It is necessary to grasp the nature of the parent idea which nursed socialism in its bosom, and has brought it forth as it appears to-day. Such a movement in the world of reality would be inexplicable without a corresponding, anterior movement in the world of thought. Ideas, in the social system, are as germs in the animal and vegetable systems, and germs in a very practical sense, for they are the seed of things that come to light later on, and grow according to the kind of soil and the degree of heat with which they come in contact. Socialism, as a whole, though intelligible as the result of causes not belonging to the world of ideas, is, however, the product of an idea which has grown and thriven long before it came to the surface. I do not mean by this the body of ideas which has helped to create it, but its own parent idea, that which, if I may say so, constitutes the socialist credo. It is true that, if we consider socialism in what appears its only living and real aspect, we are brought face to face with something quite alien to the world of ideas. What we see is not unlike a lion or a tiger obeying its instincts and roaring in the desert for its prey. We have no longer to face a doctrinal socialism with pretensions to a plausible theory, but a brutal socialism claiming no right save that of might; not a dreamy socialism such as forty years ago still carried away generous enthusiasts, but an aggressive socialism hurrying by force to the fulfilment of its programme; not a contemplative socialism parading through the world of ideas a Platonic love for humankind, but a destructive socialism eager to carry through the ruins of the world of realities the bloody banner of its brotherhood. What we see before us might be more fitly called the socialism of torch and dagger than the socialism of ideas and doctrines.
Still, it cannot be denied that socialism heralded itself above all as an idea which was to make the mightiest revolution in the midst of humanity that the world had ever seen. What was this idea, and what, in this era of social revolution, were its starting-point, its path, and its goal? I have long attentively followed the course of this new planet, and marked in the changing sky of our social world its chief appearances. I saw it rise as in the dawn of a bright morning, then grow amid the clouds of a thousand systems more or less important or obscure, then at last reach its zenith, and throw over our modern society the baneful light in which we see it arrayed at present.
At first the socialist idea gave itself out as the idea of social reform; later on in its progressive movement it became the idea of social transformation; and now that it has fully developed itself, it stands forth as the idea of social destruction. If we follow up the stream of theories which distinguished the beginning of this century and the end of the last, we shall find that the parent idea of socialism first embodied the longing for social reform, and tended to restore universal harmony to the new world. To listen to our pretended prophets and Messiahs, one would be led to believe that the great law of universal harmony in the social world had been lost amid conflicting human interests, and needed to be restored or re-enacted; while the systems of philosophy of that period insisted that within the near future a regeneration of human nature and a social reform would take place such as the world had never seen or history chronicled—a greater reform, indeed, than that accomplished by the divine Reformer in behalf of poor humanity. These philosophical systems, full of a dreamy poetry, were nothing but humanitarian idyls, delightful pastorals, pointing in the future, through a tinted medium, to a rose-colored humanity smiling under blue skies and an unclouded sun—a humanity free from all the contradictions and antagonisms of the past, and, like the planets, or better even than they, revolving round its centre in the undisturbed and beatific equilibrium of universal harmony. Harmony was everywhere in these fair dreams and easy utopias: there was the harmony of all minds in truth, the harmony of all hearts in love, the harmony of will in liberty, the harmony of passions in pleasure, the harmony of interests in community, the harmony of labor in organization, the harmony of men in brotherhood, the harmony of families in the state, and, finally, the harmony of all peoples and nations in the unity of a government that should rule all alike. The omniarch, or universal monarch, of this universal society appeared in the distance, in the centre of the human world, as the moderator and ruler of this gigantic harmony of brotherly nations. In a word, there was nothing but harmony, everywhere and in all things, harmony easy and spontaneous, springing up from, and flourishing naturally in, the regular play of all human forces, replaced as they would be, so said this new language, in their normal motion around their harmonious centre. This alluring theory, sung by all the bards of the social philosophy, or rather poetry, of that time, marched triumphantly along its flower-strewn path, escorted by all the errors and negations of which it was the result and the essence, and proclaiming to the gaping world: “I am the revelation of the new world. I am Social Reform.”
It is worth noticing that while the working of so many unhealthy doctrines gave birth, as to its natural product, to this growing socialist idea, so the new world of men seemed to grow towards it by every breath it emitted, to call for it and drink it in by the diseased organs of its own unhealthy body. The idea of reform is always and will always be captivating to humanity, because there is in humanity always something to be reformed; but at that time the state of the popular mind, by enhancing its prestige, was preparing for this notion a greater influence over the rising and future generations than it had ever won in foregoing ages.
Humanity was then bleeding from the pitiless wounds made by the doctrines of the eighteenth century. Men’s souls, especially in the lower strata of society, cruelly felt the void created by the Voltairian creed of individualism. These generations, cut adrift from Christianity, felt themselves smothered by the monster of human selfishness. Humanity, literally disinherited of the love of God, was dying of the selfishness of Voltaire. From the heart of this diseased society came a despairing cry for love, brotherhood, association. Then started up innovators on all sides to turn this great need of the human soul to their own account. They proclaimed universal association through universal love; and as Newton had reconciled by the discovery of gravitation the forces of earth and air, so they pretended to build on the attraction of love a permanent harmony between human nature and society. Such was the first appearance on our stage of this comparatively new element, socialism—i.e., the general and yet undetermined formula of social reform. Its claims, thus put forward in public, with a popularity they had never reached before, startled many men, even those thinkers who had scarcely suspected the existence of such ideas. It was, however, no new notion, and had lain undeveloped in society certainly as far back as the beginning of this century. It glimmered forth among the fogs of socialist metaphysics wherein Fourier and Saint-Simon groped after their ideal of universal reform; it grew under the pens of writers in reviews and newspapers celebrated in their day—rash innovators who carelessly questioned every basis of human society, and propounded theories whose fulfilment involved nothing less than a radical change of the organic conditions of society, in the magical name and under the shield of social reform.
The world of ideas had never witnessed such a confusion of mind, such an upsetting of fixed landmarks, such a perversion of language. An intellectual orgy gravely took its seat in the social world under the name and disguise of science; absurdities dubbed themselves philosophies, folly called itself reform; indeed, the passage of these eccentric theories and these grotesque utopias was one of the great surprises that attended my curious and truth-seeking youth. They were a source of pure stupefaction to me. The socialist idea hitherto had been almost confined to the exclusive domain of philosophical abstractions and social ideology. After long wandering through the twilight of various conflicting systems, it emerged from these doubtful regions, where only a few innovators perceived its presence, and came down to the level of the people, stirred as the latter were by new aspirations and hopes. From henceforward the socialist idea, the idea of social reform, was not only a theory broached by philanthropists, discussed by scientists and philosophers, and taught by intellectual apostles from tribune and printing-office, but it became a living, acting reality, a watchword of the laboring classes, a personal question among workmen. Once there, ripening as ideas do quickly in the fervid soul of the people, and pushing on towards its development, it strode forward apace, its evolution only waiting an opportunity to perfect itself abundantly. The people, little used to the hair-splitting of socialist metaphysicians, soon saw either that all this talk meant nothing or that it meant a fundamental transformation of actual social life, and consequently the road to, or, as it was grandiloquently called, the new birth of, a state of comfort and power hitherto unknown. Each one made the dazzling formula, “Society must be reformed,” cover his own special grievances or aspirations, his pet theories, his individual hopes and dreams. It soon became patent to all that even the apostles of the new idea meant not only that the new world should be a reformed one, in the common acceptation of the word, but a radically reformed—that is, a transformed—world. The fathers of the socialist idea had already become aware that the present organization of society presented insurmountable obstacles to the realization of their favorite law of harmony as applied to their theory of a future society; they felt that the organic conditions of society as it is were invincibly opposed to their idea, which, in order to triumph in the end, must become not only a reform, nay, not only a transformation, but such a transformation as should change from the very roots all existing vital conditions of society. To reform was not enough; they determined to transform. One idea had thus quickly displaced or succeeded the other. Stripped of the wordy disguises in which it still affected to wrap itself, it was simply a theoretical denial of society, such as society has been since men have lived together; a radical change of the social mechanism adopted in principle and in practice by all nations and acknowledged in all ages; a triumphal progress of revolution—indeed, social revolution itself.
Up to that period men who worked on the passions of the masses to compass their own ambitious ends had contented themselves with handling political problems, stirring up political revolutions. The game played by leaders of riots or leaders of parties consisted in changing a monarchy for a republic, a republic for an empire, an empire for a monarchy, and one species of monarchy for another; but this was child’s play to the growing power and genius of socialism. Social revolution, as set forth by the socialist idea, had far other ends in view; it did not care to stir the surface only of things, but to undermine, or, as we say now, revolutionize, their foundations. This is the difference between socialism, or social revolution, and political revolutionism, properly so-called; the former seeks to disembowel society itself. Common—that is, purely political—revolutionism only affects the surface of society; it strides over the ruins of governments shattered by the popular arm; it overturns a throne, then another; drives out one dynasty, then a second; creates a republic, then another; improvises a constitution; plays, if I may use the expression, among the dust of institutions, whether demolished thrones, torn constitutions, broken governments or legislatures; it grows excited and drunk with enthusiasm and ambition in the midst of these shifting scenes of the political world, on whose stage actors, now hissed, now applauded, by no rule but the arbitrary passion of the multitude, play ever-varying parts—parts barren and ephemeral, and the common result of which is to wear out those who play them, to sicken them of men and things, to make them drop from the stage stripped of their prestige, and too often covered with popular derision, as despairing actors are wont to fly from the theatre where they have hopelessly “broken down.” It was thus that between the tides of opinion and action political revolution pursued its course, leaving ruin and bloodshed in its track.
But after the flood of these monarchies and republics, these constitutions and governments, these kings and emperors, these presidents and dictators, these ministers and lawgivers; after all these sledgehammer blows of force, these coups d’état, or these sensational changes on a stage where revolution had long since decreed that no government, no constitution, no statesman should ever remain permanently; behind what we may call the political phenomenon, one thing remained firm—namely, society. It was always fundamentally the same, and stood on a substantial, unalterable basis, above which, but not reaching it nor attempting to injure it, flowed the tide of political revolution; it had mechanisms more or less different in appearance in each century, but the same vital permanent conditions; it kept its necessary balance between authority and liberty, between progress and stability; it guarded its three treasures, which to destroy is to kill society—i.e., the family, religion, and property.
This is the secret that explains why, after so many ruins heaped up and so many battles won, the genius of revolution could not rest content. It soon perceived that in spite of its gigantic efforts, and even after the immensity of its triumphs, it had only achieved a surface work. Its dreams of governments more or less constitutional and representative, more or less monarchical or republican, had collapsed with the ruins of these governments, thrown down by its own hand; it felt the emptiness and disappointment of these political revolutions, whose commonest result was an increase of wretchedness and a decrease of peace. Then it said to itself: I will go further; I will dig below the very foundations of this society, which I find everlastingly the same, with its old vices, its incurable abuses, and its obstinately recurring tyrannies. I will reach its heart, the very source of its life, the very core of its being. There I shall discover the true vital principle of human society, and, whether it will or no, I will force it to take part in outer actions, and take its place among the realities of history. I will not only reform but transform this rotten and disorganized society.
Thus the idea of transformation quickly superseded that of reform; but even a transformation of the conditions of social life, in the ordinary acceptation of the term, would not have contented the thoroughgoingness of the socialist idea. No doubt it was better than reform, for it was a fuller development of the socialist principle, but it did not constitute a perfect development, it was not the ultimatum of the idea. Transformation was not enough in the eyes of radical socialism, or, if you like the term better, socialist radicalism; destruction was better, and, to speak plainly, its conception of the former was equivalent to the latter. Socialism had dissected the body of society, examined and analyzed it in all directions, and then pronounced its verdict in these words, brimful of supreme contempt: “Rottenness! Let the corpse perish, and the true social body, moulded by our hands, spring from its remains.” Socialism had examined and probed the still standing building of our past and present social polity, and had said: “It is evident to all that the building is bad; better rebuild it, from cellar to attic. The human abode is not stable; to buttress it is useless; let us destroy it. This is no longer the time to reform, or even transform; nothing short of destruction is of any avail. Let the old social Babylon crumble and decay, and from her fruitful ruins, if needful even watered with blood, let the new Jerusalem of society come forth. Social reform was the dream of our fathers; social transformation is but another dream, a generous fallacy, but still a fallacy, attempting impossibilities and ending in nothingness. A ruin cannot be reformed nor a crumbling shed transformed; we see only a building to pull down and a building to put up. What I will do is this: I will use the popular arm to destroy, and on the ruins of the past I will erect the edifice of the future.”