François-René de Chateaubriand: Memoirs from Beyond the Grave: 1768-1800. Alex Andriesse translation. New York: New York Review Books, 2018.

 

He fascinated three writers I know well: Tocqueville, de Gaulle, and Malraux. Tocqueville was his nephew and junior contemporary; quite apart from Chateaubriand’s stature as France’s literary lion (and sometime cabinet minister), Chateaubriand did impressionistically what Tocqueville would do systematically: consider the transition from the aristocratic civil societies of medieval and early modern Europe to the democratic civil societies that were to replace them. Born in 1768 to an aristocratic family in Brittany, under France’s Old Regime, he supported the republican revolution of 1789 but soon left for the United States, where he might see what a recently established republic looked like, and where he could meet less-than-perfect facsimiles of Rousseau’s “noble savages.” Famously, the young aristocrat Tocqueville would follow some of his uncle’s steps, making his own voyage to America, some fifty years later. De Gaulle read the Memoirs soon after his first retirement from public life in 1946, having already written on the ever-cycling French regimes of Chateaubriand’s lifetime in his France and Her Army. France at Chateaubriand’s birth was ruled by the Bourbon Dynasty, which held on until the founding of the First Republic in 1789. Although the Republic ended formally in 1804, when Napoleon Bonaparte had himself named emperor, as Napoleon I, in fact it saw several regime changes: Robespierre’s Reign of Terror in 1793; the triumvirate of rulers constituting the Directory, two years later; and the elevation of Bonaparte to the position of First Consul in 1799. In his solitude at the family home at Colombey-les-Deux Églises, de Gaulle was meditating on how French republicanism might be stabilized; some twelve years later, he would found a republic ballasted by a strong executive—designed not so much for a Bonaparte as for a Washington, whom Chateaubriand claimed to have met.

In the introduction to this translation, historian Anka Muhlstein quotes Chateaubriand as describing himself as “Bourboniste by honor, royalist by reason, and republican by inclination.” The simple facts of his life show why this was so. He left France for America shortly after the Revolution (which he supported, as a man of liberty, by inclination), searching in vain for the Northwest Passage. There was none to be discovered, but he witnessed something more valuable: the young republic under its new constitution. But the execution of Louis XVI brought him back to France, where he fought with the royalist army under the Prince of Condé and was severely wounded during the Royalists’ unsuccessful siege at Thionville. Liberty was one thing, the irrationality of regicide another. After his recovery (which he turned to good account by reading Paradise Lost, that account of civil war), he fled to England, returning during the Consulate regime of 1799-1804. By then, he had returned to the Catholicism of his youth, and his publication of The Genius of Christianity in 1802 not only turned many French intellectuals away from the Enlightenment (whose charms had worn thin) and back to the Church. Already cultivating French Catholics, having signed the Concordat with Pius VII the previous year, Napoleon deemed Chateaubriand useful for the continuation of that strategy. Not for long: After Napoleon more or less caused his cousin, the duc d’Enghien, to be executed for alleged treason, Chateaubriand left France again; having read both the Roman historians and Racine, he had gone so far as to liken Napoleon to Nero, making himself unwelcome. The 1815 Bourbon Restoration regime brought him back to Paris, where his political career reached its highest mark. Louis XVIII made him Minister of Foreign Affairs in 1824, but a rival soon had him fired, and he moved into the opposition. He thus honored the Bourbons in return for the honors the king had bestowed on him. The year 1830 brought the July Revolution and the regime of the Orléanist Monarchy; he retired to private life, having little use for the ‘Citizen King’ whose bourgeois ways grated on Chateaubriand’s unfailingly aristocratic sensibilities. As he lay dying in 1848, the February Revolution brought in Louis Napoleon Bonaparte as president of the short-lived Second Republic, which would end in 1851 with the crowning of Louis as Napoleon III, founder of the Second Empire. All of this would have engaged de Gaulle’s sympathies, intent as he was on founding a French republic that would endure and return to greatness by (among other things) resisting the by then well-established embourgeoisement of the French. (“True happiness is cheap; if costly, it is not the real thing at all,” Chateaubriand had written.) De Gaulle too had lived through several ‘lives,’ several ways of life or regimes.

As for Malraux, what is his own ‘anti-memoir,’ The Mirror of Limbo, if not a reprise of Chateaubriand’s kind of autobiography, mixing indisputable fact with invention, wide-ranging travel with a sensibility that is unmistakably French; refusing to concede anything to le quotidien, fleeing ennui (one is tempted to say, at all costs); and searching not for the base in men but for the nobility Chateaubriand saw threatened by murderous rule by terror, Napoleonic tyranny, and bourgeois money-grubbing? Malraux had seen human dignity threatened first by fascist tyranny, then by the Stalinist tyranny which controlled the French Communist Party. He fought the first in Spain, then in France itself, the second at de Gaulle’s side, after the Second World War. Malraux also would have seen in Memoirs from Beyond the Grave a man as obsessed as he with the questions the fact of death poses to life, whether in the hazards of adventure, on the battlefields of revolution and war, or in the unanticipatedly peaceful demise disease imposes. And (no small thing) they shared a love of cats. Chateaubriand told a friend he loved the cat “for his independence and almost ingrate character;” for his solitary way of life, consisting of “obey[ing] when he feels like it”; for “the indifference with which he descends from salons to his native gutters”; for his wise habit of going “to sleep to get a better view.” His wife, the translator tells us, went so far as to nickname him “Le Chat.” As for Malraux, in Les Temps des Limbes cats symbolize the spirit of the farfelu —Malraux’s word for the unaccountable, the whimsical, all that escapes human control or comprehension.

Beyond the grave: Chateaubriand intended his book to be published many years after his death, although his eager publisher saw it into print by 1851. More than that, however, he understood himself to have witnessed the death of himself in life many times, as the aristocratic way of life of his childhood perished, to be followed by the multiple ways of life, imposed by politics and by his own circumstances. Memories from beyond the grave suggest life beyond it; and indeed, “My cradle has something of the grave, my grave something of the cradle.” He accentuates this point by noting not only when and where remembered events occurred, but when and where he wrote about them. So, for example, in recounting his childhood in Saint-Malo and Cambourg, he remarks that he is writing at a country home in La Vallée-aux-Loups or in the town of Dieppe, having been ordered out of Paris by Bonaparte in 1812. As he looks back at a part of his life now interred, he remarks the cradle in which he has currently been laid—not always lovingly, if one restricts one’s view to human intentions.

By the time he made his last revisions to the Memoirs, he had survived many such lives—again the precursor of Malraux, who chose a Buddhist proverb for the frontispiece of his own book: “The elephant is the wisest of all the animals, the only one who remembers his former lives. He remains motionless for long periods of time, meditating thereon.” For his frontispiece Chateaubriand invoked Job, lamenting the necessity of fleeing terrors inflicted by God. These choices also show the differences between the two men: Chateaubriand, fully engaged in the Bible, at times courting the reader’s pity; Malraux, fully engaged in what he called tragic humanism, at times courting the reader’s admiration. Given both Catholic and Rousseauian influences, Chateaubriand writes much on his personal as well as his public life, beginning with his family; he often sits in the Confessional. Malraux, who rejected confessional biography, offers lightly fictionalized accounts of his grandfather and father; one would scarcely know he was married three times and had children. Hence the title of the first volume, Antimémoires, and his rhetorical question, “Why should I care about that which matters only to me?”

Alex Andriesse has translated the first twelve books the Mémoires, with the final twelve reserved for the next volume. This volume brings Chateaubriand to the turn of the nineteenth century. The first three chapters recount his childhood. He writes them from internal exile in The Valley of the Wolves, wondering how it looked in 1694, when Voltaire was born in a village there—”this hillside where, in 1807, the author of The Genius of Christianity would come to reside.” A place which, like the rest of France, now (in 1811), “the man who gives France power over the world today only to trample her underfoot, this man whose genius I admire and whose despotism I abhor,” who “encircles me with his tyranny as with a second solitude,” has left him with the freedom to remember the past: “I remain free in everything that preceded his glory.” “These pages shall be a funerary shrine raised to the light of my memories.” Those great materialists, Voltaire (linked to Chateaubriand by a coincidence of place) and Napoleon (linked to Chateaubriand by a coincidence of time, having been born only twenty days before him) serve as Chateaubriand’s arch-rivals—the one in thought, the other in politics.

“I was born a gentleman,” by which he means one of noble birth, a ‘minor’ aristocrat. “I have retained that very firm love of liberty which belongs principally to the aristocracy whose last hour has struck,” as Tocqueville would acknowledge. “Aristocracy has three successive ages: the age of superiority, the age of privilege, and the age of vanity. Once through with the first, it degenerates into the second, and dies out in the last.” He was born into an aristocratic family which retained marks of the first age, some of the advantages of the second, and not a little of the third. He intends “to give some account of my father’s ruling passion, a passion which formed the core drama of my youth”: “his passion for the family name.” As befitted the condition of European aristocracy in the 1770s, Father’s “usual state of being was a profound sadness that deepened with age and a silence broken only by fits of anger”—haughty with his neighboring peers, “harsh with his vassals in Combourg,” “taciturn, despotic, and menacing at home.” “To see him was to fear him.”

A woman of “great wit and a prodigious imagination,” his mother’s passions for literature and history (Fénelon, Racine, Madame de Sévigné, Xenophon’s Cyrus) complemented her “elegant manners and lively disposition,” in contrast with “my father’s rigidity and calm.” “Loving society as much as he loved solitude, as exuberant and animated as he was expressionless and cold, she possessed no taste not antagonistic to the tastes of her husband,” but remained devoted to him “compensat[ing] herself with a sort of noisy sadness interspersed with sighs.” To her “I owe the consolation of my life, since it was through her that I took my faith: I gathered the Christian truths that came from her lips.” “In the realm of devotion, my mother was an angel.”

Such a model, too, was his native city of Saint-Malo. “As early as the reign of Henri IV [it] distinguished itself by its devotion and loyalty to France,” surviving English naval bombardments and supporting the Bourbon monarchs throughout their many wars. The loyalty that is patriotism extended as well to religion. A Catholic priest has testified, “The sun has never shone upon a place more steadfast and unwavering in its loyalty to the true faith than Brittany.” But loyalty may not find its just reward. Recalling the mastiffs that once served as the nighttime guardians of the town, only to be incarcerated and killed when they “snap[ped] unthinkingly at the legs of a gentleman,” Chateaubriand thinks of himself and aphorizes: “Dogs, like men, are punished for their loyalty.”

By this family, in this place, “I was abandoned to an idle childhood,” with “the town urchins” as “my closest friends.” Hence his republican inclinations. Many of these boys were sons of Breton sailors, men for whom “religion and danger were continually face to face.” “No sooner was I born than I heard talk of death,” as church bells tolled, calling “Christians to pray for the soul of one of their drowned neighbors.” “Nearly every year a boat sank before my very eyes,” and “I scampered along the beaches [as] the sea rolled the corpses of foreign sailors at my feet.” When once he lamented how these men had died far from their homes, his mother told him, as Monica told Augustine, “Nothing is far from God.”

“My education had been entrusted to Providence, and Providence did not spare me her lessons.” It was an education that owed nothing to ‘Voltaire,’ the Enlightenment; “it was adopted by my parents for no fixed reason and as a natural result of their temperaments,” not their ideas, let alone an rationalist, ideational system which they surely did not have. “What is certain that it made my ideas less similar to those of other men,” that “it imprinted my feelings with a melancholy stamp” born of “habitual suffering [during] the years of weakness, recklessness, and joy.” “The truth is that no system of education is in itself preferable to any other system” because “God does well whatever He does.” He calls his first time at school an “internment.”

The family left Saint-Malo for Combourg a few years later, and Chateaubriand was enrolled at the Collège de Dol, his mother having “never given up her desire that I be given a classical education.” His republican inclination came out on its playing fields, “I made no effort to lead others, but neither would I be led: I was unfit to be a tyrant or a slave, and so I have remained.” Soon an accomplished schoolboy Latinist, he became tormented upon reading an unexpurgated text of Horace’s poetry, “suspecting that there were secrets incomprehensible to a boy my age, an existence different from mine, pleasures beyond my childish games, charms of an unknown nature in a sex that I knew only through my mother and my sisters.” At the same time, Catholicism taught him that such as-yet incomprehensible sins were damnable. Virgil’s Dido and Eucharis only added to his ambivalence. “If I have since depicted, with some veracity, the workings of the human heart commingled with Christian synderesis, I am convinced that I owe my successes to chance, which introduced me to those two inimical dominions at one and the same time.” Add to these perceptions and sentiments the moral virtue of his aristocratic lineage; at school, too, “my sense of honor was born,” that “exaltation of the soul that keeps the heart incorruptible in a world of corruption.”

He sought refuge in Catholicism, solemnized in his first communion, the “religious ceremony [which] among young Christians took the place of the taking of the toga virilis practiced among the Romans.” And after the confession that followed “I no longer looked the same to my teachers and my schoolmates. I walked with a light step, my head held high, my face radiant, in all the triumph of repentance.” This religious spirit merged with honor: “I understood then the courage of the martyrs. At that moment, I could have borne witness to Christ on the rack or in the face of a lion.”

He considered joining the navy, and as he saw a French squadron returning to port, “Nothing has ever given me a loftier idea of the human spirit.” “No doubt I would have enjoyed naval service if my independent spirit had not rendered me unfit for service of any kind,” given “my deep inability to obey.” He returned home to the unexpectedly mild disappointment of his father and to the joy of his mother and his favorite sister, Lucile. He next determined on a life in the Church, attending the Collège de Dinon, where he added Hebrew to Latin and Greek to his collection of languages. But he would eventually decide against taking the cloth.

Sexual passion, guilt, and spiritual exaltation, mixed together in a household ruled by a father tormented by the condition of a dying aristocracy, brought him to a spiritual crisis. “I had no fixed time for either rising or for breakfasting: I was reputed to be studying until noon, but most of the time I did nothing.” His only companion, his sister Lucile, joined him in translating “the saddest and loveliest passages of Job and Lucretius.” “Lucile’s thoughts were indistinguishable from feelings; and they emerged with difficulty from her soul: but once she had succeeded in expressing them, there was nothing more sublime.” “On the moors of Caledonia,” she “would have been one of Walter Scott’s mystic women, gifted with second sight,” but in Combourg “she was merely a recluse favored with beauty, genius, and misfortune.” And she was afflicted “with Rousseau’s mania, though without his pride: she believed that everyone was conspiring against her.”

“I was a mystery to myself.” Unable to approach real women, “I composed myself a woman from all the women I had ever seen” in fact or in fiction. “All-ignorant and all-knowing, simultaneously virgin and lover, innocent Eve and fallen Eve, my enchantress nourished my madness with a mixture of mystery and passion.” “Pygmalion was less in love with his statue” than he with his fantasy, “my sylph,” which he made himself worthy of winning also in fantasy, playing the lyre like Apollo, triumphing in battle like Mars. “On emerging from these dreams and finding myself again a poor dark little Breton, without fame, or beauty, or talents, a young man who would draw nobody’s gaze, who would go unnoticed, whom no woman would ever love, despair took hold of me.” “This delirium lasted two whole years, during which my spiritual faculties reached the highest pitch of exaltation” and then, “struck by my folly… I would wallow in my desolation.” At one point, as “the last glimmer of reason fled from me,” he attempted to shoot himself. The gun didn’t fire.

At last his body gave out. The family doctor “examined me attentively, ordered the appropriate remedies, and declared it absolutely necessary that I be torn away from my current mode of life.” His elder brother could have obtained a church position for him, but his “sense of honor”—which, like Socrates’ daimon, has always given to know “at once what to avoid”—told him that he was too weak to acquire virtues and “too frank” to “conceal my vices.” He proposed “a harebrained scheme”: he would go to Canada to “clear forests,” or perhaps to Asia to serve in the army of an Indian prince. Father’s patience evaporated: “You must renounce your follies” and join the army. “I am old and sick. I am not long for this world. Conduct yourself as a good man should, and never dishonor your name”—which was to say, his name. Father had his own sylph: The dream to see “his name reestablished and the fortune of his house renewed,” which would soon be exposed as “yet another chimera of that time,” destroyed by the Revolution. As for the son, “It was in the woods of Combourg that I became what I am, that I began to feel the first onslaught of that ennui which I have dragged with me through all my days, and that sadness which has been both my torment and my bliss.”

In Books IV and V Chateaubriand recounts his experiences during the first years of the Revolution. He writes these chapters in 1821, in Berlin, where he was serving as Louis XVIII’s ambassador. “Another man has appeared to me”—six years after the final defeat of Napoleon—”a political man: I do not much care for him.” He scoffs at the late Frederick the Great’s philosophic pretensions. “I made a study of the false Julian in his false Athens,” whose esteem for Voltaire and the Enlightenment, with their contempt for religion, registers only “an ostentatious belief in nothingness.” At Frederick’s summer palace, Sans Souci, “only one thing held my attention: the hands of a clock stopped at the minute that Frederick expired.” But in reality “the hours never suspend their flight; it is not man who stops time, but time that stops man.” “Down in the crypt of the Protestant church, immediately beneath the pulpit of the defrocked schismatic,” Martin Luther, “I saw the tomb of the sophist of the crown.” Like Hegel, whose language about ‘the spirit of the epoch’ sometimes gets into the Mémoires (albeit without any of the rationalist dialectic) Chateaubriand evidently judges the Reformation to have prepared the ground for the Enlightenment. Unlike Hegel, he regards this as neither necessary nor proper.

“With my father’s death, the first act of my life came to a close,” almost simultaneously with the Old Regime. “There is a new world, a new era.” “Henceforth I would be masterless and enjoy my own fortune; but such liberty frightened me. What would I do with it?” After the inheritance was divided, his family “disbanded like birds flying from the paternal nest”—a sign of the patriarchic and aristocratic family enfeebled. Now a cavalry captain, still painfully awkward in any social situation, he was alarmed when his brother inveigled an invitation for him to be presented at Court to Louis XVI. “I had to set off for Versailles more dead than alive.” “He has seen nothing who has not seen the pomp of Versailles, even after the dismissal of the King’s old entourage: the spirit of Louis XIV was still there.” “One must remember the former prestige of royalty to understand the importance of a presentation in those days,” as the “debutant” was scrutinized with cautious curiosity: Might he become “a favorite of the King?” “He was respected for the future servitude with which he might be honored.” The fact that this king was “six years from the scaffold,” the irony that his painfully self-conscious guest would someday be present at the exhumation of the remains of both king and queen, leads Chateaubriand not only to the traditional reflection on “the vanity of human destinies” but also to the thought that Louis XVI “might have answered his judges as Christ answered” his own judges: “Many good works I have shown you: for which of these works do you stone me?”

Telling his brother that he intended to return to his regiment in Brittany, “I felt, in a confused way, that I was superior to what I had seen. I came away with an unconquerable disgust for the Court, and this disgust, or rather this contempt, which I have never been able to conceal, will prevent me from succeeding, or it will bring about my downfall at the high point of my career.” It would be interesting to know if this prediction was written in 1821, or when Chateaubriand revised this portion of the manuscript in 1846, when his political career was long finished. But such grasping after facts is the wrong way to read the Memoirs. Chateaubriand has already announced his disdain for Enlightenment rationalism and empiricism. He wants to capture the spirit of himself, of his contemporaries, of his many lives and his country’s many ways of life, over time. He has no aspiration to be an annalist.

His own spirit began to change. Despite his contempt for the Court, and “despite my natural tastes, something in me was rebelling against obscurity and imploring me to emerge from the shadows.” “The instinct of genius and beauty were pushing Lucile toward a wider stage,” too. By 1789 he was back in Paris, where he met some of the leading men of letters of those days, whom he sketches in ascending order of talent, descending order of virtue. The first was Jean-Baptiste-Claude Delisle de Sales, a kindly old man, “very cordially mediocre,” who had “amassed a fine library of his own works, which he lent out to strangers and which no one in Paris ever read.” De Sales made an annual intellectual pilgrimage to Germany, where “he would replenish his ideas.” “On the pedestal of his marble bust, he had with his own two hands traced the following inscription, borrowed from a bust of Buffon: GOD, MAN, NATURE, HE HAS EXPLAINED THEM ALL.” Chateaubriand rather doubts that, but “Might it not be that, so long as we live, we are under the sway of an illusion similar to that of Delisle de Sales? I would wager that some author who is reading this sentence believes himself a writer of genius and is in fact nothing but a cretin.” Thus does the Viscount invite us all to self-reflection.

Fellow Breton Pierre-Louis Ginguené was working on a multi-volume history of Italian literature and had already published “a stylish enough piece of verse” titled La Confession de Zulmé, which had garnered him a minor government appointment. “His origins were humble, but the more he attached himself to well-known men, the more arrogant he became.” When the Revolution began, he had “advance knowledge” of a massacre to take place at a Carmelite convent and cynically took no action to prevent it, eying preferment under the new regime—which he in fact received. “Tumbling from mediocrity into importance, from importance into foolishness, and from foolishness to ridiculousness, he ended his days as a distinguished literary critic.”

“But without question, the most bilious man of letters I knew in Paris at that time was Nicolas Chamfort,” ever-resentful of his common birth and keening to see the monarchy’s ruin. “No one can deny that he had wit and talent, but wit and talent of the kind that does not teach posterity.” (In this Chateaubriand’s judgment failed him, as Chamfort remains in the French literary pantheon for his Maximes et pensées.) No armchair revolutionary,
Chamfort numbered among those who stormed the Bastille. During the Terror, “furious to find inequalities of rank persisting in this world of sorrows and tears, condemned to be no more than a vilain in the feudality of the executioners, he tried to kill himself to escape from the magnificos of crime. He failed.” (This isn’t quite right, either; Chamford lingered for some time but did die of complications from his horrific self-inflicted gunshot wounds.) Never one to be tempted by pity for irresponsible men, Chateaubriand prefers to be the one who finishes off Chamfort, garroting him with a mordant Christian aphorism of his own: “Death laughs at those who summon it and confuse it with nothingness.”

“When I reread most of the eighteenth-century writers today, I am puzzled by both the ruckus they raised and by my former admiration of them.” He now finds “something exhausted, passé, pallid, lifeless, and cold in these writers who were the delight of my youth,” even the greatest among them. There was something false in their “mania for Hellenizing and Latinizing our language,” a tendency Rabelais had already seen and mocked. “Our revolutionaries, great Greeks by nature, have obliged our shopkeepers and our peasants to learn hectares, hectoliters, kilometer, millimeters, and decagrams.” The Enlightenment universalized a brittle and spurious classicism; what began in pretension ended led to terror and ended in tyranny.

“In those days, everything was deranged in minds and in morals: it was a symptom of the revolution to come.” (In his sermons one priest “steered clear of the name of Jesus Christ and spoke only of the ‘Christian Legislator'”—indeed an example of Rousseau in the wrong place.) In a passage that de Gaulle might have written had Chateaubriand not gotten there first, the Viscount observes, “The height of fashion was to be American in town, English at Court, and Prussian in the army: to be anything, in other words, except French.” Blunt-spoken and honest, the redoubtable Old-Regime attorney and statesman Guillaume-Chrétien de Lamoignon de Malesherbes became one of Chateaubriand’s few confidants in Paris, sharing his assessments of the time and characters there. As fellow liberal monarchists (Malesherbes took his bearings from Fénelon and Montesquieu), “we understood each other’s politics.” Although “his natural virtues were a bit tainted by affectation… as a result of the philosophy that he had mingled with them,” he was “full of knowledge, probity and courage,” if often too “hot-headed and passionate.” (After gallantly defending Louis XVI at his trial by the Robespierre regime, Malesherbes would be guillotined for his trouble, along with several of his family. His line would survive; his great-grandson was Alexis de Tocqueville.)

“The fundamentally generous sentiments” of the early revolutionaries “appealed to my independent character, and the natural antipathy I felt for the Court only strengthened those leanings”—so much so that “The Revolution would have caught me up in its flow if it had not started with crimes. When I saw the first head carried at the end of a pike, I recoiled. In my eyes, murder will never be an object of admiration or an argument for freedom: I know of nothing more servile, more despicable, more cowardly, more narrow-minded than a terrorist.” With that, Chateaubriand draws a line that would only widen as the subsequent centuries have worn on.

The Revolution proceeded in the provinces, too, and Chateaubriand saw the preparations for it during his visits to Brittany in the years 1787 and 1788. It was then and there when “my political education began.” In fact (Tocqueville would pick up this argument), “the transformations that had been developing for two centuries were coming to term” throughout the country. “France had gone from a feudal monarchy to a monarchy of the Estates-General, from a monarchy of the Estates-General to a parliamentary monarchy, from a parliamentary monarchy to an absolute monarchy, now tending, through the struggle between the magistracy and the royal power, toward representative monarchy.” Centralization and democratization came gradually, with reforms—each of which “seemed to be an isolated accident.” “We could not see these facts together” at the time, but (donning his Hegelian hat) “in all historical periods there is a presiding spirit,” a spirit that militates against efforts to counteract the trend. As both Catholics and Hegelians know, “Every opinion dies powerless or mad if it lacks an assembly to lend it strength and willpower, to give it hands and a tongue. It is and will always be through bodies, legal or illegal, that revolutions arise and continue to arise.” In the French Revolution that set of institutions consisted of the Parisian and provincial parliaments. They “had their own reason for vengeance,” as “absolute monarchy had robbed them of the authority that they had usurped from the Estates-General.” In calling for the restoration of the Estates-General “they didn’t dare admit that they wanted political and legislative power for themselves,” and succeeded in “the resurrection of a body whose inheritance they had reaped, a body that, on returning to life, would instantly reduce them to their own special function: the administration of justice.” Chateaubriand takes this as a lesson in human fallibility. Along with the reformist king, the parliaments “were, without knowing it, instruments of a social revolution.” Further, many of the provincial estates-general were dominated by the Third Estate, the bourgeoisie. Without serious representation of Church or aristocracy, such bodies ensured that “The great kingdom of France, aristocratic in its parties and its provinces, was democratic as a whole.” “There is a whole new history of France to be written about this, or, rather, the history of France remains unwritten.” Tocqueville would write part of it in his The Old Regime and the Revolution. Chateaubriand anticipates the younger man’s critique of centralized bureaucracy: the monarchic Old Regime “bequeathed us centralization, a vigorous type of administration which I look on as an evil, but which was perhaps the only system that could replace the local administrations once these had been destroyed and ignorant anarchy led men around by the nose.”

In Brittany, the meeting of the Estates did see all three social orders represented, but they first met separately—”raging in their three private storms, which turned into a collective hurricane when the Clergy, the Nobility, and the Third Estate convened,” with “talent, vanity, and ambition” all on full display. The problem in Brittany in the years leading up to the Revolution was the unequal burden of the hearth tax, “levied on each commoner’s fire” but not on aristocrats. This injustice became especially onerous in wartime, when the monarchy’s appetite for revenues increased with its expenses. By 1789 the meeting of the Estates was actually put under siege by the people, causing the aristocrats to boycott the proceedings. “Later, they would go in great numbers to join the Army of Princes, to be decimated with Condé or Charette in the Vendée Wars.” But “in these great social transformations, individual resistance, however honorable for those who resist, is powerless against the facts.” “Pass on now, reader: wade the river of blood that separates forever the old world, which you are leaving, from the new world at whose beginning you will die.”

Chateaubriand didn’t return to Paris until late in 1789, after the Clergy and Nobility had been incorporated into the Third Estate in the newly-formed National Assembly. There would be no more balanced, mixed regime for France. “The closer we came to the capital, the more disorderly things became,” and in the city itself “the streets were glutted with crowds.” The Queen was still presenting herself and her children in public at Versailles; Chateaubriand saw her there. “Casting her eyes on me with a smile, she made me the same charming curtsy as she had on the day of my presentation. I will never forget those eyes, which were so soon to be extinguished,” nor that smile, the memory of which “allowed me to recognize the jaw of this daughter of kings when the unfortunate woman’s head was discovered in the exhumations of 1815,” a memento mori of the Old Regime,

He also saw the taking of the Bastille. At the time, “everyone admired what he should have condemned”—the rage, the violence—”and no one looked to the future to see what was in store for the people, the changes in manners, ideas, and political power,” a regime change “in which the taking of the Bastille was only the prelude to an era, a sort of bloodstained jubilee.” The monarchy vainly attempted to halt the change with concessions, but “no party ever believes in converting their opponent: neither liberty capitulating nor power abasing itself ever obtains mercy from its enemies.” Louis XVI could not save his head by adorning it with a tricolor ribbon. For himself, when Chateaubriand saw revolutionaries carrying pikes with the heads of two of Louis’ civil servants, “the idea of leaving France for some distant country began to take root in my mind.”

Such “cannibal feasts” notwithstanding, “the greatest blows against the old constitution of the State were struck by gentlemen. Patricians started the Revolution, and plebeians finished it. As the old France once owed the French nobility its glory, so the new France owes it its liberty, if there is any such thing as liberty in France.” From the safety of a well-protected balcony, Chateaubriand had shouted to the ignobly savage pike-bearers, “Is this what you take liberty to be?” He would say that to each of the successive rulers of each succeeding French regime, for the remainder of his life, and to several others, from beyond his grave.

The supreme example of such revolutionary aristocrats was Honoré Gabriel Riqueti, compte de Mirabeau. “Mixed up in world events by the chaos and coincidences of his life, in contact with fugitives of justice, rapists, and adventurers, Mirabeau, the tribune of the aristocracy, the deputy of democracy, had something of Gracchus and Don Juan, of Catiline and Guzmán d’Alfarache, of Cardinal de Richelieu and Cardinal de Retz, of the Regency rake and the Revolutionary savage; he had, moreover, something of ‘Mirabeau,’ an exiled Florentine family that carried with them a memory of those fortified palaces and great factions celebrated by Dante: a naturalized French family in which the Republican spirit of the Italian Middle Ages and the feudal spirit of our Middle Ages were to be united in a succession of extraordinary men.” “Nature seemed to have molded his head either for imperium or for the gallows, chiseled his arms to annul a nation or abduct a woman.” At the rostrum of the National Assembly, “he called to mind Milton’s Chaos, impassive and formless, standing at the center of his own confusion,” a mass of “deep, burning, tempestuous passions.” In this, an aristocratic revolutionary’s soul mirrored, and was mirrored by, the souls of the ‘plebeian’ revolutionaries: “Cynicism of manners, by annihilating the moral sense, brings society back to a kind of barbarism, but these social barbarians, prone to destruction like the Goths, have no power to create like the Goths. The barbarians of old were enormous children of virgin nature; the new ones are the monstrous abortions of nature depraved.”

But quite the charmer: Chateaubriand enjoyed his company, to a point. “Mirabeau talked a great deal, especially about himself,” a habit no memoirist can honestly condemn. “This son of lions was himself a lion with a chimera’s head; this man so practical when it came to facts was all romance, poetry, and enthusiasm when it came to language and imagination.” He even had a lover named Sophie. “Like me, he had been treated severely by his father, who, like mine, had stood by the inflexible tradition of absolute paternal authority.” “Generous, given to friendship, and quick to pardon offenses,” he had an aristocrat’s (that is to say a lion’s) share of lovers; his youth had been packed with scandals and narrow escapes. He wanted to save the monarchy, but to redesign it to make it palatable to the new democratic society. “Loathing” the masses, he seduced them as if they were yet another woman, and won them, as he had so many others. At the same time, “though a traitor to his order,” the aristocracy, “he maintained its sympathy through caste affinities and common interests.” In his attempts to play one side against another (he made contacts with the royal court and, we now know, the court of the Austrian Emperor, as well), “he founded a school”: “By freeing themselves from moral shackles, men dreamed that they were transforming into statesmen. But these imitations produced only perverse dwarfs.” Astonishingly, Mirabeau died not on the gallows but in bed, a victim, perhaps symbolically, of heart failure. After their dinner, Mirabeau “looked me in the face with eyes full of arrogance, depravity, and genius, and, putting his hand on my shoulder, he said to me, ‘They will never forgive me my superiority!’ I still feel the impression of that hand, as if Satan had touched me with his fiery claw.”

“Among so many reputations, so many actors, so many events, so many ruins, only three men remain” in the public memory from the Revolution. Each was “attached to one of the great Revolutionary epochs: Mirabeau for aristocracy, Robespierre for democracy, Bonaparte for despotism. The monarchy has nothing: France has paid dearly for those three reputations that Virtue can never acknowledge.” Chateaubriand first noticed Robespierre at the Assembly, “a common-looking deputy” who “read a long and boring report to which no one listened.” By the time Robespierre’s real nature showed itself, Chateaubriand had left the country. But he saw clearly enough the conditions for his rise. In revolutions, “the human race on holiday strolls down the street, rid of its masters and restored for a moment to its natural state; it feels no need of a civic bridle until it shoulders the yoke of the new tyrants, which license breeds.” In passages like this, later readers will feel as if in the pages of Solzhenitsyn’s account of the February Revolution.

Resigning his military commission, Chateaubriand’s plan of leaving France for the United States, which he had begun to discuss with Malesherbes, began to coalesce. “I needed only a practical purpose for my journey,” as so many grant applicants have realized before and since. “I proposed to discover the Northwest Passage,” a plan “not out of keeping with my poetic nature.” Consulting again with Malesherbes, he consulted the older man’s maps and charts, read travelers’ narratives, and discussed “the precautions to be taken against the severe climate, the attacks of wild beasts, and the dwindling of provisions.” “If I were younger,” his friend told him, “I would go with you and spare myself the sight of all the crimes, betrayals, and insanities of Paris. But at my age a man must die wherever he happens to be.” Armed with a letter of introduction to George Washington by the Marquis de la Rouërie, who had fought in the American revolutionary war, he embarked from Saint-Malo, in order to be able to say farewell to his mother. By this time, he’d “gone from being a Christian zealot to a freethinker, which is to say a very vacant thinker indeed. This change in my religious convictions came from the reading of philosophical books,” paradoxically fitting himself better for adventurous action than serious thought. Philosophy, he later concluded, limits the intelligence by making it think “it can see everything because it keeps its eyes open; a superior intelligence consents to close its eyes, for it perceives that everything is within.” He is perhaps thinking more of Enlightenment philosophy than philosophy itself, but at any rate if one’s sets out for adventure it’s better to have open eyes than closed. “Finally, one other thing brought about the change in my thinking, and that was the bottomless despair I carried with me in the depths of my heart.” The sentiment that had induced him to attempt suicide lingered on, and he sensed that, as before, only by tearing himself away from a way of life lived in untenable circumstances could he combat it. He took his family physician’s advice while no longer needing that estimable man to advise him.

Chateaubriand finds a fundamental difference between American and French republicanism. America was still dominated by the pervasive domination of nature, unlike ancient France, with its complex civil society and longstanding literary culture. He writes on America from London in 1822, where he serves as the French ambassador in service of Louis XVIII. Not quite thirty years ago he had also stayed in William Pitt’s London, “an obscure and humble traveler,” “poor, sick, and unknown.” He prefers his former obscurity to his present public life, in the predictable course of which he is the object of flattery. “Do you think you can make me take this masquerade seriously? Do you think I’m stupid enough to believe that my nature has changed because I’ve changed my clothes?” No, rather, “Come back, you lovely days of indigence and solitude!” His only refuge in the city now is Kensington Gardens; there, “in perpetual solitude, the birds build their nests in peace.” Writing about his American journey here, where he disembarked for America as a young man, he can at least recreate his old privacy in the privacy of his mind.

“The flight of birds had guided [Columbus] to America”—nature bringing man to nature. He “must have experienced the kind of feeling that scripture ascribes to the Creator when, having drawn up the earth out of nothingness, he saw that his work was good.” In his own human way, “Columbus also created a world,” at least in the sense that he discovered one that gave men new evidence of the glory of God. And since the arrival of Columbus “this new world had shaken off” the “old monarchical dominion”; Americans having founded “a republic of a hitherto unimaginable type heralding a change in the human spirit.” France had contributed to “these world-altering events,” as “these seas and these shores… owed their independence partly to French blood and to the French flag.” Now, the United States was “sending back to France the Revolution that France had supported with her guns; and my own future, the virgin muse that I had come to give over to the passions of a new nature,” would awaken in America, where he would set his first successful writings, the novellas Atala and René.

The American capital city, and American cities generally, disappointed. “Philadelphia has a monotonous look,” lacking the “great works of architecture” of Europe. Chateaubriand blames the Reformation, the Protestant movement still “young in years,” which “sacrifices nothing to the imagination.” “The eye is saddened to behold such an even level” of “the mass of walls and roofs” in “the Protestant cities of the United States” with their democratic civil society. Nonetheless, “At that time in my life, I greatly admired Republics, although I did not believe them possible at the stage of world history that we [French] had reached: I understood Liberty as the ancients did, as the daughter of a nascent society’s ways; but I knew nothing of Liberty as the daughter of enlightenment and an old civilization.” But “Liberty of the kind that the representative republic has proved to be a reality,” thanks to Mr. Madison and his colleagues. “God grant that it may be durable!” He very reasonably suspects that only God, and not Americans themselves, can make it so. “Will Americans preserve their form of government? Will the States not sunder?” A Virginia representative “has already argued for the ancient theory of liberty which accepted slavery, and which was the result of paganism, against a representative from Massachusetts who defended the cause of modern liberty without slavery, which Christianity has wrought.” Thus both the regime of the United States at its union have been thrown into question. Moreover, the Western states, “so far from the Atlantic,” might “prefer their own regime.” These things being so, is “the federal bond strong enough to preserve the union and compel each state to stand ranked around it”? And if it were, and if in acting so to preserve the union “the power of the presidency were increased, would despotism not be close behind”?

If the federal union did dissolve, that would leave the existing sovereign states, however many there might be, in a condition of mutual enmity. Even absent foreign alliances and interventions, might this not result in the decline of republicanism itself within those states, or even a new empire in North America, as one state came to dominate all the others? Chateaubriand speculated that Kentucky “would seem destined to be the conquering State,” a far-fetched notion then, and laughable now, but the basic idea wasn’t silly, when he conceived it in 1822.

Geopolitically, the rise of the Latin American republics, “troubled as these democracies are,” might lead to war. “When the United States had nothing near them except the colonies of a transatlantic kingdom, serious warfare was unlikely. But today, isn’t a rivalry to be feared?” If war comes, might this not precipitate the rise of an American Napoleon?

And what if the Union does hold? “I have spoken of the danger of war, but I must also recall the dangers of prolonged peace.” With continued increase of population and wealth, decadence might follow, and with it the inability to resist foreign attack. “China and India, asleep in their muslins, have been constantly subject to foreign domination.” “What best suits the complexion of a free society is a state of peace tempered by war or a state of war tempered by peace.” With their “mercantile spirit” filling their souls, Americans may decline into luxury followed by bankruptcy.

“What’s more, it is difficult to create a homeland from States which have no community rooted in religion or material interests, which have arisen from different sources at different times, and which survive on different soils and under different suns.” What have Frenchmen in Louisiana, Spaniards in Florida, Germans in New York, and Englishmen along the Atlantic seaboard—”all of whom are reputed to be Americans”—really have in common? “How many centuries will it take to render these elements homogeneous!”

Finally, “the enormous imbalance of wealth is a more serious threat to the spirit of equality than any other.” “A chrysogeneous aristocracy, with a passionate love of distinctions and titles, is ready to emerge.” Whether Yankee merchants or Southern planters, “these plebeian nobles aspire to be a caste despite the progress of enlightenment that has made them equal and free.” Secretly, Americans love titles, ancestries, coats-of-arms—some so much that they migrate to Europe. And this happens in reverse: “A cadet from Gascony, landing with no more than a cloak and an umbrella on these republican shores, as long as he remembers to refer to himself by the title of ‘marquis,’ is guaranteed to be well received on every steamboat.” At the same time, the new, American aristocracy lacks the family sentiments of the old, European aristocracy, and so do the middle and lower classes. “Family feeling scarcely exists” in America. “As soon as a child is in a condition to work, he must fly on his own two wings like a fledgling bird,” “emancipated into premature orphanhood” and forming “bands of nomads who clear the lands, dig canals, and exercise their industry everywhere, but without ever attaching themselves to the soil.” Especially in the towns, this results in “a cold hard egotism.”

The American Founders united, and Abraham Lincoln reunited, this huge and heterogeneous country on the moral foundation of natural right, as enunciated in the Declaration of Independence. Although Chateaubriand regards America as the land of nature, in contrast to the highly conventional life of old Europe, he doesn’t have natural right in mind. Rather, he asks, “Could the Americans be suffering, without knowing it, from the law of a climate where vegetable nature seems to have thrived at the expense of sentient beings?” Could the vast forests of North America not have nurtured a cold people, a people lacking in moral sentiments? And as for the doctrine of natural right, “one might wonder whether the American has not become too quickly accustomed to philosophical liberty, as the Russian has become accustomed to civilized despotism.”

In his account of America, Chateaubriand clearly provides the nucleus of Tocqueville’s argument in Democracy in America. He differs from Tocqueville in one crucial respect. Beneath it all, Chateaubriand simply does not accept natural right as a valid claim. He makes this clear in recounting one of his conversations with Malesherbes. His friend justified resistance to the Jacobin regime on the grounds that “a government ceases to exist when, instead of guaranteeing the fundamental laws of society, it transgresses the laws of equality and the rules of justice. It is then licit to defend oneself however one can, by whatever means best serve to overthrow tyranny and reestablish the rights of each and all.” Chateaubriand doubts this. “The principles of natural rights, first put forth by the greatest polemicists, developed so eloquently by such a man as M. de Malesberbes, and supported by so many historical examples, were striking; but I remained unconvinced.” By returning to France and fighting in the royalist army, “in truth, I merely yielded to the impulse of any era, on a point of honor”—on the principle of aristocracy, not on the principles of natural rights. It is, one must remark, unusual to see the likes of Hobbes, Locke, and Rousseau described as mere polemicists.

“In sum, the United States give the impression of being a colony, not a mother country: they have no past, and their mores are not a result of their laws.” No “permanent society” exists, or is “practicable among them.” “Man is never truly settled when the household gods are wanderers.” Thus “the American seems to have inherited from Columbus the mission to discover new worlds rather than create them.” He admires George Washington (“there is virtue in the gaze of a great man”), but of course Washington was formed within settled, socially hierarchic Virginia when it was part of the British Empire; he doubts that men of Washington’s type can arise under the American regime, now that its civil-social moeurs have democratized, even as society’s actual structure has not. He could not anticipate a new type—a Lincoln, or even a Roosevelt—who might also defend the regime and the Union or, in the case of FDR, transform it from a democratic republic into a mixed regime while still defending it against tyranny.

What Chateaubriand does see clearly is the difference between the two great generals, Washington and Napoleon. First, “Washington does not belong, like Bonaparte, to that race which surpasses ordinary human stature. There is nothing astonishing about him,” he concludes having dined with him (or at least claiming to have dined). The “theater” of his action is not “vast,” ranging from Spain to Russia, Egypt to Vienna. “He overturns no thrones only to rebuild others from their ruins.” Second, he was cautious and responsible, “charged with the liberty of future generations” and fearing “to compromise it.” He was no egoist, preferring to carry “the destiny of his country” not his own. “From this profound humility,” Washington accomplished far more. “Look around the forests where Washington’s sword once gleamed, and what do you find? Tombstones? No: a world! Washington left the United States as a trophy on his battlefield.”

“Bonaparte had nothing in common with this serious American.” With his Europe-wide wars, “the only thing he wants to create is his reputation; he is burdened by nothing but his own lot.” He treats his glory “as if it were his fleeting youth,” in the while “smother[ing] liberty of others and ending by “losing his own liberty on his last battleground.” While Washington won independence for his country, Bonaparte robbed his country of its own. When he died, “what [did] the citizens have to mourn?” “Washington’s Republic survives; Bonaparte’s Empire is destroyed. Washington and Bonaparte both issued from the womb of democracy: they were both children of Liberty; but while the first was faithful, the second betrayed her.” Washington’s glory “is the patrimony of civilization.” Bonaparte “might have enriched the common domain,” acting as he did “on the most intelligent, the most courageous, and the most brilliant nation on earth.” But he lacked Washington’s magnanimity; “men were nothing in his eyes but a means to power,” and “no sympathy linked their happiness with his.” If Washington founded a modern Israel, a light unto the nations, Bonaparte reprised the Egyptian pharaohs, who “placed their funereal pyramids not among the flowering fields” of a Promised Land but “amid the barren sands: Bonaparte built the monument to his fame in their image.”

Pressing on with his journey, Chateaubriand first traveled north to Niagara Falls and Canada, then south through Pittsburgh, down the Ohio River, and into Kentucky. (He turned south after a sensible fur trader explained that if he went much further “I would arrive in icy regions where I would die of cold and hunger.”) His first encounter with American Indians was a comic disappointment, as he stumbled upon a lean-to shack where about twenty of the “savages” were gyrating to the tune of a fiddle played by a French dancing instructor. “Was it not a devastating thing for a disciple of Rousseau, to be introduced to savage life by a forest ball organized for the Iroquois by a former scullion in the army of General Rochambeau? I wanted very much to laugh, but I felt cruelly humiliated.” The Iroquois had once been more serious—”a race that seemed destined to conquer the other Indian races, if outsiders had not come to drain his blood and quash his spirit.” The “last virtue left to the savages in the midst of European civilization” is hospitality; he dined well when with them. “From them, one knows well what hospitality must have been in ancient days, when the hearth was as sacred as the altar.” They maintained the continuity of their families, too, by conferring the oldest name of the family on the newborn, always through the maternal line,” as a sign of honor.” “This connects the two extremities of life, and the beginning and the end of the family; it conveys a kind of immortality to one’s ancestors and supposes that they are present among their descendants.” They bury their dead on tribal lands, which then become sacred ground: “take the bones of their fathers from these savages and you take their history, their laws, and even their gods; you rob these men, and their future generations, of the proof that they ever existed or that they were ever annihilated.” Such customs recall those of the Greeks and Romans described by Chateaubriand’s contemporary, Fustel de Coulanges, in The Ancient City.

Chateaubriand relates all this with sympathy, but without sentimentality. He knows that the Cherokee and the Iroquois fought each other over hunting grounds in present-day Kentucky for more than two centuries, making it “a land of blood.” He knows that “at the start of the War of American Independence, the savages were still eating their prisoners, or at least the ones who were killed: an English captain, dipping a ladle into an Indian stewpot, once drew out a hand.” And while there was indeed something “great and noble” about the Indian when he was “naked or dressed in skins,” had only other Indians to kill, “in our day, European rags attest to his wretchedness without covering his nakedness: he has become a beggar at the counting-house door and no longer a savage in his forest.” Europeans “have robbed the New World’s flowers only of those treasures that the natives did not know how to use, and they have made use of these treasures only to enrich the soil from which they harvested them”—as John Locke had argued, a century before Chateaubriand arrived there. Indeed, his main regret is that France no longer possesses these lands. “We are now excluded from the new universe, where the human race is starting over again,” “disinherited from the conquests made by our courage and our genius.” “Thinking of Canada and Louisiana, looking over the old maps of the former French colonies in America, I must ask myself how my country’s government could have let go of these colonies”—by his calculation some two-thirds of the continent—”which would today be an inexhaustible source of prosperity.” Without identifying the seller in words, he silently points to Napoleon, whose evanescent conquests were useless, financed in part by his sale of Louisiana to the United States.

Learning that Louis XVI had been arrested and was to be put on trial, he cut short his travels and returned to France to fight with fellow loyalist troops against the forces of the regime of The Terror. But not before he was married to a friend of Lucile, who arranged things to repair the “gaping hole in my inheritance” left by his journey to America. “If the public man in me is unshakable, the private man is at the mercy of whosoever wants to sway him, and in order to avoid the quarrel of an hour, I would sell myself into slavery for a century.” (It wasn’t really that bad. Mme. Chateaubriand never read his books and produced no children, but she supported him loyally. “When the two of us appear before God, it is I who will be condemned.”)

In Paris he visited a couple of his old literary acquaintances, including the poet Ange-François de Sainte-Ange, upon whom he inflicts one of his choicer merciless epigrams: “He made a concerted effort not to be stupid, but he could never quite prevent himself.” He saves his moral indignation for the ruling terrorists: “They sang of nature, peace, pity, beneficence, candor, and domestic virtues, and meanwhile these blessed philanthropists sent their neighbors to have their necks sliced, with extreme sensibility, for the greater happiness of the human race.” The people on the streets “no longer seemed tumultuous, curious, reckless; they were outright menacing,” and Chateaubriand “sensed the approach of a plebeian tyranny,” worse than the tyranny of the Roman emperors. “For the sovereign people are everywhere, and when they become tyrants, tyranny is everywhere; it is the universal presence of a universal Tiberius.”

This might not have happened had the National Assembly survived. But in September of the previous year, 1791, it had had been dissolved, replaced by the Legislative Assembly, which consisted of an entirely different group of delegates. When the king vetoed their decrees against the aristocratic émigrés and the priests, the political fevers mounted; the solons ordered the purchase of guillotines a few months later, while the radical Jacobin and Cordelier parties formed, eager to use the new invention. He recalls Jean-Paul Marat (“the fetus-faced Swiss”), Camille Desmoulins (who “consented to become a Spartan only so long as the recipe for the black broth was left to Méot, the restauranteur”), Georges Jacques Danton (“the face of a gendarme crossed with that of a slippery and ruthless attorney), and Fabre D’Églantine (“a man of remarkable weakness”). It was Danton who spoke the coda for the ideological tyrants of the next two centuries: “None of these priests or nobles is guilty, but they must die because they are out of place: they are impeding the progress of events and waylaying the future.” The French proved themselves superior to the Germans, the Russians, and the Chinese, however, as other revolutionaries eventually sent most of these personages to the guillotine, too.

With his brother, Chateaubriand joined royalist forces in Brussels. Among the aristocrats gathered there, some outranked others in the aristocratic pecking order. The “High Emigration,” as he calls them, paraded their newly-purchased uniforms “with all the rigor of their frivolity,” hoping to make a favorable impression on Belgian girls. “These brilliant knights were preparing for success on the battlefield by success in love; just the reverse of the old chivalry.” “They looked down disdainfully on all us little gentlemen from the provinces and poor officers turned soldiers.” He received more respect from Frederick William, the King of Prussia, who saw him on the parade grounds, greeted him, and upon hearing that the young French gentleman had returned from America to fight for his king, told him “Monsieur, one can always recognize the sentiments of the French nobility.” Along with Christian principles, such sentiments are in fact Chateaubriand’s moral framework, not natural right. “People now [as he writes this in 1822] condemn the émigrés and say we were nothing but ‘a pack of tigers who clawed at their mother’s breast’; but in the epoch of which I am speaking, a man held fast to the old examples, and honor counted just as much as country. In 1792, loyalty to oaths was still seen as a duty; today, it has become so rare it is regarded as a virtue.” European aristocrats were just that—European, not only national, respecting one another, fighting against but sometime with one another, intermarrying. And what is more, at least in Chateaubriand’s mind “the true heroes” of the royalist troops were “the plebeian soldiers, who had no personal interests clouding their sacrifice.” They too took their oath to the crown as duty, standing on it and not on rights.

The passing of the aristocratic society has had another effect. “The old men of earlier eras were less miserable and isolated than they are today.” Their friends may have died, “but few other things changed around them.” “Strangers to youth, they were no strangers to society.” In a democratic society, by contrast, an old man sees not only his cohort dying, “he has seen ideas dying.” “Principles, manners, tastes, pleasures, pains, and feelings: nothing anymore resembles what he once knew. He finishes his day among a different species of the human race.” And “you Frenchmen of the Nineteenth Century,” you will not be exempt. “You shall grow old in your turn, and you shall be accused, as we have been accused, of holding to superannuated ideas.” You too will become strangers in your homeland.

Nor will nature console you, in your old age. “The birds, the flowers the beautiful evenings at the end of April, the beautiful nights that begin with the dusk’s first nightingale and end with the dawn’s first swallow, these things that make you need and crave happiness—you snuff them out. You still feel their charm, but they are no longer for you.” They are for the young. “The freshening grace of nature, which reminds you of your past joys, makes your miseries uglier. You are nothing but a stain upon the earth. You spoil nature’s harmony and sweetness with your presence, your words, and even with the feelings that you dare express. You may love, but you can no longer be loved.” For Chateaubriand, nature is no more a source of solace for the old than it is a source of right for mankind.

The royalist troops with whom Chateaubriand fought well, even as he himself doubted that they could win the war. They might have won the siege at Thionville; it was illness that ruined their chances, when dysentery and then smallpox struck the troops. Escaping into the forest, he collapsed, was discovered unconscious by some friendly wagon-drivers, and eventually received medical assistance thanks to his brother, who went looking for him. During his four months of convalescence on the Isle of Jersey (a lovely place, “subject to English dominion since the death of Robert, Duc de Normandie”), Louis XVI was executed. “At least the émigrés then excited general sympathy. Our cause seemed to be the cause of European order; and a misfortune honored, as ours was, is a rare thing.”

Moving to Somerset after his convalescence, and then to London, he held on financially by doing translation work and writing his first substantial work, the Essai historique sur les revolutions, for M. Pelletier, an editor “who made a great deal of money and then ate it all up”; “while not exactly a vicious man,” Pelletier “was gnawed at by a verminous horde of little defects of which he could not be cleansed,” “a libertine and a rogue” who “drank in champagne whatever was paid to him in sugar.” Eventually, he stopped commissioning work for the young émigré, having become “bored by prolonged charity.” “Famous for a moment,” the Essai “was soon forgotten.” It “offers a compendium of my existence, as a poet, a moralist, a polemicist, and a political thinker.”

A kind uncle came to Chateaubriand’s aid, enabling him to settle for a while into London’s small colony of French exiles, “artists in misery seated on the ruins of France.” “I owed the softening of my hard lot at this time to study: Cicero was right to recommend the camaraderie of letters as a balm for the sorrow of life.” He needed it: newspapers reported a day when the same French scaffold claimed the lives of Malesherbes, Malesherbes’ daughter, granddaughter and grandson-in-law, and Chateaubriand’s brother. His wife and his sister Lucile were in prison, “accused of the crime of my emigration.” They, and his mother, were spared the guillotine only when the French regime ousted and executed Robespierre in July 1794, ending the Reign of Terror.

While in England, Chateaubriand, his health still fragile, was taken in by a generous couple with a beautiful young daughter, whom he allowed to fall in love with him. After several months, her mother asked him to marry the girl, and Chateaubriand confessed that he was already married. He left the household the next day, properly ashamed. Writing in London more than two decades later, he asks “What had brought about my latest misfortune? My obstinate silence. To make sense of this, it is necessary to examine my character.”

“At no time has it been possible for me to overcome the spirit of restraint and inward solitude that prevents me from discussing what moves me.” Easily bored himself, he prefers not to bore others by talking about himself. “I am sincere and truthful, but I am lacking in openness of heart. My soul tends constantly to close up,” except when writing; “I have never let on about my whole life except in these Memoirs.” The human mind abhorring a vacuum, “I have become for others a sort of fantastic being with no relation to my reality,” a creature of their imagination. “In my inward and theoretical life, I am the man of dreams; in my outward and practical life, I am the man of realities”—easily understood as a public man, impenetrable at his core. No stranger to arguments in the forum, he detests them in personal relations: “as you wish has always relieved me of the boredom of persuading anyone or of trying to assert a truth” in private conversation. “I do not make a virtue of my invincible and quite involuntary circumspection,” offering it only as an explanation of his conduct. “If I had not been subject to this odious mental oddity, any misunderstanding would have been impossible, and I would not have seemed as though I had intentionally abused the most generous hospitality.” In the end he told the truth, but this “does not excuse me: real harm had been done.”

Since then, the girl, Charlotte Ives, has replaced the imaginary Muse of his youth. “Her image sat before me as I wrote,” “a ray of light to reign over me.” He recalls that she visited him when he served as French ambassador to London in the 1820s, asking him to procure a favor from the British Prime Minister Canning. Now married to British admiral Samuel Sutton, she wished him to intercede on behalf of her eldest son, for whom she sought a post in India. “‘I would be very grateful, and I would love to owe my first child’s happiness to you.’ She lingered on these last words.” Suspicious minds will be relieved to know that the Sutton children were born years after Chateaubriand left the Sutton home; the lady seems only to have meant to suggest what might have been, had he stayed.

Among the London émigrés Chateaubriand found Louis-Marcelin Fontanes, a poet, editor, and monarchist—”the last writer of the classical school in the elder line.” Born after Rousseau, his tastes connected him with Fénelon. “He was unable to reestablish the classical school, which was coming to an end with the language of Racine.” As in many respects the founder of “the so-called Romantic school” in France—the literary revolution that accompanied the social and political one—Chateaubriand might have been disparaged by the older man. “If anything in the world was sure to be antipathetic to M. Fontanes, it was my style of writing.” But not so; Fontanes was better than that. “My friend, instead of being revolted by my barbarity, became its passionate defender.” The “established critical rules” of French classicism simply did not apply to Chateaubriand’s writings, “but he sensed that he was entering a new world; he beheld a new nature; he comprehended a language that he did not speak.” For his own part, Chateaubriand says, “I owe him whatever is correct in my style,” as “he taught me to respect the ear, and he prevented me from falling prey to the extravagant inventions and uneven executions of my disciples.” “We often dined in some solitary tavern in Chelsea, by the Thames, talking for hours about Milton and Shakespeare. They had seen what we were seeing; they had sat like us on the bank of this river: for us a foreign river, for them a native stream.”

In summer of 1798 Chateaubriand received word that his mother had died. The Essai, pervaded with skepticism if not atheism, had given her pain, and his sister, Julie, wrote to him, “If you know how many tears your errant ways have caused our honorable mother to weep, and how deplorable they appear to anyone of a thoughtful mind, to anyone who lays claim, not only to piety, but to reason; if you knew this, it would perhaps persuade you to open your eyes and make you renounce writing altogether.” Chateaubriand writes: “The thought of having poisoned the last days of the woman who carried me in her womb cast me into despair. I flung my copies of the Essai into the fire, for it was the instrument of my crime.” Far from giving up writing, however, “the thought came to me of expiating my first work by composing a religious work,” which would be The Genius of Christianity. By the time his sister’s letter arrived, she had joined their mother in death, having never recovered from the effects of imprisonment. “These two voices issuing from the grave, the dead serving as interpreter of the dead, made a deep impression on me. I became a Christian. I did not yield, I admit, to any great supernatural light; my conviction issued from the heart. I wept and I believed.” Chateaubriand came to Christianity the aristocratic way—not directly, through the Monarch-God, but through select human beings he loved.

But with a difference. “The memory of Charlotte,” too, “governed all my thoughts, and, to finish me off, the first desire for fame and glory inflamed my feverish imagination,” a “desire [that] came to me out of filial affection.” That is, his father’s command to bring honor to the family name now animated him, but through the memory of his mother, his sister, and his first beloved—through women. From patriarchy to devotion to the womanly: In a sense, that is the way classicism became Romanticism. And that is why The Genius of Christianity was the right book at the right time; it gave witness to Jesus Christ by way of the sensibilities of its time and place. The old form of the aristocratic spirit was disappearing. “Sweet, patriarchal, innocent, honorable family friendship, your century has passed!” “We are born and we die now one by one”—as “individualists,” Tocqueville would soon say. “The living are in a hurry to cast the dead into Eternity and free themselves from the burden of a corpse.” The “days of religion and tenderness, when the son died in the same house, in the same armchair beside the same hearth where his father and grandfather had died before him, surrounded, as they were, by tearful children and grandchildren gathered to receive one last paternal blessing” are gone and “shall never return.” But the body of Christ, as the Crusaders saw, is no corpse to be cast out or recovered, and His spirit can be renewed in men’s hearts and minds in a way that meets those hearts and minds as they are now.

“My readings correlative to The Genius of Christianity had little by little led me to a more thorough consideration of English literature,” formed as its authors were by Christian ideas and sentiments. “One stumbled across Milton and Shakespeare everywhere,” and for good reason: “The actor who took on the role of the ghost in Hamlet was the great phantom, the shade of the Middle Ages who rose over the world like a star in the night at the very moment when those ages went down among the dead: enormous centuries that Dante opened and that Shakespeare sealed.” But Milton, a man of the modern world, called to him. Literary reputations are built by the inferior writers, but if a Shakespeare is “misunderstood by men, these divinities never misunderstand one another.” “Is there anything more admirable than this society of illustrious equals, revealing themselves to one another by signs, hailing one another, and conversing in a language understood by themselves alone?”

“Shakespeare is one of five or six writers who have everything needed to nourish the mind.” With him, Chateaubriand ranks Homer, Dante, and Rabelais. “These mother-geniuses”—again, the womanly—”have birthed and brought up all the others”: Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Aristophanes, Horace, and Virgil; Petrarch and Tasso; Montaigne, La Fontaine, and Molière; Byron and Scott. “They invented the words and the names that have gone to swell the vocabularies of whole populations; their expressions have become proverbs; their imagined characters have changed into real characters with heirs and lineage.” And “they sow the ideas that yield a thousand others,” furnishing “images, subjects, and styles for every art.” “Sowing” shifts the metaphor to masculinity, and sure enough: The great writers have fathered “four or five races of men” in the “womb” of “the human spirit.” Do not imitate Ham, laughing when he encountered, “naked and asleep, in the shadow of the ark stranded in the mountains of Armenia, the solitary boatman of the abyss. Let us respect this diluvian navigator who began creation anew after heaven’s downpour. Pious children, blessed by our father, let us cover him chastely with our cloak.” Chateaubriand may not rank himself with such men, but he surely thinks of himself as a man who began creation anew after the French revolutionary flood. If he doesn’t expect to be understood by subsequent generations, he does ask for their mercy.

Not that a Shakespeare sets out to be a Shakespeare. “What can fame mean to Shakespeare? Its noise will never rise to his ear.” If he was a Christian, he now has better things to contemplate. So too, if a Deist. And “if an atheist, he sleeps a sleep without breath or reawakening, which is called death.” “Nothing is more vain than glory from the other side of the grave, unless it has given life to friendship, been useful to virtue, lent a hand to the unfortunate—unless it be granted to us to enjoy in heaven the consoling, generous, and liberating idea left by us on earth.” This is Chateaubriand’s apologia, offered to all of France’s spiritual factions.

Offered to the French, because “no one, in a living literature, can be a competent judge except of works written in his own language. It is vain to believe you possess a foreign idiom in all its depths.” The difference between the human spirit and a national spirit is style. “It has been claimed that true beauty is for all time and all countries: yes, if we are speaking of the beauties of feeling and thought, but no, not the beauties of style. Style is not, like thought, cosmopolitan: it has a native soil, sky, and sun of its own.” That is why the English and Germans “do not understand Racine, or La Fontaine, or even most of Molière.” A (perhaps excessively) simple example of what Chateaubriand means may be seen in Macbeth’s famous soliloquy beginning, “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow….” Try translating it into French: “Demain, et demain, et demain….” You see the impossibility of reading the same line, expressing the same thought, the same way, with the same resonance, the same intonation. And intonation is a shade of meaning as well as an element of style.

All the more reason to return to France, his native soil. By 1797 Bonaparte was First Consul, “restoring order through despotism.” It had become safe for the exiles to return. His favorite sister, Lucile, had survived the Terror, as had his wife. “I brought back nothing from the land of exile but regrets and dreams.” By the spring of 1800 he was about to experience his first literary success, the beginning of his career as a writer. “I seem to be saying a last goodbye to my father’s house, abandoning the thoughts and illusions of my youth like sisters or sweethearts whom I leave beside the family hearth and shall never see again.” “I landed in France with the century.”

Lewis E. Lehrman: Lincoln and Churchill: Statesmen at War. Guilford: Stackpole Books, 2018.

John von Heyking: Comprehensive Judgment and Absolute Selflessness: Winston Churchill on Politics and Friendship. South Bend: St. Augustine’s Press, 2018.

Originally published in Social Science and Modern Society, Volume 56, Number 2, March/April 2019. Republished with permission.

 

Imitating their colleagues in the other sciences, modern social scientists often understand human life impersonally, reducing political lie to sub-political elements (‘race, class, and gender’), to institutional structures, or simply to power and ‘power relations.’ When asked about persons, modern scientists predictably point to the elements composing the human psyche: once to ‘id, ego, and superego,’ now increasingly to brain chemistry. As for the nature of scientists themselves, they too strive for impersonality, eschewing prejudice and emotion, forming their hypotheses and testing them for measurable results.

The impersonality of modern science and scientists has yielded many discoveries and will not be abandoned. It perceives reality insofar as reality really is impersonal. But not all reality is so. The real-world experiences of persons as kind or cruel, just or unjust, courageous or cowardly—more the experience of them, and oneself, as mixtures of all those qualities and more, yet also somehow wholes —never lets us for long. There was Einstein’s Theory; here was also Albert Einstein. Neither can be fully understood in terms of the other, or even as the concatenation of events connecting them.

The authors here approach politics through persons. Lehrman writes history in the Plutarchian tradition, considering Abraham Lincoln and Winston Churchill as parallel lives. He understands by narrating. Von Heyking writes political science in the tradition of Aristotle—who, it will be recalled, understands political regimes not only in terms of ruling structures but of rulers, and rulers not only quantitatively (the one, the few, the many) bu ‘qualitatively’ (morally good or bad). He understands by analyzing.

Lehrman’s “aim in this study is… to consider both great men in an intimate comparison of supreme command at the summit of human endurance—namely, was of national survival.” He does so by telling “a story of character and statecraft.” Lincoln and Churchill “faced a similar challenge: how to mobilized ill-prepared nations, and how to organize and lead talented teams” of ambitious and often recalcitrant subordinates. Fortunately, although the nations were ill-prepared, the statesmen were not, both having studied and practiced political life as professional devisers of arguments—Lincoln primarily as a lawyer, Churchill as a parliamentarian. They had mastered the English language, spoken and written, “develop[ing] the mental precision by which to define disputes clearly”—as Lehrman wittily and rightly adds, “Lincoln as president in few words, Churchill as prime minister in more.” They understood that the reasons for fighting a war “must be explained to the public”—a point often lost on later political figures, who seem to have concentrated their rhetorical attention on ‘sound bites’ instead of thoughts.

While Churchill had much more extensive military and executive experience, Lincoln’s extraordinary powers of intellectual concentration enabled him to learn more efficiently and, arguably, to make fewer errors. As to character, “the steely determination shared by Churchill and Lincoln was forged on the anvil of political defeat.” Both men endured conspicuous public failures in the years before their countrymen finally turned to them in crisis. Understanding those crises as threats to the regime of democratic republicanism itself, they refused compromise with the enemy “accommodation of tyrannous evil was anathema for Lincoln and Churchill.” They knew how to talk to people when things looked bad, how to overcome the spirit of pessimism which must have tempted them in their own lives, many times.

Each embodied core principles of heir republics. Lincoln served as chief executive under a written Constitution which gave him independence from the legislature. He learned from Euclid the elements of deductive logic, and he learned from the Declaration of Independence the political application of those elements. Churchill, who observed this feature of American political thought in his wartime associates, served as chief executive under an unwritten constitution, a regime in which he headed his party in Parliament, where discursive speech and inductive logic can sometimes predominate. Supremely prudent when they needed to be, they arrived at their sound decisions from opposite beginnings. And no only intellectually but morally: Lincoln’s moderate and self-governed temperament reinforced his clarity of thought, whereas Churchill’s extraordinarily wide experience, resulting from his adventurousness and generosity of spirit, tempered his passions. Within the four corners of their regimes, Lincoln proved better at managing partisanship, being “less self-centered,” thus better able “to divine and satisfy the needs of minor loyalists who sustained his party and his armies in the field,” while Churchill famously acted as if he were a bit bigger than the political parties he joined. Lincoln had habits learned in a democratic society, Churchill the habits of an aristocrat. They proved what Tocqueville had insisted, a century before: both democrats and aristocrats can and should act to defend republicanism.

They faced regime crises under circumstances that differed. Lincoln and the Union had no international allies but needed none. The United States only needed foreign countries to stay out. Alone in 1940, Churchill desperately needed “to drag the Americans in,” as he put i, leaving it to Hitler to drag the Russians in, too. Lincoln’s solitary, ‘executive’ type of character served him well in his circumstance; Churchill’s gregarious, ‘parliamentary’ type of character served him equally well. Churchill not only courted President Roosevelt out of strategic calculation, but genuinely liked the man. Lincoln never met Lord Palmerston, and didn’t need to curry his favor.

They set he highest standards for themselves. Lincoln the democrat studied George Washington’s “character and appearance—a model of composure and self-control, especially under fire”—and held up the Great Compromiser, Henry Clay, as his “beau ideal of a statesman”—a model of political moderation. Churchill the aristocrat was bred for his task, growing up in the household of a prime minister and descending from the great Duke of Marlborough, whose life he studied and chronicled in his finest book. Neither man satisfied himself with understanding good men, only. Lincoln the lawyer “habitually studied the opposite side of every disputed question, of every law case, of every political issue, more exhaustively, if possible, than his own side,” and never got surprised in court or in politics. Churchill the parliamentarian said, “Facts are better than dreams,” and his quick apprehension of tyrants ‘Left’ and ‘Right,’ from Lenin to Stalin to Hitler, shows that he paid close attention to their arguments and their actions. The ability to foresee the future only seems uncanny to those who aren’t listening to what others are saying now. Both men gathered information and (often contradictory) opinions before acting. This may seem an obvious procedure, except when one notices how many people never do it.

As commanders-in-chief in wartime, Lincoln and Churchill knew that military action is an instrument for victory, but military victory itself is only an instrument for achieving a political settlement. As Lincoln’s young aides John Hay and John G. Nicolay later wrote: “Military writers love to fight over the campaigns of history exclusively by he rules of he professional chess-board, always subordinated, often totally ignoring, the elements of politics. This is a radical error. Every war is begun, dominated, and ended by political considerations…. War and politics, campaign and statecraft, are Siamese twins, inseparable and independent.” Lincoln fought a civil war to save the Union as the American Founders had conceived it, no merely to make Georgia howl and submit. Churchill ordered the firebombing of cities to effect the political reconstruction of Germany; its destruction was in his mind the indispensable preliminary, but only a preliminary, to that. Each man kept his eye on the supreme political prize: the defense of regimes of liberty against regimes that valorized slavery. They understood ‘geopolitics’ as politics, no only as an appreciation of the ways one might acquire and hold territory.

Therefore, as Lincoln “approached his second term and the likely defeat of the Confederacy, he would focus on the permanent solution to the problem of slavery, restoration of the Union, and reconstruction of the rebel South.” Similarly, Churchill “opposed emasculating Germany” economically after the war (as even a man of de Gaulle’s caliber initially wanted); he strongly endorsed the Marshall Plan, foreseeing that the Soviet Union would quickly turn from alliance with the republics to deadly opposition, exploiting a much-improved strategic position in Europe. Lincoln’s assassination prevented any attempt by him to ‘win the peace’; Lehrman faults Churchill’s aristocratic character for “fail[ing] to devise a compelling vision for postwar Britain at home,” a failure “leading to this decisive defeat in the parliamentary elections of July 1945.” Churchill didn’t see that one coming, having concentrated his Marlborough-formed mind on “battlefield maps and the global geography of the postwar world.” To this day, he is esteemed more in American than in his own country. Lincoln today is hardly noticed in England at all, but rivals Washington for the position of first in the hearts of his countrymen.

As prime minister, Churchill spoke repeatedly with a cabinet and to a parliament consisting of men he knew. As president, Lincoln “had but slight personal intimacy” with any of his cabinet officers or the congressmen. It is Churchill’s reliance on friendship that political scientist John von Heyking seeks to understand, in an original and fascinating reinterpretation not only of Churchill’s statesmanship but of political life generally.

But perhaps not quite original. As von Heyking himself emphasizes, Aristotle regards friendship as indispensable to both ethics and politics. He classifies friendships as aiming at use, pleasure, or the good, although of course friends will often combine these aims. Friendship moderates factionalism, appealing to homonomia or like-mindedness, even when political men compete in rival parties. As a young member of Parliament, Churchill joined with his friend F. E. Smith to form the “Other Club” (as distinguished from “The Club,” an exclusive bunch dating back to the eighteenth century, from which these younger men had been, indeed, excluded). They intended the Other Club as “a space of convivium and conversation above the strife of partisan debate,” its most good-humored rule being “Nothing in the rules or the intercourse of the Club shall interfere with the rancor or asperity of party politics.” Nor did it, but it also allowed rivals on the floor of the House the chance to lift a drink together when the public debating was done and to do some confidential business. In  von Heyking’s high-minded Aristotelian formulation, members enjoyed moments of sunaisthesis or shared perception “enhance[ing] each other’s knowledge of the world and of themselves” while swapping stories and sharing jokes.

Under such circumstances, friendships come to underlie politics, breaking the spell of ideology, the bane of modern public life. This gives political men the intellectual and emotional ‘space’ to think prudentially and even, at best, magnanimously. The rigidity of deductive rationalism, exaggerated in practice by one’s psychic investment in defending every deduction to the death, give way to conversation, to working things out. When you know and like your opponent, a touch of charity comes in; you want to defeat him, but you don’t want to ruin him. One may think this a modest accomplishment, until a glance at the corpse-strewn landscape of politics in Churchill’s century and ours persuades otherwise.

More, even the most nearly self-sufficient, great soul, one like Churchill’s “desires and needs friends.” “He needs assistance to achieve great deeds but, more than that, he needs a friend with whom to enjoy those deeds and with whom to share and recognize each other’s virtues.” The soul with music in it wants another to hear, too, bringing out the greatness in that other one. Churchill’s understanding of this reminds von Heyking of Socrates’ portrait of the “daimonic man,” the one so wise in conversation that he seems to speak with the gods. Churchill’s own example of this kind of person is Moses, the man who saw the divine in the Burning Bush, which ever after burned inside him, a “miracle of unswerving and seemingly inexhaustible determination in pursuing great purposes, and the capacities for friendship required to bring alone a people toward those purposes.” For the daimonic but ineloquent Moses, the indispensable friend was Aaron, who could share in a quest not for the useful or the pleasant but the good, a friend who could complete his work. Churchill himself saw the Duke of Marlborough as his daimonic ancestor who never wrote a book, with Churchill undertaking to complete the life-work of defending England against Continental tyrants both in words (his most brilliant book, The Life of Marlborough) and deeds (the wars against Nazism and Communism). The words and actions were governed by thoughts Mrs. Churchill noticed in her husband as he worked on the Life in the early 1930s. “The writing of Marlborough,” she recalled, “had produced a real effect on her husband’s character; he had discovered that Marlborough’s patience became the secret of his achievements,” and he henceforth cultivated that virtue in himself. He needed it, during those ‘Wilderness Years’ before the Second World War, when his warnings against Nazism brought scorn and political brush-offs from the British establishment.

In his own life, Churchill found friends in the publishing magnate Max Aitken (Lord Beaverbrook) and U. S. President Franklin Roosevelt. Beaverbrook was eminently useful, “persuading the Americans to increase their production targets” for military hardware. But more, “Churchill wanted Beaverbrook around simply because they were good friends,” like-minded in their “contempt for the purely transient issue” and their esteem for the fundamental one: resistance to tyranny in its unprecedentedly lethal modern forms. Alluding to a sentence Aristotle writes in the Ethics, von Heyking writes, “Though the gloried or magnanimous man can make his friendships stronger because they are so rare,” Cabinet colleagues in two wars, Churchill and Beaverbrook came to share their book manuscripts—perhaps the ultimate sign of trust and mutual esteem among writers.

Although superior to Roosevelt with respect to “the depth to which he reflected upon the nature of politics in general and on the totalitarian nature of Stalin’s regime in particular,” in von Heyking’s estimation Churchill still shared what Aristotle calls a “virtue-friendship” with the president. Here, it’s not quite clear that Roosevelt lived up to the offer, insisting on sharp terms in return for lend-leasing American ships, embarrassing Churchill in front of Stalin, and undercutting the British Empire at every opportunity. Von Heyking initially settles for a somewhat muted description (“Their friendship did not dissolve their differing national interests, but it did enable them at least to manage them and to enjoy a productive working relationship”) before regaining his enthusiasm sufficiently to describe the two men’s enjoyment of a sunset in the Atlas Mountains after the Casablanca Conference of 1943 as a sunaisthesis, an “act of joint intellectual perception” of “a vision of the good and the noble”—”the capstone of friendship” for them both. This may be going a bit too far, but it is indeed a noble thought, one well worth thinking in the unexalted political atmosphere of our own day.

Social scientists will want to know how friendship might be ‘institutionalized.’ For Churchill, von Heyking writes, “the moral goods associated with liberal democracy suggest that personal and political friendship do indeed play a critical role in its constitution, because they are part of the essential art of politics.” Parliamentary democracy, “more so than other types of regime, requires moral practices like friendships… because its very working is predicated not only on laws and parliamentary procedures, but on the moral virtues of civility and of course friendship.” The moral atmosphere of English parliamentarism was precisely what enabled Churchill to form a coalition between his fellow Conservatives and the Labour Party in the wartime cabinet, something his predecessor in the prime ministership could not have done. In this he reached across the barrier of ‘class-warfare’ politics, having eschewed the aristocratic pretensions of Toryism and working toward what Aristotle would call a ‘mixed’ or ‘middling’ regime in which the ‘tale of two cities’ could become the story of one city, united against one of the vilest tyrannies.

Perhaps most profoundly, “the gift of friendship” strengthens and refines the prudence that should govern political life, beyond such pseudo-scientific superficialities as ‘class analysis’ and ‘rational choice theory.’ To befriend someone, to think and to feel with him, exercises the human capacity to think and to feel with anyone, including your enemies. Churchill saw how Marlborough could do this (as a result, on the battlefield “he was only wrong in his anticipations when the enemy made a mistake”), and learned to do it himself. There is an intelligence of empirical perception, observing and remembering details, but that only gets you to a better understanding of the surface of things. There is an intelligence of noetic perception, the philosopher’s strength, insight into the core of things. It is the intelligence of sympathy that gets you to the interior of the persons you meet. Only with that can you be said to have prepared yourself for acts of practical wisdom.

Readers will find this capacity for sympathetic intelligence as the foundation of prudence in the portraits Lehrman and von Heyking paint with such care and insight. Equipped with very different intellectual habits and manners of presentation, they nonetheless equally give their readers a glimpse of what it means to call a great statesman great.

Niccolo Machiavelli: Florentine Histories. Laura Banfield and Harvey C. Mansfield, Jr. translation. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988.

Harvey C. Mansfield, Jr.: “Party and Sect in Machiavelli’s Florentine Histories.” Chapter 6 of Machiavelli’s Virtue. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996.

Catherine H. Zuckert: “The Failed Republic: Florentine Histories.” Chapter 7 of Machiavelli’s Politics. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2017.

 

Machiavelli dedicates his book to Pope Clement VII, one of the Medici family, which (Machiavelli says) reunited Italy after its centuries of turmoil following the collapse of the Roman Empire. “I was particularly charged and commanded by Your Holy Blessedness that I write about the things done by your ancestors in such a mode that it might be seen I was far from all flattery,” the pope’s modesty evidently equalled only by his family pride. Machiavelli imposes a certain sort of modesty on the pope at the very outset, attributing his rise to the papacy as having been caused by Fortune, and therefore not necessarily by the choice of the Holy Spirit. Until the actions of the Medicis, Italy too had been ruled by Fortune, but in its case victimized by it. It took Medici governance—that is, human effort—to cause Fortune’s wheel to turn. Machiavelli pronounces the effort good, or at least not to his knowledge bad: “If under those remarkable deeds of theirs was hidden an ambition contrary to the common utility, as some say, I who do not know it am not bound to write about it,” having never, “in all my narrations,” have “wished to conceal an indecent deed with a decent cause, or to obscure a praiseworthy deed as if it were done for a contrary end.”

It must be confessed that Machiavelli’s epistle dedicatory is not utterly devoid of flattery. Recalling His Holiness’s father, Giuliano, Machiavelli opines that “his deeds were sufficiently great and magnificent for having fathered Your Holiness—a deed which outweighs those of his ancestors by a great deal and which will add more centuries to his fame than his stingy fortune denied him years of life,” a life cut short by his murder by conspirators. It may be noteworthy that Machiavelli’s life in Florentine politics, if not on this earth, was also cut short, but by the Medici, who threw him out of office in 1512.

Machiavelli announces his “intent” in the Preface: to trace the Medici family’s rise to “more authority than anyone else in Florence” in “the year of the Christian religion 1434” to the death of Lorenzo di Medici in 1492. Although “two very excellent historians,” Leonardo d’Arezzo and Poggio Bracciolini, “told everything in detail” that occurred in Florence prior to the Medicis’ rise, they didn’t tell quite everything, having been “very diligent” in their account of foreign wars but “altogether silent” about “civil discords” and “so brief” as to be “of no use to readers or pleasure to anyone” regarding the city’s “internal enmities.” These cannot be small errors of omission, since “if no other lesson is useful to the citizens who govern republics, it is that which shows the causes of the hatreds and divisions in the city, so that when they have become wise throught the dangers of others, they may be able to maintain themselves united.” Machiavelli also will attend to foreign wars, however, as will be seen subsequently. Perhaps, then, the main difference between his book and those of the previous historians will be his interest in Florentine civil discords and their causes. These will be no mere narrative histories. Machiavelli tells stories to reveal nature.

Machiavelli underscores the importance of his attention to Florentine ‘domestic’ discords and enmities by contrasting the modern republic with the republics of antiquity. Rome, Athens, and “all the other republics flourishing in those times” saw “disunion between the nobles and the people.” In Florence, however, “the nobles were first divided among themselves; then the nobles and the people; and in the end the people and the plebs; and it happened many times that the winning party was divided in two”—divisions evidently more numerous and also more violent than those of antiquity, as in Florence they resulted in “many dead, as many exiles, and as many families destroyed as ever occurred in any city in memory.” And yet Florence thrived on these very tumults, as the city’s “power” derived from the divisions, and indeed somehow caused it to become “greater” than any other city in Italy, “so great was the virtue and of those citizens and the power of their genius and their spirit to make themselves and their fatherland great that as many remained free from so many evils were more able by their virtue to exalt it, than would the malice of those accidents that had diminished it overwhelm it.” Machiavelli’s historian predecessors must have been “showed they knew very little about the ambition of men and the desire they have to perpetuate the name of their ancestors as well as their own”—an ambition, one notes, not unknown to Machiavelli’s papal patron. This is to suggest that the history of Florence requires a thinker to know something about men as such, and not only Florentines.

More, this reflection on human nature caused Machiavelli to “change my plan.” He will begin his history not in 1434 but “from the beginning of our city,” and indeed before that, in antiquity, in describing “how Italy came to be under those powers that governed it at that time.” Book I will narrate “all the unforeseen events in Italy following upon the decline of the Roman Empire up to 1434.”

Population increases in northern Europe induced ambitious warriors to move south, preying upon the Western Roman Empire, often neglected by the “indolent” emperors in Constantinople, preoccupied with faithless ministers and foreign enemies of their own. Through the reign of Theodosius, the Visigoths were repelled, but the emperor’s two sons didn’t inherit “his virtue and fortune.” They were deceived by Stilicho, the governor of the western provinces, who sought independence from imperial rule and maneuvered to set the northern peoples against it. This time, the Visigoths sacked Rome; the Vandals seized Africa; the Alans and Visigoths took Spain; the Franks and Burgundians, Gaul; the Huns, Pannonia (“today called Hungary”). Fearing the Franks and Burgundians across the Channel, the Britons invited the Angles, a German people to aid them; almost predictably, the Angles expelled the Britons, who then settled in what’s now Brittany. ‘Britain’ became ‘Anglia.’

Conveniently located for the invasion of Italy, the Huns did just that, under the rule of Attila, although his pious respect for the pope induced him to stay out of Rome. After further disorders, the capital of the Western Empire was moved to Ravenna, which was easier to defend than Rome, which soon became a kingdom.

Machiavelli emphasizes the disorders caused by the new religion, Christianity. “In the struggle between the custom of the ancient faith,” paganism, “and the miracles of the new, the gravest tumults and discords were generated among men.” Further, Christians were themselves disunited; “the struggles among the Greek Church, the Roman Church, and the Church at Ravenna—and even more, the struggle between the heretical and the catholic sects—afflicted the world in many modes.” In Africa, for example, Arianism made the ruling Vandals even worse than “their avarice and natural cruelty did,” leading as it did not only to the ‘usual’ conquerors’ rapacity but to the persecution of the local population. “Living thus… men bore the terror of their spirit written in their eyes,” uncertain “as to which God they ought to turn to,” dying miserably, “deprived of all help and all hope.”

In Italy, it took decisive action by Emperor Justinian to drive out the Goths. He chose “a most excellent man of war,” Narses to accomplish that task. Unfortunately, Justianian’s successor angered Narses by replacing him at the ruler of Italy; Narses soon called in the Longobard king, “a savage and bold man,” to invade Italy. So he did, successfully, but he in turn died by poison administered by his wife. Such convulsions gave the pontiffs their chance. As the ‘secular’ forces declined, the ecclesiastical forces increased in Rome. With the decline and fall of the Eastern Empire, much of it taken eventually by the Turks, the pope turned for protection to the kings of France. “Hence-forward, all the wars waged by the barbarians in Italy were for the most part caused by the pontiffs,” who, having slender military forces of their own, effectively did what the weakened Roman emperors of earlier centuries had done: call in the barbarians. “This mode of proceeding continues still in our times; it is this that has kept and keeps Italy disunited and infirm.” Spiritually by themselves, militarily by foreign forces, the popes have been “terrible and awesome,” but they have “used” these powers “badly,” by now having “lost the one altogether”—they can scarcely claim spiritual purity when they dabble in Realpolitik—”and as regards the other remain at the discretion of others,” who put their own geopolitical calculations before those of Rome or of Italy.

It was such an alliance that enabled Charlemagne to become the emperor of a new, ‘holy,’ Roman empire, based on the emperor’s fealty to the pope. Popes subsequently came to dominate the alliance, at least from time to time. “The pope had more or less authority in Rome and in all Italy according to whether he had the favor of the emperors or of those who were more powerful there,” although schisms continued to dog the Papacy, with at times as many as three pretenders to the throne of St. Peter. And with uncertainties and struggles between emperors and popes, the common people of Rome and other principalities and republics also gained considerable importance. Italy became “governed partly be peoples, partly by princes, and partly by those sent by the emperor.” [1]

By the turn of the first millennium of the Christian era, “the Roman people was much at war with the pontiffs,” having first “used” the authority of the papacy “to free themselves from the emperors” but then seeing to it that popes “received many more injuries” from the people “than from any other Christian prince.” Pope Nicholas II struck back, “depriv[ing] the Romans of participation in the creation of the pope,” restricting the electors to the cardinals. He went on to force “all the officials sent by the Romans throughout their jurisdiction to render obedience to the pope, and some of them he deprived of their offices.”

This would have solved the problem of faction, had it lasted. But the Church was as schismatic as the Empire was faction-prone. After Pope Nicholas II died, the Lombard clergymen refused to recognize Alexander II, the successor chosen by the cardinals in Rome, and “created Cadalus of Parma antipope.” The weakened papacy was then struck by the Emperor Henry, “who regarded the power of the pontiffs with hatred”; when the Roman pope held a council in Rome, stripping Henry of the Empire and the kingship, “some Italian peoples followed the pope and some followed Henry; this was the seed of the Guelf [papist] and Ghibelline [imperial] humors, for the sake of which Italy, when it lacked barbarian invasions, was torn apart by internal wars.”

By the 1090s, Pope Urban II hit upon the idea of uniting kings and peoples behind an external enemy, initiating the first Crusade (as they were later called). “This enterprise was glorious in the beginning because all Asia Minor, Syria, and a part of Egypt came under the power of the Christians.” Three-quarters of the way through the next century, however, the Saracen Saladin’s “virtue and the discords of the Christians in the end took from them all the glory they had acquired in the beginning,” and they were “driven out of he place they had successfully recovered with such honor.”

Christian-Catholic ups and downs continued for centuries to come. One pope proved capable of overawing an English king and other “princes far away” from Italy, but “he could not make himself obeyed by the Romans.” “Thus are appearances feared more when they are far away than when nearby”—a jab that goes beyond the political and into the theological realm, upon reflection. Near the center of Book I the reader finds the story of the death of the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa, Machiavelli reports that he was “deprived” of all authority by the pope, excommunicated by the Church; a man “who could not bear not making war,” Frederick launched an expedition to the Middle East, “to vent against Mohammed the ambition that he had not been able to vent against the vicars of Christ.” He died from a disorder contracted after bathing in a river. “Thus were the waters more favorable to the Mohammedans that were excommunications to the Christians, for whereas the excommunications only checked his pride, the waters quenched it.”

If none of this redounds to the credit of Machiavelli’s piety, he consistently accounts for his disapproval of Church rule, observing at one point that “the pontiffs, now for the sake of religion, now for their own ambition, never ceased calling new men into Italy and inciting new wars; and after they had made one prince powerful, they repented it and sought his ruin.” At the same time, such was their spiritual authority that the emperors seldom possible to dislodge a reigning pontiff.

Nicholas III, “a bold and ambitious man,” emerged as “the first of the popes to show his own ambition openly and to scheme, under the guise of making the Church great, to honor and benefit his own,” elevating family members to positions of power. “Henceforward the history will be full of such [pontifical family members], “so that we shall come to mention even sons; nor is there anything left for the pontiffs to try unless it be that while up to our times they have schemed to leave heir sons as princes, so for the future they may plan to leave them a hereditary papacy.”

By the time of Pope Boniface’s reign in the 1300s, “there were many travails between the Guelf and Ghibelline parties: and because Italy had been abandoned by the emperors many towns became free and many more were seized by tyrants.” With the disappearance of imperial rule and the unsteady rule of the Papacy, city-states arose, their regimes either republican or tyrannical. Machiavelli’s two regime types, republic and principality, familiar to readers of The Prince and the Discourses, now became clearly visible.

Among the Italian republics, Venice rose to preeminence. Its settlement dated to the years of Attila’s conquest of Padua, Verona, and other northern Italian cities, when people fled to the swamps of “Vinezia.” “Thus constrained by necessity, they left very pleasant and fertile places to live in places that were sterile, deformed, and devoid of any comfort.” It is a characteristic Machiavellian observation to find good fortune in straitened circumstances, as this forces people to depend upon themselves, their own virtù. “In a very short time” the settlers “made those places not only habitable but delightful,” establishing “law and orders among themselves.” Further, in such an unattractive setting the Venetians “enjoyed security” amidst “so much ruin in Italy.” Having no arable land, they turned to the sea for sustenance, becoming merchants and traders. Further still, “while they lived in this form their name became terrible on the seas and venerated within Italy, so that in all the controversies that arose, they were most often the arbiters.” Problems arose when they began to seize other city-states, frightening not only Italian princes but foreign ones, who “together conspired against them and in one day took from them that state which they had won for themselves in so many years with infinite expense.” Since that Battle of Vailà in 1509 “they have reacquired neither their reputation nor their forces, they live, as do all other Italian princes, at the discretion of others.” The perils of what we now call ‘imperial overstretch’ form another characteristic part of Machiavelli’s teaching, which encourages princes and peoples to grasp power with “their own arms” (to borrow a phrase from The Prince), but firmly not greedily.

Concluding Book I, Machiavelli describes the Italy at the time of the beginnings of Medici influence disunited and unstable. “Because arms did not befit him as a man of religion,” the regnant pope “did from necessity what others had done by bad choice.” These “others” included the Florentines “because, having eliminated their nobility by frequent divisions, the republic was left in the hands of men nurtured in trade and thus continued in the orders and fortune” of better-armed states. Overall, “the arms of Italy… were in the hands either of lesser princes or of men without a state.” Nor were these men formidable, by ancient standards, having arrived at a “vile” sort of gentleman’s agreement amongst themselves to fight in a temporizing manner. “They reduced [the art of war] to such vileness that any mediocre captain in whom only a shadow of ancient virtue had been reborn would have despised them, to the astonishment of all Italy, which, because of its lack of prudence, honored them.” “Of these lazy princes, therefore, and these very vile arms, my history will be filled.” It isn’t too much to think that such a judgment casts doubt on even the Medici themselves, the alleged heroes of the Histories.

In the introduction to their translation, Banfield and Mansfield remark that the first chapter of each book includes a discussion of the theme that pervades the book. Book II’s theme is founding, a theme Machiavelli had introduced in his discussion of Venice. “No single thing is more worthy of an excellent prince and of a well-ordered republic, nor more useful to a province, than building new towns where men can settle for the convenience of defense or cultivation.” But whereas the ancients “did this easily,” by sending colonizers to newly conquered or vacant countries, the moderns have ceased doing so. This is why provinces in modern empires are much less secure than provinces in ancient empires had been. There is no one living in modern provinces an emperor can rely on. “When the order of sending out colonies has been lacking, conquered countries are held with greater difficulty and vacant countries never fill up, while those that are too full do not relieve themselves.” As a result, the world generally and Italy especially have fewer inhabitants now than they did in antiquity. Machiavelli laments, “in princes there is no appetite for true glory and in the republics no order that deserves to be praised.” It might be thought that Christian evangelization has replaced colonization, but only if one inclines to view Machiavelli’s intentions with suspicion.

“Whatever its origin might have been,” Florence “was born under the Roman Empire and in the time of the first emperors began to be recorded by writers.” It didn’t amount to much. “Until the year of Christ 1215, it lived in the fortune under which those who commanded Italy lived”—a decidedly unsteady one, as Machiavelli has recounted. [2] The Christian sects afflicting Italy arrived late in Florence, “but just as in our bodies, where the later the infirmities come, the more dangerous and mortal they are, so with Florence: the later it was in joining the sects of Italy, by so much more was it afflicted by them.” In Florence Guelf-and-Ghibelline sectarianism combined with quarrels among powerful families, initially the Buondelmonti, the Uberti, the Amidei, and the Donati.

As Machiavelli tells it, Florentians would reorganize the offices of their city in response to some opportunity (as for example when an emperor was weak) or some crisis. Initially, the Guelfs dominated, dividing the city into six parts with two representatives per part forming the governing council, called “the Ancients.” To avoid unnecessary partisan suspicions in the law courts they appointed foreign judges; military defense was provided by ninety-six militias or “banners,” twenty in the city and the rest in the countryside. This order worked well, as Florence quickly came to dominate Tuscany, and it would have “risen to greatness if frequent and new divisions had not afflicted it.” The weaker Ghibelline forces joined with their fellow partisans of the emperor elsewhere in Italy in an attempt to destroy Florence, the strongest of the Guelf cities in Tuscany. The Ghibellines won, but preferred ruling the city to destroying it. To do so, they attempted “to win the people to their side, whom they had previously aggravated by every possible injury, by giving them some benefits; and if they had applied those remedies before necessity came, it would have been useful, but as they applied them now unwillingly, the remedies were not only not useful but hastened their ruin.” The people of the city soon overthrew the Ghibellines and recalled the Guelfs. Florentines reordered the city, making it a republic.

By the 1280s, the pope had turned against Florence (“the pontiffs always feared one whose power had become great in Italy,” even when that one was a Guelf town). Worse, the people began to turn against the Guelf nobles, who had “become insolent and did not fear the magistrates.” Facing an external threat to its independence and an internal threat to its regime, Florentines put down both the Guelfs and the Ghibellines, for a time “almost eliminat[ing]” them from the city. This set up the next factional dispute: the people versus the nobles. In this instance, “certain men of religion of good repute” placed themselves between the parties, “remind[ing] the nobles that their pride and their bad government were the cause of the honors taken from them and the laws made against them,” adding that the people were superior to them “in numbers, riches, and hatred,” whereas many on their own side were nobles in name only, men who “would not fight.” The nobility “would turn out to be, when it came to steel, an empty name.” To the people “they recalled that it was not prudent always to want the ultimate victory,” as that intention makes your enemy desperate; “he who does not hope for good does not fear evil.” The nobles had in fact done some good for the city, so to persecute them was unjust, and besides, in war one never can be entirely certain how Fortuna may distribute her favors.

This “wiser and calmer spirit” prevailed. By the year 1298, “never was our city in a greater and more prosperous state”—”replete with men, riches, and reputation.” Once again, however, “new enmities” arose, in the form of a family quarrel between the Donati and the newly-prominent Cerchi. The rest of the city chose sides, with the Donatists being called the Black party, the Cerchians the White party. Once again, republicanism was endangered; Catholics feared a resurgence of the Ghibellines, but when they appealed to Pope Boniface he sent an envoy who only confused matters further. On “the advice and prudence” of the poet Dante Alighieri, the ruling council, now called the Signori, armed the people and banished both parties. The ensuing popular government ruled peacefully for a short time, but the combination of ineffectual papal meddling and especially the ambition of the head of the Donati family stirred things up once more. In 1308, Corso Donati was finally captured and killed; “had he been of a quieter spirit, his memory would be more prosperous.”

But “it is natural to the Florentines that every state [i.e., condition] annoys them and every accident divides them.” A short-standing tyranny was ended by a foreign intervention, and this time the Florentines instituted a council of twelve citizens titled “Good Men,” “without whose advice and consent the Signori could not act on any important thing.” With more “tumults,” new reforms were instituted; “as happens in all republics, always after an unforeseen event some old laws are annulled and others are renewed.” Throughout regime changes—often forced upon the Florentines by the need to empower one man, and often a foreigner, against some foreign threat—Florence survived and occasionally thrived in the complex geopolitical circumstances of the late Middle Ages, in which Italian city-states contended with one another and with foreign powers, with interventions by popes and antipopes muddying the turbulent waters. “It rarely happens that fortune does not accompany a good or an evil with another good or evil”; as a consequence, overall “Florence changed its government so many times to its very great harm.”

Nor were the Florentines themselves blameless victims. For example, when Walter, Duke of Athens, was brought in to rule the city during yet another crisis, he favored “the plebs” over both the nobles and the people, persecuting those who had directed a failed war against the city-state of Lucca in which the Pisans swooped in to take away the would-be prize. “These executions frightened the middle classes very much; they satisfied only the great and the plebs—the latter because their nature is to rejoice in evil and the former to see themselves avenged for the many injuries received from the people.” The Signori pleaded with the Duke to desist—”amidst universal hatred one never finds any security, because you never know from whence evil may spring, and he who fears every man cannot secure himself against anyone”—but the Duke rejected their advice, claiming that “if Florence, by his ordering, should rid itself of sects, ambition, and enmities, he would be giving it liberty, not taking it away.” “The Signori agreed, seeing that they could do no further good,” although warning that a people which has lived in liberty can only be ruled tyrannically “with the greatest violence.” “He wanted the slavery and not the good will of men; and for this he desired to be feared rather than loved.” Elected Florence’s lord for life, he promptly consigned the Signori to private life, “forbade anyone to carry arms,” allied with foreigners, increased taxes and fines” in a display of “arrogance and cruelty.” “Indignation and hatred grew to such a degree that they would have inflamed not only the Florentines, who do not know how to maintain freedom and are unable to bear slavery, but any servile people to recover their freedom.”

In 1343, the Roman Catholic archbishop of Milan headed a conspiracy against the Duke. It succeeded, and his ten-months reign of terror ended in his exile. Seeing an opportunity for independence, other Tuscan towns moved to restore their freedom from Florence, but failed. Florentines reordered their ruling offices again, attempting to found a balanced, mixed regime combining “the great and the popular.” “The government having been established with this order, the city would have settled down if the great had been content to live with that modesty which is required by civil life.” They didn’t. Soon, even the Signori were removed and “the whole government” was placed “in the will of the people.” After defeating a rebellion by the great, “the people, and of these the most ignoble parts, thirsty for booty, looted and sacked all their houses, pulled down and burned their palaces and towers with such rage that the cruelest enemy of the Florentine name would have been ashamed of such ruin.” Book II ends with the people reordering the regime on a wholly popular basis, with three classes of the people or commoners (“powerful, middle, and low”) represented by a new government in which representatives of the middle and the lower classes of the people could easily outvote the representatives of the powerful. As for the nobles, their ruin “was so great and afflicted their party so much that they never again dared to take up arms against the people; indeed, they became continually more humane and abject”—a change, indeed. Only a few years later, the devastating plague that serves as the backdrop of Boccaccio’s Decameron killed 96,000 Florentines.

The repeated lessons of Book II are, first, the malignity of factionalism in republics, which destroys the efforts of founders, even if the institutions they design are sound, and second, that the smallness of city-states leaves them vulnerable to the crises that precipitate latent factional struggles. (John Adams read the Histories and took due notice of these points, and he was not likely alone among the Founders of the American republic.) In calling Italian republics badly ordered, Machiavelli means not so much their institutional structures as their social composition. In Florence, factitious quarrels between Guelfs and Ghibellines, implicating both Roman Catholic and imperial rivalries, between the people and the nobles (with the plebs waiting in the background) and, finally, between families exacerbated the irritable “nature” of the Florentines, quick to be riled even by small “accidents.”

Partisanship is the explicit theme of Book III, which begins with Machiavelli’s comparison of modern Florence with the ancient Roman republic. Modern Italy contrasted with ancient Rome fundamentally in its religion, Christianity.  The differences between Florentine and Roman republicanism are more complex. The two regimes shared one main similarity: “The grave and natural enmities that exist between the men of the people and the nobles, caused by the wish of the latter to command and the former not to obey, are the cause of all evils that arise in cities.” This resembles Aristotle’s claim that the fundamental division in cities is that between rich and poor, except that Aristotle considers the poor just as eager to rule as the rich. But although the two republics shared this conflict, “diverse effects were produced in one city and the other.” Florentine factions were more violent, with Roman factional disputes ending with the enactment of “some law,” Florentine factional disputes ending “with the exile and death of many citizens.” Roman faction-fighting “always increased military virtue, those in Florence eliminated it altogether.” Whereas Rome went from equality to inequality, Florence went from inequality to “a wonderful equality.” These differing effects resulted from the different ends pursued by the two peoples: “the people of Rome desired to enjoy the highest honors together with the nobles, while the people of Florence fought to be alone in the government without the participation of the nobles”—the Roman end being “reasonable,” since the nobles felt no need to take arms, and both sides were ready to settle matters with new laws, the Florentine end being “injurious and unjust,” since the people backed the nobles into a corner, having no desire for “the common utility.” In what we now call a ‘zero-sum game,’ the people of Florence effectively eliminated “virtue in arms and generosity of spirit” in the nobles and, never having it themselves, could not bring it back to their city. The only advantage for Florence was that in Rome, “when its virtue was converted into arrogance,” it could only turn to monarchic rule to restrain the nobles whereas Florence “could easily have been reordered in any form of government by a wise lawgiver.” No such person appeared.

Florence’s next factional dispute would set the people against the plebs. Before that, another inter-familial dispute arose, this time between the Ricci and the Albizzi. “As the citizens had already attained such equality through the ruin of the great that the magistrates were more revered than they used to be in the past,” both families intended “to prevail by the ordinary way and without private violence.” However, the head of the Ricci designed a law that enabled any person designated a “Ghibelline” to be barred from office, leading of course to many of the Albizzi being so designated. This law “was the beginning of many evils: nor can a law be made more damaging to a republic than one that looks back a long time.” [3]

Machiavelli writes a jeremiad he puts in the mouth of a delegation of patriotic citizens addressing the Signori. The patriots condemn “corruption” and factionalism. “Because religion and fear of God have been eliminated in all, an oath and faith given last only as long as they are useful; so men make use of them not to observe them but to serve as a means of being able to deceive more easily.” Deceivers win praise and honor; “by this, harmful men are praised as industrious and good men are blamed as fools.” “The young are lazy the old lascivious; both sexes at every age are full of foul customs, for which good laws, because they are spoiled by wicked use, are no remedy.” The resulting avarice and desire for false glory has resulted in “deaths, exiles, persecution of the good, exaltation of the wicked,” along with “love of parties and the power of parties,” which bad men join for gain, good men for self-defense. The “promoters and princes of parties” talk a pious game but remain “enemies of freedom” even as they “oppress it under color of defending the state.” “Hence orders and laws are made not for the public but for personal utility,” causing politics to become a struggle animated by the principle of rule or be ruined. Although they admit that good laws don’t work under such conditions, they call upon the Signori to reform Florence’s laws and institutions.

Sure enough, the reforms—consisting of appointing a committee that excluded all but members of the (renewed) Guelf party from the magistracies—recapitulated the policy of exclusion typical of the republic, leading to resentment and eventual rebellion among those excluded. (“Most men are more apt to preserve a good order than to know how to find one for themselves” by “taking away the causes” of new sects.) The Guelfs allied with “all the ancient nobles and the greater part of the most powerful men of the people” against “all the popular men of the lesser sort” in alliance with “the rest of the multitude,” which, “as always happens adhered to the side of the malcontents.” Here the Medici began to make themselves felt, starting with Salvestro de’ Medici, who became a magistrate in 1378.

Salvestro sided with the people against the great. But “no one should make a change in a city believing that he can stop it at his convenience or regulate it in his mode.” Salvestro’s less-than-salvific efforts on behalf of the people only caused renewed turmoil, as “it is not enough for men to get back their own but they want also to seize what belongs to others and get revenge.” An eloquent speech by Salvestro’s colleague, Luigi Guicciardini, asking the rioters, “What do you get out of your disunion other than servitude?” quieted passions for a time. Then the plebs became restless.

Guild members controlled the city, but the “lowest plebs” weren’t members. They hated the rich and the “princes” of the guilds. Fearing retaliation for previous disorders, they also figured that if they multiplied their evils no one among them could be blamed. Machiavelli gives a speech to one pleb to his fellow plebs, summarizing their claim to rule and urging them not to give in to the magistrates. “Strip them all naked, you will see we are alike,” as “only poverty and riches make us unequal.” The democrat would thus found his authority on the human body alone, tacitly rejecting any claims founded on differences among souls. Quite the contrary: “Neither conscience nor infamy should dismay you, because those who win, in whatever mode they win, never receive shame from it.” The one virtue the unnamed pleb does appeal to is manliness; he shames them by saying, “You are not the men I believed you to be,” if you roll over at the behest of the great. The great came into their riches by doing exactly what I urge you to do now, by deploying the powers of physical force and (with respect to minds) fraud. The great have hidden “the ugliness of acquisition” by “applying the false title of earnings to things they have usurped by deceit or by violence,” exploiting the imprudent and foolish. “Good men are always poor.” Smarten up. The citizens are now disunited; make your move or be ruined. “Now is the time not only to free ourselves from them but to become so much their superiors that they will have more to lament and fear from you than you from them.” Ruin them before they can ruin us. “From this will come honor for many of us and security for all.” This speech reanimated the passions of the plebs, and the renewed rioting by “the rabble of armed men” cowed the Signori along with the rest of the city. [4]

Machiavelli now identifies a plebeian leader, a wool carder named Michele di Lando, “a sagacious and prudent man who owed more to nature than to fortune.” He accepted lordship of the city and moved to halt the rioters. He deprived the Signori and the war council of their power, “want[ing] to show everyone that he knew how to govern Florence without their advice.” The one ‘established’ figure who benefited was Salvestro de’ Medici, on whom Michele bestowed income from some of the lucrative shops. Although the plebs remained restive, he kept them quiet, eventually stripping the lowest of them of power altogether; “in spirit, prudence, and goodness he surpassed any citizen of his time, and he deserves to be numbered among the few who have benefited their fatherland.” For several years, Florence saw a regime balanced between the people and the plebs, but it wasn’t a good government, as the newly-designated set of Signori included two tyrannical personalities, Giorgio Scali and Tommaso Strozi. Wealthy, “humane, severe,” and liberty-loving Benedetto Alberti resolved to oppose them; the malefactors having offended much of the city, Benedetto enjoyed sufficient backing to cause Tommaso to flee and Giorgio to be executed. And it wasn’t long before a coalition of  Guelfs and nobles who’d allied with the people returned to power, eventually exiling Michele; “his fatherland was scarcely grateful to him for his good works, an error into which princes and republics fall many times.” The same ingratitude befell Benedetto Alberti, whose prominence made him the target of envious and fearful Florentines. By the early 1390s, almost all of his family had been banished. The Medici remained as the prominent family with the prestige to challenge excesses committed by the Signori.

“Thus stood the city with many malcontents inside and many exiles outside.” Several attempts to overthrow the regime, including one initiated by the duke of Milan, who gathered the exiles for an assault, and another by exiles in Bologna, were thwarted. Florence was “quiet” from 1400 to 1433, aided by the fortuitous death of the powerful king of Naples. “Thus death was always more friendly to the Florentines than any other friend, and more powerful to save them than their own virtue.” Eventually, however, “the old humors,” the parties, revived.

Book IV begins with Machiavelli’s reflections on republics. Cities under this regime “frequently change their governments and their states not between liberty and servitude, as many believe, but between servitude and license,” as what’s called liberty is only license misnamed by its partisans. “It happens rarely” that “by the good fortune of a city there rises in it a wise, good, and powerful citizen by whom laws are ordered by which these humors of the nobles and men of the people are quieted or restrained.” Such a city really is free. Examples are seen in antiquity, not so much in modernity, as he has noted and explained before. As between tyrannical and licentious states, neither provides stability, “because the one state displeases good men, the other displeases the wise; the one can do evil easily, the other can do good only with difficulty; in the one, insolent men have too much authority, in the other, fools.” Both regimes require one man of “virtue and fortune” to rule it, and eventually he dies or “become[s] useless because of his travails.”

In a rare instance of speaking in the first person, Machiavelli writes, “I say, therefore, that the state that had its beginning in Florence with the death of Messer Giorgio Scali in 1381 was sustained first by the virtue of Messer Maso degli Albizzi, later by that of Niccolò da Uzzano.” The latter saw that the now-most-prominent Medici, Giovanni, was “in many parts superior” to Salvestro, and he proved it by offering sound advice (not taken by the city) to refrain from attacking the lord of Lombardy’s forces, which had just conquered the city-state of Forlì and threatened Florence. Better to wait for him to attack us, Giovanni recommended, as a defensive war will attract more allies to our side. Proven correct when Florence failed in its siege of Forlì, Giovanni gained credit with the people, who always judge by results, not by circumstances. Similarly, when ‘the great’ conspired to overthrow popular rule, Giovanni counseled restraint. Better “not to alter the accustomed orders of [the] city, there being nothing that offends men so much as changing these,” making those deprived of power enemies of the new regime, unsatisfied until they can win power back. “These things, so dealt with, were learned of outside and brought more reputation to Giovanni and hatred to the other citizens.” And Giovanni was so prudent as to “detach himself” from these admirers, who might move against the great “under the cover of his favor.” In all this he diminished sectarian passions. When the people sought to increase taxes on the rich, Giovanni dissuaded them from stirring things up. In the Florentine republic, vaunting ambitions aiming at regime change were precisely what were not needed; in such a regime, given its particular “humors,” temporizing moderation serves best. When all factions are bad, keeping them all in a condition of well-modulated discontent can be the summit of statesmanship.

Machiavelli gives Giovanni a deathbed speech, addressed to sons Cosimo and Lorenzo. “In regard to the state,” he tells them, “if you wish to live secure, accept from it as much as is given you by laws and by men. This will bring you neither envy nor danger, since it is what a man takes himself, not what is given to a man, that makes us hate him; and always you will have more than they who, wanting others’ share, lose their own, and before losing it live in continual unease.” “He died,” Machiavelli tells us, “very rich in treasure but even richer in reputation and good will.” “This inheritance of fortune’s goods as well as those of he spirit was not only maintained but increased by Cosimo.” Between the well-meaning but ineffectual patriotic citizens and the shrewd arriviste Michelle, Giovanni de’ Medici seems to have done best for himself, his family, and his city. He differs sharply from “the multitude,” which is “more ready to seize what belongs to others than to watch out for its own.” Men generally “are moved so much more by the hope of acquiring than by the fear of losing, for loss is not believed in unless it is close, while acquisition, even though distant, is hoped for.” Machiavelli thus offers his readers an atheist version of the Book of Ecclesiastes.

In 1429, the ever-ambitious Rinaldo degli Alberti urged the conquest of the city-state of Lucca. In this he was opposed by Niccolò da Uzzano. In their debate, Rinaldo “pointed out the opportunity for the campaign,” as Lucca had few ready allies, and it was ruled by a tyrant whose subjects were long dispirited. Niccolò countered that such a campaign would be unjust, dangerous, and costly, a betrayal of a longtime ally. “If one could make war on the tyrant without making it on the citizens, that would displease him less; but as this could not be, then he could not agree that a friendly citizenry should be despoiled of its goods.” Knowing that a moral argument might not suffice, he added that the attack would also lack “utility to the city” of Florence because “losses were certain and the profits doubtful.” Better to avoid the campaign and leave the tyrant in place “so that he would make as many enemies as possible within,” weakening Lucca and causing it eventually “to fall into [the Florentines’] lap.” These words failed to calm Florentine (and human) acquisitiveness; the war went badly and the Florentines brought in mercenaries, hoping that “corruption would help where force was not enough.” The defeat of Florence “saddened all our city, and because the enterprise had been undertaken by the generality of the people, the people did not know whom to turn against,” eventually settling on those who had conducted the campaigns. An inglorious peace treaty was signed in 1433.

As factions revived, Cosimo de’ Medici indeed proved himself his father’s son, “a very prudent man, of grave and pleasing appearance, quite liberal, quite humane,” who “never attempted anything against either the [ruling party] or the state, but took care to benefit everyone and with his liberality to make many citizens into his partisans.” Although at least one rival sought to banish him, suspecting Cosimo’s ambitions, Niccolò de Uzzano pointed out that this would put the conspirators in the impossible position of blaming the man for being “merciful, helpful, liberal, and loved by everyone.” And even if Cosimo were driven out, his friends would remain; kill him, and you only empower a worse man, Rinaldo. Minus Niccolò, the conspirators had Cosimo arrested and exiled, a move Rinaldo quickly came to regret for the reasons Niccolò had given. “It would have been better for them to have let things be than to have left Cosimo alive and his friends in Florence,” he told his followers, “because great men must either not be touched or, if touched, be eliminated”—caressed or killed, as Machiavelli advises his readers in The Prince. The people didn’t relent, however, fearing the tyranny of the great even more than that of the plebs.

Eventually, however, the Signori took charge, recalling Cosimo and banishing his enemies. With unconcern for the injustice to Cosimo, ancestor of his patron, an injustice now rectified, Machiavelli writes, “Thus Florence was deprived by he same accident not only of good men but of men of riches and industry.” Cosimo triumphed. He returned to Florence; “rarely does it happen that a citizen returning triumphant from a victory [in war] has been received by his fatherland by such a crowd of people and such a demonstration of good will as he received when he returned from exile.” Midway through his narrative, Machiavelli has brought his readers to the time when the Medici had risen not only to prominence but to prestige with safety. [5]

Book V begins oddly, but (as it turns out) purposefully. Reintroducing the matter of provinces—having earlier asserted that their governance shows the superiority of the ‘ancients’ to the ‘moderns’—Machiavelli says that “most of the time, in the changes they make,” they go from order to disorder to order in a perpetual cycle, “for worldly things are not allowed by nature to stand still.” This means that the classical image of the wheel of Fortune is really a feature of nature, but that nature may not have any stable telos. “As soon as they reach their ultimate perfection, having no further to rise, they must descend,” and once they have ‘hit bottom’ they reverse course, “always descending from good to bad and rising from bad to good.” The cause of this is that virtù “gives birth to quiet, quiet to leisure, leisure to disorder, disorder to ruin”; then hard times call forth virtù, as Machiavelli already noted with respect to harsh northern climates.

To invoke nature is to invoke the study of nature, philosophy. “In provinces and cities” (Machiavelli now adds cities), “captains arise before philosophers,” establishing by their virtù the leisure required if philosophers are to exist. But philosophy evidences decline. “The strength of well-armed spirits cannot be corrupted by a more honorable leisure than that of letters, nor can leisure enter into well-instituted cities with a greater and more dangerous deceit than this one.” Hence Cato’s warnings when Athens sent the philosophers Diogenes and Carneades to speak to the Roman senate. “Since he recognized the evil that could result to his fatherland from this honorable leisure, he saw to it that no philosopher could be accepted in Rome.” [6] Leisurely love of wisdom is the wrong way to gain wisdom, the most needful wisdom, practical wisdom. “Men have become wise through their afflictions,” not through peace and contentment. In all of this Machiavelli offers an atheist rendering of the Apostle Paul’s warning against the vanity of philosophers, “always seeking and never finding.”

Yet in Italy, “nothing was built upon the Roman ruins in a way that might have redeemed Italy from them, so that it might have been able to act gloriously under a virtuous principality.” A limited degree of virtù emerged in some Italian cities, such as Florence, and these cities did defend Italy from “the barbarians,” to some extent. But mediocrity prevailed overall because the peace they enjoyed (as readers have seen) was always short and not especially sweet, thanks to sectarianism, and the wars were not especially long or hard. (“They cannot be called wars in which men are not killed, cities are not sacked, principalities are not destroyed,” actions “begun without fear, carried on without danger, and ended without loss.”) Such conditions prevailed in Italy from 1434 to 1494—that is, coinciding with the rise of the Medici in Florence. [7] Considering this period will profit readers nonetheless, as it will reveal “with what deceits, with what guile and arts the princes, soldiers, and heads of republics conducted themselves so as to maintain the reputation they have not deserve.” If studying the ancients shows us exemplary instances of virtù and patriotism, “excit[ing] liberal spirits to follow them,” studying the vices of the moderns may “excite such spirits to avoid and eliminate them.” Machiavelli offers lessons he must have acquired in leisure to the leisured, as a means of exciting them to abandon leisure for action aimed at dominating fortune, which is nature. This is a new kind of philosophy, combining theoretical insight with practical wisdom (that is, with what Machiavelli takes to be wisdom).

Modern Italy has been bifurcated. When “peace arose by the concord of its princes,” military men, “wishing to live off war, turned against the Church” which promoted peace. Two “sects of arms” vied for power in Italy: the followers of Braccio de Montone (most prominently Niccolò Piccinino and Niccolò Fortebraccio) and the followers of Count Francesco Sforza. “To these sects nearly all the other Italian armies were connected. Fortebraccio especially “was moved by the ancient hostility Braccio had always had for the Church,” whereas Sforza was moved more by pure ambition. They attacked Pope Eugene; “the Romans, not wanting to have war, drove Eugene out of Rome,” and when he fled to Florence the Florentines got rid of him by giving him “lordship over the Marches”—a region due west of Florence, along the Adriatic Sea. Sforza promptly seized the Marches, demanding that he be “created gonfalonier of the Church.” “All was yielded to him, so much more did Eugene fear a dangerous war than a shameful peace.” From this base, Sforza then attacked Fortebraccio’s forces, claiming the mantle of Church authority as a sort of neo-Guelf.

Thus the first two chapters of Book V show readers the cause of Italian mediocrity, the reason nothing very impressive was built on Rome’s ruins. Catholic-Christian peacefulness—the analogue of ancient philosophy—ruins virtù ‘in principle’ and ‘in practice,’ blocking men from seeing that Fortune isn’t Providence but the ever-changing, cyclical pattern of nature and preventing them from doing enough really to reverse decline. At best, the mediocre men of action fight spiritless demi-wars resulting in petty victories and minor losses. Much of Book V chronicles such conflicts. So, for example, the Venetians, Florence’s main rival, returned some Florentine citizens to the clutches of Cosimo, who had them “basely put to death,” not “so much to benefit Cosimo as further to inflame the parties in Florence, and through bloodshed to make the division of our city more dangerous; for the Venetians saw no other opposition to their own greatness than its unity.” Such “greatness” will come not by the exercise of virtù, then, as by divide-and-distract scheming.

Other players in this Italian game included René of Anjou (claimant to the throne of Naples), King Alfonso of Aragon, and Duke Filippo Visconti of Milan, and the aforementioned Rinaldo degli Albizzi, now exiled from Florence. The latter tells Duke Filippo, “Only those wars are just that are necessary, and those arms pious where there is no hope outside them”—an unobjectionable premise, from which he concludes, however “that there can be no greater justice or piety than “that which takes our fatherland out of slavery,” a suggestion real Christians might well reject. The duke doesn’t, but demurs regarding Rinaldo’s recommendation of a war with Florence, preferring to send Piccinino to fight the Genoese, who are allied with Florence. The victorious Florentine then go off to attack the city-state of Lucca, where “one of the older and wiser men” tells his fellow-citizens “if we could, we would do the same or worse to them.”

And so it went, as Kurt Vonnegut would say. Fortune doles out ups and downs, but always unremarkable ones, as men scheme against and sort-of fight each other. Less-than-leonine princes engage in vulpine maneuvering. At one point, Piccinino “plundered and destroyed everything up to three miles from Florence,” but “the Florentines, for their part, were not dismayed, and before anything else they gave attention to keeping their government steady,” thanks largely to “the good will that Cosimo enjoyed among the people and because they had restricted their chief magistracies to a few powerful men, who held firm with their severity, if indeed there should be anyone malcontent or desirous of new things.” These were rulers well-adapted to the circumstances of the Italy of their time. As for Piccinino, he wasted time besieging a relatively minor fortified place instead of putting the squeeze on Florence; eventually, Duke Filippo recalled him from Tuscany to give him help in his campaign against Brescia, where Count Sforza had broken his siege. Before leaving, Piccinino, urged on by Rinaldo, launched a quick attack on Florence, which failed. Here Machiavelli pounds home his point about the imbecility of modern war and geopolitics: “The victory was much more useful for Tuscany than harmful to the duke: for if the Florentines had lost the day, Tuscany was his; but having lost it himself, he lost nothing more than the arms and horses of his army, which he could replace with not much money. Nor were there ever times when war wages in the countries of others was less dangerous for whoever waged it than these.” In this case, “only one man died, and he not from wounds or any other virtuous blow, but, falling off his horse, he was trampled on and expired. With such security did men fight then: for they were all on horse and covered with armor, and being secure from death whenever they surrendered, there was no cause that they should die. They were defended by arms while fighting, and when they could no longer fight, they surrendered.” Misconceived philosophy, and especially misconceived theology, result in a virtù deficit. Machiavelli writes in effect to shame Christians into following his own teaching with an anti-gospel, a book of not-so-good news for modern man.

Book VI begins with a reflection on war. In this book Machiavelli, the new-philosophic prince of war, will show how war might be fought, fought in a way that will revive virtù, in opposition to popes and other princes of peace. His dilemma—that modern Italian examples of virtù scarcely exist—will be diminished if not removed by his reflection, which serves to clarify the nature of war (and thus of nature itself) in the minds of his readers. “It has always been the end of those who start a war—and it is reasonable that it should be so—to enrich themselves and impoverish the enemy. For no other cause is victory sought, nor for anyone else are acquisitions desired than to make oneself powerful and the adversary weak.” Ergo, don’t fight wars that will impoverish you if you win. “A prince or republic that eliminates enemies and takes possession of booty and ransom is enriched by victories in wars.” If you cannot eliminate your enemies, victory will impoverish you, especially since the booty and ransom will belong to your soldiers, not to you. Under those circumstances, you can only raise money by raising taxes on your own people, impoverishing and consequently angering them against you. “Ancient and well-ordered republics enriched themselves by winning wars, distributing the spoils among the people and commissioning “games and solemn festivals” for them to enjoy. “But victories in the times we are describing first emptied the treasury, then impoverished the people, and still did not secure you from your enemies” because you allowed them to live to fight another day. This is tantamount to saying that Christian mercy is bad policy. Thus the winner “enjoyed victory little” while the loser “felt loss little,” rearming for the next war.

Machiavelli’s object lesson is the career of Niccolò Piccinino, who repeatedly lost battles only to regroup and fight again. An example in miniature of the mediocre ups and downs of Fortuna in modern times, he would react to the smallest advantage with “ambition and insolence,” thereby irritating enemies and allies alike and bringing about another downfall. The stakes in war have become so small that vanity trumps even the prospect of victory, splitting alliances. He eventually put himself in the service of Pope Eugene, who, it will be recalled, should have numbered among his enemies, given the ancient hatred the Braccio held for the papacy.

Within Florence, the principal rivalry pitted Cosimo against Neri di Gino Capponi, whose influence diminished, however, when his main ally was murdered. For his part, Cosimo planted a young ally in Bologna and backed Francesco Sforza in his ambition to become duke of Milan against Neri’s fear that, so empowered, Sforza would threaten Florence. Count Sforza had allied with Duke Filippa of Milan, who died in 1447; this worried the count, but “he decided to show his face to fortune… because many times when one acts, plans reveal themselves, that, to one standing still, would always be hidden.” Sure enough, he began to see that he might play the Milanese off against the Venetians and vault himself into the dukedom of Milan. Much to their eventual regret, the Venetians surreptitiously allied with the count, calculating that the Milanese would then indignantly offer rule of their city to the Venetians in order to avoid rule by the treacherous count, their erstwhile ally turned would-be tyrant. Unrestrained “by fear or shame in breaking his faith, for great men call it shame to lose, not to acquire by deceit,” Count Sforza did indeed betray the Milanese and undertook to seize the city, which (contrary to the Venetians’ calculations) feared the Venetians’ “pride and harsh conditions” even more. The Milanese were reduced to threatening the count with God’s future justice, to which Sforza coolly replied that “Whether this was rue or not, that God upon whom they called to avenge their injuries would demonstrate at the end of the war” between them, which he soon won. Cosimo, who had argued that the Milanese citizenry and its mode of living, so “contrary to every form of civil government, could never defend themselves against a man like Sforza, and as for the threat the count might pose to Florence, a timely alliance with him would be less dangerous than a more powerful Venice. Once again, Cosimo proved correct, as the new Duke of Milan preferred an alliance with Florence to one with the perfidious Venetians.

War between Florence, allied with Milan, and Venice, allied with King Alfonso of Aragon, tipped somewhat in Florence’s favor when Florence brought France in on her side. Campaigns in Lombardy and Tuscany were “managed with neither great virtue nor with great danger” by and to any of the armies involved. By 1454 war weariness had set in on all sides, and threats from the Turkish Empire frightened the pope and the Venetians even more than it did the rest of Italy. The warring city-states concluded a peace treaty in April.

During the war years, Pope Nicholas V, who had succeeded Pope Eugene in 1447, experienced his own domestic crisis. “Living at that time was a Messer Stefano Porcari, a Roman citizen, noble by blood and by learning, but much more so by the excellence of his spirit [animo],” who wanted “to see if he could take his fatherland from the hands of prelates and restore it to its ancient way of life, hoping by this, should he succeed, to be called the new founder and second father of that city.” In this he relied on “the evil customs of the prelates and the discontent of the barons and the Roman people,” but “above all” (and foolishly) on the “higher and greater spirit (spirito)” praised by Petrarch in one of his poems, a “divine and prophetic spirit.” This second kind of spirit turned out to be vacuous; Nicholas V learned of the conspiracy, arrested Stefano and executed several of his confederates. True to his own stated notions of piety, Machiavelli writes that “the intention of his man could be praised by anyone, but his judgment will always be blamed by everyone because such undertakings, if their is some shadow of glory in thinking of them, have almost always very certain loss in their execution.” The animo may be willing but the spirito is weak.

As if to underscore the lessons of Book VI, Machiavelli takes due note of a devastating storm that struck Italy in 1456. “This whirlwind, driven by superior forces, whether they were natural or supernatural, broke on itself and fought within itself”—acting rather like Italian city-states, both within and among themselves. “From these clouds, so broken and confused, from such furious winds and frequent flashes, arose  noise never before heard from any earthquake or thunder of any kind or greatness; from it arose such fear that anyone who heard it judged that the end of the world had come and that earth, water, and the rest of the sky and the world would return mixed together to its ancient chaos.” No such thing happened, except in a small fortified town, San Casciano, near Florence. “Without doubt, God wanted to warn rather than punish Tuscany” by providing “this small example” to “refresh among men the memory of His power.” Since readers already know that Machiavelli considers Providence to be Fortune and Fortune to be nature, and nature to be ever-changing but occasionally if temporarily mastered by men who combine the courage of the lion with the prudence of the fox, they may take the warning in the spirit in which it is offered.

Throughout these wars, Cosimo and his allies in the Florentine regime had kept the city at peace with the other city-states. “But they were indeed not in repose within, as will be shown in detail in the following book.”

Machiavelli begins Book VII with an apologia. Although writing histories of Florence, and although he never “promised to write about things of Italy,” he will do so because without an account of such things “our history would be less understood and less pleasing.” Florentines “were compelled of necessity to intervene” in the affairs of other city-states because “other Italian peoples and princes” acted against Florentine interests, indeed threatening to attack Florence. For example, a war between Jean of Anjou and King Ferdinand of Aragon sparked “the hatreds and grave enmities that later ensued between Ferdinand and the Florentines, and particularly with the Medici family,” who angered the king by favoring Jean of Anjou.

But for his opening reflection or “reasoning” in the first chapter Machiavelli addresses not geopolitics but “divisions” or factions in republics. “Those who hope that a republic can be united are very much deceived in the hope.” Some divisions harm republics, some help. Harmful divisions have no “sects and partisans.” Helpful divisions have none. “Since a founder of a republic cannot provide that there be no enmities in it”—he cannot repeal human nature, which is part of changeable and occasional tempestuous nature as a whole—”he has to provide at least that there be no sects.” Human beings by their nature seek reputation. There are two “modes” of acquiring reputation: public and private. Examples of the public mode are military (“winning a battle”), imperial (“acquiring a town”), diplomatic or secretive (“carrying out a mission with care and prudence”), and advisory (if done “wisely and prosperously”). Examples of the private mode are doing favors to private individuals or groups—assistance with money, obtaining “unmerited honors” for someone, and “ingratiating oneself with the plebs with games and public gifts.” The private mode of acquiring reputation causes sects and partisans to form, and they offend those not benefited by the private favors. Helpful divisions amount to what we today call ‘a good cause,’ some group that aims at acquiring a something that contributes to “a common good.”

“The enmities in Florence were always accompanied by sects and therefore always harmful; never did a winning sect remain united except when the hostile sect was active, but as soon as the one conquered was eliminated, the ruling one, no longer having fear to restrain it or order within itself to check it, would become divided again” (emphasis added). There are no helpful divisions in Florence. Given the fact remarked by both Mansfield and Zuckert, that the term “sect” in Machiavelli is also defined as a religious grouping, this suggests that the Christian ‘atmosphere’ of Italy generally and of Florence in particular conduces to uncompromising and self-serving divisions, vengeful because it is reputation, not merely material interest, at stake; further, reputation can involve the as it were ‘ultimate’ reputation of being a saint or a sinner, an uncompromising division indeed.

Machiavelli explicitly identifies Cosimo de’ Medici’s group as a party. Cosimo wasn’t exactly a tyrant, as Zuckert asserts, because in addition to his private mode of ruling he also ruled in the “public way.” But he was undoubtedly a mixed blessing. The other prominent citizen of the time, Neri Capponi, “had acquired his reputation by public ways, so that he had many friends and few partisans.” He doesn’t form an exception to Machiavelli’s sweeping statement that no helpful divisions existed in Florence, however, because the two men “were united while they both lived,” thus making Neri’s influence less than pure. He died in 1455.

Cosimo ruled alone (albeit with many partisans and some friends) from then until his own death. Because his partisans had no rivals to fear, they began to chip away at Cosimo’s power. Cosimo could have “regain[ed] the state by force with the partisans who remained to him” or he “could let the thing go and in time have his friends learn that they were taking state and reputation not from him but from themselves.” He chose to let them learn the hard way, as he knew that his loyal supporters could rig the elections and enable him to “retake the state at his ease.” As the people and the plebs became more and more angered at the depredations of Cosimo’s renegade partisans, they the apparently powerful partisans “knew that not Cosimo but they themselves had lost the state.” They had been better off when they were allied with the low-key, prudent Medici man, and they came to him begging for rescue. Letting them twist in the wind, Cosimo did nothing himself, preferring to appoint a deputy, Luca Pitti, to act for him, “so that if [his] enterprise should incur any blame, it would be imputed to Luca and not to himself.” A ready if not cruel man, Luca called the people into the piazza “and by force and with arms made them consent to that which they had not consented to voluntarily before, namely the election of a new set of magistrates “created in accordance with the views of the few, on whose behalf the election was rigged, as per normal practice. One of Machiavelli’s ancestors, Girolamo Machiavelli, was banished and eventually recalled and executed by the new government, leaving readers to wonder whether Machiavelli has been willing to overlook this ancient punishment or writes his book partly in the spirit of revenge.

“Cosimo, now old and weary,” allowed Luca to become the de facto ruler of Florence. Under him, “violent and rapacious” citizens resumed their plunder; “thus if Florence did not have war from outside to destroy it, the city was destroyed by its own citizens,” as partisans are only united with rival partisans by some external threat. Cosimo died in 1464. His son Piero, “a good man,” was himself “too infirm and new in the state.” Evidently suffering from a form of gradually increasing paralysis, he did not improve Cosimo’s latter years in office.

Machiavelli now pauses to eulogize Cosimo, somewhat in the spirit he had addressed the Medici pope in the Epistle Dedicatory. Like many popes, Cosimo was “an unarmed man”; unlike some popes, he was Florence’s and indeed all of Italy’s “most reputed and renowned citizen.” “Above all other men, he was liberal and magnificent”; indeed, “there was no other citizen who had any quality in that city to whom Cosimo had not lent a large sum of money”—rule via the private mode, indeed. As for magnificence, he commissioned many grand buildings, but at the same time, although “he alone in Florence was prince” of the supposedly republican city, “so tempered was he by his prudence that he never overstepped civil modestly.” For that reason he excited much less envy than he otherwise would have done. And he was prudent in the Machiavellian way, a ‘fox’ who “recognized evils at a distance and therefore was in time either not to let them grow or to be prepared so that, if they did grow, they would not offend him.” This prudence extended to foreign policy. He pioneered peaceful ‘economic warfare’: “Cosimo with his own credit emptied Naples and Venice of money, so that they were constrained to accept the peace that he was willing to concede to them.” “Thus his virtue and fortune eliminated all his enemies and exalted his friends” in a time and place when the martial, ‘leonine’ virtues had nearly disappeared, giving the vulpine virtues freer reign.

Seemingly pious, not learned, but “full of natural prudence,” Cosimo “in his sayings was keen and grave.” In examining the sayings Machiavelli quotes, Zuckert rightly considers them less than pious (p. 438), although of course these sayings were delivered privately, as so many of his favors were, not in public, as his magnificent church-building projects were. Moreover, unlike good republican Cato, Cosimo patronized the arts. “A lover and exalter of literary men,” he “took into his home Marsilio Ficino, second father of Platonic philosophy, whom eh loved extremely; and that Ficino might pursue his studies of letters more comfortably and that eh might be able to use him more conveniently, Cosimo gave him a property near his own.” Neo-platonic philosophy and public Christianity enhance a ruler’s authority in Christendom, unless and until a man or men of more manly, military virtù come along. In Cosimo’s lifetime none such did.” “He died full of glory and with a very great name in the city and outside. All the citizens and all the Christian princes mourned his death with his son Piero.”

That there were limits to the Christianity of these Christian princes may be seen in the action of King Ferdinand of Aragon. Worried that Jacopo Piccinino, son of the condottieri, might threaten his city-state, Ferdinand lured him to Aragon with the promise of making him captain of his men. After fêting him there, he had him imprisoned and poisoned.

Back in Florence, Piero soon found himself betrayed by his adviser, Dietisalvi Neroni, himself betrayed by the secretary of the conspirators. He armed himself against them, and the Signori, seeing Piero armed and his adversaries unarmed, “began to think not about how they must offend Piero but about how they must become his friends.” Not long after, “the Neroni family were scattered” and some of their confederates arrested and tortured, then killed or exiled.  Dietisalvi and a few of his fellow exiled partisans went to Venice, hoping to incite them to attack Venice. They succeed in persuading the Venetians, only to witness yet another low-energy war ending in a truce that gained nothing for Cosimo’s enemies.

Like his elderly father before him, sickly Piero, evidently the victim of a progressive paralysis, knew little and did less to bridle his own partisans, who “so conducted themselves that it appeared that God and fortune had given them that city in prey.” Eventually alerted to their perfidy, he  called them before him, he lamented “how greatly I have deceived myself as one who knew little of the natural ambition of all men and less of yours.” They ignored him. There can be no doubt, Machiavelli writes, “that if he had not been interrupted by death he would have had all the exiles restored to their fatherland to check the rapacity of those within. His son Lorenzo would succeed him.

Fortune smiled on the young prince in the form of Tommaso Soderini, a man of “patience and authority” renowned in Florence and “among all the princes of Italy.” Although some Florentines urged him to take over the government of the city, he prudently told them to give their allegiance to Lorenzo, as “men never complain of doing the things they are used to doing; so quickly as new things are taken up, they are dropped; and it has always been easier to maintain a power that by length of time has eliminated envy than to raise up a new one that for very many causes could easily be eliminated,” such as for example himself, if he were to go along with the proposal. “Following after Messer Tommaso, Lorenzo, although he was young, spoke with such gravity and modesty that he gave everyone hope of being that which he later did become.”

“The citizens did not deviate from the advice of Messer Tommaso,” but Lorenzo soon did. “A new and unexpected tumult arose in Tuscany,” when the town fathers of Volterra seized an alum mine in which some Florentines had invested stirred thoughts of military intervention by Florence. Prudent Messer Tommaso counseled conciliation, worrying that the pope and other outside powers might involve themselves in an armed conflict there. “Encouraged by those who were envious of the authority of Messer Tommaso,” and intent on taking the old man down a peg, Lorenzo went ahead and undertook a campaign “to punish with arms the arrogance of the Volterrans” and also, evidently, to do a characteristically Medician private favor to the Florentine investors. The gambit worked, but Tommaso remained skeptical: “To me [Volterra] appears lost; for if you had received it by accord, you would have had advantage and security from it; but since you have to hold it by force, in adverse times it will bring you weakness and trouble and in peaceful times, loss and expense.”

Adverse times were coming. Lorenzo next intervened, this time ineffectually, on behalf of a friend who ruled the town Città di Castello, which the pope intended to bring to heal for defying his authority. Although the pope won, this was “quite enough to sow the first seeds of enmity between Sixtus and the Medici that shortly produced very evil fruits.” The Florentines, Duke Galeazzo of Milan, and the Venetians formed a league, which the pope, allied with Ferdinand of Naples, prepared to fight. The pope wanted to split the rival league by winning over the Venetians. Meanwhile, Galeazzo was assassinated by some young bravos, who themselves were captured and killed. Never one wholeheartedly to condemn manifestations of virtù, Machiavelli writes that “the undertaking of these unhappy youths was planned secretly and executed spiritedly and then they were ruined when those they had hoped would have to follow and defend them neither defended nor followed them.” One expect him to uphold the need to balance leonine spiritedness with vulpine prudence, but Machiavelli concludes rather more sententiously, “Therefore, may princes learn to live in a manner and act in a mode that will make them revered and loved, so that no one can hope, by killing him, to save himself.” The assassination was only the first of several “accidents” that followed, now in Florence, “which broke the peace that had lasted for twelve years in Italy.”

The eighth and final book begins without the usual thematic discussion. Or does it? Machiavelli writes that while it might appear proper “to reason the qualities of conspiracies and their importance,” he dismisses the topic by claiming that he’s dealt with it elsewhere. Accordingly, he shifts to the topic of “the state of the Medici after it had conquered all the enmities that had come against it openly,” remarking that “if that house wanted to take sole authority in the city and to stand out from the others by living civilly, it was necessary that it overcome those that schemed secretly against it.” This is necessary because “almost always a prince of the city, attacked by such conspiracies… rises to greater power and many times from being a good man, becomes bad,” out of fear. Fearing, he moves “to secure himself”; securing himself, he injures many, and “hence hatreds arise later, and often to his ruin.” Conspiracy aims at deception. Machiavelli has opened Book VIII with a mildly amusing bait-and-switch, a reflection that isn’t presented as one.

The conspiracy he describes begins with distrust and dislike arising between the Medici and the wealthy Pazzi family. Francesco Pazzi conspired with Count Girolamo Riario, who is married to a Sforza, to murder Lorenzo and Giuliano de’ Medici. They enlisted Pope Sixtus IV in their scheme—somewhat surprisingly, as the average pope doesn’t sign on as an accessory to murder, which was to take place in a church. Although Lorenzo came to church that day, escorted by the local cardinal, Giuliani was nowhere to be seen. Francesco and co-conspirator Bernardo Bandini “went to his house to find him and with prayers and art led him to church.” “It is a thing truly worthy of memory that so much hatred, so much thought about such an excess, could be covered up with so much heart and so much obstinacy of spirit by Francesco and Bernardo; for though they led him to church, both on the way and in church they entertained him with jests and youthful banter.” Although they Medici knew the Pazzi’s “bitter spirit” against themselves, they didn’t expect it to manifest itself in violence.

Those hired to do the actual killing proved “very inept for such a great undertaking.” They murdered Guiliani, but Lorenzo survived and the attackers were captured, killed, and dragged to the city. Others associated with the conspiracy were hanged. As for the not-so-masterful minds who designed the conspiracy, Gravely wounded, Francesco fled while Bernardo “fled unharmed.” At home, he begged Jacopo Piccinino to launch a counter-attack. Gathering “perhaps a hundred men who had been prepared for such an enterprise,” he went to the palace piazza, “calling to his aid the people and liberty.” “But because the one had been made deaf by the fortune and liberality of the Medici and the other was not known in Florence, he had no response from anyone.” The Pazzis were ruined, many of them killed.

What have we learned here? Machiavelli begins with a brief lesson on paying attention to how people write and, by extension, talk. Deception may lurk in writing and in speech, including playful badinage. Such ‘covers’ as piety and friendliness will be useful. Be “obstinate” or strong-willed in carrying out your plot, but for the actions themselves, hire experienced men if you are not experienced. If at some stage you seek public support, know the public mind better than Messer Jacopo did. As for guarding against conspiracy, the main lesson here seems to be to take nothing for granted and keep up your guard.

“Since the change of state did not occur in Florence as the pope and the king [of Naples] desired, they decided that what they had not been able to do by conspiracy they would do by war.” “And so the Florentines might feel spiritual wounds in addition to their temporal ones, the pope excommunicated and cursed them.” Unlike his enemies in Florence, Lorenzo responded first by assuring himself of the support of his citizens. Answering the implied charge that he has ruled despotically, and not incidentally implicating him in the way Florence has been ruled, he tells them, “My house could not have ruled and would not be able to rule this republic if you together with it had not rued and did not rule now.” And even if the Medici deserved ruin, “Why make league with the pope and the king against the liberty of this republic?” Unlike Jacopo’s appeal to civic liberty, Lorenzo appeals to sovereignty, the independence or liberty of Florence in an Italy not lacking in enemies of that independence. Further, why would the conspirators and the foreign enemies “break the long peace of Italy,” as “they ought to offend whoever offends them and not confound their private enmities with public injuries.” As Machiavelli well noted earlier, the Medici themselves have used private benefits as one means of rule, so one might say that private matters cannot be dismissed as irrelevant by a Medici. Perhaps recognizing this, Lorenzo finished with a more powerful appeal, a gesture of self-sacrifice. “I would willingly put out your fire with my ruin…. I am in your hands: it is for you to rule or leave me; you are my fathers, you are my defenders; and however much I am commissioned to do by you, to end this war, begun with the blood of my brother, with mine.” There wasn’t a dry eye left in the place, and they pledged loyalty to him in the war and provided him with bodyguards. This exemplifies Machiavelli’s opening teaching, that a survivor of a conspiracy may rise to greater power. Will Lorenzo also become a worse man for all of this?

“The pope had shown himself to be a wolf and not a shepherd.” The Florentines requested assistance in the war from the young Duke of Milan, Gian Galeazzo, and the Venetians, “showing the impiety of the pontiff and his injustice and that the pontificate that he had sized wickedly he exercised wickedly.” They forced the priests in Florence to continue performing their sacramental duties, despite the papal condemnation of the city—a small-scale reprise of the pre-Charlemagne relationship between Emperor and Church. For his part, the pope “justif[ied] his cause” by declaring that popes have a duty to “eliminate tyranny, oppress the wicked, exalt the good, and “that it was indeed not the office of secular princes to arrest cardinals, to hang bishops, to kill, dismember and drag around priests, and to slay the innocent and the guilty without distinction.”

The war began to turn in the favor of the pope’s alliance, and the citizens of Florence began to turn against the war. Avoiding contact with the pope, Lorenzo treated with the King of Naples, reasoning (at least in the way Machiavelli summarizes) that “in wars and dangers, whoever is friend of the pope will be accompanied in victories and be alone in defeats, since the pontiff is sustained and defended by spiritual power and reputation.” It may be that the king thought along these lines, too; after receiving Lorenzo and listening to him speak, he “marveled more, after he had heard him, at the greatness of his spirit, the dexterity of his genius and gravity of his judgment, than he had marveled before at his being able to sustain so great a war alone.” He “began to think he had rather have him leave as friend than hold him as enemy.” Peace treaty in hand, Lorenzo returned to Florence not just great but “very great,” as “had exposed his very life to gain peace for his fatherland” and thereby delivering on his claim to be willing to risk sacrificing himself for Florence.

The pope, allied with the king, and the Venetians, allied with Florence, reacted with “indignation,” surprised at this separate peace arrived at without consultation with themselves. The Florentines worry that “a greater war might arise,” but “God, who in such extremities has always had a particular care for [Florence], made an unhoped-for accident arise that gave the king, the pope, and the Venetians something greater to think about than
Tuscany,” namely, their own survival. The Turkish commander landed 4,000 troops at the Italian city of Oranto. At this turn of events, which Machiavelli now ascribes to “fortune,” the pope changed his tune, offering pardon to Florence in exchange for forces to help repel the Turks, among other things. The Florentine ambassador reduced some of the harsher provisions demanded; Machiavelli doesn’t say how he did that, but he does mention that this ambassador had recently returned from France, and it is conceivable that the ambassador might have hinted at the possibility of an alliance with that country. Be that as it may have been, Machiavelli observes that “force and necessity, not written documents and obligations, make princes keep faith.” In the event, factional infighting following the death of the Grand Turk Mahomet forced withdrawal of the Turkish forces.

Relieved, the pope engaged the condottieri Roberto Malatesta to drive Florentine and Milanese forces, which had encamped near Rome. “This battle was fought with more virtue than any other that had been fought for fifty years in Italy”; battle-deaths exceeded one thousand. “The outcome was glorious for the Church,” although Roberto didn’t live long enough to enjoy it. He died of a “flux” after drinking too much water on a hot day. Exhibiting a degree of Machiavellian virtù seldom seen in popes, Sixtus IV promptly attempted to seize his late protector’s city, Rimini. Once more threatened by the Florentines and the King of Milan, the pope “was forced to think about peace and the union of Italy. Hence, the pontiff, out of fear and also because he saw that the greatness of the Venetians would be the ruin of the Church and of Italy, turned to make an accord with the league.” Seeing “all Italy united against them,” the Venetians held on, thanks to disunity among the allies, who by 1484 “were wearied by the expenses” of the wars and unwilling “to make any further test of their fortune.” The pope died five days after the peace treaty was concluded in spring of 1484, leaving “in peace that Italy which he had always kept at war while he lived.” The new pope, Innocent III, with the “easy nature” of “a humane and quiet man… had arms put aside and for the time pacified Rome,” which had itself been riven with divisions.

“For the time”: the time didn’t last long. The city of l’Aquila rebelled against Naples; the pope sided with l’Aquila, hating as he did the King of Naples. The Florentines jumped in on the side of their ally, the king. Ferdinand proceeded to crush the rebellion and its papal ally; through intermediaries sent by the king of Spain “a peace was concluded, to which the pope agreed because he had been beaten by fortune and did not want to try it further.” Evidently, Innocent wasn’t entirely innocent, attributing his reversal to Fortune instead of Providence. He did learn “from the example of the war with how much promptness the Florentines keep their friendships,” and Lorenzo, seizing another opportunity, married his daughter to Innocent’s son.

Lorenzo died in 1492. Machiavelli’s eulogy will remind readers of his eulogy of Cosimo, and it includes mention of the latest Medici as a patron of arts and letters, that politically dubious inclination which nonetheless might benefit our author. However, Lorenzo had a vice Cosimo didn’t have: in private, he was a great lover of “childish games” and of women. “Thus, considering both his voluptuous [private] life and his grave [public] life, one might see in him two different persons, joined in an almost impossible conjunction.” Does Machiavelli here glance at God, Father and Son, the latter dying young, an unarmed prophet? One scholar suggests that his vices might have contributed to his early death; she also elaborates on “the very great disasters” which arose “from his death,” disasters Machiavelli mentions without enumerating, “bad seeds” that, “since the one who knew how to eliminate them was not alive, ruined and are still ruining Italy.” [8]

Unmentioned by Machiavelli, Lorenzo’s son Piero would go on to open the door of Italy to French forces two years after his father’s death. The French went on to devastate much of the area, and the Medici were expelled from Florence. This accorded with a prediction by the priest Savanarola, who had prophesied that “the sword of God” would punish Italy or its sins. This unarmed prophet founded a fairly democratic regime in Florence but was executed in 1498. As for himself, Machiavelli would find employment under the subsequent Florentine regime, only to be dismissed by the Medici in 1512, when the family was readmitted and the republic was replaced. [9]

A few pages earlier, Machiavelli had described the city of San Giorgio and its relations with Genoa, which ran itself into a war debt and borrowed from some of San Giorgio’s rich citizens. The Genoese granted their creditors income from customs until such time the debts were fully repaid. With this steady income guaranteed, the creditors “ordered among themselves a mode of government, making a council of a hundred of themselves to deliberate public affairs and a magistracy of eight citizens as head of all to execute them.” Over time (and more loans), Genoa gave the San Giorgio regime most of the towns in its empire. The citizens of Genoa began to prefer San Giorgian rule to that of the Genoese regime, which they came to regard “as something tyrannical.” Unlike Genoa, “because San Girogio has arms, money and government, and one cannot alter the laws without danger of a certain and dangerous rebellion,” the city enjoys stability unseen in party-wracked Florence. San Giorgio provides “an example truly rare, never found by the philosophers in all the republics they have imagined”—one thinks of Plato’s—”and seen”—one thinks of Aristotle’s many examples. In the San Giorgio-Genoa conjunction one sees “within the same circle, among the same citizens, liberty and tyranny, civil life and corrupt life, justice and license, because that order alone keeps he city full of is ancient and venerable customs. And if it should happen—which in time it surely will—that San Giorgio should take over the whole city, that would be a republic more memorable than the Venetian.” Or the Florentine?

 

 

Notes

1.  Zuckert observes, “Charlemagne fundamentally altered the relation between the emperor and the pope” (389); instead of the emperor choosing the pope, the pope and the Roman people (decisively influenced by the pope’s spiritual authority over popular opinion) chose the emperor.
2. “In describing the founding of Florence as a colony… Machiavelli acknowledges that the dependent status of a colony was not good for it. The Florentines were not able to do anything worthy of memory for the first twelve hundred years of their city’s existence. Because the city was founded as a colony of Rome, its citizens did not learn how to rule themselves. Moreover, they acquired the destructive habit of looking to others to defend them.” (Zuckert, p. 393).
3. Mansfield makes much of this aphorism, observing that the law that looks back the longest time, among all laws, is “the law of obedience to God, in which all men are sinners because they are involved in the original sin” (p. 167). Belief in divine retribution for original sin—death and even eternal damnation—infects souls in a Christian civilization to exact “politically unmanageable” acts of revenge against their own enemies, as seen in Florentine sectarian conflict, which divides the city irremediably (at least so long as it is inflected by Christian sentiments). “Florentine partisanship feeds on the Christian spirit, as Machiavelli sees it, of absolute revenge” (p. 167), despite the countervailing Christian teaching, “Judge not that you be judged.” Whether or not Machiavelli intended to suggest this interpretation, it is clear that Machiavelli opposes Christianity, and not merely the Papacy.
4. “Machiavelli does not comment directly on what is the theoretically most interesting and radical argument about the foundations and nature of government to be found in the Florentine Histories. Instead he lets events speak for themselves.” (Zuckert, p. 410) (Insofar, one might add, as Machiavelli ever really lets events speak for themselves.)
5. Mansfield emphasizes the Christian ethos pervading Italy, in many ways exemplified by the triumph of Cosimo, who came to power not through his own arms, his own virtù, but through the intervention of the Signori. Mansfield adds that Cosimo’s descendants would become popes (pp. 143-146).
6. Zuckert very acutely recalls that “even those who ad not read Machiavelli’s Discourses would have known that Rome also fell and not, primarily, as a result of its embrace of philosophy. And, in fact, Machiavelli’s explanation of the rise and fall of order here applies better to Florence than to Rome, because the Medici were great patrons of philosophy along with the other arts” (p. 424)—as Machiavelli himself tells his readers in Book VIII.
7. “In the second half of his history Machiavelli then shows that a tyrant [Cosimo] does not necessarily arise with the use of arms or force.” To borrow a phrase from recent Chinese rhetoric, such a ‘peaceful rise’ requires a policy of “benefiting individuals and private groups” rather than the public, the city as a whole. This causes a diminution of civic spirit, leaving the city vulnerable in war—the eventual downfall of the Medici in 1494, i.e., two years after the end of Machiavelli’s narrative. (Zuckert, p. 387).
8. Zuckert, p. 451.
9. See Zuckert, pp. 24-37 for a succinct and useful biographical sketch of Machiavelli.