The Overseer (71 page)

 

 

 

 

For most observers of states, there seem but two choices in sovereignty. Either one man must rule on his own or there must be division among many. In the first case, birthright, victory, or usurpation gives authority its force; in the latter, legislation institutes a sovereign body to act as a collective. The Empire of Rome under the Emperors and the Republic illustrates well the distinctions between the two forms.

But men are fools who choose only from the choices they are given. In truth, sovereignty is nothing more than a courtier’s word for power, and it is unwise indeed for those who wield such power to claim that they know how to limit it. Sovereignty is neither the handmaid of the virtuous or crafty prince nor the entitlement of a justly formed body of lawmakers. It is a prize to be won and ridden; ridden by those who can at one moment exert a princely autonomy and at the next appear models of republican virtue. To choose to rule by one form of sovereignty is to lose sight of sovereignty’s caprice, its whim. Power seeks not those who hope to tame it. Power clings to those who recognize its discord and who can turn that discord to dominance.

 

If the nature of sovereignty is as I describe, I shall have no easy task giving examples of its proper use. For I would claim that none to this point in the long history of men’s affairs has dared to recognize the true nature of such power. And thus none have put it to practice. I can offer no gripping tales of deceit and cunning, no moral stories of compassion to illustrate to the full this unleashed and changeable power. In that respect, Messer Niccolò’s Prince shows a greater reverence for the past than do my few pages.

Yet history is of little concern to men with vision. That states have risen and fallen, have sired great leaders and vicious tyrants, in no way grants that past a wisdom in the practice of politics today. No doubt some men of learning will say that I am the fool; that those who fail to see in history their own future have only themselves to blame for untold misery. Perhaps. But I would answer that these socalled scholars do little more than find solace in any number of outmoded stratagems that promise order in a cyclical process of political life. Polybius’ is certainly the most frequently evoked—that from Kingship stems Aristocracy, from Aristocracy Oligarchy, from Oligarchy Democracy, Democracy Tyranny, and from Tyranny Kingship once again.

If only the ways of politics were so simple, so well defined, so easily arranged as these great men would have us believe. Then, perhaps, the past would truly stand as a prescient guide to all possible occurrences in the governing of men and states. But such is not the case, nor is it likely to be so. Power is like a restless child who does not wear easily the clothes of the democrat or the oligarch. He pulls at the sleeves, rips at the cuffs, struggles to make the cloth conform to his measurements. Nor is the child likely to abide the constraints of one single-minded course. Rather, he chooses the democrat’s program in the morning, that of the oligarch in the afternoon, and the tyrant’s in the evening. Consistency is no friend of power (although the appearance of it is surely essential). Power must set its own course and wear the different suits as it fancies.

It follows, then, that power cannot set its goal on the meager conquest of one city, one land, one country. History is a pitiful tale of men’s provincial view of their own capacity. Too many princes, tyrants, and even religious Fathers, have quenched their thirst with a drink from a small pond when there are oceans to be swallowed. Security—the safety of small pieces of territory, the struggles of an Emperor, a Florentine, or even a Pope—is a minor concern when compared to the larger goal of this ill-dressed, ill-tempered child. He takes all cities, all lands, all countries as his domain, as his birthright. And the men who ride him with reverence and boldness understand that his way is the only way to true stability.

I write not for those who wish to remain mired in the false dream of a classical ideal and who are content to travel in circles rather than upward toward the mountaintop. For such as these: leave off now and waste no more time with this book. There are small ponds aplenty; you may drink from them in false security until the tide from the deep washes you away. The counsel set down here will only anger and arouse you because it will defy your complacence. Pray, lay the book down before it becomes too heavy in your hands.

For those daring enough to read on, however, I shall now begin to dig deeper into the mysteries of our theme. Be warned. There will be no place along the way for turning back.

 

Stability of the state is the aim of every leader, and, except for the inept, longevity as well. There are three ways by which long-lasting stability may be achieved: first, by rigorous isolation; next, by the accumulation of alliances and friendships; and third, by continued expansion through the arts of aggression and deception.

The first of these may prove useful in providing stability for a time, but it cannot maintain the state’s well-being for any durable period. This is true for three reasons. First, states that practice isolation are built on fear, fear of external force and interference. No government remains long that takes fear as its bedrock. Second, lands and resources are limited within a single state. Without trade, no state can survive, and trade is anathema to those who choose isolation. Third, only the wretched state, which decays from its own corruption, avoids the aggression of others. The prosperous state, even if built in isolation, becomes the prey of those hungry to possess it. Then the state must either lie down before its conqueror or enter the fray. As men in general seek war, so there is little hope that they will remain in isolation long.

Melos was a fine example of a state too eager to maintain its isolation and, because of that shortsightedness, fell prey to the ravages of an Athenian leviathan. An island of importance to both Sparta and Athens, Melos contented itself with neutrality during the first fifteen years of the Peloponnesian War. And so it prospered. But no prize sits long unobserved. (If only the small island had cultivated its wretchedness, then perhaps it would have escaped the greedy Athenian eye! But such is not the way in statecraft.) Athens demanded tribute, the Melians sought mediation, and soon the once proud island was brought to ruin in death and slavery. No state is an island, whether surrounded by waters or not. And no people may rely solely on the sweet words of politic men to save them. In short, isolation is but an invitation to slavery.

The second path to stability relies on the good intentions of all states; that each honors its word and abides by the agreements laid down in a few pieces of paper. Why do I say that all must be virtuous? Because if even one state chooses to play the rascal, then all others are in jeopardy. And because it is difficult, if not impossible, to determine the future attitude of each state, it is equally impossible to extend trust to any such states over a long time.

It may be true, however, that a group of states could arrive at a pact so as to protect themselves from the one miscreant who threatens the overall peace. The most powerful of recent memory was that which united the five great states of Italy. Each, for a time, laid aside their petty disputes, eager for the rewards their Treaty of Lodi could bring them. Soon, however, Lodovico Sforza saw the gains to be won for his own Milan by inviting Charles of France to Italy. And so ended the temporary friendships, proving that such alliances help little the cause of long-lasting stability. The momentary success of the treaty was due more to the chance concurrence of
self-interest
among the five states than to the nature of the treaty itself. Private interests ultimately tear such treaties apart. Thus we find that while friendships and alliances are pleasant things, they do not reflect the deeper parts of men’s souls.

 

Thus, neither fear nor friendship can lead to long-lasting stability. Men are anxious animals who crave change and challenge as surely as they crave bread. They are not content to work so that things remain as they are. Isolation and alliance rely on such meekness. The only
alternative
is to feed the human desire to move forward, the need to assert one will over another. The longevity of any state thus rests on its ability to cater to the aggressive desires of its people. Stability is no companion of tranquillity.

Any student of human nature will see in the preceding lines a prescription for self-indulgence that, to some degree, may lead to happiness. But the shrewder observer will ask how such practice can hope to achieve stability within a state. Allowing a mob to light upon policy based on whim is surely the quickest way to anarchy. We are forced to admit that, while aggression is vital to longevity, the vast majority of men are unable to see how to put this power to proper use. Men are dim-witted, gullible creatures who are as likely to follow a Saint as a serpent. They can be coddled and flattered, bullied and beaten, and, for a time, will go where they are told.