So far, we have considered the prince as a moral and collective person,
unified by the force of the laws, and the depositary in the State of the
executive power. We have now to consider this power when it is gathered
together into the hands of a natural person, a real man, who alone has
the right to dispose of it in accordance with the laws. Such a person is
called a monarch or king.
In contrast with other forms of administration, in which a collective
being stands for an individual, in this form an individual stands for a
collective being; so that the moral unity that constitutes the prince is
at the same time a physical unity, and all the qualities, which in the
other case are only with difficulty brought together by the law, are
found naturally united.
Thus the will of the people, the will of the prince, the public force of
the State, and the particular force of the government, all answer to a
single motive power; all the springs of the machine are in the same
hands, the whole moves towards the same end; there are no conflicting
movements to cancel one another, and no kind of constitution can be
imagined in which a less amount of effort produces a more considerable
amount of action. Archimedes, seated quietly on the bank and easily
drawing a great vessel afloat, stands to my mind for a skilful monarch,
governing vast states from his study, and moving everything while he
seems himself unmoved.
But if no government is more vigorous than this, there is also none in
which the particular will holds more sway and rules the rest more
easily. Everything moves towards the same end indeed, but this end is by
no means that of the public happiness, and even the force of the
administration constantly shows itself prejudicial to the State.
Kings desire to be absolute, and men are always crying out to them from
afar that the best means of being so is to get themselves loved by their
people. This precept is all very well, and even in some respects very
true. Unfortunately, it will always be derided at court. The power which
comes of a people's love is no doubt the greatest; but it is precarious
and conditional, and princes will never rest content with it. The best
kings desire to be in a position to be wicked, if they please, without
forfeiting their mastery: political sermonisers may tell them to their
hearts' content that, the people's strength being their own, their first
interest is that the people should be prosperous, numerous and
formidable; they are well aware that this is untrue. Their first
personal interest is that the people should be weak, wretched, and
unable to resist them. I admit that, provided the subjects remained
always in submission, the prince's interest would indeed be that it
should be powerful, in order that its power, being his own, might make
him formidable to his neighbours; but, this interest being merely
secondary and subordinate, and strength being incompatible with
submission, princes naturally give the preference always to the
principle that is more to their immediate advantage. This is what Samuel
put strongly before the Hebrews, and what Machiavelli has clearly shown.
He professed to teach kings; but it was the people he really taught. His
Prince is the book of Republicans.
We found, on general grounds, that monarchy is suitable only for great
States, and this is confirmed when we examine it in itself. The more
numerous the public administration, the smaller becomes the relation
between the prince and the subjects, and the nearer it comes to
equality, so that in democracy the ratio is unity, or absolute equality.
Again, as the government is restricted in numbers the ratio increases
and reaches its maximum when the government is in the hands of a single
person. There is then too great a distance between prince and people,
and the State lacks a bond of union. To form such a bond, there must be
intermediate orders, and princes, personages and nobility to compose
them. But no such things suit a small State, to which all class
differences mean ruin.
If, however, it is hard for a great State to be well governed, it is
much harder for it to be so by a single man; and every one knows what
happens when kings substitute others for themselves.
An essential and inevitable defect, which will always rank monarchical below the republican government, is that in a republic the public voice hardly ever raises to the highest positions men who are not enlightened and capable, and such as to fill them with honour; while in monarchies those who rise to the top are most often merely petty blunderers, petty swindlers, and petty intriguers, whose petty talents cause them to get into the highest positions at Court, but, as soon as they have got there, serve only to make their ineptitude clear to the public. The people is far less often mistaken in its choice than the prince; and a man of real worth among the king's ministers is almost as rare as a fool at the head of a republican government. Thus, when, by some fortunate chance, one of these born governors takes the helm of State in some monarchy that has been nearly overwhelmed by swarms of "gentlemanly" administrators, there is nothing but amazement at the resources he discovers, and his coming marks an era in his country's history.
For a monarchical State to have a chance of being well governed, its population and extent must be proportionate to the abilities of its governor. It is easier to conquer than to rule. With a long enough lever, the world could be moved with a single finger; to sustain it needs the shoulders of Hercules. However small a State may be, the prince is hardly ever big enough for it. When, on the other hand, it happens that the State is too small for its ruler, in these rare cases too it is ill governed, because the ruler, constantly pursuing his great designs, forgets the interests of the people, and makes it no less wretched by misusing the talents he has, than a ruler of less capacity would make it for want of those he had not. A kingdom should, so to
speak, expand or contract with each reign, according to the prince's capabilities; but, the abilities of a senate being more constant in quantity, the State can then have permanent frontiers without the administration suffering.
The disadvantage that is most felt in monarchical government is the want of the continuous succession which, in both the other forms, provides an unbroken bond of union. When one king dies, another is needed; elections leave dangerous intervals and are full of storms; and unless the citizens are disinterested and upright to a degree which very seldom goes with this kind of government, intrigue and corruption abound. He to
whom the State has sold itself can hardly help selling it in his turn and repaying himself, at the expense of the weak, the money the powerful have wrung from him. Under such an administration, venality sooner or later spreads through every part, and peace so enjoyed under a king is worse than the disorders of an interregnum.
What has been done to prevent these evils? Crowns have been made hereditary in certain families, and an order of succession has been set up, to prevent disputes from arising on the death of kings. That is to say, the disadvantages of regency have been put in place of those of election, apparent tranquillity has been preferred to wise administration, and men have chosen rather to risk having children, monstrosities, or imbeciles as rulers to having disputes over the choice of good kings. It has not been taken into account that, in so exposing ourselves to the risks this possibility entails, we are setting almost all the chances against us. There was sound sense in what the younger Dionysius said to his father, who reproached him for doing some shameful deed by asking, "Did I set you the example?" "No," answered his son, "but your father was not king."
Everything conspires to take away from a man who is set in authority over others the sense of justice and reason. Much trouble, we are told, is taken to teach young princes the art of reigning; but their education seems to do them no good. It would be better to begin by teaching them the art of obeying. The greatest kings whose praises history tells were not brought up to reign: reigning is a science we are never so far from possessing as when we have learnt too much of it, and one we acquire better by obeying than by commanding. "Nam utilissimus idem ac brevissimus bonarum malarumque rerum delectus cogitare quid aut nolueris sub alio principe, aut volueris."
One result of this lack of coherence is the inconstancy of royal government, which, regulated now on one scheme and now on another, according to the character of the reigning prince or those who reign for him, cannot for long have a fixed object or a consistent policy -- and this variability, not found in the other forms of government, where the prince is always the same, causes the State to be always shifting from principle to principle and from project to project. Thus we may say that generally, if a court is more subtle in intrigue, there is more wisdom in a senate, and Republics advance towards their ends by more consistent and better considered policies; while every revolution in a royal ministry creates a revolution in the State; for the principle common to all ministers and nearly all kings is to do in every respect the reverse of what was done by their predecessors.
This incoherence further clears up a sophism that is very familiar to royalist political writers; not only is civil government likened to domestic government, and the prince to the father of a family -- this error has already been refuted -- but the prince is also freely credited with all the virtues he ought to possess, and is supposed to be always what he should be. This supposition once made, royal government is clearly preferable to all others, because it is incontestably the strongest, and, to be the best also, wants only a corporate will more in conformity with the general will.
But if, according to Plato, the "king by nature" is such a rarity, how often will nature and fortune conspire to give him a crown? And, if royal education necessarily corrupts those who receive it, what is to be hoped from a series of men brought up to reign? It is, then, wanton self-deception to confuse royal government with government by a good king. To see such government as it is in itself, we must consider it as it is under princes who are incompetent or wicked: for either they will come to the throne wicked or incompetent, or the throne will make them so.
These difficulties have not escaped our writers, who, all the same, are not troubled by them. The remedy, they say, is to obey without a murmur: God sends bad kings in His wrath, and they must be borne as the scourges of Heaven. Such talk is doubtless edifying; but it would be more in place in a pulpit than in a political book. What are we to think of a doctor who promises miracles, and whose whole art is to exhort the sufferer to patience? We know for ourselves that we must put up with a bad government when it is there; the question is how to find a good one.