Chris Kutarna | Aug. 30, 2016
Justin
Sullivan—Getty Images
Democratic
presidential nominee former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton speaks during a
campaign even at Truckee Meadows Community College in Reno, Nev., on Aug. 25,
2016.
And Donald Trump is a fanatic prophet
Though the epic presidential battle between Donald
Trump and Hillary Clinton may feel unique, these same personalities have
clashed before.
More than 500 years ago, the prophet Savonarola
enthralled Renaissance Europe while Machiavelli, chief policy wonk of the age,
scorned the showman’s demagoguery. Trump and Clinton are replaying those
parts—and will leave similar marks on history.
Trump is a prophet. That is the clearest way to
understand the man’s methods, his popular appeal and his psychology. His
improbable presidential run has followed closely the script set forth by the
chief doomsayer of the Renaissance, Girolamo Savonarola.
A friar and political outsider, Savonarola exploded
from obscurity in the 1490s to captivate the city of Florence, sweep
away a Medici establishment that had ruled for half a century, and incite a
mass campaign against liberal values that ended with his historic Bonfire of the
Vanities.
How did Savonarola do it? First, by shouting an
apocalyptic message that stoked people’s deep anxieties. Ottoman Muslims loomed
to the east. The French invaded and carried away the city’s wealth in a
lopsided peace deal. In a vague way, Savonarola had predicted both and
concluded, to quote Trump: “We don’t win anymore!” The moment called for strong
leadership—both moral and political—but as Savonarola said: “O
Florence, Florence, your cup is full of holes.”
Second, he owned the news cycle. Print media was
just emerging, and Savonarola harnessed its potential better than any. He
delivered fiery sermons to crowds of thousands, and then print houses helped
him reach thousands more with the sure-to-sell printed version. Popes and
princes repeatedly declared him false. Every time, Savonarola answered by
flooding the streets with cheap pamphlets—15th-century tweets—that twisted
those denunciations into proof of elite corruption.
Third, he believed. Savonarola’s most fervent
follower was himself. He believed God had appointed him the task of renewing
the city, and so whatever words he spoke, they were true. That ecstatic
confidence was his greatest strength. It drew to his every sermon a horde of
sensation-seekers, plus citizens who had lost faith and longed to have it
restored by the man’s reality-bending powers.
But the same confidence also blinded him to
political realities. The Paul Ryans of the day who had supported Savonarola’s
agenda—evicting the Medici oligarchs, broadening citizen representation in the
city’s councils—shook their heads in frustration at his incapacity to rein in
the messianic ego when prudence demanded. (Bad-mouthing the Pope has never been
a vote-winner.)
If The Donald is a modern Savonarola, then Hillary
is America’s Machiavelli.
Niccolò Machiavelli was Florence’s anti-prophet: a
career politico who was too steeped in the nuts and bolts of the republic’s
problems to stomach Savonarola’s loose and sudden populism. “In my opinion, he
shifts with the times, and colors his lies to suit them.”
Savonarola shouted airy phrases from a pulpit;
Machiavelli wrote dry policy papers from the chancery. For years he labored
tirelessly as a chief secretary, then as a diplomat. Nine out of every 10 of
his thoughts were political, and his close associates praised his astounding
intellect and work ethic. Despite all his passion for public service, to quote Clinton: “The service part always came easier than
the public part.” Machiavelli himself said
it better: “I burn—but the burning makes no mark outside.”
In opposite ways, the prophet and the policy wonk
together reshaped the center of Renaissance Europe—and are reshaping America
now.
Savonarola’s legacy was to give voice to the
political and cultural tensions of his day—tensions that the Medici had
muffled. The prophet himself was silenced (burned at the stake) by his
political opponents the moment his popularity wavered. He had made too many
enemies: on the “left,” those who rejected his moral austerity; on the “right,”
those who feared a trade war with the pope; and up high, those who feared the
loss of their privileges. But his death did nothing to reunite the city. His
strident indignation could not be unshouted.
For the rest of his life, Machiavelli tried to
channel those raw energies into sensible reforms. He may have detested the mad
monk’s methods, but he also believed that occasional citizen-driven crises were
the mark of a healthy, vital republic.
It was a tough road. Over decades of success and
failure in and out of office, the ambitious secretary came to two famously
harsh beliefs: that the ends justify the means and that the first rule of
politics must be self-reliance—since no one can be trusted fully.
History still remembers Machiavelli best for this
cynicism. It forgets that he was driven to continue his service by a deep faith
in the people’s power to shape their collective future. Clinton, no stranger to
high unfavorables, claims the same drive.
This election cycle has been full of surprises, but
how history will remember its chief protagonists is already becoming clear.
Trump’s legacy will be how he whipped up the tensions of his time. Clinton’s
will be how she spent her life trying to make America stronger.
Source: time
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