Magnificent Ambassador. It had been quite a while since your last letter, and I was worried that I had lost favor with even you—I have few enough friends as it is in these difficult days. I wasn’t sure why you stopped writing, although I feared it was because you didn’t want to be associated with as disgraced and as unwholesome a person as myself or, worse, because you didn’t trust me. But your latest of the 23rd of the past month put these fears out of my mind.
I’m happy to see how regularly, calmly, and discreetly you carry on with your public duties, and I urge you to continue in this way. We both know that a man who sacrifices his own interests for those of others is left with precious little to show for his efforts. We both learned that we live in a thankless world. It is Fortune who controls everything and we know that, for now, she wishes us to leave her alone, to be quiet, and not to give her any trouble. We must wait until she allows us to act again. In the meantime, you do well to go about your business quietly and observe things closely and carefully. If things go according to plan, I might soon be able to leave my idyllic country home here and come to see you in Rome. Idyllic indeed! Since you asked and since you treated me to an engrossing and amusing account of your life among the peacocks and courtesans and clerics and cardinals there, I might as well tell you what my life is like here. If you think you would like to exchange yours for mine, I would be very happy to do so.
I live in the country in a villa in a state of dreadful disrepair. Since my misadventures in Florence, I have not spent a total of ten days there. Until recently, I have devoted a great deal of time and energy to snaring thrushes with my own hands. Rising before daybreak, I prepare the bird lines and go out with such a bundle of bird cages and traps on my back that I look like a Spanish soldier loaded with booty after the sack of Prato. I usually catch at least two, at most six, thrushes. I spent all September doing this, and then suddenly it ended. The thrushes vanished. I have no idea where they went, but they’re gone. So this strange little pastime, rather lowly and certainly not in keeping with my august attainments and abilities, came to an end. And, oddly enough, I miss it. It was something I enjoyed.
Let me tell you what I do now instead. I get up at dawn and go down to a wood I am having cut. I stay there for two hours or so, in order to check on the work that was supposed to have been done the day before and to supervise the ongoing labors. I pass time with the woodcutters who are a vile, dishonest, lazy, and contemptible lot. I could tell you a thousand amusing and outrageous things about them and their machinations and arguments with each other and with the neighbors. Yesterday, they let Frosino da Panzano, a neighbor, take away several cords of wood without paying for it, and when I finally got him to agree to payment, he wanted to hold back ten lire, which he said I owed him from four years ago when he beat me at a game of cards. And we argued and bickered about those ten lire, I and a fat bumpkin with a big, round head and rotting teeth. The discussion was heated. Others joined in—a carter, the woodcutters, an old uncle of mine. I had to use all my skill and wit to negotiate an honorable settlement. And for a moment, Francesco, I thought of how you and I once stood before the king of France and his ministers and with them argued the fate of armies and cities and kingdoms. . . . Now I use my talents, my experience, to debate the fate of ten lire with workmen and peasants. But enough of that.
Three good citizens whom you know—Batista Guicciardini, Fillipo Ginori, and Tommaso del Bene—each bought a cord of wood from me when the north wind was blowing. I think they did it more out of pity than need, but I’m grateful for any help I can get. Old friends and colleagues are not exactly flocking to my door with protestations of friendship and offers of assistance.
At any rate, leaving my wood and my woodcutters, I go to a spring, and on the way I check my bird snares, which I still leave out but with little hope of catching anything anymore. I bring a book—Dante or Petrarch or one of the Latin love poets like Tibullus or Ovid. Can you believe I’m reading poetry now? And love poetry at that! I read about these poets’ amorous passions and about their loves, and I remember my own, and for a few moments I revel in this thought. Then, with a sigh, always with a sigh, I move on up the road to an inn and speak with those who are passing by. I ask them for news of the area and the world beyond, and I learn a few things. Lunchtime comes and I return home to eat what little food my poor farm and slender patrimony permit me.
After eating, I return to the inn. There I usually find the innkeeper, a butcher, a miller, and two bakers—gruff and hardy company. With these men, I waste the afternoon playing cards, and a thousand disagreements and countless offensive words arise between us. Most of the time our arguments are over a few cents, but that doesn’t make them any the less vehement, and we can be heard yelling all the way to San Casciano. And I yell loudest of all, but not at them, Francesco. Caught this way among these men with lice crawling in their hair, I wipe the mold from my brain, and I raise my voice and give vent to my indignation and my resentment. I release all my feelings of being ill-treated by Fortune. I am biding my time with Fortune, Francesco, and letting her drive me along this road of humiliation. I am waiting for the day when she will be ashamed to continue doing so.
All day I play cards and scream with this bunch, but when evening comes, I return home to my study. On the threshold, I take off my everyday clothes, which are covered with muck and mire, and I put on splendid and curial robes. Dressed in this more appropriate manner, I enter into the ancient courts of ancient men and am welcomed by them kindly, as one of their own. There, among these sages long dead, I taste the food of wisdom that is mine and mine alone, the food for which I was born. There, I am not ashamed to speak to them, to ask them questions. And they, in their humanity, answer me, and for hours I feel no boredom, no distress. I dismiss every affliction, I no longer fear poverty, and I do not tremble at the thought of death. I become completely a part of them, a part of their world, of their ideas. And as Dante says, that knowledge does not exist without the retention of it in memory, I have noted down what I have learned from their conversation, and I have composed a little work about principalities, where I delve as deeply as I can into thoughts on this subject, discussing what a principality is, what kinds there are, how they are acquired, how they are maintained, and, of course, why they are lost.
If any of my fantasies has ever pleased you, I think this little book will not displease you now. But more important, for one who rules, especially for a new ruler, it should be most welcomed. Therefore I thought of dedicating it to Giuliano de’ Medici, whom we both know to be the best of the family—indeed the only good Medici. I would appreciate your advice in this matter and any help you could give me. Do you think I should take the book myself to Rome or send it to you and have you present it to him in my name? Do you think he will be interested in it? Will he even read it? All these questions! But what else can I do? Necessity constrains me. I am wearing myself away, consuming what little I have left, and I cannot remain in this state for long without being despised for, and ultimately defeated by, my poverty.
But there is also a larger constraint, Francesco, something else that drives me. Fortune has decreed that I must talk about the state—not knowing how to discuss either the silk trade or the wool business, either profits or losses. I have to vow to either speak of these things or remain silent. If I could win Giuliano’s favor with this little book, it would be an opening. It is my desire to be useful, to do something, anything, with myself for the good of Florence, even if it means working with the Medici. Even if they start me off by rolling stones up a hill! Francesco, you know I have been at the study of statecraft for fifteen years, and I have not slept or played about during that time. Giuliano should be happy to obtain the services of one who is so full of experience and experience acquired at another man’s expense. Can he, can anybody, doubt my loyalty to Florence? I have always kept my word and do not intend to break it now. Anyone who has been faithful and honest for forty-three years, as I have been, cannot change his
character. And my present poverty is witness to my faith and honesty.
I should like you, therefore, to write me what you think concerning these things. I am still polishing and enlarging the little book, but will send you a few chapters as soon as possible for your comments. In the meantime, I commend myself to you. Sis felix.
Niccolo Machiavelli
formerly secretary in the Second Chancery
The “little book” that Niccolo mentioned in his letter to Vettori, of course, was The Prince, destined to be one of the most widely read and controversial books ever written on the subject of politics. It was a slim volume, scarcely ninety pages long, but its influence and the furors it would create would be out of all proportion to its modest size. Called a work of genius, it was eventually hailed as the beginning of a whole new era. It was declared to be the first real instance of modern political thought. It was an achievement without precedent in the annals of history and politics and even literature. But because of the blunt and practical way of Niccolo’s little book, it had its detractors as well. It was denounced from the pulpits and the lecture halls as cynical and downright wicked. Misconceptions grew up about the book, promulgated to a great extent, as is usually the case, by those who had never read it. Legends grew up about its author, and his name became synonymous in a dozen languages with treachery, deceit, murder, and bad faith.
Niccolo Machiavelli would have smiled at the irony—the hot debates, the furious denunciations, the occasional book burnings, the outbursts of censorship, and on the other hand, the impassioned defenses, the flood of books and articles and university dissertations, the translations into hundreds of languages, the thousands of editions, and even the book’s recent availability on such unlikely instruments of the devil as e-readers, personal digital assistants, and the Satanic smartphone. The veritable maelstrom of trouble and attention that has been swirling around his little book for four centuries would indeed have drawn Niccolo’s lips back into their characteristic, sardonic, pursing half smile–half sneer. Despite his excitement about the work and the great plans he had predicated on its favorable reception, in Niccolo’s own lifetime The Prince went unpublished, unremarked, and virtually unread.
And if, as I said, it was necessary that the people of Israel be slaves to recognize Moses’ ability and it was necessary that the Persians be oppressed by the Medes to recognize the greatness of spirit in Cyrus, and it was necessary that the Athenians be dispersed to realize the excellence of Theseus, then, likewise, at the present time, in order to recognize the ability of an Italian spirit, it was necessary that Italy be reduced to her present condition and that she be more enslaved than the Hebrews, more servile than the Persians, more scattered than the Athenians; without a leader, without organization, beaten, despoiled, ripped apart, overrun, and prey to every sort of catastrophe. . . . This opportunity, therefore, must not be permitted to pass by, so that Italy, after so long a time, may behold its redeemer. . . . What Italian would deny him homage? This barbarian dominion stinks to everyone! Therefore, may your illustrious house take up this mission with that spirit and with that hope in which just undertakings are begun; so that under your banner this country may be ennobled and, under your guidance, those words of Petrarch may come true:
Discipline over rage
Will take up arms; and the battle will be short
For ancient valor
In Italian hearts is not yet dead.
—MACHIAVELLI, THE PRINCE
Niccolo saw an opening, a moment in Italian history that was ripe for consolidating the peninsula under native Italian rule. Like many others, he had taken up the old battle cry of Caterina Sforza—Fuori i barbari! Out with the barbarians! His little book, ThePrince, was written in a rush of inspiration, and it ended with an impassioned plea addressed to Giuliano de’ Medici to liberate Italy from the stench of barbarian dominion. If the methods for taking and wielding power that he outlined in the book were extreme, that was due to the extreme nature of the times in which the book was written.
In these turbulent times, Niccolo saw something in the ascension of the Medici, even though he loathed their autocratic methods. For the first time in many years, Florence and Rome were united. There was an axis of power in central Italy that, if properly exploited, could be extended both north and south to drive out the French and the Spanish. And Giuliano de’ Medici, whose reputation for probity and whose republican sympathies were no secret, was the man to do it. Niccolo’s hopes for a united Italy were fanned when Giuliano was named captain general of the Papal Armies, the position once held by Caesar Borgia, and it was under these circumstances that he wrote, in a fever of excitement, The Prince. Giuliano would be the redeemer, the liberator.
When Niccolo sent the first three chapters to Vettori in Rome, the latter declared them brilliant and was eager to read more. Niccolo sent the rest and waited. He had already envisioned being called to Rome by Giuliano to advise him in his great work of unification. His book, he felt, virtually assured him of a position of responsibility. So he waited.
When a letter from Vettori arrived from Rome, he would tear it open so anxiously that he was often in danger of accidentally destroying it. And he would read voraciously, scanning the letter the first time through and then going back and rereading it carefully, one, two, three times. But the news he was waiting for never came.
Vettori’s letters were full of promises and vague hopes. More and more, they limited themselves to ribald accounts of his adventures among the Roman courtesans. To Niccolo’s pleas, Vettori responded with assurances, with admonitions to be patient, and with more promises. In fact, while Niccolo teetered on the verge of nervous exhaustion, Vettori dithered, wondering about the advisability of presenting the book to Giuliano, wondering how it would be received, and, of course, wondering how it would affect his own precarious position at court and his own ambitions. He was finally rescued from these bouts of indecision by the intervention of external circumstances. Giuliano de’ Medici died of tuberculosis.
To Niccolo, the news was a crushing defeat. The wave of enthusiasm he had been riding suddenly crashed and slammed him hard into the unyielding rocky shore. With the death of Giuliano, his hopes for advancement, for employment, and, above all, for a united Italy died as well. The moment had passed, the opening for him and for Italy was closed. The cycle that had begun with his despair after being tortured and exiled and that had seen him through a period of rising hopes and expectations had come around to despair again. He slipped back into listlessness and discouragement. It was a pattern that would repeat itself, with little variation, for the next twelve years of his life, that is, for the last twelve years of his life.
Niccolo’s debts continued to accumulate. He could not pay the taxes that were assessed on his small estate. He considered teaching. But the impossibility of reconciling himself to such a mundane pursuit and the company of children slowly drove him back to his study and his conversations with the ancients. Gradually, he was drawn again to the questions and problems that had fascinated him all his life, and he began work on a new, more comprehensive analysis of states and statecraft, couched in the form of a commentary on Livy’s monumental History of Rome.
“I don’t see why you concern yourself with these things anymore, Niccolo,” said Pagolo. “A united Italy? Who cares about a united Italy? Do you think that fellow there cares?” He indicated the only other man in the tavern besides the two of them. It was one of the bakers with whom Niccolo still sometimes played cards. He was hunched over a leg of mutton like a dog ready to snarl or snap at anyone who got too near to him or showed an unwarranted interest in his joint of meat.
Niccolo shrugged off the question with his usual mumbled apologies about it being the only thing he knew how to do. Pagolo said, “Do you want to know why Italy can never be united?”
“What do you think Pagolo?” said Niccolo indulgently. Even though Pagolo was not much of an authority on politics, he was just about the only friend he had left,
and so Niccolo let him ramble on.
“The reason for all this disunity and strife, in a word, is fat.”
Niccolo cocked his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Fat!” said Pagolo. “How can you unite a country that is so sharply divided and so violently insistent on the question of cooking fats? Here’s what I mean: If you want to divide Italy up into her three great regions, you can do so along the ‘fat lines.’ Here in central Italy, from Florence to Rome we prefer . . .” He left it hanging.
“Olive oil,” Niccolo supplied the obvious answer.
“But to the north, it’s butter. They fry everything in butter, they smear butter on everything they put in the oven. They smear butter on everything they put in their mouths.” Pagolo was waxing eloquent. “And in the South?” His voice took on menacing overtones. “In the South, its lard!”
Niccolo shook his head sagely, “I see the problem. What do you propose we do about it?”
“That’s obvious. When you can get your Neapolitans to try a little butter and your Milanese to use a little lard, all the hostilities will vanish.”
“You’re brilliant, Pagolo, brilliant! I’m going to compose a letter to the pope and lay it all out to him.” He added sardonically: “The pope hangs on my every word these days. There’s scarcely a matter of importance that he doesn’t consult me on.” And then, as he did so often in these days, he lapsed into a stony silence.
Pagolo looked at his friend. What did he want? Pagolo knew the answer. He only wanted two things. He wanted to bring the dead back to life, and he wanted a united and independent Italy. It was really very simple, very straightforward.
Pagolo was thinking of taking his leave when the door flew open and four men entered the tavern. They were dressed like woodsmen and had the papal insignia on their leather jerkins. Since the little tavern in San Casciano was on the main road between Florence and Rome, it was not unusual to see papal retainers stopping over there to refresh themselves. There was a lot of traffic between Florence and Rome these days, and all the more so because the pope himself was preparing to visit his native Florence.
Machiavelli: The Novel Page 68