Machiavelli
Page 44
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It is difficult to overestimate the influence of Machiavelli on the development of modern political thought, even though few of his successors openly acknowledged the debt. Indeed, to a large extent modern political science can be viewed as a response to Machiavelli, as an attempt to address the problem of human government in a godless world, without resorting, as the Florentine was said to have done, to immorality. Admitting that Machiavelli perceived with unprecedented clarity the nature of the problem, those who followed in his wake found his solutions inadequate or downright troubling. He was too quixotic, too undisciplined, and, frankly, too cheeky, to fit comfortably within the elaborate theoretical structures they liked to build. Political theorists as diverse in temperament and intent as Thomas Hobbes, John Locke, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, James Madison, and Karl Marx set out in directions and for purposes Machiavelli could hardly have imagined, but each began from the premise established by the Florentine bureaucrat: that politics involves the study of human character and follows patterns that can be discerned by the careful student. Freeing the analysis of power from the metaphysical shackles that had constrained such investigations in the past, Machiavelli set Western civilization on a course of bold innovation. Once he established the principle that the way people governed themselves was open to scientific inquiry, all manner of theories and experiments were permitted. Every attempt to remake society on a new basis, from totalitarian dictatorship to free-love commune, starts from the basic premise Machiavelli first articulated.
Beyond this vast but admittedly amorphous intellectual legacy, Machiavelli is father to a specific strand within the history of political discourse. Terms like Realpolitik or raison d’état, theories that take a dim view of humanity and advocate strong medicine to curb our appetites, can be traced to Machiavelli’s writings, particularly to The Prince, where he sets out most forthrightly his bleak vision of our animal nature. Thomas Hobbes’s contention that “the dispositions of men are naturally such, that except they be restrained through fear of some coercive power, every man will distrust and dread each other” is pure Machiavelli. Even those who hold the opposite view of human nature—philosophers like Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who believed that humans are naturally good and that it is civilization itself that is to blame for their corruption—owe a debt of gratitude to Machiavelli since it was in refuting his pessimistic vision that their own philosophy came into focus.
The intellectual heirs of Machiavelli call themselves realists or pragmatists; they are skeptical of utopian schemes, insisting that since human beings are naturally fallible, the search for social or political perfection is misguided and even dangerous. Empiricists like Francis Bacon found in him a kindred spirit. John Locke and his American disciples, men like James Madison and Alexander Hamilton, shared with Machiavelli a distrust of human nature and sought to temper our worst excesses by dispersing power, thereby protecting individual liberty from collective tyranny.
Of course other interpretations of Machiavelli’s work are possible. Tyrants from Charles V to Napoleon, Hitler, Stalin, and Mussolini were all said to be admirers and to have discovered in his writings useful tips on how to gain and to hold power. But only by rejecting the majority of his thought and by focusing on narrow tactical issues can the despot discover much in Machiavelli that is to his taste. Many a dictator would find Machiavelli’s tolerance of cruelty and deceit useful cover for his own crimes, but the larger message—which he would have to ignore—was that such tactics must ultimately serve the greater good. Valentino’s cruelty is redeemed by the security he brought to the people of the Romagna; absent this public good he would be nothing but a petty despot.
Those who prefer to see Machiavelli as an apologist for tyranny tend to concentrate on The Prince while ignoring passages in The Discourses where he clearly states that the seizure of dictatorial powers is legitimate only when the normal tools of government have failed to meet a crisis.vii Indeed he consistently shows disdain for the simple, one-size-fits-all solutions that are the essence of totalitarianism. Mixed governments are better than monolithic ones because a system in the hands of many fallible human beings pulling in different directions is more adaptable than one controlled by a single master convinced he can do no wrong. Machiavelli’s insistence on the role of chance in human history, and his view that political science can only serve the rather limited purpose of providing a temporary bulwark against the vicissitudes of fortune, provides little to justify totalitarian schemes promising utopia. In a world where, as he says, “all human affairs are ever in a state of flux” what room is there for a Thousand Year Reich?
The misuse of Machiavelli derives in part from his approach, which is aphoristic and epigrammatic rather than systematic. His fondness for memorable phrases and lack of an overall program has allowed readers to pick and choose what they wish from his writings without fear of contradiction. Unlike, for instance, Karl Marx, who also had a gift for the memorable phrase, Machiavelli is not identified with a particular political creed. He is neither liberal nor conservative; he associates as easily with those on the left as on the right, infuriating both sides with his apparent lack of ideological purity.
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In the nearly five hundred years since his death, Machiavelli has almost always been cast in the role of the villain. Even men like Metternich and Bismarck, politicians noted for their unsentimental pursuit of any advantage in the service of the state, would not have described themselves as Machiavellian, though there were many others only too happy to apply that label to them. Realpolitik might be acceptable in diplomatic circles, but Machiavellianism implies something more underhanded. When in an interview in The New Republic a journalist asked Henry Kissinger, then President Nixon’s National Security Advisor, whether he was influenced by Machiavelli’s writings, Kissinger felt compelled to deny the charge. Kissinger would admit to being a realist, but not a cynic.viii
People in public life who must submit to the verdict of the ballot are leery of being associated with the notorious Florentine, but in other contexts Machiavelli has gained a certain cachet. Anyone who wants to project a no-nonsense attitude, an ability to see through the pious drivel that passes for conventional wisdom or to slay a few sacred cows, will find it handy to invoke his name. Books dispensing advice on how to run a successful business or manage personal relationships often claim insights derived from his writings. His supposed ruthlessness is the perfect antidote to that greatest of sins for the worldly-wise—naïveté. In sophisticated circles there are worse things to be accused of than adopting “subtle policie, cunning roguerie.” Confessing an admiration for Machiavelli, we demonstrate we’re nobody’s fool.
What would Machiavelli himself have made of all this? He would almost certainly be surprised, though probably not dismayed. In life he had been worldly and ambitious, eager to leave something behind by which he would be remembered, and in this he succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. His posthumous fame eclipsed anything he could have anticipated, and while he might be perplexed at the strange uses to which his words were put, the uncongenial causes they were used to promote, and the strange bedfellows with whom he has been forced to share eternity, he was sufficiently attuned to the unpredictability of the universe to take it all in stride. Even at his lowest ebb he never lost sight of the comic aspect of his existence, knowing that admitting one’s own ridiculousness was the best way to forestall ridicule by others. Surely, he would have regarded his immortal reputation with the same ironic smile. In life it had been his misfortune to be misunderstood and underestimated, and the dead are powerless to choose either their friends or enemies.
But Machiavelli was convinced that the dead had much to tell future generations, if only they took the time to listen. When he sat down to write The Prince he claimed he was visited by ghosts:
Fitted out appropriately, I step inside the venerable courts of the ancients, where, solicitously received by them, I nourish myself on that food that alone is m
ine and for which I was born; where I am unashamed to converse with them and to question them about the motives for their actions, and they, out of their human kindness, answer me. And for four hours at a time I feel no boredom, I forget all my troubles, I do not dread poverty, and I am not terrified by death. I absorb myself into them completely.
Now that he has joined that spectral crowd, we should pay him the same courtesy and be as attentive to his whispered wisdom as he was to the words of those who came before him.
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i Florence has made a habit of first neglecting her famous sons and later regretting it. Dante was exiled from his native land and died in Ravenna, where he was buried. Despite repeated attempts to recover his remains, Florentines have had to content themselves with a cenotaph, located near Machiavelli’s tomb in the nave of Santa Croce.
ii Clement’s rejection of Henry’s petition led, of course, to England’s break with Rome, far more consequential for world history than the treaty’s impact on the independence of Florence.
iii The Discourses was first published in 1531.
iv Friedrich Nietzsche, no mean writer himself, praises Machiavelli for “presenting the most serious matters in a boisterous allegrissimo” (Beyond Good and Evil, 28).
v More than six hundred authors appeared on the papal list. The ban, in any case, was ineffective; more than half the 158 editions of his works in the century after his death were published after 1559.
vi Machiavelli anticipated Thomas Hobbes, who traced the origin of government to the basic human right of self-preservation. Hobbes’s philosophy in turn anticipates the modern liberal tradition in which society is founded on rights rather than duties. (See Leo Strauss, “On the Spirit of Hobbes’ Political Philosophy,” in Essays in the History of Political Thought.) Even a political philosopher as far from Machiavelli’s worldview as John Stuart Mill inevitably starts from the premise set down by the Florentine, that human society is ruled by violence and coercion. “The object of this essay is to assert one very simple principle . . . that the sole end for which mankind are warranted . . . in interfering with the liberty of action of any of their number is self-protection” (Mill, On Liberty, I, 6).
vii See in particular Discourses, I., 34, where he says: “I claim that republics which, when in iminent danger, have recourse neither to a dictatorship, nor to some form of authority analogous to it, will always be ruined when grave misfortune befalls them” (p. 196).
viii A typical example of the way Machiavelli’s name is invoked comes in a recent biography of Karl Rove, George Bush’s political adviser, titled Machiavelli’s Shadow. The author does not mean to imply that Rove seriously studied Machiavelli’s philosophy, only that his approach to politics was cynical and devious.
The most famous image of Niccolò Machiavelli, it was painted by Tito Santi after the Florentine Chancellor’s death. It shows him at the height of his power, in his elegant robes of office. (Erich Lessing/Art Resource, N.Y.)
The Palazzo della Signoria was the residence of the Florentine executive (the Signoria) and the seat of the government. Machiavelli worked here in the offices of the Second Chancery from 1498 to 1512. Its fortresslike exterior suggests the city’s violent history. (Miles Unger)
Today, as in the sixteenth century, the Florentine skyline is dominated by the city’s great religious edifice, the Cathedral (on the right), with Brunelleschi’s soaring dome, and the Palazzo della Signoria (under scaffolding to the left). (Miles Unger)
View of Machiavelli’s property Sant’ Andrea in Percussina, revealing a typical Tuscan landscape, with rocky terraces and olive groves. (Miles Unger)
This modest farmhouse served as Machiavelli’s country retreat. Here in 1513 he wrote The Prince. (Miles Unger)
Ludovico Sforza was known as II Moro (the Moor) for his swarthy complexion. The scheming Duke of Milan was blamed for inviting the French invasion of 1494. (Scala/Art Resource, N.Y.)
Charles VIII’s invasion of Italy in 1494 ushered in a long period of turmoil and humiliation for the Italian people. In Florence, the arrival of the French King contributed to the expulsion of Piero de’ Medici and the rise of Savonarola. His rapid conquest of Naples was followed by a dramatic retreat. (Réunion des Musées Nationaux/Art Resource, N.Y.)
The sensual, worldly Rodrigo Borgia, Pope Alexander VI, was the epitome of a corrupt Renaissance Pope. He openly acknowledged his children, including the violent Cesare and beautiful Lucrezia. His feud with Savonarola ultimately ended in the preacher’s execution. (Scala/Art Resource, N.Y.)
This portrait of Girolamo Savonarola by Fra Bartolomeo captures something of the intensity and asceticism of the Dominican friar who dominated Florentine political, religious, and social life between 1494 and 1498. (Erich Lessing/Art Resource, N.Y.)
The handsome, dashing Cesare Borgia, known as Valentino, was the son of Pope Alexander VI. His boldness, ruthlessness, and early successes were an inspiration for Machiavelli’s portrait of an ideal ruler in The Prince. (Erich Lessing/Art Resource, N.Y.)
“Il Papa Terribile” (the Terrifying Pope), Julius II—portrayed here by Raphael—spent most of his reign at war, first against the Venetians and later against the French. He was also one of history’s great art patrons, commissioning Michelangelo to paint the Sistine ceiling and sculpt his tomb and hiring Donato Bramante to rebuild St. Peter’s Basilica. (Scala/Art Resource, N.Y.)
Giovanni de’ Medici’s election as Pope Leo X on March 11, 1513, led directly to Machiavelli’s release from prison. On his accession, he was quoted as saying, “Now that God has given us the papacy, let us enjoy it.” In this portrait by Raphael, Leo’s cousin Cardinal Giulio de’ Medici (later Pope Clement VII) stands on the Pope’s right. (Scala/Ministero per i Beni e le Attività culturali/Art Resource, N.Y.)
This engraving of the Battle of Anghiari is based on Peter Paul Rubens’s copy of Leonardo’s lost masterpiece. Even twice removed from the original, this view of the central battle reveals the savagery and energy of Leonardo’s original conception. (© The Trustees of the British Museum/Art Resource, N.Y.)
Like Leonardo’s battle scene on the adjacent wall of the Hall of the Great Council, Michelangelo’s Battle of Cascina is known only in copies. Drawings for the fresco became a veritable school for generations of artists. (Foto Marburg/Art Resource, N.Y.)
Michelangelo’s tomb of Giuliano de’ Medici, to whom Machiavelli originally dedicated The Prince. (Erich Lessing/Art Resource N.Y.)
Charles V (shown here in painting by Titian) ruled one of history’s great empires. He defeated the French king in Italy and, in 1527, sacked Rome. (Erich Lessing/Art Resource N.Y.)
Machiavelli’s remains were transferred to this impressive monument in Santa Croce from a more modest tomb in the eighteenth century. The Latin inscription reads, “For so great a name, no words will suffice.” (Miles Unger)
© EMILY UNGER
MILES J. UNGER has been a contributing writer to The New York Times and is the former managing editor of Art New England. He is the author of Magnifico: The Brilliant Life and Violent Times of Lorenzo de’ Medici.
Please visit Miles Unger at www.milesjunger.com.
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NOTES
PROLOGUE: THE MALICE OF FATE
“And as for turning my face toward fortune”: Machiavelli et al., Lettere Familiari, 226–27.
“I have, Giuliano”: Machiavelli, Chief Works, II, 1013.
“What gave me most torment”: Ibid.
“post res perditas”: Machiavelli et al., Machiavelli and His Friends, 197.
“Hence often you labor in serving”: Machiavelli, Chief Works, II, 744.
“I can tell you nothing else in this letter”: Machiavelli et al., Lettere Familiari, 306.
“I wander over to the road by the inn”: Ibid., 307–8.
“Having eaten”: Ibid., 308.
“for fortune is a woman”: Machiavelli, The Prince, 86.
“my loyalty and honesty are proven by my poverty”: Machiavelli et al., Lettere Familiari, 310.
“I love my city more than my own soul”: Ibid., 525.
“fortune has arranged it”: Ibid., 229.
“I am wasting away”: Ibid., 310.
“Come evening, I return to my house”: Ibid., 308–9.