Three Myths about Machiavelli: Or, Why Does Everyone Think He's Such a Meanie?

MYTH 1: The Prince is a Guidebook for Tyrants.

When Machiavelli sat down to write his little primer on politics, he couldn’t have known or even imagined that it would become the most infamous political tract of all time, one that would, in one way or another, influence some of the greatest political thinkers of all time, from Thomas Hobbes, John Locke, David Hume, and Montisiqueu to James Madison, Alexander Hamilton, and John Adams. Instead, he intended it to be a sort of glorified job application in which he sought to dazzle and impress the Medici princes who held power in Florence with the vast knowledge he had acquired through years of experience and study.

In his dedicatory letter to Lorenzo de’Medici, he writes:

Those who desire to win the favor of princes generally endeavor to do so by offering them those things which they themselves prize most, or such as they observe the prince to delight in most. Thence it is that princes have very often presented to them horses, arms, cloth of gold, precious stones, and similar ornaments worthy of their greatness. Wishing now myself to offer to your Magnificence some proof of my devotion, I have found nothing amongst all I possess that I hold more dear or esteem more highly than the knowledge of the actions of great men, which I have acquired by long experience of modern affairs and a continued study of ancient history.

His overtures, however, went unanswered and it’s not certain if Lorenzo even bothered to read his little gift.

Nevertheless, The Prince addressed an immediate crisis that Machiavelli had seen with his own eyes – the disunity and ruin of Italy – and was meant to be a kind of "how to" book, a pragmatic master plan, a pithy and pungent no-hold-barred call to action for a cunning and ruthless new ruler endowed with the ambition to create a strong, unified state, one that – and this is important – is “distinguished from tyranny by the fact that it serves what Machiavelli calls the ‘common good.’" And by that term he has in mind, according to historian Paul Rahe, “war, conquest, and empire aimed at satisfying at the expense of outsiders the ambitions of the citizens and their longing for power, glory and wealth.”

His republicanism, as Rahe explains:

inflames appetite; it sanctions and encourages licentiousness; and then, by means of laws and practices...it orders and channels appetite in such a way as to sustain liberty and encourage expansion.

Bottom line: Machiavelli made it clear throughout his career that he hated tyrannies, and so for this and other reasons, it seems safe to say that he didn’t intend his little masterpiece to be a guidebook for tyrants.

MYTH 2: The Ends Justify the Means

Machiavelli didn’t actually write this infamous phrase in The Prince. What he wrote was more along the lines of: "in considering the actions of men...one must consider the final result." That’s not to say, however, that he wasn’t concerned with ends and means. In his Discourses on Livy, a longer and more thoughtful book, he writes, “while the act accuses him, the result excuses him, and when the result is good, like that of Romulus, it will always excuse him, because one should reproach a man who is violent in order to ruin things, not one who is so in order to set them aright.”

That’s a little arcane, I know. But Machiavelli’s referring here to Romulus' murder of his brother Remus, an act that, according to mythology, led to the founding of the ancient city of Rome. So what’s the difference between justifying such an act and excusing it? Well, according to historian Peter Bandanella:

Machiavelli seems willing to excuse some shocking acts (such as the murder of Remus by Romulus) if the deed is done for an extremely important and moral cause (in this case, the foundation of the city of Rome, and implicitly its empire). To justify such an action as the killing of a brother means to render such an action just, and Machiavelli certainly does not believe that what Romulus did was just. But he is willing, in this particular and limited case, to excuse what Romulus did, not because it was just but because excusing an action means to recognize that an action is wrong but was committed under extraordinary circumstances that attenuate its wrongness.

In other words, justifying such an act assumes that no moral wrong was committed whereas excusing it concedes that a wrong was committed but its wrongness is attenuated or “excused” by the greater good or “end” that is served. Either way, the point remains that Machiavelli never wrote that phrase about the ends justifying the means to which he partly owes his sinister reputation.

MYTH 3: Machiavelli was a Meanie.

Machiavelli’s personal letters contain some of his most beautiful writing and reveal him as a loving father, loyal friend, and deeply thoughtful, sensitive man. (Of course, some of his letters are quite lurid but that’s a story for another day.)

In any event, in a letter to his son Guido, Machiavelli discusses the problem posed by a mad mule. “Since the young mule has gone mad,” he writes, “it must be treated just the reverse of the way crazy people are, for they are tied up, and I want you to let it loose...take off its bridle and halter and let it go wherever it likes...The village is big and the beast is small; it can do no one any harm.”

Here again, we see that there is more to Machiavelli than his brutal realism. And by that I mean that if he was as hard-hearted as his critics portray him to be, he would’ve instructed his son to simply destroy the poor beast, don’t ya think? Either way, the point remains that Machiavelli wasn’t a meanie. In fact, when it came to his family, friends, and even a mad mule, he could be, and probably often was, a total softie!

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Jack Nicholson, Good Laws Follow From Good Arms, and Machiavelli's Concept of Virtue

Directly related to Machiavelli’s concept that “good laws follow from good arms” is the notion that military and civilian life need not be in opposition. “All that men cherish — art, science, religion, and civic order — depends upon the security provided by military might,” historian Neal Wood explains in his Introduction to Machiavelli’s The Art of War. And laws "no matter how well-designed, are of little value in safeguarding internal order unless the military establishment is sufficient to protect a community from foreign aggression.

This point in contemporary American popular culture is precisely what Jack Nicholson’s (militaristic) character is driving at in the climactic trial scene in A Few Good Men when he chastises Tom Cruise’s (legalistic) character and dramatically proclaims:

Son, we live in a world that has walls, and those walls have to be guarded by men with guns…You don't want the truth because deep down in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me on that wall, you need me on that wall. We use words like honor, code, loyalty. We use these words as the backbone of a life spent defending something. You use them as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom that I provide, then questions the manner in which I provide it. I would rather you just said thank you, and went on your way, Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a weapon, and stand a post.

Here, in stark cinematic relief, is Machiavelli’s precept that good laws follow from good arms. Not the other way around. But Machiavelli, as always, goes further. Turning conventional morality on its head, he argues, as Wood tells us, that that a well-ordered militia

should have a primary integrating and stabilizing function in internal affairs. Along with family upbringing and religion, the military training received by the citizen who actively participates in a militia is fundamental to civic education…Respect for law and authority, a spirit of self-sacrifice, and exceptional personal courage were other qualities acquired from the common military experience.

And this is where Machiavelli’s concept of virtù comes into play. Although “virtú” sounds a lot like “virtue” the two terms don’t mean the same thing. For Machiavelli, virtú is the essential quality of political and military success. In particular, the concept entails the idea of “tremendous force of will and inner strength that enable men to overcome the most recalcitrant opposition” and to endure the capricious and disastrous malice of fate. Among the personal attributes included in his notion of virtù, then, are boldness, bravery, flexibility, resolution, foresight, action, and decisiveness.

Reasoning by analogy, it’s not too much to say that the very same qualities that are necessary for political and military success also apply to parenting.

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On Parenting, Politics, and Machiavelli's Intent in Writing "The Prince"

SOME SCHOLARS argue that Machiavelli's intent in writing The Prince was driven by his desire to "trap" Lorenzo de’Medici by offering carefully crafted advice designed to undo the ruler if taken seriously and followed. Others claim that it's a “cautionary tale" intended to "warn men of what tyrants could be and do.” Still others posit that Machiavelli was a supremely passionate and pragmatic patriot who loved his city more than his own soul. And others still yet think that the author of The Prince wrote a satire for "he surely could not have literally meant what he wrote.”

Despite these benign scholarly interpretations, Machiavelli’s name today is a byword for treachery, mendacity, and a ruthless disregard for moral standards. The Oxford Dictionary defines a “Machiavellian” as an outrageously cunning and unscrupulous schemer. The term is also used to describe a personality characterized by dishonesty, cynicism, and manipulation -- all of which, though understandable, don’t fully or fairly represent who Machiavelli was as a man or what his intent was in writing The Prince. So, for the sake of debate, let me ask: to what, precisely, does Machiavelli owe his sinister reputation?

To this, you might cite such maxims as: If you must commit a crime do not advertise it beforehand since otherwise your enemies may destroy you before you destroy them. Men should either be caressed or annihilated. A wise ruler cannot and should not keep his word when it would be to his disadvantage. It is better to be feared than loved. And that infamous phrase that has been grossly mistranslated for centuries: The ends justify the means.

And you’re right: these and other similarly shocking statements help explain how Machiavelli earned his sinister reputation. But they also help prove the point that for some five hundred years this guy has gotten a bad rap. Why? Because they all have one thing in common: “they’ll all designed,” as Isaiah Berlin observed, “to create or resurrect or maintain an order that will satisfy what the author conceives as men’s most permanent interests." And,” Berlin adds, the “end is always the same: a state conceived after the analogy of Periclean Athens, or Sparta, but above all the Roman Republic.” Such an end, then, which men naturally desire, “excuses” any means.

So what does this have to do with parenting? Quite a bit, I would submit, because when it comes to imposing order and stability in our homes and ensuring the happiness and well-being of our subjects the achievement of this "end" justifies or excuses any means.

Let me back this up with an example. Say your little prince or princess wakes up with the flu. Your ends, then, is caring for your sick child, right? But here's the thing: you’ve got to go to work and you’re out of vacation days. So what do you do? Well, some moms might call in and say that they're sick in order to stay home with their child. Is it morally right to tell this little lie? No. But if in judging the means (deceit) you look only at the ends (a well-cared for child), then I would submit, and I think other moms might agree, it’s excusable. Right?

FAST FACT: Machiavelli never actually wrote "the ends justify the means" in The Prince. What he wrote was more along the lines of: "in considering the actions of men...one must consider the final result."

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My Machiavellian Moment: Or, Why I Ever Thought This Experiment Would Be a Good Idea



It was in Southern California, the early years of the twenty-first century, and I was facing an intense moment of crisis. Newly remarried, my husband Eric and I had moved in together with our kids and were trying to blend our family. From the beginning, it was total chaos. Not only had we not set any ground rules for trying to govern our family, we hadn’t even established any ground rules for our marriage.

I know. Great plan, right? So, somehow (I’m still not quite sure how it happened) virtually all of the household chores fell by default to me. This included all the grocery shopping, the cooking and cleaning, the drop-offs and pick-ups from preschool, and all the car-pooling, bathing, bill-paying, laundry, and diaper-changing.

At the same time, I was trying to finish the dissertation I was writing as the final requirement for my Ph.D. in history at UC Berkeley, and I had just started a demanding new full-time job writing legal briefs from home.

All of which meant that I was trapped (read: imprisoned!) inside for days at a time with my four rambunctious young kids whose constant bickering was driving me nuts.

Oh, did I skip that part? Four children. Under the age of eight.

Don’t get me wrong: I love my kids dearly and would walk to the far ends of Dante’s Nine Circles of Hell and back on their behalf. But they also have the uncanny ability to drive me to the brink of insanity.

At six, Teddy, my oldest and most independent if sensitive daughter, would sometimes mimic me by screaming at her siblings when they irritated her with their silly childhood pranks. "Stop following me! Leave me alone! I can’t take it anymore!" she’d howl, as they giggled while trying to cuddle up next to her on the couch.

Complicating matters was the fact that I share custody of Teddy with my ex-husband Paul. He hasn’t remarried and doesn’t have any other kids, which means that he can shower his undivided attention and affection on her in a way that I never can. Plus, whenever she stays with him, his peaceful well-ordered home is her own little kingdom, where she can reign as she sees fit without so much as a hint of internal subversion or opposition. No one sneaks into her room to steal her beloved white furless stuffed kitten (more about that disaster later). No one rifles through her backpack and tears up her carefully completed homework (more on that epic battle later, too).

Which brings me to my then-three-and-a-half-year-old-daughter Katie. Katie has Down syndrome and is happiness personified. But she can also be infuriatingly stubborn and defiant. Some of her defiance was actually quite impressive in terms of originality, concept, execution, and the sheer creative-destructiveness of it. And had she been performing in some sort of early-childhood-drive-your-mommy-totally-insane-competition, I would’ve given her a perfect 10. A virtual gold-medal-winner in insubordination.

Katie is also an accomplished escape artist (more on that little trick later, too). Whenever I took my eyes off her to, say, take a quick two-minute shower or search for my cell phone that she had turned off and surreptitiously hidden under the sofa cushions, she’d spring like a fox into action and find something even more cunning and crafty to do.

Meanwhile, her trusty co-conspirator was her younger brother Trevor, who was firmly entrenched in the midst of his Terrible Twos and had a tendency to throw earth-shattering tantrums whenever our cat Lucky managed to escape from his grasp (or he otherwise didn’t get exactly what he wanted and exactly when he wanted it).

These behaviors weren’t sufficient to trigger a maternal breakdown, but, in the aggregate, they made me resent motherhood and question my fitness as a parent.

“I'm a terrible mother," I'd mutter to myself as I changed yet another diaper and dreamed of the day they were all safely away at college. Then I'd feel guilty for wishing their childhood away.

Still, I desperately wanted to mold them into less irritating little creatures whose constant bickering didn't drive me to drink, who didn't suck every ounce of energy out of me with their constant needs, who were more obedient little people who would quickly and predictably submit to my parental commands.

So, like millions of other modern moms, I ignored centuries of wise advice and tried to change them—by yelling, nagging, or ignoring them. This, of course, only made their behavior worse. They'd argue a little louder, slam doors harder, and leave dirty glasses and plates on the table with greater frequency.

One night, after washing the dishes and tucking our kids into bed, I talked to my husband about the mind-numbingly tedious and oppressively isolating tyranny of motherhood. He didn't understand what I was complaining about and said that staying home all day sounded “great” to him.

“Why don’t you take the kids to the park if you’re going stir crazy in the house?” he helpfully suggested one cold rainy day.

“The park?” I said sharply. “Why don’t YOU take them to the park?”

After a heated exchange, Eric made a hasty retreat to our bedroom and turned on the TV as I stomped off to my office. Too exhausted to work, I sat at my desk and stared at a dusty old shelf of books. It was practically buckling under the weight of dozens and dozens of volumes on history and literature and philosophy titles that were piled up high upon one another in no particular order of importance.

“Even my bookshelf’s a mess,” I thought.

And, as I began straightening it, an old copy of The Prince caught my eye. You remember The Prince, right? Maybe you read it in high school or college, like I did. Maybe it’s even moldering away on some dusty old shelf in your basement or study, too. I’d probably cast my glance over that bookshelf a thousand times over the last few years, but this time this particular volume caught my eye.

Pulling it from the shelf, I studied its cover – a portrait of Niccolo Machiavelli dressed in his elegant robes of office. His intelligent, determined eyes stared out humbly at me; his thin lips turned up in a slight knowing smile; his stance calm, relaxed, powerful, and confident—everything that I was not at that particular point in my life.

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On Machiavelli, Justin Bieber, and George Clooney

So you might not think that Machiavelli, Justin Bieber, and George Clooney would ever be mentioned in the same book but they are in Machiavelli for Moms, along with many others, including:

Aristotle, Francis Bacon, Cesare Borgia, Joseph Campbell, Johnnie Cochran, Walt Disney, Albert Einstein, Jim Hensen, Harry Houdini, Thomas Jefferson, Steve Jobs, Julius Caesar, Abraham Lincoln, Vince Lombardy, Steve Martin, John Quincy Adams, Lorenzo de'Medici, and James Madison.

And that's not all. Also mentioned are Cicero, Thucydides, Richard Nixon, Steve Martin, Gene Wilder, Erma Bombeck, Dr. Spock, Emile Zola, Sir Issac Newton and Machiavelli's literary hero, Dante!

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Machiavelli for Moms Arrives on April 9, 2013



An enlightening parenting manifesto based on the tongue-in-cheek premise that the same strategies of warfare and statecraft that Machiavelli prescribed in his masterpiece, The Prince, can be successfully applied to child-rearing. To learn more click here!