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The New Machiavelli
by H。 G。 Wells ＇Herbert George Wells＇
CONTENTS
BOOK THE FIRST
THE MAKING OF A MAN
I。 CONCERNING A BOOK THAT WAS NEVER WRITTEN
II。 BROMSTEAD AND MY FATHER
III。 SCHOLASTIC
IV。 ADOLESCENCE
BOOK THE SECOND
MARGARET
I。 MARGARET IN STAFFORDSHIRE
II。 MARGARET IN LONDON
III。 MARGARET IN VENICE
IV。 THE HOUSE IN WESTMINSTER
BOOK THE THIRD
THE HEART OF POLITICS
I。 THE RIDDLE FOR THE STATESMAN
II。 SEEKING ASSOCIATES
III。 SECESSION
IV。 THE BESETTING OF SEX
BOOK THE FOURTH
ISABEL
I。 LOVE AND SUCCESS
II。 THE IMPOSSIBLE POSITION
III。 THE BREAKING POINT
BOOK THE FIRST
THE MAKING OF A MAN
CHAPTER THE FIRST
CONCERNING A BOOK THAT WAS NEVER WRITTEN
1
Since I came to this place I have been very restless； wasting my
energies in the futile beginning of ill…conceived books。 One does
not settle down very readily at two and forty to a new way of
living； and I have found myself with the teeming interests of the
life I have abandoned still buzzing like a swarm of homeless bees in
my head。 My mind has been full of confused protests and
justifications。 In any case I should have found difficulties enough
in expressing the complex thing I have to tell； but it has added
greatly to my trouble that I have a great analogue； that a certain
Niccolo Machiavelli chanced to fall out of politics at very much the
age I have reached； and wrote a book to engage the restlessness of
his mind； very much as I have wanted to do。 He wrote about the
relation of the great constructive spirit in politics to individual
character and weaknesses； and so far his achievement lies like a
deep rut in the road of my intention。 It has taken me far astray。
It is a matter of many weeks nowdiversified indeed by some long
drives into the mountains behind us and a memorable sail to Genoa
across the blue and purple waters that drowned Shelleysince I
began a laboured and futile imitation of 〃The Prince。〃 I sat up
late last night with the jumbled accumulation； and at last made a
little fire of olive twigs and burnt it all； sheet by sheetto
begin again clear this morning。
But incidentally I have re…read most of Machiavelli； not excepting
those scandalous letters of his to Vettori； and it seems to me； now
that I have released myself altogether from his literary precedent；
that he still has his use for me。 In spite of his vast prestige I
claim kindred with him and set his name upon my title…page； in
partial intimation of the matter of my story。 He takes me with
sympathy not only by reason of the dream he pursued and the humanity
of his politics； but by the mixture of his nature。 His vices come
in； essential to my issue。 He is dead and gone； all his immediate
correlations to party and faction have faded to insignificance；
leaving only on the one hand his broad method and conceptions； and
upon the other his intimate living personality； exposed down to its
salacious corners as the soul of no contemporary can ever be
exposed。 Of those double strands it is I have to write； of the
subtle protesting perplexing play of instinctive passion and desire
against too abstract a dream of statesmanship。 But things that
seemed to lie very far apart in Machiavelli's time have come near to
one another； it is no simple story of white passions struggling
against the red that I have to tell。
The state…making dream is a very old dream indeed in the world's
history。 It plays too small a part in novels。 Plato and Confucius
are but the highest of a great host of minds that have had a kindred
aspiration； have dreamt of a world of men better ordered； happier；
finer； securer。 They imagined cities grown more powerful and
peoples made rich and multitudinous by their efforts； they thought
in terms of harbours and shining navies； great roads engineered
marvellously； jungles cleared and deserts conquered； the ending of
muddle and diseases and dirt and misery； the ending of confusions
that waste human possibilities； they thought of these things with
passion and desire as other men think of the soft lines and tender
beauty of women。 Thousands of men there are to…day almost mastered
by this white passion of statecraft； and in nearly every one who
reads and thinks you could find； I suspect； some sort of answering
response。 But in every one it presents itself extraordinarily
entangled and mixed up with other； more intimate things。
It was so with Machiavelli。 I picture him at San Casciano as he
lived in retirement upon his property after the fall of the
Republic； perhaps with a twinge of the torture that punished his
conspiracy still lurking in his limbs。 Such twinges could not stop
his dreaming。 Then it was 〃The Prince〃 was written。 All day he
went about his personal affairs； saw homely neighbours； dealt with
his family； gave vent to everyday passions。 He would sit in the
shop of Donato del Corno gossiping curiously among vicious company；
or pace the lonely woods of his estate； book in hand； full of bitter
meditations。 In the evening he returned home and went to his study。
At the entrance； he says； he pulled off his peasant clothes covered
with the dust and dirt of that immediate life； washed himself； put
on his 〃noble court dress；〃 closed the door on the world of toiling
and getting； private loving； private hating and personal regrets；
sat down with a sigh of contentment to those wider dreams。
I like to think of him so； with brown books before him lit by the
light of candles in silver candlesticks； or heading some new chapter
of 〃The Prince；〃 with a grey quill in his clean fine hand。
So writing； he becomes a symbol for me； and the less none because of
his animal humour； his queer indecent side； and because of such
lapses into utter meanness as that which made him sound the note of
the begging…letter writer even in his 〃Dedication；〃 reminding His
Magnificence very urgently； as if it were the gist of his matter； of
the continued malignity of fortune in his affairs。 These flaws
complete him。 They are my reason for preferring him as a symbol to
Plato； of whose indelicate side we know nothing； and whose
correspondence with Dionysius of Syracuse has perished； or to
Confucius who travelled China in search of a Prince he might
instruct； with lapses and indignities now lost in the mists of ages。
They have achieved the apotheosis of individual forgetfulness； and
Plato has the added glory of that acquired beauty； that bust of the
Indian Bacchus which is now indissolubly mingled with his tradition。
They have passed into the world of the ideal； and every humbug takes
his freedoms with their names。 But Machiavelli； more recent and
less popular； is still all human and earthly； a fallen brotherand
at the same time that nobly dressed and nobly dreaming writer at the
desk。
That vision of the strengthened and perfected state is protagonist
in my story。 But as I re…read 〃The Prince〃 and thought out the
manner of my now abandoned project； I came to perceive how that stir
and whirl of human thought one calls by way of embodiment the French
Revolution； has altered absolutely the approach to such a question。
Machiavelli； like Plato and Pythagoras and Confucius two hundred odd
decades before him； saw only one method by which a thinking man；
himself not powerful； might do the work of state building； and that
was by seizing the imagination of a Prince。 Directly these men
turned their thoughts towards realisation； their attitudes became
what shall I call it？secretarial。 Machiavelli； it is true； had
some little doubts about the particular Prince he wanted； whether it
was Caesar Borgia of Giuliano or Lorenzo； but a Prince it had to be。
Before I saw clearly the differences of our own time I searched my
mind for the modern equivalent of a Prince。 At various times I
redrafted a parallel dedication to the Prince of Wales； to the
Emperor William； to Mr。 Evesham； to a certain newspaper proprietor
who was once my schoolfellow at City Merchants'； to Mr。 J。 D。
Rockefellerall of them men in their several ways and circumstances
and possibilities； princely。 Yet in every case my pen bent of its
own accord towards irony becausebecause； although at first I did
not realise it； I myself am just as free to be a prince。 The appeal
was unfair。 The old sort of Prince； the old little principality has
vanished from the world。 The commonweal is one man's absolute
estate and responsibility no more。 In Machiavelli's time it was
indeed to an extreme degree one man's affair。 But the days of the
Prince who planned and directed and was the source and centre of all
power are ended。 We are in a condition of affairs infinite