Dante Alighieri: Monarchy. Prue Shaw translation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996.
The author of the Divine Comedy practiced politics. As Prue Shaw writes in her incisive introduction, in the 1290s and early 1300s he served among the six priors who ruled Florence and as an ambassador on a mission to the vulpine Pope Boniface VIII, “whose aggressive and duplicitous intervention in the affairs of Dante’s native city threatened its independence and stability.” It was while serving on that mission that a rival faction within his Guelf Party, acting in alliance with the pope, falsely accused Dante of corruption and had him “condemned to death at the stake should he ever return.” Dante the political thinker profited from the exile of Dante the politician, as he now began extensive travels throughout Italy, “observing at first hand the devastating effects of factional intrigue and papal meddling in temporal affairs”; in effect, exile induced him to study what academics today call ‘comparative politics’ in addition to concentrating his mind on what political philosophers call ‘the theologico-political question.’ Shaw remarks that there is some tension between these tasks, as the Monarchy dwells mostly on the latter at the expense of the former. Dante asks his reader to think primarily about first principles; he is no Montaigne or Tocqueville. As she observes, Dante mentions historians in passing while “the poets are quoted verbatim.”
Shaw additionally calls attention to an important structural feature of the book. “In each book the most important argument is placed right at the center, physical centrality reflecting intellectual weight and cogency.” Indeed, “the treatise may have been planned by Dante around a numerical model, the mathematical shaping and ordering principles which underlie reality itself built into the very structure of the text,” with the tripartite division “echo[ing] not only the structure of the Trinity but also that of the syllogism (three terms, one argument; three propositions, one conclusion.”
Book One consists of sixteen sections. In the first section he appeals to “Higher Nature,” nature in the mind of the First Mover—the idea of nature which precedes the creation of nature itself. Dante’s stated intention parallels, on the human level, the universality of Higher Nature: “I wish not just to put forth buds but to bear fruit for the benefit of all, and to reveal truths that have not been attempted by others” (I.i). [1] Specifically, “among the truths which are hidden and useful, a knowledge of temporal monarchy is both extremely useful and most inaccessible”; “no one has attempted to elucidate it” because it does not lead “directly to material gain” (I.i). In so doing, Dante seeks not material gain but “glory”—trusting, however, “not so much in my own powers as in the light of that giver who [in the words of I Corinthians] ‘giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not'” (I.i). To counterbalance the universal power of the Papacy, then, Dante will propose a universal temporal monarchy, taking care to invoke the same source of wisdom the pope claims to tap.
Dante means “temporal” literally. The secular emperor would have authority over things “measured by time” (I.ii). Is such a universal monarchy “necessary to the well-being of the world”? (I.ii). When the ancient Romans ordained such an emperor, did they act “by right”? (I.ii). And does the monarch’s authority “derive directly from God or from someone else,” such as the pope? (I.ii). Finally, what is the first principle of Dante’s inquiry?
He addresses the last question first, distinguishing between things beyond human control, about which we can only theorize, and things concerning which we can both theorize and act. Following Aristotle, he remarks that we theorize about things within human control “not for the sake of theory,” not only to satisfy our wonder, but to take action (I.ii). Political actions number among those things human beings control; this treatise therefore aims at action, primarily. Action aims at end, a telos. “Whatever constitutes the purpose of the whole of human society (if there is such a purpose) will be here the first principle” (I.ii).
All human things have a purpose. The parts of the human body serve the purpose of the “whole person”; similarly, households, tribes, cities, kingdoms, and “the whole of mankind” have purposes (I.iii). “In the intention of its creator qua creator the essential nature of any created being is not an ultimate end in itself; the end is rather the activity which is proper to that nature” (I.iii). The activity “specific to humanity as a whole” is to strive for “the highest potentiality of mankind,” the fulfillment of its nature (I.iii). This follows from the definition of human beings as rational animals; “the highest potentiality of mankind is his intellectual potentiality or faculty,” and “since that potentiality cannot be fully actualized all at once in any one individual or in any one of the particular social groupings enumerated above, there must needs be a vast number of individual people in the human race, through whom the whole of this potentiality can be realized” (I.iii). This activity isn’t limited to the perception of “universal ideas or classes,” to theoretical activity, but to particulars, to matters of “doing and making,” actions “regulated by political judgment, and its products, which are shaped by practical skill” (I.iii). All of these practical arts “are subordinate to thinking as the best activity for which the Primal Goodness brought mankind into existence,” and is consistent with Aristotle’s “statement in the Politics that ‘men of vigorous intellect naturally rule over others'” (I.iii)—a statement Aristotle doesn’t explicitly make in the Politics, as Shaw duly notes, but which is more or less in line with his definition of the best form of kingship.
Aristotle refers, however, to a just king ruling over a polis, not a universal monarch. There is no notion of a universal monarch in Aristotle, despite the attempts of Alexander the Great, whom he is said to have taught. Aristotle locates human flourishing in particular regimes ruling particular (and fairly small) sovereign political communities. It isn’t clear that he would regard a world empire (if feasible) as genuinely political at all, and therefore as genuinely conducive to the flourishing of a rational and political animal. Between Aristotle and Dante, Christianity has intervened, and especially the Christian church or assembly, then ruled by its monarch, the pope. If politics strictly speaking consists of ruling and being ruled, of reciprocity, then Dante evidently responds to the advent of Christianity, the universal assembly of God ruled on earth by one monarch, by proposing a parallel monarchy aimed at restoring the reciprocity of political life on the much grander scale now envisioned by the Catholic Church. The Church’s monarch and the temporal monarch would recapitulate the relationship of the husband and the wife in Aristotle’s understanding of the household, who share rule, ruling reciprocally—the definition of political rule proper. [2]
In practical terms, then, if “the activity proper to mankind considered as a whole is constantly to actualize the full intellectual potential of humanity, primarily through thought and secondarily through action (as a function and extension of thought)” then the aim of this “almost divine” activity is “the calm or tranquility of peace,” the “universal peace [which] is the best of those things which are ordained for our human happiness,” as exemplified by the Christian blessing, “Peace be with you” (I.iv). This is because peace follows from the activity of the intellect, the human power which aims at what Aristotle identifies as the human end, eudaimonia or happiness. [3]
Having established the first principle of his inquiry, Dante recurs the first of his questions: Is temporal monarchy necessary for the well-being of the world? It is: “When a number of things are ordered to a single end, one of them must guide or direct, and the others be guided or directed” (I.v). In the individual person this is the intellectual faculty, reason; in the family it is the pater familias; in the city it is its politeuma, its ruling body; in a kingdom it is its king (as a kingdom divided against itself will not stand); in the world it must be an emperor. In Aristotle, a ruling body might be one, few, or many, and any of these might be good or bad. Considering the papacy, a monarchy with universal claims, Dante prefers a temporal monarch as its counterpart. He argues that “as a part stands in relation to the whole, so the order in a part stands to the order in the whole. A part stands in relation to the whole as to its end and perfection: therefore the order in a part stands to the order in the whole as to its end and perfection” (I.vi). Since “the goodness of the order in a part does not exceed the goodness of the order in the whole, but rather the reverse,” a regime ordered by a “single entity” is better than one ordered by a multitude of entities. Therefore, all kingdoms “must be ordered to one ruler or one rule, that is to be a monarch or monarchy.” (I.vi) This goes also for the universal monarchy’s relation to the whole universe, under “its ruler, who is God and Monarch” (I.vii).
“It is God’s intention that every created thing should show forth His likeness in so far as its own nature can receive it” (I.viii). Man was created in God’s image, and indeed “the whole universe is simply an imprint of divine goodness” (viii). so mankind is in a good (indeed, ideal) state when, to the extent that its nature allows, it resembles God. But mankind most closely resembles God when it is most a unity, since the true measure of unity is in him alone”; politically, this means “mankind is most like God when it is ruled by one ruler, and consequently is most in harmony with God’s intention,” (I.viii), obeying a single source of motion in accordance with a single law.
Practically speaking, the several kings who rule the several kingdoms will stay at peace only if they have a common judge to settle disputes. “The world is ordered in the best possible way when justice is at its strongest in it,” and “justice is at its strongest only under a monarch” (I.xi). But what if the universal monarch is not perfectly just, as he is indeed unlikely to be, given his flawed human nature? “Justice,” Dante admits near the center of Book One, “is sometimes impeded in the will; for where the will is not entirely free of all greed, even if justice is present, nonetheless it is not entirely present in the splendor of its purity” (I.xi). Nonetheless, justice is also “sometimes impeded by power,” or rather the lack of it; therefore, “justice is at its strongest in the world when it resides in a subject who has in the highest degree possible the will and the power to act,” and this occurs only when justice “is located in the monarch alone” (I.xi). Dante understandably places his radical proposal for a universal emperor, his acknowledgment of its hazardous character, and his reason for proposing it nonetheless, in the center of Book One.
But again, what if the powerful world monarch is unjust? Dante begins his answer by observing that “the thing most opposed to justice is greed,” which “easily leads men’s minds astray” (I.xi). But “where there is nothing which can be coveted, it is impossible for greed to exist, for emotions cannot exist where their objects have been destroyed” (I.xi). Being both universal and the ruler, the universal monarch would have nothing to covet, “for his jurisdiction is bounded only by the ocean”—unlike all other rulers, “who sovereignty extends only as far as the neighboring kingdom” (I.xi). Therefore, only the universal monarch can be “the purest embodiment of justice” (I.xi).
But will he be such an embodiment? Quite possibly so, in Dante’s judgment, because not only will the universal monarch covet nothing, his status will make his charity or “rightly ordered love” stronger (I.xi). “Greed, scorning the intrinsic nature of man, seeks other things; whereas love, scorning all other things, seeks God and man, and hence the true good of man”; “the monarch more than all other men should feel rightly ordered love” (I.xi). Why? Because “the closer any loved object is to the lover the more it is loved; but men are closer to the monarch than to other princes; therefore they are more loved by him, or ought to be” (I.xi). Why are men closer to the monarch than to other princes, especially since the other princes rule more ‘locally’? Because “the more universal a cause is, the more truly it is a cause, because the lower is not a cause except by virtue of the higher”; “the more truly a cause is a cause, the more it loves its own effect, since this love follows from the cause as such. Therefore since the monarch is the most universal cause among mortals that men should live the good life (for the other rulers are a cause only by virtue of him), it follows that the good of mankind is dear to him above all else.” (I.xi). That is, although subordinate monarchs are closer to their own people, the universal monarch is closer to mankind as a whole, loves mankind as a whole more than the others are likely to do.
In addition to justice, freedom also conduces to human flourishing, if freedom is defined rightly not as doing what one wants but as doing what accords to reason, the distinctively human characteristic. “Free will is free judgment in matters of volition,” and judgment links “perception and appetition” inasmuch as “first a thing is perceived, then it is judged to be good or evil, and finally the person who judges pursues it or shuns it” (I.xii). Freedom means judgment’s freedom from desire; “that is why the lower animals cannot have free will, because their judgments are always pre-empted by desire” (I.xii). This “principle of all our freedom” is “the greatest gift given by God to human nature…since by virtue of it we become happy here as men” and “become happy elsewhere as gods” (I.xii). On earth, the fullest freedom can exist only under a monarch, since “only then are perverted forms of government (i.e. democracies, oligarchies and tyrannies), which force mankind into slavery, set right,” and “only then do kings, aristocrats (known as the great and the good), and those zealous for the freedom of the people govern justly” (I.xii). Themselves unfree, slaves to their desires, the rulers of perverted regimes enslave those they rule; the “just forms of government aim as freedom, i.e. that men should exist for their own sake” (I.xii).
This gives a clearer picture of what regime Dante intends. The universal monarch or temporal emperor will serve as an arbiter over a set of regimes that may include not only kingdoms but aristocracies and mixed regimes (‘republics’), as seen in Aristotle’s classification of regime types. As the arbiter among this set of just regimes, the emperor “is to be considered without doubt the servant of all men,” and “mankind living under a monarch is in its ideal state” (I.xii). “The person who is himself capable of being best disposed to rule is capable of disposing others best, for in every action the primary aims of the agent, whether it acts because its nature compels it to or as a matter of free choice, is to reproduce its own likeness” (I.xiii). For the reasons already stated—justice and judgment—the monarch is the ruler “best disposed for ruling” (I.xiii). Additionally, a monarch is (as we would now say) more efficient; “what can be brought about by a single agent is better done by a single agent than by more than one,” as he will do nothing “unnecessary and pointless” (I.xiv). Dante is quick to say that “this is not to be taken to mean that trivial decisions in every locality can be made directly by him,” for (as Montesquieu would insist, centuries later) “nations, kingdoms and cities have characteristics of the own, which need to be governed by different laws” (I.xiv). Rather, “mankind is to be ruled by [the emperor] in those matters which are common to all men and of relevance to all, and is to be guided towards peace by a common law” received “from him by individual rulers, just as the practical intellect, in order to proceed to action, receives the major premise appropriate to its own particular case, and then proceeds to the action in question” (I.xiv). The emperor is the guardian of these “universal principles” (I.xiv).
In ruling this way, the emperor comports with not merely a natural but a metaphysical principle. “Being, unity, and goodness are related in a sequence”: “Being naturally comes before unity, and unity before goodness; perfect being is perfect unity, and perfect unity is perfect goodness” (I.xv). As “in every species of thing the best is that which is perfectly one,” unity “seems to be the root of what it is to be good, and plurality the root of what it is to be evil,” and sin is nothing other than to spurn unity and move towards plurality” (I.xv). In this, Dante substitutes Aristotelian metaphysics for Aristotelian politics, inasmuch as he ignores Aristotle’s critique of Plato’s ‘ideal’ regime—that it strives for a too-simple unity, reducing “a theme to a single beat.” Hence Aristotle’s preference in practice for the mixed regime, even if a virtuous king would be best if he is truly superior in justice and judgment to all others in the polis. Dante may acknowledge this in writing “the whole of mankind in its ideal state depends on the unity which is in men’s wills,” a unity which “cannot be unless there is one will which controls and directs all the others towards one goal, since the wills of mortals require guidance on account of the seductive pleasures of youth” (I.xv, italics added).
Dante’s relative optimism concerning the universal monarchy derives in part from “a remarkable historical fact” which Aristotle could not see (I.xvi). The Son of God chose as his moment for His life on earth the time of world peace “under the immortal Augustus, when a perfect monarchy existed” (I.xvi). The Apostle Paul “called that most happy state ‘the fullness of time,'” a seamless garment eventually “rent by the talent of cupidity” (I.xvi). Against the pope, who might otherwise portray himself as the universal monarch, Dante holds up the temporal empire of ancient Rome. This raises at least two obvious difficulties. Although Christ came to earth during the reign of Augustus, it was a Roman ruler who signed off on His crucifixion; further, as Dante here acknowledges, the monarchic regime in the Empire soon corrupted itself, ruled as often by tyrants as by kings. It is to the question concerning the rightfulness of Roman rule—the second question he had posed at the outset of his treatise—that Dante turns in Book Two.
When he first studied the history of the Empire, Dante confesses, “I thought that they had attained their supremacy not by right but only by force of arms” (II.i.). “But when I penetrated with my mind’s eye to the heart of the matter and understood through unmistakable signs that this was the work of divine providence,” he came to “cry out in defense of that glorious people and of Caesar,” supplanting St. Augustine’s mockery of Rome with “natural love” (II.i). That “the Roman empire is founded on right” is “revealed not only by the light of human reason but also by the radiance of divine authority,” and “when these two are in agreement, heaven and earth must of necessity both give their assent” (II.i).
What evidence can be adduced to show the providential character of the worldwide rule of Augustus? Dante again has recourse to a metaphysical first principle. Nature first exists in “the mind of the first mover, who is God”; it is then “in the heavens, as in the instrument by means of which the image of eternal goodness is set forth in fluctuating matter” (II.ii). As a fluctuating substance, matter lacks the perfection of the divine and heavenly forms; “whatever flaws there are in earthly things are flaws due to the material of which they are constituted, and are no part of the intention of God the creator and the heavens” (II.ii). All that is good in matter derives come from God and the heavens; “the right is willed by God as being something which is in him,” that is “divine will is right itself” (II.ii). Nothing not in harmony with divine will can be right, including all things in “human society” (II.ii). When looking for evidence of divine Providence, we cannot peer into God’s mind (even less than we can read other human minds), but we can understand His intentions through the things he has made, as the Apostle Paul says in his letter to the Romans.
“It was by right, not by usurping,” that the Romans became the ‘monarch’ or sole ruler “over all men” (II.iii). We know this, first, because “it is appropriate that the noblest race should rule over all the others,” and the Romans were the noblest “race” or nation (II.iii). “Men become noble through virtue,” and the founder of Rome, Aeneas—that “supremely victorious and supremely dutiful father”—gained his nobility—his justice, his piety, his greatness in war—by a “double confluence of blood” (II.iii). His ancestors were noble and so were his wives. His first wife, Creusa, daughter of Priam of Troy, represented Asia; his second wife, Dido the Carthaginian, represented Africa; his third wife, Lavinia, daughter of King Latinus, represented “Italy the most noble region of Europe” (II.iii). “Who will fail to recognize divine predestination in all of this?” (II.iii).
Second, one can see Providence in the miraculous events that sustained Rome in its advance toward world rulership. The shield that fell from heaven into Rome as Numa Pompilius sacrificed to the gods; the geese warning the Romans about the Gauls’ night attack; the hailstorm that deterred Hannibal’s troops from taking Rome—all these events and many others evidence the intervention of God’s will, showing that “he who ordained all things from eternity in harmonious order” had ordained these acts, too, “as testimony” (II.iii).
Third, “whoever has the good of the community as his goal has the achievement of right as his goal,” right being “a relationship between one individual and another in respect of things and people,” preserving human society (II.iv). Right aims at the common good, and right laws “bind men together for mutual benefit” (II.iv). “Therefore if the Romans had the good of the community as their goal, it will be true to say that the achievement of right was their goal” (II.iv). That was indeed their goal, for they “cherish[ed] universal peace and freedom” for the benefit not only of themselves but mankind as a whole (II.iv). As Cicero testified, Rome conquered not so much for the sake of ruling the world as for the sake of protecting it, as seen in the lives of such public-spirited Romans as Cincinnatus, Fabritius, Camillus, the first Brutus, Mutius, Cato, and the Deciii. Although it is possible to attain a right end by evil means, this is only an accident; to have attained the right end of world peace consistently, over many centuries, by evil means is unlikely or impossible. Overall, the intentions of the Roman statesmen who guided Rome to triumph must have been noble.
Dante reserves the fourth proof of the rightness of Roman rule for the central chapter of Book Two. There, he argues that “it is right to preserve what nature has ordained, for nature in the measures it takes is no less provident than man”; indeed (and contra the ‘moderns,’ beginning with Machiavelli) nature is prior to man in goodness (II.vi). “Nature orders things according to their capacities, and this taking into account of their capacities is the basis of right established by nature in the created world” (II.vi). Dante never claims that ‘history’ or the course of events ordained the Roman Empire. Rather, “the Roman people were ordained by nature to rule,” a claim proven by the way nature works (II.vi). “Just as a craftsman would never achieve artistic perfection if he aimed only at the final form and paid no need to the means by which that form was to be achieved, so too nature would fail if it aimed only at the universal form of divine likeness in the universe, yet neglected the means to achieve it; but nature is never less than perfect, since it is the work of divine intelligence,” willing “all the means through which it achieves the fulfilling of its intention” (II.vi). Aristotle sees that nature is teleological, “always act[ing] with an end in view”; nature achieves this through the celestial powers of the planets, the geographical features of the earth, and the “vast number of people [it] fit[s] to different functions” (II.vi). “This is why we see that not just certain individuals, but certain peoples are born fitted to rule, and certain others to be ruled and to serve, as Aristotle affirms in the Politics” (II.vi). What Aristotle affirms in the Politics in fact refers only to individual human beings, not peoples; Dante actually follows a “prophetic prediction to Aeneas” reported by Virgil (II.vi). This is to say that in the central chapter of the central book of his treatise, Dante makes his claim justifying Roman rule dependent upon the testimony of a fellow poet, whom he takes (and he was far from alone in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance in doing so) as a true prophet and not a mere fabricator of myths or repeater of them. It is almost needless to say that Dante took up the Virgilian mantle in his own poetry, and so has every reason to admire, conspicuously, the prophetic powers of a great poet.
Regarding prophecy, Dante distinguishes two ways of discovering “divine judgment in earthly affairs,” namely, faith and reason (II.vii). By reason (for example) man can discover God’s judgment that “a man should sacrifice himself to save his country” because he thereby sacrifices “a lesser good for a greater” (II.vii). By God’s Word alone, however can man discover God’s judgment that a human being can only be saved by faith, “no matter how perfectly endowed he might be in the moral and intellectual virtues in respect both of his character and his behavior” (II.vii). The only other source by which God’s judgment may be discerned is “special grace”—either “by a spontaneous act of God, or by God in response to prayer” (II.vii). Spontaneous acts of God may be either a direct message from God or a sign. One may test the veracity of what one takes as an act of special grace in two ways: by lot or by contest. Contests may be conflicts, as in a prize fight, wherein “the contestants may obstruct each other,” or they may be competitions, as in a race, where no such obstruction is permitted (II.vii). The Romans “won the race to rule the world” and therefore did so by divine decree (II.viii). It may be recalled that nineteenth-century Europeans engaged in what the contestants called ‘the race for empire’ or ‘the scramble for empire,’ sometimes with a similar rationale.
“Furthermore, whatever is acquired through trial by combat is acquired by right,” as trial by combat occurs when “human judgment” fails and all other means of settlement have been exhausted (II.ix). “The contenders or champions enter the arena by mutual agreement, and not out of hatred, nor out of live, but solely out a passionate concern for justice…in the name of God,” as in the contest between David and Goliath (II.ix). Similarly, the Romans achieved world empire “through trial by combat” (II.ix).
Although Dante has alluded to St. Augustine’s critique of the Roman Empire and indeed of all worldly regimes, he now explicitly answers “those who style themselves ardent defenders of the Christian faith who most of all have ‘raged’ and ‘meditated vain things’ against Roman authority” (II.x). Such persons “have no pity for Christ’s poor,” whom the Church has neglected to help, instead funneling relatives to the relatives of churchmen (II.x). More important, “if the Roman empire was not based on right, Christ by his birth assented to an injustice”; but Christ chose to be born of his Virgin Mother under an edict emanating from Roman authority, so that the son of God made man might be enrolled as a man in that unique census of the human race,” an edict that likely “came by divine inspiration through Caesar” (II.x). The Roman Empire finally disintegrated only when the Emperor Constantine, “weakened by his own pious intentions,” split it into two sections, East and West (II.xi).
Having thus vindicated the right of Rome to rule the world—at least to his own satisfaction—Dante addresses his third and final question: Would the authority of the Roman emperor he wants to see restored derive his authority directly from God or from some intermediary, such as the pope? He bases his answer on a principle he has already asserted, that “what is contrary to nature’s intention is against God’s will” (III.ii). What kind of men oppose Dante’s proposal? First, there are the churchmen, who “perhaps” oppose it “out of zealous concern and not out of pride” (III.iii). Second, there are those “whose stubborn greed has extinguished the light of reason,” sons of the devil who “profess themselves to be sons of the church,” men who tacitly deny the first principles Dante has enunciated (III.iii). Finally, there are the decretalists, men “ignorant and lacking in any philosophical or theological training,” who base their stance strictly on papal decrees, “stubbornly insist[ing] that the traditions of the church are the foundations of faith,” ignoring the fact that some Scriptures preceded the founding of the Church (III.iii). They too are “slaves to their own greed,” men “incapable of seeing first principles” (III.iii).
All of these persons “assert that the authority of the empire is dependent on the authority of the church,” as the light of the moon reflects the light of the sun (III.iv). “The whole force of their argument rests on this claim,” which Dante rejects as “completely untenable” (III.iv). Dante supposes that the moon produces some of its own light, and even if it does not do so, the spiritual realm and the temporal realm are not analogous to the sun and the moon, inasmuch as “the temporal realm does not owe it existence to the spiritual realm, nor its power (which is its authority, and not even its function in an absolute sense” (II.iv). The spiritual realm directs man toward his eternal salvation; the temporal realm directs man toward happiness on earth. At most, the temporal power may receive a blessing from the spiritual realm, through the pope. But he should not rule it.
Dante next refutes five Scripture-based arguments for papal supremacy. The first draws from Genesis 29. Jacob’s sons, Levi and Judah, are said to prefigure the priestly and temporal powers, respectively; since Levi was the eldest and took precedence over Judah, so too should the Church take precedence over the empire. But seniority doesn’t necessarily imply authority, Dante observes, noting that within the Roman Catholic hierarchy itself there are bishops “younger than their archdeacons” (III.v).
The second argument points to God’s command to Samuel to remove King Saul (I Samuel). “From this they argue that just as he, as God’s vicar, had the authority to give and take away temporal power and transfer it to someone else, so now too God’s vicar, the head of the universal church, has the authority to give and to take away and even to transfer of temporal power, from which it would undoubtedly follow that imperial authority would be dependent in the way they claim” (III.vi). Dante answers by denying that Samuel was God’s vicar; he was only “a special emissary for a particular purpose” (III.vi). Whereas a vicar is authorized to “take action by applying the law or using his own discretion in matters of which his lord knows nothing,” an emissary has no such authority (III.vi).
Proponents of papal supremacy also point to the homage paid by the Magi to the infant Jesus, again drawing an analogy between Jesus and God’s vicar. But “Peter’s successor is not the equivalent of divine authority at least as regards the workings of nature, for he could not make earth rise nor fire descend by virtue of the office entrusted to him” (III.vii). By nature, even God’s vicar cannot take away what belongs to another man, innately. In the language of later thinkers, some property is unalienable; “no one can give away what does not belong to him” (III.vii). “The creation of a prince is not dependent on a prince”; consequently, “no prince can appoint a vicar to take his place who is equivalent to him in all things” (III.vii). A temporal prince cannot renounce his authority to a spiritual power.
What about Jesus’ substantial grant of authority to Peter, that “whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven”? Dante grants that this is true, but only within the constraints of previously established divine law. Peter wasn’t entitled to alter the Ten Commandments, for example. Also, Jesus refers to “the office of the keys of the kingdom of heaven,” not to the office of the temporal ruler (III.viii). [4]
Finally, Dante must address the ‘two swords’ doctrine, based on an incident recorded in the Gospel of Luke. “This too must be answered by demolishing the allegorical interpretation on which they base their argument” (III.ix). Contra the apologists for papal supremacy, the two swords do not represent the papacy and the emperor. Jesus was rather commanding his disciples to purchase the means by which they could defend themselves against “the persecution and contempt they would face” after His departure (III.ix)—weapons He had forbade them to wield while He was still with them. Jesus added that if each apostle could not afford a sword, two swords would suffice for their defense.
Moving from Biblical exegesis to the current circumstance of the Church, Dante turns to the Donation of Constantine. This critique occupies the center of Book Three. Constantine had no authority to give the “seat of empire,” Rome “along with many other imperial privileges,” to the papacy, “nor was the church in a position to accept them” (III.x). As “can easily be seen from the first part of this treatise,” the purpose of the emperor “is to hold mankind in obedience to a single will” (III.x). This he failed to do. “Just as the church has its foundation, so too the empire has its own,” and to divide it “would be to destroy it—for the empire consists precisely in the unity of universal monarchy” (III.x). The empire is both temporally and logically prior to any given emperor; “from this it is clear that the emperor, precisely as emperor, cannot change it, because he derives from it the fact that he is what he is” (III.x). And, given that the Church’s kingdom is not of this world, it may not legitimately receive the empire or any part of it, regardless of what an emperor might attempt to do.
In addition to the scriptural and ‘historical’ arguments, papal supremacists make an “argument based on reason,” albeit one falsely reasoned (III.xii). Since “all things belonging to a single species are referred to one thing which is the measure for all things which belong to that species”; and since “all men belong to the same species”; “therefore they are to be referred to one man as their common measure”; furthermore, “since the supreme Pontiff and the emperor are men…it must be possible to refer them to a single man,” and “since the pope must not be referred to any other man” the pope must be the measure of the emperor (III.xii). Dante agrees that all men belong to the same species and therefore “should be referred to a single measure for that species” (III.xii). He rejects the conclusion, however, as an instance of the accidental fallacy. “It is one thing to be a man, another thing to be an emperor,” a father, a master, or a pope (III.xii). A man is a man because he has the “substantial form” of a man; a man is an emperor, a master, or a pope because he happens to be one “by virtue of certain relationships” to certain roles or offices (III.xii). Popes and emperors are equally men, but that has no bearing on their offices, or on the relationship of their offices to each other.
Dante then advances his own arguments based on reasoning, first on reasoning from Scripture. Repeating that the Roman Empire predated the Church, he observes that Jesus accepted punishment at the hands of the imperial authority. “If Caesar had not at that time had authority to judge temporal matters, Christ would not have submitted to this” (III.xiii). Indeed—and reversing the papalists’ argument—if they do not recognize the legitimacy of the Emperor over temporal matters, how could they accept his Donation? “It is foolish to think that God would wish that something should be received which he has forbidden should be offered” (III.xiii).
Moreover, the Church is “not an effect of nature”; therefore, it could not have authority over the emperor according to natural law (III.xiv). Nor did the Church receive such authority by divine law, so it could not have derived such power ‘from itself,’ as it were. “The church’s nature is the form of the church,” and “the ‘form’ of the church is simply the life of Christ, including both his words and deeds”—His life being “the model and exemplar for the church militant (III.xv). But Christ enounced the kingdom of the world.
Dante ends his treatise by addressing his third question, Does the emperor derive his authority directly from God? He begins by observing the dual nature of human beings. Among all creatures, “man alone is the link between corruptible and incorruptible things,” by which he means that man alone consists of body and soul, the corruptible/mortal and the incorruptible/immortal (III.xvi). “Since every nature is ordered towards its own ultimate goal, it follows that man’s goal is twofold” (III.xvi). As a mortal being “in this life”—on earth, “this threshing-floor of mortals”—his goal or telos is happiness, which “consists in the exercise of our own powers” in this life (III.xvi). As an immortal being, his goal is eternal happiness, “which consists in the enjoyment of the vision of God” in the “heavenly paradise” (III.xvi). These two goals “must be reached by different means”: through “the teachings of philosophy, provided that we follow them putting into practice the moral and intellectual virtues”; and “through spiritual teachings which transcend human reason, provided that we follow them putting into practice the theological virtues, i.e., faith, hope and charity” (III.xvi). Reason, through the philosophers, teaches us insofar as we are a combination of body and soul; the Holy Spirit, “through the prophets and sacred writers” and above all “through Jesus Christ the Son of God” and his disciples,” teaches us insofar as we are souls encumbered by now-natural “human greed” (III.xvi). “It is for this reason that man had need of two guides corresponding to this twofold goal,” namely, “the supreme Pontiff, to lead mankind to eternal life in conformity with revealed truth, and the emperor, to guide mankind to temporal happiness in conformity with the teachings of philosophy” (III.xvi).
“Their understanding clouded by the fog of greed,” papal supremacists covet earthly dominion in addition to spiritual dominion (III.xvi). Dante is happy to point this out to them, and to his other readers. “The disposition of this world is the result of the disposition inherent in the circling heavens”; good order in this world requires “useful teachings concerning freedom and peace…applied appropriately to times and places” (III.xvi). Hence the necessity of providing “a protector to be made by Him who takes in at a glance the whole disposition of the heavens” (III.xvi). Only God can choose and confirm the one to take on this responsibility, since He alone “has none above Him” (III.xvi). Insofar as they choose rightly, the human electors of the emperor merely proclaim God’s providence. Insofar as they may “disagree among themselves,” their “understanding [is] clouded by the fog of greed,” which causes them to “fail to perceive what God’s dispensation is” (III.xvi).
Dante’s Monarchia seeks to recapture political rule as Aristotle understood it in the profoundly un-Aristotelian circumstance of a prophetic religion with universalist claims as it sought to dominate the city-states of Italy and the feudal conditions prevailing in Europe. This daunting task did not succeed. Machiavelli, whose ‘prince’ would replace Dante’s ‘monarch,’ took the world in a different direction, though not necessarily a better one.
Note
- Whether by accident or by design, Dante overlooks Marsilius of Padua and his The Defender of the Peace. He is nonetheless arguably very cognizant of Marsilius, who was punished for his efforts at limiting papal power by excommunication. Of Monarchy may be considered an effort at engaging in a dialogue with Marsilius.
- Marsilius, by contrast, suggests that the Roman papacy should not be universal, nor should the Roman emperor. In this, he anticipates Machiavelli, albeit without Machiavelli’s radical attempt to reconfigure human life by mastering ‘Fortuna.’
- In his emphasis on peace as the end of human political society, he echoes Marsilius, while differing with him with respect to the means to that end.
- In this and much else, Dante follows Marsilius quite closely.
Recent Comments