"IT IS essential to learn
how not to be good." Most of us do not need much help with that
moral - or rather, immoral - exhortation; it comes only too
naturally. But, in a world where people give at least lip service
to the universal application of ethical standards, it still strikes
us as shocking, and gave spice to the 500th anniversary of the
publication ofThe Prince, as celebrated by Imagine: Who's
afraid of Machiavelli? (BBC1, Tuesday of last week).
This manual on how to
govern successfully was placed in its context. Peter Capaldi
marched round the greatest buildings in Florence, proclaiming
lengthy quotations. The issues raised by Machiavelli could not, of
course, be more contemporary: does the responsibility to govern a
country require the setting aside of the kind of moral scruples
that anyone would wish to inform their personal life? To enable the
greatest good for the greatest number of people, must those in
power from time to time make dubious decisions? To what extent do
virtuous ends justify immoral means?
Machiavelli seems to
raise the holding on to power as the central goal of any ruler; and
in the context of the feuding Italian Renaissance city-states,
that political stability was perhaps worth any number of ethical
short cuts.
Actually, that is a
dilemma still with us: recent decades have given us many examples
of dubious regimes that are looked back on, after their downfall,
as having provided more peace for most of their citizens than their
successors.
A host of political
practitioners and commentators were asked to comment on how these
pragmatic and cynical rules of government might relate to recent
decisions and events, and the extent to which contemporary leaders
might owe their political success to following Machiavelli's
advice.
On the same night, the
series Pilgrimage with Simon Reeve (BBC2) began.
Obviously, the BBC is not going to terrify its viewers with
anything as scary as a programme about something religious, such
as going on a pilgrimage, but it might attract a reasonable
audience if it is offered as a celebrity vehicle by someone who is
known for going on long walks rather than for believing in God.
In this first section, he
travelled from Lindisfarne to Canterbury, taking in Lincoln and
Walsingham on the way. As most of the journey was by train and car,
it was hardly surprising that he did not encounter many
pilgrims.
I must not be unfair to
Reeve: he is sincere in his eagerness to understand the impulse
that led, and still leads, many to go on pilgrimage, and is good at
getting people to talk. But he is saturated with post-Enlightenment
Protestant prejudices, separating faith, religion, and life into
different categories. This attitude cannot accept that actions may
be virtuous in themselves, however mixed the motives that lead us
to undertake them; and considers "faith" as a rationally worked-out
position rather than the attitude of trust which underpins the
whole of life.
His journey may help him to realise just this: but he will have
to get out of his car and start walking alongside a group of
genuine pilgrims.