Anew
and Renew: Machiavelli
on State Formation and Maintenance
“Might first made kings, and laws were
then most sure.
When, like the Draco’s, they
were writ in blood.”
Violence is at the forefront of Niccolò Machiavelli’s
thought. And maybe that is as it should
be. For politics, especially the
politics of Machiavelli’s of late fifteenth century Florence, was replete with
all those highly spirited yet low-tech machinations that are probably better captured
and more often consigned to the drearier corners of the third world today. In his writings, Machiavelli drew heavily on
the discordances of the ancient world as well, a realm that appeared even more
at home with the occasional paroxysm of bloodletting than his own time. Passages abound in Machiavelli’s work that
affords such an emphasis on the macabre and its usefulness in the political
sphere. Of course, what sets this man
off from his peers is neither the violence, nor so much the utility of said
actions, but the perfect equanimity with which Machiavelli presents these
scenes and, furthermore, recommends them as the way one ought to govern—in
fact, as the moral equivalent to virtuousness.
More than anything, such sangfroid about the necessity of political
atrocity is surely where Machiavelli derives his name in the popular mind. Christopher Marlowe did not need to stretch the
truth too far when he placed the quote that begins this blog post into the mouth of greasy
caricature of Machiavelli in the opening scene of The Jew of Malta.
Interestingly, this quote, which Marlowe
attributes to Machiavelli though actually does not appear anywhere in
Machiavelli’s writings,
is close enough to at least one passage in Machiavelli’s Discourses on Livy to
provide one pause for thought. Not only
does this fictitious quote seem to represent the underlying teleological prescription
correctly—that “most sure” laws whitewash the not-so-pleasant actions of first
founders—but it also highlights what may be one of the most important phases in
the existence of any principality or republic where violent force is unabashedly
requisite. The passage in Discourses
that mirrors this sentiment most closely speaks to the founding of Rome: “It is
very suitable that when the deed accuses him ,the effect excuses him; and when
the effect is good, as was that of Romulus, it will always excuse the deed; for
he who is violent to spoil, not he who is violent to mend, should be reproved.” Here, Machiavelli is excusing Romulus for
murdering his brother Remus and his subsequent founding of Rome.
However, one may ask, was such
violent force necessary? Was Machiavelli
correct in assuming that violence was the right tool for founding a new state,
a new mode and order? Can state creation
occur any other way? Furthermore, are
such violent beginnings a one-off affair?
Or should we expect a return of such ferociousness from time to time in
order to maintain a state, to guide us back toward those new modes and orders originally
wrought by the creators of a state?
This essay seeks to understand
Machiavelli’s thoughts on the formation and maintenance of new modes and orders,
asking in particular if coercion—violent coercion—is a necessary prerequisite
for these political activities. Drawing
mainly on his Discourses and somewhat less so on The Prince,
this brief interpretation will also attempt to weave together not just the
utility of such political exercises but also seek to unearth some of the ethics
beneath these intrigues. To foreshadow
the conclusion before delving too deeply into the material: I shall argue that
indeed coercion is patently necessary in Machiavelli’s conception of formation
and maintenance of the state and that morally-speaking this necessity is quite
forgivable if that state becomes a republic—the means very much do
justify the ends. If we are to learn
anything from Machiavelli’s portrayal of virtue, it is that virtue finds its
exaltation in the recognition of necessity and, most importantly, the martial wherewithal
to will that which is necessary into that which is reality.
Before we start I must admit to one question
that has been nagging me since day one of this seminar on Machiavelli: Habe
ich in diesem Kurs noch eine Daseinsberechtigung? As a comparativist, I hope that this study might
interest those researchers in social science with a modern-day (American) variant
of the empirical bent, particularly anyone seeking to understand and ground
their knowledge of “state formation” in the longer tradition of political
thought. Since practitioners of the
subfield of comparative politics, in trying to make sense of state formation
and maintenance both in Europe and in the developing world, have a contemporary
pitter-patter of literature in which one can busy oneself,
the value here that a reexamination of someone like Machiavelli should provide is
that of a unfamiliar perspective. It
should be refreshingly pre-Hegelian. No
latent modernization theory ever slipped into anything Machiavelli had to say,
nor do we have to worry about any not-so-hidden normative commitments to
liberal democracy. Machiavelli’s
horizons of human excellence are wedded to human reality, a reality much more
material than ethereal. Disengaging
ourselves from the present, if but only momentarily, will remind us that
challenging questions will not fall to facile musings. A reexamination of Machiavelli and how he
undertook to answer such questions of state formation and maintenance
rearticulates not only the importance of such a query but also its Herculean (Augean?)
undertaking. Let us begin.
The
State Anew
To facilitate the ordering of a republic, a
kingdom, a religion, or a military anew, Machiavelli is quite clear in
indicating that such a political project must be done by one alone if it is to
be done well at all. He cites the cases
of Romulus, Moses, Lycurgus, Solon, and “other founders” as examples where in
order to set up new modes and orders of a state only one person should be in
charge, but he decides to focus only on the case of Romulus as exemplary of
such an undertaking.
With the example of Romulus, Machiavelli makes
his first argument where violence must be part and parcel of the creation of a
new state. Machiavelli utilizes Livy’s
interpretation of the events surrounding the murder of Remus by Romulus. Interestingly, Machiavelli glosses over the
fact that Livy mentions two traditions of the murder of Remus by his brother
and, furthermore, ignores the original context for the dispute. After Romulus and Remus had reinstated
Numitor’s sovereignty at Alba, the brothers desire to construct a new
city-state for themselves was “interrupted by an evil hereditary in their
family, ambition for rule.” Machiavelli instead completely alters this
ambition into something else when he says that what Romulus really “did was for
the common good and not for his own ambition.” The common good in this case for Machiavelli
is the new modes and orders, specifically Romulus’s creation of the Roman
Senate as a body to which he as king would take council, saving for himself
only issues of war.
In conjunction with Romulus,
Machiavelli also
mentions Titus Tatius. By bringing in
the Sabine king who had agreed to rule alongside Romulus, Machiavelli
reiterates the importance having one alone during the foundation of a new
order. However, the original story by
Livy on Tatius’s death involves Tatius’s ignoring of the “law of nations” when
his relations violated it and his subsequent murder when Tatius was visiting
those people who had been affronted by Tatius’s kin. Livy portrayal of Romulus’s reaction to the
news of the Sabine’s death is interesting (and somewhat comical): “Romulus
showed less resentment of this proceeding than became him, either because there
had been no sincere cordiality between them while associated in the government,
or because he thought that the other deserved
the death he met.”
Machiavelli chooses to represent Titus
Tatius’s death as something to which that Romulus “consented,” as if Romulus
had planned the murder himself in order to better go about his plan of founding
his new city. Either way though, in both
the case of his brother and the Sabine king, Machiavelli makes sure to call a
spade a spade by articulating that these were indeed “homicides” and that we
the reader should not decry them until we reflect on what supposedly induced
Romulus to incite both fratricide and regicide.
On the surface of
Machiavelli’s
examples, the ethics behind such actions appear to suggest that they are
necessary and that because they are necessary they are permissible. But Machiavelli also warns us that some good
must come of these efforts as well, that they must be for the “common
good.” If so, then anyone who is
virtuous and “who has the intent to wish to help not himself but the common
good…should contrive to have authority alone.” And what is this teleological common good for
Machiavelli that “excuses” the violent deed?
As mentioned above the common good must be something that is just that;
it must be something common to many. It
must be communal. And nothing is better
proof of a move in this direction than the creation of a body which moves away
from the rule of one alone to rule of many—the Senate. Interestingly, the case being made seems to
be that not only is the Senate a common good—and hence the regime housing such
an institution, a republic, also good—but that to reach such a good, one must
be willing to execute a founding of one alone, even if “many will perhaps judge
it a bad example that a founder of a civil way of life…should first have killed
his brother.” In short, a republic cannot found a
republic. Only the rule of one alone can
found a republic for Machiavelli. That
Romulus convoked the Senate seems to be proof that Rome was destined to be a
republic, but only if it were to ready embrace its own virtue. The expulsion of the Tarquins then was
portended long ago by Romulus’s first founding.
Or as
Machiavelli suggests, “This testifies that all the first orders of
that city were more conformable to a civil and free way of life than to an
absolute and tyrannical one.” For the creation of a republic then, the
person going about the founding explicitly “deserves excuse and not blame.”
The founding of a state though is
not the same thing as the founding of a regime.
Any state, once established, can be either a principality or a
republic. What might Machiavelli warn us
if instead the founder of a state wished for something other than a republic? And would such a project also meet with moral
equanimity if fortified through violent deeds?
Machiavelli provides an initial
answer to this question by first asserting that a founder can fail in reaching
the common good. Even if one is “able to
make a republic or a kingdom, they [can] turn to tyranny.” This seems to indicate that even after a
republic has been founded, if the founder stays around for too long, they can
become something of a nuisance to the new modes and orders. Romulus avoided such dishonor by excluding
himself to only issues pertaining to war.
By segmenting his executive power to only that of foreign affairs,
Romulus left the policy creation to the Senate (to use a modern phrase for
it). And until Romulus was spirited away
in a mystical cloud of thunder and lightning, he kept to this single executive
role.
The most dangerous overextension of an
executive represented by
Machiavelli, and thus a move away from the common
good, was in his citing of Caesar.
Machiavelli warns us not to be fooled by the glory of Caesar, “hearing
him especially celebrated by the writers,”
for it was Caesar who finally murdered the republic, destroying the new modes
and orders established by Romulus.
Machiavelli is fairly consistent on this issue as well throughout the Discourses;
the downfall of Rome began “under the emperors, [when] the emperors began to be
bad and to love the shade more than the sun…which was the beginning of the ruin
of so great an empire.” Loving the shade more than the sun is an
executive who instead of concerning himself with foreign policy in the field is
squandering too much time at home amidst the rule of the Senate. If anyone truly wants glory in founding a
state anew, or in renewing a state, then they should “not spoil it entirely as
did Caesar but reorder it as did Romulus.” Furthermore that state should be a republic
if the common good is to be maximized.
This is a necessity. For
Machiavelli then, any violent founding is unforgivable if in the end the result
is not a republic.
The
State Renewed
But if the last example tells us
anything, it is that the new modes and orders laid out by a founder will not
continue forever. At the very least,
there may be a relaxation of whatever virtue a founder initially instilled in a
new republican state. At the worst,
there will always be a Caesar biding his time for the right moment to overextend
his glory and usher in the beginning of the end. How then does a republic forestall such
dissolution of the founder’s original virtue?
Is it even possible to keep the founder’s modes and orders? If they can be renewed, how does the state do
this? The answer to these questions—how
to renew the state—parallels the original founding for Machiavelli. Here, we shall see that violence once again
will prove necessary for Machiavelli.
Machiavelli is quite explicit that a
return to the founder’s virtue cannot be skirted for republics, kingdoms, or
even religious sects: “And it is a thing clearer than light that these bodies
do not last if they do not renew themselves.” For republics, Machiavelli posits that two
avenues exist for leading a “corrupted” society back toward the original
virtue, what he articulates as “extrinsic accident or intrinsic prudence.” Both of these mechanisms will require violent
coercion. Furthermore, it seems that one
of these causes, either from the outside of the state or from someone within,
should occur at least every ten years, otherwise the republican state may prove
too fickle and begin to lose itself completely.
For an example of an extrinsic cause
steering a republic back to virtue,
Machiavelli picks one of the most
devastating events in Roman history: the sack of Rome by the Gauls. Supposedly because of the republic’s creeping
laxness in “the observance of religion and justice,” an “external beating…was
necessary.” Interestingly, this example actually
parallels Livy’s reasoning at least on the surface. Though Machiavelli repeatedly twists the
meanings and the quotations of Livy’s work throughout the Discourses to
suit his needs in any particular passage, here
Machiavelli chooses to highlight
Livy’s explanation for the reason for the first sack of Rome; this had to do
with a lack of Roman piety for the original religious protocol of sending and
receiving ambassadors stretching all the back to Romulus’s management of the
death of Sabine king Titus Tatius as described above. The violence is, of course, palpable in this
example. For Machiavelli, without some
type of violent coercion a renewal of the founder’s virtue is not
possible. To solidify his reasoning in
this episode, Machiavelli emphasizes Marcus Furius Camillus’s virtue in
fighting back the Gauls and removing them from the city through martial engagement
(instead of through the payment of gold).
It is Camillus that harkens back to Romulus’s virtue in this exigency. Again,
Machiavelli ideation on this point
does not stray far from Livy’s interpretation of Camillus’s role in the events
and his unending virtue. Livy has
Camillus give a speech to the Roman Senate after the battle reminding the
citizens of the republican ideals that were “said to have affected them
much…particularly by that which related to religious matters.” Machiavelli stresses this same virtue of
Camillus in his retelling of events.
Significantly, it appears that if a renewal is to come from without the
state, then it must be borne by a violent awakening, a challenge that must be
fought back through combat, for virtue and “goodness” seem to be inextricably
intertwined with martial realism for
Machiavelli.
When we turn to examine the
intrinsic factors of renewal, Machiavelli provides the reader with an additional
bifurcation that may appear initially to be less coercive than an “external
beating.” These internal redemptions of
virtue for the state take either an avatar of law or man. However, we quickly learn that law, or
“order” as
Machiavelli calls it, must also be realized through man, and, even
more specifically through the death of man.
“Such orders have need of being brought to life by the virtue of a
citizen who rushes spiritedly to execute them against the power of those who
transgress them.”
Violence again proves to be a sine qua
non for Machiavelli. Seven different
incidences of these spirited executions are referenced from Livy. These include before the sack of Rome the
death of Brutus’s sons,
of the Decemvirate,
and of Mælius, and
after the sack of Rome the death of Manlius Capitolinus,
of Manlius Torquatus’s son,
and of Papirius Cursor,
as well as the “accusation” of Scipio Africanus and Scipio Asiaticus. All of these examples warranted surprisingly
similar interpretations by Machiavelli; after reexamining Livy, we realize that
all of them speak of an underlying trend as well. We shall investigate three here in depth to highlight
one possible project of
Machiavelli in this section.
The first example is the death by Senate
order of Titus and Tiberius, the two patrician sons of one of the consuls at
that time, Lucius Junius Brutus, after the two youths were caught conspiring
against the newly established republic.
Brutus, after learning of the conspiracy, maintained the virtuousness
required by the consulship by eschewing any nepotism in disallowing his kin to
be set free. When they were executed on
Tiber Island in the middle of the river by the lictors, they were afforded no
special favors over their coconspirators. What is interesting about
Machiavelli’s
choice of this particular example from Livy’s history is the reason for why the
sons of Brutus were put to death. The
treason that the sons had attempted was actually to try and reinstate the
Tarquinian monarchy. Before one even
begins to interpret
Machiavelli, there is the question of interpreting Livy. Some contemporary scholars see Livy as an
apologist for Caesar, whilst others argue that he was a not-so-closet
republican. For those who argue that
Livy was a republican at heart, they cite this particular passage, amongst
others, as an example of Livy “extolling” Brutus’s republican virtue. Machiavelli in his interpretation here also appears
to commend Brutus as a virtuous republican citizen. This seems to suggest that Machiavelli may
too have republican leanings over the surface support of monarchy in The Prince. At the very least, with this
interpretation of both
Machiavelli and Livy, we can say that virtue through
necessity appears to be codified best through violence.
The second example from
Machiavelli’s list of seven that will be examined here is the case of Spurius Mælius,
the equestrian trader who had become wealthy from first cornering the grain market
and later doling out his surplus to win favor with the plebeians. Similar to the example of Brutus’s sons, we
learn from Livy that Mælius soon tried to bring down the republican order. Livy says of Mælius: “As men’s desires are
never satiated while fortune gives room for hope for more, he began to aim at
higher and less justifiable objects…he directed his views to regal power.” Interestingly, when the Roman Senate realized
that it must stop Mælius’s conspiracy, they decided that the only way to go
about apprehending Mælius without infringing on his liberty was to elect a
brief dictator in the person of Lucius Quintius to take care of the problem,
thus taking care of the situation through what was then the only legal avenue
open by the republican Senate. Mælius was
subsequently killed during the scuffle to bring him to the Senate for
questioning. Again we are tempted to
ponder over the significance of
Machiavelli electing for an example of “the
virtue of an order” vetted through a story of Livy’s that is ripe in
republicanism. Though the return to the
founder’s virtuousness here is solidified again through a violent act, just
beneath the surface is Machiavelli’s choice of another Livian example that
extols republicanism over monarchy. In
fact, if we returned to all of these seven examples in Livy’s history, we
should espy examples that illustrate the victory of ancient republicanism over
kingly aspirations.
One final example of
Machiavelli’s
usage of Livy for the renewal of virtuous orders comes from the story of the consul
Titus Manlius Torquatus and the errant choices his son made in battle, also
named Titus Manlius. Like the two
highlighted above, this story which Livy portrays is about the power of violent
punishment. Livy also emphasizes the
importance of fear in this section. Livy
tells us that Torquatus’s son, after leaving his post in battle to engage the
Latin enemy when ordered not to, when confronted by his father the consul,
bragged about the spoils that he had won.
Torquatus with perfect equanimity returned, “it is fitter that we undergo
the penalty of our own transgressions, than that the commonwealth should
expiate our offences so injurious to it…I expect that even you, if you have any
blood in you, will not refuse to restore, by punishment, that military
discipline which has subverted your fall. Go, lictor: bind him to the stake.”
Machiavelli highlights the factor of fear in
this example. He also seems to agree
with Livy about such example-making that these “ ‘Manlian orders’ were not only
then considered with horror, but have been transmitted, as a model of
austerity, to future times.” For Machiavelli and Livy, an internal renewal
is best solidified via a memorable act of violence.
On the surface,
Machiavelli’s cites
these seven intrinsic renewals of the law because they “made men draw back
toward the mark whenever one of them arose.” Machiavelli seems to say that violence was
needed to rectify whatever was making these men “corrupt.” But what is interesting here is that the
corruption in most of these examples was the urge to reinstate princely
power. Though Machiavelli does not say
so directly, the choice of passages from Livy seems to indicate that
“corruption” is very often a byword for regal aspirations. And why is violence so effective here for
Machiavelli? Because it elicits
fear.
Machiavelli is exact about fear’s
utility: “Unless something arises by which punishment is brought back to their
memory and fear is renewed in their spirits, soon many delinquents join
together…it is necessary to provide for it, drawing [the state] back toward its
beginnings.” The beginnings here are those of the
founder’s virtue, a virtue that is constructed through martial violence and
only forgivable if the founder or renewer aims for republicanism—“the
common good.”
If we consider the ethics of the
renewal of the state as we did above on the founding of the state anew,
parallels are presented by
Machiavelli.
In fact, Machiavelli discourses over the moral details of the renewal
even more than the original founding. Returning
to the case of an intrinsic return of a virtuous order by Titus Manlius
Torquatus, and the consequent “Manlian Orders” that stem from it, we see
emphasized the teleological utility of violence in much the say way as when he
forgave Romulus in the beginning for fratricide. But this violence must be used with care
during a renewal if it is to be forgiven as well: “…to hold a republic with
violence, there must have been proportion from whoever is forcing to that which
is forced.” That Manlius Torquatus had to execute his son
for leaving his post could only have been warranted if a greater good was to
arise out such an extremity.
Machiavelli takes the point of view of Livy wholeheartedly here on the ethics of the
situation. But it is important to remember
that these particular ethics are only good under a republic and that under a
different regime like a monarchy they may not apply. Since
Machiavelli is so direct in these
sentiments, quoting his words in its entirety is useful:
“Nonetheless,
so as not to leave this part undecided, I say that in a citizen who lives under
the laws of a republic, I believe the proceeding of Manlius is more
praiseworthy and less dangerous, because this mode is wholly in favor of the
public and does not in any part have regard to private ambition.”
The
state renewed, much like the state anew, requires that a man of virtue rekindle
a palpable fear for those who have been drawn astray toward corruption,
specifically a corruption toward monarchial power. This return is actuated best through violent
force and is eminently forgivable if performed for the “favor of the public.”
The
State in Perpetuation
To bring this quick survey of
Machiavelli’s thoughts to a close, this essay will forward one last
question. The argument above—that
violence for the foundation and revival of a republican state is both necessary
and morally acceptable—might leave some wondering about the
counterfactual. What happens if we
forego either the violent birth or the violent maintenance? If we eschew violence in the beginning of one
alone, Machiavelli believes that the republic will never come about, though he
does not exactly elaborate why. However,
in the case of renewal, if we choose not to redeem those ancient orders of the
founder through bloodletting,
Machiavelli is clearer. The republic will simply cease to be. A perpetual republic seems to be something
impossible to order only once by the founder, for “its ruin is caused through a
thousand unexpected ways.” Unchecked regal aspirations are the death of
a republic; the counterfactual required here is Caesar. Quite simply, the descendents of Romulus
should not expect their republic to last forever just because of the virtuous
momentum of Rome’s original founder.
Autopilot is not an option.
Corruption is inevitable. Fear
fades with time.
What, then, if anything can right us
back onto the republican path? Well,
here is where the violent renewal is so important. The spirit of Romulus must return if the
republic is too continue, and it must reappear often; wait too long and it will
not matter how many virtuous Catos are born.
Machiavelli is explicit that a republic must
have people like Manlius Torquatus to frighten us away from our worst
corruptions. “[I]f a republic were so
happy that it often had one who with his example might renew the laws, and not
only restrain it from running to ruin but pull it back, it would be perpetual.” Then maybe it will last.
This essay began with a quick nod to
those of an empirical persuasion, particular those concerned with state
formation and maintenance in the modern world.
All this talk of renewal of virtue, ancient modes and orders, and
characters like Romulus and Remus may seem fantastical—maybe something better
remembered as myth. Surely modern
commercial republics are born all the time without such violence today? The supposed exemplar of liberal democracy of
our own epoch, the United States of America, avoided such violent growing
pains, or did it? I should like to quote
Leo Strauss here in full:
“Machiavelli
would argue that America owes her greatness not only to her habitual adherence
to the principles of freedom and justice, but also to her occasional deviation
from them. He would not hesitate to
suggest a mischievous interpretation of the Louisiana Purchase and of the fate
of the Red Indians. He would conclude
that facts likes these are an additional proof for his contention that there
cannot be a great and glorious society without the equivalent of the murder of
Remus by his brother Romulus.”
One
could easily add to this admission the occasional “external beating” provided
by such American classics as the War of 1812, the attack on Pearl Harbor, and
even the sordid events of September 11th, 2001.
One might wonder if all the misadventures of the American-Vietnam War were
not somehow an ugly reincarnation of the Battle of Cannae. Let us hope that Americans also never forget
the return of “intrinsic prudence” provided by such bloodlettings as the Civil
War—a necessity that could not have been skipped over if the Civil Rights movement
was ever to become a reality. Violence
is development. Whether one goes about
one’s study of politics focusing on the historical, the philosophical, or the
empirical, this is the most difficult lesson that
Machiavelli has to teach—the
most difficult to accept. Any other
interpretation truly would be a myth.
References
Livy.
[ca.10 C.E.] 1823. The History of Rome. Trans. George Baker. New York:
Peter A. Nester, Collins & Co.
Machiavelli,
Niccolò. [ca.1513] 1998. The Prince. Trans. Harvey C. Mansfield.
Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
______.
[ca.1517] 1996. Discourses on Livy. Trans. Harvery C. Mansfield, and
Nathan Tarcov. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
Tilly,
Charles. 1985. “War Making and State Making as Organized Crime.” In Bringingthe State Back In, eds. Peter B. Evans, Dietrich Rueschemeyer, and Theda
Skocpol. New York: Cambridge Univeristy Press.
