Wisdom's little sister: studies in medieval and renaissance Jewish political thought 9781936235322, 1936235323

Table of contents :
Emunot: Jewish Philosophy and Kabbalah......Page 2
Table of Contents......Page 7
Personal Introduction......Page 9
On This Volume......Page 12
Part I The Framework......Page 15
Chapter One Is There a Jewish Political Philosophy? The Medieval Case Reconsidered......Page 16
Chapter Two Medieval and Renaissance Jewish Political Philosophy: An Overview......Page 50
Part II Studies: The Middle Ages......Page 77
Chapter Three Aristotle’s Politics in Medieval and Renaissance Jewish Political Thought......Page 78
Chapter Four The Attitude towards Democracy in Medieval Jewish Philosophy......Page 120
Chapter Five The Organic Theory of the State in Medieval and Renaissance Jewish Political Thought......Page 140
Chapter Six Jethro’s Advice in Medieval and Early Modern Jewish and Christian Political Thought......Page 175
Chapter Seven The Anonymous Hebrew Translation of Aegidius’ De Regimine Principum: An Unknown Chapter in Medieval Jewish Political Philosophy......Page 212
Part III Studies: The Renaissance......Page 229
Chapter Eight The Myth of Venice in Italian Renaissance Jewish Thought......Page 230
Chapter Nine Natural, Human, Divine: Classification of the Law Among Some Fifteenth- and Sixteenth-Century Italian Jewish Thinkers......Page 244
Chapter Ten The Hebrew Laudatio of Yohanan Alamanno: In Praise of Lorenzo il Magnifico and the Florentine Constitution*......Page 272
Chapter Eleven Simone Luzzatto on Tacitus: Apologetica and Ragione Di Stato......Page 305
Chapter Twelve English Travellers and Venetian Jewish Scholars: The Case of Simone Luzzatto and James Harrington......Page 335
Chapter Thirteen Machiavellism and Anti-Machiavellism in Seventeenth-Century Jewish Amsterdam: From Ragione di Stato to Razon de Estado......Page 355
Works Cited......Page 371
Index......Page 424

Citation preview

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Wisdom's Little sister

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Emunot: Jewish Philosophy and Kabbalah Series Editor: Dov Schwartz, Bar Ilan University, Ramat Gan Editorial Board: Ada Rapoport Albert (University College, London) Gad Freudenthal (C.N.R.S, Paris) Gideon Freudenthal (Tel Aviv University, Ramat Aviv) Moshe Idel (Hebrew University, Jerusalem) Raphael Jospe (Bar Ilan University, Ramat Gan) Ephraim Kanarfogel (Yeshiva University, New York) Menachem Kellner (Haifa University, Haifa) Daniel Lasker (Ben Gurion University, Beer Sheva)

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WISDOM'S LITTLE SISTER: STUDIES IN MEDIEVAL AND RENAISSANCE JEWISH POLITICAL THOUGHT

Abraham MELAMED

Boston 2012 —3—

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: A catalog record for this title is available from the Library of Congress. Copyright © 2012 Academic Studies Press All rights reserved ISBN 978-1-936235-32-2 Book design by Adell Medovoy Published by Academic Studies Press in 2012 28 Montfern Avenue Brighton, MA 02135, USA [email protected] www.academicstudiespress.com

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“…And the wisdoms have a little sister called politics.” -Moses of Rieti, Mikdash Me’at, 3.

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Table of Contents

Personal Introduction

9

On This Volume

12

Part I: The Framework Chapter One: Is There a Jewish Political Philosophy?: The Medieval Case Reconsidered Chapter Two: Medieval and Renaissance Jewish Political Philosophy: An Overview

15

Part II: Studies: The Middle Ages Chapter Three: Aristotle’s Politics in Medieval and Renaissance Jewish Political Thought Chapter Four: The Attitude towards Democracy in Medieval Jewish Political Thought Chapter Five: The Organic Theory of the State in Medieval and Renaissance Jewish Political Thought Chapter Six: Jethro’s Advice in Medieval and Early Modern Jewish and Christian Political Thought Chapter Seven: The Anonymous Hebrew Translation of Aegidius’ De Regimine Principum: An Unknown Chapter in Medieval Jewish Political Philosophy Part III: Studies: The Renaissance Chapter Eight: The Myth of Venice in Italian Renaissance Jewish Thought Chapter Nine: Natural, Human, Divine: Classification of the Law among Some Fifteenth- and Sixteenth-Century Italian Jewish Thinkers Chapter Ten: The Hebrew Laudatio of Yohanan Alemanno: In Praise of Lorenzo il Magnifico and the Florentine Constitution —7—

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78 120 140 175 212 229 230 244 272

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Chapter Eleven: Simone Luzzatto on Tacitus: Apologetica and Ragione di Stato Chapter Twelve: English Travellers and Venetian Jewish Scholars: The Case of Simone Luzzatto and James Harrington Chapter Thirteen: Machiavellism and Anti-Machiavellism in Seventeenth-Century Jewish Amsterdam: From Ragione di Stato to Razon de Estado

305 335 355

Works Cited

371

Index

424

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Personal Introduction

A popular saying tells us that one should always expect the unexpected. This is true concerning not only our personal lives but also our intellectual, and consequently our professional lives. You know what your academic majors and minors are when you start studying, and occasionally even why; you never know where this will lead you and what you will end up with. This is one of the adventurous traits of our occupations, like starting a new research project which leads you to unexpected places. This is precisely what happened to me when I started my academic studies at Tel Aviv University in the mid-1960s. I was interested in what is usually called in Israeli academia “general”—i.e. European nonJewish—modern history and philosophy, or so I thought then. Within a year, however, I started shifting both in subject matter and period. This happened almost accidentally. In my second year I took a course in the history of political philosophy. Since this subject matter is located exactly at the juncture between my two majors—history and philosophy, always “general”—it was only natural to choose this course. I presume I already had some unconscious inclination to this field. Each student was required to choose one political philosopher from a list handed out by the lecturer, write a paper and deliver a short lecture. For some reason Machiavelli was first on the list. I did not know then, in my early twenties, anything whatsoever concerning Machiavelli and the Renaissance, and I volunteered to be first only in order to get the project done with. The moment I started reading Machiavelli’s Prince and Discourses, in the Hebrew translation of course, and read something on the Italian Renaissance in order to have some background, I was mesmerized. I still do not know exactly why; maybe it had something to do with my ongoing interest in art history. In any case, I was hooked: I shifted to majoring in political philosophy and started moving back in time from modern to medieval and Renaissance history and culture. Consequently I also chose Italian as my second modern language (after English), in addition to Latin, which was a requirement in history departments then. The second step in this direction was taken a year later when for a seminar on the crisis of the papacy in the fourteenth century I wrote a —9—

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paper on the political thought of Thomas Aquinas. Here it was the personality and erudition of the lecturer, Professor Shulamit Shahar, which so strongly impressed me. By the end of my BA studies in Tel Aviv, it was clear to me that I wanted to specialize in political philosophy, mainly medieval and Renaissance, still “general,” naturally. In the early 1970s I enrolled for my Master’s degree at Columbia University in New York, where I studied Renaissance philosophy with Paul Oskar Kristeller, who was then in his last years of active teaching just before retirement, and Renaissance political philosophy with Julian Franklin. I could not ask for better academic training from some of the best authorities in these fields. I still remember vividly when during the student strike occasioned by the invasion of Cambodia in 1972, Kristeller raged against what he saw as the students’ fascist behavior, the closing up of a university by force, which reminded him of dark times in 1930s Germany, and in an act of protest invited us to resume our seminar on Renaissance philosophy in his own home. When for personal reasons I returned to Israel after the completion of my Master’s degree, I approached Professor Yosef Baruch Sermoneta, with whom I had already taken some courses on Renaissance philosophy (“general,” as always) during my BA studies in Tel Aviv. I was still interested in writing a dissertation on some issue concerning Renaissance Italian political philosophy, such as the influence of Machiavelli. Sermoneta, however, wisely shifted me in a different direction altogether. He argued that it would be foolish to compete with Italians when I had the advantage of knowing Hebrew and there were so many medieval and Renaissance Jewish scholars and Hebrew manuscripts still awaiting research. It would be better, he argued, to use the combination of my training in Renaissance philosophy and political thought and my knowledge of Hebrew to study these neglected texts and authors. This was persuasive indeed, and initiated my third shift: first I had shifted from history and philosophy to political thought, and then I had moved from modern times to the medieval period and the Renaissance. Now I shifted from “general” to Jewish thought. This, I found out later, was the most drastic shift of all. I remember well how Sermoneta, a typical educated Italian Jew, sempere ortodosso e sempere illuminato, was critical of recent graduates of Judaic studies, especially those with Orthodox backgrounds in the U.S, who were so deeply infused with their rabbinics that they had no — 10 —

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knowledge or interest in the so-called “general” historical and cultural background in which Jews operated throughout their history. This, in his opinion, was a lacuna which distorted their understanding of the issues and the texts. Sermoneta liked the idea that I came to Judaic studies from the outside, without any previous knowledge, but armed with strong academic training in the “general” history and philosophy of the relevant periods, and sent me to study, all by myself, the basic texts of medieval Jewish philosophy. I still tell my students, who lament the difficulties of deciphering Maimonides’ Guide, that I studied it all alone, in the almost impossible-to-understand medieval translation of Samuel ibn Tibbon, and without the useful notes of the recent wonderful Hebrew Schwartz edition. It was difficult, and it took time, but the result was an enormous dissertation, more then six hundred pages, with many hundreds of elaborate notes and multiple appendices, in two volumes, which nobody would allow to happen today, and correctly so: The Political Thought of Jewish Thinkers in the Italian Renaissance (in Hebrew, Tel Aviv University, 1976). This was the cornerstone of my academic work. In the years that followed I went back in time to investigate medieval Jewish political philosophy and other issues in medieval and Renaissance Jewish intellectual history which are not represented here.1 Together with my three books on medieval Jewish political philosophy and quite a few papers in Hebrew,2 this collection is testimony to the development of my work in this field.

1  See especially my books: Melamed, Black; idem, Giants; idem, Myth, and many papers, some of which are listed in the bibliography. 2  Melamed, Philosopher-King; idem, Political; idem, Island. For the Hebrew papers, see the bibliography. — 11 —

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On This Volume

This is a collection of papers published in English in various periodicals, proceedings and Festschrifts during the last thirty years—from the early 1980s through 2010. All the papers assembled here concentrate on the history of medieval and Renaissance Jewish political thought. The papers were slightly edited for the purpose of clarity, consistency and gender neutral terms, whenever possible. Hebrew and Arabic terms are transliterated without diacritical marks. The bibliography was brought up-to-date, although I retained much of the older bibliography. Sometimes we are too eager to discard with “outdated” research, ostensibly because it is too “old,” and we wish to show how up-to-date we are. It is as though we think “[…] you shall have to clear out the old to make room for the new” (Lev. 26:10), is the ultimate rule we should follow. Also here we suffer from a case of ageism. I did not attempt to rewrite the papers. Naturally, today I would have written some of these papers differently, especially the early ones, from the 1980s and early 1990s; although by and large the conclusions would be the same. Rewriting them might have created something else from what is attempted here. In this respect, this collection is a kind of history of the development of my research on these issues from the early years after I finished my doctoral dissertation, on which some of the early papers are based, until the present, when I am already on the verge of retirement. It seems to me that this way of presenting the papers has its merits. As I always say when writing reviews on such collections of papers by the same author, since our papers have an obnoxious tendency to be scattered and disappear in various esoteric periodicals, proceedings and festschrifts, collecting them together in one volume is a useful means for making them conveniently available to the interested reader. In selecting the papers I tried as much as possible to avoid repetition, for which such collections are notorious, but this could not be fully achieved since this is a collection of independent papers and not subsequent chapters of the same coherent book. The papers have been arranged thematically, and not in the order of their appearance. Part One contains two basic papers which create the framework for the study of — 12 —

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medieval and Renaissance Jewish political thought, and for the whole collection. Part Two contains papers which deal with texts and issues of the Middle Ages or which begin with this period and go on to the Renaissance and early modern times, which is the case with quite a few of the papers. This is typical of this kind of history of ideas research, of which I am fond, which explores the adventures of issues, ideas and terms, the changes they go through while being adapted to ever-changing historical, cultural and social circumstances, over a long period of time. My research generally starts with the early Middle Ages, which in Jewish philosophy means about the tenth century, and ends with the shift from the Renaissance to early modern times in the seventeenth century, or to put it more simply, from Sa’adia to Spinoza. Part Three contains papers which specifically discuss issues of the Renaissance and early modern times. The papers which are included in Parts Two and Three are essentially case-studies which illustrate and discuss in depth various issues, aspects and arguments which appear in Part One. The selection of the case studies is somewhat arbitrary, since some of my more important papers on these issues appeared only in Hebrew, and thus are not reproduced here. Still, this selection of case studies well illustrates the scope of my work in this field, and the issues and arguments delineated in Part One. I would like to thank Dov Schwartz, editor of this series, for approaching me and suggesting this enterprise, and, as always, my friend and colleague Menachem Kellner for his ongoing support in the last thirty years of my academic life. Thanks to the Wolfson Chair for the Study of Jewish Cultural Heritage in Haifa University for supporting the publication of this book. I acknowledge with gratitude permission received from the original publishers of the chapters of this book. We have endeavored to trace the copyright owners of all the papers. We sincerely apologize for any omission or error, and upon notification, will be please to rectify it in future editions. The chapters in this book appeared in the following places: “Is There A Jewish Political Philosophy? The Medieval Case Re-considered,” Hebraic Political Studies 1 (2005): 24-42. A Hebrew version was published in M. Hellinger, ed., The Jewish Political Tradition throughout the Ages: Studies in Honor of Daniel Elazar, 105-136. Ramat Gan: Bar Ilan University Press, 2010. — 13 —

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“Medieval and Renaissance Jewish Political Philosophy,” D.H. Frank and O. Leaman, eds., History of Jewish Philosophy, 415-449. London and New York: Routledge, 1997. “Aristotle’s Politics in Medieval and Renaissance Jewish Political Thought,” first appeared in Hebrew, Pe’amim 51 (1992): 27-69. A revised English version was published in V. Syrus, ed., Well Begun is Only Half Done: Tracing Aristotles’ Political Ideas in Medieval Sources, 145-186. Tempe, AZ: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2011. “The Attitude Towards Democracy in Medieval Jewish Thought,” Jewish Political Studies Review 5 (1993): 33-56. Reprinted in D. Frank, ed., Commandment and Community: New Essays in Jewish Legal and Political Philosophy, 173-194. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995. “The Organic Theory of the State in Medieval and Renaissance Jewish Political Thought,” H.C. Kuhn and D. Stanciu, ed., Ideal Constitutions in the Renaissance, 113-144. Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2009. “Jethro’s Advice in Medieval and Renaissance Jewish Political Thought,” Jewish Political Studies Review 2 (1990): 3-41. “The Anonymous Hebrew Translation of Aegidius’ De Regimine Principum,” Documenti e studi sulla tradizione filosofica medievale 5 (1994): 439-461. “The Myth of Venice in Italian Renaissance Jewish Thought,” Italia Judaica 1, 401-413. Roma: Multigrafica Editrice, 1983. “Natural, Human, Divine: Classification of the Law Among Some 15th and 16th Century Italian Jewish Thinkers,” Italia 4 (1985): 59-93 “The Hebrew Laudatio of Yohanan Alemanno: In Praise of Lorenzo il Magnifico and the Florentine Constitution,” H.Beinart, ed., Jews in Italy: Studies Dedicated to the Memory of U. Cassuto, English part, 1-34. Jerusalem: Magness Press, 1988. “Simone Luzzatto on Tacitus: Apologetical and Ragione di Stato,” I. Twersky, ed., Studies in Medieval Jewish History and Literature, vol 2, 143-170. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1984. “Jewish Scholars and English Travellers: The Case of Simone Luzzatto and James Harrington,” G. Cozzi, ed., Gli Ebrei e Venezia, 507-525. Milano: Edizioni Comunita, 1987. “Machiavellism and anti-Machiavellism in 17th Century Jewish Amsterdam: From Ragione di Stato to Razon de Estado,” Trumah 19 (2009): 1-14.

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Part I The Framework

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Chapter One

Is There a Jewish Political Philosophy? The Medieval Case Reconsidered

Nobody would question the existence of “general” political thought, which is traced from classical Greece and Rome to medieval Christian Europe and from there to modern times, and is abundantly studied. However, the question of whether there is a Jewish political philosophy distinct from general political philosophy, and if so, how this should be defined, appears to have remained open. It is only in the last fifty years, since Leo Strauss took up the study of medieval Jewish philosophy as political philosophy, that scholars of Jewish and social studies have begun to explore Jewish political philosophy specifically. Jewish political thought is a branch of Jewish philosophy. It is widely accepted that there is indeed Jewish philosophy that can be distinguished from general philosophy, though definitions vary: while for some, Jewish philosophy is as broad as any philosophy written by Jews, others hold more narrow conceptions and define Jewish philosophy in terms of its unique content, whether this content is a consideration of philosophical problems in their specific Jewish context or a product of the encounter between Judaism and the world of concepts, problems, and attitudes that exemplified general philosophy in any given period.1 When we address the issue of Jewish political philosophy, however, we cannot simply assume that such a distinct political philosophy exists and proceed to define it: not only is there no consensus among researchers on this matter, but opinions are so diverse that while some have claimed there can be no such thing as Jewish political philosophy, others hold that all Jewish philosophy—at least all medieval Jewish philosophy—is political philosophy. The fact that opinions fall between such extremes sheds light on the difficulties presented to scholars who have worked in the area of Jewish political thought over the last twenty years. These scholars, among whom I count myself, have had to contend with the fact that whether their field even exists is in doubt. 1

For a discussion on this subject see Levy, Between; Jospe, Philosophy. — 16 —

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The discussion here will begin by tackling the controversial and delicate issue of whether Jewish political philosophy is a viable notion. We will then proceed, through a study of Jewish, Islamic, and Christian thought in the Middle Ages, which was a definitive moment in the history of Jewish philosophy, to characterize Jewish political philosophy, its sources, and the matters with which it deals. We will find that it is the unique character of Jewish political thought that has led to its being overlooked or its existence denied by theorists. Finally, we will examine the possibility that all Jewish philosophy, as it came into being in the Middle Ages, should be considered to be political philosophy, against the backdrop of the debate on this issue between Leo Strauss and Julius Guttmann. 1. Against the Viability of Jewish Political Philosophy There are two negative responses given by scholars to the question of whether there can be Jewish political philosophy; one is based on an extremely sound knowledge of Jewish sources and claims that the subject is not essentially part of Judaism, whereas the other, stemming from a lack of knowledge of Jewish sources, claims that the subject is not discussed. 1.1 Political Philosophy as Irrelevant to Judaism The first opinion that we examine states that while it may well be possible to identify discussions of social and political questions in Jewish writing throughout history, there is nothing inherently “Jewish” about these discussions. On the contrary, social and political questions in themselves are quite irrelevant to Judaism. The extreme form of this argument is expressed by Yeshayahu Leibowitz: It is difficult to say that any one of the multitude of opinions that have been expressed in Jewish history concerning the individual and society is the one that represents the Jewish point of view; all of them are the opinions of specific Jews. Each of these opinions is held in common by some Jews and by some non-Jews and is not necessarily drawn from Jewish sources. There is no Jewish ethic, no Jewish policy, and no Jewish concept of society. Jews and gentiles alike differ on all these — 17 —

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matters, and the dividing line is not between Jews and non-Jews but between one human being and another. Jews and gentiles were not in disagreement as Jews and gentiles except when it came to practicing their religion by keeping the law and the commandments.2 Leibowitz identified Judaism as no more and no less than the voluntary acceptance of the yoke of the Torah and the commandments, categorically ruling out its having any unique philosophical or political content. In his opinion, Judaism strenuously avoided taking any obligatory position on matters of society and state, and its attitude to such matters remains indifferent and instrumental, since it considered the state to be nothing more than a means to achieve an external objective, superior to it—the worship of God. Therefore, according to Leibowitz, no regime or form of government has any intrinsic value, and the only relevant question is to what extent it serves the higher purpose. Moreover, according to Leibowitz’s school of thought, such questions are universal in nature, and therefore the answers to them are not uniquely Jewish. How can such a claim be countered, if indeed it should be countered? There is certainly a great deal of truth in Leibowitz’s claim that Judaism is more concerned with the state’s religious, ethnic, and moral objectives than with the structure of its institutions, and is certainly flexible or “indifferent” with regard to what form of government is preferable. But this should not be taken to prove that Judaism has no distinct political thought. In fact, the opposite is true. It is this very attitude to political thought, in which the structure of political institutions or the “regime” is downplayed, that characterizes and distinguishes Jewish political thought and the way in which Judaism relates to matters of the individual and the state. As Daniel Elazar remarked: The Jewish political tradition, like every other, deals with power and justice; it is different from the political traditions that developed from classical Greek theory in that it is concerned with political relations rather than 2

Leibowitz, “The Jewish Concept of the Individual and Society,” in Leibowitz, Judaism, pp. 315–316. — 18 —

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with forms. Its principal concern is not with the best form of government or regime… but with the appropriate relationship between ruler and ruled, power and justice, God and man.3 The problem with Leibowitz’s approach is that in spite of his profound knowledge of Jewish sources, he adopts the classical Greek view of political theory as it was incorporated into Western culture. Since theories of regimes are at the very heart of classical political theory and are only marginal in Jewish political thought, he draws the conclusion that Judaism contains no political theory of its own whatsoever. In doing so, he makes a mistaken claim similar to that expounded upon below, despite his scholarship. Moreover, even if we accept Leibowitz’s assumption that Judaism is characterized solely by the acceptance of the Torah and the commandments, since this involves accepting the authority of divine law, constituting a relationship of government between God and humans, Judaism must deal with questions of politics in a theological context. 1.2 Jewish Political Philosophy as Void of Content The other negative response to whether there can be a Jewish political thought, which is also the most extreme, stems largely from an ignorance of Jewish sources or from a distorted perception of them, and posits that there is no trace of political thinking in Jewish culture that can be distinguished from “general” (that is, Greek and later ChristianEuropean) political philosophy. This is, for example, Shlomo Avineri’s contention in a compact anthology of his essays, The Public Sphere. In the citation below, he explains his decision to open the discussion of the history of political thought with Greece and to ignore Eastern cultures of the same period (including Judaism, which doesn’t even warrant a mention): The fact that this discussion will commence with Greek political theory is not the result of some mere whim, or even of any long observed custom that demands 3  Elazar, introduction to Kinship, p. 13. Elazar would have translated this title as “People and Polity,” but it should be noted that eda refers strictly to the Jewish polity. — 19 —

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that every historical discussion start with the classical world; the reason for it is based on the assumption that political thought in the strict sense of the word did not exist—nor could it have existed—in the ancient Eastern world or in one of the pre-classical societies.4 According to Avineri, only in Greece, where he considers there to have been a high degree of freedom from traditional beliefs, could the fundamental questions of political theory be posed. Such questions were not, in his opinion, possible in societies still dominated by incontrovertible tradition. Political theory subsumes two topics: a discussion of the nature of the ideal state and the criterion for its establishment, and the clash of these principles with political reality. In other words, it entails an understanding that political reality and the ideal criteria for evaluating it are not one and the same. Avineri considers this to be something a traditionalist society could not come to grips with, as in a traditionalist society, what “is” and what “ought to be” are one and the same. Avineri’s claim is hard to sustain for two reasons: first, it is difficult to uphold the contention that ancient Greek society was largely free of traditionally accepted beliefs. (Such a claim may be made about some of the philosophers but not about Greek society as a whole.) Second, the claim that in “traditionalist society” there is no way to distinguish between ideal government and political reality is incorrect: it is widely accepted that biblical political tradition is centered on the tension between a theocratic ideal and the problematic reality of this-worldly, human governance.5 It is true that political theory in societies that Avineri calls “traditionalist” was radically different from that of Greece in many respects, but difference proves nothing but difference. An overarching comparison of all political thinking according to the premises of the Greek tradition, using Greek philosophy as a benchmark, will perhaps inevitably conclude that any tradition with different premises is not political philosophy, and will oversimplify and thereby distort what is in fact a complex reality. 4 Avineri, Public, pp. 9–10. A more extreme claim can be found in Goitein, “Attitudes.” Here Goitein argues that unlike Greek culture, Islam and Judaism had a negative attitude toward government. This statement is inaccurate and oversimplifies matters, as we shall see. 5 See discussion in Elazar, “The Covenant as the Basis for Jewish Political Tradition,” in Elazar, Kinship, pp. 26–54. Cohen, “Three Ketarim.” — 20 —

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In Avineri’s defense, it could be said that he was at least aware of the problem involved in selecting and judging which sources are worth dealing with. Many other scholars who have written on the history of political thought, and have identified it entirely with the Greek tradition and its influence, have not even been aware of making such a selection. In a number of seminal texts on the subject there was a long-held, unconscious assumption that political thought was exclusively GreekEuropean-Christian. The classic work by George Sabine, A History of Political Theory (1937),6 completely ignores any political thought that is not Greek or does not derive from the Greek. This is also the case in many of the books published in the last twenty years, despite a growing awareness of other influential traditions. For example, a work on medieval Christian political philosophy published in 1993 is entitled Medieval Political Theory,7 with no qualification, despite the fact that it totally ignores extensive Jewish and Islamic discussion of political theory in the Middle Ages, both in the primary sources it presents and in the recent research it incorporates. The authors inadvertently and wholly identified medieval with Christian and did not even point out that they were referring only to the Christian branch of medieval political philosophy. There are numerous other examples of this phenomenon.8 An example to the contrary is the two-volume anthology of sources in the history of political thought, The Book of Man and the State,9 edited by Meir Ben-Shamai and published in Hebrew in 1948, which took a different approach that was several decades ahead of its time and perhaps for that reason was consigned to oblivion: along with the classics of Western political thought, Ben-Shamai also included extracts from the Bible, Philo, Maimonides, Abravanel, and other Jewish thinkers. Moreover, he took the unprecedented step of not sectioning off these texts, putting them together with general philosophers of the relevant 6 Sabine, History. 7  Nederman and Forhan, Medieval. 8  See a survey of the literature in Shulman, “Bible.” The phenomenon can even be found in Israel, as in the translation into Hebrew and acceptance of George Sabine’s book in 1963. See also Zisser and Zur, Political. Despite its generic title, Political Thought includes exclusively texts accepted in the Western canon from Plato to Marx, ignoring any other political thought, including Jewish. Zisser, in his preface to the anthology, does not make mention of the problem this raises, even though two years later he co-authored an important article criticizing this approach to political thought (see n. 27 below). 9 Ben-Shamai, State. — 21 —

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era. Maimonides appears immediately after Aquinas (although he actually preceded him chronologically, and was active in the Muslim, not the Christian, milieu!), and Abravanel after Savonarola. As Ben-Shamai explains in his introduction: I intentionally and completely omitted India and the Far East as well as the Islamic world, limiting myself to the Mediterranean and European cultural group, and in general the cultures of the ancient East and Israel on which Western theory was based. For methodological reasons, I put the material on Talmudic political thought into the second volume—where the reader can see it in its place, since it was Maimonides who collated all the diffuse material in the Talmud. The reader may well wonder: Maimonides in the “company of Christians”? But actually [he belongs to] the era and the philosophical theory prevalent therein, and this theory is scholasticism. Who can doubt that Maimonides merits a place, from a general cultural-historical point of view, alongside the great scholastics? In this book, essentially about the evolution of general philosophy, the place of Israel and its great intellectuals was decided along general lines. The place of the Bible is indeed in the “ancient East”; of Philo—in “Rome”; of Maimonides—in scholasticism; of Don Isaac Abravanel—in the Renaissance; of R. Judah Loew (the Maharal of Prague)—in humanism.10 It is not entirely clear why Ben-Shamai omitted Islamic political thought from what he called “the Mediterranean cultural group,” but there is no doubt that his inclusion of Jewish political thought, and the way he included it, was a refreshing innovation. Still, this inclusion represented such an unusual approach for its time that it made no impression. The change in the way some researchers tackled this issue came with later studies of medieval political thought, as we will see in sections 3 and 4 below. 10 Ibid., vol. 1, p. 19. — 22 —

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2. Questioning the Importance of Jewish Political Philosophy We have so far explored two arguments that deny the existence of Jewish political thought; one claiming that political thought is irrelevant to the Jewish tradition, the other claiming that it is absent from the tradition. Another, less extreme stance, while not denying the existence of a specifically Jewish political debate, confines it to extremely strict limits that question the importance of Jewish political thought. There are two basic arguments: 2.1 The Utopian Argument This viewpoint, an internal Jewish one confined mainly to the Orthodox community of scholars but occasionally appearing in the works of academics, assumes that because of the circumstances of the Diaspora and the protracted lack of political independence, Jewish political thought did not tackle concrete politics, but rather focused on “the ideal kingdom” in abstract halachic models and messianic, idealistic, and utopian images. This view tends to ignore the real historical forms in which the Jewish political tradition functioned. Aviezer Ravitzky noticed the flaw in this view and argued: It is true that Jewish philosophers developed their theories in a state of exile from political autonomy and without independent government. Yet the nations among whom the Jews found shelter supplied them with a living political “laboratory,” which afforded Jews concrete experience in competing forms of government, and also invited them to closely examine distinct political cultures.11 Consequently, since there can be no doubt that throughout Jewish history there was sophisticated and ongoing political interest and experience, even without political independence, it is no wonder that a sophisticated and distinct Jewish philosophy developed that was concerned not only with utopian models of the future but also with real and present political problems.

11 Ravitzky, Religion, p. 8. — 23 —

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2.2 The Argument of Marginality Another argument that must be dealt with does not deny the existence of Jewish political thought but claims that most of its developments are recent, and any interest in politics displayed by Jewish thinkers prior to modernity was marginal. Ze’ev Levy argues thus: The principal subjects that concerned Jewish philosophers in the Middle Ages were the theory of divinity, or problems of the existence of God, his nature and attributes; ethics, primarily keeping the commandments, “duties of the heart,” and ,” similar topics; and epistemology, with first and foremost the weighty issue of reason and revelation…. In modern times Jewish thought has continued to discuss these problems, but two branches of philosophy that have not previously aroused any special interest on the part of philosophers—political theory and the philosophy of history—have been appended. The political significance of Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah, which only a handful of modern researchers have discussed or hinted at… was marginal and cannot be compared with the prominence of political problems in the philosophy of Spinoza or Mendelssohn, for example.12 Like the argument that there is no Jewish political philosophy whatsoever, this argument—that the medieval discussion on this branch of 12 Levy, Between, p. 236. See also similar comments made much earlier by no less then Harry Wolfson, Philo, vol. 2, pp. 428–429: “The identification of the commandments with virtues on the part of medieval Jewish philosophers and also their philosophic explanation of some or all of the commandments would naturally lead us to expect that they would also attempt to explain the laws regarding rulers and subjects in terms of political theories known to them. No such attempt, on a large scale and in a systematic way, is, however, made by them. Maimonides, in one place, reproduces the conventional classification of the sciences, in which, under practical philosophy, he enumerates the topics of politics; in another place he discusses philosophically the source of inspiration of ‘statesmen’; in still another place he discusses again philosophically the origin of the state and the function of the king in it. But no attempt is made by him to present the Mosaic form of government in terms of political theories of his times. The form of the Mosaic state and its institutions are dealt with by him in his code of Jewish law, but there he confines himself to a logical and systematic arrangement of traditional material. It was not until towards the end of the fifteenth century that Isaac Abravanel, under the influence of Christian authors, made a faint effort to discuss the institution of kingship in Scripture in terms of current political theory.” — 24 —

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Jewish philosophy was marginal—reveals a modern approach to medieval philosophy, the approach of someone who is, by no coincidence, an important scholar of modern Jewish philosophy. Levy’s observation ignores the fact that the ideological working assumptions and systems of thought in the Middle Ages were qualitatively different from modern ones, judging medieval thought by modern standards. That Levy applied these inappropriate modern standards to medieval thought is what led him to the mistaken conclusion that political thought was marginal in medieval Jewish philosophy. Beyond the fact that the central topics of medieval philosophy to which Levy alludes, such as ethics and the rationale of the commandments, are essentially bound up in questions of political theory, the core subject of medieval Jewish philosophy correctly pointed out by him, the theory of divinity, is inexorably linked to fundamental questions of political theology. From the moment Maimonides claimed that the only attributes of God we can comprehend are attributes of his actions, so the resemblance of the prophet-philosopher-leader to God is a political resemblance, the theory of divinity became part and parcel of fundamental questions of medieval political thought.13 Since no one would dispute the argument that the theory of divinity is an essential part of medieval Jewish philosophy, it inevitably follows that the political implications of this theory are part of its nature. Modern philosophers, like Leo Strauss, to whom Levy alludes here, drew attention to the existence of medieval Jewish political philosophy. But Levy is mistaken— the political philosophy to which they drew our attention was not in the least marginal in comparison with the modern. Levy is certainly correct to point out that modern Jewish political thought touches upon entirely different subjects from those touched upon by medieval thought, in its historical, theological, and cultural context, but again, that discussions of this sort cannot be found in medieval thought does not prove that political discussion there was marginal, only that it was different. The argument that the political discussion in Spinoza’s Theological-Political Treatise or Mendelssohn’s Jerusalem is considerable in comparison with the marginality of the political discussion in Maimonides’ Guide of the Perplexed, for example, is totally groundless. Moreover, we cannot properly understand the 13 Concerning this, see Berman, “Political Leadership” and Melamed, Philosopher-King, esp. ch. 3. — 25 —

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theological-political discussion of Spinoza and Mendelssohn without reference to the medieval background on which they are based and to which they are a direct and conscious reaction.14 Therefore, not only is the claim false that concern with political philosophy in medieval Jewish philosophy was marginal, but the truth is quite the opposite; all Jewish political philosophy can to a large extent be seen as a product of this medieval tradition. We will later explore an even more extreme position (that all Jewish philosophy in the Middle Ages was by its nature political), but there is no doubt that the claims that there can be no Jewish political philosophy—or alternatively, that the medieval political discussion was “marginal” or dealt only with utopian matters—are groundless. This can be further proven by a direct examination of the primary sources. 3. The Problem of Sources 3.1 Textual Sources The evidence that seemed to corroborate the claim that Jewish sources do not discuss political thought was that we could not find in these sources even one treatise wholly or mainly devoted to this topic. This is markedly different in the case of Greek and Christian-European philosophy of the Middle Ages and the modern era, where a long series of important works devoted exclusively or mostly to political philosophy can be identified, such as Plato’s Republic and Laws; Aristotle’s Politics; Cicero’s On the Republic; Thomas Aquinas’ On the Government of Princes; Masilius of Padua’s The Defender of Peace; Machiavelli’s The Prince; and the great modern political treatises by Hobbes, Locke, Montesquieu, Rousseau, Mill, and many, many others. Referring to an article on the political philosophy of Maimonides, included for the first time in a general anthology of the history of political philosophy (1969), the editors, one of them no less a figure than Leo Strauss, still maintained in their preface that “Surely an argument could be made for the inclusion of Dante, Bodin, Thomas More and Harrington, and for the exclusion of the Muslim and Jewish medievals….”15 Does Maimonides really have anything to say about political theory? 14 See, for example, McShea, Spinoza, which totally ignores Spinoza’s medieval background in general and his Jewish sources in particular and consequently presents his political philosophy in an extremely partial and one-sided manner. 15 Strauss and Cropsey, History, Preface. — 26 —

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Did he write a single book on the subject? Ralph Lerner dwelt on the matter at length in his introduction to the article on Maimonides. Such remarks do not appear before any of the book’s other articles and were included in this case since the inclusion of Maimonides was so unusual. He opened the article with the following remarks: A discussion of medieval Jewish political philosophy might appear to suffer from a serious, perhaps hopeless, difficulty. Is there any reason to assume that the subject matter exists? Little in the present-day historical literature suggests that it does. When the medieval Jewish philosophers appear in all current histories, they do so mainly for their antiquarian interest, as links in a chain of transmission of ideas. This neglect is even more pronounced in the histories of political thought; medieval Jewish writers appear to be regarded as irrelevant. It would not be difficult to find some plausible reason for this neglect: a people that for more than a millennium lacked the least appearance of autonomous political life and that for the most part was firmly excluded from governance and administration is not a likely source of independent political reflection. Yet for all its plausibility, this assumption is false; the fact remains that problems that we can recognize as falling within the province of political philosophy are discussed in the writings of medieval Jews. Speculation about political things has never been a preserve open only to statesmen and full citizens.16 So from the fact that no treatises by Jewish thinkers are devoted to this subject, most scholars have deduced that there is no such thing as Jewish political philosophy, whereas there certainly is Greek and Western political philosophy. The lack of political philosophy from a Jewish perspective has been explained by the fact that the Jews were in the Diaspora, under foreign domination, and lacked sovereignty for most 16 Lerner, “Maimonides,” p. 181. See also Lerner’s earlier paper, “Natural Law.” — 27 —

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periods of their existence. The conclusion was therefore drawn that the Jews could not have had any special interest or significant experience or knowledge of political thought. The problem is that our not having found in the history of Jewish thought even one treatise exclusively devoted to political thought (and this phenomenon, in principle, is also true of Islamic culture) does not necessarily prove that there was no such thought. It proves only that it does not appear in the same literary genres customarily used by the Greco-Roman or later European-Christian cultures. Since scholars were looking for political thought in the same types of texts with which they were familiar in their own cultures, and did not find them, and were looking for topics central to their political texts (for example, the theory of government) and found very little evidence of them in Jewish sources, they concluded that no such body of ideas existed. For as long as Jewish philosophy, including political philosophy, was being judged according to external criteria that did not pertain to it, it was easy to reach the conclusion that there was no Jewish political thought. Only when some researchers began examining Jewish sources according to their own theological and political premises did it become possible to discover the great richness of Jewish political tradition throughout history. When Jewish sources throughout history were examined in this way, there was incontrovertible evidence of distinct political discussions in many of them. These discussions do not normally appear in texts specifically devoted to the subject, as was the case in ChristianEuropean philosophy, but are dealt with in the philosophical, theological, and legal contexts of other texts. It is no coincidence that the major Jewish philosophers, in whose writings we can find clear and definitive political doctrine (although there are no texts specifically devoted to this topic), were scholars influenced to a considerable degree by the political philosophy of the culture that surrounded them, like Philo, Maimonides, Spinoza, and Mendelssohn. The more a scholar is influenced by the surrounding culture, the more distinguishable we find his discussion of the subject. Since the theological premises of Judaism (and Islam) were of a different nature from those of Christianity, the understanding of politics derived from these premises was also of a different nature. As a result, political discussion appeared in different textual genres. The theological premises determined their understand— 28 —

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ing of politics, and both these determined the literary genre they chose to employ.17 If we examine biblical, rabbinic, medieval, and modern Jewish literature, we will find there to be a clear, sophisticated, and well-defined political tradition. Only when a new breed of scholars, from the 1930’s on, reflecting mostly on medieval Jewish political thought, such as Leo Strauss and Erwin Rosenthal, and later, from the sixties, Ralph Lerner, Lawrence Berman, and Daniel Elazar,18 began to examine Jewish sources for what they were, in their historical-cultural context, and not from without, from the point of view of another culture, was it possible to discover the wealth of Jewish political philosophy. Against this background, Lerner and Muhsin Mahdi brought about a true revolution when, for the first time in the history of research into political thought, they included Jewish sources alongside Islamic and Christian ones in an anthology of medieval political thought first published in 1963. The highly important preface to this anthology opens with a revolutionary statement in itself: Medieval political philosophy…consists of the enquiries and conclusions of individuals, living as Muslims or Jews or Christians, who attempted to identify the classical political teaching and to distinguish it from, or to harmonize it with, the political teaching of their particular religion.19 The writers were well aware of the problems common to the three monotheistic cultures arising from the encounter between revelation and philosophy. They likewise understood the difficulties with which 17 Lerner, “Maimonides,” p. 182. 18 Concerning Strauss and Lerner, see n. 15 and 16 above, and concerning Strauss, see the detailed discussion later in this essay. Concerning Rosenthal, see mainly “Conception”; also idem, “Aspects”; idem, “Torah”; and also his highly important edition of the medieval Hebrew translation of Averroes’ Commentary on Plato’s Republic. See Averroes, Republic. It is no coincidence that Rosenthal also wrote a history of Islamic political philosophy. See Rosenthal, Islam. Concerning Berman, see mainly Berman, Ibn Bajja; idem, “Greek”; idem, “Re-Examination”; idem, “Disciple”; idem, “Fall”; idem, “Political Leadership”; and his copious research into the absorption of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics into medieval Jewish thought. Concerning Elazar, see n. 5 above and 26 below. 19 Lerner and Mahdi, Sourcebook, p. i. Ben-Shamai actually preceded them with this approach (n. 9 above), but that anthology had no influence whatsoever on their research, perhaps because it was published in Hebrew much earlier. — 29 —

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all three had to contend in the political sphere, and the methodological advantage of a comparative approach that draws on parallel basic sources from the three monotheistic cultures. Nonetheless, they show no appreciation whatsoever of the revolutionary innovation of actually including Jewish sources in an anthology of medieval political philosophy. A cursory reading of the anthology immediately brings into focus the marked difference in textual genre between Jewish and Christian political philosophy. A careful reading of the contents of these texts will also make very clear the background to this difference and its significance. Following this precedent, discussions on Jewish political thought were included in books on political thought in general. It was no coincidence that Leo Strauss and Ralph Lerner were among the editors of these books and their writings were included in them. Yet, in the preface to the anthology of political thought, Cropsey and Strauss still remark that it is certainly possible to argue against the inclusion of Jewish and Islamic scholars in such an anthology, and this was thirty years after the publication of Strauss’ revolutionary book Philosophie und Gesetz (Philosophy and Law), in which the radical argument was first presented that all Jewish (medieval) philosophy is political philosophy.20 Furthermore, in the introduction to the chapter on Maimonides, Lerner offers an explanation intended to preempt the surprise at the decision to include Jewish philosophy that appears to have nothing to do with the subject in an anthology of political philosophy. Where can we find political philosophy in Maimonides? What is Maimonides doing in the company of the great political philosophers Plato and Aristotle, all the way to Aquinas, Machiavelli, Locke, and Hume?21 With time the inclusion of Jewish political philosophical writings among these texts became more acceptable, and in the last few years we can find evidence of a growing recognition of the importance of Jewish political philosophy for political philosophy in general.22 Similarly, if in the past, scholars such as Julius Guttmann, Isaac Husik, and Colette Sirat neglected political theory 20 See the discussion later in this essay. 21 Strauss and Cropsey, History, preface and pp. 181–183. 22 The phenomenon also finds expression in the teaching of political philosophy; see, for example, the Open University of Israel course in political philosophy, Keren, History, which mainly discusses classical political philosophy but includes some Jewish (and Islamic) sources. Recently the Open University also commissioned an advance course on Medieval Jewish political philosophy, see Melamed, Political. — 30 —

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in their general histories of Jewish philosophy, including it has become more acceptable, though much remains to be done. In a few volumes on the history of Jewish philosophy published in the last decades, the editors were careful to include a chapter on Jewish political philosophy in the Middle Ages,23 a phenomena unheared of hitherto. 3.2 Political Organization As we said above, since the premise that it is not possible to find distinct political philosophy in Jewish sources is false, there is no need to accept the explanation for this state of affairs, namely, that it is because Jews for most of their history had no independent political existence and therefore had no interest or experience in politics. It would appear that the judgment that the Jews had no experience of politics also draws from the fact that Jewish culture was subjected to the premise, perhaps true of other cultures, that only an independent political existence for a certain length of time permits the development of a distinct political philosophy. This shows no awareness of the possibility that other political forms exist, such as the community, which has throughout history been central to Jewish life. In this context we look again at the second half of Lerner’s analysis cited above: Yet for all its plausibility, this assumption [i.e., that the Jews did not have any political thought, since they did not have political experience] is false; the fact remains that problems that we can recognize as falling within the province of political philosophy are discussed in the writings of medieval Jews. Speculation about political things has never been a preserve open only to statesmen and full citizens.24 First, an independent or semi-independent political existence that extended over several hundred years during the First and Second Temple periods provided political experience and a sophisticated po23 Melamed, “Philosophy”; idem, “State.” Lorberbaum, “Medieval.” In a recent companion to Maimonides, the editor found it useful to include a chapter on his political philosophy. See Kreisel, “Maimonides.” Also, the editors of the recent Encyclopaedia of Medieval Philosophy commissioned an entry on Jewish political philosophy. See Melamed, “Political Philosophy.” 24 Lerner, “Maimonides,” p. 181. — 31 —

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litical tradition that to a great extent determined the development of a Jewish political tradition with far-reaching implications. Second, the fervid messianic hopes of generations to “renew our days as of old” have a pronounced political content, since they express an aspiration for the renewed independent political existence of the people of Israel in the land of Israel; as the Sages said (Babylonian Talmud, Berachot 34b): “There is no difference between this world and the days of the Messiah except enslavement to kingdoms.”25 Third, even during the long period of exile and loss of political independence, during most of Jewish history, the Jews developed sophisticated communal frameworks of selfgovernment and supracommunal frameworks, such the Council of Four Lands in Poland, which was recognized by the authorities in the various countries where this Jewish political framework existed. In the selfgovernment of these communities it is possible to discern aristocratic, republican, and democratic elements to a greater or lesser degree, according to the best classical definitions of these types of regimes.26 Aside from their own political organization, throughout history, the Jews have examined the systems of government and the political traditions of the different peoples among whom they lived, have been influenced in their own independent power structures by these systems and traditions, and have even interpreted political discussions in Jewish canonical texts in light of these. Jewish communities also developed frameworks and systems of negotiation with the authorities, so that their activities may even be said to have contained elements of international relations. Today it is standard practice in political research to assume that even frameworks without sovereignty, like the community, can be considered as “political systems,” and to examine them as such.27 4. Defining Jewish Political Thought and Identifying Its Sources Now that we have ascertained that there was indeed a clear tradition of Jewish political thought, the question of how to define it arises. Like Jewish philosophy in general, Jewish political thought can be defined in a number of different ways, and there are indeed parallels between 25 Quoted in this context by Maimonides, Mishneh Torah, “Judges,” Laws of Kings 9:2. Concerning this see Funkenstein, “Messianism.” 26 See the discussion on this subject in Elazar, “Democracy”; idem, “Community”and other articles in that anthology. See also Elazar and Cohen, Community; Agus, “Democracy.” 27 Don-Yehiya and Zisser, “Continuity,” p. 125. — 32 —

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the possibilities for defining Jewish philosophy and those for defining Jewish political philosophy. We can discern at least four alternatives, set out below from the extreme minimalist to the extreme maximalist, where the plurality and range of possibilities highlight the extent of the vagueness attending any exploration of the subject: (i) Political ideas promoted by Jews, which need not have anything in common in subject matter or ideology and do not necessarily have a discernible Jewish content. They might even include ideas that conflict with the basic tenets of traditional Judaism and reject them, such as we find in Spinoza. (ii) A repository of theories, ideas, and concepts, deriving from Jewish and general sources alike, that have been used to describe and define Jewish political institutions as they are described in the Bible and in postbiblical culture—like the institution of the community—or originally Jewish political ideas that acquired a Platonic or Aristotelian flavor, as in Philo or Maimonides. There is a question as to whether they express essentially Jewish ideas, or whether they are merely a “wrapping” that allows content whose source is external to the Jewish tradition to be absorbed within it. (iii) A definitive and continuing tradition of political thought, taking different forms and involving processes of continuity and change, which has undergone internal alteration over time, as revealed in Jewish canonical texts like the Bible, the Mishna, and the Talmud; in subsequent halachic literature; and in Hellenistic, medieval, and modern Jewish philosophy. It is important to stress here that the political theory of the Middle Ages or of the modern period is not a direct sequel to the political theory of the Bible or the Talmud, nor is it identical to them. It developed in other directions, was influenced by other historical and cultural circumstances, and served a different need. Yet these theories are still different branches growing from the same trunk, and there is therefore no possibility of understanding them correctly without understanding the links between them and their common sources. From an understanding of what they have in common we can also understand their differences and variability. (iv) A halachic system of thinking, which is fundamentalist-religious in its most extreme form, largely homogeneous, and ideologically consistent. The first definition is so general that it leaves the field amorphous — 33 —

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and void of intrinsic meaning. Its logical extension is that there is no Jewish political thought, only a random collection of political ideas on which Jews meditated that have no real connection with one another.28 On the other hand, the last definition is so specific that it ignores a whole range of political sources, theories, and ideas that appear in Jewish texts. The first definition is flawed by extreme pluralism, whereas the fourth is flawed by its being extremely monolithic, and neither allows for meaningful discussion of the subject. The two intermediate definitions, balanced between the extremes, seem appropriate and effective for the needs of such a discussion. The combination of both shows an understanding that no definition can include all the possibilities latent in a topic.29 This is the backdrop against which we will examine the types of sources for Jewish political philosophy as such. It is possible to distinguish four types: (i) Political thought that can be defined as explicit and ordered, comprehensive and systematic, and that appears in a defined text devoted entirely or mainly to this subject. (ii) Political ideas interspersed in halachic, philosophic, and literary sources on non-political topics. (iii) Various documents and instruments, like halachic responsa, regulations and legal judgments, protocols and public documents, and so forth, all dealing with concrete and practical political problems and hence likely to reflect perceptions of and attitudes toward fundamental questions in the social and political sphere. (iv) Forms of organization, structure, and behavior that can reveal something about the values of the political culture and the principles of its political regime.30 As we explained earlier, the sources of the first type are characteristic of the Christian political tradition and do not appear in the Jewish culture. This is part of what led to the erroneous conclusion that there is no Jewish political philosophy. Since we are interested in political philosophy rather than in the aspects of political science that deal with forms of organization and types of government, the sources that we are inter28 Similar to Leibowitz’s view, which was discussed above. 29 Don-Yehiya and Zisser, “Continuity,” pp. 100–102; Melamed, “Philosophy.” 30 This classification is based on Don-Yehiya and Zisser, “Continuity,” pp. 103–104. — 34 —

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ested in will be from the second group. Taking these types of sources as our base creates a methodological problem: Unlike Greek and Roman sources, and later European (i.e. Christian) texts based on them, the primary sources of Jewish political philosophy, especially in the Middle Ages, are not clearly philosophical, in the Greek sense of the term, and hence not immediately identifiable as relevant to political philosophy. Our research therefore demands a process of collecting, identifying, editing, or organizing the relevant material before it is possible to interpret it and construct a comprehensive political theory therefrom. For this reason it might be argued that researchers have, until now, been putting the cart before the horse; they have worked on Jewish political thought before completing the process of collecting and organizing the relevant primary materials. We are still faced with the daunting challenge that this preliminary work presents, although the past few years have seen some advancement in this area.31 5. Jewish Philosophy, Political Theology, and Political Philosophy in the Middle Ages Medieval Jewish political philosophy laid the foundations for subsequent Jewish political thought.32 Here we will explain how it developed, its key ideas, and what it was that caused Leo Strauss to contend, contrary to all the arguments against the existence of Jewish political thought or against its importance, that all Jewish philosophy in the Middle Ages should be regarded as political philosophy. We will then be in a position to evaluate Strauss’ claim. Medieval Jewish philosophy, as it developed from the tenth century until approximately the end of the fifteenth century, was the product of the great encounter between Judaism, as it had evolved in biblical and rabbinic literature, and the legacy of Greek science and philosophy, as it had been absorbed into medieval culture through the great mass of Arabic translations undertaken in the eighth to tenth centuries. Jewish political philosophy was also a product of the encounter between Jew31 Reference here is to Walzer et al., eds., The Jewish Political Tradition. Also Melamed, Political. 32 Jewish political thought first emerged during the Hellenistic period in the philosophy of Philo of Alexandria, who was the first to interpret the Bible according to the basic tenets of Greek philosophy, especially Platonic philosophy, including the realm of political philosophy. See Wolfson, Philo, ch. 12. Philo’s philosophy, however, had no influence on Jewish medieval thought, and therefore cannot be considered an early source of what was essentially a new tradition founded in the Middle Ages. — 35 —

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ish political theology and Greek political philosophy as it had passed into medieval philosophy through translations into Arabic and commentaries on its principal political writers, especially Plato, by Islamic philosophers like al-Farabi, ibn Bajja, and ibn Rushd (Averroes). Like philosophy in general, political philosophy dealt with this momentous encounter in a variety of ways. Political theology, a branch of theology, deals with the political aspects and implications of revelation as expressed in the holy scriptures of each of the monotheistic religions. Whereas theology in general is concerned with everything accompanying fundamental questions of religious faith based on divine revelation, political theology deals with the significance of the governing relations between God and humans in a particular ethnic or religious group stemming from this revelation. In this sense, theology is clearly particularistic in nature, especially in Judaism and Islam. In contradistinction, political philosophy, as it was first expounded in the writings of Plato and Aristotle, is essentially universal. It is concerned with the nature and political principles of human society qua human society. Plato and Aristotle were indeed grounded in Greek political experience, yet the context and tenor of their discussions encompasses all mankind. Just as philosophy deals with the love of wisdom and the desire for knowledge in its most universal and general sense, so too political philosophy, which stems from it, desires to know the nature and principles of politics in a general sense. Political theology, then, deals with God’s government over human beings, with divine commandments given to them, with the governing relationship between God and humankind (theocracy is literally “God’s governance”), and with the religious purpose of political life. Political philosophy, on the other hand, deals with human government over humans, with types of governments (by individuals, minorities, or the majority), with human legislation on which regimes are based, and with the human purpose of the state’s existence. The common ground between political theology and political philosophy is that they deal with political matters. What distinguishes them are their basic premises and the different reasons that they are concerned with the subject.33 The three monotheistic cultures of the Middle Ages—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—inherited the legacy of Greek philosophy. All 33 See the detailed discussion of these matters in Lerner and Mahdi, Sourcebook, preface. — 36 —

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three accepted, in principle, the premise that philosophy and science derived from the Greek tradition, including Greek political philosophy, were expressions of the highest level of human knowledge. They all agreed that the texts of the great Greek philosophers and scientists, Plato and Aristotle, Hippocrates, Galen, and Ptolemy, as these had been introduced to them by generations of manuscripts, translations, and commentaries, were manifestations of scientific truth. However, each of the monotheistic cultures differed from the others in theology and consequently in political theology. This dictated the way in which each culture selected which literature to incorporate from the Greek political legacy and how this literature was to be used. The differences between their theological premises affected the way they dealt with the fundamental questions of the relationship between God’s government and human government, divine law and human law, the divine purpose and the human purpose of political existence. The system of relations adopted by medieval Jewish thinkers can be graphically represented as follows: Theology (Jewish)

Philosophy (Greek)  

Political Philosophy (Greek)

 

Political Theology (Jewish)  

 

Political Philosophy (Jewish) There is an essential difference between the basic premises of the political theology of Judaism and Islam on the one hand and those of Christianity on the other. This is a consequence of the different historical circumstances in which the three monotheistic faiths originated. Judaism and Islam evolved in the desert—at least in the metaphorical sense—where there was no permanent dwelling place, no rule of law, and no stable government. It was therefore necessary, from their point of view, to present their divine revelation—first and foremost—as a revelation of law. This law regulates and shapes the life of the community and its members, and is initially aimed at ensuring the physical survival of the group, then at improving its conditions and the moral character of the individuals belonging to it. This concept of law is holistic and all-encompassing, with law intended to extend to all areas of human — 37 —

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existence, from the most physical level to the most spiritual. All human existence—beginning with the proper way of satisfying the most basic physical needs, such as eating and sexual relations, and culminating in Torah study, the highest level of religious practice in Judaism—from morning till night, from birth to death, is covered in minute detail by divine law as specifically set out in the halacha. The Halacha (literally “pathway”), as its name suggests, aims at directing humans along the path they should take in every detail and period of their life. The law, both written and oral, that according to Jewish tradition was given at the revelation of Sinai, is therefore first and foremost a social and political constitution that regulates the life of the people and the lives of the individuals within it. It is important to note that in the terminology of the Middle Ages, the Hebrew words torah and dat (meaning “religion” in modern Hebrew) had much more general meanings than they have in modern Hebrew. Whereas the modern meaning of these words includes a specific system of laws, beliefs, opinions, and rituals, in medieval Hebrew they both mean law in the broad sense of the word. The words torah and dat signify law in general, any law whatsoever, not only Jewish law, and not necessarily divine law. Human law is also called (human) torah or (human) dat. It has even been claimed that the legalistic definition of these words is unique to Judaism and that the modern meanings that have attached to them stem from the Christian influence on Jewish philosophy.34 The Torah is therefore not essentially a system of beliefs and ideas,35 but rather a system of binding positive and negative commandments. Its aim is to establish a mandatory legal framework essential for a nation of slaves who left Egypt and were unaccustomed to a life of liberty based on voluntary obedience to legal authority, who wandered in the desert, in a place where there is no permanent habitation or proper human society. Thus, the divine law was careful above all to cater to the most basic physical needs of human existence in order to ensure the survival of the group during this critical period of its evolution. It is no coincidence, therefore, that the commandments between man and his neighbor inscribed in the Ten Commandments are expressed in the 34 See Melamed, “Theology”; idem, “Loi.” 35 Hence, the thirteen principles of Maimonides, which laid down for the first time in Jewish history the binding principles of faith, were a radical change in the history of Jewish theology, and it was no coincidence that they caused a furor. See Kelner, Dogma. — 38 —

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negative and all deal with primary prohibitions intended to guarantee the existence and survival of the group, beginning with “Thou shalt not kill” and ending with “Thou shalt not covet” (Exod. 20:12–14). Only after the survival of the group had been guaranteed through prohibitory laws (mitzvot lo ta’aseh) was it possible to add laws framed positively (mitzvot aseh), which are concerned with improving the moral behavior of the individual and the life of the society. Islam also emerged in the desert and also had a similar need to make a comprehensive set of laws to cover all areas of human existence. It is no coincidence that the Sharia, the Islamic system of law, has many parallels to Jewish Halacha. Therefore, since the Jewish revelation is understood as a revelation of law and not of beliefs and ideas, the encounter between Jewish theology and Greek philosophy—and in our context, between the political branch of each—first raises a constitutional question: to what extent and for what purpose can revealed law permit the use of philosophy?36 Christianity, unlike Judaism and Islam, developed in an existing civilization, in the heart of the Roman Empire at its peak. Therefore, not only did it not have a pressing need to lay down a structured set of positive and negative precepts to regulate life in the political realm or community, for such laws already existed, but any such attempt would most certainly have brought Christianity into violent conflict with the authority of the Roman Empire. Christianity, which had been from the start a subversive religion with universal pretensions, developed in an empire faithful to pagan rites and could certainly not have afforded to do such a thing. Even though it made no such attempt, Christianity was mercilessly hounded in the Roman Empire until the third century. Any demand to replace the law of the empire with Christianity’s own independent set of laws would have been regarded as a blatant subversion of 36 Aviezer Ravitzky recently put forward the argument that in addition to the holistic model, we can find in Jewish thought of the Middle Ages a number of models that see the relationship between religion and the state in different ways. See Ravitzky, Religion. This is not the place to deal with this original thesis in detail, but I remain unconvinced. It seems to me that some Jewish scholars in the late Middle Ages may have been influenced to a certain extent by ideas and terms of Christian scholasticism, but I do not think that any of them went so far as to propose different structures for the relation between what is called “religion” and “state” (in the modern sense of these words) beyond the conventional holistic structure, and even Ravitzky agrees that this structure was the dominant one. It seems that this is more of an attempt to find a precedent that will provide a remedy for the problems of the relationship between religion and state in Israel today, from the point of view of Modern Orthodoxy, than an impartial discussion of the characteristics of Jewish political thought in the Middle Ages. — 39 —

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the basis of the empire and would probably have generated an appropriate response. Just like Judaism, and later Islam, which emerged under similar conditions and accordingly developed similar survival strategies, Christianity, which emerged in completely different historical-cultural circumstances, developed a strategy for survival that suited its needs. In contrast to the holism of Judaism and Islam, Christianity developed a dualistic approach that drew a sharp distinction between the holy and the profane, between the physical and the spiritual realms, between the terrestrial and the heavenly, between this world and the next, between the state and religious faith. Its survival strategy in a hostile world was to forgo the earthly in favor of the spiritual, to acknowledge the imperial authority in the earthly domain and, in return, to demand recognition by the empire, of its spiritual authority: “Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s and to God what is God’s.” As a result, medieval Christian political culture developed the well-known distinction between two dominions; the church recognized the authority of the state in earthly matters and in return demanded recognition of its exclusive dominion in spiritual matters.37 A clear distinction therefore evolved in medieval Christianity between canonical law, which the church dispensed, and civil law, dispensed by worldly rulers. There was no analogy for this distinction in Jewish or Islamic political theology. The New Testament, in striking contrast to the Hebrew Bible, does not contain any clearly defined section on law, and there is nothing in medieval Christianity equivalent to Jewish Halachah or Islamic Sharia. Whereas Judaism considered the sections in the Hebrew Bible that dealt with law to be the focus of this text, Christianity preferred the prophetic books of the Old Testament. The key question of Judaism and Islam was what should humans do? Both these religions focused to a great extent on existence and on proper human behavior here and now on earth. The fundamental question of Christianity, on the other hand, was completely different: What should humans believe in? Human attention was to be focused on the next world, with the physical affairs of this world defined as inferior and able to be left in the hands of a worldly ruler. The theological legitimization for this renunciation was that the sacrifice of Jesus had removed the requirement to keep the 37 See the discussion in Lerner and Mahdi, Sourcebook, pp. 12–13. See also Nederman and Forhan, Medieval. — 40 —

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practical commandments. By accepting Jesus as the Messiah, the Christian believer was elevated from a level of base physicality—where the Jews, by their refusal to accept him, remained—to a level of spirituality, where he was no longer obliged to keep the practical commandments that focus on the needs of the earthly body. Therefore, when medieval Christianity came into contact with Greek philosophy in the thirteenth century, the question that bothered Christian theologians was not the question raised by Judaism and Islam—that is, to what extent revealed law permits the pursuit of philosophy, and for what purpose—because Christians had no such law. The question was to what extent Greek political philosophy was in harmony with the church’s belief system and how the two could be reconciled. These differences affected the ways in which medieval scholars dealt with the question of the relationship between political theology and political philosophy. However, it is important to point out that the differences were not only in the approaches of the three monotheistic religions, but also in the content that emerged from these approaches, and there was no small number of internal controversies among the scholars of each religion. These controversies were to a great extent the result of an ongoing argument in medieval philosophy concerning the relationship between philosophy and revelation in general. It is possible to discern two main approaches: One makes political theology subservient to political philosophy, and the other makes political philosophy subservient to political theology. The first assumes that since political philosophy is universal in nature, in contrast to political theology, which is more particular, the particular has to be understood in the context of the universal: it is impossible to understand the meaning and implications of God’s governance and specific divine law intended for a particular ethnicreligious group except against the background of an understanding of the fundamental concepts of any regime and set of laws of whatever kind and of their purpose. These are the subjects discussed by political philosophy. The contrary approach claims that since political theology is based on revealed, supernatural knowledge and political philosophy is based on knowledge of human origin, essentially inferior to divine knowledge, political philosophy must accept the authority of political theology and its basic premises. Its function is only to interpret, clarify, and elucidate the basic premises of political

— 41 —

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theology.38 As a rule, most Jewish scholars accepted the second view in principle. Since revelation in their doctrine is a revelation of law, revealed law necessarily provides legitimacy for the pursuit of philosophy and directs and defines it according to need. However, some of them made extensive use of the basic premises of Greek political philosophy so as to give Jewish political theology the importance they felt it warranted. This is what created Jewish political philosophy. 6. The Claim of Generality: Is All Medieval Jewish Philosophy Political Philosophy? The assumption, correct in itself, that Jewish revelation—like Islamic revelation but distinct from Christian revelation—was essentially a revelation of comprehensive law, covering all elements of human existence, led Leo Strauss to the radical conclusion that all medieval Jewish philosophy was essentially a philosophy of law and therefore also necessarily political philosophy. Strauss developed this theory in his early treatise published in Berlin in 1935, Philosophie und Gesetz, the first part of which was dedicated to a sweeping polemic against Julius Guttmann’s great work, Die Philosophie des Judentums (The Philosophy of Judaism), which had been published two years earlier.39 Strauss’ criticism of Guttmann focuses on the concept of revelation and its relevance and status in medieval Jewish philosophy. While he agrees with Guttmann that the great creation of medieval philosophy was the philosophy of religion, he takes him to task on the question of its content. Strauss criticized Guttmann for approaching medieval Jewish philosophy from the perspective of modern Jewish philosophy, which he believed had been permeated with manifestly Christian elements. In Strauss’ view, since the religion medieval philosophy dealt with was the religion of revelation, the problem of revelation became the fundamental problem of that philosophy. Since in its Jewish and Islamic context, revelation is the revelation of law and not of beliefs and ideas as it is in Christianity, 38 For a detailed discussion of this, see Lerner and Mahdi, Sourcebook, preface. 39 See the English translation published fifty years after the book first appeared: Strauss, Philosophy. My discussion is based on this translation. As for Guttmann’s treatise, see the expanded Hebrew edition: Guttmann, Philosophy. For Strauss’ worldview see Cohen, Reason, preface. On the controversy between Strauss and Guttmann, see also Schwartz, “Enlightenment”; Shweid, “Religion”; see also E. Luz, preface to Strauss, Jerusalem, pp. 54–56. These discussions focus mainly on the general theological-philosophical context of the subject and not on the political aspect. For the political context, see Melamed, “Theology.” — 42 —

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medieval Jewish and Islamic philosophy became mainly a philosophy of law. This conclusion is reflected in the name of Strauss’ book: Philosophy and Law. According to Strauss, if we have proven that focus on the problems of revelation is a feature of medieval Jewish philosophy, and revelation is the revelation of law and not of beliefs and ideas, law being clearly a political matter according to the Aristotelian classification, then logic dictates medieval Jewish philosophy to be political philosophy for all intents and purposes. Guttmann emphasized that philosophy of religion deals with general philosophical and theological topics that are beyond the domain of law or politics, like the question of creation, the possibility for humans to know God, divine providence, the problem of divine knowledge, and the immortality of the soul. That medieval Jewish philosophy dealt with these topics Guttmann considered to be proof of the epistemological and metaphysical nature, apolitical and suprapolitical, of medieval Jewish philosophy. Strauss would have it that the moment the philosophical treatment of these subjects is conditional on revelation, which in Judaism means conditional on law, for its legitimacy, and the moment it is dependent on this revelation to answer questions for which reason can provide no conclusive answers, like the question of creation, then these subjects also come within the scope of the philosophy of law, that is to say, political philosophy. Strauss examines Jewish medieval philosophy and claims that the moment God is represented as a lawgiver, the question of the perception of divinity is no longer merely a metaphysical one but necessarily a political one. The moment the prophet is portrayed as a legislator and as an ideal ruler, prophecy is no longer purely a psychological problem but a political matter. The moment humans are described as having a political life, having physical and social needs, and not merely as spiritual entities with metaphysical pretensions, the question of the purpose of human existence becomes a political one for all purposes. If so, politics, last in the Aristotelian classification of sciences, becomes the supreme goal of theological speculation. The order is reversed, since, according to Strauss’ interpretation of Maimonides, the supreme human purpose— expressed as the closest man can come to resembling God—cannot be achieved except within the framework of an ideal society in which the philosopher-prophet-ruler mirrors, by his rule in the microcosm of human society, the divine rule in the macrocosm of the cosmos, with — 43 —

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kindness, justice, and righteousness. The biblical prophet assumes the character of the Platonic philosopher-king. The human resemblance to God changes from a matter of metaphysics into one of politics. Humans do not know the nature of God, but by their deeds and in political life, they can imitate the divine forms of activity.40 Guttmann responded to Strauss in a critical essay written in the early 1940’s but published only posthumously.41 The title Guttmann gave to this essay aptly describes the controversy between him and Strauss: “Philosophie der Religion oder Philosophie des Gesetzes?” Guttmann’s basic argument in response to Strauss’ criticism focuses on the question of the relationship between revelation and philosophy. Guttmann argues that there is an internal flaw in Strauss’ claim. If philosophy is conditional on revealed law, how can it simultaneously act to clarify the necessity and meaning of revealed law? Logic cannot allow the condition to be examined by the conditional. If we suppose that revealed law is what gives philosophy its legitimacy, and philosophy elucidates revealed law, then it follows that this is not a dependent relationship—of philosophy on revelation—but one of cross-influence between two discrete and parallel sources of knowledge. Even for R. Sa’adia Gaon, who in Guttmann’s opinion also based the obligation to engage in philosophy directly on revealed law, the law of reason has an independent status that is not conditional on revelation, and Mosaic law is identified as true divine law, not only as a result of empirical historical evidence, but also because it is compatible with the requirements of the law of intellect and proved rationally (Beliefs and Opinions, part 40 Strauss, Philosophy, pp. 37–58 and throughout the second part of the book. See the many other studies of this subject published later; for example, Strauss, “Quelques”; idem, “Farabi.” See also the introductions to Strauss, Jerusalem, pp. 18–19, 52–53; concerning the political resemblance, see n. 23 above. 41 Guttmann, “Law.” Ironically, Amir, in his Hebrew translation, translated these words literally: “Philosophy of Religion or Philosophy of Law?” thus playing into Strauss’ hands. He translated “religion” as “dat,” while in medieval Hebrew the word did not necessarily have this meaning. The word “dat,” like “Torah,”often meant law, not exclusively and not necessarily divine law, but law in general and all its branches. Thus, when the Hebrew translator of Guttmann’s essay in response to Strauss translated the word “religion” as “dat” (and not emunah [“faith”], for example), he gave it precisely the same meaning as the German word Gesetz. As a result, Guttmann’s highly significant question, which in the original German so neatly expressed the focus of the controversy between himself and Strauss, became a meaningless tautological question: “philosophy of law or philosophy of law?” To be fair, in making this error the translator was following Guttmann’s own lead, since in his Hebrew articles and the translation of his book, he consistently used the word “dat” to mean faith and a religious outlook on life in its broad sense. — 44 —

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3). Moreover, since the historical reality of the Middle Ages was one in which three revealed religions were competing with each other for supremacy, intellectual reasoning, as it is embodied in philosophy, became the supreme test of religious truth. This was the main common ground among philosophers who were believers in the monotheistic religions and who had considerable differences of opinion over the question of the true nature of revealed religion. In its most extreme form, this rationalism went so far as to reject all revealed religion and to make rational judgment the exclusive test of truth. Guttmann contended that there is no one opinion in medieval thought about the relationship between revelation and philosophy. He did not believe that the attitude proposed by Strauss was the only one or even the prevailing one in medieval rationalism. It is possible to find a range of attitudes among medieval philosophers, from one that subordinates philosophy to revealed law, according to the view proposed by Strauss, to the antithesis, which subordinates revealed law to philosophy. To allow for only one possibility in all medieval philosophy is to diminish it in a way that misses out not only on the variety of attitudes in medieval thought, and the controversies between them, but also on the nature of this thought in general. Even those who presumed the constitutional subservience of philosophy to revelation, like Maimonides, considered revelation not an end but a means intended to guide mankind to an understanding of God. According to Maimonides (Guide 2:40), the superiority of divine law to human law is expressed, among other ways, by the fact that contrary to human law, which aspires to narrow physical and social ends, divine law, as expressed in revelation, aspires to direct mankind to a true knowledge of God, that is to say, to a metaphysical level of human existence. Another factor in the controversy exemplified by Strauss and Guttmann is the relative influence of Plato and Aristotle on different types of medieval political thought, and here too there is a significant difference between Islamic and Jewish political theory and that of medieval Christianity. Islamic and Jewish philosophy leaned heavily on Platonic political theory, in particular on Plato’s Republic and Laws, as these were transmitted to medieval Islamic culture, were translated into Arabic, and were interpreted by the great political philosophers from al-Farabi to Averroes. These texts were later translated into Hebrew, and their influence was considerable in the development of Jewish political thought in — 45 —

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the late Middle Ages. In both Judaism and Islam, political theology was interpreted in the context of Platonic political theory. While rumors of the existence of Aristotle’s Politics reached medieval Islamic culture, the Politics itself did not reach Islamic philosophers, and its influence was nonexistent. In contradistinction, Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics had a massive influence on Jewish and Islamic philosophy. The Politics came to the attention of Jewish scholars only later, as a result of Christian influence, and is first used by a Jewish thinker in the fifteenth century with Joseph Albo’s Book of Principles (1:7), and even here Aristotle is cited only in the context of a critique of Plato’s system. Taking into account the fact that medieval Jewish and Islamic philosophical traditions relied heavily on the Aristotelian tradition in all areas of philosophy, the absence of Aristotle’s influence in the realm of political thought is very noticeable. Even after the centers of Jewish culture moved to the Christian-Latin region in the late Middle Ages, where the Politics was enormously influential within scholastic political philosophy, it had no more than a marginal effect on Jewish scholars. They continued to be conditioned by Platonic political philosophy through its Islamic interpretations as far as the beginning of the modern age.42 In Christian-Latin culture, the situation was quite the opposite: Aristotle’s Politics made an enormous impression when it was translated from Greek in the thirteenth century, and its influence on the political philosophy of Christian scholastics was huge. Plato’s political thought penetrated Christian political philosophy only during the Renaissance. This situation resulted not merely from the vagaries of reincarnations of manuscripts but from the needs of each of the monotheistic cultures. To a great extent, the particular nature of the political theology of each culture determined the Greek source it chose, as well as determining the literary genre it elected to use, as we said above. Each of them used the Greek source that most closely conformed to the worldview of its political theology, and the literary genre most appropriate for its political treatises. Plato’s political view, which considered politics to be an inseparable part of his philosophical worldview and therefore did not 42 That has been the situation until the present day, when Plato’s political texts have already been translated into Hebrew more than once in modern times, and their Islamic interpretations have also been published more than once in Hebrew and in other languages. Aristotle’s Politics, on the other hand, has still not been translated into Hebrew in its entirety and awaits deliverance. See the bibliographical references in the following note. — 46 —

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distinguish between his more political discussions and his philosophical ones, was closer to the holistic position of Jewish and Islamic political theology. On the other hand, Aristotle’s philosophical worldview, in which politics was a quite separate pursuit, was closer to the Christian view that distinguishes between the two disciplines.43 In the difference between the influence of the political thought of Plato and Aristotle, we find both another element distinguishing Jewish political philosophy from the Christian-Western tradition, and one which bears on the question of whether all Jewish philosophy in the Middle Ages is to be considered political philosophy: Strauss’ doctrine assumed that medieval Islamic and Jewish philosophy from al-Farabi through Maimonides to Averroes was political, and therefore Platonic in nature, and brought political science from the fringes of philosophy to the center of its speculation. Without denying the Platonic influences, Guttmann pointed out that there was also a dominant Aristotelian tradition, drawn from the Nicomachean Ethics that had a bearing on political theory and its relation to ethics, psychology, and metaphysics but was distinct from political theory. This for Guttmann signified that there was a notion of metaphysical revelation distinct from the political revelation that Strauss assigned to all medieval Jewish thought, and highlighted the possibility of a Jewish political philosophy that did not encompass all of Jewish philosophy, but was rather a branch of this much broader field. 7. Implications for Today and Conclusions There is no doubt that Strauss’ revolutionary thesis, which assumed medieval philosophy was manifestly political in nature, acted as a catalyst in the expansion of research into important aspects of this philosophy that had scarcely been discussed until then. Prior to Strauss there was hardly any awareness of the political aspects of various texts, like R. Sa’adia Gaon’s Beliefs and Opinions, Judah Halevi’s Kuzari, Maimonides’ Guide of the Perplexed, Albo’s Book of Principles, or Abravanel’s commentaries on the Bible, to mention only a few major examples. These texts had been thought of until then as being of a halachic, theological, ethical, psychological, or metaphysical nature, totally devoid of any aspects 43 For a detailed discussion of these subjects see: Melamed, Philosopher-King, esp. ch. 1; idem, “Abravanel”; Idem, “Politics” (ch. 3 in this book); Idem, “del Medigo.” — 47 —

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of political philosophy. In addition to these, many other important texts that had until then been virtually untouched by scholars, in a political context or otherwise, became important. These texts include Jacob Anatoly’s Goad of the Students, Isaac Polkar’s The Defense of the Law, Elijah del Medigo’s The Examination of the Law, Yohanan Alemanno’s The Eternal, and many others. New readings of the canonical texts of medieval thought, by the likes of Sa’adia Gaon, Halevi, Maimonides, Albo, and Abravanel, both cast new light on the theological and metaphysical significance of these texts and drew attention to their political aspects and to the interplay between the halachic, theological, metaphysical, and political. The fact that the attention of a number of scholars was drawn to this field was a consequence of Strauss’ innovative identification of the political significance of these texts, where prior to Strauss, the political relevance of Jewish canonical philosophical texts of the Middle Ages had been distorted by the fact that a Christian interpretation, based on a different worldview, had been imposed on them. This Aristotelian-Christian political view, which separated the earthly from the spiritual, had no part in the worldview expressed in Jewish and Islamic holistic understandings of revelation. By freeing himself from the narrow Aristotelian-Christian point of view and making a revolutionary return to Platonic political philosophy, Strauss opened our eyes to the political relevance of these texts and established the study of Jewish political philosophy in the Middle Ages as an important branch of medieval Jewish philosophy. Strauss’ breakthrough in Philosophy and Law created a new area of research into Jewish philosophy in the Middle Ages and other periods that has produced dozens of studies in the last twenty years,44 and there are more to come. And yet when we examine the great controversy between Strauss and Guttmann from a distance of at least two generations, we are able to evaluate each of the positions in the light of the development of research in the last ten years. Paradoxically, the expansion of research in the field created by Strauss proves, in my opinion, that he may have gone too far in the thesis he expounded in Philosophy and Law. The culmination of the studies of medieval Jewish political thought so far seems to point in 44 See the complete bibliography updated to 1997 in Melamed, “Medieval,” pp. 440-449. Since its publication, many studies in this field have been published, as well as some important doctoral theses. See in the bibliography of this book. — 48 —

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the direction of the conclusion reached by Guttmann after he had read Strauss. That is to say, while Strauss certainly accomplished something of great importance when he stressed the political aspect of the theory of revelation, Guttmann, with his good sense, put things in proportion and was in this respect ahead of his time. Political philosophy, itself influenced to an enormous extent by Platonic tradition, continues to be conditioned, in the Aristotelian style, by the basic premises of ethics, psychology, and metaphysics. It could be argued that Strauss and Guttmann complemented each other dialectically: Strauss was the first to turn the spotlight on important political aspects of revelation theory, whereas Guttmann put them in their correct perspective without diminishing their importance. The Italian Jewish scholar-poet of the fifteenth century Moses of Rieti wrote in his apposite verse that political philosophy is nothing other than “wisdom’s little sister.”45 Strauss’ great accomplishment was that he turned this little sister into a woman of importance, making political philosophy a legitimate and important field of research within Jewish philosophy. As this field develops, it is important that scholars appreciate the distinctness of Jewish political thought and study it on its own terms. We saw that exploring medieval Jewish philosophy from the outside, by Aristotelian-Christian standards, led to a misunderstanding of the political importance of the Jewish thought of that time. Similarly, the study of Jewish political thought in any era must take care to evaluate this thought from within, through the very sources and forms of political organization that make Jewish political thought distinct and, at times, hard to identify as political thought.

45 Moses of Rieti, Mikdash Me’at, p. 22. — 49 —

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Chapter two

Medieval and Renaissance Jewish Political Philosophy: An Overview

The question of how to define Jewish political philosophy is no less complicated and subject to disagreement than the question of what Jewish philosophy in general is, and in many respects the first question is a direct derivation from the second.1 This state of affairs is well characterized by the fact that Jewish political philosophy can be defined in at least four different ways, from the minimalist to the maximalist: first, as political ideas developed by Jews, which have no necessary thematic or ideological common denominator, and which are not necessarily Jewish in their context—these may even include ideas which reject the basic political premises of rabbinic Judaism, such as Spinoza’s; second, as a reservoir of theories and terms, derived from both Jewish and general sources, which were employed in order to describe Jewish political institutions, such as communal government (kahal), or political theories which originated in Judaism and acquired a Platonic or Aristotelian garb, as in Philo of Alexandria and Maimonides; third, as a defined and continuous tradition of political thought, which has different expressions and underwent internal changes during the ages, as it is expressed in the Bible, the Mishnah, the Talmud, the halakhic literature, and in Hellenistic, medieval, and modern Jewish philosophy; fourth, as a system of halakhic thought, religiously fundamentalist in its extreme, which is characterized by a great measure of thematic unity and ideological consistency. My discussion is mainly based on the third formulation. The sources of political thought, both Jewish and general, may be classified as follows: first, as a defined, detailed, and organized body of political thinking; second, as political ideas which are scattered in various (not essentially political) literary, exegetical, and philosophic sources; third, as historical documents, such as constitutions and legal proceedings; fourth, as patterns of communal organization and modes 1

Jospe, Philosophy. Levi, Between. — 50 —

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of behavior which shed light on the values of a given political culture and the principles of its political organization. Of these sources, the first kind is completely absent from Jewish political philosophy. This state of affairs stands in sharp contrast to Christian political philosophy, which is mainly expressed in writings of the first kind, such as Dante’s De Monarchia, Machiavelli’s The Prince, or Hobbes’ Leviathan. This situation has given rise to the fairly widespread assumption that Jewish sources devoted very little space to political issues. The main justification for this assumption was that since Jews did not enjoy an independent political existence through most of their history, they were not interested in political issues. This explanation can be rejected in two ways. First, even in the absence of an independent political existence, it is possible to deal with theoretical political questions, such as the nature of the future Jewish state. The debate on this question is clearly manifested in the rationalistic current of the messianic literature, as in Maimonides. Second, even in the absence of an independent state, it is possible to develop and maintain an active political life, in the framework of an autonomous Jewish communal life. Many of the political issues which are dealt with in a sovereign state, and are a topic of discussion for political philosophers, did in fact arise in this framework. The main problem here, however, is not with the explanation for Jewish lack of interest in political philosophy, but rather with the basic assumption itself. The presumed absence of any notable body of Jewish political philosophy is erroneous and is based upon a projection of characteristics unique to the framework of Christian political philosophy. Further, this false presumption is exacerbated when one approaches medieval texts from a modern secular perspective, which takes, for example, Locke’s Two Treatises on Government as paradigmatic. From this vantage point, it is difficult to identify any political context in the seemingly obscure, theology-laden medieval texts at all.2 This is the main reason why until recently there was so little research in the history of Jewish political philosophy. It is still quite negligible in comparison to other branches of Jewish philosophy, on the one 2

Lerner and Mahdi, Sourcebook, introduction; Don Yihyeh and Zisser, “Continuity”; Zisser, “Reconstruction.” — 51 —

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hand, and the amount of research into the history of Christian (and even Muslim) political philosophy, on the other. There are already quite a few general histories of Christian political philosophy of the Middle Ages and other periods, but nothing of this sort exists for the Jewish counterpart. Only when scholars such as Leo Strauss, Harry Wolfson, Erwin Rosenthal, Ralph Lerner, Shlomo Pines, Lawrence Berman, and a few scholars of the next generation who followed their lead, started to approach Jewish political philosophy from its own theo-political or a modern secular perspective, was the rich heritage of Jewish political philosophy exposed.3 In order to understand the difference between the Jewish and Christian political starting points, it would be profitable to employ a distinction between political philosophy and political theology. Political philosophy deals with the principles and essence of every human society, wherever it may be. It was originally formulated in the writings of Plato and Aristotle. Political theology, on the other hand, deals with the particular political meaning of the revelation of each faith as expressed in their holy scriptures.4 All three monotheistic cultures shared the basic premise of Greek political philosophy. The difference among them lay in political theology. Here we find a good measure of agreement between Judaism and Islam. The case of Christianity, however, is qualitatively different. Judaism and Islam were both metaphorically fashioned in the desert, a place where law was absent. It was vital for them to present their revelations as law—an exclusive, divine law. Christianity, on the other hand, developed within an existing civilization. It did not manifest itself as law, but as religio. In order to survive, it had to recognize the legitimacy of other laws, and conceded the sphere of law to the temporal authority. Christianity consciously confined itself to the area of beliefs and opinions. Thus, in Judaism and Islam there is no distinction between law and faith, while in Christianity such a distinction is vital. Christianity conceived of revelation as a source of religious dogma. It followed the theory of the two swords, which sharply separated temporal from spiritual authority, the former being influenced by Roman law. 3 4

Lerner and Mahdi, Sourcebook, introduction. For the relevant publications of these scholars, see below and in the bibliography. Lerner and Mahdi, Sourcebook, introduction. — 52 —

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Medieval Christianity tended to see the political sphere as separate and independent, epgaged in inquirir.g into laws and temporal rule, which was by and large isolated from divine law and the affairs of spiritual authority, which were deemed non-political or suprapolitical in essence. With the advent of the Renaissance and the Enlightenment, this initial separation between spiritual and temporal issues, between Church and State, was crystallized and made possible the appearance of the great secular political writings of early modern times, those of Machiavelli, Hobbes, and Locke. By contrast, Judaism and Islam, as Leo Strauss so forcefully pointed out, laid special stress on the political quality of revelation, which is divine law given through a prophet who is also a lawgiver and political leader. For this reason, the basic issues of religious thought, such as the nature of revelation, the purpose of the Torah, the nature and purpose of prophecy, and the nature of human perfection all become political issues. And if one considers belief in creation ex nihilo to be a political myth, a kind of Platonic “noble lie,” then even creation becames a political issue. In sum, Judaism did not develop a systematic division between the “powers” as Christianity did. The Jewish theory of the Three Crowns is quite a different matter.5 This lack of systematic division is well illustrated by the medieval Hebrew meaning of the term dat. While in Modern Hebrew dat signifies religion in the broad meaning of the term, its medieval meaning was much more limited, signifying law in particular. Thus, it is misleading to translate Isaac Polkar’s Ezer ha-Dat or Elijah del Medigo’s Bechinat ha-Dat, for instance, into The Defence of Religion and The Examination of Religion respectively, as some modern scholars and translators erroneously do. Dat should be properly translated here as “(divine) law.” Moreover, the terms dat and torah do not necessarily signify divine law, but law in general, which could (then) be sub-classified into divine law (dat elohit, torah elohit) or human (dat enoshit, torah enoshit). In this last meaning it completely corresponds to the Greek nomos. The narrow legal meaning ascribed to the terms dat and torah in medieval Hebrew terminology only proves again the essential political context of revelation in medieval Judaism (and Islam). This essential theological difference between Judaism and Islam, 5

Cohen, “Three Ketarim.” — 53 —

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on the one hand, and Christianity, on the other, can explain both their employment of different kinds of literary forms, and their usage of different sources of classical political philosophy. Since Christian theology differentiated between the two realms, that is, between the temporal and the spiritual aspects of human existence, it could understand political philosophy in separation from philosophy and theology as a whole. Consequently, it could produce writings which were specifically devoted to politics, such as Aquinas’ De Regimine Principum, Dante’s De Monarchia, or Marsilius of Padua’s Defensor Pacis. There are also political discussions in general theological writings, in Aquinas’ great summas, for example. However, it is not accidental that most of the Christian medieval political discussions are contained in independent treatises. Both medieval Jewish and Muslim political philosophies, however, were based upon a holistic perception of reality and human existence, in which the law, whether it is the Torah or the Sharr’a, is inclusive of every aspect of human existence. This nature of the Jewish and Muslim world view almost prevented the development of a distinct body of political literature. Such literature is generally contained within various halakhic systems, such as Maimonides’ Code and his three introductions to the Commentary on the Mishnah, and within theological and philosophical discussions, such as Philo’s Life of Moses, Sa’adia Gaon’s Book af Beliefs and Opinions, Judah Halevi’s Kuzari, Maimonides’ Guide of the Perplexed, Joseph Albo’s Book of Roots, Isaac Abravanel’s Commentaries on the Bible, Spinoza’s Theological-Political Treatise, and Moses Mendelssohn’s Jerusalem. The difference between the world view of Christianity and that of Judaism and Islam also explains why they based themselves upon different sources of classical political philosophy. Medieval Christian philosophy based its political thinking upon Aristotle’s Politics from the time this work was translated into Latin in the mid-thirteenth century. Muslim and Jewish political philosophies, however, were squarely based upon Plato’s Republic and Laws, with modifications from Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics and Neoplatonic writings. Erwin Rosenthal rightly entitled the second part of his magnum opus on Muslim political thought, “The Platonic Legacy.”6 The Republic, 6

Rosenthal, Islam. — 54 —

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however, was unheard of in the Christian West until the early Italian Renaissance. Even Reymond Klibansky, who emphasized the continuity of the Platonic tradition in medieval Christian culture, stresses that this influence was exerted through dialogues such as Timaeus and Parmenides. There is no trace of the Republic in medieval Christian sources in the West.7 Thus, Ernest Barker, who completely ignored the Muslim and Jewish traditions, and dealt with the Christian only, could state bluntly: “Compared with the Politics, the Republic has no history. For a thousand years it simply disappeared.”8 In Muslim and Jewish political thought the situation was completely the opposite. What disappeared was Aristotle’s Politics. Muslims and Jews were acquainted with most of Aristotle’s extant writings, and were markedly influenced by the Aristotelian tradition. They did not, however, possess a copy of the Politics, although they knew about the existence of the text. While in most areas of philosophy the Muslim and Jewish traditions were firmly based upon the Aristotelian tradition, this is not true of their political philosophy. The Nicomachean Ethics strongly influenced Muslim and Jewish medieval thought, as opposed to the Politics. The first direct—and very short—quotarion from the Politics in a Jewish text is found in Albo’s Book of Roots, in the late Middle Ages, and this reference was mediated by the influence of Latin-Christian culture.9 This bias might have been the result of pure chance, in that the Politics simply did not reach Jewish and Muslim scholars. Perhaps, as Richard Walzer supposed, it proves that late Hellenistic philosophy preferred the Republic to the Politics as a basic textbook on politics. The fact is that we do not have any commentary on the Politics dating from this time.10 Muslim political philosophy proceeded accordingly, since it inherited those works prominent in the late Hellenistic period, and adapted them to its own theological worldview. It also continued the accepted practice in late Hellenistic philosophy of integrating Plato’s different texts, especially the Republic and the Laws, and blurring the differences between them. Although the history of textual transmission exerted a considerable 7 8 9

Klibansky, Continuity, pp. 14-18, 39-41. Barker, Plato and Aristotle, p. 525. Albo, Roots 1.9 (Husik). For knowledge of the Politics in Muslim philosophy, see Pines, “Aristotle”; in Jewish philosophy, see Melamed,”Aristotle”(see below, ch. 3); idem, “Abravanel.” 10 Walzer, “Aspects,” pp. 41-42; idem, Greek, pp. 244-245. — 55 —

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influence, it would be erroneous to attribute the emphasis on Plato’s political philosophy to that alone. In their great translation enterprise, between the eighth and the tenth centuries, the Muslims sought and commissioned the translation of a great body of Greek texts into Arabic, including most of the Aristotelian corpus. Why did they not get hold of the Politics, which was available in the libraries of Byzantium? Was this only accidental? For that matter, one could also query why Christian scholars of the Latin West who brought a Greek manuscript of the Politics from Byzantium did not seek a copy of Plato’s Republic. And when they translated so many texts from the Arabic and the Hebrew into Latin from the thirteenth century on, why did they not make the effort to translate Averroes’ Commentary on Plato’s Republic? More important than the history of textual transmission is the basic difference between the political theologies of the great monotheistic cultures. This dictated which text they chose to adapt. The difference in the textual traditions reflects the difference between the political theology of Judaism and Islam, on the one hand, and Christianity, on the other. When Albertus Magnus commissioned the translation of the Politics into Latin in the thirteenth century, it was because of the “appropriateness” of the Aristotelian text to the political context of Christian theology. Likewise, when Muslim scholars from al-Farabi to Averroes used the Republic as their basic political textbook, and Maimonides followed suit, it was precisely because they all believed the Platonic text to be especially relevant to the political context of Muslim and Jewish theology. In all three religious cultures, theology preceded the appearance of the particular text and its concomitant influence. The text, whether it simply chanced to find its way into their hands or was deliberately selected, was used solely for the purpose of commentary on and ongoing development of theological tenets. The basic assumptions of Plato’s Republic well suited the theological world view of Muslim and Jewish medieval thinkers. The principles and raison d’etre of the Platonic philosophical state could be easily translated into the theological terminology of the Muslim (ideal) imamite state, or the Mosaic constitution. Not so, Aristotle’s Politics. Plato’s political point of departure was essentially philosophical. It considered the ideal state an integral part of a holistic metaphysical Weltanschauung. This suited the all-inclusive nature of Muslim and Jewish political theolo— 56 —

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gies. Aristotle, however, at least in the Politics, considered the political sphere as a political scientist rather than as a philosopher, and tended to separate the political discussion per se from any metaphysical discussion. This is why the Politics appealed to medieval Christian thought, which tended to separate the temporal from the spiritual realm. The spirit of the Nicomachean Ethics, however, is much more “Platonic” in nature, grounding politics in a philosophical anthropology and offering a “theory”-oriented interpretation of the human good. This is why it had such a successful career in medieval Muslim and Jewish thought, in stark contrast to that of the Politics.11 Platonic political philosophy, which so emphasized the “spiritual” content of political existence, and hence identified the philosopher as the perfect political leader, was extremely relevant for Muslim and Jewish political thinking. The prophet-lawgiver of the Jewish and Muslim traditions could easily be identified with the Platonic philosopher-king. Plato’s emphasis on the political duties of the philosopher correlated with the halakhic emphasis on the leadership responsibilities of the sage. The monarchic nature of the Platonic theory of government was also more appropriate to the halakhic position than the more ambivalent Aristotelian position, which tended to support a kind of limited democracy. Christianity, however, generally identified its founder as one who had wholly detached himself from the life of political action. Moses and Muhammad may be depicted as Platonic philosopher-kings, while for understanding the apolitical Jesus, the model of the Platonic philosopher-king was quite irrelevant. Following Augustine’s Civitas Dei, medieval Christian political thought did not consider the possibility of actualizing the ideal community here and now. It was a matter for the world to come. In this world Christianity sought no more than the existence of a political community that was attainable. In this sense the Politics, which set only “worldly” political goals, suited it better. Judaism and Islam, however, did pursue the existence of the ideal community in this world. For both, the civitas temporalis, too, could and must be a perfect community. The Jewish state that would arise after the coming of the messiah, like the ideal Platonic

11 Lerner and Mahdi, Sourcebook, introduction. Berman, “Middle Commentary.” Melamed, “Aristotle.” — 57 —

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state, was supposed to be such a perfect state.12 Thus, the difference between the political theology of Judaism and Islam, on the one hand, and of Christianity, on the other, caused them to produce different genres of political literature and employ different classical political texts. It is important to emphasize, however, that in their political philosophy the three medieval religious traditions held the same philosophical position, influenced by the same classical writings, chiefly those of the “other” Aristotle, the Aristotle of the Nicomachean Ethics and the Metaphysics. All concurred that the supreme purpose of human existence was not the attainment of practical intelligence, but rather of theoretical intelligence—recognizing the intelligible God and loving him.13 In this respect, Leo Strauss’ attempt to interpret the whole body of medieval Muslim and Jewish thought as Platonic political philosophy disguised in monotheistic theological garb is rather excessive. As Julius Guttmann correctly cautioned, for the medieval mind, as for its Greek predecessors, political philosophy is no queen of the sciences but a byproduct of the basic premises of ethics, metaphysics, and theology.14 As the fifteenth-century Italian Jewish scholar Moses of Rieti put it, political philosophy is only “wisdom’s little sister.”15 Al-Farabi and Maimonides, however, following Platonic teachings, translated the limited theoretical knowledge of God available to humans, namely, the knowledge of his attributes of action, into a political imitation of divine activities by the philosopher-king. Thus, even this originally Aristotelian definition of the final end of human existence underwent a Platonic metamorphosis, from a God who is known to a God whose attributes of action are imitated, from the sphere of theory to the sphere of praxis.16 Strauss’ view, then, although somewhat excessive, was nevertheless not so far from the truth. Like other branches of Jewish philosophy, political philosophy originated with Philo of Alexandria, the first scholar to try and create a synthesis between the Torah and the teachings of the Greek philosophers. Philo portrayed Moses in the image of the philosopher-king and 12 13 14 15 16

Walzer “Aspects,” p. 44; idem, Greek, pp. 244-245. Lerner and Mahdi, Sourcebook, introduction. Guttmann “Law”; Strauss, Philosophy. Moses of Rieti, Mikdash, p. 22. Berman,”Maxim”; idem, “Disciple”; idem, “Political Leadership.” — 58 —

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explained the nature of the Mosaic constitution on the basis of Greek legal theory.17 This initial effort was not renewed until the second great encounter between Judaism and the dominant general culture. As with other branches of medieval Jewish philosophy, political philosophy was a direct outcome of the encounter between Jewish political theology and Greek political philosophy in Arabic translation. Medieval Muslim philosophy flourished as a result of the great translation enterprise of Greek texts into Arabic from the eighth to the tenth centuries. Arabic translations, paraphrases, and commentaries on Plato’s Republic and the Laws and on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics strongly influenced the political thinking of Muslim philosophers, from al-Farabi’s The Virtuous State to Averroes’ Commentary on Plato’s Republic.18 Jewish scholars who were active in the Muslim environment from Baghdad to Cordoba, between the tenth and the late twelfth centuries, from Sa’adia Gaon to Maimonides, were well acquainted with the translated Greek texts and their Arabic paraphrases and commentaries. This is well documented in the comments Maimonides made in the last chapter of his Treatise on Logic concerning the classification of the practical sciences: “In all these matters [i.e. politics], the philosophers [i.e. Greeks] have written many books which were already translated into Arabic. Those books which have not been translated yet, however, are even more numerous.”19 There is an awareness here that although many of the Greek philosophical writings on politics were not as yet translated into Arabic (Aristotle’s Politics, for instance), many others were already translated. Maimonides obviously refers here to the Platonic political works and to Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics and Rhetoric and the pseudo-Aristotelian Economics. In the writings of Maimonides and other Jewish authors of this period, there is much evidence of the influence of these Greek political texts in Arabic translation, with the exception of the Politics, of course. There is also a great deal of influence of Muslim political philosophy itself, like al-Farabi’s The Virtuous State, On the Attainment of Happiness, On Political Governance, The Philosophy of Plato, and Aphorisms of the Statesman, ibn 17 Wolfson, Philo, ch. 13. 18 For Muslim political philosophy in general, see Galston, “Realism”; idem, Politics. Marmura, “Philosopher.” Lambton, State. Leaman, “Ibn Bajja.” Pines, “Averroes.” Rosenthal, Islam. Walzer, “Aspects.” 19 Maimonides, Millot ha-Higayyon 14:7: p. 112 (Roth). — 59 —

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Bajja’s (Avempace’s) exceptional The Governance of the Solitary, Averroes’ Commentary on Plato’s Republic, and others.20 As has already been noted, Platonic political theology also suited the basic premise of Jewish political theology, which in turn enabled Jewish authors to make extensive use of these writings and interpret the Torah accordingly. The fact that the Muslim falasifa refrained from phrasing their Platonic political teachings in a concrete Muslim context and preferred a more general philosophical approach21 made it easier for Jewish authors to adapt their teachings to Jewish political theology. The first examples of a political discussion in medieval Jewish philosophy can be found in Sa’adia Gaon’s Book of Beliefs and Opinions (Emunot ve-De’ot) and Halevi’s Kuzari. Sa’adia based his discussion of the purpose of the commandments (ta’amei ha-mitzvot) in the third chapter of Beliefs on the assumption that divine law corresponds to the law of reason, which he phrased in a language very reminiscent of classical Stoic natural law.22 Sa’adia’s book ends with a detailed discussion of the thirteen “loves” the perfect individual must possess, with great emphasis on one’s need for a proper social and political framework in order to achieve the final end of human existence. It is no coincidence that the perfect individual is identified by Sa’adia as a king. In this, he presented, for the first time since Philo, the Platonic philosopher-king. Halevi’s Kuzari can be well described as a Platonic political dialogue, in which the Khazar king is portrayed as a righteous king, possessed of sound intentions and seeking right action. The work may be seen as part of the literary genre devoted to the education of rulers, a genre present in the Platonic political tradition and later developed in the Islamic and Christian political literature of the “mirror of princes” (speculum principum). The Kuzari represents one of the two alternatives presented by Plato for the generation and maintenance of the ideal state, namely, that the existing rulers would become philosophers through being well 20 See in general n. 18 above. For al-Farabi, see al-Farabi, Hathalot; idem, Aphorisms; idem, Perfect State; idem, Philosophy. Berman, “Maxim”; idem, “Desciple.” Galston, Politics. Kraemer, “Opinions.” Mahdi, “Al Farabi”; idem, Foundations. Strauss, “Quelques”; idem, “Farabi’s Plato”; idem, “How”; idem, Philosophy; Daiber, “Ruler.” For Averroes, see Averroes, Hazlahah; idem, Republic. Butterworth, Philosophy. Mahdi, “Remarques.” Pines, “Averroes.” For Ibn Bajja, see Ibn Baijja, Solitary. Hayoun,”Ibn Bajja.” Leaman, “Ibn Bajja.” Shiffman, “Ibn Bajja.” 21 Berman, “Disciple,” p.162. Kraemer, “Jihad.” Lambton, State, p. 317. Walzer, Greek, p. 246. 22 Sa’adia Gaon (Rosenblatt), Beliefs 3.1-3: 137-47. Altmann, “Sa’adia.” Fox, “Rational.” Melamed, “Natural Law.” — 60 —

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educated. The Khazar king went to the philosopher and then to religious sages in search of the right path, until he found the ideal teacher in the Jewish scholar. He approached each potential master not simply as a private individual seeking the way of truth, but as a ruler in search of the true path for his community. He was looking not for correct opinions proper for apolitical philosophers only, but for action-guiding opinions relevant to a leader. He rejected the words of the philosopher as irrelevant, because the philosopher, following ibn Bajja, argued for the withdrawal of the perfect man from human society, and rejected the Platonic connection between intellectual perfection and public commitment. The Jewish scholar was preferred in part because he laid more emphasis than the rest on right action. The Jewish scholar, who convinces the Khazar king of the truth and justice of Judaism and teaches him its practical beliefs and commandments, transforms him not only with respect to his own individual perfection but also with respect to his political capacities. Halevi’s pious ruler is portrayed as being superior to the Platonic philosopher-king in that his rule is not based on perfection of the human intellect alone, but also on revelation.23 As in other branches of medieval Jewish philosophy, in political philosophy as well, Maimonides constitutes the apex; he created the terms of reference for subsequent Jewish thinkers up to the early modern period. While there is already some treatment of political issues in the Jewish-Aristotelian tradition prior to Maimonides, most notably in the last chapter of Abraham ibn Daud’s Book of the Exalted Faith (Sefer haEmunah ha-Ramah),24 Maimonides, in the more philosophical sections of his halakhic writings, but mainly in the Guide of the Perplexed (Moreh Nevukim), brought Jewish political philosophizing to fruition. Maimonides’ point of departure is the Aristotelian assertion (in Nicomachean Ethics 1:7, not the Politics!) that the human being is a political animal (zoon politikon) by nature (Guide 2:40; 3:27). One can only survive and provide for one’s essential material needs in an organized social framework, where labor and products of labor are distributed according to the common good. One also can only fulfill emotional and spiritual needs and reach moral and intellectual perfection in the perfect 23 Motzkin, “Dialogue.” Melamed, Philosopher-King, pp. 24-26. 24 Ibn Daud, Emunah, pp. 98-101. — 61 —

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political order. This is so, first of all, since without fulfilling basic material needs, one would not be able to reach spiritual perfection, but also because the intellectual process itself is social in nature, and provides for Maimonides a Socratic-like spiritual cooperation among students and rabbis. Many animals exist in a social framework, but most of them could survive and fulfill the purpose of their creation, sheer survival, without social cooperation. Only for human beings is social cooperation indispensable, on account of their being the highest and therefore also the most complex organism in the hierarchy of all living things. One’s many essential needs, and the great differences among the individuals of the species, a negative aspect of human superiority, make organized social existence mandatory (Guide 1:72; 2:40). However, by insisting that many animals are also social creatures, Maimonides points out that human uniqueness is not in one’s political nature but rather in intellectual capacity.25 This emphasis on the political nature of humanity, however, contradicts the basic theological premise that Adam was brought into being in a divine, secluded condition in Eden. His original nature was essentially non-political. He fulfilled perfectly all his material and spiritual needs without effort, and consequently without the need for social cooperation. This description of the original state of humanity completely contradicts the premises of Greek political philosophy, which viewed politics as an essential means to elevate humanity from its primeval bestial state. Theology and philosophy are at odds. Theology views political life as an expression of humanity’s deterioration from its original perfect state. However, for Plato and Aristotle, political life is an expression 25 On Maimonides’ political philosophy in general, see Altmann, “Perfections”. Berman, Ibn Bajja; idem, “Maxim”; idem, “Disciple”; idem, “Fall”; idem, “Ideal State.” Blidstein, Ekronot. Davidson, “Maimonides.” Epstein, “Maimonides.” Frank, “End.” Galston, “Philosopher-King”; idem, “Purpose.” Goldman, “Political.” Maimonides, Epistles (Hartman). S. Harvey, “Sultan.” Z. Harvey, “Political Philosophy.” Kellner, “Politics.” Kraemer, “Opinions”; idem, “Namus”; idem, “Sciences”; idem,”Naturalism.” Kreisel “Practical”; idem, “Perfection”; idem, Political Thought; idem, “Maimonides.” Lerner, “Maimonides.” Macy, “Law.” Melamed, “Jeremiah”; idem, “Natural Law”; idem, “Maimonides”; idem, Philosopher-King, ch. 3; idem, “Accidents”; idem, Political. Pines “Sources”; idem, “Comparison”; idem, “Limitations.” Rosenthal, “Conception.” Rotter, “Islamic.” Schwarzschild, “Moral.” Strauss, “Qualques”; idem, Philosophy. Wolfson, “Classification.” On the debate concerning political versus solitary existence in Maimonides’ thought, see Blumberg, “Solitary.” Kreisel, “Perfection.” Lerner, “Solitary.” Melamed, “Maimonides”; idem, Political, ch.5. — 62 —

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of humanity’s elevation from the original bestial state. Such opposing views regarding the natural human condition necessarily created opposing views of the value of political life. Maimonides, and most subsequent Jewish thinkers, tried to solve this contradiction by viewing the political nature of humanity not as its original nature, but rather as an acquired nature, adapted as a result of the fall. After Adam was reduced into an almost bestial state (Guide 1:2), only proper political organization could provide for his essential needs and elevate him again toward intellectual perfection.26 Only Abravanel diverged from this compromise, and urged a theocratic-utopian quest for the prepolitical, paradisic condition of man.27 In order to create and maintain the proper political organization, law is needed, and authority to implement and enforce it. One of the unique features in Maimonides’ presentation of the Mosaic prophecy is Moses’ role as first lawgiver, who conveyed the revealed Torah to the people of Israel (Guide 2:39). The superiority of the Torah over any other (human) law is manifest both in its origin and its scope. Its divine origin entails that the Torah would always offer sound guidance for avoiding evil and doing good. Human law, however, is capable at best only of approximating it. Further, while the scope of divine law is all-inclusive and covers the material and spiritual aspects of human existence, human law has reference only to the (inferior) material sphere (Guide 2:40; 3:27-28). In his classification of the law, Maimonides followed the traditional twofold distinction between human and divine law. Although he was extremely critical of Saadia’s assertion that most of the commandments are rational, and insisted that social laws are essentially nomoi based upon “generally accepted opinions” (mefursamot), nevertheless, Maimonides came close to Sa’adia’s position. Although Sa’adia, Halevi, and Maimonides all adopted the distinction between divine and human law, their theory of the law hints at the idea of natural law. This is manifest in their assertion that humans have an instinctive comprehension that only by social cooperation and the rule of law can one survive and provide for material as well as spiritual needs. The idea of natural law, 26 Berman, “Fall.” 27 Baer, “Abravanel.” Netanyahu, Abravanel, 2 :3. Strauss, “Abravanel.” Urbach, “Abravanel.” Melamed, Political, ch.5. — 63 —

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however, would fully penetrate Jewish political philosophy only with Albo, in the fifteenth century.28 If the Torah is a revealed divine law, then the prophet, whether as lawgiver (Moses) or one who exhorts the people and their rulers to obey the law (all other prophets), becomes a political leader. The prophet is, first of all, a philosopher, who knows God’s attributes of action, the only divine attributes which are humanly knowable. Such knowledge of the attributes of action, which are the most remote from God’s unknowable essence, is not only a manifestation of human epistemological limitations but is also related to his political function. By divine grace which cares for the well-being of all created things, the philosopher-prophet is able to have knowledge of those attributes most relevant for the fulfillment of his political duties. He who has knowledge of the attributes of action must also practice what he has learned, by attempting to imitate God through leadership of human society. Thus the governance of the state becomes a microcosmic reflection of the way God rules the universe by loving-kindness, judgment, and righteousness (Guide 1:54; 3:53-54). When the whole cosmos is described in political terms as “the city of God” (civitas Dei), to borrow Augustine’s phrasing, then the earthly city should become its microscopic reflection (Guide 3:51). This is why the word “God” in Hebrew (Elohim) is presented by Maimonides as a paronymous term, which primarily refers to every kind of ruler, king, and judge, and secondarily denotes God (Guide 1:2). This is also why Maimonides, like Halevi before him, uses so many parables of kings in order to describe the relationship between humans and God (Kuzari 1:19-24; 109. Guide 1:46; 3:51, etc.).29 Thus Maimonides’ prophet, in contrast to the philosopher, must also have a well-developed imaginative capacity. This is necessary not only in order to be able to experience prophetic visions, but also to be 28 For Sa’adia’s theory of law, see above, n. 22. For Halevi’s, see Strauss, “Law of Reason.” For Albo, see Lerner, “Natural Law”; idem, “Politic.” Melamed, “Natural Law”; idem, “Classification” (see below, ch. 9); idem, Political, ch. 7. For the problem of natural law in Judaism in general, see Bleich,”Natural Law.” Husik, “Law of Nature.” Novak, “Natural Law.” There is considerable debate concerning Maimonides’ view about natural law; see Dienstag, “Natural Law.” Fox, “Natural Law.” Goodman, “Law.” Hayman, “Note.” Levine, “Reason.” Schwarzschild, “Noachites.” Melamed, “Natural Law”; idem, Political, ch. 5. 29 Berman, Ibn Bajja; idem, “Maxim,” idem, “Desciple”; idem, “Political Leadership.” Galston, “Philosopher-King.” Melamed, “Jeremiah,” idem, “Maimonides”; idem, Philosopher-King, ch. 3 ; idem, Political, ch. 6. Pines, “Limitations.” Strauss, “Qualque”; idem, Philosophy. — 64 —

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able to lead the masses, who are ruled by the imaginative soul. It is not incidental that imagination is the common denominator between the prophet and the king. With his developed rational and imaginative soul, the prophet combines the functions of the philosopher, who has a developed rational soul only, and the king, who has a developed imaginative soul only (Guide 2:37). Social existence, albeit limited, is a personal need of the philosopher himself. Without it he would not be able to fulfill his own material, emotional, and intellectual needs.30 It is mainly his educational mission, however, which obligates him to engage in politics. While the Aristotelian tradition emphasized the theoretical knowledge of God, the Platonic-Farabian and Jewish traditions emphasized practical imitation of divine attributes. Maimonides oscillates between the philosopher’s urge, as a private person, to isolate himself in his intellectual activities, and his duty, as a “public prophet,” to fulfill all his educational and political missions. Like (the Socratic) Jeremiah, with whom he so identifies, Maimonides struggles as a philosopher and communal leader between Ibn Bajja’s inclination toward the governance of the solitary, and the Platonic-Farabian—and very Jewish—emphasis on political involvement (Guide 3:51, 54). In the end, Maimonides opted for political involvement. While the Guide commences with the theoretical knowledge of God (1:1), it ends with, and is climaxed by, the practical imitatio Dei (3:54). Likewise, Maimonides’ Code starts with theoretical knowledge, in Hilkhot Yesodei ha-Torah, and ends with praxis, in Hilkhot Melakhim. Dialectically, precisely the one who has reached the state where he is able to exist in complete intellectual isolation is obligated to massively engage in political life. In Platonic terms, he who sees the light of the sun is required to return to the darkness of the cave. In Maimonidean terms, he who reaches the uppermost rungs of the ladder available to humanity is compelled to descend “with a view to governing and teaching the people of the land” (Guide 1:15). The Patriarchs who reached the highest possible degree of the knowledge of God were nevertheless engaged in material activities in order “to bring into being a religious community that would know and worship God” (Guide 3:51). Likewise, 30 Maimonides, Commentary on the Mishnah: Introduction to Sefer Zeraim (Rosner); Guide 3:51, 54 (Pines); Berman and Melamed papers listed above. Ravitzky, “Philosophy”; idem, “Role.” — 65 —

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Moses ascended Sinai only to descend “and communicate to the people what he had heard” (Guide 3:22).31 The person charged with the daily operation of the state in the Maimonidean system is the king. Although, like most other Jewish thinkers, Maimonides’ attitude toward monarchy was ambivalent, from the halakhic as well as the philosophical point of view, Maimonides did accept monarchy as the preferred regime. However, he severely limited its powers by the binding legal authority of the Torah, and the moral authority of the prophets.32 Maimonides’ messianic views are markedly naturalistic, political, and restorative. The perfect political community, established by Moses, and reaching its climax with the reign of Solomon, would be re-established with the coming of the king-messiah, son of David, who would again create a perfect, Platonic-like state in the land of Israel.33 Maimonides’ political philosophy, the issues it raised and the opinions he offered, became the point of departure for all subsequent Jewish thinkers. The debate about the political functions of the philosopherprophet became a bone of contention in future generations. Thinkers like Jacob Anatoli, Isaac Polkar, and Yohanan Alemanno continued the Platonic-Farabian-Maimonidean emphasis on the prophet’s political mission, while others, like Samuel ibn Tibbon, Moses Narboni, and Joseph ibn Shem Tov, insisted upon his intellectual isolation.34 While most Jewish thinkers, albeit hesitantly, accepted limited monarchy as the perfect regime, Abravanel stood in almost isolated opposition, insisting upon the inequities of monarchy and advocating a republican theocracy. Likewise in sharp contrast to the Maimonidean system, Abravanel also described humanity’s original state, and correspond-

31 For the political duties of the philosopher-prophet, see n. 29 above. For ibn Bajja’s influence upon Maimonides, see Berman, Ibn Bajja. For the parable of Jacob’s dream, see Klein-Braslavy, “Ladder.” Melamed, Philosopher-King, ch. 3. 32 For Maimonides’ attitude towards monarchy, see Blidstein, “Monarchic.” On the attitude toward monarchy in general, see Blidstein, Ekronot; Melamed, Philosopher-King, ch. 1; idem, Political, ch. 6. Polish, “Medieval”; idem, King; idem, “Rabbinic.” Rosenthal, “Aspects.” 33 Blidstein, Ekronot. Funkenstein, “Messianism.” Kraemer, “Messianic.” Ravitzky, “Utmost.” 34 For ibn Tibbon, see Ravitzky, “Role.” For Anatoli, see Melamed, “Anatoli”; idem, Philosopher-King, ch. 4. For Alemanno, see Melamed, “Development”; idem, “Florence”; idem, Philosopher-King, ch. 6. For Narboni, see Hayoun, “Narboni”; idem, “Ibn Bajja.” Rosenthal, “Narboni,” and see in general Melamed, Philosopher-King. For Gersonides and Crescas, see Kellner, “Politics.” Harvey, “Philosopher.” — 66 —

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ingly the messianic era, in starkly anti-political terms.35 From the second half of the twelfth century, the cultural centers of medieval Judaism gradually shifted from a Muslim to a Christian-Latin environment, especially in Christian Spain, Provence, and Italy. The great philosophical and theological works of the Muslim period were now translated into Hebrew, serving the needs of a new reading public which did not know Arabic. Jewish emigres from Muslim Spain, such as the Tibbonids and the Kimchis, brought with them to the new flourishing communities of southern Europe their expertise in Arabic and in Muslim philosophy and science. No less valuable, they also carried with them the manuscripts of the great works of Jewish and Muslim philosophers. A great translation enterprise arose which covered all areas of philosophy, including politics. To begin with, the great Jewish works, such as those of Sa’adia Gaon, Bahya ibn Pakuda, Halevi, and Maimonides were translated by Judah ibn Tibbon and his son Samuel. In the second stage, works written by Muslim philosophers, including their major political writings, were also translated. This was the first time texts of political philosophy had been translated into Hebrew. Whole sections of al-Farabi’s The Virtuous State were translated—twice—into Hebrew, paraphrased, and commented upon by Isaac ibn Latif and Shem Tov ibn Falaquera in the first half of the thirteenth century. Major parts of ibn Latif’s Gate of Heaven (Sha’ar ha-Shamayim) and Falaquera’s Book of Degrees (Sefer ha-Ma’alot) were translated, almost verbatim, from alFarabi’s major political work. Falaquera also included in his The Beginning of Wisdom (Reshit Hokhmah) long paraphrases of al-Farabi’s On the Attainment of Happiness and his Philosophy of Plato. Moses ibn Tibbon translated al-Farabi’s On Political Governance (Sefer ha-Hathalot). There is also an anonymous translation of al-Farabi’s Aphorisms of the Statesman. Moses Narboni commented upon the anonymous Hebrew translation of ibn Tufayl’s Hayy ibn Yaqzan and Ibn Bajja’s Governance of the Solitary. Averroes’ major political works, the Commentary on Plato’s Republic and the Middle Commentary on the Nicomachean Ethics, were translated in the early fourteenth century by Samuel ben Judah of Marseilles, while 35 Baer, “Abravanel.” Netanyahu, Abrahanel, 2·3-4. Smoler and Auerbach, “Abravanel.” Strauss, “Abravanel.” Urbach, “Abravanel.” Millen, “Abravanel.” Melamed, Political, ch. 8. Also Kimelman, “Abravanel.” I do not agree with this author’s conclusions, which attempt to blur the significant differences between Abravanel and most other medieval Jewish scholars concerning monarchy. — 67 —

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his Middle Commentary on the Rhetoric was translated, about the same time, by Tadros Todrosi. The translation of Averroes’ commentary on the Republic is of major importance, since the Arabic original is lost, and the Hebrew translation is all that is left of Averroes’ most important political writing. The Hebrew translation was recopied and paraphrased quite a few times in the late Middle Ages, and during the Renaissance it was translated twice into Latin and exerted great influence.36 This translation enterprise created a philosophic and scientific Hebrew terminology. It also created, for the first time, Hebrew terms of political philosophy. In their translations from the politico-philosophical writings of Maimonides and al-Farabi, Samuel ibn Tibbon and his son Moses created terms such as medini (“political”) to describe human political nature, kibbutz medini for “state,” and Hebrew terms for the various kinds of regimes, as transmitted from the Platonic original by al-Farabi, such as medinah mekubbetzet or kibbutzit, literally “an associated state,” or kibbutz ha-herut, literally “the association of the free,” both of which stand for democracy.37 A typical case is the history of the term nimus, which can stand for law in general, or human law in particular, depending on the context. This term was transferred to the Hebrew from the Arabic namus, which is a transliteration of the Greek nomos. Nimus now joined older Hebrew terms for law, such as torah, hok, and dat.38 Subsequent Jewish translators, such as Samuel ben Judah of Marseilles and Todros Todrosi, coined variants of these terms and others, and gradually created a full Hebrew dictionary of political philosophy.39 These translations, and the new Hebrew political terminology originated by them, created a framework in which Jewish thinkers in southern Europe from the thirteenth century on gradually developed 36 For ibn Latif, see Melamed, “Ibn Latif”; idem, Philosopher-King, ch. 4. For Ibn Falaquera, see Ma’alot, pp. 16-17, idem, Hokmah, pp. 70-71. Jospe, Torah 3.5; idem, “Rejecting.” Shiffman, “Ibn Bajja.” Melamed, ibid. For the Hebrew translation of al-Farabr’s Aphorisms of the Statesman, see the introduction of al-Farabi, Aphorisms. For Narboni and ibn Bajja, see Hayyun, “Narboni”; idem, “Ibn Bajja.” Rosenthal, “Narboni.” For Averroes, see Republic (Rosenthal); Averroes, Republic (Lerner), and Berman, “Greek”; idem, “Review.” For the manuscripts of the Hebrew translation, see Rosenthal’s ed., introduction; For the Latin translations, see n. 52 below. For the translation of the Nicomachean Ethics, see Berman, “Middle Commentary”; idem, “Translation.” For the Rhetoric, see Averroes, Halatzah. Lesley, “Rhetoric,” and see Chiesa, “Note.” 37 Melamed, “Democracy”; idem, Political, ch. 4, 3. 38 See n. 37 above and Kraemer, “Namus.” 39 See n. 37 above and Averroes, Republic (Rosenthal), pp. 306-332; Averroes, Republic (Lerner). 167- 170. — 68 —

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a body of Jewish political thought in Hebrew. Main examples of this enterprise in the general theologico-philosophical literature can be found in Falaquera’s Book of Degrees, Isaac Polkar’s Defense of the Law (Ezer ha-Dat), Joseph Albo’s Book of Roots, Abraham Shalom’s Abode of Peace (Sefer Neveh Shalom), Joseph ibn Shem Tov’s The Dignity of God (Kevod Elohim), and Yohanan Alemanno’s The Eternal (Hai ha-Olamim). In the literature of philosophical homilies, such political discussions can be found in Jacob Anatoli’s Goad of the Students (Malmad ha-Talmidim), Nissim of Gerona’s Twelve Sermons (Sheteim Asar Derashot), Shem Tov ben Joseph ibn Shem Tov’s Sermons on the Torah (Derashot al ha-Torah), and Isaac Arama’s The Binding of Isaac (Akedat Isaac).40 Philosophical commentaries on the Bible were an especially fertile ground for political discussion. The biblical text gave an abundance of opportunities to dwell on political issues. Major, but by no means isolated, examples are the story of Eden and the description of the development of humankind (Gen. 2-11), Jethro’s advice to Moses (Exod. 18, Deut. 1), and the laws of monarchy (Deut. 17 and 1 Sam. 8). Some of the commentators eagerly pursued this opportunity and did not hesitate to interpret the biblical text according to the most up-to-date philosophical currents and political developments. Typical examples can be found in the commentaries of Joseph ibn Kaspi, Immanuel of Rome, and primarily Isaac Abravanel, who enthusiastically carried forth this tendency, almost ad absurdum.41 All these scholars based their political thinking on texts carried over from the Muslim milieu, which were based on a Platonic world view, and adapted to religious language by Al-Farabi, Averroes, and Maimonides. They continued in this manner for centuries after the centers of Jewish scholarship had moved to the Christian-Latin milieu. Jewish scholars were quite knowledgeable about contemporary cultural trends in the Christian-Latin world. The emerging scholastic phi40 All these texts except Alemanno’s have been published already. For Falaquera’s political thought, see n. 36 above. For Polkar, see Melamed, Philosopher-King, ch. 7; Pines, “Polkar.” For Shalom, see Melamed, ibid., and Tirosh-Rothschild, “Shalom.” For Joseph ibn Shem Tov, see Gutwirth “Governador.” Melamed, ibid. 3.3. For Alemanno, see Melamed, “Development”; idem, “Florence”; idem, Philosopher-King, ch. 6. Rosenthal, “Alemanno.” For Anatoli, see Melamed, “Anatoli”; idem, Philosopher-King, ch. 4. For Nissim of Gerona, see Loberbaum, “Politics.” Harvey, “Liberal.” Ravitzky “Kings”; idem, Religion, ch. 2. For Arama, see Heller Wilensky, Arama. There is no research as yet on the sermons of Shem Tov ben Joseph ibn Shem Tov. 41 Segal, “Abravanel.” Smoler and Auerbach, “Abravanel.” Melamed, “Jeremiah”; idem, “Jethro”; idem, Philosopher-King, ch. 6. — 69 —

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losophy had a growing impact upon Jewish thought, at least from the late thirteenth century; not so, however, in the field of political philosophy. There were major developments in Christian political philosophy from the thirteenth century on, mainly as a result of the revolutionary impact of the translation of Aristotle’s Politics into Latin (c. 1260). These developments, however, barely touched Jewish political thought.42 Various influences of scholastic political thought can be detected in the writings of late medieval Jewish thinkers. Such influences should not be overlooked, although they are still largely uninvestigated. Albo, and others following him, insinuated into Jewish thought the scholastic classification of the law and the term “natural law” (lex natura, dat tivi’it). By this they revolutionized legal theory in medieval Jewish philosophy, which was until then based upon a dual classification of the law into divine and human43 Abravanel was somewhat acquainted with the writings of Aquinas and other scholastic writers. He did not hesitate to quote them directly in his biblical commentary, and sometimes even preferred their opinions over those of Jewish sages. His distinction between human government (hanhagah enoshit) and divine government (hanhagah elohit) seems to be influenced by the Christian distinction between temporal and spiritual authorities.44 There are a few translations into Hebrew of scholastic political texts, from Aquinas’ Summa and others. A notable example is Augidius Romanus’ influential De Regimine Principum, which was anonymously translated into Hebrew in the fifteenth century under the title Sefer Hanhagat ha-Melakhim. The very fact that the anonymous Jewish scholar made the effort to translate such a long text demonstrates a well-grounded interest in scholastic political philosophy (at least on his part). There is, however, in our present knowledge, no detectable influence of this translation upon Jewish political philosophy. The fact that only the original manuscript survived, and we do not know about any copies made in subsequent generations, only reinforces this conclusion.45 42 For scholastic influences upon Jewish philosophy, see Pines, “Scholasticism,” and the many papers by Sermoneta (See in the bibliography). For scholastic political philosophy, see Nederman and Forhan, Medieval. For the influence of the Politics on Christian political philosophy, see Dunabin, “Reception.” 43 See n. 28 above. 44 Netanyahu, Abravanel, 2.3. Melamed, “Jethro.” 45 Melamed, “Anonymous.” — 70 —

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The lack of reference to Aristotle’s Politics in late medieval Jewish political philosophy well illustrates this state of affairs. The influence of the Politics penetrated Christian thought exactly at the time when the transition of Jewish culture from a Muslim to a Christian-Latin cultural milieu was in process. It could have been expected that now, at least, Jewish scholars would also be touched by the powerful influence of the Politics. This, however, did not happen. Samuel ben Judah of Marseilles, and, following him, Joseph ibn Kaspi in the fourteenth century, despite their knowledge of contemporary cultural trends, still translated and summarized the Averroist versions of Plato’s Republic and Aristotle’s Ethics and, following their Muslim masters, still assumed that the text of the Politics was not yet available in the West.46 Meir Alguades of Castille in the early fifteenth century was the first Jewish scholar to inform us that he “saw” a copy of the Politics. He still refrained, however, from translating the text, since Moerbeke’s (literal) translation was quite incomprehensible to him, and he did not have a proper commentary on the text. There were already in existence quite a few Latin commentaries by Albertus Magnus, Aquinas, and others, but Alguades apparently did not have access to them. He thus continued in the traditional path by yet again translating the Ethics, this time from the Latin. From what Alguades informs us, however, it is clear that he had at least some knowledge of Aristotle’s political philosophy. He was definitely aware of the great influence the Politics exerted upon Christian political philosophy.47 No late medieval or Renaissance Jewish scholar ever made the attempt to translate the Politics or any of its many commentaries into Hebrew, and very few even used the text. When Albo in the fifteenth century and Simone Luzzatto, already in the seventeenth century, made use of the text, they mainly referred to Aristotle’s critique of the Platonic system in the second book of the Politics. They preferred Aristotle’s inductive and empirical approach over the deductive and idealistic approach of Plato’s Republic. Both scholars, however, still used the Politics more as a critique of the Platonic system than as an independent system of politics. Their terms of reference were still essentially Platonic.48 Even 46 Berman, “Translation.” Melamed, “Aristotle” (see below, ch. 3). 47 Berman, “Translation.” Melamed, “Aristotle.” 48 Melamed, “Aristotle.” — 71 —

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Abravanel, who purportedly made massive use of the third book of the Politics in his famous commentary on 1 Samuel 8, did not use the text directly at all. He was influenced by some scholastic commentators who interpreted the text in accordance with their own political leanings. Thus, Abravanel mistakenly attributed to Aristotle’s Politics a monarchic position which he himself opposed. Had he been better informed, he would have surely noticed that he himself, a professed “republican,” was not so far from Aristotle’s real position. Like most other Jewish scholars of the late Middle Ages, Abravanel knew the Aristotle of the Ethics and the Metaphysics well. His knowledge of the Politics, however, was still largely indirect and inaccurate, covered with a thick layer of scholastic misinterpretation. On the other hand, he was very familiar with Plato’s Republic in its Farabian and Averroist interpretations, and the Platonic political tradition strongly influenced various aspects of his political philosophy.49 So strong was the power of cultural traditions and theological constraints that Jewish political thought continued to be attached to the Republic and the Nicomachean Ethics for a few hundrep years after it had moved away from the sphere of the Muslim cultural milieu and into the orbit of Christian-Latin culture. Despite the enormous impact of the Politics upon late medieval Christian political philosophy, only faint echoes penetrated Jewish thought. It continued to be dependent upon the Platonic tradition up to the beginning of modern times. Al-Farabi and Averroes, not Aquinas, continued to dominate Jewish political thought. The full influence of scholastic thought upon Jewish political philosophy should still be investigated. However, even in this early stage of our knowledge, it can be assumed with a fairly high degree of certainty that it was quite marginal. This assessment becomes even stronger when we compare the marginal influence of scholastic political thought to the continuing influence of the Platonic-Muslim tradition, on the one hand, and the influence of scholastic philosophy upon other areas of Jewish philosophy, on the other. In this respect, we cannot accept the theory presented some years ago by Ralph Lerner and Muhsin Mahdi, who distinguished between two branches of medieval Jewish political philosophy, one which was 49 Baer, “Abravanel.” Strauss, “Abravanel.” Netanyahu, Abravanel, 2.3. Melamed, “Aristotle.” — 72 —

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influenced by the Platonic-Muslim tradition and another which was influenced by the Christian-Latin tradition.50 Our conclusion is that there was but one tradition, the Platonic-Muslim one. This tradition continued to dominate up to the beginning of modern times. The influence of Christian-Latin thought was quite marginal. This state of affairs continued into the Renaissance. Jewish scholars contributed their medieval heritage to the humanist milieu. The Platonic tradition reappeared now in Renaissance Italy, after the Greek text of the Republic was brought from Byzantium and translated into Latin in the early fifteenth century. After that the Republic exerted a strong influence upon Renaissance political philosophy, culminating with Ficino’s translation and commentary in the 1480’s.51 This situation created among Christian scholars an interest in the Hebrew translation of the Averroist paraphrase of the Republic. The text was retranslated— twice—into Latin by Jewish scholars for the consumption of a Christian audience. The first translation, in the mid-1480s, by Elijah del Medigo, was commissioned by Pico della Mirandola, while the second translation was made by Jacob Mantinus in the early sixteenth century, and was republished a few times during that century.52 Correspondingly, the Averroes’ commentary on the Republic continued to dominate Jewish political thought. Now, however, it was well coordinated with the new dominant trend in Christian political philosophy. Long sections of the Hebrew text, dealing with the virtues of the philosopher-king, were inserted, almost verbatim, by Yohanan Alemanno into his eclectic The Eternal.53 This influence is also evident in del Medigo’s rationalistic and anti-kabbalist treatise The Examination of the Law (Behinat ha-Dat),54 and in Abravanel’s later commentaries on the Bible, written in Italy in the last decade of the fifteenth century and at the beginning of the sixteenth century. Likewise, the Mantovan rabbi Judah Messer Leon inserted long paragraphs from Todrosi’s Hebrew translation of Averroes’ paraphrase on Aristotle’s Rhetoric, dealing with the subject matters of politics and the classification of regimes, into his Honeycomb’s Flow (Nofet 50 Lerner and Mahdi, Sourcebook, introduction. Melamed, “Aristotle.” 51 On the Platonic tradition, see Hankins, Plato. Brown, “Platonism.” On Renaissannce political thought in general see Skinner, “Political.” 52 Averroes, Parafrasi, introduction. Melamed, “Del Medigo.” 53 Rosenthal. “Alemanno.” Melamed, “Development”; idem, “Florence”; idem, Philosopher-King, ch. 6. 54 Melamed, “Del Medigo.” — 73 —

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Zufim), a rhetorical treatise which attempts to integrate the medieval rhetorical tradition with the Ciceronian trends of humanism.55 With the advent of the sixteenth century, influences of early modern political philosophy begin slowly to penetrate Jewish thought. The myth of the perfect Venetian constitution, which exerted enormous influence on early modern political philosophy, is manifest already in Isaac Abravanel’s commentary on Exodus 19, where he interprets the Mosaic constitution, created by Jethronian advice, as the archetype of the Venetian repubblica perfetta. This Venetian influence culminated with Luzzatto’s Discorso in the 1630’s.56 Even some influence of Machiavelli started to penetrate, albeit slowly and hesitantly. Machiavelli was a very difficult influence to absorb. His assumed secularity, and his sharp separation of politics from spiritual issues, which he insisted upon, made it extremely difficult for Jewish scholars to graft it on to their theological, still medievally anchored, foundations. Still, Abraham Portaleone, in the late sixteenth century, kept a copy of Machiavelli’s Art of War (Arte della Guerra) in his library. In the military discussion in his encyclopedic Shields of the Mighty (Shiltei ha-Gibborim), where the ancient Israelite army is described as a popular militia, clear Machiavellian influence can be detected.57 The Machiavellian influence is manifest in Luzzatto’s Discorso and Socrate, written in the mid-seventeenth century. Here the term ragione di stato (reason of state) appears for the first time in Jewish writing, and is employed in order to analyze biblical history and the Mosaic constitution. Answering anti-Jewish propaganda, and basing himself upon Tacitus’ History, which was very popular at the time, Luzzatto insists that Moses applied the principles of reason of state in the most perfect manner in order to solve political and military problems. If Tacitus, the wise politician, would not have been hindered by his own antisemitism, he would have understood Moses’ reasoning and admired his political acumen. Luzzatto here employs Tacitean political ideas in order to combat Tacitean anti-semitism. The whole tradition of the ragione di stato was heavy with Tacitean influence, which, like Machiavelli, was republican 55 Melamed, “Messer Leon.” 56 Melamed, “Venice”(see below ch. 8); idem, “Jethro”(see below ch. 6); “Travellers”(see below ch. 12). Netanyahu, Abravanel, 2.3. 57 For the treatment of the ancient Hebrew leaders by Machiavelli, see Melamed, “Machiavelli”; idem, Philosopher-King, ch. 8; also Robinzon, “Biblical.” See later also Miletto, “Portaleone.” — 74 —

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in essence, and approached politics from a secular and utilitarian angle. The Machiavellian and Tacitean influences forced Luzzatto to deal with biblical history in a purely political context, devoid of any religious overtones or moral considerations. This is well illustrated by the way he chillingly describes Absalom’s rebellion against his father, David, as a legitimate tactic in the struggle to acquire political power, where all means are justified by the successful outcome. Moreover, he also came close to the radical Machiavellian approach, which considered religion (merely) as a tool to serve temporal political ends. In this way Luzzatto explained to the gentile Taciteans the political raison d’etre of such mitzvot as the prohibition to eat pork, celebrating the Sabbath, and the sabbatical year. Along with his Machiavellianism and Taciteanism, Luzzatto was also heavily influenced by the myth of (the “perfect”) Venice, noted above, and by economic proto-capitalist, mercantile ideas, common in the political thought of his day. He also employed the most up-to-date scientific theories in physics, astronomy, and medicine in order to analyze political phenomena.58 Luzzatto was the most “modern” Jewish political thinker we have encountered thus far. Still, he can also be called the last of the medievals. For all the influence of contemporary political thought upon him and others, they all still worked within an essentially theological and medieval framework. No traditional Jew, however much influenced by contemporary intellectual trends, could ever have rejected the revealed nature of the Mosaic constitution. In this respect, prior to the onset of the Enlightenment, Jewish political philosophy, like Jewish philosophy at large, was still essentially medieval, and only flavored with Renaissance ideas, not revolutionized by them. It was Spinoza, following Luzzatto’s ambivalent beginnings, who, in his Theological-Political Treatise, took Jewish political philosophy out of the medieval framework. He no longer presented the Torah as the eternal divine law, encompassing both temporal and spiritual aspects of human life, but rather as a humanly established law, contingent in nature, and aiming at solving the temporal problems of a particular people, at a particular juncture of their development. Likewise, for Spinoza, Moses is described no longer as a divinely 58 Backi, “Dottrina.” Melamed, “Luzzatto”; idem, Philosopher-King. Ravid, Economics. Septimus, “Biblical.” Syros, “Luzzatto.” Veltri, “Luzzatto.” — 75 —

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motivated prophet-lawgiver, a theological analogue of the Platonic philosopher-king, but rather as a shrewd Machiavellian politician who consciously exploited the mob’s superstitions and their fear of God, in order to advance his own temporal political goals. By developing the myth of his divinely established mission and law, Moses secured the cooperation and obedience of the multitude in that difficult period in the formation of the nation. In this way, Spinoza completely secularized Jewish political philosophy; indeed, his Political Treatise has hardly any Jewish content at all.59 With Mendelssohn’s Jerusalem and Nachman Krochmal’s Guide of the Perplexed of the Time (Moreh Nevukei ha-Zeman), written in the nineteenth century, there would be new attempts to create again a synthesis of Jewish political theology with contemporary political philosophy. On the other hand, however, modern Zionist literature, following Spinoza’s lead, attempted to complete the process of “secularizing” Jewish political philosophy.60

59 Guttmann, “Mendelssohn.” Harvey, “Good and Evil”; idem, “Spinoza.” Lazaroff, “Concept.” McShea, Spinoza. Pines, “Spinoza.” Rava, “Spinoza.” Septimus, “Biblical.” Strauss, “How.” Wirzubski, “Spinoza.” Melamed, Philosopher-King, ch. 9. 60 For Mendelssohn’s political thought, see Altmann, “Quest.” Fox, “Law.” Guttmann, “Mendelssohn.” Lazaroff, “Concept.” Rottenstreich, “Mendelssohn.” For Krochmal, see Harris, Krochmal. On Zionism, see Avineri, Zionism. — 76 —

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Part II Studies: The Middle Ages

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Chapter three

Aristotle’s Politics in Medieval and Renaissance Jewish Political Thought

1. Between Plato and Aristotle Scholars agree that medieval Muslim thought was based on Plato’s Republic and his Laws and not on Aristotle’s Politics, even though it knew most of Aristotle’s extant writings and was immensely influenced by the Aristotelian tradition except for that work. Maybe it was pure chance— no manuscript had come into their hands, as Richard Walzer surmised, given that even thinkers in the late Hellenistic period opted for Plato’s Republic as a basic political textbook. The fact remains that no commentary on the Politics came down from Hellenistic times. Muslim thought followed the same trend inherited through late Hellenistic manuscripts, adapting them to its own philosophical and theological world view that sought to integrate the Platonic dialogues and his political writings, especially the two mentioned above, and to blur differences between them. Differently from neo-Platonic philosophers like Plotinus and Proclus, who thought the philosopher should withdraw from human society and enter a solitary divine life, and so preferred the Parmenides and the Theatetus, Muslim philosophy, save for the untypical ibn Bajja, stressed the social commitment of the philosopher and preferred the Republic and the Laws. Modified by neo-Platonism and the Nicomachean Ethics, these two Platonic dialogues formed the basis of Muslim political thought. Not incidentally, Erwin Rosenthal entitled the second section of his great work Political Thought in Medieval Islam “The Platonic Legacy.” Plato’s Republic was preferred to Aristotle’s Politics as it was more congruent with the theological and political outlook of Muslim philosophers in the Middle Ages. The Platonic principles and end of the state could easily be transposed into the theological conceptual world of the ideal imamate state, and the abilities and roles of Plato’s philosopher-king were largely compatible with those of the prophetic lawgiver of Islamic tradition. Thus no random availability of manuscripts made Plato politically preferable to Aristotle, although in most other spheres — 78 —

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the Aristotelian tradition prevailed.1 In his magnum opus on the political philosophy of Plato and Aristotle, Ernest Barker maintained that, unlike the Politics, Plato’s Republic completely disappeared from western thought for a thousand years.2 This is possibly true regarding Christian thought. In Muslim thought, however, the reverse is the case—the Politics has disappeared, as Moritz Steinschneider and Leo Strauss3 so unequivocally asserted. Shlomo Pines re-examined this accepted doctrine and brought new evidence found in Arabic texts that not only did Muslim philosophers like al-Farabi and Averroes knew of the existence of the Politics, but that from the tenth century onwards there is plausible evidence that it was used, at least in a mediating Hellenistic version. Pines further maintained that even this limited use significantly influenced al-Farabi’s Al-Madina al-Fadila (Virtuous State).4 Notwithstanding Pines’ findings, the accepted position that Muslim political thought in medieval times was in general based on Plato is still valid. Aristotelian political ideas infiltrated mainly through the Nicomachean Ethics, whose influence on Muslim thought was pervasive, although the Politics itself had hardly any influence at all, and certainly 1

Pines, “Averroes,” repr. in idem, Studies in the History of Jewish Philosophy: The Transmission of Texts and Ideas (Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 1977) [in Hebrew]; idem, “Translator’s Introduction” to Maimonides, Guide, cxxvi-cxxxi. Dorman, Marsilius, pp. 128-129. Strauss, Philosophy, 107-108; idem, “Abravanel.” Walzer, “Aspects”; idem, transmission. Al-Farabi, Perfect State (Walzer), pp. 430-431. Rosenthal, Islam. Lerner, “Natural Law.” Lerner and Mahdi, Sourcebook, Introduction. Mahdi, “Compendium”; idem, “Remarques”; idem, “Reflections. Berman, “Middle Commentary.” Macy, “Law.” Rotter, “Islamic.” Butterworth, “New Light”; idem, “Ethics”; idem, Philosophy. Crone, Medieval. On the general problems concerning the evolution of medieval Jewish political philosophy, see Melamed, Philosopher-King; idem. “Medieval”; idem, “Re-Considered”; idem, “State.” For an up-to-date-comprehensive bibliography on these issues see Syros, “Political.” 2 Barker, Greek, p. 445. Melamed, Philosopher-King, ch. 1, n. 3. 3 Strauss, Philosophy, p. 197. Encyclopaedia Judaica, vol. 15, 1322. 4 In his above mentioned papers, Pines makes the accepted assumption that the Politics was unknown in the Muslim world. Later on he re-examined this premise. See Pines, “Aristotle.” This view was rejected by Brague, “Note.” For new evidence on the reception of Aristotle’s political thought in the medieval political thought see recently in Syros, ed., Aristotle. Cf. also Galston, “Realism.” Pines points out that Islamic political philosophy is generally perceived to prefer the Platonic to the Aristotelian model. Galston assumes that ibn Sina’s use of the Aristotelian phrase “man is political by nature” is based on the text of the Politics. She overlooks the most possible explanation, namely that the source is the Ethics, ibid., 574, see also n. 13 below. See also TiroshRothschild, “Shalom,” p. 440. Kraemer, “Sciences,” pp. 24 -25. Leaman, “Averroes.” For additional bibliography consult Syros, “Political Treatises.” See also n. 12 and 14 below. In this context it should be noted that Platonic political theory was indeed better suited to Islamic and Jewish philosophy than was Aristotle’s: hence the preference. But though Platonic theory of the soul was also more compatible than Aristotle’s, medieval Muslim thinkers preferred the latter. — 79 —

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no direct influence. As Lawrence Berman noted, the Ethics had a distinguished career in medieval Muslim thought, while the Politics was marginal at best. Against this background, the present paper examines the influence of the Politics on Jewish thought in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. Operating within the orbit of Muslim political thought at least until the beginning of the thirteenth century, Jewish philosophy barely knew the Politics. The first direct quotation from it occurs in Joseph Albo’s Book of Roots (Sefer ha-Ikkarim) in the fifteenth century, apparently under the influence of Latin Christian culture. Jewish thought too had found the Republic’s worldview more compatible. Without much difficulty, the philosopher-king à la Plato could be superimposed on the prophetic lawmaker of Jewish tradition and Plato’s monarchic theory was more congruent with accepted halakhic perceptions. While medieval Christian philosophy, following Augustine’s Civitas Dei, did not even entertain the possibility of an ideal community in the here and now, both Muslim and Jewish thought conceived of a civitas temporalis that could and should constitute such a community. Thus, the Republic suited them far better as a fundamental political treatise, while political writers in Christian Europe adopted the Politics following its translation into Latin by William of Moerbeke in the thirteenth century.5 Plato’s notion of the ideal state was directly linked to his philosophy, whereas Aristotle, in the Politics at least, writes from the perspective of a political scientist rather than a philosopher and posits a disconnect between the discussion of issues relating to the sphere of politics per se and the metaphysical significance of human existence. The Republic, then, was more in keeping with the Islamic and Jewish world views of reality as a single whole, all of whose components were governed by a revealed law. By contrast, the Politics better suited the medieval Christian distinction between spiritual and temporal. Some possibly Aristotelian political concepts penetrated Jewish thought, particularly since Maimonides and due to Muslim influence, notably through al-Farabi and Averroes. In addition to the crucial influences of the Ethics, variously translated and interpreted,6 Aristo5 6

Walzer, “Aspects,” pp. 244-245. Polish, “Medieval.” See Berman’s studies on this topic: Averroes, Ethics (Berman); idem, “Greek”; idem, “Middle Commentary”; idem, “Ethical Views”; idem, “Translation.” — 80 —

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telian political ideas came in as well through Rhetoric and the pseudoAristotelian Economics, whose subject matter is similar to that of the Politics, dealing extensively as they do with political themes. Averroes’ commentary on the Rhetoric in The Book of Rhetoric (Sefer ha-Halatzah), was translated into Hebrew in the fourteenth century by the Spanish Jew Todros Todrosi. There are also Hebrew paraphrases of the Economics (Sefer Hanhagat ha-Bayyit). These works came into Medieval Jewish thought, however, through translations that were intended as commentaries that put the texts through a process one might call “Platonizing.” Averroes’ Middle Commentary on The Rhetoric, translated by Todros Todrosi, for instance, substitutes the regime theory in the Politics that appears in the Rhetoric too, for a thoroughly Platonic theory from Book 7 of the Republic that is fundamentally different from the Aristotelian view.7 Thus any influence of the Politics on Jewish political thought before the fifteenth century would have been but a weak echo of its Aristotelian source. A cursory examination of Maimonides’ Guide of the Perplexed suffices to illustrate: Guide 2:40 opens with the familiar (Pines’ translation), “It has been explained with utmost clarity that man is political by nature” (ha-adam medini ba-teva, in Samuel ibn Tibbon’s translation) (also 3:27). The so-called educated person, not only the scholar, would instinctively identify this with the zoon politicon in the Politics 1:2. While Maimonides could indeed be assumed to be looking at that work, The Nicomachean Ethics, 1:7, contains a parallel expression: “For man is a political animal.” Maimonides was thoroughly familiar with the Arabic paraphrase of The Nicomachean Ethics and quoted it extensively.8 Moreover, in his al Ma7 Averroes, Halatzah (Rhetoric). On the Muslim background of this translation see Butterworth, “Rhetoric.” On medieval Hebrew rhetoric in general see Lesley, “Rhetoric.” Melamed, “Messer Leon”; idem, “Persuasive.” Rothschild, “Rhetorique.” On the influence of the Economics see Encyclopaedia Judaica 5, 1322 and n. 30 and 32 below. On the way Averroes transmitted Aristotle’s theory of government through a Platonic prism, see in Todrosi’s Hebrew translation, 31, 53ff. Compare with the Aristotelian original, Rhetoric, 1: 8, 1336a; Politics, 3:3, 25. On this See Butterworth, “Platonization.” Also Melamed, “Democracy,” and see n. 8 and 30 below. 8 Pines, Maimonides, Guide, Translator’s Introduction, p. 108; Berman, “Middle Commentary.” Cf. also Aristotle’s Historia Animalium, 488a: “Furthermore, the following differences are manifest in their modes of living and in their actions. Some are gregarious, some are solitary, whether they be furnished with feet or wings or be fitted for a life in the water; and some partake of both characters, the solitary and the gregarious. […] Man, by the way, presents a mixture of the two characters, the gregarious and the solitary.” The Works of Aristotle, vol. 4: Historia Animalium, trans. by D’Arcy W. Thompson (Oxford, 1962). In the Politics and the Ethics Aristotle’s position is unequivocal, but in Historia Animalium much less so regarding man’s social nature vis-à-vis that — 81 —

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dina al-Fadila, ch. 15, al-Farabi explicates this idea in a similar context in which it appears later in Maimonides, though not in the Guide 2:40 but rather in 1:46 and 72 and in the introduction to The Commentary on the Mishnah, where, inter alia, he deals with the need for people to cooperate to satisfy their diverse needs. Pines maintained that parts of The Perfect State clearly show the influence of the Politics, most probably via some summary. The influence of The Perfect State on Maimonides,9 who often quotes from it, is well known. Thus he reached the Aristotelian idea by studying the Arabic paraphrase of The Nicomachean Ethics, and perhaps The Perfect State as well, which may have been influenced by a synopsis of the Politics. Maimonides certainly did not come to it by reading the original work, nor does he hint at its existence, while he was thoroughly familiar with many other works of the Aristotelian corpus, quoting them both directly and indirectly.10 Nor do any medieval commentators on the Guide 2:40, and one may assume they would have done so if they themselves had known the text. Shem Tov ibn Falaquera, for example, knew of the Politics, as will become clear, but he did not relate to or quote from the text itself in his commentary on the Guide 2:40, but rather from the Nicomachean Ethics.11 In the last chapter of his Treatise on Logic (Millot ha-Higayyon) that deals with practical wisdom, Maimonides writes: “In all these matters [= political government] many books have appeared in the Arabic tongue, and perhaps even more [such books] have not appeared.”12 Maimonides was thus conscious of the fact that from among Greek political writings, many were translated into Arabic, especially Plato, but many more were not translated yet, among them the Politics. Many medieval Jewish writers, following Maimonides, used the Aristotelian phrase that man is by nature a political animal: Samuel ibn Tibbon, Shem Tov ibn Falaquera, Jacob Anatoli, Shlomo ben Aderet, of the other animals. While medieval Jewish scholars knew this Aristotelian source as well (Sefer Ba’alei ha-Hayyim), most accepted the unequivocal versions of the first two works. See n. 3 above. 9 Pines, “Politics,” pp. 156-57. Al-Farabi, Perfect State, p. 429. On its influence on Maimonides see Berman, “Disciple.” 10 Pines, Maimonides, Guide, Translator’s Introduction, pp. 106-109. On Maimonides’ ideas on the sociability of humans see Melamed, “Maimonides.” 11 Ibn Falaquera, Moreh 2:40, p. 289. 12 Maimonides, Logic 14: 7, p. 112. For analysis see Berman, “A Re-examination.” Kraemer, “Sciences,” p. 95. Kraemer assumes (p. 100), with no proof, that these works included not only Plato’s Republic and Laws but also versions of the Politics. See n. 14 below. — 82 —

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Nissim of Marseilles, Isaac Albalag, Isaac Polkar, Joseph Albo, Shem Tov ibn Shem Tov, Abraham Shalom, Isaac Arama, and Yohanan Alemanno, though none of them ever attributed it directly to Aristotle and certainly not to the Politics. These philosophers either made a general, unattributed statement, like Anatoli, who said, “It is generally known that man’s nature is not to be solitary (mitboded) but is political by nature (medini ba-teva)” (likewise in Samuel ibn Tibbon, ibn Falaquera, ben Aderet, Nissim of Marseilles, Polkar, Shalom and Alemanno). Or the saying may be properly attributed to the wise in general, since this was the common opinion in medieval thought, in Judaism as in Christianity and Islam. Albalag attributed it to “sages of learning” (hakmei ha-mehkar), Albo simply to “sages,” and Shem Tov ibn Shem Tov to “political wisdom” (hokmah medinit). These examples demonstrate, then, that their direct textual reference was the Guide 2:40, which itself was not based on the Politics. The phrase is also included in the Hebrew translation of Averroes’ commentary on Plato’s Republic. Averroes would obviously have taken it from the Arabic paraphrase of the Ethics and grafted it onto a typical Platonic dialogue on the development of human society.13 Hence an automatic reference to the Politics is misleading. The fact that a scholar uses this phrase does not in itself prove he knew the Politics and certainly not that he knew it first hand. In this respect medieval scholars were more precise than some modern ones, who rather carelessly make direct attributions to that work.14 13 On use of the Aristotelian phrase by Anatoli, Polkar and Albo, see Melamed, “Anatoli,” and n. 12, with the references. On Samuel ibn Tibbon see his Pirush, pp. 62-63: “They say: Man is political by nature (medini be-tiv’o), which means that he needs to live in a state or where he can associate with others of his own kind in a state; He should not stay alone in deserts or wherever he happens to be.” On ibn Falaquera, see Jospe, Torah, p. 418. Shlomo ben Aderet, Responsa, p. 200. Ben Moshe, Ma’ase, p. 63. Isaac Albalag, Tikkun, p. 1. Shem Tov ibn Shem Tov, Derashot, in two Torah portions, twice generally in a wedding sermon, Bereshit (Genesis): “Man is political by nature,” and again in Jethro: “Political philosophy has already explained that man is a political animal.” Here Shem Tov bases himself directly on Maimonides (Guide 2:40). He does occasionally quote from the Ethics (for instance in the sermon on the portion of Noah) but never the Politics. Cf. e.g. Abraham Shalom, Neve, p. 108. On Alemanno, see n. 88 below. On Arama, see next note. On Averroes’ remark in his commentary on Plato’s Republic, see Rosenthal’s edition, p. 22. On ibn Sina, see n. 5 above. 14 E. g. Wolfson, “Classification,” p. 141: “The political thought of Maimonides is a paraphrase of Aristotle’s general ideas in the Politics […] Maimonides only hints vaguely at Aristotle’s descriptions and evaluations of various forms of government.” See also Heller-Wilensky, Arama, p. 185. The author correctly states: “Arama [understood] the vital need for laws and courts in the welfare of human society, citing Aristotle as formulated by Maimonides, to the effect that man is a political animal who requires social life.” In n. 7, however, she refers the reader to the Politics 1:2, and not to the completely parallel saying in the Nicomachean Ethics, though emphasizing Arama’s — 83 —

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2. From the Islamic to the Christian-Latin World Jewish thinkers of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries were aware of the existence of the Politics, but had no direct access to it, nor did they make direct use of it. References to it appear in the great translation project that rendered Arabic philosophic and scientific works into Hebrew. Al-Farabi and Averroes mentioned it, and so too did the Jewish thinkers and translators of the period, whether in translating from the Arabic or in introductions and conclusions of their own. The first example is in ibn Falaquera’s The Beginning of Wisdom (Reshit Hokmah), based on al-Farabi’s Classification of the Sciences. On the subject-matter of practical science Falaquera says: And because the end of human leadership (hanhagah enoshit), either perfect or imperfect, is [human] association (meshutafot), and association will either be according to the association of the household (= kibbutz habayyit, economics) or the political association (= kibbutz medini, politics). Thus the practical wisdoms (ha-hokmot ha-ma’asiyyot) are three: The first part deals with [ethical] perfection. It will instruct man how to conduct his actions and virtues so that his earlier and later life will be successful, as noted in Aristotle’s Ethics (Sefer Aristo ba-Middot). The second [part] of perfection will inform man how to conduct his household (hanhagato le-beito, extensive use of the Ethics and its influence on him (ibid. pp. 9, 38, 184). Kapach by contrast is more careful in his Hebrew edition of the Guide, referring readers to Ethics and Politics together. See Maimonides, Guide, translated by Y. Kapach (Jerusalem, 1972), p. 254, n. 2. In 3:27, however, he refers the reader only to Ethics (ibid. p. 337, n. 10). The same happens concerning the subdivisions of political philosophy in Maimonides’ Logic (Millot ha-Higayyion). Wolfson, ibid. 177, assumed that the classification of political frameworks in this chapter is based on the Politics. Kraemer repeated such statements even more cautiously. In his opinion it is clear that al-Fārābī was Maimonides’ direct source, although the Politics may have been the primary source (Kraemer, “Sciences” p. 25). However he relates the possible Aristotelian source to a different passage from the Politics than Wolfson did. See also n. 12 above. In an earlier study, Kraemer, “Namus”, p. 189, n. 16, he correctly noted that “Although “Man is naturally a political animal” comes from Aristotle, Maimonides’ account of the development of human society seems to be more influenced by Plato.” Not “seems” but “is.” Cf. also Harvey, “Political Philosophy,” p. 198. Nor is the Politics mentioned in any of the lists of books in the libraries of educated Jews of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. See, for instance, Bonfil, “List,” esp. n. 3-5, with additional bibliography. This was predictable, since neither the text nor its commentaries were ever translated into Hebrew. — 84 —

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economics), which is his association with his wife, his children and servants. […] the third [part] of perfection will discuss the types of government (hanhagot) and leaderships (rishonot) and good and evil political associations, all of which is noted by Plato and Aristotle in their book[s] on politics (sefer Aplaton ve-Aristo bahanhagah).15 Ibn Falaquera’s text constitutes in fact a Hebrew paraphrase of alFarabi. Practical wisdom is divided into the classic Aristotelian three parts: ethics, economics and politics. The basic work on the first, according to ibn Falaquera, is the Nicomachean Ethics. On politics the reference is to the political works of Plato and Aristotle. Clearly, the Sefer Aristo ba-Hanhagah refers to the Politics. The Ethics is specifically called Sefer Aristo ba-Middot. Ibn Falaquera knew the Ethics well and often relied on it.16 He also knew Plato’s Republic from al-Farabi’s The Philosophy of Plato and Aristotle, which he translated and included in The Beginning of Wisdom. Ibn Falaquera’s characteristically Platonic discussion of political themes contains versions of al-Farabi’s account of the virtues and qualifications of the philosopher-king and attributes them to their primary source, “Plato in his book on governance” (Aplaton be-hanhagah).17 By contrast there is no evidence that he relied directly or indirectly on the Politics, apart from what he translated from al-Farabi relating to the theory of human association in Aristotle’s introduction. In ibn Falaquera’s translation of al-Farabi’s Philosophy of Aristotle, the Politics is not even mentioned. Nor is it mentioned in al-Farabi’s original Arabic text.18 The next two examples in which the Politics is mentioned in Jewish literature of this period come from the early-fourteenth-century translations by Samuel ben Judah of Marseille of Averroes’ commentary on Plato’s Republic, and his middle commentary on the Nicomachean Ethics. Neither of these books has survived except in these Hebrew translations, 15 Ibn Falaquera, Hokmah p. 58; Al-Fārābī’s source – see Lerner and Mahdi, Sourcebook, pp. 25-26. Cf. also Pines, “Politics,” p. 150, n. 3a. Also in ibn Sina’s classification of the sciences, where the political context is attributed to Plato’s discussion of kingship and to Aristotle’s chapter on governments. See Butterworth, Philosophy, p. 92, n. 4. Lerner and Mahdi, Sourcebook, p. 97, n. 2. 16 See e.g. ibn Falaquera, Hokmah, pp. 10-20, and Jospe, Torah, pp. 417-457. 17 Ibn Falaquera, Hokmah, pp. 56-59; 70-77. The quotation on p. 71. See the source in al-Farabi, Philosophy, pp. 45-65, with extended discussion in Melamed, Philosopher-King, ch. 5. 18 Ibn Falaquera, Hokmah, pp. 78-92, source in al-Farabi, Philosophy, pp.130-171. — 85 —

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which are consequently of great importance, and are generally bound together in a single manuscript.19 In each of these commentaries Averroes relates to the Politics and Samuel ben Judah translates accordingly, alluding to it again in his epilogue to the translation of the commentary on the Ethics. It is typical and quite telling that the few references to the Politics appear in a translation of a commentary on Plato’s Republic. In the introductory pages to the Hebrew translation of Averroes’ commentary, Samuel ben Judah translates: The first part of this art [of politics] is contained in Aristotle’s book known as the Nicomachean [Ethics], and the second part his book on governance (sifro ha-yaduah ba-hanhagah), and in Plato’s book [= the Republic] also which we intend to comment. For Aristotle’s book on governance (Sefer Aristo be-Hanhagah) has not yet come into our hands.20 Following accepted convention, Averroes looks upon the Ethics as “the first part of this endeavor,” i.e. the foundation of practical wisdom, and the Politics the second tier, above the foundation. Indeed, he maintains that the Ethics and the Politics should have been expounded together since they complement one another. Since, however, he does not have the latter, he must use the Platonic substitute. He himself sees no contradiction between Plato and Aristotle: as he sees the Ethics and the Politics as complementary, so he assumes a possibly complementary relationship between the Ethics and the Republic in particular, and between Plato and Aristotle in general. As Rosenthal noted, Averroes studied Plato as a commentator on Aristotle, combining Platonic and Aristotelian ideas.21 A more detailed explanation occurs in Samuel ben Judah’s translation of the Middle commentary of the Nicomachean Ethics:

19 Averroes, Republic (Rosenthal), Introduction; idem, Republic (Lerner), Introduction. Berman, “Greek.” 20 Averroes, Republic (Rosenthal), p. 22. Rosenthal, Islam, pp. 187, 189; Pines, “Averroes,” p. 84. Jacob Mantinus translated this passage into Latin; see Aristotelis Opera cum Averrois commentariis (Venice, 1562-1576—repr. Frankfurt am Main: Minerva, 1962), vol. 3, p. 336. 21 Rosenthal, Islam, pp. 6-7, 48, 89. Butterworth, “New Light,” p. 118; idem, Philosophy, pp. 6-7, 48, 89. — 86 —

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And here ends the commentary on the part of this wisdom, which is to political wisdom as the knowledge of health and illness is to the craft of medicine. The purpose is to establish this wisdom even as knowledge of health and removal of illness has established medicine. His [= Aristotle’s] book of governance (sefer ha-hanhagah) has not yet reached us in this island [= the Iberian Peninsula]. Also from this book [Ethics] we had only the first four treatises, until our colleague and counselor Abu Omri ben Martik brought it to us, may God grant him the greatest compensation for his help to us. […] And we will be even more grateful if one of the brothers will bring over the book [= Politics] which contains the perfect wisdom, God willing. You can see from the words of Abunaser [al-Farabi’s] that this book is to be found in that land [= the Muslim east]. And if it is not understood, may God grant us length of days to study that work to the utmost of our ability. For from the scholar here one sees that while the Platonic [book of] governance (hanhagah aplatonit) investigated two types of people, the warriors and the sages […] this is what Aristotle meant regarding the incompleteness of Plato’s books. And how could Abu Baker ben Al Saiag (ibn Bajja) say that the discussion of the perfect association (ha- kibbutz ha-meuleh) is already completed in Plato’s book, and whether what is there discussed is what is permissible or ignorant or evil, it still lacks the purity of wisdom.22 By comparing medical to political wisdom, the Ethics is conventionally presented as the theoretical foundation of the Politics. Once again Averroes mentions that al-Farabi reported that the latter existed in the east, as noted in ibn Falaquera’s translation, but was not yet to be found 22 Averroes, Middle Commentary of the Nicomachean Ethics, translated by Samuel ben Judah of Marseille. Mss. Firenze-Laurenziana Plut. 88.25/1. no. 17582 in the microfilm section of the Jewish National and University Library in Jerusalem. fol. 99. Excerpt from Mantinus’ Latin translation ibid, p. 220. See also Rosenthal, Islam, pp. 175, 187. Pines, Maimonides, Guide, Translator’s Introduction, p. 106; idem, “Politics” p. 150. Berman, “Translation,” p. 106, n. 4. Also Butterworth, Philosophy, pp. 5-7. — 87 —

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in the Islamic west. Nor was the complete Ethics available in the West, Averroes maintains, until Abu Amari ibn Martik brought it, hoping that this same source may bring a copy of the Politics, which he considers the ultimate work on political philosophy—“In it is the purity of wisdom”—while Plato’s Republic is seen as inferior to it—“It does not have the purity of those words.” Aristotle is presented as one who provided in the Politics what Plato’s Republic lacked. We can assume that Averroes had some information concerning Aristotle’s trenchant criticism of Plato’s Republic in the second book of the Politics. He challenges ibn Bajja’s extreme Platonic position. As Maimonides in his letter to Samuel ibn Tibbon expressed that he saw Aristotle as completing Plato, Averroes makes a similar claim with regard to the realm of political thought. After faithfully translating these remarks of Averroes into Hebrew, Samuel ben Judah begins his epilogue thus: The commentary of ibn Rushd on the Ethics of Aristotle called in Greek Nicomachean is finished. It is the first part of the two parts of political science (ha-hokmah hamedinit) and it is called the theoretical part. […] The second part is contained in the book which is known as the Politics by the philosopher (sefer ha-hanhagah la-filosof), but that book did not fall into the hands of the philosopher ibn Rushd. He has already apologized for not commenting on it. Instead he explained the demonstrable statements of that second part, which he found in the Republic of Plato (sefer hanhagat ha-medinah le-aplaton). For this reason, I, the translator, have continued to the first part, even though one author did not compose them, since they are parts of one science and one commentator has explained them. I […] translated this book, which is the first part of this science – that is, political science […] 23 Here too the commentary on the Republic is offered as a substitute for the lost Politics, explaining the unusual step of binding the two translations from works by different authors together. 23 Berman published the entire epilogue in “Greek,” p. 303. — 88 —

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The two translations were extensively copied at the end of the fourteenth century and particularly in the beginning of the fifteenth.24 Through these works knowledge that the Politics existed came to the attention of Jewish scholars at the end of the Middle Ages and in the early Renaissance. Joseph ibn Caspi, for instance, collated commentaries from Averroes on the Republic, and especially the Ethics, ten years after Samuel ben Yehuda concluded his essay. His Terumat Kesef (1331) concluded with a translation from Averroes’ epilogue: And here ends this discussion of the part of this wisdom, which is to political wisdom as the knowledge of health and illness is to the craft of medicine. Aristotle’s purpose here is to establish this wisdom even as knowledge of health and removal of illness has established medicine. This is his book on governance (sefer ha-hanhagah shelo) which did not reach us yet.25 Jewish scholars operated within the ambit of Muslim culture and knew only from Muslim commentators that the Politics existed. They knew virtually nothing of its contents, and certainly had no direct knowledge, so that it could not have influenced their political thought. The Politics was first translated into Latin from the original Greek by William of Moerbeke in the 1260s, and henceforth had a revolutionary impact on Christian political thought from Thomas Aquinas on. Following Walter Ullmann’s A History of Political Thought in the Middle Ages, many scholars assume that the recovery of the Politics in the thirteenth century was the watershed between the Middle Ages and the modern period.26 The Politics entered the Christian-Latin world in the midst of the transition of Jewish culture from the Muslim to Christian-Latin sphere. In some areas Scholasticism had an ever-increasing influence 24 Averroes, Republic (Rosenthal), and Lerner’s edition, the introductions. 25 See Joseph ibn Caspi, Terumat Kessef, Mss. Vatican EBR. 296/1 no. 351 in the microfilm library of the National Library in Jerusalem. fol. 79. Berman, “Middle Commentary,” pp. 197-198; Averroes, Ethics (Berman), pp. 13, 19. Silver, Controversy, p. 100, maintains that Judah Alharizi translated Arabic paraphrases of Ethics and Politics. However, he provides no references, and I know of no other source for this information. 26 Ullmann, History, ch. 6; Dunbabin, “Reception.” For a cautious critique of the assumption of the authority of the Politics, see Nederman, “Aristotle.” Still, Nederman does not dispute the influence of Aristotle’s political theory. — 89 —

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on Jewish thought, beginning from the thirteenth century. 27 Then and only then could any influence from the Politics, in Scholastic garb, influence Jewish thought. How did this come about, if at all? Samuel ben Judah of Marseille and Joseph ibn Caspi, who were active in Provence in the first third of the fourteenth century, were well aware of the new trends in the LatinChristian cultural world. Following Averroes, however, they assumed almost automatically that the Politics was still unavailable in the West, although nearly 150 years had elapsed since Averroes, and although they themselves were now operating in the Latin-Christian cultural milieu. In the epilogue to his translation of Averroes’ commentary on the Republic, Samuel ben Judah wrote of contacts with Christian scholars: “It was my task to perfect the translation of this wisdom with Christian scholars.” He knew too that they had excellent texts of the Ethics and commentaries on it: “In their hands are some writings of the Philosopher, and their commentaries on Abunaser al-Farabi.”28 Thus ben Judah could also have known that for more than 50 years already these scholars had a translation of the Politics, to which Albertus Magnus and Thomas Aquinas had since written commentaries.29 And still Jewish scholars were totally unaware of all this? Typically, Todros Todrosi, a fourteenth-century Spanish Jew who translated Averroes’ Middle Commentary on Aristotle’s Rhetoric, adopted Averroes’ “Platonized” version, e.g. in the discussion of the theory of government. The translator refers the reader, following Aristotle’s original and Averroes’ commentary, to other works of Aristotle such as the Topics and the Poetics. In contrast, there is no reference to the Politics, although Aristotle himself referred the Greek reader to it. Averroes ignored this completely and so did the Hebrew translator.30 Likewise, in a commentary on Judah Halevi’s Kuzari, composed in Provence in the late fourteenth- early fifteenth century, when relating to the term ” rational laws” (nimmusim sikli’im), the author, Shlomo ben Yehudah of Lunel, twice identifies the two basic textbooks of political philosophy: 27

Pines, “Scholasticism,” and see Sermoneta’s various papers on this influence, the bibliography, and n.. 101 below. 28 Averores, Republic (Rosenthal), pp. 106-107. 29 Dundabin, “Reception.” 30 On the Platonization of the text, see n. 8 above. On the Topics and the Poetics, see Averroes, Halatzah, pp. 163, 174, 184, 200, 230. Aristotle refers to the Politics in the original text. See Rhetoric, 1: 8, 1366a. — 90 —

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Aristotle’s Ethics (hibbur midot le-aristo) and Plato’s Republic (hanhagat ha-medinah le-aplaton).31 The Politics is not even mentioned. Only in the early fifteenth century, some 150 years after the recovery of the Politics in Christian Europe, do we find the first known reference to it—the result of that same revolution—in Hebrew literature. Characteristically, it relates to a translation of the Ethics that expresses awareness that the Politics exists, but no knowledge as yet of its contents. Jewish authors within the Latin-Christian cultural world, in some inertia of tradition, continue translating the Ethics, now from the Latin, but not as yet the Politics. Despite having spent a long period of time in the Christian-Latin world, they continue to think in terms of the Muslim culture. The innovation here lies in its increasing awareness of the revolution in Christian political thought at the end of the Middle Ages due to translation of the Ethics and the Politics into Latin. While Samuel ben Judah of Marseille was still translating Averroes’ commentary on the Ethics from Arabic in the first half of the fourteenth century, Meir Elvadish of Castile in the early fifteenth century was already translating a Latin commentary on it into Hebrew. In the translator’s preface, as was customary, he stated his reasons for doing so, motives common to all learned Jews of his time: And behold the sages of Greece who were not enlightened by the Torah, [but] were still learned and chose upright paths, wrote books to teach man knowledge and ways of understanding, and to show him the straight path he should follow. Aristotle in particular, known as the first among the Greek sages, wrote books on ethics (hanhagat ha-middot). One is called Ethics, discussing right conduct for every person. The second [book] he called Economics; it discusses the governance of the household (hanhagat ha-bayyit), and the third he called Politics; it discusses the governance of the state (hanhagat ha-medinah). He wrote [these books] in his native Greek tongue, after which they were translated into the Christian language [=Latin], and some into Arabic. And I Meir son of Shlomo of blessed memory Elvadish, having learned the 31 Shlomo ben Yehuda, Old Commentary, pp. 54, 377. — 91 —

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Christian language, saw the translations of these books as well as commentaries by Christian scholars, whose learning is outstanding in the philosophy of ethics. Our Torah surely does not lack the choicest of what is said in all the books of philosophy. However, I saw these books as a commentary on some commandments of our holy Torah. […] and hence I thought it well to translate it from the Christian language, where they may be better explicated by Christian scholars who have studied them, in whose midst we dwell. There are also commentaries by Christian scholars that will clarify what is obscure in the writings of Aristotle.32 As a devoted and educated Jew, Elvadish felt obliged to explain the necessity and justification for studying the Ethics in its Christian-Latin garb, even though ethical wisdom, like all other wisdom, is contained in the Torah. Aristotle is called “first among the Greek sages” (rosh hakmei yavan) a statement that vividly brings to mind Dante’s Divine Comedy (Il maestro di color che sanno), written shortly before.33 Following accepted practice Elvadish divides Aristotle’s practical wisdom (hanhagat ha-middot), into three spheres, on each of which the Greek philosopher wrote a book: Ethics, Economics and Politics. He spells each term out in Spanish transliteration and significantly, he first mentions the translation of the treatises into “Christian language,” i.e. Latin, only after the much earlier translation into Arabic. This clearly shows the increasing strength of Christian-Latin culture and the waning Arabic influences. Elvadish’ new perspective alters chronological order. He knows that all these works were translated into Latin and even benefited from commentaries by Christian scholars. He claims to have “seen” the translations and commentaries when he was learning Latin. What does he actually mean? Did he simply see or did he actually read them? This may become clear later. Elvadish is acutely aware of the great influence of Aristotelian moral and political theory in Christian Europe at the end of the Middle Ages, since he says: “whose learning is outstanding in the 32 On the issue and the translator’s preface, see Berman, “Greek,” pp. 154-155; idem, “Translation,” p. 296. 33 Dante, Commedia Divina, Purgatorio, 4: 32. Cf. Pines, Maimonides, Guide, Translator’s Introduction, p. 197, n. 8. — 92 —

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philosophy of ethics.”34 Elvadish’s esteem for Christian commentaries on Aristotle is so high that he sees it as a useful instrument for understanding the Torah itself, since all these ideas are embedded in it from the beginning of time. Significantly, Elvadish knows that all these works have been translated into Latin and have been the object of Latin commentaries. As regards Arabic translations, he cautiously states, like Maimonides in Treatise on Logic, that only “a few of them have been copied into Arabic.” This shows awareness that the Ethics but not the Politics was translated into and expounded in Arabic. Concluding his apologetic justification for translating the Ethics from Latin, Elvadish remarks, “And with His help shall I translate the book of Ethics, which is first and choice and edifying. And if God gives me success I shall translate the books of Economics and Politics if I find their commentaries, for I have not yet found such.”35 He mentions two reasons for beginning with the Ethics. The first is one of principle, found earlier in Averroes and ibn Falaquera: it is perceived as the basis of practical wisdom, and is hence to be preferred. The second is its availability. Elvadish specifically mentions that although he wished otherwise, he could not translate Aristotle’s Economics and Politics as long as he had no access to commentaries on them. In view of Elvadish’s statement that he had “seen” these works, with commentaries, we can surmise that he had access to a translation, but no commentary on the Economics and Politics, and without having the opportunity to consult a commentary, he was not prepared to translate them, lest he err. The foregoing is based on the detailed translation theory in his preface according to the original guidelines of Judah ibn Tibbon in the introduction to his translation of Bahya ibn Pakuda’s Duties of the Heart (Hovot ha-levavot), and of Samuel ibn Tibbon in his introduction to the translation of the Guide. In his opinion, a proper translation requires three conditions of the translator: complete knowledge of the language of the original text and that of the translation, understanding the author’s intention and the significance of the text and, as he puts it, “that the translator have knowledge and learning to the point that he can present the words of the author of that book and fully understand 34

This clearly refers to political theory. See e.g. Averroes, Halatzah, p. 16: “The art is ethical (midot’it), that is, political (medini’it).” Compare n. 95 below. 35 Berman, “Translation,” p. 158. — 93 —

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the intent of every matter whereof he speaks.”36 Indeed, it was wise of Elvadish not to translate the Politics until he had access to a suitable commentary. While the translation by William of Moerbeke was precise, it was largely incomprehensible.37 However, the very fact that Elvadish was the first Jew to announce that he had “seen” that text, and had translated the Latin version of the Ethics into Hebrew, indicates that he was familiar with Aristotle’s political outlook. Another such example is the anonymous fifteenth-century Hebrew translation of On the Governance of Princes (De Regimine Principum) by Giles of Rome (Aegidius Romanus). Written in 1285, the original was a most popular political scholastic treatise of the late Middle Ages. The Hebrew translation is titled Sefer Hanhagat ha-Melakhim, and is without commentaries or additions, save for quotations from the Bible and the Sages in the margins of the text, or, parenthetically, within it. Following the common practice of Scholastic political philosophy, Giles quoted copiously from the Politics, especially from Book 1, as well as from the Ethics and the Rhetoric. The anonymous translator keeps faithfully to the text, spelling out the title of the Politics in Spanish transliteration. But here too there is no evidence that he knew that work at first hand. He knew its contents and its importance for the Scholastics from Giles’ text.38 To conclude, no Jewish scholar of the late Middle Ages or of the Renaissance troubled to translate the Politics or any of its commentaries into Hebrew. Even under Christian-Latin cultural influence, Jewish writers continued to translate, expound and recopy Plato’s Republic, the Ethics and commentaries on these works—and not by chance. Their conceptual world necessarily remained Platonic in essence, given the inertia of tradition and their theological commitment. 3. In the Latin-Christian Cultural World: From Albo to Luzzatto The question now is whether and to what extent Jewish thinkers working in the Christian cultural world in the late Middle Ages and the Renaissance made use of the Politics. On careful examination, Jewish political thought from the fifteenth to the seventeenth century revealed direct evidence of only two, separated by some 200 years: Joseph Albo 36 Berman, “Translation,” pp. 155-157. 37 Dundabin, “Reception,” p. 723; Dorman, Marsilius, p. 100. 38 On the general background for Giles’ political ideas, Lerner and Mahdi, Sourcebook, pp. 391-392. On the Hebrew translation and its significance, see Melamed, “Anonymous.” (See below, ch. 7.) — 94 —

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in his Book of Roots (Sefer ha-Ikkarim) and Simone Luzzatto in his Discorso circa il stato degle Ebrei in Venezia. Isaac Abravanel makes a pretext of using the Aristotelian text, misleading some scholars. Yohanan Alemanno and Shlomo del Medigo also refer to Aristotle’s “Governance of the State” (hanhagat ha-medinah), but this allude to the Ethics and not to the Politics, as the modern reader might erroneously conclude. Two other scholars, the fifteenth-century Spanish Baruch ibn Ya’ish and the early sixteenth-century Italian Ovadiah Sforno, do mention the Politics, but make no use of it in their texts. Ibn Ya’ish, who was strongly influenced by scholastic philosophy, briefly relates to the Politics as the main textbook of political science in the introduction to his commentary on the Nicomachean Ethics.39 Sforno mentions it briefly in the introduction to his Light of Nations (Or Amim), but does not relate at all to the text in the body of his book. 40 Albo, as we know, was the first Jewish writer to introduce the threefold classification of the law—divine, natural and human, in particular natural law—into Jewish thought, under the direct or indirect influence of Thomas Aquinas. It is no surprise, then, that Albo is the first to refer to the Politics. His very discussion on the political nature of man (Ikkarim, 1:5) closely follows al-Farabi, just as Maimonides does.41 In that context ideas from the Politics would have reached him circuitously: he does not quote it directly on this subject, but rather on two other ones. Albo mentions various reasons for placing divine law above human law. The second reason is that only divine law derived from the perfect divine intelligence can clearly and unequivocally distinguish between the good and the reprehensible, i.e., can precisely define moral law. Human law, in contrast, is based on limited human intelligence and so may well err in making that distinction. In this context Albo criticizes Plato for proposing a theory in the Republic that did away with the family and for advocating communality of women: Thus Plato made a grievous mistake, advocating the unbecoming as though it were becoming. For his idea 39 Zonta, Scholasticism, Hebrew part, p. 4. 40 Sforno, Or, p. 9. 41 Guttmann, “Albo.” Waxman, “Albo.” Albo, Roots (Husik), vol. 1, pp. 53-157. Lerner, “Natural Law.” Melamed, “Classification”; idem, “Natural Law, and n. 100 below. Cf. Ehrlich, “Reassessment.” On Albo’s discussion of mankind’s political nature, see Rosenthal, Erbe, p. 53; idem, “Torah”. — 95 —

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is that all the women of a given class should be held in common by the men of that class. Thus, the wives of the rulers should be common to all the rulers, the wives of the merchants common to all the merchants, and similarly the wives of the men of a given trade or occupation should be common to the men of that trade or occupation. This is a matter which the Torah forbids; even the Noachian law prohibits it […] Aristotle, as is known, criticized Plato’s ideas in this matter.42 Albo regarded the Platonic theory of the communality of women as incestuous and at odds not only with divine law incumbent on Israel only, but also with the seven commandments of Noah incumbent on the entirety of mankind. Moreover, not only the Torah but Aristotle too disagrees unambiguously, and in detail, with Plato. At the beginning of the Politics 2, Aristotle declares that the communality of wives, like the communal responsibility for children and property, contravenes logic and human nature and is hence doomed to fail.43 Despite its fundamental predilection for the Platonic state, Jewish thought found some of its features unacceptable, like aspects of the communality concept, especially the communality of wives. Here Aristotle’s criticism was thoroughly compatible with the Halakhic approach and the Politics could be preferred to the Republic, as was the case in Christian-Latin thought. The Latin West not only generally preferred Aristotle to Plato, but also for its own theological reasons could not possibly endorse Plato’s positions concerning the communality of women. In this regard Judeo-Christian monotheism was necessarily and inevitably opposed to Platonic paganism. Albo used a Latin translation of Aristotle, possibly assisted by some commentary. Rosenthal assumed that it was the Aquinas commentary, but there is no evidence that it can be regarded as a direct source of 42 Albo, Roots (Husik), vol. 1, p. 82. On the way Scholastic commentators dealt with Aristotle’s critique of Plato’s Republic, see Perfetti, “Immagini.” Interestingly enough, in a commentary on the Torah composed in the early fourteenth century by Nissim ben Moshe of Marseilles, the author brings a long quotation from Averroes’ commentary on the Republic concerning the communality of wives and property. He inserts this quotation at the end of a discussion concerning laws forbidding incest. However, he does not criticize the Platonic position, and was not conscious of Aristotle’s criticism as will be Albo. See Ben Moshe, Ma’ase, pp. 382-383. 43 Aristotle, Politics 2: 3, 1261b-1262b. — 96 —

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Albo.44 Given that at the time there were other Latin commentaries on the Politics, he need not have relied on Aquinas, however important he was. One need not assume that Albo used any commentary at all either. His description of the Platonic system of the communality of wives was based on the Hebrew translation of Averroes’ commentary on the Republic. Husik notes, in his edition of the Ikkarim, that Albo’s text is not entirely congruent with the Platonic original. Husik is quite right, for Albo had no access to the original, but only to Averroes’ commentary, which had been translated by Samuel ben Judah of Marseille.45 Albo refutes the Platonic idea on the basis of the Torah (Gen. 20:3), and only at the end of his criticism, very briefly, does he add that Aristotle too opposes it. Such a general knowledge could have come to Albo from a Latin translation from the Politics, a commentary or perhaps even from the general ambience of the times when that work enjoyed such high esteem. Moreover, in an additional place in the Ikkarim (1:17), in connection with the idea that human law (Dat nimusit, lex humana) is based on the basic elements of free will and purpose (taclit), Albo quotes “the Philosopher in the political philosophy (ha-filosof ba-filosofia ha-medinit).”46 Free will and purpose are defined as basic premises of human law, appearing earlier in 1:9. “The Philosopher” is clearly Aristotle, whereas it is not clear whether “political philosophy” alludes here to the Politics. Albo may be referring to the Ethics, given the detailed definition of free will and purpose in Ikkarim 1:8. These ideas are clearly Aristotelian. Albo’s definition of the end of human law is strongly reminiscent of the Aristotelian statement in the Politics that the purpose of human law is “the governance of the people and their well-being which constitute the perfection of the political association (kibbutz medini).” The Stagirite writes that “the state came into being for the sake of life and exists for the sake of a good life.” Elsewhere in the Politics the subject is discussed in the very same context.47 The only reference to the purpose of political existence in the Ethics is somewhat different. Here happiness is said to be the goal of political existence, and the definition of such happiness is debated. With that, the Ethics contains several references to the free 44 Rosenthal, “Torah,” p. 226; idem, Erbe, p. 53. Compare Aquinas, Oct, pp. 59-64. 45 Albo, Roots (Husik), p. 82, n. 1. For the source see Averroes, Republic (Rosenthal), p. 53. 46 Albo, Roots (Husik), p. 146. 47 For quote, see Aristotle, Politics, 2: 2, 1251b, also 1: 2; 3: 6; 7:1, 3. See Albo, Roots (Husik), p. 146, n. 3. — 97 —

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choice principle, whereas the Politics does not discuss it.48 The material closest to Albo in the Ethics appears in 2:5: following Aristotle’s lead, Albo maintains that the possibility of enacting laws and the principle of reward and punishment for obeying or disobeying them cannot exist without the principle of free choice. A person cannot be punished for something done as the result of a deterministic force. One concludes, then, that by “political philosophy” Albo mean here practical philosophy in general (i.e. hokmah ma’asit), and that the terms, as noted in other contexts, were in fact parallel. Here he uses the Politics and the Ethics in combination, as his purpose requires. It is no coincidence that the first specific and only direct reference to the Politics comes in the context of Aristotle’s criticism of Plato, and yet in a clearly Platonic context, criticizing aspects of the Platonic republic. Elsewhere Albo bases himself, conventionally, on the Nicomachean Ethics and its commentaries.49 A similar phenomenon appears, though more emphatically, in A Treatise on the State of the Jews in Venice (Discorso circa il stato degli Ebrei in Venezia) by Simone Luzzatto some 200 years later (1638). As noted above, in between there is barely any direct reference to the Politics in Jewish literature. Luzzatto defends Venetian Jews against attacks that endangered their continued presence in the city, showing the great benefit they bring to the republic. To this end Luzzatto articulates a Machiavellian and proto-mercantilist political and social theory. Luzzatto disagrees sharply with views of communality of property and of equality as proposed by Plato in ancient times and endorsed in Thomas More’s Utopia in the sixteenth century, and advocates an essentially Aristotelian system. Like Aristotle, Luzzatto believes that equality and commonly held property are contradictory to logic and to human nature and are hence doomed to fail. He proposes then a scheme of social division and applies the ethical theory of the middle way to the socio-economic sphere. He specifically suggests dividing society into defined and separate social and functional strata, with such moderate, balanced differences between them as would encourage the creation of a large prosperous middle class, preventing both too much wealth and 48

On happiness see Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 1: 4; Albo, Roots (Husik) p. 146, n. 3. On choice see Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, 3: 2, 5. 49 Rosenthal, Erbe, pp. 49-95. — 98 —

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too much poverty. Only social and economic balance would assure the state’s political stability. Like many other thinkers in Italy and Western Europe who subscribed to Machiavellian ideas and the theory of reason of state (ragione di stato), Luzzatto too entertained strong reservations about Plato’s idealism and the deductive nature of his political thinking which, in their opinion, ignores social and political reality. They, Luzzatto included, prefer Aristotle’s empiric and inductive thinking.50 All three of Luzzatto’s direct references to Aristotle’s Politics are in this context, in the sixth and seventh discourses. Two focus on Aristotle’s criticism in Book 2 of Platonic theories of cooperation and equality. Luzzato writes: Had not legislators and founders of civil governments, in their wisdom and understanding, divided the masses of people into various strata and separate classes, a state more hideous than the celebrated primordial chaos would have arisen, as from their imaginations poets have ever described it. Socrates and Plato, when they came to describe their imaginary republics, established such a division as the basis for government. This path was taken by the modern inventor of Utopia, and similarly all those versed in the matter, among them Aristotle in the first book of the Politics, where he poured his full spirit and intelligence into reordering and correcting the divisions made by those great teachers of humanity.51 In principle Luzzatto favorably regarded the attempts of various philosophers to establish systems that would support a functional class structure in the state, while sharply opposing the “imaginary republics” (machinate republiche) conceived of by Socrates, Plato and Thomas More, thus preferring Aristotle’s system. He is full of praise for Aristotle, who “invested all his spirit and his intelligence” (ogni suo spirito) into reordering and correcting (riordinare e corregere) the Platonic system. He advances instead a more realistic and practical solution for the structure 50 Melamed, “Luzzatto.” Ravid, Economics. Septimus, “Biblical.” Syros, “Luzzatto”; idem, “Ahitophel.” 51 Luzzatto, Discorso, fol. 23-23a. — 99 —

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and function of the state. Luzzatto errs here in attributing this to Book 1 of the Politics when obviously referring to Book 2, which criticizes the Platonic system. Later Luzzatto correctly refers to Book 2 when ridiculing one of the egalitarian systems, stating that the laws of Phaleas on the distribution of property exist nowhere save in Aristotle’s criticism in the second book of the Politics: “elsewhere they have sunk into oblivion.”52 All of the seventh chapter of book two describes the system of Phaleas of Chalcedon and criticizes it sharply.53 Indeed that egalitarian system has been completely forgotten apart from this derogatory description of Aristotle’s, and Luzzatto makes the most of the irony. At the outset of the seventh discourse of the Discorso Luzzatto discusses egalitarian political systems and quotes the Politics in his enumeration of the conditions and characteristics of the preferable class structure. As previously noted, Luzzatto found social and economic stratification necessary, but it had to be controlled against extreme differences and to guarantee social and political stability: The clever statesman must endeavor to assure that the property and the wealth of the city be divided according to a precise mathematical formula, following laws of just division so that each and every inhabitant may enjoy his share, to the point that [even] if one citizen should divert most of the profits to his own use and enjoyment, the others will not find themselves helplessly deceived. Otherwise a monster will arise in civic life, one no less ugly than a monstrous living body. Therefore Aristotle said in the fifth book of the Politics: “The law must take care lest a man gain excessive power either through friends or through property.” Inevitably the excessive wealth of the one on one hand, and the impoverished desperation of the rest on the other, contain within themselves the threat of riots that lead to rebellion. Moreover, should the two extremes come into confrontation they could cause the collapse of civic life.54 52 Luzzatto, Discorso, fol. 25a. 53 Aristotle, Politics, 2:7, 1266a-1267b. 54 Luzzatto, Discorso, fol. 25. — 100 —

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The fifth book of the Politics deals with the causes leading to the degeneration and downfall of various constitutions and possible ways to preserve their stability and durability. This, according to Meinecke,55 is why that particular book had so much influence on Italian political thought of the time, including that of Luzzatto. Italian thinkers were deeply concerned with the prevalent political instability in their citystates and with how to achieve and preserve the stability. Luzzatto discusses this problem at length and goes to great lengths to demonstrate how the Jews of Venice not only do not threaten their city’s stability, but contribute to it meaningfully.56 The Aristotelian remedy from Book 5—economically and politically balanced political strata, the notion of middle class as a means for avoiding excessive gaps between rich and poor—all attracted Italian thinkers of the period, including Luzzatto. Seeking to remedy chronic instability in the Italian city-states, they found an answer in the ideal structure of the Venetian republic and in Aristotle’s fifth book of the Politics. Luzzatto quotes Aristotle exactly from the Latin translation of chapter 8 of book 5.57 But the entire passage quoted above is influenced by book 5. Thus the principle of the “precisely correct proportion” (geometrica guista proportione) comes from chapter 1, and the organic image from a similar context in chapter 3. Like so many Italian thinkers of his time familiar with the Machiavellian tradition and his theory of the reason of state, Luzzatto disagreed sharply with the ideas expressed in Plato’s Republic. We noted the expressed disagreement with the Platonic doctrine of the unity of the political community, whereas in his later, more philosophical essay Socrate (Venice, 1651) Luzzatto ridicules the theory of the philosopherking.58 This is a glaring contradiction to the accepted Jewish thought of the Middle Ages. Luzzatto is the first Jewish thinker, to my knowledge, to reject the Platonic political system in principle, and thus preceded Spinoza, explaining why he, more than any Jewish scholar before him, based himself on the Politics. Like Albo two centuries earlier, however, he 55 Meinecke, Machiavellism, p. 18. 56 Melamed, “Luzzatto”( below, ch. 11). On the problems of civil disorder in general, see Martinez, Violence. 57 Aristotle, Politics, V: 8, 1308b. 58 Luzzatto, Socrate; see also Melamed, Philosopher-King, ch. 9. — 101 —

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too still uses it mainly to criticize the Platonic model of social organization. So strong was the Platonic tradition that even Luzzatto, deep into the seventeenth century, could not detach himself from it. His use of Aristotle’s Politics was aimed as a critique of the Platonic system rather than the construction of a new political theory. 4. Isaac Abravanel In between Albo and Luzzatto, Rabbi (or Don) Isaac Abravanel is the only Jewish writer who seems to have been meaningfully influenced by Aristotle’s Politics. Abravanel was once defined by Isaac Baer as “a philosopher who studied the political wisdom of Aristotle.” On the same page, however, he cautioned: “Regarding Aristotle, for our issue one has to know whether he read the Politics.” Baer left the question open. He assumed that Aristotelian ideas reached Abravanel, at least at second hand, but is by no means sure if he actually read the Politics.59 In another paper published the same year (1937) on Abravanel’s political theory, marking the 500th anniversary of his birth, Leo Strauss expressed in essence the same opinion. Strauss was struck by the fact that Abravanel preferred to quote from Metaphysics rather than from a parallel passage in the Politics. Strauss concluded that Abravanel knew the Politics only at second hand. Years later Benziyyon Netanyahu asserted that on the contrary, not only was Abravanel influenced by Aristotelian political ideas, but in many instances he quoted from the Politics directly. The question Baer left open for more than 50 years thus seems to have an unequivocal answer.60 The bulk of Abravanel’s references to the Politics occur in the context of criticism of kingship in his commentary on 1 Samuel 8. In the printed version of his commentary on the Early Prophets he mentions Aristotle by name first in his discussion of kingship and adds a very precise reference, “Aristotle in Part 3 of the Governance of the State (Aristo be-helek gimel me-hanhagat ha-medinah).” There are two subsequent references as well, though not to Aristotle by name. It has already been noted that in medieval Hebrew literature the Politics might be referred to by that 59 Baer, “Abravanel,” p. 243, n. 11. Melamed, “Abravanel.” 60 Strauss, “Abravanel,” p. 113 and n. 2. Netanyahu, Abravanel, p. 176 n. 3, 309, 310, 312. Shmueli, Abravanel, p. 197. Shmueli assumes that Abravanel relied on Politics 3 literally. See also, more recently, Tirosh-Rothschild, “Shalom,” p. 417, n. 37. The author still assumes that Abravanel was influenced as well by “Aristotle’s discussions in Politics,” basing herself on Baer and others. — 102 —

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name or a similar one. The reference here and later on is, then, to Book 3 of the Politics, which deals with the theory of government, the very question that occupies Abravanel here. The second reference goes back to this first one: “as the Scholar noted in the place mentioned.” From here on he does not mention Aristotle’s name, but rather writes “Sages of morality (hakmei ha-musar),” “Scholar (hoker),” “The Wise (ha-hakham),” “The Divine (ha-Elohi),” “First of the philosophers (rosh ha-filosofim).”61 The last three appellations at least are commonly related to Aristotle. The editor of the printed text put Aristotle’s name in quotation marks in most instances and indeed in all of them the reference is to Aristotle and in most cases to the Politics. But is the direct source in fact Book 3 of the Politics? The question arises when Abravanel explains the fifth exposition of his commentary, which he attributes to the converted Jew Paul of Burgos, and distinguishes between true monarchy and tyranny. In view of this, the prophet Samuel raged not because the people demanded a king, monarchy in itself being a positive institution, but because they preferred tyranny to a positive type of monarchy. In this context he cites the position he attributes to Aristotle: “The king should not be (by his original nature) evil and harmful because it is right and proper for the people according to natural law (ha-dat ha-tivi’it) and as the Scholar [Aristotle] has stated in the place above, a community of people must have a single ruler before whom all matters will be brought, as the heart in a living creature, as God blessed be He in the order of existence.” Abravanel returns to these very words later in stating his own position: “I say that we should know first if having a king over the people is absolutely essential and self evident? The Scholars [Aristotle and his companions] thought so, and that the king in the body politic is as the heart in a living creature’s body, as

61 For the first and second references see Abravanel, Early Prophets, p. 204; Additional references: p. 204: “As expounded in [book] 3 of Governance of the State (hanhagat ha-medinah)”; p. 205: “Here the Scholar of the Governance of the State (hanhagat ha-medinah) recalled…” By contrast, in the commentary on Genesis 10, Abravanel uses “the Scholar in his book on the Governance of the State (hanhagat ha-medinah),” in the context of Plato’s Republic. See Abravanel, Torah, p. 161. The expression “governance of the state” (hanhagat ha-medinah) relates to political philosophy in general, so one must examine context to see whether it refers to Aristotle, to Plato, or to this particular field of study in general. For the references in the Commentary on 1 Samuel 8, Early Prophets, p. 200 to “Sages of morality”; p. 204: “the Scholar”; p. 205: “the Scholars,” “the Sage”; p. 206: “the Divine,” “First of the Philosophers.” See editorial attribution to Aristotle in the English translation of the text: Lerner and Mahdi, Sourcebook, pp. 265, 270 n. 13. — 103 —

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the relation of reality to the First Cause, blessed be He.”62 Here Abravanel presents Aristotle as an apologist of absolute monarchy of the positive type—the rule of the righteous individual—in keeping with the universal order and the law of nature. He introduces the organic theory of the state that draws parallels between the heart that controls the living body and king within the body politic, with a theological implication regarding God’s uniqueness in the order of creation. While Aristotle presents monarchy as a positive regime, he refers only to constitutional monarchy and not to its absolute forms. Nor does he regard even the former as ideal, but merely as one possible positive regime. His first preference is for the politeia, a type of moderate, balanced democracy. Hence the organic and theological arguments of supporting absolute monarchy that Abravanel attributes to Aristotle have no source in the Politics and do not accord with its author’s views. On the other hand, in the Ethics, 8:10-11 Aristotle’s theory of governance is indebted to Plato’s Republic (8-9), according to which a sole ruler looks after the interests of all the subjects and a positive monarchy is represented as the ideal form of government. Its opposite is tyranny— the worst form of government. In drawing this distinction, Abravanel still follows the long-accepted Ethics, which he knows well. Following Paul of Burgos, perhaps, he erroneously attributes this opinion to the Politics, embedding in the work clearly scholastic terms in justifying the monarchy through natural law (lex natura) and employing organic and theological analogies. These are absent from the Ethics, which has no more than a hint at a benevolent sole ruler and the evil of his absence (Ethics, 8:11). Using such analogies and similar ones, like the shepherd of the flock and the sun among the stars, was accepted in medieval political thought both Muslim and Christian, and hence in Jewish political philosophy as well.63 Al-Farabi outlines a detailed organic theory at the beginning 62 For the first quotation, see Abravanel, Early Prophets, p. 204; for the second, p. 205. See Smolar and Averbach, “Abravanel,” p. 15. The authors maintain that Abravanel differed from his medieval predecessors and from his immediate successors in his opposition to any Aristotelian assumption that monarchy was necessary. They too accept literally Abravanel’s claim to a basis in Politics. Nor are they accurate in seeing as “an Aristotelian assumption” the theory that monarchy is essential. This is true regarding Abravanel’s reservations concerning the Aristotelian position. See also Polish, “Medieval,” p. 126. In his “Rabbinic,” p. 85, however, Polish assumes that Abravanel is quoting Aristotle, whose world view was monarchic. 63 Melamed, “Dignity,” p. 48; idem, “Anatoli,” pp. 105-110. — 104 —

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of the political chapters of his Madinah Fadilah, and establishes a link between the function of the heart in the living body and the absolute status of the philosopher-king in the body politic. Richard Walzer assumed that the source is in neo-Pythagorean and neo-Platonic later Hellenistic literature that supported a monarchic regime, but certainly not in the Politics. This idea resurfaced again in Aquinas’ The Government of Princes (De Regimine Principum) and later Dante’s On Monarchy (De Monarchia), where extensive comparisons are made between the king and God.64 Aquinas and Dante attribute these parallels to Aristotle. Aquinas maintains that he found the theological parallel in the Metaphysics, while Dante traces the theory that the sole ruler accords with the concept of natural law to the Politics of Aristotle in “his exalted authority” (venerabilis autoritas eius). Dante relies here on Aristotle’s distinction in his discussion of slavery between rulers and ruled in nature.65 Aquinas and Dante, both advocates of absolute monarchy, as well as Abravanel, who opposed monarchy in general, all ascribe a monarchic view to Aristotle in the Politics which that philosopher certainly did not have. Consequently Aquinas and Dante assumed that their views were in conformity with Aristotle’s, whereas the anti-monarchic Abravanel had to declare that his were not, even relying on Aristotle himself. Aristotle’s authority appears to have been so great in Aquinas’ and Dante’ time, as it was later in Abravanel’s time, that they chose to attribute to him theories he would not have accepted.66 Abravanel, who mistakenly looked upon Aristotle as a partisan of absolute kingship, argues, with arguments irrelevant here, that this position is wrong. He maintains that monarchy is not a necessity and sees it as doomed to degenerate into tyranny, preferring a mixed regime like that of the Venetian Republic.67 Had Abravanel had direct knowledge of 64 Al-Farabi, Perfect State, pp. 231-239. Strauss, “Abravanel,” pp. 112-113. Ravitzky, “Kings,” p. 76, n. 29. On the source of the parallel see Al-Farabi, Perfect State, p. 435. On Aquinas, see Political, pp. 5-7, 11-13, 66-67. For parallels between king and God, ibid. pp. 2-3, 12-13, 50-51, 106-107; also Dante, Monarchia, I: 8, 9; Strauss, “Abravanel,” pp.112-113. On the organic theory of the state in Jewish thought see Melamed, “Organic” (below, ch. 5). 65 Aristotle, Politics, 1:3, 5; Ethics 8:1. Dante, Monarchia, 1:8, 9. Also Dorman, Marsilius, ch. 4. On Aquinas, see n. 81 below. 66 It is doubtful whether Dante knew the Politics at first hand, although he quoted it frequently. See d’Entrèves, Dante, pp. 16, 35-36. 67 Baer, “Abravanel.” Strauss, “Abravanel.” Netanyahu, Abravanel. Shmueli. Abravanel. Smolar and Averbach, “Abravanel.” Polish, “Medieval.” Melamed, “Venice.” Funkenstein, “Ruler.” The author does not address the question of Abravanel’s reliance on the Politics. — 105 —

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Aristotle’s opinion, he would have perceived how close it was to his own. Herein lays the great irony of this comedy of errors. Clearly these ideas reached Abravanel from other sources, most probably via Aquinas. Abravanel attributed to Aristotle the view that the king is “right and necessary according to natural law (ha-dat ha-tiv’it), as the Scholar said in the place he mentioned [Politics 3], that a human association (kibbutz anashim) cannot [exist] without one leader (manhig) before whom all matters are brought, even as a heart in a living creature, and God, blessed be He, in all of reality.”68 In Aquinas, too, we find full parallels as to his position in principle that monarchy is the ideal government and that it accords with natural law, as well as the organic and theological analogies. For Aquinas, “that is best which most nearly approaches a natural process, since nature always works in the best way. But in nature, government is always by one. Among members of the body there is one which moves all the rest, namely, the heart: in the soul there is one faculty which is pre-eminent, namely reason. The bees have one king, and in the whole universe there is one God, creator and Lord of all.”69 Indeed, medieval commentators on the Politics clearly tended to favor monarchy as the best form of government.70 From them Abravanel took over the idea that Aristotle defended monarchy. He himself rejected it in principle, as he did the organic and the theological parallels. His concluding argument was that even in case monarchy is necessary, the king has prescribed roles that do not apply to the special circumstances of Israel’s existence. Commenting to the king’s functions, Abravanel once more relies on the Politics: […] the people’s need for a king lies in three matters. One is the matter of war, to deliver the people from their enemies and to fight for their country. The second is to determine the rules (nimusim) and lay down the laws (torot) required to establish the political association (kibbutz medini), as [Aristotle] explained in [Book] 3 on governing the state (hanhagat ha-medinah). The third is to strike down and punish, sometimes outside the law, if 68 Abravanel, Early Prophets, pp. 204, 205, and n. 45 above, on choice. On natural law see n. 84 below. 69 Aquinas, Political, pp.11-13. Cf. also Ravitzky, “Kings,” pp. 75-80. 70 Dorman, Marsilius, p. 179, n. 29. Dundabin, “Reception.” — 106 —

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the occasion demands, which accords with his absolute power.”71 It is not entirely clear if Abravanel attributes the first two issues to Aristotle or perhaps only the second one. While Aristotle’s discussion of monarchy in the Politics 3 revolves around these two royal functions, they are more prominent in the neo-Platonic theories of the roles of the philosopher-king scattered through the Muslim and Jewish literature of the Middle Ages, and so clearly expressed by Abravanel.72 The third issue relates to absolute power, the plenitudo potestatis or rex absolutus legibus of medieval Latin literature, that was the king’s prerogative if the time required it. While Politics 3 in fact deals with the difference between constitutional (rex cum potestae limitata) and absolute monarchy, Abravanel does not relate them here to Aristotle, and must have come to it through Paul of Burgos, who relied on this distinction in his commentary on 1 Samuel 8, and Abravanel is quoting specifically from this source. Abravanel attributes the examples below directly to the Aristotelian distinction between positive monarchy and negative rule by an individual, known as tyranny: (a) And hence the Holy One ordered him to give the people the Law of the King (mishpat ha-melek) pertaining to what the king may do unhindered by any law (dat), and this is what Aristotle in Book 3 of the Politics (hanhagat ha-medinah) calls an evil and oppressive (rashah aritz) king, in their language tyranno, meaning one who defrauds, robs and takes for himself, but that statement relates not to, and does not befit, a [righteous] king who fears sin. The Scholar [Aristotle] in the Governance of the State (hanhagat ha-medinah) recalled that leaders differ, being righteous or evil oppressors, and the definition of the righteous king is none other than one who rules by the consent (be-retzon) of the governed and by 71 Avrabanel, Early Prophets, p. 206. 72 Aristotle, Politics 3:14, 15 and in Avrabanel, see e.g. the discussion of Moses’ kingly attributes in the commentary on Exodus 19. On Solomon’s kingly attributes see Early Prophets, commentary on 1 Kings 3; on David’s, commentary on 1 Samuel, 9, 16; 2 Samuel, 22. For a detailed discussion see Melamed, Philosopher-King, ch. 7, also n. 86 below. — 107 —

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law (mishpat), an evil oppressor is defined as one who imposes himself on them according to his own will. In an example preceding this discussion, the only one he does not attribute to Aristotle, Abravanel makes precisely this distinction: “And the great Sages of moral philosophy (hakmei ha-musar) wrote that the king who robs is not a king but an oppressor called in their language tyranno.”73 Netanyahu construed this passage as a proof that Abravanel is quoting the Politics directly.74 Aristotle does in fact discuss tyranny in the Politics 3 and depicts it as a negative type of monarchic government.75 The distinction between a king and a tyrant, however, is not the focus of discussion in that source, as Abravanel states, but rather in the Ethics, as emphasized so strongly by Aquinas who, influenced by Aristotle, repeatedly stresses the difference between king and tyrant. Nonetheless, while Aristotle’s Politics sets forth several positive and negative versions of monarchy, Aquinas, like Abravanel, presents just two opposing forms. As in the Ethics, Aquinas’ concise description of the tyrant’s characteristics is entirely parallel to Abravanel’s: “When government is unjustly exercised by one man who seeks personal profit from his position instead of the good of the community subject to him, such a ruler is called a tyrant.” The contrast between king and tyrant was typical of medieval political thought, as we still find in Abravanel’s Florentine contemporaries, the Jew Yohanan Alemanno and Niccolò Machiavelli.76 A close look at Abravanel’s arguments against monarchy reveals much inconsistency as to their basis in Aristotelian sources. On the one hand he claims that Aristotle advocated absolute monarchy, while on the other hand he uses Aristotle to reject monarchy and to prove that it is not only unnecessary in the natural order but that it necessarily degenerates into tyranny. Aristotle makes three claims against monarchy: a) the rule of one person is more likely to err than the rule of Many who complement one another; b) learning from historical experience is 73 On the third matter, relying on Paul of Burgos, see Abravanel, Early Prophets, p. 204. For additional examples see ibid. the first and second quotations, 204 and 205 respectively. Cf. also Polish, “Medieval,” p. 329. For the third see Abravanel, Early Prophets, p. 200. 74 Netanyahu, Abravanel, pp. 176, 310, n. 112. 75 See Aristotle, Politics 3:4, 7, 8, 16, 17. 76 Aquinas, Political, pp. 6-7. On the whole issue, see Melamed, Philosopher-King, chapters 7-8. — 108 —

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better than from logical induction, and history teaches that monarchy inevitably slides into tyranny, while the rule of Many is a guarantee for stability and social order; and c) the analogies from natural law and God’s rule in the world, to the king’s rule over the people, are irrelevant. What astonishes is that in every claim Abravanel cites Aristotle both for and against the same position. Is Aristotle to testify against himself? Moreover, in portraying Aristotle as a monarchist, Abravanel claims to base himself on the Politics 3, while in all three anti-monarchist statements he uses other writings of Aristotle. In only one case is an exact reference stated, “What is beyond nature,” i.e. the Metaphysics. In the other three cases he does not clarify which Aristotelian text he relies on, but clearly it is not the Politics. In one instance it is the Nicomachean Ethics and in the other, apparently, one of the Philosopher’s biological treatises. In justifying the preference for the rule of the many, Abravanel quotes from the introduction to Book 2 of the Metaphysics: And the Divine One [Aristotle] said in the beginning of what is beyond nature [ma she-ahar ha-tevah; Metaphysics] that the truth is easy and comprehensible for the many, but very hard for one single individual, showing that stupidity is found rather in the one and understanding in the many, and [knowing] that their epistemological potential is limited they will not be tempted to do what is unworthy.77 This quotation, as previously noted, is what made Leo Strauss wonder whether Abravanel ever read the Politics, preferring as he did to support his position from the Metaphysics.78 His intuition proved to be sound. This usage of non-political Aristotelian sources, such as the Metaphysics, seems to have been typical of late medieval Christian political thinkers. In preferring experience to deduction, Abravanel quotes from Book 1 of the Ethics. There Aristotle sharply criticizes the Platonic system and declares that human affairs cannot possibly be based on mathemati77 Abravanel, Early Prophets, p. 206. Aristotle, Metaphysics 2: 1, 993b. 78 Parallel passages in Politics, 3: 16; 7: 14. Strauss, “Abravanel,” p. 13 and n. 2. Urbach, “Abravanel,” p. 260. Netanyahu, Abravanel, pp. 174, 309, and n. 93. On the usage of Aristotelian sources other than the Politics in Medieval political thought see Nederman, “Aristotle.” — 109 —

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cal deduction, but rather on the probabilities indicated by the sum of human experience: “Why then should we raise intellectual arguments when the Sage [Aristotle] has already taught us that experience is above deduction?”79 Aquinas too accepted the Aristotelian position, at the same time maintaining that historical experience demonstrates the superiority of monarchy, while Abravanel on the same methodological basis made the opposite claim, namely that experience shows that a republic of the Venetian type is preferable.80 Each learned from the historical experience of his own era and place, each of which taught a different lesson. Abravanel considers the link between God’s absolute rule over the laws of nature and the King’s absolute rule over the state a logical fallacy. He sets forth a typical Maimonidean type of argument that one cannot extrapolate from God, who of necessity exists, to created beings whose existence is merely a possibility. These are two entirely different essences. Abravanel in raising this point shows that he has no argument with Aristotle, who did not raise any theological implications, but with Aquinas and his like, who very often did.81 As for the organic analogy and the comparison between the heart’s ruling function in the living body and that of the king in the body politic, Abravanel claims that Aristotle too agrees that the body is not ruled by a single organ but that the organs function collectively: “The bodies of living creatures, said the sages among the physicians, are ruled by three principal organs. Even if the Philosopher [Aristotle] said that the heart alone is the chief organ, this would be in bringing down the breath; they would not deny that spiritual forces come from the brain and natural ones from the liver.”82 Abravanel makes a case for monarchy with examples apparently from Book 3. He does one of three things: he appends the name of Aristotle 79 Abravanel, Early Prophets, p. 206. Aristotle repeats this position in Politics, I: 7. 80 Aquinas, Political, pp. 10-13. Ravitzky, “Kings,” pp. 75-80. 81 Abravanel, First Prophets, p. 206, Strauss, “Abravanel,” p. 112. Ravitzky, “Kings.” Only in Metaphysics 12: 10 (1076a) did Aristotle came close to a direct theological association although here he merely quotes the Iliad, 2, 204. Aquinas seized on this as on a treasure, ignoring its non-Aristotelian source. See Aquinas, Political, pp. 106-107. Abravanel, then, had someone to learn from when it came to attributing pro-monarchic positions that were in no way Aristotelian. Cf. ibn Pakuda’s commentary, below n. 82. 82 Abravanel, Early Prophets, p. 206; Strauss, “Abravanel,” p. 112. These remarks, for example, sound like a direct reaction to Aquinas; see Political, pp. 11-13. On the organic analogy in the history of Jewish political thought, see Melamed, “Organic.” — 110 —

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and the Politics to positions that are in no way Aristotelian but fit those of Aquinas; he cites matters found in Book 3 but which are much more conspicuous in the works of Aquinas and his school; or he relies on the Ethics and not on the Politics. His argument against the theological association is not with Aristotle but with Aquinas. Thus too as regards the latter’s commentary on Solomon’s words in Proverbs which, according to Abravanel, “should not be construed to mean that Solomon […].” Clearly, Abravanel is responding directly to an argument in which Aquinas used that text as support for monarchic government.83 It is reasonable to assume that Abravanel bases himself on Aquinas when he claims to quote from the Politics. There are ideological and even textual links between these two thinkers. Abravanel is known to have admired Aquinas and even to have quoted him by name. In The Deeds of the Lord (Mifalot Elohim) he calls him “wisest and greatest of the gentile sages.” Moreover, in his commentary on 1 Samuel 28, concerning Saul and the Ba’alat ov (a woman who consults ghosts), he quotes Aquinas on the nature of devils: “The sage Thomas in his book called Secunda Secundae, the third introduction.”84 Here Abravanel quotes from the Summa Theologica where Aquinas returns to the problem of tyranny in the spirit of Abravanel, even quoting from Politics 3, which the latter too claims to be quoting, and possibly the source of his reference. From this source Aquinas derives his opposition to the right to rebel against a tyrant. Abravanel expresses a similar position in rejecting opposition to any regime, even a tyrannical one.85 Since in his commentary on 1 Samuel 28 he quotes directly from Aquinas, one must reasonably assumes that he knew him when he wrote the commentary on Chapter 8. 83 Early Prophets, p. 206; Aquinas, Political, pp. 4-5, 8-9, 18-19. Ravitzky, “Kings.” As against Abravanel, see Bahya ibn Pakuda, who fully used the association between God’s rule in the universe and the king’s in the state. Interestingly, he presents this as Aristotle’s view, from the Metaphysics (n. 80 above), obviously not from Politics. In his own words: “Aristotle has said in his discussion of unity that a plurality of rulers is not good – the real head is but one. The scriptures also say (Prov. 28:2) “For the transgression of a land, many are the princes thereof.” See ibn Pakuda, The Book of Direction to the Duties of the Heart, translated from the Arabic by M. Mansoor (London, 1973) I:7, p. 127. Cf. the political commentaries on Prov. 28:2 in ibn Ezra, Albo, Abravanel and others. See Melamed, “Commentaries.” 84 Abravanel, The Works of God, p. 46a; First Prophets, p. 247. 85 Aquinas, Political, pp. 160-161; Melamed, “Anatoli.” In classifying laws and using the concept “natural law” Abravanel may have been influenced by Aquinas. See Melamed, “Natural Law,” pp. 52-61. On the debate concerning the right to rebel, see Melamed, “The Problem of Political Disobedience in Abravanel,” in Obedienza religiosa e resistenza politica (Milan, forthcoming). Ironically, though Abravanel rejected monarchy so forcefully, he also opposed no less forcefully the right to rebel! — 111 —

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Indeed, beginning his commentary he writes that, among other sources, he relies on the opinions of “the new and the ancient Christian sages.”86 One notes too that whenever Abravanel appears to quote Aristotle in the Politics in support of monarchy, he uses not his name but a neutral “the Scholar.” However, when supporting his arguments against monarchy from the Metaphysics and the Ethics he showers superlatives on their author: “the Divine,” “the Sage,” “First of the Philosophers.” It is quite clear which Aristotle Abravanel prefers. Thus Netanyahu’s conclusion that there is indubitable proof that Abravanel quoted directly from the Politics was hastily made, while Baer’s questioning is still valid, as is Strauss’ intuitive observation. Everywhere that Abravanel claims to be quoting Politics 3, that work is either not the source at all, or he could easily have found the ideas more clearly stated elsewhere.87 Moreover, Abravanel quotes from Aristotle’s other works when he could easily have found parallels in the Politics. We have no proof that he read it. He had an imprecise and fragmentary knowledge of the Politics from various intermediary sources, most probably the works of Aquinas, Paul of Burgos and their associates. Abravanel ascribes views to Aristotle that totally contradict those of the Philosophers. At the same time he would have been thoroughly familiar with “Plato’s work on the governance of the city” (divrei Aplaton be-sefer hanhagat ha-medinah) through Averroes’ commentary. Platonic political thought, including the Philosopher-King theory, significantly influenced his political thinking.88 Why then does Abravanel make attributions to the Politics when apparently he had no firsthand knowledge of the text? Certainly it was not to avoid reliance on Christian philosophers, as though relying on Aristotle rather than on them. It was quite acceptable for Jewish thinkers in Spain and Italy at the time to refer to Christian writers. After all, Abravanel even cited the apostate Paul of Burgos. At the beginning of 86 Abravanel, Early Prophets, p. 203. 87 As stated in n. 7 above, Aristotelian political ideas could have been reached also through the Hebrew translation of Averroes’ commentary on Aristotle’s Rhetoric. Indeed, in his commentary on 2 Samuel 16, on the advice of Ahitophel, Abravanel quotes it directly: “And the Philosopher has already clarified that advice pertains to future and possible matters, and relates to understanding the circumstances and the means for arriving at each desired end.” See Abravanel, Early Prophets, p. 367. Cf. also Averroes, Halatzah, pp. 23-24. 88 Netanyahu, Abravanel, pp. 301-302, 305, 308, 313. Melamed, “Commentaries,” pp. 63-73; idem, Philosopher-King, ch. 7 and n. 71 above. — 112 —

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his commentary on 1 Samuel 8 he refers to “Christian sages, new and ancient,” and in other Bible commentaries he did not hesitate to quote Christian commentators like Augustine, Albertus Magnus, Nicholas of Lyra and Aquinas himself, sometimes even preferring their explications to those of Jewish commentators.89 Abravanel appears to have read with great interest the works of Christian thinkers who, though influenced by Aristotelian ideas, did not accept them at face value, but elaborated on them for their own needs. Abravanel saw these versions as the original ideas of Aristotle and did not hesitate to attribute them accordingly, for the ethics of identification and relying on exact sources was then as yet undeveloped. He may even have thought that, given the Renaissance return to classical sources, the claim to basing oneself directly on them was more appropriate than referring to a medieval intermediary. Moreover, the Politics enjoyed the greatest esteem both in the culture of scholasticism and of the Renaissance. Like Abravanel did in his time and place, so did the Florentine Jew Yohanan Alemanno do when, as a zealous humanist, he claimed to be basing himself directly on Plato’s Republic when in fact he was using a Hebrew translation90 of Averroes’ commentary—a thoroughly medieval phenomenon. 5. Alemanno and Del Medigo With these last two examples from the Renaissance, an attempt is made to examine the way authors related to Aristotle’s so-called “political philosophy” (ha-filosofiah ha-medinit) or “the governance of the state” (hanhagat ha-medinah). The modern reader may err in thinking that this refers to the Politics when in both cases they refer specifically to the Ethics, as in earlier medieval examples discussed above. In his Plan of Study (Seder ha-Limud), Yohanan Alemanno, a Jewish writer active at the height of the Italian Renaissance in the last third of the fifteenth century, presents a plan of study worthy of a learned Jew receptive of influences from the surrounding culture of his time. At an advanced stage in the plan, within the framework of the scholar’s evening studies (i.e. time of leisure, after he has finished studying Torah), Alemanno states: “And in the evenings of those days [he will read] the 89 Segal, “Abravanel.” Melamed, “Perception.” 90 Melamed, “Florence,” pp. 12-16. — 113 —

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political philosophy (filosofiah medinit) of Aristotle and Plato.”91 Moshe Idel, who published the text of the Plan of Study, rightly assumed that “Aristotle’s political philosophy” refers to the Ethics and disregarded the possibility that the reference was to the Politics, for good reasons. First, it was familiar practice to use this general term for the Ethics. Secondly, Alemanno used it elsewhere in this sense, and is known to have been familiar with it and its commentaries.92 Thirdly, almost all the other works he mentions in connection with “political philosophy” save for Plato’s Republic are within the scope of the Ethics and not of the Politics. Nor do we have any evidence that Alemanno ever made use of the Politics, even when in his Song of Solomon’s Ascents (Shir ha-Ma’alot li-Shlomo) he deals with the political nature of man and declares in an Aristotelian manner: “Man is political by nature (medini ba-teva) and society is essential for him.”93 Clearly Alemanno relied on the Ethics and commentaries on that work, as did Maimonides and many other medieval commentators, as indicated above. Later the work takes a sharp Platonic turn, in the tradition of the “Governance of the Solitary” based on ibn Bajja and ibn Tufayl, who are in their essence anti-Aristotelian.94 In a similar fashion, the seventeenth-century writer Solomon Del Medigo declared in the introduction to his Book of the Voiceless (Sefer Ilem): And undoubtedly the first sages, founders of laws (datot) and laws (nimusim) were men of peerless wisdom and wondrous in their generations, like Solon the Greek and Socrates and Plato and Aristotle who wrote about ethics (ha-middot), who knew practical philosophy (ha-filosofiah ha-ma’asit), including the conduct of man (hanhagat haadam, ethics) and his household (hanhagat ha-bayyit, economics) and state (hanhagat ha-medinah, politics). For 91 Idel, “Alemanno,” p. 306. 92 Alemanno, Song (Lesley), vol. 2, 370: “As explained to the sages of politics (hakmei ha-medinah) in [ch’s] 4 and 9 of the Ethics,” 388: “As Aristotle explained in the second [book] of the Ethics,” 391: “As explained in De Anima and the sixth [book] of the Ethics.” See also Hai ha-Olamim, fol. 332: “The first parts are three, and their aspects should be noted, as Aristotle wrote regarding the tenth [book] of the Ethics.” 93 Alemanno, Song (Lesley), p. 480; idem, Hai ha-Olamim, fol. 375. Melamed, Philosopher-King, ch. 3. Compare n. 13 above. 94 For more details, see Melamed, Philosopher-King, ibid. — 114 —

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they knew the purposes of these laws and their reason and found that all are oriented to the world’s existence in harmony, to increasing prosperity and establishing the state, all of which stem from good government and just laws from which all the world benefits. Del Medigo is full of esteem for the ethical and political wisdom of Socrates, Plato and Aristotle. He knew too that Aristotle dealt with “practical philosophy,” which included “the conduct of man and his household and state,” i.e. ethics, economics and politics. Thus immediately afterwards he quotes from Aristotle on the “Governance of the State”: And there is no doubt but that familiarity precedes understanding in all wisdom and skilled work and as Plato and Aristotle wrote in the first book of Governance of the State (hanhagat ha-medinah), Chapter 7, should we wish to understand what knowledge to be familiar with, for as it is written in the chapter that familiarity comes before knowledge, even as incomplete possession comes before complete possession, so familiarity is acquired by sense, and understanding by intellectual association. And thus we have explained that every cognition is at first sensed to some [limited] extent.95 Del Medigo presents a clearly empirical theory of knowledge—sensual perceptions precede logical deductions in time and are their raw material. Here is a characteristically Aristotelian position lying at the root of the difference between his empirical political perception and Plato’s mathematical perception, as expressed in the writings of Abravanel and Luzzatto. One might conclude that by “Governance of the State,” del Medigo refers to the Politics, except that in Book 1:7 there is no reference to this, nor is there anywhere else in this work. However in the Nicoma95 For first quotation see del Medigo, Ilem, pp. 28, 130: “And as to political science (hokmat ha-middot) in matters as rules of personal (hanhagat at’zmo) and domestic (hanhagat beito) and political conduct (hanhagat medinato), upon my life, this is the road for one who wishes for wholeness of soul.” Cf. n. 34 above. For second quote see del Megido, Ilem, p. 82. — 115 —

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chean Ethics 1:7, and before that in chapter 3, Aristotle takes up this issue precisely as del Medigo mentions. Aristotle criticizes the Platonic position and expresses the idea that in practical philosophy there is no need to make use of logical deductions, but rather one should rely on factual knowledge and accumulated experience. Del Medigo bases himself on the passage, “Nor must we demand in every subject an account of the cause or reason why it is what it is, for there are cases in which it is quite enough that the fact itself is proved. We shall find that this applies to ‘beginnings,’ which is our name for first principles; in them the fact is the beginning. Some are grasped by a process of induction, some by a kind of perception, some at the end of a period of training or habituation, others in other ways.”96 Influenced by the beginnings of modern science, del Medigo moves even farther out in the empiricist direction. As already noted, Abravanel already referred to this same source. Furthermore, del Medigo speaks earlier of “practical philosophy,” which includes man’s personal conduct (ethics), his household (economics) and his state (politics). Unlike the case of Abravanel, the fault here is not del Medigo’s. He quotes accurately, according to his own concepts, from Aristotle and other ancient and later philosophers.97 The problem may lie with the incautious reader. When Abravanel spoke of “The Governance of the State” by Aristotle, he in fact meant the Politics, while del Medigo, using the same title, was accurately citing the Ethics. Once again the conclusion is that as in Abravanel’s case, and contrary to first impressions, we have no proof whatsoever that del Medigo read the Politics. Like Alemanno and so many Jewish scholars before him, he too continues to rely on the Nicomachean Ethics. Such is the power of tradition even in the mid-seventeenth century. 6. Conclusion: Between Muslim and Christian Political Philosophy Knowledge of the existence of the Politics first reached Jewish scholars of the Middle Ages through the great Arabic to Hebrew translation enterprise of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. At this time they had barely any additional knowledge of that work, save perhaps for oc96 Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics 1:7, 1098a. 97 See e.g. del Medigo, Ilam, pp. 77, 79, 80, 81, 89, and many more. Many of his precise references are to Aristotle himself. On del Medigo, in general, see Barzilay, Del medigo. — 116 —

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casional ideas derived through Muslim intermediaries. The translation of the Politics into Latin in the thirteenth century, with its decisive impact on late medieval Christian philosophy, had a marginal influence on Jewish thought. Only at the beginning of the fourteenth century do we know even of awareness in Jewish literature of its influence on Christian political thought, and no one troubled to translate it or any of any of the numerous commentaries on it into Hebrew. Jewish scholars continued to translate, explicate and reproduce Plato’s Republic, the Nicomachean Ethics and commentaries on these works. Some influence permeated through the general cultural ambience of the time. The first example we have of a direct quotation is in Albo’s Book of Roots, from the first third of the fifteenth century. And like him but almost 200 years later, even Simone Luzzatto still quoted Aristotle, mainly for his criticism of the Platonic state, and much less as an important political philosopher in his own right, so strong was the impact of the Platonic tradition on Jewish political thought. The title that Jewish scholars gave to this work can serve as a kind of litmus test: did all of them really refer to the Politics? Three of them used a vernacular transliteration of the title—Elvadish and the anonymous translator of Aegidius Romanus’ De Regimine Principum (in Spanish transliteration Politicash), as Luzzatto did with the Italian Politica. They all clearly refer to the Politics, and Luzzatto even makes use of it. However, when scholars used Hebrew variations of the title of the Politics: “Aristotle on Governance” (Aristo ba-hanhagah, ibn Falaquera); “The Book of Governance” (Sefer ha-hanhagah, Samuel ben Judah of Marseille); “Political Philosophy” (ha-filosophiah ha-medinit, Albo, Alemanno); and “The Governance of the State” (hanhagat ha-medinah, Abravanel, del Medigo), it is not always clear either whether these titles actually designated the Politics (Albo, Alemanno, del Medigo) or whether the reference results from an error (Abravanel). Even when the reference is clear, it may turn out that the scholar never read the book itself (Elvadish, the anonymous translator of Book of the Governance of Kings) or made only the most marginal use of it (Luzzatto). So strong was cultural tradition and theological commitment that centuries after it moved from the Muslim to the Christian sphere of influence that Jewish political philosophy remained heavily indebted to Plato’s Republic and the Nicomachean Ethics, despite the influence of the — 117 —

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Politics on late medieval Christian political philosophy.98 Only isolated references of it entered Jewish thought. While in some spheres Christian culture had an ever-increasing effect, not so in this one, which until early modern times continued to depend on the Republic and on modifications of the Nicomachean Ethics. Al-Farabi and Averroes, not Aquinas, continued to dominate.99 In this connection, I do not agree with the argument made years ago by Ralph Lerner and Mushin Mahdi regarding two distinct streams in medieval Jewish political thought, one Platonic, influenced by the Islamic mediation, and the second influenced by the Latin-Christian tradition.100 Given the almost total absence of the Politics from Jewish political thought, even that which developed in Christian countries in the late Middle Ages remained indebted to the Platonic tradition up to the early modern period. Latin-Christian thought influenced it only marginally, and its effects do not seem to have accumulated in any way that might have constituted a significant independent stream. Admittedly, one should not disregard or underplay the influences of scholastic political thought on Jewish thinkers of the late Middle Ages. Albo and others who followed Aristotle introduced the Scholastic classification of the law and especially the concept of natural law.101 Abravanel quoted Aquinas, Paul of Burgos and others. Here and there scholastic political texts that relied on Aristotle’s political thought, such as Aegidius Romanus’ De Regimine Principum, were translated into Hebrew. Judah Romano translated a number of passages from Aquinas’ Summa 98 So great was this influence that Spinoza identified Aristotle’s political theory with Scholasticism. See Spinoza, A Political Treatise, 2: 15, in his Works, p. 297: “And if this is why the schoolmen want to call man a sociable animal – […] I have nothing to say against them.” For the continued Platonic influence see also Melamed, “Elia del Medigo.” 99 A typical example is Mikdash Me’at (Piccolo Sanctuario), by R. Moses of Riati, from the mid-fifteenth century. Chapter 3 classifies the sciences and still faithfully follows al-Farabi’s formula. Riati refers frequently to Aristotle especially on physics and metaphysics: “There Aristotle thinks [important] thoughts.” However, he still follows the Islamic traditions of al-Farabi, Al-Ghazali, and Averroes, rather than any of the Scholastic school. In political philosophy he does not even mention Aristotle; his discussion is typically Platonic with a bent towards ibn Bajja’s Governance of the Solitary. Despite writing in the context of the Italian Renaissance, Riati is heavily indebted to the Platonic legacy as transmitted by Islamic intermediaries, with no hint of Scholasticism. See Mikdash, pp. 11-23. In fact, he recopied Samuel ben Judah of Marseille’s translation of Averroes’ commentary on the Republic, so he would have been familiar with this tradition. See his afterword: Averroes, Republic (Rosenthal), pp. 107-108, and n. 27 above. 100 See Lerner and Mahdi, Sourcebook, pp. 16-17. 101 See bibliography n.s 37 and 82 above, also Melamed, “Ibn Wakar.” — 118 —

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Theologica, while an anonymous translator rendered passages from his commentary on the Ethics into Hebrew.102 These and other translations should be carefully studied, and there remains a genuine need to explore and assess the influence of Scholasticism on Jewish political thought in the late Middle Ages. Nonetheless, even at this early stage it is reasonable to assume that it was marginal indeed in comparison both with the continued influence of Platonism within the Islamic tradition, on the one hand, and scholastic influence in other spheres of Jewish thought, on the other. The sad fate of the Politics in Jewish political thought is an apt illustration. The echoes resound to this day. Plato’s Republic, Averroes’ Commentary on Plato’s Republic and the Nicomachean Ethics have already appeared in several Modern Hebrew translations and editions. Both were translated in full and published in our own generation. By contrast only isolated excerpts from the Politics have been translated, and it still waits to be released in its entirety in Hebrew.103

102 Among Judah Romano’s translations of and commentaries on Aquinas is “A treatise attributed to the political wisdom of the Sage herein described” (ma’amar meyuhas le-hokmah ha-medinit lahakam ha-metoar), based on the Summa Theologica, although the discussion is ethical rather than political. See Sermoneta, “Romano,” p. 249; Berman, “Greek,” pp. 312-321. 103 For the Nicomachean Ethics in Hebrew see Berman, “Greek,” p. 148. For the Republic we have Diesenbruck’s old translation (Tel Aviv, 1936) and Liebes’ new one (Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, 1964). Averroes’ commentary in the Rosenthal and Lerner editions, with an English translation (see n. 1 above). On the other hand, for the Politics we have only H. I. Roth’s translation of Book 1 and chapters 1-5 of Book 2 (Jerusalem, 1964); H. and H. Rosen translated Books 3 and 4 (Jerusalem, 1957-58). Selections from the Politics were published by Ben Shamai, where some excerpts were taken from the Roth translation and others translated by the editor. See Ben Shamai, State, vol. 1, pp. 306-323. Recently some excerpts from the translations of Roth and Rosen were re-published in Ziser and Zur, eds., Political, pp. 62-75. Already Dorman, Marsilius, p. 194, n. 73, remarks that as yet there is no full Hebrew translation of the Politics. I was recently informed that a full Hebrew translation of the Politics is due to be published soon. The first three books have already been published: Aristotle, Politics (Hebrew). — 119 —

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Chapter four

The Attitude towards Democracy in Medieval Jewish Philosophy

I. In his various writings Daniel Elazar characterized the Jewish polity as a “republic with strong democratic overtones,” which nevertheless was in reality generally an “aristocratic republic in the classic sense of the term—rule by a limited number who take upon themselves an obligation or conceive of themselves as having a special obligation to their people and to God.” It is true that the Jewish polity is “rooted in a democratic foundation,” in that it is based upon the equality of all (adult male) Jews and their basic right and obligation to participate in the establishment and maintenance of the body politic.1 But this is as far as the “democratic overtones” of this republic went. It was a republic true enough, but no democracy. It did have some components of what is termed “communal democracy,” but was not a liberal democracy. The various Jewish polities which existed over the centuries were generally very aristocratic in terms of their actual regimes. The idea of a democratic regime was alien to them and went against their basic political and theological premises. The idea of a liberal democracy was absent from the Jewish political tradition until modem times, and medieval Jewish political philosophy, which is the subject of this essay, rejected its Greek variety outright. Following the Platonic-Muslim political tradition, medieval Jewish philosophy held onto a basically monarchic concept of government. By and large, medieval Jewish philosophers conceived the ideal government to be that of a perfect philosopher-king of the Platonic mold, which acquired a distinct theological meaning through medieval 1

See Elazar’s various papers on these issues, the bibliography. For the development of medieval communal democracy, see Agus, “Democracy.” See the author’s conclusion, ibid., p . 157: “We encounter in the communities of the thirteenth century a government, democratic in form, based on ideals of justice, freedom and equality.” I would be more cautious in applying moderm terms to medieval systems of government. In any case, if it really was some kind of “democracy,” it was communal democracy and not liberal democracy of the Greek or modern variety. — 120 —

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Muslim intermediaries, especially al-Farabi and Averroes. The Platonic philosopher-king was transformed into the prophet-legislator of the Jewish and Muslim monotheistic tradition. Also halakhic thought, for all its hesitations and reservations, finally accepted (limited) monarchy as the preferred kind of govemment.2 This situation is well illustrated by the fact that Muslim, and following also Jewish, political philosophy—in contrast to all other branches of medieval philosophy—was squarely based upon the Platonic tradition, and not on Aristotle’s Politics, which was almost unknown to them. The Aristotelian system did conceive the Politea, a kind of modified and moderate democracy ruled by the middle class, to be the preferred kind of government. But medieval Muslim and Jewish thinkers were hardly aware of the Aristotelian position. They, who so admired Aristotle and considered him “the philosopher,” completely ignored his moderately democratic inclinations, as manifested in the Politics. For a variety of reasons, chance transmission of manuscripts as well as theological preferences, they directly followed the Platonic monarchist tradition.3 In so doing they necessarily rejected democracy entirely and considered it one of the negative forms of government. The kind of democracy they rejected was what we would term liberal democracy of the ancient Greek variety. This kind of government was based upon three premises. First, basic legal equality among the citizens (which means excluding most of the populace!) disregarding the differences in their potential and their moral and intellectual perfection. Secondly, the acceptance of pluralism in opinions and ways of life as a basic norm of civic life (as long as this pluralism did not exceed certain basic shared norms!). Thirdly, the election of temporary magistrates by some combination of majority vote and lot, based on the assumption that all citizens have the duty as well as the interest to actively participate in civic life. Following an essentially monistic world view based, on the one hand, on Platonic philosophy and, on the other, divine revelation which posited the existence of one divine truth, known in its totality only to a few perfect individuals, Muslim and Jewish medieval political philosophers could not accept any of these premises. For them, only he who knows 2 3

Blidstein,”Monarchic.” Melamed, Philosopher-King, esp. ch. 1 and with additional bibliography. Melamed, “Aristotle.” — 121 —

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the one divine truth, through a combination of revelation and contemplation, could successfully rule human society. It necessarily followed that men were unequal in their very nature. The differences in their potential and the moral and intellectual perfection they were able to reach should also dictate the differences in their legal, social and political standing. Consequently, ruling society was not a matter for majority vote but for divine choice. Thirdly, since there was only one divine truth, manifest in a single, sacred and authoritative text, all other opinions were necessarily wrong. Pluralism was rejected and a basically monolithic world view was adopted. The world view of these philosophers was thus monarchic and anti-democratic in its very essence. II. The fundamental classical formula for the rejection of liberal democracy appears in the eighth book of Plato’s Republic. After describing the development of the perfect state ruled by the philosopher-king, its nature, structure and its purpose, Plato goes on in the eighth book to deal with the possible deterioration of the perfect state into a series of imperfect, wicked and erring states, in chronological order: timocracy, oligarchy (or plutocracy), democracy and tyranny. Democracy is considered the necessary outcome of the failure of oligarchy. When the rule of the few wicked rich men deteriorates, the poor seize the opportunity to wrest power from the degenerate rich. Democracy, for Plato, is not rule by the people but rule by the mob. For him, it violates the basic idea of justice that humans, by nature having different capacities, should do only the work for which they are fit. Fitness to govern is regarded by Plato as the highest perfection of humans, suitable for philosophers only. Most people are by nature unfit to govern and so, by their own free will should accept the rule of the perfect few. Equality means the rule of the lowest common denominator of humankind, that is, the appetites of the lowest part of the soul. This is very lucidly summed up by Plato when he says, “These then, and such as these, are the features of a democracy, an agreeable kind of anarchy with plenty of variety and an equality of a peculiar kind for equals and unequals alike.”4 His cynical rejection of democracy is clear. It is a kind of hedonistic and pluralistic anarchy, based on a profoundly distorted conception of human equality. 4

Plato, Republic (Cornford), 8, 558, p. 283. — 122 —

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Since, according to the famous parable of the small and large letters, the state is only a macrocosm of the people who rule it, Plato goes on to describe the nature of the democratic man on the microcosmic level. Plato’s vivid description, which was the basis for the medieval Muslim and Jewish descriptions of the democratic condition, merits a lengthy quotation: In his life thenceforth he spends as much time and pains and money on his superfluous pleasures as on the necessary ones. If he is lucky enough not to be carried beyond all bounds, the tumult may begin to subside as he grows older. Then perhaps he may recall some of the banished virtues and cease to give himself up entirely to the passions which ousted them; and now he will set all his pleasures on a footing of equality, denying to none its equal rights and maintenance, and allowing each in turn, as it presents itself, to succeed, as if by the chance of the lot, to the government of his soul until it is satisfied. When he is told that some pleasures should be sought and valued as arising from desires of a higher order, others chastised and enslaved because the desires are base, he will shut the gates of the citadel against the messengers of truth, saving his head and declaring that one appetite is as good as another and all must have their equal rights. So he spends his days indulging the pleasure of the moment, now intoxicated with wine and music, and then taking to a spare diet and drinking nothing but water; one day in hard training, the next doing nothing at all, the third apparently immersed in study. Every now and then he takes a part in politics, leaping to his feet to say or do whatever comes into his head. Or he will set out to rival someone he admires, a soldier it may be, or, if the fancy takes him, a man of business. His life is subject to no order or restraint, and he has no wish to change an existence which he calls pleasant, free and happy. That well describes the life of one whose motto is liberty and equality. — 123 —

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Yes, and his character contains the same fine variety of pattern that we found in the democratic state; it is as multifarious as that epitome of all types of constitution. Many a man, and many a woman too, will find in it something to envy. So we may see in him the counterpart of democracy, and call him the democratic man.5 The characteristics of the democratic man in the microcosm are completely equivalent to those of the democratic state in the macrocosm. The democratic person is he who is driven by the passion to satisfy all his most lowly bodily desires. Holding a relativist, hedonistic and pluralistic world view, he deems all appetites and all opinions to be of equal value. This is why he is characterized by instability, ever-changing interests, opinions and occupations, an inclination to extremes, without order or restraint in his life. This is how this kind of liberty and equality are considered by Plato. When liberty is defined negatively, according to the liberal tradition, as the most extreme possible absence of constraints, and humans are considered automatically equal, it creates, according to Plato, total anarchy, in the sphere of the behavior of each individual, and consequently in society at large. This goes against the very premises of his idea of justice upon which the ideal state is erected. The Platonic idea of justice is based on a positive definition of liberty, by which freedom means the suppression of humans’ lowly appetites through their own free will: to rule them rather than be ruled by them. By Platonic standards, freedom means the acceptance, out of free choice, of the role designated for them in the perfect social fabric, according to their natural capabilities and the social needs. III. Plato’s rejection of liberal democracy was transmitted to medieval thought mainly by two major Muslim philosophers, al-Farabi and Averroes. Through them it also reached and influenced medieval Jewish thinkers. Al-Farabi’s discussion in his Book of Principles (or The Political Regime) was translated into Hebrew in the early thirteenth century by 5

Ibid., p. 286. On the theory of liberal democracy in Greek thought see Havelock, Liberal. — 124 —

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Samuel ibn Tibbon under the title Sefer ha-Hathalot. In Averroes’ writing we find two discussions of democracy, both directly following Plato, one in his commentary on Plato’s Republic, the other in his commentary on Aristotle’s Rhetoric. The commentary on Plato’s Republic was translated into Hebrew in the early fourteenth century by Samuel ben Judah of Marseilles under the title Sefer ha-Hanhagah Ie-Aplaton and exerted great influence on subsequent generations of Jewish scholars. The commentary on Aristotle’s Rhetoric was translated into Hebrew also in the fourteenth century by the Spanish Jew Todros Todrosi, under the title Sefer ha-Halatzah, and was also popular with later medieval and Renaissance Jewish scholars. One of them, the Mantovan Jew Judah Messer Leon, inserted long passages from this translation, including the discussion of democracy, in his rhetorical tract Nofet Zufim (The Book of the Honeycomb Flow), composed in Italy in the late fifteenth century. What interests us here is the way in which Jewish scholars transmitted these texts into Hebrew, coined, for the first time, Hebrew terms for democracy and related terms, and inserted Jewish motifs into their translations from the Arabic texts. All this would, in turn, also reveal their attitude towards democracy. After discussing the nature of the perfect state, Medinah Hashuvah, in ibn Tibbon’s Hebrew translation, al-Farabi goes on in his Book of Principles to differentiate among the various kinds of imperfect states (medinah secalah i.e. ignorant state). The fourth kind he indicates is democracy, which is defined as “free association (kibbutz ha-herut) in the democratic city (Medinah Mekubbetzet) and the city of the free (bnei horin).”6 The term kibbutz, which usually designates the general political term “association” (kibbutz medini, “political association,” as in his translation of Maimonides’ Guide, 3:28) is used here also to designate a particular kind of regime, that is, democracy — medinah mekubbetzet, or kibbutzit, i.e., “an associated state,” and also kibbutz ha-herut, “the association of the free.” Ibn Tibbon chose to use these terms for democracy to indicate that this kind of regime is typified as a free association of equals. Among the many new Hebrew terms he coined in his translation enterprise, ibn Tibbon was also the first to coin Hebrew terms for democracy. In the discussion of the nature of the democratic state, he 6

Al-Farabi, The Political Regime, in R. Lerner and M. Mahdi, eds., Sourcebook, p. 42. In the Hebrew translation, Hathalot, p. 47. — 125 —

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closely follows al-Farabi’s text. This kind of state is characterized by full legal equality of natural equals and non-equals alike, total freedom of action that is practically anarchic, unlimited hedonistic pursuit of material desires, private and public instability, the rule of the mob, and an extreme kind of pluralism in opinions as well as in action.7 Following al-Farabi, ibn Tibbon transmitted to Hebrew Plato’s beautiful parable of the embroidered garment, full of many different colors and shapes, which the common people like so much. The democratic state, with all its variety and the appeal to the lowest common denominator, resembles that embroidered garment.8 Besides first coining Hebrew terms for democracy, and first transmitting a discussion of this kind into Hebrew literature, ibn Tibbon inserted into his discussion allusions to two specific Hebrew motifs. He closely, almost literally, translated al-Farabi’s opening statement, “The democratic city (ha- medinah ha-kibbutzit) is the one in which each one of the citizens is given free rein and left alone to do whatever he likes (ya’ase ma she-irze).”9 This translation is indeed literal. But the phrase “do whatever he likes” echoes the biblical phrase in the last verse of the Book of Judges: “In those days there was no king in Israel, every man did that which was right in his own eye” (Judges, 21:25). The biblical source is very critical of this kind of anarchy where a stable centralized government did not exist and each individual did whatever he pleased. By inserting an allusion to this verse ibn Tibbon only reinforced the Platonic-al-Farabian criticism of democracy, in which freedom meant the freedom to pursue one’s lowest appetites, and social order was reduced to sheer anarchy. The same phenomenon is found also in ibn Tibbon’s translation of Maimonides’ Guide, 3:27. Discussing the conditions for achieving the welfare of the body, Maimonides says, “One of them is the abolition of 7 8

9

Sourcebook, ibid. pp. 50-53. The Hebrew text, Hathalot, pp. 56-58. Sourcebook, ibid., p. 51: “It looks like an embroidered garment full of colored figures and dyes.” The Hebrew text, ibid., p. 57. The source in The Republic, 8, 557, p. 282: “Many people may think it (i.e., democracy) the best (government) just as women and children might admire a mixture of colors of every shade in the pattern of a dress.” And compare the Hebrew translation of Averroes’ Commentary to Plato’s Republic—Averroes, Republic (Rosenthal), the Hebrew text, p. 93. Sourcebook, ibid., p. 229-230: “Therefore this state, that is, the democratic one, resembles a garment woven in many colors. Just as women and youths may think that such a kind of garment is good because of the variety of its colors, so seems to be the idea about this state at first thought.” The Political Regime (Sourcebook), p. 50. Hathalot, p. 56. — 126 —

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their wrongdoing to each other. This is tantamount to every individual among the people not being permitted to act accordingly to his will.”10 Maimonides’ phrasing is strongly reminiscent of al-Farabi’s definition of democracy quoted above. While al-Farabi opened his discussion with a seemingly objective definition of democracy, and only then went on to criticize it, Maimonides’ description is, of course, subjective and critical outright. Freedom to act according to one’s own will, i.e., democracy, is described as the source of all wrongdoing. The solution Maimonides proposes for the abolition of all those doing wrong is, of course, life according to the law of the Torah, which is by no means a liberal democracy. Ibn Tibbon translated Maimonides’ words quite literally here, but again invested them with an allusion to the same biblical verse from Judges.11 In both cases, by infusing the text with the biblical allusion, he intensified the rejection of this kind of freedom, which is so essential to liberal democracy. For him, as for Plato, al-Farabi and Maimonides, it is nothing but anarchy of the worst kind. Like Maimonides’ phrasing, so reminiscent of al -Farabi’s definition of democracy, ibn Tibbon’s translation of these two texts is also very similar.12 Into both translations he inserted the allusion to the same biblical text. It is no accident either that Maimonides’ phrase “the abolition of their wrongdoings from each other” was translated by ibn Tibbon into: “le-hasir ha-hamas mi-beineihem,” which alludes to another biblical text—“and the earth was filled with violence (hamas),” (Gen. 6:11). It is significant that this kind of democracy is identified by ibn Tibbon with this most extreme case of anarchy and violence in human history. The original Maimonidean text does not imply these verses, although Maimonides did insert, on various occasions, biblical verses into his text. In this case it was ibn Tibbon’s independent allusion which was superimposed on the original Maimonidean text. By placing it there, ibn Tibbon, again, only reinforced the rejection of liberal democracy. For him, as for his three masters, Plato, al-Farabi and Maimonides, real freedom did not mean the unlimited right to do whatever one pleases, but rather to accept, through one’s own free will, the rule of the one true law, divine law, and of those authorized to apply it. 10 Maimonides, Guide (Pines), vol. 2, p. 50. 11 Moreh (ibn Tibbon), 3: 27, p. 41. 12 Compare nn. 11 and 13 above. — 127 —

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The other Hebrew motif inserted into ibn Tibbon’s translation of alFarabi’s negative description of democracy is the usage of the term am ha-aretz, “people of the land”, for “the multitude of this city.”13 This too is an obvious choice, but it is infused with a powerful anti-democratic sense. The term am ha-aretz is used by Maimonides in the introduction to his commentary to the Mishnah (Introduction to tractate Zeraim), and also in his commentary to tractate Avot, to designate the multitude. The etymological meaning he attributes to the term is as follows: “... sages, of blessed memory, called a person who has no wisdom an am ha-aretz, that is, the purpose they serve is the settlement of the earth. Therefore they associated their name with the earth.”14 Maimonides argues that the common people, who are unfit to fulfill the intellectual end of human existence, were created in order to serve the material and emotional needs of the few wise men, so that these few would have the leisure to contemplate and thus to fulfill the ultimate purpose of the whole species.15 This is a clear elitist Platonic-al-Farabian idea. By inserting the term am ha-aretz, which is so charged with anti-democratic meaning, into his translation, ibn Tibbon, once more using Maimonidean terminology, fortified the initial negative description of democracy by Plato and al-Farabi. While in Maimonides’ Platonic scheme the am ha-aretz fill their proper function and thus contribute to the general wellbeing of society, in ibn Tibbon’s description of democracy, they rule the land, with all the ensuing negative consequences. IV. The other avenue by which the Platonic political ideas were transmitted into medieval Jewish thought is Averroes’ commentary on Plato’s Republic, which was translated into Hebrew in the fourteenth century by Samuel ben Judah of Marseilles, and, as noted, exerted considerable influence.16 This very literal translation is extremely important since 13 Al-Farabi, Hathalot, p. 57, twice. 14 Maimonides, Zeraim, Introduction to the Mishnah (Rosner), pp. 128·129: “Therefore the Sages, of blessed memory, called a person who has no wisdom an am ha-aretz, that is, the purpose they serve is the settlement of the earth. Therefore they associated their name with the earth.” See also in Maimonides’ Commentary to Mishnah Aboth, translated with an introduction and notes by A. David (New York, 1968), pp. 32·33: “The ignorant man (am ha-aretz) is one who does not have intellectual virtues but has some moral virtues.” 15 Melamed, Philosopher-King, ch. 3; idem, “Maimonides.” 16 Averroes, Republic (Rosenthal), and idem, Republic (Lerner) The Introductions. Also Rosenthal, — 128 —

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the Arabic original is lost and the Hebrew translation is the only extant evidence of the lost original. Directly following the Platonic text, Averroes deals with the imperfect states (hanhagot asher einan me’ulot) in the third part of his commentary, after discussing the nature of the perfect state (hanhagat hamedinot ha-me’ulot) in the first two parts of his commentary. Democracy is listed fourth among the five kinds of imperfect states, which are listed in chronological order. The establishment of a democracy is a necessary consequence of the deterioration of a timocracy, and its own deterioration would necessarily give rise to despotic rule, which only illustrates its negative character. Democracy is termed here as rashiyut ha-kibbutz ha-hamoni’i, and is translated as “the leadership of the people’s community,” in Rosenthal’s translation from the Hebrew.17 Lerner translated a little differently: “the primacy of the assembly of the multitude.”18 I prefer Rosenthal’s “leadership” to Lerner’s “primacy,” for rashiyt. On the other hand, Lerner wisely inserted the term “multitude” for ha-hamoni’i which is absent from Rosenthal’s translation. The term ha-hamoni’i, “of the multitude or mob,” indicates the popular nature of this kind of government. Other variations used by Samuel ben Judah are medinah kibbutzit, or medinat ha-kibbutz, and ha-kibbutz ha-khili’i or medinah kehiliit (madina jimaiyya in Arabic).19 Both Rosenthal and Lerner, although they literally translated ben Judah’s first term for democracy, decided for some reason to translate all other variations of the term into the general “democracy.” The same goes also for all other kinds of the imperfect regimes.20 The terms ben Judah used here, medinah kibbutzit, and medinah kehiliit, both relate to the fact that democracy is the rule of the whole community, kibbutz and kehilah: both mean an association or community in Hebrew. In fact, the term kibbutz kehili’i literally means an associated association. The term medinah kibbutzit was initially coined by ibn Tibbon, as indicated, and ben Judah repeats it here. Another vari-

17 18 19 20

Islam, pp.175-209. Mahdi, “Remarques.” Butterworth, Philosophy; idem, “Ethics.” On the Hebrew translator, see Berman, “Creek.” Averroes, Republic (Rosenthal), the Hebrew text, p. 92; the English translation, p. 227. Averroes, Republic (Lerner), p. 105. Averroes, Republic (Rosenthal), Hebrew text, pp. 85, 88, 92, 93. Ibid. pp. 227, 229-230. Rosenthal translated all the variants as “the democratic state.” Lerner translated medinah mekubbetzet as “democratic association,” p. 110, and a “democratic city,” pp. 113, 125, 127, 130. For other kinds of imperfect regimes, see ibid., third treatise, in various places of both translations. — 129 —

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ant ben Judah uses is ha-adnut ha-kibbutzi, and ha-adnut ha-kehilii. Both relate to the kind of authority (adnut) which exists in a democratic state. Thus, ben Judah used two basic Hebrew terms for democracy. One is the initial rashiyot ha-kibbutz ha-hamonii, and the other, later on, medinah kibbutzit, or kehili’it, in different variants. These two terms relate to the same basic feature of democracy, which is rule of the state by the multitude, in which the whole community participates equally. In contrast to ibn Tibbon before him, and his contemporary Todrosi, ben Judah did not chose to also use the term kibbutz ha-herut (the association of the free), or any of its variants, for democracy. This, most probably, was because Averroes did not use this phrase. By this omission he neglected the other major feature of democracy, which is freedom of action and thought. The latter, nevertheless, was referred to in the body of the text. On the basis of the Platonic original, Averroes, after listing the different kinds of imperfect states, elaborates in two separate discussions on the nature of the various kinds of imperfect regimes. First he defines them individually, and then he considers the way each evolves, as a necessary consequence of the disintegration of the previous kind of imperfect regime. As for democracy, this is defined just as al-Farabi defined it following Plato: “The democratic association (ha-kibbutz ha-kehli’i) is the community (kibbutz) in which everybody is free from restraint (meshulah). This means that a man does whatever his heart desires (ma she-libo hafetz) and he takes himself towards every enjoyment to which his soul leads him.”21 All the basic components of liberal democracy, which Plato so despised, are indicated here: legal equality, freedom from restraint, pluralism and hedonism. This is why this kind of government is also termed by him hanhagah ta’anugi’it (hedonistic constitution), at least in its initial transformation from a plutocracy into a democracy.22 The expression “that a man does whatever his heart desires” again echoes the words of the last verse of the Book of Judges, with all its negative anarchist implications. 21 Rosenthal, ed., Hebrew text, p. 83; English translation, pp. 212-13. See also Lerner’s translation, p. 110: “It is the association in which everyone in it is unrestrained. He does what his heart desires and moves towards whichever of the pleasing things his soul leads him.” On Averroes’ discussion of democracy, see also Butterworth, “Philosopher, Ethics and Virtuous Rule,” pp. 75-76. 22 Rosenthal, ed., Hebrew text, p. 94; English translation, p. 230. In Lerner’s translation, p. 128, “hedonistic governance.” — 130 —

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The pluralistic nature of democracy creates a situation, unique to this particular kind of regime, that different kinds of people are represented in its social fabric—lovers of honor, property or tyranny. This is why different kinds of regimes could potentially develop out of democracy, even a virtuous state (medinah me’ulah), since among all kinds of men, democracy can, theoretically at least, give rise even to virtuous people.23 The democratic man is described as he who occasionally behaves in a philosophical manner (ke-hanhagat ba’alei ha-filosofia).24 The problem is that this happens only occasionally, and therefore it is advisable for the philosophers to focus their attention particularly on this kind of state which, among others, produces people who could be good raw material for the creation of the ideal state.25 However, as we shall find below, it was generally considered that tyranny was the kind of government that democracy was most prone to deteriorate into. Another aspect of democracy treated here is the nature of authority (adnut). In a democratic regime authority is based on the will of the citizenry and since the will, or rather the whims of the citizens are accidental and ever changing (kibbutz be-mikreh), authority will be in such condition also (adnut be-hizdamen), which is contrary to the very nature of authority. This means that in a democratic state there will be no real authority.26 However, without any authority whatsoever, no state, not even a democracy, could survive since men are driven by their natural inclinations to kill and plunder one another. Such a condition of a Hobbsian war of all against all would eventually ruin the state. This is why even a democracy cannot tolerate the complete absence of laws, that is, total liberty. Even this kind of government has to create some minimal authority of basic laws, which also means a government to implement them, in order to prevent complete anarchy, and consequently self-annihilation.27 This is the kind of authority which exists in a democratic state. It is what ben Judah termed ha-adnut ha-kibbutzi or ha-adnut ha-kehilii, the democratic authority.28 This means that to ensure its existence a democracy is in 23 24 25 26 27 28

Rosenthal, ed., Hebrew text, p. 83; English translation, p. 213. Ibid., Hebrew text, p. 94; English translation, p. 231. Ibid., Hebrew text, p. 93; English translation, pp. 213-14. Ibid., Hebrew text, pp. 83-84; English translation, pp. 213-14. Ibid., Hebrew text, p. 83; English translation, p. 213. Ibid., p. 94. Rosenthal translates as “democratic rule,” p. 232; Lerner translates as “democratic lordship,” p. 130. — 131 —

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fact obliged to deviate from its basic principles, which only proves, according to the Platonic mind, its basic deficiency. As indicated, Averroes’ other discussion of democracy concerns the way it necessarily evolves from the disintegration of plutocracy and itself disintegrates into tyranny. Following the Platonic text, Averroes created a complete parallelism between the way a plutocratic man evolves into a democratic one, and consequently the way a plutocratic state disintegrates into a democracy.29 Since authority in a plutocratic state is based on ownership, its laws are designed so as to increase the rulers’ property as much as possible. People would not only be allowed but actually urged to follow their desires and spend as much money as possible on fulfilling them. Laws of temperance would be unheard of in such a state. Consequently, most people in this state would lose all their possessions to the ruling plutocrats. The rich would become richer and fewer in number, while the poor would become poorer and more miserable and increase in number. The gap between the ruling few and the impoverished majority would grow ever wider. This majority would become increasingly angry and envious of the ruling few. Then a moment would come when the impoverished mass would realize the potential of their sheer numerical majority and the invaluable services they render to the plutocratic state in war and other civic services, which in fact ensure the continual existence of this state and the well-being of the ruling plutocrats themselves. When the poor realized their power, they would rebel against their oppressors and the plutocratic state would eventually crumble. Strictly following Plato, Averroes compares the poor to drones born in a beehive, who would ruin the existing structure from within.30 On the ruins of this plutocratic state a democracy would be established. This regime, based on the dominion of the majority of the poor, is defined here, for the second time, by Averroes (with ben Judah’s Hebrew translation of the main terms in the brackets), as follows: As this is so, and as such men rule over the State, every 29 Rosenthal, ed., Hebrew text, pp. 92-95; English translation, pp. 227-33; Lerner’s translation, pp. 125-31. 30 The Republic, 7, 555, p. 280; Averroes, Republic (Rosenthal), Hebrew text, p. 92; English translation, p. 228; Lerner’s translation, p. 126. — 132 —

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one of the free poor (ani’im bnei horin) will do what is right in his own eyes (ha-yashar be-einav ya’ase). Rule (adnut) among them will be maintained in a haphazard fashion (hizdamen). Every kind of men will no doubt be found in this state, and there will not be among them a rank at all for anyone. Their law (nimus) will be an equal law (nimus shaveh), that is, no one among them will be excellent (me’uleh).31 This definition of democracy is essentially the same as Averroes’ first one, discussed above, but it is more detailed. Democracy is again defined as the rule of the multitude, based upon the principles of liberty, authority by chance, legal equality and the rule of the lowest common denominator. As indicated above, democracy, like its predecessor, is a hedonistic form of government, hanhagah ta’anugi’it, as ben Judah phrased it. The only difference between plutocracy and democracy is that the first strives to fulfill the desires of the ruling few while the second strives to fulfill the desires of the multitude as a whole. Ben Judah’s Hebrew text brings to a culmination a tendency we found in previous Hebrew texts. In ibn Tibbon’s translation from alFarabi (ia’aseh ma sh-irze), and also in his own translation from Averroes (ia’aseh ma she-libbo hafetz), we discovered allusions to the last verse of the Book of Judges superimposed upon the text. What we find here is no hint or allusion but a full direct quotation of the text: “Evey one […] will do what is right in his own eyes”.32 The negative attitude towards the kind of liberty democracy offers, which is nothing more than sheer anarchy, is again only strengthened by the Hebrew translators’ superimposition of the biblical verse upon the Platonic-Averroist definition. We should also notice that he consistently uses here the term nimus for law (and not dat, torah or hok), implying the inherently human source of the law of the democratic state, and thus its relative, ever-changing nature, in contradistinction with divine law which is eternal and permanent. Ben Judah’s translation is reputedly literal. He was a translator in the 31 Rosenthal, ed., English translation, p. 229. Hebrew text, p. 93. Compare Lerner’s translation, p. 127, and see below, n. 35. 32 Neither Rosenthal nor Lerner mentions the usage of the biblical text by the Hebrew translator, although elsewhere Rosenthal does refer to the usage of biblical phrases. See, for example, p. 230, n. 1. Following this, ibn Rushd brings the parable of the embroidered garment. See above, n. 9. — 133 —

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strictly limited sense of the term, and not a commentator. But he was not impartial. By inserting the biblical allusions and by the choice of Hebrew terms, he also expressed his own opinions. He wholeheartedly concurred here with Plato and Ibn Rushd. Tyranny (medinat ha-nitzuah) is the form of regime democracy is most liable to deteriorate into, since democracy is based upon an excess of liberty: “haflagah be-bakashat ha-herut ve-hitrabut mimeno el bilti tachlit.” Like every excess, this one too is bound to have negative consequences. It would enable the development of a kind of men, sick in body and soul, according to the Platonic criteria, who would pursue their most bestial desires without limit and would abuse their boundless freedom of action in order to enslave other people.33 The pluralistic nature of democracy can in theory create different kinds of people, even philosophical people. However, considering democracy’s basic characteristics, it is most likely to create tyrannical people who would transform the democratic regime into a tyranny. The fact that democracy is most likely to deteriorate into tyranny also proves, according to Plato, Averroes, and his Jewish translators-commentators, its basic inherent deficiencies. It is a kind of government which, in fact, combines the worst tendencies of what it developed from and what it deteriorates into. V. A variant of the same theme can be found in Sefer ha-Halatzah which is a fourteenth-century Hebrew translation by the Spanish Jew Todros Todrosi of Averroes’ commentary on Aristotle’s Rhetoric. In his commentary, Averroes superimposed Platonic ideas on the original Aristotelian text and thereby also introduced a strong anti-democratic component into his classification of regime.34 33 Rosenthal, ed., Hebrew text, p. 95; English translation, p. 232; Lerner’s translation, p. 130. 34 Averroes, Halatzah (Rhetoric). On Averroes’ rhetoric, see Butterworth, “Rhetoric.” The author elaborates in various points upon Averroes’ departure from the Aristotelian stance into a more Platonic position. In respect of our topic he only says that unlike Aristotle, “Averroes did not hesitate to discuss the best regime in his rhetorical treatise” (ibid., p. 195). He does not refer to the fact that in content, too, the discussion is more Platonic in nature. On the other hand, in his commentary on Plato’s Republic, Averroes gave, at various points, a more “Aristotelian” interpretation to the Platonic text; see Butterworth, Philosophy, pp. 48, 72, 89. The author argues that in the theory of regimes also, Averroes departed from Plato to a more Aristotelian stance, by indicating the possibility of more than one positive kind of government, ibid., p. 72; also Lerner, p. 104. Averroes, however, did not mitigate Plato’s negative position vis-a-vis democracy by a more moderate “Aristotelian” interpretation, and that is what is most meaningful as far as my discus— 134 —

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Here Averroes treats the theory of government, democracy in particular, in connection with the knowledge that the perfect orator should have in political matters. To be persuasive, the orator must have a thorough knowledge of the kinds of government that exist and the laws proper for each of them. Although he interprets Aristotle, here too Averroes makes the basic Platonic distinction between the ideal state (ha-hanhagah ha-meshubahat in Todrosi’s translation) and all other imperfect regimes. These are represented here by democracy.35 The terms Todrosi chose for democracy here are ha-hanhagah asher tikareh ha-herut (the regime which is called liberty), or hanhagat ha-herut, (the regime of liberty, or freedom).36 Another variant he uses later is hamedinah ha-kibbutzit (the associated state) and ha-hanhagah ha-kibbutzit (the associated leadership).37 We already found such variants in ibn Tibbon and ben Judah’s translations. They all relate to the definition of democracy as a free association of equals. Democracy, as noted, is taken here as an example of the various kinds of imperfect regimes. While the perfect state is based on an exact and well-balanced system of justice, all imperfect regimes, including democracy, are based on different degrees of unjust and unbalanced laws, too strict or too weak: “be-shehayah ha-nimus muflag ha-hulshah ve-ha-rifion o muflag ha-hozek.” Each of these systems of law is a by-product of the nature of a particular kind of imperfect regime and it is supposed to serve its needs and safeguard its continuous existence: “ve-otam ha-nimusim hithalfu be-hanhagot kefi hithalef tachlitam.” The problem with democracy is that it employs a distinctly weak system of law (mi-pnei rifion ha-nimusim). Also here the term consistently used for law is nimus, implying its human charachteristics. The difference among the legal systems of the various kinds of imperfect states is illustrated here by the contrast between democracy sion is concerned. The general attitude shown here, to mitigate the differences between Plato and Aristotle, is very typical of Averroes and other Muslim philosophers. On this see also Rosenthal, Islam, p. 187. 35 Averroes, Halatzah, p. 31. 36 Ibid. See also the Latin translation of the Hebrew version by the Italian Jewish humanist Abraham de Balmes, Aristotelis Opera Cum Averrois Commentariis (Venezia, 1562), photoreproduced in Frankfurt am Main, 1962, vol. 2. Balmes incorrectly translated hanhagat ha-herut as Politia Nobiliatis, pp. 86, 79. 37 Ibid., pp. 53-54. Balmes translated (correctly, this time) as Civitas Popularis, p. 87. In Judah Messer Leon’s rhetorical treatise Nofet Zufim, written in the Italian Renaissance, long segments of Todrosi’s translation are inserted, including the discussion of the theory of government. See Messer Leon, Nofet. Rabinowitz translates democracy as “collective government,” p. 305, n. 2. — 135 —

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and tyranny. Each of these represents one extreme of the legal system. The democratic legal system is too weak, since every man is allowed to do whatever he pleases, without any restraints, while the tyrannical legal system is too strict since it is based upon total subordination to an unjust rule. Averroes illustrates this contrast with a nice example, which sounds almost comical in Todrosi’s medieval Hebrew translation: “For example, in a tyrannical government (hanhagat ha-nitzahon), justice (yosher) means that no harm should be done to a guard who hit somebody under its jurisdiction, while in a government of liberty (hanhagat ha-herut, democracy), justice requires that the person who was hit by a guard, has the right to retaliate accordingly.”38 The anarchic nature of democracy, based upon the ideal of full equality and total liberty, is well illustrated here. This is why, as we have already found, real authority cannot exist in a democratic state. Consequently, democracy, like all other imperfect states, is bound to deteriorate. Generally, it was assumed that democracy would deteriorate into tyranny. Here, however, it is specified that democracy would most likely deteriorate into some kind of plutocracy. This is explained by the weakness of its legal system, which enables everyone to freely pursue his material desires to the extreme, without any restraint.39 While in most variants plutocracy is the kind of government democracy developed from, in this case the situation is the reverse. Plutocracy is described as the government into which democracy is most likely to deteriorate. Later, the commentary distinguishes among the various kinds of imperfect states and defines each. Democracy is concisely defined in Todrosi’s Hebrew translation as follows: The associated state (ha-medinah ha-kibbutzit, i.e., democracy) is such (a regime) in which leadership (rashut) is accidental (be-hizdamen) and by lot (mazal), and not in accordance with any appropriate law, since in this (kind of) state, no one has any advantage upon another.40 38 Averroes, Halatzah, Todrosi’s translation, p. 53, and see Balmes’ Latin translation, p. 86. 39 Ibid., p. 31, twice. 40 Ibid., pp. 53-54. Messer Leon copied this text from Todrosi almost verbatim. See Rabinowitz, ed., p. 306, and his English translation, p. 307. “A democratic state is one in which headship is achieved through chance or luck, not through being really deserved, since in this sort of state no one individual has superiority over any other.” My translation is different in various points. Rabinowitz was mistaken when he translated ha-mazal as “luck.” In the context of the election system of the — 136 —

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Directly following Aristotle, Averroes defined the end of democracy as follows: “The end of the associated leadership (= democracy) is freedom” (ve-tachlit ha-hanhaga ha-kibbutzit ha-herut).41 This again is a definition which contains all the ingredients of the Platonic definition of the Greek variety of liberal democracy. In the Aristotelian source democracy is objectively defined as “a form of government under which the citizens distribute the offices of state among themselves by lot.”42 There is no value judgment here, only a description of the empirical facts. Averroes’ commentary, and its Hebrew translation, however, give us a more elaborate definition which is obviously negative. Averroes’ commentary superimposed a Platonic meaning upon the Aristotelian text, and thereby transformed the whole structure of the Aristotelian theory of government into a Platonic system. While Aristotle distinguished here four basic kinds of government, democracy, oligarchy, aristocracy and monarchy (positive, kingship and negative, tyranny), Averroes’ commentary distinguishes between the ideal state, on the one hand, and all other kinds of government, which are deficient, on the other. Hence, while in Aristotle, democracy appears as a legitimate kind of government, one among others, in Averroes, directly following Plato, it is described as one of the deficient kind of governments. This is yet another fine example of how medieval Muslim and Jewish political philosophy strictly followed the Platonic system, even when it was interpreting an Aristotelian text. Its negative attitude towards democracy was a natural by-product of this state of affairs. VI. Medieval Jewish political philosophy generally considered (limited) monarchy to be the preferred kind of government, albeit with a great deal of suspicion and hesitancy. This was the combined effect of the Platonic tradition and halakhic norms. Don Isaac Abravanel, writing at the end of the Middle Ages, is known as the only major Jewish thinker who openly opposed monarchy and purportedly followed the Aristotelian more democratic, or republican, tradition. Athenian democracy, and the original Aristotelian text (see n. 45 below), the correct translation is “lot.” The same goes for Balmes’ Latin translation where ha-mazal was translated as fortuna, p. 86. 41 Todrosi’s translation, p. 54, in Aristotle’s Rhetoric, 1:8, 1366a. Works, p. 1353. 42 Ibid., 1366, p. 1352. — 137 —

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Abravanel’s republican leanings were influenced by a combination of factors, mainly by late medieval scholastic political philosophy which was based upon Aristotle’s Politics, his own devastating personal experience with Iberian monarchies, and the very positive impression the Italian republics of the Renaissance, especially Venice, made upon him after he settled in Italy in the last decade of the fifteenth century. In the first place, however, it was the result of his theological views, which aspired for direct divine rule over humankind, and thus considered any kind of human rule a usurpation of divine rights. His theocratic world view necessarily led to a more “democratic,” or republican, attitude in earthly affairs.43 While Abravanel’s anti-monarchist inclinations are strongly indicated in his commentary to Deuteronomy 17 and 1 Samuel 8, his republican tendency is illustrated in his commentary on the two biblical versions of Jethro’s advice to Moses (Exod. 19 and Deut. 1), in which the Mosaic constitution, created under his wise father-in-law’s advice, is described according to the lines of the Venetian constitution, considered at that time to be the embodiment of the perfect republic. The Mosaic constitution is described here as a mixed constitution, according to the Aristotelian-Polybian line, creating the perfect balance among the three positive kinds of government, monarchy, aristocracy and democracy. In this system, the ruler of thousands, being the largest representative assembly in this governmental system, represents the democratic element.44 According to Abravanel’s interpretation of the text, Moses improved upon his father-in-Law’s advice and inserted into it a stronger democratic component. In the first version (Exod. 18) Jethro advised Moses to appoint the various rulers himself, according to his own superior judgment, as the verse indicates: “thou shalt provide ... and place over them” (v. 21). According to this version of the story, Moses did exactly what his father-in-law advised him: “And Moses chose able men out of all Israel and made them heads over the people” (v. 25). In the second version of the story (Deut. 1), however, we find a different picture altogether. Here Moses transferred the election of the various officers to the people themselves, as the verse indicates: “Get you, from each one of your tribes, wise men, and understanding, and full of knowledge, and I 43 For Abravanel’s political philosophy in general, see Netanyahu, Abravanel, 2:3, and n. 47 below. 44 See in detail Melamed, “Jethro.” — 138 —

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will make them heads over you” (v. 13).45 According to Abravanel, Moses did not exactly accept Jethro’s advice on this point, so that it would not be said that he behaved like Korah, who appointed his relatives to official duties and was punished accordingly. However, even Abravanel’s Moses was no wild democrat, heaven forfend. Moses did not simply transfer the election of the officers to the people. He gave them clear instructions to choose appropriately, according to the candidates’ virtues and their suitability to fulfill judicial, political and military duties. Abravanel indicates that Moses directed the people to choose officials according to their virtues, not their lineage. Although, he hastens to add—no doubt considering himself a good example—virtuous and able men will naturally be found mainly among distinguished families.46 However, Moses not only gave the people strict election guidelines, he also kept the final approval of the elected officials in his own hands: “and I will make them heads over you.” This is how far his trust in the people went. His more “democratic” tendency itself was mitigated by a strong aristocratic flavor. Still, Abravanel’s Moses chose to act in a more democratic manner than what was counselled. Jethro advised him to create a system that would basically have been a combination of monarchy and aristocracy. Moses added to it also a democratic element, whereby he created a more balanced Aristotelian-Polybian system. To sum up, medieval Jewish thought following Platonic and Muslim political philosophy, on the one hand, and halakhic concepts on the other, was basically, although reluctantly, monarchist, and inherently anti-democratic. It rejected outright what we termed the ancient Greek variety of liberal democracy. Even Abravanel, for all his clearcut anti-monarchic manifestations, showed democratic or republican tendencies only to a very limited degree. His anti-monarchism was not the consequence of any liberal tendencies, but rather of his professed theocratic views. There were various manifestations of so-called “communal democracy” in the pre-modem Jewish experience, but liberal democracy was totally rejected in Jewish philosophy. The precarious romance of the Jewish political experience with liberal democracy is a phenomenon of modem times.

45 Abravanel, Torah, p. 157. See Aquinas’ identical commentary, Melamed, “Jethro,” part 3. 46 See in detail Melamed, “Jethro.” Compare Nahmanides’ even more “democratic” interpretation, ibid., p. 32, n. 24. — 139 —

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Chapter five

The Organic Theory of the State in Medieval and Renaissance Jewish Political Thought

I. The organic theory of the state assumes many parallels between the structure and function of the state and that of the body, the human body in particular; these and other structures in the universe operate on the same fundamental principles both on the macrocosmic and the microcosmic levels. This parallel served many scholars effectively in clarifying the “natural” structure and function of the state, with its social classes and its powers of enforcement. It is thus no coincidence that from its beginnings the western political tradition made wide use of the terms corpus politicum or body politic.1 Perhaps the earliest example is from Plato’s Republic 5, 462 where the author demonstrates the holistic, almost familial nature of his ideal state with an apt analogy: The best ordered state will be the one in which the largest number of people use these terms in the same sense, and which accordingly most nearly resembles a single person. When one of us hurts his finger, the whole extent of those bodily connections which are gathered up in the soul and unified by its ruling element is made aware of it: all shares as a whole in the pain of the suffering part; hence we say that the man has a pain in his finger. The same thing is true of the pain or pleasure felt when any other part of the person suffers or is relieved.2 Plato’s perception of the holistic political structure as a reflection of the structure of the human soul, and the justice of the community as a reflection of justice for the individual made it possible to use and 1 2

Indeed, the Latin membrum, from which the English ‘member’ derives, may mean either an organ in an individual’s body or an individual in a social group, both from that analogy. Plato. Republic, 163-164. For the influence of Plato’s theory of three classes and its implications regarding the organic theory in medieval Christian thought, see Dutton, “Tripartite.” — 140 —

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perpetuate the organic analogy over a long period of time. Here already we find the secondary analogy of health and sickness. Its implications will be discussed further on. A similar analogy appears at the beginning of Aristotle’s Politics 1:2, 9, which assumes that the state is the natural framework for humans, and the secondary frameworks, like the family and the individual, naturally depend upon it. Aristotle drew a parallel between the state and its parts and the parts of the body to the body as a whole: as the loss of the body is necessarily the loss of all its members, and a hand is no longer a hand but only a lump of matter in the form of a hand, so the individual loses his humanity when the state is lost. Richard Walzer assumed that the analogy came down to medieval scholars through later neo-Pythagorean and neo-Platonic Greek literature, which supported a monarchical regime,3 which, as becomes clear later, found it very helpful indeed. The monarch’s rule in his kingdom was compared to that of God in the universe, of the soul over the body, of the heart or mind over the body, of the sun over the stars, the shepherd over the flock. All are hierarchical analogies leading to a single conclusion: monarchy. In this paper I concentrate on the organic analogy as it evolved in the history of Jewish political philosophy. This analogy was very popular in the political thought of medieval Christianity. John of Salisbury’s Policraticus of the twelfth century and Christine de Pizan’s Livre du corps de policie (The Book of the Body Politic) in the fourteenth, gave prominent expression to the idea, as did many earlier and later works. The concept became so deeply ingrained that the term corpus (body) became synonymous—to the point of reaching cliche status—for other words representing the political entity such as communitas, societas, universitas, and congregatio. The Church identified itself as a unified corpus mysticum headed by the Pope who derived his authority from Corpus Christi, Jesus, which made the Pope the supreme temporal and spiritual power of Christendom. That concept was in continual tension with the more earthly concept of the body politic. The Church declared the Pope’s authority over temporal rulers, as the representative of the spiritual power that of necessity controlled the body, i.e. the temporal power: otherwise a two-headed monster would be created. By contrast, supporters of the temporal authority maintained that 3

AI-Farabi, Perfect State, p. 435. See also in Byzantine literature: Baynes, Byzantine, pp. 8, 48 and Dutton, “Tripartite.” — 141 —

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while Jesus was the divine head of the body politic, each member was individually responsible for his own sphere of activity. Thus the theological idea underwent a secular transformation so it could also describe the temporal political community. The state, then, itself an earthly corpus mysticum with its own classes and authoritarian functions, was portrayed in terms of the organic analogy. On this plane, the king is described as the soul that controls the body or as the controlling organ, heart or brain, operating a system that has to obey it. Jean Dundabin succinctly calls it “the famous organic image of the body politic to which all medieval intellectuals were drawn like a pin to a magnet.”4 Medieval Islamic and Jewish thought displayed a similar degree of interest in the organic analogy, and for the same reasons. Unlike the extensively analyzed Christian political thought, the usage of the organic analogy within the Jewish political tradition has received little attention.5 This paper will attempt to make good the omissions. Islamic references to the organic analogy are found in al-Farabi, al-Ghazali, ibn Tufayl and others, and in similar contexts; their influence on Jewish political thought will be discussed further on.6 The organic theory of the state is based on the analogy between the structure of the living body and that of the political system: the functions of each bodily organ, the cooperation required among them and their obedience to the principal organ, pars principans that operates the entire system, the summum movens.7 All enable the body to survive and fulfil its destiny. This parallels the obligatory cooperation of the organs of the state, its socio-economic classes and the various organs of its authority in which each performs its special function in cooperation with the others, and willingly obeys the leader, usually the king, to assure 4

5 6 7

Research on the political philosophy of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance deals extensively with the numerous references to this metaphor. See e. g. the frequent references in the collection of sources on medieval Christian political thought where the metaphor is eponymous for the entire collection: Nederman and Langdon Forhan, eds. Medieval; see index references, p. 254. Gierke, Political, pp. 22-30. Kantorowicz, Two Bodies. Ullmann, History, pp. 43, 123, 153: “The organo-Iogical conception of society exercised great in fluence in the Middle Ages,” 123; “...the organic conception of society exercised, once again, its peculiar attraction...” 153. Lewis, “Organic.” Duby, Three Orders, pp. 247; 254; 264-266. Le Goff, “Body.” Burns, Medieval, in various places; see the index. The quotation is from p. 480. Also Bertelly, Body. See also n. 2 above and 17-1 9 below. Strauss, “Abravanel” pp. 112-113. Ravitzky, “Kings,” p. 478, n. 29. Melamed, “Abravanel.” Rosenthal, Islam, p. 127. Sherwani, Studies, pp. 77-79. Berman, Ibn Bajja, pp. 11-12. See n. 9 below. In Jewish and Islamic sources the analogy is generally with the heart, in Christian sources with the brain; see below. — 142 —

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the state’s long term survival and ability to fulfil its destiny. The idea is expressed with the utmost clarity by John of Salisbury, whose analogy goes into the minutest details, down to the least of the organs, almost ad absurdum: It is first of all required that the ruler evaluate himself entirely and direct himself diligently to the whole body of the commonwealth (corpore rei publicae) [...] For the commonwealth is [...] a sort of body which is animated by the grant of divine reward and which is driven by the command of the highest equity and is ruled by a sort of rational management. [...] The position of the head in the commonwealth is occupied, however, by a ruler subject only to God and to those who act in His place on earth, in as much as in the human body the head is stimulated and ruled by the soul. The place of the heart is occupied by the senate, from which proceeds the beginning of good and bad works. The duties of the ears, eyes and mouth are claimed by the judges and governors of provinces. The hands coincide with officials and soldiers. Those who always assist the ruler are comparable to the flanks. Treasurers and record keepers [...] resemble the shape of the stomach and intestines; [...] Furthermore, the feet coincide with peasants perpetually bound to the soil, [...]8 This scholar, following the Christian tradition of the organic theory, makes the head, i.e. the brain, the chief organ (caput) and seat of the soul. By contrast, Jewish and Islamic tradition places the seat of the soul in the heart (cor), to which the king is drawn, as shown later. The clearest and most typical expression of the organic theory in medieval Islamic thought is al-Farabi’s The Perfect State, which had a farreaching influence on medieval Jewish political thought. Analyzing this short passage provides a better understanding of the basic elements of the theory and its wider contexts: 8

John of Salisbury, Policraticu 5 5:2. Nederman and Forhan, Medieval, pp. 38-39. See also bibliography in n. 4. — 143 —

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The excellent city resembles the perfect and healthy body, all of whose limbs co-operate to make the life of the animal perfect and to preserve it in this state. Now the limbs and organs of the body are different and their natural endowments and faculties are unequal in excellence, there being among them one ruling organ, namely the heart, and organs which are close in rank to that ruling organ, each having been given by nature a faculty by which it performs its proper function in conformity with the natural aim of the ruling organ. [... ] This applies equally to the city and equally to every whole which is composed by nature of well ordered coherent parts: they have a ruler whose relation to the other parts is like the one just described. This applies also to all existents. For the relation of the First Cause to the other existents is like the relation of the king of the excellent city to its other parts.9 We note here the secondary motif of the organic theory, the healthy and the sick body. Once an organic analogy is drawn, the question of health necessarily arises, as does what is meant by a healthy in contrast with a sick body politic. The well-ordered state is compared to the healthy body, the one that is not well-ordered to a sick body. The analogy of health/illness in the body politic is added to the original Platonic analogy of bodily health/illness and mental health/illness (Protagoras 312314). As the Platonic philosopher functions as a physician of the mind, so by extension of the organic theory the human ruler is the physician of the state. As a physician and specialist, he should be able to recognize the symptoms of the state’s illness, and carry out the medical treatment that will restore it to health, that is, to proper functioning. The law of a well-run state should parallel the rules for proper medical treatment. In one instance al-Farabi even drew a direct parallel between the art of medicine and “excellent kingly art,” meaning the rule of the prophetleader. Both require optimal coordination between knowledge of the 9

See source with its English translation, Al-Farabi, Perfect State, ch. 15: 4-6, pp. 230-237; Commentary, 35, 424, 437. See also Sherwani and Rosenthal, above n. 6. — 144 —

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rules of the art and flexible abilities to apply them effectively in specific changing instances. This same parallel between medicine and politics appears in Maimonides’s Guide 3:34, obviously following al-Farabi.10 An illness of the ruler as heart, with his consequent non-functioning may bring down the entire state. The Islamic and consequently the Jewish preference for the heart over the brain is the result of following the Aristotelian concept that saw the heart as the body’s controlling organ,11 as opposed to Plato’s view that the brain was (Timaeus, 45),12 followed in medieval Christian thought.13 This may be the only element of Platonic influence on Christian political tradition, which did not recognize the Republic until the Renaissance, while devoutly adhering to Aristotle’s Politics from the thirteenth century.14 Galen takes another position, namely that the living body has three principle organs, the heart, the brain and the liver.15 Thus the differences between the Christian view and the Moslem-Jewish view stemmed from differences of medical opinion as to the controlling organ of the body, and the specific Greek tradition that each followed. For Jewish scholars, the preference for Aristotle was compatible with images of the heart in biblical and Midrashic literature, as we shall see later. With that, Jewish scholars like Moses Narboni and ibn Shueib were acquainted with Galen’s tripartite concept, as evident particularly in Abravanel’s extraordinary version of the organic analogy that led to his unique perception of the ideal state. As both Aristotelian and Platonic traditions assumed the 10 Pines, “Comparison.” Maimonides himself was both a physician and a community leader, i.e. physician of the soul, his own life a complete demonstration of the analogy. In this connection see Melamed, “Healer.” For medical links to the organic theory in the Christian literature, see Burns, Medieval, p. 144; idem, History, pp. 482, 486. 11 Aristotle, Animals 2:4, 665b-666a, also n. 8 above. 12 Plato, Timaeus, 45 . Dutton, “Tripartite,” tracing the processes whereby the analogy from Timaeus was transferred to Christian medieval culture. See also the Laws 12, 964. 13 Le Goff, “Body.” The heart’s importance increased in late medieval culture, but in the theological context (ibid. 20 ff.) rather than the political context, where the brain remained the controlling organ, see p. 23. 14 Klibansky, Continuity. Melamed, Philosopher-King, ibid. pp. 2, 201, n..6. 15 Maimonides, Aphorisms, ch. 25, pp.70-71 , describes these different views: “I have already brought the wise and excellent Galen to your attention. You already know his views on the principal organs, which are three: the heart, and the brain and the liver. These are the three principal organs, and none takes its power from another organ. And as you know, Aristotle and his followers believed there was one controlling organ, the heart, and that the heart sends strength to all the other organs [...] and so [the heart inl Aristotle’s explanation sends strength to the brain [...]” See also ibn Falaquera’s commentary on Maimonides’ Guide, Moreh, Introduction 25-26; see, in the text of the commentary, 1:72, lines 179-180. Falaquera does not use the organic analogy per se. — 145 —

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principle of one controlling organ, their conclusions regarding the ideal political regime were the same: as the body has one controlling organ, whether heart or brain, so the body politic should have one ruler. Hence the conclusions of most scholars, Moslem, Jewish or Christian, were in essence monarchical. One notes that Galen’s system, positing three central organs, was not necessarily contradictory, since it assumed that either heart or brain was the principal organ, and generally concluded that monarchy was the political choice indicated by the analogy. Only Abravanel would derive from Galen’s concept the radical republican conclusion of mixed government. Another analogy used by al-Farabi, is cosmological-theocratic, and parallels God’s sole control over the universe to the human ruler’s control over the state. Like the organic analogy it appears in all monotheistic cultures since both are based on the same principle and belong to the same holistic-hierarchical system accepted in the Middle Ages. As God, the First Cause in Aristotelian terminology, is the sole ruler of the cosmos and all created beings must obey him, so the king must be sole ruler in human society, and his subjects owe him willing obedience. Both organic and cosmological-theocratic analogies are based on a hierarchical perception of reality and manifest the same principle: as one God rules the universe in the macrocosm, so in the biological microcosm the soul, or the heart or the brain rules the organs of the body, and so too the king must rule the state, the political microcosm. In the human community he is to emulate divine power in the universe (imitatio Dei, iqtifa’), his power thus paralleling the rule of the principal organ over the body. The just governance of the ruler in the state reflects divine rule over the universe.16 The organic theory is thus an outgrowth of the medieval cosmological perception. The parallel analogies both lead to the same political conclusion as to the desirable political regime—the monarchy that consciously imitates God’s rule in the universe. We shall find many combinations of the two analogies, followed by Abravanel’s bold negation of their validity in politics. An additional context for the organic analogy relates to the life stages of the state. Like the living body, it goes through the natural processes 16 Al·Farabi, Hathalot, p. 44: “[…] And the parts of the state will then be attached to one another, bound to one another, and arranged one ahead of the other in order, and the state will be like the First Cause in which is the reality of all other beings.” For the imitation theory see Berman, “Maxim.” Kreisel, “Imitatio Dei.” Melamed, Philosopher-King, ibid. — 146 —

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of youth, maturity, old age and death, so that the state too is destined to decline. The question is if and how that decline may be prevented, and when the death of the living body is inevitable and at best can be put off for a time. Here the analogy breaks down: if the state is properly governed, it can renew its youth, as Machiavelli’s Discorsi written at the end of the 15th century, exemplify clearly: It is a sure fact that all things of this world have a limit to their existence; but those which complete the entire life cycle ordained for them by Heaven are those which do not let their bodies fall into disorder but, rather, keep them in an orderly fashion so that no change occurs, or, if it does, it is a healthy change and not a damaging one. And since I am speaking of mixed bodies (corpi misti), such as republics and religious groups, let me say that those changes are healthy which bring such bodies back to their beginnings [...] And it is clearer than the light of the sun that without such renewals these bodies do not endure.17 The two contexts of the organic analogy are interlinked: the health and long-term survival chances of the body politic depend to a great extent on the function of the social classes within it and/or the authorities of the regime and their cooperation, even as the function, health and survival of the living body depends on the function and cooperation of its organs. The sixteenth-century Venetian political thinker Donato Giannoti aptly describes the mature version of the organic analogy, just as it was about to disappear from political terminology on the threshold of the early modern period: Each state is like a natural body (corpo naturale), or rather it would be better to say that it is a body produced by 17 Machiavelli, Discorsi 3:1; Portable, p. 351; opera (Martelli), p. 195: “Egli e cosa verissima, come tulle le cose del mondo hanno il termine della vita loro; ma quelle vanno tullo il corso che e loro ordinate dal cielo, generalmente, che non disordinato il corpo loro, ma tengonlo in modo ordinate, o che non altera, o, s’egli altera, e a salute, e non a danno suo. E perche io parlo de’ corpi misti, come sono le republiche e le sette, dico che quelle alterazioni sono a salute che le riducano inverso principii loro. [...] Ed è cosa più chiara che la luce che, non si rinovando, questi corpi non durano.” — 147 —

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nature in the first place and afterwards polished by art. When nature makes a man, she intends to make a universal whole, a communion. Since each republic is like a natural body, it must have its members; and since there is a proportion and relationship between the members of each body, who knows not this proportion and relationship knows not how the body is made.18 As previously noted, the organic theory of the state is based on the perception of a universal order as macrocosm, within which the order of the state exists as a microcosm. Each is a complete entity where all the parts must be linked to and serve its overriding objective. The individual organ cannot survive except in cooperation with the entire organic system. Thus it is with the social class. Even more, the human individual cannot exist without belonging to the state collectivity. With its basic assumptions of unity and hierarchy, the organic theory was most supportive of the political world view of medieval times. By early modern times the holistic perception of a universal order was disintegrating, and with it the holistic view of the political structure. Replacing it was the modern mechanistic-atomistic liberal perception, which defined society as an aggregation of individuals with different interests to be defended and realized by entering into a social contract. Thus the organic analogy lost its relevance and to a great extent disappeared from political thought in modern times.19 II. Jewish political culture is based on the principle of the “congregation (kahal) of Israel” or the “assembly (knesset) of Israel,” with their twofold context of internal unity and of complete separation from the nations of 18 Donato Giannotti, Opere, ed. G. Rosini (Pisa, 1819), vol. 1, p. 21: “Perciocche ciascuna repubblica e simile a un corpo naturale, anzi per meglio dire, e un corpo dalla natura principalmenle prodotto, dopo questo dall’arte limato. Perciocche quando la natura fece l’uomo ella intese fare una universita, una comunione. Essendo adunque ciascuna repubblica come un’altro corpo naturale, dove ancora i suoi membri avere. E perche tra loro e sempre certa proporzione e convenienza, siccome Ira i membri di ciascuno altro corpo, chi non conosce quesla proporzione e convenienza, che e tra l’un membro e l’altro, non puo come fatto sia quel corpo comprendere.” See discussion of the text in Pocock, Machiavellian, pp. 274-276. The English translation is taken from this source. 19 Gierke, Political, p. 22. Hermann-Chrout, “Corporate,” esp. p. 423: “The ideal of an organic conception of all human society in the entirely was as familiar to the medieval mind as the notion of an atomistic or mechanistic constitution of human associations was alien to that mind.” — 148 —

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the world. This idea incorporates clearly organic perceptions. The “holy congregation” (kahal kadosh) involves direct links with divinity and contains significant elements of the corpus mysticum. Thus in the book of the Kuzari Judah Halevi described Israel’s uniqueness and superiority in terms of the heart of all the nations. In his genealogy of the first generations, he described those uniquely endowed in matters divine, that is, with the gift of prophecy, from Seth to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, as “the heart and gift of mankind” (Kuzari 1:47); “Heart of the brothers and gift of the father” (ibid.); Abraham was “the heart of this gift” (2:14); all the sons of Jacob were “unique and of the heart” (1:103); and finally “Israel to the nations is as the heart to the organs, it has more sickness than all of them and more health than all” (2:36), “more sickness than all the organs” (2:39). The organic analogy is clearly applied to the question of Israel and the nations: humanity is compared to a living body, with Israel its heart, i.e. its center and essence, while the other nations are the other organs. Not only that: Halevi makes direct use of the secondary analogy of bodily sickness and health. The heart is depicted as the most vital and the healthiest organ, and at the same time as the most sensitive and vulnerable one. This image is taken from the Brethren of Purity’s Book of Animals, where a man from Iraq describes his nation as “the heart of humanity.” Halevi took the image and applied it to enhance his own theory of Israel’s uniqueness. Each described his nation as the heart of humanity.20 Both the Talmudic literature and Jewish thought of the Middle Ages and of early modern times describe the centrality and sui generis nature of the Land of Israel in organic terms, from “the navel (tabur) of the world,” i.e. its material center, to “the heart (lev) of the world,” its spiritual center.21 The heart appears in earlier Jewish sources and was 20 Wolfson, “Prophecy,” pp. 271-273. See Book of the Animals, translated into Hebrew by Kalonymus ben Kalonymus, ed. I. Tuporovski (Jerusalem, 1949) 3:2, p. 87 (my translation): “We are the heart of humanity, man is the heart of the animal [kingdom], animals are the heart of the plant [kingdom], which is the foundation of all, so that we are the heart of hearts [...]” In a contrary negative example, Israel ‘s relation to gentiles is compared to the lowest of the organs, the feet, see Simone Luzzatto’s Discorso, written in the 1630’s, below, Part E. 21 Melamed, “Navel.” See an extreme example in the sermons of Isaac Karo of the sixteenth century: “And ask not how it is that the land of Israel is the heart of the world. The answer is that the whole world is like a single man, the Garden of Eden is the head of the world, intelligence being the head. The tree of knowledge is in Eden, thus in the head. And the land of Israel is the heart, and Egypt the genitals, as it is said, you have come to see the bareness of the land (Gen. 42:9). And Guinea is the feet, which are ugly.” Karo, Sermons, p. 190. See also analysis and context of this source in — 149 —

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a characteristic feature of Islamic culture and of Jewish scholars in that environment, influenced by Aristotelian medicine whose traces are to be seen later. Applying the organic analogy to Israel’s relation to the nations of the world is a sub category, and our interest here is mainly in the political analogy to the structure and function of the state. Hence although ideas about the special quality of Israel as the Chosen People have their organic contexts, the analogy itself is not found in the Hebrew Bible and in but isolated instances in the literature of the Sages. In its clearly political form the analogy appears in Jewish literature for the first time in the late Middle Ages, influenced by Islamic and Christian sources. While the integration of the king’s heart into the divine will is a central motif in the historical books of the Bible, it is always in the theological sense connected with his morality and religious observance. The king’s heart turning aside is always linked to doing evil in the sight of the Lord, and idolatry, as in 1 Kings 11:3-4; 9:4; 15:3 and 18:17. It is not part of any organic analogy. The midrashic literature is the same, though influenced by Greek traditions. In BT Berachot, 10a, there is a full analogy between God’s power in the universe and the soul’s power over the body. The midrash on Proverbs 1:25, thought to have been written in the early Middle Ages, clearly implies a dispute between the Platonic approach that identifies the head (brain) as the chief organ and the Aristotelian approach identifying it as the heart, which typically is the Jewish approach: “But wisdom, where shall it be found?” (Job 28:12) teaches that Solomon sought [wisdom] out and said: Where is wisdom to be found? R. Eliezer and R. Yehoshua [disagreed]. R. Eliezer said: In the head, and R. Yehoshua said: In the heart. And [Solomon] came to agree with R. Yehoshua, as you said: “Thou hast gladness in my heart, etc.” (Ps. 4:8). And gladness means wisdom, as it is said: “My son, be wise and make my heart glad, that I may answer him that taunteth me” (Prov. 27:11). David also explicated, “Create me a clean heart, O God; and renew a steadfast spirit within me” (Ps. 51:12) [...] This implies Melamed, Black, pp. 207-208. Compare also the analogy between organs of the human body and the parts and functions of the Land of Israel in Kohelet Rabbah 1: 9. — 150 —

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that David followed the opinion of R. Eliezer while Solomon followed the opinion of R. Yehoshua. Furthermore, the heart is given into the hand of His blessed holiness as it is said, “The king’s heart is in the hand of the Lord” (Prov. 21:1).22 The argument between the two Sages is perceived as the original argument between David and Solomon. It seems to express the debate in Greek medical literature, with a distinctly Aristotelian resolution entirely consistent with the biblical view of the heart as the seat of wisdom and spirituality. The organic analogy connects only by association to the king’s heart, and the political link is still weak. There is a stronger link in the Midrash ha-Gadol on Genesis 20:9: Since the King is to the state as the heart is to man, if the heart sickens, so does the whole body. Thus if the King sins, so does the whole state, and he and they are doomed.23 Here the king and his function are directly compared to the heart and its function. As the diseased heart causes failure of the whole body, so the king’s failure to function causes severe damage to the state, to the point of existential danger. Even here however, the context is not actually political but rather theological and moral, discussing the morality of the king’s behavior. Note too that if this is an organic analogy, it should at once raise the question of the health of the body concerned, and what is defined as health and when the state has succumbed to illness. Some scholars maintain that these midrashic references are exceptions, due to the reservations within the political culture of Judaism regarding organic imagery, this in turn a result of the inevitable hierarchical implications regarding the people of Israel as a whole, and

22 Mishle (Visotzky), pp. 1, 25-31, 171-173. Another version appears in Yalkut Shimoni on Psalms 34, n. 721, which contains the well-known midrash dealing with the argument between the tongue and the other organs on their importance to the body. 23 Midrash (Margaliot), p. 330. Though a later commentary, it is thought to be based on earlier materials. See also the introduction to the midrash on Lamentations, 16, where the Great Sanhedrin “is called the heart of Israel.” This too is clearly an organic analogy, identifying the ruler’s body with a bodily organ in very early material. See discussion in Blidstein, Ekronot, p. 117. — 151 —

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its components.24 Indeed, until the Middle Ages the organic analogy appears but rarely in Jewish literature, with a weak political context. However the explanation given here is problematic. While the literature of the Sages stresses the equality of all before God25 and the expression “community of Israel” is a unifying one, the Jewish political tradition was clearly hierarchical. Despite their reservations, the Sages considered the monarchy normative according to the Law. The theory of the three crowns—Torah, priesthood and kingship—has significant hierarchical elements, both in their interactions and in their individual internal structures.26 With that, even these scholars agree that the use of such imagery increased in the time of the Geonim, known for its hierarchic tendencies. These grew stronger in the later Middle Ages, undoubtedly due to the influence of Islamic and Christian sources on their Jewish contemporaries, an influence congruent with significant hierarchic perceptions within the Jewish political tradition. The earliest example known to me of the organic analogy in the medieval Jewish political tradition is in Hovot ha-Levavot (Duties of the Heart) by Bahya ibn Pakuda in the eleventh century. He referred to it briefly in concluding his discussion of God’s unity (1:7). Just like al-Farabi, he links the cosmological-theological to the organic analogy. Here too the principle of hierarchy within unity operates on all planes of existence: In the signs of God’s management of His creation we see that rule can neither succeed nor be constant unless it lies in the hands of one who alone holds the governance in word and action, like a king in his kingdom, like the soul in the body. Aristotle has said in his discussion of unity that a plurality of rulers is not good—the real head is but one. The Scriptures also say (Prov. 28:2): “For the transgression of a land, many are the princes thereof.”27

24 Golding, Community, pp. 13-21; Blidstein, Ekronot, pp. 116-117. 25 See e.g. Tanhuma, Nitzavim 5: “Although I have appointed for you leaders and judges and officers, all of you are equal in my sight, as it is said, every man in Israel.” 26 Blidstein, “The Monarchic.” Cohen, “Three Ketarim.” 27 Ibn Pakuda, Duties, 1:7, p. 127. See another example in a commentary on the Kuzari from the fourteenth century, Ben Yehudah, Old Commentary, p. 524: “Since the kingdom of heaven is like the kingdom of earth, and resembles the just leadership of the king in his kingdom and the division of his people into classes...” — 152 —

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The conclusion attributed to Aristotle, though it in no way expresses his true position, and to King Solomon,28 is that monarchic rule corresponds with the order of nature and divine rule over the universe. Its mistaken attribution to Aristotle—the consequences are noted later— is due to his position that the heart rules the body. From this, scholars concluded that monarchy should rule human society, conveniently falling back on Aristotle. Nonetheless, while he considered the heart the ruling organ and used the organic analogy, he drew no monarchic conclusions, but rather supported a type of moderate democracy. Maimonides presents a different, unusual feature as regards the organic analogy in the Jewish political tradition. Despite al-Farabi’s significant influence on his political views, shown in the adoption of the theory of imitatio Dei based on the theocratic analogy,29 Maimonides made no direct parallel use of it in a political context. He did, however, use the analogy of the king as heart of the people: “His [the king] heart is the heart of the entire community of Israel” (Laws of Kingship 3:6). In the Guide, this single use receives a theoretical basis. Following alFarabi and Aristotle, Maimonides defines the heart as “the part of the body in which resides the principle of life of every being endowed with a heart.” The term “heart” is identified as an equivocal term that contains various possible meanings: thought, knowledge, will and intelligence.30 However, he used the organic analogy directly only in its cosmological context: And just as in the body of man there are ruling parts and ruled parts requiring for their continued existence the governance of the ruling part governing them, so are there in the world as a whole ruling parts—namely, the fifth encompassing body—and ruled parts requiring a governor—they are the elements and what is composed of them. And just as the ruling part, which is the heart, is always in motion and is the principle of every motion to be found in the body, whereas the other parts of the body are ruled by the heart, which in virtue of its 28 See discussion in Melamed, “Commentaries.” 29 See n. 6 above. 30 Maimonides, Guide (Pines), vol. 1, p. 88. See also 1:72. — 153 —

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motion sends towards them the forces they require for their functions; so heaven in virtue of its motion exerts governance over the other parts of the world and sends to every generated thing the force that subsists in the latter.31 Maimonides, then, followed Islamic and Jewish thought in taking the Aristotelian position that identified the heart as the body’s controlling organ. He also stresses the view of man as the world order in microcosm, though not applying this directly to the political sphere. On the contrary: Maimonides maintains there is a qualitative difference between the heart ruling the other bodily organs, and rule over the cosmos and by extension, over human society. While the controlling organ of the living body benefits from the organs it controls, in the cosmos and by extension in human society, the opposite is true: the ruler bestows out of goodness and power but derives no recompense: The ruling part of every living being possessing a heart is profited by the ruled parts; the profit deriving from the latter accrues to it so as to be useful to it. There is nothing like this in the universal being. For to no being, the governance of which overflows or confers a force, does any profit accrue in any respect from that which is ruled by it. For its giving the gifts it gives is like the giving of gifts on the parts of a generous and superior man who does it because of the nobility of his nature and the excellence of his disposition, not because of a hope for a reward: this is to become like to the deity, may His name be exalted.32 The description of the ruling factor in the cosmos is congruent with Maimonides’ perception of the ruler in the political microcosm as one who imitates God in conducting his community in mercy, justice and righteousness (Guide, 1:54; 3:53-54).33 While Maimonides made full 31 Guide, 1: 72, vol. 1, pp. 186-187. See also Blidstein, Ekronot, pp. 107-109, 116-117. 32 Guide, vol 1, p. 192. The same description of the political image of God as giver without recompense is found at the end of the Guide. 1:54. 33 See n. 15 above. — 154 —

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use of the cosmological-theocratic analogy, he clearly rejected the organic analogy, quite differently from al-Farabi, who employed it directly. Maimonides did this on the grounds of its irrelevance, since in his view there was a qualitative difference between the heart in control of the other organs and the web of relationships between the ruler and the public. There is a common denominator in that in both instances the central organ must rule in a monarchic-hierarchic manner.34 The essential difference between the two systems is that the leading organ of the human body receives without giving, while in the body politic the situation is reversed: the leader gives but does not receive. The superior ruler gives just as God does out of mercy, unconditionally and expecting no return. Maimonides’ perception of the political imitation of God is what eventually kept him from using al-Farabi’s theory fully, despite alFarabi’s influence over him. III. The full organic theory of the state first appeared in Jewish thought in the thirteenth century, under the direct influence of Islamic philosophical literature in Hebrew translation on Jews in southern Christian Europe. Most of those using the organic analogy followed the Jewish and Islamic tradition of the heart as the controlling organ, not replacing it with the brain as the Christian version did. They would seem, then, to have adhered to that tradition even after Christian influences began to reach them. This too supports the assumption that while the surrounding Christian culture increased its influence over Jewish scholars of southern Europe, in political thought they remained anchored in Islamic tradition right up until the beginning of the modern period.35 However, there is a paradox: while the Jewish and Islamic political traditions followed Plato as to politics, they took the biological position of Aristotle, giving first place among the organs to the heart. By contrast, Christian political tradition followed Aristotle and did not recognize Plato’s Republic up until the Renaissance, but adopted his position regarding the superiority of the brain. In this sense selecting heart or brain as the controlling organ becomes a litmus test for the question of influence. The earliest example known to me of the new radical version of the organic 34 For Maimonides’ views on the human ruler’s position in the scheme see Guide, 2:40. 35 Melamed, “Aristotle.” — 155 —

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theory is in Isaac Abravanel, influenced by the new republican ideas of the Renaissance. Several Jewish scholars active in southern Christian Europe between the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries used the organic analogy. The earliest complete example I know is The Goad of the Students (Malmad ha-Talmidim), a collection of philosophical sermons composed in the early thirteenth century by Jacob Anatoli. Clearly influenced by Platonic theory, he presents a tripartite class structure of the state: workers, statesmen and sages, reflecting the structure of the human soul: For in man three powers are united: the force of growth, the force of life and the force [power] of speech [= intellect]. In the force of growth he is like the plants of the field and other living things, the force of life he holds in common with the animals only, while the power of speech is his in common with the angels. And wisdom shows that humankind is divided into three classes: one is drawn only to the power of growth only [...] and it is the majority, tillers of the soil, those who go down to the sea in ships, and the merchants and the craftsmen, all needful for the growth of man [...] The second class, attracted to the force of life, is smaller than the other and is the class of those with fine qualities, and the advisers of the leaders of the people [...] And the third class is drawn to the power of speech. It is the smallest, and brings together the wise, the learned and the seekers after truth [... J This is the purpose of human existence [...] and this group should obey the chosen leader, and the second class follow this class, and the third class the second class, this and none other being the road to human perfection.36 36 Anatoli, Malmad, p. 143b. This is based on the Platonic tripartite structures of the soul and of the state. It differs from the accepted Aristotelian theory of the soul with its five forces, and thus did not fit this context. I relate here only to the organic components of Anatoli’s thought. For other aspects see Melamed, “Anatoli”; idem, Philosopher-King, ch. 4, with additional examples of the tripartite structure of the state. — 156 —

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Following the principle of the unified hierarchy of reality, Anatoli extrapolates from the desirable structure and power balance of the soul to desirable relationships in the state. To the organic and the cosmological theocratic analogies he adds the psychological one, and each expresses another facet of the hierarchic-unified principle of reality. The human soul reflects the tripartite structure of the state. The force of growth, which man shares with all living things, is reflected in the lower class of workers, the force of life that he shares with the other animals finds expression in the second class, the class of statesmen. The power of speech and of the intellect that sets man aside from the rest of Creation finds expression in the upper class of sages. As in the soul the power of speech rules over the rest, so in the state the upper class of sages should rule over the other classes, which are to obey them of their own free will. Having thus described the ideal social structure, Anatoli uses the analogy of the parts of the soul. Elsewhere in his discourses, relating the theory specifically to the people of Israel, he applies it directly to the function of the body itself. The tripartite structure in this case consists of priests, Levites and Israel, the highest expression of what is desirable in a state. The familiar saying, “All Israel is responsible for one another” (TB Shavu’ot 39a) now takes on clearly Platonic meaning: Thus in each and every generation were chosen the selected God-fearing [ones] to lead the people wherever they were to pray for the workers [the working class], and they who are many supplying the needs of priests and the Levites and other individuals, so that the people is united as one body with many organs. [...] Even as the organs of the body complement one another, and are joined one to another, the small with the great and the great with the small, or the body could not exist for a moment, thus the existence of the Holy Nation when [its members] look after one another and help one another, each according to his craft, complete in one another and completing one another [...], as it is said, “All Israel are responsible for one another” [...] and as the leading organs must lead and they that are below them, and the ones below them, conduct themselves in submission to — 157 —

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those in control, so must it be in the leadership of the Holy Nation, each and every group, everywhere, thanking God and blessing His name.”37 This is the full organic analogy, perhaps for the first time in a Jewish source. In contrast to most other examples, however, Anatoli does not relate to specific organs of the body. Levi ben Gershom (Ralbag) refers briefly to the analogy in his Bible commentaries, always in the context of relationships between the parts of the soul. Here are a few examples: Commentary on Proverbs 20:2: “The fear of the king is as the roaring of a lion: whoso provoketh him to anger sinneth against his own soul,” is interpreted as: “the fear of the king who controls man. This is human wisdom, worthy of governing the other forces of the mind.” Commentary on Proverbs 20:5: “Counsel in the heart of man is like deep water; but a man of understanding will draw it out,” is explained as: “Here is the king and he is the intellect, sitting in the seat of judgment he will judge worthily in spiritual matters.” Commentary on Song of Songs 3:9, “King Solomon made himself a chariot of the wood of Lebanon,” is interpreted: “[...] and within, it is covered by love from the daughters of Jerusalem, who are all the forces of the soul, until all surrender to the work of the intellect in this matter, with wondrous love and desire, which is henceforth called the king.”38 In all these instances ben Gershom draws parallels between the king’s role and position in the state, to the controlling role of the intellect over other powers of the soul. As the intellectual soul rules over the other powers, so the natural order of human society is monarchy. Obviously 37 Anatoli, Malmad, pp. 106a-b. 38 Gersonides, Song, pp. 67, n. 107; 110-111. — 158 —

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he assumed, following the Jewish traditions of the organic metaphor and as found in Maimonides (Guide 1:39), that the heart was the controlling organ of the body and the seat of reason. This is clear from his commentary on Proverbs 20:5: since “Counsel in the heart of man” is identified here with the control of reason over the human soul, parallel to the king’s control over the state. Not coincidentally does this analogy between the intellectual soul and the rule of a wise king over an ideal human society refer to King Solomon, the prototype of the philosopherking in the medieval political tradition.39 There is another example in Moses Narboni’s commentary on the Arabic philosophical tale Hayy Ibn Yaqzan by ibn Tufayl (as translated into Hebrew). Narboni makes full use of the combination of the cosmological theocratic and organic analogies. Moreover this time, exceptionally and following ibn Tufayl, he combines Galen’s theory of three controlling bodily organs with the accepted Aristotelian theory assuming rule by the heart alone. In the cosmological context, the king is identified as “the god of the land,” a position attributed here to Aristotle. Hence the political law should reflect the natural law of the cosmos: “It is proper that it should imitate the divine order, the law (nimus = political law) of Moses as against the Law (nimus = natural law) from above.” In the organic context, Narboni refers to Galen’s three central organs, but undoubtedly for him ultimate control resides in the heart. Following ibn Tufayl, Narboni utilizes the organic analogy in two directions: relationships between the bodily organs are described in political terms, and political relationships in organic terms. Since they are two parallel systems of control, leadership and cooperation, bi-directionality is in order: Which means that, he also has before him the first reflection, that is, the heart, and parallel to it the second reflection, the brain, and the third reflection, the liver, for the brain is above and the liver below, material and porous. And [ibn Tufayl] says further “They each need the other,” until he says, “his governance is the strongest of the three,” which means that the three in fact need one another. Behold, the heart needs the brain and the liver to serve him, and they need him for the very same 39 Melamed, Philosopher King, esp. ch. 7. — 159 —

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reason that the people need a king, the servant (needs) the prince, and the subjects need their beneficent leader who influences reality. And both the brain and the liver are kings and ministers to the other forces created after them as parts. Of the two, the brain rules more completely than the liver, and the brain is a minister above the liver, only in that the liver does not derive strength for its work from the brain [...] He explained further that both need the heart as all function in the warmth caused by the heart which is the source of all powers [...] Since all the organs need this organ [the heart], it is necessarily in a central position and all forces stem from it [...] Since all the organs are in need of the heart, its place must be in the center so that it can exert influence in all directions. So it is clear from the first, from its place at the center that this is the controlling organ and like a king, it is in the middle so that it can lead the whole body.40 There are interesting elements in this passage. First of all, Narboni fleshes out the organic analogy in a manner unprecedented in Jewish sources. The heart is the highest of the ruling organs, compared to a king obeyed by the other ruling organs, the brain obeying the heart and the liver the brain, as princes in a hierarchy. The other organs are compared to the general public, obliged to obey the princes, and in this way the king who is above them all. In this respect his use of the analogy resembles John of Salisbury: he expanded it down to the least of the organs, in complete accordance with Maimonides’ second type of parable, in which every detail is meaningful.41 Secondly, it is significant that Narboni, following ibn Tufayl, stresses the need for all the organs to cooperate, including the controlling organs, and the benefit each derives from the other, and from the system as a whole. The expression “each needs the other,” and the repeated emphasis on that motivating need behind their activity and their cooperation, serve here to strengthen the 40 Moses Narboni, Commentary on Hai ibn Yaqzan by ibn Tufayl. J. Shifman ed. Dr. Shifman, preparing a critical edition of this manuscript, kindly let me use relevant passages. See also Shifman, “Narboni.” 41 For John of Salisbury, see n. 3 above. On Maimonides’ perception of the Biblical parable, see Guide, ibid. Introduction to part one. — 160 —

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political context. Maimonides repeats this expression in stressing that in a worthy society human beings must cooperate to satisfy their needs. As we see in the definition of economy in his Treatise on Logic 14:7: “For the governance of the house (hanhagat ha-bait, i.e economy) will know how one is to help the other.”42 However, while he maintained that the dominant organ, the heart, has a unidirectional relationship with the other organs—receiving and not giving—the proper relationship between the human ruler to the people is precisely the opposite—he gives without receiving—so that no analogy can exist between the two spheres. By contrast, Narboni maintains, following ibn Tufayl, the relationship between the controlling organ and all the others and of these amongst themselves, both in the living body and in the body politic is mutual, receiving and giving. Thus the organic analogy is possible and even useful, clearly illustrating the principles of control, leadership, obedience and the interacting need and cooperation, among the organs of the state that provide it with a decent existence and the chance to fulfil its destiny, exactly as in the human body. Joshua ibn Shueib of fourteenth-century Spain applies Galen’s tripartite medical perception in his sermon on the Torah portion Shoftim, where he discusses the halachic obligation to set a king over Israel (Deut. 17). Ibn Shueib notes three forces in humans: natural intelligence acquired intelligence and emanated intelligence. The first is found in every individual and through it he apprehends basic intelligibles; in the second he deals with wisdom and learning, becoming able to infer one matter from another, while in the third he reaches the level of prophecy. The first two types are common to all peoples, while the third is found only in the people of Israel. Ibn Shueib identified these categories to the three sons of Adam, each representing one of these mental powers.43 The three forces of intelligence each have their parallels of the soul, each lodged in a particular bodily organ: the intellectual soul is in the brain, the spirit in the heart and the material soul in the liver and the blood. The last two are found in all members of the animal kingdom, the intellectual soul only in humans. Ibn Shueib now goes on to parallel the whole system to the governance of Israel: king, Sanhedrin and prophet. The power structure is paralleled point for point with the tripartite na42 See also Guide 1:72; 3:43. Melamed, “Maimonides.” 43 See numerous examples in Melamed, Philosopher· King, ch. 4. — 161 —

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ture of intelligence, the three souls and the three controlling organs: And like unto these three great potentials, Israel were given three great degrees, which are kingship, wisdom and prophecy, and they are mentioned in this portion: Kingship, “I will set a king over me,” Wisdom, that is the Sanhedrin and Prophecy, “a prophet in the midst of thee.” The Kingdom is as the material soul, which is the blood which is the existence of the body and its action, and the Sanhedrin is as the spirit from which come precepts and laws by which the body lives, as the spirit is in the heart from which the body lives, and prophecy is as the intellectual soul. Thus this portion commands a king to be appointed, saying, “I will set a king over me” [...]44 Here is the system in the form of a table: Type of Intelligence

Type of Soul

Bodily Organ

Regime Structure in Israel

Emanated Intelligence

(Intellectual) Soul

In the Brain

Prophet

Acquired Intelligence

Spirit

In the Heart

Sanhedrin

Natural Intelligence

(Material) Soul

In the Blood and Liver

King

Ibn Shueib, then, uses the organic analogy in unique ways. First he fully utilizes its tripartite form, following Galen, even establishing the brain, not the heart, as the controlling organ parallel to the highest form of governance in the Israelite state. This is the first and only example I know of where a Jewish scholar presents the brain this way, under what appears to be the clear and extraordinary influence of the Christian political tradition. Secondly, the king usually has pride of place in discus44 Ibn Shueib, Sermons, p. 461. — 162 —

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sions of the worthy form of human government, parallel with heart or head. Nonetheless, here, in the Israelite case, the king is at the bottom of the system, parallel with liver and blood and, as such, responsible for bodily “existence and action” that is, only for society’s material welfare. Above him are the Sanhedrin and the prophet responsible for the higher levels of existence. While the earthly regime is monarchic, it has the lowest place in Israel’s power hierarchy. Such a perception indicates the biblical context of this sermon with its significantly ambivalent attitude to kingship. Ibn Shueib might also have been influenced by the claim of the church to superiority over temporal rulers and applied it to the Jewish context. Again and again, and here as well, we see that the organic analogy was traditionally used to prove that monarchy was the best form of government, by natural law. Here, however, it is further down in the power structure; the organic context parallels the liver and blood, not the brain and the heart. For all these reasons, then, ibn Shueib’s use of the organic analogy is indeed exceptional. A more traditional example comes from Joseph Albo’s Book of Roots, written in Spain in the first third of the fifteenth century. Here the organic analogy, squarely within the context of Albo’s political theory, justifies the social stratification of the state, following Plato’s three classes of “tillers of the soil,” “leaders,” and “sages.”45 The proper functioning of the state depends on their cooperation, and on the willing obedience of the lower classes to those above them, even as the living body is made up of organs cooperating for the common good. Albo too remains faithful to the Aristotelian concept of the heart as the body’s controlling organ: The following analogy will make it clear. Every individual has many different organs, all of them necessary for the existence of the animal being, though one is more perfect than the other, and a third is still more perfect, and so on until we reach the most important organ which is the basis of the animal’s existence. This organ gives perfection to the animal, that is, it is an instrument by which perfect life flows to the animal as a whole. Thus, the heart is the basis of the animal’s existence, and it is an instrument by which life flows to all the organs and 45 On the three classes in Jewish thought, see detailed discussion in Melamed, Philosopher King, ch. 4. — 163 —

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in particular the brain, which in turn transmits sensation and motion to all the other organs. Thus the animal being maintains itself by the instrumentality, direct or indirect, of the heart. The same applies to mankind. All are equally human, yet human perfection reaches some individuals through the instrumentality of others. Just as all organs are necessary for the existence of the individual, and yet some stand higher in the scale than the others, and some receive their vital force through the instrumentality of others, and it is from the wise man that emanates the order which arranges the affairs of mankind so as to enable them to attain human perfection. This order is called a conventional or positive law (nimus).46 Thus the triple parallel emerges: the class of sages is compared to the heart, the class of leaders to the brain and the class of tillers of the soil to the other organs. Since the first is identified with Plato’s philosopherking, the structure of the analogy is preserved in full: his status is parallel to the heart, the organ that rules the body. Artistotle’s organic image of the heart as chief organ of the body has thus been grafted onto Plato’s political conception. IV. Up to this point the use of the organic analogy in Jewish political thought has been thoroughly consistent. From the Sages of the Midrash to the medieval scholars, the great majority followed the Aristotelian concept identifying the heart as the chief organ of the body. With their holistic and stratified perception of reality they saw the organic analogy as a useful tool for clarifying basic principles in the political order, leading to a wholly monarchic conclusion. The single and important exception was Maimonides who found a qualitative difference between the heart’s relation to the other organs and the king’s relation to the other powers and hence ruled out the analogy as a parallel. While Narboni and ibn Shueib used Galen’s tripartite analogy in an unusual way, they too reached the usual monarchic conclusion. In Isaac Abravanel’s bible 46 Albo, Roots (Husik), 1:6. Vol 1, p. 76. — 164 —

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commentaries, for the first time, the theocratic analogy is refuted and the accepted organic analogy too is criticized, on grounds of their irrelevance, and due to reservations about the accepted Aristotelian view of the heart as the controlling organ of the body as well. Abravanel, a native of Portugal, moved to Italy after the exile of the Jews from the Iberian Peninsula (1492) and finally settled in Venice; the Italian Renaissance influence over his political thinking is clear. Because he disapproved of monarchy and favored a mixed republican regime, Abravanel preferred Galen’s tripartite concept, which suited his needs better, to Aristotle’s organic perception with its monarchic political conclusion. Abravanel was well aware that the accepted organic analogy traditionally justified monarchic regimes. As he puts it: Because he [the king] is appropriate and essential for the people according to natural law (dat tiv’it), and as the scholar [Aristotle] mentioned in the place cited that it is impossible that a group of people be ruled without a leader before whom all matters will come, as to the heart in the living body and to God, blessed be He, in the universe, and so is it commanded in the divine Law, as it is said, “thou shalt set a king over thee.”47 And later: And the scholars [Aristotle and his followers] already thought so [that monarchy is essential] and that the king’s relation to the political association (kibbutz medini) is as the relationship of the heart to the living being that has a heart, and as the relationship to the universe of the First Cause, blessed be He.48 We found the outstanding examples of this position fully stated in aI-Farabi and ibn Pakuda. Since Abravanel’s purpose was to contradict the accepted arguments that monarchy accorded with nature and thus 47 Abravanel, Early Prophets, p. 204, col. 2. As previously found in ibn Pakuda, the attribution to Aristotle is incorrect. See n. 28 above. See also Melamed, “Abravanel.” On Abravanel’s attitude to monarchy and his preference for a republican regime, see Smoler and Averbach, “Abravanel.” 48 Abravanel, Early Prophets, p. 205, col. 2. — 165 —

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was the ideal regime, it was essential for him to discredit the organic analogy. He did so in two arguments, thus contradicting the monarchic conclusions drawn from it. The first was that this description of the human body was not necessarily correct, and that scholars were divided over the issue. The second was that even should the description be correct, it was not analogous to the structure of the state, and thus irrelevant: Indeed, as to the bodies of living things the wisest among the doctors have said there are three principle organs that control them, although according to the first of the philosophers [Aristotle] the heart is the only principle organ, but this Concerns the lowering of the spirit and it is not denied that there is control by the [intellectual] soul from the brain and of natural forces by the liver. To sum up, natural matters cannot be other than they are, and as for the choice of the people and [political] association, it belongs to the realm of the possible and one has naught to do with the other.49 Instead of Aristotle’s theory of the heart’s centrality, Abravanel presents Galen, of three central organs each with a different responsibility; the brain directs intellectual functions, the liver natural functions and the heart the spiritual functions. Moreover, he maintains that this does 49 Ibid, 206, head of col. 2. With that, elsewhere Abravanel cites the accepted formulation of the organic analogy, following al-Farabi, when he describes Moses’ kingly role within the tripartite republic created on Jethro’s advice. See Abravanel, Torah, p. 156, col. 2: “But the more ministers there are, the better the leadership of the people will be, provided they are set one below the other and all lead towards a single head, as explained in Abunasser [al-Farabi] in The Beginnings of Things. And this resemblance is found in the human organs and in the links to one another among the bodies in the universal order, reaching unto the First Cause, blessed be He.” Abravanel appears to have made pragmatic use of different theories (see also above, n. 47). However, the two organic theories could have been combined by maintaining that while there are three controlling organs, the heart is the foremost, as Narboni stated following ibn Tufayl. See another example of this formulation of the organic theory in Abravanel on Genesis, Torah, p. 16a, col. 1. This time the Organic theory is used to prove man’s right to control woman, perceived as the result of the hierarchical structure of all systems in the universe: “[...] And said, he shall rule over you, that it, is right and good that each man should rule his own household, so that all leadership is under one head, as one sphere surrounds all, and one heart polices and rules the body and all the people of the city are ruled by one king, and so it is proper that a man should rule over his wife, as form rules over matter, and this is neither woman’s punishment nor her curse.” Notice that Abravanel projects political imagery on the body, ruled by the heart. — 166 —

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not necessarily contradict the Aristotelian system, as we noted earlier in Albo. He did not favor Galen’s theory out of preference for any biological-medical perception current among scholars, for Abravanel was not a physician and not particularly interested in such matters. Rather he was supporting his political theory as a staunch opponent of monarchy, preferring a republican state based on three elements: monarchic, aristocratic and democratic that balanced one another. This perception was served by the tripartite theory of bodily function. Secondly, Abravanel had a contingency argument: suppose that the organic theory regarding the heart as the controlling organ is correct as to the living body, it is quite irrelevant regarding the political structure. In his view the analogy is invalid, together with the conclusions drawn from it, meaning that the support for monarchy is clearly and obviously invalid. His refutation assumes that the living body and the political structure are based on opposing principles, so they cannot be compared. Maimonides, as noted, made a similar claim, but out of different considerations. Abravanel explains that the living body is an integral part of the natural order based on deterministic principles, as accepted in Aristotelian physics. He explains: “Matters of nature cannot be otherwise.” Human society, by contrast, is based on free choice and not controlled by deterministic law: “The choice of a people or a group is a matter of what is possible.”50 Since the analogy is refuted, so are the conclusions drawn from it. In addition, Abravanel rebutted on grounds of its irrelevance the theocratic-cosmological theory of complete analogy between one God ruling in the cosmos and the king’s rule in the state, as accepted in medieval thought. Since the two parts of the comparison are based on entirely contradictory premises, no analogy can possibly be drawn between them: And how can one not wonder at the holders of this socalled opinion that compares the unity of the king in the realm to the unity of God, blessed be He? [The first] is 50 The reasoning is based on the distinction in medieval philosophy between three types of reality: that whose existence is essential to reality, which is God alone; that whose existence is possible in reality, which is the world God created, and that whose existence is impossible in reality, that is, conditions contravening the laws of nature and of logic. (See e.g. Maimonides, Eight Chapters, 1). In this instance, bodily function becomes deterministic from the moment God created the body and dictated its laws. But human society operates according to free will, based on the free choice of the practical and intellectual intelligence of its members, individually and collectively. — 167 —

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possible while the second is essential reality, as divine knowledge [metaphysics] explains.51 While reality demands the assumption of God’s unity, this is not so vis-à-vis the king, since his rule is not a necessary condition, but a matter for human choice and a mistaken choice at that, according to Abravanel. He unequivocally refuted monarchy as a regime for the logical reasons previously discussed, and for historical-empirical reasons as well. He preferred a republican regime of triple mixed government, which he found in ideal form in contemporary Venice, and in its original form in the regime Moses established on the advice of Jethro.52 V. The Venetian case provides the point of departure for the last example I know of where the organic analogy appears in Jewish political thought. It is in Simone Luzzatto’s Discorso circa il stato degli ebrei in venezia written in the first third of the seventeenth century, just before the analogy disappeared from political philosophy. As a reaction to sharp attacks against the Venetian Jews and to demonstrate the social and economic benefits they brought the city, Luzzatto, the Venetian Rabbi, developed an intricate social, economic and political theory based on the best Italian political thought of the late Renaissance from Machiavelli to Contarini and Botero. From them he also took his use of the organic analogy.53 Luzzatto would naturally have been familiar with its use in medieval Jewish thought. Like Abravanel, he used it to demonstrate the advantages of a tripartite republican regime, Venetian style, and like Anatoli and Albo he refers to the threefold functional, economic and social role of the state, all in the Platonic mode. But he uses the analogy as it was 51 Commentary on 1 Samuel 8, Early Prophets, p. 206, end of col. 1, top of col. 2. With that, Abravanel uses the analogy to deny unequivocally the right to rebel against an autocratic king: since the king is God’s representative on earth, the public owes him complete obedience. See commentary on 1 Samuel, ibid. 170, col. 2: “For the king on earth is as the Holy one blessed be He in the universe. Thus he has absolute power to punish even outside the law and, if the time requires it to cancel the general law, even as God, blessed be He, cancels the law of nature and He alone does great wonders, so the sovereign is the [sole) power in his kingdom, as the Holy One is in the universe.” Possibly Abravanel used this theory for his needs as a Bible commentator. At the same time one may assume that he introduces it to reinforce the description of monarchy as tyranny against which one may not even rebel, in the spirit of Samuel’s law of the king (1 Sam. 8) on which he comments here. 52 Smoler & Averbach, “Abravanel.” Melamed, “Venice”; idem, “Jethro.” 53 Melamed, “Luzzatto.” — 168 —

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used in the Italian political thought of his own time, and, moreover, wrote in Italian to prove his point: Like the body of man, so the powers and kingdoms are made up of three main parts: the soul and the spirit sustain them, and these are the rulers and counselors in charge of the public welfare. The organs that perform the duties and the actions imposed on them by the ruling group are the servants of the rulers, carrying out their orders, like soldiers carrying out their commanders” orders according to their rank and their positions. After them comes the blood and other fluids mingled with it, which accepted knowledge holds to be lifeless, but which nonetheless flow through the entire body and sustain it. This and similar elements in our bodies I find in the life of the state as merchants and artisans and all other people remote from political power and from public office. The money from their trade and diligent work feeds and provides for the government and the authorities in peace and no less so in wartime; indeed, the Hebrew word damim has two meanings: blood (dam) and also wealth, (danaro).54 The organic analogy is presented in full, as Luzzatto refers not to the tripartite structure of the regime, but rather to the comprehensive functional, economic and social structure of the republic as follows:

In the Human Body

The Role

In the State

The Soul

Decides and commands

The soul and spirit

Rulers and counselors

The Body

Executes, carries out

The organs

Officials, soldiers

Nourishes

The blood

Merchants, artisans

54 Luzzatto. Discorso, pp. 27-27a in the Italian source. Hebrew translation, p. 97. — 169 —

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Here too, only if each organ fills its role as it should, and all cooperate and obey the rulers willingly, can the living body—and the state—continue to exist and fulfill their destinies. Note Luzzatto’s stress on the role of nourishing the body and the state. This he does so that later he can prove the Jews’ essential role in the system. He found an ornamental element for the organic analogy in the Hebrew word for blood, damim, and saw no coincidence in its double sense of the blood nourishing the body and money, danari, nourishing the state. Elsewhere Luzzatto draws a parallel between the tax system and the stomach: the more people pay taxes, the less each person pays: When food is scarce, the stomach receives provision from the efforts and labours of the other organs, taking from them their special sustenance; while if food is abundant not only does the stomach not deprive them, but gives them of her own nourishment, which happens [in the state] with increased income from customs duties and trade.55 Just as cooperation of all the organs and the balance between them brings health to individual and state, so its absence brings illness: The statesman, however excellent and understanding he is, must try to share the property and wealth according to a precise scientific scheme, in keeping with laws of just distribution; [...] if this is not done, civil life will become monstrous (monstro nello stato civile) and no less ugly than [what would happen] in the living body.56 And we have already seen that the analogy between bodily and political health is secondary in the organic perception. The second context in which Luzzatto applies the analogy relates to different periods in the life of the state and in the life of the body: The fate of the great cities and their inhabitants is like the fate of the body of man. Its beginning is pitiful, 55 Ibid. Introduction, p. 80; Italian source, p. 7a. 56 Ibid., Discorso 7, p. 95; Italian source, p. 25. — 170 —

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and its origin goes virtually unrecognized, but regular nourishment leads to significant growth. But when he reaches the size that nature has ordained, growth ceases and for a long time he remains the same size. So it is with cities. When they reach a certain point in the size of their population and their wealth, and they stop developing, they either remain the same size or begin to diminish.57 Luzzatto obviously refers to Venice and the question is whether, and if so how, this imperial city-state can retain her greatness after long years of stability and recent signs of decline. We have already seen this context of the organic analogy in Machiavelli,58 and indeed the question of whether cities could survive in the long term troubled political thinkers of the time. The analogy between the body’s life span and that of the state applies only up to a point. While even healthy bodily life eventually comes to an end, and cannot be prolonged even in the best case, the great question is whether this is necessarily so for the body politic, which can renew itself even after a period of crisis. The assumption is that a wise ruler arising within the crisis-stricken state, restoring social and economic balance, can restore the state to its former greatness. This economic-political structure was developed to prove that the Jews were essential to the Venetian republic, which Luzzatto did with the help of the organic theory. After the passages showing the class structure of the state, he identifies the Jewish role with that of the blood: Nowhere in the world are the Jews other than part of this blood, which is money, the money that nourishes the body politic (corpo politico). They are not at the head and they have no governmental authority, and they lack even that propelling force that derives from power subordinated to others like the organs that serve the community, for they have no ties with the leadership. Only as simple folk among the general public do they benefit 57 Ibid., Discorso 3, p. 84; Italian source, p. 12a. 58 See above, n. 1 7. — 171 —

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the ruler at all times and in every hour of need.59 The blood is described as that part of the body that appears lifeless but reaches and nourishes all the organs. It does not need them but is essential for them, and renews itself perpetually, demonstrating that the Jews are essential to the republic as merchants. As such they burden no one, but bring benefits to the body politic as no other organ can. Luzzatto’s statement was made in a situation where the members of the Venetian aristocracy were no longer merchants and recourse to foreign traders might harm the republic, so that Jews were preferable for this essential purpose. Elsewhere, in precisely the same context, he identifies them with the foot to prove that they are no burden on the body politic, heaven forbid, but rather part of its base: And I think that in the body politic the Jews resemble that part of the leg that treads on the ground and because it stands below all the other organs does not become a burden to any of them but on the contrary supports them. I wish to say that because all occupations save trade are forbidden to Jews, they bring no loss to any other class.60 This brings to mind John of Salisbury’s identification of the foot with the peasant class,61 and Luzzatto applies this to the Jews for the very same reason. It derives from the apologetic motives for his writing, in keeping with the transition from a feudal to an early capitalist economy. Merchants and those dealing with money—in this case the Jews—replace the peasant class in the economic support of the state. However, for medieval Christian philosophy the position of the peasants as parallel to the foot, the lowliest organ of the body, the one that touches the earth, also expressed a negative attitude towards amassing material goods.62 Luzzatto, by contrast, regarded this as natural, even desirable, so he compared the position of the Jews to the blood—or feet—to show how essential they were to the republic, without, of course, becoming a 59 60 61 62

Ibid., Discorsi, 8. p. 97. Italian source, p. 27a. Ibid., Discorso, 6, p. 95. In Italian source, 24a. See n. 8 above. Le Goff, “Body,” p. 18. — 172 —

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burden to it. While Judah Halevi in his time identified Israel as the heart of the nations for theological motives, Luzzatto identified them with the foot, for economic and apologetic motives. In his later philosophic essay (Socrate, 1651), Luzatto returned to this analogy as part of a general perception that compared the macrocosmic world order with political order in the microcosm.63 The use of the organic analogy is in essence similar in both cases. However, in the Socrate we begin to feel the influence of new mechanistic physical theories: the body politic functions like the living body because both operate under the same system of natural causation. We see too the effect of new scientific medical knowledge. The organic theory of the state adapts to innovations in medical research just before it disappears altogether from political thought. Moreover, differently from the ideas behind the Discorsi, Luzzatto does not refer to the Jewish problem in this general philosophical essay. This is the last significant reference I know of to the organic analogy in Jewish literature. As noted earlier, with the development of modern political theory the perception of the state as a living body gave way to a mechanistic one. Such a view began to regard it as a technical framework set up by a group of individuals to satisfy needs and realize interests, 63 Luzzatto, Socrare, p. 268: “non fu parimente scarsa in sugerirci alcuno documento civile, la naturale constitutione del nostro humano sistema tre sono le officine e sonite principali della nostra vita. Il fegato distribuisce il sangue per mezo di vene per alimentare il nastro corpo, il cuore sporge per la condotta della inquiete arterie il sangue vitale a tutti li membri. il cerebro per mezo di nervi infonde il senso e mota per tutto il nostro ambito. a questo obediscono per mezo di muscoli l’ossi principal nostro robore, e fonezza. e la saggia natura talmente dispose le vene arterie, nervi, che sempre insieme uniti si trovano, dipendenda la vita nostra da tale societa. cosi parimente il corpo politico tiene tre fonti da cui scaturisce il suo mantenimento. La copia di vetovaglie per conservare la moltitudine quieta e pacifica ‘annona pelexare’. I’arario, il cuore che sparge quell sangue spiritoso del clanaro, che si distribuisce per mantenimento del stato, e in particolare nella soldatesca e in altri adminicoli de governo, ‘mil ites donis alicere’ e l’archivo delli consigli, stratageme, arcane dell’imperare, e publici prove dimenti, e quello che a guisa di celebro da il mota a tutta la machina; onde mentre che questi tre membri principali si trovano concordi, felice ri esce la civile construtione e e sanissimo il corpo politico”. Later on, Luzzatto uses the organic analogy in the context of international relations: he sees the function of weak nations as buffers between the great powers, thus preserving international peace. He compares this to the role of cartilage in the body that prevents friction between the bones: “di piu dall ‘edifitio del nostro corpo si advertische altro amaestrameto di stato, cioe che la sagace nature fra li piu duri e vicini oss i, che al cotinuo motto sono destinati, pose flessibile e pieghevole cartilagine; che se altrimente operata havesse, per il preseverante motto si attritarebbero e fragerebbero, cosi parimente conviene a stati potenti se in pace e quiete vogliono preserverare, che fra esse alcuno stato debole, e di minor forze sia posta; accio che destramente cede alii sol iti che fra vicini e fonfinanti accader fogliono, rimanendo quelli illesi e inoffesi”. Ibid. — 173 —

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where religious beliefs and rites became private matters, and in the public space all became equal as citizens regardless of their specific differences.64 The organic analogy had now completed its role—except in the case of various later national and nationalistic movements derived from Romanticism in modern times, where it would reappear. This change in the perception of the state was a factor in the changed attitude towards the Jews in modern times. The organic theory identified them at best as the basest parts of the body, like the stomach and the feet in Luzzatto’s apology. In worse cases, it identified them as a separate body hostile to and even parasitic upon the legitimate state; hence the desire to do away with, or at least to restrict them. Indeed, among the twentieth century developments from nineteenth century Romanticism were Fascism and Nazism, in which such images of the Jews appeared once again. By contrast, in the new liberal-mechanistic view they became equal members in a political community where ethnic and religious identity was supposed to recede to the private sphere.65

64 The first paragraph of Hobbes’ Leviathan, published in 1651, like Socrate, provides a typical example. Hobbes converted the organic structure to a mechanical one because he perceived the body as a machine in every respect: “Nature, the art whereby God hath made and governs the world, is by the art of man, as in many other things, so in this also imitated, that it can make an artificial animal. For seeing life is but a motion of limbs, the beginning whereof is in some principle part within; why may we not say, that all automata (engines that move themselves by springs and wheels as doth a watch) have an artificial life? For what is the heart, but a spring; and the nerves, but so many strings; [...] Art goes yet further imitating the rational and most excellent work of nature, man. For by art is created that great LEVIATHAN called a COMMONWEALTH, or State, in Latin Civitas, which is but an artificial man.” 65 Barzilay notes the link between the disappearance of the organic theory of the state and the emancipation of the Jews. See Barzilay, “Enlightenment,” pp. 248-249. — 174 —

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Chapter six

Jethro’s Advice in Medieval and Early Modern Jewish and Christian Political Thought

I. The exegete and the historian always interpret past events through their own eyes. They interpret these events from the viewpoint of current historical problems and philosophies. This is true today; it was all the more so in the Middle Ages, when thinkers never hesitated to give past events meanings directly relevant to their own period. This was sometimes done in a way that might seem totally uncritical to the modern mind. Only with the Renaissance did a more critical, “scientific” approach to both textual criticism and historical events gradually begin to emerge. This phenomenon stands out clearly in all the scientific and philosophic fields to which medieval biblical interpretation was related. This is particularly true in the field of political thought, which more than any other branch of philosophy is related to and influenced by current historical events. The phenomenon of viewing the past in terms of the present was fully consistent with the overall view of medieval biblical exegesis. Depending upon the commentator’s historical setting and philosophic opinions, it was possible to give the various parts of the Torah different meanings. This richness was possible due to the fact that all the commentators took as their premise that the Torah contains all wisdom, has multiple levels of meanings and interpretations, and relates simultaneously to past, present and future events.1 The commentaries on Jethro’s advice to Moses about how to organize the political system of the ancient Israelite state provide a good example of the operation of this phenomenon. Together with Deuteronomy 17, and 1 Samuel 8, which concern the problem of monarchy, Jethro’s advice was one of the main biblical sources used by medieval and early modem political thinkers. Jethro’s advice appears in the Bible in two different 1

For an illuminating discussion on this subject, see Rawidowicz, “Interpretation.” For an example of the political usage of biblical exegesis in medieval Christian thought, see Robinson, “Allegory.” — 175 —

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versions: Exodus 18:13-27 and Deuteronomy 1:12-17. The interpretations generally related to both versions, but sometimes combined them and had to solve some apparent contradictions between them. This study will analyze some of the main examples of the interpretation of Jethro’s advice in medieval and early modem Jewish and Christian political thought.2 These examples illuminate the development of commentarial tradition against the background of the changing historical realities and intellectual trends of the late Middle Ages and the Renaissance. The interpretations appear either in Bible exegesis itself, like the commentaries of ibn Ezra and Abravanel, or in political and philosophic treatises, like the writings of Thomas Aquinas, Yohanan Alemanno, David de Pomis, James Harrington, and others. Most of the discussions presented in the examples relate to Jethro’s advice in two related contexts. One is the narrow political context of the theory of government, in which the debate among the scholars relates to the system of government created by Moses, to its positive and negative aspects. Generally, this kind of discussion is based on Aristotle’s theory of government. The other, broader context relates to the relationship between the temporal and spiritual authorities; in other words, between politicians and prophets. II. Abraham ibn Ezra (twelfth-century Spain) wrote his commentary on Jethro’s advice against the background of the zenith of the feudal system. On the basis of numerical calculations and textual considerations, he came to the conclusion that the traditional view, by which the terms “rulers of thousands, rulers of hundreds,” etc., referred to the number of officials, is improbable. The traditional interpretation (Mechilta Sanhedrin, 18a and Rashi) calculated that the number of officials was exactly seventy-eight thousand, six hundred. Ibn Ezra rejected this opinion for three reasons: first, the rulers’ number in such a case would have been enormous, which is totally out of proportion to the overall number of 2

For a discussion of Jethro’s fortunes in Rabbinic and Patristic literature, see Baskin, Counsellors, ch. 2. Rabbinic literature mainly related to Jethro the proselyte. It was very difficult for the rabbinic mind to accept the idea that Moses’ judicial reform was initiated by a human being, all the more so by a gentile. This probably provided part of the impetus to turn Jethro into a convert to Judaism. The commentators who will be dealt with in this study gave different, more “political” solutions to this difficulty. As for the content and meaning of Jethro’s advice itself, the Sages had hardly anything to say. See also Garber, “Jethro.” — 176 —

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the Israelites: one-eighth of the whole people! Secondly, the Israelites did not need so many officials in the desert, since they were properly provided for by God himself.3 Finally, ibn Ezra notes, in apparent irony, that these officials were supposed to be “able men, such as fear God, men of truth, hating unjust gain” (Exod. 18:21). Biblical evidence, however, shows that these characteristics were not widely found,4 as Moses expressly stated during the travels in the desert, that God “hath not given you a heart to know, and eyes to see, and ears to hear, unto this day” (Deut. 29:4). Ibn Ezra concedes that it is possible to assume that the heads of the tribes, being only twelve in number and belonging to the generation which came from Egypt and attained their wisdom there,5 were endowed with all these qualities. This, however, was not the case with most of the people, who were born in the desert, were not endowed with wisdom, and had no need to learn the art of governing, which was taken care of by God. Thus, ibn Ezra concluded, the term “rulers of thousands,” etc., could not have referred to the number of rulers, but rather to the ruled—the number of people who were under the former’s jurisdiction. The rulers themselves were probably only the twelve heads of tribes.6 Although in accordance with the plain meaning of the biblical text, ibn Ezra’s interpretation is nevertheless unusual in that it does not agree with the traditional view. His interpretation was to be rejected by future commentators, like Abravanel, who interpreted the text in accordance with the Aristotelian theory of government, and came to the conclusion that the term signified the number of officials, not the size of the public they governed. Thus far we have discussed the problem of the number of rulers. The other main problem of interpretation concerns their functions. The biblical text specifically referred to judicial functions. Here, however, ibn Ezra interprets against the plain meaning of the text. In accordance with the traditional interpretation, he generally defined their functions as governance. Other commentators would broaden the functions of the rulers, going beyond governance to various political, judicial, and military functions. Actually this tendency can be detected in ibn Ezra 3 Commentary on Exod. 18. 4 Ibid. 5 Ibid. 6 Ibid. — 177 —

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himself. His distinction between the “able men, such as fear God, men of truth hating unjust gain” relates basically to the various qualities required of these officers. The “able men,” for instance, are defined as strong men, capable of hard work, unafraid of those they rule. Rashi, on the other hand, defined them as rich people, whose wealth enabled them to be impartial. Being strong, in ibn Ezra’s version, or being wealthy, as we find in Rashi, endows these officials with the necessary qualities for the proper functioning of their offices. Ibn Ezra, however, also defines “able men” as a particular function, relating the term to the particular way in which the rulers were elected according to the second version (Deut. 1:13)—“Get you ... men.” This formulation is equivalent to what we find in connection with the selection of military officers—”choose us out men, and go out, fight with Amalek” (Exod. 17:9). In fact, ibn Ezra relates the term “able men” to military functions. Ibn Ezra associates the two other categories (i.e., “such as fear God, men of truth ...”) only with the qualities required of the rulers, and not with their functions. Later commentators drew this distinction mainly in connection with the various functions the officers had to fulfill. Nachmanides, for instance, who did not agree with the limited definition, defined “able men” generally as political leaders.7 They might include military officers, but were not limited exclusively to them. Abravanel, as we shall find below, defined all three categories according to function and not qualities. As for the way in which the officials were elected, ibn Ezra pointed only to the fact that Moses chose the “able men” and “wise men,” but not “such as fear God,” which only God knows and elects. He did not comment at all on the fact that at least some of these officers were not chosen by Moses, but their election was relegated by him to the whole people. How can we understand the meaning of this omission? It was not apparently textual considerations alone that brought ibn Ezra to his unconventional interpretation of Jethro’s advice, but also the commentator’s interest in, and knowledge of, current historical and political realities. Ibn Ezra identified the various rulers with the counts, barons, and knights of the feudal system, who, like the rulers in his commentary, were distinguished from one another by the size of their fiefdoms and the number of their subjects. The fact that he identified the 7

Ibid. — 178 —

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rulers’ subjects as “slaves, boys and employees” and did not mention the fact that some of them were elected by the people reinforces this view. Ibn Ezra opposed the feudal system, in which the central authority was greatly weakened by the local rulers, who oppressed the population and preferred their private and local interests to the common good. He deduced from this situation that there was a direct causal link between the number of rulers and the amount of oppression. The more rulers one had, the more oppressed the population will be. It is not at all incidental that in this context ibn Ezra quoted Prov. 28:2—“For the transgression of a land many are the princes thereof.”8 Based on his opposition to the feudal system and his preference for a centralized monarchy, ibn Ezra has great reservations with the advice Jethro gave to Moses. He was the only commentator who, in fact, criticized and rejected Jethro’s advice. It is not at all accidental, in this respect that he reacted in silentio to Jethro’s criticism of Moses’ overburdened situation. Moses’ sole dominion as the good king was viewed by ibn Ezra as the perfect system of government.9 Jethro, however, persuaded Moses to replace this system with various rulers who, precisely like the feudal lords, were necessarily bound to exploit and oppress the people. For ibn Ezra, then, the realization of Jethro’s advice marked deterioration from the ideal state of a perfect monarchy to an oppressive feudal system.10 III. Thomas Aquinas made the greatest attempt of medieval Christian culture to mediate between Christianity and Aristotelianism. His political theories were based upon Aristotle’s Politics and tried to correlate Aristotelian political theory with the principles of Christianity as well as with contemporary historical circumstances.11 Employing Aristotle’s classification of governments in the third 8 Netanyahu, Abravanel, p. 308, n. 76. Abravanel disputed ibn Ezra’s interpretation, see below. Anatoli, Malmad, p. 142a, related to this verse in a different political context, that of the dangers of disobedience to legal authorities. See Melamed, “Anatoli,” especially p. 110, n. 60. 9 See his commentary on Gen. 49:10, in which the establishment of a kingship in Israel is declared an improvement on the previous state of affairs; and his pro-monarchist interpretation in the commentary on Deut. 17:15. Netanyahu, Abravanel, pp. 312-313. 10 Netanyahu, Abravanel, p. 168. See recenty Ratson, “Jethro,” who re-evaluates ibn Ezra’s discussion of this issue, based on ibn Ezra’s two commentaries on Jethro’s advice, and comes to somewhat different conclusions. 11 Aquinas, Political, the introduction. — 179 —

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book of Politics, Aquinas indicates that there are three basic kinds of government—monarchy, which is the reign of the virtuous individual; aristocracy, which is the government of the virtuous few; and democracy, which is identified by two basic characteristics: the officials being chosen from among the whole people and the whole people participating in this process. Following the theory developed by the Roman historian Polibius, Aquinas then concludes that the ideal government is a mixed, balanced combination of the three positive kinds of governments, a bene commixta in which the constitutional monarchy is limited by the two other parts of the system in order to avoid its possible deterioration into tyranny12 The government created by Moses, following Jethro’s advice, is interpreted by Aquinas in this context: “Et hoc fuit institutum secundum legem divinam.” 13 Aquinas combines in his interpretation the two versions of the biblical story. Moses represents the monarchic element. The aristocratic element is identified by Aquinas in the verse (Deut. 1:15), “So I took the heads of your tribes, wise men, and full of knowledge, and made them heads over you ...” and is apparent in two contexts. The first is the expression, “I took,” which refers to the fact that these people were elected by the monarch, Moses, according to certain criteria. The second context is the election of the officials in accordance with their virtues—“Wise men and full of knowledge” (“viros sapientes et nobiles”). The democratic element is found by Aquinas in two verses, each representing one of its characteristics. In the verse, “thou shalt provide out of all the people able men ...”) (“provide de omni plebe viros sapientes”) (Exod. 18:21), Aquinas sees proof that the rulers were elected from the whole people (“de omni plebe”); while the verse “Get you, from each one of your tribes, wise men, and understanding, and full of knowledge, and I will make them heads over you” (Deut. 1:13) is cited as evidence that these rulers were chosen by the people itself. These are the two criteria that Aquinas listed as constituting the democratic element in the ideal government—the election of officials from the people and by the people.14 It is interesting to note that Aquinas considered the rulers to be 12 Aquinas, Summa Theologia, quo 105, art. 1; idem, Political, p. 149. 13 Ibid. 14 Ibid. “Nam Moyses et eius successores gubernabant populum quasi singulariter omnibus principantes, quod est quaedem species regni. Eligebantur autem Septuaginta duo Seniores secuncum virtutem: dicitur enim Deuteron. 1:15 ‘Tuli de vestris tribubus viros sapicntes et nobiliset consti— 180 —

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identical with the seventy-two elders (Num. 15), in contrast to the great number advanced by traditional Jewish interpretation. Since Aquinas regarded the Old Testament as a preparatory stage in the history of salvation, he also viewed the Mosaic constitution, despite its divine origin, as temporary legislation, appropriate for the time and circumstances in which it was given. He disputed the Jewish claim of its everlasting validity. Nevertheless, he still regarded the government established by Moses on the basis of Jethro’s advice as an ideal constitution according to the Aristotelian-Polibian scheme—a mixed constitution headed by a limited monarchy; “unde patet quod optima fuit ordinatio principum quam lex instutuit.” 15 IV. The interpretations of Jethro’s advice, one by Don Isaac Abravanel at the beginning of the sixteenth century, and the other by David de Pomis at the end of the same century, both written in Venice, take us from the Middle Ages to the Italian Renaissance. These two interpretations also relate to Jethro’s advice in the context of the theory of government. Although both basically follow the Thomistic interpretation, the two interpreted the text according to the Venetian constitution, which was considered in that period to be the embodiment of the perfect mixed constitution.16 Accordingly, each gave the text a more radical republican meaning than did Aquinas. Whereas ibn Ezra reached an extreme monarchic position, based on his rejection of the contemporary feudal system, Abravanel and de Pomis presented the opposite view: an anti-monarchic and republic position, which was based on the model of the Venetian constitution of their time. In this respect, the two exegetes represent an exceptional position in the history of Medieval and Renaissance Jewish political philosophy, which was basically monarchic.17 Abravanel’s discussion, the longest and most complex of all interpretuti eos principes’; et hoc erat aristocraticum. Sed democraticum erat quod isti de omni popUlo eligebantur; dicitur enim Exod. XVIII, 21; ‘Provide de omni plebe viros sapientes,’ etc., et etiam quod populus eos eligebar; unde dicitur Deuteron. 1:13; ‘Date ex vobis viros sapientes,’ etc. Unde patet quod optima fuit ordinatio principum quam lex instituit.” 15 Aquinas, Political, pp. 150-151. 16 For the myth of Venice, see Bouwsma, Venice. For its Jewish interpretation, see Melamed, “Venice” (below, ch. 8). 17 Blidstein, “Monarchic”; idem, Ekronot. Strauss, “Abravanel”. Smoler and Averbach, “Abravanel.” — 181 —

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tations of Jethro’s advice, relates to all the aspects of both versions of the biblical text. In accordance with his Scholastic method of biblical interpretation, Abravanel opened with a series of questions concerning the meaning of the text, and proceeded to answer them one by one.18 The first question concerns the manner in which Jethro reacted to Moses’ leadership. Jethro watched incredulously how Moses was burdened with leading the people from morning to evening. The fact that Moses did not spend much time with his visiting father-in-law, but resumed official duties the very next morning, only reinforced the older man’s bewilderment. Jethro, however, did not immediately criticize Moses’ behavior, but asked his son-in-law to explain, in order, according to Abravanel, first to establish whether Moses had some hidden purpose or was obeying a divine command. Jethro’s question, “Why sittest thou thyself alone, and all the people stand about thee ...” (Exod. 18:14), was traditionally related to in the context of Moses’ position vis-a-vis the people of Israel. Rashi, for instance, interpreted the question as a criticism of Moses for dishonoring the people by keeping them standing all day, while he remained seated. Ibn Ezra disagreed, arguing that it was improbable to assume that Jethro would have dared to criticize Moses in such a fashion. Ibn Ezra thought Moses had been acting properly in his capacity as a judge, according to the established custom. The question form “why?” did not imply criticism but enquiry. Abravanel agreed with ibn Ezra on this point, that Jethro’s question did not relate to the fact of Moses’ remaining seated, since this was the way it should be, but rather to his judging the people alone, unassisted. Moses’ answer, according to Abravanel, was that the people came to him for four different purposes, for each of which he acted in a different capacity. Ibn Ezra had related to two functions only—judging the people and explaining divine law. The four purposes and their equivalent functions were as follows: 1) To learn what is going to happen in the future (Moses as soothsayer); 2) For various public needs (Moses as king); 3) For judicial purposes (Moses as judge); 4) To learn divine laws and commandments (Moses as wise man who knows the Torah). 18 On Abravanel as biblical commentator see Segal, “Abravanel,” and recently Lawee, Stance. — 182 —

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In order to fulfill all four functions properly, Moses was forced to sit from morning to evening. Only after Moses explained what he was doing and why, did Jethro, the wise and experienced leader of the Midianites, find it proper to criticize him. Jethro’s reaction, “The thing that thou doest is not good. Thou wilt surely wear away, both thou and this people that is with thee; for the thing is too heavy for thee, thou art not able to perform it thyself alone” (Exod. 18:17-18), is interpreted by Abravanel to mean that Moses was fulfilling too many capacities, some of which could be handled by other functionaries. The grave consequences of this overburden were that Moses could not function constantly in his most important capacity, which was prophecy—“Since he was so busy, prophecy could not descend upon him all the time.” By transferring some of his duties to other officials, Moses would become free to function as a prophet; in this way, the people would be better cared for, he would not wear away, and the people would not wear away with him. This interpretation of Jethro’s advice is consistent with Abravanel’s anti-Maimonidean conception of prophecy as essentially a nonpolitical phenomenon.19 Based on these premises, according to Abravanel, Jethro examined which functions Moses had to keep for himself and which he could transfer to other officials. Three of Moses’ functions—soothsayer (which was one of the functions of prophecy), king, and wise man—could not be transferred. They were integral parts of his divine mission. By way of elimination, consequently, Jethro learned that only the judicial functions could be transferred to other people. Even this, though, should be done in a manner in which the “great matter”—the most important judicial problems—would still be brought before Moses, while the “small matter,” the less important judicial problems, would be transferred to the judges he appointed. At this stage, before the Torah was given,20 Moses had to judge the 19 See his commentary on 1 Kings, 3, Early Prophets, p. 480: “Even if we admit that the prophets’ degree of wisdom was equivalent to their degree of prophecy, still this should not be related to the knowledge in which Solomon excelled, which is the governance of the household [economics] and the state [politics] (hanhagat ha-bayyit ve-ha-medinah), since all these are far removed from the business of prophecy. You can see how Jethro criticized Moses in the case of the judges, until he instructed him the proper way of the appointment of rulers and the governance of the people. This since Moses and the rest of the prophets did not occupy and bother themselves with such base issues.” Also Lerner, “Maimonides.” 20 There is a dispute among the commentators as to when Jethro’s visit to Moses took place, before — 183 —

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people alone, since no one but he knew the Torah. Only after the Torah was given, which occurred immediately after Jethro’s visit, could Moses appoint judges to rule according to the laws of the Torah and transfer to them some of his responsibilities. In principle, then, Moses did accept Jethro’s advice, but he could not carry it out until after the Torah was given. This, according to Abravanel, is the reason that in the second version, Moses related the appointment of the rulers to himself and did not mention Jethro at all. This reasoning also explains why different qualities are related to the rulers in the two versions. In the first version, Jethro advises Moses to appoint “able men, such as fear god, men of truth, hating unjust gain” (Exod. 18:21); the second version tells us that Moses appointed “wise men, and understanding, and full of knowledge” (Deut. 1:13). According to Abravanel, it was impossible to appoint wise men before the Torah was given, since all wisdom is included in the Torah; and Jethro did not know that the Torah was about to be given.21 As for the way in which the rulers were chosen, Abravanel found much significance in the fact that the two versions differ on this point. Jethro advised Moses to choose the rulers himself, as the verse indicates—“thou shalt provide ... and place such over them ...” (Exod. 18:21). Moses followed this advice in the first version—“And Moses chose able men out of all Israel, and made them heads over the people” (Exod. 18:25). The second version, however, tells a different story altogether. Here Moses requested of the people: “get you ... men” (Deut. 1:13); that is to say, he transferred the election of the officials to the people themselves. According to Abravanel, Moses did not exactly accept Jethro’s advice on this point, so that it would not be said that he behaved like Korah, who appointed his relatives to official duties and was punished accordingly.22 Moses, however, did not simply transfer the election to the people; he gave them clear instructions to choose appropriately, according to the candidates’ virtues and their suitability to fulfill judicial, politi-

or after the Torah was given. Abravanel came to the conclusion that Jethro had visited Moses and given his advice before Sinai, and hence his conclusion. See also in Isaac Arama’s commentary, Akedat, p. 90. 21 Nachmanides has another explanation for the omission of wisdom from the first version. See Comm. on Exod. 18. 22 Cf. Anatoli’s political interpretation of the story of Korah (Malmad, p. 142a), in connection with the problem of disobedience to legal authority. See n. 8 above. — 184 —

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cal and military duties.23 Abravanel indicates that Moses directed the people to choose officials according to their virtues, not their lineage. Although, he hastened to add—probably considering himself to be a good example—virtuous and able men will naturally be found mainly in distinguished families.24 Thus, Moses chose to act in a more democratic manner than what was counseled. Jethro had advised him to create a system that would basically have been a combination of monarchy and aristocracy, in which the monarch appoints officers from distinguished families according to their abilities. This interpretation clearly expresses Abravanel’s republican leanings, and is basically similar to Aqumas. The system of government created by Moses, then, was a mixed constitution, in the AristotelianPolibian mode: Moses represents the monarchic element; the election of officials from distinguished families (though in accordance with their virtues and abilities), the aristocratic element; and their choice by the people, the democratic element. What does the term “rulers” mean? Like most other commentators, Abravanel extended their duties much beyond the limited judicial functions referred to in the plain meaning of the text. He distinguished between judicial duties, to which he imparted a much broader meaning of political leadership, and military duties during times of war and peace. As for the virtues of these rulers, and the difference between the two versions in this respect, the quality of wisdom is found only in the second version. The meaning Abravanel gave to the term “able men” in the first version is that of military leaders; as such, he criticized their identification by Rashi as wealthy people. Abravanel’s interpretation is based on the fact that he ascribed to the rulers general judicial and military functions. Moses seemingly appointed only judges and officials, but not military personnel, despite the fact that the latter were essential if one took into consideration the wars that the people of Israel would have to fight on their way to the Promised Land and while conquering it. It was logical for Abravanel, therefore, to conclude that “able men” meant military leaders. He found textual proof for this in the fact that the rulers of hundreds and of thousands are mentioned in

23 Abravanel, commentary on Deut. 1. 24 Again, compare this with Nachmanides’ more theocratic and “democratic” interpretation. Ibid. — 185 —

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the war with the Midianites.25 The three virtues mentioned in the second version—“wise men, and understanding, and full of knowledge” (Deut. 1:13)—are related by Abravanel to what Moses said in the previous verse: “How can I myself alone bear your cumbrance, and your burden, and your strife.” These .are identified as the three areas in which Moses and the lesser officials should lead the people: “your cumbrance” refers to judicial matters— problems among people in the political organization, for which particular purpose the “wise men” were elected; “your burden” to the duty to bring the people of Israel to the Promised Land and to provide for all their needs while on their way, to which end the “understanding men” were elected; finally, “your strife,” the battles the people of Israel would have to fight against their enemies, for which purpose the “men full of knowledge” were chosen. The last group is associated with the “able men” of the first version—the military leaders; they are called “full of knowledge,” since every fighting man has to relate to them in military matters. The “wise men” are defined as “men who know the Torah and the sciences, perfected in their theoretical intellects”; the “understanding men” as “men who are knowledgeable in political science, perfect in practical intellect.” Since the attainment of both practical and theoretical intellect is found but in very few people, Moses distinguished between the two characteristics and appointed officials accordingly of the various functions. The wise men, perfect in theoretical intellect, were appointed to judicial duties, while the understanding men, perfect in the practical intellect, were named to lead the people to the Promised Land and to provide for all their needs.26 The main problem of interpretation with which Abravanel had to deal—in both versions—was that of the nature of the authority and responsibilities of the various officers. His starting point was that of criticism of ibn Ezra’s unusual interpretation. As discussed above, ibn Ezra assumed that the term “rulers of thousands, of hundreds,” etc., referred 25 Num. 31:14. 26 Commentary on Deut. 1.Compare Maimonides’ usage of Jethro’s advice in his description of the virtues required from the members of the Sanhedrin. Hilchot Sanhedrin, 2:7. Maimonides combines the virtues mentioned in the two versions. Since he relates the virtues to the members of a judicial institution, they all acquire the appropriate meaning. Thus, for instance, for him, “able men” are not military leaders, as Abravanel describes them, but rather righteous people. — 186 —

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to the number of people under the dominion of these officers. Based upon this interpretation, he criticized Jethro’s advice. Abravanel agreed that if the case were really so, it would be an abhorrent situation—that the people of Israel, still wandering in the desert, would have so many servants and slaves. Abravanel, however, rejected ibn Ezra’s interpretation outright; he called it “a mistaken opinion” (da’at nifsad),27 finding it logically and textually impossible for these reasons: 1) The people of Israel had only recently left Egypt, where not only did they not have any servants and slaves; they themselves were slaves to the Egyptians. 2) Since it was said about Moses himself that he had but one servant, Joshua (Exod. 33:11), it is impossible to assume that the rest of Israel had plenty of servants. 3) Since it is written that the whole congregation was holy and that the Lord dwelled in their midst (Num. 14:14), it is impossible to assume that one part of the people would be slaves to the other part. 4) As the Lord looked after the people of Israel in the desert, providing for all their needs and sending them manna from heaven, it follows that they had no need of servants and slaves. Abravanel’s conclusion was that it is wrong to assume that “rulers of thousands,” etc., has to do with the number of people under these officers’ charge, but, following the traditional interpretation, with the number of officers.28 On this basis, too, Abravanel rejected ibn Ezra’s interpretation of the verse “for the transgression of a land many are the princes thereof” (Prov. 28:2). He held the verse to mean that all the officers were in the same position, and that this was the cause of the transgression. Jethro, however, advised Moses to create a different, hierarchical system of government, in which the lower officials would be under the jurisdiction of 27 Ibid. 28 The same criticism of ibn Ezra’s opinion is found in Arama’s commentary, Akedat, p. 92. Arama deals at length with Jethro’s advice, but he hardly discusses its specific political contexts, except to say that Jethro’s advice belongs to the realm of politics. The same applies to Anatoli’s sermon on this chapter in Malmad, pp. 60-62. — 187 —

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the upper. This hierarchical political system, Abravanel asserted, quoting al-Farabi’s Book of Principles, conformed to the order of the physical world and paralleled the functions of the living organism.29 Thus, although in the narrow sense of the theory of government, Abravanel followed the Aristotelian-Polibian system, in the broader context of the status of the political organization in the order of creation, he adopted a Platonic-Farabian position. The very need to divide the people into subgroups of a manageable size is the result of their sheer number, otherwise it would be impossible to govern properly. This, according to Abravanel, is the reason that Jethro did not advise Moses to appoint rulers of ten thousands or rulers of a hundred thousand. The biggest group in Jethro’s plan consisted of a thousand people only. As for the division of functions among the officials, Abravanel presents three possibilities. The first two relate to the division of judicial functions according to the distinction between various kinds of jurisprudence and the degree of severity of the criminal offenses. The third possibility, which Abravanel accepts, concerns the political differences among the officials. These differences are actually between the various political, judicial, and legal assemblies that are supposed to function in a proper political system, one which is “A city full of people, great among the nations” (Lam. 1:1). Accordingly, Abravanel distinguished between the council of the thousand, the council of the hundred, the council of the fifty or forty, and the council of ten, the last of which stands at the top of the political hierarchy. This system of government that Abravanel found in Jethro’s advice was modeled on the Venetian constitution. Abravanel resided in Venice during the last years of his life, after his expulsion from the Iberian Peninsula and his years of wandering in Italy. From 1502 he was employed by the Venetian government as a financial adviser, and it was there in Venice that he wrote his commentary on the Book of Exodus in 1505.30 Abravanel’s direct acquaintance with the Venetian political system strongly influenced his political thought and his interpretation 29 Comm. on Exod. 18. Cf. aI-Farabi, Hathalot, esp. pp. 40-41. Rosenthal, Islam, ch. 6. 30 On Abravanel’s life in Venice, see Netanyahu, Abravanel, 1:4; on the date of the completion of Abravanel’s commentary on Exodus, ibid., pp. 158, 170. — 188 —

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of the Mosaic constitution. The comparison of the second version of Jethro’s advice with the Venetian constitution is only briefly mentioned by Abravanel,31 whose commentary on the Book of Deuteronomy had been started in Portugal in 1460, and was rewritten and completed much later, in 1495, when he was already in Italy. Even this brief mention of Venice, however, demonstrates that the fame of this city-state had already reached Abravanel when he was still in Iberia. Indeed, praise of Venice and other Italian republics appears in his commentaries to Deuteronomy 17 and I Samuel 8, which were written in Portugal in 1483.32 In the commentary to Exodus 18 the influence of the Venetian constitution is strongly felt. The Mosaic constitution constituted under Jethro’s advice is interpreted as a Venetian-style mixed government. This form of government was regarded as the archetype of the perfect constitution in early modern political thought. Abravanel identified its first and most perfect realization in the Mosaic constitution.33 His comparison with the various political, legal and judicial assemblies in Venice will also enable us better to understand Abravanel’s interpretation of the functions of the biblical assemblies. Thus, the council of the thousand is paralleled to the Grand Council of Venice (Consiglio Maggiore), which was the general legislative body, consisting at that time of more than a thousand members of the Venetian nobility. The council of the hundred has its parallel in the Venetian Senate (Consiglio de Pregadi), which was a governing body chosen by the Grand Council. The analogue of the council of fifty is the Quarantils, the two judicial councils, of forty members each. Finally, the council of ten is paralleled to the Venetian Consiglio dei Dieci, which was the supreme executive body of the Venetian state. Abravanel insisted that the Venetian system was the full embodiment of the Mosaic system.34 If we venture to continue this comparison, we can also conclude that Moses, who kept the “great matter” in his own hands, but relegated the “small matter” to the various officers, is the equivalent of the Doge, who 31

Comm. on Deut. 1: “And you should know that all these four kinds of governance I mentioned here do exist in Venice in this very time.” 32 Netanyahu, Abravanel, p. 158. 33 Ibid., pp. 166-173; above, n. 16. 34 Comm. on Ex. 18: “And I have not doubt that this is what is meant here in the matter of the rulers of thousand and rulers of hundreds.” — 189 —

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presided over the complicated machinery of the Venetian constitution. Moses’ position, though, was based upon divine choice; and despite the relegation of authority, he still occupied a unique kingly and prophetic position. The authority of the Venetian Doge, on the other hand, was much more limited. He was chosen by the various councils, and his position was, at best, that of first among equals. In Abravanel’s interpretation of the Mosaic system as a mixed constitution, following the Aristotelian-Polibian model, the council of the thousand, the Venetian Great Council, represents the democratic element; the council of the hundred, the Venetian Senate, represents the aristocratic element; and Moses, who is equivalent to the Venetian Doge, represents the monarchic element. Nevertheless, a comparison of this interpretation of Jethro’s advice with the Venetian constitution will reveal that both the monarchic and democratic elements appear stronger in the former system of government. While the members of the various Venetian councils were elected from and by a closed, narrow oligarchic group, Moses, in Abravanel’s opinion, transferred the election of the officials to the people as a whole (although such officials would, of course, be elected from noble families since they naturally produce virtuous people). Thus, in comparison with the Venetian constitution, which was essentially oligarchic, the Mosaic constitution, for Abravanel, was more nearly perfect in the balance it created among the three positive kinds of government. With this interpretation, Abravanel overturned the meaning of the text. According to the plain reading of the biblical text, it is clear that the rulers were officials whose authority was limited to a certain number of people. It necessarily follows that the more people that were under their jurisdiction, the more authority they had. Thus, the rulers of thousands held the greatest authority. The Venetian interpretation of the text, in which the term “rulers of” related to the rulers themselves, not to the ruled, necessitated the conversion of authority, placing the rulers of tens at the top of the hierarchy and the rulers of thousands at the bottom. Abravanel’s republican outlook, though influenced by the Italian experience, is basically a consequence of his theocratic position.35 He 35 Baer, in his “Abravanel,” claimed that Abravanel’s republicanism has to be understood against the background of his humanist leanings (ibid., p. 256). Strauss, “Abravanel,” p. 116, agrees, though he limits Abravanel’s “republicanism” basically to mean “anti-monarchism”; he also refers to Abravanel’s “so-called republicanism” (ibid., p. 127). Netanyahu, Abravanel, p. 183, disputes this theory and cor— 190 —

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envisioned the perfect constitution as a theocracy, in which God’s will rules supreme. Being influenced by the papal position in the great debate of medieval Christendom between the temporal and spiritual authorities,36 he distinguishes two separate levels in the hierarchy of the Mosaic constitution—the spiritual authority (hanhaga ruhanit), which stood at the pinnacle and was headed by the prophets and the priests; and the temporal authority (hanhaga enoshit), which was subordinate and made up of a mixed government headed by a limited monarchy. This, to Abravanel, was the kind of government that Jethro advised Moses to constitute. Thus, the Mosaic constitution was essentially a theocracy, headed by the spiritual authority, in which the lower, temporal authority possessed strong republican characteristics.37 With this background, we can also understand Abravanel’s concept of prophecy as it appears in his interpretation of Jethro’s advice. In contrast to Maimonides, Abravanel viewed prophecy as a non-rational and a-political phenomenon. This view is apparent from Abravanel’s structure of the Mosaic constitution, in which prophecy is placed at the top of the spiritual authority, far above and removed from the mundane issues of temporal authority. For Abravanel, Jethro understood this concept when he advised Moses to relegate some of his Judicial, political, and military authority to lesser officials so as to be free to function in his unique capacity, that of prophet. It is the reason that even Moses, the greatest of all prophets and the only one in whom prophecy and monarchy combined, needed Jethro’s advice. Although Moses’ father-in-law was no prophet and no Jew, he was an experienced politician, and as such he knew how to organize the Israelite government. Moses then applied Jethro’s advice according to the special needs of the time and his divine wisdom.38

rectly argues that Abravanel’s anti-monarchism has to be understood mainly against the background of his theocratic position, not his humanism, which itself was not necessarily republican. 36 Netanyahu, Abravanel, pp. 189-194. 37 For the entire development of the system, see Netanyahu, Abravanel, pp. 166-189. 38 Commentary on Ex. 18: “Thus, Jethro was right in respect to what the political governance demands, while Moses acted according tp the Divine intention and the need of the hour.” We have already seen that Moses did not accept all of Jethro’s advice, but applied it according to his own Divine wisdom and the special situation of his people. The biblical verse, however, indicates that Moses did accept all of Jethro’s advice: “So Moses hearkened to the voice of his father-in-law, and did all that he had said” (Exod. 18:24). Abravanel solved this contradiction by arguing that Moses so “hearkened” only to honor his father-in-law. — 191 —

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V. In the introduction to a medical tract, written in Latin and dedicated to the Venetian Doge and Senate (1588), David de Pomis39 included a long discussion in praise of the Venetian constitution, which he identified with the ancient Mosaic constitution. De Pomis mainly cited the two traditional biblical sources -Samuel’s oration on the ius regis and Jethro’s advice. Following Abravanel, he used Samuel’s oration in order to reject monarchism, and Jethro’s advice to present the republican alternative.40 Like Abravanel, de Pomis viewed the ancient Hebrew government as a mixed constitution, similar to the Venetian republican model. The parallelism he found between the rulers appointed by Moses and the various councils in the Venetian political system is identical with Abravanel’s theory. The “able men such as fear God” (viros fortes e timentes Deum), from which the rulers were chosen in the Mosaic constitution, are identified by de Pomis with the closed Venetian oligarchy, from which the various functionaries of the republic were elected. The rulers of thousands (Millenarious) were associated with the Grand Council (Consiglio Grande), the basis of the Venetian political hierarchy, which consisted of all the adult men of the old aristocratic families. In 1581, for instance, only a few years before de Pomis wrote his introduction, only 1843 men, from a population of almost two hundred thousand, were eligible to join the Grand Council.41 Similarly, de Pomis parallels the rulers of hundreds (Centuriones) with the Venetian Senate, which consisted of one hundred and twenty members and was the main legislative body of the republic. The rulers of fifty (Quinquagenarios) were equated with the three judicial councils (Quarantia), each consisting of forty judges. The rulers of tens (Decanos) were identified with the Consiglio dei Dieci, the main executive body of the Venetian republic.42 39

For general information of de Pomis, see Roth, Venice, pp. 186-188. Shulvass, Renaissance, pp. 287, 292, 313, 320, 354, 356. De Pomis’ medical tract, published in Venice in 1588, is entitled Enarratio Brevis de Senum Affectibus. On this tract, see also Munster, “Enarratio.” 40 Melamed, “Venice.” 41 Fink, Republicans, p. 30. 42 “As nostrum ergo, revertamur propositum, Venetiarum Respublica, Divinarum imitatrix, observartixque istitutionem, existit, Vide qUid dextrat (non absque; coelesti consensu), Idro’ generi suoi Moysi, iuxta Senarus ordinem? Inquit (Exo. c.18) Provide autem, de omni tribu viros fortes, e timentes Deum, in quibus sit viritas; e qui oberint avaritiam, e constitute ex eis tribunos, e centu— 192 —

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If the analogy were to be continued, then Moses would be seen as the equivalent of the Venetian Doge, albeit with basic differences between them. De Pomis, like Abravanel, however, did not directly state this analogy, perhaps refraining from doing so because Moses’ position as prophet and king was considered so unique as to be incomparable with any other political figure. Like most other commentators, de Pomis also broadened the functions of the rulers from limited judicial duties to various political roles. Like Abravanel, too, his identification of the Mosaic constitution with its Venetian counterpart forced a reversal of the plain meaning of the biblical text concerning the authority of the various rulers. For de Pomis, too, the rulers of the tens were at the top of the political pyramid, while the rulers of the thousands were at its bottom, again in clear contrast to the plain reading of the text. Despite their comparison with the Venetian system, both Abravanel and de Pomis gave the Mosaic constitution a much stronger republican flavor, presenting the latter system as a much more evenly balanced mixed constitution. Abravanel went even further, strengthening the democratic element by preferring the second version (Deut. 1), in which Moses transferred the election to the people themselves. The Venetian system, on the other hand, was in reality basically oligarchic, with much weaker monarchic and democratic elements. By making the comparison in the first place, however, both Abravanel and de Pomis shared a contemporary idealist concept of Venice as the Repubblica Perfetta, which totally ignored the fact that Venice was actually nothing more than a closed oligarchy. De Pomis could have been influenced by Abravanel’s commentary. There is no direct evidence to support this contention, and it is equally possible that he developed the same interpretation of the biblical text on the basis of the similar historical and intellectual climate in which he was active. De Pomis’ praise of the Venetian constitution in an introduction riones, e quinquagenarios, e Decanos, qui iudicent populem omni tempore, quicquid autem maius feurit, referunt ad te, e ipsi minora tantummodo iudicent; Lebviusque; sit tibi, partito in alios onore; Si hoc feceris, implebis Imperium Dei Suasit ut eligeret homines fortes, hoc est potentes e in voluptatibus continentes; e ex ipsis constitueret millenarios, ut sunt Clarissimi Veneti; qui magnum consilium ingrediuntur; e Centuriones quierant minoris numeri, loco ordinis cestrirum inservientes rogatorum. Quinmquagenerii vero, vice quadragintorum Veneti Senatus; Decani autem ut sunt illi, qui decem Senatorum consilium constituunt.” Quoted from the introduction, unnumbered page. — 193 —

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to a medical book, dedicated to the Doge, obviously has strong apologetic overtones.43 The comparison between the perfect ancient Mosaic government and the contemporary Venetian republic enabled him to flatter the Venetians and simultaneously to prove the superiority of the Jews even in the political arena. It was, after all, Moses, leader of the Hebrews, who had created the most perfect political system, one which became the archetype of every perfect constitution, then exemplified by the Venetian republic. VI. In Yohanan Alemanno’s two main compositions, Heshek Shelomo (The Passion of Solomon) and Hai Ha’Olamim (The Eternal), written in Florence in the late fifteenth century,44 we find a different approach to Jethro’s advice. Alemanno’s interpretation is based upon al-Farabi and Averroes’ commentaries and interpretations of Plato’s Republic, in their Hebrew translations and paraphrases. The introduction to Heshek Shelomo, “Shir ha-Ma’alot li’Shlomo” (Song of Solomon’s Ascents), extensively describes King Solomon’s various virtues. The king is presented as the prototype of the ideal philosopherking, one of whose main qualities is the ability to rule righteously. Following al-Farabi and Averroes, Alemanno gives this concept a distinctly Platonic meaning. The purpose of justice is to deliver the people from the sickness of the soul and to restore them to virtuous life and spiritual perfection. The philosophic state, “whose people are all wise, all understanding, all knowledgeable of justice,” no longer needs the services of the judge, who is the physician of the soul, since its members have all reached perfection.45 The goal of the ideal state is demonstrated by Alemanno with the example of Jethro’s advice. Moses appears in the Platonic image of the physician of the soul, unrealistically intending to restore the people to perfection; not only to bring the wicked to justice but to deliver all the people to the perfection of the soul, so they would need a judge no more. This is the reason for Moses’ sitting and judging the people from morning to evening, according to Alemanno. Since Moses naively as43 On the apologetic element, see Melamed, “Luzzatto”; idem, “Florence.” 44 Cassuto, Firenze, 3:3. Alemanno, Songs (Lesley) vol. 1, introduction, pp. 4-70. Melamed, “Encyclopaedias”; idem, “Florence.” 45 Alemanno, Songs (Lesley) vol. 2, p. 504. Averroes, Republic (Rosenthal), 1, p.15. — 194 —

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sumed that it was possible to bring everybody to a condition of virtuous behavior, his efforts were doomed to fail. Their only result would have been to wear him away, together with the people who were with him. Moses’ experienced, politically shrewd, father-in-law, on the other hand, had no such illusions about human nature. He knew perfectly well that any effort to lead all people to virtuous behavior was bound to fail, since most people were corrupt beyond reform. Accordingly, he advised Moses to appoint the rulers, presumably to judge these people who were beyond reform, to rule them, and to punish them.46 The second version of Alemanno’s interpretation of Jethro’s advice is found in Hai Ha-Olamim, a long, tedious dialogue dealing with the gradual development of man from the moment of conception until his attainment of spiritual perfection. Discussing the period of youth, one of the participants in the dialogue argues that it is appropriate for a young man to be sent for a few years to another country distinguished for its good laws and customs, so that he might learn and broaden his horizons.47 As an example, Alemanno tells the biblical story of Moses’ escape to the desert after killing the Egyptian and his arrival at Jethro’s court. Alemanno interprets this story as an expression of a hidden, divine plan to bring Moses to another country famous for its political system, so that he might learn the secrets of political government before embarking upon his leadership of the Israelites. Jethro, the Midianite priest, is presented as a man who is perfect not only in practical wisdom, but in theoretical wisdom as well. Moses is said to have learned from him all wisdoms—practical, theoretical, and even metaphysical.48 According to Abravanel and other commentators, Moses learned from Jethro only political wisdom; his knowledge of theoretical wisdom was considered to be an integral part of his divine, prophetic mission. For Abravanel, divine wisdom and prophecy were totally separate from political leadership. Alemanno’s unusual interpretation was influenced by the Platonic Averrist concept, by which the philosopher, prophet, and king are inseparable entities. 46 Alemanno, Songs (Lesley), vol. 2, p. 504. Compare Ex. 32:22. 47 Hai Ha’Olamim, Mantua Mss. 801, fol. 107. Melamed, “Florence,” pp. 7, 34. 48 Ibid.: “This is what God did to Moses when he sent him to Midian, to Jethro’s house, where he studied with him the political wisdom (hokmah medinit) snd the theoretical – Divine wisdom [metaphysics].” — 195 —

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Alemanno elaborates on what is found in the first version, giving the whole story of the Exodus a distinctly Platonic interpretation as well. The people of Israel in this telling were profoundly corrupt when they left Egypt and began wandering in the desert. They were what Plato and al-Farabi called “luxury lovers.”49 They erected the golden calf when Moses lingered on Mount Sinai. Discovering the hardships of life in the desert, they wanted to return to the Egyptian “fleshpots.” They followed Korah and rebelled against Moses, and they became scared when the spies informed them of the fierce peoples and fortified cities seen in the Promised Land. On this interpretation Israel in the desert was the equivalent of the wicked Athenian state described by Plato in the second book of the Republic. Moses appears as the Platonic judge, king and philosopher who came to purify and educate his corrupt people. The Hebrew state in the Promised Land was the philosophic state Moses attempted to establish. Before doing so, however, he had to purify and reeducate them, so that they all would become wise, knowledgeable and just and have no need any more for the physician of the soul. Being so distant from the harsh realities of material life, however, Moses naively attempted to lead all the people to virtuous behavior and spiritual perfection. Jethro, on the other hand, who was much more practicalminded and experienced in mundane affairs, was disillusioned, “since he knew the necessities of matter which cannot be perfected.”50 This last expression clearly echoes al-Farabi’s indication in the Book of Principles that people who are afflicted with the sickness of the soul could not enter the perfect state, since “their souls would remain corporeal, imperfect; they could not be separated from matter, and would not be eliminated until matter itself is abolished.”51 Not every person 49 Plato, Republic, 3, 404-405. Al-Farabi, hathalot, p. 48. In another section and context of his Song, Alemanno gives a totally different interpretation of the generation of the desert. Here he presents them as wise and purified, for a number of reasons, see Alemanno, Songs (Lesley), vol. 2, pp. 452-454. 50 Hai Ha’Olamim, Mantua Mss. 801, fol. 107: “Moses’ intention was to remove the many disputes and to turn the Israelite state into the philosophic state (medinah filosofit) which will not need physicians of the body and physicians of the soul. Due to the perfection of his wisdom and the perfection of his matter, Moses thought that it is possible to turn the whole people wise, so they will not need a judge anymore. Jethro, who did not acquire the degree of perfection his father-inlaw acquired, and knew the necessities of matter which could not be perfected in a way they will not need physicians of the soul anymore, advised him to appoint rulers of thousands and rulers of hundreds.” Also Idel, “Alemmano,” p. 316. 51 Al-Farabi, Hathalot, p. 44. — 196 —

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could reach spiritual perfection. Those who remained corporeal would disappear with the elimination of matter. They would not enter the gates of the philosophic state. This characterized the generation of the wilderness. Previously Jethro’s perfection was found to be manifest in his practical wisdom—his political experience and knowledge of human nature; here it is his perfection of theoretical wisdom that is underscored. His advice to Moses, in Alemanno’s interpretation, reflects a Platonic-Alfarabian context. Although Alemanno does not explicitly say so, we may conjecture that for him the “small matter” to be entrusted to the various officials meant the governance of the lost, hopeless generation of the wilderness. Accordingly, the “great matter” left to Moses was the task of educating and purifying those few who had the potential for intellectual perfection and preparing them to enter the philosophic state that was the Promised Land. At this point, with the election of the rulers, Alemanno concluded his interpretation of Jethro’s advice. It is, however, the form of government that Moses established following Jethro’s that is the subject which all the other commentators deal with in detail. Alemanno wrote that he intended to elaborate upon this subject in his commentary to the Torah Einei ha’Eda,52 of this composition, unfortunately, we have only the commentary to the act of creation. It is not clear that Alemanno ever completed this commentary.53 VII. Early modem Christian political thought greatly utilized the Hebrew sources—the Hebrew Bible, Rabbinic literature, and medieval Jewish texts. This tendency was a by-product of the return to classical culture, mainly Greek and Roman, which so much characterized Renaissance humanism. With the emergence of the so-called “Northern Renaissance” of the sixteenth century and, subsequently, the development of the Reformation and English Puritanism, this return to classical sources achieved a much broader meaning: it came to include ancient Hebrew sources as well. This last tendency culminated in the flourishing of Hebraic studies in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. For the northern humanists 52 See above, n. 46 and 50. 53 Cassuto, Firenze, p. 241. — 197 —

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such as Erasmus, Thomas More, Jean Luis Vives, and many more, who emphasized the Christian religious aspects of humanism much more than their Italian predecessors did, the Hebrew Bible and Rabbinic literature were considered classical sources no less important than Plato, Cicero, Livy, or indeed the Church Fathers.54 Early modern political thought, at least since Machiavelli, considered the lessons of ancient history—again, mainly Greek and Roman—to be of the utmost relevance for an understanding of current events. The constitutions and political systems like those of Athens, Sparta and republican Rome were viewed as archetypes of perfect governments, which should be emulated by contemporary states. Italian humanists like Machiavelli mainly related the lessons of Greek and Roman history and political systems; political thinkers of the Northern Renaissance and the Reformation, on the other hand, related more and more to the lessons of ancient Jewish history and to the Mosaic constitution in particular.55 This latter tendency culminated in the Puritan movement in England, which, while attempting to reform all aspects of Christian life, turned to the Hebrew Bible and Rabbinic literature for models of the ideal society they wanted to establish in England. Many treatises were published, in England and throughout Europe, which dealt with the ideal ancient Jewish state as it was manifested in the Hebraic and Judaic sources.56 For Machiavelli, Moses was but one among a host of ancient first legislators, and he treated Moses’ divine mission ironically.57 For the political thinkers of the Reformation and English Puritanism, Moses 54 The bibliography on this issue is vast. See an up-to-date discussion and bibliography in Melamed, Myth, ch. 12. 55 For a preliminary study of this subject, see Robinzon, “Biblical.” In recent years there is much discussion of these issues. See for example Campos Beralevi and Quaglioni, Politeia. Sutcliff, Enlightenment, pp. 42-57. See recently Nelson, Republic, and the many papers published in the last few years in Hebraic Political Studies. 56 Robinzon, op. cit. Wilensky, Return, ch. 1. Toon, Puritans. Katz, Philosemitism. Also here there is much discussion in the last few years, see for example Cherniak, “Republicanism.” Lim, Milton. Nelson, Republic, and many others. See also n. 64, 65 below. 57 Machiavelli, I1 Principe, cap. 6. in his Tufte Ie Opere, ed. by M. Martelli (Florence, 1971): “Ma per venire a qualli che, per propria virtu e non per fortuna, sono diventati principi, dico che il pou eccellenti sono Moise, cirp, Romolo, Teseo e sirnili. E benche di Moise non se debba agionare, sendo suto uno nero esecutore delle cose che gli erano ordinate da Dio, tamen debbe essere ammirato solum per quella grazia che lo faceba degno di parlare con Dio. Ma consideriamo Ciro e glialtri che hanno acquistato o fonda to regni: troverrete tutti mirabeli.” Ibid., p. 264. See also Pocock, Machiavellian, pp. 398-399. Melamed, “Machiavelli.” — 198 —

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became the foremost ancient legislator. They considered his divine mission with utmost seriousness and regarded the Mosaic constitution as the first perfect model. Jethro’s advice and the Prophet Samuel’s oration on ius regis were major biblical sources utilized by early modern Christian political thought. The references to Jethro’s advice continue in the same direction established by Abravanel: first, the distinction between spiritual authority represented by the divine messenger, Moses, and the human political authority based upon man’s reason, represented by Jethro; second, the connection of Jethro’s advice with the theory of government. Most political thinkers of the time viewed the government established by Moses as a mixed government with strong republican leanings. They described this government as the embodiment of the perfect constitution, realized at present by the Venetian republic and meant to be the prototype for every perfect constitution in the future. A typical example of this thinking is found in Calvin who, in his Institutes of the Christian Religion (1559), related to Jethro’s advice in its two different contexts. Calvin insisted that the question of the best form of government could not be resolved without taking into consideration the historical circumstances in which this government was supposed to function. Of the three classical forms of government—monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy—he put aristocracy, or a combination of aristocracy and democracy, at the apex.58 He held that the finest example of this perfect combination of aristocracy and democracy was the Mosaic-Jethronian constitution. “This,” Calvin wrote, “has both been proved by experience, and also the Lord confirmed it by his authority when He ordained among the Israelites an aristocracy bordering on democracy, since he willed to keep them in best condition...” (Exod. 18:13-26; Deut. 1:9-17).59 For Calvin, this constitution signified the rule of the good tempered by the democratic element, which secured the liberty of the people. His 58 Calvin, Institutes, vol. 2, book 4, ch. 20, p. 1493. On Calvin’s political thought, see M.E. Cheneviere, La Pensee Politique de Calvin (Geneva-Paris, 1937); R.N.C. Hunt, “Calvin’s Theory of the State,” Church Quarterly Review 8 (1929), pp. 56-71. 59 Institutes, p. 1494. When Calvin discusses the duties and virtues of public magistrates, he quotes Moses’ command to the rulers in the second version – “And Moses commands the leaders whom he has appointed as his representatives to ‘hear the cases between their brethren, and judge ... between a man and his brother, and the alien, and ‘not recognize faces in judgment, and hear small and great alike, and be afraid of no man, for the judgment is God’s’ (Deut. 1: 16-17)” ibid., p. 1496. Also, p. 1489. — 199 —

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interpretation, thus, is very similar to Abravanel’s, which perceived the Mosaic constitution as an aristocratic republic. As for the other context, Calvin utilized Jethro’s solution for Moses’ burden in the struggle against the claims of the Papacy for a combination of both temporal and spiritual powers. Moses, according to Calvin, fulfilled both spiritual and temporal functions only as a temporary solution, until a better form of government could be devised. Moses’ very ability to fulfill both functions was actually miraculous, as this was impossible to do by natural human capacities, even temporarily. When a better, permanent form of government was established by God, temporal and spiritual authorities were then separated. Moses retained leadership of the political government, whereas the priesthood was bestowed upon his brother, Aaron.60 Calvin thus managed to combine Jethro’s advice concerning the relegation of some of Moses’ authority to the rulers with the bestowal of priesthood on Aaron and his sons (Exod. 18:1). In both cases, Moses relinquished some of his authority—temporal and spiritual—to other functionaries. In Abravanel’s interpretation, Moses transferred his temporal-political functions to the rulers so as to be free to fulfill his spiritual-prophetic duties; in Calvin’s interpretation, the case was reversed—God transferred the spiritual-priestly functions to Moses’ brother in order to free Moses to function successfully as political leader of the Israelite commonwealth. For Abravanel, Moses was first and foremost a prophet, his political functions being of secondary importance. Calvin, following early modern Christian political tradition, viewed Moses primarily as a legislator, founder of a political system, forerunner of Solon, Lycurgus, and Romulus. For Calvin, the separation of powers in the ancient Hebrew state was an indication that the church should concentrate on spiritual matters only and relinquish all temporal power to the proper political authorities. Some minor references to Jethro’s advice can be found in the political writings of other contemporaries, like Bodin, Mornay, and Althu60

“For that Moses carried both office at once was, in the first place, through a rare miracle; secondly, it was a temporary arrangement, until things might be better ordered. But when a definite form is prescribed by the Lord, the civil government is left to Moses; he is ordered to resign the priesthood to his brother (Exod. 18:13-26). And rightly; for it is beyond nature that one man should be sufficient for both burdens.” Institutes, vol. 2, book 4, ch. 11, 8, p. 1220. — 200 —

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sius. All of them discuss only the second context, that of the theory of government. Bodin presents a pro-monarchic approach to the text, Mornay and Althusius basically a republican interpretation. In his Six Books of the Commonwealth (1576), Bodin argues that a sovereign should subordinate regular judicial duties to judges and keep in his own hands the power of supreme judge, dealing with appealed cases only. One of his main examples was that of Moses appointing rulers according to Jethro’s advice.61 Since Bodin attempted to strengthen the power of the monarchy, he seems to have limited the rulers’ functions strictly to judicial duties and put them under direct monarchic supervision. In his system, the rulers do not represent a quasi-independent, aristocratic element that limits the power of the monarchy. Their raison d’etre is to alleviate the burden of the supreme ruler. The opposite is the case with both Mornay and Althusius. The Vindiciae Contra Tyrannos (1579), attributed to Philippe du Plessis Mornay, is dedicated to the justification of resistance to tyrannical governments. The author, however, limits the right to resist to the legal representatives of the people, not to the multitude as a whole, since that might deteriorate into anarchy, which is seen as even worse than tyranny. Among the various examples of such popular representation, Mornay lists the rulers appointed by Moses following Jethro’s advice.62 These rulers appear here as representatives of the tribes or districts and as having independent power bases vis-a-vis the monarchic central government. Johannes Althusius, in his Politica (1603), discussed Jethro’s advice in a different context—but gives it the same meaning—as proof of the usefulness of provincial administrations which carry much independent power and alleviate the burden of the central government.63 61 “Following therein the counsell of Iethro, who seeing Moyses troubled from morning to night in doing justice to all man, and in all causes, you kill your selfe (said he) with taking so much paine; Chuse mee out wisest and most discreet men of the people to ease your selfe upon; and if there be any thing high or difficult to judge, it sufficeth that you take upon you the hearing thereof, leaving the rest unto the other magistrates and judges to heare and determine. Which counsell of his father in law Moyses followed.” Bodin, Commonweale, book 4, ch. 6, p. 515. 62 “And there were also the chiefs or heads of the individual tribes, the judges and officials of the several districts, i.e., the captains of the thousands and the captains of the hundreds, who presided over groups of families.” Franklin, Constitutionalism, p. 150. 63 Althusius, Politics, p. 49: “The reason for these estates is that they are necessary and useful to the province, as Jethro, the father-in-law of Moses, declares. For no one can be sufficient and equal to the task of administrating such various, diverse and extensive public business of a province unless in part of the burden he avails himself of skilled, wise, and brave persons from each class of man...” For the virtues of the rulers, see also p. 132. Althusius refers again to the problem of — 201 —

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Abravanel and Calvin, like Aquinas, referred to the rulers as an aristocratic element in a mixed government. Mornay and Althusius, on the other hand, related to them as examples of a provincial administration holding much independent power. In both cases, however, and in contradiction to Bodin, the rulers represent an aristocratic element limiting the power of monarchy. VIII. Perhaps the best example of the contemporary interpretation of Jethro’s advice can be found in the political writings of James Harrington, one of the foremost British political thinkers of the mid-seventeenth century. As a convinced humanist and antiquarian, Harrington studied, and attempted to understand, the classical past in order to comprehend its lessons for the present. The Jews represented for him the classical past no less than did the Greeks and the Romans. Like Aristotle, Harrington based his conclusions upon the lessons of history, the Hebrew Bible and Rabbinic literature serving as historical and political sources no less relevant than the histories of Polibius, Livy, and Tacitus or medieval feudal legislation. The ancient Hebrew government was as instructive about the ideal state as the Roman republic or the Venetian governo misto. Although Harrington was not a dogmatic Puritan, he considered the ancient Jewish state to be the first ideal commonwealth, endowed by divine providence: the “ancient prudence” manifested in Rome, he wrote, was “first discovered unto mankind by God himself in the fabric of the Commonwealth of Israel.”64 Harrington had some knowledge of Hebrew and some acquaintance with Jewish sources, though generally indirect. In his numerous references to the ancient Jewish state, he often quoted the Bible, the Talmud, Maimonides’ Code, and a few other medieval Jewish commentators and halachic scholars. His references, though, were mainly based on Selden’s extensive research on the ancient Jewish state.65 In the list of his Jewish Moses’ burden (Num. 11:16) in pp. 95, 97. See also below, n. 100. 64 Harrington, Works, Oceana, The preliminaries, p. 161. On Harrington’s political thought and his conception of the ancient Hebrew state in particular, see the introduction by Pocock to this work. Also Pocock, Machiavellian, ch. 11. Blitzer, Harrington, especially pp. 278-283. 65 The main discussion of Harrington’s Jewish sources is still Liljegren, “Harrington.” Melamed, “Travellers.” See also above, n. 64. In Book 2 of “The Prerogative of Popular Government,” in Harrington, Works, p. 520, Harrington includes a whole list of Jewish sources: “The authors or writings I use by way of paraphrases upon the scripture, (he wrote) are the Gemara Babylonia, — 202 —

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sources, Harrington mentions an “Abrabinel,” who is most probably Don Isaac Abravanel, some of whose commentaries on the Bible had been translated into Latin during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, mainly by J. Buxdorf, Jr., and subsequently influenced biblical research and political thinking in humanist circles. Some of these Latin translations had then been translated into English and were rather widely circulated.66 Thus, Abravanel’s views on the ancient Jewish constitution, which influenced Grotius, among others, may have influenced Harrington’s interpretation of the ancient Jewish state as well. Harrington related the crisis of contemporary political systems to the loss of ancient “human prudence,” which he defined as the rational comprehension of the natural laws of politics. Searching to rediscover the sources of “human prudence” in the first legislators of human societies, he should have turned, by classical norms, to the likes of Solon, Lycurgus, and Romulus. Harrington, however, located the first source of ancient prudence in the commonwealth of Israel.67 This source, though, created a problem. Unlike other ancient political systems, the prime legislator of the Israelite commonwealth must in some sense, directly or indirectly, be God Himself. Machiavelli, as already noted, referred ironically to Moses’ divine Mission. Harrington, who took this role seriously, had somehow to explain how, at one and the same time, the Israelite political system was both divinely directed and also a product of “human prudence,” which is based on human reaMidbar Rabba, Sepher Siphri, Sepher Tanchuma, Solomon Jarchius, Chiskuny, Abrabinel, Ajin Israel, Pesiktha Zoertha, these and many more....” Harrington also mentions “...Rabbi Bechas, with whom agree Nachmoni, Gerschom, and others. Kimhi, it is true, and Maimonides are of opinion that...” op. cit., p. 575. For further references to Maimonides, see pp. 526, 529, 533-534, 536, 545, 713. Most are indirect references, based upon Grotius and, mainly, as Harrington readily admits, Selden. “...for the truth is in all that is Talmudical, I am assisted by Selden, Grotius, and their quotations out of the rabbis, having in this learning so little skill that, if I miscalled none of them, I showed you a good part of my acquaintance with them” (p. 520). Harrington, though, hastened to note that he was indebted to Grotius and Selden only for the information they supplied, which did not necessarily mean that he agreed with their opinions. “Nor am I wedded unto Grotius or Selden, whom sometimes I follow and sometimes I leave, making use of their learning but of my own reason” ibid. Elsewhere he refers to Selden as “the ablest Talmudist of our age or any” (p. 531). Although he considered the Talmud to be an important historical source, Harrington’s opinion of it was actually quite critical: “for the most part a fabulous and undigested heap” (p. 628). 66 Liljergen, “Harrington,” p. 87. Netanyahu, Abravanel, p. 251. 67 Harrington, Works, p. 210: “...from Moses and Lycurgus, the first legislator that hitherto is found in story to have introduced or erected an entire commonwealth at once...”; ibid., p. 719: “...of Moses, of Soplon and Lycurgus.” Cf. Machiavelli, above, n. 57, and Naville, below, n. 100. See Pocock’s introduction, p. 47. — 203 —

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son and not on divine revelation. At this point Jethro entered the scene. Hobbes, who viewed ancient Israel as a monarchy, showed no interest in Jethro’s advice and never mentioned him. For Harrington, though, Jethro’s advice solved the problem of viewing ancient Israel as a republic based on “human prudence.” Jethro, being a Midianite and, therefore, a gentile and heathen, could not have been prophetically inspired directly. Since, however, “human prudence” was defined as man’s legislative intelligence, and since God could not act and found a commonwealth but upon reason, Jethro’s advice to Moses was an expression of divine will, even though not prophetically inspired directly. As Harrington wrote: “...but this, being that part of this commonwealth which was instituted by Moses upon the advice of Jethro, the priest of Midian (Exod. 18), who was conceived a heathen, are unto me a sufficient warrent, even from God Himself, who confirmed them, to make further use of human prudence.”68 The Lord, then, was acting not only through the prophetically inspired Moses, but also through the rationally motivated Jethro. The Midianite, in advising the Hebrews how to found a commonwealth, stood at the point at which prophecy joined with human prudence. Jethro, then, occupied a place of special importance in Harrington’s theory, representing the juncture point between divine election and human nature, between prophet and legislator. The commonwealth of Israel, Harrington finally concluded, was established less through the divine revelation made to Moses, than through human reason (albeit divinely motivated), in the advice given by Jethro. With this reading, Harrington could overcome the problem of the pagan legislator as Machiavelli raised it. For Jethro was no mere pagan; his reasoned advice was, in fact, divinely inspired. Moses, of course, was prophetically directed. Thus, God founded the Israelite republic through the combined activation of human reason and prophecy. In this respect, it was a theocracy, which is the reason that Harrington described it as the first perfect commonwealth. Harrington, furthermore, criticized the Machiavellian position, according to which there was no essential difference between Moses and other first legislators. To this Englishman, Moses, aided by 68 Harrington, Works, p. 177. See also p. 547 – “Neither God nor Christ ever instituted any policy whatsoever upon any other principles than those of human prudence”; and p. 652. Pocock’s introduction, pp. 79, 91-92; idem, Machiavellian, pp. 398-399. — 204 —

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Jethro, was unique since he acted upon divine guidance: “How then cometh it to be irreverent or atheistical, as some say, in politicians, as Lycurgus, Solon, with Moses, or other commonwealths, as Rome and Venice, with that of Israel?”69 It is interesting to note that like Abravanel, but for opposite reasons, Harrington ascribed the basic legislative initiative to Jethro and perceived Moses as occupying a more distant prophetic position. Abravanel held this view because he wanted to emphasize the distinctly nonpolitical nature of prophecy. Harrington, on the other hand, wanted to underscore the human-rational origins of political wisdom. One can readily understand now why Jethro’s advice—in its two versons—is, as Pocock put it, Harrington’s “favourite scriptural citation.”70 If “human prudence” was “in the first cause [...] a creature of God, and in the second as ancient as human nature,”71 it necessarily follows that this quality was active from the very beginning of human society, long before the institution of the commonwealth of Israel. In fact, Harringon traces the origins of popular government, which is the proper cretion of “human prudence,” back to Shem at least.72 Later biblical examples of commonwealths based upon popular election, according to Harrington, were those of Canaan under Malchizedeck, its king and priest, and Midian, under its king and priest, Jethro. Only these comonwealths, in his opinion, were really based on human prudence.73 The Midianite constitution, Harrington further deduced, was as a forerunner of the Mosaic, since Moses established the Israelite system according to Jethro’s advice.74 It was, though, in Israel that the idea of a popular commonwealth based on “human prudence” achieved its full perfection when it coalesced with divine wisdom.75 Moses, who was educated by the daughter of Pharaoh and was “learned in all the learning of the Egyptians,”76 nevertheless rejected the 69 Harington, Works, p. 629 and n. 5. 70 Ibid., p. 173, n. 1. 71 Ibid., p. 616; also p. 531. 72 Ibid., p. 712. 73 Ibid., pp. 414, 616. 74 Ibid., pp. 713: “By the advice of Jethro to Moses, the like should have been the custom of the Midianites, who were a commonwealth”; also pp. 629 and 652. 75 Ibid., pp. 176, 210, 532. 76 Ibid., p. 305; also pp. 183 and 438. This story was popular in medieval Jewish literature. See, for instance, Kuzari, 1: 49. Also, Anatoli, Malmad., p. 49a. See also n. 5 above. — 205 —

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Egyptian political system. This polity was not a popular government, but an aristocratic, or mixed monarchy,77 in which power was distributed among the three estates—the king, the nobility, and the clergy. The people had no share in the government.78 For the commonwealth of Israel, Moses preferred the Midianite example, which was based on the popular election of priests and magistrates. Moses, Harrington wrote, “took into the fabric of his commonwealth the learning of the Midianites in the advice of Jethro.”79 Among the three possible forms of government which Harrington defined—democracy, aristocracy, and monarchy—the Israelite government established by Moses is identified in its final form as a democracy or popular government.80 Two major factors led to this identification— the equal distribution of land according to the “Agrarian Law” (which is not our concern here),81 and the election of the magistrates by popular consent—“Israel, from the institution of Moses to the monarchy, was a democracy or popular government; in popular government the consent of the people is the power of the people, and both the priests and Levites were ordained by the consent of the people of Israel.”82 Harrington described the development of the Israelite republic as a gradual process, starting with the implementation of Jethro’s advice and culminating with the establishment of the council of the seventy elders. The latter he identified with the Sanhedrin or Senate (Num. 11). In the beginning of this process, Israel was virtually an absolute monarchy, being ruled by Moses alone. This system obviously did not work, and the overburdened Moses accepted his father-in-law’s advice to choose able men as rulers. In contrast to the traditional Jewish interpretation, Harrington follows the plain reading of the text, according to 77 78 79 80

Ibid., pp. 458-459 for Harrington’s classification of the forms of government. Ibid., pp. 437-438. Ibid., p. 305. Ibid., pp. 458-459: “Examples of the balance introduced at the institution and by the legislator are, first, those in Israel and Laceraemon, introduced by God, or Moses, and Lycurgus, which were democratical or popular.” 81 Ibid., p. 458: “...if the property in lands be so diffused through the whole people that neither one landlord nor a few landlords over balance them, the empire is popular.” Also pp. 164, 174, 184, 233, 379, 462, 532, 536, 634. On the agrarian law, see Macpherson, Possessive, ch. 4. Harrington, Works, Pocock’s introduction. On the agrarian law in Israel, see ibid., pp. 48-49, 93, 98. And see recent discussion on the Hebraic sources of the Agrarian law, Nelson, Republic, ch. 2. 82 Ibid., p. 528, also pp. 531 and 572 – “ ...God founded the Israelite government upon a popular balance... therefore a popular balance, even by the ordinance of God himself expressed in Scripture, amounted unto empire.” — 206 —

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which the rulers were appointed to judicial functions only. He reinforced this narrow interpretation by quoting Deut. 16:18 (“Judges and officers shalt thou make thee in all thy gates...”), which he interpreted as tribal judicial courts. The various judges would deal with all the minor judicial matters, while the major cases would be transferred to Moses. By taking over the “small matter,” the rulers were supposed to bear the burden together with Moses, relieve him, and make the system function.83 In actual fact, these judicial matters encompassed every possible social and political issue. Thus, the judges were, in the final analysis, basically political magistrates in the broad meaning of the term. The political system proposed by Jethro following the Midianite constitution did not, however, function as well as expected. Jethro’s promise that by its implementation Moses would be relieved of never-ending responsibilities did not materialize. He continued to be overburdened despite the appointment of the rulers. The Midianite medication for the woes of the Israelite body politic was not strong enough. This time Moses did not need a Jethro to recognize the problem. Disillusioned with his rebellious people, he bitterly complained to God, echoing Jethro’s warning: “I am not able to bear all this people myself alone, because it is too heavy for me” (Num. 10:14) and in Deut. 1:12 we find him addressing the people directly: “How can I myself alone bear your cumbrance....”84 Thus, the Midianite political system, upon which the first Mosaic constitution was based, did have its deficiencies, even though it was the creation of human prudence. Direct divine guidance was needed in order to eliminate these defects and create a more perfect system. This time, the Lord himself told Moses what to do: to institute the council of seventy elders, which is the Sanhedrin, as a superstructure upon the base of the lower courts.85 Like de Pomis and others, Harrington called the Sanhedrin “Senate” and paralleled it to the Roman and Venetian equivalents.86 According to Harrington, the Sanhedrin acquired the role which in 83 In one instance, however, Harrington presented a different interpretation, in which the “able men” are not identical with the rulers, but represent a different function in the “Jethronian system.” This is when the “able men” are identified with the twelve tribal judges, while the various rulers are related to the creation of the Sanhedrin (p. 210). This view contradicts Harrington’s oft insistence that the Sanhedrin was a totally new creation, divinely originated, and did not evolve from the “Jethronian system.” See below, n. 89. 84 Ibid., p. 629. 85 Ibid., p. 376. 86 Ibid., pp. 520-532, 616. — 207 —

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Jethro’s system was fulfilled by Moses alone. The courts created according to Jethro’s advice became the lesser Sanhedrin (the “Jethronian prefectures” in Harrington’s phrase).87 They sat in every tribe and later in every city, and dealt with routine legal and judicial problems. They transferred the “great matters,” which were basically appealed cases, to the Great Sanhedrin which sat in the Temple.88 Harrington insisted that it was wrong to assume that the Sanhedrin evolved from the “Jethronian” courts. In his opinion, it was created independently by direct divine assistance.89 Harrington’s insistence that Jethro had nothing to do with the creation of the Sanhedrin stemmed from his belief that human prudence alone, without direct divine intervention, could not create the perfect constitution. That outcome could only be the result of combined effort—human prudence and divine wisdom. Moses transferred all his duties to the Great Sanhedrin and became a member of this body, participating and sharing his responsibilities with it as first among equals—“prince of the Senate,” as Harrington called him.90 Never again did he carry his burden alone. The seventy elders stood with him (Num. 10:16), not under him, as was the case with the lower courts.91 The monarchic element in the Israelite constitution thus began gradually to diminish in power. In the beginning, the Israelite commonwealth was an absolute monarchy. Moses was sole ruler, albeit under divine guidance. The second stage was the implementation of Jethro’s advice, with Moses relinquishing some of this authority to the judges, but keeping the “great matter” in his own hands. The Israelite commonwealth thereupon became a limited monarchy. In the third and final stage, Moses surrendered practically all his independent authority to the Sanhedrin, which he joined, and the Israelite commonwealth became a republic. This last stage, though, was a two-stage process: Moses started as the equivalent of a Solon and a Lycurgus,92 and ended as the equivalent of the Venetian Doge.93 The tendency outlined here to limit, 87 Ibid., pp. 375-378, 532-533, 573, 588. 88 Ibid., p. 376. 89 Ibid., p. 373 : “...in the institution of which Sanhedrin Jethro had no hand”; also p. 573. 90 Ibid., p. 376. 91 Ibid., pp. 378 and 573. 92 Ibid., pp. 376, 719, 619. 93 Ibid., p. 619. — 208 —

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and even to abolish altogether, the monarchic element of the polity is, of course, consistent with Harrington’s overall republican views. Harrington’s discussion of the way in which the various magistrates were chosen also manifests his democratic outlook. Like Abravanel, Harrington’s interpretation was that Moses did not accept Jethro’s advice to choose the rulers himself, but preferred to transfer their election—that is, the selection of both the lower and upper Sanhedrins—to the people. As already noted, it is not at all accidental that Deuteronomy 1:13 – “Get you […] men”—is the verse Harrington quoted more than any other biblical reference.94 In other words, Moses improved upon the Jethronian constitution. His divine wisdom was essential for the completion and transformation of the proposed system into a divinely-inspired perfect constitution. Like Abravanel before him, Harrington did not intend to imply that the election of rulers by the people themselves meant that Moses created some kind of extreme democracy. On the contrary, when he transferred the election to the people, Moses announced specific guidelines, which greatly restricted the people’s choice: he directed them to choose only “wise men, and understanding, and full of knowledge.” Harrington, too, gave this criterion a distinctly aristocratic meaning, but one which was totally compatible, this time, with the plain meaning of the text. People with such high qualities could hardly be found among the plain folks. The wise and understanding naturally belonged to the noble families, whom Harrington called “princes of the tribes of Israel” and who were “likeliest by the advantages of education to be the wisest and understanding.”95 Harrington argued that there was “a natural aristocracy diffused by God throughout the whole body of mankind to this end and purpose, and therefore such as the people have not only a natural but a positive obligation to make use of their guide.”96 He indicated further that it was wrong to assume that the priests and the Levites became members of the Sanhedrin because of their religious functions. In his opinion, they were elected, since in the circumstances of those times they were naturally the most educated people.97 In the end, then, with all their professed democratic views, the Jewish aristocrat from the Ibe94 95 96 97

Ibid., p. 176-177, 173, 175, 184, 259-260, 520, 628, 739, 763. Ibid., p. 260. Ibid., p. 173. Ibid., p. 177. — 209 —

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rian Peninsula and the English country gentleman could not overcome their sense of aristocratic superiority. In Harrington’s interpretation, the Mosaic constitution had in its final form evolved into a perfect mixed constitution with strong democratic leanings. The whole congregation that chose the magistrates represented the democratic element. The higher and lower Sanhedrins, elected by the people in accordance with their member’s virtues and education, represented the aristocratic element. Moses, the “prince of the Senate,” represented the monarchic element, though greatly weakened in power. From a badly functioning, absolute monarchy, the Israeli commonwealth had been transformed into the perfect species of a mixed government. For Abravanel, the perfect mixed government consisted of the “Jethronian” constitution as refined by Moses (Deut. 1). This polity contained all three required elements: democracy, aristocracy, and monarchy. Harrington, on the other hand, broadened the principle of the mixed constitution to include the entire development of the Mosaic system. Despite this difference, both Abravanel and Harrington thought the divinely improved “Jethronian” constitution to be the apex of the Israelite commonwealth. Alas, after the death of Joshua, the perfect system started to deteriorate. The people of Israel, “mindless of the excellent orders of their commonwealth, given by God, were so stupid as to let both the senate and the inferior courts to fall. But a commonwealth without the senate must of natural necessity degenerate into anarchy.” The institution of the Judges as dictators in the Roman sense did not help much. Anarchy prevailed, and the institution of monarchy by a reluctant Samuel was an unavoidable consequence.98 Abravanel had directly related the structure of the Mosaic constitution to the Venetian constitution. Harrington, almost one hundred and fifty years later, similarly considered the two to represent the same type of perfect mixed government. For him, the Mosaic constitution represented the culmination of the ancient prudence. Venice was its modern reincarnation. Abravanel’s theory concerning the perfect Mosaic constitution, as initiated by Jethro, became commonplace in later European political thought. Harrington represents but one major example. The 98 Ibid., p. 378. — 210 —

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comparable theory of the Venetian Repubblica Perfetta, which was just attaining currency at Abravanel’s time, also became a commonly accepted idea one hundred and fifty years later. The perfect ancient constitution was re-established by the perfect modem constitution. These were the examples that Harrington had in mind when he addressed himself to the crisis of the English commonwealth in the midseventeenth century in his most important political treatise, Oceana (1656). In attempting to prescribe a cure for England’s political tribulations, Harrington returned to the lessons of the Venetian constitution and its archetype—the perfect Jethronian-Mosaic constitution. “And such was the art whereby my lord Archon, taking counsel of the commonwealth as of Jethro, frames the model of the commonwealth of Oceana.”99 The political system of the mythical Oceana was strictly modeled after the Jethronian-Mosaic constitution.100 From ibn Ezra’s pro-monarchic attack on feudalism in the twelfth century to Harrington’s republicanism in the mid-seventeenth century, Jethro’s advice proved a continual, ever fruitful source in the seemingly perpetual search for the secrets of the perfect constitution.

99 Ibid., p. 209. 100 An echo of Harrington’s theory can be found in the writings of Henry Naville, another English republican of the late seventeenth century. His Plato Redivivus (c. 1681) is a “Platonic” dialogue between two fictitious personalities—a Venetian nobleman and an English gentleman. The Venetian asks, “How came you to take it for granted that Moses, Theseus, and Romulus were founders of popular governments?” The Englishman answers, “...but for Moses, you may read in holy writ, that when, by God’s command he had brought the Israelites out of Egypt, he did at first manage them by acquainting the people with the estate of their government; when people were called together with the sound of a trumpet, and are termed in scripture the Congregation of the Lord. This government he thought might serve their turn in their passage; and that it would be time enough to make them better, when they were in possession of the land of Canaan; especially having made them judges and magistrates at the insistence of his father-in-law Jethro; which are called in authors, Jethronic magistracy. But finding that this provision was not sufficient, he complained to God, of the difficulty he had to make that state of affairs hold together. God was pleased to order him, to let seventy olders be appointed for a senate; but yet the Congregation of the Lord continued still and acted; and by the several soundings of the trumpets, either the senate, or popular assembly were called together, or both. So that this government was the same with all other democracies.” Robbins, Republican, pp. 102-103. — 211 —

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Chapter seven

The Anonymous Hebrew Translation of Aegidius’ De Regimine Principum: An Unknown Chapter in Medieval Jewish Political Philosophy *

I. Since the late thirteenth century, the emerging scholastic philosophy had a growing impact upon Jewish scholars in Europe, mainly in Christian Spain, Provence and Italy. Already at the beginning of that century, Samuel ibn Tibbon, first translator of Maimonides’ Guide of the Perplexed, who was one of the main transmitters of texts from the Muslim to the Jewish European intellectual milieu, commented at the end of his Maamar Yiqqawu ha-Mayyim, that, “I saw that the true sciences are more widespread in the nations and countries where I dwell (i.e. Provence) than in Muslim lands.”1 By the fourteenth century, scholastic philosophy made significant inroads into Jewish philosophy. The late Shlomo Pines and Baruch Yosef Sermoneta have already demonstrated this in detail in their breakthrough studies on the scholastic influences upon late Medieval Jewish scholars, such as Hasdai Crescas, Avner of Burgus, Moses of Salerno, Judah and Immanuel of Rome, and others.2 This is true for most of the branches of philosophy which Jewish scholars dealt with, with one exception, which is political philosophy. *

This paper is dedicated to the memory of my teacher, the late J. B. Sermoneta, who first introduced me to this text. I would like to thank to Abraham David, of the Institute of Microfilmed Hebrew Manuscripts, Jewish National and University Library in Jerusalem, for his expert assistance in identifying the approximate time and place where the ms was copied. Many thanks to Roberto Lambertini for his useful advice concerning the final version of this paper. 1 Ibn Tibbon, Maamar, p. 175. My translation. 2 Pines, Scholasticism. See in Sermoneta’s many studies on Jewish scholasticism, the bibliography. Also Rigo, “Romano” and Zonta, Scholasticism. There is also much reference to Scholastic sources in late Medieval Jewish anti-Christian polemic. See for instance in Cohen, “Duran.” — 212 —

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There were major developments in Christian political philosophy from the thirteenth century onward, mainly as a result of the revolutionary impact of the translation of Aristotle’s Politics into Latin (c. 1260). These developments, however, barely reverberated through Jewish political thought. Various influences of scholastic political thought can be detected in the writings of late Medieval Jewish thinkers. Such influences should not be overlooked, although they are still largely uninvestigated. Joseph Albo in his Book of Roots, written in Castile in the 1430s, and others following him, inserted into Jewish thought the scholastic classification of the law and the term “Natural Law” (Lex Naturae, Dat Tivi’it). In so doing they revolutionized legal theory in Medieval Jewish philosophy, which was based until then upon the traditional dual classification of the law into divine and human.3 Don Isaac Abravanel was somewhat acquainted with the writings of Aquinas and other scholastic writers. He did not hesitate to quote them directly in his commentaries on the Bible, and sometimes even preferred their opinions over those of Jewish sages. His arguments against monarchy in the famous commentaries on Deuteronomy 17 and I Samuel 8, were directly influenced by scholastic political philosophy. He informs us that he collected theories on monarchy from the rabbinic sages and also from “Christian philosophers, new and old.”4 Likewise, the distinction he made between human government (hanhagah enoshit) and divine (hanhagah Elohit), seems to have been influenced by the Christian distinction between temporal and spiritual authorities.5 This, however, is as far as this scholastic influence went. There are some translations into Hebrew of scholastic political texts, from Aquinas’ Summa and others,6 but they are very few. Jewish scholars were generally not interested enough in such projects, and even when they were, they hesitated to undertake it upon themselves, for fear that they lacked the minimal required competence. A typical example is Meir Alguades of Castile who informs us in the introduction of his translation from the Latin of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics, written in the early fifteenth century, that he “saw” a copy of the Politics. 3 Lerner, “Natural Law.” Melamed, “Classification”; idem, “Natural Law”; idem,”Ibn Wakar.” 4 Abravanel, Early Prophets, p. 203. And see in general, Melamed, “Aristotle”; idem, “Abravanel.” 5 Netanyahu, Abravanel, pp. 189-94. Melamed, “Jethro,” pp. 15-16. 6 Sermoneta, “Romano,” p. 249. Melamed, “Aristotle,” p. 63. — 213 —

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He still refrained, however, from translating the text, since William of Moerbeke’s translation was quite incomprehensible to him, and he did not have a proper commentary of the text. There were already in existence quite a few Latin commentaries by Albertus Magnus, Aquinas and others, but Alguades apparently did not have access to them. He thus continued in the traditional path by yet again translating the Ethics, this time from the Latin. From what Alguades informs us, however, it is clear that he had at least some knowledge of Aristotle’s political philosophy. He was definitely conscious of the great influence the Politics exerted upon scholastic political philosophy.7 The main, and maybe unique, example of a complete translation of a major scholastic political text into Hebrew in the Late Middle Ages is Aegidius Romanus’ De Regimine Principum, which is the topic of this paper. II. The history of the translations of Aegidius’ writings into Hebrew well illustrates, as in a microcosm, the state of affairs described above. Various writings of Aegidius were translated, fully or only partially, into Hebrew in the late Middle Ages, together with those of other great scholastic writers, such as Aquinas and Albertus Magnus. Most of the Aegidius translations were done by Judah Romano in the fourteenth century. Judah Romano also heavily employed these translations in his commentaries on the Bible.8 Some of these translations later influenced other Jewish scholars. A major example is Joseph Taitazec, an exile from Spain, who settled in Salonika at the end of the fifteenth century. Taitazec had probably already learned scholastic philosophy in Spain. His main writing, Sefer Porat Yosef, a philosophical-allegorical commentary on Ecclesiastes, is based upon the Aristotelian system as interpreted by early scholastic scholars. He mainly used the writings of Aquinas and Aegidius, most probably not the original Latin, but Judah Romanos’, and some Spanish Jewish scholars’ Hebrew translations. What is intriguing is the fact that Taitazec had in his possession not only Aegidius’ more popular 7 8

Berman, “Translation.” Melamed, “Aristotle,” pp. 38-41. See in Sermoneta’s various papers on the subject, the bibliography. Also Rigo, “Romano,” with additional bibliography. — 214 —

—————— The Anonymous Hebrew Translation of Aegidius’ De Regimine Principum ——————

writings, which already appeared in print, but also such writings which were less popular and remained unpublished. A striking example is a Commentary on Boetius’ De Consolatione Philosophiae attributed to Aegidius, of which only five copies survived. Only in one of them is Aegidius’ name specifically mentioned as author, a fact which created doubts as to its true authorship. Taitazec, however, quotes Aegidius specifically as the author, which, according to Sermoneta, is another proof of his authorship.9 Thus Aegidius’ philosophy did penetrate late Medieval Jewish philosophy at large. The case of his political philosophy, however, is different. Judah Romano translated a few chapters of the second book of De Regimine, which deals with the domestic life of the prince and his relationship with his wife, under the title Sefer Hanhagat ha-Nashim (Book on the Governance of Women). He presented it as an independent treatise, together with a translation of Biscioni’s De Regimine Mulierum.10 It is not insignificant that Judah Romano chose to translate from De Regimine one of the less political sections, and in the non-political context of the popular literature on the virtues vis a vis the deficiencies of womankind.11 The whole work was anonymously translated, most probably by an Italian Jew, since the text was translated into an Italianized form of Hebrew transliteration.12 It was translated during the fourteenth or early fifteenth century. Theoretically it could have been translated any time since the text was written between 1277 (not sooner because Philip the Fair would have been too young) and 1282 (probable date of Henri de Gauchi’s translation of De regimine into French). It is hard to say at this point exactly which ms of the Latin original the translator used. Theoretically it could even have been translated from the printed edi9 Sermoneta, “Taitazec.” 10 See the description of the ms. in Rigo, “Romano,” p. 82, n. 40, 99-100. 11 For the debate on the merits of women in Medieval and Renaissance Hebrew literature, see D. Pagis, “The Poetic Debate on the Merits of Women: A Reflection of the Changes in Hebrew Poetry in Italy,” Jerusalem Studies in Hebrew Literature 9 (1986) pp. 259-300 (Hebrew). 12 The ms was first described by Wolf, Bibliotheca Hebraea (reprint, Bologna 1967), vol. 3, pp. 12067, vol. 4, pp. 774-5; M. Steinschneider, Catalogus Codicum Hebraeorum Bibliothecae Academiae Lugdune-Batavae, Lugduni-Batavorum, 1858, pp. 30-32; Ibid., Die Hebräischen Übersetzungen des Mittelalters, Berlin 1893, pp. 464-465. A. Van Der Helde, Hebrew Manuscripts of Leiden University Library, Leiden 1977, p. 28. This ms is also mentioned in the Judaica, vol. 15, p. 1324. I used a photocopy of the microfilm of the Institute of Microfilmed Hebrew Manuscripts, Jewish National and University Library in Jerusalem, with permission of the authorities in Leiden. — 215 —

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tion, which first appeared in 1473. At least five editions appeared until the end of that century.13 This possibility, however, seems to be highly unlikely. It seems that the text was translated earlier. In many of the surviving ms, 3:2: 25 is omitted.14 This chapter does appear in the Hebrew translation, so it should have been translated from a ms in which this chapter appeared, or maybe the printed edition. Probably following the Latin ms he used, the translator included at the beginning of every part a detailed table of contents. The only fact we can know for sure about the translator is his first name, which is Moses. This information is given in the only place where he went beyond his very literal translation, and made a proud personal pronouncement about the superiority of the Hebrew language. This, however, is of little help, since Moses was a very common name, especially among Italian Jews.15 From the very fact that he translated this text, we can infer that he knew Latin and Italian well, since the text is translated into an Italianized form of Hebrew transliteration. He obviously was quite steeped in rabbinic literature, Jewish philosophic texts and scholastic philosophy, and had, for some reason, a special interest in political philosophy, which was strong enough to motivate him to take upon himself this onerous job, unless it was commissioned. If it was, it proves that another Jew had a strong enough interest in scholastic political philosophy, which 13 Romanus, Gouvernement, p. 457. 14 Ibid., p. xii , n. 1. See the listing of all the incomplete Italian copies in: Aegidii Romani Opera Omnia, I, Catalogo dei manoscritti (1001-1075), De regimine principum, 1/11, Città del Vaticano, a cura di F. Del Punta e C. Luna, Firenze 1993, especially pp. xiv-xv. 15 Fol. 117b. See n. 30 below. Cassuto notes that the first name Moshe was very common among Italian Jews especially. See Cassuto. Firenze, 3, 1. n. 22. From among Jewish translators whose first name was Moses, who were active in Italy in the late thirteenth century and during the fourteenth century, and who are known to us, only Moses of Palermo could possibly be identified with our anonymous translator, and that barely. Moses of Palermo was active in the Court of Charles of Anjeu (died 1285). We know that he studied Latin in order to be able to translate from Arabic into Latin. See Judaica, 12. pp. 433-434. His experience in the royal court could have created in him an interest in a text like De Regimine. However, the time in which he was active was a little too close to the date when Aegidius wrote De Regimine. Secondly, Moses of Palermo’s translation activity was from Arabic to Latin, not from Latin to Hebrew. Thirdly, it is quite improbable that the king would have commissioned a translation of De Regimine from Latin to Hebrew. He could not have any interest in or benefit from such enterprise. Thus, the identification of Moses of Palermo with the translator of De Regimine is not impossible, but quite improbable. Could it have been Judah ben Moshe Romano’s father? Chronologically it is possible, and taking his son’s interest in scholastic philosophy, and in Aegidius in particular, it is not improbable. But this is, of course, only conjecture. The identity of this anonymous Moshe should still be investigated. — 216 —

—————— The Anonymous Hebrew Translation of Aegidius’ De Regimine Principum ——————

motivated him to finance this undertaking. It is obvious that the popularity of De Regimine was a supporting reason for choosing this particular text for translation. However, the question still remains why was it done at all, especially taking into consideration the very little interest Jewish scholars supposedly had in scholastic political philosophy. As Sermoneta already observed, the story of the dissemination of Aegidius’ writings among Jewish scholars is a mystery.16 In the absence of more information, the same goes, with greater emphasis, for the reasons for the translation of the De Regimine. The text was translated from the Latin, in an Italianized form of Hebrew transliteration. This is obvious from the very beginning, when the translator spelled Aegidius’ name in the vernacular form (“Gill Romi’i”). Also the name of King Philip the Fair, for whom the book was written, is spelled in the vernacular (“don Filipi Melek Fransa”). As we shall find in the following, also many technical terms and book titles often appear in the vernacular, in Hebrew transliteration. It is possible, thus, that the translator had also access to a venacular version of De regimine, or he himself Italianized the spelling in Hebrew transliteration. The translation is very literal, and generally closely follows the original Latin, with very few independent additions. The translator employed the system of using Hebrew transliterations of Latin terms, with obvious Italian adaptations, and then added their Hebrew equivalents. This is mostly evident in those sections of the book which heavily use technical terms. This he apparently did since he did not have as yet appropriate Hebrew terms, or was worried that the reader would not understand the Hebrew terms he used, and sometimes created, unless it was accompanied by the original Latin-Italianized term in Hebrew transliteration. The Hebrew translator was obviously proficient in the politico-philosophical terminology which had gradually developed since the midtwelfth century by the Tibbonian school of Hebrew translators. This is clear from the usage he made of political terms such as “hayyim medini’m,” which is the Hebrew equivalent of the Latin “vita politica et civilis”; “kibbutz,” which is the Hebrew equivalent of the Latin communitas; “hanhagah,” which is the equivalent of regimen; “Ma’a lot” for virtutes; “nimusim” for leges, and many others.17 These terms, which were created 16 Sermoneta, The Philosophic-Scholastic Literature, p. 154. 17 Compare to the Tibbonian political terminology, Ibn Tibbon, Pirush, pp. 46, 62-63, 85. For Samuel — 217 —

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through Hebrew translations of Arabic paraphrases and commentaries of the ethical and political writings of Plato and Aristotle, and the writings of al-Farabi, ibn Bajja, Averroes and Maimonides, were now employed in order to translate a Latin scholastic political treatise. Like other Italian Jewish scholars since the late thirteenth century, and following the lead of such forerunners as Hillel of Verona and Moses of Salerno, the Hebrew translator of De Regimine continued with the usage of the Tibbonian language, on its “Arabic” terms and syntax, and the obvious usage of Biblical and Rabbinic language. To that he added a Latinized-Italianized layer of terms in Hebrew transliteration.18 The only surviving ms was copied in a typical Hebrew Spanish handwriting of the fifteenth century. It was copied by two scribes.19 The handwriting suddenly changes in fo1. 155, at the beginning of a new page, in the middle of ch. 2 of the first part. The two scribes’ handwriting, together with the information we can learn about the owner of the text from the notes he added to it, as will be shown in the following, leads to the conclusion that it was copied in Spain. The text abruptly ends in the middle of ch. 31 of the second part of the third book. Thus, the last part of the third book, which is the ending of the second part and the whole of the third part, are absent from the Hebrew ms. In the table of contents which appears at the beginning of part two of the third book, all 36 chapters of this part are listed, but the ms contains only up to the middle of ch. 31. It is not known whether the translator for some reason did not finish translating the whole text, the last part was lost, or maybe the second scribe of the surviving ms stopped copying, for some reason, at this particular place. It is possible that the translator purposely stopped at about this point. The last five chapters of the second part of the third book still deal with political theory. The whole of the third part, however, deals with the art of war, following

ben Judah of Marseilles’ terminology, see Averroes, Republic, pp. 306-332. See the reverse translation of political terms from Hebrew to Latin in Elia del Medigo’s Latin translation of Averroes’ Commentary on the Republic, Averroè, Parafrasi, pp. 123-130. See also Melamed, “Del Medigo.” 18 See in Sermoneta, glossario, especially pp. 460, 461, 463, 484. Also idem, ed., Tagmulei, pp. 241267. 19 The practice of copying manuscripts by two scribes or more was very common. See in detail in Beit-Arie, “Stereotype.” For Jewish scribes in Spain and Portugal, see in A. Freimann, Kopisten hebräischer Handschriften in Spanien und Portugal, “Zeitschrift für hebräische Bibliographie,” vol. 14, 1910, pp. 105-112. — 218 —

—————— The Anonymous Hebrew Translation of Aegidius’ De Regimine Principum ——————

Vegetius, not Aristotle.20 This topic could have been considered quite irrelevant by a medieval Jewish scholar. It is a fact that there are very few and scattered discussions on the art of war in medieval Jewish thought.21 This, however, still does not explain why the translator or the scribe abruptly stopped in the middle of a chapter and before the ending of the second part. At the end of the ms the translator, or more probably the second scribe, added a customary blessing of praise to God when a task is finished. 22 The addition of this blessing proves that for whoever copied this ms, it was the end of the text. The ms contains no colofon, which most probably proves, together with the blessing, that the last part of the translation was indeed lost, and the scribes of the surviving ms copied what came into their hands. The absence of a colofon is of course a major obstacle in identifying the names of the translator, the scribes, the date the translation was made and recopied and the translators’ and scribes’ motives for undertaking the onerous job of translating such a long text from the Latin and copying the ms.23 A conventional reason for translating such texts was a commission by some patron of learning or a scholar with an interest in this particular kind of text, who did not read Latin.24 The two scribes were definitely commissioned by somebody; maybe the owner who added the notes in the margins, to copy the ms. The absence of a colofon also deprives us of this valuable information. III. The translation, as indicated, is very literal. It is obvious that the translator did not have pretensions of writing a commentary of the text, as medieval scholars often did, but strictly limited himself to 20 Lambertini, “Prince.” For the reception and use of the Nicomachean Ethics and the Politics in De regimine, see Lambertini,”Egidio; idem, “filosofo.” 21 Melamed, “Jeremiah.” 22 Fol. 202a: “Finished and completed, praise to the Lord, creator of the universe, blessed be He who gives strength to the weary and increases the vigour of the weak.” 23 Compare to the amount of valuable information one can learn from a colofon, for instance, in Samuel ben Judah of Marseilles’ translation of Averroes’ Middle Commentary on Plato’s Republic and Moses of Rieti’s copy. See for the Hebrew source, Averroes, Republic, pp. 106-108. For an English translation and background, see Berman, “Greek.” 24 See, for instance, in the correspondence surrounding the translation of Maimonides’ Guide into Hebrew, Iggrot, vol. 2, pp. 491-559 (Hebrew). Also in Alguades’ introduction to his translation of the Ethics from the Latin, Berman, “Translation.” And see in general, Judaica, 15, pp. 1319-1322. — 219 —

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translating. He also tried hard to avoid the temptation of “judaizing” the text itself. It seems that the translator “blundered” only once, when he used specific Jewish terms in order to translate Aegidius’ description of the magnificent man. In the sentence: “ut si debet magnificus aliquod templum construere in honorem divinum,”25 Aegidius’ “temple” was translated, or more correctly, transplanted, into a Jewish context: synagogue (beit ha-knesset) and institution of Torah learning (beit hamidrash).26 In one place, however, the Hebrew translator did not just blunder, but obviously could not withstand temptation, and made changes by adding to Aegidius’ text in order to prove the superiority of the Hebrew wisdom and language. When Aegidius distinguished between philosophical and vulgar language, he obviously listed Latin as the only philosophical language.27 The translator, however, added Hebrew and Arabic: “U-leshon ha-kodesh, ve-ha-aravi ve-ha-latin,”28 and placed them respectively as chronologically preceding Latin as philosophic languages. This is stressed by the long independent paragraph the translator added immediately afterward. It is also the place where he discloses his first name, as follows: Moses said that all this praise for the Latin language is a result of our sins, since we fell into the deep waters of exile, the Books of our own prophets disappeared, for instance, Sefer ha-Yashar, Sefer Milhamot ha-Shem, Sefer ‘Iddo and others. Moreover, there is no doubt that even a third or a quarter of our language did not survive; I can prove that many roots were completely distorted... [Here he lists various examples]... Since our holy language, being perfect, was the most natural and complete for mankind. And the Lord, blessed be He, promised us 25 Romanus, Regimine, 1:1, pars II, c. 21. I used the 1556 Rome edition of De Regimine Principum Libri III, photoreproduced in Frankfurt, 1968. The quotation appears in p. 68a. In the 1607 edition—Aegidius Romanus, De regimine principum libri III, ed. H. Samaritanius, Romae 1607 (rist. an. Aalen 1967), p. 113. In the following reference will be made to both editions, indicating firstly the page of the 1556 edition and secondly that of the 1607 edition. 26 Hebrew ms cit., Fol. 44a. 27 Romanus, Regimine, 1: 2, pars II, c. 7, edd. cit., p. 188b; p. 304. 28 Hebrew ms cit., Fol. 117b. — 220 —

—————— The Anonymous Hebrew Translation of Aegidius’ De Regimine Principum ——————

that we shall fully return to our language when He would give mercy on us and the Messiah shall come.29 Reading Aegidius’ praise for Latin as the only most perfect philosophic language, the translator could not resist the temptation of emphasizing for his Hebrew reader the superiority and uniqueness of the holy language, and that he did in a clear restorative-messianic context. Even when attempting to create a literal translation of a scholastic political text, the translator could not separate himself from his Jewish identity. IV. Aegidius widely quoted from the Aristotelian corpus, especially from the Ethics, the Rhetoric and the Politics. Major parts of De Regimine are in fact commentaries on these texts. The Hebrew translator was very conscious of this fact, as he informs us in his opening statement, that: “He (i.e. Aegidius) compiled it (i.e. De Regimine) from the writings of the philosophers and especially Aristotle.” He faithfully follows Aegidius’ references, albeit with occasional mistakes.30 As a rule, whenever he 29 Ibid. 30 See, for example, in Fol. 57b, the translator quotes the sixth book of the Ethics, while in the Latin (Regimine, 1:1, pars 2, cap. 32, edd. cit., p. 86b; p. 144) book seven is quoted. In Fol. 66b the third book of the Ethics is quoted, while the Latin quotes book four (Regimine, 1:1, pars 3, cap. 6, edd. cit., p. 100b; p. 168). In Fol. 125a the translator quotes the seventh book of the Politics, while the Latin quotes book eight (Regimine, 1:2, pars II, cap. 13, edd. cit., p. 191b; p. 322). In Fol. 132b, the translator quotes the first book of the Ethics, while the Latin quotes book ten (Regimine, 1:2, pars 2, cap. 20, edd. cit., p. 203b; p. 343. In the same Fol. (132b), the translator quotes the fourth book of the Ethics, while the Latin quotes book nine (Regimine, 1:2, pars II, cap. 20, edd. cit., p. 204a; p. 343). In all these cases, the Latin version I used (1556) gives the correct references. Such mistakes appear quite often. Most of them seem to be a result of haste and lack of attention. Latin numerals can be misread, especially by one who is more accustomed to using Hebrew and Arabic numerals. The translator consistently replaced Latin numerals with Hebrew letters. In a few places, however, the translator made more severe mistakes. He not only got chapter numbers wrong, but also misplaced titles. References to the Rhetoric are occasionally replaced by the Ethics. For instance, in Regimine, 1:1, pars 3, cap. 5, edd. cit., p. 100a; p. 167 the Latin quotes the second book of the Rhetoric, the Hebrew translation, however, brings the tenth book of the Ethics (Fol. 66b). In Regimine, 1:1, pars III, cap. 6, the Latin quotes again the second book of the Rhetoric (edd. cit., p. l0la; p. 169), while the Hebrew quotes the second book of the Ethics (Fol. 67a). Again, the Latin gives the correct reference. Although occasionally the same ideas do appear also in the Ethics. The reasons for such gross mistakes are unclear. It is difficult to attribute them to lack of attention only. However, maybe the translator got so used to repeating references to the Ethics that he automatically went on referring to it without noticing what was really going on in his text. Some of these mistakes could also have been made by the scribes. As Lambertini remarked, some of the mistakes could have originated with the Latin ms the Hebrew translator used. The 1556 edition (or any other) did not necessarily reproduce this particular ms. — 221 —

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refers to a text which was known the Jewish scholars since the Muslim period, and already existed in a Hebrew translation, he used the traditional Hebrew title, sometimes accompanied by the transliterated Latin or vernacular title. Thus, the Nicomachean Ethics generally appears as Sefer ha-Middot; occasionally, however, it appears in transliteration only as itikash.31 The Meteora appears under Sefer ha-Havayah.32 The Physics is Sefer ha-Shemah.33 The Rhetoric is Sefer ha-Melitzah, or Sefer ha-Halatzah which is more conventional. Occasionally it appears under the Latin transliteration only, as Ritorica or Ritoricash.34 De Anima is Sefer haNefesh.35 The Meterologica (or Meteora in Aegidius’ text), appears under Sefer Otot ha’- Shamayyim, with Latin transliteration.36 The Metaphysics is Ma she-Ahar ha-Tevah. 37 However, when the translator refers to texts which have not been translated into Hebrew, he generally uses only a transliteration of the Latin title. For instance, Palladius’ De Agricultura appears as: Palladius be-sefer- ha-agricultura.38 A curious exception is Aristotle’s Magna Moralia. It does appear by its vernacular title in Hebrew transliteration: dellos grandis moralis, but also at another place, under the Hebrew title The Political Philosophy (Ha-filosofia ha-medinit).39 This text, however, was never translated into Hebrew. It should have appeared, thus in a Hebrew transliteration only. The translator, however, chose to use an original Hebrew title, which in fact could only mislead the reader. The title The Political Philosophy was used in Medieval Hebrew to designate a particular text, generally Plato’s Republic, and occasionally also Aristotle’s 31 The Ethics appears as Sefer ha-Middot in numerous places. Occasionally, however, it appears in transliteration only. For instance, Fol. 131b. 32 Fol. 58a. Compare to the Latin, Regimine, 1:1pars II, cap. 32, edd. cit p. 86n; p. 144. 33 Fol. 66a. Regimine, 1:1, pars III, cap. 6, edd. cit., p. 100b; p. 169. Fol. 131a; Regimine, 1:2, pars II, cap. 18, edd. cit., p. 201b; p. 339. Compare to Sermoneta, Glossario, pp. 470, 486. 34 The Rhetoric is referred to as Sefer ha-Melitzah in Fols. 71b, 75b, for example. As Sefer ha-Halatzah, in Fols. 108a, 109a, for example. In transliteration it appears as Ritoricash in Fol. 152a, and as Ritorica in Fol. 202a. 35 Fol. 80b. Compare to the Latin (Regimine, 1:2, pars 1, cap. 5, edd. cit., p. 137b; p. 231). 36 Fol. 104a. Compare to the Latin (Regimine, 1:2, pars I, cap. 17, edd. cit., p. 160a; p. 269). 37 See, for example, in Fol. 119b. Compare to the Latin (Regimine, 1:2, pars II, cap. 8, edd. cit., p. 184a; p. 309) and Fol. 159a. Compare to the Latin (Regimine, 1:3, pars I, cap. 7, edd. cit., p. 246a; p. 416). Here he refers to the Metaphysics by the shortening “ha-filosof be-ma-she-ahar” (i.e.: “The philosopher in what comes after” (Physics). Compare to Sermoneta, Glossario cit., pp. 334, 480. 38 Fol. 137a. Compare to the Latin (Regimine, 1:2, pars III, cap. 3, edd. cit., p. 210a; p. 353). 39 The transliterated title is used in Fol. 67a. Compare to the Latin (Regimine, 1:1, pars III, cap. 6, edd. cit., p. l0la; p. 169). The Hebrew title is used on Fol. 33a. Compare to the Latin (Regimine, 1:1, pars III, cap. 13, edd. cit., p. 50a; p. 83). — 222 —

—————— The Anonymous Hebrew Translation of Aegidius’ De Regimine Principum ——————

Politics, or as a name for political philosophy at large and occasionally also Ethics, but never the Magna Moralia in particular. This could have brought the Jewish reader to the erroneous conclusion that Aegidius was quoting from the Republic, which was, in fact, completely unknown to him.40 Generally, however, the translator stuck to using only a Hebrew transliteration of the original Latin title, whenever he referred it to a text which was not yet translated into the Hebrew. A major example is Aristotle’s Politics, which appears throughout the text, on numerous occasions, in Hebrew transliteration as: Politicosh or Politikash. As is well known, the Politics, which dominated scholastic political philosophy, was almost unknown to Muslims and consequently, also to Jewish scholars, who based their political thinking on Plato’s Republic and Laws.41 Even Alguades, as mentioned above, although he had acquired a copy of the Politics, refrained from translating it into Hebrew. By translating Aegidius’ text, which in major parts is practically a commentary on the Politics, the Hebrew translator transmitted, for the first time, major parts of the Politics, albeit in scholastic garb, into the Hebrew, and made it available for Jewish scholars who did not read Latin proficiently enough. By translating those parts of De Regimine which are practically commentaries on the Ethics and the Rhetoric, the translator basically continued in the well established medieval tradition of Jewish philosophy, which heavily employed these texts.42 However, they were now transmitted from Latin rather than the old Arabic intermediaries. By translating Aegidius’ long commentaries on the Politics, however, the translator broke new ground in Jewish political philosophy. V. Most of the folios contain notes in the margins, often quite a few per folio. Most of the notes are short Hebrew quotations from the Bible and Rabbinic literature. There are some transliterations of Latin words,

40

When Aegidius criticizes the Platonic system in the first part of the third book, he is repeating the Aristotelian criticism in the second book of the Palitics. He did not use the Republic directly, and did not have any access to it. 41 Melamed, “Aristotle”; idem, Philosopher-King, especially ch. 1. 42 On the influence of the Ethics in Medieval Jewish philosophy, see in Berman’s many studies on this subject. See, for example “Middle Commentary”; idem,”Greek.” For the influence of the Rhetoric, see Lesley, “Rhetoric.” — 223 —

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and twice Arabic words are scribbled in the margins (Fols 159, 217).43 All the notes are from the same handwriting, which is different than any of the scribes’. The notes were scribbled, most probably, by an owner of the ms, who added them while studying the text. This was conventional practice in medieval culture.44 It was, maybe, the same person who commissioned the copy. The fact that the notes include two curious expressions in Arabic, reinforces the assumption that the ms was copied in Spain and the owner was a Spanish Jew. Unlike Provence and Italy, there were still vestiges of the usage of Arabic in fifteenth century Christian Spain. The fact that this anonymous Jew probably commissioned the copy, studied the text and added so many notes, can teach us something about his interests and education. It seems that he had a serious enough interest in scholastic philosophy, including politics, to probably commission the copy, and read it so attentively, as the many notes indicate. The contents of the notes prove that he had a good knowledge of Biblical and Rabbinic sources. The very addition of these notes also shows a tendency to ‘Judaize’ the text, and prove its original Hebrew source and equivalencies. Thus, for example, when reading Aegidius’ discussion of the Aristotelian definition of fortitude (1:1, pars 2, cap. 13), he quoted Prov. 14:16: “A wise man feareth, and departeth from evil.”45 When reading Aegidius’ discussion of the Aristotelian definition of temperance, and the need to control the sense of touch, which was considered the most beastly of all human senses (1:1, pars 2, cap. 15), the reader quoted Hos. 2:4: “And (put away) her adulteries”, and also adds the Rabbinic saying: “This is the enforced abstinence from marital intercourse?” (BT Yoma, 74b).46 When studying Aegidius’ assertion that rulers and leaders must be more righteous than anyone else (1:1, pars 2, cap. 38), the reader scribbled a host of Biblical verses, among others a combination of Exodus 18:2 and Deuteronomy 1:13, dealing with Jethro’s advice to Moses to appoint only: “wise men... hating unjust gains”; the description of Job as “wholehearted and upright, and one that feared God” (Job. 1:1), 43 Unfortunately none of the Arabic experts whom I consulted were able to decipher these words. 44 On this phenomena, see also Ivry, “Ibn Rushd,” p. 339. 45 Hebrew ms cit., Fol. 33a. 46 Ibid., Fol. 37a. — 224 —

—————— The Anonymous Hebrew Translation of Aegidius’ De Regimine Principum ——————

and the admonition which is repeated all over Deuteronomy to obey all of God’s commandments.47 Joab ben Zeruiah’s famous encouragement speech: “Be of good courage, and let us prove strong for our people, and the cities of our God” (2 Sam. 10:12), is twice cited in a similar context. Once in reference to the Aristotelian theory, adapted by Aegidius, that the common good should be preferred over individual interests (1:1, pars 3, cap. 3), and a second time, with reference to the need to educate young princes to properly fulfil their public duties (1:2, pars 2, cap. 7).48 Reading Aegidius’ exhortation on the benefits of humility (1:1 pars 3, cap. 11), the owner presents Moses as the embodiment of the humble leader: “Now the man Moses was very meek” (Num. 12:3).49 When translating the chapter on the virtue appropriate for young men (1:1, pars 4, cap. I), he mentions in the margins, Joshua, Moses’ faithful helpmate (Exod. 38:11).50 When translating Aegidius’ insistence that princes should not marry at an early age (1:2, pars 1, cap. 15), he brings in the margins the example of Isaac, who married at the age of forty (Gen. 25:20).51 Reading the chapter on virtues appropriate for old age (1:1, pars 4, cap. 3), another suitable host of Biblical verses appears in the margins, like the famous “when my strength faileth, forsake me not” (Ps. 71:9). The story of Barzillai the Gileadite, King David’s old supporter, is mentioned as an appropriate example for a respectable old age.52 Many Biblical verses are quoted in the margins in the sections dealing with the nature of women, their virtues and education. For Aegidius’ assertion that it is the natural order that a woman should have only one husband (1:2, pars 1, cap. 10), the translator quotes Eve’s punishment: “and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over Thee” (Gen. 3:16).53 Dealing with the external beauty and internal righteousness women should possess (1:2, pars 1, cap. 13), the translator quotes from the Song of Songs: “thou art fair, my love” (1:16), “thy stature is like a palm tree” (7:7).54 When Aegidius argues that a prince should always 47 Ibid., Fol. 56b. 48 Ibid., Fols. 64a, I29b. 49 Ibid., Fol. 74a. 50 Ibid., Fol. 75a. 51 Ibid., Fol. 103b. 52 Ibid., Fol. 152a. 53 Ibid., Fol. 96b. 54 Ibid., Fol. 100a. — 225 —

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marry a tall woman, so that their sons would be tall, which is an important quality for a ruler (1:2, pars 1, cap. 2), the translator quotes in the margins the description of King Saul: “From his shoulders and upward he was higher than any of the people” (1 Sam. 9:2),55 When translating the chapters on the natural inferiority and deficiencies of women (1:3, pars 1, cap. 8), he quotes the Sages’ dictum: “Women are of unstable temperament” (BT Shabbat, 33b).56 When studying the chapter on the proper education of girls, so they would become humble and modest, he quotes in the margins Isaiah’s negative description of the daughters of Zion who are “making a tinkling with their feet” (3:10).57 All of these are only representative examples; many such quotations and notes repeatedly appear throughout the whole manuscript. The owner-reader obviously employed this system in order to clarify the author’s intentions to himself. It was also a clear hint of the conventional view that these ideas, expressed now by a Christian author who follows Aristotle, were originally derived from Jewish sources. The idea that the Torah contains all of human knowledge, in many hidden ways, was a well established theory in the medieval mind. It was agreed upon not only among the Jews, but also among Muslims and Christians.58 By bringing the examples of ancient Hebrew leaders, such as Isaac, Moses, Joshua, Saul and Joab ben Zeruiah, and Jethro’s advice to Moses on how to organize the political system of the ancient Israelite state, the reader also hints at the political ramifications of this idea. The ancient Hebrew leaders and the Biblical political system are presented in the margins as the prototype for the ideal state and perfect leadership. This was a conventional idea in Jewish and non-Jewish medieval political philosophy. For the Jewish reader, De Regimine, as a mirror of princes, was reflected by the image of the ancient Hebrew leaders. By this he also joins the tradition of the philosopher-king in Medieval Jewish philosophy.59

55 56 57 58 59

Ibid., On the importance of tallness for a ruler in Medieval thought, see Melamed, “Accidents.” Ibid., Fol. 106a. Ibid., Fol. 133b. The bibliography on this subject is vast. See recently, Melamed, Myth. See details in Melamed, Philosopher-King. But see Lambertini’s note that De Regimine “does not reflect to the king the image of an Aristotle with a crown on his head, but rather the portrait of a ‘politician’ equipped with the practical skills necessary to make good use of an almost absolute power.” Idem, “Prince,” p. 10. The ancient Hebrew leaders, however, could be easily identified with this representation of the prince also. See in detail Melamed, Philospher-king, especially ch. 8-9. — 226 —

—————— The Anonymous Hebrew Translation of Aegidius’ De Regimine Principum ——————

VI. This had the potential of becoming a major breakthrough in the history of Medieval Jewish political philosophy. This potential, however, did not materialize, as far as our knowledge goes. We have no information that the translation had any meaningful influence upon Jewish scholars, or was even known to them, but for the two scribes of the surviving ms, and, maybe, whoever commissioned them. All the present evidence points at a negative conclusion. As has already been indicated, Abravanel’s famous attack on monarchy in his commentary on 1 Sam. 8, was obviously influenced by the Aristotelian- Scholastic political tradition. He himself informs us of this fact.60 Abravanel, however, mentions by name only the apostate Paulus of Burgus, and scholastic political ideas appear in a manner too general to pinpoint it to Aegidius in particular. Moreover, while Aegidius used Aristotelian political ideas in order to advance the cause of monarchy, Abravanel rejected these very ideas, and criticized the scholasticized Aristotle of the Politics.61 We have no proof, thus, that Abravanel had any information of the Hebrew translation of Aegidius, although he must have acquired his knowledge of scholastic political philosophy somewhere. Likewise, Simone Luzzatto’s criticism of the Platonic communist political and social system in his Discorso supra il stato degli Ebrei in Venezia (1638),62 is equivalent in many ways to Aegidius’ discussion of the same issue in the first part of the third book. These ideas, however, were very common in Luzzatto’s period, and he could have found them himself in the second book of Aristotle’s Politics, or any of its many commentaries. Moreover, even if Abravanel and Luzzatto did read Aegidius, they could have already used one of the Latin printed editions, which had appeared at a brisk pace from 1473, and during the sixteenth century, and not necessarily an obscure Hebrew translation in ms. As far as other late-Medieval and Renaissance Jewish scholars are concerned, the probability of their having any contact with the Hebrew De Regimine is even smaller. All late medieval Jewish scholars continued in the old, and by now well ploughed, Platonic political tradition, as transmitted by Muslim 60 See n. 4 above. 61 Melamed, “Aristotle”; idem, “Abravanel.” 62 Luzzatto, Discorso ch. 2. See in detail Melamed, “Aristotle,” pp. 45-48. — 227 —

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commentators. For cultural as well as theological reasons, this attitude forcefully continued even after the centers of Jewish philosophy moved into the orbit of the Christian-Latin culture. Jewish political philosophy continued to be contingent upon Plato’s Republic and Aristotle’s Ethics as interpreted by al-Farabi, Averroes and Maimonides, and not upon Aristotle’s Politics, as interpreted by Aquinas and Aegidius Romanus.63 It was penetrated by only faint echoes of the scholasticized Politics, which most probably did not originate with this translation. The very fact that De Regimine Principum was translated into Hebrew at all is a strange exception which only proves this general state of affairs. It was a revolutionary potential, never to be realized.

63 Melamed, “Aristotle”; idem, “Medieval.” — 228 —

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Part III

Studies: The Renaissance

— 229 —

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Chapter eight

The Myth of Venice in Italian Renaissance Jewish Thought

I. In Italian Renaissance political literature, we mainly find the praise of two city-states—Venice and Florence. This is mainly due to their prominence in the culture and politics of the Renaissance. The great difference between their political attitudes—the rebellious Libertas of Florence vis a vis the serene Iustitia of Venice, was a major theme in humanist political literature.1 In the writings of Jewish thinkers of the period, we find the same tendency to praise these two city-states. This is not necessarily due to preferential treatment the Jews received from the local governments in comparison with other places of residence. While Venice maybe treated the Jews a little better then some other Italian cities, Florence was hardly distinguished for its treatment of the Jews.2 Nevertheless, they concurred with their Christian contemporaries in the perception of Florence and Venice as prototypes of the ideal government. The main examples of the Jewish eulogy of Florence we find in Yohanan Alemanno’s Heshek Shelomo and Hai Ha-Olamim, where he brings two variations of a typical humanist Laudatio, dealing with the seven virtues of the Florentine people and their constitution,3 and Don Isaac Abravanel’s commentary to the Bible.4 We can now turn to Venice. The myth of Venice, the most serene republic, and its influence upon European Renaissance and early modern

1 Struever, Language, pp. 174-175. Gilbert, “Venetian”; idem, “Machiavelli.” Weinstein, “Florence.” Pecchioli, “Mito.” Pocock, Machiavellian, pp. 7-8. 2 Cassuto, Firenze, pp. 66-76; Roth, Venice. For more general information about the Jews in the Italian Renaissance see Roth, Renaissance. Shulvass, Renaissance. Bonfil, Rabbinate. 3 Cassuto, Firenze, p. 315. Roth, Renaissance, pp. 120-121. Shulvass, Renaissance, pp. 313-314. Alemanno, Song (Lesley), 2, pp. 4-8. Hai ha-Olamim, Mss. Mantova, no. 21. fo1s. 107-109. On the whole issue see Melamed, “Firenze.” 4 Abravanel, Comm. on Deut. 17: 14; also Comm. on 1 Samuel, 8: 4; Judges, 18: 7. Netanyahu, Abravanel, p. 174. Shulvass, Renaissance, p. 358. — 230 —

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historical and political thought, is well researched.5 The way it is discussed by Jewish thinkers of the period, however, is little known. My discussion will try to shed some light upon the way in which Jewish thinkers of the Italian Renaissance related to the myth of Venice in connection with the needs and problems of Jewish existence in the Diaspora, the way they were, influenced by the culture of the Renaissance, and utilized Jewish sources, mainly the Bible, in their discussion of the subject. The praise of Venice is mainly found in the writings of three Jewish thinkers: Don Isaac Abravanel, in the late Quattrocento and early Cinquecento, David de Pomis in the late Cinquecento, and mainly Simone Luzzatto, already towards the mid-Seicento.6 Abravanel elaborated upon the myth of Venice in his commentary to the Bible. De Pomis wrote a typical humanist Laudatio, while Luzzatto’s discussion is already connected with Jewish apologetic literature. Abravanel wrote in Hebrew, De Pomis in Latin and Italian, Luzzatto already used the vernacular only. Abravanel and De Pomis utilized a medieval method in their proof that the Venetial form of government was based upon the perfect Mosaic constitution. Luzzatto’s discussion is already wholly modern, almost post-Renaissance, based upon the theory of the Ragione di Stato. Abravanel wrote while the Serenissima was still at the Zenith of its splendour. De Pomis wrote after the temporary recuperation from the crisis of the Cinquecento. Luzzatto wrote his Discorso when the decline of the republic was already apparent, and thus attempted to discover the sources of this decline, and consequently offered a Jewish remedy. Thus, our three thinkers’ sequence in time nicely represents the development of the myth of Venice during the Renaissance.

5 Bouwsma, Venice, ch’s. 1-4.; idem, “Political.” Libby, “Venetian.” Lane, Venice. Gilmore, “Myth.” Fasoli, “Nascita.” Pocock, Machiavellian, p. 9. Gaeta, “considerazioni.” Finlay, Politics, ch. 1. Logan, Culture, ch. 1. 6 See also Shlomo ibn Verga short reference in his Shevet Yehudah (Jerusalem, 1949) p. 154: “Venice [excels] in leadership and counsel” (Venezia le-hanhagah ve-Etzah). See also Elijah Capshali’s vivid description of Venice’s greatness in the 16th century. See Seder Eyiahu Zuta, Jerusalem, 1967, p. 230. Probably the earliest reference to Venice found in Jewish literature is Rash”i’s commentary on Isaiah 42:10: “[…] ye that go down to the sea, and all that is therein, the isels and the inhabitants thereof”: “And they go from house to house in a boat like the city of Venice.” This very early reference (eleventh century) by a Jew who never visited there clearly proves that Venice had a reputation already at the time. — 231 —

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II. Don Isaac Abravanel, who resided in Venice in his later years,7 discussed the Venetian constitution in various contexts of his commentary to the Bible, where he attempted to prove the superiority of a republican government over monarchy. In this attempt, he cites the example of the various Italian republics of the late Quattrocento. In all instances, Venice appears at the top the list. Venice, in Ahravanel’s words: “The great city of Venice”; “The princess among the States”—is the prototype of the ideal republican government.8 Biblical epithets which were used to describe the splendour of Jerusalem (Lamentation 1:1), are now applied to Venice. Abravanel is unique in Medieval and Renaissance Jewish philosophy in his rejection of monarchy. He was the first one to portray the Mosaic constitution as a republic. His republicanism is derived from a basic theocratic assumption. Influenced by Christian thought, he distinguished between the superior spiritual government (hanhagah ruhanit), and the lower temporal government (hanhagah enoshit). The latter is a republic, based upon the Polybian theory of the mixed government, in which the democratic element consists of the elected local courts of law, the aristocratic element being represented by the Sanhedrin, whose members are chosen according to their virtues, and the monarchical element is represented by the king. The temporal government is supervised by the spiritual government, headed by the hight priest and the prophets, who represent divine will. Thus, following his republican sentiments, the powers of the monarchical elements are strictly limited by the two other branches of the temporal government, with the spiritual power above all.9 After he moved from Spain to Italy, and then settled in Venice, in 1503, Abravanel came to know the social and political organization of Venice firsthand. Thus, in the commentary to Exodus, written in Venice in 1505, he ascribed to the temporal government a distinctly Venetian appearance. Abravanel interprets Jethro’s advice to Moses to elect “rulers of thousands, rulers of hundreds” etc. (Exod. 18) in the light of the Venetian constitution. Taking many liberties in the interpretation of the 7

On Abravanel’s political thought, see Netanyahu, Abravanel, 2:3. Strauss, “Abravanel.” Smoler and Aurbach, “Abravanel.” Ravitzky, “Kings,” and Melamed, in various studies, see the bibliography. 8 Abravanel, Comm. On 1 Samuel 8: 4, Deut. 17: 14; B. Netanyahu, Abravanel, p. 169. 9 Comm. On 1 Samuel, 8: 4; Deut. 16: 18; Exod. 18: 13. Netanyahu, Abravanel, 2:3. — 232 —

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text, he identifies the “rulers of thousands” with the Consiglio Maggiore. The “rulers of hundreds” are identified with the Consiglio dei Pregadi (the Venetian Senate), the “rulers of tens” are identified with the Consiglio dei Dieci.10 This identification causes many inconsistencies. While according to the plain meaning of the text, these magistrates’ functions were basically judicial, Abravanel extends their functions into legislation and governing duties as well. According to the literal meaning of the text, “rulers of thousands, hundreds,” etc., were evidently officers whose jurisdiction was limited to a certain number of people. It is clear that their power increased with the number of people under their respective jurisdictions, and consequently, the highest authorities in the Mosaic system were the “rulers of thousands.” Abravanel, however, interprets the Mosaic hierarchy in reverse, in accordance with the Venetian model. Thus, while in the Mosaic system, the “rulers of thousands” are at the top of the hierarchy, Abravanel, by identifing it with the Consiglio Maggiore, places it at the lower level of the hierarchy. The “rulers of ten,” which in the Mosaic system are at the lower level, are now placed at the pinnacle, since they are identified with the Consiglio dei Dieci. Every thinker interprets the past in the light of the present. In the Middle Ages, Abraham ibn Ezra interpreted Jethro’s advice to Moses on the background of Feudalism. Since as a monarchist, he opposed the usurpation of the divine rights of kings by the feudal lords, he rejected Jethro’s advice to Moses, criticizing him for relegating his authority to the various magistrates, whom ibn Ezra identified with the feudal lords.11 Abravanel, on the other hand, being emphatically anti-monarchist, saw Moses’ acceptance of Jethro’s advice as a positive step—Moses was creating a mixed government, Venetian style. Moreover, Abravanel gave his temporal government a more radical republican shade than the Venetian government itself, which was more oligarchic in nature. According to his interpretation, Moses relegated the right to choose the officers to the people themselves. In Venice, the right to choose the various magistrates was strictly kept in the hands of the hereditary patrician class.

10 Comm. to Exod. 18:13, Netanyahu, cit. 11 Ibn Ezra, Comm. on Exod. 18:21; Netanyahu, cit., pp. 168-169. — 233 —

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III. About eighty years elapsed between Abravanel’s interpretation of the Mosaic constitution, according to the Venetian prototype, and its praise by David De Pomis.12 While Florence and all other Italian city-states already lost their independent power, Venice alone, despite all the crises of the Cinquecento, remained a European power. This is why Venice alone continued to appear as the embodiment of the perfect constitution in the writings of the Christian thinkers and their Jewish contemporaries. In the late Quattrocento we found Alemanno and Abravanel’s praise of the Florentine constitution. From now on, we shall find the praise of Venice only. The myth of Venice was finally established by the Venetian scholars Gasparo Contarini, Giannoti, and others, during the crisis years of the Cinquecento, optimistically implying that despite the periodic decline, the city would be able to recuperate, due to the ancient prudence of its leaders and its perfect constitution. They all continue to search for the secret of Venice’s eternal stability.13 De Pomis’ Laudatio was the Jewish contribution to this effort. What concerns us here is a lost tract by De Pomis, whose existence is mentioned in some of his published writings. Shulvass, Roth, and others, state that after the Venetian victory over the Turks in Lepanto (1571), De Pomis sent the Doge and the Senate a memorandum wherein he attempted to prove that the great victory was hinted at in the Bible, and he also wrote a treatise wherein he attempted to prove the divine nature of the Venetian constitution.14 Munster, in his article dealing with De Pomis’ medical tract, even cites the exact Latin title of the treatise Tractatus de Divinitate Institutionum Reipublice Venete.15 The existence of the lost tract is mentioned in the introduction to De Pomis’ trilingual dictionary Zemah-David, dedicated to Pope Sixtus V, (1581), where he enclosed a short autobiography, detailing his various writings. Among them he mentions: “...e un discorsctto che donai al clarissimo, e dottissimo signor Giacomo Contarini, dove provo Ie constitutioni venetiane esser divine, e promesso da Iddio per bocca del profeta 12 Roth, Venice, pp. 186-188. Shulvass, Renaissance, pp. 287, 292, 319, 320, 345, 354, 356. 13 Lane, Venice. Bouwsma, Venice, ch’s. 3-4. Finlay, Politics. Gilmore, “Myth.” Gilbert, “Composition”; idem, “Contarini.” 14 Roth, Venice, pp. 187-188. Shulvass, Renaissance, p. 356. 15 Munster, “Enarratio.” — 234 —

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di conservare tal santa republica, regolatrice, e maestra veramente di ogni buon ordini.”16 In his medical treatise, written in Latin, dedicated to the Doge Pasquale Ciconia and the Venetian senate (1588), De Pomis added a long preface, in the form of a humanist Laudatio, were he attempted to prove that the Venetian constitution is based upon the Mosaic prototype. He finished the introduction with an assertion that it is only a shortened version (reliquum est) of a longer tract on the same subject.17 Thus we have two proofs, from De Pomis writings themselves, to the existence of the lost treatise. What De Pomis says about the lost tract, can teach something about its scope, purpose and content. The first citation teaches us that he wrote Un discorsetto, a short tract meant for rhetorical usage. This Discorsetto was dedicated to Jacopo Contarini. This Contarini was an offspring of the famous Venetian family, which produced many political and ecclesiastical leaders in Venice, including the above mentioned Gasparo Contarini, who established the myth of Venice in his famous history of the city and its institutions. Jacopo Contarini was elected to organize the renovation of the Palazzo Ducale, which was twice damaged by fire in the 1570’s. The renovated Palazzo Ducale was decorated with paintings by Tintoretto and Veronese, among others. The paintings described allegorical scenes from Venetian history, emphasizing its achievements and victories. It was a clear manifestation of the elation felt in Venice after the victory in Lepanto.18 Since De Pomis dedicated the lost treatise to Jacopo Contarini, and since the books in which he mentioned it were published in 1587 and 1588 respectively, we can assume that the lost tract was written a few years before, in the very same period when the renovation of the Palazzo Ducale took place. Thus, the lost tract can be viewed as a Jewish contribution to the reemergence of the republican pride after Lepanto. The preface to De Pomis medical book seems to be a shortened rhetorical version of the lost treatise. Following humanist tradition, he dedicated his medical book to the Doge and the Senate, and so devoted 16 Dittionario Novo Hebraico molto copioso, dechiarato in tre lingue, con bellisime annotationi, e con l’indice Latino, e volgare, de tutti suoi significati. Lexicon Novum Aebraicum. . ., Venezia 1587, End of the Italian introduction, unnumbered page. 17 Enarratio Brevis de Senum Affectibus... David De Pomis medico physico hebraeo auctore, Venetiis 1588. End of the introduction, unnumbered page. 18 Bouwsma, Venice, pp. 224-225. On Contarini, see Logan, Culture, pp. 391-392. — 235 —

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the preface to the praise of the city they govern. Basically, De Pomis follows Abravanel in his attempt to prove that the Venetian constitution is based upon the Mosaic prototype, which, against accepted tradition, is portrayed as a republic. He employs the same Biblical sources used by Abravanel and others in their discussion of the ancient Israelite state—mainly the dispute between the prophet Samuel and the people of Israel about monarchy, and Jethro’s advice to Moses. While monarchists like Maimonides understood Samuel’s oration on the Ius Regis as implying the King’s almost absolute authority,19 De Pomis gives it a full republican interpretation. The Israelite regime in the period of the Judges was republican. The people of Israel erred in their request to choose a king, as they were wrong in their argumentation—to be like the other nations. This was a direct affront to divine authority, represented by the prophet Samuel. De Pomis quotes from the Latin translation Samuel’s Ius Regis oration, and gives it an antimonarchist interpretation. A king, due to the very nature of his authority, would necessarily become a tyrant. Following the Aristotelian dictum, which was commonplace in medieval political thought, every authority which is not limited by law will necessarily regress into tyranny. Thus, a republican government, where authority is limited by law and divided between the many, is less prone to regress into tyranny.20 After rejecting monarchy, De Pomis progresses to elaborate upon the structure of the preferable republican government, Venice being the living historical example, the ancient Mosaic constitution representing the prototype. Following Abravanel, he interprets Jethro’s advice to Moses in republican terms, and compares it with the Venetian constitution. The anshei hayyil (homines fortes), from which the various magistrates were chosen, are the counterpart of the Venetian aristocracy. The Millenarii (Judges of thousands) are represented as the counterpart of the Consiglio Maggiore. The Centuriones (Judges of hundreds) are compared with the Venetian senate. The Quinquagenarii (Judges of fifties) with the three Quarantiae—the three judicial councils of Venice. The Decani (Judges of tens) to the Consiglio dei Dieci, while Moses 19 Lerner, “Maimonides.” 20 De Pomis, Enarratio Brevis, cit, Introduction, unnumbered pages. — 236 —

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is compared with the Doge himself.21 As was common to medieval thinkers, De Pomis freely interprets the Biblical sources according to his own philosophical opinions and historical background, far beyond its literal meaning. As indicated above, ibn Ezra interpreted Jethro’s advice in accordance with his rejection of Feudalism; Aquinas found in it an example of a mixed Polybian constitution.22 Abravanel and De Pomis see in it a perfect Venetian republic. Since, following Abravanel, De Pomis interprets the Mosaic constitution in reserve, in accordance with the Venetian model, we find here the same inconsistencies in the interpretation of the text. As for the comparison between Moses and the Doge: despite the appointment of the magistrates, the main authority remained in the hands of Moses. He chose them, and they were responsible to him. They were in charge of the “small matter,” the less important decisions, while Moses kept the “great matter” in his own hands. The authority of the Doge, on the other hand, was much more limited, restricted by the various councils which operated in the complex system of the Venetian government. Basically, the Doge was no more than first among equals. Moses remained in a strong commanding position.23 However, later on, when he discusses the status of the Sanhedrin in the ancient Jewish state (called the “senate”), and its relationship with the king,24 and when he explains the term “King” in his trilingual dictionary Zemah David,25 De Pomis emphasizes his republican tendencies by strictly limiting the authority of the king, far beyond the halakhahic position. Like Venice, the monarchical element is strictly limited by the aristocratic branch of government. It is interesting to note that De Pomis identifies the federal-tribal organization of the ancient Israelite state with the tribal organization of Venice.26 While Abravanel still related the tribal organization of the ancient Israelite state to the relationship between the Italian city-states,27 De Pomis already relates to Venice only. Abravanel wrote when the ideal of the unification of Italy was still in currency, as 21 Exod. 18. De Pomis, Enarratio Brevis, cit. 22 Summa Theologica, Pars secunda, Quaestio cv, art. 1. 23 De Pomis, Enarratio Brevis, introduction. cit. On the working of the Venetian government see Fink, Republicans, ch. 2. Finlay, Politics, ch’s 2-3. 24 De Pomis, Enarratio Brevis, cit. introduction. 25 Zemah David, cit., pp. 119-120. 26 De Pomis, Enarratio Brevis, cit. introduction. 27 Comm. on Exod. 18: 13. Netanyahu, Abravanel, pp. 171-172. — 237 —

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we find in Machiavelli’s famous Exortatio, at the end of Il Principe. In the late Cinquecento, the idea was already totally irrelevant. So, the interest in De Pomis’ Laudatio is not so much in its content, since he basically follows Abravanel, but in its timing. The Laudatio—and its lost source—can be seen as another manifestation, in Jewish form, of the reemergence of the republican pride after the victory of Lepanto. In Simone Luzzatto’s Discorso circa il stato degl’Hebrei et in particolar dimoranti nell’inclita citta di Venetia,28 we find the most elaborate discussion of the Venetian government by an Italian Jewish thinker. In contrast with the theoretical approach of his predecessors, Luzzatto’s discussion is historical and practical, already belonging to Jewish apologetic literature. Luzzatto’s main intention in the Discorso was apologetic—the defence of the Jews against their accusers, and proof of their invaluable contribution to the republic. However, in order to prove this point he developed a whole political-socio-economic theory about the causes of its rise and decline. The general theory and its application to the Jewish problem is our concern here. Luzzatto’s theory on the rise and decline of the republic is based upon contemporary historical and political thought—Machiavellism, Botero, Paruta and the theory of the Ragione di Stato,29 Contarini and the myth of Venice, and the two classical sources most influential in contemporary political thought—Aristotle and Tacitus, whom Luzzatto calls il gran maestro di ragion di stato.30 His apology for the Jews is based on these lines. A nation can perpetuate itself, indicates Luzzatto, in two methods: by developing a superior culture, or by military victories and conquest. The Greeks employed the first method, the Romans the latter. Ancient Israel was distinguished by its achievements in both areas. After the destruction of the Jewish state by the Romans, the Jews lost their political independence. Only their higly developed culture saved them from total extinction, like so many other ancient peoples. Even if now, Luzzatto reminds his readers, the Jewish nation is incapable of political independence, in its great 28 Luzzatto, Discorso. Bachi,”Dottrina.” Baer, Galut, ch. 8. Ravid, Economics. Melamed, “Luzzatto.” Veltri, “Luzzatto.” 29 Fink, Republicans, ch. 2. Bouwsma, Venice, ch. 5. Meinecke, Machiavellism. Allan, Political, part 4. 30 On Aristotle’s influence on contemporary political thought see Meinecke, cit., p. 18. On Tacitus, Toffanin, Machiavelli. Meinecke, cit., pp. 66, 72, 132. Momigliano, “First.” Schellhase, Tacitus. On Luzzatto, Melamed, “Luzzatto.” The citation from Luzzatto, Discorso, cit., p. 70a. — 238 —

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past it had an ideal constitution, given by divine Providence itself; a form of government which is the model of all ideal constitutions, up to this very day, the Serenissima Repubblica costituting proof.31 Luzzatto interprets Jewish history according to Machiavellian lines. According to the organic theory of the state, the Jews, like any other people, follow an unavoidable historical cycle of birth, rise and decline. However, the decline could be the starting point for their renewal. So, Luzzatto gives the Messianic idea a Machiavellian meaning32 He also interprets Jewish existence in the Diaspora by the Machiavellian concept of necessità. What activates humans is not their good and free will, but the pressures of existence. Thus, since the pressure is felt more strongly by the Jews, they excel more than any other people.33 Luzzatto was unique in this Machiavellian interpretation of Jewish history. This is why, he implores his Christian Venetian readers, they should not despise the Jews for their current misfortunes. Using a popular humanist analogy, he asks them to respect the contemporary remnants of the Jewish nation, no less than they respect every broken relic of an ancient Greek statue by Fidias or Lysippus.34 Luzzatto’s analogy echoes Machiavelli’s famous assertion in the introduction to his Discorso, where he uses the same analogy, concerning the lesson of ancient history.35 However, while Abravanel and De Pomis only intended to prove that the ancient Mosaic constitution is the prototype of the ideal Venetian constitution, Luzzatto goes further and in his practical attitude intends to prove also that only the Jews can save the Serenissima from its immanent decline. Thus, he deals in his Discorso with the classical subject matter of the Ragione di Stato theory: La grandezza e la decadenza della città—the causes for the rise and decline of the political unit in its Italian Renaissance greatest manifestation—the independent city-state of Venice. Discussing, first, the greatness of the republic, Luzzatto presents the classical theory of the lawgiver, who gave the republic its eternal laws, 31 Luzzatto, Discorso, ch. 16. 32 Ibid., ch. 18, p. 88a; N. Machiavelli, Istoria Fiorentina, 5: 11; idem, Discorsi, lib. 2, introduction. 33 Luzzatto, Discorso, ch. 4, pp. 18·18a. Luzzatto generally uses the term bisogno; See on this in Machiavelli, Discorsi, lib. 1, 1; Id., il Principe, ch. 23. 34 Luzzatto, ch. 16, p. 96a. 35 Machiavelli, Discorsi, lib. 1, introduzione. — 239 —

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which maintained its social and political stability—a rare phenomenon among Italian city-states—for so many centuries. Italian thinkers, fearful of the violence and civil disorder, which were daily matters in Italian city-states, looked for an ideal solution which would combine liberty without disturbance and stability without tyranny. This concept of stability as the aim of the political organization is theoretically based upon the Platonic theory of the ideal state ruled by the philosopher king, and the Polybian theory of mixed government. Historically it is based upon the unique Venetian example.36 As for the concept of the lawgiver, or the ideal ruler, Luzzatto follows the theorists of the Ragione di Stato by converting the Platonic-Averroist philosopher king into an active Principe, Renaissance style.37 Here too we find his emphasis on the superiority of Israel. Solon, Lycurgus and Romulus enacted laws which were meant for their own people. The Mosaic Law, on the other hand, was meant for the whole of humanity.38 The lawgiver endowed the republic with its mixed constitution, considered the secret of its enduring stability. Luzzatto, however, transfers the basis of the republic’s stability from its constitutional form to its class structure and functional-economic organisation. While Abravanel and De Pomis still considered the constitutional aspects only, Luzzatto was one of the first modern thinkers to emphasize the economic basis of the socio-political structure. Thus, he based the secret of Venice’s stability not upon its constitutional structure, but upon its economic, functional and class organisation.39 Secondly, since he was here attempting to prove the benefit Jews bring to the republic, and since this benefit could be only in the economic field, it was obvious that he would emphasize the economic and functional organization of the republic. After discussing the basis of Venice’s stability, Luzzatto describes the possible maintenance of this socia-economic structure. In accordance with the fifth book of Aristotle’s Politics, he deals with the possibility of averting instability by maintaining the classes in their relative positions, taking care that the gap between them would not be too wide, 36 Luzzatto, Discorso, ch. 3, pp. 15a-16; 11. For the historical background of this problem see Martines, Violence. 37 Luzzatto, Discorso, ch. 6, p. 22; ch. 15, pp. 60a-61, 69a-70; ch. 8, p. 27a; ch. 10, p. 34a. Machiavelli, Discorsi, lib. 1:9. 38 Luzzatto, Discorso, ch. 13, pp. 46-46a; also the introduction. 39 Ibid., ch. 6, pp. 22a-23a; ch. 7, p. 25; ch. 8, p. 27. Paruta, Discorsi, 1: 1, p. 16. Bouwsma, Venice, p. 271. — 240 —

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especially regarding the two most extreme classes—the rich and the poor. Thus, Luzzatto analyzes the way the state should deal with these two dangerous classes, taking the Venetian policy as an ideal example.40 Since stability is the supreme end of the political community, Luzzatto deals with the important function religion has in its maintenance. Departing from the medieval path, Luzzatto was the first Jewish thinker to adopt the Machiavellian humanist approach. Religion too becomes a political instrument.41 Since the greatness of Venice was built on international commerce, and since Luzzatto emphasizes the significance of the economic basis for political stability, he now develops an elaborate mercantile-capitalistic economic theory. Emphasizing the economic benefits of commerce and its influence on politics and culture in general, he rejects Platonic communist thought, on the basis of the humanist praise of Vita Activa.42 In connection with the theory on the greatness of the republic, Luzzatto employs another two classical and contemporary political concepts: the differentiation between a republic for expansion and a republic for preservation, and the climatic theory. He follows his contemporaries by classifying Venice as a republic for preservation. Unlike Machiavelli, Luzzatto has a positive view of his situation of Venice, considering it one of the main reasons for its lasting stability. The ancient Israelite state he also interprets as a republic for preservation.43 Considering the climatic theory, Luzzatto follows his contemporaries by explaining the stability and success of Venice as a by-product of its preferable geographic situation.44 The theory of the decline of the republic is based upon the organic theory of the state, the concept that the state behaves like a living or40 Luzzatto, Discorso, ch. 7, p. 25; ch. 9, pp. 32-34a. Aristotles, Politics, V. 8. Botero, Ragione, 2, p. 20; 3, p. 1; 4, pp. 7, 16-18. On the historical background in Venice see Pullan, Rich and Poor. 41 Luzzatto, Discorso, ch. 14, p. 51a, ch. 15, pp. 65-67a. Machiavelli, Discorsi, 1: 2. Botero, La Perfeczione della Città, 2, p. 3. On the transformation of the relationship between religion and state in the late Middle Ages and the Renaissance: see Rubinstein, “Marsilius.” 42 For the theory on commerce, Luzzatto, Discorso, ch. 1, pp. 8-9a; ch. 3, p. 17; ch. 4, pp. 18-21a; ch. 6, p. 24a, ch. 7, pp. 25-26; ch. 8, pp. 27a-28; ch. 13, p. 68; ch. 17, p. 86a. His rejection of communism, ch. 7, p. 26; ch. 15, pp. 72-74. 43 Ibid., ch. 3, pp. 15-16; ch. 13, p. 47; ch. 15, p. 74. Machiavelli, Discorsi, lib. 1, ch’s. 34-36. Botero, Ragione, 1, 5, 6; 6, p. 1; Id., La Perfezione, 3, pp. 1, 2; P. Paruta, Discorsi, lib. 2, pp. 2-4. Fink, Republicans, ch. 2. 44 For the climatic theory, see Luzzatto, Discorso, ch. I, p. 9a; ch. 3, p. 14; ch. 4, p. 18-18a. 20; ch. 17, pp. 86-86a. Machiavelli, Discorsi, lib. 1, ch. 1. Botero, Ragione, 2, p. 5. Allen, Political, part. 4. On Bodin , pp. 431-434; on Botero, p. 509; on Paruta , p. 504. — 241 —

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ganism, which must follow the unavoidable process of birth, growth, old age and death. The parts of the body-politic are parallel to the members of the organism. In both, if every member performs his own functions, while conforming to the whole, will the body functions properly. However, while in the organism the decline is unavoidable, in the body-politic, if the various parts and the classes function properly, conforming with each other, there is a possibility of postponing the decline, or even avoiding it altogether.45 The general theory is now applied to the special Venetian situation. Venice is in a state of decline. Luzzatto analyzes it from an economic and psychological point of view. Economically, the transformation of the focus of Venetian activities from international commerce to the acquisition of real estate in the Terra Ferma has brought economic decline. Economic decline causes social, political and also moral decline.46 Psychologically, the decline is based by Luzzatto on the Machiavellian pessimistic concept of human nature and the theory of necessity. Only the pressures of existence forced the Venetians to excel. Now, when they are satiated, there is nothing to cause pressure, and they deteriorate. The roots of decline are in success itself.47 By abandoning commercial activities, the Venetians left the field open to foreign merchants. By abandoning military service, they left their defence in the hands of mercenaries. The abandonment of their basic civic duties is at the roots of their decline.48 Leaving commerce in the hands of foreign merchants does not solve the problems, but adds many more.49 So Luzzatto arrives at the conclusion of the Discorso. Now he proposes a solution. Only the Jews can save the republic. First he shows that all the arguments against the Jews—in the economic, social and political fields—are unsound.50 Then 45 On the organic theory of the state see Luzzatto, Discorso, Introduzione, p. 7a; ch. 3, p. 12a; ch. 6, p. 24a; ch. 7, p. 25; ch. 8. pp. 27-27a. Plato, Republic, 1, 546. Machiavelli, Discorsi, lib. 3, cap. 1. On Giannotti, Gilbert, Machiavelli, p. 102. See later also Melamed, “Organic” (ch. 5 in this book). 46 For historical background, see Bouwsma, Venice, pp. 67-70. Davis, Decline. Luzzatto, Discorso, ch. 2, pp. 10a-11; ch. 6, pp. 23a-24. 47 Luzzatto, Discorso, ch. 2, pp. 10-11; ch. 3, pp. 12a-15; ch. 7, p. 26a. 48 For the problem of military service—the replacement of a popular militia with a mercenary army see Fink, Republicans, p. 37. Bayley, War, ch. s. 3, 5. Luzzatto, Discorso, pp. 15, 72a. Paruta, Discorsi Politici, 2:1. 49 Fink, ch. 2. Luzzatto, Discorso, ch. 3, pp. 12a-15, ch. 8, p. 28a. Machiavelli, Discorsi, Lib. 1 ch. 6. 50 Luzzatto, Discorso, ch’s. 1, 4, 5, 14, 16. For the question of the relationship between Jewish law and the local law see. V. Colorni, Legge Ebraica e Leggi Locali, Milano 1945, p. 11. For the question of usury: see Noonan, Usury. Lane, Venice, pp. 56-68. — 242 —

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he tries to prove that only the Jews, because of their special abilities and distinct situation, are suited to take over the Venetian commerce, and thus to revive its economy. The revival of the Venetian economy will necessarily cause the renewal of its internal stability and international glory. The Jews are the saviours of the republic.51

51 Luzzatto, Discorso, ch. 3, pp. 15-16. — 243 —

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Chapter nine

Natural, Human, Divine: Classification of the Law Among Some Fifteenth- and Sixteenth-Century Italian Jewish Thinkers

I. Classical thought distinguished between two basic categories of the law: superior natural law—which is rational, unwritten and general, and is beyond the changing circumstances of time and place (physis)—as opposed to inferior human law, which is written and particular, bound to the changing circumstances of human existence (nomos).1 Medieval Muslim and Jewish philosophers translated this distinction into theological terms. They distinguished between the law given by divine revelation, which deals with the ultimate spiritual meaning of human existence, and human law written as a result of social expediency. This distinction is defined in the classical Maimonidean statement in The Guide of the Perplexed.2 There is a striking difference between the Christian and Jewish conceptions of the law. The Church fathers identified divine law with natural law, both being of a superior and general nature, which could be perceived by human reason. Maimonides did not accept the existence of natural law as such. According to him, consistency in nature was not a law unto itself, but the result of divine will—the source of all divine law. Being the result of divine will, divine law was above and beyond human perception, and shown to mankind only by divine revelation.3 The main addition to this twofold division, in its Christian and Jewish variations, was made by Thomas Aquinas. He recognized four categories of the law—Eternal (Lex Aeterna), Divine (Lex Divina), Natural (Lex Naturalis) and Human (Lex Humana).4 1 Aristotle, Ethics, 5, 1134b; Rhetoric, 1, 13, 2. Husik, “The Law of Nature.” Netanyahu, Abravanel, pp. 154-155. 2 Guide, 2: 40. Rosenthal, Islam, pp. 15-20. Idem, “Torah.” 3 Netanyahu, Abravanel, p. 155. Fox, “Natural Law.” 4 Aquinas, Summa Theologica, Prima Secundae, Qu. 90-97. Husik, “Law of Nature,” pp. 388-389. Fox, “Natural Law”, p. 4. And see later Casselli, “Threefold.” — 244 —

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Thus far, only one example of the influence of the Thomistic classification has been found in Medieval Jewish philosophy. This example is given in the Book of Roots (Sefer ha-Ikkarim), written by the Spaniard, Joseph Albo, in the fifteenth century. Isaac Husik and Isaac Guttmann have already suggested that Albo’s triple classification of the law (natural, human, and divine), is based—at least indirectly—upon the Thomistic classification.5 While reference to divine and human laws was commonplace among Medieval Jewish thinkers, Albo was the first to introduce the term ‘natural law’ into Jewish philosophy.6 Following Maimonides, however, he did not agree with the Christian identification of natural law with reason, relegating natural law to a different and inferior level of existence. II. This study will discuss the treatment of this subject by several Italian Jewish thinkers of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Judah Messer Leon, in the late fifteenth century, still used the Aristotelian twofold division of natural and human law, in its pre-medieval form. Moses ben Joav of Florence in the mid-fifteenth century and Judah Muscatto in the late sixteenth century, totally accepted the new triple classification introduced into Jewish philosophy by Albo. On the other hand, Don Isaac Abravanel, in his “Italian period,” discussed the new triple classification of the law but nevertheless rejected it. He still adhered to the traditional Maimonidean distinction between divine and human law. Ben Joav, Muscatto, and even Abravanel in his definition of natural law, furthered Albo’s innovation, and established a conceptual link in Jewish philosophy between the Medieval classification of the law, and in particular the definition of natural law, and the positions developed later by Grotius, Hobbes, Spinoza and Mendelssohn. III. In the rhetorical tract Nofet Zufim (ca. 1480), composed by the Manto5

6

Husik, “Law of Nature,” p. 393. Guttmann, “Albo,” pp. 176-184. Waxman, “Albo,” pp. 153-157. Altmann, “Sa’adia,” p. 335. Fox, “Natural Law,” p. 11, n. 15. It is not clear why Albo changed Aquinas’ classification of four kinds of law into a triple one. He might have been influenced by a different Christian source, or changed the Thomistic classification according to Aristotle (Eth. Nicom. 5: 9, 34b). See Guttmann, “Albo,” p. 178. Lerner, “Natural Law”; idem, “Politic.” Fox. “Natural Law,” pp. 9-11. — 245 —

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van Jew, Judah Messer Leon, one of the foremost humanists among the Jewish thinkers of the Renaissance, we find the twofold division of the law in its classical Aristotelian form, devoid of its Maimonidean connotations.7 In his discussion of the legal functions of rhetorics, Messer Leon distinguished between the particular human laws (nimus meyuhad), which are written and adjusted to the special needs of different people, and the general natural law (nimusim kollelim), which are unwritten and accepted by all.8 His distinction is based upon the Medieval Hebrew translation of Averroes’ commentary to Aristotles’ Rhetoric. Since his source was the Hebrew translation Averroes’ commentary,9 Messer Leon adhered to the Aristotelian classification of the law, without applying it to the traditional medieval classification, i.e. he did not interpret general law—which in the Aristotelian connotation is the law of nature—as medieval divine law.10 At the end of this passage, Messer Leon added two examples to illustrate what he meant by the term “general law.” These examples, honouring of parents and showing gratitude to benefactors among others, are found throughout the medieval tradition as manifestations of natural law. One important source goes back to Cicero, who developed a sixfold list of natural laws. These examples can be found in the writings of

7

The editio priceps of Nofet Zufim appeared in print already in the 1480’s. The first modern edition appeared in Vienna, 1863, reprinted in Jerusalem, 1970. The new critical edition, Messer Leon, Nofet (Rabinowitz). A Facsimile edition was published by the Magnes Press, Jerusalem, 1981, with an introduction by R. Bonfil. See also Melamed’s review, Kiryat Sefer vol. 56, (1981), pp. 716-720. Idem, “Messer Leon.” 8 “The particular laws (nimusim meyuhadim) are written so that the uniqueness of each people and nation will not be forgotten, while the general laws (nimusim kollelim) are unwritten, and generally accepted, for instance, giving honour to your parents and showing gratitude to your benefactor”; Nofet Zufîm, 2: 5, p. 66. 9 Averroes’ commentary to Aristotle’s Rhetoric was translated into Hebrew in the fourteenth century, by the Spanish Jew, Todros Todrosi. Averroes, Rhetoric. See M. Steinschneider, Die Hebräischen Überseizungen des Mittelalters (Graz, 1956), pp. 52-63. 10 In the Rhetoric (10:1), Aristotle talked about “general laws,” while in the Ethics (5, 1334b), he explicitly referred to natural law. Likewise Averroes, in his commentary to the Rhetoric, talked about “general laws,” while in the commentary to the Ethics (5, 22) he referred to “natural conventional law” (tiv’i nimusi), as opposed to “conventional law alone” (nimusi levad). (In the Latin translation—ius naturale legale as opposed to [ius] legale tantum i.e. positivum; see Aristotelis Opera, Venice, 1560, 3, p. 243a). Strauss, “Law of Reason,” p. 97, n. 5. Rosenthal, Islam, p. 186. Averroes’ definition might have influenced Maimonides’ position towards natural law; see also n. 18. Messer Leon, since he used Averroes’ commentary to the Rhetoric only, followed the reference to general laws, and did not mention its natural connotation. This connotation, however, is obvious. Sa’adya Gaon was influenced by the same Aristotelian distinction; see Altmann, “Sa’adia,” pp. 329-330. — 246 —

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Albertus Magnus and Marsilius of Padua.11 In Jewish sources, the first example belongs to the second table of the Decalogue, which consists of the ethical and social commandments. Though all the commandments share the same divine origin, the second table is equivalent to natural law. Regarding the second example, Messer Leon concurred with Sa’adya Gaon’s definition of gratitude as a rational law which is also natural, and disagreed with the Maimonidean conception of gratitude as a mere social convention (mefursamot).12 Thus we may conclude, that Messer Leon did not perceive any difference between natural and divine law, since both concur with reason. IV. Moses ben Joav of Florence’s commentary to the Bible, Tree of Life (Ez Hayyim) and his sermons followed the rationalist Maimonidean tradition. He attempted to discover the true hidden meaning of the words of the Torah, meant for the understanding of philosophers only, beneath the simple meaning, suited to the limited understanding of the multitude. Of course, this true hidden meaning corresponded to the current philosophical tendencies.13 The Tree of Life is a commentary on the legal portions of the Torah. In the introduction, Moses ben Joav dealt with the way in which humans can fulfil their material needs, and then transcend to the realm of perfection. Here he introduced the triple classification of the law. Humans fulfils their material needs and reach ultimate perfection, if they abide by the three kinds of law, in their proper temporal succession—natural and human laws, which concern man’s material well being, and then divine law which concerns his spiritual perfection.14 In agreement with 11

Marsilius of Padua, Defensor, 2:12, p. 190 n. 10. Falaquera also made the same distinction between the general and particular moral laws. He listed six examples of the general law which are partially equivalent to the second table of the Decalogue in Hokmah, p. 12. 12 For the different treatment of the first example by Albo, Moses ben Joav and Leon da Modena, see below, and also n. 44. Marsilius of Padua, Defensor, p. 190. For the second example—Sa’adia’s position, see Altmann, “Sa’adia,” pp. 322-323, 334; Maimonides, Treatise of Logic, ch. 8, p. 39; Schwarzschild, “Noachites,” p. 40; Fox, “Natural Law,” pp. 15-18. 13 Cassuto, Firenze, pp. 249-257. Cassuto discusses ben Joav’s classification, but does not consider the general context of the theory and its origins. 14 “According to investigation, we find that there are three kinds of law (nimus), which are natural, political and divine. It is appropriate, then, that we investigate in which of them can be found the human perfection and guidance for which we strive in this matter. We may say that when we inquire about the nature of the laws, which now exist, and which existed previously, we find them greatly variable. It happens that the natural laws (nimusim tivi’im) are the same for every man and — 247 —

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Albo, Moses ben Joav dealt with the triple classification of the law as part of his discussion of the process in which man can reach his ultimate perfection. Albo opened with a preliminary discussion of the political nature of man and the development of human society, upon which his classification of law is based. Here we find his first definition of the three kinds of law (Roots, 1:5). Then, following Aquinas, he moved on to the discussion of the law per se (Roots, 1:7). Here we find his second definition of the three kinds of law, and there are some differences in the details of his two definitions. He divided the second definition of the laws into two parts. First, he defined each law briefly, and then he elaborated it. Moses ben Joav totally disregarded the first definition. As for the second, he omitted Albo’s general definition of law per se. Moses ben Joav brought Albo’s short definition and then elaborated it. With the other two categories of law, however, he disregarded Albo’s short definition, and brought his explanation only. The order in which he brought the three kinds of law and the content of their definitions are basically the same as Albo’s.15 Natural law chronologically precedes the two other categories of law, since it provides the basic necessities that ensure the physical preserevery time and place, since they exist in order to keep man in the ways of righteousness and to remove wrongdoing from human association for its maintenance and existence. And the political laws, (nimusim medini’im), will enhance it, by removing the base and promoting the noble in their behavior, so that man will acquire virtues which are important for his soul, and will betroth to his soul this virtue as his second nature, and hate its opposite. For example, that he will acquire a noble heart and will deplore cowardice and fear, since if he follows the virtue of nobility for a long time, being one of the political virtues, it will happen that he will eliminate cowardice and fear from his nature, and this will be a great virtue acquired for his soul ... And thus the political law is superior to natural law. Since while it maintains the political association just as the natural law does, and thereby avoids its damage, it also acquires important virtues for the soul. These virtues consist of the perfection which is unique to him as a human being, and not only as an animal in nature guarding itself from damage. And the divine law (nîmûsîm elôhîyîm) while still safeguarding the association and providing the important virtues, will also direct man towards the perfection and happiness of his spiritual soul which is his ultimate perfection.” Ez Hayyim, MS Montefiori, London no. 17, fol 5. 15 Albo, Roots, 1: 7. I used R. Lerner’s translation, Sourcebook, p. 243. Albo: “There are three kinds of law (dat): natural (tiv’ît) or conventional (nimusit) or divine (elohit)”; ben Joav: “We find that there are three kinds of law (nimusim), which are natural (tivi’im) olitical (medini’im) and divine (elohi’im).” There are some differences between the terms Albo and ben Joav used. For law Albo used the term dat, while ben Joav used nîmûs, which Albo reserved for human law only. Thus while Albo called human law dat nimusit, ben Joav termed it nimusim medini’im. Both, however, have basically the same meaning. The two variations can be found in medieval Hebrew terminology. — 248 —

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vation of mankind. It is pre-political, since it removes wrongdoing and promotes justice, thereby creating the basic conditions for the development and maintenance of the political association. Natural law is based upon the rational comprehension of man’s natural needs.16 While Albo was the first to introduce this term (dat tiv’it) into medieval Jewish philosophy, he nevertheless regarded it with minimal esteem. The apparent rank of natural law in the classification, and its definition, are strikingly at variance with Aquinas’ classification. For Albo, natural law appeared as the lowest kind of law, beneath human and divine laws, while in Aquinas’ classification it appeared above human law, superior because of its generality. While Albo ascribed natural law to the lowest level of human existence, in the case of Aquinas it comprised all virtuous human actions.17 Moses ben Joav followed Albo, not only by including natural law (nimusim tiv’iyim) in his classification, but also by his treatment of it as the lowest kind of law. It is an accepted opinion that Maimonides rejected natural law. It is true that he never mentioned the term explicitly, and rejected it in the rational and refined meaning given by Saadya and Aquinas. However, in his acceptance of the Aristotelian position that man is by nature a social animal (Guide, 2:40), Maimonides came also to recognizing natural law in the meaning later ascribed to it by Albo. In broad lines, there is a striking resemblance between Maimonides’ discussion of man’s political nature and Albo’s equivalent discussion (Roots, 1:5). One of the differences in the details of their respective discussions is that Albo explicitly mentioned the term ‘natural law’ in this connotation, for the first time in medieval Jewish philosophy, while Maimonides refrained from using such a term. However, when he pointed out that “the law (Torah) although it is not natural (tiv’it) enters into what is natural” he came very close to the acceptance of natural law.18 16 Albo, the basic definition: “The natural law (tiv’ît) is the same for every man and for every time and for every place.” The explanation: “The intention of the natural law (dat tiv’ît) is to remove wrongdoing and to promote justice, so that the people may keep away from theft, robbery, and murder, that association among people may endure and exist and everybody may be delivered out of the grasp of the unrighteous and ruthless man (Ps. 71: 4),” Roots, p. 243. Ben Joav: “It is so that the natural laws (nimusim tivî’im) are the same for every man and every time and place, since they exist in order to keep man in the ways of righteousness and to remove wrongdoing from human association for maintenance and existence.” 17 Lerner, “Natural Law.” 18 The accepted opinion that Maimonides rejected natural law is generally based upon his position in regard to the Noachitic laws (see n. 46). However, a careful reading of the Guide, 2: 40, may lead — 249 —

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Like Albo after him, Maimonides started with the discussion of the political nature of humankind (what Albo calls “natural law”), and then brought the definition of human law. In his definition he included the functions which Albo and ben Joav later ascribed either to natural or human laws. Albo and ben Joav, by recognizing natural law in a different meaning from Aquinas’ definition, divided the Maimonidean definition of human law into two. Its lower function (“the abolition ... of injustice and oppression”) they ascribed to natural law (“to remove wrongdoing and to promote justice”), while its higher function was reserved for human law. In fact, it seems that Albo used the Maimonidean discussion of human political nature for his first definition of natural law. His main innovation here was the explicit use of the term itself. For his second definition of natural law he used the first part of Maimonides’ discussion of human law. Ben Joav, as already indicated, followed Albo’s second definition only. In this second definition, Albo implied that political association exists in order to safeguard the existence of individuals and not that of the species. This assertion seems to comply with the Aristotelian position that the preservation of the species is taken care of by nature itself—i.e. the natural inclination of male and female to mate, while the political association is aimed at taking care of the needs of individuals (Politics, 1:2). This in contrast with the position presented by Maimonides (Guide, 2:40), where he stated that the political association is necessary in order to safeguard the survival of the species.19 However, in his first definition of natural law, Albo did follow the Maimonidean position. In contrast with his later definition, he stated in the first that the political association “is necessary for the human species in order to live and exist.” This fact only strengthens the assumption that Albo used the Maimonidean discussion of the human political nature for his first definition of natural law. Ben Joav followed Albo’s second definition, where it is related to individuals in society, and not to the species as a whole. to a different conclusion. It is true that Maimonides never explicitly mentioned the term, and that he rejected the meaning that Aquinas (and Sa’adya) ascribed to natural law. But this does not necessarily preclude the possibility that he did recognize its existence in a different meaning. Fox, in his discussion of Maimonides’ position towards natural law, did not consider the Guide, 2: 40 at all. (See n. 3). The comparison between this chapter of the Guide and Albo’s discussion might be enlightening. Lerner, ibid. n. 9, did not relate to it at all. See also Strauss, “Law of Reason,” p. 96, n. 5. Altmann, “Sa’adia,” p. 334. See Melamed, “Natural Law.” 19 Galston, “Purpose,” n. 9. — 250 —

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Albo’s and ben Joav’s conception of natural law already strikes a modern note. It echoes Hobbes more then Aquinas.20 Like Hobbes, they no longer regarded natural law as a rational and ethical guide, leading humans, through practical life, to the fulfilment of his ultimate end. The functions which Aquinas attributed to natural law, Albo and ben Joav transferred to human and divine law. Natural law was left with the functions of comprehending and fulfiling basic social and material needs. Concerning human law, as stated above, ben Joav totally disregarded Albo’s basic definition, which dealt with the human origins of conventional law. While natural law is comprehended by every person’s reason, conventional law is enacted by the wise legislator who founds the political association (or by mutual consent, as he said in the first definition). Ben Joav also omitted Albo’s distinction between idolators and those who worship God.21 He did follow Albo’s basic explanation of human law. While natural law is pre-political, human law is political. Ben Joav emphasized this point even more than Albo by naming this category of law ‘political laws’ (nimusim medini’im), while Albo used the less emphatic term ‘conventional law’ (dat nimusit). Human law is superior to natural law, and chronologically follows it. While the function of natural law is to “remove wrongdoing and to promote justice,” human law functions on a higher level, its intention is “to remove the base and ta promote the noble,” thereby improving the virtues of the participants in the politi20 Contrast Hobbes’ definition of natural law: “A law of nature, lex naturalis, is a precept or general rule, found out by reason, by which a man is forbidden to do that which is destructive to his life, or taketh away the means of preserving the same, and to omit that, by which he thinketh it may be best preserved.” Leviathan, ed. M. Oakeshott, introduction by R.S. Peters (London 199), ch. 14, p. 103. Lerner, “Natural Law,” p. 132. 21 Albo’s basic definition: “The conventional law (nimusit) is what is ordered by a wise man or wise men in accord with the place and the time and the nature of those governed by it.” Albo’s explanation: “The intention of the conventional law (dat nimusit) is to remove the base and to promote the noble, so that the people may keep aloof from what is generally regarded as base. In this it exceeds the natural law, for the conventional law also arranges the governance of people and orders their affairs in a proper manner so as to improve the political association, just as the natural law does.” Roots, ibid. Ben Joav’s formulation: “And the political laws (nimusim medini’im) will enhance it, by removing the base and promoting the noble in their behaviour, so that man will acquire virtues which are important for his soul, and will betroth to his soul this virtue as his second nature, and will hate its opposite. For example, that he will acquire a noble heart and will deplore cowardice and fear, since if he follows the virtue of nobility for a long time, being one of the political virtues, it will happen that he will eliminate cowardice and fear from his nature, and this will be a great virtue acquired for his soul ... And thus the political law is superior to natural law. Since while it maintains the political association just as the natural law does; and thereby avoids its damage, it also acquires important virtues for his soul. These virtues consist of the perfection which is unique to him as a human being, and not only as an animal in nature guarding itself from damage.” — 251 —

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cal association. While according to Greek and Christian philosophy the general character of natural law indicates its superiority over human law, Albo and ben Joav emphasized the superiority of the latter, since it deals with a higher level of human existence. In concluding his discussion of human law ben Joav mentioned another difference between the two categories, not found in Albo. While the intention of natural law is to eliminate the negative tendencies of human nature in order to ensure the existence of the political association, human law strives to develop the better qualities in human nature, and establish them as “second nature.” Ben Joav adhered to the Aristotelian conception that virtuous behaviour is acquired through practice (Ethics, 2:1). In the case of natural law, man’s situation and needs do not differ from those of animals’. Human law, on the other hand, is unique to mankind. Human dignity and special position in the order of creation are indicated by his ability not only to safeguard the survival of the species, but also to elevate himself to a higher level of existence. In natural law, humans participate with the animals. In divine law, they strive for participation with God. Human law, however, is unique to human beings. It enables them to elevate themselves from bestial life, through political life, towards rational life. Thus we find here a direct derivation of the triple classification of the law from the distinction among the three forms of life. Both are derived from the basic triple classifications of the Macrocosmos and the Microcosmos (see Table 1).22 Albo does not mention this notion explicitly in his definition of the law, but the idea is apparent in his discussion of man’s unique status in the chain of being.23 Ben Joav’s emphasis on the human unique status in nature can be regarded as a forerunner to the Humanist concept of the Dignitas Hominis. 24 As for divine law, here also ben Joav ignored Albo’s basic definition. According to Albo the origin of divine law was through revelation to the prophet, as opposed to the rational origin of natural law and the human origin of conventional law.25 Nevertheless, ben Joav adhered to Alba’s explanation in which he discussed the aim of divine law and its superi22 For a detailed discussion, see Melamed, “Dignity,” pp. 38-39. 23 Albo, Roots, 3: 1-2. 24 P. O. Kristeller, “The Dignity of Man,” in his Concepts, pp. 1-21. 25 Roots, ibid. Lerner, “Natural Law.” — 252 —

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ority to the previous categories of law. While natural and human laws promote only the material, social and political needs of humankind. Divine law deals also with the spiritual end of human existence. Natural and human laws deal with the means to achieve ultimate perfection. Divine law deals with ultimate perfection itself. Divine law includes the inferior natural and human laws, but elevates man into the realm of the spiritual.26 Following Aquinas, Albo continued to elaborate upon the superiority of divine law over human law.27 Ben Joav omitted this discussion, but elaborated upon the general significance of divine law in guiding humans, who are superior to the lower beasts in his rational capacity, towards spiritual perfection.28 As indicated above, ben Joav followed the order in which Albo discussed the three categories of law—natural, human and divine. They appear in an ascending order of dignity and importance. Natural law comes first chronologically, since through it humans understand the necessity to organize in society. Human law comes next, since it deals with the improvement of human virtues and the order of society. Divine law appears last and is superior in quality. It includes the lesser two categories of law, and defines the supreme spiritual end of human existence.29 V. This general philosophic outlook found in the introduction to the Tree of Life is basic to ben Joav’s commentary to the Torah and his sermons, 26 Albo’s basic definition in Book of Roots: ‘’The divine law (elohit) is what is ordered by God through a prophet like Adam or Noah, and like the governance and the law which Abraham was teaching and training people to worship God, or what is ordered by God through a messenger sent by Him so that a law may be given through him, like the law of Mose.” The explanation: “The intention of the divine law is to guide people to the attainment .of true happiness (that being the happiness of the soul and everlasting immortality), shows them the ways they should follow so as to reach it, makes known to them the true evil in order that they might guard against it, and trains them to abandon illusory kinds of happiness so that they no longer desire them and grieve at their loss. It also lays down ways of justice in order that the political association may be improved in a proper and perfect manner, so that the evil order of their association will not hinder them from attaining true happiness nor crush them in the attempt to attain the happiness and final end of the human species—this being the object of the divine law. In this it exceeds the conventional law” (ibid.). Ben Joav’s definition: “And the divine law (nimusim elohi’im) while still safeguarding the association and providing the important virtues, will also direct man towards the perfection and happiness of his spiritual soul which is his ultimate perfection.” 27 Roots, 1: 8. Guttmann, “Albo,” pp. 179-180. 28 Ez Hayyim, Ms Montefiori, no. 17, fol. 5. 29 Lerner, “Natural Law,” p. 134. — 253 —

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which appear in the later part of the same manuscript. Ben Joav returned to the discussion of the triple classification of the law in his commentary to the seven commandments of the Noachites (Gen. 9). In his commentary, each commandment corresponds to each of the three categories of law. The commandments not to kill your fellow humans comply with natural law (shlemut tiv’it), since by prohibiting murder they ensure the existence of the human association. Again, natural law appears in a distinct Hobbesian form. It complies with human or political law (shlemut medini), because humans were created in the image of God and thus his existence should be regarded as sacred and under divine protection.30 We find the same attitude towards murder in Maimonides’ Mishneh Torah, where he regarded it as the most grievous of all social sins.31 Ben Joav’s new point was in presenting the argument against murder in the form of the triple classification of the law.32 The commandment to procreate complies with natural law (nimus tiv’i), since it ensures the preservation of mankind. It complies with human law (nimus medini), since having children necessitates the responsibility for their education, and consequently the improvement of humankind.33 Divine law is not mentioned here. In Rabbinic literature, and subsequently in medieval Jewish thought, the Noachitic laws were regarded as divine law. Maimonides, despite his rationalism, emphatically asserted that it is not enough to obey the seven commandments out of rational motives, in order to be regarded as righteous of all nations (Hasidei umot ha-olam). The commandments must be obeyed out of recognition of their divine origin.34 30 “And this commandment implies a natural, political and spiritual perfection (shlemut tiv’it medini ve-ruhani) all together. Political (medini), since it is not appropriate that cruelty and anger should dominate a man to the extent that he sheds the blood of his fellow man. Natural ( tiv’i), because it is the nature of safeguarding of the association that a man shall not kill another. And spiritual (ruhani), since the human form is desirable in the eyes of God, so he would demand his blood from the hands of the one who spilt it.” Ez Hayyim, fol. 22. 31 Rozeah, 1: 4. Epstein, ‘’Maimonides,” pp. 75-76. 32 While ben Joav found in the prohibition of murder aspects of all three kinds of law, Aquinas regarded it as a conventional law, which is a derivation of natural law—“Do not harm any man”; S.T. P.S, 95, art. 2. 33 “It is so for the preservation of the species, and in this admonition there is a meaning of the natural and the political laws (nimus tiv’i u-medini): the natural, since nature abhors the destruction of the semen, and political, since whoever does this will take it as the purpose of education” Ez Hayyim, fo1. 22. 34 Maimonides, Laws of Kings, 8:2. Schwarzscnild, “Noachites,” p. 301. Fox, “Natural Law,” pp. 12-24. Strauss, “Law of Reason,” p. 97, n. 4. — 254 —

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Although Albo introduced the triple classification of the law into Jewish philosophy, he did not relate it to the Noachitic laws, but still considered them solely divine law.35 Ben Joav added a new interpretation, being the first to apply the three categories of law to the seven commandments of the Noachites. The Maimonidean position might have been the basis of ben Joav’s interpretation. He understood the Maimonidean assertion that the Noachitic laws could be comprehended also by reason as implying their natural and human derivation. The assertion that they must be obeyed out of recognition of their divine origin, he interpreted as implying their divine nature. Ben Joav also had an interesting interpretation to the story of the tower of Babel in this context. Humans built the city and a tower, since they mistakenly understood human law as the supreme law, and disregarded divine law.36 God was angered at them, so he confused their language and scattered them upon the face of the earth.37 VI. In ben Joav’s commentary to the Decalogue, we find another application of the triple classification of the law. Here in fact ben Joav related the classification of law to the Aristotelian triple classification of the sciences—metaphysics, physics (theoretical sciences), and politics (practical sciences).38 Metaphysics are related to divine law, physics to natural law, and politics to human law.39 35  Roots,1:8, 25; 3: 13. 36 “Human perfection is expressed with in the good political government which only preserves the association. Therefore, they built a city and a tower and enacted laws and made themselves a name so there would be no conflict and disintegration with in the association, and they abandoned divine guidance which is the law of all existing things, their justice and righteousness.” Ez Hayyim, fols. 22-23. 37 For the same interpretation, see Abravanel, Commentary to Genesis, 11. 38 Wolfson, “Classification.” 39 “In the ten commandments there was a comprehensiveness which cannot disappear, in respect to what it encompasses from the divine and the act of chariot and the wisdom of nature and the act of creation, or in respect to what it encompasses from the political wisdom. And all this is generally a marvel [the divine] and it is so since in them [the ten commandments] there is provision for belief in the existence of God, be He blessed, and His consequences, that he [man] should not worship any other and not debase His honour... Since the investigation of the existence of God takes precedence over the investigation of His consequences. .. [The natural] And then he classified the observance of the Shabbath, and explained it by the six days which witness the existence of this world ... His creation, with all the perfection therein ... since it was appropriate that after he reminded, expostulated and commented about God, that he would illustrate His accomplishments — 255 —

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Divine law, which is equivalent to metaphysics (or to divine wisdom), deals with the first part of the Decalogue. It discusses the existence and worship of God. Natural law, equivalent to physics, is related to the fourth commandment. It discusses the holiness of the Sabbath, which commemorates the six days of creation. Thus, the rational comprehension of human natural need to organize in society in order to safeguard the existence of the species (i.e. natural law), becomes a subject matter of physics. This identification of natural law with physics, already anticipated Spinoza.40 Divine law deals with the act of the chariot (ma’aseh merkavah) while natural law deals with the act of creation (ma’aseh ber’eshit). Human law—equivalent to politics and ethics (practical wisdom)—relates to the last section of the commandments, dealing with the proper relationship between humans in the political association. We may therefore conjecture that ben Joav based this triple division of the sciences on his previous triple classification of the law. Each science in turn is related to the equivalent law. If this assumption is correct, it is the only instance, thus far, in which these two classifications are directly related. Previously we also found that ben Joav related the triple classification of the law to the three forms of life. All these classifications are interrelated and based upon the triple classifications of the Macrocosmoos and the Microcosmos (see Table 1). In Medieval Jewish philosophy the Decalogue was traditionally understood solely as a divine law, endowed in the act of revelation to the prophet and divine messenger Moses. In his interpretation of the Noachitic laws, and also the Decalogue Ben Joav had a novel—even revolutionary—interpretation. He related them to all three kinds of law. Albo divided the Decalogue into two groups of five. One group deals with the relationship between humans and God, and the other deals with the relation among humens.41 Albo’s division is echoed in Leone in reality. [The political] And then he included the wisdom of politics and ethics, and warned to honour your parents, for through this children would be perfected, for they [the parents] will bequeath to them a real inheritance of opinions and virtues, because when a son accepts his father’s instructions and honours him, he will undoubtedly live long in this world and without a doubt in the world to come ... gradually from ‘Thou shalt not murder,’ to ‘Thou shalt not covet...’ Since the little they contain is all that is needed for the perfection of the political association.” Ez Hayyim, folios 168-169. 40 Spinoza, Theologico-Political Treatise, 16. Schwarzschild, “Noachites,” p. 53. Maimonides gave two reasons for the observance of the Sabbath—one political, the other one natural—the remembrance of ma’aseh bereshit. Guide, 2: 31; 3: 43. 41 “Nevertheless God desired to let Israel hear from his mouth the ten commandments so as to — 256 —

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da Modena’s sermon for Shavuot (Midbar Yehudah, 1602), in which he discussed the giving of the Torah.42 Quoting Albo directly, Modena made the same distinction. The first five commandments deal with the existence of God and His attributes. He applies here Albo’s system of Ikkarim. The last five commandments are the “mizvot which are between humans and their fellow humans.” As social animals by nature, humans could not exist out of the political association which is directed by the laws of the Torah. Using the famous saying (Avot, 3:2) in a truly Hobbesian meaning, Modena asserted that “The Torah, through its judgements and laws, adjusts men’s political organizations. If it did not adjust this, humans would have swallowed up each other alive.” 43 While ben Joav included the fifth commandment (honour thy father) in the political part of the Decalogue (i.e. he classified it as human law), Modena, following Albo, classified it as one of the commandments which are between man and God. He did not mention Alba’s explanation that by honouring the parent’s humans will become accustomed to honouring and obeying God. 44 Ben Joav, who classified this commandment as a political law, consequently gave it a different explanation. Honouring the parents is a means for the improvement of humankind. It is interesting to note that he gave the same explanation to the classification of the Noachitic laws indicate all those duties which a man becomes liable to by reason of this bond between God and him, both from the point of view of the Master who is the Author of the commandment, and from the point of view of the servant, who is the subject. For this reason they were expressed in two separate tables, to indicate that these two aspects are different from each other. Those five which have reference to God, the Master, are in one table, while the five which specially concern man, the servant, are in the other table, to show that both are necessary for the attainment of human perfection.” Roots, 3:26, Husik’s translation. Lerner, “Natural Law,” pp. 141-142. 42 Modena, Writings, pp. 138-140. 43 “Therefore there are five in contrast to the five other commandments to shine in the light of life, each one in the light of the others. Here the presenter of the political association and negotiations between people is the light, with out which apparently no person could move either hand or foot. The Torah, through its judgements and laws, adjusts men’s political organizations. If it did not adjust this, men would have swallowed up each other alive ... In order to avoid this [possibility], comes the sixth commandment ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ which progresses from the most serious to the more trivial to the existence of man’s political organizations.” Leon da Modena, Selected Writings, p. 140; contrast Hobbes’ famous saying: “Out of civil states, there is always war of everyone against everyone,” Leviathan, p. 100. The famous Mishnaic saying was used in the same Hobbesian connotation by one of the protagonists of natural law theory in the seventeenth century, Pufendorf. See Altmann, “Quest,” p. 14, n. 8. An enlarged English version of the article appeared in Lessing Year Book, vol. 12 (1981). 44 Roots, 3:26. Ben Joav followed Maimonides, who also gave the fifth commandment a political explanation. Guide, 3: 41. — 257 —

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concerning procreation. However, while in the case of the Decalogue the commandment is directed towards the children, in the Noachitic laws it is directed towards the parents. Messer Leon, as seen above, defined the fifth commandment as a general law (i.e. natural law), in contrast with its definition by Albo and Modena on the one hand, and ben Joav on the other. Following Averroes, his definition is based upon the general nature ascribed to this commandment. Unlike the other three thinkers however, he did not discuss it in the context of the Decalogue as a whole. Modena asserted at the end of his discussion of the Decalogue that the commandments concerning the relationship between humans and their fellow humans go “from the most serious to the trivial.” This assertion seems to relate to the distinction which Albo and ben Joav made between natural and human law. The “most serious” is the commandment not to kill. It complies with natural law, since it deals with the way of ensuring the continued existence of humankind. The “more trivial” social commandments, which come later, comply with human law, since they deal with the refinement of human nature and the ordering of society. The division of the Decalogue found in Albo and Modena is equivalent to Maimonides’ distinction between the well-being of the soul and the well-being of the body.45 The first part, concerning the relationship between humans and God is equivalent to physics and metaphysics, while the second part, concerning the relationships among humans, is equivalent to ethics and politics. Consequently, Maimonides divided the Decalogue into the first two commandments, which are rational—given directly to the sons of Israel by divine revelation—and the next eight commandments—which were given through the prophet and legislator Moses—since they belong to the category of conventional laws (mefursamot).46 Thus there is a direct relationship between the essence of the commandments and the way in which they were given. Don Isaac Abravanel followed the Maimonidean distinction concerning the way in which the commandments were given (two and eight), and Alba’s distinction concerning their essence (five and five;

45 Guide, 3:27. 46 Guide, 2:33; and see n. 34. According to Averroes, the second table of the Decalogue corresponds to the law of nature. Schwarzschild, “Noachites,” p. 51. Strauss, Natural Law, p. 158. Fox, “Law of Nature,” pp. 21-22. — 258 —

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see Table 2).47 But whatever the difference between the two groups of commandments concerning their essence, and the way in which they were given, Maimonides and Abravanel considered them to be of a solely divine origin. Albo and Modena divided the Decalogue into two sections in a somewhat different way than Maimonides, but the rationale of this division was the same. Even Albo, who introduced the triple classification of law to Jewish philosophy, never went so far as to discount the divine nature of the Decalogue as a whole. Ben Joav departed from tradition even in this extreme case. While Maimonides and Albo before him, and Abravanel and Modena after him, divided the Decalogue into two sections, ben Joav divided it into three, according to the triple classification of the law and the classification of the sciences. His triple division of the Decalogue into the divine, the natural and the conventional, seems to anticipate the interpretation of the Mosaic Law given later by Spinoza and Mendelssohn.48 However, as indicated above, divine law includes the functions of the two inferior kinds of law, and they are derived from it. The Decalogue—even when divided into the natural, the human, and the divine—is still included in the divine law as a whole. The comparison of the sources makes it highly probable that Albo’s Book of Roots was the direct source to ben Joav’s triple classification of the law. This conclusion is strengthened by chronological and circumstantial evidence. Albo finished writing the Book of Roots in Castile in 1425. One of the first manuscripts known to us is the Venice manuscript, copied by Abraham ben Jacob Benito in 1454. According to Cassuto, ben Joav started writing the Tree of Life in Florence no later than 1456—only two years after the Venice manuscript was copied, and it is known that he used to travel a lot in Italy,49 and quite probably visited Venice. VII. In the collection of sermons Nefuzot Yehudah written by Judah Muscatto in the late 16th century, we find another example of the influence of Albo’s triple classification of the law. Muscatto was a typical Jewish 47 “The first ones, concerning divine matters, were on one table while the latter [commandments] were on a different table since they concern what is between man and his fellow man”; Commentary on Genesis, 19. 48 See n. 71. 49 Cassuto, Firenze, pp. 250-253. — 259 —

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humanist of the late Renaissance. As such, in his sermons he interpreted the words of the Torah in the light of the “Greek wisdom” of his age, i.e. Renaissance Humanism and Neo-Platonism.50 Sermon 59, entitled “Israel One People,” deals with the conditions for the perfect existence of the ancient Israelite state. Muscatto interpreted the sentence “Jerusalem is builded as a city compact together” (Ps. 122:3) as indicating the association of the three necessary conditions for the perfection of the city: Truth, Justice and Peace.51 This triple distinction, based upon Zechariah 8:16 seems to correspond to the classification of law, found in Albo and ben Joav. Truth (“what is between man and God”) explicitly deals with divine law. Justice, which concerns the relationship between humans “by enacting laws which are appropriate to all law-abiding men,” is natural law, characterized by its generality. Peace seems to be related to human law. Like justice (i.e. natural law), it too deals with the relationships among humans in society. However, while in the case of justice, its general character is emphasized, there is no mention of it in the case of peace (i.e. human law). Secondly, as found above, natural law deals with the basic necessities of human nature and society. Accordingly, we find here that while justice (i.e. natural law) deals with the basic legal relationship between human beings, the purpose of peace (i.e. human law) is the refinement of the virtues which engender love between man and his neighbour. The realization of the three kinds of law, in their proper order, is what makes the city an ideal state in the Platonic sense: “The political association whose parts are all refined.” This interpretation is strengthened when we consider Muscatto’s commentary on Jehudah Halevi’s Kuzari, Kol Yehudah (The Voice of Judah). Halevi’s assertion that “his virtues, his habitat and his state, and all other laws and political directives” are the result of human intellectual 50 Barzilay, Reasons, pp. 167-191. 51 “Which is to say that it is arranged with prudence, according to plan and in appropriate order in the association of the ties between its parts. Also its people were goodly, with regard to truth, justice and peace. Because truth consists of what is between man and God, to achieve the truth of inquiry and to serve Him, be He blessed, truly and holy, as the signs of God are true. And Justice which is between man and his fellow man, by enacting laws which are appropriate to all law-abiding men. And peace, which is also between man and his fellow man, for the sake of the political friendship. All three are integrated in the perfection of the political association, the parts of which are all refined, and all are gathered in the city of God and for them, blessed be He, will establish the city supreme”; Nefuzot, Sermon 29. For the distinction between Truth, Justice and Peace, see Avot 1: 18, and compare Maimonides’ commentary. — 260 —

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capacity is interpreted by Muscatto according to the triple classification of the law.52 “His virtues, his habitat and his state,” the three parts of the practical sciences according to the Aristotelian classification (ethics, economics, politics), are identified with natural law (dat tiv’it). “All other laws” are identified with divine law (datot elohi’ot), while “political directives” (nimusim manhigim) Muscatto understands as political laws (datot nimusi’ot). Ben Joav related the triple classification of the law to the classification of the sciences as a whole, in which natural law is logically related to physics, and human law to the practical sciences. In his commentary to the Kuzari, Muscatto related, from among the sciences, only to practical science, and identified it with natural law without explaining his motives for doing so. Thus, while ben Joav’s interpretation is logically sound, Muscatto’s application of the triple classification of the law to this paragraph from the Kuzari is totally arbitrary. It only proves that he explicitly referred to this classification. Muscatto did not mention Albo in this discussion; however he did mention him in a few other instances.53 Thus it is reasonable to assume that he was directly influenced by Albo when he accepted the triple classification. VIII. Don Isaac Abravanel discussed the triple classification of the law in two works of his Italian period: Rosh Amanah (Principles of Faith), composed in Corfu shortly after the exile, and the commentary to Exodus (1505).54 In the Principles of Faith Abravanel discussed and criticized the various systems of roots (ikkarim), including Albo’s. Albo’s system, based upon the triple classification of the law, was well known to him.55 52 In The Kuzari (1:35) we find: “By right of his intellect, man is unique among all other creatures, and the advancement of his virtues, his habitat and his state, and all other laws and political directives result from it [i.e. the intellect].” Muscatto’s interpretation: “‘The advancement of his virtues, his habitat and his state,’ are the three well-known categories of law, and he related to them in the beginning of his discussion in Book I of the philosopher [i.e. Aristotle]. There he indicated the governance of natural law (dat tiv’it). And by saying ‘and all other laws,’ he indicated the governance of the laws considered divine (datot eloi’iyot). And by saying ‘and political directives’ (nimusim manhigim), he indicated the governance of the political laws (datot nimusi’iot).” Halevi, Kuzari (Muscatto), 1:35. 53 Nefuzot, Sermon 10, p. 31a. 54 Netanyahu, Abravanel, pp. 73, 158. 55 Abravanel, Amanah, Chapter 11, p. 86: “It is appropriate that the roots of the divine law (torah elohit) be unique to it, and not participate in any other law (dat), natural (tivi’iot) or conventional (nimusi’iot).” See also Baer, Galut, pp. 51-52. — 261 —

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However, while he recognized the new differentiation between the three categories of the law, Abravanel rejected it, and still adhered to the Maimonidean twofold division into divine and human law. Though he mentioned the law of nature, it is apparent that for him it was not relevant to the social human condition, but to the bestial state of nature only. Abravanel based his historical and political outlook upon the Aristotelian distinction between the three forms of life—bestial, political, and rational.56 Thus it is reasonable to assume that his conception of the triple classification of the law is based upon the three stages of life. The law of nature governs bestial life. Human, or, conventional law, governs political life, while divine law governs rational life. As indicated above, ben Joav had already explicitly related the triple classification of the law to the distinction among these three stages of human life. Although Abravane1 did not draw such clear parallels, this relationship is apparent from his discussion. His whole system is based upon the distinction among the three stages of the Macrocosmos and the Microcosmos and their deviations (see Table 1).57 Albo and ben Joav introduced natural law into Jewish philosophy, but estimated it lowly. Their conception of natural law was no longer Thomistic, but already pre-Hobbesian. Abravanel’s estimate of natural law was even lower, so he totally eliminated it from the human sphere and transferred it to the realm of the bestial. Abravanel still followed the traditional medieval conception in which only human and divine laws are relevant to the human condition. He adhered to this conception even more emphatically than did Maimonides. Following the traditional distinction between the material and social functions of human law, and its human origin, contrasted to the spiritual functions of divine law, and its divine origin, Abravanel also stressed the fact that divine law was given only to Israel, while human law is the law of nations.58 While ben Joav related all three kinds of law—even the law of nature—to the Noachitic laws and to the Decalogue, Abravanel emphatically excluded the law of nature. In the Principles of Faith Abravanel followed the Maimonidean distinction between human and divine law. The laws of Adam and Noah are all human laws (nimusim). They are only “ar56 Netanyahu, Abravanel, pp. 156-157. 57 See n. 22. 58 Netanyahu, Abravanel, p. 157. — 262 —

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rangements to safeguard the human association in respect to the needs of the times in which they were arranged.” The Decalogue, on the other hand, is exclusively based upon divine origin (torah elohit). Transferred to the people of Israel by Moses, its aim is to “direct the soul towards its ultimate perfection.” It is typical that Abravanel did not mention natural law here, but only human and divine. Natural law, for him, does not enter into the realm of the human condition.59 In the commentary to Exodus, written a few years later (1505), Abravanel presented a more extreme theocratic interpretation. The laws of Adam, Noah, and the Decalouge are all divine. He criticized those writers who, in his opinion, misunderstood Maimonides by asserting that the commandments of Adam and Noah were natural (tiviyyot) “inherent in man’s nature,” or conventional (nimusiyyot) “decreed by mutual consent for the perpetuation of the association.” In his opinion, since it is said that Adam and Noah were commanded to obey them, it implies that they were all given by God through divine prophecy. However, they were not called “Torah,” since they were given to individuals only, and not to the whole congregation as the nature of the Torah demands.60 Thus, according to Abravanel, the difference between the laws of Adam and Noah in contrast with the Decalogue is not in category, but in the audience to which they were addressed. As far as their origin and nature is concerned, they are all divine. 59 “Since the laws of Adam and the sons of Noah are certainly not laws (torot) in which the human soul can be perfected. They are nothing but arrangements (sidurim) to safeguard the human association (kibbutz enoshi) in respect to the needs of the times in which they were arranged. They are conventional laws (nimusim). While divine law (torah elohit) ...will direct the soul towards its ultimate perfection.” Amanah, ch. 13, p. 96. In Galut, pp. 51-2, Baer erroneously argued that Abravanel was the first to apply natural law to the Noachitic laws. But as we find here, Abravanel did not apply natural law to the Noachitic laws, but human law only. Later he would present a more extreme position by which the Noachitic laws are all divine. Moreover, even had he done so, Abravanel would not have been the first, having been preceded by ben Joav. Abravanel himself asserted that some writers had already attributed natural law to Noachitic laws before him. See following note. 60 “Some of the writers thought that the opinion of the Rabbi [Maimonides] was that those commandments given to Adam and Noah were natural (tivi’iot), inherent in man’s nature, or conventional (nimusiyyot), decreed by mutual consent for the perpetuation of the association. And it is not so. Since when our ancestors said that Adam and Noah were commanded to obey them, it shows the commandments were given by God, be He blessed ... and this should not be attributed to human contracts without the element of prophecy. This is why the commandments given to our forefathers were divine. Nevertheless, they were not called ‘Torah,’ since they were not given to a whole congregation as the nature of the Torah and its virtue necessitates, but only to individuals.” Commentary on Exodus 19. See also Netanyahu, Abravanel, pp. 306-307, n. 33. — 263 —

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As indicated above, Maimonides emphasized that in order to be regarded as “righteous,” it is not enough to obey the laws of Adam and Noah out of rational motives only, but it is obligatory to regard them as divine laws. Abravanel followed the Maimonidean position, criticizing some writers who misunderstood Maimonides’ assertion that these laws can be understood by human reason also, as implying that they were natural or conventional. Abravanel does not mention names, and we don’t know whether he read ben Joav’s sermons, written in Italy about fifty years previously, where we find the only known example in which the triple classification of the law is explicitly related to the commandments of Adam and Noah. However, his criticism is directly relevant to the position ben Joav presented. Thus, in fact, we can explain the difference between the positions of ben Joav and Abravanel in regard to the nature of the commandments of Adam and Noah, as two extreme interpretations of Maimonides’ position. Ben Joav, emphasizing the idea that they can be understood by human reason, interpreted the seven commandments as corresponding to the triple classification of the law (including natural and human law). On the other hand, Abravanel, by emphasizing the idea that the recognition of their divine origin is imperative, interpreted the seven commandments as divine law only. The comparison between Abravanel’s definition of the various laws, and the definitions given by Albo, ben Joav, and Muscatto is interesting. As for divine law, the various definitions are basically identical. There is however a striking difference between Abravanel and the others in regard to natural and human law. Albo and his followers characterized natural law by two attributes: 1. Natural law is general—it is the same for every time, place and people. 2. The function of natural law is to safeguard the existence of human society. Abravanel on the other hand defined natural law briefly as “inherent in man’s nature.” This definition, derived from classical sources,61 corresponds to the first attribute of Albo and his followers’ definition. Abravanel totally disregarded the other attribute. However, he used it for his definition of human law. Albo and his followers characterized human law by three attributes: 1. It is human-made (by consent or political leaders); 2. It changes according to the different needs of time and place; and 3. Its function is 61 Netanyahu, Abravanel, p. 154; p.306 n. 23. — 264 —

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the improvement of human nature and the ordering of society. Abravanel, in his two definitions of human law, concurred with the first two attributes (“decreed by mutual consent” and “in respect to the needs of the times in which they were arranged”). However, instead of the third one, he inserted another definition, which in Albo and ben Joav belongs to natural law: “arrangements to safeguard the human association” (or “for the perpetuation of the association”).62 It is interesting to note that one of the characteristics Abravanel attributed to human law is being decreed by mutual consent (haskamah). In Albo’s preliminary discussion of the laws (1:5), we find the same idea: “convention (haskamah kollelet) comprising the affairs that people have with one another […] in order to preserve conventional justice (yoser heskemi).” The idea of social consent was current in late medieval Christian political philosophy, for instance in Nicholas of Cusa,63 and anticipated the social contract theory which would be a major theme in early modern political philosophy.64 As indicated above, Abravanel eliminated natural law from the human sphere. Here we find that he transferred its social functions into the realm of human law. Thus he replaced the higher function given to human law by Albo, ben Joav and Muscatto (“to remove the base and to promote the noble”), with a lower function they reserved for natural law. In this respect it is also interesting to note that while Abravanel defined natural law in passing and only once, he gave two longer definitions to human law, indicative of his negative opinion on natural law. In fact Abravanel returned to the Maimonidean conception of human law. While as mentioned above, Albo and ben Joav divided the Maimonidean definition of human law into two parts—the lower functions of natural law and the higher functions of human law—Abravanel returned to the Maimonidean definition as a whole. Abravanel did this since he rejected the Aristotelian position that humans are by nature social animals; for him, human, by nature, are potentially divine. Their social needs are the result of the original sin. Social organization is not advancement for humankind but an unavoidable negative consequence of the fall. Thus, human law—which in Abra62 See n. 59 and 60 above. 63 Sabine, History, pp. 318-320. See also index, p. 934. 64 Netanyahu, Abravanel, 2:2. — 265 —

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vanel’s system corresponds to the political stage of human life—does not relate to the improvement of humankind, which belongs to the realm of the divine. Human law’s function is solely the preservation of humankind through social organization. Thus Abravanel neither agrees with Albo and his followers’ triple classification of the law, nor with their definition of natural and human laws. His conception of the law, being wholly divine, corresponds fully with the basis of Abravanel’s political theory which envisaged the perfect human order as a theocracy, in which divine law rules supreme. 65 IX. In sum, the three kinds of law are differentiated according to three categories: origin, time and aim. There is an agreement among all thinkers concerned as far as the first two categories are concerned; origin is divine, natural-rational or human-conventional. Time is immutable (divine and natural laws), or changing (human law). Concerning the third category, all agreed as to the aim of divine law, which is intellectual or spiritual perfection. The great dispute was thus narrowed to the case of natural law—its existence and aim—and consequently to the aim of human law. Aquinas defined natural law as rational participation in divine will, encompassing all virtuous human actions. Human law he defined as the application of natural law to changing human circumstances. Sa’adya Gaon was the only medieval Jewish thinker who came close to the Thomistic definition.66 All the others understood it in a totally different way. Maimonides—as the accepted opinion goes—refuted the existence of natural law, or—as might be argued—relegated it to the lowest level of existence. Albo and his followers relegated natural law to the fulfilment of the basic material and social needs which are indispensable for human survival. They transferred the higher functions which Aquinas attributes to natural law to realm of human law. Maimonides—even if we assume that he disregarded natural law—in fact included the attributes related to it by Albo in his definition of human law. Abravanel, following Maimonides, relegated natural law to bestial life. Its functions 65 Netanyahu, Abravanel, pp. 189-194. 66 Altmann, “Sa’adia,” pp. 333-339. Fox, “Natural Law,” pp. 9-11. Halevi came close to the recognition of natural law, in what he termed “rational laws.” Strauss, “Law of Reason,” pp. 2-3. — 266 —

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relevant to human life he transferred to human law. The refined aspects of human law he attributed to divine law. From the thirteenth century on, Jewish philosophy gradually moved from the sphere of influence of the Islamic culture into the sphere of influence of the Christian-Latin culture.67 The case of Albo, who introduced the Thomistic classification of law into Jewish philosophy, which was hitherto based upon the medieval division into divine and human law, is a typical example. This tendency was strengthened in some fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Italian Jewish thinkers, like ben Joav at the beginning of the period and Muscatto at its end, who based their classification of law on the Thomistic tradition via Albo. Albo’s classification also influenced some Christian thinkers, the notable example being Grotius, one of the protagonists of the modern theory of natural law, who called Albo “Judaeorum acerrimi judicii.” Like Albo, Grotius distinguished among the three kinds of law. However, his definition of natural law followed Aquinas and Saadya, not Albo.68 Albo and his followers rejected Maimonides’ assertion that political laws are not based upon reason, but on socially accepted conventions. In this respect they all agreed with the Thomistic position, which was manifested earlier in Jewish philosophy by Sa’adya Gaon, that human law is based upon natural law, which is compatible with reason and comprehended by it. This anti-Maimonidean reaction would be culminated in Spinoza.69 While these thinkers, following medieval tradition, still identified reason with the divine, Spinoza made a big step of secularizing philosophy by asserting that each human being, being endowed by nature with reason, can achieve knowledge with out the assistance of divine revelation. The medieval tradition identified reason with the divine. Spinoza identified the divine with reason. Moreover, the thinkers considered here followed Albo by introducing natural law into Jewish philosophy. Their definition of natural law, though, was hardly Thomistic. It already has a strong Hobbesian intimation. Ben Joav went even further than Albo, by interpreting the Noachitic laws and even the Decalogue—hitherto related to divine law only—ac67 Pines, Scholasticism, and Sermoneta’s various papers, see in the bibliography. 68 Altmann, “Sa’adia,” pp. 335-356, n. 3. Husik discusses the influence of Jewish sources upon Grotius, but does not mention Albo; see “Law of Nature,” pp. 393-394; also Strauss, “Law of Reason,” pp. 96-97, n. 4. 69 Schwarzschild, “Noachites,” p. 45. — 267 —

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cording to the triple classification of the law. This interpretation is already a far cry from Maimonides, one which already anticipates the conception of the Noachitic laws as natural law, developed later by Grotius, Spinoza and Mendelssohn. Spinoza and Mendelssohn both rejected the Maimonidean position that the Noachitic laws should be obeyed out of recognition of their divine origin, and insisted upon its rational-natural character, which is inherent in human reason. Some Christian thinkers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries—Calvin, Althusius, Bodin and Grotius—identified natural law with the Decalogue as a whole, or with the second table.70 Spinoza, followed by Mendelssohn, saw in the Torah given to Israel not a religion, but a law. Spinoza interpreted it as a political law, bound to the changing circumstances of time. Mendelssohn interpreted it as eternal law of reason.71 Ben Joav’s interpretation of the Noachitic laws and the Decalogue according to the triple classification of the law seems a forerunner of the positions developed later. The discussion of the classification of the law, in the way it was presented by Aquinas, Albo and their followers, gradually disappeared by the late sixteenth century from Christian and Jewish philosophy alike. It still had currency in the Jesuit political philosophy, for instance Suarez’s philosophy of law.72 However, it was gradually replaced by the secular discussion of natural law as the basis of positive law found in Grotius, Hobbes and Spinoza. Political philosophy was gradually released from its association with theology. Likewise, natural law was graduaIiy released from its dependence upon divine law.73 In Jewish thought, this situation is manifest in Simone Luzzatto’s Discorso circa il stato degli Ebrei in Venezia (Venice, 1638). The political nature of the treatise might have naturally entailed a discussion of the various types of law. Luzzatto, however, hardly discusses it. In his deliberation upon rabbinic jurisdiction, he distinguishes between “beliefs and opinions which belong to the principles of faith, and also the commandments of morality and ways of life of human society and civil life in regard to every nation and people,” as opposed to “matters which are 70 Sabine, History, p. 417, n.. 3. 71 Spinoza, Theologico-Political Treatise, ch’s 17-18. Wolfson, Philo, ch. 13. Guttmann, “Mendelssohn.” Schwarzschild, “Noachites,” pp. 306-308. 72 Copleston, History, ch. 23. 73 Sabine, History, ch. 21. — 268 —

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between man and his fellow man which are bound to change and are dependent upon innumerable changing circumstances,”74 i.e. the traditional distinction between divine and natural law on the one hand, and human law on the other. Although he mentioned Albo’s system of Ikkarim,75 Luzzatto did not relate to his triple classification of the law. It is typical, however, that when he discussed the social functions of religion, Luzzatto referred to the moral tendencies which are common to all mankind—”Ii precetti della naturale moralita”76—i.e. natural law. He was already under the influence of the natural law theory modernized by Grotius whose De jure pacis et belli (1625) was probably known to Luzzatto.77 Thus the manner of the classification of the law in this period represents a conceptual link between the Thomistic and the modern conceptions of natural law, as well as between the Maimonidean intepretation of the Noachitic and Mosaic Law on one hand, and that of Grotius, Spinoza and Mendelssohn on the other. Copleston argues that, “In the philosophy of law, Suarez was a mediator between the medieval conception of law, as represented by Thomism, and the conditions prevailing at the time he wrote.”78 The case of the Jewish thinkers considered here is equivalent. In their philosophy of law they were mediators between medieval and early modern Jewish thought.

74 Luzzatto, Discorso (Hebrew), ch. 16, p. 143. 75 Ibid., ch. 16, p. 143. 76 Ibid. ch. 14, p. 118, p. 51a in the Italian original. 77 Ibid., p. 162, n. 81. 78 Copleston, A History of Philosophy, p. 202. — 269 —

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Table l. Derivation of the triple classification of the law from the classifications of the Macrocosmos and Microcosmos

Macrocosmos

The Form of Soul (Microcosmos)

The Classification of Perfections

The Forms of Life (ben Joav, Abravanel)

The Classification of the Law

The Classification of the Sciences (ben Joav)

Plants and Animals

Nutritive Soul Sensitive Soul

Perfection of the Body

Bestial Life

Natural Law

Physics

Humans

Practical Reason Rational Soul

Material

Political

Human law

Politics

Angels and God

Contemplative Reason

Perfection of the Soul

Rational Life

Divine Law

Metaphysics

*See note 22

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Table 2. The Division of the Decalogue Abravanel The Decalogue

Albo, Leone da Modena

Moses ben Joav

Maimonies

1) Thou shalt have no other gods before me.

1-2

2) Thou shalt not make unto thee a graven image. 3) Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.

1-3 Divine Law (metaphysics) 1-5 Between man and God

3-10 Mefursamôt (given through Moses)

6) Thou shalt not murder.

9) Thou shalt not bear false witness.

1-5 Between man and God

3-10 Mefursamôt (given through Moses)

5) Honour thy father and thy mother.

8) Thou shalt not steal.

1-2 Muskalôt (given directly by God)

The Essence (Like Albo)

4 Natural Law (physics)

4) Remember the Sabbath Day.

7) Thou shalt not commit adultery.

The Way of Giving (Like Maimonides)

6-10 Between man and his fellow men

5-10 Human Law (politics)

10) Thou shalt not covet.

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Between man and his fellow men

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Chapter ten

The Hebrew Laudatio of Yohanan Alamanno: In Praise of Lorenzo il Magnifico and the Florentine Constitution*

The humanist political Laudation, or panegyric, is a well-known phenomenon of the Italian Renaissance culture.1 Felix Gilbert identifies it as one of the main three themes prominent in humanist political literature.2 The Laudatio, adapted from the classical rhetorical pattern, described and praised single city-states, their governments and constitutions. It may appear in the form of an independent treatise, or an introduction to a treatise dedicated to a state or its prince. Unlike earlier scholars, who regarded the Laudatio as a purely rhetorical exercise, recent scholars stress its relevance to the cultural and political developments of the time.3 It is little known, but hardly surprising, that the Jewish thinkers of the Italian Renaissance, strongly influenced by the cultural trends of the period,4 also used this type of humanist rhetorical expression, and adapted it to their special purposes. Dependent, as they were, on the goodwill of the various governments of the Italian city-states for their political, social and economic welfare, if not sheer existence, the Jewish thinkers utilized the humanist Laudatio as a proper means of praise and flatter, in their continual struggle for existence in an alien world. The ancient Jewish concept of the Diaspora, the duty to obey the government under which one exists (dinah de-malchutah Dinah), to praise it and pray for it, is here referred to. This concept is a recurring trait in Italian Jewish thought of the Renaissance and Counter-Reformation. The Mantovan Jew of the late Cinquecento, Azariah de Rossi, *

I was first introduced to Alemanno’s writings, and his Florentine Laudatio, in particular, through Professor Cassuto’s great book on the Jews in Florence. This study is a tribute to his memory. 1 Baron, Humanistic; idem, Crisis, ch. 9. Gilbert, Machiavelli, pp. 89-95. Brown, “Cosimo.” On the relation between rhetoric and politics in the Italian Renaissance in general see Struever, Language, p. 101. 2 Gilbert, pp. 89-95. 3 Ibid., p. 91. 4 Roth, Renaissance. Shulvass, Renaissance. Bonfil, Rabbinate, pp. 173-206. — 272 —

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in his well-known Meor Einaim, insists: “For all the people on earth should know that we, the survivors, as long as we are aliens in a foreign country, must pray—according to the true prophets and the customs of our ancestors—for the kingdom which rules us.”5 The rabbi of Ferrara, Judah del Bene, in his Kisoth L’Beth David (Verona 1646), expresses gratitude to the Christian rulers for the peace and security the Jews enjoy under their dominion, and goes on to emphasize that the Italians are, “a people of kindness and truth, and there is no other nation equal to them either intellectually or morally.”6 This is echoed by his famous Venetian contemporary, Simone Luzzatto, in his Italian Discorso Circa il Stato degli Hebrei in Venezia (Venezia 1638): “e ancor non vi dubbio che fra tutti Ii stati, e lochi del mondo, si compiace la natione Hebrea del soavissimo governo della Serenissima Repubblica, per la forma del regimento stabile.”7 With Luzzatto, this tradition was integrated into Jewish apologetic literature. Some Jewish thinkers of the Renaissance translated this notion into the language of the humanist Laudatio. And vice versa, they transmitted the influence of Renaissance culture into the needs of Jewish society. Thus, the Hebrew Laudatio which we shall discuss here should be understood on the gentile and Jewish background together. It is a manifestation of the influence of the Renaissance culture on a Jewish humanist—the rhetorical tradition of humanism, the political developments of the period, and the pride for the Patria—which for some Jews was no less sincere than for their gentile compatriots. On the other hand, it was a clear continuation—in Renaissance style—of an old Jewish tradition. We should not forget that in many respects, the Jewish humanists did exactly the same thing their gentile compatriots did. Praise and flatter for your political and literary patrons was an accepted and respected method among many a humanist. While the Christian humanists did it for their personal advancement, for the Jews it was also a means of survival in an alien world. It is significant to note that among the Jewish thinkers in Italy, we foremostly find the praise of two cities—Florence and Venice. This is 5 Azariah de Rossi, Meor Einaim, pp. 448-449. 6 Barzilay, Reason and Faith, p. 214. 7 Luzatto, Discorso (Italian ed.), pp. 15a-16. For a detailed discussion on the same theme see also in Cardozo’s Ma’a lot; detailed discussion in Yerushalmi, Ghetto, pp. 443-455, and the Hebrew edition (Kaplan), Part 4, pp. 65-77. — 273 —

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mainly due to the prominence of these two city-states in the culture and politics of the Renaissance. Among the Christian humanists too, for obvious reasons, the panegyric was mainly devoted to Florence and Venice. The great difference between their political attitudes, the rebellious ‘Libertas’ of Florence vis-a-vis the serene ‘Iustitia’ of Venice was a major theme in humanist political literature.8 There is no explanation for this fact in the Jewish milieu. While Venice maybe treated the Jews a little better than some other Italian cities (even if it was in Venice where the Jews were first put into the Ghetto), Florence was hardly distinguished for its treatment of the Jews. Only a few years after Alemanno wrote his Florentine Laudatio, the Jews were expelled temporarily from the city (1497).9 The main examples to the Jewish eulogy of Venice, we find in Luzzatto’s Discorso, Don Isaac Abravanel’s commentaries on the Bible, and in the foreword to a medical treatise, written in Latin by David de Pomis in the Late Cinquecento, and dedicated to the Doge and the Venetian senate.10 We can turn now to the Jewish praise of Florence. Don Isaac Abravanel, who spent his later years in Italy after the expulsion of the Jews from Spain and Portugal (1494), was influenced in his political writings mainly by the Venetian constitution. However, we can find a few instances in which he also praises the Florentine constitution, along with some other Italian city-states, as a supreme example ofrepublican government: “We have in our own days the state of Venice, the great princess among the nations, the glorious state of Florence, the powerful state of Genoa, as well as Lucca, Siena and Bologna, and many other states which have no kings, but a government of temporarily elected leaders.”11 In the early Cinquecento, the poet Moses ben Joav, wrote an elegy on the suffering of Florence, during the siege of Charles 5 (15291530).12 8 Struever, Language, pp. 174-175. Gilbert, “Venetian.” Weinstein, “Florence.” Pocock, Machiavellian. 9 Cassuto, Firenze , pp. 66-67. 10 Luzzatto, Discorso. Abravanel (below n. 11); Di Pomis, Enarratio,, the introduction. On the whole subject, see Melamed, “Venice.” 11 Abravanel, Comm. on Deut., 17, 14. Also, Comm. on 1 Samuel, 8, 4, Judges, 18, 7. I used here the English translation used by Natanyahu, Abravanel, p. 174. On Abravanel’s republicanism, see ibid., 2:3. The same citation appears also in Shulvas, Renaissance, p. 358. 12 Cassuto, “Ein hebräischer Dichter des 15. Jahrhunderts: Mose ben Joab,” MGWJ 77 (1933), pp. 372-373. — 274 —

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The most elaborate example of the Jewish praise of Florence in the form of the Laudatio we find in the writings of Yohanan Alemanno (ca. 1434- ca. 1504).13 Alemanno came to Florence in his early twenties, and lived there under the patronage of Vitale (Yehiel) Da Pisa, a rich and erudite Jewish banker. After a few years of wandering in Italy, with a notable stay at the Gonzaga court in Mantua, he returned to Florence in 1488, and resumed his work. There he came in close contact with the Platonic Academy, and finished writing his two main works Heshek Shelomo (The Desire of Solomon), and Hai ha-Olamim (The Eternal). Heshek Shelomo, an allegorical commentary on the Song of Songs, with a long philosophical introduction “Shir ha-Ma’alot li-Shlomo” (The Song of Solomon’s Ascents), was written under the request of Pico della Mirandola.14 Alemanno traditionally interprets the profane love of the Song of Songs as an allegory of the love between mankind and God. While continuing a long tradition of Jewish Biblical exegesis, he translated it into the language of Florentine Neo-Platonism, and Kabbalah. Heshek Shlomo is one of the main expositions of the early tradition of the theory of Platonic love, renewed by Alemanno’s contemporaries—Ficino, Pico and Benivieni.15 In some respects it can be seen as a forerunner of Leone Ebreo’s Dialoghi d’Amore.16 Hai ha-Olamim, Alemanno’s main work, is a tedious neo-Platonic dialogue, describing human ascent to God from the moment of conception, going through the states of physical, moral and intellectual perfection, until he reaches the mystical reunification with his Creator. “Shir haMa’alot li-Shlomo,” is in fact an exposition of this theory, in which King Solomon represents the ideal man, or philosopher-king. 13 Cassuto, Firenze, ch. 3. Roth, Renaissance, pp. 118-121. Shulvass, Renaissance, pp. 313, 314, 334-5. Idel, “Alamanno.” Alemanno (Lesley), Song, vol. 1, the introduction. I do not agree with Lesley’s suggestion that the audience towards which this treatise was directed was the general public of Jews in Florence (1, pp. 23-24, 57-60). Taking into consideration Alemanno’s Averroist position in regard to the distinction between the multitudes and the learned, this suggestion is invalid. The Laudatio was directed towards the learned segment of the Jewish community in Florence. 14 Pico’s request is mentioned by Alemanno in the foreword to Heshek Shelomo. ms London, Fol. 6. The text was first published by J. Perles, “Les Savants Juifs à Florence”. REJ 22 (1886), pp. 255256. Lesley, ibid., 1, Introduction, p. 3; 2, p. 9. On Pico’s connections with Alemanno and other Jewish scholars, see Cassuto, Firenze, ch. 3. Roth, Renaissance, pp. 112-131. Shulvass, Renaissance, pp. 208, 214, 332, 247. Dell’ Acqua and Munster, “Rapporti.” Blau, Cabala. And later Lelli, “Collaboratore.” 15 A. Robb, Neoplatonism of the Italian Renaissance, London 1935; J.I. Nelson, Renaissance Theory of Love, New York 1958. 16 Abravanel, Dialoghi .See Dorman’s detailed introduction to the Hebrew translation. — 275 —

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There are two versions of Alemanno’s Florentine Laudatio. One version constitutes the foreword to Heshek Shlomo; the other is incorporated into the text of Hai ha-Olamim. The “Heshek Shelomo” version is well known. Perles first published 17 it, and Cassuto, Shulvass and Roth mention it as a fine example of the political involvement and patriotic pride of the Italian Jewry during the Renaissance.18 However, there is no serious research of the text. The Hai ha-Olamim version, on the other hand, was unknown hitherto. The manuscript was never published, and hardly researched. This unknown version is highly important since, as shall be argued, it is the original. The foreword to Heshek Shlomo is nothing but a shortened rhetorical adaptation of the unknown original.19 Both versions open with a general laudation of Florence, followed by a discussion of the seven virtues of the Florentines. In both versions, the order of the seven virtures and their content are basically the same. Version A is longer and more philosophical in nature, since it is an integral part of the text. Version B is shorter and rhetorical in nature, since it was adapted into the foreword to Heshek Shlomo. In version B, Alemanno relates each virtue to himself and the people of Israel. This relation is absent from version A, due to its different context. In version B, Alemanno adds a eulogy of Lorenzo il Magnifico to the praise of Florence. In version A, Lorenzo is not mentioned at all. This difference is extremely important when we come to determine the original, and the meaning of Alemanno’s two versions of the Laudatio in their development. In version B, Alemanno also adds to the foreword an informative autobiographical description, which is helpful in determining the course of his life and work. It is here that Pico is mentioned as encouraging Alemanno to write his commentary on the Song of Songs. This addition fits the needs of the foreword, and is absent from version A. The existence of parallel versions is typical of Alemanno, since Heshek Shlomo and Hai 17 Perles, ibid. Alemanno (Lesley), Song, vol. 2, pp. 4-8. 18 Cassuto, Firenze, p. 315. Roth, Renaissance, pp. 120-121. Shulvass, Renaissance, pp. 313-314. 19 For the Hai ha-Olamim version, I used the original ms Mantua, 21, written by Alemanno. The text was never published hitherto. For the version of Heshek Shelomo, I used ms London, 227, and the published text by Perles. Cassuto’s corrections to Perles’ rendering of the text (ibid., p. 305 n. 1), are very helpful, since Perles was inaccurate in many places. See also the latest publication of the text, Alemanno (Lesley), Song. Henceforth, the Hai ha-Olamim version will be referred to as version A, and the Heshek Shlomo version will be referred to as version B. — 276 —

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ha-Olamim were written simultaneously over a long period of time and basically deal with the same subject. There are many more parallel discussions like this in the texts. While version B constitutes a foreword, version A is incorporated into the text. As already mentioned, Alemanno describes in Hai ha-Olamim the human ascent towards God, going through the various stages of life, and analyzing his physical, moral and intellectual development. When he discusses the period of adolescence, Alemanno proposes that the young man should be sent away to a foreign country, distinguished for its good laws and customs, so that he may learn and broaden his horizons. Like Moses who was sent by God to the land of Midian (Exod. 2:15): Whoever God chooses to send from his homeland to another people, he sends to a place in which he will find wisdom and prudence, so that he may distinguish himself by their virtues. God would not send him to the company of an inferior and useless people.20 Alemanno presents Florence as a supreme example of the virtuous state to which the young man should be sent. This is the original version of the Florentine Laudatio. Version B was written in 1488, when Alemanno returned to Florence after a long absence, and began writing Heshek Shlomo under Pico’s encouragement.21 Hai ha-Olamim, on the other hand, was started almost twenty years earlier, at about 1470, and was not finished before the beginning of the Cinquecento, following long intermissions.22 Version A appears in the first part of the manuscript (Fol. 107), which contains 462 folios. Thus, it is highly probable that it was written already during the seventies, or, at the latest, the early eighties of the Quattrocento. Thus, we conclude, version A is prior to B, and the latter was adapted from it. 20 Hai ha-Olamim, ms Mantua, Fol. 107. 21 Heshek Shlomo, ms London, Fols. 1-2; Perles, p. 253; Alemanno (Lesley), Song, 3, p. 9. For an English summary of the text, see vol. 1, pp. 76-77. 22 The foreword to Hai ha-Olamim (ms London, Fol. 1), carries the date 1470. This passage was published by Cassuto Firenze, appendices, pp. 356-357. Later parts of the text carry the dates 1500 and 1503: Cassuto, ibid., p. 301, n. 4. Alemanno (Lesley), Song, vol.1, p. 13; vol. 2, p. 4. — 277 —

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Moreover, in version B we find the praise of Lorenzo il Magnifico, in the image of the Platonic philosopher-king. In version A, there is no mention of Lorenzo. This difference between the two versions is logical enough. Version B was written in 1488, after Alemanno’s return to Florence, at the apex of the golden age of the Medicean government. The praise of Lorenzo as the philosopher-king, in a foreword to a philosophical treatise, written in Florence in the late eighties, under the influence of the Platonic Academy, is self-understood. Version A, on the other hand, was assumedly written already during the seventies. The image of Lorenzo as the perfect prince had not yet developed. Moreover, since Alemanno was away from Florence during that period, staying a long time at the Gonzaga court in Mantua,23 he had no practical reason to flatter Lorenzo. He does not even mention Cosimo, Pater Patriae, as the perfect prince, although doing so was very popular among the Florentine humanists at that time.24 There is an additional explanation to Alemanno’s inclusion of the praise of Lorenzo in version B. Lorenzo was relatively benevolent to the Jewish community in Florence, and had quite a close relationship with some Jewish scholars and bankers. Cassuto relates it to his cultural enlightenment.25 This attitude was manifested in early 1488, when the Florentine government under Lorenzo defended the Jewish community by expelling the famous Franciscan monk, Bernardino da Feltre, who in his sermons aroused the mob against the Jews. Da Feltre was expelled in mid-March 1488.26 Alemanno started to write Heshek Shlomo in the early autumn of the same year (Tishri of 5249).27 It was his patron Yehiel da Pisa’s appeal to Lorenzo, along with a substantial payment, that led to da Feltre’s expulsion.28 Thus, Alemanno’s praise of Lorenzo was probably also a reaction to this incident. We can conclude, thus, that version A was written already during the seventies, while version B is a later adaptation of the original. When Alemanno decided to transform the philosophical original into the rhe23 Cassuto, ibid., p. 303. 24 Brown, “Cosimo.” 25 Cassuto, Firenze, pp. 55-56. 26 Cassuto, Firenze, pp. 56-59. Alemanno ( Lesley), Song, vol. 1, p. 296, n. 29. 27 Ibid., vol. 1, pp. 5, 269 n. 14; vol. 2, p. 11. 28 Cassuto, ibid. Alemanno (Lesley), Song, vol. 1, p. 296 n. 29. — 278 —

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torical foreword to Heshek Shlomo, he added to it, due to the practical needs of time, and the influence of the latest philosophical trend, the eulogy of Lorenzo as the Platonic philosopher-king. Now we shall contrast both versions, in an attempt to learn from each one—and their comparison—Alemanno’s development of the concept of the Florentine government. Version A Since the land of Tuscany headed by Florence, is decorated with all these attributes, therefore, whoever is raised in these surroundings will excel in the practical intellect which is the introduction to the theoretical intellect.29 Version B ...It has been twenty years since I set my heart on commenting the words of Solomon ... until I came in 5249 (1488) to a land whose officials were great and honorable with all kingly virtues, her merchants (Canaanites) wiser than all the sons of God ... A land from whose hills the most precious human was sculpted — this is the very man, in our times, his name is called LORENZO DI MEDICI whose prudence and abundance of spiritual intellect is beyond the grasp of the people. He moves and leads his surroundings with wisdom, knowledge, prudence and mercy to the ends of earth, and their kings bow from afar to his footstool. And he is within the community not as a saviour and leader with a hand strong in motivation and corporeal leadership, like all the kings of the land, counts and leaders of people in great authority, but in a spirit of counsel and great modesty. A spirit of knowledge and fear of God is his treasure. And all his heart’s desire is only to improve the lot of all who come within the gates of his city, the beautiful city, the faithful and adorable city, which God endowed with abundance, honor and virtues above all countries, the glorious FLORENCE, because God and 29 Hai ha-Olamim, ms Mantua, Fol. 107. — 279 —

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his saints came to endow her with all spendour.30 Version A, it should be remembered, appears in Hai ha-Olamim, when Alemanno argues that the young man should be sent to broaden his horizons in a foreign virtuous city. This is the context of the opening to this version. In contrast with the description of the seven virtues of the Florentines, the opening to version B is longer and more detailed, due to its rhetorical purpose. Version A of the Florentine laudation is to be understood in the light of the mythical concept of Florence as the ideal republic, the inheritor of the old tradition of the Roman “Libertas.”31 This is the Florence into which young Alemanno came in the mid-Quattrocento, the pre-Medicean period, still dominated by the so-called Roman republican virtues. This is the Florence which Alemanno remembered when he wrote version A, during the seventies, away from the city of his youth. In the first and second virtues, as shall be seen below, this concept is strongly emphasized. Version B was written in a different atmosphere. When the foreword to Heshek Shlomo was composed in 1488, after Alemanno’s return to the city, Florence was already at the zenith of the Medicean rule, politically dominated by Lorenzo, intellectually under the influence of the Platonic Academy, which was established by Ficino, Pico and their circle, under Lorenzo’s patronage.32 Thus, it is not surprising that we find here, in addition to the Florentine laudation of Version A, two important new aspects related to each other—the myth of Lorenzo and the Medicean golden age, and the theory of the Platonic philosopher-king applied to the myth of Lorenzo. It was long assumed that the myth of Lorenzo was developed in the early Cinquecento, mainly after the Medici return to power in 1512.33 Machiavelli tells us in his Istorie Fiorentine that:

30 Heshek Shlomo, ms London, Fols. 1-2; Perles (above n. 14), p. 256; Alemanno (Lesley) Song, vol. 2, pp. 4-5; Shulvass quotes this passage, Renaissance, p. 121. Lorenzo is once mentioned in Hai ha-Olamim (Fol. 309), where Alemanno tells us that he saw in Pisa an exotic animal—the Salamandra—which was brough as a present to Lorenzo. 31 Above n. 8. See also Varese, “Aspetti”; idem., “Laudatio.” Alemanno’s praise of Florence, is similar in many points to Dati’s, Compare pp. 76-80. 32 Schevill, Florence, ch. 23. 33 Gilbert, Machiavelli, ch. 1; idem, “Lorenzo”; idem, “Origin,” pp. 101-103. Gombrich, “Golden Age.” — 280 —

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Ma i Fiorentini, finita la guerra di Sezesana, vissono infini al 1492, che Lorenzo de’Medici mori, in una felicita grandissima. Perche Lorenzo, posate l’armi d’Italia, Ie quali per il senno e autorita sua si erano ferme, volse l’animo a fare grande se e la sua citta.34 Even Guicciardini, who basically agreed with Savonarola that Lorenzo was a tyrant, added a qualification that it would have been impossible to find “Un tiranno migliore e piu piacevole.”35 And Vasari, in his life of Botticelli, argued that, “Ne’tempi del magnifico Lorenzo che fu veramente per il persone d’ingegno un secol d’oro.”36 However, the myth of Lorenzo can be traced back to his own age. Ernest Gombrich quotes quite a few poets of the Lorenzian circle in order to prove this point. One example, by the poet Aurelio Lippi Brandolimi, will suffice: Aurea falcifero non debent saecula tantum, Nec tantum Augusto saecola pulchra suo Quantum nostra tibi, tibi se debere fatentur Aurea, Laurenti, munere facta tuo ... 37 Thus, Alemanno’s Hebrew eulogy is another proof of the early development of the myth of Lorenzo and the Medicean golden age. The other important new aspect in the opening to version B is the presentation of Lorenzo in the image of the Platonic-Averroist philosopher-king. Back in Florence, Alemanno came under the influence of the Platonic academy at its apex. The so-called revival of Platonism in the Renaissance was a part of the humanist effort to return to the classical sources. This tendency was strengthened with the influx of the immigrant Greek scholars into Italy, after the fall of Byzantium.38 34 Machiavelli, Istorie Fiorentine, Lib. 8, p. 36. 35 Guicciardini, Storie Fiorentine 9; Gilbert, Machiavelli, p. 117. 36 Quoted by Gombrich, ibid., p. 30. 37 Ibid., p. 31. Gombrich disputes Gilbert’s assumption that the Medici myth was mainly a matter of nostalgia, and argues that the myth can be traced back to Lorenzo’s own days. Alemanno’s Laudatio, unknown to both of them, reinforces Gombrich’s argument. 38 Kristeller, Renaissance, pp. 50-65, 150-163. A. Robb (above n. 15). Trinkaus, Image. Walker, Ancient. — 281 —

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As far as political thought is concerned, Plato’s main political dialogues—the Republic and the Laws—were already translated into Latin in the first part of the century, and Ficino had commented on them by the time of Alemanno’s return to Florence. The scholars who gathered in the Platonic academy, under Lorenzo’s patronage, applied the theory of the Platonic philosopher-king to Lorenzo, when they came to eulogize him as the perfect prince.39 It used to be said that while Aristotle dominated late medieval Christian philosophy, Platonism, reemerging in the mid-Quattrocento, replaced it as the main philosophical tendency of the Renaissance. This simplified point of view is valid no longer. As usual, the picture is much more complicated. Medieval and Renaissance Aristotelianism and Platonism were, to a great degree, interconnected. Many Platonic notions found their way into the Aristotelian-dominated philosophy of the Middle Ages, while many Aristotelian notions appear in Renaissance Platonism. While it is true that there was a stronger emphasis upon Platonic philosophy in the Italian Renaissance, Aristotelianism and Scholasticism still continued to influence Renaissance thought, including the “new” Platonism.40 Quite a few thinkers of the Renaissance tried, on this basis, to prove that these two philosophical systems basically agree.41 Moreover, medieval—and also Renaissance—Aristotelianism and Platonism, were flavoured with a strong dose of Averroist interpretation. If we take an example relevant to our subject, the Platonic philosopher-king, in its Averroist interpretation, is described as the supreme realization of the Aristotelian active intellect, as is found in Dante’s De Monarchia.42 Dante identified the Emperor, the one ruler of all humanity, as the embodiment of the active intellect. The Jewish thinkers identified it with Moses, the founder of the Hebrew people.43 The humanists of the Italian Renaissance, despite their eagerness to return to the original classical sources, to pure Plato and Aristotle, were 39 Gilbert, Machiavelli, p. 115. Brown, “Cosimo”; idem, “Platonism.” 40 Kristeller, Renaissance, pp. 32-49, 85-105. 41 Idem. Garin, Humanism, pp. 128-33. 42 De Monarchia 1, p. 3. 43 Maimonides, Guide (Pines), 1:54; 3:51. Alemanno himself identifies the active intellect with Moses (Hai ha-Olamim, ms Mantua, Fol. 107) and King Solomon, as indicated above, but mainly with Abraham. See below n. 74. On the identification of Moses, see also: Luzzatto (above n. 7), pp. 46-46a. On the assesment of Moses in Renaissance political thought, see Pocock, Machiavellian, pp. 170-71, 288-89. — 282 —

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still greatly indebted to the medieval, Averroist interpretations. It is not accidental that the Aristotelian Opera Omnia, published in Venice in the mid-Cinquecento, is heavy with the Averroist commentaries.44 Thus, the revived Plato of the Florentine academy—despite the new translations and commentaries based upon the original Greek—was still strongly connected with medieval Aristotelianism and Averroism. This point is strongly manifested when we consider the contribution or Alemanno and other Jewish scholars of the Italian Renaissance to the “new” Platonism in the field of political theory. While is is said that Aristotle’s Politics dominated late medieval Christian political philosophy, Muslim and Jewish political philosophy were more influenced by the Platonic tradition. It was more relevant to their theological point of view. The philosopher-king was identified with the prophet law giver and king of the Muslim and Jewish tradition.45 This tradition was carried into Renaissance Platonism by Alemanno and other Jewish thinkers. It is a meaningful fact that along with the new Latin translations and commentaries of Plato, interest in Averroes’ commentary on Plato’s Republic was also revived. The Hebrew translation was recopied a few times,46 and retranslated into Latin. Elia Del Medigo’s translation was made at Pico’s request,47 and while it was never published, the later translation, by Jacob Mantinus, was twice printed by the mid-Cinquecento.48 All this proves that Averroes’ commentary was 44 Aristoteles, Omai a quae extant opera, una cum Averrois commentarioriis..., Venezia, 1552 45 Rosenthal, Islam, ch’s. 1, 6. Lerner and Mahdi, Sourcebook, the introduction. 46 Averroes, Republic (Rosenthal), the introduction, p. 2. 47 On Del Medigo and this translation, see: Cassuto, Firenze, ch. 3. Averroes, Republic (Rosenthal), the introduction. Klibansky, Continuity, p. 18; M. Steinschneider, Hebräischen, p. 221 n. 820. The manuscript was thought to be lost. Steinschneider quotes Del Medigo’s own words, dated 1486, as proof to the existence of the lost manuscript: “Reliquia autem quae videntur esse obscura in hoc prologo sunt. Clara per dictum ad Averroy in expositione libri politicorum Platoni qui iam traductus est per me dominatione tuae, e ideo non opus (est) amplius de eo dicere.” Kristeller found the lost manuscript a few years ago in the Biblioteca Communale legali Infronati in Siena. See his paper, “L’Opera e il Pensiero del G. Pico della Mirandola della Storia dell’ Umanesimo,” op. cit., (above n. 39), n. 14, p. 58. Rosenthal noted in 1969 that he is working on this manuscript, see: Averroes, addition to the third impression, p. 302, n. 3 to p. 7. And see later Melamed, “De Medigo.” 48 On Mantinus and his translation, see Roth, Renaissance, pp. 40, 80, 156, 331. Shulvass, Renaissance, p. 150; D. Kaufmann, “Jacob Mantini—Une Page de L’Histoire de la Renaissance,” REJ 27 (1893), pp. 30-60, 207-38; Klibanski, Continuity. Steinschneider, Hebraischen, pp. 221-22. Averroes, Republic (Rosenthal), the introduction, p. 3. Mantinus’ translation was dedicated to Pope Paul III. It was first published under the title Paraphrasis super Libros de Republica Platonis. J. Mantinus interprete, per V. Doric e L. Fratres, Roma 1539. The second edition appeared in the Venice edition of Aristoteles Opera Omnia, vol. 3, pp. 174-191. — 283 —

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relevant for the Christian scholars too. As far as they were concerned, the interest in his commentary was part of the renewal of Platonism. However, it also shows, as stated above, that the “new” Platonism was still rooted in the medieval tradition. In this respect Jewish scholars such as Alemanno and Del Medigo played an important role by contributing their medieval heritage to Renaissance Platonism. It is especially meaningful that Alemanno and Del Medigo resided temporarily in Padova, and studied there, before they came to the Florentine academy.49 The University of Padova was dominated by the Aristotelian-Averroist tradition.50 The so-called antagonism between the Padovan Averroism and Florentine Platonism was much emphasized, as if Padova represented the old medieval tradition versus the new Renaissance attitude of Florence.51 The case of Alemanno and Del Medigo, who came from Averroist Padova and contributed its tradition to Florentine Platonism, maybe proves that the antagonism was not so decisive, and the two traditions in fact intermingled. This situation is strongly apparent in Alemanno’s opening to version B. He brought with him to the Platonic academy the Averroist interpretation of the philosopher-king. Though the new Latin translation and commentary of Plato’s Republic were already available, he still used the Medieval Hebrew translation to Averroes’ commentary.52 This is mainly apparent in his detailed theory of the ideal king which is found in Hai ha-Olamim. Alemanno copies Averroes’ description of the ten virtues of the perfect ruler, almost literally, and adds to it the four virtues unique to the king of Israe1.53 In the Laudatio, this influence is strongly felt in version A of the fourth and seventh virtue of the Florentines, as shall be seen below. The very fact that this version was probably written during the 1470’s, only reinforces our argument. The theory of the Platonic philosopherking—via Averroes—was apparent in Alemanno’s thought years before 49 Cassuto, Firenze. Alemanno (Lesley), Song, the introduction, vol. 1, p. 4. 50 B. Troilo, Averroismo e Aristotelismo Padovano, Padova 1939. 51 Garin, Humanism, pp. 1-2. 52 Averroes’ commentary was translated into Hebrew in the fourteenth century by Samuel ben Judeha of Marseille, Berman, “Greek.” Averroes (Rosenthal), Republic, Introduction. Averroes (Lerner), Republic, the introduction. Since the Arabic original is lost, this Hebrew translation is the only source of our knowledge on this Averroist commentary. See examples of Alemanno’s citation of Averroes, while referring it to Plato, in the Laudatio, version A to the seventh virtue. See also: below n. 55. 53 Hai ha-Olamim, ms Mantua, Fols. 151-52. Averroes’ source, see Republic (Rosenthal), pp. 60-62. — 284 —

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he came into the orbit of the Florentine academy. Now, in version B, written after his return to Florence, Alemanno applies the notion of the philosopher-king in its Averroist interpretation to Lorenzo. This fact also reinforces the argument that Florentine Platonism was still strongly connected with the continuing medieval tradition. On the other hand, Alemanno always refers directly to Plato when he quotes the Republic. He never mentions that his direct source was Averroes, while otherwise he is generally accurate when he quotes his medieval Muslim and Jewish sources, including Averroes.54 This may prove that, as a Florentine humanist, it was important for him to refer to Plato’s Republic. The very fact that his reference appears in an Averroist transmission, may have been already much less relevant for him. Like the Christian scholars who read their Latin Plato, Alemanno read his Hebrew Plato, quite disregarding its Averroist connotations. In any case, only towards the end of the Cinquecento we can find some Jewish thinkers in Italy, like Azariah de Rossi and Abraham Portaleone, quoting Plato in the original, and Ficino’s commentaries to the Republic and the Laws.55 Alemanno’s philosopher-king is still rooted in the Averroist tradition which continued from the Muslim and Jewish medieval milieu, and was reinforced with the emergence of Renaissance Platonism. The difference between the two versions is characteristic of the development of the humanist Laudatio. In the beginning, the Laudatio was based upon the Roman Republican virtues. Only later the concept of the ideal prince, in the image of the Platonic-Averroist philosopher-king, was added.56 This development occurred when the revived Platonism coalesced with the myth of Lorenzo and, consequently, his image as the embodiment of the philosopher-king was established. Alemanno directly follows this development. In the long introduction to Heshek Shlomo, “Shir ha-Ma’alot liShlomo,”57 Alemanno describes the seventeen virtues and perfections man must follow—starting with the corporal virtue, and continuing to 54 55 56 57

For example, version A to the third virtue; Heshek Shlomo, ms London, Fol. 38. De Rossi, Meor, p. 155. Portaleone, Shiltei, ch.4, p. 2b. Brown “Cosimo,” p. 196. The text was twice partially printed under the title: Sha’ar Ha-Heshek, Livorno 1790, and Halberstaat 1862. Both editions are inaccurate. A new critical edition, with an introduction, notes and English summary was published by Lesley, Alemanno, Song. — 285 —

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the point at which his heshek (passion, desire) reunites him with God. The man who ascends towards God is embodied in the image of King Solomon, the wisest of all men. Thus, “Shir ha-Ma’alot li-Shlomo,” is a neo-Platonic version of the Medieval Speculum Principum. The image of King Solomon as the ideal prince is confronted with the myth of Lorenzo. Each virtue of the Florentines in version B is related by Alemanno to himself and the people of Israel. The image of Lorenzo as the philosopher-king is related to the wisest of all men. In the beginning of version B, Alemanno eulogized Lorenzo, “... whose prudence and abundance of spiritual intellect is beyond the grasp of the people ...”58 Then, after the Florentine Laudatio, he goes on to describe the development of his literary work, and explains the relationship between Heshek Shlomo and Hai ha-Olamim. King Solomon of Heshek Shlomo, is the embodiment of the perfect man in Hai ha-Olamim: “Because there (in Hai ha-Olamim) I intended to describe a man with good opinions, a virtuous man in his world all whose virtues are very good ... as all those found in King Solomon who desired this last bliss more than any riches, honor, authority or any other wisdom or science.”59 Lorenzo is the embodiment of the perfect man and prince of the Italian Renaissance, as King Solomon represents the perfect man and prince of the ancient Jewish state. While the Italian humanists related the image of the contemporary perfect prince—Cosimo, or his grandson Lorenzo, to the great examples of the Roman past—Romulus, Augustus, Marcus Aurelius,60 Alemanno, as a true Jewish humanist, relates the image of Lorenzo to the great example of the Jewish past. Italian thinkers, like Machiavelli, identified the lost golden age of humanity with the “tempi aurei” of the reign of Marcus Aurelius.61 Alemanno identified “il buon temp antico” with the reign of King Solomon, when “Judea and Israel sat secure beneath their wine and their fig from Dan to Beer Sheva.”62 As far as the Jewish humanist is concerned, the 58 See above n. 31. 59 Heshek Shlomo, ms London, Fols. 4-5. Perles, p. 256. Alemanno (Lesley), Song, vol 2, p. 10. Compare to Abravanel’s discussion of the five perfections of King Solomon, Commentary on 1 Kings, ch. 5. 60 Brown , “Cosimo.” Gilbert, Maсhiavelli , ch. 1. Gombrich, “Golden Age.” 61 Machiavelli, Discorsi, 1, 10. 62 Heshek Shlomo, Ms London, Fol. 75; Halberstaat ed., p. 19; Lesley, ibid., 2, p. 149. Compare to Abravane1’s discussion on the same topic, Commentary to Kings I, p. 3. On this theme in Renaissance humanism see Davis, “Buon Tempo.” — 286 —

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classical past means, first of all, the ancient history of Israel in his homeland. By identifying the image of Lorenzo with King Solomon, Alemanno achieved a double purpose. On the one hand, he tried to prove the greatness of Israel to the gentiles. On the other hand, he flattered Lorenzo and the Florentines, by comparing “Il Magnifico” with the wisest of all men. After the opening, Alemanno continues, in both versions, with detailed descriptions of the seven virtues of the Florentines. As he says in version B: “Seven precious virtues wander among all the people of this land.”63 The First Virtue Version A a. This people dwelling in the reigning city, are all sons of kings, because there are no guards, governors or rulers over it. Rather they all—or almost all—are great and honored ministers, judges, guards and governors, each on his own day, every month and every year, according to the custom of the laws of the government. According to this they all are like kings and deputies, magnanimous and wise, because each one raises his son in just ways and kingly stratagems, so that they will know the law and government of the state when their time comes to officiate over the public and rule them. Therefore, the people of the state are more perfect and more kingly than the people of another city where one king rules. There nobody attends to the education of his son in the ways of the kingdom, because he does not expect his son to be king, not being from kingly seed. In this, there is much good in that city, since most of her people are perfected in leadership like kings... there to teach that leadership which uplifts the soul in the art of the guiding of the herd, which is a perfection of the practical intellect, necessary for the perfect (man), who guides and leads the people correctly in the nature of the prophetic soul which acts before us.64

63 Heshek Shlomo, ms London, Fol. 2; Perles, ibid., p. 253; Alemanno (Lesley), Song, vol. 2, p. 5. 64 Hai ha-Olamim, ms Mantua, Fol. 107. — 287 —

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Version B The first is the great extent to which leadership is in the hands of its people from the least to the greatest. Because of this, all the fathers teach their sons and youths from their early days all the ways of government, of the state, magnanimous acts and virtues. Because they are all royalty, each rules as king over the people by turn when his time comes, according to his luck, he rules over his peers when the lot falls on his name. This is the reason that if you ask them you will find them all wise, understanding and knowledgeable in laws customary in each country for each people, so they will know how to judge when their turn comes to lead their people as a flock. This is not done where there are great leaders and kings, and the people do not expect to become officials since they are musicians and artisans. They are not like those who expect any day that their lot will fall and they become like God. Since I grew within these borders, I enlarged my deeds and my wisdom in order to teach the youth knowledge and cleverness whether orally or by my writings.65 The two versions are basically identical. All the Florentine citizens— even the musicians and artisans—study and excel in the arts of government, since the city is a direct democracy, and they all participate in the process of government when their turn comes according to the lot. Alemanno follows the myth of the Florentine constitution, by presenting it as the inheritor of the long lost Roman republican virtues. As already noted, this was originally the main theme of the humanist Laudatio. The myth of Florence was already nothing but a smoke screen in the continual oligarchic power struggle among social and economic pressure groups. This tendency culminated with the Medici, who were always shrewd enough to keep their facade as guardians of the republican traditions, while they manipulated them in order to strengthen and maintain their hold upon the city.66 65 Heshek Shlomo, ms London, Fol. 201. Perles, ibid., pp. 253-54; Alemanno (Lesley) Song, vol. 2, p. 6. 66 On the structure of the Florentine government under the Medici see Rubinstein, Government, — 288 —

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Not all the Florentines were so naive or hypocritical as to disregard this state of affairs. Not everyone swallowed the myth of Lorenzo as the embodiment of the philosopher-king. Some even took arms in mutiny. However, the Pazzi conspiracy of 1478 was doomed from the start, since the multitude always preferred the food and fun Lorenzo gave them to the vague ‘Libertas’ the conspirators had to offer. For the few sceptics, Lorenzo became a new Caesar, the destroyer of the republican liberty. Alemanno Rinuccini’s dialogue, De Libertate, is a painful indictment against the Medicean tyranny.67 Our Alemanno, however, was probably quite naive and not knowledgeable enough in the intrigues of Florentine politics to notice this. Though he came to Florence as a young man, Alemanno was absent for a long time, and being a Jew, never participated in the political life of the city. Even if he had understood the realities of Florentine politics, being a Jew, he would have never dared to express his reservations in a rhetorical foreword to a treatise dedicated to Pico, in the apex of the Medicean regime. Alemanno never contrasted theory with political reality. Both versions are basically identical, even though the political situation in Florence had changed greatly between the time he wrote version A, and the time he converted it into the foreword to Heshek Shlomo. Alemanno transformed the original into version B, with no meaningful changes concerning the political situation in Florence. He did not care to adapt version B to the changing political circumstances. Although, as shown above, Alemanno knew perfectly well the special status Lorenzo occupied in Florence, there is no mention of this when he describes the working of the Florentine constitution. He did not even seem to realize the discrepancy between the praise of Lorenzo in the opening to version B: “... whose prudence and abundance of spiritual intellect is beyond the grasp of the people,” and the praise of the republican virtues we find here. If Lorenzo is really a philosopher-king, how could there be—at the very same time—a direct democracy in Florence? If Alemanno denounced here a monarchist government, in which the citizens do not participate in the governing process, how could he, in the Preface, pp. v-vi. As for the system of elections by vote or by lot, to which Alemanno refers, see ibid., index, p. 330. 67 Garin, Humanism, ch. 3, pp. 78-80. Watkins, Freedom. Varese, “Aspetti,” pp. 146-148. — 289 —

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opening to this very version (B), praise Lorenzo’s abundance of spiritual intellect which is beyond the grasp of the people? The very fact that he added the praise of Lorenzo to the opening to version B, proves that he was conscious of the political situation in Florence in the late 1480s. However, here he only repeats what he said in the original, so the discrepancy remains. How far Alemanno was conscious of this discrepancy and of the fact that in reality the myth of republican Florence was only a smoke screen to a closed oligarchy, is difficult to assess. However, as already noted, even if he had realized the real political situation in Florence, he would not have expressed his reservations here. In any case, it seems that for Alemanno, like all members of the Platonic academy, it was impossible to identify Lorenzo as the new Caesar, demolisher of the republican virtues. For him, as for Pico, Ficino, and any other Florentine neo-Platonist, Lorenzo embodied the realization of the ideal philosopher-king.68 The discrepancy exists not only in his assessment of the political situation, but also in his theoretical reasoning. It seems that Alemanno did not realize the basic contrast between the ideal of the philosopherking, which he would place in the center of his political discussion in Hai ha-Olamim,69 and the praise of direct democracy found here. How could someone with a Platonic-Averroist point of view praise a direct democracy and denounce monarchy? As far as Platonism is concerned, direct democracy, in which every musician and artisan takes a part in governing by lot is unthinkable. Plato argued that the source of all evil is that every Tom, Dick and Harry who has no knowledge or understanding in the science of politics, takes part in the critical decisions of the city. Only philosophers are capable of handling the affairs of state, since they know the meaning of human existence. Even though Alemanno insists that since the citizens participate in the governing process, they receive the proper education, it still does not fit the Platonic point of view which he basically follows. At the end of the longer and more philosophical version A, Alemanno relates perfection in the active intellect to the good citizen, who is educated for participation in the governing process. In the 68

This tendency is to be found in the writings of Christian humanists too, who wrote, as Varese puts it: “...con un entusiasmo che, mentre trascura, anzi ignora la realta interna fiorentina’” (ibid., p. 138). 69 Ibid., ms Mantua, Fols. 350-352. — 290 —

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introduction to the same version, we already found that he applied this perfection, which is a precondition to the achievement of the theoretical intellect, to the well-educated Florentine citizen.70 This is a clear application of the Aristotelian terminology, probably through the Hebrew translation of Averroes middle commentary to the Ethics.71 His usage of the term “Prophetic soul,” is probably based upon the Maimonidean terminology. In version B, Alemanno relates this virtue to himself. Since it is customary among the Florentines to teach the youngsters the arts of politics, being educated in the city, he dedicated himself to the education of the young generation. The Second Virtue Version A b. They have many stratagems for controlling what is appropriate and avoiding injury. By stratagems they make war, repel all injury and attract the heart of the people to their love, because this is a city of leaders, and no one rules and governs by force, nor with arrogance, but rather by stratagem, compliments and honey for those who love (them); harsh words for those who hate (them), and clever deeds that achieve the appropriate and overcome the injurious. Like the stratagems of our father Abraham in overcoming enemies, such as Amrafel and his comrades and attracting true lovers, so that he would acquire a place to eat and drink, that would aid in attracting the heart of the people to the true faith. And also he could expel the jealous, the evil and harmful, and attract the deserving to his knowledge and labour.72 Version B 70 Ibid., Fol. 107. 71 This translation was also made by Samuel ben Judeha of Marseille (above n. 53), and generally appears in the same manuscripts with his translation of Averroes’ commentary on Plato’s Republic. Since we know that Alemanno frequently used this translation (above n. 54), he probably knew also the commentary on the Ethics. On this Hebrew translation, see Berman, “Translation.” Averroes, Ethics (Berman). Alemanno frequently refers to the Ethics in Hai ha-Olamim. For example: ms Mantua, Fols. 332, 351. 72 Hai ha-Olamim, ms Mantua, Fol. 107. — 291 —

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Second is the virtue of wisdom and knowledge above all nations. By stratagems they make war to avoid and repel all evil from them and attract the heart of each person to its (the city’s) leaders, to safeguard their liberty so that each one would be free and debtless, and to draw near the good and useful in their land as much as possible. With this I also agree, that all opinions that are faulty and injurious to my soul would be expelled and removed from my very mind. Beliefs and commands incorporated in my spirit and my soul, will be all righteous and true opinions, to the extent of my power and my feeble grasp.73 Again the two versions are basically identical, although the original is longer and more detailed. In this version we find the example of Abraham, which is not repeated in version B. In Alemanno’s political discussion in Hai ha-Olamim, Abraham would be referred to as the first king and legislator of the Hebrew nation, representing the just king, while Nimrod would represent the archetype of the tyrant.74 While in the Jewish tradition, Moses appears as the first legislator of the Hebrew, or in the philosophical context, the supreme realization of the active intellect, Alemanno replaces him here with Abraham. Both versions refer to the good virtues of the Florentines again, in relation to the Florentine “Libertas.” Even though Alemanno refers it in version A to the monarchical example of Abraham, in version B, Alemanno relates this virtue to himself. He also takes care to accept only just opinions and avoid faulty deeds. The Third Virtue Version A c. They are shrewd enough to act with knowledge and wisdom, to gather together riches and property more than all traders and merchants (Canaanites). They all are garbed in splendour and regal attire, because any 73 Heshek Shlomo, ms London, Fol. 2. Perles (above n. 14), p. 254. Alamanno (Lesley), Song, vol. 2, p. 6. 74 Hai ha-Olamim, ms Mantua, Fol. 352. For the conception of Nimrod as the primeval despot in non-Jewish political literature, see Pocock, Machiavellian, pp. 380, 389. — 292 —

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day they are prepared to ascend to the status of deputies and ministers, since God calls each one by turn to rule in one o( the deserving ministeries and offices of that country. This acquisi tion of riches is also useful to the perfect (one) in achieving perfection by enabling him to begin his contemplation. Although this is not necessary for achieving bliss (hazlahah) upon awakening, it is indeed neces sary while he belongs to a state. As Avempace stated ... whoever wishes to achieve true bliss must hasten in assembling and collecting money, and must use material stratagems. And Narboni comments that money is not necessary for man’s achievement of this bliss after he ordains himself, foregoes the ways of the world and escapes the common cave-dwelling multitude. Then he will not think of the vanities of time. But it is indispensable to the man who is part of the community in bringing about the bliss whose absence is felt now more than ever.75 Version B The third is the virtue written on their hearts, from the day of their birth, to the day of their death, to make their hand industrious and to enrich the inhabitants of their city. And each man of each family will hurry to his craft each day of his life. They do not become fatigued but rather go to merchandise and are not tired. I have seen this, and I also gather in and assemble the wisdom of the people and many beliefs in great energy, to enrich my soul and the house of my father as much as I am able.76 This is the clearest example, so far, to the way in which Alemanno discussed the seven virtues in the original in their broad philosophical context, while in version B he adapted and shortened it for the needs of the rhetorical foreword. The subject of the third virtue is the excellence of the Florentines in 75 Hai ha-Olamim, ms Mantua, Fols. 107-8. 76 Heshek Shlomo, ms London, Fol. 3; Perles, ibid., p. 254; Alemanno (Lesley) Song, ibid. — 293 —

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acquiring material goods by commerce. Alemanno relates here to the prominence of Florence in the commercial activities of Italy and Europe during the Renaissance. He is very much aware of the fact that the political power and cultural splendour of Florence were based upon its economic prominence. The theory that commerce is a basic factor in the development of human society is central in Alemanno’s political theory. Following Aristotelian and Epicurian sources, Alemanno developed in Hai ha- Olamim a whole theory about the ascent of man and the development of human society, from the state of nature to the perfect society rules by the philosopher-king. Basic in this theory is the concept of work. Utilizing the myth of Prometheus, the climatic theory and the contemporary concept of the Dignitas Hominis, Alemanno argues that only by hard work can humans develop their manual and intellectual capabilities, fulfill their material needs and dominate nature. These are the first crucial steps in their ascendancy towards God.77 Here Alemanno follows the praise of Vita Activa, basic to many humanists, such as Salutati, Bruni, Bracciolini and Alberti.78 Thus, Alemanno describes in detail the development of the arts and crafts, from the simple and most necessary ones agriculture and the domestication of animals, through the discovery of raw materials and the production of tools and the various implements necessities and luxuries, for human usage. These implements are exchanged by commerce; thereby humans progress from the village to the city, including the entailed political life. The development of the arts and crafts is the development of human society. The culmination of the struggle to provide man with his material needs is the development of commerce: Afterwards he left this and became a merchant and Canaanite, in his hand was the merchant’s weight and golden Shekels and silver bricks to be exchanged in business transactions. And he acquired treasures of grain and flocks of sheep and cattle, camels and donkeys, and riches of kings and countries, and crafted gold made in the cities and the countryside ... and so he spent all the 77 Hai ha-Olamim, ms Mantua, Fols. 332-347. Melamed, “Development.” 78 Garin, Humanism, ch. 2, pp. 44-45. — 294 —

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days gathering the bounty of each country in order to fill the barren and the empty. And in his prudence he would import and export riches and property with an industrious hand, enriching Canaanites, statesmen and merchants. Rumbling and raising up the poor and the rich, involved in everything. And money served all purposes.79 In the original version, Alemanno quotes ibn Bajja’s theory about the governance of the solitary, in Moses Narboni’s medieval Hebrew commentary.80 As already noted in regard to Averroes’ influence upon Alemanno, even though he participated in the humanist culture, he still had deep roots in the Muslim and Jewish medieval tradition. Ibn Bajja’s theory that the philosopher, who strives to reach the intelligible, could only achieve his purpose in solitude, away from the material political society, was unique in medieval philosophy, which generally held that even the philosopher could achieve his purpose only by participating in earthly life in the perfect state, ruled by the just king. Thus, as far as the philosopher is concerned, the achievement of material goods might be irrelevant. However, as Alemanno quotes ibn Bajja through Narboni’s commentary, for the people gathered in society, it is indispensable. Basically, though, Alemanno rejected ibn Bajja’s view, since, as we also find here, he held the Platonic theory that humans are social animals who cannot reach the intelligible except through the ideal society which must fulfill their basic needs before it can elevate them into contemplative life. Material needs mean for Alemanno not only necessities, but earthly goods as well. He rejected the Platonic idea that man should strive only for the basic necessities, and accepted in this respect the Aristotelian position, which gives a much broader definition to man’s material needs.81 79 Hai ha-Olamim, ms Mantua, Fol. 346. 80 The Hebrew text of Narboni was published by D. Herzog, Ibn Bajja, Solitary. The Arabic text was first published by M. Asin Palacios, Tadbir al-mutawahhld, Madrid-Granada 1946. The first two chapters of the text were published also by: D.M. Dunlop, “Ibn Bajjah’s Tadbiru’l Mutawahhid (Rule of the Solitary),” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society of Great Britain and Ireland (1945). A selection of the Arabic text was translated into English by L.V. Berman, and appeared in Lerner and Mahdi, Sourcebook, pp. 122-133. 81 Aristotle, Politics, 1:8. — 295 —

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Alemanno’s praise of the material achievements of the Florentines must be understood in this philosophical context. The problem which he tackles here, how to settle the possible contradiction between material and commercial success and the higher contemplative end of the political existence, was apparent among previous humanists who came to eulogize Cosimo de’Medici. How could the rich merchant be identified with the philosopher-king? This is possible when you regard the achievement of material goods as a precondition to contemplative life.82 This theme can also be found in medieval Jewish philosophy. Maimonides gave the same explanation to the material involvement and success of the Hebrew Patriarchs: [...] that His prudence watched over them continually even while they were engaged in increasing their fortune—I mean while they tended their cattle, did agricultural work, and governed their household—was necessarily brought about the circumstances that in all these actions their end was to come near to Him. 83 In version B, these theoretical connotations are absent. What is left is the praise of the Florentines’ material success. At the end of this version, Alemanno again relates this virtue to himself. While the Florentines enriched themselves materially, he enriched himself spiritually, by assembling wisdom and knowledge. The Fourth Virtue Version A d. They are adorned with the splendour of rich and shining virtues which Plato explained in the Republic. We mentioned them because they are the cause of the political community, in contrast to the vices, that cause the dispersion of the members of the community, after 82 Brown, “Cosimo,” p. 196. 83 Maimonides, Guide, 3:41 (Pines). Compare to ibn Falaquera, Hokmah, pp. 7-8, and the sermons of Nissim ben Yekutiel, Warsaw 1875, p. 43. — 296 —

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which the dispersed will not be joined again. And the perfect (one) is capable of gathering in the dispersed, teaching them truth fulness, and does not allow the dis persion of those gathered in, nor tire of wisdom ... Therefore, it is appropriate for the perfect (one) to act as a prince by his virtues and his garments and his cleanliness and his behaviour.84 Version B The fourth is the inclusive, most beautiful of all virtue worthy or inclusion in the important and per fect state, to keep the way of the polit ical community and to unite the dispersed to one opinion as one heart for all, and they will become united and will not be separated to different opinions. Also, those gathered together will segregate the vices and laws by which they will not abide and by which the multitude could not exist. From them I learned the wisdom of gathering the different opinions in Israel, that are separated by the nega tion of each other, and to unite them in a unity of agreement that proceeds towards truth and justice as much as I am able, and with all my might I controlled my spirit from dispersing those gathered opinions, in spite of many doubts and many irrelevancies that cause negation between the united.85 Alemanno relates here the good virtues of the Florentines to the theory of the ideal Platonic-Averroist state, the “important and perfect state” of version B, as it was expressed in medieval Hebrew. As already noted, Alemanno’s political thought is basically Platonic-Averroist. The end of the political community is to lead the people towards perfection. When the people are corrupt, their state should be demolished, and a better, ideal state, should be erected upon its ruins. This is the duty of the Shalem—the perfect philosopher-king. Again, while in the original we find a broad philosophical discussion, it is shortened and more rhe84 Hai ha-Olamim, ms Mantua, Fol. 108. 85 Heshek Shlomo, ms London, Fol. 3. Perles, p. 254. Alemanno (Lesley), Song, vol. 2, pp. 6-7. — 297 —

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torical in version B. Alemanno identifies the Florentine constitution under Lorenzo, with the ideal Platonic-Averroist state. The gathering of the virtues among the Florentines is compared by Alemanno in Version B, to the assembling of the different opinions among the Jews, into one truth. It seems that Alemanno refers here to the theory of Pico, Princeps concordiae, about the overall synthesis of all the philosophies and religions, which together constitute one divine and perrenial truth.86 It is meaningful that this context, which is absent from version A, is added to Version B, written after Alemanno came in close contact with Pico, when he returned to Florence in 1488. The Fifth Virtue Version A e. They are better than all the nations in the art of rhetoric, since it is essential that they achieve the cooperation each person to convey the neces sary for the obligatory political government, according to the time and place. As Aristotle in the Rhetoric, and our ancestors wrote, the orator will use the verification in a continuation and a signal and with this each one will prove his own opin ion to his friends, and will achieve the cooperation of his friends with his own aims. This is necessary in coun tries where each person is an official, merchant and a dignitary. This is appropriate and almost mandatory for the perfect for two reasons. The first being the creation of the will of the people to achieve perfection by means of examples and energetic rhetoric, exactly as the prophets did. The second reason is to explain and anounce the truths to a people who have not been prepared to understand unexemplary behavior. As written by Aristotle in the first book of Rhetoric, and by our ancestors, the value of rhetoric lies in its ability to speedily direct the people in a state to laudatory actions, while in nature they would do the opposite which is immoral 86 Dulles, Princeps. — 298 —

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and deserving of denunciation ... 87 Version B The fifth is the virtue like ofwhich no other nation has achieved from the day of its establishment—the wisdom of rhetoric, which they know and understand in achieving the cooperation of each person with an example and indication, to verify each one with his friends and confi dants his own opinions, and to direct him to his will and the wishes of his heart. I have listened to this also and I have taken a little and spoken of it in the book of haOlamim, along with the rest of the words that are spoken in order to achieve the coop eration of the people with truthful words, as they will be explained there, because this is the most righteous of all modes of speaking.88 Alemanno refers here to the excellence of the Florentines in the art of rhetoric. Rhetoric was a major theme in Renaissance humanism. It was strongly connected to the political literature of humanism, as was noted above.89 Alemanno emphasizes the indispensable role of rhetoric in a republic, like Florence, where the citizens directly participate in the governing process. Rhetoric was much discussed among the Jewish thinkers too, the most notable example being Nofet Zufim, composed by the Mantovan Rabbi and scholar, Judea Messer Leon, in the l480s.90 Like Messer Leon, Alemanno also based his discussion mainly upon the Aristotelian Rhetoric, or to be more accurate, the medieval Hebrew translation of the Averroist commentary.91 87 Hai ha-Olamim. ms Mantua, Fol. 108. 88 Heshek Shlomo, ms London, Fol. 3. Perles, p. 254. Alemanno (Lesley), Song, vol. 2, p. 7. 89 The research of humanist rhetoric is vast; to mention only two examples, see Siegel, Rhetoric, and Gray, “Humanism.” On the relationship between rhetoric and politics in the Renaissance, see above n. 1. 90 The edition princeps of Nofet Zufim appeared in print already in 1470. The first modern edition appeared in Vienna 1863. Reprint, Jerusalem 1970. A new photo-reproduction of the editio princeps was published by the Magnes Press, Jerusalem 1981, with an introduction by R. Bonfil. For the critical English edition see Messer Leon, Nofet (Rabinowitz), and see discussion in Melamed, “Messer Leon.” 91 The Hebrew translation of Averroes’ commentary on the Aristotelian Rhetoric, was made in the fourteenth century by the Spanish Jew, Todros Todrosi. The text appeared once in print. See Aver— 299 —

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While the original is longer and more philosophical in nature, version B is shorter and rhetorical. Like all the Florentines, Alemanno added in version B, he himself also excelled in the art of rhetoric, and indicates that in Hai ha-Olamim, he will discuss the subject in more detail, which he later does.92 This Laudatio itself is a rhetorical exercise. The Sixth Virtue Version A f. They are perfect and easily understand short words and small hints like all ...? .. wise, (since) few words and an easy understanding of hints is important when all the people are ruled without guard or governor, as the wise suggest, and they are all equal in authority and leadership. Each of them thinks in his heart first of all about political interests. It is necessary for people of that status, that each person express his will and his opinions, and each one is careful about letting all know his thoughts, so that they will not accuse him of being thoughtless, because there is no person who does not consider him self, and it is necessary that ... ? ... the opposite. From what is revealed and what is hidden his few words and hints indicate his intention to those agreeable and knowledgeable of his opinions, and indicate nothing to those who do not accept his discipline The perfect needs this greatly, as our ancestors said, you do not tell Ma’ase Mercavah (the act of the chariot) to any but the wise and understanding, and, first of all, you must tell him only peripheric details. The prophets also all spoke in hints and we have seen that this was the glorious wisdom in the days of the Greeks and the Persians ... So let your words be few, for two reasons. The first, being that it is not fitting to speak overmuch before the multitude ... And the second reason being that truc understanding may not be spoken, since human corporeal speech will roes, Halatzah. 92 Hai ha-Olamim, ms Mantua, Fols. 396-407. — 300 —

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not establish spiritual matters.93 Version B The sixth is the virtue whose wonder is beyond the grasp of mankind, and people do not know its value, that they easily understand partial expla nations, vicariously they grasp the innermost intentions of each one. And if they have not studied or made themselves knowledgeable before speaking, in wisdom they habitually each make their heart’s secrets and their vices known by hints and ambiguous speech, with hints of the voice and body. This is due to their fear that they be accused of impulso sively speaking their minds. Rather they disguise and hint at their opin ions so that they will not be caught being indiscrete. So, they are very careful of their facial expressions and their words, and thereby say what they wish. From this I learned the wisdom of disguising my advice and speaking shortly as they say: “make short rather than make long.”94 The sixth virtue relates to the Florentines’ rhetorical talents of the short and hinting discourse. In the original, Alemanno refers to it in the broad philosophical context—the Maimonidean and Averroist distinction between the two degrees of knowledge—simple beliefs and allegory, proper for the multitude, and divine knowledge, meant for the consumption of philosophers only. Since the multitude is unfit for true knowledge, they should be talked to in the short and hinting manner. This is why the Torah was written in the form of allegory, fit for the limited understanding of the multitude, while only the philosophcrs are able to obtain its hidden true meaning. The literary form of Hai ha-Olamim is based upon this distinction, as Alemanno explains in the introduction.95 It is a dialogue between a plain speaker and a philosopher. The usage of the form of dialogue—uncommon among Jewish writers since the Kuzari—is based here upon the 93 Hai ha-Olamim, ms Mantua, Fols. 108-9. 94 Heshek Shlomo, ms London, Fol. 3. Perles, pp. 254-55. Alemanno (Lesley), Song, vol. 2, p. 7. 95 Ibid., ms Mantua, Fols. 2-22. — 301 —

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renewal of the Platonic dialogue. But is should be understood also in context with the Averroist—Maimonidean distinction. In version B, Alemanno refers only to the praise of the Florentines’ talents in this virtue. This version constitutes a short adaptation of the first part of the original, while its philosophical continuation is totally omitted. Alemanno applies here the philosophical theory to the historical situation in Florence. He argues, in both versions, that since all the Florentine citizens participate directly in the governing process, they master the art of the short and hinting discourse, so their hidden thoughts and plans will not be revealed, and their interests will not be damaged. He refers here probably to the system of political intrigues, apparent in Florence, like any other political and commercial community, where the individual members advance their private interests by this manipulation of the legal and political process. This means—in some contradiction to what was said about the first virtue—that Alemanno did have some insight to the inner working of the Florentine political system. He only gives it a rhetorical turn. Since human beings, from their very nature, are egoistic creatures, who care, first of all, for their own private interests—as Machiavelli would insist a few years later—it is only understandable, and even laudable, that they would develop the rhetorical skills suitable to advancing their own good. In version B, Alemanno adds, as usual, that he too learned this skill. For a Jew in the Diaspora, this skill was extremely valuable, as Alemanno should have realized. The Seventh Virtue Version A g. They glorify and magnify the supreme wisdom, since from the theoretical wisdom comes forth the content of practical wisdom, for the theoretical is primary to the practical in order to legislate laws that are taken from the theory, because lawgivers need to be wise in the theoretical wisdom, as Plato said—“The philosopher, the lawgiver and the teaching priest are synonymous.” And therefore, these are the people who lead the states and give laws at all times, according to their will, and it — 302 —

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is indispensable for them to glorify the Greek wisdom, to love it and to learn much from it, to derive there from their laws. There is a great and indispensable need for this to the perfect, this is all of man, and there is no need to prove this, because this whole book is devoted to this subject. It is appropriate that man will be magnified through this in these and similar place, by learning from these seven perfections that have been mentioned, because all are indispensable to the perfect in the beginning of his inquiry.96 Version B Seventh is the supreme virtue, that all are lovers of wisdom, which is prim ary to political leadership. Through it they see and also make their laws, based in wisdom, prudence, and know ledge and all arts. From them I have learned to love wisdom, and study it at all times. Maybe I, as they, will become wise and my soul will become a little like theirs.97 In this laudation of the Florentines’ Excellency in every wisdom and knowledge, the list of their seven virtues culminates. This is Florence of the Platonic Academy of Ficino and Pico, under Lorenzo’s patronage, Florence at the height of its scholarly and artistic dominance. Alemanno finds the theoretical explanation for the supremacy of Florence, in the Platonic theory—via Averroes’ commentary—that the perfection in all the wisdoms is a precondition to the excellent political government. The practical wisdom is derived from the theoretical wisdom. Thus, because Florence excells in all the arts and wisdoms, it is necessarily a perfect state. Lorenzo, because of his achievement of the theoretical intellect, is also the perfect prince. Again, both versions are basically identical, the original being longer and more philosophical in nature. Here Alemanno refers to the Platonic theory or the philosopher-king, in a citation taken from the medieval Hebrew translation of Averroes’ commentary to the Republic, “... phi96 Hai ha-Olamim, ms Mantua, Fol. 109. 97 Heshek Shlomo, ms London, Fol. 3. Perles, p. 255. Alemanno (Lesley), Song, vol. 2, p. 8. — 303 —

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losopher, king and lawgiver, are as it were synonymous.”98 Above it has already been related to the influence of this source upon Alemanno, and the meaning of the fact that though he cites the Averroist commentary, he refers it directly to Plato. To such a country—Alemano reminds us in the end of version A— the young man should be sent to broaden his horizons. Then he adds, in relation to this version’s distinction between the theoretical and practical intellect, a detailed discussion of the classification of the sciences, which is already beyond the scope of this study.99 In the end of version B, he again relates the virtue to himself: like the Florentines, he strives for wisdom and knowledge. Leonardo Bruni already said that the Laudatio should not be regarded as an authentic historical account, but only as a rhetorical exercise, “Aliud est historia, aliud Laudatio.”100 However, beneath the flattering oratory, and despite the fact that Alemanno does not always understand—or dare to discuss—the realities of Florentine politics, it is still a meaningful historical and cultural document. The application of the medieval Jewish tradition of the PlatonicAverroist theory about the philosopher-king, and the perfect state, to Florence and Lorenzo, and the usage of the humanist Laudatio in the context of the needs and traditions of Jewish society, are of historical and philosophic interest.

98 This citation appears again in: Hai ha-Olamim, when Alemanno discusses the virtues of the perfect king (Fol. 351). See the source, Averroes, Republic (Rosenthal), p. 61. See later Melamed, Philosopher-King, ch. 6. 99 Hai ha-Olamim, ms Mantua, Fol. 109. 100 Brown, “Cosimo,” p. 186. Ullman, “Humanistic,” p. 52, n. 37. — 304 —

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Chapter eleven

Simone Luzzatto on Tacitus: Apologetica and Ragione Di Stato

In the fifteenth consideration of his famous Discorso circa il stato degli Ebrei in Venezia (Venice, 1638)1 Luzzatto presents a forceful refutation of Tacitus’ polemics against the ancient Jewish nation. The few, brief discussions of Luzzatto’s counterattack have been mainly presented, thus far, in the context of Jewish apologetic literature. Roberto Backi explains the “curious fact” that Luzzatto chose to attack Tacitus, whose libels against the Jews had already been “refuted and forgotten for a long time” as Backi erroneously assumes, as a secure means to combat Christian antisemitism.2 Yosef Hayyim Yerushalmi and Benjamin Ravid present a much more accurate picture, but still in the context of apologetica.3 Taking this attitude into consideration, it is perhaps not at all surprising that in all the studies published about Tacitean influence upon Renaissance and early modern historical and political thought, Luzzatto is never mentioned. Peter Burke, for instance, even mentions Portuguese, Hungarian and Swedish Tacitists.4 The Venetian Jew who wrote in Italian and published his Discorso in the Serenissima in 1638 is never mentioned. This disregard of Luzzatto is probably due to the apologetic context in which his discussion of Tacitus was 1 Luzzatto’s Discorso was first published in Venice in 1638. A limited photoreproduced edition appeared in Bologna in 1976, with an article by R. Backi (see n. 2). The Hebrew translation (henceforth Ma’amar), was published in Jerusalem in 1950, edited by A. Z. Aescoly, with introductory essays by M. Shu1vass and R. Backi and notes by Y. Levy, A. Z. Aescoly and Y. Baer. For further bibliographical information, see Ravid, Economics, pp. 7-8, nn.1-2. 2 Ma’amar, Backi’s introduction, p. 65; also p. 27. Backi’s essay was partially reprinted with additions in his Israele Disperso e Ricostruito (Rome, 1952), pp. 97-139. Backi’s elaboration upon the Discorso is full of misconceptions. See the qualified opening note of the editors of the Hebrew ed., p. 27. For a detailed critique of Backi’s interpretation see Melamed, Wisdom’s Little Sister: The Political Thought of Jewish Thinkers in the Italian Renaissance (Hebrew, 2 vols., Tel Aviv, 1976), vol. 1, pp. 504-506, n.5; pp. 507-508, n.20. See also Ravid, ibid., pp. 809, n.1. A more accurate picture is presented by Backi in his “Dottrina,” reproduced in the 1976 ed. of the Discorso. 3 Yerushalmi, Ghetto, p. 418. Ravid, Economics, p. 22, n.13. 4 Burke, “Tacitism,” p. 150. Schellhase, Tacitus, p. xii. For further bibliography see below, nn.11, 16, 20. — 305 —

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generally presented. The contemporary political connotations of the fifteenth consideration went unnoticed.5 The aim of this study is to revise the accepted apologetic context of Luzzatto’s discussion of Tacitus and prove that, although belonging to Jewish apologetic literature it must be viewed also in the context of late Renaissance political thought. It is a Jewish interpretation of late Renaissance “Tacitism,” which serves apologetic purposes. The Discorso itself is a polemical and apologetic treatise, written for the purpose of defending the Venetian Jews against the attacks inflicted upon them during the 1630s.6 Mindful of the practical attitude of the Venetians, Luzzatto devoted his first ten considerations to a proof of the invaluable contribution of the Jews to the economic well-being of the city and, consequently, to its social and political stability and international glory.7 The last seven considerations deal mainly with traditional topics of Jewish apologetica: the defense of Jewish customs, traditions and religion; the explanation of their true meaning to the ignorant gentiles; the description of the achievements of Jewish culture during the centuries despite the hardships of exile, and the proof of their loyalty to their place of residence. The fifteenth consideration occupies a central position within the second part of the Discorso and is also the longest chapter, containing 32 pages out of a total of 176.8 This clearly proves the importance of the subject in Luzzatto’s mind. Luzzatto’s intention in this consideration is to defend the Jewish nation against the libels advanced by Cornellius Tacitus in book five (2-4) of his Historiae.9 On the surface it seems to be plain apologetic discussion, of the kind found before him in David de Pomis and Leone 5  In the notes to the Hebrew ed. there are some references to the contemporary intellectual background, i.e., p. 158, n.26; p. 162, n.81; p. 164, n.107; p. 165, n.123; p. 174, nn.215, 223. See also Backi’s “La Dottrina.” 6 Shulvass’ introduction to the Hebrew ed., pp. 22-23, reprinted in his In the Grip of Centuries (Hebrew; Tel Aviv/Jerusalem, 1960), pp. 33-55; Shulvass, “A Story of the Misfortunes which Afflicted the Jews in Italy” (Hebrew), HUCA 22 (1949) 1-21, and reprinted in In the Grip of Centuries, pp. 76-102; Ravid, Economics, pp, 9-18. 7 For the historical and economic aspects of the subject, see Ravid, ibid., p. 19 and ch’s. 3-4. Melamed, “Venice.” 8 As already noted by Ravid, ibid., p. 22, n. 15. 9 Levy, “Tacitus.” See also his “Tacitus et l’origine du peuple juif,” Latmus 5 (1946) 331-340. Henceforth the first version will be cited. See also Hospers-Jansen, Tacitus, with an extensive summary in English, pp. 183-205. Stern, Authors, vol. 2, pp. 1-6; Tacitus relevant text in the Historiae 5: 25-27. — 306 —

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da Modena, in the writings of his contemporary Menasseh ben Israel and later in Isaac Cardoso and others.10 However, when we penetrate beneath the surface, we see Luzzatto’s discussion in a new light and different context. His seemingly apologetic discussion bears the influence of contemporary Machiavellism and Tacitism. Tacitus’ writings were hardly known to the medieval mind. With the emergence of Renaissance Humanism came a frantic search for the long-lost fragments of classical antiquity. Among them, an old manuscript of Tacitus’ Annales and Historiae was found by Boccaccio in 1362. Only in the age of printing, though, did Tacitus become widely known. The first edition of his complete works appeared in 1515. By the first decade of the seventeenth century, about sixty main publications of his works were available, either in the Latin original or in vernacular translations.11 The penetration of Tacitus into European historical and political thought was slow, being overshadowed in the late Quattrocento and early Cinquecento by Livy, whose Decades were more relevant to the humanist weltanschauung, and whose literary style was considered superior by the Ciceronian criticism dominant in humanist opinion.12 Only during the Cinquecento was Livy replaced as the supreme classical historian by Tacitus. This was part of the metamorphosis of Italian political thought as a result of the crisis of the late Quattrocento and the forceful Machiavellian response.13 Since then, a host of historical and political writings, appearing in Italy and other European countries during the late sixteenth and the seventeenth centuries, was strongly influenced by Tacitus. The whole tradition of the Ragione di Stato (Reason of State), based on Machiavelli, was heavy with Tacitean influence. There is a direct connection between the Machiavellian influence and “Tacitismo.” Republicanism a la Machiavelli’s Discorsi is nicely represented in Tacitus’ opposition to tyranny. Luzzatto’s practical and utilitarian approach to politics is typical of the Ragione di Stato world view. His emphasis on the modes and usages of 10 See below, nn. 35-41. 11 My discussion on Tacitus’ fortunes in Renaissance and seventeenth-century thought is based mainly on Burke and Schellhase, Tacitus. For the beginnings of the Tacitean influence see especially Schellhase, introduction. For further bibliography, consult Schellhase, pp. 235-248. See also Bertelli, “Tacito.” 12 Schellhase, Tacitus, pp. 26-27, 105. Burke, “Tacitus,” pp. 151-153. 13 Schellhase, ibid., pp. 29-30. — 307 —

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power in politics is typical Machiavellism. Thus, Tacitus, more than any other classical historian, became meaningful to contemporary political thought. When it was too dangerous to quote the wicked Machiavelli directly—after his being banned by the papal index during the counterreformation—he appeared in Tacitean disguise. Tacitus himself had only a narrow escape from papal excommunication.14 From now on, Machiavellism and Tacitism were synonymous. Will two walk together except they have agreed?15 Toffanin made the famous and now disputed distinction between two standpoints of Tacitism—“Tacitismo rosso” which is disguised republicanism, and “Tacitismo nero,” which is disguised Machiavellism.16 Luzzatto’s discussion belongs to the second group. Burke argues that the Tacitean influence reached its apex during the first decades of the seventeenth century. Tacitus was clearly considered relevant to the political discourse during this century, and the commentary on his works became one of the main genres of political writing from the 1580s to the 1680s. Tacitism declined only towards the end of the century.17 Robert Schellhase argues that by the beginning of the seventeenth century Tacitus, although widely available in print, was already beginning to be shelved as a guide to political life.18 In any case, the Tacitean influence in Jewish thought is found only now in Luzzatto’s fifteenth consideration. The publication of the Discorso exactly coincides with what Burke regards as the crucial period in the development of the Tacitean influence. Even Schellhase agrees that in the beginning of the seventeenth century “some Venetians,” like Traiano Boccalini, still advocated the employment of Tacitus in politics.19 Luzzatto belongs to this group. Of the three kinds of Tacitean literature which Arnaldo Momigliano classifies, Luzzatto’s work roughly belongs to the second group which consists of lengthy discussions of selected passages from Tacitus. This group is characterized by an application of the literary methods 14 Burke, “Tacitus,” p. 165. 15 Amos 3:3. Burke, ibid., pp. 165-166. 16 Toffanin, Machiavelli, ch. 7 and 9. Burke, ibid., pp. 162·163. Schellhase, Tacitus, p. x. 17 Burke, ibid., pp. 150, 162, 176-180. Burke, “Survey,” esp. pp. 137, 148-152. 18 Schellhase, ibid., p. 16. 19 Schellhase, ibid., p. 149. — 308 —

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of Machiavelli’s Discorsi which prepared the way for Tacitism.20 Burke separates Tacitism into four strands: the admiration of Tacitus the stylist, the historian, the moralist, and, above all, the master of politics.21 Luzzatto’s discussion focuses upon admiration of Tacitus the historian and political thinker. Luzzatto’s discussion of Tacitus seems to combine reactions to late Renaissance Tacitism and to contemporary anti-Jewish literature. Since Tacitus became so widely available and influential during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, it might be reasonable to assume that his anti-Jewish polemics would have been enthusiastically exploited in contemporary anti-Jewish literature.22 However, surprisingly enough, this is not the case. In all the anti-Jewish literature consulted, Tacitus is not mentioned. He appears neither in Sixtus Senensis’ Bibliotheca Sancta (Venice, 1566) nor in Buxtorfs Synagoga Judaica (Basel, 1603) nor in Palontrotti’s Breve Raccotta (Venice, 1649), to mention only a few major examples. This is all the more noteworthy since all the above listed mention various Jewish customs which were viciously referred to by Tacitus.23 The same goes for Hugo Grotius, who devoted the fifth book of his De Veritate Religionis Christianae (1633), to Refutatio Judiasmi. 20 Momigliano, “First,” pp. 93-96; reprinted in his Essays in Ancient and Modern Historiography (Oxford, 1977), pp. 205-229. 21 Burke, “Tacitus,” p. 151. 22 As Ravid logically says, Economics, p. 22, n.15. See also Ettinger, “Beginning.” Ettinger states: “The anti-Jewish element in the classic and humanistic traditions exerted also considerable influence on European society and thought” (pp. 208-209). However, the examples Ettinger presents are not from conventional anti-Jewish literature and already belong to the end of the seventeenth century; see below, nn. 33, 35. Yerushalmi, Ghetto, also argues that “antiquity is probably relevant, because the pagan slanders recur again and again in the latest anti-Jewish works” (p. 420), but he does not present any examples to prove this assertion. 23 Leone da Modena wrote a refutation of the Bibliotheca Sancta; see C. Ancona, “Attacchi.” Ravid, Economic, pp. 23-24, suggests that considerations 11 through 15 of the Discorso were directed against the Bibliotheca. This possibility should still be explored. In any case, the fifteenth consideration was not directly influenced by this source, since in the Bibliotheca there is no reference to Tacitus; see below, n.43. Palontrotti, Breve racolta d’argomenti... sac, seritti e dall’antiche tradiltioni di rabini (Venice, 1649). Palontrotti also write a short refutation of the Discorso (Ravid, op. cit., p. 71, n.67; p. 92, n.96; p. 95, n.98). For more bibliographical notes on Italian anti-Jewish literature, see Steinschneider, “Letteratura Antigiudaica in Lingua Italiana,” Vessilio lsraelitico 29 (1881) 165-167, 201203, 229-232,269-271; 30 (1882) 244-246. On Buxtorf, see n.37. See also Stow, Catholic. Even Eisenmenger, in his notorious “Entdecktes Judenthums” (“Judaism Unmasked,” 1700), does not mention Tacitus. See also his The Traditions of the Jews (translated from the High Dutch, London. 1739). Tacitus is also not mentioned in J. Kalir, “The Jewish Service in the Eyes of Christian and Baptised Jews in the 17th and 18th Centuries,” JQR 56 (1965-66) 51-80, nor in H. H. Ben-Sasson, “Jewish-Christian Disputations in the Setting of Humanism and Reformation in the German Empire,” Harvard Theological Review 59 (1966) 369-390. On the whole issue see Manuel, Staff. — 309 —

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Although Grotius quotes some anti-Jewish pagan authors, Tacitus is never mentioned by name. He only appears as one of aliorum narratione, in reference to Moses.24 A typical example is Boccalini, whose political satire, the Ragguagli di Parnaso, was published in Venice in 1612-13. Boccalini was immensely influenced by Tacitus, whom he refers to—and this is only one of many admiring references—as: “Prince of political authors”(Principe degli scrittori politici), and he defends him against various criticisms.25 However, when he attacks the Jews in the Ragguagli, Tacitus’ libels are not mentioned at all.26 He is not mentioned even when Boccalini discusses the struggle between the Jews and the Romans. Book five is never referred to in the Ragguagli.27 It is also interesting to note that Henry Saville, Tacitus’ first English translator (1591), failed to translate most of book five of the Historiae. His reason was “for the evil it contains of 24 Hugo Grotius, De Veritate Religionis Christianae, translated into English with notes (London, 1821), vol. V, pp. 164-204. Tacitus is twice referred to, once as one of the aliorum narratione; in another context the Annales 6: 20 is referred to (Grotius, p. 166, nn.15, 17). His name, however, is never mentioned in the text. For Grotius’ attitude towards the Jews, see A. Loewenstamm, “Hugo Groti’us Stellungzum Judentum,” Festschrift zum 75 Jaehrlichen Bestehen der Juedisch-Theological Seminar vol. 1I (Breslau, 1929), pp. 295-302. Ettinger, “Beginning,” pp. 198-201. 25 Boccalini, Ragguagli. For references to Tacitus, see vol. 3. index, p. 592. Boccalini repeats many times the admiring references to ‘il magna Tacita” (1:4, 123; 2:188 ,252; 3:1l3), “il politico Tacito” (1:233, 2:64), “i1 gran Tacito” (1:273), “Padre della Prudenza umana e del vero intentor della moderna politica” (1:304), “antesignato degli istorici politici” (2:54), “istorico prencipe degli scrittori politici” (3:361), etc. Compare to Luzzatto’s admiring references, below, nn. 47, 54, 58. On Boccalini, see Meineck, Machiavellism, pp. 70-89. Toffanin, Machiavelli, pp. 195-209. Schellhase, Tacitus, pp. 145-149. Williams, Boccalini, pp. 1-9. 26 Ragguagli, 1:9, p. 36; 2:19, p. 96. See also J. Luzzatto, “Fra filosemitismo a antisemitismo,” Rasegna mensile di Israel 37 (1971) 319; Ravid, Economic, p. 22, n.15. The reference to the struggle between the Jews and the Romans appears when Boccalini discusses the function of religion in politics. He argues that the existence of more than one religion is disastrous to stable government. This is why the Romans were careful to force a common religion upon all the people they conquered. The Jewish religion, however, being so different, could not be absorbed, so the Romans had to annihilate it: “...ediqui echei Romani, pernontrovar diquestiintoppi,fecero con tutti quei popoli, quali acquistarono, commune la religione: non gia forzassero ad accettar la loro, rna essi pigliavano I’attrui, e quella che non vollero Pigliare-che fu quella degli Ebrei-annichilarono quella nazione pili che non facesero a qualsivoglia altra con la quale essi guerreggiassero; oltre che i Romani trovarono Ie religioni communicabili, e di qui e che piu di qualsivoglia nazione [ecero mai sempre resistenza a Romani gli Ebrei per la grandissima diversita-di religione, ed essi si risolsero annichilarla affatto, come poi fecero” (vol. 3, Scritti Minori, p. 307). Although he uses the Tacitean argument that the Jewish religion is different from any other, Baccalini does not mention him. Luzzatto was also very much conscious of this problem and took pains to convince the Venetians that the experience of a separate Jewish community is not necessarily a destabilizing factor in the social and political organization of the republic. See also Discorso, twelfth consideration, and n. 66 below. 27 Ragguagli, vol. 3, index, p. 592. — 310 —

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the Jews.”28 The explanation of this phenomenon may be that Tacitus’ attitude towards monotheistic religions was problematic for the Christians. Not only did he abhor early Christianity, but his polemics against the Jews were not applicable, since he discussed pre-Christian Judaism, which was regarded as a forerunner of Christianity (praeparatio evangelica). The problem for Christians was with the continuous existence of the Jewish people after Christ, not with the Jews before Christ. Since they regarded themselves as the legal inheritors of ancient Israel, they could not agree with and exploit Tacitus’ negative description of the ancient Jewish nation. For them it was an attack upon Christianity itself.29 Thus the only passages in Tacitus which interested the Church fathers were those which dealt with the atrocities committed by the Romans against early Christians and the heroic struggle of the Jews against Titus (Historiae, 2:1).30 Tertullian, who was the first Christian to write an anti-Jewish polemical treatise in Latin (Adversus Judaeos), nevertheless refuted in his Apologia Tacitus’ libel that the Jews worship the head of an ass, an assertion which Menasseh ben Israel and Luzzatto later zealously utilized. The Catholic opposition to the Tacitean influence in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries eagerly exploited his negative description of early Christiantiy in order to discredit him as a pagan version of the wicked Machiavelli. The pro-Tacitists tried somehow to excuse Tacitus’ anti-Christian references.31 They also preferred not to exploit his anti-Jewish polemics, even if it could have provided marvelous raw material for anti-Jewish literature. When possible they preferred to avoid the issue at all, as found in the cases of Boccalini and Saville. Only towards the end of the seventeenth century do we find references to Tacitus’ polemics against the Jews, and this not in conventional anti-Jewish literature. Spinoza cites Tacitus in his Tractatus Thealogico28 Schellhase, Tacitus, p. 229, n. 24. 29 I thank R. Bonfil, for his helpful comments on this issue. 30 Schellhase, Tacitus, p. 4. Luzzatto himself refers to Tacitus’ description of the atrocities committed by the Romans against early Christians; see below, n.61. 31 Schellhase, ibid., pp. 122,127-128; p. 209, n.2; p. 220, n.3; p. 228, n.12. It is interesting to note in this context that Leon Batista Alberti, in his De Architectura (1451-1452), p. 25, cites Tacitus’ description of Jerusalem’s angular walls, which were difficult to storm, as a guide to the building of walls. — 311 —

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Politico (Hamburg, 1670) more than any other classical author. He mainly uses Tacitus for political discussions, but also in his critique of the Jewish religion. However, he never directly quotes Tacitus’ libels in the Historiae 5:2-4. Spinoza cites the same passages used by the Church fathers about the courageous struggle of the Jews against the Romans (Historiae 2:4), although, following Tacitus, his explanation of this phenomenon is not complimentary to the Jewish people.32 The contemporary political thinker, Samuel Pufendorf, in his De Jure Naturae (1684), cites Tacitus’ notorious Comment that the Jews are “odium generis humani.” 33 This is probably the reason for another seemingly odd fact. Prior to Luzzatto, Tacitus is hardly mentioned in Jewish apologetica. Since Christian anti-Jewish polemics did not exploit him, the responding Jewish apologetics did not have any reason to drag him into the dispute. David de Pomis in his De Medico Hebraeo Enarratio Apologetica (Venice, 1588) does not mention Tacitus, or any other classical author.34 A much more curious phenomenon is Leone da Modena’s Historia de ritti Ebraici, published in Venice the very same year as Luzzatto’s Discorso. He discusses some of the Jewish religious laws and customs referred to by Tacitus, like the Sabbath and the Sabbatical year, the prohibition to eat pork, and sexual norms. However, he does not deal with nor does he refute Tacitus’ libels concerning these customs,35 which Luzzatto so diligently does. Since Modena states that he wrote the ritti in order to counter Buxtorfs

32 Spinoza, Works, pp. 217, 230, 233; p. 334, n,2. The Hebrew ed. of the Political-Theological Traetatus, ed., trans., and notes by Ch. Wirzubski (Jerusalem, 1961), p. 1, n.2; p. 5, n.5; pp. 176, 186; p. 216, n. 18; p. 234. For the reference to the Jewish struggle against the Romans, see p. 186. Wirzubski, “Spinoza,” esp. 21-23. Wirzubski argues that although Spinoza never directly cites book 5 of the Historiae, he read it and was influenced by Tacitus in his criticism of Jewish religion; ibid., pp. 22-23; the Hebrew ed, of Political-Theological Tractatus, p. 1, n.2. Ettinger, “Beginning,” p. 66. 33 Pfendorf, De Jure Naturae, book 4, ch. 6, 12; Ettinger, ibid., p. 66. 34 H. Friedenwald, “Apologetic Works of Jewish Physicians,” in his The Jews and Medicine (Baltimore, 1944), vol. 1, pp. 41-42. It is possible that Shelomo ibn Verga had already dealt with Tacitus. He refutes the Christian libel that the Jews are promiscuous; see his Shevet, p. 36. Although Tacitus made this accusation (see below, n.68), he is never mentioned by ibn Verga, See also Shevet, p. 175, n.8. It is possible that ibn Verga was commenting upon Tacitus without naming him, since the Historiae was already available in print when he wrote Shevet Yehudah in the early sixteenth century. 35 On Modena’s ritti, see M, R. Cohen, “Ritti.” Ravid, Economics, p. 17, n.10. For more examples of apologetic literature, see Ettinger, “Beginning,” pp, 209-210. J. Rosenthal, “Anti-Christian Polemics from its Beginning to the End ofthe 18th Century” (Hebrew), Aresheth 2 (1960) 130-179; 3 (1961) 433-439. — 312 —

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Synagoga Judaica,36 he probably did not see any reason to involve Tacitus in the dispute as Buxtorf himself did not choose to do so. In other Jewish writings of the period prior to Luzzatto, there is only scanty evidence of Tacitean influence. Abraham Portaleone, in the political and military sections of his encyclopaedic Shilte Ha-Gibborim (Mantua, 1612), cites Livy and Sallust, Vergil and Lucan. Tacitus is not mentioned at all.37 Azariah de Rossi in his Meor Einaim (Mantua, 1573-5) mentions Tacitus as a source with no reference to apologetica (although he quotes book five of the Historiae!) or contemporary political thought. He still regards Livy as the supreme classical historian: “That no [author] like him ever appered among the nations.”38 By the mid-seventeenth century, however, David del Bene was already clearly conscious of the strong Tacitean influence, as he remarks in his collection of sermons: “Cornelio Tacito […] is respecteable among them (= the Christians) more then any other gentile author since he speaks intelligently (dover meisharim) about the government of the state (hanhagat ha-medinah) and the laws of the state (Dinah de-malcutah) which is called politics (politica).”39 The move from the authority of Livy to that of Tacitus was thus noticed by Jewish scholars. This, however, was only a passing comment. Menasseh ben Israel was probably the first Jewish writer to refute Tacitus’ libels. In his Conciliator (Amsterdam, 1633), he refers to Tacitus’ assertion that the Jews worshipped the head of an ass. He presents Tacitus’ explanation as to the origin of this custom and refutes it. He employs Tertullian who found a contradiction between the abovementioned Tacitean libel and Tacitus’ own indication in another place that, when Pompey entered Jerusalem, no image or idol was found in the Temple. Thus ben Israel accuses Tacitus of ignorance and hostile intentions: “… in re non suam modo ignorantiam prodidit, verum et 36

Roth, “Modena,” p. 395. Ettinger, ibid., p. 209. Cohen, ibid., p. 287, n.4. Ravid raised the possibility that Luzzatto also attempted to refute Buxtorf (see Ma’amar, p. 25, n.20); see also below, n.43. 37 Portaleone, Shiltei, ch. 41, p. 36a; ch. 42, p. 38a. 38 For the reference to Tacitus, see De Rossi, Meor, ch. 26, p. 260. De Rossi cites Tacitus twice on the same page-among a few other Roman historians such as Livy, Dio and Plutarch. See also index, p, 166. For some odd reason, De Rossi refers here to Tacitus’ “twenty-first book.” The real source of his quotation is the Historiae 5: 9 themselves: “Romanorum primus Cn. Pompeius Iudaeos Domuit.” Even though he quotes here the passage later employed by Tertullian to contradict Tacitus’ earlier assertion that the Jews worship the head of an ass (below, n. 39), de Rossi does not discuss it at all. For the reference to Livy, see Meor, p. 264. Livy is mentioned quite a few times, while Tacitus is mentioned only once. See also Baron, “Azariah,” p. 43, n. 110. 39 David del Bene, Kissaot, p. 10b. This paragraph was added to the paper. — 313 —

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odium.”40 This is the only Tacitean libel which Menasseh ben Israel refers to. In his later apologetic writings, as shall be seen below, he does not deal with Tacitus at all. Thus Luzzatto was the first Jewish author to devote a comprehensive discussion to Tacitus. Moreover, he was the only Jewish thinker to establish a conceptual link between anti-Tacitean Jewish apologetica and pro-Tacitean Ragione di Stato. It is obvious that all through the Discorso Luzzatto is responding to specific charges leveled against the Jews in contemporary Venice.41 This should also have been the case with the fifteenth consideration. Since Tacitus was well known to every educated person of the period, it would be reasonable to assume that his anti-Jewish views also influenced contemporary anti-Jewish polemics in Venice, to which Luzzatto obviously responded.42 However, as already noted, contemporary anti-Jewish literature did not employ Tacitus and, consequently, Jewish apologetic— until Luzzatto—did not relate to him. Thus the question arises, what brought Luzzatto to break with conventional apologetica and include such an extended discussion of Tacitus’ anti-Jewish polemics in his Discorso? It should be noted that also in the socio-economic and utilitarian nature of the first ten considerations Luzzatto broke new ground in Jewish apologetica, which was hitherto basically devoted to theological and ceremonial questions.43 Ravid suggests that in various instances in the Discorso Luzzatto, intended to refute Senensis and Buxtorf.44 If so, since both of them did not deal with Tacitus, why did Luzzatto? (This is in contrast to both Modena and ben Israel, who refuted Senensis and Buxtorf but did not refute Tacitus!) It is possible that Luzzatto was responding to a specific anti-Jewish treatise that did employ Tacitus. Although we do not know of the exis40 Ben Israel, Conciliator, reconciliation to question 100, p. 157. See also index, p.31. For Tacitus’ libel, see Hisloriae 5:3. Levy, “Tacitus,” p. 5. On Tertullian’s refutation of Tacitus, see Levy, ibid., p. 5, n.26, and compare Luzzatto’s refutation of the same libel in Ma’amar, pp. 124-125, Italian ed. pp. 58-59. Luzzatto also employed Tertullian’s refutation. See also Cardoso’s refutation of the same libel (below, n.44); for refutation of the first libel, see Yerushalmi, Ghetto, pp. 419-422. For further references to Menasseh ben Israel, see below, n.45. 41 Ravid, Economics, pp. 21-22. 42 Ravid, ibid., p. 22, n.15. 43 Ravid, ibid., ch. 4. Ettinger, “Beginning,” p. 210. 44 Ravid, ibid., pp. 23; 25, n. 20. See above, nn. 23, 36. — 314 —

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tence of such a work, this possibility should still be explored. However, if this is not the case, it may prove that the starting point of Luzzatto’s discussion of Tacitus is, in fact, not apologetica but political thought. As a Jew who, like so many of his contemporaries, admired Tacitus, Luzzatto found himself compelled to persuade the master that he erred in his polemics against the Jews. Luzzatto had to resolve the apparent contradiction between his Judaism and his Tacitism. Christian Tacitists had to struggle with the anti-Christian aspects in Tacitus. Likewise, a Jewish Tacitist had to struggle with his anti-Jewish aspects. If so, Luzzatto’s innovation in Jewish apologetics was a response to the influence of non-Jewish contemporary political thought, not anti-Jewish literature. Thus, contrary to accepted opinion, the apologetic aspects of the fifteenth consideration are a by-product of contemporary Tacitism. Even the two Jewish thinkers, Isaac Cardoso and Menasseh ben Israel, who were strongly influenced by Luzzatto’s Discorso, did not adopt his Tacitism. Cardoso follows Luzzatto’s refutation of Tacitus’ libels in his Exelencias (Amsterdam, 1676). However, although he directly quotes Luzzatto, “el sapiento Luzitano,” he omits his emphasis on Tacitus the political thinker. He refers to him mainly as a great historian, “historico verdadero,” who erred in his discussion of the Jews. While Luzzatto devoted the whole fifteenth consideration exclusively to Tacitus, Cardoso discusses him as one of many classical historians who professed anti-Jewish opinions, like Plutarch, Apion, Strabo, Lucan and others. While Luzzatto, as will be show below, used political reasoning to refute Tacitus, Cardoso neglected to do so. He restricted himself to conventional historical and theological explanations only.45 Thus, although he followed Luzzatto in refuting Tacitus, Cardoso did not relate his apologetics to the contemporary Tacitean tradition. Even Menasseh ben Israel, who was strongly influenced by Luzzatto’s Discorso in his Humble Address (1655), does not deal at all with Tacitus’ libels. Tacitus is mentioned only once in The Hope of Israel (1652) with no reference to his libels against the Jews. In the Vindiciae Judaeorum (1656), he is not mentioned at all. Again, since he directly refutes Se45 Isaac Cardoso, Los excelencias de los Hebreos (Amsterdam, 1679), p. 331: “y es mas de admirar en Tacito, que professando fer historico verdadero, y un exacto censor de las acciones de los principes.” The Hebrew ed., Ma’alot, contains selected chapters from the excelencias. On Tacitus and Luzzatto, see the introduction, p. 20, and the text, I, pp. 40-49. See also Yerushalmi, Ghetto, pp. 417-422, 439-440, 468-469; Ravid, Economics, p. 22, n.15; p. 96. — 315 —

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nensis and Buxtorf in the Vindiciae, ben Israel has no reason to refer to Tacitus.46 Thus, Luzzatto still appears as the unique Jewish Tacitist. His work is the only Jewish contribution to the genre. Luzzatto’s usage of Tacitus is typical of his approach to his sources. While he freely quotes classical authors such as Plato, Aristotle, Thucydides, Cicero, and, of course, Tacitus, he never mentions by name any contemporary political thinker; the only exception is Thomas More’s Utopia, which Luzzatto strongly rejects.47 It is extremely meaningful that he mentions only the one whose ideas he rejects. Luzzatto was very careful not to mention by name all those whose ideas he did accept. Whoever reads the Discorso against the background of contemporary historical and political thought realizes the depth of influence it exercised upon Luzzatto. His ideas, his vocabulary, and the sources he employed and the ones he neglected to mention are all rooted in contemporary thought. He was strongly influenced by the tradition of the Ragione di Stato from Machiavelli to Botero, Paruta and Boccalini,48 and the Myth of Venice developed by Contarini and Giannotti.49 Nevertheless, he never mentions any of these by name. Neither does he mention Grotius, whose influence upon him is quite obvious.50 Luzzatto does mention some early Italian Renaissance authors—Dante, Giovanni Pico della Mirandola, and a few others,51 but none of them in a political con46 On Luzzatto’s influence on ben Israel, see Wilensky, Return, pp. 49, 93-96, 98, 101-102, 187. Backi’s introduction to the Ma’amar, pp. 71-72. Ravid, Economics, p. 97, n. l03. The texts appeared in L. Wolf, ed., introduction, and notes, Menasseh ben Israel’s Mission to Oliver Cromwell (London, 1901). When he advances the theory that the American Indians are to be identified with the ten lost tribes, ben Israel mentions some ancient cities destroyed by earthquakes. Tacitus’ Annales 14 is quoted in ben Israel’s The Hope of Israel, p. 55. See also above, n. 40. Senensis and Buxtorf are refuted in the Vindiciae, pp. 125,134-136. See also Ravid, ibid., p. 25, n.20. 47 Ma’amar, 6th consideration, p. 93: “II moderno inventore della Utopia.” Compare an identical negative approach in Cinquecento Italian political thought, Gilbert, Machiavelli, p. 249, and Spinoza, Political Treatise, ch. 1. See below, n. 91. 48 For general bibliography on the tradition, see above, nn. 16, 20, 25. On Botero’s probable influence upon Luzzatto, see Backi, “Dottrina,” and Melamed (above, n. 2), ch. 4. It is very probable that Luzzatto read Boccalini. Boccalini published in Venice a few decades before the writing of the Discorso, and he and Luzzatto shared the same opinions on many subjects: Tacitism, Machiavellism, the myth of Venice, and Ragione di Stato. Notice the similarity between Luzzatto’s admiring references to Tacitus and Boccalini’s equivalent references; see above, n. 25, and below, nn. 54, 58. 49 Melamed, “Venice.” For the general framework on the myth of Venice, see Bouwsma, Venice, with additional bibliography. 50 Ma’amar, 13th consideration, p. 115; p. 162, n.81. Luzzatto uses the expression “de iure gentium et belli.” 51 Dante’s Commedia Divina is mentioned in the sixteenth consideration, Ma’amar, p. 146. Giovanni Pico della Mirandola is mentioned on p. l43. — 316 —

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text. He mentions two Protestant authers, Calvin and Lipsius,52 again in a theological and non-political context. This mention of Justus Lipsius is highly significant in tracing Luzzatto’s Tacitean connection. Lipsius’ Sospitator Taciti was one of the main protagonists of the Tacitean tradition. He established the text from which all modern texts derive through his seven editions (from 1574 onward), each with frequent reprintings. He was the first scholar to distinguish the Historiae from the Annales. This was followed by his commentary, published in 1581, and finally his political treatise Politicorum Libri Sex (1589), in which the Tacitean influence is strongly manifest.53 Since Luzzatto mentions him in the Discorso, it is possible that he was introduced to the Tacitean influence through Lipsius. Luzzatto’s neglect to name his contemporary sources has two possible explanations. First, it was customary to quote the great classical authorities and not contemporary thinkers who were not yet regarded as established authorities. Second, Luzzatto deals here with the dangerous subject of politics. So, as a Jew, writing in Italian and addressing a non-Jewish audience with apologetic intentions, he was careful not to quote controversial thinkers (such as Machiavelli) by name. However, there is no explanation for his omission of such highly admired names as Contarini, founder of the Myth of Venice. As already indicated, Luzzatto, like many other Italian thinkers of the period, solved his problem by referring to the classical sources. When it was too dangerous to quote Machiavelli, he turned to Tacitus. The fifteenth consideration is entitled “On some opposition made by Cornellius Tacitus against the ancient Jewish people and their resolution.”54 Luzzatto, who intends refuting Tacitus’ libels against the Jews, deliberately opens with an admiring statement: Cornellius Tacitus, the famous Roman historian, is regarded as one of the major masters of the political regime, because of his wisdom and experience in political 52 Calvin is referred to in the seventeenth consideration, Ma’amar, p. 153. See also p. 174, n. 228. Lipsius is mentioned in the sixteenth consideration, p. 147; also p. 174, n.215. Levy mentions here Lipsius’ commentary on Tacitus (also p. 164, n. 107), but does not relate it to Luzzatto’s discussion of Tacitus. 53 Schellhase, Tacitus, pp. 117-121, 126-127, 133-140, 152, 153, 155, 156, etc. See also Momigliano, “First.” 54 Ma’amar, p. 123; Italian ed., p. 57. — 317 —

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matters. 55

So, from the very beginning of his discussion, Luzzatto presents Tacitus in two related capacities—famoso historico and maestro del governo civile—historian and political thinker. His refutation of Tacitus’ polemics against the Jews is based upon the assumption that, as a fine historian and a master of political thought, Tacitus should have come to a totally different conclusion concerning the Jews.56 As a historian, Tacitus has great eloquence, sound judgment, deep comprehension of the motivations of human action, and, above all, an urge to tell the historical truth as it really was. Luzzatto, therefore, questions Tacitus’ attitude toward the origins, history, religion, and customs of the Jewish nation. Inexplicably, he abandoned his course and committed grave errors. Tacitus, who did not let any bias distract him from telling the harsh truth about his own Roman people, was so influenced by emotions and prejudice when he discussed the Jewish nation that he wandered from the true course of historical writing. He did not lack authentic historical sources, for the Vulgate and the writings of Philo and Josephus were easily available to him. Neither was he a plain Roman senator, whose misinformation could be excused by lack of interest in external affairs. As a historian of stature who intended to tell the history of nations, Tacitus should have overcome his emotions and prejudices and moved to the crux of the matter. 57 The same applies to his position as a political thinker, which, here, is our main interest. A political man like him (Statista ch’egli era),58 who understood so keenly the motives of political life, should also have understood the true meaning of Jewish religion and customs. In his defense of the Jews, Luzzatto does not bring ethical and theological explanations, which would be irrelevant to a pagan and political-minded man like Tacitus. Luzzatto employs political and utilitarian reasoning 55 Ibid.: “Cornelio Tacito famoso Historico Romano, merito per la sua Dottrina, e esperienza delle Cose Politiche esser annouerato fra primi Maestri del Governo Civile.” Compare to Boccalini’s admiring references, above, n.25. 56 Ibid., Italian ed., pp. 57-58. 57 Ibid.: “Ma ad Historico che professa l’instruire altrui, e indecente in qualunque parte non esser limato; eben ragguagliato.” 58 Ibid., p. 130; Italian ed., p. 65. — 318 —

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which can be applied to Tacitus: In a disputation with a gentile like him, it would be useless to employ arguments which he could not understand at all, such as the creation of the world and the marvelous liberation from Egypt. So, I say, it would be needed to use many political explanations for those institutions, since he was a great teacher of the reason of state.59 The last description applied to Tacitus is extremely important. Luzzatto not only links him directly to the theory of the reason of state but also presents him as its great master: gran maestro di ragion di stato. Again, his admiring reference to Tacitus clearly echoes Boccalini. This description of Tacitus becomes even more meaningful when we notice that it is the only instance in the Discorsi where the term Ragione di Stato directly appears.60 When it appears, for the one and only time, it is related to Tacitus. Backi was correct in indicating that since Luzzatto could not afford a direct attack on Christian antisemitism, he chose rather to attack Tacitus’ pagan antisemitism, still aiming at the former.61 However, we have found that Luzzatto does not consider Tacitus solely as a pagan historian assailing the Jewish people. He clearly considers him to be a supreme authority of political thought. Also in other places in the Discorso Luzzatto relates to Tacitus in a clear political context and not in direct connection with his libels against the Jews.62 59 Ibid., pp. 134-135; Italian ed., p. 70. Compare to Boccalini’s admiring references, above, n. 25. 60 In various other instances in the Discorso, Luzzatto uses equivalent references, such as “interessi humani e di stato” and “L’interessi del prencipe,” Italian ed. p. 16. The term ragione di stato itself appeas again in Luzzatto’s neglected Sacrate, p. 260. 61 Ma’amar. Backi’s introduction, p. 65. 62 Once he cites Tacitus’ description of Augustus’ attitude towards the multitude as proof that the government should always be careful to placate the people, lest they destroy the public order; Ma’amar, 9th consideration, p. 101. Luzzatto cites here Annales 1:2: “Ubi milites donis, populum annona, cunctos dulcedine otii pellexit.” See also p. 159, n.38. This quotation is used again by Luzzatto in his Socrate (above, n.59), p. 268. Luzzatto returns again to this issue. We have already found it in his discussion of the Jewish problem, above, n.26, and see also below, n.115. In another instance, Luzzatto cites Tacitus’ description of Mount Lebanon, where in a warm climate a snowy mountain arises (eleventh consideration, p. 105). He cites the Historiae 6: “rnirum dictu tantos inter ardores opacum fidumque nivibus”; see p. 160, n.51. Luzzatto cites this passage as a physical example of the mixture of opposites in human nature. In the twelfth consideration Tacitus is mentioned twice. In his polemics against the politicians who argue that the Jews commit a sinful — 319 —

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Thus Backi’s interpretation is sound, but incomplete. Luzzatto does not use Tacitus only in order to attack Christian antisemitism. He uses him also since he accepts him, like many other contemporary thinkers, as a supreme authority on political thought. Thus, Backi’s indication that Luzzatto brought Tacitus out of oblivion63 is totally erroneous. Luzzatto uses Tacitus particularly because he was so influential in contemporary historical and political thought. In the Jewish context, he uses him as a secure means of assailing Christian antisemitism. Likewise, in the political context he uses him as a secure means of presenting the Machiavellian position. Christian antisemitism, on the one hand, and Machiavellism, on the other, thus appear in Tacitean disguise. This cautious attitude can be better understood against the background of Leone da Modena’s failure to secure the permission of the Venetian authorities to publish his blunt apologetic difessa about ten years before the publication of the Discorso. Unlike Modena, Luzzatto was very careful not to attack Christian anti-semitism directly and not to mention any contemporary political thinker by name.64 In Luzzatto’s view, Tacitus erred as a historian since he could not overcome his biases and emotions. He erred as a political thinker since he did not comprehend the reason-of-state implications of Jewish religion and customs. So Luzzatto presents an ambivalent attitude towards Tacitus. On the one hand, he rejects his antisemitic position. On the other hand, he admires him as a great master of reason of state. Luzzatto’s simultaneous rejection of and admiration for Tacitus has a common denominator. From the point of view of reason of state, he intends to prove to Tacitus, de iure, and to the Venetians, de facto, that they should have adopted a philosemitic position. Luzzatto comes to bury Tacitus the antisemite by means of praising Tacitus the master of act by taking usury, Luzzatto retorts that it is needed economic activity, which must be carried out by somebody. Here he cites Tacitus’ saying that astrologists and fortune tellers should be expelled from Rome, even though it is impossible to eliminate them altogether (Ma’amar, p. 109). Luzzatto cites the Historiae 1:2: “quod in civitate nostra et vetabitur semper et retinebitur”; see also p. 161, n.65. Here too we find Luzzatto’s usage of Tacitus in defense of the Jews, although Tacitus did not refer to the Jews at all in this instance. In another instance Luzzatto cites Tacitus’ description of the horrors the Romans committed against the early Christians as proof that the Christians should be careful not to do the same to the Jews. He refers to Annales 15:38·44. See also p. 161, n. 67. Again Tacitus is employed in defense of the Jews. For the problem of Tacitus’ attitude towards early Christians, see above, n. 30. 63 Ma’amar, Backi’s introduction, p. 65. 64  Ancona, “Attachi.” Ravid, “Prohibition.” — 320 —

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reason of state. As Yohanan Levi indicates, Tacitus’ attitude toward the Jewish problem was that of a political man. He elaborated upon the customs and religion of the Jews as a Roman whose criterion is the well-being of the empire. As such, he measures the material and spiritual capabilities of the enemy. His conclusion is that the Jews are incapable of waging war and maintaining political independence. Still, the very existence and influence of the Jewish religion represents a threat to the continuous existence of the Roman order. He emphasizes the contradiction between the corrupt Jewish religion (prava religio) and any other religion, including the Roman. They represent two opposing world views which are in mortal struggle. The Mosaic Law is viewed as an intrigue meant to dismantle the very basis of civilized society, represented by the mores Romani, which are the cornerstone of the Pax Romana. Painfully conscious of the moral degeneration of contemporary Roman society, Tacitus is afraid of any negative moral and religious outside influence which might accelerate the decline of the empire. The Jews represented as the odium generis humani are the embodiment of this threat.65 Luzzatto, clearly conscious of Tacitus’ political motivation in dealing with the Jewish problem, tactfully decides to play his own game. Luzzatto tries to show that an accurate comprehension of the Jewish religion proves the contrary: supreme political wisdom of the Mosaic Law, exemplary political and military capabilities of the Jews, and a basic similarity between the respective Roman and Jewish customs as far as their political implications are concerned. Thus, whenever Tacitus emphasizes the strangeness of Jewish customs, Luzzatto retorts with a series of examples from Roman history. He attempts to prove that these respective Roman customs are similar to, and imbued with the same political connotations as those of the Jews; further, the Jews were superior in the implementation of their customs. It is interesting to note that Luzzatto chose not to refute Tacitus’ claims that the Jewish religion is destructive to the Roman order, since it leads its believers to rebellion and disobedience to the established political authority.66 Since this claim was so strongly proven by the Jewish 65 Levy, “Tacitus,” esp. I, pp. 12-14, 16-17; II, pp. 69-74. Luzzatto himself cites Tacitus’ fear of negative external influence (above, n. 61). 66 Levy, ibid., 2. — 321 —

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rebellion against the Roman rule, Luzzatto chose to answer in silenzio. Like any other Jewish apologist, and especially as a Venetian so conscious of the importance of social and political stability, Luzzatto was always careful to show that Jewish laws do not represent a destabilizing factor in political life and that the Jews are ordered by their laws to honor and obey their temporal ruler and are accustomed to this by the harsh circumstances of their life in exile. In the fifteenth consideration itself, he refutes Tacitus’ libels that the Jews are odium generis humani with historical and literary examples from Jewish and pagan sources.67 We find the same attitude in Azariah de Rossi’s Meor Einaim when he sets out to prove that the Jewish law orders obedience to temporal authority. He quotes a host of historical examples from ancient times, including some examples of Jewish obedience to Roman rule. There is not a word about the great rebellion; this does not suit his purpose.68 Now we can turn to Luzzatto’s refutation of Tacitus’ libels. He discusses and refutes in detail several libels presented by Tacitus. His refutations of three libels are most relevant in this context, and they should suffice to prove our point. They are the replies to the second, fifth and seventh libels. The second Tacitean libel is that the Jews are sexually promiscuous, at least among themselves.69 In order to refute this accusation, Luzzatto discusses five examples from Jewish history in biblical times. The fifth example deals with Absalom’s fornication with his father’s concubines.70 Luzzatto intends showing that this incident does not prove the libels of Jewish promiscuity. First of all, Luzzatto indicates that Absalom’s sin was not so grave since these women were not legally married. However, since his inten67 For the general importance of social and political stability for the Venetian republic, see considerations I, 3, 6, 9. See also Melamed, “Venice.” For the fear that the existence of a separate Jewish community would become a destabilizing factor and Luzzatto’s answer, see twelfth consideration. See also above, nn. 26, 61, and below, n. 115. Luzzatto refutes Tacitus’ libel in the fifteenth consideration (Ma’amar, p. 128; Italian ed., p. 64). For Tacitus’ libel see Levy, ibid., 2, p. 72. Luzzatto is followed by Cardoso (above n. 44) in the refutations of the fourth and sixth libels. 68 De Rossi, Meor, pp. 448-449. Baron, “Azariah,” pp. 31-33. For more examples see Melamed, “Florence.” 69 Tacitus, Historiae 5:4; Levy, “Tacitus,” 1, p. 7; 2, p. 68. 70 2 Samuel 16:20-22;”Then said Absalom to Ahitophel: Give your counsel what we shall do. And Ahitophel said unto Absalom: Go in unto thy father’s concubines, that he hath left to keep the house; and all Israel will hear that thou art abhorred of thy father; then will the hands of all that are with thee be strong. So they spread Absalom a tent....” — 322 —

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tion here is to convince Tacitus, his main explanation is political. Absalom’s motives in doing so, Luzzatto explains, were not promiscuity, and he did not mean to disobey religious laws or offend his father’s honor. His reasons were purely political. He was dominated by lust for power. Absalom was advised to do so by Ahitophel, King David’s counselor, who sided with the pretender to the throne. Luzzatto describes Ahitophel as ‘the clever politician of those times.’ Absalom was determined to succeed his father already during his lifetime. Even though he was supported by many, for fear that blood connections might in the end surpass political interests (interesse di stato), and that Absalom might come to a compromise with his father and withdraw from his plans. If this were to occur, Absalom’s supporters would be punished by both David and Absalom for mutiny against their legal ruler. This is why the wise Ahitophel (sagace Achitofel) persuaded him to publicly disgrace his father: in order to prove to his supporters that he was determined and that there was no retreat and, thus, to strengthen their spirits. This is the reason-of-state meaning of Absalom’s sinful act. His motivation was not sexual lust but political power: sopra la speme del’aquisto del Regno.71 Luzzatto adds some similar examples from classical history in order to prove that Absalom’s sin was customary in political action and according to the perfect reason of state. Many princes committed cruel and immoral deeds against their enemies in order to maintain the loyalty and obedience of their people.72 Even the divine Augustus did the same; Luzzatto quotes Suetonius’ description of Augustus’ fornication with the wives of his friends and counsellors not out of sexual lust but in order thereby to disclose his enemies’ plots.73 Moreover, Luzzatto indicates that while many other Romans were promiscuous out of plain lust, Absalom the Jew performed incest out of political motives only. Thus, he concluded, Tacitus’ libel had not been proven by this biblical incident. While Machiavelli could permit himself to bring conternporary examples to reinforce his arguments, Luzzatto, as a Jew writing apologetica, was restricted to safer antiquarian examples. While his real target was Christian antisemitism, it was safer for him to refer to Tacitus and to quote classical examples of the legitimate usage of immoral and cruel acts 71 Ma’amar, 15th consideration, p. 127; Italian ed., p. 62. 72 Ibid. 73 Ibid., Italian ed., p. 63. — 323 —

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as political methods, instead of problematic references to contemporary equivalents. Luzzatto always had to keep in mind the fact that publication of his writings had to be approved by the Venetian censorship. Luzzatto’s interpretation of this biblical passage is in accordance with the literal meaning of the text and follows the traditional commentary, as found, for instance, in Kimhi and Abravanel.74 However, he puts it in clear Machiavellian vocabulary and connotation: the house of Borgia in the ancient land of Israel. The context of Luzzatto’s interpretation is in the spirit of Machiavelli and the Ragione di Stato tradition. The main object of Machiavelli’s II Principe is to show a new prince how to establish a new state or acquire an existing one and how to maintain his power: e mostro e modi con if quai molti hanno cerco aquistarli e tenerli.75 The subject matter of Luzzatto’s commentary to the story of Absalom is the same: how to acquire political power. He uses distinctly Machiavellian vocabulary, aquisto del Regno.76 In his Socrate, Luzzatto again uses the same vocabulary. When he discusses the struggle between fortune and prudence, he relates it to the political phenomenon of the acquisition of power and its maintenance: se vi era piu bisogna di prudenzo nel far aquisita di un stato, overa in conservarlo.77 This case belongs to what Machiavelli terms “hereditary principalities,” in which the difficulties in maintaining one’s rule are far fewer than in new principalities. The one serious difficulty Machiavelli mentions is identical to what happened to King David: “some extraordinary and inordinate force deprived him of it [his rule], and if so deprived, whenever the usurper suffers a setback he will reconquer.”78 This is exactly what happened in this case. However, Machiavelli justifies conspiracies only against a tyrannical government.79 King David is regarded by him as a good prince: “Davit, 74

See n. 69 above. Kimhi, Commentary on 2 Samuel (Lemberg, 1878), p. 35. Abravanel, Early Prophets, 2 Sam. ch. 16. Also Profiat Duran, see Gutwirth, “Ahitophel,” and Syros, “Absalom,” and Arama, Commentary on Prov. 11. On Luzzatto also Syros, “Ahitophel.” Compare Spinoza’s interpretation, below, n.89. 75 Machiavelli, Opera. II Principe, cap. 12, p. 275. All the references to Machiavelli henceforth refer to this edition. 76 For instance, Botero, Ragione, pp. 18-20. 77 Socrate, pp. 3-4. 78 Il Principe cap. 2 Opera, p. 258. 79 Discorsi 3, cap. 6; Schellhase, Tacitus, p. 77. — 324 —

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Senza dubbio, fu un homo, perdottrina, per giudizion, eccelentissimo, e fa tanta la sua virtu....”80 He is positively mentioned by Machiavelli, once in The Prince and twice in the Discorsi. In The Prince, he is referred to as a fine example of the military excellence which a prince must possess.81 In the Discorsi, King David is once referred to in the context of a proof that after a good government even a weak one might succeed. In the second instance, his actions exemplify the way in which a prince should deal with a newly acquired city.82 In his study of Machiavelli’s concept of Virtu, Neal Wood, lists King David as one of the fifty-three persons, most of them ancients, who possessed virtu according to Machiavelli. The only other ancient Hebrew leader mentioned in that list is Moses.83 Thus, according to Machiavelli, Absalom’s rebellion was unjustified. However, since he had decided to commit his act, he should have acted according to the best Machiavellian advice regarding behavior in such circumstances, which he did, according to Luzzatto’s interpretation. Absalom’s decision was wrong. The tactics he employed in order to carry out his decision, however, were perfect according to Luzzatto, who follows Machiavelli. Machiavelli’s long discussion on conspiracies in book three of the Discorsi is also relevant here. Absalom’s rebellion belongs to one of the two kinds of conspiracies Machiavelli classifies, that of conspiracy against the existing ruler. His indication that conspiracies are generally initiated by magnates who have close relations with the prince, and that conspiracies are apt to fail, is applicable in Absalom’s case. It is interesting to note that in this very chapter Machiavelli quotes Tacitus’ “golden sentence” (sentenzi aurea), as he calls it, from the Historiae, 4:3, in which 80 Discorsi 1, cap. 19; Opera, p. 104. 81 ll Principe, cap. 13; Opera, p. 278. See discussion in Melamed, Philosopher-King, ch. 8. 82 Discorsi 1: 19 Opera, p. 104: “Davie, senza dubbio, fo un uomo, per arme, per dottrina, per giudizio, ecce1entissimo, e fu tanta la sua virtu, che avendovinti ebattuti tutti i suoi vicini, lasci6 a Salomone suo figliuolo uno vegna pacifica, quali egli si potette con I’arte della pace, e non con 1a guerra, conservare.” Discorsi 1:26. Opera, p.109: “Come fece Davit quando ei divento-re: qui esurientes implevit bonis, et divites dimisit inanes.” Machiavelli emphasizes that in a newly acquired state the prince should eliminate existing institutions and establish new ones in order to consolidate his power. King David is presented as a successful proof of this advice. It is interesting to note that Tacitus presented Moses in the same capacity. Moses established new laws which were contrary to everything accepted by the rest of humanity; see Historiae V:3; Levy, “Tacitus,” I, p. 5, See also n.83. As for Machiavelli’s description of King Solomon’s peaceful reign (“un regno pacifico”), compare Melamed, “Florence.” And later, Melamed, Philosopher-King, ch. 8; Idem, “Machiavelli.” 83 Wood, “Machiavelli,” esp. 161-162. — 325 —

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the latter warns against conspiracies.84 To the Machiavellian question of how to acquire political power and maintain it, Luzzatto gives a distinct Machiavellian answer: a prince should be tough, audacious, assertive, and unambiguous. Any weakness or hesitation on his part is disastrous. He should be ready and able to commit immoral and cruel acts. Any means whatever that might advance his cause is ultimately legitimated and justified by the successful outcome.85 This description of the desirable qualities of the prince is found in many other instances in the Discorso.86 Thus, what Ahitophel advised Absalom to do was in keeping with good Machiavellian policy. Having decided to succeed his father during his lifetime, any useful means—immoral and cruel as they might be—were justified in order to achieve his purpose. Ahitophel plays Machiavelli to Absalom—his Cesare Borgia.87 The scriptures tell us that Absalom asked Ahitophel to give counsel, and he followed his advice. Machiavelli is very keen about this matter. A ruler’s success is very much based upon the quality of the advisers he chooses and the way in which he handles their advice.88 Luzzatto described Ahitophel as a clever politician; in his view Absalom chose his counsel wisely according to the best Machiavellian principles. According to Machiavelli’s classification, Absalom, who did not decide for himself but who chose a wise adviser, had the second type of intelligence—one which does not understand things per se, but is able to appreciate what others can understand-an intelligence which Machiavelli describes as eccellente. 89 Spinoza, who admires Machiavelli, “acutissimus Florentinus,”90 also discusses the same problem and presents the same opinion in his Political Treatise. The greatest danger a prince has to face is from those who are nearest to him. The fewer and more powerful his counsellors are, 84 Discorsi 3, cap. 6. Schellhase, Tacitus, pp. 72-73. 85 Compare Machiavelli, Discorsi 1:14, 2:14, 3:19, 21, 22; II Principe, cap. 3, 7, 8, 15-19, 23. 86 Ma’amar, considerations 5, 9, 10, 12, and the last paragraph of the Discorso (seventeenth consideration), pp. 92, 10 I, 103, 111, 154 of the Hebrew ed. 87 Il Principe, cap. 7. 88 Ibid., cap. 22. 89 Ibid., Opera, p. 293: “E perche-sonodi tre generazione cervelli: L’uno intende da se, I’arto discerne queuo che altri intende, el terzo non intende n6 se ne altri; quel primo e ecceIlentissimo, el secondo eccellente, el terzo inutile.” See another long and interesting discussion on the relationship between the prince and his counsellors, in Luzzatto’s Socrate , pp, 161-162. 90 Political Treatise, 10:l, Works, 378; also 5:7: “acutissimus Machiavellus.” — 326 —

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the greater the danger that they will transfer the dominion to another. He brings the same example as Luzzatto—Ahitophel who deserted King David and sided with Absalom.91 Luzzatto indicates, as found above, that Absalom had to commit that sinful act in order to convince his followers of his determination to carry out his plan and thus to strengthen their spirits: per fermare l’animo de suoi. He explains that many other ancient political and military leaders did the same: per confermare l’animo de suoi seguaci.92 Here, too, his vocabulary is pure Machiavelli. Towards the end of his Arte della Guerra, Machiavelli indicates that a military leader should not go to battle before strengthening the spirits of his soldiers: non condurre maiagiornotai tuoi soMatiprima non hai confirma to l’animo loro.93 This motif can also be found in the military discussions of other Renaissance Jewish thinkers like Abravanel and Portaleone.94 91 Ibid., 7:14, Works, p. 334:”...certum est Regibus summum semper periculum esse ab iis, qui eis proximisunt. Quo igitur Consiliarii numero pauciores, e consequenter potentiores sunt, eo Regi majus ab ipsis periculum est, ne imperium in alium transferant. Nihil sane Davidem magis terruit, quam quod ipsuis Consilianus Achitophel partes Absolomi elegerat.” See also Gutwirth, “Ahitophel,” concerning Profiat Duran’s treatment of the subject, and Syros, “Ahitophel,” concerning Luzzatto. The story of Absalom’s rebellion was a very popular theme in contemporary English drama. G. Peele in The Love ofKing David and Fair Bethsabe (1599) deals at length with Absalom’s rebellion, which is blamed on David’s illicit love affair with Bathsheba. J. Drayden wrote a political satire in verse, Absalom and Achitophel (1681), in which King Charles the second is presented as David, Charles’ illegitimate son as Absalom, and Lord Shaftesbury as the false counselor Ahitophel. The possible relationship between Luzzatto and Spinoza is interesting. Although there is a drastic difference in their assessment of the origins and nature of the Jewish religion and the Mosaic law, still, in many other instances, they share the same opinions and use the same sources. This is obvious, since they react to the same contemporary intellectual environment—Machiavellism, reason of state, the Myth of Venice, and antiquarianism. There is a great similarity in their discussion of superstitions (Discorso, fifteenth consideration; Theologica-Political Treatise, introduction). Both use in this context the same quotation from Curtius: “Nulla res multitudinem efficacius regit quam superstitio.” Historiae Alexander Magni IV: 10. 7 (Discorso, p. 68 of the Hebrew ed., also p. 168, n.150; in Spinoza, ibid., p. 4). They share similar opinions about the political functions of religion, the way rulers should deal with the multitude, the theory of necessity as the motive of human action, the rejection of Utopian thought, the concept that peace and stability are the aim of the political organization, the admiration of a popular militia, the organic theory of the state, and the Machiavellian concept of the renewal of the state by bringing it back to its origins. This possible relationship should still be explored. See also nn.46, 101, 122. Their use of Tacitus is different, since they hold opposite opinions about the Jewish religion and Mosaic law (above, n. 32). Thus, while Luzzatto attacks Tacitus in this respect, Spinoza accepts his judgments. However, both share general admiration for Tacitus the historian and political thinker. And see later, Melamed, Philosopher-King, ch. 9. 92 Ma’amar, p, 127; Italian ed., p. 62. 93 Opera, p. 385. 94 Abravanel, Nahatot Avot (New York, 1953), ch. 4, p. 213: “To strengthen themselves for the sake of — 327 —

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Thus, Luzzatto disputes Tacitus’ libel concerning Jewish promiscuity with a rhetorical twist. He presents a biblical example which at face value proves the Tacitean argument. However, he gives it a Machiavellian interpretation, and thus proves to Tacitus that Absalom acted in the true spirit of the reason of state to which he himself adhered; Tacitus himself should have admired Ahitophel’s advice. Since Luzzatto could not directly cite his Machiavellian source, which is so obvious, he disguised it in Tacitean garb. The fifth Tacitean libel against the Jews was that they abstain from eating pork since they are attacked by the same diseases which attack this impure and dirty animal.95 Luzzatto retorts that “a political man like him” (statista ch’egli era) should have understood the reason of state motives behind this religious prohibition and should not have resorted to false accusations. However, what reason of state motives could be given to such a religious prohibition? Luzzatto quotes a story by Isocrates about the Egyptian King Busiris. The king imposed upon his subjects many curious laws and queer religious customs. He also ordered them to worship certain animals despised by other people. He did this in order to try them in what was revealed, so as to know how they might behave in more obscure matters.96 The same goes for the prohibition of the Jews to eat pork. Thus, Luzzatto concludes, Tacitus should have understood that from a political point of view (politicamente), these religious customs and prohibitions accustom men to be obedient to their superiors; first of all to God, then to their political leaders. However, while divine laws are beyond human comprehension and should not fall within the purview of human curiosity, human laws are within the natural domain of human interest. While humans should not question divine commands, they may probe into the causes and purposes of human government. As a divine commandment, the prohibition to eat pork is inexplicable. It has to be obeyed at face value. In any event, since it must be obeyed, its political implications and consequences their people and the cities of their God, in order to face their enemies.” Portaleone, Shiltei, p. 35a: “Thus be strong and brave for the sake of our people and the cities of our God.” Compare 2 Samuel 10:12. 95 Historiae 5:2, 6. Levy, “Tacitus,” 1, p. 4; 2, p. 22. 96 Ma’amar, pp. 129-130; Italian ed., pp. 65-66. — 328 —

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should also be considered.97 Thus, Luzzatto does not intend explaining to Tacitus the theological motives behind the prohibition to eat pork. That is irrelevant for a pagan like him. In order to persuade him, Luzzatto uses his own language and proves that from a Tacitean point of departure, reason of state, religious prohibitions, of whatever kind, are an extremely valuable means to political ends. Luzzatto drastically departs here from the medieval conception of the relationship between religion and the state. Basic to medieval thought was the assumption that temporal political life is only a means to achieve spiritual ends. Political life in this world is a negative but unavoidable consequence of the fall and the necessary path to divine life in the world to come.98 Luzzatto follows Machiavelli and the theorists of the Ragione di Stato in a more positive concept of political life in this world and in the conception of religion as a means to achieve political ends. Machiavelli asserts in his Discorsi that enacting a proper religion is indispensible for whoever wants to establish and maintain an orderly state.99 He strongly criticizes the medieval Christian attitude which was politically destructive, since it preferred contemplative life to active life, thereby distracting better men to monasterial reclusion and leaving the political arena open to inferiors. Roman religion, on the other hand, since it held a positive attitude towards active life, motivated the best men to political action.100 We can find the same attitude in Botero, who emphasized the importance of religious observance for the material success and social stability of the state.101 The principal objective in these theorists’ political deliberation is the establishment and maintenance of government. Religion became another legitimate means to achieve this purpose. Luzzatto followed in their footsteps. As an observant Jew, he accepted and obeyed religious laws and prohibitions as divine orders. As a political thinker, he was also prepared to consider their political implications.102 97 Ibid., Italian ed., p. 66; compare Ba-Midbar Rabba, 19. 98 Ullman, History, introduction. Rubinstein, “Marsilius.” 99 Discorsi I:11; Opera, p. 93. 100 On the Roman religion, see ibid. On Christianity, see Discorsi 1, proemio, Opera, p. 76. 101 Botero. La Perfectione della Citta, 2: 3. 102 Notice also Luzzatto’s discussion of superstitions and their political importance, in the answer to Tacitus’ libel, Ma’amor, pp. 130-134; Italian ed., pp, 66-70. Compare Spinoza (above, n. 90). — 329 —

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The seventh libel directed by Tacitus against the Jews was that they are lazy and indolent (otiosita e accidia). This he proved by the fact that the Jews celebrate the Sabbath and abstain from agricultural works every seventh year.103 For a Roman, who saw negotium as a moral duty, idleness was regarded as a mortal sin. Luzzatto indicates again that it would be useless and irrelevant to explain to Tacitus, the pagan, the theological causes of the Sabbath—the remembrance of the act of creation and the liberation from Egyptian toil. Tacitus should be presented with an explanation which could convince him—the master of reason of state—and the only argument relevant is a political one (politicamente). Considering the Sabbath, Luzzatto explains that its social function is to divide clearly between work and leisure. Otherwise, the whole organization of human life will be in perpetual turmoil—work intermingled with rest, business with entertainment.104 Moreover, the Jews did not spend their Sabbath in plain idleness, as Tacitus erroneously assumed. They used it for needed and useful bodily, social and intellectual purposes: first, bodily rest and modest entertainment, which people naturally need after an extended period of hard work; second, free time for public service (publico servitio), which is impossible during the week when each one is occupied by his own private affairs (affari proprii e privati); and, above all, leisure for contemplation and study. 105 In order to persuade Tacitus, the Roman who knew his peoples’ customs well (educato negli Instituti Romano), Luzzatto compares the Jewish practice to similar Roman practices. The Romans too were careful to devote special days during the year to entertainment so that the rest of the year could be devoted to serious work and modest life. Although their custom was immoral, since they devoted those days to sexual obscenities, nevertheless, from a political point of view, it was a wise decision (politica prudenza). Likewise, the Romans set aside special sections in their cities for public whore houses so that the rest of the city could remain clean.106 103 Ma’amor. p. 134; Italian ed., p. 71. For Tacitus’ libel see Historiae 5: 3; Levy, “Tacitus,” 1, pp. 6, 13-14. 104 Ibid., p. 135; Italian ed., p. 71. 105 Ibid. 106 Ibid. — 330 —

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Thus, Jewish observance of the Sabbath is equivalent to certain Roman customs from the political point of view. The Sabbath, like these Roman customs, serves useful social purposes. However, Luzzatto was quick to point out the superiority of the Jewish religion which devoted the Sabbath to moral activities, while the Romans devoted their free days to sexual lust.107 As for the Sabbatical year, Luzzatto gives three explanations: 1) geographic and agricultural; 2) social and economic; 3) military. Considering the first explanation, Luzzatto argues that Tacitus was not only ignorant of Jewish religion, but also of the laws of nature (no solo poco pratico de Ritti Hebraici, ma quasi irnperito delle cose naturali). Since Judaea is a southern country, with poor land and little precipitation, the land must be cultivated carefully so as not to be totally exhausted. Thus, the divine legislator (Divino Legislatore) ordered the Sabbatical year in which the people would abstain from agricultural work and let the land rest and regain its power. Even the Romans, Luzzatto as usual is careful to indicate, used the same agricultural method, as mentioned by Vergil.108 The second explanation is social and economic. Since in the Sabbatical year the fruit of the land is considered common to and free for all, it can give the multitude (plebe, popolo minuto) the feeling of communion of property which they desire, without creating a permanent communist social and economic order; which in Luzzatto’s opinion is impossible, utopian and against the basic traits of human nature. Luzzatto contrasts the two basic social and economic systems — communism advocated by Socrates and Plato, whom he calls ‘the theoretical politicians,’ and private property advocated by Aristotle and Cicero, whom Luzzatto calls ‘the practical politicians’. 109 Luzzatto clearly supports the latter. He maintains a very practical view on social and political matters, in the spirit of humanist vita activa, and Machiavellism. He abhors a theoretical and contemplative approach to the socio-political arena as held by the theoretical politicians (or, as he calls them elsewhere, the moralists (Ii Morali) as opposed to the politicians 107 Ibid., p. 136; Italian ed., p. 74. 108 Ibid. Although Luzzatto does not agree with the opinion ascribed here to Socrates, in other instances in the Discorso he refers to him as “sommo Filosofo” (p. 135; Italian ed., p. 71) and “Quel gran Maestro della vita civile” (p. 104; Italian ed., p. 35). 109 Ma’amar, first consideration, p. 82; Italian ed., p. 9 — 331 —

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(Ii Politici). 110 The theoretical approach is typical of one who lives a solitary life. Whoever is concerned with the whole of humanity must adopt a practical attitude. Only a theoretical thinker, isolated from practical life, could adopt a communist solution, contrary to the basic motivations of human behaviour. A practical politician, who knows human nature, would never tolerate such an error. Luzzatto quotes here Cicero’s typically bourgeois assertion that human society was created in order to protect private property.111 In another place, he brings quite a few historical examples in order to prove the failure and impossibility of a communist system.112 Luzzatto’s capitalistic approach is dominant in the Discorsi. It is the very basis of his argument in favor of the Jews in Venice. The splendor of the Republic is based upon free and prosperous commerce.113 The Jews are indispensible in order to attain this goal.114 A successful political system has to solve the inherent contradiction between the indispensible capitalistic system and the multitudes’ desire for the distribution of wealth. This was splendidly solved by Mosaic Law which by the laws of the Sabbatical year found a certain harmony between these two contradictory needs. The multitudes’ desires can be temporarily fulfilled without making communism, which is disastrous to the well-being of human society, a permanent condition.115 Since Luzzatto was extremely conscious, as already noted, of the fear—paramount in Italian city-states—of popular unrest and social disorder, he deals repeatedly throughout the Discorsi with the question of how to retain social order and placate the multitude without compromising the existing sociopolitical order.116 This was a basic issue in the Ragione di Stato theory.117 Here we find the Jewish solution to the problem. The Mosaic Law is presented by Luzzatto—as customary in Jewish thought—as the ultimate political law, being of divine origin.118 110 111 112 113 114 115

Ibid., fifteenth consideration, p, 136; Italian ed., p. 72, Luzzatto quotes Cicero, De Officiis 2:21. Ibid., seventh consideration, p. 96; Italian ed., p, 26. Ibid., first consideration, p. 82; Italian ed., p. 21. Ibid., third consideration, p. 87; Italian ed., p. 16; see also above, n.7. Ibid., fifteenth consideration, p. 136; Italian ed., p. 74. Ibid., first consideration, p. 81. Sixth consideration, pp. 93-94; ninth consideration, pp. 101-102; fifteenth consideration, pp, 131-133. See also above, nn.26, 61, 66. For the general background, see Martines, Violence. 116 For instance, Botero, Ragione, 4:7. 117 Ma’amar, foreword, p.77; thirteenth consideration, p. 113; Italian ed., p. 46. 118 Ibid., fifteenth consideration, p. 136; Italian ed., p. 74. — 332 —

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It splendidly solved this problem in accordance with the best reason of state intentions. By the laws of the Sabbatical year, it created a situation in which property was simultaneously common (to a certain degree) and privately maintained. This is exemplified, for instance, by the law of the Torah which forbade the return of debts during the seventh year. 119 The third explanation Luzzatto presents to explain the political significance of the Sabbatical year is a military one. In ancient Israel, soliders did not belong to a separate class, every able-bodied male served in the popular militia. The farmers were considered the backbone of the army according to Vegetius, the paramount military authority of antiquity, who was extremely influential in Renaissance arte della guerra.120 Thus, since the ancient Jewish army was a popular militia of which the farmers were the core, the Sabbatical year, in which everyone was free from labour (a tutti etioso e vacante), was the perfect time for military exercise and war-waging (espeditione militare). In this way, the Mosaic Law again brilliantly solved a disturbing problem: how to keep an able and experienced popular militia and wage war, without disturbing daily social and economic activities. Luzzatto responds here to an issue basic in Renaissance arte della guerra -since the writings of Bruni’s Di Militia in the Quattrocento; the conflict between the relative pros and cons of a popular militia versus those of a mercenary army. Bruni, Machiavelli and Paruta enthusiastically favoured the former, which they identified with patriotic pride and which they regarded as a major guarantee of civil liberty. They were supported by the authority of Vegetius and by examples from classical antiquity. However, the renewed experiment with popular militia failed, as the military history of this period sadly indicates. The patriotic pride of the popular militia was unable to compete with the professionalism of the mercenary army. The time of the popular militia was not to come until the French Revolution.121 Luzzatto identifies the ancient Jewish army as a popular militia. The same interpretation is found earlier in Portaleone’s Shiltei ha-Gibborim and later also in Spinoza.122 While Bruni and Machiavelli referred to the 119 Ibid., pp. 136-137. 120 Ibid. 121 Bayley, War. Gilbert, “Art of War.” Wood, Introduction to Machiavelli’s Art of War. 122 Portaleone, Shiltei, ch. 42. Spinoza, Theological Political Treatise, ch. 17; Political Treatise, ch. 6, 7, 10, 17; and see above, n. 90. — 333 —

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example of the ancient Roman army, Portaleone, Luzzatto and Spinoza refer to the ancient Jewish army as a perfect example of the idealized popular militia. Luzzatto extols the Mosaic solution to the difficult problem of keeping a popular militia, i.e., the interpolation of the Sabbatical year. In this respect, the Sabbatical year is like the Sabbath: it is a means of separating the various activities of the private man and the citizen in a way that makes possible the fulfillment of both private needs and public needs and avoids the seemingly unavoidable conflict between the two. Thus, contrary to Tacitus’ assumption, the Jews devoted even the Sabbath and the Sabbatical year to various social negotium. By means of these three explanations, Luzzatto refutes Tacitus’ false charges that the observance of the Sabbath and the Sabbatical year prove the indolence of the Jews. In Luzzatto’s view it proves the contrary—the supreme social, political and military wisdom of the Mosaic Law, which Tacitus himself should have understood and admired if he had been as informed and unbiased as a historian and political thinker of his stature should be: These are the motives and causes of these laws, and, in my opinion, they should be sufficient in order to defend our ancient laws from any charges of idleness directed against it by Tacitus, in the eyes of whoever has a clear mind, even in the eyes of the politician.123 At the very least, Luzzatto concludes, the reader of this consideration should gain an understanding that authority—as great and ancient as it may be—is alone not sufficient to prove the truth of a matter. Every authority should be open to critical evaluation according to the true facts of the matter- sine ira et studio.124 This is already far beyond the medieval and early Renaissance ex auctoritate method. The refutation of Tacitus’ polemics against the Jews accomplished by employing Tacitus’ own political precepts is a good example. Tacitus, in Luzzatto’s eyes, did Balaam’s deed: he came to curse the Jewish nation and instead gave a blessing.

123 Ma’amar, fifteenth consideration, p. 136; Italian ed., p. 74: “Questi sono motivi, e cause di tali precetti, ce ad ogni sincero guiditio ben in estremo politico, dovrebbono bastare per diffendere la lege Antica di tanti inertia, e accidia imputatale da Tacito.” 124 Ibid. — 334 —

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Chapter twelve

English Travellers and Venetian Jewish Scholars: The Case of Simone Luzzatto and James Harrington

The influence of Luzzatto’s apology for the Venetian Jews in his famous Discorso circa it stato de gl’Hebrei (Venice 1638)1 is already much dealt with. This especially applies to his influence upon Menasseh ben Israel’s Humble Address (London, 1655), in which he petitioned Cromwell to support the readmission of the Jews into England. It has already been proven by many that ben Israel borrowed Luzzatio’s economic-utilitarian argumentation in favour of the continous residence of the Jews in Venice, and applied it to the unique English situation.2 This study will attempt to trace a possible connection between Luzzatto and James Harrington, one of the most important political thinkers of mid-seventeenth-century England. Two possibilities of such a relationship will be traced, one direct, another indirect—via Menasseh ben Israel. The culture of the Italian Renaissance deeply penetrated the cultural and intellectual developments in sixteenth and seventeenth century England.3 In the field of political thought, this influence was mainly manifest in the impact of Machiavelli, the ensuing Ragione di stato theory,4 and the myth of Venice.5 In the struggle against the Stuart Regime, and during the Puritan Revolution, this Italian influence is clearly apparent. For many English youths, the Grand Tour of Europe, with a great emphasis upon Italy, was a center point in the process of education.6 One of the English youths visiting Italy in the late 1630s, was James Harrington.7 The most significant part of his Italian journey was the sojourn 1 Luzzatto, Discorso; Idem, Ma’amar. For further bibliographical information, see Ravid, Economics, pp. 7-8, n. 1-2. 2 Infra, n. 25, 38, 51, 52. 3 Bush, English Humanism. 4 Rabb, English Face. Pocock, Machiavellian, part 3. 5 Fink, Republicans; idem, “Venice.” 6 Stoye, Travelers. 7 Ibid., pp. 190-200. — 335 —

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in Venice. What impressed Harrington was the government of Venice, rather than its architecture or its canals. Of all the places he visited, this city had undoubtedly the greatest influence on the development of Harrington’s political thought. Despite the fact that the greatness of Venice had sharply declined by the mid-seventeenth century, the city and its institutions made an ineradicable impression upon the young traveller. As John Toland, his first biographer, tells us: He prefer’d Venice to all other places in Italy, as he did its government to all those of the whole world, it being in his opinion immutable by any external or internal causes [...] Here he furnish’d himself with a collection of all the valuable books in the Italian language, especially treating in politics, and contracted acquaintance with every one of whom he might receive arty benefit by instruction or otherwise.8 Soon after his visit to Venice, Harrington returned to England. It seems that he felt that he had seen in this city all that Europe could offer.9 Harrington returned to England equipped with the writings of Machiavelli, the histories of Venice written by Contarini and Giannotti, and a deep impression of the working process of the Venetian government. All these influences were to have a lasting impact upon the development of his political thought as represented in Harrington’s most important writing, the Oceana (1656). When Harrington attempted to prescribe a cure for England’s tribulations, he returned to the lessons of the Venetian constitution.10 Following Contarini and Giannotti, Harrington identified the secret of the greatness of the Republic in its lasting stability. Whoever lives in a tumultuous society, in which rulers and constitutions are constantly changing, like Machiavelli in the late Florentine Quattrocento, or Harrington, who witnessed the stormy years of the Stuarts and the Puri8 Blitzer, Harrington, pp. 18-20. Toland is quoted by Blitzer, p. 19. The quotation is taken from Toland’s introduction of Harrington’s collected works edited by him (London 1700), p. 15. See also Blitzer’s introduction to the selections from Harrington’s political writings, edited by him, New York, 1953. 9 Blitzer, Harrington, p. 20. 10 Ibid., pp. 299-305; see also Fink, Republicans, ch. 5. — 336 —

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tan Revolution, views stability as an end in itself. Following his Italian masters, he searched for—and found—the source of the Serenissima’s glorious stability in her special brand of constitution: the “mixed constitution” (governo misto), which apparently combined the components of the three positive governments: monarchy, aristocracy and democracy, in a manner that will prevent its deterioration to one of the negative kinds of government. The Republican order which Harrington advised Cromwell to establish in England is directly based upon the Venetian prototype. This is, in his opinion, the sole “equal commonwealth” in existence. Venice was for him the only city that inherited and even surpassed the Roman “ancient prudence.” Following the idealized interpretation of Contarini and Giannotti, Harrington described Venice as the ideal of the stable constitution, which lasted unchanged from time immortal. Like them, he totally ignored the changes which the Venetian constitution underwent during its long history, completely unaware of the signs of decay in contemporary Venice. He did not realize that Venice was in fact no more an ideal democratic republic, but a closed oligarchy facing decline. For Harrington Venice was—and remained—“as fresh and free from decay [...] as she was born.”11 The second prominent motif in Harrington’s political thought was his emphasis upon the economic basis of political structure and social stability. Harrington was a member of the gentry, the English country aristocracy. The economy that concerned him was basically agrarian. Due to his social background, Harrington was not yet conscious of the emerging bourgeoise economy in the towns. Thus, the economic basis for political systems for him was not commerce and fiscal economy but the distribution and ownership of the land. Harrington explained the classical theory of the historical cycle—the perpetual rise and decline of constitutions, and consequently of states—as a consequence of changes in the distribution of land and its ownership—his so called “Agrarian law.” In his emphasis upon agrarian economy, Harrington was not yet conscious enough of contemporary economic developments. However, by conceiving that the organization of political order is based upon the owernship of property, he opened a new chapter in the history of politi-

11 Harrington, Works. All the references to Harrington’s writing henceforth refer to this edition. Matteucci, “Ordini” — 337 —

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cal thought. In this respect, he was almost a pre-Marxist.12 We turn to Luzzatto. His Discorso was first published in 1638. It was written during the previous two years.13 As indicated above, Harrington visited Venice at about the same time, and was strongly impressed by its form of government.14 There is a curious overlap of time between the years in which Luzzatto wrote his Discorso and Harrington’s visit to Venice. The question arises as to whether there is any meaning to such a coincidence of time—does it hint at some possible relationship between Luzzatto and Harrington, direct or indirect? What relationship could there be between a humble Jew from the Venetian Ghetto and the proud English country gentleman? With the brief description of the main outlines of Harrington’s political theory as a background, a possible relationship between the two authors can be perceived. Concerning the main two points related to—the influence of Venetian Republicanism, on the one hand, and the emphasis upon the economic basis of the political order on the other— we find an interesting similarity between Luzzatto and Harrington. The writings of the two authors are infused with the influence of classical and Renaissance culture, Machiavellism, and the theory of the Ragione di stato; both follow the idealization of the Venetian Republic, and share in the quest for the secret of its lasting stability. Both Luzzatto and Harrington view stability—Venetian style—as an end for itself. Luzzatto, the son of the city, was already conscious of the difficulties befalling the republic and endangering its revered stability; consequently, he tried to apply a Jewish remedy to the crisis. Harrington, the foreigner, did not perceive the crisis at all. He still saw Venice as the embodiment of a perfect and stable republic, and, thus, attempted to apply its constitutional principles to England. Both, however, shared the concept of Venice as the archetype of a perfect republic. Even Luzzatto, who sensed the crisis, was convinced that Venice was capable of overcoming it and renewing her glory, but only if the city would let the

12 Blitzer, Harrington, ch. 3, also pp. 226-34. Pocock, Ancient, ch. 6; idem, Machiavellian, ch. 11. Macpherson, Possessive, ch. 4. Macpherson dissents from this accepted view, and argues that Harrington was conscious of the emergence of a capitalistic economy much more than it was realized hitherto. If so, the parallelism between him and Luzzatto is even stronger. 13 Shulvass’ introduction to the Hebrew edition, cit., p. 23; Ravid, Economics, pp. 9-15. 14 Blitzer, Harrington, p. 18, n. 18, calculated that Harrington’s visit to Rome must have occurred in either 1634 or 1636. A short while afterwards he came to Venice. — 338 —

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Jews overtake the economic role he prescribed for them.15 While Harrington, following Contarini and Giannotti, found the secret of the Republic in its constitutional structure, Luzzatto attempting to prove the indispensability of the Jewish community in Venice, located the secret of the republic’s lasting stability in its socio-economic organization.16 Altogether, they shared the contemporary urge to find— and apply—the secret of the Venetian Republic. As indicated above, another important aspect in Harrington’s political thought was his emphasis upon the economic basis of the political order. Here also we find a striking resemblance between the two authors. Luzzatto also indicated that an appropriate distribution of property, according to a giusta proporzione geometrica, must be kept, in order to maintain social stability. While Harrington applied it to agrarian economy, Luzzatto related to the Venetian fiscal and commercial economy (li beni, e ricchezze della citta). Both applied basically Platonic and Aristotelian ideas having strong currency in contemporary Ragione di stato to the unique needs and problems of their respective countries.17 Luzzatto so strongly emphasized the economic base of political organization that he attempted to explain the source of Venice’s durability on its socio-economic structure. This kind of reasoning was unique among contemporaries who generally chose to give a constitutional explanation. Even Harrington, despite his consideration of the economic factor, continued to use only the constitutional explanation. Luzzatto obviously reasoned this way since it best served his apologetic intentions, and still was definitely compatible with his basic political outlook. Luzzatto, the Jewish resident of a commercial maritime republic, 15 For Harrington, supra n. 4, 8, 12. For Luzzatto, Bachi, “Dottrina.” Melamed, “Venice”; idem, “Luzzatto.” 16 For Harrington’s position, see supra n. 10. His discussion of the constitutional structure of the Venetian government in The Prerogative of Popular Government, in Works, pp. 482-487. For Luzzatto, see Melamed, “Venice.” For discussion of the socio-economic structure of the Venetian constitution, see Discorso, cit., consideration 6. 17 For Luzzatto’s discussion, see Discorso, cit., consideration 7. Paruta, Discorsi, 1, p. 16. Harrington was very critical of the application of geometric and mechanical principles to politics, as we find here in Luzzatto, and to be found in Hobbes. See Blitzer’s introduction, cit. supra, n. 8, pp. 26-27. He preferred the application of anatomic methodology to politics which is also found in Luzzatto (infra, n. 27). It should also be noted in this respect, that the organic theory of the state was generally less favourable to the Jews than the mechanical theory which temporarily replaced it during the Enlightenment. See Barzilay, “Enlightenment,” p. 248. This can be noticed even in Harrington’s case. Although he was basically pro-Jewish, his application of the organic theory was unfavourable to the Jews. See infra, n. 27. — 339 —

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was totally conscious of the emergence of the new capitalist economy in the cities and its social and political consequences. He was already a professed mercantilist. Harrington on the other hand, as already indicated, was a country gentleman, not yet very conscious of the new economic realities emerging in the cities. He still based his economic outlook on the distribution and ownership of land. Nevertheless, we find that both authors emphasize the economic foundation of the political order. Machiavelli, for instance, hardly related to the economic factor in politics. Luzzatto and Harrington were among the first modern thinkers to emphasize it.18 Macpherson’s conclusion about Harrington, that “his head was stuffed with ‘ancient prudence’, his feet were on seventeenth-century ground,”19 applies as well to Luzzatto, his older Venetian contemporary. This common intellectual background led both thinkers to almost the same attitude towards the Jewish problem, a most striking phenomenon considering their very different social origins. For Luzzatto, a thinker belonging to the mainstream of the school of Ragione di stato, the causes for the rise, the greatness, and the decline of the state were the most relevant subject matter. Thus, he approached the Jewish problem in his Discorso as a political question. He wrote the Discorso in order to justify Jewish settlement and economic rights and activities in Venice, by proof of their invaluable contribution to the well-being of the city. As a mercantilist, he viewed political stability as a by-product of a strong economy. He reasoned that if maritime commerce, abandoned by the Venetian citizens, would be entrusted in the hands of the Jews, who were most suited to it, due to their special capabilities and unique situation, Venice would regain its economic superiority, social stability and consequently international standing.20 Since Harrington’s ideological point of departure was basically the same, his approach to the Jewish problem was consequently identical. As a political thinker, the only question relevant for him as far as the Jews were concerned was whether, how, and to what degree they were able to contribute to the maintenance of the republic. Since he realized that the Jews could be useful in the economic field, and since he was 18 For Harrington, see supra, n. 12. For Luzzatto, Discorso, cit., considerations 1-10. 19 Macpherson, Possessive, p. 181. 20 Melamed, “Venice.” Luzzatto, Discorso, considerations 1-10. — 340 —

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convinced that the economic factor was the cornerstone of political stability, Harrington reached the same conclusion as Luzzatto—that the Jews should be granted the right of settelment and economic activity, as they could greatly contribute to economic development, and, consequently, to social and political stability. Harrington dealt with the Jewish problem in relationship to the debate on the readmission of the Jews to England in the midseventeenth century. This debate was initiated by Menasseh ben Israel’s famous appeal to Cromwell, to which we shall later return.21 In the introduction to his Oceana (1656), dedicated to Cromwell, Harrington proposed allowing the Jews to settle and live in backward Ireland, according to their religious traditions. The Jews, famous for their commercial capabilities, could bring about the economic renewal of the backward province, and thus increase the revenues of the republic. He wrote: Panopea [Ireland], the soft mother of a slothful and pusillanimous people, is a neighbor island, anciently subjected by the arms of Oceana; since almost depopulated for shaking the yoke, and at length replanted with a new race. But (through what virtues of the soil, or vice of the air soever it be) they come still to degenerate; wherefore seeing it is neither likely to yield men fit for having arms, nor necessary it should, it had been the interest of Oceana so to have disposed of this province, being both rich in the nature of the soil and full of commodious ports for trade, that it might have been ordered for the best in relation unto her course. Which in my opinion (if it may had been thought upon in time) might have been best done by planting it with Jews, allowing them their own rites and laws, for that would have brought them suddenly from all parts of the world, and in sufficient numbers; and though the Jews be now altogether for merchandise, yet in the land of Canaan (since their exile from whence they have not been landlords) they were altogether for agriculture; and there is no cause why a man should doubt but, having a fruitful country and good ports too, they would be good 21 Infra, n. 51, 52. — 341 —

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at both. Panopea well peopled would be worth a matter of four millions dry rents, that is besides the advantage of the agriculture and trade, which with a nation of that industry comes at least unto as much more. Wherefore Panopea, being farmed out unto the Jews and their heirs forever, for the pay of a provincial army to protect them during the term of seven years, and for two millions annual revenue from that time forward—besides the customs, which would pay the provincial army—would have been a bargain of such advantage, both unto them and this commonwealth, as is not to be found otherwise by either. To receive the Jews after any other manner into a commonwealth were to maim it; for they of all nations never incorporate but, taking up the room of a limb, are of no use or office unto the body, while they suck the nourishment which would sustain a natural and useful member.22 Harrington’s argument sounds almost like an echo of what Luzzatto says in the Discorso about the economic function the Jews can occupy in Venice: Thus we may come to the audacious conclusion that since the citizens of the city abandoned commerce with the western countries, it will be more profitable for the interests of the government (gl’interessi del Prencipe) and the citizens themselves that the matters of commerces will be in the hands of the members of the Jewish nation, who will settle in the city and invest their property there, then to hand commerce over to foreigners who will always stay foreign and alien. 23 By virtue of their special economic function, each one envisioned the Jews occupying the special—and different—needs of any location 22 Oceana, introduction, p. 159. Liljegren, “Harrington,” pp. 65-66. Hyman, Ireland, pp. 11-12. Pocock, Machiavellian, p. 391. 23 Discorso, consideration 3, p. 16 of the Italian ed.; p. 87 of the Hebrew ed. — 342 —

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of settlement. While Luzzatto related only to the commercial capabilities of the Jews, Harrington proposed a much more revolutionary approach—to settle the Jews in Ireland not only as merchants, but also as farmers. This significant difference between them stems firstly from the fact that, unlike Venice, Ireland was basically an agricultural country. Secondly, and more importantly, it is a logical consequence of Harrington’s view that the distribution and ownership of land (the “Agrarian law”) is the main factor in political organization. Like Luzzatto,24 Harrington rejected the traditional anti-Jewish assertion that the Jews tend to occupy themselves in commercial and fiscal activities because of the negative traits of their national character and religion. He emphasized that the Jews were compelled to engage in these occupations because of the particular historical circumstances of life in exile, while in Canaan, their natural habitat, they were mainly farmers—which is the main occupation he proposed for them in Ireland. Another anti-Jewish assertion to which both Luzzatto and Harrington responded was that the Jews are unwilling to relinquish their separate communal and religious existence and incorporate into the existing social and cultural framework. Harrington was obviously responding here to arguments opposing the readmission of the Jews to England.25 On the one hand, he shared the fear that the admission of the Jews as a separate communal entity might disturb the social and political framework and cause unwanted instability. On the other hand, he greatly appreciated the economic capabilities of the Jews and the benefits the republic could draw from their readmission. Thus, to resolve the apparent contradiction between these conflicting pros and cons relating to the Jews, Harrington proposed their settlement in the separate province of Ireland, in which they would contribute to the economic development of the republic, but not disturb its established social framework. Luzzatto, on the other hand, attempting to persuade the reluctant Venetians that Jewish settlement within the city would not disturb its social and political stability, argued that the Jewish insistence upon a separate communal life, and their opposition to missionary activities, ensured that their residence in the city would

24 Ibid., consideration 12. 25 Osterman, Controversy, pp. 322-324. See also Infra, n. 38. — 343 —

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never become a destabilizing factor.26 Luzzatto and Harrington adhered to the organic theory of the state. The triple socio-economic organization of the Venetian Republic is paralleled by Luzzatto to the three parts of the body. Likewise, Harrington strongly believed that the proper model of the new science of politics was anatomy, the study of complex living organisms. Both were influenced by the achievements of William Harvey, the discoverer of the circulation of the blood. Both Luzzatto and Harrington applied here the organic theory to the Jewish problem. Both compared the economic functions of the Jews in the state to the functions of the circulatory and alimentary systems of the body, albeit in different ways. Luzzatto paralleled the economic indispensability of the Jews in the Venetian body-politic to the essentiality of the blood in the living organism. Harrington used it in order to prove the impossibility of the readmission of the Jews to England itself, since in such a case they might take the natural place of an established social and economic class. This would be dangerous and impossible, like inserting an alien limb into the body, which then takes the place of a natural limb, and sucks its nourishment.27 Another argument Harrington brought in favor of settling the Jews in Ireland is that the taxes they would pay would help finance the maintenance of the English army there. Harrington held the Machiavellian idea that the existence of a citizen army (popolo armato) was indispensable for the liberty and well-being of the republic. The additional point he was making was that the existence and maintenance of such an army should be based upon the principles of distribution of land as elaborated in the “Agrarian law.” Taxes paid by such landed citizenry would finance the Republic’s military activities. This notion is here applied to the special Irish situation. The revenues from the settlement of the Jews would—among other benefits—finance the maintenance of the English 26 Discorso, consideration 12. 27 For Luzzatto and the organic theory, see Discorso, cit., consideration 8. It is interesting to note that Luzzatto brings here the double meaning of the word Dam’im—blood and money—as support for his argument. See also the introduction, and consideration 7. For the application of the theory to the Jewish problem see ibid. consideration 8. In his Socrate (Venice 1651), Luzzatto brings the theory again (pp. 267-68), in a context which is strongly reminiscent of Hobbes’ usage of the theory in the opening passages of his Leviathan, published in the very same year. See later Melamed, “Organic.” For Harrington’s usage of the theory and its contemporary background, see Blitzer’s introduction (supra, n. 8), pp. 27-29. For its application to the Jews, see supra, n. 29. See also n. 17. — 344 —

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standing army in Ireland. Harrington’s support for a citizen army based upon landowners, and his conception of the ancient Jewish army as such, are identical to Luzzatto’s views as expressed in the Discorso.28 An additional factor in Harrington’s positive attitude towards Judaism was the influence of the Northern Renaissance, the Reformation, and consequently English Puritanism. The so-called “Northern Renaissance” of the sixteenth century emphasized the Christian-religious aspects of Humanism much more than did earlier Italian Renaissance thinkers. For Northern humanists like Erasmus, More and Vives, the Old Testament was considered a classical source no less important than Plato, Cicero, Livius or the Church Fathers. The Reformation, and subsequently the Puritan Movement, spread the study of the Bible, and this fact greatly influenced the development of a more tolerant approach towards the Jews in England. There was a strong Messianic trait in Puritan thought, and according to some very complicated calculations, the Fifth Monarchy was due to arrive exactly in 1666. Some Puritans considered saving the Jews, that is, their readmission into England, a necessary preliminary step in this direction. Attempting to reform all aspects of Christian life, they turned to the Old Testament, and even to Oral Law as a model of the ideal society which they wanted to establish in England. Many books were published in England, and throughout Europe, dealing with the ideal ancient Israelite state as it was manifested in the Old Testament and the Talmud.29 Harrington’s interest in the Jews should also be understood in this context. As a convinced humanist and antiquarian, he studied and attempted to understand the classical past in order to comprehend the lessons of the present. The Jews represented for him the classical past no less than the Greeks and the Romans. For Harrington, who, like Aristotle, based his observations upon the lessons of history, the Jewish Bible and the Talmud were historical and political sources no less relevant than the histories of Polibius, Livius and Tacitus, or the medieval feudal legislation. He considered the ancient Hebrew govern28 For Harrington, see Pocock, Machiavellian, ch. 11. For Luzzatto, Discorso, consideration 15. Also Melamed, “Luzzatto.” 29 Liljegren, “Harrington.” Blitzer, Harrington, pp. 278-83 (p. 278: “...he quotes and cites the Bible more often and more extensively than any other single source”). Yates, Occult. Robinzon, Biblical. Wilensky, Return, ch. 1. Toon, Puritans. Cherniak, “Republicanism.” — 345 —

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ment no less instructive about the ideal state than the Roman republic or the Venetian governo misto. Although Harrington was not at all a dogmatic Puritan, he considered the ancient Jewish state to be the first ideal commonwealth, having been endowed upon the people of Israel by divine Providence. The “ancient prudence” manifested in Rome, was “first discovered unto mankind by God himself in the fabric of the Commonwealth of Israel.”30 Considering current ideological tendencies, it was very convenient to prove that the kind of government he proposed for England in the Oceana was similar to the ancient Hebrew form of government. Harrington had a working knowledge of Hebrew and some acquaintance with Hebrew sources, although generally indirect. In his many references to the ancient Jewish state, he often quoted the Bible and Rabbinic literature.31 Like some Jewish thinkers of the previous century, notably Abravanel and David de Pomis, Harrington discussed at length the structure and working process of the ancient Israelite state and compared them to those in Venice.32 He quoted Abravanel’s commentary to the Torah from a Latin—or maybe English—translation which was already available.33 Harrington’s and his contemporaries’ discussion of the ancient Hebrew state, and its influence upon seventeenth-century political thought, is extremely interesting, and should be further investigated.34 Harrington’s positive attitude towards Judaism, based upon religious and intellectual motivations, definitely influenced his suggestion that the Jews should be settled in Ireland. In his recognition of the Hebrew sources as genuine classical sources, and his admiration for the ancient Jewish state, which he considered to be of contemporary relevance, we find another important intellectual link between Harrington and Luzzatto. 35 Harrington’s position reflects the slowly changing atmosphere in 30 Oceana, preliminaries, p. 161. 31 See supra n. 29; for the numerous references to the Ancient Jewish State, the Bible and the Talmud, see the index of Pocock’s edition. 32 Netanyahu, Abravanel, Part 2. De Pomis, Enarratio, the introduction. Harrington refers to the ancient Hebrew constitution in numerous instances, especially in The Art of Lawgiving: The Second Book Containing the Commonwealth of the Hebrews, Works, pp. 615-53. 33 Liljegren, “Harrington,” pp. 87-88. 34 First steps in this direction were taken by Robinzon, Biblical. 35 Luzzatto’s references to this subject in Discorso, introduction and considerations 8-16. — 346 —

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seventeenth-century Europe towards a relatively more tolerant attitude towards the Jews. It has already been established that this change became possible because of two conspicuous ideological processes: firstly, basic changes in the political and economic theory—the development of the political theory of Ragione di stato and economic theory of mercantilism both resulted in a more positive approach to the economic and political usefulness of the Jews; and secondly, the intellectual and religious attitudes of the Northern Renaissance, the Reformation and English Puritanism, resulted in a renewed appreciation by Christians for the Jewish heritage.36 Luzzatto, followed by other Jewish apologists, notably Menasseh ben Israel, diligently utilized these two trends in his struggle to increase Christian toleration of Jews. As far as Jewish Apologetica is concerned, the religious and cultural argumentations already had a long history. The economic-utilitarian argument was new and initiated by Luzzatto. 37 In the debate about the readmission of the Jews to England, the second ideological process was dominant. England of the mid-seventeenth century was permeated with theocratic ideas. Many of those who supported the readmission of the Jews were persons who awaited the imminent second coming of Christ, were Fifth Monarchy Men or millenarians.38 Harrington was one of the few who totally neglected the religious argument for the readmission of the Jews. Although he greatly appreciated the cultural and political heritage of the Jews, his support of their readmission was based solely upon economic and practical considerations.39 Like Luzzatto, who emphasized the economic-utilitarian argument in his appeal to the suspicious Venetians, Harrington utilized the same kind of argument in order to persuade Cromwell. To conclude our discussion thus far, the parallelism indicated above between the political attitudes of Luzzatto and Harrington can definitely be related to the common historical and intellectual milieu in which they were active. Despite the enormous differences between the Jewish Rabbi from the Venetian Ghetto and the English country gentleman, 36 Ettinger, “Beginning,” pp. 195-196. Liljegren, “Harrington,” pp. 73-74. Robinzon, Biblical, ch. 1. Barzilay, “Enlightenment.” And see recently Melamed, “Philosemitism.” 37 Ravid, Economics, ch. 4. Ettinger, “Beginning,” p. 210. Melamed, “Luzzatto.” 38 Ettinger, “Beginning,” p. 202. Osterman, “Controversy,” esp. p. 302. Patinkin, “Readmission,” esp. pp. 176-177. Liljegren, “Harrington,” pp. 73-81. 39 See above n. 25. — 347 —

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they still flourished upon the same fertile soil of Italian Humanism, pagan and Jewish classical literature and history, the Machiavellian tradition, the theory of Ragione di stato and the myth of Venice. They bought their intellectual merchandise in the very same philosophic marketplace. Since their general intellectual framework was similar in many ways they could separately come—twenty years apart—to similar conclusions considering the Jewish problem as a politico-economic question in the best tradition of Ragione di stato. Aside from their common intellectual background, which apparently brought them—separately—to corresponding opinions, we do not have for the time being any proof of direct connection. As already indicated, Harrington acquired the above mentioned intellectual background when he visited Italy and Venice in particular, exactly at the same time when Luzzatto was writing his Discorso. In this overlap of time we find the first possible connection between them. We may venture further and try to identify some direct link, but for this we have only circumstancial conjecture. The educated Venetian Jews were deeply involved in the cultural life of the republic.40 Luzzatto was known to be in close contact with Venetian cultural circles. His main writings—the Discorso and the Socrate (1651)—were published in Italian, and were directed to the general Venetian public. The Discorso is an apologetic treatise, the Socrate a work of moral philosophy which any contemporary Venetian intellectual could have written. It was dedicated to the Doge, and has no particular Jewish context. If Luzzatto had not indicated on the title page that the author was one hebreo Veneziano, nobody could have guessed that the Socrate was written by a Jew.41 Some of Luzzatto’s contemporaries already indicated that he was well known and appreciated in Venetian cultural circles. The convert Morosini, in the introduction to the Jewish reader of his Via della Fede (Venice 1683), admiringly referred to Luzzatto as: “Rabbino all’hora stimatissimo per la lettura Ebraica e anche apresso i Christiani grandemente acreditato per Ie scienze, e per l’eloquenza.”42 Luzzatto is known to have participated in religious discussions with Christians.43 40 Rivkin, Modena, pp. 24-29. Roth, Venice, ch. 5-8. 41 Luzzatto, Socrate, title page. See also Shulvass’s introduction, Luzzatto, Ma’amar, pp. 19-22. 42 Rivkin, Modena, p. 25, n. 27. Shulvass, introduction to Luzzatto, Ma’amar, p. 24. 43 Rivkin, ibid. Shulvass, ibid., p. 25. — 348 —

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Some scholars even raised the possibility that he was accepted to one of the many academies which flourished in Venice at that time. If this is true, it was a highly irregular action, since Jews were generally not accepted into such establishments.44 In any case, there is no doubt that Luzzatto was actively involved in the intellectual community of Venice. It is obvious that the young Harrington, visiting Venice at the very same time Luzzatto was writing his Discorso, also frequented Venetian intellectual circles. Here he became interested in the working of the Serenissima’s government and got acquainted with the histories of Contarini and Giannotti who established the myth of Venice.45 Maybe—we are tempted to wildly guess—they even met during this period. This possibility does not sound too far-fetched when we remember that there already were some previous contacts between educated Venetian Jews and England. English travellers who came to Venice during their Grand Tour of Europe expressed a great interest in the life of the Venetian Jewry—their ghetto, synagogues, and religious services—and recorded it at lenght in their travel books.46 The famous English traveller Thomas Coryate informs us that during his visit to Venice in the summer of 1608 he discussed religious matters with a “certain learned Jewish Rabbin that spoke good Latin.” 47 Luzzatto’s famous older contemporary, Leone da Modena, is well known for his contacts with English correspondents. His Riti ebraici was composed in 1616 for an “English nobleman” who, in turn, wished to present it to his sovereign, James I. Hand-written copies of the work circulated in English Christian circles for years before the first printed edition appeared in the continent (1637).48 Taking all this into consideration, it would not be altogether improbable to assume the possibility of a meeting between Luzzatto and Harrington. In any case, we do not necessarily have to assume any direct connection between them in order to explain the similarities between their intellectual outlooks in general, and their conception of the Jewish problem in particular. Sharing ideas is a necessary but not sufficient 44 Shulvass, ibid., pp. 24-25. 45 See Supra, n. 10. 46 Roth, “England,” p. 216. Yardeni, “Travel.” And later, with much detail, Ravid, “Travellers.” 47 Roth, ibid., p. 219. Yardeni, ibid., pp. 88-89. Rivkin, Modena, p. 24, n. 26. Ravid, ibid. 48 Roth, ibid.; idem, “Modena”; idem, “Correspondents,” Cohen, “Riti.” If we go almost one hundred and fifty years back, we can also find an interesting relationship between Abravanel and England; see Rabinowitz, “Connections.” — 349 —

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condition for proving the influence of an earlier scholar on a later one. The similarity is clearly explained by their common cultural milieu. Thus far we have concluded tracing the first step in the transmission of an idea, and may continue following in its footsteps. The Discorso was well known to Luzzatto’s contemporaries. Among the Jews it was accepted as the archetype of apologetic literature. Its clear influence may be seen in Cardoso’s Eccelentiae (1679),49 and in Ben Ziyyon Frizi’s apologetic treatise written in the late eighteenth century.50 The most important influence of the Discorso was upon Menasseh ben Israel’s Humble Address. Several historians have already proved that ben Israel’s argumentation considering the Jewish existence in the Diaspora and their peculiar economic assets were directly taken—and sometimes copied verbatim—from the Discorso, although ben Israel never mentioned Luzzato himself.51 Thus, in the first stage of our discussion, we found a possible relationship between Luzzato and Harrington in the late 1630’s. Secondly, we related to the direct—and well known—link between Luzzato and ben Israel in the mid-seventeenth certury. Now we may continue to trace the next step in the transmission of the idea. Menasseh ben Israel visited England in 1655, and the publication of his petition to Cromwell aroused a considerable debate in England about the readmission of the Jews.52 As already noted, Harrirgton participated in the public dialogue when he proposed, in the introduction to his Oceana, to settle the Jews in Ireland. As proved above, he used the same economic arguments found before in Luzzatto and ben Israel, and totally neglected the theological arguments which had much more currency in the debate.53 When discussing the possible relationship be49 Isaac Cardoso, Las excelencias de los Hebreos, Amsterdam 1679, p. 37. The Hebrew edition, Ma’alot, contains selected chapters from the Excelencias. On Luzzatto, see Shulvass’ introduction to Ma’amar, p. 20, and the text, pp. 40-49. Yerushalmi, Ghetto, pp. 417-22, 439-40. 468-69. Ravid, Economics, p. 22, n. 15, p. 96, n. 101. Also Melamed, “Luzzatto.” 50 Ben Ziyyon Frizi, Difesa contro gli attacchi fatti alta Nazione ebrea nel libro intitolato..., II, 6, 1784; R. Bachi, L’attivita economica degli ebrei in Italia alia fine del secolo XVII, in Studi in onore di Gino Luzzatto, 3, Milan, 1950. 51 There is already a great deal of discussion of Luzzatto’s influence upon ben Israel. See Wilensky, Return, pp. 93-96, 98, 101-102, 187. Bachi’s introduction to the Ma’amar, pp. 71-72. Roth, History, pp. 149-72; idem, Ben Israel, ch. 10. Ettinger, “Beginning,” pp. 210, 212-13. Schorsh, “Messianism,” p. 207. Ravid, Economics, p. 97, n. 103; and especially idem, “Profitable.” 52 Ibid. See also, Liljegren, “Harrington,” pp. 66-68. Osterman, “Controversy,” p. 310. Patinkin, “Readmission,” pp. 161-165. Roth, “Resettlement.” Yates, Occult, pp. 113, 183-187. 53 Above, n. 39. — 350 —

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tween Luzzatto and Harrington, it was indicated that the latter could have logically come to the same conclusion concerning the Jews by himself. No direct connection between him and Luzzatto is necessary to prove the similarity of their ideas. However, we shall proceed to see how Harrington was influenced—albeit indirectly—by Luzzatto’s Discorso. The debate about the readmission of the Jews was initiated by ben Israel’s petition. Harrington’s contribution to the debate is basically similar to ben Israel’s, and was published only one year after ben Israel’s visit to England and the publication of his appeal. Thus, it is logical to assume that Harrington knew ben Israel’s argumentation, and was influenced by it when he supported the readmission of the Jews. Thus, the similar intellectual background was perhaps not the only reason why Harrington developed basically the same position as Luzzatto’s concerning the Jewish problem. Harrington was also influenced by the debate going on in contemporary England about the readmission of the Jews, and especially by ben Israel’s petition. Harrington supported ben Israel’s argument since it was compatible with his general political and economic outlook, which was so similar to Luzzatto’s. Thus, Harrington’s ideas came full circle to those of Luzzatto. He supported ben Israel’s economic-utilitarian argumentation taken from Luzzatto. Both Luzzatto and Harrington held the opinion that political organization and social stability are a by-product of economic substructure. With this as a background, Luzzatto came to the conclusion that the Jews could be useful to the Venetian economy and consequently to the political wellbeing of the republic. In exactly the same way, Harrington arrived at his similar argument in favour of the settlement of the Jews in the land —probably through ben Israel who took his arguments from Luzzatto. We can trace Harrington‘s possible connection with Luzzatto even further. The Discorso was well known not only among Jews, but also in Christian circles. It was written, as indicated, for the consumption of a gentile audience. Some Italian contemporaries, like Palontrotti and Morosini, published vicious anti-Jewish counterattacks.54 However, among non-Italian authors in the following century, we can generally find the Discorso influencing a more tolerant attitude towards the Jews. We can trace some of Luzzatto’s arguments in the writings of Joseph Addison, 54

See Shulvass’ introduction to Luzzatto, Ma’amar, p. 23. Ravid, Economics, pp. 95-96; and especially idem, “Responses.” — 351 —

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Montesquieu and Herder.55 One of these influences is extremely important in our case. It was already indicated by Isaac Barzilay that the famous English Deist John Toland read the Discorso and used Luzzatto’s arguments—sometimes almost verbatim—in his pamphlet urging the naturalization of the Jews in England (1714).56 He even announced his plans to translate the Discorso into English, but did not carry it out.57 What Barzilay did not notice is that Toland was Harrington’s first biographer and the editor of his works. The first edition of Harrington’s collected works was published in 1700, quite a few years before the publication of Toland’s discourse in favour of the naturalization of the Jews (1714). Thus, Toland knew well Harrington’s positive attitude towards Judaism in general, and his appeal to Cromwell in favour of the settlement of the Jews in Ireland in particular, when he appealed in favour of the naturalization of the Jews—directly using Luzzatto’s arguments. Toland was definitely influenced by Harrington in his sympathies towards Judaism, and in his attitude towards the Jewish question. It is noteworthy in this respect that Toland’s attitude was a rarity among English Deists, who generally held strong anti-Jewish opinions.58 Toland’s uniqueness is due to the combined influence of Luzzatto and Harrington. Toland’s positive attitude towards the Jews must be sought in theological motivations. All his life he wanted to write a book about “the Respublica Mosaica, or the commonwealth of Moses,” which he considered “above all forms of government that ever existed.”59 However, the arguments he used in his pamphlet in favour of the naturalization of the Jews are essentially secular, and of economic-utilitarian character. Although his religious motivations were much stronger than Harrington’s, still, even he used mainly utilitarian and economic arguments in favour of the naturalization of the Jews, which he found in Luzzatto and Harrington. Following them, Toland also held the opinion that the peculiar economic characteristics of the Jews are primarily the result of their unique historical situation. Like Harrington, he even went beyond 55 Barzilay, “Toland,” p. 77. 56 Ibid., pp. 75-81; idem, “Enlightenment,” pp. 245, 249, 251, n. 46, p. 258, n. 99. Toland had great admiration for Luzzatto: “Luzzatto was a man of extraordinary learning and judgement, very acute, and not meanly eloquent” (Naturalization, ch. 20). 57 Barzilay, “Toland,” pp. 78, 81. 58 Ettinger, “Deists,” pp. 188-190; idem, “Beginning,” pp. 216-218. See also Katz, Philosemitism. Luzzatto is never mentioned in this book. 59 Ettinger, “Beginning,” p. 216, n. 96. — 352 —

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Luzzatto in suggesting that a change in the government’s policies with regard to the Jews would alter their economic behaviour.60 To conclude, the Toland connection also strengthens the assumption that there was some link between Luzzatto and Harrington. In considering this research, a basic methodological difficulty for the historian of ideas must be born in mind. Influence and dependence are always a difficult relation to prove. Affinity itself does not necessarily mean influence. In order to prove that a connection existed, more concrete evidence is needed. This is especially correct in our case. Luzzatto’s basic Weltanschaung was shared by many of his contemporaries, who were active upon the same so-called Zeitgeist. His economic-utilitarian argumentations in favour of the Jews could easily be arrived at independently by other authors—Jews and Christians alike—seeking to advance the Jewish cause in an era when the flourishment of Hebraic studies, the influence of Ragione di stato and the needs of mercantilist economy influenced European thinkers in becoming more tolerant of the Jews. So many contemporary and subsequent thinkers held the same historical and political worldviews and similar opinions considering the Jewish problem, that the mere intellectual affinity between them and Luzzatto proves nothing. This is a necessary, but not sufficient condition to prove an influence.61 In our case, this task was even more difficult. Cardoso and Toland directly quoted Luzzatto. Menasseh ben Israel did not mention Luzzatto’s name. Nevertheless, it has been proven that he copied some of his arguments virtually verbatim from the Discorso. In the case of Harrington, we have neither kind of proof. However, despite the methodological difficulties, it was considered a fascinating project to try and trace some relationship between the two authors. In order to substantiate this possibility, we ventured to go beyond mere affinity of ideas. In addition to the intellectual similarities, we found that Harrington visited Venice exactly at the same time when the Discorso was being written there, and that he was very probably influenced by ben Israel’s appeal to Cromwell, published only one year before the publication of his Oceana. These two cases of overlap in time seem already to be beyond 60 Barzilay, “Toland,” p. 76; idem, “Enlightenment,” p. 245. 61 Ravid, Economics, pp. 96-98. — 353 —

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mere coincidence. We know also that Harrington’s first biographer and editor was directly influenced by Luzzatto. All this evidence makes the relationship appear as something more than mere conjecture. To conclude, the direct—or indirect—link established between Harrington and Luzzatto in the late 1630s, was indirectly renewed through the connection between Menasseh ben Israel’s petition, influenced by Luzzatto, and Harrington’s appeal to Cromwell in the mid-1650s. In the 1630’s, we located a possible relationship—probably only intellectual—between Harrington and one Jew—Simone Luzzatto. In the mid-fifties we located a connection between Harrington and another Jew—Menasseh ben Israel. In the intervening years, we have the contact between the two Jews: ben Israel taking his arguments directly from Luzzatto. Thus, Harrington returns—via ben Israel—to Luzzatto. What was hitherto well-known was the direct link between Luzzatto and ben Israel, and the probahle link between the latter and Harrington. The circle is closed when we find the missing Venetian link—James Harrington meets Simone Luzzatto.

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Chapter thirteen

Machiavellism and Anti-Machiavellism in Seventeenth-Century Jewish Amsterdam: From Ragione di Stato to Razon de Estado

The Emergence of Jewish Anti-Machiavellism The immense influence of Machiavelli’s political thought upon early modern political philosophy penetrated contemporary Jewish thought as well. I have already discussed his important influence upon Simone Luzzatto, as manifest in his Discorso circa il stato degli’Ebrei in Venezia (Venice, 1636) and the Socrate (Venice, 1651).1 Luzzatto was the first Jewish author to use the key Machiavellian term reason of state (ragione di stato). Machiavelli’s impact upon Spinoza’s political thought is also well known. In his Political Treatise (Tractatus Politicus, Amsterdam, 1677) Spinoza twice calls him acutissimus Machiavelli (5:7; 10:1).2 Both Luzzatto and Spinoza were deeply influenced by Machiavelli’s realistic, secular and pragmatic attitude towards politics that rejected the medieval idealistic attitude; both accepted his revolutionary theories that views religion as a means to achieve temporal political goals. Consequently both projected the Machiavellian influence upon their description of the ancient Hebrew state, and both described the figures of the great Hebrew leaders, Moses, David and Solomon in terms of the famous Machiavellian prince. Although a strong anti-Machiavellian school of political thought emerged by the late sixteenth century, and there was a fierce debate between the two ideological camps until the Enlightenment,3 I know of no Jewish anti-Machiavellist until the late seventeenth century. The first Jewish anti-Machiavellist, as far as I know, appeared only in 1666. 1 2 3

Melamed, “Luzzatto”; idem, Philosoper-King, ch. 9. Septimus, “Biblical.” Rava, “Spinoza.” McShea, Spinoza. Melamed, Philosopher-King, ch. 9. Machiavelli’s books were listed in Spinoza’s private library. See Swetschinski, Reluctant, p. 304. See Rathe, “Gentillet.” Stewart, Polemica. Mastellone, “Aspetti.” D’Andrea, “Gentillet.” Kelly, “Machiavel.” Pocock, Machiavellian, ch. 10. Bireley, Prince. For the debate in Spain, which directly influenced Pereyra, see n. 27-28 below. On the Machiavellian controversy in Dutch political thought of the seventeenth century, see n. 31 below. — 355 —

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This is perplexing, if we consider that Machiavelli’s revolutionary approach vis-à-vis the relationship between politics and religion enraged conservative thinkers, and there was a fierce debate on his controversial political ideas among contemporary Christian scholars, since the midsixteenth century at the latest. Why was the Jewish response so late and meager? As noted above, the two most important Jewish political thinkers of early modern times—Simone Luzzatto and Spinoza—were strongly influenced by Machiavelli, and adopted many of his insights. His influence, with that of the Roman historian Tacitus,4 was the impetus for their novel approach in Jewish political thought. Yet, we could have expected the opposite situation among Jewish scholars: not an embrace of Machiavellian ideas, which were so much at odds with the basic tenants of traditional Judaism, but a fierce attack on his preposterous heretical tendencies, as we find in devout Christian circles, both among Catholic and Protestant scholars during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. This, however, seems to not have happened among their Jewish peers and contemporaries until very late. Why? It could be argued that more traditional Jewish scholars did not encounter Machiavelli or frankly did not care. This, however, is not necessarily the case. Not only a heretical Jew like Spinoza was favorably impressed by Machiavelli, which is understandable, but a clear interest in his writings can be found much earlier among more traditional Jews. Maybe the first Jewish author in which such influence can already be detected is the Spanish exile who settled in Italy in the early sixteenth century, Shlomo ibn Verga, who wrote the Shevet Yehudah.5 In a book list of the private library of a Mantuan Jew from the late sixteenth century we find a copy of Machiavelli’s Art of War (Arte della Guerra).6 Moreover, his contemporary and compatriot, Rabbi Abraham Portaleone, was influenced by the Machiavellian emphasis on active human initiative and his novel theory of popular militia in his own military discussion and the description of the ancient Israelite army in Shields of the Mighty (Shiltei ha-Gibborim).7 And, of course Luzzatto, the Venetian rabbi of the early 4 5 6 7

Melamed, “Luzzatto.” Wierzubski, “Spinoza.” This was already noticed by Baer, Galut, pp. 68-69. See details in Melamed, “Perception.” Simonshon, “Books.” See the detailed discussion in A. Melamed, The Political Thought of Jewish Thinkers in the Italian Renaissance, unpublished PhD Dissertation, Tel Aviv U. 1978, vol. 1. pp. 246-279 (Hebrew). Miletto, “Portaleone.” — 356 —

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seventeenth century, was strongly influenced by Machiavellian ideas, as noted above. Luzzatto’s Discorso was also influential in the penetration of Machiavellian ideas and vocabulary to the Amsterdam Jewish community, as will be shown below. Machiavellian influences—and a fierce rejection of his conclusions— can be found in the writings of some Amsterdam Jewish scholars in the second half of the seventeenth century.8 Alongside Spinoza, such influence—via Luzzatto—can be found also in Manasseh ben Israel’s Humble Address (London, 1655), where he petitioned Cromwell to support the readmission of the Jews into England. Ben Israel borrowed Luzzatto’s economic-utilitarian arguments in favor of the continuous residence of the Jews in Venice, and applied it to the unique English situation.9 Significantly, most anti-Machiavellian responses were composed there in the decade after the publication of Spinoza’s Theologico-Political Treatise (Tractatus Theologico-Politicus) in 1670. Apparently, Spinoza’s strong secular-Machiavellist tendencies, culminating with his heretical views on Judaism, which these scholars abhorred, were the impetus to their anti-Machiavellian onslaught. On the basis of the influence of the Spanish Catholic anti-Machiavellian political philosophy they created the Jewish variation of Christian anti-Machiavellism. It can be argued that while Venetian and Dutch influences10 brought the likes of Spinoza and ben Israel to Machiavellian conclusions, Spanish influences brought others, who opposed Spinoza, to anti-Machiavellian conclusions. A copy of Machiavelli’s opera omnia in the Italian original was found the impressive private library of Isaac Aboab da Fonseca, a prominent Amsterdam rabbi of the late seventeenth century, together with books by Bodin, Montaigne, and Hobbes (in French translation),11 and its influence is apparent in his account of the rebellion of Korah (1681) which 8

In the course of writing the first draft of this paper I was informed by Anne Oravetz Albert who was then working on her Doctoral dissertation A Republic Apart: Political Thought Among SeventeenthCentury Sephardi Jews in Amsterdam (University of Pennsylvania), that quite a few Amsterdam Jewish authors used Machiavellian terminology. Dr.Oravetz Albert kindly sent me an electronic copy of the relevant chapter of her work after its completion. Her important findings helped me broaden the picture, and I thank her very much. 9 There is much scholarly discussion of this issue. See Ravid, “Profitable.” Melamed, “Travellers.” Luzzatto was also involved in an internal conflict in the Amsterdam Jewish community in which ben Israel was involved. See Swetschinski, Reluctant, p. 263, and see below, n. 17. 10 See below, n. 31. 11 See Marx, “Collectors”; as Marx says: “It is indeed surprising to see the range of interest represented by this list.” See also Katchen, Hebraists; Bodian, Hebrews, p. 67. — 357 —

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will be discussed below. Books by classical and contemporary authors connected to the Machiavellian tradition, such as Livi, Tacitus and Guicciardini, can be found in the private libraries of Amserdam Jews.12 Such influence can be found also in Saul Levi Morteira’s Providencia de Dios con Israel (before 1660), where he uses the term reason of state in its positive meaning in order to combat Machiavellian temporal politics.13 Isaac Cardoso, who lived in Italy but published in Amsterdam, quotes in his Las Exelencias de los Hebreos (Amsterdam, 1679) the examples of Spinoza, his contemporary Aboab, and the unique anti-Machiavellist Abraham Pereyra, who will be the focus of this paper. It is significant that Cardoso also cites Giovanni Botero’s The Reason of State (Della Ragion di Stato, 1589), which was the main transmitter of Machiavellism in the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.14 Also Cardoso’s criticism of Tacitus’ vicious attacks against the Jews, directly following Luzzatto,15 is connected to this tendency, since, as noted above, Tacitus’ popularity in this period was connected to the Machiavellian movement. The key Machiavellian term reason of state (razon de estado, in these scholars’ Spanish terminology), was frequently used, even when these scholars advanced anti-Machiavellian theological views. They clearly distinguished between the “good reason of state” and the “bad reason of state.” The first they identified with divine politics, which aspired to create a harmonious ethical society based on pious religious norms, while the latter was identified with the vicious secular Machiavellian politics, and vehemently rejected. This is also apparent in a collection of sermons delivered and published in 1675 marking the dedication of the new synagogue complex of the Kahal Kadosh Talmud Torah in Amsterdam, among them sermons by Eliyahu Lopes, David Sarphati and others, which will be discussed below.16 We should notice that even in Italy, the place of its inception, the Machiavellian influence penetrated Jewish culture quite late, despite 12 Swetschinski, Reluctant, pp. 303- 304. It has already been mentioned that Spinoza had a copy of Machiavelli’s works in his library. 13 See details in Oravetz Albert, ibid., ch. 3, n. 35. See discussion of their anti-Machiavellian stance below, part 3. 14 Cardoso, Excelencias, p. 235. See Oravetz Albert, ibid., ch. 3, n.30. Botero, Reason. 15 See in the introduction to the Hebrew edition of selections form the Eccellencias, Ma’a lot, the introduction, p. 20. Yerushalmi, Ghetto. See on Tacitus, esp. pp. 418- 420, and Luzzatto’s influence, in many places, see the index. 16 Oravetz Albert, ibid., ch. 3. See discussion below, part 3. — 358 —

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the great controversy it created. Luzzatto, who was the first one to be meaningfully influenced, wrote more then a hundred years after Machiavelli’s death. All the more so outside Italy; the only place we can find a meaningful discussion of Machiavellism is late seventeenth-century Amsterdam. There was also a direct connection here between Venice and Amsterdam. In the early years of the seventeenth century the young Spanish and Portuguese congregations of Amsterdam were directly influenced by Venetian Rabbis and religious and institutional practices imported from the Jewish community of the Serenissima. 17 Mortiera came to Amsterdam from Venice, where he studied under Leone da Modena. Spinoza was a student in his Yeshivah. He was also strongly connected to Manasseh ben Israel.18 We know that Luzzatto’s Discorso circulated in Amsterdam’s Jewish scholarly circles around the mid century. His influence on Manasseh ben Israel, especially regarding the Humble Address, was already mentioned,19 and there are great similarities between his political ideas and Spinoza’s, both being influenced by Machiavellism and Tacitism.20 Luzzatto’s influence on Cardoso’s Exelencias has also been mentioned, and Cardoso himself immigrated to Italy from Spain but published in Amsterdam. Thus, alongside the Spanish influence, which will be discussed below, Machiavellian ideas penetrated Jewish scholarly circles in Amsterdam also through the Venetian connection, each pushing them into the opposite direction concerning such influences. Most Jewish scholars, especially those outside the great cultural centers of Italy and Amsterdam, were Jewish scholars were relatively more connected to and influenced by the cultural attitudes in the Christian milieu,21 were less acquainted with or interested in these gentile ideological battles. Presumably, even if they heard about them, they found Machiavelli’s ideas so abhorrent that they would not even confront them. Donald Kelly once observed that Machiavelli “created at once a 17 See Bodian, “Amsterdam.” Benayahu, “Shift.” On the involvement of Venetian rabbis, including Luzzatto (1629) in the internal conflicts of the Jewish community in Amsterdam see also Swetschinski, Reluctant. p. 263, and more in the index. 18 Bodian, ibid. Roth, Ben Israel, index. Dorman, Ben Israel, index. Saperstein, Exile. And see n. 53 below. 19 See above, n. 9. Also Melamed, “Travellers.” Septimus, “Biblical,” p. 416, and n. 78. 20 Melamed, “Luzzatto,” p. 136, n. 90; idem, Philosopher-King, ch.9. Septimus,”Biblical,” p. 416ff. 21 For Amsterdam, see Swetschinski, Reluctant, ch. 6. — 359 —

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shock of recognition and a wave of revulsion”22 throughout Western Europe. This revulsion seems not to have reverberated in Jewish scholarly circles. The Amsterdam phenomenon seems to be quite an isolated reaction. Moreover, it is also the only place in which we find a direct Jewish controversy between Machiavellists and anti-Machiavellists which was used as a vehicle in the internal Jewish debate concerning the secular heresies of Spinoza and his followers. Anti-Machiavellism was thus a cover for their anti-Spinozianism. This is the reason why this debate is of such great interest. Abraham Pereyra: The First Jewish Anti-Machiavellist The first and main Jewish anti-Machiavellist, who is the main subject of this paper, is Abraham Pereyra, a seventeenth-century Amsterdam Jew. Pereyra was a former converso, a traditionalist with Kabbalistic tendencies, who followed Shabetai Zvi.23 In his two books, La certeza del camino (The Certainty of the Path) (Amsterdam, 1666) and more so in Espejo de la vanidad del mundo (The Mirror of the Vanity of the World) (Amsterdam, 1671), Pereyra called out to his fellow Jews to follow his own path, abandon their occupation with temporal vanities and replace it with the spiritual quest for God. He was strongly influenced here by Spanish Catholic thought. Pereyra, it seems, did not hesitate to quote the most anti-Jewish Catholic authors, albeit anonymously. This was also the source for his fierce anti-Machiavellian onslaught. Machiavelli’s harsh criticism of established religion, and his scandalous attitude that considered religious beliefs and practices useful tools for temporal political purposes, exercised him most. Unlike Spinoza, Pereyra was no political thinker, and his interest in political issues per se was limited at best. His criticism of Machiavelli thus did not stem from any specific political agenda, but from a theological point of view. In this respect, what we have here is not political philosophy but political theology. While Spinoza was a staunch Machiavellist, his contemporary Amsterdam Jew labeled the Italian a treacherous infidel. We should bear in mind that the Espejo was published in 1671, only a year after Spinoza’s Tractatus in 1670, both in Amsterdam. 22 Kelly, “Machiavel,” p. 546. 23 See Mechoulan, Hispanidad; Idem, “Hispanicity,” 361- 364. On Pereyra see also Kaplan, Castro, esp. 191- 193; 171; 282-283. And recently Oravetz Albert, ibid., ch. 3. — 360 —

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Could Pereyra’s attack on Machiavelli be a direct response to Spinoza’s Machiavellist stance? This could just be the case; in La Certeza del Camino he alluded negatively to Spinoza and Juan de Prado, another excommunicated Jew, by saying: “This world is nothing but a barren land, full of thistles and thorns (espinos), a green pasture (prado) full of venomous snakes.”24 Such references to espinas also appear many times in the Espejo, published one year after the infamous Tractatus. Since any mention of Spinoza by name since the herem was taboo, this seems to be a coded reference to him. This silence regarding Spinoza seems to be analogous to the early modern avoidance of Machiavelli’s name, as they maintained the fiction that nobody read his work, even though everyone responded to him.25 In this respect, the Herem which excommunicated Spinoza was analogous to placing Machiavelli’s writings in the Index Librorum Prohibitorum by the Papacy in the mid-sixteenth century. What Machiavelli was for Christian traditionalists Spinoza was for Jewish traditionalists: the common denominator is clear. The direct reference to Machiavelli may have been used here as a means to avoid a direct reference to the excommunicated Spinoza, who was the real target; it seems to have been less dangerous. In any case, the great debate in contemporary political thought between Machiavellists and anti-Machiavellists finally penetrated Jewish circles as well in late seventeenth-century Amsterdam. Pereyra was strongly influenced in his conservative religious views by sixteenth- and seventeenth-century Spanish Catholic authors. It has already been established that long sections, even whole chapters, of his Espejo are copied almost verbatim from such Christian sources. Despite the ingenuity by which he tried to eliminate any reference to the New Testament, expressions foreign to Judaism did manage to slip through.26 His fierce attack on Machiavelli too was directly influenced by Spanish Catholic thinkers. Since Machiavelli’s works and influence started to penetrate Spanish intellectual circles during the sixteenth century, they created fierce interest and strong reactions. Spanish political thinkers 24 Pereyra, Certeza p. 29: “Que es este mundo, sino tierra esteril, campo ileno de abrojjos y espino, prado verde ileno de serpientes venenosas.” Quoted in Kaplan, ibid., p. 283, n. 61. On the evolvement of this motif see Oravetz Albert., ibid., ch. 3. n. 35. 25 As Oravetz Albert remarks, ibid., ch. 3, n. 35 26 See the detailed discussion in Mechoulan, Hispanidad, ibid. Also idem, “ Pereyra”; Idem, “Pensee.” Mechoulan and others criticize Pereyra for his so-called emotional identification with anti-Jewish Spanish authors. Oravetz Albert correctly cautions and presents a nuanced non-judgmental picture. — 361 —

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were all abhorred by what they saw as Machiavelli’s rejection of the basic tenants of the Christian state, and its replacement by secular-humanist heretical politics. The most important Spanish attack on Machiavellism was carried out by the Jesuit father Pedro de Rivadeneira in 1595. During the seventeenth century scholars such as Claudio Clemente, Juan de Salazar, Juan de Mariana and many others followed him.27 Pereyra copied whole sections from de Rivadeneira and Clemente directly into his Espejo28 to create the first Jewish anti-Machiavellian work. It is also important to notice that the very title Pereyra gave his book—Espejo (mirror)—connects it directly to the Spanish literature of Mirror of Princes (speculum principum). It was originally a strictly traditional political literature describing the moral and political virtues required from the pious Christian prince, common in medieval political thought. Machiavelli overturned this whole tradition in the revolutionary portrait of his very unorthodox principe.29 The Spanish antiMachiavellian political literature of the Baroque period reacted with a full return to this traditional medieval political genre. As FernandezSantamaria describes it: “The proliferation of royal espejos, instituciones, avisos, and regimentos would be considerably stepped up […] to reach epidemic proportions in the following [seventeenth] century.”30 Hence Pereyra’s book belongs directly to that tradition; it is the Jewish adaptation of this political literature, the only one of its kind, as far as I know. Although the Machiavellian controversy also penetrated Dutch Republican thought of the seventeenth century,31 and most probably Pereyra, like Spinoza and Aboab, was conscious of it, still there is no hint in his writings that he was influenced by the Dutch Machiavellian controversy.32 Unlike Spinoza, his point of reference was still fully Spanish. This can also explain how Spinoza, who was more influenced by the Dutch republican tradition,33 reached republican conclusions, and sup27 Bleznick, “Reactions.” Maravall, Philosophie. Hamilton, Political. Fernandez-Santamaria, Reason, esp. part I; Idem, State. Bireley, Prince, ch. 5. De Ribadeneyra, Prince. 28 De Ribadeneira, Tratato; Clemente, Machiavelismo. See for instance in the Espejo , 408 ff. For other Spanish sources he copied from, see Kaplan, Castro, p. 271. 29 See discussion in Melamed, Philosopher-King, .ch. 8 30 Fernandez-Santamaria, State, p. 248. On the issue as a whole, see pp. 247-252. 31 See Van Gelderen, “Machiavellian.” Haitsma Mullier, “Controversial.” 32 Pereyra did not know Dutch, like quite a few of the Iberian settlers in Amsterdam, see Swetschinski, Reluctant, p. 280. 33 See for instance in the Tractatus, ch’s 18, 20.On the whole issue see Prokhovnik, Spinoza. — 362 —

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ported the separation of state and religion, while former conversos like Pereyra, who were still deeply steeped in the Spanish cultural tradition, were staunch monarchists, and considered politics to be a means for religious purposes. Also the fact that Spinoza wrote in Latin, while the like of Pereyra still wrote in their native Spanish, attests to their different cultural inclinations, which resulted in very different political agendas. This can also explain why Spinoza admired Machiavelli so much, while the likes of Pereyra abhorred him. In the absence of any specifically Jewish literary weapons, Pereyra did not hesitate to use the most anti-Jewish Spanish Catholic authors, anonymously of course, to battle the infidel Machiavelli. He carefully stitched into them a few Jewish texts, but this was not enough to eliminate the strong Spanish-Catholic impression. For the Rabbinic Jew, all weapons—even Catholic weapons—were fair, as long as they were Spanish, in the great battle against the Italian infidel. Machiavelli embodied the greatest threat to traditional religion—Jewish and Catholic alike. He was identified with heresy, and thus created a common denominator between Rabbinic Judaism and Spanish Catholicism. All the more was this so when his potential readers were ex-Marranos steeped in contemporary Spanish literature; the language of Spanish theologians was therefore useful in the battle to awaken his Jewish target audience, who were busy making money on the Amstel, and were influenced in his opinion by heterodox, crypto-deist heretical tendencies. When preaching repentance, frightening them with vivid descriptions of the terror and torments of hell, and anxious calls for them to save themselves, penitential Judaism found a proper and useful weapon in Spanish-Catholic religious rhetoric. The fact that the rabbinic authorities in Amsterdam formally approved the publication of this book, only shows how legitimate this heavy borrowing from Catholic theology was considered to be. The fierce attack on Machiavelli thus stemmed from a religious, not a political agenda. For Pereyra as for his Spanish-Catholic masters, Machiavelli was the embodiment of modern heretical tendencies that penetrated Jewish circles as well, and should hence be eliminated. It could be argued that the very attack on Machiavelli only shows that his influence penetrated Jewish circles in Amsterdam, since one does not attack a non-existent phenomenon and the fiercer the attack the stronger the presumption of an influence. Since we know how strongly Machiavelli influenced Spinoza, and the Dutch republican controversy — 363 —

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at large, we can assume that such influence also existed among other contemporary Jewish scholars who advocated heterodox ideas. However, we do not yet have enough evidence to corroborate this possibility. There is no direct Machiavellian influence on the heretical views of Juan de Prado, another excommunicated Jew, for instance. Pereyra’s attack on Machiavelli, thus, seems to be an outcome of his Spanish sources. For him as for them, Machiavelli was the archetype of vicious secularism and atheism, and thus had to be directly and powerfully confronted. As will be shown below, Pereyra was but the first in a long list of antiMachiavellist Jews who were active in Amsterdam in the 1670s. Here we should distinguish between acquaintance with Machiavelli, which seems to be widespread, and his reception; but for Spinoza, all other Jewish scholars, albeit being influenced by the Machiavellian terminology, staunchly opposed his opinions. The very fact that we know of only one Jewish Machiavellist, although a prominent one, active in Amsterdam in this period, while we can name quite a few anti-Machiavellists, can answer the question we posited at the beginning of this paper. At the end, although quite late, also traditional Jewish scholars joined the religious onslaught on Machiavelli. In this respect there was no difference between Catholics, Protestants and Jewish traditionalists. Anti-Machiavellism was a clear common denominator. This is why Pereyra could so easily use Spanish Catholic sources and adapt them to his Jewish crusade against Machiavelli. In his two books, then, Pereyra repeatedly called Machiavelli by terms of abuse: “el maldito machavelo,” “perfido,” “perverso,” “infernal,” and finally “ministro de Satan.”34 This was a far cry from Spinoza’s praise of “acutissimus Machiavelli.” In both books he made a clear distinction between “The divine and Jewish policy” (la politica divina y judayca) and “Machiavelli’s diabolical politics” (la diabolica de Machiavelo).35 He calls Machiavelli’s followers: “Those politicians (who should better be called heretics) who distinguished the good of the state from the sacred Torah.”36 This is a clear allusion to the Spinoza-like aspiration to separate religion 34 Certeza, p. 81; Espejo, ibid., 394, 395, 396, 408, 411, 442. Compare, for instance, to Salazar’s description of Machiavelli as: “wretched, impious, and ignorant […]” Quoted by FernandezSantamaria, Reason, p. 28. 35 La Certeza, p. 81. 36 Espejo, ibid. 396: “Y estos Politicos (por major dezir impios) apartan la razon de estado de la Ley Santissima.” — 364 —

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and state. These politicians are described as wolves in sheeps’ clothing, who poison the souls of Torah-abiding people; these are the Jews who “teach how to rule as if there is no divine providence leading them, and the world leads itself.”37 This is a clear allusion to the famous Machiavellian insistence on the powers of the human active initiative, the virtu, to overcome the powers of fortuna. Following Machiavelli, these politicians deny the immortality of the soul and reward and punishment. Spanish political thinkers used the term “politicians” (politicos) for Machiavelli’s later followers; it is thus equivalent to Machiavellians, whom Pereyra describes in the most pejorative terms, exactly like those of Rivadeneira and Clemente.38 Pereyra is the second Jew, after Luzzatto, known to me, who used the Machiavellian core term reason of state (ragione di stato) in its Spanish form: razon de estado,39 this time through Spanish intermediaries. It is not found in Spinoza. However, while Luzzatto adopted the Machiavellian term and used it favorably as a useful means to interpret biblical politics,40 Pereyra saw it as the embodiment of whatever is heretical and impious in Machiavelli. After Pereyra Pereyra was the first of a host of Jewish scholars in Amsterdam who joined the anti-Machiavellian camp, as Mechoulan once observed: “The Jewish thinkers of Amsterdam, like all their fellow Spaniards, considered Machiavelli to be the author of ‘infernal doctrine.’”41 As indicated above, such references can be found mostly in the decade following the publication of Spinoza’s Tractatus in the 1670s, which seems to be the impetus for the concentration of this flurry of activity in this short period. In the collection of sermons which celebrated the dedication of the 37 “Y este el Iudaismo que observan, los que leen en su contagiosa doctrina […] ensenando a governor, como si Dios no tuviesse providencia con ellos, y el Mundo se governasse acaso …”Espejo, ibid. Kaplan, Castro. pp. 282-283. 38 For the usage of this term in Spanish political thought see Fernandes-Santamaria, Reason, esp. ch. 1-2. See for instance the way Rivadeneira describes them, quoted ibid. p.43: “[They are] the worst and most abominable sect ever invented by Satan … those men who pretending to be wise counselors, courageous soldiers, and prudent and loyal governors …” For Clemente’s similar description see ibid. pp. 46-47. Luzzatto attributed the same meaning to the Italian term politici, but his opinion was, of course, positive. See Melamed, “Luzzatto.” 39 See the quotation, n. 36 above. For the Spanish use of this term and reactions to it, see details in the literature mentioned in n. 27, especially Bleznick and Fernandez-Santamaria. 40 See for further details in Melamed, “Luzzatto.” 41 Mechoulan, “Hispanicity,” p. 363. — 365 —

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new synagogue of the Kahal Kadosh Talmud Torah in Amsterdam (published in 1675), some of the orators who published their sermons in this volume, used the opportunity to reflect upon the good fortunes of their congregation, whose stable and harmonious leadership enabled it to successfully complete this complex enterprise amidst dangerous trails and tribulations—economic problems, political turmoil and sheer bad weather. This was used also as a spring board to reflect upon political issues. The main argument concerned the need for communal unity and harmony, and stable government as indispensable means for the existence of an ordered polity. The main issue which concerned them was the difference between the two kinds of “reason of state”: the secular one, based upon human reason, vis a vis the sacred, based upon divine legislation. The latter was deemed to be inherently superior. As Eliyahu Lopes declares in the fifth sermon: All people value unity and seek it in their politics, because necessity, or reason of state, teaches it even when love does not dictate it. Among the people of God, on the other hand, this is not observed as a dictate of reason, but as commandment of the law.42 We should notice that Lopes uses here two interconnected key Machiavellian terms: “reason of state” and “necessity” (necessita). In the Machiavellian terminology necessity is based upon his pessimistic perception of human nature, by which humans, who are inherently egotistic, do not cooperate with each other out of love but out of fear. Only the understanding of the necessity to organize and cooperate in order to survive coerces them to do so.43 In Lopes’ phrasing, “reason of state” means the common sense understanding that the survival of a human polity, and all the more so its success, is determined on the necessity of its unity and cooperation, even if, and when, there is no mutual love to support it. The theme of social harmony and unity is supported by him and others by the traditional monarchic medieval metaphors which were still popular in early modern political thought; the comparison of 42  Eliyahu Lopes, Fifth Sermon, in Sermones que pregarao os Doctor Ingenios do K.K. de Talmud Tora. Desta Cidade de Amsterdam, ed., David de Castro Tartaz (Amsterdam, 1675) p. 96. Quoted from Oravetz Albert, ibid. 43 See discussion in Melamed, Philosopher-King, ibid., pp. 152- 153. — 366 —

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the good leader to the sun among the stars, the captain of the ship, and the organic analogy of the heart in the body.44 Harmony and unity are here directly associated with a monarchic regime. This clear Machiavellian phrasing is used by Lopes, however, in order to promote the anti-Machiavellian idea of religious politics. The commandments of the Torah are deemed by him vastly superior to any human law in their understanding of human needs. The Torah embodies the perfect “reason of state.” Thus, what he calls for is not the separation of politics from religion, Spinoza like, or the usage of religion as a political tool, like Machiavelli and Luzzatto, but the contrary. Politics, as a means to order temporal human life, should be determined by the true divine law, the commandments of the Torah. Machiavelli’s whole idea is turned upside down. Likewise, David Sarphati celebrated the positive use of ‘reason of state’ in his sermon for the synagogue’s dedication. In his opinion, although religion and politics are usually opposed, they do find conciliation in this congregation. Devotion and reason of state coexist here perfectly: Although politics are generally the opposite of religion, in this occasion they coexisted in support of devotion, and on the foundation of reason of state, devotion was never abandoned.45 In another version of this sermon, Sarphati contrasts two biblical monarchs, David and Jeroboam. Both erred in his opinion by being one sided. David preferred religious devotion to reason of state, while the other preferred reason of state to the worship of God: The dogmas of politics, and the dictates of religion, are so contrary that they cannot stand except in opposition: he who embraces one in search of truth looks down on the other as scandalous lies; he who infallibly decides by politics is absurdly crass in religion. David could hardly publish the praises of his devotion without breaking 44 See in Oravetz Albert, ibid., ch. 3, n. 9. On the whole issue see Melamed, “Organic.” 45 Quoted in Oravetz Albert, ibid. ch. 3 — 367 —

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the laws of state with disorderly leaps,46 and Jeroboam could hardly uphold the politics of his state without the absurdity of idolatry with his idols. One undid all the politics to show himself religious, and the other undid all of religion to show himself political.47 In the next step Sarphati endeavored to determine which monarch was less wrong then the other. The basic question was what should happen when politics and religion collide. He relates a Talmudic story in which God offers Jeroboam forgiveness. If he will repent, then he will be granted eternal bliss among the kings of the house of David. The proud Jeroboam, however, rejects the divine offer since it does not include eternal preeminence over David (BT Sanhedrin, 102a). On this background Sarphati also explains Jeroboam’s decision to set up his own temple as being motivated by the desire not to be ranked below Rehoboam. He has Jeroboam exclaim: “O dishonor of all reason of state!” Sarphati’s conclusion is that David was given preeminence since he rightly put piety ahead of politics, debasing himself in the eyes of his subjects with his crazy dancing before the Lord, while Jeroboam preferred his temporal political aims, and deteriorated into idolatry. The perfect state of affairs is when religion and politics do not collide but combine together: Religion must be a form of politics, since politics are a subject adorned with religion. The form of one proves the necessity of the other; religion is so necessarily predicated on politics, that politics is therefore predicated on religion.48 The Machiavellian terminology of reason of state is thus used in order to promote an inherently anti-Machiavellian position; religion and politics are two sides of the same coin, and when they collide, religion should have the upper hand. Sarphati goes as far as arguing that God himself followed the dictate of his own reason of state in the way He governs the world and takes 46 2 Samuel 6: 14-23. 47 Oravetz Albert, ibid. 48 On this unpublished work and the date of its publication see Kaplan, Castro, n. 50, with additional discussion. — 368 —

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care of his chosen people: He punishes them in the exact measure for their sins, not enough to exterminate them, but only to correct them. This is the essence of the so-called “divine politics.” Pereyra already used the same phrase (Politica Divina) in the Espejo, as the title of the chapter that forms the centerpiece of the book’s political second part. The same attitude can also be found in Isaac Orobio de Castro’s anti-Christian Prevenciones divinas contra la vana Idolatria de las Gentes (c. 1670- 1675) where he indicates that only the mercy of the ‘divine reason of state’ saved Israel from total extinction.49 Since in these authors’s opinions God exercises the right reason of state, it follows that the righteous human ruler should imitate it as much as he is capable of in the way he rules human society. A description of the negative reason of state, Machiavelli-like, can be found in Rabbi Isaac Aboab da Fonseca’s biblical commentary of 1681, in his accounts of the rebellion of Korah and the behavior of Pharaoh in Egypt. 50 Aboab describes Korah’s wicked rebellion against Moses as a result of the “harmful politics of the reason of state” (Num. 16), and when he discusses the rise of a prince in Egypt who “did not know Joseph,” he says that: “the reason of state reigns among princes, even when it is tyranny” (Exod. 1:8). Although Aboab relates here to the “bad” reason of state, still it should be noticed that he distinguishes clearly between its usage by the people of Israel and by gentiles. Korah was wrong in his usage of the bad reason of state, since he should have used the “good” reason of state which complies with divine commandments. As for Pharaoh, the Egyptian King, however, the usage of this kind of reason of state is described here as something completely legitimate, even when it is used against the people of Israel! Pharaoh is described here as a perfect Machiavellian prince who advances his political goals without any regard to divine commandments or moral considerations. As indicated above, Aboab owned a copy of Machaivelli’s work,51 and he wrote approbation for Pereyra’s Certeza.52 Ironically, he exhorts the reader to abandon “profane books, the least damaging of which are still 49 Ibid. n. 56, with more examples. Also pp. 212-217. 50 Isaac Aboab da Fonseca, Parafrasis Comentado Sobre el Pentaeuco (Amsterdam, 1681) pp. 182 and 451. And see Oravetz Albert, ibid. ch. 3, n. 36. Compare to the way Spinoza interprets Korah’s rebellion: Theologio-Political Treatise, ch. 17. See discussion in Melamed, Philosopher-King, pp. 180-181. 51 Above, p. 4. 52 Oravetz Albert, ibid. — 369 —

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full of vanity and lies,” and read Pereyra’s pious book, while he himself kept books of the likes of Bodin, Montaigne, Hobbes, and the notorious Machiavelli in his own private library. For a traditional rabbi, interested in Kabbalah, who was active in the events which led to Spinoza’s excommunication, this seems to be quite surprising. Notwithstanding the rhetorical nature of this literary genre, this probably shows the great ambivalence of these enlightened Jews who were so eager to participate in the intellectual ambiance of Amsterdam while fearing for their own Jewish souls. Aboab’s usage of the Machiavellian terminology most probably comes directly from reading his work, while the criticism of the “bad” reason of state was most probably influenced by his own antiSpinozianism and Pereyra’s anti-Machiavellian exhortation. Unlike all these scholars, Rabbi Saul Levi Morteira argues in his Providencia de Dios Con Ysrael (Amsterdam, before 1660) that divine law alone would ideally guide the Jewish governance, thus no human politics would be needed. Temporal politics would become completely superfluous. As he says: [God] did not command the study of any other politics for the government of his republic, nor other reason of state to order his people and prosecute war, but only commanded [Joshua] to continually meditate day and night on this book of the Law.53 In his opinion, thus, reason of state is a matter for the gentile nations who did not receive the true divine commandments. In any case, the great debate between Machiavellists and anti-Machiavellists, which dominated early modern European political philosophy, finally penetrated Jewish scholarly circles as well, and was deliberately used in the internal Jewish intellectual wars between orthodox and heterodox tendencies in the century before the Enlightenment.

53 Ibid., n. 36. For Mortiera see Y. Kaplan, “Rabbi Saul Levi Mortiera’s Treatise ‘Arguments Against the Christian Religion,’” J. Michman, ed., Studies on the History of Dutch Jewry, vol 1 (Hebrew, Jerusalem, 1975) pp.9-32; Saperstein, Exile in Amsterdam, ibid. — 370 —

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Index

Aboab da Fonseca, Isaac 357, 358, 362, 369, 369n50, 370 Abraham 149, 253, 282n43, 291, 292 Abravanel, Isaac 21, 22, 24n12, 47, 48, 54, 63, 66, 67n35, 69, 70, 7274, 95, 102, 102n60, 103, 103n61, 104, 104n62, 105, 105n67, 106110, 110n81, 111, 111n83n85, 112, 112n87, 113, 115-118, 137-139, 145, 146, 156, 164, 165, 165n47, 166n49, 167, 168, 168n51, 176-178, 179n8, 181, 182, 182n18, 183, 184, 184n20, 185-188, 188n30, 189, 190, 190n35, 191, 191n35n38, 192, 193, 195, 199, 200, 202, 203, 205, 209, 210, 211, 213, 227, 230-232, 232n7, 233, 234, 236-240, 245, 258, 259, 261-263, 263n59, 264266, 270, 271, 274, 274n11, 275, 286n59, 324, 327, 346, 349n48 Absalom 75, 322-328 Adam 62, 63, 81, 114, 161, 253, 262, 263, 263n59n60, 264 Aegidius Romanus (Giles of Rome) 94, 117, 118, 212, 214, 228 Ahitophel 112n87, 322n69, 322n70, 323, 326, 327n91, 328 Al Farabi 197 Albalag, Isaac 83 Alberti, Leon Battista 294, 311n31 Albertus Magnus 56, 71, 90, 113, 214, 247 Albo, Joseph 46-48, 54, 55, 64, 6971, 80, 83, 83n13, 94-98, 101, 102, 111n83, 117, 118, 163, 167, 168, 213, 245, 245n5, 247n12, 248, 248n15, 249, 249n16, 250,

250n18, 251, 251n21, 252, 253, 253n26, 255-262, 264-267, 267n68, 268, 269, 271 Alemanno, Yohanan 48, 66, 66n34, 69, 69n40, 73, 83, 83n13, 95, 108, 113, 114, 116, 117, 176, 194-196, 196n49, 197, 230, 234, 272, 274, 275, 275n13n14, 276280, 280n30, 281, 281n37, 282, 282n43, 283, 284, 284n52, 285289, 289n66, 290, 291, 291n71, 292-304, 304n98 Alguades, Meir 71, 213, 214, 219n24, 223 Althusius, Johannes 200-201, 201n63, 202, 268 Amsterdam 355, 357, 357n8, 358, 359, 359n17, 359n21, 360, 361, 362n32, 363-366, 370 Anatoli, Jacob 66, 66n34, 69, 69n40, 82, 83, 83n13, 156, 156n36, 157, 158, 168, 184n22, 187n28 Apion 315 Aquinas, Thomas 10, 22, 26, 30, 54, 70, 71, 72, 89, 90, 95-97, 105, 105n64n65, 106, 108, 110, 110n81n82, 111, 111n85, 112, 113, 118, 119n102, 139n45, 176, 179, 180, 181, 202, 213, 214, 228, 237, 244, 245n5, 248-250, 250n18, 251, 253, 254n32, 266268 Arama, Isaac 69, 69n40, 83, 83n13n14, 184n20, 187n28 Aristotelianism 179, 282, 283 Aristotle 26, 30, 36, 37, 45, 46, 46n42, 47, 52, 54-59, 62, 70-72, 78, 79, 79n4, 80, 81, 81n7n8,

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82, 83, 83n14, 84, 85, 85n15, 86-89, 89n26, 90, 90n30, 91-96, 96n42, 97-102, 102n60, 103110, 110n81, 111n83, 112-114, 114n92, 115, 116, 116n97, 117, 118, 118n99, 121, 125, 134, 134n34, 135, 135n34, 137, 138, 141, 145, 145n15, 152, 153, 155, 159, 165, 165n47, 166, 167, 176, 179, 202, 213, 214, 218, 219, 221-224, 226n59, 227, 228, 238, 238n30, 240, 241, 246, 246n9n10, 261n52, 262, 282, 283, 298, 316, 331, 345 Augustine 57, 64, 80, 113 Augustus 286, 319n62, 323 Avempace (Ibn Bajja) 36, 60, 61, 65, 66n31, 67, 68n36, 78, 87, 88, 114, 218, 293, 295 Averroes (Ibn Rushd) 29n18, 36, 45, 47, 56, 59, 60, 60n20, 67, 68, 68n36, 69, 72, 73, 79-81, 81n7, 83-91, 93, 96n42, 97, 112, 112n87, 113, 118, 118n99, 119, 119n103, 121, 124, 125, 126n8, 128-130, 130n21, 132-134, 134n34, 135, 135n34, 136, 137, 194, 218, 218n17, 219n23, 228, 246, 246n9n10, 258, 258n46, 283, 284, 284n52n53, 285, 291, 291n71, 295, 299n91, 303 Averroism 283, 284 Avineri, Shlomo 19-21 Avner of Burgus 212 Backi, Roberto 305, 305n2, 319, 320 Baer, Isaac 102, 102n60, 112, 190n35, 263n59 Balaam 334 Barker, Ernest 55, 79 Barzillai the Gileadite 225 Ben Aderet, Shlomo 82, 83 Ben-Shamai, Meir 21, 22, 29n19, 119n103

Berman, Lawrence 29, 29n18, 52, 65n30, 80, 80n6 Bernardino da Feltre 278 Boccaccio, Giovanni 307 Boccalini, Traiano 308, 310, 310n25n26, 311, 316, 316n48, 317n55, 319, 319n58 Bodin, Jean 26, 200, 201, 202, 268, 357, 370 Boetius 215 Bologna 274, 305n1, Borgia, Cesare 324, 326 Botero, Giovanni 168, 238, 316, 315n48, 329, 358 Braccioliny, Poggio 294 Brethren of Purity 149 Bruni, Leonardo 294, 304, 333 Burke, Peter 305, 307n11, 308 Buxtorf, John, Jr. 309, 309n23, 312, 312n36, 314, 315, 316n46 Byzantium 56, 73, 281 Calvin, John 199, 199n58n59, 200, 202, 268, 316, 316n52 Cardoso, Isaac 307, 313n40, 315, 350, 353, 358, 359 Cassuto, Umberto 216n15, 247n13, 259, 272, 276, 276n19, 278 Church Fathers 198, 244, 345 Cicero 26, 74, 198, 246, 307, 316, 331, 332, 345 Ciconia, Pasquale 235 Clemente, Claudio 362, 365, 365n38 Contarini, Gasparo 234, 235, 238, 316, 317, 336, 337, 339, 349 Contarini, Jacopo 235 Crescas, Hasdai 212 Cromwell 335, 337, 341, 347, 350, 352-354, 357 Cropsey, Joseph 30 Dante 26, 51, 54, 92, 105, 105n66, 282, 316 David 66, 75, 107n72, 150, 151, 225,

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323, 324, 325, 325n82, 326, 327, 355, 367, 368 De Medici, Cosimo 296 De Medici, Lorenzo 280, 281, 281n37, 288, 288n66 De Pomis, David 192, 192n9, 193 De Prado, Juan 361, 364 De Rivadeneira, Pedro 362, 365, 365n38 De Rossi, Azariah 272, 285, 313, 313n38, 322 Del Bene, David 313 Del Bene, Judah 273 Del Medigo, Elijah 48, 53, 73, 113, 115, 115n95, 116, 116n97, 117, 283n47, 284 Del Medigo, Shlomo 95 Dundabin, Jean 142 Eden 62, 69, 149n21 Egypt 38, 149n21, 177, 187, 196, 205, 211, 319, 369 Elazar, Daniel 18, 19n3, 29, 29n18, 120, 120n1 Falaquera, Shem Tov 67, 68, 68n36, 69, 69n40, 82, 83, 83n13, 84, 85, 87, 93, 117, 145n15, 247n11 Fernandez-Santamaria, Jorge 362, 365n39 Ficino 73, 275, 280, 282, 285, 290, 303 Fidias 239 Florence 194, 230, 234, 245, 247, 259, 272-275, 275n13, 275n13, 276-280, 280n31, 281, 282, 284, 285, 288-290, 294, 298, 299, 302304 Franklin, Julian 10 Frizi, Ben Ziyyon 350 Galen 37, 145, 145n15, 146, 159, 161, 162, 164-167 Genoa 274

Giannoti, Donato 147, 234 Gilbert, Felix 272, 281n37 Gombrich, Ernest 281, 281n37 Gonzaga 275, 278 Grotius, Hugo 203, 203n65, 245, 267269, 309, 310n24, 316 Guicciardini, Francesco 281, 358 Guttmann, Julius 17, 30, 42, 42n39, 43, 44, 44n41, 45, 47-49, 58, 245 Halevi, Judah 47, 48, 54, 60, 61, 63, 64, 64n28, 67, 90, 149, 173, 260, 266n66 Harrington, James 176, 202, 202n64n65, 203, 203n65, 204207, 207n83, 208-211, 211n100, 335, 336, 336n8, 337, 337n11, 338, 338n14, 339, 339n16n17, 340-344, 344n27, 345, 346, 346n32, 347-354 Hillel of Verona 218 Hippocrates 37 Hobbes, Thomas 26, 51, 53, 174n64, 204, 245, 251, 251n20, 254, 257, 257n43, 267, 268, 339n17, 344n27, 357, 370 Husik, Isaac 30, 97, 245, 267n68 Ibn Caspi, Joseph 89, 90 Ibn Daud, Abraham 61 Ibn Ezra, Abraham 111n83, 176-179, 179n8n10, 181, 182, 186, 187, 187n28, 211, 233, 237 Ibn Latif, Isaac 67, 68n36 Ibn Pakuda, Bahya 67, 93, 111n83, 152, 165, 165n47 Ibn Shueib, Joshua 145, 161-164 Ibn Tibbon, Judah 67 Ibn Tibbon, Moses 67 Ibn Tibbon, Samuel 11, 66, 66n34, 67, 68, 81-83, 83n13, 88, 93, 125-130, 133, 212, 217, 217n17, 218 Ibn Tufayl 67, 114, 142, 159-161, 166n49

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Ibn Ya’ish, Baruch 95 Immanuel of Rome 69, 212 Ireland 341, 343-346, 350, 352 Isaac 225, 226 Isaiah 226, 231n6 Italy 67, 73, 99, 112, 125, 138, 165, 188, 189, 212, 216n15, 224, 232, 237, 259, 264, 273-275, 281, 285, 294, 307, 335, 336, 348, 356, 358, 359 Jacob 66n31, 149 James I 349 Jeremiah 65 Jeroboam 367, 368 Jerusalem 158, 232, 260, 311n31, 313 Jesus 40, 41, 57, 141 Jethro 69, 74, 83n134, 138, 139, 166n49, 168, 175, 176, 176n2, 178, 179, 179n10, 180-183, 183n20, 184, 184n20, 185, 186n26, 187, 187n28, 188-191, 191n38, 192, 194, 195, 195n48, 196, 196n50, 197-201, 204, 205, 205n74, 206-211, 211n100, 224, 226, 232, 233, 236, 237 Joab ben Zeruiah 225, 226 John of Salisbury 141, 143, 160, 172 Joshua 161, 187, 210, 225, 226, 370 Judah of Rome (Romano) 119n102, 214, 215 Kelly, Donald 359 Kimhi, family 203n65, 324 Korah 139, 184, 184n22, 196, 357, 369, 369n50 Kristeller, Paul Oskar 10, 283n47 Krochmal, Nachman 76, 76n60 Leibowitz, Yeshayahu 17-19, 34n28 Lerner, Ralph 27, 27n16, 29, 29n18, 30, 31, 52, 72, 89n24, 118, 119n103, 129, 133n32

Levi, Yohanan 320 Levy ben Gershom (Ralbag) 158 Levy, Ze’ev 24, 25 Lipsius, Justus 316, 316n52, 317 Livy (Livius) 198, 202, 307, 313, 313n38 Locke, John 26, 30, 51, 53 Lopes, Eliyahu 358, 366, 367 Lucan 313, 315 Lucca 274 Luzzatto, Simone 71, 74, 75, 94, 95, 98-102, 115, 117, 149, 168174, 227, 231, 238, 238n30, 239, 239n33, 240-242, 268, 269, 273, 274, 305, 305n1, 306-309, 310n25n26, 311, 311n30, 312, 312n36, 313, 313n40, 314, 315, 315n45n46, 316, 316n48n50, 316n52, 317-319, 319n60n62, 320, 321, 321n65, 322, 322n67, 323, 324, 324n74, 325-327, 327n91, 328, 329, 329n102, 330, 331, 331n108n109, 332-335, 338, 338n12, 339, 339n15n17, 340344, 344n27, 345, 346, 346n35, 347-350, 350n51, 352, 352n56, 353-357, 357n9, 358, 358n15, 359, 359n17, 365, 365n38, 367 Lycurgus 200, 203, 203n67, 205, 206n80, 208, 240 Lysippus 239 Machiavelli 9, 10, 26, 30, 51, 53, 74, 74n57, 108, 147, 168, 171, 198, 198n57, 203, 238, 239, 241, 242, 280, 286, 302, 307, 308, 311, 316, 317, 323, 324, 324n75, 325, 325n82, 326, 327, 327n91, 329, 333, 335, 336, 340, 355, 355n2n3, 356, 357, 357n8, 358, 358n12n13, 359-370 Machiavellism 238, 307, 308, 320, 327, 331, 338, 355, 357-360, 362364

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Macpherson, Crawford 340 Maharal of Prague 22 Mahdi, Mushin 29, 72, 118 Maimonides 11, 21, 22, 24, 24n12, 25-28, 30, 31n23, 32n25, 33, 38n35, 43, 45, 47, 48, 50, 51, 54, 56, 58, 59, 61, 62, 62n25, 63, 64, 64n28, 65, 66, 66n31, 67, 68, 69, 80-82, 83n13n14, 84n14, 88, 95, 114, 125-128, 145, 145n15, 153155, 159, 160, 160n41, 161, 164, 167, 186n26, 191, 202, 203n65, 212, 218, 219, 219n24, 228, 236, 244, 245, 246n10, 249, 249n18, 250, 250n18, 254, 256n40, 257n44, 258, 259, 260n51, 262, 263, 263n60, 264, 266-268, 272, 296 Mantinus, Jacob 73, 86n20, 87n22, 283, 283n48 Marcus Aurelius 286 Marsilius of Padua 54, 247 Meinecke, Friedrich 101 Menasseh ben Israel 306, 311, 313, 315, 335, 341, 347, 350, 353, 354 Mendelssohn, Moses 24, 25, 26, 28, 54, 76, 76n60, 245, 259, 268, 269 Messer Leon, Judah 73, 125, 135n37, 136n40, 245, 246, 246n10, 247, 258, 299, 299n90 Mill, John Stuart 26 Modena, Yehudah Arieh (Leone) 247n12, 256-259, 271, 306, 309n23, 312, 312n35, 314, 320, 349, 359 Moerbeke, William 71, 80, 89, 94, 214 Momigliano, Arnaldo 308 Montaigne, Michel de 357, 370 Montesquieu 26, 352 More, Thomas 26, 98, 99, 198, 316, 345 Mornay, Philippe du Plessis 200-202 Morosini 351 Mortiera, Saul Levi 359

Moses 57, 58, 63, 64, 66, 69, 74-76, 107n72, 138, 139, 159, 166n49, 168, 175, 176, 176n2, 177-183, 183n19n20, 184, 184n20, 185191, 191n38, 192-195, 195n48, 196, 196n50, 197, 198, 199n59, 200, 200n60, 201, 201n63, 203, 203n67, 204, 205, 205n74, 206, 206n80, 207-210, 211n100, 212, 216, 216n15, 218, 219n23, 220, 224-226, 232, 233, 236, 237, 245, 247, 256, 258, 271, 277, 282, 282n43, 292, 310, 325, 325n82, 352, 355, 369 Moses ben Joav 247, 247n13, 248, 248n15, 249, 250-253, 254n32, 255-262, 263n59, 264, 265, 267, 270-271, 274 Moses of Rieti 49, 58, 219n23 Moses of Salerno 212 Munster, Sebastian 234 Muscatto Judah 245, 259-261, 261n52, 264, 265, 267 Narboni, Moses 66, 66n34, 67, 68n36, 145, 159, 160, 161, 164, 166n49, 293, 295, 295n80 Netanyahu, Benziyyon 102, 108, 112 Nicholas of Cusa 265 Nicholas of Lyra 113 Nimrod 292, 292n74 Nissim of Gerona (Ran) 69, 69n40 Nissim of Marseilles 83 Palladius 222 Palontrotti, Melchior 309, 309n23, 351 Paruta, Paolo 238, 316, 333 Paul III 283n48 Paulus of Burgus 227 Pereyra, Abraham 355n3, 358, 360, 361, 361n26, 362, 362n32, 363365, 369, 370 Phaleas 100

— 428 —

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Pharaoh 205, 369 Philip the Fair 215, 217 Philo of Alexandria 21, 22, 28, 33, 35n32, 50, 54, 58, 60, 318 Pico della Mirandola 73, 275, 316, 316n51 Pines, Shlomo 52, 79, 79n4, 81, 82, 212 Plato 21n8, 30, 36, 37, 45, 46, 46n42, 47, 52, 54, 55, 56, 57, 59, 60, 62, 67, 71-73, 78-80, 82n12, 83, 83n13, 84n14, 85, 85n15, 86-88, 91, 94-96, 96n42, 98, 99, 101, 103n61, 104, 112-115, 117, 119, 122-125, 126n8, 127, 128, 130, 132, 134, 134n34, 135n34, 137, 140, 140n2, 145, 155, 163, 164, 194, 196, 198, 211n100, 218, 222, 223, 228, 282, 283, 284n52, 285, 290, 291, 296, 302, 304, 316, 331, 345 Platonism, Neo-Platonism 78, 119, 260, 275, 281-285, 290 Plotinus 78 Plutarch 313n38, 315 Polibius 180, 202, 345 Polkar, Isaac 48, 53, 66, 69, 69n40, 83, 83n13 Pompey 313 Portaleone, Abraham 74, 285, 313, 327, 333, 356 Portugal 165, 189, 218n19, 274 Proclus 78 Provence 67, 90, 212, 224 Ptolemy 37 Pufendorf, Samuel 257n43, 312 Ravid, Benjamin 305, 309n22, 312n36, 314 Ravitzky, Aviezer 23, 39n36 Rinuccini, Alemanno 289 Romulus 200, 203, 211n100, 240, 286 Rosenthal, Erwin 29, 29n18, 52, 54,

78, 86, 96, 119n103, 129, 129n20, 131n28, 133n32, 135n34, 144 Roth, Cecil 234, 276 Roth, H. I. 119n103 Rousseau 26 Sa’adia Gaon 13, 44, 47, 48, 54, 59, 60, 63, 64n28, 67, 246n10, 247, 247n12, 266, 267 Sabine, George 21, 21n8 Sallust 313 Salutati, Coluccio 294 Samuel 72, 102, 103, 103n61, 107, 107n72, 111, 112n87, 113, 138, 168, 168n51, 175, 189, 192, 199, 210, 213, 236 Samuel ben Judah of Marseilles 67, 68, 71, 72, 85, 86, 88-91, 93, 97, 117, 118n99, 125, 128, 129, 217, 219n23, 284, 291n71 Saul 111, 226, Saville, Henry 310, 311 Savonarola 22, 281 Schellhase, Robert 308 Selden 202 Senensis, Sixtus 309, 314, 316n46 Sermoneta, Yosef Baruch 10, 11, 70n42, 212, 215, 217 Sforno, Ovadiah 95 Shabetai Zvi 360 Shahar, Shulamit 10 Shalom, Abraham 69, 83 Shem Tov, ben Joseph ibn Shem Tov 69, 69n40 Shem Tov, Joseph 66, 69, 69n40 Shlomo ben Yehudah of Lunel 90 Shulvass, Moses 234, 276, 280n30, 306n6 Siena 274, 283n47 Sinai 38, 66, 184n20, 196 Sirat, Colette 30 Sixtus V 234 Socrates 99, 114, 115, 331 Solomon 66, 107n72, 111, 114, 150,

— 429 —

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151, 153, 158, 159, 183n19, 194, 275, 279, 282n43, 286, 286n59, 287, 325n82, 355 Solon 114, 200, 203, 205, 208, 240 Spain (Iberian Peninsula) 67, 112, 161, 163, 176, 212, 214, 218, 224, 232, 274, 355, 359 Spinoza, Benedict 13, 24-26, 26n14, 28, 33, 50, 54, 75, 76, 101, 118n98, 145, 256, 259, 267-269, 311, 312, 312n32, 324n74, 326, 327, 327n91, 329n102, 333, 355, 355n2, 356, 357, 358n12, 359365, 367, 369n50, 370 Steinschneider, Moritz 283n47 Strabo 315 Strauss, Leo 16, 17, 25, 26, 29, 29n18, 30, 35, 42, 42n39, 43, 44, 44n41, 45, 47, 48, 49, 52, 53, 58, 79, 102, 109, 112 Suarez, Francesco 268, 269

Vasari 281 Venice, Venetian Republic 75, 101, 138, 165, 168, 171, 181, 181n16, 188, 189, 189n31, 193, 205, 210, 230, 231, 231n6, 232-242, 259, 273, 274, 283, 310, 312, 314, 316, 316n48, 316n49, 317, 327n91, 332, 335-338, 338n14, 339, 340, 342, 343, 346, 348, 349, 353, 357, 359 Vergil 313, 331 Veronese 235 Walzer, Richard 55, 78, 105, 141 Wolfson, Harry 13, 52 Wood, Neal 325 Yehiel da Pisa 275, 278 Yerushalmi, Yosef Hayyim 305

Taciteanism 75 Tacitus 74, 202, 238, 305, 306n9, 307, 307n11, 308, 309n23, 310, 311n30n31, 312, 312n32n34, 313, 313n38n40, 315, 315n45, 316, 316n46n48n52, 317, 318, 319, 319n62, 320, 320n62, 321, 321n65, 322, 322n67, 323, 325, 325n82, 327, 327n91, 328, 329, 329n102, 330, 330n103, 331, 334, 345, 356, 358, 358n15 Taitazec, Joseph 214, 215 Tertullian 311, 313, 313n38, 313n40 Tintoretto 235 Todrosi, Todros 68, 73, 81, 90, 125, 130, 134, 135, 136, 136n40, 246n9, 299n91 Toffanin, Giuseppe 308 Toland, John 336, 336n8, 352, 352n56, 353 Ullmann, Walter 89 — 430 —