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Introduction

To breed an animal which is able to make promises – is that not


precisely the paradoxical task which nature has set herself with regard
to humankind? Is it not the real problem of humankind?
(Friedrich Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morality)

This study explores the role of trust within the development of interna-
tional political thought in the seventeenth century. It will focus on the
period from the Peace of Vervins in 1598, through the Thirty Years War
(1618–1648) and the various wars waged by Louis XIV up to the War
of the Spanish Succession concluded with the Peace of Utrecht in 1713.1
The underlying problems of these conflicts generated a rich literature
within seventeenth-century political thought. As distinct from a political
and diplomatic history of this period2 , the present study proposes a close

1 The Peace of Vervins, concluded between Spain and France on 2 May 1598, was the prime reference
point for political thinkers until it was superseded by the Peace of Westphalia of 1648. See notably the
anonymous seventeenth-century tract: Les Affaires qui sont aujourd’huy entre les Maisons de France et
d’Austriche (1649) and A. E. Imhof, Der Friede von Vervins 1598 (Aarau 1966). For European states, the
first half of the seventeenth century was marked by Spanish and – to a much lesser extent – Austrian
Habsburg attempts to dominate the emerging European state system. This struggle spilled over into
the Thirty Years War. Despite its shortcomings, the Peace of Westphalia created greater stability
in Europe. The war between France and Spain was only ended by a peace treaty in 1659. See H.
Duchhardt (ed.), Der Pyrenäenfriede 1659: Vorgeschichte, Widerhall, Rezeptionsgeschichte (Göttingen
2010) and L. Bély, B. Haan and S. Jettot (eds.), La Paix des Pyrénées (1659) ou le triomphe de la raison
politique (Paris 2015). But the second half of the century saw Louis XIV attempt to appropriate the
Habsburgs’ dominant role in Europe, undermining the Westphalian settlement.
2 Where necessary the historical context will be referred to and further scrutinised, but only in support
of a better understanding of the theories studied in the volume. For a classical account of this period
see J. Engel, “Von der spätmittelalterlichen respublica christiana zum Mächte-Europa der Neuzeit” in
Die Entstehung des neuzeitlichen Europa. Handbuch der europäischen Geschichte vol. 3, ed. by J. Engel
(Stuttgart 1971), p. 1–384, W. Platzhoff, Geschichte des Europäischen Staatensystems 1559–1660 (Munich,
Berlin 1928) and M. Immich, Geschichte des Europäischen Staatensystems 1660–1789 (Munich, Berlin
1905). See also J. Ter Meulen, Der Gedanke der Internationalen Organisation in seiner Entwicklung
1300–1800 (The Hague 1917). More recent relevant literature will be referred to throughout this study.
In the late eighteenth century, awareness of the importance of the historical context as interpretament
increased. See, for instance, J. G. Herder, “Auch eine Philosophie der Geschichte zur Bildung der
Menschheit” in Werke vol. I, ed. by W. Pross (Munich 1984), p. 589–686.

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2 Introduction
analysis of seventeenth-century theorising of interstate relations. An endur-
ing discussion of trust can be identified in this period, making it possible to
use it as the structuring principle for this study. What was the conceptual
status of trust? Was it seen as foundational in theorising interstate relations?
Is it possible to discern a progressive development within the seventeenth-
century discussion of trust? Were the relations between sovereign states
inherently antagonistic, making it unreasonable to trust other states? What
were the necessary conditions for trust between states?
The thinkers considered in this study were less concerned with drawing
diagrams of particular political situations than with drawing up general
programmes to address the conflictual situation within Europe. A range of
different concepts was employed by these practitioners of programmatic
thought. They proposed – more or less lucidly – conditions for future peace
between European states. A focus on trust enables a better understanding
of their different uses of more explicit political and juridical concepts.
Trust was not a free-standing political doctrine, but a concept employed
in different political theories. ‘Trust ( . . . ) can be considered an “actor’s
category”, that is, a problem about which seventeenth-century people
consciously thought rather than a concept imposed on the past by later
historians’.3 The concept of trust was fluid in its use. A perspective on trust
will shed light on the various ways classical political or juridical concepts
of international political thought – interest, balance of power, natural
law or plans for institutionalising an international federal structure –
differed in their foundational assumptions. Trust serves as an innovative
interpretament to analyse the complex and often competing doctrines of
interstate relations. The endeavours of the writers discussed in this study
are central to understanding the theory and formation of the modern
state and the emerging state system.4 Indeed, the very term system, so
3 R. Weil, A Plague of Informers. Conspiracy and Political Trust in William III’s England (New Haven
2013), p. 5.
4 A historical overview is provided in H. Schilling, “Formung und Gestalt des internationalen Sys-
tems in der werdenden Neuzeit – Phasen und bewegende Kräfte” in Kontinuität und Wandel in
der Staatenordnung der Neuzeit. Beiträge zur Geschichte des internationalen Systems, ed. by P. Krüger
(Marburg 1991), p. 19–46. See also H. Schilling, “Konfessionalisierung und Formierung eines inter-
nationalen Systems während der Frühen Neuzeit” in Die Reformation in Deutschland und Europa:
Interpretationen und Debatten, ed. by H. Guiggisberg, G. Krodel (Heidelberg 1993), p. 591–613. On
the foundations of the legal system, see H. L. A. Hart, The Concept of Law (Oxford 1997), p. 100–123.
R. Aron, Peace & War. A Theory of International Relations (New Brunswick 2003), p. 94–149 has an
insightful discussion on the international system. The classic work on the theory of systems is N.
Luhmannn, Soziale Systeme. Grundriß einer allgemeinen Theorie (Frankfurt am Main 1987), p. 599:
‘Der Systembegriff steht ( . . . ) immer für einen realen Sachverhalt. Wir meinen mit “System” also
nie ein nur analytisches System, eine bloße gedankliche Konstruktion, ein bloßes Modell’. See also
N. Luhmannn, Zweckbegriff und Systemrationalität (Frankfurt am Main 1973), p. 55–86.

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Introduction 3
familiar to modern parlance, received its first conceptualisation at exactly
this moment in the development of interstate relations.5
The treaties of Münster and Osnabrück, collectively known as the Peace
of Westphalia, brought the Thirty Years War to an end in 1648.6 The
peace settlement marked if not the end of an era of confessional wars,
then at least a shift away from them and towards new structures and
institutions that re–ordered international relations by means of modern
state power.7 While 1648 was primarily a peace settlement for the Holy
Roman Empire rather than for Europe as a whole8 , seventeenth-century
thinkers who wrote after the Peace repeatedly referred to Westphalia as the
pre-eminent point of reference for organising interstate relations.9 Though
not the decisive watershed which introduced state sovereignty with the
stroke of a pen as claimed by some students of international relations10 ,
for seventeenth-century thinkers the Peace recognised state sovereignty as a

5 See discussion in Chapter 3.3.


6 Cf. H. Duchhardt (ed.), Der Westfälische Friede. Diplomatie – politische Zäsur – kulturelles Umfeld –
Rezeptionsgeschichte (Munich 1998), M. Schröder (ed.), 350 Jahre Westfälischer Friede. Verfassungs-
geschichte, Staatskirchenrecht, Völkerrechtsgeschichte (Berlin 1999), O. M. van Kappen and D.
Wyduckel (eds.), Der Westfälische Frieden in rechts- und staatstheoretischer Perspektive (Berlin 1999),
H. Duchhardt (ed.), La Paix de Westphalie: de l’événement européen au lieu européen de mémoire?
(Sigmaringen 1999), J. A. Caporaso (ed.), Continuity and Change in the Westphalian Order (Oxford
2000).
7 See H. Schilling, “Der Westfälische Friede und das neuzeitliche Profil Europas” in Der Westfälische
Friede. Diplomatie – politische Zäsur – kulturelles Umfeld – Rezeptionsgeschichte, ed. by H. Duchhardt
(Munich 1998), p. 3–32.
8 I have already argued this in P. Schröder, “The Constitution of the Holy Roman Empire after
1648: Samuel Pufendorf’s Assessment in his Monzambano” in Historical Journal 42 (1999), p. 961–
983.
9 It would be wrong to deny the value the Peace of Westphalia had for seventeenth-century writers
such as Pufendorf, Leibniz and a whole range of pamphleteers to whom I will refer further in the
relevant chapters. See, as only one prominent example outside the scope of this study, Rousseau’s
remark in 1758, according to which ‘the Treaty of Westphalia will perhaps always be the basis of the
political system [of Europe]. Thus, public Right, which the Germans study with such care, is ( . . . )
in certain regards, that of the whole of Europe’. J. J. Rousseau, The Plan for Perpetual Peace, On
the Government of Poland, and Other Writings on History and Politics, ed. by C. Kelly (Dartmouth
2005), p. 35.
10 As just one of many examples, see T. L. Knutsen, A History of International Relations Theory
(Manchester 1997), p. 91f.: ‘The Treaty of Westphalia laid the legal basis for the modern territorial
state. Upon its foundation was erected a new system of international interaction and a new system
of concepts and theories by which this interaction could be understood. The Treaty’s recognition of
the principle of external sovereignty represents the formal recognition and the legal consolidation
of the modern interstate system’. Today, controversy and confusion about the status of the Peace of
Westphalia loom large. See against such positions the arguments in Schröder, “The Constitution
of the Holy Roman Empire after 1648”, p. 982 and, with many more references to those misguided
judgements regarding the issue of sovereignty in relation to the Peace of Westphalia, A. Osiander,
“Sovereignty, International Relations, and the Westphalian Myth” in International Organization 55
(2001), p. 261.

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4 Introduction
guiding principle for a new international system11 that conceded states alone
to be the legitimate actors in the declaration, conduct and ending of wars.12
With war and the rules of war becoming exclusively an affair of the sovereign
state, a new system of international relations could emerge.13 However, the
result of this process was ambivalent: the opportunity for civilising and

11 This point is now convincingly made by D. Boucher, “Resurrecting Pufendorf and Capturing the
Westphalian Moment” in Review of International Studies 27 (2001), p. 560–562. Stephen Krasner’s
claim misleadingly attributes an uncorroborated significance to the Peace of Westphalia when he
asserts that it ‘was a break point with the past, but not the one understood by most students
of international law. Westphalia did mark the transition from Christendom to reason of state and
balance of power as the basic cognitive conceptualization informing the actual behavior of European
rulers’. S. D. Krasner, Sovereignty Organized Hypocrisy (Princeton 1999), p. 82.
12 Cf., for instance, O. Kimminich, “Die Entstehung des neuzeitlichen Völkerrechts” in I. Fetscher and
H. Münkler (eds.), Pipers Handbuch der politischen Ideen, Bd. 3: Neuzeit: Von den Konfessionskriegen
bis zur Aufklärung (Munich 1985), p. 93, C. Schmitt, The Nomos of the Earth in the International
Law of the Jus Publicum Europaeum, translated by G. L. Ulmen (New York 2004), p. 140–151, W.
Janssen, “Krieg” in Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe. Historisches Lexikon zur politisch-sozialen Sprache
in Deutschland vol. 3, ed. by O. Brunner, W. Conze and R. Koselleck (Stuttgart 1982), p. 576–583,
W. G. Grewe, The Epochs of International Law (Berlin, New York 2000), p. 203–221.
13 Anglophone scholars in particular summarise these developments under the term Westphalian order.
The Peace of Westphalia is a symbol for a specific set of new political actors and institutions, as
well as for the legal, political and philosophical forms in which they are to be conceived. For
example J. Rosenberg, The Empire of Civil Society. A Critique of the Realist Theory of International
Relations (London, New York 1994), p. 138 claimed that ‘an absolutist states-system was initialled at
Westphalia’. This so-called Westphalian order thus became a focal point of political, historical and
philosophical scrutiny and debate. Another pertinent example is the view put forward by Michael
Sheehan in The Balance of Power: History & Theory. He asserted that ‘the Treaty of Westphalia
( . . . ) can be seen as a crucial watershed in the long process by which the balance of power became
the central guiding principle of European international relations in the eighteenth and nineteenth
centuries. In order to work effectively, a complex balance of power requires the existence of a
functioning international system in which the sovereign independence of states is the central goal
of national policy and in which there is comparative moderation in foreign policy objectives and
an absence of ideologically based interstate bitterness. The Peace of Westphalia can be said to have
formalised these conditions in Europe and thereby provided the foundation for the acceptance
of balance of power logic as a determinant of foreign policy behaviour. It brought an end to the
century-long Christian wars of religion in Europe [and] it formally recognised the concept of state
sovereignty’. Michael Sheehan, The Balance of Power: History & Theory (London 1996), p. 37f.
Although the settlement of the Westphalian treaties had, to a remarkable degree, established a new
modus vivendi among the European states, assertions such as Sheehan’s seem too easily to forget that
the confessional antagonism between the Christian creeds continued to influence the forging of
alliances along confessional lines on the one hand and, on the other, continued to disrupt the settling
of conflicts because of its divisive power. Given that the value system and the preoccupations of the
seventeenth century are mostly alien to us, the historian of ideas needs to engage in the important
task of situating accurately the contemporary debates and their underlying ideas to allow for an
appropriate understanding of their intellectual currency. The temptation and pitfalls of anachronistic
statements should be resisted. For a critical discussion and refutation of different variants of these
anachronistic positions, see M. Zimmer, Moderne, Staat und Internationale Politik (Wiesbaden
2008), p. 37–53 and Osiander, “Sovereignty, International Relations, and the Westphalian Myth”.
See also the very different criticism by B. Teschke, The Myth of 1648: Class, Geopolitics and the
Making of Modern International Relations (London 2003), p. 1–4. Teschke, too, perceives these
assumptions as ‘a constituting founding myth within International Relations’.

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Introduction 5
juridifying war14 equally entailed the potential for an intensification and
enhancement of the war effort.15
Territorial states confronted one another with the claim to absolute
sovereignty and consequently no longer acknowledged an extra-territorial
legal authority and superior normative institution, whether that of emperor
or Pope. This radically departed from the theory and the practice of the
prior international order. Reason of state demanded calculation of the state’s
interest, to be pursued by all available political, military and economic
means. Thus, as a correlate of reason of state in foreign policy, the concepts
of a balance of power and of a politics informed by state interests increasingly
dominated international political thought. Parallel to this development, a
new kind of international law emerged as the law of states, as understood by
Alberico Gentili and Hugo Grotius. Together, these tendencies provided
new approaches to political thought and international action in the new
system.16
The programmatic seventeenth-century approaches to relations between
European states generated three great currents of political thought. Firstly,
theories informed by reason of state and state interest, leading to the
concept of a competitive balance of power as a response to the threat of

14 Among the wealth of literature see, in particular, Schmitt, The Nomos of the Earth and recently
M. Koskenniemi, The Gentle Civilizer of Nations. The Rise and Fall of International Law 1870–
1960 (Cambridge 2001), M. Koskenniemi, “International Law and raison d’état: Rethinking the
Prehistory of International Law” in The Roman Foundations of the Law of Nations: Alberico Gentili
and the Justice of Empire, ed. by B. Kingsbury and B. Straumann (Oxford 2010), p. 297–339.
15 Cf. E. Krippendorff, Staat und Krieg. Die historische Logik politischer Unvernunft (Frankfurt am
Main 1985), p. 277–282. See also Johannes Burkhardt’s thesis that bellicosity ensued not because
of the existence of early modern states, ‘but rather from the state’s imperfections, failings and
shortcomings’. J. Burkhardt, “Wars of States or Wars of State-Formation?” in War, the State
and International Law in Seventeenth-Century Europe, ed. by O. Asbach and P. Schröder (Farnham
2010), p. 34. For further discussion, see also J. Burkhardt “Der Dreißigjährige Krieg als frühmoderner
Staatsbildungskrieg” in Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Unterricht 45 (1994), p. 487–499, J. Burkhardt,
“Die Friedlosigkeit der Frühen Neuzeit. Grundlegung einer Theorie der Bellizität Europas” in
Zeitschrift für Historische Forschung 24 (1997), p. 509–574 and critically B. Teschke, “Revisiting the
‘War-Makes-States’ Thesis: War, Taxation and Social Property Relations in Early Modern Europe”
in War, the State and International Law in Seventeenth-Century Europe, ed. by O. Asbach and P.
Schröder (Farnham 2010), p. 35–59.
16 Cf. R. Axtmann, “The State of the State: The Model of the Modern Nation State and its Con-
temporary Transformation” in International Political Science Review 25 (2004), p. 264–281. Of the
vast literature on the theory and practice of political and legal operations in the modern state sys-
tem, see, for example, H. Duchhardt, Gleichgewicht der Kräfte, Convenance, Europäisches Konzert.
Friedenskongresse und Friedensschlüsse vom Zeitalter Ludwigs XIV. bis zum Wiener Kongreß (Darm-
stadt 1976), Grewe, The Epochs of International Law, A. Strohmeyer, Theorie der Interaktion. Das
europäische Gleichgewicht der Kräfte in der frühen Neuzeit (Wien, Köln, Weimar 1994), Sheehan,
The Balance of Power; L. Bély (ed.), L’Europe des traités de Westphalie. Esprit de la diplomatie et
diplomatie de l’esprit (Paris 2000), A. Blin, 1648 – La Paix de Westphalie ou la naissance de l’Europe
moderne (Paris 2006).

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6 Introduction
universal monarchy. Secondly, juridical and philosophical theories which
applied natural law to interstate relations and proposed a jus publicum
Europaeum as a reliable juridical framework. And thirdly, projects which
aimed for perpetual peace on the basis of federal structures for organis-
ing the state system. To distinguish between these different approaches,
we need to contextualise them both in comparison with rival positions
and in relation to concrete political controversies and the prevailing inter-
ested parties. But all three approaches confronted the central problem:
the sovereignty of the state.17 This is why those who deemed it necessary
to implement institutions above the sovereign state so as to enforce an
international order likened the sphere of interstate relations to the state of
nature.
Political advisers, on the other hand, frequently understood the concepts
for organising interstate relations in a less sophisticated way as either the
struggle for universal monarchy or the various facets of a balance of power.
The Duke of Sully argued forcefully against the Habsburg claim to universal
monarchy. The alternative he offered was to be seen in a balance of the
European powers, which he perceived as being formed around the two
antagonistic blocs of the Habsburgs and their allies on the one side, and
the French crown and its allies on the other.18
The concept of universal monarchy can be seen primarily as a rhetorical
device in those theories which advocated a balance of power as the only
reliable alternative to what they saw as an undesirable hegemony.19 Writing
at the dawn of the eighteenth century in the context of the War of the
Spanish Succession, Charles D’Avenant displayed how perceptions of the
threat of universal monarchy had shifted during the previous century:‘’Tis a

17 That is not to say that these arguments were anti-statist. On the contrary, the state was seen as a
crucial part of any solution to the inherent antagonistic relations between states.
18 We will see, however, that a balance of power was conceptualised in different and more complex
ways than those suggested by Sully. It has been claimed that ‘the chief attractive power of this
balance-of-power doctrine, then as now, was its apparent inescapability, the absence of a practical
alternative’. P. W. Schroeder, The Transformation of European Politics 1763–1848 (Oxford 1994),
p. 10.
19 One exception is Campanella’s writing in defence of Spanish universal monarchy, since this text
provides an illuminating contrast to the bulk of the writings studied here. The classical study on the
concept of universal monarchy is still F. Bosbach, Monarchia Universalis. Ein politischer Leitbegriff
der Frühen Neuzeit (Göttingen 1988). See also A. Strohmeyer, “Ideas of Peace in Early Modern
Models of International Order: Universal Monarchy and Balance of Power in Comparison” in J.
Dülffer and R. Frank (eds.), Peace, War and Gender from Antiquity to the Present. Cross-cultural
Perspectives (Essen 2009), p. 65–80 and M. van Gelderen, “Universal Monarchy, the Rights of War
and Peace and the Balance of Power: Europe’s Quest for Civil Order” in Reflections on Europe:
Defining a Political Order in Time and Space, ed. by H.-Å. Persson and B. Stråth (Brussels 2007),
p. 49–71.

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Introduction 7
melancholy Consideration that we can no longer say the House of Austria,
the two Branches of which preserved the balance of Power, and weighed
in the Scale against France: We must now say the House of Bourbon.
With what Mischiefs does not the Conjunction of such mighty Kingdoms
threaten the World? If the French have it not in their Will, is it not in their
Power to oppress the whole, especially if both Scepters fall into one Hand?
In short ( . . . ) they seem the People most likely to invade the Liberties of
Europe’.20 This historical shift is remarkable and D’Avenant’s views were
shared by other observers.
Alongside the political theories of balance of power or universal monar-
chy, and the juridical writings of natural law, a third genre can be identified:
schemes for peace.21 One should not dismiss too quickly the efforts of early
modern thinkers to formulate alternatives to the balance of power. They
were aware of the dilemmas inherent in the attempts to conceptualise
an organising principle for interstate relations. Plans for peace between
sovereign states were often disregarded as naive. In order to establish an
international assembly with the requisite rights and powers, a real trans-
formation of power had to occur, but privileged sovereigns are reluctant
to give up rights. Immanuel Kant would make this point: ‘it will be said,
states will never submit to coercive laws of this kind; and a proposal for
a universal state of nations to whose power all individual states should
voluntarily accommodate themselves so as to obey its laws – however good
it may sound in the theory of an Abbé St Pierre – still does not hold in
practice’.22 With state sovereignty in place to guarantee internal security,
sovereigns resisted endangering the domestic status quo. Seen in this light,
any programme to organise the European state system on the basis of some
kind of federal structure directly confronted the exclusivity of absolute state
sovereignty.
In this complex set of circumstances, what was the political role of
trust? The positive notion of trust and trustworthiness immediately found
its negative counterweight in fraud and untrustworthiness. However, it

20 C. D’Avenant, An Essay upon Universal Monarchy. Written in the Year 1701 (London 1756), p. 59f.
21 An excellent overview is now available in the study by B. Arcidiacono, Cinq types de paix. Une
histoire des plans de pacification perpétuelle (Paris 2011).
22 I. Kant, “On the Common Saying: That Might be Correct in Theory, but it is of no Use in Practice”
in The Cambridge Edition of the Works of Immanuel Kant. Practical Philosophy, ed. by M. J. Gregor
(Cambridge 1996), p. 309. However, this does not mean that Kant advocated the balance of power.
On the contrary, he claimed that ‘an enduring universal peace by means of the so-called balance of
power in Europe is a mere fantasy, like Swift’s house that the builder had constructed in such perfect
accord with all the laws of equilibrium that it collapsed as soon as a sparrow alighted upon it’.

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8 Introduction
is fear – crucial in Hobbes’s political theory23 but also of considerable
relevance in early modern international thought24 – that should be seen
as the prime conceptual counter to trust. Given their mutual fear, trust
remained precarious between European states, even as a system of interstate
relations emerged.
Looking at trust as a principle underpinning the seventeenth-century
discourses of interstate relations shows that references to trust – or to
fides25 , good faith, Vertrauen and confiance26 – were deployed as a tool
in political conflicts. The claim to faithfulness for one’s own side was
as much a part of the strategic deployment of trust as the denial of the
trustworthiness of an adversary. There are thus two very different levels
to be assessed regarding the conceptualisation of trust. The first is a more
abstract concept of trust as a fundamental and philosophical value that
might provide a basis for organising relations between states. The second
is a more cynical strategic use in the polemics that accompanied various
interstate conflicts. An almost universal starting point for seventeenth-
century political thinkers was Machiavelli. He pointed, like nobody else, to
the elusiveness of trust when the circumstances of politics changed: ‘Rulers
( . . . ) have often found that men whom they had regarded with suspicion
in the early stages of their rule prove more reliable and useful than those
whom they had trusted at first. ( . . . ) But it is very difficult to generalise

23 See Chapter 3.2. One of the key references is T. Hobbes, On the Citizen, ed. by R. Tuck (Cambridge
1997), p. 37.
24 See, for example, A. Oschmann, “Der metus justus in der deutschen Kriegsrechtslehre des 17.
Jahrhunderts” in Angst und Politik in der europäischen Geschichte, ed. by F. Bosbach (Dettelbach
2000), p. 101–131.
25 Fides in the Roman sense has a twofold meaning. Cicero argued that ‘the keeping of faith is
fundamental to justice’. Cicero, On Duties, ed. by M. T. Griffin and E. M. Atkins (Cambridge
1991), (I-23), p. 10. However, in addition to the Ciceronian connotation, fides also bore a very
different meaning in Roman thought, as coercion and power were necessary components. The
stronger, victorious Romans would absorb the vanquished into their fides and it would be the
Romans who dictated the terms of inclusion. Grotius draws attention to this different usage. H.
Grotius, The Rights of War and Peace, ed. by R. Tuck (Indianapolis 2006), p. 1587: ‘We often
meet in Roman Histories with these Expressions, Tradere se in fidem, To yield themselves to the
Faith, Tradere in fidem & clementiam, To yield to the Faith and Clemency. ( . . . ) But it must be
understood, that by these Words is meant an absolute Surrender: And that the Word Fides in these
Places signifies nothing but the Probity of the Conqueror, to which the Conquered yields himself’.
Hobbes shared Grotius’s perception of the Roman fides. T. Hobbes, Leviathan, ed. by R. Tuck
(Cambridge 1992), p. 485. See the discussion in R. Heinze, “Fides” in R. Heinze, Vom Geist des
Römertums (Darmstadt 1960), p. 59–81, D. Nörr, Die Fides im römischen Völkerrecht (Heidelberg
1991) and M. Hartmann, Die Praxis des Vertrauens (Berlin 2011), p. 375–405.
26 Note that trust figures quite prominently as a key concept not only in different learned academic
works such as those by Gentili, Grotius and others, but also in pamphlets, polemics and peace
treaties themselves. Apart from the Roman notion of fides, all these terms are unproblematic and
interchangeable.

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Introduction 9
about this, since men and circumstances vary’.27 Following Machiavelli,
we can conceptualise trust: the moment an actor trusts another, he or
she embraces a hypothesis that seems secure enough to predict the other’s
action. Trust thus corresponds with the assumption of future behaviour on
the part of others. Though always prone to exploitation, trust is a crucial
component of political conduct.28
Trust has attracted the attention of modern scholars. In the field of
sociology, Niklas Luhmann’s study Vertrauen. Ein Mechanismus der Reduk-
tion sozialer Komplexität is an early and important contribution. Luhmann
analyses ‘trust as a form of security’ and is in this respect relevant to the
present study.29 Political philosophers have also taken up the theme of
trust.30 John Dunn is eminent among the scholars who have worked on
trust within the field of the history of political thought.31 Peter Johnson’s
Frames of Deceit addresses ‘trust as a conditional disposition’ within the
political community of a state, though not within the field of international
relations.32 Trust also plays a considerable role within the scholarship of
(political) economy, although it is rarely related to the specific concerns

27 N. Machiavelli, The Prince, ed. by Q. Skinner and R. Price (Cambridge 2008), p. 74.
28 Cf. G. Simmel, Soziologie. Untersuchungen über die Formen der Vergesellschaftung (Berlin 1908),
p. 263: ‘Vertrauen, als Hypothese künftigen Verhaltens, die sicher genug ist, um praktisches Handeln
darauf zu gründen, ist als Hypothese ein mittlerer Zustand zwischen Wissen und Nichtwissen um
den Menschen’.
29 N. Luhmann, Vertrauen. Ein Mechanismus der Reduktion sozialer Komplexität (Stuttgart 1973), p. 12.
See also P. Sztompka, Trust: A Sociological Theory (Cambridge 1999).
30 See, in particular, A. Boyer, Chose promise. Études sur la promesse à partir de Hobbes et de quelques
autres (Paris 2014) and Hartmann, Die Praxis.
31 See J. Dunn, The Political Thought of John Locke (Cambridge 1969), esp. p. 120–187, J. Dunn,
“Trust in the Politics of John Locke” in J. Dunn, Rethinking Modern Political Theory (Cambridge
1985), p. 34–54, J. Dunn, “Trust and Political Agency” in Trust: Making and Breaking Cooperative
Relations, ed. by D. Gambetta (Oxford 1988), p. 73–93. See also H. W. Blom, “Patriots, Contracts
and Other Patterns of Trust in a Polyarchic Society: The Dutch 17th Century” in ‘Patria’ und
‘Patrioten’ vor dem Patriotismus: Pflichten, Rechte, Glauben und die Rekonfigurierung europäischer
Gemeinwesen im 17. Jahrhundert, ed. by R. v. Friedeburg (Wiesbaden 2005), p. 193–213. Hobbes
scholars have also noticed the importance of trust in Hobbes’s political philosophy, though not in
relation to international political thought. See, in particular, D. Gauthier, The Logic of Leviathan:
The Moral and Political Theory of Thomas Hobbes (Oxford 1969), J. Hampton, Hobbes and the Social
Contract Tradition (Cambridge 1986) and D. Baumgold, “‘Trust’ in Hobbes’s Political Thought”
in Political Theory 41 (2013), p. 838–855.
32 P. Johnson, Frames of Deceit. A Study of the Loss and Recovery of Public and Private Trust (Cambridge
1993), p. 19. Among the other studies on trust within moral and political theory, see the collection
of essays in D. Gambetta (ed.), Trust: Making and Breaking Cooperative Relations (Oxford 1988), A.
B. Seligman, The Problem of Trust (Princeton 2000), M. Hollis, Trust within Reason (Cambridge
1998), E. Uslaner, The Moral Foundations of Trust (Cambridge 2002), C. Tilly, Trust and Rule
(Cambridge 2005) and M. Kohn, Trust. Self-Interest and the Common Good (Oxford 2008). A fairly
descriptive historical account, though regrettably not dealing with the seventeenth century, is now
found in U. Frevert, Vertrauensfragen. Eine Obsession der Moderne (Munich 2013).

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10 Introduction
of this study.33 Scholars of international political thought have drawn
attention to the importance of trust, if only in passing. Stawell’s assertion
that ‘mutual distrust among European states, ( . . . ) has been the curse of
Europe’34 is an early reference to the importance of trust – and the lack of
it – within the international sphere.
The discussion of trust from the perspective of international politi-
cal thought faces particular problems, doubtless reflecting the volatility
of interstate relations when sovereign states confront each other. Trust
gains in urgency when ‘the virtues of a watchful distrust, and of judicious
untrustworthiness’35 become the leading principles of political conduct.
Within the state, trust depends on more than the integrity of the person in
whom we vest trust. As seventeenth-century states were increasingly ratio-
nalised, political or public offices became more independent of individual
personal relationships. The office and the officeholder differ in account-
ability. Although their dealings might not be transparent to all, trust is
placed in the abstract office and the officeholder, rather than in the moral
or political integrity of individuals.36 If we look at the social contract tradi-
tion that legitimised sovereign state power, we see that the instruments of
the state included not only the rule of law, but also the means of its enforce-
ment. Punishment, along with taxation, was an essential sovereign power
of the state. The concept of the ‘contract shifts the focus of trust on to
the efficacy of sanctions, and either our or a third party’s ability to enforce
them if a contract is broken’.37 This domestic notion of punishment trig-
gered a controversy when its application was considered in relation to the
international political sphere. A simultaneous discussion about reputation38

33 Notable exceptions are F. Fukuyama, Trust: The New Foundations of Global Prosperity (New York
1996) and C. Muldrew, The Economy of Obligation. The Culture of Credit and Social Relations in
Early Modern England (Houndmills 1998).
34 F. M. Stawell, The Growth of International Thought (London 1936), p. 212. See also D. Boucher,
Political Theories of International Relations (Oxford 1998), p. 233.
35 A. Baier, “Trust and Antitrust” in Ethics 96 (1986), p. 253.
36 See notably Dunn, “Trust and Political Agency”, p. 85: ‘human beings need, as far as they can, to
economise on trust in persons and confide instead in well-designed political, social and economic
institutions’. This should, however, not be idealised. See the insightful historical account in L.
Bély, Les secrets de Louis XIV: Mystères d’État et pouvoir absolu (Paris 2013). Johnson, Frames of
Deceit, p. 53 has a superb discussion of why the issue is not the moral character of a politician, and
why accordingly the focus of analysis should shift ‘from the moral character of the officeholder to
the nature of the office’. For a different view see B. Stollberg-Rilinger, The Emperor’s Old Clothes.
Constitutional History and the Symbolic Language of the Holy Roman Empire (Oxford 2015), p. 225.
37 D. Gambetta, “Can We Trust Trust?” in Trust: Making and Breaking Cooperative Relations, ed. by
D. Gambetta (Oxford 1988), p. 221.
38 Reputation has manifold connotations. A positive reputation establishes and at the same time
relies on communicative practices and helps to create trust. See in particular the important essay
by M. Rohrschneider, “Reputation als Leitfaktor in den internationalen Beziehungen der Frühen

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Introduction 11
is closely related to the question of trustworthiness. As Peter Johnson argues,
‘a significant feature of trust is its logical complexity. It is a disposition of
character and a valuable public good, a policy available in competitive
circumstances and a condition of human exchange. Credulity and deceit
are predictable hazards ( . . . ). Trust may be misplaced or abused’.39
An ongoing debate about trust was entertained within seventeenth-
century international political thought, intensified by religious and political
conflicts that seemed to confirm the difficulty – if not the error – of actually
trusting an adversary. Confessional differences undermined political stabil-
ity and impeded trust-building.40 Yet it was recognised that a solution to
these conflicts depended ultimately on trust. In various ways, programmes
were developed to provide a framework in which mutual trust was both
plausible and possible. While searching for a basis for mutual trust, all par-
ties nonetheless sought to protect and preserve their particular confessional
identity, thereby emphasising existing differences and blocking the search
for trust and agreements built on it. Religion remained a divisive factor in
European interstate relations even after the Peace of Westphalia.41
Seventeenth-century discussion of trust was also prevalent in economic
discourses. To what extent has the emerging discourse on trade and eco-
nomic relations influenced the discourse of trust regarding interstate rela-
tions? Trust is not something that can simply be demanded or enforced by
another. A risky advance needs to be made by one side in order to gain
the trust of the other.42 It is on that basis alone that trust – and, there-
fore, political stability – can be gained. As a consequence, trust remains
a precarious concept for the organisation of interstate relations. But ‘once
trust becomes possible, it sustains interactions that would otherwise col-
lapse, [and] enhances the quality of cooperation’.43 At the same time, as
seventeenth-century thinkers recognised, trust was seldom entirely ‘inno-
cent’ due to the interplay of vested state interests. The tension between

Neuzeit” in Historische Zeitschrift 291 (2010), p. 331–352. The importance of – often ritualised –
communication for trust-building is stressed by Frevert, Vertrauensfragen, p. 214: ‘Zum Aufbau von
Vertrauen gehören verläßliche, auf Wiederholung angelegte kommunikative Praktiken’.
39 Johnson, Frames of Deceit, p. 76. Most seventeenth-century thinkers agreed that ‘distrust creates
even larger transaction costs’. Blom, “Patriots, Contracts and Other Patterns of Trust”, p. 195. See
also Kohn, Trust, p. 85, who makes the same point in view of contemporary discussions on trust:
‘Trust has an intuitively obvious role in cutting what are known as “transaction costs”’.
40 See the important discussion in R.-P. Fuchs, Ein “Medium zum Frieden”. Die Normaljahrsregel und
die Beendigung des Dreißigjährigen Krieges (Munich 2010), p. 40f.
41 See, for instance, D. Onnekink (ed.), War and Religion after Westphalia, 1648–1713 (Farnham
2009).
42 See the discussion in Simmel, Soziologie, p. 284 and Luhmann, Vertrauen, p. 46 and p. 94f.
43 Kohn, Trust, p. 38.

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12 Introduction
trust and interest is a key feature of their discourses because – as argued
by Machiavelli and others44 – interest can supersede the keeping of agree-
ments, thereby undermining the fundamental notion of trust, which relies
on the concept of pacta sunt servanda.
However, the notion of interest can often be oversimplified and misrep-
resented. Hobbes pointed to this problem and implicitly attacked Machi-
avelli, when he argued that the ‘Foole’ was ‘seriously alleaging’ that to ‘make
or not make; keep or not keep Covenants, was not against Reason, when
it conduced to ones benefit’.45 For Hobbes, such short-sighted interest
led to the deplorable situation that ‘successfull wickedness hath obtained
the name of Vertue: and some that in all other things have disallowed
the violation of Faith; yet have allowed it, when it was for the getting
of a Kingdome’.46 Maintaining that it would be reasonable to keep one’s
covenants within the state regardless of other interests which might sug-
gest the contrary, Hobbes concluded that the fool who denied the keeping
of promises within the state was nothing more than a rebel.47 However,
when considering interstate relations, he was more sceptical as to the extent
to which trust was both possible and reasonable. But was his judgement
totally negative on the issue?
At the other end of the spectrum, Grotius argued that without good
faith, peace between states would be impossible. Thus, ‘the Faith given’
should be observed under all circumstances: ‘the Obligation of which [to
keep faith] I have proved to be sacred and indispensable. And we ought
to be very careful to avoid ( . . . ) Perfidiousness’.48 However, as Martin
Hartmann argues, in practice, trust is far from self-evident, but relies itself
on trust to uphold the praxis that might engender it.49 Arguably trust is a
universal concept50 , but at the same time ‘the history of universalistic (or
even all) concepts depends on how rival human actors choose to deploy
44 Cf. Machiavelli, The Prince, p. 61f., P. de Béthune, Le Conseiller d’Estat, ou, Recueil des plus générales
Considérations servant au maniment des Affaires publiques (Paris 1641) and H. Rohan, De l’Interest
des Princes et Estats de la Chrestienté (Paris 1641).
45 Hobbes, Leviathan, p. 101. 46 Hobbes, Leviathan, p. 101.
47 Cf. Hobbes, Leviathan, p. 102f. On the fool in Hobbes’s Leviathan, see the excellent discussion by
K. Hoekstra, “Hobbes and the Foole” in Political Theory 25 (1997), p. 620–654. On the fool and
the issue of trust, see Boyer, Chose Promise, p. 31–69.
48 Grotius, The Rights of War and Peace, p. 1643. See also W. Fikentscher, De fide et perfidia. Der
Treuegedanke in den “Staatsparallelen” des Hugo Grotius aus heutiger Sicht (Munich 1979), p. 79:
‘Grotius konnte den Treugedanken als eine Grundlage des Völkerrechts ( . . . ) nehmen’.
49 Hartmann, Die Praxis, p. 515.
50 See, as just one important example, the Crown of all Kings, where trust is also discussed in an early
seventeenth-century South-Asian political treatise. Bokhari de Djohôre, Makôta Radja-Râdja ou la
Couronne des Rois, translated from Malais by A. Marre (Paris 1878). I am very grateful to Arthur
Weststeijn for pointing out this text to me.

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Introduction 13
them, for good or for ill, and requires frameworks in which concepts
have local and time bound implications that may make them appealing
in specific and concrete historical situations’.51 Multi-faceted arguments
concerning trust in interstate relations developed within Europe during the
seventeenth century – a historical situation where war and conflict were
rife and trust between states was anything but inevitable. If the relations
between sovereign states were inherently antagonistic, could there ever be
trust between states?
51 S. Moyn, “On the Nonglobalization of Ideas” in Global Intellectual History, ed. by S. Moyn and
A. Sartori (New York 2013), p. 194. See also C. Schmitt, Legality and Legitimacy, translated by J.
Seitzer (Durham, London 2004), p. 54: ‘For no norm ( . . . .) interprets and applies, protects or
guards itself; nothing that is normatively valid enforces itself; and if one does not intend to trade
in metaphors and allegories, there is also no hierarchy of norms, but rather only a hierarchy of
concrete persons and organs’.

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c h a p ter 1

Alberico Gentili (1552–1608)


New Ways of Posing the Problem of War and
Interstate Relations

After the Council of Trent (1545–1563) failed to reunify Christianity,1 any


pacification of interstate relations had to take into account the existence
of antagonistic theologies and mutually exclusive confessions. Any basis
of universally accepted religious principles, even among Christian states,
seemed impossible. The Italian jurist Alberico Gentili2 was among those
who challenged the justifications of religious strife, and one aim of his De
Iure Belli (1598) was to banish religion as a reason for going to war. Already
in his De Legationibus (1585) he had warned: ‘let sovereigns be careful of their
actions when they use the pretext of religion in dealing with embassies’.3
There was more needed than such an appeal to the political rulers.

1 The emperor Charles V had aimed at uniting Christianity by means of a council, but when he
eventually managed to bring it into existence, the Protestants refused to participate. The council
met in three different sessions which were interrupted because of conflicting European politics.
It was crucial for reforming and regenerating the Catholic Church and inaugurated the counter-
reformation. See J. Bossy, “The Counter Reformation and the People of Catholic Europe” in Past
and Present 47 (1970), p. 51–70, M. Luebke, The Counter-Reformation (Oxford 1999). M. Mullet,
The Catholic Reformation (London 1999). A. D. Wright, The Early Modern Papacy (Harlow 2000).
2 Gentili was born on 14 January 1552 in San Genesio in the Marche d’Ancona region of Italy. In
1569 he entered the law faculty of the University of Perugia where he received his doctoral degree
in law on 23 September 1572. His father Matteo Gentili was increasingly under threat from the
Catholic authorities and left Italy in 1574. The Roman Inquisition rightly suspected the Gentili
family of having Protestant leanings and Alberico was imprisoned in 1578 in Padua. After his escape
he travelled to London where he arrived in 1580. His younger brother Scipio stayed in Tübingen
in Germany to study law. In 1581 Alberico Gentili was appointed professor of Roman law at
St John’s College at the University of Oxford. According to Richard Tuck he was ‘one of the most
important and interesting figures ever to teach at that university’. R. Tuck, The Rights of War and
Peace. Political Thought and the International Order from Grotius to Kant (Oxford 1999), p. 9. For
further biographical details see in particular the older studies by G. van der Molen, Alberico Gentili
and the Development of International Law (Leiden 1968), A. de Giorgio, Della Vita e delle Opere di
Alberico Gentili (Parma 1876) and E. Nys, “Introduction” in A. Gentili, De Legationibus Libri Tres,
ed. by J. B. Scott (New York 1924), p. 11a–38a. On the religious persecution of the Gentili family
and its wider implications see now also V. Lavenia, “Alberico Gentili: i processi, le fedi, la guerra”
in Ius gentium, Ius communicationis, Ius belli. Alberico Gentili e gli orizzonti della modernità, Atti del
Convegno di Macerata in occasione del Quarto Centenario della morte di Alberico Gentili (Milan 2009),
p. 165–196.
3 A. Gentili, Three Books on Embassies, ed. by G. J. Laing (New York 1924), p. 91.

14

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Alberico Gentili (1552–1608) 15
It was truly a huge task to deny religion the prominence it commanded
as a reason for conflict in the late sixteenth century, given that among
Christian states all major conflicts were fuelled by religious controversies.
The Dutch revolt against the Spanish crown, the French and German wars
of religion and the antagonism between Elizabeth and Philip II are just the
most prominent examples at the time Gentili wrote his major work. The
first part of this chapter will situate Gentili’s international political thought
within the wider context of early modern political thought.
Above all he was, by training and profession, a humanist jurist. His role
within the natural law tradition is complex and interpretations as to where
to position him vary considerably. Anthony Pagden rightly claimed that
‘although Gentili nowhere provides a fully developed or entirely consis-
tent definition of the natural law and is evidently unconcerned with the
metaphysical niceties which so troubled the theologians [Vitoria and his
successors at Salamanca], it is evident from what he does say, that both he
and they would have been on broad agreement as to the basic principles
on which it had to be based’.4
At the time Gentili was writing, the natural law doctrine was still largely
dominated by the Spanish theologians, who followed the Thomist tradi-
tion. Gentili rather meagrely embraced the natural law doctrine; unlike
Grotius, he did little to reshape the Thomist natural law doctrine.5 If we
understand natural law in a scholastic sense, and not in its seventeenth-
century use, we can discern ‘two rival political moralities’ which ‘were now
confronting each other in every commonwealth of late sixteenth-century

4 A. Pagden, “Gentili, Vitoria, and the Fabrication of a ‘Natural Law of Nations’” in The Roman
Foundations of the Law of Nations: Alberico Gentili and the Justice of Empire, ed. by B. Kingsbury and
B. Straumann (Oxford 2010), p. 348.
5 See notably J. Sauter, Die philosophischen Grundlagen des Naturrechts. Untersuchungen zur Rechts-
und Staatslehre (Frankfurt am Main 1966) and F. Grunert, Normbegründung und politische Legit-
imität. Zur Rechts- und Staatsphilosophie der deutschen Frühaufklärung (Tübingen 2000). Despite
the obvious similarities between Grotius and Gentili, Richard Tuck does not appreciate the funda-
mental differences on which both men based their argument. It seems problematic to downplay the
influence of previous natural law theorists such as Vitoria, Vazques and Suárez on Grotius, which in
turn blurs the understanding of Gentili’s specific approach, which relies much more on the tradition
of the politiques than on the natural law tradition. Cf. R. Tuck, War and Peace, esp. p. 108. But see
Tuck’s earlier work, R. Tuck, Natural Rights Theories. Their Origin and Development (Cambridge
1979), p. 59f. Quite a number of scholars have recently argued that Gentili’s position was actually
much closer to, or even part of, the natural law tradition. See B. Kingsbury and B. Straumann (eds.),
“Introduction” in A. Gentili, De armis Romanis, ed. by B. Kingsbury and B. Straumann (Oxford
2011), p. XV: ‘As in Cicero, there is a strong sense in The Wars of the Romans that the specifically
Roman institution of fetial law, with its just-war procedure, has the source of its validity in natural
law’ and A. Wagner, “Francisco de Vitoria and Alberico Gentili on the Legal Character of the Global
Commonwealth” in Oxford Journal of Legal Studies 31 (2011), p. 575: ‘For Gentili, natural law is the
foundation of international law’.

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16 Alberico Gentili (1552–1608)
Europe. One was the natural law theory ( . . . ) the other was the theory
of “Machiavelli and the politiques”’.6 But despite this intellectual divide
within the natural law tradition as well as among the politiques, there
existed not just one homogeneous doctrine but competing strands of polit-
ical thought. Gentili was part of these different currents, as is particularly
clear in his position towards Machiavelli, as well as his engagement with
prominent contemporary criticism of the Florentine.7
Well-versed in the different currents of political philosophy, Gentili
was a prominent jurist of his time.8 He was equally acquainted with the
literature on reason of state and notably Machiavelli and Guicciardini.
Furthermore, he was well-versed in French political thought, particularly
that of Jean Bodin, as this had emerged in the context of the Huguenots’
struggle for recognition of their reformed faith. After the massacres of Saint
Bartholomew’s Day in 1572, this literature changed in tone and strategy:
the argument now explored whether and to what extent resistance was
legitimate even against the monarch. The most notorious argument along
these monarchomach lines was advocated in the Vindiciae contra Tyrannos
(1579).
Despite the similarity with his own religious and political affiliations,
the Huguenot arguments for political resistance posed a threat to Gentili’s
thinking on interstate relations. He saw the political theories put forward
by his fellow Protestants, as much as those of the Catholics, as menacing
an interstate order of peaceful relations. This order, according to Gentili,
could only be established among sovereign states able to trust each other
at a minimum level. Whereas Machiavelli’s name and works were regularly
used in these polemics to denounce any political and confessional enemy

6 Q. Skinner, The Foundations of Modern Political Thought vol. 2 (Cambridge 1978), p. 172. The
same point was made by L. Strauss, Natural Right and History (Chicago 1971), p. 190. Quentin
Skinner discusses this with specific reference to Pedro Ribadeneyra’s Religion and the Virtues of the
Christian Prince against Machiavelli. In substance he follows Leo Strauss’s argument. See also H.
Höpfl, Jesuit Political Thought. The Society of Jesus and the State, c. 1540–1630 (Cambridge 2004), esp.
p. 164–167.
7 Andreas Wagner convincingly argued that Richard Tuck’s dichotomy of ‘the “humanist” and
“scholastic” views’ (R. Tuck, War and Peace, p. 9) ‘masks the diversity of (at least) the human-
ist camp’. A. Wagner, “Lessons of Imperialism and of the Law of Nations: Alberico Gentili’s Early
Modern Appeal to Roman Law” in The European Journal of International Law 23 (2012), p. 876.
See also B. Kingsbury and B. Straumann (eds.), “Introduction”, p. XXIII: ‘Gentili ( . . . ) cannot
be situated in any simple way in a “humanist” camp’ and, from the perspective of the Spanish
scholastics, Pagden, “Gentili, Vitoria, and the Fabrication of a ‘Natural Law of Nations’”, p. 345:
‘the more one examines the humanist/scholastic or humanist/theologian distinction the more fuzzy
it becomes. The various members of the “School of Salamanca” were by no means consistent in their
opposition to humanism’.
8 He was Regius professor of civil law at Oxford.

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Confessional Strife and the Question of Trustworthiness 17
as treacherous, Gentili’s reading of Machiavelli revealed a less biased view-
point, enabling him to discuss the provocative and divisive issue of trust
exposed in the Principe without denouncing Machiavelli.
Gentili’s discussion of interstate trust was closely related to his
understanding of state sovereignty. He endeavoured to extend Jean Bodin’s
concept of sovereignty to the sphere of interstate relations, and, in doing
so, he challenged the existing natural law doctrine and the theory of a
just war9 , the terms of which were still dominated by Catholic thinkers.
At the end of the sixteenth century, Alberico Gentili was perhaps the first
political thinker to recognise the fundamental problem of the relationship
between sovereign states: the very nature of their sovereignty precluded
pacification of what was in effect an anarchical society. Despite this,
he advocated that any solution to this problem had to be founded on
the concept of sovereign states. For Gentili’s discussion of international
political order, sovereignty is both the problem and the solution.

1.1 Confessional Strife and the Question of Trustworthiness


among European States
As Diego Panizza has shown, Gentili argued against, among others, the
Dutch Protestant Justus Lipsius, who was involved in one of the principal
religious–political struggles.10 Gentili rejected Lipsius’s argument, because
in his view, it culminated in the assertion that religious unity was essential
for social cohesion and civil stability. For Gentili, on the contrary, to enforce
religious unity was more a reason for sedition and a cause of strife than a
factor of stability. What of Huguenot resistance theory? Despite some dras-
tic rhetoric and the repeated outbreak of open civil war, the Huguenots’
position had always been that they needed to address a wrong which had
been committed by zealous advisers of the Crown, not by the Crown itself.
The Saint Bartholomew’s Day massacres marked a significant shift in atti-
tude. It is important to note that the massacres were followed by gleeful

9 Gentili uses the term just war, but from the outset of his main work he makes clear that he employs
it with a very different meaning. See A. Gentili, The Three Books on the Law of War, ed. by J. C.
Rolfe (Oxford 1933), p. 14.
10 See notably D. Panizza, “Il pensiero politico di Alberico Gentili. Religione, virtù e ragion di stato”
in D. Panizza (ed.), Alberico Gentili Politica e religione nell’Età delle Guerre die Religione (Milan
2002), p. 57–213, esp. p. 75 and p. 88–89. On Lipsius’s political thought, see E. de Bom, M. Janssens,
T. Van Houdt and J. Papy (eds.), (Un)masking the Realities of Power. Justus Lipsius and the Dynamics
of Political Writing in Early Modern Europe (Leiden 2011). His main political theory is now available
in an excellent translation: J. Lipsius, Politica. Six Books of Politics or Political Instruction, ed. and
translated by J. Waszink (Amsterdam 2002).

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18 Alberico Gentili (1552–1608)
anti-Huguenot Catholic propaganda, for instance, the anonymously pub-
lished Allegresse chrestienne, or Discours contre les Huguenotz. These aggres-
sive anti-Huguenot writings were seconded by semi-official pamphlets by
Legier du Chesne or Claude Nouvelle, to name only two.11 Gentili per-
ceived the threat to political stability posed by Huguenot responses such
as Vindiciae contra Tyrannos that openly endorsed armed resistance against
the monarchy.12 Confessional antagonism within a single state undermined
legitimate sovereignty.
Nevertheless, Gentili proposed a framework to restrict the wars which
threatened to tear Europe apart. It was based on the concept of sovereign
states, that is to say the order and stability of princely or republican gov-
ernment. While it is true to say that ‘Gentili did not completely possess
the modern concept of sovereignty’13 , he nonetheless saw the state as the
decisive agent in the international sphere.14 Sovereign states might be both
a challenge and a solution to the problem of organising interstate relations,
11 Anonymous, Allegresse chrestienne de l’heureux succes des guerres de ce royaume (Paris 1772), Anony-
mous, Discours contre les Huguenotz, auquel est contenue et déclarée la source de leur damnable religion
(Lyon 1573), L. du Chesne, Exhortation au Roy, pour vertueusement poursuivre ce que sagement il a
commencé contre les Huguenots, avec les Epitaphes de Gaspar de Colligny (Paris 1572), C. Nouvell,
Ode trionfale au roy, sus l’equitable justice que sa majesté feit des rebelles, la veille et jour de sainct
Loys (Paris 1572). See F. J. Baumgartner, Radical Reactionaries: The Political Thought of the French
Catholic League (Geneva 1975) and R. Birely, The Counter-Reformation Prince: Anti-Machiavellism
or Catholic Statecraft in Early Modern Europe (London 1990).
12 Cf., for example, Anonymous, Remonstrance d’un bon Catholique françois aux trois estats de France
(n.p. 1576). This good Catholic is, of course, everything but a good Catholic. The main thrust of
the argument claims, similarly to the Vindiciae contra Tyrannos, that Machiavelli’s odious teachings
are to blame for the massacre. The anonymously published De furoribus Gallicis, horrenda et
indigna amirallij Castillionei, nobilium atque illustrium virorum caede . . . (Basle 1573), which is
now attributed to Hotman, argued in a similar vein. See also F. de La Noue, Discours politiques
et militaires (Basle 1687). Particularly instructive on the St Bartholomew’s Day massacres are R.
M. Kingdon, Myths about the St Bartholomew’s Day Massacres 1572–1576 (Cambridge Mass. 1988),
A. Soman (ed.), The Massacre of St Bartholomew. Reappraisals and Documents (The Hague 1974).
On the French Wars of Religion more generally, see M. Yardeni, La conscience nationale en France
pendant les guerres de religion, 1559–1598 (Paris 1971), M. P. Holt, The French Wars of Religion, 1562–
1629 (Cambridge 1995) and J. H. M. Salmon, The French Religious Wars in English Political Thought
(Oxford 1959).
13 Panizza, “Il pensiero politico di Alberico Gentili”, p. 158: ‘Gentili ( . . . ) non possedeva compiuta-
mente il concetto moderni sovranità, ma monstrava un chiaro senso della distinzione dei due ordini
di realtà, quella di interna e quella di internazionale’. See also B. Kingsbury, “Confronting Dif-
ference: The Puzzling Durability of Gentili’s Combination of Pragmatic Pluralism and Normative
Judgement” in The American Journal of International Law 92 (1998), p. 714f.: ‘Gentili does not have
a very precise concept of the state – he discusses many different types of political entities without
much distinction. ( . . . ) the whole concept of sovereignty is not clearly developed’. More generally
on this subject see L. Benton, A Search for Sovereignty: Law and Geography in European Empires,
1400–1900 (Cambridge 2010).
14 P. Haggenmacher, “Grotius and Gentili: A Reassessment of Thomas E. Holland’s Inaugural Lecture”
in Hugo Grotius and International Relations, ed. by H. Bull, B. Kingsbury and A. Roberts (Oxford
1990), p. 172.

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Confessional Strife and the Question of Trustworthiness 19
but the idea of a single universal sovereign as potential arbiter, such as the
Pope – who had indeed claimed and assumed such a role, most famously in
the Treatise of Tordesillas in 149415 – was not a feasible option for Gentili.16
We begin to recognise why Huguenot political writings such as the
anonymous Vindiciae contra Tyrannos, were particularly unsettling for Gen-
tili’s own position. In the preface to the Vindiciae, the rhetorical ploy was to
accuse the advisers of the French Crown of plotting against the Huguenots:
‘You princes of men, I consider that these investigations [undertaken in the
Vindiciae] are able to contradict both the Machiavellians and their books,
by whose wicked counsels the commonwealth is divided by so many civil
dissensions, factions, and disturbances’.17 To what extent the Vindiciae
engaged with Machiavelli’s Principe is still debated.18 Despite the ardent
rhetoric of the preface, there is only one explicit mention of Machiavelli in
the main body of the text. However, there are many allusions to the Floren-
tine which would have been clearly identifiable to contemporary readers.
Gentili’s engagement with the Principe and the Vindiciae draws into focus
an unsettling core issue of sixteenth-century, political and moral theory. He
was a close reader, indeed a great admirer, of Machiavelli. When combined
with his own intellectual engagement with Machiavelli’s theory19 , Gentili’s
study of the anti-Machiavellian rhetoric in the Vindiciae led him to an
illuminating understanding of Machiavelli that would provide a crucial
starting point for tackling the problems of interstate relations and the role
of trust.20
15 See F. de Vitoria, “On the American Indies” in Vitoria, Political Writings, ed. by A. Pagden and
J. Lawrence (Cambridge 2003), p. 285, who endorses this authority of arbitration of the Pope. For
the Treaty of Tordesillas and its wider context, see M. E. Wiesner-Hanks, Early Modern Europe,
1450–1789 (Cambridge 2006), p. 229–231.
16 See, for example, Gentili, On the Law of War, p. 16 where he dismisses the Pope as arbiter between
sovereign states, as well as A. Gentili, Hispanicae Advocatio Libri Duo, translated by F. Frost Abbott
(Oxford 1921), p. 95.
17 S. J. Brutus, Vindiciae contra Tyrannos or, Concerning the Legitimate Power of a Prince over the
People, and of the People over a Prince, ed. and translated by G. Garnett (Cambridge 1994), p. 10.
18 Cf. E. Barker, Church, State and Study (London 1930), esp. p. 72–108. Pertinent and most com-
prehensive is G. Garnett, “Editor’s Introduction” in S. J. Brutus, Vindiciae contra Tyrannos, esp.
p. XXI-XXII. S. Mastellone, Venalità e Machiavellismo in Francia (1572–1610) (Florence 1972), p. 58–
60 suggests that Innocent Gentillet might be the author of the preface. But this seems merely an
interesting speculation without any substantial proof.
19 Panizza, “Il pensiero politico di Alberico Gentili”, p. 126 characterises ‘Machiavelli [next to Aristo-
tle as] l’altra autorità paradigmatica dell’universo teorico-politico di Gentili’. See also D. Panizza,
“Political Theory and Jurisprudence in Gentili’s De Iure Belli. The Great Debate between ‘theolog-
ical’ and ‘humanist’ Perspectives from Vitoria to Grotius” in The Roots of International Law, ed. by
P.-M. Dupuy and V. Chetail (Leiden 2014), who rightly stresses that ‘the “Machiavellian Moment”
( . . . ) certainly defines the “theoretical-political” dimension of his [Gentili’s] De Iure Belli’, p. 214.
20 This is not to suggest that this explicitly political aspect of Gentili’s theory should be perceived
as replacing his juridical argument. However, it certainly complemented it. Given that modern

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20 Alberico Gentili (1552–1608)
Machiavelli’s legacy to Gentili concerned the question of trust in inter-
state relations specifically and in politics as a whole. In Chapter XVIII
of the Principe, Machiavelli asked if princes should keep their word. The
chapter opens by posing the problem in unambiguous terms: ‘Everyone
knows how praiseworthy it is for a ruler to keep his promises, and live
uprightly and not by trickery. Nevertheless, experience shows that in our
times rulers who have done great things are those who have set little store
by keeping their word, being skilful rather in cunningly confusing men;
they have got the better of those who have relied on being trustworthy.
( . . . ) Therefore, a prudent ruler cannot keep his word, nor should he,
when such fidelity would damage him, and when reasons that made him
promise are no longer relevant. This advice would not be sound if all men
were upright; but because they are treacherous and would not keep their
promises to you, you should not consider yourself bound to keep your
promises to them’.21
It was this kind of advice that caused Catholics and Protestants alike
to react against Machiavelli with such vehemence.22 It was also in this
context that Gentili had to position himself.23 Machiavelli discussed trust

interpretation of Gentili’s thought – aside from a few exceptions – is largely dominated by legal
historians and their discussion about his juridical argument, my interpretation hopes to shed light
on a less studied, but no less important, aspect of his thought.
21 N. Machiavelli, The Prince, ed. by Q. Skinner and R. Price (Cambridge 2008), p. 61–62. M. Jay,
The Virtues of Mendacity. On Lying in Politics (Charlottesville 2010), p. 48: ‘Lying, it seems, impedes
the basic trust’.
22 Around the time that Gentili published his major writings, his countryman Giovanni Botero, who
had left the Jesuit order in 1581, published his critique of Machiavelli, Della ragion di stato, in 1589,
four years after Gentili’s De Legationibus of 1585 and nine years before his De Iure Belli of 1598. The
Spanish Jesuit Pedro Ribadeneyra published his Tratado de la religion y Virtudes que deve tener el
Principe Christiano, para governar y conservar sus Estados. This explicit attack on Machiavelli and
the politiques first appeared in 1595, was widely circulated, and reprinted in several editions. These
writings, together with Justus Lipsius’s Politicorum sive civilis doctrinae libri sex (1589) and Jean
Bodin’s Six Livres de la République (1576), as well as the polemical writings which dominated the
immediate aftermath of the St Bartholomew’s Day massacres, provide the context for Gentili’s own
theory. This is still a very limited selection of a much more complex ongoing debate. For the Jesuit’s
engagement with Machiavelli, see the masterful study by Höpfl, Jesuit Political Thought, esp. p. 84–
90. See also C. Benoist, Le Machiavellisme (Paris 1936), A. M. Battista, “Sull’antimachiavellismo
francese del secolo XVI” in Storia e Politica 1 (1962), p. 412–447, G. Procacci, Machiavelli nella cultura
Europea dell’età moderna (Rome 1995). S. Anglo, Machiavelli. The first Century (Oxford 2005), esp.
p. 229–414 is, despite its focus on Gentillet, helpful on the wider Catholic and Huguenot context,
but adds hardly anything on Gentili. R. W. Truman, Spanish Treatises on Government, Society and
Religion in the Time of Philip II (Leiden 1999), esp. p. 277–314, Birely, The Counter-Reformation
Prince, esp. p. 111–135 and the excellent essay by A. Merle, “Un aspect de l’antimachiavélisme des
Jésuites: Le Prince Chrétien de Pedro de Ribadeneyra entre simulation et dissimulation” in Les
Jésuites en Espagne et en Amérique, ed. by A. Molinié, A. Merle and A. Guillaume-Alonso (Paris
2007), p. 111–140.
23 The most notable attacks on Machiavelli were Innocent Gentillet’s Anti-Machiavel and the notorious
Vindiciae contra Tyrannos. Gentili makes his own position on the Anti-Machiavel abundantly clear:

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Confessional Strife and the Question of Trustworthiness 21
and faithfulness as an option a prince or a politician was able to choose
or reject. They could keep their word and trust others to do the same. Or
they could break their word and would have to expect that others would
not trust them that easily in the future. Machiavelli stressed a dynamic
understanding of trust that opened up the scope of human action. Only on
this basis was it meaningful to carry out a political or prudential calculation
of whether or not to trust others.24
The ideological and political agenda Gentili pursued in his interpretation
of Machiavelli reveals his view of the relationship between politics and
religion. He explored the scope and, in his view, the political necessity
of confessional coexistence, in concurrence with discussions of sovereign
state power. Or, in other words, he addressed the issue of sovereignty and
resistance, which had profound implications for regulating the relationship
between states of differing confessions.25 His legal and political theory is
based on the cardinal assumption that there is still scope for mutual trust
between such states. But how could he establish a basis for trust? This
question had been contested in antiquity26 , and Gentili had to demonstrate

‘The fact that some claim that he was a man of no learning and of criminal tendencies makes no
difference to me. It is his remarkable insight that I praise; I do not defend his impiety or his lack
of integrity, if actually he had such faults. And yet if I, reviewing the book issued against him [my
emphasis], take into consideration his position, if I give a just estimate of his purpose in writing,
and if I choose to reinforce his words by sounder interpretation, I do not see why I can not free
from such charges the reputation of this man who has now passed away. He was not understood
by the person who wrote against him and he has been calumniated in many ways. There is no
doubt that Machiavelli is a man who deserves our commiseration in the highest degree’. Gentili,
Three Books on Embassies, p. 156. Given that Gentili was one of the few writers who dismissed
Gentillet’s criticism of Machiavelli and defended the latter against the charges issued against him
in the anonymously published Anti-Machiavel, I will focus on the Vindiciae contra Tyrannos rather
than on the Anti-Machiavel when assessing Gentili’s take on the Huguenot writings on religion,
state and resistance.
24 This is important to note, as Christian religion worked with a static concept of trust and faith.
There was no alternative than to trust in God, unless you were prepared to be damned. See the entry
on Vertrauen (trust) in J. H. Zedler (ed.), Großes vollständiges Universal-Lexikon aller Wissenschaften
und Künste vol. 48 (Leipzig, Halle 1746), p. 19–29. The parallel with modern conceptualisations of
trust is striking. Hartmann criticised modern scholarship on trust and argued that trust should not
be seen as ‘an apriori stance to be treated as [a] psychological or ontological default position’. M.
Hartmann, “On the Concept of Basic Trust” in Behemoth. A Journal on Civilisation 8 (2015), p. 13.
25 For the crucial controversy between Gentili and the orthodox theologians at Oxford University see
D. Panizza, Alberico Gentili giurista ideologo nell’Inghilterra elisabettiana (Padua 1981), p. 55–87 and
Panizza, “Il pensiero politico di Alberico Gentili”, p. 116.
26 Most famously by Carneades. Neither in De Iure Belli nor in De Legationibus did Gentili mention
Carneades, and he mentioned him only once in De armis Romanis (cf. Gentili, De armis Romanis,
p. 69), but the whole structure of this book reflects the famous debate which he would have known
about via Lactantius’s Divine institutions. Cicero’s De republica or On the Commonwealth was only
rediscovered in 1819. ‘Book 3 [of On the Commonwealth] contains what was undoubtedly the most
famous section of the dialogue in antiquity, a reformulation of the pair of speeches delivered by the
Academic Carneades in Rome 155 BCE in which he had argued on successive days that justice is

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22 Alberico Gentili (1552–1608)
how the challenge could be answered, and how the values of justice, legal
order and trust could be achieved and preserved between antagonistic
states.
In addition to De Iure Belli and De Legationibus, we need to consider
Gentili’s De armis Romanis to appreciate how he developed his argument.27
The interpretation of the latter is not straightforward, as the work is divided
into two books which argue for opposing positions.28 The first is entitled
Indictment of the Injustice of the Romans in Warfare, while the second
answers the accusation of the first and undertakes, as the title of the
second book makes clear, a Defence of the Justice of the Romans in Warfare.
Depending on whether one takes the first or the second book as Gentili’s
more authentic position, the resulting conclusions will necessarily be very
different. In their introduction, the editors of De armis Romanis advance
the argument that Book 1 aims to demonstrate the injustice of Rome’s
expansion, and not to show that there is no such thing as justice or injustice
in international relations. In order to show that Rome’s imperialism is
unjust, they argue, there has to be criteria of justice in the first place.
For them, both books make for a coherent argument, because ‘both the
indictment of Roman imperialism in Book 1 of The Wars of the Romans and
its defense in Book 2 are predicated on the assumption that it is apposite
to judge the expansion of the Roman empire by way of warfare according
to certain moral normative criteria – indeed, denying or affirming the
justice of the Roman empire is precisely what The Wars of the Romans is all
about’.29
However, this overstates what these two books are arguing for. Alterna-
tively, De armis Romanis can be read as a reconsideration of the problems
formulated by Carneades and Machiavelli. This is not necessarily a dif-
ference in substance, but rather a difference in emphasis and nuance.

essential to civic life and, conversely, that injustice is essential’. J. E. G. Zetzel, “Introduction” in
Cicero, On the Commonwealth, ed. by J. E. G. Zetzel (Cambridge 2008), p. XVI. Carneades will
play an even greater role for Grotius. See Chapter 3.1.
27 This crucial text is now available in an excellent new edition. Gentili, De armis Romanis.
28 Like Carneades in Rome.
29 B. Kingsbury and B. Straumann (eds.), “Introduction”, p. XI. See also D. Panizza, “Alberico
Gentili’s De armis Romanis: The Roman Model of Just Empire” in The Roman Foundations of the
Law of Nations: Alberico Gentili and the Justice of Empire, ed. by B. Kingsbury and B. Straumann
(Oxford 2010), p. 53–84 and D. Lupher, “The De armis Romanis and the Exemplum of Roman
Imperialism” in The Roman Foundations of the Law of Nations: Alberico Gentili and the Justice of
Empire, ed. by B. Kingsbury and B. Straumann (Oxford 2010), p. 85–100. Wagner, “Lessons of
Imperialism and of the Law of Nations” advances a different position. Cicero argued that ‘the whole
of our fetial code is about such an enemy [who is just and legitimate] and we have many other laws
that are shared’. Cicero, On Duties, III-107, p. 149.

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Confessional Strife and the Question of Trustworthiness 23
My interpretation of how Gentili constructively engaged with Machiavelli
will focus on the aspect already conceded by Benedict Kingsbury and Ben-
jamin Straumann that ‘there are indications in The Wars of the Romans
that mere unconstrained imperial self-interest could amount to a justify-
ing principle. Such a prudential principle, devoid of any moral constraint
of natural law, would situate that work quite obviously in a prudential,
Machiavellian tradition of ragion di stato’.30
Nevertheless, it is in his De Iure Belli and to a lesser extent De Legationibus
that Gentili discusses most fully the challenges for a political order between
sovereign states of his own time. Above all, for Gentili the differences of
Christian confessions must not stand in the way of an emerging European
state system. If his argument was to work, he had to show that, despite
Machiavelli’s advice in the Principe, trust and good faith in the domain
of interstate politics were possible. The explosive amalgam of simplified
Machiavellian concepts and the actuality of religious strife was the obstacle
to overcome.
Although it may seem that Pedro Ribadeneyra argued in a similar vein
when he advised the Christian Princes not to follow Machiavelli’s advice,
there are fundamental differences to Gentili’s position: ‘because Machiavelli
teaches that sometimes the Prince should break his word and his faith,
( . . . ) it is very fitting that the Christian Prince be very attentive and
greatly consider first what he says, promises, and swears; but afterwards
that he be constant and firm in fulfilling what before God he has promised
and sworn. And let him know for certain that the keeping of his faith
and word is very important for the conservation of his State and for being
better thought of, richer, better obeyed, and feared’.31 The underlying issue
concerns the reasonable expectation of mutual trust and faith. Ribadeneyra
argues that Machiavelli’s theory undermines all possibility of trusting in the
promises and declarations of others, notably due to the lack of fundamental
moral values in the absence of religion. But unlike Ribadeneyra, Gentili
was well aware of the problématique Machiavelli had set out in his political
writings. In the second book of his De armis Romanis, Gentili endorsed
the reason of state argument, which allowed the state to make use of all
available means in the case of necessity. Machiavelli and Gentili referred to
the existing discussion of Roman writers on the question of whether and to
what extent necessity allowed moral and legal standards to be overridden

30 B. Kingsbury and B. Straumann (eds.), “Introduction”, p. XXIV.


31 P. Ribadeneyra, Religion and the Virtues of the Christian Prince – against Machiavelli, ed. by G. A.
Moore (Washington 1949), p. 303.

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24 Alberico Gentili (1552–1608)
in the name of the states’ self-interest.32 The issue of trustworthiness is very
much part of this discussion and Gentili formulated this in provocative
terms in line with Machiavelli’s position: ‘I say again: “He who resists
deceit with deceit is not himself deceitful. Thus craftiness is deceived by
craftiness” [this is a reference to Baldus]. One is allowed to pursue what is
one’s right through deception, through violence, through theft. ( . . . ) no
one denies that wars are necessary – and deception of this sort is allowable –
with foreigners, with those who are not constrained by legal proceedings.
( . . . ) That what is not allowable according to the law necessity makes
allowable. Necessity has no law, but it itself makes a law. Necessity makes
that acceptable which would otherwise be unacceptable. And because of
necessity one justly departs from customary measures. And there are many
other maxims of that sort’.33 Politics, and as far as Gentili was concerned,
law, depend on the particular circumstances. Gentili’s ‘method is essentially
casuistic and topical’.34
Gentili put forward a whole range of questions here, as radical and
challenging as those posed by Machiavelli. Indeed, he seems to have gone
almost a step further than Machiavelli, at least in De armis Romanis, since
Machiavelli, when discussing the acquisition of princely power by wicked
means, had insisted that ‘it cannot be called virtue to kill one’s fellow-
citizen, to betray one’s friends, to be treacherous, merciless and irreligious;
power may be gained by acting in such a way, but not glory’.35 In the
Discorsi he complemented the advice given in the Principe and substantially
qualified it in the following way: ‘Although to use fraud in any action is
detestable, yet in the conduct of war it is praiseworthy and glorious. And a
man who uses fraud to overcome his enemy is praised, just as much as is he
who overcomes his enemy by force. ( . . . ) I do not mean that a fraud which
involves breaking your word or the contracts you have made, is glorious; for
although on occasion it may win for you a state or a kingdom ( . . . ), it will
never bring you glory’.36 Regarding the conduct of war, Gentili advanced

32 Among others, Seneca is one of the obvious points of reference. For a succinct discussion of the early
modern period, see also the study by M. Behnen, “Der gerechte und notwendige Krieg. ‘Necessitas’
und ‘Utilitas reipublicae’ in der Kriegstheorie des 16. und 17. Jahrhunderts” in Staatsverfassung
und Heeresverfassung in der europäischen Geschichte der frühen Neuzeit, ed. by J. Kunisch and B.
Stollberg-Rilinger (Berlin 1986), p. 43–106.
33 Gentili, De armis Romanis, p. 149f.
34 Haggenmacher, “Grotius and Gentili”, p. 160. According to Peter Haggenmacher this is another
crucial difference to Grotius.
35 Machiavelli, The Prince, p. 31. Cf. Cicero’s discussion of glory: On Duties, II-31, p. 74.
36 N. Machiavelli, The Discourses, ed. by B. Crick (London 2003), III-40, p. 513. Cf. Cicero, On Duties,
I-62, p. 26.

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Confessional Strife and the Question of Trustworthiness 25
a very similar argument. Indeed, the fifth chapter of the second book of De
Iure Belli deals with the issue of ‘whether it is lawful to deceive the enemy
with any kind of falsehood’.37 Gentili provided many historic examples to
discuss this issue, eventually siding with the argument of necessity: ‘if it
is not unjust to feign flight, to pretend fear, to seem to depart, and to do
other things of that kind, why should it be unjust to deceive the enemy by
words?’38 For both Machiavelli and Gentili, necessity or more specifically
the need to succeed in war is an important though potentially ambiguous
criterion.
Machiavelli was concerned with the problem he had presented in such
radical terms, when he had attacked Cicero – the authority of humanist
moral and political thought – and maintained that ‘a ruler must know how
to act like a beast’.39 Cicero famously claimed in De Officiis that ‘injustice
may be done, either through force or through deceit; and deceit seems
to belong to a little fox, force to a lion. Both of them seem most alien
to a human being; but deceit deserves the greater hatred. And out of all
injustice, nothing deserves punishment more than that of a man who,
just in a time when they are most betraying trust, act in such a way that
they might appear [my emphasis] to be good’.40 Machiavelli turned this
assertion on its head when he gave his advice to princes. A ruler ‘should
imitate both the fox and the lion ( . . . ) one could give countless modern
examples ( . . . ), and show how many peace treaties and promises have been
rendered null and void by the faithlessness of rulers; and those best able to
imitate the fox have succeeded best. But foxiness should be well concealed:
one must be a great feigner and dissembler’.41

37 Gentili, On the Law of War, p. 149. 38 Gentili, On the Law of War, p. 153.
39 Machiavelli, The Prince, p. 61.
40 Cicero, On Duties, I-41, p. 19. See also the discussion about justice and injustice in Plato, Republic,
ed. by G. M. A. Grube (Indianapolis 1992), p. 36; 361a: ‘the extreme of injustice is to be believed to
be just without being just’. This will be taken up by Leibniz. See Chapter 4.1.
41 Machiavelli, The Prince, p. 61–62. Cicero was not the first classical author who used this famous
dictum about the fox and the lion. Since Machiavelli’s notorious inversion, many polemicists and
political thinkers referred in one way or another to this dictum. Cf., besides the references below, for
instance, the Jesuit Ribadeneyra, Religion and the Virtues of the Christian Prince, p. 259 and p. 279
and the Huguenot La Noue, Discours politiques et militaires, p. 77, who both refer to the image of
the fox to denounce Machiavellian treachery. La Noue explicity refers to Plutarch as the ancient
source of this dictum. Anglo, Machiavelli, provides more references to contemporary sources not
considered in this chapter with a similar anti-Machiavellian thrust, and Lysander as yet another
ancient source: p. 251, 267, 280, 291, 347, 349, 387. See also M. Stolleis, “Löwe und Fuchs. Eine
politische Maxime im Frühabsolutismus” in M. Stolleis, Staat und Staatsräson in der frühen Neuzeit
(Frankfurt am Main 1990), p. 21–36, J. Barlow, “The Fox and the Lion: Machiavelli replies to
Cicero” in History of Political Thought 20 (1999), p. 627–645, M. Colish, “Cicero’s De Officiis and
Machiavelli’s Prince” in Sixteenth Century Journal 9 (1978), p. 80–93.

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26 Alberico Gentili (1552–1608)
Machiavelli knew that many rulers preferred political success to faithful
and honourable conduct. This made the question of trustworthiness even
more intricate. As quoted previously, Machiavelli said his ‘advice would
not be sound if all men were upright; but because they are treacherous and
would not keep their promises to you, you should not consider yourself
bound to keep your promises to them’.42 Gentili took Machiavelli as the
thinker who had highlighted the problem, not the one who had created it,
in the advice given apparently against Cicero in the Principe.
Cicero’s discussion of justice in De Officiis raised the question of good
faith, most prominently in the context of war. Underlying this discussion
was his concern for the Roman Republic, which had crumbled under the
civil war and Caesar’s rise to dictatorial power. ‘In my opinion, our concern
should always be for a peace that will have nothing to do with treachery.
If I had been followed in this we would still have some republican govern-
ment (if perhaps not the best); whereas now we have none’.43 An equally
significant aspect of Cicero’s political advice, which Machiavelli turns on
its head, asserts that ‘there is nothing at all more suited to protecting and
retaining influence than to be loved, and nothing is less suited than to
be feared’.44 For Cicero, if there can be no trust, there can be no reliable
intercourse between the differing parties: ‘For those who wish to be feared
cannot but themselves be afraid of the very men who fear them’.45 As is well
known, Machiavelli infamously claimed ‘that it is desirable [for a Prince]
to be both loved and feared; but it is difficult to achieve both and, if one
of them is lacking, it is much safer to be feared than loved’.46 The ruler
should not depend on other people’s sentiments or promises, but ‘only rely
on what is under his own control’.47
In contrast to the concept of the republic shared by both Cicero and
Machiavelli in which every citizen has a stake and interest in the common
good, it is in the nature of princely rule that it is isolated, always precar-
ious and under potential threat. Cicero had already suggested the nexus
between a well-ordered republican government and the appreciation of
love, and dictatorial rule and the appreciation of fear, as the leading and
motivating principles in society. ‘The republic we have lost. And we have

42 Machiavelli, The Prince, p. 61–62. 43 Cicero, On Duties, I-35, p. 15. See also I-57, p. 23–24.
44 Cicero, On Duties, II-23, p. 70–71.
45 Cicero, On Duties, II-24, p. 71. Apart from military superiority, the success of Roman imperialism
was based on their specific concept of fides, which also entailed an aspect of coercion as the victorious
Romans would receive the vanquished as inferior allies into their fides. See Heinze, “Fides”, Nörr,
Die Fides and Hartmann, Die Praxis.
46 Machiavelli, The Prince, p. 59. 47 Machiavelli, The Prince, p. 61.

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Confessional Strife and the Question of Trustworthiness 27
fallen into this disaster ( . . . ) because we prefer to be feared than to be
held dear and loved’.48 It seems that Machiavelli is taking Cicero’s thought
further – despite his rhetoric against him – spelling out even more clearly
the autocratic ruler’s dependence on fear, in contrast to a less inimical and
more virtuous republican government. Fear is a critical component for
autocratic rule as trust is not possible with any other party. Accordingly,
‘rulers should have two main worries: one is internal, and concerns the
subjects; the other is external, and concerns foreign powers’.49 Owing to
the fickleness of rulers, alliances with foreign powers must remain unsta-
ble, and so too the internal tranquility of the commonwealth which is only
possible through permanent princely vigilance and potential threat to the
subjects. Where there is no scope for mutual trust there will be the attempt
to coerce people into submission. Machiavelli argued that autocratic rule
required a princely fortress to dominate over a city to maintain power:
although inadequate against external enemies, ‘if a ruler is more afraid
of his own subjects than of foreigners, he should build fortresses’.50 The
fortress is the signum of the prince’s fear of his own subjects.51
Conversely, Machiavelli also argued at length that in a well-constituted
republic, fortresses are politically and militarily superfluous, while coercion
and force are not only unnecessary but counterproductive. Republics can
utilise trust where autocratic rulers cannot. A well-governed republic can
sustain trust in its institutions and hence its citizens, in a well-constituted
republic, without needing recourse to coercion or force. Similarly, such
a republic should, and could, rely on its citizen militia for its protection.
According to the republican Machiavelli, ‘so long as Rome enjoyed
freedom and was loyal to her ( . . . ) constitution she never held either
cities or provinces by means of fortresses’.52 Here Cicero and Machiavelli
share common ground again. According to both, a republican government
relies on the citizen’s love, while the prince relies on fear.

48 Cicero, On Duties, II-29, p. 74. 49 Machiavelli, The Prince, p. 64.


50 Machiavelli, The Prince, p. 75. Giovanni Botero reiterates Machiavelli’s view of the usefulness of
fortresses for the ruler in subduing his subjects, but he also accords them a place in the defence
against external enemies. Cf. the English translation of his Della Ragion di Stato: G. Botero, Practical
Politics, ed. and translated by G. A. Moore (Washington 1949), p. 131.
51 It has not been sufficiently recognised how Machiavelli’s discussion of fortresses underscores his
argument regarding the issue of trust. On the general issue of fortresses in Machiavelli’s political
thought, see H. Münkler, Machiavelli. Die Begründung des politischen Denkens aus der Krise der
Republik Florenz (Frankfurt am Main 1982), M. E. Mallett, Warfare in Renaissance Italy (London
1974) and M. E. Mallett, “The Theory and Practice of Warfare in Machiavelli’s Republic” in G.
Bock and Q. Skinner (eds.), Machiavelli and Republicanism (Cambridge 1990), p. 173–180.
52 Machiavelli, The Discourses, II-24, p. 352.

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28 Alberico Gentili (1552–1608)
Gentili regarded both Cicero and Machiavelli as republicans who gave
general political advice, but were also both involved in a concrete struggle
to re-establish the republican constitution of their commonwealth. Well
before Rousseau’s famous dictum about Machiavelli’s Principe, Gentili
hailed Machiavelli as a ‘eulogist of democracy, and its most spirited
champion. ( . . . ) It was not his purpose to instruct the tyrant, but
by revealing his secret counsels to strip him bare, and expose him to
the suffering nation’.53 Gentili implied that the crucial question about
trustworthiness had already been, for Machiavelli, how to tame the fox
and the lion in the realm of politics.54
However, a world of republics would not be a world without con-
flicts. When Gentili appropriated Machiavelli, he accepted that republics
could be, and in the case of Rome certainly had been, expansionist.55 This
point was not the focus of De Iure Belli or De Legationibus, but was fully
developed in his De armis Romanis. As noted earlier, the interpretation
of this text needs to take into account that Gentili provides two argu-
ments almost in the form of a dispute56 , or at the very least, two distinct
deliberations on the subject concerning the justice of Roman warfare and
imperialism. The assumption that ‘when writing in the voice of the Roman
defender of imperialism of Book 2, Gentili dismisses ironically the stance
of the prosecutor in Book 1 as that of a narrow-minded provincial from

53 Gentili, On Embassies, p. 156. Cf. J.-J. Rousseau, “Of the Social Contract” in Political Writings,
ed. by V. Gourevitch (Cambridge 2003), III-6, p. 95: ‘While pretending to teach lessons to Kings,
he [Machiavelli] taught great lessons to peoples. Machiavelli’s Prince is the book of republicans’.
A similar, though less ardent and certainly lesser known argument in defence of Machiavelli had
already been made before Gentili in Florence. Cf. M. Toscano, Peplus Italiae (Paris 1578) and R.
Pole, Apologia Reginaldi poli ad Carolum V., ed. by A. M. Quirini (Brescia 1744), p. 151. I owe these
references to S. Anglo, Machiavelli, p. 409.
54 The image of the fox in particular had ambivalent connotations in early modern political thought.
See Stolleis, “Löwe und Fuchs. Eine politische Maxime im Frühabsolutismus” and Barlow, “The
Fox and the Lion: Machiavelli replies to Cicero”.
55 Generally speaking Machiavelli seems to have suggested that republics should strive to expand, even
by means of war. However, his quite remarkable discussion of the German free cities also suggests
that expansion is driven by necessity. Machiavelli, The Discourses, II-19, p. 337: ‘These communities
[the German free cities], therefore, are able to live, content with their small dominions, since with
respect to the Imperial authority they have no cause to desire more. Within their walls they live
united because in the offing there is an enemy who, should there be internal disorder, would take
the opportunity to subjugate them. Were conditions in Germany other than these, they would have
to seek expansion and disrupt their present tranquillity. And since elsewhere such conditions are
not present, other states cannot adopt this type of polity, but must needs expand either by means
of confederations or in the way the Romans did’. For further discussion of Machiavelli’s arguments
regarding expansion, see P. Schröder, Niccolò Machiavelli (Frankfurt am Main 2004), p. 23–32.
56 On the importance of disputatio for Gentili’s style and method, see Haggenmacher, “Grotius and
Gentili” and Panizza, “Political Theory and Jurisprudence”, p. 212.

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Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
the feast of tabernacles, when all Israel is come to appear before the
Lord thy God in the place which he shall choose, thou shalt read this
law before all Israel in their hearing. Gather the people together, men
and women and children, and the stranger that is within thy gates,
that they may hear, and that they may learn, and fear the Lord your
God, and observe to do all the words of this law; and that their
children, which have not known anything, may hear and learn to fear
the Lord your God” (Deut. xxxi. 10–13).

A seven years’ interval would surely have destroyed the impression


produced by the reading. The reading was probably repeated
throughout the country at shorter intervals. Tradition ascribes to
Moses the institution of reading the Law every Sabbath, Monday,
and Thursday morning, in order that three days might never pass
[346]without Torah. Ezra is said to have added the reading on
Sabbath afternoon, and to have made various other regulations with
regard to the reading of the Law.

Quantity and manner of reading were at first, no doubt, variable. In


the course of time certain systems found favour and became the
fixed rule. Some completed the reading of the whole Pentateuch in
three years, others in one year. The former mode was gradually
displaced by the latter, and the attempts which have lately been
made to revive it have not succeeded. Traces of the triennial reading
may be noticed in the number of sedarim contained in the five books
of the Pentateuch. At present, however, the annual course is
followed in almost all our Synagogues. The section read on one
Sabbath is called sidra; the first, ‫‏בראשית‬‎, is read the first Sabbath
after the Feast of Tabernacles, and the last sidra is read on
Simchath-torah (the 23rd of Tishri).

For the Festivals such sections were selected as contained either


direct or indirect reference to the Festivals. If these happen to be on
a Sabbath, the ordinary reading is interrupted, and that of the
Festivals substituted for it.

The number of persons who were to take part in the reading varied
according as the people were likely to devote less or more time to
Divine Service: on weekdays and on Sabbath afternoon three, on
New-moon and Chol-hammoed four, on the Festivals five, on the
Day of Atonement six, 34 and on Sabbath seven. Some may have
required the assistance of the chazan, and in [347]some cases the
chazan’s voice was the only one that was heard; gradually the
chazan became the reader, and the original reader became silent,
being content with reciting the b’rachoth. Only in the case of the Bar-
mitsvah, the Chathan-torah, and the Chathan-b’reshith the original
practice has been retained.

As regards the order of those who take part in the reading of the
Law, the first place is given to a Cohen, i.e., a descendant of Aaron,
the priest; the second to a Levite, i.e., a non-priest of the tribe of
Levi; and then follow other Israelites, that are neither Levites nor
Cohanim, without any prescribed order. The last who concludes the
reading from the Law on those days on which a chapter from the
Prophets is also read is called maftir, “concluding;” and the lesson
from the Prophets is called haphtarah, “conclusion.”

In the selection of the haphtarah care was taken that it should


contain some reference to the contents of the lesson from the
Pentateuch, and as there was not much choice, the haphtarah, once
chosen, was as a rule read again on the recurrence of the same
sidra. Different communities had different series of haphtaroth. A few
negative rules concerning the selection of the haphtarah are
mentioned in the Mishnah (Megillah iv. 10); Ezek. i. and xvi., 2 Sam.
xi. and xiii., are to be excluded. These rules, however, were not
observed, as Ezek. i. is the haphtarah for the first day of the Feast of
Weeks. There is an ancient rule about the nature of the haphtaroth
between the Fast of Tamuz and New-year; viz., there should be
three haphtaroth of “rebuke” [348]and seven of “comfort” (‫‏נ׳ דפרענותא‬‎,
‫‏ז׳ דנחמתא‬‎). The former are taken from Jeremiah (i. and ii.) and Isaiah
(i.); the latter are selected from Isaiah (xl. to lxvi.)

Various accounts are given of the origin of the haphtarah. One


account traces its origin to a period of persecution, when the Jews
were not allowed to read from the Torah, and the scrolls of the Law
were either confiscated or concealed. In both cases it was easy to
read from the Prophets, for this could be done by heart and in any
place; whilst for the reading of the Torah it was necessary to produce
a copy of the Law. According to another account, the haphtarah
served as a protest against the theory of the Samaritans, who
recognised the Torah alone as holy. But it is more likely and more
natural to suppose that the haphtarah was introduced as soon as the
Prophets became part of the Holy Scriptures.

There was a tendency to have recourse to the Divine messages of


future comfort and glory when the present was gloomy and sad. At
the end of the Service or a religious discourse, just before leaving
the Synagogue or the Beth ha-midrash, passages from the Prophets
were read, in order that the people might carry away with them a
strengthened faith in God and in the ultimate victory of their religion.
On Sabbath morning the lessons from the Prophets were of greater
importance, since a larger number congregated, and more time
could be devoted to it. A b’rachah therefore introduced it, and
b’rachoth, including a prayer for the restoration of Zion, followed it.
The name haphtarah suggests this explanation; it denotes literally
“causing to leave,” “departure,” or “conclusion.” [349]

After the return of the Jews from Babylon they spoke the Chaldee
dialect; the lessons from the Bible were accordingly accompanied by
a Chaldee translation called targum. The translation was not always
literal, but was frequently a paraphrase. It was given, as a rule, after
each verse, by an appointed methurgeman.—In communities which
only understood Greek the Greek version was read. A Spanish
translation of the haphtarah is still added at present on the Fast of
Ab in the Portuguese Ritual; but otherwise the practice of adding a
translation to the text has long since been discontinued.

b. ‫‏שמור‬‎“Take Heed.”

The negative commandment concerning the Holy-days is: ‫‏לא תעשה‬


‫כל מלאכה‬‎, “Thou shalt do no manner of work.” The very name
Sabbath (‫‏שבת‬‎, “rest”) implies absence of labour. We are
commanded to rest on the Sabbath, but not to indulge in laziness
and indolence, which are by no means conducive to the health of the
body or the soul. The Sabbath rest is described in our Sabbath
Afternoon Service as “voluntary and congenial, true and faithful, and
happy and cheerful.” Moderate exercise, cheerful reading, and
pleasant conversation are indispensable for a rest of this kind.

What is to be understood by the term “labour” or “work” in the


prohibition “Thou shalt not do any manner of work”? The Pentateuch
gives no definition of the term. But the Israelites, when they were told
that work was prohibited on Sabbath, and that [350]any breach of the
law was to be punished with death, must have received orally a full
explanation of the prohibition. A case is mentioned of one who
profaned the Sabbath by gathering sticks, and was put to death; this
could not have been done if any doubt had been left in his mind
whether the act of gathering sticks was included in the prohibition.
A few instances of work prohibited on a Sabbath-day are met with in
the Bible. In connection with the manna, the prohibition of cooking
and baking is mentioned; also the commandment, “Let no man go
out of his place on the seventh day” (Exod. xvi. 29); i.e., we must not
travel or go beyond a certain distance 35 on the Sabbath. Another act
distinctly forbidden is contained in the words, “Ye shall kindle no fire
in all your dwellings on the day of rest” (ibid. xxxv. 3). The prophet
Amos (viii. 5), in rebuking the Israelites for cheating their fellow-men,
puts the following words into their mouth: “When will the new moon
be gone, that we may sell corn? and the Sabbath, that we may open
our stores of wheat?” This shows that the Israelites conducted no
business on New-moon and Sabbath. Jeremiah (xvii. 21 sqq.) says
as follows: “Thus saith the Lord, Take heed to yourselves, and bear
no burden on the sabbath day, nor bring it in [351]by the gates of
Jerusalem; neither carry forth a burden out of your houses on the
sabbath day, neither do ye any work, but hallow ye the sabbath
day.”—Nehemiah relates (xiii. 15): “In those days saw I in Judah
some treading wine-presses on the sabbath, and bringing in
sheaves, and lading asses; as also wine, grapes, and figs, and all
manner of burdens, which they brought into Jerusalem on the
sabbath day: and I testified against them in the day wherein they
sold victuals. Then I said unto them, What evil thing is this that ye do
and profane the sabbath day?” As a general rule, we may say that
the work prohibited on Sabbath and Festivals embraces two classes:
viz., (1) All such acts as are legally—i.e., in the Oral Law—defined as
‫‏מלאכה‬‎“work.” It makes no difference whether we consider any of
them as labour or not. Under thirty-nine different heads 36 they are
enumerated in the Mishnah (Shabbath vii. 2). The following are a few
of them:—Ploughing, sowing, reaping, threshing, [352]grinding,
baking, hunting, killing an animal, tanning, sewing, writing, kindling
light or fire, and carrying things abroad.
(2.) Everything which our conscience tells us to be inappropriate for
the Sabbath; acts which come neither under the head of ‫‏מלאכה‬‎nor
under that of ‫‏שבות‬‎, but which would tend to change the Sabbath into
an ordinary day; e.g., preparing for our daily business transactions,
although such preparation does not involve an actual breach of any
of the Sabbath laws.

Whatever we are not allowed to do ourselves, we must not have


done for us by a co-religionist, who deliberately disregards the fourth
commandment. Neither must we employ non-Israelites to do our
work on Sabbath, except in case of need; e.g., in case of illness or
fear of illness.

As regards Holy-days, there is the general rule that work (‫‏מלאכה‬‎)


prohibited on Sabbath must not be done on Holy-days: “Save that
which every man must eat, that only may be done of you” (Exod. xii.
16); that is to say, it is allowed on Festivals to cook, to bake, or to
prepare food in any other way. 37 Of course, for the Festival that
happens to fall on a Sabbath, the [353]laws of Sabbath remain in
force. The Day of Atonement is in this respect equal to Sabbath.

c. ‫‏ענג‬‎“Delight.”

The principal and noblest delight yielded by Holy-days is the


pleasure we feel in more frequent communion with the Divine Being,
in the purer and holier thoughts with which we are inspired when at
rest from ordinary work, and able to devote ourselves more fully
[354]to the contemplation of the works and words of God. In this
sense the day of rest is described in one of the hymns (‫‏זמירות‬‎) after
supper as “a foretaste of the world to come” (‫‏מעין עולם הבא יום שבת‬
‫מנוחה‬‎).
But oneg shabbath includes also delight of a less spiritual character.
We are not commanded on the days of rest to forget altogether the
wants of the body. On the contrary. Nehemiah, when on the first day
of the seventh month, that is, on New-year, he perceived that his
brethren were sad, addressed them thus: “Go your way, eat the fat
and drink the sweet, and send portions unto him for whom nothing is
prepared: for this day is holy unto the Lord: neither be ye grieved; for
the joy of the Lord is your strength” (Neh. viii. 10). The same
conception of “the sabbath unto the Lord” is met with in Talmud,
Midrash, and throughout the whole of the Rabbinical literature. In
one of our Sabbath-hymns (‫‏זמירות‬‎) we say: “This day is for Israel,
light and joy, a sabbath of rest;” and in our prayers for Sabbath we
glory in being shom’re shabbath ve-kor’e oneg, “observers of the
sabbath, and such as call it a delight.”—With regard to the Festivals,
the duty of rejoicing is repeatedly enjoined (Deut. xvi. 11, 14).

In our regulations, customs, and prayers for Sabbath and Festivals,


this duty is clearly indicated. All fasting and mourning is prohibited.
Care was taken that Divine Service should be free from such prayers
as would be likely to create feelings of grief and sadness. 38 A special
formula has also been introduced for the [355]expression of our
sympathy with the sick and the mourner on Sabbath and Festivals. 39

When any of the obligatory fasts—except the Day of Atonement—


happens to fall on a Sabbath, the fasting is put off (‫‏נדחה‬‎) till the next
day, or kept, as in the case of the fast of Esther, on the preceding
Thursday. Tradition has raised the taking of the three regular meals
on Sabbath (‫‏שלש סעודות‬‎), viz., supper, breakfast, and dinner, to a
religious act—a mitsvah, and the religious character of the meals is
shown by the special prayers and hymns—zemiroth—which
accompany them. A fourth meal is, according to some authority,
likewise obligatory; whilst, according to another authority, it may be
replaced by spiritual food, by reading and studying the Torah.
d. ‫‏כבוד‬‎“Honour.”

We honour the day inwardly by considering it a holy, distinguished


season, which ought to be devoted to higher objects than the wants
of our body. Our mind should be entirely turned aside from our daily
business, in order to be free for loftier and holier thoughts. For the
purpose of effecting this inward distinction of the Sabbath, we
honour it also outwardly by various things, which are partly a symbol,
partly a reminder of the distinction claimed by the day. We honour
the Sabbath, therefore, by giving a festive appearance to our meals,
our dress, and our dwelling. The [356]principal thing required is
neatness and cheerfulness; not luxury. On the contrary, we are
guided in this respect by the principle: Make rather thy Sabbath an
ordinary day—i.e., omit the distinction in food and dress—than
render thyself dependent on the support of thy fellow-men. 40

It is customary to have two loaves on the table, over which the


blessing ha-motsee is said. They are to remind us of the double
portion of bread or manna (‫‏לחם משנה‬‎, Exod. xvi. 22) given to the
Israelites in the wilderness on the sixth day because of the
succeeding Sabbath-day. The cloth spread beneath the loaves, and
the cover over them, represent symbolically the dew which both lay
on the ground under the manna and also over it. 41 The origin of this
custom of covering the bread may perhaps be found in the following
Talmudic law: “If a meal that has commenced on Friday afternoon is
continued in the night, it must be interrupted when Sabbath comes
in; a cloth is to be spread over the bread whilst the Kiddush is
recited” (Babyl. Talm. Pesachim, 100a). The spreading of the cloth
appears to be here merely a sign of the pause, and the distinction
between the ordinary meal and that of Sabbath. 42 That which was at
first ordained for [357]special cases became in course of time a
general custom. 43
The loaves are called birchoth (‫‏ברכות‬‎), taashir (‫‏תעשיר‬‎), or challah
(‫‏חלה‬‎). The first name they received as symbols of God’s blessing,
the double portion of manna which the Almighty sent to the Israelites
on Friday because of the Sabbath (see Rashi on Gen. ii. 3). The
verse, “The blessing of the Lord, it maketh rich” (‫‏תעשיר‬‎, Prov. x. 22),
suggested the second name. Challah reminds us of the
commandment to give the first part of the dough to the priest (Num.
xv. 17–21). Although at present this commandment cannot be
carried out, we separate a small piece, called challah, of the dough
which we prepare for bread, and burn it, after having recited an
appropriate blessing. 44 It is customary to prepare the dough for the
Sabbath loaves at home, in order to be able to act in accordance
with this custom. This is one of the religious acts which it is the
special duty of women to perform, and some of the pious women of
Israel (‫‏נשים צדקניות‬‎) have the praiseworthy custom to lay something
aside for charity when performing this or similar religious acts.

Another act performed in honour of Sabbath and [358]Festivals is the


kindling of special lights before the holy day comes in, to indicate
symbolically the approach of a day of light and cheerfulness. This
duty is likewise the privilege of the housewife 45 or her representative.
Before 46 kindling the lights the following blessing is recited: ‫‏ברוך אתה‬
‫… וצונו להדליק נר של שבת‬‎“Blessed art thou … and hast commanded
us to kindle the sabbath lights.” ‫‏יום טוב‬‎, ‫‏יום הכפורים‬‎, ‫‏שבת ויום טוב‬‎, or
‫‏שבת ויום הכפורים‬‎is substituted for ‫‏שבת‬‎according as a Holy-day, the
Day of Atonement, or these days when they happen to fall on a
Saturday, come in. On Festivals, except the last days of Passover,
the following blessing, called ‫‏שהחינו‬‎, is added: ‫‏ברוך … שהחינו וקימנו‬
‫והגיענו לזמן הזה‬‎“Blessed art thou … who hast kept us in life,
preserved us, and enabled us to reach this season.”
[Contents]

Notes.
1. The reading of the Law is preceded and followed by a blessing. In the first we
praise God for having distinguished Israel by revealing the Law to them, and in the
second for the benefit derived from the Law as the source of eternal life. The love
and regard for the Law expressed in these blessings should be shown by the
congregants in silent and respectful attention to what is recited by the Reader.
Those who are called up to the Law consider this as an important event, and make
it an occasion of special prayers for relatives and friends (mi-shebberach),
accompanied [359]by promises of contributions to communal and charitable
institutions. On days of family rejoicing, as well as on days of mourning, the
religious privilege of being called to the Reading of the Law is especially valued; in
the former case offerings are vowed in honour of our living friends, in the other
case in memoriam of those near and dear to us, who have departed from our
midst. These additional prayers thus serve a double purpose; they help to
preserve the bond of relationship and friendship, and secure a material support for
the benevolent and other institutions of the community.

Objections have been raised to this in itself praiseworthy custom for two reasons:
first, the mi-shebberach only concerns a few, and appears to the rest of the
congregation a useless interruption in the reading of the Law; secondly, it gives
occasion to a display of vanity and pride.

As to the first objection, provision could and should be made that the interruption
be not unduly long, and cause irritation among the congregants. Due regard
should be shown to the fact that the Divine Book is open on the reading-desk, and
everything should be avoided that might diminish the reverence proper to such an
occasion. The second objection is based on a pessimistic estimate of our fellow-
men; if there is any one whose offerings are made from vain and ostentatious
motives, he is certainly lost in the multitude of those who take a more serious and
a more dignified view of their duties when standing before the open Torah.
2. There is an old tradition that we should recite daily a hundred benedictions. On
Sabbath and Holy-days, when the Amidah contains only seven berachoth instead
of eighteen, the deficiency is made up by seeking an occasion for birchoth ha-
nehenin. Hence the minhag spread of partaking on these days of various kinds of
fruit between the meals.

3. Tradition teaches us that on the holy days of rest we must not only abstain from
actual work, but also from ordering anything to be done by those who refuse to
recognise the Sabbath-laws as binding on them.—Circumstances force us to
deviate at times from this rule. There were Jews who would not allow any work to
be undertaken on Friday which would continue of its own accord after the Sabbath
had set in. Thus they would not have light in their homes on Friday evening or
warm food [360]on the Sabbath-day, although all necessary precautions had been
taken before Sabbath came in to keep the light burning and the food warm for
twenty-four hours. But the more these Jews insisted on excluding light and fire
from their homes, the more did our Sages demand light and warm food as
essential comforts of the Sabbath, and to them the Sabbath-candles and the warm
food were a mitsvah of great importance. Much work is done on Sabbath for the
public by non-Jews; e.g., in connection with railway-trains, steamboats, and other
public conveyances. May the Jew avail himself of the work thus done for all alike
without his bidding? He may in some cases—e.g., for a long sea-voyage—in
others not. But he must always bear in mind that Judaism depends on the
adherence of the Jews to the noble principle, ‫‏כל ישראל ערבים זה בזה‬‎“All Israelites
are sureties responsible for each other.” The meaning of this principle is this: If a
certain act appears to one of us allowable, but at the same time our action might
mislead others and cause them to break the Law, we must not do it. Thus if Jews
were to avail themselves of the public conveyances, the whole aspect of the
Sabbath would change, and the day would ultimately be forgotten.

4. When dire necessity compels a Jew to break the Sabbath, let him not think that
the Sabbath is lost to him, or he to Judaism. So long as Jewish conscientiousness
is alive within him, let him endeavour to keep as much of the Sabbath as he is
able. He must not say, “I have broken the Sabbath. How can I join my brethren in
the Sabbath Service!” Whatever he does conscientiously will be acceptable before
God, and he will thus find himself exhorted to watch carefully, and to seize the first
opportunity of returning to the full observance of Sabbath. The same principle
applies to all the Divine Precepts.
[Contents]

The Jewish Calendar.

The Jewish Calendar 47 reckons the day from evening to evening, in


accordance with the order observed in [361]the verse, “And it was
evening and it was morning, one day” (Gen. i. 5). The evening
begins after sunset, at the moment when stars become visible under
normal conditions of the atmosphere: at ‫‏צאת הכוכבים‬‎“the coming
forth of the stars,” scil., of at least three stars of middle size.

The day is divided into evening, morning, and afternoon. With each
of these periods is connected an appropriate prayer or service, viz.,
Maarib or Evening-prayer, Shacharith or Morning-prayer, and
Minchah or Afternoon-prayer.

Seven days form a week. The days of the week are described in the
Bible and the Talmud simply as the first day, the second day, &c.
Only the seventh day has a second name, Yom ha-shabbath or
shabbath, “the day of rest,” or “the rest.” In post-Biblical literature the
sixth day is called Erebh shabbath or Ma’ale shabbatha, “the eve of
Sabbath,” or “the coming in of Sabbath.” The evening following
Sabbath is named Motseë shabbath, “the departure of Sabbath.”
Similarly the day preceding a Festival and the evening following it
are called Erev yom-tobh and Motseë yom-tobh, “the eve of the
Festival.” and “the departure of the Festival.”

Four weeks and one or two days make one month, ‫‏חדש‬‎or ‫‏ירח‬‎. The
length of the month is determined by the duration of one revolution of
the moon round the earth. Such revolution is completed in twenty-
nine days and a half. 48 As, however, the calendar mouth [362]does
not commence in the middle of the day, but at the beginning of the
evening, it was necessary to add half a day to one month, and to
take off half a day from the next. The months have therefore
alternately twenty-nine and thirty days.

The months are named according to their order, the first month, the
second, &c.; the first being the first month in the spring. Other
names, implying agricultural and climatic relations, were likewise in
use, and the following four of them have been preserved in the Bible:
the first month is called Abib, “ears of corn;” the second Ziv,
“beauty;” the seventh Ethanim, “hardy fruit;” and the eighth, Bul,
“rain.” 49 Since the return of the Jews from the Babylonian exile,
names of foreign origin have been in use, viz., Nisan, Iyar, Sivan,
Tammuz, Abh, Elul, Tishri, Cheshvan, Kislev, Tebheth, Shebhat and
Adar. 50 Roughly speaking, these months correspond to April, May,
June, July, August, September, October, November, December,
January, February, and March.

The year is either an ordinary year or a leap-year, the former


consisting of twelve, the latter of thirteen months. The extra month is
called Adar-sheni, “the second Adar,” and is added between Adar
and Nisan. It serves to adjust from time to time the lunar to the
[363]solar year; 51 for there is between the lunar year—that is, the time
of twelve revolutions of the moon round the earth—and the solar
year, or the time of one revolution of the earth round the sun, a
difference of about eleven days, the one consisting of about 354⅓,
the other of about 365¼ days. In nineteen years the difference
amounts to about seven months. We have therefore seven leap-
years in every cycle (‫‏מחזור‬‎) of nineteen years, viz., the 3rd, 6th, 8th,
11th, 14th, 17th, and 19th.
Neither the ordinary years nor the leap-years have a uniform
duration; the former fluctuate between 353, 354, and 355 days; the
latter between 383, 384, and 385 days. The following is the cause of
this variety: There are certain days in the week which are never
made the beginning of the new year (the 1st of Tishri). Whenever the
astronomical beginning of the year happens to be on one of these
days, a day is added to one year, and taken from the next. The
addition in the former case is made in the month of Cheshvan, and
the curtailing in the latter case in the month of Kislev. The length of
the months is therefore as follows:—Nisan, 30; Iyar, 29; Sivan, 30;
Tammuz, 29; Abh, 30; Elul, 29; Tishri, 30; Cheshvan, 29 or 30;
Kislev, 30 or 29; Tebheth, 29; Shebhat, 30; Adar, 29, in leap-year 30;
Adar-sheni (in leap-year), 29 days.

The first day of the month is called New-moon-day [364]‫‏חדש‬‎52 or ‫‏ראש‬


‫חדש‬‎, “beginning of the month.” In those months which have thirty
days, the thirtieth day is likewise kept as Rosh-chodesh.

The beginning of the astronomical month is the moment of the


conjunction of sun and moon, 53 when the moon is exactly between
the earth and the sun. Nothing is then visible of the moon. Six hours
at least later a very small portion of the moon can, under favourable
conditions, be seen, and the day on which this takes place is the first
of the calendar month.

At first, from the earliest days down to Hillel II. (about 360 c.e.),
Rosh-chodesh was determined by direct observation. The highest
court, the great Sanhedrin, examined the witnesses who had noticed
the reappearance of the moon, and accordingly determined the first
day of the month by the solemn declaration, Mekuddash,
“sanctified;” that is, the day is to be kept as Rosh-chodesh. These
proceedings took place on the thirtieth day of the month. If witnesses
presented themselves who testified to the appearance of the new
moon, and after due examination their statement was found to be
correct, the same day was proclaimed as Rosh-chodesh, and the
preceding month had twenty-nine days; if no witnesses presented
themselves, or the witnesses could not sustain their evidence, the
day was added to the expiring month, and the day following was the
first of the next month. The decision of the Sanhedrin concerned only
the thirtieth day of the month. As soon as their decision was arrived
at, Jewish congregations located within a certain distance were
informed by [365]signal or by trustworthy messengers which day had
been fixed as the first of the new month. The decrees of the
Sanhedrin, the highest religious council of the nation, were accepted
by all Jewish congregations as law, and the Festivals were
celebrated in accordance with the New Moon thus appointed. There
were, however, Jewish congregations in distant parts that could not
be reached by the messengers in due time, and these were in doubt
concerning the day on which a Festival had to be celebrated. Being
anxious not to miss the day kept as a Festival on the authority of the
Sanhedrin by their brethren at the religious centre of the nation, the
Jews abroad observed two days as Holy-days instead of one; only
the Fast of the Day of Atonement had no additional day, because,
being a fast-day, the majority of the people were unable to abstain
from food for two consecutive days. New-year, on the other hand,
was, as a rule, everywhere observed two days, even in places near
the seat of the Sanhedrin, and sometimes even in the very place
where the Sanhedrin met, on account of the uncertainty whether the
30th of Elul or the day following would be fixed by the Sanhedrin as
Rosh ha-shanah. Though, with regard to the most holy Festival, the
uncertainty of the day admitted of no remedy, this circumstance did
not prevent our pious ancestors from applying a remedy where it
could be done.

It was not ignorance that led Jews outside Palestine to observe two
Holy-days instead of one. A rough calculation of the time in which
the various phenomena of the moon are to be noticed is not difficult,
and could be made by many Rabbis and laymen long before Hillel II.
framed the permanent Calendar. Nevertheless, [366]two days were
kept, because it was impossible to calculate or anticipate all the
accidental circumstances that might cause the Sanhedrin to defer
the fixing of Rosh-chodesh for the next day.

Nor was it a decree of the Sanhedrin, or of a Rabbinical assembly,


that ordered the observance of ‫‏יום טוב שני‬‎, “a second day of the
Festival.” This was done by the voluntary act of the nation, and their
resolution was confirmed by continued usage. It was the outcome of
genuine piety, of the earnest desire to be at one with the central
authority of the nation. The observance of ‫‏יום טוב שני‬‎is so old that no
trace of its actual introduction can be discovered in the Talmud;
wherever mention is made of it, it is represented as an institution
already in existence. It may already have existed in the days of the
prophets, and traces of the celebration of a second day of Rosh-
chodesh may be recognised in the first book of Samuel (i. xx. 27).

This practice, which sprang from true fear and love of God, was
spontaneously adopted by all the Jews outside Palestine, continued
by generation after generation for more than two thousand years,
and has, as a minhag of long standing, become law. It is not a
precept commanded in the Written Law, or decreed in the Oral Law;
it is only a minhag “practice,” but a minhag that must be cherished
and respected as a national institution. There may come a time when
the institution of ‫‏יום טוב שני‬‎will be abolished; this can, however, only
be done by the national will, confirmed by a Sanhedrin which will be
recognised by the whole nation as the only religious authority. Until
then it is incumbent upon us to adhere firmly to the observance of
the second days of the Festivals. [367]
[Contents]

Notes.
The following are the general principles upon which our Calendar is based:—

1. Twenty-nine days 12​793⁄1080 hours elapse between one molad and the next. 54

2. An ordinary year must not have less than 353 or more than 355 days, nor the
leap-year less than 383 or more than 385 days.

3. The 1st of Tishri is fixed on the day of the molad of Tishri. There are four
exceptions (‫‏דחיות‬‎):—

a. ‫‏לא אד״ו ראש‬‎. If the molad of Tishri falls on a Sunday, Wednesday, or Friday.

b. ‫‏מולד זקן‬‎. If the molad of Tishri is at noon or later.

c. If the molad of Tishri in an ordinary year is on Tuesday 3​204⁄1080 a.m. or later (‫‏ג׳ ט׳‬
‫ר״ד‬‎).

d. If the molad of Tishri of a year succeeding a leap-year is on Monday 9​589⁄1080 a.m.


or later (‫‏ב׳ ט״ו תק״פט‬‎).

The first of these four exceptions is to prevent the Day of Atonement from falling
on Friday or Sunday, and Hoshaana-rabba from falling on Sabbath; the third
exception is to guard against having an ordinary year of more than 355, and the
last from having a leap-year of less than 383 days.

4. The character of the year is described by three letters, the first of which
indicates the day of the week for the 1st of Tishri, the last the day of the week for
the 1st of Nisan, the middle letter, according as it is ‫‏כ‬‎, ‫‏ח‬‎, or ‫‏ש‬‎(=‫‏כסדר‬‎“regular;”
‫‏חסרה‬‎“defective;” ‫‏שלמה‬‎“perfect”), indicates a regular year of 354 (in leap-year 384)
days, a defective year of 353 (in leap-year 383), or a perfect one of 355 (in leap-
year 385) days.
The present year (September 1890 to October 1891) is, according to Jewish
tradition, 55 the year 5651 a.m. (of the Creation); its characteristics are ‫‏ב׳ ח׳ ה׳‬‎; i.e.,
the 1st of Tishri is on Monday; the year is defective; and the 1st of Nisan is on
Thursday. The year is, besides, a leap-year, consisting of 13 months; [368]it is the
eighth year of the 298th cycle (of 19 years). It is the first year of the Septennate, or
the first year after the year of release (‫‏שמטה‬‎. See Lev. xxv.).
[Contents]

The Festivals.

“The feasts of the Lord, even holy convocations, which ye shall


proclaim in their seasons” (Lev. xxiii. 4), are Passover, Feast of
Weeks, Day of Memorial, Day of Atonement, and Feast of
Tabernacles. These are divided into two groups called ‫‏שלוש רגלים‬
and ‫‏ימים נוראים‬‎, “three festivals” and “solemn days.” In the
Pentateuch the two groups are kept distinctly asunder. Thus in Exod.
xxiii. 14–17 and xxxiv. 18, and Deut. xvi., only the former group is
mentioned.

The name shalosh regalim derives its origin from the following
Biblical passage: “Three times thou shalt keep a feast unto me in the
year,” ‫‏שלש רגלים תחג לי בשנה‬‎(Exod. xxiii. 14). Although in a parallel
passage the word ‫‏רגלים‬‎has been replaced by ‫‏פעמים‬‎(ibid. ver. 17), of
the same meaning, “times,” shalosh regalim has been preferred,
because ‫‏רגלים‬‎reminds one also of “a journey on foot,” “a
pilgrimage,” an important element in the celebration of these three
festivals, according to the Divine commandment, “Three times every
year shall thy males appear before the Lord thy God, in the place
which he shall choose, in the feast of unleavened bread, in the feast
of weeks, and in the feast of tabernacles” (Deut. xvi. 16).

The name yamim noraim for the remaining two feasts is not founded
on a Biblical phrase, but on the fact that these festivals are devoted
more than the rest to earnest reflection and solemn devotion. [369]
I. The Three Festivals (‫‏שלש רגלים‬‎).

The three festivals have the following three characteristics in


common:—

1. They refer to important events in our national history; viz.,


Passover to the deliverance of the Israelites from Egyptian bondage;
Feast of Weeks to the Revelation on Mount Sinai; and Tabernacles
to the travels of the Israelites through the Arabian desert.

2. They mark the various stages of the harvest; viz., Passover marks
the season of the early harvest, Feast of Weeks the second harvest,
and the Feast of Tabernacles the ingathering of the fruit.

3. They serve as a means for imparting essential religious truths;


viz., Passover embodies the principle of the Existence of God, the
Feast of Weeks that of Revelation, and the Feast of Tabernacles that
of Divine Providence.

The Distinguished Sabbaths (‫‏ד׳ פרשיות‬‎). 56

There are in the months Adar and Nisan four Sabbaths distinguished
by the circumstance that on them additional sections are read from
the Pentateuch and special lessons from the Prophets. Two of them
are connected with the celebration of Passover.

1. ‫‏שבת שקלים‬‎“Sabbath of the shekels;” i.e., on which the law


concerning the half-shekel contribution is read from the Pentateuch
(Exod. xxx. 11–16), and also the account of the gifts for the repair of
the Temple in the reign of King Joash (2 Kings xii. [370]1–17). Every
male Israelite, twenty years old or upward, had to contribute annually
one half-shekel towards the maintenance of the Temple and the
Temple Service. The year commenced the 1st of Nisan, when public
sacrifices had to be bought with money of the new contributions. 57

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