Niccolò Machiavelli: The Prince. Harvey C. Mansfield, Jr. translation. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985.
Leo Strauss: Thoughts on Machiavelli. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1969.
In his Epistle Dedicatory to Lorenzo the Magnificent, he comes across as a plain-spoken man, a veritable Harry Truman of Renaissance Florence. No pomposity, no verbal ornamentation, here. Like many late-twentieth-century historians, he makes a point of writing ‘from below,’ looking up at the lofty Lorenzo. But in Chapter XXIII, he advises the prince to take counsel only from those asked for counsel. In offering evidently unsolicited counsel to Lorenzo, he implicitly questions Lorenzo’s virtù. Such anomalies compel a certain distrust of our author by his cautious reader. Machiavelli invites distrust, quite in contrast to (for example) priests, who are inclined to insist upon it. A prince might well turn on such a dangerously intelligent adviser (III. 16).
The Prince has fared variously at the hands of Fortuna, but has always survived her vicissitudes. The Catholic Church abominated it, placing it on the Index. Secular intellectuals have often praised its realism. Patriots and nationalists have thrilled to the republican patriotism of its final chapters, especially the peroration quoting Petrarch’s patria mia. Machiavelli does indeed speak ‘realistically’ of politics. As a plain-spoken man addressing a real-world prince, he prefers not to come off as a priest or a head-in-the-clouds philosopher, and he does not.
Why, then, bother to read the Prince? Realism and patriotism are nothing so exceptional. Telling a politician to grasp power and hold it, and to profess patriotism all the while, seems quite superfluous—rather like telling Madonna to call attention to herself. Reading The Prince at this late date only makes sense if Machiavelli is much more Machiavellian—more ambitious, and more deceptive—than he seems.
Gazing up from below may well be covetous gazing. Machiavelli immediately speaks of acquiring principalities. This political science guides thumoerotic desire. Machiavelli asks the same ‘regime question’ Plato and Aristotle ask—Who rules?—but with a very different intent: hostile takeover. “Truly it is a very natural and ordinary thing to desire to acquire, and always, when men do it who can, they will be praised or not blamed; but when they cannot, and want to do it anyway, here lie the error and the blame” (III. 14-15). Socrates turns Glaucon’s thumoerotic soul from tyranny toward philosophy, or, more modestly, toward friendship with philosophers. Judaism liberates Glaucon by binding him with wise laws. Christianity’s truth makes him free by replacing the noetic beholding of the Good with active goodwill, agapic love infused into his soul by the Holy Spirit. Machiavelli does not want to convert Glaucon. Machiavelli lauds the tyrannical character of any young Glaucon who reads him. He wants Glaucon to remain tyrannical, but to be much more intelligently so. He offers Glaucon a ring of Gyges; Glaucon may or may not have the virtù to grasp and hold it.
Acquisition by means of the armaments of others is acquisition by grace of Fortuna. Acquisition by means of your own armaments is acquisition by virtù. Machiavelli tells us, in advance, why the Leninists murdered the Romanovs (Iv. 18), and why the Stalinists murdered Ukrainians (V. 20). So far, this is little more than straightforward ‘realism.’ But in Chapter VI things get more interesting. There Machiavelli tells us of men ‘from below’ who became princes by means of their own virtù: Moses, Cyrus, Romulus, Theseus. One must not speak of Moses as if he were a pagan, Machiavelli allows, but one can speak of pagans as if they were “no different from Moses” (VI. 23). One may be forgiven, perhaps, in taking this to be a distinction without a difference? The difference between the sacred and profane is nothing other than publicity.
There is more. Moses and his semblables introduced new “orders”—new regimes—in the world. Nothing is more difficult, doubtful, and dangerous than the attempt to introduce a new order. Nothing is more glorious than succeeding. New orders have hot enemies (those of the old, superseded order) and “lukewarm” friends (no yet fully attached to the new). Machiavelli repeats the word “lukewarm” three times. His readers who remember their New Testament (another new order) might see why: In Revelation 3:16 Jesus, speaking through John of Patmos to the church at Laodicaea, threatens to respond to the church members’ lukewarmness by spitting them out of his mouth. Jesus, the Founder of new modes and orders, knew the danger of lukewarm friends. But Jesus was an unarmed prophet. Unarmed prophets are easily ruined—burned at the stake, like Savanarola, or sometimes crucified. “Thus things must be ordered in such a mode that when [the people] no longer believe, one can make them believe by force” (VII. 26). “Make them believe by force”: a fascinating locution. Example: Hiero of Syracuse, the tyrant-interlocutor in Xenophon’s dialogue, who provides the virtuous example of having the recalcitrant “cut to pieces”—with, we later learn (XIII. 36) his own arms. (Immediately after this second ‘mention’ of Hiero, Machiavelli teaches another Bible lesson: his re-write of I Samuel 17, the story of David and Goliath. In Machiavelli’s version a knife appears in David’s hand, replacing God, Who appears only in the Old Testament version.)
The way to ‘renew’ Christianity is to follow the example of Pope Alexander VI, who appears often in The Prince, never more tellingly than in Chapters VII and XI: Far be it from Machiavelli to speak of ecclesiastical principalities exalted and maintained by God; “nonetheless,” Alexander, proceeding via force and fraud, did a fine job. Machiavelli writes a new Old Testament, the Discourses, and a new New Testament, The Prince. He too is an unarmed prophet. He too will have armed followers. but his armed followers will not contradict the Founder’s spiritual teachings. Machiavelli will not be burned or crucified because his armed and unarmed followers will be hot, not lukewarm; they will have their tyrannical or thumotic passions liberated. That is how the Prince of War will conquer the Prince of Peace, along with the designedly impotent philosophers of antiquity, in their castles in the clouds.
“Thus, a prince should have not other object, nor any other thought, nor take anything else as his art but the art of war and its order and discipline; for that is the only art which is of concern to one who commands” (XIV 58). There are two kinds of virtù. there is the virtù of deeds, developed by military exercises, hardening the body, and not incidentally teaching the mind the lay of the land. There is the virtù of the mind: reading histories, especially the military histories of “excellent men” who won territory, states, and glory. Put aside your Plato, your Augustine. Read Xenophon on Cyrus, and learn “the effectual truth of the thing.” Effectual truth differs from conventional, or false, ‘truths’ by being, precisely effective. In addition, effectual truth is what you effect. What is called goodness is very often bad—bad for you, you who want to survive and conquer. What is called badness is very often good. Reputation is the key. Reputation is the way to be, Gyges-like, visible and invisible, as needed. What they will see is what you want them to see; what you are is what you alone will see—or, more precisely, feel.
Here is the radical teaching of the new morality for the new order. Do not be virtuous, in the conventional sense. What is more, do not be vicious, either. Use virtue and vice. Do not express a passion of the head or the head of a passion; use your passion. (Hence Benjamin Franklin’s advice, “Use venery”—a suggestion that sends the thumoerotic moralist D. H. Lawrence into a paroxysm of indignation). Draw back from being-according-to-morality. Be beyond good and evil. Do not be liberal (for example) or parsimonious; such effects should be used virtuously (XVI. 63). Spend liberally, with other peoples’ money, but not with your own peoples’ money, inasmuch as “men forget the death of a father more quickly than the loss of a patrimony” (XVII. 67). Know how not to be the beast and the man, but how to use the beast and the man. What is more, use both the relevant beasts: the courageous lion and the wily fox. (This is an important lesson for the thumoerotic men Machiavelli advises, who are too ready to roar,, too impatient to think.) So teaches the teacher of princes, the centaur Chiron. The beast-man Chiron replaces the God-man, Jesus of Nazareth. He who uses but is not animated by the virtues and vices, the man and the beasts, “needs to have a spirit disposed to change as the winds of fortune and the variations of things command him” (XVIII. 70)—a lesson from the chapter titled, “In What Mode Faith Should Be Kept by Princes.” The prince should “change his nature with the times” (XXV.100), but, more impressively, he will also change exterior nature or fortune—beating her, striking her down. He stoops to conquer. Or, as Bacon teaches, he obeys nature to master nature, setting nature against herself, dividing (analyzing) and conquering.
Nothing is more necessary than to appear to have religion. By “necessary” Machiavelli again means useful, the effectually true. Most men judge by their eyes, not by their hands. What an instrument is the hand! It both knows and does, fusing theory and practice. The hand grasps. The hand caresses or annihilates, as (known) advantage dictates. Preach peace and faith; be hostile to both. Practice multiculturalism (XXI, 91), to your advantage. Let some men offer advice without fear, but not just any man. You make the decisions; once they are made, you execute them without wavering, audaciously mastering the woman, Fortuna. Machiavelli’s epistemology of touch is more than materialism, though it is that. It is more than anti-religious, though it is that, too. What the epistemology of touch lets you know is the effectual truth. The effectual truth is the truth of utility, the truth of him who is not anything or anyone but pure thumos, pure libido dominandi, pure will-to-power, beyond all ‘being.’ It is the truth of him who creates new modes and orders out of the chaos of malleable matter. It is the truth of the real god of this world.
The only book Machiavelli published in his lifetime was The Art of War. Central to its final chapter is a discussion of invisible writing. Invisible writing is thought, inasmuch as writing is thought made visible. The visible can be the deceptive. The whole of The Art of War is, in one sense, an essay on the art of writing as war, the art of seeming, of deception, of camouflage, the war of enacting secret thoughts. Machiavelli’s writing-war or polemic against the writing of writings, the Bible, won many followers. Generals in this spirited war against the spiritual warfare of the Church included Bacon, Descartes, Hobbes, and Spinoza, who systematized, in different ways, the Machiavellian project of nature-conquest. as for the moralizers of modernity, they come, in most instances, out of Rousseau, whose critiques of the bourgeoisie and the Enlighteners replicate the Machiavellian critique of Christians who fail to follow Alexander VI. Such men are neither here nor there, neither full-hearted citizens nor solitary philosophers. they soften or effeminize public life, leading cities to ruin. Later moderns, Hegel and Marx, seek to synthesize the Rousseauian opposites. Nietzsche tries to make Machiavellianism noble. (Ah, the Germans: They add that earnest Lutheranism to Machiavelli; Protestants generally have more trouble with the Florentine than Catholics do. Catholics often mix their devotion with a strong dose of cynicism toward the Church.) More recent thinkers strut forth, preening themselves on their radical or subversive character; at best, they rise to the rank of corporal in the army of the Florentine. (For an unsparing critique of ‘traditional family values’ whereby a woman of virtù asserts her ‘reproductive freedom,’ anticipating the soi-disant radicalism of latter-day feminists, consider the Countess of Forli in Discourses III. 6.)
Machiavelli greets all these efforts with a smile, often an ironic one. By telling men (and women) to aspire, to change constantly while remaining constant only in the will to power, Machiavelli ensures that his spirit will renew itself perpetually by the very struggle of one thinker against another, one would-be founder against existing modes and orders and indeed against other would-be founders. Machiavelli masters Fortuna by encouraging the tyrant in every Glaucon, in writing visible and invisible, by setting one Glaucon against another in an endless, self-renewing war. Then you may be sure that even those who would overthrow you are still playing your game by your rules, whether they are fellow-spiders or flies in the web, more entangled the more they struggle.
Really to rival Machiavelli, one would have to begin by observing (as someone once did) that Machiavelli allows his anger against God to become anger against the good, and in that a great political philosopher allowed himself to be unphilosophic.
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