Ambition, the Humanities, and Leadership: A Survey of the Literature

At present, there is a considerable gap in the scholarly literature in leadership studies that this Element can help, however modestly, to fill. Briefly reviewing the related secondary works, we come to see a clear picture: While scholars from political theory, philosophy, psychology, history, and other disciplines have paid ample attention to the theme of ambition in itself, research on ambition and leadership together is vanishingly rare. Web searches routinely yield short articles or blog posts describing the effect of ambition on leadership in well-circulated business magazines such as Forbes and Harvard Business Review – indicating, of course, the relevance of this subject to leadership practitioners – but a search for substantial scholarly work uncovers very little. Scholars taking a social science approach to their research have conducted a handful of studies exploring the connection, with the focus on ambition located at the margins. The book-length treatment of Joan Marques (Reference Marques2016) is a good example of this (see also Reference Marques, Marques and Dhiman2017, pp. 353–70), adopting a trait approach in conceptualizing ambition to explore the ways it correlates with leadership effectiveness. Furthermore, a handful of academic journals have published essays on ambition and leadership (see, e.g., Holstad et al. Reference Holstad, Korek, Rigotti and Mohr2014; Steffens et al. Reference Steffens, Fonseca, Ryan, Rink, Stoker and Nederveen Pieterse2018; Zuo et al. Reference Zuo, Harms, Landay and Wood2022), highlighting especially how the trait connects to theories of transformational leadership.

Empirical studies within this sparse literature also surface occasional patterns related to gender. Men typically show higher aspirations than women do for goods related to ambition such as status, power, promotion, and extrinsic rewards, whereas the literature does not indicate equivalent gaps in drives for self-development, mastery, or communal goals (see, e.g., Netchaeva et al. Reference Netchaeva, Sheppard and Balushkina2022). Dark Triad traits, more prevalent in men and tied to manipulative or grandiose pursuits of superiority, correlate with leadership emergence, though their relationship with effectiveness varies (Jonason & Davis Reference Jonason and Davis2018; Semenyna et al. Reference Semenyna and Honey2015). These patterns illustrate ambition’s interplay with societal roles and stereotypes, potentially heightening risks of dishonorable expressions in male-dominated settings while potentially constraining women’s opportunities for high-visibility leadership positions. Such work, though, remains largely descriptive and trait-oriented, offering correlations rather than a sustained examination of ambition as a distinct moral passion in leadership.

It is notable, finally, that the wider body of literature in leadership studies frequently draws on certain key theoretical constructs from psychology research that are related to ambition, even if there are important differences between these concepts and the desire for distinction. One of the most widely used and well known is achievement motivation. First developed by David McClelland (Reference McClelland1961), this theory proposes that human behavior in goal-directed contexts is shaped by certain fundamental needs, one of which being the need for achievement (see also Reference McClelland2014, pp. 223–67). Individuals with a high need for achievement tend to undertake challenging tasks, are comfortable with calculated risks, and derive intrinsic satisfaction from personal mastery and success on tasks – all of which factors can be associated with leadership effectiveness (see, e.g., Boyatzis Reference Boyatzis1982; McClelland & Boyatzis Reference McClelland and Boyatzis1982, pp. 737–43; Winter Reference Winter1991, pp. 67–80). Those driven by ambition share a number of these characteristics but differ in that the reference point for their behavior is outwardly oriented. Rather than deriving intrinsic satisfaction from mastery, an ambitious leader primarily seeks external distinction and superiority – the extrinsic rewards of status and recognition. Another well-known theoretical construct frequently drawn upon in leadership studies is narcissism. First operationalized for empirical study by Raskin and Hall (Reference Raskin and Hall1979) through the Narcissistic Personality Inventory, this framework describes individuals characterized by grandiosity, entitlement, and an insatiable need for admiration. Narcissistic leaders tend to pursue high-visibility positions, engage in self-promotion, and thrive on the praise of followers (see, e.g., Rosenthal & Pittinsky Reference Rosenthal and Pittinsky2006). Those driven by ambition share the focus on external superiority and recognition, but differ in that the reference point for narcissistic behavior is an internal fragile ego seeking constant validation and special treatment, rather than a grounded pursuit of distinction through substantive accomplishments and earned status.

All of the good work discussed so far is worth exploring, of course, yet these studies are limited to describing either smaller aspects of how ambition affects the leadership process or subjects that are related to ambition itself but specify something different. What is needed is a fuller and more direct approach to examining the moral passion, going beyond the descriptive work and covering both the prescriptive and the ethical aspects of ambition in the leadership process as well. One sound way of fulfilling such a need is by looking to works from the humanities. This Element takes such an approach, setting out to defend the argument that works of the humanities are uniquely insightful on the theme of ambition, with a formidable claim to having pride of place for the attention of eager students.

What precisely is it about the humanities that render them uniquely suited to exploring ambition, especially in its ethical and prescriptive dimensions, more completely? The answer to this methodological question might best be expressed by referring to the difference between facts and values, or what some commentators refer to as “the is” versus “the ought.” At least since the pioneering work of Max Weber in the early twentieth century (see, e.g., Behnegar Reference Behnegar2003, pp. 88–111; Oakes Reference Oakes1988, pp. 18–40), researchers pursuing scientific certainty about the human world have assumed that the one thing that can be known to such a degree is behavior. One studies the behavior of individuals, then, both as an end in itself and so that one can get some kind of conceptual purchase on the behavior of groups. But the general disposition of researchers in this vein is to treat behavior as the only thing that can be known scientifically, excluding the realm of value from their intellectual work in a meaningful way. Applying this idea specifically to the field of political science, Robert Dahl (Reference Dahl1961) has said that the “behaviorally minded student of politics is prepared to describe values as empirical data; but qua ‘scientist’ he seeks to avoid prescription or inquiry into the grounds on which judgments of value can properly be made” (p. 771, emphasis added).

Yet because the basic problem of ambition in leadership concerns the ways that this amoral force can be used for both good and bad, for great benefit or great peril to the human community, we should want to discover a way to tread on the “grounds on which judgments of value can properly be made.” This is what works from the humanities offer us. Whereas social science is very good at describing and cataloging the complicated ways in which human beings behave with one another, texts from the humanities are far better equipped to grapple with the question of how human beings should behave with one another (Ciulla Reference Ciulla and Ciulla2004, pp. 10–14; Flanigan Reference Flanigan2018). Texts from the humanities that are alive to the moral quandaries that enmesh human beings, and to the arguments for and against how we should operate in the world, help us to make sense of these dilemmas when we encounter them in our own lives. They are also remarkably capable of widening the lens on human relationships, leadership being among the most important. Dramatic literature, for example, can depict a broad and variegated constellation of human types and examine their interactions with one another, while pressing forward an authorial interpretation about what the ideal for these human relationships should look like (see, e.g., Ciulla Reference 68Ciulla2019, p. 442; Shoup & Hinrichs Reference Shoup and Hinrichs2020). And when one searches for prescriptive advice for leaders regarding a problem as weighty as ambition, it is preferable to find it from an author who has a fuller understanding of the normative implications of the subject.

While this Element is likely the first book-length treatment of the theme of ambition and leadership focusing solely on classic texts in the humanities, it is not the only study that considers the theme through a humanistic lens. One such work happens to be Leadership by James Macgregor Burns (Reference Burns1978), arguably the most famous book in leadership studies and the one around which the academic field first coalesced. Burns possessed an uncommonly good talent for interpreting the history of politics and social movements in his work on leadership, grounding his theoretical insights on bedrock analysis of the human characters that were most important to his concerns.Footnote ¹ He identified “the spur of ambition” as a key factor guiding people into roles of political leadership, indicating that the difference between power-wielding and leadership often comes down to whether ambition is directed toward personal enrichment or toward the good of the community (p. 106). Burns also noticed that “esteem needs” – especially the need for honor or glory – give birth to the internal pressures of ambition (p. 113). Mark Menaldo’s Leadership and Transformative Ambition in International Relations (Reference Menaldo2013) is another work that takes the humanities perspective seriously, though its intention is to speak more directly to the political science subfield of international relations. Menaldo incorporates analysis of certain classic humanities texts (e.g., Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics) and skillfully examines a number of historical examples (e.g., Bismarck, Pericles). This Element, however, aims to give a fuller account of ambition and leadership than the impressive work of Burns and Menaldo, by means of sustaining a more consistent focus on the theme.

A Regime-Based Theory of Ambition and Leadership

Another benefit to be acquired from works of the humanities is a fuller picture of context that such readings put on display. It is a straightforward truism in leadership studies that one must always be attentive not just to leader and follower but also to the multilayered contextual situation embedding them both (see, e.g., Kellerman Reference Kellerman2014; Wren & Swatez Reference Wren, Swatez and Wren1995). And setting off to examine a feature of leadership like ambition, it is useful to remember that context will influence leadership terms, suffusing them with meaning, and that what we mean by this notion may be staggeringly wide in scope.

This Element proposes that the most illuminating contextual lens for understanding ambition in leadership is the regime. To illustrate, political scientist Aaron Wildavsky has articulated the view that leadership varies by regimes, which are grand orders expressing hierarchical relationships of power and authority – or, in Wildavsky’s quintessentially Aristotelian language, “relate rulers to the ruled.”Footnote ² In this sense, to the extent that leadership manifests in relationships of authority, the regime context sets parameters for what these relationships should look like, how they should operate, what leaders and followers each bring to the table, and perhaps even what objectives are possible to achieve through sound leadership. Basing these insights on a deep study of the Moses narrative from the Torah, Wildavsky clarifies,

For Aristotle, the names of the regimes ring familiar to us, as he speaks in The Politics in terms of kingship, oligarchy, aristocracy, democracy, and the like. Wildavsky employs different language in his analysis of the political leadership of Moses, referring to the regimes of slavery, anarchy, equity, and hierarchy. Yet whatever terms are used, the regime, understood in this broad and comprehensive sense, provides the decisive mediating structure for ambition in leadership. Ambition is itself a structurally stable and universal human passion: the desire to be held superior, to achieve distinction or preeminence, as noted. It is inherently amoral, capable of powering great good or great harm depending on how it is directed, or perhaps who does the directing. What changes across regimes is not the core structure of this passion, but the channels through which it flows, the objects it seeks, the scale it assumes, and the moral character it acquires in practice.

A brief preview of the overall structure of this Element, which pits democratic against imperial regimes as two competing modes, suggests how we might view this particular context as affecting the mechanics of ambition. In democratic regimes, for example, equality of conditions opens wide the field of possible advancement while simultaneously imposing strong moderating forces: widespread competition, finite resources, long and uncertain paths to success, and mores that reward prudent, incremental striving over grand designs. The result is a restless but narrowly scoped ambition – many individuals pursuing small, proximate goods rather than great, enduring ones. Democratic regimes therefore tend to direct ambition toward honorable ends when leaders consciously cultivate pride and raise citizens’ sights toward larger goals, but they risk mediocrity and stagnation when that cultivation is absent. In imperial or strongly hierarchical regimes, by contrast, steep gradients of power and authority permit, and frequently reward, ambition on a far more expansive scale. A leader can realistically envision dominion over vast and diverse peoples, and the regime structure itself amplifies the drive to be first, as obedience can be secured through a mixture of fear, love, and honor. Here ambition more readily assumes an outward, boundless character, capable of uniting disparate groups under a single vision. Yet the same structure that enables extraordinary achievement also heightens the risk of dishonorable excess. Treating followers like instruments of personal glory, manipulating justice for one’s advantage, or failing to secure stable succession when the founder departs are all potential pitfalls.

This regime-based theory thus makes no strong normative ranking of regimes in the abstract. No single form guarantees noble ambition; each creates distinctive possibilities and temptations. Democratic regimes may better guard against tyrannical overreach through institutional and moral checks, yet they struggle to sustain great collective projects without deliberate statesmanship. Imperial regimes may produce founders capable of lasting communal benefit, yet they frequently collapse into instability or corruption after the charismatic leader’s passing. The purpose of the theory is comparative illumination rather than prescriptive design. By reading classic texts side by side, we see how the same underlying passion – ambition – manifests itself in contrasting moral and practical forms depending on the regime’s architecture and mores.

Humanistic texts are uniquely suited to reveal these dynamics because they begin from lived human experience rather than abstract models. They depict souls in motion, characters interacting within specific ways of life – specific regimes – and the moral consequences that follow. By clarifying the mechanism (regime as channeler of expression), the moral status (inherently neutral, contextually inflected), and the comparative rather than hierarchical normative stance, this framework aims to give readers a clear theoretical foundation while preserving the interpretive richness that makes the humanities approach valuable. With this regime-based lens in place, the study turns to three classic texts that exemplify its comparative power.

Why Tocqueville, Xenophon, and Plutarch?

In the pages that follow, we will consider the nature of ambition and its relationship with leadership in classic humanities works from political philosophy, literature, and biographical history. The overarching thesis is that the desire for superiority is a universal passion that can be expressed more or less powerfully, depending on the person, though it will operate differently as a consequence of the wider context of the regime. Scrupulous and alert attention to the regime suggests a related set of questions to ask about ambition and leadership, which will naturally result in a unique set of answers according to each case. What ambition looks like in a modern democratic order, say, will contrast with what it looked like from the perspective of ancient commentators, and it will certainly come across differently than it does for a strongly imperial politics, where an ever-expanding group is obedient to the will of a single leader. The benefits of studying an element of leadership in this way are many. In particular, doing so is consistent with the broad goals of a liberal education, in that it should expand our intellectual horizons about what is true about leadership, compelling us to see these truths in sharper, bolder detail. We modern readers are of course unable to live in ancient Persia or Athens, and for many obvious reasons, it seems undesirable to advocate for the kind of imperial political leadership that we shall learn about presently. Be that as it may, by broadening and deepening our understanding of the subject, we increase our capacity to explain what is observed in the world of leadership around us, thereby helping us to engage with that world more effectively, more fully, and more creatively (see Lawler Reference Lawler2015, p. 127).

Section 2 examines ambition in the democratic regime that has become ascendant in the modern world. Alexis de Tocqueville’s Democracy in America is widely regarded as the profoundest and most forward-thinking analysis of the diverse features of democracy that has ever been written. In two substantial volumes, Tocqueville lays out as complete a picture of this regime as we can find, including a remarkably insightful discussion of democratic ambition. Generally understood as a work of political philosophy, Democracy in America was produced by an intellect that grappled with themes related to many disciplines of human knowledge, such as sociology, history, the fine arts, economics, music, and so forth. But what makes his analysis of ambition special, as we shall see, is his skill at illuminating the psychological contours of his subject. Tocqueville’s task is to persuade us that the key to understanding democratic ambition lies in the complex interplay between internal human passion and external circumstances, the spacious set of conditions that he refers to as the “social state.” And his advice to democratic leaders on the thorny question of ambition is equally attuned to matters of psychology. For Tocqueville, true statesmanship requires the capability to affect the souls of one’s citizens in ways that reinvigorate ambition.

Tocqueville’s text was famously written in response to observations made about the United States on his visit in the early nineteenth century. The world of America in the early 1800s was, of course, remotely distant from the world of the ancient Near East at the time of Cyrus the Great – yet in Section 3, we turn to that very world to investigate the meaning of ambition in an imperial context. Xenophon’s Education of Cyrus, which many consider to be the first novel ever written, is a core text on leadership and authority, one which handsomely repays earnest study. Xenophon chronicles the development of the supremely ambitious founder of the Persian empire, a territory spanning from Egypt to the Indus River that was established through the genius of Cyrus’ command. For Cyrus, ambition means the love of honor and a powerful drive to be in charge of every situation he encounters. His ambitious thirst appears to be unquenchable. The Education of Cyrus has been read as a guidebook for how to rule, though as we shall see through exegetical work on the text in Section 3, Xenophon is interested less in composing a blueprint for leadership than in inspiring thoughtfulness about the ambitious human type that Cyrus represents and, therefore, thoughtful engagement with such types.

Despite the fact that Cyrus the Great was a real historical figure, most scholars believe that the protagonist of Xenophon’s Education of Cyrus is better understood as a product of the author’s formidable creative powers rather than a true historical portrait of Cyrus. In other words, the lessons for leadership revealed in this wonderful piece of historical fiction are best taken as Xenophon’s own commentary on a Cyrus-like ambition. One does not have to leave the ancient world, however, to find a more directly historical analysis of ambition and leadership, and a highly illuminating example of such a figure is Alcibiades. The burden of Section 4 is to offer a comprehensive case study of this Element’s themes by interpreting Plutarch’s Life of Alcibiades, a biographical sketch that takes the subjects of character and leadership seriously. Arguably the most grandly ambitious figure in human history, a man whose chief desire seemed to be no less than to rule the world, Alcibiades the native born and educated Athenian was also representative of democracy. There are, of course, major differences between Athenian democracy and the regime that Tocqueville interpreted in Democracy in America (Balot Reference Balot2006, pp. 51–57). But the case of Alcibiades is fascinating and revelatory because it brings the broad concerns of Sections 2 and 3 closer together in one leadership example.

Section 5, finally, offers some concluding thoughts about this Element’s treatment of ambition. It does so by undertaking a more thorough and sustained reflection on the question: How exactly does attention to works of the humanities improve both our understanding and our practice of leadership? Drawing on the ideas of Jean Bethke Elshtain in answering this question, Section 5 makes the case that the best of the humanities can help to inspire a salutary posture of moderation with respect to the ambitions of leaders.

Tocqueville’s Democracy in America and the Democratic Psychology of Ambition

To say that Democracy in America, published in its completed version in 1840, is a magisterial treatment of its announced subject would almost be an understatement. Tocqueville, together with his friend Gustave de Beaumont, visited the United States from France in the early nineteenth century to conduct a study of American penal institutions. After his travels and research took him far beyond this limited project, Tocqueville wrote his life’s masterwork.Footnote ⁴ Scanning the table of contents for the two volumes of Democracy in America, one is struck by the immense scope of subject matter in its purview. The topics range from political institutions in the United States to general societal conditions, from geographical landscapes on the American continent to the relationship between the Americans and Indigenous peoples, from the specific character of the English language in America and its literature to the love of material well-being there – and seemingly all and sundry topics in between.

Tocqueville’s aim in the work is to comprehend more deeply and more thoroughly the nature of democracy, a “social state” (état social) that was changing forms and progressing through various revolutions in Europe but had reached its most advanced form in America.Footnote ⁵ This was a country where equality had come closest to perfection, compared with anywhere else in the known world. And for Tocqueville (Reference Tocqueville, Mansfield and Winthrop2000), the equality of conditions is the very essence of democracy (pp. 3–4).Footnote ⁶ In contrast to the aristocratic social state – the great foil for democracy within the text (Orwin Reference Orwin2000, p. 142) – in which vast distances between people were virtually calcified in a hierarchy of rank, a democratic regime is filled with people who are closer to one another, more similar to their fellows, more capable of attaining new material benefits through hard work, and more susceptible to changing fortunes. Tocqueville believes that once the democratic cat has been let out of the bag, so to speak, there is no putting it back in. One of his central ideas is that the world is increasingly becoming more and more democratic, whereas aristocracy is increasingly dying away, never again to be a real social or political possibility among human groups.Footnote ⁷

Having examined the political institutions and society of the United States in Volume One of Democracy in America, Tocqueville directs his gaze in Volume Two to the broad and variegated dynamics of civil life there. Part Three of Volume Two is called “Influence of Democracy on Mores Properly So-Called,” and it is in the context of this discussion that Tocqueville situates his treatment of ambition. It should be noted that the term mores (mœurs) has special significance for Tocqueville’s political and social thought – so much so that Catherine Zuckert (Reference Zuckert and Masugi1991) has described Tocqueville’s entire “political science” as “the study of the origins and effects of…popular opinions or even less articulate attitudes and sentiments (the ‘mœurs’)” (p. 134). Mores are, in a sense, laws that regulate a community, but they are not written down in a law code anywhere. They are customs or conventions characteristic of a society – diverse phenomena such as habits, traditions, ways, informal or unwritten laws or regulations, and the like. If written laws and formal political institutions tend to speak more to the rational side of humanity, the phenomena under the broad category of mores tend to speak to the subrational side, moving us almost imperceptibly, without conscious thought. Mores, therefore, are an important facet of human psychology that bears on political and social forms, including especially leadership. Tocqueville claims to be capable of illuminating the nature of democratic mores in his analysis and suggests that the theme of ambition and its relationship to democratic leadership is best treated within the framework of this analysis.

Chapter 19 of this part of Democracy in America is the crucial section of text, and Tocqueville has titled it “Why One Finds So Many Ambitious Men in the United States and So Few Great Ambitions.” He thereby highlights what we may view as a paradox of size and scope: democracies tend to be brimming with ambitious people whose ambition is directed, generally, at very small things. The chapter opens with Tocqueville noting that the “first thing that strikes one in the United States is the innumerable multitude of those who seek to get out of their original condition; and the second is the small number of great ambitions that make themselves noticed in the midst of this universal movement of ambition.” In observing life in the United States, Tocqueville sees continual agitations and restive behavior everywhere. Reminiscent of a crowded street in New York City – the quintessential American city, today as it was in the early nineteenth century – nobody stands still, everybody is restless, and the frantic activity of life seems to go on without ceasing. Tocqueville draws attention to the fact that democratic people seek constantly to get out of their current material situation and into a better one.Footnote ⁸ Yet despite this drive to get ahead, it appears as if these strivings do not often shoot for anything especially great. The aim is set much lower, pointing to a relatively narrow scope of objectives. “All want constantly to acquire goods, reputation, power; few envision all these things on a grand scale” (p. 599).

The big question pursued in this chapter of Democracy in America, however, is why? What is it about the character of democratic ambition, and the character of democracy itself, that generates this unique result in the overall condition of life? Tocqueville says that it is “principally in the social state and democratic mores of the Americans that the cause…should be sought” (p. 600). In other words, both the equality of conditions and the habits of heart of democratic peoples come together to influence the direction and intensity of ambition. Tocqueville builds to this explanation by means of the contrast between aristocracy and democracy. As noted earlier, everything in aristocratic contexts is rigid and still, expressed in well-defined hierarchies. Unlike the frenetic motion of a New York City streetscape, imagine the condition of life on a feudal estate as depicted in, say, the novels of Jane Austen. One sees clear social roles for all human actors and an understanding of one’s place in the comprehensive order of the estate – which, of course, corresponds to rules about the correct order shared in wider society. In this context, it is simply not possible for people to be continually striving to better their conditions. For those people who can achieve great things, like the nobility, the avenue is open for them to do it. Indeed, leadership in the context of an aristocracy tends to imply – if not simply to be synonymous with – grand statesmanship.Footnote ⁹ But even for the nobility, the path of one’s life is well prescribed from the beginning.

Not so in places such as America. In a democracy, the possibility of social movement is opened up to people relatively widely, and Tocqueville implies that these circumstances can feel intoxicating for individuals who sense new possibilities for their life. “As the former barriers that separated the crowd from renown and power are suddenly lowered, an impetuous and universal movement of ascent is made toward this long-envied greatness, whose enjoyment is finally permitted. In this first exaltation of triumph, nothing seems impossible to anyone” (p. 600). All of a sudden, at the beginning of democratic revolutions, there is a tangible feeling of power in people more broadly, and of being empowered to do things they could not have done before. Whereas once only aristocratic elites could reach for and grasp the great things, now everyone feels themselves capable of attaining them. And for Tocqueville, this feeling is what matters most.

At the same time, Tocqueville notes that the intoxicating feeling of potential and power is short lived. Once democracy has become firmly entrenched and “men have leveled themselves” (p. 600), there is much less of a chance that people will strive for great things through their ambitious drives. And in Tocqueville’s view, it is democracy itself that serves as the chief cause of this condition. His explanation of the dynamics of this process is beautiful in its precision and is, therefore, worth quoting at length.

Tocqueville possesses a keen eye for political psychology, and this passage is unmistakable evidence of that. His explanation focuses on the complex interplay between political, social, and economic conditions, on the one hand, and the internal dynamics of the soul, on the other. The equality of conditions opens up avenues for advancement for all and provides people with more than they had before, but the fact that goods are finite means that people cannot acquire them boundlessly. External factors – such as the wealth or various political and social roles that are available in a given situation for the taking – act as a firm barrier beyond which one’s personal ambitions cannot cross. In other words, an internal passion for distinction will necessarily be checked by external factors and directed as if through guardrails. The democratic social context has a naturally moderating influence on the internal passions of the individual, to the point where the soul simply limits its “view” of what is possible, diminishing its own power. These patterns in the psychology of democratic peoples are reflected in the mores of democratic social states. Tocqueville notes that there are, in fact, some citizens of America who have amassed opulent wealth in their lives, but they have done so through steady habits of prudence and restraint. That such humble sentiments get passed down through the generations only serves to perpetuate these remarkable results in democratic life.

Widening one’s focus to take in the broader picture, finally, Tocqueville notices one more related factor that explains why one finds ambitions to be restrained in democracies. Democratic peoples tend to foresee the exceedingly long time needed to accomplish great things, and this vision makes a deep impression on them. Because equality means that the avenue to fortune and power is, in principle, open to everyone, all find themselves to be in competition with everyone else for these goods. And because the competition is so widespread, the chances of advancement become less likely as the process of advancing in society becomes much more inflexible. “Men of democracies in the end catch a glimpse of all these things,” Tocqueville explains.

In other words, the regulating principles and laws of democracy do not so much prescribe a specific psychology, and it is not necessary that the lawgiver make them do so. Equality of conditions will influence the democratic soul in this manner, as if organically.

Two Uniquely Democratic Problems

By clarifying the dynamics of soul that animate this passion, Tocqueville has laid bare the nature of democratic ambition for his readers. The context of the regime will influence human psychology such that one finds many ambitious people whose ambitions aim at small things. In the concluding section of analysis in his chapter, however, Tocqueville points his readers to two dilemmas related to ambition to which democracies are uniquely susceptible. One of these problems is more acutely disruptive yet is less worrisome than the other, which itself is a chronic potentiality of democratic life, something to be concerned about in the long run. In exploring this more worrisome issue, Tocqueville shifts his own intentions from the descriptive to the prescriptive, providing concrete advice to those in leadership roles on how to manage the problem of democratic ambition most effectively. And it is here where we democratic students of leadership may find some essential guidance for the best approach to take with respect to this complex moral passion.

The first of these dilemmas occurs when the democratic social state experiences an exception to the general rule about ambition. Even though one tends to find very few great ambitions in these regimes, what happens in the rare circumstances when they break out? In aristocracies, of course, the scope of ambitions may be quite large. But there are also firm boundaries that people understand and respect, expectations about what can and cannot happen sanctioned by clear hierarchies, all of which work to keep people in line. Tocqueville implies that those aristocratic leaders who get to act on their ambitions seem reasonably content with their share, whereas the common run of people simply do not get to participate in that mode of living. While they may not be especially happy with their share, these latter individuals have no real chance of transcending their circumstances.

In democracies, by contrast, many more people enjoy access to the opportunity to pursue goods, honors, and power, leading to a multitude of smaller aims effectively cancelling each other out. In “democratic countries [ambition] ordinarily moves on a narrow field,” Tocqueville says. But once one finds a way somehow to leave the “narrow” boundaries of ambition and is content to do so – perhaps even exhilarated to do so – “one would say there is no longer anything to check it. As men there are weak, isolated, and on the move; as precedents have little empire and laws little duration, resistance to novelties is weak and the social body never appears very upright or quite firm in its seat.” The consequences of the interplay between human passion and social conditions in these circumstances can be particularly disruptive for political society: “when once the ambitious have power in hand, they believe they can dare all; and when it escapes them, they immediately think of overturning the state to get it back” (p. 603).

Tocqueville’s comments here call to mind similar ideas from another gifted analyst of ambition in America, someone who also happens to have been one of the most gifted and significant political leaders in American history. Early in his career, in 1838, when he was just twenty-eight years old (and only a few years after the first volume of Democracy in America was published, in 1835), Abraham Lincoln delivered an extraordinary address to the Young Men’s Lyceum of Springfield, Illinois, on the theme of “the perpetuation of our political institutions.” The speech was prompted by the murder of a multiracial man named Francis McIntosh by a mob in St. Louis a few weeks prior, in addition to some recent examples of mob-perpetrated violence against gamblers in Mississippi – two problems of breaking through boundaries, so to speak, that were representative of those testing the soul of the relatively young American republic. In speaking to the theme of the perpetuation of American institutions, Lincoln reflects most directly on the nature of law and lawlessness, the often fraught relationship between what is lawful and what is just, and certain dangers to the steady rule of law.

Lincoln’s famous concluding suggestion in the Lyceum Address is that “reverence for the law” should become “the political religion of the nation” (Reference Lincoln and van Doren Stern1940, p. 237). Nothing less than a kind of religious devotion to the rule of law could possibly prevent the dangers of mob-led disorder. Yet it is not merely the mobs of, say, Missouri or Mississippi that Lincoln has in mind in recommending religious reverence for laws. It is also the dangers of grand ambition. Who, in Lincoln’s view, does the American democracy have to worry about most of all?

Writing within the same decade as Tocqueville, Lincoln offers defining shape to what a truly grand ambition in political leadership might look like. Despite the fact that the democratic social state generally keeps ambitions aimed at small matters, individuals who belong to “the family of the lion” and “the tribe of the eagle” are a threat to arise in all kinds of circumstances. As Mark Menaldo (Reference Menaldo2013) observes, it is the promise of everlasting glory that motivates these people: “Lincoln understood such transcendent desire for eternal renown that is achieved through worldly accomplishments” (p. 3). And we should be worried about precisely these people, those who are compelled to crash through proscribed limits and blaze their own trail, rather than following the lead of others. Nothing less than the power of divine sanction for the laws, in Lincoln’s view, could stand up to the threat: God or the gods would be needed to help protect humankind.

Tocqueville’s treatment of this same problem shares much with Lincoln’s, though one must distinguish at least two key differences, useful for casting Tocqueville’s own teaching into bold relief. First, as we have taken the time to explore in this section, Tocqueville’s main argument is that this dilemma is unique to democracy. Whereas Lincoln suggests that “the family of the lion” and “the tribe of the eagle” have the potential to rise up under any conditions – consider, of course, the social states in which both Alexander and Caesar rose to power – Tocqueville points to the intricate interplay between human passion and the external, contextual circumstances of a democracy in particular. Second, and more central to our purposes, is Tocqueville’s contrasting evaluation of this problem. As Waller Newell (Reference Newell2009) has noted in his own treatment of democratic leadership, Lincoln’s preoccupation with the disastrous ambitions of so-called great men – the Napoleon Bonapartes, say, of our long human experience – separates him from Tocqueville, who was more worried about the effects of the egalitarian ethos of democracy (pp. 136–38).

This particular anxiety, arising in response to Tocqueville’s vision of a second problem of ambition to which democracies are susceptible, is far more significant in his mind (Cronin & Genovese Reference Cronin and Genovese2012, p. 121). Many readers have identified Tocqueville’s qualified ambivalence about democracy, an attitude that suffuses the whole text, to be among the most memorable features of Democracy in America. We get a palpable sense of the inevitability of democracy’s spread, for sure, and the author’s message is that there simply is no going back to aristocratic times. Yet to read his description of the aristocratic social state that has died away is almost to read a lamentation for a golden past. Moreover, while Tocqueville does indicate that the spread of democracy is at one and the same time the progression of justice (p. 12) – in other words, from the standpoint of the greatest political good, he seems to come down on the side of democracyFootnote ¹⁰ – he also cautions democratic partisans against the excesses of the egalitarian ethos.

One example of an excess that may trouble a democracy might best be called stagnation. In the universal leveling that takes place as democracy extends itself throughout the world, Tocqueville foresees a scenario where human potentialities contract as people withdraw into themselves. He refers to the outcome of this process as individualism, which is “a reflective and peaceable sentiment that disposes each citizen to isolate himself from the mass of those like him and to withdraw to one side with his family and his friends, so that after thus having created a little society for his own use, he willingly abandons society at large to itself.” Individualism is distinguished in Tocqueville’s mind from selfishness, which is a “depraved sentiment” that “brings man to relate everything to himself alone and to prefer himself to everything” (p. 482). Whereas selfishness is at the heart of immoral activity and vice (cf. Kellerman Reference Kellerman2004, pp. 18–21), individualism’s primary effect would be considered more neutral, perhaps. As citizens become more and more equal, individualism isolates people from one another by vitiating the social bonds, those important ties between human beings that were so strong in aristocracy. But Tocqueville does indicate that individualism attacks the public virtues and threatens to destroy all of the other virtues “in the long term,” eventually converting itself to selfishness (p. 483; see Alulis Reference Alulis, Lawler and Alulis1992, pp. 45–46). And his vision for a world in which individualism is allowed to progress without check is a haunting one: “Thus not only does democracy make each man forget his ancestors, but it hides his descendants from him and separates him from his contemporaries; it constantly leads him back toward himself alone and threatens finally to confine him wholly in the solitude of his own heart” (p. 484; see Wudel Reference Wudel, Lawler and Alulis1993, p. 343).Footnote ¹¹

Tocqueville does not refer to individualism by name in his chapter on ambition, yet it is precisely the same dynamic that helps to explain his second of two worries with respect to democratic ambition. The general tendency in democracies is toward contraction, with people closing in on their own individual selves. And this shrinking quality is equally true for a political society’s own vision about what it most importantly stands for, including the direction for its future. Democratic citizens seem to be restively and endlessly ambitious for very small things, for reasons that we have considered thus far. Yet this means that their small concerns are really only for the present. Tocqueville explains that “in democracies the ambitious are less preoccupied than all others with the interests and judgments of the future: the present moment alone occupies and absorbs them. They finish many undertakings rapidly rather than raise a few long-lasting monuments; they love success much more than glory” (p. 603). If good leadership is largely about successfully navigating a collective group through difficult times and into the future, then Tocqueville’s worry is especially significant. One way of interpreting the dynamic is to suggest that the same process whereby individualism spreads threatens to inculcate a kind of myopic perspective for the collective society, which undercuts the essential leadership elements of foresight, imagination, and vision. In short, the passion of ambition operates in democratic society to render it far less sure of itself, concerned only with small successes in the here and now and forgetful of the need to build confidently toward a better future.

Countering the Problems of Ambition: Pride and Democratic Leadership

One lucid signal that Tocqueville is especially worried about the second problem with democratic ambition is that he turns to prescriptive analysis only on the heels of his discussion of the contracting, diminishing social vision of democracies. Whereas he seems content merely to describe the dynamics that occasionally lead to grandly ambitious people breaking through the narrow boundaries that have been set for them, letting readers do with that information what they may, his response to the second problem is more spirited and proactive. Indeed, Tocqueville confesses that “for democratic societies I dread the audacity much less than the mediocrity of desires.” He wishes to persuade thoughtful readers to be wary of a world in which humanity is diminished simply because our commitment to the egalitarian ethos will not permit anything greater. “What seems to me most to be feared,” Tocqueville says, “is that in the midst of the small incessant occupations of private life, ambition will lose its spark and its greatness; that human passions will be appeased and debased at the same time, so that each day the aspect of the social body becomes more tranquil and less lofty” (p. 604).

Yet, if it is true that Tocqueville presents advice in this chapter, it is not also true that the task he sets out for readers will be easy or that the path in front of democratic leaders is clear to discern. For the solution to this particular problem requires that the leader be somehow a craftsperson of soul or at least someone who can purposely influence civic passions. Tocqueville’s concern proves to be mainly with the passion of pride. Noting that the moralists of his day identify pride as the chief vice of democratic periods, he also says that the moralists fail to see that this elevated sense of self has been largely ineffectual in society and politics because democratic peoples set their sights on lower targets. A person may feel himself to “be worth more than his neighbor,” a disposition that seems consistent with the vice of pride, but “nonetheless despises himself to the point that he believes himself made only to taste vulgar pleasures.” Not only is it rare to see any grand designs acted on in the public sphere, by means of a grand vision for leadership, it is almost as if they do not arise in the mind of the democratic human type in the first place, even as a theoretical possibility. Regarding “lofty undertakings: he hardly imagines them” (p. 604).

In response to this dilemma, Tocqueville offers the following prescription to democratic leaders. Those in such roles must do all they can to encourage pride in the members of the civic community, as a way of preventing ambition from being snuffed out forever in a democratic world. Ambition will always follow a natural course of being moderated and set at low sights in democracies, so Tocqueville’s suggestion is for leaders to consider nudging that aim at designs that are a bit higher.Footnote ¹² The analysis, and ultimately the counsel, in this portion of Democracy in America rings true, especially if one takes into account an example or two. History provides evidence of democracies that have expressed a significant degree of pride about itself and its objectives. What tends to link these systems of political leadership together is a common orientation outward from oneself, expanding one’s reach outside of one’s own context. One is reminded of the notion, promoted by leaders such as Pericles of Athens and Winston Churchill, that only an imperial democracy could ever be a great democracy. In other words, you are deeply proud to call yourself an Athenian, say, or an English citizen, because of the reach that your regime has in the world. This is precisely the opposite of the contraction of human possibility that Tocqueville worries about in democracies.

Of course, it seems patently foolish to tell today’s readers that a good rule of thumb for democratic leadership might be to strive for an imperialistic politics. And one must concede that, as for concrete and actionable suggestions as to how to foster pride in the citizenry, Tocqueville does not offer a great deal of help in his chapter. One relevant idea is that “it is good to give [citizens] difficult and perilous affairs sometimes in order to elevate ambition and to open a theater for it” (p. 604) – a suggestion that hints at the kind of outward-looking tendency discussed earlier, and which will be interpreted at length in Section 3. But it also seems reasonable to see Tocqueville as telling his readers that, by means of effective oratory, one can set forth an ideal vision of what one’s community looks like, what it can aim for, and what one’s followers might be. It is the job of democratic leaders to raise the aspirations of their communities, and the persuasive power of speech can be an effective means to this end. Perhaps it is possible to shape the character of a people through articulating these visions clearly and publicly. To extend the example from above just a little further, the ancient statesman Pericles is well known for having been persuasive with the Athenians in just this way. His celebrated “Funeral Oration,” from Book Two of Thucydides’ War of the Peloponnesians and the Athenians, is a masterclass in how one might elevate the vision of one’s democratic followers. As Orwin (Reference Orwin1994) indicates, Pericles presents the empire in this speech as the “crown of the Athenian community” (p. 15) that has the effect of averting the gaze of his followers away from lower objectives and turning it outward toward the wider world. Or, to cite Newell’s assessment, the “Funeral Oration” stands at the beginning of a long line of important speeches, including Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address and Churchill’s “never surrender” speech, that are supremely effective precisely because they present an “idealized vision” of the city and its citizens (Reference Newell2009, pp. 257–58).

The final word from Tocqueville in his commentary on ambition in Democracy in America may come as a surprise to some readers and a shock to others. In either case, it testifies to a deeply and broadly interesting outlook on democratic morals, given problems with ambition that he has identified. Having centered his recommendations for democratic leaders on encouraging pride in the citizenry, Tocqueville tells us that he recognizes that this might be a difficult thing to hope for in some quarters. Perhaps in deference to Christianity and its own moralists, he avers that pride is a vice. Indeed, pride stands as the cardinal vice in the Christian ethical system. But Tocqueville also says that pride may be useful in this context to prevent some other, greater evil from happening – in which case it may very well have the effect of acting like a virtue.Footnote ¹³ “I would willingly trade several of our small virtues for this vice” (p. 604), he says in the final sentence of his chapter. Tocqueville here adopts a Machiavellian perspective on ethical questions, which holds that there is no such thing as abstract reality to moral concepts. What matters to leaders – for both Machiavelli and, evidently, Tocqueville – is “the effectual truth” of the thing, or whether and to what extent embodying some moral category successfully gets you what you want in the real world (Reference Machiavelli1998, pp. 61–62).Footnote ¹⁴ Given the reality of the democratic social state, Tocqueville’s conclusion suggests, it is better to hope for the benefit to ambition promised by promoting the vice of pride.

Conclusion

The two best reasons for concentrating on Tocqueville’s ideas about ambition are themselves connected. First, for someone generally thought of as a political or sociological theorist, Tocqueville possesses an especially keen eye on psychology, explaining how ambition operates in terms of key dynamics of the soul. There is impressive nuance to his thought, and given that ambition is itself a moral passion, Tocqueville shows that his gaze is on the right place. Second, much more so than other theorists who discuss ambition, Tocqueville is sensitive to the impact of context on his subject. The regime of democracy, conceived as a social state, is something that directly affects how ambition operates in the world. Indeed, as shown in this section, it is precisely the complicated interplay between the internal passion and the external equality of conditions that explains why democratic ambition looks as it does – not to mention setting the stage for how democratic leadership should respond to its problems.

Earlier in this section we considered certain historical antecedents of imperial democratic politics to help illustrate Tocqueville’s prescriptive advice. Yet, to pull back on this idea just a small bit, not every democracy, perhaps not the majority of them, expresses tendencies toward empire. Furthermore, there is a meaningful difference between democracies that expand outward while operating generally within a constitutional framework, on the one hand, and empires that are established by means of the intensely imperial drive of the leader himself, on the other. This illuminating difference may be expressed in terms of the nature and operation of the leader’s ambition, and precisely what this looks like is the subject of Section 3.

Xenophon and His Education of Cyrus

Who was Xenophon, first, and what kind of book did he write? If the best subjects of leadership studies truly lie at the nexus of theory and practice, then Xenophon himself may be the most genuine embodiment of this ideal. An Athenian of the fifth and fourth centuries BC (he lived from 430 to 354), he was distinguished as both a thinker and a doer. Xenophon is widely considered the second-best student of Socrates – Plato being the valedictorian of that particular class – and he authored several texts that investigate philosophic ideas, having been educated in the ways of philosophy by his teacher. But he also exhibited his own tendencies toward a life of distinction in public, for he was both a statesman in Athens and a dashing military figure.Footnote ²² As for this latter role, Xenophon is most well known to posterity for an expedition into Persia as the leader of a mercenary army under a man named Cyrus – not the one about whom the Education of Cyrus was written, but rather his great-great-grandson. When this younger Cyrus was killed, Xenophon was elected general of the 10,000-troop Greek army and led them back into Greece safely.Footnote ²³

As for the Education of Cyrus, many consider this text, written probably in 370 BC or thereabouts, to be the first novel in Western literature (Pangle Reference Pangle and Radasanu2015, p. 101; Tatum Reference Tatum1989; cf. Gera Reference Gera1993). This text is about the founder of the Persian or Achaemenid Empire, centered in what is present-day Iran but extending at its height from Egypt in the southwest, through most of the Middle East, to the Indus River as its eastern boundary. This was a territory similar to that which Alexander the Great would acquire hundreds of years later – partly because this other ancient ambitious dynamo of leadership idolized his predecessor from Persia, perhaps having engaged with his history through Xenophon’s text (see McGroarty Reference McGroarty2006). Cyrus the Great lived circa 600 to 530 BC, so 200 odd years before Xenophon wrote, and historians are clear that the Cyrus and Persia of this book are only loosely based on the actual historical figure and regime. Some scholars have argued that Xenophon’s intention was to develop his fictionalized Persia based on the actual regime of Sparta, describing a set of modified Spartan institutions in the text.Footnote ²⁴ At any rate, to say that the Education of Cyrus is a perennial classic of leadership is simply to speak a truism. One succinct way of expressing this thought is to note that Peter Drucker (Reference Drucker1993) said that Xenophon’s text was his favorite book about leadership and that, furthermore, the “earliest writers on the subject, in ancient Greece or ancient Israel, knew all that has ever been known about leadership” (p. 129).Footnote ²⁵ Drucker assumes that there is a quality of timelessness to leadership questions, meaning that answers to them are accessible to eager students even, or especially, in writings composed thousands of years ago, emerging from a context very different than our own.

The Nature of Leadership: Cyrus’ Youth and Early Education in Book One

For powerful proof of Drucker’s view, one need to look no further than the opening of Xenophon’s text, as the author precisely defines his intellectual project. The first thing we readers notice is that the analysis begins from the standpoint of nature, adopting that which is natural as the standard. Whereas today it is commonplace to say that there is no such thing as a natural born leader – rather, regardless of the kind of person we naturally are, all of us are capable of learning to fulfill leadership roles as long as we receive the correct instruction (cf. Cronin Reference Cronin1984, pp. 33–34) – Xenophon aims to show that Cyrus’ success in leadership is rooted in his natural constitution. Moreover, he goes so far as to show that there is a certain human problem in the nature of things relevant to those studying the ambitions of leaders. The problem is that human beings want to rule others but also want to be free from rule. In other words, all human beings exhibit a kind of ambition, to a greater or lesser degree, in as much as they seek to be superior. It stings when other people act on their superiority, and we feel this reaction simply because of who and what we human beings are. Xenophon has identified an enormous dilemma here because it means that the perpetual state of humanity is one of conflict, with societies and regimes being threatened, and perhaps overturned, in the process of pushing back against those with authority. This is true whether one is talking about political regimes (such as democracies, oligarchies, or tyrannies) or private households (I.1.1). As a matter of natural fact, leadership is unstable in part because no one is truly content simply to be a follower. Xenophon indicates that “it is easier, given his nature, for a human being to rule all the other kinds of animals than to rule human beings” (I.1.3) – a lucid signal that he takes this to be the uniquely human problem.

Yet perhaps there may be some hope. Xenophon also says that there was once a Cyrus who appears to have solved the problem, a man who inspires “wonder” at how he was able to acquire “very many people, very many cities, and very many nations all obedient to himself.” We readers learn that it is possible, in principle, to solve the unique dilemma of human affairs. In fact, it is not even difficult “if one does it with knowledge” (I.1.3), as did Cyrus the Great. The word “knowledge” in this passage translates a word related to epistēmē, meaning acquaintance or skill with a matter, but also knowledge in the sense of scientific understanding. The leadership phenomenon interpreted in the Education of Cyrus, in other words, admits of a scientific interpretation: there is a kind of knowledge of rule that leaders must possess if they are to do it stably. If one has it, Xenophon implies, a leader can influence followers of people who have never seen him and who will be sure that they will never see him. These leaders will be secure, all the same.

Of course, readers coming from the context of a democratic regime may find that many aspects of Xenophon’s opening strike a note of discord against their assumptions and sensibilities. We notice, in particular, the strongly imperial overtones of Cyrus’ dominion.

One reading of this important passage is that Xenophon wants to point our attention to the fact that fear (“fear of himself”) and love (“so great a desire of gratifying him”) are the two passions most useful for leading others and that a leader hoping to capitalize on his ambitions must be effective at using both. It is also clear, however, that the political context of this discussion is empire and that the implied recommendation to manipulate these human passions should be understood accordingly. In a related way, the viewpoint of Xenophon’s opening chapter assumes that the key measure of success in leadership – that good to be sought, more than anything else – is stability or longevity. A leadership structure that endures throughout time: this seems to be what Xenophon elevates as the ideal, as we gather from the example of Cyrus and his genius at securing obedience.

After having said that there is a science of leadership that can solve the human problem, the author neglects to come out directly to reveal it. Rather, Xenophon compels us readers to confront the question of what it might be by engaging with the human example of Cyrus, vividly illustrated by the author’s creative powers. He reveals that Cyrus manifested three natural attributes that were significant elements of his leadership: philanthropeia, or love of humanity; philomatheia, or love of learning; and philotimia, or love of honor, which is also a common term for ambition (I.2.1; cf. King Reference King2013, p. 13). Those things to which the soul of Cyrus was powerfully attracted hold the key to understanding what makes him tick.Footnote ²⁶ Someone committed to understanding leadership through the lens of leader traits, for example, would pay special heed to this statement. One very thoughtful commentator on this text, Norman Sandridge, identifies these three terms as being the “foundations” for Xenophon’s theory of leadership in the Education of Cyrus. In other words, Sandridge’s analysis takes a traits-based approach to understanding the dimensions of good leadership and expresses that, in Cyrus, you see how these attributes underlie his qualities as a leader (Reference 72Sandridge2012, pp. 12, 15).

Throughout the balance of Book One, Xenophon pulls back the curtain on Cyrus’ early development as he grew into the mature figure known to posterity. And he continually underscores aspects of the leader’s personality that suggest an exceedingly ambitious nature. Cyrus leaves his family in Persia at an early age to live in Media, a country located to the immediate northwest of Persia. The king of the Medes, Astyages, was Cyrus’ maternal grandfather, and much of what Cyrus learns as a young boy develops in the context of his relationship with his relative. Cyrus’ actions show him to love honor and beauty above all else – the sumptuous robes of the lavish way of life in the Median court, for example, and elite skill in horsemanship (I.3.3). He seems preternaturally generous in his dealings with others and begs his mother to allow him to live in Media, as he would rather spend time with people who will challenge him to develop his excellent qualities. Cyrus’ early training in hunting further supports Xenophon’s description of his natural character. Because of his “benevolence and ambition” (I.4.1), Cyrus always wanted to do whatever the boys of Media asked of him. Like a spirited puppy (cf. I.4.4, 15, and 21), he was always jumping at the chance to be active and involved with others through a positive, energetic spirit. Cyrus proved himself to be exceptionally eager for hunting, starting in his grandfather’s personal park and quickly using up all the wild animals there (I.4.5), eventually moving to the larger, wilder, and more dangerous game in the borderlands (cf. IV.6.3–4).

After King Astyages dies and Cyaxares, his son and Cyrus’ uncle, becomes the reigning king, his neighbor to the west, the king of Assyria, moves toward building his own empire with clear designs on Media (I.5.2–3). Cyaxares makes counterpreparations in response, calling in help from allies in Persia, who send him a force of soldiers with Cyrus as the leader. This proves to be a key moment in the development of the eponymous hero, as it is his first official distinction as superior, an opportunity to act in line with his naturally ambitious character publicly. Cyrus commemorates his generalship by delivering an address to the 200 Peers, men from his social class in Persia who are also military leaders. We see Cyrus fulfilling the task of inspiring confidence in his audience through painting a picture of the valor and goodness of the Persian force and highlighting the “amateur” status of the Assyrian army (I.5.11). Perhaps Cyrus provides something of an idealized vision of the Persian way of life, but if so, then he is simply doing something that public leaders routinely do, in providing an exemplar to give followers something to shoot for (see Newell Reference Newell2009, p. 258). He also aims at inspiring hope among the Peers, based on his reasonable confidence that the education of the Persians to virtue has been excellent (cf. I.5.12). Much of Cyrus’ advice is oriented toward the life of action and stresses how virtue is relevant for the rewards that one can get out of it. By doing the good things now, specifically through sound provisioning in good times, the virtuous person can expect to benefit even when times are bad.

Cyrus on the Basic Principles of Order and Justice

Cyrus’ rousing speech to the generals having been delivered, it is not immediately thereafter that the joint forces of Persia and Media engage in battle with the Assyrians, their common foe.Footnote ²⁷ Instead, the author of the Education of Cyrus presents us readers with a number of critically important vignettes to demonstrate that Cyrus does not simply have victory in war in mind. His long-term interest, rather, is in establishing an enduring way of life that he can lead, as the vehicle to demonstrate his superiority. This is where Cyrus’ love of honor aims, and to that end, he must formulate organizing principles to help him succeed. One of these scenes is a lengthy dialogue between Cambyses, the then King of Persia, and Cyrus, his son. Cyrus consults with his father about the most effective means for noble leadership, and Cambyses’ response is generally to educate him on the advantages of practicing virtue with one’s followers. The good leader is someone who is a good person, someone who practices the reality of virtue – such as generosity, justice, and hard work – for the benefit of the community. By contrast, Cyrus also learns that in order to get the advantage with respect to enemies or outsiders, one needs to be vice incarnate, that which seems to be the precise opposite of a good person. “Be assured,” Cambyses says, “that the one who is going to [defeat enemies] must be a plotter, a dissembler, wily, a cheat, a thief, rapacious and the sort who takes advantage of his enemies in everything” (I.6.27).Footnote ²⁸ In short, if it is a matter of expanding one’s power, considerations of expediency outweigh those of justice – a fundamental lesson that the ambitious Cyrus will absorb thoroughly, as his actions throughout the narrative show.

Even the business of military formations appears to be in the service of establishing the right principles for organizing a thriving community. Discussing tactics with his uncle Cyaxares, Cyrus begins to seed the total social transformation that he wants. It turns out that the vast majority of Persians in Cyrus’ force are currently well equipped to fight at a distance from one another, with weapons such as javelins, spears, and arrows. Such fighting engenders only chaos, with many people running around and little cohesion; later in the discussion, Cyrus refers to these as “mercenary arms” (II.1.18), suited only to a servile people. His recommendation, rather, is something different: to provide all the Persians with a kind of arms that the elite have. “There are a breastplate to cover the chest, a shield for the left hand, and a scimitar or small sword for the right,” Cyrus explains to his uncle. “If you provide arms like this, you will make it safest for us to go to close quarters against our opponents, and preferable for the enemy to flee rather than to stand fast” (II.1.9). Cyrus recommends, in other words, weapons that are the basis of hoplite warfare, a way of fighting land battles where soldiers come together into a whole unit, standing shoulder to shoulder and interlocking their shields in their left hand, thereby providing total defense from incoming missiles. Hoplite warfare proved to be a powerful fighting style, in which soldiers felt more confident behind their shields and close to their fellows.

Cyrus’ ideal fighting formation appears also to pave the way for inspiring a new way for his people to think about the Persian community. Despite that the model here is war, he simultaneously offers the blueprint for a project to take a multitude of diverse individuals and bring them together into one whole people, a large and unified unit moving together with a common purpose, like the system of hoplite warriors. Precise formations (cf. II.1.27) can leverage the feelings that get people to understand that they have common interests with one another. The upshot to this, according to Xenophon, is that Cyrus’ followers will become gentler and friendlier with one another, more likely to express that fellow-feeling needed to see themselves as part of Cyrus’ new empire (II.1.28–29). Indeed, if the founder can truly effect this change in the people he encounters, then it may prove useful for uniting the subcultures in the diverse regions he has in his scope.

The centerpiece of Book Two, however, is a dinner conversation between Cyrus and a handful of his closest Persian captains. Shining a light on how Cyrus exercises mastery over a complex situation, this scene helps us grasp Xenophon’s depiction of imperial ambition more completely. At the dinner, Cyrus and his captains discuss the crucial matter of the relationship between the upper-class Peers and the lower-class people who are fighting alongside them. Cyrus asks his guests, specifically, “do our companions appear to be inferior to us because they have not been educated in the same way as we, or will they not differ from us either in social intercourse or when it will be necessary to contend against the enemy” (II.2.1)? In response, the captain Chrysantas adds a thoughtful comment that turns out to inspire the most profound thread of the conversation. His reflection “is that some [soldiers] have turned out better for us, while others are deserving of less. Yet if something good comes of this, they will all think they deserve equal shares. And yet I believe that there is nothing more unequal among human beings than thinking the bad and the good to deserve equal things” (II.2.18; emphasis added).

Chrysantas directs our attention here to nothing less than the dispute over the nature of justice. And the fact that this thought is “unequal” among humankind – nothing more so, in fact – is a symbol of the intractable dilemma of justice and the unceasing disagreements about it among human beings. The content of the disagreement is the essential matter of just distribution. There are people, on the one hand, who believe that the good and the bad – meaning, those who either meet or fall short of some independent, intelligible, and measurable standard of virtue – deserve unequal things. On the other hand, there are people who believe that the good and the bad deserve equal things. Should the goods of this world (i.e., money, resources, honors, power, and so on) be distributed unequally according to merit or equally regardless of merit? This is an important matter that bears on leaders and followers in the present day. Consider, for example, debates over socioeconomic conditions in the United States in recent years, highlighting especially factors of income and wealth inequality, arguments that have been famously taken up by authors such as Thomas Piketty (Reference Piketty2017) and others. One might also see this in debates over so-called identity politics, the position being that human beings deserve equal dignity as a consideration of who they are at birth (or perhaps who they choose to be, in an act of freedom to choose one’s identity) as opposed to what they have accomplished in the world. Naturally, these subjects are complicated and vexed and well beyond the scope of this analysis. But they illustrate the permanent nature of this problem that Xenophon has identified. The conflict between the few and the many on the question of just distribution is one powerful reason why our societies are so contentious and unstable, crying out for good leadership to navigate through tough times.

In what way, then, does Cyrus navigate the treacherous waters of this question? He responds by saying that he will not merely decree that it will be one way or the other (II.2.18–19), in answer to the implied question from Chrysantas, instead proposing to put the matter to a vote of the whole Persian army after it has been publicly debated. Cyrus recognizes, in short, that one cannot simply legislate this kind of thing effectively, as you do not persuade anyone about something as fundamental as the standards for justice by merely sending down a decree. That said, he also reveals quite clearly that he supports the argument in favor of merit. The point of having a debate about the question of distribution, according to Xenophon (II.2.21), is to make it plainly evident that it is always better for people to receive what it is that they deserve. The common people think that they deserve more for certain reasons, and so do the Peers, even if these groups disagree on why they should deserve more. In putting the question to the vote, the principle – i.e., to orient oneself to the standard of deserving – will be set down among the Persian community for posterity. Cyrus goes so far as to say that the military must be purged of those who hold the view that “the bad and the good…deserve equal things”: his view, rather, is that “the noble and good endeavor to lead to what is noble and good, and the vile to what is vile” (II.2.23).

And this view is, indeed, the one that carries the day. After recounting the terms of the public debate between Chrysantas and Pheraulas, a commoner, Xenophon states the conclusion: “It was decided that each be honored in accord with his worth and that Cyrus be the judge” (II.3.16). Given what we readers have known about Cyrus’ own views on the question of just distribution, it would seem that the result of the debate was to establish precisely what Cyrus wanted in the first place. We readers observe, in other words, the ambitious leader using his craft to manufacture a more secure outcome. That Cyrus was chosen by the Persians to be the final judge in these matters simply indicates how much control this supremely ambitious leader has at this stage of the narrative.

The Ambition to Engage Foes and Friends: Armenia, Chaldaea, and Uncle Cyaxares

After reflecting on the public debate and its outcome, one is led to wonder about the true nature of the connection between Cyrus and his followers. Do the exceedingly ambitious develop genuine relationships with other people, bonds that respect their human dignity? Or are those others viewed merely as instruments to secure the leader’s glory and personal happiness? Robert Faulkner (Reference Faulkner2007) has posed a similar question about Xenophon’s characterization of the ambitious Cyrus, in that he wonders whether it is better to see him as a “lover or cherisher of others” or as a “conqueror or manager” of the people who come into his orbit (p. 166). As the empire that Cyrus controls grows in territory and population, we readers are afforded a closer look at this question, especially in how Cyrus relates to both enemies and friends. The way in which Cyrus deals with the Armenians and Chaldaeans, on the one hand, and his own uncle Cyaxares, on the other, shows us that the need of being superior may always be the primary motivating factor in the psychology of the ambitious leader.

Occupying a territory north of Media, near the Caucasus Mountains, the Armenian king and his people have been both an ally to and subject of Cyaxares (II.4.22). With war against the Assyrians looming on the horizon, Cyaxares and Cyrus need to bolster their resources, and the question becomes whether the Armenians can provide reliable assistance. The trouble, as we learn at the outset, is that the Armenian has been neglecting his responsibilities with respect to Cyaxares. He has failed to send money or arms when required to do so and has even been caught “fortifying his palace so as to make it sufficient for armed resistance” (III.1.1). On seeing the approach of Cyrus and his companions, the Armenian is struck with the realization that he has acted badly and is about to get caught. After rather weakly fleeing into the surrounding mountains, thereby cementing his status as Cyrus’ enemy (cf. III.1.3), he is easily captured and brought to trial regarding the question of his injustice. This public trial, in both content and aftermath, is one of the most memorable set pieces of Xenophon’s text.

The Armenian’s initial justification for his actions centers on the value of liberty. “I desired freedom,” he says, “for it seemed to me noble both that I be free myself and that I leave freedom for my children” (III.1.10). There is something initially persuasive about this argument: perhaps all human beings enjoy a natural right to live freely, or at least to avoid being forcibly conquered by another, and the Armenian is merely doing what seems necessary to him at the time to exercise this right. But it is likely also true that he should not have had the pleasure of enjoying this right given the situation he created for himself. Cyrus forcefully responds to the Armenian’s appeal to freedom, reminding him that he and his people were originally subjugated by Media after losing a war that he had started. And in punishing him for shirking his responsibilities, Cyrus is merely enforcing the legal standards of Armenia herself, meaning that the King is being held accountable on his own principles of justice (III.1.13).

In response to this terrible outcome, the son of the Armenian King, Tigranes, enters the conversation. Tigranes had been a comrade of Cyrus, spending time with him as a hunting partner in their youth, so they share a bond of friendship. Xenophon informs us readers that Tigranes has been influenced by “a certain wise man” (III.1.14; cf. Nadon Reference 71Nadon2001, pp. 79–80) so that Cyrus always desired to hear his opinions. And it seems crystal clear that the son is able to use his cleverness to his family’s advantage. In attempting to get his father out of his legal woes, Tigranes immediately makes the move to interpret justice in a novel way, so as to make matters of justice subservient to matters of interest, or what is good for oneself. In this case, Tigranes shifts the discussion to what is in the best interest of Cyrus (Pangle Reference Pangle and Radasanu2015, p. 105). He asks, do “you hold, Cyrus, that it is better to impose punishments that are in keeping with your good or those that are to your detriment” (III.1.15)? Though it may be better to think of justice or morality as overcoming one’s personal desires in order to obey higher principles, Tigranes appears to modify or even cover up this idea, so as to appeal to Cyrus’ interests.

Tigranes’ next move is to focus on the virtue of moderation, by arguing that even those who have committed an injustice can be valuable to others if they become moderate. We readers detect the purpose of this argumentative shift: he does it so as to put the virtue of justice to the side altogether and further to obfuscate it by focusing instead on a different theme. The decisive factor, in other words, is not the justice or the injustice of the Armenian King, but rather his moderation – and this is the crucial thing to consider because a moderate man will be good for Cyrus and the Persians. “Without moderation,” Tigranes says, “there is no benefit from any other virtue…But with moderation, every friend becomes useful and every servant good” (III.1.16). Tigranes’ final move is to establish that the Armenian has in fact become moderate through this experience, and this has happened primarily through the mechanism of fear. Fear is so powerful that it leads to despondency and the subjugation of the soul, which is a far more painful fate than bodily harm and, therefore, more useful to an ambitious leader such as Cyrus (III.1.23).

Given that the Armenian has experienced a terrible suffering in his soul at the hands of Cyrus, Tigranes draws his interlocutor’s attention to an interesting upshot for this leader to consider. Friendship, goodwill, and even a form of love stem from these events, if managed properly. The fact is that Cyrus could have justly done the worst deeds to the Armenian, but he chose not to. This logic can be the basis for gratitude, a more certain kind of friendship than would have been possible otherwise, gladly given because the alternative could have been so much worse. In the early sixteenth century, Niccolò Machiavelli in The Prince famously pondered that key question for leaders, whether it is better to be feared or loved, and concluded that if one must choose, it is better to be feared because fear is something in one’s power to control (Reference Machiavelli1998, pp. 66–67). Xenophon, writing some two millennia before Machiavelli, presents something complementary, even if slightly different, in the representation of the Armenian’s trial. It is better to be feared because fear can be the foundational support of love. And this is a lesson that seems to be deeply impressed in the soul of the ambitious Cyrus.

At the conclusion of the trial, Cyrus chooses to turn down the Armenian’s offer of a substantial sum of money as a way to repay his injustice. Rather, he asks for the opportunity to manage the situation with the Chaldaeans, a poor yet warlike people living next to the Armenians, as an avenue to acquiring the resources that he needs. As is often the case in the Education of Cyrus, the order of activity turns out to be the use of force, first, and then an overture for friendship, second (III.2.12–13). Cyrus steps in with military might to stop the fighting and then turns to the mechanics of peace. One wonders if this is something else that Cyrus has had impressed on himself powerfully by Tigranes: love and friendship are most secure and most real when they are born out of fear, and often that fear comes from violent force or the threat of violent force – a real condition of crisis, which often functions as the forge of leadership (cf. Newell Reference Newell2009, pp. 18–26).

The ultimate choice in the drama of the Chaldaeans, however, is for peace. Cyrus argues that it is better to live peacefully than by fighting, most importantly because of “the good things” (III.2.18) that come through peace. The key seems to be the notion of mutual benefit by means of economic integration, much like the political philosophers Montesquieu and Adam Smith have influentially argued in the modern period, and perhaps in line with theories of economic globalization. The Chaldaeans, for their part, live in rocky terrain and cannot farm, but the Armenians have a lot of fallow land. Cyrus’ proposal is to let the former rent the land at a fair price, benefiting everyone. As for the Armenians, they have a lot of cattle and other herd animals that would benefit from grazing in the mountains (III.2.17–21). The notion here is of sharing or being allies in these things, precisely because of the mutual advantage to gain from it. And it is not merely a matter of economic integration: intermarriage is also arranged into the terms of the agreement, as well as a commitment to a defensive alliance in case either side is attacked.

The linchpin of this happy economic story, finally, is the dominion of Cyrus. Cyrus said, “Then I shall do the following: I shall surrender the heights to neither of you, but we shall guard them. And if either of you is unjust, we shall side with those suffering injustice…Only in this way would the peace be secure” (III.2.22). In other words, while economic integration brings with it clear advantages to all, Cyrus demands that Persia provide the law to oversee it. This includes both the specific law to guide the Armenians and the Chaldeans, and the concept of the rule of law itself – and therefore the ability to make judgments when there are disputes. Some authoritative rule or force is the necessary condition that allows for the subcultures to coexist peacefully and productively. And, again, Cyrus claims the authority to decide for himself.

In both cases, we readers see the ambitious Cyrus operating with both enemies and foreigners in the same way. Expertly managing the situation to quell any trouble among different people, doubtless a noble and good objective, he also makes sure to guarantee that he is in the superior position. Does this pattern hold as Cyrus deals with his friends and family too? The best point of reference at this stage of the narrative is Cyaxares, the uncle of Cyrus and the one who has inherited rule in Media after Cyrus’ grandfather Astyages died. Book Three closes with the run up to battle with Assyria, and Book Four begins in the wake of the great Median victory over its inveterate enemy. Xenophon explains that there is happiness and gratitude on the side of the Medes and her allies, and much despondency for the Assyrians (IV.1.8–9). There are also notable transitions in leadership at this stage in the narrative. The Assyrian king has been killed, and his position is soon to be taken over by his sinister (cf. IV.6.1–7) son. Cyaxares now emerges as the putative head of the victorious forces of the Medes, who have been working together with their Persian allies.

The drama of Cyaxares’ early rule, however, proves to be a masterclass in manipulating the situation on the part of Cyrus, who carefully and securely does what is necessary to supplant his uncle for the top leadership position among the allies. Cyrus takes no time to rest after the battle and immediately acts on plans to pursue the fleeing Assyrians, never bothering to consult with Cyaxares about this business. Xenophon quickly notes Cyaxares’ displeasure with his nephew: on hearing the news, and “because [Cyrus and the Persians] were the first to make the argument, Cyaxares was envious; perhaps it also seemed to him to be fine that they not run further risks, for he, as it happened, was busy enjoying himself, and he saw many of the other Medes doing the same thing” (IV.1.13). While he plainly only wants to enjoy the spoils of war, Cyaxares seems to intuit that Cyrus has other designs. After some discussion with his nephew, he agrees to let Cyrus take some of his Median troops with him on his excursion, and Cyrus leaves in pursuit of their enemy (IV.1.19–24). But while away from Cyaxares, Cyrus makes plans to develop his own forces. He meets with representatives from Hyrcania, a people subject to Assyria, and encourages them to revolt over to his side with strong assurances of friendship. Cyrus also calls for reinforcements from Persia so that he might establish a legitimate cavalry, and even treats his Assyrian captives humanely, giving them their freedom – though, Xenophon notes that the gift of freedom was granted only on the condition that they obey Cyrus and the Persians in the future (IV.4.9–13).

In the time that Cyrus has been making such moves, Cyaxares has been drunk with partying in his tent. But having woken up to some loud noises, he sees that his fellow Medes are not there; rather, they have left their servants to “drink without restraint” and make “a commotion” (IV.5.8). Realizing what has happened, Cyaxares “fell into a rage at both Cyrus and the Medes for having departed and left him alone. And, as he is said to have been savage and without judgment, he immediately ordered one of those who were present to take his own knights and travel as quickly as possible to Cyrus” (IV.5.9), to confront them and bring them home. On hearing the situation with the Hyrcanians, Cyaxares became even more angry with Cyrus and sought to take the Median cavalry away from him. Yet all of these reactions amount to no more than pathetic bluster. Cyrus responds to the messenger from Cyaxares by calmly explaining the reasons why he is blameless and why his actions are only for the benefit of his uncle and the Medes. He drafts a letter to his uncle (IV.5.27–33) explaining as much, sending the messenger back while, at the same time, distributing the spoils of war to those around him. Ultimately these machinations succeeded. At the close of the story, Xenophon explains that the Medes put the question of who is most deserving of the best honors to a vote, and Cyrus comes out on top. “The Medes also chose for Cyrus the most beautiful tent and the Susan woman, who is said to have been certainly the most beautiful woman in Asia, and the two best music girls. Secondly, they chose the second-best for Cyaxares, and they supplied themselves fully with such other things as they needed” (IV.6.11). Much like in the public debate between Chrysantas and Pheraulas in Book Two, Cyrus’ position at the top was solidified by a vote. Even the Medes will be subordinate to his leadership moving ahead.

Conclusion

A fruitful concluding question about our reading of the first four books of Xenophon’s Education of Cyrus is whether, and to what extent, Cyrus acts according to a planned design. Does he achieve the superior leadership position as if emergently, due to his overwhelming virtue in public? Or does he consciously make moves to manipulate the situation to his advantage? The answer to such a question might even suggest a fascinating angle toward interpreting the fundamental distinction in leadership theory between assigned and emergent leadership. Is it possible that leaders are capable of manipulating situations so that they are in total control of their own emergence, a process that we commonly understand to happen organically because followers in their moral agency elevate others into the position? In other words, what does the phenomenon of leadership emergence mean for the authority of the supremely ambitious leader, given what we know about how they operate in the context of potential followers?

A comment from Cyrus before composing the letter to his uncle sheds bright light on this question. As Cyrus is putting together his forces, he says that they risk losing what they have gained without Persian reinforcements to guard “what our work is producing for us” (emphasis added). It is imperative, he says, that Persia send an army as quickly as possible, “if at least the Persians desire that the rule of Asia and its fruits be theirs” (IV.5.15–16). But this speech is made away from Cyaxares, of course, and it is delivered to the chief leaders of the Medes and the new allies. It is impossible to believe that Cyrus would take such a position without a conscious design that his role would be to be in charge of it all. This is the full culmination of his philotimia – his love of honor or ambition.

As with a text of dramatic literature as far-reaching and variegated as Xenophon’s Education of Cyrus, it is impossible to reduce the essential lessons into one or two points to take away. The task of this section has been to present an exegetical reading of the text, so as to bring the dynamics of truly grand ambition into the light of day. But texts such as the Education of Cyrus, like the best of the humanities, operate less by giving us clear-cut and straightforward answers to human problems, and more by extending our intellectual horizons to see the problems more completely so that we can articulate those problems more accurately. Xenophon’s intention is not to present a historically accurate portrait of Cyrus the Great, but rather to craft a depiction that compels us to grapple with an important human type. He wants his audience to reflect on the moral ambiguity of examples such as Cyrus, in the hope that we can better understand the significance of supremely ambitious leaders who appear effective in securing the obedience of followers – even effective at securing the good things for their followers – yet whose all-encompassing need to be distinguished leads them to treat their followers as things managed or conquered, to use the language of Robert Faulkner. An examination of imperial ambition, through the Cyrus of Xenophon’s historical fiction, shows us both what we might hope for and what we have to fear.

The Early Life and Essential Characteristics of Alcibiades

We readers of Plutarch’s essay are immediately struck by just how high the bar was set for Alcibiades. The names of those related to him by family or associated otherwise, listed by the author in the first paragraph, are simply staggering. Perhaps the best comparison in today’s world would be, say, English royalty or prominent American political families such as the Kennedys, Bushes, or Clintons, or perhaps celebrated families in movies, music, or sport – consider names such as Coppola, Clooney, or Manning. One learns about Ajax, a great-grandfather on his father’s side, who was a legendary warrior in the Trojan War and praised by Homer in his poems; Megacles, his maternal grandfather, who was one of the noble Athenian leaders in the Persian War; Clinias, his father, another prominent Athenian general; and Pericles, his guardian and the one responsible for his education. Regarding this special arrangement of guardianship by perhaps the greatest democratic statesman ever to have lived, historian Donald Kagan (Reference Kagan1991) notes that “the greatness of [Alcibiades’] father would…have launched him into a political and military career. But the evidence suggests that his guardian’s example influenced its pace and direction” (p. 262). Finally, Plutarch tells us of Alcibiades’ connection to Socrates, his friend, confidant, and in some limited way his teacher, who was the greatest philosopher ever to have lived and the one, according to Cicero, responsible for directing philosophic speculation at the human things (p. 258). Alcibiades’ pedigree was nothing less than extraordinary, and it set him apart from his compatriots in Athens.

That said, it was not merely a lofty birth that set Alcibiades apart. Plutarch quickly informs readers that he harnessed an overflowing profusion of natural talents as well. First and foremost were physical traits, elements that certainly attracted others to him. Regarding “the beauty of Alcibiades,” Plutarch explains that “it bloomed with him in all the ages of his life, in his infancy, in his youth, and in his manhood; and, in the peculiar character becoming to each of these periods, gave him, in every one of them, a grace and a charm” (p. 258; cf. Rhodes Reference Rhodes2011, p. 25). Whereas some people embody more attractive traits at different times of their lives than at others, Alcibiades was jaw-droppingly beautiful in all periods, embodying the specific charm of each time of life to the fullest extent. What is more, we readers learn about his “happy constitution and natural vigor of body” (p. 259). Physically, then, there seemed to be something healthy and good about this man: his body was overwhelmingly beautiful and powerful.

One question we might ask regarding these initial observations concerns the relevance of physical traits. Are bodily attributes, such as Plutarch has identified with Alcibiades, supposed to be important for leadership, and if so, then how? Surely it is assumed that the most essential traits that bear on leadership effectiveness tend to be moral or intellectual, such as courage, creativity, moderation, persistence and perseverance, prudence or wisdom, and too many others to name. That said, much contemporary research sheds light on the ways in which physical attributes, as well, are useful for leaders in the process of influencing followers. Physical height, for instance, has been shown to predict who is most likely to be seen as a leader and who achieves the most success in their role (see, e.g., Judge & Cable Reference Judge and Cable2004; Stulp et al. Reference Stulp, Buunk, Verhulst and Pollet2013). And it stands to reason that a modicum of physical fitness is useful for withstanding the pressures that go along with leading others, especially in stressful jobs or situations. Research has demonstrated that this is likely true (Bass Reference Bass1990; Howard & Bray Reference Howard and Bray1988). In any case, Plutarch’s presentation of Alcibiades shows a man whose followers were drawn to him through the eyes, so to speak, and that their sense of connection with him had to do initially with traits of body. In Clyde Ray’s pithy formulation, Alcibiades “looked the part of the leader, which was no small advantage” (Reference Ray2020, p. 15).

Beyond these qualities, Alcibiades stood out among the Athenians in other ways, expressing several exotic characteristics and mannerisms. Another physical trait, his quality of speech, was one of these, as Alcibiades famously spoke with a lisp. Yet “his lisping, when he spoke, became him well, and gave a grace and persuasiveness to his rapid speech” (p. 259). That which we, in the present day, might consider a speech disorder was, for this ancient Athenian leader, one of the things that drew others ever closer to him. Furthermore, Alcibiades stood apart from his fellow citizens in his style of dress. He was always an ostentatious dresser, routinely wearing robes of purple – the royal color, and very expensive as a dye for clothes – showing himself in public in opulent luxury. Plutarch reports on his “eating and drinking and dissolute living; [Alcibiades] wore long purple robes like a woman, which dragged after him as he went through the market place; caused the planks of his galley to be cut away, so that he might lie the softer, his bed not being placed on the boards, but hanging upon girths” (p. 269). One might respond that these habits are something natural to the Athenian character in general, which was much more strongly individualistic and devoted to wealth than the character of other places.Footnote ³³ Yet it is clear that Alcibiades was delighted to take this aspect of Athenian-ness to the extreme, embodying his native city’s orientation toward luxury completely.

These observations, all of which are placed near the beginning of the essay, lead Plutarch to make his key statement about the character of Alcibiades. “His conduct displayed many great inconsistencies and variations, not unnaturally, in accordance with the many and wonderful vicissitudes of his fortunes; but among the many strong passions of his real character, the one most prevailing of all was his ambition and desire of superiority, which appears in several anecdotes told of his sayings whilst he was a child” (p. 259). The word in Plutarch’s Greek for the first of these dominant passions is philoneikon, meaning more literally love of rivalry. Yet the translator, the poet John Dryden, who famously rendered Plutarch’s Lives into English, uses the word “ambition” to communicate the meaning of this term. There are other Greek words one may have used to characterize the ambitious, yet philoneikon is very much in the ballpark of meaning as well. Plutarch’s word for the second of these passions is philopropton, or love of being first. The idea conveyed here is much the same as in how we saw it in Section 3, with the ambitious Cyrus desiring to be first in everything that he did. In short, however capacious and complex a soul Alcibiades had, his most predominant characteristic was ambition.

The force of Alcibiades’ ambition was such as to drive him into conflict with others, so as to cement his own status and renown. This is a pattern that the author will illustrate time and again throughout the essay, to the end of showing how Alcibiades’ drive to be on top reverberated through Athens and the wider Mediterranean world. He begins to spell it out by describing many colorful stories of Alcibiades’ youth, tales that suggest to the ears of the contemporary reader something like an ancient Athenian Michael Jordan, the legendary (and famously ambitious) Chicago basketballer who simply had to win in everything he did – potentially even by hook or by crook, accordingly to well-circulated stories (see, e.g., Smith Reference Smith2020). Alcibiades was once losing a wrestling match with another young boy, so he viciously bit his antagonist to get free from the hold. When criticized for this dirty move, Alcibiades stood up for himself by telling the crowd proudly that, in fact, he bit “like a lion.” Another time, while playing a game of dice in the street, he was interrupted by a loaded cart moving through the space where he was about to throw. When the driver did not listen to his demand to stop, Alcibiades threw himself on the street and into the path of the horses, forcing the driver to react and allowing Alcibiades to continue what he was doing. The ambitious leader will take risks with his life, on the assumption that others would not dare to let him come into danger. Another illustrative story concerns his education. While Alcibiades generally obeyed his teachers, Plutarch says, he refused to learn how to play the flute. He held that the instrument was “not becoming a free citizen; saying that to play on the lute or the harp does not in any way disfigure a man’s body or face, but one is hardly to be known by the most intimate friends when playing on the flute.” Plutarch’s report on the influence that this posture had on others is telling: “Thus, between raillery and good earnest, Alcibiades kept not only himself but others from learning, as it presently became the talk of the young boys how Alcibiades despised playing on the flute, and ridiculed those who studied it. In consequence of which, it ceased to be reckoned amongst the liberal accomplishments, and became generally neglected” (pp. 259–60). In other words, Alcibiades thumbed his nose at flute playing, and that was enough to make it so that no one played the flute ever again – an astonishing example of his influence over the citizens of Athens.

The Special Chemistry between Alcibiades and His Followers

In the case of the ambitious Michael Jordan – to draw once more on that storied example from American culture – most sports fans regard his accomplishments with awestruck admiration and even a peculiar kind of love that binds them to him: consider the famous Nike advertisement that said, “I wanna be like Mike,” and the enduring popularity of the shoes that he has endorsed. In the language of French and Raven’s social bases of power, we would say that Jordan wielded a significant amount of referent power over his followers. What exactly is it, though, that explains the bond that developed between Alcibiades and his own followers, and what may we infer that Plutarch means to tell us about the influence that the strongly ambitious have over the rest of us? Did the ancient Athenians say, “I wanna be like Alcibiades,” succumbing to an authority based in referent power, or is there a different, perhaps more complex, explanation to the connection he inspired?

While the entire force of Plutarch’s essay on Alcibiades sheds light on the connection between leader and follower, three specific passages are especially revealing, and it will pay dividends to examine them closely. In the first, Plutarch singles out the incredible talent that Alcibiades had in communicating with his followers.

The effectiveness of this particular attribute is, of course, something that will not surprise readers to learn about. It is self-evident, even banal, to say that leaders must be good communicators, and this often means that leaders, especially those tasked with public leadership, must be good speakers. Consider the famous examples of Cato and Cicero, or Abraham Lincoln and Winston Churchill, or John F. Kennedy and Ronald Reagan, and the like – not to mention how effective a speaker Xenophon’s Cyrus turns out to be. Alcibiades, we recall, also spoke with a lisp, which was an effect that distinguished him from other speakers and seemed to enhance his eloquence.

Yet the sequel to this passage suggests a slightly different explanation of the power of Alcibiades as a public speaker. At least, it adds a unique element to his communication style for us readers to know about. Plutarch says that he

In other words, it was not simply the case that Alcibiades was a good communicator with the people of Athens. There is also a sense in which he was silver tongued, so to speak, or tremendously skilled at saying the right thing at the right time “for any purpose” – in other words, so as to achieve any purpose useful to him at the time. As with the examples of Cato, Cicero, Lincoln, and the rest, there is an assumption that what is said will be consistent with the truth, or at least will be in the best interest of those following the leader’s message. In short, for those other examples, what is said is assumed to flow from firmly held core values that the leader embodies. Yet this assumption does not seem to hold in the case of Alcibiades. One might also compare the way ambitious American public figures are characterized today and how American political discourse has something to say about being fake and lying. There can be an element of “inventing” to the communication tactics of the ambitious, and Plutarch’s essay on Alcibiades makes us readers more aware of that fact.

The second important passage sheds light on the judgment that Alcibiades’ followers, the citizens of Athens, were inclined to make in their relationship with him. Plutarch cites the monolithically great comedic poet Aristophanes, who wrote about this judgment in his drama Frogs: “they love him and hate him, and cannot do without him.” Aristophanes’ general point is that the citizens of Athens were in something like a fraught relationship with their leader (cf. Newell Reference Newell2009, p. 292). It was, so to speak, “on again, off again,” with good times and bad; yet they simply could not give up on someone who often seemed to be so bad for them. Plutarch clarifies the dynamics of this attitude toward Alcibiades by revealing the “truth” of the matter:

Not only is this a remarkable description of Alcibiades himself, it is a fascinating and complicated commentary on his followers in Athens, and therefore reveals something about why followers more generally might commit themselves to those who are grandly ambitious. It is also a commentary that is susceptible to different interpretations. One view is that the Athenian people had what we might, somewhat playfully, refer to as a “boys will be boys” mentality – or, perhaps it is not gender specific, and their attitude is simply “Alcibiades will be Alcibiades.” This view suggests more broadly that people tend to frame their judgments similarly about leaders like this, for better or for worse. Is there something about the charm of Alcibiades that is useful for predisposing the Athenian people for a response that seems so clearly to embody a double standard?

This interpretation seems reasonable, as far as it goes. Yet, on the other hand, perhaps a less cynical view is that the Athenian people are perfectly well aware of the faults of their leader but also know the immense good he is capable of, and how much they depend on him for their safety in a dangerous world. Consequently, they tend to soften the harshness of his bad qualities in public discussions and in their own minds, much more so than they would do for lesser individuals. In other words, the Athenian people are no fools or dupes. Plutarch’s analysis once again hits on some dynamics of leaders and followers that are generalizable: so much a part of political discourse in ancient Athens, these considerations and judgments are very much alive and well in discussions of political leadership in the United States today, where supporters of candidates are willing to look the other way when confronted with evidence of their preferred candidate’s bad character or to reinterpret those qualities in more sanguine ways. Plutarch’s analysis suggests that there may be reasons for the phenomenon of rationalizing our leaders’ bad behavior.

Third, and finally, Plutarch draws attention to the fact that Alcibiades could perfectly play the chameleon in his relations with others. As we have noted, the various interpretations of his character were irregular and inconsistent – even to the point where the biographer himself has difficulty pinning it down – and perhaps the explanation as to why lies in this shape-shifting capacity that Alcibiades possessed. One of the more well-known aspects of the history of Alcibiades is that he switched political allegiances throughout his lifetime, proving himself to be perfectly comfortable even with treason. On the eve of the Sicilian Expedition, which was an Athenian mission to get involved in military engagements on Sicily (and for which Alcibiades stood as one of the warmest advocates, as the historian Thucydides notes [Strassler Reference Strassler1996, p. 370]), Alcibiades was accused of taking part in a blasphemy in his native Athens, specifically the mutilation of several statues of Hermes throughout the city. That this scandal was an act of impiety was bad enough for the Athenians, but what made it worse was that the citizens took the mutilation as an ill omen for their expedition to the West, just when the ships were poised to embark on their journey. After some unsuccessful attempts at publicly defending himself, Alcibiades’ ultimate response to his trouble at home was to flee to the Peloponnesus, and he eventually requested safe passage to Sparta, “assuring [the Spartans] that he would make them amends by his future services for all of the mischief he had done them while he was their enemy” (p. 275).

Plutarch informs us of just how charming the Athenian Alcibiades was in the presence of his new Spartan comrades. Despite that the cities of Athens and Sparta followed ways of life that were largely opposed to one another in the essentials, none of the Spartans believed that Alcibiades was the kind to have ever lived like a luxurious, individualistic Athenian before. Yet this was precisely the point of the character of Alcibiades, and it is precisely what Plutarch wishes us to reflect on in his description of this ambitious leader.

Alcibiades, in other words, operated by being more perfectly chameleonic than even the chameleon. At least two things are important to notice in this passage. First, Plutarch insists on giving examples of cities or communities with ways of life that are truly contradictory. That Alcibiades could somehow embody the respective constitutions of Athens and Sparta at different points in time is one thing. That he could embody the constitutions of Sparta and Persia, say, is quite another, as the Greek cities did not come close to the kind of ostentatious luxury of the eastern despotism of Persia.Footnote ³⁴ Second, Plutarch says that Alcibiades’ practice of taking on these varied and contradictory habits was not merely like putting on and taking off masks, as if he were just playing the trickster with his new comrades. Rather, he could “really embrace and enter into their habits and ways of life”; furthermore, he could change from one to the other quickly if necessary. Lest his readers mistake the significance of Alcibiades, Plutarch adds one more comment to explain this unique ability of his. “Not that his natural disposition changed so easily, nor that his real character was so variable, but, whether he was sensible that by pursuing his own inclinations he might give offense to those with whom he had occasion to converse, he transformed himself into any shape and adopted any fashion, that he observed to be most agreeable to them” (pp. 275–76). In short, the practice of adopting new habits as something really, truly embraced did not signal that Alcibiades lacked a core character or an essential sense of self. Rather, his ability to embrace these habits truly was, in fact, his real character.

Charisma, Treason, and the Knotty Problems of Alcibiades

Putting the extended analysis of these three passages together, the Alcibiades that comes into focus in Plutarch’s presentation is a vivid image of charisma, offering us a searching and memorable commentary on how charismatic authority between leader and follower works. The essayist paints the portrait of a man who seems to float through life – not implying, of course, that Alcibiades had things easy all of the time, but rather that he was able to use his charm, his good looks and ability to motivate others, his talent for making others feel like he is connected to them, and all of his other advantages, to bring people around to his side. The translator Dryden refers to the “grace and charm” (p. 258) that Alcibiades exhibited in each of life’s stages. While it would be more precise to translate the original Greek to say that each season of his life was “lovely and pleasant” (erasmion kai hēdun), the overall force of Dryden’s interpretation of Plutarch’s text remains illuminating. The Greek charis, from which “charisma” derives, means divine grace or favor. It is clear that Alcibiades was seen by his followers in at least quasi-divine terms and that there was a pathos of distance between himself and his followers, formally similar to that between the gods and mankind. Alcibiades radiates some seemingly divine glow that helps to bring people closer to him.

Charisma as a way of conceptualizing leadership has enjoyed a long and compelling history, going back to early attempts at translating Max Weber’s (Reference Weber and Parsons1997) famous commentary on charismatic authority, written in the early twentieth century, into a workable theory of leader/follower relations. One well-established insight of this approach is that rooting one’s influence in charismatic authority can be a wildly effective way of moving one’s followers, yet it also carries with it the potential for terrible harm (see, e.g., Kellerman Reference Kellerman2004; Price Reference Price2008, p. 47; Yukl Reference Yukl2013, pp. 318–20). For every Mahatma Gandhi or Nelson Mandela one sees as a positive case, one can easily point to a Jim Jones or an Adolf Hitler for a counterexample. This pattern holds in the case of Alcibiades, even if the frame of reference is the example of one leader himself, not multiple leaders in comparison to one another. The pattern reveals itself most fully in his history of treason. And it is remarkable just how sensational that history was, where reality proved to be more dramatic than fiction. As a native-born Athenian, Alcibiades committed an outrage in turning his back on his fellow citizens and pledging loyalties to their enemy in the war, Sparta. Having done so, he charmed his new fellows in Sparta thoroughly – Plutarch reports one story where Alcibiades fathered a child, Leotychides, by the Spartan Queen Timaea when her husband King Agis was away. The ambitious Alcibiades claimed that it was not erotic passion that drove him to do this, but rather a desire “that his race might one day be kings over the Lacedaemonians” (p. 276). This was surely one clever, if morally troubling, way in which he sought to rule the world, not merely in his present day but through posterity.

All turned out not to be well for Alcibiades in Sparta, however, as he was forced to flee due to the overwhelming jealousy that King Agis and other prominent men in the city harbored for him. Readers of the text discover, though, something that is perhaps even more shocking than Alcibiades’ commitment to Sparta: he directed his allegiances next to the Persians, seeking security and his advantage with the satrap of the King of Persia, Tissaphernes. Sparta may have been the enemy of Athens during the great war, there being significant enmity between the two cities, but Persia was the inveterate enemy of all Greek civilization. The previous great war, described and analyzed by the historian Herodotus (1988), had required the Greek cities to work together to defend themselves against the conquering forces of the Persians from the east. Yet now Alcibiades effectively worked his charm on Tissaphernes, who “was yet so won by the flatteries of Alcibiades, that he set himself even to exceed him in responding to them” (p. 277). Alcibiades’ time with the Persians was relatively short lived, and in a final dramatic turn of events, he returned back to Athens to get involved in the affairs of the city, specifically the conflict between supporters of the democracy and those of the oligarchy. Empowered into a leadership position by the former, Plutarch tells us that Alcibiades’ influence on the fraught political situation “unequivocally saved the commonwealth” (p. 279). Having come full circle, in a sense, Alcibiades was back on the side of Athens, or at least of a significant faction in the city, with much support to back him.

Readers of the history will surely appreciate how complicated it is to make the ultimate judgment on the behavior of Alcibiades. While it seems most plainly accurate to say that his treasonous activity was unsavory, there may be reasons to ease up on such an appraisal. On the one hand, Alcibiades appears to do what he does in order to establish himself in the best possible position for satisfying his ambitious urges. Does Athens no longer want him? Then Sparta would seem to be a good spot to try to achieve great things, no matter how much conflict there is between the two cities. But if Alcibiades is no longer honorable or glorious in the eyes of the Spartans, then he can shift to the Persians, with the ultimate move to make his way back to his native city after all. In sum, his behavior to turn his back on his city is selfish, hence immoral. And the core reason why treason is so heinous is that it is the version of selfishness that does the most damage to one’s community. On the other hand, though, one might ask whether Alcibiades chooses to leave each place because it is no longer safe for him to be in that place. If so, then a second question arises: whose fault is it that Alcibiades is no longer safe – his own, due to something that he can control, or that of his followers? Plutarch is nothing if not ambiguous on this score. For example, he suggests in the essay that the evidence for Alcibiades being responsible for the mutilation of the statues of Hermes is flimsy at best and was almost certainly drummed up by political rivals (p. 273; see also Hamel Reference Hamel2012; Kagan Reference Kagan2004, pp. 264–65). That was, we recall, the initial reason why Alcibiades got into hot water in Athens in the first place.

Plutarch’s essential point in the essay is that the charismatic qualities of Alcibiades compounded and intensified the risks inherent in his leadership.Footnote ³⁵ Readers of the Life of Alcibiades, whether in Plutarch’s time period or our own, should gather that it would be prudent to be wary of leaders who mix an intensely strong desire for superiority with a preternatural capacity for charming others. It is all too easy for such leaders to deceive followers into thinking that they have their best interests at heart, while the truth is that they would easily turn their back on the group if conditions warrant it, in precisely the ways that Alcibiades did with his followers.

That said, Plutarch does not merely send his readers a message about the dangers of a certain kind of leadership, spelling out what they might have to worry about if ever they find themselves tied to the especially ambitious. He also shows such leaders what they themselves might have to worry about, due to the response that followers are likely to give to those exhibiting extreme ambition. Close to the end of the essay, and on the cusp of recounting Alcibiades’ demise,Footnote ³⁶ Plutarch interprets the ultimate significance of the downfall of this ambitious leader.

In other words, Alcibiades was so skilled and so effective in all that he did – or, at least, he was capable of persuading others that this was the case, by means of a self-concept that exuded confidence, not to mention his eloquence – that he ultimately found himself in a “no win” situation. Because he had accomplished so much in his life, his followers looked at him with the expectation that he could accomplish virtually anything, provided that he set his mind to it and devoted himself earnestly to the task at hand. In Alcibiades’ case, too much pride and too much glory made it so that his followers deified him. Whereas leadership is properly understood to be a complex interrelationship between leader, follower, and contextual circumstances, Alcibiades’ followers assumed that there was simply nothing in the external context that their leader could not overcome – and if he appeared to fail in that regard, it was due to his neglect, or perhaps his viciousness. But it was simply impossible for him to succeed at all times: Alcibiades was, after all, a human being and not a god, and there are limits to what any human being can achieve. On the heels of this analysis, Plutarch tells us that these dynamics led to the last accusation that was made against him, the one that led to his fleeing and ultimately his murder.

The Conceptual Meaning of Alcibiades: Ambition, Charisma, and the Regime Thesis

The career of Alcibiades does more than furnish a colorful third illustration of ambition in this Element. Precisely because he is at once a native product of Athenian democracy and an imperial soul whose philotimia rivals that of Xenophon’s Cyrus, this biography functions as the stress test and refinement of the regime-based framework introduced in Section 1. If the thesis were rigidly deterministic – if democratic equality could produce only the small, restless ambitions Tocqueville described and imperial hierarchy only the boundless drive of Cyrus – then Alcibiades should have been impossible. Yet he existed, and for a time he thrived. His case therefore reveals both the typical channeling power of regimes and the precise conditions under which that power can be temporarily strained.

The richest theoretical explanation for this somewhat surprising history lies in the ambition–charisma nexus, as introduced earlier. Alcibiades shows that raw ambition becomes charismatic authority when three conditions converge: first, exceptional personal gifts (i.e., beauty, eloquence, physical vitality) that immediately support referent power; second, a chameleon-like adaptability that lets the leader “really embrace” the habits and mores of any group he encounters; and, third, an unquenchable drive for superiority that converts those gifts into a quasi-divine aura. Under these conditions charisma does not merely intensify regime constraints; it briefly transcends them. In the democratic social state, the very equality of conditions that ordinarily contracts ambition instead supplies Alcibiades with an almost unlimited field of potential followers who can be won, lost, and won again through personal magnetism rather than institutional loyalty. Democratic mores, which Tocqueville saw as moderating and narrowing ambition, here open a door for imperial-scale striving.

Yet transcendence is temporary. Democratic contexts ultimately respond to such figures with a characteristic ambivalence – we recall Aristophanes’ assessment that “they love him and hate him, and cannot do without him” – followed by recoil. The same equality that empowered his rise also makes his downfall possible: citizens who once rationalized his excesses as youthful exuberance withdraw consent when his treason and boundless self-regard threaten the regime itself. Thus charisma does not refute the regime thesis; it deepens and clarifies it. The framework describes the ordinary channeling of ambition, not an iron law that no exceptional soul can ever strain. Alcibiades stands as the limit case that proves the rule while illuminating its outer edge, the precise point at which democratic leadership must remain vigilant against the imperial temptation latent even in its own citizens.

Conclusion

In short, Plutarch’s portrait of Alcibiades does not merely illustrate the regime thesis – it probes its periphery and reveals its inner resilience. While it is unlikely for us to encounter another Alcibiades in our daily lives, the example sticks with us for what it teaches about the dynamics of leadership: specifically, what happens when overarching ambition and a powerfully charismatic personality coincide in the same person. Plutarch’s essay also sheds clarifying light on the special chemistry between leaders of this kind and their followers, both for good and for ill, with a focus and intimacy that we have not seen until now. Historical evidence, perhaps, of Tocqueville’s observation that grandly ambitious leaders can threaten their democracies, Plutarch’s portrait suggests that citizens of democracies everywhere would be well served to heed its example in sober reflection on this leadership type.