Economic Sophisms

After dinner, in the warm glow of chandeliers and fireplaces, three men stood by a window in a grand townhouse overlooking a pretty park. Master Peter nodded contentedly at his trees. He had an idea that felt both caring and clever. He would open his own timber yards and sell firewood to the poor of Paris. Not as charity. He would do good – and make money. The plan was simple: get the city council to set a high toll on all wood floating down the rivers, so high that no wood from outside could get past the gates. Then the city would have to buy from him. No competitors, plenty of buyers. The poor, he said, would be warmed by his kindness – and his wood, which would be expensive but secure.

Paul suddenly felt his heart warm too. He said that Parisian butter always stuck in his throat because it came from Normandy and Brittany. He would build cow stables inside the city and give the poor milk and butter from Paris itself, if only the council would protect him from the flood from the countryside. High tolls on dairy, and he would sell at a price that showed his love for the people.

John, who had listened with growing admiration and a small pang of envy, did not want to be less merciful. He proposed that pigs, both alive and dead, from Poitou and all other provinces that spoiled Paris with cheap bacon, should be stopped. Then he would become the city's natural butcher for all things ham, bacon, and sausages.

A small quarrel arose. Each man's monopoly would make the others' raw materials more expensive. If wood became dear, butter would cost more. If butter became dear, sausages would become expensive. Their profits would eat each other. But then they found the old solution. They would stick together. They would talk about the people's good, not their own pockets. Paul would speak for Peter's wood. John for Paul's butter. Peter for John's bacon. Each would pretend to be as pure as snow, and praise the others' needs. Thus they would storm the city toll in the name of charity.

The council assembled. The room was full of hats, quills, and big words. Paul spoke first. Every log of outside timber, he said, was money flowing out of Paris like a leaky boat. He got chills at the thought. We must forbid it, he said, pointing across the park towards Peter's forest, the most patriotic wood Paris could wish for. No self-interest, word of honor!

John laid his voice low and authoritative. The state, he said, must offset differences in production. In Brittany, hay, land, and labor are cheap. Without protection, sad, cheap milk and butter will drown Paris and ruin workers' livelihoods. Set tariffs a thousand percent if needed! Yes, breakfast will cost more, but wages will rise when new cow barns and dairies spring up.

Peter came last, with care in every word. He was moved by his colleagues' purity, and therefore asked, with a heavy heart, to shut out all provincial meat. As it stood, Paris paid tribute to false friends. Create work! If salted bacon costs a little more, it is worth it.

A single voice cried out that behind the word 'work' there hid first and foremost less butter, less wood, less meat for the poor. To create some jobs by making everything dearer means to take livelihoods from all who must buy food. The council booed. Vote! Vote! Three decrees passed.

Twenty years later, a father and a son stood in the same city. Paris was thin, quiet, and tired. "We cannot live here," said the son. "No work. Everything too dear." The father looked toward the cemetery. "I cannot leave our graves," he said softly.

The son had news. Factories, workshops, sewing rooms, everything – they had moved to Poitou, Normandy, Brittany. Before, Paris sent goods all over the country. Now patient voices out there answered: We send you no more wood. No more food. Little money. We make ourselves the clothes and tools we used to buy from you.

The father explained calmly. When Paris shut out cheap wood and cheap food, the provinces kept their forests and cows, and raised prices at home. And when they stopped buying from Paris anyway, they began to make everything they used to buy here. At the same time, Paris gave up its fine crafts and beautiful factories, and threw itself into trees, pigs, and cows. Grass grew over quays that once were full of sails and ropes. Light, airy warehouses became barns and dairies.

At first it was a rush. Monopoly melted money in their hands. Everything seemed rich. But when a city turns to making poor substitutes for what it used to get through exchange, it becomes poor just when it feels rich. The market shrank. Those who still had wallets spent all their money just to survive. No one had anything left for shoes, books, theater, tools. And all other trades dried up, one after another.

In the end, monopoly punished itself. At first Peter and his friends made great fortunes. But as the city withered, they too learned that their special goods were no longer worth more in Paris than anywhere else that trees grew and pigs roamed. "When will this end?" asked the son.

"When Paris is forest and prairie," said the father. He straightened his back. "I will stay. I will gather people. We shall uproot the dangerous word that has wedged itself into the toll – the parasitic plant that locks out wealth and gives it the fine name 'protection.'"

He knew it would take time. Peter, Paul, and John understood each other, and they had the people's warmth. Workers saw jobs in the protected trades. They did not see the many freer jobs that would grow if the gates opened. The father was tired, but determined. The son took his hand. "You begin," he said. "I will continue."

The movement came. A man of the people, Jacques Bonhomme, shouted into streets and alleys: "Let us change the toll! Let every citizen buy wood, butter, and meat where it is found, cheap and free!" People cheered for freedom. Doors opened. Heads nodded.

But Peter had learned to speak to hearts. "If we raise the gates," he shouted, "we throw cowherds, woodcutters, and butchers into the street. They are the people too! Would you let them starve?" And the crowd cheered for protection.

Jacques answered: "If carpenters must compete with other carpenters, then wood sellers and butchers must also compete. A law that makes their goods dearer without making your pay higher is unjust."

Peter replied with gentle eyes: "Dear prices are precisely so that we can give higher wages."

Jacques: "Then you must also write high wages into the law. Or stop taxing the poor by making necessities dear."

The people split. Some shouted: "Dear is good!" Others: "Cheap is right!"

Jacques tried to say the simplest thing: "You cannot distribute meat that does not exist in the city. When we shut meat out, there is less meat. When we shut wood out, there is less wood. When we shut butter out, there is less butter. Everyone gets less. If you want every family to have more, the city must have more. Wealth is quantity, not price tags."

Peter pointed at him. "He is the Norman's man! Paid by foreigners!"

Jacques raised his hands. "I spoke out twenty years ago, when Peter and his friends bent the toll to their advantage. Hang me if you will. Injustice is still injustice. This is not about Jacques against Peter, but about freedom against barriers."

A voice from the crowd suddenly shouted: "Hang no one! Set everyone free!" The rest murmured. The word 'free' hung in the air like a door ajar.