The historical and intellectual context should justify the practice of writing in a devious or insincere manner.Machiavelli’s The Prince is the book of republicans.
Rousseau
This essay considers Niccolò Machiavelli to be one of the greatest thinkers in Western civilization. To justify this conclusion, I will focus on The Prince. This book is well known, has been historically important, and, in Machiavelli’s own words, can enable a reader “to understand in a very short time all that I have learned and understood.”1 But how should we read Machiavelli’s Prince? Is it merely a book of circumstance, written to gain Machiavelli a job with the Medici? Is it an amoral—or immoral—justification of the use of power for its own sake? Does it contradict the longer and ostensibly more complete Discourses on Titus Livy, or does it present the same understanding that Machiavelli expressed in his other works?
These questions are important because Machiavelli is so often said to have inaugurated “modern” thought. Typically, The Prince is described as the first scientific study of politics and human affairs. In our curriculum, Machiavelli usually represents the end of the “classic” and “medieval” periods, which were based on theological and philosophical premises distant from contemporary life; his teaching is presented as the beginning of the intellectual horizon known as “modernity.”2 Before reflecting on Machiavelli’s thought, it is therefore prudent to clarify how his work should be read.
Although it is commonplace to rank The Prince among the “great books,” this conventional assessment raises two questions. First, was Machiavelli a writer of the depth and importance of Plato, Aristotle, Hobbes, Rousseau, or Hegel—that is, does his thought form a philosophical system that could be true and hence can be considered meaningful in the light of contemporary natural science? And second, was he somehow exceptionally devious—one might almost say “Machiavellian”—in presenting a serious political philosophy in the guise of a handbook for selfish leaders?
Unfortunately, much of what is said or written about Machiavelli and his works fails to consider these questions.3 If the answer to either or both is negative, he was little more than the epitome of political thought in Renaissance Italy and an author of considerable historical importance. If both answers are positive, Machiavelli understood “the effectual truth of the matter” of human life and still has something to teach us. Such a claim implies that Machiavelli might even have transformed what we call epistemology, ontology, logic, or other abstract inquiries when writing what appears to be advice to political leaders. As a result, an attempt to assess Machiavelli as a major philosopher (the first of the questions posed above) entails a hard look at the deceptive nature of his writings (the second query).
There is good reason to examine both questions with an open mind. In the Discourses on Titus Livy—generally regarded as Machiavelli’s most complete work—the author flatly asserts that he seeks to “enter upon a new way, as yet untrodden by anyone else” (Discourses, I, Pref.; p. 97). Machiavelli compares himself to Columbus, acknowledging that such innovation carries great risks: “it has always been no less dangerous to discover new ways and methods than to set off in search of new seas and unknown lands” (ibid.). Similarly, in The Prince Machiavelli asserts that he will “depart from the orders of others” (Prince, ch. 14; p. 61). Even Machiavelli’s most celebrated literary work, the comedy Mandragola, begins with a Prologue in which the author introduces the play as a “new case.”4
Machiavelli’s claim to radical novelty is not limited to political advice in the narrow sense: on the contrary, when he compares “all men that are praised,” Machiavelli lists “founding a religion” as leading to the “most” praise, followed by founding “either republics or kingdoms,” then deeds of “army commanders” and “men of letters,” and finally those of “any man who excels in some art and in the practice of it” (Discourses, I, 10; pp. 134–135). Is Machiavelli’s “new way” merely a work of the “art” of writing by a “man of letters” interested in “what the modes and government of a prince should be with subjects and with friends” (Prince, ch. 14; p. 61)? Or, in some sense, can his work claim to be as fundamental and praiseworthy as the founding of a new religion?
To address these questions, we must bear in mind two things. First, Machiavelli’s own stated goal is “that which I believe to be for the common benefit of all” (Discourses, Pref.; p. 97): despite the apparent nationalism of the last chapter of The Prince, even of that book the author says “my intent is to write something useful to whoever understands it” (Prince, ch. 15; p. 61). Machiavelli’s explicit intention in writing his most famous works is not limited to any one political community—or indeed to any one kind of human being.5 Could Machiavelli, like Socrates, be a philosopher who turned to human life and morality as more important than studies of “nature” more generally? Like Plato or Aristotle, he seems to be concerned with the “good life” and the means to achieve it. If, like Demetrius of Phalerum of the Peripatetic School, Machiavelli seems to focus on political life as the highest practical human goal, this may reflect considerations of the “useful” as distinct from an abstract or disembodied “truth.”6
Second, we need to remember Machiavelli’s classification of the three kinds of human intelligence: “there are three kinds of brains: one that understands by itself; another that discerns what others understand, the third that understands neither by itself nor through others; the first is most excellent, the second excellent, and the third useless” (Prince, ch. 22; p. 92). If Machiavelli claimed to open “a new way,” he must have placed himself in this highest category. And if he claimed to have one of the few human brains “that understands by itself,” there may be profound reasons—beyond Machiavelli’s political fortunes after the fall of the Florentine Republic—for his decision to present his reflections on human nature and nature in a somewhat devious manner.
Although these questions may seem far-fetched, recently published evidence of Machiavelli’s early career gives us reason to challenge the traditional interpretations of The Prince. We now know that Machiavelli was trained as a humanist and, as a young man, personally copied Lucretius’s De rerum natura.7 While at the court of Cesare Borgia in October 1502, he asked his assistant, Biagio Buonaccorsi, to procure a copy of Plutarch’s Lives—a request that was difficult for Buonaccorsi to satisfy.8 While it cannot be said with certainty whether Machiavelli and Leonardo discussed questions concerning the relationship between natural science and philosophy,9 a private letter from Bartolomeo Vespucci, Professor of Astronomy at Padua, indicates that in 1504 Machiavelli had written that he considered the science of astronomy essential for understanding human affairs.10 By 1506, as Machiavelli’s letter to Giovan Battista Soderini shows (see Appendix II.1), he had already outlined his mature understanding of the relationship between the diversity of human natures and fortune. All these details suggest that, before writing The Prince, Machiavelli was concerned with issues that go far beyond the practical politics of sixteenth-century Florence.
I propose, therefore, that we embark on a rereading of The Prince with an openness to three distinct possibilities. First, Machiavelli may write with hidden or esoteric meanings, so that what serious or philosophic readers discover in his works is not evident to the casual reader. Second, Machiavelli may be more interested in what was traditionally called philosophy or theoretical wisdom than has been imagined—an interest which, as I will show, could have been reinforced by the relationship with Leonardo da Vinci discussed in the last chapter.11 Last but not least, Machiavelli’s novelty may concern the relationship between theory and practice rather than details on the domain of either pragmatic political advice or philosophic speculation—and in this regard, we cannot ignore Machiavelli’s own experiences as Second Secretary of the Florentine Republic, especially when they provide concrete information about the meaning of the texts of his work.
To explore these three possibilities with an open mind demands much of the reader. Lest we show ourselves to be “useless,” we should try to show that we are at least of the second category “that discerns what others understand.” To do so, we will need to read more closely than has been the habit of many modern commentators.
Conventional wisdom treats Machiavelli’s The Prince as an astute, cynical, and amoral (if not immoral) guide to the use of power. Any reader can see that, on the surface, this is a reasonable impression. The first question we need to raise, therefore, is whether Machiavelli wrote in a devious or misleading way. Can The Prince be read as a satire on the ambition of rulers?
Serious thinkers have sometimes claimed precisely this. When Rousseau discusses monarchy in The Social Contract, for example, he asserts:
The best kings want to be able to be wicked if it so pleases them, without ceasing to be the masters. . . . This is what Samuel so strongly pointed out to the Hebrews; and what Machiavelli showed with clarity. While pretending to give lessons to kings, he gave great ones to the people. Machiavelli’s The Prince is the book of republicans.12
At this point, Rousseau adds a footnote on his claim that The Prince is a deceptive book:
Machiavelli was an honorable man and a good citizen; but being attached to the Medici household, he was forced, during the oppression of his homeland, to disguise his love of freedom. The choice of his execrable hero is in itself enough to make manifest his hidden intention; and the contrast between the maxims of his book The Prince and those of his Discourses on Titus Livy and his History of Florence shows that this profound political theorist has had only superficial or corrupt readers until now.13
Does the evidence support this interpretation?
Many critics have been hesitant to accept the view that an author has a “secret” (or “esoteric”) meaning, pointing out that such interpretations can subject a text to the whims and biases of the interpreter.14 Caution in this regard is prudent. In general, one should reserve the attribution of a “hidden intention” to works that satisfy three criteria:
The historical and intellectual context should justify the practice of writing in a devious or insincere manner.
There should be hints, in the public writings being considered, of contradictions or confusions that direct a careful reader to the possibility of a hidden meaning.
Correspondence or other information about the author’s private life should indicate an awareness of deceptive writing and, if possible, the intention to practice it.
Or, to put it more simply, we should follow Rousseau’s suggestion that Machiavelli’s own career and “the contrast” between his different works are relevant to an understanding of The Prince.
As chapter one has indicated, rather more is known about Machiavelli’s life and career than about most of the great thinkers of antiquity.15 Born in 1469, he was a young man when Lorenzo the Magnificent, ruler of Florence, died in the fateful year 1492. After the reestablishment of the Florentine Republic and the interlude of “fundamentalist” piety under Savonarola (1494–1498), leadership passed to Piero Soderini, who was elected Gonfalonier for life in 1502. In 1498, Machiavelli was named to the post of Secretary (or Chancellor) to the Second Chancery—and thereafter also was named to the post of Secretary to the Ten of Liberty and Peace (a committee with responsibility for military and foreign affairs). Perhaps more important, Soderini employed the young Niccolò Machiavelli personally on many delicate foreign negotiations, including the missions to France and to the court of Cesare Borgia cited in The Prince.16
In studying Machiavelli’s writings, it is therefore essential to keep in mind that he spent the years from 1498 to 1512 as a public figure, actively engaged in the political life of his native Florence. As a specialist in foreign and military affairs, he was particularly committed to a policy of establishing a native militia, replacing the mercenary troops and condottieri who seemed both unreliable and dangerous to the young republic. And as a committed supporter of Piero Soderini, Machiavelli was perceived as a defender of the republican form of government that replaced the autocratic rule of the Medici family.17
In September 1512, after the citizen’s militia organized by Machiavelli suffered a disastrous military defeat at Prato, Piero Soderini was overthrown and the Medici returned to power. Machiavelli was imprisoned and, suspected of complicity in a plot to restore the republic, tortured. He was then released to his country house (in Sant’ Andrea in Percussina, near San Casciano), required to post a bond of a thousand florins, forbidden either to enter the Palazzo (or seat of government) or to leave the territory of Florence for one year.18 By March 1513, therefore, Machiavelli found himself under something akin to house arrest, under suspicion by the restored Medici rulers of Florence who were dedicated to uprooting memories of the short-lived republic.
In the year 1513, we know from correspondence that Machiavelli continued to think and write about politics. In January 1513, he had written Soderini a long and guarded letter outlining the role of fortune (in terms similar to chapter twenty-five of The Prince), comparing the careers of Hannibal and Scipio (parallel to the comparison in The Prince, chapter seventeen).19 After his imprisonment in February and March, Machiavelli’s friend Vettori, who continued to hold the post of Florentine ambassador to Rome under the Medici, asked his opinion of a truce between Spain and France;20 Machiavelli replied on 20 April, admitting that “although I have sworn neither to think of nor discuss politics,” he would “break my vow” and answer Vettori’s request.21 This correspondence with Vettori continued throughout the year, culminating in a long letter dated 10 December 1513 which has been called “the most famous letter in Italian literature.”22
Machiavelli’s letter to Vettori provides critical evidence about Machiavelli’s life at the time as well as his intentions in writing The Prince. In reading it, however, we must bear in mind that Machiavelli had to consider the possibility that his letter could be intercepted and read (or misread) as a subversive document; indeed, the letter begins with a reference to just such a possibility. Years later, writing the historian Guiccardini, Machiavelli remarked that “for a long time I have not said what I believed, nor do I ever believe what I say, and if indeed sometimes I do happen to tell the truth, I hide it among so many lies that it is hard to find.”23 Even in private correspondence, one cannot always be sure that Machiavelli is simply telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.24
Machiavelli begins his famous letter of 10 December 1513 by acknowledging his friend Vettori’s letter of 23 November.25 After indicating that he had been afraid of being blamed because Vettori’s prior correspondence may have been improperly divulged, Machiavelli goes on to praise Vettori for continuing his ambassadorial functions “orderedly and quietly”:
And because Fortune wants to do everything, she wants us to allow her to do it, to remain quiet and not give trouble, and to await the time when she allows men something to do; and then it will be right for you to give more effort, to watch things more, and for me to leave my villa and say: ‘Here I am.’
While this explicitly indicates that Machiavelli will continue to avoid political activity (which, had the letter been intercepted by the Medici, could hardly have been unwelcome), what is the “something to do” that Fortune will allow? Is it any role in political life, or action associated with republican government?
Machiavelli proceeds to describe his current mode of life and activity for his friend in Rome: “I stay in my villa, and since these last chance events occurred,26 I have not spent, to add them all up, twenty days in Florence.” There follows a long description of “catching thrushes with my own hands” and an account of going “to a wood of mine that I am having cut down,” giving rise to controversies and Machiavelli’s decision not to deliver promised wood to several “citizens.”27 The letter goes on:
When I leave the wood, I go to a spring, and from there to an aviary of mine. I have a book under my arm, Dante or Petrarch, or one of the minor poets like Tibullus, Ovid, and such. I read of their amorous passions and their loves; I remember my own and enjoy myself for a while in this thinking. Then I move on along the road to the inn; I speak with those passing by; I ask them news of their places; I learn various things; and I note the various tastes and different fancies of men. In the meantime comes the hour to dine, when I eat with my company what food this poor villa and tiny patrimony allow. Having eaten, I return to the inn; there is the host, ordinarily a butcher, a miller, two bakers. With them I become a rascal for the whole day, playing at cricca and tric-trac, from which arise a thousand quarrels and countless abuses with insulting words, and most times we are fighting over a penny and yet we can be heard shouting from San Casciano. Thus involved with these vermin I scrape the mold off my brain and I satisfy the malignity of this fate of mine, as I am content to be trampled on this path so as to see if she will be ashamed of it.
After this day of trivial events, Machiavelli turns to serious thought:
When evening has come, I return to my house and go into my study. At the door I take off my clothes of the day, covered with mud and mire, and I put on my regal and courtly garments; and decently reclothed, I enter the ancient courts of ancient men, where, received by them lovingly, I feed on the food that alone is mine and that I was born for. There I am not ashamed to speak with them and to ask them the reason for their actions; and they in their humanity reply to me. And for the space of four hours I feel no boredom, I forget every pain, I do not fear poverty, death does not frighten me. I deliver myself entirely to them.28
As Machiavelli goes on to explain, his nocturnal dialogue with the past bore lasting fruit.
And because Dante says that to have understood without retaining does not make knowledge,29 I have noted what capital I have made from their conversation and have composed a little work De Principatibus (On Principalities) where I delve as deeply as I can into reflections on this subject, debating what a principality is, of what kinds they are, how they are acquired, how they are maintained, why they are lost. And if you have ever been pleased by any of my whimsies,30 this one should not displease you; and to a prince, and especially to a new prince, it should be welcome. So I am addressing it to his Magnificence, Giuliano.31 Filippo Cassavecchia has seen it; he can give you an account in part both of the thing in itself and of the discussions I had with him, although I am all the time fattening and polishing it.
In addition to a vivid image of Machiavelli’s daily life, here we have a specific discussion of his most famous work, albeit with a different title (De Principatibus, or On Principalities, rather than Il Principe as the work is known to us) and a different addressee.32 After describing the work we know as The Prince, Machiavelli turns to Vettori’s invitation to join him in Rome:
You wish, magnificent ambassador, that I leave this life and come to enjoy your life with you. I will do it in any case, but what tempts me now is certain dealings of mine that I will have done in six weeks.33 What makes me be doubtful is that the Soderini are there, whom I would be forced, if I came, to visit and speak with. I should fear that at my return I would not expect to get off at my house, but I would get off at the Bargello,34 for although this state has very great foundations and great security, yet it is new, and because of this suspicious; nor does it lack wiseacres who, to appear like Pagolo Bertini, would let others run up a bill and leave me to think of paying. I beg of you to relieve me of this fear, and then I will come in the time stated to meet you anyway.
I have discussed with Filippo this little work of mine, whether to give it to him or not; and if it is good to give it, whether it would be good for me to take it or send it to you. Not giving it would make me fear that at the least it would not be read by Giuliano and that this Ardinghelli would take for himself the honor of this latest effort of mine.35 The necessity that chases me makes me give it, because I am becoming worn out, and I cannot remain as I am for a long time without becoming despised because of poverty, besides the desire I have that these Medici lords begin to make use of me even if they should begin by making me roll a stone. For if I should not then win them over to me, I should complain of myself; and through this thing, if it were read, one would see that I have neither slept through nor played away the fifteen years I have been at the study of the art of the state. And anyone should be glad to have the service of one who is full of experience at the expense of another. And one should not doubt my faith, because having always observed faith, I ought not now be learning to break it. Whoever has been faithful and good for forty-three years, as I have, ought not to be able to change his nature, and of my faith and goodness my poverty is witness.
This discussion of Machiavelli’s intention in writing The Prince obviously requires some consideration in deciding how to read the book.
The famous letter to Vettori reminds us of a number of things, each of which is germane to the questions with which we began:
In December 1513, Machiavelli still feared a repetition of his imprisonment and torture earlier in the year and, for this reason, did not wish to initiate any political action in his own name. Because Soderini was alive and in Rome, moreover, Machiavelli did not feel he could accept Vettori’s invitation to go there lest he be immediately arrested on his return to Florence. At the time of writing The Prince, Machiavelli had very good reasons to be exceedingly circumspect.
Although Machiavelli disliked his absence from power, and feared the loss of reputation due to poverty, during his evening studies of the ancients, Machiavelli says: “I feel no boredom, I forget every pain, I do not fear poverty, death does not frighten me. I deliver myself entirely to them.” Despite his emphatic preference for the active life of politics, Machiavelli was no stranger to scholarship and knew its unique pleasures.36
Machiavelli sought—and openly said he sought—employment from the Medici. But the letter to Vettori hardly proves that his decision to seek a position was an attempt to exercise power at all costs rather than a device to guarantee his immunity from the “chance events” of torture, imprisonment, and possible death.37 Indeed, Machiavelli’s willingness to accept any position (“even if they should begin by making me roll a stone”) could be interpreted as a tactic of self-defense, designed more to gain “favor” and avoid being “despised” than to exercise power and influence.
Although Machiavelli describes the manuscript as addressed to Giuliano de’ Medici, he explicitly treats the question of whether or not to send it to him as a matter of discussion and prudence. Not only did he discuss the idea with Filippo Cassavecchia and ask Vettori’s advice, but his own justification is external “necessity” (not the logic of his argument).
Machiavelli’s book about “what a principality is, of what kinds they are, how they are acquired, how they are maintained, why they are lost” was originally entitled De Principatibus (On Principalities), a title retained at the head of chapter one of our editions. As we know, the manuscript that was published after Machiavelli’s death38 is called Il Principe or The Prince (with the title in Italian rather than Latin), and is dedicated to Lorenzo de’ Medici39 (rather than to Giuliano). Since Machiavelli seems to have left this work to be published, with some important changes introduced after December 1513,40 his intention in writing cannot be limited to the circumstance of his desire for and need of political employment.
While Machiavelli’s correspondence at the time of writing The Prince and beginning the Discourses does not settle the question of how to interpret his major works, it provides valuable evidence on several critical points. Machiavelli had a self-interest in writing in a devious or deceptive manner.41 And if we can believe his subsequent assertion to Guiccardini, Machiavelli actually admitted to this practice: “if indeed sometimes I do happen to tell the truth, I hide it among so many lies that it is hard to find.” Of the three requisites for discovering a meaning “between the lines” of a serious book, historical evidence provides indications of the first (the possibility was known and there was reason to use it) and the third (the author left some indication in private correspondence that is consistent with the existence of a “hidden intention”). It remains to turn to the final criterion, emphasized by Rousseau: are there contradictions or confusions in Machiavelli’s texts that can only be understood on the assumption that the author was intentionally devious? Do these contradictions justify an interpretation of The Prince that departs sharply from the conventional understanding of Machiavelli as an amoral exponent of power politics and an apologist of the prince’s use of force and deceit?
That The Prince is somehow a deceptive book can be inferred from a number of puzzles. I have noted that, in 1513, Machiavelli himself gave it a different title (On Principalities) which has survived as the inner title, just before chapter one. Other puzzles abound. Why, in a book written in Italian, did the author use Latin chapter headings? Who is meant by the direct addressee (“you”), sometimes given in the singular (“Tu”) and sometimes in the plural (“Voi”)? More broadly, for whom was the book written?
The question of the addressee of The Prince is made explicit by its Dedicatory Letter to Lorenzo de’ Medici, headed in Latin (Nicolaus Maclavellus ad Magnificum Lavrentium Medicem). Since the younger Lorenzo, nephew of Pope Leo X, had died in 1519, why did Machiavelli leave this dedication in the manuscript, and why did his literary heirs publish it when the book finally appeared in 1532? To be sure, Lorenzo’s uncle Giuliano, to whom Machiavelli thought of addressing the manuscript in 1513, died in 1516. This would imply that Machiavelli revised his manuscript between 1516 and 1519, and then left it unchanged during the last nine years of his life.42 Machiavelli does not seem to have changed The Prince after 1520, the date of manuscript copies written by his friend Biagio Buonaccorsi.43 Whatever the reason for changing the addressee from Giuliano to Lorenzo, the meaning of the published work seems somehow related to this dedication.
To resolve the puzzle, it is well to focus on the text with some care. Machiavelli begins the Dedicatory Letter to The Prince by citing conventional proprieties:
It is customary most of the time for those who desire to acquire favor with a Prince to come to meet him with things that they care most for among their own or with things that they see please him most. Thus one sees them many times being presented with horses, arms, cloth of gold, precious stones and similar ornaments worthy of their greatness. Thus, since I desire to offer myself to your Magnificence with some testimony of my homage to you, I have found nothing in my belongings that I care so much for and esteem so greatly as the knowledge of the actions of great men, learned by me from long experience with modern things and a continuous reading of ancient ones. (Prince, Dedicatory Letter; p. 3)
Machiavelli seeks favor with Lorenzo de’ Medici. He follows the custom of offering a prince valued things. But between the two types of gift—those valued by the prince himself (things that “please him”) or those valued by the givers (things the givers “care most for among their own”)—Machiavelli chooses a gift based on his own standards of value (“I have found nothing in my belongings that I care so much for and esteem so greatly”).
Are we to interpret this offer at face value? Rousseau suggests that The Prince be contrasted to the Discourses on Titus Livy, a work which also begins with a dedicatory letter. Because the Discourses seem to be mentioned at the beginning of chapter two of The Prince, and both works were published posthumously, it is not far-fetched to assume that Machiavelli himself wanted us to compare them. That suspicion is underlined by the sharp contrast between the Dedicatory Letters to the two works.
The Discourses are dedicated not to one man, but to two: “Niccolò Machiavelli to Zanobi Buondelmonti and Cosimo Rucellai, Greeting.” In this Dedicatory Letter, Machiavelli quite directly criticizes the practice of dedicating books to a ruler:
when I reflect on the many mistakes I may have made in other circumstances, I know that I have made no mistake at any rate in this, that I have chosen to dedicate these my discourses to you in preference to all others; both because, in doing so, I seem to be showing some gratitude for benefits received, and also because I seem in this to be departing from the usual practice of authors, which has always been to dedicate their works to some prince, and, blinded by ambition and avarice, to praise him for all his virtuous qualities when they ought to have blamed him for all manner of shameful deeds. (Discourses, Dedicatory Letter; pp. 94–95)44
Was the dedication to The Prince merely a “mistake,” due to a moment in which Machiavelli was “blinded by ambition and avarice”? Or are we intended to contrast the two Dedicatory Letters and, thereby, gain a perspective on the devious nature of Machiavelli’s intention?
It might seem that we are intended to treat the Discourses on Titus Livy as Machiavelli’s definitive work: “For in it I have set down all that I know and have learnt from a long experience of, and from constantly reading about, political affairs” (ibid.). In contrast, The Prince is as it were the short course in Machiavelli’s political thought:
I have found nothing in my belongings that I care so much for and esteem so greatly as the knowledge of the actions of great men, learned by me from long experience with modern things and a continuous reading of ancient ones. Having thought out and examined these things with diligence for a long time, and now reduced them to one small volume, I send it to your Magnificence. (Prince, Dedicatory Letter; p. 3)
There is no indication that The Prince is less reliable than the Discourses—merely that it would give Lorenzo “the capacity to be able to understand in a very short time all that I have learned and understood in so many years and with so many hardships and dangers for myself” (ibid.).
In dedicating The Prince to Lorenzo, Machiavelli then refers explicitly to his intention—but does so in a deliberately ambiguous way:
Therefore, your Magnificence, take this small gift in the spirit (animo) with which I send it. If your Magnificence considers and reads it diligently, you will learn from it my extreme desire that you arrive at the greatness that fortune and your other qualities promise you. (Prince, Dedicatory Letter; p. 4)45
But what is “the greatness that fortune” and Lorenzo’s “other qualities promise” at the time Machiavelli is presumed to have written these lines, between 1516 and 1519?46
Few interpreters of The Prince go beyond the surface meaning of Machiavelli’s offer to work for the Medici. But there seems to be some kind of puzzle in the dedication. This puzzle is by no means limited to the contradictory implications of the dedication to the Discourses. On the contrary, one finds even greater difficulties within the text of The Prince itself.
If Machiavelli intended Lorenzo to understand “in a very short time all that I have learned and understood,” then presumably he meant for Lorenzo to understand the dangers of flattery from those who follow the customary behavior of “those who desire to acquire favor with a Prince.” It therefore seems reasonable to consider Machiavelli’s dedication in the light of the discussion of flattery in The Prince (ch. 23).47 In that discussion, Machiavelli points out that every ruler confronts a basic problem because advisors need to know “that they do not offend you in telling you the truth; but when everyone can tell you the truth, they lack reverence for you.”48
The ubiquitous problem of getting good advice can be solved, Machiavelli suggests, by adopting the following strategy:
Therefore, a prudent prince must hold to a third mode, choosing wise men in his state; and only to these should he give freedom to speak the truth to him, and of those things only that he asks about and nothing else. . . . A prince, therefore, should always take counsel, but when he wants, and not when others want it; on the contrary, he should discourage everyone from counseling him about anything unless he asks it of them. (Prince, ch. 23; pp. 94–95)
In two different places in this chapter, Machiavelli emphatically notes that princes should reject unsolicited advice. Yet the Dedicatory Letter—and the book as a whole—offers unsolicited advice. And, as chapter twenty-three of The Prince points out, a prince who would accept such advice “either falls headlong because of flatterers or changes often because of the variability of views, from which a low estimation of him arises” (ibid.).
The teaching of The Prince itself suggests that its Dedicatory Letter is some kind of trap. Were the Medici to give Machiavelli a position of influence, this act itself would contradict the “mode that never fails” in determining “how a prince can know his minister”:
When you see a minister thinking more of himself than of you, and in all actions looking for something useful to himself, one so made will never be a good minister; never will you be able to trust him. (Prince, ch. 22; p. 93)
Machiavelli apparently offers his services because he needs a job; his choice of a gift to please Lorenzo is explicitly based on the standards of the donor, not those of the recipient. If Lorenzo, to whom The Prince is dedicated, had indeed given its author a position as advisor, he would demonstrate that he lacks prudence.
Such a conclusion is important because, as Machiavelli goes on to point out, the relationship between a ruler and his advisors is crucial;
For this is a general rule that never fails: that a prince who is not wise by himself cannot be counseled well, unless indeed by chance he should submit himself to one person alone to govern him in everything, who is a very prudent man. In this case he could well be, but it would not last long because that governor would in a short time take away his state. (Prince, ch. 23; p. 95)49
If the addressee of The Prince accepts Machiavelli’s advice and gives him employment, he will either be badly advised or—having turned all power over to his advisor—lose power to him.
For today’s reader, these contradictions suggest a need to reconsider Machiavelli’s intention. Machiavelli allowed the text of The Prince to circulate among friends and left it to be published posthumously. For us, if not for Lorenzo, the Dedicatory Letter needs to be read as some kind of instruction, rather than as a request for a job that is to be taken literally. What, then, was Machiavelli’s purpose?
The puzzle of Machiavelli’s intentions is clarified by his own statement in the matter. In chapter fifteen of The Prince, he tells us flatly about “my intent.” Although the passage is well known, it bears careful rereading in the light of what has just been noted.
It remains now to see what the modes and government of a prince should be with subjects and with friends. And because I know that many have written of this, I fear that in writing of it again, I may be held presumptuous, especially since in disputing this matter I depart from the orders of others. But since my intent is to write something useful to whoever understands it, it has appeared to me more fitting to go directly to the effectual truth of the thing than to the imagination of it. (p. 61)
Machiavelli’s addressee is “whoever understands” his work. His intention is to be “useful” to such a person. And this utility is directly associated with Machiavelli’s novelty.50
It would seem that Machiavelli did indeed write deviously, and that his deception was somehow related to his innovation. In the Discourses, he claims that “impelled by the natural desire I have always had to labour, regardless of anything, on that which I believe to be for the common benefit of all, I have decided to enter upon a new way, as yet untrodden by anyone else” (Discourses, I, Pref.; p. 97).51 If we credit this bold assertion, Machiavelli’s labors in writing The Prince were also “for the common benefit of all.”
Somehow that common good requires acts of deception (cf. Discourses, II, 13). But was Machiavelli aware of the tradition of writing to deceive? Can we credit him with such “Machiavellian” deviousness? Consider Machiavelli’s famous remark on the distinction between laws (“proper to man”) and force (the characteristic of “beasts”):
it is necessary for a prince to know well how to use the beast and the man. This role was taught covertly to princes by ancient writers, who wrote that Achilles, and many other princes, were given to Chiron the centaur to be raised. To have as teacher a half-beast, half-man means nothing other than that a prince needs to know how to use both natures. (Prince, ch. 18; p. 69)
Machiavelli not only knows about devious or “esoteric” writing; he asserts that “ancient writers” used this technique to teach princes.52 Insofar as his own work is directed to potential or actual rulers, is it impossible that he would teach “covertly”?
Earlier, I suggested three criteria that need to be met before we can say with some plausibility that a writer used the device of indirect or deceptive communication.
First, the historical and social context needs to create a reason for using this method—and, as a former official of the Florentine Republic suspected of seeking the overthrow of the Medici, Machiavelli’s context provided ample enough reason.
Second, the published texts should contain contradictions or puzzles that seem impossible to resolve without concluding that, unless the author was a fool, these passages point to partially hidden meanings—and such puzzles are evident if we contrast the dedication of The Prince with that of the Discourses or with the text of The Prince itself.
And finally, the author should indicate that he is aware of this technique—and, even without knowing his emphatic statement to this effect in his correspondence, Machiavelli’s knowledge of this method is demonstrated by the explicit reference to “covert” writing in ancient thought (Prince, ch. 18).
In reading The Prince, we should indeed take seriously Rousseau’s assertion that Machiavelli has a “hidden intention.”
It follows that Machiavelli’s claim for novelty must also be taken very seriously. But if Machiavelli actually did articulate “a new way, as yet untrodden by anyone” (Discourses, I, Pref.; p. 93), he discovered something in his experience and his studies that was entirely new.53 Machiavelli thus must claim to have a “brain” that “understands by itself”—the highest kind of intelligence, which is “very excellent” (Prince, ch. 22; p. 92). In short, Machiavelli quietly implies that his theory is a rival to anything humans have ever thought, be it in the realm of philosophy as exemplified by Socrates and the traditions elaborated by Plato, Xenophon, and Lucretius, or of religion as exemplified by Jesus and the tradition elaborated by St. Paul, St. Augustine, or St. Thomas Aquinas.
At first, of course, it appears that Machiavelli is only concerned with politics in the narrow sense. But on important occasions, he will explicitly refer to other “philosophers” and “answer” their arguments (e.g., Discourses, II, 5; p. 288). Machiavelli’s hesitancy in talking about the philosophic contemplation he describes so movingly in the letter to Vettori may itself be based on principle, for in the Florentine Histories he speaks of a political and moral cycle of history in which philosophy and letters play a corrupting role:
it has been observed by the prudent that letters come after arms and that, in provinces and cities, captains arise before philosophers. For, as good and ordered armies give birth to victories and victories to quiet, 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. This was best understood by Cato when the philosophers Diogenes and Carneades, sent by Athens as spokesmen to the Senate, came to Rome. When he saw how the Roman youth was beginning to follow them about with admiration, and 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. (Florentine Histories, V, 1; p. 185)
Philosophy—which in Machiavelli’s time included “natural philosophy” or science—is “honorable” but “dangerous,” and should be prohibited in “well-instituted cities.” That Machiavelli is generally silent on his own philosophical or scientific pretensions could, then, be part of a carefully worked out transformation of all prior thought.54
Deceptive or so-called “esoteric” writing might be not only necessary as a means to prevent difficulty with the Medici, but prudent for deeper reasons. Many other philosophers, not to mention some religious traditions, have practiced “covert” instruction when it is assumed that public or open teaching would have negative effects.55 But how is one to know the meaning of a text written in this manner? Isn’t it an invitation to the commentator’s whimsy and self-interest to move away from the plain meaning of the text?
The answer can best be stated by listing some of the means for drafting a written text that is likely to be read by the censors or rulers of a hostile regime (Machiavelli’s situation in Florence when he wrote The Prince). One or more of the following devices are available to get around censorship:
Include many details, especially at the outset of the argument. Censors are easily bored.
Make an orthodox or inoffensive general statement, which you do not believe, then later qualify it with an exception that makes your point. Censors are usually lazy and will not go beyond first impressions; if they do, you always have the excuse of the general statement.
Use words with an unexpected or inverted meaning, much as teenagers call desirable things “terrible” or “awful.” Censors will be confused and not bother to figure out the reason.
Introduce a problem with an ambiguous discussion which is only clarified later; your intended reader will go through the text more than once to be sure your meaning is grasped, whereas the censor is only likely to read through once.
Present allegories or comparisons that have an obvious point and a less visible implication. Better yet, make two different comparisons to the same thing, and leave it to your reader to work out the implications. The censor will never bother.
Contradict yourself from time to time and leave it to the intended reader—who goes through the text more than once—to figure out why you have done so. The censor will conclude you are confused.
To be sure, great care is needed when reading in this manner. For that reason, I will focus specifically on The Prince, in order to show how reading it as a “covert” teaching of “princes” leads to an understanding of Machiavelli’s thought. Other works can then be used to contradict my interpretation. In this way, the proposed reading of The Prince will function as an hypothesis, with the evidence to confirm or disconfirm it being Machiavelli’s other writings and his political experience.
What, then, is the “new way” that led Machiavelli to “depart from the orders of others”? How does Machiavelli’s understanding of human nature, based on “long experience with modern things and a continuous reading of ancient ones” (Prince, Dedicatory Letter; p. 3), differ from the perspective of both Christianity and pagan antiquity? Before we can use Machiavelli as a touchstone for understanding the findings of contemporary science, we need to restate his theories clearly and succinctly. It is to that task that the next chapter is devoted.