But do men’s hearts change? Do their desires wane because they have lived under so formidable a prince? Do they learn how to wield proper authority because power has been granted them? And, most important, do they cease to seek diversion and change? Certainly not. Like children, they need constant distraction, constant entertainment. Too long with any one form of government and they become bored, restless. That is why they do not suffer princes (even those of inestimable quality) for any lengthy period of time. No matter how strong the initial authority, no matter how firmly a prince sets the foundation, it is no match for men’s aggressive talents.
Unless, of course, men are taught otherwise; that is, unless their leaders make education a vital part of ruling, whereby men’s souls are constantly shaped, altered, and adapted to suit political and commercial expedience. It is not enough for leaders to wield political power. Nor is it sufficient for them to hold sway in matters of trade and commerce. Even together, these two strongholds are not enough. They must be joined by a third, no less vital: Men must choose to follow their leaders along the bold path that makes aggression the core of stability. And the people must follow not only willingly but with enthusiasm. Thus, men must be led, but they must not be aware that the leash pulls them along. Education accomplishes both ends and at the same time breeds enthusiasm for the course chosen. It can turn aggression to fervor, obstinacy to commitment, and volatility to passion. A well-designed education both teaches men to have free choice and at the same time convinces them that they have chosen freely. The latter, of course, should never be the case.
Plato understood this essential quality of education and thus built his model republic around strong schooling. Had he but recognized that lessons change, that ways of thinking reflect circumstances, then perhaps he would have given us a piece of writing for the ages. But Plato could conceive only a singular Truth under which he set the boundaries of all learning. Justice. A sweet word, but little more. And in making Justice his standard, Plato turned a practical idea into an ideal. The astute student of human nature realizes that no such Truth, no overarching Good guides men in their actions or in their understanding of themselves. Or if it does, men are not keen enough to follow its dictates. Thus, such Goods and Truths hold no sway in political and commercial matters.
That is not to say that leaders may not direct a populace through an education that has a clear end in mind. But they may do so only as long as that end enhances overall stability. When education begins to create individuals who look beyond the confines of political and commercial life, the institution becomes obsolete. A given approach might last for centuries, as it did in ancient Sparta, but that had as much to do with brutality as it did expedience. Suffice it to say, those who hope to maintain power must keep a vigilant eye on education so that its lessons always conform to the political and commercial needs of the day. To educate is to contrive by stealth. This must be a central maxim of leadership.
Furthermore, the aggressive wish men have for change will be well monitored through education, speeded during one period, held in check during another. And that wish must always be allowed to flourish. This is an unswerving truth, for if the people ever feel that their aggression has limits, they will begin to tear at the very fabric of government in the same way a wild beast claws at its cage. The people must be permitted their whims, their passions, their arbitrary pursuits within the bounds of social stability. But they must never sense the walls around them. It is the task of government and education to maintain that delicate balance.
Yet we might ask, Is not aggression the very seed of upheaval? How will control of the pupil help to keep the father from rebelliousness? For those who understand revolt, this question is easily dismissed on several counts. First, upheaval is forged through generations; teach the child well and loyalty leaves no room for doubt. Next, upheaval is the product of a hidden resentment that bubbles up so as to destroy peace; allow that hostility considered expression and it ceases to threaten. And third, the cry of the malcontent is against exclusion, mistreatment, or injustice; such harsh expressions take years to develop and can thus be quelled within the young long before such excitements grow to dangerous proportions. And this is all I shall say on the presumed dangers of rebellion.
V. WHY THE NATURE OF MEN AND THE NATURE OF POWER ARE SO WELL SUITED
Likewise, leaders must pay close attention to the subtle changes in attitude that hint at discontent. And it is for that reason that governments must be willing to play different roles as time dictates. As the restlessness of a people begins to show itself, so the government must have the skill to change its very face both to appease and to distract the volatile crowd. The change may be only superficial (and more often than not is best served through deception), but its effect can be momentous. Would that there were examples from the past to illustrate this policy. But none with opportunity have yet dared to implement it.
One reason that governments have been unwilling or unable to master this technique is because they have believed falsely that all peoples seek liberty at all times, and that a mob is most content either under a republic or a democracy. But why should men choose to live under one constant form of sovereignty when they themselves exhibit no such consistency within their souls? If all men were infused with the republican spirit at all times, then truly a republic would be the government of choice. But men are not such creatures. Nor should they strive to be. It is no secret that there are moments when men covet even tyranny, openly or not. He who claims otherwise is either a liar or a fool. Why has the world seen so many tyrants if not for the very reason that every man has a secret longing to be one? That is, to wield ultimate control; to assert his will over all others. And just as men seek such power for themselves, so they esteem it in others. To live under an empire-building tyranny, to witness its power over self and others, can sate the private tyrannical need in all men.
As I have said, men are children. And it is not uncommon for children to seek out the strong hand of authority from a ruling parent. As with all passions, however, the child grows tired of this one in time. But it is a wise parent, like a wise government, who knows when to play the bully, when the coddler. Power reflects the desires of the people; and the people are most content when catering to the whims of power. Tyranny, which is often little more than monarchy disliked, does, at times, satisfy a human passion.
Here, then, is where the nature of men and the nature of power join hands. Power does not suffer well the shackles of quietude; neither do men. Power follows caprice; so, too, do men. Power sates its thirst through far-reaching, if not limitless, conquest; so, too, do men find distraction and entertainment in political expansion. Thus do the ways of power and the needs of men suit one another to perfection.
VI. THOSE COMPONENTS WHICH MAKE UP THE STATE
Thus far, I have spoken in general terms. I have explained that men must be left free to act upon their aggressive desires (within certain limits of which they are unaware); that power is a driving, capricious force that extends far beyond the confines of the sort imposed by democracies, oligarchies, and the like; and that, where governance is concerned, men and power seek the same end. It remains for us to ask the central question: How is that end met?
From here, I will confine my observations to those who wield authority. I have said enough about the people. They remain a concern, but only in so far as they follow the few who lead. To understand the aggressive desires of the general crowd is a necessary step in leadership. To contrive by stealth a change in their desires so that a state may thrive is the more difficult task.
Success in that endeavor requires a keen understanding of the nature of the state. It is no longer wise to describe the state as a single realm, as an inseparable entity. I do not mean to make the obvious point that sovereignty is divisible. The Roman Republic is proof enough, what with its Senate and Consuls and Tribunes, that such division is not only possible but perhaps even advantageous to stability. No. I mean to assert that state
s are made up of three separate realms, each of which plays a distinct role in the relations of leaders and people. These realms are the politic, the economic, and the social.* The first is the most easily defined, the most tangible of the three because so much ink has been used in its exploration. The second is, if modesty allows, a designation of my own meant to define those activities of trade and commerce within and without the state. For centuries, the term has designated the maintenance of households. Thus Aristotle’s numerous references to “oeconomia” throughout his Politics and Nichomachean Ethics. But is not the state a household writ large? It is, therefore, only logical that we treat the maintenance of states as we treat the upkeep of households and thus develop a more expansive notion of economy. As to the third, it is the most abstract of the three. For now, I will simply remind the reader that education is at the heart of the social realm, and I will leave more detailed discussion for later.
Heretofore, writers of theories, both practical and impractical, have thrown these three realms together, more often than not taking the political as the central governing force. Economy and society have appeared as little more than echoes of political power. This approach, though oft of use, fails to reveal the truly complex nature of the state. Those who take this path are like the simple diner who, upon tasting the stew, remarks that the beef is of good quality, and that consequently the entire dish is satisfactory. But it is the epicurean who notices the subtle flavor of the potatoes, the leeks, the carrots, and the broth who truly appreciates the dish, and who knows how to maintain its delicate balance. Should the stew fail to please the simple diner the next time round, he will look only to the beef as cause for his displeasure. The epicurean has subtler tastes, a more discreet sense for the ingredients, and he knows where to investigate when the stew no longer satisfies. So, too, in states, leaders must recognize the different ingredients of the politic, economic, and social, and balance them well so as to maintain stability.
And as there are different cooks for different dishes, so, too, there must be separate Prefects for the separate realms within the state: one man who understands political relations, another who rules the economic realm, and another who decides social policy. And because each must remain solely in his own realm, he must take no heed of the designs set down by those of equal authority within the other realms. The demands of each realm are so severe that, for those who lead, there is no time to attend to anything but their own tasks.
How, then, do they bring their efforts into accord? That is, how, if each gives care only to his own realm, will the designs in each serve the best interests of the state as a whole? Surely, without some principal agent overseeing all actions within each realm, we shall have anarchy. Therefore, one man must stand behind the three to guide them with subtle suggestion and wise counsel. This single individual need not be well versed in the dealings within the separate realms. Rather, he must tend a larger vision—with the insight of an Aurelius, the self-command of a Cincinnatus—a capacity to enable the rivalries between the realms to strengthen the bonds among them all. He is no prince, no sovereign king whose single authority dictates the path of the state. Only at certain moments does he assert such power. At all other times, he sits and observes, happy to remain above the fray. He is not hungry for power, yet he can harness it when the occasion calls upon him to do so. For him, supremacy is but a reflection of stability, and he knows that such stability rests upon the push and pull of the realms that he oversees.
A short digression is needed to consider the character of this man whom I shall call the Overseer hereafter. Only one man from the past has displayed the proper disposition of the Overseer. Cincinnatus, summoned from the plow during the Minucian consulship so as to fight back the Aequi, accepted the post of Roman Dictator with the single purpose of restoring order to the Empire; having done so, he returned to his plow in six months. His ambition rested solely in bringing stability to the Empire, not in securing his own authority. Our Overseer is no plowman, nor could he ever leave the central halls of authority, but his use of power must show the selflessness and narrow aim that Cincinnatus upheld.
The relations among the three Prefects and the Overseer will determine the well-being of the state and, as important, the control of the people. Each realm must maintain autonomy. Or at least such separateness must seem real to the people. That is, men will rarely need to learn of the Overseer, who keeps the three realms in harmony. To the simple crowd, the politic, the economic, and the social will be guided by separate hands, each in some way a check to the ambitions of the other two. In this way, republican virtue will blanket the government because power will seem divided among the many. The neat appearance of limits and balances (to borrow again from Polybius) will satisfy the whim of the people.
They will also be convinced at all times that the form of the state meets their desire. When, for example, the crowd cries out for aristocracy, the social realm will dominate. When those same voices beg for oligarchy, the economic realm will hold sway. And when, capricious yet again, they shout for a prince, the political leader will emerge. Thus will the face of government change with the winds of public interest and enthusiasm in order to keep the people diverted and satisfied. And thus will the aggressive desire of the people never have cause to tear at the fabric of a state that slakes their thirst for change.
These alterations, it will be apparent, are built more on deception than reality. For if a state were, in all truth, to assume the trappings of a democracy one day and a tyranny the next, it would be no state at all. Consistency must be the watchword of its leaders. As many have remarked, a state is much like a ship. But the metaphor has little to do with the role of the captain or his sailors, and even less with the difficult question of who controls the wheel. Rather, the similarity lies in the design of the whole. To keep itself afloat, to weather any swell, to remain stable during the turbulence of battle or revolt, a ship relies on a solitary device, hidden from all eyes. The keel. The keel remains constant at all times. Perhaps the ship takes new sails, a higher mast, a larger crew—such changes appear to alter its form, but the foundation remains the same. That which keeps it stable never varies. So it is within a state.
VII. WHY IT IS VITAL TO MAINTAIN THE APPEARANCE OF SEPARATION AMONG THE THREE REALMS
It follows, then, that the unwavering arrangement of Overseer and Prefects must remain always at the core of government. Their roles never change in relation to one another, only in relation to the people and to other states. That is, the apparent superiority of one realm over another at any given time depends on circumstance, whether the state must seem more politically dominant, economically forceful, and so forth. And it is the unseen element, the Overseer, that makes possible all the transformations a state will endure. It is his hidden relationship with the Prefects within each realm that grants the state its much prized stability.
That is not to say that the four act in alliance with one another, each aware of the detailed actions required for success within the separate realms. No. Only at certain moments do their efforts unite. The real power of the Prefects rests in their unfailing devotion to their particular realms, together with their knowledge of the unity they must observe under the Overseer, a unity unseen by all others. A second maxim of leadership is therefore: To rule effectively, men must see to their own tasks, outwardly alone in their pursuits, but with the hidden understanding of common fellowship. In this way, the full extent of their power remains masked through feigned indifference to one another. True supremacy will thus emerge through concealed association.
To this point, were this a book of ideas alone, I could be well satisfied for having explained the essence of supremacy and the nature of stability. But what a hollow victory it would be if I fail to offer even a single word on the means whereby shrewd leaders may be able to achieve this end. It now remains to see how a state (as I have described it) may come into being, and how it may flourish. Many before me have written on this subject, but most have done s
o with the fanciful intent of describing states as they ought to be and not as they are. And they have thus relied on equally fanciful notions of virtue, strength, courage, and the like to ensure stability within these imagined realms. Even Messer Niccolò, with his desire to represent reality, has given us a prince who seems to appear from the mists of providence, his boldness and cunning intact long before we meet him. Likewise, this prince has fortune to thank for creating chaos within the state so that he may exhibit his virtù. As Messer Niccolò himself admits, his heroes from the past and present slip away all too quickly—even those as revered as Cesare Borgia—unable to maintain their arrogance, their steadfastness, their foresight for any long period of time. Is this prince, then, any more practical to the practitioner of statecraft than Plato’s philosopher king or the virtuous princes we find in the writings of Salutati, Guarino, or Poggio? No. They are pure fantasy. In short, my small book will be no more useful than theirs should I stop here. The rest, therefore, must attend to the practical. And for that, we must again start with a clean sheet so as to determine how we might build a state for the ages.
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