A Social History of Western Political Thought

A SOCIAL HISTORY OF

WESTERN POLITICAL THOUGHT

Ellen Meiksins Wood (1942–2016), for many years professor of political science at York University, Toronto, was the author of many books, including Democracy against Capitalism, The Pristine Culture of Capitalism, The Origin of Capitalism, and Peasant-Citizen and Slave.

A SOCIAL HISTORY

OF WESTERN

POLITICAL THOUGHT

ELLEN MEIKSINS WOOD

First published as one volume by Verso 2022

Citizens to Lords: A Social History of Western Political Thought from

Antiquity to the Middle Ages first published by Verso 2008

Liberty and Property: A Social History of Western Political Thought

from Renaissance to Enlightenment first published by Verso 2012

© Ellen Meiksins Wood 2022

All rights reserved

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

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Verso

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Verso is the imprint of New Left Books

ISBN-13: 978-1-83976-609-1

ISBN-13: 978-1-83976-610-7 (UK EBK)

ISBN-13: 978-1-83976-611-4 (US EBK)

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Typeset in Sabon MT by Hewer UK Ltd, Edinburgh

Printed in the US by Maple Vail

CONTENTS

PART I. CITIZENS TO LORDS:

ANTIQUITY TO THE MIDDLE AGES

Acknowledgements

1. The Social History of Political Theory

2. The Ancient Greek Polis

3. From Polis to Empire

4. The Middle Ages

5. Conclusion

PART II. LIBERTY AND PROPERTY:

RENAISSANCE TO ENLIGHTENMENT

Acknowledgements

1. Transitions

2. The Renaissance City-State

3. The Reformation

4. The Spanish Empire

5. The Dutch Republic

6. French Absolutism

7. The English Revolution

8. Enlightenment or Capitalism?

Notes

Index

PART I.

CITIZENS TO LORDS:

ANTIQUITY TO THE MIDDLE AGES

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

As so often before, I am particularly grateful to George Comninel, who read the whole manuscript and made his customarily generous and insightful suggestions. My thanks also to Paul Cartledge, Janet Coleman and Gordon Schochet, who read parts of the manuscript and made useful comments but cannot, of course, be held responsible for any failures on my part to take good advice. Perry Anderson kindly agreed to my last-minute request for a quick reading of the whole text and made some very helpful suggestions. And special thanks to Ed Broadbent, who brilliantly played the role of every writer’s dream audience, the intelligent general reader. I owe a great deal to his keenly critical eye, together with his unfailing support and encouragement.

My greatest debt is to Neal Wood. Many years ago, we decided that one day we would write a social history of political theory together. Somehow we never got around to it. There were always other projects to embark on and complete. Yet when, after his death, I set out to do it on my own, he remained in a sense the co-author. It was he who first introduced me to the history of political thought; it was he who coined the phrase, the ‘social history of political theory’; and this project would have been inconceivable without his rich body of work in the field and his example of scholarly integrity combined with passionate engagement.

1

THE SOCIAL HISTORY

OF POLITICAL THEORY

What is Political Theory?

Every complex civilization with a state and organized leadership is bound to generate reflection on the relations between leader and led, rulers and subjects, command and obedience. Whether it takes the form of systematic philosophy, poetry, parable or proverb, in oral traditions or in the written word, we can call it political thought. But the subject of this book is one very particular mode of political thinking that emerged in the very particular historical conditions of ancient Greece and developed over two millennia in what we now call Europe and its colonial outposts.¹

For better or worse, the Greeks invented their own distinctive mode of political theory, a systematic and analytical interrogation of political principles, full of laboriously constructed definitions and adversarial argumentation, applying critical reason to questioning the very foundations and legitimacy of traditional moral rules and the principles of political right. While there have been many other ways of thinking about politics in the Western world, what we think of as the classics of Western political thought, ancient and modern, belong to the tradition of political theory established by the Greeks.

Other ancient civilizations in many ways more advanced than the Greeks – in everything from agricultural techniques to commerce, navigation, and every conceivable craft or high art – produced vast literatures on every human practice, as well as speculations about the origins of life and the formation of the universe. But, in general, the political order was not treated as an object of systematic critical speculation.

We can, for example, contrast the ancient Greek mode of political speculation about principles of political order with the philosophy of ethical precept, aphorism, advice and example produced by the far more complex and advanced civilization of China, which had its own rich and varied tradition of political thought. Confucian philosophy, for instance, takes the form of aphorisms on appropriate conduct, proverbial sayings and exemplary anecdotes, conveying its political lessons not by means of argumentation but by subtle allusions with complex layers of meaning. Another civilization more advanced than classical Greece, India, produced a Hindu tradition of political thought lacking the kind of analytical and theoretical speculation that characterized Indian works of moral philosophy, logic and epistemology, expressing its commitment to existing political arrangements in didactic form without systematic argumentation. We can also contrast classical political philosophy to the earlier Homeric poetry of heroic ideals, models and examples or even to the political poetry of Solon, on the eve of the classical polis.

The tradition of political theory as we know it in the West can be traced back to ancient Greek philosophers – notably, Protagoras, Socrates, Plato and Aristotle – and it has produced a series of ‘canonical’ thinkers whose names have become familiar even to those who have never read their work: St Augustine, St Thomas Aquinas, Machiavelli, Hobbes, Locke, Rousseau, Hegel, Mill, and so on. The writings of these thinkers are extremely varied, but they do have certain things in common. Although they often analyze the state as it is, their principal enterprise is criticism and prescription. They all have some conception of what constitutes the right and proper ordering of society and government. What is conceived as ‘right’ is often based on some conception of justice and the morally good life, but it may also derive from practical reflections about what is required to maintain peace, security and material well-being.

Some political theorists offer blueprints for an ideally just state. Others specify reforms of existing government and proposals for guiding public policy. For all of them, the central questions have to do with who should govern and how, or what form of government is best; and they generally agree that it is not enough to ask and answer questions about the best form of government: we must also critically explore the grounds on which such judgments are made. Underlying such questions is always some conception of human nature, those qualities in human beings that must be nurtured or controlled in order to achieve a right and proper social order. Political theorists have outlined their human ideals and asked what kind of social and political arrangements are required to realize this vision of humanity. And when questions such as these are asked, others may not be far off: why and under what conditions ought we to obey those who govern us, and are we ever entitled to disobey or rebel?

These may seem obvious questions, but the very idea of asking them, the very idea that the principles of government or the obligation to obey authority are proper subjects for systematic reflection and the application of critical reason, cannot be taken for granted. Political theory represents as important a cultural milestone as does systematic philosophical or scientific reflection on the nature of matter, the earth and heavenly bodies. If anything, the invention of political theory is harder to explain than is the emergence of natural philosophy and science.

In what follows, we shall explore the historical conditions in which political theory was invented and how it developed in specific historical contexts, always keeping in mind that the classics of political theory were written in response to particular historical circumstances. The periods of greatest creativity in political theory have tended to be those historical moments when social and political conflict has erupted in particularly urgent ways, with far-reaching consequences; but even in calmer times, the questions addressed by political theorists have presented themselves in historically specific ways.

This means several things. Political theorists may speak to us through the centuries. As commentators on the human condition, they may have something to say for all times. But they are, like all human beings, historical creatures; and we shall have a much richer understanding of what they have to say, and even how it might shed light on our own historical moment, when we have some idea of why they said it, to whom they said it, with whom they were debating (explicitly or implicitly), how their immediate world looked to them, and what they believed should be changed or preserved. This is not simply a matter of biographical detail or even historical ‘background’. To understand what political theorists are saying requires knowing what questions they are trying to answer, and those questions confront them not simply as philosophical abstractions but as specific problems posed by specific historical conditions, in the context of specific practical activities, social relations, pressing issues, grievances and conflicts.

The History of Political Theory

This understanding of political theory as a historical product has not always prevailed among scholars who write about the history of political thought; and it probably still needs to be justified, not least against the charge that by historicizing the great works of political theory we demean and trivialize them, denying them any meaning and significance beyond their own historical moment. I shall try to explain and defend my reasons for proceeding as I do, but that requires, first, a sketch of how the history of political thought has been studied in the recent past.

In the 1960s and 70s, at a time of revival for the study of political theory, academic specialists used to debate endlessly about the nature and fate of their discipline. But in general political theorists, especially in American universities, were expected to embrace the division of political studies into the ‘empirical’ and the ‘normative’. In one camp was the real political science, claiming to deal scientifically with the facts of political life as they are, and in the other was ‘theory’, confined to the ivory tower of political philosophy and reflecting not on what is but on what ought to be.

This barren division of the discipline undoubtedly owed much to the culture of the Cold War, which generally encouraged the withdrawal of academics from trenchant social criticism. At any rate, political science lost much of its critical edge. The object of study for this so-called ‘science’ was not creative human action but rather political ‘behaviour’, which could, it was claimed, be comprehended by quantitative methods appropriate to the involuntary motions of material bodies, atoms or plants.

This view of political science was certainly challenged by some political theorists, notably Sheldon Wolin, whose Politics and Vision eloquently asserted the importance of creative vision in political analysis.² But at least for a time, many political theorists seemed happy enough to accept the place assigned to them by the ultra-empiricist ‘behaviouralists’ then dominant in US political science departments. It seemed especially congenial to the disciples of Leo Strauss, who formed an unholy alliance with the behaviouralists, each faction agreeing to respect the inviolability of the other’s territory.³ The empiricists would leave the philosophers in peace to spin their intricate conceptual webs, while the ‘normative’ theorists would never cast a critical eye at their empirical colleagues’ political analysis. The Straussian attack on ‘historicism’ was directed against other theorists, in self-proclaimed defence of universal and absolute truths against the relativism of modernity; and, although they would later emerge as influential ideologues of neoconservatism and as something like philosophical mentors to the regime of George W. Bush, Straussian political theorists of an earlier generation were on the whole content to pursue their reactionary and antimodernist (if not antidemocratic) political agenda on the philosophical plane – except when they ventured completely outside the walls of the academy to write speeches for right-wing politicians. Their ‘empiricist’ colleagues seem to have understood that Straussians, with their esoteric, even cabalistic philosophical preoccupations, represented no challenge to the shallowness and vacuity of ‘empirical’ political science.

Yet Straussians were not alone in accepting the neat division between empirical and normative, or between theory and practice. At least, there was a widespread view that grubbing around in the realities of politics, while all right for some, was not what political theorists should do. The groundbreaking work of the Canadian political theorist, C.B. Macpherson, who had introduced a different approach to the study of political theory by situating seventeenth-century English thinkers in the historical context of what he called a ‘possessive market society’, proved to be little more than a detour from the mainstream of Anglo-American scholarship.⁴ Scholars who studied and taught the history of political thought, the ‘classics’ of the Western ‘canon’, did not always subscribe to the Straussian variety of anti-historicism; but they were often even more averse to history. Many treated the ‘greats’ as pure minds floating free above the political fray; and any attempt to plant these thinkers on firm historical ground, any attempt to treat them as living and breathing historical beings passionately engaged in the politics of their own time and place, would be dismissed as trivialization, demeaning great men and reducing them to mere publicists, pamphleteers and propagandists.⁵

What distinguished real political philosophy from simple ‘ideology’, according to this view, was that it rose above political struggle and partisanship. It tackled universal and perennial problems, seeking principles of social order and human development valid for all human beings in all times and places. The questions raised by true political philosophers are, it was argued, intrinsically transhistorical: what does it mean to be truly human? What kind of society permits the full development of that humanity? What are the universal principles of right order for individuals and societies?

It seems not to have occurred to proponents of this view that even such ‘universal’ questions could be asked and answered in ways that served certain immediate political interests rather than others, or that these questions and answers might even be intended as passionately partisan. For instance, the human ideals espoused by philosophers can tell us much about their social and political commitments and where they stand in the conflicts of their day. The failure to acknowledge this meant that these scholars saw little benefit in trying to understand the classics by situating them in their author’s time and place. The contextualization of political thought or the ‘sociology of knowledge’ might tell us something about the ideas and motivations of lesser mortals and ideologues, but it could tell us nothing worth knowing about a great philosopher, a genius like Plato.

This almost naïve ahistoricism was bound to produce a reaction, and a very different school of thought emerged, which has since overtaken its rivals. What has come to be called the Cambridge School appears, at least on the face of it, to go to the other extreme by radically historicizing the works, great and small, of political theory and denying them any wider meaning beyond the very local moment of their creation. The most effective exponent of this approach, Quentin Skinner, in the introduction to his classic text, The Foundations of Modern Political Thought, gives an account of his method that seems directly antithetical to the dichotomies on which the ahistorical approach was based, against the sharp distinction between political philosophy and ideology and the facile opposition of ‘empirical’ to ‘normative’. In fact, argues Skinner, we can best understand the history of political theory by treating it essentially as the history of ideologies, and this requires a detailed contextualization. ‘For I take it that political life itself sets the main problems for the political theorist, causing a certain range of issues to appear problematic, and a corresponding range of questions to become the leading subjects of debate.’⁶

The principal benefit of this approach, Skinner writes, is that it equips us ‘with a way of gaining greater insight into its author’s meaning than we can ever hope to achieve simply from reading the text itself over and over again as the exponents of the textualist approach have characteristically proposed.’⁷ But there is also another advantage:

It will now be evident why I wish to maintain that, if the history of political theory were to be written essentially as a history of ideologies, one outcome might be a clearer understanding of the links between political theory and practice. For it now appears that, in recovering the terms of the normative vocabulary available to any given agent for the description of his political behaviour, we are at the same time indicating one of the constraints upon his behaviour itself. This suggests that, in order to explain why such an agent acts as he does, we are bound to make some reference to this vocabulary, since it evidently figures as one of the determinants of his action. This in turn suggests that, if we were to focus our histories on the study of these vocabularies, we might be able to illustrate the exact ways in which the explanation of political behaviour depends upon the study of political thought.

Skinner then proceeded to construct a history of Western political thought in the Renaissance and the age of Reformation, especially the notion of the state as it acquired its modern meaning, by exploring the political vocabularies available to political thinkers and actors and the specific sets of questions that history had put on their agenda. His main strategy, here as elsewhere in his work, was to cast his net more widely than historians of political thought have customarily done, considering not just the leading theorists but, as he put it, ‘the more general social and intellectual matrix out of which their works arose’.⁸ He looked not only at the work of the greats but also at more ‘ephemeral contemporary contributions to social and political thought’, as a means of gaining access to the available vocabularies and the prevailing assumptions about political society that were shaping debate in specific times and places.

Skinner’s approach has certain very clear strengths; and other members of the Cambridge School have also applied these principles, often very effectively, to the analysis of specific thinkers or ‘traditions of discourse’, especially those of early modern England. The proposition that the political questions addressed by political theorists, including the great ones, are thrown up by real political life and are shaped by the historical conditions in which they arise seems hardly more nor less than good common sense.

But much depends on what the Cambridge School regards as a relevant context, and it soon becomes clear that contextualization has a different meaning than might be inferred from Skinner’s reference to the ‘social and intellectual matrix’. It turns out that the ‘social’ matrix has little to do with ‘society’, the economy, or even the polity. The social context is itself intellectual, or at least the ‘social’ is defined by, and only by, existing vocabularies. The ‘political life’ that sets the agenda for theory is essentially a language game. In the end, to contextualize a text is to situate it among other texts, among a range of vocabularies, discourses and ideological paradigms at various levels of formality, from the classics of political thought down to ephemeral screeds or political speeches. What emerges from Skinner’s assault on purely textual histories or the abstract history of ideas is yet another kind of textual history, yet another history of ideas – certainly more sophisticated and comprehensive than what went before, but hardly less limited to disembodied texts.

A catalogue of what is missing from Skinner’s comprehensive history of political ideas from 1300 to 1600 reveals quite starkly the limits of his ‘contexts’. Skinner is dealing with a period marked by major social and economic developments, which loomed very large in the theory and practice of European political thinkers and actors. Yet there is in his book no substantive consideration of agriculture, the aristocracy and peasantry, land distribution and tenure, the social division of labour, social protest and conflict, population, urbanization, trade, commerce, manufacture, and the burgher class.⁹

It is true that the other major founding figure of the Cambridge School, J.G.A. Pocock, is, on the face of it, more interested in economic developments and what appear to be material factors, like the ‘discovery’ (in Pocock’s words) of capital and the emergence of ‘commercial society’ in eighteenth-century Britain. Yet his account of this ‘sudden and traumatic discovery’ is, in its way, even more divorced from historical processes than Skinner’s account of the state.¹⁰ The critical moment for Pocock is the foundation of the Bank of England, which, he argues, brought about a complete transformation of property, the transformation of its structure and morality, with ‘spectacular abruptness’ in the mid-1690s; and it was accompanied by sudden changes in the psychology of politics. But in this argument, the Bank of England, and indeed commercial society, seem to have no history at all. They suddenly emerge full-grown, as if the transformations of property and social relations in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and the formation of English agrarian capitalism, or the distinctively English banking system associated with the development of capitalist property which preceded the foundation of the national bank, had no bearing on their consolidation in the commercial capitalism of the eighteenth century. Such a strikingly ahistorical account is possible only because, for Pocock perhaps even more than for Skinner, history has little to do with social processes, and historical transformations are manifest only as visible shifts in the languages of politics. Changes in discourse that represent the culmination and consolidation of a social transformation are presented as its origin and cause.

So, what purports to be the history of political thought, for both Pocock and Skinner, is curiously ahistorical, not only in its failure to grapple with what on any reckoning were decisive historical developments in the relevant periods but also in its lack of process. Characteristically, history for the Cambridge School is a series of disconnected, very local and particular episodes, such as specific political controversies in specific times and places, which have no apparent relation to more inclusive social developments or to any historical process, large or small.¹¹

This emphasis on the local and particular does not, however, preclude consideration of larger spans of time and space. The ‘traditions of discourse’ that are the stuff of the Cambridge School embrace long periods, sometimes whole centuries or even more. A tradition may cross national boundaries and even continents. It may be a particular literary genre fairly limited in time and geographic scope, like the ‘mirror-for-princes’ literature, which Skinner very effectively explores to analyze the work of Machiavelli; or, notably in the case of John Pocock, it may be the discourse of ‘commercial society’ which characterized the eighteenth century, or the tradition of ‘civic humanism’, which had a longer life and a wider scope. But whatever its duration or spatial reach, the tradition of discourse plays a role in analyzing political theory hardly different from the role played by particular episodes (which are themselves an interplay of discourses), like the Engagement Controversy in which Skinner situates Hobbes, or the Exclusion Crisis which others have invoked in the analysis of Locke. In both cases, contexts are texts; and at neither end of the Cambridge historical spectrum, from the very local episode to the long and widespread tradition of discourse, do we see any sign of historical movement, any sense of the dynamic connection between one historical moment and another or between the political episode and the social processes that underlie it. In effect, long historical processes are themselves converted into momentary political episodes.

In its conception of history, the Cambridge School has something essential in common with more fashionable ‘postmodernist’ trends. Discourse is for both the constitutive, indeed the only, practice of social life; and history is dissolved into contingency. Both respond to ‘grand narratives’ not by critically examining their virtues and vices but by discarding historical processes altogether.

The Social History of Political Theory

The ‘social history of political theory’, which is the subject of this book, starts from the premise that the great political thinkers of the past were passionately engaged in the issues of their time and place.¹² This was so even when they addressed these issues from an elevated philosophical vantage point, in conversation with other philosophers in other times and places, and even, or especially, when they sought to translate their reflections into universal and timeless principles. Often their engagements took the form of partisan adherence to a specific and identifiable political cause, or even fairly transparent expressions of particular interests, the interests of a particular party or class. But their ideological commitments could also be expressed in a larger vision of the good society and human ideals.

At the same time, the great political thinkers are not party hacks or propagandists. Political theory is certainly an exercise in persuasion, but its tools are reasoned discourse and argumentation, in a genuine search for some kind of truth. Yet if the ‘greats’ are different from lesser political thinkers and actors, they are no less human and no less steeped in history. When Plato explored the concept of justice in the Republic, or when he outlined the different levels of knowledge, he was certainly opening large philosophical questions and he was certainly in search of universal and transcendent truths. But his questions, no less than his answers, were (as I shall argue in a subsequent chapter) driven by his critical engagement with Athenian democracy.

To acknowledge the humanity and historic engagement of political thinkers is surely not to demean them or deny them their greatness. In any case, without subjecting ideas to critical historical scrutiny, it is impossible to assess their claims to universality or transcendent truth. The intention here is certainly to explore the ideas of the most important political thinkers; but these thinkers will always be treated as living and engaged human beings, immersed not only in the rich intellectual heritage of received ideas bequeathed by their philosophical predecessors, nor simply against the background of the available vocabularies specific to their time and place, but also in the context of the social and political processes that shaped their immediate world.

This social history of political theory, in its conception of historical contexts, proceeds from certain fundamental premises, which belong to the tradition of ‘historical materialism’: human beings enter into relations with each other and with nature to guarantee their own survival and social reproduction. To understand the social practices and cultural products of any time and place, we need to know something about those conditions of survival and social reproduction, something about the specific ways in which people gain access to the material conditions of life, about how some people gain access to the labour of others, about the relations between people who produce and those who appropriate what others produce, about the forms of property that emerge from these social relations, and about how these relations are expressed in political domination, as well as resistance and struggle.

This is certainly not to say that a theorist’s ideas can be predicted or ‘read off’ from his or her social position or class. The point is simply that the questions confronting any political thinker, however eternal and universal those questions may seem, are posed to them in specific historical forms. The Cambridge School agrees that, in order to understand the answers offered by political theorists, we must know something about the questions they are trying to answer and that different historical settings pose different sets of questions. But, for the social history of political theory, these questions are posed not only by explicit political controversies, and not only at the level of philosophy or high politics, but also by the social pressures and tensions that shape human interactions outside the political arena and beyond the world of texts.

This approach differs from that of the Cambridge School both in the scope of what is regarded as a ‘context’ and in the effort to apprehend historical processes. Ideological episodes like the Engagement Controversy or the Exclusion Crisis may tell us something about a thinker like Hobbes or Locke; but unless we explore how these thinkers situated themselves in the larger historical processes that were shaping their world, it is hard to see how we are to distinguish the great theorists from ephemeral publicists.

Long-term developments in social relations, property forms and state-formation do episodically erupt into specific political-ideological controversies; and it is undoubtedly true that political theory tends to flourish at moments like this, when history intrudes most dramatically into the dialogue among texts or traditions of discourse. But a major thinker like John Locke, while he was certainly responding to specific and momentary political controversies, was raising larger fundamental questions about social relations, property and the state generated by larger social transformations and structural tensions – in particular, developments that we associate with the ‘rise of capitalism’. Locke did not, needless to say, know that he was observing the development of what we call capitalism; but he was dealing with problems posed by its characteristic transformations of property, class relations and the state. To divorce him from this larger social context is to impoverish his work and its capacity to illuminate its own historical moment, let alone the ‘human condition’ in general.

If different historical experiences give rise to different sets of problems, it follows that these divergences will also be observable in various ‘traditions of discourse’. It is not, for instance, enough to talk about a Western or European historical experience, defined by a common cultural and philosophical inheritance. We must also look for differences among the various patterns of property relations and the various processes of state-formation that distinguished one European society from another and produced different patterns of theoretical inter rogation, different sets of questions for political thinkers to address.

The diversity of ‘discourses’ does not simply express personal or even national idiosyncrasies of intellectual style among political philosophers engaged in dialogue with one another across geographical and chronological boundaries. To the extent that political philosophers are indeed reflecting not only upon philosophical traditions but upon the problems set by political life, their ‘discourses’ are diverse in large part because the political problems they confront are diverse. The problem of the state, for instance, has presented itself historically in different guises even to such close neighbours as the English and the French.¹³

Even the ‘perennial questions’ have appeared in various shapes. What appears as a salient issue will vary according to the nature of the principal contenders, the competing social forces at work, the conflicting interests at stake. The configuration of problems arising from a struggle such as the one in early modern England between ‘improving’ landlords and commoners dependent on the preservation of common and waste land will differ from those at issue in France among peasants, seigneurs, and a tax-hungry state. Even within the same historical or national configuration, what appears as a problem to the commoner or peasant will not necessarily appear so to the gentleman-farmer, the seigneur, or the royal office-holder. We need not reduce the great political thinkers to ‘prize-fighters’ for this or that social interest in order to acknowledge the importance of identifying the particular constellation of problems that history has presented to them, or to recognize that the ‘dialogue’ in which they are engaged is not simply a timeless debate with rootless philosophers but an engagement with living historical actors, both those who dominate and those who resist.

To say this is not to claim that political theorists from another time and place have nothing to say to our own. There is no inverse relation between historical contextualization and ‘relevance’. On the contrary, historical contextualization is an essential condition for learning from the ‘classics’, not simply because it allows a better understanding of a thinker’s meaning and intention, but also because it is in the context of history that theory emerges from the realm of pure abstraction and enters the world of human practice and social interaction.

There are, of course, commonalities of experience we share with our predecessors just by virtue of being human, and there are innumerable practices learned by humanity over the centuries in which we engage as our ancestors did. These common experiences mean that much of what great thinkers of the past have to say is readily accessible to us. But if the classics of political theory are to yield fruitful lessons, it is not enough to acknowledge these commonalities of human and historical experience or to mine the classics for certain abstract universal principles. To historicize is to humanize, and to detach ideas from their own material and practical setting is to lose our points of human contact with them.

There is a way, all too common, of studying the history of political theory which detaches it from the urgent human issues to which it is addressed. To think about the politics in political theory is, at the very least, to consider and make judgments about what it would mean to translate particular principles into actual social relationships and political arrangements. If one of the functions of political theory is to sharpen our perceptions and conceptual instruments for thinking about politics in our own time and place, that purpose is defeated by emptying historical political theories of their own political meaning.

Some years ago, for instance, I encountered an argument about Aristotle’s theory of natural slavery, which seemed to me to illustrate the shortcomings of an ahistorical approach.¹⁴ We should not, the argument went, treat the theory of natural slavery as a comment on a historically actual social condition, the relation between slaves and masters as it existed in the ancient world, because to do so is to deprive it of any significance beyond the socio-economic circumstances of its own time and place. Instead, we should recognize it as a philosophical metaphor for the universal human condition in the abstract. Yet to deny that Aristotle was defending a real social practice, the enslavement of real human beings, or to suggest that we have more to learn about the human condition by refusing to confront his theory of slavery in its concrete historical meaning, seems a peculiar way of sensitizing us to the realities of social life and politics, or indeed the human condition, in our own time or any other.

There is also another way in which the contextual analysis of political theory can illuminate our own historical moment. If we abstract a political theory from its historical context, we in effect assimilate it to our own. Understanding a theory historically allows us to look at our own historical condition from a critical distance, from the vantage point of other times and other ideas. It also allows us to observe how certain assumptions, which we may now accept uncritically, came into being and how they were challenged in their formative years. Reading political theory in this way, we may be less tempted to take for granted the dominant ideas and assumptions of our own time and place.

This benefit may not be so readily available to contextual approaches in which historical processes are replaced by disconnected episodes and traditions of discourse. The Cambridge mode of contextualization encourages us to believe that the old political thinkers have little to say in our own time and place. It invites us to think that there is nothing to learn from them, because their historical experiences have no apparent connection to our own. To discover what there is to learn from the history of political theory requires us to place ourselves on the continuum of history, where we are joined to our predecessors not only by the continuities we share but by the processes of change that intervene between us, bringing us from there to here.

The intention of this study, then, is not only to illuminate some classic texts and the conditions in which they were created but also to explain by example a distinctive approach to contextual interpretation. Its subject matter will be not only texts, nor discursive paradigms, but the social relations that made them possible and posed the particular questions addressed by political theorists. This kind of contextual reading also requires us to do something more than follow the line of descent from one political thinker to the next. It invites us to explore how certain fundamental social relations set the parameters of human creativity, not only in political theory but in other modes of discourse that form part of the historical setting and the cultural climate within which political theories emerged – such as, say, Greek tragedy, the Roman law or Christian theology.

While I try to strike a balance between contextual analysis and interpretation of the major texts, some readers may think that this way of proceeding places too much emphasis on grand structural themes at the expense of a more exhaustive textual reading. But the approach being proposed in this book is best understood not as in any way excluding or slighting close textual analysis but, on the contrary, as a way of shedding light on texts, which others can put to the test by more minute and detailed reading.

The Origin of Political Theory

Scholars have offered various explanations for the emergence of political theory in ancient Greece. There will be more in the next chapter about the specific historical conditions that produced, especially in Athens, the kind of confidence in human agency that is a necessary condition of political theory. In this chapter, we shall confine ourselves to the general conditions that marked the Greeks out from other ancient civilizations and set the agenda for political theory.

The most vital factor undoubtedly was the development, perhaps by the late eighth century BC, of the unique Greek state, the polis, which sometimes evolved into self-governing democracies, as in Athens from the early fifth to the late fourth century. This type of state differed sharply from the large imperial states that characterized other ‘high’ civilizations, and from states that preceded the polis in Greece, the Minoan and Mycenean kingdoms. In place of an elaborate bureaucratic apparatus, the polis was characterized by a fairly simple state administration (if we can even call it a ‘state’ at all) and a self-governing civic community, in which the principal political relations were not between rulers and subjects but among citizens – whether the citizen body was more inclusive, as in Athenian democracy, or less so, as in Sparta or the city-states of Crete. Politics, in the sense we have come to understand the word, implying contestation and debate among diverse interests, replaced rule or administration as the principal object of political discourse. These factors were, of course, more prominent in democracies, and Athens in particular, than in the oligarchic polis.

It is also significant that by the end of the fifth century, Greece was becoming a literate culture, in unprecedented ways and to an unprecedented degree. Although we should not overestimate its extent, a kind of popular literacy, especially in the democracy, replaced what some scholars have called craft literacy, in which reading and writing were specialized skills practised only, or largely, by professionals or scribes. What happened in Greece, and especially in Athens, has been described as the democratization of writing.

Popular rule, which required widespread and searching discussion of pressing social and political issues, and which provided new opportunities for political leadership and influence, when coupled with economic prosperity, brought an increasing demand for schooling and teaching. An economically vital, democratic and relatively free culture with a growing means of written expression and exact argumentation, and an increasing audience for such discourse, created an atmosphere favourable to the birth and early thriving of political theory, a powerful and ingenious mode of self-examination and reflection that continues to the present.

But we need to look more closely at the polis, and especially the democracy, to understand why this new mode of political thinking took the form that it did, and why it raised certain kinds of questions that had not been raised before, which would thereafter set the agenda for the long tradition of Western political theory. There will be more in the next chapter about Athenian society and politics, as the specific context in which the Greek classics were written. For our purposes here, a few general points need to be highlighted about the conditions in which political theory originated.

The polis represented not only a distinctive political form but a unique organization of social relations. The state in other high civilizations typically embodied a relation between rulers and subjects that was at the same time a relation between appropriators and producers. The Chinese philosopher, Mencius, once wrote that ‘Those who are ruled produce food; those who rule are fed. That this is right is universally recognized everywhere under Heaven.’ This principle nicely sums up the essence of the relation between rulers and producers which characterized the most advanced ancient civilizations.

In these ancient states, there was a sharp demarcation between production and politics, in the sense that direct producers had no political role, as rulers or even as citizens. The state was organized to control subject labour, and it was above all through the state that some people appropriated the labour of others or its products. Office in the state was likely to be the primary means of acquiring great wealth. Even where private property in land was fairly well developed, state office was likely to be the source of large property, while small property generally carried with it obligations to the state in the form of tax, tribute or labour service. It remained true of China, for instance, throughout its long imperial history that large property and great wealth were associated with office, and the imperial state did everything possible – if not always successfully – to maintain that connection and to impede the autonomous development of powerful propertied classes.

The ancient ‘bureaucratic’ state, then, constituted a ruling body superimposed upon and appropriating from subject communities of direct producers, above all peasants. Although such a form had existed in Greece, both there and in Rome a new form of political organization emerged which combined landlords and peasants in one civic and military community. While others, notably the Phoenicians and Carthaginians, may have lived in city-states in some ways comparable to the Greek polis or the Roman Republic, the very idea of a civic community and citizenship, as distinct from the principles of rule by a superimposed state apparatus, derive from the Greeks and the Romans.

The idea of a peasant-citizen was even further removed from the experience of other ancient states. The role of slavery in Greece and Rome will be discussed in subsequent chapters; but, for the moment, it is important to acknowledge the distinctive political role of producing classes, peasants and craftsmen, and their unique relation to the state. In the Greek polis and the Roman Republic, appropriators and producers in the citizen body confronted one another directly as individuals and as classes, as landlords and peasants, not primarily as rulers and subjects. Private property developed more autonomously and completely, separating itself more thoroughly from the state. A new and distinctive dynamic of property and class relations was differentiated out from the traditional relations of (appropriating) state and (producing) subjects.

The special characteristics of these states are reflected in the classics of ancient political thought. When Plato, for example, attacked the democratic polis of Athens, he did so by opposing to it a state-form that departed radically from precisely those features most unique and specific to the Greek polis and which bore a striking resemblance in principle to certain non-Greek states. In the Republic, Plato proposes a community of rulers superimposed upon a ruled community of producers, primarily peasants, a state in which producers are individually ‘free’ and in possession of property, not dependent on wealthier private proprietors; but, although the rulers own no private property, producers are collectively subject to the ruling community and compelled to transfer surplus labour to their non-producing masters. Political and military functions belong exclusively to the ruling class, according to the traditional separation of military and farming classes, which Plato and Aristotle both admired. In other words, those who are ruled produce food, and those who rule are fed. Plato no doubt drew inspiration from the Greek states that most closely adhered to these principles – notably Sparta and the city-states of Crete; but it is likely that the model he had more specifically in mind was Egypt – or, at least, Egypt as the Greeks, sometimes inaccurately, understood it.

Other classical writers defended the supremacy of the dominant classes in less radical and more specifically Greco-Roman ways. In particular, the doctrine of the ‘mixed constitution’ – which appears in Plato’s Laws and figures prominently in the writings of Aristotle, Polybius, and Cicero – reflects a uniquely Greek and Roman reality and the special problems faced by a dominant class of private proprietors in a state that incorporates rich and poor, appropriators and producers, landlords and peasants, into a single civic and military community. The idea of the mixed constitution proceeded from the Greco-Roman classification of constitutions – in particular, the distinction among government by the many, the few, or only one: democracy, oligarchy, monarchy. A constitution could be ‘mixed’ in the sense that it adopted certain elements of each. More particularly, rich and poor could be respectively represented by ‘oligarchic’ and ‘democratic’ elements; and the predominance of the rich could be achieved not by drawing a clear and rigid division between a ruling apparatus and subject producers, or between military and farming classes, but by tilting the constitutional balance towards oligarchic elements.

In both theory and practice, then, a specific dynamic of property and class relations, distinct from the relations between rulers and subjects, was woven directly into the fabric of Greek and Roman politics. These relations generated a distinctive array of practical problems and theoretical issues, especially in the democratic polis. There were, of course, distinctive problems of social order in a society, like Athens, that lacked an unequivocally dominant ruling stratum whose economic power and political supremacy were coextensive and inseparable, a society where economic and political hierarchies did not coincide and political relations were less between rulers and subjects than among citizens. These political relations were played out in assemblies and juries, in constant debate, which demanded new rhetorical skills and modes of argumentation. Nothing could be taken for granted; and, not surprisingly, this was a highly litigious society, in which political discourse derived much of its method and substance from legal disputation, with all its predilection for hairsplitting controversy.

Greek political theorists were self-conscious about the uniqueness of their specific form of state, and they inevitably explored the nature of the polis and what distinguished it from others. They raised questions about the origin and purpose of the state. Having effectively invented a new identity, the civic identity of citizenship, they posed questions about the meaning of citizenship, who should enjoy political rights and whether any division between rulers and ruled existed by nature. They confronted the tension between the levelling identity of citizenship and the hierarchical principles of noble birth or wealth. Questions about law and the rule of law; about the difference between political organization based on violence or coercion and a civic community based on deliberation or persuasion; about human nature and its suitability (or otherwise) for political life – all of these questions were thrown up by the everyday realities of life in the polis.

In the absence of a ruling class whose ethical standards were accepted by the whole community as its governing principles, it was no longer possible to assume the eternity and inviolability of traditional norms. They were inevitably subjected to theoretical scrutiny and challenge. Defenders of traditional hierarchies were obliged to respond not by repeating old proverbs or reciting epics of aristocratic hero-kings but by constructing theoretical arguments to meet theoretical challenges. Questions arose about the origin of moral and political principles and what makes them binding. From the same political realities emerged the humanistic principle that ‘man is the measure of all things’, with all the new questions that this principle entailed. So, for instance, the Sophists (Greek philosophers and teachers who will be discussed in the next chapter) asked whether moral and political principles exist by nature or merely by custom – a question that could be answered in various ways, some congenial to democracy, others in support of oligarchy; and when Plato expressed his opposition to democracy, he could not rely on invoking the gods or time-honoured custom but was obliged to make his case by means of philosophic reason, to construct a definition of justice and the good life that seemed to rule out democracy.

Political Theory in History: An Overview

Born in the polis, this new mode of political thought would survive the polis and continue to set the theoretical agenda in later centuries, when very different forms of state prevailed. This longevity has not been simply a matter of tenacious intellectual legacies. The Western tradition of political theory has developed on the foundations established in ancient Greece because certain issues have remained at the centre of European political life. In varying forms, the autonomy of private property, its relative independence from the state, and the tension between these foci of social power have continued to shape the political agenda. On the one hand, appropriating classes have needed the state to maintain order, conditions for appropriation and control over producing classes. On the other hand, they have found the state a burdensome nuisance and a competitor for surplus labour.

With a wary eye on the state, the dominant appropriating classes have always had to turn their attention to their relations with subordinate producing classes. Indeed, their need for the state has been largely determined by those difficult relations. In particular, throughout most of Western history, peasants fed, clothed, and housed the lordly minority by means of surplus labour extracted by payment of rents, fees, or tributes. Yet, though the aristocratic state depended on peasants and though lords were always alive to the threat of resistance, the politically voiceless classes play little overt role in the classics of Western political theory. Their silent presence tends to be visible only in the great theoretical efforts devoted to justifying social and political hierarchies.

The relation between appropriating and producing classes was to change fundamentally with the advent of capitalism, but the history of Western political theory continued to be in large part the history of tensions between property and state, appropriators and producers. In general, the Western tradition of political theory has been ‘history from above’, essentially reflection on the existing state and the need for its preservation or change written from the perspective of a member or client of the ruling classes. Yet it should be obvious that this ‘history from above’ cannot be understood without relating it to what can be learned about the ‘history from below’. The complex three-way relation between the state, propertied classes and producers, perhaps more than anything else, sets the Western political tradition apart from others.

There is nothing unique to the West, of course, about societies in which dominant groups appropriate what others produce. But there is something distinctive about the ways in which the tensions between them have shaped political life and theory in the West. This may be precisely because the relations between appropriators and producers have never, since classical antiquity, been synonymous with the relation between rulers and subjects. To be sure, the peasant-citizen would not survive the Roman Empire, and many centuries would pass before anything comparable to the ancient Athenian idea of democratic citizenship would re-emerge in Europe. Feudal and early modern Europe would, in its own way, even approximate the old division between rulers and producers, as labouring classes were excluded from active political rights and the power to appropriate was typically associated with the possession of ‘extra-economic’ power, political, judicial or military. But even then, the relation between rulers and producers was never unambiguous, because appropriating classes confronted their labouring compatriots not, in the first instance, as a collective power organized in the state but in a more directly personal relation as individual proprietors, in rivalry with other proprietors and even with the state.

The autonomy of property and the contradictory relations between ruling class and state meant that propertied classes in the West always had to fight on two fronts. While they would have happily subscribed to Mencius’s principle about those who rule and those who feed them, they could never take for granted such a neat division between rulers and producers, because there was a much clearer division than existed elsewhere between property and state.

Although the foundations of Western political theory established in ancient Greece proved to be remarkably resilient, there have, of course, been many changes and additions to its theoretical agenda, in keeping with changing historical conditions, which will be explored in the following chapters. The Romans, perhaps because their aristocratic republic did not confront challenges like those of the Athenian democracy, did not produce a tradition of political theory as fruitful as the Greek. But they did introduce other social and political innovations, especially the Roman law, which would have major implications for the development of political theory. The empire also gave rise to Christianity, which became the imperial religion, with all its cultural consequences.

It is particularly significant that the Romans began to delineate a sharp distinction between public and private, even, perhaps, between state and society. Above all, the opposition between property and state as two distinct foci of power, which has been a constant theme throughout the history of Western political theory, was for the first time formally acknowledged by the Romans in their distinction between imperium and dominium, power conceived as the right to command and power in the form of ownership. This did not preclude the view – expressed already by Cicero in On Duties (De Officiis) – that the purpose of the state was to protect private property or the conviction that the state came into being for that reason. On the contrary, the partnership of state and private property, which would continue to be a central theme of Western political theory, presupposes the separation, and the tensions, between them.

The tension between these two forms of power, which was intensified in theory and practice as republic gave way to empire, would, as we shall see, play a large part in the fall of the Roman Empire. With the rise of feudalism, that tension was resolved on the side of dominium, as the state was virtually dissolved into individual property. In contrast to the ancient division between rulers and producers, in which the state was the dominant instrument of appropriation, the feudal state scarcely had an autonomous existence apart from the hierarchical chain of individual, if conditional, property and personal lordship. Instead of a centralized public authority, the feudal state was a network of ‘parcellized sovereignties’, governed by a complex hierarchy of social relations and competing jurisdictions, in the hands not only of lords and kings, but also of various autonomous corporations, to say nothing of Holy Roman emperors and popes.¹⁵ Feudal relations – between king and lords, between lords and vassals, between lords and peasants – were both a political/military relation and a form of property. Feudal lordship meant command of property, together with control of legally dependent labour; and, at the same time, it was a piece of the state, a fragment of political and military imperium.

The feudal resolution of the tension between property and state could not last forever. In their relations with the peasantry, lords would inevitably turn to the state for support; and parcellized sovereignty, in turn, gave way, yet again, to state centralization. The new form of state that would emerge in the late Middle Ages and develop in the early modern period would forever be marked by the underlying conflict between monarchy and lordship – until capitalism completely transformed the relation between politics and property.

At each stage in this history of political practice, there were corresponding changes in theory and variations on old themes to accommodate new social tensions and political arrangements. The contradictory relations between property and state acquired new complexities, giving rise to new ideas about relations between monarchs and lords, the origins and scope of monarchical power, constitutional limits on state power, the autonomous powers of various corporate entities, conceptions of sovereignty, the nature of obligation and the right to resist. Developments in Christianity and the rise of the Church as an independent power introduced yet more complications, raising new questions about relations between divine and civil law and about the challenge posed by the Church to secular authority. Finally, the advent of capitalism brought its own conceptual transformations, in new ideas of property and state, together with new conceptions of ‘public’ and ‘private’, political and economic, state and ‘society’, and a resurrection of ‘democracy’, not in its ancient Greek form but in a new and distinctively capitalist meaning, which no longer represented a fundamental challenge to dominant classes.

Throughout this ‘Western’ history, there were also, as we shall see, significant theoretical variations among diverse European states, not just because of linguistic and cultural differences but because social and political relations varied too. Not only were there several European feudalisms, but the dissolution of feudalism gave rise to several different transformations, producing forms as diverse as the city-states of Italy, the principalities of Germany, the absolutist state of France, and the commercial republics of the Netherlands, while the so-called ‘transition from feudalism to capitalism’ occurred only in England. For all the commonalities of European culture, and all the shared social issues that continued to make the Western tradition of political theory a fruitful common legacy, each of these transformations produced its own characteristic ‘traditions of discourse’.

One further point is worth making. The ambiguous relation between ruling class and state gave Western political theory certain unique characteristics. Even while propertied classes could never ignore the threat from below, and even while they depended on the state to sustain their property and economic power, the tensions in their relations with the state placed a special premium on their own autonomous powers, their rights against the state, and also on conceptions of liberty – which were often indistinguishable from notions of aristocratic privilege asserted against the state. So challenges to authority could come from two directions: from resistance by subordinate classes to oppression by their overlords, and from the overlords themselves as they faced intrusions by the state. This helped to keep alive the habit of interrogating the most basic principles of authority, legitimacy and the obligation to obey, even at moments when social and political hierarchies were at their most rigid.

The Canon

A final introductory word needs to be said about why we should concern ourselves with the classics of Western political theory at all. Why select a few ‘classic’ works