The Idea of Enlightenment: A Postmortem Study 9781442675957

Table of contents :
Contents
Preface
PART ONE. The Collapse of the Modern Enlightenment
Chapter 1. The Contemporary Consensus
Chapter 2. The Project of Enlightenment and the Foundation of Modern Political Rationalism: Notes on Bayle and Montesquieu
Chapter 3. On the Possibility of a Return to Premodern Rationalism: Alasdair MacIntyre and Leo Strauss
PART TWO. An Introduction to the Ancient Enlightenment
Chapter 4. Politics and the Divine in the Ancient Community: On Thucydides’ War of the Peloponnesians and Athenians
Chapter 5. The Original Understanding of Enlightenment: On the ‘Cave’ in Plato’s Republic
Chapter 6. The Limits of Enlightenment: Aristotle’s Politics
Conclusion
Notes
References
Index

Citation preview

THE IDEA OF ENLIGHTENMENT: A POST-MORTEM STUDY

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The Idea of Enlightenment A Post-Mortem Study

ROBERT C. BARTLETT

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO PRESS Toronto Buffalo London

www.utppublishing.com University of Toronto Press Incorporated 2001 Toronto Buffalo London Printed in Canada ISBN 0-8020-4837-4 (cloth)

Printed on acid-free paper

Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data Bartlett, Robert C. (Robert Charles) The idea of enlightenment: a post-mortem study Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-8020-4837-4 1. Enlightenment. 2. Political science - Philosophy. 3. Rationalism History. 4. Faith and reason. 5. Strauss, Leo. I. Title. B802.B37 2000

320'.01

COO-931419-9

This book has been published with the help of a grant from the Humanities and Social Sciences Federation of Canada, using funds provided by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. The University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial assistance to its publishing program of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP).

To my family

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Contents

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Preface

Part One: The Collapse of the Modern Enlightenment

1. The Contemporary Consensus 3 2. The Project of Enlightenment and the Foundation of Modern Political Rationalism: Notes on Bayle and Montesquieu 13 3. On the Possibility of a Return to Premodern Rationalism: Alasdair Maclntyre and Leo Strauss 45 Part Two: An Introduction to the Ancient Enlightenment

4. Politics and the Divine in the Ancient Community: On Thucydides' War of the Peloponnesians and Athenians

67

5. The Original Understanding of Enlightenment: On the 'Cave' in Plato's Republic 107 6. The Limits of Enlightenment: Aristotle's Politics 125 Conclusion Notes References

Index

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195 211

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Preface

The aim of the present study is simply to shake the conviction that the idea of enlightenment is necessarily and obviously dead or to encourage a re-examination of the limits and possibilities of reason. Such a re-examination is warranted not only because the success of postmodernism has led to widespread doubt of the very existence of reason, but also and above all because the scholarly inquest into reason's apparent demise has for some time now been satisfied with hearsay evidence: we no longer have first-hand knowledge of the purported inadequacy of the original philosophic positions but rely instead on inherited reports concerning them. And almost as soon as one begins to investigate the idea of enlightenment, one sees that the Enlightenment properly so-called, that of the modern era, was preceded by a complex history of rationalism that can no longer be ignored or dismissed. For if we must reject the authority of all received wisdom today, so too must we reject the authority of the received interpretations of that wisdom. In the postmodern epoch, in other words, all bets are off, and philosophic positions that until recently were thought to be thoroughly mapped and charted properly come to sight as unknown lands. What is most needed, then, are investigations into the character and intention of rationalism in its several forms, investigations that are stripped to the greatest extent of every strictly modern conviction, category, or prejudice. And even if we must ultimately concede the death of reason, we require as a preliminary to that very concession an autopsy of reason in the precise sense - a 'seeing for oneself.' What follows is meant to supply the first steps of such an examination of enlightenment, chiefly by means of a return to classical political philosophy, the field of inquiry in the premodern era that most closely approaches the questions and concerns of the modern Enlightenment.

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Part One of this study is devoted to analysing the dissatisfaction with the modern Enlightenment. It includes, in chapter 1, documentation of the remarkable contemporary consensus that the modern Enlightenment is indeed dead; in chapter 2, a suggestion that the most compelling reason for our dissatisfaction can be traced to a difficulty at or near the very origins of the early modern Enlightenment (here exemplified by Pierre Bayle's Various Thoughts on the Occasion of a Comet and Montesquieu's Spirit of the Laws); and finally, in chapter 3, an introduction to the thought of Alasdair Maclntyre and Leo Strauss, two of the most daring and serious thinkers in our time who have tried (albeit in very different ways) to return to premodern moral and political thought as a response to the contemporary doubts. But the most important task of the second and third chapters taken together is to identify the theoretical-practical question that all who would 'enlighten' political life must eventually address: in determining how we ought to live does reason (science, philosophy), the divine (the divine will, revelation), or perhaps some combination of the two deserve pride of place? Because this is, I contend, the fundamental question at the heart of 'enlightenment' both ancient and modern, it guides each of the studies that follow and joins each to all. The commentaries on Thucydides, Plato, and Aristotle that make up Part Two are intended to be self-explanatory. But those readers who turn to them in the hope of finding quick and handy summaries of 'what Plato said,' for example — or who in effect deny that one may learn anything of importance from the painstaking examination of old books - should expect to gain little from them. I also assume on the part of potential readers the willingness frequently to consult the books under discussion; by thus grappling with these books and the questions they raise such readers, even if they disagree with many of my specific suggestions, will nonetheless further the goal of this study. I am grateful to the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada, the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation, and the Lynde and Harry Bradley Foundation for doctoral and postdoctoral fellowships that supported the present work. A grant from the Earhart Foundation permitted me the freedom to complete my study of Bayle and Montesquieu, and I am very grateful to the Foundation and its officers for their support. Portions of the chapter on Aristotle found their first expression in two articles, revised versions of which are reprinted here by permission of the American Political Science Review and the American Journal of Political Science.

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To my many teachers - among them Christopher Bruell, Robert K. Faulkner, Clifford Orwin, Thomas L. Pangle, and Susan Shell - I owe a debt that surpasses expression. I can say only that they set me on a better path than any I had known or imagined and that they continue to offer guidance, not least by their remarkable examples. Peter Ahrensdorf, Monty Brown, Susan Collins, Daniel Cullen, Matthew Davis, Stephen Wirls, and especially Andy Patch have aided me at every turn.

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PART ONE

The Collapse of the Modern Enlightenment

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Chapter 1

The Contemporary Consensus

In the heyday of the momentous political-philosophic project known as the Enlightenment - a period lasting from at least the middle of the sixteenth century to the publication of Rousseau's First Discourse (1750) - it seemed only a matter of time before the darkness characteristic of every 'cave' or political community would be eliminated forever. This act of enlightenment could be achieved not by somehow forcing the philosopher to return from the light of the sun to the cave, as in the Republic of Plato, but by reconstructing the cave such that the sun's light might penetrate to its every corner. Philosophy, that is, would remake our conception of the good political community and the correct moral ends. It would do so first by disentangling the truly natural human needs from the illusory ones promoted by both 'vain philosophy' and false theology and then by discerning more reliable means to satisfy those genuine needs. As a result of these efforts, the Garden of Eden eventually gave way to the State of Nature as the true portrait of our original condition, the obedient love of God to the fear of violent death as our deepest passion. By ridding the world of 'superstition' and prejudice, by '[distinguishing] exactly the Business of Civil Government from that of Religion, and [by settling] the just Bounds that lie between the one and the other,'1 the philosophers of the early modern Enlightenment believed that a new and altogether philanthropic union could finally be forged between politics and reason or philosophy. Reason or philosophy would thus take the place previously occupied by (what claimed to be) the divine or its representatives. And only with the achievement of this truly revolutionary break or liberation could communities pursue such ends as unfettered human reason discerns, among them government constituted by individual consent, charged with the promotion of the

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liberty of all, and hence limited chiefly to the protection of the natural, prepolitical rights of each. Yet however hopeful the principal architects of the new communities were, and however successful they have been in fact, most of those concerned with the study of politics today would either concede or insist that philosophy is incapable of determining the proper goals of moral and political life, let alone of actually guiding us towards them. In brief, the Enlightenment is widely thought to be dead. It is surely the case that few contemporary scholars can still agree with Thomas Hobbes, for example, that 'the Science of NaturallJustice is the onely Science necessary for soveraigns'; that philosophy has succeeded in 'sufficiendy or probably' proving 'all Theorems of Morall doctrine'; and that a given 'Truth of Speculation' can be translated easily or directly into 'the Utility of Practice.'2 Rare today too is the optimism of an Immanuel Kant, according to whom 'the problem of organizing a nation is solvable even for a people comprised of devils (if only they possess understanding).'3 One way to give a preliminary sketch of 'enlightenment,' from its rational origins to its collapse into anti- or irrationalism, is to trace the various uses made of its unofficial motto, sapere aude ('dare to know'). The phrase is first found in Horace's letter to Maximus Lollius (Epistles 1.2.40) and forms part of the poet's exhortation to his friend to apply himself to study, to develop his mind, and to forego the indulgence of caprice and passion: ... et ni posces ante diem librum cum lumine, si non intendes animum studiis et rebus honestis, invidia vel amore vigil torquebere ... ... sapere aude

[And unless you Call for your book and a lamp before daylight, if you don't Exert your mind in the study of noble and serious matters, Your sleepless nights will be tortured By envy or amorous passion ... ... Dare to know.]

As the context of this exhortation implies, the knowledge in question is to be attained on an individual or private basis and does not therefore presuppose any political reformation. And it was apparently in accord

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with this original use that the modern-day Epicurean and critic of Descartes, Pierre Gassendi, chose the exhortation as his heraldic device. The phrase gained new prominence, and something of a new meaning, in Kant's brief but important statement on the Enlightenment, 'An Answer to the Question: "What is Enlightenment?"' (1784; Kant 1991, 54-60). Kant defines enlightenment as 'man's emergence from his selfincurred immaturity,' this latter being 'the inability to use one's own understanding without the guidance of another' (54). Kant suggests that, to bring about such enlightenment, 'all that is needed is freedom' - the freedom, that is, to make public use of one's reason through publications aimed at 'the entire reading public' (55). The immaturity in question is not so much an intellectual failing as a moral one; it is the result of a 'lack of resolution and courage to use [one's understanding] without the guidance of another' (54). It is thus a 'duty' for men to think for themselves (55), and Kant exhorts us accordingly: 'sapere aude!' (54). It hardly needs to be said that such freedom, linked as it is with the concern for moral duty, is the farthest thing from licence, and to this extent Kant's use of the phrase would surely be in agreement with Horace's intention. As Kant stresses, the free use of public reason must accompany strict obedience in 'private' capacities: as human being and scholar, one may and indeed must publish reasoned criticisms of unfair taxes, for example, but as citizen one is nonetheless obliged to pay them for so long as the law requires it. Moreover, the idea of enlightenment as emergence from self-incurred immaturity presupposes an understanding of maturity, of the proper development of the human mind and character; it is on such a conception of human maturity that Kant grounds his powerful appeals to human dignity (e.g., 60). Kant differs profoundly from his ancient predecessors, however, in his hope for and even expectation of widespread enlightenment which, as such, cannot be without political consequences: 'There is more chance of an entire public enlightening itself [than a few by themselves]. This is indeed almost inevitable, if only the public concerned is left in freedom' (55). Above all, there is in Kant's understanding of enlightenment a new emphasis on freedom: none of his classical forebears would have maintained that, for enlightenment to spread, 'all that is needed is freedom.' It is one of the peculiarities of modern moral and political philosophy that, from this emphasis on rational freedom and the concern for duty or morality, there arose eventually a conception of freedom unencumbered by either reason or moral duty. It would take us too far afield to

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trace in detail the causes of this change in the Enlightenment project that has proven to be at odds with Kant's intention as a whole, to say nothing of that of Horace, but to begin to understand it, we have to understand the new philosophic priority of right or morality to the good for which Kant is chiefly responsible. Kant was the first philosopher to insist on separating devotion to morality from concern with the good - that is, to reject the line of argument and questioning that animates Plato's Republic, for example. For in the Republic, Glaucon and Adeimantus issue the challenge to Socrates to defend justice, to defend the goodness of justice, without recourse to any external rewards, be they from human beings or gods. Socrates' interlocutors are perhaps confused as to just what they want from Socrates, for their challenge amounts not to a steadfast refusal to subordinate the just to the good but rather to the zealous hope that justice will be found to be the one supreme good for a human being. Socrates makes clear in his manner the priority of the good to the just, even or precisely in the boys' extreme demand, by positing eventually the idea of the good, not that of the just, as highest. But according to Kant, Only a formal law, i.e., one which prescribes to reason nothing more than the form of its giving universal law as the supreme condition of maxims, can be a priori a determining ground of practical reason. The ancients openly revealed this error by devoting their ethical investigations entirely to the definition of the concept of the highest good and thus posited an object which they intended subsequently to make the determining ground of the will in the moral law. But only much later, when the moral law has been established by itself and justified as the direct determining ground of the will, can this object be presented to the will whose form now is determined a priori. (Critique of Practical Reason [Kant 1956, 66—7])

In this way, Kant sought to bring a new rationality, a new purity, and therewith a new attachment to the peculiarly human capacity for moral judgment and action. It was this subordination of the good to the moral, however, that made possible the contemporary view according to which morality but not the good can be known, there being only a limitless variety of idiosyncratic tastes or preferences the satisfaction of which is as such good for each. Justice or morality thus comes to sight as those social arrangements that best take into account the essentially private or individual character of the good life; justice demands, for all practical purposes, the maximization of tolerance and the acceptance of'difference.'

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Thus Michel Foucault too embraces the exhortation 'sapere aude!' in his commentary on Kant's essay, but it now has an altogether different meaning (Foucault 1984, 35). Foucault makes use of Kant's essay to call for a 'historical ontology of ourselves' (45), for a 'series of historical inquiries that are ... oriented toward what is not or is no longer indispensable for the constitution of ourselves as autonomous subjects' (43). Such studies would call into question, among other things, 'the relationship between sanity and insanity, or sickness and health, or crime and the law; the problem of the role of sexual relations' (49). If'the Kantian question was that of knowing what limits knowledge has to renounce transgressing,' Foucault himself seeks to know 'in what is given to us as universal, necessary, obligatory, what place is occupied by whatever is singular, contingent, and the product of arbitrary constraints?' Foucault thus transforms Kant's 'critique conducted in the form of a necessary limitation' into a 'practical critique that takes the form of a possible transgression,' not indeed 'to make possible a metaphysics that has finally become a science' but 'to give new impetus, as far and wide as possible, to the undefined work of freedom' (45, 46). Foucault's 'critical ontology of ourselves' may be summed up as an 'historico-practical test of the limits that we may go beyond, and thus as work carried out by ourselves upon ourselves as free beings' (47). In this way Foucault retains Kant's emphasis on freedom while stripping it to the greatest extent possible of every limit or constraint: freedom minus the categorical imperative. Whereas the Enlightenment at its origins aimed at knowing the world as it is in terms of the nature or necessities governing it, and therewith at the enjoyment of a life itself governed in accordance with the natural hierarchy of reason over passion, or at any rate in accordance with the passions prudently controlled, the Enlightenment in its collapse aims at the unencumbered indulgence of the passions in the name of a quasi-philosophic moralism. 'Sapere aude!' is thus transformed and becomes 'audere aude!' It is hardly surprising that this transformation of the original project of Enlightenment, and its rejection of reason in particular, has left many dissatisfied with the Enlightenment or its ruins. Indeed, many observers, left and right, liberal and conservative, pious and 'pagan,'4 join hands in rejecting much of the modern Enlightenment, and the collapse of their confidence in the Enlightenment is typically linked with an easily discernible fact: reason itself has been entirely discredited in influential quarters, and we cannot look for guidance to what we believe or even suspect to be an illusion.

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A classic left-wing statement of the dissatisfaction with the Enlightenment and, especially, the moral-political changes it has wrought, is to be found in what is perhaps the most lasting work of the two architects of the Frankfurt school, Max Horkheimer and Theodor Adorno's Dialectic of Enlightenment, originally published in 1947. Combining elements of Marxism with Freudian psychology and Nietzschean cultural criticism, Horkheimer and Adorno set out to diagnose the sickness that infects Western culture and politics, avatars of the philosophy of the Enlightenment. And that the Enlightenment has caused and continues to cause harm is beyond question: 'the fully enlightened earth radiates disaster triumphant' (1999, 3). They discern in the very origins of the Enlightenment - in the scientific-philosophic writings of Francis Bacon, for example - the source of the dehumanizing spirit of modern reason, the explicit goal of which is the domination of nature, including human nature, or the gaining of knowledge for the sake of power: in the words of Bacon, '"the sovereignty of man lieth hid in knowledge; wherein many things are reserved, which kings with their treasures cannot buy, nor with their force command ... now we govern nature in opinions, but we are thrall unto her in necessity: but if we would be led by her in invention, we should command her by action"' (Horkheimer and Adorno 1999, 4-5, quoting 'In Praise of Human Knowledge'). Some three centuries after Bacon, we find that '[w]hat men want to learn from nature is how to use it in order wholly to dominate it and other men' (1999, 4); everything that cannot be grasped by the enlightened or scientific mind - that is, reduced, mathematized, made 'useful' - is neglected or destroyed or simply forgotten. Indeed, the Enlightenment has even '[r]uthlessly ... extinguished any trace of its own self-consciousness' (1999, 4), and it is to recovering the awareness of the 'method' of the Enlightenment, and especially of its effects on modern life and the modern psyche, that Horkheimer and Adorno's work is chiefly devoted.5 And as with much of the dissatisfaction with the Enlightenment, theirs can be traced to and summed up by Friedrich Nietzsche: our culture is a ' "system of non-culture, to which one might even concede a certain 'unity of style,' if it really made sense to speak of stylized barbarity"' (Horkheimer and Adorno 1999, 128, quoting Untimely Meditations) . It is of course no longer necessary to look to Europe to find criticisms of the Enlightenment and the way of life it makes possible. According to the diverse movement that is postmodernism, which claims many practitioners in North America, all self-styled rational orientations are in fact

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wilful or creative attempts to make of a disordered and meaningless chaos an ordered and meaningful cosmos. The rationalism of the Enlightenment in particular is said to be without foundation in anything 'transcendent,' least of all in nature: The Enlightenment idea of 'reason' embodies ... the theory that there is a relation between the ahistorical essence of the human soul and moral truth, a relation which ensures that free and open discussion will produce 'one right answer' ... In our century this rationalist justification of the Enlightenment compromise has been discredited. Contemporary intellectuals have given up the Enlightenment assumption that religion, myth, and tradition can be opposed to something ahistorical, something common to all human beings qua human ... The result is to erase the picture of the self common to Greek metaphysics, Christian theology, and Enlightenment rationalism: the picture of an ahistorical natural center, the locus of human dignity, surrounded by an adventitious and inessential periphery. (Rorty 1991,175-6) Thus the Enlightenment's successful disenchantment of the world has given way to the disenchantment of, and with, Enlightenment reason. It would perhaps be tempting to dismiss the contention of both the Frankfurt school and the postmodernists as that of relatively small, and extreme, groups, were they alone in their conclusion. But they are not. For political theorists linked with classical liberalism, and even with conservative politics, have also added their criticisms that, while proceeding from different premises, come to conclusions at least as sweeping as those of the left or avant-garde. John Gray, for example, author of fine studies of J.S. Mill and Friedrich Hayek, has flady declared that 'We live today amid the dim ruins of the Enlightenment project' (Gray 1995, 145); he speaks of the 'absurd philosophical anthropology presupposed in liberal theory' (156), of our 'bankrupt Western model' (146), and of 'the impact of the revolutionary nihilism of Westernization' (146) on foreign nations that have as yet been spared the debilitating effects of Enlightenment rationalism. Like the missionaries and colonizers of an earlier era, we believe that with our gospel of science, technology, and progress we bring salvation and civilization, but in fact we succeed only in destroying the local and particular and therewith the chief sources of human vitality. For ours is an age of 'disenchantment,' not only with God and all traditional sources of moral and political guidance, but with reason itself, the very tool of Enlightenment criticism: God may well be

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dead, but reason appears to have followed Him into the grave. The Enlightenment has turned upon or against itself, in other words, and we in the West who live in its 'wake' are adrift without direction: '... within Western cultures, the Enlightenment project of promoting autonomous human reason and of according to science a privileged status in relation to all other forms of understanding has successfully eroded and destroyed local and traditional forms of moral and social knowledge; it has not issued in anything resembling a new civilization, however, but instead in nihilism' (Gray 1995, 145). And although Gray exempts the United States from this judgment on account of the continuing power there of both 'fundamentalist religion' and 'fundamentalist affirmations of the Enlightenment project,' he warns that the 'collapse of these fundamentalisms in the United States ..., were it to occur, would likely be accompanied by an outbreak of nihilism of a violence and intensity unknown in other Western countries' (145). More restrained but no less unsettling is the observation of Leo Strauss, made in a lecture on existentialism in the 1950s but published only in 1989: 'All rational liberal philosophic positions have lost their significance and power. One may deplore this, but I for one cannot bring myself to clinging to philosophic positions which have been shown to be inadequate' (Strauss 1989, 29). And the recent work of the most important Catholic political philosopher in France, Pierre Manent, bears traces of the influence of Strauss, especially in its analysis of modern political thought. In The City of Man, Manent argues that modern philosophy has substituted for an adequate inquiry into the question 'what is man?' a wilful re-creation of the human being - as historical being, as socially constructed being, as economic consumer subject to the analyses of the peculiarly modern disciplines of history, sociology, and economics but no longer a genuine whole comprehensible as such. And although the 'new regime of reason has been called the Age of Enlightenment,' a 'glorious phrase that reverberates with the words Reason and Nature,' the driving force behind the new understanding has been revealed to be neither reason nor nature - to which the Enlightenment in fact 'deals a decisive deathblow' (Manent 1998, 16) but rather the self-assertion of the will. Having achieved a relatively easy victory over 'superstition,' evidently by recourse to reasoned argument and natural necessity, the emancipated human will proceeded to rebel against the guidance and therefore the limits imposed on it by precisely reason and nature. To define man as the historical being in particular suggests that 'a new element has been discovered that envelops and

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dominates the traditional articulations of human experience' (203). And yet, 'this discovery is rather an invention and ... far from revealing an unheard of third element or essence, it simply displaces man's relations to nature and law' (204). According to Manent, the very attempt to submit only to a law of one's own creation, hence to extend one's 'liberty' or 'autonomy,' always presupposes the law that is not of one's own creation, that is, nature itself: 'Modern man ... affirms the difference between the law he seeks and the law he flees by ever more completely fleeing and subjecting nature, including his own nature. He subjects nature to his "liberty," his "autonomy," to the law that is always new and of which he is forever the author. This is to say that he subjects nature to the continual affirmation of the difference itself (204). In this and kindred ways, he surrenders to 'the most bombastic illusion that has ever enslaved the thinking species' (205). The foregoing examples, which could be extended considerably, are sufficient to indicate the diversity of interests and approaches of those who nonetheless agree that the liberal rationalism characteristic of the modern Enlightenment is seriously flawed. It remains to delve more deeply into the question or difficulty that, as it seems to me, is most responsible for the collapse of the Enlightenment but which is too little examined by those who proclaim that collapse: the problematic response of Enlightenment rationalism to the challenge of religious faith.

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Chapter 2

The Project of Enlightenment and the Foundation of Modern Political Rationalism: Notes on Bayle and Montesquieu Of all the conditions of his youth which afterwards puzzled the grown-up man, this disappearance of religion puzzled him most. The boy went to church twice every Sunday; he was taught to read his Bible, and he learned religious poetry by heart; he believed in a mild deism; he prayed; he went through all the forms; but neither to him nor to his brothers or sisters was religion real... The religious instinct had vanished, and could not be revived, although one made in later life many efforts to recover it. That the most powerful emotion of man, next to the sexual, should disappear, might be a personal defect of his own; but that the most intelligent society, led by the most intelligent clergy, in the most moral conditions he ever knew, should have solved all the problems of the universe so thoroughly as to have quite ceased making itself anxious about past or future, and should have persuaded itself that all the problems which had convulsed human thought from earliest recorded time, were not worth discussing, seemed to him the most curious social phenomenon he had to account for in a long life. Henry Adams, The Education of Henry Adams

Every effort to 'enlighten' politics is an attempt to increase the political power of human reason by eliminating or at least reducing the power of those who claim to speak in the name of God. The philosophers of the early Enlightenment therefore faced the claims to knowledge of the orthodox as both a theoretical and a political problem: the ascent of reason to its rightful place in the community must itself be reasonable, and this evidently requires not only the practical rejection of theocratic rule but the theoretical refutation of its basis. Yet when one examines the foundation of the political edifice that is now so familiar to us, one begins to discern its peculiar character. For however worthy the political

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efforts in question may be, they are not in fact based on a reasoned refutation of the opposing position; rather, the moral-political goals of the modern Enlightenment are themselves the true basis of the secondary and in a sense subsequent theoretical constructs meant to prop up that edifice.1 The list of Enlightenment philosophers is of course long, their various aims and strategies are complex, and one is compelled to be highly selective. The choice of Pierre Bayle and Montesquieu suggests itself for three reasons: both thinkers make very clear the aims of, and the obstacles facing, the modern Enlightenment; both were immensely influential in shaping the terms of debate of the Enlightenment among theoreticians and statesmen alike; and both have received rather less scholarly attention in the last generation than have Hobbes, Spinoza, or Locke, for example, and certainly less than they deserve. This is true especially regarding Bayle, but it holds, if to a lesser degree, even in the case of Montesquieu;2 a secondary aim of the present chapter, then, is to begin to fill an important lacuna in the scholarship of the early modern Enlightenment. With clarity, grace, and power, Bayle's Various Thoughts on the Occasion of a Comet (1682) and Montesquieu's On the Spirit of the Laws (1748) make manifest the grandeur of the Enlightenment's philosophic vision, the staggering ambition of its attempt to overcome the Bible as a political authority, and, in the end, the vulnerability-of that attempt. The Separation of Morality from Piety in Pierre Bayle That Bayle has traditionally been placed among modern rationalism's greatest architects is not difficult to prove: according to no less an authority than Voltaire, the 'immortal Bayle, the honor of human nature,' was the 'greatest of the dialecticians who ever lived,' the 'Father of the Church of Wise Men' deserving an 'immortal reputation.'3 Bayle's monumental Dictionnaire historique et critique, for Voltaire 'the first work of its kind in which one can learn how to think' (Voltaire 1877-80, XTV:546), was the most widely held book in French libraries in the eighteenth century4 and can plausibly be said to have been 'the real arsenal of all Enlightenment philosophers' - even, perhaps, 'the Bible of the eighteenth century' (Cassirer 1951, 167; Faguet 1890, 1 and 6). Bayle's dazzling argumentation, his immense learning and razor-sharp wit, prompted Diderot to declare of him that he had 'few equals in the art of reasoning, and perhaps no superiors.'5 Indeed, by the seriousness with

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which they studied him, learned from him, and in some cases disagreed with him, a host of learned personages bears witness to Bayle's importance - from Leibniz, Lessing, and Rousseau to Hume, Herder, and Melville, from Catherine the Great and Frederick the Great to Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin.6 It was not the Dictionnaire, however, that first established Bayle as the 'philosophe of Rotterdam,' but the Various Thoughts. The latter alone will here serve as an introduction to the political thought of Bayle, not only because its principal themes - the tension between faith and reason, the possibility of the knowledge of God and of His miracles, the problem of evil - accurately reflect his lifelong concerns, but also because Bayle treats these concerns more directly than in the truly labyrinthine Dictionnaire. Moreover, it is in the Various Thoughts that Bayle first made his notorious suggestion, unique to him in the history of political thought until then, that a decent society of atheists is possible in principle. By turns outrageous and profound, indignantly provocative and calmly argued, Bayle's Various Thoughts is, I suggest, a crucial document in the rise of modern rationalism. For the purpose at hand, the Various Thoughts may be divided into four sections.7 In the first, Bayle begins to address the question of the possibility of miracles and the character of our knowledge of them by means of an analysis of the widespread belief that comets are a miraculous presage of future calamities (§§1-101). He then offers a lengthy and powerful account of both the impotence of all religion as a check on morals, given the true nature of human beings, and, going together with this, the possibility of a decent society of atheists (§§102-193). In the third section, Bayle returns to the question of miracles in general, this time attacking them rather more openly (§§194-238). Finally, Bayle makes his most political remarks and, in particular, sketches a kind of political union that takes into account the preceding remarks on religion and human nature (§§239-263). The Problem of Miracles: Comets as Presages (§§1-101)

As Bayle himself stresses ('Avis' to the 1682 edition; §8), the core of the book's argument is to be found in the seventh reason against the presages of comets, an argument that explicitly proceeds on the basis of theological, rather than philosophical, premises. In pagan times, Bayle contends, the sole effect of God's having set comets ablaze would have been to increase the zeal of the pagans for their idolatrous worship. As

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both the Bible and the Church Fathers tell us, however, God hates nothing as much as he hates idolatry.8 It is therefore incompatible with the jealous God of the Bible to suppose that he would have done something the only result of which would be to encourage men to do what he most abhors (§§60-71); it is impious to maintain that God intended comets to be miraculous signs of anything to pagans. Accordingly, there is no reason to believe that comets were anything other than natural events. In Christian times, there is still nothing in nature giving us reason to link comets with misfortunes, just as there remains no revelation teaching us that comets are endowed with divine meaning. Furthermore, however much progress the true religion has made, most of the world remains idolatrous, and the argument against the miraculous presages of comets in pagan times holds true today (§72). In general, God's miraculous use of a comet is incompatible with the character of his providence, for God does not in fact punish all alike simultaneously, though all alike see a comet simultaneously. God must deceive some people, then, if he intends to presage punishment by means of comets, and this cannot be said without impiety (§§74—7). Bayle also argues more broadly that 'the knowledge of the future coming only from God, there is no presage of contingent things that is not immediately established by God' (§101; consider also §213). Just as natural events can be presaged only by another natural event known to share the same cause (see §54), so contingent or chance events can be presaged only by the immediate and explicit word of God, as Jacob, for example, knew the fate of Joseph's sons because he was 'filled with a celestial revelation.' In the immediate sequel, however, Bayle also speaks of an 'eternal law of God,' which would be needed to indicate that 'an encounter with a weasel,' for example, presages some misfortune. Either direct and explicit revelation, then, or an 'eternal law of God' promulgated by him and knowable in principle to all men is required for there to be presages of contingent events. Yet, with respect to the latter, it would be 'absurd' to suppose that 'God has made an infinite number of these sorts of combinations in order to teach the future to all men,' in part because God teaches, quite to the contrary, that he reserves to himself the knowledge of the future in order to 'confound false Gods' (§101; Bayle refers the reader to Isaiah 41:23). Although Bayle gives other arguments here against this possibility, nothing he says in his theological argument proper refutes the possibility of divine revelation - and hence of miraculous intervention in the natural order. We should not be surprised, then, that Bayle will turn to elaborate on and

Notes on Bayle and Montesquieu

17

defend his theological argument in a section that proves to be more than twice as long as the exposition of the argument itself. Religion, Human Nature, and the True Character of Morality (§§102-93) Bayle proceeds to delve more deeply into the question of God and his relation to the world by stating and then responding to three objections to his argument. The first and most important of these objections takes the form of an explanation of God's purpose in igniting comets, according to which God wished to show men that there is a providential power and to give them time to repent. If idolaters react to the sight of comets by turning with greater fervor to their idolatrous worship, that is their own fault, for we must be held responsible for turning away from the true God. And better that men should become idolatrous than that they should fall into atheism, for this would be 'the ruin of human society' (§102). Bayle's most searching response to this objection (§§115-93) makes clear that he is in fact less concerned with the demotion of idolatry than with the elevation of atheism.9 For he argues that the widespread denigration of atheism stems from the faulty supposition that it is the 'lights of the conscience' (§§133, beg.; 134, end; 138, end) or, what is the same thing, 'the knowledge of a God,' that 'corrects the vicious inclinations of men' (§134, title). Rather, according to Bayle, 'it is not the mind's general opinions that determine our actions but the passions in the heart' (§138, emphasis original). For a man 'is not set on a certain action rather than another on account of the general knowledge he has of what he should do but rather on account of the particular judgment he brings to bear on each thing when he is on the point of acting' (§135); such a particular judgment 'almost always accommodates itself to the dominant passion of the heart, to the inclination of the temperament, to the force of adopted habits, and to the taste for or sensitivity to certain objects' (§135). These dictates of the heart, and not 'the conviction that there is a providence punishing wicked people and rewarding the good' (§144, beg.), are the 'true springs' that make us act (§133). So it is, then, that the ancient pagans were obsessed with their Gods and yet 'did not fail to commit all the crimes imaginable' (§136). Bayle does not hesitate to apply this psychological insight to Christianity: Christians know clearly that they must renounce vice in order to be eternally happy and to avoid being eternally unhappy, and nonetheless

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they continue to live 'in the greatest and most vicious dissoluteness' (§136, end). To be sure, the dictates of religion can play a part in shaping men's actions, but in the cases where this is so, 'it is because this does not prevent them from satisfying the dominant passions of their heart, or else because the fear of infamy and some temporal punishment leads them to it' (§137). So too men may 'regularly observe several painful and inconvenient forms of worship' because 'they wish thereby to redeem their usual sins and to make their conscience accord with their favorite passions,' but this merely makes plain that 'the corruption of their will is the principal reason determining them' (§137). Christianity and paganism also prove to be as impotent an incentive towards virtue as they are useless a check on vice: none of the admirable deeds found in the ancient histories can be attributed to knowledge of the true God or, still less, to the horrendous examples set by the pagan gods; these deeds must therefore be traced to 'temperament, education, the desire for glory, the taste for a sort of reputation, the esteem one can conceive for what appears to be decent and praiseworthy, and to several other motives within the competence of allmen, whether they have a religion or whether they do not' (§146, emphasis added). Accordingly, 'what prevents an atheist, either through the disposition of his temperament or through the instinct for some passion that dominates him, from performing all the same actions that pagans have been able to do?' (§146) According to Bayle, religion as such10 will always prove on examination to be powerless in the face of the demands of the passions, be they conducive to virtue or to vice. The ultimate explanation of the strength of the passions over that of religion is that the passions, being grounded in the body (§139 and esp. §144), are natural to man, whereas all religious dictates are conventional and for the most part fly in the face of nature: 'Whence comes it, I beg you, that although there is among men a prodigious diversity of opinions bearing on the manner of serving God and of living according to the laws of propriety, one nonetheless sees certain passions consistently ruling in all countries and in all ages?' Indeed, the only thing uniting 'all the sorts of peoples who in other respects have as it were nothing in common except the general notion of man' is the similarity of their passions, a similarity so great that 'one might say they copy one another' (§136). Again, the will to transgress the law of God or Gods, found in all societies, is but 'a copy made according to nature' (§145). 'We see this sort of spirit still reigning everywhere which drags men into sin notwithstanding the fear of hell and the pangs of the conscience' (§145, emphasis added).

Notes on Bayle and Montesquieu

19

We are now prepared to consider the most infamous section of Bayle's book, the argument for the possibility of a society of atheists. With it, Bayle intends to show that the morality requisite to healthy political life is possible without belief in God and therefore also without belief in providence or the immortality of the soul. He intends, in other words, to give the outlines of a morality conceived by human reason alone and grounded in human nature. Every human being is by nature concerned first with his or her own well-being, and it is this self-concern that compels all to flee pain or harm: the fear of pain is great, the fear of death, 'the most violent of the passions,' greater still (§163). In accordance with this, every healthy society must rigorously punish legal transgression by means of corporal and capital punishment (§161). Yet Bayle puts much more emphasis on the goods we are drawn to than on the evils we flee: 'it is certain, whatever one may say, that man loves delight [joie] more than he hates pain and that he is more sensitive to good than to harm' (§167). Indeed, 'delight is the nerve of all human affairs' (§167). And although delights or pleasures may be most associated with the body, the greatest pleasure we can have is in fact the good opinion we hold of ourselves as mediated or determined by the opinion others have of us: 'it is to the inward esteem of other men that we aspire above all (§179, emphasis added). 'A machine that could come to us in reverence ... would hardly give us a good opinion of ourselves, for we would know that these were not signs of another's good opinion of our merit' (§179). The foundation of man's nature is therefore his self-love or vanity (amour-propre), 'that passion inseparable from our nature' (§171; also §83). A society of atheists is possible in principle provided that human laws make use of our natural fear of harm and, more importantly, of our natural attraction to honour or reputation in the eyes of others. The bulk of Bayle's sketch of a society of atheists takes the form of an outline of a more rational legislation that exploits these two different but linked inclinations of our nature, and a society of atheists stands or falls by the possibility of maintaining 'the harsh law of honor' without recourse to belief in a divinity (§162, end). Bayle contends that 'a society of atheists would perform civil and moral actions as much as other societies do, provided that it punish crimes severely and that it attach honor and infamy to certain things' (§172, beg.). For given that 'the true driving force of man's actions is altogether different from religion' (§181), there is every reason for the true motives of action to be effective among atheists, 'namely punish-

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ments and rewards, glory and ignominy, temperament and education' (§172). The 'fear of being taken in society for a traitor and a rogue will overcome [an atheist's] love of money'; 'a man without religion' is 'capable of returning a deposit ... when he sees that his good faith will earn for him the praise of a whole city and that his infidelity could one day subject him to reproach,' or at the very least to 'being suspected of something that would impede his being taken as a decent man' (§179). Morality properly understood is nothing more than the policy most conducive to the survival and prosperity of each and all in society; it is selfishness intelligently pursued or at any rate prudently controlled. Supported in this way by calculations of advantage and by our amourpropre, morality needs no exhortations to selfless action to be obeyed and therefore need not promise eternal reward or punishment as an incentive so to act. It is clear on reflection that Bayle had in mind political utility as the standard by which to judge the condemnation of atheism, for at the outset he gave himself the task of replying to the charge that atheism 'would have been the ruin of human society' (§102). In connection with this, Bayle consistently elevates deeds over dogmas and hence right action over right understanding or belief.11 For example, Bayle will go on to argue openly that the truth or falsity of such propositions as predestination (compare §176 with §199), whether 'the Blessed Virgin is ... the Queen of the World,' and whether the divine nature of Jesus Christ is separable from his human nature, is of no real importance (§199; see also §200, 'That Some Errors Are Not Criminal'). For errors in these matters are 'altogether involuntary ... one forms these shadowy judgments without malice as well as without liberty' (§200). And although Bayle will concede that the denial of providence is a 'very crude' mistake, the thrust of his argument proves to be that there are other, far worse ones, all of them bearing directly on conduct, for example, the persecution of the Huguenots in France: 'It would be a thousand times better ... to be indifferent to all the sects of the Christian religion than to have, in favor of the true one, so impious a zeal' (§197). What then would be the character of the ends or actions an atheistic society would esteem? To clarify this, Bayle turns to the topic of 'shamelessness': 'it is necessary to confess that this idea [of the goodness of chastity] is older than either the Gospel or Moses; it is a certain impression that is as old as the world' (§172, end). Bayle later elaborates: 'as it is as natural to man to value things in proportion to what they cost as it is to love to be distinguished, nature alone would have soon taught the

Notes on Bayle and Montesquieu

21

inhabitants of the same village that it is glorious for a woman not to be prodigal with her favors, which leads things naturally and imperceptibly to the state in which they are seen in almost all republics' (§180, end; emphasis added). Thus 'there are ideas of honor among men that are purely a work of nature' (§172). Free of Christianity's confused and confusing interference with the dictates of human nature, atheists as Bayle envisions them would attach ignominy to shamelessness because doing so is sanctioned by nature itself for the reason indicated. One must add, however, that shamelessness as a transgression is properly seen as less serious than those crimes that reason tells us are most harmful to society, murder chief among them.12 And the horror of murder would be felt more keenly in a society that denies the immortality of the soul than in one that accepts it. After his lengthy condemnation of all religion, pagan and Christian, as a check on action, as well as his extended praise of the mores of atheists, Bayle concludes by returning to the question that permitted these all-important 'digressions': 'there is no longer any reason to say - one must necessarily deny - that comets are signs of the anger of God formed in a miraculous way, since they are altogether suited to keep men in the most criminal condition they could be in' (§193, end). The Problem of Miracles Revisited

The most important purpose of the rest of Bayle's theological discussion (§§194-238) is to return to and grapple more openly with the problem of the possibility of miracles. As we have seen, Bayle's principal argument thus far has relied heavily on the view, characteristic of what is known as natural religion or theology,13 that God is perfectly good, just, and wise and that an action said to be God's that appears to us to be incompatible with these qualities cannot be God's in fact; the difference between the necessarily imperfect manifestations of the virtues in man and the perfection of them in God in no way obviates our comparing God to man. Bayle therefore appeals repeatedly to 'the idea we have of God' (e.g., §§71, 101, 225; cf §65) or to what we know to be compatible with 'God's wisdom' (e.g., §§98; 222). Bayle is of course aware that this manner of argument is controversial: 'But it seems to me that you might stop me here to tell me that it is punishable temerity for me to deny that God has done a thing because my petty reason does not discover any use of it and sees, to the contrary, that many great abuses result from it' (§223; also §56).

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Bayle avers that he is willing to disregard the lights of his reason if someone proves to him, 'either by necessary reasonings or by infallible authority,' that God has performed a given miracle (§223). Thus the infallible authority of revelation or of God's word as delivered by the prophets is required to establish the existence and meaning of a miracle; such miracles as are accompanied by express prophecy Bayle calls 'speaking miracles,' in contrast to the mute miracle that is the natural order of things. Yet there are and have been false prophets. How then to distinguish between true and false prophecy? '[Discourses without miracles would not convince' (§218), and to 'confirm' Moses' mission, 'God has Moses perform astonishing miracles that are superior to the marvels of Pharaoh's magicians, and reduces this prince to the necessity of confessing that indeed the God of the Hebrews is the true God' (§218).14 Prophetic revelation, then, is required to establish the existence of a miracle, but a miracle is in turn required to establish the existence of prophetic revelation. The circularity of these requirements indicates that, far from establishing faith, both miracles and revelation presuppose it. Thus neither (supposed) miracles nor (supposed) revelation constitute an 'infallible authority,' and only 'necessary reasonings' remain to us as the source of sound conviction.15 This conclusion prepares us for the argument that brings to a close Bayle's theological inquiry, for he there gives an account of the world, including its most apparently unusual occurrences ('monsters'), in terms of natural causation. It is the mark of the greatness of God and his laws that he does not interrupt or interfere with them in any way, as both Paul III and Innocent IV interfered with their own (§231). Bayle calls this fixed order of things 'general providence' (§230), a term he had used once before in explicit contrast to 'the knowledge of the Gospel' (§172). So comprehensive are the laws governing the world that, seen aright, they fully account for such apparently bizarre events as the birth of a two-headed dog (to use Bayle's favourite example: §§65-7; 229); God would in fact have to intervene in the world to prevent such things from coming into being occasionally. It now appears that if the occasional birth of two-headed dogs is perfectly in accord with the natural order, there is no reason to think that a given solar eclipse was anything other than natural (see §66; the allusion is to Luke 23:44—45). It is important to understand clearly the character of the God Bayle here describes, for in an age in which 'spirituality' has all but replaced orthodoxy, we may miss the radical character of Bayle's argument. Bayle contends that 'all that is visible to us' - that is, our world with its attach-

Notes on Bayle and Montesquieu

23

ments and concerns - is to the God who governs the world by means of natural laws, 'but a small and subordinate thing' (§231; also §25, end). More bluntly stated, the law of nature guiding God's general providence is that 'the strong prevail over the weak' (§231, emphasis original), and although Bayle's sole example is less than revealing - namely, that it would be 'ridiculous to claim that when a stone falls on a fragile vase that delights its owner, God should derogate this law to save the owner in question from grief - it is not so hard to think of other, more profound sources of grief that such providence will look upon in indifference. Bayle directs our gaze to morally neutral examples of God's 'governance' understood strictly as the march of the laws of nature, but such governance amounts to the rejection of particular providence and therewith of the Bible's portrait of God. That there is a fundamental tension between nature or the God of 'general providence' and the biblical God is clear from §234, the section to which Bayle draws our attention in his 'Avertissemenf as dealing with a particularly sensitive issue (Bayle 1994, 18-19). Bayle makes use of the remark of Barnabus and Paul that, prior to the birth of Jesus Christ, God 'suffered all nations to walk in their own ways' but 'left not himself without witness' in the form of 'rain from heaven, and fruitful seasons, filling our heart with food and gladness' (see the references to Acts 14 in §§60 and 218, as well as 234). The core of the conclusion to Bayle's theological argument may be stated as follows: God is nothing but impersonal nature - Natura sive Deus - which, while it provides a certain bounty, nonetheless 'suffers all nations to walk in their own ways.' What for the apostles was the temporary manifestation of God's rule is for Bayle the only one we ought to expect. By equating God with nature, Bayle makes the biblical God vanish into the natural world that is in principle subject to the analytical science of physicists and philosophers. In accordance with this denial of miraculous intervention and hence of particular providence, Bayle turns to discuss prudent politics as the only means available to compensate for the direct rule that nature does not and cannot supply. Bayle's Political Teaching

By means of his survey of European politics in the book's final substantive section (§§239-61), Bayle exposes both the vulnerability of France and, even more, the necessity of Europe's exploiting it if there is to be peace. In the first place, Louis XIV, like the Great Turk, very much fears

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'leagues'; the answer to the question posed by §257 ('Whether Europe Has More Reason To Enter Into A League Now Than It Did Previously') is emphatically yes. But to be more effective than in the past, the countries making up such a league must first put their own houses in order by becoming either more monarchical or more republican, for a nation is paralysed within and hence impotent without when this fundamental question is unresolved, as the case of England shows (§249). As regards the form of government best suited to constitute such a league, Bayle intimates a preference for republics over monarchies, especially Christian monarchies, on the grounds that Christianity seconds the slavishness that monarchy demands.17 Christians, that is, are self-abasing subjects, 'the best subjects in the world' (§120), not active citizens; Christians exhibit real courage, as opposed to a kind of tortured selfabnegation, only when they depart from the letter and indeed the spirit of their faith (see §141). Of the kinds of republics that might make up a European league, Bayle indicates that the fairly small cities of ancient Greece that banded together to fight off the Persians are a more suitable model than is the great republic of Rome with her unwieldy empire (§249). This preference is confirmed by the contemporary example Bayle praises: 'One saw with pleasure the strengthening of the republic of Holland which, having once begun to shake this redoubtable power [Spain], weakened it day by day through the seizure of several cities, through naval victories, through its commerce established the world over, through the incomparable valor of the princes who commanded its armies, and through the rare prudence of its Estates-General.' Moreover, Holland fought, not to aggrandize itself, but 'solely in order to assure its liberty and the equilibrium of the European powers' (§255). Thus the European powers can keep the French threat at bay and secure for themselves a new, more stable peace than anything known heretofore if they will form themselves into an alliance, preferably a republican one, for the sake of self-defence to be achieved by the maintenance of the 'equilibrium of the European powers' (§255; see also §247, end). Let me now indicate the link between Bayle's political prescription for Europe and his theological argument proper. Despite the notoriety of Bayle's account of the possibility of an atheistic politics, it would seem that he did not expect such a society to come into being. As he stresses, atheism is the vice of very few people. Men as much as women, the nobles as much as the people, are deeply attached to the belief in divine presages (e.g., §§21, 81, 151, 154): Tt is morally

Notes on Bayle and Montesquieu

25

and physically impossible for an entire nation to pass from one belief in one God and the practice of one religion to a contrary belief and practice' (§104; see also §121). But Bayle indicates that 'an excess of zeal' marks especially the devotees of 'a religion still hot from the forge' (§257). Indeed, 'care' must be taken 'not to allow the people time to become tepid [tiede] in their religion' (§109, end). A religion grown old, in other words, will be observed less fervently than it was in its youth. This is true especially if its ceremonies and demands are simple, for complicated creatures that we are - we grow more attached to a religion the more 'extravagant' its demands (§§184; 189-90). Thus 'Christian prudence' saw that 'the excessively great simplicity of the worship that the Apostles had taught' was 'inappropriate to the times, in which the fervor of men's zeal had lessened a little' (§85). This example suggests that great changes to a religion can be made if they are gradual: a father may wrongly believe that he hands down to his children precisely the same worship he himself had inherited, 'because changes in these matters are carried out by unnoticeable steps and are scarcely noted during the life of one man.' Yet these 'unnoticeable steps, at the end of several centuries, carry things very far distant' (§112). Might it be possible, then, to move from Christianity to atheism by changes so gradual as to be 'unnoticeable'? To begin to undermine a religion, one must understand the forces at work in the world supporting it, and in the context of proving that God's intervention would be unnecessary to combat irreligion Bayle enumerates three forces of this kind (§§106-13). First, the simple course of nature produces enough 'monsters, meteors, furious storms, floods, deaths, and horrible famines' to keep men in fearful awe of some higher power (§107). Second, 'the politics of the magistrates concerned with civil affairs and with those of religion' has always exploited men's ignorance of nature in order 'to keep men in a state of dependence by means of the brake that is the fear of Gods.' For it has been recognized in 'all times' that 'religion was one of the bonds of society and that the subjects were never kept in a state of obedience better than when one could have the minister of the Gods intervene' (§108). Finally, the priests rely for their livelihood and rank on the continued devotion of the people: 'It is in the interest of pontiffs, priests, and augurs that such news [of prodigies] be perpetually announced, just as it is in the interest of lawyers and physicians that there be trials and illnesses' (§109, end). Bayle's implied program to undermine a religion, then, includes the following: the spread of natural science to explain

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away the principal cause of man's fearful credulity; the recognition that religion is at best useless as a bond of society; the creation of a politics concerned with our bodily security and hence our civic deeds rather than with the ultimate fate of our souls and hence the soundness of our doctrinal beliefs; and finally the demotion of the power and prestige associated with the 'sacerdotal authority.' The Various Thoughts does all it can to promote each of these ends. Yet it remains unlikely that Bayle envisioned a day when Catholic France, for example, would be entirely atheistic. Much more likely is that, the importance of deeds over dogmas established, human beings would grow ever more 'tepid' in their concern for religion and that this would permit much greater tolerance of religious opinions, atheism among them, than ever before. As an acceptable residue of orthodoxy, Bayle seems to have in mind something like the faith of the Sadducees as he presents it, for although the Sadducees believed in God, they denied the immortality of the soul and hence the prospect of heaven and hell, of eternal reward and punishment (§178). Bayle goes so far as to classify them as atheists in a section in which he criticizes imprecise classifications of belief (§174): from Bayle's point of view, the faith of the Sadducees is an acceptable alternative to atheism strictly speaking. Bayle may defend the Sadducees by appealing to the opinion of Jesus Christ (§185), but his preference for the very limited belief they represent has its roots in the attempt to sever the connection between politics and religious belief. The Various Thoughts thus argues for the transformation of monarchical, Christian Europe into an alliance of free republics without official religious affiliation and hence officially tolerant of diverse religious opinions, including and perhaps above all the indifference to religion. Montesquieu and the Challenge of Christian Politics

To continue the inquiry into the roots of the modern Enlightenment, I turn to Montesquieu's Spirit of the Laws. The influence of this great work is difficult to overstate, especially with respect to the American Founding. The Federalist refers to 'the oracle' Montesquieu more frequently than to any other political philosopher, and on more than one occasion the quarrel between the Federalists and Anti-Federalists concerns not whether Montesquieu's political teaching is correct but whether or to what extent the proposed constitution lives up to that teaching (consider, e.g., Federalist nos. 9 and 47; see also Shklar 1987, 111-26; Pangle

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27

1988, 67-8 and 89-94). To be sure, other philosophers were crucial to the development of modern liberal republicanism, Spinoza and Locke not least, but the outlines of the new thinking and the new politics are particularly clear in the liberal philosophy of Montesquieu. I begin from the closest point of contact between our two thinkers, namely Montesquieu's explicit discussion of Bayle in the Spirit of the Laws. Montesquieu's Critique of Bayle (XXIV. 1-6)18

Montesquieu's quarrel with Bayle is played out at the outset of the three books he devotes to religion (XXIV-XXVI). The first question of substance Montesquieu takes up in this context is 'Bayle's Paradox': 'M. Bayle claims to have proven that it is better to be an atheist than an idolater; that is, in other words, that it is less dangerous to have no religion at all than to have a bad one' (XXIV.2; see also Montesquieu, Pensees 1950-5). In this explicit reference to the Various Thoughts (XXFV.2, n. a), Montesquieu clearly wishes to take issue with, and thus separate himself from, Bayle's infamous assertion of the possibility of a decent society of atheists. His precise reasons for doing so merit scrutiny. Montesquieu argues that, while it may be a matter of indifference to mankind whether one believes that a given man exists, 'it is very useful that one believe god is. From the idea that he is not follows the idea of our independence; or, if we cannot have this idea, that of our rebellion'19 (emphasis added). To say that religion does not always restrain conduct is not to prove that it never does; to gather together 'a long enumeration of the evils that [religion] has produced,' as Bayle has done, is to reason poorly against it, if one does not make an enumeration also of the goods that it has produced. As Montesquieu had argued early on in the Spirit of the Laws and here confirms, religion is often the only bridle that can restrain a vicious prince: 'as despotism causes appalling ills to human nature, the very ill that limits it is a good' (II.4, 248; see also III.10, 260; XXIV.2). The issue separating Montesquieu from Bayle, then, is clearly that of religion's political utility: Montesquieu insists and Bayle denies that religious belief is necessarily more 'useful' for mankind than is atheism. To be more precise, Montesquieu frames the question in terms of lesser evils rather than greater goods: 'It is not a question of knowing whether it would be better for a certain man or a certain people to have no religion than to abuse the one they have, but of knowing which is the lesser evil, that one sometimes abuses religion or that there be none among men' (XXFV.2, 716). Not only,

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then, does Montesquieu concede to Bayle that religion is sometimes productive of evils, he insists upon it; Montesquieu maintains merely that atheism produces still greater evils. The burden of XXIV.2, however, is not so much to compare the evils of atheism with those of belief and thereby to attack atheism, as it is simply to praise religious belief. To appreciate the peculiar character of this praise, one must see the skilful way in which Montesquieu blurs the question of the truth of religion. He begins by speaking of 'religion' in general and then turns to speak of- and praise - 'idolatry,' for from the point of political utility idolatrous religions are no less religions than is Christianity. Montesquieu's attack on Bayle thus has a strange character: it requires or permits Montesquieu to deliver an extended praise of false religion. He even extols, at the end of chapter 2, the merits of the Lacedaemonian religion. In other words, Montesquieu objects much less to Bayle's elevation of atheism than to his demotion of idolatry: Tn order to diminish the horror of atheism, one burdens idolatry overly much.' Whatever may prove to motivate Montesquieu's censure of Bayle, it appears from the outset that he does not speak in the name of Christian orthodoxy. After introducing in XXIV.5 the 'unfortunate division' of Christendom into Catholic and Protestant, Montesquieu turns to discuss Bayle one last time, this in the sixth chapter entitled 'Another of Bayle's Paradoxes' (XXIV.6).20 'M. Bayle, after having insulted all religions, blights the Christian religion: he dares to propose that true Christians would not form a state that could last' (see also Pensees 1230). To this Montesquieu strenuously objects: Christians 'would be citizens infinitely enlightened about their duties and ... would have a very great zeal to fulfill them; they would sense very well the rights of natural defense; the more they would believe they owed to the religion, the more they would think they owed to the fatherland.' Devotion to an 'established' Christian church, then, would at the same time be devotion to the fatherland, and the duties imposed by the latter would in no way conflict with the demands of the former. Now among the things Christianity teaches, according to Montesquieu, is 'the rights of natural defense,' and Montesquieu himself had devoted considerable attention to uncovering and clarifying precisely these rights: The life of states is like that of men. The latter have the right to kill in the case of natural defense; the former have the right to wage war for their own preservation.

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29

In the case of natural defense, I have the right to kill, because my life is mine, as the life of the one who attacks me is his; similarly a state wages war because its preservation is just, as is any other preservation. (X.2, 377; see also IX as a whole)

This teaching concerning natural defence looks for its foundation not to the Hebrew or Christian Bible but to the original and natural condition of human beings in a 'state of nature' very different from the Garden of Eden (see 1.2; X.3, 378). Might it be that Christianity is as compatible with moderate politics as Montesquieu insists only when it is reinterpreted in the light of the humanly knowable principles underlying 'moderate' politics, that is, in the light of Montesquieu's own science of politics? This possibility is confirmed in the final paragraph of XXIV.6. It turns out that Bayle's blunder is due to a misunderstanding of 'the spirit of his own religion' - however 'astounding' it may be that one can attribute such a misunderstanding to 'this great man.'21 Bayle failed to see that the 'orders for the establishment of Christianity' or its 'precepts' are essentially different from 'Christianity itself or its mere 'counsels' and that the two must therefore be distinguished. Many of Christ's exhortations, that is, aim at 'perfection' rather than the possible, and since perfection 'does not concern men or things universally,' such exhortations must not be mistaken for universal commands obligating all alike (XXIV.7). When 'the legislator' - Christ - 'instead of giving laws, gave counsels, it is because he saw that his counsels, if they were ordained as laws, would be contrary to the spirit of his laws' (XXTV.6, end). Jesus Christ, it turns out, understood the 'spirit of his laws.' It would seem that Christ was a good Montesquieuan, and Montesquieu can appear to be a good Christian by introducing the distinction between the orders and the counsels of Christ, the former being obligatory, the latter merely exhortatory (see also Pangle 1973, 252-5). Thus all the teachings of Christ that Montesquieu deems compatible with 'moderate government' become Christ's orders, those he deems incompatible become mere 'counsels.' Bayle made the mistake of taking Christ too literally. In the opening chapters of his discussion of religion, Montesquieu defends Christianity by twice attacking the bold impiety of Pierre Bayle. The genius of Montesquieu's rhetoric, however, is such that he defends both idolatry and Christianity - and thereby begins to drain from Christianity all of its essentially unprovable and hence controversial assertions concerning the divinity of Christ. Montesquieu responds in particular to

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Bayle's denial of the possibility of a truly Christian polity by reinterpreting Christianity in such a way as to make it preach 'the rights of natural defense' and defer to the 'spirit of the laws.' I suggest that Montesquieu and 'this great man' Bayle do not have fundamentally different ends in mind and that they disagree only over the best strategy to attain that end: both philosophers envisage a day when, to the very great benefit of politics, the concern for religion and the questions it raises would fall into desuetude, the lives of citizens being taken up with other, more mundane, and more strictly speaking natural concerns. Religion and the Spirit of Commerce

The remainder of Montesquieu's extended discussion of religion in Part Five of the Spirit of the Laws presupposes familiarity with that of the penal law in its relation to liberty in Book XII, and I therefore turn to the latter before continuing. In the course of his reforms of the penal law, Montesquieu found it necessary or at any rate possible to rework the fundamental union of religion and politics. In a few masterful paragraphs, in fact, Montesquieu sketches nothing less than the separation of Church and State, by arguing as follows. All such crimes as bear on religious opinion and dogma ('simple sacrilege') are properly the concern only of the religious body in question; suitable punishments may include 'expulsion from the temples; deprivation of the society of the faithful for a time or forever; avoidance of their presence; execration, detestation, and exorcism' (XII.4, 433). In no case, however, is the government to raise a hand against the sacrilegious - the infinite god can, after all, take care of himself - and the religious body ought never to punish citizens in such a way as to threaten their fundamental security. Only those crimes that affect the 'exercise' of religion require the intervention of the government, and then only insofar as these bear on questions of security: the state should be concerned solely with liberty of action, not correctness of belief. Indeed, to make of sacrilege a purely intrareligious matter in this way is to strip the state of its concern not only for religious opinion or dogma but also for opinions as such, the former being traditionally regarded as the most important among them. Thus the separation of Church and State and freedom of speech logically belong together: 'Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech ...' Although Montesquieu appears to follow the traditional order according to which crimes against God are

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31

the gravest possible and first in importance (see, e.g., Plato Laws 853ad), he in fact ascends from what he regards as the least important to the most, namely to crimes against tranquillity and security. Accordingly, his subsequent discussion of political crimes proper (XII.7-30) is many times longer than that of sacrilege ('magic and heresy': XII.5). The guiding premise of Montesquieu's argument is that 'laws are charged with punishing only external actions' (XII.ll), religion as well as 'mores and manners' being 'naturally separate' from law (XIX.21, emphasis added) ,22 And Montesquieu states with admirable clarity what changes in the concern for religion he thought would arise from the acceptance of this premise: 'With regard to religion, as in this state every citizen would have his own will and would as a consequence be led by his own enlightenment or his fantasies, it would happen either that each would be altogether indifferent to every sort of religion of whatever kind, in which case everyone would be led to embrace the dominant religion; or one would be zealous for religion in general, in which case sects would multiply' (XIX.27, 580). Whether led by reason or fantasy, indifference or zealotry, every citizen will be concerned (or unconcerned) with religion in a manner suitable to maintaining the public peace. If there is but one religion, it will be looked on with a certain coolness; if many, no one will gain ascendancy. Montesquieu envisions not so much atheism, then, as its most practical substitute, the effective indifference to religion or a certain benign zealotry. It is now not so difficult to discern a link between Montesquieu's praise of commerce in Part Four and his corresponding demotion of religion in Part Five, for to be concerned above all with the tangible goods of this world is necessarily to be less concerned with the intangible, perhaps ineffable, and certainly more controversial goods of the next. All too often we have sacrificed the former for the sake of the latter: had Louis XIII wished merely to trade with the Negroes of his colonies, rather than to save their souls, he never would have enslaved them (XV.4).23 In the most important section of his treatment of religion (XXV. 12), one devoted to a further discussion of the penal law, Montesquieu himself goes so far as to provide a kind of recipe to demote religion or, more precisely, to remove the very concern for it from the soul by the gentle means supplied by precisely commerce: 'It is not therefore by filling the soul with this great object [fear of one's own death], by bringing it closer to the moment when it should find religion of greater importance, that one succeeds in detaching the soul from religion; a more

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certain way to attack a religion is by favor, by the comforts of life, by the hope of fortune; not by what reminds one of it, but by what makes one forget it; not by what makes one indignant but by what casts one into indifference [tiedeur] when other passions act on our souls and when those that religion inspires are silent. General rule: in the matter of changing religion, invitations are stronger than penalties' (XXV. 12, 745-6). Here we see the audacious peak of Montesquieu's political philosophy; here we see that Montesquieu's utilitarian analysis of religion, from which we began, culminates in an 'attack' on it. With this much as an outline of Montesquieu's political project, it remains to discuss the theoretical foundation from which he begins and on which would presumably rest his willingness to 'attack' religion. What, in other words, is the equivalent in Montesquieu to Bayle's analysis of miracles? The Theoretical Foundation (1.1-3)

Montesquieu devotes the whole of Book I to a discussion of 'the laws in general' evidently in order to explain, at the end of that Book, what he means by 'the spirit of the laws.' These opening sections in fact contain the most philosophic utterances Montesquieu permitted himself to make in the Spirit of the Laws, and they therefore can most obviously claim to be the theoretical foundation of the moral and political teaching outlined. The first chapter, entitled 'On the Laws in the Relation They Have With the Various Beings,' is brief but (or for that very reason) notoriously difficult, and I limit myself to discussing only those parts of it that bear most directly on my theme.24 Montesquieu begins I.I with a definition of law according to which the whole can or must be understood in terms of necessary relations25 derived from reflection on the nature of the various beings. Rejecting as absurd (i.e., without argument) the idea that a 'blind fatality' could have produced intelligent beings - despite the fact that creation itself could well appear to be an 'arbitrary act' (56) - Montesquieu posits the existence of a 'primitive reason' (f 3); laws are the relation between such reason and the various beings, as well as the relations between the various beings themselves. In the next paragraph, Montesquieu seems to equate such primitive reason with the creator God, who creates and preserves the universe strictly according to laws (f1[4, 6 end). Here Montesquieu stresses the constancy of the rules governing the universe and, in particular, the material world: matter in motion follows 'invari-

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33

able laws' (f5). 'Thus creation ... supposes rules as invariable as the fatality of the atheists.' Again, 'every diversity is uniformity, every change is constancy (\7, emphasis original). Rather different is the case of 'particular intelligent beings/ for they have both laws they make and those they do not, and if it is hardly surprising that human beings frequently violate their own positive laws, it is difficult indeed to understand how, given Montesquieu's definition of law as a necessary relation, we can be said to violate 'incessantly' the laws we did not make that pertain to us as intelligent beings. Just as before there were any particular intelligent beings such beings were possible, so also they had 'possible relations' and hence 'possible laws.' Similarly, according to Montesquieu, prior to the existence of any laws, 'there were possible relations of justice.' He explains: 'To say that there is nothing just nor unjust except what the positive laws order or prohibit is to say that before one had traced a circle, all the radii were not equal' (f8). But if there were no circles in fact, how could one speak of the properties of their radii? If there were no particular intelligent beings at all, how would their potential existence, relations, and laws be known? To whom would they be known? It seems that such arguments have surreptitious recourse to our experience of those circles that have been traced, or to the particular intelligences we do know. I tentatively suggest that, to speak as Montesquieu does both of the radii of circles prior to their existence and, more to the point, of possible laws pertaining to particular intelligent beings prior to the existence of any such beings, is to presuppose the presence of an ordering, comprehending mind apart from any particular beings: it is to presuppose the mind of a god that knows the possible existence of circles (and hence their possible properties) and the possible existence of particular intelligent beings (and hence the possible laws pertaining to them). Montesquieu himself suggests that this is so by ultimately referring to these 'primitive laws' as those that 'god established' (1114), explicitly in contrast to those we make. Whatever may be the role of the positive law in making such primitive laws known to us, they seem to require a creator god for their existence. Montesquieu identifies four such laws or 'relations of equity' (1[9): that, given a society of men, it would be just to obey their laws; that any intelligent being should be grateful for benefactions received; that any intelligent creature should remain in a state of dependence on the intelligent creature that created it; and that any intelligent creature that has harmed another deserves the same treatment in return. Obedience to law, gratitude, dependence, and punishment or retaliation are thus the

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laws that pertain to human beings even prior to their existence. But Montesquieu immediately proceeds to stress how little we conform to these laws in fact: the intelligent world, like the physical, 'also has its laws that, by their nature, are invariable,' and yet 'it does not follow them consistently as the physical world follows its' (1[10). Indeed, we violate them 'incessantly.' This is due in part to precisely our nature, as Montesquieu indicates. But is there not something strange about invariable natural laws that we violate on account of our nature? One could of course reply that, unlike circles with their radii, human beings are by nature free and thus 'act by themselves' (1[10). But there is another, more radical, possibility. What if these very laws or relations prove to be radically defective in terms of human nature and hence undeserving of the name naturaHavf? Indeed, the first supposed natural law (that it is obligatory to conform to the laws of one's society) is undermined by Montesquieu's political project as a whole, for so far from being content to obey the laws under which he lives, he seeks to undermine them in their entirety: if it is true that 'changes can be proposed only by those who are born fortunate enough to penetrate with a stroke of genius the whole of a state's constitution,' Montesquieu eventually confesses, 'I do not believe that I have totally lacked genius': '"And I too am a painter."' (Preface, 230-1). Second, Montesquieu's political project undermines the view that the created should remain in a condition of original dependence on its creator, be it god's creatures on him or children on parents: we must rely more on prudent calculation of interest than on god's providence, and the extreme subordination of children to parents is needed only in the classical republic of virtue (consider, e.g., XXIII.21, 706; and, on children and parents, V.7). In addition, to spread a new religion or (by implication) to undermine an existing one, 'one must take away the extreme dependence of children, who are always less concerned with what is established' (XXIII.21, 705). As regards the fourth supposedly natural law or relation pertaining to punishment or revenge, Montesquieu traces the law of retaliation (la loi du taliori) to the Koran and argues that it is characteristic of despotic governments above all (VI.9). If, then, Montesquieu himself has reservations about the naturalness of these laws, dependent as he states they are on god, might one supplant them with better, truly natural, and hence constantly obeyed laws that do not depend on any such god? Could it be that Montesquieu makes the existence of god necessary in order to explain the existence of 'relations of equity' whose own existence he then quietly calls into question on the grounds that they are radically unnatural and by no means 'necessary'?

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To begin to see the manner in which Montesquieu will replace the supposed laws that 'god established' with his own laws reasonably deduced from the true nature of things, it is best to take up his discussion of the beasts and the understanding of 'natural law' that he first sketches there (f 111-12; cf. 11; Lowenthal 1959). Regardless of whether beasts are governed by general laws of movement or by a particular motion, 'they do not have a more intimate relation with god than does the rest of the material world,' which is to say that they have no direct relation with him at all (see ^5 and 6, beg.). On the contrary, beasts are led by the attractive pull of pleasure to preserve both their particular being (through the pleasure of eating, for example) and their species (through the pleasure of procreation). These desires for the preservation of oneself and one's species Montesquieu calls 'natural laws,' his first explicit mention of them in the work. Here Montesquieu clearly returns to the understanding of law that he had sketched at the outset of the book, according to which law describes a necessary relation derived from reflection on nature: bodies in motion, plants, and beasts all obey their natural laws. Natural law properly understood, then, is compatible with a relationship to god that is not 'intimate.' In fact, as Montesquieu presents it, natural law takes the place of god's direct or providential governance. It is because beasts are guided by feeling (sentiment) rather than reason that they obey their natural laws so well - though not quite as well, it turns out, as do plants. Knowledge and to some extent even feeling (insofar as the latter may give conflicting impulses) complicate obedience to natural law. As for human beings, Montesquieu makes it clear that in one respect at least, beasts enjoy a decisive advantage over us, for although beasts cannot escape death, they escape foreknowledge of it. Men, driven by both hope and fear, for the most part fail to preserve their being as well as the animals do. Our passions, to say nothing of our reason, interfere with our obedience to natural law understood as the natural directedness to self- and species-preservation.26 It is only by guiding aright men's hopes and fears that human beings will come to live reasonably in the sense of obeying their natural laws properly understood. Montesquieu's principal aim in Book I is to get rid of the 'primitive laws' said to govern mankind - the so-called natural laws, the existence and obligatory character of which depend on the existence of god but the compliance with which can be shown to violate human nature - and to replace them with the civil or political equivalents of the laws govern-

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ing matter in motion, plants, and beasts. Montesquieu indicates the limited but sober aim of his undertaking by making clear that all laws religious, moral, political, and civil - pertain to man as a 'feeling creature' and not as a rational one (see the threefold division in f!4); man is subject 'to ignorance and to error, as all finite intelligences are: the feeble knowledge he has he loses again.' Montesquieu's own political philosophy will therefore rely far less than did traditional philosophy on man's knowledge or reason and far more on an understanding of his passions. One might say that the peak of human reason is the comprehension of the passions that act on our souls, its most important task the discovery of the best means to manipulate those passions such that we may satisfy the deepest of them. To rewrite natural law in this way, Montesquieu must begin again from the very beginning. Montesquieu signals by the title of 1.2 its fundamental character: 'On the Laws of Nature.' He first characterizes all the laws he has just mentioned in the preceding paragraph - to repeat, religious, moral, political, and civil laws: 'Before all these laws are those of nature, so named because they derive uniquely from the constitution of our being' (1.2, 235; emphasis added). Montesquieu thus indicates both that none of the laws pertaining to man yet discussed are truly natural and that he himself will take his bearings by 'the constitution of our being,' by human nature correctly understood. There is no clearer path to Montesquieu's intention here than to compare that part of I.I devoted to sketching the four 'relations of equity prior to the positive law' or 'primitive laws' that 'god established' before there were particular intelligent beings (HK8-9, 14) with his own four 'laws of nature' deduced from man's condition 'prior to the establishment of societies' or in the state of nature. To be sure, Montesquieu begins somewhat cautiously: 'That law that, by imprinting on us the idea of a creator, leads us toward him, is the first of the natural laws, in its importance and not in the order of these laws. Man in the state of nature would have the faculty of knowing rather than knowledge. It is clear that his first ideas would not be speculative ideas: he would think of the preservation of his being before seeking the origin of his being' (emphasis original). This 'first' natural law, then, is first in importance but not in time: man in the state of nature has no innate idea of god. Indeed, as Montesquieu had admitted at the end of chapter 1, even man in society is such a being as 'could at any moment forget his creator; god has called him back to him by the laws of religion' (I.I, 234). Montesquieu later resolves the apparent contradiction

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between the knowledge of god as a natural law and as resulting from (positive) religious law when, in Book XXVI, he gives a more detailed enumeration of the various kinds of law. He there clearly places divine (and ecclesiastical) right apart from natural law and together with the many positive laws (XXVI.l). In other words, Montesquieu introduces knowledge of god as the first natural law, but he never speaks of it as such again. The four natural laws properly so-called, then, are these: the desire for peace, food, procreation, and the society of others. Unlike the four relations of equity that are said somehow to exist apart from the positive law that 'establishes' them but which nonetheless require the supposition of 'a society of men' to speak about at least one and perhaps all of them (see I.I, T[9), Montesquieu's own natural laws are meant to apply to human beings as they are truly or by nature and hence prior to the effects of society on their nature: just as the radii of any given circle are all equal, so every human being acts in accord with the four natural laws he indicates. Montesquieu wishes to undermine the dogma of natural law derived by the theologians from the teachings of Christ, teachings that, as we have seen, preach more the perfect than the possible; he wishes also to delineate those laws that, being truly in accord with our nature, deserve the name of natural law and that require no exhortation or sanction for us to act in accord with them. However much political society may distort or mutilate the natural desires Montesquieu discerns, and however plastic those desires may be in themselves, they nonetheless remain present in us and can be retrieved and made use of by the prudent legislator. The opening and largely destructive sections of the Spirit of the Laws are meant to prepare the way for the constructive project that follows them. Conclusion Despite the disagreements, both apparent and real, between Montesquieu and Bayle, they are at one on the fundamental questions. Both agree that religion is responsible for greater ills than benefits, at least in well-governed polities, and that it can safely be demoted if the task of politics becomes the pursuit of such goods (e.g., liberty understood as security) as can clearly be traced to natural passions, above all the fear of death. To be sure, Montesquieu goes out of his way to distance himself from Bayle's by-then infamous assertion of the possibility of an atheistic society, but his specific criticisms amount only to this: in praising

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the political utility of atheism, Bayle was far too critical of idolatry; idolatry deserves greater praise than Bayle acknowledged. By thus making idolatry the focus of his defence against Bayle's criticisms, Montesquieu leaves almost untouched Bayle's praise of atheism. And insofar as Montesquieu praises Christianity, he does so explicitly in terms of the 'political utility' of what he determines are its 'counsels' as distinguished from its 'precepts,' a standard fully in accord with Bayle's own denigration of dogma in favour of deeds that in practice has the effect of obscuring Christianity's claim to be the one true religion (XXIV.6). Montesquieu's denial that the state has any reasonable concern with 'sacrilege' amounts to the privatization of the heart of religion, each being left to his own 'fantasies' or 'enlightenment,' and Montesquieu states clearly what he hoped such privatization would really amount to: by removing religion from the state, one may eventually 'detach the soul from religion' altogether (XXV. 12). If Montesquieu refused to go quite as far as Bayle in toying with the possibility of a simply atheistic politics, this refusal stems only from his greater moderation or prudence, not from a disagreement over principle. To begin to take a critical distance from Bayle and Montesquieu, it is best to reflect on one consequence of the elevation of the concern for deeds at the expense of dogma just noted. For that elevation puts in some doubt the status of their own preoccupation with 'dogma,' or at any rate opinions: neither philosopher, that is, seems to leave much of a place for philosophy in his psychology or politics, or to explain and justify philosophy or philosophizing. One might suppose, it is true, that Bayle advocates religious tolerance for the sake of the freedom to philosophize, but in fact he makes no suggestion that philosophy is the way of life most in accord with human nature, and which would therefore supply a fixed, natural standard by which to judge the goals he praises. Not the longing for wisdom but the desire to satisfy amour-propre, which desire can take very many forms, is the most fundamental fact of human nature. Bayle seems to have understood his own philosophizing to be partly in the service of society but ultimately in that of his own amourpropre. And the political philosopher Montesquieu leaves little room in his politics for philosophy; he criticizes any religion that leads to 'contemplation' and suggests that concern with the 'speculative sciences' makes men 'savage' (sauvage). Of the many philosophic sects Montesquieu discusses, he reserves his highest praise for the Stoics: 'they were occupied only in working for men's happiness and in exercising the duties of society ... Born for society, they all believed that their destiny

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was to work for it' (XXIV. 10). As Montesquieu states, human beings in general are made 'to preserve, feed and clothe themselves, and to carry out all the actions of society': in order to lead the good life, there is in principle no need to transcend the things of a society devoted to security or to seek out anything other than what is attainable in and through such a society. If, then, the political prescriptions required to meet our truly natural needs depended on a Montesquieu for their discovery, their implementation would seem to make far less necessary and indeed less likely the subsequent rise of any new Montesquieus. 'In Montesquieu perhaps more than in any other modern philosopher, we are made aware of the amazing, nay, the astounding paradox of the attempt to explain the highest human activity as some form of the desire for selfpreservation' (Pangle 1973,238). It is worth noting in this context that there is a peculiarity even or precisely in Montesquieu's account of our natural needs. For he does not conceal the fact that his aforementioned 'attack' on religion can succeed only if the legislator succeeds first in distracting citizens from their awareness of, and hence from reflecting on, their mortality: 'It is not therefore by filling the soul with this great object [fear of one's own death], by bringing it closer to the moment when it should find religion of greater importance, that one succeeds in detaching the soul from religion.' We recall in this context that beasts have one 'supreme advantage' over human beings according to Montesquieu, namely that 'they are subject to death as we are but without recognizing it' (I.I, 234). The very foreknowledge of our own mortality has the paradoxical result that, by driving us deeper into religious zeal, it prompts us to overlook such means as are genuinely available to us to satisfy our natural desire to preserve ourselves: 'This same delicacy of organs that makes [Indians] fear death serves also to make them dread a thousand things more than death' (XIV.3, 478). Accordingly, 'most [beasts] even preserve themselves better than we do and do not make such bad use of their passions' (I.I, 234). One must conclude that if 'it is not a matter of indifference that the people be enlightened' (Preface, 230), the enlightened awareness of our truly natural passions that Montesquieu seeks to promote is nonetheless aided in a decisive way by the diminution of our natural awareness of death and therewith of our fear of it. Hobbes taught us to focus above all on our fear of violent death, but Montesquieu encourages us simply to forget death, and the reason for this difference is clear enough: the problem of violent death admits of a political solution far more readily than does death simply.

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That Bayle and Montesquieu can account for philosophy only with difficulty may not by itself amount to a decisive objection. If Montesquieu's philosophic account of human nature leaves no place for the philosopher, perhaps such a being is explicable in terms of idiosyncratic tastes and unusual capacities. Only one question can concern us here: if the philosopher is not the fulfilment of human nature, can the life of philosophy, as distinguished above all from a life of pious devotion, be known to be the good life? That this is an appropriate question to bring to the political philosophy of Bayle and Montesquieu is clear from the character of their principal works, for both manifestly thought it essential to overturn, by means of the tools of philosophy, the traditional biblical understanding of man's relation to God and community. Indeed, Bayle and Montesquieu were as keenly aware of the greatest obstacle that the philosophic effort to 'enlighten' politics faced, namely the claims to knowledge of the world raised by the pious, as they were hopeful that this obstacle could be overcome once and for all. The fundamental question, then, is this: did the philosophers in question refute these claims, as their project evidently requires them to do? Let us begin with Pierre Bayle. Bayle's apparently esoteric attack on the belief that comets presage misfortune is aimed ultimately at the belief in the possibility of miracles. This attack has two elements: any miracle whose consequences can be shown to be incompatible with the opinion we have of God's perfection cannot be a miracle in fact; and a miracle can be known to be such only if it is attested to by express revelation, but revelation itself requires a miracle to be known to be genuine. Rather than being good grounds to establish faith in the biblical God, miracles and revelation presuppose it. Neither of these arguments can be said to be convincing in the end, for the first does not confront the possibility of a God whose very perfection requires that He be, in some respects at least, mysterious; and the second could be dismissed as simple hardheartedness, as an obstinate deafness to God's manifest call. What is more, Bayle himself seems to be perfectly aware of these difficulties: 'you might stop me here to tell me that it is punishable temerity for me to deny that God has done a thing because my petty reason does not discover any use of it and sees, to the contrary, that many great abuses result from it'; Bayle is well aware of the view that 'it is not for us to find fault with what God does' (Various Thoughts §§223 and 56). His strategy to overcome these objections, I suggest, is to supply readers with what he hopes will be an irresistible moral or political incentive to adopt the view of the world he sketches. For

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coming between the two main arguments against miracles is, as we have seen, Bayle's lengthy and powerful presentation of the advantages to be gained by demoting the concern for religion. His extensive catalogue of the atrocities committed in the name of religion, on the one hand, and his sketch of the possibility of a decent society of atheists, on the other, are together intended to induce his audience to accept this demotion of religion in favour of both the preservation of life and the attainment of the satisfaction stemming from the esteem of others. The acceptance of these goals, however, seems both to require the prior knowledge that the biblical God does not exist and, in Bayle, to substitute for such knowledge: only in a world without providence do bodily security and mundane prosperity become paramount ends; let us therefore act on the basis of the belief that there is no providence, the better to attain them. Much the same must be said of Montesquieu. We recall that the main purpose of Book I of the Spirit of Laws is to replace the four supposedly natural laws 'established by god' -which, however, human beings violate 'incessantly' - with four genuinely natural laws that, like the laws or axioms of geometry, are never violated because they are deduced from the true nature of the things in question. And if one accepts the natural laws that Montesquieu states, there is no need to accept or even to speak of the biblical God, the just and providential God capable of miraculous intervention in the world. It cannot be said, however, that Montesquieu establishes the truth of his own natural laws over and against those of traditional theology in the four or five pages of the Spirit of the Laws he devotes to this daunting task. The new natural laws, and the understanding of the world that goes together with them, have at bottom the character of assertions, and they are good or choiceworthy because their acceptance will lead to a manifestly good political order, not because they are manifestly true. For example, Montesquieu's political philosophy looks to the 'state of nature' for its foundation, and yet he never speaks of it at length in the Spirit of the Laws. What is more, Montesquieu was at the very least familiar with objections to the very idea of a 'state of nature,' for in the Persian Letters (Montesquieu 1949-51) his Usbek raises the following one: 'I have never heard one speak of public law (droit public) without beginning by searching carefully for the origin of societies, which seems to me ridiculous. If men never formed any societies, if they abandoned each other and fled from one another, we would have to ask the reason for this and search out why they stand off from one another. But they are all born joined to one another; a son is born

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before his father, and he stays there: here is society and the cause of society' (#94). One cannot help but wonder whether Montesquieu adopted the idea of a state of nature as a fiction useful for his purposes. At all events, what appears to be the theoretical foundation of Montesquieu's political prescriptions is in fact deduced from those prescriptions: the politics justifies the theory, not the other way around. One may say that the deepest stratum of the modern philosophic response to the pious is an exhortation to behold what we are assured will be a new and better Jerusalem, built by human hands and fit for human habitation here and now. Contrary to first impressions, then, Bayle and Montesquieu did not deduce their politics from a completed metaphysics, that is, from a complete account of the nature of human being, God, and world that was a standing refutation of biblical claims. They sought instead to satisfy our most unambiguous natural needs - those for security, comfort, and esteem - then to suppress for the sake of that satisfaction our interest in and even awareness of the most fundamental question of metaphysics. In the name of greater tranquillity, both Bayle and Montesquieu elevated deeds over opinions, morality over understanding, and thus encouraged us to become indifferent to biblical faith, to its truth or falsity. This gamble proved to involve a difficulty. For a political philosopher subsequently arose whose rhetorical gifts were as extraordinary as his powers of reasoning -Jeanjacques Rousseau (see, most recently, Melzer 1996) - and he used these capacities to launch the first great assault on the modern Enlightenment. When Rousseau deplored the transformation of human beings into the empty bourgeois who depend for their well-being on precisely the amour-propre celebrated by Bayle as the key to an atheistic morality, we were reminded, or forced to see, that the politics wrought by the Enlightenment is neither beyond question nor without alternative: Bayle has proved very well that fanaticism is more pernicious than atheism, and this is incontestable. But what he did not take care to say, and which is no less true, is that fanaticism, though sanguinary and cruel, is nonetheless a grand and strong passion that elevates the heart of man, makes him despise death, that gives him a prodigious spring [ressort] that need only be better directed to produce the most sublime virtues. On the other hand, irreligion - and in general the reasoning and philosophic spirit - causes attachment to life, makes souls effeminate and degraded, concentrates all

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the passions in the baseness of private interest, in the abjectness of the human /, and thus quietly saps the true foundations of every society. For what private interests have in common is so little that it will never balance what they have in opposition. (Rousseau 1964, 386 n.)

This questioning prepared the way for Nietzsche, whose portrait of the ultimate degradation of modern bourgeois society in the Last Man surpassed even the rhetoric of Rousseau in its power (consider 'Zarathustra's Prologue,' #5, Thus Spoke Zarathustra [Nietzsche 1954, 128-32]). And yet, to repeat, the ultimate justification of the early modern Enlightenment as a whole, at least as we have come to see it in the work of Bayle and Montesquieu, is the manifest goodness of the new politics. Thus their attempt to rid us of the concern with the next world for the sake of peace and security in this one has been shaken to its core, and we in the postmodern age are the heirs of this problematic project.

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Chapter 3

On the Possibility of a Return to Premodern Rationalism: Alasdair Maclntyre and Leo Strauss

Alasdair Maclntyre

Alasdair Maclntyre may well be at present the most widely discussed and debated academic philosopher in North America and Britain. And not without reason. In a series of major books and scholarly articles published since 1981, Maclntyre has both formulated a devastating critique of the moral and political life brought about by the modern Enlightenment and adumbrated an ever more certain, and daring, positive project to recast the framework within which we conceive of ourselves as thinking and acting beings. For Maclntyre seeks nothing less than to replace the entire moral philosophy of the Enlightenment with a Thomistic Aristotelianism properly understood. Where today we have been taught by liberal democratic theory to think of ourselves as essentially isolated, autonomous individuals free to choose the good life peculiar to us as individuals without recourse to a natural telos or end, for example, Maclntyre would have us return to some notion of the human telos and therewith to a much richer understanding of the human good than that which liberal theory now permits (see especially Maclntyre 1990a, 344—8, 356-61). Briefly put, 'we still, in spite of the efforts of three centuries of moral philosophy and one of sociology, lack any coherent rationally defensible statement of a liberal individualist point of view,' but 'the Aristotelian tradition can be restated in a way that restores intelligibility and rationality to our moral and social attitudes and commitments' (Maclntyre 1984, 259). As even this summary remark indicates, however, Maclntyre's return to Aristotle (and Aquinas) is not without qualification and considerable complexity: the Aristotelian view must be 'restated' in order to be useful

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here and now, and this proves to mean much more than that Aristotle's chief teachings could be of use today only by extracting from them their fundamental principles and applying them, mutatis mutandis, to the burning questions of our day. For in the end, Maclntyre is less concerned with what Aristotle himself thought on any given question than with what the tradition of Aristotelianism came to think. (This fact accounts for the otherwise surprisingly brief treatment of Aristotle's own words, or the relatively sparse textual exegesis, in both After Virtue and Whose Justice? Which Rationality?)^ The 'key question' for Maclntyre is whether 'Aristotle's ethics, or something very like it,' can be vindicated (Maclntyre 1984, 118, emphasis added), and he argues eventually for a 'generally Aristotelian standpoint' (ibid., 197, emphasis added). To understand Maclntyre's complex return to and revision of Aristotle's moral philosophy, it will be helpful to begin with the concept for which both Aristotle and Maclntyre are perhaps best known, that of 'the virtues.' Maclntyre argues that in the later European Middle Ages the tradition of the moral virtues inherited from classical Aristotelianism began to falter and eventually collapsed; that collapse 'opened up the possibility of the Enlightenment project,' according to which the older moral reasoning could at last be replaced by 'a kind of secular morality that would be entitled to secure the assent of any rational person' (Maclntyre 1998, 72, 70). But the Enlightenment thinkers never succeeded in discovering such a purely rational, secular morality, and we who live amidst the debris of their attempts are burdened with an incoherent moral language that dooms us to engage in interminable moral arguments and quarrels (Maclntyre 1984, 1-35). The certainty with which Aristotle spoke of virtue and hence of moral things is but a matter for historical recollection today, and the purportedly clear and distinct morality of the Enlightenment meant to replace it has failed: 'We live after virtue in a period of unresolvable disputes and dilemmas, both within contemporary philosophy and within morality itself (Maclntyre 1998,72). Yet Maclntyre contends that the neglect of the tradition of the virtues was by no means necessary, that the impetus that neglect gave to the Enlightenment need never have arisen, and that the effects of the Enlightenment may now be undone: it is in principle possible to revive the Aristotelian tradition of the virtues.2 But even as Maclntyre insists on the necessity of recovering a Ideological understanding of human beings, if we are to speak coherently of the virtues, he also contends that Aristotle's 'metaphysical biology,' which according to Maclntyre is the

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basis of that teleology, 'must' be rejected (Maclntyre 1984, 162; 196-7). To revive an Aristotelian notion of the virtues that will retain a meaningful teleology and thus avoid the collapse into relativism, Maclntyre has recourse instead to a 'socially Ideological account' of virtue (ibid., 197). To understand that account, it is best to begin from Maclntyre's own summary of his approach to the virtues: 'My account of the virtues proceeds through three stages: a first which concerns virtues as qualities necessary to achieve the goods internal to practices; a second which considers them as qualities contributing to the good of a whole life; and a third which relates them to the pursuit of a good for human beings the conception of which can only be elaborated and possessed within an ongoing social tradition' (ibid., 273). To begin with, a practice is, 'any coherent and complex form of socially established cooperative human activity through which goods internal to that form of activity are realized in the course of trying to achieve those standards of excellence which are appropriate to, and partially definitive of, that form of activity, with the result that human powers to achieve excellence, and human conceptions of the ends and goods involved, are systematically extended' (ibid., 187). Examples of such practices include architecture, football, farming, and chess: 'the range of practices is wide: arts, sciences, games, politics in the Aristotelian sense, the making and sustaining of family life, all fall under the concept' (ibid., 188). This idea of a practice permits us to understand in turn Maclntyre's definition of virtue: a virtue is 'an acquired human quality the possession and exercise of which tends to enable us to achieve those goods which are internal to practices and the lack of which effectively prevents us from achieving any such goods' (ibid., 191, emphasis original). But as Maclntyre himself stresses, it is not enough to leave the account of the virtues at this, at the derivation of specific excellences from the demands internal to socially acceptable activities, for 'it does seem that the question 'What would a human being lack who lacked the virtues?' must be given a kind of answer which goes beyond anything which I have said so far' (ibid., 201). That is, without some account of both the good life of every given individual viewed as a whole, and the good life for human beings as such, the 'modern self with its criterionless choices apparently reappears in the alien context of what was claimed to be an Aristotelian world' (ibid., 202). Unless 'there is a telos which transcends the limited goods of practices by constituting the good of a whole human life, the good of a human life conceived as a unity, it will both be the case that a certain subversive arbitrariness will

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invade the moral life and that we shall be unable to specify the context of certain virtues adequately' (ibid., 203, emphasis original). The second stage of his account of the virtues requires, against the portrait of the isolated and autonomous agent promoted by contemporary liberalism, a 'narrative concept of selfhood,' 'a concept of the self whose unity resides in the unity of a narrative which links birth to life to death as narrative beginning to middle to end' (ibid., 217, 205). According to Maclntyre, any adequate understanding of human action or agency requires that the 'narrative history' of which that action is a part be duly recognized: 'We identify a particular action only by invoking two kinds of context... We place the agent's intentions ... in causal and temporal order with reference to their role in his or her history; and we also place them with reference to their role in the history of the setting or settings to which they belong ... Narrative history of a certain kind turns out to be the basic and essential genre for the characterization of human actions' (ibid., 208). We 'render the actions of others intelligible in this way because action itself has a basically historical character. It is because we all live out narratives in our lives and because we understand our own lives in terms of the narratives that we live out that the form of narrative is appropriate for understanding the actions of others' (ibid., 212). Far from being isolated beings without connection to others and thus wholly unencumbered in choosing the very constitution of our selves, human beings are in fact always 'embedded' in a complex web of relations, roles, duties, and possess 'certain conceptions of a possible shared future' (ibid., 215). What is more, such 'lived narratives' possess 'a certain ideological character': 'There is no present which is not informed by some image of some future ... which always presents itself in the form of a telos - or of a variety of ends or goals - toward which we are either moving or failing to move in the present (ibid., 216). Man 'is not essentially, but becomes through his history, a teller of stories that aspire to truth' (ibid., 216). All practices, then, take place within a 'narrative concept of selfhood,' and the virtues are further determined by the quest for unity within one's life: 'The unity of a human life is the unity of a narrative quest ... the only criteria for success or failure in a human life as a whole are the criteria of success or failure in a narrated or to-be-narrated quest' (ibid., 219). Recurring to 'the medieval conception of a quest,' Maclntyre contends that, 'without some at least partly determinate conception of the final telos,' no quest could even be begun (ibid., 219): if the virtues are determined in part by the specific practices one engages in as part of a

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unified, narrative quest, the difficulty still remains, a quest for what? As Maclntyre argues, one cannot avoid raising the question, '"What is the good for man?"' (ibid., 218-19). Virtues are not only internal to specified practices, they must also 'sustain us in the relevant kind of quest for the good,' which Maclntyre eventually defines as follows: 'the good life for man is the life spent in seeking for the good life for man, and the virtues necessary for the seeking are those which will enable us to understand what more and what else the good life for man is' (ibid., 219). To flesh out what the good for man may be, Maclntyre broaches, in the third and last of his arguments pertaining to the virtues, the idea of tradition, which is central to After Virtue and his subsequent writings. For the specific goal of our quest for the good life will be informed by the living tradition of which we are a part: 'What the good life is for a fifthcentury Athenian general will not be the same as what it is for a medieval nun or a seventeenth century farmer' (ibid., 220). The 'story of my life is always embedded in the story of those communities from which I derive my identity' (ibid., 221). And the virtues can be determined by their contribution to the continuing vitality of one's own tradition: 'The virtues find their point and purpose not only in sustaining those relationships necessary if the variety of goods internal to practices are to be achieved and not only in sustaining the form of an individual life in which that individual may seek out his or her good as the good of his or her whole life, but also in sustaining those traditions which provide both practices and individual lives with their necessary historical context' (ibid., 223). Maclntyre's provisional answer to the question, 'what is the good for man?' - that it is a life spent seeking the good for man - thus receives its content or specificity from the tradition of which one is a part, and it is now clear why Maclntyre calls this a 'socially ideological' account. To replace a teleological account of human virtue based on a 'metaphysical biology' with one based on socially accepted practices and the broader tradition they help to constitute is to accept the essentially historical character of morality; it is to accept a version of historicism. Indeed, in After Virtue, Maclntyre concedes or rather insists both that his is 'an historicist defence of Aristotle' (ibid., 277; also 266, 269, 270-1) and that 'Aristotle himself... was not any kind of historicist' (ibid., 277): one fundamental 'limitation' marring Aristotle's thought is 'the ahistorical character of his understanding of human nature'; he had 'little or no understanding of historicity' (ibid., 159). Maclntyre even suggests that 'Aristotle is the spokesman for one class of fourth century Athe-

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nians' or that 'the paradigm of human excellence' for Aristotle is 'the Athenian gentleman' (ibid., 268, 182). Maclntyre's historicism supplies the philosophic rationale for his lengthy attempts to reconstruct, in After Virtue and in even greater detail in Whose Justice? Which Rationality?, the conflicting traditions that inform Western moral thought, from the prephilosophic heroic culture portrayed by Homer through to the Augustinian and Thomistic adaptation of Aristotle's engagement with his Platonic inheritance, to mention the most significant of the premodern developments (Maclntyre 1988, 12-208). The only way to understand our moral framework is to understand its complex genesis, and the only way to effect a change in it is to offer a new narrative account of those aspects of the tradition that demonstrate its continuing vitality and that will therefore permit it to become once again an effective part of our lives. As several critics have suggested, it would seem that this avowed historicism forces Maclntyre into accepting, very much against his will, a relativistic notion of the human good and of human excellence, for the specific content of the virtues will differ from tradition to tradition, and within one tradition over time, and there is no transhistorical standard by which to rank the various answers to the question of how to live and hence to that of the nature of the virtues: 'I am irremediably antiHegelian in rejecting the notion of an absolute standpoint, independent of the particularity of traditions' (Horton and Mendus 1994, 295). Yet Maclntyre just as adamantly denies that he is a relativist. The fact that 'the concept of a tradition, together with the criteria for its use and application, is itself one developed from within one particular traditionbased standpoint,' in no way precludes 'its application to the very tradition within which it was developed' nor its being used 'to frame universal claims about all traditions' (ibid., 295). Maclntyre argues that it is indeed possible for rival traditions, and the rival conceptions of the virtues and of practical rationality that go together with them, to engage in 'dialectical interchange' out of which may emerge 'a discovery of common standards, standards hitherto presupposed, but never made articulate' (ibid., 297). But even where this does not happen, every thoughtful adherent of a tradition must attempt to account for that very failure: 'Only a theoretical standpoint which is able to provide an explanation of why, if it is true, just this kind of disagreement with it by the adherents of rival points of view is to be expected will be in a position to vindicate its claim to truth.' Above all else, 'The adherents of a theoretical standpoint without the resources to achieve such an explanation can never ...

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avoid the question of whether there may not be some standpoint more comprehensive than their own in principles and conceptually richer, still to be discovered, in the light of which the inability of both contending parties to resolve their disagreements will become explicable' (ibid., 297). For Maclntyre, 'progress in rationality' is achieved when 'the adherents of [a given] point of view succeed to some significant degree in elaborating ever more comprehensive and adequate statements of their positions through the dialectical procedure of advancing objections which identify incoherences, omissions, explanatory failures, and other types of flaws and limitation in earlier statements of them' (Maclntyre 1988, 144). Or, as he put it in his postscript to the second edition of After Virtue, 'if some particular moral scheme has successfully transcended the limitations of its predecessors and in so doing provided the best means available for understanding those predecessors to date and has then confronted successive challenges from a number of rival points of view, but in each case has been able to modify itself in the ways required to incorporate the strengths of those points of view while avoiding their weaknesses and limitations and has provided the best explanation so far of those weaknesses and limitations, then we have the best possible reason to have confidence that future challenges will also be met successfully, that the principles which define the core of a moral scheme are enduring principles' (Maclntyre 1984, 270, emphasis original). And, he adds, 'this is the achievement that I ascribe to Aristotle's fundamental moral scheme' (ibid., 270). It is true that this socially ideological account of the virtues, which depends on reflection on one's own tradition and its ability to resolve practical moral difficulties without self-contradiction, cannot supply more than the certainty that a given moral theory is 'the best theory to emerge so far in the history of the class of theories.' As a result, 'we ought to aspire to provide the best theory so far as to what type of theory the best theory so far must be: no more, but no less' (ibid., 270). If Maclntyre's account of virtue does not collapse into relativism - and this remains a controversial question - neither does it issue in an account of moral virtue and human excellence that can be said to be simply true. For present purposes, it is most important to note only that Maclntyre's enterprise is not in the end a return to Aristotle, to premodern thought, but a complex appropriation of elements of ancient (or medieval) thought according to modern sensibilities: Maclntyre seeks to retrieve from the thought of the past only such aspects of it as are compatible with the modern doctrine of historicism, for example. And it

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would be very difficult to know, on the basis of Maclntyre's presentation of it, that Aristotle's moral and political philosophy culminates in a description of the contemplative life and the assertion of the superiority of contemplative to moral virtue. Very much in the spirit of the modern moral philosophy he otherwise opposes, Maclntyre seeks to know in order to act; the whole of his philosophic study is motivated by a certain moral seriousness, by the desire to bring about change in moral thought and hence action. The necessity of rejecting Aristode's 'metaphysical biology,' for example, is more asserted than argued for in After Virtue, but it seems to derive from strictly moral concerns and not a competing biology (ibid., 162, 196-7; consider also 159). Having rejected the Marxism of his youth, Maclntyre nonetheless adheres to die advice contained in Marx's eleventh thesis on Feurbach: 'the philosophers have only interpreted the world, in various ways; the point, however, is to change it' (consider Maclntyre's mature appreciation of the Theses on Feurbach in Maclntyre 1998, 223-4). Maclntyre's neglect of Aristotle's account of contemplative virtue, the peak of Aristotelian moral philosophy in both the Nicomachean Ethics and the Politics, is linked, then, with the fundamentally moral nature of his concerns. Still, one could argue that that moral seriousness is otherwise very much in the spirit of Aristotle. For Maclntyre is critical of the typically utilitarian character of modern morality, as exemplified by Benjamin Franklin (Maclntyre 1984, 181-6, 198-9, 232, 243), and thus praises Jane Austen - 'the last great representative of the classical tradition of the virtues' (ibid., 243) - on the grounds that Austen's Fanny Price 'pursues virtue for the sake of a certain kind of happiness and not for its utility' (ibid., 242). In accordance with this praise of the classical tradition, Maclntyre attributes to Aristotle the view that the virtues 'are precisely those qualities the possession of which will enable an individual to achieve eudaimonia and the lack of which will frustrate his movement toward that telos' (ibid., 148). Maclntyre's attribution is correct but incomplete, for he neglects entirely the element of self-sacrifice that Aristotle is intent on portraying, especially in its competition with the concern for happiness: Aristotle also says that one who is virtuous will act 'for the sake of the noble' (to kalon; see, e.g., EN 1115bl 1-13). Indeed, it is difficult to see why virtues the principal task of which is to secure the happiness of those who possess them are anything other than utilitarian; if the moral virtues are choiceworthy because they make those who choose them happy, it is difficult to see what is particularly 'moral' about them. Had Maclntyre followed through more intransigently this

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concern for nobility in Aristotle's moral thought, he might have been led to a greater appreciation of the troubling complexity of morality according to Aristotle himself, an appreciation that would perhaps not only have prevented Maclntyre from so readily identifying the Athenian gentleman as 'the paradigm of human excellence' for Aristotle (Maclntyre 1984, 182) but also permitted him access to Aristotle's praise of theoretical (contemplative) virtue as the true peak of human excellence. Not the gentleman but the philosopher is the 'paradigm of human excellence' according to Aristotle. In writings subsequent to After Virtue, Maclntyre appears to place greater weight on the importance to our tradition of Christianity, of Augustine and especially of Aquinas (Maclntyre 1988, 146-208; Maclntyre 1990b, 58-148). And in an essay entitled 'Plain Persons and Moral Philosophy: Rules, Virtues, and Goods,' first published in 1992 (Maclntyre 1998, 136-52), Maclntyre concludes that the moral common sense exhibited by 'plain persons' receives its most thoroughgoing and consistent expression in the pages of Aristotle and Aquinas. There we find 'explanations of what it is for someone to succeed in progressing towards or to fail in progressing towards their ultimate end, and such explanations are of interest only if and insofar as we have good reason to believe that they are true.' Maclntyre continues: 'such explanations will be true if and only if the universe itself is Ideologically ordered, and the only type of Ideologically ordered universe in which we have good reason to believe is a theistic universe' (ibid., 152, emphasis original). Maclntyre's moral seriousness thus culminates in his recognition of the necessity of a teleology that looks to something other and more than any tradition - to the fact of the 'self-revelation of God in the events of the scriptural history and the gratuitous grace through which that revelation is appropriated' (Maclntyre 1990b, 140, the importance of which is indicated at Horton and Mendus 1994, 298) - for however much Christianity is part of a tradition, its central claim cannot be taken as seriously as Maclntyre apparently takes it without breaking the bonds of tradition, of historicism. It remains to be seen whether Maclntyre will endeavour to return to the thought of the past as unreservedly as his theological stance would evidently permit or require him to do. The theological assertions in which Maclntyre's attempt to return to the moral thought of antiquity culminates provide a useful point of departure for our consideration of the other contemporary thinker who can claim to have undertaken a similar return, for not only did Leo

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Strauss attempt to revive the political philosophy of Plato and Aristotle as serious alternatives today, he did so also in full knowledge of and with keen interest in the theological dimension of the project of enlightenment, ancient and modern. And rather than focus on Strauss's well-known opposition to historicism, readily accessible in a series of essays,3 it is to this theological dimension of his work that we must pay particular attention if we are to understand the problem at the heart of 'enlightenment.' Leo Strauss Leo Strauss was probably the most influential exegete of ancient political philosophy in the twentieth century; he certainly remains its most controversial one. Several able summaries of Strauss's thought as a whole are available and it is unnecessary to rehearse them in detail here.4 For my purpose, it is enough to note that Strauss's early studies of the philosophers of the modern Enlightenment brought him to the conclusion that their extraordinary efforts to refute revelation or religious orthodoxy were in the final analysis unsatisfactory, above all because they had failed to prove the impossibility or unreality of miracles. They therefore had resorted to ridicule and mockery 'to "laugh" orthodoxy out of a position from which it could not be dislodged by any proofs supplied by Scripture or even by reason' (Strauss 1995, 29-30; Strauss 1965, 28-9). The practical success of such mockery in denigrating and demoting orthodoxy concealed for a time the fact that the Enlightenment, while claiming to be the voice of reason, had in truth been forced to abandon reason to achieve its end. Modern rationalism in its subsequent decline ultimately issued in a new kind of atheism, whose deepest ground or justification was not insight but a certain strength of will or 'fortitude': 'This new fortitude, being the willingness to look man's forsakenness in its face, being the courage to welcome the most terrible truth, is "probity," "intellectual probity"' (Strauss 1995, 30; 37). And however alluring many may have found this late or last bloom of modern philosophy to be, 'its basis is an act of will, of belief, and, being based on belief, is fatal to any philosophy' (Strauss 1965, 30). At least as early 1928, Strauss understood the causes of the collapse of modern rationalism or of what would become known as the postmodern turn. Rather than resign himself to reason's apparently necessary fate, however, Strauss began to wonder, shortly after Spinoza's Critique of Religion, whether 'the self-destruction of reason was not the inevitable outcome

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of modern rationalism as distinguished from pre-modern rationalism, especially Jewish-medieval rationalism and its classical (Aristotelian and Platonic) foundation' (ibid., 31). From Spinoza, Strauss was led to study Maimonides, Avicenna, Averroes, Alfarabi, and, as their ultimate philosophic source, Plato and Aristotle. Strauss's painstaking, highly unorthodox interpretations of these and kindred authors - in Philosophy and Law (1995), Persecution and the Art of Writing (1988b), Natural Right and History (1953), The City and Man (1964), Xenophon's SocraticDiscourse (1970), and other works - established his reputation as the leading advocate of the possibility of a return to premodern rationalism. Yet the case of Leo Strauss may be thought to affirm rather than to undermine the contemporary view that a meaningful return to older categories of thought is impossible. For there is substantial scholarly opinion that Strauss, the rediscoverer of 'esoteric writing' and himself a master of it, self-consciously concealed the fact that his interpretations of the classics were, like all interpretations, necessarily creative or wilful and not authentic attempts to 'understand a thinker as he understood himself.'7 The author of Studies in Platonic Political Philosophy was in fact a Nietzschean who, in order to effect political change, covered over his genuine convictions with seductive but ultimately groundless talk of things noble and base, just and unjust, true and false. I believe this suggestion to be incorrect, but one can learn from the more responsible statements of it - above all, and by way of contrast, the outlines of Strauss's true approach to premodern rationalism. In his essay 'Hermeneutics as Politics,' Stanley Rosen is concerned first to establish that, every bit as much as its modern and postmodern counterparts, '"classical" (or "Straussian") political philosophy' argues 'from an indemonstrable moral perception' according to which 'the testimony of modern history' is 'sufficiently terrifying as to justify the rejection of Enlightenment' (Rosen 1987 110, 111);6 this philosophy ' [claims] to know what it does not and cannot know,' namely that physis is accessible to us and constitutes a standard of evaluation independent of human making (111, 126). The bulk of Rosen's essay, however, is given over not to proving these assertions that amount to a denial of the possibility of philosophy but to making sense of Strauss's complicated political rhetoric or 'propaganda' that is meant to serve a specific 'political program' (110, 112, 118). But the priority of the political aims that Rosen is at pains to clarify depends on the soundness of the theoretical position indicated, and accordingly it deserves examination. Rosen notes that, according to Strauss, 'the crucial step in Enlighten-

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ment is the struggle against revealed religion' (110). In fact, for Strauss himself, 'even deeper ... than the quarrel between the ancients and the moderns is that between Athens and Jerusalem' (112). Moreover, like Hobbes and Spinoza before him, Strauss too ultimately 'regarded religion as irrefutable' (110, 131). Yet '[n]o competent student of Leo Strauss was ever in doubt as to his teacher's choice' (112): Athens over Jerusalem. As Rosen presents it, then, Strauss's final position, his 'choice,' is as wilful as that of the early moderns he had respectfully criticized. Strauss's conception of classical philosophy is 'at bottom Nietzschean' (123), Strauss himself being 'almost Nietzschean' (125). (In the end, 'Strauss, like Plato, was in fact a Kantian,' but then 'Nietzsche himself is a Kantian' [122, 126].)7 To support the suggestion that Strauss had surreptitiously abandoned rationalism, Rosen summarizes a passage from Strauss's 1965 autobiographical preface to the reissue of his early study of Spinoza, written in 1925-8: to refute revelation, a complete account of the world, a complete philosophical system, would be necessary; no such account or system is possible; philosophy therefore can never refute revelation, and any choice to philosophize is reducible to an act of will or belief not different in kind from the orthodoxy it opposes (see Strauss 1965, 29). Rosen fails to see, however, that the argument indicated is explicitly a summary of '[t]he results of this examination,' that is, of the examination conducted in 1925-8 (ibid., 28; emphasis added), and that Strauss concludes his preface by indicating what he now, in 1965, takes to be the defects of the conclusion he had been tempted, though only tempted, to draw from it. Among other things, Strauss indicates that the victory of orthodoxy is the victory of any or every orthodoxy but that Jewish orthodoxy in particular had always maintained the rationality of its Law (Deut. 4:6), and that the 'final atheism' of modernity is linked with a doctrine (the 'will to power') that seems both to assert and to deny the existence of objective truth (see, on the significance of these passages, Bolotin 1994, 141). Even in his youth, Strauss makes clear, he had maintained the 'suspicion' that 'it would be unwise to say farewell to reason' - a suspicion 'confirmed' by '[ojther observations and experiences.' It was only after coming to the view Rosen summarizes that Strauss undertook his fresh examination of 'Jewish-medieval rationalism,' and especially of its Platonic-Aristotelian foundation, that in some way gave support to the suspicion indicated. In brief, Rosen mistakes the Strauss of 1925-8 for the mature Strauss. How then to proceed, or in what manner did Strauss return to the

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'Platonic-Aristotelian foundation'? Rosen notes that, as a writer and interpreter, Strauss followed 'an analogy to Maimonides' own method' (116), and I take this observation more seriously or strictly than Rosen probably intended. For Strauss was decisively aided in his return to premodern rationalism by the study of its medieval manifestation in Moses Maimonides, undoubtedly the greatest and most authoritative Jewish thinker of the Middle Ages. Strauss said of Maimonides' Guide of the Perplexed, and of it alone, that he had devoted to it 'about twenty-five years of frequently interrupted but never abandoned study' (Maimonides 1963, xi), and he even went so far as to contend that 'Maimonides' rationalism is the true natural model, the standard to be carefully protected from any distortion, and thus the stumbling-block on which modern rationalism falls'; it is 'the standard against which [modern rationalism] proves to be only a semblance of rationalism' (Strauss 1995, 21-2; see also 135n.l). To begin to understand what Strauss only hints at8 towards the end of his Spinoza preface, then, it is necessary to consider briefly the Guide of the Perplexed with a view to its influence on Strauss's conception of the deepest task of classical political philosophy. There is a clear connection between Strauss's concern with the tensions between the claims of reason and revelation or with the theological-political problem, 'the theme of [his] investigations' (Strauss 1979b, 1), and the 'great perplexity' the Guide seeks to resolve: the Guide raises the question of whether the 'philosophical sciences' are compatible with belief in the Law as revealed by God to Moses. Is what our unaided reason tells us of the world compatible with what revelation teaches? Maimonides argues that, whatever may be true of other, lesser prophets, any attempt to unify faith and philosophy must cease when one comes to the prophecy of Moses. For in contrast to all prior prophecy, Moses' had a two-fold aim: to proclaim that God exists and that He had sent Moses on a 'mission' (1.63 [153—4] )9; it took the form, that is, of a law meant to govern not only himself but also an entire people, a nation. What is more, Moses' uniquely political prophecy transcended reason. He was therefore compelled to rely on miracles, not 'speculation and instruction,' to establish the truth of the revealed Law (consider also, e.g., 11.25 [329]). Thus the 'perplexity' at issue in the Guide can be restated as follows: the believer as believer insists on the reality of miracles, the Torah itself being a miracle of the highest order; the philosopher as philosopher, as one who seeks to understand the nature of or the unalterable necessity governing things, denies their reality and therewith the Law's guarantor. Who is right?

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Maimonides explains that, if the divine Law stands or falls with the fact of miracles, miracles themselves stand or fall with the question of whether the world was created ex nihilo, as the adherents of the Law insist, or is eternal, as Aristotle and his followers contend (11.25 [328-9]). In the words of Strauss: 'The beliefs peculiar to the law are founded upon and, as it were, derived from one fundamental conviction: the belief in creatio ex nihilo ... The discussion of the creation of the world, or, in other words, the criticism of the contention of the philosophers that the visible world is eternal, forms literally the central part of the Guide. It is the central part of this work also because of the fact that the interpretation of the whole work depends on the interpretation of this very part' (Strauss 1937, 101). Now Maimonides indicates that, with regard to the question of the eternity of the world or its temporal creation, 'no cogent demonstration can be reached'; it is 'a point before which the intellect stops' (1.71 [180]). Even Aristotle 'never at any time had the fantasy that what he said in this connection constituted a demonstration. On the contrary, he thought, as he says, that the gates of the ways to inferential reasoning on these matters are closed before us' (11.15 [292]; also II, Introduction [240-1]). Maimonides and Aristotle agree, then, that human beings cannot know the reality of miracles; as the believer believes the miracles related in the Bible to be true, so the philosopher believes them to be false. The fact that we cannot possess a 'demonstration' of the reality of miracles constitutes a massive obstacle, not to the believers, who (to repeat) need claim no more than that they believe in miracles and hence in the divinity of the Law, but to the philosopher. For, as Maimonides himself indicates, philosophy is the way of life devoted to understanding the nature of each of the beings in the given world by means of unaided human reasoning; the philosophic life seeks to uncover the specific necessities governing every existent and in doing so defers to no authority other than the autonomous intellect. Moreover, philosophy thus understood is said to be the best or most fully natural way of life for reasons that can in principle be made evident to the human intellect and hence to believer and nonbeliever alike. It is incumbent on the philosopher to have at his disposal an argument establishing the defectiveness of those lives that look to a supposedly suprarational source for guidance and that would on this basis usurp philosophy's claimed status as the best life. More precisely or sharply stated: 'If ... the philosophers have never refuted revelation,' then, 'philosophy must admit the possibility of revelation. Now that means

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that philosophy itself is not the right way of life, not evidently the right way of life, because this possibility of revelation exists. But what then does the choice of philosophy mean under these conditions? In this case, the choice of philosophy is based on faith. In other words, the quest for evident knowledge rests itself on an unevident premise' (Strauss 1979a, 117-18; also Strauss 1953, 74-6). To leave the decision to philosophize as a mere decision, as an act of the will or the inclination of taste, is therefore to make of philosophy a new kind of faith; it is to establish the life of reasoned inquiry on a foundation of unreasoned rejection. In brief, the fact (if such it be) that philosophy and revelation cannot refute each other 'would constitute the refutation of philosophy by revelation' (Strauss 1953, 75).10 Even the apparently open-minded stance of one who 'suspends' judgment in order to make further inquiries constitutes a rejection in fact of what is claimed to be the true way, for the Bible demands loving and fearful obedience, not well-meaning curiosity: 'We are confronted with the incompatible claims of Jerusalem and Athens to our allegiance. We are open to both and willing to listen to each. We ourselves are not wise but we wish to become wise. We are seekers for wisdom, 'philo-sophoi.' By saying that we wish to hear first and then to act to decide, we have already decided in favor of Athens against Jerusalem (Strauss 1983a, 149-50, emphasis added; see also Strauss 1979a, 113). In the matter of the truth or falsity of the biblical God, there is no fence on which to sit. Thus - to return to Maimonides - it would seem that if the philosopher cannot resolve the cosmological (or cosmogonical) question, neither can he resolve that of the reality of miracles. The philosopher, who seeks discursive wisdom in all things, is reduced to a most unwise silence in the face of the fundamental difficulty. As Maimonides powerfully contends and as Strauss recognized early on, it is impossible to meet the challenge of revelation if doing so requires 'perfect knowledge of the whole, so as it were we know all the corners' and thus that we know there to be 'no place' for an omnipotent, miraculous God (Strauss 1979a, 116). The 'roots' of the whole are and will remain to some degree mysterious (Strauss 1979a, 114; Strauss 1988c, 38-9; Strauss 1964, 19-21), and neither the ancient nor the modern philosophers succeeded in grasping them entirely. But I contend that Strauss was not led to abandon the life of philosophy as a result of this apparent, and apparently decisive, impasse. Rather, it was at this point that he made his turn to the political philosophy of Plato and Aristotle: the stand-off between believer and philosopher over the question

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of cosmology proves not to be the last word. Here too Maimonides was of great importance to Strauss. According to Maimonides, the fact that no demonstration is possible with regard to the all-important question of creation does not by itself establish the impossibility of coming to a reasonable view of it. For, in general, 'in every case in which no demonstration is possible, the two contrary opinions with regard to the matter in question should be posited as hypotheses, and it should be seen what doubts attach to each of them: the one to which fewer doubts attach should be believed' (11.22 [320]). Moreover, 'one should not take into account the number of the doubts but rather consider how great is their incongruity and what is their disagreement with what exists. Sometimes a single doubt is more powerful than a thousand other doubts' (11.23 [321]). To repeat, the impossibility of rational demonstration is insufficient to establish the impossibility of coming to a reasoned and hence reasonable view of a given question; the weighing of the doubts that arise from scrutiny of the arguments adduced by each side permits one to come to possess the knowledge available to human beings concerning questions even as difficult as the world's creation or eternity and therefore also of the reality of miracles. But how might such 'doubts' arise, doubts that could be decisive? As Maimonides indicates clearly, the cosmological question that separates philosopher from believer proves to be linked with the 'disgrace' that accompanies any view corrosive of the Law's foundation: 'very disgraceful conclusions would follow' from accepting the eternity of the world (11.22 [319]). Again, 'the opinion favoring the eternity of the world ... is more harmful for the belief that ought to be held with regard to the deity' (11.22 [320]). The points at issue, then, are only partly theoretical (philosophic): intimately linked as they are with the core of decency or uprightness, they may be called moral. Thus, what begins as a theoretical or metaphysical question becomes also a moral one. Could it be that clarity concerning the former difficulty rests on the possibility of clarity concerning the latter? That is, perhaps we can come to possess knowledge of moral matters - of what is noble and base, just and unjust, of the law and its proper purposes - and, on the basis of this knowledge, come to have doubts pertaining to one or the other of the two main metaphysical positions; in the light of the knowledge pertaining to moral matters, the evidence in favour of each cosmological position may appear in a new way. For example, if and only if one believes that the biblical God is a God 'of truth and without iniquity, just and right is he' (Deut. 32:4)

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and that 'they that plow iniquity, and sow wickedness, reap the same; By the blast of God they perish' (Job 5:8-9), will one be inclined or indeed compelled to accept the biblical account of the world according to which God can, in His righteousness, effect miracles: 'Tremble, thou earth, at the presence of the Lord, at the presence of the God of Jacob; Which turned the rock into a standing water, the flint into a fountain of waters' (Ps. 114:7-8). If we come to have clarity concerning moral matters, we may arrive, not at a demonstration strictly speaking of the cosmological question, but at a truly reasonable view - one free of self-contradiction, for example - that does justice to all available evidence. So little does Maimonides' own view of the question of creation rest on evidence supplied by reflection on the given world that he concedes that, 'in so far as inferences are made from the nature of what exists,' Aristotle's opinion of the eternity of the world is 'nearer to correctness than the opinions of those who disagree with him' (11.15 [292]). Rather, the decisive arguments supporting Maimonides' view are to be found in his examination of Job and the problem of particular providence, the highest moralpolitical theme of the Guide.11 To sum up: one cannot approach the question of the world's eternity or creation and hence of the reality of miracles 'directly' because the roots of the whole remain partially hidden from us. But the cosmological question not being subject to demonstration, neither philosopher nor believer adopts his respective cosmology on the basis of argument strictly speaking. Instead, each is inclined to a different theoretical position on the basis of what prove to be different moral opinions, expectations, or experiences. Clarity concerning those opinions and experiences may well be the key to such clarity as is available to human beings concerning the highest questions. And if this is so, political philosophy understood as the analysis of morality ('the noble, the just, and the good'), rather than cosmology, metaphysics, or ontology, is the proper tool to examine the ground common to philosopher and believer and to make progress in resolving the quarrel between them. To be of value, such an examination must begin from the premises and the experiences insisted on by the pious and permit these full expression; only then may one be able to understand each position and to arrive at an understanding of oneself and one's deepest concerns that is free of self-contradiction. Thus political philosophy is best understood as '"the first philosophy"' (Strauss 1964, 20) because it is the means of inquiring into the necessity or possibility of philosophy as a way of life.

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Only political philosophy broadly understood can hope to answer the crucial question, 'why philosophy?' (Strauss 1988c, 92-4; Strauss 1945, 365-6 and context). Those scholars who see in Strauss a covert Nietzscheanism are convinced from the outset that the challenge of revelation cannot be kept at bay or that no genuine dialogue is possible. They therefore have no incentive to follow even the first steps of Strauss's return to classical political philosophy or to see it as such. I believe this to be true of Stanley Rosen in particular. For his failure to pursue Strauss's own 'Socratic turn' cannot be explained by ignorance of the importance to Strauss of the 'theological-political problem.' Neither can it be explained by indifference to or - still less - transcendence of morality. Rosen may dismiss natural right, for example, as 'intrinsically absurd' (Rosen 1987, 122), but occasionally he speaks in his own name of this or that 'moral issue' for example, what would be 'morally incumbent' on Strauss in a given circumstance (114, 115). And although he contends that the answers to the questions of what is noble and base are 'entirely relative to other and higher considerations' (129), Rosen proves not to be a relativist himself. On the contrary, the criticism he levels against Strauss is that, 'were we to enact a "city" rooted in Strauss's version of the "noble reserve" and "calm grandeur" of the classical thinkers, the results would be restrictive and demeaning to the human spirit, and hence base rather than noble' (133; emphasis original). In this and comparable ways, Rosen shows his deep concern with nobility, with what he knows to be noble in the light of the demands of 'the human spirit' (see also, e.g., Rosen 1989, 1-21). This concern is in fact the unexamined ground or motive of his 'theorizing.' It is unexamined because he believes also that 'there is no ontology of nobility, ... no complete discursive account of the nature of the noble' (Rosen 1989, 21). But how does Rosen know this? The 'nature of the noble' is certain to remain obscure if one begins from the question of 'ontology': as Maimonides teaches, and as Rosen's essay unwittingly demonstrates, our powerful, simple, and yet not-so-simple opinions about morality are prior to, and influence, our concern with 'Being.' Convinced of the merely relative or conventional character of the former, Rosen leaps to the latter, but this procedure entails that our only access to Being, to the whole, remains blocked or obscured. The crucial point for present purposes is this: Rosen is certain that the possibility of 'theory' has 'nothing to do with Xenophon's opinions on the noble and the base' (Rosen 1987, 132), whereas I maintain that,

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according to Strauss, the possibility of philosophy has, so to speak, everythingto do with 'opinions on the noble and the base.' Blind to the significance of Strauss's unflagging concern with just and unjust, noble and base; convinced, therefore, that Strauss is a 'Nietzschean' or that philosophy is impossible, Rosen can only judge what he believes to be Strauss's necessarily political project in terms of his own moral predilections, which predilections he refuses, as it were on principle, to examine. It is safest to conclude from this only that Rosen himself has failed to undertake the studies central to 'Platonic political philosophy' and not that they are by that very fact impossible. I, of course, have not proved that they are possible, let alone profitable. To explore the feasibility of a return to classical rationalism as a source of enlightenment is the task of the remainder of the present study.

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PART TWO

An Introduction to the Ancient Enlightenment

In conclusion, a word on that world into which I have sought to fend a way, into which I have perhaps found a new way — the ancient world. Friedrich Nietzsche, 'What I Owe to the Ancients' in Twilight of the Idols

I begin with your splendid formulation which touches the heart of the question and which for me is spoken straight from the soul: repeating antiquity at the peak of modernity ... [I]t is not sufficient simply to stop where Nietzsche is no longer right; rather one must ask whether or not Nietzsche himself became untrue to his intentions to repeat antiquity, and did so as a result of his confinement within modern presuppositions or in polemics against these. Leo Strauss, letter to Karl Lowith, 23 June 1935

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Chapter 4

Politics and the Divine in the Ancient Community: On Thucydides' War of the Peloponnesians and Athenians We must not lose sight of the fact that, among the ancients, what formed the bond of every society was a worship. Just as a domestic altar held the members of a family grouped around it, so the city was the collective group of those who had the same protecting deities, and who performed the religious ceremony at the same altar. Surrounded by a sacred enclosure, and extending around an altar, [the city] was the religious abode of gods and citizens. Livy said of Rome, 'There is not a place in this city which is not impregnated with religion, and which is not occupied by some divinity. The gods inhabit it.' What Livy said of Rome any man might say of his own city; for if it had been founded according to the rites, it had received within its walls protecting gods who were, as we may say, implanted in its soil, and could never quit it. Every city was a sanctuary; every city might be called holy. Numa Denis Fustel de Coulanges, The Ancient City

The contemporary study of Thucydides has rightly focused on his understanding of justice, above all on its fate in the face of necessity.1 Going together with Thucydides' analysis of justice, however, is his sometimes unobtrusive but nonetheless persistent concern with the belief in the divine as that belief manifests itself in and through the Peloponnesian war. As regards this feature of Thucydides' book - and hence the world it records - recent scholars have for the most part shown indifference or contempt. For example, in the context of the debate at Delium concerning the return of corpses and the inviolability of temples (IV.97-101.2),2 A.W. Gomme remarks, apparently with frustration, that 'Thucydides is curiously interested in this sophistical stuff

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(Gomme, Dover, and Andrewes 1945-72, 3:569); he believes thatThucydides 'attach[es] more weight to [a certain oracle] than, simply as a curiosity, it deserved' (Gomme, Dover, and Andrewes 1945-72, 4:12, on V.26.3).3 It is not difficult to begin to account for this lack of interest in and even access to Thucydides' concern for questions pertaining to the divine. For so long as confidence in Enlightenment rationalism and the politics founded thereon remained high, the attempt of classical political thought in general and Thucydides in particular to grapple with the suprarational claims to guide political life seemed quaint at best, foolish at worst, and often downright baffling. Far more accessible was Thucydides' nuts-and-bolts account of alliances made, battles waged, and justifications tendered. The contemporary crisis of reason no longer permits us, however, to be indifferent to the challenge that belief in the divine poses to reason and to rational politics. Neither does it permit us to be contemptuous of the most thoughtful attempts of the past to grapple with that challenge. The recovery, then, of this neglected aspect of Thucydides' thought is to begin with a merely historical or antiquarian undertaking, but it may prove to be more than that. I suggest that Thucydides is an unusually open-minded and thoughtful advocate of the scientific or philosophic study of political life. The present chapter is therefore intended in part to complement the contemporary study of Thucydides by taking more seriously than is usually done Thucydides' own seriousness concerning the gods. For only once one comes to see Thucydides' interest in piety as something other than a 'curious' taste for 'sophistical stuff can one begin to grasp his understanding of human nature, an understanding that he claimed would make of his book 'a possession for all time' (1.22.4). To fail to see the intimate connection between political concerns broadly understood and the concern for the gods is to fail to enter fully into classical political life and hence the heart of Thucydides' book; it is to fail to see ancient politics in its richness and complexity, its distinctiveness and even, to our eyes, its peculiarity. Although this crucial aspect of premodern political life will be treated thematically throughout this chapter as a whole, let me simply sketch its most significant features now. Again and again, Thucydides sets before us the conviction shared by most of the statesmen and commanders in the book that the gods are mindful of human action in general and therefore also of human actions at their greatest or gravest; he permits and in fact urges us to see the claimed link between man's performance of moral and political

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duty and the reward or punishment that awaits him through the agency of gods or a god. Thus it is that, in the hopes of compelling compliance, a nation will call upon the gods before whom another nation has sworn oaths:4 to fail to live up to a sworn oath is to risk incurring penalties far greater than the merely human. The gods in their active concern for human beings can also be relied on to supply guidance both political and strategic, either through their human prophets or through nonhuman signs and omens,5 and they are a source of inspiration and support in battle or crisis.6 The divine concern for and protection of human beings is such that the innocent, or those who think themselves innocent, can seek refuge in the temples as sanctuaries to which human retribution cannot reach.7 It is therefore not surprising that important treaties begin by dealing with access to temples and oracles: first things first (IV.l 18.1-3; V.18.2). In general, Thucydides' book shows repeatedly the centrality of piety as a legitimate and indeed necessary part of politics and hence of the concerns of serious statesmen;8 the political life Thucydides makes so vivid is thus marked by the belief that the gods who are at the centre of the whole of life reward and punish in accord with the merits of the pious and impious. To speak anachronistically, the Greek city recognized the all-encompassing governance of 'providential' gods and therefore did not know of the 'separation of Church and State.' Let me turn now to the beginning of Thucydides' book and simply draw attention to its importance for my theme. 'Thucydides the Athenian put together in writing how the Athenians and Peloponnesians waged war against one another, beginning immediately upon the outbreak of the war in the expectation that it would be a great war and more worthy of recounting than those that had gone before' (1.1.1). In order to prove his contention that the Peloponnesian war was indeed 'great' and even 'the greatest motion that befell the Greeks and a good part of the barbarians, and as it were the greatest part of mankind,' Thucydides proceeds to show that all previous times were inferior in point of political freedom, personal security, and the wealth, leisure, and development of art or science that these make possible. Yet the greatness of the present time and the war that most marks it proves to consist not only in the number and preparedness of those involved but also and above all in the fact that this war permitted Thucydides to grasp the truth of things and of human nature in particular. Thucydides was thus able to write a timeless account that he believed would be of use to those who 'will want to investigate that which can be discerned in both past events and those that, in accordance with the

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human way, will recur in the same or nearly the same form in the future' (22.4). The superiority of the present, then, consists not least in its greater access or openness to the character of things viewed in the light of fixed necessity or nature (consider 6.5). The denigration of the past that characterizes almost the whole of Thucydides' 'archaeology' is bold to say the least. For the distant past is closer to the origins or the beginnings, and the beginnings are as such closer to the divine; in the distant past, including and especially the Trojan war, the gods are said to have intervened directly in the lives of human beings.9 For Thucydides to argue that the Peloponnesian war is the greatest war, that he in contrast to Homer and the other poets is concerned with argument (logos) and truth rather than myth and embellishment, is at the same time to denigrate the customary accounts about the gods. At the beginning of 1.4, for example, Thucydides speaks of Minos as the oldest of whom we know 'through hearsay' who possessed a navy. As a result, Minos held sway over the greatest part of what is now the Hellenic sea, ruled the Cyclades, and was the first founder of the majority of them. And it is likely that Minos put down piracy to the extent possible, 'in order that more of the revenues would accrue to him.' Thucydides here refrains from mentioning that Minos was held to be the son of Zeus who, after spending time with and being instructed by him, gave to the Cretan cities a divine code (e.g., Plato Laws, beg.; Minos 319b and following). As Thucydides presents him, Minos is not the divine legislator but the toughest pirate, ruling by altogether human means (see also Montesquieu, Spirit of the Laws XXI.7, beg.). Similarly, in 1.9, Thucydides accounts for the immense armament Agamemnon was able to raise and lead on to Troy, not in terms of any oaths sworn to Tyndareus by the suitors of Helen, but rather because of Agamemnon's having been 'preeminent in power' and as such an object of 'fear' rather than love or gratitude. One might say that, according to Thucydides, not divine intervention but human ingenuity and craft, together with brute strength, are responsible for the development of political life and, eventually, the comprehension of it. Since Thucydides almost always denies the accuracy of the poetic representation of events - and especially of the beginnings (1.9.4; 10.3; 11.2, end; 21.1; compare however 3.3 and especially 10.4, as well as III. 104.4) - he is compelled to supply his own, more accurate account of them. The earliest epoch about which one can know anything, the period prior to the Trojan war (1.2-8), was characterized by marauding, no shame yet being attached to piracy (5.1). No one knew whether he

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would be permitted to reap the fruit of his harvests; people rarely cultivated the land, therefore, and were essentially nomadic. Even the name 'Greek' did not yet exist, and thus the very distinction between 'Greek' and 'barbarian' was unknown (3.3). In many respects the ancient Greek way of life was comparable to that of the present-day barbarians (6.6). To put this another way, the 'Greeks' of old were in fact 'barbarians': the 'Greek' way had not yet arisen, and Thucydides' account of the early times is devoted in part to tracing its growth and to describing its features. Something of the character of the Greek way comes to sight in Thucydides' initial description of its twofold peak, the cities of Athens and Sparta (6.3-5). The Athenians were the first to lay down their weapons and to begin to enjoy greater prosperity and luxury, adopting a more relaxed way of life. As embodied by Athens, 'Greekness' includes a political order sufficiently stable to guarantee personal safety as well as an economy advanced enough to make leisure and even luxury possible. As for the Spartans, they were the first to adopt a moderate manner of dress and in other respects encouraged an equal way of life for all alike, rich or poor. That this is not without political significance is confirmed by Thucydides' subsequent description of the Spartan regime: 'the city of the Lacedaemonians ... was from the most ancient times well administered and free of tyranny. For it is slightly more than four hundred years, reckoning from the end of the present war, that the Lacedaemonians have made use of the same regime, and for this reason they are strong and hold sway in other cities' (18.1). In addition, the Spartans were the first to strip in athletic competitions, the Greeks until then being accustomed to covering themselves as the barbarians still do. This public nakedness presupposes a very great orderliness and hence the restraint connected with shame (compare 5.1), accompanied by a still more refined freedom from undue shame; it is only because of the former that they came in time to enjoy the latter and therewith the capacity to look upon, without discomfort or sense of impropriety, the bodily nature. It would seem, then, on the basis of Thucydides' account of the olden times, that Sparta is the superior of the two peaks of 'Greekness.' At the same time, however, Thucydides indicates that Sparta is by no means the more 'modern' of the two cities in question: '[Sparta is] not settled close together and does not have lavish temples or public buildings but is settled in villages in the ancient Greek manner ...' (10.2). And this impression is confirmed throughout Thucydides' book as a whole, for

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Athens is all that is daring, innovative, and artful, Sparta all that is traditional, conservative, and lawful (e.g., 70.2-71.4). The supreme naval power - with all the development such power implies - is after all Athens, not Sparta. The implicit superiority of Sparta to Athens puts into some doubt the thrust of Thucydides' account of the early times. According to that account, there has been more or less steady progress from the crude beginnings to the more orderly, civil, and rational present whose culmination is the present war and, to repeat, the discernment of the truth of the human way the war encouraged. This doubt concerning the essentially 'progressive' character of Thucydides' archaeology becomes all the more serious in 1.23, what is evidently the conclusion to the section as whole. Near the beginning of this chapter, Thucydides makes the following remark: 'The length of this war was prolonged to a great extent, and the sufferings it occasioned in Greece itself were without parallel in any comparable period of time.' Whereas in his opening statement in I.I Thucydides had established the 'greatness' of the war by pointing both to the numbers of its participants and to their preparedness - the latter especially implying considerable progress in economics and craft - he now indicates that the Peloponnesian war was distinguished by the immense sufferings it caused. If one received the impression initially that the war was the 'motion' most characteristic of the peak, in some sense the fulfilment and showing forth of the highest human capacities, Thucydides' statements here dampen that impression considerably. 'For there were never so many cities seized and destroyed, some by barbarians, some by those fighting one another ... nor were there so many exiles nor so much slaughter of human beings, some in the war itself, some as a result of civil unrest.' Still more remarkable is the topic to which Thucydides turns next: 'And the things that were previously said on the basis of hearsay, but which were rather rarely confirmed in fact, came to be believable: the most extensive as well as the strongest earthquakes occurred; eclipses of the sun, which were more frequent than any that had happened in the recorded past; among some there were great droughts and, resulting from these, famines; and finally - what did the most harm and brought destruction to no small area - the plague. For all these things were suffered together with this war.' The third and final topic Thucydides mentions in his concluding statement is the question of the cause of, or the blame for (aitia), the war: The Athenians and the Peloponnesians began [the war] after having broken the Thirty Years' Truce made after the seizure of Euboea. I have, to begin with, set

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down in writing the reasons why [aitias] and the points of dispute over which they broke it, so that no one need ever inquire what it was that gave rise to so great a war for the Greeks.' Thucydides thus links the unparalleled sufferings of the war, the occurrence of unusual events previously held to belong to the earliest times, and the blame for the war: if the Peloponnesian war is rightly seen as the cause of the greatest sufferings known to the Greeks, then so far from being the zenith of human 'progress,' the war would instead be the nadir of human development, brought about by the hybristic attempt to depart from the governance characteristic of the beginning, the governance of superintending gods, and to order the world instead by means of autonomous human reason (consider also III.82.3). The present war, then, may be understood as the necessary product of human arrogance for which the Greeks are to blame and as a result of which there occurred a series of phenomena otherwise unknown in the modern age and which made believable once again the 'hearsay' or poetic accounts of the beginnings. Thucydides thus leaves open the possibility that the Peloponnesian war is an altogether blameworthy action and that the phenomena to which he draws attention - and which he is at some pains to record throughout the work - are signs of divine displeasure, that is, that they are endowed with a moral significance. And it is in the light of this possibility that one must understand Thucydides' intermittent juxtaposition, without explicit commentary, of acts of war and 'daimonic' phenomena, to make use of Pericles' formulation (II.64.2; Strauss 1983b, 89): the Athenians' displacement of the whole population of Aegina is followed immediately in the narrative by an eclipse (II.27-8); the frequent mentions in Book III of 'Sicily,' a locale so fateful to the outcome of the war, are interspersed with accounts of various 'daimonic' events;10 Athens's demand that the Chians, the last of its independent allies, tear down their walls is followed by a partial solar eclipse and an earthquake (IV.51-52.1; compare 1.19 and III.10.5); a proposed alliance between Athens and Argos is prevented by an earthquake (V.45.4, end), as is a meeting between Argos, Corinth, and Lacedaemon (V.50.5); and the planned departure of the Athenian troops from Sicily is prevented by an eclipse (VII.50.4). The most fundamental aim of the 'archaeology,' then, is to raise the question of the existence of gods who intervene in the lives of human beings in accord with the justice or injustice of their actions. It leads us to wonder whether the world is governed by providential gods who, in

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order to reward and punish, intervene in the apparent or usual order of things - what we, the devotees of modern natural science, unhesitatingly assume to be the natural order. With his customary reticence or caution,11 Thucydides thus raises the question that is of decisive importance for both philosophy and politics: is the world that we experience governed by 'nature' and thus knowable in principle to the human mind left to its own resources, or is the world subject rather to the will of the gods and therefore, at its core, mysterious? Indeed, not only do the 'archaeology' and the frequent mentions of daimonic events keep this question before us; so too does the structure of the book as a whole. Just as Pericles' famous Funeral Oration is followed by the plague in Athens, so the slaughter of the Melians is followed by Athens's disastrous expedition to Sicily: 'crime' appears to be followed by 'punishment' (Bolotin 1987). At the same time, however, Thucydides also relates instances of the discrepancy between the pious actions of those who reverence the gods and their fates. Near the beginning of the book, for example, the Epidamnian demos, after having expelled the few from the city, made an appeal for help to Corcyra, their mother city. Rebuffed by her, they then sent to Delphi to ask the god whether they should appeal instead to Corinth, the birthplace of their founder. The god replied that indeed they should. In the sequel, however, the Corcyreans and the few gain the upper hand, and ' [f] or almost the whole of the period following the battle, [the Corcyreans] were in control of the sea' (1.30.3). One can only wonder what the fate of the Epidamnian demos was, their pious consultation having come to naught (consider 30.1). Again, and above all, the eventual defeat of Athens at the hands of Lacedaemon does not come to sight as the triumph of justice over injustice, whatever may have been Apollo's decree (1.118.3). The fall of Athens, a city that proves to be very much concerned with the demands of piety, does not call forth from the reader that sweet satisfaction said to accompany vengeance (consider III.67.4, 82.7; VII.68.1). With a view to understanding both ourselves and the world we inhabit, then, it is of the greatest importance to make clear to ourselves whether we hold that the sequences indicated suggest transgression followed by deserved punishment or simply error followed by the vicissitudes of chance and the likely consequences of error, all in accordance with the natural order of things. If the question of the existence of 'providential' gods thus forms the constant background of the War of the Peloponnesians and Athenians, the question of justice - what it is, what it demands of us, its fate in the face

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of the exigencies of war - occupies the foreground. It is in fact the question of justice to which Thucydides next directs the reader's attention: immediately after concluding his archaeology, Thucydides turns to discuss the first of the two 'pretexts' adduced as the cause of the Peloponnesian war, namely the quarrel between Corinth and Corcyra over Epidamnus, and the speeches that the Corcyreans and Corinthians deliver are both concerned with justice, each in its own way (1.32-43). As Thucydides chooses to present them, justice or morality and the belief in the divine are linked. It must suffice for present purposes to note only the most salient points in Thucydides' presentation of justice in its relation to piety. Piety and Justice: The 'Spartan' View The choice Athens faces is difficult: to ally with the very powerful but duplicitous Corcyreans (see Herodotus VTI.168) or to refuse to do so and thus gain the good will of the less powerful but more reliable Corinthians, heretofore very much in the Spartan camp. Although the speeches of both parties appeal to justice and to Athenian advantage, the Corcyreans prove to rely rather more on advantage than justice, the Corinthians rather more on justice than advantage. The Corcyreans do, to be sure, address the question of the proposed Athenian-Corcyrean alliance in terms of its justice (1.34) and its legality (35), but the core of their argument rests on an appeal to the advantages awaiting Athens (35.5-36). The Corinthians, for their part, are 'compelled' first to rebut the Corcyreans' attribution to them of injustice (37-9), and only later can they turn to make their own case (40). That case begins by instructing the Athenians as to why they cannot justly receive the Corcyreans, in particular the legal impediments to doing so. Corinth thus takes its bearings here very much by justice understood as what the treaty or the laws common to all Greeks permit (40.2, 4, 6; 41.1). The Corinthians then alter somewhat the ground and tone of their argument. They no longer 'instruct' the Athenians but offer them advice, appealing in the first place explicitly to the Athenians' gratitude (and hence implicitly to their sense of justice [41]), then to Athenian interest (42). They conclude, however, by returning openly to considerations of justice, that is, to what Athens owes Corinth, and therewith to making demands on Athens. Corinth has not only been treated unjustly at the hands of Corcyra, it has benefited Athens in the past and deserves Athenian help now. It

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would be illegal and hence unjust to form an alliance with the Corcyreans who are, in addition, unjust men. Much the same concern for justice understood as obedience to law is apparent when the Corinthians later argue at a gathering of Lacedaemonian allies that to attack Athens would not be unjust. In the first place, the god has prophesied in their favour and has himself promised to aid them; in addition, the rest of Greece will fight alongside the Lacedaemonians, some through fear, others through interest. Above all, however, 'you will not be the first to break the treaty, which the god, by bidding you to wage war, holds to have been transgressed. Rather, you shall come to the aid of those who've suffered injustice: treaties are broken not by those who defend themselves but by those who are the first to attack' (123). After an initial hesitation in favour of Corinth, the Athenians ally themselves with Corcyra, although the alliance is to be merely defensive (44.1). While not unmoved by the Corinthian arguments, Athens is swayed to a greater degree by Corcyra's appeals to interest or advantage. The debate between the Corinthians and Corcyreans forces us to wonder whether a city should take its bearings by justice or benefit, by the demands of right or the calculations of advantage. The Corinthian argument preserves intact the realm of legal and moral obligation: to discern who is right and who is wrong in a given circumstance, one must compare the promises made with the actions performed; one must consider the demands of existing custom or compact and a city's attempt to fulfil them. Not calculations of self-interest but obligation to others advantageous or not - must determine a city's deeds. The understanding of justice, legality, and moral obligation first stated by the Corinthians is more or less the view held by all the statesmen in the war, with the exception of the leading Athenians and Hermocrates the Syracusan.12 It is surely held by the Spartans, as one sees in the first speech the Spartan king Archidamus delivers, at the same conference at Sparta (I. 80-5). To begin to grasp more fully what I am loosely calling the 'Spartan' view of the world, and especially its relation to the belief in gods, let us turn to Archidamus. In the course of urging the Peloponnesians and their allies to refrain from waging war against Athens, Archidamus shows himself to be very much concerned with what is noble, fitting or appropriate, and free of shame (81.5; 82.5-6). As Archidamus here stresses, however, to avoid shame one must be well-prepared (82.5-6) and give thought to the safest course of action (84.4). Archidamus's concern for nobility does not blind him to the practical requirements of victory in battle, as the bulk

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of his speech here makes clear. Again, in his address delivered to the allied generals and commanders prior to the first invasion of Attica (11.11), Archidamus tries to outline the 'most courageous' strategy that is at the same time 'safest' (11.5), and he concludes that speech with an exhortation for all to obey their orders and to make use of one and the same discipline, this being 'noblest and safest' (11.9). In battle least of all, however, is the safest course always noblest, or the noblest course safest; Archidamus attempts to endow safety with a dignity it may well lack and nobility with a safety it need not have. His speech is as a result not a rousing battle cry, and Archidamus is subsequently censured for the lack of zeal with which he urged the Peloponnesians to fight (18.3). In his first address, moreover, Archidamus does not deny that Athens may be wronging Sparta's allies (consider 1.82.1), but the fact of injustice suffered in no way guarantees Sparta a successful outcome in any war with Athens. All to the contrary, Archidamus points out in some detail why the Spartans could expect, if not to fail, at any rate to become involved in a lengthy and costly war, one he fears they will hand down to their children (consider III.89.1). It would seem that Archidamus's awareness of the fragility of what is noble and of the cause of justice leads him to counsel great caution and delay; he warns that 'the fortunes that befall one cannot be determined by reason' (1.84.3, end). At first blush, Archidamus might well seem to agree with the Syracusan statesman Hermocrates, according to whom the justice of a cause in no way guarantees vengeance, the principal reason being that 'the incalculable element of the future holds sway to the greatest extent' (IV.62.4). Chance, in other words, can play the decisive role in human affairs, and the world is not such that the wronged who seek retribution in the spirit of justice for that reason alone meet with success; as Archidamus himself says, 'the things of war are unclear' (II. 11.4), that is, they depend on fortune. It is this exposedness to fortune or chance that seems to recommend cautious delay. Still, the reasons for caution are not altogether convincing as Archidamus presents them. He is forced to admit, after having denied it, that Sparta and its allies in fact enjoy a numerical superiority in point of soldiers and arms (compare 1.80.3 with 81.1), just as he argues both that the invasion of Attica will be useless (the Athenians' control of the sea in effect supplies them with 'much land') and that the threat of such an invasion will be a crucial deterrent keeping the Athenians from war (compare 81.2 with 82.3-4). Again, Archidamus presupposes that a twoor three-year delay will permit Sparta to reach a level of parity with the

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Athenians in materiel, but this is persuasive only if one makes the groundless assumption that Athens will fail to continue its staggering expansion (82.2; compare 69.4). It is well and good to be cautious on the basis of a sober assessment of the enemy's capacities and one's own, but Archidamus does not seem to make such an assessment here; as Thucydides says of him, Archidamus was only 'held to be both intelligent and moderate' (1.79.2; compare 138.3; II. 15.2; IV.81.2; VIII.68.4). Might something other than calculation of resources be responsible for Archidamus's cautious reluctance? Archidamus is aware that his advice might smack of cowardice (83.1), even to the typically cautious Spartans (consider 1.70.2-4; VIII.96.5), and his response to this charge is helpful in uncovering his understanding of the world. 'And do not be ashamed of the slowness and delay for which they blame us most of all, for by being hasty we will prolong [the war], undertaking it unprepared. Moreover, we have always enjoyed a city that is at the same time free and most highly reputed, and this is due above all to sensible moderation' (1.84.2). Archidamus's advice is thus the product not of cowardice but of'sensible moderation,' the goodness of which is proved by Sparta's freedom and reputation. The Spartans alone do not become 'hybristic' when they fare well, just as they yield less than others to disaster; they are neither carried away by the pleasure of hearing themselves praised nor goaded by the sting of accusation into acting contrary to what they hold to be best. Archidamus continues his portrait of the Spartan virtues as follows: 'We are skilled in war [warlike: polemikoi] and of good counsel on account of our good discipline - the former because shame [aidos] shares most in moderation, courage in shame [awe, reverence: aischune]; and we are of good counsel because we are educated less learnedly than to despise the laws and more moderately, by means of severe instruction, than to be deaf to them' (84.4). The moderation Archidamus prides himself on is thus closely linked with 'shame' or (what is here equated with it) 'awe'; this shame (awe) in turn proves to be the link between the moderation he boasts of and the courage or manliness that is in question. And accompanying this sense of shame is a strict respect for and obedience to law or custom (nomos); these together constitute Sparta's 'good discipline.' The Spartans of whom Archidamus here speaks would surely be ashamed to break the law, ashamed before their friends, family, and comrades. But in order to understand Archidamus, one must see that the sense of awe restraining the Spartans is also and above all the reverence they feel in the presence of those beings who are superior to and rule over all human beings; it is

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above all pious reverence. The Spartans alone do not feel 'hybristic' when they fare well because they are guided and restrained by reverential obedience to law, it being understood that not only one's friends but also the gods are watching. While Archidamus here barely alludes to piety or concern for the gods, that concern will come very much to the fore in his subsequent exchange with the Plataeans, in the course of which he delivers the longest and most striking appeal to the gods contained in the whole of Thucydides' book (II.74.2). If Archidamus does indeed believe the gods to be watching over the Spartans, his insistence that the noble course of action be bolstered by careful human planning and calculation rather than divine intervention is odd - especially if 'the fortunes that befall one cannot be determined by reason.' If, that is, human reason cannot determine fortune, why not look to the gods to control it? Would not the gods before whom Archidamus and the Spartans feel awe or reverence see to it that the 'incalculable element in the future' favours them? Would not the gods in question see that the just prevail (consider V.104)? The Spartan ephor Sthenelaidas believes that they will, as he makes vividly clear in the speech he delivers immediately after Archidamus's (1.86). Sthenelaidas dismisses out of hand the too-subtle arguments of the Athenians concerning justice and issues a forthright call to arms, convinced as he is of the justice of the Spartan cause: 'Vote for the war, then, Lacedaemonians, in a manner worthy of Sparta. Neither permit the Athenians to grow greater nor let us betray our allies: let us rather attack the unjust, together with the gods' (86.5). It would seem that neither human calculation nor pious reverence clearly supports the extreme caution Archidamus here advocates. To make sense of Archidamus's speech, one must see that Archidamus in fact has grave reservations, not only about the expediency of waging war against Athens, but also about the justice of doing so. He worries that if the Lacedaemonians invade Attica, they will be held to be the party most responsible for starting the conflict (1.81.5), and he admits in his prebattle address that the Lacedaemonians are on the attack, the Athenians on the defensive, that is, that the latter will be acting merely in self-defence (II.11.6; consider alsoemunato at 11.4). Above all, Archidamus concludes his first speech with the following advice: 'Send an embassy to the Athenians concerning Potideia, and send as well concerning those matters in which the allies claim they are done injustice, especially since they [the Athenians] are prepared to proceed with judicial hearings. It isn't lawful to attack beforehand one who is so pre-

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pared, as though attacking the unjust' (1.85.2). The puzzles of Archidamus's speech, then, can be solved as follows: he believes Lacedaemon's planned invasion of Attica is unlawful and therefore unjust; accordingly, he fears that the Lacedaemonians will meet with hardship or disaster, not because there are no gods who rule justly who see to it that the law is obeyed - but precisely because there are such gods. So far from agreeing with Hermocrates' denial of the cosmic or divine supports for justice, Archidamus very much shares Sthenelaidas's view of the world, according to which the gods intervene in human affairs so as to help the victims of injustice attain the vengeance that is rightly theirs. Archidamus disagrees with Sthenelaidas only over the justice of the undertaking in question. Compelled as he subsequently is to invade Attica, Archidamus attempts to make up for the questionable justice of what he is doing - and hence for what will be, at best, the gods' refusal to control the fortunes that befall him - by discerning the 'safest' course compatible with nobility and courage. If nobility and courage will not be supported by divine intervention, they must be supported by human calculation, in this case principally a reluctance to prosecute the attack with vigour (11.12, 18, 19.1; consider also 20). Thucydides draws our attention to Archidamus's piety and the problem it poses for him in a subtle way, for of the four speakers we hear at Sparta, only Archidamus refrains from mentioning the gods: even the Athenians appeal to the gods who have witnessed their oaths (1.78.4; see also 71.5-6, 86.5). Archidamus cannot appeal to those gods in good conscience and therefore prefers to remain silent concerning them, as indeed he does even in his prebattle address.13 As I have already indicated, Archidamus's silence on the gods in his first two speeches is counterbalanced by a most striking appeal to them in the course of his exchanges with the Plataeans (II.71-4). After having invaded Attica at the beginning of each of the first two summers of the war, the Peloponnesians and their allies march against Plataea instead at the onset of the third summer, again under the command of Archidamus (71.1). The Plataeans had fought valiantly on the side of the Greeks in the Median war, in sharp contrast to their Boeotian kinsmen from Thebes, and as a result of that service the Spartan king Pausanias had sacrificed to Zeus the Liberator in the Plataeans' public square, guaranteeing them their autonomy. Pausanias had also forbidden any to march unjustly against Plataea or with the intention of enslaving its inhabitants, and had promised in addition to defend them as best he could in the

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event of any attempt to do so. To these earlier promises and oaths the Plataeans now appeal: 'These were the things your fathers granted to us on account of the virtue and zeal we showed in those times of danger, but you do the opposite: you have come here with our bitterest enemies, the Thebans, to enslave us. Taking as our witnesses the gods to whom those oaths were then sworn, as well as your traditional gods and our native ones, we say to you: do not commit injustice against the Plataean land or transgress the oaths, but permit us to live autonomously in accordance with what Pausanias deemed just' (II. 71.3-4). In his reply, Archidamus argues that the Plataeans' existing treaty with Athens is itself a violation of the autonomy Pausanias had granted to them and that, precisely as autonomous citizens on friendly terms with Sparta, they should join in the fight against Athens to free those cities subject to it. Failing this, Plataea must accept both Sparta and Athens as friends but admit neither for the purpose of making war. An alliance with Sparta is preferable, but neutrality is acceptable: alliance with Athens is not. Since the Plataeans fear that both the proposed alliance and neutrality will permit the Athenians or the Thebans to invade once the Lacedaemonians withdraw, Archidamus attempts to hearten them with assurances that Sparta will take over and look after their property, returning it to them unharmed after the war. For their part, the Athenians say that they have not permitted and will not now permit Plataea to suffer injustice, and that they will come to its aid to the extent of their capacity; the Athenians also appeal to oaths the Plataean fathers had sworn and to the existing alliance. In the end, the Plataeans decide to abide by their alliance with the Athenians, even if it means watching the destruction of their land. It is at this point that Archidamus makes his appeal to the gods. Thucydides prefaces that appeal in this way: When [the Plataeans] made their reply, Archidamus the king thereupon first called to witness the native gods and heroes and spoke as follows: 'Gods who possess the Plataean land and Heroes! Be witnesses that, since they were the first to depart from the covenant, we did not come against this land unjustly to begin with, the land in which our fathers prayed to you and gained control over the Mede and which you made of a mind to fight together with the Greeks; witness too that we shall not act unjustly now, if we do something. For although we made many reasonable proposals, we've

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However complicated the relevant circumstances and however compelling the subsequent Plataean defence (III.53-9), Archidamus appears convinced of the justice of the Spartan attack on Plataea: the Plataeans first violated the spirit of the oaths sworn by Pausanias inasmuch as it was they who preferred alliance with the now-hostile Athenians to prudent autonomy, and the Plataeans alone are responsible for rejecting the reasonable compromises Archidamus has put forward. Since they freely choose the friendship of Athens, they no less freely choose the enmity of Sparta. Having been wronged by the Plataeans Archidamus appears to feel no qualms about calling upon the native gods and heroes to help him exact, in a lawful manner, the revenge that is rightly his; the unjust deserve punishment, the wronged retribution, and the gods and heroes see to it that each receives his due. Thus it is that Sparta is in general careful to consult oracles or the god Apollo before undertaking important actions (e.g., 1.118.3) and will abandon (V.54.2, 55.3, 116.1) or at least alter (VIII.6.5) any undertaking preceded by unfavourable omens, sometimes even when doing so appears politically harmful or humanly foolish: after besieging the Ithomeans for ten years, for example, the Spartans finally prevail but then let them go, in accord with an oracle (1.103.2; see also 128.1 and context). To return to Plataea, the political and moral circumstances there appear to be the opposite of those at Sparta: whereas the Spartans will violate the existing treaty by invading Attica, Plataea has already violated its compact with Pausanias. By attacking Plataea, Sparta will be seeking lawful retribution together with the gods, but by invading Attica it will risk incurring that same retribution. What Sthenelaidas wrongly believed to be the case with regard to the invasion of Attica really is so with regard to the taking of Plataea. It may nevertheless be that Archidamus still retains some of his usual caution or that he is not so free of reservations concerning the justice of what he is doing as the forthrightness of his call upon the gods suggests. In the first place, that very call is more a pleading of one's case than a simple prayer. Does Archidamus hope to persuade the gods - and perhaps also himself- of the justice of what he is about to do? Archidamus limits his appeal to the gods and heroes native to Plataea - a limit Thucydides too emphasizes in his introductory remark (II.74.2, beg.);

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Archidamus surely does not appeal, as had the Plataeans, to the traditional gods of Sparta in general and to Zeus the Liberator in particular (see II.71.2, 4). Would he prefer that Zeus not witness what is taking place? After the Lacedaemonians and Thebans bring the affair of Plataea to a close by slaughtering the city's inhabitants, the Thebans in time build couches and a lodge or resting place in honour of Hera, that is, in honour of the wife of Zeus (III.68.3). Just as the gods should be persuaded or at any rate consulted before undertaking a deed, so they must be thanked or propitiated afterward (e.g., 11.91.2, 92.5). There are indeed grounds for doubting the justice of the Spartan action, even apart from its eventually bloody outcome (III.68.1-2). For example, the neutrality Archidamus offers is impossible in the circumstances, as he in effect admits: the only choice really open to Plataea is the continued alliance with Athens or the comprehensive protection of Sparta, for either the spurned Athenians or the ever-hostile Thebans would attack them immediately upon Sparta's departure (II.72.2). Moreover, as the Plataeans subsequently point out, they had in fact asked for Spartan help against the Theban threat but were told to seek help from their nearer neighbour, Athens (III.55.1-3). And Thucydides himself makes perfectly clear what it was that prevented the Spartans from helping the Plataeans against the Thebans earlier, that caused them to side with the Thebans in the present dispute, and that therefore led them eventually to put to death the city's remaining inhabitants: 'The Lacedaemonians were disposed in this way toward pretty much the whole of the Plataean affair for the sake of the Thebans, in the belief that they would be beneficial in the war then being waged' (III.68.4-5). Although both Archidamus and the Lacedaemonian judges say that Plataea is in the wrong for having broken the existing oaths (II.74.2; III.68.1), the Lacedaemonians were motivated in fact by considerations of advantage, not justice. Moreover, the prior incident that gave rise to the eventual slaughter of the Plataeans - the Thebans' invasion of the city (II.2-7) - was later thought to be unjust by the Spartans themselves, in the light of which injustice they deemed warranted their humiliation in the first war (VII.18). It appears, then, that the Spartans seek out the friendship of the Thebans with a view to the demands of the present war, and in the light of those demands the Plataean past services are irrelevant, however noble or admirable. The Median war has nothing whatever to do with the Peloponnesian. Not considerations of debts owed for past benefactions but calculations of present advantage govern Sparta's conduct at Pla-

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taea. This is in no way to deny that the Lacedaemonians appeal to jusdee, and neither is it necessarily to assert that that appeal is hollow rhetoric; to repeat, both Archidamus and the Spartan judges argue that they are in the right because Plataea has violated its word, and those arguments may well be sincere (see again II.74.2 and III.68.1). On another occasion, the Athenians describe the Spartan self-understanding in such a way as to permit one to reconcile Thucydides' explicit account of the Spartans' motivation in Plataea with their manifest concern for justice: the Spartans hold whatever is pleasant to be noble and whatever is advantageous to be just (V.105.4). The Lacedaemonians, that is, resolve those difficult cases in which what is right seems to conflict with what is advantageous by conflating the two categories: the taking of Plataea is just because advantageous. If it is true that Archidamus denies the justice of the invasion of Attica and retains some doubts even about the seizure of Plataea, it is a mark of his superiority to the usual Spartan view - to the view of Sthenelaidas, for example - that he refuses to permit himself this too-easy reconciliation of the tension between self-interest and the demands of justice. By couching their advantageous policy in terms of oaths violated, the Spartans can both pursue their own good and congratulate themselves on their justice and piety. Archidamus is not so certain. Had Archidamus been still more intransigent in refusing to let this difficulty go, he might have been led to pose for himself the difficult questions that the leading Athenians spokesmen must have done, for while beginning from premises agreeable in principle to both the Corinthians and Lacedaemonians, that is, by beginning from premises inherent in ordinary reasoning about justice, the Athenians were forced to abandon justice altogether precisely on account of their respect for justice understood as something different from and higher than mere self-interest. And given the intimate link between justice and piety, the Athenians will also prove to differ fundamentally from their Spartan enemies in matters pertaining to the divine. Piety and Justice: The Athenian View We first hear from the Athenians at the conference in Sparta already mentioned (I. 73-8). After the Corinthians attack Athens and attempt to incite the Lacedaemonians to war, certain unnamed Athenian envoys, present in Sparta on other matters of public business, address the Spartan assembly. As Thucydides tells us, the Athenians spoke with a view to making clear the power of their city and the magnitude of the delibera-

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tions before the assembly. And although the Athenians say explicitly, in accord with Thucydides' preface, that they do not speak in order to defend their empire - the present assembly not being the proper judges of Athens - they nonetheless do offer something of a justification or at any rate explanation of their city and its empire. According to the Athenian envoys, the present-day empire has its roots in the Persian war, at the very end of which the Spartans withdrew and thus created as it were a power vacuum that the Athenians filled at the request of the other Greeks. Only once the allies began to shirk their duties to the alliance did the Athenians become burdensome to them, but once having become so, 'it no longer seemed safe' to relinquish their rule. To permit those who were originally their allies to depart would be to strengthen the Lacedaemonians, now no longer the friends they once were, for all who left the Athenian circle would likely fall to Sparta. And as the Athenians here stress, 'to secure what is advantageous for oneself where the greatest dangers are concerned is, in the eyes of all, not subject to reproach' (75.5). However much the Corinthians and Spartans might quarrel with the facts as the Athenians present them, they presumably would not object to the principle of reasoning adduced.14 The Athenians go farther, however. For they argue that they were 'utterly compelled' to transform their hegemony into an empire not only as a result of fear for their security, but also through considerations of honour, and subsequently of benefit as well (75.3). The Athenians, that is, extend the realm of necessity to include what is done for the sake of honour and interest; these three together they call 'the greatest things' and argue that they were 'conquered' or 'defeated' by them (76.2). Although the Athenians thus begin from the uncontroversial principles of moral reasoning that we cannot reasonably be blamed for an action we are compelled to perform and that what is done out of fear for our self-preservation is compelled, they apply the former principle to considerations of honour and interest - that is, to whatever a city believes to be good for it. In so doing, they explode the ordinary moral horizon. The Athenians give the boldest expression of this view in their dialogue with the inhabitants of Melos - what is, accordingly, the most infamous episode in the whole book. Near the beginning of that dialogue, the Athenians prohibit, as mere 'noble words,' all recourse to considerations of justice - for example, that they have a right to rule as a result of their role in the Persian war; that they now come to Melos after having

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suffered injustice at the hands of the Melians; or again that the Melians have refrained from inflicting any injustice on them in the present war (V.89). Instead, the Athenians think it worthwhile for the Melians only 'to accomplish what can be done on the basis of what each of us truly has in mind.' The general principle they adduce in support of their position - one they claim the Melians know as well as they - is the following: 'just things are adjudged in human speech on the basis of equal necessity, but the preeminent do what they can, and the weak yield.' Only where equals in power meet can there be talk of negotiation, compromise, and treaties. To say that justice is 'adjudged' in human speech alone leaves open the possibility that justice is found only in human speech, and then only when equal power to compel is present: justice may have no existence apart from human speech or in nature (consider Orwin 1994, 99 n. 5). Given the extreme imbalance in power in the present circumstances, the Athenians in effect deny that there is any common good, and hence anyjustice, between the two parties. By capitulating, the Melians will save themselves from 'the most terrible things,' the Athenians will strengthen their empire. That is all. It is important to see that the Athenians argue, not that 'might makes right' or that the strong have a moral claim to empire, but rather that moral claims have no place in a clear-sighted understanding of the relations among cities. The strong by nature will seek to attain what they hold to be good for themselves; this pursuit of what a city takes to be in its best interest, being by nature or compulsory, is reasonably the object of neither moral praise nor blame. It is neither just nor unjust. As the Athenian Euphemus puts it later, speaking, as he says, 'precisely,' to subjugate the lonians and the islanders was 'not unjust': neither does he claim that it was just (VI.82.3). This view of justice and its fate in the face of necessity has important implications for the Athenian understanding of the gods and their place in the economy of human life. The Athenians twice make those implications explicit, first in the exchange of speeches with the Boeotians concerning the fate of a number of Athenian corpses at Delium, then in the dialogue with the Melians. The Athenian general Hippocrates is charged with the taking of Delium, known for its temple of Apollo (IV. 76.4, 90.1 [MSS.]), and after he successfully fortifies the area, the bulk of his troops withdraws (90). The Theban general Pagondas urges his fellow Boeotians not to permit this unjust act to go unpunished; he appeals to the great threat Athens poses to them, to their successful attack against Athens at Coronea (see

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1.113) and, finally, to the trust they should put in Apollo himself, whose temple has been violated, their sacrifices coming to sight as favourable (kala: IV. 92.7). The Boeotians then give battle, and although the whole Athenian army is eventually put to flight, it does manage to maintain possession of Delium (96.6-9). The Boeotians subsequently rebuff an Athenian herald sent to collect the dead, and a herald of their own states in turn that no corpses will be returned until the Athenians withdraw from the sacred precinct. The Boeotian herald charges in particular that Athens has violated 'the lawful customs [ ta nomima] of the Greeks' according to which one who conquers an enemy's land should abstain from the temples therein. So far from observing this law, the Athenians inhabit the precinct as if it were unconsecrated ground, even using the sacred water there for profane purposes (97.2-4). The Athenians reply that they have committed no injustice against the temple and that diey will not voluntarily do so in the future, having first entered the area for the purpose of self-defence. Moreover, no law or custom of the Greeks in fact prohibits the taking of temples. On the contrary, whoever becomes master of the territory by that very fact becomes master also of its temples. This is as true of the Athenians in their present conquest as it was of the Boeotians when they first gained the land by force (98.3; see 1.12.3): force or strength determines rightful ownership or, as this implies, there is no 'right' of ownership strictly speaking. Since the land in question is no longer Boeotian but Athenian, the Athenians will not leave, it willingly (IV.98.4, 8). At the same time, they have kept up the appropriate observances so far as they have been able in the circumstances, and they have made use of the sacred water only 'through necessity' (98.5). According to the Athenian herald, it is but 'reasonable' (eikos) that 'everything done under the press of war and anything awful [deinos] be subject to some forgiveness [sympathy], even from the god: the altars are a refuge for those who have erred unwillingly, and "transgression" is applied to those who are evil absent the necessity to be so and not to those who dare to do something as a result of adverse circumstance' (98.6). The core of the Athenians' argument, then, is that they have done what they have done only out of necessity and that they therefore cannot reasonably be blamed: even the god would not blame them and therefore would not punish them. Whether or not it is possible to square the denial of the existence of right in the face of 'the spear' (98.2-4, 8) with the maintenance of a sphere of wrongdoing to which the term 'transgression' is reasonably

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applied, the Athenians make clear that their view of the world entails the knowledge (or at any rate the likelihood sufficiently great to guide practice) that the god will not act against them. It is on the island of Melos that the Athenians make their most important argument concerning the two themes of justice and providence. When the Melians at last state openly their belief that the gods will come to their aid, standing as they do with piety on their side against those who are not just, the Athenians reply in part as follows: 'We believe on the basis of opinion with respect to the divine, and clearly with respect to the human, that, for all time, through the necessity of nature, where one holds the upper hand, he rules. And we make use of this law, neither having laid it down nor being the first to have used it once laid down; rather we came across it already in existence, and we will leave it behind us to exist forever, knowing that you too and the rest would do the same, were you to become as powerful as we are. And so, as regards the divine, we are not afraid of being worsted, judging on the basis of what is likely' (V.105). The gods too, it seems, recognize the truth of the Athenian doctrine and its main consequence: if the gods are just, as the Melians insist they are, they will not punish the Athenians for acting as all human beings are compelled by nature to act. Where no moral blame can be assigned, no just punishment can follow. With this much as a sketch of the two fundamental and competing views of the relation between piety and justice, let me now turn to consider Thucydides' own view. Thucydides' Scientific Openness Scholars who have treated the question of Thucydides' view of the gods have divided sharply over it, some maintaining that he rejected outright the traditional gods of Greece in favour of philosophy or rationalism, others that he accepted orthodox beliefs about the gods.15 To be sure, Thucydides sends conflicting signals. As I have already suggested, he insists on recording the pious understanding of things and undoubtedly holds the question of piety to involve something much more than mere 'sophistical stuff.' To give another example, Thucydides makes clear at the beginning of Book II that his account of the war is written according to the divisions of summers and winters, that is, according to the natural divisions of the seasons. He nonetheless proceeds to fix the time in question - the beginning of the war - by six events, only the last of which pertains to the season (II. 1-2.2). Particu-

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larly striking is the inclusion of the priestess Chrysis, first mentioned here and referred to again only at the end of Book IV. We learn there that Chrysis, after having fallen asleep, accidentally burnt down her own temple and was forced to flee Argos (IV. 133). Just as the Thirty Years' Truce was not to come to its conclusion, so Chrysis was not to fulfil her tenure as priestess. The conventional things - those related to human matters alone as well as those that bear witness to the human concern with the divine - lack the fixity of the seasonal or natural (see esp. V.20.2-3). Whereas Thucydides himself takes his bearings by summers and falls, he knows that 'the world' is not simply constituted by the natural or that other claims are made about it that compete with, and are at least held to take precedence over, the natural. Here and indeed throughout his work, Thucydides is careful to report or represent these competing claims. As I shall try to demonstrate immediately, however, Thucydides' few explicit statements concerning prophecy and divination cannot be reconciled with simple orthodoxy. I make the provisional suggestion that Thucydides is indeed a 'scientific' historian, and that for that very reason he is especially alive to and concerned with the most serious competing view of the world, according to which the whole is governed by intervening and superintending gods. To begin to grasp Thucydides' own view of the gods and their relation to political life, it is safest to begin from his explicit statements concerning prophecy or oracular pronouncements, the most direct evidence of divine intervention. If I am not mistaken, there are three such statements. The first remark concerns a plot of land, the Pelasgian, just below the Athenian Acropolis. It was forbidden to inhabit this land, in accordance with a certain Pythian oracle: 'Better is the Pelasgian unworked.' Nonetheless, as a result of Pericles' strategy to abandon the homes and fields outside the city walls and to bring the whole population within them, the Pelasgian land was in fact inhabited, 'through the present necessity,' as Thucydides says. And he offers his own opinion: 'It seems to me that the prophecy came to pass in a manner opposite to what they expected. For the city's misfortunes did not arise on account of the unlawful occupation, but rather the necessity of occupying it arose on account of the war; the prophetic utterance, though it did not say so, foresaw that the land would never be occupied for a good end.' In other words, according to Thucydides, the city did not suffer because it transgressed a divine decree but rather as a result of the necessity that demanded, among other things, that it disregard that decree and therewith the dif-

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ference between sacred and profane. The 'punishment' came not from the gods but from the difficult circumstances in which the Athenians thus found themselves. The second relevant statement concerns a certain prophetic utterance (epos) that the Athenian elders recalled during the time of the plague and the first Spartan invasion of Attica, one that the elders claimed had been pronounced long ago: 'A Dorian war will come, and with it a plague' (II.54.2). As Thucydides goes on to indicate, however, a dispute arose as to whether the utterance had originally been 'plague' (loimos) or 'famine' (limos). Thucydides comments as follows: 'that "loimos" [plague] had been said carried the day, as was only to be expected in the circumstances. For human beings are wont to make their recollection accord with whatever they are suffering. And I suppose that, if another, subsequent Dorian war befalls them at some point and there happens to be a famine, in all likelihood they shall recite it accordingly' (53.3). The tendency Thucydides sees is the desire to endow present suffering with a greater significance than it might otherwise have: if that suffering has been foreseen by the gods, presumably it is known to them now. Nevertheless it cannot be said that Thucydides shares this tendency, however understandable it may be. The third and final remark of Thucydides that must be considered concerns the eventual length of the war (V.26). 'Thus one shall discover that the first war, the dubious armistice after it, and the war following upon this latter lasted so many years [as I have indicated] ... And indeed this alone came to pass in such a way as to support those who in some way hold fast to oracles. For from the beginning of the war until its conclusion, I for my part always recall its having been proclaimed by many that [the war] would last thrice nine years' (26.3-4). Of the many oracular pronouncements that must have been known to Thucydides, he thus claims that only one came to pass: the war did indeed last twenty-seven years. That this prediction was so widely made is somewhat surprising, since Thucydides also tells us that, at the beginning of the war, some thought the Athenians would last a year, some two, but that 'no one' thought they could hold out for more than three years (VII.28.3). 'Thrice nine' also happened to be the number of days the Athenians were told to wait in Sicily after the eclipse of the moon there (VII.50.4): was this number something of a stock reply among soothsayers? To begin with, one must simply note that Thucydides himself does not seem to accept prophetic utterances as such or to share the understanding of the world they imply. Unlike Nicias, Thucydides could never

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be accused of being overly attached to divination and the like (VII.50.4). On the contrary, he seems to suggest that human beings are capable of discerning the right course, and even of figuring out the future, by means of their own natural powers. For example, Thucydides praises Themistocles for his natural intelligence and his capacity to grasp the essentials of a situation quickly. On the basis of the least deliberation, Themistocles proved to be most excellent in point of judgment, and he was, as Thucydides says, 'the best prophet of what would happen in the most distant future' (1.138.3). Above all, Thucydides himself claims to know, on the basis of his grasp of human nature, how things are likely to be again and again in the future (consider 1.22.4 in the light of III.82.2; consider also Thucydides' references to 'human nature' at II.50.1 and HI.84.2). Thucydides is not just reluctant to endorse prophecy and oracles; he seems to praise most highly the human capacity to understand how things will be on the basis of a reasoned grasp of 'nature.' He is surely among those who, on account of their experience, understand that thunder and lightning are seasonal occurrences and not ominous signs (consider VI.70.1). Thucydides would thus appear to share the opinion expressed by the Athenian Diodotus, according to whom it is the mark of an unintelligent human being to suppose that 'it is possible to speak about the immanifest future by some other means' than reasoned argument (logoi, III.42.2). Indeed, among the most pleasing episodes in the work are those that highlight the extent to which human beings can make their way in the world by their own lights, by their native ingenuity, daring, and cleverness. Especially pleasing, for example, is the extraordinary resourcefulness the Plataeans show in fending off the sustained attack of the Lacedaemonians (II.71-8), as are the astounding naval victories of the Athenian commander Phormio at Naupactus. By virtue of his superior art or science, Phormio with his twenty ships manages to gain decisive victories over forty-seven ships and then - incredibly - seventy-seven (11.83-92). In this same context, Thucydides indicates what might have happened had the wiliness of the Lacedaemonians and their allies been greater: they could have taken the Piraeus and thereby put an end to the war (II.93-4; also VIII.96.3-4). Finally, and again in the same context, Thucydides goes so far as to suggest that human cleverness can overcome even the apparent will of the gods. Sandwiched within the account of Phormio's eventual return to Athens is the story of a certain matricide, Alcmaeon (H.102.5-6; compare II.102.1-4 with 103). It is said that, after having murdered his mother, Alcmaeon was condemned

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to wander without a home, for Apollo had decreed that Alcmaeon would never be free of his pollution until he found a land that had not seen the sun nor was yet land at the time he had slain his mother. 'Perplexed' at this, as they say, Alcmaeon realized that certain alluvial deposits at the mouth of the river Achelous would both meet the stipulations of the god and be adequate to live on. The extremely clever Alcmaeon thus managed to avoid what was surely meant to be a lifelong punishment for a most terrible crime, and as Thucydides indicates, he even went on to attain great political power. The general thrust of Thucydides' opinion concerning divine intervention seems clear on the basis of his three most explicit statements. Yet if Thucydides intimates his own distance from the pious understanding of the world, even as he takes the trouble to reproduce it, on what basis does his non-acceptance rest? In particular, if Thucydides' view of the gods is merely opinion and not knowledge - if he cannot know that the gods do not intervene in the lives of human beings nor whether earthquakes, for example, might well be divine punishment for impiety16 - then his' 'science' would be radically unscientific because it would rely on a dogmatic belief in the capacity of the human mind to grasp the world as it is in truth. The conflict between Thucydides and Homer with which the War of the Peloponnesians and Athenians begins proves to be the most fundamental one in the book. Are the things the poets say indeed 'irrefutable' (1.21.1)? I turn now to investigate the ground of Thucydides' knowledge of 'human nature,' a knowledge on the basis of which he evidently takes the stand he does with respect to prophetic revelation. I shall begin by considering his remarks concerning the question of who bears responsibility for the commencement of the war, for these remarks prove to be the best point of entry into Thucydides' own view about justice and hence also about the gods. Justice, Nobility, and Piety Whatever may have been the causes or pretexts alleged prior to and at the commencement of the Peloponnesian war, the truest pretext, but the one least apparent in speech, was the following: 'Athens, by becoming great and thus an object of fear to the Lacedaemonians, compelled them to go to war' (1.23.6; see also 33.3). Insofar as compulsion or necessity excuses - insofar as it is irrational to blame those who act under the force of compulsion and so cannot act otherwise - Thucy-

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dides would seem to absolve the Spartans of wrongdoing and to put the blame squarely on the shoulders of the Athenians. The Spartan involvement in the greatest war was due to the expansion of the Athenian empire and the threat that such expansion posed to Spartan security. Thucydides is forced or permitted to take up the question of the cause of the war a second time because the Peloponnesian war is in fact two wars separated by a fragile peace: 'For six years and ten months they refrained from marching against one another's territory, but given the insecure character of the armistice, they did the greatest harm to one another abroad. Subsequently, however, they were compelled to break the ten-year treaty and to enter once again into a state of outright war' (V.25.3). According to Thucydides' second statement, both the Athenians and the Spartans were 'compelled' to resume the war. It would thus seem that neither is reasonably blamed for doing so, and Thucydides does not blame them. Thucydides' explicit account of the cause of the second war, as well as his implied judgment of the blame for the first war, are in sharp contrast to the judgment of the Spartans themselves. In fact, with respect to the second war, the Spartans believed that [the Athenians] had broken the existing treaty. For in the prior war, they believed that the transgression lay more with them, both because the Thebans had invaded Plataea while the treaty was still in force, and because, despite its being stated in the previous agreements that the one side was not to have recourse to arms if the other was willing to put the matter to arbitration, nonetheless they did not heed the Athenian calls to do so ... But when the Athenians set out from Argos with thirty ships and ravaged, among other places, part of Epidaurus and Prasiae, in addition to engaging in piracy from Pylos, and on every occasion when disagreements arose over some matter in the treaty and [the Athenians] were unwilling to put the matter to arbitration, then indeed the Lacedaemonians believed that, just as the error had been theirs previously, so in turn the same transgression now lay with the Athenians. (VII.18.3)

Whereas the Spartans blamed themselves for instigating the first war and the Athenians for the second, Thucydides absolves the Spartans of responsibility for the first and both Athens and Sparta for the second. One reason for the difference is clear enough: Thucydides takes his bearings by considerations of compulsion, the Spartans by considerations of legality, of adherence to existing legal treaties. That the Athe-

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nians are in the wrong according to the letter of the law is not decisive for Thucydides as regards the second war, for if one is compelled to break a treaty, one cannot be blamed for doing so (see again V.25, end). This raises a question, however, concerning Thucydides'judgment of the first war. For if, contrary to the view of the Spartans themselves, the Spartans were not at fault for having gone to war, compelled as they were to do so through their fear of Athens, what of the Athenians? I assumed a moment ago that Thucydides' silence concerning the compulsory character of Athens's involvement in the first war implied his attribution to them of the responsibility for it. But to be fair to Athens, one must at least consider the cause of their 'becoming great': were they in their turn compelled to become great and hence to instil fear in the Spartans? If so, neither side could reasonably be blamed for starting the first war, just as, according to Thucydides, neither can be blamed for the commencement of the second. Thucydides does not comment on the Athenian view of the world directly, except insofar as he evidently accepts its starting point; to repeat, both maintain that what is done for the sake of self-preservation is compulsory and hence not reasonably subject to reproach. In order to see how far Thucydides is willing to go down the same path, let me turn to his account of the Athenian expedition to Sicily. In the course of describing events near the Sicilian city of Syracuse, Thucydides presents a catalogue of the cities that participated in the war, together with their reasons for doing so (VII.57-8). Thucydides states that those who came to fight in Sicily were not motivated by considerations of justice or kinship but rather by those of 'advantage or necessity' (consider also 1.123.1, end). Insofar as considerations of justice have no place in his account of what truly brought the various cities to Syracuse, his account is compatible with the argument of the Athenians, who maintain that, however much cities may appeal to justice in speech, they are all concerned with their own well-being in fact. But Thucydides' account of these motivations differs from the Athenian view in a crucial respect. Whereas Thucydides implies that interest is a category separate from necessity or compulsion, the Athenians insist that we are compelled to pursue what we believe to be in our interest; advantage and compulsion are, in the final analysis, one and the same category according to the Athenians. The catalogue of cities is divided into two parts, distinguishing those who fought with Athens (VH.57.2-11) from those who fought with Syracuse (58). The section dealing with the Athenian side itself proves to be

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divided into two subsections, the first describing those who fought more dirough compulsion than interest, the second those who fought 'more voluntarily,' that is, more for the sake of interest than compulsion (VII.57.9). There are some peculiarities, however, when one compares the enumeration of the motives in each subsection. For example, mercenary troops - and hence the money for which they fight - are included in both the more and the less voluntary (compare 57.3 with 57.9 and 11, end), as is 'enmity' (compare 57.5, end with 57.9). Similarly, the Rhodians, Argives by race, were 'compelled' to fight against the Dorian Syracusans and are therefore included in the first subsection (57.6). In the second subsection, however, Thucydides includes the several Dorian Argives - including, presumably, the Rhodians - among the more voluntary participants. Finally, Thucydides places the Thurians and Metapontians among the more voluntary, despite the fact that they were dragged into the war by the 'necessities' attending civil war. The line between interest voluntarily pursued and compulsion involuntarily obeyed begins to blur, and Thucydides abandons this twofold division in his subsequent enumeration of the Syracusan comrades-in-arms, explicitly mentioning only necessity (anangkastoi: 58.3). It would seem, then, that 'Thucydides the Athenian' begins by distinguishing interest from compulsion but ends up blurring them, even equating them; he ends up, in other words, taking a further step in the direction of the Athenian view (compare Orwin 1994, 139-41). But even supposing this tentative suggestion to be correct, we cannot leave things at this. For the very context in which this catalogue is found tells us that we have yet to take up the greatest challenge to the Athenian view: the catalogue interrupts a description of the Syracusans' concern for nobility (compare VII.56.2-4 with 59.2, beg.). Whatever one might say about interest and its compulsory character, many people, not only in Thucydides' book, act nobly, that is, they are willing to sacrifice themselves for something other and indeed greater than themselves. After all, the Athenians heed Pericles' call to become the 'lovers' of their city and, evidently in the grip of such a self-forgetting or self-transcending love, they long to attain the far-away goods that Sicily promises, in spite of the enormous personal risks such a venture will require.17 To turn, then, to Sicily: after a decisive naval victory, the Syracusans were able to sail about the Great Harbour fearlessly, and they intended to close off the harbour in such a way that the Athenians could not sail out again (VII.56.1). As Thucydides tells us, the Syracusans were no longer concerned solely with their own preservation but wished also to

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hinder the Athenians' escape, believing, as was the case, that they themselves now enjoyed superiority in strength. Moreover, if they could gain the upper hand over the Athenians and their allies both on land and at sea, they believed that their contest would come to sight as 'noble' in the eyes of the Greeks. They would immediately secure the liberty of some Greeks and deliver others from fear, and, being held to be the cause of these great goods, they would be admired or wondered at by the rest of humanity and indeed by future generations (56.2). By presenting the Syracusan self-understanding in this way, Thucydides permits us to see the ineradicable and irrepressible concern for nobility among human beings, for immediately upon laying to rest their concern for safety or preservation, the Syracusans begin to 'look up' - that is, to think not only of their self-preservation but also of the nobility that awaits their victory in the present battle. Indeed, they think even of the undying admiration, and hence of a kind of immortality, that will be theirs if they succeed. This immediate recourse to considerations of nobility confirms the impression Thucydides had left in his account of the plague in Athens, for human beings did not then abandon their concern for nobility but rather redefined what was held to be noble in light of their extremely harsh circumstances (11.53.3). It is impossible to give an adequate account of human beings solely in terms of selfishness or the selfish concern for self-preservation. If the concern for nobility requires in the first place that one no longer fear for one's security, it nevertheless cannot be said that concern for security is the whole, let alone the highest part, of human aspiration. And Thucydides makes clear that the concern for nobility on the part of the Syracusans and their Spartan comrades becomes a rallying cry that inspires them forward in battle (VII.59.2, 66.1,70.7,71.1,86.2). To begin to understand nobility, especially in its relation to piety, let us turn to Thucydides' two previous discussions of it, the first occurring in the context of the plague just alluded to, the other in that of the Corcyrean civil war. In the course of enumerating the many horrible effects of the plague that twice struck Athens, Thucydides describes three groups of people: those who did not visit others for fear of contracting the disease themselves; those who, 'making some claim to virtue,' visited their friends 'through shame' and who as a result suffered and died 'most of all'; and finally those who had lived through the disease themselves and who could therefore help others without fear of dying of the sickness. These last, including presumably Thucydides, were compas-

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sionate (11.51.5-6), both because they knew firsthand what the sick were suffering and because they themselves ran no risk of suffering it again. Thucydides then describes a number of the manifestations of 'lawlessness' to which the plague gave rise (53.1 and context). The decline in the respect for the divine, on the one hand, and the openness with which people now pursued their immediate pleasures or delights, on the other, are both linked with the fact that 'no one was eager to labor on behalf of what was held to be noble, believing it to be unclear whether he would perish before attaining it.' Thucydides continues as follows: 'No fear of gods or law of human beings acted as a restraint. With respect to the former, people judged that it was all the same whether one was pious or not, having seen all perish equally; with respect to the latter, no one expected to be brought to trial to pay the penalty for his offenses. They believed, rather, that a far greater penalty already hung over their heads, so that it was reasonable to enjoy life a little before it fell' (53.4). Thus the attachment to nobility, understood as the willingness to forgo what is immediately pleasant or advantageous for the sake of some higher good, began to erode, so uncertain was it whether anyone would live to attain that good. Our attachment to nobility depends at least in part on our hope that we will attain it; noble action is a good, and we remain devoted to it at its most resplendent, only if we have some prospect of making it our own or of participating in it (consider Aristotle Politics 1278b21-23). Yet the two greatest supports of the attachment to nobility, fear of gods and respect for law, diminished in power as a result of the death sentence that seemed to have been passed on all alike: it became very difficult to believe that the gods preferred the pious to the impious, that there are gods who reward and punish, just as the human penalties for crime came to seem unlikely to be inflicted. In these extreme times, those who made some claim to virtue and selflessness were repaid with a particularly horrible death. Thucydides' description of the civil war at Corcyra reveals much the same decay in the attachment to piety and hence to nobility. With the breakdown of the polity, men form parties or factions that arise, not 'for the sake of the benefit belonging to the laws that have been laid down, but rather for the sake of greed in violation of the established laws' (III.82.6). As a result of such unbridled grasping, together with ambition or love of honour (82.8), factional leaders of both the few and the many 'dared the most terrible things and exacted ever greater revenge, not stopping at what was just and advantageous to the city, but all taking their bearings by what each found pleasing at any given moment'

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(82.8). In such harsh times, the 'naivete' that nobility or highmindedness (to gennaiori) largely consists of becomes the object of derision (83.1, 82.7): anyone willing to sacrifice his (or his party's) own good is a fool. Accordingly, 'neither [factional party] recognized piety' (82.8); men took as the bond of kinship their common criminality rather than 'the divine law' (82.6, end). Thus Thucydides makes clear here too the link between piety, on the one hand, and noble action or doing only what is 'just and advantageous to the city,' on the other. By holding out the promise of rectifying those cases in which 'what is held to be noble' seems to conflict with what is immediately pleasant or gratifying or good, the belief in providential gods makes attractive and choiceworthy service to others, and indeed self-sacrifice; such belief makes selfsacrifice good in a manner and to a degree that far outshines anything that one can attain for oneself through mere selfishness. On the basis of Thucydides' presentation of the civil war and the plague, it appears that 'human nature' (84.2) wishes continually to rebel against 'the established laws' that teach or compel one to act nobly by forgoing immediate pleasure or advantage in the name of justice and the common advantage. Human nature absent the restraint of law and piety seems to be marked first and foremost by 'greed' and 'ambition,' that is, by the otherwise irrepressible desire to get as many of the good things for oneself (or also for one's party) as possible. As Thucydides says, no argument was strong enough, no oath frightening enough, to overcome this factional conflict once unleashed. Thucydides would thus seem to agree with the following sentiment of the Athenian Diodotus: 'it is the mark of much naivete if anyone supposes that, once human nature is set in motion to carry out something, there can be any averting of it, either through the force of laws or through any other awful [deinos] thing' (III.45.7). In better times, to be sure, the possible gaps between our own good and the common good are both less apparent and less real. To the extent that discrepancies between private interest and the public good are felt, they are bridged by law and piety: 'frightening oaths' restrain or alter one's desire for the good, the promise of a better fate urging one on in pious service. To continue our consideration of nobility in its relation to piety, it will be helpful to return to Book VII and, more precisely, to the broad context in which are found both the catalogue of combatants and the description of the Syracusans' nobility already discussed: the Athenians' attempt to conquer Sicily. And one figure so dominates this part of the book that Thucydides surely means for us to reflect on him. That figure is Nicias.

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Let us begin to take our measure of Nicias by considering Thucydides' statement of Nicias's motivation in seeking the peace that came to bear his name (V.I6). Nicias wished 'to preserve his good fortune while being free of suffering and being well-regarded; to bring an end to the present toils for both himself and the citizens; and to leave behind him in times to come a name as one who never caused his city to falter. He believed that this would come to pass by being free of danger and by entrusting himself to fortune to the smallest extent, and that peace supplies this freedom from danger' (16.1). Nicias, then, wished to do all that was humanly possible to keep safe or avoid suffering, to remain honoured or esteemed, and to alleviate the burdens imposed by the war on both himself and his fellow citizens. To secure these ends, according to Nicias, one must reduce one's exposedness to chance and, practically speaking, this requires the preference for peace over war. As Nicias's last speech makes so powerfully clear (VII.77), however, it is humanly impossible to eliminate dependence on the things of fortune. And as that same speech also reveals, our fears or apprehensions concerning the future can be overcome, if at all, only through the belief in gods who, knowledgeable of and benevolently disposed towards human affairs, have in addition the power to grant good things to human beings and to avert evils. Nicias in fact has hope for the future precisely because of all the Athenians have suffered and are suffering in Syracuse. Nicias is held to be second to no one in point of good fortune as the result of the conduct of his life, private and public, yet he is now suffering the same fate as the lowliest of the soldiers; because the gods are just, Nicias has every reason to believe that the punishment he and the Athenians are undergoing will cease. If the Athenians have offended one of the gods by going to Syracuse, surely they have paid a sufficient penalty. They have suffered enough. Thucydides says of Nicias that he, of all the Greeks known to Thucydides, least of all deserved the end he received.18 There is a harsh discrepancy between the life Nicias lived and his horrible death. We somehow sense that a life lived in accord with the noble demands of piety and justice in its turn demands recognition or compensation; in the case of Nicias, that compensation was, to say the least, not given. The human being devoted to piety and justice, conventionally understood, is then in the position of having a certain expectation from, or making a certain demand on, the world. Most simply put, he expects to attain true happiness in some way. For example, after insisting that his argument against the Sicilian expedition is not motivated by private

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concerns, Nicias nonetheless defends such self-concern, as it were in passing (VI.9.2). It is as a result not surprising that Nicias says publicly and it is somehow not altogether inappropriate for him to say it - that he would prefer to run the risk of dying at the hands of the enemy 'privately' (idiai) than to die unjustly at the hands of the Athenians at home on some shameful charge. Still, there is something jarring about that sentiment, based as it is on a calculation concerning what Nicias believes will be best for Nicias and implying a willingness to sacrifice the men under his command in order to save his own reputation. Such calculation or concern becomes more apparent as the circumstances in Syracuse become more desperate. In one of what are apparently 'many' such letters to Athens, Nicias asks either that Athens recall the troops or send as many again as reinforcements; Nicias himself refuses to take responsibility for such a decision for fear of ill-treatment at home (VII. 11-15), though he was elected with 'full powers' (VI.8.2). Similarly, once Nicias finally agrees to retreat by land, he takes the leading but safer position, assigning to Demosthenes the more dangerous rear (compare VII.78 with 81). Again, in the belief that it is safer to do so, Nicias leads his army on quickly, so much so that Demosthenes is eventually left some fifty stadia behind to fight off the Syracusans by himself (81.3). Demosthenes does this as best he can, but he is compelled to surrender to the Syracusans. If generally speaking it is shameful for a commander to surrender (consider, e.g., IV.40), Demosthenes nonetheless braves that shame and gains thereby a much better fate for his soldiers than Nicias does for his (compare VII.82 with 85). When Nicias too must surrender, he does so to the Spartan Gylippus, knowing that the Spartans are generally well-disposed towards him, but he then states, with a false and hence unattractive bravado, that Gylippus may do with him what he likes (85.1, 86.3—4). In these last sections of Book VII, among the most powerful in the whole work, we see the veneer of Nicias's respectability stripped away, or rather we see the core of that respectability for what it is. But the real ugliness of these sections is not so much Nicias's self-concern as his confusion, his lack of self-knowledge and its practical results. He presses on in the vain desire to salvage his life and reputation, hoping against hope, bargaining when he has no business doing so (VII.82.2-3), and using the lives of his soldiers as so much fuel needed to propel himself to friendly territory (compare VIII.27.2-3). If Nicias had possessed greater clarity about himself, he might have avoided the extreme circumstances he eventually found himself in. A more clear-sighted com-

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mander, one equipped also with a greater toughness and resourcefulness, probably could have avoided those situations in which his private concern conflicts so starkly with the good of the whole or the majority. For his part, the clever and resourceful Demosthenes must have doubted his chances for survival immediately upon Nicias's first refusal to leave, and despaired of them altogether as he saw the eclipse of the moon, knowing as he surely did Nicias's beliefs. Not having been present from the beginning, and having little or no hope for his own survival once there, Demosthenes simply did what he could to save the greater part of his troops. Now Nicias, like Thucydides, clearly prides himself on his knowledge of human nature (VII.14.2, 4, 48.4; compare 1.22.4; II.50.1; III.82.2, 84.2). In particular, he claims to know that the Athenians are selfish: he fears they will stab him in the back upon their return to Athens in order to save their own necks. On the basis of Thucydides' presentation of him in Sicily, however, we are compelled to conclude that Nicias does not know his own nature and that he attributes to the Athenians his own failing; Nicias is at least as concerned with his own welfare as the Athenian soldiers are with theirs. While Nicias may reproach Alcibiades for 'looking only to what pertains to himself (VI.12.2), he too proves to look first and foremost to his own well-being as he understands it. The fundamental difference between a Nicias and an Alcibiades is not one of motivation but of self-understanding, for Alcibiades is to a greater degree aware of the hope underlying the devotion to excellence or virtue. In this respect, Alcibiades is superior to Nicias. One can only suppose that the superiority in question was known to Thucydides. To be sure, it is very difficult to see how any insight into the nature of the human soul alone could be sufficient to preclude the possibility of gods who intervene in the lives of human beings by means of prophecy and oracles. Thucydides would seem to suggest that we begin to approach this difficulty by trying to understand the demand on the world that the devotion to nobility brings with it and, in understanding that demand, perhaps to cease to make it. The greatest sacrifice undertaken with the expectation of receiving the greatest reward ceases for that very reason to be a sacrifice. If this is correct, such 'sacrifice' cannot reasonably claim to merit the extraordinary intervention needed to fulfil in every case that expectation. To see this is to begin to be open to the world as it manifests itself in the ordinary course of things. It remains a question, of course, whether human beings can attain, in the world so understood, the happiness they of necessity seek. The equa-

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nimity and even grace that seem to be the product of Thucydides' search for the truth of things, and that are present on every page of his book, are an indication that Thucydides himself came to know an enviable happiness. Conclusion: Thucydides' Political Teaching

We are now faced with a difficulty, if not a contradiction, for Thucydides seems both to denigrate the truth of prophetic utterances and to deplore the decline in the respect for 'the divine law.' 'Thucydides the Athenian,' that is, seems both to accept the Athenian view of the world, according to which cities are compelled to pursue what they hold to be good for themselves, and to differ from that view in a crucial respect: for all of his distance from the ordinary view about the gods, he surely never speaks about the gods or the divine as the Athenians on Melos do. I suggest that, because Thucydides sees clearly the depth of the human attachment to nobility and justice, he does not think it possible for most individuals, let alone whole cities, truly to understand the world in terms of nature or necessity and compulsion - as the Athenians on Melos manifestly think possible (consider epistamenous pros eidotas: V.89). Moreover, because our attachment to nobility is so great, it would be not only a rhetorical blunder but also a theoretical misunderstanding to suppose that political communities could adopt such a doctrine of thoroughgoing selfishness as their stated public policy, domestically as well as internationally, or to state such a doctrine oneself publicly and in one's own name (consider the case of Alcibiades). After all, even the Athenians give indications that they do not follow consistently their own insight or doctrine (consider 1.75.1, 76.3-4). What is more, the Athenian people - in contrast to those few Athenians we hear directly - are in fact very pious. The clearest indication of this piety is Athens's concern to purify the island of Delos, a topic Thucydides turns to an unparalleled five times (1.8.1; III. 104.1-6; V.I, 32; VIII. 108.4; see also II.8.3). The second such mention in Book V is perhaps the most important, for immediately after stating that the Athenians put to death all the adult males in Scione and sold the women and children into slavery (an action that foreshadows the fate of the Melians at the end of the same book) Thucydides remarks: 'they also brought the Delians back to Delos, after having given thought to the Delians' misfortunes in battle and because the god at Delphi proclaimed it' (V.32.1). Did the Athenians feel guilty after having acted so harshly

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against the Scionians - as Xenophon says they did (Hellenica II.2.3) and were they as a result especially eager to act piously by fulfilling a proclamation of Apollo? For the Athenians, no less than the Spartans, believe that the gods punish and reward and give signs of what to do and what not to do. Immediately before the war's outbreak, Thucydides notes that 'many oracles were uttered, and much did soothsayers chant, in the cities that were about to wage war [Sparta and Athens] as well as in the others.' Similarly, when the Spartans and their allies first set out to invade Attica, Thucydides states that the Athenian citizens were of two minds whether to sally forth and that 'soothsayers chanted all manner of oracles which were taken according to the inclination of each' (II.21.3; also VHI.1.1). Again, the Athenians themselves took very seriously Apollo's response to the Lacedaemonians that victory would belong to those who fought with all their might and that he would aid them, called or uncalled - a prophecy that already seemed near fulfilment given the harm the Lacedaemonians were then doing to Athens without and the plague within (11.54.1-5). Thus the Athenians, like the Spartans, consult or pray to the gods before undertaking any significant action, above all and most strikingly before setting sail for Sicily (VI.32; also 69.2), just as they give thanks to the gods after victories (compare II.84.2 with 92.5; III.50.2). And under the command of the pious Nicias, Athens shows herself willing to sacrifice an important military victory in Corinth in order to obtain, under truce, two corpses (IV.44.3-6). Perhaps the clearest indication of the Athenians' concern to be pious and to appease the gods is the kind of fervour that broke out among the citizenry in the course of the Sicilian expedition. The principal victim of this was Alcibiades, who was accused of having mocked the Mysteries. The people evidently wished to avenge the gods by punishing Alcibiades. But it may be that in so doing they hoped to forestall the imposition on them of a tyranny comparable to - and perhaps as punishment for the tyranny they had imposed on so many others (VI.27-9, 53, 61; VIII.53.2;VI.15.4). To return to Thucydides: if he keeps a decided distance from prophetic utterances and the view of the world they imply, that distance is on the whole respectful, a respect grounded in the awareness of the intransigence of the attachment to nobility or morality, the belief in the gods, and hence also in the recognition of the demands of a healthy public life. Thucydides conveys part of this awareness through his juxtaposition, towards the beginning of Book II, of Pericles with the legendary founder of Athens, King Theseus. After reporting in indirect

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discourse Pericles' speech detailing what Athens's strategy must be and what its resources are - the latter including most notably various sacred artifacts and the gold that could be stripped off 'the goddess herself if need be (II. 13.5) - Thucydides then describes, not once but twice, the hardship that Pericles' policy entailed: 'The Athenians ... began to bring in their children and wives from the fields, as well as the rest of the provisions they made use of at home, even stripping the wood from the houses themselves; they sent their sheep and cattle to Euboea and the adjacent islands. The move was harsh for them because the majority of them had always been accustomed to living in the fields' (14). Again, 'They were distressed by and bore harshly the abandonment of their homes and the traditional temples which had always been theirs under the ancient regime, as well as by the change of their way of life, each leaving behind nothing other than his own city' (16.2). It is after the summary of Pericles' speech and between the two statements just quoted that Thucydides first speaks of Theseus (15.2). Theseus unified the many independent villages or neighbourhoods under the central authority of Athens, and he too brought all to live together. Unlike Pericles, however, Theseus permitted the citizens to continue to enjoy their private things as before; he 'compelled' them only to make use of one and the same city or to recognize Athens as their political centre. Moreover, although Theseus called for a modest private sacrifice on the part of the citizens, he enriched or expanded their public lives in a crucial respect, for he founded a certain festival in honour of 'the goddess' that is still observed to this day (15.2, end). The centre that became the heart of the new, unified Athens also happened to be the site of many shrines and altars, among them those belonging to Olympian Zeus, the Pythian Apollo, Earth, and Dionysius of the Marshes; there too is a fountain containing sacred water used for marriage ceremonies and other august ends. Whereas Pericles demanded great private sacrifices of his citizens at the same time that he denigrated the goddess and forced the citizens to abandon their customary temples, Theseus the king asked for rather less sacrifice and compensated that with a most conspicuous attention to piety (consider also 1.13.6 and VI.54.5, end). The sacrifice Pericles demanded was made all the more difficult by the erosion of piety he encouraged. Accordingly, Thucydides describes Pericles as being 'the first of the Athenians at that time,' but he says of Theseus simply that he was both intelligent and capable (compare 1.139.4 with II.15.2 [emphasis added]). Precisely if the Athenian doctrine justifying empire is true in whole or

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in part, and above all if the 'theology' the Athenians state at Melos is correct, the importance of fostering respect for and obedience to law becomes all the greater: fear of the divine law supports respect for the human law, without which political communities can degenerate into the chaos of civil war. If there are no gods, or at any rate no gods who will reward the law-abiding and punish the transgressors, citizens may cease both to hope for restitution and to fear retribution, even in the afterlife. It would therefore be a part of shrewd calculation, as well as a mark of humanity or generosity, to see to it that all do not understand themselves to act on the basis of shrewd calculation, nor perhaps even on that of 'self-interest rightly understood.'

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Chapter 5

The Original Understanding of Enlightenment: On the 'Cave' in Plato's Republic

To begin to recover the problem of enlightenment as it appeared originally, as it came to sight in the political philosophy of antiquity, one must consider Plato's portrait of 'the cave' in the seventh book of the Republic. For the cave as 'an image of our nature in its education and lack of education' (Republic 514al-2) is the source of the very metaphor of 'enlightenment' that all subsequent thinkers have made use of, directly or indirectly, explicitly or implicitly. Since Plato's Socrates details the image of the cave as part of a lengthy answer concerning the possibility of his most infamous institution, that of the 'philosopherkings,' I will follow his lead by taking up the description of the cave within the context of, and insofar as it helps explain, the possibility of philosophic rule, beginning with a brief sketch of the general discussion that leads up to the question of philosophic rule. The brothers Glaucon and Adeimantus set the principal action of the Republic in motion by challenging Socrates to prove that justice is good 'itself by itself wholly apart from the many external goods that gods and human beings may bestow on the just. Socrates' answer to this challenge culminates in the twofold definition of justice required by his decision to seek out justice first in the city, where it will be easier to spot, before turning to discover it in the individual (368c4—369b4; 434d2-e2). According to Socrates, political justice is the willingness of each of the city's three parts to 'mind its own business' in the sense that all perform their assigned tasks or duties well; a just citizen is therefore characterized by the capacity and willingness to do his duty for the sake of the well-being of the whole, or by a kind of patriotic competence (433al434dl). In order to apply this definition of justice to the individual, or more precisely to the individual soul (compare 368c4-e5 and 435bl-2

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with 435b9-c6), Socrates contends that what pertains to the relations between or among the three parts of the city (rulers, auxiliaries, craftsmen) pertains also to the relations between or among the parts of the individual soul (reason, spirit, desire) (434d2-441c8). Justice in the soul too proves to be 'minding one's own business' in the sense that each of the soul's 'parts' does only its own work or task and does it well, the orderliness that results being nothing other than the health of one's own soul (441d5-442blO, 442d4-444dl2). Accordingly, the question of the Republic concerning the goodness of justice is, as Glaucon himself now suggests, 'ridiculous' (445a5), for if justice is nothing other than the well-being of the political community and of the individual soul, its goodness for all and for each is obvious. This conclusion is warranted only if one assumes that compliance with the demands of political justice, or the performance of the tasks whose completion contributes to the well-being of the whole community, at the same time secures the well-being of the whole that is the individual soul; only if one's public duty requires precisely the same activities as does the health of the soul can one say that the question of the goodness of justice is so obvious as to be 'ridiculous.' In fact Socrates goes out of his way to warn against the assumption indicated. He states that their examination of the soul in its relation to the city - on which depends the adequacy of their entire inquiry- is fundamentally flawed: 'But know well, Glaucon, that in my opinion, we will never get a precise grasp of [the soul] on the basis of procedures such as we are now using in the argument. For there is another longer and further road leading to it' (435c9-d3). As for their treatment of justice, Socrates first cautions that if the two conceptions of justice that come to light should be different, then, by 'considering them side by side and rubbing them together like firesticks, we would make justice burst into flame, and once it has come to sight, confirm it for ourselves' (434e3-435a3). Moreover, Socrates indicates as clearly as possible thatjustice as devotion to the political community and as concern for the health of one's own soul are not in fact compatible, let alone identical: 'And this [political justice], Glaucon, was a certain phantom of justice ... But in truth justice was, as it seems, something of this sort; however, not with respect to a man's minding his external business, but with respect to what is within, with respect to what truly concerns himself and his own affairs ... In all these actions he believes and names a just and noble action one that preserves and helps to produce this condition [in his own soul], and wisdom the knowledge that supervises this action' (443c4-e7). Accordingly, the actions justice is usually thought to aim at-

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those that bespeak honesty, trustworthiness, and so on - are here said to be merely 'vulgar things' by which to judge true justice (442el). The principal concern of the just human being is to secure and maintain for himself the proper ordering of soul which, if it happens to issue in actions ordinarily held to be just, in no way has as its goal such actions. It is true that the hope or expectation that the morally serious will be happy, a hope evident in the very challenge the brothers pose to Socrates, to some extent authorizes Socrates' peculiar definition of justice, but the grounds on which he here neglects or rejects the self-sacrificing character of justice are far from clear. Given the unsatisfying manner in which the main task of the Republic has thus far been carried out, it is not surprising that Socrates is prevented from proceeding. He is asked instead to clarify what he had mentioned in passing concerning the arrangements for women and children (449a-450c; compare 423e), and whatever may be the connection between the inadequacy of his argument and this request, it does bring Socrates closer to our topic. For he goes on to introduce what he calls three 'waves' - the equality of the male and female nature in regard to ruling, the holding in common of all women and children, and the rule of philosophers. Since the image of the cave is, to repeat, an important part of Socrates' elaboration of the 'philosopher-kings,' we must turn our attention to his discussion of this third and most radical innovation. The Philosophic Nature

After suggesting that either philosophers must become rulers or those who now rule as kings must become genuine philosophers, if the ills that plague cities are ever to cease, Socrates turns to consider who the philosophers are (474b and following). Socrates defines the philosophers as those who love to look upon or contemplate the truth (475e4), and although he suggests to Glaucon that what he means by this will be difficult to explain to another, he does attempt to do so. What follows proves to be a comparison between the knowledge that characterizes the philosopher and the opinion that characterizes the non-philosopher. And Socrates highlights the fact that the non-philosopher is likely to become angry at what he says; that anger, as well as Socrates' response to it, is a key to the passage as a whole (see 476d8 and following; 478e7479a8;479elO-480al3). The non-philosophers delight in the many beautiful (noble) sounds,

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colours, and bodily shapes in the world, but 'their understanding is incapable of seeing and delighting in the nature of the beautiful itself (476b4-8); the non-philosopher believes that objects (pragmatd) are beautiful, but he cannot follow along even if one leads him to the understanding of beauty itself (476c2-4). The philosopher, by contrast, sees not only the many beautiful bodies and actions (476a4-7) but also the form of the beautiful itself in and through the very 'partnership' between those things and the forms (eide).1 The philosopher alone fully grasps that quality or characteristic shared by the many particulars, by virtue of which sharing they are seen to form a class.2 On the basis of the non-philosopher's ignorance of the beautiful itself, Socrates suggests that the philosopher possesses knowledge, the non-philosopher mere opinion. It is at this point that Socrates first indicates how annoyed or angry such a man is likely to become, and what follows is meant to 'comfort' and gently persuade him, while at the same time concealing from him his lack of health (476d8-e2). The immediately subsequent discussion, then, will presumably look more to appeasement than to truth or at any rate to those truths that are compatible with appeasement. Socrates and Glaucon now attempt to distinguish knowledge, opinion, and ignorance from each other by distinguishing the various things on which each depends: knowledge on what is, opinion on what 'both is and is not' (477a6; see also 478d5—7; 478el—2), ignorance on what is not simply. Opinion, or its object, thus shares in both being and non-being. The opinion that a given song is beautiful may describe what is and thus be true, but the song is neither the only member of the class of beautiful things nor that class itself. Nothing Socrates says here denies to unphilosophic opinion the truth of its claims concerning the various particulars; he insists only that there is something more, beyond the sight of the non-philosopher, that would complete or perfect his understanding. To put this another way, Socrates insists that opinion is to be distinguished not only from knowledge but also from ignorance because opinion has a share in, or depends in part on, what is. Perhaps it is by describing opinion in this way that Socrates hopes to calm his unphilosophic objector. As for the latter's lack of health, it must consist in something other than his failure to see the beautiful itself, for about this deficiency Socrates is perfectly explicit. Socrates now makes a rather surprising suggestion: 'It would remain for us to discover, as it seems, what this is that shares in both being and non-being and that would not correctly be called either one simply - so

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that, if it comes to sight, we might justifiably address it as opinable, assigning to the extremes the extreme things and to the in-between things the in-between things' (478el-5). But are not precisely the opinions the many non-philosophers have about 'the beautiful sounds, colors, and bodily forms' (476b4-8) examples of the opinions in question? After all, Socrates had presented these opinions as grasping a part, though only a part, of the beautiful and as thus sharing in both being and non-being, his very definition of the opinable. As becomes clear in the sequel, Socrates raises this question because he wishes to introduce a fundamentally different kind of opinion. Socrates reminds us once again of the angry non-philosopher, but this time he replies to him in anything but a calming manner: '"Surely, best one," we shall say, "there isn't any one of the many noble things that won't appear base? And of the just things, unjust? And of the pious things, impious?"' (479a5-8). Although Socrates had begun the whole discussion of the forms with the pair 'noble and base' (or beautiful and ugly), he had refrained from bringing out the defective character of any particular noble thing (475e9-476a3). Now, for the first and only time in this section (compare however 380d2 and following), Socrates speaks of 'the Idea' of nobility itself, evidently in contrast to either 'form' or 'class,' and only now does he add to the description of the 'Idea' that it 'always is the same in respect to the same things' (479al-3; see also e79). When compared to the apparently eternal and unchanging Idea of nobility, every instance of it here and now is radically defective, so much so that it is mixed with its opposite. As Socrates now presents them, the 'Ideas' rob the many particulars - every just law, every noble act, every pious utterance - of their purity and fixity as what we believe them to be. Socrates proceeds to discuss what he calls the many 'pairs' or 'doubles' (479b3 and following). All things that can be characterized in terms of one member of a given pair - heavy and light, large and small are Socrates' examples - can be characterized also by the opposite member of the pair, depending upon the standard in the light of which they are judged. Thus one and the same stone, for example, can be both light and heavy depending upon the weight of the things to which one compares it. It is true that the philosophic knowledge of the unchanging Ideas would seem to supply a fixed, knowable standard in reference to which the philosopher, at least, could judge correctly every particular he comes across. Yet this possibility does not seem to accord with our experience, at least as regards the pairs large and small, heavy and light, for these express a purely relative or relational characteristic: we always judge the

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weight of a given stone in terms of some other given body or capacity and not in terms of any unchanging 'Idea of the heavy itself that is never to be found in any one thing. At all events, Socrates himself does not speak of such an Idea here. What then of the three other pairs he mentioned immediately before: the noble, the just, the pious and their opposites? By comparing these things to light and heavy, large and small, Socrates raises the possibility, at least, that the lack of purity or fixity he here attributes to them stems not from the comparison of them with the eternal and unchanging Ideas but rather from the fact that we make such determinations in the same manner as we do concerning things light and heavy, large and small, that is, in reference to a shifting standard. Socrates both confirms and clarifies this suggestion when he claims to have 'discovered' what it is that occupies the middle ground in question (compare 479d3 with 478el): 'We have discovered, as it seems, that the many conventional beliefs [lawful convictions: nomima] of the many concerning the noble and the rest roll around somewhere between nonbeing and being simply' (479d3-5). Thus human convention or fiat (nomos), not an eternal, unchanging 'Idea,' is the standard in the light of which we form the opinions of the sort indicated that 'roll around' between being and non-being (consider also 432d8 and context). Different communities have widely differing laws (nomoi) and hence opinions about what is noble, just, and pious.3 The non-philosopher's lack of health may stem, then, from his ignorance of the true character of the lawful or conventional beliefs he holds, beliefs not about beautiful sounds or colours, but about the most important things. Socrates concealed from the non-philosopher his ill health for so long as he refrained from mentioning the fundamental distinction within opinion itself between those opinions that grasp something of what is by nature and those that exist solely by convention. And it is not surprising that Glaucon must now have recourse not to Socrates' argument but to august law to quell the non-philosopher's anger (themis: 480alO). It hardly needs to be said that what is true of 'the many' does not necessarily apply to the philosopher, whose defining characteristic is his knowledge of just and unjust, good and bad, and all the forms (476a4-5; compare 501 b6 and context). The Question of Philosophic Rule At the beginning of Book VI, Socrates returns to the question of who the philosophers are, or what the philosophic nature is (474c-484a),

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and he adds to it three separate considerations essential to answering the question of the possibility of the philosopher-kings, and therefore also of the coming into being of the best city: is the philosophic nature suited to rule? (484b-487a); will cities accept the rule of philosophers? (487b-502a); and could actual rulers, or rather their sons, become philosophers? (502a-c). After answering each of these questions in the affirmative, Socrates concludes as follows: 'So now, as it seems, it turns out for us that what we are saying about legislation is best if it could come to be, and that it is hard for it to come to be, but not impossible' (502c5-7). Yet this conclusion is unconvincing because Socrates' arguments to this point have been unconvincing. Two examples must suffice. First, in his attempt to persuade none other than Adeimantus, his friendly interlocutor and the brother of Plato, that philosophers are neither useless nor vicious, Socrates in fact shows how very far apart philosophy and political life really are and how great the resistance to his proposal would be. After his lengthy argument meant to prove that the cities would accept the philosophers as rulers, Socrates is compelled merely to assert or assume that the people have been persuaded of the goodness of philosophic rule (501e7-502a6). Second, to insist as Socrates does that ruling kings could have sons who become genuine philosophers is not yet to prove that those sons would be willing to rule. Nothing Socrates has said to this point addresses the question of the willingness of the philosophers to rule. In the sequel (502e and following), Socrates turns to speak about the philosopher-kings again 'as if from the beginning,' and the overarching purpose of the lengthy repetition, which extends to the end of Book VII and includes the discussion of the 'divided line' and the cave, is to answer the question indicated: would the philosophers ever be willing to rule, even granting the cities' openness to them as rulers? I will treat the difficult sections that follow solely with a view to determining what light they may shed on this question. The Soul and the Idea of the Good Socrates suggests that the potential philosophers would have to undergo many tests for it to be determined whether they are capable of bearing 'the greatest studies.' When Adeimantus naturally asks what these studies are, Socrates reminds him of their earlier discussion of the parts of the soul, and he emphatically reaffirms its defective character (504b; see 435c-d). In that earlier attempt at an account of the soul (434d2-441c8),

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Socrates indicated the direction the longer and more satisfactory road would take them when he posed a 'difficult' question: 'Do we perform our several actions by means of this same [part of ourselves], or do we do so by means of three things, one action with one part, another with another? Do we learn with one part, become spirited with another of the parts within us, and desire, in turn, the pleasures of nourishment and generation and all that is akin to these with some third part, or do we act with respect to each of these by means of the whole soul, once we are set in motion [hotan hormesomen]'? These things are difficult to define in a manner worthy of argument' (436a8-b3). To maintain the parallel between city and soul, Socrates is of course compelled to argue that we always act by means of three - and only three - distinct 'parts' of the soul (consider 435el-3). But since Socrates twice states the inadequacy of their inquiry, we are entitled at least to wonder whether the alternative he suggests is the more adequate one, namely that whenever we act we do so with 'the whole soul.' Moreover, in the immediately following discussion of desire, knowledge, and spiritedness there is an indication as to what Socrates might mean by the unity of soul this expression implies (437bl-441c3). According to Socrates, thirst itself is always for drink alone; whether we desire a hot drink or a cool one, for example, depends on the presence of something else in addition to thirst. Socrates adds, apparently as an afterthought, that we of course always desire a good drink, 'for everyone, after all, desires good things' (438a3-4). He concludes: 'If, then, thirst is a desire, it would be a desire for good drink ... ' (438a4—5). A short while later, however, he restates his conclusion concerning thirst in this way: 'thirst itself is neither for much or little, nor good or bad ... ' (439a5-6; emphasis added). Socrates thus flatly contradicts himself by arguing that 'thirst itself both is and is not always thirst for a good drink. I suggest the following. It is possible to speak of our acting in all that we do with 'the whole soul' insofar as 'everyone desires good things' or insofar as the whole soul seeks out what it believes to be good. The primacy of the good as the object of the soul's complex longings makes it possible to speak of the soul's essential unity (consider also 518c8). Only by subsequently abandoning this primacy of the good can Socrates speak in the sequel of three separate 'parts' of the soul, which are separate because they do not share such a unifying goal. This indication in Book IV of what the true account of the soul would include prepares us for the return to the question of the soul in Book VI. For as Socrates here insists, one will never come to the end of the

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greatest study (now in the singular) unless one comes to understand the soul's parts or forms,4 and the greatest study is 'the Idea of the Good' (505a2). What then is the link between the soul and 'the Idea of the Good'? The good, Socrates explains, 'is what every [hapasa] soul seeks, and it performs every action for the sake of this, divining that it is something but being at a loss and being unable to grasp adequately what in the world it is ... ' (505dll-e2). While many would be satisfied with merely seeming to be just or noble, no one is satisfied with being or possessing what merely seems to be good. Yet, to repeat, every soul is at a loss as to what the good truly is; every soul is thus compelled to act on the basis of a faulty or confused conception of what is good. Once one begins to understand the importance of the good as the object of the actions of 'the whole soul,' the most pressing question becomes, what is the good? What satisfies the greatest need of the soul and can therefore reasonably be called the soul's greatest good? And however exalted Socrates' subsequent treatment of this question of the good is to become, it is with this down-to-earth understanding of it that he begins: the many maintain that the good is pleasure, the more refined that it is wisdom or sound judgment (phronesis). It is because Socrates here understands 'the Idea of the Good' to mean the greatest good of the soul that he can say that Adeimantus has heard of it 'many times' already, despite the fact that the phrase 'Idea of the Good' appears here (505a2) for the first time in the Republic. The whole conversation was set in motion by the question of whether the just or the unjust life is better and hence what the good life is.5 Socrates quickly shows that neither of the most common opinions about the good is satisfactory - phronesis, for example, can be exercised only when one understands clearly one's goal (505b5-dl; compare 518e2). After being pressed by both Adeimantus (506b8-cl) and Glaucon (506d2-5) to state his own view of what the good is for a human being, Socrates insists that he himself has nothing more than opinions about it; rather than look upon or contemplate such opinions as are ugly (ignoble), blind, and crooked, they should instead 'hear' bright and noble ones from others. He will therefore speak of the 'offspring' of the good. It is not surprising that the ensuing discussion is no more precise than their analysis of the four virtues, an analysis Socrates had said was inadequate (compare 506d2-5 with 504d6-8). One should note, however, that Socrates' refusal to speak his mind about the Idea of the Good (506d6-e5) occurs after he has already mentioned it once (505a2) and, in connection with it, the primacy of the good for every

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soul (505dll-506a2 and context). Perhaps these remarks form a part of his own views about the good. Socrates begins his description of the offspring of the good by making three main points concerning the relation between the sun's light, the eye's power to see, and the things seen (507c6-508a8; 508a9-b8, and 508b9-ll). He then draws the parallel between our experience of seeing and our intellectual grasp of the world: 'say that the sun is the offspring of the good I mean, an offspring the good begot in proportion to itself: as the good is in the intelligible realm with respect to intelligence and the intellected, so the sun is in the visible realm with respect to sight and the seen' (508bl2-c2). He subsequently clarifies this parallel by applying each of his three main points to the case of intellection, but with one difference. He now treats in the second and therefore central place what he had previously treated last: 'And since [the good] is the cause of knowledge and truth, understand it as something that is known' (508e3-6; compare 508b9-ll). Socrates thus draws attention to the proposition that the good is knowable. According to this entirely new point of comparison between the sun and the good (509a9-blO), the good is responsible not only for our knowing the things that are known but also for the very existence of those things. And not least, the good itself is now said to be 'beyond being' (509b6-10). If knowledge depends on or is the grasp of beings (477blO-ll, 478a6) and the good is 'beyond being,' the good would now seem to be unknowable, not to say utterly mysterious.6 Socrates' initial presentation of the offspring of the good raises this question: can the good that is necessarily the goal of our soul's actions be known by human beings? In order to explain as fully as he can 'in the present circumstances' (509c9-10) that of which the sun is the likeness, that is, the good apparently in contradiction to his previous refusal to do so - Socrates now utilizes two further images, those of the divided line and of the cave. Very briefly, the divided line describes the ascent from mere opinion to the highest possible knowledge, from the image of objects in water and on reflective materials to the 'dialectical' knowledge of the forms that is wholly separate from sensory perception. The cave is an underground dwelling with a long and narrow passageway leading to the outside world and its natural illumination. In the cave are 'prisoners,' each with legs and neck in chains from childhood on, able only to look straight ahead and thus unable to see another, let alone himself. What the prisoners do see are the shadows on the cave wall cast by 'all sorts of artifacts ... and statues of men and other animals' (514b8-

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515a3), including 'the representations of the just' (517d9) and 'phantoms' of the good (532c2 and 534c5). Socrates here describes the authoritative accounts of what is just, good, and noble that every city necessarily presents to its citizens, accounts wrought by legislators in the most fundamental sense who, together with the poets, fashion the models of human excellence. All political communities, even those that insist, for example, that every way of life must be tolerated because there is no one best way of life, nonetheless project a single, comprehensive model for all to praise and emulate - in the example mentioned, the tolerant citizen. The cave thus presents itself to its citizens as the true world in which every important question concerning human being, god, and world is answered with finality. If the citizens were able to converse (diakgesthai) with one another, they would believe that the shadows they see are the beings (515b4-5). So powerful are the images cast on the cave's wall that we come to see not only men but even beasts as other than they are in fact, as possessing special powers, for example. Socrates states that the images of the divided line and the cave must be put together (517a8-c5). The first difficulty one encounters in doing so is that the ascent from the cave to the sun and the divided line do not match up precisely. The prisoner first takes the shadows of the poetic and legislative models to be the beings; this corresponds to the images found on the lowest part of the line, but only approximately. The citizen as citizen does not in fact perceive 'images' at all but what he believes to be the beings, whereas we are perfectly aware of the images and reflections as images and reflections that Socrates describes on the lowest level of the divided line. The prisoner is then freed and, if he does not yet see what those models are (515c8-dl), he is at any rate told about them - just as, on the second part of the divided line, one sees the objects whose shadows or reflections one had seen before. Now beyond the realm of the visible and hence beyond the cave, the prisoner should, according to the third stage of the divided line, be concerned with questions of geometry and mathematics. What the newly freed prisoner in fact experiences Socrates describes as follows: 'And at first he would most easily catch sight of shadows and then the phantoms in water of human beings and other things; later, of the things themselves' (516a68). This mention of 'shadows' and 'phantoms in water' recalls, not the third and fourth stages of the divided line, but the first and second yet again (compare 516a6-8 with 509el-510a6). There is, however, an important difference between the two accounts. Whereas the 'prisoner' - the citizen as citizen prior to critical reflection - accepts as true the

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legislative models of (among other things) justice, human excellence, and the divine nature, the citizen whose soul has begun the turn to philosophy now begins to be aware of the shadows or representations of things and human beings as shadows or representations. For, as I have already indicated, even the citizen who has been freed from his chains is 'unable to make out those things whose shadows he saw before' (515c8dl) and accordingly must be 'told' about the true nature of the things to which he is still devoted. In fact, he does not quite believe what he hears and becomes angry or indignant (see again Book V, end). Accordingly, the citizen in question must be 'dragged' up into the light of the sun. So far from needing the study of mathematics, such a human being must now examine on his own the accounts he has received from earliest youth, above all the shadows of the just or the representations that cast them (consider 517d8-9). (It is a curious feature of these passages that the examination of the representations of the just is to be carried out in the light cast by the Idea of the Good [consider 506a4-7] and not by comparing them to the Idea of the Just itself.) The cave, then, introduces into the divided line the complication Socrates had pointed out in his first description of the Ideas at the end of Book V but that is suppressed in (though perhaps not altogether absent from) the divided line itself: the difference between natural beings and artificial or conventional ones. To put this another way, the divided line would be a tolerably accurate description of knowledge and opinion if we had simple access to the natural world. The image of the cave indicates that such access is in fact complicated or, for a time at least, made impossible by the authoritative descriptions of beings whose existence is due, not to nature, but to convention or shared agreement or law (nomos). We see the natural world, in other words, partly through the lens of convention, and however much these conventions may differ from community to community or from cave to cave, every community or cave depends upon conventional beliefs about human being, god, and world for its continued existence. The best community of the Republic is distinguished principally by the nobility of the 'lies' it tells its citizens, not by its freedom from the necessity dictating their use. The human beings who will liberate themselves from the chains of convention must take as their first subject of study the 'phantoms of human beings and other things' before they can look upon 'the things themselves' (516a6 - 8), one of a number of indications here that knowledge cannot in fact be separated from the world of 'things' or from the world that is presented to us by our senses.8 And as Socrates

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goes on to indicate, the newly liberated human being must also investigate 'the things in heaven and heaven itself,' an investigation that presumably includes such questions as whether the heavenly bodies are gods (516a8-b2; consider 508a4 and 9, as well as 532cl). As for the sun itself, it is of course an image of or metaphor for 'the good'; the culmination of the citizen's liberation from his cave, then, is to understand what the good is. The means to achieve knowledge of the good is 'dialectics,' a word derived from the verb meaning principally 'to converse' (dialegesthai). 'Dialectics' is a kind of conversational analysis of precisely the presuppositions of our opinions that clarifies them in a way that geometry, for example, does not clarify its presuppositions or hypotheses (510b6-9, cl-511c2). Socrates gives his most vivid glimpse of 'dialectics' towards the end of Book VII: 'We have, I suppose, dogmas from childhood about just and noble things by which we have been reared as if by parents, obeying them and honoring them ... When a question comes and is asked of one who is disposed [to honor the ancestral things and to obey them] - 'What is the noble?' - and after giving as his answer what he heard from the legislator the argument refutes him and, refuting him many times in many ways, reduces him to the opinion that this is no more noble than base, and similarly also as regards the just, the good, and the things he held in highest honor - what do you suppose he will do after this about honoring and obeying those things?' (538c6-e3).

When dialectics is thus defined as the conversational analysis of such questions as 'What is the noble?', the question animating the whole Republic - 'What is justice?' - appears as a further example of Socratic dialectics. Socrates is originally enticed into the evening's proceedings by the prospect of carrying on dialectics with the young (dialeksometha), just as he claims, at least, to delight in dialectics (dialegomenos) with the very old (328a9, d7). On the basis of this latter example of dialectics in Book I, it becomes clear that we presuppose justice to be good, for we deny the justice of giving back a weapon to the friend from whom we borrowed it if he is now crazed, precisely because it is not good to do so. 'Dialectics' brings out our conviction, which we may not be fully aware of, that justice is good. Our devotion to justice thus forms a part of our overriding concern with the good simply, one that trumps the concern for the various vir-

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tues, including justice (504d4-6), and that receives its loftiest (if not its most precise) treatment as the Idea of the Good that is the cause of all knowledge, truth, and being but that is itself 'beyond being' (consider 509cl-2). As no one will adequately know the just and noble things themselves before it is known in what way they are good (506a6-7), so the potential philosopher must raise the question, which the very doctrine of the Idea of the Good tends to obfuscate, of the goodness of 'the good,' that is, in what way and for whom 'the good' is good (consider Xenophon Memorabilia III.8.1-3). According to Socrates' somewhat peculiar definition of justice, of course, justice is good for the just individual because it is nothing other than the health of his own soul. And in fact this definition of justice receives powerful moral and political support even from the idea of justice understood as patriotism or as selfless devotion to a common good. For in the 'city of sows' (Glaucon's characterization) or the 'true' city (Socrates'), there is a perfect harmony between the demands of community and one's own good (see 369c7); dedication to such a community is therefore dedication to oneself as well. This harmony is said to exist also in the far more complicated city they go on to build. The guardians, at least, will love their city, and 'wouldn't someone love something most when he believes that the same things are advantageous to it and to himself, and when he supposes that if it fared well, he too himself would fare well with it, and if it didn't, neither would he?' (412cl3—d7; compare 413c5-7 with e5). Justice as patriotism thus claims to be good, good also for the patriot. In fact, the young and patriotic Polemarchus is willing to alter his understanding of what justice is in light of considerations of the good. Such willingness is perhaps the most powerful evidence in support of Socrates' repeated suggestion concerning the primacy of the good for us. The Question of Philosophic Rule Answered After these most difficult sections of the Republic, Socrates immediately and explicitly returns to the question of the willingness of the philosopher-kings to rule, a question that is as yet unanswered (517c7 and following). Socrates is now perfectly frank: 'don't be amazed that the men who proceed to this point [in the understanding of the world, i.e., the philosophers] aren't willing to mind the business of human beings, but rather that their souls are always eager to spend their time above [the cave]' (517c7-9). Again, 'Isn't it likely ... and necessary ... that those

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who are without education and experience of truth would never be adequate stewards of a city, nor would those who have been allowed to spend their time in education continuously to the end, ... the latter because they won't be willing to act, believing they have emigrated to the Isles of the Blessed while they are still living?' (519b7-c6). So incompatible, in fact, are the demands of the well-being of even the best city with those of the best soul that Socrates and his friends must, as founders, compel the philosophers to rule (519c-d). The fact that such external compulsion is necessary suggests that philosophers will not compel themselves to rule even as an unpleasant necessity leading to some greater good - much as one compels oneself to visit the dentist, for example. The burdens of ruling are in fact so onerous to the philosopher, they so distract him from his true good or happiness, that apparently not even the disadvantages arising from the rule of inferior men are sufficient inducement for him to rule (compare 347c2-5). As for the gratitude one might expect to motivate the philosopher to serve as its king the city that has nurtured his philosophic capacities, Socrates has already indicated that every actual city impedes the development of the philosophic nature (see, e.g., 488a-489d, 492a-e, 494a-495b). In every actual case, philosophers 'grow up spontaneously against the will of the regime in each [city]; and a nature that grows by itself and doesn't owe its rearing to anyone is right not to be eager to pay back the debt associated with rearing' (520b2-4). The philosopher will rule only when compelled to do so, and he will be so compelled only by Socrates and his friends in their capacity as founders of the very best city 'in speech.' How then to transform an existing city into this best one? Only a 'suitable regime' would ever be open to so radical an innovation as the rule of philosophers, but what Socrates proves to mean by a 'suitable regime' is precisely the city they have been building 'in speech' in which philosophers already rule as kings (497a3-c4): the one necessary condition for the coming into being of philosophic rule is that philosophers rule. Thus there is not and has never been a counterpart in the world to the compulsion to rule that Socrates is willing to exert 'in speech' on the philosophers. Given the burdensome character of rule, Glaucon protests the injustice that Socrates inflicts on the philosophers by forcing them to undertake it (519d), a protest permitted, or rather required, by Socrates' own definition of true justice at the end of Book IV. Socrates' reply shows that both Glaucon and Adeimantus9 are not yet fully convinced of, and do not even understand, Socrates' peculiar definition of justice and its

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consequences. It shows that both brothers remain torn between their devotion to an understanding of justice that rightly includes self-sacrifice, on the one hand, and their conviction that the just must be supremely happy, on the other. As Socrates' account of the philosophic attitude towards ruling suggests, the philosophers themselves, who alone grasp the Idea of the Good, are free of such confusion. For example, in describing the bliss of the philosophers who have escaped their 'cave,' Socrates describes also the indifference they will feel to the honours, praise, and rewards available there. Indeed, the philosopher will share the view of Achilles in Hades, who would much prefer ' "to be on the soil, a serf to another man without allotment"' than to live for such false honours. Yet chief among the honours in question is that resulting from Achilles' decision to avenge the death of Patroclus at the price of his own. Whereas the city's auxiliaries will be forbidden ever to know of this verse and the sentiment it expresses, the philosophers will apparently not only know of it but also agree with it (compare 516d5-6 with386c5-7). Conclusion

According to Plato's Republic, it is impossible to shine the sun's light down into the cave. The political community cannot be governed wholly in accordance with the understanding of the way the world is in truth; it cannot be fully 'enlightened.' Even if philosophers came to rule, their tasks as rulers would be entirely political: the philosophic education that Socrates details would remain the preserve of those few suited to it by nature, just as the very inferior education of the auxiliaries would remain in place - an education characterized above all by its attempt to instil moderation in the sense of obedience (389d7-e2) and which includes 'a throng of lies' (459c8), notably a theology that approaches, but only approaches, the truth (consider 382clO-d3). More precisely, the political theology of Book II is a refined version of orthodoxy, whose principles are distinguished by their greater rationality but the full consequences of which principles Socrates leaves somewhat obscure. For whereas the philosophers will know that the Idea of the Good is the fundamental cause of all being, the citizens will still believe in a god who is the cause, not of all things, but of all good things (compare 509b6-10 with 379c2-7). The philosopher's knowledge of the good seems to replace the citizen's belief in a benevolent god. And although a man like Cephalus could still expect, on the basis of the belief in the god's

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benevolence, the first principle of the city's official theology, to receive such rewards and punishments as are genuinely good for him, the city's second theological principle, according, to which the god is one or unchanging, does cast doubt on the possibility of divine reward and punishment insofar as these presuppose the efficacy of prayer and sacrifice in bringing about pity, for example, in the god (compare 380dl381clO with 330d4-331al and 331d6-7, on the one hand, and with 427bl-c5 on the other; see also Bruell 1994, 277).10 In contrast to the citizen the philosopher seems to be satisfied simply with beholding the great beauty of the Good itself, and he therefore makes no additional demands upon it or upon the world that the Good, or our concern with it, brings into being (compare 519c5-6 with 540a8-c2, esp. b7-c2). It is true that the unbridgeable gulf between the life of philosophy and all other lives first comes to sight in the Republic as one of 'epistemology' or as the inability on the part of most people to grasp the Ideas beyond the various particulars (see, e.g., 493e2-494a5). Yet this 'epistemological' lesson is contained in a book entitled Politeia, whose most obvious theme is the nature and goodness of justice. One cannot in fact separate questions of 'epistemology' from politics, for our knowledge of the world is shaped from the outset by the moral and political education our politeia imposes on us, no matter how open it may be. Socrates therefore shows, as early as the opening scenes of the Republic, that the first obstacle on the path to philosophy is the citizen's reluctance to recognize the questionable character of his opinions concerning what is noble, just, and pious. The 'dialectical' questioning that Socrates calls for and to some extent carries out in the course of the Republic itself ultimately considers the goodness of the content of such opinions. And if one attends closely to Socrates' chosen metaphor, it would seem to be the city's inability to grasp the Idea of the Good, or the consequences of the primacy of the good for us, that prevents the city from becoming fully 'enlightened': the 'cave' cannot admit the 'sun.' It is by thinking through our attachments to justice as ordinarily understood that we come to see this primacy and hence also to accept a philosophic understanding of justice that, while compatible with all or most of the actions usually associated with justice, at the same time fulfils the promise of justice by securing for each, to the extent possible, the good of the soul.

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Chapter 6

The Limits of Enlightenment: Aristotle's Politics

The scientific or philosophic study of politics is challenged today in a manner and to a degree that it has not been for a very long time, perhaps since its inception. One sign of this challenge is that students of political thought are for the most part no longer inclined to speak of 'reason,' 'science/ and 'truth' with quite the same confidence one sees in Plato and Aristotle, for example, to say nothing of Thomas Hobbes (Leviathan 11.31, end [Hobbes 1968]). In this contemporary scholars simply show their awareness of the change in philosophy itself according to which 'truth' is a construct of the logocentric will imposed on fundamentally mysterious substrata, an imposition that permits the formation of a horizon within which 'reasoning' becomes possible for a time. This insight into the contingent or historical character of human thought does away with the traditional object of philosophy or science, and love of wisdom can for the first time be replaced by a creative or poetic self-expression that is distinguished from all earlier such expressions not least by its greater self-awareness. The denigration of the rational goes together, at any rate in its most impressive form, with a certain praise of the irrational and a call for a re-awakened piety, if of the 'pagan' kind (e.g., Lyotard 1977a and 1977b), for (in the words of Heidegger) 'only a god can save us.' However far from sober political life these largely academic events may seem, there is at least one possible connection between them: serious doubts about reason traditionally understood pave the way for the resurgence, not only in thought but also in politics, of religious faith. Consider, for example, the following remarks of Pierre Manent, the Catholic political philosopher previously discussed:

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The instrument and the framework of the solution to the Western theologico-political problem - this Nation-form that for so long appeared to be the ultimate political and spiritual horizon - no longer has a lock on the future. For this reason, one can conjecture the rejuvenation of the problem in unprecedented forms. To be sure, the legitimacy of democracy today is self-evident throughout Europe, and the 'privatization' of religion, very largely completed, has suppressed almost all occasions of conflict. But since the framework of the exercise of democracy - namely the nation - is on its way out, the problem of the definition of a new framework will very quickly come to the fore. Democracy, understood as the autonomy of individuals and groups, cannot in fact be sufficient to define the public space. Religion is necessarily interested in the ever more urgent problem of the 'self-definition' of Europe. Moreover, at the end of this [theologico-political] cycle, uncertainty pertains to religion as well. The very visible diminution of its practice should not lead us to assert dogmatically that this tendency is destined to be continued indefinitely. (Manent 1993, 69)

Thus the possibility, opened up by postmodern thought, of a theologico-political framework radically different from the modern liberal one has gained for that thought some diverse and somewhat surprising allies. To be sure, Jean-Francois Lyotard's 'paganism' is a long way from anyone's Catholicism, but the very distance between these uneasy allies is instructive: liberal rationalism in its senescence must be seen to be a very inhospitable desert indeed for the more traditional or orthodox to glimpse in postmodernism even a potential oasis. Whatever its own intention, the radicalism of the new thought holds out the possibility of a restoration to the centre of life, and hence to politics, of religious faith. But there is another unintended consequence of postmodernism's ascendancy. The contemporary crisis of reason permits us much greater access than before to an essential feature of classical political science, one that was largely inaccessible while confidence in Enlightenment rationalism remained high. For 'political science' in its first manifestation was very much concerned to temper, by means of argument, precisely those claims to guide political life that appealed to suprarational knowledge of the world said to be revealed to human beings by gods. The contemporary call for the return of the gods permits us not only to begin to understand, but also to take seriously as a possible alternative today the view of the world out of which and against which classical political science developed; it should prevent us from smiling with con-

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tempt at the guiding intention of classical political philosophy. In what follows, I examine 'political science' as it conies to sight in its original and classic exposition, the Politics1 of Aristotle, and I begin by fleshing out Aristotle's indications of the transformation in one's understanding of the world the very possibility of political science requires. On the Possibility of Political Science Aristotle begins the Politics by observing that every city is a certain community or partnership and that every partnership has been constituted for the sake of some good. The unstated conclusion we may draw from these observations - that every city has been constituted for the sake of some good - does not obviously jibe with the very great variety of political communities we come across or learn of, a variety above all in goodness: can Stalin's Soviet Union or Pol Pot's Cambodia be said to have been constituted for the sake of some good? Not surprisingly, Aristotle immediately introduces an important qualification to the general proposition indicated: 'for all do everything for the sake of what is held to be [opined to be] good.' It would be more precise to say, then, that every community and hence every city has been founded so as to obtain some perceived good; it remains a question whether the perception on the basis of which communities pursue their various ends is correct. Indeed, Aristotle states only that, because the political community or city aims at 'the most authoritative good,' it is the 'most authoritative' community and comprises all others. He does not say that it is the best community because it aims at the greatest good. In other words, the 'most authoritative' good that communities pursue need not be the 'greatest good,' to say nothing of those goods that only individuals as individuals may pursue. Aristotle himself acknowledges or bows to the great authority of the city by immediately coming to its defence: All those, then, who suppose that the expert in political rule, kingly rule, household management, and slave mastery is the same person, do not speak nobly. For they believe that each of these differs in the manyness or fewness [of the ruled] but not in the kind [of thing ruled]. For example, if one rules over a few, they believe him to be a master, if over more, a household manager, and if over still more, an expert in political or kingly rule, on the grounds that there is no difference between a great household and a small city. And as for the expert in political and kingly rule, whenever

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he himself is in charge, they believe him to be an expert in kingly rule, but whenever (according to the arguments of this sort of science) he rules and is ruled in turn, they believe him to be an expert in political rule. (1252a7-16)

Aristotle concludes the introduction of this controversy in a matter-offact manner: 'But these things are not true' (1252al6). In addition to their ignobility the arguments proceeding from 'this sort of science' are false (1252a9, 16). The shift from nobility to truth has the effect in the context of denying to these arguments their scientific character, for science (episteme} grasps what is true. Aristotle for his part states that 'what is said will be clear to those who investigate in accordance with the usual manner of inquiry.' In describing this usual inquiry, Aristotle emphasizes knowledge as the standard by which to judge the various kinds of rule: 'For just as in other things it is necessary to divide the compound into its uncompounded elements (for these are the smallest parts of the whole), so also by investigating the parts a city is composed of we will see to a greater degree about these things, both in what respect they differ from one another and whether it is possible to lay hold of some technical knowledge [ ti technikon] concerning each of the aforementioned things.' The stated goal of what I will loosely call Aristotle's analytic inquiry into the city is to understand each of the kinds of rule better and, in particular, to determine whether they are characterized by the knowledge attending art. This emphasis on art and knowledge goes together with the fact that Aristotle has to this point almost always spoken, not simply of the statesman, king, or master but of the expert in each of these kinds of rule who is as such a knower (1252a8, 12-16; the exception is 1252all). One way of proving the distinctness and indeed the dignity of expert political rule would be to show that the knowledge characteristic of the true statesman differs in kind from (and is of a higher status than) that of the expert master, king, or household manager. And if the expert statesman is as such a knower, that knowledge taken as a whole might reasonably be called a science, 'political science.' The Opening Controversy and Plato's Statesman

To understand all that is at stake in raising the question of the identity of the various kinds of rule and the sciences accompanying them, it is necessary to examine in some detail the position Aristotle criticizes here

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so sharply. As the commentators seem universally to agree, Aristotle refers in I.I to the argument of the Eleatic Stranger in Plato's Statesman. According to T.A. Sinclair, for example, ' [t]his first chapter [of the Politics] is largely unintelligible until we realize that Aristotle is attacking Plato, who ... makes the errors above referred to' (Aristotle 1962, 25-6; see also, e.g., Aristotle 1943, 51n. 1; 1970 ad loc.; 1982, 247n. 1). The Statesman is itself the third part of a trilogy, preceded by the Theaetetus and the Sophist. The task of the Theaetetus is to discover an adequate definition of science or knowledge (episteme\ that of the two remaining dialogues to solve the question of whether sophist, statesman, and philosopher are one, two, or three, that is, whether the knowledge characteristic of each is one and the same or different. The Stranger and his young interlocutors attempt in the first place to discover an adequate definition of the sophist in the dialogue so named, just as in the Statesman they try to discover the being who properly bears that tide. Near the beginning of the Statesman, the Stranger divides all knowledge into practical and theoretical, the former necessarily resulting in some product (e.g., carpentry), the latter not (e.g., arithmetic). The Stranger then broaches the question with which Aristotle takes issue: 'Shall we then set down the statesman, king, master, and furthermore the household manager as one, although we address them by all these [names], or shall we say that there are as many arts as there are names used?' (Statesman 258e8-ll). To answer this question, the Stranger adduces two examples: a private individual who is nevertheless competent to advise a doctor must be competent on the basis of the same science the doctor properly speaking possesses, just as the private individual competent to advise a king must be so on the basis of one and the same science possessed by the king. Since a king properly so called possesses the science or knowledge of rule, the possession of that science - and not, for example, one's power or place in a city - is the crucial factor determining who is and who is not a king strictly speaking. The Stranger then applies this analysis to the case at hand: 'Moreover, a household manager and a master are the same.' To this his companion assents, and the Stranger continues as follows: 'Is it necessary to distinguish the organization of a large household from the mass of a small city, at least as regards rule?' 'Not at all,' is the reply (Statesman 259b311). If a household manager is as such also a slave master, and if a large household does not differ in kind from a small city, the knowledge the expert household manager possesses will endow him with the capacity to rule a city as well, regardless of whether he rules a city (or a house-

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hold) in fact. The Stranger then brings to a close this second argument: 'Well then, the point that we were just now investigating is evident, namely that there is one science pertaining to all these things. And whether someone names this [science] "royal," "political," or "economic," let us in no way be at odds with him' (Statesman 259cl-4). In the third and final argument of the section of concern to us, the Stranger turns to apply the division of the sciences arrived at in the first argument to the conclusion of the second: is the royal science, that is, the science of ruling as such, theoretical or practical? Since what a king can do by means of his bodily power is far less than what he can accomplish through the understanding and force of his soul, the Stranger concludes that the kingly art is more akin to theoretical than to practical science. He goes on to show, however, that their initial division between the sciences is inexhaustive or imprecise, and to correct this the Stranger divides the ordering science, first into those who receive from others the commands they in turn issue, then into those who are 'selfordering,' that is, who formulate and then issue their own orders. The expert in kingly science - the king correctly so called - belongs among those who possess the self-ordering science, while 'the interpreter, coxswain, prophet, and herald' belong among those who merely receive their orders from others (Statesman 260dll-2601al). Although the Stranger continues his division of the kingly science, this much suffices for the purpose at hand. According to Aristotle's objection to the second and central of these arguments, the various sciences of rule differ in kind from one another because the ruled in each case differ in kind from one another. It is with good reason that Aristotle characterizes the Eleatic Stranger's argument as ignoble: the Stranger contends not only that the ruler in each case is the same person by virtue of the fact that he possesses one and the same science but also that the ruled in each case are identical. If, that is, the science governing the expert political ruler is exactly the same as that governing the expert slave master (to take the most controversial or offensive case), there is no appreciable difference between those ruled politically and those ruled despotically: the distinction 'free' and 'slave' as it is encountered in political life is unimportant from the point of view of knowledge or science understood in this way. The identity of the sciences of rule implies the identity of the nature of the ruled. The controversy with which Aristotle begins the Politics, then, concerns nothing other than the identity and dignity of the free and therewith the dignity of political life itself. If the

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analytic inquiry Aristotle undertakes here will prove that the kinds of rule are distinct from one another, it would for this reason alone be correctly called 'most noble' (1252a25). Aristotle's objection to the identification of slave mastery with political rule is so commonsensical that it is difficult to see what the Stranger could possibly have had in mind in stating it. According to the third argument sketched above, the sciences of rule properly speaking are identical in part because they are all 'self-ordering,' that is, because the several experts in rule all follow only their own judgments and hence of necessity reject the commands of other, would-be rulers. As the Stranger's list of examples makes explicit, 'prophets' are among those who claim to have orders from others (Statesman 260dll-el). The truly self-ordering must reject the commands issuing even from the prophets. In the light of this radical possibility, one reason comes to sight why the Stranger is willing to identify the science of mastery with that of political rule: if true freedom consists in giving to oneself one's own 'orders,' or in being able to discern the good by one's own lights, only those who have earned for themselves the knowledge permitting such self-rule are rightly called 'free.' Freedom worthy of the name cannot be attained merely by establishing laws in which many participate, still less by choosing one's own 'values' or 'lifestyle'; the attainment of such freedom as is available to human beings demands that one order one's life according to knowledge, not evanescent passion or rigid superstition. In brief, the possession of the true science of rule implies the refutation of the orders of the prophets and brings with it a freedom in comparison with which the freedom recognized in political life is indistinguishable from a kind of enslavement.2 One cannot understand the argument of the first book of Aristotle's Politics without taking into account the importance of the refutation indicated and the distinction between the two kinds of freedom it implies. As the inheritors of the tradition of political science begun by the Politics, we are inclined to overlook the massive obstacles to the altogether human attempt to understand the world in terms of an entirely human science. We are inclined to forget, in other words, that the very possibility of a political science depended originally on the transformation of the city's self-understanding, from that of a divine community constituted by the shared worship of ancestral gods to that of a natural being that is as such the proper subject of human science. If the city is in some sense natural, it would admit of scientific analysis accessible to human beings as human beings. The burden of Book I, then, is to argue

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for the naturalness of the city in part to counter the competing claims of 'the prophets' to guide political life. The Naturalness of the City

Aristotle's suggestion at the beginning of 1.2 that one can watch the city 'grow' (phyomena: 1252a24) implies already that the city is natural (physei). This is the first mention in the Politics of 'nature,' a word that appears more frequently in Book I than in all the other books of the Politics combined. Following Aristotle's lead, we observe in the first place the coming into being of the family, itself made up of the male/female relation and the naturally ruling and ruled. Thus husband and wife, master and slave, and, eventually, children, all form the first unit or association 'for everyday [needs]' that is as such 'in accord with nature' (1252bl2-14). Aristotle next identifies the village as the association of a greater number of households, constituted for the sake of 'non-daily needs' and governed, in imitation of the monarchic rule characteristic of every family, by the eldest as king. This association too is 'in accord with nature' (1252bl7). Finally, the complete association of a greater number of villages is the city, distinguished from the lesser associations by its greater 'self-sufficiency' understood as the securing of both (mere) life and the good life (1252b27-30). It is after this brief sketch of the 'growth' of the city that Aristotle makes those statements concerning city and human being that are the most famous in the Politics: 'Thus every city exists by nature, if in fact the first associations do as well. For the former is the end [telos] of the latter, and nature is an end. For we assert that the nature of each thing is its character once its generation is complete, as in the case of a human being, a horse, and a household. Furthermore, the final cause and the end are best, and self-sufficiency is an end and best. On the basis of these things, then, it is evident that the city belongs among the things by nature and that a human being is by nature a political animal ...' (1252b31-1253a3). Aristotle thus lists the family and the village as the first two natural associations leading ultimately to the city. Before turning to discuss the city, however, Aristotle argues that villages were governed by a king because they were the gathering together of families themselves governed by a father as king. Aristotle then asserts that 'all say the gods too are ruled by a king because they themselves were ruled by a king, some still being so even now, some in ancient times. And just as human beings

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assimilate the looks [of the gods] to themselves, so they assimilate also the ways of life of the gods [to themselves]' (1252b24-27). Thus the tales about the gods are a surer sign of the ways of the human beings who believe in them than they are of the gods themselves. The clear implication of this remark is that Aristotle does not accept as true those ancient accounts of the gods as kings. And this also marks the transition from 'village' to 'city,' that is, to political life proper. Immediately after having spoken about this belief in the gods, Aristotle turns for the first time to speak at length of the city (1252b27 and following). The order of Aristotle's topics is thus family, village, gods, and city. If the political community is to be the 'complete' community, it would seem to require the belief in gods understood as kings ruling over us. At least a partial reason for this requirement becomes clear in the sequel, in Aristotle's argument that political order is essential if human nature is to reach its fulfilment: 'For just as a human being is the best of the animals when completed, so when separated from both law and right he is the worst of all. For injustice equipped with arms is harshest, and a human being is naturally equipped with prudence and virtue as arms that can most of all be used for their opposites. Thus he is most impious and most savage in the absence of virtue and worst in regard to both sex and food. And justice is political, for right is an ordering of a political community, and right is a judgment as to what is just (1253a3139). The political community is thus marked off from the other and subordinate associations by two things, by the belief in gods as kings and by the 'perception' of (1253al7), or the 'judgment' concerning (1253a39), right (dike). It is this shared judgment of right that orders the political community, that determines its ends and the means chosen to attain them, and (it is hoped) that keeps human beings from the extremes of impiety and savagery. Whereas in its first appearance in 1.2 - its first appearance in the Politics as a whole - the just appeared to follow from and to be in harmony with the advantageous (see 1253al415), human beings are in fact so much inclined to misconstrue their advantage that they become altogether impious and savage absent the restraint that justice or right imposes on them. Justice here comes to sight as a restraint and therefore is at odds, if not with true advantage, at any rate with perceived advantage. The restraint in question comes into its own only in the political community because that community makes far greater demands on us than do families or villages, demands that are less obviously in accord with our immediate or even long-term good. To repeat, the political community as Aristotle here presents it necessarily

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includes belief in gods who rule as kings and who presumably reward and punish their subjects in the manner of kings. Perhaps it is on account of the important political function of such belief that Aristotle praises Homer for having 'nobly' spoken of Zeus as king, his own denial of the gods as kings notwithstanding (compare 1252b24-27 with 1259bl2-17). The whole of Book I, then, but especially the first analytic inquiry of 1.2, is meant to establish the naturalness of the city over and against those who would claim that the city is the creation and concern of gods. Accordingly, the very beautiful portrait here of the supremely natural and wholly good political life is meant not so much to praise politics as to elevate nature. Aristotle's praise of politics in terms of nature has the concomitant effect of elevating nature, the philosophic category par excellence; nature does 'nothing' in vain, and the city is by nature (1253a9; compare however 1254b27 and 1255b3). In order to found political science in some sense, Aristotle must make nature a respectable authority to which one can appeal openly; he must prove to respectable citizens that nature and the philosophic study of nature are themselves respectable and do not undermine the dignity of political life. Thus nature first comes to sight in the Politics as a staunch ally of political life. I suggest that, by linking his praise of politics to nature, Aristotle defdy defends the cause of science or reason itself as well. Beneath the quarrel between Aristotle and Plato's Eleatic Stranger one may discern a more fundamental agreement, for they stand together in defence of the possibility of 'political science' against the political claims of the inspired. Slavery, Acquisition, and the Naturalness of the City Reconsidered

It is nonetheless true that, when Aristotle turns in the rest of Book I to take up the question of the kinds of rule and the sciences accompanying them, a question he does not address in 1.2, nature in fact ceases to be praiseworthy because it praises politics. All to the contrary, nature proves to be the touchstone by which Aristotle quietly but unmistakably criticizes politics. For in sharp contrast to what we see in the city's first 'growth' (1.2), when we watch the city 'grow' a second time (1.3-11) we observe it deviate from nature and the natural standard Aristotle himself delineates as regards both slavery and acquisition.3 Aristotle begins his treatment of slavery by introducing a quarrel over the possibility of a science of it, explicitly recalling the broader question with which he began the whole Politics: 'For in the opinion of some,

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slave mastery is a certain science, and household management, slave mastery, expertise in political rule, and expertise in kingly rule are the same [science], as we said at the beginning. But in the opinion of others, exercising mastery is against nature, the slave and the free man existing by law with no difference by nature [between them]. It is therefore in no way just, for it is violent' (1253bl4-23). The whole discussion of slavery begins from and is meant to resolve the quarrel concerning the possibility of a science of mastery: Aristotle is less concerned here with justice than he is with science. The possibility of a science of slavery rests on there being such a thing as a slave by nature and not merely by convention or law. The implication of the 'anti-slavery' argument is that science belongs to, or is the study of, things that exist by nature; if there is no such thing as a slave by nature, there can be no such thing as the science of slave mastery. As Aristotle makes clear in his subsequent analysis of the 'pro-slavery' arguments (1.6), it is indeed insufficient to assert that the science of mastery is simply the expertise necessary to manage those persons a city declares to be slaves. For whether the slave holder appeals to superiority offeree, domination through war, or (what is held to be) good birth, he wishes to believe his practice of slavery to be just and those whom the law regards as slaves to be so in fact or by nature. In other words, the law to which the slave holder appeals makes a claim about the world; it wishes to state what is truly the case or what is (consider Plato Minos 315a, 3l7d). If the claim of the law is false, however, and those enslaved by it are not slaves properly understood, the expertise or knowledge governing the management and use of them is not properly called the science of mastery. Such expertise may involve the skilful use of deceit, intimidation, and violence, for example, but it is not expertise in mastery strictly speaking. It is surely important to note Aristotle's affirmation of the existence of such a being as the slave by nature and of the science pertaining to the rule exercised over him; it is more important still, however, to see that when judged in the light of the natural standard suggested thereby, most and probably all slavery existing in the cities is unnatural and unjust according to Aristotle. And by denying that slavery as practised in the cities observes the distinction between slave and free by nature, Aristotle in effect denies also that cities make use of the (true) science of mastery. Paltry though it may be (1255b33-35), the science of mastery, like the slave by nature, has little to do with the practice of slavery as it is actually encountered in political communities. As for the question of the existence of an art or science of acquisition,

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Aristotle's argument here in large part follows the preceding one concerning slavery: he first delineates the true or natural ends that the true or natural art of acquisition attempts to secure (1.8) and then turns to describe the far more prevalent mode of acquisition as practised by actual household managers and statesmen. Of this latter practice Aristotle is, at first, severely critical (1.9-10). He goes on to make clear, however, that cities and households are in need of precisely this kind of acquisition, unnatural though it may be (compare 1.10, end, with 1.11, end; for the comparable necessity governing slavery, consider VII. 10, end). On the basis of Aristotle's argument to this point, we conclude that although it is possible for both slavery and acquisition to be practiced in accord with nature, cities for the most part ignore or reject that natural practice and therewith the science or knowledge governing each. What then of the knowledge or science of political rule properly speaking, that is, 'political science'? Unfortunately, Aristotle does not ascend to analyse politike in Book I or, for that matter, in the rest of the Politics. Yet his comparatively brief examination of patrike and gamike, the two remaining kinds of rule found in the household (compare 1.3-7 and 8-11 with 12), does shed some light on our question. To see this, we must consider the apparent digression concerning the nature of slavish virtue (1259bl8-1260b7) that as it were interrupts Aristotle's treatment of patrike and gamike (1259a37-bl7 and 1260b8-24). Aristotle at first looks to the nature of the soul of both the ruling and the ruled in order to determine the character of the rule appropriate to each and the virtues peculiar to them: 'The parts of the soul are present in all, but they are present in a different way. The slave, generally speaking, does not have the deliberative element; the female has it but it lacks authority; the child has it but it is incomplete. It is to be supposed that the same necessarily holds concerning the moral virtues: all must share in them, but not in the same way; rather, the amount of virtue that falls to each is relative to his own work' (1260alO-17). As the virtue of the free man is determined above all by his possession of reason, so the virtue of the slave is determined above all by his defective reason; the virtue of each is relative to the nature of his own soul and its proper work or activity. 'Virtue' here is that which contributes to the health or proper functioning of the soul. There are many kinds of souls, and therefore one may speak of many kinds of virtue. This proves not to be Aristotle's last word on the matter, however, for he proceeds to discuss virtue again 'in a more detailed manner'

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(1260a24-25). He argues as follows: 'those who say in a general way that virtue is a good condition of the soul or acting correctly or something of this sort deceive themselves. Those who enumerate the virtues, like Gorgias, speak much better than those who define it in this way' (1260a2428). Aristotle then speaks of slaves vis-a-vis their masters: 'We set it down that the slave is useful with respect to the necessary things, so that he clearly needs only a small amount of virtue - as much as will prevent him from falling short in his work through licentiousness or cowardice.' As this implies, and as Aristotle confirms in the sequel, the virtue of the slave is now determined by the needs of the master. Because the slave, in contrast to a craftsman, is a partner in the master's life and has as his goal the facilitation of the master's activities, one can speak of the virtues of the slave (compare Montesquieu, Spirit of the Laws IV.3); a craftsman does not possess virtue at all except insofar as he too shares in a kind of slavery, regardless of his soul and its nature. It is clear now that the needs of the master are more important in determining the 'virtues' of the slave than is Aristotle's previous analysis of the slavish soul and its proper task or the well-being available to it.4 The reason Aristotle chooses to return to this somewhat odd consideration of the slave and his virtue becomes clear through a consideration of the context: to repeat, this inquiry interrupts his treatment of patrike and gamike. And when at the end of Book I he returns to patrike and gamike, that is, to husband and wife, father and children, he does so in light of the question raised in the interim, that of virtue: Concerning husband and wife and children and father and the sort of virtue that is connected with each of these, and what is and what is not noble in their relations with one another and how one should pursue what is well and avoid the bad, these things must necessarily be addressed in what pertains to the regimes. For since the household as a whole is a part of a city, and these things parts of the household, and since one should look at the virtue of the part in relation to the virtue of the whole, both children and women must be educated with a view to the regime ... (1260b8-16; emphasis added)

Why Aristotle had spoken so briefly of 'spousal' and 'fatherly' rule in 1.12 is now clear: one cannot know how these sorts of rule are to be exercised unless one knows the character or end of the associations they govern, but one cannot know the character or end of these associations without knowing in turn the character of the regime in which they are

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found. We are thus reminded of the assertion Aristotle had made at the beginning of the Politics according to which the city is the most authoritative community. In this final chapter of Book I, Aristotle is less interested in ascertaining the nature of slavish virtue than he is in suggesting something of the nature of free, or practical, virtue. To repeat, it appears from the 'more detailed' investigation here that the virtue of the slave is determined, not in fact by the needs or capacity of his soul, but by the qualities necessary to the successful performance of his tasks as assigned by the master. What, then, of the virtue of the 'master,' that is, the free man? By turning to the topic of the regime and its decisive influence immediately after his discussion of the slave's virtue relative to the master, Aristotle means to suggest that the virtue of the free man is determined by the specific regime in which he lives, that is, by what it upholds or esteems as just and noble and by what it requires of him. As the end of slavish virtue proves to be determined by the master, so the end of free or moral virtue is determined by the political community or, more precisely, by a given regime (see also 1276b30-31). In neither case is virtue determined with a view to the individual soul and its needs, from which possibility Aristotle had begun (1260a4 and following). Could it be that no existing regime is guided by political science understood as the knowledge necessary to the attainment of the soul's health or true freedom? To sum up thus far: Aristotle wishes to prove in Book I of the Politics that political rule and the science governing it are different in kind from all other sorts of rule and their respective sciences, especially that of slave mastery. To do so, he argues that the slave by nature exists and that such a person differs in kind from the free; the rule appropriate to the one necessarily differs in kind from that appropriate to the other. On reflection, however, the assertion and proof of the existence of the natural slave and of the true science of mastery are purchased at a price, for all slavery actually practised in the cities appears to be unnatural and hence not based on the true science of mastery. Indeed, the arguments concerning both slavery and acquisition that follow Aristotle's most famous assertions of the naturalness of the city in 1.2 all speak against its simple naturalness. Aristotle then ascends to speak ofpatrike and gamike, and if it is not surprising that he never speaks here of the father and child by nature nor of the man and woman by nature, it is for that very reason surprising that he never speaks of an art or science attending the rule pertaining to them. What replaces the expected discussion of science is 'the regime': for the first time in the Politics, Aristotle asserts the

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importance of the regime, and he here indicates its decisive influence in determining the character of both of these kinds of rule.5 What then of 'political science'? Such a science promises to secure for those it guides both the conditions to (mere) life and the good life itself, and this latter presupposes the knowledge of the needs of the human soul. The suggestion of Aristotie's own science of politics in Book I seems to be that while it is possible to possess political science in this sense, such knowledge of the soul does not form the basis of rule as it is actually encountered in cities, just as the true science of mastery and the genuine art of acquisition are all but ignored there. The rule exercised in the cities does not look to the natural standard of the wellbeing of each of the souls governed, that is, to the cultivation of the rational 'part' of the soul that Aristotle argues is best. It is therefore not politike strictly speaking. Yet if the science of politics so understood has little to do with political life in actuality, the necessity of acquiring for oneself the relevant knowledge nonetheless remains - the knowledge, that is, of the proper ordering of one's life with a view to the improvement or health of one's own soul. However paradoxical it may seem, might the true science of politics prove to be essentially private? As one scholar has observed, 'Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics, which outlines the virtues of the individual, rather than discussing the best political order, and whose primary theme is happiness, rather than virtue, is the beginning of what he calls his "political science"' (Bolotin 1994, 133). And in the discussion of the best way of life in the Politics, Aristotle captures this paradox beautifully, for the best political life is concerned with 'theoretical thoughts and reflections that are ends in themselves and for their own sake': the best political life is the one that most successfully imitates the best private life. In order to test the proposition that political rule as it is actually found is not based on (the true) political science, we must turn to consider Aristotle's analysis in Book II of law or custom (nomos), the product of the statesman's expertise. That analysis, moreover, bears on the question of the freedom that politike promises, for Aristotie's critique of law is linked with a critique of divine law. The Critique of Law and of Divine Law

Aristotle initially broaches the problem of law6 in the third and last of his criticisms of a certain Hippodamus, the first to have attempted to give a theoretical account of the best regime without being engaged in

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politics himself (1268a6-8, 1268b22 and following). Hippodamus calls for the honouring of those who propose some innovation beneficial to the city, even if doing so involves changing the traditional laws. According to him, innovation or the departure from traditional practices has benefited the other arts, sciences, and capacities, and the political art or science rightly belongs among these; the departure from traditional ways will therefore benefit political science as well. Two pieces of evidence may be adduced in favour of this view. First, the old laws are overly simplistic and barbaric because those who drafted them were so. It is known, for example, that the Greeks used to carry arms and purchase their wives from one another. Why then should we retain their beliefs? We must be open to changes in the law. Second, there is a difficulty with written laws as such, for they are necessarily general while actions are as such particular. Laws should try to overcome this inherent shortcoming by being as flexible as possible: we must be open to changes in the law (1268b31-1269al3). Aristotle nowhere disagrees with the evidence adduced by Hippodamus that there has been an advance over the earliest times (e.g., 1269a3-4; 1271b23-24) or, more important, that the generality of the law as such prevents it from being adequate in every particular circumstance or crisis: 'every law is universal and it is impossible to speak correctly and in a universal way about some things. Now where it is necessary to speak universally but impossible to do so correctly, the law grasps what is for the most part the case' (EN, 1137bl2-19; also Pol. 1282b4-6). Nonetheless, Aristotle rejects Hippodamus's proposal as 'unsafe' (1268b23-4). He does so in part because 'the parallel of the arts is false' (1269al9): the law is indispensable to the political art and, '[t]he law holds no strength in regard to obedience apart from habit; this arises only over a period of time' (1269a20-2). Aristotle maintains that the law is not simply rational or that the human beings who create the law as well as those who obey it do so on the basis of a reason alloyed with irrational opinions or passions. Thus the exchanging of the existing laws for other, new laws weakens the power of the law' (1269a22-4). Aristotle's view of law and the danger of legal innovation might well seem to be 'conservative' in the extreme. It ought to be recognized, however, that Aristotle admits the desirability of changes in particularly foolish or barbaric laws (consider 1269al5-17). But more importantly, the basis of his 'conservatism' is radically different from that of the conservatives who seek to maintain the traditional laws on the grounds that

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they are good because traditional (consider 1287b5-8 and context). Aristotle's 'conservatism,' so far from being a kind of celebration of the traditional, receives its impetus from the insight into the flawed character of all law. While agreeing more or less with the practice of the conservatives Aristotle is more 'radical' in spirit than even the progressives insofar as he denies to the law the very possibility of full rationality. From Aristotle's point of view, the conservatives and the progressives are united in their unwarranted optimism regarding the possible goodness of the law (see also 1281a34-9,1282bl-10,1283b35-42). When thought through, the 'conservatism' informing Aristotle's Politics is a point of entry into philosophy, not an exhortation to devotion to the classical polis. Against all of the foregoing, one might adduce Aristotle's elevated and even beautiful remarks regarding the law in Book III. The rule of law is there said to be akin to the rule of 'the god and nous.' Devoid as it is of desire and spiritedness, the law is held to be reason itself, to be 'intelligence without longing' (1287alO-32). A consideration of the context of these remarks, however, makes it clear that this is the view advanced by a 'republican' partisan (consider 1287alO-12; compare von Leyden 1967, 9). And in this section of Book III, Aristotle repeats almost verbatim a remark from the Hippodamus passage, namely that 'the example of the arts seems to be false' (compare 1287a32-3 with 1269al9). In the present context this means that while we wish doctors to exercise their art on a case-by-case basis without being strictly bound by a set of formal rules, it is better for practitioners of the political art to follow rules (laws) because politicians are much more inclined than are doctors to do harm to those they are supposed to help. The obedience to set laws will at least curb this tendency. Doctor and patient have an obvious common good in the health of the patient; much less obvious is the good common to both ruler and ruled. To overstate the case, Aristotle too comes to recommend the rule of law, not because the law is so good, but because politics is so defective. The law is indeed a mean (compare 1287b4-5) between the rule without laws characteristic of the doctor, which seems to have no counterpart in politics, and the rule without laws characteristic of tyranny or anarchy. The rule of law is then a sensible compromise but it is not the rule of god and nous (1287a321287b4). It would seem in addition that the rule of a god cannot be exercised by means of law alone. Regardless of its origin, any law that is intended to rule human beings here and now, without benefit of a miraculous change in human nature and hence in the nature of politics,

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must partake of the limitations inherent in law as such. The law must thus be supplemented by wise judges and interpreters, by human beings who, possessing practical judgment (phronesis), are capable of discerning and adapting the spirit of the law to a given circumstance. Even if the law is as perfect at the outset as one would pray for, it must nonetheless be administered by subsequent generations of human beings who constitute a regime that is as such superior to, because able to interpret and change, the law (consider 1281a36-39; 1282b8-13). From these general considerations let us turn to the specific difficulties Aristotle discerns in the legislation of Minos. Minos was the legendary judge of the dead who, after keeping company with his father Zeus, gave to the island of Crete its laws (e.g., Iliad XIII.450; Plato Apol. 41a; Minos:, Laws, beg.; compare also Huxley 1985). The Cretan regime is then ancient and of a most august heritage. It is also seminal: Carthage resembles Sparta most, but Sparta herself owes much to Crete, Lycurgus having spent considerable time there (1272b25-6; 1271b25-7). Minos is thus the example par excellence of the divine lawgiver in the Politics, Crete of the divine city (or cities). The first part of Aristotle's examination of Crete concerns domestic or economic questions, the second the ordering of the regime or more political questions strictly speaking. Aristotle begins the latter by criticizing the Cretan manner of electing the Orderers (kosmoi), for while the regime is not compelled to choose from among the demos, it nonetheless selects at random those who possess no more merit than the demos. And although the Senators (gerontes) are chosen only from those who have served previously as Orderers, they are unaudited and rule in so powerful an office for life. Finally, the demos meets in an assembly but is nothing more than a rubber stamp vis-a-vis the Orderers and Senators. The fact of the demos's peaceableness is laudable, but it is misleading: as Aristotle indicates presently, this tranquillity is due above all to Crete's location, distant from those who would incite or corrupt the people. And in the conclusion to his analysis of Crete (1272b7 and following), Aristotle allows us to wonder whether the demos will not be infected by the instability of the Orderers on the one hand and by a recent war on the other.8 With the exception of Minos's arrangements regarding the messes (127la26-9; 1272al2-27), every virtue of the Cretan regime is traceable to its location, that is, to chance (the manageability of its slaves, the placidity of the demos, and the regime's very preservation: 1269a39 and following, and 1272bl8-19, 1272a39-1272bl, 1272M618). As the recent attack on Crete suggests, that natural buffer can no

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longer be depended on. It would seem that for Crete and the Minoan legislation, long in a period of political decline, the writing is on the wall. Aristotle's critique of Crete would indeed seem to cast a genuine shadow on the Minoan legislation. It is difficult to imagine that Minos was indifferent to the stability of the whole regime or to the very survival of its people - and therewith of the laws themselves. In other words, it seems that the Minoan legislation, as legislation, claims to do in a more perfect manner what merely human legislation tries to do, namely to secure the well-being here and now of the political community dedicated to the true good, the goodness of which is meant to be visible to all who have eyes to see. This essentially political character of divine law in the classical city has its counterparts also in our own tradition: 'Behold, I have taught you statutes and judgments, even as the Lord my God commanded me, that ye should do so in the land whither ye go to possess it. Keep therefore and do them: for this is your wisdom and your understanding in the sight of the nations, which shall hear all these statutes, and say, Surely this great nation is a wise and understanding people' (Deut. 4:5-6). It is precisely as political entities, meant to effect change for the better in this life and with a view to human beings as we know them, that the divine law and the divine city admit of the same kind of analysis as do the admittedly human institutions of Plato, Hippodamus, and the rest. By virtue of this claim, common to the laws of Moses and to those of Minos because common to law as such, there appears to be a common ground between Aristotelian political science as the science of the best regime and the comprehension, necessary to the dutiful obedience to it, of the divine law or the supremely virtuous city. By making a claim meant to affect human beings in humanly comprehensible ways, therefore, the divine legislation is open to a human science - namely to political science. This statement of the importance of political science nonetheless ignores a crucial possibility. Might not divine legislation have access to privileged knowledge as such unavailable to the scientist and in the light of which apparent failings on the plane of ordinary politics would reveal themselves as the mark of 'Zeus,' that is, of true perfection? Are not the ways of Zeus partly mysterious? How is the scientist, including the political scientist, to proceed in the face of this claim? Aristotle may praise Minos for having 'philosophized' (1272a22-3), but is there any indication that Minos himself wished to be judged by the standard of philosophy or that this standard is in any way germane? If there is no solution to

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this difficulty that is acceptable in principle to both scientists and citizens of the divine city, the political scientist would be revealed to be a boaster whose putatively rational findings rest on a non-rational belief in the power of reason. Political science would remain at least as pretentious and therefore as laughable as Aristotle himself indicates it was at its 'Hippodamean' origins (1267b22-30). To be sure, maintaining this position carries a price: the divine city and its laws cease to be indications to all of the wisdom and understanding of those who follow them. In the light of what understanding, then, would the adherent of the divine law be led to deny the otherwise powerful critique of the divine law Aristotle presents? Some other consideration must be at work in the heart and mind of the faithful to lead them to do so. Since Aristotle himself turns, immediately after his critique of other, would-be best regimes, to continue his investigation into the regime, but this time with a view to the problem of justice (Politics III), he at least raises the possibility that the consideration in question is or is bound up with the concern for justice. For the law wishes above all to be just or righteous and to instil in those who follow it-an understanding of and devotion to justice or righteousness; the concern with the law points ultimately to the concern for justice, and divine law is distinguished by its superior justice. Such concern for justice, moreover, is at the centre of political philosophy in general and of Aristotelian political philosophy in particular. I suggest that this shared concern for justice supplies to both the citizens of the divine city and the political scientist a genuine common ground. The analysis of justice, if it begins from and remains true to the concerns of most importance to the adherent of the divine law, supplies the proper starting point to understand that law and the piety at its core. The analysis of justice may therefore shed light on the difficulty with which Book II as a whole leaves us, the problem of divine legislation and the status of political science as the science of the divine city.9 The Analysis of Justice Justice and Citizenship: III. 1-5

Aristotle begins his investigation of the regime in Book III by referring to the controversy, frequently encountered after a revolution, whether an action is correctly said to have been undertaken by the city or merely by the regime once ruling it, an oligarchy or tyranny, for example:

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should the Philippines under the democracy honour the financial obligations taken on by the Philippines under, say, the Marcos regime? The regime being a certain ordering of those who inhabit a city, it is necessary, in order eventually to understand the regime, first to investigate the principal component of the city, namely the citizen (polites). Whereas in Book I Aristotle had turned his attention to the household on the grounds that it is the constitutive element of the city (1.3-13), he now looks to the citizen. Book III promises to be more immediately political than was Book I. Aristotle initially defines the citizen as one who 'shares in adjudication and rule' (1275a22-3), but this definition proves to apply more to democracies than to all regimes and therefore needs refinement: the citizen properly speaking is one 'to whom it is permitted to share in deliberative or adjudicative office' (1275bl8-20). The revised definition is more encompassing than the first evidently because it grants citizenship to all those who may participate in office in principle, not merely to those who participate in fact.10 With the characteristics of the citizen thus set forth, Aristotle turns to consider how it is that one becomes a citizen (III.2). As a matter of fact, citizens are generally determined by the citizenship of their parents or ancestors: as dogs give birth to dogs, so citizens give birth to citizens. Gorgias's quip here notwithstanding - to the effect that citizens are in truth made by 'public craftsmen' or magistrates (demiourgoi), hence by art or law - Aristotle seems to suggest that citizens are by nature. Yet Gorgias has a point: how did a city's first founders or settlers become citizens? The matter is 'simple,' according to Aristotle, for if such persons exercised rule in the manner defined, they were citizens. If it walks like a citizen and acts like a citizen, it is a citizen. This resolution of the question implies that original citizens must simply have declared themselves to be such; it implies that the possession of citizenship is traceable to something else in addition to nature, for some citizens must have been made, by legal proclamation or fiat, in order for other citizens subsequently to arise by birth. 'Citizen,' then, is a being rather different from 'dog.' In the immediate sequel, Aristotle emphasizes how great the power of legal fiat is, for one who is excluded from the prerogatives of citizenship on one day - a foreigner or slave, for example - can enjoy them the next if the old regime is overthrown. But does not this altogether 'empirical' inquiry into the citizen, according to which whoever exercises certain rights is by that fact alone a citizen, neglect our belief that citizenship is something high or morally

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respectable? 'The controversy concerning these [citizens who were once foreigners and slaves] is not over who is a citizen but whether one is so unjustly or justly' (1275b37-9). Indeed, 'someone' might well object that one who is a citizen unjustly is no citizen at all. For his part, Aristotle states only the following: 'Since we see that some rule unjustly, whom we shall say do rule but not justly, and the citizen has been defined by a certain office (for he is a citizen insofar as he shares in this office, as we said), it is clear that one must say also that these are citizens' (1276a26). Aristotle does not even add to this description of the citizen the qualification that such persons are citizens unjustly (compare 1276a3). It is not surprising, given this deficiency, that Aristotle keeps the question of justice in its relation to citizenship on the table. He does so by returning, at the beginning of III.3, to the controversy over when a city may or may not be said to have performed an action (compare 1276a610 with 1274b34-6); the controversy concerning the identity of the city is ultimately the same as that concerning the identity of the citizen, the latter being determined by the former. By listening to the debates concerning citizenship, as distinguished from merely observing citizens and the city (consider idein, 1274b33, as well as hordmen, 1276a2), Aristotle is permitted or compelled to treat of justice: human speech 'serves to make clear the advantageous and the harmful, and so also the just and the unjust' (1253al4-15). An adequate grasp of the being 'citizen' depends on the comprehension of speech (logos), in a way that a grasp of the being 'dog' does not, because 'citizen' is bound up with judgments concerning justice and law (nomos) which owe their being, at least in part, to logos. 'Some' contend that a democracy, for example, need not honour the debts incurred by an oligarchy or tyrant, on the grounds that such regimes as exist through force, and not on account of the 'common advantage' (1276al3), never act in the name of or for the sake of the city. Aristotle himself does no more than indicate the link between this difficulty and yet another, that of the city's identity over time; evidently his treatment of this latter will shed light on the former and, with it, the question of justice and citizenship. He argues that a political community owes what continuity it has, not to the makeup of the inhabitants, to a shared geographical location, or to a name, but rather to the continuity of its regime: 'it is manifest that one must say that the city is the same by looking above all to the regime' (1276blO-ll). According to this suggestion, the Germany of 1930 was a fundamentally different country from that of 1940. To suppose that location, racial stock, or a name con-

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stitute the political whole in its essentials is to miss what is politically most relevant. This argument serves above all to confirm the suggestion of III.2, according to which what a city is, and hence who the citizens are, is determined by the say-so of the regime, by its fiat or decree. A citizen may well be one for whom it is permissible to share in office, but to this point, such permission seems to have no other source than the edict of the regime. Aristotle's silence concerning justice in the bulk of HI.3 is surprising, and when he does speak of justice, at the very end of that chapter, he does no more than dismiss it: 'Whether it is just to fulfill or not to fulfill [previous agreements], when the city has undergone a revolution toward another regime, is another argument' (1276bl3-15). It goes without saying, however, that Aristotle is not blind to the differences in quality among the many regimes and hence also in the citizenship characteristic of each. In III.4 he balances the 'empirical' character of the preceding by speaking of a city's highest aspirations: the inculcation of human excellence or virtue. More precisely, Aristotle begins by wondering whether the virtue of the 'good man' and that of the 'serious citizen' is ever simply the same. The introduction of citizen virtue in its relation to human virtue bears on the question of whether a regime exists through force or for the sake of the common good, for if the virtue a regime instils in its citizens is one and the same as that of the good human being, its claim to act in the name of 'the common advantage,' or for the sake of what is truly good for each and for all, would be vindicated. Aristotle begins his sketch of citizen virtue by comparing it to the virtue of sailors (1276bl8-31). Despite the fact that there are many different kinds of sailors and hence many kinds of excellence or virtue peculiar to each, all are united by their shared goal, the preservation of the ship. Citizens qua citizens too are united by their shared goal or task (ergon), the preservation of the community, or more precisely the preservation of the regime, for 'the regime is the community' (1276b29). What constitutes civic excellence is strictly determined by the needs, and in the first place the preservation of, the regime: 'the virtue of the citizen is necessarily relative to the regime' (1276b30-l). Aristotle does not make explicit here what the goal of the good human being is, in the light of which goal the virtue peculiar to him would be determined; he does imply, however, that it is something other than the preservation of any regime, for what the virtues of a good citizen are will differ from regime to regime, but 'we assert that the virtue of the good man is one and complete' (1276b33-4). And yet can this be true even of 'the best

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regime' (1276b37)? Will the highest peak that political life is capable of always fall short of the peak human beings as human beings can reach? Will therefore every regime's claim to embody a 'common advantage' that is both truly common and genuinely advantageous be faulty? Unfortunately, Aristotle refuses to examine this potentially explosive question directly or adequately. For in place of the necessary investigation into human virtue and citizen virtue, which would compel Aristotle to state unambiguously the energeia characteristic of the good human being, he permits a quarrel to erupt between pro- and anti-democratic partisans over the precise nature of citizen virtue: does it or does it not include being ruled? Aristotle himself does not do more than posit, as an unproved hypothetical, that the virtue of the good man arid that of the good citizen who rules in the best regime may be the same.11 Yet in the course of this debate, the question of justice resurfaces, as is only to be expected given the link between justice and the topic of the present chapter (see again III.3, beg., and III.4, beg.). Aristotle here states that the justice characteristic of the ruler differs from that of the ruled, and he gives a vivid image to explain his meaning: the ruler is to the aulos player as the ruled is to the aulos maker. The citizen who is ruled is essentially subservient to the needs of the ruler, and in accordance with this, justice in the ruled amounts to the capacity and willingness to serve the regime. The 'task' of the citizen is to benefit the regime, especially to help preserve it (see again 1276b27—9). Although Aristotle most definitely appeals in III.4 to a standard of excellence transcending the fiat or ordering of any regime, namely to human goodness, he does not make clear the foundation needed to ground judgments of justice that transcend the ordering of this or that regime; he surely never speaks in Book III of 'the just by nature.' 'Justice is political, for right is an ordering of the political community, and right is a judgment as to what is just' (1253a37-9). The next chapter (III.5) is something of an oddity, as one sees by comparing Aristotle's indication at the end of III.4 that the question of the identity of citizen and human virtue is now 'manifest,' with the end of III.5: 'Whether one should posit that the virtue with respect to which a man is good and a citizen is serious, is the same or different, is clear on the basis of what has been said' (1278a40-1278b2). Evidently III.5 will make a necessary addition to what precedes it. Although the chapter principally concerns what might seem to be a tangential question, namely whether manual labourers should be considered citizens, Aristotle here elevates the standard in the light of which regimes should be

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judged. For until now, he has focused especially on every regime's concern to preserve itself, in the light of which concern citizen virtue is determined and, in comparison with human virtue, was found to be defective. Now, however, Aristotle pays closer attention than before to the claim raised by every regime, or at least by every regime not on the verge of collapse, to make its citizens excellent human beings. Only in the light of such a higher claim might a regime plausibly exclude labourers and others from citizenship, for they surely contribute to a regime's preservation. Thus, 'it is true that one should not set down as citizens all those without whom a city would not exist' (1278a2-3). The 'best city' will not grant citizenship to those who, however much they may aid a community's continuance, do not contribute to virtue. Even oligarchies and democracies, which understand the good life to consist in the possession of wealth or the exercise of freedom, will not grant citizenship to all (1278a21-9) - though, to be sure, such regimes will 'use the laws' to expand and contract the citizen roles according to their needs(1278a29-34). The first five chapters of Book III make clear that it is the regime that determines who is and who is not a citizen in every community and thus who does and does not form a part of the 'common,' the 'advantage' of which the regime will seek to promote. Moreover, in every city, citizen virtue will be determined by the needs of the given regime, especially what it judges necessary to its own preservation, and by its own understanding of the character or content of the good life. This twofold aim of every regime becomes Aristotle's focus in the next three chapters (III.6-8), and we must turn our attention briefly to them. Justice and the Regime: III. 6-8

Aristotle begins by defining the regime: 'the regime is an ordering of a city, especially of the office that holds authority over all, in addition to the other offices. For what has authority everywhere is the governing body, and the regime is the governing body' (1278b8—11). In a democracy the demos is the authoritative governing body, just as the few (oligoi) are in an oligarchy. Referring explicitly to his discussion in Book I, Aristotle next repeats or restates the ends for the sake of which the city comes into being. To begin with, human beings are by nature political animals and as such would seek to live together even if they did not need one another's aid; there can be something noble or naturally pleasant (1278b25-6, 29-30) in simply living together, provided one is

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not overly plagued by hardships. But in addition, 'the common advantage brings [citizens] together, insofar as it bestows on each a share in living nobly. This, then, is especially the end, for all both in common and individually' (1278b21-4). According to Aristotle's account here, the participation in political life satisfies three natural ends: the simple pleasure we gain from the company of others, the promise held out by the regime's 'common advantage' to secure a share of the noble life for each, and (collective) self-preservation. This mention of the 'common advantage' is the first in Aristotle's own name (compare 1276al3), and the good or noble life here is that for the sake of which the political community persists and to which 'the common advantage' is strictly subordinate. Aristotle turns next to sketch the three principal kinds of rule: mastery, economic or household rule, and political rule. Mastery is practised essentially for the sake of the ruler's good, but it looks incidentally to that of the ruled as well. Household rule looks principally to the good of the ruled, to that of the children, but it is necessarily good also for the rulers, the parents. Political rule proves to be rather more complicated. It used to be the case that citizens would rule and be ruled in turn, the rulers looking to the good of the ruled in the knowledge that their own good would be taken care of subsequently. Now, however, men seek out rule as sick men seek out medicine; all wish to rule continuously in the belief that doing so is good for them. In none of the kinds of rule outlined does Aristotle so much as mention the 'common advantage.' Even or precisely political rule in former times was marked by a clear split between the advantage of the ruled and that of the rulers, for the goodness of the old-fashioned rule consists in the fact that the rulers were willing to forgo their own good, if only temporarily. Yet Aristotle bases his famous sixfold classification of regimes on a regime's concern for the 'common advantage': the correct regimes that are 'in accord with what is unqualifiedly just' look to the 'common advantage,' those that look only to the good of the rulers are in error and are 'deviations' from the correct regimes. Does Aristotle mean by the 'common advantage' nothing more than the good common to the ruled as distinguished from the rulers? Can there be no more substantial a common advantage than this, one that is truly common and genuinely advantageous? Are rulers necessarily either subservient to or exploitative of the ruled, either the aulos makers or the aulos players? These questions or doubts are sanctioned by the manner in which Aristotle details, in the next chapter (III.7), his classification of the

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regimes. For Aristotle immediately proceeds to alter one of the two axes on which that classification depends, namely the number of the governing body (one, few, many). As he explains at greater length than he had devoted to the classification itself, one 'philosophizing' will see that the crucial fact separating democracy from oligarchy is not number but wealth, although the wealthy are generally few, the poor many. One who 'philosophizes' will pay attention to the arguments that animate political life in fact, to 'the speeches' (consider Plato Phaedo 99e5 and context), and thus to what is most politically relevant according to the partisans themselves. We are forced to conclude on the basis of III.8 that the classification of regimes in III.7 is imprecise, even misleading. And we are entitled to wonder whether the other, far more important axis of Aristotle's schema also requires clarification. In fact the rest of Book III, devoted as it is to the problem of justice, is for that very reason devoted also to examining the common advantage or the common good, since to act justly is to act for the sake of the good of the whole or common (consider again 1279al7-21, 1282bl6-18). Justice and Rule: III. 9-13

Aristotle begins the most important section of his analysis of justice (III.9-13) by stating a point of agreement between all political parties in their reasoning about justice and injustice, namely that justice is equality for those who are equal and inequality for those who are unequal (1280a9-22); justice is agreed to be or to include the distribution of goods according to merit or desert. Now this agreement, important as it is, does not go very far, for the wealthy, the free, the nobly born, and so on, all contend that their peculiar excellence or pre-eminence is most important to the city's well-being and as such is the just title to rule: 'Some who are unequal in something, for example wealth, suppose that they are unequal generally, and others who are equal in something, for example freedom, suppose that they are equal generally' (1280a22-5). Although the partisans may disagree vehemently regarding the rank of the various pre-eminences, they do not disagree, or would not disagree if pressed, concerning the avowed aim of the honour or office allotted thereon, namely the happiness of the citizens living in a healthy political community. Aristotle devotes a good part of III.9 to fleshing out what is implied in this common presupposition because it proves to be, or at any rate to lead to, the immanent standard by which he judges the justice of all regimes. Aristotle argues that the various claims to rule

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advanced by the partisans look only to an incomplete version of what the city is meant to aim at according to the self-understanding of the partisans themselves. Just as the sharing of a common location, the practice of intermarriage, and commercial exchange do not by themselves constitute a city, so too wealth, freedom, and military excellence do not yet make a political community in the full sense. All of these 'must be present if there is to be a city, but there is not yet a city when quite all of these are present' (1280b31-3). Rather, a city worthy of the name must be concerned with 'political virtue and vice' in order to secure its political well-being (eunomia: 1280b5-6). For the city is 'a partnership in living well, for both households and families, for the sake of a complete and self-sufficient life' (1280b33-5). Indeed, the end (telos) of the city is 'living well' (1280b39). This means in turn living 'happily and nobly,' and thus 'one must set it down that the political community exists for the sake of noble actions': 'noble actions' are here choiceworthy because they secure for each and for all a happy life (1281a2-3). Out of the turmoil characteristic of the fundamental disputes over the question of rule Aristotle discerns this provisional agreement regarding the goal of politics: all agree that the community exists for the sake of a complete and self-sufficient, that is, a happy and noble life, and all believe in principle that those who contribute unequally to this most important end deserve unequal reward or honours. In III.9 he concludes with a concise statement of the standard of judging thus arrived at: 'Accordingly, those who contribute most to such a community have more of a share of the city than either those who are equal or greater in freedom or family but unequal in political virtue, or those who outdo them in wealth but are outdone in virtue.' And yet this principle of adjudication is not so unproblematic as it may seem. It is unclear, for example, why the possession of 'political virtue' should lead one to feel entitled to some other good - in this case rule, even supposing that rule is good for one (compare 1279al3-16) - for it would thus seem that rule is a necessary compensation for being politically virtuous. Is not political virtue its own reward? At all events, Aristotle indicates that the problem of just rule is far from settled, for he immediately adds the following: 'It is clear from what has been said, then, that all those who dispute concerning the regimes speak of a certain part of justice' (III.9, end; emphasis added). Aristotle begins III. 10 by wondering 'what the authoritative element of the city should be,' the multitude, the wealthy, the decent (equitable: epieikeis), the one best, or the tyrant. And just as the principle of

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adjudication adduced in III.9 seems problematic, so 'all these [elements] appear to involve a difficulty' (1281al3-14; emphasis added). In order to spell this out, Aristotle focuses not on the fulfilment of the community's highest goals, on 'political virtue' and the performance of 'noble actions' that lead to happiness, but on the problem of securing, once any one group has come to power, that civil stability requisite to the higher goals indicated (1281al4 and following). It is unjust if the poor, by virtue of being the majority, rob the rich of their possessions, even if such robbery is sanctioned by the authoritative, that is, democratically controlled, assembly. This will destroy the city, and virtue does not destroy that which possesses it. Such action is based on nothing but superior force and as such is indistinguishable from the actions of a tyrant. No better is the rule of the few over the many if they too will pillage the possessions of the ruled (1281a24—8). But could one not imagine a portion of either of these groups that is not rapacious and that would rule moderately? The next claim to rule mentioned is precisely that of the decent or equitable human beings. Since these are necessarily few, however, their rule would exclude from office, and hence from the honour always associated with it, the vast majority of the community (1281a28-32). This same difficulty is all the more acute in the case of the rule of the one most outstanding (spoudaiotatori) human being; such rule would be 'still more oligarchic' (1281a33-4), that is, unjust, than the rule of the few decent because it would exclude even more from office, and such exclusion threatens the community's very existence (see 1281b28-30). Thus the rich and the poor will be at one another's throats, and the decent, like the one best, will be at the mercy of the many indecent, rich or poor. Since Aristotle does not stoop to consider the tyrant's claim to rule, he substitutes for it a consideration of the rule of law (compare 1281al3 with 34-9). It is wrong to suppose, however, that the laws can somehow rise above the interests and errors of the human beings who formulate them. The law itself must be either democratic or oligarchic, for example, and as such it will share in the defects inherent in those regimes (1281a34-9). There does not seem to be any easy solution to the problem of rule, but at least this much is clear on the basis of III. 10: whatever Aristotle may mean by justice or the common advantage, it must include that which conduces to civil stability. Indeed, in the next chapter (III.ll), Aristotle attempts, with only limited success, to sketch a 'republican' compromise to the problem of rule (III.ll), one that highlights not so much the superior collective virtue of the democrats vis-a-vis the oligarchs as

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the dangers the oligarchs themselves will run in excluding the demos from rule. Aristotle begins again in III.12 (compare, e.g., I.I, beg.; IV. 1, beg.; EN, beg.). The political partisans are now said to agree that justice is a certain equality, not merely with one another, but with 'the arguments in accord with philosophy' (compare 1282b 18-20 with 1280a9-22). Justice will now be considered from the highest point of view, from that of 'political philosophy,' its sole mention in the Politics (1282b23). Perhaps it is on account of the more philosophic nature of this discussion that Aristotle now claims the end or telos of the city to be, not 'living well,' but rather justice itself: 'Since in all the sciences and arts the end is a good, the greatest good above all is found in that which is most authoritative over all, and this is the political capacity [power: dynamis]. The political good is justice, and this is the common advantage' (1282bl418; compare 1280b39). Political power, in other words, being most authoritative, aims at the greatest good, and this greatest good is justice or the common advantage. Although Aristotle had suggested initially that citizens are drawn to the community and hence to the common advantage, 'insofar as it bestows on each a share in living nobly' (1278b21-3), he here suggests that the common advantage is no means to anything but is rather the end of political life. In this way Aristotle carefully reproduces our initial concern for morality or justice, for we understand it to take precedence over our concern with happiness. Throughout Book III, in fact, Aristotle vacillates between the suggestion that the political virtues, including of course justice and hence the common advantage, are good or choiceworthy insofar as they are conducive to one's own happiness, and the view that the political virtues, and especially justice and the common advantage, are themselves the end of life beyond which the decent citizen need not look. Aristotle argues at some length that the capacity or pre-eminence serving as the basis of the distribution of political goods must be relevant to political life. Recurring to the image of aulos players (compare 1277b29-30), Aristotle argues that those who are capable of contributing more to a given task (ergon: 1283al) should enjoy to a greater degree the goods relevant thereto: the better aulos player should receive the better instruments, even if another excels him in point of birth, and even if high birth is by itself a greater good than the capacity to play the aulos. What then is the comparable ergon in politics? Aristotle argues that the well-born, the free, and the wealthy all have a genuine claim to rule because there cannot be a city of slaves or paupers, just as

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those who excel in 'justice and the military virtue' are necessary to a city's being nobly administered; they too have a claim to rule. It is difficult to discern from this, however, what the ergon peculiar to the city is: granted that the city that will do its work well must come into being and continue to exist, but what is its work? Although at the beginning of III. 12 it had seemed that justice is the ergon, the telos, of the political community, it now seems that justice is but a means to the as-yet unspecified end. The crucial shift in Aristotle's argument occurs at the beginning of III. 13: 'All or at least some of these might be held to contend [for office] correctly with a view to the city's existence. However, with a view to the good life, education and virtue above all would contend justly' (emphasis added). That is, good birth, wealth, freedom, military virtue, and even justice are now unambiguously preconditions to 'the good life' and therefore do not by themselves constitute that life. As Aristotle's restatement here of the main arguments of the wealthy, well-born, virtuous, and many indicates, all partisans appeal eventually to their capacity to lead, and to secure for others, the good life as they see it; all partisans now include the claim that they are simply better human beings than their competitors (see 1283a32-3, 36-37, 38-40, 41). But this very claim proves to supply yet another difficulty (1283bl3-35). For if others should arise who surpass a given regime in the pre-eminence on which it bases its claim to rule - military excellence, wealth, high birth - the very partisans would have to yield the reins of power according to the logic of their own argument. The difficulty is simply this: would they yield in fact? Aristotle's answer is that they would not. If this is so, the appeal to the common advantage or to justice on the part of every regime is complicated to say the least. Every regime claims to deserve to rule the whole community on account of some good or excellence peculiar to those constituting the regime. And yet no regime can avoid arguing in terms of the contribution to happiness its specific virtue makes - to the happiness, that is, of the whole city or more precisely 'the common.' The attempt on the part of every regime to justify its rule includes the claim to deserve some good for itself (rule) ultimately in the name of the good of the common (happiness, living well). As Aristotle's account of citizenship made very clear, however, it is the regime that determines who will form 'the common' and who will be excluded from it. To say that 'correct' regimes look to the advantage of the common is not yet to say that they look to the good of the ruled as distinguished from their own good; to repeat, the very 'common' in

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whose name the regime rules is itself determined by the regime. It is therefore impossible to identify any regime whose rule is wholly selfless or unconcerned with its own good, including in the first place its own preservation (1276b27-31); the fact that every regime would resist yielding power, even to those whose rule would be based on the very preeminence to which the regime in power appeals, indicates that this is so. Moreover, a regime will determine the makeup of 'the common' also in the light of what it believes to be required for the promotion of the good life as it understands that life, that is, as marked by or consisting in the possession of the very excellence on which the regime bases its rule. There does not seem to be any 'common advantage' that is truly common - for some are always excluded from 'the common' - and genuinely advantageous - for the regime always includes in its calculations its own preservation and hence a partial view of the good. One may also look at the difficulty with political justice from the point of view of the citizen. Decent citizens will understand themselves to be dedicated to a whole greater than themselves, to the common advantage or to justice, the end of politics. Yet that very dedication inspires in the citizen the hope or expectation that, in some manner or other, the 'common advantage' will be advantageous also for him; we believe dedication to justice is good not least for the one who is so dedicated. Thus justice or the common advantage both is and is not the end of politics; it coexists uneasily with the conviction that 'living well' is truly the target at which we aim and to which justice and the other virtues are but means. We cannot be surprised, then, that Aristotle subsequently distinguishes between 'the advantage of the whole city' and 'that which belongs in common to citizens' (see 1283b40-2 and context), the latter not being equivalent to the former. And in the rest of Book III, especially in his discussion of a certain extreme form of kingship,12 he is principally concerned to highlight the limits attending the 'common advantage' in political life if ever there should arise some one or few who possess virtue to a degree far surpassing that of the others in the community. In such cases, the claim of the 'common advantage' to secure the good life for all is manifestly false. Either persons of this kind should rule as 'absolute kings' in perpetuity - an event not to be expected given the resistance even the few decent can expect to face (see again 1281a28-34; 1281b28-30) - or they should be ostracized. Indeed, because ostracism of such persons preserves civil stability, the one good that can reasonably claim to be both genuinely good and truly

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common (except of course for the exiled), Aristotle sanctions the use of ostracism: the argument in favour of it possesses 'a certain political justice' (1284bl6). Indeed, the defectiveness of the common good or advantage as regards its highest aspirations is a 'universal problem' affecting 'all regimes, even the correct ones' (1284b3-5; emphasis added). Neither can we be surprised that although Aristotie here has recourse to his official position of III.7, according to which the good regimes are those that look to 'the common good' as opposed to their own, in the remarks that follow he praises those regimes that practised ostracism by looking 'to the advantage of their own regimes' as distinguished from merely fomenting civil strife (compare 1284b4-7 with 21-2). To look to 'the common good' is to look to 'the advantage of one's own regime.' Justice and Divine Law If the thrust of this analysis of justice or the common advantage is correct, Aristotle means to suggest that no political community can be fully just because none can give to the peak of excellence its due within the confines of a community. The highest human excellence is then suprapolitical or characteristic of certain individuals as individuals. By contrast, the divine law as law maintains that human happiness is attainable on the plane of politics (properly guided and supplemented), or that the problem of justice admits of a political solution. As we have learned above all from Thucydides, the most powerful reason for this greater optimism concerning politics is ultimately the contention that the gods are not only political but also 'providential,' that is, that they look after the city and its citizens and provide for their well-being in accord with the justice or injustice of their actions. At the core of the city's divine legislation is the belief in providential gods. Such gods know full well that 'some excellent individuals are in a sorry and grievous plight whereas some wicked individuals are in good and pleasurable circumstances' (Maimonides Guide of the Perplexed III.16); they know 'the private and public fortunes of bad and unjust human beings ... and that there are some who have partaken of many terrible impieties and through these very things have risen from low positions to tyrannies and the highest stations' (Plato Laws 899d8900a5). Being manifestly concerned with human affairs, however, the gods will rectify, in this life or after death, any discrepancy between merit and reward. In short, providential gods insure the eventual prosperity of the just and the suffering of the unjust. It is not only the attach-

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ment to political justice that might lie behind the rejection of Aristotle's rational science of the divine city, but rather or more precisely the understanding that the gods support that attachment by making justice unambiguously good for one. It follows that, however perplexing the means of providence may appear to us here and now - for example, the very destruction of the political order based on the law - no one who is seriously devoted to the law would deny that the gods will, in their manner, provide for the good of the just. Even the destruction indicated must ultimately be held to be for the best. And to defend the law by appealing to the mysteriousness of Zeus runs the risk of blasphemy if in doing so one renders doubtful the fact of the goodness of the law and hence of divine providence. The necessity of this recourse to providence implies that justice or moral virtue is, by itself, an insufficient end of political life because it does not, by itself, always provide for the happiness of the just or virtuous. It is important to see that, far from denying this view implicit in the law, Aristotle agrees with it: 'Now someone might suppose that [moral virtue] is even more an end of the political life [than honour]. But virtue too seems to be a rather incomplete end. For it seems possible for one to possess virtue ... while suffering terribly and undergoing the greatest misfortunes. No one would say that a person living in this way is happy ...' (£7V1095b30-1096a2). The question with which we are concerned may now be made more precise: since Aristotle too concedes the difficulty with moral virtue that belief in providential gods would solve, why does he ultimately look less to piety than to contemplation as its necessary supplement? To begin with, the resolution of the problem of the goodness of justice by recourse to providential gods bears witness to Aristotle's dictum that, 'everyone does everything for the sake of what is held to be good' (1252a2-3; consider also, e.g., 1324a33-5; £AH129b5-6 and context; 1155b23-6; 1159alO-12; 1166al4-18). For the devotion to the common good and the willingness to sacrifice oneself in its behalf, while noble and hence attractive on their own, do not go unnoticed by superintending gods; such sacrifice is as a result made still more attractive because it holds out the promise of our happiness. 'One who, in accord with his capacity, does not fall short in honoring the gods should take heart and hope for the greatest goods. For one who is sensible would not have greater hopes from others than from those who are capable of bestowing the greatest things, nor would he be more sensible in any other way than by pleasing these [gods]' (Xenophon Memorabilia rv.iii.17).

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Human beings cannot but pursue what seems good to them, and the very belief in providential gods concurs with - in fact it affirms and underscores - this philosophic view according to which what we hold to be good is our primary end or aim. Here too, then, Aristotle and the divine law are at one. It is at this point that one comes to something of a crossroads, for much, not to say everything, depends on one's understanding of the manner in which the good appears to us. Aristotle's own view is difficult of access, and it may be helpful first to sketch a philosophic position he presents but explicitly rejects in the Nicomachean Ethics. According to it, not only is the good primary but human beings are not in the end responsible for the manner in which that good appears to them. It is therefore irrational either to praise or to blame another on moral grounds. Aristotle reports this contention as follows: Someone might say that all seek what seems good but that they are not in control of the appearance [of the good]; rather, whatever sort of person each one is determines the sort of end that appears to him. Now if on the one hand each one is somehow responsible for his own character [hexis], then he will be somehow responsible also for the appearance [of the good]. If on the other hand he is not responsible, no one would be responsible for his acting badly; instead, he does what he does through ignorance of the end, supposing that through these actions, he will attain what is best for himself. The aiming at the end is not of one's own choosing, but necessarily arises by nature, just as one possesses sight, by means of which he shall judge nobly and choose what is truly good. He is of a good nature to whom this has nobly arisen by nature. For this is the greatest and noblest thing, and cannot be taken or learnt from another; rather, such a one possesses it by nature. When this has well and nobly arisen by nature - this is the complete and true meaning of'good-natured.' (1114a31-1114bl2)

According to this view, moral responsibility depends on our being in some way responsible for our hexis ('character,' 'fixed state [of soul]'), and 'the hexeis arise from the corresponding activities. Hence it is necessary to make the activities of a certain quality, for the hexeis follow upon the differences among these [activities]. It makes no small difference, then, whether one is habituated in this or that way from early youth - it makes an altogether considerable difference, or rather the whole difference' (EN 1103b21-5). The familial circumstances into which we are born and the upbringing we receive are as little our own doing and

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hence as little our responsibility as the still more determinative laws there current, to say nothing of the limits our nature imposes on us (consider EN 1179b31-2). It is therefore difficult to see how, according to this argument, we are responsible for our hexis and hence for the way in which the good appears to us. But is it not up to us to seek out reason and instruction to remedy what our circumstances may have denied us? Alas, 'reason and instruction are not effective in all cases. It is necessary instead to prepare beforehand the soul of the listener by means of habits with a view to rejoicing and hating nobly, just as the land that is to nourish the seed [must be prepared beforehand]' (EN1179b23-6). We seem to have arrived at the difficulty that only a proper upbringing can make possible one's openness to the instruction capable of remedying a deficient upbringing. If some do seek out instruction and alter their behaviour accordingly, if they pull themselves up by their own bootstraps, so to speak, what could either lead them to do so or to be benefited thereby, apart from a particularly good nature? And yet 'what comes from nature is clearly not present on account of us, but rather is present to those truly fortunate ones through certain divine causes' (EN 1179b21-2). According to this view, some combination of nature and nurture always determines our hexis and hence the way in which the good appears to us, which good we of necessity seek out. This understanding of the determined character of the good would have important consequences for belief in providential gods and therewith the adherence to divine law. For the very gods who are concerned with human affairs make known that concern by punishing those who choose badly or basely and by rewarding those who choose well or nobly. One's own good is provided for with the greatest possible certainty even as one attempts to secure, through self-sacrifice, the good of others. Moreover, since the determinants of the appearance of the good can always be traced, according to this argument, to some cause 'outside' the agent - to nature, upbringing, or both - we are not strictly speaking responsible for the choices in question. But this means that it would be wrong, on moral grounds, to punish those who cannot help but pursue the good as they cannot help but conceive it. To suppose that the gods punish those who act under the force of compulsion would be to attribute gross injustice to them, that is, to deny the fundamental character of the gods and hence of the law (consider Thucydides V.105.1-3). The expectation of divine intervention would be irrational on terms ultimately agreeable to and even demanded by the suppliant. In brief: the divine law presupposes the rationality of responsibility while it at the

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same time unknowingly corroborates the philosophic position that denies it, insofar as the law promises to secure the good of the obedient. The law therefore contradicts itself, and it could in principle be shown to do so to anyone willing to listen. To repeat, Aristotle explicitly rejects the main premise of this argument, as appears towards the end of his discussion of responsibility (EN III.5): 'Whether indeed the end, of whatever sort it may be, appears to each not by nature but is to some extent present in himself, or whether the end is natural, virtue is voluntary in that the morally serious man [spoudaios] does all else voluntarily ... If then, as it is said, the virtues are voluntary (for we are somehow jointly responsible for our characters and we have posited this or that end by virtue of our being of a certain sort), the vices would be voluntary as well' (EN 1114bl6-24 and context) . One might say provisionally that Aristotle's own, more moderate approach is a mean between the view just sketched on the one hand and the understanding presupposed by the law on the other, for while refusing to call into question the responsibility of the individual, he takes a step in this direction as regards the regime. We have seen that, according to Aristotle, every regime understands itself to be based on the truly relevant claim to political rule and therefore to embody and to foster true virtue. Every regime, in other words, is concerned to justify its rule and believes that it can do so. The variety of regimes is traceable to the variety of the views of what is truly good (consider FV.3, beg. and 1328a40-1328b2). All are concerned with (what they take to be) the highest things and strive after (what they take to be) the good. As Aristotle states at the beginning of the Politics, 'Every community has been constituted for the sake of some good, for everyone does everything for the sake of what is held to be good' (emphasis added; compare also EN beg.). This means in the first place that since all regimes are concerned with what they believe to be good, it cannot be said that they knowingly or voluntarily found a vicious regime or that they voluntarily instil vice either in themselves or in others - for who would voluntarily blunder in so grave a matter? As a result, the distinction Aristotle draws in HI.7-8, according to which the unjust regimes look to the advantage of the rulers rather than to the common advantage, or ignore justice in order to pursue their own good, is too simplistic because it overlooks the concern present to all regimes to justify their rule in terms of a common good. Aristotle accordingly concludes that 'alldispute in a certain man-

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ner justly, but all do not do so justly without qualification' (1283a30-l; emphasis added): democracy and polity, oligarchy and aristocracy, tyranny and kingship are all to some extent just but none is so unqualifiedly (consider now 1279bll-15). In the Ethics, Aristotle gives a more adequate statement of the distinctions among regimes that takes into account the primacy of the good on the level of the regime: 'By instilling [good] habits in the citizens, the legislators make them good, and this is the wish of every legislator. All those who do not do so well, miss the mark; it is in regard to this that a good regime differs from a poor one' (£Ani03b2-6; emphasis added). It is therefore more reasonable to conceive of defective regimes as foolish, blind, or mistaken than as unjust or evil. There is thus a gradual movement in Aristotle's political science away from considerations of justice towards those of what is good for human beings. This movement, which begins by 'listening' to political argument and by taking seriously the self-understanding of the regimes, culminates in the denial of the possibility of perfect justice on the level of the regime. Not so much justice and its demands, then, as human nature and its health take pride of place (consider again III.4). And as the good ascends in importance, so too does theoretical virtue, for in the end the greatest task comes to sight as the pursuit of those virtues the very possession of which constitutes the happiness of their possessor and that therefore require no external support or reward. Such is the description in the Ethics of theoretical, as opposed to practical, virtue (consider EN Il78a23 and following). However rare may be the full embodiment of that higher virtue, however fleeting or occasional its pleasures for the rest, the peak of human happiness nonetheless consists, according to Aristotle, in the activity of philosophy. Aristotle's political science would therefore seem to deny the necessity, in order to be happy, of the support that providential gods supply. By thus thinking through our profound longings for happiness, which most naturally find their first expression in the hope for a 'best regime' guided by a perfect law, we may come to see the transpolitical activity that is according to Aristotle their true fulfilment; we may become genuinely open to the possibility that the human mind is at home in this world, that looking upon or contemplating it is in principle sufficient for happiness, and that there is as a result no need to make further demands upon the given world. One could put this another way by saying that, according to Aristotle, human beings are by nature best suited to worship the god he sometimes describes, the god,

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that is, who 'rules' by being the object of our love and who seems in the end to be indistinguishable from the eternal activity of contemplation (EE, end; £AT1178b21-2 and context; Pol. 1323b23-6; 1325b28-30). With this outline of Aristotle's critique of divine law and his corresponding defence of the possibility of political science, I have tried first and foremost simply to recover as a genuine problem the difficulty with which Aristotle dealt. I cannot hope to have done more than offer a tentative overview of the premodern understanding of political things that affirmed the sufficiency of human reason to guide human life against those who, by appealing to suprarational edicts or to special knowledge, would deny it. It remains to sketch Aristotle's positive project in the Politics, namely his attempt to indicate the limits and possibilities of 'enlightenment.' It remains, therefore, to sketch the outlines of Aristotle's best regime. Aristotle's 'Enlightenment' The Best Regime and the Most Choiceworthy Way of Life

Aristotle devotes the whole of Books VII and VIII of the Politics to the construction in speech of his own best regime. Since the best regime as such seeks to foster the best way of life for a human being, one cannot reach clarity about that regime without first determining the life that will be its target (1323al4-19; consider also 1324a33-5). Accordingly, Aristotle begins his inquiry by raising the question of what the 'most choiceworthy way of life is.' He immediately draws our attention to an ambiguity in his opening question, however, by posing two additional ones: 'Thus it is necessary to reach agreement as to what the most choiceworthy way of life is so to speak for all and, after this, whether it is the same life for all in common and for each individually or whether it is not the same' (1323al9-21). Aristotle does not assume, then, that the best political life, the life that is best 'so to speak for all,' is identical to the best life individuals as individuals can lead; the political life at its peak may not fulfil the individual nature at its peak. In other words, Aristotle is open to the possibility that his investigation into the most choiceworthy way of life may require that he abandon or transcend considerations of a 'best regime' altogether. Accepting for present purposes his merely 'exoteric arguments' made elsewhere concerning the best life (1323a21-3), Aristotle proceeds to outline three kinds of goods, each of which is necessary to a blessed life:

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external goods, goods of the body, and goods of the soul. These last are of course the moral virtues, and Aristotle here mentions courage, moderation, justice, and prudence, together with examples indicating the obvious goodness of each. In fact, disagreement arises not so much over the goodness of the moral virtues as their rank in relation to the other two classes of goods mentioned; most maintain that any amount of virtue is adequate but that no amount of 'wealth, property, power, and reputation' can ever be (1323a37). Aristotle must therefore establish the superior goodness of the moral virtues, and he does so by means of three arguments, the first of which, based on an analysis of 'deeds' (1323a39-40) and explicitly addressed to those who make the error indicated, maintains merely that while external goods will not secure virtue, virtue will secure external goods: moral virtue is a useful means. The second and somewhat more elevated argument, based on 'argument' or 'reason' (1323b6), suggests that although the utility of external goods is strictly limited, the goods of the soul know no such limit: moral virtue is endlessly useful. It is not surprising that Aristotle here apologizes for speaking 'not only of the noble but also of the useful' (1323bl2). Aristotle's final argument for the superiority of the goods of the soul to all other goods rests on considerations of both honour and nature (1323bl3-18, 18-21); whereas virtue was choiceworthy for the sake of external goods according to Aristotle's first argument, according to his final argument external goods are choiceworthy (to the extent that they are choiceworthy) only for the sake of the soul. Still, even this third and most elevated argument is not free of considerations of the happiness of the virtuous, as Aristotle's conclusion makes clear: 'so much happiness falls to each as he has of virtue, prudence, and action in accord with these' (1323b21-3). If Aristotle has established, by one means or another, that the goods of the soul or the moral virtues should have pride of place among the various goods needed for happiness, one must not lose sight of the overarching question with which he began: is what is true of 'each' true also of cities as a whole? 'Following this and requiring the same arguments [is the view that] the best city is happy and fares [prattousan] nobly; it is impossible to fare nobly for those who do not act [prattousiri] nobly, and there is no noble deed, either of a man or of a city, apart from virtue and prudence' (1323b29-33). Yet this does not answer the fundamental question: is the virtue of the best or virtuous individual the same as that of the best or virtuous city? Aristotle's official answer here is that the virtues of the city have 'the same power and form' as those of the individ-

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ual, but his lists of both sets of virtues do not square with one another: the best city is characterized by courage, justice, and prudence, whereas the best individual is characterized by justice, prudence, and moderation (1323b33-6). As the political community has greater need of courage to live well, so the individual as individual has greater need of moderation. Aristotle's explicit account of political and individual virtue thus raises a question mark at least concerning the simple identity of the peak of the two ways of life, political and individual, and accordingly he goes out of his way to indicate, at the end of VII. 1, the preliminary and even inadequate character of his argument. At the beginning of VII.2, Aristotle repeats rather than resolves the ambiguity of his treatment of the specific virtue or excellence characterizing the best city on the one hand and the best individual on the other, for he suggests merely that the cause of the happiness of the city and that of the individual is the same, whether that cause is held to be money, tyranny, or (as he himself had maintained in the preceding chapter) virtue - without however specifying which virtues in particular. The question remains, then, whether the virtuous and therefore happy individual has the same virtue as that of the virtuous and therefore happy city. Rather than avoid the difficulty indicated, Aristotle reminds us of it once again: 'But already these two things require investigation: first, whether the more choiceworthy life is the one that participates in citizenship and shares in a city, or rather the one characteristic of a foreigner that is removed from the political partnership; and second, what regime and what condition of a city one should posit as best, whether or not sharing in a city is best for all or whether it is not best for some but only for most' (1324al3—19). The first question is then the more fundamental one that has been hanging over Aristotle's discussion from the beginning; the second is the less fundamental, for it will proceed on the basis of the mere assumption that the political life is the best life simply. And in keeping with his usual reticence, Aristotle proceeds to dismiss the first question: 'Now since this [latter question] is a task for political thought and contemplation but that which pertains to what is individually choiceworthy is not, and since we have chosen this investigation at present, the former question would be beyond, the latter the task of, this inquiry' (1324al9-23). After having explicitly and repeatedly raised the question of the identity of the best political and individual lives, Aristotle no less explicitly drops it from his inquiry. This rather peculiar procedure has the advantage that, even as it frees Aristotle of the need

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to make the reflection an adequate investigation would have to include, it indicates to the reader what that reflection is. And his claims to the contrary notwithstanding, Aristotle does not in fact simply drop the first and more radical question from his inquiry, for, as we shall see, he twice returns to some formulation of it, each time offering clues to help the reader in thinking about it (1324a26-38, 1325al8-20). Apparently dismissing those who argue that happiness is to be found in the possession of either money or tyranny, Aristotle turns to relate a disagreement among those who 'agree that the most choiceworthy way of life is the one accompanied by virtue' (1324a25-6); what follows will therefore be a debate between or among the partisans of moral virtue. The advocate of the private life over any public life now makes his first reappearance, and it is only here in the Politics that Aristotle permits himself the liberty of sketching the choice in its most radical form: is 'the political and active life choiceworthy, or rather is the one that is removed from all external things, for example a certain theoretical life, which some assert is the only philosophic one? For it is pretty much these two lives that those who are most ambitious with respect to virtue manifestly choose, those in both former times and now. And I mean by the two the political and the philosophic. It makes not a little difference which of the two is correct' (1324a27-33). In thinking about the best way of life, one would have to compare the goodness of the best political life with its greatest challenger, the philosophic life. Unfortunately, Aristotle refuses to have a philosopher join the debate; when the advocate of the private life makes his second appearance, he appeals not indeed to philosophy or wisdom but to freedom as the basis of the superiority of the private life (1325al9 and context). What proves to take the place of the expected debate between the statesman and the philosopher is the very unexpected quarrel between a statesman and a would-be tyrant. This substitution of an intrapolitical debate for the transpolitical one may nonetheless bring to light something of the essential character of politics and hence be of use in resolving the debate that Aristotle here indicates is the more fundamental one. I turn now to consider principally the quarrel within the pro-political camp. Some advocates of the political life maintain that 'the active and political life is the only one belonging to a real man [aner]. For private persons do not have a greater share of the actions that proceed from each virtue than do those who tend to public affairs and act as citizens' (1324a39-1324bl). The first pro-political spokesmen thus appeal emphatically to virtue; a man who is serious about virtue must choose

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the active life, and by far the most active life is the political one. It is at this point that Aristotle conjures up the advocates of tyranny: 'Others assert that the kind of regime characterized by mastery and tyranny is the only happy one. Among some, this is the defining mark of the regime and the laws, that they exercise mastery over their neighbors' (1324b2-5). Whereas the first political spokesmen had mentioned only action in accord with virtue, the second speak of the happiness attending rule over one's neighbours; it is not yet clear whether there is any common ground between these combatants, nor indeed why both appear in the class of those who agree as to the goodness of moral virtue (see again 1324a25-6). When Aristotle turns to revive this debate, at the beginning of VII.3, he states once again that the dispute under consideration is between those who agree that the most choiceworthy way of life is the one accompanied by virtue (1325al6). And as in VII.2, we hear first from an advocate of the private life, then from an advocate of politics, the latter of whom speaks as follows: 'It is impossible for one who does not act to fare [prattein] well, and faring well and happiness are the same thing' (1325a21-3). Aristotle ends his even-handed adjudication of this dispute with his own praise of the political life: 'Praising inactivity over activity is not true. For happiness is action, and furthermore the actions of those who are just and moderate have as their end many noble things' (1325a31-4). Here the advocate of tyranny resurfaces: 'And yet someone might suppose, when these things are defined in this way, that having authority over all is best. For in this way one would be authoritative over the greatest number of the noblest actions. Thus one who is capable of ruling should not leave his neighbors be but should deprive them of rule ... For what is best is most choiceworthy, and faring well is best' (1325a34-41). Aristotle thus vividly portrays the tendency of political life, even or precisely a political life devoted to the practice of moral virtue, to be tempted by tyranny. For the desire to be a good or serious human being leads one to wish to act in the world: the difference between a virtuous man and a vicious one is least apparent when both are asleep (compare EN 1102b5-6). Moral virtue comes into its own only in and through action, and by far the greatest arena for such action is, as the first political spokesmen had stressed, the political life (1324a39-40). And as these same spokesmen insist, acting well or virtuously holds out the promise of 'faring well,' that is, of attaining true happiness (1325a213). The case for moral virtue, and hence also for the political life, both

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does and does not wish to speak in terms of the happiness of the virtuous, as Aristotle's own apology for having praised moral virtue in terms of utility in addition to nobility makes clear (1323bll-12). If one takes the step that the decent political advocates take of praising virtue in terms of happiness (compare their first statement at 1324a39-1324bl with their second at 1325a21-3), only a very small step is required to define moral virtue in terms of what one thinks will make one happy, that is, wholly to subordinate moral virtue to considerations of happiness rather than to those of nobility. And if great political action is required and therefore sanctioned by considerations of happiness that are themselves authorized by the moral life, the argument of the wouldbe tyrants has some force. To understand something of what Aristotle has in mind, one should think of tyranny in its politer guise - empire and especially of those empires that claimed to rule on the basis of superior education and capacities at least in part for the well-being of the ruled - the British empire, for example. It is because of the momentum characteristic of the political life devoted to noble action towards ever grander or more spectacular actions that Aristotle portrays the advocates of both decent politics and tyranny as agreeing that the life accompanied by virtue is most choiceworthy and hence happiest (1324a25-6 and 1325al6). The burden of the first three chapters of Book VII is to brake this tendency towards aggrandizement that characterizes political life at its most serious, and to understand the peculiar features of Aristotle's own efforts at 'enlightenment' as embodied by his best regime, it is necessary to see the modest and sober measures Aristotle here suggests. Aristotle's first reply to the would-be tyrant (1324b22-1325al5) has four main elements, the last of which is the most important and is developed at greatest length in his second reply (1325bl2-32; the second reply begins at 1325a41). In VII.2, Aristotle first tries to expand the possibilities of what an active and therefore happy city might be: 'And yet a single city by itself could be happy, one that is governed nobly (if in fact it is possible for a city to be settled somewhere by itself, making use of serious [spoudaiois] laws), the ordering of whose regime will look not to war or to domination of enemies ... Thus it is clear that one should set down all the practices relating to war as noble, but not as the highest end; rather the former are for the sake of the latter' (1324b41-1325a7). Aristotle thus tries to suggest that the proper end of political rule is not war or domination through war and that such activities are not strictly speaking necessary for a political community to live well.

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Only in his second discussion of political life, in VII.3, does Aristotle suggest what the new end of politics should be. After apparently granting a good deal to the advocates of political life - by admitting or insisting that 'if these things are nobly said and one should set down happiness as being acting well [eupragian], the active life is best for every city in common and for each individually' (1325bl4-16) - he proceeds to redefine 'activity' in a manner that is, to say the least, startling: 'But the active [life] does not necessarily relate to others, as in fact some suppose, nor are the only active thoughts those that arise from activity for the sake of their consequences. Rather, much more active is that contemplation [theorias] and thought that is its own end and for its own sake' (1325bl6-21). The peak of 'activity,' then, is a philosophic or quasi-philosophic activity, and Aristotle goes on to suggest that such activity can be the concern of both cities and individuals; only when 'action' is understood in this way can it be said that the best political way of life and the best private life are one and the same. The advocate of the private life understood as the philosophic life - in this case Aristotle himself - thus quietly resurfaces, but he is compelled to praise that life in terms of its supremely 'active' character, that is, in terms acceptable to practical statesmen or citizens. After placing the political life over the private life in apparently all cases save that of a life concerned with mere mastery (1325a24-6 and context), Aristotle proceeds to introduce a philosophic standard to judge of lives good and bad: the political life is best insofar as it most approximates the private life at its (philosophic) peak. It remains to be seen, in the course of Aristotle's description of the best possible political life, whether or to what extent any community can in fact embody that peak. Aristotle's defence of a political life devoted to the practice of moral virtue requires recourse to considerations that transcend that life above all to philosophy or to what he calls, in the Ethics, theoretical virtue. But this is not the sole means he uses to advance a more moderate politics. At the end of VII. 1, Aristotle appeals to the testimony of 'the god' to support his contention that the goods of the soul, or the virtues, are superior to both bodily and external goods. For the god is 'happy and blessed on account of none of the external goods but on account of himself and the sort that he is with respect to his nature ... ' (1323b236). If we cannot simply enjoy this divine self-sufficiency - for human beings require all three kinds of goods to be blessed (1323a26-7) - we can nonetheless strive to emulate the god by giving pride of place to moral virtue and by limiting to the extent possible our dependence on

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external goods. (Aristotle does not suggest that this god will supply to human beings, even to those who are just and moderate, the necessary external and bodily goods the availability of which he here indicates depends on chance [1323b28-9].) Moreover, Aristotle supports his redefinition of the 'active' life, which he insists is available to cities and individuals alike, by referring us to 'the god and the whole cosmos,' both of which perform 'no external actions apart from those appropriate to them' (1325b28-30). By pursuing, publicly or privately, the 'active' life whose proper goal is contemplation, we will be acting in a manner reminiscent of and approved by the cosmic and divine order. To sum up: Aristotle concludes in VII. 1-3 that one and the same life is best for both individual and city and that this life is an active, political one properly understood (1324b41-1325b4; 1325bl6-32). This implies first and foremost that participation in political life at its peak is capable of satisfying human nature at its peak, or that one need not in principle look to anything beyond politics to attain human happiness. The best political life proves to be concerned, however, with 'theoretical reflections and thoughts' that are 'ends in themselves and for their own sake,' a goal so lofty that Aristotle likens it to the activity proper to 'the god' (1325b28-30; 1323b23-6). This contemplative and quasi-divine activity is, to say the least, an odd conception of political life, and common sense rightly resists accepting it on the basis of Aristotle's brief argument in VII. 1—3. Indeed, by asserting the superiority of the political life concerned above all with what appears to be a non-political activity, Aristotle seems to transcend the horizon of the ordinary citizen even as he praises it. To be more cautious, one might simply say that it is as yet uncertain whether the best way of life for a human being is necessarily the thoroughly political one. This puzzling characterization of the best political life becomes all the more enigmatic in that Aristotle immediately drops it. That is, the detailed account in VII.4-7 of the practical 'equipment' (1325b38) necessary to the coming into being of the best regime proves to contradict the contention of VII.3 that the active, political life of the best regime can be at the same time simply private or inward-looking. To give just one example, the regime must engage in import and export trade to assure its material self-sufficiency (VII.6); this is inevitably to have dealings with other cities or nations and, as VII. 1-3 insists, most communities seek to dominate their neighbours (1324b3 and following, esp. 7). As a result, the best regime is compelled to try to be 'fearsome' in the eyes of its neighbours (1327bl). 13 Given the necessity of pursuing an

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active life very much in the ordinary sense, the end of the best regime appears in VII.4-7 to be action at its best, that is, the performance of noble deeds, rather than the pursuit of self-contained 'theoretical reflections' (consider, e.g., 1325a40-1325b3). At the outset of Aristotle's treatment of his best regime, moral virtue vies with some philosophic possibility as the goal of the best life. The Problem of Moral Virtue as the Basis of Citizenship

This emphasis on an acdve, polidcal life in the ordinary sense continues when Aristotle turns to decide the question of who should enjoy citizenship and hence rule in the best regime (VII.8-9). The best city is above all a partnership among equals for the sake of the 'actualization and a certain complete use of virtue,' and while 'some are capable of sharing in it, others are so only to a small degree or not at all' (1328a37-40; emphasis added). Only those persons capable of leading the virtuous life will be qualified to be citizens in the best regime, a partnership in virtue (1328a40-1328b4, 1323b29-31). To decide which of the elements necessary to the city's existence should share in that partnership - farmers, labourers and craftsmen, the military, the commercial and trading elements, priests, and finally rulers or 'judges of what is necessary and advantageous' (1328b22-3) -Aristotle again focuses very much on considerations of moral virtue: 'Since we are in fact investigating the best regime, and this is the one under which the city would most of all be happy, and it was said previously that it is impossible for happiness to be present apart from virtue, it is clear from these things that, in the city that is most finely governed and that possesses men who are just unqualifiedly and not on the basis of a presupposition, the citizens should lead neither a banausic nor a commercial life' (1328b33-40). Such lives, Aristode argues, are 'ignoble and contrary to virtue' (1328b40-l). Different persons must fill the ranks of the labouring and the trading or commercial elements, and none should be a citizen. The farmers too must constitute a separate element in the city that is similarly excluded from citizenship, not so much because of the harmful character of their work as because 'leisure is required with a view to both the inculcation of virtue and political actions' (1329al-2), and the farmers will simply be too busy to enjoy the requisite leisure. Aristotle continues his enumeration of the parts necessary to the city by discussing the military and the adjudicative or deliberative bodies elements that are 'present in and manifestly parts of the city most of all'

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(1329a2-5). The assignment of the deliberative office is based exclusively on the capacity to act in accordance with moral virtue, that is, with the dictates of phronesis: the rulers rule on the grounds that they alone are prudent or practically wise.14 Similar considerations based on the prerequisites of moral virtue ground Aristotle's resolution of the question of the distribution of property, and he concludes that 'the possessions should belong to these persons [the hoplites and rulers], if in fact it is necessary that the farmers be slaves or foreign servants' (1329a24—6). The question of the place of the farmers in the best regime requires further comment because it is the first and perhaps most massive difficulty casting a shadow on the goodness of Aristotle's 'best regime.' The arrangement of rule indicated presupposes not only that all citizen-rulers as such possess or will come to possess prudence, but that the farmers and indeed all those excluded from citizenship do not possess it and never could. At the end of VII. 10, however, Aristotle himself acknowledges that at the very least this latter is in fact not so, for he states that 'it is better to hold out freedom as a prize for all slaves' (1330a32-3; emphasis added). According to his own definition in Book I, a natural slave is one who, though capable of perceiving reason, is without reason himself. Precisely because such a person could never be free, it is better and more just that he serve another than that he attempt to live on his own (1254bl6-24; 1254al7-19). This means in turn, however, that if freedom is rightly held out as a prize for all slaves in the best regime, they cannot be slaves by nature and are not justly enslaved strictly speaking (see Strauss 1964, 22-3; Smith 1983, 111; Ambler 1987, 404-7).15 The best regime is compelled to look beyond those who are said in Book I to be slaves by nature because the severe limitations of the rational capacity that make one a natural slave at the same time limit severely the possible number and utility of such persons. As Aristotle's discussion of the farming class makes clear, even the best political order will not be simply natural or simply just. A fundamental arbitrariness thus lies at the bottom of the ordering of office in Aristotle's best regime, and so far from being unaware of this fact, Aristotle himself draws attention to it. What is more, this essential limitation in regard to justice proves to be only the first of two fundamental difficulties characterizing Aristotle's best city. Moral Virtue and the Problem of Happiness (VII. 10-12) In order to affirm or support the correctness of the arrangements indi-

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cated, Aristotle now shifts his focus from moral virtue to tradition and ancient political practice, an appeal that underscores the necessity or efficacy of these arrangements rather than their relation to moral virtue (1329a40 and following).16 In fact, moral virtue is all but absent from the section at hand, and when it returns, towards the end of VII. 11, it does so in such a way as to bring to light an additional difficulty no less troubling than the preceding one: 'As for defensive walls, those who deny that cities laying claim to virtue should have them have excessively old-fashioned ideas: they even see the cities that have such pretensions refuted in deed' (1330b32 and following). It is therefore imperative that the best city preserve itself by means of the construction and maintenance of defensive walls. This is especially true, Aristotle says, in light of 'the present-day discoveries pertaining to missiles and the refinement of machines used to besiege cities' (1331al-2). It is now clear that the best regime, which to this point has come to sight as the virtuous city par excellence, must attend to the nuts and bolts of its own defence; to rely on merely 'human virtue' (1330b39) is not enough, and the temptation to do so, characteristic of those who are confident in their own moral goodness, must be resisted. Does this not mean, however, that Aristotle's emphasis on moral virtue is misguided or naive? If the city's concern to be morally virtuous, so far from securing its happiness, runs the risk of making it a sitting duck, should the city continue to be concerned with virtue first and foremost? More to the point, will it be permitted the luxury of so concerning itself? Despite their best intentions, the virtuous are compelled to meet and indeed to try to surpass the vicious in matters of potentially dubious decency or uprightness; the depths to which a virtuous city may be forced to sink in order to protect itself are determined by the viciousness of its enemies and hence are beyond its control. This means, in other words, that 'the good city has to take its bearings by the practice of bad cities or that the bad impose their law on the good' (Strauss 1958, 298-9). The innovative spirit of Hippodamus - made more serious by looking to something other than attractive adornment (1267b22-30, 1330b21-31) - would ultimately seem to be more vital to a city's well-being than Aristotle's 'conservative' politics of virtue. It cannot rightly be said of Aristotle, however, that he is naive concerning the conduct of political communities as such: 'most of the laws laid down among most [peoples] are as it were a jumbled heap, but if somewhere the laws look to some one thing, all aim at domination' (1324b5-7; emphasis added). Similarly, as we have just seen, Aristotle

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criticizes as excessively 'old-fashioned' (archaios, 1330b33) the view that virtuous action alone can preserve a city, and he is very much alive to the danger of what one may call technological innovation. More important, he grants that the determination to act virtuously is by itself insufficient to secure happiness because one must have, in addition to the opportunity, the wherewithal or 'equipment' so to act, and this depends decisively on chance (1325b35-9; 1331 bl8-24; EN 1178a24 and context). The attempt to control such chance is one reason why empire is so attractive to cities and nations: 'The majority of human beings envy the exercise of mastery over many because it brings about much equipment in the things of good fortune' (1333bl6-18). But Aristotle goes farther. For even granting the requisite equipment, he elsewhere calls into question the presumed link between moral virtue and happiness that is the fundamental basis of his strictly speaking aristocratic ordering of office in the best regime. Not only is the happiness of the virtuous fragile in the face of the cunning of the vicious, but brute fact seems to deny that the performance of virtuous deeds at their noble peak - that is, in times of the greatest self-forgetting sacrifice - always brings with it the fulfilment of the ever-present desire for one's own happiness. As I had occasion to note earlier, Aristotle says in the Nicomachean Ethics that even moral virtue seems 'rather incomplete' as the end of political life because it is possible to possess virtue while suffering terribly and that no one would call such a person happy (EN 1095b30-1096a2). Since Aristotle both denigrates the worth of empire as a solution to the problem of virtue and here maintains the choiceworthiness of moral virtue, he is compelled to offer another, better solution to the problem of virtue. How then does he cope in practical terms with the exposedness or fragility of the happiness of the virtuous to which he himself draws our attention? The next chapter, VII. 12, bears on the problem of moral virtue in its relation to happiness insofar as it continues the same theme with which the discussion of 'defensive walls' is concerned, namely the city's security. According to Aristotle, 'it is fitting that the dwellings assigned to divine matters and the common messes for those in the most authoritative offices occupy the same location appropriate to them' (1331a24-6). The most important rulers should dine together in or near the temples, and they are in this way continually reminded of the presence of the city's gods. Aristotle acknowledges two exceptions to this rule: some temples may have to be set aside according either to a given law or to some Pythian prophecy (1331a26-30). This reference to the Pythian

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oracle is the first indication that the best regime will be concerned with the worship of Olympian as opposed to 'cosmic' gods (compare 1331a27-8 with 1323b23-7 and 1325b28-30). It would appear that sacrifices must be made to the gods of the best regime; they must be appeased by burnt offerings and presumably can be appealed to for solace and succor (consider 1330a9-13). These gods who issue prophetic utterances (1331a27) are very different indeed from 'the god' or 'whatever it is that keeps this All together' (1326a32-3) who performs no external actions beyond the ones appropriate to Him, who leads an altogether 'private,' contemplative life, and who requires no external goods - for example, burnt offerings - in order to be happy (VII.3, end; 1323b23-9; see also £Ani78b9-24). In the immediate sequel, Aristotle describes the two sorts of public squares the best regime is to have, one being a 'necessary marketplace' used for trade and commerce, the other a liberal or free meeting-place accessible only to citizens in which no commercial activity is permitted (1331a30-6). It is fitting, Aristotle says, for certain of the rulers to spend time there with the younger citizens, just as it is fitting for 'the older to be with the rulers' (1331a39-40). The young - that is, the soldiers - will benefit from association with the rulers because 'being before the eyes of the rulers most of all instils genuine reverence and the fear belonging to the free' (1331a40-1331bl). The rulers will presumably reap a comparable benefit from their association with 'the older' - the priests (see 1329a27-34). As the soldiers are reminded, through their association with the rulers, of their duty to and place in the city, ennobled and restrained by reverence and fear, so the rulers are similarly benefited by being together with the priests. Aristotle concludes VII. 12 by saying that arrangements similar to these should be made for the rulers in the countryside (the 'foresters' and 'field managers'), and that, in particular, 'temples should be distributed throughout the territory, some for the gods, others for the heroes' (1331bl7-18). More than any other chapter, VII. 12 makes clear that the best regime, though not a 'theocracy,' will be suffused with the presence of watchful or providential gods. When the citizens of the best regime look up, they see not empty sky but an ordered heaven ruled by superintending gods; heaven encompasses and completes earth in such a way as to form a unified whole at the centre of which is the political life of the best regime. It remains to make more precise the necessity of the care of the divine and hence of priests to the city's well-being. To repeat, the chapter in which the gods make their most marked appearance in Book VII follows

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the statement of the problem posed to the virtuous city by the cunning of vice. It is not difficult to see that, insofar as the city is unified through the proper arrangement of common messes and through shared worship, it is thereby made more secure. Still, such security does not speak adequately to the most profound and at the same time most fragile hope for happiness of the virtuous. It would seem that only benevolent, all-powerful gods can rectify the perhaps rare but nonetheless harsh or heartbreaking discrepancies between noble service and just reward; only such gods can set aright, in life or after death, the misery that the just sometimes suffer (consider Xenophon Symposium IV.48 and context) . Belief in such gods is the capstone completing the best regime, for without it the service and sacrifice the community must of necessity demand would at best be carried out only with difficulty. Aristotle's view of the divine is complicated to say the least. On the one hand, piety is not among the virtues cited in the Nicomachean Ethics as belonging to a gentleman, and Aristotle makes it clear in the course of the Politics that the care of the divine is separate from and inferior to political office strictly speaking (1299al7-19; 1322M8-22; 1328bll). On the other hand, Aristotle as it were admits providential gods into his best regime, and he maintains that the care of the divine is essential to the city's existence. The very statement of this necessity captures his ambivalence: the care of the divine is 'fifth and first' in importance (1328bll-13). Since the gods are the most important and perfect beings, the care of and service to them must be 'first.' Aristotle wishes to curb any overzealous reliance on the divine, however, and to foster in particular a moderate, sober analysis of political fact or necessity - the kind of analysis that characterizes Book VII as a whole. The care of the divine is therefore also 'fifth' in rank.17 To sum up thus far: the necessary exclusion of some human beings from office (VII.8-9) has nothing to do with their potential to be virtuous and is therefore arbitrary according to Aristotle's own standard. The conclusion of VII. 11, moreover, makes clear the exposedness of virtue to vice and raises doubts concerning the simple equation of the happy city with the morally virtuous one, which is the fundamental premise on which Aristotle bases his ordering of office (1328b33-7; 1329a21-4). It therefore becomes a question both whether the distinction Aristotle makes between citizens and non-citizens really accords with his avowed standard and whether that standard is itself sound. In VII. 12 Aristotle attempts to cope with this second and more fundamental difficulty by outlining ways to compensate for the shortcomings of moral virtue in

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securing one's happiness: the best regime must be militarily secure, unified, and devoted to providential gods. The Best Regime and the Good Life (VII. 13-15)

The introduction of the gods into the best regime is a kind of watershed, and after it Aristotle makes a new beginning: 'It is necessary to speak about the regime itself, both out of whom and of what sorts [of persons] the city that is to be blessed and nobly governed should be constituted' (VII. 13, beg.) That Aristotle still thinks it necessary to address this question is odd, since the whole of VII.8-12 concerns the ordering of office in the best regime, the most obvious task of a city's regime (1328b25-33), and at the end of VII.7 Aristotle clearly indicates that he has spoken sufficiently about the sorts of persons who are to make up the best regime's citizen-body (1328al7-18). One may suppose that, in returning to the question of 'the regime itself and its composition, Aristotle wishes to add to or revise his preceding remarks. In fact, the end to which his best regime is devoted is about to undergo a fundamental transformation. The nature of this transformation becomes clearest by comparing Aristotle's restatement here of the basis of rule in the best regime with his earlier account (compare 1332b29-42 with VII.9, esp. 1328b33-9 and 1329a2-9). In the earlier version Aristotle had stressed that, prudence being the product of maturity, it is right for the older citizens to fill the authoritative political offices, the younger and therefore more powerful the military offices. In the present account this same arrangement is choiceworthy because it alone is sufficient to restrain the hoplites from demanding their share in rule rather than awaiting their own maturity, based as it is on the obvious and therefore non-controversial difference in age between ruler and ruled. The arrangement is praiseworthy because it is conducive to civil stability. It is safe. 'No one is indignant or believes that he is superior when ruled on the basis of age, especially when he will receive his share in return upon attaining the requisite age' (1332b38—41). While this consideration was present in the earlier account (1329a9-12), it was not the fundamental consideration, as here. It now seems that the older citizens should rule whether or not they possess prudence - and if age is a prerequisite of prudence, it is hardly a guarantee of it -just as the soldiers must be given rule in their turn whether or not they come to be prudent. The ordering of rule Aristotle describes wishes to provide for a perfect natural aristocracy, but it

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must in practice accommodate itself both to the scarcity of those fit to rule wisely and to the claims to rule of those who, possessed of arms, cannot safely be ignored. Considerations of merit based on natural capacity to rule must give way in the political community to the demands of civil stability or peace. If moral virtue seems to have been dropped as the defining characteristic of the best regime18 what takes its place, apart from calculations concerning civil peace? One clue is supplied by comparing the formuladon of the task initially guiding this section - namely that 'it is necessary to investigate how a man becomes morally serious [spoudaios]' - with the one that, in its new form, will guide the remainder: 'this would have to be a matter of concern for the legislator, namely how men become good1 (compare 1332a35-6 with 1333al4-15; emphasis added). This distinction recalls that between the 'serious' citizen and the 'good' human being in III.4 and therewith the difference between a political and a transpolitical criterion of excellence (compare Develin 1973, 71-9). The importance of some notion of human goodness thus seems to ascend in proportion as that of moral virtue descends. And while Aristotle never addressed adequately the 'target' at which the education to seriousness should aim, he chooses to make clear the corresponding target or aim related to 'goodness.' That target is theoretical virtue: Two parts of the soul have been distinguished of which one has reason in itself, the other does not in itself but is capable of hearkening to reason. We assert that it is in accordance with the virtues of these parts that a man is said to be in some way good. It is not unclear to those who make the distinctions as we do in which of these two [virtues] the end is more to be found. For always what is worse is for the sake of what is better - this is equally clear in both artificial and natural things - and that which possesses reason is better. This also has been divided in two, in accordance with our usual manner: the one part is practical reason, the other theoretical. It is clear, then, that this part [of the soul] must be divided in this way. (1333a16-27)

Aristotle proceeds to expand on the superiority of things rational to non- or sub-rational, on the one hand, and the superiority of theoretical to practical reason, on the other: 'And we shall assert that actions must be analogous [to the division in the parts of the soul] and that the more choiceworthy [actions] belong to what is better by nature for those capable of attaining either all of them or the two [lesser parts]' (1333a27-9] The two 'lesser parts' here are the simply nonrational part

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of the soul, on the one hand, and that possessing practical reason, on the other. The highest part of the soul thus is or possesses theoretical reason, and the action or activity belonging to it is best. One can now see the political consequences of this: Life too has been divided into occupation and leisure and war and peace; of matters involving action some are directed toward necessary and useful things, other toward noble things. Concerning these things there must of necessity be the same choice as in the case of the parts of the soul and their actions: war must be for the sake of peace, occupation for the sake of leisure, necessary and useful things for the sake of noble things. The statesman must legislate, therefore, looking to all these things in the case both of the parts of the soul and of their actions, but particularly to the things that are better and possess to a greater degree the ends. And he should legislate in the same way in connection with the ways of life and the divisions among activities. For one should be capable of being occupied and going to war, but should remain at peace and be at leisure, and one should act to attain necessary and useful things, but noble things more so. (1333a30-1333b3) We now see that the end of the best community is the enjoyment of leisure properly understood (see also 1334a3-10). The goal of the lives of the citizens of the best regime thus changes from the concern for selfcontained 'theoretical reflections' in the manner of the god or 'whatever it is that keeps this All together' (VII. 1-3), to the performance of morally virtuous deeds supported by the belief in active, providential gods (VII.4-12), to the enjoyment of noble leisure (VII. 13 and following) . This means among other things that for the best regime to exist, 'the virtues contributing to leisure must be present': although leisure was said previously to be a necessary means 'with a view to the inculcation of virtue and to political actions,' leisure is now the goal to which the moral virtues have become means (compare 1334al3-14, 16-17 with 1329al-2). The moral virtues are now choiceworthy only insofar as they contribute to leisure properly understood. Aristotle may argue explicitly in VII. 1-3 that the political life is superior to the philosophic, but - as VII. 1-3 anticipates - he comes eventually to depict a political life that is as philosophic as possible and that is judged in terms of a philosophic standard: as theoretical virtue is superior to moral virtue, so leisure is superior to occupation. To put this another way, Aristotle judges political life ultimately in terms of 'goodness' rather than 'seriousness,' the former being determined by at least a provisional sketch of the human soul. This shift from 'seriousness' to 'goodness' is therefore

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of crucial importance for Aristotle's argument as a whole because it amounts to a shift from moral to theoretical virtue as the standard by which to judge both cities and human beings. Leisure and Theoretical Virtue I suggest, then, that Aristotle alters the focus of his best regime from the performance of morally virtuous deeds to the enjoyment of leisure properly understood, in accordance with what he argues is the supremacy of theoretical to practical virtue. But what is the precise relation between theoretical virtue and leisure? In the list of the various virtues necessary to securing and enjoying leisure, Aristotle mentions 'philosophy,' and it would therefore seem that philosophy is but a means to leisure (1334a23 and context). On the basis of Aristotle's remarks in the Nicomachean Ethics, however, it would seem that leisure is with greater justification seen as a prerequisite to philosophy or contemplation, for contemplation alone is loved for its own sake or is an end in itself (consider, e.g., EN 1177bl-2). While the various virtues thus contribute to the possibility of 'leisure,' leisure itself seems to be ancillary to philosophy. To put this another way, leisure is the end of the lives of the citizens of the best regime but it is not the end of human life simply. The noble appreciation of beautiful things that is evidently to be the focus of the leisured conduct of one's life (diagoge)19 in the best regime is informed by the philosophic preference for rest over occupation, but it does not share the same goal as the philosophic life, namely wisdom or a discursive understanding of the whole in terms of natural necessity. As Aristotle asserts in Book VIII, it is inappropriate for the citizens of the best regime to pursue the understanding of the liberal sciences to the point of'precision' (1337bl5-l7). Leisure is a step in the direction of philosophy but it is not philosophy. The cultivation of leisure is only a halfsolution to the problem of the life concerned with moral or political virtue, and to the extent that the citizen's soul will be concerned with something other than the true end, it will remain torn or in turmoil. The best regime is best only insofar as it most fosters this politically feasible reflection of the philosophic life that supplies to the citizen-body the most satisfying life possible within the context or confines of the political community. The fact that the best regime is otherwise deeply flawed does not constitute a criticism of Aristotle's politics; all to the contrary, that fact constitutes Aristotle's criticism of politics. The discussion of 'leisure' in Book VII is arguably the peak of the Pol-

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itics, not because it outlines the genuinely satisfactory end of life but because it points to the true peak, the truly satisfying and altogether private activity of philosophic contemplation. Aristotle's discussion of the best regime as a whole is meant to show to those who are moved by the concern to make political life as good as possible that the hope hinging on politics - the hope, namely, of finding one's happiness through the participation in a just community - can in the end be satisfied only by participating in the philosophic life. This is not to deny, of course, that a political community and the goods it makes possible are necessary prerequisites to the best life, but the tendency or temptation to make theoria essentially political is, it seems to me, mistaken, obscuring as it does the suprapolitical character of the peak of Aristotle's moral and political philosophizing. Aristotle goes on in Book VIII to prescribe the purgative or 'cathartic' effect of music as a kind of palliative for the shortcomings of political life; the distance by which leisure falls short of philosophy is made up for, in a manner, by music broadly understood. As will be clear in the next section, however, this musical catharsis is a further step away from reason or philosophy, for music at its most serious proves very much to be linked with belief in the gods. I cannot do more than indicate those features of Aristotle's complex treatment of music that bear most directly on my theme. Music and the Health of the Citizen's Soul

Let us begin with the first of what prove to be three enumerations of the ends of a musical education.20 It is possible that one should share in music for the sake of either 1) play and rest, 2) moral character, or 3) leisure (diagoge) and prudence (1339al6-21, 1339a24 and context, 1339a25-6). Concerning the first, Aristotle argues as follows: 'Now that one should not teach the young [music] for the sake of play is clear, for those who are learning it are not at play: learning is accompanied by pain' (1339a26-8). Since learning music is painful rather than pleasant, it cannot be for the sake of inherently pleasant play. Aristotle does not now comment on the relation between music and moral character, as one would expect, but rather on the third possibility enumerated, that of leisure (diagoge) and prudence: 'Moreover, it is inappropriate to grant leisure (diagoge), at any rate, to children and to those of such an age, for the end [telos] is improper for anything incomplete [ateleiY (1339a29-31). If the musical education of the young cannot be for the

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sake of leisure (diagoge), one might nevertheless hold that children should take music seriously in order that it may improve the character of their leisure (diagoge) when 'complete,' that is, as adults. At this suggestion, there erupts what appears to be at best a tangential debate concerning the merits of having children learn to play musical instruments as opposed to acquiring what we might today call 'musical appreciation.' Aristotle himself seems to side with those - the Spartans in particular - who argue against the learning of musicianship, that is, against 'doing' rather than understanding or judging alone (1339a2-4; compare however VIII.6, beg.). This tangential quarrel moves so much to the fore that it all but swallows up the discussion of the second of the three aims of a musical education, that of the improvement of moral character: 'The same question [as to whether one should learn to play instruments oneself] holds even if it [music] has the capacity to improve moral habits. For why should they themselves learn [to play] and not, by listening to others, be capable of rejoicing therein and judging correctly?' (1339a41-1339bl). This first enumeration in VIII.5 of the possible ends of a musical education takes its bearings exclusively by the highest attainable end for a human being or by the fact that man's true end is theoretical. The statement of the third and highest end, that of diagoge - the stand-in for philosophy in the city that in the present context is said to be the end of man - is here given its most intellectual formulation: 'leisure (diagoge) and prudence' (1339a25-26). In this same context, 'liberal leisure (diagoge)' is also linked with 'contentedness' (euemeria 1339b4-5), that is, with that state of soul claimed by the critic of political life in VII. 1-3 to be impeded by participation in politics (1324a38). And to repeat, Aristotle seems to agree with those who advocate the purely 'theoretical' appreciation of music; he goes so far here as to adduce the example of Zeus who does not deign to play but rather is played to. Aristotle makes a new beginning in the course of VIII.5 and offers the second enumeration of the goals of a musical education: 'But perhaps it is necessary to make a further investigation concerning these things later. The first inquiry is whether or not one should make a place for music in education and what its capacity in regard to the three things mentioned is, namely education, play, and leisure (diagoge)' (1339blO14). Aristotle now suggests that music 'is reasonably arranged with a view to all of these and seems to share [in all]' (1339bl4-15). Play is for the sake of rest, and rest must be pleasant; the pleasure music naturally affords is therefore reasonably a part of play. Similarly, since it is agreed

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that leisure (diagoge) should possess not only the noble but also the pleasant, and all agree that music belongs among the most pleasant things, it is clear that music should adorn leisure (diagoge) as well (1339bl6-21). The remarkably more accommodating tone Aristotle takes here is the result of the following view: 'All the pleasures that are harmless are appropriate not just with a view to the end [telos] but also with a view to rest. And while it rarely happens that human beings attain the end, they frequently are at rest and make use of play not for some further purpose but on account of the pleasure it affords. It would [thus] be useful to take rest in the pleasures that arise from this [i.e., music]' (1339b25-31; emphasis added). Whereas in the first enumeration of VIII.5 Aristotle had calculated the proper place of music by looking only at the end or completion of human beings, in the second enumeration he takes his bearings by the fact that 'human beings rarely attain the end.' The majority of human beings, that is, are cut off from the self-contained pleasure and happiness said to accompany the philosophic life. For political human beings who as such are 'occupied' most of the time, there is always the sense of something lacking, a constant striving toward a never-realized goal: 'the one who is occupied is so for the sake of an end which is absent, but happiness is an end which all suppose is not accompanied by pain but rather by pleasure' (1338a4-6; consider EN 1177b4 and following). While in the first enumeration 'leisure (diagoge) and prudence' loomed large as 'the end' and moral character was all but absent, in the second enumeration leisure (diagoge) in its brief appearance is equated with 'social gatherings' (1339b22-3), and the topic of music in its relation to character takes up the rest of the chapter. To put this another way, 'education' in this second enumeration takes the place of 'moral character' in the first but seems to include nothing more than the habituation to moral virtue (compare 1340a5 and following with 1339a21-5 and 41 and following). We must pause at this point to raise the question of how a sound musical education helps to form noble characters. By making use of those rhythms and harmonies in which are found 'particularly close likenesses to the genuine natures of anger and gentleness, and further of courage and moderation and all their opposites, as well as the rest of the moral virtues' (1340al8-21), we may experience through music the variety of passions most associated with virtue and learn to do so in a manner appropriate to free human beings. Properly conducted, a musical education refines and ennobles the passions. This explanation of the utility

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of a musical education does not quite account, however, for the examples with which Aristotle begins of the effects of the tunes of Olympus21 and the imitations of those tunes,22 the former instilling 'divine inspiration' or 'enthusiasm,' the latter feelings 'sympathetic' to that inspiration (1340a7 and following). There seems to be another function performed by music quite apart from the educative refinement suggested. Indeed, while the aulos has no place in education proper because it impedes logos, both in the sense that one cannot speak while playing it and in the sense that it is most inclined to induce in those who listen to it a frenzied, alogon state of soul (1341a21-2, 1341b2-8; compare 1342bl-3 with 1340b4—5), nevertheless there are 'right times' or 'opportune moments' to hear it played, namely when 'catharsis rather than learning' is required - the first appearance in the Politics of this important term (1341a21-4).23 Those human beings who require 'catharsis rather than learning' feel most deeply and urgently the exposed character of their own happiness and that of their loved ones, feelings present to all souls but in widely varying degrees (1342a4-6). To experience the extreme state of 'possession' that certain 'sacred' and 'frenzy-inducing' tunes induce is evidently to believe that one is as close as possible to the gods, the only agents of delivery from the fears and worries of this life (1340b4-5, 1341a22, 1342a7-ll). The resulting 'catharsis' seems to be a calming of the greatest disquiet of the virtuous soul, a temporary release from the concerns accompanying the life of virtue and self-sacrifice. Not least among these is the fear of one's own death, the occurrence and consequences of which are known only to gods. Since music is held to be a means of access to the gods, the saying of Musaeus makes sense: '"For mortals to sing is most pleasant"' (1339b22; emphasis added). To a limited degree, then, the catharsis Aristotle here describes and makes a place for in the best city actually performs the function of the gods. And while it is true that children are not to learn to produce such frenzied music themselves, it appears that the city as a whole, men and the women, the citizens and the non-citizens, may experience the musical performances in question (consider 1342al8—22). There certainly are no restrictions here comparable to those in the section of VII. 17 treating of comedy (1336b20 and context).24 Political life seems to require what one might call tragic frenzy to purge, if only for a time, the apprehensions and disappointments accompanying that life. Although Aristotle denies us the expected discussion of the education of the intellect by means of argument (logos), he does discuss an alogon state of 'possession.'25

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According to the third and final enumeration of the ends of a musical education, one may make use of music 'for the sake of education, catharsis ... and, third, with a view to leisure (diagoge}, for the relaxation and the rest from strain' (1341b38-41). 'Play'drops out of the list and is replaced by 'catharsis,' and this seems reasonable since the functions of each are similar: catharsis provides a necessary respite from the exertions associated with moral virtue and is needed especially by those given to pitying, fearing, and to the passions in general, as Aristotle indicates (1342all-15). Moreover, since we have left leisure (diagoge) in its highest sense far behind, it is here given its least intellectual formulation; so far from being linked with prudence and the end of man, it is now indistinguishable from 'relaxation and rest.' One may say, in sum, that the whole discussion of music in VIII attempts to cope with the limits, seen in VII, to even the political life that 'accords with what one would pray for.'26 Conclusion As we have seen, Aristotle walks a fine line in his political prescriptions. He attempts to make more of a place in political life for philosophy or science, above all by defending political life in terms of nature, and he encourages citizens and statesmen to rely on sober calculation to solve a community's difficulties. Yet Aristotle refuses to go so far as to banish the gods, even or precisely providential gods, from the best city. The necessity of the reliance on the belief in them stems evidently from the complex attachment to justice or the common good that marks every community - indeed, without which there can be no community. More precisely, the attachment to justice characteristic of the philosopher is unavailable to all, for the philosopher appears to make no demands on the world, at any rate none that would require anything in addition to those goods that are readily attainable privately or in common, among them the contentedness accompanying contemplation and the civil stability and companionship characteristic of healthy political life. In his account of the 'best regime,' Aristotle outlines the best, most truly satisfying life possible in and through politics, while he also indicates the limits of even that life. His account thereby encourages the studies necessary to a reasoned and politically responsible turn to philosophy.

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Conclusion

Cela est bien dit... mais ilfaut cultiver notrejardin. Voltaire, Candide

Plato and Aristotle deserve the name of 'enlightenment' philosophers at least to this extent: both sought to demonstrate that the life of philosophy is compatible with or at any rate not harmful to healthy politics. Indeed, in their respective portraits of the 'best regime,' both tried to earn for philosophy a political respect it had largely been without. Such respect required in the first place that philosophy defend, in its manner, the most deeply held beliefs of the political community. Plato's Republic includes a refinement of the Homeric theology and culminates in a description of the self-subsisting Ideas, the highest beings of the best city; Aristotle's inclusion of 'providential' gods in his best regime constitutes a recognition of the necessity of their worship. In brief, classical political philosophy included as a matter of course an official political theology. To be sure, even as they sought to promote that theology, Plato and Aristotle indicated its limitations and so maintained a critical distance from it. They walked a thin line between the demands of political health and those of private clarity, the former requiring a political theology that can degenerate in such a way as to threaten the latter: the danger of 'Egypt,' of the iron-clad rule of priests, is an ever-present possibility (consider Plato Laws 656dl-657b8, 660cl, 799al-b8; compare esp. 657a5 and 747c4). But for all that, neither philosopher would have thought it wise to venture as far as Bayle and Montesquieu did in banishing religious belief from the political community. There are three reasons, it seems to me, for their greater reluctance.

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In the first place, Plato and Aristotle held that the goodness of justice would become problematic in the absence of the belief in gods who reward and punish the deserving. For what the political community may demand of us, in the name either of its survival or of its highest aspirations, is not in every case obviously conducive to one's own good; yet to be devoted to the common good, precisely insofar as one believes it to be truly 'common,' is to retain some concern also for one's own good, and the perceived nobility of an action, elevated in part by the conviction that the highest beings are cognizant of it, can best bridge any possible gaps between goods public and private. Willing compliance with the demands of political justice is more likely to be seen in a community of believers than in one of atheists or 'indifferenlists.' Moreover, 'indifferentists' and even atheists will maintain some concern for justice. They will therefore be likely to succumb on occasion to the passionate demand for restitution or revenge and hence also to appeals of a kind that would make the prescribed theologies of Plato and Aristotle seem mild indeed. Those who claim to know that the modern West will never be tempted by such appeals must rely either on an unquestioned - but questionable - belief in progress or on knowledge that surpasses the merely human. In addition, the classical political philosophers could not have consented to Montesquieu's view that human beings need only 'to preserve, feed and clothe themselves, and to carry out all the actions of society' (Spirit of the Laws XXTV.ll) in order to be happy: the longing to break the bonds of our poor and hungry selves, to dedicate our lives to something other and higher and greater than our immediate needs, is at the core of human nature and indeed of our humanity. Rather than try to diminish or denigrate it (as 'vainglory,' for example), the ancients sought to elicit and guide it. A single reading of the Apology of Socrates is sufficient to indicate Plato's extraordinary power over, based on extraordinary insight into, that in us which cannot be reduced to the fear of violent death, for example. And however one might name this aspect of our humanity, it is surely linked with, if it is not identical to, our concern with the divine or infinite. The very many contemporaries Left and Right who express dissatisfaction with the Enlightenment do so in large measure on account of the perceived diminution in human greatness effected by it, and in this way they wittingly or unwittingly supply further incentive to approve of the greater caution of the ancients, which appeared for centuries to be mere timidity or indifference. Finally, the classical philosophers refused to go as far as Bayle and

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Montesquieu in their enlightenment efforts also for the sake of philosophy, and it is this consideration that must be stressed. The best regime of classical political science owed its status as best ultimately to the richness of the soil it supplied for the life of the mind. This suggestion is of course paradoxical to us: is not the best city of Plato's Republic, or that of his Laws, 'totalitarian' in the extreme and hence 'repressive'? Even accepting this characterization, we would have to think through Isaiah Berlin's observation that 'integrity, love of truth, and fiery individualism grow at least as often in severely disciplined communities or under military discipline, as in more tolerant or indifferent societies' (Berlin 1958, 13-15; see also Pangle 1992, 212-13). But is Plato's best city totalitarian or repressive in fact? Although it surely does not permit 'individuality' in the sense of the (more or less) unfettered pursuit of one's perceived interest or felt passion, it therefore also forestalls the restless dissatisfaction and vague sense of unease that so mark contemporary society - to say nothing of the fact, observed at least as early as Tocqueville, that the individuality promoted in the United States results in practice in an amazing homogeneity of interests, convictions, and ways of life.1 Above all, those best suited by nature to true individuality or independence of mind would be helped immeasurably by the politics of Plato's city for the very reason that makes it seem so strange to us, namely the comprehensiveness of the convictions citizens as citizens must be taught and publicly avow. By instilling opinions about birth, life, and death, about the genesis and fate of the universe, about things noble and base, just and unjust - in brief, about all things divine and properly human - classical political life at its best made indifference virtually impossible; the citizen as citizen necessarily took some stance towards the greatest human questions. Indeed, indifference in matters of this kind would have seemed inhuman to earlier or premodern observers. According to Moses Maimonides, for example, those who 'have no doctrinal belief, neither one based on speculation nor one that accepts the authority of tradition,' would have the status of 'irrational animals': 'To my mind they do not have the rank of men, but have among the beings a rank lower than the rank of man but higher than the rank of the apes. For they have the external shape and lineaments of a man and a faculty of discernment that is superior to that of the apes' (Guide of the Perplexed 111.51 [618-19]). To be sure, no law-bred opinion deserves the name of knowledge, and many of the lawful opinions in question were false, as Plato and Aristotle themselves insisted. But even a false opinion about a funda-

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mental question has the decisive advantage over self-satisfied indifference that it can in the best cases prompt some to become puzzled by the very opinions they hold and so to think about them. Opinions can lead to knowledge; indifference leads nowhere. And as one sees in Thucydides' great work, from the complex matrix of opinions characteristic of classical political life there in fact arose a political rationalism profoundly aware of and intent on meeting the challenge that piety poses to rationalism. As the politics of the ancient city was guided in no small part by divine law, so the philosophy that took root there came to understand the necessity of the refutation of that law if rationalism or philosophy is to vindicate its claim to be the best way of life for a human being. In sum, then, the classical philosophers refused to 'enlighten' the world in the manner of Bayle and Montesquieu for the following reasons: to protect the health of political life by defending, in the course of their political theologies, the noble concern for justice that cannot be reduced to calculations of self-interest; to enrich and protect the happiness of those who, with very little interest in or contact with philosophy, sought to live lives elevated and guided by concern for the transcendent or infinite; and, finally, to foster a robust life of the mind, one that would be more likely to grow out of a political order that avoids those restraints on the mind imposed not only by 'Egyptian' severity but also by easygoing 'indifferentism.' None of this is to deny that the kind of political community founded in part by Bayle and Montesquieu is responsible for very great goods here and now. The liberal republic is surely distinguished by its security and stability, by its recognition of the essential dignity of every human being, and by the material comforts that its citizens enjoy, together with an extraordinary freedom of speech and deed. And yet to make full or proper use of such freedom, we must first become aware of the price at which it was purchased. In order to quell the political tumult that had plagued the 'petty Republics' of antiquity (Federalist 9), the modern liberal state saw fit to secure principally those conditions of communal life needed to avoid the incontestable summum malum - violent death while relegating to the private 'sphere' the necessarily controversial questions concerning the summum bonum; to include in the class of public goods much more than prudent security is to be highly imprudent. As we have seen, however, the traditional understanding of the summum bonum in every non-liberal community was (and is) necessarily bound up with opinions about the divine, the coming into being of the universe, and our place in that universe. In the end, it was only by 'detach-

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ing the soul from religion' that liberalism could secure the stability and liberty it sought, and the best way to 'attack a religion' proved to be 'by favor, by the commodities of life, by the hope of fortune; not by what draws attention to it, but by what makes one forget it; not by what makes one indignant but by what leads to indifference when other passions act on our souls and those that religion inspires are silent.' This public and therefore respectable indifference to matters of religion eventually made it possible and perhaps necessary for the citizen of the liberal republic to believe, with Thomas Jefferson, that 'it does me no injury for my neighbor to say there are twenty gods or no god. It neither picks my pocket nor breaks my leg' (Jefferson 1984, 285).2 And given the link between comprehensive opinions and the life of the mind, the first great consequence of the modern Enlightenment proved to be the demotion or denigration of that life. As I have indicated, Bayle and Montesquieu seem aware of, and yet untroubled by, this prospect. As for contemporary political theorists, perhaps the most striking difference between them and Bayle and Montesquieu is that the former are largely indifferent to the theological question that so greatly animated the latter. It is true that this development might well be viewed favourably by Montesquieu and Bayle, but a growing number of scholars today also proclaim the collapse of the very reason these philosophers had sought to liberate. I suggest that, in what has been called the postmodern age, we are suffering from the effects of the very ailment that felled the Enlightenment, namely, its failure to meet the challenge of the pious view of the world in a philosophically adequate manner. Few in the academy today have a robust confidence in the possibility of a reasoned grasp of anything, let alone of everything. All that seems left to us is the concern for morality, for right action, albeit a morality shorn of 'foundations.' It is for this reason that political thought today has not always withstood the temptation to become an explicitly antiphilosophic and highly moralistic 'theorizing' that, strange as it may seem, is closer in tone and temperament to the pious opponents of Bayle and Montesquieu than to the philosophers themselves: 'the religious instinct is indeed in vigorous growth - but... it rejects the theistic answer with profound mistrust' (Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil #53 [Nietzsche 1973], 62). One need add to this remark only the observation that a handful of philosophers, arguably the boldest and most influential, have recently overcome this mistrust and thus find themselves calling on the gods for solace. So it is that we have come full circle: the momentous efforts of the Enlightenment to demote the concern for piety and hence to make

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political life more rational have collapsed because reason itself is said to be nothing more than a pious dream, a new manifestation of faith. And it is thought to be a new kind of faith ultimately because it is unable to keep at bay, let alone refute, the older manifestations of faith. Although no inquiry into the stages of its fall can make of reason what it is not, such an inquiry may well lead some to rethink for themselves precisely what reason is - its limits as well as its now-forgotten capacities. And since we whose sensibilities have been formed by the world the Enlightenment brought into being are much less alive than were all previous advocates of reason to the challenge that religious faith poses to the possibility of science or philosophy, a study of the origins of enlightenment can help us to recover the meaning, indeed the very existence, of that challenge. The study of classical political science in particular is helpful, not for the sake of any political reform - the classical philosophers aimed ultimately at individual, not political, change - but to counteract the overwhelming indifference, fostered by modern liberalism, to serious thoughts about God or 'whatever it is that keeps this All together' (Politics 1326a32-3) which in every non-liberal time and place were and are held to be of the first importance for human beings as human beings. Once alerted to this deficiency, moreover, there is no manifest reason why we cannot then revive for ourselves the fundamental debate between the two competing accounts of the world, the philosophic and the pious; there is no manifest reason, that is, why we cannot make an attempt to secure, on an individual or private basis, the clarity of mind that the core of classical political science seems to promise and that is fully compatible with - that is perhaps the noblest use of- liberal freedom. But we can begin to see the merits of the ancient enlightenment only once we set aside the strictly modern presupposition that philosophy receives its highest justification from its moral and political utility. And once we take this step, as the apparent death of the modern Enlightenment permits or requires us to do, we become open to the idea that such enlightenment as is truly to be wished for will look less to political reform than to private enrichment: the highest task of the political rationalism of antiquity, or of the ancient 'enlightenment,' is to make known and defend the possibility of philosophy as an essentially private way of life. The recovery of this classical possibility in the very heart of modern liberal democracy is, it seems to me, both true to the timeless spirit of classical political philosophy and compatible with the peculiarly modern, liberal distinction between the public and private spheres. And contrary to some of its critics, such philosophy is so far

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from posing an active threat to the existing liberal order that it may even prove profoundly useful to it: the life of the mind may yet be a source of deep satisfaction in precisely the private sphere that modern liberalism does so much to protect but that, by its own admission, it cannot adequately inform or guide. In this study I have attempted to sketch the original goals of a necessarily small, but I believe representative, group of enlightenment philosophers, ancient as well as modern, and the principal means by which they hoped to attain those goals. For only by recovering such first-hand awareness can we begin to see with our own eyes whether reason must be abandoned or whether, in one form or another, it has earned and therefore retains the right to be our 'only Star and compass.' And I have tried, not to settle this question, but to reopen it.

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Notes

1: The Contemporary Consensus 1 John Locke, A Letter Concerning Toleration (1689; Locke 1983, 26). 2 See Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan 11.31, end (1651; Hobbes 1968). 3 Immanuel Kant, To Perpetual Peace: A Philosophical Sketch (1795; Kant 1983, 124). 4 See chapter 6 below, beginning. 5 Indeed, however abstruse their analyses of the foundation of Enlightenment rationalism may sometimes be, Horkheimer and Adorno's criticisms of modern culture are generally accessible and gripping. Adorno never forgot (and seems never to have fully recovered from) the experience of living for a time in southern California, an experience imposed on him subsequent to his flight from Hitler, and his scathing analyses of popular radio, film, and television - of Donald Duck and Betty Boop among others - make for fascinating reading (1999, 120-67). 2: The Project of Enlightenment and the Foundation of Modern Political Rationalism: Notes on Bayle and Montesquieu 1 This priority of the political (or moral) to the theoretical, while it does not by itself require or justify postmodernism's rejection of reason and 'foundationalism,' helps to explain its rise, and it must remain an open question whether this difficulty will one day call forth a theocratic response more vigorous than has been seen for a very long time in the West. 2 A complete and reliable English translation of Montesquieu's Spirit of the Laws, for example, did not appear until 1989 (Montesquieu 1989), and only one comprehensive commentary on it has been published in English,

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Notes to pages 14-18

Thomas L. Pangle's Montesquieu's Philosophy of Liberalism (1973). As for Montesquieu's lesser writings, perhaps scholars will be inspired to rectify the relative neglect of them by the publication of Diana Schaub's important study of the Persian Letters (1995). Voltaire 1877-80, XX: 197; IX:468; XXXIX:37. For Bayle's influence on Voltaire, see Mason 1963a. See Mornet 1910, 463; Rex 1965, x; and Gay 1967, 293. Diderot 1765,111:613. Consider also: 'The moderns have some men - such as Bayle, Descartes, Leibniz, Newton - whom they can, and perhaps with success, set up against the most astonishing geniuses of antiquity' (Diderot 1765,11:369). To give just a few examples: Leibniz's Theodicy is in large part a response to Bayle, and Herder describes Bayle as the greatest French thinker of his time, who 'set in motion the developments of the century' (Herder 1967, 23:86, cited by Weinstein 1992, 1-2). In her youth, Catherine the Great spent two years studying Bayle's Dictionary, and Frederick the Great made an abridged version of it in order to popularize the work (see Retat 1971, 129 and 310). Thomas Jefferson included the Dictionary in the one hundred books forming the basis of the Library of Congress (Popkin 1967, 261), and Benjamin Franklin 'was so struck by Bayle's [Various Thoughts] that he published a series of articles in the Pennsylvania Gazette in favor of Bayle's thesis that a society without religion could be as ethical as a society of believers' (Weinstein 1992, 7; see also Aldridge 1967, 89-90, 124). Helpful general statements of Bayle's place in the Enlightenment include Gazes 1905, 69-79; Hazard 1946, 44-5; Popkin 1959 and 1967; Gay 1967, 290-5; Retat 1971; and Labrousse 1983. I have used the critical edition of A. Prat and Pierre Retat (Bayle 1994). Except for the 'Avis' of 1682 and the 'Avertissemenf of 1699, which are cited by page number, all references are to sections of the Various Thoughts. Translations are my own. The best historical account of the comet in question is Robinson 1916. When summarizing Bayle, I simply follow him in not capitalizing the pronouns referring to God; so too I capitalize both 'God' and 'Gods.' Compare Bayle's initial contention - that 'idolatry is at least as abominable as atheism' (§114) - with his eventual conclusion: 'idolatry is worse than atheism' (§192, emphasis added). Given the breadth of Bayle's attack on both miracles and religion, I cannot agree with the view that Bayle set his critical sights only or even principally on Catholicism, as distinguished from Calvinism (see, above all, Rex 1965, 30-74). I therefore agree with the older generation of Bayle scholars (to say nothing of the philosophes) according to whom Bayle denies the truth of

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revealed religion as such, however great may have been the lengths he was willing to go to conceal this fact:' [Bayle] has, not only an irreligious mind that rebels against feelings of the supernatural, but the taste for aggression, and for polemics, and for irreligious jesting. Not only does he not cease -1 do not say to deny God, providence, and the immortality of soul, for he indeed does refrain from denying them; I say: not only does he not cease subtly and captiously to lead his leader to the denial of God, to the misapprehension of providence, and to the conviction that all ends at death, but he also takes pleasure in clearly showing to men - patiently, obstinately, with the calm persistence of a drop of water piercing a rock - that they have no reason to believe in these things ...' (Faguet 1890, 3). See also, inter alia, Robinson 1931, esp. 151-75; Hazard 1935; Mason 1963b; and, most recently, Weinstein 1992. 11 See, for example, §§128; 133; and, in general, the praise of the mores of atheists in §§174-82. Bayle disagrees with Plutarch, his frequent authority, only in that the latter failed to stress the importance of 'morality,' that is, correct action, in weighing the merits of superstition and atheism (§193). 12 It is true that shamelessness is 'more favorable to public society' than either murder or perjury, but this is irrelevant 'before God.' While apparently siding with 'sound theology,' Bayle clearly indicates that the rank the Bible assigns the various sins has no foundation other than the brute fact of God's having thus commanded it. The only reasonable standard by which to judge, namely what is 'favorable to public society,' sets murder as a far worse crime than shamelessness, as do human beings generally (§169). 13 Among the many examples that might be cited, see Diderot 1875,1:259-73 ('De la suffisance de la religion naturelle.'). Consider also: 'the basis, the forgotten basis, of modern free thought, is natural theology. When the decisive battles were waged, not in the nineteenth century, but in the eighteenth and seventeenth, the attempted refutation of miracles ... [was] based on an alleged knowledge of the nature of God - natural theology is the technical name for that' (Strauss 1979a, 116). 14 For other indications of the necessity of miracles to vouch for prophecy, see also §119, end; §136, towards the end; §160. 15 Within the confines of the present discussion, it is impossible to enter into the highly controversial question of Bayle's final view of the power or limits of human reason, that is, his 'scepticism,' especially as regards its consequences for religious faith. It is my contention that, at least during the period in which he wrote the Various Thoughts, Bayle maintained that unaided human reason is able to understand enough of the world to know that the providential, miraculous God of the Bible does not exist. It must

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remain an open question here whether Bayle's later pronouncements of the impotence of human reason and hence the necessity of blind faith were more the product of'policy' than 'sincerity,' to make use of a distinction Bayle employs with regard to Epicurus (§178). I am inclined to accept the former alternative, but the reader is urged to consult the studies of Rex (1965) and Popkin (1959, 1967, and 1979). About this much we can agree: 'the position that Bayle claimed to hold at the end of his career seems rather elusive and hard to classify, let alone defend' (Popkin 1959, 1). In Ce que c'est que la France toute Catholique sous le regne de Louis le Grand (Bayle 1973), Bayle returns to this equation of God with nature, which he there traces to Malebranche: 'I find something so unworthy of a wise intelligence in making so many particular edicts, in advancing and retreating, in going right and going left, in retracting and explaining oneself better - in a word, in living day to day, I mean, in making new regulations at every Council meeting; this, I say, seems to me so far removed from the idea of perfection ... that I begin to believe with this new Philosopher that God acts only through a small number of general laws' (Bayle 1973, 46). Again: 'God, preferring wisdom to all else, prefers that his conduct bear the mark of a wise agent who does not disturb the simplicity and uniformity of his ways in order to avoid a particular disaster, constantly to remedy the evils that happen in the world by opposing himself to the progress of general laws' (Bayle 1973, 62). On the importance of Malebranche to Bayle, consider Rex 1965, 34-40. As for the problem of maintaining liberty in a republic, see §189, end. That Bayle later showed himself open in principle to monarchy should be clear enough from the following remarks: 'the most clearsighted' must admit that no one 'had ever penetrated so well the foundations of polities' as Thomas Hobbes (Dictionnaire, 'Hobbes,' rem. D). On Bayle's debt to Hobbes, see Faguet1890, 18-19. Unless otherwise indicated, all references in this section will be to the Spirit of the Laws by book and chapter and, where a more precise reference is needed, to the pagination of the Pleiade edition (Montesquieu 1949-51). My understanding of the book as a whole is indebted to Pangle 1973. References to the Pensees are by number as these appear in Volume II of the Masson edition of the Oeuvres completes (Montesquieu 1950-5). Translations are my own. When paraphrasing Montesquieu, I follow him in not capitalizing 'God' or the pronouns referring to Him. Montesquieu refers explicitly to Bayle once more: XXVI.3, n.2. Robert Shackleton detects the influence of Bayle also at XXV. 10 and 11 (that a religion once established should not be disturbed and that a multiplicity of reli-

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gions in a state is fine provided religious toleration exists): see Shackleton 1959, 147. One might note in this connection also the agreement between Montesquieu's analysis of the things that attract and attach us to a religion and Bayle's: compare Spirit of the Laws XXV.2 with, for example, Various Thoughts §§184, 189-90. 21 This bold phrase was a source of trouble for Montesquieu: see Defense, 112930. If I am not mistaken, Montesquieu uses it to characterize only one other philosopher in the Spirit of the Laws, Machiavelli (VI.5, 313; compare Preface, 231, where Montesquieu speaks of, but does not mention by name, certain 'great men' of France, England, and Germany). 22 Consider, in this regard, Montesquieu's portrait of China: XIX. 17-20. 23 Consider here Voltaire's praise of the pacific effects of commerce, especially on religious hatreds, which praise anticipated by a few years Montesquieu's own and is fully in accord with its spirit: 'Enter the London Stock Exchange, that place more respectable than many courts; there you see gathered together deputies of all nations for the sake of the utility of men. There, the Jew, the Mohammedan, and the Christian treat one another as if they were of the same religion and give the name 'infidels' only to those who go bankrupt; there, the Presbyterian trusts the Anabaptist, and the Anglican accepts the promise of the Quaker. Upon leaving these pacific and free assemblies, some go to the synagogue, others to have a drink; this one goes to get himself baptized in a large tank in the name of the Father by the Son of the Holy Spirit; this one has his son's foreskin cut off and has some Hebrew words that he does not understand mumbled over his infant. Still others go to their church to await the inspiration of God, hats on their heads, and all are content' ('Sixieme Lettre,' Lettresphilosophiques [Voltaire 1964]). 24 The best discussions of Book I are Lowenthal 1959 and Shackleton 1961. My analysis differs from these works principally in that I stress rather more than they the (and-) theological implications of Montesquieu's argument. 25 On the peculiarity of Montesquieu's description of law as a relation, see Shackleton 1961, 244-6. 26 See also his characterization of'the law of nature' in X.3, 378; on the interference of reason and the passions with human procreation, consider XXIII. 1,683. 27 See XXIV. 11 and IV.8, as well as XI.6 (407: on the undesirability of an 'excess of reason'). If I am not mistaken, Montesquieu's only extended praise of reason in the Spirit of the Laws occurs at the end of his poetic invocation of the Muses: 'You want me to speak to reason; it is the most perfect, the most noble, and the most exquisite of our senses' (XX.l, 585). But even apart from the fact that this praise is found in a poem intended to make pleasant

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and charming the truths Montesquieu has discerned, which pleasure and charm evidently stem from some source other than reason, Book XX as a whole is dedicated to elevating commerce as a way of life uniquely suited to harnessing our natural passions in a way compatible with the new republicanism: reason is essentially in the service of political life and hence in that of the passions. 3: On the Possibility of a Return to Premodern Rationalism: Alasdair Maclntyre and Leo Strauss 1 According to Maclntyre, it is clear that 'if we are to make a new start to the enquiry in order to put Aristotelianism to the question all over again, it will be necessary to consider Aristotle's own moral philosophy not merely as it is expressed in key texts in his own writings, but as an attempt to inherit and to sum up a good deal that had gone before and in turn as a source of stimulus to much later thought' (Maclntyre 1984, 119, emphasis added). 2 But consider: 'As to whether we can even contrive a reopening of genuine public debate about rival conceptions of the good in contemporary America, let alone bring such a debate to an effective conclusion, the evidence, as I understand it, suggests that we ought to be as deeply pessimistic as is compatible with a belief in Divine Providence. But as to that remaking of ourselves and our own local practices and institutions through a better understanding of what it is that, in an Aristotelian and Thomistic perspective, the unity of moral theory and practice now require of us, we have as much to hope for as we have to do, and not least within the community of this university' (Maclntyre 1990a, 360-1). 3 See, e.g., Strauss 1953, esp. chap. 1; Strauss 1988c, chap. 2; Strauss 1952. 4 See, e.g., Pangle 1983; Pangle and Tarcov 1987; Bolotin 1994; Momigliano 1994. Among the most recent examples of serious (and very diverse) readings of Strauss are: Pippin 1992; Green 1993; Orr 1995; Lampert 1996; Zuckert 1996 and Behnegar 1997. Recent collections of essays on Strauss include Udoff 1991; Deutsch and Nicgorski 1994; and Novak 1996. 5 See Rosen 1987; Drury 1988; and Lampert 1996. For this suggestion applied to Strauss's reading of Maimonides in particular, see Brague 1991. 6 Unless otherwise indicated, all parenthetical references in this section will be to Rosen's essay (Rosen 1987, 87-140). 7 Rosen is of course concerned to give some purpose to Strauss's return to the classics, but behind Strauss's amazing erudition and (as he believes) subterfuge, Rosen can detect only the wish to cultivate the twentieth-century equivalent of the ancient 'rural aristocrat,' namely 'a special race of academic

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administrators ... acting under the impression that they are wise men' (137; for one of the problems with this suggestion, see Lampert 1996,168n. 1). 8 Strauss stated in a private letter that the new preface to the Spinoza book, 'omitted in a way everything which comes after 1928' (cited in Green 1993, 148). 9 All references to the Guide are by section, chapter, and page number of Shlomo Pines's translation (Maimonides 1963). The reference (11.22 [320]) therefore refers to the twenty-second chapter of the second section, page 320 of the translation. 10 Rosen cites this passage as indicating Strauss's true view (1987 204n. 56). I agree: it is Strauss's statement of the impossibility of leaving things at a mere 'tension' and of any 'harmonization' or 'synthesis' between the two combatants. But there is no reason to conclude on the basis of it alone, as Rosen apparently does, that Strauss despaired of the possibility of an adequate resolution of that tension. 11 Immediately prior to his treatment of providence, Maimonides returns explicitly to the weighing of the doubts and, with it, to the question of the world's eternity (see 111.21, end, and the following sections concerning Job). That providence is a political subject according to Maimonides has been demonstrated by Strauss in an early article (Strauss 1988a). 4: Politics and the Divine in the Ancient Community: On Thucydides' War of the Pelopannesians and Athenians 1 Among the very many studies that might be cited: Romilly 1963, Bruell 1974, Pouncey 1980, Orwin 1994. 2 References are to book, section, and sentence of Thucydides as these appear in the edition of Stuart Jones (Thucydides 1942): III.35.3 thus refers to book three, section thirty-five, sentence three. Where the number of the book is clear from the context, I have omitted it. Readings that deviate from the edition cited are noted, and all translations are my own. 3 The two most important exceptions are Marinatos 1981b and Strauss 1983b. The former, however, maintains that Thucydides was himself more or less orthodox, a view I cannot agree with in the end, and although the latter is helpful in highlighting the many appearances of the divine in Thucydides, it is written in an extremely terse manner that makes it difficult to access. 4 See 1.71.5-6 (Corinthian appeal to oaths sworn), 78.4-5 (Athenian appeal to oaths sworn); II.5.5, 71.2-4; III.56.2, 57.1-2, 58.1, 3,5, 59.2 (Plataean appeal to oaths sworn by Sparta); IV.86.1, 87.1, 2, 88.1 (Brasidas's appeal to oaths apparently sworn by Sparta); V. 30.1, 3 (objection on part of gods or heroes

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as decisive limit on treaties), 47.8 (description of oath sworn in ArgiveAthenian alliance), 50.1 (Elean demand that Sparta swear an oath in the temple of Olympian Zeus); VI. 19.1 (Athenians reminded of their oaths), 72.5 (oaths to be given that the generals elected should command as they see fit), 88.2 (Camarinaeans' appeal to the oath sworn in order to defend their neutrality). See 1.28.2 (the willingness of the Corcyreans to submit their dispute with Corinth to the oracle at Delphi), 103.2 (Sparta's conduct at Ithome guided by prophecy), 118.3 and 123.1 (Sparta sends to Apollo concerning the war); III.20.1 (a plan devised in part by the soothsayer Theaenetos), 92.5 (the Lacedaemonians seek the advice of Apollo concerning a colony in Trachis); V.I6.2 (implied reliance of the Lacedaemonians on the priestess at Delphi), 54.2, 55.3, 116.1 (the importance of favourable sacrifices at border crossings); VI.69.2 (soothsayers bring forward the customary sacrifices in battle); VII.50.4 (strategic guidance supplied by an eclipse and the advice of soothsayers in Sicily); VIII. 1.1. See, e.g., 1.50.5; II.91.2; IV.43.3, 96.1; VI.32.2; VII.44.6 (twice), 69.2, 75.7. 83.4 (all examples of the singing of paeans before, in, or after battle); II.4.2 (ololugei}; VII.71.3 (when the Athenian soldiers are hopeful, they invoke the gods to aid them in battle). See III. 14.1, 28.2, 70.5, 75.3, 5, 79.1; V.60.6; VIII.84.3. For a statement of the general principle involved in seeking refuge in temples, see IV.98.6. 1.20.2 (the tyrant Hipparchus leading the Panathenaic procession near the sanctuary called Leocorium), 132.2 (Pausanias's inscription on a tripod at Delphi); III.3, 56.2, 65.1; IV.5.1; V.I.I, 20.1, 23.4, 41.3, end, 47.10-11, 49, 53, 54.2, 75.2, 5, 76.1; VI.3.1; VII.73.2; VIII.9.1, 10.1 (the political importance of various festivals, altars, sacred days, and the sacred Carneian month). Instances of thanks given to the gods after successes are discussed in the text. My understanding of the 'archaeology' is indebted to Strauss 1964 and 1983b. By enumerating the topics mentioned in III.86-116, one sees this pattern: 'Sicily' (86, beg.) /disaster (87) / 'Sicily' (88, beg.) / disaster (89) / 'Sicily' (90); where one would expect a disaster in 91, one finds instead 'Melos,' that is, a portent of disaster or of sin. 'One must turn [Thucydides] over line byjine and read his hidden thoughts as clearly as his words: there are few thinkers so rich in hidden thoughts.' Friedrich Nietzsche, 'What I Owe to the Ancients,' #2, Twilight of the Idols (Nietzsche 1990), 117. See IV.61.5 and VI.77.1 (his refusal to blame the Athenians because they are simply acting in accord with human nature).

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13 The silence concerning the gods in this second speech is perhaps more striking than that in the first, for in the meantime the Spartans and their allies have not only voted for war themselves, but Apollo has apparently given his sanction: 'The god replied to them, it is said, that victory would belong to those who wage war with all their might, and he said that he himself would aid them, called or uncalled' (1.118.3). Although the wording of the oracle is ambiguous - Apollo does not strictly speaking ssy that he will aid the Lacedaemonians - the utterance was widely held to have been in Sparta's favour, not least in Athens herself (see II.54.4). Archidamus was evidently less certain, and the Spartans make no mention of Apollo or his oracle when they conclude the Peace of Nicias. 14 Consider, for example, the sentiment of Cleon expressed at III.39.2. Cleon must be considered to share the 'Spartan' view of the world, in contrast to his thoroughly Athenian opponent, Diodotus. 15 The title of this section alludes to Cochrane 1929: Thucydides and the Science of History. Among the most important attempts to establish Thucydides' piety are Cornford 1907; Steup in Thucydides 1919, l:lx-lxiii; and Marinates 198la and 1981b. For a helpful summary of the main scholarly views concerning Thucydides' piety, see Marinates 1981b. 16 The 'scientific' Thucydides argues in his own name that earthquakes are the cause of tidal waves or coastal floods, but he does not explain the cause of earthquakes, just as he does not explain the cause (in contrast to the 'look' or 'form') of the plague (111.89; II.47.3 and following, esp. 48.3, 50,1; 51.1; consider also 11.28) 17 Consider the 'erotic' patriotism to which the Athenians succumb: II.43.1 [erastas]; VI. 13.1 [dyserotas], 24.3 [eras]. The Athenians' susceptibility to such appeals may be linked with their continued admiration for justice (1.76.3) and even for naivete (V.105.3). 18 'We must take Thucydides' celebrated eulogy of Nicias ... to articulate the expectations of Nicias himself (Orwin 1994, 139 n. 41). Insofar as Thucydides succeeds in eliciting from his readers a feeling of disappointment or injustice at the fate of Nicias, he permits them to see more clearly their own expectations of the world that are perhaps not so very far from Nicias's own. 5: The Original Understanding of Enlightenment: On the 'Cave' in Plato's Republic 1 Thus Socrates' first presentation in the Republic of the (so-called) doctrine of the Forms or Ideas does not suggest that they are separate from the sensible things of this world but rather that they form a 'partnership' or 'community'

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with those things (compare 511cl-2). In accordance with this, Socrates indicates here that the Forms are 'seen' (476blO, dl, as well as 517cl, 5; compare 507blO and context). For the equation of'form' with 'class,' consider 477cl and 4, as well as 477d8 and el. Compare Socrates' initial list of three forms at 475e9-476a4 with his subsequent one at 479al-8: the good drops out and is replaced by the pious. This substitution suggests that the good cannot be determined by fiat or convention. Adeimantus wrongly supposes that Socrates is speaking of the inquiry into the virtues that followed their psychology, rather than that psychology itself (the neuter plural auta at 504bl must refer to the neuter plural eide at 504a4). It should be noted that, even if one clings to this more down-to-earth understanding of the good, one need not abandon altogether Socrates' assertions that the good is responsible for all knowledge and even for the existence of the things that are known. For if 'every soul' always acts in everything on the basis of some glimpse of or opinion concerning the good, or if our entire interaction with the world has as its motor our concern with what is good, then our very cognizance of the beings around us would also be driven in some way by this concern. And if one, perhaps crucial, aspect of the existence of all the beings around us is to be known - if the existence of a dog in the fullest sense depends on its being known as a dog — then the good could be said to be responsible for the very existence of the things that are known. Given this description of the good and the stress Socrates had laid on the divinity of its counterpart the sun (508a4, 9), it seems reasonable to wonder whether, so far from being a human activity or experience whose goodness can be known by human beings, the good as Socrates now presents it is a god beyond the realm of human beings (consider Glaucon's reaction: 509cl-2, aswellas597b5-8). The distinction indicated may be present in the division between animals and plants (tophuteuon) on the one hand and 'the whole class of artifacts' on the other (510a5-6). Consider also, for example, Socrates' description of the two lowest parts of the divided line:'... as the opinable is to the knowable, so that which is a likeness is to that of which it is a likeness' (510a9-10): the things themselves are knowable. Compare also n. 1 above. Socrates here 'confuses' Glaucon with Adeimantus (519el-3), for it had in fact been Adeimantus who had raised a comparable objection at the beginning of Book IV. However much the two brothers may differ from one

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another, both are united in their continued acceptance of the view that justice somehow involves, and rightly involves, self-sacrifice, as their quick acceptance of Socrates' chastisement indicates (see 419al-421c7 and 519c8-520a5). 10 As for the possible limitation resulting even from the first theological principle, consider Bolotin 1995, 84. 6: The Limits of Enlightenment: Aristotle's Politics 1 I have used the text of Alois Dreizehnter (Aristotle 1970a). Translations throughout are my own. 2 Although Plato's Socrates is silent during the whole of the Eleatic Stranger's argument, Xenophon's Socrates voices much the same view concerning the identity of the various kinds of rule: Memorabilia III.4.12 and Oeconomicus XIII. 5. That Socrates' assertion in the latter work is not without theological implications appears from a consideration of its context (the education of Ischomachus's stewards): as the 'mortal master' Ischomachus rules his stewards, so the immortal master rules Ischomachus (see Strauss 1970, 167-77, esp. 170). 3 I am very much indebted to Wayne Ambler's groundbreaking studies of Book I of the Politics, which I urge the reader to consult (Ambler 1984, 1985, 1987). 4 A comparable ambiguity concerning the meaning of 'virtue' is present also in the Meno, to which dialogue Aristotle here alludes (see Aristotle 1943, 77 nn. 29, 30; 1982, 249 n. 33; Aristotle 1970a ad loc.). Socrates first brings Meno to understand virtue to be the capacity to acquire good things for oneself that as such lead to one's happiness. According to Socrates, this kind of virtue is teachable because it is knowledge, that is, it is rational. Socrates later retracts his assertion that virtue is teachable, however, and from this point on virtue is described chiefly as that which makes one 'useful in the cities' (Meno 89b7); it is that 'by means of which human beings nobly manage households and cities, tend to their own parents, and know how both to receive and send off citizens and guest-friends in a manner worthy of a good man' (Meno 91a3-6). Socrates denies that virtue so understood is teachable or rational, and he goes so far as to say that not knowledge but correct opinion is sufficient to guide political action. There are, then, two very different understandings of virtue in the Meno, the first being whatever contributes to the excellence of one's own soul and therewith one's own happiness, the second that which fosters or facilitates noble political action and service to others. 5 The introduction of the regime at the end of Book I is a turning point in the

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Politics, for the rest of it may be said to be devoted to an examination of a variety of regimes, not least Aristotle's own 'best regime.' This importance of the regime in determining the specific character of every political community makes Aristotle's preceding discussion of 'the city' and 'the political community' appear exceedingly abstract: if'every city' is by nature, and all cities permit man to reach his natural fulfilment, then there is no meaningful difference between, say, Sparta, Athens, and Thessaly - nor, mutatis mutandis, the United States, Iraq, and China; all are said to exist by nature and to fulfil the nature of man the political animal. In fact, Aristotle elsewhere argues that, far from securing for their citizens the good life that fulfils their natural end, regimes either fail to take seriously enough the formation of the character of their citizens, or they botch it badly (compare EN 1180a24-9withPoUI.9). 6 See von Leyden 1967 and Schroeder 1981 for helpful discussions of Aristotle's view of law. 7 The classical accounts concerning the character of Minos are ambiguous. The reports of his education at the hands of Zeus and his justice in general must be balanced against his demand for human sacrifices, for example, as a result of which he was hated by Athens. Consider Plato Laws 624b4-625al, 706a4 and following; Minos 318d4-10. 8 Aristotle may refer either to the attack of Phalaecus and his mercenaries in 345 B.C. or to the subjugation of the island at the hands of the Spartan Agesilaus, brother of Agis III, in 333 B.C., or perhaps to both. See Newman 1973, 11:360. 9 Consider also Plato Crito 12d and context, where piety is said to be a part of justice. 10 The distinction may also be intended to account for those cases, discussed at 1278a38-9, where the regime conceals from some of a city's inhabitants that they are not citizens in fact. 11 'If the virtue of the good ruler and of the good man is the same ...' (1277a20-3; emphasis added). Again, 'If, then, we posit that the virtue of the good man is of a ruling sort..." (1277a27-8; emphasis added). 12 Aristotle begins by mapping out the four principal kinds of kingship to which he curiously appends, after a summary and conclusion (1285b20-9), a fifth sort, namely the rule of one person who is authoritative over 'all' in the manner of economic (household) rule and who 'does everything in accordance with his own wish' (1287al, 9-10). This fifth sort, the only one of which no example in any time or place is given, is at the opposite extreme from the strictly limited Spartan kingship, and Aristotle very quickly narrows his focus, first to these two, then to the fifth sort alone. He thus makes it

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clear that the ensuing discussion will be concerned with a certain extreme case. 13 This conclusion is confirmed by Aristotle's discussion in VII.14 of the ends with a view to which courage ought to be fostered: 1) the maintenance of one's own freedom in the face of hostile enemies, 2) the exercise of leadership (hegemonia) among cities, and 3) the enslavement of those fit to be slaves (1333b38-1334a2). Precisely because all cities look to their own good first and foremost, the best city will require considerable military might and will exercise an empire of a kind, what today might be called a 'sphere of influence.' 14 It is true that Aristotle also entertains a consideration of a quite different kind as regards the soldiers (1329a9-12), but he concludes this section with a firm statement that the arrangement indicated is 'in accordance with merit' (1329al7), that is, merit judged in terms of the capacity to act virtuously. 15 In his enumeration of the elements requisite to the city, Aristotle speaks of a twofold necessity demanding the presence of arms: 'for those who share [in the regime] must necessarily have arms among themselves both with a view to those who disobey the rule and those foreigners who undertake to act unjustly' (1328b7-10; emphasis added). The army, then, must be capable of acting against the city's inhabitants - for example, the farmers - no less than against foreign invaders. 16 Similarly, the mention of Hippodamus in this section (1330b21-31) recalls Aristotle's contention in II.8 that the political community is not and cannot be fully rational (compare e.g., 1269a20-4). 17 For recent discussions of the religious dimensions of Aristotle's political thought, see Lindsay 1991 and Ponton 1991. 18 Similarly, whereas Aristotle had maintained in VII.7 that the citizens should be by nature 'easily led by the legislator toward virtue' (1327b38), in the present context he suggests only that they be capable of being 'easily taken in hand by the legislator' (1332b9): virtue is no longer explicitly the end. 19 The term, usually rendered 'pastime,' refers to the way in which one spends one's time when inactive or free of business. Since Aristotle argues that leisure is of higher importance and dignity than activity ordinarily understood, it is more, not less, serious than 'business.' I will translate the word as 'leisure,' in favour of the somewhat frivolous-sounding 'pastime,' supplying in addition a transliteration of the Greek (see Salkever 1990, 78 n. 46). On the meaning of schole (often translated 'leisure') see Stocks 1936, 177-87. 20 For an immensely learned and detailed treatment of music in the Politics, see Lord 1982. The principal difference between my discussion and Lord's is that whereas I try to present the musical education of VIII as responding to a

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political problem, Lord more or less divorces the presentation of music from its political context; the argument of VII. 1-3, for example, is treated only comparatively briefly as the final chapter of the book. Other helpful treatments include Solmsen 1964,193-220 and Depew 1991. 21 Olympus was a legendary figure of the eighth century, hailing from Phrygia, who composed tunes for the aulos: see Newman 1973,11:536; and Lord 1984, 269n.ll. 22 The referent of ton minuHsion at 1340al2 is unclear. According to Lord 1984, 269 n. 12, 'it seems most likely that poetic imitations in the broadest sense are what is meant here,' but the narrower sense indicated in the text is equally plausible. 23 On the meaning of'catharsis,' see Newman 1973, II: 563-5; Lord 1982, 15664; Lear 1988, 297-326; and Depew 1991, 362-74. The classification in VIII.7 of the kinds of tunes and rhythms and their corresponding harmonies sheds some additional light on the need for such frenzied music (1341b23 and following). According to this classification, which is philosophic in origin (1341b28), there are three kinds of tunes, those bearing on or contributing to 1) moral character, 2) action, and 3) divine inspiration. According to Aristotle's own view, 'one should make use of music not for a single benefit but for the sake of many' (1341b36-8); 'It is clear that one should make use of all the harmonies' (1342al; emphasis added). Since the active, political life devoted to the moral virtues and the performance of the deeds that accord with them requires and is completed by the worship of just gods, the three kind of tunes here indicated themselves form a kind of whole, and all would be necessary to that happiness possible within political life. Thus 'those educated with a view to political virtue' (1340b42-1341al) must at times make use of inspirational music and hence of the aulos. 24 The importance of comedy, as well as that of the worship of the god to whom the law has assigned 'scurrilous mockery' (1336bl6-l7), is linked with the presentation in this context of the 'speeches and myths' it is necessary to tell children, on the one hand, and the fact that we most cling to what we are first told, on the other (1336a30-l and 1336b28-32). To laugh at something is already to gain for oneself a certain distance from it. 25 Compare VIII.6-7 as a whole with 1337a38-9 and 1338b4-6. 26 Aristotle's frequent formulation: 1260b29; 1265al7-18; 1288b23; 1295a29; 1325b36, 39; 1327a4; 1331b21. Conclusion 1 'I listen every night at ten to a [radio] program called This I Believe ... On

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the program hundreds of the highest-minded people in our country, thoughtful and intelligent people, people with mature inquiring minds, state their personal credos ... "I believe in people. I believe in tolerance and understanding between people. I believe in the uniqueness and the dignity of the individual - " Everyone on This I Believe believes in the uniqueness and the dignity of the individual. I have noticed, however, that the believers are far from unique themselves, are in fact alike as peas in a pod' (Percy 1961,89-90). 2 Consider also Jefferson's remarks concerning the absence of established religion in Pennsylvania and New York: 'Religion is well supported; of various kinds, indeed, but all good enough; all sufficient to preserve peace and order ... They have made the happy discovery, that the way to silence religious disputes, is to take no notice of them' (1984, 287). At most, Americans are exhorted to have 'faith in faith,' the formulation of President Eisenhower: 'Our government makes no sense unless it is founded on a deeply-felt faith - and I don't care what it is' (quoted in Johnson 1979, 497).

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Index

Adams, Henry, 13 Adorno, Theodor, 8, 195 n.5 Agamemnon, 70 Aldridge, Alfred Owen, 196 n.6 Ambler, Wayne, 172, 205 n.3 Apollo, 82, 92, 104 Aristotle: Eudemian Ethics, 163; Nicomachean Ethics, 154, 158-9, 174, 176, 180, 206 n.5; Politics, 97, 206 n.5; best regime of, 163-85; Maclntyre's historicist reading of, 49-52; Maimonides' account of, 58; on 'catharsis,' 184; on character and moral responsibility, 158-62; on Hippodamus's political innovations, 139-41; on law and divine law, 139-44; on Minos, 142-3; on the naturalness of the city, 132-9; on the political and philosophic ways of life, 163-71; on the possibility of a science of politics, 127-32; theological implications of Politics I, 138-9 atheism (atheists): Bayle on the possibility of a society of, 19-21; Bayle's praise of, 17; 'indifferentism' as

alternative to in Bayle, 26; in Montesquieu, 31-2; rarity of, 24-5 Bacon, Francis, 8 Barnabus, 23 Bayle, Pierre: Ce que c'est que la France toute Catholique sous le regne de Louis le Grand, 198 n. 16; Dictionnaire historique et critique, 14, 15; on miracles, 15-17, 21-3; on the political utility of religion, 20-1; on the possibility of a decent society of atheists, 19-21; on the true character of providence, 22-3; on undermining the force of religion, 25-6; political teaching of, 23-6; Voltaire's assessment of, 14 Behnegar, Nasser, 200 n.4 Berlin, Isaiah, 189 Bolotin, David, 74, 139, 200 n.4, 205 n.10 Brague, Remi, 200 n.5 Bruell, Christopher, 123, 201 n.l catharsis: in Aristotle, 184; in relation to piety, 184

220

Index

Catherine the Great, 15 Gazes, Albert, 196 n.6 Christianity: distinction between counsels and precepts in, 29; incompatibility of with true political courage, 24; Montesquieu on the political utility of, 28-9 Cochrane, Charles, 203 n.15 Cornford, Francis M., 203 n.15 creation: ex nihilo, 58; versus eternity of world, 58-60 death: and the attraction of music according to Aristotle, 184; Bayle on the fear of, 19; diminution of the fear of in Montesquieu, 37, 39 Depew, D.J., 208 nn.20, 23 Descartes, Rene, 5 Deuteronomy, 143 Deutsch, Kenneth L., 200 n.4 Diderot, Denis, 196 n.5, 197 n.13; praise of Bayle, 14 Dreizehnter, Alois, 205 n.l Drury, Shadia, 200 n.5 Epicurus, 198 n.15 Faguet, Emile, 197 n.10, 198 n.17 Federalist Papers: on the 'petty republics' of antiquity, 190; references to Montesquieu in, 26 Foucault, Michel: on Kant and the Enlightenment, 7; transformation of the project of Enlightenment in, 7 Franklin, Benjamin: approval of Bayle's thesis regarding atheists, 196 n.6; Bayle's influence on, 15 Frederick the Great, 15 Fustel de Colanges, Numa Denis, 67

Gassendi, Pierre, 5 Gay, Peter, 196 nn.4, 6 Gomme, A.W., 67-8 Gorgias, 145 Gray, John: on the collapse of modern Enlightenment, 9-10 Green, Kenneth Hart, 200 n.4, 201 n.7 Hayek, Friedrich, 9 Hazard, Paul, 196 n.6, 197 n.10 Heidegger, Martin, 125 Helen, 70 Hera, 83 Herder, 15, 196 n.6 Herodotus, 75 historicism: Maclntyre's acceptance of, 49-50; reconciliation of with non-relative standard in Maclntyre, 50-2; Strauss's rejection of, 54 Hobbes, Thomas: Leviathan, 4, 125, 195 n.2; Bayle's debt to, 198 n.17; his optimism, 4; on the fear of violent death, 39 Homer, 50; Iliad, 142 Horace: as source of Enlightenment motto, 4-5 Horkheimer, Max, 8, 195 n.5 Hume, David, 15 Huxley, George, 142 idolatry: comparison of to atheism in Montesquieu, 28 Jefferson, Thomas: 209 n.2; Bayle's influence on, 15; indifference to religious beliefs of others, 191 Johnson, Paul, 209 n.2 justice: and the common good in Aristotle, 155-7; and necessity according to the Athenians, 84-8;

Index and the question of rule, 151-7; and the regime (politeia), 149-51; in its relation to citizenship according to Aristotle, 144-9; in its relation to divine law, 157-63 Kant, Immanuel: 4, 5-6,195 n.3; 'An Answer to the Question, "What is Enlightenment?'" 5-6; Critique of Practical Reason, 6 Koran, 34 Lampert, Laurence, 200 nn. 4, 5, 201 n.7 law: Aristotle's critique of, 139-44; as established by God, 34-5; divine, 57-8; God's adherence to, 32-3; Montesquieu's definition of, 32, 199 n.25; Montesquieu on natural law, 33-7, 41; 'primitive' laws, 33-4 Lear, Jonathan, 208 n.23 legislator: Jesus Christ as, 29; Minos as, 142-4 Leibniz, G.W., 15, 196 n.6 Lessing, Gotthold, 15 Leyden, Wolfgang von, 206 n.6 Lindsay, Thomas K., 207 n.17 Locke, John, 27, 195 n.l Lord, Games, 207 n.20, 208 nn.21, 22,23 Louis XIII, 31 Louis XIV, 23 Lowenthal, David, 35, 199 n.24 Lyotard, Jean-Francois, 125; 'paganism' of, 125-6 Machiavelli, Niccolo: 199 n.21 Maclntyre, Alasdair: 200 nn.l, 2; antirelativism of, 50-3; criticism of Enlightenment moral philosophy,

221

45; importance of Christianity to, 53-4; importance of 'lived narratives' to, 48-9; neglect of theoretical virtue in, 52-3; on a 'practice', 47; on virtue, 47; project of return to ancient-medieval rationalism, 45-6; rejection of Hegel, 50; utilitarian character of moral virtue in, 52-3 Maimonides, Moses: 200 n.9; description of those without doctrinal belief, 189; importance of to Leo Strauss, 57-61; moral-political philosophy in, 60-2; on the discrepancy between reward and desert, 157; on the quarrel between reason and revelation, 57-9 Malebranche, Nicolas, 198 n.16 Manent, Pierre: The City of Man, 10-11; critic of liberal rationalism, 10-11; possibility of return of religion to political life, 125-6 Marinates, Nanno, 201 n.3, 203 n.15 Marx, Karl: Theses on Feurbach, 52 Mason, H.T., 196 n.3, 197 n.10 Maximus Lollius, 4 Melville, Herman, 15 Melzer, Arthur, 42 Mill, J.S., 9 Minos: as divine legislator, 142-4 miracles: Bayle's critique of, 21-3, 40-1; Bayle on Moses', 22; Montesquieu's critique of, 32-7, 41-2; natural theology and, 21; reality or unreality of biblical, 57-60; that comets cannot be, 15-17 Momigliano, Arnaldo, 200 n.4 Montesquieu: Persian Letters, 41-2; as critic of Bayle, 27-30; critique of miracles, 32-7; on Aristotle's

222

Index

account of virtue, 137; on Minos, 70; relation to Federalist Papers, 26 morality: Enlightenment's attempt to discover a purely rational, 46; true basis of according to Bayle, 17-21 Mornet, Daniel, 196 n.4 Moses: Bayle on the miracles of, 22; on the political character of the Mosaic prophecy, 57 music: and 'catharsis,' 184-5; and the education of children, 181-3; and the health of the citizen's soul in Aristotle, 181-5 narration (narrative): importance of to Maclntyre's teleology, 48-9 Newman, W.L., 206 n.8, 208 nn.21, 23 Nicgorski, Walter, 200 n.4 Nietzsche, Friedrich: Beyond Good and Evil, 191; Thus Spoke Zarathustra, 43; Twilight of the Idols, 65; Untimely Meditations, 8; on reading Thucydides, 202 n.l 1; quoted by Horkheimer and Adorno, 8 Novak, David, 200 n.4 Orr, Susan, 200 n.4 Orwin, Clifford, 86, 95, 201 n.l, 203 n.18 Pangle, Thomas L., 26-7, 39,189,196 n.2, 198n.l8, 200 n.4 Paul, 23 Percy, Walker, 209 n.l philosophy: and liberal freedom, 192-3; Aristotle's account of the philosophic and the political ways of life, 163-71; Aristotle's political defence of, 185, 187-9; as the best way of life, 40-3; in tension with

revelation, 58-9; on the possibility of philosophic rule, 112-13,120-2; Plato's political defence of, 187-9 Pippin, Robert, 200 n.4 Plato: Apology of Socrates, 142, 188; Crito, 206 n.9; Laws, 31, 70, 142, 157, 187, 206 n.7; Meno 205 n.4; Minos, 70, 135, 142, 206 n.7; Phaedo, 151; Republic, 3, 6; Statesman, 128-31; and Socratic 'dialectics,' 119-20; on the goodness of justice, 107-9; on the human soul in its relation to the good, 113-16; on the image of the cave in the Republic, 116-18; on nature and convention, 118; on the nature of the philosophers, 109-12; on the possibility of philosophic rule, 112-13,120-2 Plutarch: as authority for Bayle, 197 n.ll Ponton, Lionel, 207 n.l7 Popkin, Richard H., 196 n.6, 198 n.15 postmodernism: and the collapse of confidence in the modern Enlightenment, 7, 9; and the contemporary era, 43; and Francois Lyotard, 125-6; and Leo Strauss, 54; and the rise of'paganism,' 125-6; of Richard Rorty, 9; the theological inclination of contemporary, 191-2 Pouncey, Peter R., 201 n.l practice: Maclntyre's definition of, 47 religion: and commerce, 30-2, 199 n.23; Bayle on how to undermine, 25-6; Montesquieu on the political utility of, 27-9; republics (republicanism): Bayle's praise of, 24-6

Index Retat, Pierre, 196 n.6 revelation: fundamental tension with reason or philosophy, 58-9 Rex, Walter E., 196 nn.4, 10, 198 nn.15, 16 Robinson, Howard, 196 n.7, 197 n.10 Romilly, Jacqueline de, 201 n.l Rorty, Richard: as critic of modern Enlightenment rationalism, 9 Rosen, Stanley: 200 nn.5, 6, 7, 201 n.10; on importance of Maimonides to Strauss, 57; on Strauss as covert Nietzschean, 55-6 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques: as critic of Enlightenment, 3; criticism of Bayle, 15, 42-3 Sadducees: denial of immortality of soul and heaven of, 26 Salkever, Stephen, 207 n.19 sapere aude ('dare to know'): as adopted by Pierre Gassendi, 5; in Horace, 4; Kant's use of, 5-6; unofficial motto of Enlightenment, 4-7 Schaub, Diana, 196 n.2 Schroeder, D.N., 206 n.6 separation of church and state: Bayle's allusions to, 25-6; contemporary consequences of, 191; Montesquieu's argument for, 30-1 Shackleton, Robert, 198 n.20, 199 nn.24, 25 Shklar, Judith, 26 Smith, Nicholas D., 172 Solmsen, Friedrich, 208 n.20 Spinoza, Benedict, 27 state of nature, 3; Montesquieu's criticism of, 41-2 Steup.J., 203n.l5

223

Stocks, J.L., 207 n. 19 Stoics (Stoicism): praised by Montesquieu, 38 Strauss, Leo: 73, 172, 173, 200 n.3, 201nn.ll, 1,202 n.9, 205 n.2; alleged Nietzscheanism of, 55, 623; anti-historicism of, 54; critique of rational liberalism, 10; importance of Maimonides to, 56-61; on the definition of'natural theology,' 197 n.13; on political philosophy as 'the first philosophy,' 61-2; on the theological dimension of Enlightenment, 54; recovery of the 'theologico-political problem,' 54-6; return to classical political philosophy of, 55-7; Stanley Rosen's interpretation of, 55-6, 62-3 Tarcov, Nathan, 200 n.4 Thucydides: 160; the 'archaeology' of, 69-74; importance of belief in the divine to, 67-9; on the cause of the Peloponnesian War, 92-5; on nobility in its relation to piety, 95-102; on piety and justice among the Athenians, 84-8; on piety and justice among the Spartans, 75-84; on the question of'providence,' 74; on the rise of'Greekness,' 712; own view of the truth of prophecy, 88-92; political teaching of, 102-5; portrait of Nicias in, 98-101 Tocqueville, Alexis de: on the homogeneity of life in the United States, 189 Udoff, Alan, 200 n.4 vanity: centrality of to Bayle's psychol-

224

Index

ogy, 19-21; Rousseau's criticism of, 42-3 virtue: and happiness, 172-7; as the basis of citizenship, 171-2; importance of nobility in Aristotle's account of, 52; Maclntyre's definition of, 47; Maclntyre on the tradition of, 46-7; moral and theoretical virtue distinguished, 178-81; of the citizen, 147-9; relation of to the human good, 47-9 Voltaire: Candide, 187, 196 n.3; the pacific effects of commerce in

England described by, 199 n.23; praise of Bayle, 14 Weinstein, Kenneth, 196 n.6, 197 n.10 Xenophon: Hellenica, 103; Memorabilia, 62, 103, 120, 158, 205 n.2; Oeconomicus, 205 n.2; Symposium, 176 Zeus, 83 Zuckert, Catherine, 200 n.4