‘Virtue Politics’ Review: Of Soulcraft And Statecraft
A Review of James Hankins’s Virtue
Politics (Belknap/Harvard)
For humanists, the
test of legitimacy in government was not simply performance but virtue of
character.
By Samuel Goldman
Dec. 27, 2019 11:12
am ET
What characteristics are necessary for a political career?
How do you recognize an unfit ruler? Should you oppose or try to reform him?
These questions are central to recent debates about liberalism, conservatism
and meritocracy—and perhaps even impeachment.
Yet they are also very old questions. As Harvard professor
James Hankins shows in “Virtue Politics,” a magisterial study of “soulcraft and statecraft,” humanist scholars in the Italian
Renaissance were concerned with many of the same puzzles that obsess us today.
While acknowledging the variety of responses that they offered, Mr. Hankins
focuses on a particular kind of answer. He calls it “virtue
politics”: the attempt to reform civic life by improving the morality of the
ruling elite.
Virtue politics was not invented in the 15th century. As Mr.
Hankins shows, it drew on intellectual currents that extend back to ancient
Greece, classical Rome and the Church Fathers of the early Christian era. In
different ways, Aristotle, Cicero and Augustine all argued that virtue was the
basis of political achievement.
But the central figure in Mr. Hankins’s account is Francesco Petrarca, better known as Petrarch. He is remembered today mostly as a poet and an editor of Latin texts. Mr. Hankins contends that he was also a significant political thinker.
According to Mr. Hankins, Petrarch saw his literary and
scholarly endeavors as a step toward saving Italy—and perhaps all of
Christendom—from misgovernment. Learning to speak and write beautifully was not
simply a cultural achievement but also, he believed, a political necessity.
Borrowing a term from German ethnologist Leo Frobenius, Mr. Hankins describes this enterprise as paideuma—an “intentional form of elite culture,” as
he writes, “that seeks power within a society with the aim of altering the
moral attitudes and behaviors of society’s members, especially its leadership
class.” The humanists’ task was to institutionalize and propagate this paideuma through writing, speaking and teaching.
On the intellectual level, Petrarch and his followers sought
to rescue classical antiquity, especially pagan Rome, from Christians’
historical suspicion. Although the Romans had not known the true God, humanists
argued, their political success was based on their superiority in virtue. When
it came to personal rectitude and public spirit, the Romans often exceeded
ostensible Christians. The humanists had to acknowledge that not all Romans met
this lofty standard. But they adopted Cicero—the statesman, lawyer and
philosopher—as its personification.
As pedagogy, the medieval curriculum emphasized the
comparatively abstract disciplines of philosophy, theology and law. The
humanist paideuma, by contrast, concentrated on the
inculcation of worldly virtue through the study of language, rhetoric and
history. To learn from the Romans, one had to understand them. To understand
them, one had to learn not only to decipher Latin but to think it. The military
theorist Roberto Valturio argued that even soldiers
would benefit from this training.
Mastering Latin—and, by the 15th century, ancient Greek—was
a slow and demanding effort that was practically limited to members of the
upper and middle classes. In principle, however, it was open to anyone with the
ability and will to learn. Against theories of divine right and natural
hierarchy, humanists promoted a social model that might be described as virtue
meritocracy. “True nobility” could be found anywhere, not only among those who
inherited wealth and power.
True nobility was closely related to the humanist conception
of the good government. Unsatisfactory rulers might secure desirable outcomes
from selfish motives. Those with true nobility would pursue the right goals for
the right reasons. In this respect, humanist political thought had a
perfectionist quality. The test of legitimacy was not simply performance, but
good character.
Mr. Hankins shows that the humanists’ obsession with
character explains their surprising indifference to particular
forms of government. If rulers lacked authentic virtue, they believed,
it did not matter what institutions framed their power. Here Mr. Hankins
challenges the claims of scholars like Hans Baron and Quentin Skinner, who have
argued that the humanists developed a “civic republicanism” that preferred
non-monarchical governments characterized by broad citizen participation. But
Mr. Hankins emphasizes that, for the humanists, popular government was no
better than one-man tyranny if the people themselves were corrupt.
Indeed, a ruler of true nobility, in the humanists’ view,
should be cherished even if he came to power in an irregular manner. Despite
their admiration for Cicero, some humanists defended Julius Caesar —who invaded
Italy, against the senate’s order, and ruled as dictator for life. To these
writers, Caesar’s outstanding character and good intentions outweighed his
questionable methods. “Can a man raised to power through his own merits, a man
who showed such a humane spirit, not to his partisans alone but also to his
opponents because they were his fellow citizens—can he rightly be called a
tyrant?” asked the Florentine statesman Coluccio Salutati “I do not see how this can be maintained, unless
indeed we are to pass judgment arbitrarily.”
Such humanist defenses of Caesar’s virtue are superficially similar to Machiavelli’s infamous account of the virtù of a prince—the capacity for amoral calculation that,
in Machiavelli’s view, must guide the effective prince (a generic term that
includes any aspirant to power). Mr. Hankins devotes his last three chapters to
exploring the differences. If Petrarch is the hero of “Virtue Politics,”
Machiavelli is its villain.
Mr. Hankins’s critique of Machiavelli has several elements.
To begin with, he argues that Machiavelli was not much of a scholar. Although
he is credited with having an encyclopedic knowledge of classical texts, Mr.
Hankins suggests that Machiavelli’s library was rather limited and his
knowledge of classical languages less than masterly. That does not necessarily
diminish Machiavelli’s insight, but it does undermine his imposing reputation
as a guide to ancient political thought.
Next, Mr. Hankins chastises Machiavelli for reducing
politics to militarism. The humanists argued that politics was a moral
enterprise and that the study of the humanities could orient inevitable
conflicts toward the common good. By contrast, Machiavelli severed struggles
for power from any guiding purposes. This difference was made explicit by a
famous passage in “The Prince.” According to Machiavelli, “a prince should have
no other object, nor any other thought, nor take anything else as his art but
that of war . . . for that is the only art which is of concern to one who
commands.”
As their defenses of Caesar showed, humanists did not imagine
that politics could be strictly governed by law. But it was Caesar’s goodness,
they argued, that justified his departures from strict legality. Machiavelli
rejected this justification. What was necessary to a successful prince was not
to be good but only to seem good. Machiavelli suggests that a prince can easily
win public approval through the careful management of his image.
Above all, Mr. Hankins charges Machiavelli with replacing
virtue politics with a new science of institutions. Especially in his
“Discourses on Livy,” Machiavelli attributes Roman greatness to the role of
tribunes and other such devices and to certain legal procedures—not to moral
superiority.
In this respect, Machiavelli prefigures our current
predicament. The Renaissance tradition remained influential well into modern
times. Particularly in New England, humanist arguments about virtue were often
blended with Protestant theology in an amalgam that historian Mark Noll calls
“Christian republicanism.” John Adams believed Petrarch showed that “tyranny
can scarcely be practiced upon a virtuous and wise people.”
Yet virtue politics was eclipsed by modern
constitutionalism. In their emphasis on the separation of powers, Locke and
Montesquieu and the other Enlightenment philosophers whose ideas inspired the
American Founders shared Machiavelli’s doubts about the sufficiency of virtue.
English scholars like Edward Coke and William Blackstone also promoted a
greater appreciation for the role of law. We can see the legacy of this shift in
the ambiguity of the impeachment process, which appeals both to virtue and to
legality. Should Congress remove a president if he is deemed unfit for office
or only if he has committed a crime? The humanists and Machiavelli might give
different answers.
The Renaissance humanists insisted that history is valuable
because it offers lessons for the present. Although Mr. Hankins’s purpose is
primarily scholarly, it is not unreasonable to ask how we might improve
ourselves by learning from the history that he presents.
First, “Virtue Politics” contains an implicit argument for
the beleaguered humanities. By showing how thoughtful people at a very
different place and time responded to some of the same questions that plague
us, it extends the horizon of our own moral imagination. The dominant motif of
21st-century culture is exhaustion. We feel constrained to choose from a
shrinking range of ethical and political possibilities that seem to offer ever
diminishing returns.
Mr. Hankins doesn’t suggest that we don the garments of the
Renaissance, as some over-enthusiastic humanists tried to make themselves into
ersatz Romans. But he does show how the study of the past, of dead languages
and of unfamiliar texts can enrich the present by disclosing unfamiliar
possibilities and appealing models for our own thought and action. This is a
far more plausible argument for majoring in, say, history than implausible
claims about job skills or a reductive political agenda.
Second, Mr. Hankins makes an explicit plea to the modern
successors of the elite that the humanists tried to cultivate. Those who enjoy
cultural or political influence should consider carefully whether they are
worthy of such power. Modern meritocracy assures us that we deserve whatever
success or failure we experience. Virtue meritocracy holds us to a higher
standard.
—Mr. Goldman is an associate professor of political
science at George Washington University and literary editor of Modern Age: A
Conservative Quarterly.