by John Lynch
Paths of Glory
Did Bolívar have an inner life, hidden from immediate view? Can we capture his character and motivation? What inspired and enlightened him? Bolívar spent his whole public life philosophizing; he took few actions and prepared few policies without theorizing about them. ‘My unhappiness,’ he said, ‘comes from my philosophy, and I am more the philosopher in success than in misfortune. If I am unhappy, it is for others, because my fate has lifted me to such a height that it is difficult for me to be unhappy. Even were I to lose everything on earth, I would still have the glory of having fulfilled my duty to my last breath. And this glory will be my boon and my happiness for ever.’23 He wrote these words as he approached the summit of his campaign in Peru, invulnerable to success or failure; supreme self–reliance made him indifferent to fortune, for he was sustained by confidence in his glory. Yet the historian has to beware of judging Bolívar’s mind and actions from his own words alone. The myriad words of Bolívar are difficult to avoid and there are few other guides to his mind, especially to his glory. But was glory a deep enough faith to sustain greatness?
Glory was a ruling passion, a constant theme of his self–appraisal, and he sometimes seemed to desire glory as much as, perhaps even more than, power. When did the obsession begin? It was not something a creole was likely to acquire under Spanish rule, and Bolívar did not emerge from his youth trailing clouds of glory. It was an indication of the ambition of Bolívar, of his post–colonial mentality, his exposure to Europe and his awareness of Napoleon, his reading of history, his anxiety to emulate the heroes of the ancient and modern worlds, and his determination to equal the greatest of contemporary leaders. From the very beginning of his public life he wanted glory, believed that he had earned glory, and demanded that others recognize his glory. He was not embarrassed when, after the victory of Carabobo, Santander called him ‘the chosen son of glory’. On the contrary, he agreed. His concern for glory, his awareness of his own greatness, was not simply one aspect of his inner self: it defined his character and inspired his actions. It seemed to be the wellspring of his life.
What did glory mean in the Bolivarian vocabulary? It was not, of course, a new concept. Ancients and moderns alike strove for glory. As every school–child knows, la gloire was the favourite motive of Louis XIV. For centuries glory was regarded as an attribute of God, though humans too could acquire glory through exceptional actions. St Augustine looked long and hard at glory, through the eyes of theology and history. His description of the Roman emperors could almost have been written for Bolívar, take away the word ‘empire’. ‘They felt it would be shameful for their country to be enslaved, but glorious for her to have dominion and empire; and so they set their hearts on making her free, then on making her sovereign. It was this greed for praise, this passion for glory, that gave rise to those marvellous achievements, which were, no doubt, praiseworthy and glorious in men’s estimation.’ But the love of glory, he continues, is a flawed passion, inferior to virtue, which bears the witness not of others but of a man’s own conscience. So the greed for glory is a vice, overtaken in the Christian world by the love of justice. And his conclusion? ‘Glory may not be a female voluptuary, but she is puffed up with empty conceit.’24
For Bolívar love of glory was a conviction, if not a vice. Even his great admirer o’Leary saw it as a weakness. In the months before Cúcuta in 1821 Bolívar was furious at the calumnies being spread about him by his enemies at the expense of his reputation. ‘No one was more sensitive to such attacks as Bolívar. Neither his own knowledge of their injustice nor the insignificance of their authors were enough to assuage the pain. I often saw him full of anger or rather suffering terrible torment as the result of reading an article written against him in some worthless rag. This may not be the mark of a great soul, but it does reveal a high regard for public opinion.’25 His republic was international and he had an international audience. Volume 12 of o’Leary’s Memorias, ‘Correspondencia de hombres notables con el Libertador’, is an anthology of admiration from the wider world; it includes the names of Sir Robert Wilson, Lafayette, the Abbé de Pradt, Humboldt, Joseph Lancaster, Daniel o’Connell, Jeremy Bentham and numerous others. He was jealous of his reputation in Europe, and in 1830 he instructed the Colombian envoy in London to guard it at all costs against slander.
Bolívar’s sense of glory was not simply an anxiety about what people thought of him but a love of glory in itself, for his own satisfaction. It was his own opinion of himself, rather than that of others, that counted with Bolívar. Glory was a compound of fame, honour and recognition, something won in battle and then after the war something recorded with pride. It was also an honourable achievement. ‘Glory consists in being great and useful,’ he admonished Sucre after the battle of Junín, when his colleague regarded some tasks as too menial for him.26 During his days and nights of illness in Pativilca he mused dementedly on his labours for liberty in the south, the ingratitude of its leaders and the temptation to leave it all. ‘Until now I have fought for liberty: in future I will fight for my glory, no matter what it costs. My glory now consists in ruling no more and in thinking of nothing but myself; I have always had this intention but it increases progressively by the day. My years, my ill health, and my disillusion with all the dreams of youth prevent me from taking any other way.’27 He always kept glory in reserve, and glory could survive without power.
But glory could not overcome everything. Later in 1824, when the glory won at Junín was tempered by depressing news from Colombia, he wrote to his friend Fernando Peñalver, ‘In this ill–fated revolution, as ill–fated in victory as in defeat, we must always shed tears over our destiny. The Spaniards will soon be finished. But when will it end for us? Like a wounded hind we receive the arrow in our breast, deadly for us, for our own blood is our poison. Happy are those who die before the final outcome of this bloody drama…. Console yourself with the thought that however sad our death, it will always be happier than our life.’28 Bolívar’s glory was not mere military glory, limited to the battlefield. And it was not the same as ambition. When relations with Santander and Congress were tense over his wish to return to Bolivia to present his constitution, he declared, ‘In this century of philosophy no one acquires or conserves glory except by scrupulous adherence to principles.’ Then, referring to the schemes of a crown for Bolívar concocted in Venezuela, he insisted, ‘My enemies and foolish friends refuse to believe that I detest ruling as strongly as I love glory, and that glory consists not in ruling but in exercising great virtues. I have sought glory and freedom, and having achieved both I have no further desires.’29 Almost an echo of St Augustine.
Liberation for Americans, glory for himself. Bolívar led one of the first movements of decolonization in the modern world. But liberation brought problems, some of them beyond his control, and in the aftermath of liberation there were fewer opportunities for glory. Comparison of Bolívar’s revolution with national liberation movements in the twentieth century reveals some common ground in the years after victory. One–party systems, failed experiments in social reform, corruption and ethnic clashes can all find parallels in Bolívar’s world, and even the economies had similar problems: foreign debt, failing infrastructure, economic mismanagement, bad government. In both cases there was a tendency for people to look back on the imperial power – Spain, or Britain – with nostalgia for a previous paradise, and to reassess the history of imperial rule. In Spanish America perceptions of the past changed from rejection to acceptance, and traditional institutions returned to favour. Monarchy re–emerged as a subject for discussion. Liberals threw up their hands, or drew their guns, in horror; for them it was a return to tyranny. Pragmatists were ready to consider it, and Bolívar was not afraid to look at it and to speak of it to British diplomats. It is clear from o’Leary’s correspondence in 1829 that advice from the Bolivarians was mixed and that Bolívar was hearing arguments in favour of monarchy as well as against.30 He had to make his own decision, taking
into account public opinion, the history of the revolution and his own reputation. The man who denounced Spain as a tyrant never seriously considered the adoption of monarchy; in any case constitutional monarchy was not strong enough for him. Basically he was looking for some form of monocracy. Everything came back to the life–term president, described in his Bolivian Constitution.
Dynamics of Leadership
Beyond the ideas, the proclamations, the decrees and the constitutions, and behind the glory, the driving force of Bolívar was the power of his will, the passion to command. The revolution threw up a whole range of military and political figures who fought to reach the top, and it soon brought forth an array of virtue and talent, of heroes and heroines, worthies and mediocrities, the dull, the wicked and the mad. There were, too, essential and anonymous collaborators, the unsung heroes of logistics, who mobilized troops, supplied horses and mules and assembled supplies. But at whatever level of command, and even among the revolution’s elite, no one else emerged with the genius of Bolívar. He was conscious of his superiority and confident enough to speak of it. He warned the rebellious Páez not to join the losers: ‘General Castillo opposed me and lost; General Piar opposed me and lost; General Mariño opposed me and lost; General Riva Agüero opposed me and lost; and General Torre Tagle opposed me and lost. Providence seems to bring down my personal enemies, whether they are Americans or Spaniards.’31 He was the supreme leader, who advanced beyond others, impelled by his iron determination. His instinct for leadership was displayed in small things as well as great, in tactics as well as strategy, and in the end it was his leadership that prevailed and took the revolution to its conclusion in independence. Revolutions require some to lead and some to follow. People will always follow whoever has the clearest ideas and the strongest sense of purpose. These were the qualities that enabled Bolívar to dominate the elites and direct the hordes.
In Thomas Carlyle’s discourse on heroes, hero–worship is presented as a natural tendency in a world of instability and disorder, answering to a deep need in people for a great man to guide and rule them. The ultimate hero embodies virtually the whole typology: prophet, priest, poet, teacher and ruler of men, ‘he to whose wills our wills are to be subordinated’. The rule of the hero is superior to any other form of government. ‘Find in any country the Ablest Man that exists there; raise him to the supreme place, and loyally reverence him; you have a perfect government for that country; no ballot–box, parliamentary eloquence, voting, constitution–building, or other machinery whatsoever can improve it a whit. It is in the perfect state; an ideal country.’ Bolívar did not conform in every respect to Carlyle’s hero. He was not exactly one of the silent men of history, inhabiting a great ‘Empire of Silence’, silently thinking, silently working amidst the noisy inanity of the world. Yet in other respects Bolívar was Carlyle’s indispensable man, who would ‘tell us for the day and the hour what we are to do’.32
Bolívar’s power of leadership was innate, not learned, improved through experience but not acquired from others. The strong sense of destiny and mission was already ingrained in him from the time of his return to Venezuela from Europe, and became more deeply embedded within him as he advanced through the years of revolution. No doubt the way was prepared by others, by precursors and patriots, who created a platform from which Bolívar could launch his project of liberation. But his was the creative spirit that was needed to articulate and direct the revolution. Did Bolívar make the revolution, or did the revolution make Bolívar? The question is superfluous. The events around 1810, it is true, produced a historical opportunity, but the opportunity needed a jefe supremo with leadership qualities to supply the ideas and direct the action. Bolívar quickly showed the mental determination and physical skills required by the situation. He was the intellectual leader of the Spanish American revolution, the prime source of its ideas, the theorist of liberation whose arguments clarified and legitimized independence during and after the war.
He was also the man of action, though he himself seems to have been indifferent to the quality that distinguished him above others: his physical endurance and durability. The travels and travails of the great campaigner were not things that he boasted about – on the contrary, he admitted that he had wanted for nothing throughout his life – but sheer will power was an ingredient of his greatness. This sustained him through twenty years of unremitting struggle, driving him tens of thousands of miles along primitive roads and tracks across plains and mountains in one of the longest of colonial wars. His odyssey culminated in the painful journey in 1829 from Bogotá to Pasto and from Quito to Guayaquil, at a time when he was aware of his growing infirmity as well as of hostility along the route, but determined to overcome both for Colombia. This was heroism on a grand scale. The way back was a struggle against the elements, the rain relentless from Guayaquil to Popayán, the roads almost impassable and the riding difficult; from there to Bogotá the political problems of his rule poured in, oppressing the mind and testing the spirit. But he was still the leader, and who was his equal?
Bolívar’s leadership was revealed in the compelling powers of his oratory, when his fusion of reason and emotion lifted his arguments to heights not previously experienced by his audiences. We have, of course, no recordings of his speeches to tell us the tone of his voice, the resonance, the inflections, the ironies and the emotions. But we know that in the earliest debates of the patriots his voice rose loud and clear, his ideas cut through the arguments over loyalty, autonomy and independence. His great speeches, which he prepared in full written versions, appealed to the heart as well as the mind, and his address to the congress of Angostura was said to have moved his listeners to tears. Yet he did not harangue or lecture his audiences, often legislators, and he was never condescending, though his allusions and references assumed knowledge of ancient, modern and contemporary history that probably few of his listeners possessed. And he could speak to the troops as well as to politicians. At Cerro de Pasco, before the battle of Junín, he roused the ranks to cheers: ‘soldiers! You are going to free an entire world from slavery, you are invincible!’ On campaign he stayed close to his troops, especially to his loyal Venezuelans, and when they left him to return to Venezuela in 1830, he knew his war was over.
The Bolivarian style emerged not only in his oratory but also in his writings. Words flowed from him in a flood, letters on different subjects dictated simultaneously to different secretaries, political documents, proclamations, constitutional speeches, decrees, from the sublime to the trivial in a few sentences. His prose was unique, a singular mixture of styles, clear, allusive, rich in metaphor, and suddenly lyrical. Bolívar was honest and direct, but he was also a propagandist, and his writings, including his correspondence, display a concern to persuade as well as to analyse; for him dissemination was as important as description. Moreover his message was designed for each individual correspondent and could differ from one to the other. So he was quite capable of saying different things to different people at different times, or even at the same time. A dangerous temptation to the historian, a trap for the unwary, his words are also an honest guide, transparent, opening his world frankly and generously. ‘I have revealed my opinions publicly and solemnly on all occasions,’ he protested. ‘If anyone wants to consult them I have no need to repeat them, for they can be found in the documents of my public life.’33
‘I am the man of difficulties,’ Bolívar told Santander, ‘you are the man of law.’ An exquisite distinction, making it clear that he was the supreme leader, his rival the subordinate administrator. Dealing effectively with difficulties was essential to leadership and that usually meant dealing with people. What today is called people management was second nature to Bolívar. His sensibilities were finely tuned to his colleagues’ strengths and weaknesses: he knew what would please and what would offend, and he conducted his relations with his senior officers and officials with a sure sense of the appropriate, using frankness, flattery and rebuke according to
the man and the occasion. He did not shirk difficult decisions, and his orders on appointments and promotions were tactful but firm. Quick to command and to mollify, he was also ready to listen. Marching into Venezuela in December 1826 to recall his country to union, he made it clear to Páez who was chief and who was subordinate, but quickly recognized how far the chief could go.
He disliked accepting advice from inferiors such as Páez, but from Sucre, whom he recognized and promoted as a leader in the making with talents comparable to his own, he sought and accepted advice and treated his decisions with respect. And to Sucre, though to few others, he was also ready to delegate responsibility, up to the point of entrusting to him the final campaign of the war and the administration of the last liberated country. Sucre was his alter ego, a protégé whom he treated as an equal, a subordinate from whom he hid nothing. Santander, on the other hand, was the bane of his life, a nemesis he could neither shun nor sack, ironically one of his greatest ‘difficulties’. Bolívar had the political sense to know that he had to make Santander next in seniority to himself, a New Granadan to govern New Granadans, an administrator mean enough to assume the bureaucratic responsibilities of the revolution while the Liberator concentrated on liberation. Neither trusted the other, but the relationship remained apparently civilized and friendly and left a correspondence which reveals some of the frankest and most personal thoughts of Bolívar on the people and problems of the revolution. But the façade broke into honest recriminations in 1827–8 and first principles came out loud and clear.
