Trump’s Canadian Tariffs Are a Gladiator’s Move in a Merchant’s Arena

The scene is clear enough: the American president announces 50 percent tariffs on a wide range of Canadian imports, from hockey sticks to alcohol, invoking an old weapon, Section 338 of the 1930 Tariff Act. He does this while accusing Canada of “unreasonable, unequal, and discriminatory actions,” and after taunting it as a possible 51st state. The tariffs apply even to goods already covered by the USMCA, the very treaty meant to give stability to trade. In reply, the Canadian prime minister speaks of “more than 20 new economic and security partnerships” and the “benefits of free and fair trade,” declaring readiness to negotiate. One side brandishes the ax; the other waves the contract.

If I learned anything watching Italian princes, it is that the first imperative is to maintain and enlarge one’s state, not to keep one’s hands clean. In The Prince, when I set fear and love against each other, I concluded, with W. K. Marriott translating, that it is “much safer to be feared than loved, when, of the two, either must be dispensed with.” Here, the tariff is an instrument of fear. A 50 percent duty is not calibrated; it is theatrical. It says to Canada, and to every other partner watching, that treaty text weighs less than the will of the stronger power if that power feels slighted.

But this is not mere caprice; there is method in using a long-dormant legal provision. A prince who undertakes new modes and orders must have arms of his own. Section 338 is one such arm, sheathed for decades but still sharp on paper, permitting tariffs of up to 50 percent against countries that discriminate. By signing three proclamations under this section, the president shows he is not an unarmed prophet of economic nationalism; he clothes his threats in law. Good laws, I wrote in the Discourses, are born from necessity. Old laws can be repurposed in new necessities, so long as they still bite. A sword in the attic still cuts if the steel holds.

The 30-day delay before the tariffs take effect is more interesting than the tariffs themselves. The White House boasts of strength yet leaves a door open, and observers note that this president has not always carried through on announced import taxes. Here lies the danger of the middle course, that feeble invention I despise. If you declare a trade war but then invite talks, you gain the ill will of the other side without the full benefit of fear at home or abroad. Severity, to be well used, should be short, sharp, and final; mercy, to be believed, should be unambiguous. Dangling the sword for a month risks the costs of both and the profits of neither.

Canada, for its part, answers in two voices. The prime minister praises free trade and partnerships and announces readiness to negotiate. Meanwhile, provinces have already halted the purchase and retailing of American alcohol, and a premier calls for “tariff for tariff, dollar for dollar.” This is the old Roman problem: the great and the people do not have the same appetites. Elites speak the language of treaties and stability; peoples prefer the taste of retaliation and honor. In the Discourses I argued that Rome’s tumults between senate and plebs nourished its liberty; here, if managed well, such cross-border economic tumults can renew institutions. If mismanaged, they harden into permanent faction and mutual hatred.

Do not neglect appearances. The president’s advisers rush to tell reporters that these tariffs are “not related to the wildfires,” another quarrel at the frontier, and emphasize instead Canadian discrimination against American goods. They wish to control the story: this is not whim, but response. In politics, most judge more by the eyes than by the hands; they see gestures, not data. A 50 percent tariff on beer and wine is easy for a citizen to grasp, as is a boycott of foreign alcohol on the other side. The spectacle is of two proud neighbors slapping each other across the banquet table. Each leadership calculates not only revenue but reputation: who appears the lion, who the prey.

Yet the same move that displays virtù can, if pushed without prudence, summon fortuna in her worst form. In The Prince I compared fortune to a raging river that floods and sweeps away all who built no dykes. Here, the dykes are the USMCA and the network of “more than 20” partnerships Canada cites. To tear holes in these walls for a short-term gain of leverage may bring back not only this dispute but a future in which every partner arms itself with boycotts and dormant laws. A prince or a republic that teaches others to ignore treaties should not be surprised when others study that lesson well. The bill for such instruction arrives late, but it is always paid.

The effectual truth today is that the American leader has chosen to act as gladiator rather than merchant, betting that bold tariffs and a 30-day clock will force concessions from a neighbor that comes to the arena armed mainly with principles and existing agreements. This may work; boldness often does, when fortune is kind and rivals are timid. But boldness that breeds lasting hatred, or that loosens the common faith in treaties, injures the republic in whose name it is done. A ruler must sometimes raise the club against friends; he must never forget that free peoples, once roused against perceived bullying, remember longer than any prince remains in office.