Huel_QUIZ_1.pdf

1 'I should have thought that a pack of British boys you're all British aren't you? would have been able to put up a better show than that I mean ' 'It was like that at first/ said Ralph, 'before things ' He stopped. 'We were together then ' The officer nod...

1 'I should have thought that a pack of British boys you're all British aren't you? would have been able to put up a better show than that I mean ' 'It was like that at first/ said Ralph, 'before things ' He stopped. 'We were together then ' The officer nodded helpfully. 'I know. Jolly good show. Like the Coral Island.' (William Golding, Lord of the Flies, 192) R. M. Ballantyne's Coral Island is a story in which three English boys are marooned on a desert island. Through courage, intelligence, and cooperation they repel pirates and native savages to enjoy an idyllic life in the South Seas. William Golding's characters also find themselves on a bountiful coral island, but soon fall first into dispute, and then into desperate tribal warfare. In telling their stories as they do, Ballantyne and Golding suggest opposing pictures in answer to our first question: what would life be like in a 'natural' state, a world without government? Why ask this question? What is its relevance for political philosophy? We take for granted that we live in a world of political institutions: central government, local government, the police, the law courts. These institutions distribute and administer political power. They place people in offices of responsibility, and these people then claim to have the right to command us to act in various ways. And, if we disobey and are caught, we will be punished. The life of each one of us is structured and  THE STATE OF NAT URE 7 controlled, in part, by the decisions of others. This level of interference in our lives can seem intolerable. But what is the alternative? A natural starting-point for thinking about the state is to ask: what would things be like without it? To understand why we have something, it is often a good tactic to consider its absence. Of course, we could hardly abolish the state just to find out what life would be like without it, so the best we can do in practice is carry out this process as a thought- experiment. We imagine a 'state of nature'; a situation where no state exists and no one possesses political power. Then we try to decide what it would be like to live under those conditions. This way we can come to a view about how things would be without the state, and this, we hope, will help us to see just why we have a state. Perhaps we will come to understand how the state is justified, if it is, and also what form it should take. Was there ever a state of nature? Many philosophers seem reluctant to commit themselves on this topic. Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712-78), for example, thought that so much time would have been required to pass from a state of nature to 'civil society' (a society governed by a formal state) that it would be blasphemous to assume that modern societies had arisen in this way. He argued that the amount of time needed for the transition was longer than the age of the world, as recorded in the scriptures. Yet, on the other hand, Rousseau also believed that there were contemporary examples of peoples living in a state of nature, while John Locke (1632-1704) thought this was true of many groups living in seventeenth-century America. But even if there never has been a true state of nature we can still consider the question of what life would be like if, hypothetically, we found ourselves without a state. Thomas Hobbes (1588-1679), deeply worried by the English Civil War, thought he saw his country falling into a state of nature. In Leviathan he drew a picture of how unpleasant this would be, hoping to persuade his readers of the advantages of government. Accordingly, for the purposes of this chapter we need not spend much time discussing the question of whether, as a matter of fact, human beings have ever lived in a state of nature. All we need to argue is that it is possible. Is it possible? Sometimes it is claimed that not only have human beings always lived under a state, but that it is the only way they possibly 8 THE STATE OF N AT URE could live. On this view, the state exists naturally in the sense of being natural to human beings. Maybe we would not be human beings if we lived in a society without a state. Perhaps we would be a lower form of animal. If human beings exist, then so does the state. If this is true then speculation about the state of nature is redundant. In response some theorists claim that we have plenty of evidence that human beings have been able to live without the state, and such claims have been vital to the case made by anarchist writers (we will return to these later in the chapter). But even if human beings have never actually lived for any length of time without a state, it is very hard to see how it could be established that it is absolutely impossible. And so, as a way of trying to work out why we have the state, we will assume that human beings could find themselves in a world without it. What would that world be like? In [the state of nature] there is no place for Industry; because the fruit thereof is uncertain: and consequently no Culture of the Earth; no Navigation, nor use of the commodities that may be imported by Sea; no commodious Building; no Instruments of moving, and removing of things as require much force; no Knowledge of the face of the Earth; no account of Time; no Arts; no Letters; no Society; and which is worst of all, continuall feare, and danger of violent death; And the life of man, solitary, poore, nasty, brutish, and short. (Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan, 186) Hobbes's greatest work, Leviathan (published in 1651), pursues a theme that had obsessed him for more than twenty years: the evils of civil war and the anarchy by which it would be accompanied. Nothing could be worse than life without the protection of the state, Hobbes argued, and therefore strong government is essential to ensure that we do not lapse into the war of all against all. But why did Hobbes believe that the state of nature would be so desperate, a state of war, a state of constant fear and danger of a violent death? The essence of Hobbes's view is that, in the absence of government, human nature will inevitably bring us into severe conflict.  THE STATE OF N AT URE 9 For Hobbes, then, political philosophy begins with the study of human nature. Hobbes suggests that there are two keys to the understanding of human nature. One is self-knowledge. Honest introspection tells us a great deal about what human beings are like: the nature of their thoughts, hopes, and fears. The other is knowledge of the general principles of physics. Just as to understand the citizen (the individual in political society) you have to understand human nature; Hobbes believed, as a materialist, that to understand human nature you must first understand 'body' or matter, of which, he urged, we are entirely composed. For our purposes, the most important aspect of Hobbes's account of matter is his adoption of Galileo's principle of the conservation of motion. Prior to Galileo, philosophers and scientists had been puzzled by the question of what kept objects in motion. By what mechanism, for example, does a cannon-ball remain in flight once it has been fired? Galileo's revolutionary answer was to say that this was the wrong question. We should assume that objects will continue to travel at a constant motion and direction until acted on by another force. What needs to be explained is not why things keep going, but why they change direction and why they stop. In Hobbes's lifetime this view was still a novelty, and, he pointed out, defied the common-sense thought that, just as we tire and seek rest after moving, objects will naturally do this too. But the truth, he claims, is that 'when a thing is in motion, it will eternally be in motion, unless somewhat els stay it' (Leviathan, 87). This, he thought, was true for us too. Becoming tired and desiring rest is simply to have a different motion act upon us. So the principle of the conservation of motion was used by Hobbes in developing a materialist, mechanist view of human beings. The broad outlines of this account are laid out in the introduction to Leviathan: 'What is the Heart, but a Spring; and the Nerves but so many Strings; and the Joynts, but so many Wheeles, giving motion to the whole Body... ?' (p. 81). Thus human beings are animated through motion. Sensation, for example, is a 'pressing' on an organ. Imagination is a 'decaying relic' of sensation. A desire is an 'internal motion towards an object'. All of this is meant quite literally. The importance of the theory of the conservation of motion is that with it Hobbes paints a picture of human beings as always searching for 10 TH E S TATE OF N AT UR E something, never at rest. 'There is no such thing as perpetuall Tranquillity of mind while we live here; because Life it selfe is but Motion, and can never be without Desire' (Leviathan, 129-30). Human beings, Hobbes argues, seek what he calls 'felicity', continual success in achieving the objects of desire. It is the search to secure felicity that will bring us to war in the state of nature. Ultimately, Hobbes thought, our fear of death would bring human beings to create a state. But without a state, in the state of nature, Hobbes thought that the search for felicity would lead to a war of all against all. Why did Hobbes think this? One clue can be found in Hobbes's definition of power: one's 'present means to obtain some future apparent Good' (Leviathan, 150). So to be assured of achieving felicity one must become powerful. Sources of power, Hobbes claims, include riches, reputations, and friends, and human beings have 'a restlesse desire of Power after power, that ceaseth onely in Death' (Leviathan, 161). This is not only because humans can never reach a state of complete satisfaction, but also because a person 'cannot assure the power and means to live well, which he hath present, without the acquisition of more' (Leviathan, 161). For others will also seek to increase their power, and so the search for power, is by its nature, competitive. Everyone's natural, continual, attempt to increase power to have riches and people under one's command will lead to competition. But competition is not war. So why should competition in the state of nature lead to war? An important further step is Hobbes's assumption that human beings are by nature 'equal'. An assumption of natural equality is often used in political and moral philosophy as a basis for the argument that we should respect other people, treating one another with care and concern. But for Hobbes the assumption is put to a quite different use, as we might suspect when we see how he states the point: we are equal in that all humans possess roughly the same level of strength and skill, and so any human being has the capacity to kill any other. 'The weakest has strength enough to kill the strongest, either by secret machination or by confederacy with others' (Leviathan, 183). To this Hobbes adds the reasonable assumption that in the state of nature there is a scarcity of goods, so that two people who desire the same kind of thing will often desire to possess the same thing. Finally, Hobbes points out that no one in the state of nature can make himself  THE S TA TE OF NAT UR E 11 invulnerable against the possibility of attack. Whatever I possess, others may desire, and so I must constantly be on my guard. Yet even if I possess nothing I cannot be free from fear. Others may take me to be a threat to them and so I could easily end up the victim of a pre-emptive strike. From these assumptions of equality, scarcity, and uncertainty, it follows, thinks Hobbes, that the state of nature will be a state of war: From this equality of ability, ariseth equality of hope in the attaining of our Ends. And therefore if any two men desire the same thing, which neverthe- lesse they cannot both enjoy, they become enemies; and in the way to their End, (which is principally their owne conservation, and sometimes their delectation only) endeavour to destroy, or subdue one another. And from hence it comes to pass, that where an Invader hath no more to feare than an other mans single power; if one plant, sow, build, or possesse a convenient Seat, others may probably be expected to come prepared with forces united, to dispossesse, and deprive him, not only of the fruit of his labour, but also of his life or liberty. And the Invader again is in the like danger of another. (.Leviathan, 184) Worse still, Hobbes argues, people seek not only the means of immediate satisfaction, but also power in order to satisfy whatever future desires they will have. Now, as reputation of power is power, some people will attack others, even those who pose no threat, purely to gain a reputation of strength as a means of future protection. As in the school playground, those with a reputation for winning fights are least likely to be attacked for their goods, and may even have goods surrendered to them by others who feel unable to defend themselves. (Of course, those with a reputation for strength cannot relax either: they are the most likely victims of those seeking to enhance their own reputations.) In sum, Hobbes sees three principal reasons for attack in the state of nature: for gain, for safety (to pre-empt invaders), and for glory or reputation. At bottom, Hobbes relies on the idea that human beings, in the search for felicity, constantly try to increase their power (their present means to obtain future goods). When we add that human beings are roughly equal in strength and ability; that desired goods are scarce; and that no one can be sure that they will not be invaded by others, it seems reasonable to conclude that rational human action will make the state of nature a battlefield. No one is strong enough to ward off all possible attackers, nor so weak that attacking others, with accomplices if need be, 12 THE S TA TE OF NAT UR E is never a possibility. The motive to attack falls into place when we also recognize that attacking others in the state of nature is often the surest way of getting (or keeping) what you want. Should it be objected that this depiction of our likely plight in the state of nature relies on an assumption that human beings are unrealistically cruel, or unrealistically selfish? But Hobbes would reply that both objections miss the point. Human beings, Hobbes argues, are not cruel, 'that any man should take pleasure in other mens great harms, without other end of his own, I do not conceive it possible' (Leviathan, 126). As for selfishness, he would agree that human beings do generally, if not always, seek to satisfy their self-centred desires. But of equal or greater importance as a source of war is fear: the fear that others around you may try to take from you what you have. This can lead you to attack; not for gain, but for safety or perhaps even reputation. Thus we come close to the idea of a war in which everyone is fighting everyone else in self-defence. Still, it might be said, it is unreasonable to suppose that everyone will be so suspicious of each other that they will always be at each others' throats. But Hobbes accepts that there will be moments without actual conflict. He defines the state of war not as constant fighting, but as a constant readiness to fight, so that no one can relax and let down their guard. Is he right that we should be so suspicious? Why not assume that people in the state of nature will adopt the motto 'live and let live'? But consider, says Hobbes, how we live even under the authority of the state. What opinion of your neighbours do you express when you lock your doors against them? And of other members of your household when you lock your chests and drawers? If we are so suspicious when we live with the protection of law, just think how afraid we would be in the state of nature. At this point it might be argued that, while Hobbes has told us an amusing story, he has overlooked one thing: morality. Although creatures with no moral sense might behave as Hobbes outlines, we are different. The great majority of us accept that we should not attack other people or take their property. Of course in a state of nature a minority would steal and kill, as they do now, but there would be enough people with a moral sense to stop the rot spreading and prevent the immoral minority from bringing us to a general war. This objection raises two central questions. First, does Hobbes believe that we can make sense of the ideas of morality in a state of nature?  THE S TA TE OF NAT UR E 13 Second, if we can, would he allow that the recognition of moral duty, in the absence of the state, is sufficient motivation to override the temptation to invade others for their goods? Let us consider Hobbes's position on the first of these questions. Hobbes seems to deny that there can be a morality in the state of nature: 'To this warre of every man against every man... nothing can be Unjust. The notions of Right and Wrong, Justice and Injustice, have no place' (Leviathan, 188). The argument Hobbes uses at this point is that injustice consists of the breach of some law, but for a law to exist there must be a lawgiver, a common power, able to enforce that law. In the state of nature there is no common power, so no law, so no breach of law, and so no injustice. Each person has 'the Liberty... to use his own power... for the preservation of his own Nature; that is to say of his own Life; and consequently, of doing any thing, which in his Judgement, and Reason, he shall conceive to be the aptest means thereunto' (.Leviathan, 189). One of the consequences of this, claims Hobbes, is that 'in such a condition every man has a Right to every thing; even to one anothers body' (Leviathan, 190). Hobbes calls the liberty to act as you think fit to preserve yourself the 'right of nature': its consequence seems to be that, in the state of nature, you are permitted to do anything, even take another's life, if you believe that this will help you survive. Why does Hobbes take such an extreme position, granting everyone liberty to do anything they think fit in the state of nature? But perhaps his position is not so extreme. We would find it hard to disagree that people in the state of nature have the right to defend themselves. That said, it also seems evident that individuals must decide for themselves what reasonably counts as a threat to them, and further, what is the most appropriate action to take in the face of such a threat. No one, it would seem, could reasonably be criticized for any action they take to defend themselves. As pre-emption is a form of defence, invading others can often be seen as the most rational form of self-protection. This, then, is the simple initial account of Hobbes's view. In the state of nature there is no justice or injustice, no right or wrong. Moral notions have no application. This is what Hobbes calls the 'Natural Right of Liberty'. But as we shall see, Hobbes's view does have further complications. In addition to the Natural Right of Liberty, Hobbes also argues that what he calls the 'Laws of Nature' also exist in the state of nature. 14 THE S TA TE OF NAT UR E The first 'fundamental law' is this: 'Every man ought to endeavour Peace, as farre as he has hope of obtaining it; and when he cannot obtain it, that he may seek, and use, all helps, and advantages of Warre' (.Leviathan, 190). A second law instructs us to give up our right to all things, provided others are willing as well, and each should 'be contented with as much liberty against other men, as he would allow other men against himselfe' (Leviathan, 190). The third, which is particularly important for Hobbes's later social contract argument for the state is to perform whatever covenants you make. In fact, Hobbes spells out a total of nineteen Laws of Nature, concerning justice, property, gratitude, arrogance, and other matters of moral conduct. All these laws, Hobbes supposes, can be deduced from the fundamental law, although he realizes that few people would be able to carry out the deduction, for most people 'are too busie getting food, and the rest too negligent to understand' (Leviathan, 214). But the Laws of Nature can be 'contracted into one easy sum... Do not that to another, which thou wouldest not have done to thy selfe', a negative formulation of the biblical 'golden rule' (do unto others as you would have them do unto you). The Laws of Nature, then, could easily be called a moral code. But if Hobbes intends these as a set of moral rules which govern the state of nature, then this seems to contradict his earlier statement that there is no right or wrong in such a condition. Furthermore, if people are motivated to obey the moral law perhaps this will make the state of nature rather more peaceful than Hobbes allows. However, Hobbes does not describe the Laws of Nature as moral laws, but rather as theorems or conclusions of reason. That is, Hobbes believes that following these laws gives each person the best chance of preserving his or her own life. This, however, seems to lead into a different problem. The fundamental Law of Nature tells us it is rational to seek peace. But Hobbes has already argued that the state of nature will be a state of war, because it is rational, in the state of nature, to invade others. How can Hobbes say that rationality requires both war and peace? The answer, I think, is that we have to distinguish between individual and collective rationality. Collective rationality is what is best for each individual, on the assumption that everyone else will act the same way. The Laws of Nature express what is collectively rational. We can illustrate this distinction with an example from Jean-Paul Sartre. Consider a  THE STA TE O F NAT UR E 15 group of peasants, who each farm their own plot on a steep hillside. One by one they realize that they could increase the usable part of their plot by cutting down their trees and growing more crops. So they all cut down their trees. But in the next heavy storm the rain washes the soil off the hill, ruining the land. Here we can say that the individually rational thing for each peasant is to cut down his or her trees, to increase the amount of land available for farming. (Cutting down the trees on just one plot will not make any significant difference to soil erosion.) But collectively this is a disaster, for if they all cut down their trees everyone's farm will be ruined. So the collectively rational thing to do is leave most, if not all, of the trees standing. The interesting feature of cases of this nature (known in the literature as the 'prisoners' dilemma') is that, where individual and collective rationality diverge, it is very hard to achieve co-operation on the collectively rational outcome. Every individual has an incentive to 'defect' in favour of the individually rational behaviour. Suppose the peasants understand the structure of their situation, and so agree to refrain from cutting down trees. Then any given peasant can reason that he or she will personally increase yield by felling trees (remember that clearing just one plot will not lead to significant soil erosion). But what is true for one is true for all, and so they may each begin to clear their plots, to gain an individual advantage. Even if they make an agreement, everyone has good reason to break that agreement. Hence the collectively rational position is unstable, and individuals will tend to defect, even if they know the consequences of everyone acting that way. With this in mind, one way of thinking about Hobbes's argument is that, in the state of nature, the individually rational behaviour is to attack others (for reasons we have already seen) and this will lead to the state of war. However, the Laws of Nature tell us that the state of war is not the inevitable situation for human beings because another level of behaviour collective rationality may also be available. If only we could somehow ascend to the level of collective rationality and obey the Laws of Nature we can live in peace, without fear. The question now is whether Hobbes believed that each person in the state of nature has a duty to obey the Laws of Nature, and if so whether the recognition of such a duty should be sufficient to motivate people to obey the Laws. Hobbes's answer here is subtle. He says that the Laws 16 THE S TA TE O F NAT URE bind 'in foro interno' (in the internal forum), but not always 'in foro externo' (in the external forum). What he means is that we should all desire that the Laws take effect, and take them into account in our deliberations, but this does not mean that we should always obey them under all circumstances. If other people around me are disobeying the Laws, or, as will often be the case in the state of nature, I have reasonable suspicion that they will break the Laws, then it is simply stupid and self- defeating for me to obey. If someone does obey in these circumstances then he will 'make himselfe a prey to others, and procure his certain mine' (Leviathan, 215). (In the technical language of contemporary game theory, anyone acting this way is a 'sucker'!) In sum, then, Hobbes's position is that we have a duty to obey the Laws of Nature when others around us are known (or can reasonably be expected) to be obeying them too, and so our compliance will not be exploited. But if we are in a position of insecurity, the attempt to seek peace and act with moral virtue will lead to an individual's certain ruin and so we are permitted to 'use all the advantages of war'. The real point, then, seems to be, not exactly that moral notions have no application in the state of nature, but that the level of mutual suspicion and fear in the state of nature is so high that we can generally be excused for not obeying the law. We should only act morally when we can be assured that those around us are doing so too, but this is so rare in the state of nature that the Laws of Nature will, in effect, almost never come into play. Hobbes sees the way out of this predicament as being the creation of a sovereign who will severely punish those who disobey the Laws. If the sovereign is effective in keeping people to the Laws, then, and only then, can no one have reasonable suspicion that others will attack. In that case there is no longer an excuse to start an invasion. The great advantage of the state, argues Hobbes, is that it creates conditions under which people can securely follow the Laws of Nature. We should conclude this section by recalling Hobbes's account of the state of nature. It is a state where everyone is rightly suspicious of everyone else, and this suspicion, not mere egoism or sadism, leads to a war, where people will attack for gain, safety, and reputation. The war is self-fuelling and self-perpetuating, as reasonable suspicion of violent behaviour leads to an ever-increasing spiral of violence. In such a situation life is truly miserable, not only racked by fear, but lacking material  TH E S TATE OF NAT UR E 17 comforts and sources of well-being. As no one can be sure of retaining any possessions, few will plant or cultivate, or engage in any long-term enterprise or plan. People will spend all their time grubbing for subsistence and fighting battles. Under such circumstances there is absolutely no chance that the arts or sciences could flourish. Our short lives would be lived without anything to make them worthwhile. The State of Nature, and the State of War, which however some Men have confounded, are as far distant as a State of Peace, Good Will, Mutual Assistance, and Preservation, and a State of Enmity, Malice, Violence, and Mutual Destruction are from one another. (John Locke, Second Treatise of Civil Government, s. 19, p. 280) It is a matter of scholarly debate whether Locke had Hobbes explicitly in mind when he wrote this passage (published in 1689). His official target was the view of Sir Robert Filmer (1588-1653), a defender of the doctrine of the Divine Right of Kings that the king ruled with authority granted by God. Nevertheless it is hard to deny that, at a number of points, Locke seems to be arguing with Hobbes whose work must have been well known to him. As we shall see, comparing the two accounts of the state of nature casts light on them both. While, as we saw, Hobbes identified the state of nature with a state of war, Locke is keen to emphasize that this is a mistake. Locke supposed that it would generally be possible to live an acceptable life even in the absence of government. Our question must be how Locke managed to draw this conclusion. Or, in other words, how, according to Locke, does Hobbes fall into error? Let us start at the beginning. The state of nature, says Locke, is first, a state of perfect freedom; second, a state of equality; and third, bound by a Law of Nature Verbally, of course, this sounds just like Hobbes's view, but each of these three elements is given quite a different interpretation by Locke. Hobbes's principle of equality was a claim about the mental and physical capabilities of all people. For Locke it is a moral claim about rights: no person has a natural right to subordinate any 18 THE S TA TE O F NATURE other. This assertion was explicitly aimed against those, including Filmer, who accepted the feudal view of a natural hierarchy, headed by a sovereign, ruling by divine appointment. Filmer argued that God had appointed Adam first sovereign, and contemporary sovereigns can trace their title back to God's initial grant. For Locke it is self-evident that no one naturally has a right to rule, in the sense that no one has been appointed by God for this purpose. Although Hobbes did not mean this by his assumption of equality, he would accept Locke's position here. Hobbes thought that whoever did, in fact, exercise power over the community was, for that reason, to be recognized as its sovereign. There is, however, greater disagreement between the two on the nature and content of the Law of Nature. For Hobbes the fundamental Law of Nature was to seek peace, if others are doing so, but otherwise to use the advantages of war. This, and Hobbes's other eighteen Laws, were said to be 'theorems of reason'. Locke, too, believes the Law of Nature to be discoverable by reason, but Locke's Law has a theological aspect absent in Hobbes's Laws. The Law, says Locke, is that no one ought to harm another in his life, health, liberty, or possessions. The reason for this, according to Locke, is that while we have no natural superiors on earth, we do have one in heaven. In other words, we are all creatures of God, his property, put on earth as his servants, 'made to last during his, not one anothers Pleasure'. Therefore 'Every one...is bound to preserve himself] and not to quit his station wilfully; so by the like reason when his own Preservation comes not in competition, ought he, as much as he can, to preserve the rest of Mankind' (Second Treatise, s. 6, p. 271). The Law of Nature, for Locke, is simply the idea that mankind is to be preserved as much as possible. So, Locke argues, we have a clear duty not to harm others in the state of nature (except for limited purposes of self-defence), and we even have a duty to help them if we can do so without damage to ourselves. Clearly, then, Hobbes and Locke have significantly different views of the nature and content of the Laws of Nature. A still greater difference lies in their use of the term 'natural liberty'. For Hobbes, we saw, to say that we have natural liberty is to say that it can often be entirely rational, and beyond moral criticism, to do whatever is appropriate to help secure our own survival, even if this means attacking the innocent. Locke's understanding is very different, claiming that although the state of  THE STATE OF N AT URE 19 nature 'be a state of Liberty, yet it is not a state of Licence... The state of Nature has a Law of Nature to govern it, which obliges every one' (Second Treatise, s. 6 pp. 270-1). Thus natural liberty, on Locke's view, is no more than the liberty to do what the Law of Nature allows. That is, we are given the liberty to do only what is morally permitted. So, for example, although Locke's Law of Nature prevents me from invading the property of others, this is in no sense a limitation of my liberty. Locke would certainly disagree with Hobbes's claim that in the state of nature everyone has a right to everything, even each others' bodies (although he does accept that we have considerable rights of self-defence). Do these disagreements between Hobbes and Locke add up to enough to establish Locke's conclusion that the state of nature need not be a state of war? Clearly it is important for Locke that even in the state of nature we have a moral duty to restrict our behaviour. Yet this, on its own, does not seem enough to show that in the state of nature fear and suspicion would not exist. And, as Hobbes argues, fear and suspicion may be enough for the state of nature to tumble into war. To avoid this Locke requires not only that the state of nature be subject to moral assessment, but that somehow or other people will be motivated to act as the Law of Nature instructs. This suggests a strategy for resisting Hobbes's pessimistic conclusion. Hobbes argued that human beings would be driven by the search for felicity (the continued satisfaction of their desires), and this, at least initially, leads them into conflict. If Hobbes has misdescribed human motivation if human beings, say, really are strongly altruistic then peace might easily be achieved. This would be one route to Locke's conclusion. Is it the route Locke takes? Locke does not explicitly put forward a theory of human motivation in the Two Treatises, but it seems clear that he did not think that human beings would automatically be motivated to follow the moral law. Indeed he comes very close to sounding like Hobbes: 'For the Law of Nature would, as all other Laws that concern Men in this World, be in vain, if there were no body that in the State of Nature, had a Power to Execute the Law and thereby preserve the innocent and restrain offenders' (Second Treatise, s. 7, p. 271). In other words, the Law of Nature, like all laws, needs a law-enforcer. Without such an enforcer it would be empty. 20 THE S TA TE OF NAT UR E Hobbes is perfectly prepared to accept that in the state of nature his Laws of Nature are ineffective. Unlike Hobbes, however, Locke cannot accept that the Law of Nature could be in vain: it is, after all, in Locke's view the law of God, who presumably does nothing in vain. Therefore there must be a way of enforcing the law: somebody who has the power to enforce it. But we are all equal in the state of nature, so if anyone has such power then everyone must have it. Therefore, Locke concludes, there must be a natural right, held by each person, to punish those who offend against the Law of Nature. Each of us has the right to punish those who harm another's life, liberty, or property. The right to punish is not the same thing as the right of self-defence. It is the right not simply to try to prevent or ward off a particular episode of harm or damage, but to make anyone who has overstepped the Law of Nature pay for their transgression. This 'strange doctrine' as Locke calls it, plays a very important role in the derivation of his view of the state of nature. If the Law of Nature can be enforced, then we have good reason to hope that life could be relatively peaceful. Offenders can be punished to make reparation, and to restrain and deter them, and others, from similar acts in the future: 'Each Transgression may be punished to that degree, and with so much Severity as will suffice to make it an ill bargain to the Offender, give him cause to repent, and terrifie others from doing the like' (Second Treatise, s. 12, p. 275). It is important that this natural right to punish is not restricted solely to the individual who suffers the wrong. If that were so, then obviously those who commit murders would go unpunished. But, more importantly, the victim may not have sufficient strength or power to subdue, and exact retribution from, the offender. Locke therefore argues that those who break the law are a threat to us all, as they will tend to undermine our peace and safety, and so every person in the state of nature is given what Locke calls the 'Executive Power of the Law of Nature'. Locke has in mind the idea that law-abiding citizens, outraged by the offence, will band together with the victim to bring the villain to justice, and together they will have the necessary power to do this. Locke realizes that the claim that we all have a natural right to punish offenders may seem surprising. However, in support of his view he claims that, without it, it is hard to see how the sovereign of any state can have the right to punish an alien who has not consented to the laws.  THE S TA TE OF NAT UR E 21 If the foreigner has not consented to the sovereign's laws, then he has not accepted that he is liable to punishment for breaching them. Therefore such a person cannot justly be punished, unless there is some sort of natural right to punish. In effect, the sovereign is in the state of nature with the alien, and so the sovereign's behaviour is sanctioned not by the laws of the land, but by the Executive Power of the Law of Nature. (In fact we will see in the next chapter that Locke has a more obvious strategy to explain the sovereign's right: that the alien tacitly consents to the law.) If the Law of Nature is enforceable, then a number of other rights can be secured, even in the state of nature. For Locke, the most important of these is the right to private property. We can already see what the basic form of the argument must be. God put us on earth, and it would be absurd to think that he put us here to starve. But we will starve unless we can rightfully consume objects such as apples and acorns; furthermore, we will do better still if individuals can securely possess plots of land and rightfully exclude others. For then we can cultivate the land, and be secure in our enjoyment of its products. (We will look at this argument in more detail in Chapter 5.) To the modern reader, Locke's continual invocation of God and God's purposes may seem an embarrassment. Surely it should be possible to consider questions of political philosophy outside a theological framework? However, Locke also appeals to 'natural reason' in establishing the premisses of his arguments, even if he gives it a lesser role. So, for example, he thinks it absurd, and against natural reason, to suppose that human beings may not make use of the earth without the permission of all others, for if this were the case we should starve. This alternative argument certainly seems plausible, and so some followers of Locke have been prepared to drop the theological underpinnings of his view in favour of this 'natural reason' approach. To return to the main argument, so far the central difference between Hobbes and Locke seems to be that Locke thinks that, even in the state of nature, there is an enforceable and effective moral law, backed by the natural right of punishment, while Hobbes would be highly sceptical of this claim. We can imagine how Hobbes would reply to Locke. According to Hobbes, the only way of subduing any power is through the exercise of a greater power. So we might all gang up on a villain to exact reparation 22 THE S TA TE OF NAT UR E and deter future such acts. But then the villain who may well be an unreasonable person with like-minded friends might return, armed, with forces united, to gain revenge. Such thoughts could act as a powerful disincentive to those thinking of exercising their executive power of the law of nature. If you want to avoid unpleasantness in the future, don't get involved now. So Hobbes would probably argue that even if people did have a natural right to punish offenders, this would rarely be used with any effect unless a single, stable, authority existed: for example, within a tribe or group an acknowledged leader to adjudicate disputes and enforce judgements. But that would already be a fledgling state. So in the state of nature, even if there were a right to punish, this would be ineffective as a means to peace. However, there is still one seemingly vital difference between Hobbes and Locke that I have not yet mentioned. Remember that for Hobbes, one of the key factors that brought people into conflict was a natural scarcity of goods. Two people will often desire the same thing, and this will make them enemies. Locke, on the other hand, appears to make a very different assumption: nature has given things richly. There is a natural abundance of land, and plenty of room for everyone, particularly 'in the first Ages of the World, when Men were more in danger to be lost, by wandering from their Company, in the then vast Wilderness of the Earth, than to be straitned for want of room to plant in' (Second Treatise, s. 36, p. 293). Hence, Locke implies, under these conditions there is very little reason for conflict and dispute. Most people, presumably, would rather cultivate their own plot than invade their neighbour's, and so we can expect a relatively peaceful climate and few sources of quarrel. If this is right, then peace in the state of nature is secured not only by the natural right to punish, but, equally importantly, by the fact that it would rarely have to be used. How plausible is this? Hobbes no doubt would point out that abundance of land does not rule out scarcity of finished and consumable goods. It will often be far less trouble to take another's product by stealth, than to go to the effort of ploughing, sowing, and harvesting. Furthermore, if others have similar thoughts then I am wasting my energy by cultivating my own land, for, as Hobbes argued whatever I will produce will end up in the hands of others. For Locke to refute this he must either show  THE STA TE O F NAT UR E 23 that the natural right to punish can be used effectively, or that human beings have some fairly strong motivation to obey the moral law. Otherwise a few highly anti-social individuals could ruin things for everyone. Locke, indeed, comes close to admitting that the state of nature may not be as peaceful as he first supposed. After all, he has to be careful not to paint it in too idyllic tones, for then it would be very difficult to explain why we ever left it and created the state. The primary fault, Locke sees, is with the administration of justice. It is not so much that we will squabble over goods, but that we will squabble over what justice requires. We will, in other words, disagree about the interpretation of the Law of Nature. People will disagree about whether an offence has taken place. They will disagree about its proper punishment and compensation. And they might not have the power to exact what they believe to be its proper punishment. So the attempt to administer justice, even between the would-be law-abiding, is itself a powerful source of dispute. This Locke sees as the primary 'inconvenience' of the state of nature. The only thing that prevents serious trouble is the thought that, given initial abundance of land, disputes would be few. But Locke sees the initial abundance of land eventually turning to scarcity: not through massive population growth, but through greed and the 'invention' of money. Prior to the existence of money no one would have any reason to take more land than is necessary for their own family's survival. If you grew more than you could use, it would simply go to waste, unless you could exchange it for something more permanent. But once money exists then such exchanges become easy, and it is possible to hoard up enormous amounts of money without the risk that it will spoil. This gives people a reason to cultivate more land to produce goods for sale. In turn this leads to pressure on land which then, and for this reason only, thinks Locke, becomes scarce. Now Locke does not say that such scarcity introduces the Hobbesian state of war, but he recognizes that once land is in short supply and under dispute the inconveniences of the state of nature multiply and multiply. It becomes imperative to establish civil government. So although it is initially peaceful, eventually, even for Locke, the state of nature becomes almost unbearable. 24 THE S TATE OF N AT UR E The philosophers, who have inquired into the foundations of society, have all felt the necessity of going back to a state of nature; but not one of them has got there.... Every one of them, in short, constantly dwelling on wants, avidity, oppression, desires, and pride, has transferred to the state of nature ideas which were acquired in society; so that, in speaking of the savage, they described the social man. (Rousseau, Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, 50) One way to avoid Hobbes's pessimistic conclusions about the state of nature is to start from different premisses. In particular, life without the state might seem a much more attractive possibility if we adopted a different theory of human nature and motivation. Hobbes argues that people continually seek felicity: the power to satisfy whatever future desires they may have. This, together with fear and suspicion of fellow human beings, in a condition of scarcity, drives the argument for the state of war. But suppose Hobbes was quite wrong. Suppose people naturally and spontaneously desire to help each other whenever they can. Perhaps, instead of competing in a struggle for existence, humans offer mutual aid, and act for the sake of each others' comfort. If so, then the state of nature will look very different. Although Rousseau does not make these optimistic assumptions about the natural goodness of human beings, his view takes a substantial step in this direction. Like Hobbes and Locke he assumes that human beings are primarily motivated by the desire for self-preservation. Yet he also believes that this is not the end of the story. Hobbes and Locke overlooked a central aspect of human motivation pity or compassion and so overestimated the likelihood of conflict in the state of nature. Rousseau believes that we have 'an innate repugnance at seeing a fellow-creature suffer' (Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, 73). This, he adds, is 'so natural, that the very brutes themselves sometimes give evident proofs of it'. Compassion, argues Rousseau, acts as a powerful restraint on the drives that might lead to attack and war.  THE S TA TE OF NAT UR E 25 It is this compassion that hurries us without reflection to the relief of those who are in distress: it is this which in a state of nature supplies the place of laws, morals, and virtues, with the advantage that none are tempted to disobey its gentle voice: it is this which will always prevent a sturdy savage from robbing a weak child or a feeble old man of the sustenance they may have with pain and difficulty acquired, if he sees a possibility of providing for himself by other means. (Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, 76) Rousseau does not doubt that if modern citizens, moulded and corrupted by society, were placed in a state of nature, they would act just as Hobbes depicted them. But both Hobbes and Locke have projected the qualities of man-in-society (or even man-in-bourgeois-society) on to savage man. That is, they have depicted socialized traits as if they were natural. Rousseau follows this with a second claim. When we understand how 'savage man' behaves motivated by both self-preservation and pity the state of nature would be far from the Hobbesian state of war, and even in some respects preferable to a more civilized condition. This does not mean that Rousseau is advocating a return to the state of nature, for that would be impossible for us, tainted and softened by society. Still, for Rousseau, it is something of a matter of regret that we have grown civilized. For Rousseau took an extreme, and extremely dismal, view of human progress. His treatise on education, Emile, begins: 'God makes all things good; man meddles with them and they become evil.' And his early essay, the Discourse on the Arts and Sciences, argues that the development of the arts and sciences has done more to corrupt than to purify morality. However, it is important to make clear that Rousseau's claim that human beings are naturally motivated by pity or compassion is very different from the point we attributed to Locke in the previous section: that human beings in the state of nature will often respect each other's rights. Like Hobbes, Rousseau argues that notions of law, right, and morality have no place in the state of nature and so, clearly, he cannot mean that we have a natural impulse to follow a moral law. But unlike Hobbes and Locke he claims that we generally try to avoid harming others, not because we recognize that harm is immoral, but because we have an aversion to harm, even when it is not our own. We are naturally sympathetic to others, and are upset by their suffering. So we take steps to avoid this if we can. 26 THE S TATE OF N AT UR E It is surely very plausible that by nature human beings often have sympathy for one another. But is this enough to prevent war in the absence of government? The trouble is that Rousseau has given natural man two drives self-preservation and compassion and it seems more than possible that the two could come into conflict. If another has what I believe to be essential for my preservation, but I can take it only by causing harm, what would I or rather the savage -do? It would surely be rare for any creature to put a stranger's well-being before their own survival, and consequently if goods are scarce the influence of pity must fade. Rousseau more or less admits this. Pity stops the savage robbing the weak or sick, provided there is hope of gaining sustenance elsewhere. But what if there is little or small hope of this? Perhaps, then, in a condition of scarcity we would suffer doubly. Not only would we be in a state of war, but we would feel terrible about all the harm we were doing to our fellow human beings. But the main point is that in a condition of scarcity, natural compassion does not seem enough to hold off the threat of war. Rousseau tries to avoid this type of problem by supposing that savage man has few desires, and, relative to those desires, goods are more likely to be obtained by hunting and gathering than by taking them from others. This is not because of nature's munificence, but because the savage, claims Rousseau, is a solitary being, rarely coming into contact with others. Indeed there would not even be families. Rousseau speculates that children would leave their mothers as soon as they could survive on their own, and that among savages there would be no permanent union of man and woman. Compassion is not a strong enough sentiment to create a family bond. Part of Rousseau's explanation of the solitary life of the savage is that nature has equipped the savage to survive alone. Strong and fleet of foot, not only a match for wild beasts but generally free from disease (which Rousseau claims to be a consequence of indulgence and unhealthy habits), the savage desires only food, sexual satisfaction, and sleep, and fears only hunger and pain. Natural solitude rules out any desire for 'glory' or reputation, for the savage takes no interest in others' opinions. Indeed, as Rousseau argues that at this stage the savage has not yet developed language, the opportunities for forming and expressing opinions seem greatly restricted.  THE STA TE O F NAT URE 27 Equally, the savage has no desire for power. Hobbes, we saw, defined power as 'the present means to satisfy future desires'. But, Rousseau argues, the savage has little foresight, and barely even anticipates future desires, let alone seeking the means to satisfy them. Rousseau likens the savage to the contemporary Caribbean, who, he says, 'will improvi- dently sell you his cotton bed in the morning, and come crying in the evening to buy it again, not having foreseen he would want it again the next night' (Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, 62). Consequently all of Hobbes's drives to war desires for gain, safety and reputation are either defused or absent in Rousseau's state of nature. Still, despite its relatively peaceful character, Rousseau's state of nature hardly seems a welcoming prospect. Rousseau's savage may well be king of the beasts, but nevertheless, as portrayed, seems barely distinguishable from the other wild animals. The savage, says Rousseau, is 'an animal weaker than some, and less agile than others; but, taking him all round, the most advantageously organised of any' (Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, 52). Given that this is all we would have to boast of in the state of nature, why should Rousseau regret that we have now passed to a more civilized era? Furthermore, it is hard to see how such a transition would even be possible. What dynamic is there for change in Rousseau's picture? It is far from clear how, even hypothetically, we could have got here, from there. Rousseau himself admits that what he says is no more than 'probable conjecture', for the transition could have happened in many ways. And it has to be admitted that it is not always easy to fit together everything Rousseau says on this topic. However, the key is the thought that human beings, unlike brutes, have two special attributes: free will, and the capacity for self-improvement. As we shall see, this latter capacity, Rousseau supposes, is the source of all human progress and all human misfortune. The state of nature as set out so far lies deep in human prehistory: the condition of 'infant man', who spends time 'wandering up and down the forests, without industry, without speech, and without home, an equal stranger to war and to all ties, neither standing in need of his fellow- creatures nor having any desire to hurt them, and perhaps even not distinguishing them one from another' (Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, 79). We begin the path to civilization through the first exercise of the 28 THE S TA TE OF NAT UR E capacity of self-improvement: the development of tools in the struggle for subsistence, a struggle brought about, Rousseau speculates, by an increase in population. It is interesting that Rousseau sees innovation, and not Hobbesian competition, as the primary response to scarcity. Here Rousseau is probably relying on the idea that, as the savage has a natural aversion to harming others, most will prefer to get what they need by working for it, rather than taking things from others. And it is innovation to make work easier tool-making that first awakens man's pride and intelligence. Another innovation is the idea of co-operation: mutuality of interest spurs collective pursuits, as for example, in the formation of hunting parties. Thus the advantages of living in groups, and making common huts and shelters, become apparent, and the habit of living in these new conditions 'gave rise to the finest feelings known to humanity, conjugal love and paternal affection' (Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, 88). In this condition another novelty arises: leisure time. Co-operation and tool-making conquer scarcity sufficiently well to give the opportunity to create goods which go beyond bare survival needs. Thus the savage now starts to create convenience or luxury goods, unknown to former generations. However, 'This was the first yoke he inadvertently imposed on himself, and the first source of the evils he prepared for his descendants' (Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, 88). Why? Because man now develops what we could call 'corrupted needs'. Rousseau tells a familiar and plausible story. We become dependent on what were at first considered luxuries. Having them gives us little or no pleasure, but losing them is devastating even though we once managed perfectly well without them. From here a number of other negative elements are introduced: as societies develop, so do languages, and the opportunity for comparison of talents. This gives rise to pride, shame, and envy. For the first time an injury is treated as an affront, a sign of contempt rather than simply as damage, and those so injured begin to seek their revenge. As the state of nature begins to transform itself, causes of dissension and strife break out. But, even so, Rousseau says of this stage that it must have been the happiest and most stable of epochs, 'the real youth of the world' (Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, 91): a just mean between the savage's natural indolence and stupidity, and the civilized being's inflamed pride.  THE STA TE O F NAT UR E 29 Though this is a stable period it cannot last for ever, and the real rot sets in with the long and difficult development of agriculture and metallurgy. From here it is a short step to claims of private property, and rules of justice. But private property leads to mutual dependence, jealousy, inequality, and the slavery of the poor. Eventually: The destruction of equality was attended by the most terrible disorders. Usurpations by the rich, robbery by the poor, and the unbridled passions of both, suppressed the cries of natural compassion and the still feeble voice of justice, and filled man with avarice, ambition, and vice. Between the title of the strongest and that of first occupier, there arose perpetual conflicts, which never ended but in battles and bloodshed. The new-born state of society thus gave rise to a horrible state of war. (Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, 97) Thus we arrive at war: not as part of the initial state of innocence but as a result of the creation of the first rudimentary societies. And at this point: The rich man, thus urged by necessity, conceived at length the profoundest plan that ever entered the mind of man: this was to employ in his favour the forces of those who attacked him' (Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, 98). This was a plan, of course, to institute social rules of justice to ensure peace: rules that bind all equally, but which are greatly advantageous to the rich, for they, after all, are the ones with property to secure. Thus the first civil societies societies with laws and governments are born. (We will see in Chapter 3 how far from ideal Rousseau takes these first societies to have been.) And once more we see the emergence of civil society taken to be a response to a situation of war or near-war in the state of nature. No more laws! No more judges! Liberty, equality and practical human sympathy are the only effective barriers we can oppose to the anti-social instincts of certain among us. (Peter Kropotkin, Law and Authority (1886), repr. in The Anarchist Reader, 117) Even Rousseau, who believed in man's natural innocence, thought that ultimately life without government would be intolerable. Certain anarchist 30 TH E S TATE OF N AT UR E thinkers, however, have tried to resist this conclusion. William Godwin (1756-1836), husband of Mary Wollstonecraft (1759-97) (see Chapter 3), differed from Rousseau on two counts. First, human beings, when 'perfected' could become not only non-aggressive but highly co-operative. Second, this preferred state for human beings was not buried in the distant past, but an inevitable future in which the state would no longer be necessary. The Russian anarchist, Peter Kropotkin, held a somewhat similar view that all animal species, including human beings, profited through natural 'mutual aid'. This he put forward as an alternative to Darwin's theory of evolution through competition. The fittest, suggests Kropotkin, are those species best able to achieve co-operation. Kropotkin was able to marshal impressive evidence of co-operation within the animal kingdom, and other anarchists have argued surely correctly that there are endless examples of uncoerced co-operation among human beings. Many philosophers and social scientists have accepted that even highly selfish agents will tend to evolve patterns of co-operative behaviour, even for purely selfish reasons. In the long run co-operation is better for each one of us. If the state of war is damaging for all, then rational, self-interested creatures will eventually learn to co-operate. But, as Hobbes would have been quick to point out, however much evidence there is of co-operation, and however rational co-operation can be, there is still plenty of evidence of competition and exploitation, and this will often seem rational too. And, like the rotten apple, a small measure of anti-social behaviour can spread its evil effects through everything it touches. Fear and suspicion will corrode and wear away a great deal of spontaneous or evolved co-operation. One response open to the anarchist is to insist that there are no rotten apples. Or at least, in so far as there are, that this is a creation of governments: as Rousseau suggests, we have become softened and corrupted. Anarchists argue that we propose government as the remedy to anti-social behaviour, but, in general, governments are its cause. Nevertheless the thought that the state is the source of all forms of strife among human beings seems impossibly hopeful. In fact, the thesis appears to undermine itself. If we are all naturally good, why has such an oppressive and corrupting state come into existence? The most obvious answer is that a few greedy and cunning individuals, through  THE S TA TE OF NAT UR E 31 various disreputable means, have managed to seize power. But then, if such people existed before the state came into being, as they must have done on this theory, it cannot be the case that we are all naturally good. Therefore to rely on the natural goodness of human beings to such an extent seems utopian in the extreme. Hence most thoughtful anarchists have made a different response. The absence of governments does not mean that there can be no forms of social control over individual behaviour. Social pressure, public opinion, fear of a poor reputation, even gossip, can all exert their effects on individual behaviour. Those who behave anti-socially will be ostracized. Furthermore many anarchists have accepted the need for the authority of experts within society. Some people know how best to cultivate food, for instance, and it is sensible to defer to their judgement. And within any sizeable group political structures are necessary to co-ordinate behaviour on the medium and large scale. For example, in times of international conflict even an anarchist society needs generals and military discipline. Deference to the opinions of experts and obedience to social rules may also be essential in peacetime too. Such rules and structures are said not to amount to states as they allow the individual to opt out: hence they are voluntary in a way no state is. As we shall see in the next chapter, the state claims a monopoly of legitimate political power. No 'voluntarist', anarchist social system would do this. However, the existence of anti-social people who refuse to join in the voluntary society places the anarchist in a dilemma. If the anarchist society refuses to attempt to restrain the behaviour of such people, then it is in danger of falling into severe conflict. But if it enforces social rules against such people, then, in effect, it has become indistinguishable from a state. In sum, as the anarchist picture of society becomes increasingly realistic and less utopian, it also becomes increasingly difficult to tell it apart from a liberal, democratic, state. In the end, perhaps we simply lack an account of what a peaceful, stable, desirable situation would be in the absence of something very like a state (with the exception of anthropological accounts of small agrarian societies). Yet, as we shall see in the next chapter, anarchism should not be dismissed so quickly. We have seen some of the disadvantages of the state of nature. What about the disadvantages of the state? How rational is it to centralize power in the hands of the few? We are yet to examine 32 THE S TA TE OF NAT UR E the arguments which have been given to justify the state. If it turns out that these attempts to justify the state do not work, then we will have to take a fresh look at anarchism. And in fact, for just this reason, we will need to raise the subject again. I began this chapter with Hobbes's famous depiction of the state of nature as a miserable state of war of all against all. The basic argument is that individuals, motivated by the drive for 'felicity' will inevitably come into conflict over scarce goods, and, in the absence of a sovereign, this conflict will escalate into full-scale war. A number of counter-arguments were made in response. Locke suggested that the state of nature is governed by a moral law which could be enforced by every individual. He supplements this with the claim that we are initially in a condition of abundance, not scarcity, and with an implicit assumption that people will often be directly motivated to follow the moral law. While Rousseau agrees with Locke that Hobbes was wrong to suggest that our natural condition is one of extreme scarcity, he denies that ideas of morality and moral motivation have any place in a state of nature. Instead he proposes that natural pity or compassion will prevent war from breaking out, pointedly remarking that we cannot tell how 'natural man' would behave on the basis of our observations of 'civilized man'. But whatever the force of these responses to Hobbes, both Locke and Rousseau admit that the counteracting causes to war they have identified can only serve to delay the onset of severe conflict, and will not avoid it for ever. The anarchists are more optimistic in their attempts to avoid this conclusion. We considered three main strategies to defend the anarchist position. The first was to argue that co-operation will evolve in the state of nature, even among self-interested creatures. The second was to claim that human beings are naturally good. The third, and most plausible, is the argument that political and social structures and rules, short of the state, can be devised to remedy the defects of the state of nature. Yet, as I suggested, the gap between rational anarchism and the defence of the  THE STA TE O F NAT UR E 33 state becomes vanishingly small. In the end, I think, we must agree with Hobbes, Locke, and Rousseau. Nothing genuinely worthy of being called a state of nature will, at least in the long term, be a condition in which human beings can flourish. But whether this turns out to be a 'refutation' of anarchism remains to be seen.  All that makes existence valuable to any one depends on the enforcement of restraints upon the actions of other people. (John Stuart Mill, On Liberty, 130) If the arguments of the last chapter are correct, sooner or later, among any fairly sizeable group of people, life in the state of nature will become intolerable. Reason enough, it may be said, to accept that the state is justified without the need of further argument. After all, what real alternative to the state do we have? If we agree with the claim of John Stuart Mill (1806-73), that life without restraints on the behaviour of others would be of little or no worth, and also believe that the idea of 'enforceable restraints' without the state is mere wishful thinking, then any further argument about its justification seems idle. That we have no real alternative to the state acts as a negative justification: we cannot think of anything better. Still, this does not end the philosophical discussion. The defender of the state should hope to find something more positive to say, in order to show how the state can be justified in terms of some acknowledged moral reasoning. That is, we need an argument to show that we have a moral duty to obey the state. Such an argument will also enable us to understand when the state might lose its legitimacy, as was widely believed to have happened, for example, at the time of the fall of the former eastern bloc countries. How we might give a positive justification of the state should become clearer as this chapter progresses. But first we should remind ourselves  JUS TIF YI NG TH E S TATE 35 why it is far from obvious that we do have a moral duty to obey the state. As we saw, Locke assumed that human beings are naturally free, equal, and independent. This means that they are not naturally under the authority of any other person. Hence legitimate power relations must be, in some sense, artificial, a human creation or construction. Accordingly, Locke concluded that the only way of coming under another person's authority was to give that person your consent (except in the case of justified punishment). This holds, for Locke, whether the person claiming authority is another private individual or the sovereign. Thus the sovereign, who claims authority over you, has no right to that authority unless you have voluntarily put yourself in this position through your own consent. So for Locke the problem of justifying the state is to show how its authority can be reconciled with the natural autonomy of the individual. His answer is to appeal to the idea of individual consent, and the device of the social contract. Essentially, for Locke and the social contract theorists, the state is justified if, but only if, every individual over which it claims authority has consented. Locke, then, belongs in a tradition of theorists who give great weight to the idea of personal autonomy or natural liberty. Our political institutions, according to these theorists, must be justified in terms of the will, choices, or decisions of those over whom they have authority. This is a very appealing view, as it accords great respect to each individual, giving them the responsibility and opportunity to control their own destinies through their own choices. But there are other important approaches to the defence of the state which downplay the importance that Locke gives to autonomy and put other values in its place. In the utilitarian theory of Jeremy Bentham (1748-1832), for example, the primary value is not autonomy but happiness. The utilitarian theory, in its crudest form, says that we should aim to maximize the sum total of happiness in society. On this account the state is justified if and only if it produces more happiness than any alternative. Whether we consent to the state is irrelevant. What matters is whether it makes the members of society, in total, happier than they would be without it. This chapter will examine consent theory and the utilitarian theory, together with some other approaches to the moral defence of the state. 36 JUS TIF YI NG TH E S TAT E Before deciding how best to justify the state, we had better be sure what it is. There are, we know from history and contemporary politics, many different types of state. Probably most people reading these words live in modern liberal democracies. Others live under dictatorships, benign or tyrannical, based on military rule, a monarchical family line, or something else again. Some states promote the free market, while others attempt collective forms of production and distribution. When we add to these actual states the theoretical models of the state, especially from communist and utopian writings, it might seem that different real and possible states have so little in common that trying to 'define' the state is a hopeless task. Nevertheless, it has often been noted that there are some things that all states seem to have in common. We have seen that Locke defined political power as the right to make laws, with the right too to punish those who fail to obey them. States clearly possess, or at least claim to possess, political power. The sociologist Max Weber (1864-1920) made a similar point, if in more startling language: states possess a monopoly of legitimate violence. Within any state, violence or coercion is seen as primarily the state's business, either directly, through its agents the police and law courts or indirectly, through the permissions it gives citizens to be violent to each other on occasion: in self defence, for example. All legitimate violence or coercion is undertaken or supervised by the state. The other side to this is that the state accepts the responsibility of protecting everyone who resides within its borders from illegitimate violence. Surely it is only for this reason that we are prepared to grant the state its monopoly of violence. We forfeit the right to protect ourselves only on the understanding that we do not need self-protection: the state will do what is necessary for us. Thus it is often claimed that the state possesses two essential features: it maintains a monopoly of legitimate coercion or violence and it offers to protect everyone within its territory. Is this a 'definition' of 'the state'? One common objection to such a claim is that it is perfectly obvious in practice that no actual state can live up to the ideal. No state can really monopolize violence, nor can it protect everyone within its territory. We need only think of the murder rate in any large city, and the  JUSTIF YING THE STATE 37 precautions ordinary citizens feel they have to take in order to ensure their personal safety. What we say about such cases is that certain states do not manage to monopolize violence, and, sadly, fail to protect all their citizens: we would not say that such societies do not have states at all. But it would seem that this would be forced upon us if we treated the two 'essential features' of the state as providing a definition. In answer to this it should be re-emphasized that the proposed definition claims only that the state maintains a monopoly of legitimate violence. The existence, then, of illegitimate violence is irrelevant. And the state offers protection to all, even if it also often fails to deliver. But both of these replies are problematic. Many people in the USA claim a right to arm themselves in self-defence. But not only do they believe that they should have this right, they also argue that the government has no authority over them in this matter. So, in effect, these people claim, with a great deal of conviction, that the state or government has no business trying to monopolize the means of violence. And the argument that the state offers protection to all hardly seems universally true. Many states simply ignore the plight of unfavoured minorities, particularly those belonging to certain ethnic groups. Worse, in extreme cases, these minorities even suffer illegitimate violence from the state itself, in the form of persecution, purges, or 'ethnic cleansing'. Thus such states fail to possess one of the features all states are said to have, but it would be absurd to deny that they are states. Both defining qualities of the state, then, are problematic. At this point we have done no more than indicate an ideal type of state, one which does indeed have the two features we indicated. Let us leave the issue of definition aside and move on to our central question: how can we justify a state such as this? At this point it will be helpful to introduce some terminology. The task of justifying the state is often said to be the task of showing that there are universal political obligations. To say that someone has political obligations is to say, at least, that they have the duty, in normal circumstances, to obey the law of the land, including paying taxes where these are due. Other duties may also be implied: to fight, if called for, in defence of the 38 JUS TIF YI NG TH E S TAT E state; perhaps to behave patriotically; even to seek out and expose the enemies of the state. But let us concentrate on the duty to obey the law. Political obligation is the obligation to obey each law because it is the law, and not necessarily because we think it has some independent moral justification. Most of us obey the laws against murder without a second thought. If we were asked why we refrain from killing people most of us would surely answer that the idea of doing so has never entered our heads as a serious option. If called on for a further reason we would probably say that killing is wrong, or immoral. It would cause us great concern, I think, to be told that someone's primary reason for not killing others is that doing so is illegal. Few people, then, need the law to stop them from committing murder. Thus here we have a law which coincides with what morality independently also requires. But there also exist laws which seem to have little grounding in morality. Take traffic laws, for example. You may believe that you have a moral obligation to stop at a red light at a deserted crossroads, but only because this is what the law tells you to do. Of course, people occasionally think that what the law requires them to do is morally wrong. For example, some of our taxes are used to build nuclear warheads, and many taxpayers think that such a policy is morally reprehensible. But even in this case the 'good citizen' may well feel an obligation to obey the tax laws, and thus reluctantly continue to contribute to this and other projects, simply because this is what the law requires. Any protest, such a citizen might suppose, must be carried out by other means. Breaking the law would only be appropriate in the most urgent and serious cases. 'Justifying the state' is normally thought to mean showing that there are universal obligations to obey the law. A 'universal' obligation, in this context, does not mean the duty to obey all laws at all times. Only a certain rather unpleasant kind of fanatic could believe that we are always morally obliged to obey the law whatever it tells us to do; that for example, I ought to stop at a red light even if I am driving a dying man to hospital. Rather, the idea is that political obligations are universal in the sense that they apply to all people who reside within the borders of the state. It may be that the state is prepared to exempt certain people from certain laws (although this is often a sign of corruption) but the point is that the goal of justification of the state is to show that, in principle, everyone within its territories is morally bound to follow its laws and  JUSTI F YING TH E STATE 39 edicts. We should turn now to see whether such justification can be achieved. I moreover affirm, That all Men are naturally in [the state of nature], and remain so, till by their own Consents they make themselves Members of some Politick Society; And I doubt not in the Sequel of this Discourse, to make it very clear. (Locke, Second Treatise, s. 15, p. 278) Let us use the term 'voluntarism' for the view, mentioned earlier, defended by Locke: political power over me can be created only as a consequence of my voluntary acts. Another person can have political power over me only if I have granted them that power. This view is sometimes expressed in terms of the so-called 'self- assumption' principle: that no one has any duties whatsoever unless they have 'assumed' those duties, that is, voluntarily undertaken them. Taken literally this is a view of little plausibility and should be dismissed. My duty not to attack the innocent seems not in any way to be conditional on my prior 'assumption' of that duty. We must, it seems, accept that we have some moral duties, whether or not we have agreed to them. But this is not enough to show that anyone has the right to make laws, and compel me to obey them. And that, of course, is what the state does. On this account it becomes obvious that the problem of political obligation, at least for Locke, is to show how the existence of the state can be explained in voluntaristic terms. It needs to be shown that somehow or other, every last individual or at least every mentally competent adult has given the state its authority over them. On this view, in order to justify the state it is not enough simply to point out how much better off we would be under the authority of the state than in the state of nature. We would also have to show that each person has voluntarily consented to the state. To put this another way, even if it is true that the state is to my advantage, it does not follow, for Locke, that the state is justified. For I have a 40 JUS TIF YI NG TH E S TAT E natural right to freedom, and so political power over me can be brought into existence only through my own consent. Accordingly, a state which purports to exercise political power over me, but which does not have my consent, has no right to govern and hence is illegitimate. This remains so even if life in civil society is far superior to life in the state of nature. The project of showing that individuals consent to the state lies behind the idea of social contract theory. If, somehow or other, it can be shown that every individual has consented to the state, or formed a contract with the state, or made a contract with each other to create a state, then the problem appears to be solved. We would have shown how the state comes to have universal authority authority over each one of us by showing that everyone has consented to that authority. In the abstract, then, social contract theory is an obvious, elegant solution to the problem of political obligation. It satisfies the twin demands of universalism every person must be obligated and voluntarism political obligations can come into existence only through consent. This is all very well in theory, but where can we look for a social contract in practice? On some accounts the social contract is thought to be an 'original contract', that is, it was a real historical event. It was the moment, and mechanism, which took our ancestors from the state of nature to civil society. This view is commonly and probably rightly met with blank incredulity. Even if we accept that there was a real, historical, state of nature (and we saw in the last chapter some reasons to question this) could there have been such a contract? What is the evidence? Which museum is it in? Such a momentous event should have left some trace on the historical record. Furthermore, how could such a contract have happened? Aside from the obvious practical problems of communication and co-ordination, critics inspired by Rousseau have pointed out that it is absurd to think that savages in the state of nature could have the conceptual sophistication to create and respect any sort of legal agreement. But much more importantly, even if there had been such a contract, what would it prove? We could hardly maintain that it explains the political obligations of existing citizens. After all, no reasonable legal system allows one generation to make a contract which binds succeeding generations. Yet this is exactly what the doctrine of the original contract seems to presume.  JUS TIF YING THE STATE 41 If social contract theory depends on a doctrine of the original contract, then surely it is doomed. Fortunately there are other ideas which may play a more suitable role. If the goal of constructing a voluntaristic account of the state is to be achieved, then it is important that all those presently said to be bound by the state should have been able to consent to it. This seems to require some sort of ongoing consent, given by every individual. Could it be that every one of us has knowingly, and voluntarily, given our consent to the state? It is hard to see how. I cannot remember ever having been asked whether I agree to be governed, or at least not by anyone with any official status. It is true that Boy Scouts and schoolchildren are often required to pledge their allegiance to the flag or to 'God and the Queen', but they are given no real choice, and, in any case, are not old enough for their pledge to have legal standing. There are few, if any, societies in which literally everyone is required to pledge. As is often observed, the only people in modern societies who explicitly give their consent are those who gain citizenship of a society through naturalization. The vast majority of ordinary citizens are left untouched. Here it might be replied that consent is given in a less obvious or explicit fashion. One thought is that consent is communicated via the ballot-box. In voting for the government we give it our consent. And it is not wholly implausible that even those who vote against the government nevertheless indicate their consent to the system as a whole through voting. But this leaves us with two problems. Some of those who vote against the government might claim to be expressing their dissent to the system as a whole. Further, what can be said about those who abstain? Refusing to vote can hardly be treated as a way of expressing consent to the government. The situation is not improved by making abstention illegal and forcing everyone to vote. As voting would no longer be voluntary, it could not possibly be represented as an act or sign of consent. However, a much more interesting development of this line of thought is the claim that political obligations arise only where society is arranged as a 'participatory democracy'. A participatory democracy is one in which all citizens take an active role in government, far more extensive than anything we have encountered in modern democracies. An important consequence of this view is that, as contemporary democracies fail to match the ideal, citizens in such states have no political obligations. The theory of participatory democracy deserves proper 42 JUS TIF YI NG TH E S TAT E attention, and we will return to it in the next chapter. In the mean time we must remember that any conclusions in this chapter about political obligation are conditional on that examination. So far we have not been able to see how to develop a plausible theory of explicit or express consent. We have already considered the idea that voting is a way of tacitly consenting, but perhaps the idea of tacit consent can be developed in a more promising form. In fact all the major social contract theorists Hobbes, Locke, and Rousseau rely in different ways on arguments based on tacit consent. Here the central thought is that by quietly enjoying the protection of the state one is giving it one's tacit consent. And this is enough to bind each individual to the state. Although Locke believed that only express consent could make one a full member of political society, he famously argued that nevertheless political obligations can be created through tacit consent: Every Man that hath any Possession, or Enjoyment, of any part of the Dominions of any Government, doth thereby give his tacit Consent, and is as far forth obliged to obedience to the laws of that Government, during such Enjoyment as any one under it; whether this Possession be of Land to him and his Heirs for ever, or a Lodging only for a Week; or whether it be barely travelling freely on the Highway. (Second Treatise, s. 119, p. 348) Perhaps this seems plausible. I tacitly consent to the state by accepting its protection and other benefits. Now it might be that the mere receipt of benefits is alone enough to bind one to the state, and we shall look at such an argument later in this chapter. But the current proposal is subtly different, for it adds a further step in the argument: receiving benefits is a way of tacitly consenting to the state, and it is the consent that binds one. Should we accept this claim? Perhaps behind the argument is the thought that those who do not like the package of benefits and burdens offered by the state can get up and go. But if the doctrine depends on this, then many would claim that it has been decisively refuted by David Hume (1711-76): Can we seriously say, that a poor peasant or artizan has a free choice to leave his country, when he knows no foreign language or manners, and lives from day to day by the small wages he acquires? We may as well assert, that a man,  JUS TI F YI NG TH E S TAT E 43 by remaining in a vessel, freely consents to the dominion of the master; though he was carried on board while asleep, and must leap into the ocean, and perish, the moment he leaves her. ('Of The Original Contract', 475) What does this objection show? Hume's idea is that residence alone cannot be construed as consent. Why not? Simply because nothing could count as dissent, except leaving the country. But that is surely too onerous a condition to allow us to conclude that those who stay consent. This is often taken as a convincing refutation. But on the other hand there might be cases which meet even these demanding conditions. Rousseau, for example, supposes that residence constitutes consent, but only within a 'free' state, 'for elsewhere family, goods, lack of a refuge, necessity, or violence may detain a man in a country against his will; and then his dwelling there no longer by itself implies his consent to the contract' (Social Contract, bk. IV, ch. 2, p. 277). It is peculiar, if typical, of Rousseau to think that family or goods render one unfree. But we can see his point, even if we would wish to amend his account. In a free state, Rousseau implies, the act of dissenting leaving the territories of the state is simple enough. The idea that any dissenter can leave might be plausible if we think of a world of walled city-states, which one may leave simply by walking through the gates (as Rousseau, almost by accident, left Geneva in his youth). Hume clearly has in mind something much more like the nation-state, such as Britain, where leaving is no simple matter. Indeed his image of the state as a vessel on the high seas suggests an island like Britain. In the contemporary world, a world of nation-states, the doctrine of tacit consent seems far less appropriate than it did for Rousseau; not so much for the reason that states are surrounded by seas, but because even those who want to leave often find that there is simply nowhere to go: no other country will have them, and in any case what is the point of swapping one objectionable regime for another? We should, in the end, agree with Hume. The conditions for tacit consent are not met in the modern world. The state cannot be justified in these terms. Perhaps it is a mistake to think that the social contract theorist needs to appeal to some form of actual consent, be it historical, express, or tacit. 44 JUS TIF YI NG TH E S TAT E Rather, it could be argued that the social contract is purely hypothetical: it merely tells us what we would do, or would have done in the state of nature. According to this view, the thought that if we were in the state of nature we would have contracted to bring about the state, is itself enough to show that the state is justified. How should we understand this sort of argument? As a first step, it is worth reminding ourselves of a point mentioned in the last chapter: perhaps the best way of getting clear about your relation to something is to imagine its absence. This is a tactic often used, for example, by parents to persuade their children to eat unappetising food: you would be grateful for it if you were starving. Accordingly, then, the hypothetical contract argument tells us that if, somehow or other, we found ourselves without a state, then we would find it rational to try to bring one into existence as soon as we appreciated the nature of our plight. So we can understand the hypothetical contract argument as running like this even if you were not under the authority of the state, and somehow found yourself in the state of nature, then, if you were rational, you would do everything in your power to recreate the state. In particular, you would rationally and freely join in a contract to bring about the state. The hypothetical contract theorist will now plausibly ask: how can this argument fail to justify the state? If it really is true that all rational individuals in the state of nature would freely make this choice, then we do seem to have a good argument here to justify the state. But we should still ask how this relates to the 'voluntaristic' assumptions of social contract theory. For if we assume that we can only acquire political obligations by our own voluntary acts of consent, and recognize that hypothetical acts of consent are not acts, it seems to follow that the hypothetical contract argument will not satisfy the demands of social contract theory. This observation puts us in an interpretative quandary. If the hypothetical contract argument is not the sort of argument that could satisfy the social contract theorist, then what sort of argument is it? One possibility is to say that it is a way of showing that certain sorts of state are worthy of our consent. That is, the state has a number of desirable features essentially that it is our best hope of peace and security and the fact that we would consent to bring it into existence from the state of nature simply confirms that it has those features. On this  JUS TI F YI NG TH E S TAT E 45 interpretation it is the features of the state, and not our consent, which provide the main basis of its justification. Consent simply drops out of the picture. Ultimately, then, according to this line of argument, the hypothetical contract argument is not a form of voluntaristic defence of the state. It is much closer to the utilitarian theories which we will encounter shortly. The state is justified through its contribution to human well-being. On the other hand, there is a way in which we might try to reconstruct hypothetical contract theory in voluntaristic terms. Consider the argument that hypothetical consent somehow indicates the presence of real consent. We should start from the thought that although almost no one ever formally expresses their consent to the state, there is nevertheless a sense in which all or most of us can be said to consent. Perhaps if we were asked, and required to think about the matter seriously and hard, we would each express our consent. So it would seem fair to say that anyone of whom this is true has a disposition to consent to the state. But this seems the same as saying that such people consent to the state, even if they do not realize it. Just as we can have beliefs we have never brought to consciousness (for example, for many years I must have believed that giraffes do not have nine legs, although before first writing these words I had never consciously formed this thought), we can consent to the state without realizing that we do so. The device of the hypothetical contract can now be thought of as a way of getting us to realize what we really think. By reflecting on how I would behave in the state of nature running headlong into civil society if I could I come to realize that I do consent to the state. The point is not that, after going through the thought-experiment, I come to consent for the first time. Rather, the idea is that, after going through the process, I come to realize that I have consented all the time. On this interpretation the point of the hypothetical contract argument is to reveal dispositional consent: an as-yet-unexpressed attitude of consent. How much can be achieved with such an argument? One difficulty is that the sense in which consent is used here is very weak. Unexpressed, even unacknowledged, dispositions to consent are rarely considered binding in other moral or legal contexts. Furthermore there may well be people who go through the hypothetical contract reasoning, and then, after deep reflection, come to believe that they would be better off in the 46 JUS TIFYING THE STAT E state of nature, and so prefer it to the state. Perhaps they distrust centralized power. Perhaps they are more optimistic about the state of nature than I have been here. Are there such people? It certainly seems that there are: the anarchists and their followers discussed in the last chapter would be good examples. Such people cannot possibly be said to have the disposition to consent to the state: they actively and explicitly dissent. We might be tempted to suppose that such people are irrational. But what is so irrational about them? In any case, even if they are irrational, this is hardly a way of showing that they have consented. So even this weakest form of consent theory cannot deliver what we are looking for: a universal ground of political obligation. And if we insist that political obligations must be undertaken voluntarily, this is a risk we always run. The whole apple-cart can be upset by a single dissenter. As contract theory is voluntarism par excellence it seems that universalism the thesis that everyone has political obligations simply cannot be delivered by contract or consent theory in any of the forms discussed here. Perhaps the answer is to accept that it is impossible to show that everyone has political obligations. The insistence on a voluntaristic foundation of the state is highly plausible, and if the cost of this is that we have to accept that some individuals escape the authority of the state, then perhaps we should bite the bullet. The argument gives renewed support to the anarchist case briefly explored in Chapter 1. If we cannot find a way of justifying the state from acceptable premisses, then some sort of anarchy seems forced upon us, morally speaking at least. This critical strategy seems the anarchist's strongest weapon. No one asked me whether we should have a state, and the police do not request my permis