QUESTIONING MACHIAVELLI
How can an author be a
prince? How can the author
of The Prince be considered
one among the many
princes he describes? An
author and a prince seem
quite distinct. One leads a
soft, retired life thinking of
intangibles and invisibles-
as sheltered an existence as
he can make it; the other
lives through heat and cold,
luxury and privation, dealing
with facts, appearance,
and realities. As a result, the
author, self-detached, thinks
of the world beyond himself;
the prince thinks of himself
and in doing so makes
everything else pertain to
his advantage.
In the philosophical tradition
the distinction is
between the philosophical
or contemplative life and the
practical life. Plato put it
most starkly in the image of
the cave in the Republic, in
which those in society,
including rulers and ruled,
are contrasted with the
philosophers who have
access to the sun outside.
Aristotle made the same
point more soberly with his
distinction between moral
and intellectual virtue.
Machiavelli dismisses that
distinction. The philosopher's
virtue is not in
thought or speech apart
from deeds and more perfect
or more self-sufficient. His
truth is the effectual truth,
the truth shown in the outcome
of his thought. The
truth of words is in the
result they produce or, more
likely, fail to produce. Deeds
are sovereign: when confronted
by a necessity,
Machiavelli advises, do not
worry about justice, but act
and the words to justify
your action will come to
you afterward.
The effectual truth of effectual
truth thus seems to
eliminate the power of ideas;
words respond to deeds, not
deeds to words. With such a
notion of virtue, Machiavelli
seems to accommodate the
evil deeds of Renaissance
princes. Far from being a
prince himself, he seems to
efface himself from politics
and to leave the field to its
practitioners. In accordance
with this impression,
Machiavelli offers his "homage"
(servitú) to Lorenzo de
Medici in the dedicatory letter
of The Prince, and gives
the impression that he composed
that work, the most
famous book on politics ever
written, to gain employment with a third-rate prince
ruling the city of Urbino.
Against that impression we
have the unforgettable scene
described in Machiavelli's
letter of December 10, 1513,
in which he enters "the
ancient courts of ancient
men" and feeds "on the food
that is mine alone." Here he
proudly asserts the distinction
between the philosophers
and "the vulgar" and
maintains the continuity of
the tradition of philosophy
from ancients to moderns.
Nonetheless, in following
the effectual truth, he says
he departs "from the orders
of others" who construct
imaginary principalities and
republics—surely the very
ancient authors with whom
he converses. His own writing,
moreover, is as far as can
be from the stale practice of
rationalization. He does not
serve princes by supplying
platitudes for their speeches,
like speechwriters in our
day. How can it be that
Machiavelli's ideas escape
his apparent dismissal of
the power of ideas? How,
again, given his understanding
of an author's virtue,
can this author consider
himself a prince?
From MACHIAVELLI'S VIRTUE by Harvey Mansfield.
Copyright © 1996 by University of Chicago Press.
Used with permission of the University of Chicago Press.
MARKETING TYRANNY
Executive power is power
exercised in the name of
someone or something
else—God or the people
or the law. We sometimes
forget this fact and cover it
up when we speak of "the
executive," simply, without
specifying of what. And in
contemporary American
speech one can hear: "The
Bears really executed on
that play." The verb here
is intransitive, and in the
appreciation of perfection
one loses the sense of reference
to something outside
the agent. Still, when we
think about it, the executive
remains an agent. But
though formally an agent,
the executive is usually
much stronger than that
because his job is not as
easy as its harmless title
promises. Yet when he
encounters resistance, and
needs to disarm resentment,
he can say that he is merely
carrying out the will of
another—the Congress,
the Commanding Officer,
the people, the Good
Book, the Board, the
Company, or any other formal sovereign—even
History. His formal weakness,
in short, enhances
his informal strength.
This seemingly simple idea
is not so simple, because its
essence is ambivalence. It
seems simple to us because
it has become so familiar;
and it is familiar because it
has succeeded so remarkably.
How else but as amazing
could one describe the
acceptance of, or rather
enthusiasm for, so much
one-man rule, which is what
we call executive power in
our modern democracies?
I do not mean to say that
government is always the
same however it is named.
But a fair look at those we
call presidents, secretaries,
commissioners, commissars,
or executives by whatever
name, in free governments
as well as in the unfree,
would leave one wondering
why, given the power of
these individuals to capture
our attention and dominate
our lives, we no longer
speak of kings and tyrants.
Someone has sold us on the
idea so well that we are no
longer aware of the marketing
effort.
From TAMING THE PRINCE: THE AMBIVALENCE OF THE MODERN EXECUTIVE by Harvey Mansfield.
Copyright © 1993 by Johns Hopkins University.
Used with permission of Johns Hopkins University Press.
BALANCING MANLINESS
The danger in unemployed
manliness comes from too
little manliness and too
much of it. Too little manliness would follow from the
success of the modern project
of rational control, for the
very meaning of rational
control is to do away with
erratic, obstreperous manliness.
The great Tocqueville
dwells on this possibility; he
sees democracy in a long
trend toward similarity in its
citizens and conformity in
their behavior. He wrote
more than a century and a
half ago, yet his insight gave
his predictions such force
that he remains by far the
best authority on American
or any other democracy.
Tocqueville feared the gradual
construction of a new
democratic despotism, an
"immense tutelary power"
over the people that "would
take away from them entirely
the trouble of thinking
and the pain of living." To
oppose this trend he would
rely on every democratic
institution of self-government
that strengthens individual
pride. What we lack
most is not humility but
pride, and he says he would
trade several small virtues
for that vice. And although
he agreed that democratic
equality makes men unwilling
to accept anyone's
authority, hence intractable,
he says he admires "that
obscure notion . . . at the
bottom of the mind and
heart of each man"—can we
call it thumos?—that serves
political independence.
Tocqueville holds on to
manliness as the remedy for democratic despotism;
it is the spirit behind the
democratic institutions and
practices he describes.
Yet if we turn to Nietzsche,
we find the danger of too
much manliness. Nietzsche
denouncing modern
softness sounds much like Tocqueville deploring democratic
despotism; in his
attack on herd morality he
repeats Tocqueville's fear
that each nation will be
reduced to "a herd of timid
and industrious animals of
which the government is the
shepherd." But in the face of
the same threat, Nietzsche turns his back on
Toqueville's moderate politics
and calls for a cultural
transformation, a transvaluation
of values. He remarked
that men will rather will
nothingness than not will,
and with his call for will to
power, he illustrated the
danger he warned of. He
would surely not have
agreed with the Nazis, but
he inspired them. And if
he did not inspire the
Communists, he showed
what they were about. The
Communists spoke of "the
struggle for peace," but they
were always much more interested in struggle than
peace. They were war lovers
as much as the Nazis and
with the same ruthlessness.
The Islamic radicals of our
century overflow with the
same spirit; though they say
they are pious, they use the
name of God to strengthen
and serve their own will, not
to direct it.
Our judgment on manliness has to take its bearings from the dangers it poses on both extremes, too little and too much. If you
keep your eye only on one extreme, you back unawares into the other. The modern philosophers behind the project of rational control
were mainly afraid of thumos and its incitements to idealism; they laid the
ground for a dull, bourgeois
society lacking in both love
and ambition. Nietzsche, in
revulsion against this uninteresting
landscape, released manliness from all restraint
except the self restraint needed
to strengthen one's self.
Of course those who followed
him forgot what was
noble and embraced what
was brutal. Yet our situation
is not so different from the
one faced by the classical
philosophers. True, our
extremes are more extreme
than in their time. We are, or
we claim to be, more rational
than they, and at the same
time the history of our totalitarian
regimes shows us to
be more willful as well. The
uncompromising reason with
which we have destroyed
divine authority is accompanied
by the untrammeled
will that has destroyed
self-government and been
guilty of genocide. Can it
be an accident that the first
atheist regimes in human
history were the first totalitarian
regimes? Still, our
experience only confirms
the conclusions of Plato and
Aristotle on manliness that
the true way is in the middle
between too much and too
little. In this general strategy
they can be our guide.
From MANLINESS by Harvey Mansfield.
Copyright © 2006 by Yale University.
Used with permission of Yale University Press.
MEASURING PRUDENCE
Change is the most powerful
natural law, but natural law
is not simply change; it is
a refraction of natural rights.
Men maintain contact with
their original natural rights
through natural law, though
this connection is not direct.
When Burke says that
change is by nature the most powerful law, he means that
things have a law of change
as a nature—that is, in classical
terms, they have a law
rather than a nature. Then
there must be a means of
continuity in the agent of
natural law, which endows
or secures the lawfulness of
things, so that society does
not drift away from its concern
to protect natural rights.
Such a means of continuity is
the reason of men, the stock
of reason, the "collected wisdom
of ages." The stock of
reason could be made up of
laws or prudence. Laws are
man-made, according to
Burke; "the nature and
description of a legislative
act" is that "arbitrary discretion
leads, legality follows."
But laws are also "beneficence
acting by a rule"; the
laws ensure prescription,
which is part of natural law.
Thus the laws are man-made
rules to effect the ends of
natural law, and in this
sense, "only declaratory."
The laws reach but a little
way, however. Prudence
must then be beneficence
acting by less of a rule than a
law, in areas where the laws
cannot reach. But prudence
needs rules to ensure that its
ends are secured according
to natural law, for there are
no first principles of political
things by which prudence
may be safely guided. The
rules of prudence, not first
principles, keep society
moving according to law.
Consequently the rules
of prudence acquire the
attributes of natural law,
and the result is the "lawful prudence" which has been
described. Furthermore, as
the obligation to reform is
derived from natural rights,
however refracted, the task
of reform is the protection
of those rights, which have
been defined by prescription.
Prudence accordingly
aims at safety first and
prosperity second.
Whatever the reasons
which deflected Burke from
the traditional notion of
prudence, two very practical
differences between that
notion and his can be
identified, prescription
and political economy. The
theory of prescription limits
the prudent statesman by
requiring that he not attempt
to form society's establishments;
he may only reform
them to answer particular
grievances. Moreover, since
the establishments raise up
men of presumptive virtue,
prescription ensures the
sovereignty of these men
over men of actual virtue.
The virtue presumed of
these honest men is thus fortunately
a limited prudence,
suited to their capacity.
Honest men—Burke's "true
natural aristocracy"—are
presumed to have virtue
because they stand upon
an elevated ground. It is well
that prudence, the supreme
director of the virtues, can
be simplified for their use.
Prudence becomes a
consequence of place; it
is therefore a duty, since
there is no possible excuse
for not exercising it; and
because the supreme director
of virtues is a duty,
presumptive virtue in
general can be considered
definitively as duty. Our reason
is a "disagreeable yoke,"
Burke says, in a revealing
simile; reason does not rule
but yokes. Its influence is
naturally unpleasant and
happily limited.
From STATESMANSHIP AND PARTY GOVERNMENT by Harvey Mansfield.
Copyright © 1965 by University of Chicago.
Used with permission of University of Chicago Press.
DEFINING POLITICAL PHILOSOPHY
Politics always has political
philosophy lying within it,
waiting to emerge. So far as
we know, however, it has
emerged just once, with
Socrates—but that event left
a lasting impression. It was a
"first." I stress the connection
between politics and political
philosophy because such a
connection is not to be
found in the kind of political
science that tries to ape the
natural sciences. That political
science, which dominates
the political science departments
today, is a rival to
political philosophy. Instead
of addressing the partisan
issues of citizens and politicians,
it avoids them and
replaces their words with
scientific terms. Rather than
good, just, and noble, you
hear political scientists of
this kind speaking of utility
or preferences. These terms
are meant to be neutral,
abstracted from partisan
dispute. Instead of serving
as a judge of what is good,
just, or noble, such political
scientists conceive themselves
to be disinterested
observers, as if they had no
stake in the outcomes of
politics. As political scientists,
they believe they must
suppress their opinions as
citizens lest they contaminate
their scientific selves.
The political philosopher,
however, takes a stand,
with Alexis de Tocqueville
(1805-59), who said that while he himself was not a
partisan, he undertook to
see, not differently, but
further than the parties.
To sum up: political philosophy
seeks to judge political
partisans, but to do so it
must enter into political
debate. It wants to be impartial,
or to be a partisan for
the whole, for the common
good; but that impartiality is
drawn from the arguments
of the parties themselves by
extending their claims and
not by standing aloof from
them, divided between scientist
and citizen, half slave
to science, half rebel from it.
Being involved in partisan
dispute does not make the
political philosopher fall
victim to relativism, for the
relativism so fashionable
today is a sort of lazy dogmatism.
These relativists
refuse to enter into political
debate because they are sure
even before hearing the
debate that it cannot be
resolved; they believe like
the political scientists they
otherwise reject that nothing
can be just or good or noble
unless everyone agrees.
The political philosopher
knows for sure that politics
will always be debatable,
whether the debate is open
or suppressed, but that
fact—rather welcome when
you reflect on it-does not
stop him from seeking a
common good that might
be too good for everyone
to agree with.
FROM A STUDENT'S GUIDE TO POLITICAL PHILOSOPHY by Harvey Mansfield.
Copyright © 2001 by Harvey C. Mansfield.
Used by permission of ISI Books.
Photo by Justin Ide
courtesy of Harvard University
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