BEFORE THE EXISTENCE of both the concept and the reality of capitalism, there was once something called “commercial society.” This book is about the similarities and differences between the two terms, starting with the one that is the more recognisable. Capitalism, wrote the author of a book that was published with much the same title as this one, first in 1917 and then in 1927, is a “political and polemical” term that has no place in the language of scholarship. But, as one of his reviewers pointed out caustically, the assumptions underlying the claim seemed to mean, therefore, that words like “religion,” “liberty,” or “patriotism” also had no place in the language of scholarship because they too could be taken to be political and polemical terms. Nor, the same reviewer continued, did the polemical character of the term, or the fact that the word itself could not be found in the first volume of Karl Marx’s Capital, amount to anything like a real obstacle to finding out how to understand the difference between a capitalist and a noncapitalist society.1 Capitalism might well be hard to define, but it was still quite easy to see.
Nothing much, it seems, has changed. Capitalism is a nineteenth-century word with a twenty-first-century charge. Although it is still quite hard to define, it remains quite easy to see. One reason for this mixture of the obvious and the opaque is the range of subjects encompassed by the word. Capitalism certainly calls for capital, but it is not quite so obvious that it also has to call for capitalists rather than, for example, organised businesses, managerial hierarchies, paid workers, multiple consumers, limited liability, incorporated stock, financial services, competitive markets, and bureaucratic states. Capitalism also seems to call for industrial organisation, technical specialisation, and the division of labour, but it is not quite so obvious that it also has to call for markets, prices, profits, and dividends. Capitalism, finally, seems to call for producers, products, and processes, but it is not quite so obvious that it also has to call for coercion, classes, and conflict. Sometimes it seems to have called for them all, but it seems never to have done so all at once or settled into something fixed and determinate all at the same time and all in the same place. Capitalism clearly has something to do with making things, whether making cars or making money, but capitalism itself is not ready-made.
Capitalism, in short, is a compound term. In this respect it has something in common with the many different clusters of concepts, values, and ideologies that have, for example, been given the names of communism, nationalism, socialism, liberalism, conservatism, feminism, imperialism, or environmentalism. Capitalism is one of them. Like them, it is a word that ends in “-ism” and, as a nineteenth-century dictionary put it, this means that it has a systemic quality. Words ending in “ism,” the dictionary noted, referring here to the word atheism, were “systemative,” meaning that they indicated “a system, a doctrine, a way of acting, thinking or doing things.”2 Although, as another authority pointed out in the course of discussing the word realism, the ending made the words “excessively vacuous,” it was still likely that they would “be used by the public as markers or milestones” to make it easier to label or classify people or doctrines because this, remarkably, was what the ending could do.3 Behind the generic quality of the ending, however, there was still an endless variety of conceptual content and a ramifying array of overlapping genealogies of semantic origin. In this respect too, capitalism is one of them.
One of the aims of this book is to describe how the many heterogeneous components of the concept of capitalism came to be crystallised as a single word. This, in the first instance, calls for identifying where the different ingredients of the compound came from and, second, for explaining how, when, where, and why they came to be connected to and articulated with one another. Part of this story has already been told, initially by Richard Passow, the author of the book mentioned in the first paragraph of this preface, and in somewhat more detail in a now-forgotten article published in 1940 by a Swiss historian named Edmond Silberner in the prestigious French historical journal Annales edited by Marc Bloch and Lucien Febvre. In this article, Silberner showed that capitalism began as a French word, coined in the ninth, 1850, edition of a famous pamphlet by the French socialist Louis Blanc entitled Organisation du Travail (or “The Organisation of Labour” as the English-language translation was entitled).4 Although Silberner did not explain why Blanc began to use the term or what he intended it to mean, he did, however, single out the fact that, in coining the word, Louis Blanc made a point of juxtaposing capitalism to capital. “Cry out,” Blanc wrote, “long live capital! Long may we applaud it and long may we go on to attack capitalism, its mortal enemy, with even more intensity. Long live the goose that lays the golden egg and long may we protect it from anyone seeking to eviscerate it.”5
It is not usual now to think of capital and capitalism as mortal enemies. One of the further aims of this book is to try to show what this meant and begin to explain why the conceptual opposition on which it was based has come to look so strange. The initial reason for both can, however, be set out briefly here. This is the fact that Silberner’s discovery was not entirely accurate because, long before Louis Blanc made use of the term in 1850, both the word and the concept of capitalism were initially associated with the related subjects of power politics, war finance, and public debt. The word “capitalist” actually began as an eighteenth-century French word (capitaliste) that was usually applied to someone who lent money to one or other of the many branches of the French royal government to fund the costs of war. The original English-language equivalent of a capitaliste was, therefore, an annuitant or a stockholder rather than a capitalist. The English word came later. As will be shown in later chapters, the opposition between capital and capitalism on which Louis Blanc drew was bound up with this earlier usage. Gradually, however, the earlier usage also came to be bound up with a number of other clusters of concepts, values, and ideologies that, cumulatively and sequentially, came to form the moral and political context in which both the word and the concept of capitalism first arose. Some were connected to the subjects of property, inequality, and what came to be called the social question. Others were connected to the subjects of industry, the division of labour, and global trade. Still others, however, continued to be connected to the subjects of money, credit, and public debt. From the vantage point of eighteenth-century usage, however, capitalism did not have to wait for the publication of The Communist Manifesto to acquire the apocalyptic aura that it still can have. The aura was there right from the start.
One reason why this aura has lasted is that alongside the concept of capitalism there was another concept with a rather different set of connotations. This was the concept of commercial society. It had rather less to do with the subjects of war and debt that, as will be shown, formed the original context in which the concept of capitalism first appeared because the concept of commercial society was associated instead with the subject of the division of labour. Over the course of the nineteenth century, however, the two concepts began to merge. Discussions of capitalism in the context of the subjects of war and debt sometimes gave rise to predictions of either the end and dissolution of established political societies or the establishment of a universal empire under the aegis of a powerful and determined royal or republican government. Discussions of capitalism in the context of the subject of the division of labour also gave rise to predictions of either the end and dissolution of established political societies or the establishment of a domestic political empire, this time under the aegis of a new incarnation of a Roman Caesar as the combined effects of economic inequality and social isolation took their toll. The modern concept of revolution encompassed them both. The fusion gave an extra charge to the title of Marx’s most famous publication, The Communist Manifesto, because a manifesto was, originally, the name reserved for a declaration of war. Quite a number of steps are required to explain how the subject of the division of labour came to be associated with the subjects of war and debt and, by extension, class war. One of the initial aims of this book is to describe how these steps occurred because several of them have now been forgotten. In the twenty-first century, the concepts of capitalism, commercial society, and the division of labour are usually associated with the economic and political thought of Adam Smith. In the early nineteenth century, however, the concepts of commercial society and the division of labour were associated as readily with the thought of a now much less well-known French royalist writer named Louis de Bonald. The Communist Manifesto brought the two sets of concepts together. The analytical starting point of this book is, therefore, a question about whether the concepts of capitalism and commercial society were, in fact, the same. It is followed by a further question about how to think about politics if, in fact, they were not.
The two questions derive from a third, more fundamental, question. This question arises from the conceptual overlap between capital, war, and debt on the one side and capital, commercial society, and the division of labour on the other. It is a question about whether what has come to be called capitalism was initially understood to be something that could offset or neutralise, rather than magnify or exacerbate, the effects of the division of labour. This is because the apocalyptic aura now usually associated with capitalism was initially associated with the concept of commercial society. In this respect, Louis Blanc was the inadvertent intellectual heir of Louis de Bonald. Capitalism, Blanc asserted, was the mortal enemy of capital. To Bonald, writing two generations earlier, the mortal enemy was commercial society. Others, however, like the Austro-German-Danish political economist Lorenz von Stein, took a different approach. If capitalists and capital were once associated with warfare, they could also be associated with welfare. From this perspective, the real mortal enemy, in Louis Blanc’s terminology, was neither capital nor capitalism, but the division of labour. Capitalism in its original meaning was the solution, not the problem because capitalism in its original guise had more to do with public credit and state expenditure than with private property and competitive industry.
In this conceptual setting, capitalism was something more than a compound term because it was also substantially more morally and politically ambiguous than it now seems. Simply setting the names Blanc, Bonald, and Stein alongside one another helps to indicate that there were more than two sides to the initial array of arguments over capitalism. This was more than a matter of the difference between warfare and welfare because it was also a matter of a broader set of differences over economic, financial, monetary, legal, and political arrangements and institutions. Over time, many of these earlier differences and ambiguities have been lost because many of the questions that gave rise to both the word and the concept of capitalism have disappeared from historical view. By 1918, when Richard Passow published the initial version of his Kapitalismus, eine begrifflich-terminologische Studie (the book mentioned in the first paragraph of this preface), the initial sequence of questions about the similarities and differences involved in thinking about commercial society, the division of labour, and capitalism had already been largely forgotten. Here too, it seems, nothing much has changed. The subjects of commercial society and the division of labour belong largely to economic history or to the history of ideas and the history of social, economic, and political thought. The subject of capitalism belongs largely to Marxism or to global history and the new historiography of capitalism.6 This book is about what, analytically, came before these several, apparently self-contained, types of historical understanding and, more substantively, about what was involved in thinking about commercial society, the division of labour, and capitalism during the period when these three, initially separate, subjects began to be defined and discussed before, over time, they turned into one. Its aim is to indicate what thinking about politics is likely to involve once historical investigation has begun to prise these overlapping subjects apart. A summary of the argument of the whole book can be found in the final two paragraphs of the first chapter.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I WOULD NOT have been able to piece together the information that I have used in this book without the opportunities provided several years ago by a senior research fellowship from the Leverhulme Trust and, subsequently, by the Institut des études avancées in Lyon and the libraries that I was able to use both there and in Cambridge. I am very grateful for the help I have been given both in those libraries and by the librarians of King’s College during the present pandemic. I would not have been able to make use of any of the information that I have acquired without what I have learned from conversations with many members of King’s College and, particularly, Richard Bourke, John Dunn, Lorna Finlayson, Basim Musallam, Rory O’Brien, Christopher Prendergast, Sharath Srinivasan, and Gareth Stedman Jones. One other title of this book might have been “The Economic Limits to Politics,” the title of a book edited by John Dunn with a fine chapter in it by my late colleague Istvan Hont. I do not know what he would have thought of this book, but I do know that I owe some of its arguments to our conversations over the years. In a more immediate and substantive sense, however, I have a real debt to Maxine Berg, Edward Castleton, Graham Clure, Ludovic Frobert, Pat Hudson, Béla Kapossy, Isaac Nakhimovsky, Sophus Reinert, John Robertson, Keith Tribe, Richard Whatmore, and, above all, Charlotte Johann, for taking the time and trouble to answer my questions, read all or parts of earlier versions of the final text, tell me where I have gone wrong, and show me how I could have done things better. Elizabeth Allen helped me to improve the preface just at the right time and, generally, has encouraged me to keep going. Ben Tate and his colleagues at Princeton have been helpful and considerate advisers, collaborators, and producers. I am particularly grateful to Lauren Lepow also at Princeton for her editorial and technical advice in the final stages of the production process. The limitations and shortcomings of this book are, of course, my own.