Introduction
Together with the same author’s
‘Materialist conception of history’ this is a brilliant introduction to
historical materialism. Clearly there are limits to the ‘what if’ way of
looking at historical processes, but the reader will no doubt find Plekhanov’s
conclusion that even such over-arching figures as Napoleon or Robespierre did
not fundamentally change the broad course of historical development compelling.
After all Plekhanov is defending the basic materialist conception of history,
i.e. that progress is determined by material forces that manifest themselves in
the activities of millions of people. He explains it well. In doing so he is
illuminating the interplay of accident and necessity in history.
Trotsky raises an apparent objection
to this analysis in his ‘History of the Russian Revolution.’ He asserts (Volume
I, Chapter 15, ‘The Bolsheviks and Lenin’), while dealing with the rearming of
the Bolshevik Party and preparing it for the October Revolution that “no one
but Lenin himself could have carried (it) through. He had prepared himself for
that. He had heated his steel white hot and re-tempered it in the fires of war.”
In that sense Lenin was crucial to the success of the October Revolution.
Is this not smuggling subjective
idealism, so doughtily combated by Plekhanov, into Marxist analysis? Napoleon
and Robespierre were not vital to the course of the French Revolution but,
according to Trotsky, Lenin was vital to the Russian Revolution.
Trotsky goes on, “The factor of time
is decisive here, and it is difficult in retrospect to tell time historically.
Dialectical materialism at any rate has nothing in common with fatalism.
Without Lenin the crisis, which the opportunist leadership was inevitably bound
to produce, would have assumed an extraordinarily sharp and protracted
character. The conditions of war and revolution, however, would not allow the
party a long period for fulfilling its mission. Thus it is by no means excluded
that a disoriented and split party might have let slip the revolutionary
opportunity for many years. The role of personality arises before us here on a
truly gigantic scale. It is necessary only to understand that role correctly,
taking personality as a link in the historic chain.”
Note that Trotsky excludes himself
from this ability to rearm the party in preparation for the October Revolution.
(Trotsky was not a member of the Bolshevik Party at this time.) Trotsky then hastens to deny that he is
treating Lenin as a superman, separate from the historical processes of the
Revolution in 1917. While emphasising Lenin’s crucial role, he reintegrates his
importance into a historical materialist analysis of the Russian Revolution.
Trotsky objects to, “A mechanical contrasting of the person, the
hero, the genius, against the objective conditions, the mass, the party. In
reality such a contrast is completely one-sided. Lenin was not an accidental element
in the historic development, but a product of the whole past of Russian history.
He was embedded in it with deepest roots. Along with the vanguard of the
workers, he had lived through their struggle in the course of the preceding
quarter century.”
Lenin was able to rearm the party in
time because he found a ready echo among the worker Bolsheviks. They were the
advanced part of the working class, and they were able to mobilise the rest of
their class behind them for the October Revolution.
The bourgeois revolution does not
require a conscious leadership. Neither Cromwell nor Robespierre believed they
were carrying through a bourgeois revolution. That may be part of the reason
they carried out their historic role so well. Capitalism develops within the
womb of feudalism. For this reason, as was the case in Germany, capitalism can
come to rule the land even if (as in1848) the bourgeois revolution failed.
The workers’ revolution on the other
hand has to be a conscious act by the working class. They have to know exactly
what they are doing. The socialist reconstruction of society has to begin with
the seizure of state power by the working class. That requires a conscious
leadership among the workers. That, and the question of the limited time
afforded by a revolutionary opportunity, makes the role of leadership crucial.
Let us prepare that leadership, starting now.
The Role of the Individual in History
I
In the
second half of the seventies the late Kablitz wrote an article entitled,
"The Mind and the Senses as Factors of Progress," in which, referring
to Spencer, he argued that the senses played the principal role in human
progress, and that the mind played only a secondary role, and quite a
subordinate one at that. A certain "esteemed sociologist" replied to
Kablitz, expressing amusement and surprise at a theory which placed the mind
"on the floorboard." The "esteemed sociologist" was right,
of course, in defending the mind. He would have been much more right, however,
had he proved without going into the details of the question that Kablitz had
raised, that his very method of presenting it was impossible and impermissible.
Indeed, the
"factors" theory is unsound in itself, for it arbitrarily picks out
different sides of social life, hypostasizes them, converts them into forces of
a special kind, which, from different sides and with unequal success, draw the
social man along the path of progress. But this theory is still less sound in
the form presented by Kablitz, who converted into special sociological
hypostases, not the various sides of the activities of the social man, but
the different spheres of the individual mind. This is a veritable
Herculean pillar of abstraction; beyond this one cannot go, for beyond it lies
the comic kingdom of utter and obvious absurdity. It is to this that the
"esteemed sociologist" should have drawn the attention of Kablitz and
his readers.
Perhaps,
after revealing the depths of abstraction into which the effort to find the
predominating "factor" in history had led Kablitz, the "esteemed
sociologist" might, by chance, have made some contribution to the critique
of this "factors" theory. This would have been very useful for all of
us at that time. But he proved unequal to his mission. He himself subscribed to
that theory, differing from Kablitz only in his leanings toward eclecticism,
and, consequently, all the "factors" seemed to him equally
important. Subsequently, the eclectic nature of his mind found particularly
striking expression in his attacks on dialectical materialism, which he
regarded as a doctrine that sacrifices all other factors to the economic
"factor" and reduces the role of the individual in history to
nothing. It never occurred to the "esteemed sociologist" that the
"factors" point of view is alien to dialectical materialism, and that
only one who is utterly incapable of thinking logically can see in it any
justification of so-called quietism. Incidentally, it must be
observed that the slip made by our "esteemed sociologist" is not
unique; very many others have made it, are making it and, probably, will go on
making it.
Materialists
were accused of leanings toward quietism even before they had worked out their
dialectical conception of nature and of history. Without making an excursion
into the "depth of time," we will recall the controversy between the
celebrated English scientists, Priestley and Price. Analyzing Priestley’s
theories, Price argued that materialism was incompatible with the concept of
free will, and that it precluded all independent activity on the part of the
individual. In reply Priestly referred to everyday experience. He would not
speak of himself, he said, though by no means the most apathetic of creatures,
but where would one find more mental vigor, more activity, more force and
persistence in the pursuit of extremely important aims than among those who
subscribe to the doctrine of necessity? Priestley had in view the religious,
democratic sect they known as Christian Necessarians.[1] We do not know whether
this sect was as active as Priestley, who belonged to it, thought it was. But
that is not important.
There can be
not the slightest doubt that the materialist conception of the human will is
quite compatible with the most vigorous practical activity. Lanson observes
that "all the doctrines which called for the utmost exertion of human will
asserted, in principle, that the will was impotent; they rejected free will and
subjected the world to fatalism."[2] Lanson was wrong in
thinking that every repudiation of what is called free will leads to fatalism;
but this did not prevent him from noting an extremely interesting historical
fact. Indeed, history shows that even fatalism was not always a hindrance to
energetic, practical action; on the contrary, in certain epochs it was a psychologically
necessary basis for such action. In proof of this, we will point to
the Puritans, who in energy excelled all the other parties in England in the
17th century; and to the followers of Mohammed, who in a short space of time
subjugated an enormous part of the globe, stretching from India to Spain. Those
who think that as soon as we are convinced of the inevitability of a certain
series of events we lose all psychological possibility to help bring on, or to
counteract, these events, are very much mistaken. [3]
Here,
everything depends upon whether my activities constitute an inevitable link in
the chain of inevitable events. If they do, then I waver less and the more
resolute are my actions. There is nothing surprising in this. When we say that
a certain individual regards his activities as an inevitable link in the chain
of inevitable events, we mean, among other things, that for this individual,
lack of free will is tantamount to incapability of inaction, and
that this lack of free will is reflected in his mind as the impossibility of
acting differently from the way he is acting. This is precisely the
psychological mood that can be expressed in the celebrated words of Luther:
"Here I stand, I can do no other," and thanks to which men display
the most indomitable energy, perform the most astonishing feats. Hamlet never
knew this mood; that is why he was only capable of moaning and reflecting. And
that is why Hamlet would never have accepted a philosophy according to which
freedom is merely necessity transformed into mind. Fichte rightly said:
"As the man is, so is his philosophy."
II
Some people
have taken seriously Stammler’s remarks about the allegedly insoluble
contradiction that is said to be characteristic of a certain West European
social-political theory [Marxism]. We have in mind the well-known example of
the eclipse of the moon. As a matter of fact, this is a supremely absurd
example. The combination of conditions that are necessary to cause an eclipse
of the moon does not, and cannot under any circumstances, include human action;
and, for this reason alone, a party to assist the eclipse of the moon can arise
only in a lunatic asylum. But even if human action did serve as one of these
conditions, none of those who keenly desired to see an eclipse of the moon
would join the eclipse of the moon party if they were convinced that it would
certainly take place without their aid. In this case, "their
quietism" would merely be abstention from unnecessary i.e., useless,
action and would have no affinity with real quietism.
If the
example of the eclipse of the moon were no longer to appear nonsensical to the
above-mentioned party, it must be entirely changed. We would have to imagine
that the moon is endowed with a mind, and that her position in celestial space,
which causes her eclipse, appears to her as the fruit of the selfdetermination
of her own will; that this position not only gives her enormous pleasure, but
is absolutely necessary for her peace of mind; and that this is why she alwayspassionately strives to occupy it.[4] After imagining all
this, the question would have to be asked: What would the moon feel if she
discovered, at last, that it is not her will and not her "ideals"
which determine her movement in celestial space, but, on the contrary, that her
movement determines her will and her "ideals"? According to Stammler,
such a discovery would certainly make her incapable of moving, unless she
succeeded in extricating herself from her predicament by some logical
contradiction. But such an assumption is totally groundless. This discovery
might serve as a formal reason for the moon’s bad temper, for
feeling out of harmony with herself, for the contradiction between her
"ideals" and mechanical reality. But since we are assuming that the
"moon’s psychological state" in general, is determined,
in the last analysis, by her movement, the cause of her disturbed peace of mind
must be sought for in her movement. On careful examination, it might be found
that when the moon was at her apogee she grieved over the fact that her will
was not free; and when she was at her perigee, this very circumstance served as
a new, formal cause of her happiness and good spirits. Perhaps, the opposite
might have happened; perhaps it would have transpired that she found the means
of reconciling free will with necessity, not at her perigee, but at her apogee.
Be that as
it may, such a reconciliation is undoubtedly possible; being conscious of
necessity is quite compatible with the most energetic, practical action. At all
events, this has been the case in history so far. Men who have repudiated free
will often have excelled all their contemporaries in strength of will, and
asserted their will to the utmost. Numerous examples of this can be cited. They
are known universally. They can be forgotten, as Stammler evidently does, only
if one deliberately refuses to see historical reality as it actually is. This
attitude is strongly marked among our subjectivists, for example, and among
some German philistines. Philistines and subjectivists, however, are not men,
but mere phantoms, as Belinsky would have said.
However, let
us examine more closely the case in which a man’s own actions – past, present
or future – seem to him entirely colored by necessity. We already know that
such a man, regarding himself as a messenger of God, like Mohammed, as one
chosen by ineluctable destiny, like Napoleon, or as the expression of the
irresistible force of historical progress, like some of the public men in the
19th century, displays almost elemental strength of will, and sweeps from his
path like a house of cards all the obstacles set up by the small-town Hamlets and Hamletkins.[5] But this case interests
us now from another angle, namely: When the consciousness of my lack of free
will presents itself to me only in the form of the complete subjective and
objective impossibility of acting differently from the way I am acting, and
when, at the same time, my actions are to me the most desirable of all other
possible actions, then in my mind necessity becomes identified with freedom and
freedom with necessity; and then, I am unfree only in the sense that I
cannot disturb this identity between freedom and necessity, I cannot
oppose one to the other, I cannot feel the restraint of necessity. ,
But such a lack of freedom is at the same time its fullest
manifestation.
Zimmel says
that freedom is always freedom from something, and, when freedom is not
conceived as the opposite of restraint it is meaningless. That is so, of
course. But this slight, elementary truth cannot serve as a ground for refuting
the thesis that freedom means being conscious of necessity, which constitutes
one of the most brilliant discoveries ever made by philosophic thought.
Zimmel’s definition is too narrow; it applies only to freedom from external
restraint. As long as we are discussing only such restraints it would be
extremely ridiculous to identify freedom with necessity: a pickpocket is not
free to steal your pocket-handkerchief while you are preventing him from doing
so and until he has overcome your resistance in one way or another. In addition
to this elementary and superficial conception of freedom, however, there is
another, incomparably more profound. For those who are incapable of thinking
philosophically this concept does not exist at all; and those who are capable
of thinking philosophically grasp it only when they have cast off dualism and
realize that, contrary to the assumption of the dualists, there is no gulf
between the subject and the object.
The Russian
subjectivist opposes his utopian ideals to our capitalist reality and goes no
further. The subjectivists are stuck in the bog of dualism. The ideals of the
so-called Russian "disciples" resemble capitalist reality far less
than the ideals of the subjectivists. Notwithstanding this, however, the
"disciples" have found a bridge which unites ideals with reality. The
"disciples" have elevated themselves to monism. In their opinion, in
the course of its development, capitalism will lead to its own negation and to
the realization of their, the Russian "disciples’" – and not only the
Russian – ideals. This is historical necessity. The
"disciple" serves as an instrument of this necessity and
cannot help doing so, owing to his social status and to his mentality and
temperament, which were created by his status.
This, too,
is an aspect of necessity. Since his social status has imbued him
with this character and no other, he not only serves as an instrument of
necessity and cannot help doing so, but he passionately desires, and cannot
help desiring, to do so. This is an aspect of freedom,
and, moreover, of freedom that has grown out of necessity, i.e., to put it more
correctly, it is freedom that is identical with necessity – it is necessity
transformed into freedom.[6] This freedom is also
freedom from a certain amount of restraint; it is also the antithesis ot a
certain amount of restriction. Profound definitions do not refute superficial
ones, but, supplementing them, include them in themselves.
But what
sort of restraint, what sort of restriction, is in question in this case? This
is clear: the moral restraint which curbs the energy of those who have not cast
oft dualism; the restriction suffered by those who are unable to bridge the gulf
between ideals and reality. Until the individual has won this freedom by heroic
effort in philosophical thinking he does not fully belong to himself, and his
mental tortures are the shameful tribute he pays to external necessity that
stands opposed to him. But as soon as this individual throws off the yoke of
this painful and shameful restriction he is born for a new, full life, hitherto
never experienced; and his free actions become the conscious and free
expression of necessity. Then he will become a great social force; and then
nothing can, and nothing will, prevent him from Bursting on cunning
falsehood
Like a storm of wrath divine …
III
Again, being
conscious of the absolute inevitability of a given phenomenon can only increase
the energy of a man who sympathizes with it and who regards himself as one of
the forces which called it into being. It such a man, conscious of the
inevitability of this phenomenon, folded his arms and did nothing he would show
that he was ignorant of arithmetic.
Indeed, let
us suppose that phenomenon A must necessarily take place under a given sum of
circumstances. You have proved to me that a part of this sum of circumstances
already exists and that the other part will exist in a given time, T. Being
convinced of this, I, the man who sympathizes with phenomenon A, exclaim:
"Good!" and then go to sleep until the happy day when the event you
have foretold takes place. What will be the result? The following: In your
calculations, the sum of circumstances necessary to bring about phenomenon A
included my activitities, equal, let us say to a. As,
however, I am immersed in deep slumber, the sum of circumstances favorable for
the given phenomenon at time T will be, not S, but S-a, which
changes the situation. Perhaps my place will be taken by another man, who was
also on the point of inaction but was saved by the sight of my apathy, which to
him appeared to be pernicious. In that case, force a will be
replaced by force b, and if a equals b,
the sum of circumstances favorable for A will remain equal to S, and phenomenon
A will take place, after all at time T.
But if my
force cannot be regarded as being equal to zero, if I am a skilful and capable
worker, and nobody has replaced me, then we will not have the full sum S, and
phenomenon A will take place later than we assumed, or not as fully as we
expected, or it may not take place at all. This is as clear as daylight; and if
I do not understand it, if I think that S remains S even after I am replaced,
it is only because I am unable to count. But am I the only one unable to count?
You, who prophesied that the sum S would certainly be available at time r, did
not foresee that I would go to sleep immediately after my conversation with
you; you were convinced that I would remain a good worker to the end – the
force was less reliable than you thought. Hence, you too counted badly. But let
us suppose that you had made no mistake, that you had made allowance for
everything. In that case, your calculations will assume the following form: you
say that at time T the sum S will be available. This sum of circumstances will
include my replacement as a negative magnitude; and it will also
include, as a positive magnitude, the stimulating effect on
strong-minded men of the conviction that their strivings and ideals are the
subjective expression of objective necessity. In that case, the sum S indeed
will be available at the time you appointed, and phenomenon A will take place.
I think this
is clear. But if this is clear, why was I confused by the idea that phenomenon
A was inevitable? Why did it seem to me that it condemned me to inaction? Why,
in discussing it, did I forget the simplest rules of arithmetic? Probably
because, owing to the circumstances of my upbringing, I already had a very
strong leaning toward inaction and my conversation with you served as the drop
which filled the cup of this laudable inclination to overflowing. That is all.
Only in this sense – as the cause that revealed my moral flabbiness and
uselessness – did the consciousness of necessity figure here. It cannot
possibly be regarded as the cause of this flabbiness; the causes of it
are the circumstances of my upbringing. And so. . . and so – arithmetic is a
very respectable and useful science, the rules of which should not be forgotten
even by – I would say, particularly by – philosophers. But what effect will the
consciousness of the necessity of’ a given phenomenon have upon a strong man
who does not sympathize with it and resists its taking
place? Here the situation is somewhat different. It is very possible that it
will cause the vigor of his resistance to relax. But when do the opponents of a
given phenomenon become convinced that it is inevitable? When the circumstances
favorable to it are very numerous and very strong. The realization by its
opponents that the phenomenon is inevitable and the relaxation of their energy
are merely manifestations of the force of circumstances favorable to it. Such
manifestations, in their turn, are a part of the favorable circumstances.
But the
vigor of resistance will not be relaxed among all the opponents; among some of
them the consciousness that the phenomenon is inevitable will cause the
resistance to grow and become transformed into the vigor of despair. History in
general, and the history of Russia in particular, provides not a few
instructive examples of this sort of vigor. We hope the reader will be able to
recall these without our assistance.
Here we are
interrupted by Mr. Kareyev, who, while of course disagreeing with our views on
freedom and necessity and, moreover, disapproving of our partiality for the
"extremes" to which strong men go, nevertheless, is pleased to
encounter in the pages of our journal the idea that the individual may be a
great social force. The worthy professor joyfully exclaims: "I have always
said that!" And this is true. Mr. Kareyev, and all the subjectivists, have
always ascribed a very important role to .he individual in history. And ~here
was a time when they enjoyed considerably sympathy among advanced young people
who were imbued with noble strivings to work for the common wealth and,
therefore, naturally were inclined to attach great importance to individual
initiative.
In essence,
however, the subjectivists have never been able to solve, or even to present
properly, the problem of the role of the individual in history. As against the
influence of the laws of social-historical progress, they advanced
the "activities of critically thinking individuals," and thus
created, as it were, a new species of the factors theory: critically thinking
individuals were one factor of this progress; its own laws were the
other factor. This resulted in an extreme incongruity, which one
could put up with as long as the attention of the active
"individuals" was concentrated on the practical problems of the day
and they had no time to devote to philosophical problems. But the calm which
ensued in the eighties gave those who were capable of thinking enforced leisure
for philosophical reflection, and since then the subjectivist doctrine has been
bursting at all its seams, and even falling to pieces, like the celebrated
overcoat of Akakii Akakievich. No amount of patching was of any use, and one
after another thinking people began to reject subjectivism as an obviously and
utterly unsound doctrine.
As always
happens in such cases, however, the reaction against this doctrine caused some
of its opponents to go to the opposite extreme. While some subjectivists,
striving to ascribe the widest possible role to the "individual" in
history, refused to recognize the historical progress of mankind as a process
expressing laws, some of their later opponents, striving to bring out more
sharply the coherent character of this progress, were evidently prepared to
forget that men make history, and, therefore, the activities of individuals
cannot help being important in history. They have declared the
individual to be a quantité négligeable. In theory, this extreme
is as impermissible as the one reached by the more ardent subjectivists. It is
as unsound to sacritice the thesis to the antitithesis as to forget the
antithesis for the sake of the thesis. The correct point of view will be found
only when we succeed in uniting the points of truth contained in them into a synthesis.[7]
IV
This problem
has been of interest to us for some time, and we have long wanted to invite our
readers to join us in tackling it. We were restrained, however, by ce ain
fears: we thought that perhaps our readers had already solved it for themselves
and that our proposal would be belated.
These fears
have now been dispelled. The German historians have dispelled them for us. We
are quite serious in saying this. The fact of the matter is that lately a
rather heated controversy has been going on among the German historians over
great men in history. Some have been inclined to regard the political
activities of these men as the main and almost the only spring of historical
development, while others have been asserting that such a position is one-sided
and that the science of history must have in view, not only the activities of
great men, and not only political history, but historical life as a whole (das
Ganze des geschichtilichen Lebens).
One of the
representatives of the latter trend is Karl Lamprecht, author of The History
of the German People. Lamprecht’s opponents accused him of being a "collectivist" and
a materialist; he was even placed on a par with – horribile dictu – the
"Social-Democratic atheists," as he expressed it in winding up the
debate. When we became acquainted with his views we found that the accusations
hurled against this poor savant were utterly groundless. At the same time we
were convinced that the present-day German historians were incapable of solving
the problem of the role of the individual in history. We then decided that we
had a right to assume that the problem was still unsolved even for a number of
Russian readers, and that something could still be said about it that would not
be altogether lacking in theoretical and practical interest.
Lamprecht
gathered a whole collection (eine artige Sammlung, as he expresses
it) of the views of prominent statesmen on their own activities in the
historical milieu in which they pursued them; in his polemics, however, he
confined himself for the time being to references to some of the speeches and
opinions of Bismarck. He quoted the following words, uttered by the Iron
Chancellor in the North German Reichstag on April 16, 1869:
"Gentlemen,
we can neither ignore the history of the past nor create the future. I would
like to warn you against the mistake that causes people to advance the hands of
their clocks, thinking that thereby they are hastening the passage of time. My
influence on the events I took advantage of is usually exaggerated; but it
would never occur to anyone to demand that I should make history.
I could not do that even in conjunction with you, although together, we could
resist the whole world. We cannot make history; we must wait while it is being
made. We will not make fruit ripen more quickly by subjecting it to the heat of
a lamp; and if we pluck the fruit before it is ripe we will only prevent its
growth and spoil it."
Referring to
the evidence of Joly, Lamprecht also quotes the opinions which Bismarck
expressed more than once during the Franco-Prussian war. Again, the idea that
runs through these opinions is that "we cannot make great historical
events, but must adapt ourselves to the natural course of things and limit
ourselves to securing what is already ripe." Lamprecht regards this as the
profound and whole truth. In his opinion, a modern historian cannot think
otherwise, provided he is able to peer into the depths of events and not
restrict his field of vision to too short an interval of time. Could Bismarck
have caused Germany to revert to natural economy? He would have been unable to
do this even at the height of his power. General historical circumstances are
stronger than the strongest individuals. For a great man, the general character
of his epoch is "empirically given necessity."
This is how
Lamprecht reasons, calling his view a universal one. It is not difficult to see
the weak side of this "universal" view. I he above quoted opinions of
Bismarck are very interesting as a psychological document. One may not
sympathize with the activities of the late German Chancellor, but one cannot
say that they were insignificant, that Bismarck was distinguished for
"quietism." It was about him that Lassalle said: "The servants
of reaction are no orators; but God grant that progress has servants like
them." And yet this man, who at times displayed truly iron energy,
considered himself absolutely impotent in face of the natural course of things,
evidently regarding himself as a simple instrument of historical development.
This proves once again that one can see phenomena in the light of necessity and
at the same time be a very energetic statesman. But it is only in this respect
that Bismarck’s opinions are interesting; they cannot be regarded as a solution
of the problem of the role of the individual in history.
According to
Bismarck, events occur of themselves, and we can secure what they prepare for
us. But every act of "securing" is also an historical event. What is
the difference between such events and those that occur of themselves?
Actually, nearly every historical event is simultaneously an act of the
"securing" by somebody of the already ripened fruit of preceding
development and a link in the chain of events which are preparing the fruits of
the future. How can acts of "securing" be opposed to the natural
course of things? Evidently, Bismarck wanted to say that individuals and groups
of individuals operating in history never were and never will be all-powerful.
This, of course, is beyond all doubt. Nevertheless, we would like to know what
their power – far from omnipotent, of course – depends on; under what
circumstances it grows and under what circumstances it diminishes. Neither
Bismarck nor the learned advocate of the "universal" conception of
history who quotes him answers these questions.
It is true
that Lamprecht gives more reasonable quotations.[8] For example, he quotes
the following words of Monod, one of the most prominent representatives of
contemporary historical science in France:
"Historians
are too much in the habit of paying attention only to the brilliant, clamorous
and ephemeral manifestations of human activity, to great events and great men,
instead of depicting the great and slow changes of economic conditions and
social institutions, which constitute the really interesting and intransigent
part of human development – the part which, to a certain extent, may be reduced
to laws and subjected, to a certain extent, to exact analysis. Indeed,
important events and individuals are important precisely as signs and symbols
of different moments of the aforesaid development. But most of the events that
are called historical have the same relation to real history as the waves which
rise up from the surface of the sea, gleam in the light for a moment and break
on the sandy shore, leaving no trace behind them, have to the deep and constant
motion of the tides."
Lamprecht
declares that he is prepared to put his signature to every one of these words.
It is well known that German savants are reluctant to agree with French savants
and the French are reluctant to agree with the German. That is why the Belgian
historian Pirenne was particularly pleased to emphasize in Revue Historique the
fact that Monod’s conception of history coincides with that of Lamprecht.
"This harmony is extremely significant," he observed.
"Evidently, it shows that the future belongs to the new conception of
history."
V
We do not
share Pirenne’s pleasant expectations. The future cannot belong to vague and
indefinite views, and such, precisely, are the views of Monod and particularly
of Lamprecht. Of course, one cannot but welcome a trend which declares that the
most important task of the science of history is to study social institutions
and economic conditions. This science will make great progress when such a
trend definitely becomes consolidated.
In the first
place, however, Pirenne is wrong in thinking that this is a new trend. It arose
in the science of history as far back as the twenties of the 19th century;
Guizot, Mignet, Augustin Thierry and, subsequently, Tocqueville and others,
were its brilliant and consistent representatives. The views of Monod and
Lamprecht are but a faint copy of an old but excellent original. Secondly,
profound as the views of Guizot, Mignet and the other French historians may
have been for their time, much in them has remained unelucidated. They do not
provide a full and definite solution of the problem of the role of the individual
in history. And the science of history must provide this solution if its
representatives are destined to rid themselves of their one-sided conception of
their subject. The future belongs to the school that finds the best solution of
this problem, among others.
The views of
Guizot, Mignet and the other historians who belonged to this trend were a
reaction against the views on history that prevailed in the 18th century and
constituted their antithesis. In the 18th century the students of the philosophy
of history reduced everything to the conscious activities of individuals. True,
there were exceptions to the rule even at that time: the
philosophical-historical field of vision of Vico, Montesquieu and Herder, for
example, was much wider. But we are not speaking of exceptions; the great
majority of the thinkers of the 18th century regarded history exactly in the
way we have described.
In this
connection it is very interesting to peruse once again the historical works of
Mably, for example. According to Mably, Minos created the whole of the social
and political life and ethics of the Cretes, while Lycurgus performed the same
service for Sparta. If the Spartans "spurned" material wealth, it was
due entirely to Lycurgus, who "descended, so to speak, into the depths of
the hearts of his fellow-citizens and there crushed the germ of love for
wealth" (descendit pour ainsi dire jusque dans le
fond du coeur des citoyens, etc.) .[9] And if, subsequently,
the Spartans strayed from the path the wise Lycurgus had pointed out to them,
the blame for this rests on Lysander, who persuaded them that "new times
and new conditions called for new rules and a new policy.[10] Researches written from
the point of view of such conceptions have very little affinity with science,
and were written as sermons solely for the sake of the moral
"lessons" that could be drawn from them.
It was
against such conceptions that the French historians of the period of the
Restoration revolted. After the stupendous events at the end of the 18th
century it was absolutely impossible any longer to think that history was made
by more or less prominent and more or less noble and enlightened individuals
who, at their own discretion, imbued the unenlightened but obedient masses with
certain sentiments and ideas. Moreover, this philosophy of history offended the
plebeian pride of the bourgeois theoreticians. They were prompted by the same
feelings that revealed themselves in the 18th century in the rise of bourgeois
drama. In combating the old conceptions of history, Thierry used the same
arguments that were advanced by Beaumarchais and others against
the old aesthetics.[11]
Lastly, the storms which France had just experienced very clearly revealed that
the course of historical events by no means was determined solely by the
conscious actions of men; this circumstance alone was enough to suggest the
idea that these events were due to the influence of some hidden necessity,
operating blindly like the elemental forces of nature, but in accordance with
certain immutable laws.
It is an
extremely remarkable fact – which nobody, as far as we know, has pointed to
before – that the French historians of the period of the Restoration applied
the new conception of history as a process conforming to laws most consistently
in their works on the French Revolution. This was the case, for example, in the
works of Mignet. Chateaubriand called the new school of history fatalistic.
Formulating the tasks which it set the investigator, he said:
"This
system demands that the historian shall describe without indignation the most
brutal atrocities, speak without love about the highest virtues and with his
glacial eye see in social life only the manifestation of irresistible laws due
to which every phenomenon occurs exactly as it inevitably
had to occur."[12]
This is
wrong, of course. The new school did not demand that the historian should be
impassive. Augustin Thierry even said quite openly that political passion, by
sharpening the mind of the investigator, may serve as a
powerful means of discovering the truth.[13] Even only slight
familiarity with the historical works of Guizot, Thierry or Mignet would show
that they strongly sympathized with the bourgeoisie in its struggle against the
lords temporal and spiritual, as well as with its efforts to suppress the
demands of the rising proletariat. What is incontrovertible is the following:
The new school of history arose in the twenties of the l9th century at a time
when the bourgeoisie had already vanquished the aristocracy, although the
latter was still striving to restore some of its old privileges.
The proud
consciousness of the victory of their class was reflected in all the arguments
of the historians of the new school. And as the bourgeoisie was never
distinguished for knightly chivalry, one can sometimes discern a note of
harshness toward the vanquished in the arguments of its scientific
representatives. "Le plus fort absorbe le plus faible,"
says Guizot, in one of his polemical pamphlets, "et il est de
droit." [The strongest absorbs the weakest, and he has a right
to do so.] His attitude toward the working class is no less harsh. It was this
harshness, which at times assumed the form of calm detachment, that misled Chateaubriand.
Moreover, at that time it was not yet quite clear what was meant when it was
said that history conformed to certain laws. Lastly, the new school may have
appeared to be fatalistic because, striving firmly to adopt this point of view,
it paid little attention to the great individuals in
history.[14] Those
who had been brought up on the historical ideas of the 18th century found it
difficult to accept this. Objections to the views of the new historians poured
in from all sides, and then the controversy flared up which, as we have seen,
has not ended to this day.
In January
1826, in a review in the Globe of the fifth and sixth volumes of Mignet’s History
of the French Revolution, Sainte-Beuve wrote as follows:
"At any
given moment by the sudden decision of his will, a man may introduce into the
course of events a new, unexpected and changeable force, which may alter that
course, but which itself cannot be measured owing to its changeability."
It must not
be thought that Sainte-Beuve assumed that "sudden decisions" of human
will occur without cause. No, that would have been too naive. He merely
asserted that the mental and moral qualities of a man who is playing a more or
less important role in public life, his talent, knowledge, resoluteness or
irresoluteness, courage or cowardice, etc., cannot help having a marked
influence on the course and outcome of events; and yet these qualities cannot
be explained solely by the general laws of development of a nation; they are
always, and to a considerable degree, acquired as a result of the action of
what may be called the accidents of private life. We will quote a few examples
to explain this idea, which, incidentally, seems to me clear enough as it is.
During the
War of the Austrian Succession the French army achieved several brilliant
victories and it seemed that France was in a position to compel Austria to cede
fairly extensive territory in what is now Belgium; but Louis XV did not claim
this territory because, as he said, he was fighting as a king and not as a
merchant, and France got nothing out of the Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle. If,
however, Louis XV had been a man of a different character, the territory of
France would have been enlarged and as a result her economic and political
development would have taken a somewhat different course.
As we know,
France waged the Seven Years’ War in alliance with Austria. It is said that
this alliance was concluded as a result of the strong pressure of Madame
Pompadour, who had been extremely flattered by the fact that, in a letter to
her, proud Maria-Theresa had called her "cousin" or "dear
friend" (bien bonne amie). Hence, one can say that had Louis
XV been a man of stricter morals, or had he submitted less to his favorite’s
influence, Madame Pompadour would not have been able to influence the course of
events to the extent that she did, and they would have taken a different turn.
Further,
France was unsuccessful in the Seven Years’ War; her generals suffered several
very shameful defeats. Speaking generally, their conduct was very strange, to
say the least. Richelieu engaged in plunder, and Soubise and Broglie were
constantly hindering each other. For example, when Broglie was attacking the
enemy at Villinghausen, Soubise heard the gunfire but did not go to his
comrade’s assistance, as had been arranged and as he undoubtedly should have
done, and Broglie was obliged to retreat.[15] The extremely
incompetent Soubise enjoyed the protection of the aforesaid Madame Pompadour.
We can say again that had Louis XV been less lascivious, or had his favorite
refrained from interfering in politics, events would not have turned out so
unfavorably for France.
French
historians say that there was no need whatsoever for France to wage war on the
European continent, and that she should have concentrated all her efforts on
the sea in order to resist England’s encroachments on her colonies. The fact
that she acted differently was again due to the inevitable Madame Pompadour,
who wanted to please "her dear friend," Maria Theresa. As a result of
the Seven Years’ War, France lost her best colonies, which undoubtedly greatly
influenced the development of her economic relations. In this case, feminine
vanity appears in the role of the influential "factor" of economic
development.
Do we need
any other examples? We will quote one more, perhaps the most astonishing one.
During the aforesaid Seven Years’ War, in August 1761, the Austrian troops,
having united with the Russian troops in Silesia, surrounded Frederick near
Striegau. Frederick’s position was desperate but the Allies were tardy in
attacking, and General Buturlin, after facing the enemy for twenty days,
withdrew his troops from Silesia, leaving only a part of his forces as
reinforcements for the Austrian General Laudon. Laudon captured Schweidnitz,
near which Frederick was encamped, but this victory was of little importance.
Suppose, however, Buturlin had been a man of firmer character? Suppose the
Allies had attacked Frederick before he had time to entrench himself? They
might have routed him, and he would have been compelled to yield to all the
victors’ demands. And this occurred barely a few months before a new accidental
circumstance, the death of Empress Elizabeth, immediately changed the situation
greatly in Frederick’s favor. We would like to ask: What would have happened
had Buturlin been a man of more resolute character, or had a man like Suvorov
been in his place?
In examining
the views of the "fatalist" historians, Sainte-Beuve gave expression
to another opinion which is also worthy of attention. In the aforementioned
review of Mignet’s History of the French Revolution, he argued
that the course and outcome of the French Revolution were determined, not only
by the general causes which had given rise to the Revolution, and not only by
the passions which in turn the Revolution had roused, but also by numerous
minor phenomena which had escaped the attention of the investigator and which
were not even a part of social phenomena, properly so called. He wrote:
"While
the passions [roused by social phenomena] were operating, the physical and
physiological forces of nature were not inactive: stones continued to obey the
law of gravity; the blood did not cease to circulate in the veins. Would not
the course of events have changed had Mirabeau, say, not died of fever, had
Robespierre been killed by the accidental fall of a brick or by a stroke of
apoplexy, or if Bonaparte had been struck down by a bullet? And will you dare
to assert that the outcome would have been the same? Given a sufficient number
of accidents, similar to those I have assumed, the outcome might have been the
very opposite of what, in your opinion, was inevitable. I have a right to
assume the possibility of such accidents because they are precluded neither by
the general causes of the Revolution nor by the passions roused by these
general causes."
Then he goes
on to quote the well-known observation that history would have taken an
entirely different course had Cleopatra’s nose been somewhat shorter; and, in
conclusion, admitting that very much more could be said in defense of Mignet’s
view, he again shows where this author goes wrong. Mignet ascribes solely to
the action of general causes those results which many other, minor, dark and
elusive causes had helped to bring about; his stern logic, as it were, refuses
to recognize the existence of anything that seems to him to be lacking in order
and law.
VI
Are
Sainte-Beuve’s objections sound? I think they contain a certain amount of
truth. But what amount? To determine this we will first examine the idea that a
man can "by the sudden decision of his will" introduce a new force
into the course of events which is capable of changing the course considerably.
We have quoted a number of examples, which we think very well explain this. Let
us ponder over these examples.
Everybody
knows that during the reign of Louis XV military affairs steadily went from bad
to worse in France. As Henri Martin has observed, during the Seven Years’ War
the French army, which always had numerous prostitutes, tradesmen and servants
in its train, and which had three times as many pack horses as saddle horses,
had more resemblance to the hordes of Darius and Xerxes than to the armies of
Turenne and Gustavus-Adolphus.[16] Archenholtz says in his
history of this war that the French officers, when appointed for guard duty,
often deserted their posts to go dancing somewhere in the vicinity, and obeyed
the orders of their superiors only when they thought fit.
This
deplorable state of military affairs was due to the deterioration of the
aristocracy, which, nevertheless, continued to occupy all the high posts in the
army, and to the general dislocation of the "old order," which was
rapidly drifting to its doom. These general causes alone would
have been quite sufficient to make the outcome of the Seven Years’ War
unfavorable to France. But undoubtedly the incompetence of generals like
Soubise greatly increased the chances of failure for the French army which
these general causes already provided. Soubise retained his post, thanks to
Madame Pompadour; and so we must count the proud Marquise as one of the "factors"
significantly reinforcing the unfavorable influence of these general causes on
the position of French affairs.
The Marquise
de Pompadour was strong, not because of her own strength, but because ot the
power of the king who was subject to her will. Can we say that the character of
Louis XV was exactly what inevitably it was bound to be, in view of the general
course of development of social relations in France? No, given the same course
of development a king might have appeared in his place with a different
attitude toward women. Sainte-Beuve would say that the action of obscure and
intangible physiological causes was sufficient to account for this. And he
would be right. But, if that is so, the conclusion emerges that these obscure
physiological causes, by affecting the progress and results of the Seven Years’
War, also in consequence affected the subsequent development of France, which
would have proceeded differently if the Seven Years’ War had not deprived her
of a great part of her colonies. Does not this conclusion, we then ask,
contradict the conception of a social development conforming to laws?
No, not in
the least. The effect of personal peculiarities in the instances we have
discussed is undeniable; but no less undeniable is the fact that such an ettect
could occur only in the given social conditions. After the battle
of Rosbach, the French became fiercely indignant with Soubise’s protectress.
Every day she received numbers of anonymous letters, full of threats and abuse.
This very seriously disturbed Madame Pompadour; she began to
suffer from insomnia.[17]you with the king."[18] As you see, she did not
yield to public opinion.
Nevertheless, she continued to protect Soubise. In 1762 she remarked in one of
her letters to him that he was not justifying the hopes that had been placed in
him, but she added: "Have no fear, however, I will take care of your
interests and try to reconcile
Why did she
not yield? Probably because French society of that day had no means of
compelling her to do so. But why was French society of that day unable to
do so? It was prevented from doing so by its form of organization, which in
turn was determined by the relation of social forces in France at that time.
Hence, it is the relation of social forces in the last analysis, which explains
the fact that Louis XV’s character and the caprices of his favorite could have
such a deplorable influence on the fate of France. Had it not been the king who
had a weakness for the fair sex, but the king’s cook or groom, this would not
have had any historical significance.
Clearly, it
is not the weakness that is important here, but the social position of the
person afflicted with it. The reader will understand that these arguments can
be applied to all the above quoted examples. In these arguments it is necessary
to change only what needs changing, for example, to put Russia in the place of
France, Buturlin in place of Soubise, etc. That is why we will not repeat them.
It follows,
then, that by virtue of particular traits of their character individuals can
influence the fate of society. Sometimes this influence is very considerable;
but the possibility of exercising this influence, and its extent, are
determined by the form of organization of society, by the relation of forces
within it. The character of an individual is a "factor" in social
development only where, when, and to the extent that social relations permit it
to be such.
We may be
told that the extent of personal influence may also be determined by the
talents of the individual. We agree. But the individual can display his talents
only when he occupies the position in society necessary for this. Why was the
fate of France in the hands of a man who lacked totally the ability and desire
to serve society? Because such was the form of organization of that society. It
is the form of organization that in any given period determines the role and,
consequently, the social significance that may fall to the lot of talented or
incompetent individuals.
But if the
role of individuals is determined by the form of organization of society, how
can their social influence, which is determined by the role they play,
contradict the conception of social development as a process expressing laws?
It does not contradict it; on the contrary, it serves as one of its most vivid
illustrations.
Here,
however, we must observe the following. The possibility – determined by the
form of organization of society – that individuals may exercise social
influence opens the door to the role of so-called accident in the
historical destiny of nations. Louis XV’s lasciviousness was an inevitable
consequence of the state of his physical constitution, but in relation to the
general course of France’s development the state of his constitution was accidental.
Nevertheless, as we have said, it did influence the fate of France and served
as one of the causes which determined this fate. The death of Mirabeau, of
course, was due to pathological processes which obeyed definite laws. The
inevitability of these processes, however, did not arise out of the general
course of France’s development, but out of certain particular features of the
celebrated orator’s constitution and out of the physical conditions under which
he had contracted his disease. In relation to the general course of France’s
development these features and conditions were accidental. And
yet, Mirabeau’s death influenced the further course of the Revolution and
served as one of the causes which determined it.
Still more
astonishing was the effect of accidental causes in the above-mentioned example
of Frederick II, who succeeded in extricating himself from an extremely difficult
situation only because of Buturlin’s irresolution. Even in relation to the
general cause of Russia’s development Buturlin’s appointment may have been
accidental, in the sense that we have defined that term, and, of course, it had
no relation whatever to the general course of Prussia’s development. Yet it is
not improbable that Buturlin’s irresolution saved Frederick from a desperate
situation. Had Suvorov been in Buturlin’s place, the history of Prussia might
have taken a different course.
It follows,
then, that sometimes the fate of nations depends on accidents, which may be
called accidents of the second degree. "In allem Endlichen ist ein Element
des Zufälligen," said Hegel. (In everything finite there are accidental
elements.) In science we deal only with the "finite"; hence we can
say that all the processes studied by science contain some accidental elements.
Does not this preclude the scientific cognition of phenomena? No. Accident
is relative. It appears only at the point of intersection of inevitable processes.
For the inhabitants of Mexico and Peru, the appearance of Europeans in America
was accidental in the sense that it did not follow from the social
development of these countries. But the passion for navigation which possessed
West Europeans at the end of the Middle Ages was not accidental; nor was the
fact that the European forces easily overcame the resistance of the natives.
The consequences of the conquest of Mexico and Peru by Europeans were also not
accidental; in the last analysis, these consequences were determined by the
resultant of two forces: the economic position of the conquered countries on
the one hand, and the economic position of the conquerors on the other. And
these forces, like their resultant, can fully serve as objects of scientific
investigation.
The
accidents of the Seven Years’ War exercised considerable influence upon the
subsequent history of Prussia. But their influence would have been entirely
different at a different stage of Prussia’s development. Here, too, the
accidental consequences were determined by the resultant of two forces: the
social-political conditions of Prussia on the one hand, and the
social-political condition of the European countries that influenced her, on
the other. Hence, here too, accidents do not in the least hinder the scientific
investigation of phenomena.
We know now
that individuals often exercise considerable influence upon the fate of
society, but this influence is determined by the internal structure of that
society and by its relation to other societies. But this is not all that has to
be said about the role of the individual in history. We must approach this
question from still another side.
Sainte-Beuve
thought that had there been a sufficient number of petty and dark causes of the
kind that he had mentioned, the outcome of the French Revolution would have
been the opposite of what we know it to have been. This is a great mistake. No
matter how intricately the petty, psychological and physiological causes may
have been interwoven, under no circumstances would they have eliminated the
great social needs that gave rise to the French Revolution; and as long as
these needs remained unsatisfied the revolutionary movement in France would
have continued. To make the outcome of this movement the opposite of what it
was, the needs that gave rise to it would have had to be the opposite of what
they were; and this, of course, no combination of petty causes would ever be
able to bring about.
The causes
of the French Revolution lay in the character of social relations; and
the petty causes assumed by Sainte-Beuve could lie only in the personal
qualities of individuals. The final cause of social relationships
lies in the state of the productive forces. This depends on the qualities of
individuals only in the sense, perhaps, that these individuals possess more or
less talent for making technical improvements, discoveries and inventions.
Sainte-Beuve did not have these qualities in mind. No other qualities, however,
enable individuals directly to influence the state of productive forces, and,
hence, the social relations which they determine, i.e., economic relations.
No matter what the qualities of the given individual may be, they cannot
eliminate the given economic relations if the latter conform to the given state
of productive forces. But the personal qualities of individuals make them more
or less fit to s
