The Barter plate gave money a humble and market-made origin: out of the friction of a world without it, one good rose above the others to become the thing that all would take — the commodity each was surest he could pass on — and money was that good — gold, silver, salt — chosen by no one and by everyone, a commodity before it was a currency. The account is elegant, and for the moneys of the past it is largely true. But it strains against the money in our pockets, which is no commodity at all. The paper note is worth nothing as paper; the coin is worth less as metal than the figure stamped upon it; the largest sums are mere entries in a database, weightless and without substance. A commodity that became money by being valuable cannot explain a money that is valuable while being nothing — and yet the note buys bread. Georg Friedrich Knapp, writing in 1905, gave the answer the commodity story cannot, and it begins by denying that story its premise. Money, he held, is not a creature of the market but a creature of the state; and the plate's question is his test case: what makes the state's intrinsically worthless paper worth anything at all — the gold that is supposed to stand behind it, or the power that stands before it?
Knapp's doctrine, which he called chartalism after the Latin word for a token or ticket, begins by moving the source of money from its substance to its authority. Money, on this view, is not a thing that has value but a token whose value is conferred; and the conferring is the work of the state, which performs two acts of naming. It names the unit of account — the dollar, the pound, the mark — the abstract measure in which every debt and price is reckoned, which is itself no commodity but a pure denomination, a name for a quantity of value. And it names the things that shall pass as that unit made tangible: these notes, those coins, this entry are dollars, while that private scrip is not. The market did not vote gold into the office of money, on this telling; the state appointed paper to it. What gives a token the standing to settle a debt is not the stuff it is made of but whose word stands behind it — and the word that decides is the sovereign's.1
But naming alone would be an empty ceremony — the state may call its paper money, yet why should anyone take it? Here is the engine of the doctrine, and it is a tax. The state holds a power that no other issuer of promises possesses: it can lay upon every subject an obligation, the tax, and can insist that this obligation be discharged in nothing but its own token. At a stroke the worthless paper acquires a use it had not had. Everyone who owes a tax — which is everyone — must get hold of the state's money or meet the state's penalty, the seizure or the cell; and so a universal and compulsory demand for the token springs up, resting not on any wish to consume it but on the need to be quit of a liability that will otherwise be enforced. That demand is what makes the paper worth taking. A merchant accepts the note for his goods because he too must pay a tax in it, and because he knows the next man must as well; the tax that stands behind every holder makes the token good in every hand. Taxes, runs the chartalist slogan, drive money: the levy makes the demand, the demand makes the value, and no ounce of gold need enter anywhere.2
Set beside the Barter plate, the doctrine reverses the order of creation, and the reversal is the heart of the matter. On Menger's account the sequence runs market, then money, then state: exchange threw up a commodity money of its own accord, and the state arrived afterward to certify and standardize what the market had already made, stamping the king's head on a coin the merchants were using anyway. On Knapp's account, for the money that is mere token, the sequence runs state, then money: the token has no prior life as a commodity to fall back upon, and is money only because the state has named it and the tax has demanded it — withdraw the sovereign and the paper is paper again. The two are less rivals than descriptions of two different things, and the history of money is the slow migration from the first to the second. The moneys of the deep past were Mengerian, commodities the market chose; the moneys of the present are chartal, tokens the state commands; and the road between them — from the gold coin worth its own weight, through the paper claim upon gold, to the paper claim upon nothing — is the road from a money that needed no state to a money unthinkable without one. The dollar after 1971, redeemable in nothing and backed by no metal, and yet the most wanted thing on earth, is Knapp's case made in full.3
The power is real, but it is not unlimited, and the doctrine is at its sharpest where it marks its own edge. The state's tax can compel the holding of its money; it cannot, by mere decree, fix how much that money is worth. The levy sets a floor beneath the value — the paper will always be worth at least the trouble it spares in settling a tax — but it does not set the level, which is governed, as the Yardstick plate showed, by how much of the money there is against the goods there are to buy. A state that prints without restraint does not escape this: the tax-demand persists, but the flood of tokens outruns it, and the value sinks toward the floor and then through it, into the great inflations of Weimar and Zimbabwe, where the money kept its legal standing and lost its worth all the same. Nor does the doctrine claim that money cannot exist without a state at all; the commodity moneys of history managed it, and the volume's closing plate will follow the stranger modern attempt to raise a money upon a ledger alone, with no sovereign behind it whatever. Chartalism explains, then, not all money but a particular and now dominant kind: the token without worth of its own, whose value the state's tax conjures out of nothing, and whose level the state's restraint must still be trusted to protect.4
What the doctrine finally lays bare is the politics hidden inside the most economic of objects. The Barter plate let money seem apolitical, a tool the market shaped for its own convenience, owing nothing to anyone's power. Chartalism shows the convenience to rest, in the end, upon coercion: the reason the worthless paper circulates is that a sovereign with the power to tax and to punish has made it the one key to a lock that every subject is compelled to open. Money, the thing we take for neutral ground — the common measure standing outside all the quarrels it settles — turns out to be a creature of the state's authority, as much an instrument of rule as the law or the army; which is why, when the volume said that the trust beneath money does not float free but rests upon the state's power to tax and to govern, it was pointing past money altogether, toward the tax and the rule the family has still to study. The plate's question has therefore a plain answer, and an unsettling one. The state's paper is worth something not because of any gold, of which it has none, but because of the power to tax, of which it has a great deal: money is trust made spendable, but the trust, where the money is the state's, is anchored at the last by the sovereign's power to demand its own token back and to be obeyed. Fiat, the name we give such money, is the right name precisely — for it is money by command, and worth no more, and no less, than the command behind it.5