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to the state would also be looked after, though there is neither a certitude that they would be nor a definition of the particular shape they would take. Once a state is formed, however, at least some of these non-coercive arrangements are liable to become unworkable and may, indeed, be impossible to bring about in the first place. In the state of nature, anyone disliking the way a voluntary arrangement is working, has only two choices: to accept the way it works, or to bargain for its amendment, a breakdown in bargaining carrying the danger of the whole arrangement breaking down and its benefits being lost.¹¹ The risk of such an outcome provides some incentive for everyone to keep things going by reciprocal accommodation.

      In the presence of a state, however, the dissident member of a voluntary arrangement has an added reason to be intransigent (and the other members an added reason to call his bluff), i.e. the faculty of recourse to the state. If he cannot get his way, he can still appeal to the state to uphold the justice of his case, and so can the other cooperators. Whoever wins, the voluntary arrangement is transformed into a coerced one. Turned upside down, this is the same logic as the one in Kant’s argument about the subject’s right to disagree with the sovereign. If there were such a right (which Kant denies), there would have to be an arbiter to whom the disagreement could be referred. The sovereign would then cease to be the sovereign, and the arbiter would take his place. Conversely, if there is a sovereign he will get disagreements referred to him, for there is less reason to yield in private compromise if an instance of appeal exists. What the state must do, to make its life and that of its less litigious subjects tolerable, is to lay down as clearly as possible the laws predicting how it would rule if cases of a given description were appealed to it (thus warding off many appeals), as well as a general description of the cases in which it would not hear an appeal at all.¹²

      Admitting, then, that if the state exists at all, it will somehow or other assume the task of sorting out disputes arising out of third-party claims, what are the guidelines the capitalist state would adopt for doing so while still remaining capitalist, an upholder of the freedom of contract? There is no question of drawing up a design, a sort of code capitaliste for the laws of such a state, the less so as it is reasonable to believe that more than one such code, containing significant variations on the same themes, could each be consistent with the basic capitalist conditions relating to unconditional property and free contract. Perhaps the most economical way of grasping the spirit common to all such possible codes, is to consider that if there is a state (which is not the same as claiming that there could really be one) which is prepared to agree to these basic conditions, it must be one which finds its satisfactions elsewhere than in governing.

      Such a statement may look obscure and require a little elaboration. When we reflect about choice, we incline at least tacitly to suppose that “behind” the choice there is a purpose, an end. It used even to be said, for instance, that consumers seek satisfaction and producers seek profit, and their choices can be thought of as rational (or not) in terms of a corresponding maximization assumption. But what end or ends does the state pursue, the maximization of what can qualify its conduct as rational? Various answers of varying degrees of sincerity and seriousness could be proposed: the sum of the satisfactions of its citizens, the well-being of a particular class, the gross national product, the might and glory of the nation, the state budget, taxes, order and symmetry, the security of its own tenure of power, etc. (I address the question more seriously on pp. 267-70.) The likely maximands all seem on closer scrutiny to require that the state possess some specialized capacity, equipment to attain them. In addition, greater rather than lesser capacity looks desirable for guiding the course of events, dominating the environment, and actively working upon the maximand (increasing the pay-off, e.g. enlarging the dominion rather than merely the power over a given dominion). Even if there are maximands which do not require a vast capacity to act for their attainment—unworldly objectives like, say, the peaceful observation of rare butterflies—would it not be pointless for the state pursuing them, voluntarily to bind its hands and renounce in advance the use of a fully-fledged apparatus for exercising power, of the richest possible set of “policy tools”? Might they not come in handy one day?

      My definition of the capitalist state, however, requires it to opt for a sort of unilateral disarmament, for a self-denying ordinance concerning the property of its subjects and their freedom to negotiate contracts with each other. A state whose objectives needed, for their realization, a strong capacity to govern, would not willingly adopt such a self-denying ordinance. This is the sense in which we say that the ends of the capitalist state, whatever they are (we need not even seek to find their particular content) lie outside government.

      What, then, is the point for the state in being a state? If it finds its satisfaction in what we could term “metagovernmental” maximands, rare butterflies or plain peace and quiet, why not resign and stop governing? The only plausible answer that suggests itself is to keep them out, to stop them from getting hold of the levers of the state and spoiling it, the butterflies, the peace and all. The very special rationale of being a minimal state is to leave few levers for the zealots to get hold of and upset things with if, by the perversity of fate or of the electorate, they manage to become the state.

      Inheriting a strong, centralized state apparatus is part of the secret of the successes both of the Jacobin terror and of Bonaparte. In what are, perhaps, the climactic passages of L’ancien régime et la révolution (Book III, ch. VIII), Tocqueville blames the pre-revolutionary French state for having set over everyone the government as “preceptor, guardian and, if need be, oppressor,” and for having created “prodigious facilities,” a set of egalitarian institutions lending themselves to despotic use, which the new absolutism found, all ready and serviceable, among the debris of the old.

      Marx, too, is perfectly clear about the value to the revolution of the “enormous bureaucratic and military organization, with its ingenious state machinery” put in place by the regime it had overthrown. “This appalling parasitic body, which enmeshes the body of French society like a net and chokes all its pores, sprang up in the days of the absolute monarchy.... The seignorial privileges of the landowners and towns became transformed into so many attributes of the state power.... The first French Revolution... was bound to develop what the absolute monarchy had begun: centralization, but at the same time the extent, the attributes and the agents of governmental power. Napoleon perfected this state machinery.”¹³ Thus, it is not the state that mistrusts itself and would rather not have levers or powerful tools lest it should misuse them. It knows that it could not possibly be tempted to misuse power. It is its rivals for state power who would, by the nature of their ambition, misuse it. (The minimal state may even be aware that if it was succeeded by a rival with contestable ends in mind, the latter would need but a little time to put in place the rudiments of an apparatus of non-minimal government. However, even gaining a little time, and hence hope, would be better than handing it a ready-made system of pulleys and levers.) Seeking, as it does, aims which positive government is incapable of promoting, and fearing its capacity for wrong-doing in profane hands, the capitalist state is rational in adopting the contours of the minimal state.

      Recalling the regimes of Walpole, Metternich, Melbourne or Louis Philippe (only more so), with a blend of indifference, benign neglect and a liking for amenities and comforts, the capitalist state must have sufficient hauteur not to want to be bothered by petty disputes among its subjects. The more quietly they get on with their business, the better, and it may occasionally, and a little reluctantly, use a heavy hand to make them do so. Its distance from the mundane concerns of its subjects does not, on the other hand, imply the sort of heroic hauteur which a Nietzsche or a Treitschke wished to find in the state, which reaches out for some high purpose, risking in avoidable war the life and property of the subject; nor the hauteur of utilitarian ethics, which sees the subject and his property as legitimate means to a greater common good. In a seeming paradox, the capitalist state is aristocratic because remote, yet with enough bourgeois overtones to recall the governments of the July Monarchy of 1830-48 in France. At any event, it is a state which is very unlikely to be a republic. As a digression, it is worth remembering, though it may not prove much, that Alexander Hamilton was a convinced royalist. His is a good example of how little the essence of capitalism is understood by the public. If people were asked who was

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