I live in the country, and since my recent misadventures in Florence I have not spent, in total, twenty days there. Until recently, I have been snaring thrushes with my own hands. Rising before daybreak, I prepare the birdlime and go out with such a bundle of bird cages on my back that I look like Geta when he returned from port with the books of Amphitryon;6 I usually catch at least two, at the most six thrushes. I spent all of September doing this. Then this pastime, vile and foreign to my nature as it is, came to an end, to my displeasure; let me tell you what my life is like now: I rise in the morning with the sun and go into a wood that I am having cut, where I remain two hours in order to check the work done the day before and to pass the time with the woodcutters, who always have some argument at hand among themselves or with their neighbors. And concerning this wood, I could tell you a thousand entertaining things that have happened to me in my affairs with Frosino da Panzano and with others who wanted part of it. And Frosino, especially—he sent for several cords of wood without even saying anything, and on payment he wanted to hold back ten lire which he says he should have had from me four years ago when he beat me at cards at Antonio Guicciardini’s. I began to raise the devil and was going to accuse the carter who had come to steal the wood, but Giovanni Machiavelli entered the matter and made peace. Batista Guicciardini, Filippo Ginori, Tommaso del Bene, and some other citizens each bought a cord from me when that north wind was blowing.7 I made promises to them all and sent one cord to Tommaso, which, by the time it reached Florence, turned out to be half a cord because he and his wife, his children, and the help piled it, so that it looked like Gabburra8 and his boys butchering an ox on a Thursday. So, when I saw who was making a profit on this, I told the others that I had no more wood left, and they all made a big thing of it, especially Batista, who adds this to his other misfortunes of Prato.
Leaving the wood, I go to a spring, and from there to my bird-snare. I have a book with me, either Dante or Petrarca or one of the lesser poets like Tibullus, Ovid, and the like: I read about their amorous passions and about their loves, I remember my own, and I revel for a moment in this thought. I then move on up the road to the inn, I speak with those who pass, and I ask them for news of their area; I learn many things and note the different and diverse tastes and ways of thinking of men. Lunchtime comes, when my family and I eat that food which this poor farm and my meager patrimony permit. After eating, I return to the inn: there I usually find the innkeeper, a butcher, a miller, and two bakers. With these men I waste my time playing cards all day and from these games a thousand disagreements and countless offensive words arise, and most of the time our arguments are over a few cents; nevertheless, we can be heard yelling from San Casciano. Caught this way among these lice I wipe the mold from my brain and release my feeling of being ill-treated by Fate; I am happy to be driven along this road by her, as I wait to see if she will be ashamed of doing so.
When evening comes, I return to my home, and I go into my study; and on the threshold, I take off my everyday clothes, which are covered with mud and mire, and I put on regal and curial robes; and dressed in a more appropriate manner I enter into the ancient courts of ancient men and am welcomed by them kindly, and there I taste the food that alone is mine, and for which I was born ; and there I am not ashamed to speak to them, to ask them the reasons for their actions; and they, in their humanity, answer me; and for four hours I feel no boredom, I dismiss every affliction, I no longer fear poverty nor do I tremble at the thought of death: I become completely part of them. And as Dante says that knowledge does not exist without the retention of it by memory,9 I have noted down what I have learned from their conversation, and I composed a little work, De principatibus, 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, why they are lost. And if any of my fantasies has ever pleased you, this should not displease you; and to a prince, and especially to a new prince, it should be welcomed; therefore, I am dedicating it to his Magnificence, Giuliano.10 Filippo Casavecchia has seen it; he can give you some idea both of the work itself and of the discussion we have had concerning it, although I am still enlarging it and polishing it up.
You would like me, Magnificent Ambassador, to leave this life here and to come to enjoy yours with you. I shall do it, come what may, but what keeps me back at present are certain affairs of mine which I shall settle within six weeks. What makes me hesitate is that the Soderini11 are there, and I would be obliged, coming there, to visit them and speak to them. I would not be surprised if on my return I might have to stay at the Bargello prison rather than at home, since although this state has very strong foundations and great security, it is also new and, because of this, suspicious, and there are plenty of sly men who, to appear like Pagolo Bertini,12 would put others in debt and leave the worries to me. I beg you to relieve me of this fear, and then, whatever happens, I shall come within the time established to find you.
I talked with Filippo about this little book of mine: whether or not I should present it to him [Giuliano], and whether, giving it to him, I should bring it myself or have it delivered to you. Giving it makes me afraid that Giuliano won’t read it and that Ardinghelli13 will take the credit for this, my latest labor. I am urged to give it by the necessity that drives me: I am wearing myself away, and I cannot remain in this state for long without being despised for my poverty, not to mention my desire that these Medici lords begin to make use of me, even if they start me off by rolling stones. If I could not win their favor with this work, then I should have myself to blame; and in this work, if it were read, they would see that I have been at the study of statecraft for fifteen years and have not slept nor played about; and each one of them should be happy to obtain the services of one who is full of experience at another man’s expense. And they should not doubt my loyalty, for always having kept my word, I have not now learned to break it; and anyone who has been faithful and honest for forty-three years, as I have been, cannot change his character; and my poverty is witness to my honesty and goodness.
I should like you, therefore, to write me what you think about this matter, and I commend myself to you. Sis felix. December 10, 1513.
Niccolò Machiavelli in Florence
VI
TO FRANCESCO VETTORI IN ROME
Magnificent Ambassador Francesco Vettori,
My friend, you have kept me in good spirits with these accounts of your Roman love affair, and you have lifted from my mind countless problems as I read and think about your pleasures and your fits of anger—one could not be without the other. And truly Fortune has brought me to a place where I can return the favor to you: living in the country, I met a creature so gentle, so delicate, so noble, both in her nature and in her temperament, that I could neither praise her nor love her so much that she would not deserve more. I should, as you did with me, tell about the beginnings of this love, with what snares it took me, where Love set them, of what quality they were: they were nets of gold, spread among flowers, embroidered by Venus, so soft and pleasing that although a crude heart could have broken them, nonetheless, I did not wish to, and for a spell I enjoyed myself in them, so much that the tender threads became hardened and fastened with knots impossible to loosen. And do not think that Love used ordinary measures to capture me, for knowing that they would not suffice, he employed extraordinary means, of which I knew nothing nor did I turn to avoid them. You must realize that as I near fifty years of age, neither does the harsh sun bother me, nor the rough roads tire me, nor the darkness of the night frighten me. Everything seems simple to me, and to her every whim I adapt myself, no matter how strange and contrary to my nature. And although I seem to have gotten into great difficulty, I feel, nevertheless, such sweetness in it—both because of what that sweet and rare face does to me and also because it has let me put aside the recollection of all my problems—that I do not want to free myself from it for anything in the world, even if I could. I have, therefore, abando
ned thoughts of great and serious affairs; neither reading about ancient times nor discussing the present delights me further; everything has changed into sweet conversations, for which I thank Venus and all her Cyprian island. So if it occurs to you to write something about your lady, write it, and as far as other matters are concerned, you can discuss them with those who value them more and understand them better, since I have never had anything but loss from them, whereas in matters of love I have always found pleasure and good. Valete. Ex Florentia, die III Augusti 1514.
Your Niccolò Machiavelli
The final letter, dated 1521, is addressed to Francesco Guicclardini (1483-1540). Renaissance Italy’s foremost historian and Machiavelli’s first important critic and interpreter. Since Guicciardini was a key administrator in the papal states and the confidant of the Medici Pope Clement VII, Machiavelli obviously hoped that his friendship might also assist him in regaining the favor of his former adversaries. Although Guicciardini was usually not a man to accept Machiavelli’s belief in historical repetition, he noted a poignant parallel between Machiavelli’s ill fortune and that of another great man in a letter written in reply to the one reprinted here:
My dear Machiavelli. When I read your titles of orator of the republic to the Minor Friars and I consider with how many kings, dukes, and princes you have negotiated in other times, I recall Lysander to whom, after so many victories and triumphs, was given the task of passing out rations to those same soldiers he had formerly commanded gloriously. And I say: see how the same events repeat themselves, the faces of the protagonists and the superficial appearances only having changed.
The situation described in Machiavelli’s letter shows that even in the midst of adversity he never failed to retain his sense of humor. His scheme to impress the gullible friars with Guicciardini’s cooperation while he searched for a Lenten preacher more to his liking was successful and resulted in an immediate improvement in his standing among the churchmen there, as well as a rise in the quality of his bed and board.
VII
TO FRANCESCO GUICCIARDINI IN MODENA14
Magnifice vir, maior observandissime:
When your letter arrived, I was sitting on the toilet thinking about the vanities of this world, and I was completely absorbed in constructing a preacher after my own tastes for Florence, one that would suit me perfectly, for in this I want to be as stubborn as in my ideas on other matters. And because I have never failed in my duty to the Republic by not helping her whenever I could—if not with works, at least with words, if not with words, then at least with gestures—I do not intend to fail her in this. It is true that I differ with my fellow citizens in this as well as in other matters, for they want a preacher to show them the way to Paradise, and I want to find one that will show them how to go to the devil; they want a man who is serious and prudent, and I want one who is crazier than Pozzo, smarter than Brother Girolamo, and more hypocritical than Brother Alberto. This would be nice, something worthy of our time: to see what we have experienced in many priests all in one man—I believe that the true way of going to Paradise is to learn the way to Hell in order to avoid it. Besides this, seeing how much credit is given to a poor wretch who hides himself under the cloak of religion, one can easily imagine how much credit a good man would receive who actually, and not in disguise, trudged the muddy paths of St. Francis. As this train of thought pleases me, I intend to pick Rovaio, and I think that if he is like his brothers and sisters, he will be just the choice. I would appreciate your opinion about it if you write again.
I remain idle here because I cannot carry out my mission until the general and the assessors are elected, and I keep wondering how to cause so much trouble among these friars that they might, here or in other places, beat each other up with their sandals; and if I do not lose my wits I believe that I shall succeed; and I think that your Excellency’s advice and help will be of great use to me. And if you were to come here on the pretext of taking a pleasure trip, that would be fine, or, at least, if you could give me in writing a few master strokes—in fact, if you would keep in touch with me on this account by sending me a messenger once a day, as you have done today, you would help me even more: in the first place, you would clarify things and advise me on the scheme; in the second place, you would increase my prestige here, when the friars see the dispatches pouring in. Let me tell you that when your crossbowman arrived with your letter, bowing to the ground, saying that he was sent especially and in haste, every one of those priests bristled with so much respect and with such an uproar that everything was turned topsy-turvy, and many of them asked me what the news was; and I, to enhance my importance, said that the Emperor was waiting at Trent and that the Swiss had called new diets, and that the King of France wished to parlay personally with that ruler, but that his counselors were advising him against it; and so, all of them stood there with their mouths wide open with hat in hand; and even now while I am writing this to you there is a circle of them around me, watching me write and for so long a time they are amazed and they look at me as if I were possessed; and to amaze them even more, I pause over my pen from time to time and sigh, and they stand there with their mouths wide open—if they knew what I was writing to you, they would really be astonished! Your Lordship knows that when a person, according to these friars, is confirmed in a state of grace, the Devil no longer has the power to tempt him—well, I am not afraid that these friars will turn me into a hypocrite, since I think I am well confirmed.
As for the lies of the people of Carpi, I can match them all, since for a long time now I have been educating myself in that art so that I don’t need Francesco Martelli’s help; it has been a long time since I have said what I think or have believed what I said, and if I do speak the truth sometimes, I hide it among so many lies that it is difficult to find it again.
I have not spoken to the Governor because, having found lodgings, I felt that speaking to him was useless. This morning in church I stared at him a bit while he was looking at some paintings. I think that he is perfectly made: since the part corresponds to the whole, we can believe that he is what he appears to be—that his deformity does not lie. If I had had your letter with me, I might have drawn a bucketful from it. But nothing has come of it, and I wait for tomorrow to come with advice from you about my affairs. I hope you will send one of those crossbowmen of yours: make him gallop and arrive here all sweaty so that the people will be astonished; by doing this you will do me honor and will also give your crossbowmen a bit of exercise, which is also very good for horses at this time of the year. I would write you more if I wished to tax my fantasy, but I want to keep it as fresh as I can for tomorrow. I send my regards to Your Lordship, quae semper ut vult valeat. In Carpi, May 17, 1521.
Your Niccolò Machiavelli,
Ambassador to the Minor Friars
THE PRINCE
EDITORS’ NOTE
This, the most famous and controversial of Machiavelli’s works, was first printed in 1532, some seven years after the death of its author, although manuscript copies of the work circulated earlier. There is general agreement among scholars that the origins of The Prince and The Discourses are closely interrelated. It seems, as has been explained in the Introduction, that Machiavelli interrupted the composition of The Discourses to turn to this shorter treatise of a more occasional nature between July and December of 1513. Giuliano de’ Medici’s sudden death on March 17, 1516, led Machiavelli to change his intended dedication from Giuliano to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino (1492-1519) and grandson of the more illustrious Lorenzo il Magnifico (1449-1492). Some scholars are inclined to view chapter XXV on Fortune as the logical conclusion to the treatise and to interpret chapter XXVI, with its exhortation to free Italy from the barbarians, as a means of linking the conclusion of the work to the second dedication.
Niccolò Machiavelli to
Lorenzo de’ Medici, the Magnificent
In most instances, it is customary for those who desire to win the favor of a Prince to present them
selves to him with those things they value most or which they feel will most please him; thus, we often see Princes given horses, arms, vestments of gold cloth, precious stones, and similar ornaments suited to their greatness. Wishing, therefore, to offer myself to Your Magnificence with some evidence of my devotion to you, I have not found among my belongings anything that I might value more or prize so much as the knowledge of the deeds of great men, which I learned from a long experience in modern affairs and a continuous study of antiquity; having with great care arid for a long time thought about and examined these deeds, and now having set them down in a little book, I am sending them to Your Magnificence.
And although I consider this work unworthy of your station, I am sure, nevertheless, that your humanity will move you to accept it, for there could not be a greater gift from me than to give you the means to be able, in a very brief time, to understand all that I, in many years and with many hardships and dangers, came to understand and to appreciate. I have neither decorated nor filled this work with fancy sentences, with rich and magnificent words, or with any other form of rhetorical or unnecessary ornamentation which many writers normally use in describing and enriching their subject matter; for I wished that nothing should set my work apart or make it pleasing except the variety of its material and the seriousness of its contents. Neither do I wish that it be thought presumptuous if a man of low and inferior station dares to debate and to regulate the rule of princes; for, just as those who paint landscapes place themselves in a low position on the plain in order to consider the nature of the mountains and the high places and place themselves high atop mountains in order to study the plains, in like manner, to know well the nature of the people one must be a prince, and to know well the nature of princes one must be of the people.
The Portable Machiavelli Page 7