wailing over lost relatives because death is no longer an individual tragedy. There is a

CITTA FELICE 177 spirited attack on the evils of marriage and the rapes, tumults, blood feuds, and assassinations that follow in its wake. Community of women would put an end to the “‘uproar of the wedding, the stealthy smuggling of bridegrooms, the procuring, the lawsuits over refusals, the embezzlement of dowries, and the pitfalls of the deceptions perpetrated by rascals.” *” The argument that lovers would be anguished is countered with a sly twist of rhetoric out of Plato. Since love is the deprivation of the thing loved, when the city will have a plethora of love objects freely available, amorous suffering will be banished from the city. But Doni’s and Filarete’s utopian sexual institutions are sports in the Renaissance.

The Dilemma of Christian Aristocracy in Utopia The Italian Renaissance utopia is full of contradictions unresolved. The beautiful shapes expressive of ideal philosophical relationships were not always in

perfect harmony with the utilitarian functioning of the ideal city. Commitment to both a rigid class division in the social order and to the radial form of city plan involved contrarieties that could hardly be reconciled even in utopian fantasy. When religious or mythic needs, the exigencies of the power structure, and the demands of the new hygiene collided, they led to clumsy compromises. Finally, the whole notion of a terrestrial ideal city that retained its Christian character was problematical and required apology in Renaissance and Counter-Reformation Italy. The Christian dilemma was the central one. Admittedly, the very absorption with a perfect city on earth implies at least a measure of alienation from the City of God as it had been conceived by Saint Augustine. There is something autonomous, Epicurean, and neglectful of God about a worldly utopia. Are not those who assume the possibility of great happiness in this world guilty of the sin of pride? The antagonism between Christianity and utopia may be smoothed over, but it is not dissolved even when the cathedral is raised on a lofty mount in the center of a radial city, as in Francesco di Giorgio’s fa-

mous drawings, or when felicity is defined primarily in spiritual and moral rather than sensate terms, as in the writings of Patrizi, whose citta felice preserves the meaning of blessed city. Saint Augustine taught that men of the City of God during their sojourn in the earthly city were in constant struggle with the evil ones among whom they lived intermingled in faulty human societies

until the final resolution of Judgment Day. If this world is a mere antechamber , to the beatitude of the next, then plans for a supreme good on earth are pre- : sumptuous. Yet perhaps the break is less sharp than might be imagined between the late medieval Christian outlook embodied in the self-image of Italian city-states and the ideal earthly vision of the Renaissance. By the thirteenth century the Italian commune had already begun to conceive of itself as a thing of beauty in which religious and aesthetic elements were fused. There was thus a preparation for the utopia of the Renaissance. There is matter-of-fact evidence of this new consciousness in the statutes of the period. When the commune of Brescia, for example, prohibited the destruction of buildings whose owners had been condemned for heinous crimes—an ancient act of vengeance related to the uprooting of sin—the justification for the new ordinance was ‘“‘Quod civi-

178 THE BIRTH OF UTOPIA | tates facte sunt ad similitudinem paradisi’’ (For cities are made to the likeness of

paradise).°° The analogy of any great city with Jerusalem assumed concrete shape when processions at Easter transformed the commune, with the aid of decorations, into a Jerusalem prepared for the entry of Christ. A city square could be turned into a simulacrum of the Holy Land, complete with a River Jordan and other sacred places. The cathedral, which in isolation had once stood for the City of God, became an integral part of a city that in its totality,

not only in its church, corresponded to a sacred reality. Though a traditional

| reading of Saint Augustine would restrict the City of God to heaven and to godly representatives on earth, some passages in his writings allowed for betterment in the society of the earthly city. The rise of the medieval city has usually been considered in economic and social terms, but there were also religious conceptions that bathed it in a paradisaical light and served as a transition to the Renaissance idea of a perfect city. There is thus a continuity between the medieval ideas of ordo and aequalitas preached by the great Schoolmen and the institutions of the citta felice. Despite the insinuation of aesthetic ideals from pagan antiquity, the Italian city-utopias remained deeply Christian. Agostini, a mystic who made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, is an example of the penetration of the religious spirit of the Counter-Reformation into utopia. He dwelt on misericordia as the , virtue that bridged the gap among classes. In adopting for his imaginary republic the regulations of the markets of Venice as the best in the world, he added a gloss on the compulsory daily celebration of the mass: ‘‘Since the most important part of a Christian (or civilized man) is religion, I do not intend to open the businesses of my city until the whole people . . . has heard and seen the sacred mystery of the Altar, and the priest has exhorted them in a brief sermon to carry out the doctrine of the Gospel that has been read, and they have been dismissed with his blessing.’ *? For all of Doni’s shocking community of women and property, the center of his radial city was dominated by a church four to six times higher than the majestic Duomo of Florence. Apart from their stress on Christian virtues and ceremonials, the utopia-makers of the Renaissance remained Christian dualists, for whom evil was ineradicable even in the optimum republic. In their writings there is no echo of Joachim of Fiore’s eternal gospel, the heterodox belief in absolute love under the millen-

nial rule of the Holy Ghost on earth as the third stage of mankind. Patrizi taught in La Citta felice that man, who like all other creatures desired his own

good, had to rest content with the humano bene, a finite good, for more he could not attain in this world. There was a limit to beatitudine (general happiness), which consisted in the rule of the body by the soul, or the subservience of the body to,the soul. The Two Modes There is a marked distinction between the fortunes of the architectural treatises and of the Italian philosophical utopias, the works of Doni, Patrizi, Agostini, at the time of their composition and subsequently. The two modes were not, of course, quite so unrelated to each other in content as bald titles might suggest, since the plans of the architects were unfolded in narrative form and their arguments often involved them in expounding social and even metaphys-

CITTA FELICE 179 ical concepts. But each of the types reached its high point in a different period, and for the most part neither was cognizant of the other’s existence. The most important illustrated treatises were written in the second half of the fifteenth and the early sixteenth centuries, while the strictly philosophical utopias began to appear only around the time of the Council of Trent and were compressed into the latter half of the sixteenth century, with some spillage over into the

early seventeenth. , ,

The manuscripts of the architectural utopias, highly prized, were deposited in the libraries of the ducal patrons to whom they were dedicated, and successive generations of architects had access to the writings and sketches of their predecessors. Occasionally it is known precisely when one of the manuscripts was read by a stranger and when a fresh copy was made. The architectural ideal cities with their magnificent illustrations thus had a fertile existence, while the later, purely philosophical discourses of Patrizi and Agostini, though noticed by contemporaries, left no offspring. Long omitted from histories of utopian thought, the Italian philosophical utopias of the latter part of the sixteenth century did not enter the main current, and remained an underground rivulet that surfaced only with the explorations of twentieth-century Italian scholars avid for literary curiosities. The period of Fascism witnessed a minor revival of interest in this group of thinkers, as if the Aesopian language of utopia might be used against the regime. And in the first years after 1945 a few academic studies on sixteenth-century Italian utopias accompanied the search

for a way out of the tragic postwar condition: This was really grasping at straws. Despite the different shapes it assumed, the varying fortunes of its two principal modes, and the broad time span it covered—from the middle of the fifteenth to the early seventeenth century—the utopian experience of the Italian

Renaissance, both philosophical and architectural, can in most respects be viewed as a whole. The towering Italian philosopher-utopians Bruno and - Campanella have been intentionally excluded because their universalist visions, though in part they harked back to medieval and early Renaissance hermeticism, really belong to another sphere, to seventeenth-century Pansophia, a utopia of Christian unity that was rooted in a new scientific world view and transcended the limits of the predominantly aristocratic, rather mystical, and aesthetic utopia of the earlier period. In Renaissance visions of the ideal society it is possible to identify discrete Platonic and Aristotelian elements, and there is no dearth of citations from both philosophers—though the mere use of a quotation does not stamp a work as belonging definitively in one camp or the other. In narrative Italian utopias the imitation of Plato is more obvious because there was a completed model to follow, while Aristotle was critical and discursive; but the personal virtues of the good citizen were still set forth in the language of Aristotle’s Ethics and Politics, and Roman Stoic values as transmitted by Cicero and Seneca always remained active ingredients. Yet the Italian Renaissance utopias are not mere syncretisms of classical themes. For all their superficial archaisms, they represent a distinctive ideal world of their own. A Platonic atmosphere, vague and mystical language about the spirit enshroud the writings with a mist so opaque that it often obscures the marked differences between the Renaissance ideal city and Plato’s Republic. But even when men of the Renaissance thought

180 THE BIRTH OF UTOPIA that they were copying, imitating, rediscovering, they were in fact creating

, anew, especially in two respects: The Italian utopias reflected a very different class structure from that of the polis, and the relationship of an ideal city in this

world to a future heavenly Jerusalem, though sometimes not explicit, was never wholly lost from sight. The utopias were Platonic, but their Plato had

been thoroughly Christianized. |

The outburst of ideality among the Renaissance philosophical architects was brief; the actual structures they built outlasted the passion for city planning. By the second half of the sixteenth century, while the Vitruvian formula became canonical in the designs of private palaces, individual churches, and government buildings, the philosophical concept of the ideal whole withered away. Palladio symbolized this transformation when he initiated his treatise Quattro libri dell’architettura (1570) with a consideration of individual houses, explaining that these structures were to be grouped in borghi and the borghi would constitute the citta. Filarete had operated in an inverse order: Beginning with the site

and radial form of the whole city, he then fitted different types of public and domestic edifices into their appropriate places within the general pattern. Francesco di Giorgio, builder of palaces and citadels, never lost sight of the organic whole of the city. The grandi of the latter part of the sixteenth century may no longer have wielded political power, but they retained the economic capacity to display their own opulence at the expense of the city’s unity. In the plans he drew for schools, factories, churches, and other public buildings, Bartolomeo Ammannati was probably trying to recover the fifteenth-century conception of a total city; but the model of the city as a tangible architectural expression of the continuity between the nature of the cosmos and a civil society governed by natural laws was by that time lost. While parts of the architectural plans of the utopians had been realized, their vision in its entirety remained imaginary, the ideal expression of a cultural moment in high Renaissance Italy.

Heaven on Earth for the Common Man

THOMAS MUNTZER’s utopia was born of a consciousness. of brutal social con-

flict in the German towns in which he served. Thomas More had wished for the reordering, spiritualization, and stabilization of society. Muntzer cried for an upheaval, a massive destruction succeeded by the reign of Christ. More’s utopia was an escape to a blessed isle; he was creating not the perfect, but the optimum, human republic, for true beatitude resided only in heaven. Muntzer would resort to the sword to usher in the Kingdom of Heaven on Earth. More read the Bible as real history made present and was leery of interpreting the text as philosophical allegory rather than direct moral precept. For Muntzer Scripture was to be read freely and translated into contemporary events, the revelation of the reader directing his understanding. While More dreamed of uprooting the source of violence in human relationships, Muntzer reveled in turmoil. His paradise would be brought about through the organization of a mighty host marching against the princes of evil. In a seventeenth-century woodcut by Romeyn de Hooghe, Muntzer is portrayed with a Bible under his arm and his sword unsheathed. Brothers of the Free Spirit, Taborites, Anabaptists Toward the end of the Middle Ages paradise ceased to be merely the dream of a future life and became a catalyst for brazen and adventurous deeds on earth. Religious enthusiasts, no longer content with passively waiting for the blessedness of the next world, demanded the consummation of the times, the immediate founding of the glorious kingdom. The main geographic areas of prophetic contagion were Central Europe and the Rhineland, but the movement spread throughout the Continent in a web of secret channels, many of them still unex-

plored. Influences from the heart of Russia are turning up in Bohemia and Moravia and the doctrines of sectarians in the Lowlands have been tracked to England. In the centuries before the Lutheran Reformation, millenarian belief and movements of social revolt interpenetrated. During popular uprisings of artisans and peasants, which joined religious hostility toward dignitaries of the church to the endemic antagonism of the poor against rich lords and burghers, men turned to the Bible for a model of society to replace the odious one they were rejecting. The rationalist urban utopias of the Greek philosophers were beyond their ken. Perhaps echoes from the ancient cokaygne utopia lingered on in popular folklore; but they were ephemeral compared with the paradisai-

cal images that could be drawn from the Bible and its prophecies. In fourteenth-century England John Ball and the Lollards found in the Gospels a sanc-

tion for social and political protest: Scripture presented them with a sacred picture of what the world ought to be. The Hussites of Bohemia dreamed of a 181

182 THE BIRTH OF UTOPIA patriarchal order whose rulers would imitate the Fathers of the Old Testament. Flemish weavers went further back, to the Garden of Eden, and had fantasies of the nudity and simplicity of the first man, the naked truth. A quest for the truth spiritual and the nakedness of the body have accompanied visions of rebirth down to our own day, though the former is not a necessary condition

empty and naked.’ 7

for the latter. Muintzer too, would admonish believers to come before God

Affinities have been remarked among the visions and activities of the leaders of the pauperes during the Crusades, the delusions of the pastoureaux, the legend of Kaiser Frederick’s future reign after awakening from a long sleep, the paradisaical beliefs of the Brothers of the Free Spirit, and the apocalypse of the Ta-

borites, a wild offshoot of the Hussites. A prophet is the charismatic leader. Antichrist and his cohorts are identified with the rich, the powerful, the Jews, the ordinary clergy. A day of reckoning with much bloodshed 1s foretold, to be followed by an earthly reign of the good emperor or the mystic leader or

| Christ himself: The language common to the sects is an admixture of the prophecies in Daniel, Revelation, and the Sibylline Oracles. The millennium is suffused with peace and love, though the punishing and destructive fervor that marks the last days before the good reign is inaugurated spills over. In a manu-

script by the “revolutionary of the Upper Rhine,” a violent millenarian recently identified as Conrad Sturtzel, a jurist at the court of the Emperor Maximilian who wrote his “hundred articles and twenty statutes’ about 1498, the rebirth of a rigorous punitive religion is related to a prediction of the universal hegemony of the Holy Roman Empire under the Black Forest Kaiser and his

Knights, a medieval fantasy mixed in with a promise of equality, appeals to the common man and the common people, and an obsessive revulsion against , court officials that prefigures both More’s Hythloday and Mintzer.” Some idea of the earthly paradise instituted by the Brothers of the Free Spirit

was extracted from John of Brinn during his interrogation about 1330. Initiates went through two stages: first an ascetic one, during which they surrendered all their property and became mendicants; then one of absolute liberty in which, their old natures having been killed, they were enjoined to heed all the promptings of their new, emancipated natures on pain of falling away from

freedom and dropping from the eternal into the mere temporal. Those who were in true liberty could not be commanded by anyone, or excommunicated, or forbidden anything. Neither the pope nor an archbishop had authority over them, for they were free and did not come under the jurisdiction of any man; therefore they obeyed neither the statutes nor mandates of the Church. “I am of the Free Spirit,” the new believer proclaimed, “‘and all that I desire I satisfy and gratify. Should I seek a woman in the still of the night I satisfy my craving without any feelings of bad conscience or sin; for the spirit is free, and Iam also a natural man. Therefore I must freely fulfill my nature in deeds.’’? If union

with God was achieved, man could do no evil.

The Taborites were part of God’s army to be led out of cities, villages, and castles, before the imminent destruction of the rest of the world. They chose five cities to be spared in the general conflagration, and multitudes gathered in these havens to establish communal societies. Laurence of Brezova’s Hussite chronicle reports on a wild Adamite wing of the Taborites: “In the second advent of Christ before the Day of Judgment, all kings and princes and prelates

HEAVEN ON EARTH FOR THE COMMON MAN 183 will cease to be. Those elect still living will be brought back to the state of innocence of Adam in Paradise, like Enoch and Elijah, and they will know neither hunger nor thirst, nor other spiritual or physical pain. And in holy marriage and with immaculate marriage-bed they will carnally generate sons and grandchildren here on earth and on the mountains, without pain or grief, and without original sin.” * Under the leadership of one they called Moses the Adamites wandered shamelessly about like the first man and woman in the Gar-

den, dancing naked and lying with each other. In the history of utopias there is an alternative to the more prevalent rule of strict sexual regulation in a fantasy of promiscuity, but the phenomenon is comparatively rare in Western culture.

Melodramatic stories about millenarians of the Reformation period who acted out their dreams of freedom from repression have been told often. The restoration of primitive Christianity, the reinstitution of patriarchal polygamy, and the overnight establishment of community lend themselves to easy ridicule. The Anabaptists were an international sect whose territory stretched into Alsace, the Netherlands, Switzerland, Bohemia. They believed neither in the Church alone nor in the letter of the Bible, but taught that God still revealed himself to those with open hearts, prepared through suffering to receive His illumination. In hearings that followed the quelling of peasant revolts in Germany it became clear that these poor and uncomprehending people, who

had declared their emancipation from the old Church hierarchy, blindly obeyed their sectarian pastors and did whatever they bade them. Prophetic seizures, the advance of peasant rebels against the bullets of the enemy armed with nothing but faith in the prophet, the executions and plundering, famished men, women, and children eating grass like beasts while awaiting the millennium bore witness to the deception and madness of paradisaical fantasies. The spectacle of John of Leyden, the Anabaptist butcher who proclaimed himself King of Justice and King of the New Jerusalem in Munster, gorging while his subjects starved in community, was difficult for later egalitarians to live down. When David Hume in his elegant treatise on morals wished to dismiss the idea of communism with a phrase he raised the specter of the Anabaptists The Wandering Pastor Thomas Muntzer can be considered as a theologian of the early Reformation, or the leader of bands of artisans and peasants destroying monasteries and castles, or the wretched and inept military tactician of a benighted horde who fell easy prey to the troops of German nobles. He was also the creator ofa vision of life on earth. The content of his utopia has to be gleaned from a few manifestoes, articles of union among the sworn elect, a small collection of letters to friends and enemies, replies to Luther’s attacks, a published sermon, a printed confession that purported to be the record of his interrogation by his captors after the massacre of Frankenhausen. The brief passages uttered or written down under a wide variety of circumstances hardly constitute a speaking-pic-

ture utopia of an alternative or future state of society, nor can they by any stretch of the imagination be regarded as a discussion of the principles that should underlie the conditions of life in an ideal city. Muntzer was acquainted with Plato’s Republic—the record shows that he owned a copy—but his one passing reference to it is derogatory. What, then, is Muntzer the prophet doing

184 THE BIRTH OF UTOPIA | among the utopian elect? His acceptance among the elect of God is not open to question, because it derives from his own inner conviction that he heard the voice of God after passing through the awesome trials, pains, and tribulations of the set stages that preceded mystical illumination. Muntzer has become the prototype of those who preached the modern religious utopia of the millennium, a form that has exerted a powerful influence far beyond the sectarian confines of its origins. If utopian thought in Western society were limited to purely secular works, one of its vigorous currents that runs from the early Jewish and Christian apocalypses through Leibniz would

have to be blotted out. Among the multiplicity of shapes assumed by the Christian utopia through the centuries, one rested on belief in a divine promise communicated directly to men with prophetic gifts and not requiring the intervention of the Word of God written in the Old and New Testaments. The two grandest moments of this spiritual utopia occurred in the early Reforma-

tion and during the English Civil War. ,

, Millenarianism has never ceased to produce its steady stream of prophets,

the exact time for initiating the millennium being constantly pushed forward as a prophecy was not fulfilled and illusions went underground to reemerge on the morrow. Millenarians addicted to exegesis of the word and practitioners of the art of gematria—a technique for interpreting Scripture by giving numerical

value to letters and words—had a way of impaling themselves on specific dates. The Anabaptist Hans Huth, Muntzer’s friend, proclaimed May 15, 1527, the day of final judgment, then had to postpone it to 1529. Others contented

themselves with merely announcing the imminence of the Kingdom of _ Heaven on Earth. Thomas Muntzer belongs to the tradition that eschewed dates, conveying in vivid language the feeling that the moment had in fact already arrived. Millenarians can be divided between those who passively awaited the intrusion of the Lord into history and those who held to the conviction that it was the duty of man to participate in God’s work with direct action, preaching, converting, witnessing truth, and on occasion brandishing the sword against the minions of Antichrist, the enemies in the divine battle. Muntzer, a leader of the activists, became the symbolic hero of revolutionaries, religious and secular.

The early sixteenth-century uprisings in South Germany have a local, medieval aspect. Yet Thomas Muntzer was far more than a provincial visionary. Amid a host of stereotyped millenarians, he is emerging as a unique fig-

ure. His yearning for spirituality, his intense feeling for the misery of the human condition, the universality of the message that excluded neither Jew nor Turk nor a man of any status in society if he endured the psychic trials of illumination raise him above the crowd of preachers of what has come to be called the Radical Reformation. At the same time, his polarization of existence into salvation and damnation, and the sharp Joshua-like cut between those for his gospel and those against it, established him in modern millenarian and apocalyptic thought as a figure who would alternately be despised and exalted to the heavens. He probably belongs more to the prologue of a revolutionary utopia than to the drama itself. He set a precedent. The concentration on violence, the rejection of alternative paths, the heightening of the intensity of the struggle imprinted a pattern. The anguished process of reaching utopia and the

HEAVEN ON EARTH FOR THE COMMON MAN 185 absolutism of surrender to the band of the elect are in themselves the very definition of the spiritual utopia of the reign of Christ on earth. Thomas Muntzer was no ignorant peasant possessed by a vision. Of all the activist millenarians, this preacher was the most learned in Scripture, in the Church Fathers, in the writings of medieval prophets. He even had more than a passing acquaintance with contemporary humanist literature. Born in Stolberg about 1488 or 1489,” he attended the universities of Leipzig and Frankfort and acquired a knowledge of both Hebrew and Greek. Citations in his works and manuscript lists of books now preserved in Dresden include Platonic dialogues, Eusebius’ world history, Apuleius’ Golden Ass, tracts by Erasmus. Leaving the academy, Muntzer became a preacher who wandered restlessly

through Central Germany, roaming as far south as Basel and as far east as Prague. During a period when he served as father confessor in a nunnery, he earnestly sought a way to God through a study of the mystical theologians Heinrich Seuse and Johann Tauler, whose writings had recounted the assaults of doubt and despair that could overwhelm a true Christian before the birth of God in his soul. The freedom of Tauler’s imaginative and allegorical interpretation of the Bible was adopted by Muntzer in his social-apocalyptic reading of the text. But though he used the same mystical terminology, he was not a Schwarmer, a ranting enthusiast. An early supporter of Luther, Muntzer was militantly antipapist from the outset, and on Luther’s recommendation was appointed to the post of “supply pastor” in Zwickau, an important trading and cloth-manufacturing city close to a silver-mining area, and an intellectual center. Georg Agricola, the pioneer mineralogist, taught there at the time. And Zwickau, where Mutntzer soon gained notoriety as a popular preacher who scandalized the rich, was on the road to Prague, heart of the Radical Reformation. Ties had been established between members of the Zwickau clergy and Bohemian millenarians like the Nicolaites, named after Nicholas Wlasonic, a farmer who was frequented by angels. Among the chiliastic preachers of Zwickau, monkery was caricatured in language as vitriolic as anything Voltaire later concocted. There was a tradition of heresy in the locality; in 1462 Waldensians had been executed there. Z,wickau was torn by deep-rooted antagonism between the old corporations of weavers and the new, prosperous mining interests. Partisanship over status in the community and partisanship in religious beliefs reinforced each other. The weavers, suffering from a prolonged economic depression, sided with the religious innovators, while the rich newcomers who controlled the exploitation of the mines and could afford masses remained faithful to the Catholic Church. Nikolaus Storch, a Zwickau weaver who had revived the old Taborite doctrines, was reported to be a proponent of polygamy, adult baptism, seizure of the property of the rich, the overthrow of civil authority and the priesthood. A dissident Beghard tradition had survived among the poor weavers and dyers, who worshiped in little conventicles at night in their own manner and were a fertile breeding ground for rebellion. Mintzer was about thirty when he was caught up in a whirlpool of heresy and social discontent. At the beginning of his career he had been rather like the humanist, book-learned Lutherans whom he now began to despise and revile. As late as 1520, with a bequest from his mother, he had ordered some seventy-

186 THE BIRTH OF UTOPIA five learned volumes from a bookseller, a substantial library for those times. He did not belong by birth to the class of peasants and artisans with whom he identified himself after receiving his mission. His revolt against the erudite professors and resentment toward his respectable burgher father, with whom he quarreled over a legacy, are a denial of his origins and a search for the chosen people, the elect of God, among others, not his own kind. His complaint that his father treated him like the son of a whore may help us understand his rage against the powerful in the world, but we know too little about the boy and the youth to begin to account for his mighty anger and his commitment to

the wretched of the earth. ,

Under attack for his harsh sermons against the Franciscans in Zwickau, Muntzer had appealed to Luther for support, still considering himself one of his followers. But he soon moved in the direction of Storch and the millenarians and away from the more stolid Lutheran reformers. He preached that the external, audible word of the priests was theirs alone, not God’s, and therefore should not be sacrosanct to men. An uprising against the bishop led to charges that Muntzer was fanaticizing his congregation and he was expelled from the city. He sought refuge in Prague among the Hussites, Taborites, and Anabaptists, and preached to them through an interpreter. The Almighty still communicated with men through the Holy Spirit, he assured them, and adherence to the literal word of the Bible, sacred to Luther, could become another kind of servitude to the flesh. In his denunciation of Lutherans, issued in Latin, Czech, and German, he ridiculed the belief that God no longer spoke with people, as if He had suddenly been struck dumb. The Holy Spirit could reveal itself in any age of the world and was not confined to the apostolic. God again talked through him, Muntzer boasted. (‘“‘And before he turned around he was lying with a few thousand men in the muck,” was Luther’s mockery of his pretension to direct illumination on the morrow of the defeat at Frankenhausen, in a triumphant announcement of God’s awful judgment on the false prophet.)® God’s will was absolutely free, and a free God could move the spirit

of a man even though he might be ignorant and poor. The German radical missionaries and preachers of this new gospel had occasional illusions about converting dukes, electors, or city councillors; but whatever their class origins

and education, during their most militant and influential periods they were

| bound to the common people, to ordinary peasants and artisans. When Prague in its turn proved inhospitable, Mtntzer roamed through Thuringia and Saxony until he was summoned to Allstedt, a small town near the Mansfeld copper mines, where he settled and married a former nun. There he formed a Verbtindniss among artisans and miners, a union that was intended ultimately to embrace all of Christendom, called upon princes and lords to leave their palaces and live as Christians, and threatened with death those who would not heed his gospel. When Duke George of Saxony and Count Ernst von Mansfeld forbade their subjects to attend his services, he challenged them and their priests to show where he contradicted Scripture, and wrote defiantly

to the Count on September 22, 1523, ““And you should know that in such mighty and righteous matters I am not afraid of the whole world. But you want to be feared more than God himself, as I can show from your actions and

orders . . . I'll deal with you a hundred thousand times worse than Luther

HEAVEN ON EARTH FOR THE COMMON MAN 187 did with the Pope.”’ He signed himself ““Thomas Muntzer, A Destroyer of the Unbelievers.”’” Luther recognized the danger in Muntzer’s social gospel and his megalomaniac claims, was suspicious of his evasive replies when he summoned him for questioning, and finally visited upon him the full fury of his chastisement. In a

letter addressed toward the end of July 1524 to Frederick the Wise, Elector of Saxony, and Duke John of Saxony, Luther bragged of an encounter with the prophet some years back, in which he had been worsted. ‘‘He was punched in the nose once or twice in my presence at the cloister in Wittenberg.”’® That Luther was constantly fighting Muntzer in letters, sermons, and table talk refutes those who have assiduously tried to expunge him from the historical record of the Reformation as a trivial preacher of no great account. There are more than a hundred attacks in the collected works that have now been carefully assembled, one even in Luther’s last sermon on February 15, 1546, when Muntzer had been dead for more than twenty years.® Theologian with a Sword Muntzer saw a universal upheaval of the existing order as part of God’s design and read the inchoate demands of the peasants as heralding the imminent establishment of the Kingdom of Heaven on Earth. But he did not rest with prophetic evocations of a new and glorious reign of justice. In the history of mod-

ern utopian thought he stands out as a formidable exponent of man’s obligation to join actively with the will of God and not shrink from performing deeds of violence to carry out His purposes. Acts, not words alone, would

clear the path to salvation. When in the summer of 1525, not long after Muntzer’s execution, Luther decided to marry the former nun Katharina von Bora, he crudely caricatured Muntzer’s doctrine by announcing that he too would celebrate the Gospel not only in the Word but in the Act. In Allstedt Muntzer had proceeded to acts. In a new liturgy he had stripped off every last vestige of pagan ceremonial and had concentrated on the inner communion between God and man. Thousands flocked to hear him. But at Mallerbach at the very gates of his city stood a Catholic chapel in which men, like heathens, adored a statue and left waxen votive offerings to it. The devil was being worshiped there under the name of Mary. Muntzer exhorted his congregation to end this brazen idolatry, and then he watched in triumphant righteousness as the chapel was put to the torch. Muntzer’s doctrine of inner illumination opened wide the possibilities for a new social interpretation of the Gospel. Evangelical texts on spiritual hunger were rendered into language that spoke of plain physical needs. And Muntzer

took the prophecy of Daniel in Chapter 7, verse 27, that the power of the heavens would be given to “‘the people of the saints of the most High”’ to mean

the common people. Though he esteemed the Abbot Joachim of Fiore, his own imminent Kingdom of God belonged not to a sacred monastic brotherhood but to ordinary folk, flesh-and-blood peasants who rebelled against their masters. In a letter of May 13, 1525, to the men of Erfurt, just before the fateful encounter at Frankenhausen, Muntzer declared: “According to the seventh chapter of Daniel and Revelation 18 and 19, authority should be vested in the

188 THE BIRTH OF UTOPIA common people. Virtually all judgments in the Bible bear witness that the creatures must be free, otherwise the pure word of God will be undone.” | Muntzer established an important conjunction in world history, the union of a particular body, the common people in action, and a religious teaching based on a new interpretation of Scripture. The wrath of Moses and the prophets was alive again, vented against local princelets who were identified with ancient sinners of Judea and Israel. | In the Italian citta felice the patricians were the natural rulers of the perfect society; in More’s Utopia, the pillars of the kingdom were the learned heads of households. Muntzer’s choice fell upon the common people, who were capable of suffering in their quest for God and of martyrdom in the fulfillment of His will. Worldly authority held no terrors for that brotherhood of Christians who had fought their way to God and become a new elect. Because they had been

purified and exalted, these soldiers enlisted in the army of the righteous could , strike out against evil with abandon. Muntzer’s ally Andreas Karlstadt was troubled by his friend’s insistence on the organization of the peasants into a brotherhood to bring about the Kingdom of God. There was an implied derogation of His omnipotence in this newfound need for the assembling of a Christliche Vereinigung, a Christian Union. Could God not inaugurate the reign

, of the just by Himself? Karlstadt had warned Muntzer that in this world men lived in the land of the dead and as long as they were subject to the demands of the flesh the justice of Christ could not triumph. Muntzer denied the limitation. He preached a heavenly life on earth that could be attained by bestowing the power of the sword on the whole community and by cultivating internal perfection and the understanding (Verstand) of the poor. In Muntzer, the millenarian doctrine of the earthly paradise assumed something of a class character, a revolutionary moment in the history of the idea. The conception that before the inauguration of the reign of Christ the elect should form a Bund that would unite them in war and peace was given great prominence by Muntzer’s Allstedt Verbtindniss. A covenant as a solemn commitment to action among the elect carried the idea forward. In the course of time, like so many sectarian forms of the Reformation, it was secularized in the secret society that would lead the revolution to a worldly utopia. In Muntzer’s Kingdom of Heaven there was no room for pedantic theologians, surely not for Luther, whom he scorned as Doctor Liar (Doctor Luegner).

There is a strong anti-intellectual undercurrent in Miintzer’s preaching, as there would be among the Diggers and Ranters of the English Civil War and in nineteenth-century American populist revivalism, though he was perhaps moved less by simplistic obscurantism than by a desire to raise the self-esteem of the ignorant, virtuous poor and to castigate the learned who used their gifts

only for corrupt ends. In sermon after sermon Muntzer read into the text of Jeremiah attacks on wealthy merchants and the book-learned and an appreciation of the faith of ordinary peasants. But his discovery in the Gospel of a new order of righteousness did not encase a Christian in the letter of the law and

hold him captive. Everyman had the same power to find his way to God through the inner word as through the biblical text itself, a theological position that had forced a chasm between Muntzer and the orthodox Lutherans. The doctrine of the ‘Sinner word” has always appeared a threat to the ecclesiastical establishment of any scriptural religion. ‘Well, perhaps you inquire how the

HEAVEN ON EARTH FOR THE COMMON MAN 189 Word gets into the heart?”” Mintzer asked rhetorically. “Answer: It gets down

from God above when you are in a high state of wonderment . . . And this wonderment, whether it be the word of God or not, begins when one is a child _ of six or seven, as is alluded to in Numbers 1g . . . And any man who has not become aware and receptive through the living witness of God, Romans 8, really has nothing to say even if he stuffed himself with a hundred thousand

Bibles.”

True Christian belief was a rarity in Christendom, Muntzer taught. Lighthearted belief was no belief at all. The Bible was not necessary to acquire true belief; it could be attained by those who had never heard of Scripture or of other books. The Bible merely bore witness as to how belief had been achieved

by men in other times, but it did not itself create belief. The potency for the common man of a doctrine of direct infusion of the Holy Spirit, in contrast to Luther’s ‘“‘Bibel Babel Bubel,” will be witnessed time and again in the history

of the revolutionary utopia. The confrontation of the Luther type with a Muintzer type will often be repeated. Winstanley the Digger will incarnate the Mintzer image and will be defeated by the Puritan bibliolaters. And when the millenarian revolutionary utopia is secularized, Marx with his book will ultimately be victorious over the anarchist spiritualizers who talk on about their inner feelings of right. The common man, the common people, were the bearers of divine justice in the world, for they understood the meaning of the Kingdom of Heaven better than did the scholars. In Muntzer’s “social” interpretation of Old Testament prophets the peasants were exalted over the great ones of the earth. The bestial drinkers and gluttons who had never known suffering, what could they understand of the Kingdom of Heaven? Despite an occasional lapse into despair over the stupidity and ignorance of the people, Muntzer raised them above their polluted rulers. The absolutism of his position, however, did not prevent him from writing with a certain humility to Frederick the Wise, calling upon him to lead the crusade against the godless. ‘There was always that remote hope that a mighty prince would suddenly see the light, a fantasy that has a way of possessing many utopians in times of crisis. The Scriptures held within them the truth of the new order, Muntzer conceded, but—and this is a peculiar feature of his dispensation—its meaning and practice were not equally accessible to all Christian laymen. The common man was superior in his understanding of Scripture to the upper classes, whose luxurious situation blinded them to a full comprehension of the Word. Though Christian brotherhood and union were the basis of the new order, only honest laborers could grasp its meaning—such was the new election, the reverse of the later Calvinist order with its preference for the socially powerful in the congregation, marked with the sign of grace by their prosperity. The poor were the true elect and their understanding of Scripture had to be hearkened to because they alone had been visited by the Fear of God (Gottesfurcht). Devotion to the reign of God on earth required prior emancipation from pride and selfseeking; and only those who were already encumbered with nothing were capable of that freedom. ‘For the stone, torn from the mountain without hands, has become mighty. The poor laymen and peasants see it more sharply than you do,” Muintzer thundered at Duke Johann of Saxony and his son Johann Friedrich at Allstedt on July 13, 1524, in the sermon on Daniel explicating

190 THE BIRTH OF UTOPIA Nebuchadnezzar’s ominous dream.” This famous Fuirstenpredigt was published in Allstedt and earned its printer an expulsion from Thuringia. In his sermon

to the princes Mtintzer exhorted, admonished, and threatened. His wrath against those who held power was inflamed by the recognition that though such authority carried with it the Christian duty to lead the common people to a spiritual regeneration, the mighty ones refused to fulfill their office and instead hindered others in the propagation of true belief. Muntzer foretold the gruesome punishment of the princes in language adopted from the Old Testa-

ment prophets and turned into common everyday speech. | Documentary evidence of concrete demands made by Muntzer and his followers is flimsy. A curious proposal emerging in his last interrogation—that a

prince be limited to eight horses and a count to four—seems to have been - aimed at easing the burden of feeding the animals when nobles and their retinues appeared at assemblies. In the records that remain, Muntzer delivered no forthright tirades against private property in and of itself. He denounced only the vast holdings of the lords and championed the peasants in their struggle to retain their own parcels of land and in their fight against expropriation of the commons. Far from spurning material things, he demanded the satisfaction of ordinary needs and decried the harsh yoke of the rich on the neck of the peasantry as an impediment to the realization of their spiritual worth. The Word of God could be choked by the sorrows of this world to which the mass of the people were condemned. The necessity of appeasing ordinary needs as a requirement for spiritual preparation would persist in seventeenth-century Moravian and Puritan doctrines. In correspondence with peasant communities

Muntzer devoted his attention to concrete objectives without forgetting the ultimate goal of the reign of God and of perfect righteousness on earth. He was not altogether lost in apocalyptic visions: He took thought for the daily problems, the grievances, of peasants and artisans, guiding their negotiations for ridding the communal lands of the lord’s animals and for dividing confiscated Church property among the poverty-stricken, intervening in individual peasant quarrels and disputes among neighboring villages. Luther had inveighed against plundering by the peasants during their uprisings and called for blood-

shed in reprisal. Muntzer defended their cause in a tart, plainspoken retort to the “‘soft-living flesh” in Wittenberg. “‘And so they let God’s commandment be spread among the poor and they proclaim, God has commanded, Thou shalt not steal. But it does not work. Since they cause any man who lives, the poor ploughman, handworker, everyone, to shove and scrape. Micah chapter 3, so as soon as he does the least thing wrong, so he must hang. Whereupon doctor liar says, Amen. The lords are themselves to blame that the poor man is their enemy. They do not want to do away with the cause of the uproar, how

can it ever be good in the long run?’ |

Muntzer the defender of the poor used an earthy German speech that is far — from the humanist Latinity of Thomas More and the Italians; he was competitive in robust language with Doctor Luegner himself. Men ought to behave like brothers, he wrote to the people of Allstedt on August 15, 1524, and not

offer the pitiable spectacle of Christians sacrificing one another on the butcher’s block.'* His words of incitement pierced the minds of his hearers, as he raised for them the images of Joshua and Gideon and those who had been

ordered by God to drive the Philistines from the land. Any definition of

HEAVEN ON EARTH FOR THE COMMON MAN IQI Mintzer depends in part upon a feeling for the tone of his sermons, more authentic than the impressions that can be gleaned from the debatable histories penned by his enemies. Though he hailed the destructiveness of the peasants in the uprisings of 1524-1525—-some forty monasteries were sacked in the Harz and in Thuringia within a two-week period—in language crowded with imagery from the Prophets, especially Isaiah and Micah, his was not simply traditional Old Testament preaching. By the end of April 1525 he was moving toward the final confrontation when he wrote to the people of Allstedt: “‘All the

German, French, and Italian lands are wakeful; the Master wants to play games... If you were only three who with faith seek His name and glory, you need not fear 100,000 . . . Go to it! Go to it! Go to it! Pay no attention to the howling of the godless. They will entreat you so gently, they will whim-

per, they will implore you like children. Show no pity, as God has commanded through Moses.” He told the men of Allstedt to rouse the people in towns and villages, especially the miners. “Do not let your sword grow cold. Strike the anvil with the haommer—pinkepanke.”’ ° In Muntzer’s sermons there

is a harsh wit and irony. A deadly, megalomaniac earnestness takes over as he : challenges the whole world. Through Muntzer’s adaptation of the words of the Hebrew prophets, general and abstract terms in the original text were ren-

dered concrete: The “‘people’ became “poor ploughmen and artisans.”’ Though his sermons and letters are spotted with biblical quotations—Amos on righteousness, and divine vengeance in Jeremiah and Judges and Kings— he honors only the spirit of Scripture, not its letter. The medieval prophets who foretold the reign of the Holy Ghost had neither developed an emotive attachment to the poor of this earth nor used their ordinary speech. Muntzer’s definition of the new man who would emerge after an apocalyptic holocaust is not entirely without precedent, but his coarse language lends the conception fresh vigor. Muntzer was clearly aware of the writings of Joachim of Fiore at the end of

the twelfth century and of the German mystics of the thirteenth and fourteenth; but Luther exaggerated the Joachimite origins of Muntzer’s thought in

order to compromise him. His doctrine of the inner word was a dangerous denial of the literal meaning of the Bible, a heresy that Luther traced to Joachim with his rather free interpretation of texts in accordance with the harmony he established between the Old and New Testaments. Mintzer, though he wrote to Hans Zeiss on December 2, 1523, “For me the witness of the Abbot Joachim is great,” !® was careful to counter the allegations of the ‘“‘bookmen” and Luther that he had copied all his doctrines straight from Joachim and

was merely repeating ideas from the Eternal Evangile imputed to him. Muntzer had intended to prepare a complete commentary on Scriptures after the manner of Joachim, but one that would highlight his differences from the medieval prophet. Muntzer was no imitator. The glaring distinctions between the theological and social outlooks of Joachim and of Muntzer make Luther’s accusation groundless. Progression in the development of consciousness, which Joachim traces through three ages, is not really an evolution of human understanding, but represents three discrete stages in the revelation and unveiling of truth by God. In Joachim’s vision, numerological predestination is absolute and human effort and will have nothing to do with the chronology of illumination. Man is passive. Not until Spengler

192 THE BIRTH OF UTOPIA © does an important thinker again enclose himself in such an iron arithmetical _ mold. At a given moment in time a new spiritual development takes place, the reign of the Holy Ghost on earth, but no man need do anything to bring about the transformation. Modern secular stadial theories, even when they are determinist, admit of human involvement in the transformation of consciousness far more frequently than chapbook presentations of their ideas allow for. In this respect Muntzer is in the modern, not the medieval Joachimite, temper. The conflict between Muntzer’s elect, “‘the poor laymen and peasants,” and the

priests is not a mystical vision for which hidden clues can be discovered in , Scripture. After the Medes and the Persians, the Greeks and the Romans, the existing Holy Roman Empire—the Fifth Monarchy—is ‘“‘also of iron.” “The Fifth Monarchy is this one, that we have before our eyes,’’ he charged in the Fiirstenpredigt.‘” The heathen and Jews would turn to the church only when they witnessed the triumph of the true faith in actual Christian conduct; their conversion depended upon their conviction of the superiority of Christian practice in this world. For Joachim the reign of the Holy Ghost will be the last kingdom on earth, after which there will be another Judgment and a Heavenly Kingdom. Muntzer does not make any sharp chronological break between the victory of Christ and a movement to heaven. Man is now in the status of the brute creatures through his absorption in the

flesh. It is the mission of reformed Christianity to return him to God: Christ having become man shows him the way to become a divinized man inseparable from God. Only if man is in a state of fear of God, a state of consciousness about his moral being, can he receive grace and be illuminated. In a commentary on Luke, the Ausgedriuckte Entblossung des falschen Glaubens der ungetrewen

welt (Muhlhausen, 1524), Muntzer’s anthropology assumed a startling form.

‘For believers, what in nature was considered impossible actually takes place . . . We fleshly earthly men become gods through Christ’s becoming human and thus we are pupils of God with Him, taught by Him Himself and made divine by Him. Nay far more. We become altogether transformed so that the earthly life changes over into heaven.”’® In Muntzer’s radical Christian utopia entry into the Kingdom of Heaven on Earth and into heaven itself had about the same requirements. The compromises of the Morean humanist republic are not recognized here nor are the frailties of the humans who inhabit it. The revolution of the elect, both in their own souls and in action, is itself the ideal condition, consummated by uniting

in battle. The Morean utopia could live with the ambiguities of wishing for more than one could hope after. For the world and for himself Muntzer , wanted freedom from the doubt that assailed him. Its complete eradication from the bosom of every man was the very heart of his gospel. The powerful preacher opened before his believers the portals of a paradise of the heart that transported his listeners into a state of eupsychia. At least for the moment the torments of ambiguity were silenced as he wielded the hammer that became his symbol, mowed down the enemy, wrote hymns to existence in a state of godliness, and preached the merciless destruction of the unbelievers. ‘To be in a condition of revolutionary enthusiasm was the utopia. A historical course to the end of the days had been fixed. The elect pursued this way in word and deed. Time and again their suffering would be renewed, as God, to temper the steel of his chosen ones, appeared to stop their advance. But He had never

HEAVEN ON EARTH FOR THE COMMON MAN 193 abandoned the elect to their enemies and He never would. In due time vengeance would be their reward and their triumph was assured. Muntzer’s promise of a heaven on earth, which he tied to the peasants’ clamor for land, involved a complete transformation of religious consciousness, the positive recognition by the ordinary man of his own unique spiritual worth. There is much that is theologically innovative in Muntzer, who devised a vigorous, highly personal religious vocabulary to describe the states a man might experience as he fought his way through doubt to attain Fear of God. His five states of the soul before the descent of the Holy Spirit into a man’s heart began with an early unfleshing and climaxed in a state of deep disbelief and outward despair. The coming on of faith (Ankunft), the first movement of the Holy Spirit in a man, could occur at any time and in any place. The next stage was contemplation, active wonderment at the total sphere of existence and all its creatures. But in its turn the contemplation was interrupted by great agitation of the spirit. In his tribulation and doubt, man was brought to the brink of an abyss. Surmounting the waves of spiritual conflict, through his struggle he finally won a way to God.

Those who would reduce Muntzer to just another peasant leader are deaf to the power of his rhetoric as he draws a map of Christian experience. In drafts of an epistle to the brethren in Stolberg, sent on July 18, 1523, he was more graphic than in the final text. “Before it comes to that, that man is certain of his salvation, there come so many outpourings of the waters and frightful roarings that the desire for life departs from a man; for the billows of this wild sea swallow up many a man who may think that he has already won through. Therefore a man should not flee this billow but smash into it masterfully, as the skillful boatsmen do. For the Lord will give no one His holy witness before he has struggled his way through with his wonderment. Therefore, the hearts of men are rarely burdened with the true spirit of Christ.”’!® The psychic struggle to reach God is depicted in images with a long history among those who have articulated their religious anguish and ultimate triumph. The passive receptivity that is central in the self-revelations of many Christian mystics is underplayed by Muntzer, whose victory comes after a hard-fought, aggressive contest. As he wrote to his friend Christoph Meinhard in Eisleben on May 30, 1524, elucidating the Eighteenth Psalm, ‘‘When a man in the wild sea of movement becomes aware of his origin, when he is in the midst of the maelstrom, then he must do as a fish does. He turns about, swims against the current back

through the water, in order that he may come back to the place of his first origin.” ®° The theological sources of so many of the terms associated with modern revolutions—like Bewegung (movement), Entfremdung (alienation) —

along with the rhetoric of salvation and emancipation are patent. Muntzer’s doctrine of the heart made empty through suffering and the Cross, so that it might then, and only then, be filled by the Holy Spirit, was in flagrant contradiction to Luther’s contention that he had received God’s gift through reading and hearing Scripture. Muntzer refused to be judged by Christian theologians alone. His was a universal religion that soared beyond belief in the Testaments, for it admitted of the possibility that heathens and Turks could be penetrated by the Holy Spirit. Only those who had had the actual religious experience were capable of judging others of the universal elect, a body of men independent of the written

194 THE BIRTH OF UTOPIA word or any particular ritual. To address learned theological unbelievers was like throwing pearls before swine. Only those who had gone through Anfechtung, the state of tribulation and despair, and the breakthrough of belief were in a state to hear and participate in what Muntzer preached. The believing Volk of the elect were themselves the justifiers, no others. Muintzer’s universalism, scandalous in the sixteenth century, later became an integral part of the Pansophic utopia.

The times were about to be fulfilled, Judgment Day was at hand, and Muntzer was a Daniel come to life to guide those who were willing to renounce the corruptions of this world and let the fear of God suffuse their whole being in preparation for the imminent apocalyptic event. Orthodox Lutherans denied the right to take up arms against authority, even to hasten the accomplishment of God’s work. Luther’s acceptance of the external dominion of the German princes alongside the Christian liberty of the inner man was for Muntzer a satanic doctrine that involved acquiescence in the wicked order of this life and a deflection to mere creatures of part of the fear of God that should have been concentrated on Him alone. For Luther a worldly order could never be related to the Gospel, which referred to spiritual, not earthly, things. Christian law demanded subordination to authority, irrespective of whether it was just or not, and he preached the lawfulness of serfdom. Muntzer rejected Luther’s two orders, one according to the natural law, the other the Christian rule. For Muntzer there could be no separate, imperfect, wicked worldly order that might somchow serve as the environment for a spiritual gospel; there was but one order of perfection. His Ausgedruckte Entblossung denounced the luxuri-

ous regimen of princes as a descent to the state of animality. Men could not honor at the same time these Kreaturen and God, because they represented two opposite realms of being. The princes were not lords but external, fleshly objects without meaning for the spiritual elevation of man. It was not the princes, , but the elect who were to be obeyed, for they would lead those who believed to a higher state of being. Muntzer and his followers had declared that princes were worthless and con-— temptible. When Luther was confronted with this disdain for authority he rose to the attack. He tore the mask from the pretensions of the peasants and their leader: They were not opposed to all rule, merely the princes’ rule, while all the

time they coveted lordship for themselves. Deflation of the revolutionary | utopia by attacking its egalitarianism as disguised ambition has had a continuous history ever since Aristophanes, and has not been altogether groundless. Luther charged Muntzer with wanting to be a new Turkish Kaiser, trying to make the sword an arbiter in theological disputes, and declaring war on the secular rulers of society with the fiendish intent of putting himself in their place. He could not abide the arrogance of this apostle to the peasants. Who had appointed him to the task of cleansing and Christianizing the temporal order? In a letter to Nikolaus von Amsdorf on April 11, 1525, Luther bitterly mocked the grasping of the lowly preacher for worldy power: ““Munzer Mulhusii rex et imperator est, non solum doctor.”*’ Theological differences between them were ignored as he focused on Miuntzer’s designs for personal

| aggrandizement. (Philosophical leaders of the French Revolution and Marx and Lenin would be the objects of similar denunciations.) The ‘“‘doctor”’ wished to be “imperator’”’ and was using the peasants to destroy all vestiges

HEAVEN ON EARTH FOR THE COMMON MAN 195 of order, while driving them to their doom. Luther’s Muntzer was the Archdevil (Erzteufel). As long as this devil spoke with tongues, Luther had been in favor of allowing him a hearing so that the diabolical origins of his own words would betray him. When the monster turned to deeds, he had to be

annihilated. ,

There is truth in the accusation that Muntzer bestowed upon the elect the right to slaughter unbelievers. It would be divine justice in the same sense that

the massacre of the Canaanites and Ammonites was ordered by God. In Muntzer’s writings there are hints of a doctrine that goes even beyond necessary violence, a belief that slaughter must be accepted and condoned, and opens the gates to that tragic coupling of utopia with creative violence whose force as a revolutionary idea is not yet spent. Muntzer’s social-religious teaching mirrors in the large his own mystical experience as he ascended through the stages before he incorporated Christ in himself and became like unto Christ. He had to be emptied of all easily accepted ideas, undergo the tortures of total alienation from God, face the abyss, become like a field that had been devastated and lay barren. Nothing of the old self could survive and the destruction of concupiscent, whoring, gluttonous man had to be total and absolute. In the same precise sense and not merely by analogy to the individual ex-

perience, the old order of society had to be completely torn down and pulverized before the new could be raised. The Old Testament was a repository of scenes describing the extermination of the enemies of Israel that could readily be translated into Muntzer’s German, a vehicle he manipulated with a touch of genius. His cruel and merciless tirades against the fleshly lords could vie with Luther’s ranting against the peasants. They were fired by the same biblical texts. Mintzer had no gift for depicting the great Sabbath that was to succeed the outpouring of the vials of wrath in the apocalypse. After the godless were destroyed, the pious elect would establish a “peaceable kingdom”’ and reign on earth. What the reign would be like remains veiled. But it is precisely this mistiness about what happens on the morrow of victory that has given birth to one

of the most powerful utopias of the Western world. A word about things being held in common, or as if in common, about brothers in Christ, and about the satisfaction of need, has been enough to send men into battle. If all men were possessed by the Holy Spirit, from being earthlings they would become new heavenly creatures. This is turned into as overwhelming a utopia as

the story that piles up pictorial details about an ideal government and its economy. For all the egalitarian formulas that are attributed to Muntzer, his is a Christianity of the elect, as exclusive as the patrician aristocracy of the Renaissance utopians. The elect in the first instance have to choose themselves by fighting

through to God. Once the individual victory has been won, they may preach to others as Muntzer did, showing them the path of thorns that must be traversed, challenging them to undertake the journey, mocking false leaders like Luther and his ilk, who promised an easy way to faith and belief. Muntzer _ doubtless caricatured Luther’s doctrine, but Muntzer’s elect were granted no such easy crutch as the biblical word that Luther extended to his followers. Belief in the word was not enough. The Bible might be used to tell ordinary people tales of the sufferings endured by God’s true servants in the past, but if

196 THE BIRTH OF UTOPIA a man was to become one of the elect he himself had to undergo the same bitter experience. There was no short way to faith and the men of Wittenberg who attracted adherents by allowing them to continue easy living along with faith

were deceptive guides. , Muntzer’s ministry has been identified with weavers and miners and peas-

ants in the towns where he preached. But turning him into a revolutionary utopian of one social class alone on the ground that he incited with his sermons only the wretched of the earth ignores his goal of winning all Christian men, including burghers, municipal authorities, and nobles, to his doctrine of Christ through pain. There is nevertheless one critical point at which Muntzer has left a legend of a class character for posterity, the inference in his sermons that the demarcation between the elect of Christ and the agents of Antichrist is likely to be drawn along lines that distinguish the rich and the powerful from the poor and miserable. The common man had the better chance of becoming one of the elect because, Muntzer thought most of the time though not always, the poor had fewer objects of fleshly desire to weigh them down on their course. Those who wallowed in luxury and lay on the backs of ordinary men whom they

treated like beasts of burden were doubly culpable. They were so sunk in _ whoredom that they could not respond to the voice of the preacher, let alone exert their wills in traversing the stages of the Christian pilgrimage. But they bore the additional stigma of being public authorities who usurped God’s glory by bedecking themselves with titles and who, by oppressing the common man, reduced him to so low a state of animality that he too was often incapable of moving toward God. The tone of the ideal reign that was soon to be inaugurated was rigidly ascetic. Sexual intercourse for pleasure was condemned as whoring. Muntzer’s , doctrine of marriage, on which Luther’s Table Talk reports, held that a man was to have sexual converse with his wife only if he were certain through divine revelation that he would create a holy child; otherwise it was a whore’s marriage.” The conception is harmonious with Muntzer’s ideal of the spiritualization and sanctification of life under the new order. There would be no whores’ sons, only divine children. In depicting the morrow after victory, Muntzer granted his adherents the right to take from their oppressors only what was necessary (nothaft). No popular cokaygne utopia with a plethora of sensate things was conjured up to kindle their enthusiasm for the struggle.

Peasants who went into battle under his standard may have had daydreams of | a Schlaraffenland, as Melanchthon charged, but there is no evidence that Muntzer implanted them. The passion of Christ on the Cross was still the

heart of his doctrine. ,

When a decade later the Anabaptists took possession of the city of Munster, the scandal of their licentious behavior redounded to Muntzer’s ignominy in Western culture. Lutherans tried to eradicate him from the history of the Reformation. Muntzer’s ideas lived on in the underground of popular utopian movements, but they never surfaced in a form that remotely recalled his original purposes, confused as they may sometimes appear.

The Debacle at Frankenhausen The apostle of violence became its victim when his straggly and outnumbered troops, wielding pikes and sticks against the cavalry and cannon of their over-

HEAVEN ON EARTH FOR THE COMMON MAN 197 lords, were routed at Frankenhausen and Muntzer their leader, who had escaped and was found hiding in a cellar, was dragged off to the castle of Count Ernst von Mansfeld, the noble to whom Mtintzer had written with scornful braggadocio a year and a half before. There in the presence of the Count, Duke George, a torturer, and a scribe, Muntzer was submitted to interrogation. What was published shortly afterward was not a precise, nearly verbatim, record such as a trained team of Venetian inquisitors might produce

later in the century, but a bald summary that in brief compass surveyed Muntzer’s activities in the centers where he had preached and formed unions. The captors were trying to pile up a record of agitation that would make of his work a series of plots. Muntzer divulged the names of his associates, but no

extraordinary revelations were extracted from him. His role in most of the riots and tumults he had instigated was well known. Muntzer stuck to his claim that killing the three prisoners on the eve of battle was divine justice. He did not elaborate any refined theology in the course of the examination. His apology was couched in biblical language interpreted according to the gospel of Muntzer. In Christendom all should become equal, and those princes and lords who refused to accept this belief should be driven forth and struck dead. A few laconic sentences in this spirit were said to have been his justification of

the uprising. Whether or not Muntzer actually spoke the words of the published confession or whether the scribe put into his mouth sentiments with which his name was ordinarily associated remains moot; but nothing out of harmony with the principle of the Allstedt Christian Union was added. The report of the interrogation of May 16, 1525, flatly stated the purposes of the Allstedt Union: ‘“‘This was their belief and what they wanted to put into practice: Omnia sunt communia. Each and every one should be given what he needs when he needs it. If any Prince, Count, or Lord did not want to do this, and had been warned, he should have his head chopped off or be hanged.’ These sentences have been subject to a wide diversity of interpretations, and given the circumstances under which they were presumably spoken as well as the discrepancies between manuscript and published versions, any reconstruction of what Muntzer really said or meant on this occasion must remain dubious. To see a protocommunist pronouncement in a few slogans about equality, the high-flown Latin formula of Omnia sunt communia; and the threat of killing noble rejectors of the new rule is to build intellectual castles that tower above Ernst von Mansfeld’s stronghold where Muntzer was taunted and tortured by Catholic lords for his abuse of the Christian sacraments. The formal organization of a Bund and the military action may raise the captive Muntzer’s rhetoric to a higher level of utopian consciousness, and the image of him as a communist may be enhanced by phrases culled from his sermons on the imminent apocalypse, the regeneration of mankind, willful action in the name of Christ, the humble elect, and above all divine vengeance against the wicked who had usurped power over the common man—though all of it hardly adds up to a communist manifesto. The interrogators made of Miintzer a man whose whole life was a rebellion against authority. They discovered a Verbundniss against the bishop when he was a young man in Ascherleben and Halle. His ‘‘confession” became a chronicle of radical evil that mounted to a climax in the insurrection of Frankenhausen and the great slaughter. Muintzer was said to have harbored plans for dominion over territory covering a ten-mile circle around Muhlhausen and over

198 THE BIRTH OF UTOPIA | land belonging to Philip of Hesse, a purpose in contradiction with his Christian spirituality but not his character. John of Leyden was in the wings. Duke George, preoccupied with the murders and the uprising, did not absorb himself with theological niceties. On the other hand, Luther and Melanchthon expressed disappointment at the captors’ failure to explore more thoroughly the question whether Muntzer’s claim to divine revelation had been his own invention or whether it had in fact been inspired by the devil. Upon receiving a report from Johann Ruhel, Luther wrote back: “‘Such a confession is nothing but a piece of devilish, hardened, obduracy.”** The prisoner himself, a contumacious heretic both to the Catholic lords and to the Lutheran Protestants, seems at the end to have been resigned to his fate. The last letter written to his Muhlhausen friends from the castle at Heldrungen on May 17 can be read either as an authentic recantation of his course of violence or a forced reversal in writing to protect some of his followers and his family. It has even been interpreted with theological overtones: The terrible defeat is a divine warning and he is enduring the torments of a Christ to expiate the sins of those who at Frankenhausen had sought their own gain and had not entered the struggle with the wicked princes solely in order to join in God’s design. The request that his wife and child be provided for, that she be given his books and goods, strikes a gentle note rarely heard in his sermons and polemics. He pleaded with his followers: ‘Treat each other with friendship and do not embitter the lords any more as many have done through self-interest . . . Above all flee from spilling blood, about which I wish to warn you in good faith. For I

| know that most of you in Muhlhausen were not partisans of the tumult and self-seeking.’’®* In his final farewell he wanted to lift the burden from his soul __

with the repeated admonition that “‘no more innocent blood should be spilled.” That Muntzer was ever the prime instigator in the disorganized peasant uprisings that were sweeping through Germany is dubious. And they continued after he was executed. Eventually the Muntzer legends became more powerful than the events in which he had participated. The sixth and eighth summary points of the interrogation, which preceded the beheading by eleven days, answered one of the prepared questions that had been asked of all the captives. ‘If matters had gone their way what would they

have done?” On point eight the version published by Wolfgang Stockel in Leipzig had an important variant from the accepted manuscript. The famous , Omnia sunt communia reads Omnia simul communia, “Everything should be as if it were held in common.’’*® Muntzer evidently had some notion of a communio rer'am, as one contemporary report has it, and he made a distinction between Gemein-nutz (common use) and Eigen-nutz (private use). But this does not

, equate his views with a Platonic holding of all things in common. Muntzer still thought primarily in terms of the peasant ‘‘commons”’ that were being expropriated by the lords, and he was far more concerned with the souls of the victorious elect and their hard-won religious belief than with material goods and their equitable distribution. The peasants and artisans who flocked to his sermons in Allstedt and joined ranks under his captaincy at Frankenhausen may well have heard only his tirades against their lords’ amassing of fleshly things. =

Perhaps Muntzer misled his poor listeners, as Luther charged, and was himself , carried away by the force of his preaching. But in the texts that remain there is an obsession with the Holy Spirit and the individual soul of every man that

HEAVEN ON EARTH FOR THE COMMON MAN 199 makes it difficult to relate Muntzer to a postapocalyptic world of material riches.

For the Lutheran reformers, Muntzer represented a corrupter of Scripture, a propagator of subversive doctrines respecting temporal authority, a preacher of dangerous ideas about the methods of individual spiritual illumination, a promoter of extravagant expectations that could not be fulfilled. With his death, the aura of magical invulnerability that had once clung to him would be dissipated. In a letter of May 19, 1525, to his Bamberg friend, Joachim Camerarius, announcing the defeat of the peasants and the execution of Muntzer, Melanchthon exulted not only in the quelling of a seditious rebellion but in the defeat of a heresy and the exposure of a false prophet. ‘I am happy that the leader of the uprising has been captured. Not so much because there is any hope that in the future things will be calmer, but because it has become manifest that the spirit they boasted about had no authority. Dear God, of what kind of kingdom did they have such sweet dreams? With what fabricated prophecies did he lead the stupid mass of the people to take up arms? How many promises that in the near future the order of the state would change on command of the heavenly oracles?’’*’ After his execution, Muntzer became the symbol of the defeated peasant uprising, and other radical preachers hastened to dissociate themselves from him by parading the letters they had written against the doctrine of violence and in opposition to the Christian Union of the peasants. Even Muntzer’s friend Karlstadt maneuvered to exculpate himself from the accusation that he had acquiesced in Muntzer’s ‘uproar.’ But though theologians in all camps were eager to bury his memory, Muntzer in death was still a foe to be reckoned with. Echoes of his theology resounded in many directions, and his spiritual presence was long felt among the Anabaptists of Germany. By 1531 so many people in Muhlhausen had come to visit the spot where his severed head had been exposed that Luther feared popular adulation

would make a saint of him.

The Muntzer Legends

During his lifetime Muntzer was buffeted about in the social and religious storms of the early Reformation; almost five hundred years after his death, partisans are still wrangling over his remains. He has been likened to a saint, a

red poppy that bloomed on the stony field of Christendom, or treated as a murderous incendiary and archfanatic, a leader of seditious, destructive peasants. Some have dismissed him as a crackpot preacher with a reactionary, theocratic vision; others have revered him as a social revolutionary martyr who died for the cause of emancipating the working classes. Muntzer’s role in the Peasant War is difficult to assess, because those who triumphed and survived to write about him were his enemies and they had a variety of differently shaped axes to grind. Some contemporary Catholic writers like Johannes Cochlaus saw him as a natural outgrowth of the Lutheran heresy and explained the Lutherans’ magnification of his part as an attempt to remove the stigma of rebellion from themselves. Luther and Melanchthon inflated him into the demonic leader of the Peasant War and launched a propaganda campaign to discredit a doctrine that offered a rival vision of great po-

tency. A late-cighteenth-century German pastor, Georg Theodor Strobel,

200 THE BIRTH OF UTOPIA attributed to Muntzer’s inflammatory teachings the shedding of the blood of thousands and the devastation of castles and churches in Thuringia. He completed his life and works of Muntzer in 1794 at the height of the Terror in France, with the hope that Germany might be spared the repetition of uprisings like Muntzer’s Aufrahr of 1525.78 By now it is virtually impossible to divest Muntzer of his legends—in the plural, for they are many and contradictory. The factual information in the possession of detractors and adulators alike is scanty. His nine tiny pamphlets (including his liturgical music) published in 1523 and 1524 hardly constitute a treasury of utopian thought. A few of his sermons and a collection of his letters were edited with critical care in 1968. An extensive biography by Walter Elliger, a lifelong Muntzer scholar, has assembled the factual record, turning it

into a monument commemorating a revolutionary hero.”® In Die Histori Thome Muntzers des Anfengers der doringischen Uffrur, attributed to Melanch-

thon, his teachings had been crudely caricatured: ‘He taught . . . that all goods should be held in common as is written in the Acts of the Apostles and that they should throw in all goods together. In this way he encouraged the people not to work any more. If anyone needed food or clothing he went to any rich man and demanded it as a Christian right. For Christ wanted people to divide with the needy. If the rich man did not give willingly, it was taken

, from him by force.’’°° This History of Mintzer accused the warrior-preacher , not of initiating the peasant rebellion but of providing an evangelical justifica- ,

| tion for it. No such iniquitous religious apology had backed previous peasant uprisings. Whatever the content of Muntzer’s social doctrine—and the evidence is still the subject of heated argument between historians of East and West Germany—a stock set of beliefs has clung to his name. According to the , History of Mintzer, he believed that no one must be raised above another, that all must be free and hold things in common, and that “‘to each was allotted according to his need” (a manifest prefiguration, it might be said, of Marx’s higher stage of communism in the Critique of the Gotha Program). In addition there was an isolated report that in 1521 Muntzer had upheld other precepts: to love one’s enemies, not to seek revenge, not to swear, and to institute the community of things. Stray phrases are the basic substance of the communist legend of Thomas Muntzer. There was a rationalist core in Muntzer’s sermons, rare among the Reforma-

tion enthusiasts, that led some late-eighteenth- and early-nineteenth-century Germans to latch on to him as a predecessor of the Age of Reason. The historian Wilhelm Zimmermann, on whom Friedrich Engels largely relied in The Peasant War in Germany, singled out Muntzer as a respectworthy precursor of one wing of Enlightenment thought and of the French Revolution.*! In the

wake of Zimmermann, Marx and Engels continued the rehabilitation of Muntzer and transformed Luther’s Archdevil into the first self-conscious revo-

lutionary hero of modern times, who transcended his own moment to proclaim the ultimate goal of the communist revolution. Engels differentiated the intermittent jacqueries of the Middle Ages from the German peasants’ revolt of 1525 and proclaimed this war the first act of the European bourgeois revolution. In Engels’ history, Muntzer’s movement reflected the emergence of ‘‘embryonic proletarian elements in the city,” especially those lower on the social

scale who were, in origin, peasants driven from their lands and excluded from

HEAVEN ON EARTH FOR THE COMMON MAN 201 the rigid medieval corporate structures of the German urban artisans. In landless peasants Engels discovered the beginnings of the present-day proletariat, “red flag in hand and the community of property on their lips.”’°? Muintzer was doomed to defeat from the outset, but Marx and Engels had a kind word for selected foretellers of the communist future even when they failed to appraise accurately the ‘‘objective conditions” of their historical epoch. Karl Kautsky, in his bloated Vorlaufer des neueren Sozialismus (Forerunners of Modern Social-

ism), rejected this appreciation of Muntzer and labeled him an epigone of the medieval communistic sects who was completely lacking in originality, a mere propagator of ideas that had long been held by the Brothers of the Free Spirit. The differences between Engels and Kautsky stem from opposing views of the origins of modern socialism: Kautsky apparently found them in the medieval corporations of artisans, Engels among the footloose disinherited of the Reformation period who had broken with the medieval world. In the history of modern utopia, Muntzer has remained frozen in the mold into which Engels cast him, the revolutionary before his time. Isolated radicals of the English Civil War had already attached themselves to his legend and they could be fitted into the chain of the history of communist thought. In East Germany and Soviet Russia Muntzer’s story is still being elaborated within this framework, though with far greater subtlety. Muntzer has become the harbinger of a world communist revolution operating through the German peasantry, who, in opposing the German nobility, were effectively furthering the bourgeois revolution that was a necessary condition of the proletarian revolution. Muntzer’s earliest extant manuscript, a fragment of a liturgical poem, was presented by the Saxon government to Joseph Stalin on his seventieth birthday. This apotheosis of Muntzer in the communist world has survived de-Stalinization, though it has become more difficult to assess him as the factual material about the Radical Reformation in Central Europe accumulates and the data have to be squeezed into the preestablished disharmony of objective conditions and subjective intent. There was a time when Marxist historians could bypass Muntzer’s theology as vapid nonsense and go directly to the historical forces that Muntzer is presumed to have unleashed. Of late it has become fashionable and necessary to show that the theology itself secreted revolutionary power. The more sophisticated Marxist transformers of Muntzer have discovered in his proclamations and sermons a protocommunist anthropology. The revolutionary is made to emerge out of his theology as a figure of colossal dimensions rivaling Luther himself. Muntzer’s demand that each and every man must experience for himself the spiritual victory over all obstacles as he struggles his way to God can be so translated that it becomes, mutatis mutandis, a prefiguration of the spiritual conflict a true communist of the twentieth century must undergo before he

overcomes all doubts and is prepared for membership in the Communist Vereinigung. Muntzer’s eschatology can be interpreted to resemble a secular philosophy of history and his prophetic sense of mission, even if it has its pathological moments, can be placed in harmony with the dedication of any leader of a political movement. Some West German and English historians of theology have rejected this communist interpretation but have been as zealous as the Marxists in reclaiming Muntzer from obscurity. While eschewing any depiction of him as a fore-

202 THE BIRTH OF UTOPIA runner of Marx, they value him for the pure theology in his teachings. They have been unable to discover in Muntzer’s authenticated writings any promise of rich material rewards for the artisans and peasants. The spiritual freedom of being possessed by God is for these theologians a conception that harks back to earlier mystical ideas rather than looks forward to a sensate heaven on earth

under communism.

The most recent histories of the Radical Reformation seek to amalgamate the theological Muntzer and the social revolutionary into an integrated whole, instead of allowing them to proceed their respective ways without hope of a convergence. But in the end the contradiction between the two Muntzers has only been raised to a higher plane. Granted that there are social roots to theological conceptions and that social doctrines can germinate in theological soil,

the argument now turns on where the weight of historical judgment should rest, on the side of the spirit or on the side of matter. Refinements of this con- troversy have become the staple of a scholarly industry surrounding Muntzer and the Radical Reformation. The Muntzerbild is not yet complete. The final impression of the rough, psychically torn leader who was lost in the turmoil of

the Reformation has not been struck. ,

With the suppression of the radical elements of the German Reformation, the legend of Muntzer went underground. The hundred and twenty years be- | tween the Peasant War in Germany and the English Civil War were marked by intermittent peasant uprisings in different parts of Europe. Some took on the traditional aspect of flash outbursts in the countryside provoked by famine; others, as in Catalonia, were demands for the restoration of ancient liberties;

and there were occasional attempts, like Campanella’s Calabrian revolt, to. seize power in an isolated province. But with the exception of the Calabrian revolt, none of these passing explosions can be associated with a utopian vision , of a radical and popular restructuring of life. The politico-religious climate of the latter part of the sixteenth century in Western Europe, the world of the

Counter-Reformation, was hardly propitious for the blossoming of new worldly utopias. The Italian philosophical writings of the sixteenth century were, after all, not among the most original expressions of utopian thought. The Catholic Church militant was consolidating its forces, as were the dynastic states of France and England. Protestant theologians in the Lutheran, Calvinist, and Anglican areas were preoccupied with settling the intricate problems involved in formulating new religious dogmas. Utopian fantasy of the period was impoverished, compared with the outburst in the century from 1450 to 1550 and with its revival in new forms around 1600. Nostalgic pastorals abound; there are a number of imitations of More’s Utopia; architectural invention of a privatized character flourishes. But the utopian imagination of the West was dormant before the magnificent awakening in the first decades of the seventeenth century with the works of Bacon, Campanella, and Andreae. The Escorial, begun in 1563, was perhaps the symbolic structure of this anti-utopian age, Teresa de Jesus and John of the Cross its mystical expression, the Society of Jesus, founded in 1540, its ideal social organization.

PART III

Flowering and Death of the Christian Utopia

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i mG TEES NS Oc Ey Gn ie OE aa eaaNe a ET CC LE aN, EG eSa Oe asa aeennGy Oe oo . EC |. aais. eo, lt”””:CSS oo ol rrsrtsrs—sS ....... eS ee SH ni INI Te SS GE Pac REE CRESS GIRS CES INA COE Ea a) Oe a co CN iN st nT Sa Kita) AEN Ae eea nea a OED ee ee a KOH Cn ey Eee Fe OA SS ee OI nett LOVER Ea CO COICO Mts Nn a li:

OO Eu ce ne Ce Ce a TL ON ENSE GGaaSC ai ON GeaENG aE EO Oy ean a ee EL I Oe i OO nee OE a. ....... insaEG ill ,r,rC«*sSCsC . a rrrr”,.C—.C«s« The Rosicrucians had become identified with the prospect of an imminent discovery of the philosopher’s stone, which would allow them to transmute metals and provide them with enough gold to improve the conditions of life for great masses of people. Andreae’s divorcement from the plan was coupled with more than a hint of their drawing power; he had been at least a fellow traveler of the Fraternity, if not one of its guiding spirits. By 1618 his doubts, whatever they were, were turning into pronounced hostility. He assured the public that he had been skeptical from the beginning about the Brotherhood’s ability to bring men closer to Christ or to stop the impaired world of men from creaking, and he had been suspicious of the highflown Rosicrucian rhetoric that resembled the speech of magic-makers and charlatans. As practical alchemy and mystical notions became more prominent _ in Rosicrucian circles he revised the memory of his previous attitudes toward the Fraternity. Andreae’s new Fraternitas Christi was founded in sharp opposition to what he called the Rosicrucian laughing-stock. The Peregrini in Patria Errores. Utopiae (Strasbourg, 1618) and the Civis Christianus, sive Peregrini Quondam Errantis Restitutiones (Strasbourg, 1619) continued in the same spirit. It is impossible to establish the intellectual boundaries of Rosicrucianism. The extent and tenacity of adherence varied, and as the Brotherhood became notorious throughout Europe, its doctrines acquired local geographic idiosyncrasies that bore little relationship to the credo of that nucleus of Rhineland academicians who in the second decade of the seventeenth century proposed to cure all the ills of Christian society. When Andreae returned to a more orthodox brotherhood in Christ, he saw Rosicrucianism as bearing the mark of the devil, as a satanic attempt to undermine the fellowship of Christians and usurp its place, as a heresy from whose clutches he had narrowly escaped. The fear grew upon him that Rosicrucians were diluting the Gospel and shifting the

focus of the Lutheran religion away from the marriage of Christ and the Church to a new Messiah. The millenarian character of the Rosicrucian manifestoes was forthrightly denounced in the Invitationis ad Fraternitatem Christi

294 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA Pars Altera (1618).° Dissociating himself from the evil doctrines of his youth turned into an obsessive preoccupation for Andreae. Ideologues who for a variety of politic and psychic reasons seek to wipe out a piece of their past tend to fall prey to such repetition neuroses. The Turris Babel (Strasbourg, 1619) had as its subtitle sive Judiciorum de Fraternitate Rosaceae Crucis Chaos, and Andreae

there let loose the full barrage of his satiric eloquence. In Turbo (1616), Truth announced in orthodox Lutheran rhetoric that human error was “‘hopeless,”’ without possibility of emendation, and that anyone who believed he could transform mankind for the better was only a greater fool than his fellows. Instead of unifying mankind Rosicrucianism would breed utter confusion. By the time Andreae wrote the Theophilus (1649) he was praying that all Rosicrucian writings would be consigned to the flames.’ Continuing the apology, Andreae’s most recent Lutheran biographer has denied that his hero had anything to do with the composition of either the Fama or the Confessio, and has singled out a certain Simon Studion, author of a 2000-page “‘Naometria’’ (1604), still in manuscript, as the probable perpetrator of the mystification of Christian Rosencreutz. If this be so, in the course of

time the verbose Studion surely acquired new skills in conceptual compression. Scores of works all over Europe, many of them never printed, heralded a great reformation around 1600. In order to exonerate Andreae completely from Rosicrucian complicity and preserve his unblemished image as an

impeccable Lutheran, the origin of Studion’s chiliastic doctrines has been pushed back to 1593, when Andreae was less than seven. Whoever the author or authors of the Fama and the Confessio may have been, these writings emerged from the Lutheran academic world of the Rhineland, where alongside a certain relaxation of Lutheran standards of behavior and a settled organization of the church and its dogmas, there were currents of intense spiritual unease. Youths born to formal evangelical orthodoxy faced the challenge of the reformed church of Calvin, of Counter-Reformation Catholic faith, of mystics, of the new science; and many of them went through spiritual crises: They felt themselves lost in the world, strangers in a society whose religious doctrines were ignored in the practices of everyday life. Andreae has faithfully recorded their anguish, their sickness unto death, in passages of his Turbo. ““O God, bring back blind chaos! Woe! Woe! Woe! To die! To die! I

can no longer endure the light of the sun, nor men, nor night, nor myself. Where, where am I? I drag around Turbo, wretched Turbo.”® The confused were wanderers. Some went on pilgrimage to the Holy Land and passed through the dens of iniquity in Rome and Naples, bastions of the Inquisition. Or they landed in stern Calvinist Geneva. The mystics they read were foreign Catholics and German writers of the pre-Reformation period. In an attempt to _ find the way of light the young Lutherans endangered their immortal souls. These men seeking a new life often ventured upon strange pathways. The university provided them with a rich classical background and they expressed

themselves in novel modes of speech—elliptical, symbolic, imagistic. They looked for hidden Christian meanings in pagan myths, and they invented alle-

gories that gave utterance to their own religious bewilderment and often served to cover their adventures beyond the pale of orthodoxy. Absorption in philosophical alchemy coexisted with a fervid desire to know their inner conscience, to discover all the secrets of nature, to prepare for the millennium, to

ANDREAE, PASTOR OF CHRISTIANOPOLIS 295 synthesize ancient, Christian, and modern learning. University life made it possible to communicate their esoteric ideas to a few trusted colleagues without risking publication. A desire to reform the Reformation was a threat to an establishment that only recently had resolved its major theological questions and separated itself with a wall of dogma not only from the Whore of Babylon in Rome, but from Calvin’s Geneva.

_ Wanderings of a Limping Swabian Andreae was a prototype of the seeker. In 1607 a group of theological students in Tubingen were condemned for association with prostitutes. Andreae’s involvement in the affair has given rise to different interpretations. One has it that the Ducal Chancellor, Matthias Enzlin, used the incident as a pretext to punish the scion of an important bourgeois family in an assertion of ducal absolutism. The event is clouded over with Andreae’s account of a dream that was a prognostic of his fate. Whatever the specific facts of his misadventure, he fled Tubingen, first taking refuge with friends of his father and grandfather in Strasbourg. There he met Lazarus Zetzner, a printer of Paracelsus and of alchemical literature for the whole of Europe, who was to be Andreae’s publisher for twenty years. Andreae’s peregrinations continued through Heidelberg, Frankfort, Mainz, and on more than one occasion he approached the fires of Romanism, especially at the Jesuit college in Dillingen. Back in Tubingen, still denied the clericate, he became a tutor of young noblemen, learned mechanical arts and music, and wrote a treatise on the education of youth, disguised as fiction. In 1610 there was another period of travel, obscured by alle-

gations that it followed upon a second ouster from Tubingen, this time because of involvement with occult studies and societies. Now Andreae moved toward French-speaking Switzerland (either before or after journeys to France, Italy, and Spain). The order of Geneva, city of the Calvinists, was a great utopian revelation, or so the aging Lutheran official recollected it in his autobiography. Christianopolis later embodied the spirit of the strictly supervised life of Calvin’s Geneva, rather than the comparative looseness of the Rhineland university towns occasionally interrupted by the punitive forays of Lutheran directors. A twentieth-century youth of the West would be repelled by the idealized portrait of Geneva that Andreae sketched from memory, but the values of a seventeenth-century Christian utopia were rooted in concepts of obedience to

civic authority, whose spiritual meaning is now difficult to grasp. Political freedom conjoined with absolute authoritative religious guidance of moral behavior could be attractive to a young man accustomed to Lutheran acceptance of the autocratic will of the ruling princelet and his chancellor. Freedom was conceived as the fulfillment of God’s command, but in the more activist spirit of his generation, Andreae was not content with mere verbal obeisance to belief in the general good; he required the union of wisdom and charity, manifested in the cultivation of arts and sciences as visible acts of Christian love.

Upon his return from the second period of wanderings, Andreae studied theology in earnest in the Tubingen seminary that had once harbored Kepler and was to shelter Schelling and Hegel. In the university towns men could be close friends without having identical views on the extent to which a Lutheran

296 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA might involve himself in astrology, alchemy, Paracelsian doctrines of the macro-microcosmic correspondence, the chiliastic mysticism of naometrian-

, ism, the writings of Jacob Boehme, and sundry other theosophies and millenarianisms without falling into the mire of outright heresy. Esoterica attracted many in various degrees for shorter or longer periods. Early enthusiasms and later repudiations were frequent, and a passing phase should not be regarded as stamping a man for life. The concept of knowledge (scientia) was fluid, the canons of experimental science and demonstration hardly fixed. One might betray an inclination toward one aspect of a theosophical position without

having swallowed it whole (though professorial and theological enemies might be prepared to make much of even the mildest flirtation). In his oration at his friend Tobias Hess’s funeral, Andreae was careful to allude to Hess’s early addiction to chiliasm—he once called him “‘Utopiensis Princeps’”’ —and

then to assure the assembly that he had died an orthodox Lutheran. In the Mythologia Christiana (1619) Andreae employed an earthy Luther-like image in justification of his friend, who in this conceit has had his brain examined in

an autopsy by Vesalius: ‘‘Curiositatis excremata bene evacuarat.”? | In the Tubingen seminary the group that was once committed to the refor-

mation of the whole world soon returned to orthodoxy and forgot Rosencreutz. As might be expected, Lutheran writers are eager to underplay the role

of Christoph Besold (1577-1638) in their circle, but however one plots the constellation of relations among the twenty-five men who, along with Andreae, founded the orthodox Societas Christiana in 1618, the future heretic who

defected to Catholicism appears to occupy a prominent place.’ Through Besold, Andreae got to know Wilhelm Wense, who traveled in Italy from 1614 to 1616 and visited Campanella in prison; and through Wense Andreae became acquainted with Tobias Adami, who had earlier penetrated the dungeon where Campanella lay buried and by 1613 had begun to spread the Italian Dominican’s ideas in the Rhineland. Andreae quoted from Campanella’s manuscripts

| as early as 1619 and published German translations of Campanella’s Italian sonnets, among them the ‘Delle radici de’ gran mali del mondo.” Campanella’s works were a bizarre intrusion from the very bowels of evil, the dungeons of the Inquisition. Papers had been smuggled north into the heart of the Lutheran theological establishment in the seminary of Tubingen. | The ideas of the young Lutheran reformers were inchoate—they had just returned from their travels (Adami had gone as far as Jerusalem) and their early writings bear witness to a troubled theology and the difficulties they encountered in assimilating what the “new philosophy” represented. The issue of

Campanella’s influence on the German group is one of those ‘‘appearance , problems”’ in which the history of ideas sometimes becomes enmeshed. Andreae’s mentality was fashioned in a Lutheran theological world and Campanella’s, despite his many heterodoxies, in a Thomist one. Campanellan formulas were contagious—tyranny, sophistry, and hypocrisy as the age’s trinity of evil —and the writings of this victim of Catholic persecution could at one point be read sympathetically in Germany. But Andreae’s myth of the progress of the soul in search of Christ is remote from Campanella’s project for a universal papal theocracy. These men did not share the same political or religious outlook, and the gap between them widened as each embraced his respective orthodoxy. Before Leibniz tried to effect a great conciliation between Catholi-

ANDREAE, PASTOR OF CHRISTIANOPOLIS 297 cism and Protestantism, the idea of accepting Rome was repugnant to an orthodox Lutheran. When Andreae, in imitation of Luther, reflected on Rome, he echoed Luther’s verdict: “Orbis quondam, nunc scelerum caput.” !! Andreae’s Verae Unionis in Christo Jesu Specimen (1628) had voiced a ‘‘consensus Christiani, pro unius Religionis sincera professione”’; but Andreae could only conceive of the single religion as the unique and true Evangelical Religion, distinguished by the name of the incomparable hero Luther, and he would have no truck with Calvinism, Anabaptism, Weigelianism, Rosicrucianism, and pseudochemical impostures, not to speak of papism. Tobias Adami finally broke with Campanella because of his virulent attacks on Luther, and Andreae ended up denouncing Campanella for demeaning himself by a belief in fate and the stars.’ Thirty years earlier, Andreae’s sentiments were more favorable. But though Andreae and Campanella grew in different intellectual soils, they were contemporaries, and time stamped similitudes upon them. If any influence was exerted, its direction was manifestly from Campanella to Andreae. Both visions were essentially independent variations on the Pansophic utopia, and searching the two for like images and phrases is a pedant’s task. Campanella would have remained unknown for decades in northern Europe, if some of his ideas had not penetrated the German Lutheran world through the conduit of Adami, Wense, and Andreae, who were the intermediaries to Comenius. Books published in Frankfort were readily distributed throughout the northern Protestant lands, and Adami’s preparation of Campanella’s manuscripts for the press was a major act of intellectual transmission. Andreae’s conceptions were not immaculately conceived, but a spongy brain such as his makes it difficult to establish the paternity of many of his ideas. This much is certain: No upstanding Lutheran could live in the Campanellan City of the Sun, but he would find a haven in Christianopolis. The southern vagrants moved in an astronomical and astrological world—the planets danced in Bruno’s imaginative constructs. The northerners awaited marvels from the alchemical laboratory, which Luther had sanctioned. The alchemical concoctions required cellars, while in Campanella’s city teaching took place in the open air and the temple was crowned by an observatory. Andreae used a variety of literary devices to enhance his apostolic message. One was derived from the Epistle to the Hebrews, chapter 11, verses 13-16, where Paul wrote of those who confessed themselves ‘‘strangers and pilgrims on the earth,” who now “‘desire a better country, that is, a heavenly.”’ It led to a description of a pilgrim’s progress in the land of the wicked and the discovery of the city of God. The image of Cosmoxenus is said to reflect the writings of Sebastian Munster, or if one looks for deeper origins in Andreae’s early life, a painting in the Herrenberg Stiftskirche by Jerg Ratgeb depicting the apostolic company as it goes forth into the world.'® Another way to propagate the faith involved the translation of the language of alchemy, the experience of the various stages of the traditional chemical processes, into religious terms. Alchemy became a rich storehouse of Christian symbols in Andreae’s Chemical Wedding. : This symbolization of alchemy was an approved practice going back to Luther himself. The search for Christ could be rendered in a variety of images that saturated the spiritual atmosphere. Dreams reflected bookish fantasies and associations from the alchemical laboratory; in turn literary renderings of emotional religious experiences assumed a dreamlike quality. Later generations lost

2.98 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA the alchemical keys to these symbolic forms and they became merely bizarre. Finally, the whole of pagan mythology and all the astrological signs were Christianized. All these were new ways of propagating the faith, the creation of Christian myths that would appeal to the hearts of men, fables to teach the unknowing. The myth of the Christianopolis was Andreae’s ultimate achieve-

ment, the myth of Christian Rosencreutz was one with which he wrangled until he recognized its dangers, but along the way he brought forth other syncretic images, many of which were far too recondite to penetrate the general culture of Christian Europe. The sciences became Christian experiences, not mere studies of objective nature. Christian doctrines, rites, articles of faith were read into the practices of the sciences, which were then used as emotional demonstrations of Christianity, a means to strengthen Christian belief through

, the operation of the senses in the laboratory. In the Herculis Christiani Luctae XXIV (Strasbourg, 1615), the pagan hero was completely Christianized and his labors became Christian trials.“ The wanderer in a strange country, a myth that could take the form of a dialogue, a homily, poetry, permitted Andreae to adapt Lucianic and Erasmian wit to expose the folly of false rhetoricians, inflated mathematicians, lucre-lust-

ing—as contrasted with Christian—alchemists, and, once he was aware of © their threat to Christian faith, the Rosicrucians. The pilgrim of the Peregrini in Patria Errores (1618) was directed in Civis Christianus (1619) to the discovery of Christ. In a rather late work, the Opuscula Aliquot de Restitutione Reipub. Chris- , tianae in Germania (Nuremberg, 1633), Andreae voiced his fears that in his own

Evangelical Church the state, unless it was reformed in a Christian spirit,

, might replace the papacy in a new confusion of the gospel. In a letter to Duke Augustus of June 27, 1642, Andreae recounted the truncated life of the Societas Christiana, whose promise had been shattered by the

outbreak of the Thirty Years’ War. The original roster of membership included a number of impeccably proper Lutherans, and Andreae later contended that the Society had been unalterably opposed to the “unworthy fantasy”’ of the fictitious Rosicrucian Fraternity. After a quarter of a century, the earlier fascination of at least a portion of the respectable scholars was soft-pedaled. Some members of the Society may have once shared with the Rosicrucian Fraternity a passion for the renovation of the Christian world, but the openhess, common sense, and straightforwardness of the Society contrasted sharply with the Fraternity’s affinity for naometria, practical alchemy, and a variety of occult sciences. The idea of the Society stayed with Andreae, and in 1626 he tried again to form a Unio Christiana, but with little success. In a letter of September 16, 1629, to Comenius, who offered to enlist in the Union, Andreae focused on the crucial distinction between the vain, pretentious, worldly aims of the Rosicrucian Fraternity and those of the new Society, in which Christ

was restored to His proper place in the order of the universe.’ By that time Andreae had been overwhelmed by despair and had resigned himself to the role of a David forbidden to build the temple of the Lord, a task left to a future | Solomon. Comenius responded to the challenge, and his writings heralded a new Solomon who would erect the Temple of Pansophia, with the support of ~ a new Plato, himself.

Christianopolis and the Societas Christiana may have been the ideal solution _ for the tender Lutheran conscience of Andreae. If he could show that all the

ANDREAE, PASTOR OF CHRISTIANOPOLIS 299 ideas necessary for a general reformation were already in the Gospel, there was no need for a new confession of faith. Since Christ Himself was teacher, Christian Rosencreutz and his Arabic “‘science”’ learned in distant Damcar and his rediscovered tomb became a supererogatory mystification. Wilhelm Wense was credited by Andreae in a funerary homage with originating the idea of the

Christian Society. ,

He labored to bring together in a kind of society a certain number of men eager and able

to work for the betterment of the age, who, dispersed throughout Germany, would communicate with each other, and, in the bonds of friendship, analyze corrupt conditions both in literature and in the Christian life and discuss remedies for the same. For at a time when a certain deceitful (fictitia) fraternity had imposed upon inquisitive minds far and wide, he believed that the opportunity had arisen to reply (as I mentioned in my Christianopolis, p. 15), “If these reforms seem proper, why do we not try them our-

selves? Let us not wait for them to doit...” Following Wense’s advice, Andreae composed, he tells us, the two Invitationes ad Fraternitatem Christi, and two small pamphlets, the ‘“‘Christianae Socie-

- tatis Imago” and the ‘“Christiani Amoris Dextera Porrecta.”’ Campanella’s title was preserved, its meaning transformed. The society was called the “Civitas Solis,” and the two of us had as our goal to unite— under a kind of rule and a head (we had settled upon Augustus of Luneburg, that phoenix of princes and living ideal for such a plan)—a certain number of Germans who were orthodox in Lutheran faith, conspicuous in erudition, and trustworthy in character (but without discrimination as to family or fortune), in order that they might apply themselves earnestly to the cultivation of truer piety, the correction of dissolute moral life, and the restoration of a literary culture that had fallen into decay . . . But the storm of the German calamity fell upon us and made trial of all these—in my opinion not at all unpraiseworthy—endeavors, thus frustrating and overturning my whole “Christianopolis,’’ *®

Some scholars have bifurcated the life of Andreae into the young esoteric thinker of the pre-1634 period and the rather narrow, orthodox Lutheran preacher and administrator of later years. Similar attempts have been made to saw in two the life of Campanella, of Marx, and of hundreds of other thinkers.

The texts show a reasonable moral consistency in Andreae throughout the years, though the alchemical symbolism became less pervasive as he got older and grew more verbose and prosy. His Rei Christianae et Literariae Subsidia (Ttibingen, 1642) is a dull, 600-page compendium, in which sections on universal knowledge in science, art, and learning rub elbows with chronology,

Christian apologetics, a harmony of the Gospels. At one point he lists four men in each of fifteen spheres of human activity where moderns have been innovators, ranging from theology through law, medicine, history, mathematics, astronomy, philosophy, rhetoric, criticism (classical scholarship), poetry, encyclopedism, geography, cosmography, art, music, printing. More than a third of the men named were engaged, at least part-time, in what would today be called science; but a good number of them were alchemists and iatrochemists.

Not only had the Thirty Years’ War dashed the hopes of Andreae’s Societas Christiana. He experienced its ravages in the flesh in the loss of his possessions and in the sufferings of the flock whose shepherd he was. At Calw, where he

300 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA had served for nearly two decades as Spezialsuperintendent (Chief Pastor), his library and paintings were burned, his manuscripts destroyed. After the disaster and the years of reconstruction, in 1639 he was appointed court preacher

and consistorial councillor to Duke Eberhard III at Stuttgart. Andreae bewailed his lot like Jonah—‘“‘I have been tossed out of my ship, Calw, and swallowed by the leviathan, the Court’’!’—but with time he overcame his “nausea rerum” and proceeded to reorganize and reform Lutheran institutions in his jurisdiction. When ill health demanded that he be freed of some of his responsibilities, he was made Abbot and Generalsuperintendent of Bebenhausen, a Cistercian cloister that had become a Lutheran school. Finally in 1654,

the year of his death, he was awarded a sinecure as Abbot of Adelberg, a burned abbey, and allowed to retire to Stuttgart, his refrigerium, a place of refreshment and consolation. But the memory of a Rosicrucian past haunted him all his life. In his Autobiography he had again reaffirmed his orthodoxy with passionate invective. “Therefore, both privately and in the public light of the Christian church, and against the lovers of darkness, we solemnly declare that we do not have, have not had, nor will have anything in common with the mire of Papism, the grandiloquence of Calvinism, the blasphemies of Photinianism, the hypocrisy of the Schwenkfelders, the craze of the Weigelians, the dregs of Anabaptism, the reveries of the Enthusiasts, the predictive calculations of the curious, the slipperiness of syncretism, the abomination of libertinism—or, in short, with any vanities and illusions of impostors.’’ !® He man- :

aged to incorporate both Arndt’s pietism and Hafenreffer’s theological orthodoxy; but the proportions of the sacred formula were not constant throughout his life. The ardor of youth and the frigidity of age gravely affected the balance.

Christianopolis

Of his hundred-odd writings the Christianopolis was the one work through which Andreae entered general histories of utopian thought. In this portrait of an ideal Christian society science and orthodox Lutheran religion are completely integrated; while knowledge of Christ is the highest good, physical science becomes a major human preoccupation that has been sanctified. As early as Robert Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy, Christianopolis was classified with , More’s Utopia, Bacon’s New Atlantis, and Campanella’s City of the Sun as a

utopia. In his funeral oration for Wilhelm Wense, Andreae had called the Christianopolis the literary pendant to the Societas Christiana. It became one of

the recognized progenitors of the Comenian Pansophia and a foundation of Leibniz’ universal projects. Since it was composed in Latin and was not translated into German until the eighteenth century, its direct influence was generally restricted to the learned world; but there it was often imitated, extending its imagery over a broader field as the ideas appeared secondhand in the vernacular. '®

Andreae’s utopian masterpiece is written in his satiric, Imagistic, Erasmian,

| often cryptic style, more apt for the description of spiritual experience than for arguing the fine points of theology. The Christianopolis departs in significant ways from its utopian contemporaries. It is fervently Christocentric, and the observer who is the protagonist is not a wooden robot; he is psychically trans-

ANDREAE, PASTOR OF CHRISTIANOPOLIS 301 formed by the experience of the holy city. Christianopolis is the history of an adept in an ideal Lutheran community, and the alterations of his inner being, his exaltation through the sight of the meticulously ordered Christian city, is the heart of the work. By contrast, nothing much happens to Bacon’s sailors shipwrecked on New Atlantis; though they feel amazement and gratitude for the kind treatment they receive, they do not undergo a spiritual conversion. As for the Genoese captain who has seen the glories of Campanella’s City of the Sun, he is nothing but a figurehead, in haste to sail away once his tale has been recounted. The hero of Christianopolis is Cosmoxenus Christianus, a stranger, a pilgrim who suffers from the corrupt uses of the world; the allegory is not disguised.

Raphael Hythlodaeus, the hero of More’s Utopia, is presented as a member of Vespucci’s expedition functioning on a realistic level, and More’s artifice throughout is to preserve verisimilitude. Andreae’s pilgrim embarks on the ship named Fantasy; after it is wrecked, he is washed ashore on Caphar Salama (named for the place where Judas Maccabaeus conquered Nicanor’s forces), an island whose inhabitants live in community under a spiritual rule. Caphar Salama is described in fifty chapters covering all aspects of the society under as many headings. The guardians of Christianopolis first submit the outsider to a

moral examination, which he passes. Immersion in the sea, represented as a baptism, has prepared him for a new life. In stages he is shown the city. First there is a review of the material order, the things that concern the historians of mechanical utopias—agriculture, artisans’ work, public projects. Then Cosmoxenus ascends to the innermost shrine of the city, where the institutions of justice, religion, and education are located. On entering the holier region he is confronted by twelve articles inscribed in gold. They are Christological, orthodox in their formulas on the ministry of the word, free forgiveness of sin, general resurrection of the flesh. Part of the credo testifies: ““We believe in an eternal life by which we shall obtain perfect light, ability, quiet knowledge, plenty and joy; by which also the malice of Satan, the impurity of the world, the corruption of men shall be checked, by which it shall be well with the good, and evil with the evildoers, and the visible glory of the Holy Trinity shall be ours forever.’”’”° To Andreae, Satan was as palpable as he had been for Luther, and men had to give him combat through word and deed. In few other utopias are explicit creedal utterances so prominently featured. More’s Utopians require only a belief in God, the immortality of the soul, and rewards and punishments in the next world; religion is reasonably tolerant of deviations.

Bacon’s Atlanteans have become Christian through a miraculous epiphany, but not much is made of the whole matter beyond observance of certain Christian restraints on behavior. Christianopolis not only has a detailed creed, but some articles are believed toto corde, ‘‘with all our heart’’—a pietistic intensity has suffused religious belief. Andreae’s man has been restored to the dignity forfeited by Adam’s transgression, and through the Holy Spirit he has entered upon a new relationship with nature. Article VIII reads: ‘‘erudimur supra naturam, armamur contra naturam, conciliamur cum naturam.”’”? In the interrogation to which Cosmoxenus submitted before entering Christianopolis, one of the failings to which he confessed was that “by . . . inexcusable folly” he had neglected the countenance of nature.” In another passage, Andreae reflected: ‘‘For what a narrow

302 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA thing is human knowledge if it walks about as a stranger in the most wholesome creations and does not know what advantage this or that thing bears to man, yet meanwhile wanders about in the unpleasant crackle of abstractions and rules, none the less boasting of this as a science of the highest order!’ The mood of Christianopolitan society conforms to the Morean rule about “honest allowable pleasures,’’ not quite monastic in its austerity, but hardly indulging in superfluities. ““Oh,” says the narrator, ‘‘only those persons are rich who have all of which they have real need, who admit nothing merely because it is possible to have it in abundance!’’** The evils of disorder, hunger, misery, and war prevalent in the outside world are lamented as impediments to spiritual fulfillment. The ideal secular institutions of Christianopolis, the

educational system that fosters excellence and the utopian mechanics proper | governing production and consumption, are not ends in themselves, but merely a preparation for the spiritual feast, the theosophical stretching of the soul. They are preliminaries that insure against the loss of spiritually creative members of the community through want and neglect. In a specially appointed place in Christianopolis where the qualified inhabitants convene for lectures on metaphysical science, the chosen ones acquire a mystic vision of God in the Christian Neoplatonic tradition. Rapture makes them oblivious of all earthly concerns—‘‘they find themselves again.”’®* Though this is not an enduring or continuing state, they return to earthly matters ennobled by the experience. Differences are recognized in the capacity of various men for such an exalted spiritual achievement. The highest stage of theosophy, a science reserved for a select group capable of receiving God’s direct illumination, begins where the , knowledge of nature ends. It is secret and is communicated through the vision of the Cross. Andreae has drawn on the rich German mystical tradition, into which images from the new science have been infused, as a way of finding union with God. More’s Christian humanist utopia allowed for an elite, but they were far closer to all other men than the awesome scientist-priests of Bacon and Campanella or the spiritual directors of Christianopolis. In a passage leveled against excessive emphasis upon sterile logic, Andreae defined the intellectual temper of the island in language at once theological and scientific: ‘“They incite their talented men to recognize what reason has been entrusted to them and to test their own judgment of things lest they find it

necessary to seek everything outside of themselves and to bring in theories , from without. For man has within him a great treasure of judging if he prefers to dig it up instead of burying it with mounds and weight of precepts.” ?® The inhabitants of Christianopolis turn to modern mathematics and geometry for sharpening their wits, rather than to Aristotelian logic. Both the Baconian empirical science and mathematics were integrated into the Christian science; but such knowledge was not autonomous or sufficient unto itself. __ Surely that supreme Architect did not make this mighty mechanism haphazard, but He completed it most wisely by measures, numbers and proportions and He added to it the element of time, distinguished by a wonderful harmony. His mysteries has He placed especially in His workshops and typical buildings, that with the key of David we may reveal the length, breadth, and depth of divinity, find and note down the Messiah present in all things, who unites all in a wonderful harmony and conducts all wisely and powerfully, and that we may take our delight in adoring the name of Jesus.”?

ANDREAE, PASTOR OF CHRISTIANOPOLIS 303 The secret brotherhood, the elect alone, learn of the mystic numbers and proportions of things. Despite the generally communal spirit of the society, the esoteric character of the highest knowledge in Christianopolis excludes the “rabble,” and even the most illuminated must accept the existence of bounds to their knowledge of God and His ways, an idea of human limitations Andreae shared with Francis Bacon. Millenarian prophecy is rejected. In this cabala it is advisable to be rather circumspect, since we have considerable difficulty in present matters, grope in events of the past, and since God has reserved the future for Himself, revealing it to a very limited number of individuals and then only at the greatest intervals. Let us then love the secrets of God which are made plain to us and let us not, with the rabble, throw away that which is above us nor consider divine things on an equal basis with human; since God is good in all things, but in His own, even admirable.”8

In Christianopolis there is a negative attitude toward the traditional Aristotelian classics of philosophy and even a certain ambivalence about the printing press because it has propagated so much irreligion and absurdity, but there is no such denigration of the chemical laboratory. Here true nature, God’s world, is revealed without falsification. Only direct exploration of nature yields truth; everything the ancients wrote about nature is prima facie suspect since they were heathens. “Whatever has been dug out and extracted from the bowels of nature by the industry of the ancients, is here subjected to close examination, that we may know whether nature has been truly and faithfully opened to us.”’?® While Luther in his table talk may have denigrated astronomy in general (and perhaps Copernicus in particular), he had not been opposed to alchemical inquiries. The new astronomy could run up against the literal, precise Lutheran

interpretation of scriptural text, but alchemical chemistry and mathematics were not exposed to such risks since their content was by no stretch of the most punctilious scholar’s imagination covered in the Bible. It has even been surmised that the Lutheran dogma of the real presence in the Eucharist could lead to a veneration of the world of nature in all its chemical complexity. The pharmacy in Christianopolis is a veritable microcosm of the whole of nature. “Whatsoever the elements offer, whatever art improves, whatever all creatures furnish, it is all brought to this place, not only for the cause of health, but also with a view toward the advancement of education in general.” Pharmacology and chemistry have become the exemplar sciences, whose teachings can by analogy be extended to public affairs. “‘For how can the division of human matters be accomplished more easily than where one observes the most skillful classification, together with the greatest variety!’’*° The laboratorium in the center of the city is described with meticulous detail. ‘Here the powers of metals, minerals, vegetables, and also animals are investigated, refined, increased, and combined for the use of the human race and the improvement of health. Here sky is married to earth, and the divine mysteries impressed upon the earth are discovered; here one learns to master fire, make use of air, measure water, and analyze earth. Here the ape of nature has wherewith it may play, while it emulates her principles, and through the traces of the great machine forms something minute and most elegant.’’*’ The evils of the world, the brevity of life, the weariness and plagues of existence are taken for granted; but men need not be broken by them. Andreae

304 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA propounds no progressionist doctrine of science in the Condorcet manner, nor does he foresee a great prolongation of human life, the Baconian goal. The traditional allotted span would be sufficient, if it were not misspent in debauch-

ery and avoidable suffering. Both Bacon and Andreae lay emphasis on the | chemical and biological sciences as the clue to whatever transformations are to occur on earth. Galilean mathematical science, though respected, had not yet been conceived as applicable to human behavior. In Christianopolis the anat-_ omy of animals is studied in order to be able to assist the struggles of nature, and Andreae is distressed that men outside the utopian island do not understand the internal operations of their own bodies. Most sections of the Christianopolis are devoted to an account of the basic, everyday requirements of a society in which material necessities are readily

provided for in a communal order. Houses are not privately owned, and cooked food is obtained from a central storehouse, though consumed at home — to avoid the tumult of public mess halls. Work is freed from the biblical curse and is reconceptualized as an expression of man’s divinity, an act of creation

, imitative of God the Creator. Necessity is no longer the whip that forces men to labor: They do not have to be driven to work like pack animals to their tasks. Having been trained in accurate knowledge of the science that underlies

their work, they find delight in manipulating the innermost parts of nature. Science, work, and techniques have been interrelated. If a person in Christianopolis does not investigate the minutest elements of the world, filling in gaps in knowledge by devising more precise instruments, he is considered worthless. The worker-scientist-artisans, the predominant class, labor ‘in order that the human soul may have some means by which it and the highest prerogative of the mind may unfold themselves through different sorts of machinery, or

by which, rather, the little spark of divinity remaining in us, may shine brightly in any material offered.” The combination of the artisan and the scientist in one person was the natural consequence of a realization that the artisans were the repositories of scientific knowledge, of the Baconian test of science as knowledge that results in practical works, and of the new spiritual valuation of manual labor. There is mockery of the “‘carnal-minded”’** who avoid science because, with aristocratic affectation, they shrink from touching earth, water, coal, and other material objects required in scientific experiments, while they boast of their possession of horses, dogs, and harlots. The whole state of Christianopolis can be considered one great workshop of educated artisans skilled in different sorts of crafts, who work short hours. Since there is no slavery or forced labor their work is

not irksome to the human body. There is a great variety of products to be freely exchanged, since pecuniary gain is not a motive of production. Everything is clean and neatly arranged as befits a proper appreciation of the gifts of God. A minister, a judge, and a director of learning, combining in their persons religion, justice, and science, take care of public administration, and a state

economist has supervision over the division of work tasks and produce. “For though no one in the whole island ever goes hungry, yet by the grace of God or the generosity of nature, there is always abundance, since gluttony and drunkenness are entirely unknown.” ** But concentration on the utopian earthly order was not an end in itself. In a subtle, paradoxical sense the perfect order of this world achieved in Christian-

ANDREAE, PASTOR OF CHRISTIANOPOLIS 305 _ opolis becomes a means to freedom from earthliness. The director of learning

had a way of at once valuing and transcending the knowledge of material things. ‘“‘For he insisted that a close examination of the earth would bring about a proper appreciation of the heavens, and when the value of the heavens had been found, there would be a contempt of the earth.” * Andreae does not rely on the mere mechanics of a social utopia to bring about the general reformation of mankind. They are a part of the propitious setting for a Christian renewal; but only after men have undergone an inner transformation can they realize a terrestrial Christianopolis that will be both a simulacrum and a foretaste of the heavenly city. Universal brotherhood, godliness in men’s hearts, must precede the establishment of Christianopolis. There is no authoritarian legislator as in More’s Utopia; his function is replaced by the experience of religious and scientific conversion. The pursuit of science is recognized as the occupation most worthy of man and most acceptable to God because of its religious character. Spiritual regeneration in Christianopolis takes place within the limitations of fallen man. The origin of life, like death, is putrid. Ultimate blessedness is not of this world; it is only of the resurrected body purified and refined in heaven. In this world science raises fallen man and restores him to a state that approximates the prelapsarian condition—an apology for science that would be reborn with Wilkins and Glanvill in the Royal Society and would survive as a secularized image as late as Saint-Simon. While Plato’s spirited guardians exercised their bodies and listened to prescribed music, and More’s Utopians at leisure were humanist scholars who learned moral truths from ancient literature, by the seventeenth century scientific activity became the principal preoccupation of the elite in The City of the Sun, the New Atlantis, and Christianopolis. At a time when Italian cardinals still refused to look into Galileo’s glass, Andreae’s

community was equipped with “the very valuable telescope recently invented,” °* with models of the heavens, tools, instruments for astronomical study and observation of the ‘‘spots on the stars.”” Galileo and Kepler were known, as were Bruno’s “‘short cuts in memorizing.’’*’ There is no battle of the two cultures, and Andreae takes the stand that a man ignorant of science and mathematics is only half-educated. In Christianopolis a marked contempt for contemporary scholars ignorant of science obtrudes and echoes Kepler’s Nova Astronomia: “If like strangers in a foreign land they shall bring to humanity no assistance or counsel or judgment or device, then I think they deserve to be contemned and classed with the tenders of sheep, cattle, and hogs.” 38 But though science plays an important role in this and other utopias, most of the inhabitants are still primarily engaged in agricultural pursuits affected neither

by the new science nor by technological innovation. In Christianopolis “the agriculture of the patriarchs is reproduced, the results being the more satisfactory the closer the work is to God and the more attentive to natural simplicity.” 8° What Andreae imagined the agriculture of Abraham and Isaac to have been is not disclosed. The educational reforms of Comenius are presaged in Andreae’s ideal city, even as the pictures of scientific matter writ large on the walls of Campanella’s City of the Sun were repeated in Comenius’ Orbis Sensualium Pictus. The goals of education were first to teach the worship of God, then to instill the virtue of

chastity, finally to develop intellectual prowess. As in the City of the Sun,

306 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA | - competitiveness and striving were encouraged; the pupils had to exert themselves to learn. Schools were airy, sunny, and decorated with pictures. Teachers were directed to acquire a sense of the individual psychological character of the children in their charge, and praise or disgrace were the instrumentalities that replaced the scourge, now restricted to exceptional cases. As corporal punishment of children was virtually banished among advanced utopian thinkers from Andreae and Comenius through Rousseau and Fourier, shaming was substituted—the replacement of physical by psychic pain as a desperate last resort. Teachers in contemporary schools, who were the dregs of society, were attacked by Andreae for raining blows upon their pupils instead of displaying generosity and kindness. Andreae may have been drawing on personal experience when he wrote that those who had suffered indignities at the hands of schoolmasters bore witness with bodies enfeebled for the rest of their lives. The training of girls did not exclude learning, though much of their effort was devoted to domestic art and science; girls as well as boys studied Hebrew, Greek, and Latin. Andreae would not drop ancient languages from the curriculum, but he voiced the Lutheran argument against excessive emphasis upon this branch of knowledge: God understands the vernacular well enough. The summit of happiness was to be able, with one and the same effort, to preserve the safety of the republic and secure the future life, and education was the key to both. ‘The children which we bear here, we may find to our satisfaction have been born for the heavens as much as for the earth.’”’4° An idea has been _ introduced that will have great potency in secularized versions of utopia. | ‘Happy and very wise are those who anticipate here on earth the firstlings of a life which they hope will be everlasting.” *! Christian renovation was dependent upon the integration into a whole of the benign efforts of men, which were now divided into autonomous parts. Upon

his penetration of the innermost shrine of Christianopolis, Cosmoxenus learned that the truly religious man would not sever connections with things human and adopt a theology directed only toward the divine. Nor would he exercise power and rule without the check of Christianity. Nor would he imitate those learned men who, instead of seeking truth for the sake of God and men, were motivated primarily by vanity and self-love. In the real world there was discord because of the separation of divinity, sovereign rule, and knowledge into compartments; in the ideal city there was concordia. ‘‘Christian-

ity . . . conciliates God with men and unites men together, so that they piously believe, do good deeds, know the truth, and finally die happily to live eternally.”’ ?

Dynastic wars made more vicious by religious differences had brought about a world in disintegration. Andreae’s brotherhood of the learned and the Christian societies he founded were the instrumentalities he hoped to use to propagate a belief in the new unity. Where Wallenstein’s troops struck, men were reduced to an animalian state without rule, godliness, or knowledge. The Continental wars of the seventeenth century awakened men of virtually every religion in Europe to the disaster of the major Christian schism, and the English Civil War soon revealed the fragmentation of religion into literally hundreds of rival sects. The Christian utopia of Andreae answered to an anguished longing for a restored unity, without which there could be no renovation as Christian energies spent themselves in bloody internecine strife. A gulf sepa-

ANDREAE, PASTOR OF CHRISTIANOPOLIS 307 rates More’s utopia, composed on the eve of the Reformation, from the seventeenth-century religious utopias, whose main purpose was to put the pieces together again into a new whole.

Theoria and Praxis It is common to stress the Christology and theocentrism of Luther and to belittle his social and ethical concerns. The attacks on the peasants and his sum-

mons to the princes, along with his bitter hostility to Muntzer and what he came to represent, support this interpretation. In the seventeenth century the pietist resurgence within Lutheranism hoped to obliterate the false dichotomy between social doctrines and the quest for personal salvation. Through his writings and ministry Andreae strove to bridge the chasm between inner religious consciousness and overt social behavior, and to make utopian renovation an integral part of the Lutheran creed. Often he suffered the despair of failure as invading armies destroyed what he had built and left parishes desolate. In his youth, Andreae had been greatly impressed by Calvinist Geneva, and the aging Lutheran could still write a panegyric to its social order, much as his dogmatic beliefs differed from its religious doctrines. While I was at Geneva, I noted something of great moment which I will remember with nostalgia till the end of my days. Not only does this city enjoy a truly free political constitution; it has besides, as its particular ornament and means ot discipline, the guidance of social life. By virtue of the latter, all the mores of the citizens and even their slightest transgressions are examined each week, first by neighborhood supervisors, then by the aldermen, and finally by the senate itself, according to the gravity of the case or the obduracy and insolence of the offender . . . The resultant moral purity does so much honor to the Christian religion, is so consistent with it and so inseparable from it, that we should shed our bitterest tears that this discipline is unknown or completely neglected in our circles; all men of good will ought to labor for its restoration. Indeed, if

religious differences had not made it impossible for me, the harmony of faith and morals at Geneva would have bound me there—and so from that time I have striven with all nty energy to provide the like for our churches.*

After his rehabilitation Andreae had turned his Lutheranism outward to the reconstruction of church order and to eradicating social evil in his province. He had once poured forth works of theory, especially in the productive decade following his marriage, on the theme of the Christian as pilgrim in this world. To the traditional metaphor of the two books, Andreae’s pilgrim had added the Book of Life and the Book of Conscience. In his Autobiography, Andreae wrote with an epigrammatic scratch about the necessity of relating theory and practice, excoriating those who led corrupt lives while they preserved dogmatic purity: “‘theoria quidem limpidissima, praxis vero lutulentissima est, doctrina integerrima, vita corruptissima.”’ “4 Christ said to Peregrinus, “Know that you cannot have my book without my Cross.” Descartes and the great mathematical astronomers and physicists tried to divide the realm of the sacred from that of the profane. The Pansophist Lutherans bore witness to the reli- gious impossibility of separating the two worlds of power and knowledge. They would deny that this divorcement had ever been Luther’s intent; and in any event, the renovation of Lutheran doctrine required the integration of the secular and spiritual kingdoms. Campanella’s prescriptions of unity in the Ci-

308 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA , vitas Solis, though written to further the advancement of a different religious creed, were adapted by the Lutheran Pansophists. For all his concern with social practice, Andreae’s Christian myth (his term) was not a blueprint for a future reality in the commonsensical meaning of the word. The Christianopolis was perhaps the purest version of the myth, once presented in another form in his Turbo, Though the Lutheran Andreae wove a social gospel into the fabric of his ideal city, unlike Campanella he could not conceive of this earthly world as turning into a paradise. Forever each person had to live through the Christian experience of doubt and despair, before his individual discovery of Christ. Andreae’s Christian communist society was not a project for immediate implementation, nor was it a prefiguration of a millennial state; it was the image of an ideal that might move Christians to strive for the improvement of Christian daily life. Even in its ultimate perfection the Societas Christiana was to be under a secular head, a Lutheran Chris-

tian prince. Though the members of Andreae’s group were committed to work for the betterment of the age by conjuring up prospects of a more pious city, there is no proposal in the writings of the mature Andreae for a leap into a perfect society. He had become suspicious of charismatic experience. Ever

| since More, utopias have been disavowed by their inventors when the powder of violent action has spread its acrid smell around them. Individual utopians | can be set into a spectrum: At one end are the militant reformers red hot with the expectation of instant fulfillment of their schemes, at the other end the visionaries whose dreams, though they may affect human conduct to some degree, were never meant to be realized in this vale of tears. The mature Andreae intended his Christianopolis to remain a paradigma. In his younger days he may have been more sanguine. Andreae’s ideas are still alive among present-day Rosicrucians and theosophists and in some faint degree among Freemasons. To approach God through inquiries into the secrets of the macrocosm both spiritual and physical, to be undertaken by a Christian brotherhood, led to the idea of a universal republic of science. The brotherhood and the Christian city bore witness that man, in imitation of his Creator, was capable of mastering chaos, of celebrating spirit and its capacities. Andreae posed the problem for the German Enlightenment: How does man order and spiritualize his earthly existence? Those of his utter_ ances that could be interpreted as evangelical optimism were later picked up by major thinkers of the eighteenth century—Thomasius, Lessing, and above all Herder, who translated and revived a number of Andreae’s works at a time

when he had been virtually forgotten in the German world. In seventeenthcentury England, however, echoes of Andreae were more commonly heard —in Samuel Gott’s Nova Solyma, for example. There are references to Andreae’s thought in Hartlib’s correspondence with Boyle in 1647, and the religioscientific admixture of the Christianopolis was not alien to the first generations

of the Royal Society.* It fortified the message of the New Atlantis.

[2 Comenius and His Disciples

DESPITE HIS DERISION of other hierophants, it was the fate of Comenius to build

a baroque system of the same order, with one major difference—it was open, and all men, according to their capacities, could acquire the knowledge he freely dispensed. He invented neologisms as clumsy as those he mocked, and compiled volumes that were keys to foreign languages, that instructed men in

wisdom, in the art of teaching, in ecumenical religion, in the science of all things. But before his death he suffered the same contempt that he had once heaped on the Rosicrucians. However obstinate his denials, his own roots were in the works of mystagogues close to those who had first fabricated the arcana of Christian Rosencreutz. Comenius picked up where Andreae had left off, and through one project after another tried to realize the Rosicrucian ideal of universal renovation. Millenarian prophets replaced Rosicrucian alchemists as the active agents of reform. The vast storehouse of his writings was a mixed bag—a contemporary called them a farrago.' One finds in his works insights of genius, practical educational plans of immediate applicability that reveal a knowledge of children and men, but also much sheer nonsense and a great utopian’s jungle profusion of plans whose density would not be equaled again until the nineteenth century.

The Moravian Exile Born on March 28, 1592, in Comnia, Moravia, he was called Johann in memory of the Johann Hus who was burned in 1415 in Constance, his ashes strewn over the Rhine. It was the custom of the faithful who traced their origins to Hus to name the second child Johann. In the seventeenth century the Moravian Brethren were close to the Lutheran Evangelicals and Komensky (Comenius) was sent away to be educated in the Protestant universities of Herborn and Heidelberg. Upon his return to his native land he became a teacher, then administrator, and finally a bishop. He married, sired children, saw his family wiped out by the plague, remarried, fathered more children. In the Battle of the White Mountain in 1620 the Bohemian forces were defeated by the Catholic League, and the years of exile began. First the Brethren of the Unity, as they were called, found a refuge in Leszno in Poland; from Poland Comenius went on missions to England, Sweden, back to Poland, then to Hungary, then back to Leszno again. The Moravian refugees were supported by Protestant, mostly Lutheran, donations. When in 1656 Leszno was ravaged and burned, piles of Comentus’ manuscripts were destroyed. His final haven was the home of the de Geer family in Amsterdam, where he spent the last fourteen years of his life, published a collection of his long-winded repetitive works, the Opera Didactica Omnia, and prepared the manuscript of his De Rerum Humanarum Emendatione Consultatio Catholica (General Consultation on an Improvement of All Things 309

310 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA |

in Halle.” | Human), a utopian legacy of mammoth proportions. The full version of the Consultatio, completed in 1666, was not printed in its entirety until three hundred years later, after having been buried away in the library of an orphanage

What was published in Comenius’ lifetime was only a small portion of his accumulated works, comprising 450 items, according to a recent Czech bibliography. The seven-part system of the Consultatio consists of a Panegersia (Universal Awakening), Panaugia (Universal Dawning), Pansophia (Universal Wisdom), Pampaedia (Universal Education), Panglottia (Universal Language), Panorthosia (Universal Reform), Pannuthesia (Universal Admoni-_

tion), the first and last sections being largely hortatory.? Even though unacquainted with these manuscripts, learned contemporaries throughout Europe knew by word of mouth of his plan to inculcate universal wisdom in all men capable of receiving it, using a universal language as a mechanism and an encyclopedia as a repository, with the eventual goal of a reformation of all mankind in a Christian spirit. Translations of Comenius’ didactic works into Arabic were made in Aleppo, and there are stories of renderings into Polish, Turkish, and “‘Mongolian.”’ He became the educator of the American Indian when his textbooks were introduced into Harvard, where an Indian college

had been established.‘ ,

Comenius had the utopian passion that Charles Fourier in the early nineteenth century labeled “‘unityism,” and he lamented the ‘‘Scientiarum laceratio” that paralleled the tragic political and religious fragmentation of Europe. , Metaphysicians hum to themselves only, Natural Philosophers chaunt their own ,

praises, Astronomers lead on their dances for themselves, Ethical Thinkers set up laws for themselves, Politicians lay foundations for themselves, Mathematicians triumph for , themselves, and for themselves Theologians reign . . . We see that the branches of a tree cannot live unless they all alike suck their juices from a common trunk with common roots. And can we hope that the branches of Wisdom can be torn asunder with safety to their life, that is to truth? Can one be a Natural Philosopher who is not also a Metaphysician? or an Ethical Thinker who does not know something of Physical Science? or a Logician who has no knowledge of real matters? or a Theologian, a Jurisconsult, or a Physician, who is not first a Philosopher? or an Orator or Poet who is not all things at once?®

But Comenius was aware that, no matter how compelling the need, unity in __ any sphere of endeavor could not be established by fiat and had to recognize

, diversity. He was realistic about Christianity’s minority position in the world, assigning it only a sixth of the known regions of the earth, while the Moham~ medans had a fifth and the heathens nearly two-thirds, and he reached the conclusion that amid such a host of religions, unity, peace, and love among men

could be attained only through liberty, consent, and harmony, not through coercion. ‘‘But the World will then onely be happy, when it shall once become Universal, that is as large as the very Universe itself; and mens minds like to Truth itself, noble and free, and not narrow, but large spirited and diffusive,

- like the infinite Creators, who would have all men to be saved, and that by persuasion, and not force, because impossible.”’®

In 1623 Comenius had written in Czech a guide to the perplexed for his sorely tried brethren, The Labyrinth of the World and the Paradise of the Heart, the

double title representing the two phases of a Christian utopia. In a spirit of

COMENIUS AND HIS DISCIPLES 311 ecumenism he included in the book episodes in which both More and Campanella figured, and symbolized his irenic conception of Christianity by a great

church with many different sectarian chapels on all sides. The Labyrinth opened wita a wanderer’s description of the miseries and deceptions of the marker lace in an allegorical city, the anti-utopia, followed by a portrayal of the state of eupsychia he attained after the discovery of the divine spark of light in his own soul, the true paradise of the heart. Scholars have praised the beau-

ties o: this pilgrim’s progress in its original version; the subtleties have not been communicated in translation. Comenius had labored for almost a decade on this record of self-revelation and conversion, which became a book of consolation for Moravian expatriates. As Comenius’ stranger roamed through the city he encountered groups of pretenders to truth and wisdom, each of whom he satirized—scholars, philosophers, Rosicrucians, doctors, jurists, rival religious disputants, sybarites, men of power and fame. The thirteenth chapter, devoted to the secretive Rosicrucians, ridiculed their claim to the possession of an elixir, their promises of long life, their preachings of universal brotherhood and happiness. The stranger told how, of a sudden, thousands descended upon the Rosicrucians to purchase

their wisdom in packages labeled Portae sapientiae, Fortalitium scientiae, Gymnasium universitatis, Bonum macro-micro-cosmicon, Harmonia utriusque cosmi, Christiano-cabalisticum, Antrum naturae, Arx primaterialis, Divino-magicum, Tertrinum catholicum, Pyramis triumphalis, Hallelujah, and other windy combinations. When the packages were opened, they turned out to be empty. The buyers were then informed that only adepts of the secret

knowledge had access to the mysteries. ,

By the time he was fifty, Comenius was a major figure in the Protestant world, the propagator of a complete system of knowledge that he called Pansophia and a new pedagogy to implement its precepts. England, the Netherlands, Sweden, East Prussia, Hungary were way stations from which he diffused his ideas. His reputation led to a story that he had been asked to accept the presidency of Harvard College. Cotton Mather later recorded in Book IV of the Magnalia his disappointment that the invitation to “illuminate this Colledge and country”’ had been refused: ‘“The solicitations of the Swedish Ambassador, diverting him another way, that incomparable Moravian became not an American.” *

Comenius was torn between the demands of patrons interested in his practical didactic work and the adulation of true disciples, who saw all this activity as a waste of his genius on tasks that any schoolteacher could accomplish, while the great work for which he was ordained languished. When they snatched bits of manuscript away and printed them he was both nettled and pleased. In Swe-

den, Chancellor Axel Oxenstierna paid him to develop his practical educational writings and produce textbooks, but was far less enthusiastic about the universalist fancies of Pansophia.® Ecumenical affairs in Lithuania and Poland, proselytizing ventures among skeptical potentates, the devastations of war, in-

volvements with prophets whom he sheltered and whose visions he transcribed, interrupted work on his grand design for the reformation of the world; but he always reverted to it. His life was consumed in money-raising in

behalf of his Moravian brethren, in stately appearances before Protestant princes, to whom he became the symbol of persecution by Catholic powers.

312 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA To all who would listen he proffered his voluminous system of knowledge, human and divine, as the guiding light in the wilderness, the revelation that would save Christian civilization from destruction by the Turks and by the internecine, fractricidal wars of European sovereigns. What is perhaps most difficult to understand is that ambassadors attended his sermons even during the peace conferences of warring powers. Comenius at Breda is almost as anomalous a figure as Robert Owen at the Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle—and yet both were allowed to deliver their utopian messages. In Holland in 1642 Comenius met with Descartes, who uttered polite words of praise for the monumental projects, but unless Comenius was completely

| blinded by his own enthusiasm he must have noticed from the outset that a chasm separated Pansophia, which sought to amalgamate all science and religion into an integrated whole, from Descartes’s carefully circumscribed demarcation of the boundaries between rational philosophy and faith.? Comenius could never have accepted Descartes’s absolute separation of philosophical mechanical studies from the study of divinity. Both took place in the mind and body of the same man. Nor was all knowledge dependent upon external sense impressions. The divinity in every man was itself creative because it partook, even if only in a minute degree, of the divine creative nature. In the last decades of his life, Comenius attacked Descartes as the major philosophical enemy because of his false conception of man, especially his isolation of the cognitive element in human nature. Comenius’ man was an integral whole, Descartes would break him up into segments. What were dreams if not free creations of the autonomous inner man? Comenius asked. He was not aware, of course, of Descartes’s three dreams on the night of November 10, 1619, which by his own interpretation, allegorical and analogical, had announced the discovery of the cogito. Perhaps the feeling for history and tradition that the later Pansophists preserved represents the major contrast with Descartes, the archdenigrator of the historical. For Leibniz, history would be one of the repositories of the infinitely varied forms of existence. Comenius assimilated the past in a similar spirit in his own turgid writings, as he indiscriminately heaped up citations from the scholarship of the previous two centuries, all pointing to the

solution of Pansophia. ,

From an initial Janua linguarum reserata, anew method of teaching Latin, Comenius had jumped to the conception of a total Pansophia, a Janua rerum reserata. Like many utopian projectors, he was driven by the need to make his general plan known immediately, as soon as it was conceived. His most ambitious designs were presented in provocative outline form long before they had been thought through, and they were accompanied by pleas for economic or political help to complete the project. Maecenas or prince was needed to sustain the holy work. The learned of all nations were summoned to join in collaboration because the task was beyond the capacities of any one man. Comenius the prospectus-writer was not ashamed to confess his ignorance in many areas of knowledge. What he wanted for himself was control of the overall enterprise. A wish, a glint in the utopian eye, becomes an easy reality. If

, one can conceive of the idea why should it not be brought to pass? With long dry intervals, Comenius was engaged on the Consultatio for thirty-three years. Pieces of his plan were written out, portions of manuscript were even printed. Collections of papers were lost, destroyed, rewritten. The

COMENIUS AND HIS DISCIPLES 313 imagination of a few men caught fire. The Hartlib circle in London—John Gauden, John Dury, Joachim Htibner, Theodore Haak, John Pell, Gabriel Plattes—wrote treatises in a Comenian spirit and persuaded Parliament to invite Comenius to England with the intention of having him found a Pansophic college in London, in Thomas More’s Chelsea, perhaps. When wars and revolutions wiped out Comenius’ prospects, the wanderer started over again, strengthened by an inner illumination, a conviction of inevitable success, reassured by millenarian and political prophecies. Though he promised the Swedish Chancellor Oxenstierna pedagogic guidance for schools, Comenius felt weighed down by the practical didactic tasks for which he was most famous and he spoke of them resentfully as a heavy yoke. He failed to fulfill his prosaic | obligations as he got swept away by the grand design or by ecumenical religious negotiations that unfailingly ended in fiascoes. Collaborators never proved adequate, printing problems continually plagued him, and he was discontent with what came off the press. Ultimately a few hundred copies of a Novissima Linguarum Methodus, or Analytical Didactic, appeared in a Leszno edi-

tion of 1648, a mere foretaste of the banquet of Pansophia that was always in the offing. In the Consultatio Comenius consciously cannibalized Renaissance and earlier seventeenth-century scholarship. He listed twenty-five of his predecessors

from the world of learning whom he had fitted into the universal synthesis. Despite the reverence for Comenius aroused in recent years by the belated publication of the Consultatio, it remains what most of his writings are: outlines, sketches, projects that have a grand architectural symmetry and express the fantasy wishes of Christian Pansophia, but often consist of mere chapter and section headings. The contents tend to be skimpy—old Comenian slogans and catchwords repeated, suggestive neologisms—and like any skeletal framework they do not fulfill the expectations he aroused. Often they are dry bones that modern commentators have covered with alien flesh. Only on occasion does the passion of the religious seeker after a Christian Pansophia erupt in a moving prayer: “O Lord, give us the true Philosophy; give us pure Religion; give us a peaceful Polity! So that wisely, piously, serenely, we can live in the present age, then be borne aloft to You, and dwell with You in Your blessed eternity without end! . . . O Lord, have mercy on the age! Do not despise the

works of Your hands!’’ !° |

In the end, Comenius remains the disseminator of earlier ideas in the Pansophic movement, a synthesizer and structure-builder rather than an inventor of new conceptions. By now it has become possible to divest him of his often obfuscatory private language and to appreciate the manner in which he wove together strands from Bruno, Bacon, Campanella, and Andreae into one grandiose system. For Comenius there was no contradiction between a belief in the imminent end of the world and the active launching of Pansophic projects for gathering knowledge of the real world in colleges and for the writing of encyclopedias of all things. Through exegesis of biblical texts validation could be found for the idea that the fullness of knowledge and the millennium would occur more or less simultaneously. Comenius made the conjuncture explicit. ‘There was born on my hands a tractate with the title “Via Lucis’ [The Way of Light], that is, a reasonable disquistion in what manner the intellectual light of souls, Wisdom, may now at last, at the approaching eventide of the world, be

314 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA. | happily diffused through all minds and peoples. This for the better understanding of those words of prophecy in Zachariah 14.v.7: ‘But it shall come to pass, that at evening time it shall be light.’”’™

Teaching All to All The origin of evil lay in the individual quest for pleasure and the failure to seek universal harmony. In the present corrupted world, from the earliest years of man’s education, knowledge was an egotistic goal that served human pride. In

the harmony of the All, wisdom would become a general duty. It was not enough that a man labored for the salvation of his own soul or individual illumination; knowledge had to bear fruit for others. Among many sects, the dan-

gerous idea was ingrained from childhood that those in most need of light were outside the circle of the brethren and should be denied admission to the church. Pansophia conceived of mankind as a whole. It was at once a politia, a philosophia, and a religio, Comenius taught in the Prodromus, a unifying principle that brought all men within its orbit and excluded no one. Comenius’ chosen instrumentality for inculcating a spirit of voluntary obedience in all members of the Christian commonwealth was education made attractive, and for most people he remains primarily an educational utopian. The course of life in the ideal Christian republic was open to talent, and spiritual leadership fell to those who had a natural vocation for it. The others, ac-_ cording to the gospel laid down in the Great Didactic, were not taught beyond their needs and capacities. And even though the higher forms of education were accessible to women, as a rule they would be excluded from exalted stud- , ies. If there was a careful regulation of pleasure in his utopia, hardship and pain in training were not extolled as salutary. The learning process was to be gradual and easy, chastisement rare and never brutal—Comenius too recalled his boyhood schools as ‘‘slaughterhouses.”’* As in Andreae’s Christianopolis, under the new system teachers would strive to uncover and understand the concealed, inborn characters of their charges, in order to be able to guide them effectively. The careful gradation of learning from concrete, immediate things to the complex and the abstract was an imitation of the divine chain of being. Wherever Comenius’ system was instituted in some degree, there was a revo-

lutionary departure from learning by mere rote. A measure of educational re- , form was perhaps the most enduring achievement of the seventeenth-century

Pansophic utopians. , , In the Pansophic utopia spiritual power in society was acknowledged as

manifestly superior over its ancient temporal rival, and both were vested in the same bodies. The rulers were to be philosopher-kings, or an aristocracy of scientist-priests governing a virtual theocracy. It was taken for granted that spiritual power was to be founded upon scientific knowledge as the Pansophists understood it. Though Comenius once possessed a copy of Copernicus’ famous work in manuscript, he never committed himself to the heliocentric hypothesis.'* The great scientific geniuses of the seventeenth century would not have accepted either Comenius’ philosophy of nature or his theosophy into their experimental world. Like many of his predecessors, he talked of the new science without mastering it. Comenius aimed to raise the intellectual, moral, and religious level of man-

COMENIUS AND HIS DISCIPLES 315 kind. His ideal was not mechanically egalitarian, since men were not equally endowed with capacities for development. The climax of the plan is a call for the full education of the whole of humanity challenged to the utmost limits of its potentialities, “not any one individual, nor a few, nor even many, but all men together and each singly, young and old, rich and poor, noble and lowly,

men and women... in a word, everyone who happens to be born a human. . .”’!* The insistent rhetoric is repeated over and over again as the schoolmaster Comenius hammers away in the Pampaedia. Man was created all potentiality. Education had to fashion him so that he became as perfect a being as possible. His formation, however, was not to be limited to the development of skills and the acquisition of factual knowledge about the external world, significant as these might be. The main concern was always moral and religious perfectibility, else the accumulation of mere sensate knowledge would sow chaos. The prime mover in every man is a creative spark related to divinity. Conscience is an active force that defines a man, and its fostering is the prime duty of the teacher. If the educational ideal is realized, the world will become

utopia, “full of order, light, and peace.” If not, individuals will degenerate and the world will be the nightmare Comenius experienced during his harrowing years as a victim of plundering armies in the Thirty Years’ War. Man could disintegrate into nonman if the force of education were not exerted as a counterpoise.'® “‘Bring light and he will straightway see.” !” While there are outlines for government institutions, these are not the central focus of the Comenian utopia. Real power is in the hands of the teacher, who can kill or make alive. This awesome capacity should not, however, breed in him overweening pride, for the master remains a servant, not a lord, of the inborn nature of his charge.*® It is not his role to transform the quintessential nature that is put before him, but to cultivate it. Access to inner man is through

the senses, not reasoning, and surely not the reiteration of stock phrases. Everything that is to be learned should be placed insofar as possible before the senses, and if the objects themselves are not available the master ought to obtain copies or models.’® Even abstract concepts could be reduced to images— an idea not original with Comenius, as the numerous Renaissance iconographic manuals will testify. The purpose of everything taught is to be made immediately evident to the student in terms of its practical value for daily life. In his zeal to relate ail things taught to definite ends, Comenius would occasion-

ally lapse into derogation of the term utopia itself and write negatively of Plato. ‘““The pupil should understand that what he learns is not taken out of some Utopia or borrowed from Platonic Ideas, but is one of the facts which surround us, and that a fitting acquaintance with it will be of great service in life.”’?° And yet he clearly cuts a utopian page from Campanella’s City of the Sun when he advises the teacher to display on the school walls abstracts of all books used in class and to illustrate their contents with pictures.2! Matter presented should be entertaining as well as practical.

On the other hand, as a popular educator Comenius was not writing an Emile for a single tutee or a Telemachus for a prince. He was providing for mass

education and numbers in the classroom did not frighten him. He resorted to homely analogies: “As a baker,’’ he writes in the Great Didactic, ‘‘makes a large quantity of bread by a single kneading of the dough and a single heating of the oven, as a brick-maker burns many bricks at one time, as a printer prints hun-

316 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA dreds of thousands of books from the same set of type, so should a teacher be able to teach a very large number of pupils at once and without the slightest

inconvenience.”’* In the Pampaedia Comenius faced up to the question whether nobles and commoners should be allowed to mingle in the ideal schools of his imagination.”* For a moment he hedged, remembering the bibli-

cal example of David, who entrusted Solomon to Nathan to be privately reared. But pedagogic egalitarianism finally triumphed. Since it was not certain that in biblical times there were public schools of the type he proposed, the Israelite precedent was not binding, and he wondered whether the time was at hand when the Isaian prophecy would be realized and the calf and the young

lion would lie down together. , If Comenius’ universalism faltered for a moment at the crossing of class lines, he was not in doubt about the need to liberate barbarous peoples from the shackles of their barbarity through enlightenment. “‘No strange skill is called for. If man is but raised from barbarism, i.e., from brutalizing conditions, and transferred to where he has the opportunity to perceive different things with his senses, to study different things with his reason, and to learn from report or history of different things beyond his purview, then we shall

-soon see brutes made into men and Anacharses born even in Scythia.’ Human nature was one, what one wanted all wanted, and to know one was to know all.”° Pansophia preached the conversion of the heathens. They should not be forsaken in their benighted condition, for one sick limb easily affected another and the dangers to the whole human race were palpable.”® Long before Leibniz concerned himself with the Chinese, Comenius hailed the success of the Jesuit missionaries at the court of Shun Chih. In appreciation of their widespread achievements in conversion, Comenius cannily decided not to attack frontally either the Jesuits or the papacy, but to cajole them into accepting Pansophic principles. “If we win them we win the whole world.’’?” The Comenian educational utopia embraced all humans at all stages. ‘‘The | whole of his life is a school for everyman, from the cradle to the grave.’’?8 Except for the paradise of the elect in heaven, no previous utopia had broken down barriers of sex, age, class, ethnic status, to fling open the gates to knowl_ edge. Comenius may have hesitated about the equality of intellectual endowments in nature, but he never retreated from his conviction that all persons could be developed to the uttermost limits of their capacities. He would make of the school, and by extension the world, a “‘little Paradise, full of delights.’’*®

As the world was drawing to an end—it was on the threshold of eternity—it , was ordained that it return full circle to the lost paradise, even if imperfectly.*° At the beginning of the fourth stage of the Pansophia, he quoted Campanella to support his theory that all things were founded in nature and no one could be a good artisan, or doctor, or theologian, or statesman, who was ignorant of its

| laws.*' Youths would enter the theatre of the world and penetrate the secrets of nature so that they moved among the works of God and the works of man with open eyes.” In the Panorthosia Comenius evoked the academic utopia of a

supreme college of light, uniting all colleges of learned men, for the eternal

Father of Light Himself called them to join in the community of light. Though scholars have found in Comenius’ Labyrinth of the World and Paradise of the Heart not only the general idea-system of Andreae but whole passages from the Peregrini in Patria Errores, the Civis Christianus, the Reipublicae

COMENIUS AND HIS DISCIPLES 317 Christianopolitanae Descriptio, such transmission was not plagiarism in any present-day sense. After Andreae had freed himself from the mystification of the Rosicrucian escapade and founded a Societas Christiana of men of good

will who were joined in brotherhood to propagate Christian love and the knowledge of all things, Comenius wrote to him asking to be enrolled in the brotherhood. Andreae, sounding weary of the world, passed his mantle on to Comenius, who in return attempted to comfort his spiritual master. A long excerpt from Andreae opened Comenius’ Opera Didactica Omnia of 1657, and he proudly announced his divine appointment to carry on Andreae’s mission.*

But though Comenius’ acknowledgment of discipleship was made often enough, at one point their relationship had undergone a severe trial. Andreae in his preface to the Brunswikische Evangelische Kirchenharmonie (1646) referred to

some who in contempt of Luther were “sowing the infelicitous tares of Scholastic Pansophy,”’ a remark that roused the ire of Comenius, the proud Czech and Pansophic philosopher.*” He struck back in a letter of August 22, 1647, saying that he had never sown in Luther’s or Calvin’s field but derived his Reformation from Bohemia’s son, Hus.*® The quarrel was patched up and Comenius accepted an explanation that no insult had been intended. Andreae had by that time abandoned the arena of active combat in behalf of universal refor- , mation, while Comenius was to die a believer in the mission formulated by his forerunners Bacon, Campanella, and Andreae, whom he called ‘‘Philosophiae restauratores gloriosos.’”’*”

Though Comenius praised Bacon’s method of induction as useful for the discovery of the secrets of physical nature and recommended the study of ‘‘whatsoever comes to passe of its owne accord by those dispositions implanted in things,’®® there were important parts of Pansophia not derived from nature. He set ‘‘art” in a place of primacy; by art he meant nothing aesthetic, but whatever was emcompassed by human industry, a sector of knowl-

, edge that included thoughts, words, and actions. Knowledge of art was the uniquely human province. “Things are knowne as they are, when they are knowne according as they were made,” *® a dictum that might have sprung out of Vico’s New Science (though Vico, to our knowledge, was unacquainted with the writings of Comenius). But things could be made only in accordance with a proper idea of them, and art, which is human, borrows the ideas of its works

from nature, which in turn derives them from God, who “hath them onely from himselfe.”’ #° Comenius had spent some of his younger years as an artisan and conceived of human activity in artisan terms. The artisan first had an idea of his work and then he created it. In his educational system Comenius would have the teacher and child repeat

the relationship that obtained in any original discovery or invention. The pupil-teacher bond was akin to that of an apprentice and a master artisan, and a discovery somehow imitated God’s way with nature. When Leibniz, fascinated with the art of invention, tried to persuade the great scientists to record down

to the minutest detail how they had chanced upon a new discovery, he was attempting to gain insight into the divine act of creation through thinking by _ analogy with an artisan who invents a new technique. Reading these reflections one thinks primarily in utilitarian terms, as if Leibniz were only searching for some principle of creativity or for a mechanical way of accelerating the advancement of scientific knowledge. In the world of Pansophia to which

318 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA Leibniz and Comenius belonged separate compartments did not exist. To invent was to imitate on an infinitesimal scale the act of God in creating .the world. “‘For seeing an Idea,” wrote Comenius in an early Latin version of Pansophia, translated into English as A Reformation of Schooles, ‘1s a certaine rule of

things, God cannot bee thought to doe any thing without Idea’s, that is, without a certaine rule, as who is of himselfe the rule of all rules: So likewise Nature when she effects most orderly workes, cannot worke without a rule; as neither

, can Art, which is natures Ape.’’*! When his English disciple Samuel Hartlib talked of any of his utopian projects as an Idea he meant it in Comenius’ sense, a formulation that in its simplicity would hardly be acceptable to an ancient or a modern Platonist, but one that was quite satisfactory to the utopian projectors of Christian Pansophia. Pansophia is the knowledge of all things, first as they are, but then, what is intrinsically more important, things as they should

and might be if addressed by human art. The fulfillment of potentiality be-

comes the driving force of the utopia.

Pansophia has nothing of the primitivist fantasy in its baggage train. While , recognizing that things, states, religions have been corrupted, in seeking to restore them Comenius envisions an ideal state that is not a primitivist paradise, but paradise altered through human art. Art imitates the secrets of nature, but

is itself not primitive nature. The Comenian utopia, which was born in libraries and schools and princely courts, was urban. The artisan transforming a natural object was the utopian. In pursuit of his craft he studied nature, learned God’s way, and labored to produce new forms for his brethren. The universe had an order and in imitating that order society should move from the known to the unknown, from the simple to the complex, in slow and easy steps. At each stage in time in the ideal school system it is possible to communicate knowledge of the whole universe and of all things in it to all men. The mode and difficulty and vantage point may change year by year throughout the school curriculum and then through life. The formula that all things can be taught to all men was not understood in a literal sense; its fundamental

principle survived, however, since it was taken for granted that the level of complexity would vary with age and different natural capacities. Victim of the Prophets

Comenius has become a saintly figure in the Slavic world, communist and noncommunist. He can be secularized and transformed into a popular hero who suffered from the persecutions of the Catholic Counter-Reformation in Bohemia, an educator who believed in the educability of all men and women. Communist theorists have been fascinated by this fervent believer in the great potentialities of most human beings. To be sure, his millenarianism and belief in the fulfillment of instant prophecies have to be expunged from his thought to make him assimilable by the atheist world. Posterity has dealt unevenly with Comenius’ reputation: The Enlightenment saw only the superstitious believer in false prophecies, the twentieth century looks upon his ardent faith in revelations as a metre foible. In reality the two apparently contradictory strains in Comenius’ thought reinforced each other. The deep Christian millenarian roots of the utopia of expanding individual human capacities are annoying only to those who would translate the rich Christian utopian corpus of West-

COMENIUS AND HIS DISCIPLES 319 ern society into purely secular terms. The seventeenth-century Pansophists could not abide by the apparently easy solution of the metaphor of the two books any more than did the major scientists. Newton could not avoid the method of scientific demonstration in interpreting Scripture. Once it was conceived that there was divinity in everyman, all his actions and thought had to be interrelated. Teilhard de Chardin is the modern who comes closest to resurrecting this seventeenth-century holism. Throughout his life, Mikulas Drabik the false prophet was Comenius’ nemesis. In the early 1660s Drabik’s prophecies continued to arouse curiosity in Protestant Europe. Nobles like Pembroke-Montgomery, even natural philosophers like Boyle and Oldenburg, were attracted by the foretellings. Men of Port Royal and the young Louis XIV made inquiries. And Comenius continued to be one of the major agents of transmission of Drabik’s visions, translating his Czech into Latin. While the elders of the Brethren of the Unity ex-

pressed doubts and misgivings, Comenius never wavered. Even when particular prophecies failed of fulfillment he remained Drabik’s outstanding defender, suffering ridicule on his account in old age. Comenius’ ties to Drabik went back to childhood and the prophet maintained a strange hold over him, sometimes treating him as a subaltern. Stories of Drabik’s debauches could not shake Comenius’ faith in the revelations. At the same time Comenius never communicated to him his own studies on ‘“‘the improvement of all things human” and candidly gave the prophet the reasons —Drabik could not keep quiet and would not understand them. But Drabik had the gift of tongues, and the very crudeness of his manuscripts vouched for their authenticity. The fact that their author himself did not understand them was no hindrance to Comenius’ belief. When Drabik was interrogated by the sober pastors of the Brethren of the Unity about what God looked like and how His heart was joined to Drabik’s heart, he pleaded ignorance of God’s

ways. When they denounced his reports of Christ’s words rendered into clumsy Latin verse, Comenius took the blame upon himself, explaining the difficulty of translating from the Czech. Ata meeting of the Brethren of the Unity on July 10, 1663, the aged seer was again warned by the elders to think on his fate should he prove to be an impostor. Defiantly Drabik affirmed the truthfulness of his experience and swore a mighty oath, which Comenius had himself composed, to confute the doubters. The whole assembly was overwhelmed and the critics ceased to enjoy the support of the Brethren. Comenius could not believe that Drabik would endanger

his soul by lying, nor could he give credence to the idea that an evil spirit spoke through him. Drabik was showered with gifts for distribution among the poor, a duty he did not always discharge. Comenius was cognizant of the weakness of his character. Though Comenius tried to dissuade him, Drabik continued to predict the impending doom of the Hapsburgs at the very time when the Turks were triumphing. Soon the charge would be made that he had summoned the Turks into Hungary, and he would be executed. On the basis of Drabik’s prophecies the imminence of the thousand-year reign had been proclaimed first for 1656, then for 1671 or 1672. Comenius did not live to be disappointed a second time. Andreae’s most recent biographer has sought to highlight a contrast between Andreae’s Christ-oriented theology, with its emphasis on the experi-

320 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA ence of conversion, and Comenius’ more optimistic view that man is an entire small world in which the whole of science is already arranged Pansophically and has only to be brought into actuality through an educational process. He argues that Comenius, unlike Andreae, is not centered on the Cross and man’s radical need for redemption. The Labyrinth of 1623 appears Christological enough, but there is a point to the contention. The unrelieved millenarianism of Comenius is alien to Andreae in his later years. Comenius resembled those classical utopians incapable of envisaging and living with a long progressus. Once the Pansophic prinicples were accepted or revealed through education,

radical evil would disappear overnight. As Comenius endured one disaster after another—fire, plague, exile, disappointment in the fulfillment of the pre-

cise political prophecies to which he was addicted—he might falter, but the | overall renovation would always be coming soon. As an active millenarian, he had a mission to hasten the day. | Comenius was a strange figure who combined rational ideas and mystical

propensities that to most men were incompatible, though less so in the seventeenth century than they would be in ours. In 1657-1658, the same years when he issued a collection of his pragmatic educational writings, including the textbook that revolutionized elementary education in many lands, the Orbis Sensualium Pictus,** there appeared Lux in Tenebris, an extensive Latin translation of the politico-millenarian prophecies of Kotter, Poniatowska, and Drabik. Comenius combined his appreciation for the learning of Western European culture with an apocalyptic vision that follows one of the traditional patterns in the Revelation of John. In the Generall Table of Europe representing the Present and Future State thereof . . . The Future Mutations, Revolutions, Government, and Religion of Christendom and of the World from the Prophecies of the three late German Prophets Kotterus, Christina, and Drabicius, an English-language version

of Lux in Tenebris, he predicted: ‘‘And then indeed to be the peaceful, illumi-

nate, Religious State of the World, and of the Church under the whole Heavens; Universal illumination of the Gentiles; the Earth to be filled with the knowledge and Righteousness of the Lord; and the kingdoms of the World to become the Kingdom of the Lord, and of his Christ; Universal Liberty, with-

out tyranny and slavery of Body and Soul; Universal Unanimity, without Wars, Quarrels, Dissension, Divisions, Schisms, sects, and Factions; In one word, Universal Righteousness, Peace, and Love, even till the time when Satan shall again break loose and trouble things: But Christ by the last and final

fire, shall destroy the circled and ungodly with the World itself.” * | Typical inventor of a utopian universal system, Comenius was a zealot who reacted violently against those who doubted him, a victim of the wars of Central Europe in the second quarter of the seventeenth century, a godly man, a practical educator with acute psychological insight, a dupe, and for men of the French Enlightenment a charlatan of the same order as the prophets who had deceived him. The reader of Pierre Bayle’s Historical and Critical Dictionary was entertained with a portrait of Comenius as a fanatical millenarian and a crook. whose pompous notions and fancy pedagogy had hood-winked trusting souls ©

into parting with their money. Herder had a more favorable estimate, and when histories of education came to be written Comenius found a respectable place as an educator who was against excessive punishments and would make learning easier by introducing pictures of things into books.** In modern times his writings have often been separated into two parts, the theosophical sections

COMENIUS AND HIS DISCIPLES 321 cast aside as aberrations of the age, the secular plans preserved as the works of a universalist reformer, a believer in the right of every man and woman to selfactualization, a savior of little children who in schools that followed his method were liberated from the stupefying blows of brutal masters.

Hartlib and the Grand Projectors Samuel Hartlib served as a bridge from Comenius to the more respectable utopians of the English Commonwealth, even if at first glance they appear to be concerned more with economic projects for the improvement of agriculture, relief of the poor, and organization of public employment offices and clearing

houses for scientific information than with the final hopes of Pansophia. Though civil war intervened and the leaders of Parliament who had invited him to England in 1641 failed to carry out their promise to found a Pansophic college, Comenius’ impress was deep on a group of Puritan “projectors” and on John Wilkins, Joseph Glanvill, and Robert Boyle. Whenever his special ad-

vocates in England, the expatriate Prussian Hartlib and the Scottish divine John Dury, turred their attention to specific reforms limited in scope, they always conceived them as parts of the great reform of mankind through Pansophia, partial fulfillments of the universal goal. Hartlib’s various ‘‘offices of address for accommodations and communications,”’ planned for the mobilization of England’s scientific and economic resources, were explicitly committed to the implementation of the grand designs of Bacon and Comenius. The English Civil War presented a golden opportunity for making the Pansophic dream a reality. Hartlib and Dury had been wholly converted to Pansophia and saw the possibility of capturing the entire realm for the doctrine. There were enough scholars in the two great universities to fill the gaps in Comenius’ knowledge, and Hartlib and Dury themselves were practical men of affairs with the energy and skill to direct the enterprise. There has been a tendency to enclose Hartlib and his group within the confines of the island where

they had settled. From the perspective of the founder of the international movement they were merely one outpost; the center was somewhere in the heart of Europe, despite the transfer of Comenius’ household to Amsterdam. The English version of Pansophia yielded a rich intellectual harvest once the

Civil War was over, even though, looked at from Comenian heights, the Hartlib dispensation was very much watered down. Except in the eyes of a few eccentrics, Comenius’ susceptibility to prophecy robbed him of credibility as soon as the commonsensical spirit of the Restoration settled over England, but during the Civil War, Hartlib as the agent of Pansophia cut no mean figure in the Cromwellian world. Economic and social projects that were, so to speak,

lateral to the existing organization of labor and intellectual life were in the hands of a circle of men who lived and functioned within the parliamentary order as it was constituted early in the Civil War. They were the sensible religious-philanthropic voice of the Pansophic utopia, practical and matter-offact, not aiming at the abrupt upheaval of existing institutional relationships. However bold their projects, their intention was to operate within the bounds of the establishment—Samuel Hartlib himself received a parliamentary appointment in 1649 as an official utopian of the Commonwealth with the title ‘Agent for the advancement of universal learning and the public good.” ® The elder Hartlib was the son of a Polish trader of German origin who had

322 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA been obliged to flee his native country when the Jesuits took control. Having settled in Elbing, Prussia, he chose for his third wife the daughter of a wealthy English merchant and thus fathered a half-English son, Samuel. The younger Hartlib took up residence in London about 1628, made frequent business visits to the Continent, and through his relatives enjoyed wide connections in English society. Lord mayors, members of Parliament, professors of both universities, nobles, rich merchants, doctors, economists, diplomats, and divines interested in the unification of the churches, ‘“‘the best of archbishops,’’ were among his acquaintances (though their number did not include Archbishop Laud, for whom ecumenical activities were mischievous).*® Milton praised Hartlib and dedicated a treatise on education to him. He was seconded in most of his projects by another “‘outsider,” John Dury, who had been reared in Holland and France and had been minister to the English company of merchants at Elbing. Dury was possessed by a passion to end religious strife, and traveled from court to court in behalf of his ideal. In one of his numerous memorials, he voiced the hope that King and Parliament would be moved to summon a general synod of Protestants for settling ‘“‘weighty matters in the Church, which now trouble not only the consciences of most men, but disturb the tranquillity of publick States, and divide the Churches one from another, to the great hindrance of Christianity, and the dishonour of Religion.’ *” That Hartlib may well have furnished the English with “intelligence from foreign parts’? does not taint the Pansophic loftiness of his purposes; anyone . who conducted a wide foreign correspondence for scientific or religious ends was likely to get enmeshed in some political intrigue.*® Henry Oldenburg (who became Dury’s son-in-law) was the target of similar charges while secretary of the Royal Society under the Restoration. For his services, Hartlib received occasional emoluments from official government sources, which he forthwith expended on one of his favorite projects for the good of mankind. He was an easy touch for inventors, especially those who knew how to make a perpetual-motion machine. *® No less a personage than Robert Boyle, congratulating him in May 1647 on an award of £300 by Parliament, praised him for his enthusiastic devotion to the new science and all its works: “You interest yourself so much in the Invisible College, and that whole society is so highly concerned in all the accidents of your life, that you can send me no intelligence of your own affairs that does not, at least relationally, assume the nature of ©

| Utopian.’’®° John Evelyn’s diary affords a glimpse of the Projector on November 27, 1655: ““Thence to visite honest & learned Mr. Hartlib, a Publique

_ Spirited, and ingenious person, who had propagated many Useful things & Arts: Told me of the Castles which they set for ornament on their stoves in Germanie (he himselfe being a Lithuanian as I remember) which are furnished

with small ordinance of silver on the battlements . . . He told me of an Inke

that would give a dozen copies . . . This Gent: was Master of innumerable Curiosities, & very communicative.” Hartlib’s contacts even extended to luminaries of the New World. In the forties he had met John Winthrop, Jr., later governor of Connecticut, during his sojourn in England, and in 1659 Winthrop wrote to him avid for news about the activities of his circle, discoveries in the celestial bodies, and perpet-

ual motion. He sensed that Hartlib was at the center of exciting intellectual events. Winthrop sought especially to know whether ‘‘that learned mr. Co-

COMENIUS AND HIS DISCIPLES 323 menius be yett living and where, and what remarkable from him etc. I mett him once; and saw a copy of a letter of his at Wedell with mr. Ristius Pastor

there wherein he mentioned that he had found out the motum perpetuum ... Iam full of more quaeries but I pray excuse me thus farr, for we are heere as men dead to the world in this wildernesse.”’ ” Pansophists like Dury appreciated the intimate connection between the expansion of commercial relations, the spread of an ecumenical Protestantism, and the dissemination of knowledge. Whenever Dury traveled he sought to convert reigning monarchs and merchants to his views. From his correspondence with Hartlib in 1636 it appears that chance encounters on voyages opened up the prospect of winning the Emperor of Russia to their side. Russia was seen as virgin territory for propagation of the faith. If the Emperor would only let them establish a school in some safe place it might become a “‘seed of learninge to convert that nation from superstition.’ *? ‘““Muscovia”’ was then conceived as an area through which they could penetrate as far as the East Indies. ‘‘Now where trade beginneth and commerce with forraine nations, there all other things may be advanced,” Dury wrote his friend.54 This was no commercial enterprise plain and simple; the propagation of true Protestant religious ideas with an ecumenical flavor, the spread of Pansophic knowledge, and the fostering of trade were all intertwined. Political or economic ends such as gaining the right to establish a colony or a settlement were always pursued with the other objectives in view. Dury’s letters to Hartlib are suffused with a millenarian passion. ‘‘Let us bee busy while wee have tyme,” he exhorted his friend, ‘‘the dayes are evill, therefore the tyme might be the more redeemed.” Hartlib constantly urged Comenius’ Pansophic and pedagogical aims upon Dury. A letter from Dury to Hartlib in 1639 illustrates the close interrelation of science and millenarian religion, cemented with shrewd practicality, in the minds of these activist disciples of Comenius. ‘‘Mr. Tassius was with mee before I went from Hamburg, wee did discourse: 1. of the general method of delivering sciences demonstra-

tively whereof I have of late had some peculiar thought, never soe come in former time into my mind, which he said he liked, because they agreed with the mathematical way of scientifical knowledge: and 2. of my demonstrative analysis of scripture, whereof he never had conceived the principles in former time .. . I have shewen the letter for the procurement of meanes towards a learned correspondence and for the maintenance of Comenius and Pansophical studyes to M. R. [Rosenkrantz], who did declare himself very affectionate to the scope and seemed not unwilling to contribute his quota. Hereafter I will see

how to come neerer home to him to try whether or noe, these appearances have reall grounds.” *®

Extravagant rumors about mysterious Christian kingdoms in the East were easily credited among the Pansophists, and science, visions of utopian states of well-being, methodized biblical exegesis, and direct prophetic revelations were harbored in the breasts of men prized by their English fellows for their down- to-earth common sense. A letter to Hartlib in May 1643 reports on a meeting with an Austrian baron named Bernard de Callen, “‘a very gallant and learned gentleman,” who had spent more than 20,000 Reichsdollars on alchemical experiments. He had brought from the Netherlands a treatise called ““Clangor Buccinae Propheticae de Novissimis Temporibus,” judged to be the best book

324 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA ever written about the reign of Christ on earth, that a French correspondent believed would be very welcome to Hartlib’s friends the English millenarians.

The Austrian baron had recounted a most wonderful tale. Two persons of quality, recently arrived from the Indies and lodged with a Dr. Haberfeld at The Hague, had disclosed the existence in the Indies of a godly society of Christians with their own king and social order, the ‘‘Societas Coronae Equestris Ordinis,”” who, unlike the Rosicrucian Brotherhood, did not indulge in “imaginary and shady”’ affectations. The two men, “‘skilled in almost all languages,” were emissaries of this Christian Commonwealth sent to survey the condition of God’s faithful who professed the Protestant religion and to offer , succor to those in need. The Societas apparently abounded in great treasures of _ gold and other riches and was capable of despatching armies for the deliverance of the godly. Since the Austrian baron narrated all this in good earnest as a certainty, Hartlib was to write to his confidants in Holland and seek confirma-_

tion from Dr. Haberfeld himself.*” The elements of which the story is composed are readily identifiable. Bacon’s New Atlanteans regularly sent spies to Europe to discover what events were transpiring there. The notion of lands with a limitless supply of gold dates from the age of exploration and was fortified by the alchemical passion for transmuting other metals that possessed Europe. Finally, the legend of Prester John of Ethiopia kept alive the idea of a blessed Christian kingdom in the East. What is remarkable about the story is that it was not allowed to rest as myth; serious men of letters set about verifying the baron’s confabulation and reported it true that there was such a kingdom comprised of seventeen or eighteen countries named for the ‘Golden Sunne.”’ Alas, the clandestine messengers from the East, after traveling through Germany, concluded that Protestants there were as wicked as other _ Christians and hastily returned home before they were infected with European

vices. *® |

Hartlib expected great things from the Parliament that opened on Novem- |

ber 3, 1640, changes that would go far beyond mere constitutional reform in the relations of King and Parliament.®® Here were godly men wielding a divine instrument: They had the power to reform education, raise material and spiritual standards throughout the realm, and then turn their attention overseas to create a union of Protestant churches. He forthwith began to publish projects for

their guidance. Some were submitted to him by friends; others were lifted from the works of Comenius or the Frenchman Théophraste Renaudot. Many of Hartlib’s fellow projectors preferred to remain anonymous, or regarded themselves merely as contributors to a common treasury of plans. When Hartlib signed his own name to another man’s work or quoted from it at length, no

one accused him of plagiarism; he made himself into a sort of collective, a stock company of designs, projects, even little utopian novels. Modern scholarship has begun to sort out the attributions of his published and unpublished papers; seventeenth-century writers did not much care. Some of his projects in turn were picked up by economists, scientists, Levellers, Fifth Monarchists, and incorporated into their pamphlets. Hartlib himself never joined any of the | sects, and his reputation for political impeccability, whoever was in power, was untarnished. Hartlib’s interest in popularizing the ideas and works of Comenius among Englishmen dates from about 1637, when he printed a treatise that was a suc-

COMENIUS AND HIS DISCIPLES 325 cinct summary of most of the strains of Pansophia: The Gate of Wisdom Opened; or the Seminary of all Christian Knowledge: being a New, Compendious, and Solid Method of Learning, more briefly, more truly, and better than hitherto, all Sciences and Arts, and whatever there is, manifest or occult, that it is given to the Genius of man to penetrate, his craft to imitate, or his tongue to speak: the author that Reverend and most distinguished man, Mr. John Amos Comenius (Conatuum Comenianorum Praeludia: Porta Sapientiae Reserata). There followed a small duodecimo volume entitled Comenius’ Harbinger of Universal Knowledge and Treatise on Education (Comenii Pansophiae Prodromus et Didactica Dissertatio), 1639.°' A flimsy traditional utopia from the Hartlib mill, A Description of the Famous Kingdome of Macaria; shewing its excellent government: wherein the inhabitants live in great prosperity, health, and happinesse; the King obeyed, the nobles honoured; and all good men respected; vice punished and vertue rewarded. An example to other nations (1641), re-

cently ascribed to Gabriel Plattes, was dedicated to Parliament. In this pedestrian dialogue, the totality of Hartlib’s ideas was presented in the fictional manner of Thomas More and Francis Bacon. More was daringly invoked by name; ordinarily, sectaries were cautious to avoid all mention of the papist, though his rhetoric echoes among them. The author composed in an optimistic vein, certain that the Long Parliament would not close its sessions before it had effectuated great reforms for the happiness of the world, and he offered his ideal state for their inspection. Between 1628 and 1635 Hartlib had been corresponding with friends about the founding of a colony in Virginia to be called Antilia, meant to be part of an Andreaean-like Societas Christiana, and projects for Antilias and Macarias occupied him for the rest of his life. The setting for Macaria (from makarios, “‘happy’’) is conventional. A traveler from Macaria encounters a scholar in the City of London, and during a walk in the country the Londoner is made acquainted with the wonders of the distant land. As if it were proposing nothing very extravagant or extraordinary, Macaria redirected the economy of a modern state, relieving Parliament of its responsibility for economic and social policies, which were transferred to five occupational corps, one each for agriculture, fisheries, trade on land, commerce on the seas, colonies. Each authority would make its own departmental laws. The land authority would tax a twentieth of all inherited property and use the revenues for agricultural improvement and roads and bridges. Macaria was a well-cultivated garden state; if anyone should persistently neglect the tillage of his land, he would lose title to it. Fisheries were expanded. Domestic trade was regulated by keeping the number of apprentices stable, increasing or decreasing the years of training as circumstances required. Foreign commerce

was grudgingly permitted only if it enriched the kingdom. Since colonies drained off excess population, emigrants were subsidized during the early years of a new settlement. There is no consideration of lofty philosophical problems of happiness, the aesthetic or moral improvement of the species man, love relations and their

antinomies, the city as a mirror of divine perfection. Macaria is a simple, regu- , lated, puritanical society for the provision of work and the creation of wealth, a bread-and-butter utopia that does not trouble itself with ideal forms. Violators of the Macarian order are punished by the confiscation of their property. The

physical health of the citizenry is cared for by colleges of doctors. Pastors have , two functions that they exercise simultaneously, the cura animarum and the cura

326 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA | corporum. Thus the Baconian priest-scientist of the New Atlantis is rehabilitated in modified form. He is no longer a remote, awe-inspiring hieratic figure, but a country doctor-pastor. Hartlib himself was always interested in techniques for

the betterment of husbandry, and the traveler from Macaria has conveniently | come to England with a new book on agricultural production whose rules, if instituted by Parliament, would make it possible to sustain double the population of England at a higher level of prosperity. The Long Parliament was occu-

pied with other matters, however.

What emerges in the Macaria is an embryonic, characteristically English utopia based upon advanced agricultural methods. There has been a marked shift from the concerns of the Pansophic soul to those of the body’s nutrition. Agricultural reform, by doubling the population, will also make England impregnable to foreign invasion. The institution of the Macarian society everywhere does not have to await Judgment Day, for the whole reformation could be realized through education in the Comenian manner. Once people were trained —and the printing press made universal education feasible and inevitable— they would no longer submit to tyrants. The scholar, who has at first listened to the tale of the man from Macaria with a measure of skepticism, when finally converted expresses a rapture that would be repeated again and again by utopians: ‘“‘I am imparadised in my minde, in thinking that England may bee made happy, with such expedition and facility.’’®’ Condorcet at the conclusion of the Tenth Epoch of the Esquisse, contemplating the future happiness of mankind, would reflect that the philosopher was already enjoying in the mind the transports of the Elysium that would be. Utopia becomes a state of feeling, and | Samuel Hartlib’s philanthropists already lived in bliss because they believed that utopia could and soon would be in England. So entranced was the scholar with the traveler’s relation that he promised to meet him again in order to hear about Macaria’s laws, customs, and manners, even if he were ill and had to be carried to their rendezvous in a sedan chair. The book closes with his assurance that the English, sensible of their own good, would soon model their land on Macaria, “‘though our neighbour Countreys are pleased to call the English a

dull Nation.” ™ ,

The underlying philosophical preconceptions of Pansophia were again expounded to Englishmen in 1642, when Hartlib translated two essays of Co- __ menius and entitled them A Reformation of Schooles. They presented the goals | of the religio-philosophico-didactic movement in language that avoided some of the more arcane and lofty theosophy and remained on the familiar ground of a golden age, albeit a spiritual one. We therefore in this present age being so well stored with experiences, as no former ages could have the like, why should we not raise our thoughts unto some higher aime?

For not onely by the benefit of Printing (which Art God seemes, not without some Mystery, to have reserved to these latter times) what soever was ingeniously invented by the Ancients (though long buried in obscurity) is now come to light: but also moderne men being stirred up by new occasions, have attempted new inventions: and Wisdome hath beene, and is daily miraculously multiplied with variety of experiments. According as God hath foretold of these latter times, Dan, 12.4. Whereunto may be added the erecting of Schooles every where more, then any Histories record of any former ages: whereby bookes are growne so common in all Languages and Nations, that even common countrey people, and women themselves are familiarly acquainted with them; whereas formerly the learned, and those that were rich, could hardly at any price ob-

COMENIUS AND HIS DISCIPLES 327 taine them. And now at length the constant endeavour of some breakes forth to bring the Method of studies to such a perfection, that whatsoever is found worthy of knowledge, may with much lesse labour, then heretofore, be attained unto. Which if it shall succeed (as I hope) and that there be an easie way discovered of teaching all men all things, I see not what should hinder us from a thankfull acknowledgement, and hearty embracing of that Golden Age of light and knowledge, which hathe beene so long fore-

told, and expected.

When Comenius arrived in England in 1642, the whole group of projectors planned for a total revamping of education in a Baconian and Comenian spirit, a restructuring of the two great universities, which were royalist strongholds and quite moribund, the building of a new urban university in London, the establishment of a national council on education, and the formation of a union of English and Continental scholars through a network of correspondence. Hartlib’s portfolio began to bulge with grand projects for a universal society of committed Christian reformers (excluding papists, of course), for scientific institutes that would draw international scholars to work on philosophical language reform, for libraries to diffuse knowledge. This tireless projector is an early example of a utopian eager to harvest immediate fruits, a type that appears rather frequently in England, the lower-keyed utopian reformer, the Fabian. Many utopian socialists of the nineteenth century, like Robert Owen, were men of entrepreneurial vision who had to begin on a small scale, as if they were exercising their skills with projects of limited scope, while awaiting the opportunity for the grand reformation of the whole world. The philosophy of projection common to the Hartlib circle was articulated in An Idea of Mathematics written by Mr. Joh. Pell to Samuel Hartlib, 1650 (bound together in London, 1651, with John Dury’s The Reformed-School: and the Reformed Librairie-Keeper):

“And this is the Idea, which I have long framed to my self, according to my fashion, with whom this passeth for an undoubted truth, that the surest waie to com to all possible excellencie in anie thing, is to propose to our selvs the perfectest Idéa’s that wee can imagine, then to seek the means tending thereto, as rationally as may bee, and to prosecute it with indefatigable diligence; yet, if the Idéa prove too high for us, to rest our selvs content with approximation.” © Hartlib started a private agricultural college to initiate on a small scale what the public magistracy would later develop for the whole realm. He was constantly preoccupied with founding companies for “‘our private & Publique Good,” designs that usually started with a society of subscribers as if they were plain business ventures; but the ultimate ideal was to encompass the nation. He was intent on working within the system, or in the interstices between existing institutions where no one’s interests would be damaged. While his eye was on the ‘‘Idea,”’ the design, and its national and even universal dimensions, he was willing to start with the small model, a private little body. He would imple-

ment utopia in easy stages. The Hartlib circle argued against those who doubted the practicality of their schemes and were naively surprised that others did not rush to join with them. They pleaded for social experimentation on a minimal basis, proving like merchant adventurers that any initial invest-

ment would be secure, refuting traditionalist objections against newness: ‘Which of all those (almost infinite) wayes or means, by which man hath been made Instrumental to the increase of his own well-being, was not in one age or other, as new as this Invention of mine doth seem to be in this?’ ®”

328 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA , In 1648 Macaria was seconded by a project entitled A Further Discoverie of the Office of Publick Addresse for Accommodations, which proposed registers of every

conceivable form of productive enterprise on one side, and on the other a list of needy persons in search of employment.® The Platonist Henry More waxed eloquent over the scheme: “Whatever is like that fruit which comes of the spirit of Christ, Tender-heartedness, equity, and common love, which in my apprehension your Office of Address do plainly tend to, I do most affection- _ ately wish may be promoted.’’® Supplementary statistics and inventories of equipment were to be gathered together in one central office, so that all economic activity in the realm, like the movements of the planets in the heavens (Hartlib’s analogy), could be charted and, if need be, directed. Doubtless the men of the Hartlib circle contributed to the “historical atmospherics’’ of the grand flowering of English science in the latter part of the century; in the ~ Commonwealth period it was the rhetoric of science that spilled over onto

, utopian social projections.” A central place to receive and give information about all commodities, an employment office, would eliminate disorder in the economy. The original idea for the Office of Public Address came from an actual commercial establishment founded in Paris, Théophraste Renaudot’s Bureau d’adresse."* Hartlib’s project won the support of William Petty, the great

English statistician and economist and one of the founders of the Royal Society, who added plans of his own to the common enterprise.” The coordinated statistical utopia would become in the eighteenth century a physiocratic dream culminating in Quesnay’s grand tableau. With the Hartlib group was born the technocratic utopia, a controlled econ- | omy organized for universal well-being. The rather primitive agrarian mechanisms of Thomas More, which required no formal regulation and would produce no more than was necessary, had been left far behind. In Hartlib’s utopia, the pursuit of science, Pansophia, was tied to technologies leading to.improve-

ment in the food supply, the increase of consumption, the maintenance of employment, and a full use of the productive forces of society for the benefit of all. The theoretical implications of this new machine geared to expanding production were not elucidated because immediate concern was still centered on _ the appeasement of hunger and the alleviation of poverty, but utopia was beginning to grapple with the complexities of a commercial manufacturing so-

ciety. The England of the projectors was starting to outgrow its agrarian

swaddling clothes. , Among Hartlib’s schemes was another central institution, an Office for

- Communications, whose province was inward things touching the souls of

| men—religion, learning, and ‘‘ingenuities’’—as the Office of Address for Accommodations was related to the conduct of outward things. The head of the , Office for Communications would know and maintain correspondence with learned men everywhere. It was one of his functions, later taken over by the © secretary of the Royal Society, to stimulate erudite men to the exercise of their | scientific faculties by suggesting new subjects for research. The head of this scientific-technical bureau was to make periodic reports to Parliament on “‘the , substance of all his discoveries” throughout the world, and his operations were to be reviewed annually by an oversight committee of professors of all sciences in both English universities as well as the heads and masters of colleges. In this way every year some stones would be added to Bacon’s structure of organized

COMENIUS AND HIS DISCIPLES 329 scientific knowledge.” “In Matters of Humane Sciences, the End of his Negotiation should be, 1. To put in Practice the Lord Verulams Designations, De Augmentis Scientiarum, among the Learned. 2. To help to perfit Mr. Comenius Undertakings, chiefly in the Method of Teaching, Languages, Sciences, and of

Ordering Schooles for all Ages and Qualities of Scholars . . . In the Matters of Ingenuity his End should be to offer the most profitable Inventions which

| he should gaine, unto the benefit of the State, that they might be Publikely made use of, as the State should think most expedient.’ Even the library system could become an agency of universal reformation. John Dury, himself appointed in 1650 Library-Keeper of the books, medals, and manuscripts of St. James’s Palace, was the main impetus behind the library project. The Chief Library-Keepers were to conduct correspondence ‘‘for the beating out of matters not yet elaborated in Sciences,’’” and would exchange books with foreign scholars. No gifts of books were to be refused, for there was something useful in all learning. Dury would use the library and its network of scholarly relationships to inculcate the truths of religion as the highest goal of science, “‘for there is nothing of knowledg in the minde of man, which may not bee conveniently referred to the virtues of God in Christ.’ The sci-

ences had to be subordinate to this purpose, for otherwise the increase of knowledge would only increase strife, pride, and confusion, whence the griefs of mankind would be multiplied and reproduced for generations to come. In men such as Hartlib and Dury and Pell there was a patriotic reformer’s zeal to bring honor and glory to the English nation by promoting schemes for the advancement of the arts and sciences. They proposed an inquiry into the method and art of discovery itself. ‘“Yet such an Art may men invent, if they accustom themselvs, as I have long don, to consider, not onely the usefulness of men’s works, and the meaning and truth of their writings, but also how it came to pass that they fell upon such thoughts, and that they proposed to themselvs such ends, or found out such means for them.’’” A study of the psychology and history of invention was often suggested by men in their circle, an interest sparked by a desire to duplicate the conditions that had produced results in the past. Chance was not wholly ruled out; but for Dury, as for Bacon before him,

creativity was not entirely a mystery or an accident. Invention could be spurred and made intentional by institutional mechanics: foundations, universities, endowments, eradication of false methods, implementation of the reasonproducing apparatus, even inducing an optimum psychic state. Similar notions would be revived by Leibniz. For the puritanical projectors under Comenius’ influence, it was no more presumptuous to nurture and discipline the inventive faculty of man than it was to regulate his passions. For everything there was a way of ‘“‘methodising,”’ and the projector was a taskmaster of the enterprise.

The political-religious sectarians favored governmental and constitutional panaceas; by contrast, the projector-utopians cautiously eschewed politics and expected a radical renovation of mankind to eventuate from plans that could coexist with any political regine allowing for free inquiry and favoring productivity. ‘In John Dury’s The Reformed-School: and the Reformed Librairie-Keeper (1651),

the Pansophic projects were framed in an amended version of lapsarian theology. Man had sustained defects through the Fall, which deprived him of “‘natural happiness,” a condition that could be restored through the organization of

330 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA | knowledge, an educational system, and the diffusion of ideas. ‘“The true End of all Humane Learning is to supply in our selves and others the defects, which

proceed from our Ignorance of the nature and use of the Creatures, and the disorderliness of our naturall faculties in using them and reflecting upon them . . . Nothing is to be counted a Matter of true Learning amongst men, which is not directly serviceable unto Mankind towards the supply of some of these defects, which deprive us of some part of our naturall Happiness.””? _ (John Wilkins, much admired by Comenius,” used the same lapsarian argument about compensating for the defects of the Fall in his books of popular science, Mathematical Magic and The Discovery of the New World in the Moon,

both of which Isaac Newton knew at an early age.) The Comenian doctrine of the need to actualize the divine spark in each man underlay the educational projects. There were two parts to education, one relating to the inward principle of morality to be instilled in the young; the other, to outward behavior, its supervision and regulation. Dury’s educational theory was not punitive, intent as he was upon the consideration of every individual humor. But scratch the skin of the system, and the puritanical code of living ever under the vigilant eye of one’s neighbor and one’s God is written clear and distinct. ‘“This then is the Master-peece of the whole Art of education, to watch over the Childrens behaviour in their actions of all sorts, so as _ their true inclinations may be discovered; that the inward causes of their vicious disposition and distempers being found out; the true and proper Reme- , dies thereof may be applyed unto them.’ ®° Dury offered prizes to his students for the revelation of their fellows’ falsehoods and deceits. Nothing was to be

kept secret or private in utopia. | Hartlib’s enthusiasm for knitting relationships among diverse peoples and taking advantage of their unique natural resources in different parts of the world for the benefit of mankind was boundless. No venture was too small to escape his notice, or too great to warrant at least a nibble at the vast undertaking. His genius for discerning the potentialities of the least significant of God’s creatures was brilliantly illustrated in a work published in London in 1652 and reprinted in 1655 as The reformed Virginian silk-worm. As usual, he was picking other people’s brains and advertising the results. A young Englishwoman had

chanced upon a speedy and easy way of feeding silkworms on the mulberry leaves of Virginia. Once the Indians realized that the whole procedure required neither great art, skill, nor pains, they would set about making silk and would

| then have “‘silk-bottoms” to sell the English in exchange for goods they needed. British commerce would be benefited and the civilizing of the Indians achieved in one fell swoop. An exhilarating awareness that there were virtually limitless possibilities—though a cautionary “‘almost’’ was introduced—in the development of a polity’s economic prosperity through new inventions and experiments in agriculture was voiced in Cressy Dymock’s An Essay for Advancement of Husbandry-Learning: or Propositions for the Erecting a Colledge of Husbandry. And In order thereunto, for the taking in of Pupills or Apprentices, And also

Friends or Fellowes of the same Colledge or Society (1651): “Our Native Countrey, hath in its bowels an (even almost) infinite, and inexhaustible treasure; much of which hath long laine hid, and is but new begun to be discovered. It may seem a large boast or meer Hyperbole to say, we enjoy not, know not, use not, the one tenth part of that plenty or wealth and happinesse, that our Earth can, and (Ingenuity and Industry well encouraged) will (by God’s blessing) Yield.” **

COMENIUS AND HIS DISCIPLES 331 _ There was a growing body of doctrine among the projectors that it was sinful as well as uncharitable not to exploit God’s bounty, whether the fruit-bearing capacity of trees, the potential fertility of the fens, or the hidden capacity for invention in an individual, through ingenuity and industry. Organization, science, experimental inquiry not only made up for human defects but demonstrated that this world was given to man to be a garden. The Puritan projectors were matter-of-fact Baconians with an activist entrepreneurial. sense of the possibilities of nature. Charity—the banishment of poverty, disease, idleness —turned out to be both religious and profitable. The Calvinist ethic was not submerged, but the prospect of increasing the number of the elect leading orderly religious lives free from sloth was substantially extended. The legal and military battles about political and constitutional and religious forms that ab-

sorbed the major parties in the Civil War were bypassed in favor of work projects suitable for all classes in society. As the conflicts became bloody and the fanatics ruled the day, projectors like Hartlib retreated into private societies of “Invisibles’”—in a dismal period of the Civil War John Evelyn’s diary depicts in detail his fantasy about a scientific monastic refuge—a few of which later developed into one of the most luciferous and fructiferous of modern institutions, the Royal Society of London.

13

Lopsy- Turvy

in the English Civil War POLITICAL REVOLUTIONS and the dictatorships that follow in their wake prolif-

, erate utopias. The revolution gives the appearance of turning the world topsyturvy, imaginative energies are released, and all new things seem possible. The dictator, whether called Protector or Emperor, towers as a divine lawgiver capable of molding society to his free will. Utopians, often people without polit-

ical weight or authority, cling to the hope that men of great power will put into practice and make real the “‘idea’’ that they, the superior creators, have , invented. To capture the ear of a potentate has been a constant utopian expectation from Plato, who journeyed to the tyrant Dionysius of Syracuse, through the French system-makers of the early nineteenth century, Saint-Simon and

Fourier, who first addressed their appeals to Napoleon. Unfortunately, the “Ear of Dionysius’’ has acquired nefarious connotations as an architectural device for spying on dissidents, and dictatorships have ordinarily been more cunning in surveillance and denunciation than ingenious in social innovation. The revolutionary epochs, inclusive of the dictatorships that function as settlers of the revolution, nonetheless leave behind a welter of novel conceptions about the restructuring of society which, though forgotten on the morrow of the turmoil, are picked up again by later generations. The ideas go underground and then resurface in a new setting.

Israel in the Garden of England

Utopians of the two decades of the English Civil War may not have spoken with tongues as divine as some of them believed, but they had the lesser gift of historical tongues. A few centuries after their temporary eclipse they sound like bold and farseeing prophets. The popular utopias spawned during the English Civil War and Cromwell’s rule as Protector, generally neglected in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries by official British historiography, were revived by Friedrich Engels in his equally official history of communist thought. New heroes who composed utopias have since been discovered in the ranks of the people. Radical thought in the Civil War has become the appanage of

Marxists, sometime Marxists, and somewhat Marxists, who have tenderly , nurtured each Leveller, Digger, and Ranter as they recovered them from ,

oblivion. As the Psalmist said: ‘‘The stone which the builders refused is become the head stone of the corner.” Inevitably, in righting the balance, the revisionists have made more of the utterances of the sectarians than they may deserve in a history of thought that frankly favors the high and middle culture. Since this Civil War literature is not epitomized in any compact, polished artistic creation of the order of Thomas More’s libellus, anyone in search of the utopia of ordinary folk has to resort to general impressions gleaned from the incomparable collection of hundreds of pamphlets assembled by the indefati-

332 | !

TOPSY-TURVY IN THE ENGLISH CIVIL WAR 333 gable George Thomason,’ each carefully dated as it appeared on the streets, an omnibus of popular thought and sensibility, alive with every facet of dissident desire, running the gamut from extended projections of a political solution to the internecine hostilities, to revelations during trances, to the verbose spewings of mountebanks, crackpots, fakirs, feeders on forlorn hopes. The old socialist and anticlerical practice of abstracting these popular utopians from their religious ambience is coming to an end among present-day historians of the English Civil War. Even those most appreciative of the English radicals as the authentic voice of the wretched of the earth who wanted more food, less burdensome toil, a chance to govern in place of the traditional classes, and a less stringent sexual law—all in the name of a God who was loving and had decreed sensate as well as spiritual communion—are aware of the religious heart of their utopias. By now it can be accepted as a commonplace that theological questions, however recondite, and disputes over ritual had social meaning and

vice versa. ,

What should England be like once the legal and constitutional disputes that triggered the Civil War were settled against the royalist party and the prelates?

In response, at least half a dozen different utopian patterns took shape. At some point during the course of the war, most partisans turned utopian, if only for a while: The losers looked backward and idealized the recent past of the

‘nation whose control had been wrested from them; the winners concocted programs as though they would effect a total regeneration of society. The only militant nonutopians in England were the Clubmen, who organized locally to keep the ravaging armies away from their lands and would have been content to let the war pass them by. That those indifferent to the chief protagonists may have represented the overwhelming majority is an observation frequently made about revolutionary epochs. Since the utopians in this period were not mere bookmen but were deeply involved in day-to-day partisan activity, they had their canny, politic side and often adopted compromise positions that were halfway marks on the road to the “happy commonwealth” or to the millennium. Their ad hoc political statements can be separated only with difficulty from the utopian visions that lie behind them, for the dividing line is blurred and wavering. The English utopias were not composed in the solitude of garrets or prisons (writing in the Tower does not count because it was a much trafficked center with a frequent replacement of inmates), nor were they salon exercises or literary games. As platforms of men in the political arena they usually took the form of polemical pamphlets hot off the press. Once the censorship authority of the Archbishop of Canterbury was abolished by the Long Parliament, the whole system of the Stationers Company monopoly broke down and unlicensed printing presses sprang up in shops all over London. Parliamentary attempts to restore a central authority were unavailing and for most of the period even a frenetic Ranter

could find a clandestine printer and distributor. A number of printers, like Giles Calvert, specialized in this literature out of conviction and were vital agents in the dissemination of unorthodox ideas. Freedom of the press was not a reality—men were charged by Parliament and local justices for outrageous writings attributed to them—but the printing industry was out of control and allowed for a wild efflorescence of opinion. Tracts dashed off in a passion were quickly published and promptly answered. The air was thick with theo-

334 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA logical animadversions and apologies, and ideal social and political orders constructed one day were toppled the next. From 1640 to 1660 the utopian situation, like the political one, was fluid. Virtually every sect carried its own utopia, and individuals moved easily from one circle into another, punctuating their advent and departure with an appropriate religious revelation. Men dropped in and out of groups, recanting previ-

ous errors, writing confessions and testimonials, when they were not deliberately prevaricating to get out of prison or to save their tongues from being burned through. Attempts have been made to differentiate the individual sects

on a class basis. The Levellers John Lilburne and William Walwyn had strength among London artisans and small merchants; the Diggers were footloose farm laborers or tenants, though the most rational visionary among them | was a former merchant; Fifth Monarchy Men are even harder to pin down because of the widespread diffusion of millenarian belief; and the Ranters were itinerant preachers or artisans (though again, their most imaginative writer, Abiezer Coppe, was an Oxford man) who defy close definition. As in all such periods of tohubohu, the edges of one sect merge with another; the nucleus can

be identified, but not the constantly changing form of the whole cell. The groups we have isolated are far fewer in number than contemporary pamphleteers and memoirs writers spotted. In mid-seventeenth-century England there _ were experts in heresies and sects, veritable taxonomists of “‘sectarisme,’’ who were able to list by name and record as many as 199 species. It was incumbent upon each of the radical sects to distinguish itself from the teeming mass, and much energy was expended upon touting the superiority of one future society over its rivals. Enemies of the sects, on the other hand, were busy obfuscating the distinctions among them, so that they could smear them all with the same brush that was a composite of their iniquitous doctrines. Before the Levellers had had their moment of triumph, when Gerrard Winstanley had not yet ventured to dig up the commons and invite the homeless to live in community, when Fifth Monarchy Men were still acceptable to the staff of Cromwell, and when the Ranters had not yet stood trial, a London preacher, _ the Presbyterian Thomas Edwards, published a book on the sects, the Gangraena (1646), that immediately ran through three editions, each fatter than its predecessor, and provoked a spate of angry responses from the victims of his

castigations. He gave his readers a synopsis of the ‘‘Errours and strange opinions scattered up and down, and vented in many Books, Manuscripts, Ser| mons, conferences.’’* Fellow Presbyterians were assured that “‘the very same opinions and errours are maintained and held over and over in severall books

and manuscripts, so that to have given them the Reader as I found them, would have been to have brought the Reader into a Wildernesse, and to have presented to publick view a rude and undigested Chaos, with an heap of Tautologies.”’? Edwards was only the most noteworthy of the specialists who, in cataloguing a wide variety of abominable heresies, theological and social, succeeded in conveying the impression that they were all of one ilk. Ephraim Pagitt’s Heresiography (1645), more restricted in its field of inquiry, treated of some twenty sorts of Anabaptists alone: Muncerians, Apostolikes, Separatists, Catharists, Silentes, Enthusiasts, Liberi, Adamites, Huttites, Augustinians, Beucheldians, Melchiorites, Georgians, Mennonites, Servetians, Libertines,

TOPSY-TURVY IN THE ENGLISH CIVIL WAR 335 Denkians, Orantes, Pueris Similes, Monasterienses, Plungers. And even this list was not exhaustive, for “almost every one of them hath some peculiar toy or figment in their heads, upon which they are divided, and oft excommunicate one another.’’4 A modern classifier must inevitably be found wanting by the standards of the seventeenth century when he scoops out of the maelstrom only a handful of prominent and provocative categories. While it is to be hoped he is more perceptive than the nineteenth-century historians who saw nothing but a war between King and Parliament, he wanders uncertainly, a stranger in this sectarian jungle. We shall nonetheless single out a few of the sects by name in an effort to make of each of them something of a separate unit, though aware that complete cohesion never existed. The major utopian positions—other than those of Hobbes and Harrington, whose works entered the main current of European political thought—enjoyed in turn but a brief moment of fame, though faint echoes lingered on after their decline, even into the Restoration. In establishing a sequence, allowance has to be made for an inchoate period during which a particular popular utopia achieved an identity and for the spillage and seepage of thought from one to another; but a rough, overall succession can be discerned. The Levellers were oratorical, critical, bitter, demagogic, no respecters of persons however exalted. Their moment of grandeur in 1647-49 followed the military victory of the Independents and their program continued to enjoy significant backing among London tradesmen and artisans—though their danger to Cromwell’s hegemony has recently been somewhat overplayed, doubtless in reaction against the attempts of the traditional historians Green and Gardiner to discount them completely. The Diggers were born of rural protest. Their practice of digging up and planting commons was suppressed soon after they came into being in 1649, but they left behind the image of Gerrard Winstanley as an original English theoretician of ‘‘community,” and in his Law of Freedom in a Platform or True Magistracy Restored (1652), a rare document, a complete, discursive utopia. The Fifth Monarchy Men, who had been pouring out pamphlets on what the millennium would be like since the early 1640s, and many of whose leaders had once served Cromwell as the forerunner of the Messiah, in the fifties went into active opposition against his settlement. Their attempted coups and subsequent prosecution gave them a measure of notoriety and a few quickly forgotten martyrs. The Ranters were feared as the wildest of the sectaries and though an amorphous group they lasted longer than most, until many of them recanted and sought refuge in the bosom of Quaker quietism, a polar oscillation not unknown to such movements. Confronted by the multitude of English utopian projects, platforms, designs, visions, and a few traditional story utopias—a rich harvest in these two decades that is not matched anywhere in Europe until the first half of the nineteenth century in France—one searches for some underlying principles or preconceptions in the mass of texts. Diverse as these writings are, can common elements be discerned in the rhetorical devices and in the kind of evidence Englishmen deemed most persuasive in leading their countrymen along the path to utopia? Or are there only the distinctions that bestow upon each utopian species its relative cohesiveness? For relative it must be, since one can always

336 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA probe more deeply and find within any of these groups differences in the ideal society that each leader saw in his mind’s eye. Lilburne, Walwyn, and Richard Overton were all called Levellers, but each had dreams particular to himself. The Civil War spirit of dissidence and independence fostered individuality, and even within a single soul the turnings of light and darkness were frequent,

bringing forth a new or altered utopia. The collective documents issued by a_ group, their manifestoes, pleas to Parliament, petitions, indicate some agreement about a political platform, but fail to reflect the inner conscience of individuals; and many of the utopians of the Civil War were men of far greater complexity than a formal tentative accord can disclose. Whether or not Hobbes had grand designs worthy of the company of radical utopian masters remains problematic, and he will be left in limbo, summoned only to bear witness to the existence of certain utopian turns of thought that crossed party lines. His Leviathan (1651) and Harrington’s Oceana (1656) are sui generis; they are rather detailed plans for a definitive establishment of govern-

ment, the first a grandly conceived treatise on politics in the mathematical

, spirit of the new sciences, the second written in the fictional style of the old , utopias. Hobbes’s inclusion among the English prophets upon whom he heaped scorn may raise scholarly eyebrows, but in the present work we declare writers to be utopians by sovereign fiat. Harrington’s Oceana, which still enjoyed the plaudits of liberal and radical Englishmen like Tawney and Brailsford earlier in this century, is a waterless Sinai for the present generation, despite its remarkable influence upon constitution-makers and reformers on both sides of the Atlantic for more than a century. But it is the very multiplicity of _ social projectors, rather than preeminent individuals, in this period that makes — it stand out in the history of utopian thought. John Milton, himself no mean innovator with his audacious opinions on divorce and a free press, has left a vivid contemporary portrait of the intellectual fervor of the age: ‘Behold now this vast City; a City of refuge, the mansion house of liberty, encompast and surrounded with his protection; the shop of warre hath not there more anvils and hammers waking, to fashion out the plates and instruments of armed Justice in defence of beleaguer’d Truth, then there be pens and heads there, sitting by their studious lamps, musing, searching, revolving new notions and idea’s wherewith to present, as with their homage and their fealty

the approaching Reformation: others as fast reading, trying all things, assenting to the force of reason and convincement.’’® Understandably, Sir Edward Dering was far less enthusiastic about what he saw in 1642: “The vulgar mind is now fond with imaginary hopes. What will the issue be, when hopes grow still on hopes?”’ Another royalist reported in a similar vein: “All sorts of people dreamed of an utopia and infinite liberty, especially in matters of religion.’ ® But among the victors the very word utopia had begun to assume positive rather than pejorative overtones. The English utopias are radical in the sense that they seek to strike at the roots of social, moral, and religious evil and to reorder the estates of England in a fundamental way. In this respect Hobbes’s Leviathan, which would abolish — the conception of King in Parliament as the fountainhead of law in favor of the absolute power of the sovereign, was no less radical than Winstanley’s The Law of Freedom in a Platform or True Magistracy Restored, which would “set the

land free to the oppressed Commoners.’’” At the same time almost all parties

TOPSY-TURVY IN THE ENGLISH CIVIL WAR 337 and political thinkers conceived of themselves as restorers of a pristine state that had originally been ordained by God, rather than as revolutionaries who were bringing an unprecedented man-made scheme into the world, an idea that the seventeenth-century English mentality could not yet countenance. There are exceptions among the Ranters, and occasionally Levellers and Diggers exhort men to forget the past and take a brazen fresh look at the present world; but most of the English utopians clung to the myth of a remote good age to be revived, however they differed about its name—pre-Norman, Apostolic, Mosaic, Edenic, Adamite. The utopias of the Civil War have an unmistakably parochial flavor. They are in the first instance directed to Englishmen, and only secondarily to the rest of the world. A self-centered island utopia is still the limit of their immediate ambition, even when Fifth Monarchy Men chart a foreign policy leading to the destruction of all Catholic powers and climaxed by the defeat of the papal Antichrist. Men of every shade of opinion were prone to indulge in a bit of patriotic boastfulness. All addressed themselves to the English, a people designated by God to inaugurate the reformation of their realm; He was clearly less preoccupied with the fate of other countries. In their zeal to win converts, the utopians intimidated their readers with the veiled threat that if they failed to seize this propitious moment to demand fundamental changes, they might suffer the ignominy of seeing the mantle of divine election pass from England to some other nation. Utopians differed about precisely who in England was to be included in the category of the chosen people, and only Winstanley and the Ranters were ready to embrace all Englishmen to full membership in the commonwealth. Even the Levellers excluded servants, beggars, and sometimes wage earners

who had masters. Two classes in society enjoyed universal contempt as worthless, lawyers and university scholars. (The elimination of kings, aristocrats, and prelates was taken for granted.)

There may have been personal reasons for the abomination of lawyers among the sectarians—many had been engaged in ruinous, protracted suits — but there was virtual unanimity of antagonism to the profession, which stood for the preservation of the existing material order in the same way that prelates

did for the spiritual. A typical roster of grievances can be found in John Rogers’ Sagrir: or Doomes-day drawing nigh, With Thunder and With Lightening to Lawyers, In an Alarum for New Laws, and the Peoples Liberties from the Norman and the Babylonian Yokes. Making Discoveries of the present ungodly Laws and Law-

yers of the fourth Monarchy . . . (London, 1653). The lawyers were Antichrists and a state army of locusts who perverted the plain honest law of England that had prevailed before the Norman Conquest. They were the defenders of usurpation, who in addition used their profession to delay the administration of simple justice for their own profit. Winstanley raged in Fire in the Bush (1650): ‘For he [the Law] is a mighty Beast with great teeth, and is a mighty devourer of men; he eats up all that comes within his power; for this Proverb is true, goe to Law, and none shall get but the Lawyer. The Law is the Fox, poore men are the geesse; he pulls of their feathers, and feeds upon them.’’8 University scholars who held to the traditional practice of commenting on Aristotle as the source of all knowledge had been under attack since Bacon; now Hobbes and Winstanley, Fifth Monarchy Men and visionaries of the inner

338 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA | | light joined in a combined assault on these stalwarts of the church establish- | ment. “The Universities have been to this nation,” Hobbes wrote in Behemoth, “as the wooden horse was to the Trojans . . . From the Universities it was, that the philosophy of Aristotle was made an ingredient in religion, as serving for a salve to a great many absurd articles, concerning the nature of Christ’s body, and the estate of angels and saints in heaven; which articles they thought fit to have believed, because they bring, some of them profit, and others reverence to the clergy, even to the meanest of them.”’® Winstanley belabored the universities as engrossers of knowledge who paralleled the monopolists in land and trade. Overton the Leveller excoriated the universities for producing clergymen gifted with black coats, fancy speech, and the external advantages of the arts and sciences. For those who received their knowledge directly from God through personal illumination, the pretensions of book learning were an

impediment to religious exaltation.

Yet despite antipathy toward lawyers as oppressive quibblers and academics as false reasoners, the bulk of English utopian literature in this period is discursive and argumentative in accordance with Aristotelian reasoning and the principles laid down in the law courts. None of the utopians are good at drawing speaking pictures of the ideal society, even when they are motivated by a lofty purpose: Hartlib’s (or Plattes’s) Macaria is a bore and Harrington’s Oceana dismal and arid. The utopians are more skillful at debating fundamental principles, carefully numbering their subjects and topics in accordance with the rules of rhetoric. The documents they draft breathe the spirit of the English judiciary. Ranters like Abiezer Coppe, who denounced the rich and the powerful

, in street sermons and incorporated his dreadful threats in tracts like a Fiery, flying roll (1649), were uniquely immune to this legalistic thinking. He proclaimed the day of the Lord with a gnashing of teeth and conveyed his ideas in _ dramatic parables that are among the most vivid depictions of an outcast’s rage

against the rich, the hypocritical do-gooders, the repressors of human desires , for food, drink, sex, fraternal feeling—all written by an Oxford man in a personal style that is free of many contemporary stereotypes. The legalism that possessed John Lilburne the Leveller locked him into untenable political positions, as he constantly played the amateur barrister in his own and in his party’s defense. “I am an Englishman born, bred, and brought _ up,” he declared to representatives of Parliament who had dared to arrest him, violating proper forms and procedures, ‘‘and England is a Nation Governed, Bounded, and Limitted by Laws and Liberties . . . therefore Sir, I now stand

before you upon the bare, naked, and single account of an Englishman.” !° A | hostile preacher was reviled as one of those “unnatural, un-English-like men.”’"! Lilburne was insistent that everything in the future had to be ordered

| exactly in accordance with his platform down to the last jot and tittle or it was invalid. A world without an army of magistrates to enforce commands was , inconceivable even to most Fifth Monarchy Men, and there are articles in Winstanley’s utopia that would increase rather than decrease their number in the land. Utopians sometimes take the same attitude toward the minutiae of their imaginary structures that shamans do toward their ceremonials. A Judaic insistence upon punctiliousness in the observance of ritual reinforced the English

legal tradition among seventeenth-century utopians, even when they denounced lawyers. In writing his little book Thomas More emancipated himself

TOPSY-TURVY IN THE ENGLISH CIVIL WAR 339 for a time from his own legal profession. The platform -drafters of the Civil War, though they were unanimously agreed that the English law as practiced by the “‘vultures” had to be simplified, could not free themselves of their veneration for legal procedures. In the end the mechanics of the law, a new constitution, a new law that was really the old law rediscovered and purified were the instruments that would bring about a state of contentment. Once again the Ranters stood apart in the absolutism of their anarchist preaching and their refusal to recognize the existence of crime, since all was from God. The reasoning of the new science—which virtually all utopians accepted — was in harmony with the legalist spirit. Hobbes announced that he was writing his treatise in accordance with mathematical principles, and though his own _

excursions into mathematics were unfortunate (he had the temerity to lock , horns with John Wallis of the Royal Society), the idea of scientific method as he conceived it pervades his work. We now know that Locke wrote his treatises of government before the publication of Newton’s Principia and the beginning of his warm friendship with the scientist, and that by mid-century scientific reasoning influenced even popular theorists of society. ‘The mechanical analogy between the state and a machine antedated the perfection of Newton’s

‘world machine.” Harrington in his Oceana, published in 1656 before the founding of the Royal Society, was already obsessed with the achievement of an ideal balance in society through the manipulation of intricate voting procedures that relied on mathematical proportionality. Finally, the methods of biblical exegesis dominated every Protestant writer whatever his sectarian persuasion might be. Hobbes quotes Scripture no less frequently than a Fifth Monarchy Man. The Ranters who attacked the Bible as a worthless collection of fictions did so in a prose style bursting with metaphors from the King James version. In calling the Bible the work of the devil they betrayed their intimacy with both. Among most utopian sectaries each major proposition on a social and moral problem was backed up with the citation of a verse from the Old or the New Testament appropriately interpreted. Since the authors of the English utopias were either divines themselves, or had been brought up on a constant flow of Sabbath sermons and church lectures in which preachers displayed their exegetical virtuosity, this method of reasoning was second nature to them. But the role of the Bible in English utopian literature was not limited to that of a source book for divine words explicated and quoted as authority. Whatever historical examples could be mustered for a future utopia were drawn from the one Book that united them all. The utopians recognized their contemporary villains (who were many) and their heroes (who were few) as replicas of familiar biblical persons. The Bible was the ultimate source for the primal utopia of God. The Old Testament as a guide to specific ideal laws was more significant than the New, for in matters of government the long historical experience of the Israelites before the advent of Christ offered many more examples of good and evil polities than accounts of Christ and the Apostles, who had lived in one brief period of time. The glorified portrait of historical Mosaic Israel covered most aspects of life in authoritative detail. The Mosaic commonwealth was revealed above all in the laws of the Pentateuch—perhaps less in the actual practice of the kings of Israel, who flagrantly violated that code in their sinful excursions. The utopians were reasonably united in the intent of making the commonwealth of

| 340 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA England into the perfect simulacre of the Kingdom of Heaven, as the land of Canaan had been when God issued commandments for its governance. During the course of the Whitehall Debates in the Council of Officers of the Army, in which rival populist utopians of different political stripes had a free-for-all, one of the more radical speakers, John Goodwin, evoked the image of ancient

Israel as a model: ‘Canaan is the Kingdom of Heaven, as we all generally know. There was a necessity, that land being a type of perfect holiness and of the Kingdom of Heaven, that there should be laws and ordinances of that nature which should keep all things as pure and [as] free [from corruption as] to worship, as possibly might be. Otherwise the visage, the loveliness of the type, would have been defaced.” ” When the utopians fought among themselves they ended up arguing about the correct meaning of the Word of God plainly incorporated in a biblical text or the appropriate lesson to be derived from an event in Old Testament history. They quarreled about how to achieve the Mosaic society in the Garden of England, and about the deviations or compromises that might be desirable. Utopians were at some pains to demonstrate that their schemes, whatever their other virtues, were consonant with the scriptural government instituted by Moses. But Winstanley and many Levellers gave the biblical utopia a rather unique interpretation: They would hold to its spirit, not its letter, a continuation of Miintzer in another language. Cromwell, though he may have accepted the proposition of a “‘type”’ in a general way, was far from certain that the Judaic model should be imitated down to the last particular, abrogating all current judicial practices. Many Puritans, however, wanted to follow it meticulously, including the harsh punishments of Deuteronomy. Fifth Monarchy Men eager to reintroduce every law in the Old Testament were drawing up compendia of these commands of God in preparation; nothing fazed them, not even death for Sabbath-breaking and adultery. Harrington used the Hebrews as one of the ancient exemplars of excellence, with their balance of class interests among royalty, priests, Levites, and ordinary Israelites. Moses, he demonstrated, had promulgated a mixed constitution not too unlike that of Venice— an analogy that is strained even by the standards of seventeenth-century political theory. On occasion there was an evocation of institutions that postdated

the Babylonian Captivity, such as the Jewish assembly of the Sanhedrin. Though rabbinic commentaries in the Talmud were not often quoted directly, contemporary English and Dutch scholarship laboring on a reconstruction of ancient Jewish law had seeped down to reorganizers of the English commonwealth—their utopia had to be made to fit some Israelite frame, if possible. An alternative model, the image of the law of England in the ages before it had been corrupted by William the Conqueror, appealed most to Levellers and to Winstanley, though on occasion the Levellers went even further back to in- , voke the law of nature, and Winstanley, to a state of innocence before man’s fall into the pit of buying and selling. Alfred the Great’s kingdom had both advantages and disadvantages when compared with that of the Israelites. Since

it bequeathed no Deuteronomic code, all manner of notions about an Englishman’s birthright could be read into that fortunate time. Yet the absence of legal guidelines sometimes left the legend too vaporous to have any cogency. Those who held to the Norman yoke thesis preached a return to pre-Conquest equality or to a state of nature, after the King and his Norman Cavaliers had

TOPSY-TURVY IN THE ENGLISH CIVIL WAR 341 been eliminated. Lilburne attacked his judges as Norman interlopers. Winstanley argued sophistically that either conquest was a legitimate basis of right and power or it was not; if the theory that it was could be sustained, then the Norman conquerors had finally been trounced by the ousting of the King and no longer had a claim to govern; if conquest was not a valid basis of right, then men of God had but to efface the evil of centuries by returning to the equality of the time of Creation.

With rare deviations the radical transformers of the realm clung to the models of Israel and ancient England, sometimes in combination. (Again, the Ranters imposed no such restriction upon themselves.) By contrast, those who were least utopian and most conservative of existing social relationships had recourse to the experience of the classical world because it was rich with exam-

ples weighted on the antidemocratic side of the scale. The dangers of unchecked popular rule could be most profusely illustrated by citations from the Greek and Roman historians and philosophers. Since the Wars of the Roses, Englishmen seem to have refrained from mass slaughter of one another; they have suffered nothing comparable to the French and American civil wars. The uprisings and rebellions for kings or Chartist democracy were abortive and relatively bloodless. The mid-seventeenth-century Civil War has been singled out as an exception, but some historians, applying the yardstick of twentieth-century massacres, have come to belittle the upheaval and to call attention to the fact that many parts of the country were untouched. This contention is supported by the testimony of English eyewitnesses themselves. An anonymous pamphleteer styling himself J. Philolaus

contrasted the good fortune of his countrymen with the lot of the Germans and the French, who had vainly endured the most dreadful carnage: ‘When I consider the strange dispensations of providence upon us of this Nation, I cannot but be swallowed up in admiration and deepest acknowledgement, how it

hath been pleased to scourge us but with light afflictions .. . we among whom for almost a decad of years there hath been a continual effusion of blood, know neither Rapes, nor Desolations, nay are ignorant almost of the common calamities of war, while we have puld down those powers of the earth that stood between us and our Felecity . . .”° Englishmen’s hostility to one another may be said to have taken itself out in a combat of words. There is a magnificent English vituperative tradition that assumes a class form, with expressions of contempt, anger, and repugnance equaled only by an outward appearance of deference and paternalism. It is a verbally violent society. The capacity for mutual recrimination reached a high point in the pamphlet literature of the seventeenth century, with titles like Josiah Ricraft’s A Nosegay of Rank-smelling Flowers, Such as grow in Mr. John Goodwin’s Garden. Gathered Upon occasion of his late lying Libell . . . (1646). What is at first glance less evident, these violent declamations nurtured by the

language of the English Bible, especially the Old Testament, were the foreword to a utopian vision of an England that would be an Eden under God. Images from the Apocalypse dominate many sectarian utopias: first a bloody holocaust, then a reformation of the realm that would ravish the hearts of men. Most of the verbal energies were spent in depicting present horrors and foretelling the vengeance of the Lord. By the time the utopia proper was reached, the vital spirits were exhausted, invention was drained, and the prospect was

342 | THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA flat and dry. Of course, the same charge may be made against virtually all uto-

pias: More’s Book I with Hythloday’s accusations is more entertaining than Book II; Rousseau’s incisive critique of the social state more convincing than the daydream of the monde ideal; Pourier’s devastating analysis of man’s choked-up passions more dramatic than his prescriptions for happiness; Marx’s condemnation of capitalism, even his cry of alienation, more compel-

, ling than the banalities he was able to produce about the future. English pamphlets of this period can still be read because of the forceful prose style that prevailed in all ranks of literate society, but the pamphlets are untranslatable into other idioms; they are bound to passing events in a complex political and religious interplay and would hardly be comprehensible outside their English context. French revolutionary oratory and philosophe terminology have been easily universalized. The talking pamphlets of the Levellers

and Diggers are so entwined with the immediate circumstances of Englishmen, fantasies about their birthright and the past history of their island, that foreigners cannot readily grasp their meaning. Strangely enough, the ex- tremist Ranters spoke a less parochial language, joined as they were with Familist predecessors and the long modern utopian series that proclaims the death of God and sin, emancipation of the flesh, and the end of instinctual repression. Since the sectarian utopians were tied to a scriptural religion in English and rooted in a tradition of the English customary law that was unique in Western society, the English utopia of the Civil War was not for export. The Agreement of the Levellers

The Levellers were thrust into the thick of the political and social battles, and

| they fought for their utopia until the very end, when they were overwhelmed and crushed by Cromwell. The term Leveller was one of denigration hurled at John Lilburne’s friends and other Army Agitators who participated in the joint debates of officers and men at Putney in October 1647. Anti-Leveller pamphleteers classed Levellers with utopians. The anonymous Philolaus wrote in A Serious Aviso to the Good People of this Nation, Concerning that Sort of Men, called Levellers (1649): “I am verily of opinion that Fantastick Eutopian Common Wealths (which some witty men, some Philosophers, have drawn unto

us) introduced among men, would prove far more loathsom and be more

fruitful of bad consequences than any of those of the Basest allay yet known.” '* The label stuck despite attempts of the political leaders of the movement, Lilburne, Overton, and Walwyn, to get rid of it. John Lilburne had left Cromwell’s army, where he had risen to the rank of lieutenant colonel, because he could not in good conscience support a House of | Lords that had authority over a commoner. Imprisoned in the Tower for sedition, he contrived to write and disseminate his ideas from there, holding the allegiance of a strong following in the London area that was organized by William Walwyn, a prosperous silk merchant. Whenever Lilburne was molested by the authorities, a spate of anonymous pamphlets appeared in his defense. He was one of the early heroes of the rebellion, having been whipped by the tyrant for his denunciations of prelacy. By Lilburne’s side stood his wife, Elizabeth, perhaps the first significant modern revolutionary figure who was a woman. If Lilburne and his followers are lifted from their tumultuous religious environ-

TOPSY-TURVY IN THE ENGLISH CIVIL WAR 343 ment and from the political conflicts among Presbyterians, Independents, Bap-

tists, and other sectarians, their vision, radical in content though simple in proposition, loses its essential character. Lilburne saw his soul clothed with the

glorious righteousness of Jesus Christ, and when he flouted the minions of Cromwell in the Picture of the Councel of State he declaimed like a saint armed by the Lord: “If every hair of that Officer or Souldier they have at their command, were a legion of men, I would fear them no more than so many straws, for the Lord Jehovah is my rock and defence, under the assured shelter of whose wings, I am safe and secure, and therefore will sing and be merry; and do hereby sound an eternal trumpet of defiance to all the men and divels in

earth and hell...”

Lilburne’s utopia cannot be reduced to unicameralism or a utilitarian conception of possessive individualism. From the scores of platforms and pamphlets published during their active period by Lilburne, Walwyn, and Overton, the society they yearned to live in can be constructed, though the edges are rough and there are contradictions, compromise agreements with Army Grandees, and Aesopian formulations that obscure their real intentions. The framework of an optimum commonwealth emerged from Englands Birth Right Justified (October 1645), The Humble Petition of the Officers and Souldiers of March

21, 1647, which was provoked by Parliament’s rejection of the Army’s demands at the time of its disbandment, and the Petition of May 1647, ordered burned by the House of Commons. The constitutional objective of parliaments annually elected by free manhood suffrage—with exceptions of course —was the coverall for the Army’s and the people’s just rights and liberties. For a time, Cromwell and the Army Grandees were constrained to join forces with Lilburne against the Presbyterians in Parliament; but profound differences underlay the uneasy alliance. Cromwell feared Lilburne’s ‘“‘hurly burlyes” in the Army, and once the Presbyterians were ousted and the Independents securely ensconced, the Levellers were dropped. In defeat, Lilburne and Walwyn charged that the quarrel of King, Parliament, and the great men of the City with the Army had degenerated into a dispute over “whose Slaves the poor shall be,”’ the poor being those who depended on farms, trades, and small pay.'® The tactics of Cromwell were far more sharply focused on the seizure and maintenance of power than those of the Leveller leaders. “I tel you Sir,” he is reported to have shouted to the Council of State after Lilburne’s arrest, ‘‘you have no other way to deale with these men, but to break them in pieces . . . if you do not breake them, they will break you.” "” Walwyn, the cultivated merchant who was the intellectual and spiritual conscience of the group, articulated their doctrine of absolute religious toleration and freedom from any state intervention whatsoever in language that was surpassed in vigor only by Milton’s. In defiance of Calvinist precepts, Walwyn stoutly held to the position that there was free justification by Christ alone and that grace came to anyone who repented of his sins. References to Lucian, Thucydides, and Plutarch were joined to a formidable array of biblical quotations in support of freedom of belief. There are passages in Walwyn’s religious autobiography, A Still and Soft Voice from the Scriptures (1647) that echo the spirit of Erasmian humanism, with its emphasis on moral conduct rather than theological dogma, before the great schism in the Church. “I have no quarrell

to any man,” Walwyn wrote, “either for unbeleefe or misbeleefe, because I

344 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA judge no man beleeveth any thing, but what he cannot choose but beleeve; it is

misery enough to want the comfort of true beleeving, and I judge the most convincing argument that any man can hold forth unto another, to prove himselfe a true sincere beleever, is to practice to the uttermost that which his faith binds him unto: more of the deeds of Christians, and fewer of the arguments would doe a great deale more good to the establishing of those that stagger.’ !® Walwyn was partial to Montaigne’s portrayal of the noble, happy cannibal and his natural goodness. An embryonic Rousseau amid the Puritan saints is a paradoxical apparition.

It is difficult to reconstitute the atmosphere of petty puritanical spying, squealing, gathering false witness, tale-bearing, plain hallucination, and mythomania that prevailed among the sectarians. Walwyn was accused of being ‘‘an Atheist and denier of Scriptures, a loose and vitious man,’’ one who patterned himself after the ‘“‘arch-anabaptist Muntzer.”’'® There was an attempt to frame him with a lewd woman who was supposed to elicit from him a blasphemous

attack on the Bible. Egocentric paranoids, balanced men persecuted, vengeance-seekers, were intermingled in a pit of venomous creatures who spat out invective that was sometimes inventive if painfully long-winded. Political utopias were born among these screeching, scratching preachers, all invoking the living God. The best abstract statement of Leveller principles is An Agreement of the Free People of England, signed by Lilburne, Walwyn, Thomas Prince, and Overton, and dated May 1, 1649. It is stripped of Walwyn’s religious passion and Lilburne’s narcissism, and cleansed of any suspicion of economic egalitarianism. These are no Babouvists on trial or Anabaptists under torture; they are simply prisoners in an English institution—the Tower—that has housed so many eminent utopians it might be considered a veritable chrysalis of utopian thought, or at least their place of retirement. The Levellers’ program, a futile attempt at a reconciliation with Cromwell that advertised its conservatism, was a skeletal outline that deliberately left to future parliaments the task of fleshing out the

details. Broad executive power was bestowed on the annually elected parlia- , ment, but the “Agreement” was sanctified as an everlasting, changeless law that disallowed the right of any future parliament to ‘‘level mens Estates, destroy Propriety, or make all things Common.” The Government could raise money “only by an equal rate in the pound upon every real and personall estate in the Nation.’’° The Levellers would abolish all economic privileges and spe-

, cial allowances, though not existing property holdings. Strict limits were set

to be imprisoned for debt. , on the power of the law to deprive men of their physical liberty. No one was

The “Agreement” included a set of constitutional provisions and guarantees

of English liberties that were manifestly utopian in their own day and remained so for centuries after Britain settled down to orderly monarchical government and rotten boroughs: annual parliaments of four hundred members whose reelection was prohibited because, as the pamphleteers commented, running waters flowed sweet; exclusion from parliament of public officers civil or military; universal manhood suffrage (except for ‘‘servants’’ and those receiving alms, or the miscreants who had sided with the late King); freedom of religious conscience; abolition of religious disabilities to the holding of public office (except for papists); revocation of excise and customs; universal trial

— TOPSY-TURVY IN THE ENGLISH CIVIL WAR 345 by jury. Elections to parliament were to be based on the old jurisdictions (though parliament could establish different subdivisions if it chose), and there

was to be no imposition of parliamentary officers on local administrative bodies. Army levies were to be equally allocated among the counties, cities, towns, and boroughs, which would pay the troops and appoint the officers themselves (except for the generals); and there was to be no forced service in the military. “Punishments equall to offences”’ was to be the fundamental rule of law, with no deprivation of lives, limbs, liberties, or estates upon trivial or slight occasion.”? In all, a charter of political and religious, but not economic, equality for a society very much like the existing one thoroughly purged of its more flagrant political abuses. Richard Overton, in An Appeale from the Degenerate Representative Body of the Commons of England Assembled at Westminster (London, 1647), was more partial

than his friends, perhaps, to the decentralization of authority in giving each county control over the impeachment of its own representatives. But in general the Leveller utopia could be interpreted as a loose federation of local bodies

exerting more power than the annually elected parliament. According to his enemies, Walwyn even toyed with the prospect of a society without formal permanent magistrates, a sort of random judicial administration. There would be no need of standing officers, or a committee, or judges. If a dispute arose or a crime was committed, a cobbler from his bench, or butcher from his shop, or any other tradesman that was honest and just, heard the case, passed judgment, and then betook himself to his work again.” The Levellers, though they sought to convert members of the Model Army to their opinions, had no vision of a body of militant Christian saints enforcing the will of God. The Army would be disbanded soon after acceptance of their political utopia of parliamentary representation, for then the wheels of state would turn easily. The Levellers suffered from the illusion that somehow the truths they held to be self-evident would be subscribed to by the “‘people” and accepted by authority in an act of self-abnegation. Manipulatory capacities for raising a crowd in London were combined with a goodly measure of naiveté, faith in the promises of temporary allies, belief in the easy penetration of ordinary minds by plainly salutary principles. The tone of the Leveller utopia was communicated in a long-winded preamble to the Agreement of the Free People of England, which for all its differences seems to echo in the Declaration of Independence, framed by a more respectable group of dissident Englishmen more than a century later: And being earnestly desirous to make a right use of that opportunity God hath given us to make this Nation Free and Happy, to reconcile our differences, and beget a perfect amitie and friendship once more amongst us, that we may stand clear in our consciences before Almighty God, as unbyassed by any corrupt Interest or particular advantages, and manifest to all the world that our indeavours have not proceeded from malice to the persons of any, or enmity against opinions; but in reference to the peace and prosperity of the Common-wealth, and for prevention of like distractions, and removall of all grievances; We the free People of England, to whom God hath given hearts, means and opportunity to effect the same, do with submission to his wisdom, in his name, and desiring the equity thereof may be to his praise and glory; Agree to ascertain our Government, to abolish all arbitrary Power, and to set bounds and limits both to our Supreme, and all Subordinate Authority, and remove all known Grievances.”4

346 , THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA The Leveller utopia was philosophically overdetermined: The laws of nature, the laws of Christ, and the precepts of good government all pointed in the same direction, toward the goal of ‘“‘communitive Happinesse.” "4 The devils in

this world were the greedy pursuit of interest and arbitrary power. The Levellers dedicated themselves to a variant of the principle of calm felicity that would not disrupt the existing social order—‘‘the enjoyment of those contentments our several Conditions reach unto us.’ Striving and struggling were primary sources of unhappiness among men, and the good commonwealth was a happy nation of men satisfied with their lot. Acceptance of one’s social condition was a requisite element in contentment. Political and religious, not social or economic, equality was the foundation of the Leveller utopia.”* But | Lilburne refused to settle for a merely nominal political change, by which he meant a switch from monarchy to republic. The essential regeneration of England could be brought about only by purified parliamentarism. The constant charge against the Levellers was that of ‘‘levelling,” that they would level all men’s estates and abolish all distinctions of order and all dignities. Not so, they reiterated with tiresome frequency. Levelling, the taking away of the proper right and title that every man had to his own, was most injurious unless—and the condition is writ clear and large in their program— ‘there did precede an universall assent thereunto from all and every one of the People.’’?” Such an eventuality being manifestly impossible, the Levellers were not levellers. The community of primitive apostolic Christianity was rejected

as a model for England; it had in any case been voluntary, not coercive. Lil-

burne kept protesting that the enemies of the Levellers were smearing them with a doctrine of secret belief they never entertained. Orders and dignities were necessary for the maintenance of magistracy and government. A charge of anarchy was refuted with the forthright assertion that between the extremes of tyranny and popular confusion, they would always choose tyranny as the lesser evil. They were accused of being royalists, Jesuits, tools of unnamed “others,”’ but they spoke candidly and only on their own behalf. As for their religion, they rejected atheism and professed a belief in God. Lilburne saw himself as another in an illustrious line of the persecuted defenders of righ- teousness who had been denounced as heretics."* Overton defied what all the men and divels in earth or hell can do against me in the discharge of my understanding and Conscience for the good of this Common-wealth; for I know my Redeemer liveth, and that after this life I shall be restored to life and Immortality, and receive according to the innocency and uprightnesse of my heart: Otherwise, I tell you plainly, I would not thus put my life and wel-being in jeopardie, and expose my self to those extremities and necessities that I do; I would creaturize, be this or that or any thing else, as were the times, eat, drink, and take my pleasure; turn Judas or any thing to flatter great men for promotion: but blessed be the God of Heaven and Earth, he hath given me a better heart, and better understanding.”®

The manner of God’s communication with man was simple: His will was written first in their hearts and then in Scriptures, a sequence that was important, but the Levellers denied being anti-Scripturists. At the same time they conceded that they were not strict in prescribing rules and ceremonials for His service. God’s love in Christ was the core of their religion; and God was goodness itself, not the God of vengeance and punishment and eternal wrath. There

TOPSY-TURVY IN THE ENGLISH CIVIL WAR 347 was evil in the world and corruption and the actions of wicked egotistic interests, but those were not God’s creation. The Levellers were fully aware of diabolical enticements and the strength of the argument that once in power men became tyrants. They had witnessed the defections of so many men who had succeeded to authority that they did not remove themselves from the human

community, or play the game of the elect and the saints. Experience made them mistrust even their own hearts. The purpose of what they called their “Establishment,” or plan of government, was to arrange the political order in such a manner that even if men in power succumbed to worldly temptation, they would not be able to do much injury to others. More than a century later their political utopia was resurrected in spirit by the formulators of a similar American instrument, though the Americans abandoned the simplicity of the Leveller attempt at a revival of ancient democracy and got themselves knotted up in the numerical gimmickry of Harrington’s Oceana.

Commonwealth apologists like Marchamont Nedham in his Case of the Commonwealth of England, Stated derided the Levellers as impossible change-

lings whose desires were unknowable: ‘What these people aim at and how they would settle is as hard for me to determine as in what point of the compass the wind will sit next, since they are every jot as giddy and rapid in their motions.’’*? They were “‘a certain sort of men of busy pates”’ that had ‘‘a mind to seem somebody,” who took a few phrases touching the liberties of the people in the declarations of Parliament and the Army “‘to frame such comments and chimeras of liberty as might fit their own ends and fantasies; and in time

disseminated such strange principles of pretended freedom among the common sort of soldiery and people that it became evident to all the world they sought not liberty but licentiousness.”?! Their ideal of a commonwealth founded on equality of political rights would inevitably lead, Nedham threatened, to equality of estates and agrarian laws. The Levellers were a prelude to the Diggers and aimed to renounce towns and cities and hold all things in common like the old Parthians, Scythian nomads, and other wild barbarians. The multitude, whom the Levellers aroused, were brutish, oscillating between extremes of cruelty and kindness, and could become a most pernicious tyrant.” Among present-day English critical historians, a debate has been joined between those who believe the Levellers advocated only a modest extension of the franchise to holders of some property and to men who had served in the Army and those who assert that, whatever temporary agreements the leaders may have been forced into by circumstance, the fons et origo of the movement was a popular desire to return to every freeborn Englishman, irrespective of

his social status, the right to choose his representatives. They argue over whether the “‘servants’’ excluded from the franchise in platform proposals referred only to body servants, or included apprentices and artisan dependents who worked for wages and lived in a master’s house. No one doubts the exclu-

sion of beggars. Depending on their alignment, the historians cite either limiting texts in programmatic statements or open-ended affirmations in pamphlets about everyman’s birthright and the equality of rich and poor. The protagonists carry on the controversy as if Levellers had one secret inner voice, as if their leaders were not the volatile creatures we know them to have been, as if there had not been an ounce of rabble-rousing populism in pure Leveller

348 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA | | blood, as if the seventeenth-century orators had drawn out the statistical implications of every promise and flourish delivered in the heat of debate. Anyone reading French Revolutionary speeches about the people, the rights of man, and the new liberty, equality, and fraternity would have a hard time to discover there the particular restrictions on the franchise imposed by successive French constitutions. The rhetoric of the Putney Debates was threatening to the Grandees, however minimal the extension of the voting base that a speaker actually favored. With men like Lilburne and Walwyn, the suffrage hinged upon the existence of a free and independent will and could not readily be granted to servants bound to masters who could control their votes, to papists whose allegiance to England was questionable, and to footloose beggars with _ votes to sell. Perhaps, as in Marxist theory, there was a lower and a higher stage of levelling. Were there two political theories at war in the breast of the Leveller movement, one binding a political right to the holding of property and the other vesting it in the inalienable heritage of each Englishman? Were they thinking of a utopia of village democracies loosely held together? Were they London artisans and tradesmen who could be called out whenever their hero Lilburne was in danger, incarcerated in the Tower or on trial in the courts, though they understood little about legal procedures and the rights of Englishmen? “‘Levveller’’ probably came to be one of those generic labels on bottles whose contents could be mixed, watered, adulterated as the occasion required both by friend and enemy. Henry Denne, himself a sometime Leveller, bore witness to the variety of doctrines among the group: “We were an Heterogenial Body, consisting of parts very diverse one from another, setled upon principles inconsistent one with another.’’** There are Leveller utterances, Leveller tendencies, Leveller bogies, no coherent Leveller theory. Lilburne the apprentice who

had been flogged through London, Walwyn who lived as a well-to-do merchant should, and Overton who could rip through an opponent with a pen dipped in bile were possessed by their own words. They were Proteus-like utopians who turned themselves into many shapes and forms, “‘according to severall occasions and times,” as Edwards wrote of the sectaries.*4 But they had a sense of historical drama and they could make the most of a public con-

frontation.

Overton boomed in October 1646 in An Arrow against All Tyrants and

Tyrany, shot from the Prison of New-gate into the Prerogative Bowels of the Arbitrary

| House of Lords: ‘For by naturall birth, all men are equally and alike borne to like propriety, liberty, and freedome, and as we are delivered of God by the hand of nature into this world, every one with a naturall, innate freedome and propriety (as it were writ in the table of every mans heart, never to be obliterated) even so are we to live, every one equally and alike to enjoy his Birth-right and priviledge; even all whereof God by nature hath made him free.’”’** And an

, echo resounded two months later in Lilburne’s In the Charters of London (December 1646): ‘““The only and sole legislative law-making power is originally inherent in the people and derivatively in their commissions chosen by themselves by common consent and no other. In which the poorest that lives hath as true a right to give a vote, as well as the richest and greatest.’’°® The programs they signed in common were graced with less high-flown speech and were less ominous for the preservation of existing power relations.

TOPSY-TURVY IN THE ENGLISH CIVIL WAR 349 In the 1650s, the Leveller leaders faded into the English landscape. Lilburne ended up among the Quakers, the friends of inward light. He had despaired of direct action to bring about the true commonwealth. Walwyn became a practicing physician, wrote a book on doctoring, Physick for Families (posthumously published in 1681), and lived to a ripe old age. When Lilburne, only forty-three, died on August 29, 1657, his old Leveller friends and new Quaker brothers fought for the possession of his corpse.*”

Gerrard Winstanley and the Diggers of George Hill Gerrard Winstanley was a small clothing tradesman without formal education, an immigrant from Lancashire to London. When he went bankrupt at the beginning of the Civil War, he sought refuge among friends in Surrey, where in 1649, while pasturing his neighbor’s cattle, he had a vision in which he was commanded to assemble a community, dig up and plant the commons, and live on their produce. For some years he had been one of those troubled souls whom contemporaries called Seekers, and had preached and written of his experience of God. The True Levellers Standard Advanced, published in 1649, described his trance and the voice that commanded: ‘Work together, Eate bread together, Declare this all abroad.’’?* He came into conflict with local authorities over digging up the commons, was summoned before Fairfax and other Commonwealth leaders, and got enmeshed in lawsuits. The original declaration of the Diggers in 1649 was addressed to the powers of England and the powers of all the world; yet the parochial English ingredient was not absent. If there was to be a world revolution, ““The State of Community opened, and Presented to the Sons of Men,”’*® it would after all begin on George Hill, near Walton, in the County of Surrey. For a while Winstanley won the allegiance of a few hundred converts and attracted public notice in London; but by 1652 interest in his ventures petered out. He went back into business again, and while some say he found a resting place among the Quakers, others deny him this consolation. It was not his deeds, but his writings, that won him a niche in the history of communist utopian thought. Winstanley’s published works, a corpus of about a thousand pages, printed by the same Giles Calvert whose presses were open to Levellers, Ranters, and Fifth Monarchy Men, cover a brief four-year span from 1648 to 1652. They begin with The Mysterie of God concerning the Whole Creation, Mankinde, in which the personal mystical experience of the author and his idiosyncratic interpretation of the meaning of Genesis are interwoven, and end with The Law of Freedom in a Platform or True Magistracy Restored, a complete scheme in about

ninety pages for the radical reconstruction of society around the principle of community. Ideas of community were already present in Winstanley’s early religious writings, and his last work is still infused with a theosophical spirit, despite the dry formality of regulations and ordinances piled up in chapter after chapter. These years were marked by Cromwell’s firm entrenchment, the demise of the political Levellers in London, and the spread of Ranter contagion in the countryside, and Winstanley was affected by the winds of changing doctrine and opinion.

The London Levellers’ goal was too restrictive for Winstanley—he was a

350 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA | ‘True Leveller’’; yet he was equally repelled by the outpourings of Ranter preachers whose inner light led them to deny the usefulness of any order in society that repressed desires, and in his pamphlet Englands Spirit Unfoulded (written in 1650 but not published until the twentieth century) he cautioned lady Diggers to shun the blandishments of the “ranting crew,’’ who would get them with child and then abandon them. It is difficult to distill a consistent doctrine out of Winstanley’s works. The same man who had once denounced _ the death penalty with righteous indignation against the oppressors of the people, in 1652 included the ultimate sanction of capital punishment among his own rules of discipline for the restoration of a good society. Doubtless an exegete would be able to reconcile the passages that ring with the rhetoric of freedom and those that impose forced labor under a taskmaster and prescribe whipping, cutting off the head, shooting, and hanging by an executioner in utopia: After all, the earlier outcry against harsh punishments was directed against the unjust chastisement of innocent commoners, the later severity against violators of Winstanley’s own Law of Freedom—a double standard whose logic any twentieth-century revolutionary would understand. Despite the contradictions, there are persistent themes in Winstanley’s thought: the Norman yoke theory; a history of the fall from innocence that introduces a war between the powers of light and darkness in every soul; a

history of mankind that echoes a Joachimite tri-stadial theory; a denial of , heaven and hell as particular places of reward and punishment and a rereading of the words heaven and hell as descriptions of an inner state of love and hate in everyman. The term Reason designates the spirit of God in each individual, a seed capable of germinating. (Winstanley uses the word Reason as Muntzer uses Verstand, in a mystical religious sense that has no secular Enlightenment

connotations.) When Winstanley descended from the metaphysical to the world of the senses, he singled out the promiscuous buying and selling of everyman’s share in the heritage of the Creation as the major source of evil, and looked forward to the restoration of sowing and reaping in common. ‘‘Man had Domination given to him, over the Beasts, Birds, and Fishes; but not one word was spoken in the beginning, That one branch of mankind should rule over another.” *° Winstanley was reluctant to advocate seizure of

| privately owned property by violence and hoped that after the rich landowners _saw how happily the Diggers got along by tilling the village commons together, they would eagerly forsake all covetousness, sharing and working with their fellows. The commons may have meant to Winstanley and the original Diggers about a third of the land of England not yet enclosed by individual proprietors, which left a sizable portion of the country available for communal exploitation, without confiscating private property directly. In The Saints Paradise: or, The Fathers Teaching the only satisfaction to waiting soules. Wherein Many Experiences are Recorded, for the comfort of such as are under spirituall Burning. The inward Testimony is the Souls strength, probably written in

the summer of 1648, Winstanley had bared his inner life to the public with a confession of the deadness of his religious past and exultation over his recent experience of God: “I spoke of the name of God, and Lord, and Christ, but I knew not this Lord, God, and Christ; I prayed to a God, but I knew not where

| he was, nor what he was, and so walking by imagination, I worshipped that devill, and called him God; by reason whereof my comforts were often shaken

TOPSY-TURVY IN THE ENGLISH CIVIL WAR 351 to pieces, and at last it was shewed to me, That while I builded upon any words or writings of other men, or while I looked after a God without me, I did but

build upon the sand, and as yet I knew not the Rock.’’*! The climax of religious experience for Winstanley, as for scores of other Seekers, was the sudden discovery of God within himself, accompanied by a depreciation of all exterior sources of divine knowledge, no matter how eminent the preachers or hallowed the book. Once God was internalized, He would sit upon the throne within a man (a perfect image for Freud’s censor), judging and condemning the unrighteousness of his flesh, filling his face with shame and his soul with horror, even if no one else saw or was acquainted with his evil actions or thoughts. “King flesh is very covetous, self-loving and self-honouring; it likes them that say as it saith, but it would imprison, kill, and hang every one that differs from him [in the end, Winstanley himself fitted this description]; he is full of heart-burning, either of open envy, and bitter distemper, or else carries himself in a smooth, quiet way of hypocrisie, walking in a shew of truth, like an Angel of light, but when he gets an opportune power, he turns to be a tyrant, against the way of the spirit.” ” The virtues and vices recognized by Winstanley were those catalogued by all the Puritan saints. Injustice, covetousness, rash anger, hardness of heart toward others, uncleanness of the flesh, adulterousness, promiscuous pleasure, seeking of revenge were evil. Justice, faith, meekness and tenderness of spirit, sincerity, truth, holiness, and chastity were good. To be under grace did not free a man to wallow in the flesh. Winstanley’s was a puritanical utopia, with no suggestion of Taborite or Ranter or Adamite sensuousness and permissiveness. Winstanley himself had known temptation: “I can hardly hear a sin named, but I have been tempted to it,” “* he admitted with a candor that may have held a trace of boastfulness, but now he was regenerated. Once a man felt the spirit of righteousness within himself, he was forthwith brought into communion with the whole of creation. The original Prophets experienced the Lord, the others only walked by the legs of the Prophets. And it was not the writings of the Apostles, but the spirit that dwelt in them that was life-giving and peace-giving. Those ignorant in the learning of men could

become ‘abundantly learned in the experimentall knowledge of Christ,”’ which would create a mystical communion among all men: ‘‘And so we being many, are knit together into one body, and are to be made all of one heart, and one minde, by that one spirit that enlightens every man.’’ “4 Individuals going

through the same experience could only arrive at the same experimental knowledge, and having the same knowledge would make them one. This knowledge of God was progressive, as Winstanley realized even as he penned his preface ““To my beloved friends, whose souls hunger after sincere Milk” in The Saints Paradise: ‘I see more clearly into these secrets than before I writ them, which teaches me to rejoyce in silence, to see the Father so abundantly at work.” * The world movement of God’s spirit among mankind had commenced and was growing, pouring out upon sons and daughters, and though ‘“‘it yet seem small, it shall speedily increase, and the Father will not _ despise that day of small things; proud flesh shall die, and raign King and gov-

ernour in man no longer.’ ** In the Bible, God spoke to the “capacity of men,” *” the old Calvinist doctrine, by which Winstanley meant that before the

352 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA illumination of the world now taking place God had used the Bible with its images to give men an inkling of His Being, for that was all they were yet capable of comprehending; but He was about to speak directly, without intermediary aids. Then preaching would cease, for this verbal way of conveying knowledge would no longer be necessary. Words were inadequate to express Winstanley’s experimental knowledge of God, which “‘sticks lively in me’’;*

but soon everyone would experience this knowledge through love. God would give a “feeling experience to the heart,’’*® and such teachings, unlike book learning, were infinite. Winstanley saw himself driven to speak of his own experience of God because the King of Righteousness had thus far manifested Himself only to a few persons scattered throughout the world. Before these revelations, the earth had been overspread with the black cloud of dark- | ness, but when the Divine Light shone upon the elect, the world began to be transformed. To render the coming of this enlightenment, Winstanley’s early writings borrowed from the mystical imagery of all ages—springs and fountains gushing, streams flowing, light shining through. Denigrating the bookish tradition as contrasted with the actual experience of God was part of a widespread radical religious sensibility. John Saltmarsh, one of the most eminent preachers of the period, who described the experience of the inner light in a series of brief works in the mid-1640s, had compared the mystical experience of God with the experimental knowledge of the scientist. Winstanley’s reflections on the poverty of received book knowledge recall the denunciation of Aristotle by the trumpeters and heralds of the new science, Bacon and Campanella. Such inherited knowledge was regarded by Winstanley as knowledge of the fleshly imagination. Experience mystical and experience scientific were both the sphere of the inner spiritual man. The mystical experience had the quality of direct illumination for Winstanley, independent of the niceties of theological argument, even as the understanding derived

from scientific experiment was distinct from the storehouse of inherited no- , tions and was even at variance with it. Winstanley’s tirades on the university _ system should be translated into hostility against the learned culture that concentrated on the ancient world and the false theological controversialists, not against the spread of a knowledge of things that had a useful function. Above all, he was antagonistic toward the creation of any special class of scholars or law interpreters or divines or magistrates. Everyone had direct access to the

word of God. , ,

Winstanley harked back to earlier English and Continental mysticism. Netherlands cults that practiced community of property like the “Family of Love,” founded by Henry Niclaes, or Nicholas, whose pamphlets had also been published by Giles Calvert, had crossed over to England. During the Civil War period translations of Jacob Boehme (1645) and Nicholas of Cusa (1648) responded to the growing need for works on mystical experience and the experimental truth of God’s revelation. Winstanley came to believe in the Arminian doctrine of universal salvation, even including the damned in hell. The power of inner illumination could recover the original purity before the — Fall, to which he gave a fresh doctrinal twist. It was a fall from community and from delight in the spirit to preoccupation with the fleshly objects of the Crea-

tion. ,

The Law of Freedom in a Platform or True Magistracy Restored, Winstanley’s

TOPSY-TURVY IN THE ENGLISH CIVIL WAR 353 proper utopia and final work, is dated 1652 and includes a dedicatory “Epistle to Oliver Cromwell” of November 5, 1651. Like Jonah, Winstanley was impelled to speak to Cromwell for his conscience’ sake, “‘lest it tell me another day, If thou hadst spoke plain, things might have been amended.” *° Cromwell is addressed with the same threatening urgency that later marked the appeals of Saint-Simon and Fourier to Napoleon. Winstanley was as passionate as More when he depicted the sufferings of the downtrodden; but now the spokesman was no longer a learned mariner in a dialogue but the people themselves bearing witness: And is not this a slavery, say the People, That though there be land enough in England, to maintain ten times as many people as are in it, yet some must beg of their brethren, or work in hard drudgery for day wages for them, or starve, or steal, and so be hanged out of the way, as men not fit to live in the earth, before they must be suffered to plant the waste land for their livelihood, unlesse they will pay Rent to their brethren for it? wel, this is a burthen the Creation groans under; and the subjects (so called) have not their Birth-right Freedomes granted them from their brethren, who hold it from them by club law, but not by righteousness. *!

With the exception of certain Ranters, whose pantheism recognized God in all things and human actions, rejected the difference between good and evil (except murder), and railed against the hypocrites who denounced fornication, theft, and lying and hanged or burned men for it while they committed the same acts with impunity, all sectaries and utopians held to the existence of ineradicable powers of good and evil at war in the breast of everyman. Even when they posited the existence of a relatively good life for man sometime in the past, it was with the consciousness that there were latent forces of evil. The Levellers, who perhaps took the most favorable view of human nature and saw in it possibilities of love and benevolence toward fellow creatures, were aware through self-analysis that they also had potentialities for lusting after power and seeking after other men’s positions. That was why they wished to be judged by their policy and not their persons. And in whatever procedures they proposed for electing members of parliament and choosing magistrates, they hedged their laws with provisos that would inhibit long-term usurpations of

authority. :

The spirit of Winstanley’s final utopian project is even more wary than that of the Levellers. His Law of Freedom in a Platform portrayed an ever-vigilant society, not an easygoing pastoral idyll. He elaborated a system of production under the control of magistrates who were themselves subject to an intricate network of supervision. Even in Winstanley’s utopia men might be prone to idleness, to stealing from one another’s private households, taking more meat from the common storehouse than was necessary for their families, raising a tumult and announcing the reestablishment of the wicked right of property, reviling and slandering neighbors, committing rape and adultery and other offenses that merited capital punishment. There is nothing loose about Winstanley’s ideal society once he gets down to promulgating regulations and leaves off his mystical interpretation of Genesis. Overseers and taskmasters operate at

every stage in the hierarchy, and the price exacted for transgression, while moderate by some seventeenth-century standards, was cruel. Public admonitions, whipping, hard labor under a taskmaster, and finally beheading or hang-

354 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA

thrashed. ing were normal gradations of punishment. Overseers took care that men con-

tributed sufficient labor under threat of entering this system of escalating penalties. Shopkeepers who distributed the common stocks were closely watched. The education of children was rigorous and the disobedient were

Looked at from the vantage point of the mid-twentieth century, Winstanley’s utopia is an austere gerontocracy. For a product of the Civil War period in which many of the important protagonists were quite young, Winstanley exhibited a strong distrust of youth on the ground of its inexperience, a suspicion that is in harmony with the generally punitive temper of his utopia. Men below the age of forty had to work and could not be elected to the magistracy except in rare cases. After forty they governed as magistrates or taskmasters.

, Whenever Lilburne the Leveller was in trouble with Cromwell’s agents, it was the “young and apprentices’ of London who came to the rescue as they demonstrated and issued petitions under that title. Winstanley’s requirement that rulers be limited to men over forty would have found little favor with the youthful hotheads. The laws of the society were clear-cut, were read over and over again on the Sabbath, which was workless, and were known to all. The familial structure was the existing one, but fortified by the official magistracy of the father. Sobriety was enforced in a puritanical spirit, and there was no idle babbling. Love was mentioned but once: Marriage would take place by mutual consent. Winstanley laid down the law of the imperative to work and justified it, not on the biblical grounds of the Fall, but in the name of health physical and psychic and the welfare of the commonwealth. Labor was emancipated from both the aristocratic curse of Aristotle and the theological notion of punishment for sin. If one ate, there was no freedom to idle. ‘““And the reason why every young

man shall be trained up to some work or other, is to prevent pride and contention; it is for the health of their bodies, it is a pleasure to the minde, to be free in _ labors one with another; and it provides plenty of food and all necessaries for the Commonwealth.”’ ” The passages on knowledge are most revealing of the moral tone of Win-

stanley’s society. Universities as constituted, with their emphasis on theology, were eliminated and there was no concern with literature. Direct inquiry into

God’s creation was the only approved knowledge; and those who wished could deliver public discourses on the Sabbath on natural history, astronomy, _ astrology, husbandry, and human behavior, with the proviso that they restrict themselves to what their own “‘trials” had actually discovered. The antitheologism of some of the sectaries opened the door to the study of science as a replacement. Men could know God only in His works, the rest was pretense. There was overt hostility to the existing university system among all sectaries —Levellers, Diggers, and Ranters. In Winstanley’s structure antagonism to the verbal scholarship of “divinity” led to a prohibition against any man’s devoting himself entirely to mere book learning. In A Declaration from the Poore oppressed people of England he jeered at the ‘‘Parrat-like speaking, from the Universities, and Colledges for Scholars.”*? Knowledge was a supplement to

work and not a substitute for it (as it could be in More’s Utopia). Winstanley | would have no learned elite, nor any special class of perpetual administrators, though he suggested incidentally that supervisors should further the talents of

TOPSY-TURVY IN THE ENGLISH CIVIL WAR 355 young persons who showed ingenuity. But his was not a novelty-seeking utopia despite its acceptance of science. Insistence upon the dissemination of the

new science (yet unnamed) in popular lectures was in the same egalitarian spirit as his provision for equal shares of produce. He would brook no separate intellectual class such as the clergy that would be divorced from the ordinary people. Knowledge had to be close to practice and there was an underlying repudiation of abstract knowledge that did not directly yield fruits. The theological foundations of Winstanley’s utopia had early been set in the allegorical interpretation of the story of the two trees in Genesis. The tree of knowledge was the source of evil in man because it represented “imaginary” knowledge—fears of hell and punishment, terrors, superstitions, false dicta about obedience to elder brothers and conquerors and conniving priests. The Fall was man’s enslavement to this so-called knowledge of imaginary things.

Under the Norman conquest, under a lying theology, men had been dominated by this knowledge. But there was also the tree of life, knowledge of real things, knowledge of nature that would help them achieve agricultural abundance. In contrasting the two trees in Fire in the Bush, Winstanley had pre-

sented a dichotomous view of the world in a rhetoric that seems timeless, going back to Empedocles and forward to Freud and present-day FreudoMarxists. The ideal was the state of innocence antedating the Fall, before the Zoroastrian conflict of real with imaginary knowledge became the fate of mankind. “As soone as Imagination began to sit upon the throne (Mans heart), The seed of Life began to cast him out, and to take his Kingdome from him; So that this is the great battaile of God Almighty; Light fights against darknesse, universall Love fights against selfish power; Life against death; True knowledge against imaginary thoughts.”’* In 1649, when his public career began, Winstanley had spoken in language reminiscent of Joachim’s three stages, and the age of universal love appeared imminent. Three years later, in the practical utopia dedicated to Cromwell, the spirit was Manichean, as he elaborated a mechanism to curb the powers of evil

in human nature. The mystical triumph of universal love receded into the background, and he lost himself in that labyrinth of political gadgetry common to English utopias of the period. After submitting oneself to Winstanley’s reign of the aging taskmasters, so orderly, regulated, lacking in joy and spontaneous effusions of love and hate, one begins to long for a bit of Ranter unrationality with its stripping of the false faces of do-gooders. The World of the Ranters Winstanley’s utopia of inner conscience still preserved a conception of wrongdoing, and, while committed to equality, erected barriers to the freewheeling of man’s evil nature. During the Civil War there were individual preachers who boasted that they were emancipated from any sense of sin and who proclaimed that everything was “from nature’”’—a kind of popular pantheism that saw Godliness in each act of their fellow creatures, drinking, smoking, fornicating, making merry. The term Ranter was loosely applied to this attitude toward God and men. The Ranters were not a proper sect, nor did they adhere to any formal manner of worship. Some among them not only felt God within themselves and in all living things and ‘ejaculated with prayers” when moved

356 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA by Him, but believed themselves to be gods. One gathers—from their enemies | and their own dubious recantations when apprehended by the authorities — that they had assembled small, self-contained groups around leaders who engaged in promiscuous converse with ‘‘she-disciples.”’

The ideal of liberation from guilt and the utopia without repression had ~ never died in the West. The tenets of certain Gnostic sects had survived through the Middle Ages to reappear among the Taborite millenarians and the members of the Family of Love. In the mid-seventeenth century there were

Continental sects both Christian and Judaic who believed that the Messiah | would come when men were all good or all evil, and since the prospect of the former seemed remote there was a tendency among them to accept freedom of the will, without the restraints that traditional Christians and Renaissance humanists had imposed upon themselves. Many of these ideas crossed the Chan-

nel to England. ,

When societies are cut adrift from their moorings, instinctive drives break loose from the repressive psychic forces implanted in individuals by their upbringing. Groups arise among the ordinary people to demand public sanction for instinctual gratification that the upper classes have long enjoyed. In scriptural religious societies the demand for gratification presupposes total emancipation from written prohibitions in the commandments of God the Father. One Father Laurence Clarkson, or Claxton, told about his Ranter beliefs after he had abandoned them in favor of Muggletonianism. “‘No man could be free’d from sin, till he had acted that so called sin, asnosin . . . till you can lie with all women as one woman, and not judge it sin, you can do nothing but

sin. . . no man could attain perfection but this way.’’** Those who were moved by the Ranters wanted not only to sin, but to sin with the approval of the Father. Rarely is such rebelliousness authentic liberty; usually it is an inadequate way of flouting paternal authority, for the internalized censor cannot be overthrown as readily as a king can be beheaded or a prelate ousted. The Ranters’ proclamation of freedom from sin and guilt was still soaked in the old religious rhetoric. God gave free grace; He was in everyman. God was in everything and in every action, adultery, theft, drinking, singing. The Pres-

byterian minister Thomas Edwards, who had studiously gathered the record of sectarian utterances throughout the realm, repeats the words of one of their

preachers that “though a believer should commit as great sins as David, murther adulterie, there was no need for him to repent, andthatsin wasnosin | to him, but a failing.” ®° The preaching of pleasure was usually accompanied by

tirades of great violence against the hypocritical upper classes who enjoyed these delights themselves but denied them to everyman. Among many Ranters the espousal of the doctrine of pleasure and the rejection of hell and its punish-

| ments assumed the form of a universalization of feelings of love and a special , solicitude for the cast-off drunkards, whores, wastrels, thieves, beggars. The death of sin was widely celebrated, though the death of God was heralded but , rarely. Instinctual freedom among the Ranters was of course only partial: Murder was usually excluded, and sexual enjoyment, at least as defined in print, meant genital sexuality with women, without marital restrictions. Room was left for novelty in the sexual utopias of the next major European revolution, for de Sade and Restif. Among the Ranters, unmentionable vices remained unmentionable, though their enemies charged them with sleeping

TOPSY-TURVY IN THE ENGLISH CIVIL WAR 357 two women to a man, with bestiality, and with drunkenness, generally approved in the very midst of their preaching as helping to see Christ the better. Occasionally blasphemous remarks and acts were reported—mockery of the idea of God, of the Virgin’s chastity, of the Bible, of the body and blood of Christ in caricatures of the Mass during which they ate meat and drank beer.*” Ranters like the former Oxford undergraduate Abiezer Coppe bristled with bitterness and sarcasm as they flailed the upper classes. Coppe’s Fiery, Flying Roll, condemned by Parliament in 1650 and burned, demanded instant parity, equality, community, universal love, universal peace, and perfect freedom. He threatened those in possession of honor, nobility, gentility, property, super-

fluity: “The rust of your silver, I say, shall eat your flesh as it were fire . . . have all things common, or else the plague of God will rot and consume all that you have . . . Howl, howl, ye nobles, howl honourable, how! ye rich men for the miseries that are coming upon you.”’*® Coppe idealized the

wretched of the earth in tales that contrasted the niggardly, penny-pinching charity of the “‘well-favored harlot and holy scripturian whore’”’ carried within

him by everyman with the great love burning hot toward a beggar that impelled Coppe himself, on horseback, to cast all he had into the poor wretch’s hands, doff his hat to him, bow seven times, and say: ‘“‘Because I am a King, | have done this, but you need not tell anyone.” ®? The good Samaritan, Saint Martin, and Saint Francis all contributed to Coppe’s hagiographical self-image. The mystical experience of Abiezer Coppe is further confused by a little tract published in London, 1649, by Giles Calvert, Some Sweet Sips, of some Spirituall Wine, sweetly and freely dropping from one cluster of Grapes, brought between two upon a Staffe from Spirituall Canaan (that Land of the Living; the Living Lord.) to late Egyptian, and now bewildered Israelites. And to Abiezer Coppe [in Hebrew letters] A late converted Jew: ““Only I must let you know, that I long to be utterly

undone, and that the pride of my fleshly glory is stained: and that I, either am or would be nothing, and see the Lord all, in all, in me. I am, or would be nothing. But by the grace of God Iam what I am in I am, that Iam. So I am in the Spirit—The Kings and the Queenes and the Princely Progenies, and the Presbyters, the Pastors, Teachers, and the Independents, and the Anabaptists, and the Seekers, and the Family of Loves, and all in the Spirit; in a word God, Christ, the Saints.’’ °°

Coppe’s intemperate language and reports of his scandalous conduct led to his arrest, and won him the unwelcome attentions of a parliamentary committee. In the manner of some of his utopian predecessors, he feigned madness before the investigators, muttering to himself and throwing nutshells around the room. In the course of his subsequent imprisonment he recanted, at least overtly, and ended his life in Surrey, practicing medicine under the alias ‘Dr. Higham.” Ranter pamphlets allow us to look into the more extravagant manifestations of the English popular utopia during the Civil War period. Against the vehement, puritanical condemnation of coveting one’s neighbor’s wife or handmaiden, freer sexuality as a preoccupation is understandable, though hardly innovative. There was one area, however, in which the Ranters left a rich record of human satisfaction. Though it has existed in other societies, it assumed a unique role in this age—the need to relieve one’s wrath with mighty oaths and imprecations. Swearing was extolled both by Abiezer Coppe of the activist

358 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA | , Ranters and by Joseph Salmon of their quietist wing. A hostile reporter described Coppe in the pulpit belching forth curses and ‘‘other such like stuff’ for a whole hour.” Coppe himself carefully discriminated between ‘‘swearing ignorantly, i’th dark” and “swearing i’th light, gloriously.” This may not be a major addition to utopian invention; but only when defilement of the first commandment still had critical significance could swearing have been raised to its proper place in a life free from inhibitions.

The Millennium of the Fifth Monarchy Men Millenarian programs were announced early in the Revolution and they died late. Most of the authors of these tracts are ciphers except for their names and occupations. ® Henry Archer’s The Personall Reign of Christ Upon Earth (1642) is divided into four parts that comprise the requisite sections for a perfect utopian plan. “1. That there shall be such a Kingdome. 2. The Manner of it. 3. The Duration of it. 4. The Time when it is to begin.’ For a good part of the Civil

War, activist Fifth Monarchy Men supported Cromwell, and John Rogers tried to persuade him to institute a ‘‘Synedrin” of seventy virtuous men, while Colonel Okey favored thirteen. Cromwell, who was not unmoved by the millenarians as long as they refrained from obstructing his policies, ended up with a Council of State composed of himself and twelve others. Once the Fifth Monarchy Men broke with him, they had only to amend their earlier identification of the little horn in the prophecy of Daniel, substituting the Protector for Charles the First; the rest of the prophecy could remain intact. Except for an abortive uprising or two, English millenarianism was respectable and most men of the Commonwealth subscribed to the doctrine in some degree; but it was generally a tame millenarianism that offered only an innocent spiritual ex- _

istence, a far cry from the lusty promise of the Taborites. Though the English Fifth Monarchy Men had a less precise general program than the Levellers and the Diggers, their objectives were not so vague as their detractors claimed. On the face of it nothing could be simpler than the intention to remold the whole of society in accordance with the laws of the Bible after the apocalyptic destruction of every last remnant of the wicked Fourth Kingdom. But, as with all historical determinisms, secular as well as theological, an immediate practical problem arises: Does a Fifth Monarchy Man sit back and wait for the Coming or does he take up arms to destroy the Fourth?

Debates between activist Fifth Monarchists and the Presbyterian Saints could | revolve around the proper interpretation of chapter 7 in Daniel. The Fifth Monarchist Colonel Thomas Harrison, who was Cromwell’s aide, leaned heavily upon verse 18, “The saints shall take the kingdom,” while Edmund Ludlow, more cautious, preferred verse 22, “Judgment was given to the saints.’’®> Neither, of course, hesitated to identify the “‘saints”’ as Fifth Monarchy Men. | | John Tillinghast, a militant, announced that they had no right to “‘sit still and do nothing’’;®° and the anonymous Witnes to the Saints (1657) proclaimed, ‘“‘A

Sword is as really the appointment of Christ, as any other Ordinance in the Church . . . Anda man may as well go into the harvest without his Sickle, as

, to this work without . . . his Sword.” ® One faction among the Fifth Monarchists actually attempted a few feeble uprisings, and rumor had it that in June

TOPSY-TURVY IN THE ENGLISH CIVIL WAR 359 1659 they threatened to burn London. But they were never a serious danger to Cromwell. A plot engineered in 1657 by Thomas Venner, returned from New

- England, by no means enjoyed the support of all Fifth Monarchists and most of them held off from action even in the manifestly ordained year of 1666. The less ardent were prepared to remain in their chambers until they heard a clear and certain call, waiting in silence, still in weeping and supplication. They

could not agree among themselves as to whether it was proper for a Fifth Monarchy Man to hold office under the abominable Fourth; perhaps their policy changed with the “objective situation.” Activist or quietist, Fifth Monarchy Men could not dodge concrete prob- | lems about the nature of the millennium, even if there was no consensus as to the manner of its coming. Would Christ appear and reign in person, would He

come for a while and then withdraw, or would He postpone His epiphany until the millennium was over? One group of dissidents even doubted whether He would show at all. Tillinghast conceived of a two-act Fifth Monarchy—a Kingdom of the Stone, or evening kingdom, organized by Fifth Monarchy saints on their own and called by Tillinghast the “working kingdom,” to be succeeded by the Kingdom of the Mountain, or morning kingdom of Christ, when the saints would bask in the glory that was their just reward.® The nature of the political system during the millennium was equally controversial, some opposing monarchy as anti-Christian while others were more circumspect in their pronouncements lest so definitive a judgment exclude Christ - Himself. Fifth Monarchy saints shied away from popular electoral procedures because the prospect of ungodly participants in government was an abomination. There was a marked preference for a Jewish Sanhedrin type of collective leadership, seventy or seventy-two members, depending on how the ancient rabbinic system was read. Chance observations about the “fundamental rights of Englishmen”? may have been attempts to broaden the political base of the saints, but such unbiblical references were not in the saintly mainstream. Choice by lot was suggested in some prospects because it provided for divine participation in the selective process. In the millennial preaching there was no Ranter-like hostility to magistracy; the office plays too prominent a role in biblical accounts of the future to be slighted. Magistracy might even be extended, it was surmised, to assure virtue and terrify the evildoers—the swearers, drunkards, and whoremasters. The millennium is portrayed as a solemn epoch and no flippant jests would be allowable, though the leaders differed about the absolute sinfulness of laughter. Most millenarians ordered dress to be plain and considered long hair effeminate. Their enemies mocked them as subversives who would make the rulers _ of the earth sit “bare-breeched upon Hawthorn-Bushes.’’® But since many Fifth Monarchy Men came from the upper classes, there were those who in anticipation of the rich apparel of the saints during the millennium wore scarlet coats laden with gold and silver lace. It is not possible to define a unified Fifth Monarchist class theory. In general these saints were opposed to the Cavaliers in the Civil War, since true nobility consisted of inward grace and piety. And the radical wing of the movement

believed that there would be no class distinctions in the future society, a prophecy whose fulfillment Venner anticipated by refusing to uncover his head before Cromwell, thus joining the Levellers, Ranters, and Diggers in

360 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA stressing the symbolism of the hat—perhaps the only doctrinal canopy that sheltered them all. And yet, the prophetess Anna Trapnel foretold that the saints would be earls and potentates, and John Spittlehouse referred to them collectively as ‘‘our new built Arrastocracy.”” Millenarian social policy usually avoided anything resembling True Leveller phraseology. Spittlehouse defended liberty and property,” and Peter Cham-

berlen, a royal physician, for all his grandiose projects to use confiscated church lands and contributions by the rich as capital to establish manufactories for the unemployed and to provide holdings for the poor, was contemptuous of ‘‘mechanick Church wardens” and the confused rabble.” Frederick Woodall denounced propagation of the idea of community of persons and things as more wicked than an act of adultery. Attitudes toward the Munster Anabaptists and Thomas Muntzer are a fair indication of the divergences among the millenarians on social questions. Henry Danvers accepted them, while condemning their atrocities; William Aspinwall, another Fifth Monarchist who had sojourned in New England, and John Canne rejected them; and John More and Spittlehouse acknowledged filiation with Muntzer and Storch.” But Fifth Monarchism was essentially an urban movement, not a peasant rebellion, and there was no apotheosis of the common laborer on the land. Like the more prosperous Presbyterians and Independents, many Fifth Monarchists joined in the general contempt of the respectable for able-bodied _ beggars and the poor, who somehow deserved their fate. Morgan Llwyd preached a redistribution of land so that the rich might not have an excess, but even the radical Venner announced his respect for private property, though he was not averse to seizing wealth forfeited for treason that would provide a

treasury for the furtherance of God’s work under the direction of the Fifth , Monarchy Men.” Despite oratorical predictions of much groaning and grieving among the “‘merchants of Babylon” and the promise that in the end of the days men would not toil that others might live in idleness, the millenarians guaranteed the ownership of those who took the necessary precaution of cast-_

, ing their lot with them. Venner, Aspinwall, Spittlehouse, Benjamin Stoneham, and Vavasor Powell all predicted that there would be no need for taxes, excise, customs in the days of the Messiah. Christopher Feake hedged: People would voluntarily give the godly magistrates whatever they required. In the millennium, according to Chamberlen, peace and safety, plenty and prosperity would overflow the land.

, Most of the Fifth Monarchists were against the lords, the richest merchants, and the monopolists, and they formulated an economic policy fit for an island. kingdom that lived on trade. As protectionists, they demanded high duties on foreign finished goods and tolls on exports of raw materials, while they advo- ,

| cated the free export of manufactured articles and import of raw materials — they wanted it both ways.” Venner’s manifesto of 1661 got down to specifics and gave assurances that in the millennium there would be a strict ban on the export of unwrought leather and fuller’s earth used in cleaning cloth.”* This millennium had powerful attractions for master artisans and shopkeepers. But the Fifth Monarchy Men made converts in all ranks of society, and recent attempts to provide a pattern of their class distribution, based on a sample of 233 identifiable persons, is an academic exercise not to be contemned, but not to be overvalued.

TOPSY-TURVY IN THE ENGLISH CIVIL WAR 361 Fifth Monarchy Men were militant crusaders in foreign affairs, smiters of the Amalek. To end the reign of Antichrist, England had to lend succor to those who fought the Pope, the Turks, the Hapsburgs, the French. If they approved the war against Dutch Protestants, they could justify their position by explaining that their purpose was to force the Dutch to join them in battle against the Whore of Babylon. Ideological movements have usually been adroit at rationalizing their support of pragmatic foreign policies. Though it would be difficult to trace direct influence, the Fifth Monarchists reverted in their portrait of the millennium to the sober delineation of the Days of the Messiah in the works of Moses Maimonides, which at this time were being translated and excerpted by learned English and Dutch university professors. His conception eschewed any miraculous distinction between present life on earth and the messianic age, except for the liberation of Israel from oppression and the triumph of righteousness. There would be no fundamental change in human business. Such ideas were consonant with those of the English Fifth Monarchy Men, who merely substituted England for Israel and the millennium for the Days of the Messiah. After the lively array of Pansophic projectors, Levellers, Diggers, Ranters, and Fifth Monarchy Men, it is painful to report that the utopia of the Civil War period exerting the deepest influence on later generations was James Harrington’s Oceana, as arid a work as has sprung from the mind of utopian man. Harrington and the Myth of Venice James Harrington is one of a long line of utopians who were betrayers of their class. Scion of the ancient nobility, but a republican and an opponent of the mighty lords, he followed the scent of future historical development instead of heeding the pulsations of his blood, bringing down upon himself J. Lesley’s royalist curse in a letter with a scribbled title, ‘“‘A Slap on the Snout of the Republican Swine that rooteth up Monarchy” (1657).”" In Lincolnshire, where he was raised, Harrington witnessed the new economic prosperity of the gentry and the corresponding decline of the great families. By the beginning of the seventeenth century the Harringtons themselves had passed their zenith, though the illustrious Sir John of Kelston (d. 1612) wrote poetry and invented the water

closet. James Harrington traveled on the Continent, studying the governments of the countries he visited, and was indelibly impressed by what he saw as the stability of the Venetian Republic, which appeared to be immune to the vicissitudes suffered by other states, peoples, individuals. John Toland in his biography of Harrington describes this extraordinary adulation of Venice, which we now realize had already descended from the pinnacle of its power: ‘‘He prefer’d Venice to all other places in Italy, as he did its Government to all those of the whole World, it being in his Opinion immutable by any external or internal Causes . . .’’” It may be that the Venetian Grand Council, which he had observed in action, inspired the intricate balloting contrivances Harrington proposed to his fellow Englishmen as a way of settling their internal strife.

A century later, when the Baron de Montesquieu, an aristocratic young Frenchman destined to occupy a far loftier place than Harrington’s in the history of political theory, made a similar tour, he was repelled by the corruption

of despotic Venice. In the interim the myth had been exploded. But in the se- ,

, 362 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA venteenth century Venice was still an admired political model, the modern in- , carnation of the principles of the two most successful polities of antiquity, Sparta and Rome. According to an idealized history, Venice—founded in the islands of the Adriatic by refugees from the barbarian invasions—by a stroke of fortune had managed to preserve in its constitution the political wisdom of the ancients and to survive without change, a principal utopian virtue. The Venetian constitution was based upon Aristotelian conceptions of the nature of man as a political animal: Since he had a passion for equality that had to be appeased and an appetite for usurping and monopolizing power, it was necessary to balance these conflicting tendencies if the state was not to be torn apart by constant turmoil. In the eyes of secular theorists, the governo misto of Venice answered to this need. There were differences of opinion as to the ideal proportions of monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy in the constitutional concoction, but almost universal agreement on the principle of a mixed polity. Naturally, the Venetian idea of the democratic ingredient has little resemblance to present-day conceptions. This model of mixed government was extolled by Cardinal Gaspar Con_ tarini at one end of the political and chronological spectrum and by English Republicans of the seventeenth century at the other. Both clung to the vision of the Most Serene Republic of Venice as the optimum political creation. Founding his opinion on Contarini’s description, the English translator of 1599 concluded that the Grand Council “‘seemeth to bee an assembly of Angels, then of men.’’” In 1581 the Grand Council, comprised of all patricians—that is, nobles whose names were inscribed in the Libro d’oro and who had arrived at the age of twenty-five (and a few at twenty, chosen by lot)—reached the num-

ber of 1,843 (out of a total population of 134,890). This was considered the , democratic element. The signory was the monarchical element and the senate the aristocratic. If utopias are obsessive in the meticulousness of their ordinances, the Venetian constitution qualifies in this respect at least. The intricacies of selecting senators, councillors, and the doge involved an admixture of the lot and secret election. The manifest purpose was to avoid the formation of = set factions, to give many a chance to govern in a rotary system, and to encourage a choice of the most capable men. Though the doge was elected for life, his powers were defined anew at each accession, being increased or decreased as

circumstances required.

While for some Venice was the equal of Sparta and Rome, others were carried even further by their enthusiasm to assert that it surpassed them: The Roman Republic in particular was criticized for having yielded to excessive “popularity” at the expense of aristocracy. To Machiavelli’s dissenting voice that Venice was too aristocratic and unheroic, that it was merely a government __ of preservation, Contarini opposed a baleful account of the consequences of Roman military victories. After the defeat of Carthage the same martial spirit

that had led the Romans to triumph had turned inward and erupted in bloody internecine strife. Venice experienced no such disasters. because it was not addicted to war.

, The idealization of Venice in England, so much in evidence in Shakespeare’s plays, continued into the Commonwealth period, and at a time when political forms were unsettled, some, like Harrington, hoped to make this model a reality in the realm of England. Both Venice and England were maritime powers.

TOPSY-TURVY IN THE ENGLISH CIVIL WAR 363 If he were stripped of his pretensions to royal prerogative, the king of England could be likened to a doge. The ultimate doom of Venice as a consequence of the new geographic discoveries and invasions of Italy by European powers was not foreseen. It is paradoxical that Venice captured the imagination of theorists of the optimum commonwealth at a time when its position had already been undermined. Contemporary testimony on a great society is often fallible; the fate of Venice recalls that of Rome under the Antonines and Britain after Versailles, when both had colored the world map so deeply and extensively. That men of the Renaissance could have utopianized what to most of us now appears to have been a narrow oligarchy should not surprise a generation that has seen the idealization of brutal tyrannies as the final triumph of freedom. There were of course iconoclasts who tried to shatter the idol of Venetian excellence, like Sir Robert Filmer in his Observations upon Aristotles Politiques (1652), where the “intricate Solemnities” and elaborate governmental machinery of Venice revered by some observers were taken to be merely evidence that the Venetians lived in perpetual jealousy and suspicion of one another under an oppressive aristocracy that taxed the people more heavily than had the Turks and extorted money from courtesans in return for tolerance.” But such debunking efforts largely fell on deaf ears and the reputation of the Venetian Republic remained untarnished for another century. James Harrington’s Oceana (1656), dedicated to Oliver Cromwell, was advertised as the system that would set the commonwealth into a peaceful and enduring mold. As a friend of Charles I, Harrington had once tried to mediate the disputes between King and Parliament. After the failure of his efforts and Charles’s execution in 1649 Harrington discreetly withdrew from public af-

fairs for a time. His later statement during interrogation in the Tower of Lon- , don after the Restoration has it that the Oceana was a “‘commissioned”’ utopia, apparently one of the first that was made to order in fulfillment of a specific

demand. “Some sober men came to me and told me, if any man in England could shew what a Commonwealth was, it was my self. Upon this persuasion

Iwrote.. .’

Oceana combines the two aspects of Western utopias: the speaking picture of

how the perfect commonwealth is achieved, and the argument—proofs historical, psychological, scriptural, economic—as to why the new society is best.

The argument takes the form of a debate on the government in process of being instituted under a great legislator, the Lord Archon, in the course of which various personages who have made special studies of ancient or modern constitutions present their individual provisions and proclaim their virtues. Harrington was one of the fathers of a constitutional system of meticulously weighted restraints and balances, the larger and the smaller planets in the system all exerting their force to create enduring stability. His whole scheme revolved around the redistribution of suffrage and units of government on a ra-

tional basis. It also depended upon a bicameral legislature: the House of Knights, or Senate, to propose and debate and the House of Deputies to resolve. The Oceana announced itself as a utopia of moderation, mixed government, in which there was a balance of monarchical, aristocratic, and popular elements, based on the realities of landownership and nurtured by prudent examples from all the durable governments of antiquity and modern times. To

364 : THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA the present-day reader it appears to be more like a ball manufacturer’s utopia. __ Secret balloting with round balls variously colored and marked is at the heart of the decision-making process. A report on setting up the voting mechanism for Oceana conveys the essential flavor of the work. So the whole territory of Oceana, consisting of about ten thousand Parishes, came to _ be cast into one thousand hundreds, and into fifty Tribes. In every Tribe at the place appointed for the annual Rendezvous of the same, were then, or soon after, begun those Buildings which are now call’d Pavilions; each of them standing with one open side - upon fair Columns, like the porch of som antient Temple, and looking into a Field, capable of the muster of som four thousand Men: Before each Pavilion stand three Pillars sustaining Urns for the Ballot, that on the right-hand equal in height to the brow of a Horsman, being call’d the Horse Urn; that on the left-hand, with Bridges on either side to bring it equal in height with the brow of a Footman, being call’d the Foot Urn; and the Middle Urn, with a Bridg on the side towards the Foot Urn, the other side, as left for the Horse, being without one: and here ended the whole work of the Surveyors . . .

£339,000." ,

The estimated charges for installing the complex system came to a mere The immediate impact of a utopia can in a way be sensed by the dystopias it provokes. In March 1657, a year after the publication of Oceana, the weekly newspaper Mercurius Politicus ran a series of satirical ‘Letters from Utopia.” The fifth letter is a takeoff that penetrated to the core of Harrington’s plan: “The Agrarian-Wits of the five and fiftieth order, of the Commonwealth of

- Oceana, do humbly conceive, That no Government whatsoever is of any Weight but in their Balance, and that if you go to Venice to learn to Cog a Die with a Balloting Box you’ll soon get money enough to purchase a better Island

than Utopia, and there you may erect a commonwealth of your own. For

Oceana. . .”* |

(SIR) you are to know, its no great charge, when the accompt is cast up, as it is

set down by the learned Author and founder of our most famous

Harrington’s principle of the necessary correspondence between the form of government and the distribution of landed property led him to the conviction

that property should be so allocated among the many that no one man or group of men could acquire more than the rest of their countrymen combined. “If the whole People be Landlords, or hold the Lands so divided among them,

that no one Man, or number of Men, within the compass of the Few or Aristocracy, overbalance them, the Empire (without the interposition of Force) is a Commonwealth.” ® In the Aristotelian manner Harrington recognized various forms of stable government—rule vested in the one, the few, or the many — but, whichever form was adopted, it was the prerequisite for stability that the

ruler or rulers should control more than half the property of the realm. Through a historical process of the redistribution of land, the many were in

fact achieving this control in England.

The balance of ownership was subject to change from unforeseen causes, but the law of Oceana was meant to counteract the tendency to disequilibrium—a situation in which actual power ceased to be in the hands of those who owned

more than half the property—and prevent the resulting shambles of a civil war. The mechanisms Harrington advocated are available to the scrutiny of the curious. English political theorists have lately shown that the system he proposed for maintaining the balance lacks even mechanical consistency.

TOPSY-TURVY IN THE ENGLISH CIVIL WAR 365 Whether the gentry are included among Harrington’s aristocratic few or the people’s many exercises a slew of academic interpreters. Nonetheless he provided England with an illusory formula that it lived by for centuries, that of a mixed government in which the nobility, though well versed in the military arts and possessed of ancient virtues, had an underbalance in the ownership of the total lands of the realm. The many (the people) held more than half of the property and thus ultimate political power; hence in accordance with Harrington’s postulates they had no fear of noble or gentry presence in the leadership of their commonwealth. Harrington told his inquisitors in 1661 that Oceana was directed against the usurper Cromwell, a remark that hardly jibes with his dedication to the Protector (though permission to publish the book was granted only after intercessions by Cromwell’s daughter and assurances that it was nothing but a “political romance’’).® Surely the description of the Lord Archon’s abdication could not have gratified Cromwell, with its tacit suggestion that he go and do likewise: MY Lord ARCHON .. . sawno more necessity or reason why he should administer an Oath to the Senat and the People that they would observe his Institutions, than to a Man in perfect health and felicity of Constitution, that he would not kill himself. Nevertheless wheras Christianity, tho’ it forbids violent hands, consists no less in selfdenial than any other Religion, he resolv’d that all unreasonable Desires should dy upon the spot; to which end that no manner of food might be left to Ambition, he enter’d into the Senat with a unanimous Applause, and having spoken of his Government as LYCURGUS did when he assembl’d the People, he abdicated the magistracy of ARCHON. The Senat, as struck with astonishment, continu’d silent; Men upon so sudden an Accident being altogether unprovided of what to say; till the ARCHON withdrawing, and being almost at the door, divers of the Knights flew from their Places, offering as it were to lay violent hands on him, while he escaping left the Senat with the tears in their Eyes, of Children that had lost their Father; and to rid himself of all farther importunity, retir’d to a Country House of his, being remote, and very privat, in so much that no man could tell for some time what was becom of him."

In what was doubtless intended to be an affecting scene, it seems obvious that Harrington fancied himself the Lord Archon (even as More had dreamed he was King Utopus), who after instituting the perfect government insisted upon relinquishing power and status and returning to obscurity, while his bereaved countrymen tried vainly to detain him. Dullness is apparently not an inhibitory factor in the extension of a book’s influence, else Harrington’s Oceana could not have prospered so mightily. As R. H. Tawney suggested in the delightful essay, ““Harrington’s Interpretation of His Age”: “The reader . . . is unlikely to reproach him with lack of sobriety.’ The favor that Oceana enjoyed among eighteenth-century Englishmen and Americans is baffling. Even skeptical David Hume, after cavalierly dismissing the whole utopian genre in his essay “Idea of a Perfect Commonwealth,” had a good word for Harrington’s invention. ‘“The Oceana is the only valuable model of a commonwealth, that has yet been offered to the public.” ® Debates in the early assemblies of the American and the French revolutions testify to the esteem in which constitution-makers held this incredibly dreary work, at a time when revolutionaries in quest of models had a way of looking backward, just as Harrington himself had rummaged through the stockpile of

366 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA what he thought were the constitutions of Greece and Rome, Israel and Venice, before fashioning his ideal structure. Like many utopians intent upon immediate realization of a dream, Harrington was not an artist concerned with the literary form of his work. He was committed to an idea, and could present it in a verbose book like Oceana, or boil it down to four pages and two lines, as he did on February 6, 1659, in a brief pamphlet with a long-winded title, The Ways and Meanes Whereby an Equal & Lasting Commonwealth May be suddenly Introduced and Perfectly founded with the Free Consent and Actual Confirmation of the Whole People of England (London, 1660).

| All constitution-making is in a way utopian, since its substance is an imaginative plan whose eventual consequences cannot be clearly foreseen. Lateeighteenth- and nineteenth-century constitution-makers all follow Harrington’s schema to some degree. They rarely have more to say, though they may say it with more eloquence and elegance, about the balance of interests, the mechanics for holding off a tyrannical monopoly of power in one person or class, the wisest methods of choosing and deciding. Oceana, born of a misconception of the Venetian constitution and a history of changing landownership patterns in England, much appreciated by those who saw here a world-shaking discovery of the relations between property ownership and political power, seems to have exerted its attractions on later moderate revolutionary governments, the American and the early French assemblies, which hoped to couple the rhetoric of popular government with the reality of elitist control. The American constitution-makers abhorred Plato’s metaphysics and adored Harrington’s arithmetic practicality. Today his work is cited as a document of social history: The importance he bestows upon the knights in his utopia is interpreted as proof of their actual rising influence in England at that time. Marxists see in Harrington an early formulation, of which there are so many, of some aspects of the theory of historical materialism, for he made the point that the constitutional framework of a commonwealth reflected economic and social

power as it had spread or been concentrated in certain hands. , Harrington’s scheme failed because the monarchical principle was chosen as

the safest haven after the storms of the Civil War; but his republican ideas would continue to have a small following in England for hundreds of years. As a utopian he was not one of the wilder sort. He remained close to sea level and the immediate economic and social realities of English life. His was the gentry’s utopia, as the Italian bishops and humanist architects had written aristocratic urban utopias. Some commentators have praised Harrington’s scientific detachment in evolving the principles of Oceana even though he was in the midst of a civil war. He was rather original in his overall view of the evolving - structure of English society after the end of the Middle Ages: His ideal state represented a constitutional consolidation of these changes, and in this respect is one of the early modern utopias with a solid historical base. But for all his worthiness he is much duller reading than an oratorical Leveller, a theological

Digger, a boisterous Ranter, or even a Fifth Monarchy Man. ,

T4

The Sun King and His Enemies

Topay THE History of the Sevarambians by Denis Vairasse, a Huguenot exile, is virtually forgotten. Volume One first appeared in English in a London edition of 1675, and only later, 1677-1679, was the full text published in French with the approval of the royal censor. (Further editions in French followed, as well as German and Italian translations.) The Journal des Scavans for 1676 announced

it as straight travel literature about a newly discovered land in the Southern Seas, though the reviewer entertained a measure of doubt concerning its reliability as geography. Only a portion of the book is a standard utopia describing the laws, customs, and religion of the inhabitants of Sevarambia; around this core are woven tales of adventure and narratives of crimes passionels and their punishment that display the utopia “in motion,” as Plato would have had it. Learned men—Leibniz and Pierre Bayle among them—were sufficiently intrigued to inquire around in the republic of letters about the person of the author. Rousseau praised the Sevarambians along with More’s Utopia, and Vairasse’s work was ordinarily classified with Bacon’s New Atlantis and Campanella’s City of the Sun, though it hardly achieved their fame. For the most part the

style is uninspired, and only the practice of ‘“‘communism”’ among the subjects , of the absolute monarch Sevarias accounts for the modern publication of the book in Soviet Russia’ —belated recognition for Vairasse, whose name, unlike Campanella’s and Saint-Simon’s, has not been chiseled on the granite obelisk in Moscow’s Red Square among the worthy predecessors of revolutionary thought. The Huguenot Condition The Revocation of the Edict of Nantes in 1685 was the climax of a long period of increasing harassment of a twentieth of the population of France who were Protestant. Louis XIV had an ambition to become the Catholic king of a united people, perhaps of the whole world; but his policy was not exclusively dictated

by royal whim—it was reinforced by an upsurge of popular resentment against a refractory minority. Petitions reached the King from the council of the clergy and royal intendants, from zealous bishops and from ordinary peasants and envious shopkeepers, all inveighing against the heretics and the privileges they enjoyed. Some French Protestants endured with resignation the billetings of royal troops meant to impose crushing burdens; others emigrated clandestinely; a sizable number gave lip service to conversion and drew their six-franc fee, only to relapse and be converted again. Peasants in the Cévennes remained steadfast in their faith, were stirred by millenarian preachers, and in the eighteenth century were able to hold a large portion of the French army at bay. Huguenots in the eastern provinces of France close to Protestant countries stole across the 367

368 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA border despite the vigilance of royal guards, who transported those they caught to the galleys or to hospitals indistinguishable from insane asylums and prisons. Refugees along the Atlantic coast and the English Channel, rescued by Dutch boats, established settlements in Holland and England, where they suffered the usual vicissitudes of political and religious émigrés. The more fortunate were integrated into the commercial life of Amsterdam and London while preserving their Huguenot identity. A few scholars found a place for themselves in the nascent English scientific establishment, where they were befriended and patronized by Isaac Newton. And then there were the stray intellectuals without special occupation or remarkable talent, who eked out an existence as best they could as language teachers or dancing masters, acting as tutors to the sons of the English nobility, serving as scribes or secretaries, attaching themselves to the powerful. Though Huguenots supported one another in exile, many lived on the margins of society and moved back and forth

across the Channel between Holland and England as the political winds shifted. Those who failed utterly in the countries where they had sought a safe _ haven returned home, to lose themselves in the labyrinth of Paris. One body of Huguenot exiles formed a tight community in Holland dominated by that formidable pastor of righteousness, Pierre Jurieu. But while these émigrés—lIsrael in the diaspora—preached from afar that it was the Christian duty of the Huguenots to abandom the idolaters and flee the accursed country of the Antichrist, there were other Huguenots who opted for accommodation,

encouraged for a time by Louis XIV’s Gallican and antipapal policy. They hoped for a reunion of the churches under a king who, after breaking his ties with Rome, would institute a state religion flexible enough to include the Protestants. To this new church they were prepared to make doctrinal concessions, and in their adulation of the great monarch who would undertake a separation _ from the papacy they surpassed the most extravagantly flattering courtiers of Versailles. Louis XIV was called the true representative of God on earth, and his military victories and triumphs of diplomacy all bore witness to his divine ordination. Huguenot accommodators were bolstered by coreligionists who were relatively indifferent in matters of religion or conceived of it in Hobbesian terms as primarily an agency of the state to maintain public order. It was far easier for them to accept a Sun King than papal doctrine or conversion to a Roman Catholicism that their preachers and devout ancestors had stigmatized as the work of Beelzebub and that was psychically repugnant to them, however little they cared about their own inherited form of revealed religion. — While they still drew a line at liberty of private conscience, most men of this persuasion would have gone far in putting up with uniform external practice to present their king with the spectacle of a harmonious union of all his sub-

jects. The spiritual dilemmas of the philosophical Huguenots were prickly

, rather than soul-searing, but they had trouble forging a personality for themselves once they were cut loose from the moorings of their fathers. By contrast, the orthodox Huguenots who had fled to Holland and founded churches of their own were in a solid position.

_ The Fantasy of a Huguenot Exile | Denis Vairasse d’Allais (ca. 1630—ca. 1700) had been trained in French law, but

he could not find a substantial post in the courts of the countries where he

THE SUN KING AND HIS ENEMIES 369 sought refuge. He shuttled between Paris, Amsterdam, and London, managing to subsist as a hanger-on of English nobles like the Duke of Buckingham— in and out of favor-—a teacher of languages, geography, and history, an author of French grammar books, perhaps a minor diplomatic agent occasionally engaged in espionage. His utopia was the dream of a tvpical Huguenot accom-

modator who admired the works of Louis XIV and would have embraced most of them if only his kind of people had been tolerated, if the French mon- | arch had really been a Sun King and not a tool of the Jesuits. Huguenots were early associated with utopia. Protestant unease in Catholic France found a voice back in 1616, when an original French utopia was published in Saumur, a paltry little thing entitled L’Histoire du Royaume d’Antangil,

with a vaguely Protestant air about it—though we do not know the name of its author. Huguenots were numerous among the sailors and naval officers of France, and in the accounts of early French explorers the idea of a refuge for their coreligionists crops up from time to time. The Marquis de Duquesne, son

ofa Protestant admiral of France who was explicitly exempted from the Revo- | cation of the Edict of Nantes, laid plans for a utopian colony on the Ile de Bourbon. The disabilities suffered by Huguenots on all social levels sent them roaming throughout the world, and the idea of establishing a more perfect society was a recurrent theme in travel and novelistic literature whenever explorers or voyagers in fantasy chanced upon a salubrious climate, abundant food and water, and noble savages, whose myth they diligently cultivated to allay the fears of their coreligionists worried about the prospect of anthropophagy. The Abbé Prevost, in his popular novel Le Philosophe anglais ou Histoire de Monsieur Cleveland (1731), introduced Huguenot utopian commonwealths into the adventure story of his oddly pedigreed hero, the illegitimate son of a former mistress of Charles I and a youthful, peccant Cromwell. On the island of St. Helena, where the shipwrecked Cleveland was cast up, he found a Huguenot colony living in a communal, theocratic utopia, albeit dis-

tressed by a paucity of males. A number of Huguenot settlements were founded in America, and their experiences, like those of the New England col-

onies of Dissenters and William Penn’s venture with the Quakers, were touched with utopia. John Locke’s constitution for the Carolinas is a utopia of sorts; and among his manuscript notes there are a few pages of detailed marital regulations for an establishment labeled “‘New Atlantis.” (During a stay in England, Vairasse had made the acquaintance of Locke, and may have been influenced by his Carolina constitution in elaborating the framework of the Sevarambian state.) In New England Cotton Mather soon celebrated the Puritan ideal society in a sermon addressed to the General Assembly of the Massachusetts Province and entitled Theopolis Americana (1710). But most of the Hugue-

not plans did not come to fruition, no great ingathering of the exiles took place, and their yearnings were recorded principally in a few Morean utopias, of which Sevarambia was in its day the most famous. | The History of the Sevarambians reflects the search for utopia of one Huguenot wanderer in the seventeenth century, an uprooted intellectual no longer bound to the doctrines of his Calvinist ancestors, who became flotsam and jetsam in the turbulent philosophical waters of the age. The novel, an attempt to make

sense of his existence by building an imaginary society in the unexplored southern continent of Australia, filled an urgent personal and collective need, and, like much eclectic émigré literature, it made provocative new combina-

370 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA tions out of ideas alien to settled, French homebodies with restricted horizons.

Who should be a utopian if not the expatriate longing for a promised land

where he hopes to find a measure of tranquillity? , A Baroque Tale

Four separate stories are intertwined in the history of the Sevarambians: the early life of one Captain Siden, a European who happened upon them in the Austral lands and left behind the manuscript on which the book is based; the history of Sevaris the Parsee who led an expedition to these territories in the fifteenth century and became the conqueror and original lawgiver of the autochthonous population; an account of the traditions of the natives, benighted victims of conniving priests before their redemption by Sevaris; and finally the utopia itself, the society observed by the shipwrecked Europeans who under Captain Siden came among the Sevarambians in the seventeenth century. Compared with the utopias by More, Campanella, and Bacon, which were remarkably compact little books, the work of Denis Vairasse is long-winded, discursive, replete with digressions that are stories in themselves. It prefigures

| those lengthy utopian novels that were to become a major literary genre in the eighteenth century, de-Christianized rationalist utopias which increased in size and quantitative output until the French Revolution put a temporary quietus on them. One exemplar, the History of the Sevarambians, should appease the appetite of even the most voracious consumer of this type of fare, which on the

dam, 1787-1789).

eve of the Revolution was spread out in C. G. T. Garnier’s 36-volume compendium of Voyages imaginaires, songes, visions et romans cabalistiques (Amster-

Commentary on pre-Conquest Peru had brought to Europeans an account , of a magnificent Incan society of shared wealth under a benign sun god. Why not a high civilization in the Austral land mass that was just being charted? Vairasse mixed real and fictitious events in the Hellenistic and Morean manner in order to enhance credibility. He had verified the fact of a shipwreck off the Australian coast with Pieter Van Dam, advocate of the Dutch East India Com-

pany, and the story of the sinking of Captain Siden’s ‘Dragon d’Or”’ is in complete accord with documents now in the Royal Archives at The Hague. Having landed somewhere in Australia, the survivors of the wreck, four hundred strong, organized a temporary society, and advanced under the military command of Captain Siden to explore the island, eventually making contact with the baffling Sevarambians. From an adventure story about a group of _ shipwrecked passengers struggling for existence, Vairasse now moved to a confrontation between the Europeans and another, hitherto unknown, civilized society, the same circumstance that had been faced straightaway by the sailors who landed on More’s and Bacon’s islands. Forging their way to the capital of Sevarambia, the Europeans discovered — cities and buildings of a uniform character (noted as a virtue), great tunnels, canals, and funiculars, whose technology was much admired, even as Vairasse himself had been impressed by the Canal du Midi. A mammoth utopia in the

tradition of Filarete’s Sforzinda (which Vairasse could not possibly have known), the History of the Sevarambians is distinguished by its emphasis on grandiose public works and on symmetry in all things. The capital, Sevarinde,

THE SUN KING AND HIS ENEMIES 371 whose buildings had all been constructed of stone from the same quarry, astonished the new arrivals with its regularity and beauty, two interchangeable excellences in this aesthetic. The first king had been both conqueror and founder, so that he could by fiat make the city plan conform to an ideal social structure. The living area of Sevarinde was surrounded by a thick wall, beyond which lay fields, gardens, and an aquatic basin. In the middle of the city rose the palace of Sevarias, and in its center stood the Temple of the Sun, a configuration that derived from Campanella and the architectural utopians of the Renaissance radial cities. The inhabitants were lodged in compounds known as osmasies, which were grouped around the central governmental nucleus. As in all sun cults and most utopias of the centuries of European dynastic rule, the fortunate Sevarambians owed everything to a single male founder, an incomparable legislator who literally lifted them out of barbarism, and his laws, emanating from one focal point like the rays of the sun, preserved the society’s existence. The original fifteenth-century Sevaris, before the ‘‘a’”’ was added to his name as a mark of his new dominion, traced his ancestry back to the Parsees, who had inherited the religion of the sun from remotest antiquity. (Vairasse knew the explorer Chardin, whose report on Persia was one of the most famous contemporary accounts of that kingdom and of the Zoroastrian religion.) Sevaris had been born along the shores of the Persian Gulf, eldest son of a lord who was the grand priest of the sun. During the lifetime of his father the family, persecuted by the Mohammedan Tartars, lost its fortune, and Sevaris after many adventures reached the Austral lands in 1427 (by the Christian calendar) when he was thirty-three, the age at which Jesus had been crucified. The persecution of the Parsees by the Tartar Mohammedans should be read as an analogue to the sufferings of the Huguenots at the hands of the French Catholics.

The utopia is patently autobiographical, with its idealized images of Denis Vairasse in the persons of both Captain Siden and King Sevarias (simple anagrams for the author’s names)—one the great voyager to undiscovered coun-

tries, the other the brave hero in battle and founder of a perfect society. Vairasse brought his linguistic skills into play when, faithful to the Morean model, he devised a new vocabulary for his Sevarambian subjects. And he took his vengeance for the years spent in the study and practice of the hated legal profession: Though his Captain Siden had also been a law student in his youth, there were no lawyers in Sevarambia. The trials of Sevaris before reaching the Austral lands were in the banal picaresque tradition. After enslavements, liberations, and voyages to many Asiatic lands, his curiosity had been aroused by sailors who told of a people of sun worshipers in the Southern Seas, and he fitted out an expedition to visit them. His early deeds suggest a condensed account of the conquests of the Mexican and Peruvian civilizations in the sixteenth century; but instead of decimating the natives after the manner of the Spaniards, Sevaris bestowed a perfect society upon them. With the sun cult to render them tractable—and the force of his indomitable artillery—he was able to mold the savages, who were in the state of nature, according to the principles of right reason.

Sevaris the politique chose the occasion of a grand festival to prompt a nota- , ble of one of the indigenous tribes to propose the election of a single chief who would rule over all the nations. After Sevaris’ prayer for guidance, peace, and

372 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA justice, a strange voice of a woman or young man was heard from the dome of the Temple; the Sun, it announced, had decided to reserve the monarchy for himself alone and would brook only a lieutenant as their governor. Like Louis XIV, Sevaris thus derived his authority by “divine right.’’ The voice introduced during the building of the Temple was an artifice such as Fontenelle would describe in his analysis of pagan priestly tricks in the Histoire des oracles (1686); but it was a limited and benign kind of deception, since most of the educated Sevarambians whom Captain Siden met two centuries later were — aware that it was a mechanism to lend authority to government and thought none the less of Sevaris-Sevarias for his astuteness.

The Social and Political Order

After briefly considering an imitation of the European system that would have divided the population into seven classes ranging from tillers of the soil to seigneurs, Sevarias conceived of a better and more just model of government. Having concluded that all wars and dissensions were rooted in pride, avarice, and idleness, he decided that a hereditary nobility would only foster a perni-

cious desire to be superior to others. Seigneurs fancied themselves born to command, forgetting that “la nature nous a faits tous égaux,”® portentous words in the 1670s. Hence Sevarias’ final determination that there should be no more than one fundamental distinction among the citizens, that separating the

magistrates from private persons. Only inequalities of age would be marked by inequalities in dignities. Age as the basis for precedence and hierarchy, regarded as indispensable in some form, is common in egalitarian utopias before

the French Revolution. ,

Writing in Restoration England, Vairasse betrays no sympathy for rebellions and insurrections and revolts against authority. Total subordination to the sovereign arbiter of all things is taken for granted since this submission of will is to the Sun himself and no one feels imposed upon. There is a sense of freedom in this voluntary obedience through custom to what the Sevarambians have come to appreciate as an order of reason and justice; the rational will of the Sun-God has been internalized. ““They are early inur’d to a strict Observation of the Laws,’’ the foreigners were told, ‘‘which therefore, by long habit,

becomes natural to them: and their Submission to them is still the more free and voluntary, seeing the more they reason upon them, the more just and equitable they find them.’’? Sevarias’ code of laws was communist, extending to all ranks Plato’s community of goods for the guardians by abolishing private property altogether and assigning everything to the state. Since excessive ease and pleasure constituted dangers to such a society, a benign variation of the Protestant ethic came to the rescue and dictated that the people be kept active in the performance of moderate and useful work, each day being divided into three parts, one for — labor, one for rest, and one for pleasure. The organization of labor was easily solved, for Sevarambians, unlike More’s Utopians, liked to work and no coer- _ cion was necessary. A “‘moderate, daily Exercise, of eight Hours only”’ procured all the necessities, conveniences, pleasures, and diversions for a man, “‘his Family, and all his Children, even tho’ he should have never so many.’’* Since

no one consumed any more than was necessary, there was no accumulation

THE SUN KING AND HIS ENEMIES 373 and no inheritance. The Sevarambians had nothing to leave to their children but a “good Example for their imitation.’”’® The definition of needs is plainly Morean: “‘the Necessaries and Conveniences of Life, as likewise . . . all such Things as contribute to lawful Pleasures.’’® As in More, there are slaves for the mean chores of the household. After More’s Utopia, Vairasse’s equal distribution of goods does not sound

very revolutionary. There is, however, more specialization of labor in Sevarambia than in Utopia. Vairasse provided storehouses for each product, from which officials of every administrative unit took only enough for their own group. Osmasies for each particular industry, a communication network to facilitate distribution, and a statistical apparatus to control the balance of supply and demand assured the orderliness of the system. Needs were static, defined as a reasonable quantity of consumer goods without the superfluities of luxury, a formula that appears and reappears for centuries in utopian projections of a communal society and still has auditory plausibility if one refrains from probing too deeply. There was a set sumptuary quota. Once the norm was established the regulation of production was a simple mathematical operation, and the society remained stable forever. The granaries and storehouses, having laid in extra supplies for emergencies, could support the same level of consumption irrespective of good harvests or drought. Some variety was im-

parted to existence by the succession of the three basic human activities— work, sleep, free enjoyment—during the course of a single day and by the six monthly holidays. Beyond that, sameness without want was the lodestar of the state. Models were all about Vairasse—in Garcilaso’s description of the ancient Incan empire, in Colbert’s plans for a productive class society in which all men either worked or fought, in ancient communist states among the Pythagoreans

and Spartans, in Plato and in Thomas More. The economic communism and the prestige of the magistrates superficially recall the Platonic ideal state, but the purpose and tenor of the utopia are totally different. We are beginning to hear the cry of the poor and of those tormented in mind and body by excessive toil; Christian sentiment penetrates the Platonic quest for justice as harmony. The History of the Sevarambians already has the

bite of modern egalitarian revolt, and anticipates in an embryonic way the Marxist slogan: ““To each according to his needs.’’ Sevarambians were not dis-

tressed by inequality in state dignities because these were reserved for true worth. We are also on the way to the Saint-Simonian hierarchy of merit in an administrative order, though a modern humanitarian rejection of poverty and a critique of undeserved advancement do not fit too well with the underlying Calvinist theory of human nature that suddenly pokes its head into Sevarambia. Though the utopia is labeled “‘despotical’’ in nature by its author, the government is essentially an admixture of aristocratic and democratic elements. The despotic character consists in the absolute power of the monarch, who is the Sun himself, worshiped by all. Actual rule is left to a Viceroy selected for life by an aristocratic council that in turn has been elected democratically by five thousand osmasies, the productive units into which Sevarambia is divided. In the grand pyramidal structure, the head of a family and the head of an osmasie occupy in their small spheres the same position spiritual and temporal as the Viceroy of the Sun does in the large. All forms are replicas of one an-

374 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA | - other; they vary only in size and in the number of their subordinate units. The globe, the kingdom, and the osmasie mirror one another in different dimensions. Vairasse’s Sevarambia is an example of one kind of utopian fixation, the _

repetition of identical forms in different magnitudes. ,

A basic equality in the satisfaction of sumptuary needs is combined with a hierarchy of honors, salutations being punctiliously regulated by position. Distinctions between ordinary people and magistrates express themselves pri-

marily in the color of their garments. The clothes are simple, but the Sun Kingdom is not quite so sartorially egalitarian as More’s Utopia, for the higher magistrates wear cloth of gold and silver, the lower of silk, and the common people linen, cotton, and wool. Colors are changed every seven years as a Se-

varambian moves through the life cycle, from the white of little children through yellow, green, blue, red, and black for the aged. Purple is reserved for the magistrates. A glance suffices to know anyone’s status in society and his" age group, so that each person can be accorded the proper degree of respect. In addition, women are awarded a purple stripe for each child they have raised to the age of seven. Garments and underclothes are renewed at regular intervals, and the Sevarambians bathe at least once every ten days, more often than the Sun King at Versailles. Married couples perform their ablutions together in the river. Simple furniture is provided for the living quarters, but the houses are

not cluttered with utensils because meals are usually taken in common inthe | osmasies, though the evening repast can be eaten at home with family and friends, so that there is a private social life. Officials are chosen for their virtue, and there are elaborate provisions for | the suspension or removal of the Viceroy should he betray symptoms of unreason in his behavior. The only perquisite of office is the right to take a plurality of wives from among the unmarried virgins and widows, a mixed blessing since most pretty girls, cognizant of the law, tend to reject suitors who show signs of being overambitious and are likely to be designated for

public office. |

Life in Sevarambia appears to drift along in an almost Rousseauistic state of natural goodness, until one is brought up short by the intrusion of a Calvinist affirmation that Sevarambians believe man has a natural proclivity for vice. - To counter this secular version of original sin, the Sevarambians have made the educational system the cornerstone of their utopia as it was of Plato’s Republic. Suspicion of raw human nature obtrudes, but social institutions and the

| force of education transform the dross of mankind. The purpose of education in man, a battleground of good and evil, is to stifle the seed of vice at an early age insofar as possible and to cultivate virtue. To this end the neutral authority of a state is required to show neither love nor hatred in its inculcation of the

principles of reason—a rather chilling prospect.

The Sevarambians are conditioned early to feel the strongest emotional ties to the state. After a few years of maternal care, the umbilical cord binding the

| child to the family is cut, and in an elaborate ceremonial the parents surrender their offspring, who are thus removed from the danger of being pampered. Vairasse makes allowances for demonstrations of parental tenderness up to the | seventh year, and even thereafter the parents retain the love and respect of their progeny, but all authority over them is transferred. State education stifles any tendency toward egotistic and privatized action. Once again the Platonic pre-

THE SUN KING AND HIS ENEMIES 375 scription for the guardians has been applied to the whole polity. Though segregated, boys and girls receive virtually the same upbringing, and almost all the youth are given an identical basic education, which is pratical, not religious: reading, writing, dancing, military drill; then farming for both sexes. Here Plato, Plutarch’s Lycurgus, and perhaps even a breath of Comenius may be detected. At fourteen the youth are trained on the job as artisans or they become agricultural laborers or masons, the most common occupations in this utopia devoted to agriculture and public works. Especially gifted persons, those capable of scientific speculation about the nature of things—the origins of plants and animals, the age of the earth, the beginnings of religion—are sent to colleges for advanced studies; and in order to keep abreast of the inventions of other continents, qualified Sevarambians are despatched throughout the world on secret missions of investigation, a practice borrowed from Bacon’s New Atlantis. But the Sevarambians do not have complete confidence in their emissaries and—presage of our contemporary communist societies—those who go abroad have to leave at least three children behind as hostages. Upon reaching puberty, boys and girls are paired off, after they have had a chance to examine each other during formal promenades. Marriage partners are freely chosen. Premarital breaches of the sexual code are not tolerated and postmarital violations are punished with public whipping. Vairasse intersperses his exposition of the severe laws governing sexual chastity with stories of their violation, elaborate intrigues involving transvestism, clandestine meetings of the guilty lovers, and finally their exposure and chastisement, all described in such lurid detail that the pornographic intent of the author is obvious. New techniques were being devised to keep the reader of utopias from nodding. In general, the attitude toward sexual intercourse is eugenic. Barrenness is deplored and regarded as a justification for taking another wife. Those women who produce the greatest number of children for the state are the most venerated; yet there is a prejudice, on purported medical grounds, against any but temperate sexual relations among married couples. In their youth, sexual pleasure is restricted to one night in three out of apprehension that children born of parents who indulge themselves too frequently will be feeble, a common belief that persisted in utopia over many centuries. For a European writing after the devastations of the Thirty Years’ War, the problem of maintaining a stable population, one of the key utopian preoccupations in antiquity, had ceased to exist. Population meant strength, and there was a pervasive fear among state dynasts of a population slump that would render them weak and vulnerable to hostile forces. Thus, though Vairasse is careful to balance consumption and production, there were no restrictions on population increase among the Sevarambians since the opposite danger, a de-

populated countryside, appeared universally threatening. Among the Sevarambians the prevailing community of goods obviated the problem of individual support, and girls of sixteen and boys of nineteen were regarded as marital candidates, though they were obliged to defer consummation of their desires for a few years. At eighteen for females and twenty-one for males, marriage became obligatory, not a far cry from official Colbertian policy, which granted tax exemptions for early wedlock. Polygamy for magistrates was another means of increasing the population and avoiding the survival of old

376 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA maids and widows. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, Protestant hostility to monastic celibacy rendered the practice of polygamy in imitation of the patriarchs at least a subject for discussion, though there were not many proponents of its general acceptance. In Sevarambian society, any consideration of the pleasures of sexual intercourse was subordinate to state policy on procreation, and the Viceroy intervened to assure not only a numerous progeny but the practice of sound eugenics. If eugenic controls failed and weak chil-

dren were born, the ancients, they knew, had exposed them to the elements; since the Christian Vairasse could not quite countenance such brutality, his Sevarambians exiled the deformed to a remote part of the country. The Sevarambians had universal conscription and a national army, which reflected both the tradition of the Hebrews dear to the Huguenots and the reorganization on something like a permanent footing of the monarchical army of Louis XIV, under whom the military establishment ceased to be a horde gathered by noble chiefs for limited finite purposes. The war policy of the Sevarambians was akin to that of the Morean Utopians: slow expansion along the borderlands as it was required by population increase, but no territorial aggrandizement merely for the glory of the ruler. Defense was the primary purpose of the military, and the Sevarambians customarily preferred client states to vanquished ones, another direct borrowing from Thomas More. The Tone of Life Of the eight or ten commonly known utopias written before the French Revolution, the History of the Sevarambians was the most eclectic. Its underlying spirit was libertine in religion, Hobbesian in the despotic centralism of government, Calvinist in the appraisal of human nature, rather Lucretian in natural philosophy, Colbertian in economic organization. The communism and state education derived from the long utopian tradition itself. Vairasse departs from More in shrinking the importance of the family, in slightly increasing industrial specialization and technology, and in elevating the magistracy to a position of privilege. Unlike More’s Utopian households, the osmasies are differentiated from one another by the tasks to which they are consecrated, and some are devoted to industry rather than agriculture. The passion for experimentation among the elite of Bacon’s New Atlantis and religious spiritualism of Campanella’s Solarians have given way to an orderly uniformity that is prosaic and unchanging, but nobody complains of boredom. Vairasse borrowed from contemporary travel literature local color and details such as cos-

tuming, for he lacked inventiveness: Johan Nieuhof’s accounts of China (1660), Jean Chardin’s stories from Persia, and Garcilaso de La Vega’s reconstruction of Incan society contributed to the embellishment of Sevarambia. But it has none of the transcendence of the Pansophic utopia; it is all matterof-fact. The moral tone Vairasse conveyed was one of just and sensible contentment. And this flat, two-dimensional utopian model endured, with minor alterations, for some two hundred years in France, one specimen hardly dis-

tinguishable from another. Cabet’s Voyage en Icarie was its most popular | nineteenth-century exemplar. Alas, the insipid platitudes of his constructs of a perfect society were persuasive enough to lure Frenchmen to their deaths in the

Red River swamps of Louisiana. |

THE SUN KING AND HIS ENEMIES 377 The Sevarambians, virtuous largely because of their training, are kept so by a regime of repression that is reminiscent of the Calvinist communal order of mutual espionage, though there is none of that hostility to play of which the more dour Puritans have sometimes been accused. The Sevarambians are not a grave lot. Vairasse insists upon their gaiety and good humor, though profound respect for women and abhorrence of adultery are so deeply ingrained that any levity about sex immediately jeopardizes a man’s reputation and chance of advancement through election by his fellows. Sevarambians are by nature rather vengeful, but education and the laws operate to modify this character defect. “In a word, if we take a nice view of the Happiness of this People, we shall find that it is as perfect as any thing in this World can be, and that all other Nations, compar’d with them, are in but a poor wretched Situation,”’? Captain Siden concludes in his manuscript notes. The mood of the Sevarambians is livelier than that of Epicurus in the garden, but he remains one of the hidden gods; perhaps there is an uneasy union with the Stoic idea of service to the state, creating that syncretic Stoic-Epicurean ideal that dominated the philosophes of the next century. The benign disposition of the Sevarambians is the best proof that they have fashioned an ideal system. Since they are sober and temperate, well exercised, free from diseases (especially the venereal), they live to be 120. They never suffer from care or anxiety. Robust, very tall, and handsome, they are blessed with soft, smooth skins, agreeably pink and white, and sleek bodies. They may not have the delicate fine faces that are like waxwork and pass for beauty in Europe, but they are healthy and attractive, not overrefined. Repeatedly Vairasse returns to his definition of the golden mean in the conduct of life: to enjoy with moderation the lawful pleasures. On occasion, though not often, Vairasse, who led a wretched existence as an exile, let himself go and contrasted the just and equitable Sevarambian world with the harsh inequities of European society. “For we have, among us,” he bursts out, ‘‘Persons who abound in Substance and Riches, while others want all things; we have some who spend their Lives in Idleness and Luxury, and others who are forc’d daily to get their Bread by the sweat of their Brow; we have some of Rank and Quality, who are neither worthy nor capable of the high Posts they possess; and we have also others of extraordinary Merit, who, being destitute of the Goods of Fortune, are still oblig’d to drudge miserably on in the Dirt, and even perpetually condemn’d to a low, servile State of Action, which the Generosity of their Temper abhors.’’® Vairasse’s epigrams are not as pithy as More’s, but they continue the tradition of social protest against gross inequalities in the human condition, which will rise in a crescendo among utopians, religious and secular, decade after decade until it culminates in Babeuf’s Manifesto of the Equals. In Sevarambia all are rich, ‘‘even from their very Cradles.” Merit alone determines preferment, and one Sevarambian may not reproach another with the meanness of his birth, or

boast of his own lofty stature. All are both nobles and peasants. “No person has the mortification to see others live idle, while he is forc’d to work hard to support their Pride and Vanity.” ® We are approaching Rousseau’s thunderous attack on the psychic sufferings of both the underdog and his master in the

state of civilization, the ultimate embodiment of unnatural inequalities. Vairasse often does not know where to land. He favors basic equality, and yet his rather dim Calvinist view of human nature, damned in its penchant for vice

(378 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA and violence, drives him to establish an absolute father authority at the head of the state. He dares not tamper with that awesome figure, and exalts him to the _ position of Viceroy of the Sun, invests him with despotic power in matters spiritual and temporal, and houses him in Oriental splendor (decorations by the travelers to the East, Chardin, Melchisédech Thévenot, Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, and Nieuhof). But once the absolute monarch has been placed on his

pinnacle, all the sons beneath him must be more or less equal. Even before Montesquieu, Sevarias I knew that the wise legislator had to fathom the esprit of his people and manipulate their dominant, often contrasting, traits of character in order to direct them to the good. It was his observation that the Sevarambians were natually proud, which meant that they were more amenable to praise than to tangible riches. Hence his magistrates were instructed to be profuse in their commendations of good deeds in men and virtue in women. Sevarambians were extremely scrupulous in their conduct and wary lest their good names became besmirched and they lost public credit and a reputation for merit. (The care for one’s public standing is painfully Protestant.) By the same token, calumny was severely punished by the laws because , it robbed the victim of his dearest possession, his good name. As an alternative to truth-saying, Sevarambians might seek refuge in silence; by implication an element of policy was thus introduced into the categorical imperative against lying, a loophole that Immanuel Kant would not have countenanced, though the Sevarambians had fewer occasions to speak falsehood than did Europeans because they had no need to dissimulate for gain or profit or to please superiors. And there were no bad examples for the young to imitate in this puritanical society where oaths and curse words were unknown. Early training and good models along with judicious praise and harsh punishments for violations fashioned a tractable Huguenot utopian. Religion and Cosmology In the latter part of the seventeenth century a libertin was a skeptic in matters of orthodox religion, unconvinced by the proofs of revelation, not necessarily an

atheist, though the condition could be suspect, especially in the usage of the devout. That God-intoxicated Jew of Amsterdam, Spinoza, was often put in this category along with his unphilosophical admirer Saint-Evremond and a variety of popularizers of Gassendi’s Epicureanism. The definition of the libertin was sometimes expanded to include the sort of moral conduct that implied an inclination to sensate pleasure, though of the moderate and refined sort, restrained by a philosophical awareness that gross pleasures were self-defeating. In the closing decades of the century the two aspects of the libertin would become detached from each other and a spiritual libertin might be a virtual ascetic or a man as little addicted to pleasure as Epicurus himself: Then the religious

content of the word gradually eroded as the anticlerical crusade progressed, and libertin came to be used more and more frequently as a description of conduct rather than of belief; with a marked emphasis upon sexual promiscuity or. debauchery. This is the meaning of the term in the Encyclopédie, and by the

~ time the Marquis de Sade employed it, it denoted one who excelled in sexual , depravity. Denis Vairasse was exclusively a libertin d’esprit, at least in his writings, for

THE SUN KING AND HIS ENEMIES 379 we know little about his personal life. One of the propositions illustrated by his good society of Sevarambians was that a state religion which was by no stretch of the imagination Christian, and might even be considered a parody of both Catholicism and Protestantism, could become the prop for a highly moral society, one that in fact was more virtuous than the European way of life—a parallel to Bayle’s paradoxical affirmation that there were virtuous atheists whom God preferred to idolaters. Vairasse’s religious position was a combination of the doctrines of Hobbes and Spinoza. The de-Christianization of utopia had begun in earnest. Religion was necessary for civility—despite the evidence of a few travel reports, Vairasse could not conceive of an atheistical society—and its institutions served exclusively political purposes. Without abandoning belief in an invisible monotheistic God, Vairasse became another promulgator of the sun religion that experienced so dramatic a revival in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Europe. The rebirth of the solar religions has been associated with the growth of centralized dynastic states and the Copernican heliocentric theory of the uni-

verse. Utopian sun cults were doubtless inspired by both of these developments, as well as the Renaissance revival of images from what was believed to be Egyptian hermeticism. Accounts of Mexican and Peruvian sunworship fortified the idea that this was the primordial natural religion of man, to which he would return when theological Christianity had disappeared. The religious settlement of the Sevarambians is what a Protestant accommodator would have asked of Louis XIV. There was an official public religion, but in private men could entertain whatever doctrine about divinity they liked and there were even set times each year when in colleges they could openly debate their opinions, as long as everyone behaved in a decent and respectful manner. Both the headship of the cult and that of the civil government were vested in the Viceroy and High Priest of the Sun, the office one party of Huguenots would have wished Louis XIV to assume after he had broken with Rome and proclaimed himself the religious chief of a Gallican Church. External conformity to a state religion did not trouble Huguenot libertins as long as they were not required to submit to Rome, and outward practices were not of paramount significance to them if they were vouchsafed freedom of conscience. Exalting the power of the King as God’s representative on earth, allowing him to establish the laws of the cult and of the polity, was one way to end the religious disputes that were tearing the state apart. The Sevarambian clergy were like ancient Roman priests; their religious status was not important and they could simultaneously hold civil office. A union of spiritual and temporal power, along with official indifference about matters of private conscience, fostered public tranquillity, the ultimate goal of the state, a politique position that became the normal one for most of the philo-

sophes in the next century. Religious passion was as subversive of good order : as avarice and sexual passion. The Sevarambian way of avoiding schism and civil war was to lower the temperature of religious controversy, to cool religious ardor. Toleration was extended to admit Catholics into the Sevarambian state. There was an end to fanatical persecutions, which Vairasse perceptively diagnosed as mere covers for the exercise of cruelty or for pecuniary interest —

the sufferings of the Huguenots had been branded upon his consciousness. Simulated piety, the hypocritical religious conduct of court nobles seeking to

380 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA

gious establishment.

please a king’s mistress, were the actuality of one segment of the French reli-

The stamping out of sectarian malice brought spiritual peace. The state religion was philosophical, founded on human reason, with revelation playing only a minor role that wise Sevarambians knew was a political invention. Since

his book was published with royal approbation, Vairasse gave lip service to the superiority of the ‘‘celestial enlightenment of the Gospels” over the Sevarambian creed; but his general position was akin to Montesquieu’s later views on Stoicism. Had he not been a Christian, Vairasse would have been a Sevarambian sun cultist. The limits of intellectual tolerance were broader in France than in the southern part of Europe, and Vairasse’s Sevarambian religion could include a belief in the infinity of worlds for which Bruno had been burned by the Inquisition. The syncretistic Sevarambian theology symbolized

in a black curtain that hung in the Temple the invisible infinite God whom men with their weak understandings could only sense obscurely, while their religious worship was regularly addressed to a visible Sun. Since the invisible God could be perceived only with the eyes of the mind, He was the object of formal adoration only once every seven years. In the Sevarambian trinity the three persons have an order of excellence: the first is the invisible God, the black cloth, worshiped in one’s inner being and represented by the reason that unites all men; the second is the Sun, a globe, object of love and gratitude for palpable benefits conferred upon the whole earth; and the third is a female symbol, the image of a mother nurturing many children, which is related to a particular good, the country of one’s birth and the immediate source of nourishment and education. In this imitation of the Christian trinity the most revolutionary substitution is motherhood as the symbol of the land of one’s birth. While it may be premature to talk of a Sevarambian nationhood, the political base is not too far removed from that of Bossuet’s Gallican religion. Religion was still crucial in the Sevarambian utopia, for it was in this sphere that pain had been inflicted on the Huguenot libertin. Under the civil religion —

of the Sevarambians men like Vairasse could have lived in peace, free from Catholic persecution. The sharing of wealth and communal education were old utopian ideas already explored by Thomas More and Campanella; but the Sevarambian religious settlement had a unique character. The cosmology was rather Cartesian, with a touch of Neoplatonic imagery that Vairasse might have picked up in England. About one Christian doctrine he was cautious— the immortality of the soul. Most ordinary Sevarambians believed in it, with the Sun the ultimate source of birth and resurrection; but the great minds among them were divided, some holding that the soul perished, others that it was material and eternal. Through the device of a multiplicity of private beliefs that prevailed in Sevarambia, Vairasse could toy with outrageous ideas that sound like adaptations from Porphyry and Plutarch and were part of the liber-

tin stock-in-trade. ,

Previous utopias had either Christianized their inhabitants in a miraculous manner as Bacon had 1n the New Atlantis, or left them nominal adepts of a pre-Christian natural religion as in More and Campanella, thus avoiding the difficulties of conciliating some of their moral doctrines with the Church. Vairasse was more audacious. The descendants of Giovanni the Venetian, tutor of the first Sevarias, were devotees of a Christian cult, the one exception

THE SUN KING AND HIS ENEMIES 381 to the universal sun religion, but it was a substantially altered Christianity, in which Christ was an angel and the Eucharist a symbolic act. Despite the fact that they were concentrated in one osmasie and allowed to celebrate their religion openly and absent themselves from solar festivals, the Christians had not prevailed over the public cult nor even disturbed it. The mass of Sevarambians trusted in reason too much to be persuaded to credit Christian miracles. Sevarambians were emancipated from superstition, and reports of apparitions in the clouds were explained scientifically; Sevarias nevertheless honored what he knew of Christianity as serving a moral purpose. He was hostile, on the other hand, to Mohammedanism and Greco-Roman idolatry, whose myths were banned outrightly, in flagrant violation of the principle of free conscience. Here again, as at many other points, a Calvinist antipathy to sensuousness asserts itself in the Huguenot utopia. — There is a strange interplay of the mechanical and the organic in Vairasse’s conception of the world, an amalgam of Cartesian ideas and Stoic speculations about the periodic exhaustion of nature. The mathematical arrangement of things, which is the work of man, militates in the direction of repetitive sameness, but nature itself surveyed over centuries has an organic pattern of growth and decay. On a universal scale entire peoples die and even the globe itself is doomed to extinction. The arts and sciences serve to maintain a balance in the world, but there is an underlying natural movement toward regression and even toward evil. The order of society cannot overcome this cosmic law, for, as the wisest of the Sevarambians know, in the infinite universe worlds are constantly dying and being born, like individuals, preserving a fixed quantum of matter and of spirit in the whole. Cyclical processes are constantly at work in nature and only a few are subject to modification by human will. The Sevarambians have rediscovered the arts and sciences of antiquity and there is

reason to believe in their further progression during this cycle of history, though not in infinite progress because the earth, like all planets, ultimately has to be destroyed. When the wise legislator thwarts bad will, superstition, greed for power, sexual lust, deception, arrogance, he is maintaining the equilibrium of the state as long as possible, but without any illusion that it can last forever. In punishing outbursts of passion among the Sevarambians, the Viceroy of the Sun is acting as a regulatory force. The passions, like sin for a Calvinist, are lying in wait to wreak havoc, often assuming the most benign and pleasing masks. The raison d’étre for the mathematically organized nightmare of Sevarambia was the brute lurking in the background. ‘‘Men by nature have a strong tendency toward vice, and if good laws, good examples, and a good education do not correct them, the evil seed they bear within them will grow large and strong and often will crush the seed of virtue that nature has planted in them. Then

they abandon themselves to their unruly appetites, and, allowing their impetu- , ous and ferocious passions to rule their reason, they are flung into every sort of evil.” 1°

The Archbishop’s Pastoral Idyll Francois de Salignac de la Mothe Fénelon was born in the ancestral chateau of Fénelon in Périgord in 1651. A younger son, destined for the Church by the order of his natality, he turned out to have an authentic religious vocation.

382 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA _ Périgord had been flooded by waves of Christian mysticism in the seventeenth ' century, but his was no mere precious religious sensibility; between the ages of twelve and fourteen, he had been educated by the Jesuits of Cahors in their rationalist mold. At Saint-Sulpice he was trained in the spirit of a reborn Catholic devoutness in which the charity of works became the core of the Christian mission without impeding the development of a rich inner life of contemplation. His later encounter with Madame Guyon only brought to the surface a subtle spirituality which had been latent since his youth. An acute reasoner and a religious enthusiast lived in the same man. The compatibility between religious sensitivity and political astuteness, even guile, is no longer open to question; the combination has been frequently noticed in the most renowned religious leaders. Fenelon was a formidable adversary, and both his worshipful friends and his enemies have left witness to the beguiling charm of his person. Few men and even fewer women withstood the seduction of his words when delivered from the pulpit, addressed to royal charges in private, or written as

: personal letters to troubled souls in search of direction. Fénelon would seek out the self-love of his penitents in the most secret recesses of their self-abuse. ‘“There is a very subtle illusion in your suffering,”

he wrote to the Countess de Montberon, , ,

because you appear to yourself to be completely absorbed with what is due to God and his glory alone but at bottom you are in suffering about yourself. You really want God to be glorified but you want it to be through your perfection and thereby you return to all the refinements of your self-love. This is only a subtle detour to reenter under a better pretext into yourself. The true image to make of all the imperfections which you seem to discern in yourself is neither to justify them nor to condemn them (for this judgment will revive all your doubts) but to abandon them to God, making your heart conform to His in all things about which you cannot see clearly, and remaining at peace because peace is of the order of God in whatever state one might be.!!

As a young man Feénelon had been patronized by Bossuet, and when a bitter dispute later arose between this stalwart defender of Gallican institutional Catholicism and the dissident Fénelon, his former protector took more than one occasion to allude to that period of tutelage. Fénelon’s advancement was rapid. He became spiritual director for a school of young female Catholic converts who had either escaped from Huguenot parents or been abandoned by them. Once he had dreamed of an ambitious scheme, of leading a movement for the

propagation of the faith in the Near East. Devotion to Greek studies had aroused in him a longing for the white light of the eastern Mediterranean, and he hoped to head a mission to the Christian lands ravaged by the Turks. In his mind’s eye he saw the infidels fall back as he reunited the Christians east and west in a new bond. But his ecclesiastical superiors thought otherwise and he was sent in the opposite direction, to the Huguenots of the western provinces of France to persuade the heretics to return to the fold. Writing about the state of the missions to the Huguenots in February 1686, Fénelon zealously defended the goal of Louis XIV’s religious policy but advocated a different method: He would woo the heretics with sweetness rather than severity.'? While authority must be unflinching, he counseled, in order to restrain these unruly people, some means had to be found for making their lives in France agreeable and dissuading them from leaving the country. The object of punishment was not to wreak vengeance but to direct consciences.

THE SUN KING AND HIS ENEMIES 383 Fénelon tirelessly argued with the Huguenots, demonstrating with chapter and verse the rightness of the Catholic cause, trying to forestall the application of cruel measures, though always quite aware of the power in reserve. The great psychologist of the Christian life was not content with mere acquiescence. Somewhere between the lip service that satified the formal religionists and the dark absolutism, almost blind to charity, of the Jansenists, stood this believer in discipline who was nevertheless moved by the sufferings of recalcitrants upon whom the rod was wielded. He called for “‘gentle preachers’ to assist him, men who could make themselves loved. In order to obtain credit with potential converts, Jesuits were advised to intercede with the authorities for the mitigation of royal punishments, even if they knew they would fail in their pleas—a bit of Machiavellian craftiness from the lips of the saint. In the utopia

that he later came to write he similarly tempered discipline with affection, firmness with love, allowing for benign deceptions in the cause of virtue. Rousseau’s system in the Emile was a secular version of the same path to a uto-

pian paideia, A religious psychologist genuinely preoccupied with how to touch the souls of men, Fenelon subtly depicted the religious disarray of the French Huguenots bombarded at the same time by letters from their coreligionists in Holland and by the preachings of the Jesuits; he understood their troubled consciences and their secret shame. During his mission to the Huguenots, Fenelon formed a close friendship with M. de Beauvillier. When this fellow aristocrat became the official tutor of the Duke of Burgundy, Fénelon was appointed his preceptor and the task of forming the character of a future king of France was entrusted to him. He had already written a treatise on the education of aristocratic young ladies which was highly approved; and in his new capacity he continued to compose works for the guidance of his royal charge. According to the witness of the Duke de Saint-Simon, Fénelon exerted a profound influence upon the boy and transformed his unruly character overnight. With extraordinary insight he analyzed his pupil’s fits of rage, alternately directed outward against those surrounding him and turned inward in episodes of blaming and self-denigration. Fénelon never thought of himself as a writer, and unlike the salon intellectuals in the eighteenth century he spent no time worrying about his literary fortunes. During his life individual works were published either without his consent or by editors who often knew little about his intentions. Not until the ancien régime was drawing to a close did the Assembly of the Clergy of France

recognize in him the last significant Catholic apologist and proceed to a gathering of his works. The edition of nine volumes that appeared from 1787 to 1792, when God’s house was already going up in flames, still preserved an official cast—all of Fénelon’s controversial writings on quietism and Jansenism had been carefully expunged. The Bourbon Restoration finally discovered him as the embodiment of the Christian ideal and the priests of Saint-Sulpice prepared a thirty-five volume edition of their most famous predecessor, illuminated by a fairly accurate reconstruction of the political and ecclesiastical controversies that had engaged him. But even they refrained from publishing the Maximes des Saints, which had once brought down upon him a papal con-_ demnation. Since then, extensive collections of his letters have been printed and new light has been thrown on his relations with Mme. Guyon and Mme.

| de Maintenon. His spiritual correspondence has come to be appreciated as a

384 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA magnificent example of religious sensibility, and the political significance of this saintly archbishop living in the world is now better understood. There is no reason to doubt Fénelon’s testimony that he wrote The Adventures of Telemachus to instruct his student the Duke of Burgundy while diverting him. The work was not intended for publication, but two years after its composition a copyist apparently arranged to have the manuscript printed without permission. In 1698, word of its contents reached the Court, and the sheets were seized. Official suppression only caused the pirated editions to multiply. Voltaire reports a remark by Louis XIV that Fénelon had the finest and most chimerical mind in the kingdom, and he was chimerical indeed if he expected the Sun King not to take umbrage at this educational exercise. By this time Fénelon was no longer in the good graces of the monarch, having become involved with the quietist Mme. Guyon and sharing, at least in some measure, her views on the nature of the true Christian spiritual life. A contest had developed between Bossuet and Fénelon and at a formal inquiry the propositions of one of his works were condemned. He was disgraced and exiled to Cambrai in August 1697. Fénelon publicly retracted every one of the doctrines declared false by the Church, but the forthrightness of his withdrawal failed to regain the royal favor. The appearance of Telemachus in 1699 only compounded

Louis’s displeasure. Mystic Communion and Utopia

Mme. Guyon’s “moyen court et tres facile” for attaining mystical illumination and knowledge of God, which Fénelon espoused against the attacks of Bossuet, was a spiritual foundation for Fénelon’s utopia. Since God is within us, if we only had communion with our divine natures in peaceful self-examination, we would be able to make a good world. (We have heard the same message from the mouth of an English Digger.) Such mystic ways were suspect to institutional religion, for they elevated the worth of a passive religious state that prepared the suppliant to receive the direct spirit of God above formal confession, good works, and the rituals of a Gallican Church. Fénelon was hardly

circumspect in his opposition to the Archbishop of Paris, who was directly

| involved in the harassment of Mme. Guyon. Complex intrigues involving papal policy, Gallican rights, personal animosities, pitted Bossuet and Fénelon against each other in a battle of ecclesiastical titans over the authenticity of the inspiration of a prophetess; but the ultimate issue was the nature of Christian society in a world of dynastic states. Bossuet, fixated upon man’s sinful, rebellious nature, which had to be held in check by secular and sacerdotal powers, —

reserved paradise for the next world.

Ecclesastical establishments and political absolutisms are inveterately hostile to the religious man who believes that the divine spark within him can be ig-

nited without the intervention of the officers of church and state, that pure love alone can guide man to God. A pillar of the church establishment and the

, state like Bossuet astutely sensed the heretical potentialities of a doctrine that relied on the power of religious illumination, as English prelates had half a century before. Fénelon’s Christian universalism ran counter to Bossuet’s acceptance of the civil divisions of mankind into dynastic states as permanent and necessary and to his castigation of religious mystics who would deny the di-

THE SUN KING AND HIS ENEMIES 385 vine origin of these states. For Bossuet church and state were laden with sufficiently heavy burdens even if they only maintained an elementary order of society; Fenelon would have had the state activated by love into creating the best possible republic, a utopia on earth—though he carefully eschewed the term. In Fénelon’s Adventures of Telemachus the hero is an amalgam of the noblest aspects of the young David of the Psalms, the young Telemachus of Homer,

and a noble, converted Canadian Indian, set against a background drawn from Anacreon and Ovid. Theologically Fenelon’s utopia is rooted in the quie-

tist conception that the cultivation of a passive, trusting, childlike attitude would bring about a union with the divine and the approbation of a good king, since both the king and God would be readily accessible to the obedient people. Evil derived from wicked monarchs who betrayed their trust. Orderliness

and regulations in excess were not needed; societies under wise mentors led a , natural idyllic existence without great struggle. The Salentians and the men of Boetica—the utopians Telemachus learned about on his travels—performed

their tasks effortlessly, as though engaged in salutary exercises. Fenelon evoked the spirit of antique Greece and the hills of Judea, which turn out to be kindred; those who administered Plato’s laws and the laws of the Israelites were transmuted into gentle fathers of their people. For pious abbés like Fleury and the young Fénelon, the ancient world they knew from literature was bathed in a supernatural light of pure simplicity. Antiquity was experienced as a pastoral idyll, whose inhabitants, godlike figures no matter how humble their station, wore the same loose-flowing garments whether they lived in Judea, Egypt, the isles of Greece, or early Rome. And little distinction was preserved between one century and another—all of it was the blessed ancient world. Exaltation of antiquity made educated men of the French “classical age’’ capable of achieving prodigies of transformism. The warrior tribes whose history was narrated in Deuteronomy and the Books of Kings were perceived by the Abbé Fleury in his Moeurs des Israélites as a gentle

people and their laws as the benign regulations of an ideal republic, interchangeable with his friend Fénelon’s shepherds of utopian Boetica and the citi-

zens of Salentum, the second-best utopia in Telemachus, after Mentor’s reforms had been instituted. Poussin’s paintings of the Seven Sacraments (in the National Gallery, Edinburgh) convey the same syncretic atmosphere—Christian ceremonies performed by men in Greco-Roman costume against an Arca-

dian backdrop. The whole formed a spiritual unity that could become a longed-for ideal among Catholic priests reacting with distaste to the ruffle-bedecked, high-heeled, mannered nobles of the French Court. Fénelon differed

from the contemporary Pansophist utopians of the seventeenth century because he was both ignorant of the achievements of science and suspicious of cultivation of the arts as an indulgence in superfluities. He paid them even less heed than did the humanist More, remaining steadfast in his preference for agrarian simplicity and for an emotional communion with God that had no use for the new science. The knowledge that guided the Pansophists to God was alien to him. It is an exaggeration to find all the roots of secular enlightenment in Fénelon: One vital ingredient, the new science of things, is conspicuously absent. He was a throwback, a nostalgic evocator of a bucolic contentment that had never existed. There is something paradoxical about Féenelon’s role. How does a Christian

386 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA saint teach at the court of Louis XIV? What meaning do his words have as they echo in the royal bedchamber through the pious lips of Mme. de Maintenon? Her scores of secret tiny notebooks full of devout homilies exerted little effect on the military policy of the Sun King. In France, traditionalist Catholicism died in a revery; the Archbishop spent his last years an exile in Cambrai tending to his pastoral duties. But by the end of the eighteenth century the French monarchy had undergone so radical a change that the same Adventures , of Telemachus which had so outraged Louis XIV was prepared in a special edition by the royal presses for the guidance of another Bourbon king, a king who never reigned, one who was to have been the seventeenth of his line.

_ The Demise of the Rural Aristocracy | Sometime between 1688 and 1695 official spokesmen for the aristocracy at the Court developed a full-blown political ideology of an antimercantilist character. Documentary support for the reaction against Colbert’s policy was drawn from an investigating commission report of 1687 that had graphically depicted

_ the poverty and hunger of the French countryside. An anonymous memorandum of February 23, 1688, to the King had dramatized the situation: ‘“The poor frequently have no bread, not even the blackest; lately they have been compelled to live off roots or gleanings. Most of them no longer possess even , household furnishings for [the tax collector] to seize. They sleep on straw in the clothes on their backs, frequently half-naked. Haggard, thin, and languishing, having neither provisions to live on nor anything in reserve, all are driven to beggary . . . Is this the flourishing state of the realm about which we hear so often?” A similar portrait of the French peasants appeared in the 1689 edition of La Bruyére’s Les Caractéres, published after a catastrophic depression of agricultural prices: “Dispersed over the country certain wild animals, males and females, are seen bent over the ground which they turn with an invincible _

persistency.’ In the anonymous memorandum extravagance bred by social emulation was denounced in terms become stale and familiar in present-day mobile, competitive societies: “You no longer plan your expenditures according to what you have, but according to what others do.’’* Paris and the army consumed the surplus of the countryside. Those who worked in luxury industries by definition led an unstable existence because they were dependent upon © the whims of fashion. Constant economic turbulence was the essence of anti-

tianized. ,

utopia for men inspired by an admixture of Epicurean and Stoic virtues Chris-

In the courtly manifestoes of the last decade of the seventeenth century, an economic reality was integrated with a religious philosophy that had roots in French piety and a demand for the reconstitution of aristocratic power. Behind the writings of Boisguilbert, Fleury, and above all Fénelon lay the vision of an , agrarian society, a placid landscape in which a benign monarch settled his people in fixed estates—highest among them an aristocracy of birth that no one envied because it was natural—and governed them in a Christian spirit that had banished the demons of power and the lust for territorial aggrandizement. The mercantilists had insisted that the source of strength and wealth of the kingdom was industry: It stimulated trade, attracted foreign money, which then circulated throughout the realm and ultimately found its way into the

THE SUN KING AND HIS ENEMIES 387 King’s coffers to support his grandeur. The agrarians’ intellectual revolt discovered the mainstay of the good Christian polity in the cultivation of the land, and a whole moral view of the world was attached to their choice. Industry had awakened unnecessary desires and led to the spreading evil of luxury, which brought on softness and undermined character. A sound people enjoyed all the necessaries of life, were continent and hardy, and had nothing but contempt for gold and fripperies. They were satisfied with their lot in whatever station of life they happened to be born. Commerce was allowable only within narrow limits and as long as it did not excite superfluous needs and introduce vices.

An agrarian suspicion of commerce and industry is one of the oldest utopian themes in the West. The pastoral idyll, a literary portrait of the good peoples of antiquity living peacefully among their flocks and tilling the soil, sustained this conception. The misery of the French peasantry, blamed directly on Colbert’s mercantilist policy, was proof positive of the catastrophic consequences of enticing the laborers of France away from the rich lands of their fathers.

| Aristocrats in and out of the Church could look back nostalgically to smiling prosperous fields, untroubled by drought and unravaged by war—a bookish dream if ever there was one. Economics, morality, aristocracy, and religion spoke with one voice. The opposition to Louis XIV’s system might be reduced to a class conflict, the attempt of the aristocracy to regain a status usurped by the parvenu merchants; but the new ideology was a complex superstructure, crowned by one of the most widely read utopias of the age. Utopian agrarian ideas had been around for a long time and could easily be rooted in the wisdom of antiquity. The Abbé Fleury, a noble cleric, had expounded them in his Pensées politiques written between 1670 and 1675; and he had discovered a speaking picture of them in the way of life of the ancient Israelites as recorded in the Bible. The end of the state was to render its people happy, contented, suffused with a feeling of calm felicity and piety. Happiness had none of the orgiastic and passionate connotations that came to be attached to it in some quarters by the end of the eighteenth century. Thomas More’s allowable pleasures and his censorship of the unnecessary were accepted as the

positive and negative images of the ideal way of life. There is in Fleury’s thought a strong undercurrent of prejudice against any large urban agglomerations—the growing attack on the cities that culminated in Rousseau had already begun in earnest, and the agrarians proffered the same psychological rea-

sons for their antagonism to city life, a complete reversal of the dominant classical view that had lived on from Greece into the Middle Ages and the Renaissance and had conceived of the city as the perfect embodiment of everything

that was social and human in existence. The isolation of urban inhabitants from one another, their mutual fear, the great and visible disparities in wealth, the weakness of the social bond were depicted in stark and simple terms. ““The multitude of inhabitants is so great,” Abbé Fleury complained, ‘‘that most of them do not know each other, they have no ties, no friendships; often, even those living under the same roof become suspicious of one another and take continual precautions. This is no longer a society.’ ** The utopias of the Renaissance had always been cities—More’s island of Utopia was dotted with cities, Patrizi wrote a Citta felice, Campanella’s Sun Kingdom was a city, as the great visionary republics before them had been ever since Plato and Hippo-

388 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA damus. The phenomenal growth of London and Paris in the seventeenth century had turned the city into an anti-utopia. Towns to which farmers returned at night were acceptable in the agrarian utopia, but the provincial capitals, then perceived as monstrous urban agglomerations, were denounced as the ruin of whole regions. A single dense urban center was growing at the expense of a countryside whose settlements would become sparse to the point of extinction. The ideal was an evenly populated agricultural area rather intensively worked, neither the territorial extension of empire to no purpose nor the artificial concentration of persons in cities, with their deleterious physical and spir-

itual consequences. ,

Agrarians were generally also anti-Machiavellian and anti-Hobbesian. They were rationalists who believed that a sound, successful, powerful government could be moral. The idea that men were totally depraved was rejected. The

same dismal view of human nature that Fleury fought in his refutation of Machiavelli, his friend Fénelon would repudiate in his virulent opposition to the somber Jansenists. A wise king could, through institutions, curb whatever evil propensities there were in man and encourage the good. This is what Mentor taught Idomeneus in the Adventures of Telemachus. And Fleury charged in Réflexions sur les oeuvres de Machiavel: “‘“But you [Machiavelli] say that if the Prince is good he will not survive because men are bad. First, they are for the most part neither very bad nor very good . . . Moreover, you, who wish to

tics... 7735 |

govern, have the duty of making them better: this is the goal of true poli-

The Mirror of the Good Prince

Fénelon had ventured to address Louis XIV like the prophet Nathan before David in passionate memoranda that pointed a finger at him (it is doubtful whether Fénelon’s letters were ever seen by the King): ““They have vastly increased your revenues and your expenditures. They have elevated you to the heavens . . . and impoverished all of France so as to introduce and maintain an incurable and monstrous luxury at Court. They wanted to raise you on the ruins of all the classes in the State, as if you could become great by oppressing your subjects on whom your Grandeur is founded.” '® When Fénelon had

, largely given up on the vain, aged sinner, he concentrated on the young Duke of Burgundy, placing great confidence in the future king for whom he wrote Telemachus sometime between the last months of 1694 and the end of 1696, a storybook version of what Fleury and Fénelon had been saying in private communications to Louis XIV. His mirror for a prince was not an idle fantasy, but a practical utopia that he hoped to see implemented by a young monarch under

the aegis of seasoned mentors. a , Telemachus, a text heavy with anachronisms, incongruities, and an eclectic

imagery, begins with the shipwreck of the hero, who under the guidance of the wise Mentor (really Minerva in disguise) has set off in search of Ulysses. He falls into the hands of the goddess Calypso, who would smother him with her love, the unrequited passion for father Odysseus now transferred to the _ son—a flattering prospect to growing princes ancient and modern. She cajoles him into recounting his adventures, which affords Fénelon an opportunity to pass in review an array of wicked monarchs of the ancient world who had suc-

THE SUN KING AND HIS ENEMIES 389 cessively held Telemachus in their clutches after his many other shipwrecks and captures by piratical enemies. One of the most iniquitous of kings is the Phoenician Pygmalion, who so ground down his people with extortionate levies and his interference with free commercial enterprise that their naturally industrious qualities were stifled. The tyrant lived in terror of his subjects, had to sleep in a different bed each night to thwart those who plotted to murder him, bolted his doors, operated a network of spies; he was dominated by his power-lusting capricious mistress, who constantly deceived him. Sesostris of Egypt, a good man by nature, inadvertently committed evil deeds because of his reliance on ministers who misled him. The inhabitants of the island of Cyprus had been reduced to luxury and softness by their devotion to the single passion inspired by their goddess Aphrodite. In almost every section of Telemachus at least one of the evils of Louis XIV’s reign is denounced—his mercantilist manipulation of commerce, his sexual inconstancy, his wasteful wars of conquest, his expensive building projects, his dependence upon ignoble ministers, his spendthrift practices that were ruining the naturally rich agricultural economy of the realm. Fénelon’s pointed references to monarchs who embarked on military adventures and mulcted their peoples for their own glorification can hardly be construed as anything but direct slaps at the Sun King, however vigorous the denial of any intent of lése majesté. Who could believe that the description of the kings in Pluto’s hell was mere playful fantasy against an antique backdrop, or a purely educational device, dreamed up without reference to contemporary reality, simply to instill virtue into the young Duke of Burgundy? If in the Telemachus Fénelon was merely excoriating vice in the tradition of the ‘‘mirror of princes,” an old literary genre common to both the Islamic and the Christian worlds, he was laying it on with a trowel. Such an attempt to inspire good conduct in the Duke was surely an affront to a grandfather who was still very much alive. One did not require a detailed key to recognize the characters in the tale and assimilate them to court personages. Fénelon’s profound disapproval of the ~ ways of Versailles, which he was at no pains to conceal, cast a shadow of doubt upon the innocence of his motives in writing the Telemachus. In a letter of July 4, 1695, to the Countess de Gramont, he sketched a melancholy portrait that was an antecedent of Rousseau’s condemnation of the hypocrisies of life in Paris: “‘Versailles does not, after all, make one younger. You have to put on a smiling face there, but the heart does not laugh. No matter how few desires and how little sense of pride are left, one always finds here something to make

one age... A host of fugitive little worries await you each morning upon rising and do not leave you until night; they take turns in agitating you. The more popular one is, the more one is at the mercy of these devils. That is what one calls the fashionable world, the object of envy among fools.” !” The French

Court was a hive of envious competitive creatures poised to injure one an- _ other, a spectacle of psychic evil chronicled by the Duke de Saint-Simon, great-uncle of the future utopian socialist. Telemachus escapes from the amorous embraces of Calypso when Mentor literally pushes him into the sea, and the adventures are resumed. But suddenly amid the darkness of monstrous kings, shining lights appear in the form of two virtuous societies. It is the first, Boetica, described by Adoam, a Phoenician captain on whose ship the wanderers have found temporary refuge, that is the

390° THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA : more ideal of the two, perhaps so perfect that it cannot exist among ordinary

men. Salentum, though admirable, is less exalted; it belongs to the earthly | sphere and is a goal attainable by good men in any age. Boetica is a paradise where shepherds dwell in family groups without fixed abodes, holding all things in common, living continent, peaceful lives amid their flocks. Nature is bountiful, their desires are few and easily satisfied, emulation and violence are unknown among them. The attributes of the land and the temper of the inhab-

itants are unadorned literary adaptations from the Greek and Latin corpus— | the golden race in Hesiod, the golden age in Ovid, the Elysian fields of Homer, and the idylls of minor writers who derived from them. Arcadian images flood _ the nostalgic utopia. Metallic gold is evil when used as money to corrupt mankind, and the men of Boetica make axles out of it for their carts—a more genteel version of More’s chamber pots. There are no artisans devoted to the man-

| ufacture of luxury products since the women weave the white wool of the sheep and everyone dresses alike. Conquerors of empires are held in contempt. Each father is king of his own group, but even he never punishes without consulting the whole family. The inhabitants of Boetica have learned wisdom by studying nature. The uselessness of arts and sciences, that ancient Greek and

, Latin theme, was revived by Fénelon. The tone is not so abrasive as in Rous-

, seau’s later tirade, but the ideas are already here.

When one speaks to them of peoples who know the art of making grand buildings, furniture of gold and silver, materials decorated with embroidery and precious stones, exquisite perfumes, delicious food, musical instruments that charm, they respond in these terms: These peoples must be very unfortunate if they have to spend so much labor and industry to corrupt themselves! This superfluity softens, enervates, confuses those who possess it. It tempts those who are deprived of it to want to acquire it through injustice

, and violence. Can one call good a superfluity which only serves to make men evil? Are

, the people of that country any healthier and more robust than we are? Do they live

one, a gayer one?’® ,

longer? Are they united among themselves? Do they lead a freer life, a more tranquil

In its own day Telemachus was acclaimed by imitation. Les Voyages de Cyrus

(1727) by Fénelon’s friend and admirer Andrew Michael Ramsay, the Abbé Jean Terrasson’s Séthos (1731), and a host of other stories distinctive only in their costuming all depict the aristocratic life of virtue in some idealized antique land. Amid these uninspired epigoni, it is a relief to come upon Télémaque travesti, a picaresque novel by the youthful Marivaux that borrowed a conceit from Cervantes. A young bourgeois and his uncle, by dint of having read too much of Telemachus, have gone batty and spend their days reliving the adventures of the ancient heroes. Under a jesting exterior, Marivaux demeaned Fénelon’s stilted attempt to reproduce epic style and subject matter, and tried to portray instead the harsh existence of ordinary people. But the dissenting voice of Télémaque travesti was barely audible. The book was published in 1736,

twenty years after its composition, and then only abroad. Though reprinted in

truncated form in the last quarter of the eighteenth century, it did not come _

after its first appearance. , , to light again in all its wicked glory until 1956, more than two hundred years The popularity of Telemachus in later periods bore no relationship at all to

Fénelon’s object in writing it. As scores of editions followed one another throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the impact of the tale was

THE SUN KING AND HIS ENEMIES 391 far mightier than anything its author could have expected. The book served as a respectable primer to communicate elementary knowledge about the geog-

raphy of the ancient world and about mythology; and its precepts of moral virtue were salutary by-products in a schoolbook. Young Americans in the early nineteenth century, like their European counterparts, learned virtue, French, mythology, and the ideals of a pastoral utopia all at once when they were fed Fénelon’s Telemachus.'® One never knows where the seed will sprout. In his memoirs the aged Jeremy Bentham recalled the reading of Telemachus as the crucial event in his life: ““That rornance may be regarded as the foundation-

stone of my whole character; the starting-post from whence my career of life

commenced. The first dawning of the principle of utility may, I think, be

traced to it.”

But to his own and immediately succeeding generations the serious message of Fénelon’s fable, when it was understood, was its implied attack upon the monarchy and social institutions of France, upon Louis XIV’s policy of aggrandizement and Colbert’s mercantilism. The eulogy of a continent life of work on the land was a foil for the decadence of Versailles, and a natural hierarchy of birth, extolled as the basis of social organization, a tacit rebuke to selfmade bourgeois administrators. In Telemachus the Christian utopia found its last significant pictorial embodiment; sentimentalized French Catholicism of the Romantic era kept its memory alive and modern industrialism sharpened its nostalgic appeal, but by then its original meaning had been completely forgotten.

Ig

Leibniz: The Swan Song of the Christian Republic _

On NOvEMBER 14, 1716, Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz pulled his nightcap over

, his head and died in the lone presence of his servant, without calling for the consolations of religion. With him was buried the fantasy of a Christian Pansophia which had possessed a brilliant, if motley, array of European thinkers for more than a century. In later centuries encyclopedists, founders of universities and academies, originators of philosophical languages and new logics, apologists of science, supporters of ecumenical endeavors, reformers of the education of the young, visionaries of world peace, latter-day Christian mystics, and

even proponents of a communist revolution might on occasion hark back to one or another Pansophist as a predecessor, perhaps choose a fragment of his writing as an inspirational text; but the dream as a whole was the expression of a unique moment in time and vanished with it, despite its political survival in an attenuated form in the mechanical schemes for perpetual peace of the Abbé | de Saint-Pierre.

Though Leibniz never composed a “‘proper utopia” in the Morean manner, , he read many contemporary story utopias, even the lighter ones like Cyrano’s Histoire Comique, Vairasse’s Sevarambians, Barclay’s Argenis, and he devoted the major part of his life to one of the grandest of all utopias, the elaboration of a plan for establishing a Respublica Christiana throughout the world.' Born in

, Leipzig on July 1, 1646, two years before the end of the Thirty Years’ War, Leibniz left poignant descriptions of its massacres and sackings. Europe was in a graver state of crisis than it had been since the Carolingian Empire. The political fragmentation was paralleled by spiritual anarchy, as theologians squabbled with one another over minor points of doctrine, and Holland and England became hives of skeptics and freethinkers. From the time of his youth, Leibniz had lamented the fratricidal conflict of Christians, which resembled the wars of frogs and rats: ‘““They fight over precedence at the door of a chamber while the house is on fire,” he wrote in 1703.” As a utopian of perpetual peace, Leibniz was part of a long chain that linked him to Lull, Dubois, Erasmus, Sully, and Cruceé.

After leaving the University of Leipzig without his doctorate—he avoided the city for the rest of his life—Leibniz set forth upon his travels. In Nuremberg he met Johann-Christian von Boineburg, a diplomat with wide connections who had once flirted with the Rosicrucians, and he entered upon his ca-

reer under the patronage of the older man. The first encounter with Boineburg, who also dabbled in alchemy, probably occurred in the spring of | 1667, when Leibniz himself was serving as secretary of a Rosicrucian-like , , brotherhood. Ties with earlier Pansophists are documented: Leibniz wrote an encomium of Comenius in 1671, and studied his Opera Didactica Omnia, as well ,

| 392

LEIBNIZ, THE SWAN SONG 393 as the works of Andreae, Bruno, Campanella, and Bacon.* His judgment of these antecedents was not uniformly favorable. This restless man was never content with the role of the closeted philosopher. Throughout his life he had an image of himself as the embodiment of Sapientia, a reincarnation of the great lawgivers of antiquity, who could carry out God’s mission only in partnership with potestas, for great rulers had the means to bring into actuality the projections of wisdom. The concert of two persons, the philosopher and the king, is a utopian tradition that has been revived intermittently in a variety of shapes, from the Renaissance architect and

his podesta to Fourier and his millionaire who would institute the phalansterian system. Plato had conceived of the philosopher-king as one, but in practice the ideal monarch first had to be converted by a philosopher like himself. More and Campanella also had an alternative to the duumvirate, a single being endowed with both spiritual and temporal headship. Leibniz, not one to break with time-honored forms, always eager to see the changing world as an infinite series of small differences and transitions without abrupt leaps and discontinuities, infused the medieval dualism of pope and emperor with new content.

He called upon each of the great princes of Europe in turn to serve as God’s primary agent in realizing his magnificent design. European culture had been threatened by the Turks at the gates of Vienna, and Leibniz later offered one of his few finished manuscripts, The Monadology, to the conqueror of the Turks, Prince Eugene of Savoy, in an act symbolic of their communion of purpose.* Inconstancy in Leibniz’ admiration of one or another European ruler—and he switched his protectors often, as Campanella had before him—was of little consequence; princes were only emissaries of the Lord, first in the reconstitution of a Christian Europe, and ultimately in the Christianization of the whole world. His apparent fickleness can bewilder a critic: From a utopia that would resurrect the Holy Roman Empire with a dual headship for Christian Europe, the Pope and the Emperor, one functioning in the spiritual, the other in the temporal sphere, he moved to a hyperbolic eulogy of Louis XIV as the immortal prince of the age, to a rediscovery of his Teutonic heart and a denunciation of the Sun King, to a final apotheosis of Czar Peter of Russia. And yet these shifts, which depended upon who his patron or prospective patron might be at any given moment, do not make of him a mere opportunistic pamphleteer. Like many other utopians, while he was flexible in the choice of instrumentalities for the implementation of his grand design, he did not abandon the vital center of his system either in philosophy or politics. In Leibniz, the philosopher, theologian, mathematician, diplomat, physicist, jurist, historian, and visionary are united. The man of universal knowledge was a man of the universal utopia, bombarding princes throughout Europe with schemes of political reorganization, with plans for the founding of universities, the advancement of science, the conversion of non-Christians, the unity of the churches. The projects were often chimerical, sometimes merely out of phase. Potentates listened to them with a measure of skepticism, even suspicion, and when he seemed to side with one European power against another, Leibniz was accused of treachery. His diplomatic memoranda should

not be appraised primarily in the context of German nationalism, as they sometimes have been east of the Rhine. The independent German princelets

304 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA spending themselves in internecine wars were creating confusion and anarchy,

and they had to be welded together if Europe were to survive; but the ‘‘Teutscher’’ monad he was fashioning in his fantasy was only one element in the great hierarchy of Christian European society. The inner depths of this most versatile thinker of Western society have not been fathomed. In the vast archive of his papers in Hanover intimate documents are rare. There are rumors of an illegitimate son, but only rumors. His self-portraits avoid reference to affective relations and dwell on his freedom from disturbing passions, an official version of a philosophical existence. He enjoyed the amenities of comfortable living, and was careful to amass an ade-

quate number of pensions from his royal and aristocratic protectors. A few years before his death he chose to reveal formally the outward direction of his life. In a letter to Chancellor Golofkin of Russia dated January 16, 1712, he wrote a retrospective summary of what he conceived to be his manifest purpose in the world: “Since my youth my ultimate goal has been to labor for the glory of God through the advancement of the sciences, which best illuminate

party...” | | the divine power, wisdom, and goodness . . . [ am always prepared to turn my thoughts toward this great goal, and I have only been looking for a prince

who shared the same aim... In this respect I favor neither nation nor

Though in 1676 Leibniz toyed with the idea of becoming amphibious, passing half the time in Paris, the other half in Germany, he ended up spending most of his life in Herrenhausen. He was tied to his locality, and only in imagination was he the man of all monads and ages. As ducal librarian in Hanover, he was engaged for forty years in writing the history of a princely family, a rather tiny monad from which to view the world. To find the origin of the House of Brunswick, Leibniz once set out on a voyage of discovery through the archives and papers of the House of Este, and identified it twenty generations back in the person of one Azo. By an irony of fate, the wife of Azo was Cunégonde, a detail that Voltairean Frenchmen none too sympathetic to the heroic disorder of Leibniz’ thought and papers cannot report upon without malicious delight. Leibniz used up three princes of the House of Brunswick. His service at the court began with Johann Friedrich (1665-1679), a Catholic prince in whose behalf he concocted a bold plan for the conquest of Egypt, the Consilium Aegyptiacum, that would divert France from designs on Germany to the extra-European world. Ernst August (1679-1698) was a Lutheran married

to a Calvinist, and the Austrian alliance rather than the French became the pivot of his policy. Under Georg Ludwig (1698-1727), the achievement of the English succession was the main thrust of Leibniz’ endeavors, but he was never comfortable with this prince. When he ascended the English throne as George I, Leibniz was abandoned to die in solitude in Hanover. He also had once ex-

pected to follow Princess Sophie-Charlotte to Berlin. After the crowns of Brandenburg and Prussia had been placed on her head, she was to establish — him in an academy, from which he would extend philosophical tentacles to Vienna, St. Petersburg, and, who knows, farther east to China at the other end of the Eurasian continent. But his hopes crumbled when she died in 1704. The complete collection of Leibniz’ books, manuscripts, and letters, still in course of publication, is expected to extend to some seventy large volumes in |

, quarto. But this prolific writer never finished a major work that encompassed

LEIBNIZ, THE SWAN SONG 395 the totality of his thought. He was constantly viewing all sides of every question, displaying his incredible erudition, repeating formulas and arguments over and over again. Like so many of the great visionaries, as soon as he had the flash of an idea he put it into writing. The original invention was what mattered; further insights would come later. And he left behind scores of intuitive manuscript prospectuses, unified by a single religious purpose, parts of a whole that he had in his mind’s eye. Leibniz’ Christian utopia has to be pieced together from youthful projects, from his voluminous correspondence with the princes of Europe, from occasional references to his ideals in the prefaces to his published works. Consistency in detail within a body of such diverse documents is not to be expected. The Organization of Science The advancement of arts and sciences was the heart of Leibniz’ utopia, a religious duty that men in the perfected Christian republic had to fulfill for the glorification of God. The mechanics for the achievement of a state of harmony and love was the dissemination of a body of organized information about all things arranged in an encyclopedia and the acceptance of a common language, a universal “‘characteristic”’ or ‘“‘character”’ that facilitated communication. The fantasy of a universal character was typical of the Pansophic mentality of the seventeenth century and Leibniz acknowledged the accomplishments of his predecessors in this field, especially John Wilkins, one of the founders of the Royal Society. ‘“This writing or language (if the characters were rendered pronounceable) might soon be accepted throughout the world because it could be learned in a few weeks and would provide a means of communication everywhere. This would be of great significance in the propagation of the faith and the education of distant peoples,’ Leibniz wrote in a letter intended for Duke Ernst August.® On this premise he proceeded to build an airy structure of a whole world in easy discourse from one end to the other leading to a facile conversion of all peoples to the true religion. Leibniz went further. The new writing would then become the basis of a sort of general verbal, conceptual algebra and one would reason as one calculated. Instead of arguing, people would say: ‘‘Let’s count”’; error would be immediately detected, putting a stop to futile controversies.’ And even if it were not possible always to find definitive answers to questions, the most probable solutions could be determined. The Leibnizian version of the universal characteristic depended upon the formulation of precise definitions of all the major concepts in man’s intellectual vocabulary, and Leibniz had in fact begun accumulating such definitions, of which he offered Duke Ernst August a few samples: Justice was the charity of the wise man or charity in conformity with wisdom. Charity was nothing else but general benevolence. Wisdom was the science of felicity, felicity was a

state of lasting joy, joy was a feeling of perfection, and perfection was the highest degree of reality. “I mean to provide similar definitions of all the passions, virtues, vices, and human actions, insofar as they are necessary,”’ he assured his patron.® Through this instrument the sight of the mind would be enlarged as vision was improved by spectacles. The unfinished letter closes with a confession of his need for further meditation and a plea for help in the classi-

cal utopian manner. |

396 , THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA Leibniz was aware of the general tendency—he called it a conspiracy—to lump together all projects for the welfare of the human race along with fantasies such as More’s Utopia, Campanella’s City of the Sun, and Bacon’s New At-

, lantis. Like so many of his fellow utopians, he was eager to distinguish himself from the proponents of such extravagant ideas and to differentiate sharply his own ‘‘practical’”’ projects from theirs. He was no utopian; his was the authentic message of the providential design. In a draft memorandum he prepared in 1671 for the creation of a society in Germany dedicated to the advancement of the arts and sciences, the second article was devoted to the eminently pragmatic question of what sort of people would sponsor such an enterprise and what might be their motives. He presumed that the benefactors would be men of high social status, men of fortune and prominence who needed nothing else in the world but a good conscience and immortal fame, men imbued with the conviction that they were subject to the judgment of God and posterity (a combination that at first glance may appear strange) and hoped for a favorable

verdict. For their own health’s sake they wished to experience contentment, tranquillity of spirit, an anticipatory taste of future blessedness and the pleasures of immortality—in a word, coelum in terris. With joy in their souls because of an expectation of eternal blessedness, having done everything in their power to deserve salvation, they could leave the rest to the grace of a good God. In some of its versions Leibniz’ academic utopia is presented as a sort of independent capitalist venture, first supported by men of wealth eager to assure their fame and their salvation, and then carrying on with its own resources as shops for printing, for weaving and dyeing, for lens-grinding tools, in themselves profitable, became attached to the central academy. The utopia would then be a self-sustaining operation. Leibniz constantly argued the necessity of a deliberate organization of the

, scientific enterprise in order to save Europe, a mission of science that could be | mocked when it appeared in the diffuse writings of a Comenius, but had a different resonance in the memoranda of a man whose scientific genius was universally recognized. Though Leibnizian science was far closer to what the members of the Royal Society called science than to the natural-philosophy fantasies of the first half of the century, it was not wholly divorced from the more ambitious Pansophic projects. Coming at the end of the seventeenth century, Leibniz towered above the multitude of Pansophic utopians. He alone was capable at one and the same time of sustaining the ideal of Comenius and his forerunners and working out the laborious details for its achievement through philosophy, theology, a new logic, an ars combinatoria, diplomacy, and concrete scientific investigations. Leibniz had a monarchical image of science before him and he doubtless drew from earlier models, Bacon’s New Atlantis, Campanella’s House of Inventions, Andreae’s Christianopolis, Comenius’ grand design for a Pansophia. His own projects culminated a century later in the plan for scientific organization in Condorcet’s Fragment on the New Atlantis and the Tenth Epoch of his Esquisse and in Saint-Simon’s Napo-

leonic projects for the hegemony of science.

Leibniz was aghast at the contemporary waste of scientific effort. Individualistic science had for a long time been the rule. For most men the publication |

| of their work in scientific journals had satisfied the need for the recognition of personal achievement and had fulfilled elementary requirements for the ad- |

LEIBNIZ, THE SWAN SONG 397 vancement of science as a whole. The rights of personal glory were preserved,

the body of science profited from a degree of mutual aid and even gained through emulation. But there was a growing number of men in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries who, like Leibniz, were not content with the haphazard accumulations of science either through chance or individual effort. And from Bacon at the beginning to Leibniz at the end of the seventeenth century a utopia of universally organized science was kept alive. Even the most individualistic figure in the galaxy of geniuses, Isaac Newton, outlined a proposal for the organization of science in its various branches and provided for a few stipends to be awarded by the Royal Society to men who produced at a regular rate, emoluments that were to be withdrawn as soon as their labors

slackened. The grand projectors like Leibniz were far more venturesome, driven by a spirit that revealed a deeper insight into the prospective organizational needs of the new science. He likened contemporary connaissances to a storehouse or a comptoir that lacked order or inventory.*® Nobody really knew the full contents of the scientific world and therefore existing knowledge could not be tapped when needed. A great number of worthwhile ideas and observations were recorded somewhere in books, but far more could be culled from the actual practices of each profession and guild if they were accessible. There

was poverty in the midst of abundance and without constant usage much knowledge was lost. Leibniz was apprehensive lest the helter-skelter profusion of publications, ‘‘cette horrible masse de livres,’’ would breed such an aversion

for knowledge that mankind would sink into ignorance and barbarism." Many scientific investigators gathered objects without any specific purpose in mind or for a mercenary end, for divertissement, out of mere vanity, without a thought for the general advancement of the sciences. In the age of genius, one

of the most versatile minds of modern Europe concluded, perhaps prematurely, that the day of the isolated experimenter was virtually over. Only by pursuing common ends under unified direction was significant progress in science now possible. The supersession cf possessive scientific individualism does not conform to the style of the rising bourgeoisie, even though in many other respects Leibniz fits in well with its ideal of plenitude and he had a decent regard for money. The problem of supervising all of scientific creativity and at the same time preserving individual freedom of inquiry that plagued Turgot and Condorcet a century later did not trouble Leibniz. The idea of a coordinated Pansophic

enterprise was in an embryonic stage and he was not disturbed about the crushing burden of political authority over science. For the elementary organization of teaching and research, even the establishment of primitive forms of cooperation between the men of action and the men of science was still a utopian goal. Obedience to authority was not regarded in a negative light. The monarchical principle was the best possible form in the universe, whether in the governance of God’s world, or in the rule of states imitative of His order, or in the oversight of science, manufactures, and commerce. A first move to end the chaos was to divide all knowledge into two parts, what Europeans already knew and what still remained to be discovered. What was known had to be assembled in proper order and indexed; materials in print and manuscript had to be subdivided into that portion which was properly labeled and that which was merely inserted in texts en passant and would be

398 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA difficult to find. Where rare manuscripts were involved, their location had to be identified in what amounted to a world geography of scientific knowledge. Leibniz’ respect for historical and philological learning was a far cry from Bacon’s opinion that all past knowledge, Greek and medieval, had to be jettisoned. Leibniz had in mind an improved and far grander Photius, a Myriobiblon of solid information, and he called for universal repositories that were both alphabetical and systematic. He was not reluctant to use analogies to law books, though he believed that medical compendia containing empirical observations were far more urgently needed, and he vented his sarcasm on primi- _ tive aphorisms of medicine to which there were more exceptions than cases that followed the rules. A perfect scientific order would afford aesthetic pleasure to man and be a Gloria to God. The ultimate achievement would be a unified system of scientific laws that would ravish men’s minds with the beauty of its simplicity and _ inspire wonderment at the wisdom of God’s creation, he wrote in a Discours touchant la méthode de la certitude: The perfect scientific order is one in which the propositions are arranged in accordance with their simplest demonstrations, and in such a way that they are derived one from

another, but this order is not known from the start, and is revealed gradually as the science perfects itself. One can even say that sciences become abridged as they are aug-

mented, which is a very remarkable paradox, for the more truths one discovers the more one is in a position to recognize an orderly succession and to make even more universal propositions of which the others are only examples or corollaries, with the result that a large part of those discoveries which have preceded us will in time be reduced to two or three general theses. Moreover, the more a science is perfected, the less does it need big volumes, since once the elements are sufficently well established one can find everything with the help of la science générale or the art of invention . . . Besides, the beautiful harmony of truths that one perceives all at once, in an ordered system, satisfies the mind more than the most pleasant music and serves above all to arouse admiration for the Author of all beings, who is the fountain of truth, which is the principal use of the sciences.”

One of the most remarkable aspects of this scientific utopia is its deliberate rejection of elitist or esoteric science in favor of its democratization. Leibniz was far closer to the populism of the Moravians than to the secretive Baconian Salomon’s House. All men, whatever their station and capacity, were respectworthy contributors to the common treasury of knowledge and to the utopian enterprise. There was no absolute superiority of theory over practice, and the artisan and scientist would become partners in invention. Whenever philosophy moved away from the practical world it became sterile. Leibniz expanded the chorus of those who chanted a Gloria to God to include any person who increased the commoditat of living, helped feed the poor, kept people from crime, preserved order, ended hard times, plagues, and wars, and contributed to the happiness of mankind. When he wrote a memorandum to the Duke of Wurttemberg on the founding of a new university (1668 —1669), he stressed the

| need for locating it in an urban area, lest scholars become immured in monkish cells and defeat the aim of free exchange between men of learning and ordinary citizens for their mutual edification and enlightenment.'* Science had to enter the very life stream of the Christian polity. The unwritten knowledge dispersed among the various arts and professions was more important than what had been recorded, and thus a major part of the

LEIBNIZ, THE SWAN SONG 399 world’s information was simply unregistered. There was no vocation, however humble, which did not possess knowledge that now died with the professional practitioners. Manufactures, arts, finance, military affairs were dependent upon the perpetuation of such knowledge. Many savants still occupied themselves with vague abstract discussions when the field was wide open for solid subjects of inquiry advantageous to the public. Leibniz’ conception of the learning to be derived from observation of existing work practices included activities that would rarely come to the minds of the learned: hunting, fishing, navigation, commerce, games of skill and chance. Even the play of children might interest the greatest mathematician.’4 Leibniz dreamed of a veritable theatre de la vie humaine drawn from observation, far different from a theatre compiled by a few érudits primarily interested in subjects for academic harangues and sermons. Scientists had been grossly negligent in overlooking the corpus of artisan skills, while artisans were none too eager to impart their information to anyone but their apprentices. Leibniz hoped to bring ordinary workmen into the

orbit of scientific civilization not only for their own benefit but to allow the , , higher culture to profit from their experience. Since, in the ideal world, academies were to be located in cities, the interchange between philosophers and workers would be easy and mutually profitable, realizing the necessary union of theory and practice that underlay his world outlook. He rejected the common prejudice that workers had to be driven to their tasks by necessity and want; once their basic needs were satisfied, other elements of their nature would blossom. His utopia of happy artisans was no mere abstraction. Leibniz conceived of practical ways of cajoling workers away from indulgence in drink and debauch to discussion of their crafts. He would have a reporter present during their ordinary conversations to record any new ideas about methods of

production that might be generated in passing. Men singing contentedly at their work is an optimistic prospect that reappears intermittently in the history of utopian thought from Leibniz to Saint-Simon, a denial of both the Greek and the older Christian conception of labor as pain. Since most of Leibniz’ projects remained in manuscript, Marx could not have read them, but he felt a spontaneous sympathy with the philosopher who proclaimed the union of theory and practice—stripped of his godliness of course. In many of his memoranda Leibniz communicates his appreciation of the limitless creative capacities of men in all stations of life. Since their inventiveness often remained dormant, his utopia fostered and encouraged creativity through special institutions. Simultaneously, the mysterious hieratic aura surrounding elitist scientific discovery was to be dispelled by persuading scientists

to set down in detail the particular circumstances of their inventions—not omitting an account of their psychological state at the instant of discovery—in order to learn how to maximize ingenio. Finding out the Neigung, inclination, of each individual student was one of the first and crucial obligations of the educational system, an idea that had been winning adherents in Central Europe ever since Comenius had begun to preach. Propagation of the Faith through Science

While Leibniz was skeptical about egalitarian institutions and fixed forms of meritocracy because it would be impossible to find men who would agree in

400 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA their judgment of merit, and while he left intact existing institutions for the organization of work and justice, he was always on the lookout for ways of giving these same institutions new functions. In all of his projects the pace of change was to be gradual; there was an infinity of stages in any series, and novelty emerged from the old forms only slowly. The unfolding of new shapes of things was naturally stimulated by a philosophical need for plenitude in God’s universe and a psychological need for creation and discovery in every man. Yet, like so many utopians before and after him, Leibniz was possessed by the idea that there was a particular moment when, under the tutelage of a philoso- __ pher who represented theory and a great monarch who represented practice, the proliferation of novel forms could be forced, so to speak, to achieve an ac-

| celerated tempo. If the propitious moment was not grasped, temporary retrogression could stifle a civilization. The great projector should influence the potentates of the world to fashion a political and social environment that allowed for the maximal expression of each man’s productive inclination. The attribute of inevitability in the process is muted, except that finally everything, including a temporary retrograde movement, if it occurs, serves a divine purpose. The progress of connaissances solides et utilee—the words Leibniz used to describe the new science—was a duty owed to ancestors, a sort of psychic debt that had to be repaid by the transmission of knowledge in augmented form to the next generation. Leibniz was convinced that his age was the perfect time to harvest all past experience, and unite it with the concrete new information that

the art of printing, the compass, the telescope, and the microscope had put at the disposal of men. In the course of time new forms and combinations of matter would have emerged of their own accord by accident, but the science of chemistry now accelerated the process. Though no invention of an individual scientific genius made a permanent difference between knowledge and ignorance, because eventually in the course of time the same knowledge would have emerged through the tiny increments of anonymous artisans and inven- |

tors, organized science would hasten the tempo of fulfillment. The academies Leibniz planned for German, Austrian, and Russian monarchs would not be limited to philosophy and experimental science, but would direct inquiries into botany and zoology, collecting records of new species in all parts of the world. Medicine was to study temperament, especially genius _ and natural propensities, and to seek ways of recognizing and utilizing them for the perfection of arts and sciences. The sense of urgency that inspired Bacon’s Great Instauration was heightened in Leibniz, as he called for a scientific explosion in all fields; the moral and religious fate of Christian civilization de-

pended upon it. Military science and other ways of perpetrating evil were evolving so rapidly that Leibniz could only hope the sciences du réel et du salutaire could keep pace with those of the harmful. In his overall prospect he was careful to divide the “good” and “‘bad”’ sciences in such a manner that the bal-

ance of universal harmony was not disturbed. The invention of cannon—an apparent evil—was a gift of Heaven, because its immediate consequence was the stemming of the Ottoman tide, and someday cannon might deliver Europeans completely from the Turks. Then Greece would be rescued from barbarism and allowed to enjoy the fruits of the sciences it had founded, while to Asia, mother of religion, were returned the benefits derived from the practice of

the true faith. !° |

LEIBNIZ, THE SWAN SONG 401 Carried away by an early adulation of Louis XIV, the young Leibniz had once been convinced that the will of this monarch alone could achieve more impressive results in science than all the knowledge that had thus far been accumulated. The time necessary for discovery would be abbreviated and a few years would suffice for what would otherwise require centuries. The inquiries Alexander had encouraged Aristotle to undertake would be dwarfed by comparison; in fact, the scientific memoirs presented at the French Academy and the operations of the Observatory already far outstripped the ancient duumvirate. If Louis XIV united the scientific efforts of men, it would be a monument, not only to his charity but to his glory, that was superior to his military conquests. He alone was in a position to inspire more discoveries than all the mathematicians and doctors taken together could make without him, for he could issue orders and publish regulations to put the sciences on a track of rapid increase. He was capable of amassing more knowledge necessary for

piety and tranquillity, for the diminution of pain and the augmentation of man’s power over nature, than all the nations of all previous ages combined. With such extravagant rhetoric Leibniz renewed the plea of Bacon to James I, of Campanella to the Spanish Monarchy and the Pope, of Andreae to the learned men of the Christian Society, of Hartlib and the Comenians to the English Parliament. In a fanciful fragment of 1675 Leibniz proposed to open a review of the present state and future potentialities of learning with an address to the French King that promised him nothing less than immortality. “Sire, I present to Your Majesty the account of a country where you will live forever. That is the Elysian Fields of the heroes, and one must pass through them to have relations with posterity.”” The apotheosis of Louis turned to hostility in the Mars Christianissimus (1684) once Leibniz was reintegrated into the Germanic world.'® In the tradition of Bacon, the application of theoretical findings had to keep

pace with the findings themselves. Though Bacon and Leibniz may appear to belong to a utilitarian tradition, such a conclusion would be a reduction of their dream of science. Both science and its applications were first a Gloria to God. Pure science would reveal the wisdom of God; its utilization to create new measures of abundance and to alleviate pain would illustrate the goodness of God. Anyone who contributed his skills to a stage of this process, whether as inventor, artisan-manufacturer, or keeper of the public order, was participating in the Christian enterprise. There were no autonomous monads in the universal harmony of things. The love of God fixed a center for all human activities and saved them from dispersion. It helped those men who heeded the general good to rise above the claims of their individual lusts and to put their actions in accord with the will of God, to choose, from among an infinity of possibilities in the present, those types of activity most readily conducive to the fulfillment of God’s plan for the world. If there seemed to be historical regressions, in the end of time these would turn out to have been necessary elements in the best of all possible worlds. Anyone discontent with the order of things simply did not love God as he should.” Despite occasional lapses, Leibniz exuded a general optimism in his Theodicy, which became the source for Voltaire’s mockery in Candide ou l’optimisme. The modern utopia feeds on this spirit or general mood, even as its opposite, pessimism—a term popularized by Schopenhauer—is anti-utopian. Leibniz’ numerous utopian projects are far

402 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA

disaster and catastrophe. , less well known than the formula Pangloss repeats over and over again amid

The cohesive force of the love of God would hold the great work of science together. Leibniz did not foresee the fragmentation of science and technology as their various parts came to serve a multiplicity of alien gods. No scientific corps would carve out for itself an independent status or existence. Theoretically, the religious orders would themselves become scientific establishments, thus providing a perfect transition, without disruption, from the monastery to the scientific academy that would replace it. If it had been possible to follow a Leibnizian prescription, presumably the whole future revolutionary utopian movement of Europe would have lost its raison d’étre as traditional spiritual institutions transformed themselves. Priests and monks would have become scientists. The grave destructive tendency of a spiritual corps divided into two hostile sectors of scientists and priests was uppermost in the consciousness of Pansophic utopians, a subject that would be revived in the nineteenth century

when the bifurcation had become definitive. |

In all projects for academies and scientific establishments Leibniz joined practice to theory, the mark of his system that unites him most intimately with his Pansophist forerunners. The aim of these institutions was not only to promote the arts and sciences, but to further the welfare of the country and its inhabitants in general by improving agriculture, manufactures, commerce, in short, all aspects of existence; also, to make discoveries that would increase wonderment at God’s marvels, to propagate the Christian religion, and to institute sound government and customs among pagans, peoples civilized and uncivilized, even among savages. Learned societies would become the chief organs for the simultaneous propagation of the faith and the extension of civilization. ®

Science would emerge as the primary instrument for spreading Christianity, propagatio verae fidei per scientias,'® and the universal triumph of the true religion

would multiply commercial relationships among all parts of the world. Individual academies would become links in an international network promoting peace among the peoples of the earth. The most dramatic proof that science was destined to be the conquering arm of the new Christian polity was the triumph of the Jesuit missionaries in converting so many of the mandarins of China, a success that Leibniz attributed to the admiration aroused by their introduction of European scientific inventions and discoveries.?° Like Comenius, he saw a movement parallel to the Christian expansion in China on the other | side of the globe, in the harboring of the Indian colleges by centers of learning — Harvard, and William and Mary. The scientific academies he proposed for Berlin, Dresden, St. Petersburg were conceived as a chain of outposts against barbarism and a defense of Christian civilization. Planted in the very midst of European society with all its crimes and foibles, the academies would constitute focal points free of antagonism. Through the radiation of their activities they were destined to alter the essential character of the whole world. Leibniz’ academic projects of the 1670s did not seriously attract anyone at the time of their composition. Eventually, largely through the efforts of Leibniz and the

two Jablonski brothers, Comenius’ grandsons, they led to the founding of the , Prussian Academy, whose internecine quarrels belied the sanguine hopes of Leibniz for the best of all possible academies. (He himself had become the first president of the earlier Royal Society of Sciences of Berlin in 1700.) _

LEIBNIZ, THE SWAN SONG 403 Though ordinary persons would participate, the responsibility for the utopia of science devolved especially upon the elect, a few men like Newton (Leibniz

was writing before their final quarrel) who were, so to speak, of the privy council of God. Without false humility, Leibniz defined the role of men of in-

tellect in the providential design: They were more important than the great captains and at least on a par with the worthiest of lawgivers in helping mankind achieve its ultimate goal. He referred to himself as ‘‘Solicitor General of the public good,” to which he was devoted above all other considerations, “even glory and money.” Education for all according to their capacities, the promotion of arts and sciences, and a sound organization of society were the practical means of furthering the general good. As for distributive justice, Leibniz considered the equal apportionment of goods a vain dream. A communist arrangement would merely favor the laziness of the mass of the citizens. The right of property was absolute, but good citizens had to renounce a portion of their riches for the common welfare. There was a clear-cut division between the private sector, where individual activity was rewarded, and the

public service of le bien général. | The Ecumenical Natural Religion

Leibniz set forth his religious credo in the Confessio philosophi of 1675. “It behooves anyone who loves God to be satisfied with the past and to try to make the future the best possible world. He, and only he, who is thus disposed can achieve the peace of mind that the austere philosophers pursue, the state of total resignation to the will of God that the mystics sought. He whose feelings are different, whatever the words may be that he has in his mouth——faith, charity, God, or neighbor—neither knows God as the supreme reason, nor does he love him.”’””

This natural religion of reason was unknown among primitive peoples, whose first dogmas and rites were nothing but dark superstitions. Leibniz was untouched by the nascent cult of the noble savage. A few ancient philosophers might have had an insight into true religion before Jesus turned it into law and it achieved the authority of a revelation. With Christianity, natural religion, once limited to isolated sages, became the religion of the nations. Mohammedanism did not violate natural religion, and with the conquests of Islam it won converts among some primitive peoples. Reason, which was the natural voice of God in all men, would have ultimately led them to natural religion, but revelation made it an overpoweringly persuasive force. Without revelation, the rapid victory of Christianity over large areas of the world would have been impossible. Strangely enough, natural religion did not render the theological dogmas of Christianity and Islam either superfluous or matters of indifference. The Leibnizian concept that every soul was inseparable from at least a minimal quantity of matter, that each monad was united to an organic body, was the basis for the doctrine of the resurrection of the body, which was part of the principle of immortality. A correct, deeply researched theological interpretation of extension and the essence of bodies would make it possible to conciliate Calvinist, Lutheran, and Catholic doctrines of the Eucharist, even to harmonize trinitarian Christianity with ancient Chinese religion. The Chinese concept of Li, the substance or universal entity of all things, could be assimilated with the Christian idea of substance.”

404 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA But Leibniz was no superficial latitudinarian; he required a digging into the — dogmas of the various positive religions in order to unearth the golden nugget of truth buried away in each of them, excluding only the idolatry in primitive and pagan religions.”* As long as there was rational civilization, a possibility of religious union existed. Primitives usually fall outside the bounds of Leibniz’

chief concerns and their religions have little or nothing to contribute to the universal harmony, though his projects for the reorganization of Russia included training missionaries for the propagation of Christianity in the most — barbarous regions of the empire. His irenicism was not based on compromise among hostile sects, but on the proof that Christian theology, with its Trinity, was actually present in the beliefs of all great religions. The rites and doctrines _ of the major non-Protestant religions were not to be condemned or combated, but were to be analyzed in order to show that they were harmonious with Protestant theology. He would never attempt to overthrow an existing religious institution, Catholic or Greek Orthodox, that was alien to his Lutheran faith, but rather would convince their priests of truths they could not controvert, and would encourage them to extend their future activities into fields of

science and learning they had not cultivated before. | By 1703, Leibniz had become an outspoken enemy of prophets who could

not demonstrate their internal illumination by external phenomena that all , men could judge. As the experimental method in science gradually made its way, it would, he hoped, destroy religious enthusiasm because the inner conviction of the prophet was not backed either by universal reason or by the witness of the senses. Moses had been granted an external sign of his election in the burning bush; modern prophets had nothing but their own testimony to support their authority. Despite an early affinity with Comenian thought expressed in his youthful poem and the similarity of Leibniz’ projects with those of Christian Pansophia—a universal language, the centrality of educational reform, the ordering of scientific research, the conversion of China—he tended to treat Comenius’ memory with condescension. In a letter of 1672 to Magnus Hessenthaler, Professor of Politics and Rhetoric in Tubingen, Leibniz admitted that the works of Comenius were more profound than appeared at first sight, but he was put off by his chiliasm and his association with false prophets.”° After Drabik’s implication in the failure of the Polish enterprise and _ his subsequent beheading, guilt by association made references to Comenius indiscreet, and his name all but disappeared from Leibniz’ letters. Leibniz was leery of any manifestation of zeal or fanaticism; religion infused with passion closed men’s minds to the truths of rational theology. Only as long as rationalism prevailed was there an opportunity for religious union.

Utopianizing China and Russia | For Leibniz each historical moment was pregnant with an infinitude of possibilities. It was the duty of every man in his age to work toward the realization

of that possibility most in conformity with the will and commandment of God, exerting his powers to the utmost upon present reality. Unlike the schemes of other utopians, Leibniz’ projects were not a denial of the past and a repudiation of the present, but an attempt to ferret out in existing society those traditional elements that could be nurtured in order to foster the growth of an

LEIBNIZ, THE SWAN SONG 405 ideal future in harmony with Christian moral principles. He was less absorbed in the dialectic between the imagined future and the present than in the search for optimal projections among a host of contemporary potentialities. His ideal was circumscribed by the common religious and moral principles of Europe; the content of the utopia was determined by a political understanding of what could grow out of the present. Leibniz conceived of himself as midwife to a present that would give birth to the future. Karl Marx understood, despite vast differences in their conception of the dynamic tempo of the historical process, that they were brothers. Engels once presented Marx with a rug that had belonged to Leibniz. The revolutionary theorist was thrilled with the gift: Walking in Leibniz’ footsteps, he too believed that the present was pregnant with the future. Leibniz foresaw an end to the fragmentation of mankind in a series of stages —first the strengthening and unification of Germany, then of the Holy Roman

| Empire, then of Europe, finally of the whole world. To implement this progression he resorted to a baroque Kabinettspolitik that involved the interplay of transitory alliances and alignments. But in his mind’s eye political manipulations were always integrated with a cosmopolitan vision. The public welfare (le bien public) was the supreme law; and by public he referred to all who acknowledged God and were thereby united in one mundi civitas.?® Leibniz’ uni-

versal ideal, however, was not a faceless cosmopolitanism. Individual cultures | _ would preserve their national character as indestructible monads, while they were incorporated into a more complex order that would banish internecine strife among men. Not all Leibniz’ proposals for unification were innocent—there was at least one aberration. In 1671-1672, in conjunction with the memorandum (the Consilium Aegyptiacum) for the conquest of Egypt presented to Louis XIV, he devised a scheme that exploited, rather than respected, cultural differences. A new invincible army that could conquer the world was to be composed of recruits from a great diversity of nations, men unable to communicate with one another, deprived of wills of their own, “‘a splendid collection of half-beasts”’ (pulchrum concilium semibestiarum).?” The Egyptian project has always been under suspicion as a mere political device for diverting the warlike energies of France away from the Dutch and the Germanic worlds and exhausting them in a conquest of the Mohammedans, and such objectives may well have played a part in the total strategy. But generally Leibniz’ plans, even when calculated to give a patron an immediate advantage in the European balance, were tied to the grander prospect of ultimately establishing peace by civilizing and uniting the whole world. Egypt was a way station to the East, to China. While the ideal of universal peace did not exclude war as an occasional instrumentality, more often the primary agency of conquest was directly intellectual: Through the union of minds and religious beliefs the world would be moved toward peace and harmony. The mechanisms concocted by Leibniz appear to be less extravagant than those of utopians like Fourier because they are composed of elements with which we are familiar—theological conciliations, the furtherance of scientific invention, diplomatic combinations, understanding through improved communication. But given the politico-social realities of the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, they are no less radical as

lateral departures from the possibilities of the world. This man who at a

406 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA | princely court could shrewdly diagnose a personal or political situation was _ capable of soaring into a realm of pure fantasy. Though most of the political memoranda Leibniz prepared were intended

| for private individuals of lofty station, not for the multitude, and remained in manuscript, he actually published the Novissima Sinica (1697), a gift to the eighteenth century. The book, a miscellany of materials on China, has a preface by

Leibniz that entreats Protestant potentates to submerge their differences and vie with the Jesuits for the spiritual possession of China as friendly rivals who share a common Christian culture. Interest in the Americas is minor if compared with his obsession with China, though at the height of his infatuation , with Peter the Great he pressed for Russian expansion beyond the Pacific, overflowing the Americas. At each end of the Eurasian continent was a great civilization excelling in certain spheres of human activity, the Europeans in knowledge of things spiritual and in science, the Chinese in civil behavior and the peaceful organization of society. The two were destined to approach each

| other and to interpenetrate, civilizing the vast intermediary land mass. China as the instructor of Europe, even if intended as a paradox, was a shocking no- © tion, not likely to be embraced in the late seventeenth century. “‘But it is desirable that they in turn teach us those things which are especially in our interest: the greatest use of practical philosophy and a more perfect manner of living, to say nothing now of their other arts. Certainly the condition of our affairs, slip-

ping as we are into ever greater corruption, seems to me such that we need missionaries from the Chinese who might teach us the use and practice of natural religion, just as we have sent them teachers of revealed theology.’’”* In the same spirit of reciprocity, he had not been at all fazed when during ecumenical

discussions with Bossuet he was warned that under the projected circumstances of union the Protestants would be turning Catholic; after all, simultaneously the Catholics would become Protestants. In the projects of his last

years, after he had met Peter the Great, Leibniz ceased conceiving of the Muscovite empire as a mere passive area for the spread of Western European culture, and nominated it the active agent in the movement eastward to China, fashioning a new bridge after the Jesuits had been repudiated by the papacy in the dispute over the “‘Chinese rites’? and the Protestant powers had failed to hearken to his plea that they send missionaries to convert the mandarins. There is not a word in the writings of either the Jesuits or Leibniz about the Chinese mentality or the Chinese race. There was one universal reason and one humanity. Infiltrating China served the religious purpose of strengthening

, world unity. When the Jesuits were prepared to compromise on the toleration of certain Chinese rites in order to win converts, Leibniz had come to their support. If only one could persuade the Emperor of China and the mandarins to accept the true religion, demonstrate to them that the earliest religious writings of their ancestors embodied ideas resembling those of the biblical patriarchs, which had somehow been diffused to China, the two great civilizations, Europe and anti-Europe, would find a common ground. Since Leibniz’ irenic utopia would eventually have to embrace the Chinese religion, he engaged in extravagant philosophical and exegetical gymnastics to prove that there were | no fundamentally irreconcilable antagonisms between the most ancient religious traditions of the two cultures. Once convinced on this score, the Chinese and the Europeans would join together in the enterprises of the new science,

LEIBNIZ, THE SWAN SONG 407 and along with all other peoples would make use of the new philosophical language of notations to express their thoughts. The cultural monads did not have to be identical, they merely had to understand the same language of logic and conceptual definitions recorded in an encyclopedia. When intellectual and spiritual harmony was achieved, the basis would be laid for the unification of the world.

Leibniz’ need to return to origins and his plans for thorough theological studies of any alien civilization, the Chinese and later the Russian, did not grow out of antiquarianism, but were integral to his philosophy. Through the laborious investigation of remote historical beginnings, common elements concealed in the diversity of present forms could be revealed. This was no deistic position that viewed the multiplicity of rites and practices as mere corruptions of some pristine abstract truth. The traditions in their concreteness and specificity and historical detail bore witness to the community of ideas. Leibniz criticized the Jesuit missionaries in China for not penetrating far back enough

in their study of Chinese traditions; and when in the last years of his life he shifted the focus of his utopian fantasy to Russia, he called upon the Greek Orthodox theologians and the Czar to institute widespread researches into the forgotten manuscripts buried away in monasteries throughout the empire.”® Again his object was not the mere pursuit of esoteric learning. Both the Chinese and the Slavic religious heritages when brought into contact with the European would enrich and establish roots for the new universalism. Leibniz would not in one fell swoop overwhelm those he aimed to convert with “‘mysteries heaped indiscriminately upon unprepared souls.”’°° He had a strong conviction that there were transitional forms on the way to perfection, that nature did not make leaps.*? Only toward the end of his life, with perhaps a feeling that he had thus far failed in all his enterprises, did the aging, rather solitary historiographer of the House of Hannover, whom Newton had managed to keep out of England, show signs of impatience and abandon his habitual prudence as he dashed off proposals for the total reorganization of Russian life, heedless of the conservative power of the Russian Orthodox Church and the abysmal ignorance of the peasantry. He began to urge what appears to be a swift, abrupt changeover into a new order. As a rule, his plans were intricately | reasoned and involved many intermediary steps. Europeans were baffled by the appearance of Czar Peter in their midst, a barbarian in personal conduct seeking guidance on how to westernize his people. For Leibniz, Peter’s war against the Turks held the promise of liberating the Christians of the Ottoman Empire, though Protestant sympathies kept him from acclaiming with unmixed joy Russian victories against the Swedish monarch Gustavus Adolphus, who was the Protestant hero. Leibniz felt a close psychic kinship with the Slavic world. An autobiographical fragment begins by identifying his family name as Slavic in origin: “‘Leubniziorum sive Luben-

iecziorum nomen slavonicum; familia in Polonia... ”°* He had heard stories of Peter’s intelligence, activism, passion for learning new things, along with accounts of his cruelties. Leibniz was fascinated by the imperial monster who displayed to the German princelets his hands rough from work on the seventy-five ships he was building, while they vainly tried to get him to listen to Italian music. Leibniz had a way of sending out political feelers in different directions at

408 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA the same time. He was still applauding the Jesuit endeavors to convert the Chinese when he began to compose programmatic letters for Peter’s eyes—more than a decade before he was formally designated a councillor of the Czar. Leibniz’ commitment to any power as the instrument for the salvation of Europe was never without ambivalence. He knew that the divine mission had been entrusted into his hands, but the vessels available to him were not flawless. A perfect specimen of Europe’s religious civilization, he was early aware of the barbarities of the Scythian whom he had chosen; God had recourse to strange vehicles for the fulfillment of His purposes in the world. Leibniz has some-

times been portrayed as the courtier-dilettante seeking out kings and em- _ perors before whom he could display his ingenuity. The vain side of his char-

acter, his desire to consort with the powerful of the earth, to enjoy their intimacy, is not to be denied; but once he had fixed on a hero, the passion and persistence with which he attended him bear witness to a more binding servitude. When he was moved by the urgency of such a relationship he could write with a candor bordering on naiveté, as he did on September 2, 1709, to Urbich, the Russian minister in Vienna, seeking to become the Czar’s “instrument en chef.”’ “The honor I have of being among the oldest members of all royal so-

cieties . . . not to speak of the very important discoveries for which I am generally recognized, gives me hope that I may be entrusted with the direction of so great an enterprise; and I would prefer this to any other occupation.” ** Leibniz carried out his indoctrination of the Czar with a sense of his election as the great intermediary between Europe and China. There were three meetings,

in Torgau in 1711, Carlsbad in 1712, Herrenhausen and Pyrmont in 1716. Leibniz felt that the day of Russian enlightenment had finally arrived. In January of 1716—the year of his death—he wrote: “It appears to be the will of God for science to circumambulate the globe and now at last to come also to the land of the Scythians.”’* Leibniz had the passio utopiensis, but though immersed in grand enterprises, he did not lose the courtier’s sense of humor about himself and a certain detachment about his prospects. At once a master unraveler of political intentions in Europe’s complex diplomatic intrigues and the Lord’s anointed, chosen to bring about the universal Christian republic, he could occasionally laugh at himself. His efforts were accompanied with a measure of self-deprecation and, as he grew older, some skepticism about bringing his projects to a successful issue. His utopian mood changed over the years. The Egyptian scheme of his youth was composed in deadly earnest; one is less certain about his ambitions for Czar Peter. By this time, in the Morean manner, he may have wished for more than he hoped after. In November 1712, after he had been invited to

meet the Czar at Carlsbad where he was taking the cure, Leibniz wrote tongue-in-cheek to the Electress Sophie: “Your Electoral Highness will find extraordinary that I am to be in a way the Solon of Russia, although from afar. That is to say, the Czar has informed me through Count Golofkin, his Grand Chancellor, that I am to revise its ordinances, and draft regulations on law and the administration of justice. Since I hold that the briefest laws, like the ten commandments of God and the twelve tables of ancient Rome, are the best, and as that subject is one of the things about which I have been meditating longest, this will not give me much trouble; and moreover I won’t have to be in any great hurry about it. For the Czar will be a lawgiver only when the war is finished,’ **

LEIBNIZ, THE SWAN SONG 409 The plans for the reformation of Russia constitute Leibniz’ last utopia, the final attempt to win the East for the Respublica Christiana. Projects were transplanted from a Western European context and tied to a wholesale reformation of Russian society under the aegis of the Czar. Suddenly the very primitive character of the Russian people took on the semblance of a virtue. The vast empire was a tabula rasa, on which the philosopher could draw his new order at will. With a momentary resurgence of childlike enthusiasm, this adroit

, old diplomat dreamed of a reorganization of the Russian educational system with the aid of the Orthodox Church, a restructuring of the bureaucracy, and the widespread establishment of arts and manufactures, to create a Russia inde-

pendent of the West. In the Russian utopia, two of the prinicpal threads of Leibniz’ futurist fantasy came together. Here was an empire that could be refashioned, with new laws, work rules, education, institutions of arts and sciences, everything he had once proposed for German states. Here, too, was a universalist project that envisaged Russia as a bridge to China, Czar Peter re-

ground, |

placing the Louis XIV of Leibniz’ early Egyptian Consilium. Even his ideal of

religious catholicity would be served, for he tried to promote councils in

which Russian Orthodox believers and Protestants might find a new meeting

In Leibniz’ proposal for the building of universities and schools throughout Russia, teachers would assume a new role. On the lower levels they would be the chief representatives of the state in the various localities, while professors would become veritable court councillors. The whole system, designed to relate theory to practice, formed a mammoth pyramidal structure culminating in a supreme college under a president, with all of its members imperial councillors of the Czar. There was no sharp division between intellectual and practical pursuits in the service of society. Schools for elementary education would discover the special talents of children, who would then be assigned to artisans or sent on to higher schools of education in accordance with their talents.

The Last Christian Utopian In the last quarter of the twentieth century a historian of thought no longer has to force a major European philosopher like Leibniz into a Procrustean bed. When a man has labored for fifty years pondering the whole of God’s work, the neat formulas that are sometimes used to epitomize his writings are sad impoverishments. The demonstration of a steady progression in his thought can become just as restrictive. A complex and sensitive man torn by contending forces, Leibniz had many lapses, and he even performed an occasional som-

ersault under the impact of violent changes in the world of dynastic diplomacy, where he served throughout his life. But he had an abiding faith in the healing qualities of a Christian Pansophia that could save the order of European culture and through its propagation the whole world. The utopia was still

essentially Europocentric, even though it looked east to include China and west to embrace the American colonies. It was scientific in its espousal of realia, real things, as the foundation of knowledge, but the controlling force was an overriding Christian spirituality. Leibniz, who strove to create a new logic and had a natural genius for mathematics, warned against the Cartesian contempt for historical experience. He sought an ecumenical Christianity, though his dogmatic position could not always free itself from its parochial Protestant

410 THE CHRISTIAN UTOPIA | shackles. His was the last great utopian vision that derived its meaning from the love of God and the exploration of His world in all its dimensions, geographical, historical, theological, and scientific. Perhaps Teilhard de Chardin is a twentieth-century incarnation of the same idea, though his vision divests the concrete historical reality of man’s past of much of its significance. The love of God as the driving force behind Leibniz’ Christian utopia is no easier to communicate to a late-twentieth-century man than Newton’s science conceived of as an expression of his duty to obey the commandments of God the Father. Leibniz turned his passion outward to the love of mankind in imitation of Christ. Newton, who lowered the Christ-figure in the divine Trinity, stressed personal obedience to an omnipotent Lord and Master; there is little , emotional concern for mankind in Newton, even though he fulfilled the duties of Christian charity—he distributed Bibles to the poor—and performed the tasks of his calling with meticulous care. Leibniz’ love of God required a more ample expression and became manifest in a life of action that entailed a social mission: guiding the whole of mankind in the direction of a progressive realization of God’s will. The two loves, both Glorias of God, are not comparable. Newton saw himself in the Godhead, Leibniz became a grand projector. When in seventeenth-century Europe old hierarchical structures in religious and state institutions and in economic relationships were falling apart, the utopia of Pansophia tried to reestablish a harmony by reintegrating the new science with traditional Christian culture. The attempt failed, though not without

leaving some residue. The utopian quest was resumed in the next age, but under very different auspices. In a French version of eighteenth-century cosmopolitanism the universal vision became militantly anticlerical and even antiChristian. Like Pansophia, the Enlightenment was naturistic and it was scientific. Its conception of nature, however, was sensuous and pleasure-seeking; and its science, popularized by the French philosophes, was used to fight the religious establishment and, for good and for evil, to secularize European cul-

ture beyond redemption.

PART IV

_ Eupsychias

of the Enlightenment

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24 The Battle of the Systems GREAT INTELLECTUAL discoveries have generally sprung forth uniquely from

the brain of one creator, though on occasion they have appeared in duplicate, engendering bitter controversies over priority of invention. Only rarely have major innovations assumed as many as three different shapes at about the same time. The emergence of utopian socialism, with its revolutionary views of work and love, was a novum of this character. With an uncanny simultaneity, the secular European spirit received three alternative embodiments in Henri Saint-Simon, Charles Fourier, and Robert Owen. Their class origins, personalities, occupations, and educations were diverse, their prose styles equally turbid, their destinies not dissimilar. All three were the progenitors of “‘movements,” schools of thought and action that proposed to reorganize society radically by implementing the ideas of the founders. They were united in a single

common goal, the resolution of the crisis of the age, recognized as a crisis in man’s capacity to find satisfaction in his work and emotional relationships; but, understandably, the movements were hostile to one another, rivals as they were for the allegiance of mankind as it faced a momentous decision in the newborn nineteenth century. Humanity stood bewildered at the crossroads or so the social philosophers thought, dredging up a Herculean metaphor; it was a matter of life or death that men choose the correct path and not prolong present suffering by following false prophets who pointed in the wrong direction. The three great utopians repeatedly rehearsed the annals of mankind from the beginning of time to demonstrate that their epiphany was the instant of the great divide. There may have been other crucial happenings in the past, other troublous times, but somehow the gravity of the hour was qualitatively different from everything that had gone before both in its intensity and in its pivotal significance for world history. A momentous event was about to transpire. After the travail of rebirth had passed, mankind would emerge—or would

be catapulted—into a new world. The tonal effects of these crisis-crying | prophets have been assimilated so thoroughly by modern man that they are today the hackneyed accompaniment of even the most casual social or political utterance. A century and a half ago the warning calls still sounded anguished.

The Utopian Triplex

Saint-Simon, Fourier, and Owen unveiled the future and in the same anxious , breath tried to control it by persuading their contemporaries to adopt willingly and without bloodshed the course they were ultimately destined to take anyway. They were intoxicated with the future: They looked into what was about to be and found it good. The past was a mere prologue and the present a spiritual and moral, even a physical, burden that at times was well-nigh unendur-

able. To convince their contemporaries of the virtues of their systems, the §81

582 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE founders and their principal disciples wrote books that became canonical texts and availed themselves of what were then relatively new instruments for proselytizing and winning publicity. Journals and newspapers were started to further the cause, pamphlets were issued in which the replacement of minuscules by majuscules connoted urgency. Lectures and meetings were organized at

which the spoken word fortified the printed one with the emotive power of oral persuasion. Today we have only the dead pulp of printed messages and cannot recover the affective tones of heated discussions in great public assemblies and small clandestine gatherings, as the movements spread from an Anglo-French nucleus far east into Russia and overseas to the United States. | Collectively, the utopians invented a new vocabulary of social thought: They either took familiar terms and invested them with fresh emotional intensity, changing their meaning in the process, or they coined neologisms. Crisis, moral, social, socialism, progress, harmony, movement, school, happiness, system, revolution, attraction, antagonism, repulsion, love, passion, instinct, mutual, association, ability, need, education were combined in phrases that illuminated a newly discovered firmament. The three major (and many minor) contemporary utopian movements shared a similar, if not identical, set of metaphoric concepts.

For the Saint-Simonians the primary evil attribute of society was antago-

nism (a derivation from Kant’s essay on cosmopolitan history); for Owen it was repulsion. For the Saint-Simonians the good attribute was love or attraction; for Owen it was charity or attraction; for Fourier it was passional attraction. The same Newtonian scientific image had penetrated, and diffusion and influences need not be proved, though specific interrelationships can readily be

documented. In 1828, for example, a twelve-page pamphlet entitled Political Economy Made Easy: A Sketch by M. Charles Fourier, Exhibiting the Various Errors of Our Present Political Arrangements was presented to the Owenite Lon- , don Co-operative Society by its translator. While the bulk of the text was in-

comprehensible to anyone not already conversant with Fourier’s private language, it was distributed by the society and Robert Owen could well have read there that the ultimate solution to social problems lay in the “‘analysis and synthesis of passional attraction.’’ His eclectic mind might have picked up the Fourierist term attraction (if not the substance of the idea), for it crops up in his , later writings; or he may have derived it from a score of similar sources.

, The parallel chronology of the utopian movements confirms the power of the historical moment to use different types of mentality for the same general end. The utopian founders were born within a decade or so of one another (Saint-Simon in 1760, Fourier and Owen in 1772), experienced their first revelations between 1799 and 1803, surfaced in public print between 1808 and 1812, achieved a final doctrine by the 1820s, and then repeated themselves for the rest of their lives—with a goodly number of variations and contradictions. Death came at more widely spaced intervals: Saint-Simon’s in 1825, Fourier’s in 1837,

and Owen’s in 1858, a longevity that perhaps explains the numerous devia-

tions in his thought from one period to another.

Saint-Simon was a warm, vivacious, and seductive person who entranced young men with his energy. After his death they became the oratorical transmitters of Saint-Simonian ideas; Saint-Simon himself had not harangued public assemblies. Fourier was thin, short, tight-lipped, never known to laugh, bit-

THE BATTLE OF THE SYSTEMS 583 ingly sarcastic, solemn. He prevailed by the sheer cogency of massive detail in his system. When the Fourierist ‘‘societal school’’ came into the hands of speechifying lawyers, the doctrine fared better, though the new leaders felt called

upon to bowdlerize Fourier’s writings on sex in order to propagate them. Owen was his own organizer, expounder, and lecturer, exuding a confidence that captivated listeners of all classes. His capacity to utter the most outrageous ideas as if they were self-evident matters of fact astounded enemies and supporters alike. The Saint-Simonian and Fourierist movements assumed new life

after their founders’ deaths. The Owenites lost their independent existence when Owen finally joined the spirits with whom he had been in touch; his surviving followers tended to merge with other social activists, preserving only a vague identity. Saint-Simon was present in the flesh only in the inchoate stage of the movement, which reached its zenith in the early 1830s. Though Owen himself was a man of both theory and practice and his activities stretched over many decades,

his international reputation was at its height in the twenties. He survived to organize a world congress for universal reform in 1855, having participated in launching both the English cooperative and the trade-union movements in earlier decades. Fourier’s fame was greatest in the early forties. The intellectual and emotive influence exerted by these three men and the movements inspired by their scriptural writings was not restricted to true disciples. Their ideas were alive in the intellectual underground of the nineteenth century long after the surface ripples of their direct action had vanished. Fourier and Saint-Simon have even enjoyed revivals of sorts in the twentieth century, Saint-Simon after World War I and Fourier in the 1960s. All three were swallowed up by Marxism, but they were not always well assimilated, and from time to time certain prickly elements have disturbed the internal processes of the victorious movement that transcended them. The three founders had had personal experience as practical agents, with varying success, in either commercial or industrial enterprises, and could boast that their knowledge was not derived from study alone. They were not mere bookish outsiders diagnosing the economic and social system. Their reading was sporadic, and as autodidacts they made a virtue of their academic deficiencies, heaping contempt upon the official schools of learning. Pointing to the pedants, they declared themselves fortunate to have escaped the stultification of social science in the universities.

The New Messiahs With utter faith in their election, they stepped into the age-old roles of saviors

and messiahs. They sometimes imagined that in their persons the Messiah himself had already arrived. Saint-Simon thought he was the reincarnation of Socrates and Charlemagne; the disciples evoked the analogy with Jesus; Fourier, though not given to historical learning, demonstrated from Scripture that his appearance had been foretold; Owen identified himself with both Jesus and Columbus. Like all prophets, they suffered moments of doubt and defeat, but these were usually well concealed, sometirnes even from themselves. Magnificent obsessives, their entire beings were one with their systems, and enemies of the grand designs they had constructed became threatening violators of

584 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE | their bodies. A quantum of persecution mania has often been infused into the blood of system-builders. While they were aware of their own weaknesses and

. appealed to all men of good will to aid them with money, advice, specialized knowledge, such assistance was acceptable only on their own terms. They were the leaders, others could only be loyal and obedient disciples. Though they were hostile to Jacobin revolution and Napoleonic dictatorship, the stamp of the Age of Napoleon was upon them. The first embryonic projects of SaintSimon and Fourier were actually addressed to the First Consul, who already loomed as an omnipotent colossus. If he would only adopt their plans, success __ was assured; they were prepared to act as powers behind the throne. After Napoleon’s death the utopians frantically searched for other patrons, and they appealed to a motley crew—bankers, czars, kings, American congressmen, En-

glish nobles. ,

They fancied themselves extraordinarily acute observers who had culled — their systems directly from the book of life, from intimate experience with all classes of society. Newton was their favorite hero and they imagined themselves achieving for the social universe what he had for the physical. Out of a multiplicity of personal observations, equivalent to social experiments, they had arrived at the final synthesis, a few simple laws. Their findings were scientific because they were based on ‘‘demonstrable facts” (Owen), ‘‘positive _ facts’? (Saint-Simon), “‘actual observations” (Fourier). Historical facts were admissible on the same level as contemporary facts because there was one human nature, modifiable only by conditions and circumstances. Grand historical patterns were more persuasive to Saint-Simon and the Saint-Simonians than to Owen or Fourier and their schools, but even among the Saint-Simonians,

philosophico-historical knowledge did not detract from the paramountcy of their probing analysis of their own society. They were the omniscient social doctors in the immediate crisis, and they proffered mankind a universal panacea, an elixir that was bound to be efficacious because it was the fruit of the inviol-

able social laws they had discovered. . | Though there is no evidence that the three ever met, they were in the same place at the same time. From 1825 to 1832 Fourier lived in a rented room on 45 rue de Richelieu, in Paris; Saint-Simon had died nearby on the same street in

1825. Owen visited Paris in 1818, though at that point he tended to consort with prominent educators, not with freakish utopians. On his way to Aix-la-Chapelle where he presented his projects before the Congress of the Holy Alliance, Owen was led about the city by Marc Auguste

Pictet of Geneva, who introduced him to Cuvier, the autocrat of French science, and he was invited to present a formal report on the New View of Society to the Académie des Sciences. The serious spread of Owenite ideas in France was due to Laffon de Ladébat’s 1821 translation of Henry Grey Macnab’s Impartial Examination of the New Views of Mr. Robert Owen. Fourier, who

was no great reader of books, got his impressions of the rival system through

periodical notices and at one time he hoped to be invited to an Owenite colony

to expound his ideas, a utopian fantasy of forbearance. ,

In different degrees the utopian movements were conscious of one another’s , existence, but like some plants drawing sustenance from the same soil, they were violently inimical to one another. While Saint-Simon himself made no reference to Fourier and Owen, his disciples were acutely sensitive to the com-

THE BATTLE OF THE SYSTEMS 585 petition when they went on propaganda missions. When Fourier in 1824 heard of Owen’s experiments at New Lanark, he looked upon them as merely demonstrating the truth of his own phalanx system. Fourier knew that he had preceded Owen in publishing the plan of an industrial-agricultural community — the idea of the phalanx dated back to 1808—and when his British counterpart won public acclaim he openly charged him with plagiarism. But Owen also knew that he had anticipated Fourier in the implementation of the “‘idea’’ 1n his

own factories while Fourier was still advertising for a benefactor to finance a practical trial. The argument over priority of invention was more emotional than rational, since there were only formal similarities between the simple projects of Owen and the intricate system of passional series which Fourier devised in 1808 and to which he gave definitive form in 1823. Owen practiced before he theorized; his system was finally perfected only in 1849, when his projects had failed and he had alienated virtually every class of English society in its turn, including the workingmen, whose aggressive political activities bordering on violence in behalf of the Charter he had rejected as diversionary. The rival utopians of the first half of the nineteenth century were not avid readers of one another’s works—which did not prevent them from denouncing one another and making charges of burglary when they detected remote similarities among the systems. Fourier had lumped together Saint-Simon and the Saint-Simonians, Owen and the Owenites, and blasted away at them with a barrage of denigrating and scornful invective in a pamphlet of 1831. As a rule he appeared less informed about Owen than about the Saint-Simonians, whose sacerdotal nonsense was the principal target of his attack. Owen had defeated himself, Fourier gloated; the collapse of the Owenite experiment at New Harmony, Indiana, was proof positive that the doctrine was false. The Saint-Simonians were too pusillanimous even to try out their system. Instead of teaching mankind how to quad-

ruple production through labor in attractive association, both groups lost themselves in side issues, the Owenites attacking all religion, the Saint-Simonlans inventing a new one. They [the Saint-Simonians] preferred the ignoble role of ascetic charlatans worthy of the nineteenth century, suspect and dangerous schismatics . . . dogmatic plagiarists without any idea of their own, speculative chameleons, changing their system ten times over, and scientific cossacks pillaging and appropriating the ideas of others. They only have one praiseworthy principle, which is not theirs, to reward each one according to his capacities and his works. This is the wish that respectworthy authors have always expressed, ever since the abolition of slavery. But it was necessary to find a way of implementing this equitable division in accordance with each man’s work and talent. I discovered this method in 1822.'

Fourier’s key to the system lay in short and frequently changing work sessions,

in the gaiety of free work groups, supplanting the tightness and boredom of the traditional family, in a multiplicity of options, in abundance of food and drink instead of uniformly bad feeding. Owenites and Saint-Simonians were

the blind leading the blind. ,

When in the 1830s missionaries of the Saint-Simonian religion, dressed in full regalia—blue tunics and shiny black belts of leather—tried to establish propaganda centers in England, one Edward Hancock, a lapsed Owenite, took it upon himself to warn his compatriots against both heresies, Robert Owen’s

586 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE Community System as well as the “Horrid Doings of the Saint-Simonians.”’ The “New Moral World” was nothing but a ““New Moral Mistress”’ and both systems of socialism were mere disguises for instructing females in the art of

prostitution. ,

The contest between the Fourierists and the Saint-Simonians for the alienated souls of Europe and America is one of the unwritten secret histories of the nineteenth century. The passionate debates occasioned by these competitive systems have been forgotten, like the battles of the mystery cults in the Roman

, Empire; they were later dwarfed by the appearance of the triumphant Marxist ideology. In their day, however, “the possessed” of Russia were torn by these alternative moral ways and so were the more respectable idealists of New England. . It sometimes happened, as one moved away from the utopian centers in France and England, that the distinctions between the doctrines which seemed so crucial to rival disciples became blurred, especially when knowledge of the theories was derived from hearsay or secondary and tertiary sources. During | the early 1830s, Alexander Herzen and his friends turned to both Saint-Simon

and Fourier for sustenance. The poet Ogarev, who was a member of the group, has recreated the religious atmosphere of the vague romantic Russian

socialism of 1833: | I remember a small room five arshin long The bed and the chair and the table with the tallow candle

And here three of us, children of the Decembrists |

Alumni of the new world ,

Disciples of Fourier and Saint-Simon We swore to dedicate our whole lives

, To the people and their liberation.’ | But for the most part such syncretism was frowned upon, and acerb discussions among the standard-bearers of rival cults lasted far into the night. Yet the coteries of the great utopians were rather fluid in their composition. Once committed to the quest for an absolute system, young men moved from one to another; it was not rare for the truth-seekers to run through two or

_ three systems in the course of a lifetime. There were the usual cries of treachery, the same bitter gnashing of teeth that had been heard fifteen hundred years before among the early Christian sectaries and would be heard again among the communists and socialists of the third and fourth decades of the twentieth century.

The projects of Robert Owen and Charles Fourier, the two major _ _ early-nineteenth-century apostles of the small community movement, were markedly different in character from previous European establishments of self- | sufficient communes, which had always been sustained by a religious law. Though neither Owen nor Fourier was a militant atheist and they used the name of God to identify a life-giving principle, He was not a personal God and was never called upon to intervene in the life of the newly founded secular

communes.

Owen and Fourier had in common a total negation of the existing industrial

system, whose miseries they knew from experience with running factories or selling factory products; complete confidence in the gradual contagion of the

THE BATTLE OF THE SYSTEMS 587 communal movement, leading to a belief that a single successful experiment based upon their principles of organization would provide an example so compelling that, better than any arguments, it would persuade the rest of mankind to adopt their system; a faith in a psychological doctrine of motivation whose laws they had discovered; a rejection of violent revolutionary action as a means of changing the social system; and an appreciation of the vital significance of childhood education. They parted ways on the principle of equality, on the relative significance of reason and passion in the human constitution, on the role of manufacturing in the communal settlement, and, most important of all, on the nature and quantity of allowable instinctual pleasure. In the mature version of his system, Owen would inaugurate his experiment with instant equality in work and rewards, as he did in the village of New Harmony, Indiana. Fourier , allowed for different levels of capital investment by phalansterians and graduated rewards, though his promise of returns on investment, expressed in terms of real sensate enjoyment, made the lot of the poorest man in a phalanstery superior to that of a Rothschild. Owen would educate through the cultivation of reason and by teaching children through habit to imitate only rational behavior; that meant temperance, gentleness, absolute truth-telling, contentment with limited sensate pleasure, joy in conversation, reading, dancing, singing. Fourier would have his phalansterians fulfill all their desires to the utmost, no matter how esoteric they might be, and cultivate the need for complex sounds, smells, sights, tastes, and touches as a virtue, not an excess. Thomas More’s

sixteenth-century “honest allowable pleasures’ could well have been the model for Robert Owen’s conceptions, while Fourier thought of himself as the discoverer of vast new amorous worlds for all mankind.

Owen and Fourier hoped to see their new forms of organization grow within the body of the old system, but independent of it, and they expected to be granted tolerance because no present government would be threatened by them. They had a common commitment to peace, gradualism, and nonrevolution. Since they were not subversive they saw no reason for governmental interference, and Owen did in fact lecture on his communal system before the

most improbable audiences, including the President and Congress of the United States. Fourier’s disciples in the Icarian movement were not quite so fortunate: They were hounded by the French police, who were in terror of public tumults and revolution, and suspicious that the movement, despite its protestations of nonviolence, was merely a cover for dangerous clandestine political action. Though for a time in the early 1830s the Saint-Simonians maintained a settlement in Ménilmontant, where on a Sunday the bourgeois of Paris came to watch the educated sons of respectable citizens dirtying their hands by digging the soil, the main thrust of the movement was not directed toward establishing small communities. The Saint-Simonians aimed at persuading the bankers, industrialists, and proletarians to institute their system by a total reorganization of the whole scientific-technological society, without resorting to its fragmentation into small units of the Fourierist or Owenite type. All three utopian sects were inevitably torn over the issue of compromise with the ruling establishment. In the beginning they professed doctrines that could not be changed one iota in theory or practice lest the perfect edifice collapse. But as time went on they were willing to sacrifice some parts that of-

588 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE fended prospective converts. They wrote somewhat different versions of the gospel, with an eye to honoring group prejudices. Like Saint Paul, they were prepared to speak to each man in his own language as long as they might win his concurrence on fundamentals of belief. Their preachments to all classes, each in terms of its interests, were often disingenuous, but by their own lights not false. It was for men’s own good that different features of the same doctrine were highlighted, because it was in fact beneficial to all mankind and the

method of proselytizing had to be flexible. , Saint-Simonism, Fourierism, and Owenism were all eudaemonistic systems based on the self-actualization of individuals in a state of community, though they differed sharply about what should be actualized. Owen’s concentration

on the fulfillment of what he held to be an ordinary man’s natural reason sounded like old-fashioned, restrictive, Enlightenment philosophy by comparison with the expansive French worshipers of the emancipated passions of

men and women. But they all bear witness to the stirring recognition that came to many Europeans after the turmoil of the Napoleonic wars that the old order could not be restored and that men had been set adrift morally, economically, socially, intellectually. Along with the Romantic poets, the utopians lamented the isolation and fragmentation of society, each in his own rhetoric. The English and French phrases are so similar that they sometimes give the impression of being translations of each other. Owen’s strictures against British society in the second decade of the nineteenth century parallel in spirit the

Fourierist and the Saint-Simonian critiques of French society of the same period. The social order had fallen to pieces, turned against itself, and harmony could be instituted only in some communal system. George Mudie, editor of The Economist: A Periodical Paper Explanatory of the New System of Society Projected by Robert Owen . . . and of a Plan of Association for Improving the Condition of the Working Classes (1821-1822), wrote in his journal: “It appears to be

indisputable that all men pursue happiness; and that happiness can only be attained by the possession of abundance, and by the cultivation of the physical, moral and intellectual powers . . . and that the proposed societies offer the only means of giving abundance and intellectual and moral excellence, to all mankind.’’? Physical, moral, and intellectual capacities and needs were Saint- , Simon’s trinity too at this period, though he was far more enmeshed in the question of primacy among the three than were the English. On the sociological level one is arrested by the utopians’ deflection of primary concern from the state and from the definition of power to social relationships and religion. Amid the complex diplomatic intrigues and wars of the dynastic states of the West and a succession of bloody political revolutions in which men fought and died for liberty and dominion, these philosophical utopians essentially turned their backs on the state. It is a comprehensible repudiation in a society that witnessed the promulgation and annulment of political _ constitutions at regular intervals. No basic metamorphosis seemed to take place during the frequent transfers of power from one regime to another. Au- _ thentic human relationships as envisaged for the ideal societies were not depen-

, dent upon evanescent political forms. The history of politics described nothing , more than the changing of the guard. The utopians were determined to discover the core of human nature and to build a new social structure with the hard blocks of reality—man’s reason, instincts, desires, needs, capacities. Each

THE BATTLE OF THE SYSTEMS 589 utopian might draw his plan and manipulate his materials differently in setting up the model of a good society, but the problem of the state apparatus and the overriding role it had assumed in fostering and inhibiting satisfactions escaped all of them. The state was a scaffolding, a tool, a superstructure, a covering — distant from the heart of the human condition. The political order was looked down upon as a residue of the past which had to be circumvented—they did

not say destroyed because they were peace-loving utopians—so that men might come face to face with their authentic problems, which were moral, social, and religious. They would gladly avail themselves of the services of political leaders to inaugurate the new order, but such aid was considered merely an auxiliary mechanism. The utopians foresaw the calm dissolution of the crisis of the age. Resembling the comforter of the Second Isaiah rather than the grim punisher of the

First, they were bearers of good cheer. ““The golden age of the human species . . . is before us,” said Saint-Simon.‘ “‘Breathe freely and forget your ancient evils,” Fourier encouraged the inhabitants of Europe in the midst of the Napoleonic slaughter, “Abandon yourselves to joy, for a fortunate invention finally brings you the social compass.”’ Pere Enfantin addressed the unbelievers

in 1832, ‘“O you whose somber sadness and stubborn regrets remain obstinately bound to the debris of the past, O you who doubt of your victory and vainly seek joy and repose in the society which you have fashioned, dry your tears and rejoice, for I have come in the name of God, of Saint-Simon, and of my Fathers to make you see the brilliant colors that will soon burst forth before your eyes.”’> Owen announced the imminent dawn of the new order in the first number of the New Moral World on November 1, 1834: “This . . . is the Great Advent of the World, the second coming of Christ, for Truth and Christ are one and the same. The first coming of Christ was a partial development of Truth to the few . . . The second coming of Christ will make Truth known to the many . . . The time is therefore arrived when the foretold mil- , lennium is about to commence.”’ On the outside of Owenite buildings the letters C.M. were prominently carved, signifying the Commencement of the Millennium.

25

Saint-Simon: The Pear Is Ripe _

OF ALL THE MODERN utopians the Count Claude Henri de Rouvroy de SaintSimon was the most picaresque; he resembled a character out of Gil Blas more than a traditional seer.’ But when the spirit of foretelling hovers about, it may possess the most unlikely subjects. Born in Paris on October 17, 1760, he be- _ _ longed to a collateral branch of the same family as the famous Duke, author of the voluminous Memoirs of Saint-Simon on the court of Louis XIV and the Regency. Traditions about his youth gathered by disciples depict him as stubborn

and self-willed, in such continual and bitter conflict with his father that the , elder Saint-Simon once imprisoned him for his contumely. At the age of seventeen, the young Saint-Simon received his first military commission, and in 1779 he set sail from Brittany with the Touraine Regiment to fight in the War for American Independence, not as a dashing volunteer, but as a line officer obeying royal orders. After participating in a number of engagements in the Antilles, his contingent joined Washington at Yorktown. During the battle he acquitted himself creditably in command of a section of artillery and was later elected a member of the Society of Cincinnatus in recognition of his services. The French continued the war in the West Indies after Cornwallis’ capitulation, and Saint-Simon saw action again at St. Kitts. In the great naval engage- , ment—disastrous for the French—between the forces of Admirals Rodney and de Grasse in April 1782, Saint-Simon was on the flagship. Stunned by a cannon ball, he was taken prisoner in the general surrender, and was interned in Jamaica. After his liberation, he presented to the Viceroy of Mexico his first grand project, a plan for an interoceanic canal running through Lake Nicara-

gua—and he was rebuffed. ,

Back in France, Saint-Simon was promoted at regular intervals, but the life of an officer in barracks was dull, and he took leave from the army. In Holland

in 1786 he involved himself in an abortive plan to join the Dutch and the © French in an attempt to drive the English out of India. Then he turned up in Spain, where in cooperation with Count Cabarrus, father of the future chief mistress of Barras, he sponsored another unsuccessful canal project, to link Madrid with the sea. While in Spain he met a Saxon, Count Redern, the Prussian Ambassador, who lent him a sum of money presumably for investment in

French securities—the beginning of a strange relationship. The Grand Seigneur Sansculottes

Upon his return to France during the early months of the Revolution, SaintSimon commenced to play a complicated role, commuting between Paris and the provinces. In Falvy, Marchélepot, Cambrai, Péronne, towns near his ancestral estates, he acted the enthusiastic partisan of the Revolution, helping to draft local cahiers, presiding at popular assemblies, delivering revolutionary

590 |

SAINT-SIMON: THE PEAR IS RIPE $91 speeches, and commanding the national guard at moments of crisis. Simultaneously he bought extensive church lands with small down payments, profiting from the steady drop in the value of the assignats. On September 20, 1793, when the Jacobin wave was high, Saint-Simon formally abdicated his noble name and titles and assumed an earthy peasant surname, Bonhomme. Numerous acts of republican virtue, the adoption of aged citizens and the purchase of animals for needy peasants, brought him favorable repute among the local people of his ancestral communes. In Paris, by laying out small deposits, he came into the possession of mansions of nobles who had emigrated or been guillotined. Since he had made his first investments with money given him by Count Redern, he was under the impression that they had established an informal partnership in which he was the active member. To play safe, the deals were negotiated under a host of false names. The enterprises were vast and rumor embroidered them; there was even a tale that he had made a bid for Notre Dame de Paris. Saint--Simon habitually resided near the Palais Royal and frequented the society of other speculators, a motley group in which international bankers, foreign spies, Dantonists of the right, and Hebertists of the extreme left were intermingled. They led licentious lives, in sharp contrast with the Incorruptible One who dominated the Committee of Public Safety. When Robespierre finally moved against the whole crew, he was able to throw their heads into a common basket by using the police agent’s technique of guilt by association.

Saint-Simon was arrested, though probably in error, on November 19, 1793, during one of the roundups of international bankers and foreign agents.

The government seems to have been looking for the Simon brothers, who were Belgian bankers. In prison Saint-Simon protested his innocence in a long, carefully drafted memoir to the Committee of Public Safety, and the local patriots of Picardy, among whom the ex-noble had shown his revolutionary zeal

on more than one occasion, wrote numerous testimonials of civic virtue for him. He behaved most circumspectly in the antechamber of death and cautiously avoided participation in any of the plots against Robespierre which General Ronsin was hatchirig among the desperate men in the prisons. Saint-Simon never was tried before the revolutionary tribunal and he survived the Terror. The original down payments on his vast holdings in Paris and the provinces had preserved his title to these properties even while he was in prison, and once he was liberated he came to own them outright by paying the balance of the price in almost worthless assignats. He led a wild life as a member of the Barras circle, toying with Directory politics, new constitutional schemes, and all manner of novel industrial and commercial projects. In his salon he entertained lavishly, and invited as his guests bankers, politicians, intellectuals, and artists. He played the Maecenas and subsidized bright young scientists. Learning intrigued him as much as finance, and he dabbled in all the mathematical and physical sciences, in the psychology and social doctrines of the idéologues. He was a brilliant conversationalist, witty, obscene in the fashion of the Directory, cynical, and yet moved by a strange passion for projects to revolutionize science and society. During this period his plans never went beyond the animated talk of the dinner table. Count Redern appeared in Paris in 1797 and for a while gorged himself on the punch aux oeufs and truffles that Saint-Simon served. But he was growing

$92 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE | uneasy both about the extravagance of his partner’s expenditures and the wild

financial and industrial projects which he was promoting. Saint-Simon thought that Redern was a philosophical soulmate, and when the German asked for a dissolution of their partnership he nonchalantly left the details to

| his discretion. Redern drew up the documents which broke their financial union and Saint-Simon took his share, withdrew from business, and determined henceforth to study and to work solely on projects for the betterment of mankind. Saint-Simon was married on August 7, 1801, to Alexandrine-Sophie Goury de Champgrand, the daughter of a former comrade in arms and fellow speculator of the Palais Royal. It appears to have been a marriage of convenience. She was penniless and he wanted an elegant hostess for his salon. Sophie was a literary lady and she brought a contingent of artists, composers, and musicians

to their parties. In later life she described her embarrassment when SaintSimon tried to go back on the chaste arrangement he had made with her. She was amused but also somewhat frightened by his philosophical projects, and

on June 24, 1802, they were divorced. ,

That same year Saint-Simon traveled to Switzerland, where, according to Saint-Simonian tradition, he proposed at Coppet to Madame de Staél, recently bereaved of her husband. What was probably the first edition of the Lettres d’un habitant de Geneve was printed in Geneva during this trip. It was addressed “a V’humanitée.’”’ The edition which became more generally known was entitled Lettres d’un habitant de Geneve a ses contemporains and was distributed if not actually published by a Paris bookseller in 1803. Both editions were anonymous and neither bore a place or date of publication. A copy was addressed to the First Consul from Geneva, accompanied by a curious letter, full of adulation, soliciting his opinion of the work. The Lettres d’un habitant de Genéve was ignored by contemporaries, and Saint-Simon never made reference to it in later life. His disciple, the eminent mathematician Olinde Rodrigues, discovered the work in 1826 and reprinted it in 1832. A strange first book for a middle-aged adventurer to produce, it is the only serious writing of his prosperous period. Almost all the ideas he later developed in his streams of reiterative pamphlets are here in embryo. During the two or three years after the appearance of the Lettres d’un habitant de Geneve, Saint-Simon spent the rest of the fortune allotted to him by the dissolution of the Redern partnership, and by 1805 he was penniless.

Saint-Simon’s passion for knowledge grew stronger in his poverty. He spent long nights spinning out his philosophical projects, until he fell ill and spit blood. When he had reached the depths of misery, a savior appeared in the person of his former servant Diard, who took him under his care and provided for him. Curious scientific intuitions poured forth in an outburst of disorganized tracts: Introduction aux travaux scientifiques du XLX® siécle (1807); Nouvelle encyclopédie (1810); Histoire de l’homme (1810); Mémoire sur la science de Vvhomme (1813); Travail sur la gravitation universelle (1813). When he could not afford to

print he copied in manuscript. As soon as a mere sketch of an idea was completed, he sent it around to members of the Institute, to scientific establishments, and to the Emperor. Accompanying letters asked financial aid to help him complete his projects; but he needed more than money; he wanted advice ©

and criticism, most of all sanction and praise. Most scientists did not even’

SAINT-SIMON: THE PEAR IS RIPE $93 deign to cut the pages of the brochures addressed to them, and copies were discovered untouched in their libraries after their death. At best, they sent formal notice of receipt. The crueler men among them mockingly expressed their lack of interest in his plans. Cut to the quick, Saint-Simon rejoined with bitterness, challenging the scientific geniuses of the age to spiritual combat. His letters became a series of wild ravings about genius, his mission, and the persecu-

tions he endured from his. enemies. Interspersed among the psychopathic tirades there are moving passages about his passion for glory, written in the grand romantic manner. A family genealogy traced the Saint-Simons back to Charlemagne, and on more than one occasion his great ancestor appeared to him in a vision. They both had the same mission, separated though they were by a thousand years—the spiritual and temporal reorganization of European

society. }

During this period Saint-Simon turned to a more practical solution of his financial troubles by reopening in public his final property settlement with Redern, who had in the meantime become a respectable French property owner

engaged in useful agricultural and manufacturing projects. Saint-Simon moved to Alencgon to harass Redern in the province where he was gaining prestige, but he failed to make any headway, and during one of the journeys he fell seriously ill. Descriptions of his state sound like madness. He was put into a private hospital for the insane in Charenton and was treated by the famous Dr. Pinel.

But the man rebounds. Sometime before 1814 he recovered. To get rid of his pretensions to a portion of his ancestral estate, his own family settled a small

annuity upon him. When he returned to Paris during the Hundred Days he even got a post in the library of the Arsenal. The darkness seems to have left his brain, and at fifty-four he embarked upon a new career. The scientific projects were forgotten, he never mentioned the strange brochures of the Em-

pire, and he became an active political polemicist during the Restoration period. Apparently Saint-Simon liad enough money to hire a secretary, and he soon attracted respectable friends and collaborators. From then on he never worked

alone; there were always young men by his side who edited his copy, joined with him in publication, and accepted his guidance. He had an eye for brilliance. The first of a series of secretaries was Augustin Thierry, the future historian, with whom he published a scheme entitled De la réorganisation de la société européenne during the Congress of Vienna. It was more than an adaptation of the Abbé de Saint-Pierre’s plan for universal peace, which it resembled su-

perficially; Saint-Simon placed his emphasis on an integral federation of Europe, the cornerstone of which was to be an Anglo-French alliance. Another thesis put forth in the pamphlet concerned the superiority of the modern commercial over the military nation, an idea which Benjamin Constant was developing with greater subtlety. The political brochures that Saint-Simon wrote during the First Restoration and the Hundred Days won. him admittance into the circle of liberal economists and publicists identified with Jean-Baptiste Say and Charles Dunoyer. He ceased to be treated as a mere crackpot, though he was still considered ‘‘an original” by his more sedate friends. His baptism of respectability was so efficacious that he was even received in the salons of the Parisian bankers Laffitte

594 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE and Ardouin. The new relationships included enterprising industrialists such as Ternaux, the great textile manufacturer. Saint-Simon became a member of a party. The bourgeoisie, which had grown fully conscious of its power under Napoleon even when dominated by him, was now confronted with a serious attempt on the part of the emigres thirsting for vengeance to reconstitute intact the ancien régime with its noble prerogatives and disparagement of industry and commerce. There was developing a full-blown struggle of a new ruling class against the restoration hopes of the old, and it was being fought out in a parliamentary regime. Saint-Simon became a more or less official propagandist for the bourgeois. He organized a series of periodical publications: L’Industrie (1816-1818); Le Politique (1819); L’Organisateur (1819-1820); Du systeme industriel (1821-1822); Catéchisme des industriels (1823-1824); Opinions littéraires, philosophiques et industrielles (1825). The issues appeared intermittently, in part to evade rules of censorship on regular serial publications, but chiefly because

there were always money troubles. On more than one occasion he went beyond the polemical line that his proper banker and industrialist friends were ready to support. While they were willing to have him extol the virtues of the industrial class and its historic right to assume control of the state, they were not yet prepared to attack frontally the power of the revived Catholic Church. When Saint-Simon used such dangerous phrases as “terrestrial morality,” which would not have troubled in the least an eighteenth-century bourgeois,

many of the Restoration bankers dropped him cold. ee In February 1820 he had an even more unfortunate experience. L’Organisateur had included in its very first issue a literary artifice—the famous Parable— in which Saint-Simon contrasted the possible consequences to France of the

death of her foremost scientists, artists, artisans, industrialists, and bankers with the death of all the leading nobles and officials of the bureaucracy. On February 13, Louvel assassinated the Duke of Berry, and Saint-Simon was. tried as one of the moral instigators of the crime. It was a profound affront to a man who abhorred revolutionary violence with a consistency which was remarkable in a figure so mercurial. He managed to escape punishment after a complicated judicial proceeding.

Augustin Thierry, a collaborator of 1814, soon left him, and in his place came a young graduate of the Ecole Polytechnique, Auguste Comte. The new secretary had a well-organized mind and a forceful, logical method of presentation. At first he allowed himself to be known as a pupil of Saint-Simon’s, but , he soon chafed at the subordinate position. After Comte’s defection, SaintSimon made the acquaintance of several medical men, a Dr. Bailly among them, who were fascinated by his ideas on the physiology of society. But his worldly success was far from brilliant. The infelicitous reference to “‘terrestrial morality” and his trial of 1820 made most respectable bourgeois shy away

from him. They had more discreet plans for seizing power. He was again forced to beg for alms to support his little household, which had acquired a mistress and a dog. One day in 1823, after recommending his Julie to the industrialist Ternaux, in a fit of despair he shot himself. But he was found in time, doctors were called, and the only injury discovered was that one of the

shots had penetrated an eye. i oe He lived for two years longer. A new group of friends appeared, among , them two young Jews whose academic careers had been brusquely interrupted

SAINT-SIMON: THE PEAR IS RIPE $95 by the restrictions against them reimposed by the Restoration. They were Léon Halévy, father of the future playwright of the Second Empire, and Olinde Rodrigues, one of the real innovators of nineteenth-century mathemat-

ics. The young men were thirsting for a new morality to fill the emptiness of , their souls, and Saint-Simon provided the gospel in the Nouveau Christianisme (1825). He conversed with Olinde Rodrigues for many hours during his last years, and in this manner the oral tradition of the master’s ideas was transmitted to the disciples. Many of his keenest reflections never appeared in print; they either evaporated in conversation or were received and passed on by Rodrigues. During the last months before his death in 1825 the group began plan-

ning a new journal to be called Le Producteur. , Science Dethroned

Though he knew virtually no science, in all his writings Saint-Simon had a great deal to say about scientists and their unique role in modern society. In one of his autobiographical fragments he confessed that an understanding of the character of men of science had always been his paramount interest in listening to their conversation. During the quarter-century of his creative intellectual life he adopted a wide variety of changing attitudes toward them, many of which were doubtless colored by the reactions of individual scientists and of the dominant scientific schools to his person and his doctrine. Nonetheless his conception of the role of the scientist is a fruitful vantage point from which to examine the whole body of his writings. It is one of the most persistent motifs, recurring time and again with different variations. His early works, completely in the Condorcet spirit, had raised the scientists to the apex of society; by Saint-Simon’s death science had been dethroned—a revolution in the spiritual conception of nineteenth-century prophets of progress that distinguishes them from their eighteenth-century predecessors. Saiht-Simon still honored the scientists, though he made them share their social hegemony with others; in Auguste Comte’s final phase, technical science as it had been practiced since the Renaissance would be banished. In the Lettres d’un habitant de Geneve a ses contemporains Saint-Simon discussed

the problem of the role of the scientist as the crux of the contemporary social disarray in France. His class analysis of the French Revolution and its after-

math, in an essay whose originality Friedrich Engels admired and perhaps ex- a aggerated, defined the underlying development of the whole epoch as a con-

flict between the propertied and the propertyless. A third element in the struggle, the scientists were a floating elite with no natural class alignment; they were mobile and could be recruited to one or the other side of the dichotomic conflict. Though numerically weak, the scientists held the balance of power and could therefore throw victory in the class war to the contestant they favored. In the French Revolution, Saint-Simon reminded his respectable readers, the scientists had sided with the men without property, and the consequence was upheaval, bloodshed, and chaos. It was to the interest of both hostile social classes to put an end to the crisis of the times, and this could only be achieved by neutralizing the political power of the scientists. Blandly SaintSimon advised the rival temporal classes that the best way to reach this reasonable solution was to elevate the scientists to the summit of the social structure

596 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE and to subordinate themselves to their rational commands. If scientists orga-

terrestrial happiness. ,

! nized the spiritual world, social conflicts would cease and men would attain The intellectual origins of this conception are not hard to identify. They derive from Condorcet, from Cabanis, and from the idéologues who, prior to their fatal political miscalculation in sponsoring Napoleon, dreamed of such a hegemony of science under the benign tutelage of a modern Marcus Aurelius.

, Saint-Simon went a step further than Condorcet and the idéologues when he explicitly summoned all classes in world society to establish a new universal spiritual power in the form of the scientific priesthood of the Religion of New-

ton. Aside from the synthetic character of the ceremonials he proposed—

| rather creaky contrivances after the manner of the Directorate theophilan- __ thropic cults—his founding of the sacerdocy of science was based uponanum- | ber of rationalist and historical considerations which were current at the time.

There was a widespread consensus that a people had to have some religious beliefs and institutions in order to preserve order and that even if atheism was an ideal for the elite there had to be an exoteric religious doctrine for the mass of the people. The theory of Charles Dupuis, propounded in his Origine de tous les cultes, that all ancient religions were really codifications of scientific knowledge was adapted by Saint-Simon for practical religious purposes. The new. religion which he at one point dubbed Physicism was thus merely a modern application of respectworthy time-honored usages among mankind. The rule of the priest-scientists would end the moral crisis of the age and would give impetus to a vast expansion of scientific knowledge. New sciences would become “positive” in an appropriate hierarchical succession from the less to the more complex, culminating in the science of man. As a consequence of the creation of this elite the men with the greatest energies and capacities

would no longer pour their efforts into wars of destruction, but would become productive scientists—the same idea which Condorcet had already suggested in one of his manuscript elaborations of the tenth epoch of the Esquisse. ““No

more honors for the Alexanders! Long live the Archimedes!’’* was SaintSimon’s hortatory way of predicting this inevitable ideological metamorpho- | sis. In the Lettres he expressed confidence that both antagonistic social classes would not fail to subscribe to the religious fund rendering scientists absolutely independent of the temporal powers: the men of property in order to be reas_ sured about what they were most interested in, possession of their property and freedom from revolution; the propertyless in order to be saved from becoming cannon fodder in war. Once Saint-Simon fell into penury under the Empire, his bitter personal experiences with the official scientists of the Napoleonic hierarchy roused him to a frenzy of violence against them. In his paranoid state he fixed on Laplace and Bouvard of the Bureau of Longitudes as his archenemies, the men who were preventing the sublime truths of his Introduction aux travaux scientifiques du XIX°

siecle from being recognized. His conception of the scientist’s role became more complicated. On the one hand he still held firm to the idea that the individual scientist was the seminal historical force, a thesis he demonstrated in numerous truncated apercus on the history of world science; in fact historical epochs were definable primarily in terms of their scientific geniuses. But simultaneously in his scattered unfinished works of the Empire he adumbrated

SAINT-SIMON: THE PEAR IS RIPE $97 a kind of scientific historical determinism in which the person of the scientist was eclipsed by the absolute and anonymous rhythm of scientific evolution. According to his formula the historical process of science, like all fundamental movements both physical and spiritual, required an alternativity of analysis and synthesis. Thus in the development of modern science, the age of Descartes had synthesized, Newton and Locke had analyzed, and now a new synthesis was to follow, a synthetic genius of science had to arise. This scheme for the history of modern science was the rational kernel in his otherwise pathological attacks against the contemporary Napoleonic scientists. Instead of proceeding with the new synthesis which was their historically ordained mission in accordance with the law of alternativity which he had pro-

pounded, the school scientists were continuing to act like epigoni of eighteenth-century science and were becoming mere particularizers, detailists. “You gentlemen are anarchist scientists. You deny the existence, the supremacy of the general theory,’’? he charged in a series of violent letters. The great

Napoleon had summoned them for a report on the needs and mission of science, and they continued to conduct their individual experiments oblivious of historic duty, in open defiance of the true destiny of nineteenth-century science. They were thus at once traitors to science, to history, and to Napoleon.

The science of the nineteenth century had to develop a unified plan, to construct a new view of the world, to oust old-fashioned religion and purge education of residual elements of superstition. Scientists had to cooperate and as-

sociate among themselves in the production of a new encyclopedia based upon a principle of synthesis that would replace Diderot’s merely destructive encyclopedia; they had to fit their individual studies into an organic whole and then to crown their labors with social physiology, the newest of the sciences, in which was hidden the secret of man’s salvation. Instead scientists were piddling away their time egotistically on their own petty disordered experiments. ‘The philosophy of the eighteenth century was critical and revolutionary, that of the nineteenth will be inventive and organizational,” was the motto of his new encyclopedia.* Saint-Simon knew that the synthesis of the coming century would have a single principle, and he divined a priori that the principle would be Newton’s law of gravitation, an idea which was by no means limited to physics but could be extended to chemistry, physiology, and the science of man. What he desperately needed was the aid, the collaboration, of technicians and other scientists—the very men who spurned him. During the period of Saint-Simon’s gravest psychic crisis, in 1812-13, when the slaughter in Europe was at its height, his rage against the indifference of the scientists mounted to a frenetic violence. At first he distinguished between the mathematical and the life scientists. He had quickly become disillusioned with the brutiers, for unlike Condorcet he saw no prospect for the solution of the social problems of mankind through the application of the calculus of probabilities. Many fragments directed against the mathematical and physical scientists hiding behind their “ramparts of X and Y,” coldly indifferent to the fate of man, serving in the destructive corps of all the armies of the Continent, have a contemporary poignancy. With sarcastic contempt Saint-Simon ordered the inhuman brutiers from the height of the scientific eminence. He demoted them in esteem. For a while the only hope lay in the biologists, physiologists, and social scientists. Dr. Burdin, a surgeon in the armies of the Revolution, had

$98 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE once told him that the new science would be born when someone synthesized

the writings of Vicq-d’Azyr, Cabanis, Bichat, and Condorcet, and SaintSimon long clung to this expectation as the salvation of Europe. But there were times when even the life scientists seemed to have been engulfed in the general chaos. In his madness he cried out for the creation of a scientific papacy, for the summoning of great international councils of science to save mankind.

, Saint-Simon’s recuperation from his breakdown coincided with the end of | the Napoleonic wars and the respite of Europe. As he emerged into the light his attitude toward the scientists underwent a drastic change. In the early years

| of the Restoration, when he gave ever greater prominence to the organizing role of the industriels in society, the scientist lost status by comparison. There are a number of different versions of his shifting sociological theory, but they all have in common a uniform devaluation of the role of the scientist in society. At times he thought of an ideal duumvirate with more or less equivalent status for scientists and industrialists, the one representing the spiritual, the other the temporal power, and he refashioned his whole philosophy of modern history

along the lines of a novel pattern: the replacement over the centuries of the medieval priestly and military ruling classes by the scientists and the bourgeois. This historical conceptualization, which has since become a platitude of Marxist universal history, had many dialectical turns of thought: The new scientific elite did not succeed the old priesthood in a mechanical manner; in the very bosom of the medieval sacerdotal class the modern scientists occupied positions from which they were able to carry on their destructive warfare against

religion. But despite this rather traditional dualism—the two swords—in which the scientists seem to represent a growing independent spiritual force, in the early Restoration writings Saint-Simon tended more and more to subordi~ nate them to the industrialists. Sometimes he tried to use old projects, like his encyclopedia, as a device for the forging of a common militant consciousness

between the scientists and the industrialists, but on many occasions he forthrightly proclaimed that it would be best for society as a whole if the industrialists became in the last analysis the final judges of the value of what the scientists accomplished. When he was most deeply under the influence of the French liberal economists Dunoyer and Jean-Baptiste Say he found no objection to considering the achievements of the scientists as mere commodities whose worth was to be estimated by the industrialists in terms of their practi-

cal needs and desires. His disenchantment with the official scientists was so , profound that he could no longer conceive of them as playing a role of primacy

in society. They were not heroic leaders but mere followers. Most of them lived on sinecures and emoluments from the state, and any overt opposition to

the retrograde Bourbon aristocracy was too much to expect of them. They were timid and pusillanimous. Their intellectual productions were worthwhile

—and they were not to be classed with useless bureaucrats, generals, and priests—but as often as not Saint-Simon came to see them as underlings. In some writings he merely grouped the scientists along with other useful persons such as entrepreneurs and workers under the general rubric industriels, which grew to be an overall category of productive people in every conceivable occupation who were contrasted with the fainéants, the do-nothings.

Unfortunately for his material well-being, try as he might Saint-Simon

SAINT-SIMON: THE PEAR IS RIPE $99 could not long rest content with his limited role as a moderately successful propagandist for the bourgeois. As soon as he broke loose and propounded in L’ Industrie the crucial need for a terrestrial morality, he was thrown back into the problem of the competitive roles of the scientists and the priests. One of his solutions, during the period when he was still eager to retain the financial support of the nonrevolutionary Restoration businessmen, was to propose a transitional stage for society during which the priests of the old religion would be taught more and more science in the seminaries, so that those who in fact con-

trolled education would promote the ideology of science while still wearing clerical garb. To avoid the horror of revolution and the evils of precipitous change Saint-Simon would advise the priests to become scientists—or he would have the Papacy order them to do so. Existing conditions in the spiritual world of the Restoration were morally intolerable because the great learned organizations were in the hands of scientists, while the educational system was still under the control of priests who knew no science, a fatal division which resulted in chaos. Perhaps if the priesthood could be converted to science no class revolution in the spiritual realm would even be necessary, as a mere transition would suffice. Of one thing Saint-Simon was certain: The scientific ideas of the elite of savants were penetrating all elements of the population, even the lowest classes, and the ultimate expulsion of existing orthodox religious ideas was inevitable.

In the final stages of Saint-Simon’s doctrinal development, roughly after 1822, the scientists had to share their elite position not only with the administrative directors of society but with a third ruling group, the moralist leaders of the New Christianity. Religious and scientific functions were conceived of as distinct, requiring different capacities. In this period Saint-Simon came to realize the full social implications of an idea which he had first discovered in the writings of the physiologist Bichat. There he found a separation of all men into three natural classes, psycho-physiological types so to speak, in each of which one quality predominated, the motor, the rational, or the emotive. During his last years Saint-Simon adopted this triadic division as the ideal structuring of the good society of the future as contrasted with the existing unnatural roles into which men were cast by the status of their birth and by haphazard. In the new world of Saint-Simon, men would engage in motor activity either as administrators or workers, in pure rational research as scientists, or, as moral-

izers and inspirers of mankind, in appealing to human emotions through preaching and the arts. Since under this “industrial system” each man would be fulfilling his natural capacity to the utmost, there would be no misfits and no class conflicts. Each “capacity”’ would labor in its respective branch and would evince no desire to encroach upon the province of another. Perfect harmony would prevail, the power state would disappear, and men would be directed to the exploitation of nature instead of exercising dominion over one another. While Saint-Simon tended to conceive of the three capacities of acting, thinking, and feeling as mutually exclusive, he did make exceptions; in one of his works he even had a prophetic insight into the future central role of

the engineer in the industrial system. In Saint-Simon’s classificatory order the , engineer combined the characteristics of both the administrator and the scientist, and he could therefore serve as an ideal intermediary in the implementation of the grandiose projects of the new society.

600 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE A substantial portion of Saint-Simon’s writing in his final years was devoted to the drafting of blueprints for the administrative organization of the future world. Their detail is often tedious, but they have one constant element: All organs of administration—he eschewed the term government—were so arranged that each of the three fundamental natural classes was always represented in what he called the “‘high administration of society”’ in the fulfillment of its special capacities. As a rule, under the new division of labor the emotive or moralist branch tended to initiate projects, the scientific to criticize and evaluate them, and the administrators to execute them. In these ideal constitutions the scientist was thus cast in a rather uncreative rationalistic role; he was more often the emendator than the original inventor. The scientist seemed to represent the analytic spirit more and more, and Saint-Simon had come to appreciate the originality of the poet and the moralist above the talent of the scientist. In principle the three capacities were equal in worth, but if the spirit rather than the letter of Saint-Simon’s last writings is considered, the scientist has some- how become the least preferred of the three brothers, and the religious leader who teaches men to love one another is awarded ever greater prestige. The cynic of the Directorate was on the way to becoming a Saint-Simonian. The final article in a collection of essays Saint-Simon published in Paris in 1825, the Opinions littéraires, philosophiques et industrielles, was a discussion among representatives of the triumvirate who were destined to direct the fu| ture society. It was entitled ““L’ Artiste, le savant et l’industriel.”” The mission of his profession set forth by the scientist was precise: It was another plea for a general theory to encompass all the sciences rather than allow each of them separately and in isolation to achieve a high degree of abstraction; but there was also a new emphasis in this work upon the relations of theoretical science to “‘practice.’’ As a consequence of the new social philanthropic tendency of his lifework, Saint-Simon insisted upon a reorganization of both science and education for practical purposes, which meant a speedy increase in the production of goods. The scientist’s utilitarian and even “‘proletarian’’ goals were set forth with simple frankness. ‘“What are the general applications of mechanics and of all the other sciences by means of which the most numerous class of producers will be able to increase its comforts and diminish its physical exertions, with the result that the price of human muscular labor will rise in direct relationship with the perfection of scientific processes? In a word scientists will undertake a series of works directly intended to perfect industrial arts.”’®> While the scientists as a corps retain their dignity, they are forced out of their isolation—pure theory in any particular science is thrust aside—and all their works are specifically applied to the needs of technology, which alone is able to bestow a new

| worth upon the manual laborer. Human activities are set in a new hierarchy of values: Science is subordinated to technology and technology is made to serve not profit making but the appreciation of that element in production which is not mechanical—the human component.

From Equality to Organicism Saint-Simon has one underlying preconception which is identical with the outlook of the old philosophical egalitarians, the conviction that the ideal forms of the good society must be congruent with what is natural in man. From a cur-

SAINT-SIMON: THE PEAR IS RIPE 601 sory reading of the physiologists, however, Saint-Simon came away with a different version of the natural: the natural was inequality. He inveighed against philosophisme for its ignorance of the simple physiological facts, positive scientific facts, which had since been set forth by Cabanis and Bichat. Confirmed in the belief that physiology was the only sound foundation upon which to construct a social theory, he experimented with variant schemes of social classification, and the plan he devised in the final phase of his thinking was a direct adaptation of the Bichat typology. His three social functions and three mutually exclusive social classes corresponded to the physiologist’s three human types.® First society needed scientists to discover positive laws which in turn could be translated into guides for social action. This scientific capacity — the brain type, which he sometimes called the Aristotelian capacity—if given free play would fulfill the mission which Condorcet had proposed for the leading scientific intellects. Bichat’s motor capacity was transformed by SaintSimon into the industrial class. Most of mankind, whose primary aptitude was the motor capacity, were destined to remain manual laborers, though a small elite of this class with essentially the same kind of talent would become the

administrators of the temporal affairs of society—the men who organized states and directed public works and engineered vast projects for the exploitation of nature. Saint-Simon’s third class, which corresponded to Bichat’s sensory man, were the artists, poets, religious leaders, ethical teachers, whom he sometimes identified with the Platonic capacity. In the last years of his life, when he emphasized the religious character of his doctrine, he endowed the sensory aptitude with special worth since he considered it capable of overcoming the atomist, egoist, egalitarian propensities of the contemporary world in crisis. The men of sentiment would give the new industrial society its quality and cohesive humanitarian spirit. The good society thus represented a harmonious association or cooperation of men fundamentally dissimilar in their most essential natures, organized in three natural classes. Together they embodied the total needs of mankind—rational-scientific, manual-administrative, sensory-religious. The eighteenthcentury philosophes, even when they admitted human inequalities, had still insisted upon organizing the state and society around those elements which men had in common, their natural equalities and relatively equal capacity for governance and the holding of public office. Saint-Simon and all later organicist doctrines which derived from him may have taken for granted some of the equal juridical rights of the philosophes, but they then proceeded to fashion society out of the different clays which were the raw materials of human nature. All men were not equally capable of participating in the administration of society. The new philosopher of society approached the whole problem with the initial preconception that the physiological and psychological differences of men were the very brick and mortar of the perfect social edifice. The presumption is overwhelming that each man seeks to express his own and not an alien nature, that he desires to live and work in the classification where he has natural endowments, be they scientific, administrative, or poetic capacities. Saint-Simon here adapted one of the major contentions of the de Maistre and de Bonald theocrats, who steadfastly maintained that men were not driven by a passion for equality with other men of higher status or greater wealth, but really had a profound desire to remain in their own traditional oc-

602 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE cupations and to continue to express themselves in the traditional roles into which they had been cast at birth. They wanted not equality but the expression of their true social natures. Saint-Simon merely translated this conception into ‘‘scientific”” terms: Men by nature desired not equality with others but the ex-

| pression of their intrinsic and immutable physiological aptitudes. The Aristotelian idea that every being seeks a fulfillment of its essential character or na-

ture has found an echo both in the theocratic and in the Saint-Simonian | theories. It is a dogma that no man would be so monstrous as to desire to exer-

cise administrative functions if he were born with a scientific capacity; at least, no good social order would allow such an anarchic misplacement of human talent. In the Saint-Simonian world outlook, organic inequality among men, inequality in the social hierarchy, and difference of social function were natural and beneficent, wholly superior to the égalite turque of the Jacobin revolutionaries, which was an equality of slavery beneath an omnipotent state authority. ’ Born unequal in their faculties, men required a society in which each was allotted a function. If a man operated in a social class to which he did not naturally

belong, performing functions for which he was not naturally equipped, he would be wasting his own talents and reducing the total creative potential of humanity. Among Saint-Simon’s last words to his favorite disciple was a defi-

nition of the quintessential goal of his doctrine and his life’s work: “‘to afford all members of society the greatest possible opportunity for the development

of their faculties.’’® ,

Talleyrand’s image of the national workshop propounded in his report on the reorganization of public education survives in Saint-Simon’s writings, where the goal of the new society is maximum production through maximum utilization of individual capacities. In Saint-Simon’s vision of the golden age of plenty, the emphasis is placed upon ever more production and creation, rather than upon consumption and distribution. The banquet spread before mankind is so sumptuous that dwelling upon material rewards, so characteristic of a world of scarcity, seems to be beside the point. Saint-Simon’s humanitarian doctrine thus incorporated the Condorcet principle that society could be organized so that misery and ignorance became accidents rather than the norm of ~ human experience.®

Perhaps the difference between Saint-Simon’s and the eighteenth-century conception has its crux in a new view of humanity. Instead of the man of rea- , son as the most perfect expression of humanity toward which all men are striving, Saint-Simon thinks of man now and in the future as at once rational, activ-

ist, and religious, at once mind, will, and feeling. His ends are moral, , intellectual, and physical, three major areas of human effort corresponding to | the aptitudes of the artist, the scientist, and the industrialist. This is the whole man, whose being is paralleled in the organization of the healthy body social. If man is primarily a rational animal and the highest form of reason is mathematics, the Turgot-Condorcet egalitarian ideal of rational units behaving in accordance with mathematicized social rules is comprehensible. But if humanity

, is a composite whose various manifestations include the predominantly activist or religious as well as the rationalist, social structure, reflecting and embracing the variety and diversity of men, will be organismic, a harmony of com-

plex, different, and essential parts.

The organismic society, unlike the atomist egalitarian society, which func-

SAINT-SIMON: THE PEAR IS RIPE 603 tions like mechanical clockwork, requires a ‘“‘vitalist’? element—some pervasive emotion, feeling, or belief to give life to the body. Though the eighteenth century had developed the concepts of benevolence and humanity as characteristics of natural men of virtue, Saint-Simon in the romantic temper infused the idea of the love of humanity with an emotional drive which it had lacked in the minds of the philosophes. Love was the fluid which coursed through the body social, gave it movement and energy. In Saint-Simon’s judgment the equal

atoms of the eighteenth-century world view were always on the verge of strife; his ideal of love created an organic harmonious whole out of society’s vital parts. Men hungered for this comfort on the morrow of a quarter-century of world revolution which had loosened the very bonds of society. The need for the emotionalization of relationships if society was not to fall apart and disintegrate into its discrete elements had been dramatized by Burke and de Bonald and de Maistre. Saint-Simon by his own testimony was communicating the same urgent longing of men for a society in which they could feel themselves integral parts, an organic society, as contrasted with a state in which isolated units competed and fought with one another. Egalitarianism had come

to represent the eternal struggle of equals in a world of cold and brutal competition. In the good society a natural elite corps (he was directly influenced by the

contemporary analogy of Napoleon’s troupes d’elite), one with authentic, proved capacities, directed the various classes. Leadership was not, as the doctrine of popular sovereignty held, a generalized capacity in which all men were more or less equal and which made it feasible and natural for offices to be elective. In the organic society, workers instinctively rendered obedience to their natural superiors, their “chiefs,” in their own class.’° The idealized image of the Napoleonic army, in which ordinary soldiers had risen to be marshals, in which rank was at least in theory the reward of talent and merit, was a prototype for Saint-Simon’s utopian civilian society. Since it was in the very order of the universe that men should be unequal, instead of attempting to level these differences Saint-Simon, in the spirit of Bichat’s physiological doctrines, held that it would be beneficial to the whole of society to emphasize them, to nurture and develop the uncommon and extraordinary capacities in individual men. Saint-Simon denied that Negroes were equal to Europeans.‘! Among Europeans themselves there were professional and class distinctions which he called “‘anomalies.”” The corps of the nobility and the clergy in European society had originally been founded upon just such organic anomalies in the human species. Though these anomalies had become attenuated through the centuries, the egalitarian philosophes had made a fatal error when they proclaimed the abolition of all specialized corps simply because the existing elites in name had ceased to be elites in fact. True scientists of society would not try to minimize unique excellences, but would devote themselves to the regeneration of specialized corps, confining their membership

to the men who were patently superior, those who had the most marked “anomalies,” Saint-Simon’s doctrine of what he called the “great trinity” of capacities was further developed by the Saint-Simonians, but this is one area in which they remained mere emendators, adding little that was new. At most they emotionalized a problem which Saint-Simon had set forth in rationalist terms.

604 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE |

, The Twilight of Power | |

| In the Introduction aux travaux scientifiques du XIX® siecle, Saint-Simon had shown his awareness of the universality of the power drive. ‘‘Every man, every grouping of men, whatever its character, tends toward the increase of power. The warrior with the saber, the diplomat with his wiles, the geometer _ with his compass, the chemist with his retorts, the physiologist with his scalpel, the hero by his deeds, the philosopher by his combinations, all struggle to achieve command. From different sides they scale the plateau on whose height stands the fantastic being who rules all of nature and whom every man who

has a strong constitution tries to replace.’’” ,

Saint-Simon’s Restoration works established a sharp distinction between the exercise of power by ruling classes in the past and the direction of the future industrial society which would become the function of entrepreneurial and sci-

| entific chiefs. The prospect of the survival of power, with its dread military and psychological consequences, into the golden age seemed to poison the benign placidity of free labor in association in the ideal state of mankind. Struck by the ubiquity of the power lust, Saint-Simon in his later works squarely met the challenge which it represented to his entire system. In a significant passage

in the ninth letter of L’Organisateur he dismissed as irrelevant to the discussion | furious madmen like Napoleon who reveled in the exercise of arbitrary power for its own sake, for such men were monstrosities. This was a typical eighteenth-century way of dealing with the abnormal; it was eliminated from consideration. As for the rest of mankind, there was a happy way out of the contradictions with which persistent and omnipresent human aggressiveness confronted the good society: The civilizing process tended to transfer the ob-

ject of the power lust from men to nature. By power Saint-Simon meant the exercise of any force by one human being upon another, an act of dominion essentially vicious. Power would not be necessary in the future industrial society composed of men freely utilizing their capacities. The energy which had previously been wasted upon the exercise of

power over men would be channeled in another direction, toward the ever more intensive exploitation of nature. ““The only useful action that man can perform is the action of man on things. The action of man on man is always in itself harmful to the species because of the twofold waste of energy which it entails. It can only be useful if it is subsidiary and if it supplements the performance of a greater action on nature.”’'® This succinct expression of a new moral ideal for the industrial society captured the imagination of later socialist theorists and found an echo in their writings. The historic substitution of nature for man as the object of aggression, so provocatively suggestive of both Marx and Freud, nurtured Saint-Simon’s optimistic belief that with time not only intellectual but moral progress was feasi-

, ble. Despite the fact that the most recent embodiment of the great demon of , power lust was still alive on the rock of Saint Helena, Saint-Simon forecast the ultimate quiescence of the evil. Along with his teachings that man’s body influenced his mind, Cabanis had _ dwelt upon the reciprocal influence of the moral and the physique, an idea SaintSimon had always found congenial. This doctrine allowed for the possibility

that, with a great development of man’s scientific knowledge, his passions

SAINT-SIMON: THE PEAR IS RIPE 605 might be bridled. Society had already given promise of the eventual pacification of the power lust. Saint-Simon proved by homely example that the seductions of industrial civilization were becoming so potent that most men would sacrifice even the exercise of absolute power to enjoy their pleasures in the peace of the new society—vide the English nabob who after years of service in India preferred the simple comforts of rural England to arbitrary dominion in

Bengal. ,

Since the natural elite of the industrial scientific society was based upon sheer capacity, talents which presumably all men could instantaneously recognize, there was no room in the society of the future for class and power conflict. Men found their way into the elite because their natural aptitudes drew them there. The prospect of jealousies and internal struggles within scientific elites did not disturb Saint-Simon. The act of appreciation of superior genius

appeared to be miraculously free from the baser passions. As for conflicts among coequal bodies of the elite, such as the scientists and the industrial entrepreneurs, they were beyond the realm of possibility. The innermost desire of each member of an elite was the exercise of those aptitudes and functions in which he excelled. It would therefore be contrary to nature for a scientist, for example—a theoretician—to covet administrative powers, or for an industrialist to presume to seek membership in a scientific corps. Such capacities, Bichat had taught, were mutually exclusive, and in the good society each man would find his proper place. In the new moral order, “know thyself” would be read “know thy capacity.” In past epochs of civilization there had been internecine strife among the ruling classes because these classes were constituted as agencies for the exercise of superior power over all men. The medieval nobles were inflamed by a desire to control the inhabitants of ever more extensive territories, the clergy to enjoy absolute mastery over the minds of their parishioners. Such corps ambitions had to clash because they vied for exclusive power. In the industrial scientific society, basic drives would be turned outward toward the world of objects. The scientist was discovering the deepest truths of nature and the industrialist was harnessing the refractory forces of nature, two different, noncompetitive functions. The direction of men in the new society was only an ancillary phenomenon to the exploitation of nature, both in the spiritual realm and in the

conflicts. :

temporal. Dominion over men was indivisible, whereas the management of nature could be separated into specialized functions, eliminating power

In the industrial scientific society all capacities were given free play. SaintSimon himself did not overstress the hierarchic nature of this society.He was, of course, not completely emancipated from a classical denigration of manual labor; the scientists and the industrial chiefs were endowed with special excellence. But, for all that, no working function in society was disdained in and of

itself. ‘All men shall work”’ was still the commandment of the new order. Men’s labors varied with their capacities. As for their rewards, Saint-Simon was not an egalitarian. He dismissed the problem with the assurance that each member of the body politic would be recompensed in accordance with his investment, a vague formula which left room for differentials in material emoluments. “Each person enjoys a measure of importance and benefits proportionate to his capacity and to his investment. This constitutes the highest degree of

606 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE , equality possible and desirable.” '* Saint-Simon always focused on production, _

impediments to production, methods for increasing productivity; the rules governing the distribution of rewards were reduced to issues of a secondary nature, for amid the great superfluities of the society of producers there would surely be enough for the needs of all men. The social organism was guided by an ideological absolute that discouraged too wide a disparity between the re-

wards of one man and those of another. The primary goal was to raise the _ physical and moral well-being of the poorest and most numerous classes. While Saint-Simon rejected Condorcet’s equality as an ideal, he never raised the incentive of class divergences as the motive drive animating the social body. The only sound system was a functioning class society in which the roles of | _ the men who administered were mere extensions of their social occupations. _ The “high administration of society,’”’ that clumsy phrase which he preferred to both “‘state” and “‘government,”’ required no special aptitudes or talents and no specialized personnel beyond those occupied in directing normal social functions. There was no need for a government expert or a man trained in administration. Before the triumph of the industrial society men had been governed, in the order of the future they would be administered. The old and the new leadership were different because they reflected this underlying transfor- , mation in the nature of human relationships. Saint-Simon was emphasizing the distinction between the exercise of power based on physical force and of direction founded on a recognition of superior capacity in the elite, between the command function and the organization of an association for the common welfare. At first sight it might seem utopian to turn society over to a group of administrators after men for centuries had accustomed themselves to the absolutes of governance, power, and dominion. Saint-Simon pointed out, however, that in his day many pivotal economic institutions already in operation had dispensed with the command function and were voluntary associations— the banks, insurance companies, savings societies, and canal construction companies. These administered societies were models for the total society of the future, and he anticipated no special difficulties incident to the enlargement of the unit of administration. Society itself was one large national workshop with more varied activities, though none essentially different from those of a canal

construction company. The transfer of political power from the noble class to the chiefs of the in-

dustrial class—‘“‘professors in administration’—who in their factories and , banks and companies had already been virtually exercising civil administration, would not be perplexing to the mass of the workers, since they had long since grown accustomed on the job to an appreciation of these entrepreneurs as , their natural leaders. In the new order, entrepreneurial leadership would simply be extended from individual factories to the requirements of the “high administration of society.’’ For the proletariat such a scheme of things would in-volve a return to a more normal relation in which they would no longer have to deal with two leaderships, one political and one civil; the chiefs of daily work would be at the same time the chiefs of the total society. Thus there would eventually be created an organic integrated society in which men would cease to be pulled in two opposite directions by rival forces. Similarly, the uni-

SAINT-SIMON: THE PEAR IS RIPE 607 fication of the spiritual power in society, ending the present division between

the clergy and the scientists, would not be a disturbing novelty for the mass of the people but would represent a desirable amalgamation replacing the confusion which had hitherto bedeviled them. Class conflicts would be banished from the new society. Since the capacities of real classes could not overlap, what could they fight about? Since men of a class would seek to excel in their natural aptitudes, there could be only rivalry in good works, not a struggle for power.'® When class chiefs owed their prestige to their control of men, they could fight over one another’s “governed,”’

but since there would be no governors and no subjects, from what source would class antagonism be derived? Within a class, men of the same capacity would be striving to surpass one another with creations whose merits members of the class would be able to evaluate. Between classes there could only be mutual aid. There was no basis for hostility, no occasion for invading one another’s territory. In a few key paragraphs of his tract Suite a la brochure des Bourbons et des Stuarts, published on January 24, 1822, Saint-Simon expressed in capsule form his whole concept of the natural elite in a society without power. “‘All privileges will be abolished and never reappear since the most complete system of equality which can possibly exist will be constituted. The men who show the greatest capacity in positive sciences, in the fine arts, and in industry will be called by the new system to enter the top echelon of social prestige and will be placed in charge of public affairs—a fundamental disposition which destines all men possessing a transcendent talent to rise to the first rank, no matter in what position the chance of birth may have placed them.’ !® The whole social structure thus constituted would have as its goal the implementation of a révolution

regenératrice throughout the European continent. : The more Saint-Simon analyzed the governmental functions of the state, the less use he found for its existence. His industrial society could operate with administrative and scientific capacities alone, without men adept at wielding force. The existing governmental system, which he hoped to replace in the near future, had raised men to office not because they demonstrated special talents, but because they had cunning and knew how to acquire and to manipulate power.'’ Their evil genius would be thwarted in the productive society of the future. In the modern world the only useful work was scientific, artistic, technological, industrial (in the broad sense of the term); everything else was parasitic. Hitherto despite the fact that society had had to squander a large proportion of

its energies on struggles for power, it had nevertheless managed to achieve a , high level of prosperity. A fortiori, what great accomplishments was humanity capable of if men ceased to spend themselves in power conflicts and devoted themselves solely to cooperative labor! After Saint-Simon had surveyed the various branches of the Bourbon government, he came to the conclusion that only the police power had some justification for existence. Though he made this grudging admission, he assigned the police a subordinate position in the industrial society, severely reducing the exalted status it enjoyed under the Bourbons. At times he even eliminated the maintenance of order as a formal attribute of the state. ‘“This function,” he

phrase. |

608 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE |

wrote, “. . . can easily become almost in its entirety a duty common to all

citizens . . .’’'® His state virtually ‘‘withered away,” though he did not use the

In the good society, governmental action—by which Saint-Simon understood the command function—would be “‘reduced to nothing, or almost nothing.’’ Since the goal of society was general happiness and happiness was defined as the development of the arts and sciences and the diffusion of their benefits through technology and industry, only managerial action would be required. Inevitably the progress of industry would reduce poverty, idleness, and ignorance, the chief sources of public disorder, and thus the need for most governmental functions, even the police, would dissolve. The industrial society, by eradicating the causes of disorder, made it possible virtually to eliminate the state. Granted a thoroughgoing economic liberalism—free trade, no domestic governmental regulation of industry and commerce, an inevitable reduction in crime, a foreign policy committed to peace—it seemed difficult to discover any broad areas in which the state could operate. Ultimately decisions affecting the body social would be impersonal and would be reached like other positivist scientific conclusions. ‘‘Decisions can only be the result of scientific demonstrations, absolutely independent of any human will. . .”’"® However much Marx differed from Saint-Simon in analyzing the historical process, there was agreement between them that the new society emerging from the last conflict of systems or classes would witness the twilight of power and the cessation of power conflicts among men. Both saw power and aggressiveness not as ineradicable characteristics of man but as transient historical manifestations generated by previous, imperfect social systems and destined to perish with them. Their optimism was a corollary to their analysis of the classes designated as the agents of the last revolution. The “industrials’’ were by definition productive entrepreneurs to whom the spirit of war and conflict was alien; it would be contrary to their nature to become intoxicated with power. The proletarians were in their nature men who worked, not men who exploited, hence they could not engineer a proletarian revolution and thereafter exploit others. The simplicity with which socialist theory turned its head away from the realities of power was the great blind spot of its outlook. _

The New Christianity a Saint-Simon’s various religious posturings froze in a final attitude in the Nouveau Christianisme, published shortly before his death. The work was originally intended as an essay in the second volume of the Opinions littéraires, philosophiques et industrielles, but the urgency of the political and moral crisis moved him to issue it separately, and it appeared early in 1825, preceded by an unsigned introduction from the pen of Olinde Rodrigues which was an effort to smooth | the transition between Saint-Simon’s earlier philosophical works and the reli-

gious proclamation. The favorite disciple was only partially successful, for there is a chasm between the two careers which cannot readily be bridged in a

— few pages.”° ) ,

As a manifesto of the New Christians, this last publication of Saint-Simon’s is not a very pungent piece of writing. In many respects it is his dullest work.

The tract has no clear plan; it is verbose and repetitive, and its occasional flights —

SAINT-SIMON: THE PEAR IS RIPE 609 of fancy invariably fall flat. Nevertheless it was revered by his disciples as the final testament of Saint-Simon, and they strove to discover in it a hidden sense.

Unfortunately for his reputation as a theorist, his name has been identified with this work above all others.”* Even in this tract the break with past doctrine is not absolute. Saint-Simon is still the philosopher of an industrial-scientific-artistic society organized as an

‘aristocracy of talent.” He still is the enemy of the warrior nobility and the do-nothings. He still indulges in dialectical turns of thought, contrasts of epochs, of moral systems, of emotional drives. The heart of his whole system, however, has changed, for it is first and foremost a religion. The Nouveau Christianisme is cast as a dialogue between an innovator (a New Christian) and a conservative, during the course of which the conservative is

converted rather effortlessly. The opening lines announce the innovator’s credo, his belief in the existence of God, in straightforward catechismic affirmations. The dialogue ends with a proof that Christianity is a religion which must have been inspired by divine revelation. Forgotten are the Physicism of the Empire and the sacrilegious Dupuis theory. In the New Christianity, religion was no longer the mere expression of general science, even though scientific knowledge was a major prerequisite for the priesthood. The essence of Christianity was its moral content. Dogma and ritual in great religions were only utilitarian addenda, handmaidens of the moral principles, which were timeless and not subject to change; the philosopher who once used the phrase “nineteenth-century morality” had recanted his heretical, relativist doctrine. Only the physical sciences have had a history and there has been progress in the accumulation of their data. Since the revelation of Christ, morality has had one principle and only one. The absolute perfection of this abstract moral truth could not be altered in time, even though the appropriate application of Christian morality would still be subject to the law of change and progress. In brief, the Christian moral principle was eternal; only its historical embodiment was

relative.”

The Christian religion, said Saint-Simon, was summed up in one sublime commandment, the golden rule: Men should behave toward one another like brothers.” When the conservative expressed incredulity at this succinct reduction of Christianity, he was silenced with Saint-Simon’s monist dogma: “‘It would be blasphemy to presume that the All-Powerful One founded his religion on several principles.”’** The Christian apostles had taught this principle

of brotherly love in its original simple form in the primitive catechism.” Preached to a society that was still divided into two classes, the Roman masters

and their slaves, it was a lofty, revolutionary principle. The early Christians were thus daring moral reformers whose principles were to dominate the medieval system. In the heyday of its power, Christian papal society went a long way toward the practical application of the Christian catechism in the abolition of slavery. But the injunction of the catechism—to love one another as brothers—was not in its primitive form the ultimate embodiment of the

Christian principle. ,

By the fifteenth century the primitive sense of the Christian principle had

already become outmoded and urgently needed rejuvenation, but unfortu- , nately the Catholic clergy, secure in their institutional powers, opposed any changes in the original expression of the moral principle. What was worse,

610 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE | they became inveterate enemies of its practical implementation, unlike their medieval predecessors, and they had remained so ever since. In the Nouveau Christianisme Saint-Simon threw caution to the winds. He arraigned the Papacy and the Catholic hierarchy before the bar of primitive Christianity and accused them of heresy. His language and tone were no longer circumspect; he labeled them Antichrists. They were heretics because for four hundred years the Christian principle had needed new raiment, and they refused to recognize its plight. It was no longer sufficient to preach brotherly love, for with the progress of science and the discovery of new worlds it was incumbent upon the Church to recast Christianity into a morality which taught that to labor for the amelioration of the lot of the poorest and most numerous classes in society was man’s goal on earth. The services of the New Christianity would not be concerned with disputations about dogma but would concentrate on extolling those who upheld the new principle and condemning those who opposed it. Saint-Simon repeated his earlier strictures against violence and his absolute , belief in the powers of persuasion. Propagation of the Christian doctrine by force was contrary to Christianity itself. With this principle he hoped to reassure the rich, who might otherwise be terrified lest the poor, having most to gain from the New Christianity, resort to revolution to inaugurate it speedily. As he explained, he had long delayed the promulgation of the religious cult of his system because he wanted the rich first to become familiar with his scientific and industrial doctrine so as to be convinced that he was not an egalitarian

subversive preaching against them. His earlier works had demonstrated the ,

, real character of the industrial society. The rich had nothing to fear from the New Christianity because the grand projects he planned, the universal exploitation of world resources, affording full employment, could be undertaken only under their direction and to their incidental enrichment. The industrial society with the New Christianity as its moral principle was a capitalist society working under a profit system. Saint-Simon saw no inconsistency between entrepreneurial activity and the moral ideal of the New Christianity. In this sense he was one of the great ideologists of modern philanthropic capitalism. — The treatment of the spiritual power of the old order of society always posed a troublesome problem for Saint-Simon. The old Christian clergy of Europe had failed in their function as an intellectual elite, and they had to disappear. But the fate of this class was more disturbing than was the destiny of the mili-~ tary rulers of society. There was no conceivable continuity between the functions of a warrior noble class and a new industrial class, so that the framework of the former could not be preserved to house the latter. The spiritual power

seemed to have greater continuity from the Middle Ages to modern times, since in medieval Europe the Christian clergy were the repositories of whatever scientific knowledge was available and they were also the protagonists of the only moral principle in society. It would perhaps have been desirable, in the name of an orderly transition, for the Christian clergy to have assimilated the new science and the new version of the humanitarian principle of early

Christianity rather than for the class of scientists to develop outside the Church. Saint-Simon was not intent on destroying the clergy, but on transforming their nature. Unfortunately the European clergy, having failed to keep abreast of scientific knowledge, had forfeited their right to function as society’s intellectual elite. They had become a corps stronghold of superstition

SAINT-SIMON: THE PEAR IS RIPE 611 and false ideas, which they were defending against the new scientists merely out of a desire to maintain themselves in power. The failure of the clergy to preach the moral law of Christian brotherly love was fatal to their continuance as a spiritual force. Whereas the medieval clergy as the spiritual power had pretended to supremacy over the feudal classes or at least to a status of equality with the feudal-temporal force, the modern religious leaders had resigned themselves to complete dependence upon Caesar and his heirs in all the European political societies. The need for moralists, scientists, teachers of the newly discovered truths, even theologians as formulators of the truth into religious principles, still existed, but the clergies of the formal European religious faiths were no longer capable of filling this spiritual office and therefore had to vanish as classes in their existing role. Perhaps a few of them would be assimilated among the leaders of the new Academy of Reasoning or the Academy of Sentiment, but the old religious organizational structures, mere shells of their former selves, would have to be divested of their spiritual power. If the Christian churches persisted in trying to hold the minds and the passions of men in their grip, they would have to be destroyed after a few individuals had been integrated into the new spiritual bodies. SaintSimon did not expect this process to be a very profound shock to the European spirit since for hundreds of years the scientists had been slowly absorbing the prestige which was being lost by the clergy. Most people, even those in the lowest ranks of the industrials, no longer gave credence to the clergy’s superstition-laden explanations of natural phenomena, so that the abolition of the clergy as a class would involve nothing more than the continuation of a process which was already far advanced. The acceptance of the New Christianity as the religion of the scientific industrial society would be the climax of this

development. The old clergy having betrayed their trust as professors of morals and guides of sentiment and teachers of progressive scientific truth, their duties would be assumed by new classes composed of artists, poets, moralists, scientists, new theologians. In his last work Saint-Simon wrote about the “‘church”’ of the New Christianity, his “‘mission,” and the “voice of God” speaking ‘“‘through his mouth.” He referred to the “revelation of Christianity” and to its ‘‘superhuman character.”’®® By this time the religious phrases had probably ceased to be mere literary artifices with him, as he had truly come to believe that Christianity was a unique historical experience and that he was the messiah of the new creed. In an early passage of the Nouveau Christianisme he made explicit reference to the messianic belief of the Jews and implied that he was its fulfillment. But despite the grandiloquent phrases, nowhere in the whole work is there an iota of what has traditionally been described as religious sentiment or expression. The word “mystical” has a negative connotation whenever he uses it, for his New Chris-

tianity is founded upon the truths of positive science and the one absolute moral principle of all time—brotherly love. It is even difficult to identify this religion with romantic pantheism and the romantic religious posturing which was in vogue in Europe during this period. Saint-Simon took occasion to condemn in passing the tendencies toward the ‘‘vague”’ in contemporary German literature, where romantic religiosity had struck deepest roots. His use of the arts in the propagation of the faith is a far cry from Chateaubriand’s revelation of the beauties of Christianity. Chateaubriand tried to illustrate the genius of

612 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE Christianity by pointing to the sublime creations its spirit had inspired; SaintSimon would employ the artists as mere agents, to rouse men to action in harmony with the New Christianity’s philanthropic moral principles. The final rewards of his new religion were not dissimilar from the promise which Di- _ derot extended to the moral man who by his services to science and by his

philanthropy had deserved well of humanity—the preservation ofhis memory among posterity. The gulf between Saint-Simon and traditional faiths is so un- , bridgeable that it would be presumptuous to embrace his humanitarian creed and the Judeo-Christian revelations under the same rubric of religion, were it not for the fact that the actual practice of many Jewish and Christian modernists is far closer to Saint-Simon’s morality religion than to orthodox belief. At the outbreak of the French Revolution Saint Simon was almost twentynine years old, and the basic emotional pattern of his own personal life had been set in the sensuous, irreligious climate of the later eighteenth century.’ But with the Restoration he revealed a remarkable sensitivity to the temper of the new generation born at the turn of the century and to its peculiar emotional needs, The religious and moral vacuum of post-Napoleonic France, so poignantly described by de Musset in La Confession d’un enfant du siecle*® and by Stendhal in Le Rouge et le noir, was unbearable for many young men—the legion of Julien Sorels who had inwardly broken with traditional revealed religions, yet had found nothing to fill the emptiness. Olinde Rodrigues, the tense, __

emotional mathematician who became the constant companion of SaintSimon’s last days, no doubt strengthened his early intuition that a new morality and a new organic age had to assume a religious form. The Catholic revival in the romantic manner ushered in by the works of men like Chateaubriand was one of the officially approved religious solutions proffered to these young men. The Génie du Christianisme was an attempt to make the old religion palatable by embellishing it with the aesthetics of romanticism. But this religion of “sentiment”? which passed for the revived Catholicism was rejected by many

young intellectuals. Saint-Simon’s New Christianity was more eclectic: In many ways it provided an ideal moral and religious syncretism. He praised the rationalist creations of the scientists and the speculations of the entrepreneurs;

, he dipped their ethics into a bath of moral sentiment, the love for humanity, and called it religion. Saint-Simon himself could not quite improvise the requisite romantic style and imagery for this new religion, which in his hands re, mained simple, amystical, at times crudely rationalist. Within a few years after his death, the young men who formed a cult in his name unabashedly drank in

, the metaphors and poetic conceptions of contemporary Catholic thinkers and emerged with a special cult jargon and ritual. It was a feat of exegesis to use the

trite doctrinaire text of the Nouveau Christianisme in a public evangelism. There is none of the Saint-Simonian mysticism in the master’s own written works, though he might conceivably have been swept along with his young men had | he lived. Saint-Simon actually had in preparation a third dialogue which was to cover the morality, the worship, and the dogma of the new religion as well as a credo for New Christians. But he died before it was completed. In Saint-Simon’s Empire writings the history of scientific development had been established as an alternativity of epochs of synthesis and generalization and epochs of analysis and particularization. The Nouveau Christianisme revived

this terminology, extending it far beyond the limits of a scientific method,

-SAINT-SIMON: THE PEAR IS RIPE 613

age of generalization:

adapting it to describe the whole social and moral order. First, there was an From the establishment of Christianity until the fifteenth century the human species has principally been occupied with the coordination of its general feelings and the establishment of a universal and unique principle and with the foundation of a general institution having as its goal the superimposition of an aristocracy of talents over an aristocracy of birth, and thus with submitting all particular interests to the general interest. During this whole period direct observations on private interests, on particular facts, and on secondary principles were neglected. They were denigrated in the minds of most people and a preponderance of opinion was agreed on this point, that secondary principles should be deduced from general facts and from one universal principle. This opinion was a truth of a purely speculative character, given that the human intelligence has not the means of establishing generalities of so precise a nature that it would be possible to derive from them as direct consequences all the particulars.”®

This was the medieval outlook with its monist absolute, one is tempted to say the “thesis.” Then followed the second stage, the contrary movement of this trinity—the history of Christianity from the Reformation to the present. During this second era, a new spirit of particularization, specialization, individuation replaced generalization. This next epoch was clearly the antithesis, the contradiction of the first. Though Saint-Simon does not use any of the Hegelian dialectical language he does express the concept: ““Thus the human spirit has followed, since the

fifteenth century, a direction opposed to what it had followed up to this period. And surely the important and positive progress which resulted in all our fields of knowledge proves irrevocably how much our ancestors in the Middle Ages were deceived in judging the study of particular facts, of secondary principles, and the analysis of private interests to be of little utility.’’®° This second, antithetic movement of Christian history bore with it spiritual faults of its own, particular to its specializing, individualizing nature. SaintSimon described again the malady of the modern age of self-centered, egotistic, isolated units, the moral parallel to the dominant trend of scientific particularization. Moral deficiencies of the second movement of Christian history necessitated another reversal of the trend, away from particularization, individuation, ego-

tism, but in this, Saint-Simon’s last formula for the alternativity principle, he did not call for a complete turning back to the general. He ended with an appeal for the coexistence of individuation and generalization, not quite a new synthesis, but a civilization in which both antithetical elements were present. “It is therefore very desirable that the works which have as their object the perfection of our knowledge relative to general facts, general principles, and general interests should promptly be activated and should henceforth be protected by society on a basis of equality with those works which have as their object the study of particular facts, of secondary principles, and of private interests.”°' A simultaneous advance on both fronts, the synthetic and the particularistic, was the ideal course for the new religious society. With less warrant Enfantin and Eugene Rodrigues later read into SaintSimon’s works other trinitarian formulas such as God, Man, and World, or the Infinite, the Ego, and the Non-Ego. Their doctrine moved further and further away from his positivism and shot off into a world of sensual mysticism alien

614 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE to Saint-Simon’s thought. On the other hand, it would be difficult to reduce Saint-Simon to a matter-of-fact philosophe of the simple, idéologue persuasion. As he lay dying, Saint-Simon gathered his disciples about him. The pear is ripe, you must pluck it. The last part of our work will perhaps be misunderstood. By attacking the religious system of the Middle Ages only one thing has been proved: that it is no longer in harmony with the progress of positive science. But it was

wrong to conclude that religion itself has tended to disappear. Religion must bring itself into harmony with the progress of the sciences. I repeat to you, the pear is ripe,

you must pluck it.”

26

Children of Saint-Simon: The Triumph of Love

WHEN THE SAINT-SIMONIAN movement was founded by Olinde Rodrigues on

the morrow of the master’s death, it attracted a heterogeneous group of brilliant, disturbed young men—Buchez, Holstein, Arlés, Bazard, Fournel, Enfan-

tin, d’Eichthal, the Pereires, Michel Chevalier, Duveyrier, Barrault.’ They proselytized throughout Europe—though they usually preferred to convert in Paris—organized missions to the working classes, lectured in hired halls, contributed to newspapers and journals (Le Producteur and Le Globe became their official organs), were worshiped and denied. Soon they betrayed a characteristic common to young sects, religious and secular, Christian, Marxist, and Freudian—they fought bitterly among themselves. Violent personal rivalries for power and profound doctrinal differences developed in the church, and in the heat of the controversy the two antagonisms became inextricably confounded with each other.

, Rehabilitation of the Flesh | Enfantin, a strikingly handsome man touching thirty, an engineer graduated from the Ecole Polytechnique, the son of a bankrupt businessman, quickly rose to be head of the Saint-Simonian hierarchy in the sacred college, though he had seen Saint-Simon in the flesh only once and there is no record of the master’s judgment—-his dog Presto is reported to have barked his disapproval.

Pere Enfantin presided over a succession of heartrending schisms, melodramatic temporary reconciliations, and final excommunications, accounts of which found their way into print immediately after their occurrence. The lives of the fathers were stenographically reported. When Buchez, Bazard, and Rodrigues himself were ultimately separated from the Saint-Simonian family and church, the surviving faithful redoubled their devotion to the new pope. They had all been committed to the rehabilitation of the flesh and to the commandment “‘Sanctify yourselves in work and pleasure.’’ They were united in their resolve to establish a new organic order in which the senses would be gratified through the flowering of art, science, and material prosperity; but Enfantin’s theological postulates, his androgynous image of God, and his apparent sanction of promiscuous love relationships passed beyond the point of tolerance for some of the adepts. When Rodrigues counterattacked he charged Pére Enfantin with the very vices which their religion had come to remedy in contemporary society—destructiveness and revolutionary negation. Saint-Simonian meetings were often disrupted by hoodlums hired by prom-

inent citizens who feared that the cult would seduce their young. Stendhal’s

Lucien Leuwen, it will be remembered, threatened his banker father that he ,

615 |

would run off and become a Saint-Simonian if his wishes were not acceded to.

616 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE The noisy debates among the apostles transpired in an atmosphere of general hysteria which induced seizures and fainting spells. Men saw visions of Christ and Enfantin. Edouard Charton, a Saint-Simonian preacher, has left a description of his initial terror, followed by a flood of free associations and by a passionate evocation of his experience when, in the presence of the Father, the gift of tongues was upon him. “Soon I could hear myself speak. I slowly became master of myself. I felt carried away by a torrent of thoughts and I took cour-

age. I let my memories roam slowly from one event to another .. . If I aroused pity for the miseries of the people, I really was cold, I was hungry. If I _ bemoaned the grief of the isolated, betrayed man, I suddenly felt myself enveloped by the loneliness of my student room or the disdainful looks of men re- _

jecting my entreaties. I was happy because I lived in body and soul with a greater intensity than I ever had before in my life! My whole being expanded and filled the hall . . . Borne aloft by my emotions as if they were powerful wings, I floated beneath a mysterious sky.’ At meetings of the Saint-Simonian family “‘members of the proletariat’”” who were one moment burning with hatred against the privileged orders found themselves overcome by love as they embraced young nobles before the whole assembly, all joined as children

in Saint-Simon.?

The strange fascination that Enfantin exercised upon the disciples was a

troublesome memory years later when most of them had resumed respectable careers and had become successful bankers, engineers, entrepreneurs, and ar- © tists of the Second Empire. The search for the Female Messiah, the emancipa-~

tor of her sex, for whom Enfantin was only a precursor, the expeditions to North Africa and the Middle East, degenerated into opéra bouffe and the movement petered out. The sentimental doctrines of the cult soon melted into , the general romantic temper of the period. Triumphant international Victorianism put a determined stop to the easy talk of free love, but even in death Saint-Simonism remained one of the most potent emotional and intellectual influences in nineteenth-century society, inchoate, diffuse, but always there, penetrating the most improbable places. Paradoxically enough, the Saint-Si, monians exerted an enduring influence in the business world, where they pro-_ vided an ideology for expansive nineteenth-century capitalism in the Catholic countries of Europe. The Saint-Simonians left their mark on the projects of the Crédit Mobilier, the railway networks of the Continent, and de Lesseps’ Suez Canal; their economic teachings have been traced to even more remote areas, the works of Visconde Maua, the Brazilian entrepreneur, and of Lamanski, a pioneer of Russian industrialization. In the period between the First and Second World Wars there was talk of a neo-Saint-Simonian revival among French

and German captains of industry. , Today one is more drawn to the psychological theories of the Saint-Simon-

ians and the vivid portrayal of spiritual anguish in their public confessionals. Piercing insights into the nature of love and sexuality, which outraged the good bourgeois of the 1830s and brought down the police upon the Saint-Si-

monians, now have a greater appeal than economic doctrines which have become rather commonplace. Enfantin dared to discuss sexual repression with frankness in an age grown unaccustomed to such ideas since the Restoration had reimposed a restrictive system of public moral behavior from which at least the upper classes of eighteenth-century society had felt themselves eman-

CHILDREN OF SAINT-SIMON: TRIUMPH OF LOVE © 617 cipated. Saint-Simonian schisms were usually provoked by quarrels over the degree of sexual emancipation allowable in the new world. The more sedate among them would countenance divorce, but insisted on monogamy. For a brief period at least Enfantin preached free love with the same unrelenting absolutism with which Turgot had once espoused freedom of thought and economic action. In the first public exposition of their doctrine in a hall on rue Taranne in 1828—1829, the Saint-Simonians were still demonstrating the positive scientific

character of their teachings in language reminiscent of both Condorcet and Saint-Simon. This was their last obeisance to reason. When they proclaimed themselves a religion, as distinguished from a movement, their orators repudiated the groveling adjustment to contemporary taste which had characterized the scientific and historical proofs of their lecture series, published as the Doctrine de Saint-Simon. At a ceremony on November 27, 1831, Enfantin solemnly announced, “Up to now Saint-Simonism has been a doctrine and we have been doctors. Now we are going to realize our teacnings. We are going to found the religion . . . We are now apostles.’’* As religious teachers they spoke directly to the hearts of men, to the downtrodden workers, to the enslaved women of the world, to moral men in conflict with themselves in all ranks of society. They were resolved to awaken the dormant feelings of love in mankind not by historical disquisitions and not by denunciations of the evils of the existing order, but by the beautiful example of their love for one another. Those Saint-Simonians who survived the great schisms voluntarily submitted to the discipline of the hierarchy, adored the Father, and ennobled the commonest labor by performing it with devotion in their retreat in Ménilmontant on the outskirts of Paris. Their sermons depicted the happiness of a future world where the passions were free, where both jealousy and indifference had been extirpated, where each man loved and worked according to his capacity, where the flesh was not mortified, where monogamy was not imposed but was practiced spontaneously—though only by the monogamous. In the religion of Saint-Simon dullards and sluggards in love would be aroused by the inspiration, the exhortations, and if need be the personal ministrations of the high priests and priestesses. For the nonce, alas, the seat of the Mother beside Peére Enfantin was left vacant. In this second phase—when the preachments of

the Saint-Simonians became dogmatic and they abandoned demonstrations from philosophical history—ritual, drama, costume, and music were introduced to fire the imagination of prospective converts. More and more they sought to pattern their actions after those of the early Christians. Enfantin’s vest, a relic which has been preserved in the Bibliotheque de |’Arsenal, was a symbolic garment: Since it could only be laced in back, to don it required the assistance of another human being—a witness to the unity and brotherhood of

man. |

The religion turned its light on man’s sexual nature and its relation to his intellect, on the psychic debasement of women, on the nature of love and God. On November 19, 1831, in a lesson to the Saint-Simonian assembly, Enfantin developed a complex theory of love and proposed a new sexual order based on the realities of human affections to replace the monogamous marriage which recognized no divorce. First he distinguished between two types of love, expressive of fundamentally different psychic natures, the constant and the fickle.

618 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE ‘There are beings with profound durable affections which time only knits more closely. There are other affections which are lively, quick, passing but nonetheless strong, for which time is a painful, sometimes an insupportable, trial.”’® To subject both characters to the legal arrangements which conformed only to the passionate desires of the monogamous entailed emotional misery and inevitably resulted in social chaos. Enfantin identified three forms of love relationship instead of one, and he sanctioned them all without praise or blame:

the intimate, the convenient, and the religious. Intimate affections could be equally profound whether they were enduring or fleeting, as long as they were - consummated among characters of the same type. When on occasion two contradictory personalities established relationships, the love was to be labeled convenient or casual. A third love, which he called religious, was the unique attribute of the Saint-Simonian sacerdocy—the priest’s love for the two natures, which he understood equally well. ‘“Thus with respect to morality the temple is divided into three parts, which correspond to the three faces of love —casual affection, profound affection, and calm or sacerdotal affection which knows how to combine them one with another.’’® What Enfantin meant by free love was the freedom to love in accordance with one’s psychic nature, not , universal promiscuity or universal evasion of the moral order through fornica-

tion and adultery. ,

How can one give both psychological types satisfaction and a rule at the same time? How can one safeguard exclusive love from the abnormal exaltation which renders it vicious and also protect it from the disruptive influence which the character of the other series, the Don Juan, exercises on the person of its choice? How preserve (no less important, despite what Christian prejudice has been able to do and still does to favor exclusive love) the individual who has this progressive love, who does not stop at one because he has loved one, but can, after having loved one, move toward another if the second is greater than the first—how preserve such a person from the anathema, condemnation, and contempt which Christianity hurls against him and from the impositions of persons endowed with exclusive affections sanctified by Christian law?

The solutions lay in the Saint-Simonian doctrines of the rehabilitation of the flesh, the emancipation of women, and the hierarchic priesthood of love, whose guidance was essential to avoid emotional abuses.’ The Saint-Simonian rebuttal of the bourgeois defenders of the family was — full of scorn for the moralists whose hypocritical code was preserved only by the acceptance of prostitution and by the social toleration of adultery—the bourgeois safeguarded the chastity of their own daughters by “‘levying a tribute upon the daughters of the poor who walked the streets.”” Abel Transon’s sermon on the Affranchissement des femmes on January 1, 1832, was a tender de-

fense of the prostitutes of Paris, the modern Magdalens.® The later Marxist derision of bourgeois morality and Victorian spirituality drew heavily from Saint-Simonian and Fourierist sources. If progress came to signify the liberation and full expression of the whole man, his total personality, then sexual actualization had to be recognized as good, sexual repression as an illness which affected man’s rational capacities adversely. Progress should not be restricted to the advancement of reason at the cost of a drying up of the fonts of love. As long as one vital drive in man’s nature was curbed there could be no true happiness. For a brief period the Saint-Simonians, at Enfantin’s command, attempted what would now be called sublimation in their retreat in Meénil-

CHILDREN OF SAINT-SIMON: TRIUMPH OF LOVE 619 montant, in denial of the popular interpretation of their religion as gross sensuality. They were preaching the triumph of love, not mere carnal passion, but the distinction was difficult to communicate in nineteenth-century Christian bourgeois society, and when the rehabilitation of the flesh became a central dogma of the new religion, a rich vein of crude humor was discovered by contemporary journalists, who exploited it to the utmost. Enfantin’s truth was not understood at the time by his revilers; the Saint-Simonians were expressing profound psychological realities which could not be assimilated by even the most perceptive idéologue observers of the human drama—men like Stendhal, for example, who wrote a witty though superficial pasquinade against them, joining the pack whose inner corrosion he knew so well. Sometimes it is difficult to believe in the authenticity of the Saint-Simonian love experience, and there is much that seems artificial in their aping of Christian models. Enfantin’s

withdrawal with a party of forty disciples to a house in the district where he had spent his childhood, the resurrection of the image of the Father and the bestowal of the august title upon a young man with a “childish” name, the quest for the Mother in distant lands, the reliance upon adolescent forms like an “‘initiation,”’ all bear witness to the perturbed affective natures of the cultists. On June 6, 1832, before assuming the Saint-Simonian dress, Retouret ceremoniously turned to Enfantin: ‘‘Father, once I told you that I saw in you the majesty of anemperor . . . the goodness of a Messiah. You appeared formidable to me. Today I have felt how profoundly tender and gentle you are. Father, I am ready.’’® For all the tinsel trappings, the Saint-Simonians voiced subconscious longings whose very existence the bourgeois of Paris dared not admit.

The Saint-Simonians came to realize that women, one half of humanity, with their unique capacity for feeling, tenderness, and passion, had been suppressed for centuries because the Judeo-Christian tradition had identified them

with evil, with the flesh, and with the grosser parts of human nature. The Saint-Simonian proclamation of the emancipation of women, Fourier’s masterful depictions of their real needs and wants, and Comte’s idealization of his beloved angel broke not only with Catholicism but with the eighteenth-century tradition of many philosophes, who even in their most expansive moods had regarded women as either frivolous or lesser human beings. This superior attitude had still been Pere Simon’s. For the Saint-Simonians and for Fourier the emancipation of women became the symbol of the liberation of bodily desires. If capacities were to be expressed in all their wholeness, the sexual desires of men, and women too, would have to be fully appeased, not as inferior but as noble, integral functions of the body. Once the Saint-Simonians denied the _ Christian dichotomy of the body and the soul a pronouncement of instinctual emancipation had to follow. The Malady of the Age The Saint-Simonians startled the intellectuals of Europe with a cry of despair, ‘Progress is in danger!” Civilization itself was threatened with total dissolution. The crisis of the times which Saint-Simon had diagnosed earlier in the century had been prolonged for decades; continually aggravated, it was undermining the whole social structure. The elementary bonds of human relations

620 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE were being loosened. Faith in the eventual restoration of sanity and in the progress of humanity was unshaken among the Saint-Simonians, but what a terrible moral toll was being exacted from their generation, living ina twilight _ world when that-which-had-been no longer held men’s allegiance and that-

17, 1828, , oo

which-would-be was not yet believed. ““Gentlemen,” began the lecturer at the Opening session of the exposition of the Doctrine de Saint-Simon on December

Viewed as a whole, society today presents the spectacle of two warring camps. In one are entrenched the few remaining defenders of the religious and political organization of the Middle Ages; in the other, drawn up under the rather inappropriate name of partisans of the new ideas, are all those who either cooperated in or applauded the overthrow of the ancient edifice. We come to bring peace to these two armies by proclaiming a doctrine which preaches not only its horror of blood but its horror of strife under whatever name it may disguise itself. Antagonism between a spiritual and a temporal power, opposition in honor of liberty, competition for the greatest good of all—we do not believe in the everlasting need for any of these war machines. We do not allow to civilized humanity any natural right which obliges it to tear its own entrails, !

The degradation of the age was described by the Saint-Simonians in images less powerful than Balzac’s but with the same moralist intent. Love relations were false; young girls were decked out by their parents to increase their value like slaves on the auction block. Since egotism colored all human relationships, in order to get people to perform an act of charity one had to invite them to a ball. The Greeks were being oppressed by the Turks, but no European nation rose to their defense and Christians traded with the persecutors. Fashionable atheism was proof that there were no ties, either to God or among men. An act of devotion or love was met with a sneer. Indignation at the persistence of social conflict was dismissed with the cynical reflection that such had always been the nature of man. ““We have spared you the grief one experiences in penetrating into the intimacy of those families without faith and without belief which,

turned in upon themselves, are linked to society only by the bond of taxation.” '? The malady of the age was an atrophy of love and association. “If one

takes away the sympathies which unite men to their fellows, which causethem to suffer of their sufferings, take pleasure in their joys, in a word live their lives, it is impossible to see anything else in society but an aggregate of individ-

uals without ties or relationships, having nothing to motivate their conduct

but the impulse of egotism.”’ ” | A passionate indictment of their selfish generation was the leitmotif of

everything the Saint-Simonians wrote and taught. It struck a responsive note in the audience of the Salle Taitbout and among correspondents throughout the world who recognized that the disease was their own. “Yes, my friend,”’ wrote a gentleman from New York to Le Globe, “for twenty years I have been a Saint-Simonian in my inner being.’’'® The Saint-Simonians brought to a reconsideration of the problem of progress their own anxieties, their thirst for faith, their fear in the face of a moral vacuum, their self-disgust with indifference and verbal atheism, above all, horror of their incapacity to love. Though

ade later. , | |

they were not acquainted with the Hegelian idea of alienation, they described many of the symptoms of the spiritual malaise which Marx dwelt upon a decThe Saint-Simonian inquiry into the state and destiny of economic produc-

CHILDREN OF SAINT-SIMON: TRIUMPH OF LOVE 621 tion, science, and art in a world of disorder and confusion, of political and moral anarchy, drew a bleak picture. Industry was in a state of chaos. The cutthroat competition among entrepreneurs had brought about a haphazard distribution of productive forces accompanied by periodic crises during which competent managers lost their fortunes in bankruptcies and masses of workers

starved. The common people refused to be comforted by the assurance of the economists that free enterprise and the introduction of machinery would ultimately lead to increased employment. The disorder, secrecy, and monopoly which interfered with technological improvement, the incompetent direction

of industry by men who had nothing to recommend them but inherited wealth, the sufferings of the proletariat, the indifference of the economists who devoted their studies to a description of competitive antagonisms rather than to devising means for their alleviation, the absence of a central direction to industrial life which would allocate instruments of production in accordance with need and capacity—these were both the symptoms and the causes of the prevailing industrial anarchy. The possessors of capital were idlers, merit went unrewarded, gains were distributed in a chance manner. Laissez-faire had resulted in a colossal waste of human energy: technological potentialities were not fulfilled and material production was only a fraction of capacity. The physical misery of fellow humans left most men cold. Economic antagonism was the rule of industrial relations between workers and employers, when the true nature of man was pacific, cooperative, loving, and associative. ““What is unbridled competition but murderous war, which perpetuates itself in a new form, of individual against individual, nation against nation? All the theories which this dogma tends to foster are based only on hostility.”

Science was in the same sorry state. Here the disciples repeated Saint| Simon’s strictures against the piddling practitioners who were content with their anarchic laboratory observations and kept amassing insignificant details

without a general theory, without a unified direction, smug in their little niches, callous to the woes of the rest of the world and the fate of humanity, cold brutiers. The competition which raged among the industrialists was paralleled among the scientists; they were absorbed in precedence of discovery, and in the absence of a general allocation of scientific resources they repeated one another’s experiments, squandering their own and humanity’s genius. In academies they convened in the same room, but that was the extent of their association. There was no overall scientific plan. Teaching and research were two separate compartments and what one branch knew was hardly ever communicated to the other. There were hundreds of analytic scientists, no synthesis. There were isolated discoveries, but no concerted attempt to apply them for the good of mankind through technology. Again, laissez-faire in science was dissipating energies upon useless projects. Most pitiable was the state of the fine arts, a form of expression which in every age faithfully mirrored the moral nature of man. Unlike the creative geniuses of Greece and medieval Europe, contemporary artists had been re-

duced to the role of satirists who mocked their society or elegists who bewailed the state of mankind. They represented no great affirmations. Unless men believed in something, whether it was war or religion or humanity, there could be no grandeur in the arts. In the absence of a common ideal, the fine arts were mere evocations and reflections of the prevailing anarchy.

622 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE When the Saint-Simonians reached maturity a new generation of poets and dramatists had begun issuing manifestoes against the classical spirit and proclaiming the rebirth of poetry. The outburst of romanticism bestowed new worth upon aesthetic genius and gave the lie to those pessimists of the previous generation who had maintained that science could achieve victories only at the expense of the poetic spirit. The regeneration of the fine arts—though devoid of the wished-for vital spirit—convinced the Saint-Simonians that man could develop a more fertile imagination along with a more productive intellect and

a vast material expansion of civilization. The fine arts, instead of being — doomed—a common eighteenth-century attitude—might even become the most magnificent embodiment. of human creative capacity. By comparison with masterpieces of beauty, the sciences appeared cold and lifeless; the passion for science which Condorcet had extolled so eloquently in his fragment on the New Atlantis was surpassed by a new enthusiasm for literature, painting, and music, Within a decade Saint-Simonian doctrines were absorbed by poets and artists throughout Europe who established no formal ties with the church, but who gave voice to its ideology. In this sense writers as widely dispersed as Alfred de Vigny, Ogarev, Carlyle, Heine, and the poets of young Germany were Saint-Simonians; even Victor Hugo paid his debt to Enfantin in a famous letter. Progressive humanity, the idealization of love, of association, of brotherly feeling, of outgoing emotion, appeared as new subjects capable of inspiring an artist to accomplishments superior to the work of the Grand Siecle with

, its exaltation of military glory. The notion of socially conscious art and litera- | ture, which has in the last hundred and fifty years spawned so many worthless

| documents and a few works of genius, was born among the Saint-Simonians. To sing of productive humanity and not of warriors would be the artistic ideal of the new order. To warm men’s hearts grown frigid in the contemplation of neoclassic forms was the poetic mission. Poetry was no longer condemned to a

, repetition of the ancient myths; it had acquired a vast corpus of novel situations drawn from human history in all times and places, the whole gamut of human emotions, not the few permissible ones presented on the traditional stage. There were new feelings to be experienced and new priests of sentiment

to be ordained.

While the Saint-Simonians’ ideology of love and humanity as a cure for the mal du siécle evoked a widespread emotional response, the purely religious doc-

trine of the cult was a dismal failure: It was a manufactured religion whose raw | materials were easily recognizable. When they called religion “‘the synthesis of

all conceptions of humanity, of all ways of being,” and preached that ‘‘not only , will religion dominate the political order but the political order will be in its

ensemble a religious institution, for nothing can be conceived outside of God or developed outside of His law,’ * it sounded as artificial and rusty as the writ-~ ings of Saint-Simon himself concocting rituals for the Religion of Newton, ex-

pounding Physicism, or teaching the New Christianity. One group of SaintSimonians had been exposed to German intellectual influences, particularly Gustave d’Eichthal and Eugéne Rodrigues, and through them the amorphous pantheism of eighteenth-century German religious thought infiltrated France. The young Rodrigues had translated Lessing’s aphorisms on the Erziehung des Menschengeschlechts, which are redolent with a romantic Spinozism that has lit-

| CHILDREN OF SAINT-SIMON: TRIUMPH OF LOVE — 623 tle or nothing to do with the hard geometric propositions of which Spinoza’s ethical system was originally constructed. The Germanic Schwarmerei invariably fell flat when it was presented in Cartesian French; it lacked authenticity. The Saint-Simonians’ talk of a unitary law and of a providential plan, of the

| inevitable religious revival—for by definition all organic periods had to be religious—is deficient in feeling-tone. After Enfantin made the image of God androgynous a few loyal Saint-Simonians died with the ‘‘Father-Mother’’ on their lips, but though the Saint-Simonian religion may have for a fleeting moment inspired the adepts at Ménilmontant to ecstasy, its sermons sound imitative, mechanical, and stereotyped. No doubt some of them had religious experiences in William James’s sense of the term, felt newborn upon conversion, and at least for a time were in a state of love which they indentifed with God; but a mere handful, perhaps only Holstein, Enfantin’s oldest friend, were sustained in this emotion to the very end. Their historic proof that a new religion must be born after the incredulity of their own generation was nothing more than the threadbare analogy—worn even thinner since—between the contemporary world and the latter days of the Roman Empire. If the taste of their cynical age was bitter on their parched lips, there is little evidence that their thirst for a new religion was ever quenched by the ceremonies which Enfantin and Chevalier contrived—perhaps to stimulate themselves as much as their disciples. _

The Social Trinity Aside from the religious beliefs and paraphernalia of the cult, which rendered

them notorious, the Saint-Simonians bequeathed to Western civilization a solid, relatively systematic body of social thought. Many of their ideas penetrated European socialist party programs in the form of slogans; others were more widely if more thinly disseminated. Since the original writings of SaintSimon were almost impossible to come by, his ideas were generally fused with those of the school in the commentaries of the thirties and the forties. As propagators of a “‘progressive’ theory, the Saint-Simonians had no inhibitions against putting into Saint-Simon’s mouth words he had never uttered, if these were considered necessary developments of his thought. In general the rationalist and historical doctrines, which antedated the religious phase, found readier acceptance than Enfantin’s mystical lucubrations in the Physiologie religieuse, but the two periods are to be distinguished more by the views that were accented and the style of preaching than by any fundamental cleavage in ideas. The very definition of man had been changed by the Saint-Simonians; hence

the nature of his evolution—the term became common—had to be reinterpreted. In one of his aspects man was still a rationalist, scientific, calculating utilitarian, who through time was fulfilling his needs; but what a feeble, onesided identification of his glorious self this Turgot-Condorcet man had become in the eyes of the romantic Saint-Simonians of the thirties! They never outrightly denounced their spiritual ancestors, the eighteenth-century French forerunners. They paid them due homage, but they also adopted additional fathers in progress from across the Rhine, Kant and Herder and Lessing, and introduced that lone Neapolitan, Vico. The foreign thinkers endowed the Saint-

624 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE Simonian image of man with moral and emotional depth. The eighteenth-century progressists knew well enough that man in their age was not yet a rational utilitarian, but they firmly believed that he would become one, for that was his destiny. The Saint-Simonians invoked Saint-Simon and Vico and ultimately

Plato to reveal a different man, a tripartite man, a being who was at once a rational scientist, a practical industrial activist, and a man of feeling and moral

drives, a creature of emotion. Since this was the real total man, any theory which limited him to one aspect of his triadic nature was a false representation of his sacred personality. In Turgot and Condorcet and the early Saint-Simon the conclusion is inescapable that the history of mankind since primitive times had demonstrated the flowering of rational capacities at the expense of imaginative and passionate nature and that they deemed this one-sided evolution good in an absolute sense. For the Saint-Simonians progress was never encased within the relatively finite compartment that a rationalist view pre-established, a world in which one withdrew from the passions what one bestowed upon reason, a closed economy with a fixed quantum of energy. Saint-Simonian man had infinite capacities in all directions; he could at one and the same time progress in power over nature, in expansive feeling, and in the endless accu-

mulation of knowledge. | -

The redefinition of the nature of man by the Saint-Simonians had moved far away from the rather mechanical Bichat typology. The three cardinal capacities were present in all men, and in the good society they would all be nurtured and developed. The Saint-Simonians recognized that men were not equal and tended to excel in one or another talent, that each man had a specialized capacity which would require separate training; but while Bichat seemed to posit a finite store of energy that was concentrated among different people in uneven _ proportions, the Saint-Simonians regarded all capacities as endlessly expansive. What they rejected were the exclusivity and limitations of all previous definitions of man. Man was at once utilitarian and religious and activist: morality had a sanction in use, in God, and in nature all at the same time. The Christian duality of the spiritual and the corporeal, the contempt for the body and its desires, the eighteenth century’s hypertrophy of reason and its implied denigration of the creative imagination, and the Stoic repression of feeling were all banished. Man appeared with both his body and his soul, loving, with an insatiable thirst for learning, boundlessly dynamic in his conquests of na-

humanity.” ,

ture. In the hundred years of prophecy Turgot’s “progress of the human © mind’’ became the Saint-Simonian “‘progress of the general emancipation of As in all triadic systems ancient and modern, the role, relative potency, and

position of excellence of the three elements composing the unity was a harassing problem. It invariably led to disputations. Saint-Simon himself had wrestled with the three capacities and had offered his alternative, often contradictory solutions; and the great heresiarch Comte struggled with the new trinity, producing complex, subtle responses worthy of a latter-day Greek Father of the Church. The relations among the capacity to reason, to act, and to feel became central to Saint-Simonian theology. The ideal of equivalence among the three has always been difficult to maintain—Christianity with its trinitarian definition of God had a similarly irksome intellectual problem which

CHILDREN OF SAINT-SIMON: TRIUMPH OF LOVE _ 625 found expression in thousands of volumes and cost hundreds of thousands of lives. What was man, after all: Was he primarily a rational, a sentient, or an activist being? Which psychological type should rule the world? Which should lead in the march of progress and which should docilely accept subordination? The eighteenth-century rationalists faced none of these prickly questions because the reign of reason as an ideal was virtually unchallenged. Saint-Simon and his disciples, the true and the dissident, had to make a configuration out of the different natures which comprised the human soul, and however much they pleaded for the parallel worth of knowing, feeling, and acting, discoursed on their common interdependence, praised their mutual indispensability, the very idea of hierarchy raised questions of precedence, and the worm of rivalry among the three equally noble parts crept into the bosom of the doctrine. Though Plato’s triad was always in the background of the Saint-Simonian system, the outright subordination of the nonrational capacities in the ancient myth made direct references to him uncongenial. The Saint-Simonians accentuated the final phase of the tradition of their master and elevated to preeminence the “‘artists’”—their generic name for what

he had called the Platonic capacity—a category that extends far beyond painters, poets, and musicians, and embraces all moral teachers, whatever may be their instruments of instruction. If man was tripartite his emotional being was the most developed side of his nature in the good, healthy, organic periods of human existence. The crisis of modern times was primarily an emotional one and the malady of the age a morbidity of the sentient capacity. Mankind’s talent for love had shriveled. The scientific capacity, if left to itself, would become glacial, merely critical; science was always useful, but it would be dangerous if allowed to dominate society. Since the sentient capacity was the clue to man’s religious future—the major problem of human existence—clearly the man of feeling was the ideal personality type, before whom his brothers in humanity had to incline slightly, even if they did not quite genuflect. The man of moral capacity set goals and inspired his brethren with the desire to achieve them. By his side the scientist who merely accumulated observations was a frigid analytic agent, indispensable for progress, but surely not to be ensconced on the throne. The Saint-Simonians were among the first to voice their horror of the neutrality of science. The appeal of this idealized artist-poet-priest type to the romantics who listened to the exposition of the Doctrine de Saint-Simon was overwhelming. A fusion of religious and aesthetic enthusiasm had been achieved by eighteenthcentury German writers; it was an underlying tenet of Chateaubriand’s religiosity in France; Saint-Simonism was thus sowing in well-ploughed fields. Even before the Saint-Simonian preachers mounted the rostrum, the young poets of Europe had already arrogated to themselves the emotional direction of mankind which the clergies of all nations were allowing to slip from their grasp. Since feeling was all, the artist-poet-musician with the most acute sensitivities could best express man’s moral nature and reawaken dormant moral sentiments. The romantic genius was Obermann, Vigny’s Chatterton, Holderlin, Beethoven—all Christlike martyrs—not the rationalist scientist-geniuses of Turgot and Condorcet. It was most flattering to the poets of Western romanticism to find themselves raised to the pinnacle of society—albeit the so-

626 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE ciety of the future—at a time when they were disdained by the successful, activist, philistine bourgeois and treated with cold indifference by the rationalist men of letters and science in the academies. From Antagonism to Association

Unlike their autodidact master, the Saint-Simonians incorporated philosophical history from beyond the boundaries of France. In addition to members of the school the principal agents of transmission were Victor Cousin,

who had popularized Kant and Hegel in his lectures, and Michelet, who had translated Vico a year after Saint-Simon’s death. When Edgar Quinet adapted

Herder, the chain was complete. Kant’s theory of history, developed in his brilliant little essay of 1784, provided the Saint-Simonians with a key formula

that explained the historical process.

The word and the concept of Antagonism introduced into the cult from ©

Kant’s essay were endowed by the Saint-Simonians with an easy optimism that the philosopher of KOnigsberg never expressed. The history of mankind became the record of the evolution of this primary immoral passion and of the variegated forms that it had assumed through time. The Saint-Simonians were rectilinear progressists, for whom the feeling of antagonism was subject to modal changes in a continuous series—to adopt their language for a moment; in the large they contemplated history as a temporal process in which the quantity of overt antagonism in the world underwent a steady diminution as the result of a salutary transformation of human institutions. In the beginning,

, ran the Saint-Simonian account of Genesis, there had been only isolated families, each of them held together by enmity toward all other families on the globe—the maximum possible extension of the hostile feeling. Only within the confined orbit of this primeval human association did even a glimmer of harmony and love prevail. With time, as the organizational forms of society encompassed ever greater numbers of persons, advancing in a series from the family to the tribe to the city to the nation to the multinational religion, the sum total of possible antagonisms among persons decreased arithmetically and the love relationships within the broader social unit increased in a like proportion. World history thus became the study of the general diffusion of love and the © contraction of antagonism, a new adaptation of the geographic analogies which Turgot and Condorcet had once used to describe the spread of scientific enlightenment and the gradual blotting out of obscurantism. A history of the progressions of love replaced the successive advances of mind. _

In its detail Saint-Simonian history is not quite as simple as this image at first

, implies. While antagonism assumed new shapes—city wars, national wars, religious wars—the old conflicts were not completely eradicated within the inflated structures of association, so that even after international religious societies were organized the spirit of hostility within the family based upon age and

sex differences, within the city based upon families, and within the nation =| based upon cities tenaciously persisted. Love had never taken complete possession of even the most intimate associations of the older “in-groups’’—to employ a contemporary barbarism. A Saint-Simonian view of the world as it stood on the threshold of association and love gave rise to the paradoxical re-

CHILDREN OF SAINT-SIMON: TRIUMPH OF LOVE 627 flection that there was still pervasive antagonism throughout human society both on an international and on an intimate personal level; on the verge of universal love, the world was riddled with hates. The conflicts might be said to have diminished within the limits of the smaller associations only in the sense that they had become attenuated and milder in their overt expressions. Men were no longer commonly anthropophagous. Another facet of antagonism which had undergone a series of quantitative, measurable changes was manifested in the economic exploitation of one man by another, in the treatment of men as objects rather than persons. (Here the Saint-Simonians clearly drew on Beccaria and Kant.) In the earliest times men devoured their captives, then with progress they merely killed them, and finally they enslaved them. The first modes of the series were lost in prehistory, but the later forms of exploitation were known and recorded in the successive institutions of slavery, serfdom, and free labor. Legally, at every one of the stages, there had been some further limitation upon the absolute power of the exploitation of man by man. The progress of love was thus demonstrable, though complete freedom had not yet been achieved and in the condition of the modern proletariat—the indignity of the term, connoting the status of workers as a mere child-bearing mass, made it repugnant to Saint-Simonians —remnants of the ancient forms of exploitation had survived. There were vital respects in which modern workers were still slaves and serfs—a common theme in the contemporary literature depicting the wretchedness of the laboring classes in Western society. But though exploitation was an abominable reality of the organization of work, a review of its history proved that in long terms it was a waning form and that association and sociability were steadily gaining the upper hand. ‘‘National hatreds are diminishing every day and the peoples of the earth who are ready for a total and definitive alliance present us with the beautiful spectacle of humanity gravitating toward universal association.” *®

The Saint-Simonians had still another way of interpreting the past, one derived directly from Saint-Simon, which involved the introduction of an al-

ternating rhythm into world history, a heartbeat of the historical process. Among the Saint-Simonians it took shape as a succession of organic and critical epochs; they fixed the terminology, though Saint-Simon had already described the phenomenon. The organic was a period in which individuals were tied together by some common bond—be it war or religious faith—in which there was at least a harmony between spiritual and secular powers, education trained men to a set of common values, the moral and material forces in the society were not in flagrant contradiction with each other, there was organization and order. The order may have been rooted in false scientific assumptions, as it was in the Middle Ages, and the moral level of an organic epoch may have been relatively low, as it was in the Greek world; but these ages were sound, healthy, human, harmonious, social, integrated—they merited the positive adjectives in the Saint-Simonian vocabulary. It was unfortunately the nature of the historic process for these organic epochs to become disturbed and ultimately to disintegrate. The causes of the disruption could be found in the inadequate level of moral, scientific, and activist achievement of previous societies, in the internecine rivalry among the leading capacities, and in the persistence of superannuated organizational forms. The organic epochs were invariably fol-

628 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE | lowed by critical epochs which had a deplorable, even a tragic, historic function to perform, for it was their mission to criticize and to destroy the old or-

, ganic institutions that had once held a society together, to mock and to attack its values, to annihilate its ruling groups, an ugly thankless task which had usually brought to the fore analytic character types, men who could dissect and anatomize but not create. At this point the Saint-Simonians modified somewhat their master’s conception. He had depicted the alternativity of the organic and the critical almost exclusively in class terms, the version in which the doctrine penetrated Marxist thought. His new classes, both spiritual and tem-_ poral, had grown in the very bosom of the old order and had secretly waxed powerful beneath the surface of the overt political institutions until they were — mighty enough to overthrow the dominant forces and assume control them-

selves. The initial period of class revolt was drawn by Saint-Simon in heroic , terms: His most elaborately developed illustration, the combat of the modern industrial-scientific powers against the medieval military-theological ones, was marked by a strong Condorcet-like jubilation at the triumph of rational good over superstitious evil. The Saint-Simonians were consistently pejorative toward critical epochs. Destruction was a necessary clinical operation, and they occasionally recognized the force and the vitality of those engaged in wiping out antiquated scientific and moral ideas and decrepit temporal rulers whose day had passed, but once the ancient beliefs had lost their sway over men’s hearts and minds, there followed a most terrible period of human history, an age of nothingness, of the void, of indifference, of isolation, of egotism, of loneliness, of psychic suffering, of longing. The Saint-Simonians were describing the Roman Empire before the triumph of Christianity and their own miserable century. The portrayal of the darkness before the dawn in the SaintSimonian sermons made them documents of spiritual self-revelation, mutatis mutandis like the writings of the early Church Fathers. From de Maistre, Bonald, and Ballanche they drew an idealized image of medieval Europe, the last great organic epoch of history, an age of love, devotion, and duty, when men had faith, when they belonged, when society had unity and order. Their romantic medievalism was transparent. In destroying the abstract values of Condorcet’s progressist school—the ideals of equality, rational science, and liberty—they also turned his philosophical history topsyturvy. The good ages were those in which spiritual and religious authority

were spontaneously respected, in which there was no conflict, no opposition, ,

no contradiction, no dissension. ,

Saint-Simonians had one rational method for the propagation of the new doctrine, the demonstration through an array of empirical evidence that the attainment of a society of universal love was historically inevitable. Their theme was not novel; the idea of a historical series, prevalent enough in eighteenth-century thought, was continued on into the nineteenth, strengthened by the addition of analogies from biological growth. The mathematical series never lost its fascination even after organic concepts describing evolution had been introduced, since the organic metaphors could not render the idea of in- _ finity so convincingly as an arithmetic progression without end. In the organic image the fear of death or the notion of mere cyclical recurrence always lurked in the background, and at moments the most ardent of the progressists, like Saint-Simon and Fourier, succumbed to the prospect of inevitable degenera-

CHILDREN OF SAINT-SIMON: TRIUMPH OF LOVE 629 tion. Infinite organic growth was hard to conceive, while a long series moving in one direction and begging for extrapolation was irresistible. Why should the course be reversed? If in the past there had been temporary stoppages and even brief setbacks, the Saint-Simonians’ theory of progress improvised specific ad hoc excuses to explain away the insignificant deviations from the main current of history.

Each According to His Capacity

The only solution to the crisis of the times was the moral transformation of mankind through the religion of Saint-Simon. To join the Saint-Simonian movement was an act of commitment to the future progress of man, an act of faith in his potential development. It involved a spiritual conversion from egotism, the dominant morality of the age, to humanity, the moral law of the future. The dawn of a new religious epoch was inevitable because the law of progress foretold another synthesis after the atheism and emotional barrenness of the second stage of the critical epoch. But the process could be delayed or hastened, and it was the mission of the Saint-Simonians to put an end to an age of disbelief and anarchy and to inaugurate the new world, to regenerate mankind. The leaders of the cult knew their historic role well—they were the Fathers of the Church, come after Saint-Simon to spread the new doctrine. The renovation of man would now be total; this was the last stage of provisional history and mankind was about to make the leap into definitive history, a world of order, limitless progress in the flowering of all capacities, a world without antagonism, virtually without pain, a world of love, unity, and cohesiveness. The members of the movement practiced those virtues which would become normal among all mankind in the future. The movement, the religion,

was the new world in miniature.

The prevailing chaos resulted from the repression of true capacity and excellence among industrialists, artists, and scientists and the haphazard disposition of human energies in accordance with hereditary privileges and antiquated legislation. The principle of the new order would be antithetical: “‘Each according to his capacity! Each capacity according to its works!” became the Saint-Simonian motto. In the social organism there was an optimum spot for every individual, and its discovery was the end of the social art. It was an unquestioned presupposition of Saint-Simonism that each man’s capacity was clearly definable by a hierarchy of experts whose authority culminated in the priests and priestesses of the new religion, and that each man would willingly crawl into his appointed cubbyhole in the perfect system. This did not involve a destruction of personality or liberty—the Saint-Simonian preachers thus quieted the qualms of their audience of romantic individualists—but a genuine fulfillment. “Our religion does not stifle liberty,’ Pére Barrault assured his listeners on November 27, 1831, “it does not absorb sacred personality. It holds each individual to be saintly and sacred. Since it promises classification according to capacity, does this not guarantee each man the preservation and development

of his own native physiognomy, his own particular attitude, under a name

which belongs only to him?” 7 |

In order to achieve the proper distribution of capacities two profound changes had to be effectuated in the order of Western society. First the prop-

630 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE erty system had to be reorganized, and then a new educational system intro- — duced. The transmission of property through inheritance had to be abolished, even though private property was preserved as an institutional instrument to reward merit. Inheritance had become the vicious mechanism for the induction of incompetents into the administration of society, where they created anarchy and stifled progress. Their posts rightfully belonged to men of capacity. Order required the reward of each according to his works, and the intrusion of inherited wealth rendered any such allotment for merit impossible. The Saint-Simonians, who always thought of themselves as men of moderation, sharply distinguishable from the revolutionaries, drew the attention of their listeners to _ the numerous transformations which property had undergone in historic times in order to present the abolition of inheritance as a mere step in a long series—

the final metamorphosis. | |

Absolute equality in property would entail equal awards for unequal merit, and such communism was contrary to human nature. “‘We must foresee that some people will confound this system with what is known under the name of community of goods. There is nevertheless no relationship between them. In the social organization of the future each one, we have said, will find himself classified in accordance with his capacity, rewarded in accordance with his works; this should sufficiently indicate the inequality of the division.” ** But while ca- _ pacities and works and rewards were all unequal in the new society, the dimensions of differences were not conceived of in our contemporary terms, and the pursuit of inequality, the desire to outstrip one’s fellows, was never envisaged as an energizing drive of society. Inequality resulting from rewards according to works was a consequence, not a goal. Like Condorcet, the Saint-Simonians

knew that in the new distribution of functions in accordance with technical |

capacity partiality would sully the purity of the moral world, but that was not the issue, they maintained, anticipating the arguments of their opponents; in their day there was chaos and misery in a society of misfits, in the future “errors, accidents, and injustices will only be exceptions.”’ ® In the economic realm Saint-Simonism became a utopia of finance capital. The whole industrial mechanism was envisioned as one vast enterprise presided over by a unitary directing bank which dominated the rest and was able to weigh accurately the various credit needs of all branches of industry. “Let us transport ourselves to a new world. There proprietors and isolated capitalists 7 whose habits are alien to industrial labors no longer control the choice of enterprises and the destiny of the workers. A social institution is invested with these functions which are so badly filled today. It presides over all exploitation of materials. Thus it has a general view of the process which allows it to compre-

-hend all parts of the industrial workshop at the same time . . .””* There would be a central budget which on the credit side consisted of the “‘totality of the annual products of industry,’’”’ the gross national product of present-day parlance. On the debit side were the requirements of the various subsidiary credit institutions and the banks of the specialized industrial branches. In this bankers’ dreamworld the demands of centralized supervision and of local special institutions were delicately balanced—in a way, the contemporary prac-

tice, though not the theory, of all highly organized economies of the “capi- __ talist’’ or “communist” variety. The Saint-Simonians recognized that there would be competitive claims from various branches of industry, a thorny

CHILDREN OF SAINT-SIMON: TRIUMPH OF LOVE 631 problem verbally resolved with the slogan that allocations would be made “in ~ the interests of all.’’?? In the last analysis decisions on individual demands were evaluated by the experts, or “‘competent chiefs,’ prototypes of our contemporary planning commissioners. There has been some attempt to fit the Saint-Simonians into a history of totalitarianism. Their contempt for liberalism and the franchise gives a semblance of verisimilitude to the charge that they were precursors of fascism, though a hierarchical conception of order is not necessarily totalitarian. In many respects they proposed to run the capitalist economic and social order the way it actually has been run in the welfare state since World War II. Heavy death duties are virtually the equivalent of a Saint-Simonian abolition of inheritance, and the central financial institutions of most governments exert no less power over the distribution of credit to industry than the central banks projected by the Saint-Simonians. Business, the army, and the university are hierarchical structures in which directives are issued from the top and diffused through various echelons, despite the continued existence of residual democratic forms and the occasional influence of a ground swell of opinion from below. In the most advanced societies the course is open to scientific and artis~ tic and industrial talent, and sheer incompetence even when buttressed by hereditary wealth is no longer generally tolerated. Women are moving toward real as contrasted with theoretical equality, and the greatest good of the greatest number is universally accepted by all nations in solemn assembly. Perhaps the only tenet of Saint-Simonian doctrine that has not fared well in the twentieth century is the proclamation of the triumph of love. While the necessity for its existence has been preached often enough in the church and in the university, love seems to have encountered almost insurmountable obstacles. Ours is an orderly, hierarchical society, open to capacity that is rewarded according to its works, but it is hardly a loving society. The “‘lonely crowd”’ of David Riesman would fit into any Saint-Simonian course of lectures diagnosing the ills of that world. Education for Love Since a whole aspect of man’s instinctual nature, his capacity to love, had atrophied, leaving him only a part-man, a totally reshaped educational system was urgently required to rectify the basic failings of the old order. The progress of science and industry had so far outstripped man’s emotional development that

there was a grave imbalance in the human condition. Mankind had to be taught to feel again. Nourishment of the moral sentiment became the paramount objective of the Saint-Simonian educational system. Teaching the love of humanity would warm all relationships grown tepid in the critical epoch and rescue a society which had lapsed into emotional sterility. If the capacity to love were developed among all men a state would ultimately be reached where each individual would spontaneously subordinate his particular interest to the

| good of mankind. Men would be conditioned to love as they were now trained to self-seeking, self-interest, and antisocial behavior. The Saint-Simonians were adroit in refashioning the educational techniques of Catholicism to fit the new religion. ““This does not mean,” the Saint-Simonian lecturer explained to his audience of unbelievers, “‘that the same practices

632 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE ' and the same forms would be perpetuated, that the catechism and the rituals,

the stories which once inspired the faithful had to be preserved intact . . . Analogous though improved methods would be utilized to prolong _ the education of man throughout the whole course of his life.’’** The confessional, far from being scorned as an instrument of clerical domination, was praised as an ideal way of instilling moral values. The Saint-Simonians re- -vamped it into a ‘“‘consultation’’—shades of the psychoanalytic couch—and extolled it as a health-giving agency that during moments of acute personal © crisis could be used to bind men’s souls to the service of humanity. In the confessional-consultation ‘‘less moral and less enlightened men seek the knowledge and the strength they lack from their superiors in intelligence and in order.’’*4 Preaching would have the same function as in the Catholic Church, and prayers would be directed to a humanitarian God and Father-Mother. In their public utterances the Saint-Simonians invariably treated Catholicism with the respect due a worthy departed ancestor—an attitude which the official ecclesiastical hierarchy failed to appreciate. Enfantin went so far in adapting Catholic theological terminology that the Pope was constrained to place the Physiologie religieuse on the Index lest confusion be sown among the faithful.

Since all moral truths were not rationally demonstrable, the bulk of mankind would have to accept religious teachings on authority, as they had in the old Church. While the philosophes had always relied on the logical proof of their ideas in a popular, easily presentable form that rendered them self-evident, and had looked forward to the time when all men were amenable to reason, Saint-Simonian doctrine was heavily dosed with elitist snobbery. The at-

titude toward the proletariat was loving but paternalistic; hence the frank recourse to preaching ex cathedra: ‘The results of social science can be pre-

| sented to most men only in a dogmatic form.””™ In practice Saint-Simonian education would take place on two levels, the general and the special. The physiologist Bichat had stressed the specialized inborn character of human capacities, a view which favored a highly professionalized system of education. Since the Saint-Simonians agreed with his theory in its broad technical outlines, they were committed to the training of specialists in three separate departments. ‘“‘There will be three kinds of education, or rather education will be divided into three branches which will have as their object the development of, one, sympathy, the source of the fine arts, two, the rational faculty, the instrument of science, and finally material activity, the in-

strument of industry.” But the Saint-Simonians recognized grave dangers of disunity if this specialized education were allowed to dominate society exclusively. “‘Since each individual, whatever his aptitude may be, is nonetheless , also loving, endowed with intelligence and with physical activity, it follows that all men will be subject to the same triplex education from their childhood

until their classification into one of the three great divisions of the social order.” ?® Under the Saint-Simonians education would thus be at once particu- | lar and common. The simultaneous capacity for both the specific and the gen- _ eral was a unique characteristic of the new age and distinguished it from all __ past organic periods; in the future men would be able to live as specialists and yet would not be cut off and isolated from the totality of their fellows. The

, curriculum fabricators of the American university in the seventh and eighth decades of the twentieth century, with their “general education” and ‘‘core

CHILDREN OF SAINT-SIMON: TRIUMPH OF LOVE 633 curricula’? neologisms, may be surprised to learn that they have been unconscious disciples of the Saint-Simonians. Like Moliére’s bourgeois gentilhomme, they have been speaking prose without knowing it. The Saint-Simonians would have been antagonistic to the easy liberalism and skepticism which underlies some American general education programs. There is, however, a substantial body of American educators who would be quite at home among the Saint-Simonian preachers determined in the face of engulfing moral chaos to hold back the flood and stop up the dike with their didactic index fingers. ““To inculcate in each one the sentiment, the love of all, to unite all wills into a single will, all efforts toward the same goal, the social goal, that is what one can call general education or morality.’’ Out of fear of ano-

mie and moral rootlessness they may yet end up subscribing to the Saint-Simonian unitary law. “Every system of moral ideas presupposes a goal that is loved, known, and clearly defined . . .”’? Despite the Saint-Simonians’ roseate and comforting portrayal of the future, the passage from the egotist to the altruist society presented almost insurmountable hurdles to the educators of mankind in Balzac’s France. As long as the contemporary world was steeped in blind self-love and carping negation,

how could the organic society with its cohesive morality ever come into being? Marxism later introduced the idea of a total, destructive revolution to clear away the debris of the old society and permit a fresh start in the industrial, scientific, and moral spheres. But since the Saint-Simonians steadfastly denied

the creativity of violence and of the revolutionary act, how could mankind ever escape from its impasse? ““The word upheaval is always associated with a | blind and brutal force having as its goal destruction. Now these characteristics are alien to those of the doctrine of Saint-Simon. This doctrine does not itself possess or recognize for the direction of men any other power but that of persuasion and conviction; its end is to construct and not to destroy; it has always placed itself in the ranks of order, harmony, edification . . .”"8 In imitation of Christ they ended by identifying the means with the end. Only the preaching of love was capable of arousing feelings of love and of leading to the establishment of a society in which love would blossom. They rejected social revolution because love could not be born out of the hatred of class conflict. Their apostles to the proletariat taught them to love their superiors in the social hierarchy and promised that a paternal love would embrace them in return. To add yet another form of antagonism—class conflict—to a society riddled with ha-

treds would only delay the dawn of the age of love. In the Saint-Simonian world the concept of hierarchic order assumed a transcendent value and became associated with love. Turgot’s grand affirmations of absolute liberty and the quest for novelty as the guarantees of progress were reversed. Anarchy, unguided action, revolutionary movements were now the hidden forces of antiprogress. The Saint-Simonians went far in the denunciation of liberty of conscience, and their mockery of the weakness of individual reason had a de Maistrian flavor. Free will suddenly emerged as a cover for caprice, threatening society with dissolution. The liberals’ conception of order as an equilibrium of contrary forces, a derivative from Montesquieu’s division of powers, was censured as merely negative. Order preserved by naked power, by the hangman, was equally unpalatable. Instead the Saint-Simonians tried to envisage order as a creative force, the spontaneous expression of love enlisted under the banner

634 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE of progress. The general will turned loving—named without benefit of Rousseau—was eulogized as the highest good, preservative of order. But what about the inhibition and punishment of malefactors? How was the illegal defined in a society educated to love? Like Fourier and Comte the SaintSimonians, who had many lawyers among them, never managed to arrive at a satisfactory solution to the penal problem. They either hedged or dismissed the

issue as unimportant. There was an underlying presumption that if all men , were allowed to follow the inclinations of their natural capacities in love, reason, and action there would be no great need for legal restraints, since everybody would be satisfied. At worst a few isolated abnormalities might have to be repressed. Often they repeated the view of the eighteenth-century rationalists who considered crime in the good society of the future a rare monstrosity or an illness that could be treated as a concern of social hygiene. The Saint-Si-. monians categorically affirmed that the existence of repressive penal laws was proof of serious defects in the educational system—a fault they would quickly remedy. Montesquieu had already said that condemning a man to death was a symptom of a sick society. Saint-Simonism provided for no elaborate state apparatus; there were merely a religion and an administrative mechanism under which it was easy for the elite in each section of society to evaluate human action in terms of its contribution to social welfare and to remunerate individuals in accordance with their works. The “‘liberties’”’ of the philosophes, the English liberties, were not considered as abstract inalienable rights; they were judged only in terms of their social consequences. In the organic society of the future there was no liberty to support the forces of retrogression, of social ill-

ness, of indifference, of destruction and conflict, of aggressiveness, and of , human exploitation. There was the positive liberty to express one’s creative love, to exercise scientific reason, and to exploit nature in association with other men. Legislation, insofar as it was necessary, rewarded the altruistic social virtues and penalized the egotistic vices, though, they were quick to add, punishments would not be severe. They meant never to employ the death pen-

alty, long prison terms, or police bayonets in the streets. In the new world the mere announcement of the moral law would exert a potency hitherto unknown. Judges would not be moved by vengeance and the purpose of punishment would be the rehabilitation and the regeneration of the felon. ““The penalties inflicted on the propagators of antisocial doctrines will above all serve to protect them from public wrath,’’”® an insidious argument that has become all too familiar in the modern communist state to justify severe punishments, though the Saint-Simonians did not echo Rousseau’s summary and brutal con- _ demnation of the violators of the general will in the Second Discourse. The ideals of leniency and clemency advanced by the great eighteenth-century law-_ givers Montesquieu and Beccaria were incorporated into Saint-Simonian doc-

trine, a saving grace. ,

| At this point one is confronted with difficulties in conveying the general tenor of the Saint-Simonians’ future society. In theory at least they extended the area in which crime would be punishable far beyond the carefully fixed boundaries of liberal constitutional jurisprudence. They departed from the traditions most nobly represented by Montesquieu and Mill, who staunchly rejected vague and sentimental criteria in constructing a system of law. For the Saint-Simonians there would be crimes against science as well as industrial

CHILDREN OF SAINT-SIMON: TRIUMPH OF LOVE _ 635

crimes, and, to round out the trinity, moral crimes which impeded the progress of sympathy and love. They failed to provide their listeners with specific examples of these new types of wrongdoing, whose amorphous nature itself renders them suspect. The apparent readiness to punish unbelievers inevitably evokes the memory of wholesale accusations of disloyalty to the state and crimes against society for which twentieth-century men have been tried and condemned. The specter of emotional and moral as well as scientific and industrial control hovers over the Saint-Simonian system, and Rousseau’s cen-_ sor rears his ugly head. Nevertheless it seems farfetched to relate the Saint-Simonians on these grounds to the monster states of Hitler and Stalin. True, the Saint-Simonian political formulas emphasized emotion rather than reason, hierarchy, elitism, and organicism; in these respects their theories bear superficial resemblance to some of the lucubrations of twentieth-century fascism. The ecclesiastical nonsense of the cult, however, should not obscure the fact that their

image of society was founded first and foremost upon the expectation that there would be an upsurge of Eros in the world, that men would become more loving—a rather dubious assumption, though one that is not to be laughed out of court by the true skeptic. The totalitarians, and sometimes nominally libertarian democracies, have operated against their opponents with an apparatus of terror—this has been the heart of their power system. The Saint-Simonian society was founded upon relations of love among members of a hierarchy. This may be ridiculous, unfeasible, nonrational humbug, but it is totalitarian only in the sense that love may be. The Saint-Simonians were committed to the win-

ning of converts solely through preaching and persuasion. To relate all the images of ‘‘authoritarianism”’ and “‘totalitarianism”’ to these tender failures of

the 1830s entails driving their ideas to conclusions they never entertained. Saint-Simonians talked and quarreled far more about love, all sorts of love, then they did about authority. They never spilled a drop of blood in their lives and in middle age they became respectable bourgeois. There was something unique about the German experience under the Third Reich. Remembrance of it should not be diluted by the discovery of antecedents that are of a qualitatively different character. The Saint-Simonians may be cast into liberal hell, but there they will probably encounter as many lovers and passionately fixated men as Dante did in Christian hell.

The Trial At Ménilmontant the Saint-Simonians had labored and got callouses on their hands. Their master had commanded, “All men must work.”’ Daily life was regulated by a monastic rule: At set hours there were parades, recitations, songs, symbolic acts celebrating the virtues of work. In later years the poet Maxime du Camp gathered recollections of their magnificent costumes from former members of the cult. ““The trouser was white, the vest red, and the tunic blue-violet. White is the color of love, red that of labor, and blue that of faith. The costume signified that Saint-Simonism was founded on love, that it fortified its heart with labor, and that it was enveloped in faith. The headdress and the sash were left to individual choice. Since all men both in this world and in the hereafter are responsible for their own lives, the name of every Saint-Simonian had to be inscribed in large letters on his breast.’’®° Watching the

636 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE , Saint-Simonian spectacle became the object of Parisian outings to the country; on holidays there were as many as ten thousand persons in attendance, separated off from the performing priests, priestesses, and their acolytes by a colored ribbon. The outrageous lectures of the Salle Taitbout and the goings-on in the outskirts of Paris had turned Saint-Simonism into a public scandal, but it was difficult for the government to decide upon the grounds for prosecution.

Were they a subversive political movement or were they a religion, whose assemblies were protected by the laws, or were they common embezzlers who had hoodwinked the simpleminded into placing their patrimony in the hands

of the church? After protracted investigation the Saint-Simonians were in-

a dicted for various felonies—some for embezzlement, others for outrages against public morals. The embezzlement charge was never proved in court. When they were brought to trial on August 27 and 28, 1832, the faithful ranged themselves in a hierarchical order and paraded from their retreat all the way through Paris to the Palais de Justice. The heroic moment of Saint-Simonism had arrived.?! From the instant the colorfully bedecked adepts entered the courtroom until their final condemnation the trial was repeatedly disrupted by _ dramatic incidents. The advocate-general, M. Delapalme, used the case as an opportunity to rally opinion in defense of the state and its moral system, both of which had been rather shaken by the uprising of the Lyons proletariat. “We have a society, we have a social order, good or bad we must preserve it.”’*” He

terrified the members of the jury by raising the specter of a revolution at their very doorstep. Evidence that the Saint-Simonians had divided up their Paris , propaganda organization by faubourgs was conclusive proof that an insurrection was being plotted. For the moral and sexual doctrines of the Saint-Simonians he expressed revulsion and contempt. The accused had rejected legal aid, insisting on the conduct of their own defense or the appointment of female Saint-Simonians as counsel. When Charles Duveyrier became obstreperous, the presiding officer threatened to appoint a spokesman for them against their will; whereupon Duveyrier had a fit of temper and pointed to an array of legal talent that was sitting in the visitors’ section watching the show. “A lawyer! I told them when I came in that I am being charged with saying that everyone was living in a state of prostitution and adultery, but you are in fact all living in that state. Well, have the courage to say so out loud. That is the only way you can defend us.”’*?

The first day, in his defense against the accusation that the Saint-Simonian doctrine preached an orgiastic indulgence which would sap the moral foundations of society, Enfantin distinguished between the ‘‘rehabilitation of the flesh”” which he espoused and the ‘‘disorder of the flesh’’ prevalent in existing society. He turned the tables on the proper bourgeois who had found an ideal mouthpiece in the advocate-general. The Saint-Simonians recognized different kinds of love, he explained, and provided for their regulation through the sacerdotal office. Failure to concede the existence of variations in love had resulted in the deceptions and evasions of contemporary marriage, the great moral lie. _ As he developed his argument, it became apparent that the reorganization of the love life of mankind was the major concern of the age, to which the organization of property and industry were subordinate. The evils of inheritance and the miseries of the working classes had further confused sexual relations by forcing girls into prostitution. By refusing to admit the legitimate demands of

CHILDREN OF SAINT-SIMON: TRIUMPH OF LOVE 637 the body and the sacred rights of beauty, which should not be subject to the economic power of property, Christian society had deformed and crucified love. When free and natural relations were suppressed, love itself was rendered ugly. In the name of amorous compacts entered into only by free mutual consent, the Saint-Simonians condemned prostitution and adultery. The bourgeois, they charged, were preserving these vicious human institutions in behalf of the property system, the monogamous family which was its adjunct, and Christian asceticism. It was the Saint-Simonians who upheld purity in love, who espoused an ideal love based upon equality of the sexes and free expression of true desire, while the defenders of the existing moral order were furthering promiscuity, the purchased and enslaved love of prostitutes, and the uneducated, unregulated loves of men and women who, for want of a priesthood to guide them, were wallowing in degraded affections that were bought or clandestine.

| Enfantin adverted once again to the intimate connection between the disorders of love and the anarchy of private property relations in existing society. His graphic, sometimes crude, imagery depicting the alienation of both human force and human beauty did not spare the sensitivities of his audience. I have devoted myself to a religion unfurling the banner of universal association. How could I not be moved by the spectacle of a struggle which divides all classes? Look at the people. They sell their bodies to labor; they sell their daughters’ flesh to pleasure and to shame. The young and old, the beautiful and distorted, the elegant and boorish, all take part in the orgy. They squeeze and they tread upon the flesh of these women as if they were grapes of the vine—women glowing with freshness or already stained with mud, women plucked before their time or savory and mature—they bring them all to their lips only

in order to cast them away with contempt... All in this great Babylon drink the wine of a frenzied prostitution.”

The president, who had showed signs of ill-contained impatience during the long speech, postponed the session to the following morning with the remark: “The defense is degenerating into a scandal.” The next day Enfantin took a quite different tack. In a self-conscious manner, whose motives he openly explained to the court, he taught the audience a lesson in the superiority of emotions and of tactile values over reason. While the advocate-general ranted about the violation of articles in the penal code, Enfantin with majestic calm extolled the power of beauty. He slowly surveyed the judge, the jury, and the prosecutor with his magnetic eye, forcing them into uncontrollable outbursts of rage as he lingered over every one of them,

caressing them, thus demonstrating by example the greater strength of his moral being expressed in the eye over their rationalistic juridical arguments. He was the Father preaching, not defending himself. At a signal, the slightest movement of his brow, members of the cult spoke or were silent. The protracted pauses charged the atmosphere in the courtroom. When the judge tried to break the tension by asking, ““Do you want to compose yourself?’ Enfantin replied, ‘I need to see all that surrounds me . . . I want to teach the advocategeneral the potent influence of form, of the flesh, of the senses, and for that reason I want him to feel the eye.” ““You have nothing to teach me, neither about looking nor anything else,’ was Delapalme’s exasperated retort. Enfan-

638 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE tin was unperturbed. “I believe that I can reveal the whole of my thoughts on my face alone . . . I want to make everyone feel and understand how great is the moral force of beauty, in order to cleanse it of the stains with which your contempt has caused it to be sullied.”’** Despairing of ever getting this romantic hero, who used the techniques of Mesmer popularized in the feuilleton novels everyone was devouring, to return to the well-trodden paths of legal procedure, the president closed the session and the good bourgeois on the jury

proceeded to find the Saint-Simonians guilty. Thirty Years After The sentence of the court, a year in jail, was generally condemned as harsh by the press—but it served the purpose of the July Monarchy. The Saint-Simon-

ian world of illusion was dissipated in Sainte-Pélagie—the same prison where Saint-Simon had once been incarcerated during the Revolution—not through cruel treatment but by leisure, good feeding, and the constant mutual proximity of the elect. Michel Chevalier, who had been the great activist of the movement, controlling the funds, editing the publications, administering the affairs of the church, ‘answering a voluminous correspondence, finally became alienated from the Father.

The July Monarchy liberated them both after they had served seven and one-half months of their term, but the movement and the religion never recovered. Chevalier was accepted back into society almost immediately, and he effected his rehabilitation by conducting an official mission of inquiry into the

administration of public works in the United States and Mexico. He ended up as one of the more prominent senators of the Second Empire, an official econo-

| mist, though he never quite divested himself of the social ideology of the cult. _ There was a Saint-Simonian flavor to everything the worthy Senator Chevalier accomplished for the Napoleonic economy; even the trade treaty with Cobden was swaddled in slogans about universal brotherhood among nations. _ In a letter of February 20, 1832, he had called himself one of those “hierarchical men’’——we would now say organization men.*® The switch of allegiance from

Enfantin to Napoleon III was profitable. Pére Enfantin’s ‘return to the world” | was not quite so easy. After he dropped his sacerdotal manner he eked out an existence in various jobs, a long series of fiascoes. He finally was named an administrator of the Paris-Lyons-Marseilles railroad, a merger of smaller companies that he had been instrumental in effecting. This was in his eyes no mere mundane economic transaction but a presage of the great communications net-_ works of the future which would unite all mankind. He lived on for thirty-two

years after his release from prison, and even after his formal abdication he re- , mained the Father for some of the followers. _ The cloud of make-believe was not suddenly dispelled for the Saint-Simon-__ians at a single moment: Their fantasies lingered on even after they had become |

, respectable bourgeois seemingly undifferentiated from other successful businessmen of the July Monarchy and the Empire. Not that the dissolution of the sect went smoothly; there were ugly contests about the disposition of the —

| funds of the new religion, and Enfantin found himself denied more than thrice by the closest of his sons, Chevalier. Though most of the Saint-Simonians who _ reentered the world carried something of their old views with them, the doc-

CHILDREN OF SAINT-SIMON: TRIUMPH OF LOVE 639 trine was diluted. They completely abandoned the sexual theories of the cult. The more acceptable ideas about banking, credit, and the financing of grand projects for science and economic development cropped up in the chancelleries of Napoleon IIL.

The fates were not equally kind to all of the rehabilitated Saint-Simonians. Many died of the fever in Egypt, where Enfantin had pursued the Suez canal project with his customary tenacity. The Pereires were the most successful: Their titanic struggle with the Rothschilds for domination of the French banking system became the most important single episode in the financial history of the nineteenth century. In their multifarious activities the Pereires clung to the illusion that their temple of Mammon had been sanctified by the commandment to improve the lot of the most numerous and poorest classes. To his dying day Enfantin, the ambiguous seer who could write treatises on railroads one day and mystic outpourings on the true nature of love the next, freely expressed the two sides of his nature. His flirtation with Napoleon III did not sit too well with some of the faithful, but since it was not successful his incorrigible activism was forgiven. His last project of the 1860s, the opening of a vast “intellectual credit’? for brilliant young university graduates with only their brains as security, was rejected by his former sons, who began to find his name embarrassing in any association. A plan for anew encyclopedia, which Chevalier and the Pereires supported, was the occasion for an act of public repudiation from which Enfantin never recovered. Some members of the cult remained loyal to the end, as did Arlés and Lambert. Most of them forgot their sectarian quarrels, and as aged men with flowing white beards they confessed to one another that the period of the rue de Monsigny and Ménilmontant had been the peak experience of their lives. The fascination Enfantin exerted upon men and women alike remains something of a mystery, hard to explain solely in terms of his beauty and his charm. He surely was not a towering intellect. There was a craving for a new translation of the concept of love, and he seems to have provided it for the disciples both in the gentleness of his person and in the mystic outpourings of his works. The Physiologie religieuse (1858) sounds today like sheer balderdash because he really

was a mediocre writer, but he did manage to arouse enthusiasm when he preached of man’s all-consuming need to love. He was a mystic manque. His interpretation of the symbols of the Eucharist in human terms, describing the universal community of flesh and blood, outraged Catholics. The extended eulogies of the senses and of the various parts of the human body have a Whitmanesque flavor. To an extraordinary degree he felt communion with all living men even when the verbiage in which he clothed his sentiment was trite and wooden. Like Feuerbach’s parallel system, Enfantin’s theology transformed the worship of a God who allowed His son to become a man into an adoration of man who was God. Perhaps most appealing was Enfantin’s conception of existence as an eternal giving of the self to others in the myriad relationships of everyday life until in the end of the days a man had transferred his whole being to mankind. No man dies because with the exhaustion of age there is nothing left to die, and all that was once part of a man lives on transmuted in others, in

humanity. “I affirm,” he wrote in his last testament, La Vie éternelle, “that I , live outside of myself as certainly as I live in myself. I feel this as much in what I am as in what I hate; I feel myself live wherever I love, absent and dead in

640 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE whatever I condemn; whatever I love increases my life, whatever I hate deprives me of life, robs me of it, defiles it.”’°” As the medieval mystics invented a vocabulary to communicate the sentiment of merging with the Godhead, En-

fantin tried to render into words his sense of fusion with all persons living and dead. It was a manifesto against the sensationalist philosophes who had intro-

duced into the world the image of the individual as a hard-knit little body, | preferably made of marble, standing in splendid isolation ready to receive specific stimuli from the outside. “Man does not give himself life, he receives it;

one does not lose it, one gives it. This is what I call being born and dying . . . This absolute individualization of a being whose destiny is essentially collective establishes among beings a disunion, a dissociation, a disaffection, and hence a radical absolute egotism against which all the faculties of my

soul are in revolt . . . I wish to feel my life penetrate into the life of those I love, whom I teach, as well as into this work which I am writing at this mo- ment and for which I desire an eternal life. But this is only one side of the question. I believe myself loved. I have been and I am always being taught. I am myself the creation of another, worked upon, cultivated, nourished, fashioned by the friendly hands of my brothers and of the whole of nature.” The Saint-Simonians help us to comprehend that total merging of identities that men of the nineteenth and twentieth century experienced when they successfully lost self-awareness in the ardent periods of nationalist, socialist, and

communist movements. They were swimming in the infinite, in universal | brotherhood. Both Mazzini and the socialists could read the Saint-Simonians and feel that their emotions were being faithfully reported. But humanist mysticism of this character can only be practiced by a select group; it is no more a popular manifestation than was Christian mysticism in the Church. The more effective organizers of the international communist movement and the militant nationalisms of every stripe have usually been endowed with claws as well as arms outstretched in brotherly love. The vision of the Saint-Simonians implied _ _ the possibility that a great mass of mankind could actually live for long periods in a state of loving so intense that the boundaries between the ego and the out- side world would become blurred. Perhaps the Saint-Simonians at Ménilmontant did in fact experience this state for a brief moment—but then followed the cool awakening, as on that terrible day when Delaporte the true disciple realized that the Father was ‘“‘neither Moses nor Christ, neither Charlemagne nor

Napoleon—that he was only Enfantin, only Enfantin.’’*° ,

27 Fourier: The Bourgeoning of Instinct

FRANGOIS MARIE CHARLES FOURIER was born in Besancon in 1772, the son of a

prosperous cloth merchant.’ Traditions about his childhood preserved among disciples document the history of the great neurotic in the making. At five he took the oath of Hannibal against commerce. There followed a period of religious terror—dread of the cauldrons of Hell for having committed all the sins in the catechism. At the age of seven he confessed to fornication and simony. During the Revolution he participated in the Lyons uprising against the Convention and conceived a horror of social turmoil. His patrimony, which at one time had been considerable, was confiscated in the siege; imprisoned, he barely escaped being included in a convoy of counterrevolutionary victims who were executed en masse. For a brief period he was drafted into the cavalry, and the image of Fourier on horseback rekindles one’s admiration for the French Revolutionary organizers of victory. Life of a Salesman In 1779 Fourier became a traveling salesman. On one of his business trips to Paris that year the young provincial from the Franche-Comté saw an apple in Fevrier’s Restaurant. Its price on the bill of fare was fourteen sous; in his home town a hundred pieces of superior fruit could be bought for the same cost. Clearly something was wrong with a state of society that tolerated such differentials. When in later years he recollected the dining room scene he placed the

event in its true historical perspective. There had been four apples in the world: two were destined to sow discord and two to create concord. While Adam and Paris had brought misery to mankind, Newton’s apple had inspired the discovery of the basic law of attraction which governs physical motion, and its complement, Fourier’s apple, had moved him to formulate the law of passionate attraction which would inaugurate universal happiness. Such contemplative episodes made up the drama of his life. There were no heroic actions, no grand love affairs, perhaps no amorous relationships at all. Once he perceived that civilization was corroded with vice, Fourier retired into his private world and to remain pure held himself aloof from society. Only the few disciples whom he acquired in the last decades of his life believed that he would

ultimately be recognized as the greatest man in history. , Fourier the bachelor lived alone in a garret and ate table d’hote in the poorer Lyons restaurants, disliked children and spiders, loved flowers and cats, had a mania for measuring things with a yardstick cane, had a sweet tooth, could not digest bread, adored spectacles and parades, loathed the philosophes and their Revolution as much as he did rigid Catholicism. From all accounts he was a queer duck. Men called him mad, but no evidence has been adduced to sustain

this clinical diagnosis; his autopsy revealed no signs of brain damage. Of 641

642 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE course he talked to himself; worked in fits of excitement, could go without sleep for a week, was incapable of concentrating on any one job for long (the butterfly temperament of his own description), was quarrelsome, especially with members of his family. His writings emanated from the madhouses of Charenton, was the verdict of contemporary journalists, though this was a far less derogatory judgment than they imagined. Under Napoleon these institutions were inhabited by no mean knowers of man—the Marquis de Sade,

Henri de Saint-Simon, Choderlos de Laclos.

Fourier’s habits were meticulous, his manner frigid. One sometimes wonders whether this inventor of the system of passionate attraction ever experienced one. He could be a great hater, violently suspicious, and he showed mild symptoms of paranoia, but he also felt infinite pity for mankind, was acutely sensitive to the sufferings of the hungry and to the monotony of their lives. Acquaintances have described Fourier’s fixed and abstracted gaze as if he were

in a continual state of ecstasy; but he had an excellent memory, which he nourished with an endless supply of facts seemingly gathered at random. Once the idea of the phalanstery had taken shape, every chance bit of information was assimilated into the infinitely detailed and complicated system of living and working arrangements which he projected. Fourier was constantly collecting, counting, cataloguing, and analyzing. If he took a walk in Paris and a small hotel appealed to him, its proportions becaine the basis for the architectural framework of a phalanstery building. He seemed indifferent to the seasons and the temperature. His disciples realized that he was incapable of adapting himself to his environment and for the sake of the system tried to protect him from

the sharper blows of fortune, but was he for that reason to be labeled daft? Quite on the contrary, the world and civilization were mad and he could prove it. “Only in attraction,”’ he wrote in ‘‘La Nouvelle Isabelle,’”’ a manuscript published by his followers in Volume 9 of La Phalange, ‘‘should men have sought

the interpretation of the social laws of God and of our common destiny. Despite this our planet is twenty-five centuries late in studying attraction. After such flightiness, after such insanity, is it not reasonable to maintain that there are crazy planets as there are individuals, and that if there were insane asylums for crazy planets one should'send ours there for having wasted twenty-five

hundred years... ?”” The initial major formulation of Fourier’s doctrine, the Théorie des quatre mouvements et des destinées générales, appeared in 1808, about the same date as

Saint-Simon’s first signed publication and Hegel’s Phenomenology. PierreJoseph Proudhon, a young printer in Lyons, remembered setting it up in type; the utopians had a way of rubbing elbows with one another. For three decades

, Fourier kept repeating what was essentially the first draft of his theory, issuing amplifications, abridgments, and summaries. Le Nouveau Monde industriel of 1827, the only version which excluded the annoying cosmogony, was probably the most successful. (Fourier wrote in his own hand on many copies that anyone who understood Chapters § and 6 of this work had grasped his true

, meaning.) The previous year he had moved to Paris, where he was employed as a correspondence clerk in the wholesale house of Messrs. Curtis and Lamb

of New York on the rue du Mail. |

During the last period of his life Fourier spent a great deal of time alleviating the specific pains of civilization among individuals: he would intervene to get

FOURIER: THE BURGEONING OF INSTINCT 643 overworked servant girls better jobs and he would wait on petty bureaucrats for hours to arrange for the pensions of war veterans. In his decline he seems to have found especial pleasure in the company of Madame Louise Courvoisier,

veuve Lacombe, a sister of the Keeper of the Seals under Charles X. Just Muiron, his first and most loyal disciple, was deaf, and since they communicated in writing even when they were together many direct solutions to the problems of phalanstery have been preserved. On October 9, 1837, Fourier died in his flat on rue Saint-Pierre Montmartre. Victor Considérant, who took over control of the school, was a man of different stripe. Under his direction Fourierism became a political and social movement involved in the subversion of the July Monarchy, and there was far greater emphasis on the structure of capitalism than on the anatomy of love, which for Fourier had always been the

central problem of man in civilization.®

For the half-million volumes on morals and philosophy which had accumulated through the ages Fourier had nothing but contempt. Since he consulted few books after the rather stereotyped classical education of his youth, whatever he knew about the world was drawn from three primary sources: from introspection into his own desires and fantasies, from the newspapers which he read avidly, and from talk. As a traveling salesman he had observed men in all ranks of society, had noted their conversation; as a resident of pensions he had listened attentively to the local scandalmongers. These people showed him what men and women really longed for and what they loathed. Of the scabrous side of family life he learned in the coaches of the commercial travelers and from his openly promiscuous nieces. Of the cheats of commercial civilization he was amply informed in the business houses where he worked long hours. His understanding of industrial relations came from inside the shops of Lyons, not from treatises on political economy. “I am a child of the marketplace, born and brought up in mercantile establishments,’’ he wrote in Le Nouveau monde industriel, “I have witnessed the infamies of commerce with my own eyes, and I shall not describe them from hearsay as our moralists do.’’* Long before the uprisings of 1831 and 1834, when for the first time threatening banners of the proletariat, ““To live working or to die fighting,’’ were borne aloft, he had known of the perennial war between the great merchant-manufacturers and the silk workers who depended upon them for their livelihood. In Lyons he had seen cutthroat competition, social hypocrisy, prostitution. What did he need books for? The moralists had written dissertations about what men ought to desire, how they ought to behave; he knew directly what passions men yearned to gratify. To afford them total fulfillment was the simple, obvious solution to the problem of man’s happiness—the creation of a society without repression. It was Fourier’s mission to convince mankind that the system which he had laboriously spun out was preferable to the tawdry world of civilization depicted in the daily press. To his dying day he failed to understand how anyone could refuse the happiness of his post in phalanstery and continue to endure the wretchedness, the chaos, and the frustrations of the life every man knew. The works in which Fourier phrased and rephrased the system he had invented are full of neologisms, repetitions ad nauseam, and plain nonsense. There is an eccentric pagination, numerous digressions and interpolations break the argument, and references to minor events of early nineteenth-century his-

644 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE tory can have meaning only to a scholar of the period. The neologisms are particularly irritating because they require interpretation, a guess at his meaning, and are virtually untranslatable. Silberling’s Dictionnaire de sociologie phalanstérienne is useful only to those who have already been initiated into the secret world.® Fourier was conscious of the fact that he was pouring forth a torrent of newfangled words, and in his manuscripts he occasionally indulged in

, light selfmockery on this account. “Hola, another neologism! Haro on the guilty one! but is this any worse than doctrinaire?’’® Readers of the works published during his lifetime and of the extracts from his manuscripts gleaned by members of the Ecole sociétaire after his death generally put him down as tur-

gid, incomprehensible, confused, and boring. Examination of the thirty-odd dossiers of his papers in the Archives Nationales leaves a surprisingly different impression. Fourier could write succinctly, with straightforward logic; he had a mordant wit and his style flowed freely. One approaches these documents expecting a cramped minuscule hand as in the columns of an obsessive accountant. Instead one finds that his handwriting has a gay swing to it and is remark_ ably clear. Fourier’s insights came out best in brief aphorisms, in a few pungent formulas. Throughout his life he kept jotting down catch phrases in notebooks and on stray sheets, all too many of which have been preserved. ‘““‘We must have something new. Fruitless attempts for 3000 years. Ergo absolute denial. Integral exploration. New sciences. Doubt everything.’’’ This was the system in shorthand set down in moments of illumination, lest he forget. But the sys-

tem-maker in him had to put these flashes together, and then the trouble began. He strung his individual pieces on a chain and forced them into a mechanical order. A single page or a paragraph, when the original inspiration was let alone, stands out like a life-giving spring in the desert. When he mulled over the texts preparatory to publication he usually smothered them with an avalanche of detail. Recourse to the manuscripts, even when the same ideas lie buried in his printed works, restores to his conceptions a vitality which the

published writings have often lost. , a

Fourier’s frequent and often successful play on words can hardly ever be rendered into another language, and his peculiar brand of humor is not readily _ comprehensible. The closest friends of this lonely man never heard him laugh; his analyses of existing social institutions betray an awareness of the ironic beneath the ponderous didactic mask, but the irony is always searing and the jokes are chastisements. The detail of Fourier’s descriptions, the endless minutiae of arrangements — covering every aspect of life in the state of harmony, mark the obsessive. The style is often jerky. Each point is a hammer blow, delivered with violence. Fourier was voicing the common pain of an age confronted by the breakdown of traditional forms, an anguish which he perhaps felt with greater sharpness than did others. The longing for order which he depicted with such poignancy

was a cry from the soul of early industrial society. His fantasy world of unfulfilled desires, unlike the imaginings of countless other isolated men, was some-

how transmuted into an ideal system of social organization which came to exert a strange fascination upon small groups of people throughout the civilized world, from the depths of czarist Russia to the wilds of transcendentalist New England. If the higher mental systems are sublimations of ungratified desire, Fourier’s obsessional structure is a typecase, for virtually every pattern of

FOURIER: THE BURGEONING OF INSTINCT 645 labor and of love proposed for the phalanstery can be traced back to the unappeased needs of this sequestered man. Whatever the satisfaction that Fourier derived from this subtle delusional system, it has meaning to us across the decades because the everyday horrors he painted are still ours, and his infantile fantasies are shared by those of us who are not yet resigned to the reality principle. The system has many virtues, above all its humanity. Since Fourier read himself into the whole keyboard of psychological types and endeavored to find solutions to all their problems, he was embracing the totality of mankind with its manifold woes, its secret desires, and its obstinate fixations. No one, not even the child Fourier, was rejected. And who can say whether his system is not the true balsam for our pains? Who knows whether the phalansterian formula does not hold within it the secret of future happiness? Has it ever been tried precisely as Fourier prescribed? The abortive nineteenth-century experiments, the Brook Farms and the New Harmonies, were not conclusive, for in none of them was Fourier’s require-

, ment that each phalanstery include every one of the 810 possible combinations of psychological character punctiliously observed. Fourier’s phalanstery has no more been disproved than Plato’s Republic.

From the very beginning Fourier, like Saint-Simon, was convinced of the imminent acceptance of his projects for the transformation of mankind. If France could waste blood and treasure on the false systems of the Revolution and the Empire, why should it not invest the paltry funds necessary for the implementation of the true one? This born enemy of rationalism could not understand unreason in others, a not infrequent failing. Throughout his life, the salesman of Lyons was on the lookout for a powerful client who would buy his system. If only a potentate or a millionaire would try out the plan on one square league of territory, mankind would be overwhelmed by the sight of real human happiness under harmony, the whole world would have to accept an irrefutable scientific demonstration, and everybody would flock to phalansteries to taste of their delights. Every day on the stroke of twelve he made a point of returning to his lodgings to wait for the appearance of the Maecenas who would somehow, of his own accord, arrive to consult with him on the practical details for the establishment of a model. Fourier never stopped writing letters to prospective patrons and scheming to receive some notice, however paltry. He sent his work to John Barnet, the American consul in Paris, assuring him that his system was a better way of winning the savage Creeks and Cherokees to the United States than waging war against them, an assertion that cannot be readily disproved. In Aberdeen, Scotland, a prize competition was announced for the best work demonstrating the goodness of God— precisely what Fourier’s doctrine of the passions had done. Confident that the reward was his he was eager to despatch his proofs to the committee, but a little paranoid imp prevented him, insisting that the august Scottish judges should formally request a copy of his essay so that his authorship might be publicly established in advance, a reasonable precaution in case he should die in

the interim and his work fall into the hands of plagiarists. In 1817 Fourier turned to the Russian Czar, offering him the tetrarchate of the world if he instituted the new system and promising him that under the influence of phalansterian labors the climate of his empire would become as pleasant as Italy’s. On another occasion he tried to bribe the Rothschilds with the Kingdom of Jerusa-

646 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE lem if they would finance his projects. If only the King of France would order the founding of an experimental phalanstery! Once admitted to a three-minute interview, he was certain to convince him. The archives of the July Monarchy are laden with Fourier’s repeated efforts to reduce his system to a brief memorandum fit for hasty ministerial consumption. Even though their conversion would immensely facilitate the transition to the new society, Fourier’s appeals were not limited to the great and the powerful. In the second and third decades of the nineteenth century, the popular jour-

, nal with its glaring advertisements began beating upon the consciousness of Europe with a drumlike persistence hitherto unknown, and he adopted its techniques in his writings. Since results alone counted, his style often lapsed into turns of phrase that sounded like newspaper copy. He wanted to shock, to startle, to cajole, and any mechanism that drew attention served. The printing of key words in block letters, the frequent capitalization, the repetition of stock phrases, are symptoms of Fourier’s neurosis, but they also mirrored a new social aspect of modern existence. He was a forerunner of the great advertising heroes. The Saint-Simonians, who were sharply attuned to the psychic tendencies of their society, were equally confirmed believers in publicity—the word was becoming common—and they employed the same oratorical rhythms which the French Revolution ‘had insinuated into European speech. To bring happiness to mankind Fourier had to break through the barrier of public silence and ignorance, to acquaint men with the reality of the phalanstery, so

patently superior to civilization. And paradoxically the tools he was constrained to use were the very newspapers which reflected the falsehoods of contemporary civilization. Fourier dreamed of performing some dramatic act which would be reported and would attract attention to himself. Though he had been imprisoned under the Terror, in later years the state did not favor him with a public prosecution as it had Saint-Simon, and he never achieved notoriety. The press usually passed over his books in silence and they remained

, piled up in the back rooms of his printer and bookseller. In practice the grand neurotics cannot abide by their absolutist resolves, and while proclaiming the indivisibility of truth in the system of phalanstery as contrasted with contemporary deceptions, Fourier used methods to hoodwink people into the new order as one would entice children with candy. But his lies were not comparable to the lies of civilization, because once within the gates of 7 Eden men would see with their own eyes that happiness was prepared for them. Fourier frequently tried to pass off his total revaluation of morals and society as a mere “industrial reform.’’ It was as if he hoped to introduce phalansteries and drag mankind to harmony while it was unaware of what was happening. His purpose was clear, to arouse little or no political and religious controversy while he turned the world topsy-turvy. “What is Fourierism?”’ he asked in a disingenuous letter to the Gazette de France. I do not know. My theory is the continuation of Newton’s on attraction. In this new mine he exploited only the material vein, I exploit the industrial. 1 am a continuator and I have never countenanced the name Fouriériste. My theory of society is not concerned with any religious, political, or administrative reform, but solely with industrial reform applied to the functions of agronomy, manufacturing, housekeeping, commerce, and general studies. If any of my disciples touches on prohibited subjects it is outside of my _ doctrine and concerns me no more than the divergent opinions of royalists and republi-

FOURIER: THE BURGEONING OF INSTINCT 647 cans. My discovery serves everybody without distinction of opinion—king or shepherd, the prodigal and the miserly. I have disciples from among various religions, Catholics, Protestants, Greeks, Jews, and so on. I ask of them no account of their religious beliefs because the societal mechanism of which I am the inventor is applicable to all religions, with the exception of the bloody ones which immolate human victims and the coercive ones which persecute for differences of opinion or which accept the slavery of | workers and the sale and confinement of women.®

To reassure the religious, Fourier loudly proclaimed his belief in God; his most bombastic charge against critics was that they were atheists because they

| condemned the passions which God had created. Fourier’s theology was not the most sophisticated part of his system. His God did not intervene in the details of this planet’s operations, because He had millions of other worlds to look after; He had provided men with the instrumentalities for happiness and it was for them to divine the secret of their use. There were no individual rewards and punishments, only global ones. Because of the backwardness of the planet in discovering the key to the true system, deceased humans were now in a sort of limbo waiting expectantly for the triumph of attraction on earth so that they might be free to join universal materiality and thus have a chance to reappear on some more fortunate globe. Toward the end of his life Fourier experienced a grave disappointment as he saw the rival sects of Owen and Saint-Simon winning adherents, or at least notoriety. The spectacle was doubly painful: on the one hand they were disseminating false doctrines and misleading humanity; on the other hand they were stealing his ideas and distorting them. The public interest which the rival sects aroused was a sign that mankind was ripe for a new system; the errors

they propagated were therefore all the more vicious. The Owenites were usually fought with ad hominem arguments against Robert Owen and his dictatorial ways, but since the American experiments had already discredited him the Saint-Simonians became Fourier’s chief target. He was acute enough to put his finger on a fundamental divergence between his system and theirs. The Saint-Simonians were principally preoccupied with a moral revolution, presuming to inaugurate the new era by preaching against idleness and hereditary wealth, by instructing the workers in the ways of obedience to their hierarchi-

cal superiors, by sermonizing about universal love. They were trying to change human nature. Fourier on the contrary took man as he was, a creature of passions and desires, and by combining the passions rendered him happy. “‘I am the only reformer who has rallied round human nature by accepting it as it is and devising the means of utilizing it with all the defects which are inseparable from man,” he wrote to his disciple Victor Considérant on October 3, 1831. “All the sophists who pretend to change it are working in denial of man, and what is more, in denial of God since they want to change or stifle the passions which God has bestowed on us as our fundamental drives . . .”” The Saint-Simonians were always talking about a hierarchy of functions in the good society—precisely what he had been preaching since 1800 in his doctrine of the ordered passional series. ‘““You see that in this question of hierarchy, as in

everything else, the Saint-Simonians take the skeleton or the shadow of my method and denature it by changing the name . . . They want no hierarchy except in the ranks and degrees of their priests who rule arbitrarily over the whole social system, especially in the evaluation of capacities.’ ® The Saint-Si-

648 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE monians pretended to make everybody love all mankind; this was an impossibility since amorous sympathies were selective. Their tripartite division of ca-

pacities into physical, moral, and intellectual merely vulgarized his more complex series. ‘“These scientific pirates”’ stole his concepts of talent and labor and transformed them into “‘capacities” and ‘‘works.’’ When a M. de Corcelle

took Fourier to one of the sessions of the Saint-Simonians, he was demonstrably jealous of the vogue they enjoyed, and after the meeting he exploded, “What a pitiful thing it is! Their dogmas are like hatchet blows and yet they have an audience and subscribers.” !° Fourier sent Enfantin a copy of his Nou- — veau monde industriel and vainly implored the Saint-Simonians to make an ex-

periment of his system. , There is an extraordinary chronological parallel between the fortunes of Saint-Simon and Fourier in the dates of their first conceptions, their first

printed works, and their first acquisition of disciples in the year 1825. Despite

, Fourier’s angry denunciations, the Saint-Simonians obviously did not plagia- _ rize from him, any more than did the ancient prophets from one another. They were tuned in on the same celestial stations and listened to the sighs of the same wretched humanity. Saint-Simon had had the good fortune to die in time and to become immortalized among disciples who fought over the true interpretation of his message. Fourier with bad grace survived for about twelve years after a school and a movement had been founded, and the Fourierist journals

and public lecturers were constrained to propound the doctrine under the hawk-eye of the master. It was an embarrassment for his followers when the old man lived on, criticizing their every move, snarling at them, monopolizing their periodicals with his writings, carping at every proposal that did not ema-

nate from him. They wished that he were dead, if only for the sake of Fourierism. After their original message has been delivered, messiahs must die.

The first phalanstery was finally organized in—of all places—Rumania, where a journalist who had returned from Paris persuaded a noble landowner

to experiment with the system among his serfs in Scaeni (then in Bulgaria).!1 Unfortunately the phalanstery aroused the enmity of surrounding landowners who feared the contagion of such dangerous practices, and they invaded, crushing the society of labor and love with firearms. The phalansterians are said to have been valiant in defense of their system and there remains a wall, honored as a historic monument by the present Rumanian Soviet state, where the Fourierist peasants took their last stand. The commune of Scaeni is today the seat of a cooperative dominated by an intrinsically unFourierist emotional atmosphere. When Mikhail Vasilevich Petrashevsky, the Russian revolutionary of 1848, tried to practice Fourierism among the peasants of his own poverty-stricken estate in the region of Saint Petersburg, he in- — spired less enthusiasm among the occupants of the communal house. One night he found it burned to the ground, probably the act of the peasants them- _ selves.'” In 1865, in a hilarious short story, Dostoevsky poked fun at the petty bureaucrat Ivan Matveitch, who, having been accidentally swallowed by a crocodile at an exposition in Saint Petersburg, had resolved in the depths of the , beast’s bowels to “‘refute everything and be a new Fourier’’; but some sixteen years earlier Dostoevsky had stood before a firing squad, sentenced to death for adherence to the Petrashevsky Fourierists. In 1841 Elizabeth P. Peabody enthusiastically announced glad tidings to the readers of the Boston Dial, ““We

FOURIER: THE BURGEONING OF INSTINCT 649 understand that Brook Farm has become a Fourierist establishment. We rejoice in this, because such persons as form that association will give it fair experiment. We wish it God-speed. May it become a University where the young American shall learn his duties and become worthy of this broad land of his inheritance.’’ For more than a year the New York Tribune was used by Albert Brisbane to advance the cause of Fourierism in his regular column—he had been initiated into the system in Paris by its inventor, at five francs a lesson. An authentic and complete history of Fourierism and its influence would have to cover much territory, settlements ranging from the prairies of mid-nineteenthcentury America to the kibbutzim of modern Israel. One thing is certain, the Master would have rejected each and every one of them as vicious falsifications of the doctrine.

Death to Philosophy and Its Civilization

Fourier’s basic method involved a deliberate total denial of all past philosophical and moralist schools. Ecart absolu, he called it. Its definition came early in the Théorie des quatre mouvements, a methodological addendum to the Cartesian doubt. “I assumed that the most certain means of arriving at useful discov-

eries was to remove oneself in every sense from the methods followed by the dubious sciences which never contributed an invention that was of the remotest utility to society and which, despite the immense progress of industry, had not even succeeded in preventing poverty; I therefore undertook to stand in constant opposition to these sciences.” ’’ The accumulation of hundreds of thousands of volumes had taught mankind nothing. Libraries of tomes by pompous and sententious thinkers had not brought man one inch closer to happiness. Fourier’s own theory of the passions occupied a position of unique importance in the history of scientific discoveries. It had not really mattered that men were ignorant of the movements of the planets before Copernicus, of the sexual system of plants before Linnaeus, of the circulation of the blood before Harvey, of the existence of America before Columbus; but every delay in

the proof and inauguration of the system of passionate attraction was felt in the flesh of mankind. Each year wars destroyed a million lives and poverty at least twenty million more—procrastination took a heavy toll. Since most great revolutionary geniuses had been forced to pursue mean occupations, Fourier’s own humble condition was no test of the merit of his system. Metastasio had been a porter, Rousseau a menial worker, Newton a clerk in the markets (sic). He now joined this august company by adopting the same underlying dialectical principle of écart absolu which had guided them—a complete reversal of the philosophical ideas which had held mankind enchained for three thousand years. “He isolated himself from all known pathways.” Ecart absolu was de-

veloped independently later in the century by Nietzsche in quest of a new moral system, and the same formula reappeared again in Rimbaud. André Breton correctly recognized in Fourier an important predecessor of his own surrealist school and filially composed an Ode a Fourier. The two abstract concepts of philosophy and morality could vie for supremacy as the blackest of Fourier’s many bétes noires. When the Revue encyclopédique finally deigned to publish an article on his works they were classified under the hated rubric “philosophy,’”’ much to the dismay of the loyal

650 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE , disciple Just Muiron, who on May 12, 1832, wrote to Clarisse Vigoureux: “Philosophy!! Oh! did the Master hit the ceiling? I am terribly afraid.” *® And now in the second century after his death Fourier is again ill used by the fates—

called a utopian and joined with his mortal enemies in a single volume. The

respectworthy general ideas of eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century thought—virtue, enlightenment, emancipation, rationalism, positivism, indus-

trialism—were for Fourier empty shibboleths, words instead of things. | Progress, the grandest concept of them all, the crowning glory of Turgot and Condorcet, Saint-Simon and Comte, was an iniquitous deception because it _ pretended to improve civilization and this was patently impossible. Civilization had to be destroyed, it could not be amended. For Fourier civilized society was a prison: the philosophes were trying to ameliorate conditions in the prison, he to break its bars and escape. In Fourier’s imagery the historical world was at once stadial and cyclical. It was mankind’s destiny to climb upward through a series of sixteen or so fixed epochs from the depths of savagery until the zenith was reached in harmony. Never at a loss when nomenclature had to be invented, Fourier’s brain, junglelike in the fertility of its private language, devised a terminology for each of the

, stages in the series up the ladder and back again. The progression is not infi- _ nite, for after the passing of harmony man is ordained to trudge laboriously down sixteen steps to a societal form even more primitive than savagery, at which point he fortunately will disappear in a general dissolution of the earth. In the Fourierist dream a striving for progress in happiness is intimately associated with a vision of final destruction. Mankind was summoned to the worldly pleasures of the phalanstery but was offered no promise of eternity. The earth’s delights were real but necessarily transitory: therefore carpe diem.

With meticulous care Fourier estimated the approximate time periods originally allotted each of the sixteen successive upward stages in the historic calendar, but since the schedule was not inflexible it was possible to abbreviate intermediate periods and to accelerate the process from savagery to harmony. A

heightened tempo of change was even more urgent in the Fourierist order than in Condorcet’s, because man’s total destiny on earth was so pathetically finite. Hastening to the felicity of harmony would lengthen the duration of the period of perfect happiness mankind might enjoy. To the degree that man was left to _

languish in a state of ‘‘civilization’”’ or in preharmony interludes such as ‘“suarantism” or ‘‘sociantism,”” whole generations were being robbed of their portion. The quantum of history was fixed; it could be passed either in misery or in supreme happiness. This was a human choice. Fundamentally the successful speeding up of the pace of evolution depended upon the propagation of |

the correct theory, as it had with Condorcet and as it would with the major ideologists of the nineteenth century. Fourier singled out the Jacobins as the historic archenemies of the human race, the misleaders of humanity into the blind alleys of false doctrine. They were the reactionaries who stood for the perfection of the purported moral _ values of civilization when its complete abolition was required. They preached

, the Stoic ethic of self-denial and the merits of competitive commerce when mankind craved pleasure and order; their cult of virtue was the essence of antiharmonious evil. Futile political revolution shed blood without even the redeeming feature of Napoleonic carnage—the prospect of the unification of

FOURIER: THE BURGEONING OF INSTINCT 651 mankind. In its pretense of discovering happiness in liberty, equality, fraternity, and the moderation of desire the Jacobin philosophy was the embodiment of anti-Fourierism. A counterpoint between the emotional and physical sufferings of man in the state of civilization and the perfect happiness attainable in the phalanstery runs

through all of Fourier’s works. As Burke well knew when he attempted to combat the French Reign of Virtue, there is no way to refute a utopia. Try as you may to demonstrate that the ideal structure is impossible of realization, that evils will inevitably crop up to poison the harmony, that the proposed system is contrary to powerful interests, that it violates our knowledge of human nature and contradicts the wisdom of the ages, utopians like Fourier insistently direct you to take another look at the cheats of contemporary civilization, at the falsehoods which contaminate all human relationships in society as it is now constituted, until you recoil with horror, shouting as you join the

movement, ‘Take me to the phalanstery!”’ The spirit of Jean-Jacques, the enemy of the philosophes, hovers over every line that Fourier wrote. The play of contrast between natural man and artificial man of the Discourse on Inequality

is reflected in the antithesis of the happy man in the phalanstery and the wretched man of civilization. Man’s desire to fulfill the totality of his passionate nature was the will of God. Since nature and nature’s God had bestowed passions upon man, they must be afforded absolute free expression. Even Rousseau had usually avoided an extreme naturalist position by stopping at the bar of Stoic moderation. In Fourier’s vocabulary moderation, along with liberty and equality, was a gross, _ pejorative word: to curb, to restrain, to repress a desire was contrary to nature, hence the source of corruption. Nature never decreed moderation for everybody; surely nature never ordained moderation in all things for everybody.

Fourier derided the philosophical moralists for their betrayal of the muchvaunted empirical method when they argued about what men should be like, what they ought to do, what sentiments they ought to have. Their discussions were chimerical nonsense, their morality high-flown dicta whose hypocritical authors never practiced their own preachments. Fourier began not with the ra-

tional principles of natural law but with an inquiry into what men actually

wanted, their basic drives and passions. Despite the destined historical move- , ment of mankind through a total of thirty-two stages up and down the ladder of progress, basic human passions had remained and would remain the same in all times and places and could be identified and described. Only the opportunities for the expression of the passions had differed from epoch to epoch. Since the passions were constant, human history was a study in varying degrees of

repression. ,

Ever since the dawn of civilization three thousand years before, the external physical forces of nature had been sufficiently harnessed by man to allow for the total fulfillment of all the desires of all human beings on the planet; it had been theoretically possible during all those centuries for miserable mankind to leap out of civilization into harmony. The crisis of passionate man was thus not a novelty of the recent transition epoch between feudal and industrial society. Gratuitous evil had been the lot of mankind ever since an equilibrium between desires and satisfactions had become abstractly possible. In the recent period, following the development of science and the wide extension of com-

652 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE | mercial relations, the gap between society’s potential capacity to appease desires and the restrictive self-denials imposed by civilization had become ever wider, not narrower. The progress of the arts and sciences had not been paralleled by an increase in gratification. The state of civilization had been protracted far beyond its allotted span of time—the period when it was extending human capacities; it had multiplied artificial restrictions, curtailed pleasure, extended repressions. Under civilization neither rich nor poor had realized their full measure of potential enjoyment. Fourier had been advised by his more cautious disciples to withdraw his reflections on love in order to make his ideas on the organization of labor more palatable to philosophers, less outrageous to rational civilized society. But this

was the very heart of the system of harmony. ‘‘Love in phalanstery is no longer, as it is with us, a recreation which detracts from work; on the contrary it is the soul and the vehicle, the mainspring, of all works and of the whole of

| universal attraction.’’ Imagine asking Praxiteles to disfigure his Venus. “‘I’d rather break the arms of all the philosophes than those of my Venus; if they do

, not know how to appreciate her, I’ll bury her rather than mutilate her.” '” Let philosophy go toe the depths of the Hell from which it came. Fourier would prefer to commit his theory to oblivion rather ‘‘than alter a single syllable” to please this nefarious clique. In his absolutism and his obsessions he was a wor-

, thy successor of Jean-Jacques. The philosophers must either accept the whole theory down to its minutest detail, the arrangement of the last mechanism of the passionate series—or nothing. There would be no compromise with phi-

| losophy and civilization. The system was a total truth which had to be preserved entire; modify its slightest aspect and it would be destroyed. The philosophes were the infamous ones to be crushed; Fourier was the antiVoltaire. Contemporary followers of the pretentious eighteenth-century moralists who believed in the perfectibility of reason had formed a cabal—he , sounds Burkean in his imagining of the plot—to suppress invention in general | and the one inventor in particular who could assure the happiness of mankind. The new philosophical superstition, the exaltation of reason at the expense of the passions, had to be obliterated to make way for the Fourierist truth. The morality preached by the philosophers of all ages had always been a hypocritical mask. Paris and London were the principal ‘‘volcanoes of morality” which each year poured forth on the civilized world veritable torrents of moral sys-

virtue. :

tems, and yet these two cities were the bastions of depravity. Athens and Sparta, the ancient centers of philosophy, had espoused pederasty as the path of

In the divine designation of insignificant Fourier as the bearer of the new doctrine of salvation there was a symbol, a correspondence with the ancient choice of a poor carpenter to defeat the scribes. ‘‘Finally to complete the humil- | jation of these modern titans,” he wrote in the Théorie des quatre mouvements, “God decreed that they should be beaten by an inventor who is a stranger to the sciences and that the theory of universal movement should fall to the lot , of an almost illiterate man; it is a store clerk who is going to confound these libraries of politics and morals, the shameful fruit of ancient and modern charlatanism. Well! It is not the first time that God has used a lowly man to humble the great and has chosen an obscure man to bring to the world the most impor-

tant message.’’ ‘8 |

FOURIER: THE BURGEONING OF INSTINCT 653 The works of Fourier leveled the most circumstantial attack on the uses of civilization since Rousseau. What Fourier lacked in style he made up in profusion of detail. The cheats of ordinary commercial arrangements, the boredom of family life, the deceits of marriage, the hardships of the one-family farm and the miseries of pauperism in the great cities, the evils of naked competition, the neglect of genius, the sufferings of children and old people, the wastefulness of economic crises and wars added up to a total rejection of civilization as a human epoch. Proof positive that it was quintessentially unnatural lay in the fact that children and savages, who were closest to nature, would have none of the ways of civilization until they were violently forced into its toils. The coercive mechanisms of society disguised as reason, duty, moderation, morality, necessity, or resignation did not work. In order to maintain its dominion the apparatus of mercantile trickery and morality called civilization had been constrained to rely upon more terrible contrivances: the executioner and his accessories, the prisons and the bastilles. “Try to suppress these instruments of torture and the next day you will see the whole people in revolt abandoning work and returning to the savage state. Civilization is therefore a society that is contrary to nature, a reign of violence and cunning, and political science and morality, which have taken three thousand years to create this monstrosity, are sciences that are contrary to nature and worthy of profound contempt.” The natural goal of man was an affluence of pleasures and riches, not penury, chastity, and self-sufficiency; order and free choice, not individualistic anarchy; instead of the negative philosophy of repression, the positive one of attraction. Civilized doctrines of “the wealth of nations’? had merely succeeded in covering the immense majority of laborers with rags. The lot of ordinary people under civilization was worse than that of animals. Fourier arraigned the supposed achievements of the industrial revolution, charging that men had been more wretched since the introduction of the steam engine and the railroad than they had been before. The steam carriage and the steam boat, which rivaled the grasshoppers and the salmon in their velocity, were beyond doubt fine trophies for man, but these prodigies were premature. Under existing conditions of civilized society they did not lead to the goal of augmenting in steady proportions the well-being of all social classes—rich, comfortable, middle, and poor. There was a gulf between progress in material industry and backwardness in industrial politics, or the art of increasing the happiness of nations in proportion to the progress of their labors. Men were retrogressing in the very branch of knowledge most useful to them. Among the hardest-working nations—England, Ireland, and Belgium—the povertystricken class included as many as thirty out of a hundred; in areas that were not industrialized—Russia, Portugal—the number of indigents was three out of a hundred, ten times less than in industrialized countries. In terms of genuine progress the social system was therefore a contradiction, an essentially absurd mechanism whose elements of potential good only resulted in evil. This was the art of transforming gold into copper, the fate of any business in which philosophical science had become involved. Philosophy had tried to direct monarchs and peoples. Where had it led them? Sovereigns were falling into debt, running to usurers, and vying with one another in ruining their states while the peoples who had been promised happiness were experiencing a hard time getting work and bread and were never sure of having it on the morrow.

654 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE |

where. ,

Such were the fruits of the science of deception called political and business economics. Let false progress be recognized for what it was, mere nonsensical social change that, like a horse, moved round and round without getting any-

Fourier’s writings became the locus classicus for descriptions of the evils of capitalism, the thievery of the stock market, the ‘“‘corruption of commerce,” the miseries of economic crises, the hoarding, the speculation. The civilized order was like a dinner table at which the guests fought with one another over every morsel, while if they lived amid the abundance of the phalanstery each man would graciously serve his neighbor. How could moralists pretend to be shocked by the intricate love relations in the state of harmony when they toler-

, ated with equanimity the crowding of men and women into the attics of Lyons as if they were herrings in a barrel? Of all the consequences of industrial and commercial anarchy Fourier was most profoundly angered by the squandering of natural resources and the products of the earth, because this represented an absolute diminution of potential pleasure for mankind. His witness of the dumping of boatloads of rice during a famine in order to sustain high prices assumed the same symbolic significance as his vision of the costly apple. The intermediaries in the contemporary social mechanism who were not directly related to production—housekeepers, soldiers, bureaucrats, merchants, law-yers, prisoners, philosophers, Jews, and the unemployed—were useless and parasitic; they lived at the expense of producers, savages, barbarians, and children.

Fourier’s critique of civilization concentrated on the portrayal of its pervasive poverty. Virtually all men—not only the proletariat—are poor, because their passions are unfilfilled, their senses are not appeased, their amorous emotions are curbed, and their naturally complex social sensibilities can find outlets only in pitifully limited channels. As a consequence all men are bored. In civilization the distinction between the rich and the poor remains an important one because among the rich a small minority may even today enjoy a measure of

satisfaction, while the poor are almost totally deprived. If the gastronomy of the rich is mediocre, the poor suffer hunger in an absolute sense. If the rich can at least partially alleviate their ennui by changing women and occupations and by satisfying their senses with music and beautiful sights, the poor man bound to his small agricultural plot is condemned to long hours of repetitive labor and is almost completely bereft of pleasures. A holding based on the organiza-

, tion of the family is far too circumscribed a unit for the contentment of man. While the most obvious distinction between the rich and poor is economic, the concepts of richness and luxe (and its opposite, poverty) acquired far broader connotations in Fourier. The idea of luxury has no pejorative overtones; rich- —

ness is one of the basic desires of all men; it identifies a way of lifein which = there is a continual experience of a wide variety of sensations and in which the _ opportunities for gratification are ample. Real passionate richness is what _ Fourier is extolling, not mere richness of wish or fantasy; being rich implies active indulgence in sensuous delights. Fourier cleansed luxury of its Christian — theological stigma and demoted poverty from its ideal position as a crowning virtue. “‘Poverty is worse than vice,” he quoted from his Franche-Comtois peasant compatriots. In the state of civilization class conflict has become endemic because the poor who are ungratified hate the rich who seem to be ful-

FOURIER: THE BURGEONING OF INSTINCT 655 filled (though in reality they are not) and the rich are fearful of the poor who might deprive them of their pleasures. The view of the class system of domination as a form of instinctual repression—which Freud hinted at in his last

works—was developed extensively by Fourier.

Family life, the key social institution of the civilized state, was Fourier’s most compelling example of an unnatural institution holding men in its iron grip, bringing misery to all its members. While upon casual inspection the patriarchal monogamous family of the French appeared to establish a system under which the males were free to satisfy their sexual passions outside of the marital bond without suffering derogation and only the females were enslaved,

the realities of contemporary marriage were oppressive to men and women alike. The legal fettering of women’s desires had resulted in the invention of countless subterfuges to evade the law and in the diffusion of a general hypocritical spirit throughout society. Cuckoldry was rampant. Fourier’s anatomy of modern adultery with its intricate categories and typologies—he identified some sixty-odd ideal situations, varying subtly with the temperaments of the threesome involved and their social status—is a triumph of psychological analysis which earned the plaudits of no less an observer of the human comedy than Honore de Balzac. The husband is by no means the only sufferer and ridiculous figure in the drama, for the adulterers never appease their real passions and have to pay dearly for the mere semblance of contentment. From his conversation with men boasting about their conquests, Fourier, not yet equipped with the delicate statistical techniques of contemporary sexo-

logists from Indiana, arrived at the gross estimate that on the average each member of the female sex contracted six liaisons of fornication before marriage

and six of adultery after marriage. But what about the exceptions, he asked rhetorically in a section of the Traité de l’association domestique-agricole piquantly

entitled ‘‘Equilibre subversif.’’ There goes a man who claims that he has taken | a virgin to wife. He has, he says, good proofs. Maybe, if he married her young enough. But if she has not, before marriage, provided her quota of illicit loves

to maintain the “subversive equilibrium,” she will have to compensate by twelve liaisons of adulterous commerce after marriage. “‘No, says the husband, she will be chaste. I shall see to it. In that case it is necessary that her neighbor

compensate by twenty-four infractions, twelve in fornication and twelve in adultery, since the general equilibrium requires twelve times as many illicit liaisons as there are men.’’”° Granted the relative accuracy of his informants, Fourier’s computations were impeccable. Fourier’s mordant descriptions of supposedly monogamous marital relations in a state of civilization were designed to silence those critics of free love in the state of harmony who had denounced its bestial materialism. Marriage in contemporary society, he wrote in the Theorie de l’unité universelle, is ““pure brutality, a casual pairing off provoked by the domestic bond without any illu-

sion of mind or heart. This is the normal way of life among the mass of the people. Dulled, morose couples who quarrel all day long are reconciled to each

other on the bolster because they cannot afford two beds, and contact, the sud- , den pinprick of the senses, triumphs for a moment over conjugal satiety. If this is love it is the most material and the most trivial sort.”’?* The desires of most people are polygamous, witness the secret bacchanalia which take place in small villages and the virtual community of women which

656 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE prevails among the rich. The great ‘“‘passionate”’ lie of love in the state of civili-

zation is rooted in the philosophical dogma that all men and women are the same in their wants. This is simply not true. Men and women have different love needs at various periods in their life cycle. Even persons of the same age group have widely divergent amorous tendencies ranging from the extreme of

, inconstancy—the Don Juan type among men—to the rare extreme of monogamy. To subject them equally to the same rigid law must inevitably yield a harvest of unhappiness for all. The gospel of Fourier was the ultimate triumph of the expansive romantic _ ideal. True happiness consisted of plenitude and the enjoyment of an ever-increasing abundance of pleasure. Man’s goal was not the attainment of illusory juridical rights but the flowering of the passions. Though civilization was originally an advance over savagery, patriarchy, and barbarism, in its present decadent state its superiority was not marked enough to attract either savages or barbarians. In the civilized world anarchic competition, monopoly, commercial feudalism, business speculation were despoiling the earth, spreading misery, fostering thievery in the guise of commerce. Men with diverse passionate natures were constricted within the bonds of monogamous marriage, which

forced them to seek other sexual pleasures clandestinely. Man had a progressive need for ever more multifarious luxuries of the table; such gastronomic pleasures were now denied to the vast bulk of the population and the destiny of a substantial portion was hunger. Men were bored by a dull family life under civilization, and at their parties and in their clubs there was a frantic though vain attempt to escape tedium, the corrosive enemy of the species.

| _ The Twelve Passions ‘Passionate attraction” was defined by Fourier at the opening of Le Nouveau monde industriel as “the drive given us by nature prior to any reflection, persist-

ent despite the opposition of reason, of duty, and of prejudice . . .”’”* At the core of his system was the identification of the passions of man—his fundamental instinctual drives—which like the signs of the zodiac, the gods of Olympus, and the apostles were twelve in number. Unfortunately he changed his nomenclature from time to time, introducing neologisms in ‘‘-ism” and ‘-ique,’’ competing with the coiners of stylish philosophical slogans. Nevertheless the passions can be described and rendered into English. The whole | system is an organic one, conceived as analogous to a tree—Saint-Simon’s favorite simile too. From the trunk, which is labeled unityism, stem the three main branches of the passions, the luxurious, the group, and the serial. When unityism is treated as a distinct passion it is the one that links a man’s happiness with all that surrounds him, with the rest of mankind. Sometimes it is another

| name for that general outgoing feeling which contemporaries translated as philanthropy and which Saint-Pierre had called bienveillance; it is not alien to the | benevolence of the Scottish moralists. When Fourier was at a loss for positive ways to communicate his meaning he defined unityism as the polar opposite of _

| egotism, the all-pervasive emotion of the state of civilization. Unityism set the dominant tone of the state of harmony; it integrated all other passions, and

therefore was appropriately the trunk of the tree. ,

The first branch of the passions was the luxurious one, a category designat- __

FOURIER: THE BURGEONING OF INSTINCT 657 ing the desires of the five senses. Every passion in this branch had an internal and an external manifestation. The internal signified the mere healthy physical capacity to give the senses great development, a respect in which human beings by nature varied. In the state of civilization the external luxurious fulfillment of the passions of the senses was dependent upon wealth; hence the anomaly, characteristic of this vicious human condition, that persons with fine appetites _ and vigorous stomachs capable of grand gastronomic feats were starving, that men with the subtlest musical sensibilities could never hear an opera, while those who were tone-deaf attended concerts for mere show. By virtually abolishing the barrier of penury, harmony would allow for the flowering of any inner sense. Fourier would enrich sight with the elegant structures of careful city planning, hearing with fine music; he would open up unexplored opportunities for the development of the sense of taste—on one journey this poor clerk, the inmate of provincial boardinghouses, had met Brillat-Savarin himself.

| The four group passions, another branch, were called also the affective passions and comprised the desires for respect (our translation of the passion for honor), for friendship, for love, and for parenthood. Like the passions of the senses, they not only differed in intensity among individuals but their actualization assumed divergent forms in each of the thirty-two basic epochs of social movement through time, from Edenism up the scale to harmony and down again to dissolution. While the familial passion, for example, might linger on during the transition period from civilization to harmony, it would finally disappear in the perfect order of free love. In civilization parenthood was one of the most frustrated forms of affection because the intensity of feeling that flowed from the superior to the inferior was never balanced by an equal reciprocal emotion on the part of the inferior. A father loved his child at least three times more than his love was returned; in harmony no father would be repressive—the educational system allowed for. pampering—and therefore no child could resist loving his father. (Though the love relationship might never be equal, the discrepancy would be narrowed to at least a ratio of three to two.)”* Everything in civilization was upside down; since the familial passion had been elevated to primacy at the expense of the other affections, the whole emotional system had become gangrenous with falsehood. The three passions of the last branch, called the serial or distributive, were the most difficult to describe because in the state of civilization they were either unknown or frustrated. These were the passion to make arrangements (the concordant or the composite), the passion for intrigue (the discordant or the cabalist), and the passion for variety (the changeling or the butterfly). The existence of these passions had once been recognized by the primitives, but only in harmony would they be satisfied. ‘Here lies the secret of the lost happiness which has to be rediscovered,’ Fourier wrote in the Quatre mouvements.** The serial passions were the drives of the socializing mechanism; their intervention, which led to the creation of multifarious forms of association, made it possible for the sensory and the affective passions to achieve realization. Since these crucial instrumental—perhaps catalytic—passions were suppressed in civilization, this state could never allow for the harmonious expression of any passion. While the philosophes and the Saint-Simonians, as well as Comte, were pro-

658 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE phesying an eternal Sabbath, a peace in which the elements of conflict were eliminated from human relationships, Fourier was analyzing the benign effects __ of the passion for discord, a notion which Georg Simmel elaborated later in the century in his sociology of conflict. The cabalistic spirit was an excellent mech-

, anism with which to electrify the mass of workers and cause them to perform miracles. The passion for intrigue, which stimulated men to a great variety of combinations, kept them alert, interested, informed about the affairs of others in old age (in the passive cabalistic sense), had to spend itself in civilization in card playing and gambling, substitute “intrigues” to which bored people resorted because there were no opportunities for real ones. Fourier knew that some men, the cabalistic types, loved complex relationships, and he provided

conditions in phalanstery under which they would be able to exercise their imaginative capacity for effecting novel combinations. The passion to emulate would not be stifled but heightened; there would be all manner of contests in phalanstery among age-groups and work crews on the same project, but since these parties were not fixed organizations the competition would never con-

tinue between the same groups, and it would have none of the destructive qualities of rivalry in a state of civilization. It was of the English playing-field type, without acrimony or excessive hostility. For the performance of various functions during the course of a day in phalanstery the same individuals would be opponents and loving associates. Those who in the morning might belong

to rival cabbage-growing teams would by evening be cooperating with each other in an orchestral performance and vying with another group. The plurality _ of associations took the sting out of competition; the emphasis was always on the relations of love and friendship within the work unit, not on the hostility to a rival group; but the stimulus of emulation was recognized as an indispensable ingredient. The order of the phalanstery took cognizance of the reality that many men, like butterflies, would, if they could, flit from one occupation to another, from one woman to another. These “papillon” desires would be appeased by allowing for frequent changes of occupation and of loves. At present men were al- |

- most universally condemned to labor inhumanly long hours fettered to the hoe or to the industrial machine. The most remarkable aspect of the organization _ of labor in harmony was the regularity of the’ shift of work from one job to another; sessions of labor or of entertainment rarely lasted longer than an hour even among the poorer members of the phalanstery. This helped to combat _ _ boredom, which for Fourier was always one of the most painful consequences of civilization. A major vice of civilization, the desire for domination, was transformed in

phalanstery. Men changed their occupations frequently during a day, work groups were composed of rich and poor alike, all age-groups and both sexes were represented, the members had different talents and pursued their tasks with varying degrees of assiduity, and no one man was always the leader—he might be a captain one hour, a lieutenant the next, and a mere private the third. _ Thus no classes of superiors and inferiors that endured for a whole day could ever be established, and the problem of power was resolved. There were numerous honorific offices in the world of phalanstery, and men, women, and children were always being awarded posts of honor and respect (the two were virtually identical), graduated up to the world throne of omniarchy. Every-

FOURIER: THE BURGEONING OF INSTINCT 659 body received some honor and respect. Ambition permeated the social order; the need for respect was wholesome; it was destructive only if it was exclusive and manifested itself as an all-consuming lust for power. Since affections were always allowed free play in phalanstery there was no shame attached to being subordinate or passive in love, friendship, or organized activity. All passions created by God were naturally good and harmonious if they were afforded maximal expression. The order of harmony was ever vigilant that every one of the twelve basic passions be well nourished. Man was by nature cooperative, loving, philanthropic, a creature with expansive capacities for enjoyment—he only needed an appropriate order based on a recognition of the mechanism of the passions. This order had to await the inventive genius of Fourier, the Columbus of the social world, as he liked to call himself. The object of the phalanstery was not regimentation for its own sake; the order had to be complex because it was the only true way to provide for the intricacy of

human emotions. |

Fourier’s determination of the size of the phalansterian unit which in harmony was to replace the family was made by an analysis of the passions. He arrived at a minimal figure of twice 810 persons. There were in reality an infinite number of human character combinations, since any man was a composite of twelve passions each of which had a wide range, not counting the manias which were rare distortions of the passions but were present in every man to some degree. Nevertheless, for purposes of the economy of the phalanstery, he was willing to reduce men to 810 fundamental passionate combinations. For a rich life in the phalanstery all of the types in both sexes would have to be represented; usually he felt that a random sample of about 1,700 to 1,800 persons would yield the required full quota. The phalanstery would thus be a meeting place of diverse types who because of their very diversity could fashion by their own will a multiplicity of relationships of love and labor. While most choices in phalanstery would be spontaneous, on occasion gifted psychological directors might intervene with advice. There would be a sort of card catalogue where each of the basic 810 types was identified, and if a weary

| traveler arrived in a phalanstery he could approach the proper bureau, be interviewed, have his character determined, and within a few hours find himself in the presence of a partner with whom he would be able to establish immediate amorous relations. (This is the fantasy of the traveling salesman who spent restless lonely nights in grubby provincial hotels.) Typologizing was to be an intrinsic part of the system, and the wise men who intuitively recognized psychological types would be highly paid in phalanstery because they could suggest perfect work-love combinations. Passions would be enjoyed vicariously as well as actively, and older people in particular were not deprived of detailed information about the newest amorous intrigues in the haylofts of phalanstery, because each age-group had a right to all possible pleasures. The mood of the phalanstery was peaceful, nondestructive, and nonviolent, and yet it was lively, rich, and joyous, an uninterrupted Saturday-night party, one grand weekend of horticulture and arboriculture, operas, parades, banquets, and lovemaking. Only the destroyers of life, insipidity and dullness, were banished. A revolutionary educational policy was the heart of the phalansterian system. Whereas civilized education repressed and denatured the faculties of the

660 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE child, the new education was aimed at what would now be called ‘‘self-actualization,’’ the development of all the physical and intellectual faculties, especially the capacities for love and pleasure.” While the deathbed message of SaintSimon to his disciples also committed them to this ideal, different spirits permeate the two systems. The Saint-Simonians tended to categorize men into

fixed professional types and to build their society out of gigantic corporate blocks; Fourier composed his harmonious phalansterian worlds out of psychological elements which happened to have individual embodiments. If in both systems the end was the creation of a new social being, Fourier’s individuals were allowed to fulfill themselves passionately to a degree that the Saint-Simonians would not have conceived of. Their doctrine was fundamentally soci-

ological and his psychological. Both systems were expansive in contrast with Owen’s rather barrackslike monastic communism which created equality by _ decreasing consumption, and both valued physical as well as moral passions, at least in theory; but the Saint-Simonians often opted for the sublimation of desires as a high level of existence, while Fourier accepted gross oral and genital

pressions of the real man. ,

, gratifications, if they were not harmful to others, as legitimate, desirable ex-

Once modern moralists had become acutely conscious of the cultural relativity of customs and manners, they set out in quest of some new Petrine rock on which to raise their edifice. The eighteenth-century utopians chose reason as the only sure haven, even though aware that it was subject to the violent buffetings of emotion and to massive tidal waves of passion. Fourier’s relativism forced him to seek out the passions as the only secure foundations because in common experience they alone counted: their potency was in a ratio of twelve to one if compared with reason, and nothing could be done to alter the relationship. “‘Since customs and morality are conventions which vary in accordance with each century, each country, and each legislator, there is only One way to arrive at moral stability: rallying customs around the desires of the

passions, for these are invariable. In what century, in what place, have they , bent before our systems? They march triumphant and unperturbed along the road which the Author of their movement has laid out for them. They overturn all obstacles, and reason will not prevail against them. What is the use of beating against this rock?”’*® For Christianity and for its eighteenth-century opponents the passions were shifting sands, their essential definition was changeability and transience. Fourier’s paradoxical transvaluation made them

the only authentic stable force throughout time. | Love in the state of harmony recognized the simple truth that in any coupling a great number of different amorous modes would prevail: Love might _ be purely physical or purely spiritual, a combination of physical and spiritual elements on the part of both persons, or physical alone on one side and spiritual alone on the other. A delicate yet frank examination of the characteristics involved in a love relationship would bring about optimum fulfillment in the

state of harmony—a condition which was rarely possible in civilization. — Fourier was aware of a dialectical quality in most passionate relations. Insome, _ as in ambition, there was a natural submission of the weaker to the stronger; in others, as in love and the family, a contrapuntal submission of the stronger to _

the weaker. ,

Of the various “‘ways’’ toward the pursuit of happiness that Freud outlined

FOURIER: THE BURGEONING OF INSTINCT 661 in a famous passage of Civilization and Its Discontents, Fourier would have chosen the path leading to substantial and immediate gratifications. To Freud’s ar-

gument that in the nature of things pleasure can only follow upon the tension of deprivation Fourier would have replied that there was room enough in most people’s lives for a great increase in direct and varied pleasures because men

were in fact in a grave state of deprivation. Fourier would not on principle have been opposed to what Freud called sublimation, but he would have left this effort to those who desired it. As for the uses of tension in creating the possibility of pleasure, this involved the very heart of the mechanism of attraction for Fourier. He made use of an arsenal of “distributive” and “affective”

passions in order to maximize pleasure and to prevent the intrusion of that. state of boredom which kills passion. The Fourierist system has been likened to a bordello where various stimulants are administered to provoke the capacity for pleasure. Fourier would have contended that in a state of harmony there was nothing intrinsically wrong about desires aroused in this manner. They were vicious in civilization only because the labors were not free and volun-

tary.

The attempt to reduce the Jaws governing the passions of man to a handful, the adaptation of Newtonian terminology, and the frequent use of mathematical-physical analogies were characteristic of the quest for certainty in the science of man during this period. Saint-Simon’s early writings had seized on the monist principle of gravity as the key to the universal system. Fourier’s four ‘‘movements”’ of the passions were similar imitations of science. ‘For passionate attraction is as fixed as physical. If there are seven colors in the rainbow there are seven primitive passions in the soul. If there are four curves in the

, cone there are four groups of passionate attraction whose properties are the same as those of conic sections. Nothing can vary in my theory,” he had written in the first fragmentary exposition of the doctrine.?’ The analogy between the psychological world and the Newtonian physical universe, this new version of the ancient comparison of the microcosm with the macrocosm, could not be driven further. Perhaps the manifesto of the whole system had already been issued in the Lettre au grand juge, a strange communication that Fourier had addressed to the attorney general under Napoleon back in 1799. “What

does happiness consist of but in experiencing and satisfying an immense quantity of passions which are not harmful? That will be the fortune of men when , they are delivered from the civilized, barbarous, and savage states. Their passions will be so numerous, so fiery, so varied, that the rich man will spend his life in a sort of permanent frenzy and the days which are today twenty-four hours long will pass as if they were one.’’”* Fourier’s works on the future happiness of mankind were an attempt to communicate a state of permanent orgasm. If the passions were good, then eternal convulsion was bliss itself. The aims of the phalanstery were the attainment of riches and pleasures; or both could be combined to describe the common goal as the expansive enjoyment of rich pleasures. This would be achieved by uniting pleasure with work, making work attractive, establishing an accord in the distribution of rewards to three “‘faculties” (capital, labor, and talent), and spontaneously amalgamating unequal classes. Work in phalanstery is attractive because it is never mere labor out of necessity but is always related to one or more of the fundamental passions with which all men are endowed. Primarily men proceed to satisfy

662 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE

curse has been lifted. , their passions; in the course of this delightful pastime they labor. The biblical

The ideal society was not a grouping together of people who were more or

less similar and hence compatible with one another. In phalanstery there would be an assembly of dissimilar character types and ages. Instead of conformities and identities Fourier maximized differences and created as many novel combinations as possible while still keeping his basic societal unit within manageable limits. He inquired into the unique characteristics of each age-group, and instead of subjecting all human beings to the uniformity of family life he made

them happy by allowing for the particular social arrangements which were , most passionately attractive at each stage in life. Children love to move about in hordes, to parade and display emblems; with appropriate organization and incentive he could even make the dirty work of the phalanstery attractive to

this age-group. Work on the manure piles, which had disturbed Nathaniel Hawthorne during his stay at Brook Farm,”® had been amply provided for by Fourier. ““The natural penchant of children for filth becomes the charm and the bond of the series. God gave children these strange tastes to provide for the execution of various repulsive tasks. If manure has to be spread over a field,

- youths will find it a repugnant job but groups of children will devote themselves to it with greater zeal than to clean work.” °° Among the young and the middle-aged he recognized love as the dominant passion, and the major labors of society would be organized around their manifold love relationships. Work performed by groups bound together by amorous ties would be far more pro-

ductive than the labors of competitive civilization. Only the aged tended to be , naturally familial, and there was room for the appeasement of this desire too. None of the age-group relations of love and labor were stereotyped. Allowance was made for the mutual passions of older men and young girls, older ~women and young boys. All human beings could be fitted into some symbiotic love relation; there were no absolute misfits in the fantasy world of lonely Charles Fourier. In and of itself work was neither a blessing nor a curse, but men drawn to labor in common by the attraction of sexual passion would find even work pleasurable.

In rebellion against scholastic theology and the intricacies of the royal ad- , ministration of France, the philosophes and their Revolutionary followers had eulogized sacred simplicity and a mechanical order in which all the parts were virtually interchangeable. Fourier rejected the simple as false and evil, and insisted on complexity, variety, contrast, multiplicity. His denunciations of the metaphysical order of the philosophers are reminiscent of Burke, though he

never read him. Since man was a psychologically complex creature he needed :

an intricate social order to fulfill the design of his nature. , Repressions and Manias , — “Nature driven out through the door comes back through the window,”’ : Fourier wrote to the Gazette de France.*' The whole system of repression is, according to Fourier, based on the assumption that man is free to choose between succumbing to the so-called destructive impulses or resisting them. The premise is false. Nothing can be done to curb the natural passions under civilization short of the use of inhuman instruments of oppression. Man’s only alternative is a choice between a vicious civilized state and a virtuous phalan-

FOURIER: THE BURGEONING OF INSTINCT 663 sterian one. Once they are thrust into civilization most men cannot resist the forces which lead them to what is known as evil. “Perhaps a few individuals with weak passions seem to be less driven and they give the appearance of having the faculty to repress their passions’’—shades of Nietzsche—‘“‘but the mass

will never repress theirs.’ What happens in civilization is that the repressed passions assume a different external form. “Hence the development which, after Horace and La Fontaine, I have called the countermovement (contremarche) and re-currence of the passions deprived of expression. These produce a double

evil instead of the double good which might have been born of their direct development.” *? The pivotal social science was the analysis of the twelve ‘‘recurrent’”’ passions or counterpassions, the malignant transformations of the be-

nign. If, for example, the normal desires for fame and for love do not have

, natural outlets, they are turned into perversions of the passions: the ambitious ones become philosophes and the amorous ones prostitutes. “It is then that one realizes the stupidity of the philosophes who want to repress, compress, and suppress nature and the passions.’’** The same theme was repeated in Le Nouveau monde industriel: “It is easy to compress the passions with violence. Philosophy supresses them with a stroke of the pen. Prison bolts and the saber come to the aid of gentle morality. But nature appeals from these judgments. It recaptures its rights in secret. Passion stifled at one point reappears in another, like nature contained by a dike; it is driven in like the humor of an ulcer closed too soon,’’34

In the state of harmony the patently destructive passions are not sublimated, they are merely channelized and used in a salutary manner by being appropriately combined with others. Fourier’s employment of the little hordes of boys that love to wallow in dirt is a classic example of the technique; as disposers of

filth, they contribute to the mechanism of harmony. Moreover, Fourier the eternal bookkeeper added, they are economical agents since they are paid only in fumeées de gloire (clearly a pun on fumier).*° His treatment of a potential Nero is equally well known, a device often adopted by Eugene Sue in effectuating a

sudden reformation of the characters in his novels. The rehabilitation of Slasher in Les Mysteres de Paris is completely in the Fourier spirit. If a Nero is

harassed and repressed up to the age of sixteen, at twenty he becomes like a powerful torrent that breaks the dike and ravages the countryside. ‘“This is the effect of morality which while trying to repress and to change the passions merely irritates them and treats them as infamous in order to excuse its ignorance of the proper method of employing them.”’ The remedy for Nero is simple: “From an early age he will be attracted to work in the butcheries.’’ *® The distortion of salutary passions into vices as a direct consequence of repression is one of the more original psychological reflections of Fourier. To describe the dynamics of the phenomenon he invented a special vocabulary which is perhaps neither better nor worse than the one that has come to dominate our common modes of expression, and he garnered a few case histories to support his abstract system. In Volume 9 of La Phalange the disciples rescued the following strange passage from the debris of his manuscripts: Every passion that is suffocated produces its counterpassion, which is as malignant as the natural passion would have been benign. The same holds true for manias. Let us give an example of their suffocation. Lady Strogonoff, a Moscow princess, seeing herself grow old, became jealous of the beauty of one of her young slaves. She had her tortured; she herself pricked her with

664 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE pins. What was the real motive behind these cruelties? Was it really jealousy? No. With-

out knowing it the woman was in love with the beautiful slave in whose torture she participated. If someone had presented this idea to Madame Strogonoff and arranged a conciliation between her and her victim, they would have become very passionate friends, But instead of thinking of it, the princess fell into a counterpassion of a subversive character. She persecuted the person whom she should have cherished, and her fury was all the greater since the suffocation derived from a prejudice which, in hiding the | veritable object of her passion from this lady, did not even leave her the possibility of an ideal development. A violent suffocation, which is the nature of all forced privations, leads to such furies. Others have exercised in a collective sense the atrocities which Madame Strogonoff practiced individually. Nero loved collective cruelties or their general application. Odin had made of them a religious system and de Sade a moral system. This taste for atrocities is nothing but a counterpassion, the effect of a suffocation of the

passions. °*” ,

Fourier’s appreciation of the nature of primitive religious ritual and of the character of de Sade’s writings is rare in this period. It is an axiom of the system that virtually all sadistic passions could be turned inito wholesome expressions. In Fourier this is accomplished without sublimation into the higher mental systems; and the newly directed passions lose nothing of their vivacity and

intensity—a proposition that Freud generally denied. , With a sense of compassion hitherto unknown in psychological literature Fourier confronted the problem of hidden manias, and when they were not harmful to others he defended their right to existence as a part of man’s nature. “After the many insults which have been heaped upon the self-love of civilized men, I am finally going to rehabilitate them in their own eyes and become the champion of every one of their manias. I am going to teach them to be proud of all the ludicrous secret feelings which bewilder them and which everyone conceals, even the amorous extravagances which readily lend themselves to

jokes .. .”°8 Though his definition is somewhat cryptic, the notion of a , mania as a secondary passion should attract the interest of sexologists. ‘“Manias are diminutive passions, the result of man’s need to create stimulants for him-_

| self. This can give rise to superstition and is, so to speak, the root of spiritual manias. In love, especially when one seeks an ideal happiness in a habit that is

in itself often indifferent, manias develop very actively.”°? Normally the

| twelve passions in their various combinations grouped themselves into 810 _ types; but the manias were outside the keyboard of the passions. If they were as frequent as I in 810, they were still intramanias; if'as rare as I in 100,000, clearly

extramanias. “The passionate manias, both intra and extra keyboard, are innumerable, for each person can have many in relation to each passion, many in © love, many in friendship, in ambition, and even in the passions of the senses.”’ Fourier’s formal definition of a mania in his manuscripts was not very satisfactory. “I call deviation or mania in passion every fantasy which is considered unreasonable and outside of the circle of the passion, outside of its admissible development.” *° The rare manias arrested Fourier’s particular attention; if they were infinitesimal in number in the world, they would be especially significant

| in the study of psychological prognoses called horoscopes, for the very infrequency of a mania made its effect the more readily calculable. All manias were

to be investigated with respect: men were without prudery in harmony. Fourier was conscious of the prejudices he would have to overcome in rehabilitating manias that were seemingly useless and extremely bizarre, especially since the amorous passion itself was not yet recognized in its own full rights.

FOURIER: THE BURGEONING OF INSTINCT 665 The ultimate purpose of conducting psychological studies was the prediction of human character by the establishment of physical and psychic correspondences. Calculations based on his 810 basic types would be extended through many generations with the purpose of foretelling the appearance of manias in an active, passive (we would now say latent), or mixed state—social hygiene. If at an early age a child showed the identifiable manias of a future monster, men would know soon enough to keep him away from the throne. In this respect Fourier differentiated his system not only from the rival sects of Owen and Saint-Simon but from the phrenologists with whose character typologies he had certain marked affinities. The phrenologists were only willing, on physiological grounds, to indicate the psychological propensities of an individual; they would never hazard a guess about what circumstances might do to alter them. Fourier’s system, on the contrary, not only analyzed character but so fashioned the external circumstances of society that a sound development of natural tendencies was predetermined.

In proclaiming absolute freedom from repression Fourier had to face the problem of sexual perversions. He certainly would protect the young from them. In the case of older people, he seems to have hedged. In public he solved the problem by asserting dogmatically that virtually all perversions and vices were the direct consequence of repression. If the banquet of nature were free, he maintained in a passage reminiscent of Montesquieu’s Spirit of the Laws, pederasty and Sapphism would disappear. Alcoholism too was a consequence of deprivation, and if liquors were available in abundance there would be few addicts. Moralists preached their doctrines of repression in order to preserve society—at least that was the pretense—but Fourier doubted profoundly whether moral sermons had ever repressed anything. The real agencies of repression were other, he repeatedly affirmed in crisp language that is a strange echo of de Maistre’s defense of the executioner. “It is not morality but the bay-

onet which represses the weak; and supposing it were a good to repress the passions, is the whole thing not illusory as long as this repression cannot be extended to the powerful, to Nero and Tiberius, to Genghis and Attila, who still have the capacity to persecute a hundred million men? As for the common people whom one pretends to repress, in all countries they abandon themselves

to every vice which force cannot reach, such as embezzlement and adultery . . . Morality is impotent in repression without the gibbet and bayonets, the pivots around which all human legislation revolves.’’*! But what about murder and robbery: Were these not malevolent passions which had to be repressed? Here again Fourier stuck by his contention that in and of themselves there were no evil passions; there were only corrupted developments of originally salutary passions, for in the perfect harmony of God’s creation there were no qualities which did not serve a purpose. Fourier’s system merely drove to their absolute conclusion the arguments that seventeenthand eighteenth-century Christian virtuosi had used to demonstrate God’s perfection from a contemplation of rational purposiveness in the most minute physical and biological phenomena in the world. God had to create bloodthirsty characters. Without them there would be neither hunters nor butchers in harmony. It is therefore necessary that there be among the 810 character types a certain number of naturally ferocious ones, who are actually very wicked in the present order where everything suffocates and irritates the passions; but in harmony where the passions find an easy expression the bloodthirsty man, having no cause to

666 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE , hate his fellows, will be drawn to exercise himself on animals . . . Thus ferocity, the , spirit of conquest, robbery, concupiscence, and many other unsavory passions are not vicious in the seed; only in growth are they rendered vicious by the civilization that poisons the mainsprings of the passions, which were all considered useful by God, who created none of them without assigning to it a place and a purpose in the vast harmonious mechanism. As soon as we wish to repress a single passion we are engaged in an act

of insurrection against God. By that very act we accuse Him of stupidity in having created it.”

Little did Leibniz reckon where his philosophy of universal harmony could lead.

The Delights of Phalanstery | Fourier’s treatment of the education of the young in phalanstery has attracted

special attention because he dissolved traditional family relationships. Any | coercion in the process of upbringing would be prohibited. Methods would be found for giving free expression to the unruly as well as to the docile child, and teachers chosen whose characters harmonized with the various types of chil-

dren. They would be enticed by ruses to perform unpleasant yet necessary tasks such as reading and writing. Instead of the nightmare of howling children in a state of civilization, Fourier opened up the prospect of cooperative young ones engaged in contests, marching in parades, working, and learning what every good phalansterian should know through actual practice, taught by professors who were well paid and had achieved a new dignity in society. If chil- _ dren broke the rules, they would be subject to the reproof of their comrades, a sort of gentle mockery rather than punishment, and when the child returned to

, the bosom of his parents at night they could overwhelm him with love and affection without endangering the educational process or spoiling him. Amorous adolescents and young people would be allowed to contract a wide variety of relationships, some constant, others promiscuous, depending upon their innate character structures, the reality of their passions. This would end hypocrisy in love. One partner would not be condemned to monogamy while the other was free to love at will—the common practice of the rich man in civilization. Contracts of work and love would somehow be supervised, but the punishments for their breach are not always clearly defined. Group opin-

ion, it seems, would exercise its pressure by making the delinquents feel ashamed. With Fourier, as with the Saint-Simonians, penal problems do not loom large, because there is an underlying assumption that once opportunities were open for passionate expression, no one would feel that the contract freely entered into was onerous. Since the dissolution of relationships would be easy,

men would tend to abide by those they accepted without the imposition of

external force—a highly dubious assumption. ,

Fourier preserved private property in his system; he rewarded purchasers of shares in phalanstery according to their investment. He railed against the SaintSimonian abolition of inheritance and against any preachments of communistic economic egalitarianism as unnatural. This was no follower of Babeuf; a

, passion for equality is somehow not recognized in the keyboard. There would _ be disparities of income in the phalanstery and therefore distinctions in the degree of pleasure attainable by those who had greater or fewer economic re-

FOURIER: THE BURGEONING OF INSTINCT 667 sources. When he described a typical day’s program of work and pleasure for a rich man and for a poor man there turned out to be substantial differences in the refinement of the pleasures available to them. Members of the Fourierist movement later tended to minimize these distinctions and to emphasize economic communism, but they were probably not so far wrong in interpreting

the master’s ultimate goal as a superficial reading might indicate. In phalanstery every one was so gloriously rich in a psychic and an emotional sense that the variations in degrees of enjoyment measured in accordance with wealth became insignificant. Wines, for example—and his receipted bills in the Archives Nationales indicate that Fourier was quite interested in the subject as a major source of gastronomic pleasure—that were served at the poorest table in phalanstery would be of a quality superior to the finest Romanée-Conti re-

served in civilization for only a few of the richest men in France. With the prevalence of such real luxury everywhere there could be no class alignments

on the basis of wealth. While the differences existed, they did not matter. Moreover, there was great social mobility, and men and women would shift easily from one economic category to another because passions, not money, would dictate amorous alliances. Fourier’s preservation of a rudimentary economic hierarchy at times seems a mere stratagem to win rich adherents in a blinded world of civilization where men do not recognize true values—their own desires. Fourier took a similar position with respect to the family. He did not abolish it outright; but in phalanstery there were so many other ways of achieving passionate fulfillment that with time this antiquated institutional form would just drop by the wayside—vanish without anyone’s noticing its disappearance. Superior creative talents in any branch of activity would be rewarded with astronomic royalties which made the contemporary compensation of a writer

Or a composer appear puny by contrast. The expansion of creative talents among phalansterians would assume gigantic proportions; under instinctual freedom geniuses would proliferate like rabbits. Fourier’s obscurantism was directed against moralists and philosophers, not against mathematical scientists and artists. ““When the globe shall have been organized and brought to a total of three billion inhabitants, there will normally be on earth thirty-seven million poets the equal of Homer, thirty-seven million mathematicians the equal of Newton, thirty-seven million authors of comedies the equal of Moliére, and the same number in all other conceivable talents (these are estimates). It is a

great error to believe that nature is miserly in talents; it is far more prodigal than our desires and our needs. But one must know how to discover and develop the seed. About this you are as ignorant as a savage is about the discovery and the exploitation of mines.” ” In the choice of his ideal unit of about seventeen hundred persons he was in the ancient Platonic tradition which could only conceive of good societies as small. In making the basic work form agricultural he was giving voice to the small townsman’s horror of the vast agglomerations of Lyons and Paris. But Fourier did not abandon his phalansteries to peasant idiocy and isolation. There would be traveling groups of artists who knitted phalansteries together not only in one nation but in different parts of the world; extraordinary excellence in any field was universally shared, not monopolized. There was even a vague hierarchical set of international political powers, culminating in an om-

668 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE | niarch—a position which he offered Napoleon in his first work. Through its combined efforts the world union of phalansteries would change the physical face of the earth so drastically that the weather would everywhere be affected , and the very polar regions of the earth made habitable—no longer so absurd a notion as it appeared to the shortsighted journalists of Fourier’s France. Fourier knew that he had aroused great enmity among the respectable middle-aged defenders of the family; after one year in phalanstery the rigorous moralists would become the most ardent admirers of the system of free love. The corps spirit of the vestal virgins would defend the chastity of young girls ——those who chose this way of life—far more effectively than the watchful eyes of bourgeois parents. Aging men and women would find young lovers without losing their self-respect, because the organized groups of bayaderes, female fakirs, bacchants, and magicians would appease all desires and be paid by © society, not the individual. Fourier was one of the first to dwell on the psychic isolation of the aged, condemned to the company of babies for conversation. The twentieth-century medical science of geriatrics would have much to learn from his reflections. Fourier always maintained that his theories of love had been completely misunderstood by his critics, who applied them to the present debased state of civilization, whereas they were intended for a purified humanity. “‘People keep judging the innovations I have proclaimed in accordance with the results they would bring forth if amalgamated with civilization, a condition in which they would only produce material and spiritual infamies.’’** How could the exis-

tence of corporations of voluptuaries be reconciled with a civilized order which is infected with venereal diseases? How could such corporations be or- | ganized before mankind had been cleansed by a universal quarantine—somewhat difficult to implement, to be sure—one of the first public measures of the unitary order? The same incompatibility existed in the moral sphere. Would not the bayadeéres willing to devote themselves to the service of the contemporary vulgar rabble be even more crapulous than they? “‘All the arrangements of free love are reserved for a period when the physical and moral being of people shall have been transformed, and it is ridiculous to think that I ever had the

notion of fully applying this new system to the present-day mob. But our great minds do not want to wait until an inventor has explained his plan to them; they anticipate his reasoning and know better than he does what he has not yet communicated . . . To condemn without listening, that is the rule of the modern philosophers who brag that they have perfected the perfection of

perfectibility.” * | |

In the stage called Sériosophie, which precedes harmony, when men are still in the process of developing the passionate series, great sensitivity would have to be exercised during the ritual of choosing among partners to make certain that no pain was inflicted on rejected suitors. At a ball no individual invitations would be extended from a man to a woman; instead there would be multiple requests signalized by the deposition of symbolic torches before each woman, and when she finally made her selection the refusal would be “composite’’; it would never be given directly and verbally and thus would not wound any one © individual. Should there be only two requests, the woman must accept them both lest a singular refusal result. Fourier’s psychology was founded upon the premise that in plurality and complexity there lay salvation and happiness; in

FOURIER: THE BURGEONING OF INSTINCT 669 multiplicity there was freedom. The dangerous relationships were the limited ones, because in exclusivity there lurked disasters—an idea Freud recognized on more than one occasion. Ordinary services would be performed by special corps who were paid as a unit, and their choice of a person to serve was dependent on mutual friendship and inclination, a relationship in which pleasure on both sides would grace every minor act of attention. Division of the emoluments of the service corps was directed by a group council that were easily informed of the relative devo-

tion of the various members. Their judgments would never be unfair, for though passion might blind an individual to prefer his favorite, it could not mislead ten to twelve persons, pronouncing a collective judgment on the assiduity and the dexterity of one. “In short, the complex is always just and true,

the simple always false . . .”"*° Without a passionate mechanism there was emotional chaos. Civilized institutions created universal frustration, the false mechanism. The social art con-

: sisted of skill in manipulation—this was the Fourier doctrine with which, much to his dismay, the philosophe Condorcet might have been in abstract agreement. But there was also a profound difference between them. Condorcet saw the passions as disruptions of an ideal Stoic calm; while one could not do without them, they had to be moderated. They were the winds that gave movement to the sailboat, but they also dashed it against the rocks. Fourier’s passions all served a noble purpose; they were numerous and good. Man could do nothing about their God-given nature; what he could do was to provide

puidance.

, for their burgeoning and to establish appropriate social institutions for their No projects combined the expansive potentialities of the union of labor and love more felicitously than the “harmonious armies” which Fourier described in his books and manuscripts (the long unpublished gray notebook series).*” These vast enterprises would come into being only after harmony was well established and therefore prepared to undertake the colossal public works necessary to reforest the mountain chains of the world, to force rivers back into their proper channels, and to repair the ravages of nature caused by the negligence of the civilized stage of mankind. Industrial armies might comprise as much as 2 or 3 percent of the total population; an empire the size of Britain could recruit 600,000 a year and disperse them over various parts of the globe.

“Harmonious armies” would not be condemned to arduous labors alone.

Women would be attached to them, and besides cooking and performing fine , arts in the evening, each one of them would provide for the sexual needs of three to four men. ““Most women of twenty-five have a temperament suited to this role, which will then become a noble one.”’ The honored ladies who had contempt for that ‘‘egotist love called fidelity’ *® would be consecrated to the service of the fatherland in order to charm young men into working in the armies without pay. This counting-clerk utopian was always intent upon running his grand projects as economically as possible. The bacchantes would in no way resemble modern courtesans or camp followers. They would have ranks bestowed upon them in accordance with their capacities, and a lady marshal would command cohorts of fifty to a hundred thousand women whose feats would be reported in phalansterian newspapers throughout the world. There would be wars in harmony, but what delightful

670 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE wars! Armies composed of men and women in equal numbers would do combat with each other, but no one would be killed. Positional warfare, as in a game of chess, would dominate the field and neutral judges award the palms of

, victory. Prisoners would belong to the conquerors for a period of one to three days. A battalion of men divided up among a battalion of women would have

to follow their orders, and the young women warriors might, out of sympathy, occasionally lend their young captives to older women. If the fellows _ did not behave gallantly with the aged and satisfy them, their imprisonment would be prolonged. Similar fates awaited young female captives, who would be awarded to venerable old men. Since the only real vices recognized in harmony were lying and deception, couples contractually committed to fidelity would by agreement be allowed to grant each other periods of sexual liberty, especially when the ‘harmonious armies” came marching through their terri-

tory. Time and again Fourier reiterated that all this would become feasible only when the last generation of civilization—the generation of the wilderness

—had disappeared and reason dominated love relations. The term reason at first sounds incongruous in a Fourier manuscript. Was this not the shameful hallmark of the philosophical enemies of mankind? But _ Fourier endowed reason with new attributes. ““What is reason in the state of harmony? It is the employment of any method which multiplies relationships

and satisfies a great number of individuals without injuring anybody. A beau- , tiful woman operates in contradiction of this rule if she wants to remain faithful and to belong exclusively to one man all her life. She might have contrib-

uted to the happiness of ten thousand men in thirty years of philanthropic service, leaving fond memories behind among these ten thousand.”’ In the state of harmony punishments for secret infidelity were inflicted by courts of love. A young woman culprit, for example, might be ordered to keep herself at the disposition of a worthy member of the phalanstery for a day or two. In general Fourier was not too disturbed by such infidelities, because no real evil had been committed. After all, amorous relationships had been multi-

plied, and that was a good in and of itself. The young man who was condemned must perform his corvée for an old crone with courtesy “because the old lady is free to grant or to refuse the certificate of good conduct upon which his absolution depends.”’ Failure to obey a cour d’amour led to exclusion from pleasures and employment; hence the young persons would obey with alacrity. The system is so arranged that ‘‘no age capable of love is frustrated in its

desire.”’ * |

Many of the facile objections which have since been raised against the sys-

tem were already answered by Fourier somewhere in his voluminous manu-

scripts. What happens in phalanstery when two men are in love with one woman? How is the rejected suitor treated? Fourier was not at all fazed by this

unfortunate circumstance. In the state of civilization the fellow would proba- , bly become a misanthropist, but nothing of the sort occurs in the state of harmony, because a special corps of fairies (fées) take hold of him, women skilled in playing on a man’s accidental sympathies. Using techniques based upon passionate identities and contrasts they divert him from his fixed attraction. This type of magnetism is a recognized positive science in the phalanstery, a branch

of medicine.*° |

, When it came to elaborating the details of the system of harmony, Fourier

FOURIER: THE BURGEONING OF INSTINCT 671 the structure-builder was never at a loss. The printed word has not caught up with his manuscript plans for the architecture of buildings in phalanstery, for the regulation of the complex, free labor exchange with its myriad contractual forms, for the celebration of banquets and fetes, for the pyramidal grouping of phalansteries on various levels from the individual unit through the caliphate, the empire, the caesarate, to the omniarchy of the world. His relentless vengeance against Paris expressed itself in reducing the capital to a mere caliphate while Nevers—perverse choice—became the center of the French empire. In final defense of Fourier it should be remembered that some of the wildest reveries imputed to him, such as the prognostication that men of the future would grow tails with an eye in them, were the inventions of his detractors. Since our recent experiments with interplanetary instruments and our manipulation of the weather, cosmological fantasies have become somewhat less ridiculous. The idea that under certain conditions the ocean would change from its present saline state into a not unpleasant lemonade may not bear immediate conviction, but a reasonable skeptic would hardly be willing to assert the stable character of the sea for all future geological time. When Fourier described the copulation of the planets he was difficult to follow, though many of his more respectable philosophical predecessors had heard the music of the spheres. The cautious may suspend judgment on his prospect of an aromatic revolution generated by the harmonious labors organized in the new industrial society. But we have no right to dismiss him for these conceits. His reflections on the relationship between love and work, the ideal of total self-fulfillment, ought not to be treated lightly by an age which has swallowed the values of the new psychology. If Freud transformed into a permissive father becomes the savior, Fourier will have to be revered as a worthy forerunner. The Mask of Harlequin Of all the nineteenth-century system-makers Fourier has left behind the most complete documentation for a study of his character structure. The published works, the manuscripts which members of the Fourierist movement issued posthumously, and the unpublished dossiers in the Archives Nationales respond to any sounding with a rush of evidence. But the meaning of this profusion of evidence is difficult to unravel. In a manuscript entitled “Le Sphinx sans Oedipe ou l’énigme des quatre mouvements,” published in 1849, Fourier wove a fantasy describing how he had deceived the philosophes. Like Saint-Simon he conceived of his system as an act of aggression against the philosophical authorities; and in his war with ‘“them,”’ the all-powerful fathers, only stratagems and guile could prevail. Because he knew his theory would clash with accepted opinion, would be ridiculed by the “‘philosophical cabal,” and would be covertly plagiarized, he had to devise a way of presenting his ideas so that nobody should doubt his title to them even though they long remained hidden and came to light only generations later. Since men were incapable of reasoning when their prejudices were shocked too profoundly, he had schemed to catch them off their guard. Introspective Fourier was well aware that bizarre forms came naturally to him, but on this occasion he had deliberately assumed a peculiar habit. It was a ruse to sound out the age, to see how contemporaries would react to his ideas. Or it

672 — THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE was a trap set for the pretentious, cunning Parisians. Surely his first book and its title were strange, but they were less strange than its judges were obtuse when they failed to detect the masquerade which had been dictated by prudence.°! The cosmogonic theories were the sections of his work which attracted the eye and called forth the sneers of reviewers in the 1820s, while virtually nothing was said about his social system. Precisely what he had wanted. The artifice had been successful—he had purposely included these sensational , fancies to distract attention from his two revolutionary attacks, one directed against the family, the other against the economic system. His cosmogony had convinced men that he was a visionary, and nobody prosecuted visionaries; in the meantime his ideas on the family and the economy, on love and on labor, | had been allowed to insinuate themselves slowly into the consciousness of his contemporaries. He had intentionally assumed the mask of Harlequin; playing the court fool, he had been allowed to say things that would otherwise have been prohibited.’ Another way of putting it was even more involuted. Knowing that all philosophers were intolerant of new ideas, he had adopted a

| trick from the confessional: Just as the canny penitent slips a major sin among a host of venial ones, in the Quatre mouvements Fourier had concealed his reflec-

tions on free love among a mass of notions on planetary changes which he touched up with obscenity—‘“‘the pearl in the mud.’’™ Fourier had triumphed in his contest with the philosophers; he had success-

fully outfoxed the potential plagiarists; they had been repelled by his undemonstrated cosmogonies and had turned away. Despite the jeering reception

in the newspapers, it was not he who had been rejected and mocked; grand strategist of society, he had outwitted all his enemies. Nobody, none of the | smart Frenchmen, had guessed the riddle. The laugh was on them, the wise- __ acres of Paris who wrote witty feuilletons about him, le fou du Palais Royal. It was they who were mad, they who were fools. He had planned it all that way

enigma. oe ,

in 1806, when he first surveyed the soil in which he would have to sow his doctrine. His book was a scout sent out beyond the front lines to observe the enemy. The newspapers said the work lacked method: It had the method of an

One of his manuscripts described an imaginary dialogue between the inventor of the compass and the philosophers of Athens, who treated him as a madman and sent him to an asylum to be cured. In the course of the conversation, in order to humor him, they publicly conceded the one point that he was intent upon—they admitted that he had discovered the needle and that any benefits which derived from it were henceforth traceable to him alone. Fourier did not care that they considered him daft as long as his authorship of the system was recognized for all eternity. If Fourier’s explanation of the secret of the Quatre mouvements were accepted, many of his extravagances would have to be inter- __ preted in a different spirit. Actually, much of this is a later rationalization constructed to steel himself against ridicule; this divided man may have believed in his cosmogonies at some moments and at others have been so ashamed of them that he chose to deny them and to pass them off as mere window dress-

| ing. Like other neurotic geniuses, Fourier was shrewd when he played the fool, and at times he really was the credulous fool. The ambiguity remains. There was a sadistic element in this builder of a utopia of love. He feasted on dreams of glorious vengeance against his generation, against the philosophers,

FOURIER: THE BURGEONING OF INSTINCT 673 against Frenchmen, especially Parisians—against all those who had mocked him. The punishments he meted out to his detractors were terrible. Paranoid elements are almost always latent in the great structure-builders; in Fourier they rise to the surface—nothing is hidden. Fourier proclaimed his resolve “‘to punish his century.’’®® Ultimately he might relent and publish his latest findings, but only in bits and pieces, tantalizing his contemporaries, making them suffer for their doubts about his truth. In later writings he demonstrated that the decision to vent his wrath upon his compatriots had been fully realized in the final stages of the Napoleonic wars. Suppose the inventor of the physical compass had kept his discovery secret, what shipwrecks, what destruction would have been visited upon mankind—‘“he would have punished the whole world.’’°® Frenchmen had suffered a similar chastisement for their refusal of the social compass. ‘‘More than any other people, they have been victims of the protraction of the state of civilization from which I could show them a release. The fates have pursued them and their chief since 1808. They have been punished.”” Frenchmen had missed a historic opportunity by making fun of him in 1808. If they had accepted the system straightaway they would have been able to grasp the initiative in the diffusion of uniform communications,

| signs, and measures. Eventually a new international language would be invented, but for an interim transitional period French would have been used and Frenchmen would have been in great demand throughout the phalansteries of the world. They lost their chance. Fourier recounted the punishment of France

for the neglect of his first work in terms that evoke de Maistre’s divine scourge, the Revolution visited on the land for its abandonment of the true religion. The chronological coincidence is perfect: in 1808 the Quatre mouvements was published and in 1808 the war in Spain broke out, the beginning of the defeats of France. ““Opprobrium, ruin, public servitude, finally all the calamities which have assailed and devoured her, date from the period when she disdained the discovery of the calculus of attraction. The capital where this discovery was derided has been invaded twice, sullied by the outrages of its enemies. France thought she would rule the world; she has become its plaything. I repeat: if | had any power over destiny, would I have been able to demand of it a more remarkable vengeance?’’*’ Fourier’s megalomaniac fantasies were vivid and bloody. It was he who condemned France to a horrible retribution, he who had secretly resolved to wait until France had lost another million heads in combat before he published further details on the operation of the system. ‘‘Finally the year 1813 amply paid this tribute of a million heads which I had imposed on France. There is today even a surplus of three to four hundred thousand heads in the massacre.” *® Paris was Fourier’s immediate adversary because there the false, lying monopoly of philosophical journalists reigned supreme. In Paris opinion had to be , _ bought and he was no Croesus. What did they expect, that he who had discovered the secret of human happiness should come to them—who by right should be his suppliants—on bended knee? Fourier hated Paris with the passion of a provincial unrecognized, disdained by the coteries among whom he could make no headway. In the end of the days he would be avenged: the capital of the world would be set up in Constantinople, and Paris would be humbled even as Paris had humiliated him.

To throw his contemporaries into utter turmoil, Fourier slyly raised the

674 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE prospect of his own death—what if he died before the printing of his system,

, and his invention were lost forever? Then indeed they would have cause to wail. Fourier shot out sibylline utterances, refusing to tell his ungrateful generation on what evidence they had been based. Let them be tormented with curiosity while he kept his secret; he wanted them to be sorry, to grieve over _ having missed the opportunity to learn the truths of the new science. He acted

out childish fantasies; how they, the civilization of the nineteenth century, would regret him when he was gone, how they would miss his theories,

~ mourn the loss of the clue to mankind’s happiness.

But what really was there beneath this mask of Harlequin which Fourier was _ so anxious to display? Like many of the great neurotics, there was some measure of everything in him. Many of his descriptions of life in phalanstery are the obvious daydreams of the deprived; the gastronomical bouts and jolly

, companies are the wish fulfillments of a poverty-stricken man condemned to lonely 25-sous meals, and the amorous feats he depicted with such obvious rel-

ish the longings of one who was probably impotent. | - When one moves from this realm of simple frustration to look deeper, the waters become troubled. There are passages in Fourier’s writings which more than hint at masochist and perhaps homosexual elements that are not infrequent accompaniments of sadism. After denouncing the overlordship imposed by males in civilization and hailing Catherine the Great for having “‘crushed the masculine sex underfoot,” Fourier let a fantasy escape in the Théorie des quatre mouvements: ““To confound the tyranny of men there should exist for a century a third sex, male and female, one stronger than man. This new sex would prove with a beating of rods that men as well as women are made for its

pleasure; then one would hear men protest against the tyranny of the hermaphroditic sex and admit that force should not be the sole rule of right.’’*® If Fourier’s descriptions of the destructiveness of children mirror his own suppressed desires—his wrecking of an orchard at the age of three was a persistent childhood memory®’—if his threats to France are reflections of his massive sadism, then the transformation of the daydream of total annihilation into a utopia of love follows the rule of his own system. The extremes touched, and what he called a counterpassion became operative. Similarly, a Freudian might | interpret Fourier’s overflowing love for all humanity as a transmuted fear of punishment for its opposite, the hidden wish for universal destruction. That a vision of total love was born of fantasies of hate would surely not have astonished Nietzsche, the analyst of ressentiment.

The New World of Love With the publication of the unexpurgated manuscript of Le Nouveau monde amoureux in 1967, many new details of Fourier’s intimate life were revealed, as

he probed into his own sexual nature to illustrate his theory of love. In this work, the most extensive summary of his system, he openly avowed his _ manias in the hope that his candor would encourage others to become less reticent about theirs and through analyzing themselves discover their authentic

, being. Fourier never quite plumbed his innermost parts with the power of a Freud, but in his vivid perception of the social atmosphere in the ‘‘state of civilization” in which the manies, or fixations, masked themselves he displayed a

FOURIER: THE BURGEONING OF INSTINCT 6075 touch of genius. Not until he was thirty-five, he reflects, did he discover his special predilection for lesbians. At that point he suddenly became aware that he had always loved and favored them. Upon self-analysis he realized that this mania was in perfect accord with his essential personality type, the omnigyne or omnitone, a human with seven dominant spiritual passions, one of the rarest of all characters in the taxonomy of sex. “In the whole world there are roughly 26,400 people like me (if one calculates at the rate of 33 per million) because every male omnigyne is necessarily a Sapphianist or a protector of lesbians, just as every female omnigyne is necessarily a pederastite or a protectress of pederasts. If this were not the case, these personalities would lack their pivotal quality in love, which is an impulse of philanthropic dedication to the opposite sex and to everything that might please it in both the ambiguous and direct modes . . .’’®! Fourier knew that like all “civilized” people he had once condemned and ridiculed homosexuals, even while concealing a strong affection for homosexual females. But he was hardly to be blamed for not recognizing a

penchant so rare in the Occidental world, though one much esteemed in China, where the Emperor had been depicted on a circular couch surrounded _ by active lesbians. In the Nouveau monde amoureux Fourier prophesied uneven development in the radical restructuring of labor and love. The domestic and industrial economies would be quickly transformed in the new “‘state of harmony” without offending anybody, because their advantages would be patent. Men would have to be more cautious, however, about religious and moral innovations that might outrage consciences. Even though it was a rule in harmony to authorize any practice that multipled amorous relationships and gave pleasure without doing injury, in the initial stages Harmonians would be rather cautious about incest. Thus the ‘‘industrial mechanism’’ would be revamped first, while “‘passionate refinement”? would have to wait for a higher stage of harmony—a delightful prefiguration of the Marxist timetable. Fourier saw himself as the drafter of the general theory of harmony in all its complexity; its implementation in detail would respond to particular contingencies. And though all amorous forms met with his approval, he too accepted a hierarchy of values. The highest good was clearly the multiplication of amorous relations; that was taken for granted. But in the end the more spiritual and intricate loves would be preferred to the simpler and grosser ones. There were even proper manners _ in amorous behavior: It was bad form not to leave a legacy to a love partner of some months’ duration; thousands of transient affairs and participants in orgies need not be remembered. In the 1960s and 1970s the rediscoverers of Fourier were right to see in him a predecessor of Freud, though on occasion they were carried away in their exaltation of the French prophet of a new world of love. Fourier, who acknowledged de Sade as an intellectual ancestor, remains a vital link between the scandalous late-eighteenth-century philosophe and the respectable late-nineteenthcentury philosophe who was the founder of psychoanalysis.

28

~ Owen’s New Moral World ON JULY 30, 1817, Robert Owen crossed the Rubicon with an announcement in the London press that he was resolved to engage in battle with the errors and

evils of all contemporary systems, civil and political. No quarter would be asked and none given until their final abolition was expressly desired by all parties, including those who now felt a strong interest in preserving them. The principles and practices he espoused in their stead would be able to stand on their own rational foundation, irrespective of any individual personality. But at forty-six Owen was prepared to present himself naked to his enemies and

defend every act of his past behavior. | The Illuminated Mill Owner oo

In his letter to the newspapers, Owen offered the public the detailed curriculum vitae of a self-made man who had climbed up the ladder of industrial achievement step by step, one job after another, until he reached the top as owner of the , mills and ancillary establishments at New Lanark in Scotland. These accomplishments proved that he was no impractical dreamer and guaranteed the merit of

his new system of society. “I was born in Newton, Montgomeryshire,” he wrote, “‘left it, and came to London, when about ten years of age; soon after went to Mr. James M’ Guffog, of Stamford in Lincolnshire; where I remained

upward of three years; returned to town, and was a short time with Messrs. | Flint and Palmer, London Bridge. I went afterwards to Manchester, and was some time with Mr. John Sattersfield, whom I left, while yet a boy, to com-_ mence business on a limited scale in making machinery and spinning cotton, part of the time in partnership with Mr. Jones, and part on my own account. Afterwards I undertook to manage the spinning establishments of the Late Dr. Drinkwater of Manchester at the latter place and at Northwich in Cheshire, in which occupation I remained three or four years. I then formed a partnership

to carry on a cotton-spinning business with Messrs. Moulson and Scarth of Manchester; built the Chorlton Mills, and commenced a new firm, under the designation of the Chorlton Twist Company, along with Messrs. Borrodale and Atkinson, of London, and Messrs. H. and J. Barton and Co., of Manchester.

Some time afterwards we purchased the mills and establishments at New Lanark, where I have been before the public for eighteen years past.”* Forty years later, at the promptings of friends and faithful disciples, the dying old man of eighty-six composed an autobiography (which did not get far beyond the early 1820s) that was somewhat more revealing about the cru-

, cial psychic events of his life than this drab business chronicle. The writer of tract after tract on the abstract principles of the formation of human character allowed his readers a look into what he believed had fashioned his own. The analysis, in conformity with his axiomatic precepts, demonstrated conclu676

OWEN’S NEW MORAL WORLD 677 sively the paramount significance of external circumstances. When he was about five, in a hurry to dash back to school, he took a spoonful of hot flummery, scalded his stomach, and fainted. The accident had a tremendous influence upon him, he assured his readers. It made him incapable of digesting anything but simple food and in small quantities at a time, which in turn led him to give heed to the effects of different qualities of food on his changed constitution and thereby bred in him the habit of close observation and continual reflection. Only once was he chastised by his parents, when his father whipped him at his mother’s behest. Hearing indistinctly one of her commands, he had responded “‘No,”’ and, having uttered the word, he obstinately refused to retract it. “You may kill me but I will not do it,” was the stubborn response as

the whipping continued. The contest of wills was decided in his favor, and ever after he was convinced that correction was pernicious and injurious to both punisher and punished. At ten he underwent a religious crisis occasioned by the reading of Methodist books borrowed from three maiden ladies. The deadly hatred among Jews, Christians, Mohammedans, Hindus, and Chinese led him to conclude that there was something fundamentally wrong with all religions. Once he stuck his finger into a keyhole and had to cry for help to extricate it. Another event he recalled was nearly drowning and being saved by a spotted horse. Explaining the meaning of fingers shoved into keyholes was

not part of his psychological system. But the spotted horse stayed with him and henceforward he favored the type, an early impression on the mind that fitted neatly with his doctrine of association. Owen’s natural intellectual gifts as a child had been noticed, and the libraries

of the learned men of the town of Newton—the clergyman, physician, and lawyer—were open to him. Before the age of ten he had read Robinson Crusoe, Pilgrim’s Progress, Paradise Lost, Harvey’s Meditations among the Tombs, Young’s

Night Thoughts, Richardson’s novels, the voyages of Captain Cook and other explorers, the history of the world, lives of philosophers and of great men. The

literature he devoured mostly celebrated man’s daring and capacity for achievement in this world, but dark romantic contemplations of death were there in the background. One has the feeling that there was a saturnine, melan-

choly side to Owen’s nature, ordinarily covered by a gloss of official optimism. If the child Robert Owen needed further stimulus to deeds of greatness, it was provided by his ordinal position in the family, the last but one out of seven.

During his first thirty years, this son of an artisan apprenticed to a draper was unusually enterprising. While living in Manchester, he not only effectively

managed a cotton-spinning mill but he was active in the Literary and Philosophical Society—this was no countinghouse boor. And though he was so shy with women that he lost his first love for lack of courage to declare his sentiments, he succeeded in winning in marriage the daughter of the onetime owner of the New Lanark Mills. The former Miss Dale bore him many children, but apparently the union was not otherwise blessed. From 1800 to 1812 Owen enjoyed outstanding success as a businessman; the most important cotton-spinning factory in Britain was under his direction, and at the height of the Napoleonic wars he was earning enormous profits. The good fortune of this industrious father of a large family testified to the substantial rewards awaiting those who expended their energies in hard work. He was

678 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE a model and an inspiration. But about 1812 the signs of a transformation became visible. Instead of sticking to his grindstone and deriving satisfaction

from his prosperity, Owen began to absorb himself more and more in the moral and economic condition of his workers and in plans for their education. His autobiography would have us believe that the vast project he was to un-

dertake in transforming New Lanark into an exemplary settlement of contented workers had occurred to him in a flash as soon as he saw the factory on the Clyde in 1799. Before long, Owen extended his concerns to all of mankind.

What made this go-getting textile manager and owner stray from the traditional path of his calling and become enmeshed in schemes of universal rehabilitation? Philanthropy was one of the spiritual inheritances of the Enlighten-

ment and it could possess an entrepreneur of lowly origins as well as a declassed scion of the nobility like Saint-Simon or the son of a bankrupt French cloth merchant like Fourier—the morbus striketh where it listeth. As

| long as Owen’s projects had the appearance of charity that uplifted the drunken, shiftless workers, his ideas were listened to sympathetically by the re_ spectable classes of England and Scotland, especially since his business continued to make a profit. A New View of Society: or, Essays on the Principle of the Formation of the Human Character (1813), with its stress on rationalist training

and individual reform, could hardly be regarded as a revolutionary document. , But in 1817, like Saint-Simon and at about the same time, Owen began to deliver himself of slashing criticisms of the whole economic and social order; what was even more outrageous, he attacked the institution of the family in forthright terms and denounced organized religion. The philanthropist whose establishment had become a showpiece for inquisitive English and foreign visi-

tors was turning into a scandal. | ,

In 1824 the middle-aged mill owner with disturbing notions about a “new moral world”’ went even further: He decided to quit the scene of his economic — triumph in New Lanark and to implement his peculiar doctrines on virgin soil in America. Within a period of three years he broke with business, invested almost the whole of his fortune in a village at New Harmony, Indiana, moved his children (but not his wife) there, and conducted a utopian experiment that ,

ended in disaster. , ,

Upon his return to England, a poorer though not less ardent proselytizer, Owen found that he had made converts, especially among the literate working | classes. He was catapulted into the leadership of a workingmen’s federation. And after its disintegration, he still remained the head of a devoted sect of Owenites, whose journals, among them the New Moral World, were of Euro- _ pean repute. Friedrich Engels was counted among the contributors; some of the best early reports of the vicissitudes of Continental utopian sects and movements came from his pen and were carried by this periodical. The aging , Owen continued to travel and lecture, propagating his ideas among all who | would listen. Like Fourier, he outlived himself, and toward the end he became a spiritualist, establishing contact with a motley crew of incarnations that included Lord Byron, Thomas Jefferson, the Duke of Wellington, Robert Burns, Mehemet Ali—personages he had once admired. Even the dead had a stirring role to play in the transformation of society. Reluctant, perhaps, to see his own career terminate with the approaching close of his life, Owen published in 1853 The Future of the Human Race, in which he predicted the coming of a peaceful

OWEN’S NEW MORAL WORLD 679 revolution through the agency of ‘“‘departed spirits of good and superior men and women.”’? Marx never alluded to Owen’s designation of these cohorts of spirits as agents of the new society. When Owen had taken over the management of the cotton mills at New Lanark, he found a working community already in existence. It had been recruited by his future father-in-law, David Dale, who provided houses for families of good moral character and shelter for a sizable number of abandoned

children over nine fit to work, sent up by the parishes. Widows were en-_ couraged to take jobs in the mills. Discipline was maintained throughout a thirteen-hour day, with breaks for breakfast and dinner, and there was rudimentary schooling after work. Owen was nevertheless faced with drunkenness and slothful habits, despite the harsh regimen of the factory system. It is one of the bizarre manifestations of the historical dialectic that English socialism, long identified with Owenism, was born out of these working-class barracks dominated by a Calvinist ethic. Owen’s initial experiments at New Lanark strengthened discipline, increased productivity, and welded communities out of mere agglomerations. To the economic ingredients of an orderly factory system he added the voice of Reason, which, it is said, acted as a persuasive guide to community in New Lanark under his watchful eye, but lost its effectiveness whenever the philanthropist turned his back. Owen stood at the pinnacle of a regimented paternalism and dealt with his

workers through a system of subalterns. It did not occur to him that men would ever balk at unquestioning submission to his wise commands. He reasoned his workers out of drunkenness and irregular habits and into perfect communal order, using a mechanical monitor and relying on the reprimand as

his only punitive instrument. The monitor, a creature of wood and wire, standing beside each machine, showed different colors that rated the worker’s

assiduity or delinquency. A worker could appeal from the judgment of the - overseer who manipulated the dummy directly to Robert Owen. Somehow none ever did. Owen instituted an educational system for the children of New

Lanark that molded them through the power of habit, the psychological weapon he worshiped as a new god. He shaped good moral characters fit to live in anew moral world. His militant attacks on priestly religion, which got him into trouble with the upper-class philanthropists, did not blind him to the virtues of the strict discipline of the religious communities established by the Rappites and Shakers; he merely substituted his own secular millenarianism for their religious one. Owen’s first full-fledged utopian plan, as distinguished from his earlier endeavors to suppress alcoholism among his workers and provide schooling for their young, was embodied in a Report to the Committee of the Association for the

Relief of the Manufacturing and Labouring Poor, presented in March 1817, in which he analyzed the severity of the post-Napoleonic economic crisis and proposed the formation of self-sustaining communities of unemployed workers, victims of technological advances and prey to vice and misery. Their living quarters were to be arranged in rectangular units complete in themselves that would meet all the educational and social needs of the 1,200 or so inhabitants. Immediately beyond these enclosures would be structures for mechanical and manufacturing purposes, and, farther away, agricultural establishments.* The original proposal, modest in its scope and restricted to the indigent, was soon

680 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE expanded to become the organizational formula for a wide network of communities. At first the villages were to be voluntary associations varying with the income level of the members—Fourier’s phalansteries allowed for similar gradations—and they would coexist with other manufacturing enterprises based on current practices. The small-unit example would attract adherents on its own merits. Its gradual adoption and spread would then usher in a new millennium whose virtues Owen could sing in the old biblical language: “Even now the time is near at hand . . . when swords shall be turned into ploughshares, and spears into pruning hooks—when every man shall sit under his

own vine and his own fig-tree, and none shall make him afraid.’’4 In Owen’s report to the County of Lanark in May 1820, the founding of ‘villages of unity and mutual cooperation,”’ with capital supplied by private subscribers, was turned into a system of cooperative socialism that would encompass the earth. Agricultural and manufacturing elements were to be inter-

mingled in the villages. But the work system was not the main focus of Owen’s reformation. He saw in these ingatherings an opportunity for transforming the character of the indigent by altering their environment. The vil- — lages, set in remote places uncorrupted by the prevalent evils of working-class society, would afford the philanthropic projector an opportunity to remold the poor as if they were children. A new generation of rational beings would arise on British soil.> Owen had a way of soaring from the particular to the timeless universal. Initially his was just another one of scores of attempts to shape a poor law in the spirit of Christian charity; but like parochial English utopian projects of the seventeenth century, it burgeoned into a panacea for the organization of work among men everywhere. In one of its aspects Owen’s plan was a reversion to the idea of communal moral responsibility to provide employment for the meritorious poor, which had been widely replaced by the Speenhamland system of granting relief to the destitute through meager allowances _ charged to the parishes. Other Scottish philanthropists had notions similar to Owen’s, if more limited, but unlike him they did not link indigence and immorality with the need for rationalist education and training; nor did they alarm their fellows by proclaiming adherence to the principle of absolute

equality.

Owen was of the normative, rationalist Enlightenment school that believed moral conduct could be inculcated by systematic training leading to habit formation, since all men were equally capable of listening to the voice of reason and could be persuaded by argument. Rational behavior was ordinarily conceived in terms that would be acceptable to any frugal, upright man. Owen saw the social environment as corrupting the poor workers and making them unproductive. The new society would convince them that it was better to be rid of their vices, would instill in them habits of orderliness and cleanliness, and would educate their children so that they could imagine no other way of life. Rule II adopted by one of the many organizations Owen put together, the British and Foreign Philanthropic Society of 1822, defined its purpose as “‘the permanent relief of the labouring classes, by forming communities of mutual interest and cooperation, in which by means of education, example, and employment, they will be gradually withdrawn from the evils induced by ignorance, bad habits, poverty and want of employment.”’® For such ideas to gain

even minimal acceptance, the pessimistic Calvinism of the Kirk had to be ,

OWEN’S NEW MORAL WORLD 681 modified by Enlightenment rationalism and there had to be some belief in the possibility of reform. This development had in fact occurred among some segments of Scottish society in the late eighteenth century, perhaps more visibly than in England. And one part of Owen remained in this respectable tradition. As Saint-Simon had terrified his industrialist and banker supporters with his proclamation of the need for a “‘nineteenth-century morality,’’ as distinguished from the eternal Christian gospel, so Owen handicapped himself with his virulent anticlericalism, his refusal to countenance religious education in any form in his plan, and his essays on the formation of character that abolished original

sin and denied moral accountability. But it was just this uncompromising antireligious strain in Owen that endeared him to Marx and Engels and was a factor in winning for him benign treatment at their hands, while they were put off by the religious balderdash of the Saint-Simonians. However naive his utopianism, an anticlerical could not be all bad. Christians attracted to Owen were dismayed by his apostasy, but usually solaced themselves with the reflection that true practical Christianity and Owenism would ultimately converge.

Though his name was joined with Saint-Simon and Fourier, Owen had nothing of Saint-Simon’s vision of the industrial-scientific dynamism of society, or of Fourier’s conception of the intricacy of the human passions. Of all the major utopian socialisms, the Owenite and in general the English type represent the purest longing for the old agrarian way of life as the indispensable path to utopia—and this despite the fact that the communitarian idea sprang up in the cotton mills of New Lanark. Theoretically, Owenite doctrine pre~ sented itself as favoring a combination of manufacturing and agriculture in self-sustaining villages to create a balance of activities; in practice, the Owenite community turned out to be agricultural and crafts were treated as necessary but subsidiary elements. (Owen had once favored spade husbandry because it would engage a greater number of the unemployed.) While divorce was allowable, the family nevertheless remained the unit of:social life. Owenites never accepted the realities of mammoth industrialization as did the Saint-Simonians, nor the radical reorganization of sexual life demanded by Fourier. Instead they wanted to revive the virtues of the rural English village, enhanced by rationalist character formation through schooling. Saint-Simon himself in his last works had looked forward to the grand progress of scientific technology to lighten the physical burdens of manual labor. Owen still clung to the illusion of the moral worth of hard work, and Owenite sympathizers from among the upper classes had the same predilection—toil in a morally prophylactic village

setting was ennobling for the workers of the world. In the end Thomas Spence, the Chartist Bronterre O’Brien, and the Owenites shared the same kind of agricultural utopian dream. oe In May 1842 the New Moral World reported that Owen was turning his back on industrialism: “[He would be] very sorry ever to have a cotton factory again, for the substantial wealth of the world is only obtained from land.’’? This physiocratic declaration reveals the essential quaintness of Owenism, always on the point of regression. In nineteenth-century utopianism there is a divide between those who undertook to grapple with the scientific-technological civilization and those who, without actively joining the Luddites, were reliving the old agrarian utopia in an emended form. Owen’s attitude toward

, industrialization was ambiguous at best. His early writings described the rav-

682 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE | | ages of the factory system in graphic language. Cotton mills were “‘receptacles, in too many instances, for living human skeletons.’’8 Such denunciations were accompanied by demonstrations to factory owners that their profits would increase if they paid more heed to their living machines. In later writings Owen advanced antitechnological arguments that were in harmony with the Romantic poets’ attack on science and technology and their longing for a return to the

, agrarian past.

The Great Error _ Were mankind aligned on opposite sides of the nature-nurture controversy,

, the utopians among them would be found in the camp of the nurturists. Since the fifteenth century, secular utopians have believed, almost without needing to make their views explicit, that the environment in which children are reared and mature persons go about their business is the major determinant in fashioning their character and subsequent pattern of conduct. They may have differed about which aspects of the environment exerted the most potent influence—was it the architecture of the city, the educational system, social and political arrangements, the organization of work relations, the form of reli-

gious worship?—but they would join in agreement on the power of human | institutions to create both good and evil. Among the modern utopians, Robert Owen is probably the most self-conscious behaviorist and it is difficult to find in more recent utopians of that school anything more than glosses on his principles. ‘“Any general character, from the best to the worst, from the most igno-

rant to the most enlightened, may be given to any community, even to the | world at large, by the application of the proper means.’’® An individual could _ not fashion the appropriate immediate environment for the formation of rational character leading to the greatest happiness of the greatest number, but so-

ciety could and should. |

An epistemology of sorts and an implicit philosophy of history backed up Owen’s behaviorist utopia. World history past, present, and future was divisible into two segments, one in which irrationality, even insanity, characterized virtually all human relationships, and one, whose moment was just come, in which rationality would predominate. The whole of past and most present behavior were blind to reason in action because men were steeped in error and were bound by a false association of ideas. Minor errors of perception and su-

| perstitious beliefs were malignant, but one Great Error held mankind in thrall, _ and this was the religious falsehood that an individual of his own free will could choose to perform acts that were either good or evil. In fact, a man had | no such liberty. He was born into a specific environment in which evil influences were compelling, he was reared to accept lies, and he lived out his life subject to erroneous ideas. As a consequence, the creature was blindly selfish, cruel, lying, hypocritical, addicted to vices, criminal, generating his own un-

happiness. Societies and religions fixed blame upon the individual for his acts, whereas in truth he was blameless, merely a product of circumstances and iniq-

uitous arrangements. Owen presents the unusual spectacle of a mill owner who, instead of inveighing against the shiftlessness, drunkenness, sexual im- 7 morality of workers, finds them innocent victims of circumstance. Owen’s critique of his society, while it never quite achieved the pungency of

OWEN’S NEW MORAL WORLD 68 3 Fourier’s, was as all-embracing, and at moments a trenchant phrase breaks through the monotonous portrayal. Owen knew the horrors of the factory system in its formative period and dwelt with passion upon the physical and moral degradation of men, women, and children entrapped by it. Though committed to the omnipotence of the environment, he could fall into a eugenic mood in which he saw the physical species of British workers as definitively corrupted by disease, or at least in danger of such a fate if conditions were not improved. The injuries inflicted by the factory system were of a different order of magnitude from those suffered by farm laborers. Were the present system to continue, the whole of mankind would degenerate. How had the present evil world come about? What is Owen’s etiology of the Great Error? Sometimes it is the priesthood that is responsible, at least for marital evils. There are the accumulated errors of irrational ancestors. Secondary causes easily account for some aberrant behavior: For example, fear made moral cowards of those who had discovered the true facts but dared not proclaim them. But an explicit fons et origo of error is conspicuously absent from Owen’s writing. Once original sin was thrown out, there was nothing to re-

place it. :

Owen’s simple environmentalist conception, what others mocked as his ‘fone idea,’’ was the cornerstone of his whole system, and detractors did not discourage him. If mankind would only accept this one idea with the same fervor with which they had hitherto denied it, a host of salutary consequences would naturally flow from it. “It is a law of nature, obvious to our senses, that the internal and external character of all that have life upon the earth, is formed for them and not by them; that, in accordance with this law, the internal and external character of man is formed for him; and not by him, as hitherto most erroneously imagined; and, therefore, he cannot have merit or demerit, or deserve praise or blame, reward or punishment, in this life, or in any future state of existence.” '° This one idea, encapsulated in the motto ‘The character of man is formed for him, not by him,’’ was emblazoned on the masthead of the Crisis, the journal Owen edited in the early thirties. His portrait, a sketch of an ideal square agricultural-industrial village, and the slogan about character formation became the three fundamental elements symbolizing the movement. The leaps from one assumption to another in the numbered arguments of Robert Owen take place as if they were links in an iron chain of logic. If men

were convinced that no individual was responsible for his moral condition and , it was created only by environmental circumstances, they would have to behave toward one another in a “‘new, sublime, and pure spirit of charity, for the convictions, feelings, and conduct of the human race.’’"! All punitive measures were irrational, as proved by the beneficial effects that resulted when barbaric methods were abolished in reformed asylums and schools. The time was approaching when innumerable maladies physical, mental, and moral would disappear. The rule would be to govern or treat all society as the most advanced physicians cared for their patients in the best arranged “‘lunatic hospitals,”’ which were distinguished by forbearance and kindness and full allowance for every paroxysm of the peculiar disease of each patient. Owen’s proclamation of the end of individual responsibility was repeated over and over again in different contexts; a section of his universal code of laws was provocatively entitled: “On the irresponsibility of man.” It made him

684 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE , anathema to the clergy of all religions and undermined the moral basis of any existing government or punitive law. By the same token, it won him the ad-

| - miration of Karl Marx. While Marx assented to Vico’s historico-philosophical dictum that man makes his own history, his reference was to man the species. Individual men, or at least social classes, were the products of their moment in time and the particular role they performed in the productive relations of their society. Marx would always insist that, though an extraordinary individual like himself or Owen was capable of transcending the circumstances of his birth, in general men were products of their environment, as Owen put it. The emphasis upon external circumstances as the key to character formation was read by Marx in a sympathetic spirit because there was something anti-

, idealistic, matter-of-fact, practical about Owen’s unphilosophical formulations that made them preferable to the pomposities of the German philosophers who had invaded the radical world. The Owenite utopia offered a naive, behavioris-

lan utopistics. ,

tic solution to all problems that was not alien to theoretical or practical Marx-

Man can never attain to a state of superior and permanent happiness, until he shall be surrounded by those external circumstances which will train him, from birth, to feel pure charity and sincere affection towards the whole of his species—to speak the truth only on all occasions, and to regard with a merciful disposition all that have life .. . such superior knowledge and feelings can never be given to man under those institutions of society which have been founded on the mistaken supposition that each man forms his own feelings and convictions by his will, and therefore has merit or demerit, or

disease. ,

deserves praise or blame, or reward or punishment, for them. , . . . Under institutions formed in accordance with the principles of the rational system of society, this superior knowledge, and these superior dispositions, may be given to the whole of the human race, without chance of failure, except in cases of organic _

By nature man was not only rational but benign and loving, if he was led to make the correct association of ideas. Men’s desires would be temperate if they were shown the reason for temperance. Their capacities could be developed in | many directions, including the ability to govern themselves. Character formation had to begin as soon as a child could walk; hence the early establishment of play areas in New Lanark. Engraving the crucial first impressions upon a child’s brain could not be entrusted to parents who had been imbued with false ideas. Most of Owen’s writings were devoted to demonstrating that character formation depended upon the principles of those who managed it, not on the individual, for a man could not make himself and therefore he was not free or accountable. The single exception was Owen, discoverer of the Great Error, himself partly a product of circumstances, albeit favor-

able ones for the inauguration of the new system. There were times when | Owen saw the character of man as a compound of his qualities at birth and the circumstances in which he was afterward placed, with the constant action and reaction of the one upon the other; but in his last important work, The Revolution in the Mind and Practice of the Human Race (1849), circumstantes, nurture, arrangements far outweighed the significance of congenital qualities, which, though fostered in the utopian townships, were useful primarily to lend diversity to society. Owen’s mechanisms for inducing a rational state of mind in his workers were precisely those used by benign animal experimenters, with em-

OWEN’S NEW MORAL WORLD 68 5 phasis on positive reinforcement rather than punishments. The New Lanark factory where Owen was Father and Master was the first industrial social laboratory in the modern world. As early as 1813 he had written in his New View of Society: ‘“Withdraw those circumstances which tend to create crime in the human character, and crime will not be created. Replace them with such as are calculated to form habits of order, regularity, temperance, industry; and these qualities will be formed.” ”

The Marquis de Sade had used the argument that all actions were natural, | hence their perpetrators were devoid of responsibility and should be free from any punishment for the rape, torture, murder of their fellows. Robert Owen never voiced approval of abhorrent actions. He was opposed to punishment because men were victims of circumstance and not to be held accountable for their wicked deeds: ‘‘The laws of man create crime, and then punish it in the

individual, whose character they have previously formed to commit the crime.’’!4 But when Owen assured the rulers of the earth that under a system of independent home colonies of 500 to 3,000 persons all human needs would be satisfied, he meant only rational needs. None other came to his enlightened lips. A rational education would make impossible the passionate propensities and extraordinary appetites that de Sade and Fourier had extolled.

The Gradual Transition Owen protested tirelessly in lectures and public addresses on both sides of the Atlantic that his project was to be instituted with the least possible disturbance of existing economic relations. As in the thought of Saint-Simon and Fourier, the French Revolution still loomed ominously in the background, and Owen had no wish to foment disruption and rebellion. The psychological principles underlying a peaceful transition to the new moral world are a simple extension

of the eighteenth-century doctrine of association. Under the old system of error, somehow or other ideas became associated in wrong combinations; these now had to be “‘unassociated” and the true associations knitted together,

a process that might last a few generations. “There must be no attempt to change governments or society by violence. Anger, in its various stages towards extreme violence and deadly conflict, indicates similar degrees of insanity and madness.”’ * The transition could be effected by all governments simultaneously through the newspapers within the course of a single year, if only they turned to the advocacy of rational principles. Owen’s fundamental tenet was reiterated so often it became like a religious litany. The new technology for creating wealth with little manual labor would eliminate poverty once the true principles of society were instilled in all human beings. Hence the ease of

the changeover from one system to another. Marx in his estimate of Owen passed over his militant antirevolutionism. When the turgid rhetoric was put aside, it became clear that the transition would be effected by an unusual concatenation of circumstances that required an act of illumination. There arose a man, none other than Robert Owen, who, , through a study of the past and present social and psychological facts of world

history, which by his own testimony to the American Congress he had absorbed five hours a day for twenty years, had discovered the one idea that was the fundamental law of human nature. He communicated his knowledge first

686 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE to a few men capable of enlightenment and then to the governments of the whole world, who would proceed to institute a new system of education first among a few workers’ colonies and then throughout the globe. The crucial _ assumptions were that Owen was capable of communicating his system and that from the very beginning a select body of men were capable of receiving it. Nothing accounted for his extraordinary appearance on earth and the exercise of his power of persuasion, elements that Owen’s major utopian competitors had also presumed, each in his own case. The Reverend J. H. Roebuck in public debate in 1837 made the impertinent reflection: ““Mr. Owen cannot explain to us consistently with his scheme, how out of the rubbish of the old irrational world, he sprang up so beautifully rational.” '® Marx eschewed a theory of individual behavior and dealt with classes and systems; Owen was locked into his individualist behavioral psychology, which had no exits. The problems of transition to the new society were left vague. Owen had nothing ‘‘rational’’ to say about the relations of the existing agricultural and manufacturing system and the new cooperative villages until he came forward with his “new” theory of value, which made labor the basis of all valuation in the new society. This “discovery” became a moral imperative: Since the principle was true, it had to be accepted. Perhaps the accumulation of scientific data __ in recent ages and the extraordinary technological advancement that had increased productivity many times over provided firm enough arguments to overcome the prevailing “‘irrationality”’; but it is difficult to understand how, even granted Owen’s unique enlightenment about the law of nature, his findings could impress others. There was of course his thirty-year experience in the spinning mills of New Lanark with the systematic transformation of his

_ “operatives” from drunken, shiftless creatures into the best workers in the world, a metamorphosis witnessed by aristocrats, their expert advisers, and numerous foreign visitors, empirical demonstration of the truth of the system and its dominant idea. Even if men would not listen to abstract reason, they could not fly in the face of an experiment of such long duration. Owen’s ceaseless lecturing, book writing, propaganda were directed to one end: to convince the powerful, preferably heads of state, that the movement from irrationality to rationality could be achieved peacefully and gradually, bringing happiness to all, rich and poor, aristocrats, red republicans, socialists, and communists. When in The Revolution in the Mind and Practice of the Human Race Owen asked ‘‘What was to be done?”’—that favorite nineteenth-century refrain of practicing utopians—he established his authority to speak as a universal reformer by citing once again the three decades of his administration of the mills of New Lanark. They had taught him that mankind was infinitely malleable, “ductile,” he said, but that an appropriate physical and moral environment had to be installed before the new man could be turned out. Owen was prone to resorting to metaphors from industry and commerce, and he thought of social renovation the way he would the introduction of a new manufacturing process. He conceived of himself as “‘chosen”’ long before he indulged in spiritualist séances and held converse with great heroes of the past. He was uniquely fitted to effect the transformation in the work system because he had served in every rank, from his post as usher in a school at the age of seven, through ap-

| prenticeship to a draper, and finally to his elevation as manager and owner of mills. And he had seen the world—at least France, Jamaica, Mexico, and the

OWEN’S NEW MORAL WORLD 687 United States. Everywhere he had met men of all classes and had had the opportunity to study precisely how their particular systems of ideas had been molded by their environments. Current political demands of the working classes for universal suffrage were irrelevant distractions that would only lead to further upheavals. Marx’s conception of the duto-emancipation of the working classes through economic and political action was totally alien to Owen, despite his paternalist flirtation with the labor movements. Chartists such as Henry Hetherington perfectly understood this, and while their Poor Man’s Guardian could praise Owen’s philanthropy, it rejected his constant assertion of the futility of political action and the winning of constitutional rights. Though Marx would join Owen in the prospect of the ultimate withering away of the political state, he would differ from him on tactics. For the transition period to communism, Marx valued political agitation as a mechanism that would help create communist consciousness, while Owen saw politics only as another force contributing to the current state of anarchy. Philosophical freedom and dignity were as meaningless to Owen as they are to a contemporary behaviorist like Skinner: Owen consistently condemned sharp revolutionary disjunctures. It was not to the interest of contemporaries that their social institutions remain forever unchanged, but on the other hand it would be deplorable if any one of them should be prematurely or suddenly destroyed. It was evident that the peace and safety of all demanded that these institutions and social practices be gradually superseded by others. Owen likened the peaceful transition to utopia alongside the old system to the building of railways while the old roads remained undisturbed. Governments would merely have to appoint a committee of seven intelligent, practical men who would be in charge of enlisting all the unemployed into a civil army to be reeducated so that they could introduce the institutions of the new scientific and rational society “gradually, peaceably,

, and wisely,” without interfering with any existing government or public or private interests. 1”

Fourier had imagined a huge army of adolescents who would be driven by an exploratory passion to reconquer the wastelands of the world and who in passing would seek the fulfillment of their sexual needs in grand mock battles of the sexes. The German artisan Weitling saw industrial armies in quasi-mili-

tary dress as appropriate for production and he called for strict discipline among them. Bellamy would later continue the tradition of the work army for his ideal society of the future. For Owen the civil army of the unemployed was. the perfect instrument to effect the gradual changeover from private interests to socialism, though he did not intend the army to be a permanent institution of the new society. The authoritarian way had found early acceptance in the communist utopia of Babeuf, and under a variety of names, with differing degrees of the Spartan rule, a long line of utopians from Owen through Marx resorted to it, especially for that irksome interim when the old man was not yet

| dead and the new one had not yet been fully formed. Moses’ “‘arrangements”’ , for the Jews in the wilderness, which required a forty-year hiatus before the triumphal entry into the promised land, was a deep Judeo-Christian cultural memory and the death of the old generation an archetypal solution. An authoritarian dictatorship of the proletariat was the mechanism Marx introduced into the Gotha Program Critique to protect communism in its fledgling stage, but

688 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE | some of his utopian predecessors, especially those who eschewed violence, had

earlier concocted milder schemes. Owen’s was among the more disarming be- , cause of its built-in time limitation. The wretched state of human existence

, would slowly give way to a scientific and rationally constructed society. The Rectangular Townships

The townships delineated in The Revolution in the Mind and Practice of the

, Human Race are the final embodiment of his utopian thought, far more concrete than his earlier, long-winded discussions on the formation of character. He had learned something, but not much, from the fiasco at New Harmony a quarter of a century before. Marx was right in refusing to reduce Owen to a promoter of cooperative “boutiques,” even though the spread of small-scale cooperative enterprises was the movement through which Owen probably exerted the greatest direct influence upon English society. In the circumstantial

detail of the ideal township Owen’s utopia comes to life. , Both the Saint-Simonians and Fourier had preserved many elements of the capitalist private property system. Only the later Owen was decisive in de-

manding communal exploitation of township fields, which surrounded a quadrangle of living quarters; as a practical businessman he had concluded— and he supplied comparative illustrations of income and expenditure—that cultivation in common would be more economical. At one time Marx thought this a cogent proof of the superiority of a communist system. For Owen, the ultimate justification for cultivating the land in common was its beneficent effect on character formation. ““The land will be cultivated as one farm property divided, under one general management, and will thus yield all the advantages of large and small farms, without the many disadvantages of the one or the

other. oe | “By this arrangement for cultivating the land, in connexion with those for _

manufacturing, and both being united with the domestic arrangements and

education, it will be easy in execution to have only superior circumstances in every department, to the entire exclusion of all vicious, injurious, or inferior

circumstances.’’ *® , , a

The township would be governed directly by all trained and educated members who had reached the age of thirty; there would be no tumultuous elections. All three of the great utopians shared a profound antagonism to political life as separated from the actual administration of production. In the townships, men and women in full vigor from thirty to forty would join the Home Department. The main body engaged in domestic management would thus be remarkably stable, since only about a tenth would be renewable each year. At _ forty, citizens would enter the Foreign Department, and at sixty they were entirely free of governmental obligations. With this fixed order of responsibility there could be no political contests. Life really would begin at sixty, when each as he saw fit could devote himself to public betterment; and the freedom and ease would make for longevity. (Bellamy adopted a similar scheme in Looking - Backward.) The Foreign Department created road links among townships, arranged for the establishment of new townships when population increased to the allowable limit, and exchanged scientific, technological, and cultural infor-

mation. a | Owen’s townships of 500 to 3,000, the parallel to Fourier’s phalansteries of

OWEN’S NEW MORAL WORLD 689 1,800, had “‘no useless private property,” '® no rewards and punishments. They were joined in circles of tens, hundreds, thousands, and still larger units until the whole world was encompassed, again a pattern not unlike Fourier’s. Individual townships would exchange surpluses, but they were essentially self-sufficient. There was no expectation of irrational behavior in these small local societies, though provision was made for its treatment should it chance to break

out. Present-day readers can hardly study the passages about the care of , ‘“‘moral invalids” without sensing a presage of things to come. No matter how radically an English utopia strives to oust the punitive through the door of its ideal society, it manages to creep in through the window. “All individuals, trained, educated, and placed, in conformity with the laws of their nature, must, of necessity, at all times, think and act rationally, unless they shall become physically, intellectually or morally diseased; in which case the council [of the township] shall remove them into the hospital for bodily, mental, or moral invalids, where they shall remain until they shall have been recovered by the mildest treatment that can effect their cure.”’”°

Where authority was involved, Owen was full of contradictions. On one page full liberty for the individual to express all his thoughts “‘upon all subjects’” was reckoned a requisite for human happiness; eight pages later the reader encounters regulations “‘to prevent injurious expressions of opinion or feelings arising among the adult members of the Township.’’*! The behavioral system Owen as mill owner had instituted at New Lanark somehow fell apart in the freedom and equality of New Harmony, Indiana; but the theory rolled along in periodical after periodical, public meeting after public meeting, book

, after book, as if nothing adverse had occurred. Defeats might whip Owen, but they never forced him to change a word once uttered. Marx admired Owen’s tenacity, his refusal to bend in order to court popularity. By 1849, the township of about 2,000 had usurped the role of what we now call the nuclear family as Owen’s basic unit of existence. The township as “parent” served as an agent of the creative power of God in maintaining universal harmony. Harmony could not be achieved without equality as a unifying principle, and equality meant fulfillment for a variety of characters, not the imposition of uniformity. At times The Revolution in the Mind and Practice of the

Human Race reads like an anglicized version of Fourier, the extravagances toned down, reason and science substituted for the passions as the key words. However naive Owen’s home colonies may have appeared to Marx, he praised him for respecting equality in self-expression and for providing that the fulfillment of needs be directly organized by society, without the burdensome Fourierist holdover of disproportionate return on investment in each phalanstery. The limitation in size of the township was determined by Owen’s contention that about 2,000 persons of all ages and sexes were the optimal number that could be housed in buildings forming a rectangle. The complex was superior to a royal palace, in that it offered the utmost in private and social accommodation and comfort as well as education and amusement. Public build-

ings would include colleges; private quarters would be assigned in terms of , marital status and individual disposition. Apartments and accommodations of varied types were planned, though here a certain uniformity had to prevail lest a person suffer the slight of having another of the same age better housed than himself or herself.” The townships were to be surrounded with gardens, pleasure grounds, and

690 THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE intensively cultivated estates on both sides of the railways that would traverse every country. Thus food would no longer have to be transported to overcrowded cities where it would arrive in deteriorated condition; instead, the inhabitants of ideal townships would live in the midst of their food supply. A thousand to two thousand acres of farmland girding the residential buildings would more than amply nourish the inhabitants. _ Marx preferred the Owen of the post-1820 period and ignored the earlier works. He found congenial Owen’s exposition of the general socialist idea of labor as the sole basis of value and the affirmation of plain equality as a goal in speeches and lectures of the twenties and thirties. Robert Owen of New Harmony, Indiana, on July 4, 1826, had called for liberation from privilege or individual ownership, absurd and irrational systems of religion, and marriage based on individual property. The 1830 Lectures on an Entire New State of Society described private property as an emanation of ignorant selfishness. And in Lectures on the Marriages of the Priesthood (1835), marriage was denounced as a sa- _ tanic device that changed “‘sincerity, kindness, affection, sympathy and pure

love into deception, envy, jealousy, hatred and revenge.’’*8 | Owen’s attacks on marriage, property, and religion, the unholy trinity, which appeared in his lectures of the 1830s and in The Book of the New Moral World, resulted in his ostracism from respectable society. There were English booksellers who refused to stock any of his writings. The bitter denunciation

of a marriage system that made divorce painfully difficult would seem to stem | from personal experience—though a veil is drawn over the intimate details of , the personal relations between Robert Owen the artisan’s son and the daughter of Dale the manufacturer. In his polemical works Owen mixed eugenic argu-

, ments with descriptions of the psychic depredations of this priestly institution. Everything in the existing system of marriage was leading to the degeneration of the race; it put barriers in the way of eugenic improvement. Females in par-

ticular suffered under the present regimen, which brought them to insanity and suicide. Traditional marriage enslaved women who could not endure their husbands and caused them to bear untold miseries in silence. These ‘‘priestly”’ |

marriages from which there was no escape were a source of wretchedness , among all classes. They encouraged men to make choices contrary to sound and natural eugenic principles because they were enticed by the rich dowries

feeble women offered to prospective husbands. :

, For the townships Owen advocated sexual equality pure and simple in education, rights, privileges, and personal liberty. In this pure democracy there would be no motive for sexual crime, and sexual disease would soon be eradicated. Virtually all marital difficulties would dissolve, since partners would be _

, _ chosen for the general sympathies of their natures. Owen could conceive of no other legitimate basis of coupling. Existing priestly marital laws had created and forced upon the human race more frustration of natural innocent feelings, more loathsome afflicting diseases, more monstrous crimes, more murders, more disordered fancies and more insanity than the human mind was capable of imagining, especially since these terrible evils had been concealed. If the doctors, police authorities, and keepers of madhouses would speak out, mankind would learn of the terrible injustices and anguish generated by the present system; it revealed men as less rational than all other animals, which, lacking a

meddlesome priesthood, instinctively pursued what they wanted. , Childhood was the crucial formative period—Owen always stressed the sig-

OWEN’S NEW MORAL WORLD 691 nificance of the early months of life—yet this was the age most neglected. The abuse of children was not physical alone; it formed in them evil habits and they were as if lost for life. Owen’s descriptions of incompetent, punitive masters join those of seventeenth-century utopian emancipators of children like Comenius, who had written of schools as slaughterhouses. When in 1816 Owen opened an Institution for the Formation of Character in New Lanark, he gave explicit instructions to its teachers: They were never to beat children, and were to address them with pleasant countenance and in a kindly tone of voice. If parents attended the lectures he hoped that even they would profit from them. They could learn to apportion their earnings rationally, creating a fund to relieve anxieties for the future instead of wasting money on drink. Children had to be made rational through knowing themselves, a knowledge attained by investigating facts. The consequence would be the drying up of anger, ill will, envy, jealousy, and other repugnant emotions. Only when all children passed through the same general routine of education, domestic teaching, and employment, as they would in the townships, would happiness become possible for them. Parents were too partial to their offspring to educate them, even if they had the pedagogic machinery at their disposal—an old communitarian utopian saw. Only the townships were large enough to maintain the necessary and suitable instrumentalities for fashioning a superior, useful character. At every age there would be particular educational techniques to fit the growing physical and mental capacities of the students and their altered propensities. Owen assured his readers that the affections of the biological family would not be weakened by communal education. Now limited to the family, the affections would be extended so that the disposition to take undue advantage of others would be curbed. Freud later claimed, as Aristotle had before him, that the communal diffusion of affections diluted them. Owen adamantly held to the evidence of his thirty-year experience in New Lanark that the natural affection between parents and children was not diminished under a communal system. His thesis was simple: If an egalitarian democratic character was to be shaped, it could not be achieved within the egotistic confines of the small family unit. Perfect equality throughout life was “‘the only foundation for a certain bond of union among men, and for an elevated state of society.”** Answering an unseen interlocutor, Owen refuted the argument that such equality in his ideal townships would entrain monotonous uniformity. The bogey had been raised against the Saint-Simonians, and it has never been laid to rest. Owen denied that there was any necessary connection between drab sameness and complete equality. “In every case, the Township will form those general arrangements that will supply all equally, according to age, with the best of everything for

human nature, at each divisional period of life; and apply the faculties and powers of each, without exception, for the benefit of the individuals of the Township, and of the extended circle of the federative unions.” ?* Owen allowed that each person was born with a different compound of qualities, and in practice it would be discovered that this diversity was necessary and useful in the order of nature; but this did not mean that a superior quality should provide a pretext for breaking the rule of equality, since the merit was given by

God, not earned. |

Owen granted that in the past an occasional lawgiver like Lycurgus of

692 | THE UNION OF LABOR AND LOVE | Sparta had succeeded in developing a uniform, one-sided, “‘sectional” character that excelled in military prowess; but the progress of human knowledge now demanded rational men and women, fully formed mentally, morally, and physically. Though Owen did not get far away from the language of the spinning-mill owner, in essence he was in the same philosophical tradition as that governing the other romantic utopians, Marx included—the self-actualization of the individual in all his capacities. The complete flowering of a man’s natural gifts under a social arrangement of equality was likened to the production of a fine textile. ““The machinery is now required to manufacture from human nature this superior fabric, for the benefit of all who live, and for future generations.”’ The establishment of the township system would increase happiness in a ratio of 2,000 to 1 compared with the present individualistic system. Owen’s ‘laws of the universal rational constitution, for the government of the human

race collectively,’’** guaranteed total self-fulfillment. | The mid-nineteenth-century revolutionary excitement in France and Eng- , land, the two most energetic and advanced nations of the globe, heralded what was to come—full and complete equality. “It is the pure principle of de-

mocracy, carried out to its full extent in practice, that can alone carry the human race onward toward the highest degrees of perfection.””®” Utopian happiness could not be restricted to a particular class or geographic section. All of

the human race shall be happy, or none. ,

| The Onward Spirit | The scientific laws of human nature, discovered by Owen, would transform the world into a terrestrial paradise, in which the “onward spirit” of each in- — habitant would operate against the existence of any cause of evil.?® Concern for the well-being and well-doing of every individual in society would generate in every man “‘the highest rational enjoyments”’ to the greatest practicable extent.

The Benthamite adaptation is patent, the belief in the malleability of every human being is unquestioned, the identity of individual and collective happiness has never been more dogmatically asserted. The rub lies hidden in the ‘‘rational” of the highest rational enjoyments, a nineteenth-century version of the

‘honest allowable pleasures” of Thomas More, whose Utopia the Owenites freely excerpted and published in their journals.?® These anticlerical dissenters, of course, could not have anticipated that in the twentieth century More would

be formally declared a full-fledged saint. ,

Though Owen’s militant anticlericalism caused him the greatest difficulties in the propagation of his system, he was neither an unrelenting atheist nor a materialist. His nine laws on the principles and practices of rational religion set him somewhere between a deist and an agnostic, but he still posited a single creating force for all existence. His murky theology was not acceptable to any

religious establishment or sect in England. He maintained that “‘all facts yet | known to man indicate that there is an external or internal Cause of all existences, by the fact of their existence; that this all-pervading cause of motion and change in the universe, is that Incomprehensible Power which the nations of the world have called God, Jehovah, Lord, etc., etc.; but the facts are yet

unknown to man which define what that Power is.’’*° , 7 In his old age Owen reverted to the language of Christian millenarianism,

OWEN’S NEW MORAL WORLD 693 which he mixed with a hodgepodge of pseudo-scientific cosmological notions.*! When a bit of Lucretian atomism seeped into his view of the universe, he saw its elements in a constantly changing pattern of repulsion and attrac-

tion, continually forming new compounds. This perception of the physical world in no way hindered his belief in material and spiritual progression. Owen regularly quoted the Scriptures, albeit with commentaries that were farout even for independent Dissenters, many of whom nevertheless joined his movement. When he lectured to his workers on Saint Paul’s First Epistle to the Corinthians, he linked the Christian idea of charity with the greatest happiness of the greatest number deriving from the practice of enlightened self-interest, a stew that only a Bible-ridden Benthamite could readily digest. Owen did not contemn the spiritual leaders of Western society, neither Plato nor Jesus, who was for him a “genuine socialist.”” Unfortunately their doctrines had been perverted by the practices of unknowing and misguided disciples, who had honored the principle of repulsion instead of attraction. It was the ecclesiastical establishments of all religions and the formal worship of God that drew Owen’s fire; the ritual mummery was meaningless. For man, an in-+ sect upon a planet, a grain of sand in the universe, to imagine that he could glorify the Origin of all things with his trivial, fatuous, ceremonial acts was the most irrational of conceptions. In short, God was indifferent to the laudations of puny man. Behind Owen’s conviction of the possibility of a rational society and the fashioning of mankind to goodness lay the ultimate belief that all being was an expression of the divine creative force. When Marx and Engels enrolled him under their materialist banner, they were turning a deaf ear to his spiritualism, which allowed for the existence of recognizable beings after death and for man’s ability to communicate with them. Neither for Robert Owen nor for his | son Robert Dale Owen, who became a naturalized American citizen and when Minister of the United States in Naples frequently participated in spiritualist séances, was there a conflict between such beliefs and the universal truth of the Owenite system as the only way to a new moral world. Over the centuries the English utopian tradition has largely gone its own parochial way, and though in broad lines it is related to Continental developments it often spawns figures who have a special character: the Catholic martyr who invented Utopia, the Diggers and Ranters of the Civil War, the eigh-

teenth-century dissenting clergyman who expounded anarchism in two volumes, and the authoritarian cotton manufacturer who founded the socialist community of New Harmony, not to speak of that indescribable assortment of intellectuals in the Fabian Society who debated with one another about utopian values. The English utopians displayed neither the philosophical vigor of the , Germans nor the political and psychological acumen of the French. More than other utopian creators they prided themselves on their moral principles, and the most irreligious English socialist community seems to incarnate a Dissenter sermon. At some point, common sense and self-evident propositions are left behind, and plain psychological data about man’s nature and history are blithely ignored.

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PART VII

Marx and Counter-Marx

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CL ae ee nee oo SESE oe aaeaai Ee oe a as eos OMe aes ee ae ne See Be . aa Beet eee of aeaieee Bue —Thomas More, Thomas Muintzer, , and the Levellers faithfully reflected the conditions of their times—but what had been innocent daydreaming up to about the end of the eighteenth century could not be considered so thereafter, for the later utopians, without any sense of the objective conditions of their society and its historical development, were spinning purely subjective fantasies that distracted the proletariat from its des- _ tined political mission. Once Marx and Engels had come onto the world stage,

any utopian survivors had to be repudiated in principle, since they had been | transcended by scientific socialism. The idea of utopia acquired heavily pejora-

tive overtones in communist thought. As the appointed guardian of true revolutionary consciousness, Marx was formally obligated to combat every utopian system that raised its empty head—Owvenite, Saint-Simonian, Fourierist, Blancian, Proudhonian, Stirnerian, Weitlingian, Bakuninist, Lassallean, Duhringian, in fact any deviation from the realistic and correct doctrinal position set forth in the writings of Marx and Engels. “Utopian” was usually an _ epithet of denigration to be splashed onto any theoretical opponent. If a round-

, about story is credible, as he advanced in years Marx continued to reject the very idea of a utopia. Georges Sorel in the Réflexions sur la violence (1908) re- ,

, ported that, according to the economist Professor Lujo Brentano, Marx wrote the English Positivist Edward Spencer Beesly in 1869: ““The man who draws up a programme for the future is a reactionary.’’4 In daily practice the position Marx and Engels assumed with respect to their

MARX, ENGELS, AND UTOPIA 699 utopian forerunners was far more complex and on occasion even they might lapse into utopian glossolalia. Despite the persistence with which they bela-

bored some contemporary utopians, essential parts of the Critique of the Gotha | Program were in fact the answer to a utopian inquiry that Marx himself had initiated: ““What transformation will the nature of the state undergo in a communist society? In other words, what social functions will then remain that are analogous to present-day state functions?” This question could only be answered “‘scientifically”’ (wissenschaftlich), he declared in the Critique;? but some pages back, a grand apostrophe had already escaped him and he was caught in

the utopian web. In a higher phase of communist society, when the enslaving subordination of the individual to the division of labor, and with it the antithesis between mental and physical labor, has vanished; when labor is no longer merely a means of life but has become life’s principal need; when the productive forces too have increased with the all-round development of the individual, and all the springs of shared wealth flow more abundantly —only then will it be possible completely to transcend the narrow horizon of bourgeois right and only then will society be able to inscribe on its banners: From each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs [Jeder nach seinen Fahigkeiten, jedem nach seinen Bedtirfnissen]!®

Implicit in this passage is the quintessential problem of what are and what , are not human needs that has always been at the core of utopian thought in the West. The question of need has been analyzed in abstract philosophical terms, as in Plato’s Philebus, or in concrete physiological terms. Distinctions have been established between need and desire, between authentic and inauthentic needs. The relationship of needs and abilities in Marx’s utopian thought can perhaps best be established, not in an isolated or autonomous commentary on the brief, laconic phrases of the Critique, but in juxtaposition with the views of the French and English utopian communists and socialists who antedated him and whose followers survived to bedevil him, and in relation to his own views on other occasions. The French and English utopian tradition about the future of society was the most serious body of utopian thought with which he was confronted. Except for the memory of Thomas Muntzer there was no German social utopia that earned the respect of Marx and Engels, and Muntzer was too

remote to be used as anything but a fetish. Marx had a way of defining himself | by negation, but he did not live by refutation alone, and the encyclopedic and synthesizing mind of this man deeply immersed in the culture of his age managed to assimilate the ideas of his enemies even while he was berating them. A hundred years after it was written, the Critique of the Gotha Program can be most effectively illuminated if it is restored to the utopian landscape in which it was originally planted.

Crude Leveling Marx was aware from his reading of The Conspiracy of the Equals, by Philippe Buonarroti, a survivor of the plot, that there had been a deliberate and momentous decision among the members of Babeuf’s inner circle to reject the equal,

private, individual holdings of More’s Utopia in favor of communally held property as the only feasible way to enforce absolute equality after the Revolution. The Babouvist dogma of immediate equality had also lived on in the popu-

700 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX : , lar French communist tradition that Buonarroti had resurrected in the 1830s.

| When the young Marx was exposed to Babouvism, he rejected it totally and unequivocally. His loathing for instant egalitarianism was a constant of his thought from his first appearance in the political arena. While he could treat more tenderly the egalitarian communistic utopians of the eighteenth century , that he knew, Mably and Morelly, their identification with the consequences

to be smeared. , . a

of their thought in the mad Babouvist uprising caused even these guileless ones

In the Communist Manifesto of 1848 the Babeuf type of communism was labeled reaktionar. ‘‘It teaches a general asceticism and a crude leveling.”’” From the 1840s onward, Marx, who saw himself as coming to mankind in order to

establish a communist system for a dynamic, world technological-industrial mechanism inherited from bourgeois capitalism, heaped scorn upon the eighteenth-century French founders of ‘‘optimum little republics” based on egali- — tarian principles and their nineteenth-century German imitators with their “Federal republics with social institutions’ and vapid egalitarian slogans.® The | German scribblers of the Gotha Program of 1875 had fallen into the same ora, torical trap, and he would have none of them. The notes that preceded Engels’ Anti-Duhring (whose express purpose was to distinguish authoritatively between utopian and scientific socialism) are spotted with similar sneers, witness

that the two men were on the same track. ‘““To want to establish Equal- _ ity = Justice as the highest principle and the ultimate truth is absurd.” Ahistorical manifestoes like the Gotha Program were drivel for both of them. ‘‘So

, the concept of equality itself is a historical Produkt to whose working out the

, whole of prehistory is necessary,’’ wrote Engels, “‘it has not existed as truth , from all eternity.”” When Engels heard talk of a sudden communist revolution against the “‘existing military bureaucratic state,” he could only liken such political insanity to Babeuf’s attempt “‘to jump immediately from the Directory into communism.’’® As late as 1885, recollecting the Babouvist influence in the

secret organizations of the League of the Just and the League of Communists of the 1840s, Engels continued to denounce them for their derivation of community of property from the principle of equality rather than seeing communism as an outgrowth of the historical process. '® Inequalities were inevitable in the first phase of communism as it would emerge, after long birth pangs, from

, capitalist society, Marx insisted in his Critique, and for Social Democrats pro- | miscuously to advertise promises of equality was a base deception. Justice (he meant distributive justice), the law of a society, could not be more effective than its economic structure and the cultural level dependent upon it would per-

mit. True equality had to await the higher stage of communism. | Once the idea of absolute equality, in the Babouvist sense, as a human need

had become deeply entrenched in certain branches of French communist thought of the 1830s and 1840s, usually among the violent direct actionists such as Auguste Blanqui, it had to be recokoned with. But immediate equality as a goal clashed sharply with other utopian needs as they had been set forth by

, those seminal utopian thinkers and their followers who had moved in a very different direction from Babeuf’s: Saint-Simon, Fourier, and Owen. These _ were men toward whom both Marx and Engels had adopted a negative attitude in the Communist Manifesto, which was a utopian’s due. But despite their _ criticism, ambivalent feelings colored their treatment."? All utopian thought

MARX, ENGELS, AND UTOPIA 701 was inimical to scientific socialism, but some conceptions were less inimical than others. In the collected works of Marx and Engels there are scores of citations dealing with Saint-Simon, Fourier, Owen, and their followers, and they range from contempt to generous praise. The writings of these utopian socialists left an indelible stamp on the banderole of the Critique of the Gotha Program.

Utopian Socialists

The minds of Saint-Simon, Owen, and Fourier, all autodidacts, had been fashioned by the Anglo-French Enlightenment thought of pre-Revolutionary Europe. Marx and Engels represented a very different world—Rhineland society half a century later—and they were illustrious products of the organized Ger-

man university system of the early forties. But from the beginning of their self-awareness as revolutionaries, they had to cope with the curious, often absurd, writings of these three men, whom they somehow recognized as respectworthy predecessors. Utopian socialist thought had first taken shape during the Napoleonic period, contemporaneous with the Hegelian philosophy, and the young men had a love-hate relationship with both. They knew their fathers and had to transcend them. The identification of the mutually unsympathetic persons of Saint-Simon, Fourier, and Owen as a utopian trinity was becoming general in the 1830s. Fourier himself had singled out Saint-Simon and Owen as his two major rivals in the hostile pamphlet of 1831, Piéges et charlatanisme des deux sectes: SaintSimon et Owen, qui promettent l’association et le progres (Snares and Charlatanism

of the Two Sects: Saint-Simon and Owen, Who Promise Association and Progress), and in a series of articles in the Fourierist journal La Réforme industrielle ou Le Phalanstere of July 1832 that covered the whole utopian spectrum under the title “Revue des utopies du xix® siécle.” Jerome-Adolphe Blanqui (respectable brother of Auguste), Cours d’économie industrielle, 183'7~1838, listed

Saint-Simon, Fourier, and Owen as socialistes modernes. Nonsectarian Europeans probably were first alerted to the triple threat of the new utopians when Louis Reybaud’s Etudes sur les réformateurs contemporains ou socialistes modernes

was published in 1840 and crowned by the Académie des Sciences Morales et Politiques. After critically dissecting Saint-Simon, Fourier, and Owen, Reybaud had added an appendix on Thomas Muiintzer, associating the utopians with memories of the bloody uprisings of the Reformation.

Marx and Engels fell naturally into the current mode of grouping SaintSimon, Fourier, and Owen as the principal socialist or communist sectarians of

Europe. They might turn for casual reference to any of the numerous other systems, but these three were preoccupations throughout their lives. When

Marx and Engels formed their enduring emotive and intellectual alliance in the , 1840s they mounted a stage literally swarming with utopian systems, but they

quickly distinguished antagonists of parts from the small fry. Though they once hailed the Garantien der Harmonie und Freiheit (Guarantees of Harmony and Freedom, 1842) by the German tailor Wilhelm Weitling as an example of what German proletarian genius could achieve, they soon judged his thought for what it was, a loose amalgam of Saint-Simonian and Fourierist notions. For the historian, Weitling’s Gerechtigkeit (Justice) remains a moving autobiographical witness of the mind and feelings of a nineteenth-century, self-taught

| 702 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX _ artisan; Marx and Engels came to treat him with the same contempt they vis-

ited upon Proudhon and Bakunin.” _

Over the decades Marx’s and Engels’ appreciation of the utopian triumvirate of Saint-Simon, Fourier, and Owen swayed with the subject under discussion and the political exigencies of the times, whether they lumped the three together or carefully separated the triplex into its component parts. Engels was always more tolerant of “originals”? than his partner and he had a deeper and more enduring affection for the dead prodromoi; but these are differences of degree, not fundamentally opposed attitudes. Marx and Engels often used the great utopians as foils in the course of attacks on Proudhon and the Germans— the True Socialists, Bruno Bauer, Weitling, Duhring. And, with the rarest of exceptions, they treated the three as men of consequence, even when they had to mow them down. Perhaps the high point of their esteem was reached late in their lives, in Engels’ introductions to the 1870 and 1875 editions of Der deutsche Bauernkrieg (The Peasant War in Germany). “German theoretical Socialism will never forget that it stands on the shoulders of Saint-Simon, Fourier, and Owen, three men who despite their fantasies and utopianism are to be reckoned among the most significant minds of all times, for they anticipated with

genius countless matters whose accuracy we now demonstrate scientifically.”’'’ The image of dwarfs standing on the shoulders of giants seeing further than the giants themselves, which the passage evokes, has had a long history in Western culture. [t was not habitual for Marx and Engels to dwarf their own historic roles, but there the unusual tribute stands. Marx and Engels had read deeply in modern utopian literature before 1848 and at one point planned to have the foreign works excerpted and translated into German as educational materials for German workingmen. During the later years of exile in England they returned to the utopians, coming upon insights that had escaped their notice before, and reporting on them to each other with excitement. In the hiatus of the middle years, when it was vital to differ-

, entiate themselves from the host of rival system-makers dead and alive, they may have been more severe in their negation. As the former Saint-Simonians, turned bankers and senators, became a mainstay of Napoleon III’s dictatorship, antagonism toward the disciples spilled back onto their ancestor; but Marx and Engels were generally careful to differentiate between the philosophico-historical sweep of Saint-Simon and the behavior of the ex-Saint-Simonian capi-

talists who ran the Crédit Mobilier. _ |

As far back as 1845-46, Marx and Engels had already reached a reasonably consolidated position on the communist and socialist utopian “‘systems’’ that had mushroomed all over Europe. Instead of rejecting them outright as ““dogmatic-dictatorial’’ as the German True Socialists did, they began to see the uto-

pian systems as products of their time and the character of their authors. Fourier, they wrote in Die deutsche Ideologie (The German Ideology) had devel-

oped his views in an authentic poetical spirit; Owen and Cabet, lacking his. imagination, had invented their utopias with businesslike calculation or juridical slyness. As the working-class parties of Europe evolved, these “‘systems”’ would become source books of popular slogans. Nobody could accept literally all of Owen’s plans, which he continually modified in accordance with the class he was propagandizing—an observation not meant to be pejorative. Only the German True Socialists, who pretended to speak for eternity, were ridicu-

MARX, ENGELS, AND UTOPIA 703 lous.!4 Utopians like Owen who acted for their time served a salutary purpose. In praising him, Marx and Engels may even have provided posterity with a clue as to how they expected their own works to be read, hoping men would take into account the time and place of their utterances and the particular audience they were addressing. If their works were read in this spirit today much Marxological quibbling about consistency would evaporate into thin air. In the Communist Manifesto of 1848, Owen’s home colonies and Fourier’s phalansteries were derided as castles in Spain, but they were explained histori-

cally rather than merely dismissed: Saint-Simon, Fourier, and Owen had sprung up in the undeveloped, early period of the war between the proletariat — and the bourgeoisie.’* Their definitive judgment on utopianism as an intellectual phenomenon was formulated by Engels in 1878, in Herrn Eugen Duhring’s Umwalzung der Wissenschaft (Herr Eugen Duhring’s Revolution in Science) where

he drew careful distinctions between the early nineteenth-century utopians, who were justified because they ‘“‘had to construct the outlines of a new society

out of their own heads, since within the old society the elements of the new were not yet generally apparent,’’ and the utopian social order constructed by the likes of Duhring “‘out of his sovereign brain” eighty years later. This purported “authoritative system” was winning converts in the Social Democratic party of Germany and was a real threat to the Marxist doctrine of scientific socialism. Things had come to a pretty pass when Duhring’s confused rhetoric had to be considered seriously. In the text of Engels’ classical work, the deflation of the pompous German professorial man-of-all-knowledge was accom, panied by the elevation of each of the major utopians of the first decades of the nineteenth century. '®

Doughty Robert Owen But for all Marx’s and Engels’ appreciation of the utopian threesome, it was Owen whom they singled out for special praise—all the more perplexing in the light of what is known of his life and works. The rose-tinted Owen is an anomalous portrait in the Marxist gallery, where rough caricature tends to predominate. In the years that followed the Revolution of 1848, when the Owenites and Fourierists were shrunken into sects and the Saint-Simonians defected to the capitalists, Marx preserved a soft spot for the Robert Owen who had cast his lot with the working classes. Owen had a conception of a new world, Marx wrote to Ludwig Kugelmann.*'’ Owen was in favor of the direct socialization of work. His establishment of connections between productive labor and the education of children and cooperatives had once been mocked, but many of his ideas had since been incorporated into laws. In fact they had become so widely accepted that they were beginning to serve as covers for new ways of swindling the working classes. Das Kapital quoted as authoritative the observations of Owen the manufacturer on the deleterious effects of the exist-

| ing factory system upon the body and spirit of the average worker.'® From Owen, Marx took testimony that the machine had deprived human nature of its resilience and reduced to a minimum its capacity to offer resistance to oppression. As late as 1877, when Marx was gathering up what he owned of Owen’s works for Engels, who was reviewing the whole experience of utopian socialism, he came upon The Revolution in the Mind and Practice of the

704 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX , Human Race; or, the Coming Change from Irrationality to Rationality (1849) and promptly bestowed upon it his accolade—‘“‘a very important work.’’*® The

_ dictatorial Owen of the experiments in harmony and Owen the aged spiritua-

list were forgotten. ,

When the Owenites gave Marx trouble in the International by refusing to recognize the importance of strike movements in consolidating the consciousness of the working classes, he turned to the memory of Robert Owen with a measure of nostalgia. He, unlike his followers, Marx believed, had never had any illusions about the widespread benign consequences of cooperative factories and stores. The factory system was for Owen the point of departure of

| the social revolution and he was regarded as a brother-in-arms. According to Marx, Owen had accepted industrialization, was an atheist, did not hesitate to rebel against the bourgeois law of marriage. Above all, Owen, along with > Engels and the great parliamentary inquiries into the factory system, had laid

, bare for Marx the grim realities of the capitalist mode of production and its recent history. Owen’s experiences in New Lanark proved to Marx and Engels that communist man could not emerge full-grown from primitive communal society, as some Russian theorists were beginning to argue. In Scotland Owen had wrestled with workers who had just outgrown a broken-down, Celtic, communistic clan system; they were no more amenable to his social ideas than other English proletarians. ‘‘It is a historical impossibility for more primitive forms to resolve conflicts with which the higher are unable to cope,” Engels wrote.2° Marx’s utopia could not violate the rhythm of history and its iron

, laws. —

Owen had enjoyed the unwavering admiration of Friedrich Engels from the time of his youth. Writing for the Schweizerischer Republikaner (Swiss Republi-

can) of June 9, 1843, he voiced a preference for the English over the French socialists because men like Owen were practical and could deal with concrete realities; in particular, they were not afraid to attack openly all churches. Owen —

dared to proclaim that marriage, religion, and property had been the major sources of human misfortune since the beginning of the world. Engels was preserving the sequence of a broadsheet of 1839, Robert Owen on Marriage, Religion, and Private Property, and on the Necessity of Immediately Carrying into Practice , the ‘Rational System of Society,” to Prevent the Evils of a Physical Revolution. In

the Anti-Duhring, written thirty-five years after his Swiss article, Engels still used virtually the same formula, albeit reversing the order of Owen’s targets, in a lavish eulogy. ‘‘There were three great obstacles which above all seemed to | block the path of social reform: private property, religion, and marriage in its present form.’’”! The last phrase in the title of the 1839 broadside, “to Prevent the Evils of a Physical Revolution,” was not dwelt upon; neither was the main thrust of the Outline of the Rational System of Society (18402), which offered itself

as the only effective remedy for the evils in the world and promised that its immediate adoption would tranquilize society. For all time Robert Owen, the _ former manufacturer, was enshrined among the heroic figures of the class struggle. ‘“‘Banished from official society, banned by the press, impoverished by the failure of communist experiments in America in which he sacrificed his , whole fortune, he turned directly to the working class and worked among them for another thirty years. All social movements, all real advances made in

MARX, ENGELS, AND UTOPIA 705

name.’’?? oe |

England in the interest of the working class were associated with Owen’s

Writing for the Owenite New Moral World, Engels had contrasted the nononsense approach of the English with Cabet’s Icarians, who in their propaganda tried to identify communism with true Christianity.??> To the extent that

Marx and Engels were capable of close relations with workers and their leaders, the English were their favorites. They might be naive, but they were not lost in philosophical vapors like the Germans. Since the English inhabited the most advanced industrial country and were free of religious hangovers, they were ideal agents of the communist revolution. In the sixth chapter of The Holy Family Marx and Engels used the visions of Fourier and Owen as bludgeons.with which to beat down the “critical” philosophy of Bruno Bauer, who had failed to realize that the so-called “spiritual”? advances of mankind, which were the core of his concern, had been achieved in contradiction to the interests of mankind, By contrast, Owen’s expectation of a collapse of civilization as he knew it was a genuine, radical critique of society. Owen was sound

because he based his thought on a radical materialism that derived from Bentham and harked back to the French materialists of the eighteenth century, an “authentic humanism” that was a “logical’’ foundation for communism. Owen was a communist of the masses because he recognized in contemporary punishments and rewards the sanction of social class divisions and the absolute expression of base slavishness.2 Owen had achieved real victories in his fight to protect the health of child workers and to curtail the hours of labor. He embodied both theory and practice—even as Marx and Engels did. In the early 1840s, Engels had recognized as worthwhile enterprises Owen’s proposals for home colonies, in which two to three thousand persons would be engaged in both agriculture and industry under rules that allowed for complete freedom of thought and less stringent marital and criminal laws. In 1844, reporting to the New Moral World on the rapid progress of German communism, he assured the Owenites that the German leaders had no intention of remaining mere the-

, oreticians. One of their number was engaged in a review of all communal plans, including the experiment in Harmony. Engels expressed confidence that the experience of the communes would give the lie to those who asserted that workers could not live and work together without constraint.”

, The Saint-Simonians had never outrightly rejected private property, only inheritance, and Fourier’s elaborate scheme of remuneration made Marx bristle when it was labeled communist. Owen alone seemed to recognize the worth of the direct social organization of labor. Saint-Simon’s play with a New Christianity and Fourier’s preservation of God as the ultimate sanction for his sys-

tem put Marx and Engels off. There was something straightforward about Owen’s anticlericalism. They never commented on the Owenites as a millenarian sect, and they overlooked the imitation of forms of religious organization, with The Book of the New Moral World (1836) replacing the Bible, a book of Social Hymns that incorporated creed, catechism, and articles, and The Social Bible (ca. 1840), an outline of the “‘rational system of society.”’ Owen remained the philanthropist who had transcended his class status as a manufacturer and had turned to the working classes. In 1866—no glorious period of his

own life—Marx described Owen in terms that raised him to the level of a

706 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX © model hero: He was one of those “‘really doughty natures who, once having struck out on a revolutionary path, always draw fresh strength from their defeats and become more decisive the longer they swim in the flood tide of

, history.’’ 76 : |

In 1878 Engels found in Owen’s Book of the New Moral World “‘not only the most clear-cut communism possible, with equal obligation to labor and equal right in the product—equal according to age, as Owen always adds—but also the most comprehensive project of the future communist community, with its groundplan, elevation, and bird’s-eye view.’’*” Praise for such utopian baubles is completely alien to the normal intellectual style of Marx and Engels, and the

, superlatives with which they both showered Owen remain puzzling. They had identified themselves with this man of many projects who refused to recognize defeat and was intent upon saving humanity and the working classes in despite

of themselves. Owen the blind authoritarian in utopia escaped them. .

Marx and the Saint-Simonians | On his deathbed, Saint-Simon had reflected that if he had done anything for mankind, it was to proclaim the need for the free development of distinctive natural talents. ‘“Talents’’ was his word and the Napoleonic overtones are patent; the Saint-Simonians later called them “‘capacities.’”” Among them, fulfill‘ment of capacities became the new formulation of the primary need in utopia. Une capacité, around the time of the Restoration, acquired the meaning of a man expert in some branch of activity as well as the expertise itself. (It had a scientistic significance.) ““C’est une capacité”’ was said of a person—of Flaubert’s father, a noted doctor, for example. The final utopian goal was no longer equal access to a sufficiency of food and drink and knowledge, which, though it was hardly a reality in early nineteenth-century France, could be hypothetically assumed in any futurist vision of the development of great productive resources. What was now at issue was the realization of man’s creative potential, his professional capacity, his innate talent, but with modern scientific, not Platonic, connotations. Marx in his early period highlighted free creativity as the pri-

mary attribute of man under communism; his conception of creativity was tinged with the values of both French and German Romanticism and involved the expression of the unique inner self of each man. A new typology of human personality formulated by the Saint-Simonians for utopian man, though it bears some intellectual resemblance to the Platonic division of golden, silver, and brass men, has very different roots. Men needed to actualize their psychic beings in at leat two major areas: creative work and ideal sexual relationships. And these, it was newly appreciated, were complex and varied, not easily subsumed under egalitarian rubrics, except perhaps such coveralls as equal access

to self-actualization. , _

| On the morrow of the July Revolution, the Saint-Simonian Fathers had is- | sued a proclamation abolishing inheritance and setting forth the new hierarchical principle: ‘Each will be placed according to his capacity and rewarded according to his works.” ‘‘Each according to his capacity, to each capacity according to its works,”” was emblazoned on the masthead of their newly acquired newspaper, Le Globe. In their sermons and formal expositions of the doctrine, they testified to their recognition of varied sexual needs with “reha-

MARX, ENGELS, AND UTOPIA 707 bilitation of the flesh” and “‘emancipation of woman.” They introduced novelty into the political vocabulary: ‘“The end of the exploitation of man by man; its replacement with the exploitation of nature by man,” and “Performance of the function to which a man’s natural calling destines him.’’ Other battle cries were “‘Each one pursuing his own capacity in order that its products may be

distributed to each one according to his works,”’ or ““To each, labor according , to his calling and rewards according to his works,” or ‘An education and function that conform to one’s natural calling and a reward that conforms to one’s works.’’*8 The Saint-Simonians were clearly adapting religious terminology— oeuvres, vocation—for their program. And in his turn Marx utilized the SaintSimonian language. Though he could never stomach Saint-Simonian religious verbiage, the Critique of the Gotha Program phrase “From each according to his abilities’’ has an unmistakable Saint-Simonian resonance. This is not to say that Marx consciously plagiarized it; but the Saint-Simonian proclamation ‘Each will be placed according to his capacity and rewarded according to his works” is a pretty fair statement of Marx’s expectations for the first phase of commu-

nist society.

When the Saint-Simonians became involved with the Female Messiah and made the banking system the administrative heart of their economy, Marx ridiculed them, and he derided as hypocrites the former adepts who had turned into supporters of Napoleon III and had become prosperous international financiers. Nevertheless, he and Engels continued to study the writings of SaintSimon as they had done since their twenties. In Die deutsche Ideologie (The Ger-

man Ideology) of 1845-46, Marx, who occasionally flaunted his pedantic scholarship, had torn to shreds The Social Movement in France and Belgium (Darmstadt, 1845) by Karl Grin, a leader of the True Socialists, for its misquo-

tations of Saint-Simonian and Fourierist writings.”® After Marx’s death, Engels, and later Lenin, applied words like ‘“‘genius’”’ to Saint-Simon for some of his insights into the conflict of classes.°° Abhorrent though the Saint-Simonian principle of hierarchy was to Marx and Engels, they could not fail to recognize the affinity between their own and the Saint-Simonian outlook for the fu-

, ture world—an endlessly dynamic prospect founded upon the boundless expansion of science and technology, exploitation of the inexhaustible natural resources of the globe, and the flowering of human capacities.

Sexuality, Fourier, and Marxist Need Fourier had posed the problem of the other half of Marx’s banderole, ‘“To each according to his needs,”’ with startling originality. The older utopian ideal of

Western man was shifted dramatically away from calm felicity, achieved through more or less equality, to the excitement of novelty and of rich sensation as the supreme need. As men were different, so did their needs vary. Individual fulfillment called for a communal society of great variety, an idea that would later reappear in its Marxist incarnation as the need of every individual to enjoy a communal existence as the precondition for personal self-realization. Through reflection in the “other’’ and in social action each man’s being was realized. In The German Ideology, Marx wrote: “Only in a state of community with others has each individual the means to develop his predispositions in all directions; only in a state of community will personal freedom thus become

708 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX possible.”’*? The reaffirmation of man’s social nature in utopian thought may _ now sound trite; but in its day it had a psychological dimension that went far beyond the old saw about man being a political animal and served as a negation of a presumed bourgeois doctrine of absolute individualism. Though in his published works Fourier avoided discussion of homosexual needs, his manuscripts, especially the Nouveau monde amoureux (The New Loving World),” ranked them along with any others. But Fourier’s utopia of maximal dynamism in action and in sensation was

| too far-out to be acceptable in the nineteenth century, even in radical circles. His own disciples censored his writings. Socialist thinkers of the Victorian world, like Marx, could not endure this utopia in all its nakedness; it reeked of the brothel. Many of Fourier’s manuscripts were not published until the 1960s, when there was a recrudescence of interest in his utopia of the free satisfaction —

, of all psychophysical needs because it had found contemporary parallels in such men as Wilhelm Reich, Norman Brown, and Herbert Marcuse in one of his moods. Marx was clearly exposed to Fourier’s conception of needs and read his critical anatomy of the cheats of industrial civilization and the hypocrisy of bourgeois social values with an appreciative eye. But he was not ready to follow Fourier in his labyrinthine analysis of psychosexual needs, and was resentful whenever the name “‘communist”’ was attached to him. Marx’s own language remained properly vague and philosophical when he depicted man’s

relations to the sensate world of objects, human and natural. , If in rationalist and argumentative propositions with respect to the philosophical character of communism and historical materalism Marx and Engels had no significant disagreements (pace those who have tried to drive a wedge between them), differences in the modes of life of the communist Dioscuri may suggest differences in their attitudes toward sex and the family. Nonetheless, when they paint the transfigured family of the future, their palette is the same. Marx was brought up and remained enclosed for all ostensible purposes within the boundaries of the Western Judeo-Christian family as it had evolved into its bourgeois form by the nineteenth century. His youthful correspondence with his father affords an inkling into the traditional love-hate relationship with which he was grappling. The early love for Jenny von Westphalen of the petty Rhenish nobility, an alien both to the religion of his two rabbinic grandfathers and to the world outlook of the apostate Enlightenment lawyer who was his father, is a romantic idyll that, with heavily clouded periods, endured the dangers of revolutionary outlawry and the gnawing dread of proletarianization in dismal London flats. The sick Marx, alone in a hotel in Algiers and seeking alleviation of the respiratory diseases that plagued him, conjured up in a letter to his friend Engels touching images of the Jenny who had sus-

tained him.

Whether or not Marx dallied with the maid, Helene Demuth, or had an illegitimate son—since the publication of his daughter Eleanor’s papers it seers hard to reject the evidence that Freddy Demuth was the son of Marx and not of Engels—Marx’s notion of family life was normative-Victorian. He reigned over his household with the dignity of a benevolent lord, and heroic Helene held the establishment together. Jenny often had vapors. When marriage proposals for his daughters were in the offing, his inquiries about a prospective _ son-in-law resembled those of any other loving, tender, yet wary, middle-class

MARX, ENGELS, AND UTOPIA 709 father of the period. Wherever his personal impulses may have led him, the destruction of the institution of the nuclear family was not an integral part of his utopia, and those twentieth-century societies that have accepted his philosophical guidance have not tampered with the family structure beyond the assertion of a measure of female equality in relationships. In the 1870s, Marx and Engels occasionally exchanged notes on the sexual customs of the medieval Welsh and passed on to each other somewhat salacious jokes about them; but in general the traditional monogamous family structure was not attacked in public. In fact, wiping out the evils of capitalism would render familial ties less constrained by economic considerations, more open, and more loving—that was a recurrent Marxist promise over the decades. In the 1840s, Marx was already quoting Morelly on the deleterious psychic effects of private ownership on marital relationships. ‘Interest denatures the human heart and spreads bit-

terness over the most tender relations. These are transformed into heavy shackles that our married couples hate, and they end up hating themselves.’’*4 One might point in contradiction to a footnote in The German Ideology, ‘“That the supersession of an individualist economy cannot be divorced from the supersession of the family is self-evident”;® but this was a solitary manuscript observation of the forties, part of a polemic with German ideologists who de-

nied that the family had its origin in production relations and talked of the “concept of the family” as a timeless absolute. In the manuscripts of 1844, while Marx continued to treat of sexuality in the same abstract terminology as need, alienation, and work, there is the prospect that in the communal state sexual relations will become uniquely human, transcending animality. Nothing resembling the concreteness of Fourier’s understanding of sex is in evidence. The brilliantly mocking excursion on the abolition of the family in the Communist Manifesto patently refers to the bourgeois family. Friedrich Engels, of a prosperous Barmen family of manufacturers who had

a branch of their cotton mills in Manchester and whose surplus value supported Marx for decades through the agency of their aberrant son, by repute was sexually more adventuresome than his colleague. Though Engels’ relationships with an Irish working-class girl and, after her death, with her sister— the latter union was consummated in marriage—were constant enough by the Victorian canon, the impression is inescapable that he lived less conventionally and comprehended the Fourierist sexual fantasies more readily than did ‘Old Nick.” In his brief sketch of the history of changing forms of love and sexuality Engels could write of Anacreon, with no more than a flicker of the Victorian eyebrow, that “‘sexual love [Geschlechtsliebe] in our sense was of so little concern to him, even the sex of the loved person was all one to him.’’*8 But when Engels inherited Marx’s notes on the anthropologist Lewis H. Morgan’s Ancient Society and expanded them into a full-blown work, Der Ursprung der Familie (The Origin of the Family), 1884, in which he spelled out the derivation

of the family from production relations, he probably stated the definitive views common to both of them on the historical transformations of the family and its possible future, views that were not always acceptable to the German Social Democrats and English ‘‘socialists” among whom he lived and died. As he examined Morgan’s historical hypothesis, the outrageous Fourier’s stadial theory of the growth of civilization took on new meaning, and he wrote to Kautsky on April 26, 1884: “I must show how brilliantly Fourier anticipated

, 710 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX Morgan in so many things. Through Morgan, Fourier’s critique of civilization appears in all its genius.”’*’ But this did not imply acceptance of the bewil- — dering multiplicity of sexual patterns prescribed by Fourier for “harmonian society.”’ Engels’ prognostication of the future of the family after the abolition of property was not at all Fourierist. He argued that, with female equality, op- _ tional divorce when love vanished, the end of prostitution and of covert polygamy, the marital bond would become tighter than ever, since it would be the product of free choice. En passant, Engels delivered himself of sententious sexological opinions in the temper of the age: “The duration of a seizure of sexual love for an individual is very different for different individuals, particularly among men,” or ‘‘Sexual love is by its very nature exclusive.” ** His descrip- _ tions of the contemporary bourgeois family were in the acerb Saint-Simonian and Fourierist spirit, but the communist future would nurture a loving, monogamous, and lasting relationship. Neither Marx nor Engels, gentlemen from the Rhineland who spent most of their adult lives in England, was preoccupied in his writings with the complex-

| ities of sexual needs that concerned the Saint-Simonians and even more

Fourier. The all-round (allseitig) development of man in Marx’s utopia is approached rather gingerly when it comes to sex. Herbert Marcuse’s emphasis on aesthetic-sexual needs as the authentic, vital needs of a new free society, which so titillated the generation of 1968, is a shift that the Victorian Marx never made. Reading into him the validation of such needs had to await twentieth-century Freudo-Marxists. Fourier’s chief innovation, the expansion of sensations and sexual capacities in all directions as superior to rational capacities, escaped Marx or repelled him. He was much more restricted in his outlook and recognized as legitimate only reasonable, refined, and decent needs— which stopped far short of Fourier’s equation of desires and needs. Marx was

still too deeply imbued with the rationalist tradition of Plato and More to allow free play to all psychosexual desires as authentic needs. By no means was appeasement of desire necessarily salutary: English workers could be enslaved —

the more readily by catering to their taste for carousing in taverns. Marx’s , diagnosis of the function of drink among the English working classes is paralleled by Marcuse’s depiction of the capitalist use of sex to dull the mass of the workers and rob them of true consciousness. The Realms of Freedom and Necessity

Marx refused to identify work with pleasure in Fourier’s terms, and the attractiveness of labor was not bound up with erotic stimulus. Though in most of his writings Marx did not envisage the abolition of work, he expected that it could ultimately be reduced to a minimum number of hours. Total freedom from necessity was unlikely, though it might be possible to surmount the antithesis between free time and work time. The most famous passage on the subject appears toward the end of the third volume of Kapital, which Engels

edited:

Just as the savage must grapple with nature in order to satisfy his needs, sustain his life, and procreate, so must civilized man, under all forms of society and all possible modes of production. With man’s development, this realm of natural necessity is broadened

MARX, ENGELS, AND UTOPIA 711 because his needs become more extensive; but simultaneously the forces of production that satisfy these needs are increased. Freedom in this realm can be achieved only when communized man, the associated producers, regulate their material exchange with nature in a rational manner, when they bring it under their communal control, instead of being dominated by this exchange as if by a blind force, when they accomplish this with the least possible expenditure of their strength and under conditions that are the most

worthy and most fitting for their human nature. But this always remains a realm of necessity. Beyond this realm begins a development of human powers that are ends in themselves, the true realm of freedom. This realm of freedom, however, can only flower on the foundation of the realm of necessity. The shortening of the working day is

its fundamental prerequisite. *® , ,

These phrases have led to all manner of verbal leaps from the realm of neces-

sity to the realm of freedom. The then United States Secretary of State in a , Labor Day 1975 address (read by Ambassador Moynihan) before the United Nations General Assembly, a number of whose member nations were on the

. brink of starvation, seized Marx’s rhetoric and transcended it: “Throughout history, man’s imagination has been limited by his circumstances—which have now fundamentally changed. We are no longer confined to what Marx called the ‘realm of necessity.’ ”’ *°

In Phase I of Marx’s communist world, work would no longer be dehuman-

izing because man would not be pouring his being into a fetish of his own making, a machine belonging to others, and he would be rewarded for the whole of the labor he invested without sacrificing a surplus to the capitalist. The same amount of labor that he gave to society in one form he would get back in another. This considers individuals only as workers. In Phase II, however, though performing equal labor, one individual might in fact receive more than another because as unequal individuals their needs differed. The division

of physical and mental work would tend to be obliterated, the distortion of personality in highly specialized tasks would be eliminated, and the realm of freedom would be approached. There is a passage of The German Ideology in which the young Marx, despite his distaste for Fourier on sex, seems to cut a page out of Fourier’s work plan—the liberated man will go hunting, fishing, shepherding, or engage in intellectual pursuits at will—though the digression in which Marx describes this free movement from one occupation to another in the course of a day, ending with after-dinner indulgence in criticism of the critical philosophy, is partly satirical, despite the fact that it has sometimes been read straightfaced by the more earnest Marxologists.** At points in his manuscripts, Marx is full of praise for Fourier’s conception of childhood without repression and his permissive system of education. But the Critique, seen in its historical context of the 1870s, ignored Fourierist psychosexual needs and concentrated primarily on bread and butter and shelter, health insurance, and a guarantee of leisure. Marx did not have to alarm the proper Social Democrats to whom he addressed himself with the intrusion of Fourierist thoughts on free love. What Marx implied in the Critique was that in the higher stages of communism the elementary needs of a man and his family for food and housing and care during illness would be met by society, irrespective of the quantity of social labor he was able to contribute. Marx recognized that there were differences in skills, hence his dictum: ‘From each according to his abilities” —that phrase with a Saint-Simonian ring; but the returns would be determined not

712 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX | by labor performance or labor value produced, but by sumptuary needs, measured by the size of a man’s family and its requirements. Beyond the work economy, he unfolds a vision of abundance and self-actualization. The banderole is quite devoid, however, of more complicated Fourierist or Saint-Simonian notions on sexuality, even though the language is historically related to

these conceptions. ,

The actual phraseology of Marx’s slogan is approximated even more closely on the title page of Papa Etienne Cabet’s Fourierist Voyage en Icarie (1840), where the formula is writ large: ‘“To each according to his needs, from each according to his strength’; and by Louis Blanc, whose woolly doctrines are a potpourri of socialist and communist thought of the 1840s. Blanc, that Lillipu-

| tian anti-hero of 1848, whom Marx despised as much as he did any revolutionary leader—and that is no thimbleful of contempt—prefigured the Marxist formula in later editions of his Organisation du travail. This turgid work hada _ significance in both France and England in the mid-nineteenth century that is difficult to appreciate. Blanc pontificated that in the ultimate stages of socialism there would be true equality only when “each man . . . will produce ac-

cording to his faculties and will consume according to his needs.’ Quoting

himself on an earlier occasion, he continued: , ,

There are two things in man—needs and faculties [though Blanc fought the Saint-Simonians, he adopted their terminology]. Through his needs man is passive, through his faculties he is active. Through his needs he calls his fellows to his aid; through his faculties he puts himself at the service of his fellows . . . According to the divine law written into the constitution of every man, great intelligence presumes more useful activity but not more considerable compensation. And the inequality of aptitudes could not legitimately result in anything but the inequality of duties. A hierarchy of capacities is | necessary and fruitful; recompense in accordance with capacities is more than just disastrous—it is impious. **

, Of course, by ‘‘needs’’ Blanc, too, meant material needs dependent upon each man’s strength and state of health, not Fourier’s esoteric needs. The anarchist Pierre-Joseph Proudhon took a special delight in exercising his mordant wit on the ‘‘socialist’’ Blanc and his followers, tearing apart the slogan on capacities and needs in a perfect state of association that Marx later adapted in the Critique of the Gotha Program. “‘You say that my capacity is 100; I maintain that it is 90. You add that my need is 90; I insist that it is 100. There is

a difference of 20 between us on need and capacity.” (Proudhon, who had a

strangely prophetic insight into some of the inherent tendencies of Marxist , thought, in 1851 was already making sport with the elements that were later combined in the banderole.) Louis Blanc’s formula struck roots in the French working classes, and thirty years later, on October 7, 1882, it reappeared inLe Prolétaire, an organ of the French Socialist Revolutionary Workers’ Party, as “‘Chacun donnant selon ses forces recevra selon ses besoins.’’ Marx’s son-inlaw Paul Lafargue was disturbed by this revival of Blanc’s slogan, which carried with it a promise of instant implementation, and wrote Engels to complain. Marx, on the Isle of Wight and ailing, was silent; by this time he was

approaching the end.* a | | /

Marx’s banderole, with its sibylline proclamation ““To each according to his needs,”’ could mean all things to all men. In the mouth of a direct-actionist it

MARX, ENGELS, AND UTOPIA — 713 could become demagoguery, deluding the workers with false promises. To ordinary socialists it could mean eventual satisfaction of their plain wants and desires. And for intellectuals it was pregnant with philosophical connotations that evoked an ideal state. The phrase harked back to Rousseau and Kant, who had given voice to the true need of a self-aware man—the need for a society in which the moral worth of personal action did not derive from external constraint but was the expression of the inner self and had absolute value in and of itself. Even today the banderole raises an image of universal psychic harmony

in which the antagonisms between the individual and society are resolved under conditions that allow for the preservation of personal identity and complete self-actualization. Isaac Newton framed no hypotheses and Karl Marx wrote no utopias; that was the official stance. But in neither case was the position in fact maintained. If one does not restrict oneself narrowly to the phraseology of the Critique’s banderole and assimilates to it Marx’s related pronouncements, the full dimensions of his utopian dream come into view. Though he never wrote dull uto-

pian stories, he encapsulated his utopia in a series of succinct, memorable phrases that in our time have exerted an especial fascination over vast numbers of intellectuals. Their mere recitation over and over again is hypnotic, like certain rhythms of popular music; one begins to feel as if one were already living in that paradisaical state.

Marx came early to utopia, and the longing never abated, though the language of the utopia changed at various stages of his life. In a letter of 1837 to his father, the adolescent student first raised the curtain on his secret search for a total moral system to replace the “‘old gods,” a pursuit that drove him to nights of relentless study and perhaps a temporary breakdown of sorts. By 1844, the manuscripts show, he had found his way out of the maze with his own economico-philosophical creed for a communist society composed of unalienated men—couched in the jargon of German Romantic philosophy. These manuscripts, prepared when Marx was twenty-six, were perhaps the most seductive of his texts for the mid-twentieth century. The utopia achieved its clearest universal voice in the Communist Manifesto of 1848. What could be more in the Romantic utopian spirit of the times than the prophecy: ‘The old bourgeois society with its classes and its conflicts of classes gives way to an association where the free development of each individual is the condition of the free development of all’’?* In his late fifties, the sick man, writing glosses on himself and on his enemies in the Critique of the Gotha Program, epitomized

his vision in apothegms that are still accepted as final ends for man in many parts of the world. Marx combined the underthought of German philosophy in its Hegelian version with the rhetoric of the French utopians, which, unlike German philosophy, was easily adaptable to the styles of popular expression in any country, and with the rational argumentation of English economists amended and presented as science to give solidity to the whole structure. Marxists of later generations could stress one or another of these elements, transforming the whole in accordance with the passing needs of time and place. The amalgam became as flexible and plastic as the original Christian utopia of the ancient world, and it has enjoyed a signal success for much the same reason that Christianity and barbarism once triumphed over the Romans. Marx’s utopian formulas can be garnered from a period of more than three

714 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX , decades in his now published manuscripts and in printed books. They always have reference to the higher stage of communism, called Phase II in the Critique, after the inadequate Phase I has been left behind. It has been the function of modern Marxology to bind these phrases together into a system, but perhaps something of their original quality can best be communicated by presenting them in their pristine, free-floating state: ‘“Free development of the individ-

ual... Development of personality . . . Self-actualization of the individual . . . To set in manifold motion the many-sided developed predispositions [Anlagen] of men . . . Only in community will personal freedom be possible . . . Men become masters of their own socialization.”’“* Add to these the texts on freedom from necessity, the need for community as a precondition of individual self-realization, and the morality plays about the end of alienation that embarrass Adam Schaff and more sophisticated Marxologists. There are elements in this litany that are markedly Saint-Simonian and Fourierist in tone, expressive of the same Romantic temper. Other elements have counterparts and parallels in contemporary German philosophy. But whatever their source, _

they are now part of one composite confession of faith. A time may come when the sonorous bits of rhetoric strewn throughout the works of Marx will be fused into a unified liturgical chant whose origins are lost in obscurity. — The Saint-Simonians and even Owenite popularizers thought in terms of the progressive self-actualization of the species man, with the complete actualization of his three major capacities—scientific, emotive-moral-artistic, and manual-administrative. They avoided boxing themselves into a single capacity for each man, and provided for general education in which all three types of capacity would be nurtured until the special capacity manifested itself. Marx’s uomo universale, too, allows for outstanding predispositions in one direction, along with the general development of all talents. And his idea of a capacity, which may be inferred from specific images and analogies in his writings, was not far

removed from that of the Saint-Simonians and most other utopians of the time: Left free to himself, a man would demonstrate either artistic or scientificrationalist excellence. The Saint-Simonians had a hierarchy of values: In the

end, the moral-religious-artistic inspirational capacities were awarded primacy. Marx did not share their predilections, and surely would have excluded the religious capacities. The Saint-Simonians would also have had an organizational hierarchy of excellence within each capacity, while Marx contented himself with perfect spontaneity of expression and bypassed hierarchy or avoided it. In this respect he has been “improved” by Marcuse, for whom hierarchy holds no terrors. But the basic conception of self-actualization of innate predispositions is about the same in Marx as in the Saint-Simonians. Though Marx normally rejected the hierarchy of values, he clearly had a preference, which left traces in chance conversations and obiter dicta, for the human rationalizing capacity. Paul Lafargue, who first met him in 1865, describes him as constantly

citing a provocative Hegelian reflection: ‘Even the criminal thought of a scoundrel is grander and loftier than the marvel of the heavens.’’47 Marx himself was committed to the unrelenting exercise of organized thinking, and Lafargue’s later exposition of the utopian “right to idleness” would hardly have enjoyed his approval. Under communism the intensity of activity, a later ver-

sion of creativity, would increase rather than diminish. |

MARX, ENGELS, AND UTOPIA 715 The Saint-Simonians were strong on the potentialities of technological development, and would manipulate productive capacities so as to minimize manual labor insofar as possible. Among them there was not quite the bold fantasizing in which Marx indulged in a passage where he foresaw technological progress reaching so high a level—virtual automation—that man’s relation to the machine would become purely intellectual-scientific guidance. Total technology is the ineradicable signature of the Marxist utopia. Despite obvious differences, the Marxist slogans can be set into the Fourier— Saint-Simonian chain of filiation without violating their spirit. They are all inhabitants of the same expansive Romantic utopia of self-actualization in varied directions, a boundless drive of the individual and of mankind. There was one branch of utopian thought, however, to which Marx had a profound, abiding,

and unmitigated antipathy—the ascetic tradition that runs from Babeuf to Buonarroti to Proudhon and on to Bakunin (the Bakunin of theory, not of real life). They represented the false route. Their thought, based upon a severe limitation of human needs, was essentially static, opposed to the expansion associated with the machine, to great productivity, to the multiplication of goods, and to the grand advancement of science and the arts. In a word, it was reactionary, petty bourgeois. One of Marx’s principal objects in writing his Critique of the Gotha Program was to have excised from the draft every word of egalitarian rhetoric, associated in his mind with the French egalitarian communist and anarchist tradition. Equality now, immediate and absolute, had failed to recognize the historical need for vast technological development as a prerequisite to realizing ‘from each according to his abilities, to each according to his

needs.”’ (Looked at a century later, the compromise Marx’s supporters achieved in the German Social Democratic Party of 1875 after the reception of his Critique is ludicrous—Jedem nach seinen vernunftgemassen Bedurfnissen [To

each according to his reasonable needs’’].) , | ,

Equality was Marx’s eventual goal in Phase II of’ communism, but equality in the rich satisfaction of material and intellectual needs in a dynamic economy —not returns, equal in their paltriness, for labor expended in a primitive, artisan-like system a la Proudhon, not a holding back of technology, not the antiintellectualist asperities of Babeuf and Bakunin. Irrespective of the other bases of Marx’s conflict with Proudhon, there was deep antagonism to his cramped, moralistic individualism, bounded by an artisan’s horizon, whereas Marx in the Critique of the Gotha Program, as elsewhere in his work, opted for the freeflowing expansion of wealth in association. When the communist artisan Wilhelm Weitling tried to offer an example of capitulation to a wild, egotistic desire by a worker of the future with extra chits to spend in his utopia, the most self-indulgent act he could imagine was the purchase of a watch with a second hand. Marx’s was a wide-ranging vision in the spirit of the Romantic utopians, and this helps to account for its rehabilitation among the children of 1968. But

then they betrayed the angelic Moor by demanding utopia now and flirting with Ludditism. Remote from us as the alternatives of an ascetic Babouvist egalitarian or a rich Saint-Simonian—Fourierist orientation may be, they are far from irrelevant in the present-day world. They still represent different utopian choices in the contemporary revolutionary arena: absolute equality here and now at all

, 716 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX costs, or dedication first to the expansion of productive capacities, with the hope of ultimately realizing the banderole of the Critique of the Gotha Program in

its fullness of meaning in the distant, distant future. A hundred years after the composition of the Critique of the Gotha Program, Marx’s words are enjoying a great triumph. Close on to a half of the world’s population is hovering between Phase I and Phase II of communism. And there is not a political leader East or West, North or South, so steeped in reaction he would not on appropriate occasions affirm his allegiance to the principle that all men should have their needs fulfilled and natural potentialities de-

veloped to the utmost. The Constantines of the world preside at councils where Marx’s banderole is duly unfurled; and though slaughter is threatened over its interpretation, history teaches that the correct reading will eventually —

prevail. Ifa Diogenes redivivus should point out that such casual phrases of the | Critique as “‘dictatorship of the proletariat’”” have sometimes been translated - into massacres of millions of human beings, the true believer will remind him that the historical process has always been profligate of lives. There is every

reason to expect that the preaching of Marx in this classic of communist thought will bear the same relationship to communist societies of the future

that the Sermon on the Mount does to Christianity. , ,

30 Comte, High Priest of the Positivist Church Marx TOOK virtually no cognizance of Auguste Comte until the 1860s, when the name cropped up in a letter to Engels announcing that he was studying Comte “‘on the side”” because the English and the French were making such a fuss about the fellow. What they found attractive about him, Marx judged, was his pretension to encyclopedism and la synthése. As for himself, his preference for Hegel was unchanged. The Comtean system was pitiful if compared to Hegel’s: Since Comte was a mathematician and physicist by profession he may have surpassed him in details, but Hegel’s generalizations, even in science, were far more important. ‘‘And this Positivist muck appeared in 1832!”"' When Marx was preparing the Civil War in France, his original draft included a piece called ‘‘The Workers and Comte.’’ There he summarily dismissed him as of no account. ““Comte was known to the Paris workers as the prophet of personal

dictatorship in politics, capitalist rule in political economy, hierarchy in all spheres of human activity, even in science, the creator of a new catechism, a new Pope, and new saints to replace the old ones.”’? By the 1880s Engels was outrightly accusing Comte of plagiarizing Saint-Simon’s encyclopedic ordering of the sciences.? When it came to rival systems, Marx and Engels wielded a

sledgehammer. , Auguste Comte is a loner in the history of utopian thought. His derivation

from the tradition of Condorcet and Saint-Simon is patent, but in the end he stood apart, creator of a structure of mammoth proportions. If Marx paid Comte scant attention, by the 1850s Comte was no longer reading anything but his own works and did not notice Marx. Anarchism was the prime enemy of Comte’s system. He saw the political and social consequences of its triumph after 1789 so clearly that he had no need to assimilate the works of ‘‘anarchist”’ writers. Comte was at the same time the denial of the French age of prophecy and its most pathetic climax. His vision was at once abstract and intimate.

The Master Denied In no other modern philosopher has the rationalist fantasy been so inextricably

bound up with private life.* In 1817 the former Polytechnician Auguste Comte, then only nineteen, was wandering about Paris at loose ends with no particular occupation, when a friend introduced him to the aging Saint-Simon. The impecunious petty bourgeois from the south was at first dazzled by the philosopher who had preserved the buoyancy of a young man and the elegant manners of an aristocrat. When Comte became his secretary and “‘adopted son,” Saint-Simon presented him to the circle of liberal economists, paid him whenever the rich industrialists and bankers sent money, and in long conversa-

| tions expounded his scientific and social system. At the beginning it seemed

77

718 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX that their talents complemented each other and that the relationship would — yield a rich intellectual harvest. Unfortunately there were obstacles in the way of any lasting collaboration. In his very first independent pamphlets, Séparation | générale entre les opinions et les désirs (July 1819), Sommaire Appréciation de l’ensemble du passé moderne (April 1820), and Prospectus des travaux scientifiques nécessaires

pour réorganiser la societé (May 1822), Comte revealed his fundamental disagree-

ment with Saint-Simon’s plans; he was again bringing to the fore the philosophy of the sciences which had troubled Saint-Simon in the brochures of the Empire, but had since been abandoned for practical considerations. Believing it vain to attempt the solution of the social problem before mankind had, for guidance in the wilderness, the steady light of a settled comprehensive philosophy, Comte continued his mathematical studies and engaged in researches in the other sciences, with the aim of actually creating that synthesis of all knowledge which Saint-Simon had merely sketched in a page of the Mémoire sur la science de l’homme. Only after the synthesis was achieved would the temporal world end its internecine struggles, because it would then have before its eyes, _ in detail, the elaborated system of positive science and positive politics. Before the grandiose revelation of the true laws of the polity, the forces of anarchy would give way. Formulated in a simple manner, the theoretical controversy with Saint-Simon was concentrated in one problem. Could scientific truth

, alone force men to act in accordance with its precepts, as Comte then thought, or should practical men of action forge ahead, allowing scientists to trail after them with advice, as Saint-Simon had come to feel after his disillusioning experiences with the savants of the Empire? In the spring of 1824 the quarrel that _ had long been smoldering flared up. The final rupture ended an uneasy communion between two of the most extraordinary thinkers in modern times. Their friendship degenerated into a fishwives’ squabble which, as might be ex-

, pected among philosophers, had a universal resonance. After Saint-Simon’s death, though Comte at first disdained any part of the Saint-Simonian Le Producteur, his need for money induced him to become a collaborator—a contre-coeur because he anticipated the irksome censorship of “Rodrigues et compagnie.”’ In the end Comte’s association with the disciples was short-lived. He could not stomach their deification of the master, and by 1828 he was already poking fun at their plan to found a new religion, a “sort of incarnation of the divinity in Saint-Simon.’’® Bitter was his disillusionment

when he found that Gustave d’Eichthal, his one disciple, to whom he had freely unburdened himself of his grievances against Saint-Simon, to whom he had confided his most intimate philosophical and psychological reflections, had been swept along by the religious wave of the Saint-Simonian school. On December 7, 1829, he sent d’Eichthal a biting, sarcastic letter, enclosing an en- ,

trance card to the reopening of his private course on positive philosophy: “Since the change of direction which your mind has just taken, I must admit to you that I no longer count on you for anything. You are on so sublime a summit that you must, even against your will, pity our wretched positive studies, which you no longer need and which on the contrary would trouble your theological labors.” ® When the Saint-Simonians transformed themselves into a religious cult and their meetings became a public scandal which ultimately brought them before the King’s Bench, Auguste Comte took himself off.

COMTE, HIGH PRIEST OF THE POSITIVIST CHURCH 719

Wicked Wife and Good Angel In 1822 Auguste Comte walked into a bookstore and recognized behind the counter a girl whom he had once picked up in the Palais Royal. Comte renewed the acquaintance, and within a year they merged their living quarters,

later formalizing the common-law marriage. , : The opening lectures of Comte’s course on positive philosophy, which he conducted privately in his apartment in 1826, had a small but illustrious audience; but before the thirteenth session he suffered his first psychic breakdown.

For the next fifteen years Mme. Comte wrangled with this mad genius; while : no succeeding outburst was as wild as the first one, he never completely recov-

ered. At the height of an attack scenes of violence were frequent. Between crises, his smoldering fury spent itself on his wife and on academic colleagues. In 1842 Mme. Comte left his bed and board for the last time—there had been intermittent separations—but this strange, tenacious woman kept turning up

again, and in 1850 it was her intervention with the Ministry of Education which made it possible for Comte to continue the popular lectures to which he clung so desperately—-rare moments of public recognition. The vengeance with which Comte pursued his wife in later years was monstrous. The history of Comte’s academic life was a record of defeats whenever he was proposed for a full chair either at the Polytechnique or in the university. Public denunciations of his perfidious colleagues were accompanied by vain appeals to the ministries, outbursts of wild paranoia against detractors, calls to the world to avenge the wrongs perpetrated against him. The accusations he leveled against the academic intriguers were true enough; and the more he reviled his adversaries the more convinced they became that they did not want him in their company. For most of his adult career he eked out an existence as an entrance examiner at the Polytechnique, and in his last years even this was denied him. In 1844, after the definitive estrangement from his wife, Auguste Comte fell in love with Mme. Clothilde de Vaux, a woman of about thirty abandoned by her husband. While their affections began on a lofty spiritual plane, Comte im-

portuned her with his physical needs, and when entreaties failed he was not beyond using the threat that her denials were endangering his health and upset-

ting his cerebral hygiene. Their emotional tug-of-war ended in tragedy— Comte was again on the verge of madness and his beloved became afflicted with a disease, probably tubercular, which brought on her death. The last months of her life were tormented with the contradictory advice of rival physicians, Comte’s maniacal pretension to supervise personally the direction of the cure, violent quarrels between Comte and the dying young .woman’s family, which at one point led to his expulsion from the sickroom. When he was called back toward the very end, he bolted the door of the death chamber, excluding her parents so that Clothilde died in his presence alone. The Two Careers The first series of private lectures on the positive philosophy had been attended

by Blainville the physiologist, Dunoyer the economist, and the naturalist

720. MARX AND COUNTER-MARX Alexander von Humboldt. When the course was resumed in 1829 after the at-

tack of insanity and the attempts at suicide, Broussais the phrenologist, | Dr. Esquirol, and Fourier the mathematician were in the audience. But during that long and troubled period from 1830 to 1842—years of tremendous intellectual concentration, plagued by marital difficulties, mental aberrations, poverty, and a vain search for some academic position which would be worthy of him—the brilliant reputation of Comte’s youth gave way to ridicule in official learned circles. A contemporary bibliography listed him as already dead.’ The six volumes of the Cours de philosophie positive (1830-1842), composed

, in isolation during years of wretchedness, were an attempt to synthesize the particular studies of individual scientists by sharply marking the bounds of | every form of knowledge and drawing from each the essence of its philosophic generality. It involved writing a history of science—which is still worth reading for its extraordinary flashes of insight—as well as arranging the sciences in a hierarchy of complexity which would prove that each had in turn progressed first from a theological into a metaphysical and then into a positive state. The drama of the work was the struggle of positivist, nonmetaphysical, and nontheological truth with the remnants of antiquated intellectual forms which still sought to corrupt it. Religion and sentiment were banished as the handmaidens of theologians and metaphysicians; the Cours was at once a new Organon, a new Methodus, and a new philosophy of history. Comte sharpened spiritual distinctions: The scientists could no longer continue the cant of their old procedure, tinkering with the particular tools of their special discipline and at the

, same time worshiping at the shrine of final causes. He demanded that they be © | thoroughly consistent, that they abide by the philosophical implications of their scientific endeavors, and that they recognize in every particular experiment some additional element to the great structure of positive science. The Cours had a style that was dull, dry, and lumbering. While the positive philosophy did not help many scientists in their labors, it was adopted by a few littera- teurs who needed an overall pattern for their popular scientific notions. Inevitably, the appearance of the Systeme de politique positive from 1851 through 1854, which proclaimed love as the motive force of mankind, was a violent shock to the select group of Comte’s rationalist admirers. As he laboriously evolved a special calendar for his church and multiplied ritual observances for the Religion of Humanity, he seemed to be denying the very spirit of his previous works. Many considered his change of front a treacherous defection to those forces of darkness which he had driven forth from the positive system. Between the Cours and the Systeme de politique positive he had risen from

the depths of misery to a mystical love so overpowering that true disciples looked on in dismay and outsiders scoffed. The publication of the correspondence of Clothilde de Vaux and Comte, his annual written confessions after her death, and his prayers to her memory have not added to his philosophical stature, though they reveal a complex emotional being. After Clothilde’s death Comte’s whole life became devoted to a religious

worship of her image. Those disciples who had admired his powerful mind watched with troubled spirits as he embarked upon a system which was deeply colored by elements of religious mania. Yet to Auguste Comte the positive church seemed the natural fruition of an original plan which he had developed in his earliest pamphlets in the 1820s. The scientific synthesis of the Cours had

COMTE, HIGH PRIEST OF THE POSITIVIST CHURCH 721 only been a foundation. His friends knew nothing of the youthful writings in which he had expatiated on the power of the sentiments and of the imagination in moving mankind to action and had praised spontaneous religious faith as the force which would again bring intellectual and moral unity to humanity. They had never read those passages in which he had extolled the organic unity of medieval Catholicism in the language of de Maistre. Even before Comte met Clothilde de Vaux he wrote to Mme. Austin on April 4, 1844, complaining that she was unjust in interpreting positivism as anti-emotional: “‘Believe me, I

know how to cry, not only in admiration but also out of sorrow, above all sympathetic sorrow. As for prayer, it is really only a particular form in the old order of ecstatic emotions, or general emotions, whose indestructible core will always be a part of human nature, whatever its mental habits may become.’’®

Comte himself recognized that there was a difference of emphasis in what came to be called his two careers. In the first period he had considered himself primarily an Aristotle, and in the second he had become a Saint Paul, but the elements of the second period had already existed in embryo in the first. The social opuscules of his youth support his contention. As conclusive proof of the unity of his work Comte reprinted six of these brochures as a general appendix to the fourth volume of the Systéme de politique positive (1854). When the committed rationalists in his circle realized the new turn in his thought, they slowly withdrew. The head of the French group was Littré, and

the leaders of the English were Mill and Lewes, three men who had been among the first to call the world’s attention to the positive philosophy. Littré was profoundly upset by his inability to accept the positive polity with the same passion with which he had espoused Comte’s philosophy, and fell upon the notion that only a serious mental strain, the consequence of some organic illness, could have produced the positivist church and its ritual.® Littré’s manipulations did not end with Comte’s death; while proclaiming their love for Comte, Littre and Mme. Comte tried to have his final testament legally annulled and sought to eradicate the memory of the second period of Comte’s wtiting, embalming the founder of the positive philosophy as a figure dissociated from the worshiper of Clothilde de Vaux. They joined in a formal declaration that Comte had been mad, but in a final trial in 1870, after many years of litigation, the true disciples won their case, and Comte’s Religion of Humanity was not mutilated.*® “Positivism consists essentially of a philosophy and a polity. These can never be dissevered,” maintained the English disciple Dr. Bridges,

and most scholars of Auguste Comte have acquiesced in this view.

The High Priest of Humanity When Comte apotheosized Clothilde de Vaux as the spiritual symbol of the Virgin Mother, superior even to himself, who was only the High Priest of Humanity, and established her grave as a place of sacred pilgrimage, his cult suffered the ridicule of all fabricated ceremonials that fail of acceptance by a sufficient body of believers to become sanctioned vehicles for the expression of religion emotion. For Comte it was now science and excessive absorption in rationalist analysis that became suspect, dangerous for the spiritual well-being of mankind. The philosopher of positivism ended up rejecting a large proportion of the works of science as futile. As his view of the good life became ever

722 , MARX AND COUNTER-MARX - more restrictive and cramped, less expansive and sensate, modern science and technology which provided great abundance and riches became distracting superfluities. Comte accepted a social system based upon a division between the rich and the poor, but neither grouping was of fundamental importance since the end of man was the training of his emotional being to sublimated love. A mania for regulation possessed him and he set up rules of conduct to govern each epoch in a man’s life; the transitions from one to another stage of being were marked by rigid sacramental performances. Order became more vital than progress. The multiplication of new artifacts of any nature—scientific or

industrial—became an anarchic impediment to good disposition and arrange- , ment. The positivist law of family life demanded a vow of eternal widowhood, and divorce was refused. The world would be made continent and puritanical. The commandments preached ‘“‘Love your neighbor. Live for others” —but a cold chill came to pervade the chambers of the Comtean mission.

From the chair of the High Priest of Humanity in his apartment on the rue Monsieur-le-Prince, Auguste Comte contemplated the Revolution of 1848, the bloody June Days, and the rise of the dictator Napoleon III. These misfortunes had been visited upon the Occident because it was ignorant of its true historic _ destiny. The epoch of the positive polity had arrived, but instead of reading its laws as they had been expounded in Comte’s writings, humanity was wasting its divine forces in material conflicts and civil strife. There was warfare of diverse doctrines at a time when the essence of humanity should be unity; there

was revolutionary antagonism to the religious principle when the very being of mankind was religious—in the positivist sense. All past history had been a battleground for partisan spirits. Revolutionaries of the gospel of 1789 (the first year of anarchy) and their philosophers were besmirching the noble morality of the Middle Ages, when all men should have realized that medieval civilization was one of the most progressive forms of social synthesis. Men of religion were in their turn denouncing the great cultural productions of classical antiquity and decrying the achievements of science, when these were neces-

sary prolegomena to the new state of postivism. If the warring factions accepted the world-historical outlook that Comte had revealed to them, they would understand that all history had borne good fruits, and that whoever would act-with wisdom in the future had to preserve for mankind the creations of past civilizations and incorporate them into his being, without rancor and without hatred for any age. There was but one power in the world capable of judging history with justice, a power embodied in the High Priest of Humanity who, while synthesizing the past, would impart to the annals of mankind a unity of movement and purpose which it would be difficult to violate in petty

quarrels of the moment. , | , In the Revolution of 1848 Comte saw the Occidental world at a point of __

final crisis, and only he could save it from the chaos and anarchy in which it

, was seething. The Positivist Society, which had formed itself about Comte, , formulated a pretentious plan of action for the Provisional Government, and Comte was willing to establish contact with the most violent of the revolu- _ tionaries, even Barbés and Blanqui, if only their movement could be diverted into a positivist channel." But Paris was a city of barricades, strewn with the corpses of the proletariat. Comte called the spirits of social peace, but alas they

COMTE, HIGH PRIEST OF THE POSITIVIST CHURCH = 723 would not answer. The coup d’etat of December 2 caused disruption in the Positivist Society. But the belief of the High Priest of Humanity in the power of the idea, of the true philosophic and religious system, was so all-absorbing that the nature of the political regime became a matter of indifference. The state was but a subject ready to take on the coloration of the positive religion once the executive power was enlightened. A disorganized revolutionary government that presented the spectacle of warring factions would be less amenable to the propaganda of the idea than a dictatorship that was concentrated in one man. Con-

vert this man and the cause of positivism would be won. Saint-Simon and Fourier had addressed their early memoirs to Napoleon I; Comte was willing to accept Napoleon III if only he would become a positivist. Though secretly tormented by the indifference of scholars and scientists Comte continued to mount giant block upon giant block in the construction of his great pyramid. After the Cours de philosophie positive and the Systeme de politique positive, there appeared.in 1856 the first volume of the Synthese subjective,

also called the Systeme de logique positive. Works for the next few years were planned and announced in advance: for 1859 the Systeme de morale positive or the Traité de l'éducation universelle, and for 1861 the Systeme d’industrie positive or

, the Traité de V’action totale de V’-humaniteé sur sa planete. Comte was writing for the future, for the men of 1927 perhaps, when, as he analyzed the course of events,

the positivist regeneration of the Occident would be accomplished, at least among the souls of the elite. Few men have had a more poignant sense of their historical mission. ‘Living in an anticipated tomb, I must henceforth speak a posthumous language to the living, a form of speech which is as free from all manner of prejudices, above all the theoretical ones, as our descendants will be. Up to now I have always had to speak in the name of the past, though I was continually aspiring toward the future. Now I must interest the public of the West in the future state—which irrevocably follows from the totality of the various anterior modes—in order to discipline them at the same time that I consecrate them.’ !” Toward the end of his life, Comte was deeply involved in spreading the doctrine among the noblest members of all classes of society. He was aware that neither of his two major works could reach broad masses of people. Therefore he undertook positivist propaganda (the word is Comte’s) by composing in 1852 a Catéchisme positiviste for the use of women and workers, and in 1855 an Appel aux conservateurs for the education of contemporary political leaders. And there was some response: In the fifties a heterogeneous group of disciples from all over the world came to pay homage to the founder of positivism. As Comte regulated his own diet and arranged hours for prayer and work with obsessive punctuality, so he multiplied ritualistic details for the Religion of Humanity. The positive sacraments became the manifest symbols of the new educational process: the presentation of the infant, initiation at fourteen, admission at twenty-one, destination at twenty-eight, marriage before thirtyfive, maturity at forty-two, retirement at sixty-two, and finally the sacrament of transformation. In the end the evil ones, the suicides and the executed, or

| those who had failed in their duty to humanity, were relegated to the field of the forgotten, while those upon whom the final judgment of Incorporation

724 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX

ple of Humanity. , , was favorable were transferred to the Holy Wood which surrounded the Tem-

In France, Comte was not read during his lifetime. Ridicule was heaped upon him as just one of the numerous religious messiahs who had come forth with panaceas for universal peace and happiness. His aloofness from the class struggle made his writings meaningless to the revolutionaries who were organizing the workers with the slogans of communism and socialism. To sectors of the middle class who were seeking parliamentary reform in the Revolution of 1848 his philosophy was of no importance. His teachings were quite superfluous for those trying to defend the existing property system, because

, they had no need of his theocracy to ensure their domination. Many of the leaders of the Second Empire were Saint-Simonians, some of whom were still giving lip service to the humanitarian ideals of their master. The hierarchy of

Auguste Comte and his spiritual tyranny were not consonant with their ex-

pansive activism.

_ Ultimately Positivism, like many of the other great dogmatic structures of modern times, exerted its greatest influence in those countries which were comparatively backward in their cultural and economic development. It had its attractions for the intelligentsia of Russia in the sixties and seventies. 4 In South

America it became the ideal formula among those members of the upper classes who had abandoned the Catholic Church and yet did not wish to grope

in the darkness of skepticism. Positivism was acceptable to them as an organic , philosophy of life which provided for the status quo of class relationships and demanded only that order and progress become the general ideological princi-

ples of political and social action. Brazil inscribed the motto of Comte’s church, Ordem e Progresso, on its national flag and accepted Comte as its official _

philosopher.” Positivism in England was a movement of some strength, especially after | Mill briefly espoused its cause; but in the long run the English felt no need for it, for Herbert Spencer had provided them with essentially the same doctrine in | a native mixture that rivaled the original in pomposity and long-windedness. '® There were stray groups of Positivists in Holland, Italy, Sweden, and the United States. When on January 1, 1881, Edward Spencer Beesly celebrated the _ Festival of Humanity in London, he could speak of a union of all Positivists, comprised of members in Havre, Rouen, Mons, Rio de Janeiro, Dublin, New . York, and Stockholm, who were at that moment turning toward Paris, where Pierre Laffitte, the successor of Comte as the head of the Positivist Society, was

conducting the ceremonials in the very abode of the Master.'”

The Law of the Three States | Progress became the definition of social dynamics—we have been propelled into the jargon-world of sociology by its founder—as Order was the key to _ social statics. Progress is the development of Order, or Progress is the dynamic form of the static concept of Order. The social series, another way of identifying the philosophy of history, was an extension of the animal hierarchy and was governed throughout by the same fundamental principle: a simultaneous evolution toward the complex, the harmonious, and the unified. Passing from the lowest inorganic state to Humanity, Comte’s hypostatization of the high-

COMTE, HIGH PRIEST OF THE POSITIVIST CHURCH 725 est state of social being, forms became ever more complicated and more tightly integrated. Historical progress dealt with the evolution of the higher forms of social dynamics, but it was rooted in a psychology of human nature that was enduring and unchangeable. The most comprehensive way of formulating the totality of the historical process was the law of the three states, even though in the narrow sense it referred primarily to the evolution of human intelligence. Comte was heir to Turgot’s idea that a higher stage of mind was achieved at the expense of a diminution of subjective imaginative fancy, and to Hume’s definition of man’s primitive religious feeling in The Natural History of Religion as a total immersion in primary passions of fear and hope accompanied by little or no capacity

for abstraction. Following Vico, Saint-Simon, and the Saint-Simonians, Comte focused on the nature of the psyche in every epoch, and the history of human intelligence became for him, as it had been for his predecessors, a his-

tory of religion.

To define the first and most primitive state of man, Comte employed a variety of terms which require translation; he called it spontaneous and fictitious — we might say today that it was freely creative and subjective, that it had relatively little to do with the outside world of objects. Fetishism, a term he borrowed from de Brosses’s little essay Du culte des dieux fetiches, was the first,

totally subjective explanation of man’s relationship with external reality. Theologism, with its subsidiaries polytheism and monotheism, though it had a separate name, was still a part of the primary state, the provisional pattern of | human intelligence which was inevitably destined to be superseded not only for historical reasons but because man’s perception bore within itself the inherent necessity of evolution into a new form. The logic of history had psychological foundations. Comte’s descriptions of the passing from one phase of development to another within theologism were circumstantial and ingenious, replete

, with illustrative materials his predecessors had been ignorant of, since his prodigious memory had assimilated and stored the contents of new works of erudition. The second or transitional state he labeled metaphysicism; its essential character was abstraction. The medieval theologians were the major intellects of the metaphysical and their monotheism was typical of the tail end of theologism merging into metaphysicism. Using metaphysicism to define medieval philosophy was bewildering, but it served to fill a pressing psychic need on Comte’s part, to differentiate his categories from those of Saint-Simon, who had stuck to commonsensical nomenclature, with theology as the spiritual expression of the medieval mind and metaphysics as the intermediary form between theology and positive science. Needless to say, Comte’s verbal switch did not profoundly alter the nature of the evolution both of them described. Positivism, whose characteristic was demonstration, was the third and definite state or stage of human evolution. It was only a few centuries old, it had not yet eradicated the remnants of metaphysicism, and many ages lay before it. A

high degree of subordination of subjectivity to the objective world was its most noteworthy attribute. Mankind had thus moved in a direction that was the polar opposite to primitive fetishism, it had passed from subjectivity to objectivity. But here Comte raised an ominous warning: There was grave danger in the total elimination of creative subjectivity; merely objective perception could lead to idiocy.

726 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX , | Pursuing another parallel which Saint-Simon had already explored, Comte correlated the three stages of progressive intelligence with three forms of social activity. (Saint-Simon had still referred to spiritual and temporal powers.) The ancients had been military and aggressive conquerors who organized labor as slavery; the medievals had also been committed to warfare, but unlike the peoples of antiquity their military tactics tended to be primarily defensive—they locked themselves behind the ramparts of their castles—and this slackening of the offensive warrior spirit gave birth to a transitional form of activity which allowed for the growth of industrial labor. In the positivist epoch a free proletariat became the dominant pattern for the organization of labor. With varia-

tions in vocabulary—modern sociology has come by its terminology legitimately, from the father—this theme had been constant in French philosophical history since Turgot. Comte explained the conflict between the activists and the intellectuals in the first two stages of social dynamics on the ground that these elements were competitive with each other—as Saint-Simon had—and he forecast the elimination of the conflict in the third and final stage because scientific positivism in intelligence and industrialism as a method of work or- |

ganization would be compatible, not rival. | | Usually there was a third law (sometimes it was expressed not as a separate law but merely as a derivation of the two preceding ones) which illustrated moral or emotional progress. The third series fitted perfectly with the other two—all the gears of social dynamics mesh. The progress of sentiment, which the Saint-Simonians had described as the growth of love in an almost identical __ form, could be traced in the extension of the area of consciousness over which affects of sympathy had power. The higher stages of this development were

_ the direct moral consequence of progress in intelligence and activity: Growth in love was thus a derivative form. The ancients had recognized only civic sen_ timents, the medievals a wider sphere designated as collective European consciousness, and the moderns under positivism were destined to render sym-

| pathy universal, the loftiest moral ideal, at once the most complicated and the most unified. The same moral progression of sentiment could also be expressed conversely as a decreasing egotism, a condition marked by a steady weakening of nutritive and sexual instincts and an increase of altruism. Comte too had undergone the influence of Kant’s concept of antagonism and had set up a world history of progress around the idea of decreasing rivalries and increasing love relationships among humans. As a characteristic index of this development he pointed to the growing social and moral role of women, who symbolized the affectionate element. As a final, fourth law of social dynamics Comte included the philosophical key to the history of scientific development _ which had already been expounded in the Cours, the idea that the sciences progressed in chronological order from the simplest to the most complex, culminating in sociology—an idea that is directly traceable to Saint-Simon’s earliest

works and that he in turn owed, on his own testimony, to Dr. Burdin, sur- | geon in the armies of the Republic.

Order and Progress | Comte faced the problem of the boundlessness of future progress and of the geographic areas in which his laws of social dynamics operated with more

COMTE, HIGH PRIEST OF THE POSITIVIST CHURCH 727 forthrightness than some of his predecessors. Like Fourier in this respect, he entertained the possibility of ultimate decline and death, carrying out the ontogenetic analogy, though he was quick to reassure his contemporaries that it

was far too early to determine the shape of the downward stadial course of mankind. While Saint-Simon’s theory was Europocentric and its universalization depended upon the conquest of other continents by the industrial-scientific ideology, and the Saint-Simonians felt that scholarship was not yet sufficiently advanced to document their thesis with Asian analogies, Comte made his law of the three states equally applicable throughout the world. Ultimately every region would have to pass through the same stages, but—and here was the escape clause—the evolution could be accelerated by a more intense rate of progress in non-European areas. Like children, the savages might be able to jump over the metaphysical stage and emerge as full-fledged positivists; only fetishism was a necessary condition. He even allowed for slight variations—he called them ‘“‘oscillations’—apparent minor movements of retrogression, though in universal terms the overall development was inevitable and absolute.

Comte’s vision diverges fundamentally from Saint-Simon’s less in the nomenclature of the historical periods than in the complete abandonment of individual self-realization for anew emphasis on the total absorption in social statics and social dynamics. Saint-Simon in his last words to his disciple Olinde Rodrigues had still insisted on the development of individual capacities. Men were to be joined in association and love, but the individual would not be lost—this was a Saint-Simonian pledge to prospective converts. With Auguste Comte

the Great Being became the time-bearing ocean in which all men were engulfed. The individual found his true fulfillment only by subordinating his subjectivity. The impression is inescapable that in the positivist religion there is a total loss of personality as man is merged in the perfect transcendent unity of Humanity. The late Teilhard de Chardin, the eminent paleontologist and theoretician of human evolution who prognosticated a similar development for the species, was fully aware of the affinities between his own philosophy and Comte’s. The other unique element in the Comtean doctrine is the richness of the psy_ chological characterization of the three stages of consciousness. In a most revealing excursus in the third volume of the Systeme de politique positive Comte reported that during the course of his madness in 1826 he had acquired a personal conviction of the truth of the law of the three states. Under the impact of mental strain he had felt himself regress backward through various stages of metaphysics, monotheism, and polytheism to fetishism, and then, in the pro-

cess of recuperation, he had watched himself mount again through the progressive changes of human consciousness, at once historical and individual, to positivism and health.’® This was a far more profound conception than the

rather commonplace analogy between phylogeny and ontogeny to which Saint-Simon had regularly adverted. Comte experienced these stages as distinct states of consciousness fundamentally different from one another. When a man went mad and there was a derangement of psychic processes he naturally fell back along the same historic path of development. This embryonic Comtean version of the idea of a collective consciousness, its origins and growth,

| and the view of regression as at once a return to the infantile and to the primi-

728 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX tive had many eighteenth-century roots, but never before in the literature of psychology or sociology had these conceptions been developed with comparable vigor. Comte raised the theory of progress to a new level when in addition

to technological, scientific, intellectual, and moral progress he envisaged a progressive growth of consciousness and proceeded to define its constituent historical elements. At the same time he had the extraordinary insight that as mankind advanced, the earlier stages of consciousness would not be completely sloughed off and forgotten forever, but on the contrary every child born in the new humanity would reexperience the history of the race and pass through the successive orders of intelligence in the course of its education. In previous stadial theories there is an impression of completeness in each stage:

Once man has achieved a higher level the old forms are abandoned. For Comte, who had known madness, the fetishist world was an ever-present real-_ ity, and in his religious philosophy he wrestled with the problem of preserving the direct and immediate emotional responses which characterized primitive religion even in the positive polity of the future. Auguste Comte’s predilection for the institution-bound priest was reflected everywhere in his philosophical review of history. Whenever a sacerdotal body __ appeared upon the scene mankind was at least temporarily in secure hands. From the lying trickster priest of Condorcet to Comte’s benign ecclesiastical authorities who at every crucial moment in history ordered human intelligence and feeling, there had been a complete volte-face. Even the fetishist priests, about whom de Brosses had written in 1760 with mixed horror and contempt

| as the heart of primitive darkness, in Comte’s analysis became wise leaders who turned the subjective cause-seeking of savages to a moral purpose, the creation of communal sentiment among primitive mankind. The later metaphysicians who directed the transitional stage from theologism to positivism

were the spiritual leaders who deserved the least praise in the whole history of | , mankind; they had in fact given no general institutional direction to human endeavors. The anarchic potentialities of metaphysicism were always so pow- , erful that it colored their works, and whatever was sound and progressive in their epoch was to be credited to the secret undercover operations of the positivist spirit at work in their midst and not to the abstractions of philosophy. The positivist priesthood that Comte was initiating was destined to resume the direct creative tradition of mankind, which ran from the priests of fetishism, through the Catholic Church, to the high sacerdotal authority of the new religion.

Historical crises occurred when there was a grave imbalance among the progressions and in the arrangement of the various human creative capacities, when the industrial-political or the ideological maturation of a new epoch was either too sluggish or too precipitous. In the third volume of the Politique positive, Comte’s interpretation of the outbreak of the French Revolution is characteristic of his thinking and expression. He descends from a dogmatic statement of the grand laws of social dynamics in the opening chapter to illustrate _ their workings in the “‘facts” of history. This fatal inversion was above all the result of the inadequate harmony between thetwo evolutions, negative and positive, one of which then required a renewal which the other could not direct. All beliefs had been dissolved, and the regressive dictatorship, which

COMTE, HIGH PRIEST OF THE POSITIVIST CHURCH 729 held together the wreckage of the ancien régime, found itself irrevocably discredited. At the same time, feelings, which alone support that kind of society, already had undergone an intimate transformation as a result of the anarchy of thoughts, as shown by the steady diminution of feminine influence and the growing insurrection of the mind against the heart. On the other hand, science remained limited to inert nature and even tended toward academic degeneration. Philosophy, for lack of an objective base, spent itself'in thin aspirations toward a subjective synthesis. Since organic evolution was incapable of satisfying the needs manifested by the critical movement, a social upheaval then

became inevitable . . .” , ,

sively.

The providence of the Great Being could not be demonstrated more concluWhile the broad lines of the development of the Great Being were fixed by the laws of social dynamics, there was a sense in which human ‘‘modificability” played a role, albeit a restricted one. There was sometimes choice between serving a positive or a negative force, even though the overall course itself was objectively determined. Much as Comte dwelt upon the “‘spontaneous emergence”’ of new aspects of the Great Being in the historical process, he was, perhaps more than any other thinker before the triumph of depth psychology, aware of the tremendous weight of the generations of the past in delimiting the scope of any novel action. The new, if it was to be more than a mere expression of caprice and anarchy doomed at the very moment of birth,

had to take its properly ordained place in the historic queue. No disorderly breakthroughs could be countenanced; if they occurred they had no real, that is, lasting, existence. The past determined the future so overwhelmingly that every action, every sprout of intellectual and moral growth, was relative to

what had gone before. ,

Since harmonious unity—the Saint-Simonians would have said an organic synthesis—is the only good society, Comte’s historical enemies were those intellectual, activist, or emotional forces which failed to contribute to social integration on an ever-higher plane of existence—the destructive critics, the revo-

lutionaries, in a word, the anarchists. Saint-Simon’s attack against the “liberals” became Comtean tirades against the ‘revolutionary anarchists” who had initiated the “‘great crisis,” the men of 1789. Traditionalists like de Maistre were less dangerous to progress than the revolutionaries because they at least understood the need for the creation of a collective consciousness. The theocratic school’s utopia of the organic society was the great divide in this respect

between the two eighteenth-century progressists Turgot and Condorcet and their nineteenth-century followers Saint-Simon and Auguste Comte. Whereas Turgot had been almost pathologically afraid of sameness and its deadening effect on man, Saint-Simon and Comte saw in those who desired novelty and innovation for their own sake an even greater danger. Both of them raised the specter of formlessness as the dread antiprogressist force, a French sociological tradition which culminated in Durkheim’s conception of anomie. A change in

politics or science which was not organically integrated was for Comte destructive of the good order—it was like an act of historical regression either in ~ an individual or in humanity. Throughout his historical presentation Comte was ever vigilant to apprehend the violators of the preordained historical timetable and to censure them retroactively. Condorcet’s flogging of science and technology into ever-faster accomplishments was not the part of the Esquisse

| 730 | MARX AND COUNTER-MARX Comte admired. The progressions of intelligence, activity, and emotion ideally

should march in step, three abreast. , |

Moral Love and Gay Science | Nineteenth-century European thought had a penchant for total systems at once grand in scope and minute in their detail, full of generalities and particularities. The future was the whole purpose of Comte’s colossal labors—savoir

| pour prévoir. The detail with which he prophesied about calendars, holidays, and sacraments has repelled the skeptical, though it should not have because in his capacity as High Priest of Humanity he was actually instituting the future which he depicted, perfect model of a self-fulfilling prophet. After long travail, having become successfully identified with the Great Being, he had only to interrogate himself about his own spontaneous desires to know what the _ future would be—a procedure which has been followed unconsciously by

many dissenters from the positivist religion. , , |

In the temporal order the rulers of the future Comtean society would remain the capitalists, and he was not afraid to flaunt the name in the face of the revolutionary radicals of 1848. These men would remain responsible for the material arrangements of the world because they controlled its wealth and were

by nature gifted in the activist art of manipulation. In effect they would be more like economic administrators than domineering potentates. Comte had in mind men such as the philanthropic textile manufacturer of the Restoration, Baron Ternaux, who had befriended him during the lean period when he lived in Saint-Simon’s shadow. He saw no reason to alter the satisfactory existing

order under which the capitalists controlled the instruments of production. Though there would be no legal or institutional checks upon the free utilization of their talents, there were other restraints of far greater potency than mere state legislation. Rational scientists, no longer supreme but influential in their own sphere, were a complementary force engaged in ordering society through their control of the educational system. Once the moral goal was set and made explicit, capitalists and scientists would operate harmoniously without conflict. Since Comte’s utopia was not an expansive sensuous society, the production of novelties which appealed to the senses and the conduct of researches such as astronomic investigations of distant planets would be frowned upon as futile. In his popular works when he was proselytizing ‘“‘conservatives’ and “‘proletarians’” Comte never outrightly condemned the luxuries of capitalists; they were allowed their excesses without censure; theirs were peccadilloes which he tolerated, not ways of life establishing the moral tone of the society. His description of the really distant future leads one to surmise, however, that the forbearance of the Great Being in this respect would not be of long duration. Comte’s extreme personal asceticism during the second phase of his philosophical career was projected onto the whole of society. The preservation of a stable temporal order was far more important than the intrusion into the system of new artifacts, which would disrupt the fixed spiritual arrangements that he planned for mankind. Though the Saint-Simonian goal which dedicated the whole of society to the improvement of the moral and physical lot of the poorest and most numerous classes was not accepted, Comte did take for granted that capitalists who

COMTE, HIGH PRIEST OF THE POSITIVIST CHURCH 731 had adopted the device of the positive religion, To live for others, would provide for the fulfillment of the indispensable material needs of all human beings. In addition he relied upon the new dignity which would be achieved by the two most oppressed classes of existing society to infuse a totally different spirit into the contemporary egotistic industrial-scientific order. Women and proletarians were the classes whose elevation Comte, along with most other reformers of the thirties and forties, predicted. Both had similar natures: They represented the simple, tender, loving element in mankind whose true force consisted not in ruling but in modifying the selfish character of the rulers in the very process of being ruled. The proletarians who had the power of numbers

would not use their brute strength to achieve a false equality contrary to human nature, Comte preached on the morrow of the June Days. Instead, the

, moral influence they exerted on the capitalists would put an end to class conflicts and persuade the economic directors of society to behave toward their proletarians as loving parents would to children. In the family—the central unit of existence, absorbing many emotions now dissipated on public bodies — women would exercise a similar paramount influence. They would be univer-

sally recognized as morally superior to men—as Clothilde de Vaux was to Comte—and though they were dominated and enjoyed no independent existence, either in life or in death (for even their positivist immortality was bound up with the fate of their husbands), they suffused the whole of society with a gentle warmth. After the provisional period of theologism and the transitional period of metaphysicism the positivist priesthood would inaugurate definitive history. The new religion from which God was banished would consciously reorient social relationships by locating the focus of existence in the Great Being, the source of moral judgment in the future as it had been the end of moral and psychic development in the past. ‘““Happiness as well as duty consists in uniting

oneself more closely with the Great Being which epitomizes the universal order.”’”° With the triumph of the positive religion, sociology, a political science, would be transcended in the hierarchy of knowledge by morality. Relations among the sciences in the encyclopedic hierarchy were not conceived of simply as a mechanical succession in which the lower forms served as a mere base for the higher ones. As in the Marxist relationship of substructure and superstructure there was a reciprocal interplay of forms among the various echelons in the ladder. The final transformation of man’s moral being was dependent upon the perfection of the biological sciences, primarily through the development and extension of the ideas of Gall and Broussais, whose phrenological discoveries Comte considered pivotal in the science of man since they established specific connections between physical brain areas and intellectual, emotional, and activist expressions. Toward the end of the first volume of the Systeme de politique positive, he defined the moral problem in an adaptation of

their physiopsychological jargon: “how to make the three social instincts, assisted by the five intellectual organs, surmount as a matter of habit the impulses resulting from the seven personal tendencies, by reducing these to the minimum of indispensable satisfactions in order to consecrate the three active organs in the service of sociability.”?? Moral education metamorphosed the nature of biological functions by developing some and atrophying others. Man the agent could be perfected through a complex educational mechanism which

732 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX supervised every age-group in the life cycle through the successive ministrations of mothers, teachers, and priests, leading to a total improvement in spontaneous biological action-responses which could be measured in terms of the | _ growth of love, altruism, living for others. Personality, an odious word in the Comtean vocabulary reminiscent of the anarchy of late metaphysicism, was not meant to flower but to merge in the totality of existence, past, present, and _

future.

All sciences on the lower levels of the encyclopedic scale would be affected by the moralization of man because the loving sentiment would pervade the _ scientific experiment and enrich it. Comte had a full awareness of the gap that

separated a mere intellectual comprehension of a phenomenon from an emotional experience of the same event—an idea which has often been touted as a discovery of late-nineteenth-century German sociology. Comte repeatedly protested to those of his disciples who maximized the distinction between his two careers that in the essays of the 1820s he had already announced a revolution of sentiment and the institution of a new moral authority as the inevitable __ development of the present epoch, but at that time his understanding of the necessity had been chiefly intellectual. Not until his first profound experience of love, when he had felt in his own soul (the word was allowable to connote a - combination of mind and feeling) the moral effects of a sublime selfless passion for another person, was he able to institute a new religion which would oper-

ate through love and metamorphose those who lived in the Great Being from ,

self-loving into other-loving.

The temporal order of the future did not occupy a central place in Comte’s

, considerations because in the end this was the lesser order. If capitalists were allowed their profits and the direction of the economy were entrusted to their hands they would not be encouraged to produce material objects that man could really do without. The sensuous desires to which modern industry caters were destined to become ever-weaker manifestations of human existence; with the enfeeblement of the nutritive and sexual passions there really was no wide | field open for the expression of capitalist productivity. The boundless exploitation of nature in which the Saint-Simonians reveled was not a part of the Com_ tean dream. In bowdlerized language which spared the sensitivities of his Victorian readers Auguste Comte foretold the end of sex in the fourth volume of the Politique positive. It was “‘presaged by the growing development of chastity, = which, proper to the human race, at least among males, shows the physical,

intellectual, and moral efficacy of a sound employment of the vivifying fluid . . . Thus one conceives that civilization not only disposes man to appreciate woman more but continually increases the participation of the female

sex in human reproduction, ultimately reaching a point where birth would

emanate from woman alone.” | |

Indispensable sustenance of the body—but no more—was the restriction imposed upon the appetites. From the time of his first mental crisis through the climax of his love for Clothilde de Vaux, Comte established a relationship in his own life between the curtailment of a sumptuary superfluity or extrava_ gance and the unveiling of new philosophical vistas—he had in turn denied himself tobacco, coffee, and wine at each point in the progression. And since Comte conceived of himself as a symbolic embodiment of the man of the future, what was good for Comte was good for mankind. Time and again there

COMTE, HIGH PRIEST OF THE POSITIVIST CHURCH 733 are hints in his writings that sensual gratification denied was transmutable into vast resources of spiritual power of an intellectual or an emotional character. The direct connection between his sublimated love for Clothilde de Vaux and the massive outpourings of his last years was the most conclusive evidence of his theory. The period of the Systeme de politique positive and the Synthese subjec-

tive can hardly be looked upon as a creative decline, however little one may be attracted by the prospects which the High Priest held out for humanity. Natural science had been a necessary introduction to the final science of morality; but knowing physical relationships was not an end in itself. Comte’s parsimonious system allowed for the expansion of technical science only insofar as it was related to the ordering of human relationships and the stimulation of progress in love. Beyond that point professional virtuosity was wasteful, and Comte was prepared to decree a breaking of the chemists’ retorts and the biologists’ test tubes as well as a burning of the books if sheer curiosity multiplied information beyond the point where it was assimilable by the study of man. Comte and Fourier would have lighted the firebrand together and both would be preaching eternal love—and yet what different faces of love—as they destroyed the intellectual accumulation of the ages in its name.

~ Comte’s vision of the future moral life on earth, for there is no other, at times seems unbearably dull, but there is another aspect to the man and his doctrine which is often obscured by the dark austerity of his mien. The second volume of the Systeme de politique positive extrapolated lines of human development which, though they may not suit the taste of contemporary sybarites or the men of action engaged in a struggle for power, cannot be lightly dismissed as baseless conjecture. In the hypothetical distant future state man is

virtually liberated from work and the subsidiary intellectual occupations which have been dependent upon labor as a necessity. Not every type of work

enjoyed Comte’s moral sanction. “Activity dictated by our physical needs exerts an influence that is doubly corrupting, directly on the heart, indirectly on the mind.” Freedom from work whose only real justification is the biological need to keep the body alive would be easily achieved. “It will only be necessary that the preparation of solid food habitually require as little trouble as our liquid or gaseous nutrition does today.’’** After the ages of slavery and labor there would follow an epoch in which man’s intellectual and emotional nature—as Comte defined it—-would enjoy free play. During the course of his historical review of human activity Comte referred to the “destructive instinct,”’ which he sometimes called more energetic than the constructive one,”* but all this was forgotten when he turned to the future. The destructive instinct had been stimulated by necessity, but once man is emancipated from physical needs and abandons his meat diet he will become spontaneously loving and his altruist nature will express itself in all its fullness. The parallel to Marx’s utopia in The German Ideology is provocative. For the first time in the history of man, freedom from necessity will allow for the development of pure consciousness, the essential human nature. But with Marx the image is far more intellectualist (though he had his Fourierist moments too) while with Comte the emotive capacity tends to prevail. In the end of the days the inhabitants of the Comtean and the Marxist worlds would never recognize one another and

become reconciled.

“We must now evaluate what our intellectual existence will be like,” Comte

734 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX | begins blandly in the second chapter on social statics in the Systeme de politique

positive, when he allows himself to be catapulted into a fantasy world that is one of the most charming of the unscientific utopias. For once the dry, obsessively precise mathematics teacher seems to have thrown his textbooks out of the celestial windows and abandoned himself to the Italian operas whose delights he relished but could not often afford. There will be virtually no development in technological thought because such practical speculations have always been sparked by physical needs, and these, as he has shown, will be > appeased with the expenditure of little or no work. Perhaps the free intellect will still occasionally erect scientific models which derive from simple analogies. But science will not be the main channel into which human intelligence flows. Aesthetic works will attract the energies formerly spent upon scientific and technical labors, since this is a natural predilection of the human desire for expression and is not born out of mere necessity. Instead of devoting himself to the elaboration of scientific constructs that are remote and complicated, man _ will seek the most direct means of self-expression and he will find them both in art and in the expansion of his emotive vocabulary. Intelligence will thus become bound up with love and sympathy to a degree that has never been feasible under the reign of technical science. Man’s need for activity will not disap_ pear even though he is freed from the burdens of labor, but the nature of action

will be profoundly changed. Domestic animals, all of whose needs are provided for, do not cease to express themselves; instead of being scavengers they become playful. “In a word, acts would essentially be transformed into games, which instead of being preparations for active existence would constitute pure means of exercise and expansiveness.”” No longer absorbed by work enterprises of an external character, action will involve itself in the organization of fetes that develop the mutual affections—chaste ones of course—of the participants. The aesthetic will prevail because it has a more direct physiological relationship to the emotions than have either science or industry. ‘We shall then

| exercise no other activity, but the perfection of our special means for expressing affection, as we shall cultivate no other science but the gaie science naively preferred by our chivalrous ancestors.’’*> Nietzsche’s Gaya Scienza!

31 Anarchy and the Heroic Proletariat ANARCHISM APPEARED in the mid-nineteenth century as the most serious radical

utopian alternative to Marxism. Though “‘anarchism”’ is derived from an ancient Greek root, the order of anarchy as a utopian condition for mankind dates from the end of the eighteenth century. It was not yet used as a substantive in

a positive sense, however, even by William Godwin, the ex-Dissenter clergyman who in 1793 first presented its fundamental principles in an exten-

sive two-volume treatise on a society without property or governing authority.

The Five Pillars of Anarchy Godwin’s Political Justice, a verbose work composed in long Latinate periods, had none of the epigrammatic pungency of the seventeenth-century Civil War literature of the Levellers, Diggers, and Ranters from which its idea system was partially derived. It was a reasoned academic discourse that laboriously refuted the contract theories of Locke and Rousseau on the ground that one

generation did not have the right to commit its successors to a bond or an agreement upon which they had not entered and called for the restoration of the natural right of every man to remain unfettered by laws and rules in whose framing he himself had not directly participated. The traditional arguments safeguarding accumulated property as an inalienable right were dismissed in the name of a natural law that recognized only equals. The Dissenter “‘indepen-

dancy of private conscience’ was transformed into the individual’s right of free action untrammeled by any sovereign or property-holding power. The natural goodness of man, set forth in Rousseauan terms, was called justice and bore with it assurance that once the wicked institutions of society were made to disappear each individual in his conduct toward another would be illuminated and moved by the same power of reason. Men would then live in peace and tranquillity without the intervention of any external force. The dictates of Dissenter conscience became the rational foundation of a state without government, a condition of absolute freedom that would allow the human spirit to soar to heights of achievement hitherto unattained. Since humans were sociable animals, they would spontaneously group themselves into neighborly communes, where they would work and eat in a society of complete equality. No distinctions of sex would break the natural law of equality. Marriage would not bind a person to his inate for any longer than he willed, for mutuality would prevail in all relationships. Godwin delivered himself of grand excursions on the dynamic potentialities of total freedom. He pleaded for a wholesome state of mind, unloosed from shackles, in which every fiber would be expanded according to the independent and individual impressions of truth upon it. But before his little anarchic parishes could 735

736 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX function there had to be a psychic revolution. The conviction had to become deeply engraved on the minds of all men that their genuine wants were their only just claim to the acquisition of goods. Unnecessarily consuming objects that might benefit another, or appropriating property to gain ascendancy over others, would in the future state become as abhorrent as committing murder. The conversion had to precede the implementation of the utopia. Godwin’s communal parishes could have recalcitrant members, and he relied on psychic sanctions to bring them into line, the primitive technique of shaming so often resorted to by puritanical and savage societies. Not having heard of the tyranny of the big beast of public opinion in Stendhal’s small town, he proposed the little general will of parish neighbors as a preventive of

, crime in the future society. “No individual would be hardy enough in the cause of vice, to defy the general consent of sober judgment that would sur~ round him. It would carry despair to his mind, or which is better, it would carry conviction. He would be obliged, by a force not less irresistible than whips and chains, to reform his conduct.’’? Something of the punitive spirit of Rousseau’s Social Contract had seeped into the anarchic eupsychia of Godwin. But his anarchic commonalty was far less anti-intellectual than Dom Deschamps’s, and ultimately it was the cultivation of the spark of reason in all men

authority.

that would guarantee the benign nature of the utopia without governmental

_ The popularity of Political Justice among a generation of young English poets, especially Southey and Coleridge, owes much to the completeness of | the argument, which under successive headings destroyed the underpinnings of church and state. A plan of Southey and Coleridge in 1794 to found a ‘‘Pantisocracy” on the banks of the Susquehanna River in Pennsylvania, where property would be held in common, was based on the idea of making men virtuous “‘by removing all Motives to Evil—all possible temptations.””* In the sixth of Coleridge’s youthful ‘‘Lectures on Revealed Religion,” his paean to Universal Equality and his description of the dread disease of Inequality owe equal debts to Rousseau and Godwin, though the idea of common ownership to which he subscribed at this period seems closest perhaps to the views of __ Robert Wallace, author of Various Prospects of Mankind, Nature, and Providence

(1761), a rare English proponent of equal division of produce among the pro-

ducers.* The Pantisocratic project was aborted, and the world outlook of Southey and Coleridge changed in a conservative direction. It was Shelley who

became the poet of libertarian anarchy (and Godwin’s son-in-law). For a time, , contemporary events in revolutionary France had encouraged adolescent

dreamers to embrace the system of Political Justice.

The weightiness and turgid style of Godwin’s volumes, which cost three guineas, saved the author from prosecution—such expensive books were not

, considered dangerous. But this most comprehensive attack upon the institutions of England survived, and the ideas in a crude form were picked up by organizations of English artisans, who discovered in Political Justice a worthy substitute for the Bible. In the end the work remains a sport, the strawlike sustenance of Robert Owen, founder of the first English socialist colonies, that most authoritarian of ideological masters in utopia—no mean distinction among the willful leaders of utopian socialism—the master of the regulation of simple people with a Sinai of prohibitions, all promulgated in the name of sov-

ANARCHY AND THE HEROIC PROLETARIAT 737 ereign reason. In the second half of the nineteenth century Godwin was also occasionally read on the Continent and he was assimilated into the anarchist canon, though the impetus behind most European anarchist thought came from less parochial sources than the mental exercises of a former English clergyman. The main body of modern anarchist theory was composed by a quadrumvirate beginning in the 1840s—Proudhon, Max Stirner, Bakunin, Kropotkin. They do not form a chain so tightly linked as the utopian socialist prophets of Paris, but they are interrelated, and in the leaflets of the political anarchist movement one or another is constantly quoted with reverence. There is no significant utopian novel or full-bodied description of a future utopian society whose author would identify himself as an anarchist. Virtually all versions of the doctrine—and the varieties are as numerous as the militant individualists who subscribe to it—condemn detailed depictions of the anarchist society of the future as a heresy, since the world of anarchy following upon the imminent revolution, the abolition of government, the destruction of capitalism, and the outlawing of property in the bourgeois sense of private monopolistic ownership would be a spontaneous creation of the free, untrammeled spirit of the men of that fortunate time, not fettered to any previously formulated plans or dogmas. A utopian blueprint of anarchy would be selfcontradictory, internally inconsistent, and anathema to anarchists, who are ardent believers in reason and the scientific method. An outsider might hazard the opinion that William Morris’ ‘Nowhere’ comes pretty close to the condition for which many anarchists have expressed longings; but unfortunately Morris after his ideological conversion considered himself a Marxist, and Marx has been the béte noire of every self-respecting anarchist since his first encounter with Proudhon in the 1840s. Yet anarchist writers or theoreticians have inevitably been seduced, as Marx himself was, into utterances about what an ideal world should be like after the great outburst of destruction that would bring the new man into being, and anarchist journals have been as contentious and hairsplitting as their Marxist counterparts in distinguishing true from false principles.

If seen from within, anarchy is a doctrine of individualism a outrance, and one man’s anarchy can hardly be another’s. No-government, anarchy, was a wished-for state in Western man’s fantasy long before it became a full-blown ideology. It would be possible to link one version of Zeno the Stoic, surely Diogenes the Cynic, popular cokaygne utopians of all times, late medieval and early Reformation millenarians, perhaps a few English Ranters of the seventeenth century, and the Marquis de Sade in a hypothetical genealogy of Anarchy. But most modern anarchists have been fervent atheists who have equated divine and state coercion—which would exclude religious anarchists of the past—-and the profoundly ascetic or puritanical streak in modern Anarchy would blackball the divine Marquis. Tolstoy has been considered a religious anarchist and there has been a small anarchist movement within the American Catholic Church. The church-burning anarchists of the Spanish Civil War of 1936-1938, however, would not have considered them normative anarchists. The search for common denominators in the anarchist utopia is of necessity the act of a nonparticipant inquirer; to an observer, even though emancipated from the nineteenth-century stereotype of the bearded incendiary with bomb in hand, the anarchist is nevertheless a definable species in utopia.

738 | MARX AND COUNTER-MARX If William Godwin is regarded more as a precursor than an integral member of the modern order, the anarchist utopia is essentially a nineteenth-century

creation, its major formal theorists an improbable group. The father of the movement, Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, a French autodidact-printer who in-

, vented the famous slogan “Property is theft!’’ was a prolific author whose complicated paradoxes have been more appealing to intellectuals than to workers, though his ideas have seeped down to the masses. Two Russian nobles, Mikhail Bakunin of the hereditary nobility (equivalent to English country gentlemen), an erratic giant, voracious and violent, and Prince Peter Kropotkin of the titled nobility, a former page at the Czarist court and geolo-

, gical explorer of Siberia, who in his English exile came to represent the respectable side of the movement, were activist theoreticians with a large popu-

lar following. Finally, a meek German teacher in a Berlin school for girls, Johann Caspar Schmidt, who hid his identity under a tough nom de plume, | Max Stirner, provided a philosophical statement of anarchy in Hegelian jar- , gon, Der Einzige und sein Eigenthum (The Ego and Its Own), 1845. Stirner was a loner and his influence was marginal, though Marx took the trouble to ridicule him as Sankt Max in a famous section in Die Heilige Familie (The Holy Fam-

ily). On occasion popular anarchist movements have incorporated strange gods into their pantheon—Rousseau and Nietzsche, for example—but on the whole, anarchists have not been hero-worshipers. Enrico Malatesta returning _to Italy from exile after World War I sternly reproved his adulators for the ex-

cessive ardor of their welcome. |

In practice, the utopia of anarchy found adherents in diverse groups in Europe and America that have little in common—among the artisans of the Swiss Jura, French syndicalists, isolated groups of Italian and Andalusian peasants,

immigrants in the slums of large American cities. Direct-action anarchist leaders, charged with preparing the climate of revolution by perpetrating symbolic acts of terror against individuals who incarnated the evils of the existing _ state system, committed assassinations that had tragic consequences both for

their victims and for the followers who were swept away by their rhetoric. Whole villages of peasants in Andalusia, Italy, Russia were for a brief moment possessed by a secular millenarianism that lasted until the police authorities brutally suppressed them. As the assassinations multiplied, the security forces of all states resorted to the recruitment of agents provocateurs whose contingents sometimes exceeded in number the authentic members of the secret cells under surveillance. Anarchist leaders often perished in their assassination attempts, but occasionally they escaped from one fiasco to replay their tragicomic roles in another part of the Continent. These incidents recall the local |

delusions of the Reformation period. ,

, With improved means of communication and the vulnerability of modern technologized societies to flash attacks, intermittent outbursts such as those of the American Weathermen, the Japanese bands of terrorists, and the Red Bri_gades of Italy can have massive consequences that bookish anarchists never dreamed of, and the cruelties of Sergei Nechaev, the Russian monster who dominated university cells in St. Petersburg in the 1860s, are surpassed by his present-day descendants in Tokyo and Berlin. The destructive needs of a Bakunin or a Malatesta, or the mad fantasies of a Nestor Makhno, or the barbarities of American Weathermen and Japanese and Italian terrorists seem totally ,

ANARCHY AND THE HEROIC PROLETARIAT 739 divorced from the doctrines of anarchist utopians like Godwin, Proudhon, and Kropotkin, who eschewed violence or conceived of it strictly as a defensive

weapon to be used only in extremis. The rhetoric of the anarchist philosophers, however, is far from dead, and continues to reverberate in the proclamations of both violent and philosophical anarchists whatever new names they adopt. The gory anarchist utopia lives alongside the Tolstoyan vision of Christian love. Perhaps the unifying element in modern anarchy has been its negation of the Marxist utopia. From the beginning, men like Proudhon and Bakunin and the Russian anarchists of the twentieth century defined themselves in opposition to the revolutionary tactics that Marx early introduced into the anticapitalist movement and that they found abhorrent. There is a famous letter of Proudhon to Marx after their meeting of 1846 in Paris, in which the French printer

cautioned Marx against falling into the error of his “compatriot Luther.” Proudhon warned against turning the “revolution” into a new dogmatic religion and the ‘‘“movement”’ into a new authority, and strongly advocated keep-

ing it alive through perpetual dialogue. “I applaud with all my heart,” he wrote to Marx on May 17, “‘your idea of bringing into the open all opinions. Let us conduct a good, honest polemic. Let us give the world the example of a wise and prescient tolerance. But because we are at the head of a movement let us not turn ourselves into the leaders of a new intolerance or pretend to be the apostles of a new religion, even if this is the religion of logic, the religion of reason. Let us gather up, let us encourage, all differing points of view. Let us condemn all exclusions, all mystifications. Let us never consider that a problem has been exhausted. And when we have used up our last argument, let us begin again, if need be, with eloquence and irony. On this condition, I shall be delighted to join your association. If not, no!’”* Proudhon rejected centralized leadership for the revolutionary struggle and the dictatorship of the proletariat under a chosen directorate for either the initial or the subsequent stages of the path to utopia. Bakunin, a domineering authoritarian personality with more than his share of human frailties, including an excessive capacity for alcoholic consumption and a weakness for young rev-

| olutionary fantasts like Sergei Nechaev (“the boy,” as he affectionately called him in English), combated Marx’s influence in the Workingmen’s International to the point where at one moment he effectively controlled the voices of a majority, forcing Marx to transfer the executive body to New York, far from the scene of action. The public oratorical passion of this colossus (in private, a man ridden with anxieties over his impotence) triumphed over the learning of the doctor of philosophy from Jena. While Marx laboriously defined his concepts and elaborated his theory of the stages of revolution, making each development depend upon the level of technology achieved and the degree of

worker organization in process, Bakunin demanded immediate action, spurned tight control of the movement (at least in theory), extolled the spontaneity of the masses. His philosophy of history was a patchwork; in his ultimate vision there was more than a little suspicion of science and technology on the grand scale, as there was in Proudhon’s world view. Only the geologist Kropotkin developed a scientific foundation for anarchism, in which anthropology, biology, and history all pointed to inevitable victory for the doctrine. His Mutual Aid: A Factor of Evolution (1902), the product of observation and reflec-

740 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX tion, was first published as a series of articles in the Nineteenth Century to counter the antiprogressionist and anti-utopian preconceptions of some forms of Social Darwinism. Kropotkin’s work was designed in particular to refute the position taken by Thomas Huxley in his article ‘“The Struggle for Existence in Human Society” that life was inevitably a continual and remorseless

battle of man against man.° a Anarchists generally turned their backs on the existing political institutions

that the bourgeoisie were creating; they wanted not to seize the state and its controls in the Marxist manner but to pulverize it. Participation in political processes entailed some form of recognition of the state, and the purists among _ the anarchists were on guard against contamination by such activity. The idea of a long political struggle, of availing themselves of recognized electoral and parliamentary instrumentalities, was odious to them. The true anarchist stands aside in his pristine virtue until the moment of apocalyptic revolution, or at most, in the prerevolutionary period he may form voluntary groups among his fellows for mutual aid, but only on condition that they are totally separated from the state. Anarchist worker unions grew out of this conception. At every stage in modern revolutionary history, conflict with Marxists di- | vided the working-class movements of Europe into hostile camps. Anarchists were willing to join in loose federations of believers and even hold international meetings for mutual consultation; but never would they allow a ma-_ jority vote to dominate a minority or control its action. The corrupting consequences of engaging in bourgeois politics were delineated by Proudhon with prophetic fervor. In all its forms the state was an object of execration. In 1914, while the political socialists of the world united in going to war for their respective capitalist countries, anarchists looked upon such involvement with revulsion, except for Kropotkin, who opted for the Allies and drew down upon himself the condemnation of his fellow believers. Only in the early years of the - Russian Revolution did some anarchist groups consent to cooperate with the Bolsheviks against their common enemy, for which they were rewarded with

| the signal honor of being the first dissidents to be liquidated. | _ Viewed historically, the fundamental cleavage in anarchist thought is between the anarchist individualists and those who since Kropotkin have come > to be known as anarchist communists, though there are many subgroups in each category. In The Conquest of Bread Kropotkin prophesied: ‘‘Every society, on abolishing private property will be forced, we maintain, to organize itself

on the lines of Communistic Anarchy. Anarchy leads to Communism, and | Communism to Anarchy, both alike being expressions of the predominant tendencies in modern societies, the pursuit of equality.’’® By contrast, so rigid in his individualism was Proudhon that he was suspicious of too tight an organization of production even in a cooperative form. His ideal for the future re-

_ mained the free individual producer or artisan creator, and associations were to be kept to a minimum. Mutually beneficial contracts were freely entered into and terminated at will in his society of small farmers and artisans, and men got _ what they worked for. Since a medium of exchange was necessary for the independent producers, Proudhon invented labor checks that cleared through a

Bank of the People. In time there were variations on these techniques and many of them became the basis of cooperative societies that functioned within

ANARCHY AND THE HEROIC PROLETARIAT 741 the capitalist system. In the utopia, however, there was to be no state, no coercion, no large-scale enterprise. This mutualist anarchy of Proudhon’s in the hands of others could assume rather more organized forms than he would have sanctioned. Syndicalists, for example, conceived of the occupational syndicat as

the most appropriate unit for establishing anarchy, without returning to the regressive economic forms for which Proudhon had a nostalgia. In France, Italy, and Spain, syndicalism, using the general strike as the final revolutionary weapon, came to regard itself as the instrument for the institution of anarchy. The unions of the future would by definition avoid all the evils of a state bu-

reaucracy, and their few agents were to be paid no more than their ordinary members. Society would become a loose federation of unions. Kropotkin conceived of his “commune,” in his fancy an adaptation of the Russian peasant mir, as the unit of both production and consumption, and in place of the elaborate Proudhonian system of exchanges he in effect embraced a standard similar to Marx’s in the Critique of the Gotha Program. Though there

was a fundamental difference. What for Marx was the postponed “higher stage’ of communism was in Kropotkin’s plan to be instituted immediately on

the morrow of the revolution and not deferred to some unspecified future period of technological maturity. Each citizen would take from the common stock what he needed, irrespective of what he produced, and it was assumed that under the new condition of communist anarchy every man would contribute the fullness of his powers. In many respects Kropotkin moved to the other end of the spectrum, away from William Godwin’s individualistic anarchism where each independent farmer and artisan both produced and exchanged necessities. La Conquéte du pain (The Conquest of Bread), 1892, Kropot-

kin’s most popular work, laid down the organizational principle of communistic anarchism: “‘All things are for all men, since all men have need of them, since all men have worked in the measure of their strength to produce them, and since it is not possible to evaluate everyone’s part in the production of the world’s wealth.’’* But this anarchist communism envisaged no coercion by a state authority—at most, social persuasion of recalcitrants. For Kropotkin the formula of each man’s taking goods in accordance with the precise amount of labor he had contributed was impossible to calculate. How could one assess the appropriate portion of an inventor in his invention, or the part due the schoolteacher who had taught him to read and write? Since complex mutualist

divisions were impracticable, there had to be a rule of community under the , anarchist order. It is hard to see how Kropotkin’s anarchy can live under the same roof with Proudhon’s. But at the same time, in his popular exposition of the doctrine in Paroles d’un révolté (The Words of a Rebel), 1885, a collection of

pieces first published in the journal La Revolte (1880-1882), Kropotkin was careful to differentiate his plan from the tradition-bound Russian peasant collectivity that had been Bakunin’s model. Since Kropotkin was intent on preserving the fluidity of all economic and social relationships, the utopian structure he outlined was lost in a cloudy haze. ‘‘For us, Commune is no longer a territorial agglomeration,” he wrote, “‘it is rather a generic name, a synonym for the grouping of equals knowing neither frontiers nor walls. The social commune will soon cease to be a clearly defined whole. Each group of the

commune will necessarily be drawn toward similar groups in other com-

742 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX munes; it will be grouped and federated with them by links as solid as those | which attach it to its fellow citizens, and will constitute a commune of interests whose members are scattered in a thousand towns and villages.’”® After a period among the workers in the Jura, during which he may have

preached violence as the path to the world of anarchy, Kropotkin turned _ milder and in his London exile was known as a saintly philosopher. He was the theoretical anarchist whose studies of animal behavior, essentially based on

_ recollections of his youthful explorations in Siberia, proved that wolves did | not behave in accordance with the prejudicial Hobbesian metaphor, but , roamed in cooperative packs and never killed one another, thus providing a “scientific” basis for the anarchist expectation that when men had been removed from the capitalist environment they would freely work together without strife. This was the other face of anarchy, delineated by the benign lover of mankind who was eminently acceptable to literary circles in Edwardian Eng- _ land. It was a far cry from the strident pronouncement with which modern anarchy had first broken upon radical Europe in 1842, when the expatriate Bakunin, under the influence of young Hegelians, delivered himself of an apocalyptic vision of the future in two parts in a pseudonymous pamphlet entitled Die Reaktion in Deutschland: Ein Fragment von einem Franzosen (The Reaction in

Germany: A Fragment by a Frenchman). The angel of death appears glorifying

the creative power of destruction. ‘‘Let us put our trust in the eternal spirit , which destroys and annihilates only because it is the unfathomable and eternally creative source of all life. The passion for destruction is also a creative passion.”’ The comforter speaks in a bastard tongue, part residue from Bakunin’s early Greek Orthodox training and religious crisis that culminated in atheism, part ill-digested Hegelian verbiage. ‘“There will be a qualitative transformation, a new, living, life-giving revelation, a new heaven and a new earth, a young and mighty world in which all our present dissonances will be resolved into a harmonious whole.’”®

Of all the anarchists Proudhon was by far the most powerful writer..°° He was a moralist with a touch of genius, a prophet immune to high-flown rhetoric, who looked for precise answers to sharp questions on human conduct and had the capability of cutting a loosely woven argument to shreds. Proudhon’s’ writings bristle with paradoxes, the most noteworthy of which is his definition of property in existing society. You bourgeois are afraid of the workers, the dangerous classes, because you fear that they will rob you and plunder and de-

stroy; but it is you who are the real thieves. The very foundation of your exis- | tence, property, is theft." This outrageous wordplay had an enduring resonance in anarchist thought. Embattled on two fronts, Proudhon lashed out against the plutocrats and their capitalist society in its state of economic and _ moral disintegration, and then turned to the left to demolish the systems that pretended to replace the old order—the socialist, communist, and sundry other doctrines of association in vogue in the 1840s. ‘‘What is Association? It is a dogma . . . Thus the Saint-Simonian school, going beyond what it received ! from its founder, produced a system; Fourier, a system; Owen, a system; Cabet, a system; Pierre Leroux, a system; Louis Blanc, a system; like Babeuf, Morelly, Thomas Morus, Campanella, Plato, and others, their predecessors, each one starting with a single principle, gave birth to systems. And all these systems, excluding each other, are equally progressive. Let humanity perish

ANARCHY AND THE HEROIC PROLETARIAT 743 rather than the system, this is the motto of the utopians, like that of fanatics of all ages.”””

A Hesiod redivivus, Proudhon was no facile optimist, but a preacher who would lead the nineteenth century back to the values of true liberty and justice, mocking the false shibboleth of equality. Genuine relationships were self-interested and contractual. The good society would be an intricate fabric of agreements among individual men without the intervention of any alien power or third party. Perhaps ‘‘associations” might be necessary in order to make use of complex machines, he grudgingly conceded, but in this combine no other principle would be involved than in any ordinary mutualist arrangement. Over and over again Proudhon insisted on a few pat solutions. Interest rates should be reduced to a fraction of a percent—there should be virtually free credit——and funds should be granted to men on the basis of their competence. Human skill was a far more secure warranty than anything a capitalist

could offer. Once credit was allocated, the society would function without need of further intervention. ® For Proudhon, appreciation of the dignity and essential respectworthiness of

each human being, whoever he might be, was the cardinal principle of anarchy. Upon this rock the mutualist society was to be built. This single idea, reiterated throughout his works, letters, and private notebooks, impressed itself on French dissenting opinion beyond the anarchist ranks. For some intellectuals it became the foundation of a new morality. Men, treated as equal in dignity, would thereby have equal access to the sources of credit, allowing them either individually or in groups to produce whatever objects of consumption they were capable of making. Simply by virtue of his being, a man was entitled to free credit; his word was his bond. A contract was the sacred obligation of free individuals as they exchanged the fruits of their labor. All ties

were loose, and the superior workman would be rewarded according to his “works.’’ Absolute equality of returns was not a goal; but since credit was free there would be no monopolies and any virtuous man could enter the productive market and carn his family’s keep. A network of mutual exchanges, though assuming different forms in Proudhon’s schemes and in later adaptations, always excluded accumulation of property, which in its contemporary form was theft. Somehow the free workers would eschew luxuries; mutual services would take care of all reasonable necessities; and no man would try to pierce the armor of individual dignity with which his fellow was clothed. Respect rather than happiness was the touchstone of existence. The worth of

, men’s work would vary, but the intricate fabric of mutual consent would imperceptibly generate a feeling for community. Since there would be no state authority and no coercion, the hard problem remained how to achieve the consent of the refractory ones. The anarchist solution, following Godwin, was usually social pressure of a psychological character. Individualism was also

principle. ,

slightly amended to provide for those incapable of producing and exchanging. | Neither of these exceptions, however, was considered a grave departure from

Unlike the contemporary Saint-Simonians and Fourierists, Proudhon

apotheosized the nuclear family, dominated by the working male, as the atom of social existence, and females were kept under a misogynous cloud. In La Pornocratie, ou Les Femmes dans les temps modernes (Pornocracy, or Women in the

, 744 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX oO Modern Era), receding from the position taken by Godwin more than half a century before, Proudhon was scornful of the Saint-Simonian Prosper Enfantin and his “‘emancipation of woman’; for Proudhon, the family was an indissoluble androgynous unit in which there could not be total equality, the male _ being superior to the female in the ratio of three to two. Instead of opening the doors to the outside world, Proudhon closed the family in upon itself.'4 The family was excluded from the rule of Anarchy. | In Idée générale de la revolution au xix® siecle: Choix d’études sur la pratique révolutionnaire et industrielle (The General Idea of the Revolution in the Nineteenth Cen-

, tury: Selected Essays on Revolutionary and Industrial Practice), 1851, Proudhon wielded the bludgeon of a courtroom lawyer. He demanded a yes or no answer from his adversaries, the believers in the new gospel of communist association. “It is one of two things: either association is compulsory, and in that case it is slavery; or it is voluntary, and then we ask what guaranty the society will have that the member will work according to his capacity and what guaranty the member will have that the association will reward him according to his needs. Is it not evident that such a discussion can have but one solution—that the product and the need be regarded as correlated expressions, which leads us to the rule of liberty, pure and simple?”’*® Since 1840 Proudhon had provocatively identified himself in public as an anarchist. For him the word anarchy signified the abolition of coercive authority in the state, on the land, and in money, and the end of the aristocratic landowner, the big capitalist, the monopolist. Though he abhorred the utopians, in the Idée générale de la revolution au xix® siecle he spelled out the principles of a

revolutionary utopia with oratorical simplicity: Society has to be turned inside out, all relationships inverted. Yesterday we walked with

, our heads down; today we keep our heads up, and all this without any interruption in our lives. Without losing our personality we change our way of existence. This is the Revolution of the nineteenth century. Is not the major decisive idea of this Revolution: ‘‘No more Authority,” neither in

Church nor State, neither in land nor in money? . . . No more authority! This means a free contract instead of an absolutist law, voluntary transactions instead of the intervention of the State, equitable and reciprocal justice instead of sovereign and distributive justice, rational morality instead of revealed morality, a balance of forces substituted for a balance of powers, economic unity in place of political centralization. Once more, is this not what I have the right to call a complete

reversal, an about-face, a Revolution?!®

Proudhon’s nostrums were simple: education, free credit, free association. Once credit was free, the true economic forces of society would reach a state of equilibrium under which social life would organize itself spontaneously, without profiteering and with everyone selling at a just price set by universal consent. Proudhon dreamed of a peasant and artisan utopia, restoring the virtues of justice and liberty that had supposedly prevailed among the ancient Gauls,

, , Celts, and Druids—a belated French version of the Norman-yoke thesis of English radicals of the Civil War. Though Proudhon is unlikely to have known , Godwin’s Political Justice, he proposed a similar agricultural utopia of individual holdings, whose worker-owners would have no need of the state or organized society. ‘‘Anarchy,”’ he wrote in an article addressed to Pierre Leroux on December 3, 1849, ‘is the condition of existence of adult society, as hierarchy

ANARCHY AND THE HEROIC PROLETARIAT 745 is of primitive society, and there is ceaseless progress from the one to the other.”’?”

While middle-class intellectuals like Marx dreamed of a world in which the realm of necessity was rationalized and controlled and manual labor virtually abolished, workers like Proudhon exalted the creative values of work. By implication, Proudhon was also throwing darts at the notions of Fourier and the later Comte that work should be like play. In his notebooks, Proudhon composed quasi-religious eulogies of labor. ‘“To work is to produce from nothing .. . By virtue of this reality, man is made as great as God. Like God, he draws everything out of the world. Cast naked on the earth, among the brambles and thorns, in the company of tigers and serpents, hardly finding enough to live on. . . without tools, models, provisions, or acquired experience, he cleared the land, laid out plots, and cultivated his domain. He actually embellished nature. He surrounded himself with marvels unknown to the ancient author of things, and he brought forth luxuriousness where the Creator had granted merely profusion. At the beginning of society there was only matter; there was no capital. It is the worker who is the true capitalist; for to work is to produce from nothing; and to consume without working is not to exploit capi-

tal but to waste it...”

In Proudhon’s mystique of work, labor is neither punishment nor necessity. Labor is not so essentially unpleasant that it has to be rendered “‘attractive”’ in Fourier’s sense or superseded, for it is itself “immaterial, imperishable, uncon-

sumable, immortal, always living, always creating, always spontaneously tending, by virtue of itself and without any external help, to actualize itself.’’"® Work for work’s sake is a denigration, for then it would only be play, like the Olympic games and medieval jousts, which soon degenerated because they were not tied to utility. The debate on the nature and organization of work in an ideal human condition lay at the heart of Proudhon’s anarchist, as well as nineteenth-century socialist and communist, utopias. Industrialization and a new sense of social malleability required utopian reconsideration of the meaning of work. Labor as a human value had not been problematic as long as man’s capacity to produce was limited to the bare necessities at most. But industrialization brought surplus and with it choice. Should the quantity of labor invested by each man be

kept relatively constant as the new technology was allowed to satisfy ever more luxurious desires, or should consumption be stabilized and the hours of labor be reduced? The alternatives had already presented themselves in petto to Thomas More’s Utopians, but with the prospect of infinitely expanding pro-

ductive capacity the nature and worth of labor beyond a minimum became fateful for the utopian thinker. For a German artisan utopian like Wilhelm Weitling, freedom and justice meant in part maintaining a harmony between desires and the capacity of production. While not a Spartan, Weitling could see no point in burdening the individual and society with excessive desires for objects that went far beyond need. Though under Fourier’s influence in other re-

- spects, a poor Christian worker like Weitling could not countenance without some shame the notion of an infinity of expansive sensate pleasures. Proudhon started out with a different premise. It was the original moral value of work that fulfilled a real need; work was creative, but it also had to be truly useful. Real work, work that produced goods and knowledge, would always entail

746 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX too much sacrifice and perseverance ever to become identifiable with mere — play or with Fourier’s passions, fugitive things in themselves. Such an associa-

tion would rob labor of its quintessential dignity. ,

‘Marx could not endure either Weitling’s religious preaching or Proudhon’s - moralizing of work. And yet in one respect, their descriptions of the dehuman- _ izing quality of the contemporary division of labor, Marx and Proudhon have much in common. Work, Proudhon maintained, should be the emanation of a complex intelligence which in stages performs a total, creative act. Instead of © operating as that intelligence, man had been reduced to the status of a hammer > or a wheel. Originally, the division of labor was to have freed man from serfdom, from bondage to the soil. Instead he had been tied to one part of a job in a

- factory. This impoverishment would end in the utopian future when each man had access to free credit and could start producing as an independent being. Proudhon’s attack on alienation is always expressed less in economic than in psychological terms. “‘Man has been constricted into routine labor which, far from initiating him into the general principles and secrets of human industry, closes the door on every other occupation. His intelligence was first crippled, then stereotyped and petrified. Apart from what is related to his job, which he flatters himself that he knows but to which he brings only a feeble conception and a rote-like habit, his soul has been paralyzed with his arm . . . Soon the monotony of the work with all its disgust begins to be felt. The supposed worker becomes aware of his degradation. He tells himself that he is only a cog

in the bosom of society. Slowly despair possesses him; his reason, since he

lacks positive knowledge, loses its equilibrium, his heart becomes depraved . . . They aimed to mechanize the worker; they did worse, they made him one-armed and wicked.”’!® But none of the socialist utopias with which

| Proudhon was acquainted offered anything to restore individual dignity tothe __ worker and to make him whole again, master of his own creation, rewarded in , accordance with his own total efforts. All other reforming schemes always

of the community. 7

ended up either as a hierarchical corporation, a state monopoly, or a despotism

Unlike the aging Kropotkin of a later period with his soupy optimism,

Proudhon infused the anarchist tradition with a tragic sense of life. There are moments when the eternal struggle of man with his needs, with nature, with

, his fellows, with himself appears to be his inevitable lot. But under anarchy there would at least be justice. Each man would have his due, according to his

works. No one, however, would be coerced into philanthropy, and if the - strong helped the weak, they would do so out of generosity and with good grace. ‘‘Man is very willing to obey the law of duty, serve his country, and | oblige his friends, but he wishes to labor when he pleases, where he pleases, , and as much as he pleases. He wishes to dispose of his own time, to be governed only by necessity, to choose his friendships, his recreation, and his discipline; to act from judgment, not by command.’”® Bakunin and Kropotkin — talked the language of historical determinism, adapting Hegel to demonstrate the inevitability of anarchy. Proudhon, though flaunting the dialectic in his autodidactic way and publicly subscribing to the doctrine of progress, in private correspondence aired his doubts without restraint. Societies, generations, whole races, could go astray and fall into a “definitive and irremediable aberration,” he wrote to Jér6me-Ameédeée Langlois on May 18, 1850. Mankind was at

ANARCHY AND THE HEROIC PROLETARIAT 747 the crossroads and had to will its own salvation, choosing between virtue and vice, equality and exploitation, Jesus and Malthus. On other occasions, Proudhon could swing into a mood of wild optimism and predict the demolition of the state in six weeks.”! The harsh realism of Proudhon, like the fierce egotism of Max Stirner’s philosophical tirades, created a tough-minded, anarchist utopian strain that es-

chewed sentimentality. Proudhon, of course, would have disavowed the mindless violence with which anarchy has been associated in reality as well as in popular mythology. The theoreticians of anarchy have always maintained that their vision represented true order and that the existing society of economic anarchy was a dehumanizing disorder. But anarchy could lead in all directions and in the course of the decades Proudhon, for one, spawned diverse progeny, from the most practical initiators of small production cooperatives to fabricators of heroic utopian mythologies. One of them was Georges Sorel.

The Coming Age of Heroes In the well-stocked tool kit of Georges Sorel, the retired engineer turned philosophe, there were few epithets more deadly than “utopian.”” When he wanted to belabor a writer or politician as a vain, rationalistic drafter of inane plans of social reform to which he tried to bend reality, falsifying here and there with deliberate cheats, Sorel called him a utopian. What he saw in utopias was noth-

ing but the touched-up photograph of ugly contemporary society, like his master Proudhon, who thought of utopians as “‘more or less retrograde, mirrors of reactionary types.”’*” The basic elements of utopias were derived from the present; the utopian merely juggled them into a new configuration and added a few so-called improvements. Utopias were schemes of compromise, palliatives, blueprints for the future that obfuscated the palpable, insoluble, social conflicts of an epoch by pretending to show the hostile contending forces or classes a way out of their dilemmas, a roseate prospect of social peace. All this was illusory; utopia dulled man into a state of somnolence. Despite his antipathy to the term, it is obvious even after a brief immersion in his writings that the anti-intellectual Sorel protests too much. He had a utopia of his own, whose characters were drawn not from a distant island but from the historical experience of Western man. He may have fancied himself a herald of man the master of his destiny, but he was a descendant of Don Quixote rather than Prometheus. Sorel’s is a utopia of heroic conduct, though he differs from Cervantes in one vital respect: There are not two ideal human natures, there is no Sancho Panza to sustain the heroic knight. Sorel’s utopia was made up of all knights and no squires. He came to this utopia as most utopians have, out of a radical negation of the present. And once his central theme took shape, he nourished it with a motley array of impressive writers from the past. Karl Marx was at the head, but he was in need of revision, and there was Marx’s enemy Proudhon, too; Henri Bergson’s élan vital rubbed shoulders with the pragmatism of Charles Peirce and William James; and finally there was Nietzsche. Giambattista Vico was incorporated, though not as he had been romanticized in Michelet’s translation; the Vico who came into the works of Sorel had, without his knowledge, been _ baptized by Nietzsche. These intellectual progenitors of Sorel’s were joined by

748 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX | a changing group of friends, collaborators, and idols, from Fernand Pelloutier through Charles Péguy, from syndicalism to the Action frangaise; and, toward the end of Sorel’s life, Lenin appeared drawing up thé rear. The conversations

, with a young friend, Jean Variot, held over the years, bear testimony to the

fascination that Lenin and Mussolini came to exert on this former devotee of revolutionary syndicalism.*® The migration from Anarchism to Fascism and authoritarian Communism has not been infrequent in Western thought. Sorel

| remained an abstract theorist and never bloodied his hands as he moved in and out of various French intellectual cliques. What ties him most firmly to the Western anarchist tradition is his absolutism, his admiration for asceticism, and

his quest for the heroic. , , oO

In the eighteenth century, one freakish utopian constructed an ideal primi-_

, tivist society literally by cutting out and stringing together passages from exotic travel literature. Georges Sorel’s is a utopia of many colors whose eclectic character might long since have condemned it to oblivion, were it not for the scandal of a good bourgeois composing a work provocatively entitled Réflexions sur la violence. All revolutionary creeds are nurtured by the fantasy of a cult of heroes. Sorel raised the heroic to the level of an ideal psychic state, the only one worthy of man. The cause for which one sacrificed one’s life was less sig- __ nificant than the personality created in the course of the battle. The exponents of the existential philosophy of European intellectuals in the period after the Second World War would blush to be identified with so turgid and inelegant a writer as Sorel—Albert Camus, in accepting his Nobel Prize, called upon the shades of Nietzsche, not Sorel, as his hero—but the Sorelian creed fits well into the anarchist critique of Marx, and in the Paris uprising of 1968 the staid Sorel, __ who had been forgotten by all political parties when he died in 1924, was briefly resurrected. In 1968 members of a generation far removed from the corrupt politics of the Third French Republic somehow turned to this middleclass dreamer of heroic violence for sustenance—a symbol of the growing impoverishment of the utopian imagination among middle-class radicals. If there had been something incongruous in the shocking declarations of the good bourgeois of Cherbourg in the first decade of the century, the spectacle of stu- |

thetic. ,

| dents sixty years later feeding on reheated Sorelian fantasies of glory was paSorel’s work was rooted in the political and social events of France during his lifetime, especially the dissolution of the French radical left, which had been the party of the Commune and had held the French army at bay for months, into an assortment of political parties known officially as Socialists, Radical Socialists, and other variations on the generic name. The Socialist party in

France in the latter part of the nineteenth century nominally belonged to the Second International founded by Karl Marx; in theory at least its leaders subscribed to the idea that class conflict unto the death was the only authentic social reality and that under capitalism a dichotomous class conflict was becoming progressively accentuated. The science of economics provided objective reasons for believing that capitalism, as a consequence of a law of inner development, was headed for a Zusammenbruch, a total collapse and breakdown. The function of a politically conscious socialist or a communist was to take his place in the vanguard of the working classes and to train and organize them for | the day when they would be called upon to seize power in the state in order to

ANARCHY AND THE HEROIC PROLETARIAT 749 establish the dictatorship of the proletariat. This remained doctrine for the record, the party congress, and Fourteenth of July speeches. When on the morrow of the defeat in the Franco-Prussian War and total collapse of the Commune the French parliamentary system of the Third Republic

| slowly took shape, the members of the French Socialist party were, like their counterparts the German Social Democrats, faced with a dilemma: to vote or not to vote in parliamentary elections. And at a later date the even more crucial question arose as to whether or not to become ministres. Those socialists who opted for voting in the parliamentary elections of a capitalist republic and ultimately for accepting portfolios as socialist ministers of state in a republican regime were not starved for arguments. The vote would give them representatives in government who would be able to mount the tribune in the Chamber of Deputies and deliver sermons on the true nature of socialism to Paris and to the universe. As members of parliamentary committees they would be able to influence social legislation, shorten the working day, perhaps obtain pensions for the aged, see to it that rules of hygiene were enforced in factories and that security measures were adopted in mines. When the socialists became ministers they might even be able to exert pressure and influence on the capitalists who owned the mines and factories to increase wages. They could protect workers’ organizations from the arbitrary power of the reactionary law code and thus give them added leverage in pressing for higher wages. In international affairs they would always align themselves on the side of peace against imperialist adventures, and they could unmask the hypocrisy of the army as it revealed itself in the Dreyfus case. They could broaden the educational system, even curb the brutality of the hated flics. This was the political fantasy of the French Marxist revolutionary socialist with a none-too-secret passion for the ballot. But there were working-class parties in France under anarchist and syndicalist influence that closed their ears to these siren songs and obstinately refused to

participate in the government, despite its promises. The anarchists who depended upon Bakunin rather than Marx, along with one wing of the tradeunion movement, denounced the contamination of proletarian virtue that would inevitably result from commingling with the oppressive bourgeois state and its minions. In his Reflections on Violence Georges Sorel, as pungently as any

writer, gave sharp expression to this fear of assimilation with the bourgeois, and much of what he saw in day-to-day political and social practice bolstered his arguments. The working-class representatives in parliament, and, even more so, their ministers, quickly became little bourgeois—this was the indictment. Their dress changed, their tastes in wine and women became more luxurious, and soon their ideas were bourgeoisified. The hard core of proletarian morality, which both Marx and Proudhon posited, each in his fashion, disintegrated. The parliamentarians took graft, got involved in public scandals, made vast sums out of running newspapers, helped settle strikes for a consideration. Of their preparliamentary socialism they retained a socialist vocabulary lurid with bloody slogans about the final battle; but in their daily lives they were bourgeois with the rest of them, polishing their tarnished ideological brass

whenever they had to take to the hustings. In practice they represented reason- | able compromise, social peace, an end to the disastrous strikes. In principle they were opposed to adventures in imperialist exploitation, but a well-placed

750 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX - overseas investment was not beyond them, especially if it helped increase the

revenues of their socialist newspapers. ,

Against these subverters of the proletarian ideal Georges Sorel arose in indignant protest like an ancient prophet or a modern Calvinist. These men were betrayers, falsifiers, crooks no better than the bourgeois. “These politicians

want to reassure the bourgeoisie and promise it that they will not allow the people to abandon themselves to their anarchic instincts. They explain to the bourgeoisie that they have no thought of crushing the great machine of the State. It follows that the sensible socialists,’’ wrote Sorel with irony ‘want two

things: to get control of this machine to perfect its wheels and make them function for the best interests of their friends and to render the government stable, which will be most advantageous for all business men.””** But if this had |

been Sorel’s total achievement, he would have left no deeper imprint than scores of other debunkers of socialist duplicity, or for that matter the mockers of every man with high principles of morality, a lust for fast women, and large bank accounts. Instead, Sorel raised the immediate political situation in France to the level of a universal conception of man which, though it sometimes appears parochial because of its absorption with passing issues of public malfeasance in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, does occasionally escape from its circumstantial limitations and rise to a certain grandeur.

Searching for a counterforce to the soft bourgeois and the socialist petty bourgeois, he ransacked world history for heroic movements of religious, social, and political action. It was not the individual heroes upon whom he focused or the ideological content of the movements, but their abstract heroic idealism or beliefs or constellations of moral principles. Participation in a heroic movement—any heroic movement—with its self-abnegation, its rejection of sensate indulgence, its emotional commitment, its self-sacrifice unto death is

singled out from among all other activities as the ideal human condition. Epochs in which such movements had appeared and struggled for victory

were expressions of a higher species of man. ,

From Vico, Sorel took the idea of the ricorsi, defined in more social and human terms than Nietzsche’s eternal recurrence with its pseudoscientific

, physicists’ paraphernalia. Vico had described three ages that followed inevitably upon one another throughout history over and over again, the age of the gods, the age of heroes, and the age of men. The age of men in the Scienza nuova represented for Vico, as Sorel read him, a measure of rational superiority over the age of heroes, but a decline in emotive and passionate power, in po-

| etry, symbol-creating, and grandeur. The age of men developed a system of __ law and reason that eventually degenerated into a hypersophistication, what _ Vico called the barbarism of the intellect. It was then that a Divine Providence in His beneficence initiated the cycle of social life once again with a return to savagery, and there followed a repetition of the sequence of the age of gods,

the age of heroes, and the age of men. - |

, What Sorel derived from Vico—and his interpretation differs radically from that of many modern commentators—was a sense of the emotive breakthrough of a new belief embodied in a heroic society that might be cruel, but that created a way of life which stamped its character on a culture. Sorel was convinced that the latter-day Age of Reason, which rationalized, theologized, organized, made neat and pat the powerful spontaneous early credo of a heroic —

ANARCHY AND THE HEROIC PROLETARIAT 751 culture, was a falling off from the pinnacle of human capacity. Throughout, Sorel adored the primitive imagination, all robust even though crude, and scorned the degeneration of the ideal, whatever it might be, at the hands of its meticulous, orderly expositors. Clearly he had in mind the contemporary socialist intellectuals of France and political misleaders of the potentially heroic proletariat. “So-called municipal socialism which transforms workers into functionaries in a bureaucracy has created a category of privileged individuals in the midst of the proletarian mass. The existence of this caste is dependent upon the success of a party and develops none of the feelings that socialism needs to foster.’’®> His conception was enriched with other examples drawn from world history. As in Nietzsche, his philosophy of history ended with a dualistic moral typology, the reign of the heroes whom he worshiped alternating rhythmically with the domination of the unheroic rationalists whom he despised and treated as corrupters of the truth, __ In Le Proces de Socrate: Examen critique des theses socratiques (The Trial of Socrates: Critical inquiry into the Socratic propositions), 1889, Sorel’s first major

work, the traditional image of the heroic Socrates confronting death was rejected. He became the traducer of the values of heroic Greek culture, one of the

quibblers and deceivers and wordmongers of the rising urban civilization of Hellas who ultimately brought about its doom. After the heroic Greek warriors, Sorel exalted the monks of the communities of primitive Christianity. He glorified the ascetic ideal along with Proudhon, whose moral outlook colored all Sorel’s writings, and in historical Christianity he found striking examples of self-denying anti-utilitarian movements that he would have had the working classes of France 1890 emulate, converting the trade unionists into martyrs prepared to sacrifice themselves on the altar of a proletarian revolution. Utopians in other ages had been given to archaistic daydreaming. Sorel’s desire to clothe the working classes of Paris in monkish habits is one of the more extravagant acts of utopian transvestism. He painted a dramatic contrast between the monks of the desert, those small, isolated communities, seemingly powerless, who ultimately sapped the strength of the Roman Empire, and ecclesiastical, theological, decadent Christianity. There was a modern parallel: Noble working-class syndicats would effectively undermine the mighty structures of the slothful, pleasure-ridden capitalists. The accolade of virtue was bestowed upon the primitive Christian saints, the medieval monastic orders in their initial stages, and finally upon the brave Calvinist communities of believers who had risked their lives in a sea of Catholics. Small bands of heroic men of the faith had wrought the triumph of the Christian myth; Sorel now exhorted to victory a heroic proletariat, imbued with a new myth. Sorel’s heroic man had always thirsted after the mythic, and he was fully man only when completely possessed by it. But the authentic myth was not the travesty of image-making to which business—capitalistic, political, and academic—has sometimes reduced the idea. Sorel’s myths were autonomous creations, while the others were characteristically manufactured by hyper-rationalist manipulators. The authentic myth could only come into being of its own momentum. Sorel denounced the despoilers of a great myth in the making, the swamping of the heroic action of the contemporary proletariat by parliamentary intriguers. Only history, not man, could make a myth. ‘““The true vocation of intellectuals is the exploitation of politics. The role of the politician

752 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX | is analogous to that of the prostitute and requires no industrial aptitude,” wrote the staid bourgeois engineer living at Boulogne-sur-Seine, using a comparison with which he was obviously ill at ease.” Sorel conceived of world history as a succession of creative myths that origi-

nally possessed small, tightly knit elites; through their heroic devotion, the mythic ideal came to dominate the whole of a culture for a time. The pre-

| viously enthroned myth which the new creative myth replaced had by then grown flat and stale, a coin worn thin. It had been rationalized to extinction and the ruling classes themselves no longer believed in it; they merely gave it lip service. The two typecases of this sort were the ruling classes at the end of the ancient world, whose more recent historiography Sorel had analyzed in the _ focused light of his thesis, and the contemporary flabby bourgeoisie of the nineteenth century.?” They could not resist for long a new militant elite inspired by a fresh-born myth. The ancient myth was Christianity; the new | myth was the class conflict followed by the establishment of a society of producers a la Proudhon, based upon syndicats as the key units of organization, communities without a special authority, without a state, without benefit of false-hearted intellectuals and socialist phrasemakers—agglomerations of simple noble workers, producing and exchanging their goods, laboring enough to © have a continent existence removed from extravagant sensate desires. In Fernand Pelloutier, the doctrinal teacher of French syndicalism, he found a theoretician, in Kropotkin’s denial that factories required military discipline to func- __ tion well, a supporter. In a note headed ‘“The Socialist Future of the Syndicats” Sorel attacked the prevalent conception of the technological imperative of in-

dustrial regimentation. “Modern production requires the mutual cooperation of the workers, a voluntary coordination, systematic relations which trans-

| form the accidental aggregate into a body where man reveals himself as a species . . . One cannot expect shopkeepers to understand these things.’ There is one element in his grand fantasy that Sorel exploded into an apocalyptic event: the general strike of the proletarians. The idea itself was not anew one; it was probably first set forth in print by a London tavern keeper whose establishment was frequented by workers in the 1820s. On one Great Day the workers of a nation or of the whole world, already neatly organized in syndicats, would proclaim the general strike. All the facilities of bourgeois life would be abruptly halted, and in the face of this unanimity among the workers the middle classes would throw in the sponge and turn the society over to them. The goal of the heroic proletariat would be achieved. A historic myth like the general strike was not a truth in any positivistic, scientific sense—it would become a reality and a truth only when men passionately believed it. This essentially mythic prospect of the general strike was supposed to exert upon workers the same powerful fascination as the Apocalypse, Resurrection, and Last Judgment had upon early Christians. It did not matter whether the

takeover following the general strike would actually transpire in the direct manner Sorel outlined or whether there would be a series of combats. The keystone was the myth itself, the faith in the myth true or false, the unreasoning confidence that would give cohesion to working-class groups and bind them in a creative, communal will. For Marx’s insistence upon the forging of a revolutionary communist consciousness—a rationalist conception if ever there was one—Sorel would substitute a blind belief in the general strike as the myth

ANARCHY AND THE HEROIC PROLETARIAT 753 that would triumph because of its overwhelming emotional appeal. From an inchoate mass the proletariat, under the spell of the myth, would be shaped into a unified force. Sorel was indifferent to the technical accuracy of the prognoses of Marxist economics; the myth would make the general system true. The pragmatism gone mad of some student confrontations in the late 1960s was imbued with the same spirit: Action and will first, thought to follow in the

, rear.

This mysticism of action and denigration of thought are easily perceived to be the intellectual’s self-loathing. There is a quest for activity that will make the thinking egotist oblivious of himself through submergence in a movement. That movement must be expansive, capable of endless dilation until it swallows up the whole universe of man. It must promise justice, recreate a moral atmosphere, shed blood if necessary, demand devotion to the point of self-sacrifice, pose issues in such a manner that they cannot be compromised, loathe haggling, disdain reasoning in propositions because those who have followed reasoners through long and tortuous alleyways have ended up in a cul-de-sac. Sorel identified as dangerous enemies of the proletarian utopia the French imitators of the German Social Democratic revisionist Eduard Bernstein. Bernstein’s name had become widely associated with a watery revision of the Marxist doctrine to allow for a nonrevolutionary gliding from a state of capitalism into socialism without a total breakdown of the system, without violence, without any interruption in the cultural continuity of society. For Sorel this revisionism was the greatest peril to the myth of class conflict, general strike, proletarian identity, monastic isolation, and cohesion. It could be likened in its absurdity to an appeal directed to a militant Church Father of the late Roman Empire that a compromise be effectuated between Christianity and paganism. The potency of the proletarian myth resided in its revolutionary fervor. Any talk of peace implied the destruction of its very essence. How the new society of producers would come into being, the process itself, was the

core of the revolution, not a peripheral matter of techniques or mere mechanics.

To Sorel there was no such thing as abstract truth. The myth proved itself in action; it could not be demonstrated by rational argumentation. Inevitably he

, latched on to some versions of the pragmatist philosophy of William James to bolster his theory. (James’s will to believe, with its brilliant complement, the analysis of the varieties of religious experience, was brother to the Sorelian conception. )* Ideas were real insofar as they served life, and some of the most bizarre and irrational ones fulfilled life-giving purposes. Religious illumination in the end created a new man. Sorel, a Marxist, would shake himself free of the rationalist Hegelian framework of Marxism and salvage the emotional appeal of the proletarian revolution. His Marxism was a peculiar syncretism. The materialist theory of history was fundamentally correct: New technological and economic conditions dictated the emergence of new myths. But once they were born they achieved a life and potency of their own. Marx had underestimated the compelling power of emotion and of irrational drives; these alone were creative. In The Illusions of Progress, Sorel disassociated Marx’s determin-

ism from his general theory and repudiated its Hegelian roots in order to preserve the creativity of the myth of the proletariat. ““The march toward socialism will not come about in a manner as simple, as necessary, and consequently

754 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX as easy to describe in advance as Marx had supposed. Marx’s Hegelian leanings led him to admit, without being generally aware of it, that history advances (at least with regard to peoples considered to be blessed with a superior civilization) under the influence of the force of the mysterious Weltgeist. This ideal agent imposes on matter the obligation of realizing ends whose logical order is finally discovered by men of genius. Like all romantics, Marx supposed that _ the Weltgeist operated in the heads of his friends.’’*° On the subject of violence, the most notorious element in Sorel’s proletarian myth, he was often paradoxical. The bourgeois engineer who lived a retiring life with his wife was deliberately trying to épater le bourgeois. His apology for violence assumed many forms. He assured the bourgeois that violence had al-

ways been an expression of man’s relationship to man. Contemporary Frenchmen should not pride themselves on the taming of man in their society; he had remained as intractable as ever, only becoming more cunning—a recognizable Nietzschean theme and one upon which Freud would dwell. All great movements—Christianity, the French Revolution—had had their violent moments; why suppose that violence would abruptly disappear from human nature? But having indulged in this forensic play, Sorel repeatedly affirmed that he was not an apostle of violence exulting in rivers of blood. If the myth was to live, conflict and open clashes were inevitable. Real, not factitious, confrontations of the two hostile moralities of the bourgeoisie and the proletariat would take place. If the workers were well organized, however, the final showdown need not be too destructive of human life. The eventual settlement did not have to take the shape of a barbaric obliteration of culture, as some bourgeois fearful of the ‘dangerous classes”’ had prophesied. In arguments that find parallels in Lenin’s writings, Sorel often observed that in any conflict it was the bourgeois who usually took the brutal offensive. As an amateur historian, he comforted his contemporaries, as he incited them to battle, with the reflection that the number of early Christian martyrs was probably exaggerated by the hagiographers. Georges Sorel would have his Proudhon and his Marx too. From Proudhon he learned a fierce hatred of the state and its institutions, an emotion heightened by his experience of the parliamentary regimes of Europe before World War I, a trust in the spontaneity and heroic qualities of small groups working for themselves, expressing their will in labor rather than political chatter, and above all his admiration for self-sufficient, ascetic men. The free syndicat or voluntary union of workers on a small scale was the ideal form of proletarian life which he hoped would triumph over the financiers and corrupt politicians, especially the socialists like Jaurés, who rose to fame through the strength of their saliva. From Marx Sorel derived the myth of the victorious proletariat and its history. It was not scientific socialism that made him adhere to Marxism, nor the Hegelian determinism that was attached to the doctrine, but the _ force of the proletarian myth, embodied in a class that would be made to believe in its own power and virtue. The historical position of the proletariat rendered them capable of believing in the will of their class. On the other hand, they could be hoodwinked by socialist politicians who put the workers to sleep with fantasies of the inevitable coming of a Marxist society and became as ad-

dicted to soft living as the decadent bourgeoisie. Bureaucratized Marxism robbed the proletariat of will and spontaneity, of vital energy. In the anarchist

ANARCHY AND THE HEROIC PROLETARIAT 755 Proudhon, Sorel recognized the spirit of the future, in Marx stripped of his positivistic scientism the grand formulator of the proletarian myth. Though at one time he played with monarchism as a possibility, Sorel never | believed deeply in its prospects because its leaders were too literary and had no popular base. In the end, either Mussolini or Lenin would do; they had the genius to rouse their countrymen from the torpor of finance capitalism and the corruption of talking politicians. They could achieve what Proudhon hoped for—release energies, make men creative, rescue them from sloth. This amal-_ gam of the spirit of anarchy destroying an old order gone soft and the Marxist myth of an order rooted in the might of the proletariat is composed of elements from antagonistic sources; but this is not anomalous in the history of

Western utopian thought. : “Le Violent,”’ as the courteous, gentlemanly Sorel was called, was commit-

ted to a utopia of absolute principles internalized by a heroic proletariat reaching the height of human capacity in the course of the struggle against the exist-

ing bourgeois order and its state. There was, of course, no final conquest because the utopia lay in the conflict itself. Progress as an abstract philosophy of history was illusory, but in this respect Sorel was not alone among utopians. A cyclical conception of history, even a tone of pessimism and irony, has been combined with an activist utopia. Here he was closer to Proudhon than to the Marx of the Eternal Sabbath after the revolutionary apocalypse. Sorel had no fantasy of a new man everlasting. He wanted to make a heroic noble warrior in life and work of the man whom he saw before him, but he never imagined that man would remain in so exalted a condition. As a popular theorist—and he is surely not a major thinker—Sorel has been adapted for diverse ends. Mussolini was reputed to have been inspired by him, though recent literature on the formative period of Italian Fascist thought indicates that Sorel was picked up by I] Duce after he was already in power and was preening himself with an intellectual ancestry. In his last years Sorel himself would praise anyone who stood up to fight for his “myth,” and when the French proletarian movement became bureaucratized he turned both to the rightist nationalists of the Action francaise and to Lenin, with equal aplomb, as agents of the heroic utopia. The heroic utopia is an essential ingredient of contemporary movements of violent protest against social injustice and is the energizing drive behind that potent, unpredictable international force, terrorism. One group’s hero is another’s treacherous villain. It is difficult to maintain vast numbers of people in a constant state of heroic fantasizing, but the annals of modern rebellion are not lacking in protagonists of an ascetic, heroic character. Many possessed by the abstraction of a heroic utopia can slide from one ideal to another, relatively indifferent to the content of the utopia. Nationalism, anarchism, communism, even bourgeois democracies have produced their heroic corps. Whoever they are, their major figures are touched by a rhetoric that is not very different from Sorel’s—its attractions are fateful. The heroes come from all classes and nations. Because of the highly technical organizational requirements of heroic action, leaders in modern times are often recruited from the middle classes. Sorel’s continued appeal probably rests on his powerful invective against so-

cial hypocrisy, against bombastic oratorical principles. The Sorelian myth

756 MARX AND COUNTER-MARX | should be distinguished from the Hitlerian great lie, because the myth is not a mere instrumentality, not a deception, but a morality, a way of life that becomes a higher truth as it is embraced by heroic adepts. Sorel was not an image maker or a mythmaker. He found the myth in the heart or emotions of a new proletarian elite, a potential body of heroes, and he aimed to protect the myth from destruction in its early fragile, vulnerable stages. In sum, his utopia is a rather baroque version of a death-and-resurrection fantasy for mankind. There is a certain apprehensiveness in Sorel’s thought. Without any countervailing force, the evil in nature would triumph; hence the urgent necessity for heroic _ moral action to stave off decay. In the absence of a myth, of moral enthusiasm, societies tend to crumble. At heart this doctrine is not alien from that of either

| Spengler or Toynbee. The bourgeois have no morality, Saint-Simon had said earlier in the century; no justice, Proudhon charged; no myth, Sorel accused.

PART VIII

The Twilight of Utopia

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:

32 Utopia Victoriana

THE FIRST SEVEN decades of the nineteenth century had produced a vast body of

polemical, critical thought about the nature of contemporary society, accompanied by grand discursive systems that laid down the principles for a future ideal world. During this period there were few novels of intrinsic worth deal, ing with a utopian society. Cabet’s Voyage en Icarie, Hawthorne’s disenchanted tale about Brook Farm, The Blithedale Romance, and Chernyshevskii’s Chto delat’? (What Is to Be Done?), written in the Peter-and-Paul Fortress in 1862 and published in 1863, all reflect earlier utopian thought, but they are weak renderings of the power and complexity of the great systems. In the European politi-

cal arena utopian thought tended to become indistinguishable from solemn revolutionary pronouncements or nonrevolutionary radical party programs. The utopian polemist was often engaged in the formation of a social movement or a political alliance, and painting pretty pictures of the future, though occasionally resorted to, was not a favored method of winning converts. The major demonstrations of the inevitability of utopia were historical and scientific or Christian and moralist. The declaration of immediate revolutionary ob-

, jectives—the English Charter, the French right to work—or the promulgation of a set of utopian principles was enough to attract true believers. As the slogans were orated, the mere sound of the words induced a utopian state of feeling. Humanity, the end of exploitation, brotherhood, universal suffrage, lib-

| erty, equality—each new adept read into the phrases the satisfaction of his most expansive desires. By the 1870s, after the defeat of the Paris Commune, it was becoming evi-

dent even to the more militant that there would be no world revolution, at least for a while, that a new social structure would not be installed overnight. The wars of the utopian systems that had developed in the first half of the cen-

tury continued, but they were fought in secret revolutionary conclaves or , within the councils of recognized political parties, whose radical reform pro_ grams were now conceived as long-term enterprises. With their chicanery and

, compromises and internal struggles, the radical organizations began to resem-

ble markedly the older political parties. The Rebirth of the Utopian Novel

Since the revolution itself was indefinitely postponed and men were deflected from direct action, the time was propitious for a rebirth of the utopian novel. Its tone would befit a nonrevolutionary age. It was not strident or violent; a rose-colored portrayal of the future replaced the call to arms. The enthusiasm generated among the readers of these novels, who formed societies, clubs, even international associations to. discuss the good life depicted by the authors, in-

| trigues the analyst of a century later. That Edward Bellamy’s Looking Back759

760 THE TWILIGHT OF UTOPIA | ward, 2000-1887 (1888), Theodor Hertzka’s Freiland: Ein sociales Zukunftsbild (Freeland: A Social Anticipation), 1890, William Morris’ News from Nowhere; or, An Epoch of Rest, Being Some Chapters from a Utopian Romance (1890) inspired thousands of people with what they believed to be a new and unprecedented

vision is difficult to credit as one struggles through their didactic, wooden prose. While a utopian innovation makes its appearance from time to time, particularly in William Morris, for the most part these novels and the scores of contemporary imitations that shall be nameless are derivative, syncretistic, and infinitely boring. They are patchwork utopias, and anyone addicted to nine-

teenth-century utopian literature can detect in them bits and pieces of the thought of Fourier, Saint-Simon, Weitling, Proudhon, Marx, Auguste Comte. Marx was rarely named, but he cast a long shadow. Though largely unread, his ideas, like musk, had begun to suffuse the intellectual atmosphere. Even in novelistic utopias written to forestall a bloody Marxist revolution, categories of his thought penetrated as the new visionaries proposed to do what he had always rejected—portray in detail a future social order. Paradoxically, utopian novels such as Bellamy’s Looking Backward were assimilated into communist propaganda, and if Marxist leaders like Lenin refrained from violating Marx’s prohibition against painting images of the future, street-corner orators were far less hesitant about lifting large sections from the novels in order to capture their

audiences, |

In the Marxist world Chernyshevskii alone among the utopian novelists of _ the nineteenth century enjoyed a special dispensation. The aging Marx kept Chernyshevskii’s portrait in his study and often expressed admiration for the revolutionary who languished in czarist prisons; Lenin admired him as a great Russian socialist." The novel What Is to Be Done?, which portrayed the new

, human being in the person of the austere, heroic, rationalist, unsentimental Véra Pavlovna, founder of cooperatives of seamstresses, was hardly Marxist in

spirit, for it believed in conversion by persuasion, but it appears to have ex- | erted a profound emotional effect on Lenin. It is known that the book was a favorite of his elder brother, the revolutionary executed by the czarist regime, and that Lenin treasured his brother’s copy. The novel left its trace at least in the title of one of Lenin’s most trenchant revolutionary pronouncements on communist tactics. But the other Victorian utopian novels were of a different character, and had Marx lived to read them they would doubtless have called down upon themselves the same sneers that he bestowed upon Cabet’s Voyage en Icarie, His taste in literature ran to the tragic—Shakespeare and the Greek dramatists.

The thornier problems of man’s affective and psychic relationships, expressly his sexuality, which had absorbed Saint-Simonians and Fourierists, and the apocalyptic prologue that was bound up with the Marxist utopia were by-

passed in the Victorian utopia, as the novelists set about fashioning pleasant | state socialist or free socialist or state capitalist utopias. No blood was shed in the storybook transition from anarchic industrialism to the agreeable planned society. The Victorian family was preserved intact, with all its saccharinesweet male-female relationships and its prudery. Labor, production, and consumption were rationally organized in a variety of ways: by making credit freely available in the manner of Proudhon, or by allowing for associations of workers who would have access to free capital without interest, or by the for-

UTOPIA VICTORIANA 761 mation of industrial armies under state control. Marx’s labor theory of value in a vulgarized form was often at the bottom of these pictures of working societies. Each man had a right to the full fruits of his labor—that was the overriding principle. How to measure the value of different types of labor allowed for the introduction of numerous variations on a theme, and most of the utopias became a bookkeeper’s dream of glory. Idleness was prohibited and the leisure classes abolished, as the utopias offered equal opportunity to the industrious and basic equality among all men. Hunger, want, unemployment, and disease were quickly eliminated. Security was provided for the sick, the aged, and the very young. Elements of incentive were incorporated in the society but there were no gross inequalities; elements of economic freedom were preserved but there was no abject poverty. Monopoly capital was universally recognized as the prime evil. Regulated state capitalism or state socialism, in which merit was rewarded and people lived more or less equally, avoided the horrors of revolution and permitted an easy changeover to the new order. One way to bring about the new society under a constitutional democracy was to vote for the establishment of state enterprises that would attract labor, pay the workers in scrip honored in government-owned, non-profit-making stores, while private enterprise would see its labor force slowly dwindle away and its gold become worthless. The former exploiters would be left to wither on the vine or to seek equal treatment in government industries. The whole “revolution”? was envisaged as peaceful and gradual, though it required no more than a generation to be effected. The Marxist threat of the slaughter of the bourgeoisie was dispelled, the class war would not materialize, and the dictatorship of the proletariat would never be installed. Small wonder that the easy birth of the new society as recounted by Edward Bellamy allayed the apprehensions of middle-class intellectuals and literate artisans on the morrow of

the Haymarket riots in the United States.

Though many of the novelistic utopian societies of the latter part of the nineteenth century were socialist in character, their socialism was less total and uncompromising than that of Marxist doctrine. Like the “‘revisionism” of the turn of the century among Social Democrats, it could take on different colora-

tions in the countries of the Western world. It might eschew the very name socialism because of its dangerous associations and call itself nationalism, as in Bellamy’s work. Oscar Wilde and George Bernard Shaw and the English Fabians were utopian socialists of this vintage. In the same spirit Theodore Herz] wrote a Zionist utopia of state socialism, Old Newland. The social utopia could even start out as an imperialist venture—without conflict, of course: Hertzka’s Freeland began with a peaceful invasion of Kenya.

Looking Backward Edward Bellamy from Chicopee Falls, a small textile town in western Massa-

chusetts, editor of a newspaper in Springfield for many years, Theodor Hertzka, a Viennese economist who was suddenly overwhelmed with the vision of his Freeland as a solution to the class struggles in Europe, and William Morris, the Oxonian pre-Raphaelite who always considered himself a disciple

of Karl Marx, make strange bedfellows. And yet their novels, which were surely read by more people in the nineteenth century than the combined writ-

762 THE TWILIGHT OF UTOPIA ings of Saint-Simon, Fourier, Comte, and Marx, exude a common spirit and

belong together. Victorian socialism is perhaps the best label for their teachings. Whether they were writing under the reign of the great Queen herself, _ under the Emperor Franz Josef, or under President Grover Cleveland, their utopias reproduce the same genteel atmosphere, in which lady and gentleman | converts to solidarity and the communal ideal carry on their anemic, passionless activities and pallid relationships. The literary devices that introduce the utopias differ. Bellamy’s hero, a proper Bostonian suffering from insomnia, is mesmerized in an underground bedchamber where he has sought refuge from noise and awakens in the year 2000. Hertzka reports onthe colonization of a piece of Masai territory. And Morris’ hero has a vision as he lies in bed in a dingy Hammersmith house in London. But if there were a population exchange among them, all the inhabitants would readily adjust to their new utopian environments. Nor would the citizens of other utopias composed during the period—and even a gifted writer like Anatole France tried his hand at the genre in Sur la pierre blanche (The White Stone), 1903—be aliens in this imaginary world. The futuristic gadgetry of Jules Verne’s imaginary societies is only - more abundant and prophetic than Bellamy’s stage props, which make life in

late-nineteenth-century utopia so stagnantly comfortable, notwithstanding» Bellamy’s formal commitment to a doctrine of spiritual advancement. Despite

their socialist trappings, these are essentially nostalgic utopias that have either facilely tamed or bypassed the dynamism of industrial-scientific civilization. _ With all the triteness of invention in Looking Backward, the explicit psychological ideal that Bellamy posed for his society has a measure of interest: Perfection is defined as the negative of present reality, the reverse of what he saw in the lonely crowd of Boston in the 1880s, “faces unmarred by arrogance or servility, by envy or greed, by anxious care or feverish ambition, and stately forms of men and women who had never known fear of a fellow man or depended on his favor.’’” The utopia had returned to calm felicity as embodied in

Victorian gentility. Grandeur was not entirely eradicated, but restricted to ‘gorgeous public palaces”; dwellings, while simple, were full of conveniences.* Through the utopia runs an American modification of the Rousseauan concept of independence. The frontiersman’s or colonist’s freedom from fear of his fellow man—perhaps always something of a fiction—was here recaptured. Looking Backward thus has two themes. The obvious one is an emphasis on the joys of the year 2000 by contrast with the woes of 1887, the other

is a longing for an early America, utopianized, that had vanished. In a postscript that took the form of a letter to the editor of the Boston Transcript, Bellamy unequivocally claimed his place in the ranks of progressionists, with sentiments that echo, perhaps unconsciously, those of the early Saint-Simon: “Looking Backward was written in the belief that the Golden Age lies before us

and not behind us, and is not far away.’’4 | |

A Victorian ambivalence toward sexuality that pervades Bellamy’s novels

, is evident in one of his notebooks (now at Harvard), where the rhetoric sounds - like a travesty of classical figures of speech: ‘So shall passions, the strongest in man’s nature, which have hitherto been chiefly directed to his preservation by their diversions into sexuality and the family relations, be directed to the general advancement and elevation of the human type; just as a steamship when

UTOPIA VICTORIANA 763 driven by tempests has to put all her steam to work to keep from drifting to leeward, but when the storm ceases, by aid of the said steam power, is able to rush like a railroad train on her course.”* The idea of sublimation has never received a more technological, if unpoetic, expression. Bellamy is far more absorbed with the problem of incentives in a socialist economy than any of the other major Victorian utopians, and his recipe is an admixture of kindergarten prizes and quiet threats of harsh deprivation. Prizes are given to virtually everybody; and only the most incompetent and inveterate idlers fail to rise at least a notch in the course of their working careers. Gradations and minor promotions within each class are numerous, since it is intended that no form of merit should go wholly unrecognized. But the stick is there, in the background. Bellamy does not share William Morris’ or even Hertzka’s confidence in human nature; his Calvinist undergarments show. Though their description may not occupy much space, cruel sanctions are invoked against malingerers in the industrial army: “A man able to duty, and persistently refusing, is sentenced to solitary imprisonment on bread and water

till he consents.’’® , |

Salaries are equal, and men vie for status and honor instead of wealth. When Bellamy wishes to mark differences in position, he has recourse to an element from the oldest utopian tradition of Western society, sanctified in Plato and

Hesiod, a variant on the myth of the three metallic races: ‘‘Every industry has | its emblematic device,”’ explains Doctor Leete to the awakened dreamer, “‘and this, in the shape of a metallic badge so small that you might not see it unless you knew where to look, is all the insigns which the men of the [industrial] army wear, except where public convenience demands a distinctive uniform. This badge is the same in form for all grades of industry, but while the badge of the third grade is iron, that of the second grade is silver, and that of the first is gilt.’””

~ Men strive without monetary recompense because the high places in the nation are reserved for the highest class of persons. Rank in the industrial army is the only avenue to honor and prestige, except in art and the professions. Distinctions based upon merit, not wealth, are good in and of themselves, and position and respect are recognized as having intrinsic worth. There are also a few perquisites, minor privileges, and immunities enjoyed by men who attain to the superior class. Effort is rewarded; but though the stronger are selected as leaders for the ‘interest of the common weal,’’® the principle of equality is not grossly violated. At the highest levels, men exert themselves from an inner need for achievement. The aristocracy of merit is not trumpeted, paraded, or advertised. It is intended to arouse as little envy as possible among the less successful; yet there is constantly before every man’s eye the desirability of reaching the grade next above his own. Bellamy’s is a subtly scaled meritocracy, in a setting that combines American competitiveness with a welfare society of relative equality in goods and services.

, In the national organization of labor with its numerous offices of employment exchange, every man naturally and spontaneously selects “the harness which sets most lightly on himself . . . that in which he can pull best.’’® Natural aptitudes and equal education are the keys to the system; neither merce-

: nary considerations nor social prejudices hamper men in the choice of their

764 THE TWILIGHT OF UTOPIA , life’s work. But the harness remains the symbol of the new society. All must pull, fit themselves into the right harness or it would chafe. Work is not idealized; it is a disagreeable obligation to be discharged with the greatest dispatch. Hours are short, there are regular vacations, and men pant for the moment of liberation from the industrial army at forty-five, when real enjoyment begins. Longevity makes this final period the important part of life. There is a reversal of the contemporary values of stages in the epigenetic cycle. Women also belong to the industrial army, but as an auxiliary force under their own general-in-chief,; who, by the way, occupies a post in the presidential cabinet. Marriage does not exempt women from labor service. As Dr. Leete ex-

plains, they “‘have no house-keeping responsibilities now, you know, and a husband is not a baby that he should be cared for.’’*® The good doctor contrasts the lot of women in his society with the constricted, unhappy lives of nineteenth-century women, rich or poor, who had no interests beyond the family and “‘no refuge in the breezy outdoor world of human affairs” from the great sorrows and petty frets that beset mankind. The symbol of female equality in the new Boston is the credit card, issued for a sum as large as that allowed the men. But equal status does not imply unisex; the differences between the sexes are accentuated rather than obliterated, with the result that ‘the piquancy which each has for the other’’ is enhanced. Since both share alike rights, privileges, and obligations, girls no longer want to be boys, parents no longer prefer male children, and with no anxieties about earning a living, much

more thought is devoted to the tender passion. Moreover, the power of

own contentment." , |

- women to bestow happiness on men has increased proportionately with their When Dr. Leete tries to explain what cements the society, he falls back upon the early-nineteenth-century principle, or feeling, of solidarity or humanity or brotherhood of man. “The title of every man, woman, and child to the means , of existence rests on no basis less plain, broad, and simple than the fact that they are fellows of one race—members of one human family.”’'? Through education these fine phrases become “as real and as vital as physical fraternity.”’’? Hertzka gets by, or almost, without this emotion; he tries to build his society on old-fashioned, utilitarian self-interest. In Morris the system itself generates fraternity as a flame does heat. Bellamy, in answer to the question as to why everybody has a right to equal sustenance, again moves into an economic argument based on a diluted Marxist value theory: All of us in this generation have inherited the accumulated technological achievements of previous generations of mankind, and every man alive today has a right to an equal share in this treasury. !* All past humanity is one value-creating, laboring body

toButwhose products we are heir. , in the end the justification for the system is its rational efficiency and

lack of waste. And Bellamy introduces an ominous analogy: ‘“The effectiveness of the working force of a nation, under the myriad-headed leadership of private capital, even if the leaders were not mutual enemies, as compared with that which it attains under a single head, may be likened to the military efficiency of a mob, or a horde of barbarians with a thousand petty chiefs, as compared with that of a disciplined army under one general—such a fighting ma-

chine, for example, as the German army in the time of Von Moltke.”” ,

UTOPIA VICTORIANA 765 , Hertzka’s Freeland Dr. Theodor Hertzka belonged to the Manchester school of Austrian economists; in 1872 he became economics editor of Die Neue Freie Presse, Vienna’s

most important newspaper; and in 1886 he wrote a ponderous work entitled Die Gesetze der sozialen Entwicklung (The Laws of Social Development). Then this respectable mentor of the Austrian bourgeoisie had a sudden illumination, and produced a utopian novel called Freeland, a vision of the future society.

The economist turned fiction writer achieved an instantaneous success: The German edition of 1890 was promptly translated into English, and in cities and

towns throughout Germany and Austria, Freeland societies mushroomed, , very much like the spontaneous multiplication of Bellamy societies about the same time. At a meeting of the International Freeland Society in Vienna, it was

announced that a tract of land in British East Africa had been put at the society’s disposal. In the introduction to his novel, Hertzka avowed himself a disciple of Mill, Marx, and Darwin, and declared his society to be a combination of their ideas

stripped of their erroneous and odious notions. The new order would be as liberal and free as Mill would have desired, but it would forever emancipate mankind from the periodic crises of overproduction and the catastrophic class conflicts that were becoming endemic in the European world. The technological society was here to stay, but it was not indissolubly linked with a system of protective duties, cartels, trusts, guild agitations, and strikes. All of these evils were manifestations of the desperate resistance of the classes engaged in production to the deleterious consequences of the anarchy engendered by monopoly. It was absurd that advanced technology and increasing facility in the production of wealth should bring only misery and ruin in their train. Darwin provided Hertzka with metaphors about the necessity of man’s adjusting to his new technological environment: He must either adapt or perish. Darwin’s law of evolution in nature taught Hertzka that when social arrangements ceased to be optimal and were no longer consonant with the contemporary conditions of human existence, they had to be replaced by new ones. ‘‘For in the struggle for existence, that which is out of date not only may but must give place to that which is more in harmony with the actual conditions.’ !® The languages of Darwin and Marx were wedded to each other. Marx had been mistaken in arguing that capitalism stopped the growth of wealth by crises of

overproduction for the market; the present system was flawed because it prevented the consumption of the surplus produce. If a mechanism could be in-

vented for providing capital without infringing on individual liberty or violating justice, if the levying of interest could be abolished without resorting to communistic controls, a free social order of capitalists operating in associa-

, tion would arise. Easy credit and the end of monopoly would allow for the best of both worlds. Individual freedom would be secure and the evils of capitalism that now inhibited consumption would be banished. The staid economist waxed dithyrambic: ‘My intense delight at making this discovery robbed me of the calm necessary to the prosecution of the abstract investigations upon which I was engaged. Before my mind’s eye arose scenes which the reader will

find in the following pages—tangible, living pictures of a commonwealth

766 THE TWILIGHT OF UTOPIA _ based upon the most perfect freedom and equity, and which needs nothing to convert it into a reality but the will of a number of resolute men.’’!” Hertzka compared himself to Bacon: As his seventeenth-century forerunner had abandoned his scientific studies for a time in order to compose the New

, Atlantis, so Hertzka had interrupted his academic pursuits to write a “‘political ~ romance” based on sober reality.!8 The initial founders of Freeland would not | be philanthropists but hardheaded men acting out of individual, commonplace self-interest. The structural unit would be the voluntary organization of workers in a specific occupation who had banded together in order to get the full produce of their labor and to whom credit was generously available without charge. This type of organization had to be cleansed of every remnant of the old, servile relationship to an employer, thereby solving successfully the problem of social emancipation.’® The desiderata of a free, cooperative industrial enterprise were set forth in an example: To establish an iron works in Freeland it was not imperative that the workers themselves be versed in every aspect of iron manufacture. All they had to know was what sort of persons they should place at the head of the enterprise and how to delegate to them sufficient authority to manage the work properly, while never letting the reins of control slip from their own hands. At the outset of Hertzka’s rational, liberal system, a committee to rule on applications for funds is chosen among the workers’ associations petitioning for capital. Later, as the initial outlays are repaid by profitable ventures, surplus capital is so great that credit is virtually for the asking. The ultimate principle of Freeland is that every citizen has a right to the fruits of existing productive capital, which itself is ownerless. The sharp light of universal publicity puts an end to the secrets and conspiracies of monopoly. The incentive remains self-interest, for every member has a claim on the net profits

proportionate to the amount of work he has contributed. Some allowance is | made for older workers, and the pay of directors is determined by giving their participation a value in ordinary work hours. The body of the novel is devoted to the story of the settlement of the first Freeland by colonists who accepted the principles of the association, along with reports from starry-eyed visitors who saw it operating in high gear. The members of the society meeting at The Hague under the direction of the economist Karl Strahl] adopted all decisions unanimously and voted to establish their utopia in Kenya among the nomadic Masai. Africa was chosen to avoid colliding with existing societies, as early utopians had once sought refuge in the American Midwest. The site of the colony was a mountainous district to the east of the Victoria Nyanza, between latitudes 1° north and 1° south and

, between longitudes 34° and 38° east. In planning for the settlement, the colonists ordered four light steel mortars from Krupp in Essen. The object was not to use the murderous weapons against any foe, but, if occasion arose, to pre-—

serve peace the more easily through the terror the mortars would inspire.2°__ When an advance party of Freelanders met up with the Masai, the Africans were assured that they would not be forced to give up any land, even though the Europeans could compel them to do so. If, however, free passage through Masai territory were not peaceably granted, the Freelanders would know how , to impose their will.?? While ancient voyagers to utopia had had to contend with terrible storms and shipwrecks, the obstacles of the optimistic Freeland , settlers were easy to surmount. The expedition to their chosen homeland ran

UTOPIA VICTORIANA 767 like a well-organized safari—a few cannonballs shot into the air and the most ferocious savages were transformed into blood brothers. Rhapsodic visitors a few decades later found a society with all the physical comforts of capitalism, the freedom of liberalism, the security of socialism, and the merriment of a Wienerwald carnival. At the National Palace of Freeland sat twelve supreme boards of administration and twelve representative bodies. For the rest, it was a land of workers’ associations open to all newcomers who wished to join in a particular enterprise. There were large departments of statistics, warehouses, and banks, but the Freelanders economized on other state expenditures since they required neither judges, nor police, nor soldiers. Criminals were considered morally diseased and were treated medically. Women teachers who had flocked to the settlement were quickly snatched up in marriage and they ran ideal meénages. An Italian diplomat who sojourned among the Freelanders was much taken with the graceful, princesslike ladies colorfully dressed in raiment that recalled ancient Greece. Everyone was “cultured,” even tillers of the soil, usually Negroes with a higher level of civilization than rural Europeans. The whole land was an Eden, illuminated by electric arc lamps. “Imagine a fairy garden covering a space of nearly forty square miles, filled with tens of thousands of charming tastily designed small houses and hundreds

, of fabulously splendid palaces; add the intoxicating odours of all kinds of flowers and the singing of innumerable nightingales—and set all this in the framework of a landscape as grand and as picturesque as any part of the world

can show; and then, if your fancy is vigorous enough, you may form some

mild conception of the delight with which this marvellous city filled me... In many of the houses which we passed could be heard sounds of mirth and gaiety . . . the shores of the lake were full of life every evening

| until midnight . . . On broad airy terraces and in the gardens around them sat or sauntered the inhabitants in larger or smaller groups. The clinking of glasses, music, silvery laughter, fell upon the ear; in short everything indicated that here the evenings were devoted to the most cheerful society.’’?* A new era had been inaugurated in architecture, whose nobility of form rivaled the Gre-

cian and whose grandeur outdid the most massive Egyptian monuments.” Bathing establishments were luxurious, and so were theatres, opera houses, and concert halls. Private houses were unique in aspect, half-Moorish, halfGrecian. Hertzka was answering the charge of dull uniformity that utopias like Cabet’s had provoked.

| The Cokaygne utopia of Attic comedy with its abundance of sensate pleasures was reborn with appropriate Victorian restraints. Technology and a rational organization of labor took the place of ancient magic and gave the imaginary society verisimilitude and, alas, a deadly earnestness. Freeland is gadgety, full of push-button telephones and labor-saving machinery, like Bellamy’s Looking Backward, Air is artificially cooled, mildly “‘ozonized.” The Italian diplomat gets better service from “‘iron slaves’’ than he ever received in the Hotel Bristol in Paris. The servant problem has been eliminated: In response to a bell, a worker from an Association for Rendering Personal Service appears. While the household sleeps, the Association worker cleans, moving about with such celerity that 181 man-hours of labor a year suffice to maintain a tidy home. Competition among the Personal Service Associations keeps domestic help on their toes and transforms them into zealous artisans. There are no attendants at

768 THE TWILIGHT OF UTOPIA © dinner to inhibit the company. A cupboard in the dining room wall yields an ‘inexhaustible series of eatables.”** The Food Association stocks hot and cold dishes in separate compartments and does the washing up. The Freelanders ride around on velocipedes whose motive power resides in the elasticity of a spiral spring wound up tightly in workshops of the Association for Transport. The vehicle can move at eleven miles an hour for twelve miles, when its” _ springs have to be changed at a service station. Lake streamers do not belch smoke nor do their whistles shriek. But attention to material comfort implies no slight to the life of the mind. ‘The academies, museums, laboratories, institutions for experiment and research seemed endless.””* Libraries have lost their forbidding aspect and the hush of sacred precincts; in addition to storing _ books, they serve as cafés and conversation salons, amenities in the care of the _ Association for Providing Refreshments, and people frequent them to study, entertain themselves with books, or chat with acquaintances.”® Beneficent social institutions have decreased the incidence of disease, and for those who fall ill sanatoria are widely available, so that there are no poor sick lacking treatment. Physicians are publicly paid officials who have passed their examinations, and aspirants are trained by accompanying their elders on house visits. Even in this area freedom is not infringed upon, and anyone can practice medicine, though the possibility that a doctor without credentials will attract patients is remote. The Freelanders look younger than their years, and goodness and nobility of

mind are impressed upon their features. The tone of society is so cheerful, pleasant, and benign it is difficult to remember that at the precise moment when Hertzka was fabricating his African utopia in Vienna, his neighbor Sigmund Freud was making discoveries which put the quietus on such fantasies,

at least for a generation.

Morris from Nowhere In William Morris’ News from Nowhere, an old antiquarian succinctly defined the fundamental principle of the new society as “freedom for every man to do what he can do best.”’?” This ideal was predicated on a number of prior conceptions—that there was such a thing as a unique capacity in every man, that if men were free they would choose to express that unique capacity, and that it was best to organize society on the basis of unique capacities. Beyond the innate need for self-actualization, men sought a great variety of things; but there were some they really wanted in contrast with others they only appeared to want. The discernment of this distinction was the psychological key to Morris’

utopia.

Simplistic utopian psychology usually assumed that if a group of people voiced their collective demands and published a manifesto, they meant what they said. They knew what they wanted, so to speak. Ever since Thomas More, utopians had distinguished between desires they allowed and desires they would repress. In Morris, the answer is on the face of it more subtle. Men

truly wanted only some of the products of labor; desires for other products _ were factitious or false. Morris analyzed the old economic system as loaded with fake, artificial “necessaries” created by the capitalist market in a neverending series. In his mind, these were clearly distinguishable from the genuine

UTOPIA VICTORIANA 769 necessaries, but the evil capitalistic system had rendered men incapable of perceiving the difference. And by involving themselves in the breeding of sham needs, men became burdened with excessive labor. Work in itself was not an evil—quite the contrary—but a prodigious amount of labor that was repugnant to them and gave them no artistic satisfaction was a major source of un-

happiness. The market economy had constrained men to work for superfluous products for which they had no proper use. Artificially stimulated consumption had tied them to the system. Once its chains were broken by the revolution and, in a state of calm self-analysis, they sought to know their authentic needs, the inhabitants of Nowhere would find that they had to do only a modicum of work to supply their wants. Morris’ utopia is anti-Fourierist and antiexpansive, since the multiplication of desires and their amplification and orchestration are not good in and of themselves. Left to act without coercion, in perfect freedom, men would not crave excess in anything. Fourier had dangled the ancient Cokaygne fantasy before prospective converts—a plethora of gastronomic delights at each of the five to seven meals a day served up in the phalanstery. Morris’ public restaurants served meals that were dainty. His citizens did not seek gross oral or genital gratification—any more than Morris himself

did in his personal life. ,

Morris sometimes starts at the other end of the sumptuary problem and

poses the question as to what work is intrinsically good and what work is evil. One answer is that work leading to the production of fraudulent, sham necessaries is evil. Another is set forth in a discussion of machinery: Only work that is pleasurable is good. Here we have returned to the Fourierist world, though with a difference. The conception of attractive work has been taken over from Fourier, but the basic principle of attraction has changed. While for Fourier labor was palatable only in combination with libidinal relationships, for Morris attraction rests on the satisfaction of an artistic need within man. Not since the architectural ideal-city plans of the Renaissance had the aesthetic propensity of mankind occupied so pivotal a position in Western utopian thought. There was no blind Luddite antagonism toward machinery, but Morris was _ less impressed with the benefits of technology than either Hertzka or Bellamy. Though his utopians did not discard the machines inherited from the past that were useful in the light of the new standards, they were not intoxicated with innovative mechanization and were quite willing to be regressive in this area of human endeavor; when the machines failed to produce works of art, they were quietly scrapped one after another. The formula is simple: If the labor is irksome, relegate it to the machines; if it is pleasurable—and it is assumed that a great many people will discover a natural pleasure in performing manually a variety of tasks—then let it be done by hand. Morris’ young people revel in gathering the harvest without mechanical aids. If for some people all labor were irksome, there would be trouble in utopia; but Morris did not entertain this possibility because of his presumption of an inborn desire to express oneself in work. He did not conceive of the diabolical manipulation of the libido so that work would appear essential and even agreeable when in fact it was not. Since the economic crises of the nineteenth century were attributed to overproduction and an incapacity to dispose of surplus products, Morris’ Nowhere

offered a pat solution. Hours of labor could be reduced to a necessary mini- , mum and whatever energies were left could be expended upon ornate architec-

770 THE TWILIGHT OF UTOPIA ture. Ornamentation would recognize no surplus in this aesthetic. “And indeed I do think that the energies of mankind are chiefly of use to them for such work, for in that direction I can see no end of work, while in many others a limit does seem possible.”’** In the history of the revolution as recounted by the men of Nowhere, pleasure in work as art developed spontaneously when the burdens of overwork for the world market were removed. A yearning for beauty was naturally awakened in men’s minds once they had stopped producing for production’s sake and had the opportunity to make each thing an excellent specimen of its kind. Here was the idealized medieval artisan of the preRaphaelites, a character who on occasion had even popped his head out of the pages of Das Kapital. At one stage in the evolution of Morris’ utopian society there was anxiety lest there be a scarcity of pleasurable work to do, “‘a kind of fear growing up among us that we shall one day be short of work. It is a pleasure which we are afraid of losing, not a pain. . .”’?® But on reflection this eventuality was excluded, for it was realized that when the necessaries had been provided, men could turn to grand architecture, like the medieval cathedral, where all manner of creative instincts would find ample fulfillment in labor. Morris, who had an incorrigible predilection for the decorative, which

, he associated with the exuberance of life, had his utopians combine the best qualities of the northern Gothic with those of the Saracen and the Byzantine, a potpourri not unknown in the skyscrapers of the twentieth century before the “functional’’ revolution. There are no snakes in Ireland and no government in Nowhere. Units of management called communes, wards, or parishes operate by majority rule; but the minority are excused from participating in an action of which they disapprove. While mid-century utopians like Proudhon and Weitling had devised various types of chits and special workbooks and personal credit schemes as _

part of a system of incentives and control and these persisted in Hertzka and Bellamy, William Morris spurned such mechanics. Since man’s need for work was an expression of his innermost being—he called to witness his romantic medieval artisans and cathedral builders, who toiled not for grub but to fulfill

themselves—there were for him no chits, no credit cards, no central bank, nothing but artisan-artists joyously at work. In Chapter 15, entitled “On the Lack of Incentive to Labor in a Communist Society,” the standard anti-utopian argument is summarily dismissed. The reward of labor is life. The reward for

, especially good work is the reward of creation, God’s reward. “Would you

to sexual pleasure.

send in a bill for begetting children?”’®® Morris apostrophizes in a rare allusion

Marx had still looked upon most work as part of the realm of necessity.

Morris stressed the positive aspect of work and transformed it into an aesthetic experience. ‘‘All work is now pleasurable; either because of the hope of gain in

, honor and wealth with which the work is done, —which causes pleasurable excitement, even when the actual work is not pleasant—or else because it has grown into a pleasurable habit, as in the case with what you may call mechani-

cal work; and lastly (and most of our work is of this kind) because there is conscious sensuous pleasure in the work itself; it is done, that is, by artists.”’** _ Morris joined Proudhon in insisting that free work was a human expression

of high seriousness. The biblical curse had been lifted and the Aristotelian repugnance to labor as slavery had been overcome. Work was neither a Benedic-

, UTOPIA VICTORIANA 771 tine prayer nor a Puritan duty. It was, in the tradition of the Saint-Simonians, the ultimate manifestation of the human. Labor was not alienated, not ‘“‘objectified.’” Men worked in order to live happily, and instead of having the product of their labor taken from them, they freely gave it away. Aristotle’s fear that equality meant the end of liberality has been dispelled: There is the greatest possible opportunity for liberality as all things are handed out unstintingly for the asking by fellow artisans. The artistic imperative salvages all labor from drudgery. Proudhon had considered labor an act of personal affirmation, but his writings convey the impression that he was a crypto-Jansenist. The task had to be

arduous, even painful, to be regarded as work. There was a dread of softness, | anxiety that if labor became too easy then the working class, which should be noble and heroic, would become as degenerate and effete as the aristocrats and monopoly capitalists. Proudhon aimed to preserve the work ethic and its virtues without the bourgeoisie. Morris did not shrink from ease, even laziness, though total idleness would have been considered a malady in Nowhere. The physical and moral consequences of this regimen are among the most fortunate aspects of Nowhere. As in Freeland, the inhabitants look younger than in “‘unsocial”’ countries because one ages less quickly if one lives among happy people. Morris, like Bellamy and Hertzka, celebrates the frank openness and joyous countenances of his people. Everyone has a kindly air. The women, rather pre-Raphaelite in appearance, dress in un-Victorian, colorful costumes, and sartorial individualism is encouraged. The argument that socialism entrains uniformity is quickly refuted. Even esoteric antiquarian interests and the

higher mathematics are tolerated, though they are looked upon as foibles rather than the noblest expressions of man, which remain handicrafts on the simplest level and great monuments of architecture on the most complex. Bel-

, lamy’s characters even in their emancipation are still buttoned-up Bostonians, who spend much of their time passively listening to telephonic music in a spe-

cially constructed chamber. For all its benign aspect, their utopia is regimented, especially in education and the industrial army. Hertzka’s Freeland is an amusement park, where neither aggression nor frustrated sexual desire ruffles the calm of life. There is a premium on good manners and girls with a taste for refined ways train as ladies-in-waiting to virtuous women of genteel, rather

, aristocratic demeanor. The people of Nowhere are less prim. They go barefoot when they choose and enjoy the outdoor life. Their world is easygoing, untrammeled by the outworn conventions and traditions of another age. Elements of that eerie, elegiac tale of a natural agricultural matriarchy in a new Britain—W. H. Hudson’s A Crystal Age (1887)—may have crept into Nowhere.” Even children have freedom to learn or not to learn, and are not submitted to bookish knowledge without purpose. There was a new religion in Morris’ world, the “religion of humanity,” which borrowed its name from Comte but was very different in character

from anything he had taught his disciples, for it was without hierarchy or ritual. Morris believed that all men would love one another if they were lovable, hence his circular prescription: Make men commonly beautiful of body, free, happy, and energetic, and they will be naturally loving. The exploitation of nature that he dreamed of was not aggressive; he was not committed to SaintSimonian gigantism. Nature was to be bettered, not worsened, by contact

772 THE TWILIGHT OF UTOPIA with man; that is, nature was to be glorified. The sublimity of nature surrounding human beings would in turn make them more beautiful and more lovable, and they would then enthusiastically embrace the religion of humanity. Morris was anticipating—and refuting in advance—the acidulous observation of the aged Freud that it was impossible to obey the injunction to love one’s neighbor when often he was not lovable. Despite the ethereal, pre-Raphaelite atmosphere of his utopian society, Morris took cognizance of the uncontrollable passion, the overwhelming desire, that could occasionally disrupt the relaxed, loose-jointed order of Nowhere by robbery or murder. To show his awareness of the demonic, he describes a wild outburst provoked by unrequited love. The guilty aggressor is killed in the fray, but having taken a human life—though accidentally—the lover isolates himself to cure his psychic wounds. Crime, even aggressive crime, is not punished; sometimes it is considered insanity and treated medically as in Hertzka’s

Freeland. | ,

_ There is perhaps a soupgon of Darwinism in News from Nowhere, though it is

hardly a Darwinian utopia. “How to take the sting out of heredity has been one of the most constant cares of the thoughtful men among us.”’*? The inhab-

Oo itants of Nowhere are not eugenicists in any coercive sense, but it is assumed that if healthy women reach maturity in a favorable environment, their maternal instincts will flourish, and that children born of natural and healthy love will be more beautiful. Improvement in good looks is demonstrated scientifically by a comparison with photographs of previous generations, a smug provincialism that blissfully ignores the relativity of aesthetic criteria. Love remains almost statically Victorian, in contrast with the complete transformation , of the ideal of work. True, there is equality among the sexes, easy separation when marital difficulties arise, good maternal care. But the tone of amorous

relations is touchingly old-fashioned. A beautiful young woman enters the room, stops short on seeing Dick, and flushes red as a rose; but she faces him

nevertheless. His whole visage quivers with emotion. , Yet the Victorianism in News from Nowhere is liberated in some respects. Morris does not pretend that all the troubles besetting the sexes have been re- — solved. Sometimes he conveys an almost Humean sense of the mingled pain and pleasure that go to make up the life of mankind. But at no point is there any doubt that happiness far outbalances unhappiness in the new society.

Darwinism, the Ambiguous Intruder

WHILE EIGHTEENTH and early-nineteenth-century utopian thinking still fitted in neatly with physical science in the shape of the smooth-flowing Newtonian world machine—it had served as a model for both Saint-Simon and Fourier, who fancied themselves Newtons of the social universe—in the latter part of the nineteenth century two scientific hypotheses about the nature of man appeared at first to raise insurmountable barriers to the prolongation of the utopian dream: the discoveries of Darwin and of Freud. Both were shattering to those men of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries who had visions of a peaceful, orderly, progressive world from which antagonism and aggression had been virtually banished and where man’s creativity would flower, culminating in a utopian world order, either with or without revolution. The biological destabilization of species man, conceived in vague terms by literary philosophers in the eighteenth century, became a serious prospect with the spread of Darwin’s thought. The utopian propensity suffered what appeared to be a

mortal blow as the fundamental biological nature of the creature who was being utopianized became problematic. The Freudian threat came somewhat later, but its impact was equally staggering. The New Cosmic Pessimism

Darwinism was rapidly assimilated into the major intellectual currents of the age—no one could remain indifferent to its implications. For Marx it strengthened the conviction that a bloody revolutionary struggle, as contrasted with gradual reform, was inherent in nature; for the captains of industry and Euro-

pean imperialist adventurers it was proof positive that nature enjoined the powerful to dominate and the fittest to survive; for some utopian fantasts it offered the possibility, for good or for evil, of a new man with entirely different physical and psychic equipment. Among utopians of the past there had been hints that the species man might undergo fundamental biological changes through the transmission of acquired characteristics or as a consequence of the atrophy of organs and appendages from disuse; Auguste Comte had forecast female self-fertilization without the intervention of male sperm. But for more © than four centuries most utopians had operated on the premise of a stable biological nature that included unchanging sensory and cerebral systems. Suddenly vulgarized Darwinism opened up a new prospect. If the anthropoid had been modified in the past, why should it not continue to evolve in the future? And who knew what direction the evolution of the various species might take? In Darwin’s friend Thornas Huxley the theory induced cosmic pessimism rather than an optimistic vision of a benign development of gentle human qualities as they were appreciated by a well-bred Victorian. That Social Darwinism in many of its forms was a gross distortion of Darwin’s thought is 773

7794 THE TWILIGHT OF UTOPIA | irrelevant. Phrases such as the “‘struggle for existence” came to imply that raw

| tooth-and-nail conflict was embedded in man’s nature. Bloody images intruded into the dreams of the utopians. Darwin himself was anything but a jolly utopian, and in the end the black mood generated by his theory was consonant with his own miseries, whether their origin was a specific physical disease acquired during an expedition, or a psychic malady, or a combinaton of both. The initial impact of Darwinism on literature produced a spate of worlds peopled by creatures who once were men, in successive, later stages of their biological evolution or degeneration. Such writings, often in novelistic form, presented largely negative, or at best ambivalent, utopias. The loathsome species whose chilling aspect and newly acquired physical and mental powers terrified such residual humans as they encountered could have no place in a humanist utopia and prefigured the death of utopia as an ideal city in the Greek

, tradition. In general the transformed beings had moved toward omnipotence and a diminution of human affect. Beast-machines, emotionally impoverished, existing only to exercise power, became stereotypes whose origins in social

reality were all too evident. | :

What another race alternative to men would be like was a query that did not

have to await the formulation of a scientific theory of evolution. A wellworked theme in Hellenistic novels had treated of the voyages of Europeans to |

Ultima Thule and to the land of the Hyperboreans, where they discovered , many weird species. The tradition persisted, from medieval travel accounts like those of Mandeville through eighteenth-century extraordinary voyages, , cabalistic tales, and fantastic stories. The accounts of real travelers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries made wild reports credible, and eighteenthcentury utopias and dystopias introduced societies of men with extra heads or with wings, or creatures with a combination of animal and human characteristics, to illustrate their moral lessons. Swift’s Yahoos are perhaps the most famous animals spawned by the utopian-dystopian imagination. In the early part

of the nineteenth century the biological prodigies were slighted in favor of man-made monsters like the one Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein created. But -_ with the spread of Darwinism an abrupt change in tone occurred. The prospect

of a strange new species was no longer a mere literary conceit invented for didactic purposes or for entertainment; it became a reasonable possibility in the

portrayal of future animal destiny. The Western imagination began to playa dangerous game. As in past fantasies, new creatures were being dredged up from some primitive unconscious, but this time the sport had a scientific foun-

dation. In Sumerian creation myths all kinds of monsters had been put together by gods in their experimentation with membra disiecta. Now the utopian , novelist, having imbibed a draught of popular Darwinism, could be like unto

the gods in his reckless creativity. =» ,

In the concerns of writers of Darwinian futurist novels, the political or religious reborn man was replaced by a biologically transformed being. Not only a new order, but a new specimen who was gifted with ‘‘unnatural powers” was brought forth. This offshoot of the utopian tree was radically different from the men who inhabited the social utopias of the early nineteenth century,

from the rational, unalienated men of Marx’s future world, and from the proper Victorians who moved stiffly through the romances of state socialism

DARWINISM, THE AMBIGUOUS INTRUDER 775 that poured from the printing presses in the latter part of the century simultaneously with the Darwinian novels. To be twice born had become a worn-out eupsychian enterprise, well established in religious traditions; to be born twoheaded was a far graver matter. When the argumentative social utopias of the first decades had been succeeded by the pleasant speaking pictures of the Utopia Victoriana, predicting happiness under an ideal social system, men were still kept biologically intact and had preserved their essential humanity; any alterations were of a purely moral or religious character. Perhaps there was a reshuffling of the passionate and intellectual drives, with one strengthened at the expense of another. Or there were changes in the quality of love, a movement away from self-love toward solidarity, a shifting balance in egoist-altruist feelings. But the Darwinian theory of biological mutations expanded fu-

turist potentialities to an infinite degree. The literature that grew out of Darwinism, beginning with Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s The Coming Race (1871), proliferated like jangle vegetation, and halfa century later merged into a genre known as science fiction, which ended up saturating the imaginative life of a large portion of mankind. In the novels, futurism. of a Darwinian cast was often wedded to extrapolations of contemporary scientific and technological changes already in process. In order to survive in a radically altered physical environment consequent on accelerated advances in science and technology, the human animal had to adapt itself, to undergo fundamental modifications. Sometimes the results of technological gigantism and new scientific powers are depicted before physical transformation has set in, and sometimes a series of stages is outlined in which the end product is totally unrecognizable as a human. Evil forces maximized in the future are often envisagec| in combination: an uncontrolled technology that destroys nature; a Darwinian evolutionary deviation that makes the humans unadapting, or so adapted to specialized functions that they become only part human; the multiplication of devices of control, first technological and more recently pharmaceutical. Many stories make plots of sorts out of a rebellion, in the name of love or freedom or both, of those who represent the old values against the controlled, technological, eugenicized society. The uprising is

usually suppressed.

Bulwer-Lytton in The Coming Race was perhaps the first to explore the possibilities of magical techriological energies in a Darwinian context. His story centers around all-purpose “‘vril-power” (an obvious portmanteau of willpower and virile-power), which could be terribly destructive, annihilating instantaneously like a death ray, or marvelously curative and rehabilitating when used to charge a bath. With this tremendous capacity to enforce their wishes and guarantee their position, the coming race settles into inactivity after the age of childhood and finishes up in indolence. They rank repose among their chief blessings, and abancon all activity to the young, who still engage in kill-

ing primitive monsters as if in sport, or in colonizing new territories. But grown-up Vril-ya rest quietly since they are without cupidity or ambition to spur them to action. Even their luxuries are innocent.! H. G. Wells, the pivotal figure in the development of this type of literature, was a student of Thomas Huxley and was early affected by his gloomy outlook. Wells’s first and perhaps only great work, The Time Machine: An Invention (1895), was a composite of Darwinian and Marxist elements. The utopian

776 THE TWILIGHT OF UTOPIA vehicle was a machine that propelled an inventor-scientist into a series of future ages, each more terrifying than its predecessor. The major plot revolves around the decent, respectable Victorian’s experience in one epoch, the world of the “‘Eloi” and the ‘“‘Merlocks.”’ Social change resulting from scientific and technological innovation induces biological modifications, as each of the two major classes in society, defined in Marxist language as workers and exploiters, grow apart and adapt physically to their sharply different conditions of existence. In the biological-social novel of fantasy that Wells raised to the level of literature, the changes are nightmarish breeders of unprecedented evils. The

Eloi, those who dwell in the sun, as contrasted with the Merlocks, or proletarians, who live underground and cannot tolerate light, have gone a step farther than Bulwer-Lytton’s Vril-ya. The rulers of past societies have developed so complex a technology and so clear-cut a division of labor that their descendants can spend all their time in play and banqueting after the manner of the inhabitants of Lucian’s Blessed Isles. They occupy themselves with dancing, drinking a kind of ambrosia, and sleeping. The science and technology of which their forebears were masters no longer interest them; their buildings are allowed to fall into decay; the scientific and technological artifacts have been relegated to museums, which arouse nobody’s curiosity; and every night a few

| Eloi are devoured by the hungry Merlocks. |

For a time technological developments appeared to exert force in two opposing directions. They found expression in both utopias and dystopias, sometimes written by the same author at different points in his life. In Wells’s When the Sleeper Wakes (1899), the gigantism of technology has led to mass enslave-

ment; in The Time Machine, to a ruling class become so effete that they are good for nothing but food for the distorted underground workers who prey upon them. In his Modern Utopia (1905), however, Wells has become converted to hope. A dynamic technological society of joy and endless movement run by an ascetic elite of Samurai is the ideal, a banality subsequently repeated for decades in scores of his novels and essays. There is not a single fresh idea in the whole lot. A later novel in the early Wellsian spirit, William Olaf Stapledon’s Last and First Men: A Story of the Near and Far Future (1930), carries its society through eighteen stages of evolution. In one of them a Chinese scientist who

discovers what is called ‘subatomic power” creates a force that is capable of great good and great destruction, but is at first used for annihilation.” In the fabrication of futurist nightmares Wells has remained the dominant influence; his doggedly utopian novels have had fewer progeny. There is a temptation to become overly impressed by the technological and , scientific predictions of the futurist novels of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. One marvels that their authors foresaw flying machines, washing machines, radio, television, tape recordings, subatomic energy, moving road systems, rapid transit on the ground and in the air, medical advances—though __ they were incapable of imagining a new emotion. Jules Verne was so meticulous about the scientific validity of his works that they hardly kept ahead of the next phase of actual development and are thus quite outdated as fantasies. Wells in his early period did not impose such narrow scientific limitations upon himself, and ventured to conjure up societies with powers that are not yet even in the drawing-board stage. What he lost in scientific plausibility he gained in imagination—until he began to read old utopias and persuaded him-

DARWINISM, THE AMBIGUOUS INTRUDER 997 self that he was the originator of a unique, dynamic technological utopia that would save the world, when in reality he was merely piecing together stray bits from Plato, More, and Saint-Simon. As he jumped from bed to bed in his

personal life, he preached of a new order that would end war and distribute : commodities equitably, a world society whose austere, ascetic ruling elite, with high intellectual entrance requirements and no vices, would nobly shoulder the burdens of Plato’s guardians. The novels inspired by popular Darwinism and the new technology, though barely utopian, use the standard literary device of a stranger coming upon an alien society and reporting on what he has seen of its institutions and manners, and what he has felt about its tone of life. These novels are Darwinian in the sense that the new society always represents a much later stage of biological development. Before the prospect of physical transformations was accepted as scientifically feasible, the outsider merely had to travel to another part of the globe to discover the utopian society; now new techniques for bridging a gap of hundreds of thousands of years had to be invented. Falling into a hole in the earth and landing upon a society underground had been tried in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in fantastic tales such as the Danish professor Baron Ludvig Holberg’s Nicolai Klimii Iter Subterraneum, Novam Telluris Theoriam, ac Historiam Quintae Monarchiae . . . Exhibens (Nicholas Klim’s Underground Journey, Setting Forth a New Theory of the Earth and the History of the Fifth Monarchy), 1741. In this tale of adventure, with its mock millenarian echoes, the hero hap-

pens upon a civilization of sensate mobile trees. In Holberg’s fable a bizarre species that has many reasonable customs superior to the irrationalities of the European world is used primarily to satirize human frailties by contrast. The same mechanism was adopted by Bulwer-Lytton, whose stranger descends into the nether regions to find a society in a more advanced state of evolution endowed with powers his contemporaries dream of but do not yet possess. Wells, more innovative than Bulwer-Lytton, relied on technology to transport the hero through the ages into a future more than 800,000 years hence. But in neither case are the visitors overwhelmed with admiration for what they see. Bulwer-Lytton recognizes the advantages of the new society and he even eulogizes the social state of V-il-ya because it contrives to harmonize into one system ‘‘nearly all the objects which the various philosophers of the upper world have placed before human hopes as the ideals of a Utopian future.”? But his hero finally has to confess his boredom with the life of the new world in the lower depths, despite the fact that a Vril lady has fallen in love with him. Wells’s Victorian scientist is horrified at the consequences of a class-bifurcated society that through adaptation has become physically differentiated to the point where two distinct species emerge, one of which feeds on the flesh of the other. The ascent of mar. becomes the descent of man—though not in Darwin’s sense; it leads into raonstrous byways where evolution cannot be identified with perfectibility. Such biological-futuris: portraits have since reached the proportions of an avalanche, with seemingly endless variations; but as with many of the primitivist utopias of the eighteenth century, the repetitiveness is oppressive. The world of horrors in which the evolutionary process has gone madly awry can be differentiated from the society of still recognizable men endowed by technology with absolute con:rol over the environment, over other men, and over

778 THE TWILIGHT OF UTOPIA immeasurably destructive instruments. Yet the emotional tone of both kinds of fiction is meant to inspire dread in the reader. And the visions may be rea- sonably accurate prognostications—that is the lingering suspicion. Utopian ardor, inhibited by the powerful scientific influences generated by Darwin—though they did not stop the flow of incredibly dull novelistic utopias in all European languages that merely rehashed old social utopian themes —was further dampened by the experience of two world wars, a mass slaughter of innocents, and the murderous aberrations of new social systems in the making which unfurled the Marxist banderole in many different colors. The dystopia had its brilliant moments in the works of Yevgeny Zamiatin, Aldous Huxley, and George Orwell in successive decades. It derived further impetus from the revolutions of the twentieth century, communist and fascist, though the original fount remained the early Wells, as any old-fashioned tracer of liter-

ary themes can detect at a glance. , ,

| Teilhard de Chardin to the Rescue | But despite the flood of bitter mockery unloosed by the dystopians, the utopian energy of man was not irretrievably dissipated. The creature, it seems,

, could not stop dreaming even as he stood beneath the gallows of the atomic launching pads. Certain of the hopes of Morean and Saint-Simonian utopias had in the meantime become partial political realities, through social legislation, in restricted areas of the world; or they had at least been incorporated as , programmatic statements of intent by major institutions. The social encyclicals

of Pope John XXIII, the speeches of Nikita Khrushchev at Soviet party congresses, and the preambles to Democratic party platforms are a fairly wideranging sample of the deep penetration of early-nineteenth-century utopian motifs into the contemporary political rhetoric. Henceforth mankind only had to face the nettlesome problems incident to the implementation of these lofty purposes; a vague consensus about their merit had seemingly been achieved. Traditional utopian oratory saturated the atmosphere of party debate until the whole world became transformed into a deafening chorus of utopian crickets and one had to be a subtle cricket oneself to differentiate one from another. As new theological utopians appeared they evolved a theology of hope both in

and out of the churches.

Simultaneously with the realization of some reforms that once would have

been deemed wildly utopian, in the realm of pure thought Western writers undertook to do battle with both the Darwinian and the Freudian pessimistic denial of the utopian promise, and in the course of their counterattack developed the new utopian styles that are peculiar to the first half of the twentieth century. The confrontation of utopia with biological transformism had started in the nineteenth century, and the battle is still in its early stages as the passive biological fatalism of early Darwinism gives way to the activist prospect of

biological engineering. , A group of imaginative life scientists first modified the emotional temper of

| Darwinism. They asserted that a benign spirituality was about to possess the whole of mankind and become a permanent acquisition of the species, that we were on the point of ascending to a higher stage in the autonomous and irre-

versible evolutionary process. Physical-biological evolution had virtually

DARWINISM, THE AMBIGUOUS INTRUDER 779 reached the utmost limits, they said—the size of the brain had hit a plateau since Neanderthal—and the development of man, who now had the power to control his own destiny, must henceforward take place in the realm of mind or spirit. Instead of being associated with tooth-and-nail capitalism, rampant nationalism, and aggressive imperialism, the theory of evolution, in a Kropotkinlike mood, had moved away from dramatization of the individual struggle for survival to envisage a future world peopled by humane, cooperative, totally conscious beings. The German romantic idea of a leap into a higher state of consciousness, a rather metaphysical concept, was replaced by an assertion of psychosocial evolution that purported to have roots in the sciences of anthropology, paleontology, and biology, broadly interpreted. Pierre Teilhard de Chardin wrote of a noosphere, a universal belt of psychosocial forces; Julian Huxley, somewhat less Platonic, preferred the term ‘“‘noosystem.”’ Both of them conceived this new world of consciousness to be Stage Three in the evolution of matter, which had already passed through a historical metamorphosis from the inorganic into the organic. But for all the scientific learning that buttresses their predictions, within the context of this book their views can only be looked upon as a drezm of reason.

The future expanding order of psychosocial inheritance, they foretold, would result in earlier internalization in the child and in ever more complex psychic awareness in the adult. Through the progressive intimacy and density of the network of human communications throughout the world, a peaceful and universal morality would be achieved. In the course of time the process of natural selection would fortify the new ethical order by showing biological preference for those with superior fitness in adapting to it. The old warfare between nature and culture would be abolished since both would be dominated by rational man. The Jesuit paleontologist Teilhard de Chardin emerged as the central prophetic figure of this twentieth-century cosmic historical utopia, with his arms outstretched to embrace humanist English biologists as well as French Marxists, among whom he was for a time assimilated. “‘Mankind,” he wrote in Le Phenomene humain (The Phenomenon of Man), first composed in 1947 though it

, remained unpublished for nearly a decade, “‘the spirit of the earth, the synthesis of individuals and peoples, the paradoxical conciliation of the element with the whole, and of unity with multitude—all these are called Utopian and yet they are biologically necessary. And for them to be incarnated in the world all we may well need is to imagine our power of loving developing until it embraces

, the total of men and of the earth.’’*

Though throughout his life he was an obedient son of his Order and insisted upon the Christological aspects of his doctrine, Teilhard’s writings were subject to a monitum from the Vatican. He would perhaps have objected to the tearing of his ideas out of their “‘Divine Milieu”’ (the title of one of his works), but he nevertheless belongs among the scientists rather than the theologians. His underlying thesis was simplicity itself. If since Cro-Magnon man there has

been no perceptible physical evolution of the species, wherein lies our superiority? Only in the existence of a transmitted social and psychic order that begins to be absorbed at in early age. The knowledge that sustains this order has accumulated through centuries of time, and future evolutionary progress

| may be defined as the continuing growth of this vast treasury.

780 THE TWILIGHT OF UTOPIA The vision first came to Teilhard in the mud and slime of the trenches on the _ Western front where he served as a chaplain during World War I; it persisted through years of exile in China, where his Order had sent him because of the heterodoxy of his opinions. His posthumous works have the compelling force

, of a voice from the grave calling man to a new life. Teilhard de Chardin’s is a strange historical mysticism in a new language—new, that is, to those who never heard of Giordano Bruno. Teilhard is not bound to the dualism of spirit and matter; materialist is an epithet that no longer frightens him. He sings religious hymns of praise to primeval matter as ultimately creative of the highest values of spiritual love. At a given moment, matter gives birth to conscious_ ness, and consciousness, now spread over the peoples of the whole planet, by dint of the sheer physical concentration of a growing population must give rise to a universal human consciousness—he names the process hominization— that will transcend the old individualism.

, What Teilhard intoned in a sibylline style, the English and American biological theorists have been expressing in plainer prose, without commitment to Christ and within a purely humanist frame. As Teilhard de Chardin devoted his life to a redefinition of Christology in the light of the new evolutionary vision, so the brilliant English and American biologists have conciliated their new world view with traditional Darwinism by revising its implications. Biology has moved away from dramatization of the individual struggle for survival to the idea of evolution by rational choice or direction toward a goal defined in terms, not of the virile he-man caricatures of the English eugenicists and the German race theorists of the late nineteenth century, but of humane, cooperative, loving, totally conscious beings. These scientists have put a new Darwin by the side of Teilhard de Chardin’s new Christ. J. B. S. Haldane’s man of the future will be ‘more rational and less instinctive than we are, less , subject to sexual and parental emotions, to rage on the one hand and the so| called herd instinct on the other.’’® Julian Huxley has a vision of ‘“‘psycho-social selection” that is unique to man and “decides between alternative courses of cultural evolution.” This mechanism, he says, ‘‘must be primarily psychological and mental, involving human awareness instead of human genes.’’® At one of the darkest moments of the present century, in the midst of World War” Il, Huxley reaffirmed his optimism, countermanding the dark vision of his ancestor: ‘‘Man represents the culmination of that process of organic evolution

which has been proceeding on this planet for over a thousand million years . . . The appearance of the human type of mind, the latest step in evolutionary progress, has introduced both new methods and new standards. By - means of his conscious reason and its chief offspring, science, man has the

| power of substituting less dilatory, less wasteful, and less cruel methods of effective progressive change than those of natural selection, which alone are available to lower organisms.’ Hermann J. Muller is perhaps more hortatory than prophetic, but the biological utopia of universal love eugenically controlled is for him at least a prospect. ‘“The rapid upgrading of our intelligence must be accompanied as closely as possible with a corresponding effort to infuse into the genetic basis of our moral natures the springs of stronger, more

genuine fellow-feeling.’’® , These scientists belittle the prophets of doom and those so engrossed in the

DARWINISM, THE AMBIGUOUS INTRUDER 781 pettiness of living that they fail to appreciate the grand design of the future happiness of mankind, which, to be sure, is more cerebral than sensate, more spiritual and artistic than physical—in the desexualized Comtean, rather than Fourierist, tradition. From the viewpoint of the scientists, ours is an age of crisis not because two eccnomic systems are at war, or because subject races throughout the world are demanding their share of goods and their right to participate in universal self-awareness, or populations and armaments are increasing in unprecedented numbers: These are conceived merely as the birth pangs of the new man. It is an age of crisis in the sense that a new humanity with a sharpened awareness and a deeper consciousness is being forged. Ordinarily this process would be thought of as requiring millennia in the evolutionary timetable; but some scientists are more sanguine. Undaunted by the horrors of the twentieth-century world they are confident that we are actually witnessing the initial breakthrough into the new age. They speak in Nietzschean terms—one hears echoes of ein Bruch, ein Zwang. To these scientists the contemporary revolutior. is a leap, not a slow acceleration, and they cite examples from the early history of evolution to justify their conception of disconti-

nuity. In a letter written shortly before his death, when the nations of the world, East and West, agreed to cooperate in the scientific investigations of the

geophysical year, Teilhard de Chardin playfully yet enthusiastically pro-

claimed it the first year of the noosphere.

The life scientists were joined by a number of eminent philosophers of history, who seemed agreed that the next stage of human life either must or is likely to entail a spiritualization of mankind and a movement away from absorption with aggressive power and instinctual existence. Arnold Toynbee used the term “‘etherialisation” for what Teilhard de Chardin in his private language called “hominization,” and Karl Jaspers, a second “axial period” of spirituality similar to the age of the prophets. For what is the fable of the sleeper on the ledge of a mountainside, which Toynbee has preserved from the first volume to the last, but a historian’s utopian dream? One ledge separates the primitive world from the age of civilizations. But this age is drawing to a close, and the rule of circularity that governed Toynbee’s twenty-one known specimens

. of civilized society in the past is not applicable to the future. Civilization with its inner cyclical dialectic of growth and destruction is about to be transcended.

When mankind reaches the next ledge above, new rules will prevail in what Toynbee, a somewhat reluctant utopian, tentatively defined as a spiritual world of brotherhood and communion. | Once we are committed to this ideology of cosmic evolution, the narrow five millennia of recorded history with their minor progressions, regressions, cycles, and sinusoidal curves appear terrifyingly diminished. And yet the neoevolutionists would insist that their teachings are raising man to a higher rather than a lower place in the scheme of things. Far from being dethroned as the king of nature, he is restored to a grander position than he occupied before the Copernican revolution. The earth may now be a mere planet moving around the sun, but man is no longer confined to it. His spiritual energy, his reason, his brain power, his psyche, his consciousness have become the center and the purpose of the whole universe, of the cosmic process. The old Adam was ruler

of the beasts but subservient to his Creator and on a lower rung than the

782 THE TWILIGHT OF UTOPIA , angels. The new Adam, as a result of his own will and struggle, towers in the forefront of all being, the end of billions of years of history—an intoxicating

conception, frightening in its hubris, if there are gods to envy him. , The complex interplay between Darwinian evolutionary theory and euchronia is far from over. If under the first impact of Darwinism utopian ex- | pectations began to fade because in a fundamental sense it was impossible to build a vision of a future society on the soft foundations of primitive slime that might propagate new creatures with unknown capacities and needs, the neo- © Darwinians succeeded in restoring the shapeless blob that was future man to his accustomed settled form. At most he will become endowed with a largish

, egg-shaped head. Unfortunately the breaking of the genetic code has restored the conditions that obtained before Teilhard and Julian Huxley wrote their cosmic utopias, and has again brought utopia into a state of perfect disequilibrium. The newly acquired potential capacity to manipulate the genetic bank of

future ages has bestowed upon man the powers of good and evil as these words have been understood since the birth of the Christian utopia. As usual, , science fiction anticipated the event by sketching out the activities of scientific geniuses or mad-geniuses who could make life and fashion it into a variety of

shapes. The prospect of the naked, unchecked power of biological creation , again darkens the horizon and once more casts ugly doubts upon the reign of euchronia. The future is misty. What do all the consoling apothegms of the French utopians and of Marx amount to if somehow the evil ones—whoever they may be—have acquired the instruments not only of technological pro-

duction but of human reproduction? Despite admonitions that the prophecies , of genetic omnipotence are premature, evolution has reappeared in a Janus-like mask. Condorcet once predicted that man would some day be able to determine the sex of the unborn and he discussed abuses to which this might lead. The new biology extends with the same hand the promise of eradicating dis-

eases and preventing deformities and the threat of new tyrannies in the mode _ of pessimistic science fiction, the dominant tone of sophisticated Western writ-

ing in this genre. The hazards of experimentation with recombinant DNA leave most of us in a state of bewilderment. The scientific utopia of Bacon and Condorcet has lost its innocence. And though Soviet science fiction was for _

decades boisterously optimistic, even there new tonalities can be heard that _

render problematic any future triumphs in the manipulation of biological processes—witness the Soviet film Solaris (based on the Polish novel by Stanislaw Lem) with its evocation of the terrors of a collectivity of official academic _ _ Fausts, who can no longer distinguish between their own imaginings and the scientific reality they once worshiped.

The Bimorphic Vision of Bernal

Ultimately, the future of utopia is bound up with the destiny of science and _ scientists in modern society. If the Spenglerian analysis of the decline of civilization proves accurate and the wishes of the Luddite, antiscientific exponents

of the counterculture and its utopia come true, or if controls over the instruments of atomic destruction lapse, the problem of a future utopia solves itself. There may some day be a renewal in another state of man, but the prospect of such a beginning recalls the fate of those refugees from disaster, as Plato de-

DARWINISM, THE AMBIGUOUS INTRUDER 783 scribed them, after one of the periodic cataclysms to which nature was subject. Under those circumstances, connections with the utopian past of Western man are likely to be tenuous at most. But what if none of these developments takes place? In that event the utopia of the scientists, which has been popularized in the speaking pictures of science fiction, becomes the most provocative of potentialities, especially since the visions of the scientists transcend the limits of

political and religious structures.

The hegemony of scietitists over society is a utopia that had its origins in the seventeenth century, and has gathered strength from Bacon’s New Atlantis through Condorcet’s Commentary on the New Atlantis, Saint-Simon’s Religion of Newton, Renan’s Dreams, and the present-day popularizations of science fiction. Whether the scientists themselves run the world as secular administrators, don priestly robes, or act as advisors imitative of Aristotle in his fabled relationship with Alexander, they are depicted as an elite in effective control of the world. The brief works of two important twentieth-century scientists, the crystallographer J. D. Bernal and the physicist Freeman Dyson, may serve

, as examples of the contemporary version of the scientific utopia. These men have used the instrumentulities of predictive science to arrive at patterns that fit into the utopian sequence as we have known it in the past. A few years before the aging Freud delivered his analysis of man’s discontent with contemporary civilization, young Bernal presented his tripartite division of man’s concerns in a remarkable essay, The World, the Flesh and the Devil

(1929). Before the proliferation of scientistic works on the near future, often called futurology (since Ossip Flechtheim invented the term), Bernal made a distinction between short-term prognoses, in which desires seriously distort perceptions, and those relating to the distant future, with which we are less emotionally involved. For Bernal there were patent disadvantages in the predictions of the distant future, but in the end they were less alarming than corruption of short-term prophecies by the immediacy of our desires. Long-range predictions suffered from our incapacity to separate “the axiomatic bases of the universe’’ from the historic accidents of our society. As a consequence, Bernal saw most of mankind bound by static conceptions despite overwhelming evidence of accelerating change. But a paradox lies behind this dynamism. While desire is the major agent of change, actual change is rarely what we desire. Man’s grappling with the massive, unintelligent forces of nature was set in the place of primacy, a position that Freud would hardly have awarded it. Bernal, with the gift of scientific prophecy, envisaged an artificial world in which

man’s imposition on nature would not be limited to mere modification of stones, metals, wood, and fibers. The massive, clumsy age of metals having been surpassed, man wouild be a free molecular architect creating a world of fabric materials, strong, light, and elastic, that would imitate the balanced perfection of the living human body. Energy would be transmitted by low-frequency wireless waves, and the high-frequency light waves of the sun would be captured. Food production would be a mere chemical problem. The free-

dom from necessity of the nineteenth-century romantic utopians would be- , come a reality. At this point the earth-centered, traditional, human Marxist utopia and Bernal came to a parting of the ways, though in his time he would hardly have recognized the profundity of the cleavage. This bearer of the scientific culture’s dynamism could not endure the idea of his being a Prometheus

784 THE TWILIGHT OF UTOPIA bound to the surface of the earth, subject to the caprices of geology. The conquest of space was the next assignment. Bernal’s man on earth might be freed from needs as Marx had conceived them, but the exploration of the universe became a new necessity from which the rationality of man would never be

, emancipated.

Bernal’s projections of permanent spatial colonies built by attaching a space vessel to an asteroid, hollowing it out, and using the material to build a protective shell have found many applications in science fiction; his description of space rockets and the manner of landing from them had elements of plain sci- — entific prediction, since fulfilled. He was eloquent in his eulogy of the optimum living, the openness, and freedom of existence within the confines of a protective shell in outer space. One is reminded of the womblike security of traditional utopian societies combined with the freedom of movement of paradisaical fantasies, those of the young Newton, for example. Bernal renewed the hope: ‘We should be released from the way we are dragged down on the surface of the earth all our lives: the slightest push against a relatively rigid

object would send us yards away; a good jump and we should be spinning , across from one side of the globe to the other.’’® By the time the transition to shell-asteroid existence had taken place, men would have become so absorbed in science as a way of life that large numbers of people would no longer be necessary for cultural pursuits. The further affirmation of the current movement toward the abstract in art would reach a point where communion with untouched nature was no longer required. Variety would be produced not by individuals in an earthly community but by the diversity of tendencies on different asteroid colonies in the solar system. When these got crowded, adventurers—the embodiment of the necessity for exploration—would set out be_yond the bounds of the system on voyages that could last for hundreds of thousands of years. Ultimately man would invade the stars, organizing them for human purposes, and most of the sidereal universe would be inhabited. - But man, Bernal remarks in one place, has had far less experience with understanding and changing himself than with altering his environment. Com-_ pared to the radical transformations of the physical environment through space science that he believed to be inevitable, what eugenicists were proposing seemed trivial modifications, merely rendering the species beautiful, healthy, and long-lived. Man’s exploratory curiosity would eventually go farther, Bernal believed, than the most daring eugenicists in refashioning the species. With the development of surgery and physiological chemistry, the radical alteration of the body would become scientifically feasible. Mankind would no longer allow evolution to work the transformations, but would deliberately copy and short-circuit its methods. Bernal’s vision was rooted in the Hellenic assumption that the development of man’s mental capacity was unique and inescapable. The limbs of a contemporary civilized worker were mere parasites, devouring nine-tenths of his energy. There was ‘‘blackmail” in the exercise limbs needed to prevent disease, and the body organs wore themselves out supplying , _ the physiological requirements of these essentially useless appendages.!° As an alternative to this grossly inefficient creature, whose destiny was ever more complex thought, Bernal dreamed up what he called a “‘fable,’”’ a remarkable, interventionist fable. He imagined a physiologist who, after an accident, had to decide whether to abandon his body and keep his brain suffused with fresh and

, correctly prescribed blood, or to die. If he chose to live as brain, he did not

DARWINISM, THE AMBIGUOUS INTRUDER 785 have to suffer isolation since it was a mere matter of delicate surgery to attach nerves permanently to an apparatus that would send out messages and receive

them. In a few years, Freud would be writing about man’s unease with his technological achievement and its artificial limbs, without knowing of the 29-

year-old British scientist’s fantasy. Freud and his patients would be left behind | on earth by Bernal, in pursuit of their balanced eudaemonistic utopia of achievement and pleasure, while he resorted to mechanical sublimation through the willed severing of heads from bodies among the more rationalist adventurers. He conjectured that during a transitional stage on the way to decapitation they might utilize the many superfluous nerves with which the body is endowed for various auxiliary and motor services. Bernal’s ideal life cycle starts in an ectogenetic factory. Man is then allowed 60 to 120 years of unspecialized existence during which he can occupy himself with traditional pleasures; thereafter he will be prepared to leave the body which he has sufficiently exploited and become a transformed, physically plastic man. “Should he need a new sense organ or have a new mechanism to operate, he will have undifferentiated nerve connections to attach to them, and will be able to extend indefinitely his possible sensations and actions by using successively different end-organs.’’'’ This will require the surgical intervention of a medical profession that will be chiefly in the mechanized hands of such transformed men. In Bernal’s final state of man, there is a brain inside a cylinder with nerve connections immersed in a liquid of the nature of cerebrospinal

fluid. The historian of utopian imagery cannot help recalling that Simon Magus conceived of paradise with its rivers as a symbol of the womb and its conduits of nourishment and that one of the favorite locations for utopia has been an island surrounded by waters. The ultimate twentieth-century scientific fantasy of the living brain preserves its original womblike encasement. The Pansophic utopia of the seventeenth century was a vision of what Europe and the world could become if the new system of scientific knowledge were instituted. Condorcet’s euchronia, wholly oriented toward the future, was an ideal portrait of a society virtually ruled by scientists, totally devoted to scientific advances that would alleviate pain and to the raising of all mankind to

more or less equality. In the twentieth century the scientific utopia is set off , both in space and time from mother earth. Bernal and his astronauts would abandon the earth because not all men are capable of pursuing the destiny of scientific inquiry. The earth would be left to those who continue to pursue an old-fashioned utopia, while the more advanced species of man moves off into a hollow asteroid to achieve decorporealization and inevitable transformation into a cerebral mechanism of hitherto unimagined power and sensitivity. The man who chooses the way of exploration, adventure, and mental triumph ends up as part of a multiple unit of consciousness capable of existing even after an individual brain in the collective has died and been replaced. The new unit of existence is immortal, while old parts are discarded and new ones produced. Condorcet had been mocked by the religious leaders of early-nineteenth-century France as pretending to everlasting life through science. Bernal in a fantasy reminiscent of Auguste Comte’s merging of all men into one Great Being, laid out the scientific particulars for the attainment of immortal consciousness. More than forty-three years later, in the ‘“Third J. D. Bernal Lecture,” delivered at Birkbeck College, London, in 1972, Freeman J. Dyson used the title of Bernal’s work as a text and then took off on his own speculations about the

| 786 THE TWILIGHT OF UTOPIA | future of mankind. Dyson’s utopian fantasies are to be sharply differentiated __ from a futurology that simply projects present tendencies. They are utopian in _ the same sense that Leibniz’ projects were. Among the numerous possibilities open to mankind, it was the duty of man.to discern that path of collective ac- |

| tivity which promised most to the achievement of bonté générale—in Leibniz’ terms, activity consonant with the will of God and obedience to his command-

ment to practice Christian charity. Dyson, in a secular spirit, also identified , _ many possibilities in the world: nuclear warfare, the total pollution of the atmosphere, universal starvation. What he proposed was a lateral solution to

man’s problems, a lateral movement propelled by an examination of two | major new scientific developments: the potentialities of discoveries in molecular biology and the habitability of comets and utilization of their energies. ~The needs that sparked this magnificent fantasy were perhaps not evident in earlier ages, though they may have underlain other manifestations of the utopian propensity in the past. In Dyson’s thought the exploratory need becomes acute with the realization that there are no more places left on earth to discover. The exploratory need is related to a desire for privacy or for living in

small independent units that are free from the omnipresent manipulatory powers of a central government of a vast state or empire. There is a presumption, based on the historical experience of Athens and Florence, that limited size will allow for greater creativity and perhaps an elevation of the genetic _ drift. Dyson’s ideal appears to have some kinship with the anarchistic utopia of Proudhon and the “grand designs” of seventeenth-century New England colonial settlements (Dyson himself recognized the latter analogy). Anxiety over human aggressiveness in his comet settlements, easily reached by space ships, is mitigated because triumphing over the environment becomes a major cohesive force. And even if not eliminated, aggression in the small group remains on the limited scale of either Athenian or Florentine city-state warfare. -Commitment to the total exploitation of whatever technological possibilities proceed from the mastery of the new principles of biology underlies Dyson’s utopia. The direction could conceivably be what has been called “‘ge-

netic surgery.” “The idea is that we shall be able to read the base-sequence of the DNA in a human sperm or egg-cell, run the sequence through a computer which will identify deleterious genes or mutations, and then by micromanipu-

lation patch harmless genes into the sequence to replace the bad ones.” _ Dyson refuses Jacques Monod’s scornful rejection of the illusion that remedies are to be expected from current advances in molecular genetics. While agreeing that the complexity of interactions among the thousands of genes in a human cell probably makes it advisable to declare a moratorium on genetic surgery

until we have learned vastly more, Dyson is confident that it will yet play a role in man’s future. The small colonies inhabiting space ships might allow themselves the freedom of experimentation with genetic surgery still prohib-

ited on earth. , , |

Dyson also has a series of alternative utopian solutions on a more modest level. Even if the manipulation of human genes is excluded there still remain other ways that might be pursued in relation to the scientific triumphs in biology and physics, biological engineering and self-reproducing machinery. “Biological engineering means the artificial synthesis of living organisms designed to fulfill human purposes. Self-reproducing machinery means the imitation of the function and reproduction of a living organism with non-living

DARWINISM, THE AMBIGUOUS INTRUDER 787 materials, a computer-program imitating the function of DNA and a miniature factory imitating the funtions of protein molecules.” '? Dyson has in mind the extension of the art of industrial fermentation to produce microorganisms equipped with enzyme systems tailored to our own design. Biological engineering could even venture from an enclosed biological factory to the more hazardous step of letting organisms loose into the atmosphere to scavenge and mine, to clean up the natural environment (disturbed by human technology), and to produce almost all the raw materials necessary for our industry and our existence.

Historically, extraterrestrial utopias have been located on other planets, except for a few rare underdeveloped seventeenth-century platforms floating in space. For colonization Dyson turns away from the planets and Bernal’s aster-

oids to the space around the solar system populated by huge numbers of comets, small worlds a few miles in diameter, rich in water and other life-sustaining chemicals. He estimates that the total population of comets loosely attached to the sun must be numbered in the thousands of millions. The whole universe is crowded with comets of the order of a light-day or less away from

one another. Since the comets have the basic constituents of living cells— water, carbon, and nitrogen—they lack only two essentials for human settlement, warmth and air. Through biological engineering men could design trees with leaves having a special skin that permits growth in “‘airless space by the

light of a distant Sun,” say as distant as the orbits of Jupiter and Saturn." Everything is provided for: The oxygen the leaves manufacture is transported down to the roots of the trees (which have gradually melted the interior of the

comet) and is then released into the areas where men live among the tree trunks and other flora and fauna. Since the comet is only a few miles in diameter the force of gravity is so weak that a tree can grow wondrously tall. From a comet ten miles in diameter trees can rise out into space for hundreds of miles, collecting the energy of sunlight from an area thousands of times as large as the area of the comet itself. ‘Seen from far away, the comet will look like a small potato sprouting an immense growth of stems and foliage.” ® Unlike his predecessor Bernal, Dyson does not long for the absolute of an artificial environment, but seeks to preserve in outer space reminders of earthly existence. Nor does he totally disembody the creature man. In the period between the two scientists, the emphasis seems to have shifted in descriptions of

the drive behind the utopian flight to outer space. Bernal conceives of the human creature as pursuing the final destiny of his rationality when he cuts the

, umbilical cord that has tied him to earth and his own body; Dyson’s adventurers leave an earth whose existence has become intolerable, self-destructive, and invent rational solutions that preserve the species in a recognizable shape— the eugenicist’s dream realized through new biological discovery.

Writers and readers of scientific fiction, that somewhat perverse modern utopia, have borne witness to the seminal character of Bernal’s essay; Dyson will doubtless exercise a similar function in future stages of this non-art. In

fundamental political outlook Bernal and Dyson, who did not know each other, would appear to be men of different worlds. Bernal came to identify himself with Soviet Marxism, while Dyson recalls the vestigial rugged individualist, no admirer of centralized authority under any rubric. Their convergence may demonstrate the degree to which utopian constellations of far-out predictive scientists transcend the bounds of political inclination.

Freudo-Marxism, a Hybrid for the Times THE READAPTATION of Darwinism to serve the utopian ideal of a peaceful, ra-

tional, cooperative man was paralleled by the efforts of a group of psychologists, anthropologists, and philosophers to grapple with Freud and free him from the rather somber portrait of the future of mankind that he left behind, particularly in his last works. Freud had consistently aimed his sharpest darts against the promise that aggressiveness would be eliminated as a consequence of establishing a new order of property relationships, or of the abolition of property—the underlying assumption of most nineteenth-century utopians. Freud’s death instinct may have been a relatively late introduction into his system, but the whole of his life work had already established a deep-rooted contradiction between civilization and worldly happiness. Deadly hostility against fathers and brothers was represented as virtually innate and only partially transmutable. In many ways Freud’s was the most trenchant and devastating — attack on utopian illusions—what he called the lullabies of heaven—that had ever been delivered.

Freud: Dark Cloud over Utopia A doctor engaged in the cure of individual souls in distress and the teacher of a technical method to quiet anxiety and sometimes eliminate physical symptoms related to psychic anguish, Freud was also a philosophe with a generally unified concept of human nature, subject of course to the normal inconsistencies that crop up in the writing of any man who has labored for more than half a century and experienced the vicissitudes of changing time, place, and fortune. As a proper Viennese physician in the Hippocratic tradition, he sought to relieve pain without deeply questioning the ultimate purposes of his patients. Doubtless he was oversanguine at times about his psychic remedies, as he had been about cocaine as a panacea until it proved to be addictive. (For many years he continued to cherish the hope that ultimately some mental illnesses, like other diseases, would be amenable to chemical and biological cures. From this perspective, long-drawn-out analytic techniques would have to be conceived as temporary palliatives pending the discovery of effective drugs.) But he had a broad historical world view that can be separated from his role as a physician, a new version of the ancient dualism. Freud posits two given drives or instincts in all human beings: the erotic, which joins the creature in love relationships with many persons and things, and the aggressive, which seeks to divide, destroy, and bring death. These instincts can be directed toward oneself as well as toward others, which often complicates their description and the diagnosis of their ravages. In the fragments of the pre-Socratic Agrigentine poet Empedocles, the alternativity of love and strife in the world was presented with moving simplicity, and Freud

, 788

FREUDO-MARXISM, A HYBRID FOR THE TIMES 789 —whether he knew it or not—remains bound to a traditional chain of thought derived from ancient Greece. Nothing in all time will alter the contrariety of forces operating in man. The loving and the aggressive cohabit in the same body and no social institutions or systems will totally exterminate one or the other. Since both derive their energy from a life-force, which in each individual is a finite quantity of potential energy, the triumph of one will, at one time or another, diminish its rival; but the eternal enemy, its opposite, is always lurking somewhere in the shadows of inner man. Most often these two drives are so inextricably intertwined that love toward one set of persons may be strengthened and nurtured, made more intense, only by aggression toward others. Freud has a way of generalizing these drives so that they become attributes of whole civilizations, some exhibiting a predominance of love, others the over-

bearing power of destruction. | ,

Civilization and culture, in their loving and nonaggressive aspects joining

millions together, have derived their energy by withdrawing it from that seemingly indestructible unit of social existence, the family. As a consequence, there is a latent antagonism between the demands of genital love, particularly in the female, and the uses of civilization. Woman for Freud has never really

been reconciled to the purposes of civilization, which create competitive, though mild, loving relationships among men. If love and aggression, the only sources of pleasure, are given free rein, they become enemies of civilization and _ of their own host. Love uninhibited exhausts itself, spreads over a great number of objects with a devouring possessiveness—mother, father, brothers, and sisters. Nothing is left for culture to draw upon. The history of culture-building has therefore meant a constant curtailment of love objects and a limitation of the exercise of the love instinct to specific genital forms. The aggressive feelings that have often surrounded the love object so that love becomes exclusive have given rise to multitudinous fears and anxieties, above all the fear of the powerful father who sees a rival in his son. There is a

myth in Freud that at one time the brothers banded together and killed that father who tried to deny them any gratification and keep all women to himself. But the fear of the father and his reprisals lived on after his death. A modern man does not have to kill his father in order to become stricken with anxious terror; it is quite sufficient to wish the act. Moreover, the aggressive feeling of rivalry toward the father is never isolated, but is commingled with love and fear of losing that love. The rivalry of siblings merely presages the hostility toward all who come within a man’s orbit in later life. Brothers and sisters may love one another, but must also hate one another. And despite the mythic pact of the brothers not to kill, to repress some quantum of their instinctual drive, they have to practice eternal vigilance against violation of the treaty. The sexual development of each creature ideally moves through stages of oral, then anal, absorption before it finally settles into genitality. The earlier forms of gratification are not wholly abandoned and survive in the forepleasure of love play. But the ideal evolution—a sort of genital utopia—rarely

, takes place without disturbance, for all manner of events, premature disclosures, and premature experiences can give rise to definitive fixations which cripple genital sexuality and cause great unhappiness and displeasure. There is both a desire to move along the sexual escalator to genitality and a reluctance | to abandon the earlier forms of libido, especially that of the first period of bliss-

790 THE TWILIGHT OF UTOPIA , ful, undifferentiated existence in the womb or at the breast. The successful achievement of the sexual pilgrim’s progress is dependent upon two factors that are not always favorable: The biological endowment of the individual may unfit him for the climb; or circumstances, the world of reality, may wound him traumatically in these secret parts. In either event he is subject to pain and unhappiness. Throughout history man has sought ways of mitigating his unhappiness and ©

Freud lists many of them, along with a variety of techniques devised to over- | come the pain temporarily. In an excursion of Das Unbehagen in der Kultur (Civilization and Its Discontents), 1930, he analyzed major sources of the unhappiness of man as he moves through life by dividing them into three categories: pain from one’s body, from external physical nature, and from other human beings. In particular, the pain and unhappiness caused by other human beings

_ appear ineradicable, the greatest disappointment of culture and civilization. Whatever reform in human relations is proposed bears a worm within it—an absolutist verdict that made Freud the dark prince of the modern anti-utopians. In order to avoid the pain inflicted by others, some have fled to the desert or to monasteries, where they have sacrificed the pleasures of love to protect themselves from the aggressions of their fellows. Others have built ideal worlds,

, imaginary utopias into which they have escaped. Still others have dedicated themselves to political programs of total radical reformation, perhaps next to |

religion the most illusory remedy. , Here Freud directs his attack at the Marxist utopia with which his system

stood in open conflict. Aggression is an instinctual need and to trace back the major source of aggression of man against man to property ownership is non- | sensical. Private property may be an instrument for the expression of violence,

| but if it were abolished the instinct would seek other outlets. Aggression antedates property ownership and can already be discovered in the nursery.’ Why lull men to sleep with these fairy tales? The spirit of equality that communism purports to foster may be gratifying to some men but disastrously crushing to others. The excellent and the superior who find themselves leveled by the communist system suffer from this equality and the result may be a general depression of culture. In America—the land of his negative identity—Freud

, thought he detected the universal sign of the times, a distrust of worth. The history of group formations taught Freud that all loving, nonaggressive, ingroup relationships—nations, states, cultures—were formed at the expense of

violent hostility to others, the out-groups. The chronicle of ethnic group formation ancient and modern provided him with a plethora of examples to sup-

port his thesis.

For Freud all cultures and civilizations were by definition repressive. They differed in the severity of their repression of manifestations of the aggressive instinct or of the erotic. Since individuals have a great variety of needs of differing intensities, some epochs and cultures are better for some individuals than others; that is, to some persons they offer greater opportunity for pleasure. If a man is demonstratively aggressive, he might be happier in a hunting society than in a tea-party society. Some societies are so punitive in their restriction of certain types of sexual relationship that they totally destroy creatures who would prosper in other states. Thus the inevitable inequality is twofold. All men are born unequal in their instinctual equipment and societies

FREUDO-MARXISM, A HYBRID FOR THE TIMES 791 gratify these unequal men unequally. Freud, who died in 1939 and thus did not

witness the recent sexual revolution, believed that the Western world had reached a high point of restriction on sexual gratification. Though the restrictions did not fall equally on all—the strong simply ignored them—a vast quantum of suffering was thus brought into the world. If Freud allowed himself a reformist aside it was at this point: Society, culture, civilization had gone far beyond their basic needs in imposing sexual prohibitions. Most of the palliatives for pain that Freud described—distraction in work, sublimation in art, being in love, taking alcohol (he wrote before the emergence of the contemporary popular drug culture)—could be effective in various degrees under ordinary circumstances. But there were persons who could not manage to work out an appropriate diet of even partial alleviation. They were unable either to severely curb or to cut off the overt manifestations of the drives through some higher mental system. For these unfortunates there was only one way out. Those defeated in the battle for existence sought refuge in

madness, with its total withdrawal from the world of men the aggressors. Having been subjected to the shocks of World War I and the presence of the Gestapo in his house on the eve of World War II, Freud was none too sanguine about the future of man. One consolation that he refused was the religious bal-

sam. This was a return to the infantile, to the feelings of the child at its mother’s breast, or to the naked fear of the omnipotent father. Unlike art, science, and technology, religion was vehemenily rejected as unworthy of man, as pretending to powers it did not possess. It did not tell the truth, and confused a palliative with a cure. In the end the paltry measure of happiness an individual might attain was dependent upon far more than an ideal social order: It was rather the result of a complex interplay between a man’s psychophysiological nature and the particular forms of repression adopted at a given historical time in a specific culture. Some natures were doomed from the outset to suffer under certain cultural regimens, others to flourish; some sought refuge in insanity, while others could be restored through therapy to endure or tolerate what was essentially inimical to them. There are many ways to unhappiness in the Freudian philosophy. Civilization might create higher mental systems which contained the beast, but aggressiveness would inevitably erupt in a thousand guises. If primitive aggressiveness merely assumed different shapes throughout history, if the most that could be done in the name of civlization was to repress and sublimate, then the eudaemonist utopia was a flagrant absurdity. To the extent that Freud has a utopian ideal it remains a Kantian one: the development of all human capacities beyond the instinctual. The preferred historical state of man is the reign of de-emotionalized reason; but this is hardly in prospect. For the mass of mankind Freud sees no final hope: They will continue to be brutish beasts vacillating between Death and Eros. Perhaps a few like himself or Einstein can achieve wisdom, can sublimate their aggressions successfully. These unhappy few are really believers in all the dictates of the Kantian moral imperative. Their solution is not happiness, a hedonist happiness, which in any ultimate sense is as impossible for Freud as it was for Kant or Epictetus or Epicurus. The universal moral values of Kant were taken for granted by Freud’s small society. His psychoanalysis suffered no value crisis, because it was enveloped or swathed in a Kantian morality that the Germano-Judaic educational

792 THE TWILIGHT OF UTOPIA

~ Kant.

system under which he grew up took for granted. Trouble came to Freudianism after its sea voyage to the United States, when it found itself the official psychological remedy in a society that had no Kantian morality as a lodestar, nothing but a hypocritical Puritanism. In desperation an “‘ego psychology” was invented to preach a sort of attenuated moralism and serve as an ersatz for

, The Eudaemonist Response ,

Many epigoni who were influenced by Freud’s writings nevertheless tried to repulse his corrosive anti-utopian assault, to oppose his militant rejection of the socialist utopia, along with religious belief, as illusions unworthy of rational man. Some denied the existence of the death instinct and the inevitability of aggressiveness. Others gave lip service to Freud as a great destroyer of Victorian hypocrisy, as a critic, but would not grant that he had the genius to create a new vision of the world that might sustain mankind in the twentieth century. They wanted lullabies with fresh tunes. Still others quoted isolated texts that _ contradicted his generally pessimistic position, especially with regard to the creativity of earlier stages of the sexual cycle. They refused to accept his argu-ment that for all time civilization could only be held together through the painful repression of libidinal energy. If they had a Hegelian bent, they conceded that at one time this libidinal energy may have been needed for civilization| building, but once a civilization of freedom from economic necessity had been achieved through technology, the repression and conversion were no longer necessary. They switched from Freud’s negativistic emphasis upon the neuroses with the inevitable chronicle of widespread psychic malaise to optimistic affirmations of creative energy, and proclaimed actualization of the unique self as an absolute value that was not incompatible with communal love and cohe-

sion. In their utopian rededication they moved in different directions. Some brought up in the Marxist tradition concentrated upon the end of a system of alienated labor—their psychological definition for competitive, exploitative capitalism—as a prerequisite for the establishment of that system of mental

health which they identified with the abolition of instinctual repression. Others for a time reversed the priorities and appealed to politically revolutionary parties to place, in the forefront of their program and practice, freedom

from sexual repression as a necessary prolegomenon to the achievement of po- _ litical renovation. In either case the form and content of work—was it alien_ ated or not—were intimately related to sexual emancipation. Another orientation, related to Carl Jung, aimed to revitalize religion and fill the vacuum created by Freud’s contempt. The archetypes and forms of mythic

and religious experiences deeply embedded in the unconscious of everyman | were not illusions but the stuff and nutriment of man’s psychic salvation, with-

out which he was destined to become spiritually impoverished, dry—a far graver danger than the material deprivation the social utopians hoped to eliminate. There came into being a whole spectrum of specialized psychological re-

ligions that promised eupsychias. A shift had taken place from the “best com- | monweale,” which More located in a place, through the euchronia, which was set in a future time, to the eupsychia, the good state of mind that could be induced virtually in any place and at any time by an adept who exercised regu-

FREUDO-MARXISM, A HYBRID FOR THE TIMES 793 larly. The eupsychians introduced shreds and tatters of assorted Oriental religions, which in their new milieu faddishly succeeded one another at a rapid pace, as the experimenters, in the manner of the late Romans, abandoned one panacea for another. One is tempted to posit half seriously, half ironically, a law of the uneven development of utopian thought. Psychological utopias and their problems are most relevant in those areas where the economic utopia, at least on its elementary level, seems to have been realized and the social utopia of self-fulfillment in work is at least partially in effect. It is only then, perhaps, that the ultimate problems of happiness posed in sexual and religious terms become pervasive. They have always been present in some form, but the psychic pangs can be driven away by hunger and by thirst for creative knowledge. Once there are sufficiencies of food and jobs, the problem of human happiness becomes linked to psychic needs. We have reached a higher level of utopian needs, and who knows whether they are more or less painful when they remain unappeased? The first important disciple of Freud’s to attempt an adaptation of his discoveries to a more optimistic view of the future of man that would be consonant with the Marxist utopia was Wilhelm Reich. The Marxist and the psy-

choanalytic movements had once appeared on the European intellectual horizon as profoundly antagonistic. In the twenties, on the eve of the Nazi seizure of power, Reich broke ranks and summoned the German proletariat to abandon their exclusive fixation upon the Marxist sociological interpretation of man’s historical destiny and to incorporate much of Freud’s psychological theory of genitality into their world view—‘“‘Dialektischer Materialismus und Psychoanalyse”’ appeared in Unter dem Banner des Marxismus in 1929.” But Reich drew revolutionary consequences from the doctrine: Instead of a future civilization resting on heightened instinctual repression, he preached an apotheosis of the body in all its parts and a worship of the orgasm. Immediate radical sexual emancipation was for him a prerequisite to the achievement of a victorious social revolution; otherwise the potentially militant masses, enthralled by the repressive psychological forces of the Oedipal family structure, would be inhibited from active political rebellion. The two most important nineteenthcentury, pre-Marxist utopian schools, the Saint-Simonian and the Fourierist, had intimately coupled free sexuality with work needs, but this bond had been neglected by the Victorian-Kaiser Wilhelm Marxists. Reich’s original Sexualpolitik, which did more violence to Freud than to Marx, was an authentic return to the older tradition. Those who followed Reich’s path in the 1940s and 1950s, Erich Fromm,

Norman O. Brown, and Herbert Marcuse, represent a characteristic resurgence of the Adamite utopia in a mechanized society where relationships are endangered by an atrophy of love. They negate the Freudian negation of the eudaemonist utopia. They reject the underlying dualism of his system and admit no intrinsic reason why the libido cannot enjoy free expression, once mankind has been emancipated from the economic and sexual repressions that may have been necessary for culture-building in lower states of civilization.

The posthumously published manuscripts of the young Marx were the proof text for Fromm’s great conciliation. Like Hercules at the crossroads, modern man could have embarked upon a new order of free labor in companionship and love—Fromm’s euphemistic restatement of the Fourierist utopia

794 THE TWILIGHT OF UTOPIA —or he could have again allowed himself to submit to a pathological sado-ma-

sochistic order of society. Man seems to have chosen the second alternative, a | competitive, power-dominated society in which “alienation as a sickness of the self’? is well-nigh universal.* He will never be happy until he finds love and security in true democratic socialism. “‘Man today is confronted with the most

| fundamental choice; not that between Capitalism and Communism, but that between robotism (of both the capitalist and the communist variety), or Humanistic Communitarian Socialism.’’4 Norman Brown’s utopia also derives from Freud. But he sees no reason for

suffering through the later repressive stages of genitality when it would be more human, natural, and indeed pleasurable to stop at the period of greatest self-fulfillment, childhood sexuality. Wilhelm Reich’s assumption that the sexuality which culture represses is normal adult genital sexuality is rejected as “simplified and distorted.”’® With a wealth of literary evidence from poets and mystics, Brown demonstrates that Freud’s stage of childhood is what mankind has longed for through the ages, that the redemption of the body, the abolition of dualism, the dawn of Schiller’s age of play or Fourier’s “‘attractive work” is

the final solution to the problem of happiness. Brown contends that Freud , himself had sensed this in one of his moods but censored it in another. Brown, too, calls to witness the young Marx, though his utopia is in general less politically oriented than either Fromm’s or Marcuse’s. While his argument is not so skillful a dialectical exercise as. Marcuse’s, he pursues much the same course in turning Freud upside down. “The abolition of repression would abolish the

, unnatural concentrations of libido in certain particular bodily organs—concen- | trations engineered by the negativity of the morbid death instinct, and consti- , tuting the bodily base of the neurotic character disorders in the human ego... . The human body would become polymorphously perverse, delighting in that full life of all the body which it now fears.” ® , Marcuse’s Last Paradox

: Marcuse’s was by far the most popular and intellectually the most sophisticated attempt to amalgamate elements from Freud and Marx in a new utopian synthesis. Like many of the other Freudo-Marxists he was at once dogmatic,

| apocalyptic, and changeable. While Eros and Civilization: A Philosophical Inquiry into Freud (1955) is a critique of Freud in the name of an absconded Marx —who, by the way, is not mentioned in the text—One-Dimensional Man: Studies in the Ideology of Advanced Industrial Society (1964) represents a departure from Marx on a crucial point of doctrine, the historical role of the proletariat as the agent that would bring into being the new society. Marcuse quoted Freud

against himself, often by removing passages from their context or treating tongue-in-cheek excursions as if they were earnest affirmations of principle. Marx of Das Kapital was neglected in favor of the sibylline phrases of the

young Marx, that high-water mark of romantic utopian thought. , Marcuse accepted the idea that civilization-building in its early stages required the energy provided by libidinal repression. But once a high technology | had been reached, when freedom from want and from the necessity of anything but nominal labor was an imminent reality, not a remote fancy, there was no longer any need for libidinal repression, the primary source of energy

FREUDO-MARXISM, A HYBRID FOR THE TIMES 7195 for civilization-building in Freud’s closed system. Syncretic language coupled

Marxist with Freudian terms, as in the portmanteau phrase “surplus repression,”’ in the expectation that the verbal union would eventuate in a con-

ceptual one.’ The mix was appealing, particularly to those who felt the need | for a psychology, more sophisticated than Marx’s underlying utilitarianism, to supplement his philosophy and his theory of social development. The Freudian dispensation was retained as the psychology of prehistory, but the inevitability of repression, the social need for a heavy psychic toll once a society of plenty had been achieved, was flatly denied. For the purposes of his argument, at least, Marcuse incorporated the basics of the Freudian system in its pure form, unadulterated by the neo-Freudians, but to his Hegelian-Marxist faith in the stadially developing consciousness of man, the idea that civilization must forever be nurtured and sustained by repressed libidinal energies was clearly abhorrent. In his utopia an era of general nonrepressive sublimation would be inaugurated by reactivating early stages of the libido. “The sexual impulses, without losing their erotic energy, transcend their immediate object and eroticize normally non- and anti-erotic rela- |

tionships between the individuals, and between them and their environment... The pleasure principle extends to consciousness. Eros redefines reason in his own terms. Reasonable is what sustains the order of gratification.” Fourier never said more. But as in Fromm, the abolition of “surplus repression” would require political action as a prelude to the establishment of a new world. In Eros and Civilization Freudian pessimism was dissipated by the prophecy that once the repressive order of capitalism had been destroyed by

the working class and the higher stages of communism achieved not only would men be free from necessity in an economic sense, but they would have the opportunity to fulfill the multiplicity and complexity of their psychosexual

desires. Men would be twice liberated—from the fetters of capitalism and from the instinctual repressions of civilization. A decade later, however, Marcuse sensed that the manipulatory capacities of capitalist society made this wished-for historical development problematic. In One-Dimensional Man optimism yielded to disenchantment. Marcuse had gone

into the marketplace, having left the study where he could let a Freudian phrase cosset a Marxian one without looking at the world, or where he could indulge in what may have been an intellectual’s jeu d’esprit. The reality he discovered was dark. The large-scale technological organization of power states had made it possible to enslave the libido to the machine of propaganda by awarding the masses spurious, addictive pleasures to assure their acquiescence in the maintenance of the existing political structure. Gratifications were immediate and tawdry, blotting out true human needs. The ordinary man had been seduced by a cheap and ubiquitous sexualization as a narcotic. Instead of the workers’ seizing the instruments of production, the capitalists had seized control of the collective libido of their workers and manipulated it at will. Technology, while it built benign labor-saving devices and productivity-creating machines, had also made dramatic advances in the means of mass communication and had concentrated them in the hands of capitalists. They were able to enmesh the workers in their web, to forge psychic iron chains that held them captive. Technology had become an end in itself, its expansion an independent, autonomous, self-perpetuating phenomenon. The spirit of the new,

796 THE TWILIGHT OF UTOPIA rational, higher technology had invaded every nook and cranny of the society —the university, art, and the psyche of the workers. The consequences were rampant false consciousness (Marcuse was still a book-carrying Hegelian) and failure on the part of Marx’s chosen people, the . proletariat, to realize the technological potentialities for the total emancipation of all mankind and to engage in revolutionary action. The masses now lived in a state of dull consent, of the somnolence of true consciousness, of preoccupa- , tion with vulgar, stupefying pleasures. Marcuse still appreciated the worth of historical civilization, but in the contemporary cultural world he saw only pitiable degeneracy in the miscegenation of capitalism and the libido. The language of intellectual communication had become concrete and self-sufficient to the point of eliminating all ambiguity, history, and potentiality. Industrial consumer societies constantly augmented false needs, absorbed the people in the acquisition of objects, and indefinitely prolonged the period of inauthentic necessity while the ruling classes continued to play their power games. A rational technology could appease many consumer demands, but the whole system was in the service of irrationality. A moon flight or a sophisticated military weapon was a superb example of the mighty collaboration of science, technol-_ ogy, and work for ends of questionable rationality. In their innermost beings men were alienated from the relentless pursuit of objects, but they were as if drugged with things that could not really satisfy them and with sexuality that was not a free expression of love. There is much to be said for this dismal portrayal and its critical philosophy, though Marcuse ignored the extent to which in the West pleasures and even a degree of self-realization have become possible for millions who in earlier societies knew only drudgery. Marcuse’s initial commitment in the 1920s and 1930s was to Marx; his interest in Freud came later. The cornerstone of Marx’s social theory, however the texts may be contorted, has always been the labor theory of value. Under capitalism, massive technological structures and vast wealth rest on a forced levy upon the labor of a proletarian, conceived of primarily as a manual worker in an industrial society tied to the machine. As a consequence, the resolution of the contradictions of capitalism would come about only with the willed selfemancipation of the workers, who would seize the instruments of production and no longer give up, or alienate, a large part of their labor, their being, or an extension of their being, to an idle, nonproductive capitalist. By the second half of the twentieth century this analysis, with its central emphasis upon the maturing proletariat, was no longer so convincing to Marcuse as it might have been in pre-Hitler Germany, when Marcuse’s thought was formed. Automa-

tion had made the worker a mere adjunct to the machine, almost supernumerary. Hence it became increasingly shortsighted to rely on the vanishing manual worker, or the cog-in-the-wheel industrial worker, to be the prime mover in a transition from capitalism to nonrepressive communism. In fact, _ Marcuse began to doubt whether the worker was a revolutionary agent at all. Marx had been aware that classes, which he treated anthropomorphically, could be hoodwinked, corrupted, deceived. But the utter degradation of the proletariat in the late stages of the industrial-technological epoch had not been foreseen and required a revamping of Marxist thought. — In One-Dimensional Man the inherited, deeply ingrained values of the aesthete and philosopher came into play. In our civilization there was ugliness,

| FREUDO-MARXISM, A HYBRID FOR THE TIMES 797 stupefaction, surfeit, no chance for the burgeoning of a true higher consciousness. In this mood Marcuse could sound like a moralist preacher extolling the loftiest spiritual values. He diagnosed acutely what had happened to philosophical knowledge, which had become technologized. When the technological spirit dominated a society everything in it partook of the same ruthless con-

creteness, immediacy, unambiguity, exactitude, precision. Because of its concentration on presentness, its pursuit of novelty, and its orientation toward practical achievement, this spirit neglected or wiped out the past, or, what is the same, technologized it. Ever the Hegelian, Marcuse discerned in this concretization that seemed to brook no otherness an intellectual weapon that stifled any revolt or opposition. Men became so saturated with the moment and its fullness that there was not a brain cell left to conjure up totally different possibilities, to imagine dialectically the opposite of what is. Marcuse joined the large company of those who saw in the triumph of the technological spirit a desiccation of life and a shrinking of its dimensions. This has been one of the oldest critiques of industrial-scientific civilization. From its very beginning technology has been regarded with a certain uneasiness. In eighteenth-century Germany Herder, who probably saw few new machines in his lifetime, looked with wonderment at the immense potential power of technological achievement and then asked, “‘Power for what?”’ William Blake and Goethe both attacked Newton, the symbol of science, because he seemed to reduce life to mathematics, to the measurable. To Spengler, mammoth technology, like all gigantism, was a symptom of the decline of civilization. Marcuse was in a formative period when Spengler struck Germany in the 1920s and many overtones of his work can be rediscovered in a different setting. But what happened to the Marxist in Marcuse, faced with his own spirited, often incisive, attack on technological-industrial civilization? As early as his book Soviet Marxism: A Critical Analysis (1958), he had begun to perceive the convergence of the Russian Soviet and the Western technological spirit. The tri-

umph of Soviet communism would have the same results as the spread of

American technology. ,

The Hegelian philosopher of history had to find agencies of change, new embodiments of world spirit that grew out of existing conditions, but he could not hold fast to any instrumentality of liberation for long. Every so often he grasped at a new straw. If students rebelled against university authorities, for a moment he hailed them as the great predestined force of change; but when confronted by some of the consequences, he recoiled like any bookish professor. He then hoped the oppressed minorities of capitalist states who had been refused a place at the banquet table of the industrial-technological civilization would lead the way. But Marcuse knew that the minorities, like the workers before them, were all too ready to be ensnared by the mechanized fleshpots of the civilization. He toyed with the fantasy that the creative break in world civilization would come from the have-not nations, who would be warned by our spiritual distress and avoid its pitfalls. But he could hardly avert his eyes from the evidence pointing the other way, the bloody military coups launched in the new nations for the possession of the instruments of power. Marcuse was left with a patent revolutionary utopian need unfulfilled. Somehow history had to capture technology for the expansion of the human spirit in all its manifestations, for true freedom from necessity. But his own analysis and his fickle sin-

798 THE TWILIGHT OF UTOPIA gling out of a succession of fateful heroes to effect the necessary change ended in

an impasse. ,

In July 1967 Herbert Marcuse delivered himself of a colloquy at the Free University of Berlin, ““Das Ende der Utopie.”’ Its title was characteristic of his normal dialectical play. What he meant was that utopia had stopped serving as an object of derision and a contradiction of socio-historical potentialities, since human capacity had now reached a level of achievement that made any transformation of the natural or technical environment feasible. Utopianism as a special category of thought had lost its raison d’étre, for everything, man’s wil-

| dest dreams of plenitude, could become actual. The end of utopia was merely the end of the old-fashioned limited utopia. Though the blasphemy did not come to his lips, even Marxism itself had offered only finite possibilities; but now that the forces of production generated by twentieth-century science and technology had lifted off the lid, anything was conceivable and utopia could fly

to the highest vaults of heaven. And so Marcuse had turned a paradox: His utopia was realistic. It was firmly grounded in the actual productive capacities of advanced technology which, given the correct rational-organizational sys-

tem, could do anything imaginable.

Since the material and psychic factors were now ready for the revolution with its leap into freedom, why had it not occurred? In response to his self- _ posed question, Marcuse explained that all the forces of existing society were mobilized against its happening, one of the most profound bits of social analy-

sis since Calvin Coolidge’s conclusion that when many people were out of work, unemployment resulted. There was a sort of conspiratorial organization of “‘society as a whole’’—-Marcuse could no longer think in Marxist terms of capitalists and proletarians—that opposed and resisted the transformation. If Marcuse had been intermittently troubled by the difficulties of identifying a revolutionary class in the most technologically developed capitalist societies, in this lecture he took refuge in an old utopian bromide, common to infantile anarchists and vulgar Marxists, that the bearers of social revolution would fashion themselves into a vanguard in the course of the revolution itself and were not “‘ready-made’’; this reading of the Marxist gospel gingerly sidestepped the

whole issue. , i

Marcuse’s end of utopia also spelled the end of history in the sense that the future no longer needed to be the development or continuation of the past; the

creation of Marx’s new man would be a sharp discontinuity, with no recognizable relationship to the previous history of mankind. Marx had still hesitated on the brink of that leap from the realm of necessity (which even in its late stages entailed some rationally organized work) into the realm of absolute freedom. Marcuse sportively reversed the traditional formula of the Anti-Duhring: Instead of finding a way from old-fashioned utopianism to science or scientific socialism, men could now open an untrodden path leading from scientific socialism to a new age of absolute freedom from necessity. Marcuse benevolently applauded Marx for his negative appraisal of the old utopias, because the objective and subjective conditions, those two pillars that support the world, had not been ripe for the realization of their fantasies. Henceforward, however, everything was possible; nothing was utopian in the traditional sense—or almost nothing. Marcuse was still prepared to apply the term pejoratively to projects that violated physical or biological laws, though such categories were also historical and subject to change.

FREUDO-MARXISM, A HYBRID FOR THE TIMES 799 This kind of thinking was marked by gross neglect of man’s utopian past. Most rationalist utopias of the West have in fact been realizable within the framework of their existing intellectual and economic systems. It was not men’s limited productive capacities that inhibited the founding of More’s Utopian cities with their agricultural hinterland, Vairasse’s osmasies, Campanella’s City of the Sun, Lesconvel’s physiocratic communities, Fourier’s phalansteries,

Owen’s New Harmonies. In his writings Fourier had repeatedly denounced the West for having wasted three thousand years of opportunities for human happiness, since the agricultural and intellectual capacities of the ancients had been quite sufficient for the introduction of fully equipped phalansteries. The contradictions inherent in utopia—the refractory, destructive, power-lusting forces of Kant’s Heerschsucht, Habsucht, and Ehrsucht (drives for dominion, possession, and prestige)—-seem no more amenable to resolution in a technological-scientific world than in the agricultural society in which the modern Chris-

tian utopia was born. But Marcuse was not disturbed by such elementary psychological perceptions. Marcuse made a belated discovery of what to a historian of utopian thought would be a banality: ‘‘Human needs have a historical character. Beyond animality all human needs, including sexuality, are historically determined and historically transformable. And the break with the continuity of needs, which

carry their repression with them, the leap in a qualitative difference is not something made up but something which is inherent in the development of the forces of production. This has reached a level, where it needs new vital needs,

in order to live up to its own possibilities.” Still clothed in Marxist robes, Marcuse naturally saw the new needs as negating the old ones inherent in the system of capitalist domination. The catalogue was long: the need to struggle for existence, to earn a living, to follow the achievement principle, to compete, to continue the wasteful, disruptive, endless productivity that is bound up with destruction, the need for repression of instinctual drives. In their place he set the need for rest; the need for privacy, either alone or with chosen others; the need for beauty, for unearned happiness. And the last utopian called for the recognition of a new anthropological need, emerging not ex nihilo, but out of prevailing conditions in the capitalist world. This need, hitherto unfelt by the majority of men, was the need for true freedom. In his youth he had prepared a bibliographical study of Schiller—and who knows but that he might have remembered the old poet’s libertarian rhetoric. The new freedom would no longer be related to the satisfaction of mere material wants or to emancipation from alienated labor or even to immunity from “surplus repression.”’ The novel, vital freedom would entail the birth of a ‘new morality” that would completely repudiate Judeo-Christianity. Marxism had to risk defining freedom in terms totally different from anything called freedom in today’s political language. Fourier was signaled as an antecedent who had come closest to Marcuse’s own conception of the distinction between the free and the unfree society.

Marcuse went beyond Marx, who had bound the new society too tightly to an increase in the forces of production, or so it seemed in the Critique of the Gotha Program, and urged a free discussion of the qualitative differences between the old and the new society. What was to be the earmark of utopia after the end of utopia? How did Marcuse distinguish himself from the predecessors and contemporaries who continued to wave the Marxist banderole: ‘From

800 THE TWILIGHT OF UTOPIA each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs?” His revised tablet of the law featured the aesthetic-erotic dimension. He was aware that Marx had still been reluctant to see work as play; the new utopia was destined to transcend him and to revive the Fourierist ideal that Marx had contemned. The needs Marcuse recognized as real could be fulfilled all at once under a transformed technological system in the advanced countries. What was involved was nothing less than a total revamping of existing industrialism, a reconstruction of cities, the elimination of the brutalities of capitalist industrialization. Marcuse was careful to disavow the romantic attack on technology itself He | called for a technology restored to its pristine virtue, cleansed of the evils of capitalism.

The Marcuse who will be remembered in the history of utopian thought _ was swept along on the high tide of prophecy. By one of those quirks of world

| spirit, in 1967 and 1968 he became the philosopher of a widespread student rebellion and the seer whose foretellings were read as the imminent future. When Marx himself, identified with the bureaucratized official communist parties of the world, was in large measure rejected by the student revolutionaries, Marcuse filled the vacuum with his Freudo-Marxist utopia. That students often read into him their own adolescent longings was helped, not hindered, by the opacity of his style. In that part of the world still under orthodox Marxist influence, most of it largely agricultural, there were no student rebellions and the new technology was both officially and popularly regarded as an absolute good because of an unsatisfied hunger for its products. But in what have been called the postindustrial societies, there was a growing unease over the technological colossus and its depredations. Young persons were repelled

by the prospect of their enrollment in a capitalist technological society, and many of them discovered in the aging Marcuse a grandfatherly theorist who vocalized their apprehensions.

EPILOGUE

The Utopian Prospect IF AN INQUIRY into the utopian thought of Western man has pretensions to being more than an academic or antiquarian exercise, it has to be aware of nagging questions in the background. Have we been discussing a propensity that

_ had a beginning more than three thousand years ago, experienced glorious moments, and is now virtually exhausted or, what amounts to the same thing, is leading a treadmill existence, living on past performances repeated with only

trivial variations? Are we witnessing a running down of the utopia-making machine of the West? Or is it only a temporary debility? Does the utopia of the counterculture herald an authentic rebirth? Must utopias henceforth be nothing but childish fairytales? Do the daring scientific fables of Bernal and Dyson, obedient to their rules of predictive science, represent the new utopia? Utopian thought, if it fulfills its function, is unpredictable, but the queries persist. Somehow the utopian way of thinking and feeling, with its origins in the great historical visions of the golden age, of paradise, and of the fire-bringer Prometheus, sustained by both Judaic and Christian eschatology and embod-

ied in hundreds of works in all European societies since the mid-fifteenth cen- , tury, clings to life. The metaphor of the twilight of utopia suggests an impoverishment of the utopian imagination, not a prophecy of the end. There is no way of prognosticating whether the night will be long or short or whether the utopian propensity, which has enjoyed so long an existence in this culture, is drying up, any more than the death of the religious propensity could be prophesied. The jungle growth of new religious cults may be spelling either an end or a new beginning; the proliferation of present-day utopias of the antiscientific counterculture, of biological transformism, and of the humanization of outer space leaves us in the same state of doubt. Over the centuries, a need once appeased may vanish from a culture’s utopian scene, to be replaced by another. In some societies the satisfying of elementary hunger is no longer a need and cannot be made to reappear in utopia with conviction. What are now the deep-rooted social and psychic diseases that torment us most cruelly? An incapacity to love? A confusion of identity? A bewildering metaphysical anguish? An inchoate religious yearning? An unrequited passion for equality? An unappeased drive for exploration and challenge? Just as there are throughout the world different levels of economic growth and of acceptance of the ways of the scientific-technological civilization, so utopias responding to different wants coexist in a new babel. For a great number of human beings on earth today the static Western utopias of the period before 1800, with their plans for an orderly society and adequate subsistence, are still pie in the sky; while for those who have abolished the scourges of hunger and plague but live amid atomic launching silos Kant’s eternal peace remains a utopian fantasy. Among millions, the nineteenth-century ideal of self-fulfillment epitomized as freedom to work at tasks of one’s 801

| 802 EPILOGUE own choosing is a far-off goal. Men of action in the political arena appear to be responding to the social demands of once silent classes and peoples that a cen-

tury ago would have been dismissed as utopian. The most advanced and wealthy segments of Western civilization, where the division of labor is highly sophisticated, have become so absorbed with their intense and perhaps grow-

ing psychic malaise that they depute special writers to dream for them of a higher mental system totally possessing mankind, or of a childlike society without instinctual repression, offering complete self-actualization, overflowing with love and engaged with play, or of space colonies where men quench their thirst for exploration, continue to diversify the species, and populate the universe. Affluence even supports commentators on these utopias. _ Utopians of the past have dealt with war and peace, the many faces of love, the antinomy of need and desire, the opposition of calm felicity and dynamic change, the alternatives of hierarchy or equality, the search for a powerful uni-

fying bond to hold mankind together, whether universal love or a common identification with a transcendent being. They have either made aesthetic and individual creativity the key to existence or all but passed it by. They have con-

| centrated on physical or mental pain as prime evils. At other times they have , analogized the conduct of civilized men with animal or “‘primitive’”’ behavior, with machines or cosmic forces, They have measured the changing needs of different stages in the epigenetic cycle and have conceived of better ways of _ being born and dying. The optimum unit of living has been weighed—the isolated self-sufficient individual, the family, the city, the nation, the world. Material and psychic preconditions of freedom have been explored, and the imperative of survival of the species has been proclaimed as beyond freedom and dignity. The historical record has been ransacked to demonstrate with evidence from the past not only what a re-created good society would be like, but

when it would have to come into being. .

One sometimes wonders whether the utopians have not pondered all the possibilities, identified all the ideal states and the worms that might corrode them. Is the West, which has had elements of utopian fantasy embedded in its culture for millennia, still capable of generating new shapes? A clean solar technology, an unaggressive yet creative man, a being cerebral though not dead to

the exaltation of the passions, a lord of nature who lives in harmony with its rhythms, a deepening of inner life without falling into solipsism. The historian — of utopian thought is at his best in understanding things post-festum. Having studied the fate of many prophets, he may have no ambition to be one, and © when he falls among them he steps gingerly, leery of the contagion of the

, morbus utopiensis.

_ While the critic may not today discern any compelling new vision among , the utopian ideals recently paraded in the marketplace, whether Teilhard de Chardin’s nodsphere or Marcuse’s sexual-aesthetic self-actualization after the

“end of utopia,” he cannot conclude dogmatically that utopian thought is dead. By its very nature the utopian breakthrough is unannounced; that is what distinguishes it from the mechanical extrapolations of futurology. Though dystopian novels of the years immediately after World War II sold more copies than any utopia in human memory, with the possible exception of Edward Bellamy’s Looking Backward, there followed a period during which the

utopian propensity showed signs of stirring again. Aldous Huxley, author of

THE UTOPIAN PROSPECT 803 the ironic dystopian Brave New World (1932), lived to write the utopian Island (1962), with its admixture of Oriental religious teachings and pharmacological

conditioning. Youth movements and communal experiments throughout the world called forth a spate of discursive utopias and fantasies about new states of consciousness. There are those who believe that we have been witnessing an exuberant burgeoning of utopian thought. Others are more skeptical. Numerically, utopia may be thriving. The quality of present-day utopian creation is, however, as David Hume would say, ‘‘exposed to some more difficulty.”

A Taxonomy of Contemporary Utopia Though not nearly so complex a problem as that posed by seventeenth-century sectarian heresies, establishing appropriate categories for the varieties of present-day utopian experience bedevils the commentator. Like everything else in our society, utopias are becoming highly specialized. There are political utopias, religious utopias, environmental utopias, sexual utopias, architectural utopias, along with dystopias that portray the future as a living hell. Out of apocalyptic visions of human beings overpopulating the earth and clawing one another for survival, of nuclear disaster, of escaped pathogenic bodies heedlessly created by experimental scientists, are born new crisis utopias—grandiose fantasies of flight in which earth is abandoned to its fate and a new beginning made elsewhere. But for the most part the utopian bazaar is cluttered with old-fashioned wares that are all too familiar. Of the utopias which accept the premise that innovative science and technology will progress forever, the most extensive are Marxist in inspiration, subject to historical and geographic variations. There are leaders in the Marxist world who stress egalitarian elements and look forward, in theory at least, to the abolition of distinctions between manual and mental labor, as predicated in Marx’s Gotha Program Critique. Others have established systems that keep putting off the higher stage of communism, while the state apparatus grows octopus-like and a political hierarchy flourishes on sharp class distinctions. If rev-

olutionary Marxism is still the dominant verbal utopia on the planet, in practice it is either spiked with fierce egocentric nationalism or diluted with socialist reformism. Marxist theoreticians pompously debate among themselves the question of whether “‘alienation”’ will persist in future phases of communism. After a time the conclusions of their hypersophisticated discussions fail to evoke the temporary suspension of disbelief that narrators returning from utopian islands once achieved. The Marxist utopia exists today in a number of standardized versions: a Western socialist one—its utopian character is borderline—that is becoming ever more pragmatic and is merging with the ideal of the capitalist welfare state; Soviet Marxism, which on principle would cut itself off from its utopian origins but allows for a recrudescence of futuristic utopian speech on ceremonial occasions; Maoism, which at least at one time stressed egalitarian elements

in the Marxist utopian heritage that Soviet Marxism deliberately neglected; and a dissident Marxism, which had a meteoric success in 1968, that would integrate Marx with the whole Western utopian tradition, emphasizing moral values rather than scientific socialism and at times denying the worth of theory

altogether. |

804 EPILOGUE The phrases that define just where Soviet society stands on the path to utopia have changed subtly with each successive leader: Under Stalin it was “‘con-

solidation of socialism”; under Khrushchev, the initiation of ‘the full-scale construction of communism’; under Brezhnev, ‘‘the stage of developed socialist activity.” On the fiftieth anniversary of the USSR in 1972 Brezhnev solemnly proclaimed: “The Soviet Union is moving toward communism,”’ build-

ing a new, just, free society and an “indestructible fraternal union of many peoples.’’! Vacuous rhetoric is the vehicle for wornout conceptions in this offi-

cial portrait of a Soviet utopia. |

The Maoist utopia has followed a different verbal tradition. The timetable

for the realization of the utopia has been revised as frequently as the precise prognostications of the coming of the Christian millennium; but the failure of a prediction has had little effect on the faith of true believers. On July 29, 1958, Jenmin Jih Pao (People’s Daily) of Peking announced the imminent inauguration of communism. The quick realization of the dream of the young Marx and of the utopia of the Gotha Program Critique was assumed. “‘What will become of our future? A few years from now China will become a communist society. In that society, each and every person will be able to take up his position in the general division of labor—he will be able to farm, to work, to carry out several specialized fields of work, to participate in scientific research, and to write. In other words, each and every one of us will be an ‘all round hand.’’’? The abolition of any distinction between mental and physical labor and the development of the many-sided individual were promised in a Maoist translation of the original Marxian utopia. The Chinese foresaw instant achievement of goals in a great leap, while the Russians singled out those passages of the Gotha Program Critique that insisted on free-flowing abundance before the creation of full communist consciousness. Mocking the pants-less Chinese, on October 19, 1961, Khrushchev put his own gloss on the old bande-

role: “If we stated that we were introducing communism at atime when the cup was not yet full, it would not be possible to drink from it according to

| need.”?

In one of Chairman Mao’s last poems, Reascending Chingkangshan, the heroic spirit of his brand of utopian communism was dramatically contrasted _ with the matter-of-fact fleshly communism of his Russian enemies. We can clasp the moon in the ninth heaven

And seize turtles deep down in the five seas. oo We'll return amid triumphant song and laughter. a Nothing is hard in this world If you dare to scale the heights.

The Russians were satirized in a dialogue of two birds that echoes a theme from the universal Cokaygne utopia. The Russian bird promises:

There'll be plentyhot, to eat | Potatoes piping , , Beef-filled goulash. ,

To which the Chinese bird replies with contempt: ,

Stop your windy nonsense! Look you, the world is being turned upside down.‘

THE UTOPIAN PROSPECT 805 But the Chinese bird is now free of Mao. . . In recent decades the stadial Marxist utopia has once again had to confront the Babouvist utopia of absolute egalitarianism. The utopian language that flashed through the Paris uprising of 1968 abounded in fantasies about free instinct and spontaneity, and turned its back on scientific-industrial dynamism as it vainly tried to emancipate itself from the shackles of Marxist political language grown sclerotic. Voices were raised committing the rebels to a utopian ideal without binding them to a particular political, doctrinal, or social apparatus. The new utopian ethic would not break with the past, but would be heir to the socialist ideas of all times and places as they had found expression in the

wisdom of Greco-Roman and Oriental sages, the Christian heretics of the Middle Ages, and the nineteenth-century utopians. The new dissidents were prepared to include Marx, too, but turning the tables, they selected the utopian Marx and denied his pretensions to a scientific socialism. Return to utopia became the mot d’ordre. A pamphlet that was published by the Centre d’études so, cialistes reads: ‘“The universal crisis of which we are today the witnesses and the victims makes the return to utopia the only rational solution that remains for a humanity threatened with annihilation. The new utopia will be made of theory and imagination, of calculation and invention, of the old and the new. It will attach itself to no authority, to no name, to no genius other than that of the anonymous masses, who in inspiring the thinkers of the revolution allowed them to report and to paint their dreams.” * The walls of the Paris student quarter were covered with graffiti: “Utopia now. It’s the dream that’s real. You'll all end up croaking of comfort. Make love, not war. God, I suspect you of being a leftist intellectual. Long live Babeuf! Anarchy, that’s I. We want

| music that is wild and ephemeral. A revolution that demands self-sacrifice for its sake is a revolution a la papa. The passion for destruction is a creative joy. Invent new sexual perversions. The prospect of pleasure tomorrow will never console me for the boredom of today.’’®

, But ’68 came and went and despite the sloganeering no new dreams were painted. In retrospect 1968 has taken shape as a fete révolutionnaire, a utopian upheaval of short duration that for a while destroyed existing relations in one

, Western institution, the university, and doused all other institutions with utopian rhetoric. The celebration over, things settled back into place, but only more or less. During the revolutionary moment there had been much oratory and some direct action, sexual and terroristic. Surrealism had been revived, Fourier and Bakunin awarded university chairs. Certain instruments of scientific and literary production had been smashed; enmities lasting longer than loves struck deep root; dignities were debased. When the trash after the trashing was cleaned up, the professors returned to their podia. Within a decade the student body began to change and the status quo ante bellum was restored, except that it seems a little more fragile. There is every reason to believe that such destructive outbursts of utopian energy will recur. Nineteenth-century anarchism is surfacing again in a benign political form—heresy of heresies— among Spanish anarcho-syndicalists, while Red Brigades of Italy and Germany grip whole societies with terror through an international network that defies the feeble countermeasures of men of order. On August 4, 1977, German societies lost their outstanding exponent of the uses of utopia in the Marxist world, when Ernst Bloch died in Tubingen in his

806 EPILOGUE ninetieth year. Bloch had thought of himself as the activator of the transition from the possible to the actual or, viewed subjectively, from hope to fulfillment, the architect who in the wake of Marx would concretize utopia, a universal concept that embraced all other higher mental systems. In the oratorical atmosphere of West Germany he had freely identified himself with Thomas Mintzer, quoting his sermons on Aufruhr (Uproar) and declaiming, “Right on, I want to be uproarious.”? Though deeply rooted in traditional Marxist philosophy, Bloch praised utopia as an incomparable instrument of thought because it allowed a systematic exploration of a variety of specific possibilities. It was for him a critical weapon that made men aware of the imperfections of the present and spurred them to transform it in the light of the utopian revela-

, tions. Unlike Marcuse, Bloch never abandoned the Marxist hope of awakening the dormant consciousness of the proletariat. Bloch’s German disciples continue to work on his utopia of the concrete in an attempt to construct a bridge

, over the abyss of fascism and establish a living relationship between the utopian past of Western culture and the future of a new hope.® The political activity that goes on in Marx’s name has only incidental relationship to the jottings of 1844—so often invoked in contemporary Marxology—that constituted a 26-year-old’s attempt to spell out his own hopes and those with which he would inspire mankind. In a way, official Marxist and

proto-Marxist and pseudo-Marxist lands with theologized utopias that go along different paths have no need of new utopias, since by proclamation they are

utopia or a mere stage or so away from it. Their self-criticism and doctrines of eternal revolution become a facade for Roman smugness. If a sufficient num-

ber of human beings call themselves Marxists and live in Marxist societies, mankind may have entered an age when utopia-makers will be persecuted on the manifest ground that one cannot want what one already has. In its treat-

, ment of millenarian heretics, orthodox unutopian Christianity left behind a model of how to cope with such insurgency. An American utopia has been competing with the Marxist one in the concoction of slogans. We have moved from New Deal to Fair Deal to New Fron-

tier to Great Society to President Carter’s inaugural excursion on “the Dream,” tout court. Patently, the rulers of both communist and capitalist societics have seized the rusty instruments of utopia for their ideological arsenal. Capitalist societies are not wanting in hortatory, bookish treatises that espouse ideal forms to be established within the existing scientific-technological framework, their obvious intent being the maximization of capacities for the consumption of goods and services. These low-keyed meliorist utopias address

themselves for the most part to the creation of high technology, economic ~ work organization, the structure of the family, and sexual relations, all traditional topics. They propose ideal plans for eliminating psychosexual unhappiness, pollution, work-boredom, energy hunger. Their favorable prognoses are related to an ideal of abundance in the consumption of food and clothes and shelter. The run-of-the-mill consumer utopias that peddle a professional optimism concentrate on mechanical inventions and have little or nothing to say about changed social institutions for mankind. Walter Orr Roberts’ View of Century 21, to cite an example of this pedestrian literature, foresees a pollutionfree all-electric car, commuting on magnet control tracks, high-rise buildings

that house hundreds of thousands of people, children who learn in private

THE UTOPIAN PROSPECT 807 computer carrels, automated medical diagnoses, and two-week weather fore- , casting. There is still a money economy run by private business, universal credit and computerized central file accounts, and bond issues to finance public improvements. In all respects, the visionary future is a mere intensification or accentuation of present reality and implies that a stamp of approval has been placed upon it—at least by the utopographer. Century 21 is only more of Cen-

tury 20. In sum, both late-twentieth-century communism and capitalism in their dreamworlds present the exciting prospect of societies eating their way to the kingdom of heaven on earth without surfeit. But utopias that incorporate into their systems a growing science and technology have been repudiated by those who reject constant innovation in favor of a posttechnological or antitechnological idyll, to follow upon a hypothesized nuclear catastrophe, a technology that self-destructs, or one that is deliberately restrained or allowed to fall into desuetude. Thomas More, when con-

fronted with the eviction of agricultural laborers during the enclosure movement, wrote in an unforgettable line of his Utopia that the sheep were devouring the men. A sizable body of thinkers now see in technology a threat to our humanity: Machines are devouring the men. Even some scientists wish, at least secretly, that the tempo of growth were not quite so fast, in order that we might have an opportunity to reckon with its social consequences before they overwhelm us. As we reel under the impact of uncontrolled scientifictechnological expansion, they wonder whether, in the light of the psychic consequences of gigantism, a utopian, rejecting Ludditism and the pastoral fantasy, could not explore other ways of harnessing the new technology. Could a technological development be imagined that would free man from the burdens of painful labor without uglifying and polluting nature and reducing human relationships to cold evasiveness? In Germany a new type of utopia has begun to emerge from the homilies of men like Georg Picht that calls itself an aufgeklarte—enlightened—utopia. While Picht refuses to define its positive content, but rather establishes perimeters of reason that delimit what a utopia might seek, he pleads that science, the key to present-day utopia, should become totally self-conscious and aware of

, itself. Just as a true scientist would not falsify an experiment or intentionally draw erroneous conclusions from his data, so scientists should incorporate into their very beings the idea that the social consequences of their discoveries are

an intrinsic part of the “‘scientific’’ considerations governing their experi-

ments.

When the ravages of industrialism first became evident in a few isolated manufacturing centers in England and France—and how puny these origins now appear—a prescient few, like Fourier, rang the alarm and called for a restructuring of society upon the basis of agricultural and horticultural communes, without sacrificing the pleasurable literary and artistic culture that had always been associated with urban agglomerations. Labor would be made attractive through love. Throughout the nineteenth century, communes were established in many parts of the world; virtually all were dismal failures and they often brought great suffering to their members, many of whom—like the French Icarians—died in fever-ridden swamps. In a dream of a nonindustrial England after a peaceful revolution, William Morris expounded the principle of a countertechnological movement that was perhaps more spontaneous, less

808 EPILOGUE obsessive, and less psychologically and sexually intricate than Fourier’s, more concerned with the fulfillment of simple creative, aesthetic needs. After Morris, isolated communes continued to be founded, especially during the Ameri-

can Great Depression. And in the last decades, communal experiments of groups living on the land, with the object of minimal reliance on the corrupt city, have again multiplied in many parts of the Western world. | Abandonment of the city to barbarism may become an irreversible movement, while pastoral utopias spread over the countryside. One element of the ancient underthought of utopia, rationalist discourse about the ideal city, is being submerged by apocalyptic and millenarian visions. While paradisaical fantasies maintain a tenacious hold on our subconscious, it is today hard to conceive of an urban utopia—the Hellenic element has all but evaporated. The secular grouping of a large number of persons in an ideal urban society on the planet earth taxes our credulity, as controls over the physical environment become weakened beyond recovery. The utopias that are being carved out in distant places or in semi-isolated communities apart, but not too remote, from a teeming megalopolis and drawing on its resources, are brief excursions in applied utopistics that have sucked the last bit of marrow out of old utopian

theories. Many of the rural communes that spring up in contemporary America, Great Britain, or New Zealand tend to eschew theory altogether and have no identifiable character. Their array of teachers and gurus have introduced no elements that were previously unknown, beyond perhaps the use of drugs as chemical agents heightening fraternal feelings among the members. Without a religious base these widespread experiments have a short life expectancy, about three years, the span of a serious love affair. They repeat the dismal experiences of nineteenth-century American utopian communities. Idyllic, pastoral, anarchistic, universalist, syncretistic utopias may regularly possess young persons coming out into the world of science and technology, who weigh its worth and find it wanting. Their latest creation, the utopia of the counterculture, is a potpourri of outworn conceptions—a bit of transcendence, body mysticism, sexual freedom, the abolition of work, the end of alienation. A traveler among American utopian communes, Herbert A. Otto, has classified them in Utopia USA (1972): agricultural subsistence, nature, craft, spiritual-mystical, denominational, church-sponsored, political, political-action, service, art, teaching, group-marriage, homosexual, growth-centered, mobile or gypsy, street or neighborhood. A foreword to the book set

forth the utopian credo of a man in flight to a rural commune. People in communes are people who have decided that they will no longer take this immense social and economic creation on faith, that their environment will no longer be out of reach or understanding . . . We shall start with the land and only the land, a metacultural fact if ever there was one. And beginning here, naked animals on naked soil, at this biological irreducible, our construction will insist on a denial of as much of the mother culture as possible . . . If we were born in the suburbs, we shall be agrarians who live from land to mouth. If we were raised on a shallow and bastardized morality, we shall know each other in the profoundest senses, we shall love each other."

The utopia of the counterculture may be associated with an emotional reinterpretation of Christianity; or it may seek spiritual sustenance from any number of ancient Oriental religions such as Zen Buddhism or Hinduism; or it may

THE UTOPIAN PROSPECT 809 invent new psychological religions and ally itself with a quest for a highly privatized eupsychia. Theodore Roszak, who at one time made himself the spokesman of the utopia of the counterculture, in his reflections on the technocratic society and its opponents spoke with the voice of the shaman in an American

idiom, calling upon the youth to “open themselves . . . and allow what is Out-There to enter them and shake them to their very foundations.’ !! The antiscientific, antirationalist utopia of the counterculture dreams of a new consciousness to control existence. It is oriented toward present living, the immediacy of existence rather than an idealized future, and looks to the miniature rather than the large-scale model for fulfillment.

Of an entirely different order is the behavioristic utopia, with ties to the pre-World-War-I laboratories of Father Watson, who in a popular magazine called Liberty once published a crude utopian prospectus of what he could achieve for the good of the race if he were given free rein to use his techniques on society. The current behavioristic utopia has assumed a far more sophisticated envelopment in B. F. Skinner’s proposed controls for the sake of cultural survival. Frazier, the founder of the community in Walden Two, exclaimed to his visitors with a gesture of impatience, ‘‘No one can seriously doubt that a well-managed community will get along successfully as an economic unit. A child could prove it. The real problems are psychological.” ” After accepting Skinner’s perceptive formulation of a contemporary utopian question, we find his solutions rather old hat, a fusion of Morean and Owenite elements refurbished with experimental techniques. For what he considers the threadbare shibboleths of freedom and human dignity, Skinner substitutes the burning bush of survival, in whose name men should submit to the reinforcements of behavior that preserve the species: ““What is needed is more ‘intentional’ control, not less, and this is an important engineering problem.” Science fiction has coopted the behavioral techniques and supplemented them with surgical and pharmacological devices. The profuse literature on imaginary societies dominated through psychological reinforcements resembles the classical dys-

States. , ,

topias of Wells, Zamiatin, and Orwell. In the 1970s the type has already mounted to about a tenth of all fiction that comes off the presses in the United

There are other more traditional utopian outlets in the revival of religion. A transcendental utopia can always be counted upon as a last resort when the hollowness of existence amid an accumulation of luxuries becomes burdensome. Children of the rich, overstuffed with the objects that Cokaygne utopias have always proffered, may show signs of satiety with the material goods of this world, as they opt for an apocalypse. And if the apocalypse comes, the Kinggom of Heaven cannot be far behind. Anticlericals may consider the attempt to

rehabilitate the Christian utopia rather feeble, but in a society grasping at utopian straws it cannot be disdained. Though the seventeenth-century utopia of one global Christian republic has long been forgotten, ecumenical endeavors among the churches are making moderate headway. The religious unification of world society under a single head appears to have no great prospect, but religious and other transcendental beliefs are reemerging with new strength as elements in a psychic utopia. The vision of a theocratic utopia—Christian, Judaic, or Islamic—has assumed a variety of nostalgic, sometimes freakish, even sinister, forms. The rebirth of Christian faith in a heaven on earth, complete

810 EPILOGUE with millenarian paraphernalia, should not be eliminated from any twentiethcentury overview. A Russian exile, Solzhenitsyn, has emerged as a combative protagonist of this type of utopia in the Greek Orthodox world, a witness to

the enduring potency of the chiliastic vision. Solzhenitsyn has risen to smite the hosts of what Berdyaev called Caesaropapism and his medieval revivalism is applauded in the mightiest bastions of Western scientific culture. The Catho-

lic Church had moments in the twentieth century when the utopian idea of ‘“‘progressus”’ in a secular sense found its way into papal encyclicals and when

radical transformations were achieved in ritual and church government. But there is also a countermovement. Recently the papacy has begun to issue ex-

plicit admonitions against worldly “utopian” expectations—along with critiques of existing society that are couched in the language of Marxist anthropology more often than in the rhetoric of the Church Fathers. Back in 1951 the Protestant theologian Paul Tillich gave voice to his unease with obscurantist anti-utopianism and in some of his writings deliberately assimilated utopia into his theology. In the essay “‘Critique and Justification of Utopia,” Tillich established a necessary bond between immanent and transcenden-

tal utopias. “A Kingdom of God that is not involved in historical events, in utopian actualization in time, is not the Kingdom of God at all but at best only a mystical annihilation of everything that can be ‘kingdom’—namely, richness, fullness, manifoldness, individuality. And similarly, a Kingdom of God that is nothing but the historical process produces a utopia of endless progress or convulsive revolution whose catastrophic collapse eventuates in metaphysical disillusionment.” '* Recent German Protestant theologians have achieved marvels of syncretism, as theoretical strands of utopia and theology are woven together. In Utopia as the Inner Historical Aspect of Eschatology by Hans-Joachim

Gerhard (1973), the ‘‘concrete utopia” of the atheistic Ernst Bloch is skillfully joined in unholy wedlock with Paul Tillich’s theology.'® Outside the estab-

lished churches, universalist religious cults—newly manufactured—have rushed to fill a vacuum left by the ossification of both traditional religious and secular utopias. There are moments when, confronted by their profusion, we cannot escape the feeling that we are living among the mystery cults of the late Roman Empire. But the analogy is 150 years old, dating back to Henri Saint-

Simon, and may therefore be suspect. ,

The utopia of science that transcends political boundaries may be the only one that shows some signs of real vitality. Explorations of inner space leading to esoteric religious or philosophical utopias are instrumentalities of privatization. They have been avenues of individual escape from ugly reality, and have often been symptoms of the breakdown of high civilizations. The scientific utopia, in discursive presentations by scientists, in science-fiction books, and in the literal “‘speaking picture’’ of the movies, may be the only form in which the utopian mode, born in a preindustrial age, is able to survive. Even here it is difficult to find a text that conveys the potential power of this relatively new _

utopia, except for Bernal’s little book of 1929.

In our own time there has been an extraordinary increase of human capacity in two realms: Matter has been ‘‘vexed’’ to yield the secret of physical energy, and unlocking the secrets of heredity in organic existence has endowed mankind with the awesome power of self-alteration. When Francis Bacon, one of the most adventurous utopians of the past, proposed to investigate all things

THE UTOPIAN PROSPECT 811 possible, the paths to his scientific utopia were finite and could still be enumerated. Genetic engineering now opens up countless avenues. As a consequence, in utopias of biological transformism there is a complete fracture with past traditions that had a semblance of continuity. The question of change in man’s physical environment is equally open-ended. Previously, utopias were usually restricted in their selection of an ideal location: paradise could be on a mountain, in a fertile valley, on an open plain, in the bowels of the earth, in a two-layered city. Once possibilities are extended to millions of comets, each capable of a different kind of exploration, the physical landscape of utopia assumes a bewildering multiplicity of forms. Of course, despite his putative freedom man may still be limited in his choices on the subconscious level by his own utopian past and his sociobiological inheritance. Utopian discourse can lose coherence when its frame is no longer recognizably human. At the same time, utopias that are merely variations on a Marxist theme, or small commune utopias, or anarchist fantasies, whose rhetoric cannot hold a blowtorch to an ancient apocalypse, become banal because by definition their assumptions of a relatively static biological creature and a familiar physical landscape ignore the universe that science and technology are unveiling before us. A Marxist discussion about the strategic alternative paths to utopia has all the excitement of an academic debate on procedures. For a long time, the utopian imagination may still be shackled by the formulas invented by earthlings with a recent anthropoid past, but a truly new utopia will hardly ~ accept such confinement. Just when magnificent new scientific powers have become available to us, we are faced with a paucity of invention in utopian modalities. There is a discordance between the expansion of revolutionary techniques in manipulating

nature and the persistence of old-fashioned utopian wishes, holdovers from earlier agrarian or primitive nineteenth-century industrial societies. What distresses a critical historian today is the discrepancy between the piling up of technological and scientific instrumentalities for making all things possible, and the pitiable poverty of goals. We witness the multiplication of ways to get to space colonies, to manipulate the genetic bank of species man, and simultaneously the weakness of thought, fantasy, wish, utopia. Scientists tell us that they can now outline with a fair degree of accuracy the procedures necessary to establish a space colony in a hollowed comet or an asteroid. But when it comes

to describing what people will do there, the men most active in this field , merely reconstruct suburbia—garden clubs and all—in a new weightless environment. In the twentieth century the fantasies of science fiction have been largely derived from hard scientific knowledge supplemented by a few imaginative concepts. The social and psychological content of these fantasies, however, is generally threadbare. In the midst of a catalogue of the most breathtaking inventions there is emotional sameness and an adaptation to outer space of technocratic forms or fascist and communist mechanics of repression. Intricate technical procedures are outlined for the colonization or humanization of the universe, but the utopian institutions proposed for the society are hackneyed. It is too early to pass serious judgment on the substance of the utopias of outer space, though a few eminent scientists embarked upon this path have hinted at their ideas of the possible character of new developments. Perhaps the details of their projections should not be taken too literally. Bernal’s fable of

812 EPILOGUE the eternal human brain whose mechanical appendages are constantly being renewed readily lends itself to caricature. In his hilarious Futurological Congress the Polish novelist Stanislaw Lem has enlarged upon Bernal’s vision of biolog-

ical engineering: ,

The third proposal was long-range and far more drastic. It advocated ectogenésis, — prostheticism and universal transception. Of man only the brain would remain, beauti-

fully encased in duraplast; a globe equipped with sockets, plugs and clasps. And powered by atomic battery—so the ingestion of nutriments, now physically superfluous, would take place only through illusion, programmed accordingly. The brain case could be connected to any number of appendages, apparatuses, machines, vehicles, etc. This prostheticization process would be spread out over two decades, with partial replacements mandatory for the first ten years, leaving all unnecessary organs at home; for example, when going to the theater one would detach one’s fornication and defecation modules and hang them in the closet . . . Mass production would keep the market supplied with custom-made internal components and accessories, including braintracks for home railways, that would enable the heads themselves to roll from room to

room, an innocent diversion. '8 |

What strikes the eye in all of the contemporary scientific utopias is their rejection of the ideal political order as the principal subject of inquiry, even as once the divine order was eliminated from utopia. Gerard O’Neill, one of the , most enterprising exponents of the humanization of outer space, has tried to differentiate his projects from what he calls classical utopian concepts, at the same time that he deliberately separates himself from the Hellenic quest for the ideal city. “I have said nothing about the government of space communities . . . I have no desire to influence or direct in any way, even if I could, the social organization and the details of life in the communities. I have no prescription for social organization or governance, and would find it abhorrent to , presume to define one.””’” Where the scientists fear to tread, the science-fiction

writers have rushed in with an avalanche of repetitive pulp in which despots

dominate whole civilizations with an arsenal of gadgets.

There is only one contemporary field in which the utopian commitment | arouses an immediate response of appreciation and delight. ‘Twentieth-century visionary architecture is emancipated from the old set forms and appears to be a departure radical enough to harmonize in spirit with the potentialities of the scientific explorations of outer space. Architecture readily lends itself to uto-

, pian constructs. Paper is relatively cheap and an insight can be instantaneously captured without the verbosity of speaking-picture utopias or philosophical _ dialogues about perfect commonwealths. There is a sense in which space pro-

grams may be conceived as airborne visionary architecture. The question remains whether architectural environments can pretend to change human nature. The great composers of visionary architectural treatises _

in the past—Alberti, Boullée, Ledoux, Lloyd Wright—maintained that the creation of new physical environments would transform human beings. Some Italian planners who seek social renovation have turned to their antecedents for _ inspiration. Other architects have broken with the past so sharply that their designs, not intended as building plans, end up as subjective fantasies with no © conceivable social content. Visionary architecture in this century has far out-

stripped the other great moments of the genre—fifteenth-century Italy andlate eighteenth-century France—in richness of invention, in the wildly revolu-

THE UTOPIAN PROSPECT 8 13 tionary application of technology, and in the exploitation of new materials. The drawings of Paolo Soleri and Eric Mendelsohn and Arata Isozaki are among the most imaginative and authentically utopian creations of the age."*®

Perhaps the whole tradition of the written utopia may become extinct while the silent architectural drawing and the speaking film become the favored media of utopian expression. Optare non Sperare After we have passed in review a variety of Marxisms, orthodox and heterodox, anarchist revivals benign and terroristic, expansive and no-growth producer and consumer utopias, counterculture movements in many shapes and colors, updated behaviorist utopias of psychologically and pharmacologically controlled societies, transcendental utopias of established churches and newfangled cults, scientific utopias of space colonies and biological engineering, and the grandiose visions of architectural planners, the contemporary world gives the appearance of pullulating with enough utopias to satisfy all tastes and desires. Yet simple observation has led us to the conclusion that, in the midst of societies seething with utopian experiments, there is unfortunately no significant utopian thought. It may be that somewhere an unnoticed Saint-Simon or a forlorn Fourier is building a new system in solitude, but their voices are

drowned by the roar of self-proclaimed ideal societies in operation and the : clatter of special effects produced by movie presentations of new worlds in outer space. If most states and empires profess what are in many respects the same stereotyped utopian goals, the words of the true utopian visionary can hardly be distinguished from the bombast diffused by those who control the instruments of emission. Ever since Edmund Burke, intellectuals have been denounced for fomenting revolutionary terror with their dreams. In the world utopia runs amuck often enough. When the rationalist Hellenic element in the Western utopian synthesis is far outweighed by frenetic millenarian enthusiasm, the fanatics of utopia

to whom the vision has been revealed can lead both their foes and their followers to the holocaust. The mass suicide of members of the Reverend James Jones’s cult at Jonestown in Guyana on November 18, 1978, will long remain a symbol of utopian madness in action: Fragments of agrarian utopianism, fundamentalist Christianity, and Marxism possessed castoffs of twentieth-century civilization who had been manipulated by crude psychological-reinforcement techniques. In the past there have been utopian tragedies and utopian comedies. Now the bloody theatricalities of the Grand Guignol have been added to the annals of utopia. In the latter part of the twentieth century the creative utopian spirit, as distinguished from utopias in action, has been further dampened by statistics-

, laden futurologists. The present-day world is teeming with prognosticators. We are drunk with the future, as nineteenth-century Romantics were drunk with the past. But as it complacently extrapolates its way into the future with tunnel vision, historical prediction has only limited access to lateral possibilities. The prognosticators, divine or human, inspired or insipid, have a way of leaving out the crucial unknowables, the vital unpredictables, while they befuddle us with inconsequential knowables. It could be argued that the histori-

814 EPILOGUE cal process is pregnant, “‘interesting”’ in Nietzsche’s sense, only at moments of

_ disjuncture that by definition are not subject to projection. Trivialities are , often foreseeable; eruptions that upset the cart as it laboriously grinds its way uphill, downhill, or in a circle are not. Futurological extrapolations of existing societal developments will doubtless continue, even though they are costly ex-

ercises that depend upon an adequate supply of graph paper; but in the end their mechanical anticipations of the next stage are not likely to destroy the utopian propensity, which makes a mockery of the planners. Man the innovator comes up with the unthought-of, leaving the model-builders and the futurological predictors holding their bag of forecasts and facile analogies in embarrassed irrelevance. A critical overview of the continuities and ruptures in the utopian thought of the Western world has convinced us that utopian fantasies have yielded both good and evil in ample measure. The utopias have not always exerted the destructive influence imputed to them by their implacable enemies. A utopian’s release of imaginative energies is often innocent, his reflection of the emotional reality of his times genuine. Experimenters tell us that as we sleep the eyeballs persist in going through their rapid movements four or five times a night, bear-

ing witness to dreamwork. Western civilization may not be able to survive long without utopian fantasies any more than individuals can exist without dreaming. Historians of thought, while reporting that most utopian theory in their day is stale, flat, and derivative, may still wish for a fresh utopian vision to order the conflicting needs and desires of civilization. To cultivate wisely the ancient art of wishing as an antidote to the present saturation with the pseudoscience of prediction and the busyness of the masters of applied utopis- | tics may be a paramount moral need of the age. But this is more a utopian wish

than a great expectation. , ,

NOTES SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY INDEX

| | | Blank Page |

Notes Introduction. The Utopian Propensity 1. Sir Philip Sidney, Defence of Poesie (1595), in The Complete Works, III (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1923), 15. 2. Ibid., p. 9. 3. John Donne, The Satires, Epigrams and Verse Letters, ed. W. Milgate (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1967), p. 72. The poem has been dated 1597 or early 1598. 4. Sigmund Freud, ‘‘Psycho-Analytic Notes on an Autobiographical Account of a Case of Paranoia” (1911), in The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works, ed.

James Strachey, XII (London, 1958), 1-82. 5. The Reign of George VI (London, 1763). 6. Aristotle, Politics, trans. and ed. Ernest Barker (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1946), p. 39 (2.1.1). 7. Henricus ab Ahlefeld, Disputatio Philosophica de Fictis Rebus Publicis (Cologne, 1704).

8. Robert von Mohl, “Die Staatsromane: Ein Beitrag zur Literaturgeschichte der Staatswissenschaften,” Zeitschrift fur die gesamte Staatswissenschaft, 2 (1845), 24-74.

gy. Translated along with other Mannheim writings and published under the title Ideology and Utopia: An Introduction to the Sociology of Knowledge, trans. Louis Wirth and

Edward Shils (New York, 1952). 10. Raymond Ruyer, L’Utopie et les utopies (Paris, Presses Universitaires de France, 1950), Pp. 9.

11. Georges Duveau, Sociologie de l’utopie et autres “essais’’ (Paris, 1961). 12. Frederik Lodewijk Polak, De Toekomst is verleden tijd: Cultuur-futuristische Ver-

kenningen (Utrecht, W. de Haan, 1955), trans. as The Image of the Future (Leyden and New York, Oceana Publications, 1961). 13. Roger Mucchielli, Le Mythe de la cité idéale (Paris, Presses Universitaires de France, 1961), p. 170. 14. Jean Servier, Histoire de Putopie (Paris, 1967). 15. Lewis Mumford, The Story of Utopias (New York, 1922). 16. Victor Dupont, L’Utopie et le roman utopique dans la littérature anglaise (Toulouse

and Paris, 1941). ,

17. Miguel Avilés Fernandez, ed., Sirapia (Madrid, 1976). 18. Aristotle, Politics, p. 39 (2.1.1). 19. Herbert Marcuse, Das Ende der Utopie (Berlin, 1967), trans. and pub. in Five Lectures: Psychoanalysis, Politics, and Utopia (Boston, 1970), pp. 62—82.

20. Sir John Mandeville, Travels, ed. and trans. Malcolm Letts from the Douai (1624) edition (London, Hakluyt Society, 1953), I, 205. 21. Giovanni Battista Ramusio, Navigationi et viaggi, 2d ed., I (Venice, 1554), 190r— IgIt. 22. Plato, trans. R. G. Bury, Loeb Classical Library, VII (Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press, 1952), 483 (Epistle VII).

1. Paradise and the Millennium 1. Samuel Noah Kramer, Sumerian Mythology, rev. ed. (New York, Harper & Row, 1961), p. 107. 2. “Enki and Ninhursag: A Paradise Myth,” trans. S, N. Kramer, in James B. Prit-

817

130.

818 NOTES TO PAGES 36-51 ,

chard, ed., Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament, 2d ed. (Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1955), p. 38. 3. “The Epic of Gilgamesh,” trans, E. A. Speiser, ibid., pp. 95, 89. 4. Leroy A. Campbell, Mithraic Iconography and Ideology (Leyden, 1968), pp. 129_ §. Ernst Herzfeld, Zoroaster and His World (Princeton, Princeton University Press,

1947), I, 297, 299. 6. See Siegmund Hurwitz, Die Gestalt des sterbenden Messias: religions-psychologischen

Aspecte der judischen Apokalyptik (Zurich, 1958). ,

8. Ibid., p.p. 659. , g. Ibid., 657. 10. Ibid., p. 663. , 7. Sanhedrin, trans. H. Freedman (London, Soncino Press, 1935), II, 601, 602.

72.2. : ,

11. Ibid., p. 607. 12. Baba Bathra, HY, trans. Israel W. Slotki (London, Soncino Press, 1935), p. $03.

| 13. Kethuboth, Il, trans. Israel W. Slotki (London, Soncino Press, 1936), pp. 72114. Pesikta Rabbati: Discourses for Feasts, Fasts, and Special Sabbaths, trans. W. G. — Braude (New Haven, 1968), I, 415. 15. Kethuboth, Il, 721.

16. Sanhedrin, I, 613. 17. Ibid., p. 670. 18. Seder Gan Eden, in Adolf Jellinek, ed., Bet ha-Midrasch, 11 (Jerusalem, Wahr-

mann, 1967), $2. | |

19. Wolf Leslau, Falasha Anthology (New Haven, Yale University Press, 1951), pp. 84-85.

, 20. Hayyim Jacob Slucki, ed., Midrash Konen (Vilna, 1836). 21. Philo, Questions and Answers on Genesis, trans. Ralph Marcus, Loeb Classical Li-

brary (Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press, 1953), Philo Supplement [, 4. 22. Ibid., p. 8. 23. Philo, trans. F H. Colson and G. H. Whitaker, Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press, 1929), I, 175, 189. 24. Hippolytus, Philosophumena ou Réfutation de toutes les hérésies, trans. A. Siouville

(Paris, Rieder, 1928), HI, 22-23. See also Refutationis omnium haeresium, ed. and trans. , L. Duncker and FE G. Schneidewin (Gottingen, 1859), p. 245; and The Ante-Nicene Fathers, ed. Alexander Roberts and James Donaldson, V (Grand Rapids, 1951), 77. 25. Carl Jung, The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, in Collected Works, vol.

IX, part I (London and New York, 1959), p. 81. 26. Adriaan Beverland, Peccatum originale (Leyden, 1679), pp. 33, 35, 37, 38. See also Martin Metzger, Die Paradieseserzahlung: die Geschichte ihrer Auslegung von J. Clericus bis

W. M. L. De Wette (Bonn, 1959). , , 27. A. Dupont-Sommer, The Essene Writings from Qumran, trans. G. Vermeés (Ox-

, 28. Sanhedrin, II, 665. | ford, Basil Blackwell, 1961), p. 327.

2g. II Baruch 74: 1, in R. H. Charles, ed., The Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha of the Old Testament in English (Oxford, 1913), Il, $18. 30. Il Baruch 73: 2, 4, ibid. 31. Origen against Celsus, book VII, chap. 9, in Ante-Nicene Fathers, 1V (Grand Rap-

ids, W. B. Eerdmans, 1951), 614.

32. Irenaeus against Heresies, book II, chap. 33, ibid., I (1950), $63. 33. The Divine Institutes, book VII, chap. 24, ibid., VII (Buffalo, 1886), 219. 34. St. Augustine, De civitate Dei, ed. J. E. C. Welldon (London, Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 1924), II, 642.

NOTES TO PAGES 52-71 819g 35. City of God, book XXII, chap. 30, trans. J. W. C. Wand (London, Oxford University Press, 1963), p. 416. 36. Emilien Lamirande, L’Eglise céleste selon Saint Augustin (Paris, 1963), p. 245. 37. Enarrationes in Psalmos, 84, 10, in Corpus Christianorum: Series Latina, XX XIX

(Turnhout, Brepols, 1956), 1170. | 38. Tertullian, A Treatise on the Soul, in Ante-Nicene Fathers, Il (Buffalo, 1885), 231.

39. Tertullian, Apology. De spectaculis, trans. T. R. Glover, Loeb Classical Library (London, Wm. Heinemann, 1931), pp. 297-301. 40. St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa contra Gentiles, trans. English Dominican Fathers, IV (London, 1929), 300-303. 41. Moses Maimonides, Hilkhot Teshuvah, chap. 9:2, in Mishneh Torah. A Latin translation of this section was published under the title Canones poenitentiae (Cambridge, 1631).

42. Moses Maimonides, Hilkhot Melakhim, chap. 12:1-4, in Mishneh Torah (Vienna, 1842), part VIII, 166. 43. The Zohar, trans. Harry Sperling and Maurice Simon (London, Soncino Press, 1931), I, ror. The “Rav Mithivtha” covers folios 116b through 174a of vol. HI of the Mantua edition of 1559. 44. Joachim of Fiore, Liber cacordie: Novi ac Veteris Testamenti, nunc primo impressus & in luce editus (Venice, 1519), p. 21, col. c. 45. Joachim of Fiore, Psalterium decem cordarum abbatis Joachim (Venice, 1527), p. 260, col. a. 46. Marjorie Reeves, The Influence of Prophecy in the Later Middle Ages (Oxford, 1969).

47. Pierre Daniel Huet, Tractatus de situ paradisi terrestris (Amsterdam, 1698). 48. Lars-Ivar Ringbom, Graltempel und Paradies: Bezichungen zwischen Iran und

Europa im Mittelalter (Stockholm, 1951). See also Howard Rollin Patch, The Other World, According to Descriptions in Medieval Literature (Cambridge, Mass., 1950); Elisabeth Peters, Quellen und Charakter der Paradiesesvorstellungen in der deutschen Dichtung vom 9. bis

12. Jahrhundert (Breslau, 1915).

49. See Peter Martyr, De Orbe Novo (Alcala, 1516). 50. Pierre d’Ailly, Imago Mundi, with annotations by Christopher Columbus (Boston: Massachusetts Historical Society, 1927), a photostat of the manuscript in the Biblioteca Capitular Colombina in Seville. st. William G. Niederland, “River Symbolism,”’ Psychoanalytic Quarterly, 26 (1957), 71-72.

2. The Golden Age of Kronos 1. William Woodthorpe Tarn, Alexander the Great, vol. Il, Sources and Studies (Cambridge, 1948), 430-433; John Ferguson, Utopias of the Classical World (Ithaca,

N.Y., 1975), pp. 108-110. : 2. See, for example, Ferguson, Utopias, pp. 126, 142-145. T. W. Africa is skeptical of Iambulus’ influence; see his “Aristonicus, Blossius, and the City of the Sun,” International Review of Social History, 6 (1961), 110, 120ff.

3. Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore (Ann Arbor, University of Michigan Press, 1959), p. 39. 4. Ibid., pp. 31-33. See Rudolf von Roth, Abhandlung uber den Mythus von den funf Menschengeschlechtern bei Hesiod und die Indische Lehre von den vier Weltaltern (Tubingen, 1860).

s. H. Diels, Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker, 6th ed. (Berlin, Weidmann, 1951), I, 362-363, Empedocles, fragment 128. See G. S. Kirk and J. E. Raven, The Presocratic Phi-

820 NOTES TO PAGES 72-84 — losophers: A Critical History with a Selection of Texts (Cambridge, Cambridge University

Press, 1957), p. 349, no. 466, for quotation.

6. Plato, Republic, trans. Paul Shorey, Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge, Mass.,

Harvard University Press, 1958), I, 305. | 7. Plato, Laws, trans. R. G. Bury, Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press, 1961), I, 175. 8. Karl Muller, ed., Fragmenta historicorum graecorum, Il (Paris, 1848), 233: JeanJacques Rousseau, Discours sur l’origine . . . de l’inégalité, in Oeuvres completes, Pléiade

ed., III (Paris, 1964), 199. | g. Aratus of Soli, Phaenomena, trans. G. R. Mair, Loeb Classical Library (Cam-

bridge, Mass., Harvard University Press, 1960), p. 215. 10. Lucretius, The Nature of the Universe, trans. R. E. Latham, Penguin Classics

(Harmondsworth, Penguin Books, 1951), p. 202, book V.

11. Virgil, trans. H. Rushton Fairclough, Loeb Classical Library, I (Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press, 1920), 28-33, Eclogue IV. 12. Ovid, Metamorphoses, trans. Frank Justus Miller, Loeb Classical Library (Cam-

bridge, Mass., Harvard University Press, 1960), I, 9, 11. | 13. Henri Saint-Simon, De la réorganisation de la soctété européenne, in Oeuvres choisies

(Brussels, 1859), II, 328. }

14. Homer, Odyssey, trans. A. T. Murray, Loeb Classical Library, I (Cambridge, , Mass., Harvard University Press, 1974), 149, book IV, lines 561-569.

15. Hesiod, trans. Lattimore, pp. 37-39. ,

fragment 120.

16. Homer, Odyssey, 1, 241, book VII, lines 113-119. 17. Pindar, Works, trans. Lewis Richard Farnell, I (London, Macmillan, 1930), 333,

448. |

18. Plato, Republic, I, 131. ,

| 19. Joannes Stobacus, Eclogai, in Anthologium (Berlin, Weidmann, 1958), I, 4arff, | 20. The Fragments of Attic Comedy, ed. and trans. John Maxwell Edmonds, I (Ley-

den, E. J. Brill, 1957), 247, 249. See also Athenaeus, Deipnosophists, trans. Charles B. Gu-

lick, Loeb Classical Library, 7 vols. (Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press, 1927 _ —41); and Campbell Bonner, “Dionysiac Magic and the Greek Land of Cockaigne,” Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association, 41 (1910), 175ff-

| 21. Fragments of Attic Comedy, 1, 159.

22. Ibid., pp. 75, 81, 183.

23. Quoted in A. L. Morton, The English Utopia (London, Lawrence & Wishart,

- 19§2), pp. 12-13, 15, 29. , 24. The Qur’an, trans. Richard Bell, Il (Edinburgh, T. and T. Clark, 1939), 444,

Surah XXXVI. | 25. Pliny, Natural History, trans. H. Rackham, Loeb Classical Library, II (Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press, 1942), 379, book VI, 55; John Muir, ed., Original Sanskrit Texts, 2d ed., I (London, 1868), 491-494. 26. For an account of two utopias written by Dionysius Scytobrachion (second or first century B.c.) but lacking the philosophico-moral overtones of the others, see Fer- _

guson, Utopias, pp. 123-124. , , 27. Theopompus of Chios, Philippika, book VIII, in Felix Jacoby, ed., Die Frag-

mente der griechischen Historiker, I1B (Berlin, 1929), 550-552, and in Karl Muller, ed., Fragmenta Historicoruam Graecorum, | (Paris, 1885; 1st ed., 1841), 289-291, fragments 74—-

77; Claudius Aelianus (b. 170 A.D.), Varia Historia, ed. M. R. Dilts (Leipzig, 1974), pp. ~ 48-50, book III, 18. For a general appraisal of Theopompus, see Kurt von Fritz, “The Historian Theopompos: His Political Convictions and His Conception of Historiogra- _ phy,” American Historical Review, 46 (July 1941), 765-787; A. Momigliano, ‘Studi sulla , Storiografia Greca del iv secolo a.C.: Teopompo,”’ Rivista di filologia, n.s., 9 (1931), 230242, 335-353 (Terzo contributo alla storia degli studi classici, Rome, 1966, 367ff); and Gil-

NOTES TO PAGES 84-95 821 , bert Murray, ‘““Theopompus, or the Cynic as Historian,” in Greek Studies (Oxford,

1946), pp. 149-170. ,

28. Tertullian, Opera, ed. Nicolas Rigault (Paris, 1634), pp. 132, 278.

, 29. Diodorus of Sicily, Library of History, trans. C. H. Oldfather, Loeb Classical Library, I] (Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press, 1935), 31. Poggio Bracciolini’s Latin translations of books I-V of Diodorus appeared first in Bologna, 1472, and many times thereafter in Paris, Venice, and Lyons. 30. See Diodorus of Sicily, Library of History, U, 36-37, n. 2. 31. Ibid., p. 41, book IL.

32. Aelian, De natura animalium, trans. A. F. Scholfield, Loeb Classical Library, II | (Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press, 1959), 357, 359, book XI. . 33. Pomponius Mela, De chorographia libri III, ed. C. Frick (facsimile reprint of 1880 ed., Stuttgart, 1968), pp. 63-64, book III, 36-38, quoted from Arthur Oncken Lovejoy and George Boas, Primitivism and Related Ideas in Antiquity (Baltimore, Johns Hopkins University Press, 1935), p. 311. 34. Pliny, Natural History, II, 189, book IV. 35. Lucian, A True Story, book I, in Works, trans. A. M. Harmon, Loeb Classical Library, I (London, 1921), 251, 255; Diodorus of Sicily, Library of History, Il, 65-83, book II; Giovanni Battista Ramusio, Navigationi et viaggi, 2d ed., I (Venice, 1554), I90r— 1gir, “Discorso sopra la navigatione di Iambolo Mercatante antichissimo”’; Leo Afri-

1956. |

canus, Description de l’Afrique, Tierce Partie du Monde (Lyons, 1556), II, 113-125. See Elizabeth Visser, Iambolus en de eilanden van de Zon (Groningen, 194'7); and David Winston,

“Yambulus: A Literary Study of Greek Utopianism,” Ph.D. diss., Columbia University, 36. Diodcrus of Sicily, Library of History, If, 783-79, book IL 37. Callimachus, Aetia, lambi . . ., trans. C. A. Trypanis, Loeb Classical Library

| (Cambridge, Mass., 1975), pp. 105, 107. 38. Diodorus of Sicily, Library of History, HI (1939), 210-211 (n. 1), 21§—227, book

V, and 331-337, book VI; Lactantius, Divine Institutes, trans. Sister Mary Francis McDonald (Washington, D.C., 1964), pp. 49—52, 54, $7, $8, $9, 69, 91-92, book I. See Herman Franke van der Meer, Euhemerus von Messene (Amsterdam, 1949); Giovanna Vallauri, Evemero di Messene: Testimonianze e frammenti, con introduzione e commento (Turin, 1956); H. Braunert, “Die Heilige Insel des Euhemeros der Diodor Ueberlieferung,” Rheinisches Museum, 108 (1965), 25$—268.

39. The description of the Indian castes by Megasthenes is summarized in Strabo, Geography, trans. Horace Leonard Jones, Loeb Classical Library, VII (London, 1930), 67,

| 69, 81, 83, book XV; see also K. Muiller, ed., Fragmenta Historicorum Graecorum, I (Berlin, 1848), 405ff. Herodotus’ description of the seven-class division of Egypt appears in his Persian Wars, book II, chap. 164-168, in The Greek Historians, ed. F. R. B. Godol-

, phin (New York, 1942), I, 1§8-159. | 40. Athenaeus, Deipnosophists, VII (1941), 33, book XIV.

41. Antonius Diogenes, “Ta hyper Thoulen apista,” is summarized in Photius,

Bibliotheca (Paris, 1959-62), vol. II, sect. 166. ,

42. Sce Henry Reynolds, “Mythomystes” (1632), in J. E. Spingarn, ed., Critical

dise. . . 2?”

Essays of the Seventeenth Century (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1908), I, 176: “‘[W]hat can

Adonis horti among the Poets meane other then Moses his Eden, or terrestiall Para-

3, The Great Transmission 1. Kurt von Fritz, Pythagorean Politics in Southern Italy: An Analysis of the Sources (New York, 1940); John Earle Raven, Pythagoreans and Eleatics (Cambridge, 1948). 2. Plutarch, “Solon,” in Lives, trans. Bernadatte Perrin, Loeb Classical Library, I (London, Wm. Heinemann, 1914), 453.

822 NOTES TO PAGES 96-125 3. Ibid., p. 483. , 4. Plutarch, “Lycurgus,”’ ibid., p. 279. §. Victor Ehrenberg, The People of Aristophanes: A Sociology of Old Attic Comedy, 2d

ed. (Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press, 1951), pp. 360ff, 373. ,

(Paris, 1958). | | |

6. Lucian, A True Story, book I, in Works, trans. A. M. Harmon, Loeb Classical Library, I (London, 1921), 285. See J. Bompaire, Lucien écrivain: Imitation et création 7. Thomas More, Utopia, in The Complete Works of St. Thomas More, IV, ed. Edward Surtz and J. H. Hexter (New Haven, Yale University Press, 1965), 183. 8. Lucian, A True Story, book II, in Works, I, 317.

9. Ibid., p. 323.

10. Leonardo Bruni, Epistolarum Libri VIII (Florence, 1741), vol. I], book [X, no. 4, p. 148, Leonardo Bruni to Nicolaus Ceba.

4, The Passion of Thomas More ,

1 $04.

2. Ibid., p. 18. 7 ,

1. Desiderius Erasmus, Opus Epistolarum, IV, ed. P. S. and H. M. Allen (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1922), 16, Erasmus to Ulrich von Hutten, July 23, 1519. 3. Thomas More, The Correspondence, ed. Elizabeth Frances Rogers (Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1947), p. 6, no. 3, More to John Colet, London, Oct. 23, 4. More, St. Thomas More: Selected Letters, in the Yale Edition of Selected Works of St. Thomas More (modernized series), I, ed. Elizabeth Frances Rogers (New Haven,

Yale University Press, 1961), pp. 4-5, no. 2, More to John Colet, London, Oct. 23,

1504; More, Correspondence, pp. 6-7, no. 3. 7 ,

5. More, Latin Epigrams, ed. Leicester Bradner and Charles A. Lynch (Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1953), p. 105, no. 242. 6. There was a life of Agis IV in Plutarch. See Plutarch’s Lives: Agis and Cleomenes, ed. and trans. Bernadotte Perrin, Loeb Classical Library, X (London, 1921), 3-43. Professor T. W. Africa has kindly allowed us to read his paper, ““Thomas More and the Spartan Mirage.” 7. More, Utopia, in The Complete Works of St. Thomas More, IV, ed. Edward Surtz

and J. H. Hexter (New Haven, Yale University Press, 1965), 19. | ,

g. Ibid. | 8. Ibid., p. 21.

10. Plato, Timaeus, trans. R. G, Bury, Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge, Mass.,

Harvard University Press, 1961), p. 23. . ,

11. Ibid., pp. 45, 47. | ,

12. More, A fruteful, and pleasaunt worke of the beste state of a publyque weale, and of the

newe yle called Utopia, trans. Raphe Robynson (London, 1551), [m 8 recto]. 13. More, The History of King Richard III, in Complete Works of St. Thomas More, Il,

ed. Richard S. Sylvester (New Haven, 1963), 3-4. 14. More, The Answer to the first part of the poysoned booke . . . the Supper of the Lord (1533), in The Workes of Thomas More Knight . . . wrytten by him in the Englysh tonge, ed. William Rastell (London, 1557), p. 1041, D, E. 15. Elizabeth B. Blackburn, ‘The Legacy of ‘Prester John’ by Damiao 4 Goes and John More,”’ Moreana, vol. 4, no. 14 (May 1967), pp. 37-98.

16. Later More cautioned against the “inordinate appetite of knowledge” as a ‘“meane to drive an man out of paradise.” A Dialogue concernynge heresyes and Matters of Religion (1528), in Workes, ed. Rastell, p. 242, AB.

17. More, Utopia, pp. 65, 67. 18. Ibid., p. 241.

NOTES TO PAGES 125-139 823 19. More, Lucianus Samosatensis, in Complete Works of St. Thomas More, vol. Il,

part 1, trans. and ed. Craig R. Thompson (New Haven, 1974), pp. 25-43, 169-179.

20. More, Utopia, p. 221. |

21. Ro: Ba:, The Lyfe of Syr Thomas More, ed. E. V. Hitchcock and P. E. Hallett (London, Oxford University Press, 1950), p. 86.

22. More, Utopia, p. 167. )

23. Ibid., p. 175. 24. [bid., p. 161.

, 25. See Lorenzo Valla, De Voluptate (written ca. 1431); and Don Cameron Allen, “The Rehabilitation of Epicurus and His Theory of Pleasure,” Studies in Philology, 41 (1944), I-TS. 26. Amerigo Vespucci’s Quatuor Navigationes, first printed in Italian in a rare Florentine edition of 1505/6, was appended to Martin Waldseemuller’s Cosmographiae Introductio (St. Dié, 1507); for Vespucci’s description, see a facsimile edition of the Cosmographia, ed. C. G. Herbermann (New York, 1907), p. 98. 27. More, Utopia, p. 117. 28. More, Selected Letters, p. 73, no. 6, More to Erasmus, London, Sept. 3, 1516. 29. Ibid., p. 90, no. 15, More to Antonio Buonvisi, London, January 1517(?). 30. More, Correspondence, p. 87, no. 31, More to William Warham, Archbishop of

Canterbury, London, January 1517. , 31. More, Selected Letters, p. 85, no. 11, More to Erasmus, London, ca. Dec. 4, 1516.

32. Ibid., p. 82, no. ro, More to Tunstal, London, ca. November 1516. 33. Ibid., p. 81, no. 9, More to Erasmus, London, Oct. 31, 1516. 34. Erasmus, Opus Epistolarum, IV, 21, Erasmus to Ulrich von Hutten, July 23, 1$19.

35. More, Utopia, p. 37, Busleyden to More, Mechlin, 1516. 36. Ibid., pp. 14, 15, Guillaume Budé to Thomas Lupset, Paris, July 31, 1517. 37. More, Selected Letters, p. 85, no. 11, More to Erasmus, ca. Dec. 4, 1516. 38. More, Utopia, pp. 245, 247. 39. Edward Surtz, The Praise of Pleasure: Philosophy, Education, and Communism in More’s Utopia (Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press, 1957), p. 1. 40. More, Utopia, p. 165. 41. More, Eruditissimi Viri Guilielmi Rossei Opus Elegans, Doctum, Festium, Pium, Quo Pulcherrime Retegit, ac Refellit Insanas Lutheri Calumnias . . . (London, 1523). 42. More, The Apology (1533), in Workes, ed. Rastell, pp. 863H-864A. 43. More, Confutacyon of Tyndales answere (1532), in Complete Works, vol. VIII, part

1, ed. L. A. Schuster, et al. (New Haven, 1973), p. 3. 44. Ibid., p. 179. 45. More, Selected Letters, p. 181, Epitaph (1533), sent to Erasmus. 46. More, Confutacyon of Tyndales answere, p. 3. 47. More, Selected Letters, p. 180, no. 46, More to Erasmus, Chelsea, June (?) 1533.

48. More, Responsio ad Lutherum, in Complete Works, vol. V, part 2, trans. Sister | Scholastica Mandeville, ed. John M. Headley (New Haven, 1969), p. 870. 49. More, Confutacyon of Tyndales answere, pp. 307, 308. 50. John Foxe, The Booke of Martyrs (London, 1621), H, 353. st. More, A dialoge of comfort agaynst trybulacion made by an Hungaryen in laten, & translatyd out of Laten into French, & out of French into Englysh (1534), in Complete Works,

XII, ed. L. L. Martz and Frank Manley (New Haven, 1976), 83. 52. More, A godly meditacion (1534), in Complete Works, XIII, ed. Garry E. Haupt (New. Haven, 1976), 227.

$3. Petition of German Merchants to the Mayor of Cologne, March 3, 1526, J. ~ Pierpont Morgan Library, New York, E-2, 45B.

824 NOTES TO PAGES 139-143 54. More, Confutacyon of Tyndales answere, p. §. More’s bite was far worse than his

bark, if he is to be compared to Foxe and his Booke of Martyrs, While Foxe wished to send no man to the stake, we are reminded by one of his apologists, ‘‘the same cannot be said of More nor even of Cranmer, both of whom have gained a reputation for gentleness and width of sympathy.” J. F Mozley, John Foxe and His Book (London, 1940), p. 1$8.

_ §§. More, Early Poems, in The English Works of Sir Thomas More (1557), fascimile edition (London, Eyre and Spottiswoode, 1931), I, 341. §6. William Roper, The lyfe of Sir Thomas Moore Knighte, ed. E. V. Hitchcock

(London, Oxford University Press, 1935), p. 21. , 57. Ro: Ba:, Lyfe of More, p. 86. 58. More, Workes, ed. Rastell, pp. 81H, 9A, 1168G, 1244H, 81C, 1248H, 1298H.

$9. More, History of King Richard HI and Selections from the English and Latin Poems,

(New Haven, 1976), 162.

in Yale Edition of Selected Works (modernized series), III, ed. Richard S. Sylvester

60. Ibid., p. 116. ,

61. More, Latin Epigrams, nos. 22, 27, 28, 52, §7, 38, $6, 101, 243. 62. More, A Treatise on Ecclesiastes 7, in English Works, I, 474, 475, 479. — 63. More, De Tristitia Christi, 11 Complete Works, vol. XIV, part 1, trans. and ed.

Clarence H. Miller (New Haven, 1976), pp. 241-243. 64. Ibid., pp. 413-415.

65. Ibid., p. 457. , 66. Thomas Stapleton, The Life and illustrious martyrdom of Sir Thomas More, part III of Tres Thomae, printed at Douai, 1588, trans. Philip E. Hallett (London, Burns, Oates, & Washbourne, 1928), p. 75. |

67. More, A dialoge of comfort agaynst trybulacion, p. 98. , , 68. Thomas More’s prayer book, a facsimile of the annotated pages, trans. with intro. by Louis L. Martz and Richard S. Sylvester (New Haven, 1969), pp. 27, 31, 32, 33, 34; 35, 37, 39, 45, $0, §2, $7, 60, 66, 68, 79, 88, 96, 98, 99, 100, 109, III, 165. 69. Sigmund Freud, Jokes and their Relation to the Unconscious, in The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, trans. and ed. James Strachey, vol. VIII (London, Hogarth Press, 1953); “Humour” (1927), ibid., XXI (1961), 161-166.

Freud’s dynamic explanation of the humorous attitude involves his whole system of displacement of large quantities of cathexis from the ego to the superego. ‘“‘Look here!

This is all that this seemingly dangerous world amounts to, Child’s play—the very thing to jest about.”’ This is the intention that humor fulfills, Freud maintains. When More’s Utopia is closest to humor, it is the Utopian children who take over and deny the world of More’s England: They transvalue the worth of gold and jewels and turn them

, into playthings.

, In Wit and its Relation to the Unconscious, trans. A. A. Brill (New York, Dodd, Mead, 1916), Freud hazarded the “impression’”’ that “the subjective determination of wit production is oftentimes not unrelated to persons suffering from neurotic diseases, when,

for example, one learns that Lichtenberg was a confirmed hypochondriac burdened | with all kinds of eccentricities . . . Persons having a powerful sadistic component in their sexuality, which is more or less inhibited in life, are most successful with the ten-

217.

dency-wit of aggression” (pp. 218, 219). ,

70. Freud, Collected Papers, V, ed. John Strachey (London, Hogarth Press, 1950),

71. More, Confutacyon of Tyndales answere, p. 232. ,

72. Ro: Ba:, Life of More, pp. 89-90. 73. In another story (recorded in Foxe’s Booke of Martyrs, Il, 353) the beard figures , in an incident that takes place on the scaffold: ‘Also even when he should lay downe his necke on the blocke, he having a great gray beard, striked out his beard, and said to the

NOTES TO PAGES 143-154 825 hangman, I pray you let me lay my beard over the blocke, lest you should cut it; thus

with a mocke he ended his life.” | 74. Ro: Ba:, Lyfe of More, pp. 123-124. 75. Foxe, Booke of Martyrs, II, 353.

76. Robert Southey, Sir Thomas More or Colloquies on Progress and Prospects of Society

(London, 1829), I, 6off-

77. Russell A. Ames, Citizen Thomas More and his Utopia (Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1949), p. 6. 78. More, Utopia, p. 241.

, 79. Ibid., p. 105.

80. Ibid., p. 243. 81. Ibid., p. 245. 82. [Jacobus Sobius], Philalethis Civis Utopiensis Dialogus de Facultatibus Romanensium nuper Publicatis (Basel, 1520). 83. Silvio Zavala, ‘Sir Thomas More in New Spain,” Recuerdos de Vasco de Quiroga

(Mexico City, 1965), pp. 99-116; Robert Ricard, The Spiritual Conquest of Mexico (Berkeley, 1966).

84. Quoted in N. Z. Davis, “Rene Choppin on More’s Utopia,” Moreana, vol. 5, nos. 19—20 (1968), pp. 91-96. |

85. More, Tableau du meilleur gouvernement possible, ou l’Utopie de Thomas Morus... , trans. M. T. Rousseau (Paris, 1780), dedication to Vergennes.

5. A Citta Felice for Architects and Philosophers 1. Ortensio Landi, Commentario delle piu notabili, et mostruose cose d’Italia, & altri

luoghi, di lingua Aramea in Italiana tradotto (Venice, 1548). | 2. Antonio Francesco Doni, I Mondi (Venice, 1552); I Marmi del Doni, academico peregrino (Venice, 1552-1553). See Cecilia Ricottini Marsili-Libelli, Anton Francesco Doni, scrittore e stampatore (Florence, 1960); Paul F Grendler, Critics of the Italian World, 1530-1560: Anton Francesco Doni, Nicolo Franco and Ortensio Lando (Madison, 1969). 3. Ellis Heywood, II Moro: Ellis Heywood’s Dialogue in Memory of Thomas More, ed.

and trans. Roger Lee Deakins (Cambridge, Mass., 1972). 4. R. O. Jones, “Some Notes on More’s ‘Utopia’ in Spain,’’ Modern Language Review, vol. 45, no. 4 (October 1950), pp. 478-482. 5. Lodovico Zuccolo, Dialoghi . . . net quali con varieta di eruditione si scoprono nuovi, e vaghi pensieri filosofici, morali, e politici . . . (Venice, 1625), and La Repubblica d’E-vandria, ¢ altri dialoghi politict, ed. Rodolfo de Mattei (Rome, 1944), intro., pp. 7-30. Zuccolo had also attacked More in an earlier work, Considerationi politiche et morali sopra cento oracoli d’illustri personaggi antichi (Venice, 1621). |

6. Francesco Patrizi da Cherso, La Citta felice (Venice, 1553), excerpts from Carlo Curcio, ed., Utopisti e riformatori sociali del cinquecento (Bologna, Zanichelli, 1941), pp. 121~142. See Paola Maria Arcari, Il pensiero politico di Francesco Patrizi da Cherso (Rome, 193§); and Benjamin Brinckman, An Introduction to Francesco Patrizi’s Nova de Universis Philosophia (New York, 1941). 97, Girolamo Cardano, Encomium Neronis, 11 Opera Omnia (Lyons, 1663), I, 179220. See Jean Lucas-Dubreton, Le Monde enchanté de la renaissance: Jérome Cardan Vhalluciné (Paris, 1954); and A. Bellini, Cardano e il suo tempo (Milan, 1947). 8. Ludovico Agostini, La Repubblica Immaginaria, ed. Luigi Firpo (Turin, 1957), and Esclamazioni a Dio, ed. Luigi Firpo (Bologna, 1958). See Luigi Firpo, Lo Stato ideale della Controriforma: Ludovico Agostini (Bari, 1957). g. More, Utopia, in The Complete Works of St. Thomas More, IV, ed. Edward Surtz and J. H. Hexter (New Haven, Yale University Press, 1965), 121.

826 NOTES TO PAGES 155-163 ,

nini (Berlin, 1931), I, 85. , ,

10. Heinrich Brauer and Rudolf Wittkower, Die Zeichnungen des Gianlorenzo Ber- 7

11. Carroll William Westfall, In This Most Perfect Paradise: Alberti, Nicholas V, and the Invention of Conscious Urban Planning in Rome, 1447-55 (University Park, Pennsylvania State University Press, 1974). 12. Leone Battista Alberti, Opere volgari, ed. Cecil Grayson, 3 vols. (Bari, 196073); Opuscoli morali, trans. Cosimo Bartoli (Venice, 1568); Momus o del principe, ed. and

trans. Giuseppe Martini (Bologna, 1942); De Re Aedificatoria, ed. Paolo Portoghesi (Milan, 1966); for an English translation, Ten books on Architecture, trans, into Italian by

Cosimo Bartoli and into English by James Leoni, ed. Joseph Rykwert (London, A. Tiranti, 1955), a reprint of the 1755 edition, with the life from the 1739 edition. See Joan Gadol, Leon Battista Alberti: Universal Man of the Early Renaissance (Chicago, 1969); Girolamo Mancini, Vita di Leon Battista Alberti (Florence, 1882); Paul-Henri Michel, Un idéal

humain au xv® siécle: La Pensée de L. B. Alberti (1404~1472) (Paris, 1930); Rudolf Witt- , kower, Architectural Principles in the Age of Humanism (London, 1941); Giovanni Santinello, Leon Battista Alberti: Una visione estetica del mondo e della vita (Florence, 1962).

, 13. Filarete (Antonio di Piero Averlino), Treatise on Architecture (Commonly referred to as Sforzinda), trans. and ed. John R. Spencer, 2 vols. (New Haven and London, —

Yale University Press, 1965). See Luigi Firpo, “‘La Citta ideale del Filarete,”’ in Studi in , memoria di Gioele Solari (Turin, 1954), pp. 11-59; John R. Spencer, “‘Filarete and Central Plan Architecture,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, vol. 17, no. 3 (1958), pp. 10-18; H. Saalman, ‘‘Early Renaissance Architectural Theory and Practice in Anto-

nio Filarete’s Trattato di Architettura,”’ Art Bulletin, 16 (1959), 89-106; Robert Klein, “L’Urbanisme utopique de Filarete a Valentin Andreae,” in Les Utopies a la Renaissance (Brussels and Paris, 1963), pp. 209-230; Peter Tigler, Die Architekturtheorie des Filarete

(Berlin, 1963). ,

14. Francesco di Giorgio Martini, Trattati di Architettura, Ingegneria e Arte Militare, ed. Corrado Maltese, transcription by Livia Maltese Degrassi, 2 vols. (Milan, 1967). See Allen Stuart Weller, Francesco di Giorgio, 1439-1501 (Chicago, 1943); Roberto Papini, Francesco di Giorgio architetto, 2 vols. (Florence, 1946); Selwyn J. C. Brinton, Francesco di Giorgio Martini of Siena, Painter, Sculptor, Engineer, Civil and Military Architect (1439-

1502), 2 vols. (London, 1934~—1935). |

, 15. Weller, Francesco di Giorgio, app., p. 349, doc. 35, Federigo da Montefeltro to the Signoria of Siena, July 26, 1480. 16. [bid., app., pp. 373-374, doc. 85, Duke Gian Galeazzo to the Sienese Balia, July 8, 1490.

17. Francesco di Giorgio Martini, Trattato di architettura civile e militare, ed. Carlo Promis (Turin, 1841), p. 53, book II, 8, and p. 62, book II, to.

18. Ibid., p. 71; see also Maltese ed., II, 360. ,

19. Quoted in Pierre Lavedan, Histoire de l’urbanisme: Renaissance et Temps modernes,

2nd ed. (Paris H. Laurens, 1959), p. 11. 20. Alberti, De Iciarchia, in Opere volgari, ed. Anicio Bonucci, II (Florence, 1845),

‘TI6. ,

21. Filarete, Sforzinda, I, 106, book VIII, fol. 61v. 22. Ibid., p. 41, book IV, fols. 23 r and v, and p. 47, book IV, fol. 27r.

chap. 8. 7 23. Ibid., p. 16, book II, fol. 8r

24. Ibid., p. 45, book IV, fol. 2sv.

25. Ibid., p. 111, book IX, fol. 65r. | ,

26. Aristotle, Politics, trans. and ed. Ernest Barker (Oxford, 1946), p. 68, book II,

27. Vitruvius, On Architecture, trans. Frank Granger, Loeb Classical Library, | (London and New York, Wm. Heinemann, 1931), 5, book I, preface.

28. Ibid., pp. $3, $5, $7, book I, chap. 6, and plate A. :

NOTES TO PAGES 163~182 827 29. Ibid., p. 121, book II, chap. 8. 30. Ibid., p. 27, book I, chap. 2. 31. Filarete, Sforzinda, I, 6, book I, fol. av.

32. Ibid.

33. Francesco di Giorgio, Trattati, ed. Maltese, I, plate 1, reproduction of MS Saluzz. 148, fol. 3, in the Biblioteca Reale, Turin. 34. MS Ashburnham 361, fols. 1 and sr, in the Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Florence. See G. Eimer, Die Stadtplanung im schwedischen Ostseereich, 1600-1715. Mit Bettragen zur Geschichte der Idealstadt (Stockholm, 1961), p. 62. 35. Filarete, Sforzinda, I, 175, book XII, fol. 1oor. 36. Ibid., p. 222, book XVI, fol. 128v. 37. Vitruvius, On Architecture, 1, 73-75, book II, preface. 38. Alberti, Ten Books on Architecture, pp. 67-68, book IV, chap. 2. 39. Ibid., p. 64, book IV, chap. 1. 40. Ibid., p. 66, book IV, chap. 1. 41. Ibid. 42. Ibid., p. 85, book V, chap. 2. 43. Filarete, Sforzinda, I, 146-150, book XI, fols. 84r—86r; Francesco di Giorgio, Trattato, ed. Promis, p. 53, book II, 8.

44. Filarete, Sforzinda, I, 45-46, book IV, fol. 26r.

45. Ibid., p. 49, book IV, fol. 28r, and p. 180, book XIV, fol. 1o3r. 46. Ibid., p. 6, book I, fol. av. 47. Ibid., pp. 282-283, book XX, fols. 16sr and v. 48. Leonardo da Vinci, I Manoscritti e i Disegni, pub. by Reale Commissione Vinciana, V (Rome, Danesi, 1941), 29, fol. 16r, and 69, fol. 36r. 49. Ibid., pp. 28-29, fols. 15v and 16r. Summary follows translation by I. A. Richter, ed., Selections from the Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci (London, Oxford University Press, 19§2), pp. 213-214. 50. Patrizi, La Citta felice, in Curcio, Utopisti del cinquecento, p. 136.

st. [bid., p. 129. $2. Agostini, “L’Infinito,” book I, part II, sect. 130, quoted in Firpo, Lo Stato ideale della Controriforma, p. 275. $3. Agostini, La Repubblica Immaginaria (book II, part Il, of “L'Infinito’’), ed. Firpo, P- 47.

$4. Ibid., p. 74. 5§. Filarete, Sforzinda, I, 248, book XVIII, fol. 144r. 56. Ibid., p. 254, book XVIII, fol. 148r, and p. 257, book XVUI, fol. 1sor. $7. Doni, “Mondo Savio”’ (dialogue from his I Mondi), reprinted by Luigi Firpo in Il Pensiero della Rinascenza e della Riforma, vol. X of Grande Antologia Filosofica, ed. M. F.

Sciacca et al. (Milan, 1964), p. $77. 58. Quoted in Hermann Bauer, Kunst und Utopie (Berlin, Walter De Gruyter, 1965), p. I. 59. Agostini, La Repubblica Immaginaria, p. 63.

6. Heaven on Earth for the Common Man 1. Thomas Mintzer, ‘“‘Protestation odder empietung Tome Muntzers vo Stolberg

, am Hartzs seelwarters zu Alstedt seine leere betreffende unnd tzum anfang von dem rechten Christen glawben unnd der tawffe (1524),” in Schriften und Briefe, ed. Gunther Franz (Gutersloh, G. Mohn, 1968), p. 234. Hereafter referred to as Franz. 2. Jurgen Bucking, “Der Oberrheinische Revolutionar heisst Conrad Sturtzel,”’ Archiv ftir Kulturgeschichte, 56 (1974), 177-197; A. Franke and G. Zchabitz, Das Buch der 100 Kapitel und 20 Statuten des sog. O R (Berlin, 1967).

, 828 NOTES TO PAGES 182-201

367. | 3. Adapted from translation by Gordon Leff, Heresy in the Later Middle Ages (Manchester, Manchester University Press, 1967), I, 373. 4. Theodora Btittner and Ernst Werner, Circumcellionen und Adamiten (Berlin, Akademie-Verlag, 1959), pp. 81-82; quotation adapted from Howard Kaminsky, A History of the Hussite Revolution (Berkeley, University of California Press, 1967), p. 405.

§. Walter Elliger, Thomas Mintzer: Leben und Werk (Gottingen, 1975), p. 17.

6. Martin Luther, “Eine schreckliche Geschichte und ein Gericht Gottes tiber Thomas Munzer, darin Gott offentlich desselben Geists Ligen straft und verdammt,”’ Schriften, XVIIL, in Werke: Kritische Gesammtausgabe (Weimar, H. Bohlau, 1883—1957), , 7. Franz, p. 394, Muntzer to Count Ernst von Mansfeld, Allstedt, Sept. 22, 1523. 8. Luther, “Brief an die Fursten zu Sachsen von dem aufrtihrerischen Geist,” Schriften, XV, 213-215.

9. Erwin Mulhaupt, Luther uber Mintzer (Witten, 1973), pp. 109-110. , 10. Franz, p. 471, Muntzer to the people of Erfurt, Frankenhausen, May 13, 1525. Luther’s Bible translation for Daniel 7:27 read, ‘“‘Aber das Reich Gewalt und Macht unter dem ganzen Himmel wird dem heiligen Volk des Hochsten gegeben werden.” 11. Numbers 19 refers to the purification required by the seventh day after touch-

ing a dead body. This is characteristic of Mtintzer’s free handling of the biblical text. Muntzer, ““Auslegung des andern unterschyds Danielis dess propheten gepredigt auffm

oe schloss zu Alstet vor den tetigen thewren Herzcogen und vorstehern zu Sachssen durch Thoma Muntzer diener des wordt gottes” (1524), in Franz, p. 251. 12. Ibid., p. 256. 13. Miintzer, “‘Hoch verursachte Schutzrede und antwwort wider das Gaistlosse Sanft lebende fleysch zu Wittenberg” (1524), in Franz, p. 329. 14. Franz, p. 434, Mtintzer to the people of Allstedt, Muhlhausen, Aug. 15, 1524. 15. Ibid., pp. 454-455, Muntzer to the people of Allstedt, Muhlhausen, about April

26 or 27, 1525. | | 16. Ibid., p. 398, Muntzer to Hans Zeiss, Allstedt, Dec. 2, 1523. |

17. Ibid., p. 256. 18. Ibid., p. 281. 19. Ibid., pp. 21-22. 20. Ibid., p. 403, Mtintzer to Christoph Meinhard, ‘‘Auslegung des 18 Psalms,”

| Allstedt, May 30, 1524.

21. Luther, Briefwechsel, UI, in Werke (1933), 472, Luther to Nikolaus von Ams-

dorf, Wittenberg, April 11, 1525. .

22. Luther, Tischreden, I, in Werke, $98. 23. “Bekenntnis Thomas Muntzers” (May 16, 1525), in Franz, p. 548. 24. Luther, Briefwechsel, WH, 515, Luther to Johann Ruhel, May 30, 1520. 25. Franz, pp. 473-474. 26. Ibid., pp. 543, 548.

27. Philipp Melanchthon, Opera quae supersunt omnia (Corpus reformatorum), ed. C. -G. Bretschneider, vol. I (Halle, 1834), col. 744. 28. Georg Theodor Strobel, Leben, Schriften und Lehren Thomae Muentzers des Ur-

hebers des Bauernaufruhrs in Thueringen (Nuremberg, 1795). 29. Elliger, Thomas Miintzer. The best Muntzer bibliography is on pp. 824-835. 30. Philipp Melanchthon, Die Histori Thome Muntzers des anfengers der Doringischen _

uffrur (Hagenau, 1525), quoted in Otto H. Brandt, ed., Thomas Muntzer, sein Leben und

seine Schriften (Jena, E. Diederichs, 1933), p. 42. | } |

, 31. Wilhelm Zimmermann, Allgemeine geschichte des grossen Bauernkrieges, 3 parts — (Stuttgart, 1841-1843), III, 6o6ff, 766ff,

32. Friedrich Engels, Der deutsche Bauernkrieg (1850), trans. in The German Revolutions, ed. Leonard Krieger (Chicago, 1967), pp. 3-119; for Engels’ appraisal of Muntzer, see esp. pp. 29, 30, 46ff.

, NOTES TO PAGES 201~227 829 33. Karl Kautsky, Die Vorlaufer des neueren Sozialismus, 2nd ed. (Stuttgart, 1909), II, 42ff

, 7. Pansophia: A Dream of Science 1. Pansophia, an ancient Greek word, was used by Philo, reappeared in the Renaissance, and gained wide currency in the seventeenth century. 2, Francis Bacon, A Refutation of Philosophies (Redargutio Philosophiarum), 1608, in The Philosophy of Francis Bacon: An Essay on Its Development from 1603 to 1609, with New Translations of Fundamental Texts, ed. and trans. Benjamin Farrington (Liverpool, Liverpool University Press, 1964), p. 109. 3. John Milton, An Apology against a Pamphlet Call’d a Modest Confutation of the Ani-

madversions upon the Remonstrant against Smectymnuus (London, 1642), p. 10. 4. Descartes cast Bruno and Campanella into the same basket with Telesius, Basso, Vaninus as novatores from whom nothing was to be learned. Descartes, Oeuvres, ed. C. E. Adam and Paul Tannery, new ed., I (Paris, 1969), 158, Descartes to Isaac Beeckman,

| Amsterdam, Oct. 17, 1630.

1, p. 313. , 8. Bruno, the Magus of Nola

1. Giordano Bruno, De Immenso et Innumerabilibus, bk. III, chap. 1, in Opera Latine

, Conscripta, ed. Francesco Fiorentino et al. (Florence and Naples, 1879—1891), vol. I, part 2. Father Mersenne in L’Impiété des Deéistes (Paris, 1624) attacked Bruno’s idea of

science in the name of the new science with a mathematical foundation. See Héléne Védrine, La Conception de la nature chez Bruno (Paris, 1967). Florio, The Essayes (1603), p.

vii, reported Bruno’s views on the importance of translation in the accumulative transmission of knowledge: “my old fellow Nolano taught publikely, that from translation all Science had it’s of-spring. Likely, since even Philosophie, Grammar, Rhethoricke, Logike, Arithmetike, Geometrie, Astronomy, Musike, and all the Mathematikes yet holde their name of the Greekes: and the Greekes drew their baptizing water from the conduit-pipes of the Egiptians, and they from the well-springs of the Hebrews or Chaldees.”” Despite Bruno’s expression of the idea of accumulation in astronomic knowledge in one passage of the Cena de le Ceneri, he held to the common doctrine of vicissitudes in all material things, which meant a movement from one state to its opposite: ‘“Cossi tutte cose nel suo geno hanno tutte vicissitudine di dominio et servitt, felicita et infelicita, de quel stato che si chiama vita, et quello che si chiama morte; di luce, et tenebre; di bene e male.” Giordano Bruno, La Cena de le Cenerit, ed. Giovanni Aquilecchia ([Turin], Einaudi, 1955), Fifth Dialogue, p. 217. See F. Saxl, “Veritas Filia Temporis,” in Philosophy

and History: Essays Presented to E. Cassirer (London, 1936), pp. 197~222. | 3. Quoted in Dorothea (Waley) Singer, Giordano Bruno, His Life and Thought, with Annotated Translation of “On the Infinite Universe and Worlds’? (New York, Schuman, 19$0), p. 25. 4. Francis Bacon, Historia naturalis et experimentalis (1622), in Works, ed. James Spedding et al., If (London, 1857), 13. § Bruno, Cena delle ceneri (1584), in Opere italiane, ed. Giovanni Gentile (Bari, La-

terza, 1907), I, 28. 6. Bruno, De l’infinito universo et mondi (Venice [London], 1584), trans. in Singer, Bruno, p. 20. 7. Domenico Berti, Documenti intorno a Giordano Bruno da Nola (Rome, 1880), pp. 32, $5.

8. On Bruno’s sexual exploits, see the preface to his De gl’heroici furori (1585); Angelo Mercati, I! Sommario del processo di Giordano Bruno (Vatican City, 1942), p. 102; and

Berti, Documenti, p. 9.

830 NOTES TO PAGES 227-247 , 9. Berti, Documenti, pp. 7, 37. 10. See John C. Nelson, Renaissance Theory of Love: The Context of Giordano Bruno’s

Eroici furori (New York, 1958).

11. Berti, Documenti, p. 66; Vincenzo Spampanato, Documenti della vita di Giordano Bruno (Florence, 1933), pp. 108-109. The translation is by Frances Yates, Giordano Bruno

and the Hermetic Tradition (Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1964), p. 231.

12. Quoted and trans. in Yates, Bruno, pp. 211-212. , |

13. Bruno, The Expulsion of the Triumphant Beast, trans. and ed. Arthur D. Imerti

(New Brunswick, N.J., Rutgers University Press, 1964), p. 268, emended. |

14. Quoted from Yates, Bruno, p. 226. , 15. Bruno, Expulsion, ed. Imerti, p. 246. ,

16. Luigi Firpo, “I! processo di Giordano Bruno,” Rivista storica italiana, 60 (1948), 542-597; Vincenzo Spampanato, Vita di Giordano Bruno con documenti editi e inediti (Mes-

sina, G. Principato, 1921), II, 656. |

: 17. De linfinito universo e mondi, trans. in Singer, Bruno, p. §8.

18. Expulsion of the Triumphant Beast, quoted and trans. in Yates, Bruno, pp. 212213.

19, On Bruno’s trials, see Luigi Firpo, Il processo di Giordano Bruno (Naples, 1949). 20. Angelo Mercati, Il] Sommario del processo di Giordano Bruno (Vatican City, 1942).

21. Giordano Bruno, The Heroic Frenzies, trans. and ed. Paul Eugene Memmo, Jr. (Chapel Hill, University of North Carolina Press, 1965), pp. 114-115, 117, 118. 22. [bid., p. 122. 23. During the Venetian trial Bruno charged that Mocenigo had struck him in his onore. Spampanato, Vita di Bruno, I, 739. 24. Ibid., pp. 588-589.

| 9. Bacon, Trumpeter of New Atlantis 1. Adolf von Harnack, Geschichte der Koniglich preussischen Akademie der Wissenschaf-

ten zu Berlin (Berlin, 1900), vol. I, part I, p. 174.

, 2. Francesco Grillo, Tommaso Campanella in America: A Critical Bibliography and a

Profile (New York, 1954), pp. 97-98. |

3. In 1631 the New Atlantis was translated into French, in 1633 into Latin; it was published eleven times from 1627 to 1676, and there have since been more than a hun-

dred editions. ,

4. The inscription, a rewriting of the Vulgate, Daniel 12: 4, “Plurimi pertransibunt et multiplex erit scientia,’’ appears on the frontispiece engraving of ships sailing forth in the Instauratio Magna. The engraving is reproduced in Francis Bacon, Works, ed. James Spedding et al., [ (London, 1857), 119. In the Redargutio Philosophiarum, 1608 (The Refutation of Philosophies), he had already written: “Distant voyages and travels have brought __ to light many things in nature, which may throw fresh light on human philosophy and science and correct by experience the opinions and conjectures of the ancients. Not only reason but prophecy connects the two. What else can the prophet mean who, in speaking about the last times, says: Many will pass through and knowledge will be multiplied? Does he not imply that the passing through or perambulation of the round earth and the increase or multiplication of science were destined to the same age and century?” Benjamin Farrington, The Philosophy of Francis Bacon: An Essay on Its Development

from 1603 to 1609, with New Translations of Fundamental Texts (Liverpool, Liverpool University Press, 1964), pp. 131-132.

5. Bacon, Sylva Sylvarum: or a Natural History, in Ten Centuries (1626 [1627]) in Works, Il (1857), 666—667. See also Paul H. Kocher, “Francis Bacon and His Father,”’ Huntington Library Quarterly, 21 (19$7-58), 133-166.

6. Bacon, Novum Organum, in Works, IV (1858), 82. ;

NOTES TO PAGES 247-263 831 7. Bacon, The Wisdome of the Ancients, trans. Arthur Gorges Knight (London, 1619), p. 131: “Let men therefore be admonished, that by acknowledging the imperfections of Nature and Arte, they are gratefull to the Gods, and shall thereby obtaine new benefits and greater favours at their bountifull hands, and the accusation of Prometheus their Authour and Master, (though bitter and vehement) will conduce more to their profit, then to be effuse in the congratulation of his invention: for in a word, the opinion of having inough, is to be accounted once of the greatest causes of having too little.” (See also Works, V1 [1858], 749.) 8. The Wisdome of the Ancients, trans. Knight, pp. 143-144. (See also Works, VI, 753-)

g. Bacon, Natural and Experimental History for the Foundation of Philosophy: or Phenomena of the Universe, in Works, V (1858), 131.

10. Bacon, Temporis Partus Masculus (The Masculine Birth of Time), in Farrington, Philosophy of Francis Bacon, p. 63: “Come, then let Aristotle be summoned to the bar, that worst of sophists stupefied by his own unprofitable subtlety, the cheap dupe of words . . . He composed an art or manual of madness and made us slaves of words.” 11. Bacon, Sylva Sylvarum, in Works, UH, 336, William Rawley, ““To the Reader.” 12. James Spedding, preface to the New Atlantis, in Works, I (1857), 122. 13. Bacon, The Advancement of Learning and New Atlantis (London, Oxford University Press, 19§1), p. 277. 14. See, for example, Works, VI, 475. 15. Bacon, Advancement of Learning and New Atlantis (1951), p. 136. 16. James Spedding, The Letters and the Life of Francis Bacon, | (London, 1861), 109, Bacon to Lord Treasurer Burghley, ca. 1592. 17. Bacon, Advancement of Learning and New Atlantis (1951), p. 256, William Rawley, ““To the Reader.”’

18. Ibid., pp. 285-286. 19. Ibid., p. 288. 20. See R. L. Colie, “Cornelis Drebbel and Salomon de Caus: Two Jacobean Models for Salomon’s House,” Huntington Library Quarterly, 18 (1954-1955), 24$—260, for some of the ideas behind Bacon’s proposed inventions. 21. Bacon, The History of Life and Death, or The Second Title in Natural and Experimental History for the Foundation of Philosophy, in Works, V, 215. 22. Bacon, Advancement of Learning and New Atlantis (1951), p. 291.

23. Ibid., p. 295. 24. Ibid. 25. Ibid., p. 297.

26. Ibid., p. 9.

27. Ibid., p. ro.

28. Bacon, Temporis Partus Masculus (The Masculine Birth of Time), in Farrington, Philosophy of Francis Bacon, p. 72.

10. Campanella’s City of the Sun 1. Tommaso Campanella, ‘““Quaestiones Physiologicae,”’ in Disputationum in Quatuor Partes Suae Philosophiae Realis Libri Quatuor (Paris, 1637), p. $13.

2. Tommaso Campanella, Lettere, ed. Vincenzo Spampanato (Bari, Laterza, 1927), p. 133, Campanella to Monsignor Antonio Querengo, Naples, July 8, 1607, ‘‘dal profondo Caucaso.” 3. Campanella, Philosophia, Sensibus Demonstrata, in Octo Disputationes Distincta (Naples, 1591), p. 320. 4. Luigi Amabile, Fra Tommaso Campanella: La sua congiura, i suoi processi, e la sua

pazzia (Naples, 1882), HI, 12, Giulio Battaglino to Usimbardi, Naples, Sept. 4, 1592. ,

832 NOTES TO PAGES 263-268 , 5. Campanella, Lettere, p. 107, Campanella to Gaspar Scoppius, Naples, Kalends of June, 1607: “‘Quomodo literas scit, cum non didicerit? ergone demonium habes?’ At

ego respondi me plus olei quam ipsi vini consumsise . . .” ,

6. There is a reference to Bruno as ‘“‘a certain Nolan” in Campanella, Apologia pro Galileo, Mathematico Fiorentino. Ubi Disquiritur, Utrum Ratio Philosophandi, Quam Galileus

Celebrat, Faveat Sacris Scripturis an Adversetur (Frankfort, 1622), p. 9; trans. Grant

McColley (Northampton, Mass., 1937).

7. Campanella, Lettere, pp. 165, 169, Campanella to Galileo, Naples, Ides of January 1611. He reminded Galileo of their meeting, and extolled him as the reviver of Pythagorean doctrines and the restorer of glory to Italy. 8. Campanella, Lettere, pp. 95, 98, Campanella to Gaspar Scoppius, Naples, May 6,

1607, and April 26~May 17, 1607. ,

g. In his letter to Cardinal Odoardo Farnese he admitted prophesying the ‘“‘end of the world” in 1598. Lettere, p. 23, Naples, Aug. 30, 1606. 10. Amabile, Campanella, Ill, 195-196, doc. 269, “Atti institutivi del processo co’ capi d’accusa,” Sept. 1, 1599. 11. The official record read: ‘‘finxit non intelligere, et extra mentem esse.’” Amabile, Campanella, II, 263, doc. 312, ‘“Esame del Campanella, che si mostra pazzo,’” May

1'7, 1600. | 12. See Nicolaus Eymericus, Le Manuel des inquisiteurs, trans. and ed. Louis Sala-

Molins (Paris, 1973), a translation of the Roman editions of 1585 and 1587. 13. This obviously did not appear in the printed edition of Rome, 1631: Ad Divum

, Petrum, Apostolorum Principem, Triumphantem, Atheismus Triumphatus, Seu Reductio ad Religionem per Scientiarum Veritates, F. Thomae Campanellae . . . Contra Antichristianis-

mum Achitophellisticam. Sexti Tomi Pars Prima . . . (Rome, 1631). In the preface to the English translation of De Monarchia Hispanica Discursus, entitled A Discourse Touching the Spanish Monarchy (London, 1654), the Frenchman Jacques Gaffarel is quoted as describing Campanella “with the Calves of his Legs beaten black and blue all over, and with scarcely any flesh at all upon his buttocks; it having been torn from him peicemeal, to force him to the confession of such crimes as they had accused him of.’’ See also Campanella, Lettere, pp. 21-22, Campanella to Cardinal Odoardo Farnese, Naples,

Aug. 30, 1606. |

14. Fora portrait of Campanella around 1630 painted in Rome by Francesco Cozza

(now in the Palazzo Caetani di Sermoneta in Rome) see opposite p. 16 in Tommaso | Campanella, Monarchia Messiae, con due Discorsi della liberta e della felice suggezione allo Stato ecclesiastico,’’ a facsimile of the 1633 edition with a critical text of the Discorsi, ed. Luigi Firpo (Turin, 1960).

15. Descartes had dipped into the works of Campanella, which Tobias Adami had introduced in the 1620s. Writing to Constantin Huygens in March 1638 he referred to them with contempt, saying they had left nothing in his memory. And he bluntly refused Mersenne’s offer to send him the 1638 edition of the Philosophiae Rationalis et — Realis Partes V. Descartes, Oeuvres, ed. C. E. Adam and Paul Tannery, new ed., II

(Paris, 1969), 48, 436. , 16. Sec Gisela Bock, ‘‘Bemerkungen zur neueren Campanella-Forschung,” Quellen

| und Forschungen aus italienischen Archiven und Bibliotheken, $1 (1971), 390-421. 17. Giovanni Di Napoli, Tommaso Campanella, filosofo della restaurazione cattolica

(Padua, 1947), p. vii. Romano Amerio is the best representative of the position that Campanella developed from a youthful naturalistic to a traditional religious position. “Il

lastica, 31 (1939), 368-387. , ,

problema esegetico fondamentale del pensicro campanelliano,”’ Rivista di filosofia neo-sco-

18. Amabile records Campanella’s confession of his simulation of madness and its _ cause in an “Appendix ad Amicum pro Apologia” (Campanella, III, 188, 189, doc. 268): ‘‘Falsitates et doli praevaluerunt ob Martialem Cometam in domo Mercurii carceres, aut

NOTES TO PAGES 268-282 8 33 ob quadratum aspectum Martis et Saturni post terremotus. et nos dolis collusimus, et

mendaciis ad vitam servandam.” — , ,

19. For a review of scholarly controversy on the interpretation of Campanella’s religious position, see Nicola Badaloni, Tommaso Campanella (Milan, 1965), pp. 7-35. 20. See “Canzone a Berillo (Basilio Berillari) di pentimento desideroso di confessione .. . ,” in Scritti Scelti di Giordano Bruno e di Tommaso Campanella, ed. Luigi Firpo (Turin, Unione tip-editrice torinese, 1949), p. 377: “Io mi credevo Dio tener in mano,

non seguitando Dio, ma l’argute ragion del senno mio. . .” 21. Campanella, Lettere, p. 76, Campanella to Philip II of Spain, Naples, April (2)

22. Ibid., p. 77.

1607.

23. Campanella, Lettere, p. 389, Campanella to Ferdinand de’ Medici, Paris, July 6,

1638.

24. The first edition was Frankfort, 1623. There is a recent French translation, La Cité du soleil by Arnaud Tripet, with notes by Luigi Firpo, Geneva, 1972. Modern editions tend to be based on the Biblioteca Governativa of Lucca, MS 2618. For Italian editions of The City of the Sun, see Norberto Bobbio (Turin, 1942); and Opere di Giordano Bruno e di Tommaso Campanella, ed. Augusto Guzzo and Romano Amerio (Milan, 1956), pp. 1074-1116, La Citta del sole, dialogo poetico. 25. See Prodromus Philosophiae Instaurandae, Id Est, Dissertationis de Natura Rerum Compendium Secundum Vera Principia, ex Scriptis Thomae Campanellae Praemissum. Cum Praefatione ad Philosophos Germaniae, ed. Tobias Adami (Frankfort, 1617). A sonnet by Campanella to Adami appears on p. 25. 26. See Campanella’s Apologia pro Galileo, Mathematico Fiorentino. 27. In the unpaginated preface to his edition of Campanella’s Realis Philosophiae Epilogisticae Partes Quatuor, Hoc Est, De Rerum Natura, Hominum Moribus, Politica, (Cui Civitas Solis Iuncta Est) et Oeconomica, cam Adnotationtbus Physiologicis (Frankfort, 1623), Tobias Adami raised The City of the Sun above the ideal states of Plato and More. 28. In the De Dictis Christi. Inediti. Theologicorum Liber XXIII, ed. and trans. into Italian by Romano Amerio (Rome, 1969), p. 213, Campanella later proposed the institution of a religious order devoted to the practice of medicine. 29. Campanella, La Citta del sole e Scelta d’alcune poesie filosofiche, ed. Adriano Seroni (Milan, Feltrinelli, 1962), p. 21. 30. Campanella republished in 1637 as Disputationum in Quatuor Partes Suae Philosophiae Realis Libri Quatuor the work Adami had printed in 1623 (Realis Philosophiae Epilogisticae), adding to each book a series of objections which he then refuted, after the manner of an academic or theological debate. The work was dedicated to Pierre Séguier,

Grand Chancellor of France. In the refutation of the objections to his thought in the ““Quaestiones super Tertia Parte Suae Philosophiae Realis, Quae Est de Politicis,’”’ he summarized the arguments that had been made against his political writings; pp. 100112, quaestio IV, are an apologia for The City of the Sun. The “Quaestiones” appeared in an Italian translation in Opere di Tommaso Campanella, ed. Alessandro d’Ancona (Turin, 1854), If, 287-310, “Questioni sull’ottima republica.” 31. Campanella, Disputationum in Quatuor Partes, p. 71, ‘“Quaestiones super Tertia Parte.” See also Campanella, Syntagma de Libris Propriis, ed. Vincenzo Spampanato (Florence, 1927); and Luigi Firpo, Bibliografia degli scritti di Tommaso Campanella (New York, 1940).

32. For an extreme statement of this position see Frances Yates, Giordano Bruno and the Hermetic Tradition (Chicago, 1964), pp. 376, 450. 33. Campanella, Atheismus Triumphatus, seu Reductio ad Religionem per Scientiarum Veritates, ““Superiorum permissu.’’ See ‘“Risposte alle Censure dell’ ‘Ateismo Triunfato,’”’ in Campanella, Opusculi inediti, ed. Luigi Firpo (Florence, 1951), pp. 9~$4. 34. Campanella, Discourse Touching the Spanish Monarchy, p. 47.

834 NOTES TO PAGES 282-286 35. Campanella, Lettere, pp. 45-46, 48, 49, Campanella to Paul V, Naples, September 1606.

36. Campanella, De Homine. Inediti. Theologicorum Liber IV, ed. and trans. into Italian by Romano Amerio (Rome, Centro Internazionale di Studi Umanistici, Edizioni Rinascimento, 1961), p. 19t. 37- Campanella, Lettere, p. 26, Campanella to Cardinal Odoardo Farnese, Naples, | Aug. 30, 1606. See also ibid., p. 191, Campanella to Pope Paul V, Dec. 22, 1618. 38. See Per la conversione degli ebrei (Quod Reminiscentur, Libro IIT), ed. Romano Amerio (Florence, 1955). The full title of the complete work, Quod Reminiscentur et Con-

vertentur ad Dominum Universi Fines Terrae, is derived from Psalm 21:28. , 39. Thomas Campanella, von der spanischen Monarchy, oder Auszfuehrliches Bedencken,

welcher massen, von dem Koenig in Hispanien, zu nunmehr lang gesuchter Weltbeherrschung, sowol insgemein, als auff jedes Koenigreich und Land besonders, allerhand Anstalt zu machen

1660. |

, sein moechte . . . Num... . ausz dem Italianischen . . . in unser teutsche Sprach versetzt, , und erstmals durch den offenen Truck in Tag gegeben (Tubingen? 1620), trans. Christoph Besold. The De Monarchia Hispanica Discursus was, after The City of the Sun, his most fre-

quently published work: two Latin editions, Amsterdam 1640, followed by others in 1641, 1653, 1709; two German editions, 1620 and 1650; two English editions, 1654 and 40. Campanella, Quod Reminiscentur, ed. Amerio, I, p. 81. 41. Campanella, Discourse Touching the Spanish Monarchy, chap. X, ‘“What Sciences

are required in a Monarch, to render him admired by all,” pp. 45-49. 42. The Discourse was reprinted in 1660 as Thomas Campanella, an Italian friar and , second Machiavel. His advice to the King of Spain for attaining the universal monarchy of the world, Particularly concerning England, Scotland and Ireland, how to raise division between king and Parliament, to alter the government from a kingdom to a commonwealth. Thereby embroiling England in civil war to divert the English from disturbing the Spaniard in bringing the Indian treasure into Spain. Also for reducing Holland by procuring war betwixt England, Holland, and other sea-faring countries, affirming as most certain, that if the King of Spain became master of England and the Low Countries, he will quickly be sole monarch of all Europe, and the greatest part of the new world, translated into English by Ed. Chilmead, and published for awakening the English to prevent the approaching ruine of their nation. With an admonitorie preface by William

— 16$9.

Prynne of Lincolnes-Inne esquire (London, 1660). Prynne’s preface was dated Dec. 16, 43. Henry Stubbs, Campanella revived, or an enquiry into the history of the Royal so-

ciety, whether the virtuosi there do not pursue the projects of Campanella for the reducing England

unto popery. Being the extract of a letter to a person of honour from Hlenry]. S[tubbs]. with another letter to Sir N. N. relating the cause of the quarrel betwixt H. S. and the R. s. and an apology against some of their cavils. With a postscript concerning the quarrel depending betwixt

H. S. and Dr. Merrett revived . . . (London, 1670).

2, 11.

(lesi, 1633), pp. 5-14. .

44. Campanella, Discorsi della liberta, e della felice suggettione allo Stato Ecclesiastico,

45. Campanella, Monarchia Messiae (Iesi, 1633), p. 8; Discorsi della liberta, p. 14. 46. Campanella, Discourse Touching the Spanish Monarchy, author’s preface and pp.

, : 47. Ibid., p. 230. The normal cyclical theory of world history was set forth in Realis Philosophiae Epilogisticae, ed. Adami, pp. 369-370, 393. The general section on Campanella’s political thought is in Pars Tertia Quae Est de Politica, in Aphorismos Digesta, pp. 367-414. In the Politica each stage has its own symbolic figure (as in Joachim) and its

formed. ,

own principle of corruption. The first stage was incarnate in Nimrod, the second in Moses, the third in Peter (p. 370). Joachim’s triadic formula is used, its content trans48. Campanella, Discourse Touching the Spanish Monarchy, p. 232.

NOTES TO PAGES 287-291 835 49. See also Lettere, p. 374, Campanella to the Cardinal Duke de Richelieu, Paris, 1637: “et Civitas solis, per me delineata ac per te aedificanda.”’ In the dedication to the Paris, 1637, edition of the De Sensu Rerum et Magia there is an appeal to Richelieu to

build the City of the Sun. ,

so. Eicloga Christianissimo Regi et Reginae in Portentosam Delphini . . . Nativitatem (Paris, 1639). See modern edition by L. Firpo, Tutte le opere (Milan, 1954), I, 308, 310. Translation quoted from Frances Yates, Bruno, p. 391, n. I. s1. Campanella, De Dictis Christi. Inediti. Theologicorum Liber XXIII, chap. 2, art. I, Pp. 37-53. $2. The Metaphysica was published in France in 1638. Its complete title was Universalis Philosophiae seu Metaphysicarum Rerum iuxta Propria Dogmata Tres, Libri 18; it was a

long time in the making. This was the ultimate synthesis of Campanella’s views on the principles and ends of the whole of reality. A first attempt at approaching the subject can be found in a Metaphysica Nova Exordium of 1590-1591; a new Metafisica, in Italian, is dated 1602, about the time of the composition of The City of the Sun. From then on successive versions were smuggled out to protectors and friends, stolen, destroyed, rewritten in Latin, lost, as he was moved from one dungeon to another. Time and again he recomposed the text de novo. Upon his liberation in Rome he sent the manuscript to a Lyons printer; the book was not published, and he had to pay thirty scudi to get it back. Only in 1638 did it finally appear, after further revisions and emendations. Other manuscripts had piled up in the interim, only a few of which were published in his lifetime.

11. Andreae, Pastor of Christianopolis 1. The Jesuits alerted Catholics to the dangers of this fraternity, which they considered a “‘rejetton du Luthérianisme, meslangé par Satan d’empirisme et de magie, pour mieux decevoir les esprits volages et curieux.’’ Jacques Gaultier (Gualterius), S.J., Table chronographique de l’estat du Christianisme (Lyons, 1633), p. 889.

, 2. Descartes’s dreams were recorded in Adrien Baillet, Vie de Monsieur Descartes (Paris, 1691). On the Olympica from which Baillet derived his account of the dreams, see Oeuvres de Descartes, ed. C. E. Adam and Paul Tannery, new. ed., X (Paris, 1966), 179— 188. In the “‘Cogitationes privatae’’ Descartes recalls the dreams and the question from Ausonius, “Quod vitae sectabor iter?” (ibid., pp. 157, 216). On Descartes’s curiosity

about the Freres de la Rose-Croix, see Baillet and references to the unfinished “Studium | bonae mentis” (Oeuvres, X, 191-203). See also Stephen Schonberger, “A Dream of Descartes: Reflections on the Unconscious Determinants of the Sciences,”’ International Journal of Psychoanalysis, 20 (1938), 43-57; Henri Gouhier, La pensée religieuse de Descartes, 2nd ed, (Paris, 1972); Isaac Beeckman, Journal tenu par Isaac Beeckman de 1604 a 1644, ed Corneille de Waard, 4 vols. (The Hague, 1939-1953). 3. The most recent work on Andreae is the scholarly and thoroughgoing study by John Warwick Montgomery, Cross and Crucible: Johann Valentin Andreae (1586-1654), Phoenix of the Theologians, 2 vols. (The Hague, Nijhoff, 1973). In addition to the pub-

lished writings Montgomery examined a dozen manuscripts, including a preaching diary, and seven hundred pieces of correspondence. While we have relied significantly on Montgomery’s documentation, our point of view and interpretation differ from his. See also J. 1B. Neveux, Vie spirituelle et vie sociale entre Rhin et Baltique au XVII siécle (Paris, 1967); Will-Erich Peuckert, Die Rosenkreuzer (Jena, 1928), and Pansophie, and ed. (Berlin, 1955); Paul Arnold, Histoire des Rose-Croix et les origines de la Franc-Magonnerie (Paris, 1955); Gabriel Naudeé, Instruction a la France sur la vérité de Vhistoire des freres de la Roze-Croix (Paris, 1623); Andreas Libavius, Analysis Confessionis Fraternitatis de Rosea

Cruce (Frankfort, 1615); Alfons Rosenberg’s introduction (based on an unpublished work on Andreae by Ursula von Mangoldt) to a modernized edition of the Chymische

, 8 36 NOTES TO PAGES 292~—299 , Hochzeit (Munich, 1957); Richard Kienast, Johann Valentin Andreae und die vier echten Rosenkreutzer-Schriften (Leipzig, 1926); Ferdinand Maack, ed., Die Johann Valentin Andrea zugeschriebenen vier Hauptschriften der alten Rosenkreuzer (Berlin, 1913); Harald Scholtz, Evangelischer Utopismus bei Johann Valentin Andred: Ein geistiges Vorspiel zum Pietismus (Stuttgart, 1957); Hans Schick, Das altere Rosenkreuzertum: Ein Beitrag zur Entstehungsgeschichte der Freimaurerei (Berlin, 1942).

4. Andreae, Vita, ab Ipso Conscripta, ed. F. H. Rheinwald (Berlin, 1849), p. tro, quoted in Montgomery, Andreae, I, 37, n. 66: “[The Chemical Wedding was] productive of a brood of monstrosities: a fantasy, which you may wonder was evaluated and

interpreted with subtle ingenuity by some people, foolishly enough, in demonstration of the inanity of the curious.” The Vita appeared first in a German translation, in the collection of D. C. Seybold, Selbstbiographien beriihmter Manner (Winterthur, 1799). A , diary, the ““Breviarium vitae Andreanae potiora carptim libans,” portions of which were published by Kienast from a Berlin manuscript (now lost), exists in another manuscript in the Herzog August Bibliothek, Wolfenbtittel. It is not to be confused with the published Vita. The Chymische Hochzeit was republished in Regensburg, 1781, in Munich, 19§7, and in Stuttgart, 1957 (eds. Walter Weber and Rudolf Steiner). The Fama Fraternitatis, oder Entdeckung der Briiderschaft des loblichen Ordensz RosenCreutzes . . . an alle Gelehrte und Haupter Europae geschrieben was first published in Cassel, 1614, and bound with the Allgemeine und general Reformation, der gantzen weiten Welt; there followed editions in

Frankfort, 1614, and Danzig, 1617. The Confessio was first published along with a second edition of the Fama in Cassel, 1615. 5. Johann Valentin Andreae, Menippus sive Dialogorum Satyricorum Centuria Inanitatum Nostratium Speculum, 2nd ed. (Cosmopoli, 1618; 1st ed., 1617), chap. 12, ‘Fraternitas,”’ pp. 24-25; the section on “Utopia” is on pp. 122-123. There was also a Berlin,

1673, edition of this work. |

6. The first part, Invitatio Fraternitatis Christi, also expressly opposed to Rosicru-

cianism, was published in Strasbourg, 1617. , 7. Andreae, Turbo, sive Moleste et Frustra par Cuncta Divagans Ingenium (Helicone, juxta Parnassum [Strasbourg], 1616). The German translation of 1907 by Wilhelm Suss is entitled Turbo oder der Irrender Ritter vom Geist. In the Theophilus (Stuttgart, 1649), pp. 89-90, Andreae loudly proclaimed his Christocentrism and rejected all other lawgivers: “Christianus homo non ad Romuli, aut Lycurgi, vel Draconis leges, sed Christi archetypum, corde, studio, opere . . . conformandus.”’ The subtitle of Theophilus was sive de Christiana Religione Sanctius Colenda, Vita Temperantius Instituenda, et Literatura Rationabi-

lius Docenda Consilium. 8. Andreae, Turbo, p. 164.

| g. Andreae, Mythologiae Christianae sive Virtutum et Vitiorum Vitae Humanae Imaginum Libri Tres (Strasbourg, 1619), pp. 22-23, quoted in Montgomery, Andreae, I, 208.

10. See Ludwig Timotheus von Spittler, ‘Ueber Christoph Besolds ReligionsVeranderung,”’ in Patriotisches Archiv, ed. F. K. von Moser, VIII (Mannheim and Leip- |

zig, 1788), 429-472. |

11. “Once the capital of the world, now the capital of crime.” Andreae, Vita, ed. Rheinwald, p. 36. 12. Andreae, Seleniana Augustalia (Ulm, 1649), p. 146. A second volume of corre-

, spondence with the Dukes of Brunswick-Ltineburg and others was published in 1654 ,

under the title: Sereniss. Domus Augustae Selenianae. ,

, n. 317. , ,

13. See Montgomery, Andreae, I, 139. The painting is now in the Staatsgalerie in

Stuttgart.

14. A translation by Andreae’s descendant Hermann Viktor Andreae appeared as

Die Kampfe des christlichen Herkules (Frankfort, 1845). : 1s. Andreae to Comenius, Sept. 16, 1629, quoted in Montgomery, Andreae, I, 104,

16. Andreae, Amicorum Singularium Clarissimorum Funera, Condecorata (Luneburg,

NOTES TO PAGES 300-309 837 1642), pp. 7-9, quoted in Montgomery, Andreae, I, 214—215. The two pamphlets, written in 1620, apparently were not printed and were lost until the mid-twentieth century. 17. Montgomery, Andreae, I, 82. In a letter of March 1, 1654, to Duke Augustus of Brunswick-Ltineburg (ibid., p. 52), Andreae wittily summarized his pastoral career: “Anno 1614. conduxit ad Laboratorium Vaihingam. 1620. produxit ad Directorium Calvam. 1639. pellexit ad Oratorium Studtgardiam. 1650. depressit ad Purgatorium Bebenhusam. 1654. eduxit ad Refrigerium Adelbergam. Dominus porro provideat.”’ 18. Vita, quoted in Montgomery, Andreae, I, 114. 19. The German translation by D. S. G.feorgi] was Reise nach der Insel Caphar Salama (Esslingen, 1741). Other works of Andreae were adapted into English by the mid-seventeenth century. John Hall, Of the advantageous reading of history (London, 1657), included A modell of a Christian society, which was a loose translation of Andreae’s “Christianae Societatis Imago,” and The right hand of Christian love offered, a translation of “Christiani Amoris Dextera Porrecta.”’ 20. Andreae, Christianopolis, trans. Felix Emil Held (New York, Oxford University Press, 1916), p. 177. All quotations are from the Held translation unless otherwise noted. 21. Ibid., p. 176. 22. Ibid., p. 155. 23. Ibid., p. 198. 24. Ibid., p. 156. 25. Ibid., p. 217. 26. Ibid., p. 216. 27. Ibid., pp. 221-222. 28. Ibid., p. 222. 29. Ibid., p. 197. 30. Ibid., p. 198. 31. Andreae, Christianopolis, ed. Richard van Dulmen (Stuttgart, Calwer, 1972), p. 112 (authors’ translation); Christianopolis, trans. Held, pp. 196-197. 32. Christianopolis, trans. Held, pp. 157-158. 33. Ibid., p. 169. 34. Ibid., p. 192. 35. Ibid., p. 187. 36. Ibid., p. 203. 37. Ibid., p. 205. 38. Ibid., p. 204. 39. Ibid., p. 151. 40. Ibid., p. 206. 41. Ibid., p. 159. 42. Quoted in Montgomery, Andreae, I, 140. 43. Andreae, Vita, ed. Rheinwald, p. 24, quoted by Montgomery, Andreae, I, 4344, in translation. 44. Andreae, Vita, ed. Rheinwald, p. 277. 45. See R. E. W. Maddison, The Life of the Honourable Boyle (London, 1969), p. 71, for references to Andreae in letters of Hartlib to Boyle (1647).

12. Comenius and His Disciples 1. Samuel Sorbiére, who saw Comenius in Holland in 1642, was shown his Pansophic manuscripts, which drew forth a series of ejaculations in print: “Johannes Amos Comenius, Januae Linguarum author, Pansophiae futurus, ostendit mihi codicem suum manuscriptum ad Pansophiam cudendam annotatorum. Quae farrago! Quae liturae!

838 NOTES TO PAGES 310-316 Quae transpositiones! Jehu, vevohu, inscribi merito potuissent.’’ Quoted by C. E. Adam and Paul Tannery, the editors of Descartes’s Oeuvres, new ed., III (Paris, J. Vrin, 1971), 722-723, note, from Samuel Sorbiére, Sorberiana (Toulouse, 1691), pp. 74-75. 2. Comenius, De Rerum Humanarum Emendatione Consultatio Catholica, ed. Academia Scientiarum Bohemoslovaca, 2 vols. (Prague, 1966).

3. Ibid., I, 39.

4. See R. F. Young, Comenius and the Indians of New England (London, 1929), and Comenius in England (London, Oxford University Press, 1932), pp. 89-95. 5. Translated from the Pansophici Libri Delineatio in David Masson, The Life of John Milton, III (London, 1873; reprinted, Gloucester, Mass., P. Smith, 1965), 213-214.

6. Comenius, A Generall Table of Europe . . . (London, 1670), pp. 41, 43. 7. Cotton Mather, Magnalia Christi Americana, 1st American ed. from the London 1702 ed. (Hartford, 1820), II, 10. See also Matthew Spinka, John Amos Comenius, That | Incomparable Moravian (Chicago, 1943); Pasquale Cammarota, Introduzione allo studio di J. A. Comenius (Salerno, 1968); Wilhelmus Rood, Comenius and the Low Countries: Some Aspects of the Life and Work of a Czech Exile in the Seventeenth Century (Amsterdam, 1970).

8. Masson, Life of Milton, III, 226.

g. According to Comenius, Descartes in the course of their conversation paid him a cryptic compliment: “Beyond the things that appertain to philosophy I go not; mine therefore is that only in part, whereof yours is the whole.” See doc. I, “Komensky’s description of the development of his plan for an encyclopaedia and a great college for scientific research, and of his visit to England in 1641-2, translated from Chapter 39 and following of the biographical fragment entitled Continuatio admonitionis fraternae de temperando charitate zelo ad S. Maresium, published at Amsterdam in 1669,” in Young, Comenius in England, p. 50. Descartes nevertheless was highly critical of Comenius’ Pansophiae Prodromus, which pretended to unify acquired and revealed truths. Descartes’s Judicium de Opere Pansophico, addressed to Mersenne in 1639, was transmitted to Theodore Haak of the Hartlib group. See Descartes, Oeuvres, II (1969), 651-652. 10, Comenius, Panegersia, chap. 12, nos. 32, 36, in Consultatio, I, 96. _ 11. De Novis Didactica Studia Continuandi Occasionibus, in Opera Didactica Omnia, ed. Academia Scientiarum Bohemoslovenica (Prague, 1957; 1st ed., Amsterdam, 1657), vol.

I, part II, p. 3. | |

12. See John Lewis Paton, “The Tercentenary of Comenius’ Visit to England,

1§92—1671,° Bulletin of the John Rylands Library, 26 (1941-1942), 154.

13. Spinka, Comenius,2nd ed. (New York, 1967), p. 31.

14. Comenius, Pampaedia, chap. 1, sect. 6, in Consultatio, U, 15. ,

15. Pampaedia, chap. 1, sect. 14, ibid., p. 16. |

16. Pampaedia, chap. 2, sect. 8, ibid., p. 18. ,

17. Comenius, The Great Didactic, trans. M. W. Keatinge (London, 1896), p. 327, chap. 19, sect. 40.

18. Ibid., p. 333, chap. 19, sect. $3. , 20. Ibid., p. 341, chap. 20, sect. 16. , 19. Ibid., pp. 336, 338, chap. 20, sects. 6, 10.

21. Ibid., p. 325, chap. 19, sect. 36. 22. Ibid., p. 317, chap. 19, sect. 16. 23. Pampaedia, chap. §, sect. 19, in Consultatio, I], 43-44. 24. Pampaedia, chap. 2, sect. 27, ibid., p. 22. 25. Panegersia, chap. 19, no. 31, ibid., I, 83. 26. Pampaedia, chap. 2, sect. 10, ibid., II, 18. 27. Milada Blekastad, Comenius: Versuch eines Umrisses von Leben, Werk und Schick-

sal des Jan Amos Komensky (Oslo, Universitetsforlaget, 1969), p. 630. 28. Pampaedia, chap. 5, sect. 1, in Consultatio, II, 40. |

29. Pampaedia, chap. s, sect. 28, ibid., p. 45. ,

NOTES TO PAGES 316-323 839 30. Pampaedia, chap. 2, sect. 17, 25, ibid., pp. 20, 22. 31. Comenius, Pansophia, Fourth Stage, ibid., I, 287.

32. Great Didactic, p. 345, chap. 20, sect. 24. | 33. Comenius, Panorthosia, chap. 15, sect. 16, in Consultatio, II, 299. 34. Comenius, Didactica Magna, in Opera Didactica Omnia, vol. I, part I, pp. 8, 15, and Novissima Linguarum Methodus, ibid., part II, pp. 283-284. 35. Quoted in John Warwick Montgomery, Cross and Crucible: Johann Valentin Andreae (1586-1654), Phoenix of the Theologians (The Hague, Nijhoff, 1973), I, 151. 36. Jvan Kvacala, Die Padagogische Reform des Comenius in Deutschland bis zum Ausgange des XVII Jahrhunderts, 1 (Berlin, 1903), 200-203, Comenius to Andreae, Luneburg, Aug. 22, 1647.

p. 442.

, 37. Comenius, Pansophiae Praeludium, in Opera Didactica Omnia, vol. I, part [, 38. A Reformation of Schooles, Designed in Two Excellent Treatises, trans. Samuel Hartlib (London, 1642), p. 36. 39. Ibid. 40. Ibid., p. 37.

41. Ibid. ,

42. The title of the first edition is Orbis Sensualium Pictus; Hoc Est, Omnium

Fundamentalium in Mundo Rerum et in Vita Actionum Pictura et Nomenclatura (Nuremberg, 1658).

43. A Generall Table of Europe, p. 257. 44. See J. E. Sadler, J. A. Comenius and the Concept of Universal Education (New York, 1966); John Amos Comenius on Education, intro. by Jean Piaget (New York, 1967;

ist ed., 197). 45. Friedrich Althaus, “Samuel Hartlib: Ein deutsch-englisches Charakterbild,”’ in Historisches Taschenbuch, ed. Wilhelm Maurenbrecher, 6th ser., 3rd year (1883), pp. 239ff.

46. Hartlib was, he says himself, “familiarly acquainted with the best of Archbishops, Bishops, Earls, Viscounts, Barons, Knights, Esquires, Gentlemen, Ministers, Professors of both Universities, Merchants, and all sorts of learned, or in any kind useful men.” Henry Dircks, A Biographical Memoir of Samuel Hartlib, Milton’s Familiar Friend

(London, 1865), p. 4, Hartlib to Dr. John Worthington, Aug. 3, 1660. ,

47. John Dury, A Memoriall concerning Peace Ecclesiasticall amongst Protestants (London, 1641), preface.

48. John Winthrop, Jr., once described Hartlib as the ‘‘great intelligence of Europe.” Albert Matthews, “Comenius and Harvard College,” in Colonial Society of Massachusetts, Publications, 21 (1919), 171. 49. See Cressy Dymock (identified as author by Henry Dircks), An Invention of Engines of Motion lately brought to perfection . . . (London, 1651). Hartlib later grew disenchanted with Dymock’s scheme. See Dircks, Biographical Memoir of Hartlib, pp. 91-93, and his Perpetuum Mobile (London, 1870), p. 35. 50. Masson, Life of Milton, Ul, 664. si. The Diary of John Evelyn, ed. E. S. de Beer, III (Oxford, Clarendon, 1955), 162-

163. _ .

§2. G. H. Turnbull, “Some Correspondence of John Winthrop, Jr., and Samuel

Hartlib,”’ in Massachusetts Historical Society, Proceedings, 72 (1957-1960), 39-40. §3. Comenius, Korrespondence: Listy Komenského a vrestevniku jeho [Papers of Comenius and His Contemporaries], ed. Jvan Kvacala, II (Prague, Nakl. Ceské Akademie, 1902), 11, Dury to Hartlib, Stockholm, Aug. 20, 1636. $4. Ibid. $s. Ibicl. 56. Ibid., p. 16, Dury to Hartlib, Feb. 22, 1639. Even Hobbes has been discovered among the millenarians; see J. G. A. Pocock, “Time, History and Eschatology in the

840 NOTES TO PAGES 324-330 , Thought of Thomas Hobbes,” in J. H. Elliott and H. G. Koenigsberger, eds., The Diversity of History: Essays in Honour of Sir Herbert Butterfield (London, 1970), pp. 179-181.

$7. Comenius, Korrespondence, Il, 80-81, Francouzsky pritel [French friend] to Hartlib, Paris, May 15, 1643. §8. Ibid., pp. 81-82, Nejmenovany [S. n.] to Hartlib, Amsterdam, June 25, 1643. 59. See, for example, his Considerations Tending to the Happy Accomplishment of Englands Reformation in Church and State, Humbly Presented to the Piety and Wisdome of the High and Honourable Court of Parliament (London, 1647), in which a parliamentary com-

society. | ,

mittee, seconded by learned divines, would promulgate practical reforms in a four-class

60. See Charles Webster, The Great Instauration (London, 1975). 61. Originally published as Conatuum Comenianorum Praeludia (Oxford, 1637). 62. Charles Webster, ‘““The Authorship and Significance of Macaria,”’ Past and Present, no. $6 (1972), pp. 34-48. Webster has identified Gabriel Plattes, inventor and author of treatises on agriculture and mining, as the author of Macaria, Plattes made separate proposals to Parliament that it equip a laboratory for him. In Kaspar Stiblin’s Commentariolus de Eudaemonensium Republica (Basel, 1555), an appendix to Coropaedia, sive de Moribus et Vita Virginum Sacrarum, the island is named Macaria, its capital Eudaemon. Knowledge of Andreae’s Christianopolis came to Hartlib through his relations with Co-

menius. 64. Ibid., p. 14. |

63. Description of the Famous Kingdome of Macaria (London, 1641), p. 13. ,

65. Reformation of Schooles, pp. 3-4. 66. John Pell, An Idea of Mathematics (London, 1650), p. 41.

67. Cressy Dymock, An Essay for Advancement of Husbandry-Learning (London, 1651), p. 13.

68. G. H. Turnbull found among Hartlib’s papers one entitled: ‘‘A motion for the Public good of Religion and Learning,” which proposed an Office of Addresse and Correspondencie to be established by Parliament for the advancement of “religion, learning and ingenuities.” Hartlib, Dury, and Comenius: Gleanings from Hartlib’s Papers — (Liverpool, University Press, 1947), p. 78. See also Turnbull’s Samuel Hartlib: A Sketch of His Life and His Relations to John Amos Comenius (London, 1920).

69. Turnbull, Hartlib, Dury, and Comenius, p. 81. Turnbull believes Dury was

probably the author of A Further Discoverie (p. 79, n. 1). 70. For a negative appraisal of the relations of utopia and science, see A. R. Hall, “Science, Technology and Utopia in the Seventeenth Century,” in P. Matthias, ed., Science and Society 1600-1900 (Cambridge, 1972), pp. 33-53. 71. Théophraste Renaudot, Recueil général des questions traitées dans les conférences du Bureau d’adresse, sur toutes sortes de matieres, par les plus beaux esprits de ce temps, § vols. (Paris, 1666). 72. William Petty, The Advice of W. P. to Mr. Samuel Hartlib. For the Advancement of some Particular Parts of Learning (London, 1648). — 73. Hartlib, Considerations Tending to the Happy Accomplishment of Englands Reforma-

74. Ibid., p. 47. oo

tion, pp. §O-§1.

76. Ibid., p. 30. : , 75. John Dury, The Reformed Librairie-Keeper (London, 1650), p. 20.

77. Pell, An Idea of Mathematics, p. 44.

78. Dury, The Reformed-School: and the Reformed Librairie- Keeper. Whereunto is added I, An Idea of Mathematicks II. The description of one of the chiefest Libraries which is in Ger-

manie (London, 1651), pp. 40-41. . 79. Comenius, A Generall Table of Europe, p. 10. 80. Dury, The Reformed-School, p. 33.

, 81. Dymock, An Essay for Advancement of Husbandry-Learning, p. 3.

NOTES TO PAGES 333-346 841 13. Topsy-Turvy in the English Civil War 1. British Museum, London, Catalogue of the Pamphlets, Books, Newspapers, and Manuscripts Relating to the Civil War, the Commonwealth, and Restoration, Collected by George Thomason, 1640-1661, 2 vols. (London, 1908). 2. Thomas Edwards, Gangraena, 3rd ed. (London, 1646), part I, p. 3. 3. Ibid., p. 4. 4. Ephraim Pagitt, Heresiography (London, 1645), pp. 30-34.

| 5. John Milton, Areopagitica, in The Works, ed. F. A. Patterson, 1V (New York, Columbia University Press, 1931), 340-341. 6. Quoted in Christopher Hill, The World Turned Upside Down (London, Temple Smith, 1972), p. 28.

7. Gerrard Winstanley, The Law of Freedom in a Platform . . . (1652), in The Works, ed. George H. Sabine (Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 1941; reissued New York, 1965), p. $02. 8. Winstanley, Fire in the Bush (1650), ibid., p. 468. g. Thomas Hobbes, Behemoth, ed. William Molesworth (1840; reprint ed., New York, B. Franklin, 1963), pp. $1, $3. 10. John Lilburne, Richard Overton, and Thomas Prince, Picture of the Councel of State, in William Haller and Godfrey Davies, The Leveller Tracts, 1647-1653 (New York, Columbia University Press, 1944), pp. 194-195. 11. Ibid., p. 209. 12. A. S. P. Woodhouse, ed., Puritanism and Liberty, Being the Army Debates (1647 —1649) from the Clarke Manuscripts with Supplementary Documents, Selected and Edited with an

Introduction (London, J. M. Dent, 1938), p. 158. 13. J. Philolaus, A Serious Aviso to the Good People of this Nation, Concerning that Sort of Men, called Levellers (London, 1649), p. 3. 14. [bid., p. 5. 15. Lilburne, Overton, and Prince, Picture of the Councel of State, in Haller, Leveller Tracts, p. 212. 16. John Lilburne and William Walwyn, The Mournful Cryes of many thousand poor Tradesmen (January 1648), quoted in D. M. Wolfe, ed., Leveller Manifestoes of the Puritan Revolution (New York, T. Nelson, 1944), p. 276. 17. Lilburne, Overton, and Prince, Picture of the Councel of State, in Haller, Leveller

Tracts, p. 204.

18. William Walwyn, A Still and Soft Voice from the Scriptures (London, 1647), p. 15, reprinted as App. II (pp. 363-374) in D. M. Wolfe, Milton in the Puritan Revolution (New York, T. Nelson, 1941), p. 374. 19. Walwyn, Walwyn’s Just Defence against the Aspersions cast upon him (1649), in Haller, Leveller Tracts, p. 353. See also W. Schenk, The Concern for Social Justice in the Puritan Revolution (New York, 1948), p. 41. 20. Lilburne et al., An Agreement of the Free People of England. Tendered as a Peace-offering to this distressed Nation, in Wolfe, Leveller Manifestoes, pp. 409, 407. 21. [bid., p. 407. 22. [John Price], Walwyn’s Wiles (1649), in Haller, Leveller Tracts, p. 303. 23. Lilburne et al., Agreement of the Free People of England, in Wolfe, Leveller Manifesfoes, p. 402.

24. Lilburne et al, A Manifestation . . . Intended for their full Vindication (1649), ibid., p. 388. 25. Ibid.

26. C. B. Macpherson upholds the theory that the Levellers were not egalitarian democrats. See his Political Theory of Possessive Individualism: Hobbes to Locke (London,

Oxford University Press, 1962), chap. 3, ““The Levellers: Franchise and Freedom.” 27. Lilburne et al., A Manifestation, in Wolfe, Leveller Manifestoes, p. 390.

842 NOTES TO PAGES 346-358 , 28. Lilburne, The Just Defence of John Lilburne (1649), in Haller, Leveller Tracts, p. 452. See also Lilburne, A Worke of the Beast, or A Relation of a Most unchristian Censure, executed upon John Lilburne (1638), in William Haller, ed., Tracts on Liberty in the Puritan

Revolution (New York, 1934), I, 3-34. 29. Lilburne, Overton, and Prince, Picture of the Councel of State, in Haller, Leveller

Tracts, p. 228. ,

30. Marchamont Nedham, The Case of the Commonwealth of England, Stated (1649), | ed. Philip A. Knachel (Charlottesville, University of Virginia Press, 1969), p. 96. 31. Ibid.

| — 32. Ibid., pp. rog—rto. ,

33. Henry Denne, The Levellers Designe Discovered (London, 1649), p. 8. 34. Edwards, Gangraena, part I, p. 36. 3§. Overton, An Arrow against All Tyrants . . . (October 1646), pp. 3-4, quoted

, in Macpherson, Political Theory of Possessive Individualism, p. 140. ,

p. 345. | / | 36. Lilburne, In the Charters of London, app. to London’s Liberty in Chains (Dec. 18, 1646), quoted in Henry Noel Brailsford, The Levellers and the English Revolution, ed. Christopher Hill (London, Cresset Press, 1961), p. 117. 37. M. A. Gibb, John Lilburne the Leveller: A Christian Democrat (London, 1947),

38. Winstanley, The True Levellers Standard Advanced (1649), in Works, p. 261. On Winstanley, see George Juretic, “Digger No Millenarian: The Revolutionizing of Gerrard Winstanley,” Journal of the History of Ideas, vol. 36, no. 2 (1975), pp. 263-280. 39. Winstanley, The True Levellers Standard Advanced (London, 1649), title page.

, 40. Ibid., p. 6.

43. Ibid., p. ,8. | 44. Ibid., [Aq].

! ,47. 46. Ibid. Ibid., 48. Ibid., p.p.4.3., , 41. Winstanley, The Saints Paradise . . . (London, 1648), sig. A2, r and v.

42. Ibid., A3. a

4$. Ibid.

49. Ibid. ,

50. Winstanley, The Law of Freedom in a Platform, in Works, p. 503.

7 $1. Ibid., p. 507. 52. Ibid., p. $93.

53. Winstanley, A Declaration from the Poore oppressed people of England, in Works, p. 271.

$4. Winstanley, Fire in the Bush, ibid., p. 457. 55. Laurence Clarkson, The Lost sheep found: or, The Prodigal returned to his Fathers house, after many a sad and weary Journey through many Religious Countryes (1660), quoted

in Norman Cohn, The Pursuit of the Millennium, 2d ed. (New York, Harper and Row, 1961), pp. 351-352. §6. Edwards, Gangraena, part II, p. 126.

57. See ibid., passim. , Millennium, pp. 371, 378. |

58. Abiezer Coppe, Second Fiery Flying Roll (1649), quoted in Cohn, Pursuit of the

59. Ibid., pp. 372-374. ,

60. Coppe, Some Sweet Sips, of some Spirituall Wine . . . (London, 1649), p. 7. 61. The Routing of the Ranters (London, 1650), p. 4. 62. Coppe, A Fiery Flying Roll, quoted in Hill, World Turned Upside Down, p. 162. 63. This section draws on Bernard S. Capp, The Fifth Monarchists: A Study of Seven-

teenth Century Millenarianism (London, Faber, 1972), and Hill, World Turned Upside Down, though our interpretation of the materials differs.

NOTES TO PAGES 358-382 8 43 64. Henry Archer, The Personall Reign of Christ Upon earth (London, 1642), title page.

65. Capp, Fifth Monarchists, p. 131. 66. John Tillinghast, Generation-Worke, or, An Exposition of the Prophecies of the Two Witnesses, 3d part (London, 1654), p. 221. 67. A Witnes to the Saints (London, 1657), p. 6, quoted in Capp, Fifth Monarchists, p. 133. 68. John Tillinghast, Mr. Tillinghast’s Eight Last Sermons (1655), posthumously published with a preface by Christopher Feake (London, 1656), p. $9. 69. Quoted in Capp, Fifth Monarchists, p. 142. 70. Ibid., p. 144. 71. John Spittlehouse, An Answer to one part of the Lord Protector’s Speech: or, A Vindication of the Fifth Monarchy-men (London, 1654), p. 13. 72. Capp, Fifth Monarchists, p. 144. 73. Ibid., pp. 145-146. 74. Ibid., p. 143. 75. See Peter Chamberlen, The Poore Mans Advocate, or Englands Samaritan (Lon-

don, 1649), p. 49. ,

, 76. Capp, Fifth Monarchists, p. 149.

77. Quoted by Charles Blitzer, An Immortal Commonwealth: The Political Thought of

| James Harrington (New Haven, Yale University Press, 1960), pp. 3—4. 78. John Toland, ““The Life of James Harrington,” in Harrington, The Oceana and Other Works, 3d ed. (London, 1747), p. xv.

79. Cardinal Gasparo Contarini, The Commonwealth and Government of Venice, trans. Lewes Lewkenor (London, 1599), sig. A2v. 80. Robert Filmer, Observations upon Aristotles Politiques, Touching Forms of Government (London, 1652), p. 34.

81. Toland, “Life of Harrington,” p. xxxiv.

82. Harrington, Oceana, p. 91. | 83. Quoted in Blitzer, Immortal Commonwealth, p. 37. 84. Harrington, Oceana, p. 40. 85. Toland, “Life of Harrington,” pp. xix—xx.

, 86. Harrington, Oceana, p. 212. 87. R. H. Tawney, “Harrington’s Interpretation of His Age,” Raleigh Lecture on History, 1941, Proceedings of the British Academy, 27 (1941), 209.

88. David Hume, “Idea of a Perfect Commonwealth,” in Essays and Treatises on

Several Subjects in Two Volumes (London, 1768), I, 565. |

, 14. The Sun King and His Enemies 1. Istoriia sevarambov (Moscow, 1956). 2. Denis Vairasse, Histoire des Sevarambes (Amsterdam, 1702), I, 277. There was

also an Amsterdam, 167-, edition. _ 3. History of the Sevarambians (London, 1738), p. 204.

4. Ibid., p. 202. 5. Ibid., p. 198. 6. Ibid., p. 200. 7. Ibid., p. 203.

8. Ibid., p. 202.

g. Ibid., p. 203.

, 10. Histoire des Sevarambes, 1, 322-323. 11. Francois de Salignac de la Mothe Fénelon, Correspondance (Paris, 1827), VI, 411, May 8, 1703.

12. Ibid., I, 4, Fenelon to Marquis de Seignelai, Feb. 7, 1686.

844 NOTES TO PAGES 386-398 13. Lionel Rothkrug, Opposition to Louis XIV (Princeton, Princeton University

Press, 1965), pp. 239, 251, 255. : | 14. Ibid., p. 245.

1g, Fleury, Oeuvres, ed. M. Aimée-Martin (Paris, 1837), p. 565. 16. Rothkrug, Opposition to Louis XIV, pp. 267-268.

| 17. Fénelon, Correspondance, V1, 275. , 18. Fénelon, Les Aventures de Télémaque (Paris, 1822), p. 197. 19. See, for example, Les Aventures de Telémaque (Philadelphia, 1821).

20. Jeremy Bentham, Works, ed. John Bowring (Edinburgh and London, 1843), X, 10.

15. Leibniz: The Swan Song of the Christian Republic 1. In asketch for a “Bibliotheca Universalis Selecta” prepared in 1689 for Theodor Althet Heinrich von Strattmann, Leibniz included under the heading “‘Narrationes reipublicae fictitiae continent interdum monitum in veris regendis profutura”: “Utopia Mori, Campanellae Civitas Solis, Verulamii Nova Altantis [sic], Nicii Erythraei [pseud. of G. V. Rossi], Eudemia, Les oeuvres de Cyrano de Bergerac; Mundus alter et idem, La Reine de l’isle invisible, Roman Francois. Les Severabambes [sic], et la Terre Australe [by Foigny].”’ Samtliche Schriften und Briefe, ser. 1, Allgemeiner Politischer und Historischer Brief-

wechsel, ed. Deutsche Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin, V (Berlin, O. Reichl, 1954), 441. Most of Leibniz’ utopian projects were first published from manuscript in vols. I and II (the ecumenical correspondence) and vols. V and VII (the academy plans) of Alexandre Foucher de Careil, ed., Oeuvres de Leibniz, 7 vols. (Paris, 1859-1875). 2. Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz, Die Werke gemass seinem handschriftlichen Nachlasse in der Koniglichen Bibliothek zu Hannover, ed. Onno Klopp, ser. 1, Historisch-politische und

staatswissenschaftliche Schriften, IX (Hanover, 1873), 58. | 3. In Comenti obitum, in Samtliche Schriften und Briefe, ser. 2, Philosophischer Brief-

wechsel, ed. Preussische Akademie der Wissenschaften, I (Darmstadt, 1926), 201. See also ibid., ser. 1, I, 132; 2, I, 199-200; and on Andreae, ser. 1, VIII, 245, 302, 336, 363; Campanella, ser. 1, I, 92, 104, ser. 2, I, 14, 22, 176, 200, ser. 6, I, 265; Bruno, ser. 1, VI,

, 265, ser. 2, I, 176, ser. 6, I, 194; Bacon, ser. 2, I, 10, 14, 15, 80, 163, I7I, 235, 247, 252,

2$3, 400, 466, $19, 554. 4. Herbert Wildon Carr, The Monadology of Leibniz, with an Introduction, Commentary, and Supplementary Essays (Los Angeles, 1930), pp. 3-4. 5. Vladimir Ivanovitch Guerrier, Leibniz in seinen Beziehungen zu Russland und Peter dem Grossen (St. Petersburg, 1873), p. 203, Leibniz to Golofkin, Jan. 16, 1712. 6. Leibniz, Werke, ed. Klopp, ser. 1, V (Hanover, 1866), 67-68, Leibniz to Duke Ernst August, 1680-1681 (undated letter). 7. See Paolo Rossi, Clavis universalis: Arti mnemoniche e logica combinatoria da Lullo a Leibniz (Milan, 1960).

8. Leibniz, Werke, ed. Klopp, ser. 1, V, 69. ,

g. Leibniz, Grundriss eines Bedenkens von Aufrichtung einer Societat in Teutschland zu auffnehmen der Kiinste und Wissenschafften (16712), in Samtliche Schriften und Briefe, ser. 4,

Politische Schriften, ed. Preussische Akademie der Wissenschaften, I (Darmstadt, 1931), $30.

10. Leibniz, Discours touchant la méthode de la certitude et l’art d’inventer pour finir les

| disputes et pour faire en peu de temps des grands progres, in Die philosophischen Schriften, ed. C. I. Gerhardt, VII (Berlin, 1890; reprint ed., Hildesheim, Olms, 1961), 178. 11. Leibniz, Préceptes pour avancer les sciences, ibid., p. 160. 12. Leibniz, Discours touchant la méthode de la certitude, ibid., p. 180.

13. Rudolf W. Meyer, Leibnitz and the Seventeenth-Century Revolution, trans. J. P. Stern from German ed., 1948 (Cambridge and Chicago, 1952), p. 96. See also Ursachen warum Canstatt, in Samtliche Schriften und Briefe, ser. 4, 1, 107-110.

NOTES TO PAGES 399-413 845

ed. Gerhardt, VI, 181. |

14. Leibniz, Discours touchant la méthode de la certitude, in Die philosophischen Schriften,

15. Ibid., pp. 175-176.

16. Ibid., pp. 176-177; Relation de l’état présent de la république des lettres, in Samtliche Schriften und Briefe, ser. 4, vol. I, p. $69; Oeuvres, ed. Foucher de Careil, III (1861),

1-4]. 17. Leibniz, Die philosophischen Schriften, ed. Gerhardt, II (1960), 136, Leibniz to

Antoine Arnauld, Venice, March 23, 1690.

18. See Leibniz, Grundriss eines Bedenkens von Aufrichtung einer Societat; Joseph, Rit-

ter von Bergmann, “‘Leibnitz in Wien, nebst finf ungedruckten Briefen tiber die Grtindung einer kaiserlichen Akademie der Wissenschaften an Karl Gustav Heraus in Wien,” and “Leibnitzens Memoriale an den Kurftirsten Johann Wilhelm von der Pfalz wegen Errichtung einer Akademie der Wissenschaften in Wien vom 2 Oktober 1704,” in Kaiserliche Akademie der Wissenschaften, Vienna, Philosophisch-historische Classe, Sitzungsberichte, 13 (1854), 40-61, and 16 (1855), 3-22; and R. F. Young, Comenius in England (London, 1932), doc. IV, p. 62. 19. Young, Comenius in England, p. 62. 20. See Jean Baruzi, Leibniz et l’organisation religieuse de la terre, d’aprés des documents

inédits (Paris, 1907), p. 100. 21. Leibniz, Die philosophischen Schriften, ed. Gerhardt, III (1960), 261, 262, draft of

letter to Thomas Burnett, 1699. 22. Leibniz, Confessio philosophi: Ein Dialog, ed. Otto Saame (Frankfort, Kloster-

mann, 1967), p. 110. |

23. Baruzi, Leibniz et l’organisation religieuse de la terre, p. 95.

24. See his letter to Nicolas Remond, from Vienna, Aug. 26, 1714, in Die philoso-

phischen Schriften, ed. Gerhardt, III, 624-625. , 25. See K. Bittner, ‘J. A. Comenius and G. W. Leibniz,” Zeitschrift fur slavische Philologie, 6 (1929), 115—145; 7 (1930), 53-93. 26. Leibniz, Elementa Juris Naturalis, in Samtliche Schriften und Briefe, ser. 6, Philoso-

phische Schriften, 1, ed. Preussische Akademie der Wissenschaften (Darmstadt, 1930), 445.

27. Leibniz, Modus Instituendi Militiam Novam Invictam Qua Subjugari Possit Orbis Terrarum: Facilis Executio Tenenti Aegyptum, vel Habenti Coloniam Americanam, in Samtliche Schriften und Briefe, ser. 4, I, 408. 28. Leibniz, The Preface to Leibniz’ Novissima Sinica: Commentary, Translation, Text,

ed, Donald F. Lach (Honolulu, University of Hawaii Press, 1957), p. 75. 29. Guerrier, Leibniz in seinen Beziehungen zu Russland und Peter dem Grossen, p. 178. 30. Leibniz, Preface to Novissima Sinica, p. 77. 31. See Leibniz, Nouveaux essais sur l’entendement humain (1703-1705), in Samtliche

(Berlin, 1962), $6.

Schriften und Briefe, ser. 6, VI, ed. Leibniz-Forschungsstelle der Universitat Munster 32. See Gottschalk Eduard Guhrauer, Gottfried Wilhelm, Freiherr von Leibniz: Eine Biographie (Breslau, 1846; reprint ed., Hildesheim, Olms, 1966), II, “Vita Leibnitii a se ipso breviter delineata,” $2. 33. Baruzi, Leibniz et l’organisation religieuse de la terre, pp. 123-124. 34. Leibniz, Oeuvres, ed. Foucher de Careil, VII (1875), 512, draft of a letter to Peter the Great, Jan. 16, 1716. 35. Leibniz, Werke, ed. Klopp, ser. 1, IX, 373-374.

16. The Philosophes’s Dilemma 1. Encyclopédie, ou Dictionnaire raisonné des sciences, des arts et des meétiers, ed. Denis

Diderot and Jean le Rond d’Alembert, 35 vols. (Paris, 1751-1780), “County of Rutland,” XIV, 448.

846 NOTES TO PAGES 414-438 ,

1766. | 2. Encyclopédie, “Encyclopédie,” XII, 361.

3. Voltaire, Correspondance, ed. Theodore Besterman, X (Geneva, Institut et Musée Voltaire, 1954), 10, Voltaire to Pierre Robert Le Cornier de Cideville, Brussels, Jan. 9, 1740; see also ibid., LXII (1961), 141, Voltaire to Claude Germain Le Clerc de Mont-

merci, Aug. 25, 1766. |

4. Ibid., LXIII (1961), 13, 19, Voltaire to Etienne Noél Damilaville, Oct. 10 and 15,

s. Ibid., LXII (1961), 185, Frederick II to Voltaire, San-Souci, Sept. 13, 1766.

6. Diderot, Salons, ed. Jean Seznec and Jean Adhémar, II (Oxford, Clarendon,

7. p. 122. 8.Ibid., Ibid., p. 125.

1963), 121.

10. Ibid., p. 126. , ,

9. Ibid., pp. 125-126. -

11. Diderot, Correspondance, IX, ed. Georges Roth (Paris, Editions de Minuit,

| 1963), 245-246, Diderot to Mme. de Maux (?), Paris, 1769 (?). 12. Ibid., pp. 127-129, Diderot to Sophie Volland, Paris, Aug. 31, 1769. 13. Ibid., V (1959), 245-254, Allan Ramsay to Diderot, January 1766.

14. Ibid., p. 244. ,

15. Diderot, Apologie de l’Abbé Galiani, in Ocuvres politiques, ed. Paul Verniére (Paris, Garnier Fréres, 1963), p. 85. 16. Maurice Tourneux, Diderot et Catherine II (Paris, 1899), p. 160. 17. Diderot, Entretiens sur le fils naturel, Second entretien, in Oeuvres completes, ed. J. Assézat and M. Tourneux, VII (Paris, 1875), 108—109. 18. Diderot, Observations sur Garrick, in Oeuvres, VIII (1875), 350-351.

19. Diderot, Le Temple du bonheur, fragment, in Oeuvres, VI (1875), 438-439. 20. Diderot, Correspondance, XIII, ed. Georges Roth and Jean Varloot (1966), 71, Diderot to Madame Diderot, St. Petersburg, before Oct. 15, 1773.

21. Encyclopédie, XXV, 201.

(Paris, 1792), XVI, 40. |

22. Voltaire, Essai sur les moeurs et l’esprit des nations, in Oeuvres, ed. M. Palissot

23. Louis Antoine de Bougainville, Voyage autour du monde (Paris, 1771), pp.

O8— 102.

24. Ibid., p. 190. 25. Abbe Guillaume Thomas Francois Raynal, Histoire philosophique des deux Indes

26. Ibid., IV, 13. | | 27. Ibid., p. 39. 28. Ibid., p. 694.

(Paris, 1780), II, 103.

17. The Monde Idéal of Jean-Jacques a

is Scott’s. , 1. Boswell with Rousseau and Voltaire, ed. Geoffrey Scott (Mt. Vernon, N. Y., 1928), pp. 56, 61~64; James Boswell, Boswell on the Grand Tour: Germany and Switzerland, 1764,

in The Yale Edition of the Private Papers of James Boswell, ed. F. A. Pottle, IV (New ~ York, 1953), 221, 223-224. The translation, which is republished in the Yale edition, ©

, 2. An autographed and annotated copy of Rousseau’s Plato in Marsilio Ficino’s Latin translation is in the British Museum. See M. J. Silverthorne, “‘Rousseau’s Plato,”

Studies on Voltaire and the Eighteenth Century, 116 (1973), 235-249. , 3. The books and papers of Saint-Pierre were handed over by his nephew to Rousseau in 1756. See C. E. Vaughan, ed., The Political Writings of Jean Jacques Rousseau (New

York, 1962; 1st ed., 1915), I, 360. , ,

p. 123. , NOTES TO PAGES 438-461 847

4. Rousseau, Lettres écrites de la Montagne, in Oeuvres completes, ed. Bernard Gagnebin and Marcel Raymond, Bibliothéque de la Pléiade, III (Paris, Gallimard, 1964), 697. 5. Rousseau, Discours sur l’origine et les fondemens de l’inégalite parmi les hommes, ibid.,

6. Rousseau, Emile, ibid., [IV (1969), 351Nn.

7. Ibid., p. 277.

8. Rousseau, Discours sur l’inégalité, ibid., HI, 122. 9. Rousseau, Emile (Favre manuscript), ibid., V, 157. 10. Rousseau, Rousseau juge de Jean Jacques, ibid., I (19$9), 668.

11. Ibid., p. 669. |

12. Ibid., p. 672.

. 13. Rousseau, Du contrat soctal, ibid., Ill, 361. 14. Rousseau, Emile, ibid., IV, 249. 15. Karl Marx, “Okonomisch-philosophische Manuscripte” (1844), in Marx-Engels Gesamtausgabe, sect. I, vol. Ill, p. 121 (Berlin, 1932). 16. A pamphlet of 1789 entitled Jean-Jacques Rousseau des Champs-Elisées a la Nation

Frangoise carries a footnote that it is extracted from Rousseau’s works on the rights of peoples and may be “useful to those who do not know the principles of this famous man, to whom France owes the present revolution.” 17. Rousseau, Discours sur Vinégalité, in Oeuvres completes, III, 194.

18. Freedom from the Wheel 1. See Manuel, Portrait of Isaac Newton (Cambridge, Mass., 1968), pp. 206~211. 2. John Craig, Theologiae Christianae Principia Mathematica (London, 1699).

3. Manuel, The Eighteenth Century Confronts the Gods (Cambridge, Mass., 1959), pp. 210-227. 4. Moses Mendelssohn, Jerusalem: A Treatise on Ecclesiastical Authority and Judaism (1783), trans. M. Samuels (London, 1838), II, too~101; Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, Die Erziehung des Menschengeschlechts (1780), in Sammtliche Schriften, 3rd ed. rev., ed. Karl Lachmann, rev. Franz Muncker, XIII (Leipzig, 1897). ~§. Edward Gibbon, The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, 1 (London, 1781), “General Observations,” 639-640. 6. Leibniz, Nouveaux essais sur l’entendement humain, in Samtliche Schriften und Briefe,

ser. 6, Philosophische Schriften, V1 (Berlin, 1962), $5. , 7. Louis Sébastien Mercier, L’An 2440, new ed. (Paris, An X; 1st ed., 1771), I, - -XXXViil, note.

19. Turgot on the Future of Mind 1. There are three editions of the works of Turgot: the first, by Dupont de Nemours, 9 vols. (Paris, 1808~1811), secularized the religious tone of the Sorbonne dis-

, courses; the second was by Eugéne Daire and Hippolyte Dussard, 2 vols. (Paris, 1844); the third and probably definitive edition was by Gustave Schelle, 5 vols. (Paris, F. Alcan,

1913-1923). Fragments of Turgot’s work were translated into English in W. Walker Stephens, The Life and Writings of Turgot, Comptroller General of France, 1774-1776 (Lon-

don and New York, 1895); and there is a translation titled On the Progress of the Human

Mind, with notes and an appendix by McQuilkin de Grange (Hanover, N.H., 1928). The Textes choisis by Pierre Vigreux (Paris, 1947) emphasizes economic thought. A collection of texts on Turgot’s theory of progress has appeared in Spanish: El progresso en la historia universal: Traduccion del francés por Maria Vergara (Madrid, 1941). Of the major works on Turgot, two appeared in the eighteenth century, written by devoted admirers and disciples: Dupont de Nemours, Mémoires sur la vie et les ouvrages de M. Turgot (Phila-

848 NOTES TO PAGES 461-473 delphia [Paris], 1782); and Condorcet, Vie de Turgot (London, 1786). These really constitute the oral tradition and cannot be separated from the writings themselves. For a bibliography on Turgot see Frank E. Manuel, The Prophets of Paris (Cambridge, Mass., 1962), pp. 319-320. The Schelle edition had a reimpression in Glashtiten im Taunus, 1972, and there have been two recent compilations: Ecrits économiques, ed. Bernard Cazes (Paris, 1970); and Turgot on Progress, Sociology and Economics, trans. and ed. R. L. Meck (Cambridge, University Press, 1973). 2. Turgot to the Chevalier Turgot at Malta, July 31, 1750, in Schelle ed., I, 184. 3. Turgot, the man of taste, was sometimes self-conscious about the apologetics. On one draft of the discourse he wrote, “All this has a didactic air.”” MS in Turgot archives, Chateau de Lantheuil, Normandy. 4. Condorcet, a jealous disciple, would not have agreed. “His real opinions were

not known. There existed in Europe only a very few men in a position to comprehend them in their totality and to judge them.” Condorcet, Vie de Turgot, p. 287.

5. See Edgar Faure, La Disgrace de Turgot (Paris, 1961). , 6. MS in Turgot archives, Chateau de Lantheuil.

7. Dupont de Nemours ed., I, 417-418. , 8. Schelle ed., I, 214-215.

9. “‘Pensées diverses,”’ ibid., p. 321. , |

10. “No mutation has taken place without producing experience, and without

spreading or ameliorating or preparing education.” ‘‘Plan de deux discours sur l’histoire universelle” (ca. 1751), Schelle ed., I, 28s. 11. MS note in Turgot archives, Chateau de Lantheuil. 12. Condorcet, Vie de Turgot, p. 220.

13. Schelle ed., I, 593. , 14. Ibid., V, 242-243.

15. Tableau philosophique des progres successifs de l’esprit humain (1750), ibid., I, 222. 16. Réflexions rédigées a l’occasion d’un Mémoire remis de Vergennes au Roi sur la maniere dont la France et l’ Espagne doivent envisager les suites de la querelle entre la Grande-Bretagne et

ses colonies, ibid., V, 416. 17. Recherches sur les causes des progres et de la décadence des sciences et des arts ou réflex-

ions sur Vhistoire des progres de l’esprit humain, ibid., I, 133. 18. ‘Plan du second discours sur les progrés de l’esprit humain,”’ ibid., I, 302-303. 19. Abbé Etienne Bonnot de Condillac had already treated of the dependence of genius on the availability of appropriate language forms. ‘Circumstances favorable to the development of geniuses are found in a nation at the time when its language begins to have fixed principles and set character. This is the epoch of the great men.” Essai sur l’origine des connaissances humaines, in Oeuvres (Paris, 1798), 1, 437. 20. Turgot’s whole discussion of language is clearly derivative from Condillac. “Besides, it would show little understanding of the genius of language to imagine that one could cause to be transmuted all of a sudden the most perfect forms from the most crude. This can only be the work of time.” Ibid., p. 440. “The success of the best organized geniuses depends completely on the progress of language in the century when they live.” Ibid., p. 439. This held equally true for literary and scientific genius: ‘“The success of Newton was prepared by the choice of symbols which had been made before

him.” Ibid., pp. 438-439. | ee 21. Similar ideas are expressed in the Tableau philosophique, Schelle ed., I, 223. Condillac in chap. XV, ‘Du génie des langues,” of the Essai sur l’origine des connaissances humaines had already used language as the embodiment of the character of nations; Turgot transferred the idea directly to historical stages. In this instance, as in many others, he

historicized Condillac.

22. Schelle ed., I, 347. 23. The following passage from Turgot is usually quoted (for example, by Robert

NOTES TO PAGES 474-480 849 ) Flint, The Philosophy of History in France and Germany [London, 1875], p. 113) to illustrate

the origins of the Comtean law: “Before knowing the connection of physical facts with

one another, nothing was more natural than to suppose that they were produced by beings intelligent, invisible, and like to ourselves. Everything which happened without

man’s own intervention had its god, to which fear or hope caused a worship to be paid , conforming to the respect accorded to powerful men—the gods being only men more or less powerful in proportion as the age which originated them was more or less enlightened as to what constitutes the true perfections of humanity. But when philosophers perceived the absurdity of these fables, without having attained to a real acquaintance with the history of nature, they fancifully accounted for phenomena by abstract expressions, by essences and faculties, which indeed explained nothing, but were reasoned from as if they were real existences. It was only very late that, from observing the mechanical action of bodies on one another, other hypotheses were inferred, which mathematics could develop and experience verify.’”” Dupont de Nemours ed., II, 294295. P. J. B. Buchez, Introduction a la science de l’histoire (Paris, 1842), I, 121, had already noted this similarity of ideas; it has been accepted by Jules Delvaille, Essai sur V’histoire de Vidée de progres jusqu’a la fin du dix-huitiéme siecle (Paris, 1910), pp. 398-399. Auguste

Comte acknowledged “the wise Turgot”’ as a predecessor, in the Cours de philosophie positive, IV, 201. Wilheim Dilthey, in Sitzungsberichte der Berliner Akademie, 1890, p. 979,

classified Turgot as a precursor of Positivism.

24. Condillac, Essai sur l’origine des connaissances humaines, in Oeuvres, 1, 457.

25. “By observing the present one can see all the forms that barbarism has assumed

, spread over the face of the earth and thus, so to speak, the historical monuments of every age.”’ MS notes, Turgot archives, Chateau de Lantheuil. 26. Schelle ed., I, 495. 27. Charles de Brosses, Du culte des dieux fetiches (Geneva, 1760). 28. In a very early work, the Lettre a Madame de Graffigny sur les Lettres d’une Péruvienne (1751), Turgot already expressed sharp divergence from the primitivists; there is no appreciation of man in the state of nature, and the primitive world is dark, ignorant,

and cruel. Schelle ed., I, 243. |

29. “Plan du premier discours sur la formation des gouvernements et le mélange des nations,’’ ibid., p. 289. 30. “Plan de deux discours sur l’histoire universelle,”’ ibid., p. 285. 31. “Plan d’un ouvrage sur la géographie politique” (1751), ibid., p. 257. 32. Tableau philosophique des progres successifs de esprit humain, ibid., p. 231. 33. Ina letter to Abbé Cicé (only a part of which is reproduced in Schelle, I, ro8—

109) Turgot emphasized the dependence of seventeenth-century speculative science upon a prior development of the mechanical arts. “‘At all times men have studied for their needs, and there have in all ages been workers who have known the physics of their jobs better than the physicists of their time.”” MS in Turgot archives, Chateau de

Lantheuil.

, 34. Tableau philosophique des progres successifs de l’esprit humain, Schelle ed., I, 227. 35. Ibid., pp. 199-200. 36. Condorcet, Vie de Turgot, p. 240. 37. Ibid., p. 251. 38. On the other side of the channel Richard Price was expressing a cognate idea in somewhat different similes at about the same time: ‘Such are the nature of things that this progress must continue. During particular intervals it may be interrupted, but it cannot be destroyed. Every present advance prepares the way for farther advances; and a single experiment or discovery may sometimes give rise to so many more as suddenly to raise the species higher, and to resemble the effects of opening a new sense, or of the fall of a spark on a train that springs a mine.” Observations on the Importance of the American Revolution and the Means of Making It a Benefit to the World (London, 1785), pp. 3-4.

850 NOTES TO PAGES 481-489 oe 39. Dupont de Nemours ed., III, 448. , 40. This definition is attributed to Turgot by Condorcet, Vie de Turgot, in Oeuvres de Condorcet, ed. A. Condorcet O’Connor and D. F. Arago, 12 vols. (Paris, 1847-1849), V, 14. 41. Schelle ed., V, $47. By no means did Turgot always sustain the youthful ecstasy of his 1750 Tableau philosophique des progres successifs de l’esprit humain on the age of en-

lightenment: ‘Finally, all the shadows have been dissipated. What light shines in all directions! What a perfection of human reason!” Ibid., I, 234. 42. Turgot to Condorcet, Ussel, June 20, 1772, Correspondance inédite de Condorcet et

de Turgot, 1770-1779, ed. with notes and intro. by Charles Henry (Paris, 1883), p. 88. 43. Réflexions sur la formation et la distribution des richesses (1776), Schelle ed., II, 537.

44. “Plan du premier discours sur la formation des gouvernements et le mélange des nations,” ibid., I, 283. Kant, without referring to Turgot, developed a similar con- , ception in his Ideen. This theme had been the heart of Vico’s civil theology. 45. “The Theodicée of Leibniz should serve as a model for anyone who would put a vast erudition to use .. .” Pensées, ibid., p. 340. The Leibnizian influence is obvious throughout in Turgot. “I have also shown,” wrote Leibniz, “that it is this Harmony that establishes the ties of the future with the past as well as of the present and what is absent.” Essais de Théodicée, in Opera Philosophica (Berlin, 1840), p. 477.

46. Encyclopédie, X, 22.

47. Condorcet, Vie de Turgot (London, 1786), p. 212. 48. ‘Plan de deux discours sur |’histoire universelle,”’ Schelle ed., I, 285.

Ibid., p. 249. | si.50. Ibid. | 49. Condorcet, Vie de Turgot, p. 279.

52. Ibid., pp. 276~277. See the last passage of Condorcet’s Esquisse (Genoa, 1798),

| p. 359, written as a consolation of philosophy. -

$3. Oeuvres de Condorcet, 1 (1847), 113-114. , 20. Condorcet: Progression to Elysium , 1. The original edition of Condorcet’s Esquisse was published by P. C.-F. Daunou

and Mme. M.-L.-S. de Condorcet in 1795. The edition cited here was published in Genoa, 1798. An English translation of the Esquisse by Thomas Churchill was published , in London, 1795 (also in Philadelphia, 1796, and Baltimore, 1802); the modern rendering —_—/

by J. Barraclough (London, 1955) corrects many obvious mistakes but sometimes loses the flavor of the original. An Oeuvres completes in 21 volumes appeared in Brunswick and

Paris, 1804, edited by Mme. Condorcet with the assistance of A. A. Barbier, Dr. Pierre Cabanis, and D. J. Garat. The standard edition of the Oeuvres de Condorcet, published by A. Condorcet O’Connor and D. F. Arago, appeared in 12 volumes in Paris, 1847-1849. , (This edition is cited here.) A “Table alphabétique des oeuvres de Condorcet” and a ‘Table chronologique des oeuvres de Condorcet”’ are included in the standard edition, I, 641-646 and 647-652. Keith Michael Baker, Condorcet: From Natural Philosophy to Social Mathematics (Chicago, 1975), supersedes previous studies, and has a helpful bibliogra-

phy, pp. 485-523. | : | Mme. Amélie Suard. 2. Condorcet, Oeuvres, I, vi.

3. The classical portrait by Mlle. de l’Espinasse is in Oeuvres, 1, 626-635. 4. Bibliotheque Nationale, Paris, N.a.fr. 23639, correspondence of Condorcet with

5. Marie-Louise-Sophie de Grouchy, Théorie des sentimens moraux ou Essat analytique sur les principes des jugemens que portent naturellement les hommes . . . suivid’unedissertation = =——

sur l’origine des langues. Huit lettres sur la sympathie, 2 vols. (Paris, 1798). The most recent work on Mme. Condorcet is Henri Valentino, Madame de Condorcet (Paris, Perrin, 1950). For Jules Michelet’s description see Les Femmes de la révolution (Paris, 1883), pp. 92—93.

NOTES TO PAGES 489-501 851 6. Condorcet, Oeuvres, I, 608. 7. In Les Indiscrétions de Vhistoire, 5th ser. (Paris, 1903-1909), pp. 339ff, Dr. Augustin Cabanés, on the basis of documents published by Marius Barroux in La Révolution francaise, 9 (1889), 173-185, concluded that Condorcet had died of a cerebral hemor-

rhage. For a rectification of details in Michelet’s account of Condorcet’s death, which most historians have followed, see Gérard Walter’s notes to his edition of Jules Michelet, Histoire de la révolution frangaise (Paris, 1952), Il, 1304~1306.

8. Condorcet, Oeuvres, VI, 5. 9. Michelet, Les Femmes de la révolution, p. 94.

10. Condorcet, ‘Conseil de Condorcet a sa fille,” in Oeuvres, 1, 617-618. 11. Henri Valentino, Madame de Condorcet, p. 63. 12. Mme. Amelie Suard, Essais de mémoire sur M. Suard (Paris, 1820), p. 197. 13. Condorcet, Esquisse (Genoa, 1798), p. 250. 14. Thomas Robert Malthus, An Essay on the Principles of Population, as it affects the future improvement of society. With remarks on the speculations of Mr. Godwin, M. Condorecet,

and other writers (London, 1798).

15. La Harpe and Chateaubriand spread the canard that Condorcet believed progress in science could render man immortal. Francois Picavet, Les Idéologues (Paris, 1891), p. 116n. 16. Epochs I, V, and X. 17. Condorcet, Oeuvres, VI, 346. 18. Condorcet’s atheism was outspoken. The contention of O. H. Prior in his edition of the Esquisse (Paris, Boivin, 1933), pp. xi—xii, ““He was certainly not an atheist,” cannot be supported. 19. Quoted in Alberto Cento, Condorcet e l’idea di progresso (Florence, Parenti, 1956), p. 84, from Institut de France, MS 885, fasc. B, fol. 109. 20. Condorcet, Esquisse (1798), p. 24. 21. Quoted in Cento, Condorcet, p. 164. 22. Condorcet, Memoire sur Pinstruction publique, in Oeuvres, VU, 355. 23. Condorcet, Esquisse (1798), p. 26. 24. In his discourse of reception at the Académie Francaise, February 21, 1782, he had already made his commitment: “Each century will add new knowledge to the century which has preceded it, and these progressions, which nothing henceforth can either arrest or suspend, will have no other limits but those of the duration of the universe.”’ Ocuvres, I, 390-391. 25. Ibid., p. $94. 26. Condorcet, Fragment de Vhistoire de la x® époque, ibid., VI, 516. 27. Condorcet, Esquisse (1798), p. 58. 28. Ibid., pp. 236-237. 29. Condorcet, Fragment de l'histoire de la premiere époque, in Oeuvres, VI, 378-379. 30. Condorcet, Vie de Turgot (London, 1786), p. 10. 31. Condorcet, Esquisse (1798), p. 128. 32. Ibid., p. 88. 33. Ibid., p. 129. 34. Ibid. 35. Ibid., p. 162.

36. Ibid., p. 164. :

37. Ibid., p. 168. 38. Ibid., p. 171. 39. Bibliotheque Nationale, N.a.fr. 4586, fol. 214. 40. Condorcet, Esquisse (1798), p. 210. A good deal of Condorcet’s concern with the mass of the people was still quite abstract and remote. His articles on workers’ education were rather patronizing: Since they would still have to labor six days a week he would limit himself to the inculcation of a few simple moral precepts and the teaching

852 NOTES TO PAGES 401-518 of elementary laws of science. He seems to have been particularly annoyed by the religious ditties they sang while they worked; for these he would substitute moralizing

| rhymes, of which he left a few unfortunate examples: Le travail est souvent le pére du plaisir ,

Plaignons l’homme accablé du poids de son loisir or

Les mortels sont egaux. Ce n’est pas la naissance C’est la seule vertu qui fait leur différence.

Bibliotheque Nationale, N.a.fr. 23639. |

, 41. Esquisse (1798), pp. 213-214. ,

42. Ibid., p. 302. 43. The idea of cooperative scientific ventures had already been mentioned a number of times by Condorcet in the course of his éloges of deceased colleagues. Eloge de Haller, in Oeuvres, II, 307: “The successive progressions of these sciences can be the result of the combined works of a great number of men.” Eloge de Linnaeus, in Oeuvres, II,

342, described the worldwide cooperation between Linnaeus and his admirers in report- | ing new specimens. 44. Condorcet, Fragment sur l’Atlantide, in Oeuvres, VI, 600. 45. Ibid., p. 652. 46. Ibid., p. 657.

, 47. Ibid., p. 603. |

48. Institut de France, MS. 885, fasc. C, fols. 9~10. 49. Condorcet, Fragment sur l’Atlantide, in Oeuvres, VI, 618.

50. Ibid., p. 600. |

s1. Ibid., p. 626. $2. Ibid., p. 628. $3. Condorcet, Essai sur l’application de l’analyse a la probabilité des décisions rendues a

la pluralité des voix (Paris, 1785), p. i. |

54. Ibid., p. clxxxvi-clxxxix. 5s. Condorcet, “Tableau genéral de la Science, qui a pour objet l’application du , | calcul aux sciences politiques et morales,” Journal d’instruction sociale, June 22 and July 6, 1795, 1n Oeuvres, I, $58.

56. Condorcet, Fragment de l’histoire de la x® époque, ibid., VI, 59s. _ 57. Bibliotheque Nationale, N.a.fr. 4586, fol. 190. §8. Léon Cahen, in “Condorcet inédit: Notes pour le tableau des progrés de l’esprit _ humain,”’ La Revolution francaise, 75 (1922), 199-212, published fragments from N.a.fr. 4586 entitled “Effet, dans l’état moral et politique de l’espéce humaine, de quelques découvertes physiques comme du moyen de produire avec une certaine probabilité des

enfants males ou femelles 4 son choix.” , 59. Bibliotheque Nationale, N.a.fr. 4586, fol. 207. — |

60. Léon Cahen, ‘“‘Condorcet inédit,” p. 210.

| 61. Bibliotheque Nationale, N.a.fr. 4586, fol. 189. 62. Condorcet, Oeuvres, VII, 433.

63. Condorcet, “‘Discours lu a l’Académie des Sciences,” ibid., I, 470. | | 64. Institut de France, MS 885, fasc. A, fol. 4.4°. 65. The idéologues of the Décade philosophique considered these last paragraphs as _ sublime as anything the philosophers of antiquity had written. Picavet, Les Idéologues, ,

pp. 92-93. | |

66. Condorcet, Esquisse (1798), p. 339. After the sacking of Priestley’s laboratory _ by a mob, Condorcet had written him in a similar vein from Paris, July 30, 1791: “The beautiful day of universal liberty will shine for our descendants; but we at least shall have witnessed the dawn, we shall have enjoyed the hope, and you, sir, you have accelerated the moment by your works, by the example of your virtues . . .”’ Oeuvres, I, 333-334.

NOTES TO PAGES 519-551 8 §3 21. Kant: Beyond Animality 1. Immanuel Kant, Idcen zu einer allgemeinen Geschichte in weltburgerlichen Absicht (1784), in Gesammelte Schriften, ed. Koniglich Preussische Akademie (Berlin, 1912), VIIL,

15-32. See Emil L. Fackenheim, “‘Kant’s Concept of History,” Kant-Studien, 48 (195619$7), 381-398; Frank E. Manuel, Shapes of Philosophical History (Stanford, 1965), chap. 4, Immanuel Kant, On History: A Compilation, ed. Lewis White Beck (Indianapolis, Bobbs-Merrill, 1963). Beck’s translations have been adapted for this chapter. 2. Kant, Rezensionen von J. G. Herders Philosophie der Geschichte der Menschheit (1785), Ernst Cassirer edition, in Werke, IV (Berlin, B. Cassirer, 1913). Zum ewigen Frieden: Ein philosophischer Entwurf first appeared in Konigsberg, 1795; the following year it was translated into French as Projet de paix perpetuelle: Essai philosophique . . . avec un nouveau supplement de l’auteur (KOnigsberg). Der Streit der Fakultaten in drei Abschnitten

, (1798), Cassirer ed., in Werke, VII (Berlin, 1922), 311-431; the second Abschnitt posed the question, p. 391, “Is the human species in constant progression toward the better?” 3. Kant, Rezensionen, p. 199. 4. Kant, “The End of All Things,” in Essays and Treatises on Moral, Political and Various Philosophical Subjects, trans. William Richardson (London, 1798-1799), II, 436-437. 5. Kant, On History, p. 15, Fourth Thesis. 6. Ibid., p. 16, Fourth Thesis. 7. Ibid., p. 15, Fourth Thesis. 8. Ibid., p. 16, Fifth Thesis. 9. Kant, The Moral Lavy; or, Kant’s Groundwork of the Metaphysic of Morals, ed. and trans. H. J. Paton (London, Hutchinson’s University Library, 1948), pp. 88, 89. 10. Kant, “The End of All Things,” p. 431. 11. Kant, Streit der Fakultaten, in Werke, Vil, 407.

22. New Faces of Love 1. David Tompson, Histoire d’un peuple nouveau (London, 1757), part 2, p. 134.

2. Encyclopedie, X XI, 97. |

3. Morelly, Naufrage des iles flottantes (Messina [Paris], 1753), I, 296n.

, 4. The first Justine had been published in 1791, in two volumes. 5. Marquis Donatien-Alphonse-Francgois de Sade, Aline et Valcour, ou Le Roman philosophique (1793; Paris, 1956), H, 73, 80-81. On the Marquis de Sade see Oeuvres completes, 15 vols. (Paris, 1962-1964); Cahiers personnels, 1803-1804, ed. Gilbert Lély (Paris, 1953); Journal inedit (1807, 1808, 1814) (Paris, 1970); Gilbert Lely, Vie du marquis de Sade, new ed. (Paris, 1965), and Sade: Etudes sur sa vie et sur son oeuvre (Paris, 1967); Si-

mone de Beauvoir, Must We Burn de Sade? trans. A. Michelson (London, 1953); Pierre Favre, Sade, utopiste: Sexualite, pouvoir et état dans le roman Aline et Valcour (Paris, 1967); Roberta J. Hackel, De Sade’s Quantitative Moral Universe: Of Irony, Rhetoric, and Boredom

(The Hague, 1976). 6. Marquis de Sade, La Philosophie dans le boudoir (1795; Paris, Pauvert, 1954), p. 214. 7. Ibid, p. 213. 8. Nicolas Edme Restif de la Bretonne, La Vie de mon peére (1779), ed. Marius Boisson (Paris, Bossard, 1924), p. 270. On Restif de la Bretonne, see L’Oeuvre, ed. Henri Bachelin, 9 vols. (Paris, 1930-1932); James Rives Childs, Restif de la Bretonne: Témoignages et jugements; bibliographie (Paris, 1949); Marc Chadourne, Restif de la Bretonne: Le siecle prophetique (Paris, 1958); Mark Poster, The Utopian Thought of Restif de la Bretonne (New York, 1971), bibliography, pp. 141-150. g. Restif de la Bretonne, Les Gynographes, ou Idées de deux honnetes-femmes sur un projet de reglement propose a toute [’Europe, pour mettre les Femmes a leur place, et opeérer le bonheur des deux sexes (Paris, 1777), p. 41.

854 NOTES TO PAGES 555-577 10. Restif de la Bretonne, Les Nuits de Paris, ou Le Spectateur nocturne, vol. VII, part 14 (Paris, 1789), pp. 3356-3359. 11. Restif de la Bretonne, Monsieur Nicolas, ou Le Coeur-humain dévoilé, 16 vols.

(Paris, 1794-1797), VII, 3906. — , 12. Pierre Leroux, “Lettres sur le Fouriérisme: Rétif de la Bretonne,” Revue sociale, vol. 3, no. 7 (March 1850), p. 103.

23, Equality or Death

1. Restif de la Bretonne, L’Andrographe (Paris, 1782), p. 28. 2. Morelly, Naufrage des iles flottantes (Messina [Paris], 1753), I, 296n. 3. See Francois Noél (Gracchus) Babeuf, Correspondance avec |’Académie d’Arras

(1785-1788), ed. Marcel Reinhard (Paris, 1961). , , 4. Dom Deschamps, Le Vrai systeme, ed. Jean Thomas and Franco Venturi (Geneva, Droz, 1963), p. 106. s. Morelly shared this suspicion of excessive learning. In a ruined Temple of Reason the hero of the Naufrage des tles flottantes, Prince Zeinzemin, learns a vast accumulation of books is but “‘a deep abyss of uncertainty and of doubt in which the human mind floats not knowing where to land . . . a confused and disorderly pile of false opinions, repeated over and again, myths, tales, laws which everyone interprets according to his

fancy” (II, 207). |

6. Jean Meslier, Oeuvres completes, ed. Jean Deprun et al., 3 vols. (Paris, 1970-1972). See also Maurice Dommanget, Le Curé Meslier, athée, communiste, et revolutionnaire sous Louis XIV (Paris, 1965).

7. Gabriel Bonnot de Mably, De la législation, ou principes des lois, in Collection complete des Oeuvres (Paris, 1794-1795), IX, 45. 8. Louis-Antoine de Saint-Just, Fragments sur les institutions républicaines, ed. Albert

9. Ibid., p. 33.

Soboul (Turin, Einaudi, 1952), p. 35. (This edition has French and Italian texts.) 10. Ibid.

1. Ibid., p. 48.

12. [bid., p. 47. 7 13. Ibid., p. 49. 14. Ibid., p. §2. |

17.Ibid., Ibid., p. 46. 18. p. 33. , 1. Ibid., pp. 54-55.

16. Ibid., p. $5. ,

,

19. Gabriel Deville, ‘‘Notes inédites de Babeuf sur lui-méme,” La Revolution francaise, 49 (1905), 37-44. See also Victor Moiseevich Dalin, Babeuf-Studien (Berlin, 1961); Maurice Dommanget et al., Babeuf et les problemes du babouvisme (Paris, 1963); and _

R. B. Rose, Gracchus Babeuf: The First Revolutionary Communist (Stanford, Calif., 1978). 20. Tribun du Peuple (Paris, Editions d’Histoire Sociale, 1966), no. 35 (9 frimaire, an

IV), p. 107. !

21. Rose, Babeuf, p. 123. 22. Filippo Michele Buonarroti, Conspiration pour l’égalité dite de Babeuf (1828), new ed. (Paris, Editions sociales, 1957), II, 94—95.

24. Ibid. | 25. [bid., Ibid., p. p. 169. 165. !, 26. 23. Ibid., I, 164. |

27. Ibid., p. 170. ,

28. Babeuf, ‘‘Manifeste des Plébéiens,” in Tribun du Peuple, no. 35 (9 frimaire, an IV), pp. 104-105.

NOTES TO PAGES 577-603 855 29. Buonarroti, Conspiration pour l’égalité, 1, 148.

30. Ibid., p. 15§0.

31. Ibid., p. 85. 32. Ibid., II, 12. 33. Ibid., p. 44.

24, The Battle of the Systems 1. Charles Fourier, Pieges et charlatanisme des deux Sectes Saint-Simon et Owen, qui promettent l’association et le progres (Paris, 1831), p. 47.

2. Cited in Franco Venturi, I! Populismo russo (Turin, Einaudi, 1952), I, 18. 3. George Mudie, in The Economist, 1 (1821), 338-339. 4. Henri Saint-Simon, De la réorganisation de la société européenne, in Oeuvres choisies,

ed. C. Lemonnier (Brussels, 1859), I, 328. 5. Cited in Frank E. Manuel, The Prophets of Paris (Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press, 1962), p. 10.

25. Saint-Simon: The Pear Is Ripe 1. The pioneer scholarly work on Saint-Simon was Georges Weill, Un Précurseur du socialisme: Saint-Simon et son oeuvre (Paris, 1896); the first to use archival materials was Maxime Leroy, La Vie véritable du Comte Henri de Saint-Simon (Paris, 1925); the second volume of Henri Gouhier, La Jeunesse d’Auguste Comte (Paris, 1933-1941) is largely devoted to Saint-Simon. In Frank E. Manuel, The New World of Henri Saint-Simon (Cambridge, Mass., 1956), bibliographical references are included in the section of notes, pp. 371-423. See also, in Russian, Viacheslav Petrovich Volgin, Sen-Simon i sen-simonism (Moscow, 1961); and A. Levandovskii, Sen-Simon (Moscow, 1973).

Olinde Rodrigues first attempted to collect Saint-Simon’s works in O0cuvres completes de Saint-Simon (Paris, 1832). The Oeuvres choisies de C. H. Saint-Simon, précédeées

d’un essai sur sa doctrine, ed. ©. Lemonnier, 3 vols. (Brussels, 1859), and the Oeuvres de Saint-Simon et d’Enfantin, 47 vols. (Paris, 1865-1878), cited as Oeuvres, are two collections that complement each other. In 1966 six volumes from the Oeuvres were reproduced, and in 1973 the Oeuvres choisies was reprinted in Hildesheim. Selected Writings

have been edited and translated into English by F. M. H. Markham (Oxford, 1952); other compilations have been published by Keith Taylor, Henri Saint-Simon: Selected Writings on Science, Industry and Social Organization (New York, 1975), and by Ghita Ionescu, The Political Thought of Saint-Simon (London and New York, 1976). Jean Dautry’s Saint-Simon: Textes choisis (Paris, 1951) includes excerpts from manuscripts in the Bibliothéque Nationale and in the La Sicotiére Collection which had not previously been published. 2. Lettres d’un habitant de Geneve, in Oeuvres, XV, 22. 3. Lettres de C.-H. Saint-Simon: 1”° correspondance (Paris, 1808), p. 74. 4. Esquisse d’une nouvelle encyclopédie (Paris, n.d.), p. s. 5. Opinions littéraires, philosophiques et industrielles (Paris, 1825), pp. 374~375. 6. The “immortal physiologist” Bichat was by Saint-Simon’s own testimony the source of his conception of mutually exclusive capacities, a theory which in Du systeme industriel he called a law of human organization. Oeuvres, XXII, 56. Xavier Bichat, Physiological Researches upon Life and Death, trans. Tobias Watkins (Philadelphia, 1809), pp. 112~113. The work was originally published in France in the Year VIII (1799-1800). 7. Oeuvres, XXII, 17n. 8. Notice historique, ibid., I, 122. g. Condorcet, Esquisse a’un tableau historique, in his Oeuvres, ed. A. Condorcet O’Connor and D. F. Arago, VI (Paris, 1849), 238. 10. The idea of the natural elite was developed by Saint-Simon in L’Industrie, in

856 NOTES TO PAGES 603-609 Oeuvres, XVIII, 142-145. The same conception had been adumbrated earlier in the fragment entitled “Sur la capacité de !’Empereur,” in the Introduction aux travaux scientifiques

du XIX® siecle, in Oeuvres choisies. a 11. Ocuvres choisies, 1, 173. 12. Introduction aux travaux scientifiques du XIX® siecle, ibid., p. 143.

14. Ibid., p. 1§1. 13. L’Organisateur, in Oeuvres, XX, 192. ,

15. Saint-Simon’s solution of the problem of internecine conflict within the elite is reminiscent of Condorcet’s treatment of jealousy among the scientists called upon to collaborate on grand international projects. “Once the true methods for studying the

sciences, for making progress in them, are known, there cannot fail to exist among those who cultivate some one science with success a common opinion, accepted princi-

ples which they would not be able to transgress without violating an inner feeling, without giving themselves a reputation either for ignorance or for bad faith,

VI, 604.

‘‘These men are doubtless not exempt from the pettiness of self-love. They are not alien to jealousy. But they will not sacrifice to the impulses of these wretched passions the very object which inspires them.’’ Condorcet, Fragment sur l’Atlantide, i Ocuvres,

18.Ibid., Ibid.,p.p.199. 202., 7 19. 16. Suite a la brochure des Bourbons et des Stuarts, in Oeuvres choisies, Il, 444-445.

17. L’Organisateur, in Oeuvres, XX, 200. ,

20. The belief that Olinde Rodrigues wrote the introduction is based upon a manuscript note in a copy of the Nouveau Christianisme in the Bibliotheque de L’ Arsenal, Fonds Enfantin, 7802 (132) 8. Hoéné Wronski once told Frédéric de Rougemont that the Nouveau Christianisme was not written by Saint-Simon. Frédéric de Rougemont, Les Deux cités: La Philosophie de l’histoire aux differents ages de l’humanite (Paris, 1874), Il, 439.

This evidence by a rival Messiah is naturally suspect. 21. Ina letter to John Stuart Mill on December 1, 1829, Gustave d’Eichthal, who was a close friend of Olinde Rodrigues, described the new religious orientation of SaintSimon’s last period: ‘‘Saint-Simon, after having in his early writings tried to reorganize

, society in the name of Science, after having later renewed the same attempt in the name of Industry, realized that he had mistaken the means for the end; that it is in the name of their sympathies that one must speak to men, and above all, in the name of their religious sympathies, which should summarize all others.” J. S. Mill, Correspondance inedite avec Gustave d’Eichthal (Paris, 1898), pp. 75-76. D’Eichthal had written in his letter of No-

vember 23, 1829, that for two years none of the disciples was able to grasp the full meaning of the Nouveau Christianisme. Correspondance, p. §7n. By December 1, 1829, the

key had been discovered and the religion of Saint-Simon had been clothed in the language of romanticized Spinozism: “The religious doctrine of Saint-Simon has this unitary character which should gather about it all the men of the future. It puts neither spirit above matter, nor matter above spirit. It considers them as intimately united one with another, as being the condition one of the other, as being the two modes in which being is manifest, living being, sympathetic being.’’ Correspondance, p. 74.

, 22. “But there is a science that is more important for society than physical and | mathematical knowledge. It is the science that constitutes society, that serves as its base. It is morals. Now morals have followed a path absolutely contrary to that of the physical and mathematical sciences. More than eighteen hundred years have elapsed since its fundamental principle was produced, and since that time all the researches of men of the greatest genius have not been able to discover a principle superior in its generality or in its precision to the one formulated at that epoch by the founder of Christianity.”” Nouveau Christianisme, in Oeuvres choisies, II], 378-379.

| 23. “Les hommes doivent se conduire en fréres a l’égard les uns des autres.”’ Ibid.,

NOTES TO PAGES 609-616 . 857 p. 322. It is not absolutely clear to which New Testament text he refers. It could be the King James version equivalent in Romans 13: “In love of the brethren be tenderly affectioned one to another.” The epigraph of the Nouveau Christianisme was derived from passages in the French version of Romans 13: “for he that loveth his neighbor hath fulfilled the law . . . and if there be any other commandment, it is summed up in this word, namely, Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.” 24. Nouveau Christianisme, in Oeuvres choisies, III, 322.

25. The primitive catechism to which Saint-Simon referred expressed the golden rule in a negative rather than a positive form.

26. Oeuvres choisies, Il, 379. |

27. C. Lemonnier, in the Revue des cours littéraires, 21 (1876), 383, was of the opinion that a total view of Saint-Simon’s works could, despite the contradictions, only lead to the conclusion that “the died as he lived, that he remained to the end in the ranks of the freethinkers.”” Professor Henri Gouhier’s judgment is categoric: ‘““The Saint-Simonism of Saint-Simon is not a religion, but a social philosophy disguised as a religion.” La Jeunesse d’Auguste Comte (Paris, 1933-1941), III, 231. 28. See Alfred de Musset’s description of the plight of his generation in La Confession d’un enfant du siécle (Paris, 1937), pp. 19, 24: “Alas! Alas! Religion is vanish-

ing .. . We no longer have either hope or expectation, not even two little pieces of black wood in a cross before which to wring our hands . . . Everything that was is no more. All that will be is not yet.” 29. Nouveau Christianisme, in Oeuvres, XXIII, 182-183. 30. Ibid., p. 184. 31. Ibid., p. 18s. 32. Notice historique, ibid., I, 121-122.

26. Children of Saint-Simon: The Triumph of Love 1. The classical scholarly work on the Saint-Simonians remains Sébastien Camille Gustave Charlety, Histoire du Saint-Simonisme (Paris, Paul Hartmann, 1931), which su_ perseded the pioneer study by Georges Weill, L’Ecole saint-simonienne: Son histoire, son influence jusqu’a nos fours (Paris, 1896). Henry-René d’Allemagne, Les Saint-Simoniens (Paris, 1930), is noteworthy primarily for its illustrations. Georg G. Iggers, The Cult of Authority: The Political Philosophy of the Saint-Simonians, a Chapter in the History of Totali-

tarianism (The Hague, 1958), identifies its orientation in the title. Both Charléty, pp. 365-379, and Iggers, pp. 195--203, have bibliographies. Charléty expanded Henry Fournel’s meticulous Bibliographie saint-simonienne (Paris, 1833) to include the secondary literature up to 1931. For a study of the ideas of the Saint-Simonians, the Doctrine de SaintSimon: Exposition, Premiére année, 1829, edited by C. Bouglé and Elie Halévy (Paris, Riviére, 1924), is the key work, profusely and brilliantly annotated. The Doctrine has been translated into English by Iggers (Boston, 1958). For bibliography, see Manuel, The Prophets of Paris (Cambridge, Mass., 1962), pp. 331-333. See also Francois Perroux, Industrie et création collective, 2 vols. (Paris, 1964-1970); Francesco Pitocco, Utopia e riforma religiosa nel Risorgimento (Bari, 1972); Claire Demar (d. 1833), Textes sur l’affranchissement des femmes: 1832-1833, bound with Valentin Pelosse, Symbolique groupale et ideologie feministe saint-simoniennes (Paris, 1976).

Enfantin’s works were published in the eccentrically edited Oeuvres de Saint-Simon et d’Enfantin, 47 vols. (Paris, 1865-1878); his writings appear as vols. XIV, XVI, XVII, XXIV—-XXXVI, XLVI. The two principal Saint-Simonian journals were Le Producteur: Journal philosophique de Vindustrie, des sciences et des beaux-arts, 5 vols. (Paris, 1825-1826);

and Le Globe, vols. IX—XII (Paris, 1830-1832). , 2. Edouard Charton, Mémoires d’un prédicateur saint-simonien (Paris, 1831), pp. 22-23.

858 NOTES TO PAGES 616-641 3. Enseignement des ouvriers, seance du 25 déc. 1831 (Paris, 1832), pp. 16-17.

4. Religion saint-simonienne: Cérémonie du 27 novembre (Paris, 1831), p. 4. , §. Proces en la cour d’assises de la Seine, les 27 et 28 aout 1832 (Paris, 1832), p. 75, extract from an Enseignement of Nov. 19, 1831.

6. Ibid., p. p. 78. 76. |a , 7. Ibid., 12. Ibid., p. 340.

8. Abel Transon, Affranchissement des femmes: Prédication du 1° janvier (Paris, 1832).

g. Retraite de Meénilmontant (Paris, 1832), p. 15. |

10. Doctrine de Saint-Simon, ed. Bouglé and Halévy, pp. 121-122.

11. Ibid., pp. 157-158. 7

13. Correspondance: Articles extraits du Globe (Paris, 1831), p. $3.

14. Doctrine de Saint-Simon, p. 267. } 15. Ibid., pp. 404-405. ,

16. Ibid., p. 164.

17. Religion saint-simonienne: Cérémonie du 27 novembre, p. 17.

18. Doctrine de Saint-Simon, p. 248. , ,

19. Ibid., p. 353. ,, , 20. Ibid., p. 261. 21. Ibid., p. 274. | 23. Ibid., p. 347. | 25. [bid.,p.p.320. 343.| :, 26. [bid., 22. Ibid., p. 276.

24. Ibid., p. 346.

27. Ibid., p. 323. | 28. Ibid., pp. 278-279. 29. Ibid., pp. 382-383. ,

30. Maxime du Camp, Souvenirs littéraires (Paris, 1883), II, 124. 31. For descriptions of the trial see Charléty, Histoire du Saint-Simonisme, pp. 175185; Oeuvres de Saint-Simon et d’Enfantin, VU, 197-256; d’Allemagne, Les Saint-Simon-. lens, Pp. 294-302.

33. Ibid., p. 194. (1956), p. 240. | 32. Proces en la cour d’assises, p. 63. |

34. Ibid., p. 212.

35. Ibid., p. 218. ,

, 36. F. B. Duroselle, “Michel Chevalier, Saint-Simonien,” Revue historique, 82 37. Prosper Enfantin, La Vie éternelle, passée, présente, future (Paris, 1861), p. 49.

38. Ibid., p. 79. ,

39. Quoted in Charléty, Histoire du Saint-Simonisme, p. 324. :

27. Fourier: The Burgeoning of Instinct 1. A summary of Fourierist studies may be found in Henri Desroche’s introduction to Emile Poulat, Les Cahiers manuscrits de Fourier: Etude historique et inventaire raisonné

(Paris, 1957), pp. 6—36, “Fouriérisme écrit et Fouriérisme pratique: Notes sur les études fouriéristes contemporaines.”” The bibliographical emphasis in this introduction is on the Fourierist school and the diffusion of Fourierism throughout the world rather than on the works of Fourier himself. Hubert Bourgin, Fourier (Paris, 1905), still remains the most comprehensive scholarly study of the man and his works; its bibliography is on pp. 17-45. M. Lansac, Les conceptions meéthodologiques et sociales de Charles Fourier (Paris, 1926), has not superseded Bourgin’s work. Charles Gide, Fourier précurseur de la coopéra-

NOTES TO PAGES 642-662 859 tion (Paris, 1922 —1923); C. Bouglé, Socialismes francais (Paris, 1932); H. Louvancour, De Henri Saint-Simon a Fourier: Etude sur le socialisme romantique francais de 1830 (Chartres, 1913); and N. V. Riasanovsky, The Teaching of Charles Fourier (Berkeley, 1969), are sig-

nificant studies of Fourier himself. See also Emile Lehouck, Fourier aujourd’hui (Paris, 1966); Fourier, Histoire du cocuage, ed. René Maublanc (Paris, 1974); Roland Barthes, Sade, Fourier, Loyola (Paris, 1971); Henri Desroche, La Société festive: Du fourierisme écrit aux fouriérismes pratiques (Paris, 1975); David Zeldin, The Educational Ideas of Charles Fourier (London, 1969); Jean Goret, La Pensée de Fourier (Paris, 1974); Pascal Bruckner, Fourier (Paris, 1975); Henri Lefebvre et al., Actualité de Fourier: Colloque d’Arc-et-Senans (Paris, 1975). The most significant bibliography of Fourierist literature, including sepa-

rate sections on the works of Fourier, those of the school, periodicals, and books on Fourierism, is the inventory of the Fourierist collection in the Biblioteca Feltrinelli, Milan, first published by Giuseppe del Bo in the Movimento Operaio, n.s., 1 (1953), 73130, 299-321, and expanded in 1957 as I Socialismo Utopistico: Charles Fourier e la Scuola Societaria (1801-1922), Saggio bibliografico (Milan, 1957), pp. 1-111. An Ocuvres completes,

6 vols., that appeared in Paris, 1841-1845, omitting Fourier’s manuscripts published in La Phalange, has in some respects been superseded by the 1o-volume Oeuvres completes (cited here only in the case of Le Nouveau Monde amoureux) published in Paris by Editions Anthropos, 1966 — 1968.

2. “La Nouvelle Isabelle,” La Phalange, 9 (1849), 237-238. 3. See Victor Considérant, Exposition abrégée du systeme phalanstérien de Fourier (Paris, 1846), the 3d edition of his lectures of 1841, a vulgarization and simplification of Fourier in which the whole system is reduced to the organization of labor. 4. Ocuvres completes, V1, 398-399. 5. E. Silberling, Dictionnaire de sociologie phalanstérienne: Guide des oeuvres completes

de Charles Fourier (Paris, 1911). , 6. Archives Nationales, Paris, to AS 20. 7. Ibid., ro AS 20: notebooks.

8. Ibid., 10 AS 20. g. Ibid., ro AS 21 (13), Fourier to Victor Consideérant, Paris, Oct. 3, 1831. 10. Charles Pellarin, Fourier, sa vie et sa théorie (Paris, 1849), p. 104.

, 11. Poulat, Les Cahiers manuscrits de Fourier, pp. 14-15. 12. See Franco Venturi, Roots of Revolution: A History of the Populist and Socialist

, Movements in Nineteenth Century Russia (New York, 1960), p. 83.

15. Ibid.

13. Théorie des quatre mouvements et des destinées générales: Prospectus et annonce de la

, découverte (1808), in Oeuvres completes, 1, 7-8. 14. Archives Nationales, 10 AS 20.

16. Ibid., ro AS 40, Just Muiron to Mme. Clarisse Vigoureux, May 12, 1832.

17. La Phalange, 9 (1849), 200. 18. Théorie des quatre mouvements, in Oeuvres completes, 1, 143-144.

19. Archives Nationales, ro AS 20 (3). 20. Traite de l’association domestique-agricole (1822), in Oeuvres completes, I, 413. 21. Théorie de l’unité universelle, ibid., IV, 462.

| 22. Ibid., VI, 47.

23. Du garantisme, in La Phalange, 9 (1849), 328. 24. Théorie des quatre mouvements, in Oeuvres completes, I, 115. 25. Archives Nationales, 10 AS 8.

| 26. Ibid., 10 AS 8 (4).

27. Charles Pellarin, Lettre de Fourier au grand juge, 4 nivose an XII (Paris, 1874), pp. | 24-25. 28. Ibid., p. 22. 29. Nathaniel Hawthorne was initially enthusiastic about his labors with the dung

— 860 NOTES TO PAGES 662-679 pile of Brook Farm. He wrote to his wife on May 4, 1841: ‘There is nothing so unseemly and disagreeable in this sort of toil as thou wouldst think. It defiles the hands, , indeed, but not the soul. This gold ore is a pure and wholesome substance; else our Mother Nature would not devour it so readily, and derive so much nourishment from it, and return such a rich abundance of good grain and roots in requital of it.”” The Heart — of Hawthorne’s Journal, ed. Newton Arvin (Boston, Houghton Mifflin, 1929), p. 73. By the beginning of June the tune had changed: “‘It is my opinion, dearest, that a man’s soul may be buried and perish under a dung-heap or in a furrow of the field, just as well as under a pile of money.” Ibid., p. 74. _ 30. ““Notions préliminaires sur les Séries et ’¢ducation naturelle,” La Phalange, 7 (1848), 138.

31. MS letter to the Gazette de France, Archives Nationales, 10 AS 20 (7). 32. Ibid. 33. La Fausse industrie morcelée, répugnante, mensongere et l’antidote, Pindustrie na-

36. Ibid. 39. Ibid., p. 454. |

turelle, combinée, attrayante, véridique, donnant quadruple produit (Paris, 1835), pp. 360-361.

34. Oeuvres completes, V1, 403. ;

35. MS letter to the Gazette de France, Archives Nationales, 10 AS 20 (7).

37. “Fragments,” La Phalange, 9 (1849), 456-457. 38. Ibid., pp. 453-454.

40. Ibid., p. 455. ,

41. Archives Nationales, 10 AS 8 (4). ,

42. Ibid. ,

43. Théorie des quatre mouvements, in Oeuvres completes, 1, 117.

44. La Phalange, 9 (1849), 204. 45. Archives Nationales, 10 AS 8. 46. “De la sériosophie,” La Phalange, 9 (1849), 48. 47. Archives Nationales, 10 AS 8. 48. Ibid.

49. Ibid. so. Ibid. | | 51. La Phalange, 9 (1849), 195. 52. Ibid., p. 194. $3. Ibid., p. 197.

54. Ibid., p. 202. | ss. “Le Sphinx sans Oedipe ou l’énigme des quatre mouvements,”’ La Phalange, 9

—-§6. Ibid., p. 214. 57. Ibid., p. 223. , ,

(1849), 204.

| $9. Oeuvres completes, 1, 219. 58. Ibid., p. 224.

6o. After the incident he was called a “petit massacre, enragé d’enfant.” Théorie de

Vunitée universelle, ibid., V, 41-42. , 61. Le Nouveau monde amoureux, trans. and quoted in Jonathan Beecher and Richard Bienvenu, eds., The Utopian Vision of Charles Fourier (Boston, Beacon Press, 1971),

p. 350.

62. Le Nouveau monde amoureux, in Oeuvres completes, VII (Paris, 1967), 257. |

28. Owen’s New Moral World 1. Robert Owen, A Supplementary Appendix to the First Volume of the Life of Robert Owen Written by Himself (London, 1858), vol. LA, app. I, p. 82. 2. Owen, The Future of the Human Race; or a Great, Glorious, and Peaceful Revolution,

NOTES TO PAGES 679-692 861 Near at Hand, to Be Effected through the Agency of Departed Spirits of Good and Superior Men

133.

and Women (London, 1853).

3. Owen, Supplementary Appendix, vol. 1.A, app. I, pp. 53-64. , 4. Ibid., app. I, letter published in London newspapers of Sept. 10, 1817, pp. 132-

5. Ibid., app. S, “Report to the County of Lanark of a plan for relieving public distress and removing discontent, by giving permanent productive employment to the poor and working classes, etc.’’ (May 1, 1820), pp. 261-310. 6. J. F. C. Harrison, Quest for the New Moral World: Robert Qwen and the Owenites in Britain and America (New York, 1969), p. 29. On Owen see also John Butt, Robert Owen, Prince of Cotton Spinners: A Symposium (Newton Abbot, 1971); Ronald George Garnett, Cooperation and the Owenite Socialist Communities in Britain, 1825-1845 (Manchester, 1972); V. G. Podmarkov, Robert Ouén—gumanist i myslitel’ (Moscow, 1976); Owen Bicentennial Conference, New Harmony, Ind., 1971, Proceedings: Robert Owen’s American

Legacy, ed. Donald E. Pitzer (Indianapolis, 1972). 7. New Moral World, May 28, 1842. 8. Owen, Supplementary Appendix, vol. IA, app. F, “Observations on the Cotton

Trade” (January 1815), p. 17. 9g. Owen, A New View of Society, First Essay, reprinted in Life of Robert Owen Written by Himself (London, 1857), I, 266. 10. Owen, The Revolution in the Mind and Practice of the Human Race; or, the Coming

Change from Irrationality to Rationality (London, 1849), pp. 62-63. See also Owen, An Address Delivered to the Inhabitants of New Lanark . . . at the Opening of the New Institution Established for the Formation of Character, 2d ed. (London, 1816); Essays on the Forma-

tion of the Human Character (Manchester, 1837), p. 36 (a later edition of A New View of Society: or, Essays on the Principle of the Formation of the Human Character (London, 1813]).

11. Owen, Revolution in the Mind and Practice of the Human Race, p. 63.

12. Ibid., pp. 63-64. 13. Owen, A New View of Society, 3d ed. (London, 1817), Second Essay, p. $9.

15. Ibid., p. 141. ,

14. Owen, Revolution in the Mind and Practice of the Human Race, p. 81.

~ 16. Quoted in Frank Podmore, Robert Owen: A Biography (New York, 1907), I, 500. See Public Discussion between R. Owen . . . and the Rev. J. H. Roebuck . . . , 2d ed. (Manchester and London, 1837). 17. Owen, Revolution in the Mind and Practice of the Human Race, p. 71. 18. Ibid., p. 123. 19. Ibid., p. 65. 20. Ibid., p. 67.

21. Ibid., pp. 60, 68. |

22. Ibid., p. 124. 23. Owen, Lectures on the Marriages of the Priesthood of the Old Immoral World, Delivered in the Year 1835, before the Passing of the New Marriage Act, 4th ed. (Leeds, 1840), p. 7.

See also The Book of the New Moral World, Containing the Rational System of Soctety, Founded on Demonstrable Facts, Developing the Constitution and Laws of Human Nature and

of Society (London, 1836), part 1. 24. Owen, Revolution in the Mind and Practice of the Human Race, p. 124. 25. Ibid., p. 73.

26. Ibid., pp. 75, 72. 27. Ibid., p. 76. |

28. Ibid. |

29. The Cooperative Magazine and Monthly Herald (London), no. 11 (November 1820), published excerpts from the “beautiful moral landscape” of Utopia. 30. Owen, Revolution in the Mind and Practice of the Human Race, p. 62.

862 , NOTES TO PAGES 693-706 31. See Owen, The Signs of the Times: or, the Approach of the Millennium, 2d ed. (London, 1841); and The Inauguration of the Millennium, May 14, 1855, Being a Report of Two Public Meetings (London, 1855).

29. Marx and Engels in the Landscape of Utopia 1. The original title in Die Neue Zeit, oth year, no. 18 (1890-1891, part 1), pp. §61— $75, was “Zur Kritik des Sozialdemokratischen Parteiprogramms.” The version in the Marx-Engels Werke (Berlin, Dietz, 1956—1965), XIX, 13-32, returned to the original Marx manuscript and introduced a subtitle: ‘““Randglossen zum Programm der deutschen Arbeiterpartei.” 2. Werke, XIX, 28. 3. See, for example, Friedrich Engels, Die Entwicklung des Sozialismus von der Utopie

zur Wissenschaft, ibid., p. 191. The work is alternatively known as Anti-Duhring and Herrn Eugen Duhrings Umwalzung der Wissenschaft.

4. Georges Sorel, Reflections on Violence, trans. T. E. Hulme (New York, Peter Smith, 1941), p. 1§0. 5. Werke, XIX, 28.

6. Ibid., 21.489. ,, 7. Ibid.,p.IV,

8. Die moralisierende Kritik und die kritisierende Moral: Beitrag zur Deutschen Kulturgeschichte. Gegen Karl Heinzen von Karl Marx, in Marx-Engels Gesamtausgabe, sect. 1, vol.

VI (Berlin, Marx-Engels Verlag, 1932), p. 321. 9. Engels, Materialen zum “Anti-Duhring” (Aus Engels’ Vorarbeiten zum “Anti-Duhr-

ing’), in Werke, XX, §80, 581, 587. | 10. Zur Geschichte des Bundes der Kommunisten, ibid., VIII, $78.

11. Engels tended to be more consistently appreciative of their originality than Marx. In 1845 he even thought of having Fourier translated into German (minus the cosmology). He planned a library of socialist thought that would include excerpts from Morelly, Robert Owen, and the Saint-Simonians. See Engels to Marx, March 17, 1845,

in Werke, XXVIII, 24. , 12, On Weitling, see Wolfgang Joho, Wilhelm Weitling: Der Ideengehalt seiner Schriften, entwickelt aus den geschichtlichen Zusammenhangen (Heidelberg, 1932), and Traum von der Gerechtigkeit: Die Lebensgeschichten des Handwerksgesellen, Rebellen und Propheten Wilhelm Weitling (Berlin, 1956); Carl F. Wittke, The Utopian Communist: a Biography of Wil-

helm Weitling, Nineteenth-Century Reformer (Baton Rouge, 1950); and Waltrand Seidel Hoppner, Wilhelm Weitling, der erste deutsche Theoretiker und Agitator des Kommunismus

(Berlin, 1961), 13. Werke, VII, $41.

15. [bid., Ibid., XIX, IV, 489. 16. 190., 18. Ibid.,XXXIV, XXIII, 68. 317.7 ,, 19. Ibid., 20. Ibid.,I,XXII, 21. Ibid., 475. , |428. , , , 14. Ibid. III, 448. |

17. Marx to Ludwig Kugelmann, Oct. 9, 1866, ibid., XX XI, 530.

22. Ibid., II, 139. | 23. New Moral World, no. 25 (Dec. 13, 1844). ,

24. Die Heilige Familie, in Werke, If, 199. 25. New Moral World, no. 25 (Dec. 13, 1844). 26. Marx to Ludwig Kugelmann, Oct. 9, 1866, in Werke, XX XI, $30.

27. Ibid., XIX, 280.

NOTES TO PAGES 707-720 863 28. See, for example, Le Globe, Nov. 5, 1831, and a brochure by Enfantin, A tous: Religion Saint-Simonienne (Paris, 1832), p. 2. | 29. Werke, Ul, 473~518. Die Deutsche Ideologie is considered by the editors of the

as shorthand for the collaboration. ,

, Werke to be the joint work of Marx and Engels, and the attribution to Marx is used here

30. See Frank E. Manuel, The New World of Henri Saint-Simon (Cambridge, Mass., 1956), p. 371, n. 1; and Lenin, Imperialism, the Highest Stage of Capitalism, in Collected Works (New York, International Publishers, 1927-1945), XIX, 196.

31. Werke, Ill, 74. |

XXXV, 46. -

32. Published in Paris, 1967. 33. Marx to Engels, Hotel Pension Victoria, Algiers, March 1, 1882, in Werke,

34. Die Deutsche Ideologie, ibid., HI, 517. |

35. Ibid., p. 29. 36. Der Ursprung der Familie des Privateigenthums und des Staats. Im Anschluss an Lewis

H. Morgan’s Forschungen (1884), ibid., XXI, 78.

37. Engels to Kautsky, London, April 26, 1884, ibid, XXXVI, 143. 38. Der Ursprung der Familie, ibid., X XI, 83, 82. 39. Das Kapital, Ul, ibid., XXV, 828. 40. United Nations General Assembly, Seventh Special Session, Provisional Verbatim Record of the Two Thousand Three Hundred and Twenty-Seventh Meeting, September 1, 1975, p. 62.

41. Werke, Ill, 33. 42. Louis Blanc, Organisation du travail, gth ed. (Paris, 1850), pp. 72-74; Blanc says he is quoting his own remarks in the Histoire de dix ans. 43. Pierre-Joseph Proudhon, Idée générale de la révolution au XIX® siécle (1851), in Oecuvres completes, ed. C. Bouglée and H. Moysset, III (Paris, Marcel Riviere, 1923), 174. 44. Priedrich Engels, Paul and Laura Lafargue, Correspondance, ed. Emile Bottigelli (Paris, 1956), I, 92, Lafargue to Engels, Nov. 13, 1882. 45. Werke, IV, 490. 46. See, for example, Okonomisch-philosophische Manuskripte aus dem Jahre 1844, ibid., vol. XL, part 1, pp. $10-562 passim.

47. Paul Lafargue, “Karl Marx, Personliche Erinnerungen,” Die Neue Zeit, oth year, no. t (1890-1891, part 1), p. 14.

30. Comte, High Priest of the Positivist Church 1. Briefwechsel, in Marx-Engels Gesamtausgabe, sect. 3, vol. HII (Berlin, Marx-Engels

Verlag, 1930), p. 345, Marx to Engels, July 7, 1866. ,

2. Marx, draft of April-May 1871 for “Burgerkrieg in Frankreich,” in Werke (Berlin, Dietz, 1956-1965), XVII, $55. 3. Engels, Manuscripts for “Dialektik der Natur” (1878-1882), in Marx-Engels Gesamtausgabe, sect. 1, vol. VIII (Moscow, 1935), p. 680. 4. For a bibliography on Comte through 1962 see Manuel, The Prophets of Paris (Cambridge, Mass., 1962), pp. 337-339. More recent works include Correspondance generale et confessions, ed. Paulo E. de Berrédo Carneiro and Pierre Arnaud, 2 vols. (Paris, 1973); Pierre Arnaud, La Pensée d’Auguste Comte (Paris, 1969); Antimo Negri, Augusto Comte e l’'umanesimo positivistico (Rome, 1971). —

5. Comte, Lettres a divers (Paris, 1905), II, 104, Comte to Gustave d’Eichthal, Dec. g, 1828.

6. Ibid., p. 107, Comte to Gustave d’Eichthal, Dec. 7, 1829. 7. His disciple H.-P. Deroisin offered striking proof of the obscurity which began to envelop Comte after his attack of insanity: “In 1828 the bibliographer Quérard gave

864 NOTES TO PAGES 721-742 him as having already died in the beginning of 1827.’’ Notes sur Auguste Comte (Paris, 1909), p. 27.

8. Lettres a divers, II, 276, Auguste Comte to Mme. Austin, April 4, 1844. 9, E. Caro, M. Littré et le positivisme (Paris, 1883), p. 120. 10. André Poey, M. Littré et Auguste Comte (Paris, 1880), pp. 8, 9. 11. Rapport de la Société positiviste par la Commission chargée d’examiner la nature et le plan du nouveau Gouvernement révolutionnaire de la République Francaise (Paris, 1848).

12. Quoted by Henri Gouhier, La vie d’Auguste Comte (Paris, 1931), p. 277. 13. See Charles de Rouvre, Auguste Comte et le Catholicisme (Paris, 1928).

, 14. James H. Billington, “The I[ntelligentsia and the Religion of Humanity,”

American Historical Review, 65 (1960), 807-821. -

1s. On Positivism in Brazil see Antonio Gomes d’Azevedo Sampaio, Essai sur l’histoire du positivisme au Brésil (Paris, 1899); Clovis Bevilaqua, A philosophia positiva no Brasil (Recife, 1883); Hermann Dohms, Der Positivismus in Brazilien (Sao Leopoldo, 1931); Sylvio Roméro, O evolucionismo e o positivismo no Brasil (Rio de Janeiro, 1895).

, 16. On Positivism in England see John Edwin McGee, A Crusade for Humanity:

The History of Organized Positivism in England (London, 1931). , 17. See Hermann Gruber, Der Positivismus vom Tode Auguste Comte’s bis auf unsere Tage (Freiburg, 1891). 18. Comte, Systeme de politique positive (Paris, 1851~1854), Il, 75.

— - 19. Tbid., pp. $95—-5096. , , | 20. Ibid., II, 466.

23. Ibid., I, 141. , . 25. Ibid., p. 145. , , 21. Ibid., I, 733. 22. Ibid., IV, 276-277.

24. Ibid., p. $7.

31, Anarchy and the Heroic Proletariat 1. William Godwin, Political Justice (London, 1793), II, 116. On Godwin, see John P. Clark, The Philosophical Anarchism of William Godwin (Princeton, 1977).

2. Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Collected Letters, ed. Earl Leslie Griggs, I (Oxford, Clarendon, 1956), 114, Coleridge to Robert Southey, Oct. 21, 1794. 3. Coleridge, Lectures, 1795, on Politics and Religion, in The Collected Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, ed. Lewis Patton and Peter Mann (Princeton, 1971), I, 218~—219. 4. P.-J. Proudhon, Correspondance, ed. J.-A. Langlois (Paris, 1875), II, 199, Proud-

hon to Marx, Lyons, May 17, 1846. ,

5. Thomas Huxley, “The Struggle for Existence in Human Society,” Nineteenth Century, February 1888; reprinted in Evolution and Ethics (New York, 1894). — 6. Peter Kropotkin, The Conquest of Bread, ed. Paul Avrich (New York, New York University Press, 1972), p. 61. The work first appeared as a series of articles in Le Révolté , and La Revolte; the original edition of the book, in French, was published in Paris, 1892.

7. Kropotkin, Conquest of Bread, p. 49.

8. Kropotkin, Paroles d’un révolté, quoted in George Woodcock and Ivan Avakumovic, The Anarchist Prince: A Biographical Study of Peter Kropotkin (New York,

Schocken Books, 1970), p. 312.

9. Mikhail Bakunin, Die Reaktion in Deutschland (1842), quoted in E. H. Carr, Michael Bakunin (London, Macmillan, 1937), p. 110; the piece was first published in the Deutsche Jahrbucher fur Wissenschaft und Kunst (Leipzig), Oct. 17-21, 1842. The scholarly

edition of Bakunin’s works (edited for the Internationaal Institut voor Sociale Geschiednis of Amsterdam) was prepared by Arthur Lehning et al., Archives Bakunine, 6 vols. (Leyden, 1961- ). See also Henri Arvon, comp., Michel Bakounine ou la vie contre la

NOTES TO PAGES 742-763 865 science (Paris, 1966); Jacques Duclos, Bakounine ct Marx, ombre et lumiere (Paris, 1974); and Arthur Lehning, Michel Bakounine et ses relations avec Sergei Necaev, 1870-1872 (Leyden, 1971).

10. On Proudhon, see Edouard Dolléans, Proudhon (Paris, 1948); H. Lubac, The Un-Marxian Socialist: A Study of Proudhon, trans. Canon R. E. Scantlebury (London, 1948); George Woodcock, Pierre-Joseph Proudhon: A Biography (London, 1956); Alan Ritter, The Political Thought of Pierre-Joseph Proudhon (Princeton, 1969); Robert L. Hoff man, Revolutionary Justice (Urbana, 1972). 11. See his Qu’est-ce que la propriété? (Paris, 1840). 12. Proudhon, Idée générale de la révolution au X1X® siécle (Paris, 1851), p. 84. 13. See his Organisation du crédit et de la circulation, 2d ed. (Paris, 1848). 14. Proudhon, La Pornocratie, on Les Femmes dans les temps modernes (Paris, 1875), pp. Q, 10, II, 19. ;

1§. Proudhon, General Idea of the Revolution in the Nineteenth Century, trans. J. B. Robinson (London, Freedom Press, 1923), p. 97. 16. Proudhon, Idée générale de la revolution au XIX® siecle, pp. 338~339.

17. Proudhon, “Polémique contre Louis Blanc et Pierre Leroux,” in Oecuvres completes, ed. C. Bouglé and H. Moysset, II (Paris, Riviére, 1923), 36s. 18. Proudhon, Carnets, I (Paris, 1860), 77-78. 19. Proudhon, De la justice dans la révolution et dans l’Eglise (1848), part 3 (Paris, 1932), 84.

20. Proudhon, What is Property? trans. B. R. Tucker (New York, n.d.), p. 261. 21. Proudhon, Correspondance, II, 260, Proudhon to Jérome-Amédée Langlois, May 18, 1850; Dolléans, Proudhon, p. 207. 22. Proudhon, Idée générale de la révolution au XIX® siécle, p. 191. 23. Jean Variot, Propos de Georges Sorel recueillis par Jean Variot, 4th ed. (Paris, 1935), pp. 81-86. 24. Georges Sorel, Réflexions sur la violence, 3d ed. (Paris, 1912), p. 238. The work was first published in 1906 as a series of articles. 25. Sorel, Matériaux d’une théorie du prolétariat, 3d ed. (Paris, 1929), p. 170.

| 26. Ibid., p. 98.

27. See Sorel, La Ruine du monde antique, 3d ed. (Paris, 1933). 28. Sorel, Matériaux d’une théorie du proleétariat, p. 162.

29. See Sorel, De lutilité du pragmatisme, 2d ed. (Paris, 1928). 30. Sorel, The Illusions of Progress, trans. John and Charlotte Stanley (Berkeley, 1969; Ist ed., 1908), p. 207.

32. Utopia Victoriana 1. V. I. Lenin, Collected Works, XX XVIII (Moscow, 1961), 503-559. 2. Edward Bellamy, Looking Backward, 2000-1887 (Boston, 1888), p. 438. Other relevant works by Bellamy are The Duke of Stockbridge: A Romance of Shays’ Rebellion (New York, 1900); Equality (New York, 1897), a sequel to Looking Backward; Plutocracy or Nationalism—Which?, address at Tremont Temple, May 31, 1889 (Boston, 1889); The Programme of the Nationalists (New York, 1894). On Bellamy see Sylvia Edmonia Bowman et al., Edward Bellamy Abroad: An American Prophet's Influence (New York, 1962); Sylvia Edmonia Bowman, The Year 2000: A Critical Biography of Edward Bellamy (New York, 1958). 3. Bellamy, Looking Backward (1888), p. 438. 4. Bellamy, Looking Backward (New York, New American Library, 1960), p. 222. Subsequent quotations are from the 1960 edition. 5. Notebooks of Edward Bellamy, Houghton Library, Harvard University, Cam-

bridge, Mass.

866 NOTES TO PAGES 763-777 6. Bellamy, Looking Backward, p. 95. — ,

8. Ibid., Ibid.,p.p.toin. 97. || , , y. 10. [bid., p. 172. , 7. Ibid., p. 94.

11. Ibid., [bid., p. pp.100. 174-175. 12. ,,

13. Ibid., p. 99. ,

14. Ibid., p. 100. 15. Ibid., p. 165. 16. Theodor Hertzka, Freeland: A Social Anticipation, trans. Arthur Ransom (London, 1891), pref., p. vii; a translation of Freiland: Ein sociales Zukunftsbild (1890). Also by Hertzka are Die Gesetze der sozialen Entwickelung (Leipzig, 1886); and Eine Reise nach

Freiland (Leipzig, 1893), a sequel to Freiland. ,

18. [bid. | 19. Ibid., 17. Hertzka, Freeland, pref., p. xx1.

20. Ibid., p. 11. 21. Ibid., p. 30.

p. 95.

22. Ibid., p. 190.

23. Ibid., p. 202. 24. [bid., p. 190. 25. Ibid., p. 202.

26. Ibid., p. 203. , | |

27. William Morris, News from Nowhere; or An Epoch of Rest, Being Some Chapters from a Utopian Romance (London, 1891), p. 128. The work was first serialized in the Commortweal in 1890. For other works by Morris see The Collected Works, with intro. by his

daughter May Morris, 24 vols. (London, 1910-1915); Atalanta’s Race, and Other Tales from The Earthly Paradise, ed. O. F. Adams (Boston, 1888); Chants for Socialists (London, 1885); Communism: A Lecture by William Morris, Fabian Tract no, 113 (London, 1903); The Earthly Paradise: A Poem, 4 vols. (Boston, 1869-1871); Gothic Architecture: A Lecture for the Arts and Crafts Exhibition Society (Hammersmith, 1893); Political Writing, ed. with intro. by L. Morton (London, 1973); Peter Faulkner, comp., William Morris: The Critical Heritage (London, 1973). On William Morris see R. Page Arnot, William Morris: The man

. and the Myth, Including Letters of William Morris to J. L. Mahon and Dr. John Glasse (Lon- , don, 1964); Philip Henderson, William Morris: His Life, Work and Friends (London, 1967); James W. Hulse, Revolutions in London: A Study of Five Unorthodox Socialists (Oxford, 1970); P. Meier, La Pensée utopique de William Morris (Paris, 1972). 28. Morris, News from Nowhere, p. 40.

29. Ibid., p. 127. , , 30. Ibid., p. 79.

| 1972).

31. Ibid., p. 127. ,

32. On Hudson, see John Towner Frederick, William Henry Hudson (New York,

33. Morris, News from Nowhere, p. 79.

33. Darwinism, the Ambiguous Intruder 1. Edward Bulwer-Lytton (Edward George Earle Lytton, First Baron Lytton), The

Coming Race (New York, 1873), pp. 62-63.

(London, 1930), p. 36.

2. William Olaf Stapledon, Last and First Men: A Story of the Near and Far Future

3. Bulwer-Lytton, The Coming Race, p. 141. ,

NOTES TO PAGES 779-805 867 4. Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, The Phenomenon of Man, trans. from the French, Le Phénoméne humain, by Bernard Wall (New York, Harper and Row, 1959), p. 265. 5. J. B. S. Haldane, Everything Has a History (London, Allen and Unwin, 1951), p.

I, 20.

288.

6. Julian S. Huxley, “The Emergence of Darwinism,” in Sol Tax, ed., The Evo-

lution of Man: Mind, Culture and Society (Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1960),

7. Huxley, The Uniqueness of Man (London, Chatto and Windus, 1941), p. 32.

, 8. Hermann J. Muller, ““The Guidance of Human Evolution,” in Sol Tax, ed., The Evolution of Man, Il, 456. g. J. D. Bernal, The World, the Flesh and the Devil: An Enquiry into the Future of the Three Enemies of the Rational Soul (London, K. Paul, Trench, Trubner, 1929), p. 22.

10. Ibid., p. 33. 11. Ibid., p. 37. 12, Freeman J. Dyson, Third J. D. Bernal Lecture (London, Birkbeck College,

1972), p. 6. , , 13. Ibid. 14. Ibid., p. 9. 15. Ibid., p. 11.

34, Freudo-Marxism, a Hybrid for the Times 1. Sigmund Freud, Civilization and Its Discontents, trans. from the German by James Strachey (New York, 1962), pp. 60-61. 2. Wilhelm Reich, ‘‘Dialektischer Materialismus und Psychoanalyse,” in Unter dem Banner des Marxismus (Berlin, 1929), p. 144. Reich insisted that the society was sick as well as unjust, and his utopian mechanisms included proposals for the foundation of an international sexual-political organization. The purpose of his Sexualpolitik was not therapeutic in the sense of individual analysis. See his Massenpsychologie des Faschismus: Zur Sexualokonomie der politischen Reaktion und zur proletarischen Sexualpolitik (Berlin, 1933), p. 251.

3. Erich Fromm, Beyond the Chains of Illusion (New York, Simon and Schuster, 1962), p. 53.

4. Fromm, Man for Himself: An Inquiry into the Psychology of Ethics (New York, Rinehart, 1947), p. 363.

5s. Norman O. Brown, Life against Death (New York, Vintage Books, 1959), p. 140.

6. Ibid., p. 308. 7. Herbert Marcuse, Eros and Civilization: A Philosophical Inquiry into Freud (New York, Vintage Books, 1961), p. 40. 8. Ibid., pp. ix, 204-205. 9. Marcuse, Das Ende der Utopie (Berlin, 1967), trans. and pub. in Five Lectures: Psychoanalysis, Politics, and Utopia (Boston, Beacon Press, 1970), p. 73.

Epilogue. The Utopian Prospect

, 1. Jerome M, Gilison, The Soviet Image of Utopia (Balitmore, The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1975), pp. 1-2, 61. 2. Ibid., p. 4. 3. Ibid., p. 7. 4. Mao Tsetung, Poems (Peking, Foreign Languages Press, 1976), pp. 50, §2. 5. Centre d’etudes socialistes, Paris, Cahiers 91-93: Conseils ouvriers et utopie socialiste (Paris, 1969), p. 14.

868 NOTES TO PAGES 805-813 6. Julien Besancon, ed., Les Murs ont la parole: Journal mural, mai 68 (Paris, 1968), pp. 14, 15, 25, 33, 34, 54, 174. See also Daniel and Gabriel Cohn-Bendit, Obsolete Communism: The Left-Wing Alternative, trans. A. Pomerans (New York, 1968). 7. Ernst Bloch, Widerstand und Friede: Aufsatze zur Politik (Frankfort, 1968), p. 100. 8. Arno Munster, ed., Tagtraume vom aufrechten Gang: 6 Interviews mit Ernst Bloch (Frankfort, 1977), p. 118. 9. Georg Picht, Mut zur Utopie: Die grossen Zukunftsaufgaben (Munich, 1969). 10. Richard Fairfield, comp., Utopia USA (San Francisco, Alternatives Foundation, _

1972), p. 3. |

11. Theodore Roszak, The Making of a Counter Culture (Garden City, N.Y., Double-

day, 1969, p. 235. ,

12. B. F. Skinner, Walden Two (New York, Macmillan, 1962; 1st ed., 1948), p. 80. 13. B. F. Skinner, Beyond Freedom and Dignity (New York, Bantam Books, 1972; Ist ed., 1971), p. 169.

14. Paul Tillich, “Critique and Justification of Utopia,” in Utopia and Utopian |

Thought, ed. Frank E. Manuel (Boston, Houghton Mifflin, 1966), p. 308. oe 15. Hans-Joachim Gerhard, Utopie als innergeschichtlicher Aspekt der Eschatologie (Gutersloh, 1973).

16. Stanislaw Lem, The Futurological Congress, trans. Michael Kandel (New York, ,

Seabury Press, 1974; Ist ed., 1971), p. 130. - , 17. Gerard K. O’Neill, The High Frontier: Human Colonies in Space (New York,

Morrow, 1977), pp. 198—199. 18. George R. Collins, Visionary Drawings of Architecture and Planning: Twentieth

Century through the 1960s (Cambridge, Mass., MIT Press, 1979). ,

Selected Bibliography

This bibliography is intended to cover general studies on utopias and utopian thought, works treating significant historical segments of the subject, bibliographies of utopias and related subjects, and important anthologies. Ackermann, Elfriede N. Das Schlaraffenland in German Literature and Folksong. Chicago, 1944.

Ahlefeld, Henricus ab. Disputatio Philosophica de Fictis Rebus Publicis. Cologne, 1704. Armytage, Walter Harry Green. Heavens Below: Utopian Experiments in England, 1560— 1960. London, 1961.

Atkinson, Geoffroy. The Extraordinary Voyage in French Literature before 1700. New York, 1920.

Paris, 1927. ,

———— The Extraordinary Voyage in French Literature from 1700 to 1720. New York, 1922. ——— La Littévature géographique francaise de la renaissance: Répertoire bibliographique. ———- Les Relations de voyages du XVII® siecle et lV’évolution des idées. Paris, 1924.

(1971), 355-386. ,

Baczko, Bronislaw. ‘“Lumieéres et utopie.”” Annales, Economies, Sociétés, Civilisations, 26 Bailey, James Osler. Pilgrims through Space and Time: Trends and Patterns in Scientific and

Utopian Fiction. New York, 1947. |

Baldissera, A. “Il concetto di utopia: problemi e contraddizioni.” In Concezione e previsione del futuro, ed. Gianni Giannotti. Bologna, 1971. Baldry, H. C. Ancient Utopias: An Inaugural Lecture Delivered at the University on 28 November, 1955, Southampton, 1956. Balmas, Enea Henri. “Cité idéale; utopie et progrés dans la pensée francaise de la Renaissance.”’ Travaux de linguistique et de littérature, 12 (1975), 47-57. Baudet, Henri. Paradise on Earth: Some Thoughts on European Images of Non-European Man.

Trans. Elizabeth Wentholt. New Haven, 196s. Bauer, Hermann. Kunst und Utopie. Berlin, 1965. Bauer, Wolfgang. China and the Search for Happiness. Trans. Michael Shaw. New York, 19706.

, Bergmann, Uwe, Rudi Dutschke, Wolfgang Lefevre, and Berndt Rabehl. Rebellion der Studenten, oder, die neue Opposition. Reinbek bei Hamburg, 1968. Berneri, Marie Louise. Journey through Utopia. London, 1950. Bestor, Arthur Eugene. Backwoods Utopias: The Sectarian and Owenite Phases of Communi-

tarian Socialism in America, 1663-1829. Philadelphia, 1950. : Bettini, Leonardo. Bibliografia dell’anarchismo. 2 vols. Florence, 1976. Biesterfeld, Wolfgang. Die literarische Utopie. Stuttgart, 1974. Bingenheimer, Heinz. Katalog der deutschsprachigen utopisch-phantastischen Literatur, 1460—-

1960. Friedrichsdorf, 1959-1960. Bleiler, Everett F. The Checklist of Fantastic Literature: A Bibliography of Fantasy, Weird, and Science-Fiction Books Published in the English Language. Chicago, 1948. Bleymehl, Jakob. Beitrdage zur Geschichte und Bibliographie der utopischen und phantastischen

Literatur, Furth, 1965. Bloch, Ernst. “Dargestellte Wunschlandschaft in Malerei, Oper, Dichtung.” Sinn und

Form, § (1949). 869

870 SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY ———- Freiheit und Ordnung: Abriss der Sozial-Utopien. New York, 1946.

——— Geist der Utopie. Munich and Leipzig, 1918. —————— Philosophische Grundfragen zur Ontologie des Noch-Nicht-Seins: Ein Vortrag und

zwei Abhandlungen. Frankfort, 1961. , ————- A Philosophy of the Future. Trans. John Cumming. New York, 1970.

————- Das Prinzip Hoffnung. 3 vols. Frankfort, 1959. , , Bloomfield, Paul. Imaginary Worlds, or, The Evolution of Utopia. London, 1932. , Bougleé, Célestin Charles Alfred. Les Idées égalitaires: Etude sociologique. Paris, 1899.

Bowman, Frank-Paul. “Religion, Révolution, Utopie: Etude des éléments religieux dans les projets d’utopie d’avant et aprés 1789.” In Le Préromantisme: Hypothéque ou

hypothése? pp. 424-442. Colloque organisé 4 Clermont-Ferrand les 29 et 30 juin 1972 par le Centre de Recherches Révolutionnaires et Romantiques de |’Université. , Paris, 1975.

Buber, Martin. Paths in Utopia. Trans. R. F. C. Hull. London, 1949. |

! Cattarinussi, Bernardo. Utopia e Societa. Milan, 1976. | ,

76-102. : |

Cesarini, Gianfranco. “Pensiero utopico e conflitto sociale.”’ In Studi e ricerche di sociolo-

gia, ed. Alberto L’Abate. Pistoia, 1973. |

Chesneaux, Jean. “Egalitarian and Utopian Traditions in the East.”’ Diogenes, 62 (1968), Chinard, Gilbert. L’Ameérique et le réve exotique dans la littérature francaise au XVII® et au

XVIII® siecle. Paris, 1913. | , —— L’Exotisme americain dans la littérature francaise au 16° siecle. Paris, 1911.

Choay, Francoise, ed. L’Urbanisme: Utopies et réalités; une anthologie. Paris, 1965.

(1971), 85-121. |

Cioranescu, Alexandre. ‘Utopia: Land of Cocaigne and Golden Age.” Diogenes, 75 Clarke, Ignatius Frederick. The Tale of the Future, from the Beginning to the Present Day: ACheck-list of Those Satires, Ideal States, Imaginary Wars and Invasions . . . All Located in an Imaginary Future Period, That Have Been Published in the United Kingdom between

1644 and 1960. London, 1961. , ,

Cohn, Norman. The Pursuit of the Millennium. 2d ed. New York, 1961.

Corrodi, Heinrich. Kritische Geschichte des Chiliasmus, oder, Der Meynungen tiber das tausendjahrige Reich Christi. 3 vols. Zurich, 1781-1783. Croce, Benedetto. “‘L’utopia della forma sociale perfetta.” Quaderni della Critica, vol. 6,

no. 16 (1950), pp. 21-26. |

Curcio, Carlo. Utopisti italiani del cinquecento. Rome, 1944. , Davenport, Basil, Robert A. Heinlein, C. M. Kornbluth, Alfred Bester, and Robert Bloch. The Science Fiction Novel: Imagination and Social Criticism. Chicago, 1959. De Mattei, R. ‘‘Contenuto ed origini dell’utopia cittadina nel seicento.”’ Rivista interna-

zionale di filosofia del diritto, 9 (1929), 414-425. Dermenghem, Emile. Thomas Morus et les utopistes de la renaissance. Paris, 1927.

(1970), 323-336. , Oo

, Devine, Francis E. ‘‘Stoicism on the Best Regime.” Journal of the History of Ideas, 31 Donner, Henry Wolfgang. Introduction to Utopia. London, 1945. |

Doren, Alfred Jakob. Wunschraume und Wunschzeiten. Leipzig, 1927. Dubois, Claude Gilbert. “‘De la premiére ‘Utopie’ a la premiére utopie francaise: Biblio_ graphie et réflexions sur la création utopique au XVI* siécle.” Répertoire analytique de

April 1970), pp. 7-25. ,

littérature francaise, vol. 1, no. 1 (January-February 1970), pp. 11-32, no. 2 (MarchDubos, René Jules. The Dreams of Reason: Science and Utopias. New York, 1961. Dupont, Victor. L’Utopie et le roman utopique dans la littérature anglaise. Paris, 1941. Duric, Mihailo. “Die Doppelsinnigkeit der Utopie.”’ Praxis (Zagreb), 8th year, nos. 1-2 (1972), pp. 27-38. Duveau, Georges. Sociologie de l’utopie et autres “essais”: Ouvrage posthume. Paris, 1961.

SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY 871 Eimer, Gerhard. Die Stadtplanung im schwedischen Ostseereich, 1660-1715: Mit Beitragen zur Geschichte der Idealstadt. Stockholm, 1961. Elliott, Robert C. The Shape of Utopia: Studies in a Literary Genre. Chicago, 1970.

Engelhardt, Werner Wilhelm. “Utopien also Problem der Sozial- und wirtschaftswissenschaften.” Zeitschrift fur die gesamte Staatswissenschaft, 4 (1969), 661-676. Engels, Friedrich. Die Entwicklung des Sozialismus von der Utopie zur Wissenschaft. Hottin-

gen-Zlirich, 1882; 6th ed., Berlin, 1955. Erasmus, Charles J. In Search of the Common Good: Utopian Experiments Past and Future.

New York, 1977. Eurich, Nell. Science in Utopia. Cambridge, Mass., 1967. Falke, Rita. ““Utopie und chimeére.” Germanisch-Romanische Monatsschrift, n.s., 6 (1956),

76-81.

———— “Versuch einer Bibliographie der Utopien.” Romanistisches Jahrbuch, 6 (19531954), 92-109. Ferguson, John. Utopias of the Classical World. Ithaca, 1975. Finley, M. I. “Utopianism Ancient and Modern.” In Critical Spirit: Essays in Honor of Herbert Marcuse, ed. Kurt H. Wolff and Barrington Moore. Boston, 1967. Firpo, Luigi. “Il pensiero politico del Renascimento e della Controriforma.” In Ques-

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Blank Page

Index Abraham, 41, 56, 305, 451 | Ancona, Alessandro d’, 833

Adam, C. E., 829, 832, 835, 838 Andreae, Hermann Viktor, 836 Adami, Tobias, 279, 291, 296, 297, 832, Andreae, Jakob, 289

833, 834 Andreae, Johann, 289

Adams, John, 425, 455 Andreae, Johann Valentin, 3, 7, 13, Adams, Oscar Fay, 866 I12, 202, 206, 207, 209, 212, 213,

Adheémar, Jean, 846 214, 215, 216-217, 219, 259, 272,

Aelian (Aelianus), Claudius, 84, 85, 2°73, 283, 288, 289-308, 309, 313,

820, 821 314, 316, 317, 319, 320, 393, 396,

Africa, T. W., 819, 822 401, 431, 432, 442, 826, 835-837, Agis IV, King of Sparta, 119, 822 839, 840, 844

Agostini, Ludovico, 152, 167, 171, 172, Anghiera, Pietro Martire d’, 61, 819 173, 174-175, 178, 179, 274, 825, 827 Anne Boleyn, second queen of Henry

Agricola, Georg, 185 VIII, 118, 143

Agricola, Rudolf, 102 Antonius Diogenes, 83, 90-91, 821

Ahlefeld, Henricus ab, 10, 817 Antony of Bergen, Abbot of Saint Ailly, Cardinal Pierre d’, 60, 61, 819 Bertin, 133 }

Aimée-Martin, M., 844 Apollonius Rhodius, 85 Albergati, Fabio, 153 , Apostolios, Michael, 107

Alberti, Leone Battista, 17, 24, 88, 155— Apuleius Madaurensis, Lucius, 185

156, 157, 158-159, 161, 164, 166, Aquilecchia, Giovanni, 829 168, 169, 171, 172, 173-174, 175; Arago, Dominique Francois Jean, 487,

274, 812, 826, 827 491, 850, 855

Alberti, Lorenzo, 174 Aratus of Soli, 73, 131, 820

Alembert, Jean le Rond d’, 419, 427, Arbaces, 286

450, 487, 495, 560, 563, 845 Arcari, Paola Maria, 825 Alexander III of Macedonia (the Archer, Henry, 358, 843 Great), 16, 21, 37, 65, 81, 82, 83, 84, Archimedes, 272 88, 89, OI, 152, 162, 166, 249, 272, Ardouin, A., 594

401, 783 , Aristonicus, 66, 819

Alexarchus, 65, 88 Aristophanes, 6, 16, 64, 66, 79, 93, 99—

Alfred the Great, King of England, 340 102, 104, 119, 128, 134, 162, 194,

Allemagne, Henry-René d’, 857, 858 $44, 822

Allen, Don Cameron, 823 Aristotle, 4, 10, 12, 16, 29, 50, 61, 64,

Allen, H. M., 822 66, 72, 82, 89, 93, 96, 97, 100, 104,

Allen, P. S., 822 10§, 106, 107-108, 109-110, 118,

Alsted, Johann Heinrich, 207, 209, 212, 121, 128, 1§2, 1$3, 162, 166, 173,

243, 425 179, 206, 208, 222, 224, 225, 232,

Althaus, Friedrich, 839 234, 238, 247, 249, 250, 261, 262,

Amabile, Luigi, 268, 831, 832 263, 265, 275, 277, 278, 281, 282, Amerio, Romano, 832, 833, 834 286, 291, 337, 338, 352, 354, 401, Ames, Russell Abbot, 145, 825 438, 447, 455, 691, 771, 783, 817, 826 Ammannati, Bartolomeo, 180 Arlés-Dufour, Francois Barthélemy,

Amometus, 83 615, 639 Amos, 191, 265 Arnaud, Pierre, 863

Amsdorf, Nikolaus von, 194, 828 Arnauld, Antoine, 845

Amyot, Jacques, Bishop of Auxerre, 95 Arndt, Johann, 300

Anacreon, 385, 428, 709 | Arnold, Paul, 835

Anaxagoras, 249 Arnot, Robert Page, 866

877 :

878 INDEX Artus, Thomas, Sieur d’Embry, $42 Barbés, Armand, 722

Arvin, Newton, 860 Barbier, Antoine Alexandre, 850 Aspinwall, William, 360 Barker, Ernest, 817, 826

Arvon, Henri, 864 Barclay, John, 392

Assézat, Jules, 846 Bar Kochba, 39

Athenaeus, 78—79, 90, 820, 821. Barnet, John, 645 , Attila, 665 Barraclough, June, 850 , Aubrey, John, 245 _ Barras, Viscount Paul Frangois Jean

166 415 ,

Augustus, Duke of Brunswick-Lune- Nicolas de, 590, 591

burg, 298, 299, 837 ~ Barrault, Emile, 615, 629

Augustus, Emperor of Rome, 66, 163, Barre, Jean-Francois, Chevalier de la,

Aurispa, Giovanni, 78, 102 Barroux, Marius, 851 Austin, Mme. John, 721, 864 Barthes, Roland, 118, 859

Avakumovic, Ivan, 864 Bartoli, Cosimo, 826 Averlino, Antonio, see Filarete Battaglino, Giulio, 831 : Averroes, 105, 106 Baudeau, Abbé Nicolas, 463

Aveling, Eleanor (nee Marx), 708 Baruzi, Jean, 845

Avilés Fernandez, Miguel, 817 Baudelaire, Charles Pierre, 62

Avrich, Paul, 864 , Bauer, Bruno, 702, 705

AZo, 394 454

Azevedo Sampaio, Antonio Gomes d’, Bauer, Hermann, 827 ,

864 Bayle, Pierre, 234, 320, 367, 379, 413,

Bazard, Saint-Amand, 615 }

Babeuf, Claude, 568 Beauvillier, see Saint-Aignan Babeuf, Emile, 568 Beauvoir, Simone de, 540, 853

Babeuf, Gracchus (Francois Noél), 8, Beccaria, Cesare Bonesana, Marchese 27, $0, 66, 377, 414, 422, 431, 432, di, 234, 420, 478, 528, 627, 634 440, 448, 449, 450, $35, $56, 557, Beck, Lewis White, 853 $62, $63, $64, 566, $67, $68—$77, Bede, the Venerable, Saint, 61 666, 687, 699, 700, 71$, 742, 805, 854 Beecher, Jonathan, 860

Bachelin, Henri, 853 , Beeckman, Isaac, 829, 835

Bacon, Lady Anne (nee Cooke), 244, Beesly, Edward Spencer, 698, 724

245 Beethoven, Ludwig van, 625

Bacon, Anthony, 244, 245, 246, 248, Bell, Richard, 820 ,

256 Bellamy, Edward, 7, 13, 20, 26, $67,

Bacon, Francis, First Baron Verulam, 687, 688, 759-760, 761-764, 767,

Viscount St. Albans, 2, 7, 8, 13, 26, 769, 770, 771, 802, 865, 866 ,

29, 49, ITI, 112, 113, 129, 202, 206— Bellarmine, Roberto, Cardinal, 151, 242 217 passim, 219, 220, 224, 230, 243- Bellini, A., 825

260, 261, 262, 267, 272, 273, 275, Bentham, Jeremy, 391, 705, 844 290, 291, 300, 301, 302, 303, 304, Berdyaev, Nicolas, 810 313, 317, 321, 324, 325, 328, 329, Bergmann, Joseph von, 845 337) 352, 367, 370, 375, 376, 393; Bergson, Henri Louis, 747 396, 397; 398, 400, 401, 413, 414, a Berillo (Berillari), Basilio, 269, 833

422, 428, 431, 432, 439, 455, 406, Berington, Simon, 433 492, 493, 503, $06, $07, 558, 766, Bernal, John Desmond, 6, 20, 28, 782-

782, 783, 810, 829, 830-831, 844 787, 801, 810, 811-812, 867 Bacon, Sir Nicholas, 243, 244, 245, 246 Bernini, Gianlorenzo, 155, 826

Bacon, Roger, 466 Bernstein, Eduard, 753° ,

Badaloni, Nicola, 833 Berry, Charles Ferdinand, Duke de, —

Baillet, Adrien, 290, 835 594

Bailly, Dr. Etienne Marin, 594 | Berti, Domenico, 829, 830. Baker, Keith Michael, 850 _ Bérulle, Cardinal Pierre de, 219

Bakunin, Mikhail Aleksandrovich, 702, Besancon, Julien, 868 | 715, 737, 738, 739, 741, 746, 749, Besold, Christoph, 207, 212, 283, 290, __

. 805, 864, 865 296, 834, 836

Ball, John, 181 Bessarion, Joannes, Cardinal, 78, 90,

Ballanche, Pierre Simon, 18, 628 105, 106-108 , ,

Balzac, Honoré de, 620, 633, 655 Besterman, Theodore, 846 ,

INDEX 879 Beverland, Adriaan, 44, 818 Brauer, Heinrich, 826

Bevilaqua, Clovis, 864 | Braunert, H., 821

Bichat, Marie Francois Xavier, 598, Brentano, Lujo, 698 $99, 601, 603, 605, 624, 632, 855 Breton, André, 649

Bienvenu, Richard, 860 Bretschneider, C. G., 828 Billington, James H., 864 Breughel, Pieter, the Elder, 81

Bion, 65 Brezhnev, Leonid L, 804 Bittner, K., 845 Bricaire de La Dixmerie, Nicolas, 433

Blackburn, Elizabeth B., 822 Bridges, Dr. John Henry, 721

719 Brill, A. A., 824

Blainville, Henri Marie Ducrotay de, Brie (Brixius), Germain de, 1

Blake, William, 797 Brillat-Savarin, Anthelme, 657

Blanc, Louis, 712, 742, 863, 865 Brinckman, Benjamin, 825 Blanqui, Jéro6me Adolphe, 7o1 Brinton, Selwyn J. C., 826 Blanqui, Louis Auguste, 563, 700, 701, Brisbane, Albert, 649

72.2 Brissot de Warville, Jacques Pierre, 556 Blitzer, Charles, 843 © 224 Blekastad, Milada, 838 Brooke, Fulke Greville, First Baron,

Bloch, Ernst, 11, 805-806, 810, 868 Broussais, Dr. Frangois Joseph Victor,

Blossius, Gaius, 66, 819 720, 731

Bo, Giuseppe del, 859 Brown, Norman Oliver, 7, 708, 793,

Boas, George, 821 794, 867 Bobbio, Norberto, 833 Bruckner, Pascal, 859

Boccalini, Traiano, 151, 152, 292, 293 Bruni Aretino, Leonardo, 104, 105,

Bock, Gisela, 832 1§3, 166, 822

Bodin, Jean, 159 Bruno, Fraulissa, 222

Boehme, Jacob, 296, 352 Bruno, Giordano, 179, 206, 207, 208, Boineburg, Johann Christian von, 392 209, 211, 212, 213, 214, 217, 222Boisguilbert, Pierre Le Pesant, Sieur de, 242, 247, 250, 252, 262, 264, 267,

386 268, 274, 280, 288, 291, 293, 297,

Boisson, Marius, 853 sO 305, 313, 380, 393, 413, 432, 780,

Bompaire, J., 822 829, 830, 832, 844

Bonald, Louis Gabriel Ambroise, Vis- Buber, Martin, 11, 539 count de, 18, 491, 601, 603, 628 Buchez, Philippe Joseph Benjamin, 849

Bonner, Campbell, 820 Buckingham, see Villiers Bonucci, Anicio, 826 Budé, Guillaume, 1, 131-132, 823 Bonvisi, Antonio, see Buonvisi Bucking, Jurgen, 827

Bossuet, Jacques Bénigne, Bishop of Buttner, Theodora, 828 Meaux, 380, 382, 384-385, 406, 479 Buffon, Georges Louis Leclerc, Count

Boswell, James, 438, 846 , de, 454, 487

Botero, Giovanni, 167 Bulwer-Lytton, Edward, 257, 775-776,

Bottigelli, Emile, 863 , 7797, 866

Bougainville, Count Louis Antoine de, Buonarroti, Philippe (Filippo Michele),

22, 427-428, $35—536, 846 $57, 573, 574, 575; $76, $77, 699,

Bouglé, Célestin Charles Alfred, 857, 700, 715, 854, 855

858, 859, 863, 865 , Buonvisi, Antonio, 131, 150, 823

Boulanger, Nicolas Antoine, 72, 415, Burdin, Dr. Jean, $97, 726

454, 457, §10 Burghley, William Cecil, First Baron,

Boullée, Etienne Louis, 154, 812 . 211, 245, 246, 248, 252, 831

Bourgin, Hubert, 858 Burgundy, Louis, Duke of, see Louis Bouvard, Alexis, 596 Burke, Edmund, I71, 457, 491, 603, Bowman, Sylvia Edmonia, 865 | 651, 662, 813

Bowring, Sir John, 844 Burnet(t), Thomas, of Kenny, 454, 845

Boyle, Robert, 209, 308, 319, 321, 322, Burns, Robert, 678

837 ; Burton, Robert, 219, 300

Bracke, Wilhelm, 687, 698 Bury, R. G., 817, 820, 822 Bradner, Leicester, 822 : Busleyden, Jerome de, 120, 131, 823

Brailsford, Henry Noel, 336, 842 Butt, John, 861

Brandt, Otto H., 828 Byron, Geerge Gordon Noel Byron,

Braude, W. G., 818 Sixth Baron, 678

880 INDEX |

Cabanés, Augustin, 850 Chambers, Raymond Wilson, 145 |

Cabanis, Pierre Jean Georges, 489, 490, Champgrand, Alexandrine Sophie |

$02, $96, 598, 601, 604, 851 Goury de, 592 |

Cabarrtis, Francisco, Count de, 590 Chardin, Jean, 371, 376, 378

Cabet, Etienne, 13, 376, 702, 705, 712, Charlemagne, 59, $83, 593, 640

742, 7§9, 760, 767 Charles, R. H., 818

Caesar, Caius Julius, 272 Charles I, King of Great Britain, 358,

Cahen, Léon, 852 363, 369, 462

Caligula, Emperor of Rome, 86 Charléty, Sébastien Camille Gustave,

Callen, Bernard de, 323 857, 858 Callimachus, 88, 821 Charton, Edouard, 616, 857

Calvert, Giles, 333, 349, 352, 357 Chateaubriand, Francois-René, Vis-

Calvin, Jean, 227, 294, 295, 317 count de, 611, 612. 625, 851 Camerarius, Joachim, 199 | _ Chernyshevskii, Nikolai Gavrilovich,

Cammarota, Pasquale, 838 13, 20, 759

Campanella, Tommaso (Giandomen- Chevalier, Michel, 615, 623, 638, 639,

icO), 2, 3, 7, 8, 13, 18, 23, 33, 48, 49, 858 | $9, 9$, III, 112, 113, 179, 202, 206— Childs, James Rives, 853 ,

220 passim, 222, 227, 230, 233, 241, Chilmead, Edmund, 834 242, 243, 250, 252, 259, 261-288, Choppin, René, 148, 825 290, 291, 296-297, 299, 300, 301, Chrysippus, the Stoic, 415 302, 307, 308, 311, 313, 315, 316, Chrysoloras, Manuel, 104, 105 317, 352, 367, 370, 371, 376, 380, Churchill, Thomas, 850 387, 393, 396, 401, 413, 431, 432, Cicero, Marcus Tullius, 16, 66, 73, 164, 439, 557, 562, 742, 829, 830, 831-835 179, 241

Campbell, Leroy A., 818 Cideville, Pierre Robert Le Cornier de,

Camus, Albert, 540, 748 846 Canne, John, 360 Clark, John P., 864

Capp, Bernard S., 842, 843 Clarkson (Claxton), Laurence

, Cardano, Girolamo, 152, 825 (Lawrence), 356, 842 Carlyle, Thomas, 622 Oe Claudius, Emperor of Rome, 86 Carneiro, Paulo Estevao de Berrédo, Clement VIII, Pope, 237

863 Clement of Alexandria, 84, 88

Caro, Elme Marie, 864 | Clements (Clement), John, M.D., 141 Carr, Edward Hallett, 864 Clements, Margaret, 141

| | Carr, Herbert Wildon, 844 Cleomenes III, King of Sparta, 65, 822

Carter, Jimmy, 806 Cleveland, Grover, 762

Casanova de Seingalt, Giacomo Giro- Cobden, Richard, 638 ,

lamo, 431 Cochlaus, Johannes, 199 ,

_ Casas, Bartolomé de las, Bishop of Cohn, Norman, 842 | |

Chiapa, 61 Cohn-Bendit, Daniel, 868

, Cassander, King of Macedon, 65, 88 Cohn-Bendit, Gabriel, 868 _

Cassarino, Antonio, 105 Colbert, Jean-Baptiste, 373, 386, 387,

Cassirer, Ernst, 829, 853 391, 434, 435 ,

Castelnau, Michel de, 224, 225 Colbert, Jean-Baptiste, Marquis de Castiglione, Count Baldassare, 171 Seignelai, 843

Catherine I], Empress of Russia, 416, Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 736, 864

420, 421, $24, 674, 846 Colet, John, 117, 119, 123, 124, 129,

~ Catherine of Aragon, first queen of 132, 822 , Henry VIII, 118 Colie, R. L., 831

Cato the Censor, 292 Collignon, Claude-Boniface, 570 , Caus, Solomon de, 831 Collins, George R., 868

Cazes, Bernard, 848 | | Colson, F. H., 818

Ceba, Nicolaus, 822 Columbus, Christopher, 60-61, 269,

, Celsus, 46, 818 278, 583, 649, 659, 819 Cento, Alberto, 851 Comenius, Johann Amos (Komenskij, , , Cervantes Saavedra, Miguel de, 2, 218, Jan Amos), 3, 13, 25, 26, 112, 206—

390, 747 220 passim, 260, 288, 290, 291, 297,

Chadourne, Marc, 853 298, 305, 306, 3090-321, 323-330 pasChamberlen, Peter, 3, 360, 843 SIM, 375, 392, 396, 399, 402, 404,

INDEX | 881 Comenius (continued ) , Cyrus, 2, 17, 93 413, 425, 431, 432, 442-443, 558, 836, 837-840, 845

Comte, Caroline (nee Massin), 719, 721 Daire, Eugene, 847 Comte, Isidore Auguste Marie Frangois Dale, David, 677, 679 Xavier, 8, 20, $3, 63, 442, 463, 473; Dalin, Victor Moiseevich, 854

482, 483, 491, 492, 494, $04, $10, Dam, Pieter van, 370 594, 619, 624, 634, 650, 657, 717- Damilaville, Etienne Noel, 415, 846 734, 745, 760, 762, 771, 773, 785, Daniel, 44, $8, 71, 182, 187, 189, 194,

849, 855, 863-864 210, 270, 286, 358, 828

Condillac, Etienne Bonnot, Abbé de, Dante Alighieri, 34, 42, $7, 62, 285, 635

464, 473, 474, 505, 848, 849 Danton, Georges Jacques, 450 Condorcet, Marie Jean Antoine Nicolas Danvers, Henry, 360 de Caritat, Marquis de, 3, 7, 8, 13, Darthé, Augustin Alexandre, 573, 577 20, 241, 304, 326, 396, 397, 414, 415, Darwin, Charles Robert, 20, 21, 765,

425, 431, 432, 449, 455, 458, 459, 772, 773-787 passim 462, 463, 468, 469, 471, 476, 478, Daunou, Pierre Claude Francois, 850 A480, 482, 483, 484, 485, 486, 487— Dautry, Jean, 855 518, 521, $30, 595, 596, 597, 598, David, King of Israel, 38, 41, 298, 302,

601, 602, 606, 617, 622, 623, 624, 316, 356, 385, 388 625, 626, 628, 630, 650, 669, 717, Davies, Godfrey, 841 728, 729, 782, 783, 785, 848, 850— Davis, N. Z., 825

852, 855, 856 Deakins, Roger Lee, 825

Condorcet, Marie-Louise-Sophie (de De Beer, E. S.,, 839 Grouchy), Mme. de, 488-489, 490, De Brosses, Charles, 456, 473, 475, 725;

850 728, 849

Considérant, Victor, 643, 647, 859 Decembrio, Pier Candido, 104, 105

Constant, Benjamin, 540, $93 Decembrio, Umberto, 104, 105 Contarini, Cardinal Gaspar(o), 153, Defoe, Daniel, 433

362, 843 Degrassi, Livia Maltese, 826

Cook, Captain James, 22, 677 Delapalme, 636, 637

, Cooke, Sir Anthony, 244-245 Delaporte (a Saint-Simonian), 640

Coolidge, Calvin, 798 Delcourt, Joseph, 146

Copernicus, Nicolaus, 219, 235, 303, Delcourt, Marie, 146 314, 649 Delvaille, Jules, 849 Coppe, Abiezer, 334, 338, 357, 358, 842 Démar, Claire, 857

Corcelle, Francois Tircuy de, 648 Democritus, 249, 262, 264

Costa, Uriel da, 44 Demuth, Friedrich (Freddy), 708 Cottin, Guillaume, 228, 233 Demuth, Helene, 708

Couret de Villeneuve, Louis-Pierre, 570 Denne, Henry, 348, 842

Court de Gébelin, Antoine, 495 Deprun, Jean, 854

Courvoisier, Louise, 643 Dering, Sir Edward, 336 Cousin, Victor, 626 Deroisin, Hippolyte Philémon, 863 Cozza, Francesco, 832 Descartes, René, 207, 212, 213, 216, Craig, John, 453, 847 219, 267, 290, 307, 312, 467, 471,

Cranmer, Thomas, Archbishop of 481, $52, 597, 829, 832, 835, 838

Canterbury, 824 Deschamps, Léger Marie, 3, 419-420,

Crates, 80 440, 447, 448, 450, 556, 557, $58Cratinus, 80 §60, 561, 562, $63, 736, 854

Croesus, King of Lydia, 96 Desmarais, Jean Francois Séraphin, 131 Cromwell, Oliver, 209, 332, 334, 335, Desmarets (Maresius), Samuel, 838 340, 342, 343, 344, 349, 353, 354, Desroche, Henri, 858, 859

355, 358, 359, 363, 365, 369 Deville, Gabriel, 854

| Cromwell, Thomas, Earl of Essex, 244 Dicaearchus of Messana, 72—73

Crucé, Eméric, $9, 220, 392 Diderot, Denis, 26, 145, 146, 234, 413,

Cunégonde, 394 414, 415, 417-425, 428, 429, 432, Curcio, Carlo, 825, 827 450, 470, $23, $35, $40, $55, $59,

Cuvier, Baron Georges, 584 $60, $62, 563, 597, 612, 845, 846

Cyrano de Bergerac, Savinien, 22, 78, Diderot, Marie-Antoinette (nee Cham-

219, 392, 844 pion), 424, 846

, 882 INDEX |

Diels, H., 819 Edmonds, John Maxwell, 820

Dilthey, Wilhelm, 849 Edward IV, King of England, 123 Di Napoli, Giovanni, 268, 832 841, 842

Dilts, M. R., 820 Edwards, Thomas, 26, 334, 348, 356,

Dinocrates, 166 Ehrenberg, Victor, 822

Diodorus Siculus, 16, 23, 85, 86, 87, 88, Eichthal, Gustave d’, 615, 622, 718,

103, 108, 119, 162, 168, 821 856, 863 Dionysius I, of Syracuse, 112, 166, Einstein, Albert, 791 | Diogenes the Cynic, 8, 64, 737 Eimer, G., 827

332 Elagabalus, Emperor of Rome, 176

Dionysius Scytobrachion, 820 Eldad ha-Dani, 21

Dircks, Henry, 839 Elijah, 61, 183

Dohms, Hermann, 864 Elizabeth I, Queen of England, 2, 224, Dolléans, Edouard, 865 228, 243, 245, 246, 248, 249, 251,

Dommianget, Maurice, 854 254, 255

Donaldson, James, 818 | Elliger, Walter, 200, 828

Doni, Antonio Francesco, 108, 150— Elliott, J. H., 840 151, 1§2, 163, 167, 172, 175~177, Empedocles, 71, 72, 249, 264, 355, 788,

178, 234, 273, 274, 825, 827 819 Donne, John, 2, 817 Enfantin, Barthélemy Prosper, 589,

Donner, Henry Wolfgang, 146 613-623 passim, 636, 637-640, 648,

Dorp, Martin, 137 744, 855, 857, 858, 863 | Dorsch, T. S., 146 Engels, Friedrich, 10, 200, 201, 332,

Dostoevsky, Feodor Mikhailovich, 405, $56, 563, 678, 681, 693, 697— |

648 , 716, 717, 828, 862-863 404 Enoch, 44, 46, 61, 183

Drabik, Mikulas, 213, 216, 319, 320, Ennius, Quintus, 88 — Drebbel, Cornelis, 831 . Enzlin, Matthias, 295 |

Dreyfus, Alfred, 749 Epictetus, 791

Dubois, Pierre, 18, 59, 126, 392 Epicurus, 126, 129, 377, 378, 791, 823

, Dubois de Fosseux, Ferdinand, 569, Erasmus, Desiderius, 1, 18, 99, 100,

$70 102, 103, 108, 117, 119, 128-139

Du Camp, Maxime, 635, 858 passim, 142, 148, 149, 185, 211, 223,

Duclos, Jacques, 865 , 392, 822, 823 ,

Ducreux, Joseph, 485 | Eratosthenes, 88 :

Duhren, Eugen, $42 Ernst August, Elector of Hanover, 394, Duhring, Eugen Karl, 702, 703, 862 395 Dulmen, Richard, 837 Esquirol, Dr. Jean Etienne, 720 Durer, Albrecht, 164 Essex, Robert Devereux, Second Earl,

Duncker, L., 818 248, 249, 250, 251 ,

Dunoyer, Charles, 593, 598, 719 Etzler, John Adolphus, 80

Duns Scotus, Joannes, 61 Euclid, 272

Dupont, Victor, 14, 817 Eugene, Prince of Savoy (Francois Eu-

Dupont de Nemours, Pierre Samuel, géne de Savoie-Carignan), 393 462, 463, 482, 847, 849, 850 Euhemerus, 21, 83, 86, 87-90, 119, 158,

Dupont-Sommer, André, 818 168, 821 .

Dupuis, Charles Francois, 596, 609 Euler, Leonhard, 492 Du Quesne, Marquis Henri, 369 Eumenes II of Pergamum, 66

Durkheim, Emile, 729 Euripides, 102

Duroselle, F. B. , 858 Eusebius Pamphili, Bishop of Caesarea,

Dury, John, 207, 212, 313, 321, 322, 185 _ 323, 327, 329-330, 839, 840 Evelyn, John, 322, 331, 839

Dussard, Hippolyte, 847 , Eymericus, Nicolaus, 832

Duveau, Georges, 11, 817 Ezekiel, 61 Duveyrier, Charles, 615, 636 Ezra, 61

Dymock, Cressy, 330, 839, 840 | | 86’ Fackenheim, Emil L., 853 Dyson, Freeman J., 783, 785—787, 801,

Eberhard III, 300, 398 Fairclough, H. Rushton, 820

INDEX 883 Fairfax, Thomas, 3d Baron, 349 Franklin, Benjamin, 425, 485, $56

Fairfield, Richard, 868 Franz, Gunther, 827, 828

Farnell, Lewis Richard, 820 Franz Joseph I, Emperor of Austria, Farnese, Cardinal Odoardo, 832, 834 762 Farrington, Benjamin, 829, 830, 831 Frederick, John Towner, 866

Fatio de Duillier, Nicolas, 453 Frederick II, the Great, King of Prussia,

Faulkner, Peter, 866 A15$—416, 456, §24, 846 Faure, Edgar, 848 Frederick III, the Wise, Elector of Sax-

Fava, Gieronimo, 150 ony, 187, 189 Favre, Pierre, 853 Freedman, H., 818

Feake, Christopher, 360, 843 Freud, Sigmund, 7, 20, 21, 43, 62, 126,

Federigo, Count of Montefeltro, Duke 142, 3$1, 355, 417, 421, $23, $47,

of Urbino, 156, 826 $61, 604, 655, 660-661, 671, 674,

Fénelon, Francois de Salignac de la 675, 691, 754, 768, 772, 773, 783, Mothe, Archbishop, 7, 19, 218, 220, 785, 788-795, 817, 824, 867

381-386, 388—391, 414, 430, 431, Frick, C., 821 | 434, 438, 439, 566, $76, 843, 844 Frith, John, 137, 144

Ferdinand V, King of Spain, 61 Fritz, Kurt von, 820, 821 Ferguson, John, 819, 820 Fromm, Erich, 7, 793—794, 795, 867 Feuerbach, Ludwig Andreas, 639

Ficino, Marsilio, 105, 108, 223, 846 Gadol, Joan, 826

Filarete, 17, 24, 155, 1§6—170 passim, Gaffarel, Jacques, 832 172, 175, 176, 177, 180, 370, 826, 827 Gagnebin, Bernard, 847

Filelfo, Francesco, 102, 107 Galen, 164, 206, 262, 291 Filmer, Sir Robert, 363, 843 Galiani, Abbé Ferdinando, 415, 423,

Fiorentino, Francesco, 829 846 833, 835 233, 242, 264, 278, 281, 305, 832, 833

Firpo, Luigi, 825, 826, 827, 830, 832, Galileo Galilei, 206, 209, 212, 219, 223, Fisher, John, Bishop of Rochester, 144 Gall, Franz Joseph, 731

Flaubert, Achille Cleophas, 706 Gallienus, Publius Licinius Egnatius,

Flaubert, Gustave, 706 , Emperor of Rome, 65 Flechtheim, Ossip, 783 Gama, Vasco da, 60

Fleury, Abbé Claude, 385, '386, 387- Garat, Dominique Joseph, 850

388, 844 Garcilaso de la Vega, 219, 373, 376

Flint, Robert, 849 Gardiner, Samuel Rawson, 335 Florio, John, 224, 829 Garnett, Ronald George, 861 , Fludd, Robert, 290 , Garnier, Charles Georges Thomas, 370 Foglietta, Uberto, 152, 173 Gassendi, Pierre, 378 Foigny, Gabriel de, 22, 86, 536, 844 _ Gauden, John, 313 Fontenelle, Bernard Le Bovier de, 372, Gaulle, Charles de, 539

466, 470, 473, 491 Gaultier, Jacques, 835

Foucher de Careil, Count Louis Alex- Gauricus, Pomponius, 164

andre, 844, 845 Geer, Laurence de, 309

Fourier, Francois Marie Charles, 3, 7, Geer, Louis de, 309

8, 13, 20, 24, 26, 28, 49, 86, 109, 306, Gemistos, Georgios, see Plethon

| 310, 332, 342, 353, 393, 405, 421, Gentile, Giovanni, 829

427, 447, 457, 463, 511, $38, 539, George, Duke of Saxony, 186, 197, 198 $42, 545, 546, 567, 574, 581-588, George I, King of Great Britain (Georg

619, 628, 634, 641~675, 678, 680, Ludwig, Elector of Hanover), 394

681, 685, 689, 700-712 passim, 723; George Il, King of Great Britain, 8

733, 742, 745, 746, 760, 762, 769, Georgi, D. S., 837

773, 794, 795, 799, 805, 807, 808, Georgios Trapezuntios, 104, 105, 106,

813, 855, 858-860, 862 | 108

Fourier, Baron Joseph, 720 Gérard de Nerval (Gérard Labrunie),

Fournel, Henry (Henri), 615, 857 $40

Foxe, John, 138, 139, 144, 823, 824, 825 Gerhard, Hans-Joachim, 810, 868

, France, Anatole, 762 Gerhardt, Carl Immanuel, 844, 845

tini ~Ghiberti, Lorenzo, 164 |

Francesco di Giorgio, see Giorgio Mar- Gerson, Jean Charlier de, 141

Franke, A., 827 Gian Galeazzo, Duke of Milan, 826

884 , INDEX | Gibb, M. A., 842 Guyon, Jeanne Marie (Bouvier de La

Gibbon, Edward, 456, 475, 847 Motte), 382, 383, 384

Gide, Charles, 858 — Guzzo, Augusto, 833 |

Gideon, 190 Gilbert, William, 250

Giles, Peter, 5, 120, 122, 131, 142 ,

, - Gilison, Jerome M., 867 Haak, Theodore, 313, 838 Giorgio Martini, Francesco di, 17, 155, Hackel, Roberta J., 853

, 1§6-157, 158, 164-165, 169, 171, , Hafenreffer, Matthias, 300

175, 177, 180, 216, 826, 827 Haldane, John Burdon Sanderson, 780,

Glanvill, Joseph, 234, 305, 321 867

Glover, Terrot Reaveley, 819 Halévy, Elie, 857, 858

821 . Hall, A. R., 840

Godolphin, Francis Richard Borroum, Halévy, Léon, 595 Godwin, Francis, Bishop of Hereford, Hall, Edward, 138

| 22, 78, 219 Hall, John, 837 , Godwin, William, 440, 491, 735-737, Hall, Joseph, Bishop of Norwich, 210 738, 739, 741, 743) 744, 864 Haller, Albrecht von, 431, 852

Goes, Damiao a, 822 Haller, William, 841, 842

Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 450, Hallett, Philip E., 823, 824 ,

456, 524, $40, 797 Halley, Edmond, 454

Golofkin, Count Gavriil Ivanovich, Hamann, Johann Georg, 526

394, 408, 844 Hancock, Edward, 585-586

Gonzaga, Lodovico, Marchese of Man- Harmon, A. M., 821, 822

tua, 166 Harnack, Adolf, 830

Goodwin, John, 340, 341 Harpsfield, Nicholas, 140 _

Goret, Jean, 859 Harrington, James, 335, 336, 338, 339, Gorgorlos, 41 340, 347, 361-366, 413, 562, 843 Gorki, Maxim, 272 Harrison, John Fletcher Clews, 861 Gott, Samuel, 308 Harrison, Major General Thomas, 358 Gouhier, Henri, 835, 855, 857, 864 Hartlib, Samuel, 3, 207, 209, 212, 213,

Gracchus, Gaius Sempronius, $73 220, 308, 313, 318, 321-331, 338,

- Gracchus, Tiberius Sempronius, 65, $73 401, 837, 838, 839, 840 | Graffigny, Frangoise d’Issembourg Harvey, Dr. William, 205, 649

d’Happoncourt de, 849 Haupt, Garry E., 823 ,

Gramont, Elizabeth (nee Hamilton), Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 662, 759, 859-

Countess of, 389 860

Grange, McQuilkin de, 847 Headley, John M., 823 .

Granger, Frank, 826 Hecataeus of Abdera, 83, 84, 85, 86 Grayson, Cecil, 826 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, 268, Green, John R., 335 286, 295, 440, 470, 475, 484, 498, Grendler, Paul F., 825 | $05, §21, §23, $24, $25, $27, 626, Greville, Fulke, see Brooke 642, 717,746 Griggs, Earl Leslie, 864 Heine. Heinrich, 622 Grillo, Francesco, 830 Heivodo, Eliseo, see Heywood, Ellis

Grimm, Friedrich Melchior, Baron Held, Felix Emil, 837 von, 4, 413, 417, 420, 424, 429, $40 Helvétius, Anne Cathérine (de Ligni- ,

Grivel, Guillaume, 434 ville), Mme., 463, 485 | Grocyn, William, 119 Helvétius, Claude Adrien, 463, $52, $60 Gruber, Hermann, 864 Henderson, Philip, 866 | , Grtin, Karl Theodor Ferdinand, 707 Henry, the Navigator, Prince of Portu- — Guarino, Battista, 102 gal, 60

Guerrier, Vladimir Ivanovitch, 844, 845 Henry, Charles, 850 |

Guevara, Antonio de, 152 Henry III, King of France, 224

Guhrauer, Gottschalk Eduard, 845 Henry IV, King of France, $49

Guicciardini, Ludovico, 167 Henry VIII, King of England, 118, 122,

Gulick, Charles B., 820 | 131, 132, 133, 139, I41, 143 King of Sweden, 407 Heraclius, Emperor of the East, 60

Gustaf I Adolf (Gustavus Adolphus), Heraclitus, 249 | 7

INDEX 885 Heraus, Carl Gustav, 845 432, 437, 455, 456, 469, 473, 478, Herbermann, C. G., 823 493, 495, $19, $73, 725, 803, 843

Herder, Johann Gottfried, 308, 320, Hurwitz, Siegmund, 818 454, 455, 456, 484, 492, 493, 519, Hus, Jan (Johann), 309, 317 $20, $2I1-§23, $24, $25, $29, 623, Huth, Hans, 184

626, 797, 853 Hutten, Ulrich von, 103, 117, 131, 137, Herodotus, 38, 84, 89, 93, 94, 97, 99, 139, 822, 823 |

821 Huxley, Aldous Leonard, 6, 778, 802—

Hertzka, Theodor, 7, 13, 20, 24, 760, 803

761, 762, 763, 764, 765~—768, 769, Huxley, Julian Sorell, 7, 779, 780, 782,

770, 771, 772, 866 867

Herzen, Alexander, 586 Huxley, Thomas Henry, 740, 773, 775,

Herzfeld, Ernst, 818 , 864

Herzl, Theodore, 761 Huygens (Huyghens), Constantin, 832

Hesiod, 16, 24, 37, 40, 45, 64, 66-77 Hyginus, Gaius Julius, 73, 74 passim, 83, 91, 112, 390, 417, 763,

819, 820 Iambulus, 21, 23, 66, 83, 86-87, 103, Hess, Tobias, 296 108, 119, 819, 821

Hessenthaler, Magnus, 404 Iggers, Georg G., 857 Hetherington, Henry, 687 Imerti, Arthur D., 830

Hexter, Jack H., 146, 822, 825 Ionescu, Ghita, 855

Heydon, John, 260 Isaac, 41, 305

Heywood, Ellis, 151, 825 Isabella I, Queen of Spain, 61

Heywood, John, 151 Isaiah, 17, §3, 191, $89

Hill, Christopher, 841, 842 Isozaki, Arata, 813 Hippodamus of Miletus, 10, 89, 155,

162, 168, 387 Jablonski, Daniel Ernst J., Bishop, 402

Hitchcock, E. V., 823, 824 Jablonski, Johann Theodor, 402

Hitler, Adolf, 635 Jacob, 41, §8

Hiyya ben Abba, Rabbi, 40 Jacoby, Felix, 820

Hobbes, Thomas, 245, 251, 335, 336, James, William, 5, 623, 747, 753 337, 338, 339, 379, 839, 840, 841 James I, King of Great Britain, 245,

Holderlin, Friedrich, 625 246, 247, 248, 254, 255, 401

Hoené Wronski, Jozef Marja, 856 Jaspers, Karl, 781 Hoppner, Waltrand Seidel, 862 Jaucourt, Louis, Chevalier de, 413

Hoeschel, David, 90 Jaurés, Jean Léon, 754

Hoffman, Robert L., 865 Jefferson, Thomas, 145, 678

Holbach, Paul Henry Thiry, Baron d’, _ Jellinek, Adolf, 818 72, 415, 418, 423, 424, 425, 454, 456, Jeremiah, 188, 191

$40, 559, 560 Jesus Christ, 33, 34, 43, 46, 47, 52, 53,

Holbein, Hans, the younger, 27, 136 $7, 100, 106, 107, 123, 126, 129, 136,

Holberg, Baron Ludvig, 433, 777 137, 140, 141, 161, 173, 178, 181,

Holstein, René, 615, 623 182, 188, 192, 193, 195, 196, 197,

Homer, 16, 22, 37, 64, 66, 75, 76, 77; 200, 211, 215, 219, 222, 228, 231, 78, 83, 87, 102, 385, 390, 667, 818 233, 236, 237, 241, 242, 255, 266,

Hooghe, Romeyn de, 181 269, 270, 272, 279, 281, 282, 283,

Hooke, Robert, 253 286, 293, 296, 297, 298, 299, 300, Horace, 241, 478 302, 307, 308, 319, 320, 324, 329,

Houdon, Jean Antoine, 462 338, 339, 343, 346, 350, 351, 357,

Hudson, William Henry, 771, 866 358, 359, 381, 403, 410, 422, 429,

Hubner, Joachim, 313 A$1, 453, 482, 609, 616, 633, 693, 747 Huet, Bishop Pierre Daniel, 60 Jewel, John, Bishop of Salisbury, 245

Hugo, Victor, 622 Joachim of Fiore, 16, 33, 34, 55, 56-59,

Hullin de Flixecourt, Henri-Joseph, $69 61, 63, 135, 178, 187, I91, 192, 210,

Hulme, Thomas Ernest, 862 264, 270, 271, 355, 819, 834

Hulse, James W., 866 , Job, 527

Humboldt, Friedrich Heinrich Alex- Jghanan, Rabbi, 39, 40, 41 ander, Baron von, $40, 720 Johann the Steadfast, Elector of Sax-

Hume, David, 146, 183, 365, 416, 426, ony, 187, 189

886 INDEX | Johann Friedrich, Duke of Brunswick- Kropotkin, Prince Petr (Peter) Aleksee-

__Liineburg, 394 vich, 737, 738, 739-742, 746, 752, Johann Friedrich I, Duke (Elector) of 864

Saxony, 189 Ktesias of Cnidos, 84 ,

John XXIII, Antipope, 156 Kugelmann, Ludwig, 703, 862

John XXIII, Pope, 778 Kuhn, Thomas, 257 | John of Briinn, 182 Kvaala, Jvan, 839 , John of Kelston, Sir, 361 John of Leyden, 183, 198 ,

Joho, Wolfgang, 862 Labrousse, Ernest, 435

Jonah, 268, 300, 353 - La Bruyeére, Jean de, 386

Jonathan, Rabbi, 39 Lach, Donald F., 845

Jones, Horace Leonard, 821 | Lachmann, Karl, 847 Jones, Rev. James, 813 Laclos, Pierre Ambroise Francois Cho-

Jones, R. O., 825 derlos de, 431, 450, $36—-537, 642 |

Joseph, 41 | Lacombe, see Courvoisier

Josephus, Flavius, 84 La Condamine, Charles Marie de, 427

Joshua, 190, 417 Lactantius, Lucius Caecilius Firmianus, Judah, Rabbi, 40 Lafargue, Laura (nee Marx), 863

Joshua ben Levi, 41 47, 48, 88, 821 |

Judah the Protector, 39 : Lafargue, Paul, 712, 714, 863

Judas, 141, 346 La Faye, Antoine de, 224 Judith, 58 Lafayette, Marie Joseph Paul Yves

Jung, Carl Gustav, 43, 792, 818. Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de,

Juretic, George, 842 488 Jurieu, Pierre, 368 Laffitte, Jacques, 593 Justin Martyr, 47, 48 Laffitte, Pierre, 724

Justinian I, Emperor of the East, 292 Laffon de Ladébat, André Daniel, 584 ,

, Lafitau, Joseph Francois, 427 a Lafontaine, Jean, 663 Kaminsky, Howard, 828 a La Harpe, Jean-Francois de, 851

Kant, Immanuel, 9, 44, $9, 234, 378, Lamanski, E. 1, 616 431, 440, 455, 456, 458, 459, 478, Lamarck, Jean Baptiste Pierre Antoine 484, 493, $04, $19-531, 546, $82, de Monet, Chevalier de, 516

623, 626, 627, 713, 726, 791, 792, Lambert, Charles, 639

| 799, 801, 850, 853 La Mettrie, Julien Offray de, 461

863 | 234, 236, 825

Karlstadt, Andreas, 188, 189 Lamirande, Emilien, 819

Kautsky, Karl, 145, 201, 697, 709, 829, Landi (Lando), Ortensio, 150, 151, 1§2,

Keatinge, M. W., 838 Langdon, Stephen Herbert, 36 Kepler, Johannes, 22, 206, 212, 213, Langlois, Jér6me-Amédée, 746, 864,

219, 226, 265, 290, 295, 305, $25 865 Khosar Il, King of Persia, 60 Lansac, Maurice, 858

Khrushchev, Nikita Sergeevich, 778, Laplace, Pierre Simon, Marquis de, 596

804 La Rochefoucauld, Cardinal de, 461

Kienast, R., 836 Lasky, Melvin J., 12 Kirk, G. S., 819 Latham, R. E., 820 . Kissinger, Henry, 711 Lattimore, Richmond, 819 , Klein, Robert, 826 Laud, William, Archbishop of CanterKlopp, Onno, 844, 845 bury, 322

~ Knachel, Philip A., 842 Launay, Bernard René Jordan de, $39 Knight, Arthur Gorges, 831 Laurenberg, Peter, 207

Kocher, Paul H., 830 Laurence of Brezova, 182

Koenigsberger, H. G., 840 Lavedan, Pierre, 826 , Komenskij (Komensky), see Comenius Le Clerc de Montmerci, Claude Ger-

Kotter, Christoph, 320 main, 846

, Kramer, Samuel Noah, 817 Le Corbusier, Charles Edouard, 154

Kraus, Werner, 556 Ledoux, Claude Nicolas, 154, 812

Krieger, Leonard, 828 Lefebvre, Henri, 859 ,

INDEX 887 Leff, Gordon, 828 Louis XIV, King of France, 19, 218, Lehning, Arthur, 864, 865 a 287, 319, 367, 368, 369, 372, 376, Lehouck, Emile, 859 379, 382, 384, 386, 387, 388, 389,

Leibniz, Baron Gottfried Wilhelm von, 391, 393, 401, 405, 409, 434, 453, 3, 8, 17, 18, 112, 184, 207, 208, 209, — §90, 844 212, 213, 214, 215-216, 217, 223, Louis XVI, King of France, 425, 435,

225, 233, 288, 290, 296, 300, 312, 462, 467, $69

316, 317, 318, 329, 367, 392-410, Louis Philippe, King of the French,

413, 431, 432, 459, 484, $03, $27, 435, 646

666, 786, 844, 845, 847 Louvancour, Henri, 859

Lély, Gilbert, 853 Louvel, Louis Pierre, 594

Lem, Stanislaw, 782, 812, 868 Lovejoy, Arthur Oncken, 111, 821

Lemonnier, Charles, 855, 857 Lubac, Henri de, 865 L’Enfant, Pierre Charles, 165 Lucas-Dubreton, Jean, 825

Lenin, Vladimir Ilich, 20, 194, 272, 697, Lucian of Samosata, 1, 16, 22, 65, 66,

707, 748, 754, 755, 760, 863, 865 78, 80, 86, 90, 93, 99-100, 102-104, ,

Leo Africanus, Joannes, 87, 821 117, 119, 125, 127, 128, 131, 134, Leonardo da Vinci, 19, 155, 1$6, 164, 164, 229, 343, 821, 822

165, 167, 170, 175, 827 Lucretius Carus, Titus, 73, 88, 820

Leoni, James, 826 Ludlow, Edmund, 358

Leopold II, Emperor of Germany, 568 Lticke, Friedrich, 44 Leroux, Pierre, $55, 742, 744, 854, 865 Lull, Ramon, 18, 59, 207-208, 225, 392,

Le Roy, Louis, 455 844

Leroy, Maxime, 855 Lunacharsky, Anatolii Vasilevich, 272

Le Sauvage, Jean, 131 Lupset, Thomas, 823 Lesconvel, Pierre de, 431, 434-435 Luria, Isaac, $4 Leslau, Wolf, 818 Luther, Katharina (nee von Bora), 187 Lesley, J., 361 Luther, Martin, 136, 137, 146, 183~—200 L’Espinasse, Julie Jeanne Eléonore de, passim, 223, 225, 227, 289, 291, 297, 473, 540, 850 — _ 301, 303, 307, 317, 739 823, 828 Lesseps, Ferdinand de, 616 Lycurgus, 16, 65, 93, 94, 95, 96-99, Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim, 33, 308, 365, 375, 561, 562, $76, 691, 822 431, 455, 456, 458, 478, §25, 622, Lynch, Charles A., 822

623, 847 | Letts, Malcolm, 817 . Leucippus, 249 Maack, Ferdinand, 836

Levandovskii, Anatolii Petrovich, 855 Mably, Abbé Gabriel Bonnot de, 438,

Levasseur, Thérése, 437 556, $61, 562, 563, 700, 854 | Lewes, George Henry, 721 Maccabaeus, Judas, 301

Lewis, C. S., 146 7 McColley, Grant, 832

Lewkenor, Lewes, 843 McDonald, Sister Mary Francis, 821

Libavius, Andreas, 835 McGee, John Edwin, 864

Lichtenberg, Georg Christoph, 824 Machiavelli, Niccolo, 153, 159, 172; Ligne, Charles Joseph, Prince de, 431 268, 276, 284, 288, 362, 388, 458 Lilburne, Elizabeth (nee Dewell), 342 Macnab, Henry Grey, 584 Lilburne, John, 334, 336, 338, 341, 342- Macpherson, C. B., 841, 842 343, 344, 346, 348, 349, 354, 841, 842 Maddison, R. E. W., 837

Linacre, Thomas, 119 Maestlin, Michael, 290

Linguet, Simon Nicolas Henri, 556 Maier, Michael, 290, 293

Linnaeus (von Linné), Carl, 649, 852 Maimonides (Moses ben Maimon), $3, Littré, Maximilien Paul Emile, 4, 721, 54, 56, 361, 819

864 , Maintenon, Francoise d’Aubigné, Mar-

Llwyd, Morgan, 360 quise de, 383, 386

Locke, John, 207, 339, 369, 452, 464, Mair, G. R., 820 | 466, 473, 495, 597, 735 Maistre, Count Joseph Marie de, 18,

388, 389 721, 729

Louis, Duke of Burgundy, 383, 384, 491, 601, 603, 628, 663, 665, 673, Louis I, the Pious, Emperor, King of Makhno, Nestor Ivanovich, 738

the Franks, 49 Malatesta, Enrico (Errico), 738

888 INDEX Maltese, Corrado, 826 , Maurenbrecher, Wilhelm, 839 Malthus, Thomas Robert, 491, 515, Mausolus, King of Caria, 163

747, 851 , Maux, Madame de (nee Jeanne-Cath-

Mancini, Girolamo, 826 erine Quinault), 846

Mandeville, Sir John, 16, 22, 774, 817 Maximilian I, Emperor of Germany,

Mandeville, Sister Scholastica, 823 182 Mangoldt, Ursula von, 835 _ Mazzini, Giuseppe, 640

Manley, Frank, 823 Mazzoni, Giacomo, 292 , Mann, Peter, 864 Medici, Cosimo I, de, 106 , .

Mannheim, Karl, 11, 817 Medici, Ferdinando II, de, 271, 833 Mansfeld, Count Ernst von, 186, 197, Medici, Lorenzo de, 108

828 Medigo, Elia del, 105

Manuel, Frank Edward, 847, 848, 853, Meek, Ronald L., 848

857, 863, 868 Meer, Herman Franke van der, 821

Mao Tsetung, 127, 804, 805, 867 Megasthenes, 89, 821 |

Marat, Jean Paul, 450, 567, $69 Mehemet Ali, Pasha of Egypt, 678

Marcus, Ralph, 818 Meinecke, Friedrich, 268

Marcuse, Herbert, 7, 21, 147, 446, 708, Meinhard, Christoph, 193, 828

710, 714, 793, 794-800, 802, 806, Meir, Rabbi, 40

8179, 867 Meister, Jakob Heinrich, 4, 413. |

576 199, 200, 828 |

Maréchal, Pierre Sylvain, 560, $71, $73, Melanchthon, Philipp, 102, 196, 198,

Maresius, see Desmarets Memmo, Paul Eugene, Jr., 830

Marivaux, Pierre Carlet de Chamblain Mendelsohn, Eric, 813

de, 390 Mendelssohn, Moses, 456, 847 ,

Markham, F. M. H., 855 Mercati, Angelo, 237, 829, 830 | Marlowe, Christopher, 246 | | Mercier, Louis Sébastien, 20, 415, 435,

Marsili-Libelli, Cecilia Ricottini, 825 440, 449, 458-459, 516, $37~-538,

Marta, Jacobus Antonius, 262 540, 847

Martianus Capella, 86 Mersenne, Marin, 219, 829, 832, 838 Martini, Giuseppe, 826 Meslier, Jean, 556, $57, 560-562, 854 Martyr, Peter, see Anghiera Mesmer, Franz Anton, 638 Martz, L. L., 823, 824 Metastasio, Pietro Antonio Domenico Marx, Eleanor, see Aveling Bonaventura, 649 Marx, Jenny (nee von Westphalen), 708 Metzger, Martin, 818 | |

Marx, Karl, 7, 8, 10, 12, 13, 20, 24, 25, Meulan, Madame de, 488 26, 41, 63, 74, 113, 146, 147, 189, Meyer, Rudolf W., 844 194, 200, 201, 202, 299, 342, 399, Micah, 190, 191

405, 440, 446, 447, 448, 451, 482, Michel, Paul-Henri, 826

§03, $04, $17, $27, $56, $59, $62, Michelet, Jules, 489, 490, 626, 747, 851 $63, 577, 504, 608, 620, 679, 681, Michelson, Annette, 853 684-693 passim, 697-716, 717, 733, Midas, King of Phrygia, 84 737) 738, 739) 741, 745, 746, 747; Milgate, W., 817

748, 749, 752, 753, 754,755, 760, Mill, John Stuart, 145, 462, 634, 721, ,

, 761, 762, 765, 779, 773, 774, 782, _ , 724, 765, 856 , 784, 793—806 passim, 847, 862-863, Miller, Clarence H., 824

864, 865 Miller, Frank Justus, 820

Mary Magdalen, 266, 422 Milton, John, 3, 62, 210, 322, 336, 343, Maslow, Abraham Harold, 4, 446 829, 830, 841

Masson, David, 838 Mirabeau, Honoré Gabriel Riquetti, Mather, Cotton, 14, 311, 369, 838 Count de, $71 , Mattei, Rodolfo de, 825 | Misson, Francois Maximilien, 23

Matthew, Sir Toby, 209, 245 Mocenigo, Giovanni (Zuane), 226, 227,

Matthews, Albert, 839 228, 830 Matthias, P., 840 | Mohammed, 106

| Maua, Irineo Evangelista de Souza, Mohl, Robert von, 10, 817 Viscount de, 616 Mohler, Ludwig, 107 Maublanc, René, 859 Molesworth, William, 841

472 667

Maupertuis, Pierre Louis Moreau de, Moliére (Jean Baptiste Poquelin), 633,

INDEX 889 Moltke, Count Helmuth Karl Bernhard Moses, 16, 43, 188, 191, 233, 266, 340,

von, 764 - 404, §49, 640, 687, 834

Momigliano, Arnaldo, 820 Moses Ben Shem Tov De Leon, 54 Monboddo, Lord James Burnet, 473 Moynihan, Daniel Patrick, 711

Monod, Jacques, 786 Moysset, Henri, 863, 865 Montaigne, Michel Eyquem, Seigneur Mozley, J. F., 824

de, 344 Mucchielli, Roger, 11-12, 817

Montbéron, Marie Gruyn de Valgrand, Mudie, George, 588, 855

Countess de, 382 Miulhaupt, Erwin, 828 Montefeltro, see Federigo Miiller, Karl, 820, 821 |

Montesquieu, Charles Louis de Secon- Minster, Arno, 868 dat, Baron de, 361, 378, 380, 413, Munster, Sebastian, 297 416, 432, 434, 452, 455, 457, 458, Muntzer, Thomas, 8, 17, 19, 33, 113, 461, 465, 469, 470, 475, 478, §28, 135, 136, 181, 182, 183-202, 307, $47; 557, §66, $73, 633, 634, 665 340, 344, 350, 360, 562, $74, 698, Montgomery, John Warwick, 835, 836, 699, 701, 806, 827, 828

837, 839 Muir, John, 820

More, Dame Alice, 117 Muiron, Just, 650, 859 More, Henry, 328 , Muller, Hermann Joseph, 780, 867

More, Jane, 117 Mumford, Lewis, 12, 817

More, John (Fifth Monarchy Man), Muncker, Franz, 847

360 Murray, A. T., 820

822 Musaeus, 77 More), 117 857

More, John (son of Thomas More), 123, Murray, Gilbert, 821

More, Sir John (father of Thomas Musset, Louis Charles Alfred de, 612, More, Thomas, Saint, 1, 2, 5, 6, 7, 8, Mussolini, Benito, 748, 755 12, 13, 17, 18, 22-29 passim, 48, 49, $0, §1, 80, 83, 92, 95, 99, 100, IOI,

102, 103, 104, 108, TIO, III, 112, Nabis, 65 113, 114, 117-149, 1§0-15§2, 15§3, Napoleon I, Emperor of the French, 154, 158, 159, 170, 171, 172, 173, 332, 353, 505, $40, 584, 592, 594, 175, 176, 181, 182, 188, 190, 202, $97, 603, 604, 640, 642, 661, 668, 723 209, 210, 216, 219, 229, 233, 234, Napoleon ILI, Emperor of the French, 236, 238, 251, 252, 254, 264, 271, 638, 639, 702, 707, 722, 723

273, 274, 276, 277, 285, 300, 301, Nathan, 316, 388 302, 305, 307, 308, 311, 313, 325, Naudeé, Gabriel, 835 328, 332, 338, 342, 353, 354, 365, Nebuchadnezzar II, King of Babylon,

307, 370, 372, 373, 374, 376, 377; 44, 71, 190 :

380, 385, 387, 390, 393, 396, 413, Nechaev (N’e¢aev), Sergei, 738, 739,

416, 431, 432, 435, 438, 439, 440, 865

$44, 547, 548, $54, $57, $62, $73, Nedham, Marchamont, 347, 842 $74, $87, 692, 698, 710, 742, 745, Negri, Antimo, 863 768, 777, 792, 799, 807, 822-825, Nelson, John C., 830

833, 844 Nero, Emperor of Rome, 46, 66, 152,

Morellet, Abbé André, 420 176, 663, 665 Morelly, 3, 7, 27, 422, 431, 438, 537, Neveux, J. B., 835 ,

- §§6, §61-—§62, 563, $70, $73, 576, Newcastle, Margaret (Lucas) Caven-

700, 709, 742, 853, 854, 862 dish, Duchess of, 7

Morgan, Lewis H., 709-710, 863 Newton, Sir Isaac, 88, 162, 205, 206,

Morris, May, 866 212, 257, 290, 319, 330, 339, 368,

Morris, William, 13, 20, 145, 154, 737; 397, 403, 407, 410, 453, 454, 465, 760, 761, 762, 763, 764, 768-772, 487, 488, 492, 493, $08, 525, 584,

807, 808, 866 596, $97, 641, 646, 649, 667, 713,

Morton, Arthur Leslie, 820 784, 797, 847 Morton, Cardinal John, 122, 147, 151, Nicanor, 301

159° , Nicholas V, Pope, 155, 156, 157, 826

Morton, L., 866 Nicholas of Cusa, Cardinal, 238, 352

Moschus, 65 Niclaes (Nicholas), Henry, 352

Moser, F. K. von, 836 Niederland, William G., 819

890 , INDEX , Nietzsche, Friedrich Wilhelm, s, 52, Pauw, Abbé Cornelius de, 427 444, 495, 649, 663, 674, 734, 738, Peabody, Elizabeth P., 648

747; 748, 750, 751, 754 Péguy, Charles Pierre, 748

Nieuhof, Johan, 376, 378 Peirce, Charles Sanders, 747 |

Nimrod, 834 Pell, John, 313, 327, 329, 840 * |

North, Sir Thomas, 95, 152 Pellarin, Charles, 859

, Pelloutier, Valentin, Fernand, 748, 752 ar Pelosse, 857 | O Brien, Bronterre, O81 Pembroke-Montgomery, Philip Her- ,

Ochino, Bernardino, 245 bert

; Penn, William, 369 Ogarev,, Nikolai Platanovich, 586, 622 2 Okey, Colonel John, 358 Pereires, the (Emile and Isaac), 615, 639 Oldenburg, Henry, 319, 322 pecles 96 colo, 104 : O’Connor, A. Condorcet, 850, 855 om, 319

Oldfather, C. H., 821 p ' 2 d tt 8 8

sea? erroux, Francois, 857 , :

Oncken, Hermann, 145 Perron Frey or * 21, 922 — ON Gerard ar 812, 868 Persius Flaccus (Aulus), 417 /

iY Jo? 406,778, 407,809 408, 844 Orwell, George, PpElisabeth, ,409, eters, 819

One 2 4 Conct José, 11 Peter I, the Great, Czar of Russia, 393,

One erent *; oF 8 Petrashevsky, Mikhail Vasilevich, 648

Verton, MC . , a8 ns 342, 343; Petty, William, 213, 328, 840 Oo 344 345: 34 348, te ‘° 58. R20 Peuckert, Will-Erich, 835 » TO, 45, 90; 74, 395) 390; 429; Pfalz, Kurftirst Johann Wilhelm von Owen, Anne Caroline (nee Dale), 677, der, 845

690 Phaleas of Chal

| 829 .

Owen, Robert, 7, 8, 13, 20, 147, 312, — Pherecrates - cedon, 10 | 327, 581-589, 647, 660, 665, 676— Philip H, King of Macedon, 83 | , 693, 700, 701, 702, 703-706, 736, Philip III, King of Spain, 833

742, 799, 860-862 Philip of Hesse (Philip the Magnani- ,

Owen, Robert Dale, 693 , mous) 108 P 6 Oxenstierna, Axel Gustafsson, 311, 313 Philo Judaeus, 42, 43, 48, 59, 93, 818,

Pacioli, Luca, 164 Philolaus, J., 341, 841

_ Pagitt, Ephraim, 334, 841 Photius, Patriarch of Constantinople,

Palissot, M., 846 90,180 398,Piaget, 821 Jean, 839 : Palladio, Andrea, Panofsky, Erwin, 164 Picavet, Francois, 851, 852

Paoli, Pasquale di, 449 Picht, Georg, 807, 868 ,

, Papini, Roberto, 826 - Pico della Mirandola, Giovanni, 128, Paracelsus, Philippus Aureolus, 291, 131, 154 | 295 , Pictet, Marc Auguste, 584 Parker, Matthew, Archbishop of Can- Pindar, 76-77, 78, 820

terbury, 246 Pinel, Dr. Philippe, $41, $93

Parmenides, 249 Pirckheimer, Willibald, 102

Pascal, Blaise, 206, 416, 467, $12, $21, _ Pisistratus, tyrant of Athens, 95, 96

$59 Pitocco, Francesco, 857

Pasch, Georg, 10 Pitzer, Donald E., 861 . Patch, Howard Rollin, 819 Pius II, Pope, 155 Paton, Herbert James, 853 Plato, §, 6, 10, 13, 1$, 16, 24, 29, 64,

, Paton, John Lewis, 838 66, 71-72, 77, 78, 79, 82, 89, 93, 94, Patrizi (Patricius), Francesco, Bishop of 96, 97, 99, 100, 102, 103, 104-112, _ Cherso, 7, 13, 18, 24, 104, 108, 152, 118, 119-122, 124, 126, 127, 128, 168, 170, 171-172, 173, 174, 175, 130, 134, 147, 1$3, 154, 155, 158,

, 177, 178, 179, 223, 235, 236, 250, 159, 160, 162, 166-180 passim, 183, 259, 387, $42, 825, 827 | , 210, 219, 222, 247, 249, 25U, 253;

Patterson, F. A., 841 | 262, 276, 277, 278, 285, 298, 305, Paul V, Pope, 282, 834 375, 385, 387, 393, 416, 420, 421,

Patton, Lewis, 864 315, 332, 366, 367, 372, 373, 374,

INDEX 8QI Plato (continued ) a Quérard, Joseph Marie, 863

428, 438, 439, 453, SII, §24, $42, Querengo, Antonio, Monsignor, 831 549, 551, 553, 554, 556, $61, 562, Quesnay, Francois, 328 624, 625, 645, 693, 699, 710, 742, Quinet, Edgar, 626 763, 777, 782, 817, 820, 822, 833, 846 Quiroga, Bishop Vasco de, 148, 825

Plattes, Gabriel, 313, 325, 338, 840 8

Plethon, Georgios Gemistos, 105—106 Rabelais, Frangois, 4, 18, $0, 99, 100,

Pliny the Elder (Gaius Plinius Se- 102, 134~135, 148, 149, 261

cundus), 83, 86, 258 . Rackham, H., 820

Plotinus, 22, 65, 77, 106 Raguet, Gilles Bernard, 428

Plutarch, 16, 22, 23, 38, 66, 77, 78, 88, Raleigh, Sir Walter, 249 93, 9$—99, 102, 119, 343, 375, 380, Ramsay, Allan, 420, 846 437, 438, 561, $73, $76, 821, 822 Ramsay, Andrew Michael, 390

Pocock, J. G. A., 839 Ramusio, Giovanni Battista, 23, 86—87,

Podmarkov, V. G., 861. 817, 821

Podmore, Frank, 861 Ransom, Arthur, 866

Poéy, André, 864 Raphael, 489

Poggio Bracciolini, Gian Francesco, Rastell, William, 822, 824

102, 821 Ratgeb, Jerg, 297

Polak, Frederik Lodewijk, 11, 817 Raven, John Earle, 819, 821

Polybius, 88 Rawley, William, 251, 254, 831 Pomerans, Arnold, 868 Raymond, Marcel, 847

Pomponius Mela, 86, 821 Raynal, Abbé Guillaume Thomas Poniatowska (Poniatovia), Krystyna, Francois, 428-429, 503, 846

320 Redern, J. Sigismund Ehrenreich,

Pontano, Giovanni, 102 Count de, 590, 591-592, 593

Popper, Karl Raimund, 11 Reeves, Marjorie, 58, 819

Porphyry, 71, 72, 77, 78, 90, 380 Regnier-Desmarais, see Desmarais Porta, Giambattista della, 262, 263 Reich, Wilhelm, 7, 708, 793, 794, 867

Portoghesi, Paolo, 826 Reinhard, Marcel, 854

Postel, Guillaume, 59, 126 Rémond, Nicolas, 845

Poster, Mark, 853 Renan, Ernest, 783 Pottofeux, Polycarpe, 571 840 Poulat, Emile, 858, 859 Renouvier, Charles Bernard, 4 |

Pottle, Frederick Albert, 846 Renaudot, Théophraste, 220, 324, 328,

Poussin, Nicolas, 385 Restif de la Bretonne, Edme, 540, 548,

Powell, Vavasor, 360 549 Praxiteles, 652 Restif de la Bretonne, Nicolas Edme, 3, Prévost, Antoine Francois (Prévost 7, 13, 26, 28, 98, 109, 356, 414, 430,

d’Exiles), 146, 369, 432 431, 440, 449, 450, 535, 536, 538, Price, John, 841 $39, 540, $41, $47, 548-555, $56, Price, Richard, 491, 849 567, $76, 853, 854 | Priestley, Joseph, 491, 852 Retouret, Moise, 619

Prince, Thomas, 344, 841, 842 - Reybaud, Louis, 10, 701 Prior, Oliver Herbert Phelps, 851 Reynolds, Henry, 821

Pritchard, James B., 817-818 Rheinwald, F. H., 836, 837

Proclus, 106 Riasanovsky, Nicholas Valentine, 859

Promis, Carlo, 826, 827 Ricard, Robert, 825

Proudhon, Pierre-Joseph, 642, 702, 712, Riccioli, Giovanni Battista, 454

715, 737, 738, 739, 740-741, 742- Richard III, King of England, 122-123,

747, 749, 751, 752, 754, 755, 756, 822

863, 864, 865 , Richardson, Samuel, §50, 677

Prynne, William, 284, 834 Richardson, William, 853

Ptolemy I, King of Egypt, 83, 84 Richelieu, Armand Jean du Plessis, Ptolemy (Claudius Ptolemaeus) of Cardinal Duke de, 220, 267, 287, 835

Alexandria, 206 Richter, Irma A., 827 Pyrrhon, 84 Richter, Jean-Paul Friedrich, 142 Pythagoras, 65, 90, 91, 93, 126, 249, Ricraft, Josiah, 341

264, $62 Riesman, David, 631

- Rigault, Nicolas, 821 Sade, Donatien Alphonse Francois,

Rimbaud, Jean Arthur, 649 Count de (Marquis de Sade), 356, Rinauldi, Maurizio di, 270 378, 414, 431, 432, 440, 449, $35, Ringbom, Lars-Ivar, 60, 819 $36, 538, $39, 540, 541-548, $50,

Rinuccio Aretino, 102 | $52, 553, $55, $59, 642, 664, 675,

Ristius, Johann, 323 685, 737, 853, 859

Ritter, Alan, 865 Sade, Renée-Pélagie (Cordier de Ritter, Gerhard, 145 | Launay de Montreuil), Mme. de, 541 Roberts, Alexander, 818 , Sade d’Ebreuil, Abbé Jacques-FrancoisRoberts, Walter Orr, 806-807 Paul-Aldonze de, 541

Robespierre, Maximilien Marie Isidore Sadler, J. E., 839 |

de, 450, 489, $65, 566, 567, 569, 591 Saint-Aignan, Paul de Beauvillier,

Robinson, John Beverley, 865 Duke de, 383

Robinson (Robynson), Raphe, 122, Saint Ambrose, Bishop of Milan, 61

146, 822 | Saint Anthony of Padua, 48

Rodrigues, Benjamin Olinde, 592, $95, Saint Augustine (Aurelius Augustinus),

608, 615, 718, 727, 855, 856 Bishop of Hippo, 42, 48, §1-§2, 131, Rodrigues, Eugéne, 613, 622 163, 177, 178, 212, 238, 262, 818 Roebuck, Rev. J. H., 686, 861 Saint Benedict, Abbot of Monte Cas-

Rogers, Elizabeth Frances, 822 sino, 48, 50 Rogers, John, 337, 358 Saint Benedict of Aniane, 49 Rohde, Erwin, 83,90 Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, 50 Roland, Marie Jeanne (Philipon), 489 Saint Brendan, 21

Romero, Sylvio, 864 , Saint Brigida, 270

Ronsin, General Charles Philippe, 591 Saint Cyprian, 42

Rood, Wilhelmus, 838 Saint-Evremond, Charles Marguetel de Roper, William, 126, 137, 139, 140, Saint Denis, Seigneur de, 378 :

824 Saint Francis of George, Assisi, 357 || | Rose, R. B., 854 Saint 262 Rosenberg, Alfons, 835 Saint Gregory Nazianzen, 102

Rossellino, Bernardo, 155 | Saint Hippolytus, 43, 818 Rossi, Gian Vittorio, 844 Saint Irenaeus, Bishop of Lyons, 41,

Rossi, Paolo, 844 47, 818

Roszak, Theodore, 809, 868 Saint Isidore, Bishop of Seville, 61

Roth, Georges, 846 Saint Jerome, 48, 72, 128

Roth, Rudolf von, 819 Saint John, 45, 46, 252, 320, 422 Rothkrug, Lionel, 844 Saint John the Baptist, $7, 156

Rougemont, Frédéric de, 856 _ Saint John Chrysostom, Patriarch of Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 7, 9, 19, 26, 72— Constantinople, 102, 278

73, 94, 146, 147, 212, 218, 306, 342, Saint John of the Cross, 202 344, 367, 377, 383, 387, 389, 390, Saint-Just, Louis-Antoine-Léon, 414, _ 414, 417, 418, 422, 424, 425, 427, 449, 450, 535, 563, 564-5068, 854 429, 430, 431, 432, 434, 430-452, Saint-Just de Richebourg, Louis-Jean

455, 462, 464, 465, 473, $02, $17, de, 564

$19, §$20-§21, $23, §27, $31, $36, Saint Luke, 192, 278 |

$39, 540, $49, 550, 551, $54, 555, Saint Martin, 357

558 —572 passim, $74, $76, 634, 635, Saint Pachomius, 48 , 649, 651, 652, 653, 713, 735, 736, 738, Saint Paul, 227, 297, 588, 693

820, 846, 847 — Saint Peter, 287

Rousseau, M. T., 148, 435, 825 Saint-Pierre, Charles Irénée Castel,

Rouvre, Charles de, 864 Abbé de, 59, 392, 438, 531, $54, $93, Ruhel, Johann, 198, 828 , 656, 846 , Rustaing de Saint-Jory, Louis, 431, $36 | Saint-Simon, Count Claude Henri de,

Ruyer, Raymond, 11, 12, 817 7, 9, 13, 20, 24, 26, 75, 95, 127, 305,

Rykwert, Joseph, 826 332, 353, 367, 396, 399, 448, 450, 451, 471, 480, 482, 483, 491, 492,

Saalman, H., 826 | 497, $04, §06, $10, §II, §27, $81Saame, Otto, 845 $89, $90-—614, 615, 617, 619, 621, Sabine, George H., 841 | 622, 623, 624, 627, 628, 629, 633,

INDEX | | 893 Saint-Simon (continued ) Seneca, Lucius Annaeus, 179, 453, 638, 642, 645, 646, 647, 648, 650, 454 656, 660, 661, 665, 671, 678, 681, Seroni, Adriano, 833 685, 700, 7OI, 702, 703, 706, 707, Servier, Jean, 12, 817 717, 718, 723, 725, 726, 727, 729, Servius, 76 730, 760, 762, 773, 777, 783, 810, Sethos, 390

813, 820, 855-857, 859, 863 Seuse (Suso), Heinrich, 185

Saint-Simon, Louis de Rouvroy, Duke Severinus, Petrus, 250

de, 383, 389, $90 Seybold, D. C., 836

Saint Teresa (de Jesus), 202 Seznec, Jean, 846

Saint Thomas, 140 Sforza, Francesco, Duke of Milan, Canterbury, 118 Sforza, Ludovico (il Moro), Duke of

Saint Thomas a Becket, Archbishop of 159

Saint Thomas Aquinas, 41, 52-53, 121, Milan, 155, 167 222, 230, 238, 242, 261, 262, 263, Shabbethai Zevi, 39

264, 278, 279, 280, 819 Shaftesbury, Anthony Ashley Cooper,

Sala-Molins, Louis, 832 Third Earl of, 547

Salmon, Joseph, 358 362, 697, 760 . Saltmarsh, John, 352 Shaw, George Bernard, 761 Sallust (Gaius Sallustius Crispus), 147 Shakespeare, William, 2, 171, 218, 246,

Salutati, Coluccio, 102 Shcherbatov, Prince M. M., 14 : Samuel ben Shilat, 40 Godwin), 774 Samuel ben Nahmani, Rabbi, 39 Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft (nee

Samuels, Moses, 847 Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 736 Santinello, Giovanni, 826 Shorey, Paul, 820 Sansovino, Francesco, 151 Shils, Edward, 817

Sardanapalus, King of Assyria, 176, 286 Shun Chih reign of Shih Tsu, Em-

Saxl, Fritz, 829 peror of China, 316

Say, Jean-Baptiste, 593, 598 Sidney, Sir Philip, 2, 224, 236, 817 Scantlebury, Canon R. E., 865 Silberling, Edouard, 644, 859

Schaff, Adam, 714 Silverthorne, M. J., 846 Scharffenberg, Albrecht von, 60 Simmel, Georg, 658 Schelle, Gustave, 847, 848, 850 Simon, Maurice, 819

Schelling, Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph Simon ben Yohai, Rabbi, 41

Von, 295 Simon Magus, 43, 785

Schenk, W., 841 Singer, Dorothea (Waley), 829, 830

Schick, Hans, 836 Siouville, A., 818

Schiller, Johann Christoph Friedrich, Skinner, Burrhus Frederic, 687, 809,

431, 467, $24, $25, $40, 794, 799 868 ;

Schippel, Max, 697 Slotki, Israel W., 818

| Schmidt, Johann Caspar (Max Stirner), Slucki, Hayyim Jacob, 818

737, 738, 747 Smith, Adam, 473, 489

Schnabel, Johann Gottfried, 430 Sobius, Jacobus, 825

Schneidewin, F. G., 818 Soboul, Albert, 564, 854

Schénberger, Stephen, 835 Socrates, 99, 107, 108, 120, 121, 416,

Scholfield, A. F., 821 489, $83

Scholtz, Harald, 836 Soleri, Paolo, 154, 813

Schopenhauer, Arthur, 401 Solinus, C. Julius, 86

Schopp, Gaspar, 212, 240, 241, 832 , Solomon, King of Israel, 38, 227, 250,

Schott, André, go 258, 298, 316 Schuster, L. A., 823 Solon, 16, 65, 93, 94, 95-96, 120, 168, Sciacca, M. F., 827. 453, 821 Scoppius, Gaspar, see Schopp Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr I., 810

Scott, Geoffrey, 846 Sophie, Duchess of Brunswick-Ltine-

Scotti, Giulio Clemente, 7 burg and Electress of Hanover, 408

Séguier, Pierre, Grand Chancellor of Sophie Charlotte, Queen of Prussia and

France, 833 Electress of Brandenburg, 394

Seignelai, Marquis de, see Colbert, Jean Sophocles, 102

Baptiste, Marquis de Seignelai Sorbiére, Samuel, 837, 838

894 INDEX | Sorel, Georges, 10, 698, 747-756, 862, Sylvester, Richard S., 822, 824 865

Southey, Robert, 145, 736, 825, 864 a Spampanato, Vincenzo, 830, 831, 833 Talleyrand-Périgord, Charles Maurice, ,

Spartacus, $73 Prince de Bénévent, 602

Spedding James, 251, 829, 830, 831 Tannery, Paul, 829, 832, 835, 838

Speiser, E. A., 818 Tarn, William Woodthorpe, 819

Spence, Thomas, 681 Tassius, Adolf, 323 Spencer, Herbert, 724 Tauler, Johann, 185

Spencer, John R., 826 Tavernier, Jean-Baptiste, 378

| Spengler, Oswald, 191, 756, 797 Tawney, Richard Henry, 336, 365, 843

Sperling, Harry, 819 , Tax, Sol, 867 Spifame, Raoul, 554 Taylor, Keith, 855 , Spingarn, J. E., 821 Teilhard de Chardin, Pierre, 7, 20, 63,

Spinka, Matthew, 838 145, 319, 410, 727, 778-782, 802, 867

Spinoza, Baruch, 207, 230, 290, 378, Telecleides, 80 | 379, 623 , | Telesio, Bernardino, 262, 263, 264, 281

Spittlehouse, John, 360, 843 Ternaux, Baron Guillaume Louis, 594, Spittler, Ludwig Timotheus von, 836 730 Staél-Holstein, Anne Louise Germaine, Terrasson, Jean, 390

Baroness de, 497, $92 Tertullianus, Quintus Septimus

Stalin, Joseph, 201, 635, 804 Florens, 47, §2, 84, 819, 821

Stanley, Charlotte, 865Theocritus, Thales, 292 ,65 , Stanley, John, 865 Stapledon, William Olaf, 776, 866 Theognis of Megara, 71

Stapleton, Thomas, 118, 141, 824 Theopompus of Chios, 83-84, 820

Starobinski, Jean, 449 Theron, Tyrant of Acragas, 76, 77

Steiner, Rudolf, 836 Thévenot, Melchisédech, 378

Stendhal (Beyle, Marie Henri), 540, Thierry, Jacques Nicolas Augustin,

612, 615, 619, 730 593, 594

Stephens, W. Walker, 847 Thomas, Jean, 854

Stern, J. P., 844 Thomasius, Jacobus, 216, 308 Stiblin, Kaspar, 840 Thomason, George, 333, 841

- Stirner, Max, see Schmidt Thompson, Craig R., 823 Stobaeus, Joannes, 78, 820 Thoreau, Henry David, 80 Stockel, Wolfgang, 198 Thucydides, 83, 94, 95, 96, 99, 343 Stoneham, Benjamin, 360 Tiberius, 665 Storch, Nikolaus, 185, 186, 360 Tigler, Peter, 826 |

Strabo, 162, 821 Tillich, Paul, 810, 868

Strachey, James, 817, 824 , Tillinghast, John, 358, 359, 843

Strattmann, Theodor Althet Heinrich Tiphaigne de La Roche, Charles, Strobel, von,Georg 844 - Francois, 433 Theodor, 199, 828 | Toland, John, 242, 361, 843

| Stubbs, Henry, 284, 834 Tolomei, Claudio, 167

Studion, Simon, 294 Tolstoy, Count Lev Nikolaevich, 18, Sturtzel, Conrad, 182, 827 737 , Suard, Amélie (Panckoucke), 487-489, Tompson, David, 537, 853

490, 850, 851 | , Tourneux, Maurice, 846

Sue, Eugéne, 663 781 , Sussmuth, Hans, 146 Trapezuntios, see Georgios Suard, Jean Baptiste Antoine, 490 Toynbee, Arnold Joseph, 11, $23, 756,

Stiss, Wilhelm, 836 Transon, Abel, 618, 858 | Sully, Maximilien de Béthune, Duke Trapnel, Anna, 360 |

de, 220, 392 Tripet, Arnaud, 833

Sun Yat Sen, 145 Trypanis, C. A., 821

Surtz, Edward Louis, 133, 145, 822, Tucker, Benjamin Ricketson, 865

823, 825 Tufo, Mario del, 262

Suso, see Seuse Tunstal(l), Bishop Cuthbert, 131, 132,

Swift, Jonathan, 86, 774 823

INDEX 895 Turgot, Anne Robert Jacques, Baron _ Villiers, George, Second Duke of

de l’Aulne, 20, 397, 414, 415, 425, Buckingham, 369

426, 431, 455, 458, 459, 461—486, Visser, Elizabeth, 821 487, 489, 491-505 passim, 508, 512, Vitale, Giovanni Battista, 270 $14, $21, $30, 602, 617, 623, 624, Vitruvius Pollio, 65, 155, 156, 157, 158, 625, 626, 633, 650, 725, 726, 729, 162-163, 164, 165, 166

847 —850 Volgin, Viacheslav Petrovich, 855

Turnbull, George Henry, 839, 840 Volland, Sophie (Louise Henriette), Tyndale, William, 137, 138, 143, 823, AIQ, 846

824 Voltaire, Francois Marie Arouet de, 185, 234, 384, 401, 413, 415-416, 424, 425, 426-427, 429, 4321 450,

Ulla, 45 456, 461, 462, 467, 481, 485, 489,

Urban VII, Pope, 267, 280 $55, §60, 563, 652, 846

Usimbardi, 831

Waard, Corneille de, 835

Vairasse, Denis, 18, 19, 22, 95, 112, Wahl, Jean André, 560 218, 219, 367, 368-381, 392, 434, Waldseemiuller, Martin, 823

438, 552, 553, $76, 843 Wall, Bernard, 867

Valentino, Henri, 850, 851 Wallace, Robert, 736 Valery, Paul, 481, 550 Wallenstein, Albrecht Eusebius Wenzel Valla, Lorenzo, 107, 118, 129, 823 von, 306

Vallauri, Giovanna, 821 Wallis, John, 339

Vaninus, 829 Walsingham, Sir Francis, 224 Variot, Jean, 748, 865 Walter, Gérard, 851 ,

Varloot, Jean, 846 Walwyn, William, 334, 336, 342, 343-

Vaughan, Charles Edwyn, 846 344, 345, 348, 349, 841 Vaux, Clothilde de, 719, 720, 721, 731, Wand, J. W. C., 819

732, 733 Warens, Madame de (Francoise-Louise Védrine, Hélene, 829 de La Tour), 437 Venner, Thomas, 359, 360 Warham, William, Archbishop of CanVenturi, Franco, 854, 855, 859 terbury, 131, 823

Vergara, Maria, 847 Watkins, Tobias, 855

Vergennes, Charles Gravier, Count de, Watson, John B., 809

148, 435 Watteau, Jean Antoine, $37

Vergil, 2, 34, 65, 66, 73-74, 75, 241, Weber, Max, 174 , 478, 820 Weber, Walter, 836 Vermes, G., 818 Webster, Charles, 840

Verne, Jules, 776 Weill, Georges, 855, 857

Vernet, Madame, 489, 490 Weitling, Wilhelm, 20, 567, 687, 701-

Verniére, Paul, 846 702, 715, 745, 746, 760, 770, 862 Vesalius, Andreas, 296 Weller, Allen Stuart, 826

Versins, Pierre, 12 Welldon, J. E. C., 818

301, 823 Duke of, 678

Vespucci, Amerigo, 22, 83, 122, 130, Wellington, Arthur Wellesley, First Vico, Giambattista, 317, 415, 426, 440, Wells, Herbert George, 7, 775-776.

455, 456, 462, 465, 467, 472, 473, 777) 778, 809

475, 484, 492, 493, $21, 623, 624, Wense, Wilhelm, 296, 297, 299, 300

626, 684, 725, 747, 750, 850 Werner, Ernst, 828

Vicq-d’Azyr, Félix, 598 Westfall, Carroll William, 826 , Victoria, Queen of Great Britain, 762 Westphalen, Jenny von, see Marx, Vida, Marco Girolamo, Bishop of Jenny

Alba, 173 Whiston, William, 454

Vigny, Alfred de, 622, 625 Whitaker, G. H., 818 Vigoureux, Clarisse, 650, 859 Wilde, Oscar, 761

Vigreux, Pierre, 847 Wilkins, John, Bishop of Chester, 22,

Villiers, George, First Duke of Buck- 207, 208, 209, 212, 219, 305, 321,

ingham, 245, 248 330, 395

456

896 INDEX

William the Conqueror, King of En- Xenophanes of Colophon, 249

gland, 340 Xenophon, 2, 16, 17, 23, 38, 93, 97,

Winckelmann, Johann Joachim, 455, 438 , Winstanley, Gerrard, 26, 189, 334, 335, _

a sy. ae 342 347, 349-355) Yates, Frances Amelia, 163, 830, 833,

Winston, David, 821 Yy "35 Edward. 6 1 Winter, Michael, x oung, R838, i » 845 O77 Winthrop, John, Jr., 322, 12 839 Young, R. F., |

Wittke, Carl F., 862 | Wittkower, Rudolf, 826 - Zachariah, 314 Wirth, Louis, 817

Wlasonic, Nicholas, 185 Zamiatin, Yevgeny, 6, 778, 809 _

Wolfe, D. M., 841 : Zavala, Silvio, 825

Wolsey, Cardinal Thomas, 133 Zchabitz, G., 827

Woodall, Frederick, 360 Zeiss, Hans, 191, 828 Woodcock, George, 864 Zeldin, David, 859

Woodhouse, A. S. P., 841 Zeno the Stoic, 64, 249, 415, 737 Worthington, Dr. John, 839 Zetzner, Lazarus, 225, 295

Wotton, Sir Henry, 2 | | Zimmermann, Wilhelm, 200, 828

Wright, Frank Lloyd, 154, 812 Zinzendorf, Count Nicolaus Ludwig Wuirttemberg, Duke of, see Eber-~ von, 18

, hard III Zuccolo, Lodovico, 151-152, 825

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