The Grand History of Economics, Part 2

The Physiocrats, circa late 1700s

The following is part of my ongoing series concerning economics history. It should be understood that "Grand" in this context should equate to the term "inventively false."

[Before economics became a codified study, before Adam Smith ever challenged King George III to a wrestling match, and long before John Maynard Keynes began hiding money underground, there was the Physiocrats.

The Physiocrats were a group of French economists in the mid to late 1700s. What did the Physiocrats believe? Excellent question, but please let me finish before asking anymore. The Physiocrats thought that only agricultural business produced wealth, that landlords and merchants could and frequently did eat souls, and that the balance of trade was not important.

But, while many students of economics are familiar with Physiocrat beliefs, few know the actual story behind their formation and eventual, sudden dissipation. This is the story of the Physiocrats:]

"What is it?" Anne-Robert-Jacques Turgot asked, looking down his nose in a Parisian sort of terror.

"I think it is..." François Quesnay said, stepping closer, "I think it is... economics."

Before the three gathered men lay a strange glowing document. It's black text seemed like the emptiness of space next to the pulsing, yellow glow of the parchment. The title read: "Tableau Économique." Faint, wispy lines of steam curled up from the paper as the three greatest minds of France watched and stared in growing fear.

"Where did you find it, Monsieur Quesnay?" asked Pierre Le Pesant (sieur de Boisguilbert), finally breaking his silence.

"It was tangled in a grape vine in the middle of my fields," Quesnay answered, his eyes fixed on the luminescent paper, "so I wrestled it free and removed the dirt. Immediately, it started to glow."

"And you are sure it is economics, no?" Pierre asked Quesnay without looking at him.

"Oh-ho-ho," said Quesnay in a very French way, then turned to face his companions for the first time. "I am not only convinced, but I am convinced I can prove it."


Then, Quesnay opened his arms as though about to receive a hug, and the air inside Quesnay's barn began to swirl around, causing pitchforks to tumble from their resting places along the wall and bits of hay to spin around wildly.

"Sacred blue!" Turgot said as he held his wig atop his head. "What is happening?"

"I," Quesnay said with the voice of a thousand lions' roars, "have become... a PHYSIOCRAT!"

Suddenly, Quesnay's body lifted into the air as his eyes turned into a pale lightning white, shooting tiny bolts of electricity from their corners like little fingers of Zeus grasping at the eternity of space.

"Behold the document," Quesnay called to his compatriots, "and become like me!"

The two French thinkers timidly approached the document, now glowing as bright as the sun. They reached out their hands and touched the fine script.

***

Simon tried to hide his eyes as the sweaty landlord approached. In the Frenchman's right hand, a sack of jingling currency. In his lips, a thin cigarette dangled, puffing opaque, gray smoke.

"Simon," the landlord said behind his cigarette, "I am increasing the rent. I need 10 francs by this afternoon."

"How can that be? You must give me greater warning, monsieur!" Simon said, standing from his stool. "I must sell all of these scarfs to make that much money!"

The landlord laughed in a growing cloud of smoke. "It is my land, Simon, and you are selling your wares on it," he said, walking away. "I do not care how you pay me, but you must."

Simon plopped back down onto his stool, and just as he was about to put his face into his palms and have a very French cry, he heard something that made him look up. It was a curious sound, like the ripping of some great fabric in the sky.

"What is it?" a woman walking along the street, pointing in the air, called. "It is an alouette!"

"No, it is made-made!" another called.

"NO!" a booming voice called. "It is the Physiocrats!"

Suddenly, from up in the sky, came Pierre, Turgot, and Quesnay, wearing brightly colored, muscle-fitting uniforms, smoking cigarettes from beautiful, elegant cigarette holders. In a swirl of wind and mathematics, they landed in the middle of the street, right in front of the landlord.

"Stop!" yelled Turgot, holding up his hand. "You will return your rent incomes, or you will... suffer." Behind Turgot, Pierre made a fist, shaking it like a tumbling boulder.

"Never!" the landlord called. "I am an agent of Louis XV! You cannot touch me!"

"If you are an agent of King Louis, then he shall be our next appointment," said Quesnay, pointing his cigarette holder at the landlord. "Now, return the earnings of the people, or we shall thrash you."

"Never!" the landlord yelled, turning to waddle away.

"Catch him!" yelled Pierre. "And hit him your fists!"

But the landlord waddled quickly, knocking over a stand of fruit and two men carrying a tall, French vanilla wedding cake. The three Physiocrats chased him as fast as they could, but were stalled by each wine and cheese vendor, which magnetically grabbed them by their thick French blood.

"He is getting away!" Turgot yelled, pointing with the swirling glass of Burgundy wine in his right hand.

"Yes," Quesnsay said, his mouth full of brie, "let him escape. He will only lead us to his master..."

To be continued...