The idea of ‹value› entered into the world the first time that a man
having said to his brother, Do this for me, and I shall do that for
you—they have come to an agreement; for then, for the first time, we
could say—The two ‹services› exchanged are ‹worth each other›.
It is singular enough that the true theory of value, which we search
for in vain in many a ponderous volume, is to be found in Florian’s
beautiful fable of ‹l’Aveugle et le Paralytique›,—
Aidons—nous mutuellement,
La charge des malheurs en sera plus légère.
. . . . . . . A nous deux
Nous possédons le bien à chacun nécessaire.
J’ai des jambes, et vous des yeux.
Moi, je vais vous porter; vous, vous serez mon guide:
Ainsi, sans que jamais notre amitié décide
Qui de nous deux remplit le plus utile emploi,
Je marcherai pour vous, vous y verrez pour moi.
Here you have value discovered and defined. Here you have it in
its rigorous economic exactitude, excepting the touching trait
relative to friendship, which carries us into another sphere, that
of sympathy. We may conceive two unfortunates rendering each other
reciprocal ‹service›, without inquiring too curiously ‹which of the
two discharged the most useful employment›. The exceptional situation
imagined by the fabulist explains sufficiently that the principle
of sympathy, acting with great force, comes to absorb, so to speak,
the minute appreciation of the services exchanged—an appreciation,
however, which is indispensable in order to disengage completely
the idea of Value. That idea would be complete if all men, or the
majority of them, were struck with paralysis or blindness; for the
inexorable law of supply and demand would then predominate, and,
causing the permanent sacrifice accepted by him who fulfils the more
useful employment to disappear, would restore the transaction to the
domain of justice.
We are all blind or impotent in some respects, and we soon come to
understand that, by assisting each other, ‹the burden of misfortune
is lightened›. Hence «Exchange». We labour in order to feed, clothe,
shelter, enlighten, cure, defend, instruct one another. Hence
reciprocal «Services». We compare, we discuss, we ‹estimate› or
‹appreciate› these services. Hence «Value».
A multitude of circumstances may augment the relative importance of a
Service. We find it greater or less, according as it is more or less
useful to us—according as a greater or less number of [p136] people
are disposed to render it to us—according as it exacts from them more
or less labour, trouble, skill, time, previous study,—and according
as it saves more or less of these to ourselves. Value depends not
only on these circumstances, but on the judgment we form of them; for
it may happen, and it happens frequently, that we esteem a service
very highly because we judge it very useful, while in reality it is
hurtful. This is the reason why vanity, ignorance, error, exert a
certain influence on the essentially elastic and flexible relation
which we denominate ‹value›; and we may affirm that the appreciation
of services tends to approximate more to absolute truth and justice
in proportion as men become more enlightened, more moral, and more
refined.
Hitherto the principle of Value has been sought for in one of those
circumstances which augment or which diminish it, materiality,
durableness, utility, scarcity, labour, difficulty of acquisition,
judgment, etc., and hence a false direction has been given to the
science from the beginning; for the accident which modifies the
phenomenon is not the phenomenon itself. Moreover, each author
has constituted himself the sponsor, so to speak, of some special
circumstance which he thinks preponderates,—the constant result of
generalizing; for all is in all, and there is nothing which we cannot
comprehend under a term by means of extending its sense. Thus the
principle of value, according to Adam Smith, resides in materiality
and durability; according to Jean Baptiste Say, in utility; according
to Ricardo, in labour; according to Senior, in rarity; according to
Storch, in the judgment we form, etc.
The consequence has been what might have been expected. These authors
have unwittingly injured the authority and dignity of the science
by appearing to contradict each other; while in reality each is
right, as from his own point of view. Besides, they have involved the
first principles of Political Economy in a labyrinth of inextricable
difficulties; for the same words, as used by these authors, no longer
represent the same ideas; and, moreover, although a circumstance
may be proclaimed fundamental, other circumstances stand out too
prominently to be neglected, and definitions are thus constantly
enlarged.
The object of the present work is not controversy, but exposition. I
explain what I myself see, not what others have seen. I cannot avoid,
however, calling the attention of the reader to the circumstances
in which the foundation of Value has hitherto been sought for. But,
first of all, I must bring Value itself before him in a series of
examples, for it is by divers applications that the mind lays hold of
a theory. [p137]
I shall demonstrate how all is definitely resolved into a barter of
services; but it is necessary to keep in mind what has been said
on the subject of barter in the preceding chapter. It is rarely
simple—sometimes it forms a circular or round-about transaction among
several parties,—most frequently, by the intervention of money, it
resolves itself into two factors, ‹sale› and ‹purchase›; but as this
complication does not change its nature, I may be permitted, for the
sake of perspicuity, to assume the barter to be direct and immediate.
This will lead to no mistake as to the nature of Value.
* * * * *
We are all born with an imperious material want, which must be
satisfied under pain of death, I mean that of breathing. On the other
hand, we all exist in a medium which, in general, supplies that want
without the intervention of any effort on our part. Atmospheric air,
then, has utility without having ‹value›. It has no Value, because,
requiring no Effort, it gives rise to no service. To render a service
to any one is to save him trouble; and where it is not necessary to
take pains in order to realize a satisfaction, no trouble can be
saved.
But if a man descend to the bottom of a river in a diving-bell, a
foreign substance is interposed between the air and his lungs, and,
in order to re-establish the communication, a pump must be employed.
Here there is an effort to make, pains to take, and the man below
desires the exertion, for it is a matter of life or death, and he
cannot possibly secure to himself a greater ‹service›.
Instead of making this effort himself, he calls on me to make it for
him, and, in order to induce me to do so, he undertakes in turn to
make an exertion from which I may reap satisfaction. We discuss the
matter, and come to an agreement. Now, what do we discover here? two
wants, two satisfactions, which are not inconsistent with each other;
two efforts, which are the subject of a voluntary transaction; two
‹services›, which are exchanged,—and ‹value› makes its appearance.
Now, we are told that utility is the foundation of value; and as
utility is inherent in the air, we are led to think that it is the
same in regard to value. There is here an evident confusion of
ideas. The air, from its nature, has physical properties in harmony
with one of our physical organs, the lungs. The portion which I
draw from the atmosphere in order to fill the diving-bell does not
change its nature—it is still oxygen and azote. No new physical
quality is combined with it, no reacting power brings out of it a new
element called ‹value›. ‹That› springs exclusively from the service
rendered. [p138]
If, in laying down the general principle, that Utility is the
foundation of Value, you mean that the Service has value because it
is useful to him who receives it and pays for it, I allow the truth
of what you say. It is a truism implied in the very word ‹service›.
But we must not confound the utility of the air with the utility
of the service. They are two utilities distinct from each other,
different in nature, different in kind, which bear no proportion to
one another, and have no necessary relation. There are circumstances
in which, with very slight exertion, by rendering a very small
service, or saving very little trouble, I may bring within the reach
of another an article of very great intrinsic ‹utility›.
Take the case of the diving-bell, and consider how the parties to
the supposed bargain manage to estimate the value of the ‹service›
rendered by the one to the other in supplying him with atmospheric
air. We must have a point of comparison, and that point of comparison
can only be in the ‹service› which the diver renders in return. Their
reciprocal demands will depend on their relative situation, on the
intensity of their desires, on the greater or less need they have of
each other, and on a multitude of circumstances which demonstrate
that the value is in the Service, since it increases with the service.
The reader may easily vary the hypothesis, so as to convince himself
that the Value is not necessarily proportionate to the intensity of
the efforts,—a remark which I set down here as a connecting link in
the chain of reasoning, and of which I shall afterwards have occasion
to make use; for my object is to prove that Value no more resides in
labour than it does in utility.
Nature has so constituted me that I must die if I am deprived of an
opportunity, from time to time, of quenching my thirst, and the well
is a league from the village. For this reason, I take the trouble
every morning to go thither to fetch the water of which I have need,
for in water I have recognised those ‹useful› qualities which are
calculated to assuage the suffering called thirst. Want, Effort,
Satisfaction—we have them all here. I have found Utility—I have not
yet found Value.
But, as my neighbour goes also to the fountain, I say to him—“‹Save
me the pains› of this journey—‹render me the service› of bringing
me water. During the time you are so occupied, I shall do something
for you, I shall teach your child to spell.” This arrangement suits
us both. Here is an exchange of two services, and we are enabled to
pronounce that the one is ‹worth› the other. The things compared here
are two efforts, not two wants and two [p139] satisfactions; for by
what common standard should we compare the benefit of drinking water
and that of learning to spell?
By-and-by I say to my neighbour—“Your child troubles me—I should like
better to do something else for you. You shall continue to bring me
water, and I shall give you twopence.” If the proposal is agreed
to, the Economist may, without fear of mistake, pronounce that ‹the
service› «IS WORTH» ‹twopence›.
Afterwards, my neighbour no longer waits to be requested. He knows by
experience that every day I want water. He anticipates my wishes. At
the same time, he provides water for the other villagers. In short,
he becomes a water merchant. It is then that we begin to say, ‹the
water› «IS WORTH» ‹twopence›.
Has the water, then, changed its nature? Has the Value, which
was but now in the service, become materialized and incorporated
in the water, as if it were a new chemical element? Has a slight
modification in the form of the arrangement between my neighbour and
me had the power to displace the principle of ‹value› and change its
nature? I am not purist enough to find fault with your saying that
the ‹water is worth twopence›, just as you say ‹the sun sets›. But we
must remember that metaphors and metonymies do not affect the truth
of facts; and that, in strict scientific language, value can no more
be said to reside in the water than the sun can be said to go to rest
in the sea.
Let us attribute, then, to things the peculiar qualities which belong
to them—to air, to water, ‹utility›—to services, ‹value›. We may say
with propriety that water is ‹useful›, because it has the property
of allaying thirst; and it is the service which ‹has value›, because
it is the subject of a convention previously debated and discussed.
So true is this, that if the well is brought nearer, or removed to a
greater distance, the Utility of the water remains the same, but its
value is diminished or increased. Why? because the ‹service› is less
or greater. The ‹value›, then, is in the ‹service›, seeing that it
is increased or diminished according as the service is increased or
diminished.
The ‹diamond› makes a great figure in works of Political Economy.
It is adduced as an illustration of the laws of Value, or of the
supposed disturbance of those laws. It is a brilliant weapon with
which all the schools do battle. The English school asserts that
“Value resides in labour.” The French school exhibits a diamond,
and says—“Here is a commodity which exacts no labour and yet is of
immense value.” The French school affirms that the foundation of
value is utility, and the English school immediately brings forward
the diamond in opposition to the [p140] illustrations drawn from
air, light, and water. “The air is very useful,” says the English
Economist, “but it possesses no value; the ‹utility› of the diamond
is almost inappreciable, and yet it possesses more ‹value› than
the whole atmosphere;” and the reader is inclined to say with
Henri Quatre—“In sooth, they are both right.” They end by landing
themselves in an error more fatal than both the others, and are
forced to avow that ‹value› resides in the works of nature, and that
that value is ‹material›.
My definition, as it seems to me, gets rid of these anomalies, and is
confirmed rather than invalidated by the illustration which has been
adduced.
I take a walk along the sea-beach, and I find by chance a magnificent
diamond. I am thus put in possession of a great ‹value›. Why? Am I
about to confer a great benefit on the human race? Have I devoted
myself to a long and laborious work? Neither the one nor the other.
Why, then, does this diamond possess so much value? Undoubtedly
because the person to whom I transfer it considers that I have
rendered him a great ‹service›,—all the greater that many rich
people desire it, and that I alone can render it. The grounds of
his judgment may be controverted—be it so. It may be founded on
pride, on vanity—granted again. But this judgment has, nevertheless,
been formed by a man who is disposed to act upon it, and that is
sufficient for my argument.
Far from the judgment being based on a reasonable appreciation
of ‹utility›, we may allow that the very reverse is the case.
Ostentation makes great sacrifices for what is utterly ‹useless›.
In this case, the value, far from bearing a necessary proportion to
the labour ‹performed› by the person who renders the service, may be
said rather to bear proportion to the labour ‹saved› to the person
who receives it. This general law of value, which has not, so far as
I know, been observed by theoretical writers, nevertheless prevails
universally in practice. We shall explain afterwards the admirable
mechanism by which value tends to proportion itself to labour when it
is free; but it is not the less true that it has its principle and
foundation less in the effort of the person who ‹serves› than in the
effort saved to him who ‹is served›.
The transaction relative to the diamond may be supposed to give rise
to the following dialogue:—
“Give me your diamond, Sir.”
“With all my heart; give me in exchange your labour for an entire
year.” [p141]
“Your acquisition has not cost you a minute’s work.”
“Very well, Sir, try to find a similar lucky minute.”
“Yes; but, in strict equity, the exchange ought to be one of ‹equal
labour›.”
“No; in strict equity, you put a value on your own services, and
I upon mine; I don’t force you; why should you lay a constraint
upon me? Give me a whole year’s labour, or seek out a diamond for
yourself.”
“But that might entail upon me ten years’ work, and would probably
end in nothing. It would be wiser and more profitable to devote these
ten years to another employment.”
“It is precisely on that account that I imagined I was rendering you
a ‹service› in asking for only one year’s work. I thus save you nine,
and that is the reason why I attach great ‹value› to the ‹service›.
If I appear to you exacting, it is because you regard only the labour
which I have performed; but consider also the labour which I save
you, and you will find me reasonable in my demand.”
“It is not the less true that you profit by a work of nature.”
“And if I were to give away what I have found for little or nothing,
it is you who would profit by it. Besides, if this diamond possesses
great value, it is not because nature has been elaborating it since
the beginning of time: she does as much for a drop of dew.”
“Yes; but if diamonds were as common as dew-drops, you could no
longer lay down the law to me, and make your own conditions.”
“Very true; because, in that case, you would not address yourself to
me, or would not be disposed to recompense me highly for a ‹service›
which you could easily perform for yourself.”
The result of this dialogue is, that Value no more resides in the
diamond than in the air or in the water. It resides exclusively in
the ‹services› which we suppose to be rendered and received with
reference to these things, and is determined by the free bargaining
of the parties who make the exchange.
Take up the ‹Collection des Économistes›, and read and compare
all the definitions which you will find there. If there be one of
them which meets the cases of the air and the diamond, two cases
in appearance so opposite, throw this book into the fire. But if
the definition which I propose, simple as it is, solves, or rather
obviates, the difficulty, you are bound in conscience, gentle reader,
to go on to the end of the work, or it is in vain that we have placed
an inviting sign-board over the vestibule of the science.
Allow me to give some more examples, in order to elucidate clearly
my thoughts, and familiarize the reader with a new definition.
By exhibiting this fundamental principle in different aspects,
[p142] we shall clear the way for a thorough comprehension of the
consequences, which I venture to predict will be found no less
important than unexpected.
Among the wants to which our physical constitution subjects us is
that of food; and one of the articles best fitted to satisfy that
want is Bread.
As the need of food is personal to me, I should, naturally, myself
perform all the operations necessary to provide the needful supply of
bread. I can the less expect my fellow-men to render me gratuitously
this service, that they are themselves subject to the same want, and
condemned to the same exertion.
Were I to make my own bread, I must devote myself to a labour
infinitely more complicated, but strictly analogous to that which the
necessity of fetching water from the spring would have imposed upon
me. The elements of bread exist everywhere in nature. As J. B. Say
has judiciously remarked, it is neither possible nor necessary for
man to create anything. Gases, salts, electricity, vegetable life,
all exist; my business is to unite them, assist them, combine them,
transport them, availing myself of that great laboratory called the
earth, in which mysteries are accomplished from which human science
has scarcely raised the veil. If the operations to which I must
devote myself in the pursuit of my design are in the aggregate very
complicated, each of them, taken singly, is as simple as the act of
drawing water from the fountain. Every effort I make is simply a
service which I render to myself; and if, in consequence of a bargain
freely entered into, it happens that other persons save me some of
these efforts, or the whole of them, these are so many ‹services›
which I receive. The aggregate of these services, compared with those
which I render in return, constitute the value of the Bread and
determine its amount.
A convenient intermediate commodity intervenes to facilitate
this exchange of services, and even to serve as a measure of
their relative importance—Money. But this makes no substantial
difference,—the principle remains exactly the same, just as in
mechanics the transmission of forces is subject to the same law,
whether there be one or several intermediate wheels.
This is so true that, when the loaf is worth fourpence, for example,
if a good bookkeeper wishes to analyze its value, he will succeed in
discovering, amid the multiplicity of transactions which go to the
accomplishment of the final result, all those whose services have
contributed to form that value,—all those who have saved labour to
the man who finally pays for it as the consumer. He discovers, first
of all, the baker, who retains his five per cent., [p143] and from
that percentage remunerates the mason who has built his oven, the
wood-cutter who prepares his billets, etc. Then comes the miller, who
receives not only the recompense of his own labour, but the means
of remunerating the quarryman who has furnished his millstones, the
labourer who has formed his dam, etc. Other portions of the total
value go to the thresher, the reaper, the labourer, the sower, until
you account for the last farthing. No part of it assuredly goes to
remunerate God and nature. The very idea is absurd, and yet this is
rigorously implied in the theory of the Economists, who attribute
a certain portion of the value of a product to matter or natural
forces. No; we still find that what ‹has value› is not the Loaf, but
the series of ‹services› which have put me in possession of it.
It is true that, among the elementary parts of the value of the
loaf, our book-keeper will find one which he will have difficulty in
connecting with a ‹service›, at least a service implying effort. He
will find of the fourpence, of which the price is made up, a part
goes to the proprietor of the soil, to the man who has the keeping
of the laboratory. That small portion of the value of the loaf
constitutes what is called the ‹rent of land›; and, misled by the
form of expression, by the metonymy which again makes its appearance
here, our calculator may be tempted to think that this portion is
allotted to natural agents—to the soil itself.
I maintain that, if he exercises sufficient skill, he will find that
this is still the price of real ‹services›—services of the same
kind as all the others. This will be demonstrated with the clearest
evidence when we come to treat of ‹landed property›. At present, I
shall only remark, that I am not concerned here with property, but
with ‹value›. I don’t inquire whether all services are real and
legitimate, or whether men do not sometimes succeed in getting paid
for services which they do not render. The world, alas! is full of
such injustices, but ‹rent› must not be included among them.
All that I have to demonstrate here is, that the pretended value of
‹commodities› is only the value of ‹services›, real or imaginary,
received and rendered in connexion with them—that value does not
reside in the commodities themselves, and is no more to be found
in the loaf than in the diamond, the water, or the air—that no
part of the remuneration goes to nature—that it proceeds from the
final consumer of the article, and is distributed exclusively among
men,—and that it would not be accorded to them by him for any other
reason than that they have rendered him services, unless, indeed, in
the case of violence or fraud.
Two men agree that ice is a good thing in summer, and coal a [p144]
still better thing in winter. They supply two of our wants—the one
cools, the other warms us. We do not fail to remark that the Utility
of these commodities consists in certain ‹material› properties
suitably adapted to our ‹material› organs. We remark, moreover, that
among those properties, which physics and chemistry might enumerate,
we do not find ‹value›, or anything like it. How, then, have we come
to regard value as inherent in matter and material?
If the two men we have supposed wished to obtain the satisfaction
of their wants, without acting in concert, each would labour to
provide for himself both the articles wanted. If they came to an
understanding, the one would provide coal for two from the coal-mine,
the other ice for two from the mountain. This presupposes a bargain.
They must then adjust the relation of the two services exchanged.
They would take all circumstances into account—the difficulties to
be overcome, the dangers to be braved, the time to be spent, the
pains to be taken, the skill to be displayed, the risks to be run,
the possibility of providing for their wants in some other way, etc.,
etc. When they came to an understanding, the Economist would say, The
two ‹services› exchanged ‹are worth› each other. In common language,
it would be said by metonymy—Such a quantity of coal ‹is worth› such
a quantity of ice, as if the value had passed physically into these
bodies. But it is easy to see that if the common form of expression
enables us to state the results, the scientific expression alone
reveals to us the true causes.
In place of two services and two persons, the agreement may embrace
a greater number, substituting a complex Exchange for simple Barter.
In that case, money would intervene to facilitate the exchange.
Need I say that the principle of value would be neither changed nor
displaced?
But I must add here a single observation ‹àpropos› of coal. It may be
that there is only one coal-mine in a country, and that an individual
has got possession of it. If so, this man will make conditions; that
is to say, he will put a high price upon his ‹services›, or pretended
‹services›.
We have not yet come to the question of right and justice, to the
distinction between true and loyal services, and those that are
fraudulent and pretended. What concerns us at this moment is, to
consolidate the true theory of value, and to disembarrass it of one
error with which Economical science is infected. When we say that
what nature has done or given, she has done or given ‹gratuitously›,
and that the notion of ‹value› is excluded, we are answered by an
analysis of the price of coal, or some other natural product. It is
acknowledged, indeed, that the greater part of this [p145] price is
the remuneration of the services of man. One man has excavated the
ground, another has drained away the water, another has raised the
fuel to the surface, another has transported it to its destination;
and it is the aggregate of these works, it is allowed, which
constitutes ‹nearly› the entire ‹value›. Still there remains one
portion of the ‹value› which does not correspond with any labour or
‹service›. This is the value of the coal as it lies under the soil,
still virgin, and untouched by human labour. It forms the share of
the proprietor; and, since this portion of Value is not of human
creation, it follows necessarily that it is the creation of nature.
I reject that conclusion, and I premonish the reader that, if he
admits it to a greater or less extent, he cannot proceed a single
step farther in the science. No; the action of nature does not create
Value, any more than the action of man creates matter. Of two things
one: either the proprietor has usefully co-operated towards the final
result, and has rendered real services, and then the portion of value
which he has conferred on the coal enters into my definition; or else
he obtrudes himself as a parasite, and, in that case, he has had
the address to get paid for ‹services› which he has not rendered,
and the price of the coal is unduly augmented. That circumstance
may prove, indeed, that injustice has entered into the transaction;
but it cannot overturn the theory so as to authorize us to say that
this portion of value is material,—that it is combined as a physical
element with the gratuitous gifts of Providence. Here is the proof
of it. Cause the injustice to cease, if injustice there be, and
the corresponding value will disappear, which it assuredly would
not have done had the value been inherent in matter and of natural
creation.[30]
* * * * *
Let us now pass to one of our most imperious wants, that of
‹security›.
A certain number of men land upon an inhospitable coast. They begin
to work. But each of them finds himself constantly drawn away from
his employment by the necessity of defending himself against wild
beasts, or men still more savage. Besides the time and the exertion
which he devotes directly to the work of defence, he has to provide
himself with arms and munitions. At length it is discovered that, on
the whole, infinitely less power and effort would be wasted if some
of them, abandoning other work, were to devote themselves exclusively
to this ‹service›. This [p146] duty is assigned to those who are
most distinguished for address, courage, and vigour—and they improve
in an art which they make their exclusive business. Whilst they watch
over the public safety, the community reaps from its labours, now
no longer interrupted, more satisfactions ‹for all› than it loses
by the diversion of ten men from other avocations. This arrangement
is in consequence made. What do we see in it but a new progress in
the ‹division of occupations›, inducing and requiring an exchange of
‹services›?
Are the services of these soldiers, guards, militiamen, or whatever
you may call them, ‹productive›? Undoubtedly they are, seeing that
the sole object of the arrangement is to increase the proportion
which the aggregate Satisfactions of the community bear to the
general efforts.
Have they ‹Value›? They must have it, since we esteem them,
appreciate them, ‹estimate› their worth, and, in fine, pay for them
with other ‹services› with which they are compared.
The form in which this remuneration is stipulated for, the mode of
levying it, the process we adopt in adjusting and concluding the
arrangement, make no alteration on the principle. Are there efforts
saved to some men by others? Are there satisfactions procured
for some by others? In that case there are ‹services› exchanged,
compared, ‹estimated›;—there is ‹Value›.
The kind of services we are now discussing, when social complications
occur, lead sometimes to frightful consequences. The very nature
of the services which we demand from this class of functionaries
requires us to put into their hands Power,—power sufficient to
subdue all resistance,—and it sometimes happens that they abuse it,
and turn it against the very community which employs them. Deriving
from the community services proportioned to the want we have of
‹security›, they themselves may cause insecurity, in order to display
their own importance, and, by a too skilful diplomacy, involve their
fellow-citizens in perpetual wars.
All this has happened, and still happens. Great disturbances of the
just equilibrium of reciprocal services are the result of it. But it
makes no change in the fundamental principle and scientific theory of
Value.
* * * * *
I must still give another example or two; but I pray the reader
to believe that I feel quite as much as he can how tiresome and
fatiguing this series of hypotheses must be—throwing us back, as
they all do, on the same kind of proof, tending to the same [p147]
conclusion, expressed in the same terms. He must understand,
however, that this process, if not the most interesting, is at least
the surest way of establishing the true theory of Value, and of thus
clearing the road we have to traverse.
We suppose ourselves in Paris. In that great metropolis there is a
vast fermentation of desires, and abundant means also of satisfying
them. Multitudes of rich men, or men in easy circumstances, devote
themselves to industry, to the arts, to politics—and in the evening
they are all eager to obtain an hour’s recreation. Among the
amusements which they relish most is the pleasure of hearing the
music of Rossini sung by Malibran, or the admirable poetry of Racine
interpreted by Rachel. There are in the world only two women who can
furnish these noble and delicate kinds of entertainment, and unless
we could subject them to torture, which would probably not succeed,
we have no other way of procuring their services but by addressing
ourselves to their good will. Thus the services which we expect from
Malibran and Rachel are possessed of great ‹Value›. This explanation
is prosaic enough, but it is true.
If an opulent banker should desire to gratify his vanity by having
the performances of one of these great ‹artistes› in his ‹salons›,
he will soon find by experience the full truth of my theory. He
desires a rich treat, a lively satisfaction—he desires it eagerly—and
only one person in the world can furnish it. He cannot procure it
otherwise than by offering a large remuneration.
Between what extreme limits will the transaction oscillate? The
banker will go on till he reaches the point at which he prefers
rather to lose the satisfaction than to pay what he deems an
extravagant price for it; the singer to that point at which she
prefers to accept the remuneration offered, rather than not be
remunerated at all. This point of equilibrium determines the value
of this particular service, as it does of all others. It may be
that in many cases custom fixes this delicate point. There is too
much taste in the ‹beau monde› to ‹higgle› about certain services.
The remuneration may even be gracefully disguised, so as to veil
the vulgarity of the economic law. That law, however, presides over
this transaction, just as it does over the most ordinary bargain;
and Value does not change its nature because experience or urbanity
dispenses with discussing it formally on every occasion.
This explains how ‹artistes› above the usual standard of excellence
succeed in realizing great fortunes. Another circumstance favours
them. Their services are of such a nature that they can render them,
at one and the same time, and by one and the same effort, to [p148]
a multitude of individuals. However large the theatre, provided
the voice of Rachel can fill it, each spectator enjoys the full
pleasure of her inimitable declamation. This is the foundation of a
new arrangement. Three or four thousand people, all experiencing the
same desire, may come to an understanding, and raise the requisite
sum; and the contribution of each to the remuneration of the great
‹tragedienne› constitutes the equivalent of the unique service
rendered by her to all at once. Such is ‹Value›.
As a great number of auditors may combine in order to witness an
entertainment of this description, so a number of actors may combine
in order to perform in an opera or play. Managers may intervene,
to save them the trouble of a multiplicity of trifling accessory
arrangements. Value is thus multiplied, ramified, distributed, and
rendered complex—but it does not change its nature.
We shall finish with some exceptional cases. Such cases form the best
test of a sound theory. When the rule is correct, exceptions do not
invalidate, but confirm it.
An aged priest moves slowly along, pensive, with staff in hand,
and breviary under his arm. His air is serene, his countenance
expressive,—he looks inspired! Where is he going? Do you see that
church in the distance? The youthful village parson, distrustful
as yet of his own powers, has called to his assistance the old
missionary. But first of all he has some arrangements to make. The
preacher will find, indeed, food and shelter at the parsonage—but
he must live from one year’s end to another. Mons. le Curé, then,
has promoted a subscription among the rich people of the village,
moderate in amount, but sufficient; for the aged pastor is not
exacting, and answered the person who wrote to him—“Du pain pour moi,
voilà mon nécessaire; une obole pour le pauvre, voilà mon superflu.”
Thus are the economic preliminaries complied with; for this meddling
Political Economy creeps into everything, and is to be found
everywhere—‹Nil humani a me alienum puto›.
Let us enlarge a little on this example, which is very apposite to
what we are now discussing.
Here you have an exchange of services. On the one hand you have an
old man who devotes his time, his strength, his talents, his health,
to enlighten the minds of a few villagers, and raise them to a higher
moral level. On the other hand, bread for a few days, and a hat and
cassock, are assured to the man of eloquence.
But there is something more here. There is a rivalry of sacrifices.
The old priest refuses everything that is not absolutely
indispensable. Of that poor pittance the curé takes one half on his
[p149] own shoulders; the village Crœsuses exempt their brethren
from the other half, who nevertheless profit by the sermons.
Do these sacrifices invalidate our definition of value? Not at
all. Each is free to render his services only on such terms as are
agreeable to himself. If these conditions are made easy, or if
none are stipulated for, what is the consequence? The ‹service›,
preserving its utility, loses its value. The old priest is persuaded
that his services will find their reward in another world, and he
cares not for their being recompensed here below. He feels, no doubt,
that he is rendering a service to his auditors in addressing them,
but he also feels that they do him a service in listening to him.
Hence it follows that the transaction is based upon advantage to
one of the contracting parties, with the full consent of the other.
That is all. In general, exchanges are determined and estimated by
reference to self-interest; but, thank God, that is not always the
case: they are sometimes based on the principle of sympathy, and
in that case we either transfer to another a satisfaction which
we might have reserved for ourselves, or we make an effort for
him which we might have devoted to our own profit and advantage.
Generosity, devotion, self-sacrifice, are impulses of our nature,
which, like many other circumstances, influence the actual ‹value› of
a particular service, but they make no change on the general law of
‹values›.
In contrast to this consoling example, I might adduce another of
a very opposite character. In order that a service should possess
value, in the economical sense of the word, it is not at all
indispensable that it should be a real, conscientious, and useful
service; it is sufficient that it is accepted, and paid for by
another service. The world is full of people who palm upon the public
services of a quality more than doubtful, and make the public pay for
them. All depends on the ‹judgment› which we form in each case; and
this is the reason why morals will be always the best auxiliary of
Political Economy.
Impostors succeed in propagating a false belief. They represent
themselves as the ambassadors of Heaven. They open at pleasure the
gates of heaven or of hell. When this belief has once taken firm
root, “Here,” say they, “are some little images to which we have
communicated the virtue of securing eternal happiness to those who
carry them about their persons. In bestowing upon you one of these
images, we render you an immense ‹service›. You must render us, then,
certain ‹services› in return.” Here you have a ‹Value› created. It is
founded on a false appreciation, you say, and that is true. We might
say as much of many material things [p150] which possess a certain
value, for they would find purchasers if set up to auction. Economic
science would become impossible if we admitted as values only values
correctly and judiciously appreciated. At every step we must begin
a new course of the moral and physical sciences. In a state of
isolation, depraved desires and a warped intelligence may cause a man
to pursue with great effort and exertion a chimerical satisfaction—a
delusion. In like manner, in the social state, it sometimes happens,
as the philosopher says, that we buy regret too dear. But if truth is
naturally more in keeping with the human mind than error, all these
frauds are destined to disappear—all these delusive services to be
spurned and lose their ‹value›. Civilisation will, in the long-run,
put everybody and everything in the right place.
But we must conclude this analysis, which has already extended to too
great a length. Among the various wants of our nature, respiration,
hunger, thirst—and the wants and desires which take their rise in
our vanity, in our heads, hearts, and opinions, in our hopes for the
future, whether well or ill grounded—everywhere we have sought for
Value—and we have found it wherever an ‹exchange of service› takes
place. We have found it everywhere of the same nature, based upon a
principle clear, simple, absolute, although influenced by a multitude
of varying circumstances. We might have passed in review all our
other wants; we might have cited the carpenter, the mason, the
manufacturer, the tailor, the physician, the officer of justice, the
lawyer, the merchant, the painter, the judge, the president of the
republic, and we should have found exactly the same thing. Frequently
a material substance; sometimes forces furnished ‹gratuitously› by
nature; always human services interchanged, measuring each other,
estimating, appreciating, ‹valuing› one another, and exhibiting
simply the result of that Valuation—or «Value».
There is, however, one of our wants, very special in its nature,
the cement of society, at once the cause and the effect of all our
transactions, and the everlasting problem of Political Economy, of
which it is necessary to say something in this place—I allude to the
want of ‹Exchanging›.
In the preceding chapter we have described the marvellous effects
of Exchange. They are such that men must naturally feel a desire to
facilitate it, even at the expense of considerable sacrifices. It is
for this end that we have roads, canals, railways, carriages, ships,
merchants, tradesmen, bankers; and it is impossible to believe that
society would submit to such enormous draughts upon its forces for
the purpose of facilitating [p151] exchange, if it did not find in
exchange itself an ample compensation.
We have also seen that direct ‹barter› could give rise only to
transactions at once inconvenient and restrained.
It is on that account that men have thought of resolving barter into
two factors, ‹sale› and ‹purchase›, by means of an intermediate
commodity, readily divisible, and, above all, possessed of ‹value›,
in order to secure public confidence. This intermediate commodity is
Money.
And it is worthy of remark that what, by an ellipsis or metonymy,
we designate the value of gold and silver rests on exactly the same
foundation as that of the air, the water, the diamond, the sermons of
our old missionary, or the roulades of Malibran—that is to say, upon
services rendered and received.
The gold, indeed, which we find spread on the favoured banks of the
Sacramento, derives from nature many precious qualities—ductility,
weight, beauty, brilliancy, utility even, if you will. But there is
one quality which nature has not given it, because nature has nothing
to do with that—‹Value›. A man knows that gold supplies a want which
is sensibly felt, and that it is much coveted. He goes to California
to seek for gold, just as my neighbour went to the spring to fetch
water. He devotes himself to hard work—he digs, he excavates, he
washes, he melts down—and then he comes to me and says: I will render
you the service of transferring to you this gold; what service will
you render me in return? We discuss the matter, we weigh all the
circumstances which should influence our determination;—at last we
conclude a bargain, and Value is manifested and fixed. Misled by this
curt form of expression, “Gold is ‹valuable›,” we might suppose that
the value resides in the gold, just as the qualities of ductility
and specific gravity reside in it, and that nature has put it there.
I hope the reader is already satisfied that this is a mistake.
By-and-by he will be convinced that it is a deplorable fallacy.
Another misconception exists on the subject of gold, or rather
of money. As it is the constant medium which enters into all
transactions, the mean term between the two factors of ‹compound
barter›, it is always with its value that we compare the value of the
two services to be exchanged; and hence we are led to regard gold or
money as a ‹measure› of value. In practice it cannot be otherwise.
But science ought never to forget that money, so far as its value
is concerned, is subject to the same fluctuations as any other
product or service. Science does forget this sometimes; nor is it
surprising. Everything tends to make us consider money [p152] as the
measure of value, in the same way as the ‹litre› (or quart) is the
measure of capacity. It plays an analogous part in actual business.
One is not aware of its own fluctuations, because the franc, like its
multiples and sub-multiples, always retains the same denomination.
And arithmetic itself tends to propagate the confusion by ranking the
franc as a measure, along with the measures of quantity in daily use.
I have given a definition of Value, at least of value according
to my idea of it. I have subjected that definition to the test of
divers facts. None of them, so far as I can see, contradict it; and
the scientific signification which I have given to the word agrees
with its vulgar acceptation, which is no small advantage, no slight
guarantee—for what is science but experience classified? What is
theory but the methodical exposition of universal practice?
I may now be permitted to glance rapidly at the systems which have
hitherto prevailed. It is not in a spirit of controversy, much less
of criticism, that I enter upon this examination, and I should
willingly avoid it were I not convinced that it will throw new light
upon the fundamental principles which I am advocating.
We have seen that writers on Political Economy have sought for the
principle of Value in one or more of the accidents which exercise
a notable influence over it, such as materiality, conservability,
utility, rarity, labour, etc.; just like a physiologist who should
seek the principle of life in one or more of the external phenomena
which are necessary to its development, as air, water, light,
electricity, etc.
‹Materiality.›—“Man,” says M. de Bonald, “is mind served by organs.”
If the economists of the materialist school had simply meant that men
can render reciprocal services to each other only through the medium
of their bodily organs, and had thence concluded that there is always
something material in these services, and, consequently, in Value,
I should not have proceeded a step farther, as I have a horror at
word-catching and subtilties, which wit revels in.
But they have not thus understood it. What they believe is that Value
has been communicated to matter, either by the labour of man or by
the action of nature. In a word, deceived by the elliptical form
of expression, gold ‹is worth› so much, corn ‹is worth› so much,
they think they see in matter a quality called ‹Value›, just as the
natural philosopher sees in it resistance and weight—and yet these
attributes have been disputed.
Be that as it may, I dispute formally the existence of Value as an
attribute of matter. [p153]
And first of all, it cannot be denied that Matter and Value are
often found separated. When we say to a man—Carry that letter to
its destination—fetch me some water—teach me this science or that
manufacturing process—give me advice as to my sickness, or my
law-suit—watch over my security, while I give myself up to labour
or to sleep,—what we demand is a Service, and in that service we
acknowledge in the face of the world that there resides a ‹Value›,
seeing that we pay for it voluntarily by an ‹equivalent› service.
It would be strange that we should refuse to admit in theory what
universal consent admits in practice.
True, our transactions have reference frequently to material objects;
but what does that prove? Why, that men, by exercising foresight,
prepare to render services which they know to be in demand. I
purchase a coat ready made, or I have a tailor to come to my house to
work by the day; but does that change the principle of Value, so as
to make it reside at one time in the coat and at another time in the
service?
One might ask here this puzzling question—Must we not see the
principle of Value first of all in the material object, and then
attribute it by analogy to the services? I say that it is just the
reverse. We must recognise it first of all in the services, and
attribute it afterwards, if we choose, by a figure of speech, by
metonymy, to the material objects.
The numerous examples which I have adduced render it unnecessary
for me to pursue this discussion further. But I cannot refrain from
justifying myself for having entered on it, by showing to what fatal
consequences an error, or, if you will, an incomplete truth, may
lead, when placed at the threshold of a science.
The least inconvenience of the definition which I am combating has
been to curtail and mutilate Political Economy. If Value resides
in matter, then where there is no matter there can be no Value.
The ‹Physiocrates›[31] designated three-fourths of the entire
population as ‹sterile›, and Adam Smith, softening the expression, as
‹unproductive› classes.
But as facts in the long run are stronger than definitions, it became
necessary in some way to bring back these classes, and make them
re-enter the circle of economic studies. They were introduced by
way of analogy; but the language of the science, formed beforehand
on other definitions, had been so materialized as to render this
extension repulsive. What mean such phrases as these: “To consume
an immaterial product? Man is accumulated capital? Security is a
commodity?” etc., etc. [p154]
Not only was the language of the science materialized beyond
measure, but writers were forced to surcharge it with subtile
distinctions, in order to reconcile ideas which had been erroneously
separated. Hence Adam Smith’s expression of ‹Value in use›, in
contradistinction to ‹Value in exchange›, etc.
A greater evil still has been that, in consequence of this confusion
of two great social phenomena, ‹property› and ‹community›, the one
has seemed incapable of justification, and the other has been lost
sight of.
In fact, if Value resides in matter, it becomes mixed up with the
physical qualities of bodies which render them useful to man. Now,
these qualities are frequently placed there by nature. Then nature
co-operates in creating ‹Value›, and we find ourselves attributing
value to what is essentially ‹common› and ‹gratuitous›. On what
basis, then, do you place ‹property›? When the remuneration which
I give in order to obtain a material product, corn for example, is
distributed among all the labourers, near or at a distance, who have
rendered me a ‹service› in the production of that commodity,—who
is to receive that portion of the ‹value› which corresponds to
the action of nature, and with which man has nothing to do? Is it
Providence who is to receive it? No one will say so, for we never
heard of Nature demanding wages. Is man to receive it? What title has
he to it, seeing that, by the hypothesis, he has done nothing?
Do not suppose that I am exaggerating, and that, for the sake of my
own definition, I am torturing the definition of the economists, and
deducing from it too rigorous conclusions. No, these consequences
they have themselves very explicitly deduced, under the pressure of
logic.
Thus, Senior has said that “those who have appropriated natural
agents receive, under the form of rent, a recompense without having
made any sacrifice. They merely hold out their hands to receive the
offerings of the rest of the community.” Scrope tells us that “landed
property is an artificial restriction imposed upon the enjoyment
of those gifts which the Creator has intended for the satisfaction
of the wants of all.” J. B. Say has these words: “Arable lands
‹would seem› to form a portion of natural wealth, seeing that they
are not of human creation, and that nature has given them to man
‹gratuitously›. But as this description of wealth is not fugitive,
like air and water,—as a field is a space fixed and marked out which
‹certain› men have succeeded in appropriating, to the exclusion of
all others who have given their consent to this appropriation, land,
which was natural [p155] and ‹gratuitous› property, has now ‹become›
social wealth, the use of which must be paid for.”
Truly, if it be so, Proudhon is justified in proposing this terrible
question, followed by an affirmation still more terrible:—
“To whom belongs the rent of land? To the producer of land, without
doubt. Who made the land? God. Then, proprietor, begone!”
Yes, by a vicious definition, Political Economy has handed over logic
to the Communists. I will break this terrible weapon in their hands,
or rather they shall surrender it to me cheerfully. The consequences
will disappear when I have annihilated the principle. And I undertake
to demonstrate that if, in the production of wealth, the action of
nature is combined with the action of man, the first—gratuitous and
common in its own nature—remains gratuitous and common in all our
transactions; that the second alone represents ‹services›, ‹value›;
that the action of man alone is remunerated; and that it alone is the
foundation, explanation, and justification of Property. In a word, I
maintain that, relatively to each other, men are proprietors only of
the value of things, and that in transferring products from hand to
hand, what they stipulate for exclusively is value, that is to say,
reciprocal services:—all the qualities, properties, and utilities,
which these products derive from nature being obtained by them into
the bargain.
If Political Economy hitherto, in disregarding this fundamental
consideration, has shaken the guardian principle of property, by
representing it as an artificial institution, necessary, indeed, but
unjust, she has by the same act left in the shade, and completely
unperceived, another admirable phenomenon the most touching
dispensation of Providence to the creature—the phenomenon of
‹progressive community›.
Wealth, taking the word in its general acceptation, results from the
combination of two agencies—the action of nature, and the action
of man. The first is ‹gratuitous› and ‹common› by the destination
of Providence, and never loses that character. The second alone is
‹provided with value›, and, consequently, ‹appropriated›. But with
the development of intelligence, and the progress of civilisation,
the one takes a greater and greater part, the other a less and less
part, in the realization of each given utility; whence it follows
that the domain of the Gratuitous and the Common is continually
expanding among men relatively to the domain of Value and Property;
a consoling and suggestive view of the subject, entirely hidden from
the eye of science, so long as we continue to attribute Value to the
co-operation of nature. [p156]
Men of all religions thank God for His benefits. The father of a
family blesses the bread which he breaks and distributes to his
children—a touching custom, that reason would not justify were the
liberality of Providence other than gratuitous.
‹Durableness›, ‹conservability›—that pretended ‹sine quâ non›
of Value, is connected with the subject which I have just been
discussing. It is necessary to the very existence of value, as Adam
Smith thinks, that it should be fixed and realized in something which
can be exchanged, accumulated, preserved, consequently in something
‹material›.
“There is one sort of labour which adds[32] to the value of the
subject upon which it is bestowed. There is another which has no such
effect.”
“The labour of the manufacturer,” he adds, “fixes and realizes itself
in some particular subject or vendible commodity, ‹which lasts for
some time at least› after the labour is past. The labour of the
menial servant, on the contrary” (to which the author assimilates in
this respect that of soldiers, magistrates, musicians, professors,
etc.), “does not fix or realize itself in any particular subject or
vendible commodity. His services perish in the very instant of their
performance, and leave no trace of ‹value› behind them.”
Here we find ‹Value› connected rather with the modifications of
matter than with the satisfactions of men—a profound error; for the
sole good to be obtained from the modification of material things is
the attainment of that satisfaction which is the design, the end,
the ‹consommation›[33] of every Effort. If, then, we realize that
satisfaction by a direct and immediate effort, the result is the
same; and if that effort can be made the subject of transactions,
exchanges, ‹estimation›, it includes the principle of ‹Value›.
As regards the interval which may elapse between the effort and the
satisfaction, surely Adam Smith attributes far too much importance
to it, when he says that the existence or non-existence of Value
depends upon it. “The value of a vendible commodity,” he says,
“‹lasts for some time at least›.” Undoubtedly it lasts until the
commodity has answered its purpose, which is to satisfy a want; and
exactly the same thing may be said of a service. As long as that
plate of strawberries remains on the sideboard it preserves its
‹value›. Why? Because it is the result of a service [p157] which I
have designed to render to myself, or that another has rendered to
me by way of compensation, and ‹of which I have not yet made use›.
The moment I have made use of it, by eating the strawberries, the
value will disappear. ‹The service will vanish and have no trace of
value behind.› The very same thing holds of personal services. The
consumer makes the value disappear, for it has been created only for
that purpose. It is of little consequence, as regards the principle
of value, whether the service is undertaken to satisfy a want to-day,
to-morrow, or a year hence.
Take another case. I am afflicted with a cataract. I call in an
oculist. The instrument he makes use of has ‹value›, because it has
durability; the operation he performs, it is said, has none, and
yet I pay for it, and I have made choice of one among many rival
operators, and arranged his remuneration beforehand. To maintain
that this service has no value is to run counter to notorious facts
and notions universally received. And of what use, I would ask, is
a theory which, far from taking universal practice into account,
ignores it altogether?
I would not have the reader suppose that I am carried away by an
inordinate love of controversy. If I dwell upon these elementary
notions, it is to prepare his mind for consequences of the highest
importance, which will be afterwards developed. I know not whether
it be to violate the laws of method to indicate these consequences
by anticipation, but I venture to depart slightly from the regular
course, in order to obviate the danger of becoming tedious. This is
the reason why I have spoken prematurely of Property and Community;
and for the same reason I shall here say a word respecting ‹Capital›.
As Adam Smith made value to reside in matter, he could not conceive
Capital as existing otherwise than in an accumulation of material
objects. How, then, can we attribute Value to Services not
susceptible of being accumulated or converted into capital?
Among the different descriptions of Capital, we give the first
place to tools, machines, instruments of labour. They serve to make
natural forces co-operate in the work of production, and, attributing
to these forces the faculty of creating value, people were led to
imagine that instruments of labour, as such, were endowed with
the same faculty, independently of any human services. Thus the
spade, the plough, the steam-engine, were supposed to co-operate
simultaneously with natural agents and human forces in creating
not only Utility, but Value also. But all value is remunerated by
exchange. Who, then, is to receive that portion of value which is
independent of all human service? [p158]
It is thus that the school of Proudhon, after having brought the
‹rent of land› into question, has contested also the ‹interest of
capital›—a larger thesis, because it includes the other. I maintain
that the Proudhonian error, viewed scientifically, has its root in
the prior error of Adam Smith. I shall demonstrate that capital,
like natural agents, considered in itself, and with reference to
its own proper action, creates utility, but never creates value.
The latter is essentially the fruit of a legitimate ‹service›. I
shall demonstrate also that, in the social order, capital is not an
accumulation of material objects, depending on material durability,
but an accumulation of ‹Values›, that is to say, of ‹services›. This
will put an end (virtually at least, by removing its foundation) to
the recent attack upon the productiveness of capital, and in a way
satisfactory to the objectors themselves; for if I prove that there
is nothing in the business of exchange but a ‹mutuality of services›,
M. Proudhon must own himself vanquished by my victory over his
principle.
‹Labour.›—Adam Smith and his disciples have assigned the principle of
Value to Labour under the condition of Materiality. This is contrary
to the other opinion that natural forces play a certain part in the
production of Value. I have not here to combat the contradictions
which become apparent in all their fatal consequences when these
authors come to discuss the rent of land and the interest of capital.
Be that as it may, when they refer the principle of Value to Labour,
they would be very near the truth if they did not allude to manual
labour. I have said, in fact, at the beginning of this chapter, that
Value must have reference to ‹Effort›,—an expression which I prefer
to the word Labour, as more general, and embracing the whole sphere
of human activity. But I hasten to add that it can spring only from
efforts exchanged—from reciprocal Services; because value is not a
thing having independent existence, but a relation.
There are then, strictly speaking, two flaws in Adam Smith’s
definition. The first is, that it does not take exchange into
account, without which value can be neither produced nor conceived.
The second is, that it makes use of too restricted a term—‹labour›;
unless we give to that term an unusual extension, and include in it
the ideas not only of intensity and duration, but of skill, sagacity,
and even of good or bad fortune.
The word ‹service›, which I substitute in my definition, removes
these defects. It implies, necessarily, the idea of transmission,
for no service can be rendered which is not received; and it implies
[p159] also the idea of Effort, without taking for granted that the
value is proportionate.
It is in this, above all, that the definition of the English
Economists is vicious. To say that Value resides in Labour induces
us to suppose that Value and Labour are proportional, and serve as
reciprocal measures of each other. This is contrary to fact, and a
definition which is contrary to fact must be defective.
It often happens that an exertion, considered insignificant in
itself, passes with the world as of enormous ‹value›. (Take, for
example, the diamond, the performance of the prima donna, a dash
of a banker’s pen, a fortunate privateering adventure, a touch of
Raphael’s pencil, a bull of plenary indulgence, the easy duty of an
English queen, etc.) It still more frequently happens that laborious
and overwhelming labour tends to what is absolutely ‹valueless›; and
if it be so, how can we establish co-relation and proportion between
‹Value› and ‹Labour›?
My definition removes the difficulty. It is clear that in certain
circumstances one can render a great service at the expense of a very
small exertion, and that in others, after great exertion, we render
no service at all. And this is another reason why, in this respect,
it is correct to say that the Value is in the Service rendered,
rather than in the Labour bestowed, seeing that it bears proportion
to the one and not to the other.
I go further. I affirm that value is estimated as much by the labour
saved to the recipient as by the labour performed by the ‹cédant›
[the man who cedes or makes it over]. Let the reader recall the
dialogue which we supposed to take place between the two parties
who bargained for the diamond. In substance, it has reference to
no accidental circumstances, but enters, tacitly, into the essence
and foundation of all transactions. Keep in mind that we here take
for granted that the two parties are at entire liberty to exercise
their own will and judgment. Each of them, in making the exchange, is
determined by various considerations, among which we must certainly
rank, as of the greatest importance, the difficulty experienced by
the recipient in procuring for himself, by a direct exertion, the
satisfaction which is offered to him. Both parties have their eyes
on that difficulty, the one with the view of being more yielding,
the other with the view of being more exacting. The labour undergone
by the ‹cédant› also exerts an influence on the bargain. It is one
of the elements of it, but it is not the only one. It is not, then,
exact to say that value is determined by labour. It is determined by
a multitude of considerations, all comprised in the word ‹service›.
[p160]
What may be affirmed with great truth is this; that, in consequence
of competition, Value ‹tends› to become more proportioned to
Effort—recompense to merit. It is one of the beautiful Harmonies of
the social state. But, as regards Value, this equalizing pressure
exercised by competition is quite external, and it is not allowable
in strict logic to confound the influence which a phenomenon
undergoes, from an external cause, with the phenomenon itself.[34]
‹Utility.›—J. B. Say, if I am not mistaken, was the first who threw
off the yoke of ‹materiality›. He made out value very expressly
[p161] to be a ‹moral quality›,—an expression which perhaps goes too
far, for value can scarcely be said to be either a physical or a
moral quality—it is simply a relation.
But the great French Economist has himself said, that “It is not
given to any one to reach the confines of science, and Philosophers
mount on each other’s shoulders to explore a more and more extended
horizon.” Perhaps the glory of M. Say (in what regards the special
question with which we are now occupied, for his titles to glory in
other respects are as numerous as they are imperishable) is to have
bequeathed to his successors a view of the subject which is prolific
and suggestive.