Engels’ Socialism moves from the boisterous salons of eighteenth-century rationalists to the smoky furnaces of modern industry with all the subtlety of a brass band playing in a library.
It begins by giving the French philosophes their due, with Hegel’s thoight about “the world standing on its head” becoming more than a metaphor when Rousseau’s Contrat Social produces both the Declaration of the Rights of Man and, as Engels notes with a grim wink, “the Reign of Terror.”
Engels parades the dreamers, Saint-Simon, Fourier, Owen, whose utopias brimmed with “stupendously grand thoughts” and occasionally grander absurdities. The French Revolution promised “fraternity,” but commerce delivered “the chicanery and rivalries of the battle of competition.” Guilds vanished, small proprietors discovered that “freedom of property” meant the freedom to sell it off, and the “right of the first night” merely traded aristocratic titles for the nameplate on a factory.
The grand social transformation, still embryonic in 1800, left a proletariat capable of storming a barricade for the bourgeoisie yet incapable of retaining the spoils, which made room for the social engineers who believed, with unearned confidence, that a lone genius could re-draft society as if it were an architectural plan.
By the time Engels turns to his “scientific” socialism, the plot reads like a detective story in which the culprit, capitalism, is caught red-handed by historical materialism. The means of production have grown into “gigantic productive forces” that strain against the capitalist frame much like an overfed python eying its own cage.
Engels sketches capitalism’s evolutionary tree with Darwinian relish, where handicraft gives way to manufacture, manufacture to modern industry, and each leap sharpens the antagonism between owners and workers.
He skewers British respectability for using religion as a kind of moral chloroform to keep the “puer robustus sed malitiosus” of the working class docile, while the Continental bourgeoisie, once boastful freethinkers, grow pious out of sheer self-preservation.
Yet he leaves his reader with an unbuttoned suspense. The proletariat, slow-stepping and tradition-bound, has begun to move again, “absorbing the substance” of socialism even when shy of the name. The question is no longer whether the old order will give way, but whether it will fall with the crash of a chandelier or the quiet snap of a worn-out thread, and Engels, the cynic with a taste for historical drama, clearly hopes for fireworks.
This is a dispatch from a future that had not yet arrived, written by someone convinced he could already see the timetable. It is fantastically utopian in its faith that history would oblige, yet sharpened by a scholar’s relish for demolishing his opponents with archival artillery. As an argument it strides far ahead of its time, building its case with the confidence of an architect sketching blueprints for a city that still exists only in the clouds.
Whatever one makes of its politics, it remains an unusually engaging read, brisk in its historical demolition work, sly in its asides, and wholly unafraid to imagine the impossible as if it were the inevitable.