Ambitiosa Mors: Suicide and the Self in Roman Thought and Literature (Studies in Classics)

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Studies in Classics Volume 10

Edited by

Dirk Obbink

Andrew Dyck

Oxford University

The University of California, Los Angeles

A ROUTLEDGE SERIES

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OTHER BOOKS IN THIS SERIES: SINGULAR DEDICATIONS Founders and Innovators of Private Cults in Classical Greece Andrea Purvis EMPEDOCLES An Interpretation Simon Trépanier FOR SALVATION’S SAKE Provincial Loyalty, Personal Religion, and Epigraphic Production in the Roman and Late Antique Near East Jason Moralee APHRODITE AND EROS The Development of Greek Erotic Mythology Barbara Breitenberger A LINGUISTIC COMMENTARY ON LIVIUS ANDRONICUS Ivy Livingston RHETORIC IN CICERO’S PRO BALBO Kimberly A. Barber HYPERBOREANS Myth and History in Celtic-Hellenic Contacts Timothy P. Bridgman STUDIES IN THE PROSODY OF PLAUTINE LATIN Benjamin W. Fortson IV ARISTOXENUS OF TARENTUM AND THE BIRTH OF MUSICOLOGY Sophie Gibson

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AMBITIOSA MORS Suicide and Self in Roman Thought and Literature

Timothy Hill

Routledge New York and London

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Published in 2004 by Routledge 270 Madison Avenue New York, NY 10016 Published in Great Britain by Routledge 11 New Fetter Lane London EC4P 4EE Copyright © 2004 by Routledge Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group. Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Hill, Timothy, 1973Ambitiosa mors : suicide and the self in Roman thought and literature / Timothy Hill. p. cm. — (Studies in classics ; v. 10) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-415-97097-0 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Suicide—Rome. I. Title. II. Series: Studies in classics (Routledge (Firm)) ; v. 10. HV6543.H55 2004 362.28'0937—dc22 2003027566

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Contents

A Note on the Translations

vii

Series Editors’ Foreword

ix

Acknowledgments

xi

Chapter 1

Introduction

1

Chapter 2

Cicero

31

Chapter 3

Lucretius and Epicureanism

73

Chapter 4

Eros, Self-Killing, and the Suicidal Lover in Republican Literature

87

Chapter 5

Vergil

105

Chapter 6

Ovid

121

Chapter 7

Seneca

145

Chapter 8

The Concept of Political Suicide at Rome

183

Chapter 9

Lucan

213

Chapter 10

Petronius

237

Epilogue

Roman Suicide after Nero

253

Glossary of Terms

261

End Notes

263

Bibliography

303

Index

317

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A Note on the Translations

In order to make this book accessible to those who are not specialists in the field of Classical literature, all ancient language passages quoted in this book are provided with a following translation. The purpose of these translations is simply to give the Latin- and/or Greekless reader an accurate understanding of what it is the ancient authors are communicating, and the only stylistic aspiration of these translations is clarity. This has two implications for the translations that should be borne in mind when using them. First, the majority of stylistic and rhetorical effects present in the original Latin or Greek texts do not appear in the corresponding English translations; to take the most obvious example of this unfortunate stylistic leveling, poetry is throughout this work translated with prose. Second, this emphasis on intelligibility has meant that the grammar of the translation does not always closely reflect that of the original tongue; plurals, for instance, are often translated with singulars, and passive verbs as active. Readers who desire translations which reflect something of the varied grace, power, and subtlety of linguistic effect found in our Greek and Latin source texts are referred to the numerous literary translations available; those, on the other hand, who require a more literal rendering are pointed in the direction of the well-known Loeb series. Outside these extended quotations from ancient authors, Greek and Latin are also used throughout this book in relation to certain key terms and concepts which are central to ancient thinking but which have no precise equivalents in modern English. Words such as eudaimonia, virtus, and ratio, for instance, are essentially untranslatable, because each has a semantic range extending far beyond any single English word; as a result, they are used throughout this book in untranslated form. Rather than provide the reader with varying (and thus potentially confusing) translations of these terms to suit the varying contexts in which they are found in the following chapters, a glossary of these terms has been provided. While a basic vii

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A Note on the Translations

translation of each of these key terms is given the first time it appears in the text, readers who either forget this definition in the course of reading, or who desire a more nuanced understanding of the meaning of the term, can always refer to the back of the book to refresh their memories or extend their knowledge.

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Series Editors’ Foreword

Studies in Classics aims to bring high-quality work by emerging scholars to the attention of a wider audience. Emphasizing the study of classical literature and history, these volumes contribute to the theoretical understanding of human culture and society over time. This series will offer an array of approaches to the study of Greek and Latin (including medieval and Neolatin), authors and their reception, canons, transmission of texts, ideas, religion, history of scholarship, narrative, and the nature of evidence. While the focus is on Mediterranean cultures of the Greco-Roman era, perspectives from other areas, cultural backgrounds, and eras are to be included as important means to the reconstruction of fragmentary evidence and the exploration of models. The series will reflect upon the role classical studies has played in humanistic endeavors from antiquity to the present, and explore select ways in which the discipline can bring both traditional scholarly tools and the experience of modernity to bear on questions and texts of enduring importance.

Dirk Obbink, Oxford University Andrew Dyck, The University of California, Los Angeles

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Acknowledgments

When I first elected to write a thesis on the topic of suicide in Roman thought and literature, I had no idea how large a question I was attempting to answer. Over the next four years, its scope was to encompass not only vast swathes of Latin literature and philosophy, but to stretch into Greek thought, Roman history, twentieth-century sociology, and beyond. As a result, this work could never have been completed without the contributions of numerous readers who donated their time and expertise to directing and defining its central lines of enquiry, to pointing out flaws and errors, and to reading the chapters which make up this thesis and suggesting improvements. The first debt of gratitude is of course owed to my thesis advisors at Royal Holloway, University of London. Professors Anne Sheppard, Susanna Braund, and Jonathan Powell were universally generous in the time they devoted to supervising this thesis, and their observations and criticisms were invariably helpful and incisive. I am also grateful to my fellow graduate student Giles Gilbert for looking over and commenting upon several chapters of this work, and a significant debt is in addition owed to my two thesis examiners, professors Christopher Gill and Catharine Edwards. In addition to all the academic guidance and help I received, numerous friends and family also played a part in allowing this study to see the light of day. Of these the most important are Emma Kell, whose kindness extended even to proofreading the thing; Ravi Vadgama, whose patience and ink-cartridges were never exhausted; and of course, my wife, Taryn Neale, whose unfailing support, willingness to read incoherent rough drafts, and general sense of perspective were all crucial to the work getting done at all. To all of the above, and many more, I am profoundly grateful. Any errors or omissions which remain are of course entirely my own.

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Chapter 1

Introduction

1.1 INTRODUCTION: SUICIDE AND STEREOTYPE IN ROMAN CULTURE The title of this book contains two terms endowed with considerable potential to mislead the reader. Central to the argument of this study is the claim that the words “suicide” and “self” must both be systematically redefined if they are to prove useful to the interpretation of Roman culture. Their employment is, if problematic, nevertheless necessary and unavoidable for precise discussion of the phenomenon which it is the chief concern of this study to explain: that throughout the Late Republic and Julio-Claudian Principate the members of the Roman aristocracy, at the historical moment in which that class was at its most powerful and influential, had a pronounced tendency to die in theatrical and unusual ways. Not the least strange aspect of these often grotesque and painful deaths is that they were generally entered upon deliberately and inflicted by the victim’s own hand. So frequent are these dramatic voluntary deaths in the annals of Roman history that such behavior became for later 1 ages a stereotypical attribute of the Roman national character, and even in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries the concept of the Romana mors—the “Roman death”—has remained something of a ‘modern myth.’2 For anyone with a more than passing acquaintance with Latin literature the phrase “a Roman death” readily evokes certain well-defined and familiar images—the defeated general falling upon his sword, the senator holding his wrists out for incision by his Greek physician—ubiq3 uitous in Late Republican and Early Imperial writings. Discussed under the rubric of “suicide,” the character and frequency of this kind of death in our sources has caused consternation amongst modern researchers. In the modern world, suicide is a grim business. It is understood primarily as an act arising out of intense, morbid, and pathological states of mind, representative of the furthest extreme of human misery.4 It is above all an isolated act, isolated not only in the sense that suicides of the modern era tend to seclude themselves from others before

1

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attempting their final act, but in the sense that suicide is held by modern writers to express a sense of personal alienation so complete that others cannot conceptualize this psychological nadir even in imagination. Suicide is, in this view, a supremely individual act, utterly inscrutable to all outside observers. Even writers who have composed entire treatises on suicide, and whose business it presumably is to comment upon its motives and causes, tend to maintain that they are not qualified to provide insight into what finally prompts a given person to take his or her own life.5 Hopeless, despairing, and mentally ill, the suicide is seen in modern literary, psychological, and sociological discourse as driven to death by the intolerable pressure of some peculiarly internalized torment, the force of which cannot be expressed even in the emotionally charged medium of the suicide note.6 Roman “suicide,” however, as described in our sources is nothing like this. To begin with, the Romana mors is only very rarely associated with anything even broadly recognizable as “depression,” or with any form of pathological state at all. In the pages of Tacitus, it is true, there is found one individual, a certain Plautius Silvanus, who might be said, in the modern phrase, to have committed suicide “while the balance of mind was disturbed.”7 Beyond this single instance, the “Roman death” is in fact notable largely for the dispassion with which it is attempted. Roman aristocrats are frequently depicted in our sources as killing themselves in response to events—such as imminent defeat by an enemy army or condemnation on a serious criminal charge—to which the despairing death might be considered a reasonable or understandable reaction. Even in these situations, however, such deaths are described in terms reminiscent more of resignation than of anguish. A certain suicidal sang-froid is found also in Roman philosophical writings on self-killing, which unanimously emphasize the potential of the act to be rational and deliberate, and make very little reference, if any, to the emotions attendant upon this kind of decision. Absent also from ancient accounts of self-killing is any notion that the act is necessarily, or even ideally, a private one. The Romana mors is in fact famous in large part because it was so dramatically public in character. By the time of the Julio-Claudians the Roman etiquette of self-killing appears to have demanded the presence of several witnesses to the act, whose role it was to assist the self-killer in his or her deliberations, to record the act for posterity, and to serve as an admiring audience for the deed.8 The well-performed death could garner considerable publicity for its agent/victim and enhance his or her reputation in society at large. The opportunity appears to have tempted many: the jurist Ulpian records iactatio (“showing off”) as an acceptable motive for self-killing,9 and the practice was widespread enough to be flamboyantly parodied by the Neronian courtier and writer Titus Petronius Niger, whose elaborately staged self-killing acted as a burlesque upon contemporary suicidal norms.10 Deaths that are in the modern view pathological, isolated, and despairing, then, are presented in our Roman sources as rational, social, and possibly even amusing.

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3

It is this profound discrepancy in perspective that forms the central subject of this study. On one level, the attempt is hardly a new one. Over the past three decades numerous works have appeared dealing either largely or entirely with the phenomenon of the Romana mors. Four of these works, furthermore, have been full-length monographs. The undoubted classic here is undoubtedly A. Alvarez’s pioneering 1971 overview of the theme of suicide in Western literature, The Savage God: A Study in Suicide. The broad span of Alvarez’s treatment, however, reduces the “Roman death” to only one stage, albeit a dramatic one, in the evolution of attitudes towards suicide in the West. Far more detailed and comprehensive with regard to the Romana mors in particular is Yolande Grisé’s 1982 work Le Suicide dans la Rome Antique (“Suicide in Ancient Rome”), which strives to provide a complete account of Roman suicide from the foundation of the city to the third century A. D. Anton Van Hooff’s 1990 From Autothanasia to Suicide: Self-Killing in Classical Antiquity rectifies the few gaps found in Grisé’s treatment, and provides also a detailed analysis of self-inflicted death in the Greek world. With the publication of these two last-mentioned books, the collection and tabulation of all relevant data is now more or less complete. Attention has accordingly turned towards the interpretation of these results. The most notable work in this regard is Paul Plass’s 1995 The Game of Death in Ancient Rome: Arena Sport and Political Suicide, which provides a structuralist explanation of the prominent role played by “political suicide” in Roman public life under the Empire. Mention should also be made, however, of Miriam Griffin’s two-part 1986 article entitled ‘Philosophy, Cato, and Roman Suicide.’ Although obviously much shorter than the monographs just mentioned, this article builds intelligently upon the data presented by Grisé and offers an excellent brief description of the place of suicide in the Roman mentalité. In seeking to explain the extreme disjunction between modern notions of suicide and the ancient concept of the Romana mors, then, this book covers a field already well-tilled in previous research. The approach taken here, however, differs from that of previous scholars in its location of this disjunction. Although all the writers mentioned above have on occasion expressed reservations regarding the applicability of 11 the modern concept of suicide to the interpretation of ancient data, all nevertheless assume that the discrepancy between “suicide” and the “Romana mors” visible in our sources is in fact internal to the Roman context itself. It is claimed, in other words, that our sources give us an artificial view of the “Roman death,” alienated from the realities of Roman life in general and of Roman self-killing in particular. So incredible are the details of the Romanae mortes related in our sources that they are held to be invented, or, if accurate, to be hardly representative of the attitude toward, and experience of, self-killing prevalent amongst the Roman population as a whole. The arguments advanced for this view are various. Alvarez, for instance, claims that Roman philosophical writings on suicide are so coldly rationalistic that the ethics they

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embody must be informed more by a concern for the integrity of abstract philosoph12 ical systems than by consideration of the realities of human life. More frequently, however, the difficulty is held to be inherent in the uniformly aristocratic character of our sources. The Roman elite was, it is argued, a highly distinctive class operating, throughout the Late Republic and Early Empire, under extreme and unusual political 13 conditions. That they should deviate in their views on suicide from the historical norm and evolve a highly unusual and artificial attitude toward the self-inflicted death is, then, hardly surprising. The challenge to the scholar is in this view to identify and examine those historical factors which caused the divergence of the aristocratic ethic away from the standardized and transhistorical understanding of self-killing assumed to have been prevalent amongst the less visible sectors of the Roman populace.14 The difficulty with this approach is not that it is necessarily inaccurate. On the contrary, it is undoubtedly true that our sources are entirely the product of upper-class minds that perceive the world around them from a highly idiosyncratic perspective. The central problem is rather that the attempt to define this aristocratic vantage point through reference to a presumed non-elite contrast class speculates in unconfirmables. So completely do we rely upon aristocratic sources for our understanding of suicide in the Roman world that we simply do not have any evidence for or against this elite/lower-class split. We are therefore in no position to trace any historical evolution of the one from the other. The best that can be attempted, then, is not a cultural history, but a cultural translation, a means of rendering the unusual and distinctive phenomenon of the Romana mors explicable in the terms of the twentieth century West. The fundamental contrast by which this book analyzes the Romana mors is thus not historical, between aristocratic and lower-class Roman norms of self-killing, but is found instead at the level of cultural perspective. The central arguments of this study, in other words, arise from a direct comparison between the modern understanding of suicide and Roman norms of self-killing as reflected in our sources, and from the difficulties of aligning two discourses so often entirely dissimilar to each other.

1.2 DURKHEIM, “SUICIDE,” AND LE SUICIDE To speak of “the” modern discourse concerning a topic would normally be to invite disagreement, given the inevitable tendency of any culture to contain multiple conflicting understandings of any given phenomenon. Over the past century or so, however, the modern West has possessed an exceptionally unified and precisely definable discourse concerning suicide, owing largely to the influence of a single monumental work that continues to dominate almost all current suicidological thought. First published in 1897, Emile Durkheim’s groundbreaking Le Suicide

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(“Suicide”) has exercised an immense influence upon intellectuals and writers both within and outside the academy. The ideas outlined by Durkheim in this work have found expression not only in journals of suicidology, but also in the fields of psychology, literature, and the arts, and the book is foundational not only to most modern thinking on suicide, but to the entire discipline of sociology.15 The popularity of Le Suicide is in large part attributable to the simplicity and power of its central thesis: that the suicide of any individual is always ultimately the result of a maladaptive level of integration with his or her social group. Suicides are thus divided conceptually into two distinct categories. On the one hand there are those suicides which arise as a product of a deficient level of integration with society; on the other there are those which occur when such integration is excessive. The first category is further broken down into the categories of ‘anomic’ and ‘egotistical’ suicides, the former being the result of a lack of social norms with which the individual is capable of engaging, the latter stemming from a refusal to abide by such norms. The class of suicides arising from too great a sublimation of individual desires within those of the group is also subdivided into two categories. The first of these is the ‘altruistic’ suicide, in which the individual kills him- or herself for the perceived greater good of the community, and the second is the ‘fatalistic’ suicide, in which the individual perceives his or her own desires as incapable of satiation within the boundaries of the social group and kills him- or herself as a result. According to Durkheim, however, it is the categories of ‘egotistical’ and ‘anomic’ suicide that are of the greatest analytic importance, the practice of altruistic and fatalistic suicide being confined in civilized societies to military contexts. Durkheim’s emphasis on the ‘individualistic’ as opposed to the ‘group-oriented’ suicide has in the main been followed by subsequent writers on the topic, with the result that from the 1950s onwards researchers on suicide have almost unanimously viewed the act as an expression of severe social alienation.16 Classical scholars have proved no exception to the general rule of twentieth and twenty-first century suicidological discourse, and have tended to take Durkheim as their starting point for inquiries into the Romana mors. In doing so, however, they have invariably run into difficulties in applying Durkheimian concepts to the ancient evidence. The problem is more fundamental than the extreme difficulty of detecting any concept similar to ‘anomie’ or ‘egotism’ in our ancient sources. It arises from Durkheim’s very definition of “suicide” itself, which appears to lack any analogue in the ancient evidence. Both Grisé and Van Hooff have compiled comprehensive lists of the terms for “suicide” found in the classical languages. From these lists it emerges first that neither Latin nor Greek possesses any single word corresponding to the English “suicide,” but each employs instead a wide variety of circumlocutions to describe the act. Second, it is not entirely clear that these periphrases taken together necessarily add up to the Durkheimian definition of suicide as ‘any case of death

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resulting directly or indirectly from a positive or negative act of the victim himself, 17 which he knows will produce this result.’ To confine the discussion to Latin, it is clear that on the one hand Roman expressions for the act are often far broader than the Durkheimian definition, with phrases such as exire, desinere, or migrare e vita (“to exit,” “to leave off from,” and “to depart” from life, respectively) being used indiscriminately to refer both to self-inflicted deaths, and to death more generally.18 On the other hand, many Roman circumlocutions are extremely specific, and shade their descriptions of the self-inflicted death with distinctly un-Durkheimian undertones. A great deal of Latin suicidal vocabulary emphasizes less the self-reflexive character of suicidal deaths than the state of mind of the moriens (“the dying person”) as he or she approaches death. Roman discourse routinely draws a clear line between the kind of ratiocinative end denoted by the frequently employed periphrase consciscere [sibi] mortem (“to resolve upon death [for oneself]”) and the less considered self-murders described by such expressions as saevire ad suum corpus (“to rage against one’s own body”), a distinction hardly implied 19 by the Durkheimian definition. Another large body of “suicidal” Latin circumlocutions centers around the weapon with which an individual chooses to end his or her life. This specificity is not accidental. In Roman writings every means of self-killing 20 is strictly correlated with an associated degree of honor peculiar to it. The nobility of death by the sword cannot be confused in Roman writings with the abjection implicit in hanging, a distinction which discussion under Durkheim’s homogenizing concept of “suicide” arguably does much to obscure. Investigation of the contexts in which these periphrases are employed further confirms that the absence of any single word corresponding unproblematically to the notion of “suicide” reflects a conceptual as well as a linguistic deficiency. The Durkheimian definition of suicide has frequently been criticized in modern suicidology as too broad, largely because it fails to distinguish adequately between deaths which are undertaken because death is believed to be desirable in itself, and deaths which are achieved in the pursuit of some other end, as in the case of martyrdom.21 In the Roman context, however, the definition frequently appears not to be broad enough. This is most clearly seen in the constant Roman assimilation of the figures of Cato and Socrates. Cato, who fell upon his sword rather than surrender to the forces of Caesar at Utica, undoubtedly commits suicide in Durkheim’s sense of the word. Socrates, however, was executed by the Athenian state. While his refusal to attempt to escape his cell might qualify him for inclusion under the heading of Durkheimian suicide by virtue of its ‘negative act’ clause, his case is somewhat 22 ambiguous. This ambiguity, however, does not appear to have worried the Romans unduly. The philosopher Seneca and the senator Thrasea Paetus both openly equated their own deaths with those of Socrates and Cato despite the fact that both were ordered to take their own lives by the Emperor Nero, and thus could not really be

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said to have had much choice in the matter of their deaths. Their Catonic pretensions were not, furthermore, criticized by other Romans as in any way self-contradictory or paradoxical. By this period, in fact, the Imperial request to commit suicide had become well-established as the standard means of aristocratic execution, and there appears to have been no contemporary perception of any latent irony in the official designation of this privileged form of death as the liberum mortis arbitrium (“the free choice of death”).24 This blurring of definitional lines is found at its most extreme in the writings of Seneca, who seems to view a lingering death from disease as somehow equivalent to suicide,25 a perspective he shared with the Younger 26 Pliny. Conversely, a number of deaths found in our sources that clearly do fall under the Durkheimian definition of suicide appear to form in Roman discourse an entirely separate class from that of which figures such as Thrasea, Cato, and Socrates are members. For instance, while it was in Roman thought and literature an entrenched stereotype that ardent lovers are perpetually prepared to die should they be deprived of their beloveds, such deaths are never discussed in the same breath as those of Socrates or Seneca. Dido, a figure as influential in her way upon Latin literature as Cato, and like him a “suicide” in the Durkheimian sense, appears to inhabit an entirely different discursive realm from him. Roman philosophers readily employ the “argument from the poets” in their works. They never, however argue from Dido to Cato. The classification of self-inflicted deaths implicit in Roman writings, then, cleaves along lines visibly quite different from those laid down in Durkheim’s definition.

1.3 SUICIDE AND THE ROMANA MORS This clear incongruity between the Durkheimian definition of suicide and the understanding of self-killing that informs our Roman writings has been noted before, and reservations have accordingly been expressed regarding the validity of this definition 27 in relation to ancient culture. This reluctance to apply Durkheim’s definition to our Roman sources has not, unfortunately, led to any sustained scholarly attempt to consider how it might best be modified to suit our ancient data. Instead, the Durkheimian model has simply been applied to our sources in an ad hoc fashion, with the most dramatic deviations from its limits being represented as aberrant, erroneous, inexplicable, and/or pathological. This tendency is most visible in the unanimity with which recent scholars have declared the concept of the liberum mortis arbitrium to be ‘paradoxical’ or ‘oxymoronic,’28 but the approach permeates discussion of the Romana mors as a whole. Roman understandings of “suicide” are, it is frequently claimed, misguided and incoherent, the product of overheated elite imaginations and a series of traumatic sociopolitical factors that conspired to distort aristocratic thinking through the first centuries B.C. and A.D. A favored candidate here is the mid-first century

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libido moriendi (“lust for death”) referred to by Seneca at Ep. 24.25, which is some29 times claimed to have afflicted the upper classes en masse under Nero. Other explanations advanced for this conceptual confusion have been the skillful machinations of successive principes (“Emperors”), who are held to have successfully tricked the aristocracy into perceiving enforced deaths as in fact liber (“free”),30 and the desire of the upper classes to attain a glory in death denied to them in life by their diminished political role under the Empire.31 In any event, the overall picture presented by modern writers on the Romana mors is clear: throughout the Late Republic and the Early Empire the Roman aristocracy labored under an artificial and fundamentally wrongheaded conception of suicide, a mistake for which they paid with their lives. This tendency to view the most distinctive aspects of the Romana mors as incongruous accretions upon a basically Durkheimian cultural understanding of suicide has had numerous unfortunate effects upon scholarship concerning the phenomenon. First, it has blurred the conceptual outlines of the Durkheimian model itself. While Durkheim’s system might appear to be a useful framework within which to organize our sizeable data set on ancient suicide, actual attempts to categorize Roman deaths by his terms stretch the boundaries of his subdivisions beyond recognition and undermine their intellectual lucidity.32 Second, this continued adherence to Durkheim’s model despite its evident deficiencies has prevented any attempt to interrogate his definition and reformulate it in a fashion more suitable to the analysis of Roman culture. Third, in preventing this reformulation, the continued use of Durkheim’s definition in the study of the Romana mors has hindered also any broader inquiry into the more basic structural principles of Roman ethical thought and the terms in which such a redefinition might coherently be grounded within Roman culture as a whole. If any understanding of the Romana mors and its role in Roman aristocratic society is to be achieved, then, a necessary first step will be the substantial revision of Durkheim’s definition of suicide to bring it more into line with our ancient data. Fortunately, such a reformulation of Durkheim’s definition is not difficult to arrive at, and it should become obvious in the course of this book that the Roman method of classifying deaths, self-inflicted or otherwise, is actually extremely simple—in some ways, simpler than Durkheim’s. In order to illustrate this point as succinctly and clearly as possible, however, discussion will for the moment be confined to a single passage of text, Tacitus’ often-quoted reflection at Agricola 42 upon the nature of the “political suicides” of Domitian’s reign: Domitiani vero natura praeceps in iram et quo obscurior, eo inrevocabilior, moderatione tamen prudentiaque Agricolae leniebatur, quia non contumacia neque inani iactatione libertatis famam fatumque provocabat. sciant, quibus moris est inlicita mirari, posse etiam sub malis princibus magnos viros esse, obsequiumque ac modestiam, si industria ac vigor adsint, eo laudis excedere, quo

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plerique per abrupta sed in nullum rei publicae usum ambitiosa morte inclaruerunt. (“Domitian possessed by nature a violent temper, and was as inflexible as he was secretive in his intentions. He was, however, pacified by Agricola’s self-restraint and pragmatism because he tempted neither fame nor fate with insolence or empty shows of independence. Let those individuals who admire only subversive matters learn from this that it is possible for men to be great even under oppressive Emperors. Obedience and discretion, when coupled with energy and hard work, are able to attain the same degree of praise as those who have grown famous through the means — arduous, but of no utility to the Republic — of an ostentatious death.”)

Tacitus’ assessment that the kind of death he is referring to here is ambitiosus is in many ways an unusual one. Voiced almost four decades after the close of the period discussed in this book and anomalous in its negative appraisal of these deaths, Tacitus’ statement here is nevertheless valuable as the sole instance in Latin literature of an attempt to comment upon the phenomenon of the “political suicide” tout court. The character of his remarks, then, deserves to be very carefully assessed. The term Tacitus uses to describe what we would call a “political suicide” is ambitiosa mors, usually translated into English—as it is above—by the phrase ‘an 33 ostentatious death.’ In itself, the translation is not a bad one. Given, however, that the flamboyant or “show-off” suicide is extremely rare in the modern West and generally considered indicative of some deep, if unquantifiable mental imbalance,34 Tacitus’ statement here is all too readily interpreted as yet another symptom of the disturbing libido moriendi held to have beset the aristocracy of his day.35 Reflection upon the precise significance of the adjective ambitiosus, however, indicates that Tacitus’ criticisms here are far more nuanced than this. The term ambitiosus embraces a wide range of meanings. It may be synonymous with ‘twisting’ or ‘embracing,’ but more commonly denotes a sense reasonably close to the English ‘ambitious,’ as in Oxford Latin Dictionary definitions 3 and 4: ‘anxious to win favor, eager to please; (of actions) dictated by a desire to please, self-seeking, interested,’ ‘eager for advancement or glory.’ It may also have the sense, as it is often assumed to do in the Tacitus passage cited above, of ‘fond of ostentation; (of things) ostentatious, pretentious, showy.’ These diverse meanings are united by their derivation from the word’s root in ambio, ‘to go about’ or ‘to walk around,’ the political overtones of the word stemming from the notion that political candidates must go about or ‘circulate,’ canvassing for votes and consolidating support, if they hope to attain office. This kind of activity is not, in the Roman agonistic political milieu, necessarily a bad thing to engage in, and the word is found in Livy paired with acer to characterize the high-aspiring character of the consul Appius Claudius.36

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The seeking of favor, however, is a delicate business, and it is from this that the predominantly pejorative sense of ambitiosus is derived. The request for favor leaves one open to the possibility of rejection by the other, and this might seem to imply some form of subjection or toadying; thus Augustus refused to continue to address his troops as commilitones (“fellow soldiers”) because he judged it ambitiosius quam sua maiestas postularet (“more ambitiosus than the elevation of his position demanded”). 37 In a relationship between equals, however, the term implies not servility, but deception, an attempt to extract a concession or favor without any serious consideration of one’s ability or desire to reciprocate in turn. It is in this sense that Cicero complains to Atticus of the shallowness of his ambitiosae fucosaeque amicitiae (“ambitiosae and spurious friendships”).38 The final illegitimate means of seeking favor, and the sense most relevant here, is to act as though one is of sufficiently high status simply to demand it, or to imply, through the putting on of airs, that one is in a position to grant or remove favor when one is not. The ‘bootstrapping’ quality of this elevation is well-captured in Seneca’s reflection that, when contemplating the thoughts of great writers, se animus cogitationum magnitudine levavit (“the spirit lifts itself up with the grandeur of its thoughts”) and becomes ambitiosus in verba (“ambitiosus in the reach of its vocabulary”).39 The unifying principle here is clear: to be ambitiosus is to be unmindful of one’s own status while attempting to better it. Tacitus, then, is not claiming that the “political suicides” of Domitian’s reign were demented. He is stating instead that these individuals were attempting to acquire a superior social standing simply by acting as though they already possessed it. It must be noted that Tacitus’ problem here is not simply that such deaths act as assertions of social status; he is not implying that some higher or nobler goal beyond status considerations ought to have motivated these men. He objects instead to the fact that these assertions are empty, because social standing ought to be a matter of the usus rei publicae (“utility to the Republic”) of one’s acts, and that these deaths, by contrast, ultimately served no purpose. The debate to which Tacitus’ remarks are evidently intended as a contribution, then, is clearly informed by an understanding of “suicide” as an act essentially concerned with status. Tacitus and his unheard opponents evidently differ regarding the correct grounding for social status. It is obvious from the way that Tacitus makes his argument, however, that for both him and his opponent suicide is assumed to be justifiable if it accords properly with its perpetrator’s social standing. This assumption is not unique to Tacitus and his milieu. In the course of this book it should become clear that this highly status conscious and socially oriented approach to “suicide” is entirely characteristic of Roman culture as a whole, and that Roman assessments of such deaths are governed entirely by the degree of correlation perceived to obtain between the manner of an individual’s death and the social standing he or she possessed in life. Within this framework, Roman discourse on “suicide” is highly

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coherent. Good deaths are deaths that serve either to confirm an individual’s social standing or to elevate this. Bad deaths are deaths inappropriate to an individual’s social status, and that therefore act to lower or denigrate it. The central dynamic governing the practice of the Romana mors, is, in short, honor rather than agency. This difference in focus has profound implications for the extent to which Durkheim’s definition of “suicide” is applicable to Roman discourse. If suicide in the Durkheimian sense is to be discussed in the context of Roman culture, it must be realized that insofar as the concept is relevant at all, it is as part of a much larger discursive system regulating the allocation of status to varied forms of death. That a death is self-inflicted may of course be a piece of data highly relevant to such an allocation: such deaths obviously allow a much higher degree of control concerning manner and motive by the dying individual than is usual. A great deal of this broader Roman discourse is accordingly devoted to the analysis of suicide, as defined by Durkheim. Such deaths, however, are not the only ones which may affect an individual’s social standing, and for this reason Roman writings make no clear or fixed distinction between deaths that are self-inflicted and those that are not. The definition of “suicide” most relevant to the analysis of Roman discourse, then, is not ‘any case of death resulting directly or indirectly from a positive or negative act of the victim himself,’ because this focuses excessively upon the agency of death. The relevant definition is rather, “any death possessing implications for the social standing of the deceased.” Such a redefinition of the term “suicide” is, admittedly, a radical one, and it might be argued that the word should in consequence be abandoned entirely to avoid confusion. In practice, however, the term is indispensable. No other single word exists—let alone one admitting of an adjectival form—that designates even roughly the domain of acts with which this dissertation is concerned, in either Latin or English. As a result, maintenance of a consistent semantic distinction between honorand agency-centered concepts of suicide necessitates clumsy and extended circumlocutions and periphrases such as “honor-oriented self-killings” or “self-inflicted deaths.” Where drawing or maintaining this distinction is precisely the point at issue, such periphrases have been used. Elsewhere in this book, however, the term “suicide” is retained, and the reader must bear in mind that in the Roman context the word is used to refer not just to self-inflicted deaths, but, more broadly, to deaths with honor implications in general.

1.4 LE SUICIDE, SELF-KILLING, AND THE DURKHEIMIAN SELF The observation that Latin discourse concerning self-killing is saturated by the semantics of status is not a new one. It is generally advanced by scholars of Roman self-killing as the claim that self-killing in the ancient world, and the terms in which

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this is described, are governed, by and large, in terms of “shame” and “honor.” As Grisé observes, the two dominant modes of discussing self-killing in ancient Rome—through reference to the quality of contemplation behind the act, and through reference to the means by which this is carried out—contain significant honor-based nuances.41 For Griffin the rash of political self-killings recorded in the Early Principate reflects a distinctively Roman association of the rational death with “nobility” in both the social and moral senses of the term.42 Plass expresses the same conclusion in a negative form, drawing attention to the potential for self-killing in the Roman context to act as a refuge from public humiliation.43 The point is made most clearly, however, by Van Hooff, who summarizes his synoptic contrast of twentieth century and Greco-Roman attitudes to self-killing with the claim that ‘the predominance of shame as a motive [for self-killing in ancient texts] is the most important difference from the modern paradigm of suicide, which concentrates on internal motives like depression or feelings of guilt.’44 That attention to questions of public standing is fundamental to any understanding of the Romana mors, then, is a truism of recent scholarship on the question. Despite this widespread acknowledgement of the highly social character of Roman self-killing, however, scholars have, as noted above, continued to view the preponderance of status-associated concepts in ancient texts concerned with self-killing as a deviation within a discourse that is basically “about” Durkheimian suicide, rather than as a symptom of an entirely different conceptualization of the phenomenon. The tenacity of this methodological principle in recent scholarship is at first glance surprising given the serious reservations that have frequently been expressed regarding the usefulness of Durkheim’s definition of suicide by these same 45 scholars. Its persistence, however, is traceable to a series of assumptions logically antecedent to Durkheim’s definition and classificatory system which underpin modern suicidology, and form foundational hypotheses common both to recent work by classicists on the Romana mors and to Le Suicide. The first crucial presupposition here is that socially oriented ways of talking about self-killing must necessarily be incoherent when taken as a whole because they are insufficiently grounded in considerations of the autonomy and individuality of the agent. The second presupposition is that only an ethics of self-killing based upon the individuality and autonomy of the agent is capable of proving coherent, because the individuated self is the correct basis of ethics more generally. These two tenets operate at a very deep level in modern scholarship on ancient suicide, and can be seen to guide many of its most widely agreed-upon conclusions, from the belief that the mindset of a self-destructive agent is ultimately unknowable, to the claim that Roman discourse concerning suicide is “paradoxical” because it takes insufficient account of individual free will in its evaluations. A further result of the widespread adoption of these two axioms is that the Roman emphasis on social standing in relation to

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self-killing is dismissed as aberrant and incapable of integration into a coherent ethical system. For Van Hooff, for instance, the fact that honor is the crucial factor in ancient deliberations on self-killing represents not merely a cultural difference between Rome and the modern West, but is symptomatic of a more general pathology endemic to Roman civilization as a whole: the Romans, he claims, were ‘exces46 sively involved in their social role,’ a conclusion with which other scholars have generally concurred.47 Although Durkheim is never cited in this connection, the diagnosis given here is straight out of Le Suicide. Durkheim claims that his central insight that self-killing is the result of a maladaptive interface between self and society is a universal truth applicable to all cultures and historical epochs. He maintains also, however, that non-European and pre-Renaissance societies could not arrive at this formulation of the problem due to an insufficiently developed understanding of the nature and importance of the individual as the fundamental unit of ethics. In Le Suicide Durkheim describes a contrast between ‘persona’ societies, in which individuals are understood in terms of their “public face” in society, and ‘personal’ societies, in which individuals are understood per se.48 To prove the point Durkheim devotes a chapter of his work to the evolution of Western mores of self-killing, and correlates these with the emergence in Western culture of an ever more refined notion of the “self,” upon which morality is properly founded. At the zero-degree of history, Durkheim claims, we find primitive cultures, for which ‘society is everything, the individual, nothing,’49 and in which altruistic and fatalistic suicides accordingly tend to predominate. In Europe this primitive state was followed first by the development of the Greco-Roman civilizations, in which individualistic self-killing was occasionally allowed, but heavily constrained by social imperatives, and then by the rise of Christianity, which liberated the individual from the tyranny of social convention as the sole basis for ethics, but nevertheless continued to forbid self-killing as a sin against God. This historical evolution culminates in modern European society, from which Christian certainties have long been ebbing away, without leaving behind any consistent ethical code poised to take its place. The result, in Durkheim’s view, has been a steeply rising rate of anomic and egotistical self-killings, a trend that will necessarily continue until society as a whole comes to recognize that every individual must necessarily be endowed with sacred status and develops this as the basis of its morality.50 Durkheim, then, explicitly grounds his theory of suicide in an understanding of the individual he regards as unique to post-Renaissance Western thought, an approach that can be seen to have filtered into the implicit assumptions of subsequent researchers into the Romana mors. Any attempt to explicate the Romana mors in terms amenable to modern discourse on suicide will accordingly require at least superficial summary of what this view of the individual consists. Durkheim does not himself describe the nature of this understanding in any detail, but the outlines are clear

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enough: in privileging the individual, understood in abstracto, as the necessary basis for ethics, Durkheim’s analysis participates in the more general elevation of the self to the status of normative reference point that characterizes modern Western discourse as a whole, and which finds its most influential formulation and ultimate philosophical justification in the work of René Descartes.51 That the Cartesian view of the self as an entity necessarily epistemologically, ethically, and/or ontologically prior to all other entities permeates the modern Western intellectual tradition has often been noted.52 It is a perspective that informs not just Durkheimian sociology, but Western philosophy, aesthetics, literature, and art, to the extent that to some 53 researchers it has come to seem ‘a basic presupposition of all [Western] enquiry.’ To attempt to summarize all the implications of the view of the self that informs Durkheim and later suicidological researchers is thus far beyond the scope of any single book. If the contrast Durkheim means to draw between modern and primitive understandings of the self is to be articulated with any precision, however, a summary of the logical basis for this privileging of the individual above all else must be provided. The argument that lies at the heart of the Western view that the self is the necessary ground for ethics is in fact a simple one, and familiar to any undergraduate philosophy student. It is found in the first two of Descartes’ Meditations on First Philosophy, in which, through a series of uncomplicated philosophical moves, the author redefines the self as the necessary basis for all certain knowledge. Descartes begins his first Meditation by reflecting that he has made numerous intellectual errors in the course of his life, and resolves to test every one of his beliefs against a criterion of absolute doubt in order to discover what facts are indisputably true. Only from these, he claims, will he be able to construct any ‘firm and permanent structure’ for knowledge.54 By the end of his second Meditation Descartes has determined that the only object of which he cannot doubt the existence is himself, as there must at least exist some entity that is experiencing his doubt and certainty—the famous principle of cogito ergo sum (“I think, therefore I am”). Judging that there is accordingly ‘nothing… easier for me to know than my own mind,’ the self becomes for Descartes the ‘Archimedean point,’ with reference to which all certain knowledge must be derived.55 The self, then, is transformed by Descartes into an entity ‘ontologically distinct’56 from all others. Self-reflexively constituted, it is (despite Descartes’ best efforts in his subsequent Meditations) the sole irrefutably real object, the necessary ground of epistemology, and thus the only legitimate foundation of thought and action in general. This insight was, as noted above, rapidly incorporated into the mainstream of modern European artistic, intellectual, and philosophical life. And it is in comparison to this modern European awareness of the individual as the necessary foundation of

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epistemology, and thus of all other disciplines, that Durkheim criticizes earlier ethical traditions as basically deficient.

1.5 SELF, SELF-CONSTITUTION, AND ROMAN DISCOURSE Investigation of the attitudes expressed in Roman writings on self-killing makes it clear that Durkheim’s schematic contrast between modern and pre-modern thinking on the ethics of the act is essentially a sound one with regard to ancient Rome. It will repeatedly emerge throughout this book that Roman philosophical and literary perspectives on suicide are only explicable if they are understood as operating entirely without reference to any notion of the self-constituting subjectivity as the sole final reference point of thought and action. If the assumption is made that Roman attitudes regarding suicide must of necessity encode some concept of the subjective consciousness as normative, they immediately appear to fall into incoherence. It will be argued furthermore that once this assumption is removed Roman evaluations of suicide and self-killing, while admitting of considerable nuance and variation, can be seen to be informed by a coherent and internally consistent set of ethical values and judgments. The chief difficulty with outlining this system of values is not primarily a philosophical one. Despite the persistence in recent research of the Durkheimian view that any valid ethics of suicide must necessarily be grounded in a Cartesian understanding of the self, it is far from being clear that this assumption is legitimate. Over the past half-century the validity of Descartes’ arguments in the Meditations has been attacked on a number of fronts,57 and the capacity of the Cartesian self-constituting subjectivity to ground any epistemological or ethical system whatsoever has been seriously 58 called into question. The self, then, need not act as the ultimate basis of any legitimate ethical or philosophical system, and there is therefore no need to view Roman thinking on suicide as inherently paradoxical or inexplicable. The problem is instead a terminological one. The ubiquity of Durkheimian and Cartesian assumptions in recent scholarship demands that the question of Roman understandings of the self be central to any attempt to explicate the Romana mors. The divergence between modern Cartesian perspectives on the self and the concept of self that might profitably be used to render Roman discourse on suicide intelligible, however, is so extreme that the difficulty of formulating a phrase capable of linking the two is severe. Whereas in the case of the word “suicide” there exists a significant overlap between Roman and modern English discourse, the role of the subjective consciousness in Roman ethical thought is relatively so attenuated that there is no ready equivalent for the Cartesian “self” to be found in Latin writing. Modern discourse contains a multitude of words and concepts—“identity,” “the person,” “personality,” “subjectivity,” “the self,” etc.—useful in the discussion of the individual in

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abstracto. Latin writers, by contrast, tend not to make these fine distinctions, and when the self in the abstract is discussed, it tends to be through the use of broad terms such as nos (“we/ourselves”) and homines (“people”), which make very little distinction between individualized and generic conceptions of the person.60 Any attempt to delineate the differences between those concepts of the “self” prevalent in Roman culture and those found in most modern Western discourse will, then, necessarily involve the use of a vocabulary largely foreign to Roman thought itself, if only as a point of departure. In this book, this vocabulary is provided in rudimentary form by the writings of Emmanuel Levinas, whose definition of the self as a “moral witness” forms, as will be argued throughout the book, the nearest analogue to the understanding of the individual implicit in Latin writings on suicide to be found in twentieth century philosophy. The work of Levinas, growing as it does 61 out of intellectual traditions utterly foreign to Rome’s cultural heritage, obviously diverges dramatically from the Roman norm on multiple points. In the explicitly anti-Cartesian character of its premises and arguments, however, Levinas’ works articulate a distinction between normative and non-normative conceptions of the self vital to the explication of the non-Cartesian character of Roman writings on suicide. In Levinas’ view, the notion that the self is the epistemological foundation of all experience and of knowledge is absurd. According to Levinas, the self only becomes an object of cognition once it is aware of the existence of the “other”, or, as he phrases it, aware of ‘alterity.’ This alterity, far from appearing unreal or contingent to the individual subjectivity, in Levinas’ view dwarfs it in presence and power. Existing both before the emergence of the subjective consciousness and beyond its limits, alterity is for Levinas an ‘always already there,’ continually exceeding the capacities of 62 the individual awareness. The most important form of alterity is for Levinas the human “other”, the gaze of which, in Levinas’ words, disrupts an individuals ‘persistent allegiance’63 to his or her own subjective desires and appetites. The individual is thus compelled to render before this gaze some account to justify his or her own actions and desire in terms that are assimilable by this other human. It is therefore not the case that the self consists of ‘a synthesis effected by [one’s] own a prioris.’64 It is instead 65 an ‘assembling of oneself’ before another. According to Levinas, individuals are always aware of the other’s presence as moral witness to their actions, and therefore desire to constitute themselves likewise as moral witnesses equal to this other and capable of judging his or her actions in turn. It is in fact this desire, Levinas maintains, that forms the ultimate basis for moral action. The similarity between the vision of the self described here and that which informs Roman writings on suicide is of course extremely broad, and operates on the level of outline rather than detail. The most important difference to note here is that Levinas, unlike our Roman sources, views the potential range of relevant alterities as infinite, and individuals are therefore seen as continually redefining themselves in

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order to assimilate themselves to a perpetually transcendent moral ideal. In ancient thought, however, the ontological range of possibly existing entities is generally considered to be finite. In Greek thought the distinction is perhaps not so important, as this finitude is usually considered to be very large, as can be seen by the extreme vagueness of such ontological totalities as Plato’s τo ßm (“the One”), Aristotle’s oÈr¤a (“Being”), or the Stoic si (“Something”). In Roman writings, however, this ontological range tends to be narrowed considerably. At its broadest, Roman thought defines the individual against the category of natura, or “nature,” in the widest sense of the term. So broad a perspective is, however, extremely rare in Roman writings of the period under discussion here. Far more frequent in our Latin texts, and of more direct concern to the analysis of the Romana mors, is a strong Roman tendency to assume that the mores and institutions of Roman society themselves reflect the dictates of natura. Individuals are accordingly not required to justify themselves on a cosmic or universal level as they constitute themselves as moral witnesses: instead, they are viewed as more properly concerned with the relatively restricted demands of Roman social and ethical convention. The aristocratic tenor of our Latin sources entails furthermore that they are generally written with the assumption that their readers will be members of the Roman elite. The gaze most relevant to their constitution as moral witnesses within Roman society is accordingly not that of Roman society en masse, but of a small and highly select band of fellow aristocrats held to possess a superlative degree of ethical insight. The result is an implied ontological equivalence throughout our Roman texts between an idealized image of an ‘archetypal’ Roman aristocrat and the nature of the self per se. The totality of attributes, actions, and social roles considered to be characteristic of this hypothetical figure will be referred to throughout this study—for reasons which will be explained further in chapter 2—as the aristocratic persona, and it is this persona which is understood by Latin writers to constitute the self. Deviation from the demands of this persona is viewed as a betrayal of the individual’s true nature, and full realization of one’s self is only attained, for Roman writers, through exemplary display of those qualities considered most suitable to a member of the senatorial elite. Although notionally grounded in nature, then, the Roman self that emerges from Latin writings on suicide is in the final analysis purely socially defined.

1.6 THE ROMAN SELF AND ROMAN SUICIDE The self, then, is as described by Roman writers on suicide, primarily an aristocratic rather than a universal attribute. For Descartes the self acts as a philosophical “Archimedean point,” the universal foundation for ethics and action. In the writings of Levinas this universality appears again, not as the basis, but the aspiration, of the self, which seeks to justify itself to the widest possible range of alterities. For Roman

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writers, however, there is nothing “Archimedean” about the self at all. It is an entity quite precisely definable in the case of aristocrats in terms that will not necessarily appear justifiable to any but an audience of other aristocrats. Indeed, it is precisely a rarefied ability to understand these terms that most fundamentally separates the aristocracy from the vulgar mob. The assumption that aristocratic mores instantiate principles inherent in nature as a whole and therefore stand in no need of “Archimedean” justification frequently lends to Roman writings of the period under consideration the appearance of being arbitrary or ungrounded. For this reason, the set of rules by which an aristocratic persona is generally held to be validly constituted in Roman society will frequently be characterized in this book as comprising an “aesthetic” or a “sensibility” rather than a “logic.” This aesthetic or sensibility is furthermore composed of various elements, which, if only rarely separated in Roman discourse, are nevertheless isolable in theory. Reference will accordingly be made on occasion to the “aristocratic,” the “honorable,” or the “ethical” aesthetic, depending upon which aspect of the Roman upper-class persona forms the focus of the passage under consideration. The terms and characteristics defining these elements of the aesthetics of self-fashioning will be discussed in more detail below. The fundamental point to be borne in mind in relation to Roman discourse on suicide is that this apparently arbitrary aesthetic is held both to possess ontological reality, and to be essentially indemonstrable to those not already equipped with a rudimentary understanding of it. The specificity with which Latin writers delineate the means by which individuals may constitute themselves as moral witnesses in Roman society, then, is highly counter-Levinasian in emphasis. As in Levinas, however, the subjective consciousness of Roman writings is utterly devoid of its own innate a priori qualities. In the non-Cartesian ethical perspectives elaborated in Roman writings the domain of ethical knowledge is situated outside the subjective consciousness, in natura, or, more proximately, in the individual’s aristocratic social audience. As a result, the weak link in the individual’s ability to constitute him- or herself as a moral witness is viewed as being the limited awareness possessed by the subjective consciousness itself. Latin literature and philosophy on suicide expresses a continuous and intense anxiety regarding the extreme epistemological limitations felt to impede the operations of the subjective consciousness. The potential to act as a moral witness within Roman society is felt to be innate in every individual and carefully nurtured by the forms and conventions of aristocratic life The ability to realize this potential, however, is believed to depend crucially upon the individual’s accurate perception both of his or her own nature and of the demands of his or her social milieu. That an individual should fulfill his or her aristocratic persona in an exemplary fashion demands first of all that the individual recognize this aristocratic persona as what he or she fundamentally is. It furthermore demands a highly developed awareness of the qualities and attributes appropriate to this persona and how these might best be employed.

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The nature of the human subjective consciousness is held to be such, however, that it is frequently deluded on both these counts. On one level, the individual subjective consciousness is viewed in Roman writings as possessed by a distinct tendency to misrecognize the demands of the individual’s own nature. It tends to assume, for instance, that the satiation of appetites such as lust or hunger is more fundamental to the individual than is the ability to act as a moral witness within the aristocratic community. On another level, the individual subjective consciousness can become so mistaken in its cognitions that it comes to perceive such appetites as in fact compatible with, or even necessitated by, this status as moral witness. The crucial dilemmas of Roman ethics thus revolve, in a fashion impossible within a Cartesian philosophical framework, around the possibility of a gap opening up between an individual’s perception of his or her own true nature, and the reality of this nature itself. Ethical action is that which proceeds from a perfect congruence of these; and the primary goal of ethical reflection and instruction is to attain this isometry of individual awareness and social essence. Once the highly objective and social character of the self in Roman discourse is appreciated, the ethics of suicide which inform the Romana mors can be seen to be highly coherent and validly grounded. The Roman equation of the self with the capacity to act as a moral witness within the community, and of this with the successful maintenance of an aristocratic persona, structures Roman attitudes towards suicide in three principal fashions. First, it underlies the basic dichotomy visible in Roman discourse between honorable and dishonorable deaths. Good deaths are those which display an exemplary awareness of those social norms that ideally regulate the conduct of an aristocrat, and thus successfully demonstrate to a social audience the individual’s right to act as a moral witness within it. Bad deaths, on the other hand, indicate that the individual’s awareness of these norms is deficient or misguided, due to, e.g., the influence of the appetites. Second, this understanding of the self accounts for the unusual prominence accorded to suicide in general, and self-killing in particular, in our Latin authors. It is a commonplace of Roman ethical thought that self-preservation stands among the most fundamental drives of the subjective consciousness. To be able to resolve upon death calmly, or to accept its imposition by another without fear, is accordingly held to require total mastery of purely subjective and non-social impulses, and thus to testify to an individual’s ability to act as an exemplary moral witness within Roman society. Third, and most interestingly, it is this socially driven approach to suicide and the self that allows the practice of Roman suicide to be so varied in its details. Suicide is understood as tending by its very nature to make a statement concerning an individual’s status as a moral witness within aristocratic society. Accordingly, the manner

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in which it is carried out is capable of acting as a reflection upon the moral basis of this society itself, and the forms of self-constitution appropriate to it. In demonstrating an exemplary awareness of the demands of the elite persona, an aristocratic suicide gains the capacity to voice a socially communicative critique of the ethical standards of his or her peers. The result is that study of the Romana mors reveals the presence in Roman culture not only of a discourse about suicide, but a discourse expressed through suicide. This discourse, furthermore, develops and evolves over time, with particular suicides expanding the range of meanings and degree of nuance expressible in the aristocratic death. The existence of this discourse through suicide contains several methodological implications for this study. The first is that its treatment of Roman suicide will be implicitly divided into two halves that are sharply distinguishable on a conceptual, if not always on a compositional, level. On the one hand, much of this book will necessarily be devoted to establishing that Roman thinking on suicide is throughout the period under review consistently and coherently structured by an understanding of the self as moral witness. It will also be necessary, however, to investigate the extent to which the practice and depiction of suicide in Roman thought and literature serve progressively to modify elite understandings of the nature of the aristocratic persona and its moral foundations. The second implication of this discourse through suicide is that there will be very little focus on statistics in this study. While writers such as Valerius Maximus, Tacitus, and Seneca furnish us with data on an immense number of Roman suicides, these deaths are generally described in a highly stereotyped fashion and are usually cited to illustrate a very limited range of moral and rhetorical points. There is accordingly no need to consider the suicides these authors record on a case-by-case basis. It is the number of typologies presented in Latin writings, rather than the absolute number of deaths recorded in each category, that serves to establish the set of meanings communicable in death and the nuance with which these may be expressed. Van Hooff has already subjected the phenomenon of Roman suicide to as much statistical analysis as the data are likely to bear.67 Further extension of his methods will not be attempted here, and the focus of this book is firmly on the discursive range of Roman suicide rather than its numerical profiling. The third methodological principle necessitated by this focus on discourse is that works of literature, philosophy, and historiography must all be considered on the same plane as each other. This is so for two reasons. First, the claim that Roman understandings of suicide form an internally coherent set can only be considered true if a broadly similar approach to the ethics of suicide and the view of the self in which these are grounded is found to unite “fictional,” “nonfictional,” and speculative writing. Second, that suicide was in Roman culture capable of assuming a socially communicative function raises the possibility that its range of meanings and

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interpretations was potentially conditioned by writings that were “fictional,” or not 68 strictly “realistic” in tenor. Finally, this study’s emphasis upon the discursive function of suicide in Roman culture implies that it will be, as far as possible, chronological in its organization. While it is true that Roman understandings of suicide exhibit a basic stability throughout the Late Republic and the Julio-Claudian Principate, the meaning of any individual death was necessarily a function of its perceived interaction with a previously defined cultural corpus of suicides and writings on suicide. As a result the communicative range of Roman suicide shifts over time in an evolutionary fashion, and this demands diachronic treatment if it is to be intelligible.

1.7 OUTLINE OF THE BOOK Within this broad chronological framework, this book is divided into two roughly equal halves. The first half covers Roman literature from the period of the Late Republic until the death of Vergil. The second half deals with authors active during the remainder of the Julio-Claudian Principate. In the first section it is argued that in the writings of Cicero, Lucretius, the elegists, and Vergil there is expressed a coherent ethics of suicide grounded in a conception of the individual as being entirely identical to his or her ideal social persona. The second half of the study, covering Latin literature from the floruit of Ovid to the death of Nero, argues that the authors of this era interrogate with a continually increasing urgency the viability of social personae as a foundation for ethical action. This is not to say that there occurs any fundamental shift in Roman understandings of the individual during this time. Rather, the concept of the individual remains the same, while its grounding in aristocratic social perception comes to be perceived as unreliable. The result is a crisis in ethical epistemology, reflected first in an increased emphasis upon the role of suicide as a means of self-definition, and then in a growing uncertainty as to whether even this radical act might prove insufficient to demonstrate the individual’s status as a moral witness in an incontrovertible fashion. It will be argued that that these basic concerns pervade all Roman discourse on suicide during this period, and influence not only the writings of Seneca, the poetry of Lucan, and the Satyrica of Petronius, but the practice of Roman suicide itself. Given the extreme overlap in literary chronology amongst the authors discussed here, chronological sequence cannot be the only principle governing chapter arrangement within the dichotomy outlined above. In cases where it is impossible to follow a strictly chronological sequence, organization has been based upon explicitness of theoretical content found in the writings under consideration. Works of philosophy tend to be analyzed first, because it is in these that justification for Roman suicidal practices and investigation into the nature of the self are undertaken with the greatest

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clarity. Philosophical authors are explicitly concerned to provide their readers with an analytic understanding of the issues they address, and it is here that the ideological and intellectual underpinnings of cultural norms are most apparent. Historiography, in focusing upon psychological motivation, and, frequently, upon the explanation of the actions of foreign, mythological, or otherwise unusual personages to an audience unfamiliar with the conventions governing their behavior, similarly tends to be fairly explicit in its ascription of motives and its analysis of effects. Imaginative literature, by contrast, generally assumes that its readers are familiar with the cultural and generic norms expressed in the behavior of its characters. The scope for misreading by a modern commentator is thus relatively high, and suicide in imaginative literature is accordingly only approached once philosophical and historiographic evidence can be meaningfully compared with it. The first chapter of this book is as a result devoted to discussing the treatment of suicide found in the longer philosophical works of Cicero. This chapter is in many ways foundational for the rest of the book, and the thought of Cicero will be taken as a norm against which later developments will be contrasted. This may seem a curious approach given that Cicero was remembered in Rome more for his rhetoric than his philosophy, and that his philosophical works are rarely praised for their coherence or internal consistency. It will be argued, however, that the nature of Cicero’s philosophical project renders him invaluable to inquiry into Roman elite understandings of suicide. Investigation of Cicero’s treatment of suicide in his philosophical works reveals that these are intended to be works of descriptive rather than analytic philosophy. Cicero is not concerned, in other words, to derive the nature of ethical action in a logical fashion from first principles. The movement of his thought, in fact, is in quite the opposite direction. Cicero assumes from the first that the moral instincts of the aristocratic class of which he is a member are normative. The purpose of his philosophical works, then, is to determine what moral principles are generally accepted within this class and then to ascertain how these might most plausibly be understood to be grounded—the assumption here being that understanding of this will allow these principles to be better adhered to. Cicero’s philosophical writings accordingly represent a sustained attempt to anatomize and interrogate the underpinnings of Roman aristocratic ideology and beliefs. Even where his conclusions appear questionable or highly tendentious, then, investigation of the aristocratic axioms that structure his inquiry and of his repeated subordination of philosophical considerations to social imperatives provides an excellent guide to those assumptions most fundamental to the ethics of the Roman aristocratic elite. It is unsurprising, then, to find articulated with clarity in Cicero’s works a series of axioms that can be seen to inform, either implicitly or explicitly, all Roman writings on suicide throughout the era of the Late Republic and Early Empire. In Cicero’s philosophical works are enshrined a set of beliefs which, though frequently reacted

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against by subsequent authors, were clearly foundational to the Roman ethical tradition. Most of these assumptions have already been discussed in some detail above: that the res publica (“Republic”) and its institutions operate as an analogue of natura; that the aristocratic social persona is therefore natural and possesses a privileged ontological status; that the function of this persona is to allow the individual to act as a moral witness amongst his or her peers; that the ability to contemplate or commit suicide with calm deliberation demonstrates an individual’s awareness of the nature of this persona in an exemplary fashion; and that the manner of an individual’s suicide therefore has the capacity to act as a critique of the mode by which the aristocratic community is currently constituted. All of these notions are deployed by Cicero in his works in an extremely tendentious and idealizing fashion. All, however, recur throughout Latin writings on suicide in the Late Republican and Early Imperial eras, and clearly formed the ideological, if not necessarily the actual, basis of the Romana mors. The remainder of this book is accordingly devoted to tracing the fashion in which these ideas, and the principles upon which they are based, are developed, refined and modified by other Latin writers. Chapter 3 of this book is devoted to the treatment of suicide found in Roman Epicureanism. Epicureanism is often seen by modern scholars as a highly individualistic ethic standing in stark contrast to the social emphasis of the Stoicizing mainstream of Roman philosophy. In this chapter, however, it is argued that closer investigation of the Epicurean approach to self-killing indicates that for Lucretius, as for Cicero, the self is understood in entirely social terms. Statements such as the claim that individuals are always free to leave life ‘as though from a theater’ do appear at first glance to grant to individuals an absolute autonomy not readily reconciled with the accordance of any significant ethical status to social imperatives. When considered alongside other Epicurean pronouncements on suicide—and most particularly with the doctrine that the Epicurean sapiens (“wise person” or “enlightened individual”) will die for a friend—it nevertheless becomes clear that the Epicurean emphasis on the individual reflects a fundamental distrust of any easy identification of the political with the natural order, rather than an attempt to ground ethics in the individual per se. Epicureanism, in the Roman context at least, can thus be seen to form a broad continuum with the Roman Stoa and the Academy in terms of its understanding of the self and the ethics of suicide associated with this. The fourth chapter of this book discusses the relationship between love and suicide in Latin literature. It is divided conceptually into two parts. The first section discusses the comic stereotype of the “suicidal lover” as this is portrayed in Latin literature. In Roman comedy eros (“love” or “desire”) appears as a natural impulse which, when allowed to run to excess, can obscure the individual’s understanding of his or her own nature—sometimes to the extent that lovers are held to value their possession of another individual more than their own lives. In the context of Roman

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comedy, however, such suicidal devotion always turns out to be harmless, as eros is invariably by the end of the play shown to be compatible with, or even the foundation of, the social order. The second, longer, portion of this chapter explores the appropriation of this vision of society by the Latin love elegists, who, it is argued, seek to use this originally comic approach to the res publica as the basis of a new form of moral stance in the chaotic political conditions of the Late Republic. This new “elegiac” means of asserting one’s status as a moral witness within the aristocratic community does not, however, amount to the formation of an entirely new means of understanding the individual, as is often argued by modern scholars. It is sometimes maintained that the emergence of Latin love poetry in the Late Republic heralds the birth of a new form of individualism in Western literature. This chapter, however, argues that the reluctance of the elegists to adopt the stereotype of the self-killing lover within their own first-personal poetry indicates that the primary focus of their poetic attention is not inwards, upon their own subjectivity, but outwards, towards their aristocratic audience. Chapter 5 discusses the most famous Liebestod (“death for love”) to be found in Latin literature, the death of Dido, Queen of Carthage, as described by Vergil in Book 4 of the Aeneid. The queen’s growing suicidal resolution throughout Book 4 is here analyzed as symptomatic of her increasing inability to constitute a valid social persona for herself—an inability arising from a serious subjective cognitive error induced by the force of the appetites within her. In itself, this dynamic is hardly unusual, being found, for instance, in earlier portraits of the “suicidal lover.” Vergil’s portrait, however, is of a unique subtlety and complexity. In previous Latin writings, self-killings arising from frustrated erotic desire are portrayed as the result of simple uncontrolled impulse. Dido, by contrast, kills herself for reasons that are in themselves entirely lucid and rational, but which are, taken together, mutually incompatible. Dido herself, however, fails to perceive this incompatibility, owing to the distorting effects of eros upon her self-perception. Dido kills herself on the one hand because she realizes that her liaison with Aeneas has violated all terms by which her social persona might legitimately be constituted, and hopes that her death will serve to re-establish this persona as valid. Paradoxically, however, Dido hopes also to use the moral status such a death will grant her to reassert the legitimacy of the very relationship that had undermined this status in the first place. Dido’s passions, then, are seen to have disordered her own self-perceptions not just superficially, but on a structural level, and she proves incapable of constituting any coherent social persona for herself even in death. Chapter 6 discusses suicide and self-killing as these are presented in the writings of Ovid. Although Ovid depicts numerous suicides in his works, these generally cleave so closely to pre-established generic norms that his contribution to Roman discourse in this area is difficult to analyze with precision. After a cursory overview of

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suicide in Ovid, then, the chapter focuses more specifically upon Ovid’s reinterpretation of the suicide of Vergil’s Dido in Heroides 7. Close analysis of this text allows a fine-grained evaluation of Ovid’s innovations in the Roman suicidal tradition, and indicates that, although Ovid’s intertextual transformation of Vergil’s heroine is sometimes interpreted as an attempt to “individualize” her against the homogenizing ideological texture of the Aeneid, Ovid’s interrogation of Roman ideology is here both subtler and more profound than such a reading might lead one to expect. Ovid’s Dido dies, as does Vergil’s, of an inability to constitute a coherent social persona for herself. The multiple discrepancies visible between events as narrated third-personally in Aeneid 4 and first-personally in Heroides 7, however, force the reader to question the extent to which social perception is capable of accurately assessing and defining social personae. This inquiry strikes at the very root of Roman ethics, and though Ovid’s probing here is both tentative and playful, the issues he raises in Heroides 7 will dominate, in a progressively more explicit fashion, all subsequent Julio-Claudian literature. Chapter 7 examines the treatment of suicide found in the philosophical and dramatic works of Seneca. In this chapter it is argued that the frequency with which Seneca refers to suicide in his works arises not, as is sometimes maintained, from any innate and deep-seated personal morbidity, but from his attempts to adapt a Ciceronian understanding of ethics to the demands of the Imperial age. Like Cicero, Seneca understands individuals entirely in terms of their social function. Unlike him, however, he believes the aristocratic social milieu to be irredeemably corrupt. The result is a crisis in ethical epistemology that leaves suicide and its contemplation virtually the sole means whereby an individual may validly constitute him- or herself as a moral witness within Roman society—a philosophical conclusion that receives considerable impetus and endorsement from the historical realities of Seneca’s epoch. Whatever the historical conditions, this overwhelming focus on death might seem a radical solution to what is basically an epistemological problem. In this chapter, however, it is furthermore argued that consideration of Seneca’s Phaedra, along with isolated passages in the Epistulae Morales (“Letters on Ethics”), indicates that the philosopher did not consider it entirely adequate to the problem. Seneca’s Phaedra is essentially a nightmarishly exaggerated reinterpretation of Ovid’s Dido, a woman who is not only incapable of attaining any ethical insight in confrontation with death, but who actively seeks to exploit the ambiguities her own self-killing might create in order to reconcile the demands of her social persona with those of her lust. Self-killing, despite its privileged status in his philosophical writings as a tool of epistemological and ethical inquiry, frequently appears also in Seneca’s writings as an instrument for the delusion of oneself and the deception of others. Chapter 8 discusses the practice of political suicide amongst Seneca’s contemporaries in Julio-Claudian Rome, and argues that this, like Seneca’s philosophy, is

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best read as an attempt to instantiate Ciceronian norms of behavior and ethics in an un-Ciceronian and Imperial context. Comprehensive analysis of the fashion in which suicide is depicted in Latin historiography indicates that Latin historians from Livy to Tacitus view suicide in a highly Ciceronian manner. The act is understood, in other words, as serving in most instances to confirm an individual’s status as moral witness through the demonstration of his or her exemplary awareness of the nature of the honorable aesthetic. This dynamic of self-killing is furthermore understood by these historians as having operated from the foundation of the Republic onwards. The increase in upper-class suicide visible under the Julio-Claudians, then, reflects not the presence of an irrational libido moriendi amongst an effete and enervated aristocracy, but rather the necessity under the Empire of defining the nature and boundaries of the aristocratic community in a fashion sufficiently rigid that the Emperor himself might be excluded from it if so desired. For the aristocrats of the Empire, as for those of the Republic, suicide is a means of indelibly defining one’s social persona. This definition must simply be made much more forcefully and frequently as a result of the Imperial transition from oligarchy to autocracy. Chapter 9 investigates suicide as presented by Lucan in his epic poem, the De Bello Civili (“On the Civil War”). In this chapter it is argued that Lucan’s understanding of suicide is similar to that of his uncle Seneca, but is in many senses even bleaker. Lucan, like Seneca and many of his aristocratic contemporaries, views suicide as having the potential to exemplify and define the nature of the honorable aesthetic with a unique clarity. Seneca, however, appears to think of this as a possibility open to all but the most depraved. In the De Bello Civili, by contrast, this form of ethical action is the unique preserve of Cato alone. The poem furthermore strongly implies that this act was wasted upon a social audience incapable of comprehending its implications. This apparent pessimism is visible also in the self-regarding character of Lucan’s own suicide, which, in emphasizing the young man’s poetic rather than his moral credentials, comes close to suggesting that the aristocratic aesthetic has become a mere aesthetic, ungrounded in any ethical reality. Chapter 10 explores the thorough-going skepticism of the novelist and bon vivant Titus Petronius Niger regarding the ability of social personae to ground moral action. This skepticism is, it is argued, visible in both his comic novel, the Satyrica, and in the manner of his own death. The characters of the Satyrica adopt and abandon personae in rapid succession throughout the work, and, despite the transience of these roles, are willing to define these, in an entirely amoral fashion, through attempts at suicide. Petronius’ own death, a systematic and prolonged parody of the political suicides characteristic of his era, confirmed both that he was fully capable of acting in accordance with the most stringent requirements of the aristocratic aesthetic, and that he did not in fact choose to do so. As such, the manner of his death implied, even more powerfully than did Lucan’s suicide, that the terms by which the aristocratic

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persona was usually felt to be constituted were grounded neither in natura nor in ethical imperatives, but were in fact entirely artificial. Petronius’ self-killing, then, marks a death knell for the absolute identification of the individual with his or her social persona that is found in Roman writings of the Late Republican and Julio-Claudian age. The chapter on Petronius is thus followed only by a short epilogue briefly tracing the history of suicide at Rome after the fall of Nero. From the time of the Flavians onward Roman ethical discourse is marked by a pronounced rejection of the authority of aristocratic and social audiences to determine the nature of ethical action. As the perceived ethical legitimacy of the social sphere wanes from the fall of Nero onwards, there arises at the same time a corresponding emphasis on the need to ground ethics in natura at both the individual and the universal level. Although certain factions within the aristocratic elite continued to engage in the practice of the Romana mors, the value of so socially minded a death was increasingly called into question, and over time the act becomes progressively less visible in the historical record. This decline in visibility does not stem from any substantial change in the practical ethics of suicide, the actual content of which remains largely unchanged from the days of Cicero to those of Epictetus. While Flavian and post-Flavian philosophers hold views very similar to those of earlier Roman thinkers regarding the circumstances under which suicide is acceptable or warranted, however, the value of the act is no longer seen as inhering in its display of public values or the presence of a social audience at its commission. Suicide thus does not require or receive the degree of public attention in the post-Neronian Roman world that it had in a previous age. In light of this later shift, the Romana mors can be seen to have emerged from the unique fusion between individual and social identity effected by the Roman aristocracy at its zenith. Once this tenuous assemblage had come apart, the Romana mors disappeared, and by the time of the Christianization of the Empire the “Roman death” was no more than an ancestral memory, the most prominent and distinctive expression of a moral order and conception of the self already long extinct.

1.8 CAVEATS Although this book attempts to chart the most significant developments in Rome’s suicidal discourse between roughly 60 B.C. and 68 A.D., there are two major lacunae evident in the range of evidence considered here. First, very little attention has been given in this study to the perspectives on suicide and self-killing developed in Greek literature and philosophy. This omission has been made in large part out of simple considerations of space. Although it is true that Rome borrowed much of its attitude towards, and all of its philosophy concerning, suicide from the Greeks, there is simply no room for detailed analysis of the Greek precedents for Roman thought in a work of this length. Discussion of Greek texts is

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thus confined to instances where Greek antecedents are either explicitly invoked by our Latin sources, or explication of a Latin text is impossible without reference to a Greek predecessor. There is in addition a certain theoretical justification for keeping discussion of Rome’s Greek heritage to a minimum. In many instances where we are in a position to compare Greek texts with Roman reworkings of these—as we find, for example, with Cicero’s adaptations of passages from Plato’s Phaedo—it is immediately clear that the Latin author has considerably elaborated upon and altered the content and import of his source. For the majority of Roman authors, furthermore, such comparison is impossible because the Greek prototype has been lost and the Latin text itself forms our best basis for reconstructing the original work. It accordingly seemed preferable in most cases to focus primarily on our Latin sources as we have them, and to treat them, as far as possible, as a self-contained body of discourse, rather than to attempt to reconstruct from our Roman writings a hypothetical Greek position of indeterminate relevance to these. Adoption of this approach has entailed the loss of a certain degree of doxographical nuance. Enough Greek material is cited, however, to outline in broad terms the debt owed by Rome to Greece. In the tangled areas of Hellenistic philosophy with which this study is so often concerned it is not always clear that much more is possible. A less justifiable shortcoming of this work is the extremely limited attention it grants to female practitioners of the Romana mors. The foundation of the Republic began, in Roman myth, with the suicide of Lucretia, and women continued to play a significant role in Roman discourse on suicide throughout the historical era. Gender-related questions repeatedly presented themselves throughout the composition of this study: Why do Seneca and his wife attempt to die together, and why is Tacitus so concerned to explain their failure to do so? What is the significance of Cornelia’s convoluted suicidal rhetoric in the De Bello Civili, and why doesn’t she match her actions to her words? Why are “tragic” suicides in Latin literature invariably female? Preliminary research into all of these, and related, questions, indicated that considerations of space once again necessitated their absence from the book. Analysis of gender and its implications in Roman discourse on suicide would require engagement with theoretical concerns currently beyond the scope of this work, and as a result, female suicides are only discussed where these are not strongly gendered. Figures such as Cleopatra and Boadicea fascinated the Romans in large part because they were women who successfully conformed to masculine norms, and are thus included in discussion of these norms. The deaths of Dido, Phaedra, and similar characters such as Medea are furthermore frequently taken in both ancient philosophical works and modern scholarship as instantiating not just feminine, but universal, psychological insights. Insofar as the suicidal deliberations of these fictional characters are capable of furnishing their audiences with paradigmatic models of the operations

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of the psyche in general, they must be addressed here. Beyond this, the suicides of women receive little attention, and much work remains to be done in this field. On a related note, it should be mentioned that this book is full of individuals engaged in self-reflexive acts, from self-killing to self-contemplation, to self-killing as a means of self-contemplation. As a result it has not always been possible to pluralize third-person pronouns, as is now generally the practice. Pronoun usage throughout has accordingly been guided by the Roman context: “he” is used where men are primarily being referred to, “she” when women form the primary reference, and “he or she” when either might plausibly be meant. This convention is only possible because Roman discourse is extremely gendered, and its employment admittedly perpetuates stereotypes present in the source material. Against this objection it is only possible to note the alternatives proved either impossibly awkward or conspicuously odd in effect.

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Chapter 2

Cicero

2.1 INTRODUCTION Any attempt to view the numerous individual instances of suicide recorded in our Latin sources as a coherent whole must begin with an analysis of the treatment of suicide and self-killing in the philosophical works of Cicero. In part this is simply an accident of transmission: Cicero is by far the best and most complete source of information we have on the tenets of the various Hellenistic philosophical schools, the original Greek writings of which are now largely lost. Cicero’s attempts to create a Latin philosophical corpus are frequently criticized as unoriginal and inadequately researched, but his broad focus and wide-ranging interests at least preserve for us the outlines of systems that would otherwise be known to us only in fragments. Cicero therefore provides us with a reasonably comprehensive overview of the philosophical perspectives on suicide available to the educated Roman in the period of the Late Republic.1 More positively, the nature of Cicero’s philosophical project renders his writings uniquely valuable to the central inquiry of this study. In his philosophical works Cicero does much more than transpose an array of Hellenistic texts into Latin. At the opening of the De Finibus Bonorum et Malorum (“On the Goals of Good and Evil Action”), his earliest extended work on the Hellenistic schools, Cicero declares that he intends to act not merely as a translator, but that he will relate ea quae dicta sunt ab iis [sc. philosophis] quos probamus, eisque nostrum iudicium et nostrum scribendi ordinem adiungimus (“the doctrines of my chosen philosophers, which I have provided with my own criticism and structure”).2 The precise significance of this phrase is debated,3 but it is clear that in his philosophical works Cicero has heavily reworked his source material to render it of immediate relevance to what he perceives as the ethical needs of the Roman ruling elite. Cicero repeatedly subordinates the logic and internal consistency of Hellenistic philosophical systems to ethical concerns that are essentially cultural in derivation, and he in fact often manifests a tendency to treat

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philosophy as though it were little more than a means of discussing Roman cultural practice in an abstract and technical way. Precisely why Cicero believes such abstrac4 tion to be valuable will be discussed in greater detail below. The relevant point for the moment, however, is that if this sort of ad hoc Romanization of Greek philosophical doctrines is extremely irritating to Quellenforschung (“source criticism”) scholars,5 it nevertheless makes Cicero a superlative guide to the mores of the aristocracy of his day and to the central imperatives of its ideology. Cicero’s desire to unite Roman mores with Greek nous in his philosophical works does, however, create certain obstacles to the ready appreciation of his doctrines. Four difficulties in particular must be addressed in any attempt to map the cultural and philosophical assumptions that unify the Ciceronian philosophical corpus. 1.

Philosophical inscrutability: Cicero’s actual position is often difficult to assess accurately throughout his philosophical works. He repeatedly declares himself to be an adherent of the skeptical “New” Academy headed by Philo of Larissa. The school was distinguished by its claim that certain knowledge is impossible to obtain, but that it is nevertheless permissible for the individual to assent to doctrines that are ‘likely’—in Cicero’s terminology, probabile (“probable”) or veri simile (“apparently true”). Cicero’s works are therefore often devoted more to the interrogation of particular philosophical perspectives than to the derivation of a conclusion. Even when Cicero does seem to support some particular doctrine as probabile, it is often difficult to tell how qualified his endorsement is, a difficulty exacerbated by occasional self-acknowledged changes of position. Cicero’s inscrutability in this regard is further enhanced by his frequent use of the dialogue form, whereby philosophical debate occurs amongst a number of speakers representing a variety of opinions, none of which necessarily reflect the views of Cicero himself of any other historical personage.

2

Bias: If Cicero is sometimes ambiguous in his likes, he is perhaps at times excessively forthcoming with his dislikes. He is, for instance, an implacable foe of Epicureanism, and is not above assaulting it through the erection of readily demolished straw men or one-sided representation of their doctrines.6

3

Inadequacy of research: Cicero’s depictions of the tenets of philosophical schools besides Epicureanism are sometimes tainted by simple misunderstandings of the points at issue. Cicero appears to have been philosophically well-read by the standards of his day, but he was an homme d’affaires at least as much as he was a philosopher. His longer philosophical works—the De Finibus, the Tusculan Disputations, and the De Officiis (“On Duties”)—were, in addition, all composed at immense speed in the final three

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years of his life. That several misunderstandings should have crept in is understandable, and Cicero’s haste may be responsible for his tendency to skim over numerous important philosophical distinctions he considers 7 over-nice for his purposes. 4.

Excessive patriotism: Any situation in which Cicero perceives Roman social convention and strict philosophical coherence as conflicting is resolved in favor of the overriding imperative of the mos maiorum (“the traditions of 8 our ancestors”). This repeated privileging of the social over the purely philosophical can sometimes lend his works a somewhat fractured appearance, and adds to the impression of incoherence so frequently noted in 9 Quellenforschung scholarship.

All the above limitations are encountered in attempting to reduce Cicero’s scattered pronouncements on the ethics of self-killing to a single determinate position. Although such a position does exist, references to self-killing in Cicero’s works are frequently opaque or ambiguous where they are not apparently contradictory. A cursory overview of the points at which Cicero addresses the question of self-killing makes this plain. 1.

At De Finibus 1.49 Cicero reports—via his spokesman for the Epicurean position, Torquatus—the Epicurean belief that self-killing is permissible when life becomes unpleasing, tamquam e theatro exeamus (“as though one were leaving a theater”). Cicero, as mentioned above, is clearly opposed to the tenor of Epicurean ethics as a whole, and Epicurean tenets are frequently and explicitly excluded from his philosophical synthesis. Analysis of this passage will therefore be deferred to the discussion of Epicureanism in chapter 3. In itself, however, the claim is not incompatible with statements Cicero makes regarding self-killing elsewhere.

2.

At De Finibus 3.60-1 Cicero reports, in the mouth of Cato, the Stoic opinion that the decision to kill oneself is to be made with reference only to one’s access to ‘things according to nature’ and not to one’s own capacity for moral action. Cicero then proceeds to argue against the logical basis of Stoic ethics, but he does not refute this statement explicitly and it is not entirely at odds with opinions concerning suicide voiced elsewhere in his works.

3.

At De Finibus 5.29-30 Piso’s resumé of the system of philosophy advanced by Antiochus of Ascalon includes a brief reference to the psychology of self-killing, in which it is claimed that no one ever kills him- or herself through true self-loathing. Cicero provides no refutation in the De Finibus either of this statement or of Antiochus’ philosophy as a whole, though he expresses doubts about it propria persona at the close of the work. It is

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therefore impossible without further consideration of the question to deduce the degree to which Cicero endorses this doctrine. 4.

At both De Re Publica 6. 15 and Tusculan Disputations 1.74-5 Cicero echoes the belief expressed by Socrates in the Phaedo that, though the soul is immortal and enjoys postmortem bliss, it is forbidden to kill oneself on the grounds that each person has been assigned a particular role to play on earth by the gods and must not abandon it. In the De Re Publica (“On the Republic”) the remark forms part of the allegorical Somnium Scipionis (“Dream of Scipio”), and its relationship to the main argument is not straightforward, an area of inquiry discussed in detail below. In the Tusculan Disputations, however, this view is expressed by the character labeled “M” in the manuscripts, a figure who is by internal evidence to be identified as Cicero himself.

5.

Other passages in the De Re Publica and Tusculan Disputations contradict the Platonic passages cited above at point 4. At De Re Publica 3.34 Scipio Africanus the Younger remarks that legal penalization is enough to cause an individual to long for death, and that such a death is a minor matter when considered against the background of the destruction of the state. While such a statement does not amount to an actual endorsement of self-killing, it does appear to trivialize its prohibition. At Tusculan Disputations 2.67 and 5.118 Cicero strikes an almost Epicurean note, claiming propria persona that the individual is free to abandon life at any time; the latter passage compares self-killing to a decision to leave a dinner-party that has grown excessively riotous.

6.

Cicero makes his most famous statement concerning self-killing at De Officiis 1.112, in which he claims that defeat at Utica rendered suicide a moral obligation for Cato, but not necessarily for any of the other soldiers forced to surrender to Caesar at that time. The statement is clearly meant to be taken literally. Its relationship to Cicero’s other statements on self-killing, however, is not immediately clear.

Scholars seeking a unified prescriptive doctrine of self-killing in the writings of Cicero have tended to perceive in the above collection of statements the expression of a philosophy generally referred to as “anangke–-theory,” from the Greek word for ‘necessity’ or ‘compulsion.’ This reading of Cicero, first formulated by J.M. Rist in 1969 and adopted by most subsequent scholars, maintains that in Cicero’s view self-killing is forbidden unless an exemption is granted by the gods or God, and made known to 10 the suicidal agent through some kind of unmistakable “divine summons.” That such a reconstruction of Cicero’s thought is invalid is obvious: it depends upon the discounting of positions 1, 3, and 5, and, correspondingly, the unjustified privileging

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of 2, 4, and 6. There is nothing in the texts themselves to warrant such a weighting, – and the synthetic unity of the anangke interpretation is thus highly artificial and vulnerable to collapse under even the slightest breath of Quellenforschung criticism. This is not to say that Cicero’s thinking on self-killing is in fact self-contradictory or incoherent. The unities that structure his thought in this regard, however, operate too deeply in his works to be visible when his views are presented doxographically as a series of isolated statements. Only when the passages cited above are resituated in their original contexts can the coherence of Cicero’s statements on self-killing be perceived. Once this is achieved it can be seen that the superficial inconsistency of Cicero’s assertions stem from the fact that the majority of these are made not in order to define a doctrine concerning the act, but to elucidate a particular conception of the self. In all but the last mentioned passage on self-killing, the purpose of Cicero’s reference to the act is not to provide a definitive guide to the rights and wrongs of taking one’s own life, but to articulate an understanding of the self that Cicero believes to be fundamental to ethical action. Within this framework Cicero’s pronouncements on the morality of self-killing are logically related and inter-entailing. The bulk of this chapter is therefore devoted to examination of the contexts in which Cicero refers to self-killing and the manner in which they are related to each other by a common concern to define the innate ethical character of the individual. Analysis along these lines indicates that despite the diversity of Cicero’s statements on self-killing, they are roughly divisible into three complementary groups. The first of these groups consists of statements on self-killing made to illustrate the point that all individuals are endowed with an innate nature objectively definable as virtuous, or morally praiseworthy, and which exists whether a given individual is capable of perceiving this reflexively or not. Under this heading belong the statements made by Cato and Piso in the De Finibus. The second group comprises doctrines advanced in order to define more clearly the nature of this virtuous self, and in particular to demonstrate that this self is to be understood in purely social terms, as persona or social role. In this category belong Cicero’s Platonic statements that self-killing is forbidden by divine mandate. Cicero’s Epicurean-tinged reflections that self-killing is permissible without qualification arguably also belong in this class, although they serve additionally to reinforce the more restricted points made under the first heading. Finally, Cicero’s assessment of Cato’s suicide at Utica at De Officiis 1.112 forms a category of its own. Although Cicero’s evaluation of Cato’s death is logically dependent upon conclusions established in his earlier philosophical works, his remarks here are concerned less with the definition of the self than with the kind of action appropriate to this self. As such it is the only statement Cicero makes dealing with the ethics of self-killing in a direct and concrete fashion, and requires separate consideration from his other pronouncements on the matter.

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2.2 CICERO ON STOIC SELF-KILLING Explication of the logical basis of Cicero’s statements on self-killing must begin with discussion of the most philosophically developed and internally coherent account of the ethics of the act to be found in his pages, his description of the Stoic perspective on self-killing at De Finibus 3.60-1. The theory is put into the mouth of Cato the Younger, the foremost exemplar of both Stoic principles and the noble suicide in the Late Republic. His words, then, might seem to carry some authority. sed cum ab his omnia proficiscantur officia, non sine causa dicitur ad ea referri omnes nostras cogitationes, in his et excessum e vita et in vita mansionem. in quo enim plura sunt quae secundum naturam sunt, huius officium est in vita manere; in quo autem aut sunt plura contraria aut fore videntur, huius officium est de vita excedere. ex quo apparet et sapientis esse aliquando officium excedere e vita, cum beatus sit, et stulti manere in vita, cum sit miser. nam bonum illud et malum, quod saepe iam dictum est, postea consequitur, prima autem illa naturae sive secunda sive contraria sub iudicium sapientis et dilectum cadunt, estque illa subiecta quasi materia sapientiae. itaque et manendi in vita et migrandi ratio omnis iis rebus, quas supra dixi, metienda. nam neque virtute retinetur in vita, nec iis, qui sine virtute sunt, mors est oppetenda. et saepe officium est sapientis desciscere a vita, cum sit beatissimus, si id opportune facere possit, quod est convenienter naturae. sic enim censent, oportunitatis esse beate vivere. itaque a sapientia praecipitur se ipsam, si usus sit, sapiens ut relinquat. quam ob rem cum vitiorum ista vis non sit, ut causam afferant mortis voluntariae, perspicuum est etiam stultorum, qui idem miseri sint, officium esse manere in vita, si sint in maiore parte rerum earum, quas secundum naturam esse dicimus. et quoniam excedens e vita et manens aeque miser est nec diuturnitas magis ei vitam fugiendam facit, non sine causa dicitur iis, qui pluribus naturalibus frui possint, esse in vita manendum. (“But because from these things all duties are derived, the Stoics say—and not without reason—that all our practical deliberations take these as their object, including the decision to leave and the decision to remain in life. When an individual’s circumstances contain a large number of things in accordance with Nature, it is appropriate that he should remain alive; but, on the other hand, when a man either finds himself among, or foresees, a majority of those things which are contrary to this, it is appropriate for him to depart from life. From this it is clear that it is sometimes appropriate for a wise person to depart from life, even though he is happy, and for a fool to remain alive, even though he is miserable. For ‘good’ and ‘evil’ (as I have repeatedly said already) are supervenient qualities, while the primary things of nature, and their opposites, fall under the choice and judgment of the wise individual—forming, in short, the subject-matter with which wisdom is concerned. Because of this, the reasons for remaining in or departing from life are to be measured entirely in relation to the primary things of nature just mentioned—for morally excellent individuals are not necessarily retained in life by their own moral excellence, nor should those who lack

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virtue seek death because of this lack. Furthermore, it is often even appropriate for wise individuals to depart from life precisely when they are at their happiest, if they are given the opportunity of making his exit at the appropriate time—for the Stoics hold that the happy life (which is to say, the life lived in accordance with Nature) is a question of acting at the correct moment. And thus the wise person is instructed by Wisdom herself to relinquish her, if this is advantageous. On this account, given that the force of moral flaws is not sufficient, in itself, to act as a cause of voluntary death, it is abundantly clear that it is appropriate even for fools (who are also miserable) to remain alive if the majority of elements their lives contain is in accordance with Nature. And since the unenlightened individual is equally miserable while remaining in or departing from life, and the undesirability of this kind of existence does not increase with its length, we say with good reason that those for whom there exists a preponderance of things in accordance with Nature ought to remain in life.”)

As an account of how, why, and when individuals should kill themselves in accordance with Stoic principles this is a highly abstract, vague, and unsatisfactory summary. The epistemological difficulties are, as Rist first pointed out in his 1969 work on Stoicism, serious.11 Given that, according to the Stoics, all but the sapiens (“enlightened individual,” “wise person”) are fools,12 and given furthermore that the sapiens is so rare a creature that he or she might in fact prove only hypothetical, it seems that no one will ever be in a position to kill him- or herself due to the impossibility of determining whether or not such an act is an officium (a “duty”). The problem is exacerbated by Cato’s emphasis on the appropriate timing of the deed, his claim that self-killing must occur opportune (“at the appropriate time”): it would seem that once one has missed one’s opportunity to die, self-killing becomes again an immoral act. The stultus (“foolish person” or “unenlightened individual”) is thus forbidden to kill himself even if, in retrospect, it becomes apparent that this would have been an appropriate action to take. According to Rist the epistemological loop is thereby closed, and can only be broken by the unmistakable summons of a “divine call” to death. Matters are, however, more complex than this. Stoics other than Cato apparently believed that there was little epistemological obstacle to providing particular practical guidelines regarding the circumstances under which it is permissible or advisable to kill oneself. Diogenes Laertius 7.130, for instance, notes that the Stoics considered self-killing to be an appropriate act if this would save the life of a friend, be of benefit to one’s country, or allow one to escape a painful and incurable illness. A similar doctrine is attributed to the Stoics by the Platonic commentator Olympiodorus.13 Such advice, according as it does with both the tenets of a variety of other ancient 14 15 philosophies and with Roman cultural practice, would presumably have appeared unremarkable to its original audience. No fundamental epistemological problem, then, should be perceived in Cato’s summary. Rather, Cato should be seen here as giving a highly theorized and abstract account of the ethics of self-killing, intended

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not to guide the actual final decision, but to ground criteria advanced elsewhere in 16 the Stoic corpus. The connection between Cato’s technical and theoretical outline of Stoic ethics of self-killing and the concrete precepts of Stoic teaching on this matter is never made clear in the De Finibus. The extremely vague character of Cato’s statements on self-killing here is, however, sufficient for the purpose of the passage within the dialogue. Cato does not mention the ethics of self-killing at Fin. 3.60-1 because Cicero is interested in supplying his readers with instruction in this area per se. The topic arises instead in the course of Cato’s discussion of the Stoic theory of oikeio–sis, a nd is simply intended to illustrate this. Cato’s statements regarding self-killing, then, cannot be understood without reference to this theory, and in particular to the understanding of the self it embodies and implies. The Stoic theory of oikeio–sis, as described by Cato and our other Stoic sources, is essentially a developmental account of the procedure by which humans mature from children, concerned primarily with the satiation of their own desires, into adults, who have the potential to take ethical action as the highest goal of their endeavors. The – word itself is a difficult one to translate. The core idea of the concept of oikeio sis is that of making something oikeflon, or “familiar” to oneself. Cicero renders this concept in Latin as conciliare [sc. aliquid ] sibi (“to associate [something] with oneself”), and conventional translations of the word in English are “appropriation” and “familiarization.”17 In any event, the central idea is clear: the theory of oikeio–sis outlined by Cato describes the process whereby individuals discover what is most suitable to themselves and what is in conformity with their own natures. Cato’s discourse, in other words, concerns the means by which an individual’s subjective consciousness comes to be aware of his or her own objectively definable constitution. In Cato’s account, this realization occurs as a result of the individual’s ability to extrapolate from the character of his or her own desires to conclusions regarding the nature that gives rise to them. According to Cato, it is an observable fact that the first stirrings of the subjective consciousness are towards the preservation of the self, and that individuals upon birth therefore seek out those things that most immediately conduce to their own survival. Cato refers to these only as the principia naturae (the “first elements of nature”), and does not specify precisely what these might be, but he presumably has items such as food, shelter, and warmth in mind. These are thus the primary objects of instinctive “impulse,” referred to in Greek as ırlÆ and translated by Cicero as ap18 petitio. With time and the exercise of reason, however, Cato claims that individuals eventually come to realize that these varied primary impulses do not arise at random, but as a reflection of the nature of their own constitutions. It is in this realization that, in the Stoic system, the roots of both vice and virtue lie. While the individual’s initial unreflective appetition for the principia naturae is a natural and primal instinct in all humans, it is also, for the Stoics, a highly problematic one. According to the Stoics the view that certain objects are inherently desirable

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and in themselves legitimate goals of action is the cause of all human unhappiness and unethical behavior. Once an individual has decided that some object is desirable in an unqualified sense, his or her emotional state will necessarily be dependent upon the presence or absence of this desired object. In Cato’s view, individuals who suffer from opiniones et iudicia levitatis (“frivolous opinions and perceptions”) that the possession of some objects is an intrinsically good thing deliberately place their own happiness beyond their own control.19 Such people must necessarily undergo perturbationes animi (“disturbances of the spirit”),20 and are continually “shaken up” by events they are helpless to change or affect. With this surrender of emotional autonomy comes also a loss of ethical autonomy. Throughout De Finibus 3 Cato assumes that individuals who have accorded any intrinsic value to an external object lose control of their actions and become willing to do virtually anything in order to secure it. These individuals can no longer rule themselves, and act according to the dictates of desire, even to the point of performing turpes actiones (“disgraceful acts”).21 The impulses of the unqualifiedly appetitive individual are oriented towards a variety of objects that can never be possessed securely. As a result his or her actions are ungoverned, conflicted, and impetuous, as undesirable on the emotional level as they are on the ethical. Fully rational individuals, then, do not pursue the principia naturae as though these were ends in themselves, but only insofar as their pursuit is consistent with the needs of their own natures. The Stoic sage, according to Cato, acts not in order to attain appetitive objects, but in accordance with a ıµoλογ¤a (“homology”) of acts defined by the demands of his or her own nature, a notion Cicero glosses as a concern to preserve an ordo et concordia rerum agendarum (“a structure and harmony of acts performed”). 22 While the maintenance of this ordo et concordia involves the attempt to satisfy natural desires, the sapiens does not view these as per se desirable. External objects are not, to the sage, either bona or mala (“good” or “bad”), but merely praeposita or reiecta (“to be preferred” or “to be rejected”),23 depending on whether or not they are suitable to the nature of the agent. Because the sapiens’ ultimate goal is not the attainment of these “preferred” or “rejected” things, but action in accordance with his or her nature, he or she is indifferent to them,24 and this preserves his or her emotional and ethical autonomy. The sage’s affect and actions are not governed by demands imposed by the shifting status of external objects. He or she is therefore devoid of emotional distress and free to act in the best fashion possible to humans—that is 25 to say, virtuously —under all circumstances. Ethical action thus emerges as a supervention upon action in accordance with an individual’s own nature and is the rational culmination of the survival instinct. To attempt to satisfy one’s most primal urges in an optimal fashion entails that one attain also an emotionally ideal life26 (the Greek concept of eudaimonia) and the peak of ethical excellence.

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This identification of the qualities of reason, moral excellence, nature, and eu27 daimonia lies at the heart of Stoic ethics and was extremely influential upon Hellenistic and Roman moral thinking as a whole. A central difficulty in its explication, however, is found in the highly counter-intuitive separation it posits between the goal and the purpose of action. This separation is formalized in Stoic thought by a distinction between the skopos, “target,” and the telos, “goal” of acts. While the “goal” of all human action is, according to the Stoics, virtus (“virtue” or “moral excellence”), or life in accordance with nature,28 this is achieved through the pursuit of particular “targets” which are selected because they are in accordance with the nature of the individual, but are in themselves irrelevant to the accomplishment of the telos. This disjunction between target and goal was frequently criticized as absurd by the Stoa’s detractors from at least the mid-second century B.C. until the second century A.D.29 The Stoic reliance on syllogism to defend this view did little, in Cicero’s opinion, to change this impression, and he felt it tended to make the philosophy appear pedantic and irrelevant.30 If Cicero is to succeed in providing an accurate and intelligible description of the Stoic understanding of the telos of human life and action, then, he will need to find some means of discussing the importance of this distinction in Stoic ethics without making the system appear ridiculous or trivial in its concerns. It is for this reason that Cato closes his account of the Stoic theory of oikeio– sis with a brief summary of the Stoa’s views on self-killing, which act as an illustration and ‘practical corollary’ of the 31 system just outlined. The topic, in other words, is raised not because it is of interest per se. Its value lies rather in its pedagogical utility. Cato’s claim that even so momentous an act as self-killing is to be decided upon with reference to indifferentia (“indifferent things”) and not at all to one’s own ethical or depraved character highlights dramatically the Stoic view that virtus is not a “possession” or goal of appetition, but innate to the nature of the individual and epiphenomenal upon action in accordance with this. His account, however, also serves nicely to emphasize the independence of the sage from these same indifferentia, for, while the sapiens is characterized as beatissimus (“most joyful”) even though he is departing from life, the stultus is described as miser (“wretched”)—and indeed suicidal—even though he is surrounded by benefits. The crucial distinction made by the Stoics between the objects and the aims of action in the realms of ethics and psychology is thus illuminated concisely with reference to the Stoic theory of self-killing, and—importantly for Cicero—without reliance upon dialectic. The chasm of understanding that exists between the sage, who acts out of concern for virtus alone, and the stultus, who acts to secure the objects of his desires, is revealed most clearly in Cato’s somewhat startling claim that virtuous self-killing is largely a matter of timing. The level of foresight and precision necessary to such an act is, it should be clear, the peculiar province of the sage. Because the sage’s actions

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are all internally motivated, he or she does not fear death and does not seek to prolong 32 his or her own life in order to secure, say, further pleasures. This self-containment equally implies, however, that the sage will not rush headlong towards death, as he or she is not vulnerable to the kinds of desires that trouble one’s equanimity and cause the miser stultus to seek to end his own life when this is uncalled for. The sage’s freedom from all affect allows him or her to judge rationally the moment when there is no further possibility of leading a life in accordance with nature, and to leave life when he or she realizes that all potential for eudaimonia and ethical action has been exhausted. Cato’s discussion of self-killing, then, is an effective précis in two paragraphs of all that has gone before in his account, and is more immediately relevant to the theoretical underpinnings of Stoic ethics than it is as a concrete guide to the rights and wrongs of taking one’s own life. It serves, at base, as an example of the degree to which all virtus arises as a process of reflection upon the self and its relationship to the principia naturae.

2.3 ANTIOCHUS OF ASCALON ON THE PSYCHOLOGY OF SELF-KILLING: DE FINIBUS 5.28-9 In keeping with the skeptical Academic programme of the De Finibus, Cato is not allowed to have the last word in the work. The purpose of the De Finibus is not primarily to determine in an incontrovertible fashion what the nature of the human telos is, but to inquire into the character and validity of the various tel e– posited by the Hellenistic schools. Cicero therefore gives his work a disputational structure, with each book outlining a particular school’s account of the purpose of human life being followed by another book probing its arguments. Book Four of the work is accordingly dedicated to criticism of the Stoic system as described by Cato in the previous book. Given that Cato’s description of the Stoic perspective on self-killing is only instrumental to his main purpose, it is unsurprising that Cicero should choose not to attack this directly. The main thrust of his arguments is instead directed against the logical basis of this perspective, the distinction drawn by Cato between the skopos and the telos of action. Cicero accepts the Stoic doctrine that virtus is the human telos and that virtuous action therefore arises from self-knowledge. He nevertheless rejects the claim that this self-knowledge is achieved through extrapolation from one’s own natural desires as overcomplicated and unworkable. To assert that the sapiens perceives objects of appetition not as inherently “good things” but as “preferable” is in Cicero’s view a merely semantic distinction, insufficient to obscure the fact that it is the attainment of these objects, and not mere33 ly their pursuit, that our natures desire. The Stoics therefore cannot realistically claim that optimal pursuit of the things in accordance with nature leads to ethical autonomy and thence to virtus.34 If virtus is to be the human telos, then, it cannot be

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defined in such a way that it emerges as a result of individual desires oriented toward some other object. Instead, he claims, it should be viewed as directly desirable in its 35 own right. Cicero accordingly provides his readers in the fifth book of the De Finibus with an account of the ethical system of Antiochus of Ascalon, in which the impulses of appetition and the attainment of virtus are linked in an extremely direct and straightforward manner. The extent to which Cicero himself endorses this system is difficult to assess. His exposition of Antiochus’ ethics is delivered not propria persona, but in the mouth of his friend Marcus Piso, and as a self-proclaimed adherent of the skeptical teachings of Philo of Larissa Cicero cannot have embraced Antiochus’ dogmatizing Platonic syncretism unreservedly. There is nothing in Philo’s philosophy, however, to prevent Cicero from viewing Antiochean doctrines as veri simile, and some scholars have gone so far as to suggest that he was in fact an adherent of Antiochus’ soi-disant Old Academy before transferring his allegiance to the New.36 The absence of any refutational twin for Book 5, as Cicero had previously provided for the Epicurean and Stoic systems detailed in Books 1 and 3 of the De Finibus, seems to argue that Cicero found at least the main points of Piso’s outline convincing. This impression is reinforced by Cicero’s statement at Tusc. Disp. 5.32-5 that since the completion of the De Finibus he has abandoned his view that any differences between Antiochean and Stoic philosophy are chiefly semantic, and that the Stoic system now appears to be probabile to him in a way that it previously had not. The clear implication is that at the time of composition, the Antiochean system as outlined in the De Finibus appeared to him to be substantially correct. Within De Finibus 5 itself, however, a certain skepticism on Cicero’s part may nevertheless be perceived, and at the close of the work he represents himself as remarking to Piso, propria persona, iste locus est… tibi etiam atque etiam confirmandus (“that is a position which you will have to strengthen again and again”).37 Investigation of the function of Piso’s reference to the topic of self-killing, however, indicates that Cicero’s skepticism in the De Finibus does not extend to the foundations of the Stoic and Antiochean systems, but is instead concerned only with their details. Antiochus, like Cato, mentions self-killing not because he considers it a subject of interest in its own right, but as part of a much broader discussion of ethics and human action generally. Piso’s reference to self-killing is, in fact, even more cursory than is Cato’s. Cato, at least, outlined a comprehensive justification for Stoic precepts regarding self-killing. Piso’s short statement, however, does not even touch upon the rights and wrongs of the act at all. From other sources, it appears that Antiochus held that self-killing was under most circumstances an irreligious act and a dereliction of the individual’s duty to remain in life.38 Cicero’s Piso, however, makes no reference to this doctrine. Such a reference would not be germane to his purpose, which is not to speculate upon the ethics of self-killing, but to forestall certain objections that

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might reasonably be made against the account of ethical action and its relation to the self he expounds throughout the rest of Book 5. Piso’s tenets in this regard are very similar in outline to those of the Stoa. In both systems the self is understood to be objectively definable as virtuous, and virtuous action is therefore viewed as arising out of self-knowledge. As Cicero presents the matter in the De Finibus, then, the main difference concerns not the essential nature of the self, but rather the mechanism of cognition through which self-knowledge is attained. For the Stoics, as discussed above, self-understanding—and thus virtus—is achieved through reflection upon the method by which innate appetites are optimally fulfilled. For Piso, however, virtus does not consist of some sort of ‘supervenient’ observation of one’s own qualities, but is a quality in itself characteristic of all humans. Virtuous action is therefore simply the expression of a primal urge to self-love. Although the simplicity of this account makes it, in Cicero’s estimation, preferable to the Stoic approach,39 it encounters a stumbling block in the existence of self-harming behavior in humans, which might seem to indicate that self-love, and hence virtus, is not necessarily an innate impulse. If Piso’s philosophy is to appear probabile, then, some philosophically coherent account of such behavior must be given, and Piso thus focuses his attention not on the ethics of self-killing, but on its psychology. As with Cato, Piso’s mention of the topic of self-killing is made in the context of a theory of oikeio– sis.40 Piso’s account starts off very similarly to Cato’s, with the observation that all individuals begin life with an impulse towards self-preservation. omne animal se ipsum diligit ac, simul et ortum est, id agit, se ut conservet, quod hic ei primus ad omnem vitam tuendam appetitus a natura datur, se ut conservet atque ita sit affectum ut optime secundum naturam affectum esse possit. hanc initio institutionem confusam habet et incertam, ut tantum modo se tueatur, qualecumque sit, sed nec quid sit nec quid possit nec quid ipsius natura sit intellegit. cum autem processit paulum et quatenus quicquid se attingat ad seque pertineat perspicere coepit, tum sensim incipit progredi seseque agnoscere et intellegere quam ob causam habeat eum, quem diximus, animi appetitum coeptatque et ea, quae naturae sentit apta, appetere et propulsare contraria. ergo omni animali illud, quod appetit positum est in eo, quod naturae est accommodatum. ita finis bonorum existit secundum naturam vivere sic affectum, ut opti41 me affici possit ad naturamque accommodatissime. (“Every animal loves itself, and from the moment of its birth acts to preserve itself, because this is the first impulse given to it by Nature—in order that it might preserve itself and maintain itself in the best fashion possible in accordance with its own nature. At first this instinct is vague and unclear, so that the animal attempts to preserve itself, whatever it might be. At this point it understands neither what it is, nor what it is capable of, nor what its own nature might be. When, however, it has grown a little older, it begins to perceive what affects it and what relates to itself, and it gradually starts to progress, to recognize itself, and to

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understand why it possesses this impulse we have been discussing. At this point it also attempts to seek those things which it now understands to be suited to its nature, and to repel those which conflict with this. The basic impulses of every animal, then, are directed to those things which are suited to its own nature. From this arises the Stoic account of the final goal of moral action, which is to say, life in accordance with Nature, in that condition which is the best and most suited to one’s own nature possible.”)

What is of interest here, and where Antiochus’ views differ from those of the Stoics, is that the initial instinct towards self-preservation is not seen as unconditional. In Cato’s account of the matter an animal’s first instinct appears to be simply to maintain its own existence no matter what. Only over time does it come to perceive the ordo et concordia of the impulses that conduce to this goal and ultimately constitutes its self. In the Stoic view, in other words, it is only through self-preservation that the individual comes to learn what the “self” really is, and, at the same time, to discover that self-preservation is not necessarily always associated with physical continuance. For Antiochus, however, the motivational schism between primary instinctual drives and secondary, supervening rational imperatives is unnecessary, because the impulses of self-preservation are not, so to speak, objectless. In the Antiochean system it is possible to grant definite content to the “self” of “self-love” right from the start. As Piso puts it, cui proposita sit conservatio sui, necesse est huic partes quoque sui caras esse, carioresque quo perfectiores sint et magis in suo genere laudabiles (“individuals for whom self-preservation is a goal, must by necessity feel an affection for the individual parts of themselves as well—and they must feel more affection for these parts the 42 more perfect and more greatly admirable each of these is, after its own kind”). An animal—or an individual—loves itself, then, not unconditionally, but because it perceives itself as possessing loveable qualities. Such a hypothesis leaves Piso in a rather comfortable position: he has only to define the perfectum (“perfect”) and laudabile (“admirable”) aspects of the genus humanum (“human race”) in suitably lofty ethical terms, and self-love becomes identical to love of moral behavior. Thus, while Piso concedes a place to the corporis bona (the “goods of the body”) as legitimate goals of endeavor, he nevertheless maintains that prudentia, temperantia, fortitudo, and iustitia (“wisdom,” “self-restraint,” “cour43 age” and “justice”) are far more characteristic of the human soul in its best state. Realization of these qualities is accordingly simply a manifestation of self-love. Failure to achieve these values is the result of mistaken notions concerning the true nature of the self and misrecognition of the demands of one’s own nature. Oikeio–sis, then, is for Piso a habituation or familiarization with oneself whereby an individual becomes aware of the highest qualities he or she is capable of exhibiting, and then identifies entirely with these. Piso’s account of the development of morality

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in children accordingly explains this as a result of the child’s natural and continual increase in self-awareness and self-realization: nunc vero a primo quidem mirabiliter occulta natura est nec perspici nec cognosci potest; progredientibus autem aetatibus sensim tardeve potius quasi nosmet ipsos cognoscimus.44 (“but in fact our own nature is at first mysteriously hidden, and we can neither perceive nor understand it. But with the passage of time we gradually—or, I should say, tardily—come, so to speak, to know ourselves.”)

Childhood, he maintains, is an age characterized by an ever-refining capacity to recognize one’s own characteristics: children quickly learn to imitate adult behavior, cherish victory, and finally to practice the virtues sine doctrina (“without teaching”) and informed only by their own self-perception. This process, unfortunately, continues only so far, halting prematurely before moral perfection is attained. Nature, unaided, brings us only to a limited state of self-knowledge, so that agnoscit ille quidem naturae vim, sed ita ut progredi possit longius, per se sit tantum inchoata (“each person perceives the capabilities of his or her own nature, but only to the point of recognizing that this is capable of progressing further, and that in itself it is merely incomplete”). Moral development beyond this point depends upon obedience to the 45 Pythian injunction noscere nosmet ipsos (“Know yourself”). As Piso puts it, itaque nostrum est (quod nostrum dico, artis est) ad ea principia quae accepimus consequentia exquirere, quoad sit id quod volumus effectum (“it is therefore our responsibility (and when I say ‘our,’ I mean ‘of our intelligence’) to seek out the necessary conclusions of the axioms we have accepted, until we have achieved this goal of self-knowledge”).46 The realm of ethics, then, lies within the domain of nature, which has provided that every human be intrinsically moral, and it is the task of the individual to identify, and to identify with, this innate virtus. Despite Piso’s neat pairing of principia (“axioms”) and consequentia (“necessary conclusions”), ethical reflection in his system is not enacted through a process of logical inference. Ethics is not simply for Piso a matter of deriving necessary consequents from given antecedents, and the discovery of one’s own true nature is as much an empirical as a deductive exercise: morality being intrinsically desirable, universal, and innate to all humans, its nature is knowable through study of those acts widely acknowledged to be virtuous. The value of virtuous behavior is, according to Piso, evident from the strong emotions individuals feel in response to deeds of piety, friendship, or magnanimity.47 Morality’s basis is as a result not so much logical as teleological: virtue is virtuous because humans are so constituted as to perceive it as – virtuous. The operations of reflexive oikeio sis, then, are in a sense aesthetic. In a system whereby morality is empirically knowable and moral behavior is the result of

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accurate self-perception, the weak link in ethics lies in the agent’s capacity to judge accurately what is perfectum and laudabile within, to determine what is self and what is foreign to this. Moral training is accordingly less the derivation of a certain system from set rules and observations than the refinement of a particular sensibility, albeit one that benefits from intellectual efforts to discover the rules and principles underlying ethical action. However appealing such a system of philosophy might appear due to its simplicity and the moral ideals it advances, it meets an obvious stumbling-block in the observable fact of self-harming behavior, of which self-killing is the extreme instance. For Antiochus any flagging from the urge to self-preservation is equivalent to a distaste for one’s own innate ethical principles, and this creates a paradox that Piso must avert. He does so by claiming that those who seek to destroy themselves have simply mistaken the object of their hatred: etsi qui potest intellegi aut cogitari esse aliquod animal, quod se oderit? res enim concurrent contrariae. nam cum appetitus ille animi aliquid ad se trahere coeperit consulto, quod sibi obsit, quia - sit sibi inimicus, cum id sua causa faciet, et oderit se et simul diliget, quod fieri non potest. necesseque est, si quis sibi ipsi inimicus est, eum quae bona sunt mala putare, bona contra quae mala, et quae appetenda fugere, quae fugienda appetere, quae sine dubio vitae est eversio. neque enim, si non nulli reperiuntur, qui aut laqueos aut alia exitia quaerant aut ut ille apud Terentium, qui ‘decrevit tantisper se minus iniuriae suo nato facere,’ ut ait ipse, ‘dum fiat miser,’ inimicus ipse sibi putandus est. sed alii dolore moventur, alii cupiditate, iracundia etiam multi efferuntur et, cum in mala scientes inruunt, tum se optime sibi consulere arbitrantur. itaque dicunt nec dubitant: ‘mihi sic usus est, tibi ut opus est facto, fac.’ et qui ipsi sibi bellum indixissent, cruciari dies, noctes torqueri vellent, nec vero sese ipsi accusarent ob eam causam, quod se male suis rebus consuluisse dicerent. eorum enim est haec querela, qui sibi cari sunt seseque diligunt. quare, quotienscumque dicetur male quis de se mereri sibique esse inimicus atque hostis, vitam denique fugere, intellegatur aliquam subesse eius modi causam, ut ex eo ipso intellegi possit sibi 48 quemque esse carum. (“But who could understand or conceive of an animal that hated itself? The idea is a contradiction in terms. For when that instinctive impulse we were discussing earlier begins to draw something deliberately towards itself that is—since the animal is its own enemy—harmful to itself, it will nevertheless be doing this for its own sake, and the animal will at the same time hate and love itself, a situation which cannot possibly arise. And if somebody hated himself, he would without doubt believe good things to be evils, and evils, on the other hand, to be good things, and he would flee those things which are desirable, and desire those things which he should flee, and this is beyond doubt to turn the entire pattern of life upside down. There are some people who seek to die, by the noose or by some other means, and some who are like that man in Terence’s play who ‘resolved that he had done his son less of a wrong, if he made himself miserable as a result.’

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One should not, however, view these people as haters of themselves. Some are moved by grief, and others by desire. Many are driven mad by anger, and while they rush headlong into evils with full awareness of what they are doing, they believe themselves to be acting in their own best interests. And thus they say, without any hesitation, ‘This is my way; you do whatever you have to do.’ Those who had really declared war upon themselves, however, would desire torture by day and torment by night, and they would not, as they in fact do, reproach themselves and say that they had made all the wrong decisions. These lamentations reveal that they love and feel affection for themselves, and from this it follows that whenever someone is said to treat himself badly, and to be hostile or an enemy to himself, or to flee from life, one can be sure that there is some explanation underlying this behavior that can be understood, even in these cases, to show that every individual loves himself.”)

According to Piso “self”-killing and the “self”-hatred that gives rise to it can only occur as the result of a logical error on the part of the subjective consciousness. Self-loathing value judgments can arise, he claims, only from a mind clouded by dolor (“grief”), cupiditas (“desire”), or iracundia (“anger”).49 Self-destruction under such circumstances arises from a simple logical flaw whereby an individual identifies himor herself as the perpetrator of undesirable deeds, without realizing that this self-reproach is per se a function of the individual’s own innate nobility and knowledge of what is desirable. That self-killing occurs thus becomes not an objection to the Antiochean account of oikeio– sis, but confirms its truth and serves to demonstrate the extent to which humans possess an innate ideal “self” to which they strive to assimilate their actions, no matter how awry their perceptions might be. Piso’s summary of Antiochean views on the self-inflicted death, then, serves a function parallel to that played by Cato’s discussion of Stoic theories of self-killing in De Finibus 3; in each case theories of self-killing are deployed instrumentally in order to clarify and elucidate doctrines fundamental to the philosophy in question. It is unsurprising, then, that Piso’s account of suicidal psychology tends to bear out Cicero’s claim that differences between the philosophical systems advanced by Antiochus and by the Stoics are merely semantic, and that the ethics of self-killing advanced in Books 3 and 5 of De Finibus are broadly compatible with each other. At the level of practical ethics, in fact, they might even be read as complementary. The focus of each is slightly different, for Cato tends to concentrate his discussion on the virtuous self-killing, and Piso upon the foolish, but this does not mean that the two approaches are mutually exclusive. Nothing in Piso’s account precludes the possibility of a noble self-inflicted death, which might presumably still occur as part of the individual’s instinctive appetition to virtus. The epistemological framework of each is, furthermore, identical. For both Cato and Piso virtus is held to arise from self-knowledge, a knowledge which may be occluded or obscured through the flux of the irrational emotions. Such perturbationes,

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furthermore, are assumed to arise from the individual’s accordance of excessive value to external objects. The chief difference between the two systems as presented by Cicero lies in the determination of what is “excessive”: for the Stoics all external objects truly are “indifferent,” while Piso maintains that some external objects are in fact valuable, though to a degree far inferior to that of sapientia (“wisdom”) and virtus. In either case the task of moral philosophy is the same: to clarify its reader’s understanding of his or her own true nature through eliminating his or her emotional attachment to external objects, thereby leading the reader towards the path of virtus. Within this broad schema variations are possible, but in each case the ethics of self-killing remain identical: the act may represent the culmination of an individual’s noble nature, or it may testify to his or her complete loss of all self-insight through the destructive influence of the emotions. The morality of the act, then, is not inherent to it, but instead lies in the nature of the understanding that informs it.

2.4 SOCRATES AND THE PLATONIC “PROHIBITION ON SELF-KILLING” Such a conclusion may at first glance appear to be contradicted by statements Cicero makes elsewhere on self-killing, in which, using phrases often borrowed from Plato, he appears to condemn the act as impious. Cicero’s earliest extant declaration regarding self-killing occurs at De Re Publica 6.15, in the portion of the work that has come down to us as the Somnium Scipionis. Here Scipio recounts a beatific vision of the afterlife he experienced in a dream, and relates that his father admonished him that he should not seek to hasten his approach to this blessed state. The Elder Scipio asserted, according to Scipio, tibi, Publi, et piis omnibus retinendus animus est in custodia corporis nec iniussu eius, a quo ille est vobis datus, ex hominum vita migrandum est, ne munus 50 humanum assignatum a deo defugisse videamini. (“You, Publius, like all good men, must leave your soul in the guardianship of the body, and must not abandon the life of men without a command from he who gave this soul to you, in case you should appear to fail of that duty amongst humanity assigned to you by god.”)

It is not clear whether the iussum (“command”) referred to here should be taken as designating a signal from the divine powers that it is time to depart from life, or is simply a term synonymous with natural death. In the Tusculan Disputations, however, Cicero definitely allows for the possibility that a divine signal might be granted to certain fortunate individuals bidding them to take their own lives. At Tusc. Disp. 1.74 Cicero writes, propria persona, that,

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Cato autem sic abiit e vita, ut causam moriendi nactum se esse gauderet. vetat enim dominans ille in nobis deus iniussu hinc nos suo demigrare; cum vero causam iustam deus ipse dederit, ut tunc Socrati, nunc Catoni, saepe multis, ne ille medius fidius vir sapiens laetus ex his tenebris in lucem illam excesserit, nec tamen ille vincla carceris ruperit—leges enim vetant—, sed tamquam a magistratu aut ab aliqua potestate legitima, sic a deo evocatus atque emissus exierit. tota enim philosophorum vita, ut ait idem, commentatio mortis est. (“Cato, however, departed from life rejoicing that he had received a reason to die. For the god who rules within us forbids us to depart this life unordered. When this god himself provides some just cause—as was once true for Socrates, was in these times for Cato, and has often been the case for many—the wise person, you may be sure, joyfully ascends from the shadows of this world into the light. He does not break the chains of his prison, for the laws forbid this. When called and sent forth by this god, however, he departs, as though the command came from a magistrate, or some other legitimate authority. For the entire life of philosophers, as the philosopher just mentioned said, is a meditation upon death.”)

These two statements are often taken to be representative of Cicero’s “real” 51 position on self-killing. There are, however, multiple problems with this reading. First, these statements are both clearly adapted from Plato’s Phaedo, and while it is true that the possibility that self-killing is not to be performed except at the behest of a god is explored in this dialogue, the doctrine is neither argued for in detail nor presented as necessarily true even in the earlier work. Socrates, who voices the theory in the first place, characterizes it as θatlarsÒm and oÈ ρÑ ödioy dude›m (“strange, and difficult to understand”) and attributes it to the Pythagorean Philolaos rather than proclaiming his own allegiance to it.52 At the close of the dialogue Socrates furthermore admits that the arguments for the afterlife by which this doctrine was justified are at 53 most speculative. Plato’s endorsement of this prohibition, then, is at best tentative, and he was later to reject it entirely in the Laws.54 There is no reason to suppose, then, that Cicero would have adopted this claim without qualification as his own. In fact, the contexts in which he refers to the Phaedo’s prohibition on self-killing indicate that he reads the text as allegory more than injunction. That Cicero’s belief in the impiety of self-killing is considerably less than absolute is further indicated by statements made elsewhere in the De Re Publica and Tusculan Disputations that either weaken or contradict the terms of the Socratic prohibition. At De Re Publica 3.34 Scipio is represented as saying, sed his poenis quas etiam stultissimi sentiunt, egestate, exilio, vinculis, verberibus, elabuntur saepe privati oblata mortis celeritate, civitatibus autem mors ipsa poena est, quae videtur a poena singulos vindicare; debet enim constituta sic esse civitas, ut aeterna sit. itaque nullus interitus est rei publicae naturalis ut hominis, in quo mors non modo necessaria est, verum etiam optanda persaepe. civitas

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autem cum tollitur, deletur, extinguitur, simile est quodam modo, ut parva magnis conferamus, ac si omnis hic mundus intereat et concidat. (“But private citizens often evade those punishments which even the most insensitive can feel—poverty, exile, imprisonment, beatings—through a swift death. In the case of entire states, however, death itself is a punishment. For while death in fact appears to redeem individuals from punishment, a state needs to be so constituted that it has the capacity to last forever. Death is accordingly not natural to a state, as it is in the case of a human, for whom death is not only a necessity, but indeed quite often something to be hoped for. There is, however, a certain sense—if one may compare small things with great—in which the overthrow, destruction, and extinction of a state is similar to the decay and collapse of the entire cosmos.”)

This statement hardly amounts to a recommendation that one should kill oneself in the face of legal punishment. In claiming death is sometimes optanda (“something to be hoped for”), however, Cicero is presumably describing the mindset of the opti55 mus civis (“most excellent citizen”) with which his dialogue is so often concerned. That no mention is here made of the impiety of acting upon such an inclination, appears to undermine implicitly the strength of the prohibition expressed at De Re Pub. 6.15. Elsewhere Cicero contradicts the strictures expressed by Scipio explicitly. At Tusc. Disp. 2.66-7 he writes that, nam si omnia fugiendae turpitudinis adipiscendaeque honestatis causa faciemus, non modo stimulos doloris, sed etiam fulmina fortunae contemnamus licebit, praesertim cum paratum sit illud ex hesterna disputatione perfugium… sic urguentibus asperis et odiosis doloribus, si tanti sint, ut ferendi non sint, quo sit confugiendum vides. (“For if we are to perform all acts for the sake of shunning disgrace and acquiring honor, we shall rise superior not only to the stings of pain, but also to the thunder-bolts of Chance—particularly as that place of refuge discussed yesterday [i.e., death] has been prepared for us. In this way, you see where your escape must lie, if oppressive, bitter pains and hateful griefs too great to bear afflict you.”)

At Tusc. Disp. 5.118 Cicero becomes almost cavalier in his attitude, and states that, mihi quidem in vita, servanda videtur illa lex, quae in Graecorum conviviis optinetur: ‘aut bibat’ inquit ‘aut abeat.’ et recte. aut enim fruatur aliquis pariter cum aliis voluptate potandi aut, ne sobrius in violentiam vinolentorum incidat, ante discedat. sic iniurias fortunae, quas ferre nequeas, defugiendo relinquas. haec eadem, quae Epicurus, totidem verbis dicit Hieronymus.

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(“It seems to me that we ought to follow the same rule in life as the Greeks follow in banqueting: ‘Let each man either drink,’ it runs, ‘or leave.’ For each person should either enjoy the pleasure of drinking equally with the others, or he should depart early, in order that he, a sober man, not fall in amongst the violent behavior of the drunkards. Thus those blows of Fortune which you are not able to endure, you may abandon, by running away. This is the teaching of Epicurus, and Hieronymous agrees with him, in as many words.”)

Clearly, then, Cicero’s views on the ethics of self-killing are more complex than a simple claim that the act is permissible only by divine dispensation. Some of Cicero’s apparent self-contradiction here might be ascribable to a change of mind on the matter between the composition of the De Re Publica in 51 B.C. and that of the De Finibus in 45. The suicide of Cato at Utica in 46 B.C. had made the topic of self-killing a politically charged one, and we know from Plutarch that Brutus abandoned his view that Cato’s death had been cowardly and impious 56 under the pressure of events during this period. Cicero may have undergone a similar conversion, although the allegorical setting of his remarks in the De Re Publica makes this difficult to assess. At any rate, such a change of heart does not suffice to explain how it is that Cicero can advance apparently contradictory claims regarding self-killing in successive books of the Tusculans itself, nor why he should see fit to advance his initial prohibition in a dialogue concerning the optimus status civitatis (the 57 “best possible constitution of a state”). Sense can only be given to Cicero’s remarks if it is realized that they are not in fact intended as isolated statements concerning the ethics of self-killing. In this form they are clearly irreconcilable with each other and the context in which they are found. They should instead be viewed as forming a continuum with his philosophical project in the De Finibus, their purpose being to contribute to the reader’s understanding of the nature of his or her own self. As discussed above, the Stoic and Antiochean statements on self-killing found in the De Finibus are both connected to ethical systems in which the self is understood to be inherently virtuous, and virtuous action thus to arise from self-knowledge. It is this view of the self that also informs Cicero’s own statements on self-killing in the De Re Publica and the Tusculan Disputations and allows them to cohere with each other. While taken in isolation Cicero’s declarations at Re Pub. 6.15 and Tusc. Disp. 1.74 appear to be straightforward injunctions against the act of self-killing, consideration of the contexts in which these statements are made indicates that these are not to be taken literally. In both works they are expressed in connection with accounts of the afterlife, accounts which function as epistemological parables and illustrate the means by which individuals come to perceive their own natures in an objective fashion. This epistemologically illustrative use of the discussion of self-killing is not unique to Cicero, and in fact permeates the source text of his prohibition of the act,

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Plato’s Phaedo. Even a cursory reading of the Phaedo makes it clear that Socrates’ discussion of the immortality of the soul and the impermissibility of self-killing has as much to do with the Platonic Theory of Forms as it does with his own impending death. Death is, Socrates claims, not to be viewed as destruction. Rather, it should be seen as a separation of the soul from the body, or, given the tendencies of Platonic dualism, kãθarriy (“purification”) of the intellect from the corrupting influence of the corporeal senses.58 Knowledge derived from the senses, Socrates famously argues, is misleading, and can only lead to the formation of dÒna (“opinion”), while through the exercise of reason and logic the mind alone can come to the certain knowledge granted by an understanding of the Forms. How literally Socrates intends all of this to be taken is a moot issue;59 what is uncontroversial is that his description of the nature of the soul and its operations after death serves at least in part to illustrate to the reader a contrast between the stability of the mental realm and the transience of the merely physical. To view Socrates’ speech as narrowly concerned with the fate awaiting him after death is thus to miss the point. Socrates is insistent that the knowledge to which the soul attains after death may be attained in life; hence his famous claim that true philosophers §pisgdeÊrim µ époθmºrkeim se ka‹ sehmãmai (“practice [nothing other than] dying and being dead”),60 the statement rendered by Cicero as tota philosophorum vita commentatio mortis est (“the entire life of philosophers is a meditation upon death”). The visualization of the soul after death acts in the text, to use Hadot’s phrase, as a ‘spiritual exercise,’ meant to focus the aspiring philosopher’s 61 mind on the nature of knowledge and the path to its attainment. Within this highly theorized and abstract context, Socrates’ reference to a Pythagorean injunction against self-killing functions primarily as a pedagogical aid. On the one hand it acts as a safeguard intended to ward overeager philosophical aspirants away from the use of self-killing as a research tool, a temptation with which later philosophical commentators on the dialogue were much concerned.62 On the other, it gives Socrates the opportunity to further elucidate his basic point that the goal of philosophy is not the separation of the soul from the body, but the purification of the soul from bodily desires, which is a rather different matter. While this claim itself has implications for the ethics of self-killing (as self-killing without such purification would be an entirely futile exercise) this is not the main orientation of Socrates’ statements here, which are firmly focused upon the nature of knowledge 63 itself. Cicero’s Platonically-inspired statements on self-killing function in a similar fashion. For Cicero, as for Socrates, the value of describing the nature of the afterlife is the conceptual separation this effects between the soul, which is seen as the site of virtus, and the body, viewed as the source of disorderly impulses that interfere with the soul’s operations. To discuss the fate of the individual after death is thus to discuss the nature of virtus or the Good in its purest possible form. Because the individual

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has been abstracted from all conceivable earthly and bodily concerns, discourse on the nature of virtus in this context concerns not concrete instances of virtuous behavior or the rightness or wrongness of this or that particular act. Instead, it becomes possible to discuss the roots of virtus in a global fashion, and to focus upon not what moral action is, but how it is attained. To contemplate the afterlife, then, is to consider the kind of understanding that informs virtuous acts. If Cicero shares Plato’s basic purpose in discussing the postmortem existence of the soul, however, his approach to ethical epistemology diverges so widely from his predecessor’s that his speculations lead him to conclusions rather far removed from those of Socrates. Socrates’ ideal of knowledge is highly intellectualist in character: true knowledge is to be obtained essentially through pure ratiocination. Cicero’s understanding of the nature of ethical insight is on the other hand basically empirical in character. Because in his view virtus is innate, knowledge of virtus is arrived at not analytically or deductively, but through observation of the nature of the self. The value of meditation upon death is thus for Cicero twofold. On the one hand, Cicero’s treatment of this theme allows him to present to the reader in as direct a fashion as possible the virtuous nature of the self, as objectively defined. In day-to-day life our actions are viewed as governed by a range of desires, some of which are attributable to the body and are non- or unethical, and others of which are functions of the mind, and purely moral in character. This duality of motive obscures our understanding of our own true natures, a difficulty which can be eliminated conceptually if the individual is discussed as though the body were no longer a relevant factor. Description of the postmortem existence of the soul, in other words, allows the ‘empirical’ treatment of that which is normally impossible or difficult to perceive. Cicero’s empirical orientation emerges even more clearly with consideration of the second function of the commentatio mortis in his works, that of delineating how ethical insight might be attained while the soul is still located in the body. In Cicero’s vision of the afterlife, the chief impulse of the virtuous soul after its liberation from the body is to reflect upon the operations of natura in general and the res publica in particular. Virtus in its pure form, in other words, takes as its primary object of cognition the integrated network that comprises the cosmos, with particular attention paid to that portion of it most relevant the individual’s role within it. Cicero expects, then, that contemplation of the nature of the soul in its pure form will ideally lead to an increased understanding of one’s place within the universe and the state. Given that Cicero also sees virtus as a function of self-knowledge, this implies the presence of an interesting series of assumed identities in Cicero’s thought: on an objective level, it appears that the self is identical to the individual’s function within natura, and that this is in turn identical to the individual’s function within the res publica. Cicero’s reiterations of the Phaedo’s quasi-prohibition of self-killing, then, neither contradict, nor are merely tangential to, views on self-killing expressed elsewhere in his works.

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Rather, they form part of an ongoing philosophical project, and serve in particular to supply definite content to the broad model of the self illustrated with reference to self-killing in De Finibus 3 and 5. 2.4.1 Tusculan Disputations 1.74 The connection between Cicero’s citations of the Phaedo and the Stoic and Antiochean positions outlined in the De Finibus is more immediately obvious in the Tusculan Disputations than in the De Re Publica. The immediate context for Cicero’s discussion of death and the afterlife at Tusculan Disputations 1.74 is, as in the Phaedo, a rehearsal of various arguments for the immortality of the soul. The nominal topic of the work’s first book is the fear of death experienced by Cicero’s even more nominal interlocutor, A.64 and it is to address these fears that Cicero recapitulates many of the central arguments of Plato’s dialogue. Interestingly, however, A. is portrayed as being already familiar with these arguments, and to have remained unconsoled by them. More specifically, he says that he is convinced by them only so long as he is reading the Phaedo, and that as soon as he puts the book away adsensio illa omnis elabitur (“all that sense of agreement slips away”).65 The problem with Plato’s arguments in the Phaedo, in Cicero’s view, is not simply one of rhetoric, and at Tusc. 1.49 he openly casts aspersions upon their validity. At Tusc. 1.39, in addition, he disarmingly admits that his respect for Plato is derived more from the philosopher’s auctoritas (“authority”) than from his arguments, and claims that, errare mehercule malo cum Platone… quam cum istis [sc. inimicis Platoni] vera sentire (“I would rather, by Hercules, be wrong with Plato, than hold true opinions with those who are hostile to him”). Cicero’s extended citations of Plato, then, are not motivated by the conviction that his statements are true in any strong sense. They, and his vision of the afterlife, instead appear to serve the same function they fulfill in the Phaedo itself, that of the epistemological parable. The epistemological framework within which Cicero is operating throughout the Tusculan Disputations is comparable to that implicit in his accounts of Stoicism and Antiochean ethics in the De Finibus. The chief differences are that in the Tusculan Disputations Cicero is writing propria persona and that throughout the work he places his emphasis more firmly on eudaimonia than on virtus. The primary focus of the Tusculan Disputations is upon the emotions, and how the individual might attain 66 tranquility amidst anxiety and distress. The work accordingly betrays a great deal of Stoic influence, and throughout Books 3 and 4 Cicero appears to be borrowing freely and extensively from the definitions of the emotions advanced by the second-century 67 B.C. Stoic Sphaerus. Cicero has, however, modified these doctrines considerably by assuming that the emotions are expressive not—as they were for the Stoa—of defects of reason, but instead of a distinct irrational element of the soul. Cicero’s understanding of the emotions here is furthermore in broad outline identical to that

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expressed in the De Finibus. Disruptions to the individual’s tranquility, Cicero claims, stem from the agent’s location of the good outside him- or herself, in objects beyond the individual’s immediate and absolute control. As soon as the belief that happiness is to be found in exterior goods arises individuals are prone to exisse ex potestate [sc. sua]68 (“depart [their own] control”) and become prey to the relentless concatenation of the emotions attendant upon this. Laetitia (“delight”) and libido (“lust”) are aroused by the belief that one possesses, or is about to possess, some desired good thing, while aegritudo (“distress”) and metus (“dread”) appear when one believes that this good is absent or about to be removed. Cicero, following Sphaerus, subdivides these four basic categories into more than thirty kinds of perturbatio, each of which disturbs the individual’s equanimitas (“equanimity”) and prevents his or her actions from cohering towards one final set purpose. 69 The only way to escape this cycle of the perturbationes is, Cicero reiterates, to realize that one’s good must ultimately lie in that which is entirely under one’s own power—which is to say, that it lies in one’s own intrinsic nature. As Cicero phrases it at Tusc. 5.30, only true philosophers poterunt clarissima voce profiteri se neque fortunae impetu nec multitudinis opinione nec dolore nec paupertate terreri omniaque sibi in sese esse posita nec esse quidquam extra suam potestatem quod ducant in bonis. (“will be able to proclaim, in the loudest voice, that they are terrified neither by the force of Fortune, nor by the opinions of the common mob, nor by grief, nor by poverty; and that everything they need for themselves is within themselves; and that there is nothing which they hold to be desirable that lies outside their own power.”)

The epistemological duty of moral philosophy is clear: it must allow individuals to discover their own true natures, and to purify themselves of the influence of externals upon action by so doing. The final imperative of philosophy, then, is found in the Pythian injunction to know oneself, translated by Cicero as ipsa se mens agnoscat 70 (“let the mind recognize itself”) and nosce animum tuum (“know your own spirit”). It is to this end that the Tusculan Disputations have been composed, and Cicero claims that, si [sc. animus] est excultus et si eius acies ita curata est, ut ne caecaretur erroribus, fit perfecta mens, id est absoluta ratio, quod est idem virtus (“if the soul is cultivated, and its keenness of perception maintained in such a way that it is not blinded by error, the mind becomes perfect—that is to say, absolute reason, which is the same 71 thing as moral excellence”). Among the chief obstacles to attaining this knowledge that simultaneously grants the individual tranquility, virtus, and reason is, according to Cicero, a problem of reflexivity. Because in self-contemplation the perceiver and the perceived are identical, we have difficulty knowing ourselves to the same extent

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that we know other objects. We are, Cicero says, blind at our most crucial point: non valet tantum animus, ut se ipse videat; at ut oculus, sic animus se non videns alia cernit (“the spirit lacks the capacity to behold itself. Just like the eye, the spirit perceives oth72 er things, not seeing itself”). Our gaze is always pointed outwards, at other objects, and we therefore encounter difficulties discovering our true nature. It is for this reason that Cicero provides the reader with an account of the soul’s ethereal ascent towards the heavenly spheres after death.73 Although this description is not found in Plato, Cicero’s motivation for including it in the Tusculan Disputations is clearly Platonic in character. The account, Cicero makes clear, is intended to serve as a parable illustrating the nature of the soul when separated from all other items and perceived in all its distinctness: nam quid aliud agimus, cum a voluptate, id est a corpore, cum a re familiari, quae est ministra et famula corporis, cum a re publica, cum a negotio omni sevocamus animum, quid, inquam, tum agimus nisi animum ad se ipsum advocamus, 74 secum esse cogimus maximeque a corpore abducimus? (“For what else do we do when we call the soul from pleasure, which is to say, from the body; from our possessions, the body’s minister and servant; and from the Republic, and from all other business? What, I ask, are we doing, but summoning the spirit to itself, compelling it to be alone with itself, and withdrawing it as far as possible from the body?”)

The passage is clearly an expansion of Socrates’ claim at Phaed. 67c-d that the goal of the practice of philosophy is to free the soul from the concerns of the body, as occurs in death. The Platonic reminiscences are continued at Tusculan Disputations 1.43-4, where Cicero observes that desire cannot be eliminated in life because cupiditas is a function of the body, a notion found also at Phaedo 66b-e. Cicero embellishes the Platonic account considerably, however, and goes on to claim that after death the soul ascends to a point within the ethereal boundaries of the mundus (“cosmos”) where it is at perfect equilibrium and thus has no need of further appetition. The point of the passage, however, is basically Platonic: because the soul is after death afflicted by no goal and no desires it is in this state isolable and perceptible per se. Just as in the Phaedo, we in fact learn little in Cicero’s account concerning the precise contents of the soul after death. Attention is instead focused upon the soul’s mode of perception and acquisition of knowledge. Interestingly, however, while the soul of Socrates is a purely intellectual and deductive animal, Cicero’s envisions the soul as a resolute empiricist, to the extent that he is briefly diverted from the main thread of his discourse to speculate on how it might be that a creature not endowed with physical sensory organs might nevertheless perceive the world. We are told, in fact, that the first instinct of the soul once it has reached the borders of the universe is to take advantage of its new, elevated, viewpoint and behold the operations of the

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physical world. It is, Cicero claims, inspired by an in mentibus insatiabilis quaedam cupiditas veri videndi (“certain unquenchable lust for perceiving the truth [that is rooted] in our minds”). Because the soul has risen so high, it now enjoys a comprehensive perspective whereby it might understand the operations of natura as a whole, and is finally in a position where it might learn quale quidque sit (“what the essence 75 of each thing really is”). Despite Cicero’s interest in allowing his readers to attain a self-knowing reflexivity, the perfected soul, in his parable, is not itself reflexive. Cicero locates all tranquility and virtus in autonomy from the outside world; but this autonomy, it seems, does not isolate the individual from the world, but orients him or her entirely towards it. 2.4.2 De Re Publica 6.13.15 76

To understand the tendency of Cicero’s idealized soul towards ‘extraspection’ —i.e., to seek to know itself through reflection upon the natural order rather than through direct self-contemplation—it is necessary to turn to the other passage in Cicero’s works in which the soul’s ascent after death is described, the beatific vision related by Scipio Africanus the Younger in the final book of the De Re Publica. This section of the work was detached from rest of the dialogue early in the manuscript tradition, and enjoyed a long life as a self-contained pagan vision of the afterlife known as the Somnium Scipionis, or ‘Dream of Scipio.’ When restored to its original place and read as a coda to the De Re Publica, it becomes clear that the Somnium Scipionis is not meant to be taken literally, but should be viewed rather as Cicero’s response to the allegorical ‘Myth of Er’ that closes Plato’s Republic. Cicero describes this passage at De Re Publica 6.34 as Plato ‘playing’ [lusisse]; Scipio’s vision of the afterlife, then, is presumably to be read non-literally and allegorically. The function of the allegory is two-fold. On the one hand,—as its early detachment in the manuscript tradition attests—the Somnium Scipionis is clearly capable of standing on its own as a self-contained unit. It additionally serves, however, to recapitulate the main themes of the preceding dialogue, and, in particular, to link the end of the De Re Publica to the beginning. The De Re Publica begins with a debate concerning the relative merits of studying natural or political philosophy, and, with this in mind, it is clear that part of the function of the Somnium Scipionis is to describe the role of the Roman state in teleological terms, i.e., to describe the relationship between the Roman state and the natural order or, more precisely, to ground the Roman state in nature. Throughout the De Re Publica and, correspondingly, in the Somnium Scipionis, Cicero is concerned to demonstrate that one is a synecdoche of the other, and, intimately bound up with this purpose, to solve certain epistemological difficulties inherent in the Roman political order that could cast its status as ontologically “natural” into doubt.

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To understand the epistemological concerns the Somnium Scipionis is intended to address, it is necessary to comprehend both Cicero’s views on the nature of political philosophy in general, and, more specifically, what he believes the function of the res publica that is the subject of his treatise to be. This is on a superficial level fairly obvious from his famous definition of a res publica as a res populi: the “state,”77 or, to give a more precise translation, the “public body,” consists of those things which concern the affairs of the people as a whole. In defining the res publica in this way Cicero is in effect laying down a criterion of legitimacy:78 to be a properly constituted res publica, the res must be truly “of the people.” It must work for the utilitas communis (“common advantage”), and if it does not, the res publica is not a state, but a tyranny.79 For this reason iustitia (“justice”), at least in the sense of “distributive justice,” is central to the legitimacy of a state, which must give to all what they deserve for their participation in the res populi. Iustitia is, furthermore, desirable not just for the sake of some abstract concept of legitimacy. In Cicero’s view, any state that does not possess iustitia (and is therefore not truly a res publica) is necessarily dangerously unsta80 ble. The self-perpetuation and stability of the state demand, then, that it operate for the common utilitas; in turn, however, maintenance of the common utilitas requires the self-perpetuation and stability of the state. The purpose of politics and the supreme task of the statesman, then, is the preservation of the state and, insofar as possible, the maintenance of the status quo.81 This essentially conservative outlook is reflected in Cicero’s oft-trumpeted belief that the concordia ordinum (“harmony of all social ranks”) is the highest possible political ideal, a situation in which all ranks of society work together for the collective benefit of the state as a whole. Phrased like this, Cicero appears to be a forerunner of social-contract utilitarianism, and he is sometimes hailed as the first theorist of the modern conception of the state.82 This is seriously to underestimate the extent to which Cicero, in common with most other ancient thinkers, views humans as inherently (and chiefly) political animals, and politics therefore as the supreme art. As Neal Wood remarks, ‘all that is distinctively human, according to Cicero, depends on the existence and well-being of the state.’83 Only in groups can order, philosophy, and the arts flourish and humans fulfill their rational nature. In the absence of a res publica, individuals descend into subhumanity.84 This is true not simply because stability is necessary for an individual to thrive, though this is a related factor. In Cicero’s view, the desirability of a res publica is more deeply grounded than this. According to Cicero, humans are by nature gregarious, and their highest functions are therefore themselves inescapably social. Cicero thus effects a complete fusion of his ethical ideals (morality and rationality) with his political ideals (self-perpetuation and stability). As Atkins puts it, for Cicero ‘societas [“civil society”] is not simply another kind of utile [“advantage”] that contributes to the maintenance or comfort of life. It is the goal that defines… virtue.’85 From this arises Cicero’s unusual comparison of the destruction of the state to that of the

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universe, for with the fall of the res publica crumbles all possible context for ethical action itself. The state is the engine of virtus and virtus is the engine of the state. The two are interdependent, reciprocally entailing, and cannot be separated from each other. This interdependence, amounting almost to a tautology, is formalized in Cicero’s writings by the concept of the lex naturalis (“natural law”), the immutable and universal law that governs all members of the human species. The lex naturalis is in one sense a set of ethical principles; it is on the other that pattern of human behavior that preserves societates and res publicae in self-perpetuating and stable patterns and which is therefore identical to virtus. It is not inevitable that human laws should conform to the strictures of the lex naturalis, but only those that do will preserve the state and conduce to its maintenance. Because humans are naturally and fundamentally gregarious social animals, furthermore, adherence to the lex naturalis that preserves societates is also identical to ratio (“rationality”), which is to say that it reflects the individual’s innermost nature and is therefore the basis of both virtus and eudaimonia. The utilitas born of the res publica, then, is not just economic and material, but also ethical and psychological. It must be emphasized that Cicero does not envision humanity’s innate gregariousness as extending to anything approaching “altruism” or egalitarianism. As Wood points out, Human solidarity… for Cicero… implies not so much a loving sympathy or compassion for others, as it does the kind of relations and shared interests exist86 ing in a community of citizens, with all the inequalities entailed by this.

The relevant fusion here is not horizontal—among all humans—but vertical, uniting natura on a cosmic level, the res publica on a political level, and ratio on the level of the individual. As Cicero’s frequent statements of identity among mens (“mind”), lex, and natura87 make clear, the innately social nature of humans is viewed as grounding virtus politically, psychologically, and ethically. Cicero’s emphasis on the innately human character of the lex naturalis, however, is at least as particularizing as it is universalizing. Because the “naturalness” of any political structure can be gauged by its successful self-perpetuation and expansion, there is in Cicero’s writings a powerful tendency to claim that apparently arbitrary Roman social conventions are in fact validated by Nature. This is particularly true of Cicero’s reverence for the Roman Republic of the maiores (“ancestors”). Polybius had accorded Rome’s immense capacity for expansion to the superiority of Roman institutions and mores (“traditions” or “customs”); Cicero agrees, and the result is that he has no hesitation in according Roman social customs normative status. This tendency is in extreme evidence in the De Re Publica, which appears to begin, much to the consternation of many commentators, as an attempt to outline the nature of the ideal

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state, but quickly mutates into an account of the political history of the Roman res 88 89 publica; a similar pattern is often observable in the De Legibus. Whatever the 90 beneficent liberal qualities of Cicero’s concept of a “natural law,” then, from another perspective his habit of according universal significance to particular customs of the mos maiorum might be said to have ‘Romanized the cosmos.’91 There is no mistaking the strain of smug imperialism here, and Cicero is unhesitatingly elitist in his thinking. Nevertheless, Cicero’s enthusiasm for the current political and social constitution of the Republic is tempered by consideration of the war-torn realities of his day. However convincing the unparalleled success of the res publica might have seemed for the argument that its laws and constitution were grounded in nature, the political turmoil of the Late Republic clearly revealed certain flaws in this claim, and Cicero was well aware that the established Roman political constitution was in fact on the verge of collapse. Such instability, Cicero maintains, is traceable to certain epistemological difficulties concerning the perception of virtus that had arisen over the course of the last few generations. The chief problem lies in a divorce between two kinds of utilitas that to Cicero’s mind ought ideally to be organically linked, but have become separated in political reality. Cicero is entirely aware that his definition of utilitas communis as identical to the social virtues is counter-intuitive: such a perspective, he argues, is possible only to those who are endowed with foresight, in pursuit of long-term goals, and capable of forward planning and even philosophizing. It is, in other words, the utilitas of an elite. The indocti and agrestes multi (the “uneducated and uncultured majority”),92 he claims, define their utilitas in a narrowly economic sense, or even identify it with voluptas (“pleasure”);93 it is for the aristocracy, the humani and politi boni 94 (“well-educated and refined good men”), to safeguard these goals of the vulgus (“the mass”) and to sacrifice the pursuit of their own immediate interests out of concern for the greater good and the perpetuation and stability of the state. The best interests of vulgus and the boni alike, then, can be conserved only if the elite continue to take account of the desires of the mob in their deliberations, and the vulgus in return acknowledges and recognizes the superior foresight and wisdom of the aristocracy. Crucial to the whole system, then, is that everyone should recognize and respect the practice of the social virtues,95 behavior described by Cicero as the accordance of honor (“honor”) to virtus. On one level this is unproblematic, and according to Cicero such action is almost instinctive. Given that virtus is innate and that all have some capacity to recognize its expression in the action of others, it is, as noted above, an empirically observable phenomenon. Proof of this is found, Cicero claims, in the applause that greets the depiction of noble acts in the theater. Elsewhere he describes virtus as a splendor (“splendor”) that ‘shines out’ [perlucet], perceptible in the pulchritudo (“beauty”), venustas (“grace”) and convenientia (“harmoniousness”) it lends to its 96 practitioners. In response, the beholder of this phenomenon accords its bearer honor

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and auctoritas; in extreme cases, such as when an individual has single-handedly saved the state, the prize is gloria (“glory”). Influence, honor, and glory thus follow ethical 97 action tamquam umbra (“like a shadow”), and auctoritas waxes commensurate with virtus. Though the interests of the vulgus are narrowly economic in character, then, it willingly grants political power to an elite that it instinctively recognizes as instantiating the social virtues and thereby as safeguarding its interests. The political economy of Cicero’s ideal res publica accordingly consists entirely in transactions of honor.98 There is in this scheme, however, the potential for a worrying duality in the motives that impel the aristocrat to compete with his peers for honor. On the one hand, virtus is presented by Cicero as possessing an absolute value: the aristocrat acts virtuously because virtus is for him an end in itself. On the other hand, virtue’s value is instrumental: it is only through wielding the power and wealth entailed by virtus that the aristocrat can be said to act virtuously at all, i.e., to perpetuate the state and ensure the well-being of its citizens. The difficulty here is clear. As A.A. Long points out, ‘the ideology is always at risk of deriving ethical worth from material status, and of using the glory and wealth that accrue to the powerful as absolute standards of their actual merit.’99 According to Cicero, it is precisely the aristocracy’s difficulty in making this distinction between aristocratic status and ethical merit that has brought the Republic to the brink of collapse,100 and it is in fact a division he finds easier to draw on a the101 oretical than a concrete level. The difference between the two is for Cicero analogous to the separation between skopos and telos made by Cato in De Finibus Book 3, and the problems inherent in these two contradistinctions are identical. Cato’s account of personal motivation, and Cicero’s of political, both rest upon the idea that the objects of action are identical for the virtuous and the non-virtuous. Analyzed at the level of the isolated act, then, the difference between ethical and unethical behavior might frequently be imperceptible. The relevant focus of analysis, then, is not practical actions in themselves, but the coherence amongst these acts and the pattern they form when taken as a whole. Non-virtuous individuals view the objects of their actions as desirable in themselves, and their acts are therefore governed entirely out of concern to secure these objects. They are thus incapable of ensuring that all their actions are compatible, and do not interfere with each other, as they are directed at various objects of appetition. Virtuous individuals, however, pursue the objects of their actions only insofar as they are contribute to the maintenance of a larger, rational structure of acts, whether at a personal or political level. Failure to do so results in perturbationes injurious both to the tranquility of the individual and the constitution of the res publica. The paramount example of such a disruptive (and disrupted) individual is, for Cicero, Julius Caesar: while Cicero praises Caesar’s ambition and the objects to which he aspired, he emphasizes that the motivation behind his acts is not

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reason or virtus, but mere cupiditas gloriae (“greed for glory”) and libido dominandi 102 (“a lust for rule”). Caesar was, according to Cicero, unable to perceive that the accoutrements of aristocratic pre-eminence are desirable only when subordinated to the cardinal virtus of iustitia and devoted to ensuring the good of the Republic. As a result, Caesar threw the res publica into faction and himself became a tyrant whose assassination was entirely deserved. It is clear to Cicero, however, that Caesar is merely a symptom of a deeper political malaise afflicting the res publica, and that the populus Romanus has had difficulty in perceiving the broader pattern to which their actions are to contribute for some time now. In a famous simile Cicero at De Re Publica 5.1 compares the Republic to a painting that has been handed down through successive generations, its colors slowly fading from view. The simile is echoed in De Officiis 3.15, where Cicero observes that, while even the imperiti (“ignorant”) are capable of praising virtus or a work of fine art, true discernment requires an expert. In both cases the point seems to be that Roman perceptions of virtus are being progressively blurred to the point that the true nature of virtus is in danger of being lost from view. The result is that honor is accorded to those who merely gratify the immediate demands of vulgar utilitas, and the political economy of virtue collapses. It is therefore the duty of the aristocracy, the 103 arbitri honorum (“witnesses” or “judges of honor”), to clarify their perception of 104 the ethical structure of the state and reassert in their actions the necessary link between virtus, honor, and glory in political affairs. It is to this epistemological end that Cicero provides his readers with Scipio’s vivid depiction of the nature of the afterlife. Just as Cicero’s portrait of the soul after death at Tusculan Disputations 1.74 allows him the luxury of divorcing the individual from his or her usual context in order to describe the innate character of virtus, so separation of Scipio from his immediate political environment is portrayed as allowing him to perceive with greater clarity the true foundations of the Roman state. The heaven of the Somnium Scipionis is very much a politician’s paradise. Near the beginning of his dream Scipio is informed that, omnibus, qui patriam conservaverint, adiuverint, auxerint, certum esse in caelo definitum locum, ubi beati aevo sempiterno fruantur (“for all those who have protected, aided, and increased their fatherlands, there is a place in heaven reserved, where they may enjoy unending happiness”),105 and the principle is reiterated at the close of the piece, where he is assured that Scipio himself will ascend to these heights through curae de salute patriae (“defense of his homeland”).106 Despite this political emphasis, however, Scipio is twice admonished to desist from staring down from the heavens to the Republic below, and the minuteness of the Roman world and its concerns when compared to the vastness of the universe is repeatedly emphasized. As his ancestor points out, Scipio cannot expect to earn any meaningful degree of celebritas (“renown”) or gloria from a state minute in

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geographical extent and situated within a universe doomed always to perish in recur107 rent conflagration. Scipio is instead invited to behold the glories of nature and the immensity of the operations of the physical universe, while in the conclusion to his speech, Africanus advises Scipio to locate his political motivation not amongst the sermonibus vulgi (“chattering of the vulgar mob”), but through contemplation of the 108 order of nature and the heavens, an order of which the Roman state is only a part. The Somnium Scipionis thus revisits the dichotomy between natural and political philosophy with which the De Re Publica had opened109 and resolves it with the assertion that the two form a continuum.110 In so doing the Somnium acts as an allegorical reworking of numerous themes developed by Cicero in the De Re Publica itself, and foreshadows ideas he was to explore further in his later philosophical works: natura is a self-perpetuating and ordered system; insofar as it partakes of the lex naturalis a state will itself remain self-perpetuating and ordered; and to act in accordance with the best interests of the state is therefore to act in accordance with nature. Only when this allegorical schema is borne in mind do the various pronouncements on self-killing scattered through Cicero’s works begin to make sense. On the one hand, the prohibition of the act voiced by Scipio’s father at De Re Publica 6.13 can be read as a rhetorical flourish, meant, as I have argued for the similar assertion 111 at Tusculan Disputations 1.74, to preserve the allegorical character of the passage and to prevent anyone from taking it as a literal representation of the afterlife. On the other hand, Cicero’s extremely social view of the individual and of ethics indicates that for him to speak of an individual possessing some particular earthly munus (“obligation”) or officium can possess a sense beyond the metaphorical. Any prohibition advanced by Cicero against the act of self-killing is, however, very weak. While the primary imperative for the individual is to act to conserve the state, and self-killing might therefore often prove a dereliction of duty, Cicero seems to imagine that the act is considered only under circumstances where the individual’s capacity to serve the state is limited or non-existent anyway. At De Re Publica 3.34 self-destruction is discussed as the act of one suffering punishment by political authorities; presumably in this position the individual is powerless to act for the benefit of the state, and is therefore excused from attempting to do so. The point of the banqueting simile found at Tusc. 5.118, in which Cicero claims that the decision to kill oneself is akin to deciding to leave an excessively boisterous party, appears similar: in an environment in which everyone is acting irrationally and excessively the influence of even the most sober individual is liable to go unheeded, and voluntary removal of oneself from the situation is entirely understandable. The same principle seems, on a more mundane level, to underlie Cicero’s claims that it is permissible to kill oneself if one is suffering from excessive pain, where again this can be assumed to interfere with the individual’s ability to act effectively as a political agent.

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Such a point of view is compatible even with the ethics of self-killing described by Cato in De Finibus Book 3, albeit at a practical rather than theoretical level: if one is to be denied all those things which are in accordance with nature, one’s ability to engage in political activity is hindered and self-killing is hardly a vitium (“moral flaw”). One might possibly argue that such calamities do in fact amount to a “divine 112 summons” to take one’s own life, but there is nothing in Cicero to suggest that he felt the epistemological problems surrounding self-killing required a deus ex machina in anything more than an allegorical sense. That self-killing was an act that should not be undertaken precipitately or in default of one’s obligations, but might be permissible in circumstances in which one was no longer capable of performing one’s duties or was in immense pain appears to have been a principle well-engrained in ancient culture generally,113 and Cicero’s philosophical endorsement of this principle is in keeping with his tendency to take ‘his own traditions as equivalent to moral laws.’114 The epistemological difficulties of self-killing are in Cicero’s philosophy slight, and the act might have been undertaken in accordance with his precepts by any individual who had a reasonably firm grasp of elite Roman mores in general.

2.5 SUICIDE AND THE SELF AS PERSONA That Cicero’s ethics remain highly conventional even in their most abstract and rarefied form must be kept in mind if anything coherent is to be extracted from his most famous judgment on suicide, his analysis of the self-inflicted death of Cato the Younger at De Officiis 1.112. According to Cicero, atque haec differentia naturarum tantam habet vim, ut non numquam mortem sibi ipse consciscere alius debeat, alius [in eadem causa] non debeat. num enim alia in causa M. Cato fuit, alia ceteri, qui se in Africa Caesari tradiderunt? atqui ceteris forsitan vitio datum esset, si se interemissent, propterea quod lenior eorum vita et mores fuerant faciliores; Catoni cum incredibilem tribuisset natura gravitatem, eamque ipse perpetua constantia roboravisset semperque in proposito susceptoque consilio permansisset, moriendum potius quam tyranni vultus aspiciendus fuit. (“Inherent differences in natural character are so important that sometimes one individual most resolve upon death for himself, and another, in the same situation, must not. For was Marcus Cato in one situation, and those others, who surrendered to Caesar in Africa, in another? And yet if they had killed themselves, many might have considered the act a moral flaw, because their lives were more pliable and their characters more flexible than his. Since nature had endowed Cato with an unbelievable moral gravity, and he had strengthened this with an unchanging consistency of character, and always persisted in whatever plan he initiated or undertook, it was right for Cato to die rather than look upon the face of a tyrant.”)

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The reasons that motivate Cicero to make this startling claim are far from being – immediately clear. From the perspective of anangke -theory it appears that Cicero’s reasoning here is essentially epistemological, and that he is claiming for Cato the status of sapiens.115 I hope I have clearly shown, however, that such a conception of the question is entirely foreign to the general tenor of Cicero’s thinking. In a 1988 article devoted specifically to this passage and its immediate context, Christopher Gill points out that, at first glance, Cicero appears here to be doing something even more radical than conferring sagehood upon a political ally, and seems to be advancing the proposition that ‘personal consistency… constitutes a normative reference point all on its 116 own.’ Such a claim, Gill notes, sits very comfortably within those strands of modern ethics which privilege qualities such as individualism and sincerity117 as ethical ideals. Against the background of ancient moral philosophy in general, and Cicero’s ethical works in particular, the notion nevertheless appears extremely incongruous. In fact, as Gill points out, such a perspective is difficult to reconcile even with the arguments Cicero is attempting to illustrate through Cato’s exemplarity. To begin with, Cicero’s De Officiis is a translation of a work by the Greek Stoic Panaetius entitled Per‹ kahÆkomsoy (Peri kathe–kontos), and this is in itself an inauspicious starting point for individualizing ethical innovations. In Stoic parlance kahÆkomsa (kathe– konta) are “appropriate acts,” i.e., acts fitting for an individual to perform. These are distinguished from kasorh≈lasa (katortho–mata), “perfect acts” which are not only appropriate for an agent to perform, but are performed in full understanding of the – reason behind the act. Kathe konta, in other words, are directed towards the skopos; katortho–mata intend towards the telos. Any individual, then, might through accident or design perform an act that is kathe-kon. Only the sapiens, however, possesses the level – of insight necessary to katorthomata. In concrete terms, then, the difference between – – kathe konta and katorthomata is the difference between precept and theory: while it is possible to advise individuals occupying particular roles as to what acts are associated with these roles, perfect understanding of these acts can only come with inquiry into the nature of virtus itself.118 It would therefore seem a priori likely that the accordance of ethical weight to personally (as opposed to socially) determined actions would – – relate to the domain of katorthomata rather than kathokonta, the avowed topic of Cicero’s work. Indeed, it would seem that the idea of a purely individualized ethics is inimical to the development of precepts at all. The immediate context of the Catonic passage in the De Officiis itself further argues against the idea that Cicero is here granting some kind of absolute value to an agent’s own self-determination. Cicero’s remark on Cato’s suicide here arises in the course of his discussion of the four-personae theory of Panaetius, and it is not clear that this is itself an ethical theory at all. According to the four-personae theory, individuals are analyzable on four different levels. First, we are all endowed with a universally shared human nature that makes us participes rationis (“participants in reason”).

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Second, we all possess an altera persona, quae proprie singulis est tributa (“a second persona, which is granted to each particular individual”), and it is under this heading 119 that Cato’s suicide is discussed. We have also a tertia persona, quam casus aliqui aut tempus imponit (“third persona, which some chance or circumstance imposes”), the result of fortuna (“Fate” or “Chance”). There is finally a fourth persona, which consists of a role we adopt because we are suited to it; this chiefly refers to our choice of career.120 There is, as earlier critics have noted, a notable asymmetry to these categories. While it seems clear that the first and second personae might be considered to describe moral qualities, the fourth is of dubious ethical relevance and the third 121 explicitly has nothing to do with the individual’s agency at all. The very concept of analyzing humans into these four categories seems furthermore to undermine the notion that in this theory personal consistency is expected to act as a guiding criterion for ethical action. As Philip DeLacey points out, The pluralization of roles would seem to destroy the individuality of the moral agent; he is not one person but four, playing four roles that somehow result in a common act appropriate to them all. Where is the unity of the moral agent to be 122 found?

In Gill’s phrase, there seems to be a basic ‘awkwardness’ here in the use of the four-personae theory as a means of ethical assessment.123 As both Gill and DeLacey point out, on a more careful reading the overall thrust of the four-personae theory is revealed to work precisely counter to any notion of according the individual primacy in ethical matters. From a certain perspective, in fact, the theory is not directly concerned with ethics at all. The point of isolating the four different perspectives by which an individual may be viewed is simply to arrive at a more precise means of answering the question quid deceat (“what is fitting [to a given individual]”)? 124 The theory is intended to allow the individual to derive what acts are suitable to him from consideration of ‘the place assigned to him in the cosmic order.’125 That is to say, given that he is a human being, possesses particular talents, and is allotted certain possessions and inclinations, it is assumed that some one particular act will be found conformable to all of these, and assessment of these four factors will clarify what exactly this might be. Consideration of the qualities Cicero sees fit to subsume under the category of that persona quae proprie singulis est tributa further indicates that the “cosmic order” and the Roman social order are once again understood to form a seamless continuum. Although under this heading Cicero discusses figures such as Cato, Laelius, and Socrates as exemplars of simplicitas (“directness”), he quite readily juxtaposes these with such morally dubious figures as Hannibal, Sulla, and Crassus as those who have embodied exemplary calliditas (“cunning”). Cicero seems to be discussing aptitudes and dispositions here as much as ethical attributes, and the impression is confirmed by his comparison between these

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qualities and physical characteristics such as velocitas (“swiftness”), vires (“strength”), dignitas in formis (“dignity in appearance”), and venustas. The point is further reinforced by his subsequent claim that all these qualities are minime tamen vituperanda 126 (“not at all blameworthy”). As Gill puts it, Cicero’s project is not that of isolating distinguishing or individuating characteristics… rather it is that of locating characteristics that serve to make people distinguished, that is, accomplished and notable in society.

Cicero’s point here is simply to enjoin the individual to exploit his gifts to the full in order to join in ‘the competitive ethos of Greco-Roman society.’127 The disturbing result is that Cato’s incredibilis gravitas (“unbelievable moral gravity”) and perpetua constantia (“unchanging consistency of character”) appear to be analyzed, within the constraints of this theory, as little more than a peculiar aptitude for morality, unusually exploited. How, then, is Cicero’s laudatory tone here to be explained? First, it must be noted that throughout the De Officiis it is assumed that an individual must distinguish himself in the sociopolitical arena even to register on Cicero’s moral seismograph. Fundamental to Cicero’s ethics in the De Officiis is the quality of magnitudo animi (“greatness of spirit”), and this, Cicero claims, can only be made manifest through participation in political life. In accordance with his emphasis on the social virtues elsewhere, Cicero writes that, sed iis, qui habent a natura adiumenta rerum gerendarum, abiecta omni cunctatione adipiscendi magistratus et gerenda res publica est; nec enim aliter aut regi civitas aut declarari animi magnitudo potest.128 (“But those men, who have by nature the ability to manage public affairs, must cast aside all delay and compete for public office and rule of the Republic. For there is no other way that the state can be ruled, or one’s own greatness of spirit be revealed.”)

Effective exploitation of one’s gifts in the agonistic political milieu is thus a prerequisite to moral agency. The ethical theory of the De Officiis therefore focuses upon a delicate balancing act. On the one hand, Cicero is adamant that public life is the only context in which virtuous action is possible, and that the exercise of virtus apart from engagement in political affairs is itself a defect of character.129 On the other hand, given his experience with Caesar, Cicero is wary of too great an enthusiasm for the rewards of political life. He remarks that, illud odiosum est, quod in hac elatione et magnitudine animi facillime pertinacia et nimia cupiditas principatus innascitur (“It is a hateful thing that from this exaltation and greatness of soul are so easily born willfulness, and too great a desire for dominance”). The competitive spirit, then, that is

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the root of all virtus gives rise also to a cupiditas gloriae, that, he claims, eripit enim libertatem, pro qua magnanimis viris omnis debet esse contentio (“tears away that libertas for which every great-souled man must struggle with all his strength”). It is a matter, 130 he admits, indeed sane lubricus (“extremely slippery”). Resolution of this slippery dilemma comes in the form of Cicero’s emphasis on a virtue in the De Officiis not mentioned in his earlier works, the quality of decorum (“appropriateness” or “suitability”). His discussion of decorum forms the context for his citation of the four-personae theory, and it is because of the importance he attaches to this quality that the answer to the question quid deceat is of such ethical urgency. In the course of the De Officiis Cicero outlines a theory of the emotions which, as elsewhere in his writings, posits in Platonic fashion a distinct irrational aspect of the soul. duplex est enim vis animorum atque natura; una pars in appetitu posita est, quae est ırlÆ Graece, quae hominem huc et illuc rapit, altera in ratione, quae docet et explanat, quid faciendum fugiendumque sit. ita fit, ut ratio praesit, appetitus 131 obtemperet. (“For the nature and capacities of our souls are two-fold. One part is located in – ‘impulse’—which is called horme in Greek—and this part tosses an individual back and forth. The other is located in ‘reason,’ which teaches and explains what must be done, and what must be avoided. The result is that reason leads, and appetite follows.”)

It is the impulses and appetites which form the source of the perturbationes and thus have the potential to cause individuals either to exceed finem et modum (“bound and limit”) or, through pigritia (“sluggishness”) and ignavia (“indolence”), to scorn public affairs and pursue an isolated and solitary sapientia.132 The desires of the irrational part of the soul obscure the individual’s perception of virtus and cause him or her to grasp at immediate objects of appetition—whether otium (“leisure”) or gloria—in preference to those advised by the quality of ratio. It is the function of decorum, in Cicero’s view, to “rein in” the desires of this irrational part, and it can therefore hardly be considered a trivial quality. Decorum, Cicero writes, ab honesto non queat separari (“cannot be separated from the honorable”), and is in fact that which makes the virtues virtuous. Without decorum the pursuit of knowledge is solivaga et ieiuna (“isolated and trivial”) and fortitudo can be no more than feritas et immanitas (“fierceness and barbarism”).133 Decorum is, then, essentially the inward manifestation of the supreme social virtue of iustitia, iustitia writ small within the nature of the individual.134 Just as iustitia blends the utilitas of the various ranks of society to produce a concordia ordinum, so decorum is the quality that allows the individual to set bounds and limits to his or her desires, and to render them conformable to the ratio and convenientia of acts so praised in De Finibus.135

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The analogy between iustitia and decorum is evident also in the extent to which Cicero treats both as though they were specifically Roman qualities. Just as in De Re Publica consideration of the nature of justice leads immediately on to discussion of the nature of the Roman state, so Cicero’s discussion of decorum blends naturally into observations concerning the social etiquette characteristic of Roman aristocratic life. The notion of decorum—in Greek, so pr°pom—appears originally to have been taken by the Stoic philosopher Panaetius from Hellenistic aesthetic theory in order to elucidate the concept of ‘moral beauty.’136 The effect in the De Officiis, by contrast, is to elevate Roman social convention to the level of ethical imperative by grounding it “in Nature,” and after discussion of the four-personae theory Cicero’s treatment of the quality of decorum rapidly tails off into an extended list detailing multiple minutiae of Roman social life. Much of this appears entirely arbitrary and/or irrelevant to the domain of ethics. Cicero’s advice on how to tell jokes, his ruminations on the means of maintaining a good complexion through exercise, and his warning that a son-in-law is never to attend the baths with his father-in-law appear trivial at best, while his claim that the impermissibility of public nudity at Rome is derived from nature would have appeared ridiculous to any Greek.137 Such strictures are clearly indefensible in ‘Archimedean’ terms; they are essentially ‘aesthetic’ in character, relying on a certain well-inculcated and developed sense of etiquette on the part of the reader. Cicero advances no justification of the specific content of any of these social precepts. If any is needed, it is presumably the same as that which establishes Roman social convention as normative in Cicero’s other works, i.e., that the undoubted success of the Roman state is indexical of its “natural” status and that precedents set by the maiores accordingly act as imperatives. Participation in Roman public life demands mastery of these practices, no matter how apparently irrelevant or ungrounded they might be. Closer analysis of Cicero’s extended digression on the mos maiorum, and in particular of his instructions on how the young man is to acquire the aesthetic sensitivity to etiquette his ethics demands, reveals furthermore that he conceives of the individual here entirely in terms of his public persona and the role he plays in aristocratic society. Decorum, Cicero claims, can only be achieved by the young man through the observation of others. itaque, ut in fidibus musicorum aures vel minima sentiunt, sic nos, si acres ac diligentes esse volumus animadversoresque vitiorum, magna saepe intellegemus ex parvis. ex oculorum optutu, superciliorum aut remissione aut contractione, ex maestitia, ex hilaritate, ex risu, ex locutione, ex reticentia, ex contentione vocis, ex summissione, ex ceteris similibus facile iudicabimus, quid eorum apte fiat, 138 quid ab officio naturaque discrepet.

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(“And thus, just as with music the ear detects the smallest error in tuning, so we, if we wish to be keen and vigilant in our monitoring of moral flaws, will often draw significant conclusions from trivial signs. From a glance of the eyes, from the relaxation or furrowing of the brow, from an air of gloom, from outbreaks of joy, from laughter, from a manner of speaking or of silence, from the raising or lowering of the voice, and from similar matters, we shall easily judge what has been done in an appropriate fashion, and what diverges from duty and nature.”)

The young man is to cultivate his self-awareness through ‘extraspection’ and learning how to perform on the social stage. Throughout this discussion analogies with acting are frequent,139 and as Gill points out Cicero manifests little or no concern with the ‘inner life’ of the individual. The point comes out with particular clarity at De Officiis 1.134, where he advises the reader, in primisque provideat, ne sermo vitium aliquod indicet inesse in moribus; quod maxime tum solet evenire, cum studiose de absentibus detrahendi causa aut per ridiculum aut severe maledice contumelioseque dicitur. (“above all, one should take care that one’s conversation betrays no flaw in one’s character. This is most likely to occur when people, either seriously or as a joke, delight themselves with malicious and slanderous discussions, and attack those who are absent.”)

It is not entirely clear whether Cicero is here concerned with the existence of a vitium in one’s character, or simply with its manifestation, 140 and it seems that in the context of persona theory an artificial distinction. As DeLacey points out, agents are analyzed in Stoic ethics not as ‘discrete entities’ but as ‘parts of a far greater unity to which [they] are related in a variety of ways.’141 Individuating or idiosyncratic action and motivation are therefore relevant only insofar as they affect the agent’s ability to engage with other elements in this relational matrix, and interior states do not enter into the ethical accounts so long as they are not manifested in behavior. Such a perspective obviously complements Cicero’s view that virtus can only arise within, and be defined with reference to, a res publica. Individuals, insofar as they are ethical agents, simply are the sociopolitical personae they occupy. With this entirely social understanding of the individual born in mind, the logic behind Cicero’s decision to discuss Cato’s suicide within the context of the four-persona theory becomes apparent. As a preliminary, it must be noted that, as Rist points out, Cicero’s portrait of Cato here conforms in many respects to that of the ideal sage. Cato’s constantia (“consistency of character”), for instance, is presumably held to reflect the homologia and ordo et concordia of action characteristic of the Stoic sapiens, while his ability to embrace death without terror reflects a tranquillitas (“calm”) and 142 magnitudo animi that typifies the virtuous individual. In these respects, then,

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Cato’s suicide might be held to reveal that he had in life attained the pinnacle of rational and ethical understanding. Cicero’s praise for Cato, however, extends far beyond this purely intellectual basis. As noted above, these proofs of Cato’s enlightenment are treated in the De Officiis not just as epistemological attainments, but as instrumental aptitudes. Cato’s moral qualities are for Cicero not merely excellences in themselves, but sources of rhetorical and agonistic leverage. According to Cicero, Catoni… moriendum potius quam tyranni vultus aspiciendus fuit (“it was right for Cato to die rather than look upon the face of a tyrant”): so thoroughly had Cato identified with the Republican and aristocratic aesthetic that to look upon Caesar’s victory filled him with a revulsion so intense that death was preferable to continued existence under an autocrat. It was Cato’s undoubted virtus, however, his constantia and incredibilis gravitas, that allowed this perception to transcend the level of mere individual preference and revealed Caesar to be a tyrant before the eyes of the wider social audience. The self-killings of those possessed of a lenior vita (“more pliable life”) or mores faciliores (“more flexible characters”) might be misinterpreted or even condemned by others, but the rigidity of Cato’s character meant that his voluntary death could only serve to demonstrate the absolute incompatibility of Caesar’s rule with the ethical ideals of the Republic. The manner of Cato’s death therefore not only continued to express the ideals he had exemplified in life; on a rhetorical level, it granted him victory over Caesar. From a Cartesian perspective on the self, such a victory is essentially meaningless on the grounds that it achieves little in concrete terms and that, even if it does, the victor cannot be present to perceive its fruits. From a Ciceronian perspective, however, wherein the individual is viewed entirely in terms of social position and function within the res publica, such a death becomes a means of self-assertion and definition. In demonstrating both a willingness and ability to die rather than deviate from aristocratic norms of behavior and dignity the individual vindicates his own fitness to participate in the government of the res publica and, correspondingly, impugns his opponent’s ability to recognize this same worth. In suicide, then, Cicero’s Cato constitutes himself at the center of a sociopolitical milieu from which his opponent is simultaneously exiled. The effect is in one sense entirely rhetorical. Cicero’s complete identification of the individual with social persona, however, implies that the successful articulation of such a rhetoric represents the peak of ethical attainment. That a propaganda battle broke out immediately upon Cato’s death,143 that the pro-Catonian faction won complete victory at the level of ideology, and that Cato continued to find aristocratic 144 imitators until well into the second century AD suggests, furthermore, that here, as elsewhere, Cicero’s philosophical theories are not abstract intellectual structures, but closely attuned to the ethical sensibilities and ideals of his fellow Roman aristocrats.

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Chapter 3

Lucretius and Epicureanism

3.1 INTRODUCTION Although Cicero’s brand of syncretizing Stoicism was to establish itself rapidly as the conventional wisdom of the senatorial class, it was not in fact the dominant philosophy of the Rome of his day. While Stoicism did on occasion attract high-profile adherents such as Cato to its cause, philosophically minded aristocrats tended in the 1 Late Republic to be drawn instead to the teachings of Epicurus, which appear in many ways to be diametrically opposed to the high moral tone of the Stoa. Cicero certainly viewed the spread of Epicureanism at Rome as a menace to public morals, and saw its tenets as working to contradict and undermine the view of the self he held to be necessary to ethical action.2 On the face of it, Cicero seems to have a point. In contrast to the highly social and idealizing vision of human nature advanced by the Stoa and like-minded thinkers, the Epicureans seek to ground all ethical action in an extremely restricted concept of the self. According to the Epicureans the goal of human life is the attainment of pleasure, and philosophical enlightenment is achievable only if the individual foregoes all lofty and explicitly moral conceptions of human nature. Instead, each individual must come to conceive of him- or herself simply as a temporally limited sensorium capable of registering a very limited degree of pleasure and pain, and be concerned solely to maximize its experience of the former. Where the Stoa’s understanding of the self is expansive and politically oriented, Epicurean ethics appears to be narrowly individualistic in character. Cicero’s hostility to the school might thus seem to be justified. Examination of Epicurean attitudes toward self-killing, however, indicates that the individualism of Epicurean ethics is informed by an understanding of the self highly analogous to Cicero’s. It is true that Epicurean thinkers tend to discuss the ethics of self-killing with reference to the subjective experiences of the agent rather than the social character of the act. The conclusions they draw from these observations,

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however, do not, as some scholars have supposed, in any way privilege the subjective consciousness as a source of ethical value, as in many post-Cartesian approaches to ethics. The Epicurean focus on the individual, as distinct from society, should instead be seen as serving basically Ciceronian ends. Like Cicero, Epicurean writers are concerned to define the nature of the self in objective terms because they are convinced that it is only through awareness of this self that individuals can attain both emotional satisfaction and ethical insight. This ethical insight also serves, as in Cicero, to render the individual an exemplary moral witness within the community, committed not only to the highest moral ideals, but willing to die if this will prove of benefit to the state. This similarity in suicidal ideology is admittedly difficult to perceive at first. When assembled doxographically as a list, Epicurean pronouncements on self-killing initially appear to be no more coherent than do Cicero’s. Within our body of evidence on Epicureanism, four separate and sometimes apparently contradictory strands of thought regarding self-killing may be isolated. 1.

Prominent in summaries of the philosophy is the Epicurean claim that the Epicurean may leave life at any time. The briefest statement of this point is found in the mouth of Torquatus, Cicero’s spokesman for the Epicurean position in De Finibus, when at Fin. 1.49 he declares that animo aequo e vita, cum ea non placeat, tamquam e theatro exeamus (“we may leave life—when it is no longer pleasing—with an untroubled spirit, as though one were leaving a theater”). A similar statement occurs slightly later in the same book, at Fin. 1.62, where Torquatus, describing the Epicurean sage, declares that, sic enim ab Epicuro sapiens semper beatus inducitur; finitas habet cupiditates; neglegit mortem; de dis immortalibus sine ullo metu vera sentit; non dubitat, si ita melius sit, migrare e vita. (“The enlightened individual is portrayed by Epicurus as always happy; he has limited desires; he is not at all concerned about dying; he believes true things concerning the gods, and is without fear on this account; and he does not hesitate, if matters would be better this way, to depart from life.”)

Analogous sentiments can be found at Tusc. Disp. 5.117-84 and at Diog. 5 Laer. 10.126. In the collection of Epicurean maxims referred to as the Vatican Sayings the same idea is expressed somewhat more vociferously: kakÚm émãckg, ékk’ oÈdel¤a émãckg f∞m leså émãckgy (“While constraint is an 6 evil, there is nothing constraining one to live under constraint”).

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2.

Contradicting this emphasis on the Epicurean’s willingness and liberty to leave life at any time is the claim that the act is in fact characteristic only of the foolish. Vatican Saying 38 asserts that, likrÚy pamsãparim ⁄ pokka‹ afis¤a •Îkocoi efiy §nacxcØm b¤ot (“That man is of little worth in every way who finds many good reasons to depart from life”). The threshold for what does constitute a eulogon aition (“good reason”) is for an Epicurean apparently quite high; according to Diog. Laer. 10.119 blindness is not sufficient cause for self-killing.

3.

The view that self-killing is often a foolish or ill-reasoned act finds its most memorable—if cryptic—formulation in the well-known Epicurean paradox that individuals will sometimes kill themselves from fear of death. That the riddle was associated early on with the Epicureans is attested by Diog. Laert. 7 10.125. Our most extensive source for the paradox, however, comes from Lucretius 3.79-82; et saepe usque adeo, mortis formidine, vitae percipit humanos odium lucisque videndae ut sibi consciscant maerenti pectore letum, obliti fontem curarum hunc esse timorem. (“and often matters continue to the point that from fear of death, people are seized by a hatred of life and seeing the light, so that, with grieving heart, they resolve upon their own destruction, forgetting that this fear is the source of their despair.”)

Here self-killing appears not only to be generally unwarranted, but actually ridiculous. 4.

In one instance, however, the act of self-killing is granted positive moral status. According to Diog. Laert. 10.121b, the Epicureans claim that the sapiens will die for a friend, a statement echoed by Vatican Saying 56-7: ékce› l¢m ı rouÚy oÈ lçkkom rsrebkoÊlemoy <µ rsrebkotl°mot soË u¤kot, ka¤ Íp¢r aÈsoË sehmÆnesai. efi cår proÆresai> sÚm u¤kom ı B¤oy aÈsoË pçy di’ épirs¤am rtcvthÆresai ka‹ émakevaisirl°moy ¶rsai.

(“The enlightened individual feels as much pain when his friend is tortured, as when he himself is tortured, and will die on his behalf: because for him to betray his friend would disorder and confuse his entire life on account of his lack of loyalty.”)

The same idea is expressed with a slightly different emphasis by Lucretius at lines 3.83-6 of the De Rerum Natura (“On the Nature of Things”), in which

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he states that fear of death could never cause an enlightened Epicurean to be8 tray a friend. That such a claim appears also in Cicero’s summary of Epicurean ethics at De Fin. 1.49 indicates that the statement was something of a topos in Epicurean teaching of the day. From the above list above one or two weak points in the Epicurean ethics of self-killing should be immediately apparent. First, the relationship between position 1 and positions 2 and 3 is problematic. The idea that self-killing is always permissible seems to weaken the near-total prohibition of the act expressed in positions 2 and 3, a difficulty that becomes all the more apparent when death is portrayed as a liberation from pain, as seems to be the case in Vatican Sayings 9. Second, and crucially, how is the apparent altruism of position 4 compatible with the apparent individualism of position 1, or indeed with the central Epicurean contention that the individual’s pleasure is alone the highest good?

3.2 SELF-KILLING AND THE SENSORIUM The most easily interpretable Epicurean statement on self-killing is Torquatus’ claim in De Finibus 1 that the individual may choose to leave life whenever he or she pleases, as though leaving a theater. As just noted, this statement flies in the face of the practical ethics of taking one’s own life given elsewhere in our Epicurean sources, in which the act is generally depicted as foolish. The statement, then, presumably plays a function analogous to that of Cato’s précis of the Stoic perspective on self-killing at De Finibus 3.60-1: in outlining the ethics of self-killing, the speaker outlines too the nature of the telos of the particular philosophical school under discussion in a concise and dramatic fashion. The theater simile, with its connotations of triviality and even arbitrariness on the part of the suicidal agent, serves to emphasize that for the Epicurean there are no external motives for action. No notion of munus, officium, or external goods need retain the Epicurean in life nor impede his or her actions in other matters. The relevant motivation is entirely internal. Vatican Saying 9 reiterates this notion with a twist. While in Torquatus’ statement the emphasis is on the potential of self-killing to function as a testament to the Epicurean’s freedom from external constraint, here the accent is on its ability to guarantee the autonomy of the sapiens. The importance of this statement within the broader context of Hellenistic ethics should not be underestimated: that the individual should be totally self-sufficient and his or her emotional and ethical status be independent from the influence of externals was a foundational tenet of almost all the Hellenistic schools. This demand was, however, much more difficult to satisfy within the hedonistic framework of Epicureanism than it was in the virtue-oriented schema of Stoicism. While virtue might plausibly be claimed to be a matter of individual disposition rather than external circumstance, this is much harder to sustain with regard

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to qualities such as voluptas and dolor—an objection that Cicero, like many other crit9 ics of Epicureanism, was quick to lodge against the system. The Epicurean response to this kind of attack was that the experience of pleasure and pain was, for a rational individual, largely a matter of conscious choice rather than personal situation. Consideration of the nature of human beings, they argued, shows that pleasure is no more than the absence of pain caused by bodily distress or privation.10 Slavery to pleasure is thus only possible for those who entertain the misconceived notion that pleasure is something that can be increased without limit. According to Epicurus, an individual who entertains correct views on the nature of 11 pleasure and is possessed of water and an apple enjoys the felicity of Zeus. The Epicurean, aware of the extremely limited character of the body’s needs, is content with the little it takes to satisfy these, and is therefore unafflicted by the kind of excessive 12 desire that leads to a loss of personal autonomy. The Epicurean approach to pain also views its experience as a function of mental activity, although here the focus is less upon the need to have correct opinions regarding the phenomenon than on the ability of mentally experienced pleasure to counterbalance physical afflictions. The perpetual freedom of the individual from pain is, according to the Epicureans, guaranteed by the mind’s ability to “store up” or “shut in” the memory of pleasure so that it might form a permanent resource to be deployed against unavoidable physical torment. The mind must not be é vãrirsoy or “ungrateful”13 for the pleasure it has experienced. The fate of the ungrateful is, according to Lucretius, similar to that of the Danaids, condemned to spend eternity attempting to fill a sieve with water.14 The image itself is Platonic, but the gist is entirely Epicurean.15 The foremost exemplar of this ability to recollect past pleasures to counterbal16 ance present pain was for the Epicureans Epicurus himself. In his Letter to Idomeneus Epicurus, in a passage famed throughout antiquity, writes that although he is on his deathbed and afflicted by strangury and dysentery, his sufferings pale into insignificance when he recalls the pleasant hours of philosophical conversation he has enjoyed with his correspondent. Hence the characterization of the suicidal individual as mikros (“of little worth”) at Vatican Saying 38 and the claim that wise individual will not take his or her own life even if blinded: submission to such circumstances can only indicate that the individual concerned is acharistos (“ungrateful”) and lacks the requisite degree of Epicurean mental discipline. The legitimacy of these claims to mental mastery over physical pain is questionable: certainly Cicero reviews them with an air of arch and circumspect politeness.17 Even if accepted at face value, furthermore, such assertions do not vindicate the Epicurean position entirely. No matter how much one admires the fortitude of Epicurus on his death-bed it is clear that any individual’s ability to withstand pain is bound to be finite. The Epicureans accordingly emphasized the fact that pain, like pleasure, is a limited quality. The principle is summarized by Epicurus in Principal Doctrine 4:

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oÁ vrom¤fei sÚ ékcoËm rtmev«y §m sª rark¤, ékkå sÚ l¢m êkrom sÚm §kãvirsom vrÒmom pãrersi, sÚ d¢ lÒmom Íperse›mom sÚ ≤dÒlemom kaså rãrka oÈ pokkåy ≤l°ray rtlba¤mei. afl d¢ poktvrÒmioi s«m érrxrsi«m pkeomãfom ¶votri sÚ ≤dÒlemom §m sª sark‹ ≥ser sÚ ékcoËm. (“The sensation of pain for the body is not continuous, for the greatest pain lasts the shortest while. Pains that only, on balance, outweigh the pleasure of the body, last only a few days. And diseases of prolonged duration involve intermittent pleasures which outweigh the pains”)

The enlightened Epicurean, in other words, will always be equal to the pain he or she is enduring. Those pains which exact the greatest resources from their sufferers terminate rapidly in death, while lingering pains tend to be mild and intermittent. 18 The Epicureans appear to have set great store by this principle, although Cicero ridicules it mercilessly throughout Book 2 of the De Finibus and delights in pointing out exceptions to the rule.19 The reference to self-killing at De Finibus 1.62 thus functions as a sort of fail-safe clause: should one find oneself subject to unbearable and unremitting pain, it is permissible simply to remove oneself from the situation. No matter how terrible one’s circumstances are, the telos remains always achievable through the termination of pain through self-destruction, and the invulnerability of the sage is thus assured.

3.3 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF SELF-KILLING The claim that the pains of life may be evaded through death may not at first glance appear terribly consoling. This is, however, to ignore the distinctive role played by the idea of death in Epicurean philosophy. According to the Epicureans death is the greatest generator of fear and false opinion. in human beings. Because death is, at least to those unacquainted with Epicurean atomistic theory, an unknown quantity, humans have a 20 tendency to project their own fears into it. More specifically, they tend to imagine that they will survive death and suffer in some fashion as a result. Some imagine that they will face a fearsome judgmental tribunal in the afterlife;21 others believe that their bodies 22 will still be able to feel pain after death; most frequently people assume that their existence will continue, but that they will be deprived of all that gives them pleasure in life.23 It is this last attitude that Lucretius parodies at DRN 3.894-901: iam iam non domus accipiet te laeta neque uxor optima, nec dulces occurrent oscula nati praeripere et tacita pectus dulcedine tangent. non poteris factis florentibus esse, tuisque praesidium. ‘misero miserere,’ aiunt, ‘omnia ademit una dies infesta tibi tot praemia vitae.’

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(“now no longer will your happy home, your best of wives receive you, nor your sweet children rush to seize their kisses from you and touch your heart with silent pleasure. You will not be able to live amongst your successful enterprises, nor act as safeguard to your family. ‘Oh, unhappy man, how unlucky you are!’ they say. ‘A single hateful day has snatched away all these prizes of life at once!’“)

Lucretius’ reply to this is to point out that consciousness itself ends in death, and that such a fear is therefore clearly ridiculous: nec sibi enim quisquam tum se vitamque requirit cum pariter mens et corpus sopita quiescunt; nam licet aeternum per nos sic esse soporem, 24 nec desiderium nostri nos adficit ullum. (“No one demands consciousness and life for himself, when mind and body lie equally at rest in sleep; and in the endless sleep that waits for us, no desire for ourselves reaches us.”)

Once individuals have realized that death is only the unbinding of a few atoms and recognizes the full implications of this they will understand that death is an absolute cessation and that they can therefore have no experience of it. This is the famous “nothing to us” argument formulated in Kuriai Doxai 2 as, ı hãmasoy oÈd¢m prÚy ≤lçy. sÚ cår diakth¢m émairhgse›, sÚ d’émairhgsoËm oÈd¢m prÚy ≤lçy (“death is nothing to us; for that which does not exist feels nothing, and that which feels nothing is nothing to us”). To individuals who have identified entirely with the sensorium of their experiences death is wholly irrelevant. There has been considerable debate regarding whether this “nothing to us” argument is too counter-intuitive to be useful.25 The objection of counter-intuitiveness, however, is largely irrelevant to an Epicurean; if the charge is useful at all, it is in providing a degree of insight into the abysmal moral state of the objector, who is clinging to those same beliefs that most cause him or her pain. According to the Epicureans the fear of death is a powerful drive giving rise to numerous and superficially disparate behavior patterns. So deep-rooted is this fear, in fact, that the agent may not in fact realize that this is the impetus behind his or her actions.26 It is to illustrate this fissure between self and self-awareness that Lucretius adduces the paradox of individuals taking their own lives through fear of death. According to Lucretius the paradox arises from an erroneous association of ideas at an elementary level of consciousness. Individuals, Lucretius claims, naturally desire to lead a dulcis vita stabilisque (“sweet and secure life”). This is in itself entirely blameless, and it is in fact this goal that Epicurus promises will be attained through adherence to his philosophy.27 There frequently arises with this quite reasonable impulse, however, an illogical perception that leads inexorably towards irrational action.

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turpis enim ferme contemptus et acris egestas semota ab dulci vita stabilique videtur 28 et quasi iam leti portas cunctarier ante. (“For as a whole bitter scorn and poverty seem far removed from a sweet and secure life—as though these were already a lingering about the gates of death.”)

The notions of poverty and death become linked,29 and the result is boundless desire. The individual in accumulating possessions no longer seeks security only from egestas (“poverty”) and contemptus (“scorn”), which is entirely rational and achievable, but against death itself, which is impossible. From here stem the miseries of unbounded desire from which the enlightened Epicurean is free.30 The deluded individual must continually aspire to ever greater peaks of attainment, none of which is ever capable of assuaging his anxiety.31 In pursuit of these ambitions, furthermore, the individual quickly loses sight of his original motivation towards them. He is beset with emotions—distress at his failures, envy at the success of others, the fear, guilt, and paranoia occasioned by the commission of crimes32—all of which occlude his self-understanding. The timor mortis (“fear of death”) that drives him is felt as no more than an oppressive pondus [in] animo (“weight upon the spirit”) or moles in pectore (“great mass within the breast”)33 that compels him to engage in his ceaseless round of pointless activities. The individual finally seeks to escape the uncertainty and unhappiness these occasion in death, unable to perceive that it is in fact fear of this that has driven him to this impasse. His dilemma, then, is both tragic and ludicrous, and the Epicurean paradox thus functions as a highly crafted piece of protreptic for a philosophy Lucretius himself characterizes as a tristior ratio (“somewhat grim system”).34 Acceptance of one’s own natural limitations may prove dispiriting for those possessed of lofty ideals or ambitions. To reject the truths of Epicurean philosophy in order to embrace an appealing illusion, however, has the potential to render the individual both desperate and ridiculous, an example of how far false opinion can lead one from reason and eudaimonia.

3.4 SELF-KILLING AND SOCIAL CONTEXT As can be seen from the Epicurean analysis of human motivation given above, the agonistic political milieu that forms for Cicero the sole possible locus of ethical action is to the Epicureans no more than a site for the eruption of empty and irrational desires. The perspective reflects the general Epicurean reluctance to engage in civic and political life, as summarized in Epicurus’ famous injunction, kãhe bi≈ray. The hedonistic starting points of Epicurean psychology and ethics mean that society is viewed in Epicurean philosophy primarily as a collection of individuals rather than an independent entity analyzable on its own terms. The Epicurean perspective on

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social and political organizations is thus basically contractualist in character: social life is well adapted to securing the essentials of life for individual humans, and is therefore 35 mutually advantageous, but it possesses no independent value of its own. Justice, for instance, is not a virtue or even a self-sufficient entity. It is, according to Epicurus, simply a rtmhÆke.36 Insofar as the social contract proves useful for all those party to it, it is legitimate, and the concepts of “justice” and of society as a whole have no real meaning beyond this utility.37 Given this basically instrumental understanding of other individuals, it is perhaps difficult to see why an Epicurean should die for a friend, and many critics have 38 argued that the two tenets are basically incompatible. Epicurus himself, however, appears not to have seen the problem. Vatican Saying 23 states that, pçra uik¤a di’•atsØm aflresÆ. érvØm d¢ e‡kguem épÚ s∞y »ueke¤ay (“every friendship is worthy of choice in itself, even though it has its origin in advantage”). Even if the emendation aflresÆ (“worthy of choice”) is rejected in favor of the transmitted éresÆ (“a virtue”), it is clear that Epicurus is here according to friendship an importance close to that of pleasure in his philosophy, a sentiment echoed several times in our other sources. The point does not seem to be, pace Algra,39 that Epicurus is invoking some kind of innate social instinct or oikeio– sis to other humans as an explanation of the existence of society. According to Torquatus some Epicureans, whom he characterizes as timidiores (“less courageous in their convictions”), did in fact develop such a theory in response to Academic criticism. As Cicero points out, however, this position gives away too much to the Stoics: once one has posited amicitia as a basic human instinct, there appears no reason not to add aequitas (“equanimity”), modestia (“self-restraint”) and omnes virtutes (“all [the other] virtues”) to the mixture. The majority of our Epicurean sources do not in fact provide Cicero with this Stoicizing rhetorical toehold, and are quite clear that Epicurean friendship is basically contractualist in character and undertaken to furnish the requisites of pleasure for both parties. According to K.D. 27 friendship is a mechanism designed to secure the soË ˜lou b¤ou lakariÒsgsa (“the blessedness of one’s entire life”). The statement is clarified by Torquatus’ claim at Fin. 1.70 that friendship is a foedus (“contract” or “treaty”) entered into for the purpose of iucunde vivendum (“living pleasantly”). The point is taken by Cicero, who in Book 2 describes Epicurean friendship as arising causa utilitatis (“for the sake of advantage”) and accordingly a voluptate non posse divelli (“not able to be divorced from plea40 sure”). Cicero’s main objection to this theory is that it seems to encourage only a shallow kind of friendship subject to termination as soon as it no longer works to the interest of one of its parties. Such an objection applies a fortiori to the claim that the Epicurean sage will die for a friend. There can, after all, be no point to the individual accepting death in the hope of procuring future benefits from the philos (“friend”). The terms of the Epicurean social contract, however, stipulate that such a commitment

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should be not only possible, but mandatory. As Nicholas Denyer points out, Epicurean social-contract theory appears to enshrine a “Prisoner’s Dilemma” vision of society: Each man, human nature being what it is, stands to gain by violent and aggressive behavior against others; and each man stands to lose if others commit violent and aggressive acts against him. The gains and losses are not equal: one loses more through suffering violence than one gains by inflicting it. Each man will then prefer the outcome in which no-one commits violence to the one in which everyone does so. Best of all, from his point of view, will be the outcome in which he aggresses against unreciprocating victims; worst of all, the outcome in which he is the unreciprocating victim of another’s violence. Choosing to be peacable and unaggressive is then to pick the co-operative option in the Prisoner’s Dilemma. Choosing to be violent and aggressive is to pick the uncooperative one. The sentiments and institutions of justice are then needed to avoid the outcome which is everybody’s third choice and attain the outcome which is everybody’s 41 second.

The sage, who has mastered the art of balancing pleasures and pains in the final hedonistic account, realizes that his or her best interests are served by a situation in which all refrain from violence against each other. This hedonistic calculus, however, also dictates that this concession cannot be unilateral, as this would lay one open to the infliction of violence or injustice by others. The crucial condition of the social contract, then, is that each party to the contract should believe the other to be inclined to abide by its terms, and Epicurean writings on friendship correspondingly lay a great deal of emphasis on the necessity of developing trust between friends. According to Vatican Saying 34 this trust is in fact more valuable than the material advantages a friendship is designed to secure.42 In practical terms, then, friendship consists of a continual exchange of benefits that fosters a belief in each party that the other is a reliable adherent to the contract of friendship.43 Such a pattern ideally culminates in complete mutual trust, where total security, and thus the blessed life, is obtained. Only at this point does it make sense to speak of friendship as having its “origins in advantage” and simultaneously as “worthy of choice in itself”; in order for the greatest benefits to be realized from friendship one must commit utterly to its contract without any further consideration of what advantages or disadvantages this might entail. Death might still nevertheless seem the exception to this general rule. Careful consideration of the hedonistic calculus might well reveal that the individual is always better off making sacrifices for the sake of friendship in the long run. The prospect of death, however, makes consideration of the long run irrelevant, and it might seem that the true interests of the enlightened Epicurean demand dissimulation up to the point of death and then sudden default from the contract.44 According to Epicurus,

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however, such a course of action is in fact contrary to the sage’s interests because, should others learn of his or her duplicity, the sage would forever afterward suffer 45 from épirs¤a (“lack of trust”). As stated in K.D. 35, oÈk ¶rsi sÚm kãhra si poioËmsa œm rtm°hemso prÚy ékkÆkoty e‹y sÚ lØ bkãpseim lgd¢ bkãpserhai pirseÊeim ˜si kÆrei, kím ltriãkiy §p‹ soË parÒmsoy kamhåm˙. l°vri cår kasarsrou∞y êdgkom efi ka‹ kØrei. (“It is not possible for anyone to do something secretly which men have agreed not to do, for the purposes of neither harming nor being harmed, and be confident that his actions will not be discovered, even if he in fact escapes detection ten thousand times. He will not be secure in his success until he has died.”)

The individual would be consigned to a friendless and insecure existence, the leonis ac lupi vita (“life-style of the lion and the wolf”),46 and it is from disinclination to this fate that the Epicurean sapiens will choose to die rather than betray a friend.

3.5 THE EPICUREAN PERSONA Cicero heaps scorn upon the idea that just or virtuous behavior can be motivated entirely by fear of detection.47 There have been, he points out, many occasions upon which traitors have committed crimes unseen and unscathed, and many such men have little or no conscience to trouble them. Equally, the extremely powerful have no need to fear the opinion of others. Why, then, should the Epicurean sage not similarly total the probabilities on the hedonistic balance sheet and occasionally decide that the risk of detection is worth taking? Though the objection is superficially plausible on its own terms,48 when considered within the framework of Epicurean ethics as a whole it entirely misses the point. Even if the sage did not view friendship as “choiceworthy in itself’ and feared for the consequences of his or her actions but little, the results of the hedonistic calculus will always point to the preferability of death to betrayal because death is not an evil to the sage. The incentives against deception must accordingly be only very minimal for the enlightened Epicurean to sacrifice his or her own life for a friend. The point is made explicitly at DRN 3.83-8, where Lucretius states that it is only fear of death that compels individuals to turn traitor to friends, parents, and country: hunc vexare pudorem, hunc vincula amicitiai rumpere et in summa pietatem evertere suadet; nam iam saepe homines patriam carosque parentis prodiderunt, vitare Acherusia templa petentes.

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(“Fear of death persuades one man to undermine his own honor, another to break the bonds of friendship, and, in a phrase, to overthrow all mutual ties; for often before now individuals have betrayed their country and their dear parents, hoping to avoid the realm of Acheron.”)

The same sentiment is expressed at De Finibus 1.49 when Torquatus claims that from dread of death multi parentes, multi amicos, nonnulli patriam, plerique autem se ipsos penitus perdiderunt (“many men have betrayed their parents, many their friends, some their country; and many, furthermore, have entirely ruined themselves”). Fear of death causes the unenlightened to betray their friends through weakness, or inspires the hunger for wealth and power that leads ultimately to civil war and tyranny. Interestingly, this is a note that is struck much more forcefully in our Latin than in our Greek texts. The scanty and fragmentary character of our Greek Epicurean writings mean that we cannot be certain that the ideas here expressed by Lucretius and Torquatus do not go back to some common Hellenistic source. Nevertheless, such Greek texts as we do possess concerning the willingness of the Epicurean sapiens to die for another limit themselves to discussing self-sacrifice on behalf of a philos. Such statements are clearly logically related to Epicurean pronouncements on the nature of society as a whole. In themselves, however, they appear oriented chiefly toward the realities of Epicurean life in the Hellenistic world, which was largely conducted within small communities of philoi living together just outside the boundaries of a polis (“settled community”).49 In our Roman texts, however, a direct link is clearly established between Epicureans’ relationships to their friends and to their families and patria (“native land”). Again, this emphasis appears to correspond to Epicurean practice during this period. Although sequestered Epicurean communities existed in Italy during this time and were patronized by members of the aristocracy, Epicureanism at Rome was clearly considered to be compatible with varying levels of involvement in political life: it is interesting to note, for instance, that in the final decades of the Republic the school numbered amongst its followers both the studiously apolitical Atticus and the tyrannicide Cassius. As A.A. Long points out, this frequent fusion of political engagement with Epicurean ideals at Rome does not mean that the Romans were necessarily bad philosophers, and there is no necessary conflict between the two moral commitments. The Epicurean criterion for the legitimacy of social institutions is whether or not they safeguard the pleasure and security of the community, and Epicurus himself acknowledged that the well-being of Epicurean organizations and the pursuit of Epicurean ideals were entirely dependent upon the polis-based society whence they had grown.50 One strand of Epicurean thought held, furthermore, that if the social order was corrupt, this did not mean that it was irredeemable, and that the practice of Epicurean philosophy in public life might, through the dissemination of the truths of reason, quell its turmoil and strengthen the adherence of the citizenry to the terms

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of the social contract. Political engagement might thus at times be justified as 51 hedonistically necessary. The extent to which Epicureans at Rome felt called upon to defend their involvement in public life in philosophical terms is of course impossible to determine. The explicit emphasis given to the political utility of Epicurean philosophy found in our Roman sources, however, serves to highlight a continuum that runs, if not necessarily between Roman philosophy and Roman practice, at least throughout the ideology of the Roman aristocracy and the two philosophical systems most in favor with that class. In drawing attention to the readiness of the enlightened Epicurean to die not just for a philos, but for the patria, Lucretius and Torquatus are making a protreptic claim that it is only through the practice of Epicurean philosophy that the individual may become an ideal moral agent within the context of the Roman state. This agent’s self-sacrificing behavior does not stem, as in the Ciceronian view of affairs, from an innate love of virtue. To the enlightened Epicurean, the noble death is simply an unremarkable expression of self-seeking desires that have been freed from the influence of vain and irrational beliefs concerning the nature of the self. The Epicurean sage emerges from the accounts of Lucretius and Torquatus as the only individual who is fully alert to the imperative force of the social contract, an awareness exemplified by his or her willingness to die rather than betray its terms. If this understanding of the suicide of the sage is taken in combination with the above-mentioned notion that the instantiation of Epicurean ideals in public life might serve to safeguard the integrity of the res publica, one can see that there is considerable potential for assimilation of the Epicurean ethics of suicide to the entirely public-oriented ideal of the Romana mors advanced by Cicero. This assimilation is not fully achieved until the Imperial age, when Epicureanism and Stoicism come to be seen not as adversarial, but as complementary, philosophies: when the Younger Seneca, for instance, discusses suicide, it is with the understanding that the precepts of the two systems are mutually reinforcing. The possibility of this fusion, however, is already visible almost a century before Seneca began writing—for in both the Stoicizing speculations of Cicero and the Epicureanism of Lucretius we find an ethics of self-killing grounded in the view that the self is an objectively definable entity, the most fundamental characteristic of which is the ability to act as a moral witness within the res publica.52

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Chapter 4

Eros, Self-Killing, and the Suicidal Lover in Republican Literature

4.1 INTRODUCTION The view that discourse on self-killing is appropriately defined in relation to an understanding of the self as moral witness within an aristocratic community is not confined, in Republican writing, to philosophical texts. It is found reflected also in the persistent association in Latin writing of the epoch between frustrated erotic desire and self-killing. The linkage is a little more difficult to discern in the Roman stereotype of the suicidal lover than it is in the philosophical writings of the period. This is partly the case because Roman philosophers approach the topic more directly than do authors of Latin imaginative literature. A more significant difficulty, however, is that the erotic self-killing as presented in Roman writing in many senses represents an inversion of the philosophical ideal of suicide. Roman philosophical writers on the whole concern themselves with rational self-killing and the mindset that is appropriate to this. When such thinkers refer to the stereotypical suicidal lover, it is as an example of the philosophical fool and the power the irrational emotions can attain if they are allowed free run in the psyche.1 The ideal self-killing for the philosophers is one that arises from a perfected awareness of one’s own nature and an absence of irrational impulses and aspirations. To kill oneself from frustration at an inability to attain one’s erotic desires, by contrast, demonstrates that one’s self-awareness has been entirely overwhelmed by the impetus of the emotions. From a philosophical point of view, lovers, with their complete devotion to an external object upon which their happiness entirely depends, are clearly exemplary instances of the stulti, and the erotic self-killing is obviously the height of folly. This philosophical and moralizing disapproval of erotic desire has often been held to imply that those Latin genres which celebrate the emotion—most notably comedy and elegy—must embody a belief in the value of “individualism” as opposed

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to the conformist strictures of Roman society as a whole. This assumption forms only a minor strand of scholarship on comedy, visible most clearly in the frequency with which the genre’s privileging of eros over nomos (“love” over “social order”) is depicted 2 as a ludic release from conventional social restraints. The claim is, however, crucial to much writing on elegy, a genre often viewed as programmatically concerned to assert the supremacy of private over public imperatives, or to explore the nature of the self per se. Consideration of the manner in which the stereotype of the suicidal lover is deployed in elegiac texts—or, more specifically, of the systematic exclusion of the possibility of the stereotyped lover’s death from their content—indicates, however, that they, like philosophical writings of the era, are governed by a conception of the individual as consisting entirely of persona or social role. Far from advancing the proposition that purely subjective desires ought to be granted normative status, these texts enshrine a view of the ideal relationship between the individual and society familiar from the philosophers, in which social institutions actually or potentially embody the demands of humanity’s most fundamental impulses. While the philosophers and the elegists might disagree regarding which impulses in particular should be considered primal, a basic identity between social function and individual nature is assumed by all. In comedy this axiom is clearly visible in the genre’s teleological drive toward happy endings, in which the suicidal intentions of the ardent lover are deflected by the satiation of his desires in some form of socially sanctioned union. The case of elegy is rather more complex, and its treatment here will accordingly be lengthier and more detailed than that of comedy. Investigation of the love poets’ treatment of the suicidal lover topos and their reluctance to incorporate it into their own poetic self-presentations, however, indicates clearly that, as with comedy, elegy’s championing of eros does not function to assert the normative primacy of the individual and his or her desires. It serves the love poets instead as a novel and sophisticated means of constituting themselves as moral witnesses in aristocratic society. Accordingly, this emphasis on the erotic should be viewed as forming an ideological continuum with ethical aspirations characteristic of Republican literature as a whole.

4.2 THE SUICIDAL LOVER IN REPUBLICAN COMEDY AND PHILOSOPHY The earliest association made between frustrated erotic desire and self-killing in Latin literature is found in three plays by Plautus, where suicidal despair appears as an attribute of the young lover who forms the typical protagonist of New Comedy. Nothing in the characterization of the protagonists of the Asinaria, the Cistellaria, or the Pseudolus separates them from their brethren in Plautus’ other comedies, and it seems that Plautus and his audience simply consider such behavior typical of lovers.

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The plots of the plays in which the motif appears are likewise those standard to the genre. The central dilemma of each is that a young man of respectable family finds himself madly in love with a woman of low social standing, with whom he wishes either to establish or to secure a relationship. Obstacles, however, arise, owing to the young woman’s status as a slave or foreigner. In the simplest Plautine plots, the sole difficulty is the status disjunction between the two young people itself, which makes the woman an inappropriate object of serious attention for the young man.3 Additionally, the woman’s low status can make her vulnerable to the machinations of a rival of the young man, a rival who, being wealthier and more experienced than is the ardent lover, contrives to secure the woman for himself by attempting to purchase her as a slave.4 In any event, the young man must attempt, through guile and intrigue, to overcome these obstacles and attain his beloved. The ardent lover, however, is in no position to engage in this struggle successfully. He is young, he is without resources, and above all he is prey to an excessive emotional volatility. While the presence of his beloved is enough to send him into raptures, the prospect that all might be lost is enough to crush him utterly. At crucial plot-points in these plays, then, when all seems hopeless, these unfortunate young lovers voice the desire to end their own lives rather than face the possibility of life without the object of their desires.5 Such behavior is of course typical of the exaggerated emotional tenor of comedy, in which every action is undertaken impulsively and excessively. This being said, subsequent writers do not take this caricatured figure to be a purely fictitious creation, and although he does not appear in the comedies of Terence the stereotype remains very much a live one in Roman culture. Some two centuries after Plautus’ floruit Ovid was to claim at the opening of his Remedia Amoris (“Cure for Love”) that his poem would quell the dangerous temptations to suicide frequently experienced by those frustrated in love.6 Ovid’s tongue is of course firmly in his cheek, but the joke loses its point if he is not here alluding to an impulse widely assumed to be typical of overwrought lovers. Certainly the Roman philosophers felt that erotic passion could induce sufficient frenzy in an individual to drive him or her to seek death. Cicero, for instance, notes that dolor (“grief”) and cupiditas (“desire”) are equally capable of turning an individual’s mind to self-killing, while Seneca numbers lovers amongst those who kill themselves for trivial reasons.7 Such claims are of course slightly tendentious. The Hellenistic schools, from the Academy to the Stoa to the Epicureans, are united in their distrust of the emotions and of all desires beyond the most circumscribably rational.8 Excessive erotic impulse, of course, does not fall under the heading of a 9 rational desire. It is accordingly in the philosophers’ interests to appropriate the comic stereotype as though it were reflective of reality, protreptically heightening the dangers of the passions and a lack of philosophical enlightenment. The protreptic force of their statements, however, would of course be considerably lessened if the

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stereotype were not generally perceived as having at least some basis in reality. The function of the stereotype of the self-murderous lover, then, remains essentially the same in philosophy as it does in comedy—to ridicule those individuals whom desire has rendered absurd. In comedy, of course, no explicit value judgment is made upon this absurdity, and the presentation of love in the genre is generally quite positive. This contrast in attitude between Roman comic playwrights and Roman moralists has led some scholars to view Latin comedy as a celebration of individual impulse over the dour conformity and repression of the prevailing Republican social order. Erich Segal’s classic 1968 monograph Roman Laughter: The Comedy of Plautus, for instance, analyzes the comic effects of Plautus’ plays entirely in terms of the playwright’s willful violation of Roman social and erotic convention.10 His approach has not so much been surpassed by as incorporated into more recent critical trends, as is visible in the frequency with which a Plautine “deconstruction” of rigid social restraints is judged crucial to the effect of his plays.11 With regard to the impulse of eros, however, it can be seen that the polarity between Saturnalian revelry and rigid Puritanism has been overdrawn. The kind of attraction that drives the plots of New Comedy, between a respectable young man and a low status young woman, lay well within Republican limits of sexual tolerance. Plautus’ notoriously stern contemporary, the Elder Cato, reportedly looked with favor upon such affairs, on the grounds of their supposed ability to siphon excess sexual 12 energy away from matronae (“respectable mothers”) of good family. Some two centuries later Cicero was to claim in the Pro Caelio that adulescentiae cupiditates (“adolescent desires”) were basically harmless because generally confined to slaves and 13 prostitutes. They did not disrupt reputable houses. While it would of course be a scandal for an older man to indulge in such behavior, a little license is allowed to youth, and Cicero maintains that it is in fact only through the sowing of wild oats 14 that a man comes to recognize the value of temperance. Cicero is here arguing a case, and is thus a less than entirely credible source on the matter. Such an argument, however, would not have been open to him had this view been unknown at Rome or liable to arouse strong moral feeling against him. The form of eros celebrated in Roman comedy, then, would not necessarily have been viewed as wildly disruptive of social norms. While the young man’s passion is always presented as excessive, his exclusive attention to a woman lower down on the social scale than he puts his love in the category of folly rather than sedition. In fact, if one investigates the aftermath of the protagonists’ declarations of self-killing intent in the comedies, it becomes obvious that Plautus’ plays tend less to exalt the power of eros than to exaggerate the extent to which its impulses are integrable into the social fabric. The response of other characters in the plays to the protagonists’ declarations that they are about to kill themselves is always immediate and

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efficacious. In the Asinaria and the Pseudolus the protagonist’s assertion immediately solicits the intervention of a third party, who devises a ruse for him that will secure 15 his possession of the beloved. Just as the prospect of the irrevocable loss of the amata (“beloved”) is enough to cast the lover into dejection, even the faintest hope of recovery is sufficient to rouse his spirits. The lover’s unhappiness is thus almost immediately whisked away in the mayhem of subterfuge and deception that forms most of the comic plot, and his decision to die is instantaneously forgotten. In the Cistellaria the protagonist’s suicidal statement is even more effective, prompting as it does the unseen amata herself to step forward and announce her love for him.16 In any event, the end of the play invariably sees the lover and beloved established in some kind of permanent relationship, either through the successful purchase of the woman’s liberty, or, in the Cistellaria, through the discovery that the amata is in fact free-born and possessed of citizen status. At a minimum, then, eros is portrayed in comedy as satiable within the bounds of social norms. In the best case scenario, it in fact anticipates these. The picture of society that emerges at the end of comedies is thus not of a repressive order inimical to the individual’s most basic desires, but of a beneficent community that, despite the occasional misunderstanding, can ultimately satisfy all of these. Although essentially devoid of political content, then, Plautine comedy enshrines a fundamentally conservative understanding of the social order, wherein all impulses, even the most suicidally intense, are capable of resolution within existing 17 social structures. Insofar as social criticism is to be found in Plautine comedy at all, it is in the vindication of the young lover against figures such as the avaricious father and the swaggering solder, who accord themselves excessive importance in the social 18 order and are thus made objects of ridicule by the end of the play. The comic protagonist may make himself temporarily absurd in the strength of his desire. Such desires, however, so accord with both his nature and his role in society that by the end of the play there is discovered a total identity between the two. It is thus unsurprising to find, for instance, that Cicero approved of Plautus, and considered his humor to be elegans, urbanum, ingeniosum, and facetum (“elegant, refined, clever, and grace19 ful”). Plautus’ plays, far from working at a profound level to oppose norms established in Roman moralizing texts, can be read as operating in parallel with these, establishing on a fictional level what philosophical works speculate upon at the moral: a complete congruence between self and social role.

4.3 “SINCERITY” AND SUICIDE IN LATIN LOVE POETRY Much of the above may appear to be self-evident. Roman comedy is clearly not an intellectually revolutionary form, and even critics such as Segal acknowledge that its potential for subversion is extremely limited. A rudimentary awareness of the treatment

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of self-killing found in comedy and the conventions which underlie this is, however, necessary to analysis of the much more complex relationship between eros and suicide implicit in the works of the Latin love poets, Catullus, Propertius, Tibullus, and 20 Ovid. The portrayal of suicide in these works is powerfully informed by a view of the self as persona highly similar to that found in Roman philosophy. The enshrinement of this understanding in elegy is, however, obscured by the fact that elegy is, unlike comedy, a programmatically transgressive genre. The central axiom upon which Roman love poetry is built is that the poet has delivered himself over entirely to the power of eros. He is in love, generally with a 21 woman who is ambivalent and inconstant in her desire to reciprocate this affection. He is, in fact, so much in love and so obsessed by the woman of his desires that he is unable to remain in control of his own actions. Within this basic framework the genre is highly conventionalized, and its poets rely quite heavily on a small number of elegiac topoi (“themes”) to illustrate their helplessness against the power of amor (“love”). The mechanism of these topoi in every instance relies upon an explicit or implicit contrast drawn between the current behavior of the poet and the actions he might normally be expected to perform within the aristocratic male milieu. In the recusatio (“poetic refusal”), for instance, the poet openly declares his inability or unwillingness to engage in those activities proper to his class and position. Love has captured his heart, and, he asserts, he can no longer be bothered to engage in political or military affairs, or even bring himself to write about them.22 This shift in focus is accompanied by a similar semantic transformation, so that when the love poet uses political language—when he speaks of ius (“legal right”) or leges (“laws”) or foedera (“treaties” or “contracts”), or refers to his love as militia (“military service”)23—it is with reference not to the power-regulating institutions of the Roman state but to erotic covenants which, he claims, irrevocably bind the poet and the object of his desires.24 The shift in tenor here serves the same function as does the poetic recusatio, highlighting the disjunction between action and status. The disparity may in fact be marked even more conspicuously than this, the poet claiming that he has abandoned his social status entirely and that he has been feminized,25 or even enslaved, by love.26 In the work of the Latin love poets, then, the worst fears of the philosophers appear to be realized.27 The individual has placed all value in the possession of one totally desired external object—an object that, in addition, forever eludes and tantalizes his grasp. The result is loss of control and a self-proclaimed default from the duties of aristocratic life. The poet portrays himself, furthermore, as uncertain whether or not this default is a bad thing. The tendency of Latin love poetry to express ambivalence or hostility towards conventional social norms has meant that the genre has almost invariably been viewed in twentieth-century scholarship as fundamentally driven by a need to assert the primacy of individual subjective desires, as represented by eros, over political and social

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considerations. Reflection upon the treatment of self-killing in elegiac poetry, and in particular upon the reluctance of the Roman love poets to incorporate the stereotype of the potentially suicidal lover into their poetic self-presentations, raises serious difficulties with this perspective. Self-killing is an important subject in Latin love poetry. It is, however, a topic confined to the realm of myth, and it is in particular the act of mythical women. We hear of Phyllis contemplating suicide because she believes that Demophoon has abandoned her28 and Hypsipyle wasting away whilst awaiting the return of Jason.29 Propertius praises Evadne’s decision to throw herself onto the funeral pyre of her dead husband.30 Haemon, the sole male instance of the exemplary elegiac suicide, is praised on similar grounds for having killed himself rather than forsake his betrothed Antigone in her hour of execution.31 Yet Propertius, the elegist most given to the citation of suicidal exempla in his love poetry, never attempts to appropriate this honor for himself by claiming that he is willing to die on behalf of his beloved Cynthia. This lack of personal enthusiasm for the Liebestod is, furthermore, evident throughout the elegiac corpus as a whole.32 While we hear a great deal of the torments to which the inconstancy of the amata subjects the poet, we are never told that these are sufficient to tempt him to end his own life. The experience of love portrayed in Latin elegiac poetry apparently does not stretch to the self-abnegating devotion of the heroines it praises, nor to the mock suicidal intentions of the comic protagonist. This limitation upon the force of desire is, in the context of Latin love poetry, an unusual one. Roman elegy is dedicated to the advertisement of its author’s submission to the most ethically problematic impulses passion might conceivably generate, and declares the utter slavery amor imposes upon its victims. It does not, however, avail itself of a widely diffused contemporary stereotype regarding the suicidal behavior of frustrated or anxious young lovers. The omission requires explanation, particularly in light of the poets’ praise of the amatory self-killings of others. As with philosophical texts, elucidation of the function and presentation of self-killing in elegy is tightly bound to investigation of the nature of the self depicted in the genre. Unlike scholarship on the Roman philosophers, however, criticism of elegy focused intently on the question of the ‘self’ expressed within the genre through much of the twentieth century. Such attention reflects a widespread scholarly belief in the revolutionary character of Latin love poetry’s approach to the self. A persistent strand of modern criticism has asserted that in rejecting the martial and political values given voice in other Latin literature, the elegists are according an independent value to individuality per se and thereby single-handedly effect a ‘revelation of self’33 in Western literature. This momentous discovery is frequently described as a victory of “inner”—and hence valid—impulse over “exterior”—and hence artificial—convention.34 Elegiac poetry is held to express the “real” emotions of the poet, as opposed to 35 those which contemporary society expects him to experience. The same idea is

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found in the claim that elegy alone uniquely allows the expression of the full range of 36 individual emotions against the repressive dictates of surrounding society, or that it 37 arises from an ‘overflowing’ of the individual beyond externally defined boundaries. Paul Miller’s 1994 Lyric Texts and Lyric Consciousness describes the phenomenon in more theoretically sophisticated, but analogous, terms. In first-personal poetry of the elegiac type, he maintains, the self exists not simply form part of a continuum with the community and its ideological commitments, but is folded back against itself, and only from this 38 space of interiority relates to the world at large.

The result of these individualizing readings is a view of the elegiac corpus as a 39 poetry of ‘personal revelation, confession, or complaint.’ In the view of Miller and his critical predecessors elegiac poetry is essentially non- or anti-social in character. It may be seen as an accidental byproduct of some particularly intense impulse uttered 40 without reference to any audience. It may also be read as more programmatically motivated than this, an assertion of independence against the homogenizing forces of contemporary society.41 In either case elegy is a viewed as a totally interior, utterly individual discourse that is approached by the reader not via engagement with generic convention or poetic structure, but through immediate sympathetic identification.42 Difficulties with this view have long been recognized. On the level of elegiac ethics, it is not entirely clear that the love poets’ individualism is quite as triumphant as one might expect from the reading given above. To start with one immediately obvious point, the poet-lover’s devotion to his mistress is not always accorded by the poet a transcendent moral value; indeed, his devotion often flags or is turned aside to some other object. Catullus may be ravaged by his love of Lesbia, but he also finds time to cavort with an Ipsitilla, an Aufillena, and a Juventius.43 Propertius and Ovid are both forthright in their admission that they are prone to sudden omnivorous attacks of indiscriminate lust,44 a self-description that appears to acknowledge the accuracy of the philosophers’ view that desire is a weakness, or a ‘moral pathology.’45 The poets’ rejection of conventional political and ethical values is likewise less than absolute. Catullus chronicles the sexual intrigues and infidelities of Rome’s upper echelons, but he also composes wedding songs for the lips of puellae and pueri integri 46 (“pure girls and boys”). Whatever Propertius’ distaste for active military service, he is nevertheless capable of limning the praises of Augustus.47 Tibullus similarly abhors the rigors of military life, but his alternative—a rustic life on the farm with his beloved Delia—recalls those fantasies of the Golden Age in which Roman moralists also frequently indulged.48 At the level of poetics, too, it seems that the claim that elegy somehow expresses a “pure” individuality is problematic. The entire aesthetics of Latin love elegy seem to preclude the kind of rough-hewn individualism maintained as a poetic ideal by the

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advocates of the “interiorizing” reading. Catullus’ designation of his beloved by the pseudonym ‘Lesbia’ encapsulates a whole range of literary pretensions upon which subsequent elegists embroider. The elegiac idiom is highly polished, even mannered, and the passions of the poets are expressed in a language unfailingly arrayed with all sorts of metrical obscurity, mythological allusion, and erudite game-playing—all the plumage, in other words, of that self-rarefying avis, the poeta doctus (“learned poet”). The language of elegy sometimes seems to draw attention not to the heart of the poet, but to the poetry itself, and while this self-contained literary quality might be dear to the modernist aesthetic, it is anathema to the individualizing reading.49 Much recent scholarship is accordingly radically opposed to the individualistic interpretation of elegy and denies that it gives us any direct access to the mind of its author. In this view, the “I” of the poetry is no longer to be identified with the historical author; instead one refers to ‘poetic persona,’ ‘dramatic character,’ ‘the ‘ego’ or ‘self-representation’ of the poet. One speaks of a ‘locuteur’ (“speaker”) or a ‘poète-entre-guillemets’ (“poet-in-quotation-marks”).50 Elegy consists in this view of nothing more than an elaborate series of self-positioning manoeuvers on the part of the poet, and the poems themselves are to be read simply as a series of masks worn and discarded at will by him. The various “self-contradictions” observable in the poet’s presentation of his emotions are therefore explicable as a side effect of his discursive play, and reflect the fact that the content of the poetry bears no intimate relationship to the emotions of the poet himself. The most forceful statement of this interpretation is found in Paul Veyne’s magisterial 1988 reading of the genre, in which he dismisses Latin love elegy as nothing more than an ‘amusing paradox.’51 The elegist’s commitment to the various sentiments he expresses is, in Veyne’s view, nil. The elegiac poet-lover gives instead what Veyne characterizes as an ‘impersonal’ view of love,52 elegantly embodying in his poetry various conventions regarding the nature of love, but ever ready to shift position and contradict his previous statements. Veyne therefore views the genre as entirely self-contained, propelled only by the poetic ‘Ego’s’ ceaseless oscillation between comic and moralizing poles. Elegy is a form with no referent beyond itself, purely aesthetic in nature and utterly meaningless. Veyne’s understanding of elegy as animated entirely by paradox has been widely influential, but his absolute distinction between the realms of aesthetics and of soci53 ology has been criticized as artificial and unsatisfactory. After all, some paradoxes are amusing, and other are not, and some sort of explanation external to the genre itself must be adduced to account for the relative popularity of elegy compared to, say, Cicero’s Paradoxa Stoicorum (“Paradoxes of the Stoics”). Once speculation along Veyne’s lines are admitted into critical discourse, the elegists accordingly prove highly amenable to what might be termed “deconstructive” interpretations, whereby apparently insoluble paradoxes within texts are held to indicate fundamental aporias in the

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broader social discourse of which they form a part. Molly Myerowitz’s 1985 work Ovid’s Games of Love is a paradigmatic instance of this sort of criticism. According to Myerowitz the transparent artificiality of Ovid’s praeceptor (“instructor”) persona in the Ars Amatoria (“Art of Love”) is enacted in order to display to the reader the transparent artificiality of all social convention. Once the reader has recognized the fundamental arbitrariness of social form he or she will be able to manipulate it to his or her own advantage, and even transcend those restrictions previously understood as “natural.”54 Recognition of those paradoxes inherent in conventional social forms, in other words, will allow the individual to become an entirely self-constituting subjectivity. A similar line of approach is followed in two 1998 monographs on elegy, Jean-Yves Maleuvre’s Jeux de masques dans l’élégie latine: Tibulle, Properce, Ovide (“Games of Masks in Latin Elegy: Tibullus, Propertius, and Ovid”) and Parshia Lee-Stecum’s Powerplay in Tibullus: Reading Elegies Book One. The two scholars differ in their assessment of the conventions under attack by the elegists: Maleuvre claims that the elegists are united in their dislike of Augustan ideology, while Lee-Stecum sees Tibullus as more narrowly concerned with undermining the excessively rigid gender demarcations of conservative Roman discourse. Both, however, entertain similar ideas concerning the poets’ elegiac tactics: exaggeration of discords in conventional Roman ideology reveal its arbitrary nature to the reader, who is thereby free to reject it and erect another in its place. If the poets’ individualism, then, is indirect, it is only to render the reader’s liberation from these constraints and conventions more complete. What is interesting about the various readings presented above is their universal accord that if an elegiac text signifies meaningfully, it is only when its ultimate referent is some “self” that lies beyond the bounds of social convention. The individualizing reading of elegy holds that Latin love poetry does in fact so refer and is hence an unproblematic genre. For Veyne, on the other hand, these texts do not so refer and are hence essentially trivial.55 For Myerowitz, Maleuvre, and Lee-Stecum the texts themselves are per se meaningless, but derive significance from their ability to point the reader towards such a “self.” All three analyses, however, are problematic. The individualizing reading is, as mentioned above, contradicted by the literary texture of the poetry itself. Veyne’s interpretation provides a remedy for this, but cannot furnish any explanation for the reader’s willingness to engage with the text because the text is held to make appeal only to itself for its significance. The difficulty with the deconstructionist approach is not so much theoretical as historical, and resides chiefly in the observation that any attempt on the part of the elegists to draw attention to the unconstructed self that lies beyond the screen of poetic personae it has constructed would in all likelihood have slid by its original audience unrecognized. Despite the widespread and ready

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acceptance by modernist and postmodern critics of a possible disjunction between poetic persona and the poet himself, this is not a gap well-demarcated in ancient literary criticism. This is not to say that it was not recognized at all, and that whenever a poet opened his mouth everything he uttered was taken as veridical. For the gap between poet and persona to be readily observed by the ancient audience, however, it seems that it had to be quite wide and surrounded by multiple obtrusive textual warning signs. There was presumably little danger, for instance, that a speaker poetically voicing the words of, say, Nestor or Penelope or a lock of hair from the queen Berenice would have been confused with any of these. That ancient discourse enshrined distinct registers of speech deemed appropriate for particular types of person—woman, slave, old man, etc.—would further assist this kind of separation between speaker and character.56 Excepting those speech types in which the speaker and the role assumed obviously differed, however, there appears to have been great confusion among ancient readers regarding where the poet ended and where the poetry began—and this was particularly true when the poet presented himself in his own poetry in the first person under his own name. Any expectation the elegists may have had, then, that their readers might extrapolate from the simultaneous presence of conflicting personae in their poetry to the existence of an unbounded “self,” then, would appear to have been ill-founded. In fact, it is quite clear that many Roman readers, even the most sophisticated, drew a firm equivalence between, for instance, Propertius and “Propertius.”57 This is not to say that the elegists could not in fact indulge in the kind of aporetic game-play suggested by the deconstructive critics. The ancient tendency towards the identification of poet with poetic persona, however, does imply that additional factors must be adduced to explain the popularity of elegy in antiquity. It renders unlikely, furthermore, the notion that the elegists’ original audience would have viewed the poets’ self-contradictions and paradoxical intentions as evidence of anything more than 58 a certain confusion and self-contradiction on the part of the poets themselves —a state of mind believed to be typical, after all, of those who are in love.

4.4 ELEGY AND THE EROTIC PERSONA From the point of view of reception, then, elegy is most plausibly read as what it most superficially appears to be, a genre of poetry in which the author describes his experience of love to a social audience of readers and/or listeners.59 The statement may be banal, yet such an interpretation has repeatedly been held to be inadequate in twentieth century criticism due to a perception of paradox in this juxtaposition of “the experience of love” and a “social audience.” This perception is born of the assumption that love is by nature an unconventional and anti-social force that can receive no sanction amidst the dour moralism of Rome.

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As noted in § 4.2, however, the division between eros and nomos at Rome was nothing like absolute, and highly conservative thinkers such as the Elder Cato and Cicero were united in seeing erotic impulse in young men as basically harmless. Insofar as anyone in Republican Rome is insisting that love is a debilitating illness that prevents one from living up to the normal duties of aristocratic life, then, it is the love 60 poets themselves. For the philosophers, as noted above, love, when taken to extremes, is simply ridiculous. It is only the elegists, then, who are claiming that it is unavoidably subversive. If one investigates the treatment of desire found in Late Republican philosophical texts more generally, however, one can see why the poets might make this claim to subversive status—and that the advantage the elegists derive from this has little to do with an assertion of the normative value of subjectivity per se. Indeed, so inconsistent and self-contradictory are the statements of the love poets that they do not create any impression of the centrally unified self-awareness that might seem to be the first prerequisite of any purely individualistic poetry.61 The fundamental dynamic of Latin elegy, then, does not stem from any conflict between the primacy of individual experience on the one hand, and the strictures of moralizing discourse on the other. It instead arises from certain tensions and difficulties visible in Roman moralizing discourse itself—instabilities that, in the Late Republic, momentarily made the experience of eros an exploitable source of ethical leverage. That advertisement of one’s submission to erotic impulse might serve in the Late Republic as the foundation of one’s ethical credibility might at first glance appear absurd, particularly given the profound distrust of desire that marks philosophical texts of the period. This distrust, however, admits of two serious qualifications. First, desire is not, for Cicero, the Stoics, or the Epicureans, in itself a bad thing. The writings of all three concur that some desires are both natural and necessary, and that the legitimacy of the state in fact depends to some extent on its ability to satisfy 62 these needs. The problematic impulse in Hellenistic philosophy is irrational desire, i.e., desire that strays beyond natural limits and/or seeks inappropriate objects. Erotic desire, like other desires, of course has the potential to become irrational. Lucretius’ famous ‘diatribe against love’ at DRN 1078-1187 indicates his awareness of such a danger in no uncertain terms, and while his sentiments are unparalleled in their vehemence, Epicurus was similarly wary of the harm eros might wreak upon one’s at63 araxia (“tranquility”). For the Stoics, too, erotic desire is a problematic impulse, and while Cicero says nothing propria persona concerning erotic desire in his philosophical works, his resumé of Stoic definitions of the perturbationes in the Tusculan 64 Disputations records that mulierositas (“an excessive fondness for women”) was numbered by Sphaerus amongst the aegrotationes (“emotional diseases”). To say that erotic longing can be excessive, however, is not to say that it is necessarily so, and even Lucretius concedes that sexual desire can be tempered to observe rational boundaries.

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To Cicero, mulierositas is simply one element in Sphaerus’ catalogue of emotional dispositions, and there is no indication that he feels it to be any more threatening to the 65 individual’s serenity than, say, cuppedia (“finickiness”) or aerumna (“distress”). This observation leads to the second major qualification that must be observed in relation to the Roman distrust of eros, which is to say, that of all the desires against which the aspiring philosopher must guard, erotic desire ranks very low on the scale of importance. Lucretius’ diatribe against the emotion is powerfully worded, but this should not obscure the fact that the main thrust of his poem is directed not against insatiable eros, but rather to humanity’s irrational fear of death and the anxiety and 66 corruption to which this gives rise. Cicero’s philosophical focus is largely upon those desires which he sees as most contributing to the current parlous state of the Republic, and his targets are accordingly avarice and ambition, rather than the relatively benign force of eros. Accusations of wantonness might form a handy flail with which to attack Antony, but it is not his proclivity for women that makes him a danger to the state. For Cicero, as for the Stoics and the Epicureans, extended discussion of eros is forgone in favor of more threatening and more dangerous psychological drives. Eros, then, is hardly a quality irredeemably antithetical to Republican Roman mores. In Roman philosophy, as in pre-elegiac Roman literature, it merely occupies a low but well-defined position in the hierarchy of values. Within this area—the circumscribed zone of, say, the brothel or the festival comedy—it might be allowed relatively free play. That the Latin love elegists should choose to extend erotic desire beyond this narrowly delimited area and assert its pre-eminence in the field of poetry is accordingly more readily traceable not to an “individualizing” desire to subvert the Roman value-hierarchy from without, but to a perceived collapse of this hierarchy from within. The second and third chapters of this book have already documented a pervasive Late Republican philosophical anxiety concerning difficulties with the uppermost reaches of this ethical pyramid—that is to say, issues connected to the public and political ideals that animate aristocratic competition. Cicero and the Epicureans are both concerned in particular to assert some kind of distinction between valid and invalid political desires, between those desires which act to preserve the state and those which undermine it. Self-constitution as a moral witness within the aristocratic community for these writers must depend upon more than prowess in the aristocratic struggle for pre-eminence. Some further proof must be furnished to indicate that the individual is a member of the Roman community rather than its enemy, a mere locus of desire for the prizes of elite competition.67 Given that the ultimate justification for interaction in the community is, as not only the Epicureans but also Cicero and the Stoics acknowledge, the satisfaction of certain desires, this boundary is by no means easy to draw. Cicero is committed to the notion of the intrinsic value of aristocratic competition in itself, and therefore, as

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earlier noted, finds the problem sane lubricus. The Epicureans, despite their relatively minimalist definition of legitimate natural desires, appear to have encountered similar difficulties defining the extent to which political ambition is compatible with a hedonistic social contract.69 This unease regarding the compatibility of traditional agonistic elite values with the long-term interests of the res publica to which they were held to contribute was, furthermore, hardly unique to philosophy in this period, the steadily increasing instability and factionalism of Rome in the final century of the Republic already engendering a widespread ‘intranquillité’ regarding the foundations of the res publica throughout the period in which the elegists were writing.70 It is precisely this tension within the traditional scale of values in the Late Republican period that enables the elegists to use the restricted zone normally allowed to erotic desire within Roman culture as the basis for an entirely new form of moral stance. Cicero, the Stoics, and the Epicureans all seek to dilute the intensity of aristocratic ambition through adding another value—ratio—to the top range of the elite ethical scale. The programmatic recusatio of the elegists, however, achieves a broadly similar effect through denying the relevance of the upper half of the value-hierarchy entirely. The self-sacrifice and slaughter associated with traditional male elite activities are dismissed by the poet as trivial when compared to the allegedly more natural 71 and innate desire to have one’s erotic longings satisfied in perpetuity. Such desires harm no-one; they are natural, as the universality and unavoidability of amor attests; and through trumpeting his own lack of military and political ambition and his devotion to the innocent pleasures of eros the poet-lover constitutes himself as a moral witness within the Roman community in a fashion arguably more effective and clear-cut than would engagement in the traditional aristocratic competitive milieu.72 Such a strategy is hardly straightforward or unproblematic, as the numerous paradoxes identified in the criticism of elegy indicate. These paradoxes, however, do not stem from some putative conflict between an excess of absolute individuality and the social conventions through which this individuality must itself be expressed. They emerge instead from problems internal to the rhetorical stance of the poet-lover, problems broadly analogous to the difficulties in demarcating “social” and “anti-social” desires encountered in the philosophical discourse of the period. On the one hand the elegiac poet-lover bases his status as a moral witness within the aristocratic community on the claim that his primary motivations are more erotic than political. If the poet is going to claim that this inversion of values is of social rather than merely personal relevance, however, he is also going to have to display to his social audience his awareness of the limitations inherent in his adopted position. Simply to be in love is insufficient, and to be a slave to desire is not enough. The poet must in addition advertise the social utility of this state, and in so doing openly admit its social deficits. This he can do only through manifesting an extreme self-consciousness regarding his position: he is going to have to acknowledge that as a result of his

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submission to the impulses of erotic desire he will be inconsistent, unreliable, and at times unable fully to control his own actions; he will have to admit that there are times when he would rather be free of his desire and that his condition is in many respects akin to a moral illness; he will need to advertise both his desire to submit to conventional social constraints, and the difficulties he faces in doing so. The poet’s paradoxical statements, then, are anything but accidental utterances forced from the poet by the intensity of his love. Even more misleading is the deconstructionist view that the poet’s stereotyped statements are mere conventions adopted to obscure the poet’s true emotions. They should be seen, rather, as an enabling condition of the poet’s expression of these emotions themselves. The poet is not attempting here to hide behind the mask(s) provided by his poetry and the conventions it enshrines: these conventions are themselves a means of demonstrating that the poet is present and attentive to the expectations of the elite community. Elegy is, in Levinasian terms, an ‘assembling of oneself’ before another, and it is from this position and imperative that the apparent paradoxes of elegy arise. 73

4.5 THE FUNCTION OF SELF-KILLING IN ELEGY The awkward and delicately balanced pose characteristic of the Latin elegist in his poetry, then, stems from his assumption of an attitude of deference before his social audience. At times, however, the aspirations of elegiac rhetoric aim higher than this, and the poet attempts through his poetry to do more than demonstrate his capacity to act as a moral witness within the aristocratic community. Instead he seeks to claim some form of moral pre-eminence and assert the superiority of the elegiac ethical project to the conventional. From this arises the elegiac adaptation of the language of aristocratic favor and obligation to describe the dynamics of erotic affairs. Implicit in the elegiac recusatio is a declaration that social conventions are validly grounded only insofar as they act to allow or promote the satiation of erotic desire. In the elegiac perspective amor is an unavoidable and natural urge that descends upon all,74 and social institutions can and should accommodate this fact, or be discarded if they cannot. The topos of the militia amoris (“military service imposed by love”) not only serves to demonstrate amor’s capacity to inspire in its initiates a fortitude rivaling that of the highest martial valor; in association with the recusationes with which it is typically found it declares that love is the only legitimate inspiration of courage. Underlying this elegiac imperative is an ideal of society not far removed from that expressed in New Comedy, wherein social convention not only yields to, but instantiates, the demands of eros.75 The application of terms such as foedera leges and iura (“legal rights”) to purely affective relationships marks a further implicit claim that the bonds of eros might acquire a quasi-social validity and stability, a point sometimes further emphasized by an overt assertion that the gods themselves bear witness to erotic

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covenants, even when these are formed beyond the boundaries of social convention. The imagery of the servitium amoris (“slavery of love”) serves a similar function. Frequently held simply to signal the complete degradation of the poet at the hands of his mistress, the language of servitium also recalls, as P. White has pointed out, the vocabulary of reproach used by free-born clients of domineering or inconsiderate 77 patrons. The love poet, then, is not merely asserting the fact of his enslavement. He is emphasizing his devotion and faithfulness, contrasting it with the harshness of his dura puella (“heartless girl”), and invoking aristocratic norms of obligation and reciprocity to redress this imbalance. In describing his love as a servitium, then, the love poet implies that such norms are legitimately applicable to erotically motivated relationships, and that the poet-lover is an exemplary embodiment of these. The elegist, then, attempts not merely to incorporate his erotic experiences within a socially acceptable persona, but suggests that erotic experience forms the basis of the socially laudable. The poet’s portrait of his experience of love is articulated only within an elegiac vision of a Roman social order analogous in its operation and values to the state as it is actually constituted—but based upon the satiation of erotic rather than agonistic desire. Within this alternative social structure the poet functions as an exemplary citizen. The role the topic of suicide is capable of assuming within this erotic and civic discourse is extremely limited. On a mythological and legendary level, it may at times prove useful. Mythological exempla of suicides for love, for instance, may function at a rhetorical level to illustrate and more clearly define the basis upon which the poet-lover grounds his own claim to moral status within the aristocratic community. The elegiac hero(ine)’s willingness to die with the loss of the beloved is capable of acting both as an inquiry into the potential ethical foundations of human society and as a criticism of society as it is currently constituted. Such suicides in elegy kill themselves not only out of frustrated desire, but also as a result of their unwavering fidelity to a foedus. They thus come to serve a function in elegiac discourse broadly similar to that played by the claim that the sapiens will die for a friend in Epicurean philosophy, developing the claim that foedera between individuals are best guaranteed with reference to forces more fundamental than the aristocratic code per se. In the case of Evadne, for instance, the erotic foedus possesses precisely the same contours as the socially recognized foedus of the marriage bond. Her name, however, is juxtaposed by Propertius with that of Hypsipyle, a woman who dies precisely through her commitment to a foedus amoris (“contract of love”) unsanctioned by her social context. The predicament of Hypsipyle clearly recalls that of Phyllis, and the elegiac collocation of these three women implies clearly that eros is a fundamental impulse in a way that aristocratic social convention is not. Evadne’s erotic attachment to her husband should be understood not just as an intensification of the marriage bond, but its foundation. Similarly, that the foedera uniting Phyllis with Demophoon and

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Hypsipyle with Jason are not socially sanctioned is insufficient to render them invalid, and that the heroines’ total commitment to this bond ends in their own deaths is held to reveal a deficiency not in their own moral characters, but on the part of their social contexts and their lovers. The rhetorical strategy at work here is seen most clearly in the case of Haemon. As son of Creon and the betrothed of Antigone, one might assume that Haemon’s civic and erotic roles would prove to be fundamentally in conflict. Propertius’ Roman audience, however, knew Creon as he is portrayed by Sophocles78—the archetypal example of the tyrant, estranged from his own people, vengeful in his acts, and willing to subordinate all other considerations to his lust for power and social control. Antigone, by contrast, is a paragon of filial devotion, a woman willing to secure due funeral rites for her brother even at the cost of her own life. Haemon’s death on her behalf, then, demonstrates not his alienation from, but his profound integration with, the Theban social order, and both social and erotic concerns enjoin his death. 79 Haemon’s conspicuous suicidal rejection of a corrupt political sphere for the purity of the erotic, then, paradigmatically illustrates the means by which the elegiac poet seeks to establish himself as an exemplary member of his ethical community. Crucially, however, this self-killing pose is not a strategy the elegist is able to incorporate into his own poetic self-presentation. The poet may fantasize about expiring in the arms of his beloved,80 or receiving the tribute of her everlasting mourning thereafter.81 This, however, forms the necessary limit of his speculations on the relationship between death and love. There can be no question of his artificially hastening his own end, and even those poems that envision the demise of the beloved contain no avowal on the part of the poet that he will swiftly follow her to the Un82 derworld. Elegiac discourse raises the hero(ine)’s total and exclusive commitment to the erotic foedus to the level of an exemplum (“model” or “ideal”) because the primacy of the erotic impulse is crucial to the elegists’ rhetorical stance. For the poet-lover himself to assert the possibility of his own suicide can, however, serve only to undermine his claims to exemplary status within the aristocratic community, through denying this audience’s ultimate relevance to him. The elegiac suicide acts as an argument rather than an analogy for the poet, and the kind of self-destruction considered typical of the lover in New Comedy and philosophy is therefore beyond expression in elegy. This is not to say that such instincts were necessarily absent from the poets themselves. The constraints of the elegiac dynamic, however, whereby the very medium of the poet’s proclamation of love lies in its assimilation to the ethical demands of his audience, preclude any rejection of this audience itself. Elegy’s ethopoietic function as a matter of course restricts the scope of the sentiments it may unveil before the reader. This does not mean that elegy’s approach to its subject matter is necessarily dishonest or insincere, nor that the events and emotions recounted by

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the elegiac poets in their poetry might not accurately reflect those experienced by the historical agents referred to in their poems. It does mean, however, that this historical 83 correspondence is superfluous to the love poetry itself. Elegy is a drama in which the poet displays himself as he inspects and reorganizes those qualities in himself by which he might be constituted as a member of the Roman aristocratic community. The ultimate referent of elegiac composition is, accordingly, neither any lived historical reality, nor the dura puella herself,84 but the standards and expectations of the poet’s aristocratic peers. It is precisely this underlying social orientation that lends to elegy its characteristic self-conflicted and paradox-ridden voice, and it is also this orientation that renders any elegiac expression of the poet’s intention to kill himself a paradox incapable of expression. Such a suicide would, in the final analysis, be attempted for the sake of a woman who is essentially an instrument of the poet’s social 85 self-definition in the first place.

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Chapter 5

Vergil

5.1 INTRODUCTION The tightly self-limiting character of elegy’s hypothesized dichotomy between eros and the aristocratic persona becomes extremely evident if one compares the elegists’ lack of expressed self-killing intention with the self-murderous fury of Rome’s archetypal embodiment of erotic passion, Vergil’s Dido. Vergil’s depiction of the effects of amor upon the individual surpasses that of the love poets’ in both intensity and complexity. In Dido, the tension between passion and persona that animates elegy is heightened until it becomes a stark polarity, and it is this incompatibility that ultimately demands that she seek her own death by the end of Aeneid 4. The interaction of these two elements in the figure of Dido is, however, more nuanced than a simple antithetical clash. The force of amor in Dido does not just incite in her impulses that conflict with the terms by which she might validly constitute herself as a moral witness in society: it also operates at a more insidious level to distort systematically her subjective cognitive framework, so that Dido comes to perceive the satiation of her erotic longings as not only desirable, but congruent with this status as moral witness itself. The result is that Dido’s death, though intended to constitute for herself a valid social persona, does not do so coherently. In death, Dido is seen to be attempting both to display an awareness of her lapse from the ethical standards demanded of her, and to demonstrate that the erotic desires that led to this lapse form a valid aspect of her social position. Her expression of moral status before a social audience is thus irreconcilably conflicted, an outcome that, given Vergil’s assumption of an absolute equivalence between social role and the nature of the individual, reveals Dido’s experience of eros to be also that of total self-loss. The importance of Vergil’s depiction of the Carthaginian queen’s passion for Aeneas is difficult to overstate. Both Ovid and Seneca were to explore and reinterpret Vergil’s portrait of Dido’s erotic psychology in works of their own,1 and the queen 2 went on to assume paradigmatic status for the Western literary tradition as a whole.

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Dido and the nature of her characterization in the Aeneid have thus been perennial subjects of scholarly attention. Despite myriad individual variations in perspective and intellectual approach, it is probably fair to say that over the past hundred years or so scholars on Dido have been largely divisible into two camps. The older, more traditional approach to understanding Dido is to account for the power of Vergil’s characterization in terms of generic borrowing. Numerous antecedents for various aspects of Dido’s portrayal have accordingly been traced and recorded, and it is clear that in his creation Vergil has united elements borrowed from such disparate sources as historiography, elegy, philosophy, myth, Hellenistic epic, Roman epic, and trage3 dy. The second major interpretive approach to Dido, pioneered in the 50s and 60s by the so-called ‘Harvard School’ of critics,4 is to see in Vergil’s presentation of the Carthaginian queen the pre-eminent example of the poet’s attempt to undermine the Augustan propaganda voiced elsewhere in the poem. Both these hermeneutic strategies have deepened our understanding of Vergil’s Dido, not least in their frequent conflict with each other. An unfortunate side effect of their dominance, however, has been that detailed consideration of the nature of Dido’s acts in Aeneid 4 has often been eschewed in favor of an attempt to locate her in some much larger literary or political context. The result is that there does not exist any recently published article or monograph devoted specifically to analysis of Dido’s suicide and its causes. This is not a small omission. Suicide for Dido acts in the Aeneid almost as a character trait, and she is described as Dido moritura (“Dido, soon to die”) no fewer than four times in the course of the epic. If Juvenal’s complaints about the tendency of the women of his day to vindicate Dido’s claims against Aeneas are to be believed, the term appears to have assumed in Rome something of the status of a Homeric epithet 5 for her. That the Romans should have focused upon the fact of Dido’s suicide above all else in Book Four should be unsurprising, for her death stands as one of the most dramatic events in the epic as a whole. The Carthaginian queen’s death is striking for more than the fact of its self-infliction. Dido both stabs and immolates herself, with the intention that the pall of smoke rising from her pyre of Aeneas’ belongings should act both as an evil omen for him and to ensure undying war between their peoples. The stage is furthermore set for this final frenzy of flame and recrimination by Dido’s determination that her death should act as the culmination of lengthy necromantic rites, and the description of Dido’s suicide, from first inception to completion, consumes some 230 lines of the book.6 Consideration of Dido’s character, then, should be inseparable from discussion of Vergil’s extended treatment of her death. Those commentators who discuss Dido’s death scene at all, however, have generally contented themselves with the remark that Dido commits suicide in order to atone for her infidelity to the memory of her husband Sychaeus.7 This lack of attention to detail is unfortunate. Dido’s extended elaboration of her own death throes reflects

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more than the workings of a disturbed and tormented conscience. In Vergil’s epic, as in Cicero’s philosophy, suicide is understood socially, as a potentially communicative act. Every element Dido incorporates into her final suicidal tableau, then, is intended to articulate a meaning for the social audience that will behold it. Any understanding of the Carthaginian queen’s character, then, must proceed at least in part from the decipherment of the message she intends her suicide to communicate; and it is in the fundamentally self-conflicted and paradoxical character of this communication that the extent of her self-loss is most readily discerned.

5.2 DIDO AND THE PASSIONATE PERSONA Comprehension of the meaning of Dido’s suicide requires first of all an understanding of the binary opposition that governs its semantics. The conflict Dido experiences throughout Book Four, and which she intends her death to resolve, is essentially that under which the elegists purport to labor. The antithesis between amor and officium experienced by the elegists, however, is both self-created and negotiable. For Dido, on the other hand, it is absolute and unbridgeable. Her persona admits of none of the flexibility accorded the elegists, and her passion is too powerful to be trivialized or tempered. The narrative of Book Four consists largely of Dido’s attempts to cause these two inimical qualities to cohere, and in relation to these her suicide is best read as a final, failed, coda. At the heart of Dido’s predicament lies her highly public status. As queen of the Carthaginians, Dido is a subject of intense social scrutiny. Her exalted public role is, furthermore, defined in such a fashion as to rigidly exclude any possibility that erotic impulses might be admissible within it. Very early on in the epic Vergil shows himself concerned to establish the extremely political character of Dido’s existence. Even before Dido herself appears in the narrative Venus describes to both Aeneas and the reader at length the wanderings of Dido’s people and her heroic exploits in preserving them and in founding the city of Carthage.8 Aeneas first catches sight of the queen as she is consecrating a temple, dispensing laws, and, in the words of the poet, generally 9 instans operi regnisque futuris (“hard at work upon her future kingdom”). Dido in fact 10 emerges in these scenes as a female counterpart of Aeneas. Like Aeneas, Dido is the leader of an exiled people, and like him she founds a city under the tutelage of the gods. The similarity is reinforced by Vergil’s use of mythological comparisons for the pair: with Dido figured as Diana and Aeneas as Apollo, the two become brother and sister on a figurative level, united by their mutual resemblance.11 The most fundamental similarity between the two, however, lies in the fact that for both their leadership role is justified by their pre-eminent possession of a single moral attribute. Aeneas stands foremost among the Trojans by virtue of his pietas, while Dido’s power is similarly founded upon her pudor. The resemblance between

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these two qualities is not at first obvious. Pietas, in Roman discourse of Vergil’s era, 12 refers broadly to an awareness of one’s duties towards others. Pudor is a term of rather narrower application, and consists essentially of a modesty that ensures the sexual chastity of its possessor.13 Within the context of the Aeneid itself, however, pudor clearly acts as a feminine analogue of pietas. The web of social relations within which Aeneas and Dido are entangled has largely been severed through exile. The result is that Aeneas is most manifestly pius (“filled with pietas”) in regard to his consciousness of obligation to his father and his son, while Dido’s pudor is defined entirely with reference to the memory of her murdered husband Sychaeus. Both qualities, then, guarantee the continuity of the new civilizations being founded with the old. It is only through her preservation of this continuity that Dido, as a woman, is entitled to rule at all. Widow of the deceased Tyrian king, she must preserve her pudor to an exemplary degree, a fact she acknowledges when she describes her pudor as her fama (“renown”) and claims that qua sola sidera adibam (“by this alone I was achieving an immortal name”).14 Sworn to remain univirata (“married but once”), and maintaining a shrine to the memory of the departed Sychaeus, Dido’s pudor—extreme even by the standards of Augustan Rome,15 and apparently of archaic Carthage as well16—is foundational to her role as leader of her people. Dido’s social persona, then, is very narrowly and strictly defined. Against this extremely rigid and unyielding epic stance, however, Vergil arrays all the passions and desires described by the elegiac poets, equally focused and exaggerated in her person. The difficulties described by Dido to her sister Anna at the beginning of Book Four—an inability to sleep, continual recurrence of Aeneas’ image before her eyes, a mysterious burning in her bones—would all have been instantly recognizable by readers of elegy as the symptoms of lovesickness. The point is hammered home throughout Books One and Four, which see Dido afflicted with the flammae, ignes, sagittae, and vulnera (“flames, fires, arrows and wounds”) of love:17 no element of the elegiac arsenal is omitted. Later, when Dido rebukes Aeneas for his cruelty and callousness in attempting to creep off without alerting her, she does so by comparing his emotional disposition to that of rocks and wild animals,18 a topos well established in elegy by Vergil’s day. Dido’s experience of love, however, is rather more extreme than is the elegists’. In elegy Cupid is essentially a mischievous trickster and Venus a far-off and remote deity. Dido is the victim of much more conniving and maleficent gods. Venus uses all of her guile in seducing Dido towards Aeneas, sending Cupid down to her in the guise of his child Iulus so that the god of desire might be dandled upon the queen’s 19 lap. Even more significantly, the goddess in addition plots with Juno to ensure the success of her machinations.20 The result is a dilemma familiar to elegiac poetry but extended far beyond its circumscribed boundaries: on the one hand there exist numerous social demands inherent in one’s enjoyment of a social persona; on the

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other, there lie the temptations of a passion inimical to these. The special circumstances of Dido’s position, however, ensure that the tension between these two yields not an elegiac interlude within the epic, but cataclysmic tragedy. The elegiac poets are free to dabble in scandal because the division between persona and passion is for them not absolute.21 For Dido, however, whose chief defining characteristic is her pudor, the two are entirely incompatible. The contradiction is further emphasized by the divine character of Dido’s desire, which knows no trivialization or subordination and is therefore powerfully antisocial in a fashion impossible in elegy. Throughout Books One to Three, then, as Dido listens to Aeneas’ narrative and gradually falls in love with him, her dilemma is progressively heightened and sharpened. By the beginning of Book Four Dido is faced with a stark choice between decorum and desire in which no compromise is possible. In itself this is not yet a serious problem. At the opening of Book Four Dido, despite the best efforts of the gods, remains highly aware of the disjunction between her persona and her desires. Before her sister Anna she rehearses her dilemma, outlining for her both how crucial her pudor is to her and the strength of her longing for Aeneas. She appears intent, furthermore, on maintaining the former at the expense of the latter: though she admits that she would submit to her desires were she not bound to Sychaeus, she acknowledges that she is so bound, and even takes an oath to the gods that she will respect her obligation to her deceased husband.22 This statement, however, is problematic, and even Dido’s decision to inform Anna of her self-conflict in the first place indicates a certain wavering of intention. Anna does not imagine that in confiding her desires Dido is simply looking for commiseration, and in fact does not condole with her. Anna replies to Dido’s confession instead by pointing out that Dido is not only a queen, but also a young woman, with a natural inclination towards both eros and the bearing of children.23 She adds further that Dido need not concern herself with any obligation to Sychaeus, who is, after all, 24 dead, and as a result presumably beyond caring about such things. Anna responds, in other words, as though in making her confession Dido is at root seeking “extraspection,”25 submitting her persona to scrutiny by another in order to confirm or deny its essential qualities and outline. That Dido emphasizes to her sister not just the strength of her passion, but also its causes—her beloved’s divine descent, his courage, the nobility of his countenance26—would seem to indicate that Anna’s guess here is not wholly wrong: Dido is looking for loopholes. Such loopholes Anna dutifully supplies. While her arguments regarding Dido’s youth and lack of obligation to the departed fail to sway the queen, her subsequent claim that Aeneas is desirable not just on a personal, but also on a political, level are far more efficacious. According to Anna, an alliance with Aeneas, presumably through marriage, would be beneficial to Trojans and Carthaginians alike: the impending war with the African kings means that Carthage requires valiant fighting

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for its defense; the birth of an heir would furnish Carthage a dynasty; and finally, Aeneas’ arrival by shipwreck in Africa might quite possibly be the result of a divine 28 plan for the future greatness of Carthage. It is these arguments, Vergil emphasizes, by which Dido finally solvit pudorem (“loosened the bonds of her pudor”).29 Once Anna’s claims have been accepted, in fact, Dido comes to see pudor as an essentially redundant quality. According to Anna, the demands of Dido’s desire and of her social position are identical. Far from conflicting, the two impulses are united. It is from this assumption of confluence that Dido’s tragedy proceeds, her self-surrender set in motion by an apparently minute slippage of self-perception rendered possible by Anna’s rhetorical assimilation of passion to persona. This assimilation is, Vergil makes clear, entirely invalid, and Anna’s argument is specious on several levels. Her projections of a Carthaginian dynasty founded by Dido and Aeneas are obviously highly speculative in character. The hatred of the African kings is in large part motivated by her rejection of them as suitors, a point in fact noted elsewhere by both Dido and Anna.30 And of course the gods have rather different intentions with regard to the fate of Aeneas, a fact of which Dido, having listened to Aeneas’ narrative throughout Books Two and Three, ought to be well aware. That the goals of desire and duty are in fact incompatible is furthermore evident in the behavior of Dido and Aeneas themselves. Far from preparing Carthage for war, the lovesick Dido allows construction of the city walls to lapse as she falls into a delirium of desire.31 Aeneas, entranced by Dido, fails to notice the discontent of his men and their eagerness to leave the city in which their leaders’ love has detained them.32 Dido and Aeneas are both furthermore themselves aware in some fashion that their liaison is illicit, a consciousness visible in particular in the ambiguous fashion in which they conduct their affair. Their union is on some level a marriage.33 Upon sexual consummation of the affair Juno is careful to provide the lovers with all the accoutrements of a wedding ceremony, with nymphs acting as the nuptial chorus and lightning as the bridal torch. The behavior of Dido and Aeneas also conforms in large degree to these heavenly omens. The pair clearly participate in a system of mutual gift exchange, and subsequently begin to cohabit, thereby fulfilling all the legal requirements of a valid Roman marriage.34 On the other hand, whatever the divine and legal status of their relationship might be, Dido and Aeneas make no attempt to commemorate their union publicly, and the nature of the liaison is accordingly problematic. As G. Freyburger observes, a properly constituted foedus of whatever sort in ancient Rome, ‘suppose en effet normalement des partenaires d’une part crédibles dans la société, soucieux de leur reputation, d’autre part craignant les dieux’ (“normally requires partners who are on the one hand, careful of their reputations, and who enjoy a credible public standing; and on the other, who are fearful of the gods”).35 It is hardly clear in the case of Dido and Aeneas that these conditions have been met. The

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nature of their bond is closer to that of the elegiac foedus amoris, for which, as Freyburger notes, ‘la valeur existentielle est, pour ceux qui aiment, totale, mais… la validité juridique est nulle, et la sanction religeuse incertaine’ (“the existential value is—for those who love—total, but for which the legal status is nonexistent and the religious validity unclear”).36 Such a foedus is generally portrayed as unsatisfactory even within elegy itself. As a bond between two dynasts that implies with it the union of two peoples, it is clearly insufficient. In deciding to act upon her desire for Aeneas, Dido makes what Freyburger characterizes as a ‘glissement’ (“elision”) between her erotic and public demands.37 The force behind this glissement, however, is entirely emotional and irrational. Dido might label her affair with Aeneas a coniugium (“marriage”),38 but she has no reason to assume that her Tyrians will do likewise. Her belief that in this label she maintains the viability of her social persona is accordingly entirely false.

5.3 DIDO’S DEATH: SELF-KILLING AS SELF-LOSS Dido’s self-delusion is not allowed to last long. The elegiac poet is free to develop and describe his passions in the obscurity of a murky social demi-monde located somewhere between decorum and desire. Dido and Aeneas, however, occupy the apex of their respective social hierarchies, and are permitted no such opacity or ambiguity. Aeneas’ attempt to let his relationship with Dido linger undefined is sharply terminated by the appearance of the god Mercury, who reminds him in no uncertain terms of the divine imperative behind his mission to Italy. In the aftermath of this announcement the true contours of the lovers’ personae and their incommensurability with eros are brutally revealed and their self-deceptions unmasked. For Dido, however, this self-knowledge comes too late. Dido has utterly lost her pudor, the sole quality through which she might constitute herself as a member of her elite community. With the object of her desire lost, then, she has nothing at all, and it is for this reason, ultimately, that she kills herself. The connection between Dido’s loss of pudor and her decision to end her own life has, as mentioned earlier, been noted before, and most scholars are in agreement that Dido’s self-inflicted death acts as punishment for her violation of her oath of fidelity to Sychaeus.39 There is no lack of textual evidence for this view to be found in Vergil. Dido herself describes her liaison with Aeneas as a culpa (“moral fault”) and as consisting of impia facta (“wicked” or “undutiful acts”), whilst amongst her dying reflections there arises a regret for her non 40 servata fides (“betrayed fidelity”). Given that Vergil devotes something like two hundred lines of Aeneid 4 to a detailed description of Dido’s final moments, however, it seems that his treatment of her should be viewed as more thematically complex than this assessment indicates, and in fact the final quarter of Book Four chronicles far more than the destruction of a fornicating adulteress. The process by which Dido

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approaches her own destruction is a complicated one, and consists of a series of attempts to find some way of integrating herself with her social audience. The terms of each such reconstruction, however, always demand her own death as a means of demonstrating her pudor. Even within this suicidal teleology, however, whereby every relevant factor points towards Dido’s death, there remains a fundamental motivational conflict: unable to renounce her commitment either to Sychaeus or to Aeneas, Dido’s attempts to reclaim her pudor become ultimately paradoxical. By the time of her death Dido can undertake no action that is not inherently self-contradictory and conflicted. Her motives and acts no longer cohere with one another, and any “self” she might have possessed to structure such actions has been utterly lost, swept away in the whirl of the passions that have destroyed her ability to constitute any unified social persona. The self-contradictions inherent in Dido’s suicidal stance become immediately apparent if one attempts to trace her progress from her first formulation of suicidal intention near the beginning of the book, to the act’s completion at the end. Dido’s first references to suicide are ambiguous in their expression. At Aeneid 4.308 Dido reproaches Aeneas for attempting to deceive her in his flight, and characterizes herself as moritura (“soon to die”). The adjective may, however, plausibly be taken as a reference to the coming conflict with Iarbas; at any rate, Dido makes no mention of any resolve on her part to ensure this result herself. Similarly at 4.435-6 she urges Anna to beg Aeneas to remain at Carthage, saying extremam hanc oro veniam (miserere sororis)/quam mihi cum dederit, cumulatam morte remittam (“I beg this final favor—pity your sister!—a favor which, once he has granted it, I shall repay with interest with my death”).41 Again, there is no explicit mention of suicide, and in fact the mode of death is of little relevance in this context. In both passages Dido is attempting to highlight the contrast between the favors she has bestowed upon Aeneas with the ingratitude with which he is repaying her. It is in Dido’s interest here to ensure that the disjunction between their relative positions appear as wide as possible, and her reference to death is a function of the rhetorical demands of her situation. Dido’s underlying case, however, is weak. Dido’s plea for reciprocity is each time based upon the notion that there exists some aristocratic tie of obligation between herself and Aeneas. Yet in conducting her relationship with him beyond the boundaries of aristocratic norms Dido has forfeited her right to demand social sanctions against Aeneas’ “ingratitude.” When Aeneas denies that his relationship with Dido constitutes a marriage she can make no reply, and her invocation of the norms of hospitality to prolong their sexual liaison is furthermore entirely invalid. Dido’s claim that reciprocity of their union will be enforced at the divine level42 is similarly problematic: given that Aeneas’ commands come directly from Mercury himself, Dido’s ability to exploit ambiguity on this plane is limited at best. Dido can have recourse

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finally only to an appeal to emotion, against which, however, the gods have hardened Aeneas’ heart. Dido’s threats, then, whether of vengeance or her own death, finally prove futile, and there appears to be no way that she can continue the charade that her relationship with Aeneas is legitimate. As a result of Aeneas’ ability to spurn her pleas, Dido must begin to contemplate the achievement of her own death in earnest, this time as a gesture aimed not at Aeneas, but at her fellow Tyrians. Each rejection by Aeneas is followed for Dido by a realization of the extent to which she has lost her place in Carthaginian society. In the wake of her unsuccessful approaches to Aeneas Dido dreams that her Tyrians have deserted her, a point made all the clearer by the sinister omens and prodigies that accompany the vision.43 This revelation of her own isolation from her community is immediately followed by renewed suicidal resolve.44 Associated with Dido’s realization of her fall from grace and her decision to kill herself is the recurrent memory of Sychaeus and reflections upon her lack of chastity. Included amongst the various supernatural phenomena that foretell to Dido her impending death are voces et verba 45 viri (“words and the voice of her husband”) emanating from her altar to Sychaeus. It is clear, however, that this is not the sole motivating force pushing Dido towards death. Rather, Dido’s social standing and her fidelity to Sychaeus should be viewed as inextricably bound to each other, so that it is impossible for her to assert her place amongst the Tyrians without proving also her faithfulness to her husband. This paratactic association found in the omen-Sychaeus-suicide sequence of 4.450-75 is found repeated in extremely concise form in Dido’s address to Aeneas at 4.320-3, where she states, te propter Libycae gentes nomadumque tyranni odere, infensi Tyrii; te propter eundem exstinctus pudor et, qua sola sidera adibam fama prior. (“Because of you the Libyan peoples and the leaders of the tribes hate me, and my own Tyrians are hostile. Because of you again that pudor, my former reputation, has been extinguished—that pudor by which alone I was achieving an immortal name”)

Pudor and persona cannot be disassociated here. Dido’s “guilt”46 and the self-inflicted punishment of her culpa are for her hardly matters of a purely interior nature. They are external and social phenomenon. In accepting the embrace of Aeneas Dido rejects the claims not only of Sychaeus upon her, but also of her people. Reparation must be made to both through acknowledgement of the binding force of her vow to him. The essentially public orientation of Dido’s atonement for her lack of fidelity is best seen in two passages that also, however, serve to illustrate the impossibility of her

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successfully achieving expiation. Dido’s deliberations at 4.540-53 highlight the problem. quis me autem, fac velle, sinet ratibusque superbis invisam accipiet? nescis heu, perdita, necdum Laomedonteae sentis periuria gentis? quid tum? sola fuga nautas comitabor ovantis? an Tyriis omnique manu stipata meorum inferar et, quos Sidonia vix urbe rivelli, rursus agam pelago et ventis dare vela iubebo? quin morere, ut merita es, ferroque averte dolorem. tu lacrimis evicta meis, tu prima furentem his, germana, malis oneras atque obicis hosti. non licuit thalami expertem sine crimine vitam degere, more ferae, talis nec tangere curas; non servata fides cineri promissa Sychaeo. (“But who—supposing that I wished it—will accept me, or, hated as I am, receive me upon those proud ships? Do you not yet understand, you lost one, the faithlessness of the Trojan race? And what then? Shall I accompany those exulting sailors, alone in my flight? Or should I instead go forth surrounded by my entire group of Tyrians, and lead a people who could scarcely be torn from their native city back again over the sea, and order them to spread their sails to the winds? Die instead, as you deserve, and turn away your grief with the sword. You, my sister, overcome by my tears, you first burdened me, as I raged, with these evils, and drove me towards my enemy. It was not possible to lead a life innocent of the marriage-bed—a blameless life, in the fashion of an animal—and not to know such cares. The fidelity promised to the ashes of Sychaeus was betrayed.”)

The queen’s thoughts here shift through multiple distinct phases: 1.

To abandon her people and leave with the Trojans would allow her to accompany Aeneas, but is both undesirable and impossible because of the hostility and untrustworthiness of the Trojans.

2.

She cannot, however, accompany him with the protection and support of her Tyrians, because her authority over them is insufficient for this.

3.

Death is therefore desirable because: a) It will ‘turn away’ her grief, the dolor referred to here being presumably that of her current isolation from her people. b) Such a death would be merita (“deserved”), although the reasons she believes this to be the case are left momentarily unclear.

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4.

Dido’s thoughts at this point are interrupted by the reflection that her current predicament could have been avoided if: a) She had not listened to Anna’s advice, thereby preserving her social persona. b) It had been possible to live sine crimine, expers thalami, and more ferae (“a blameless life,” “innocent of the marriage-bed,” and “in the fashion of an animal”). The exact significance of these phrases and the nature of their interconnection is unclear. If Dido is here imagining animals to be essentially monogamous creatures, she is at this point indulging in fantasy 47 and regretting that her widowhood was ever interrupted at all. If, as seems likely, Dido is instead thinking of animals as being basically promiscuous, her remark continues the thought of the previous line, and reproves her sister for convincing her that infidelity and blamelessness 48 could ever be commensurate. In either event she is declaring the incompatibility of her acts with her social persona.

5.

Dido then restates the nature of the ethical commitments which she has violated in terms of her oath to Sychaeus, a point that explains her earlier belief that her death would be merita.

The connection between Dido’s ability to lead the Tyrians and fulfillment of her oath to Sychaeus is here quite obvious. A similar chain of thought is found in highly compressed form at the height of Dido’s madness at 4.594-6 as she mentally exhorts her people to attack the fleeing Trojan ships. ferte citi flammas, date tela, impellite remos! quid loquor? aut ubi sum? quae mentem insania mutat? infelix Dido, nunc te facta impia tangunt? (“Swift—bring flames, bring out the weapons, sweep the oars! What am I saying? And where am I? What madness deprives me of my senses? Oh, wretched Dido—do your faithless deeds only affect you now?”)

Again one finds a linkage made between Dido’s loss of authority and her infidelity. In each case, however, the impulses that cause these reflections to emerge are fundamentally at odds with the content of her deliberations. Dido wants to kill herself as an act of atonement for her violation of her oath to Sychaeus and by this atonement to reclaim her place in society. Her reasons for so desiring, however, stem from her love of Aeneas: she seeks this atonement because it is only if she regains her original social status that her relationship with Aeneas can once again become tenable. Dido, in other words, wants to demonstrate her status vis-à-vis Sychaeus the better to demonstrate her status vis-à-vis Aeneas, and these two impulses are entirely contrary to

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one another. Even as Dido intends to kill herself out of fidelity to her dead husband, her elegiac impulses will not allow her to do so. Even after her first appeals have been rejected by Aeneas and she has realized she must die in consequence she is afflicted with an improbe Amor (“shameless love”) and willing to cast aside all dignity in order to satiate the demands, not of decorum, but of her passion.49 The purpose of her renewed pleadings, then, is as much erotic as it is political, and even in the final moments before death Dido finds herself still capable of characterizing the belongings left behind by Aeneas in her palace as dulces (“sweet”).50 The result is that the mode in which Dido finally kills herself is fundamentally unsuited to her ostensible purpose of placating the shade of Sychaeus. The erotic undertones of the queen’s decision to immolate herself upon the bed she shared with Aeneas, accompanied by his sword,51 armor, and effigies (“effigy”), have frequently been noted.52 As Alison Keith has pointed out, the whole ‘lurid tableau’ serves only to point out the extent of her betrayal by Aeneas, and stands as a testament much more to Dido’s lover than to her husband.53 Dido’s betrayal of her fidelity to Sychaeus in the manner of her death, however, runs much more deeply than an inability to escape the impulses of eros. In enacting her final suicidal drama Dido is not in her madness inadvertently disclosing her love for Aeneas. She is quite deliberately attempting to assert the validity of the foedus that binds him to her, and in death Dido attempts to enforce the reciprocal relationship denied to her in life. If Dido’s pyre is in one sense a monument to her own shame and humiliation, the exuviae and effigies of Aeneas beside her on the bed act as mute witness to his participation in that foedus for which Dido alone is now paying the penalty. Dido in her dying moments reflects scornfully upon Aeneas’ reputation for piety;54 in publishing to the world the terms of their relationship she critically undermines his right to be claim this quality as his own. If pietas is a characteristic possessed only by that person ‘qui s’est acquitté de la dette qu’il a contracteé en raison de bienfaits reçus’ (“who has paid off the debt which he has contracted due to earlier 55 favors received”), then Aeneas is clearly not pius on the evidence of Dido’s immolation. As Monti observes, by acquiescing in Dido’s construction of their relationship as marriage, and by assuming actively the role of consort and pretending to royal power, Aeneas entangles himself in a web of obligation from which he cannot be extricated by 56 fiat of a god.

The rhetoric implicit in Dido’s death is not lost upon her immediate social audience. At the beginning of Aeneid 5 Vergil describes the response of Aeneas’ men as, heading out to sea, they first perceive the smoke from Dido’s pyre. Despite their limited knowledge of the situation, they possess a foreboding of what has happened. duri magno sed amore dolores

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polluto, notumque furens quid femina possit, 57 triste per augurium Teucrorum pectora ducunt. (“the bitter pains that arise from a great love defiled, and knowledge of what a woman in a frenzy is capable of, led the Trojans to see in this a dismal omen.”)

Polluto (“defiled”) is a very strong word here, used generally with regard to religious pollution or the violation of oaths.58 Aeneas’ decision to abandon Dido, then, is recognized as treacherous on some level even by his own men. Such a judgment accords a certain tacit legitimacy to the foedus amoris that Dido claims to exist between herself and Aeneas. In recognizing the default of their leader from this foedus, Aeneas’ men implicitly acknowledge also that it conformed in at least some respects to aristocratic norms of exchange and obligation, and ought to have been honored as such. This reaction to Dido’s suicide might seem at first glance to place the Trojans first in a long line of readers, from the women who so annoyed Juvenal to the Harvard critics, who have felt that Dido’s suicide so effectively constitutes her as a partner of a foedus that she places Aeneas ultimately in the wrong. The Trojans’ response, however, is not nearly as clear-cut as this, and is complicated by two factors. First, even if the relationship between Dido and Aeneas to some extent resembles a properly constituted foedus, it is nevertheless not actually such. Aeneas’ betrayal of the queen might make him look bad, but his primary duty is to his Trojan followers, who do not feel in the least bound by the terms of whatever agreements Aeneas and Dido might have entered into privately. The Trojans are eager to leave Carthage, and if Aeneas is in the wrong, it is not for having left Carthage, but for having lingered there so long in the first place. This view is further endorsed by the narrative voice of Aeneid 4. In decisively rejecting Dido’s pleas for him to remain at Carthage Aeneas is described as being pius, the reappearance of the epithet, previously absent in Book Four, clearly corresponding with his renewed dedication to his Italian mission.59 The second factor qualifying the Trojans’ moral response to Dido’s suicide is that her reaction to Aeneas’ betrayal is clearly excessive. The Trojans are uncertain regarding the cause of the smoke from Carthage, but they exhibit little hesitation in describing Dido’s actions as furens (“raging in madness”). The Trojans’ intimations of a triste augurium (“dismal omen”) are here entirely correct. The manner of Dido’s death is intended to shame Aeneas, but her vengeance upon him is far more destructive than this. Dido dies cursing not only Aeneas but all his people. In death she prays that the smoke from her pyre should act as an evil omen for his voyage, and vows eternal war between Africa and Rome. Roman readers in particular would have been well aware of how great a pall Dido’s pyre would one day cast over the Mediterranean, a 60 legacy out of all proportion to the original offence. Dido’s suicide, then, does not and cannot in the final analysis re-establish her social position through reference to

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her relationship with Aeneas. She is not, in fact, a participant in a valid socially constituted foedus, a deficiency that cannot be compensated for by any degree of vengeful havoc wrought in its breach. These two elements of Dido’s death—its ultimate failure to assert social legitimacy and its sheer excess in scale—are causally linked by Vergil in a fashion that vividly illuminates the Aeneid’s assumption of a complete identity between the individual and his or her social persona. Dido herself recognizes that in her pursuit of erotic desire she has gone far beyond the point where she might be able to reclaim any valid social persona. Eros has left her unable to define herself solely with reference to Sychaeus, while the Tyrians do not recognize her relationship with Aeneas as legitimate. Dido must define herself with reference to one or the other, and cannot. Dido is accordingly represented on the night before her suicide as repeatedly contemplating and rejecting in turn all the options open to her. She is given only one monologue for this prolonged sleepless period.61 Its framing statements, however, contextualize the sequence of her thought and illustrate the repetitive nature of her meditations. The beginning of Dido’s speech is marked with the statement sic adeo insistit secumque ita corde volutat (“and in this way she begins, and turns these matters alone within her heart”), the end by tantos illa suo rumpebat pectore questus (“she kept 62 breaking forth these laments—so powerful—from her breast”). Vergil’s use of the present (“turns these matters”) and imperfect (“kept breaking forth”) tenses here clearly indicates that Dido is seen here continually cycling through every possible alternative open to her and discovering that all have in fact been closed. The sole acceptable outcome for Dido in these deliberations is a life governed by a socially sanctioned foedus amoris, and this is impossible for her. Unable, then, to subordinate the imperatives of her foedus to social norms, she instead subordinates her entire society to the demands of the foedus. Dido’s suicide is a rhetorical gesture aimed as much at the divine audience as the human. Her final appeal to the norms of reciprocity cannot be to her Carthaginians, but is addressed rather to quod non aequo foedere amantis/curae numen habet iustumque memorque (“whatever just and mindful power holds sway over the cares of lovers bound by 63 unequal terms”). Such a prayer expresses the pious elegiac hope that the vows of lovers should be safeguarded by the gods.64 Within elegy itself, the gods often prove indifferent to the plea.65 Dido, however, is in a position to expect rather more from her patron deities, as her suicide is accompanied by all the accoutrements of black magic. These accoutrements work in part as a ruse to distract Anna from the true nature of her intentions. As J. Pichon has pointed out, however, Dido does in fact carry out the rites in question, and Dido’s death acts, as a result, as the climax of a necromantic ritual.66 The Punic practice of human sacrifice was among all Carthaginian customs the most 67 reviled by the Romans. Nevertheless, the gods appear to be bound by the same rules

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of reciprocal obligation as are Roman aristocrats, and Dido’s willingness to destroy herself in return for vengeance is more than amply repaid. Aeneas does indeed, as 68 Dido demands, die early and unburied in Italy, and Dido’s avowal of conflict unto the last generation was to be finally, and cataclysmically, fulfilled by the Punic wars that were to level Carthage. That Dido’s curse should culminate ultimately in the destruction not of Rome but of her own people only underscores the utter untenability of her claims upon Aeneas. In transgressing all human boundary and limit Dido becomes terrible in her wrath. She also, however, becomes pathetic. Vergil assumes a complete identity between social function and the nature of the individual throughout the Aeneid. Dido’s inability to accept the limitations of her Tyrian persona and to commit suicide purely as an act of atonement for her infidelity to Sychaeus is accordingly described not as a decision to transcend or spurn social convention, but as symptomatic of Dido’s complete self-loss and negation. Deprived by the power of eros of her ability to perceive the outlines of her social persona with any clarity, Dido possesses no final reference point for her actions. Even when death clearly becomes inevitable Dido is unable to cause her motives for the act to cohere or to allow her death to convey a single unambiguous meaning. Dido’s final speech before falling upon the sword of Aeneas at 4.651-62 reflects the incoherence and unintelligibility of the act. ‘dulces exuviae, dum fata deusque sinebat, accipite hanc animam meque his exsolvite curis. vixi et, quem dederat cursum Fortuna, peregi, et nunc magna mei sub terras ibit imago. urbem praeclaram statui, mea moenia vidi, ulta virum poenas inimico a fratre recepi, felix, heu! Nimium felix, si litora tantum numquam Dardaniae tetigissent nostra carinae!’ dixit et os impressa toro, ‘moriemur inultae, sed moriamur,’ ait. ‘sic, sic iuvat ire sub umbras. hauriat hunc oculis ignem crudelis ab alto Dardanus et nostrae secum ferat omina mortis.’ “‘Cast-off possession of Aeneas, sweet to me while god and Fate allowed this, receive now my spirit and deliver me from my unhappiness. I have lived, and I have completed the course Fate set for me, and now my great shade shall descend beneath the earth. I founded a pre-eminent city, I looked upon my rising walls, and, my husband avenged, I exacted punishment from my hostile brother. Happy, too happy I would have been, if only Trojan ships had never touched our shores.’ She said these things, and buried her face in the couch. ‘I shall die unavenged, but let me die,’ she said. ‘Thus I go gladly into the shadows. Let the cruel Trojan drink their fires in with his eyes, and let him bear with him the omen of my death.’”

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The paradoxes Dido earlier identified in her position at Aen. 4.534-552 are here restated, but not resolved. Dido remains devoted to both Sychaeus and Aeneas, she continues both to love and hate the Trojan leader, and she desires in death absolution, vengeance, and a refuge from her own pain. The whirl of Dido’s thoughts here approaches no conclusion, and is terminated only by the sword-stroke. Her death, when it finally occurs, is a disorganized act expressing no single purpose and therefore incapable of bestowing upon its victim any single structured social persona. Dido’s death, then, is accordingly described by Vergil as in a sense not even Dido’s act, and in the night before her suicide the queen becomes an almost passive character. She no longer directs her own actions, their paradoxical and unstable character reflecting not her own wishes but merely the self-generating flux of an aestus irarum (a “storm of angry impulses”).69 Her repeated characterization as furens and demens (“insane”) further confirms the impression that Dido can no longer be held responsible for her actions.70 The antithesis supposed here between the self and the emotions should be unsurprising, and is essentially that of the Roman philosophers. For Vergil, however, the incompatibility of the two is not just the judgment of reason, but of the gods, and at the close of Aeneid 4 we find an extremely direct statement of the identity of individual nature and social persona. Dido, Vergil tells us, could not die immediately upon her suicide. To die, it is necessary that the deity Proserpina first clip a lock of hair from one’s brow, and this she had not done for Dido, because the queen died nec fato merita nec morte peribat/sed misero ante diem subitoque accensa furore (“a death neither deserved nor fated, but wretchedly before her time, in the sudden heat of madness”).71 Dido’s death is portrayed here as occurring somehow beyond fate and outside any plan. It is essentially an accident, and all Dido’s apparent deliberation and resolution was futile. Dido’s belief that her death would be merita is judged false because not she, but furor (“raging madness”), governed her acts. Her death, then, cannot accurately be said to amount even to a self-reflexive act. It merely literalizes and makes manifest a self-loss completed the moment she allowed amor to blur her perception of the demands of her persona and acquiesced to the urgings of the passions.

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Chapter 6

Ovid

6.1 INTRODUCTION Vergil’s portrait of Dido’s suicide as self-loss and abnegation clearly resonated powerfully with his Roman readership. Roman writers and artists, using the Aeneid as an inspiration for their own compositions, frequently went so far as to subordinate the epic impetus of its main narrative to the demands of the erotic drama of Book Four, a tendency indicating that, to the post-Vergilian artistic imagination at least, Aeneas’ imperial struggle was often less immediately engaging than Dido’s tale of self-dissolution.1 The figure of Dido accordingly assumes center stage in subsequent Latin literature, to be investigated, reinterpreted, and reportrayed by authors who chose to follow in Vergil’s footsteps. Aeneas, by contrast, retains his epic and heroic status, but is left literarily inert, ossified by this shift in focus. Numerous reasons might be advanced for this selective attention to Book Four, from the inherent appeal of Dido’s powerfully expressed emotions2 to the potentially subversive effects of Vergil’s temporary privileging of eros over epos (“the genre of 3 epic”), to the Romans’ morbid delight in seeing vengeance wrought upon the unchaste woman.4 If Dido’s portrait by Vergil is powerful, however, his description of the queen’s death and the motivations behind it is intensely problematic, and in appropriating the most visceral aspects of the character for their own works our extant Latin authors are forced also to confront a fundamental instability in Vergil’s understanding of his tortured queen. For Vergil, Dido simply is her social persona, and behavioral deviations from the demands of this persona are explicable only as the effect of disordered impulses being inflicted upon her from without. There is implicit in Vergil’s account of Dido’s suicide a strong and familiar dichotomy assumed between those actions which are properly attributable to Dido and those which are not, a division that amounts in essence to that between social expectation and the urges of desire. The distinction is validated within Roman culture generally by the precepts of its moralizing philosophers and is

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confirmed within the Aeneid itself by the gods’ recognition that Dido was not in fact responsible for her own actions throughout Book Four. Despite the divine and philosophical authority granted this polarity, Vergil’s depiction of the Carthaginian queen nevertheless tends to undermine the strict opposition of these terms. Prior to Vergil the genre of Latin literature concerned most extensively with the conflict between eros and social role was elegy, and here the passion/persona division is maintained through continual final reference to the demands of the elegists’ social audience. In Aeneid 4, however, we are presented with a character who experiences two antithetical motivational forces, neither of which is capable of overwhelming the other and between which no resolution can be effected even in death. The question of which impulse should be taken as reflecting the “true” nature of the individual is thus raised much more urgently and problematically by Vergil than it is in elegy. The balance is only tipped in favor of social persona in the Aeneid by the intervention of the gods; without this Iris ex machina, analysis of Dido’s identity and of her motivations towards suicide becomes much more complicated. Subsequent interpreters of Dido, then, tend not only to exploit the considerable strengths of Vergil’s portrait, but also to probe its weaknesses, and in particular to test just how tenable the Vergilian passion/persona dichotomy is. Our earliest extant reworking of Aeneid 4 is that developed by Ovid in the seventh poem of his Epistulae Heroidum (“Letters from the Heroines”). The poems of this collection, more generally referred to as the Heroides,5 are united by a single audacious conceit. In the fifteen single and three double poems of the Epistulae Heroidum6 Ovid purports to display to us letters composed by the heroines (and, in the later “double” epistles, the heroes) of earlier myth and literature at critical junctures in the narratives in which they were first immortalized. The fifteen single epistles are each “addressed” to the heroine’s lover, typically envisioned as a man whose abandonment of the heroine has precipitated a crisis that can only be resolved by his immediate return: we thus have letters from Penelope to Ulysses, Phyllis to Demophoon, Deianeira to the unfaithful Hercules, and so on and so forth. If the single letters focus upon the pathos of love unrequited or betrayed, the double letters by contrast portray love successfully attained, and present us with letters “written” by figures from the previous literary tradition to their beloveds, accompanied by the replies of their charmed correspondents. Despite these differing outcomes, both types of “letter” work to reorient dramatically the reader’s perception of the earlier texts from which Ovid has drawn his material.7 Rendered in elegiac meter and described by figures generally marginalized in earlier narratives by virtue of their sex, there is a tendency for the subject matter of these previous works to become both eroticized and personalized in the hands of Ovid’s heroines. The putative authors of the Heroides write with only a partial and extremely self-interested view of the tragic and epic narratives of which they form a part. Given that most of these

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heroines are connected to their narratives through their amorous relationship to some central hero, their focus is generally, and unsurprisingly, on love and the obligations it entails. As a result, traditional mythological and literary material is discussed in the Epistulae only insofar as it impinges upon the heroine’s relationship with her beloved. Dido’s letter to Aeneas is in this respect no exception. In Epistula 7 (“Letter 7”) the epic hero appears not as a Trojan leader and founder of the Roman people, but first and foremost as Dido’s husband/lover. The imperative of Aeneas’ divine mission is dismissed, and the primary importance of the emotional commitment linking Dido and the Trojan hero is repeatedly asserted. The emphasis of Epistula 7 is entirely upon Dido and the nature of the self-conflict she experiences with regard to Aeneas. The events of Aeneid 4 are themselves changed not at all: Dido’s account of events in Epistula 7 tallies closely with that of Vergil in the Aeneid. What is transformed in Ovid’s retelling is our understanding of Dido herself and the process of reasoning that leads to her self-killing, for Ovid’s sustained focus upon the character of Dido reveals and highlights certain deep-seated contradictions latent in Vergil’s portrait of the Carthaginian queen. These cracks are, in Ovid, only superficial. In exploring and elucidating their very superficiality, however, Ovid manifests an awareness that will later come to permeate Julio-Claudian understandings of the self: in Ovid’s Dido we see for the first time in Latin literature a small but definite schism portrayed between an individual’s social persona and that individual’s essential nature. The shift remains in Ovid minute, but nevertheless stands as a landmark in the post-Augustan destabilization of norms of suicide and the nature of the person previously established in Roman culture. To restrict discussion of depictions of suicide in Ovid’s works to analysis of the Dido of Epistula 7 might seem at first glance to represent an arbitrary narrowing of inquiry with regard to an author who portrays numerous suicides throughout his poetic corpus. As the final inheritor of the Latin elegiac tradition Ovid makes ample use of the suicidal heroines found earlier in Propertius and Tibullus. Hypsipyle, Phyllis, and Evadne appear repeatedly in his poetry.8 These are accompanied by two other mythological exemplars of wifely devotion: Alcestis, who sacrificed herself to Apollo so that her husband might be spared the god’s fatal vengeance, and Laodamia, who, like Evadne, decided not to survive the death of her husband.9 The sheer scope of the Metamorphoses and the Fasti, incorporating as they do vast swathes of the Graeco-Roman mythological and historiographical tradition, necessarily encompasses numerous suicidal acts, characters, and intentions in its sweep. Previous awareness of some of these would have been broadly diffused throughout Ovid’s Roman readership due to their earlier treatment by well-known literary predecessors: Lucretia, Ajax, and Polyxena10 would all have been familiar figures to the poet’s original audience.

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Many of Ovid’s suicidal characters, however, are more obscure in origin, culled from the pages of now-anonymous redactors and lost Hellenistic compendia. In the course of the Metamorphoses we hear not only of the willingness of Orpheus to die on 11 behalf of his wife Eurydice, but also of the mutual devotion-unto-death of the lesser known couples Deucalion and Pyrrha,12 Pyramus and Thisbe,13 Ceyx and Alcyone,14 15 and Hylonome and Cyllarus. Similarly motivated, but unreciprocated, self-killings are committed by the lovelorn Iphis,16 darling of the Alexandrian poets, and also by more obscure characters such as Cyparissus,17 and Aesacus.18 Given the aetiological and transfigurative theme of the Metamorphoses it is unsurprising that many of these deaths are in fact thwarted, the suicidal agent being saved at the last moment by transformation into a plant, animal, or geographical feature. Such is the fate suffered by Myrrha,19 metamorphosed into a tree, Byblis,20 who through weeping manages to turn herself into a brook, and, the final member of the suicidal roll call of the Metamorphoses, Daedalion,21 who is frustrated in his attempt to throw himself off a cliff by transformation into a bird. In addition to the treasury of self-inflicted deaths furnished by the Metamorphoses, furthermore, Ovid also provides us with a sustained treatment of suicidal motifs with his Heroides, where the theme is pervasive. The double epistles, with their emphasis on reciprocated passion, make little reference to self-inflicted death, though Leander fantasizes about the effect his death would have upon Hero and repeatedly mentions his willingness to die for her. Of the fifteen single epistles, however, all but three either make explicit reference to suicide or deal 22 with characters “known” to kill themselves in the earlier literary tradition. The result is a distinct miasma saturating the work as a whole: the possibility of the self-inflicted death of the heroines is kept continually in view, an eventuality the 23 reader knows will be fulfilled in the majority of cases. If Ovid is prolific in his references to suicide, however, he is rarely entirely original, and herein lies the chief difficulty in assessing accurately the nature of his contribution to Roman discourse on the act. As can be seen from the list of deaths given above, suicidal figures in Ovid lend themselves readily to analysis as instantiations of types rather than as autonomous literary creations. Ovid’s wholesale appropriation of elegiac self-killing exempla is typical of his approach to characterization: the poet’s treatment of Hypsipyle, Phyllis, and Evadne differs little from that of Propertius, and figures such as Alcestis, Laodamia, and the numerous suicidally minded couples of the Metamorphoses are all recognizable as iterations of the basic elegiac model. A similar kind of literary recurrence is seen in Ovid’s tales of unrequited love. Iphis’ decision to hang himself to shame the hardheartedness of Anaxarete recalls aspects of Dido’s death in Aeneid 4, as do the isomorphic tales of Myrrha and Byblis and their struggles to free themselves of shameful erotic desires. Suicides inherited from the Greek literary tradition are homogenized to conform to stock Roman types: Polyxena faces her death with admirable Stoic resolve, while the dying cry of Ajax—ne

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quisquam Aiacem possit/superare nisi Aiax! (“so that no one conquers Ajax but Ajax!”)—appears to be more Catonic than Sophoclean in inspiration. This is not to say that Ovid adds nothing at all to Roman understandings of the possible motives behind the self-inflicted death. Daedalion’s tale, for instance, demonstrates that suicide may be attempted from filial as much as erotic pietas. Generally speaking, however, such innovation as is found in Ovid arises not from his choice of subject matter but from experiments at the level of form, and from generic cross-pollination. The “originality” of the majority of Ovid’s most creative suicide scenes is derived from his combination of elements normally kept distinct from each other in the previous literary tradition and/or the importation of incongruous elements into previously established generic norms. That Cyparissus, for instance, should attempt to kill himself after the death of his beloved is an elegiac convention, and relatively banal; that his beloved should prove to be a stag, however, is unusual and amusing. A precisely similar dynamic is found in Hylonome’s decision to kill herself after the fall of her husband in battle; this exemplary wife is distinct from Evadne in that she is a centaur. Not all of Ovid’s incongruous collocations are necessarily humorous in tone. Byblis, for example, desires her own death both as a means of escaping her unholy incestuous desires and so that her beloved brother might kiss her as she lies upon her pyre. The first desire echoes Dido’s oath at Aen. 4. 24-9, while the second is derivatively Propertian in inspiration.25 Even where Ovid’s manipulations of literary convention are not explicitly comic, however, their very artificiality renders the question of how seriously one ought to take his suicide scenes extremely problematic. Numerous critics have noted the obstacles that Ovid’s extremely literary approach to characterization places in the path of the reader’s immediate engagement with the poet’s creations. The quotability of character Ovid assumes throughout his poetry persistently draws attention to the formal aspects of his work, encouraging engagement with abstract poetic structures as much with particular content: the reader encounters Ovidian characters not de novo, but as iterated types.26 The problem is most conspicuous in the Heroides,27 where the entire premise of the work hinges upon the reader’s recognition of the heroines as reworkings of previously instantiated models. As critics since Palmer have pointed out, the Heroides for which we have extant models are not simply adaptations of previously established 28 29 narratives, but insertions into them, less intertextual than ‘interstitial’ in character. Each poem, in other words, is produced by the heroine at a specific point in the master-text and should be read as though it forms part of the master-narrative. This localization of the individual epistulae within previous texts allows multiple ironies to arise from the precisely definable disjunction between those events presented in the primary narrative and those recounted by the heroine.30 Equally, however, the total dependence this strategy entails for the setting, characterization, and plot of the

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Heroides means that the reader’s attention is relentlessly focused precisely on poetic and presentational form rather than on the actual events related. Although this emphasis on formalist considerations over narrative impact is most readily exemplified in the Epistulae Heroidum, the aesthetic is pervasive in Ovid’s work as a whole. This formalist compositional tendency renders evaluation of Ovid’s treatment of suicide extremely problematic. The essence of Ovidian irony and wit, after all, is the poet’s willingness to adopt momentarily a stereotyped poetic convention before suddenly disengaging from it and subjecting it to deflation and ridicule. A permanent crux of Ovidian interpretation is accordingly determination of when, exactly, the 31 poet might be joking, and when, if ever, he is speaking in earnest. Despite the frequency with which Ovid portrays suicide and the various fashions in which he does so, the extent of his innovation is difficult to assess. Suicidal exemplars imported without alteration from earlier literature appear incapable of adding much to Roman perceptions of suicide, while those Ovid derives from the elemental recombination of previous models are constructed in so patently artificial a manner that they tend to draw attention less to the fact of suicide than to the artful fashion in which this has been expressed. Beneath both types of Ovidian creation, furthermore, lurks the potential for parody and subversion. If criticism is to avoid falling prey to the ironic inversions characteristic of the Ovidian poetic, then, it must focus narrowly upon structure to the exclusion of engagement with narrative content. Herein lies the unique value of Epistula 7 for the project of this study. The majority of Ovid’s allusions to suicide are too glancing for meaningful analysis. Those which are more sustained, however, are typically based upon a work or works unknown to us, with the result that we can discern neither the alterations wrought by Ovid upon his source material, nor the extent to which he privileges particular strands of the mythological tradition over others.32 In Epistula 7, however, Ovid is responding quite specifically to the text of Aeneid 4, and the full play 33 of his formalist aesthetic becomes readily and distinctly visible. At no point does 34 Ovid alter the details of the romance between Dido and Aeneas. So faithful is he to his source text, in fact, that various critics have judged the letter virtually devoid of 35 interest. Austin dismisses it as a ‘bland rehash’ of Aeneid 4, and even those scholars more sympathetic to the collection as a whole than Austin have found this letter singularly deficient due to its stark replication of Vergilian narrative.36 As Alessandro Barchiesi phrases it, La Didone Virgiliana già offre quasi tutto l’occurente. Spesso non c’è che da 37 declinare il modello: Vergilio dice uritur, et la nuova Didone uror. “The Vergilian Dido already presents almost everything Ovid requires. Often he only needs to conjugate the verb according to the paradigm: Vergil says she burns, and the new Dido I burn.”

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This apparently minor alteration in verb conjugation, however, in fact possesses significant implications for the fashion in which the reader apprehends the character of Dido and, more fundamentally, the understanding of the nature of the individual that infuses the Vergilian account. Dido’s dilemma in Epistula 7 is exactly the same as it is in Aeneid 4: she is only capable of asserting the validity of her marriage to Aeneas with reference to her fidelity to the memory of Sychaeus, a paradox which she cannot escape, even in death. Ovid’s transposition of this dilemma into the first person, however, emphasizes the extent to which this irreconcilable conundrum is a crisis of self-presentation. This is in one sense nothing new, for the Dido of Aeneid 4 is encountered by the reader also in terms of socially presented persona. In Aeneid 4, however, Dido’s attempts to escape or manipulate the rigid confines of her social persona are juxtaposed with statements—by the narrator, by the social audience, and by the gods—which demonstrate this to be impossible. Ovid’s use of the epistolary form, by contrast, reveals in close focus a Dido for whom persona is mutable, and social perception potentially fallible. This potential is not, of course, realized: voluntarily constrained by the force of previous literary tradition, for Ovid as for Vergil, the queen must die. In the course of her extended plea in Epistula 7, however, Ovid’s Dido hints towards the possibility that, rather than conforming to the dictates of social convention, social expectation might instead be deceived into believing that such conformity has been achieved. The essence of an individual, in other words, might differ fundamentally from that individual’s social projection of this. The hope is in the end a vain one, as social perception proves to be less malleable than Dido requires for her purposes. That some disjunction might permanently be effected between the individual and her persona, however, is a possibility which the reader of Aeneid 4 is never given the opportunity to contemplate. The potential for such a separation, however, is made explicit in Epistula 7, and the letter thus becomes our first extant example of a form of schism that begins with Ovid but will come to dominate the portrayal of suicidal psychology throughout the Julio-Claudian period and beyond.

6.2 THE RHETORIC OF SUICIDE IN EPISTULA 7 A cursory overview of Epistula 7 might seem to indicate that Dido’s reasons for suicide in the Heroides are explicitly presented as being highly analogous to those found in Aeneid 4. Dido makes reference to her impending death several times in the course of the epistle and, given that such references are furthermore found both at the opening and the close of the letter, the theme might accurately be said to pervade the poem as a whole. Dido begins her epistula by comparing her letter to a swan song, the final utterance of one who is about to die and has no further possibility of survival.

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sic ubi fata vocant, udis abiectus in herbis ad vada Maeandri concinit albus olor. nec quia te nostra sperem prece posse moveri, alloquor (adverso movimus ista deo); sed merita et famam corpusque animumque pudicum 38 cum male perdiderim, perdere verba leve est. (“In the same way, when Fate calls, does the white swan, dying upon the moist grass by the banks of the Meander, sing out. For I do not address you with the hope that you will be moved by my plea—I do this with a god set against me. But, since I have lost your debts to me and my good name and chastity of both body and soul, losing a few words is a small matter.”)

The same idea is repeated in more compressed and less elevated terms at 7.68, where Dido claims that should Aeneas be shipwrecked he will die consumed by remorse for Phrygia Dido fraude coacta mori (“Dido, forced to die by Trojan treachery”). In both passages Dido’s references to suicide are fairly oblique. Although Dido claims that she is about to die, she does not claim that this might come about through her own agency, and one might plausibly infer that she is referring here to the threat posed by Iarbas and the other African kings. These passages clearly recall Dido’s equally ambiguous self-description before Aeneas as moribunda (“about to die”) at Aen. 4.323 and her threat that her shade will haunt Aeneas after death at Aen. 4.384-6, statements which similarly make no explicit reference to self-killing. Another clouded reference to suicide is found at 7.103-4, where Dido announces her belated intention to rejoin her husband with the words nulla mora est./venio, venio tibi debita coniunx;/sum tamen admissi tarda pudore mei (“I do not delay. I come, I come, as your rightful wife, though I am late from shame of my crime”). Dido’s statement here is clearly a response to Aen. 4.457-61 and the grim commands resonating from Dido’s shrine to Sychaeus. Reference to suicide in the Epistula only becomes overt, however, near its end, when Dido claims that as she writes, gremio Troicus ensis adest perque genas lacrimae strictum labuntur in ensem, 39 qui lam pro lacrimis sanguine tinctus erit. (“Your Trojan sword is upon my lap, and the tears slip down my cheeks upon the unsheathed blade—a blade that will be soon be moistened with my blood in place of these tears.”)

Her letter closes with an address to her sister that leaves suicide an apparent certainty in the mind of the reader, if not necessarily that of its putative recipient.

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Anna soror, soror Anna, meae male conscia culpae, iam dabis in cineres ultima dona meos. nec consumpta rogis inscribar Elissa Sychaei. hoc tantum in tumuli marmore carmen erit: PRAEBUIT AENEAS ET CAUSAM MORTIS ET ENSEM 40 IPSA SUA DIDO CONCIDIT USA MANU. (“Anna, my sister, my sister—unhappy ally of my crime, soon you will give my ashes their final gift. And when I have been consumed upon the pyre, do not call me ‘Elissa, the wife of Sychaeus’ in my inscription. This alone will be the verse carved upon my tomb’s marble: Aeneas provided both the reason and weapon of my death. Dido fell by the stroke of her own hand.’”)

The attempt to shame Aeneas here clearly parallels Dido’s desire in the Aeneid to use her death as means of asserting the validity of the foedus that binds Aeneas to her. Similarities between Epistula 7 and Aeneid 4 also obtain on a structural level, the shift from implicit to explicit suicidal motivation in Dido’s epistle mirroring her transition from speculation to determination with regard to her own impending doom in Aeneid 4. As critics since Palmer have observed, Epistula 7 should be understood as included amongst the final pleas Dido sends to Aeneas at Aen. 4.415 ne quid inexpertum frustra moritura relinquat (“so that she might not leave anything untried, and die 41 in vain”). In the narrative of the Aeneid it is the Trojan leader’s rejection of these last desperate appeals that marks the decisive advent of suicidal resolution on Dido’s part. Before this point in the epic Dido alludes to her own death only in ambiguous terms, with its agency left uncertain. Only after Aeneas’ mens is found to be unmoved by Dido’s pleas is the queen shown meditating death by her own hand.42 Dido’s increasingly explicit references to suicide through the course of Epistula 7, then, might appear to correspond very closely to her gradually growing suicidal resolve in Aeneid 4. Closer analysis of Dido’s suicidal utterances in Epistula 7, however, reveals that the degree of parallelism between the epistle and the narrative of Aeneid 4 is in fact very difficult to determine with regard to the suicidal motivations of the queen. To begin with, the opening self-description of Dido’s letter as a swan song is clearly rhetorical in character. Dido states explicitly at the beginning of her epistula that her fate is now sealed because Aeneas has decided irrevocably to abandon her. Despite this declaration of helplessness, Dido than proceeds to argue forcibly that Aeneas cannot 43 and should not leave Carthage. The point of the swan simile, then, is simply to emphasize the pathetic fate awaiting Dido should Aeneas persevere in his intended course of action, and to imply that it is his duty to prevent such destruction from occurring. This rhetorical motivation for Dido’s reference to her own death is thus entirely consistent with her statements to Aeneas that she is about to die at Aen. 4.323-4 and 4.384-6. No matter how genuine Dido’s conviction or how serious the

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threat she is under from the African kings, the reason for demonstrating this to Aeneas is not simply a declarative impulse, but to convince him to remain in Africa. For both Ovid’s and Vergil’s Dido, then, allusion to imminent destruction serves to dramatize her plight to Aeneas in the strongest possible fashion. This symmetry between the two portraits, however, does not necessarily extend to Dido’s closing suicidal claim at Heroides 7.195-6. After Aeneas’ final rejection of Dido’s pleas in the Aeneid we are explicitly informed that the queen’s deliberations on her own death no longer function rhetorically, and Dido is depicted as keeping her intentions a secret from the rest of her household lest they try to frustrate her attempt. Dido’s threat in the Heroides that she will kill herself and her final monument act as a source of everlasting shame to Aeneas is, however, compatible not only with the suicidal motives of the queen as depicted in Aeneid 4, but also with Epistula 7’s total rhetorical impetus. Consideration of Epistula 7 as a whole reveals that the main thrust of Dido’s rhetorical strategy in Epistula 7 hinges on two main points, both addressing Aeneas’ concern for his honor. The first and weaker point is that continued stay in Carthage is entirely compatible with the demands of honor. The ceaseless difficulties Aeneas is encountering in his attempts to refound Troy indicate, she argues, that his mission 44 does not in fact enjoy divine sanction. He is accordingly under no obligation to depart, and in Carthage may enjoy the status and authority that accrue to the leader of a newly founded city.45 Assumption of power in Africa will also ensure stability and 46 honor for the young Iulus, who might form the second in a line of dynastic succession. If in the face of these benefits Aeneas nevertheless persists in desiring to depart, his epic mission will, furthermore, be better assured of success if he at least waits until 47 the winter storms have subsided. Delay or even settlement in Carthage is accordingly an entirely honorable course of action. Dido’s second, stronger point is that honor in fact demands that Aeneas remain 48 in Carthage. A legitimate foedus has been established between the two of them, wit49 nessed by the gods, and only obduracy and hardheartedness prevent Aeneas from seeing this.50 Aeneas has already failed to fulfill the demands of one marriage vow, 51 to Creusa; his willingness to violate not only a second, but also the ties of obligation he has incurred through accepting Dido’s aid and hospitality, will serve to reveal him as thoroughly impious. If Aeneas has any concern whatsoever for his own honor, Dido claims, he must remain in Carthage in fulfillment of the debts and foedera he has contracted there. Her final reference to the Trojan sword in her lap and the shame Aeneas will incur from the legend on her tombstone might plausibly be read, then, not as a simple statement of intent, but as a rhetorical dramatization of her previous arguments, a restating of the contrast she is trying to establish between Aeneas’ well-known pietas and his projected course of action in the most lurid possible terms. Dido’s closing address to her sister at Epistula 7, then, may not correspond to her

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final decision to commit suicide at Aen. 4.450, but might instead be categorized alongside her statements at 4.323 and 4.384-6 as in fact an attempt to forestall her own doom. Epistula 7 in this reading emerges not as an “unpacked” account of the transition between tremulous hope and total despair that occurs at Aen. 4.415, but merely as a rhetorical amplification of Dido’s earlier references to death, a document not describing her final shift towards suicidal intention, but in its failure merely precipitating it. The question of whether Epistula 7 is best mined for information regarding Ovid’s approach to suicide or to rhetoric, then, depends crucially upon an issue central to contemporary scholarship on the Heroides, the extent to which the Epistulae Heroidum are plausibly read as letters. On the one hand Ovid himself at Ars Am. 3.345 refers to one of the poems in the Heroides as an epistula, and the poems themselves frequently advertise their epistolary nature through reflexive reference either to the dramatic motivation for their composition or to paraphernalia such as pen, paper, writing tablets, etc.52 This illusion of epistolarity has led some scholars to view the Heroides as essentially self-presentational in character, “documenting” attempts by the heroines of ancient literature to persuade their heroic counterparts to adopt some particular course of action. The literary context assumed here is usually that of the declamatory schools that first arose in Ovid’s youth, the Heroides being described by such critics as poeticized versions of the suasoria or the e-thopoiia, standard rhetorical exercises whereby the student either gives advice to a mythological or historical figure or 53 himself assumes the voice of such a figure. The view is a plausible one, and the Heroides, as addresses from one mythological figure to another, obviously combine aspects of both forms of exercise. Certain formal aspects of the Epistulae Heroidum, however, have served to make numerous critics unhappy with this understanding of the poems. In particular, that Ovid’s heroines frequently disrupt the logical progression of their ideas and deviate from standardized stylistic norms has led several scholars to view the Epistulae Heroidum less as letters than as monologues, i.e., as a series of declarative statements transcribing the speaker’s ‘stream of consciousness.’54 The “authors” of the various epistulae possess an observable tendency to ‘mêler présent et passé, interrogations et exclamations, périodes et phrases brèves’ (“mix present and past tenses, questions and exclamations, long rhetorical sentences with staccato phrases”),55 to advance their arguments in a manner that is ‘debole, episodica, <e> non costitutiva’ (“weak, disjointed, and disunified”)56 and to lapse into incoherence.57 The resulting ‘style spirale’ (“spiraling style”)58 is held to violate multiple norms of classical decorum and accord59 ingly to indicate Ovid’s interest in the inner psychology of his heroines. One notable feature of the style spirale tending to confirm the notion that the Heroides are essentially monologic in character is the heroines’ custom of shifting attention away from the putative recipient of their letters to absent addressees. This neglect of what

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might appear to be the rudiments of epistolary form is taken as an indication that the Heroides should be read not as self-presentational documents, but as transcriptions of 60 the heroines’ thoughts. Attempts to reconcile the epistolary and monologic qualities demonstrated by the Heroides have varied in specific detail, but it is probably a safe generalization to remark that the Epistulae Heroidum are typically considered successful in modern criticism insofar as they avoid the declamatory and allow insight into the minds of their “authors.” Those critics who view the Heroides as versified rhetorical exercises are also those who are most dismissive of them, while vindications of the collection as a whole usually take the form of a denial that the poems are fundamentally declamatory in character.61 Proper appreciation of the Heroides is accordingly held to lie in filtering the conventional elements present in the epistulae out of the final analysis in order to sift through the style spirale that remains for traces of the underlying psychology of the heroine in question.62 In this view the various rhetorical tricks, poetic conceits, and glittering sententiae (“pointed aphorisms”) with which Ovid has endowed his heroines are not adornments of, but obstacles to, the poet’s achievement and hinder his attainment of authentic ‘psychological depth.’63 Alternatively, one might argue that convention is evaded in the Heroides less by selective deployment of the style spirale than through Ovid’s subversion of previous poetic forms and literary clichés. According to Marilynn Desmond, for instance, Dido’s querulous plaint in Epistula 7 should be read less as a situated response of the queen of Carthage to the details of the fictional narrative in which she is embedded in the Aeneid, but as a sustained skeptical criticism on Dido’s part of her portrayal by Vergil.64 For Alessandro Barchiesi the capacity of the Heroides’ Medea to reinterpret the events of her tragic source narrative indicates that Ovid’s portrait is of ‘not only… a self-conscious character, but also (by implication)… a self-conscious author.’65 In the readings of Desmond and Barchiesi, then, the Heroides are essentially narratives of extra-textual self-deconstruction, the “psychology” of the heroines in question being glimpsed “negatively” through their rejection of discursive convention rather than through positive statements made by or about the heroine herself. This view is 66 more visibly aligned with the postmodern reading of Latin elegy than it is with the style spirale school of analysis mentioned above. The two approaches to the Heroides are united, however, by the assumption that the individual is only perceptible in the rejection of social convention. This principle is, however, entirely inapplicable to the Heroides due to the impossibility of assessing the degree of conventionality or artifice present in any utterance understood to be potentially rhetorical in character. In modern forms such as the Shakespearian soliloquy or the post-Joycean novel the text of a piece may plausibly be taken as a transcription of a character’s thoughts. Once Ovid has raised the specter of self-presentational distortion—as his adoption of the epistolary mode

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undoubtedly does—there is, however, no way of firmly distinguishing “rhetorical” from “psychological” elements of the text from each other. The ethopoiia and the suasoria are, after all, exercises aimed at creating convincing depictions of character, with particular value attached to the evocation of pathos and/or the mimicry of highly emotional states. A successful e-thopoiia in other words, will replicate patterns of expression typical of those who are not speaking rhetorically. Crucial to the maintenance of such patterns, furthermore, is the periodic disruption of the standard speech register. It is a truism of the rhetorical and declamatory handbooks, for instance, that individuals in the grip of powerful emotions tend to express themselves erratically; so popular an insight was this with student orators that, Cicero claims, they frequently managed to give the impression in their speeches that they were not just overwrought, but drunk or even insane.67 The style spirale, then, may arise as a result of disorganized emotional impulses affecting a speaker’s coherence. It may also, however, be simply a style. The tendency for the heroines’ addresses to drift from their original recipients likewise does not locate their utterances beyond the boundary of accepted rhetorical and declamatory decorum. Apostrophe to absent figures, to gods, and even to abstract moral qualities is frequent in declamatory works, such techniques being characteristic of the “high” 68 or pathos-laden style. Those aspects of the style spirale most frequently cited as evidence for the essentially “psychological” nature of the Epistulae Heroidum, in short, might with equal plausibility be adduced as evidence of their rhetorical character. This inscrutability of utterance is a difficulty much in evidence in Epistula 7. Scholars have typically been fairly vague concerning precisely which aspects of the various letters do in fact partake of the style spirale. Three critics, however—Palmer, Jacobson, and Knox—have at multiple points identified specific passages that they feel violate stylistic decorum with sufficient clarity to allow for psychological insight into the Dido of Epistula 7. Their comments, however, illustrate only the extreme difficulty of demarcating any firm boundary for the style spirale. All three writers, for instance, agree that Dido’s letter is highly declamatory in character. Although the poem makes only one reference to its epistolary framework—Dido’s claim at 7.184-5 that she is writing with a sword at hand—Epistula 7 works well as a letter, consisting as it does of a well-reasoned and generally orderly rehearsal of reasons why Aeneas should remain at Carthage. Disruption of the logical expression of Dido’s arguments, then, is rare in the letter. Jacobson, for instance, cites only two points at which he feels Dido slips into the 69 style spirale and her ‘thoughts flow in two directions at the same time.’ The first is found at lines 61-4, where Dido, after having speculated at length concerning the various dangers the sea holds for treacherous lovers, exclaims

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perdita ne perdam timeo, noceamve nocenti, neu bibat aequoreas naufragus hostis aquas. vive, precor! Sic te melius quam funere perdam; tu potius leti causa ferere mei. (“But, having lost him, I fear that I shall lose him, or that I might harm the one who harmed me. Please, do not let my enemy be shipwrecked or choke upon the ocean waters. Live—I pray for it! And in this way I shall lose you in a better fashion than in death: you will instead be held to be the cause of my destruction.”)

The second occurs at lines 67-70, where Dido shifts from contemplation of the effect her own death will have upon Aeneas, to that of Creusa, with the words, protinus occurrent falsae periuria linguae, et Phrygia Dido fraude coacta mori. coniugis ante oculos deceptae stabit imago tristis et effusis sanguinolenta comis. (“Suddenly you will remember the lies of your treacherous tongue, and Dido, forced to die by Trojan treachery. The image of the wife you betrayed will stand before your eyes, sorrowful and bloody, her hair unbound.”)

To Jacobson’s two examples of the style spirale Knox adds only Dido’s claim at 7.194 that, should Aeneas choose to postpone his departure until spring, nec te, si cupies, ipsa manere sinam (“nor will I allow you to remain, even if you wish to”), for he asserts that this statement is so patently unbelievable that it must be read as ‘an 70 indication of [Dido’s] deteriorating state of mind.’ Both Knox and Jacobson agree, however, that Ovid’s Dido presents a strong case and that her character emerges here as less irrational, agitated, and vengeful than it does in the Aeneid.71 If Epistula 7 is noteworthy for the tidy exposition of its argument, however, the style spirale remains nevertheless much in evidence in the remarkable number of addressees it contains.72 At its opening the letter is unmistakably directed at Aeneas. By line 25, however, he has already slipped from the second to the third person, with Dido’s statement that Aeneas oculis vigilantis semper inhaeret,/Aenean animo noxque quiesque refert (“Aeneas lingers always in my unsleeping eyes; night and silence bring back Aeneas to my mind”). Knox and Palmer both classify this as a deviation from epistolary form and take these lines as indicative of the monologic quality of the Heroides as a whole.73 At lines 31 and 32 Dido invokes first Venus and then Amor, before exclaiming, apparently to herself, fallor, et ista mihi falsae iactatur imago:/matris ab ingenio dissidet ille suae (“I am deceived, and his image flits before me only in imagination. That man is far different from the character of his mother Venus”), a shift 74 that Knox describes as forming part of a ‘reverie.’ By 37, however, Dido is again addressing Aeneas, which she continues to do until lines 85-6, at which point she

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suddenly breaks off and says, again to herself, merentem/ure: minor culpa poena futura mea est (“Burn, as you deserve: the penalty is less than your crime requires”), before returning immediately to Aeneas again. Knox views this alternation as arising from an illogical association of ideas in Dido’s mind rather than from the strict logic of her argument.75 At 96-7 Dido is found addressing her laese pudor (“betrayed pudor”) and the cinis Sychaei (“ashes of Sychaeus”), which remain the objects of her discourse until line 111, at which point she begins to recount the manifold ills with which her life has been beset, apparently to ‘no one in particular.’76 Aeneas is then again restored as recipient of her speech until 191, when Dido is represented as turning to her sister whilst making her final suicidal threat. This last shift is entirely unanticipated, but hardly atypical of Dido’s discourse as a whole, which undergoes numerous reorientations in the course of the letter. Epistula 7 accordingly appears to be marked by an extremely tidy dichotomy between its rhetorical and psychological aspects on a formal level. On the one hand, Dido’s capacity for reasoned argument might seem to be the result of a certain Ovidian straitjacketing of her discourse within declamatory norms, a limitation of potential that leaves little purchase for psychologizing interpretations. On the other, her frequent changes in addressee might plausibly be read as symptomatic of her disordered mental state. Yet this strict division in fact proves very hard to maintain, even among those critics most confident in their ability to distinguish between “rhetorical” and “psychological” passages. For instance, passages perceived as clearly “rhetorical” by some critics are analyzed as though “psychological” by others. Palmer, for one, assumes that the Heroides are basically suasoriae, and that the sweetly reasonable tone of Ovid’s Dido is a side effect of her self-presentational needs. Dido is attempting to convince Aeneas that his best interests lie in delay at Carthage, and she is therefore hardly in a position to threaten to kill him.77 Jacobson, by contrast, sees Dido’s skill at rhetorical disputation as itself indicative of an underlying shift in character from 78 the Vergilian model, her passions being absent in Ovid rather than masked. Barchiesi remarks simply that the question of whether Dido’s coolheadedness here is a sign of ‘un personaggio alternativo’ (“a personality different [from that of the Vergil79 ian Dido]”) or of a ‘strategia epistolare’ (“epistolary stratagem”) is unanswerable. Equally difficult to assess is the potential rhetorical effect of Dido’s seemingly illogical outbursts. Dido’s forebodings of the fate that awaits unfaithful lovers at sea, for instance, though they might prove effective in deterring Aeneas from winter sailing, might also be perceived by Aeneas as threats,80 an appearance Dido must be at pains to avoid. Dido’s claim at lines 61-4 that she fears for Aeneas’ life does not (pace Knox) necessarily represent a contradiction in her thinking, but might rather reflect her need both to make Aeneas fear his own destruction and to ensure that she is not perceived as its possible agent. Dido’s shift from thoughts of her own death to that of Creusa is likewise both psychologically plausible and rhetorically effective. Dido is at

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this point attempting to evoke the remorse Aeneas will feel when he reflects upon the death to which he has abandoned the Carthaginian queen. Her verbal conjuration of the disfigured corpse of Creusa at this point can only serve to reinforce this message with singular vividness. Equally rhetoricizing explanations might be adduced for Dido’s various “monologic” shifts in addressee. Both Wilkinson and Palmer, for instance, find Dido’s sudden address to Anna at 7.191 illogical and unaccountable.81 Knox, however, sees here a ploy for pathos,82 although he does not detail the mechanism by which this might be held to arise. Given that from the very opening of her letter Dido emphasizes the hopelessness of her case, it is presumably the alienation from Aeneas such a shift implies that generates the pathetic effect here. Such an explanation suffices to account for the majority of Dido’s putatively monologic shifts in Epistula 7, for lapse into self-address in particular serves to draw attention to the solitude of the speaker. Whether or not Dido’s decision to spend her “soliloquy” at lines 7.111-38 recounting her previous misfortunes is viewed as psychologically plausible or not depends upon one’s assessment of the Carthaginian queen’s character; that such a rehearsal of past woes acts to demonstrate the isolation of the speaker, however, is undoubted.83 Melodramatic exclamations such as fallor! (“I am deceived!”) and invocations to the gods have the potential to function in a similar way, accentuating the desperation of the speaker’s plight and acting implicitly as a plea for sympathy from his or her audience. As with other aspects of the style spirale, then, the fact that these statements do not function logically or linearly does not prevent them from functioning rhetorically, and no purely stylistic barrier can be erected between addressee shifts that operate psychologically and those that are self-presentational in character. The criterion of the style spirale, then, is incapable of determining the degree of correspondence between utterances and psychological state. It therefore cannot be used to assess the nature and quality of Dido’s suicidal declarations, nor in evaluating whether Ovid treats suicide as anything more than an instrument of rhetoric here.

6.3 THE SUICIDE OF OVID’S DIDO The above conclusion—that the eccentricities of the style spirale are incapable of furnishing us with evidence regarding the force of Dido’s suicidal utterances—may seem premature given that not every instance of this style identified by previous critics has been accounted for. Three passages in particular have thus far been omitted from consideration. First there is Dido’s sudden injunction to herself at 7.85-6, merentem/ure: minor culpa poena futura mea est (“Burn, as you deserve: the penalty is less than your crime requires”). Second there is Dido’s address to her laese pudor and the cinis Sychaei at 7.96-7. Finally there is the palpable weakness of Dido’s claim at 7.174 that, come spring, she

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will force Aeneas to depart from her shores. Discussion of these passages has been deferred because, while all are analyzable as purely rhetorical statements, such analysis indicates that the entire critical dichotomy between authentically psychological and rhetorically artificial statements cannot be applied meaningfully to the Heroides; or, rather, that Ovid’s thoroughly rhetorical understanding of character renders impossible on both practical and theoretical levels the achievement of any determinate psychological statement concerning his creations. This is not to say that Ovid’s emphasis on rhetoric simply occludes the psychology of his heroines, or that the Heroides are merely superficial in intent. Consideration of the role the three statements just cited play in Dido’s rhetoric clearly indicates that the fundamental conflict of Epistula 7 is identical to that of Aeneid 4: Dido can only constitute her social persona effectively as Aeneas’ legitimate wife, but if she is to constitute herself as Aeneas’ legitimate wife she must first constitute herself as a dutiful widow devoted to the memory of her dead husband Sychaeus. Awareness of the logical incompatibility of these various demands upon her persona, furthermore, forms the unavoidable crux both of Dido’s self-conflict in Aeneid 4 and of her crisis of self-presentation in Epistula 7. The result, as clearly for Ovid’s as for Vergil’s Dido, must be the queen’s death. In this sense the parallelism between Dido’s rhetorical disintegration in Epistula 7 and the shift she experiences from desperation to despair at Aen. 4. 415-50 is exact, and the commitment of Ovid’s Dido to her rhetoric cannot be other than total. The necessary critical distinction here, then, is not that between rhetorical self-presentation and underlying cause, as Dido’s character in Epistula 7 cannot be separated out from its mode of expression. Consideration of Dido’s rhetorical strategies and their flaws reveals clearly that the conflict at issue here occurs not at the level of the individual, but that of relevant audience—and it is in relentlessly drawing attention to this aspect of her predicament that Ovid’s innovation lies. The extent to which Ovid both essentializes self-presentational rhetoric as psychology and simultaneously renders such rhetoric contingent upon its audience is best seen in those statements made by Dido which appear most directly to contradict the main thrust of her arguments, her self-address with ure at 7.86, and her apostrophe of laese pudor and the cinis Sychaei at 7.96-8. Considered in terms of the psychology/rhetoric dichotomy, it is clear that both might be classified on either side of the divide. The self-recrimination these express, for instance, is plausibly related to Dido’s intense awareness of wrongdoing as depicted in the Aeneid, as in, e.g., her vow to remain chaste at Aen. 4.25-7 and her later bitter remorse at having failed to do so at Aen. 4.551-3. Knox, however, sees Dido’s self-address at 7.86 as in fact a backhanded ironic slap at Aeneas, her use of the word culpa here not echoing Vergil’s characterization of her sexual misconduct at Aen. 4.172, but referring instead to her gullibility in believing Aeneas’ seductive tales. Dido’s address to her laese pudor might

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be similarly motivated: has her chastity been betrayed, after all, by herself, or by the deceitful Trojan? If these two passages are read as a rhetorical assault, however, they backfire, and if Dido’s statements have the power to injure Aeneas, they also undermine her own case considerably. As noted above,84 Dido’s chief arguments all hinge on considerations of Aeneas’ honor and the claim that this dictates, or at least admits the possibility of, a Trojan settlement at Carthage. The choice of such an approach is an intelligent one, well suited for address to a man whose primary motivation is understood to be his pietas. To interrupt this honor-based argument with admissions of one’s own dishonorable peccadilloes is, however, crippling to its effectiveness, and Dido’s ironic stings against Aeneas might be judged better left unsaid in this context. Dido, however, does not have any choice in the matter. If she is going to convict Aeneas of impiety in his dealings with her, she must of necessity deflect the obvious countercharge that she, too, was party to the affair. Dido throughout Epistula 7 demonstrates a concern to anticipate and refute this hypothetical objection to her argu85 ments, her attempts to overcome this specific impasse being ingenious, even if they ultimately prove flawed. Dido cannot, given Aeneas’ total awareness of the facts of her situation, directly absolve herself of dishonorable conduct. Her strategy, then, is not simply to assume the moral high ground vis-à-vis Aeneas. It is, rather more radically, to redefine the nature of honor. If one examines the context of 7.86 and 7.96-8 one can see that both form part of an integrated argument spanning lines 85 through 110, the chief gist of which is to cast Aeneas as a seducer and to implicate him in her shame. Aeneas has told her enticing (and evidently false) tales of a divine mission;86 he has accepted her hospitality, and more;87 and he has participated in a consumma88 tion that amounted, but for a few technical details, to a wedding. His decision to accept responsibility for none of these leaves Dido convicted of unchastity and to pay alone the penalty for this, a possibility dramatized through her address to her laese pu89 dor and her purported willingness to join Sychaeus in his tomb. Dido’s case is then reiterated as though addressed to Sychaeus himself, who is assumed to agree that Aeneas’ earlier behavior was that of a vir mansurus (“a man who would remain with 90 me”). The speech ends with responsibility for Dido’s dishonor laid firmly upon Aeneas’ shoulders: si fuit errandum, causas habet error honestas./adde fidem, nulla parte pigendus erit (“If the mistake had to be made, the reasons for it were honorable. If he 91 had kept his faith, there would be nothing shameful in it”). The concept of a pigendus error (“shameful mistake”) deployed at this point is an interesting one, for Dido appears to be playing upon two senses of the phrase here. On the face of it, Dido’s use of the word error (“mistake”) here would seem naturally to refer to her liaison with Aeneas. Her implication that Aeneas is still in a position to rectify the error, and the fact that this claim follows her justification of her acts to Sychaeus on the grounds that she believed Aeneas was to stay in Carthage, however, complicates the issue. At

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no point in this passage does Dido make reference to any formal marriage between herself and Aeneas, nor does she deny that she has been unfaithful to the memory of Sychaeus. She implies, however, that these misdeeds will only become culpable if Aeneas leaves and her lack of chastity is thereby made manifest. The central problem in Dido’s argument that the appearance and the reality of honor are separate concerns is—beyond the unlikelihood of Aeneas accepting it—that while it absolves Dido of her obligation to Sychaeus, it also absolves Aeneas of his responsibility to Dido. In terms of Dido’s own argument at 84-110, Aeneas is obliged to remain at Carthage only so long as his departure might be perceived—however erroneously—as shameful. It is by no means clear, however, that such a perception is likely to be widespread. The evidence Dido cites of Aeneas’ obligations to her are essentially private in nature, the Trojan leader’s seductive tales and the episode in the cave being individually experienced transactions rather than publicly witnessed events. At the same time that Dido locates ethics in the public domain, then, she demonstrates also that she can have no recourse to it. As a result a fundamental shift in argumentative mode overtakes Dido’s rhetoric after 7.84-110. Prior to her identification of the domain of honor with the domain of public perception Dido has made a number of references to the marriage bond uniting her with Aeneas: she mentions, for instance, their foedus at 7.9, the fides (“promise”) he has given her at 7.18, and implicitly compares herself to his wives both past and hypothesized for the future.92 After line 110, however, and her argument that perception is more important than obligation, such references cease, and Dido no longer avails herself of any positive claim on Aeneas’ sense of honor. Past this point Dido can legitimately appeal only to Aeneas’ goodwill, and her declamatory options are accordingly highly constrained. The only rhetorical tool left open to her is to work upon Aeneas’ emotions, and most of Dido’s arguments after line 84 are in fact pathetic or erotic in quality. The flaw in this approach is obvious: Aeneas has already proven himself capable of resisting Dido’s most emotional appeals. If he is to be moved at all it will have to be through his sense of honor, and Dido has deprived herself of the capacity to appeal openly to this. She can do no more than repeat the arguments of lines 1-84 again, with the substantial modification that this time delay at Carthage is presented not as necessary to, but only compatible with, Aeneas’ sense of duty. The extremely narrow parameters within which Dido is left to work cause her to adopt several uncomfortable rhetorical postures here. Herein lies, for instance, the need for Dido to make her feeble assertion at 7.174 that she will forcibly eject Aeneas and his men from Carthage come spring. Dido’s need to make concessions to Aeneas’ pietas has led her, at line 167, to claim that Aeneas’ delay at Carthage need not even be permanent, and that their relationship might be re-envisioned as not one of marriage, but guest-friendship: si pudet uxoris, non nupta, sed hospita dicar (“But if the idea of having me declared as

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your wife shames you, let me be called not ‘spouse’ but ‘host’”). That Dido’s subsequent reference to the dangers of storm at sea plausibly urges the wisdom of delay cannot, then, obscure the fact that the claim it is actually meant to consolidate is flagrantly tendentious, the respite for which Dido is here pleading quite clearly possessing the potential to reinvigorate the affective ties that bind Aeneas to her.93 If Aeneas is to be convinced that delay at Carthage is congruent with the demands of honor, however, any suspicion that the détente between himself and Dido will be erotically rather than politically grounded must be averted. Dido is as a result forced to make the improbable claim that she will shortly enforce the very result she is currently trying to prevent. If Dido’s assertion here is paradoxical, self-conflicted, and unbelievable, it is nevertheless entirely necessary. The contradictions Dido is attempting unsuccessfully to contain here are inherent not merely in her rhetoric, but in her situation. The nature of the rhetoric Ovid’s Dido employs indicates just as clearly as Vergil’s narrative that the links binding Aeneas to her are informal and erotic in character rather than politically and socially sanctioned, and that no amount of verbal ingenuity can change this basic fact. Dido’s relocation of the ethical sphere in public perception is dexterous, but also essentially pointless given the underdetermination of general opinion in this matter: while the Trojans and the Tyrians might possibly be convinced that a legitimate foedus has in fact been contracted between Dido and Aeneas, it is certainly not general opinion that this is the case. The weakness of her argument is transparent, as is its heavy reliance upon a susceptibility to emotional appeal to which Aeneas has already demonstrated himself to be immune. By the time Dido makes her final declaration of suicidal intent at 7.191-6, then, the reader can perceive that this is a matter not only of rhetoric but of necessity. The only means left to Dido by which she might potentially cause Aeneas’ abandonment of her to be perceived as shameful is accusatory suicide, a death which will simultaneously arouse pity for Dido and anger against Aeneas. This is a threat, furthermore, upon which Dido has no choice but to make good should Aeneas spurn her entirely. The multiple contradictions, logical flaws, and structural instabilities obvious in Dido’s rhetoric throughout Epistula 7 act cumulatively to demonstrate that without Aeneas Dido will prove incapable of achieving any coherent self-presentation whatsoever. Without even the appearance of a properly constituted foedus to link her to Aeneas Dido’s betrayal of the memory of Sychaeus will again become an evident culpa and public perception of her chastity be permanently destroyed. Her only hope of reclaiming her pudor would in such an event lie precisely in self-killing and an epitaph of reproach. On one level, then, Dido’s final suicidal declaration acts as a threat. Should it fail in its purpose, however, it becomes a simple statement of intent. By the close of Epistula 7 the assimilation between Dido’s “rhetoric” and her underlying “psychology” is complete.

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6.4 CONCLUSION In this sense, then, Ovid’s analysis of Dido’s suicidal motivation is essentially identical to Vergil’s. The transition from death foretold to death fulfilled follows a similar dynamic, and the final impetus towards suicide is the same. As discussed in the previous chapter, Vergil’s Dido, like Ovid’s, kills herself due to a collapse in her ability to constitute for herself an acceptable social persona. Incapable of assuming any unified persona in life, Vergil’s Dido attempts instead to reconcile the conflicting demands of her social roles in death. To this basic pattern Ovid adheres faithfully, his Dido similarly finding in the self-inflicted death the sole possible means of constituting herself as a moral witness in, rather than a moral outcast from, the community. If in Ovid’s first-personal retelling of Aeneid 4 Dido’s suicide remains in essence a narrative of persona, however, his adoption of the epistolary mode alters profoundly the sense in which the nature of persona is understood and interpreted. In the third person account of Aeneid 4 Dido’s persona is understood to be a basically static quality. The queen is located firmly in a matrix of social relations, and her role with regard to a variety of communities and individuals—the Carthaginians, the Trojans, Aeneas, Sychaeus, the African kings, the gods—is described and kept firmly in view throughout the book. These social audiences, furthermore, are understood to form a coherent set: prior to Dido’s dalliance with Aeneas, all share an identical understanding of the kind of behavior she is expected to display. That this understanding is the correct one is furthermore verified both by Dido’s continual awareness that she has lapsed from its standards, and by the intervention of the gods, whose judgment confirms that Dido’s social role was also her true nature, to which the excesses of amor were antithetical. Persona, is, then, in Vergil both essential, in the sense that it forms Dido’s essence, and rigid, in that knowledge of its nature is universal. In Ovid’s adaptation of the story, however, all Dido’s social audiences are treated as irrelevant with the single exception of Aeneas, upon whom the viability of her self-presentation before all other social audiences depends. At the heart of Dido’s rhetoric to Aeneas through the latter half of Epistula 7 is the argument that the appearance of honor can be assumed even in default of those acts which constitute its reality. Social perception, in other words, is malleable, and potentially at variance with expected ethical standards, and even where actions have their source in eros and emotion they can be given a respectable gloss. Persona, in other words, is at root flexible, in that it may be varied for various social audiences, and artificial, in that it may be manipulated by its possessor. That social personae are for Ovid mutable in this fashion does not mean that persona appears as a trivial or simply superficial quality in the Heroides. The persona adopted by Dido in Epistula 7 is not assumed whimsically or at random. It emerges as an aspect of her situation and is assembled with reference to a particular audience—Aeneas—and his demands. As such, this persona is crucial to her, and her

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inability to deploy a persona suitable to address the Trojan leader ultimately necessitates suicide. Where the understanding of the individual implicit in Epistula 7 diverges from that enshrined in, say, the works of Cicero or Vergil, is in the possibility of different audiences possessing different standards of persona-based self-presentation. For Ovid, as for Vergil, individuals are only perceptible in terms of the forms they assume. For Ovid, however, there is nevertheless nothing essential in any individual one of these: while Dido-before-Aeneas must assume a single, particular posture, Dido-before-the-Tyrians can assume another in collusion with him. There emerges in the Heroides, then, no basis for the strict division observed by earlier Latin writers between social persona and emotion, or for drawing a line between acts that are and are not those of the self. The image of the individual underlying Epistula 7 is of something definable only as protean, capable of assuming a multiplicity of forms without being absolutely delimited by any single final configuration. For Vergil the fact that Dido’s suicide cannot define her persona absolutely arises as a cognitive error. Ovid’s interpretation of the act suggests that this mutability is potentially enshrined in the order of things. An understanding of particular forms as frozen instances of a more general flux is of course hardly confined in Ovid’s poetry to the Heroides, nor is this a vision that informs only Ovid’s perspective on the individual. Almost every aspect of Ovid’s poetry, from the ceaseless shape-shifting of the Metamorphoses to his evident interest in stylistic and generic experimentation for its own sake, reveals a preoccupation with 94 the transformative potential latent in pre-defined entities. That Ovid’s Dido should participate in this general instability, then, is unsurprising. Consideration of the treatment of suicide in subsequent Latin literature, however, indicates that the peculiarly amorphous essence of Ovid’s heroines is characteristic not only of his aesthetic interests as a whole, but is symptomatic also of the age in which he lived. Ovid’s contribution to the Imperial discourse of suicide is in itself minimal. Despite the frequent and varied treatment of suicide found in his works, none of his suicidal creations go on to become literary paradigms in the same way that, say, Dido or the elegiac heroines previously had. This failure to reproduce is, as noted above,95 probably derived from Ovid’s interest in formal manipulation. Byblis, Cyllarus, and Hylonome all exhibit original collocations of manner, method, and mode in their self-killings, but these figures acquire their superlative novelty at the expense of teleology. Their suicides lack any sense of finality, or that they arise from anything more than a transitory combination of incidents and accidents. As such they form an unstable basis for sustained literary interrogation and development. The very instability that prevents Ovid’s characters from assuming the status of archetypal suicides, however, serves also to foreshadow the view of the individual that will underlie the literature of the Neronian age. The intensity with which later Julio-Claudian authors focus upon the topic of suicide is a direct function of their

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perception that social audiences are flexible and fallible, and of the threat to any persona-based moral code such fallibility entails. This uncertainty surrounding the question of the individual and of relevant social audience is the product of vast shifts in Roman culture extending far beyond the domain of Ovidian poetry, or of literature generally. The pervasive use Julio-Claudian writers make of suicidal motifs and the relentlessness with which they pursue questions of suicidal ethics is, however, directly traceable to a desire to set some fixed limit to the amorphic potential of social personae, a potential first embryonically perceptible in the poetry of Ovid, and most clearly in the underdetermined rhetorical personae assumed by Ovid’s suicidal Dido.

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Chapter 7

Seneca

7.1 INTRODUCTION The author in whose works the altered sensibilities of the post-Ovidian age are most clearly perceptible is without question the Younger Seneca. To a certain extent he wins this status by default. Ovid’s death in exile at Tomis in 18 A.D. marks the beginning of a decades-long lull in the Latin literary record. From the reigns of Tiberius, Caligula, and Claudius we possess, beyond a few of Seneca’s early works, only a few curiosities: Valerius Maximus’ Facta et Dicta Memorabilia (“Memorable Deeds and Sayings”), Phaedrus’ collection of fables, the incomplete histories of Velleius Paterculus. Seneca’s pre-eminence during this period is the result, however, of more than a lack of competition. When a Latin literary resurgence finally does occur, born of Nero’s determination to make his court a center of cultural as well as political supremacy, its products are cast very much in the Senecan mold. If Nero was hoping that this imperially sponsored renaissance would act to glorify the Emperor and his achievements in the same way that Augustan artistry had celebrated its own era, however, he failed abysmally in his goal. The literature that emanates from his court and prospered briefly under his patronage is notable for qualities distinctly opposed to the order, balance, and clarity so often lauded in Augustan works. Nero’s literary courtiers are a diverse group, but their works are unified by a powerful and oppressive similarity in perspective that marks them off from all other ancient writing. They are 1 characterized above all by a love of florid excess in both style and content, an intense morbidity that sometimes borders upon obsessiveness, and a fixation upon the destructive and appetitive extremes of human behavior.2 None of these qualities feature prominently in earlier Latin literature, and none reflect well upon the environment and atmosphere surrounding the princeps (“Emperor”). Within this milieu Seneca emerges not just as its eminence grise, but the Cicero of his day. Like the earlier statesman, his career ascended to the heights of power and

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plummeted to the depths of exile from Rome. Alternately praised and persecuted as an imperial advisor under Caligula and Claudius, as tutor to the young Emperor Nero, Seneca acted as virtual co-ruler of the Empire through the quinquennium Neronis (the first five, allegedly ‘golden,’ years of Nero’s reign), before attempting finally to retire to private life in an unsuccessful bid to evade the wrath of his former pupil. Like Cicero, Seneca views himself as a philosopher, and attempts to remedy or solve pragmatic problems of Roman life through the application of syncretic but basically Stoicizing doctrines to these. As in the case of Cicero again, furthermore, Seneca does not confine his writing to philosophical and rhetorical works, but also turns his hand to verse. The extant literary output of the two men differs widely, Seneca’s tragedies being preserved at the expense of his speeches, and Cicero’s orations having fared better than his poetry. This accident of transmission, however, should not obscure the general congruence of literary and biographical profile between the two men, nor the essential similarity of their authorial project: to provide an outline of the principles underlying Roman political culture and to locate this within a broader philosophical and intellectual framework. Once this general resemblance is noted, more specific and fundamental differences between the two emerge with clarity. The contrast is not particularly one of philosophical doctrine. As will be argued below, Seneca’s philosophy is best understood as an extension and radicalization of Cicero’s, and in fact most of his writings do not violate the philosophical norms found in Cicero’s writings at all. The difference is more a matter of tone and perspective. Cicero, for all his irritability and pessimism concerning the dismal state of the Republic, feels free to indulge himself in fairly elevated assessments of the human capacity for moral behavior at both the individual and the collective level—and to make this the basis of his system of ethics. For Seneca, however, such optimism is unjustified, the flaws of the individual and of the body politic being in his view more likely to reinforce than to check each other. He accordingly expresses frequent and grave doubts concerning the possibility of ethical action being realized at all. The most conspicuous symptom of this pessimistic turn in Seneca’s writings is the sheer intensity of his interest in suicide. A signal disadvantage of the topic-centered study is that it tends to emphasize a single aspect of individual authors’ works to the exclusion of all others, the result being that in this book Roman culture emerges as excessively “suicidocentric.” It is no exaggeration, however, to assert that Seneca is obsessed with suicide. Reference to the act recurs with an almost monotonous regularity in both his philosophical and dramatic works. Such a focus might not seem all that startling in relation to tragedy; it can, however, be extremely disconcerting in his philosophical texts. Seneca, unlike Cicero, does not provide us with complete and coherent doctrinal systems in his works. His so-called ‘dialogues’ are in fact essays,3 nominally addressed to some specific individual and always dealing with some

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particular difficulty he or she is encountering in the conduct of everyday life. Despite this highly localized approach to philosophical counseling, however, Seneca’s advice almost invariably runs towards the contemplation of suicide, or, at the very least, of death in the abstract. At least as interesting as Seneca’s literary attraction to suicide, furthermore, is his consistency in the treatment of it. Despite the fact that Seneca is eclectic in his choice of philosophical models and often inscrutable with regard to the philosophical intentions of his plays,4 his treatment of suicide in both his philosophical and dramatic works is remarkably uniform. This sort of doctrinal coherence is in fact quite unusual for Seneca, whose individuated and rhetorical approach to philosophical problems leads him into frequent apparent self-contradiction.5 Seneca’s exhortations to suicide, like those of the characters in his plays, are by contrast consistently unblinking. Virtually all of Seneca ‘s exemplars of moral virtue are figures who commit suicide, yet such an act is apparently not reserved for those who are compelled to withstand torture or must die in the defiance of tyrants. Seneca urges meditation upon suicide not only as a response to such extreme situations as having unwittingly consumed one’s own offspring,6 but also as a solution to worries over a lawsuit7 and to an excessive tendency towards anger:8 the act appears to be for Seneca a stock response to almost any conceivable situation. Despite Seneca’s obsessive focus on suicide, he nevertheless produces very little that is philosophically innovative with regard to the act. Scholars sometimes claim that Seneca vindicates suicide as the supreme act of human freedom in a fashion more existential than Stoic in character.9 Close consideration of the contexts in which Seneca recommends suicide, however, indicates that Seneca’s understanding of “free10 dom” is conventionally Stoic in this regard. He is interested, in other words, not in the individual’s right to commit suicide at any moment, but in his or her ability to escape a life deprived of the potential for virtue and enjoyment of the goods according 11 to Nature. The difference between Seneca and the earlier Stoic tradition on this matter is chiefly one of focus: for Seneca the range of acts potentially contrary to Nature which the individual might be forced to undertake has expanded enormously, and the individual must accordingly have recourse to suicide more frequently. The relevant area of inquiry, then, lies not so much in the nature of Seneca’s answer to the question of the permissibility of suicide, as in the reasons for his fixed attention to the question in the first place. Scholarly speculation on this matter has tended to view Seneca’s obsession here as simply one aspect of a more general pathology, the suicidal turn in his writings being seen as reflecting either his own morbid temperament or, more generously, the moral climate of Rome at the time: in the hothouse atmosphere of the Neronian court, it is maintained, it is perhaps forgivable if febrile imaginations should grow a little delirious.12 Such factors cannot of course be ruled out as influential upon Seneca’s thinking. They are not, however, particularly

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useful, for such explanations take a great deal for granted and are hardly amenable to further analysis. If one is content to view Seneca’s works from a purely philosophical perspective, furthermore, his perpetual return to suicidal motifs can be seen to be explicable in terms of his simultaneous adoption of four basic philosophical propositions that, though common in Hellenistic thought and tenable in themselves, give rise in combination to serious ethical and epistemological difficulties. All four of these axioms were well-worn in Latin literature by Seneca’s time, having found previous expression in the works of Cicero and Lucretius. What is new in Seneca is their persistent collocation as an organic unit. The first two of Seneca’s central tenets are essentially Stoic in character. The first is that the potential for virtue is innate, which is to say that virtue arises in human beings through their efforts to obtain in an optimal fashion that which is inherently suited to their constitutions. When pursuit of such goods is carried out rationally the result is a homologia of acts identical both to the individual’s eudaimonia and to ethical action.13 The second of Seneca’s Stoic contentions is that vice is accordingly a matter of externals, arising from the agent’s devotion to objects outside his or her immediate control. Such an interest in external and unpredictably available indifferentia necessarily leads to acts disruptive of the agent’s homologia, an effect particularly visible in the undesirable alterations of human behavior associated with the experience of powerful emotions. These two fundamental Stoic tenets are taken by Seneca alongside two other axioms which, although they possess roots deep in the Socratic tradition, are expressed most clearly in Latin literature by the Epicurean Lucretius. The first of these is a profound distrust of the public sphere,14 which Seneca sees as an arena of boundless appetition rather than, as in Cicero’s thought, the domain of all the virtues. Similarly Epicurean is Seneca’s conviction that the emotions not only stem from, but also contribute to, flawed cognitive commitments. The passions, in other words, are not only reactions to indifferent events inaccurately perceived as negative or positive, but also contribute to the formation of these inaccurate perceptions. Such an insight is not exclusively Epicurean, and lies latent in the Stoic classification of emotional experiences into transient perturbationes and chronic morbi and aegrotationes (“illnesses” and “emotional diseases”).15 Seneca’s attention to the problem, however, is reminiscent more of De Rerum Natura than De Finibus.16 When these four propositions are combined the result is an epistemological crisis concerning the perception of virtue. First, Seneca’s Stoic localization of virtue as innate in the individual, when taken together with his basically Epicurean view of the social realm as largely extrinsic to considerations of virtue, leads to the creation of an almost unbridgeable gap between the individual’s role as participant in natura and his or her role as member of the res publica. How one might come to heal this rift is unclear: certainly “extraspection” with reference to the surrounding social milieu

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cannot help the individual live in accordance with the demands of nature. The result is that Seneca’s ethical exhortations are typically turned inwards rather than outwards, to the task of self-fortification and the development of one’s ability to resist the lure of indifferentia. Herein lies much of the motivation for Seneca’s continual exhortations to reflect upon death. The use Plato and Cicero make of visualization of 17 the post mortem soul as a spiritual exercise has already been described. For both Plato and Cicero, however, other techniques of arriving at self-knowledge are possible: in Plato the self may be apprehended logically, or even mathematically, while for Cicero an individual’s participation in aristocratic social life will serve equally as a means for 18 self-discovery. Seneca, however, has little use for the Theory of Forms, and as a cynical observer of Roman political culture he sees the social milieu as almost irredeemably diseased. He cannot therefore have recourse to any of the techniques of self-knowledge developed by these earlier thinkers, and reference to death and suicide becomes virtually the only form of spiritual exercise left open to him. Seneca’s focus on suicidal exemplars is similarly motivated. Concerned always to ensure that a rigid boundary is maintained between the virtuous self and the corrupting influence of the public realm, Seneca must repeatedly focus on instances where this influence has been rejected in summary fashion, a rejection readily epitomized in the self-taken decision to die rather than be bound to external constraints. Seneca’s epistemological conundrum, however, is even deeper than this highly pessimistic response might suggest. If Seneca’s condemnatory view of the realities of Roman political culture leaves him skeptical of the worth of extraspection as a path to virtue, pure introspection is little better. Seneca’s view that emotions are both the cause and the effect of faulty cognitive judgments leads to the specter of the individual descending into a completely closed cognitive loop, through the operations of which he proves incapable of reflexively registering the influence of the passions upon him precisely due to the interference of these same passions. In such cases the border between self and not-self becomes extremely hard to patrol. The extreme example of this sort of faulty cognitive feedback is the deluded suicide, in which the individual kills himself for reasons that are not in fact intrinsic to him, but merely perceived as such. The possibility of the individual existing in delusion up until and including the point of death is a theme Seneca explores repeatedly in both his philosophical and dramatic works, and it is from his attempts to somehow shatter this deluded reflexive rigidity that some of Seneca’s apparently morbid tendencies are derived. Simple reflection upon the nature of one’s soul after death is, in serious cases of self-delusion, clearly insufficient to guarantee clarified perception of one’s own virtuous nature given the potential for those truly in the grip of the passions to deceive themselves. Seneca thus becomes extremely interested in the minutiae of suicide, laboriously chronicling the torments suffered in protracted self-killings in order to register any sign of some belated recognition of a vestigial commitment to externals. This extreme

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necrographical care in detailing the agonizing deaths of the aristocracy is sometimes 19 seen as symptomatic of an inhuman decadence. It also manifests, however, a concern to maintain the purity and accuracy of the only form of spiritual exercise remaining to Seneca: the insidiousness of the corruption Seneca sees as infecting Rome on both the political and the individual levels means that, ultimately, the agonized and heroic suicide becomes the only means left to demonstrate absolutely one’s status as a moral witness in Roman society. Seneca’s conclusions here might seem radical, and, as has been noted above, they are perceived by some scholars as marking a sharp break with previous philosophical and ethical thinking. I shall argue, however, that Seneca’s valorization of suicide proceeds simply from his strict interpretation of previously established philosophical loci communes deeply rooted in the Hellenistic and Roman moralizing tradition. This chapter will accordingly describe Seneca’s understanding of suicide in terms of its increasingly complex engagement with basic Hellenistic philosophical tenets, starting with those Senecan statements most obviously in line with earlier ethical norms, and then proceeding to his more unusual extensions and interpretations of these. Section 7.2 will discuss Seneca’s presentation of suicide and establish the fundamental congruence of Seneca’s ethics of suicide with those advanced by earlier Stoics. This section will also analyze Seneca’s use of the contemplation of suicide as a spiritual exercise in relation to Cicero’s employment of the same device. Section 7.3 will examine at length the difficulties Seneca’s rigorous use of contemplation of suicide as virtually the only useful mode of self-inquiry creates for his ethical epistemology. That Seneca was himself aware of the paradoxes his almost complete reliance upon suicidal introspection creates for his ethical system is clear from the extensive treatment he gives, in both his philosophical and dramatic works, to the possibility of an individual killing him- or herself entirely under the influence of desire. In Section 7.3.1 the motives behind the suicide of Seneca’s Phaedra are investigated, and I shall argue that for Seneca’s Phaedra suicide acts not as a means of self-assessment, but a tool of her own self-delusion. Section 7.3.2 examines Seneca’s discussion of suicide from the motive of fastidium (“boredom”) and explores his perception that suicidal self-delusion might afflict not only the heroines of tragedy, but also the higher reaches of the Imperial Roman aristocracy. Section 7.4 outlines Seneca’s attempts to surmount the epistemological difficulties this kind of self-contained cognitive feedback mechanism poses to his conception of the individual as the locus of ethics. I shall argue that Seneca’s solution to these is, if somewhat idiosyncratic, entirely in keeping with the Stoic tradition, and consists of an extreme emphasis on the quality of will displayed in the final moments before death. It is this concern which underlies Seneca’s persistent interest in the details accompanying the deaths of famous men, and in particular in his unusual interpretation of the ethical import of Cato’s grisly suicide. That purity of perception before death is of central ethical importance to

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Seneca, however, is most visible, I shall argue, in the nature of Seneca’s own self-inflicted death, which has been characterized by some critics as ostentatious and insincere, but is entirely consistent with the demands of Seneca’s own rigid interpretation of the Stoic ethics of suicide.

7.2 SUICIDE AS SPIRITUAL EXERCISE IN SENECA That Seneca’s ethical starting points with regard to suicide are basically those of orthodox Stoicism can readily be seen in the nature of the specific instances in which he recommends it to the recipients of his dialogues or praises it as exemplary in others. Self-killings of which Seneca approves by and large fall within the broad recommendations made by Cato at De Finibus 3.60-2 and conform to the specific criteria for the rational death advanced by Diogenes Laertius at D.L. 7.130.20 Seneca, in other words, typically counsels suicide in situations where the individual is no longer capable of acting virtuously due to deprivation of the goods according to Nature, and cautions that such a decision must not be taken under the influence of the emotions or in default of one’s clear duties to others. When disease threatens the individual’s abil21 ity to live in accordance with Nature, however, suicide is the course of wisdom. The 22 threat of imprisonment or slavery, whether through warfare, the commands of a tyrant, 23 or through suffering at the hands of a degenerate social order,24 make suicide 25 not just a right, but survival a vice. One must not, of course, kill oneself ex frivolis causis (“for trivial reasons”), or from a peevish irritability,26 and Seneca is unsparing towards those who cannot balance the unpleasantness of their own existences against the pain their deaths will cause others. In Epistle 4 Seneca mentions that he would have killed himself in youth due to the debilitating effects of his asthma, but refrained out of consideration for his father.27 An analogous chain of thought is seen in the Hercules Furens when the repentant Hercules, realizing the effects of his earlier madness, stays his desire to punish himself at the request of his father Amphitryon.28 Such passages are clearly meant to be exemplary, and Seneca’s understanding of the ethics of suicide here appears to be entirely in accord with conventional Stoic thinking on the matter. One must not obstinately persist in dying when this is in breach of one’s duty. Equally, however, one must not hesitate to die when this becomes necessary, whether 29 for the sake of a friend, or through any other diminishment of one’s ability to live in accordance with reason and virtue. All these precepts are stock sentiments in Hellenistic and Roman thinking on suicide, and would have been thoroughly familiar to Seneca’s original audience. There is nevertheless detectable in the writings of Seneca a notable shift not in the nature of suicidal ethics, but in the detail and urgency with which these are articulated. The Cato of the De Finibus is content to leave the precise circumstances under which one is obliged to kill oneself extremely vague. Seneca, however, provides his

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readers with numerous precise instances of the noble death, and declares it to be imperative that they be able to recognize and achieve such a death themselves. Seneca notes that [sc. mors] habet aliquid in se terribile, ut et animos… offendat (“death holds 30 something terrible within itself, so that it shocks our very souls”), and is extremely worried that his readers might yield to this fundamental survival impulse rather than cleave strictly to the dictates of virtue. Seneca is in particular concerned with the ability of the individual to preserve his or her capacity for ethical action when confronted by the overwhelming power of a tyrant. Seneca seems to see the confrontation of the individual and the absolute ruler as ethically paradigmatic,31 and his pages are accordingly filled with reiteration upon reiteration of the fundamental clash between the powerless individual and the overwhelming authority of the absolute ruler, from the era of the Persian satraps32 to that of Caligula, from the level of the slave33 to the senator. In every instance the conclusion is the same: it is for the virtuous individual to die rather than accept unjust and tyrannical commands. Seneca’s imagination of the force externals may bring to bear upon the individual’s virtue, then, is much more vivid and concrete than is Cicero’s. He furthermore views such a conflict as more probable than does Cicero, and its results as more likely to be cataclysmic. Seneca’s problem with the public sphere, however, runs rather deeper than the observation that power corrupts and that absolute monarchs have the power to corrupt absolutely. Seneca’s critique of political culture is much more radical than this: according to Seneca there is simply no linear connection between political and ethical action. Cato’s suicide was, for Seneca, undoubtedly noble; but it was noble, he claims, despite rather than because of the political convictions it declared. quid tibi vis, Marce Cato? iam non agitur de libertate; olim pessumdata est. 34 quaeritur, utrum Caesar an Pompeius possideat rem publicam. (“What is there here for you, Marcus Cato? The battle is not being waged over liberty; that was long ago abandoned. The question is: will it be Caesar or Pompey who seizes control of the Republic?”)

There is simply no direct contact for Seneca between virtue as it is internally generated and virtue as it is publicly expressed. The public realm is, for Seneca, simply redundant to the moral excellence of the individual, as he makes clear in his com35 ments on the political culture of his day at Brev. Vit. 2.4: omnis denique istos ab infimis usque ad summos pererra; hic advocat, hic adest, ille periclitatur, ille defendit, ille iudicat, nemo se sibi vindicat, alius in alium consumitur. interroga de istis, quorum nomina ediscuntur, his illos dinosci videbis notis; ille illius cultor est, hic illius; suus nemo est.

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(“In short, run through all those men, from the lowest rank to the highest: this man summons, and this one appears; this man is on trial, this other one defends him, and this one judges. No one claims himself for himself, each person is absorbed by the others. Ask about those men whose names are all committed to everyone’s memory, and you will perceive the mark that distinguishes them: this man cultivates another, this other, another, and no one belongs to himself.”)

A very clear split is posited here between the nature of the individual and action undertaken in the social world, to the extent that the two are almost antithetical. Political engagement cannot, as it does for Cicero, form for Seneca a rational homologia of acts. It is instead a zero-sum game, consisting of a series of postures through which the individual rotates without progress. At no point does it necessarily express the nature of the individual’s intrinsic being. Seneca’s perspective in these passages, then, is essentially that expressed by Lucretius: the public realm is a domain of continuous cyclical repetition without function. Even at the top of the political hierarchy, where individuals might appear to be most free and most fulfilled, the rewards of power are depicted as illusory. In both Seneca’s plays and dialogues public and political desires are considered to be irrational and therefore by nature insatiable. The archetypal figure here is Alexander, weeping 36 that there is nothing left to conquer beyond Ocean. His emulators must live forever avidi futuri (“hungry for the future”), descending either into perversion as they attempt to overcome every boundary to their desire,37 or into paranoia as they seek to 38 shore up their unstable and precarious positions. Even when these extremes are avoided and the individual escapes the concatenating spiral of arrogance and insecurity public life so often entails, commitment to political activity enmeshes him in a chain of extrinsic obligations that deprive him of the capacity to exercise virtue. Engaged in a ceaseless round of debts incurred and received, the individual loses all possible hope for eudaimonia and autonomy of action. According to Seneca, even Augustus, though hardly vice-ridden, was always unable to say that he was se victurum sibi (“going to live for himself”) due to his exercise of power.39 Cicero, in his assumption of the consulship, managed to render himself, Seneca asserts, merely semiliber 40 (“half-free”). As Augustus and Cicero rose towards the heights of power, they steadily lost themselves amongst the demands of public life. As a result their existences became non vita, sed tempus (“not life, but time”),41 no more than a site of social process and transaction. The illusory character of the final goals of political competition, it is concluded, proves beyond doubt that the public arena cannot be a locus of virtue. If one is to conduct one’s vita properly, so that it results in a series of acts stemming from one’s own true nature, one must in contrast reject all exterior motivations and become purely reliant upon one’s own self. The root of ethics lies, then, for Seneca in the individual’s ability to fidere sibi (“trust in oneself”) and placere sibi (“give approval to oneself”), and he accordingly

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advises individuals to discover the nature of virtue through investigation introrsus 42 (“within oneself”). Virtue arises from a continual turning towards the truth within, an inward understanding that Seneca describes as a tacita conscientia (“silent awareness”) and a perpetua et intrepida possessio (“everlasting and entirely secure possession”).43 It is for this reason that Seneca’s philosophy consists in large part of exhortations to fortify oneself in order to be able to repel the influence of any external force that might arise. The mind of the sapiens is, he claims, akin to an army marching in quadrato agmine, a four-square formation prepared to resist attack from any side. Such militaristic imagery is typical of Seneca’s work as a whole and characteristic of the extreme and hostile dichotomy he assumes between virtue and the operations of the world as this is actually constituted.44 The difficulty with Seneca’s simile here is that the four-square formation is empty, with nothing in its center. Seneca’s profound suspicion of all externally motivated behavior leaves him unable to give any strong or positive account of the nature of moral action. Actions generally thought to be and perceived as good may not in fact be so. For Seneca, generalized descriptions of the nature of virtue admit of numerous exceptions and are at any rate ineffectual in assuring virtuous behavior, which must be internally generated.45 Particular instances of outwardly virtuous behavior, however, may be deceptive: moral character and philosophy itself can, if misunderstood or abused, become simply another medium of social exchange, like power or wealth.46 When virtuous behavior is adopted in pursuit of some further end rather than valued for itself, it is no longer true virtue. At times, furthermore, hypocritical agents may not even be aware of the influence that externals are exerting upon them. As a result, their mimicry of virtue grows so complete that it becomes indiscernible from the real 47 thing to all but the most sagacious. Generally speaking, then, the moral philosopher is not in a position to define strict codes of virtuous conduct, as Cicero does, or even to point to incontrovertible examples of positive moral action. Virtue for Seneca is a quality that becomes visible only negatively, in the individual’s conspicuous rejection of the influence of external motivators upon him- or herself. It is for this reason that Seneca’s dialogues do not by and large proffer specific advice to their recipients, but exhort them to turn their minds towards the contemplation of death and suicide. Such reflections upon the velocitas temporis (“swiftness of time”)48 will, Seneca claims, serve to indicate to the attentive reader that the pleasures and pressures of this world cannot be essential to his or her own true nature, because both end in death. When one thinks on death, one realizes that physical pleasures non sunt solidae, non sunt fideles (“are not solid, and are not to be trusted”), and is accordingly forced to aliquod 49 bonum mansurum circumspicere (“search about for some good that will endure”). Seneca is insistent in stressing the importance of ceaselessly reflecting upon one’s own mortality, instructing his readers, dic tibi dormituro: ‘potes non expergisci,’ dic exporrecto: ‘potes non dormire amplius’ (“say to yourself, as you are about to go to bed: ‘it is

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possible that you will not arise’; and as you are about to arise, tell yourself it is possible 50 you will not sleep again’). Elsewhere he warns the reader that inter peritura vivimus 51 (“we live amongst things about to die”). Only once this truth is realized will the individual be compelled to look within and discover that virtus [sc. quae] sola praestat gaudium perpetuum, securum (“virtus which alone provides a joy that is perpetual and 52 secure”). Seneca, however, prefers to contextualize reflections on mortality in terms of self-killing and the conditions under which it is attempted rather than with reference to death more generally. This shift of focus allows him two advantages. First, discussion of suicide allows him an easy opportunity to point out that not only pleasure, but also pain, ends in death, and that both qualities therefore clearly fall amongst the class of indifferentia. Death is, Seneca notes, generally feared. It is also, however, in malis optimum, supliciis finem (“the best thing amongst evils, an end to torment”), a gift of nature to alleviate the toils of life.53 As it can therefore assume both a negative and a positive appearance, it is evidently in itself neither good nor evil, and its value is determined purely by its relationship to virtue rather than anything inherent within it. The ability to contemplate suicide, then, allows the individual to realize the absolute imperative exercised by the demands of virtue and the relative triviality of all other considerations. In addition, when one reflects upon death as something taken upon oneself rather than as simply ineluctable the agent’s role in the loss of externals comes to appear active rather than passive. Death is, according to Seneca, on the one hand the most terrible of all external contingencies that can affect us, the maximum illud [sc. Fortunae] (“single greatest aspect of Fate”).54 If death represents the height of Fortune’s power, however, it also acts as its limit. At death, Seneca points out, imperium suum Fortuna consumit (“Fate exhausts her power”).55 The ability to accept death, then, for Seneca entails with it the capacity to conduct oneself entirely in accord with one’s own innate virtus. As Seneca puts it, adeo mors timenda non est, ut beneficio eius nihil timendum est (“death is so little to be feared, that by its benefit, nothing is to be feared”),56 and he claims furthermore that non sumus in ullius potestate, cum mori in nostra potestate sit (“we can be in no-one else’s power, when the ability to die is in our power”).57 As long as the option of suicide exists, then, so does the individual’s potential to instantiate virtue. The rhetoric Seneca chooses to display in support of this point is at times quite impassioned: quaeris quod sit ad libertatem iter? quaelibet in corpore tuo vena (“do you ask where the path to freedom lies? It flows through every vein in your body”)! 58 The point of such rhetoric is, however, clearly not to convince the reader to kill him- or herself outright. Seneca refers to suicide in multiple diverse contexts not because circumstances such as Lucilius’ lawsuit,59 Paulinus’ responsibilities as pra60 efectus annonae (“Government Officer Overseeing Food Supply”), and Novatus’

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difficulties with the emotion of anger are all so dire as to be worthy of self-imposed death. Seneca’s continual exhortations to the contemplation of death here act simply as a form of spiritual exercise, a means of allowing the reader to perceive the crucial distinction between that which is self and internal, and that which is not self, and external. Meditation upon death is a form of self-assessment, and Seneca is so kind as to give us a demonstration, in Epistle 26.4-6, of how such a test is to be carried out: ego certe, velut adpropinquet experimentum et ille laturus sententiam de omnibus annis meis dies venerit, ita me observo et adloquor: ‘nihil est,’ inquam, ‘adhuc quod aut rebus aut verbis exhibuimus. levia sunt ista et fallacia pignora animi multisque involuta lenociniis; quid profecerim morti crediturus sum. non timide itaque componor ad illum diem, quo remotis strophis ac fucis de me iudicaturus sum, utrum loquar fortia an sentiam, numquid simulatio ac mimus, quicquid contra Fortunam iactavi verborum contumaciam. remove existimationem hominum; dubia semper est et in partem utramque dividitur. remove studia tota vita tractata; mors de te pronuntiatura est. (“I, for one, as though the final test (experimentum) were approaching, and that day which will pronounce sentence upon all my years were here, watch over myself and address myself in these terms: ‘Up until now, your words and acts have proved nothing. These were trivial and deceptive pledges, wrapped up in a number of deceptive baubles; I shall leave it to death to determine how much progress I have really made. And for this reason I ready myself bravely for that day when, with all the artifice and cosmetics put away, I shall judge whether I have simply uttered bold words, or understood them; whether the courage of the words with which I challenged Fate was anything more than play-acting and a farce. Disregard the judgments of other people: their opinions are always wavering and divided against each other; put away the philosophical studies you have been engaged in all your life; death will deliver the final judgment upon you.”‘)

In the final moments before death, then, the individual must of necessity be left alone to face the judgment of the tacita conscientia, and it is this confrontation which Seneca strives to provoke artificially through forcing his readers to contemplate the possibility of suicide. This is not to say, however, that Seneca’s interest in suicide is purely theoretical in character. Seneca’s distrust of the conventional social and political virtues means that he is in fact extremely constrained in his choice of moral exemplars. Individuals who have proved beneficial to the state cannot, as in the writings of Cicero, automatically be elevated to exemplary status. Seneca instead advances a new model of exemplarity, the message of which is not political, but cognitive. The purpose of this exemplarity is solely to demonstrate the exemplar’s ability to act without reference to external circumstances, virtue being only clearly perceptible in Seneca’s writings when an individual demonstrates his or her forcible rejection of the authority of

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externals over action. Prolonged resistance to pain, as in the case of Mucius Scaevola’s 62 ability to hold his hand in a brazier without flinching, clearly indicates his superior63 ity to external influence, as does Regulus’ ability to withstand Carthaginian torture. Most spectacular, however, are individuals who are able to accept the imposition of the maximum illud Fortunae while still cleaving to their moral purpose, and it is these Seneca favors as exemplars in his exhortations. Through a noble suicide an individual may come to stand unequivocally as a symbol of the attainment of supreme virtue, his or her refinement in inward vision constituting him or her equally as a true moral witness to the actions of others. Such a suicide, in Seneca’s view, is of interest not only to the philosophically minded, as he seems to think of humans’ appreciation of the cognitive model exemplified in the noble death as innate. In Seneca’s Troades, for instance, the impassivity with which Polyxena and Astyanax accept their own deaths renders the hostile Greek crowd suddenly conscious of the barbarity of its own actions.64 Even Pyrrhus, defiler of altars and murderer of children and old men, is cowed, becoming ad caedem piger 65 (“ashamed in the face of the slaughter’). Seneca clearly feels that Cato’s death holds something of the same value in Roman culture: despite the humiliating circumstances in which Cato died, the entire Roman world, he claims, recognizes that it was Caesar 66 who was truly shamed by his act. In the noble death, then, the individual has the potential not just to attain a perfected reflexive ethical cognition; he or she may also demonstrate this mode of cognition to others, and in so doing cause social audiences to reflect upon their own true natures. Through the virtuous suicide the individual becomes capable of assuming the status of moral witness within a highly self-reflexive system of ethics.

7.3 SUICIDE AS COGNITIVE FAILURE IN SENECA Although the extensive use of suicidal exemplars suffices to provide an introspective aspect to Seneca’s basically negative understanding of ethical epistemology, it does not in itself overcome certain difficulties inherent in this epistemology itself. In viewing ethical cognition as a purely reflexive and privately achieved process, Seneca inevitably raises the question of the extent to which one can determine that one’s own cognitions are accurate. This is in fact a problem of which Seneca is acutely aware. In Epistle 53 Seneca argues that the passions are insidious precisely because they cause their victim not to perceive them as blameworthy. quare vitia sua nemo confitetur? (“why does no one acknowledge his own faults?”), he asks. quia etiamnunc in illis est. quis peius se habet, minus sentit (“Because we are even now among them. Those who 67 are in the worst condition feel it the least”). Individuals are selectively blind to their own faults, or even believe them to be virtues. Dedicated totally to the acquisition of particular external goods, they are nevertheless capable of believing themselves to be

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acting in accord with their own innermost natures in pursuit of these. Ethical error, then, has the potential to become entrenched and self-confirming. Concern with the fashion in which this flawed reflexive cognitive loop is formed is recurrent throughout the Senecan corpus as a whole. In the plays the result of this kind of error is atrocity. When the princess of Colchis exclaims, upon reducing Creon 68 and his daughters to smoldering ashes, Medea nunc sum! (“Now I am Medea!”), she is demonstrating the extent to which perverse desires can be mistaken for the core of being. The error is perceptible also in Thyestes’ claim that in forcing his brother to consume the flesh of his own children he has achieved the summa votorum (“utmost of my prayers”) and the decora regni (“real trappings of power”), statements born of a slavery to a desire for vengeance that Thyestes nevertheless feels entitles him to apotheosis.69 A similar, if relatively muted, dynamic is visible at several points in Seneca’s philosophical works. Seneca stands among the first authors in the West to devote any considerable degree of attention to emotions such as boredom, melancholy, and depression, conditions not immediately identifiable as passions, but possessing the 70 capacity to pervade and warp emotional cognitions. When Seneca writes to the grieving Marcia that, tristia et misera et in se saevientia ipsa novissime acerbitate pascuntur et fit infelicis animi prava voluptas dolor… ut putet turpe desinere71 (“sadness and misery and fury with oneself end by feeding upon their own bitterness, and grief becomes a kind of depraved pleasure for the unhappy spirit, until one thinks it disgraceful to cease grieving.”)

he is warning her against a cognitive/emotional spiral identical in its operations, if not its concerns, to that which engulfs Medea. The most extreme possible examples of loss of the self to external influences, however, are in Seneca those who kill themselves out of devotion to some desired object. The notion that individuals might go so far as to commit suicide in an irrational fit over the frustration of their desires was of course hardly new in Latin litera72 ture, and is, for instance, a staple of Roman comedy. Seneca, however, cannot afford to treat such suicides as mere absurd aberrations. The contemplation of suicide is for Seneca virtually the only means whereby an individual might be ascertained to be devoid of attachment to externals. The notion that one might embrace the maximum illud Fortunae in the pursuit of some irrationally desired goal, then, throws Seneca’s entire ethical epistemology into confusion. As a result, Seneca displays a great deal of interest in the manner in which individuals become trapped in self-destructive cognitive loops. The theme is chiefly developed at two points in the Senecan corpus. The first relevant text here is Seneca’s Phaedra. This play will be considered in detail below due to the wealth of

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psychologizing interpretations that have grown up around the play, readings which, I shall argue, fundamentally misconstrue the actual narrative dynamic of the drama. Close inspection of the play itself indicates, in fact, that far from charting Phaedra’s innermost depths, Seneca’s narrative describes a self-loss so profound that to speak of Phaedra’s “psychology” here is meaningless. Euripides’ Phaedra kills herself to preserve what remains of her reputation for chastity, to escape the potential consequences of its loss, and as a means of avenging herself upon Hippolytus.73 The motivations of Seneca’s Phaedra, however, are rather different, for she erroneously perceives in death a means both of vindicating her pudor and of possessing Hippolytus. Phaedra, then, spectacularly fails her final experimentum, and gives no sign, furthermore, that any other result might have been possible. Less dramatic, but no less ethically troubling, is a group of individuals encountered twice in Seneca’s philosophical corpus, the fastidiosi (“chronically bored”), individuals who attain a sublime indifference to the world not through the cultivation of the philosophical sensibility but through a profound yet sublimated desire for a goal they feel they can never attain. Unable to grasp the single object in life they perceive as valuable, these people inhabit a landscape drained of significance, and their decline in interest and motivation terminates finally in self-killing. The fastidiosus, then, is cold and sluggish where Phaedra is violent and impassioned. If their symptoms differ, however, the aetiology of their suicides is identical to hers, their deaths stemming from what Seneca portrays as the fundamental ethical error, an inability to distinguish the innate from the desired. 7.3.1 The Suicide of Cognitive Failure 1: Phaedra The first point to note concerning Seneca’s Phaedra is that, despite the debts the play obviously owes to the extant Hippolytus Stephanephorus (“Hippolytus Who Offers a Garland”) and the now lost Hippolytus Kalyptomenos (“Hippolytus Who Covered His Head”) of Euripides in terms of setting and incident, his heroine’s most immediate 74 and relevant literary precedents are the Didos of Vergil and Ovid. Although details of dramatic situation differ amongst these two heroines, the underlying dynamic of their various predicaments is the same in each case: the heroine illicitly desires union with a man possessed of highly exacting moral scruples, and must accordingly (and paradoxically) convince him of her own chastity if she is to attain the object of her shameful desire. In each case the only solution to this predicament lies in the self-killing of the heroine. Seneca’s innovation in his rendering of this basic literary scenario lies in the role this final self-killing plays in the development of the plot. In Vergil and Ovid the heroine’s suicide is ultimately a consequence of her initial mistake in assuming her erotic desire to accord well with her social persona. Having already compromised herself, suicide becomes for Dido the only means of shaming Aeneas and, commensurately, of reconstituting herself as a moral witness within her community.

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For the Phaedra of Seneca’s play, however, suicide is much more than an attempt to salvage what remains of a formerly pristine public reputation. Seneca’s Phaedra refers several times to the possibility of her own death in the course of the play, as the thought of suicide acts for her as a means of facilitating her passion-inspired delusion that her social persona as the respectable wife of Theseus is compatible with a sexual liaison with his son Hippolytus. Phaedra envisions suicide as means of leaving her social persona perfectly mutable and ambiguous, a function entirely of her observer without reference to the truth or nature of her own actions. Throughout the play Phaedra attempts to mitigate the starkness of the dilemma before her through leaving her acts and motives vague and undefined, hoping that her actions might be equally interpretable as those of the chaste wife or of the incestuous stepmother. Such ambivalence is of course unsatisfactory to the other characters in the play, who ceaselessly attempt to clarify the nature of Phaedra’s acts and her intentions; Phaedra, despite her verbal dexterity, finds herself repeatedly unable to sustain this crucial ambiguity. In death, however, she sees a place of refuge whereby she will no longer be subjected to interrogation by the variety of social audiences that surround her, and will therefore be able to reconcile her lust for Hippolytus with her duty to his father. Such a perspective is, of course, entirely deluded, sustainable only because of the severe cognitive impairment with which her passion inflicts her. It is nevertheless also the belief to which Phaedra clings even as she lies dying, her impassioned suicide acting as testimony to the ability of the emotions to allow a total self-loss and abnegation. Phaedra’s final death throes, however, form but the crescendo of the series of suicidal scenes crucial to the progress of the drama.75 Before finally managing to kill herself, Phaedra refers to suicide three times in the course of the play: once in her opening conversation with her Nurse, again when she implores the recoiling Hippolytus to kill her, and finally upon the return of Theseus from the Underworld. All three of these scenes raise serious problems for the assessment of Phaedra’s motives, and, accordingly, for any understanding of her character as a whole. Not only does Phaedra somehow manage to survive her frequently expressed suicidal intentions, but each of her suicide threats precipitates a pivotal development in the plot of the play. It is Phaedra’s statement that she will die rather than lose her pudor that impels the Nurse to approach Hippolytus. It is Phaedra’s desire to die at the hands of her beloved that causes Hippolytus to flee to the woods and to abandon the sword that will falsely incriminate him. And it is Phaedra’s claim that she is about to kill herself that convinces Theseus that she has been raped by Hippolytus and causes him to call down the fatal curse upon his son. In every case it is an assertion by Phaedra that she will commit suicide that pushes the play towards its tragic denouement. The central difficulty of evaluating Phaedra’s character here is accordingly similar to that crucial in the analysis of Ovid’s Dido: should the heroine’s suicidal utterances be taken as accurate reflections of her own mental state, as rhetorical ploys

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designed to manipulate their hearers, or as some combination of both? Analysis of Seneca’s Phaedra has as a result tended to orbit around the same two poles that dominate scholarship on the Heroides, with some commentators viewing Seneca’s drama76 77 turgy as basically psychological in character, others as fundamentally rhetorical, and yet others as a confused assemblage of both. There is also, of course, the deconstructionist option, in which the tendency of Seneca’s characters to express themselves via literary cliché is viewed as an attempt by the playwright to emphasize the ultimate artificiality of discourse generally.78 Although the issue of Senecan ‘sincerity’ has been raised in almost all recent criticism of the Phaedra, critics have generally felt confident enough in their readings of the play to state, rather than argue for, what they believe the obvious interpretation of events to be. Unfortunately there is little agreement on what this obvious interpretation might consist of. A generation or two ago the consensus seems to have been that Seneca’s Phaedra was essentially a manipulative ‘minx,’79 a line of interpretation apparently followed by Coffey and Mayer when they state that Seneca’s Phaedra ‘does nothing to resist her passion’ and remark, à propos of Phaedra’s climactic suicidal statement of 1179-80 that ‘for the third time Phaedra promises to follow her beloved; this time she means it!’80 P. J. Davis, on the other hand, entertains the opposite view, and writes that, however suspect Phaedra’s actions might appear, her suicidal intentions are always unfeigned.81 Hanna Roisman goes further, and argues that it is precisely the artless sincerity with which Phaedra declares her desire to die that distinguishes her from Euripides’ manipulative heroine and her propensity to play upon the emotions of those about her.82 As in the case of the Heroides, one encounters a welter of aporetic and epistemological difficulties in attempting to “read through” dramatic utterances to the unexpressed intentions beneath. If one sidesteps the issue of ‘psychology’ and ‘rhetoric,’ however, and—as with the Heroides—attempts to understand the central character’s speech not as a transcription of her thought but as a means of presenting herself to the gaze of others, it can be seen that there is no means of analyzing Senecan speech acts into the ‘sincere’ and ‘rhetorical’ categories. The Phaedra is a play entirely concerned with a woman seeking an acceptable form of self-presentation, a queen who has been stricken by love and who seeks a voice appropriate to her condition. There can be nothing in such a drama that is detachable as ‘mere’ or ‘pure’ rhetoric, for rhetoric is in fact the substance of the play. It is therefore entirely unhelpful to label Phaedra’s suicide scenes either ‘authentic’ or ‘feigned.’ They are simply aspects of the rhetorical persona which Phaedra chooses to adopt, and once this choice of persona is made the potential for suicide is always latent in the action of the play. As is the case with the Dido of the Heroides, the original decision to assume a particular role in presentation to others eventually makes suicide a logical necessity for the tragic heroine. The moment of

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volition occurs only when the mask is first slipped on; thenceforth one cannot speak of ‘intention’ or ‘will.’ One may only speak of ‘role.’ Phaedra’s first suicide scene is in this sense paradigmatic. It comes as the climax to the prolonged debate between Phaedra and the Nurse regarding the possibility of sexual union between Phaedra and Hippolytus. The Nurse consistently maintains that the consummation of such a relationship is not only morally repugnant but also fundamentally impracticable, while Phaedra repeatedly attempts to find some way around her Nurse’s well-reasoned ethical objections and insists that a means of covertly seducing Hippolytus must be found. The Nurse, however, proves obdurate to Phaedra’s pleas, and in response Phaedra suddenly and unexpectedly changes tack, claiming that if her passion cannot be sated, she must kill herself to preserve her pudor.83 This, of course, alarms the Nurse immensely. She quickly modifies her position and says to Phaedra, temptemus animum tristem et intractabilem [sc. Hippolyti] (“let us test the grim and inflexible spirit of Hippolytus”).84 Two points must be noted with regard to this scene. First, the rhetorical effect of Phaedra’s claim is, as mentioned above, absolutely crucial to the development of the tragic action of the play. Not only does Phaedra’s suicide threat manipulate the Nurse into approaching Hippolytus, it also guarantees that Phaedra will persevere in her passion until it has reached its logical conclusion, whatever that may be. Once death has been proclaimed as the only alternative course of action to the fulfillment of Phaedra’s desires there is absolutely nothing she cannot risk to gain Hippolytus. Just as in Seneca’s philosophical works the acceptance of death ensures the freedom of the sapiens to act virtuously without regard for external circumstances, so Phaedra’s resolution on death removes all possible limits to her behavior. Phaedra’s final suicide upon the death of Hippolytus is thus in one aspect simply the necessary culmination of a decision made long beforehand. The second significant factor crucial to any reading of the scene is the absolute speciousness of the Nurse’s moral grounds for imploring Phaedra not to kill herself. Before leaving to find Hippolytus, the Nurse tells Phaedra dignam ob hoc vita reor/ quod esse temet autumas dignam nece (“I judge you worthy of life on this account: that 85 you say that you are worthy of death”). This highly compressed phrase contains a great deal of ethical casuistry. Phaedra’s willingness to die rather than submit to the demands of her passion, the Nurse claims, reveals her innate commitment to ethical standards. If she has yielded to furor, then, this is evidently not because Phaedra is weak of character, but because the intensity of her ‘madness’ is simply overwhelming. There is therefore no need for her to die, for Phaedra is clearly no longer in control of herself, and her recognition that this is so suffices to demonstrate her possession of pudor. She may therefore pursue her passion without any blot on her character. Such an argument of course begs the question, as pudor is precisely the ability to resist erotic furor through whatever means necessary, but nevertheless serves adequately to induce

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Phaedra to retreat from her resolution. In a single stroke, then, Phaedra has in threatening suicide both been excused for her devotion to her passions and committed herself and her Nurse irrevocably to a course of action that will eventually destroy the house of Theseus. Much previous Senecan scholarship has been devoted to the question of whether this rhetorical effect is really that intended by Phaedra, or if her statement of suicidal resolution should be read as a genuine report of her own emotional state. Coffey and Mayer reserve judgment, and point out only that the threat is ‘completely unexpected’ and Phaedra’s abrupt change of mind as she resolves on death appears to be ‘un86 motivated.’ Senecan dramaturgy is, however, observably given to the ‘sudden reversal of intention,’87 and Phaedra’s change of heart might possibly be explained not in terms of rhetoric, but as indicative of her dawning understanding of the depth and terror of her furor, as the interpretations of Davis and Roisman imply. Denis Nisard, on the other hand, writing in 1881, saw in Phaedra’s death-threat no more than a crude rhetorical ploy, and claimed that ‘la Phèdre latine fait semblant de vouloir mourir pour corrompre [sa nourrice]’ (“the Latin Phaedra pretends to wish to die in order to corrupt her nurse”).88 While such a motivation has not recently been explicitly attributed to Seneca’s Phaedra, the same understanding of her character seems to inform David Slavitt’s rather free translation of lines 262-4 as an accusation by the Nurse that Phaedra is ‘posturing.’89 A whole range of intermediate readings have furthermore arisen in the interval between Nisard and Roisman. Zintzen, for instance, claims that ‘Phedre se trompe elle-même en pensant pouvoir se tuer si son amour pour Hippolyte ne peut être partagé’ (“Phaedra deceives herself in thinking that she might kill herself if her love for Hippolytus cannot be shared”),90 suggesting some kind of genuine interior dissonance within Phaedra herself. Croisille takes a similar line, though attributing a slightly different motivation to the heroine. According to Croisille, suicide is for Phaedra ‘la refuge dérisoire d’une âme en proie au délire, qui se réfère alors à la dignité royale… pour masquer sa faiblesse réelle’ (“an absurd refuge for a soul that is subject to delirium, and which then grants itself royal airs… in order to mask its actual weakness”).91 All these interpretations are, of course, highly problematic, as the actual text of the play does not leave us with any apparent means of assessing the quality of Phaedra’s will in the scene. Analysis of this particular suicide scene accordingly tends to depend upon the critic’s reading of Phaedra’s behavior in other passages—behavior which is, I hope to show, no less ambiguous than it is here. It is necessary, then, to begin inquiry into the Phaedra not with an investigation of Phaedra’s motivations, or of Seneca’s, but rather, as with the Heroides, in terms of dramatic situation. The questions to be asked concern not so much the nature of Phaedra’s suicide threat, but rather the purpose of her address to the Nurse in the first place. It must be noted, to begin with, that Phaedra’s reasons for talking to her Nurse at all here are rather different here than in the Hippolytoi of Euripides. In the extant

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Hippolytos Stephanephoros Phaedra discloses her secret to the Nurse only because love manifests itself in her as an almost physical disease and therefore leads the Nurse, 92 among others, to interrogate her repeatedly as to the cause of her distress. In the Hippolytos Kalyptomenos it appears that the Nurse did not act as an intermediary between Phaedra and Hippolytus at all.93 Seneca’s Phaedra, by contrast, opens the play by making an apparently unsolicited speech to the Nurse. The most relevant precedent here, then, is not Euripidean, but found at the opening of Aeneid 4, in Dido’s confession of love to her sister. The reason that the heroine has decided to confess her love to an intimate associate is in both cases the same: she wishes to present her conflict to another. This may seem an obvious point, but it is an important one. Had the heroine decided that the expression of her passion was acceptable and desirable, there would be no reason to summon another to witness it, and she could simply pursue it at will. Had she simply succeeded in repressing her passion, on the other hand, and decided herself irrevocably against it, she would have no need to discuss the matter at all. By the time Phaedra and Dido have decided to approach another, however, they have already been struggling in secret with their passion for a long time, and have found themselves both unable to extinguish the emotion and unwilling to yield to it. They are therefore driven to test the potential flexibility of their social personae before an intimate acquaintance to discover whether it might not yet accommodate their passions.94 It is therefore inaccurate to see Phaedra in Seneca’s play as representing some form of purely ‘inner’ conflict. That moment is long gone, occurring sometime before the play opens. Phaedra’s approach to another is motivated by the same desire that moves the putative authors of the Heroides to compose their epistles: the need to present a coherent self-image that will prove acceptable in the surrounding social environment. Phaedra addresses her Nurse because she needs to integrate the demands of illicit passion into her social persona, and the only means of judging the coherence and acceptability of this potential persona is through the eyes of another. Phaedra’s focus, as Dido’s, is here entirely outwards. Unfortunately for Phaedra, her Nurse proves rather more intractable than Dido’s obliging Anna. While Dido’s sister immediately suggests a sexual liaison with Aeneas is not only permissible but necessary by raison d’état, the Nurse, despite Phaedra’s best efforts, warns her that any sexual relationship with Hippolytus is absolutely 95 unacceptable. The altercation that follows reveals the essentially audience-oriented nature of Phaedra’s concerns in a fashion far more explicit than that found in Vergil. Most of Phaedra’s debate with her Nurse is concerned with the relevant witnesses of Phaedra’s course of action, and with this audience’s likely reaction to sexual consummation between herself and her stepson. The Nurse continually emphasizes the importance to Phaedra of those who will witness her incestuous acts; Phaedra in reply questions the existence and nature of such witnesses. The Nurse’s first response to

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Phaedra’s tentative inquiry, for instance, is to point out that it is not only Theseus who will be offended by Phaedra’s actions; they will also lie exposed to Phaedra’s 96 grandfather, the Sun, and to Jupiter, the sator deorum (“ancestor of the gods”). Even if Phaedra should escape such surveillance, furthermore, she will necessarily be victim to her own animusque culpa plenus et semet timens (“a mind filled with guilt and always 97 fearful of itself”), constantly afraid that she will betray herself to another. Against this Phaedra points out first that Theseus has disappeared into the Underworld, and second that not only she herself, but even Jupiter and Phoebus, have been overwhelmed by the force of eros, and are therefore in no position to condemn her for 98 yielding to passion. The debate climaxes in a highly compressed stichomythic exchange which centers entirely on questions of audience. Nut: Patris memento. Ph: Meminimus matris simul. Nut: Genus omne profugit [sc. Hippolytus]. Ph: Paelicis careo metu. Nut: Aderit maritus. Ph: Nempe Pirithoi comes? 99 Nut: Aderitque genitor. Ph: Mitis Ariadnae pater. (“Nurse: Remember who your father is. Phaedra: I remember also my mother, Pasiphae. Nurse: Hippolytus shuns the entire race of women. Phaedra: Then I need not fear that he will find a mistress. Nurse: Your husband will return. Phaedra: Presumably with his friend Pirithous? Nurse: Then your father will come. Phaedra: My father, the indulgent father of Ariadne.”)

At this point the Nurse plays her final rhetorical card, and the one most difficult for Phaedra to counter. She makes it clear to Phaedra that her passion is not only unacceptable to all conventional guardians of morality, but even to her own Nurse, and begs Phaedra per has… splendidas… comas/fessumque curis pectus et cara ubera (“by 100 these white hairs, and this heart, wearied by care, and these breasts, dear to you”) not to continue to pursue her passion. It is a powerful appeal, invoking a great deal of pathos and revealing to Phaedra the absolute illegitimacy of her love. And it is now that Phaedra turns the Nurse’s own argument from pathos against her and claims that if some compromise between passion and persona is not possible she will be forced to kill herself to shelter her pudor from the violence of her own desires. This sudden transition may seem to be ‘unmotivated’ in psychological terms, but this is certainly not the case rhetorically, and it must be seen that the criterion of ‘sincerity’ or ‘insincerity’ is simply not applicable to Phaedra’s declaration. Phaedra’s reference to suicide is built into the very nature of her address to the Nurse in a fashion that might be considered ‘merely’ rhetorical were it not for the fact that the entire argument concerns matters of rhetoric in the first place. The whole purpose of Phaedra’s initial approach to the Nurse is to find some means of integrating the desires to which she is subject into her social persona, and her problem is that the Nurse continues to insist that the two are utterly incompatible. Phaedra’s suicide

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threat is thus logically necessary given the restrictions the Nurse is enforcing upon her social persona. If Phaedra is going to accept the Nurse’s argument, and the concomitant implication that her current persona must at all costs be maintained, she is necessarily going to have to kill herself rather than submit to furor. She has no alternative. She may of course secretly be hoping that this statement will cause the Nurse to mitigate the inflexibility of her position, but this cannot securely be said to be her motivation in any absolute sense. Suicide is simply one of the terms of the debate, and the Nurse has pushed her to it. Phaedra’s moral character, then, cannot be assessed from this scene alone. The scene is a dialogue, and its essence is therefore communicative rather than internal. If moral blame is to be found in this scene, it inheres in the Nurse for being unwilling to sacrifice her solamen annis unicum fessis (“sole consolation for my weary years”)101 to the hard moral line she endorses. Insofar as any responsibility attaches to Phaedra, it is to be found in her original decision to disclose her passion and her attempt to find some middle term between pudor and furor. By the time Phaedra appears on the stage the die has been cast, and she has no choice but to pursue the logic of accommodation to its final extreme. So total is her commitment to both indulging her furor and preserving her pudor that she continues to threaten suicide long after the Nurse 102 implores her to stop: the aged guardian must furthermore promise that some form of reconciliation between passion and chastity is conceivable, and is driven to state that fama vix vero favet,/peius merenti melior et peior bono (“Reputation pays little 103 attention to the truth; it is better for those deserving worse, and worse to the good”) before Phaedra will finally desist. Phaedra’s suicide threat wrings from the Nurse an admission that some flexibility might yet be found in her persona and that, given the potential disjunction between repute and reality, she may give free rein to her passion. Phaedra’s relief from her dilemma, however, is short-lived. The license the Nurse has granted her allows her to give herself over momentarily to fantasy, and Phaedra for a while indulges herself with visions of cavorting alongside Hippolytus in the woods in the guise of an Amazon.104 With the appearance of Hippolytus himself on stage, however, the original conflict between pudor- and furor-focused self-presentations resurges with full force. The Nurse’s claim that the relationship between fama and truth is vague and obscure is applicable to Phaedra’s situation only in general terms, and it is the pre-eminent characteristic of Hippolytus to be absolutely certain of the nature of ethical action and the necessity of cleaving to its dictates. Hippolytus furthermore attaches moral value above all to the purity of celibacy, a standard which is absolute and which he expects not only of women but also of himself. Phaedra’s schism between passion and persona is accordingly intensified beyond endurance in his presence. Whereas earlier Phaedra has addressed only her Nurse and the social audience beyond was only dimly imagined, she now finds herself face-to-face with the single person who can deliver an absolute verdict on the morality and feasibility of

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her desires. Phaedra is as a result driven to hasten forward praeceps, impatiens morae, 105 (“heading impatient of delay”) while at the same time a countervailing impulse causes her to lose consciousness before she can actually speak to Hippolytus. So acute is Phaedra’s dilemma and her need to speak the unspeakable that upon returning to her senses she expresses a wish that she might once again lose awareness, and with it 106 the aestus graves (“heavy disturbances”) that afflict her soul. Phaedra’s means of reconciling and giving voice to her dilemma is finally to simultaneously veil and reveal her meaning, to defy immediate comprehension of her import, to allow all her words to admit of a double interpretation. Initially, then, she broaches the subject of her relationship to Hippolytus in political terms. She alludes to the difficulty of being a female ruler, for muliebre non est regna tutari urbium, (“it is not a woman’s task to safeguard royal power over cities”)107 and indicates that she believes that Hippolytus should take over in Theseus’ stead until his return. Phaedra’s political terminology at times shades into the elegiac, as when she claims that she wishes to be addressed as famula: (“handmaid”)108 the word expresses subservience to Hippolytus’ hypothesized superior authority, but acts also as an invocation of the by-now conventional theme of the servitium amoris. Phaedra thus struggles to portray as far as possible sexual union with Hippolytus as a simple extension of her role as wife of Theseus and queen of Attica. Such an equivalence is obviously bizarre, an indication of how difficult a task it is for Phaedra to integrate the actions to which her passion would drive her with those considered appropriate to a putative widow and regal daughter. This stark incongruity becomes explicit, however, only at the end of Phaedra’s address to Hippolytus, when she has been given no choice but to speak as straightforwardly as possible. Elsewhere in her appeal Phaedra has attempted not to express the contradictory impulses that drive her within her self-presentation itself, but has hoped that her audience, Hippolytus, will fill in the necessary gaps for her. The tactic is seen most clearly when Hippolytus reassures Phaedra that, despite the absence of Theseus, te merebor esse ne viduam putes. (“I shall believe in such a way that you need not feel yourself a widow”)109 The reference is to a promised filial piety, but Phaedra momentarily believes that by this Hippolytus means that he will stand in the place of Theseus for her not only politically but sexually: Phaedra hears the innocuous statement as an improbable glissement between the language of politics and the language of passion, obviating the need for her to state this linkage directly. Phaedra’s 110 short-lived spes credula (“qullible hope”) reveals that she hopes to evade any naked statement of the unspeakable through collusion on the part of her audience, believing that, by systematically downplaying the difference between political and conjugal roles, Hippolytus will make the transition from one to the other on her behalf. Unfortunately for Phaedra, this is not a strategy suitable for Hippolytus, who is so fanatically pure that he either cannot or will not understand what it is that Phaedra is getting at. Even when Phaedra confesses that pectus insanum vapor/amorque torret

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(“heat and love enflame my raving heart”), Hippolytus takes her to mean that she is burning with desire for her husband.112 When Hippolytus finally does understand the tenor of Phaedra’s discourse, furthermore, he reacts in the worst possibly way. Not only does he refuse to consider the idea of consummating an incestuous relationship with Phaedra, he asserts that the very suggestion violates the entire cosmic order, and demands in a long speech not only that all of nature and the gods revolt against the monstrosity proposed, but, climactically, that Jupiter himself should strike him down with a thunderbolt. This diatribe, and particularly its final destructive image, has frequently been criticized as excessive, and Coffey and Mayer note that ‘Hippoly113 tus has done nothing commensurate with the punishments he proposes.’ Hippolytus’ exaggerated reaction, however, indicates only that he understands the collusive nature of Phaedra’s rhetorical strategy. Upon the revelation of Phaedra’s passion he exclaims, dignus en stupris ego? scelerique tanto visus ego solus tibi 114 materia facilis? hoc meus meruit rigor? (“And am I suitable for such degradation? Do I alone seem to you to offer material ready for so great a crime? Has my stern character earned me this?”)

Devoid of lust and desire, Hippolytus cannot understand the force that compels Phaedra to speak her passion. He can only perceive the assumption of complicity that lies behind her speech, and the corruption this implies to lurk within his character. It is this implication that causes Hippolytus to react as violently as he can to Phaedra’s suggestion, and to attempt to shake off the taint of collaboration her words impose upon him by threatening her with death. Phaedra, however, responds to his threat with gratitude. Hippolyte, nunc me compotem voti facis; sanas furentem. Maius hoc voto meo est, salvo ut pudore manibus immoriar tuis.115 (“Now, Hippolytus, you have granted me all my prayers, and you calm my madness. This is a greater thing than I had wished for—I shall die at your hands, with my pudor preserved.”)

In death at the hands of Hippolytus Phaedra finally finds some tenable resolution of the dissident impulses tearing her apart by which the coincidentia oppositorum (“resolution of opposite forces”) for which she yearns might be achieved. Phaedra’s immoriar (“I shall die”), as Coffey and Mayer point out, appears to embody a sexual pun, suggesting ‘a Liebestod, but a chaste one,’116 a perfect union of eros and pudor in a

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single death. The requirements of Phaedra’s persona and the urgings of desire, the demands of her pudor- and furor-driven selves, come together and find a contradictory completion in each other. For Phaedra death by the sword of Hippolytus will be not punishment, but culmination. Phaedra’s satisfaction, however, is entirely irrational, and her projected union of conflicted forces in death is inherently self-negating. The two impulses that she believes to be resolved in death are fundamentally incompatible, and her coincidentia oppositorum appears as such only to her. Certainly Hippolytus does not believe that Phaedra can regain her purity in death. Rather, he holds that Phaedra’s longing to die impaled on his blade pollutes it, and he abandons it, running away to seek the purity of his silvae and ferae (“woods and wild animals”).117 Hippolytus’ response may be excessive, but an obvious logic underlies it. How can a single act be both erotically satisfying and essentially chaste? If death at the hands of Hippolytus is to be for Phaedra a total consummation of her desire, it cannot be in any rational sense a refuge for her pudor. If Phaedra is dying for the sake of her pudor, on the other hand, it seems that she must understand the avenging blade of Hippolytus in purely asexual terms. It is in an attempt to preserve her blurring of this basic polarity that Phaedra makes her third suicide threat, and that motivates also her achieved climactic self-killing. Phaedra’s reference to suicide before Theseus is a study in calculated ambiguity. Theseus, approaching the palace, hears that Phaedra is about to kill herself, but, having just returned from the realm of the dead, has no idea why. He confronts Phaedra, implores her to desist, and interrogates her concerning her motivations. Phaedra at first refuses to reply to him, and then, at his threat to torture the Nurse if she does not answer him, leads Theseus to believe that her desire to die stems from her shame at having been raped by Hippolytus. Theseus therefore invokes the final wish granted to him by his father Neptune, cursing his son and condemning him to a grotesque and terrible death. The conversation between Phaedra and Theseus is thus pivotal in the action of the play, and, as with Phaedra’s earlier references to self-killing, subject to numerous critical interpretations revolving around the authenticity of her expressed urge to die. Once again, however, Phaedra’s threat of suicide arises as an aspect of the rhetorical persona she has assumed, is a necessary result of the interaction between dramatic action and this persona, and is not amenable to interiorizing interpretation. Even superficial analysis of Phaedra’s persona in this scene is, however, fairly complex, for though the persona she adopts is a logical extension of that developed in debate with the Nurse, its deployment and manifestation are here altogether more cryptic and obscure. The central ambiguity of the scene lies in the interchange that occurs between Phaedra and Theseus once she has finally yielded to his threats of torture. As in her address to Hippolytus, Phaedra is here careful to allow all her words to admit as far as possible of a double meaning. In response to Theseus’ queries, Phaedra claims that,

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temptata precibus restiti; ferro ac minis non cessit animus: vim tamen corpus tulit. labem hanc pudoris eluet noster cruor. Th: quis, ede, nostri decoris eversor fuit? Ph: quem rere minime. Th: quis sit audire expeto. Ph: hic dicet ensis, quem tumultu territus 118 liquit stuprator civium accursum timens. (“Phaedra: Though my will was tested by pleading, I resisted. My spirit did not yield to threats or to the sword—and yet my body suffered violence. My blood will wash away this stain upon my pudor. Theseus: Tell me who this violator of my honor was. Phaedra: The person whom you least suspect. Theseus: I need to discover who it was. Phaedra: This sword will reveal it, which the defiler abandoned, terrified by the outcry and fearful of the approach of the other citizens.”)

As P. J. Davis has pointed out, we witness here a continuous attempt on Phaedra’s part to avoid, under pressure from Theseus, being pinned down to any single meaning in her speech.119 Her first words express a highly calculated ambiguity, and have the potential to function, depending upon the interpretation of the hearer, as either an accusation against Hippolytus, or a confession of her unchaste acts. Temptata precibus (“tested by pleading”), for instance, might refer either to pleading on the part of Hippolytus, or to the Nurse’s earlier attempts to cause Phaedra to desist from her passion. Phaedra’s animus (“spirit”) of course didn’t yield to the ‘sword and threats’ of Hippolytus, and although Theseus mistakenly takes this to refer to sexual menace on the part of his son, the statement also acts as an accurate description of what has actually transpired. The same holds true for Phaedra’s claim to have been the victim of violence: she has, if not quite for the reason that Theseus suspects. In response to Theseus’ repeated efforts to clarify the situation, Phaedra takes refuge first in vagueness, and then in ambiguity. She declines to mention the name of Hippolytus, and even as Theseus presses for more precise identification her words veil a double sense: is Hippolytus a stuprator (“defiler”) because he has raped her, or because he has inspired her passion? Phaedra’s inclination toward ambiguity here of course loads the scene with considerable irony. Theseus understands Phaedra’s words as referring to rape, while the theatrical audience is aware of the reality of the situation and realizes that Phaedra is speaking to him of her furor. The question then naturally arises: why does Phaedra choose to indulge her taste for irony at this point? Seidensticker suggests that Phaedra’s suicide threat is uttered solely to lend credence to her story of rape, and that she speaks in this riddling fashion only so that her depraved character might be revealed 120 to the theatrical audience. As Davis points out, however, if Phaedra is an utterly evil and despicable creature, why should she trouble herself with all this calculated double-talk rather than simply lie? The alternative hypothesis, however, is that

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Phaedra is wholly innocent in this exchange, and this view is equally odd. Theseus’ fatal mistake here is entirely understandable, as Phaedra says nothing to correct his erroneous impression that she has been raped. Theseus’ expectations are clearly being 121 manipulated in this scene. The real motive behind Phaedra’s ambiguous speech is left inscrutable, neither clearly malicious nor entirely naïve, and such a speech cannot on its own legitimately seal her guilt or prove her innocence in the eyes of the theatrical audience. Interpretation of this scene accordingly tends to depend upon one’s reading of the rest of the play and on Seneca’s presumed intentions in composing it in the first place. Davis, for instance, claims that Phaedra’s false accusation of Hippolytus is out of keeping with Seneca’s portrait of his heroine as a ‘helpless victim of passion’ whom he regards ‘sympathetically.’ He therefore interprets Phaedra’s ambivalent speech as a response stemming from the ‘panic’ engendered by an ‘intolerable’ dramatic situation in which she is forced to tell a lie out of concern for the welfare of the Nurse.122 Croisille, on the other hand, sees Phaedra’s prevarication and subsequent collapse into accusation as a sudden ‘passage de l’amour à la haine’ (“passage from love to hatred”): it acts as a synecdoche for the larger story, which is, according to Croisille, a narrative of the means by which ‘les velléités de résistance sont vite balayées par le flot de cette passion’ (“every show of resistance is quickly swept away by a wave of passion”).123 Consideration of the wider dramatic context, however, indicates that Phaedra’s ambiguity is not meant to be resolved. In fact, the entire narrative centerpiece of the play, spanning roughly lines 719-902, encompassing the conception, progress, and completion of the plan to charge Hippolytus with rape, though obviously crucial to any assessment of Phaedra’s character and moral nature, serves only to highlight the difficulty of attributing motivation to her. The whole section, in fact, is structured in such a way as to deny the theatrical audience any access to Phaedra’s interiority. From the beginning of the scene the theatrical audience is kept continually aware of Phaedra’s actions, and the Nurse and the Chorus inform us that Phaedra weeps,124 tears at herself with her nails,125 and generally makes a great display of grief after her rejection by Hippolytus. We are, however, denied any knowledge of what Phaedra is thinking during this period. She speaks either in tantalizing enigmas, or does not speak at all, her actions presented to us through the descriptions of others. At no point do we have direct access to unmediated speech by Phaedra, and this renders the question of Phaedra’s duplicity unanswerable in true/false terms. Any attempt to ‘read through’ Phaedra to the motivations beneath is frustrated by the dramatic structure of the play itself. Phaedra in her confrontation with Theseus proves herself extremely adept at formulating sententiously snappy and yet ambiguous statements, demonstrating precisely the kind of appropriation of moralizing sentiments to her own amoral purposes at

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which Seneca is so alarmed in his philosophical works. To Theseus’ insistence at discovering the reason for her death she replies aures pudica coniugis solas timet (“a chaste wife fears only the ears of her husband”), skillfully evading the question of whether she is herself the pudica (“chaste wife”) referred to here. A few lines later she declares, mors optima est perire lacrimandum suis (“the best death is one bewailed by one’s own family”). The sentiment is itself superlatively appropriate to a chaste Roman matron and Phaedra may be seen to be claiming this persona as her own in expressing it. By contrast, however, such a statement may also be read as an indirect admission that, should she reveal the cause of her suicide, she would hardly die bewailed by “her own family.” Phaedra’s discourse, then, is fundamentally bivalent and repeatedly eludes attempts at definition.126 One can see, furthermore, why she desires this continual ambiguity in her encounter with Theseus. Although in one sense the suicide Phaedra threatens before her husband “demonstrates” her chastity to him, it is also on the other hand a simple extension of her desire to be slain by the hand of Hippolytus. Her death on Hippolytus’ blade would remain a ‘chaste Liebestod’ in the same fashion that Dido’s death upon the blade of Aeneas also acts as a symbol of their union.127 In killing herself with the sword of Hippolytus, then, Phaedra would once again realize the fusion of the honorable and the erotic that Hippolytus’ threat of murder promised to her. Suicide thus becomes in the end an ideal symbol of Phaedra’s state and the only means whereby she might attain coherence in relation to her persona. It is for Phaedra ultimately equivalent to murder at the hands of Hippolytus. Death will thus be a punishment for her. It will also, however, act as consummation. Once the dual nature of Phaedra’s reference to suicide before Theseus is understood the scene’s continuity with her earlier suicidal declarations to the Nurse and to Hippolytus becomes evident. In both these earlier passages Phaedra is seen to be attempting to find some unknown middle ground between the demands of her furor and the demands of her conventional social persona. With the Nurse this attempt is expressed by means of an explicit appeal, and before Hippolytus through Phaedra’s efforts to keep her words as obscure as possible, in the hopes that he will successfully read her meaning into them. Her difficulty in both encounters is that the person addressed refuses to allow her this central ambiguity and insists on an absolute demarcation between passion and persona. Whenever Phaedra finds herself before an audience she is faced with a stark dichotomy: she must either silence her furor entirely, or face shame. No compromise is possible. Only when Hippolytus threatens to kill her does Phaedra find some means of circumventing this unqualified division, for only in death can a consistent ambiguity be maintained. In life Phaedra’s persona is a continually acting and evolving entity that must be continually employed in interaction with others, who will seek to clarify its outlines and react to it accordingly. In life, in other words, persona is an operation rather than an entity. In death, however, persona becomes a non-interactive quality, to which no further questions can be

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applied. Uncertainties and ambiguities pertaining to it are necessarily left unresolved. It is therefore through death that Phaedra believes she can find the coincidentia oppositorum she craves and, paradoxically, a means of forging a unity from the fundamentally conflicted impulses acting upon her. Phaedra’s difficulty in her confrontation with Theseus is that her husband ceaselessly attempts to interrogate the meaning of her self-killing and will allow her no refuge in ambiguity. Phaedra seeks to evade his questions and preserve her vagueness and silence, in order that her death might prove equivocally signifying. Theseus, however, is not content with this, and perseveres in pressing Phaedra for a response. Despite Phaedra’s efforts, she is eventually forced to assume some kind of definite persona before her husband. Although she persists in leaving as many gaps as possible in her narrative in order that it might admit of a variety of possible readings, no matter how vague she leaves her words she cannot prevent Theseus from construing them in one sense or another. Whatever her attempts at a perpetual aporia in self-presentation, her words must inevitably lead to concrete and definite action, and when Theseus calls down his curse upon his son Phaedra’s equivocation is finally denied. It is from this denial that Phaedra’s silence or absence during the rest of the scene derives. The dramatic problems inherent in the curse of Theseus have posed serious difficulties for critics trying to make narrative sense of the play. Given Phaedra’s later reaction to the mutilation of Hippolytus’ body, it would seem implausible that she should remain on stage and listen to Theseus’ prolonged invocation against his son in silence. It seems equally strange, however, that Phaedra should at this point simply shuffle off stage unremarked.128 The question, however, is academic. Theseus has by the time he begins his curse immobilized Phaedra entirely. Any action Phaedra takes, whether to damn or exonerate Hippolytus, will serve to confirm or undermine Theseus’ understanding of the situation, and thus deny either the elegiac or honorable elements of her persona that she had hoped to preserve in death. Even suicide is now 129 beyond Phaedra for, though Theseus does not bother to disarm her, self-killing at this point would only strengthen Theseus’ belief that Phaedra is conventionally chaste and the ambiguity she requires would be lost. Whether onstage or off, Phaedra can no longer materially affect the course of the play without utterly destroying the delicate compromise she has striven to create between passion and persona. It is accordingly only when Hippolytus is dead that Phaedra can finally admit all and kill herself. Here at last is the inescapable coincidence of roles for which Phaedra yearns, and all factors now point to the desirability of her death. Only at this point can she at last act unequivocally. Her speech, of course, remains conflicted. In her confession to the Athenians Phaedra admits her guilt and speaks of herself in terms that would seem to justify Theseus’ final curse upon her. She has spoken falsa et nefas (“false and unholy things”), she has attempted a crimen incestum (“an impure crime”), 130 and her pectus (“heart”) is impium (“treacherous”). The blade that she wields

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against herself is therefore iustus (“just”). Phaedra is here speaking as though she means to demonstrate her ultimately ethical character and as though her death is intended to atone for her crimes. Contradictions, however, begin to emerge in her apostrophe to Hippolytus as she devotes to him her final speech. She opens her address with the claim that nil turpe loquimur (“I say nothing shameful”) and that she will pay recompense for his unjustified death with her own, thereby freeing herself of her scelus (“crime”).132 At this point, however, the tenor of Phaedra’s speech shifts abruptly, and she suddenly claims that she will pursue Hippolytus even in the Underworld. Phaedra reconfigures her own death here not as a debt or as punishment for her passion, but as its final achievement. She promises that et te per undas perque Tartareos lacus,/per Styga, per amnes igneos amens sequar (“Raving, I will follow you through the waves, through the Underworld’s Tartarean waters, through the Styx, and the rivers of flame”), and sees in death a means of rendering their incestuous union permanent. Phaedra’s motives in seeking death for the final time, then, remain as conflicted as in every other of her suicide scenes. Phaedra’s desires have throughout the play been paradoxical and self-defeating, but here, at the close of her life, they are finally juxtaposed immediately with each other, and the indissoluble conflict inherent in Phaedra’s character is most nakedly exposed. This parataxis of furor and pudor in Phaedra is accordingly at its most extreme in her ultimate resolution on death, when she exhorts herself to complete the action she has undertaken. Urging herself to suicide, she reflects that every factor points in this direction. Morere, si casta es, viro;/si incesta, amori (“Die, if you are chaste, for your husband; if you are unchaste, for your love”).133 A similar note is struck in her final lines: o mors amoris una sedamen mali,/o mors pudoris maximum laesi decus (“O death, only comfort of my impure love; O 134 death, the greatest honor of pudor betrayed”). The sententious charm of the phrases cannot conceal the peculiar paradoxes of the sentiment. Death will be for Phaedra both a confirmation of her status as a good wife and as elegiac heroine. It will be a consolation for her incestuous love, and proof of her chastity. It will act as a liberation from, and a demonstration of, her fidelity to her husband. These goals are of course entirely contradictory in character, and their resolution in death self-evidently spurious to all but Phaedra. She is, then, both the manipulative minx condemned by E. P. Barker and the pitiable victim of passion described by Davis in his analysis of the play. On the one hand her corruption of the Nurse, her husband’s conviction that she has been raped by his son, and the final destruction of her beloved are all effected by her deliberate attempts to reconcile the urgings of her passion with the limitations imposed upon her by the demands of her social persona. Such a reconciliation is Phaedra’s goal from the beginning of the play, and she is willing to pay any price—even her own death, or that of others—in order to realize it. On the other hand, the tenacity of her belief that the demands of these two forces can somehow be brought into alignment with each other indicates that Phaedra is

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equally the victim of a massive epistemological error induced by the power of eros. Under the influence of the passions Phaedra can neither accept nor perceive the utter incompatibility of her twin aims. The frenzy to which her desire for Hippolytus reduces her overrides all other considerations, so that the guidance of her Nurse, and even the harsh response of both Hippolytus and Theseus to her situation, cannot convince her of the unacceptability of her passion and the necessity of its rejection. Phaedra inhabits a closed cognitive loop that continually verifies the urgency of her passions and their ultimate coherence with her ethical persona. Phaedra’s death, then, is not only deserved, but also pathetic in the extreme, for her suicide is committed as the sole possible means of preserving the viability of her own deluded cognitive mechanism. Phaedra dies in order to enshrine a passion foreign to her true nature as essential to it. Like Vergil’s Dido, then, Phaedra cannot accurately be said to act as the agent of her own death, for her own true nature has yielded utterly to the onslaught of the passions. The suicide of Dido, however, is a consequence of the extreme clarity with which the queen perceives the error she has made in assuming some glissement to be possible between passion and pudor. Phaedra’s, by contrast, arises as the result of her total devotion to illusion, and her self-loss thereby shown to be still more complete than that of the Carthaginian queen. 7.3.2 The Suicide of Cognitive Failure 2: The Fastidiosi Though Phaedra’s suicide is dramatic in its intensity and effects, the dynamic by which she comes to lose all self-knowledge and abandon herself to delusion is not for Seneca confined to the tragic stage. An appreciation of this kind of psychological delusion is visible also in his philosophical writings. Seneca’s correspondents are of course understood to be immune to the sort of overwhelming sexual passion that consumes Phaedra. They are nevertheless portrayed as prone to more covert, subtle, and pervasive spiritual disorders. Perhaps most insidious is the condition of chronic fastidium to which Seneca alludes at the close of Epistle 24. quosdam subit eadem faciendi videndique satietas et vitae non odium sed fastidium, in quod prolabimur ipsa inpellente philosophia, dum dicimus, ‘quousque eadem? nempe expergiscar dormiam, esuriam fastidiam, algebo aestuabo. nullius rei finis est, sed in orbem nexa sunt omnia, fugiunt ac secuntur. diem nox premit, dies noctem, aestas in autumnum desinit, autumno hiemps instat, quae vere conpescitur; omnia sic transeunt ut revertantur. nihil novi facio, nihil novi video; fit aliquando et huius rei nausia!’ multi sunt, qui non acerbum iudicent vivere, sed 135 supervacuum. (“A weariness of seeing and doing the same things—not a hatred, but a boredom, of life—overcomes some people, a state of mind into which we slip with the teachings of philosophy itself urging us on. This state arises when we say ‘For how long will these same things continue? Inevitably I will rise and I will sleep,

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I will be hungry and I will overeat, I will shiver and I will sweat. There is an end to nothing, but everything is connected to everything else in a cycle, and flees only to pursue again later. Night presses upon the day, and the day the night; summer ends with autumn, autumn’s place is taken by winter, and winter is ended by springtime. Everything thus passes by so that it might return again. I do nothing new, and I see nothing new; and eventually this induces nausea.’ There are many who believe life to be not bitter, but superfluous.”)

The description is further developed at De Tranquillitate Animi (“On Tranquility of Spirit”) 2.8-15, where the same despairing cry of ‘quousque eadem!’ (“For how long will these same things continue!”) is attributed to those who restlessly shift about from one location to another, forever dissatisfied, and for whom spectacula spectaculis 136 mutantur (“entertainments are exchanged for entertainments”) without effect. These individuals, too, suffer from a perception of pointless circularity in life that culminates in their own deaths. Although these portraits are the first in ancient literature to describe a disgruntled horror loci (“abhorrence for wherever one is”) as a reason for self-killing, it is not too hard to see whence the idea is derived. Seneca’s image of the bored aristocrat shifting irritably from scene to scene without satisfaction is clearly indebted to Lucretius’ description of the perpetually restless man attempting in vain to escape the pondus of the timor mortis oppressing his mind at De Rerum Natura 3.1060-7. Seneca has evidently connected this description with Lucretius’ earlier statement at DRN 3.79-82: et saepe usque adeo, mortis formidine, vitae percipit humanos odium lucisque videndae ut sibi consciscant maerenti pectore letum, obliti fontem curarum hunc esse timorem. (“and often matters continue to the point that from fear of death, people are seized by a hatred of life and seeing the light, so that, with grieving heart, they resolve upon their own destruction, forgetting that this fear is the source of their disquiet.”)

The notion that a desultory desire for continual changes of scenery is symptomatic of some inward ethical flaw had in addition been further developed by Horace.137 In making these ceaseless peregrinations terminate in suicide, then, Seneca is only extending a previously established idea to its logical extreme. More interesting than Seneca’s exaggeration of the earlier theme, however, are the philosophical alterations he has wrought upon it. Although Lucretius’ aristocrat presents symptoms similar to Seneca’s, the two nevertheless suffer from rather different diseases, and in his description of the motives of the fastidious suicide, Seneca subtly deflects the force of the Epicurean paradox. Although he makes mention twice in Epistle 24 of the foolishness of those who seek to escape death in suicide, Seneca seems to view this as an affliction

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separate from that which cripples the fastidiosi. For Seneca it is not simple fear of death that impels these men to suicide. His version of the paradox is in fact rather diffuse: ridiculum est currere ad mortem… cum genere vitae, ut currendum ad mortem esset, effeceris (“it is absurd to run towards death when it is your own way of life that makes it necessary to run towards death”).138 Seneca’s assessment of the causes of terminal fastidium in the De Tranquillitate Animi strikes a similar note. Whereas in Lucretius pursuit of public honor is a compensatory mechanism for the inevitability of death, Seneca does not carry analysis to this level and instead treats the love of glory and public distinction as an innate and independent impulse. For Seneca the suicidal horror loci of the fastidiosi arises from an original failure to attain some greatly desired object. Rather than abandon their hopes or strive more vigorously for their realization, however, the fastidiosi lapse into cupiditatibus timidis (“fearful desires”) and mae139 ror marcorque (“languishing and lamentation”). Unable to act to secure their desired goal, or to concern themselves with any other, they lie dejected inter destituta vota torpentes (“inert amongst their abandoned hopes”), their desires balanced by 140 paenitentia (“remorse”) for having conceived them in the first place. The fastidiosus as a result cannot find satisfaction anywhere, for he both needs and cannot bring himself to pursue the single object to which he has dedicated himself utterly. Seneca’s account of the motivations of the fastidiosus is not intrinsically implausible, and is considerably more nuanced and complex than the brief assessment of Lucretius. In weakening the Epicurean paradox, however, Seneca has also rendered insecure the basis of his own ethics. In Lucretius the starkness of the juxtaposition of self-contradictory and conflicted impulses carries a protreptic force: through the study of Epicurean philosophy and the operations of natura the individual will learn to unravel the suicidal paradox, and will no longer be prey to the concatenation of empty opinion from which such absurd and self-contradictory formulations arise. The reflexivity of Seneca’s ethics, however, means that philosophical doctrines cannot, in the final analysis, serve as a referent by which the fastidiosus might ascertain the nature of virtue. So profound is the cognitive confusion of the fastidiosi that philosophical study in fact only compounds the problem, sometimes fatally. Convinced that their dissatisfaction with everything they encounter stems from philosophical high-mindedness rather than craven abjection before an absent object of desire, the fastidiosi end their misery in a misjudged suicide. Seneca makes it clear that he does not consider such a death ethically desirable. Although he advises Lucilius to habituate himself to the mindset of the fastidiosi in response to particular external pressures, the deaths of such men do not in fact arise from the insights of reason, but rather from an inconsulta animi inclinatio (“unreflective tendency of their souls”), an unthinking libido moriendi141against which Lucilius must guard. The fastidiosi, he says, die ignavi iacentesque (“lying slothful and prone”), prostrate before their own desires.

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If Seneca’s condemnation of such men is unhesitating, however, he does not make it entirely clear how their error might be corrected. The fastidiosi, like Phaedra, are so deeply enmeshed in the web of their own desires that they are incapable of separating themselves from them, and their delusion cannot be broken even by the approach of death. Seneca furthermore does not seem to think this kind of error particularly rare. Fastidium is, he suggests, a disease endemic to his particular social circle, and he elsewhere makes glancing allusion to those who kill themselves in pursuit of a false species atque umbra virtutis (“appearance and shadow of virtue”).142 The precise nature of the kind of suicide Seneca is referring to here is uncertain, but it is clear that such deaths arise from the same sort of cognitive flaw that propels Phaedra and the fastidiosi towards their premature ends. Seneca, then, is confronted with a serious problem: although the contemplation of death is for him the only possible form of spiritual exercise, and the commission of suicide the best possible means of constituting oneself as a moral witness within the community, the sheer insidiousness of the fashion through which external influences come to permeate awareness means that they may still guide one’s actions in self-killing. Such a death, Seneca claims, does not even amount to a reflexive act. Just as in Vergil’s portrait of Dido, suicide from desire for an absent object lacks even agency: of those who face death fearful for the loss of 143 their earthly possessions, Seneca remarks nihil perit (“nothing dies”). The plight of Phaedra and the fastidiosi, however, are even worse, for both die before this fear even breaks into their conscious awareness. How then, does one ascertain whether a suicide is virtuously motivated or not? Even more problematic is the question of how one assesses one’s own freedom from externals and one’s own ability to pass the final and crucial experimentum.

7.4 AGONY AS ETHICAL INQUIRY IN SENECA Seneca’s solution to the problem of assessing one’s independence from the influence of externals in death lies essentially in attention to detail. Given the extreme difficulty of distinguishing true, internally motivated, and virtuous behavior at death from externally impelled acts, Seneca finds it necessary to become something of a connoisseur of self-killing. He devotes great care to the analysis of minutiae of bearing and expression before death that might indicate the individual’s state of mind as the end approaches. Seneca’s punctiliousness in this regard is easily interpreted as mere morbidity. It is also, however, entirely necessary to the accurate assessment of virtue. Immobility of countenance is held by Seneca to be of particular importance in the delicate matter of ethical evaluation. The individual must face death with an aequo animo (“mind in balance”) and an ex certo iudicio tranquillitas (“tranquility borne of certain judgment”),144 and like Socrates, one must appear nec hilariorem nec tristiorem (“neither more joyful nor more sad”) in the final moments.145 The value of such

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composure as a tool of ethical assessment is much increased, furthermore, if an individual’s death is extremely prolonged. It is for this reason that Seneca is so enthralled with the slow death of Aufidius Bassus through a wasting disease. Seneca writes that he listened to the words of the great man libentissime (“with the greatest appreciation”) as he entered his slow decline towards the end. That Bassus’ death was virtuous and not motivated through the consideration of externals is proved, for Seneca, by the fact that Bassus eo animo vultuque finem suum spectat, quo alienum spectare nimis securi putares (“looked upon the prospect of his own death with such a spirit and expression, that you would think it too complacent if he were looking upon the death 146 of another”). Equally valuable is the testimony of one Marcellinus who, having decided to anticipate his own death by disease through self-starvation, remarked that death was for him a dissolutio non sine voluptate (“fading away, and not without its 147 own pleasure”). The serenity of the sentiment, combined with the prolonged resolution death by inedia (“starvation”) requires, demonstrates, to Seneca’s mind, the sufferer’s possession of reason and virtue and his freedom from cognitive delusion. Without a doubt, however, the supreme example of the resolute, agonized, and therefore noble suicide is for Seneca that of Cato the Younger at Utica. That the suicide of Cato was the apex of all ethical acts was a notion well entrenched in Roman 148 culture by the time of Seneca, who remarks that this was a lesson learned by every schoolboy. The means by which Seneca arrives at this conclusion, however, are extremely unusual, and far removed from Cicero’s relatively cool-headed evaluation of the act. As noted above, the value of Cato’s suicide does not lie for Seneca in the strictly political commitments it embodies. In Seneca’s view, the civil war in which he died was waged between two tyrants, and the outcome therefore a matter of indifference. Cato’s suicide is exemplary for Seneca not because of its immediate motives or effects, but because of the extreme amount of pain it involved—and, more importantly, because Cato ended up, in effect, killing himself twice. According to Plutarch, Cato 149 managed to rather bungle his own death. Though careful to read the Phaedo before approaching his final trial, Cato neglected the more pragmatic aspects of suicide, and managed not only to miss all his vital organs with his sword stroke, but also to knock a large abacus off the table while so doing. The resulting clatter alerted the already suspicious household that something was amiss, and Cato’s physician managed to arrive in time to stitch Cato’s wounds and save his life. Upon regaining consciousness Cato was much perturbed, and succeeded at last in dying by ripping out his own stitches. Cicero skims over all these grisly details in glorifying Cato. Seneca, by contrast, revels in them, describing Cato’s extended death scene as that of one qui quam ferro non emiserat animam manu extraxit (“who did not so much cause his spirit to depart with a sword, as rip it out with his hand”).150 The point here is that Cato not only suffered extreme pain in death, but that he also managed to attempt suicide

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twice in quick succession. In doing so he attained the status, in Seneca’s eyes, of the Stoic sapiens. liquet mihi cum magno spectasse gaudio deos, dum ille vir, acerrimus sui vindex, alienae saluti consulit et instruit discedentium fugam, dum studia etiam nocte ultima tractat, dum gladium sacro pectori infigit, dum viscera spargit et illam sanctissimam animam indignamque quae ferro contaminaretur manu educit. inde crediderim fuisse parum certum et efficax vulnus; non fuit diis immortalibus satis spectare Catonem semel. retenta ac revocata virtus est, ut in difficiliore 151 parte se ostenderet; non enim tam magno animo mors initur quam repetitur. (“It is clear to me that the gods looked on in great joy while that man, so ardent in avenging himself, concerned himself with the safety of others and made preparations for the escape of those who had decided to leave; while even on that final night he pursued his philosophical studies; and when he transfixed that pure breast with his blade, and scattered out his internal organs, and drew out that most sacred spirit—unworthy of being contaminated by the sword—with his bare hands. I should like to believe that this was why his first wound was inaccurate and ineffective: because it was not enough for the immortal gods to look upon Cato only once. His virtus was held back and recalled so that it might display itself in a more difficult role; for it does not take so great a soul to attempt death, as to seek it willingly again”)

Cato, in attempting suicide twice, demonstrated in the sole possible absolute fashion that he had passed the final experimentum. He had confronted the prospect of the loss of all external goods and persisted in his desire for suicide, thus displaying his own perfected understanding of virtue and his ability to act in total correspondence with its demands. In this attainment of perfected reflexive self-knowledge in suicide Cato becomes, according to Seneca, the sole incontrovertible example of the ethical individual, superior to all human concerns and equal to the gods.152 Seneca is doing more here than indulging his taste for rhetorical hyperbole: he has created the basis for an entirely new form of exemplarity in Latin literature, an exemplarity of cognition, of which Cato is the founder and Aufidius Bassus and Tullius Marcellinus the inheritors. Such an exemplarity is the only means in Seneca’s philosophy whereby the individual might both discover his or her own virtue and make this known to others. The seriousness with which Seneca took this proposition can be seen in the fact that it was within this same tradition that he located himself through his own suicide. Seneca’s death came in the great purge that followed the betrayal of the Pisonian conspiracy in A.D. 65. His reaction upon receiving the order of suicide from a centurion sent by Nero is described at length by Tacitus at Annales 15.62-4.

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Seneca

ille interritus poscit testamenti tabulas; ac denegante centurione conversus ad amicos, quando meritis eorum referre gratiam prohiberetur, quod unum iam et tamen pulcherrimum habeat, imaginem vitae suae relinquere testatur, cuius si memores essent, bonarum artium famam tam constantis amicitiae [pretium] laturos. simul lacrimas eorum modo sermone, modo intentior in modum coercentis ad firmitudinem revocat, rogitans ubi praecepta sapientiae, ubi tot per annos meditata ratio adversum imminentia? cui enim ignaram fuisse saevitiam Neronis? neque aliud superesse post matrem fratremque interfectos, quam ut educatoris praeceptorisque necem adiceret…. post quae eodem ictu brachia ferro exsolvunt. Seneca, quoniam senile corpus et parco victu tenuatum lenta effugia sanguini praebebat, crurum quoque et poplitum venas abrumpit; saevisque cruciatibus defessus, ne dolore suo animum uxoris infringeret atque ipse visendo eius tormenta ad impatientiam delaberetur, suadet in aliud cubiculum abscedere. et novissimo quoque momento suppeditante eloquentia advocatis scriptoribus pleraque tradidit, quae in vulgus edita eius verbis invertere supersedeo…. Seneca interim, durante tractu et lentitudine mortis, Statium Annaeum, diu sibi amicitiae fide et arte medicinae probatum, orat provisum pridem venenum, quo d[am]nati publico Atheniensium iudicio exstinguerentur, promeret; adlatumque hausit frustra, frigidus iam artus et cluso corpore adversum vim veneni. postremo stagnum calidae aquae introiit, respergens proximos servorum addita voce libare se liquorem illum Iovi Liberatori. exim balneo inlatus et vapore eius exanimatus, sine ullo funeris sollemni crematur. (“Seneca calmly requested the documents containing his will. When the centurion denied these to him, he turned to his friends, and called them to witness that, since he was forbidden to show them gratitude for their kindnesses to him, he could leave them only one thing, although this was his most valuable possession—the image of his life. If they were mindful of this, they would gain from it the glory which is conferred upon virtuous acts, and this would be their reward for the loyalty of their friendship. At the same time, he summoned them from their tears to philosophical fortitude, sometimes as though in casual conversation and sometimes sternly, as though forcing them. Where, he asked them, had their philosophical precepts gone, and their reason, carefully developed over so many years? Were any of them somehow ignorant of Nero’s savagery? Once he had murdered his own mother and his brother, there was, after all, nothing else for him to do but to kill his teacher and instructor…. After this they made an incision in his arms with a single cut. Seneca’s body, however, was old, and, toughened by his ascetic way of life, let the blood escape only slowly, so that he had to slash also the arteries of his legs and the vessels behind his knees. Exhausted by these harsh torments, he persuaded his wife to retire to another room, so that he might not injure her spirit with his own pain, and he himself might not weaken in turn from witnessing her unhappiness. Then, since Seneca’s eloquence remained with him even in the final moments, he called his secretaries to him and dictated a lengthy discourse, which I omit from summarizing here because it has already been published verbatim…. As his death continued to be slow and protracted, Seneca asked Statius Annaeus, long trusted by him for the loyalty of his friendship and his skill in medicine, to provide the poison that had been prepared

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earlier—the poison which is used to execute those condemned by the public court in Athens. When it was brought, he drank it, but to no effect, for his limbs were already cold and his body resistant to the action of the poison. Finally he entered a vessel of heated water, and sprinkled some over the nearest slaves, saying that he was offering this as a sacrifice to Jupiter the Liberator. In the end, he was lifted into a bath and suffocated by its steam. He was then cremated without ceremony.”)

The precedent most often cited for Seneca’s unusual death scene here is the 153 execution of Socrates. Certainly Seneca’s final reference to Jupiter the Liberator and his dying disquisition on the immortality of the soul recall the last moments of Socrates as recounted in the Phaedo. To this Platonic model, however, Seneca introduces some significant innovations. Socrates dies easily, the only symptom of the coming end an increasing numbness in his legs: throughout the Phaedo the focus is, programmatically, on the master’s discourse and not upon the physical trial he is 154 undergoing. Seneca’s death scene here is rather more involved, requiring as it does not only hemlock but also incision of the veins, baths to speed blood loss, and finally suffocation by steam for its completion. In this extreme protraction of Seneca’s final moments is visible his devotion to suicidal exemplars such as Aufidius Bassus and Cato—and implicit in this is his concern to attain in death a clarified understanding and vindication of his actions in life. Such a death may seem theatrical and ostentatious. In displaying his ability to divorce himself from the influence of externals and accept the commands of the tyrant with absolute composure, however, it also confirms, for Seneca, his fitness to have acted as moral witness before others, a potential explored in his writings, tested through spiritual exercise, but only truly demonstrated in death.155

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Chapter 8

The Concept of Political Suicide at Rome

8.1 INTRODUCTION Seneca’s view that the best way to establish oneself as a moral witness in society is the highly ratiocinative and painfully protracted suicide might seem extreme. As with Cicero’s philosophical works, however, Seneca’s conclusions appear to have arisen in large part through extrapolation from contemporary aristocratic practice, for it is 1 within Seneca’s era and milieu that the so-called “Roman cult of suicide” is born. Under the Julio-Claudian Emperors suicide appears to have slowly become endemic amongst the upper classes, being fairly rare under Augustus and steadily increasing in frequency over the years until, under Nero, it seems to have become an almost routine occurrence. So thoroughly does the act of suicide come to permeate aristocratic culture during this time that it almost assumes the status of a regulated political institu2 tion of empire, and is committed virtually automatically under certain generally recognized conditions. It is also in this period that Roman suicide first comes to assume a standardized form in terms of its method of execution. Seneca’s death, with its prolonged theatrical agonies conspicuously counterbalanced by its philosophical calm and political overtones, is, despite its elaboration, hardly innovative in its elements, and conforms quite closely to what was, by his day, a stereotyped norm of 3 self-killing. Suicide was the focus of intense aristocratic interest and admiration during this era, and members of the nobility appear to have been anxious to dispose of themselves in a suitably high-minded and audience-oriented fashion through conforming to pre-established suicidal models. Under the Julio-Claudians the aristocrats of Imperial Rome are remarkable not only for the frequency with which they do away with themselves, but the zeal they bring to celebrating this fact in their praise of others’ deaths and the considered ostentation of their own. This culturally distinctive pattern of self-destruction has been the subject of intense scholarly scrutiny in recent years. Three monographs—Yolande Grisé’s 1982 Le Suicide dans la Rome Antique, Anton Van Hooff’s 1990 study From Autothanasia

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to Suicide: Self-Killing in Classical Antiquity and Paul Plass’ 1995 The Game of Death in Ancient Rome: Arena Sport and Political Suicide—have dealt in large part or entirely with the phenomenon, while Miriam Griffin’s two 1986 articles on ‘Philosophy, Cato, and Roman Suicide’ provide a schematic but valuable overview of the central issues involved in understanding Roman self-killing during this period.4 In addition to these comprehensive works, a number of articles have appeared addressing isolated aspects, usually legal or religious, of the problem. These works, it must be said, have largely succeeded in their purpose. As Anton Van Hooff points out, virtually all material pertaining to Roman suicide and self-killing appears by now to have been collected. While a few individual instances of suicide may have slipped through the scholarly net, the law of diminishing returns has long ago set in with regard to the collection of new data.5 The conclusions these works draw from these data, furthermore, are, minor quibbles aside, largely in agreement with each other. This chapter, then, will not seek to add to the evidence assembled by the authors just mentioned, nor query their summaries of these data. My purpose here concerns rather the appropriate contextualization of these data, and in particular the notion of “suicide” to which it relates. In this chapter I shall be arguing, along lines developed earlier in this study, that our evidence on Roman suicide can only be interpreted coherently if “suicide” is understood with regard to the Roman context not primarily as a “self-inflicted death,” but rather as a death that serves to establish one’s status as a moral witness in the community. If this definition of suicide is adopted, the matrix of qualities associated uniquely with Roman self-killing—i.e. ostentation, ritualization, political protest, and philosophical allusion6—can be seen to be structured by a fairly simple social logic governed by a concern for aristocratic honor and the assertion of the aristocracy’s right to participate in the government of the res publica. If on the other hand, suicide is viewed as a form of death distinguished from others by the fact that it is self-inflicted, however, certain features of Roman suicide—in particular, its use as a privileged form of execution under the Emperors—will necessarily appear paradoxical or inexplicable. This is not to say that the current scholarly perception of paradox in the practice of Roman suicide during this era is inaccurate. I should like to argue, however, that such paradoxes as do occur should be seen as arising not from the Roman tendency to conflate the concepts of execution and suicide, but instead from the aristocratic desire to use suicide both to demonstrate one’s conformity to the terms of the honorable aesthetic, and simultaneously to establish and define the nature of these terms themselves. That the emergence of a ‘cult of suicide’ during this period reflects a deep-seated crisis in Roman social relations during this period can be seen from the sheer scale of the phenomenon. It appears to be indisputable that the number of self-killings amongst the aristocracy of Rome leapt sharply between the ascension of Tiberius to the throne in A.D. 14 and the death of Nero in A.D. 68. Tacitus, our main historical

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source for this period, remarks that suicide was unusually frequent during this period, 7 amounting at times to a virtual epidemic, and the point is echoed a century and a 8 half later by the Greek historian Cassius Dio. Assessment of the absolute numbers involved here is impossible to achieve. The attention of both these historians is narrowly focused upon the extreme upper echelons of the Roman sociopolitical hierarchy, and the vast majority of the Roman population as a result lies permanently beyond analysis in this regard.9 Even within this restricted circle, certainty in terms of absolute statistics cannot be attained given that the lists of suicides furnished by these two writers do not entirely coincide, and evidently neither was concerned to 10 provide a comprehensive tally. Nevertheless, these two authors clearly indicate that suicide was ubiquitous in senatorial circles under the later Julio-Claudians. In the fifty years covered by the surviving sixteen books of Tacitus’ Annales, for instance, there are found 74 instances of suicide. Livy’s extant thirty-five books, by contrast, span five hundred years of Republican history and yet contain only slightly more than half this number.11 The point is confirmed by the numerous passing references to aristocratic suicide found in sources such as Suetonius, Valerius Maximus, and Plutarch, all of whom treat elite suicide as an essentially routine event during this period. Suicide was, it seems, in the early Principate an occupational hazard of being an aristocrat. At the same time that the number of aristocratic suicides appears to have been increasing dramatically, the suicidal aristocrats themselves appear to have taken steps to ensure that their deaths should be as well-publicized as possible. Seneca’s decision to meet his death at the end of a prolonged ordeal enacted within a philosophical and political ambience appears to have been a relatively common one in senatorial circles of the day. Compare, for example, the suicide of Thrasea Paetus in A.D. 66 as described by Tacitus at Ann. 16.34-5: tum ad Thraseam in hortis agentem quaestor consulis missus vesperascente iam die. inlustrium virorum feminarumque coetus frequentis egerat, maxime intentus Demetrio Cynicae institutionis doctori, cum quo, ut coniectare erat intentione vultus et auditis, si qua clarius proloquebantur, de natura animae et dissociatione spiritus corporisque inquirebat, donec advenit Domitius Caecilianus ex intimis amicis et ei quid senatus censuisset exposuit. igitur flentis queritantisque qui aderant facessere propere Thrasea neu pericula sua miscere cum sorte damnati hortatur, Arriamque temptantem mariti suprema et exemplum Arriae matris sequi monet retinere vitam filiaeque communi subsidium unicum non adimere. tum progressus in porticum illic a quaestore reperitur, laetitiae propior, quia Helvidium generum suum Italia tantum arceri cognoverat. accepto dehinc senatus consulto Helvidium et Demetrium in cubiculum inducit; porrectisque utriusque brachii venis, postquam cruorem effudit, humum super spargens, propius vocato quaestore ‘libamus’ inquit ‘Iovi Liberatori. specta, iuvenis; et omen quidem dii prohibeant, ceterum in ea tempora natus es quibus

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firmare animum expediat constantibus exemplis.’ post lentitudine exitus gravis cruciatus adferente, obversis in Demetrium… (“Then, as evening approached, the consul’s quaestor was sent to Thrasea, who was waiting in his garden. He had brought together numerous groups of distinguished men and women, and paid special attention to Demetrius, a teacher of the Cynic philosophy. With him, as could be gathered from his earnest expression of face and from words heard when they raised their voices, he was discussing the nature of the soul, and the separation of the spirit from the body. Then Domitius Caecilianus, one of his closest friends, came to him and told him in detail what the Senate had decided. When everyone around him began to weep and lament, Thrasea encouraged them to depart quickly and not to mingle their own perils with the fate of a condemned man. His wife Arria, who aspired to follow her husband’s end and the suicidal example of her mother, he counseled to preserve her life, and not rob their daughter of her only support. Then he went out into a colonnade, where he was found by the quaestor, joyful rather than otherwise—as he had learnt that Helvidius, his son-in-law, was only exiled from Italy rather than sentenced to death. Once he had heard this decision of the Senate he led Helvidius and Demetrius into a private room, and having laid bare the veins of each arm, he let the blood flow freely. As he sprinkled it on the ground, he called the quaestor to his side and said, ‘We offer this as a libation to Jupiter the Liberator. Look upon this, young man, and may the gods avert this omen—but you have been born into times in which it is useful to fortify the spirit with examples of courage.’ Then, the slowness of his death bringing with it grievous torment, he turned his eyes on Demetrius…”)

Despite the fragmentary state of the text, all the elements found in Seneca’s death are clearly visible in Thrasea’s. The presence of an audience, the self-conscious exemplarity of the final words of the suicide, the philosophical overtones, the extreme difficulty in dying12—all these are common to both deaths. Both even include a libation to Iuppiter Liberator as a flourish upon their final exits. This particular assemblage of elements does not arise simply as the homage paid by one prominent Stoic to another. The form of both is readily traceable to the suicide of Cato Uticensis. The idea of casting one’s own death as precisely as possible in the mould of Cato’s agonized and philosophical death seems to have appeared early in the history of the Principate, and to have been fairly widespread by the time of Seneca’s death. If Florus’s epitome of Livy is to be believed, the suicides of both Brutus and Cassius re13 sembled in several aspects the death of Cato Uticensis, and by the time of Nero the type was so standardized it could be parodied by Petronius in his own self-killing.14 Alongside this highly ornate and sophisticated form of suicide, furthermore, there appears to have evolved an alternative tradition of ostentatiously laconic suicides. In Tacitus, for instance, we hear of the last moments of a certain Valerius Atticus, who takes care to ensure that none of the best trees on his estate will be damaged by the flames from his pyre, and of one Flavius Scaevinus, who chastises the soldier

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employed in digging his grave for his poor discipline in making it too shallow. This kind of suicidal drollery appears to have been widely appreciated in contemporary 16 Rome, its mordant wit forming a reticent counterpoint to the more exaggerated histrionics of the “philosophical” death. In any event the prospective suicide could be confident that the minutiae of his or her final moments would be recorded and disseminated through aristocratic circles. The aristocracy during this period betrays an intense interest in the last moments of dying nobles, an enthusiasm expressed in an entire literary subgenre17 devoted specifically to the death scenes of notable aristocrats. This literature had a long pedigree, finding its roots in the compendia of teleutai (apocryphal last words and deeds) of philosophers and heroes popular since the Hellenistic age.18 Such collections, however, had frequently focused on the bizarre and apocryphal, and had generally been compiled more for the amusement of the reader than his or her edification. The enshrinement of Cato Uticensis as the embodiment of Romana virtus and libertas (“Roman virtue and freedom”), however, had by the mid-first century A.D. lent to these collections a significant moralizing impetus. Both Persius and Seneca refer to the speech of the dying Cato as a standard schoolboy exercise on declamation against tyranny,19 and some students apparently learnt their lessons extremely well. The famed Stoic icon Thrasea Paetus, for instance, spent his time after his renunciation of public life under Nero in the composition of a Vita Catonis (“Biography of Cato”). In doing so he was continuing a persistent anti-Caesarian tradition begun in 20 the first flurry of pamphleteering attendant upon the death of Cato and continued through the Early Empire by disgruntled aristocrats. Under such conditions, teleutai. accounts became a highly politicized genre, closely associated with the cause of Imperial “Republicanism,” an aristocratic movement which sought to restore to the political life of the Empire those ethical values believed to have characterized the ancient Republic and to have been desecrated under the rule of the more tyrannical Emper21 ors. The Younger Pliny mentions a collection of exitus illustrium virorum (“deaths of illustrious men”), and another entitled exitus occisorum aut relegatorum a Nerone (“The Deaths of Those Assassinated or Exiled by Nero”).22 That the details of Thrasea’s death were quickly noted down and published by his son-in-law Helvidius Priscus would seem to indicate that the commemoration of aristocratic deaths as a form of political protest was established considerably earlier than the time of Pliny. It is for this reason that Tacitus exhibits so intimate an acquaintance with the precise details of numerous aristocratic death scenes and that these deaths are highly stereotyped and repetitive. The aristocratic valorization of suicide in general, and Cato’s suicide in particular, worked to ensure that elite deaths were recorded both homogeneously and in quantity.23 Whatever the reality of Roman suicide during this period, aristocratic writers labored strenuously to ensure that the phenomenon was publicized widely and appeared consistently and uniformly Catonian to their readers.

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That suicide should play a privileged role in senatorial political protest might appear distinctive in itself, but is rendered even more curious by the final unusual characteristic of Roman suicide during this period, the fact that it was usually carried out under coercion. Despite the persistent association of aristocratic suicides with that of Cato and with the cause of Republicanism, the fact remains that a large part of the imperial increase in elite suicide rates can be accounted for by the tendency of the Julio-Claudian Emperors to invite perceived political rivals to kill themselves in lieu of execution. According to Van Hooff’s data, over a quarter24 of the deaths recorded in Tacitus’ Annales are committed at the direct command of the Emperor. Imperially ordered suicides also receive frequent mention in our other sources, and are apparently held to be insufficiently unusual to warrant extended comment or explanation. Suicides not committed on the direct request of the Emperor were furthermore frequently occasioned by anticipation of receipt of such a request. Van Hooff counts fifteen to twenty of these in Tacitus alone.25 His difficulty in arriving at an exact figure is understandable given the extreme sensitivity of Roman aristocrats to signs of the Emperor’s disfavor. Plutarch records that when a certain Fulvius found his greeting to Augustus met with a vale (“Goodbye”) rather than a salve (“Hello”) the unfor26 tunate aristocrat took the hint and killed himself. Both Iunii Blaesii, upon discovering that the priesthoods they had been anticipating from the hand of Tiberius had been reallocated, likewise took their own lives.27 The apparent precipitiousness and undermotivation of such suicides makes the precise number of individuals who killed themselves out of fear of eventual condemnation by the Emperor impossible to determine, and is quite possibly higher than is readily visible in our sources. Tacitus notes that Tiberius’ zealous prosecution of treason trials set a premium on haste in such matters, 28 and the trend does not appear to have diminished under the later Julio-Claudians. According to Tacitus, Claudius encountered difficulty in keeping track of all the suicides he occasioned because of the speed with which they were committed.29 Caligula, on the other hand, found the propensity of the upper classes to kill themselves highly amusing and elevated the anticipatory suicide to a quasi-formal status by dividing his political enemies into those he would force to commit suicide and those he would simply kill.30 That the Emperor could normally rely upon his victims to dispose of themselves either during or in anticipation of a trial appears, then, to have been a widely accepted convention in Roman aristocratic circles from the reign of Augustus onwards. It was a convention that the Greek Cassius Dio found particularly perplexing, seeming as it did to him worse to force a man to kill himself 31 than simply to execute him. So firmly entrenched was it in Roman culture during this period, however, that our Latin sources do not comment upon its function or history at all, and leave it, like so many other aspects of Roman suicide in this era, un32 explained and apparently irrational and ungrounded.

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8.2 JULIO-CLAUDIAN SUICIDE: RECENT HISTORIOGRAPHIC PERSPECTIVES As noted above, several studies in recent years have explored the phenomenon of Roman suicide and attempted to explain how it is that the act came to assume so distinctive a form and so central a role in Roman aristocratic culture during this time. Such studies have tended to proceed by identifying a number of factors that might reasonably be held to have influenced the suicidal decision in ancient Rome, and then gathering all possible data relevant to these factors under separate headings. With the exception of Plass, whose sociological approach to political suicide is more structuralist than historicist in inspiration, these studies have furthermore tended to group evidence under broadly the same five headings—namely philosophy, religion, law, the political alienation of the senatorial aristocracy under the Empire, and the function of suicide as a form of protest against the Emperor. The first, and most contested of these areas, is the influence of philosophy upon the practice of Roman suicide. If a single orthodoxy can be said to govern recent scholarship in this field, it is Rist’s view that ancient ethical approaches to suicide consist largely of variations on Socrates’ statement in the Phaedo that suicide is not permitted except at the express command of the gods, with the caveat added that in the Roman context Seneca appears to have weakened the force of this “anangke” prohibi33 tion considerably. Within this broad consensus disagreement largely centers on the extent to which Seneca is innovating in the perceived flexibility of his attitude to suicide. Of all the commentators Grisé cleaves the most closely to Rist’s view, arguing that prior to Seneca suicide received philosophical sanction at Rome only under the most exceptional circumstances.34 Griffin, on the other hand, emphasizes the capacity of ethical casuistry to accommodate apparently gratuitous self-killings into the anangke- framework.35 This line is largely followed by Van Hooff, who notes that even Pythagorean injunctions against suicide admit of considerable loopholes in their 36 application. The limitations of the anangke approach in describing ancient thinking on suicide have already been discussed.37 Whatever the shortcomings of this perspective, however, the conclusion these authors unanimously reach—that by the late Julio-Claudian principate mainstream philosophical considerations did not furnish any clear or incontrovertible bar on self-killing38—is fundamentally correct. Examination of Roman religious mores regarding suicide yields similarly negative results. Roman religious practice appears to have neither strongly condemned nor advocated suicide, and in fact touches upon suicide in only two, relatively minor, points. The first of these relates to the practice of devotio, whereby a commanding officer gave himself up as a sacrifice to the gods of the underworld in return for victory in battle. The ritual is of little relevance to the Imperial era: records of its occurrence are found only in the 4th and 3rd centuries B.C., and its sole practitioners were

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members of the Decian family. The practice may, furthermore, have been an invention of historians of the Decian gens (“house” or “family”), and instances of its 40 enactment are of dubious authenticity. Far more securely attested is the existence of a strong and persistent stigma attached to death by hanging, the only other area in which Roman religious practice appears to have related in any fashion to suicide. In his note on Aen. 12.603, Servius informs us that death by hanging is an informe letum (“hideous end”) because such a suicide is a mors infamissima (“most dishonorable death”) and the libri pontificales (“Religious Records of the High Priests”) forbid burial to those who die by the noose. His point is strikingly confirmed by two inscriptions specifically designating suspendiosi (“the hanged”) as infames (“dishonorable”) and their bodies as untouchable and unburiable.41 Attempts to view this prohibition on hanging as part of a general reli42 gious revulsion for suicidal deaths have proved untenable, and our literary sources confirm that of all possible forms of self-killing, that by the rope was perceived as peculiarly and specifically suited to the mad, the frenzied, and the desperate.43 Whatever 44 the reason, Roman religion convicted the suspendiosus alone of all suicides of impurity. Beyond this, it, like Roman philosophy, presented little obstacle or encouragement for self-killing in the historical period. A more fruitful line of attack in explaining aristocratic motivations to suicide during this period is found in the study of those legal precepts most relevant to self-killing under Roman law. If philosophical and religious considerations by and large neither hinder nor favor the act of self-killing, certain aspects of the Roman legal code in fact furnish significant incentives to suicide under particular circumstances. The most notable of these is that in most cases suicide before condemnation on a criminal charge leads to the cessation of all legal proceedings against the accused. This might seem something of a Pyrrhic victory for the defendant, but, given the frequency with which Roman law inflicted posthumous punishment upon transgressors, the advantages of an early exit might be considerable. Under both the Republic and the Early Empire condemnation of an elite figure on almost any charge warranting a more than pecuniary penalty brings with it a certain loss of citizen rights. In the least serious cases, where punishment might consist only of a (possibly temporary) relegatio (“banishment”), this diminution in status can amount to little more than a short-term ban on the holding of public office.45 More serious punishments, however, such as the death penalty and the form of exile known as the interdictio aquae et ignis (“interdiction against receiving fire or water from another citizen”), however, are accompanied by a total loss of citizen rights, the deminutio capitis maxima. The defendant assumes the status of a res nullius (“possession of nobody”), a person without a state and a slave without owner.46 Unable legally to possess, and hence to transmit, property, the individual’s patrimony and belongings are confiscated by the state and his or her body denied right of burial in Rome. Given the importance of the patrimony as the only

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respectable source of income in Roman aristocratic culture, and of lineage as a source of honor and nobilitas (“noble status”), this degradation of status could seriously threaten the continued elite standing of the defendant’s line. The accused’s posthumous excision from the body politic might furthermore be reinforced in Republican times by the erasure of his name from the fasti (the Roman calendar of events and public occasions), or, under the Empire, by a formal damnatio memoriae (“condemnation of an individual’s memory”) intended to obliterate all trace of the defendant’s previous role in the res publica.47 Even in situations where the guilt of the accused was manifest48 or suicide might 49 plausibly be taken as evidence of culpability, however, self-killing before condemnation was generally capable of bringing a halt to all legal proceedings and thus of forestalling the deminutio capitis. Suicide to pre-empt condemnation or punish50 ment—the form of suicide Grisé refers to as the ‘suicide salvateur’ —was as a result 51 fairly common under both Republic and Empire. The right of suicides to retain their property and citizenship was not, it must be admitted, ironclad. Conviction on charges of treason, for instance, could not be forestalled by suicide, and unscrupulous Emperors were accordingly not above using the flexible crimen maiestatis imminutae (“charge of detracting from the power of the Republic”)52 to enrich the public purse. Augustus himself was prone to dip occasionally into the bequests of suicides on behalf of the Imperial treasury,53 while the avarice of Caligula left no one safe from his depredations.54 According to Tacitus, however, numerous imperiled aristocrats felt the 55 chance to be worth taking, and killed themselves in the hope that both burial and property rights might be retained and save their estates in the teeth of a capital conviction. A further positive incentive to self-killing identified by recent scholars on Roman suicide as crucial to the analysis of Roman suicide under the Empire is found in the extreme restriction of opportunities for aristocratic self-display that accompanied the establishment of the Principate. The Imperial shift from oligarchy to autocracy and the gradual conversion of the aristocracy from a military and political to an administrative elite meant that the martial and civic values which had previously animated upper class culture were now largely redundant and/or impossible of attainment. Grisé and Plass both see this enforced lowering of expectation as lying at the root of the libido moriendi described by Seneca as endemic amongst his correspondents at Ep. 56 24.25. With all the goals it normally considered meaningful now placed permanently beyond its reach, the aristocracy succumbed, according to these scholars, to a first century ‘mal de vivre’ (“sickness of living”), a ‘spiritual malaise’57 that drained life of significance and caused an irrational desire for death. Griffin and Van Hooff also see the Imperial attenuation of aristocratic opportunity as crucial to understanding Roman suicide, but focus instead upon the positive advantages the Romana mors offered to the noble intent on demonstrating his fidelity to the demands of ancestral

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virtus. If in life the aristocrat could aspire to become no more than an imperial functionary, in his final death agonies amongst the consolations of philosophy he might display a fortitude in adversity and a nobility of purpose worthy of the great 58 days of the Republic. These negative and positive readings of our evidence are obviously complementary: with little he valued retaining him in life, the Imperial aristocrat could readily turn to seek moral fulfillment in death. The aristocrat’s display of Republican virtue in death was not, furthermore, necessarily entirely gratuitous in character, and a final incentive towards suicide for the Julio-Claudian elite lay in the very real potential the well-executed suicide had to stir up invidia (“unpopularity”) against the Emperor. Seneca and Thrasea Paetus were not alone in exploiting the freedom of speech the inevitability of death afforded to denounce the Emperor, and, as noted above,59 the celebration of noble suicides was in senatorial circles a popular means of asserting one’s allegiance to the “Republican” ideals of senatorial dignity and authority. Senators and Emperors alike were highly aware of the potential the well-staged suicide held to galvanize senatorial opposition 60 to Imperial authority, an awareness demonstrated in the death throes of many indignant aristocrats. The precise fashion in which suicide came to act as a tool of political resistance during this era is a debated matter. Grisé explains the political effects of noble self-killing as arising in part from primitive beliefs classifying suicides amongst the vengeful dead.61 The dynamics of political suicide in this era are also frequently viewed as analogous to those governing Christian martyrdom, whereby the individual’s willingness to die rather than renounce his or her ideals is held to be proof of the value of these ideals themselves.62 In a complementary argument, both Grisé and Plass further maintain that political suicide under some circumstances could act as an extreme form of non-aggressive non-cooperation. In violently rejecting all possibility of participation in political life, the aristocrat displays his disdain for the corruption of the public sphere and broadcasts its moral decay to a social audience.63 Whatever the precise mechanism by which the political suicide is held to have operated, however, all the above-mentioned authors criticize this course of action as playing directly into the hands of the Emperor, and as precluding any real chance to participate in government. In their view, the popularity of the strategy stems from psychological roots, the aristocrats of the period requiring very little in the way of incentive to resolve their minds on death. In a social environment providing little sanction against suicide and which in fact paid considerable and tangible dividends for its commission, the prospect of inflicting a wound, however minor, upon Imperial authority was but one more factor tipping an overloaded mental balance toward death.

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8.3 “PARADOX” AND THE LIBERUM MORTIS ARBITRIUM This, then, is roughly the general scholarly consensus found in recent work: the practice of suicide in Roman culture was governed by a number of factors; the cultural and political shifts which accompanied the rise of the Empire destabilized the interaction of these factors; and in the absence of any explicit sanction against suicide, this instability led to mass self-slaughter amongst the elite. So far as it goes, the explanation is a sound one, based upon a comprehensive data set possessed of broad and generally clear contours. This form of explanation, however, enshrines a methodological flaw. The scholarly decision to analyze the phenomenon of Roman suicide into isolated discrete factors is undoubtedly useful in the organization of the considerable amount of data compiled in recent work.64 It tends, however, to obscure the broader social logic governing the interplay of these factors. The result is that the scholars discussed here persistently regard suicide at Rome as a fundamentally paradoxical, self-conflicted, and irrational phenomenon. The difficulty is most clearly perceptible in the treatment given to the “enforced” suicide, whether in the form of the method of execution known as the liberum mortis arbitrium (“free choice of death”), or of the anticipatory juridical suicide. The problem is skimmed over lightly by Van Hooff when, in his discussion of suicide under the Early Empire, he states, the ruin of the Senate as the counterbalance to the Emperor’s autocracy is symbolized in the numerous freely chosen deaths among the aristocracy. That is the reason why suicides on the order of the princeps are mentioned and described by 65 Tacitus with a certain eagerness.

Other commentators, however, are considerably more perplexed by the equation between the ‘freely chosen’ death and ‘suicide on the order of the princeps’ Van Hooff observes. Both Grisé and Griffin see in the tendency of our sources to view the imperially ordered suicide as an example of libertas (“freedom”) a profound cognitive error on the part of the Roman aristocracy. Griffin, for instance, assumes that it was the Roman aristocracy’s overheated desire to assimilate itself simultaneously to the examples of Socrates and Cato that allowed it to conflate the self-inflicted death with martyrdom per se.66 According to Grisé, however, this blurring of categories is more deliberate, the replacement of execution with suicide acting as a device enabling the 67 princeps to camouflage the reality of his steadily waxing power. Plass concurs, but sees the illusion as being dangerously thin. In his view the notion of ‘killing oneself to avoid being executed’ was generally considered self-contradictory and irrational 68 even to those who were themselves engaged in the activity. For Plass, phrases such as Suetonius’ ad voluntariam mortem coactus (“compelled to a voluntary death”), Lucan’s cogitur velle mori (“ he is forced to wish to die”), and Tacitus’ use of the term

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liberum mortis arbitrium all express their author’s recognition of a bitter irony operating at the heart of Roman political culture. The aristocrats of the Early Empire were, in Plass’s view, trapped in a fatal charade, the paradoxes of which are both transparent and inexorable. Whatever paradoxes might be generated by the notion of the liberum mortis arbitrium and its associated concepts, however, the Romans themselves appear to have been unaware of them. Roman writers in fact tend to take the convention of the “free choice of death” as entirely natural to their culture. Despite the sudden outburst of enforced and anticipatory juridical suicides under the Early Empire, the legal principles behind these stretch far back into Republican history. Livy, in explicitly noting that Appius Claudius’ goods were still confiscated from him after he committed suicide in anticipation of condemnation in 449 B.C.,70 appears to be assuming that the idea of the ‘suicide salvateur’ was operative during the earliest years of Republican Rome. This may of course be an anachronism,71 although if it is, the ease with which Livy performs this retrojection is itself indicative of the degree to which the concept was integrated into Roman culture by his time. The principle was certainly in place by 123 B.C., when the Senate formally granted Quintus Fulvius Flaccus, son of one of the most fervent of the Gracchans, an opportunity to do away with himself before 72 the imposition of a capital sentence upon him. The Imperial aristocratic perception of a clear distinction between the enforced suicide and outright execution, then, is the effect of more than senatorial delirium, and is found deeply rooted in Roman political culture during Republican times. The same impression that the liberum mortis arbitrium is a thoroughly naturalized concept in our sources is produced if one considers the context of those passages cited by Plass as proof of an ironizing senatorial bitterness surrounding the idea. Tacitus’ reference to the liberum mortis arbitrium at Ann. 16.63 is entirely free of any perceptible irony, and the phrase is used simply to describe the punishment given to Thrasea Paetus as opposed to the clementia (“clemency”) and offer of relegatio extended to some of his associates. The other occurrence of the phrase in Tacitus’ pages73 is laced with sarcasm, but its main thrust here is not that the death of Valerius Asiaticus is enforced rather than free, but that it has been arranged by the intrigues of the Emperor’s wife. The ironic disjunction exploited here is not that between the suicide’s appearance of freedom and its reality, but between the Emperor’s apparent omnipotence and his slavery to his wife’s deadly whims, so that enforced suicide is as far as his clementia to his victims can run. This is, at any rate, represented as being the view of Asiaticus: et usurpatis quibus insueverat exercitationibus, lauto corpore, hilare epulatus, cum se honestius calliditate Tiberii vel impetu G. Caesaris periturum dixisset quam quod fraude muliebri et impudico Vitelli ore caderet, venas exolvit.74

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(“He took his usual exercise, and bathed and dined cheerfully. Then, once he had commented that he would have died with greater honor if he had fallen to the guile of Tiberius or the madness of Caligula rather than to womanly deception and the unclean mouth of Vitellius, he opened his veins.”)

That the phrase liberum mortis arbitrium should subsequently enter the legal vocabulary of Imperial rescripts serves to reinforce the impression that no irony is understood in Roman discourse to reside in the concept itself.75 The irony of Suetonius’ ad voluntariam mortem coactus is likewise not internal to the expression itself, but situational. Suetonius’ claim here is that the terror induced in Nero Caesar when he was shown the noose and hooks prepared for his execution and posthumous humiliation was such that he came to desire death by any means other than those on display. His death, then, is indeed a true voluntaria mors, for the young man really does want to die. The fact that this is so, however, is indicative, for Suetonius, not of the illogicality of the political culture of the day, but of the cruelty of the executioner. Emphasis of the voluntary nature of an individual’s death as a means of underlining the emotional distress and instability brought on by the sadism of his or her persecutors is not an uncommon trope of post-Augustan literature. It 76 appears repeatedly, for instance, in the Annales, and the dynamic is clearly seen in the phrase Plass views as most clearly expressive of an awareness of the paradoxical character of political suicide, Lucan’s non cogitur ullus/velle mori (“no-one is forced to wish to die”). The claim, taken by itself, might appear to draw a bitter contrast between the final years of the Republic which form the setting for Lucan’s poem and the suicidal hypocrisies of Nero’s Rome. Taken as it is from the exhortation of the Caesarian commander Vulteius to his troops to commit mass suicide rather than fall beneath the swords of the Pompeians, however, its force tends in quite the opposite direction. Vulteius’ point here is that, although his stranded troops are helpless to avert death, it remains within their power to alter their own attitudes towards death, and they therefore still have the opportunity to die gloriously, rather than fearfully or ignobly.77 The “paradox” here, then, is Stoic in character, readily resolvable within this system of thought, and certainly not indicative in itself of any awareness of an absolute self-contradiction at the heart of Roman politics. As in the other passages identified by Plass as self-conflicted, any irony here depends rather upon context than on any incommensurability between an individual’s right of self-determination and the death imposed upon him or her. Roman senatorial writers and historians, then, appear not to have perceived the “paradoxicality” of the liberum mortis arbitrium and related phenomena. This lack of perception, furthermore, seems to have been constant in Rome from at least the second century B.C. onwards. The tendency of our sources to assimilate the self-inflicted execution to the “free choice of death,” then, is probably best accounted for not through reference to any sort of derangement afflicting the Imperial aristocracy, but

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to the possibility that the paradox is itself simply an artifact of modern criticism and did not exist in the Roman context. Recent scholars have taken references to this concept as paradoxical because the freedom granted the recipient of this privilege to choose (within limits) the time, place, and manner of his own death has seemed trivial in their view in comparison to the larger issue of death itself. Taking the word liber 78 as meaning “free” in the sense of ‘unrestrained as to action, independent,’ these writers have tended to see the circumstantial details of the recipient’s suicide as being overwhelmed by the fact that, in the end, it is mors itself that must be chosen. This definition of liber is not, however, necessarily the most relevant sense of the word here. While the notion of libertas was often a contested issue in Roman political ideology, no Roman political thinker or faction appears ever to have understood it as implying a right to absolute autonomous self-determination;79 or, rather, the self so determined is understood by our Roman sources as being entirely social in character, and its freedom thus expressed in large part in its conformity to over-riding social and ethical imperatives. Particularly amongst those ideologues of the Republican era who supported the Optimate faction and the claims to aristocratic authority it advanced, the word possessed quite specific connotations somewhat remote from any ideal of freedom from external influence upon the conduct of one’s affairs. It is true that in Latin writings libertas is persistently contrasted with a state of servitium (“slavery”) or dominatio (“subjection beneath a ruler”).80 The difference between the free individual and the slave, however, does not lie primarily in the former’s ability to act in accordance with his or her own will. The distinction is instead a legal one, by which the free man possesses a civic status enshrining his ‘right to act… as a… citizen in the organized community of the Roman state.’81 At first glance such a definition might appear to be entirely compatible with an essentially negative definition of freedom as a principle of non-interference, and Latin writers are indeed agreed that a basic prerequisite for individual libertas is a network of laws and legal rights which render the citizen immune to certain forms of coercion and treatment.82 Membership of an organized community, however, involves duties as well as rights and, in conventional Roman political thought, a citizen must be able 83 both to ‘claim what is due to oneself… and respect what is due to others.’ The result of this observation was that the Roman notion of libertas was compatible with an extreme degree of social hierarchization. In the eyes of aristocratically minded ideologues from the Middle Republic onwards, good order in society could only be maintained if members of the lower classes continued to respect the superior dignitas (“dignity”) and auctoritas of the elite. To encourage them to do otherwise, as those aristocrats who sought to secure their power through mass popular appeal did, was thought to invite licentia (“licentiousness”), an unrestrained pursuit of immediate perceived advantage84 that would lead inevitably to mob rule and, finally, dominatio 85 itself. The preservation of libertas, then, demands a certain restriction on the ability

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of individuals to act in accordance with their own desires. Members of the lower orders must allow themselves to be guided and led by members of the upper. Aristocrats, equally, must act in such a fashion as to preserve their own dignitas. So strong is the emphasis upon this latter, hierarchical, aspect of libertas, that in Optimate ideology of the Late Republic libertas comes to be seen as important primarily as the zero-degree of dignitas, a necessary precondition to the aristocratic accumulation of honor and esteem that is the true basis of the political system.86 Throughout the history of the Republic popularis factionalists continued to assert the primacy of the more basic right- and law-oriented understanding of libertas against 87 the highly aristocratic interpretation of the concept advanced by the Optimates. The co-option of the populares’ power-base from senatorial exploitation by figures such as Pompey, Caesar, and eventually the Emperors, however, gave a near monopoly on ideological writing to pro-senatorial thinkers under the Late Republic and Early Empire.88 The result was that by the time of the later Julio-Claudians the concept of libertas is clearly linked with that of the auctoritas senatus (“authority of the 89 Senate”). It becomes, in other words, a primarily aristocratic quality strongly correlated with the right to active and significant participation in the leadership of the res publica. To that class for which a political suicide might be a necessary course of action, then, a “free choice of death” was not a choice made without interference by an outside party, but the right to choose a death worthy of a free man—that is to say, of a person who exercises power and authority within the Roman community, and who receives the respect due to this. It was a death that revealed its enactor to be a Roman, and a Roman possessing sufficient power and status to wield influence in the community he was leaving. It was, in other words, a death that corresponded with the honor and status of the individual undergoing it.

8.4 SUICIDE AS AN HONORABLE DEATH IN ROMAN HISTORIOGRAPHY The extent to which Roman understandings of suicide subordinate questions of agency to questions of honor becomes more readily apparent if one looks for a moment beyond the confines of self-killings amongst the Julio-Claudian Roman aristocracy and considers for a moment the fashion in which self-inflicted deaths are treated in Roman historiography more generally. In the writings of Livy, Valerius Maximus, and Tacitus, suicide is a frequent occurrence. While the range of circumstances under which it is committed is extensive, most of the suicides they record, throughout all the eras and cultures they document, arise as a response to one of two situations. The first of these is the aforementioned juridical suicide committed in the 90 face of unfavorable legal proceedings. As discussed above, Roman historians persistently assume that a Roman of any period, faced with condemnation or even

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accusation on a serious criminal charge, can normally be expected to evade punishment through a self-inflicted death. The second set of circumstances assumed to lead almost automatically to suicide is overwhelming defeat in battle, after which both civilians and soldiers are routinely depicted as killing themselves. That individuals should frequently opt for suicide when under legal or military threat is to some extent understandable, given the unpleasant consequences that might follow were these threats to be realized. Where our sources speculate regarding the motives behind such suicides, however, they seldom ascribe the suicidal decision to fear of the consequences. Instead these suicides are depicted as being committed from a fear of shame and a love of honor, with these considerations being taken as the primary frame of reference for any suicidal decision. Speaking broadly, then, one can say that suicide in Roman historiography is governed by two related principles. First, suicide is the best course to take when one’s honor is endangered. Second, suicide under such circumstances in most cases preserves this honor.91 So powerful is the force of these principles, furthermore, that they are taken by Roman historiographers to have the status of transhistorical and cross-cultural norms. The frequency with which defendants on serious criminal charges are described by the Roman historians as having killed themselves to forestall prosecution or condemnation has already been described.92 Tacitus claims that this means of evading prosecution was routine amid the caedes continua (“continuous slaughter”) of the 93 early Principate, but the habit was clearly not confined to the Empire. Livy treats such dramatic events as Quintus Fabius’ self-killing during a hearing in 389 B.C. or the mass suicide of suspected Bacchantes in 186 B.C. as though they were little outside the ordinary run of human behavior. An unfortunate side effect of the perceived banality of suicide under such circumstances is that our sources only rarely supply us with information regarding its motives. A number of plausible explanations might of course be supplied. On a purely pragmatic level, one might simply kill oneself prior to condemnation to procure for oneself a less cruel and painful death than that threatened by the courts. The suicide of the Vestal virgin Floronia in 216 B.C.,94 for instance, prevented its victim from being buried alive in punishment for sexual impurity. Those who could expect the summa supplicia (“most severe legal penalties”) of crucifixion, the parricidal sack, or condemnation to the mines as their punishment might also have had good reason to kill themselves prior to conviction, as did those who, convicted on a capital crime, feared postmortem humiliation of their bodies.95 Psychological factors might also reasonably be assumed to play a role in numerous juridical suicides. Tacitus and Suetonius are not the first to describe individuals as being so terrified of the fates awaiting them that they impulsively seek death. Livy, for instance, records the story of a certain Mutilus who, finding his name on the list of those proscribed by Sulla, rushed home to discover that his wife too had heard the

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news, and had locked him out of the house. Given the circumstances, Van Hooff’s claim that Mutilus’ subsequent suicide was motivated by desperata salus (“despair of 96 his own life”) seems likely to be accurate here. And there is, finally, the above-mentioned consideration that suicides, unlike the condemned, could have their bodies buried and their wills respected. If Livy is correct in his assumption that this legal principle stretched back to the beginnings of the Republic, this motivation can never be ruled out as a possible incentive to suicide prior to condemnation. Despite the various entirely understandable incentives to suicide arising in the face of imminent condemnation, however, in the few instances where a motive is explicitly given in our sources it concerns the avoidance of shame. Fear of the ignominia (“loss of face”) and infamia (“damage to reputation”) that might arise from public trial was, in the view of the Roman historians, sufficient to drive numerous 97 aristocrats to their deaths. Confirming the honor-oriented character of the juridical suicide is a reported cleavage of motivation between upper and lower class defendants. If Livy is to be trusted, the juridical ‘suicide salvateur’ was a purely aristocratic phenomenon, and the plebs neither committed such suicides nor respected the principles which underlay them. The practice of the ‘suicide salvateur,’ in other words, was confined to those classes for which honor was perceived as being of paramount 98 importance. Of all the instances of juridical suicide recorded by Livy, only one, the mass suicide of accused non-elite Bacchantes in Rome, is explicitly stated to have been motivated by fear of the terrible punishments to come. This class-cultural difference in motivation is visible also in the treatment that noble suicides reportedly met at the hands of the plebs. There are only two recorded instances in Republican times of a Roman having committed suicide and yet having nevertheless suffered confiscation of his goods, and in both these cases the decision to condemn the accused despite his suicide is represented as a victory of the plebs over the patricians.99 Livy may of course be biased or inaccurate in his interpretation of these events. Nevertheless, the correlation assumed to exist between the commission of a ‘suicide salvateur’ and a concern for honor is clear. The same honor-driven dynamic is even more clearly visible when one turns to examine the other situation to which suicide is considered by the Roman historians to be a quasi-automatic response, the catastrophic military defeat. For soldiers a preference for death over capture was considered to be integral to Roman military discipline. Livy records that despite the desperate straits to which the Romans were reduced to after the defeat at Cannae, the Senate refused to ransom those soldiers who were taken prisoner in battle on the grounds that they should have fought their way 100 free of the enemy or died in the attempt. Valerius Maximus reports as exemplary the story of one Publius Crassus Mulianus who, having been captured by a barbarian, thrust his centurion’s staff into his captor’s eye in order to provoke a soldier’s death.101 Mass suicide, usually in the form of mutual slaughter, was an established means of

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ensuring that no Roman soldier fell alive into the clutches of the enemy. If such behavior was frequent amongst the rank and file, it was a fortiori expected of its leaders, a norm not confined to Rome but, if the Roman historians are to be believed, virtually universal across the ancient world. Varus killed himself after a staggering military defeat,103 but so also did Greek and barbarian leaders such as Mithridates 104 Eupator, Ptolemy of Cyprus, Hannibal, Cleopatra, and Boadicea. The fall of a besieged town is also frequently portrayed as accompanied by a rash of suicides, whether on the part of the citizenry as a whole, as with the fall of Saguntum, or only of the leaders, as in the case of Capua during the Second Punic War.105 In either event, the underlying pattern is clear: absolute helplessness in the face of an enemy assault is best anticipated by a self-imposed death. As with the juridical suicide, this response is taken for granted by our ancient authors, and they accordingly often fail to provide any explanation for this behavior. Once again, motives have to be supplied from context, and numerous possibilities present themselves. Soldiers, for instance, must sometimes have killed themselves simply out of anticipation of far worse treatment at the hands of their foes. Slavery and torture were not uncommon fates for defeated forces, outcomes to which death must sometimes have appeared an appealing alternative. Varus, lost in the Teutoburg Forest before the barbarae arae (“barbaric altars”) of the enemy must have feared even worse to be in store for him. The lot of those captured after prolonged siege could be at least as horrific. The sack of a city was, according to Quintilian, the single most pathos-inducing of all rhetorical topoi, symbolic of the furthest extremes of misery to which humans might be subjected.106 For the adult male populace slavery or execution were the only possible outcomes, while women and boys, the topos—and, gener107 ally speaking, the reality —ran, could expect rape followed by slavery or murder. The Capuan senators who ended their lives rather than await the arrival of the Romans knew that they would be singled out for particular attention once they were identified as those responsible for their city’s alliance with Carthage. Under the circumstances poison must have seemed far preferable to the prospect of torture and eventual decapitation in the Roman forum. Given the frequent brutality of ancient warfare, this sort of weighing up of possible alternatives after defeat must often have made an instantaneous death at one’s own hands appear extremely attractive when compared with all other options. Whatever the very real incentives to suicide the horrors of war might offer, however, our sources nevertheless persistently discuss these immediate inducements in terms of the implications they hold for the shame and honor of the defeated. Servitude, rape, and torture are all presumably unpleasant in themselves. Where a motive for suicide is specified in relation to the prospect of these, however, they are invariably described as undesirable because dishonorable. When battle commanders exhort their men, they are not depicted as doing so through reference to the need to maintain

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discipline and the privations slavery would bring. They are told instead to shun a 108 surrender that would be infamis (“dishonorable”) and to seek instead a death that 109 will bring them gloria. This concern for honor above all else is held to guide the actions even of the perfidi Poeni (“treacherous Carthaginians”) and their associates. Hannibal, according to Livy, killed himself before the Romans could poison him less out of fear of their wiles than pique at their readiness to undermine the rules of guest-friendship by suborning his host Prusis. When Hannibal’s ally Vibius Virrius attempts to convince his fellow Capuans of the preferability of suicide to capture, he describes the possibility of rape in terms of its relation to status, claiming that he does not want to see women and free-born boys suffer anything that might be indignum (“unworthy of them”).110 Aristocrats in particular are viewed as possessing so powerful a revulsion to any loss of dignity that the self-imposed death amounts almost to a reflex. Cleopatra is depicted by Horace as a woman who simply cannot imagine herself as a superbo… humilis mulier triumpho (“woman humbled, in an arrogant triumphal parade”),111 and the notion is something more than a poetic conceit. Virrius, for instance, develops the same understanding of aristocratic motivations at length in his speech to the Capuans, emphasizing repeatedly his inability even to look upon the destruction and defilement of his town: non videbo Appium Claudium et Quintum Fulvium victoria insolenti subnixos, neque vinctus per urbem Romanam triumphi spectaculum trahar, ut deinde in carcerem conditus exspirem aut ad palum deligatus, lacerato virgis tergo, cervicem securi Romanae subiciam; nec dirui incedique patriam videbo, nec rapi ad stuprum matres Campanas virginesque et ingenuos pueros. Albam, unde ipsi oriundi erant, a fundamentis proruerunt, ne stirpis, ne memoria originum suarum exstaret: nedum eos Capuae parsuros credam, cui infestiores quam Carthagini sunt. itaque quibus vestrum ante fato cedere quam haec tot tam acerba videant in animo est iis apud me hodie epulae instructae parataeque sunt. satiatis vino ciboque poculum idem quod mihi datum fuerit circumferetur; ea potio corpus a cruciatu, animum a contumeliis, oculos, auris a videndis audiendisque omnibus 112 acerbis indignisque quae manent victos vindicabit. (“I shall not look upon the Roman consuls, Appius Claudius and Quintus Fulvius, emboldened by their arrogant victory, and I will not be dragged in chains through Rome, to be an attraction for their triumph, so that in the end I might die in prison, or, beaten and tied to a stake, lower my head for execution by a Roman axe. Nor shall I look upon the destruction and razing of my native land, nor upon Campanian mothers and maidens and free-born boys being snatched away for sexual defilement. The Romans entirely leveled the town of Alba, from where they themselves first came, so that no memory of their source or origin might remain. Much less, then, do I believe that they will spare Capua, to which they are more hostile than they are even to Carthage. For this reason, I have laid out and prepared at my house a banquet for those of you who wish to yield to

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fate rather than witness so many terrible things. Once we have taken our fill of wine and food, a great goblet will be passed about—the same one which I will have drunk from. This draught will free the body from torture, the soul from humiliation, and the eyes and ears from seeing and hearing the shameful and bitter things which await the conquered.”)

The focus here is not on the physical punishments he himself will undergo, even if reference to these is not omitted. It is upon his inability to witness the dishonor to which his fellow citizens will be exposed. The logical corollary of this tendency to view military outcomes in terms of the honor or shame they bring upon an individual is the belief that surviving defeat, even on the most favorable of terms, should be unthinkable to the true aristocrat. This principle too the Roman historians take to be a universal norm, applicable to both civilized and barbarian races. The powerful and unpredictable German king Maroboduus, for instance, found his teeth successfully pulled by Tiberius when, the victim of a tribal coup, he was forced to seek asylum in Italy and beg the protection of the Emperor. Although he was maintained in style in Ravenna until the end of his life, he was widely reviled by his own people as a puppet of the Romans, and his reputation was ultimately destroyed, according to Tacitus, ob nimiam vivendi cupiditatem (“on account of too great a desire for life”).113 Considerations of this sort led Claudius’ aides to advise him to spare the life of the defeated and rebellious King Mithridates of Bosphorus, arguing that he servaret [sc. eum] exulem, cui inopi quanto longiorem vitam, tanto plus supplicii fore (“should keep alive as an exile that man, for whom, deprived of his usual resources, life would be a punishment all the greater the longer it continued”).114 Claudius’ subsequent decision to refuse the king execution, then, is understood not as an act of clementia, but of calculated cruelty. In choosing to accept their own exile, both Maroboduus and Mithridates are viewed as having permanently disgraced themselves, with death being the preferable option here. The value of this death does not lie primarily in its status as an autonomously chosen act, and it does not in fact matter particularly whether this death is inflicted by another or by the dishonored individual himself. What does matter, crucially, is the individual’s realization that continued life without honor is not worth living. Maroboduus and Mithridates are treated as unusual precisely because they fail to make this realization. Elsewhere in Roman historiography the notion that death is preferable to irremediable disgrace amounts almost to an axiom of aristocratic behavior, and it is this, rather than questions of agency, that appears to govern the practice of suicide in the ancient world.

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8.5 HONOR, SOCIAL STANDING, AND THE LOGIC OF THE LIBERUM MORTIS ARBITRIUM The existence of a link between the high value placed upon the maintenance of one’s honor in Roman society and its culturally distinctive forms of self-killing has long been recognized. That modern scholars tend to understand suicide primarily in Durkheimian terms, and therefore as intimately concerned with questions of agency, however, has meant that recent works have tended to describe the Roman concern with ‘honor’ as simply another irrational influence clouding the aristocracy’s perception of the paradoxical nature of their own suicidal motivations. Van Hooff, while classifying pudor as the single most common motivation for suicide in the ancient world, also maintains that such a concern with public “face” is aberrant and unhealthy.115 His assessment is echoed by other writers on the topic, who similarly tend to see the Roman belief that death is preferable to dishonor as extreme, irrational and pointlessly self-destructive.116 Such reactions are to a certain extent justifiable. The cultural codes regulating perceptions of honor vary widely from society to society, are generally inexplicable to outside observers, and are rarely demonstrable from first principles.117 This much is undeniable. Cicero’s examples, for instance, of what does and does not constitute social decorum in the De Officiis often appear parochial 118 and arbitrary, while idiosyncrasies such as the traditional Roman association of hanging, alone of all forms of suicide, with shame and disgrace, are difficult to account for in any purely rational fashion.119 In points of detail, then, Roman conventions regarding honor are often illogical and ungrounded, and suicide for their sake accordingly appears even more so. On a larger scale, however, the conventions surrounding the achievement of an honorable death in Roman society are animated by an underlying social and political logic. This social logic is in broad outline analogous to that outlined by Cicero in his philosophical works as that which structures the res publica. Of the axioms discussed as central to the Ciceronian sensibility in chapter 2, roughly four are of immediate relevance to the depiction of suicide in the Roman historians. These are: 1. The individual is in essence and at base a member of a self-perpetuating social system. He or she is therefore most fully realized as a human being when he or she is playing his or her social role in the best possible way.120 2. Fulfillment of one’s social role implies the fulfillment of two related demands. The first of these is that the individual must eliminate the influence of desire, and hence of the emotions generally, upon his or her actions. This ensures that the individual’s actions are entirely governed by concern for maintenance of his or her role, and do not deviate from its requirements in pursuit of some end extraneous to it.121

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3. Second, fulfillment of one’s social role in the best possible way demands participation in an agonistic struggle for pre-eminence, which ensures that the individual’s contribution to the perpetuation of social body is substantial 122 and not trivial. 4. The individual’s ability to fulfill his or her social role in the best possible way is safeguarded through his or her development of a sensitivity to a quality I have referred to elsewhere as the “ethical” or the “honorable” aesthetic. Sensitivity to this aesthetic ensures optimal instantiation of one’s social role in a number of ways. Through its responsiveness to the demands of the mos maiorum, sensitivity to the ethical aesthetic guarantees both that the individual acts in the fashion that has ensured the survival of the res publica through previous generations and develops his or her own capacity for self-control. Through its recognition of agonistic supremacy in its accordance of honor and even gloria to agonistic victors it furthermore ensures that the res publica will continue to expand and reward its most capable 123 members with auctoritas. Honor, then, is for Cicero a multivalent quality, and its preservation is essential to both the individual and to the res publica as a whole. Its achievement is the highest goal of the aristocrat, and considerations of honor act on a social level simultaneously as an incentive to political action, a check upon political ambition, and as both the indication and reward of political legitimacy. In terms of the Ciceronian synthesis given here, then, honor is not a quality to which one can have an irrational attachment. It is a fundamental element to the structuring of both the psyche and the civitas (“city-state”). Recent works on Roman suicide, however, have tended to overlook the social and systemic role played by the concept of honor in the res publica, and instead understood it as an uncomplicated and arbitrarily assigned attribute of particular individuals, upon which the Romans set particular store. Viewing shame and honor as simply self-sufficient—if overvalued—motives to suicide in Roman culture, scholars since Grisé have portrayed the role played by dishonor in Roman suicide as simple and direct, with self-killing being understood to arise straightforwardly from excessive shame at failure in agonistic competition. In this analysis both military and juridical suicides are classified together as arising from the individual’s subjugation at the hands of another, whether in martial or legal spheres.124 In a culture in which honor and dignitas were cherished above all else and individuals had a high commitment to maintaining public “face,” the argument runs, the burden of so damaging a defeat would have often proved psychologically insupportable. Despite his own endorsement of this theory, however, Van Hooff notes that a direct connection between feelings of shame and eventual suicide is only rarely recorded by the Roman historians,

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and where it is, the value judgments expressed on the act are negative. Our sources tend to treat suicides committed for emotional reasons with disdain,126 sometimes to 127 the extent that they are exploited for humorous effect. The feeling of shame does not appear to have escaped this general stigma. To kill oneself because one actively refuses to suffer the emotions—notably spes (“hope [of some escape from death]”) and metus (“fear”)—associated with the threat of imminent death is, according to Tacitus, a noble act.128 To succumb to despair at one’s own ignominia, however, is itself shameful and the mark of an abject spirit. If it is imperative in Roman culture never to suffer a decisive defeat, it is even more important not to acknowledge this defeat emotionally. If one is going to attempt an honorable death as a result of one’s insufficient obedience to the third Ciceronian axiom of honor, then, one must be careful not to violate the second. Again, however, conditions are attached to the capacity of even the most self-controlled suicide to rehabilitate one’s reputation posthumously. Tacitus records that general opinion was surprised that notorious effeminates such as Caninius Rebilus, Claudius Senecio, and Afranius Quintianus did not disgrace themselves in death. He does not report, however, that they were generally lauded for this accomplishment either.129 If the avoidance of excessive emotion is a prerequisite for the noble death, it is nevertheless hardly sufficient for it. While a certain value was attached to resolute steadfastness in the face of death, this alone is not enough to rehabilitate one’s posthumous reputation. In addition, Tacitus is our only source who attaches any independent value to suicide as a means of avoiding the onset of ungovernable emotions. Elsewhere, the Stoicizing flavor of Roman evaluations of the noble death is much less apparent. The mechanism whereby suicide was understood to secure one’s honor in situations that would normally entail disgrace must accordingly lie elsewhere than in the sheer self-discipline it displays. The logic of the liberum mortis arbitrium and associated phenomena in Roman law becomes clearer if one turns for a moment from the more individual motivations given above as points two and three of Cicero’s understanding of honor to consider the broader structural and social implications of points one and four. Suicide is obviously a poor way of advertising the pre-eminent quality of one’s individual personal attainments because of its persistent association in Roman culture with failure and, despite the best efforts of the more flamboyant Roman suicides, its necessary brevity. It is, however, an excellent means of asserting one’s membership of a group. The fundamental point to be noted here is that honorable suicides in our Roman sources are invariably those which render the suicidal individual’s existence coterminous with his or her membership of a self-perpetuating social body. This is clearest in cases of suicides committed in response to overwhelming military defeat. For minor tribal or regional leaders defeat in battle implies the extinction of entire peoples and cities, so that the communities of which the suicidal individuals in question are members are

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annihilated. Confronted by defeat neither Boadicea nor the Capuan senators are under any illusion that their peoples will survive the Roman assault in any significant numbers, and both accordingly kill themselves before their final overthrow. Though Roman troops never faced quite so starkly the total destruction of their community, they could still be alienated from it by capture. Soldiers who surrendered to enemy forces could expect to be treated as traitors to their country, while for defeated forces in civil war proscription was virtually inevitable. Mass mutual suicide was thus throughout both the Republican and Imperial eras an honorable means of avoiding defeat.130 It is conversely the decision of Mithridates and Maroboduus to survive membership in their communities that brings shame upon them and leaves them the targets of Tacitean contempt: having elected to outlive their social roles, they no longer enjoy any form of social status. The very fact that the ‘suicide salvateur’ might be effective in forestalling conviction for all crimes but that of treason would seem to imply that suicide’s capacity to preserve an individual’s honor derived from its ability to demonstrate his membership of the Roman community, and the point is confirmed by Roman practice in this regard. Suicide in the face of conviction on a capital charge was not necessarily an exercise in penal redundancy, given that permanent exile, whether sanctioned by the courts or not, was often a viable alternative to 131 the death penalty. The defendant might be forced to abandon most of his property and Rome itself, and through the imposition of the deminutio capitis maxima, he would no longer be a Roman citizen, but he would at least escape with his life. Despite the ready availability of an alternative to death, however, most condemned aristocrats chose simply to take matters into their own hands and killed themselves before condemnation. In cases where relegation might prove temporary due to the influence of powerful friends remaining at Rome, self-imposed exile was sometimes considered an acceptable course of action. More often, however, defendants appear to have agreed with the advisors of Claudius that life as an exile was 132 worse than death and chose to end their lives instead. For those accused of capital crimes, as for defeated leaders in war, survival beyond the termination of one’s own social role was simply not an option. Whatever agonistic or ethical failures the individual may have displayed in his previous conduct, his care to ensure that his physical life ended with his social role demonstrated that he was a member of the community, and capable of acting accordingly. The result of the individual’s demonstration of total identification with his social role is that it is not posthumously removed from him as it otherwise would be, and it is this basic dynamic which governs the presentation of suicide in Roman historiography.

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8.6 THE POLITICAL FUNCTION OF SUICIDE UNDER THE JULIO-CLAUDIANS If the decision to end one’s life with one’s social role is capable of displaying an exemplary fidelity to social demands, there is nevertheless more to the maintenance of an aristocratic persona than a simple assertion of membership within the res publica. It was of course considered necessary to aristocrats that they possess an instinctive attachment to the society of which they constituted the elite, as seen in the internalized and reflexive repugnance they are held to feel at the thought of the military conquest of their communities.133 Yet the elite was not the elite by virtue of its commitment alone. It was a commonplace of Roman political thought that the factor separating the senatorial aristocracy from the rest of the populace was their concern for, and privileged insight into, that sense of honor which safeguarded the res publica. The belief is most dramatically perceptible in Cicero’s concern for the minutiae of elite decorum and his conviction that only the educated upper classes were capable of developing any sensitivity to its demands.134 The idea underlying Cicero’s thinking here—that the aristocracy was in essence a collectivity of arbitri honorum united by a consensus regarding the nature of the honorable and the just—was a longstanding tenet of Republican Optimate ideology, and thus of Roman historiography and 135 political thought generally. Only the continued vigilance of the upper classes was capable of maintaining the standards of honor necessary to the security of the res publica and the prevention of its collapse into licentia and/or dominatio.136 As such, the single greatest threat the state faced was a potential failure on the part of the aristocracy to recognize virtue and respond to it appropriately.137 It was for this reason that even under the Republic the ‘suicide salvateur’ was not just acceptable to, but widely practiced and praised within, aristocratic culture: while oligarchic rule could afford isolated lapses from the highest standards of conduct, it could not afford a failure to perceive these standards themselves. The liberum mortis arbitrium, then, offered the disgraced aristocrat a chance to demonstrate his awareness and acceptance of the demands of the honorable aesthetic, and thus preserve his role within the res publica. It was furthermore from this great emphasis placed upon the importance of this awareness that the Imperial ‘cult of suicide’ was born and its utility as a form of political protest derived. The Imperial system from the very start placed great strain on the coherence of the ethical aesthetic to which the Roman senatorial order was committed. Writing at the end of the Republic, Cicero could, with a fairly minimal degree of implausibility, maintain that the Roman res publica he inhabited operated roughly along the lines laid out in his works on the subject, and that the depredations of Caesar were an aberration. The establishment of Imperial power and the realities of its exercise, however, rendered such a vision increasingly difficult to sustain. The problem was most obvious in the extreme curtailment of the scope of agonistic

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enterprise attendant upon the rise of the Emperors. The senatorial order remained a governing elite, but the authority it wielded was carefully circumscribed, and political influence, if it were to be attained at all, was to be gained not through exemplary activity in the forum or the field of battle, but in the occupation of bureaucratic posts at the dispensation of the Emperor.138 This shift in turn implied a more fundamental problem, which is to say that the various components of the aristocratic aesthetic were becoming increasingly incoherent with each other during this period. Success in the public sphere under the Emperors was largely incompatible with those aspects of the mos maiorum to which the aristocracy was most attached. True, the concept of honor was fundamental to Imperial government, serving to structure administrative hierarchies, regulate inter-aristocratic transactions, and as an ideological prop for the Caesars.139 If the notion of honor remained crucial to the maintenance of Imperial rule, however, it was not the only engine of administration, and the exigencies of statecraft, combined with the relative powerlessness of the Senate, meant that compromise or gross violation of honorable norms was frequent at the heart of government. As a result, the standard elements of the aristocratic persona tended to split apart. Even relatively benign Emperors such as Claudius were willing to trample upon aristocratic sensibilities through the elevation of equites, foreigners, and freedmen over the heads of established aristocrats. Such types cared little for traditional upper-class proprieties, a situation only made worse by Emperors such as Nero and Caligula, who had a tendency to cater to the tastes of the vulgus in their pursuit of popularity. None of the Emperors, furthermore, were entirely above subverting the state apparatus to pander to their own appetites. However much the aura of lurid excess surrounding the Julio-Claudian Emperors might be the product of historiographic imagination, it is beyond doubt that any aristocrat who desired both to uphold the standards of behavior set for him by his forefathers and to rise through the Imperial ranks would have been gravely compromised in the attempt. Participation in the public sphere, even in the minimal form of attendance at the Curia, required deference to social inferiors, a willingness to turn a blind eye to corruption, and the betrayal of one’s finely honed sense of honor. Not to participate, on the other hand, would have been to abandon the very purpose for which this sense of honor had been so highly developed. The extreme valorization of suicide in aristocratic circles during this period was, in essence, an attempt to get the two disparate domains of honor-as-ethics and honor-as-influence once again to mesh, and these elements of the aristocratic persona to coincide. It is true that at one level the efficacy of the political suicide in preserving intact the terms of the honorable aesthetic was merely aesthetic in character, the result of an unhappy compromise between princeps and aristocrat. The Emperors generally needed to avoid appearing to act as simple executioners. Although at times of acute

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political crisis, such as the aftermath of the discovery of the Pisonian conspiracy in 140 A.D. 65, rapid execution of political opponents might be desirable, recourse to political assassination had the potential to reveal the princeps as a tyrant indifferent to questions of honor and dignitas. In requesting the suicide of a political opponent rather than executing him, however, the Emperor could display a sensitivity to considerations of aristocratic honor appealing to the senatorial classes while at the same time eliminating a perceived political rival. The best possible outcome of legal proceedings from the Emperor’s perspective, however, was suicide by the defendant even before charges were formally laid, thus allowing the princeps to claim that, had the accused lived, clementia would have been granted.141 Such outcomes were fairly easy to ensure under the Early Empire. That charges of perduellio (“treason”) and imminuta maiestas allowed for deminutio and the confiscation of goods even after suicide gave fearful aristocrats good reason to kill themselves as soon as they suspected an accusation was about to be lodged.142 On the aristocratic side of the suicidal equation, death was always understood to be a necessary consequence of the displeasure of the Emperor. Acceptance of an offer of the liberum mortis arbitrium or suicide before accusation at least allowed one to die with both estate and dignity intact. The substitution of suicide for execution, then, could 143 save face all around. Under the right circumstances, however, suicide at the instigation of the Emperor could do more than paper over the cracks in the Imperial ethical façade. A skilled aristocrat could in dying exploit the Imperial dependence upon honor as an instrument of government as a weapon against the Emperor himself. The central difficulty the Emperors had in relying upon the concept of honor as a means of maintaining compliance with Imperial rule is that honor is necessarily a function of social perception. Its utility as an organizational tool structuring administrative, military, and social hierarchies depends crucially upon consensus among those so organized concerning its nature. If honor is a highly hierarchical concept, it is nevertheless necessarily socially reflexive. As Cicero had pointed out, even the vulgus had to have some inkling of the nature of honor if the res publica were to be well governed.144 The result 145 was that, whatever his maiestas, the Emperor could not constitute himself as the sole arbiter honorum. His pre-eminence in this regard was, ultimately, accorded to him by others, and it was this loophole by which the aristocrat could turn his own death to political advantage. If an aristocrat could demonstrate sufficient virtue in his suicide, this strongly implied that he possessed the capacity to act as an arbiter honorum within the res publica. His death, then, was thus presumably a loss to the Roman state, and, if it were widely perceived that his condemnation was unjust, the blame for this loss fell squarely at the feet of the Emperor, who was thereby shown to be insensitive to questions of honor, and thus unqualified to rule. If much of the appeal of the noble suicide for many aristocrats was the opportunity it afforded for the

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conspicuous display of those civic and military virtues they had been unable to practice in life, such a demonstration was nevertheless hardly gratuitous. In publicly demonstrating his own virtue the aristocrat confirmed also his right to act as a moral witness within the aristocratic community and, furthermore, his disapproval of the Emperor. The close link between the ostentatious suicide and the cause of first century A.D. Republicanism, then, does not arise from any belief that those who are capable of committing suicide are uniquely autonomous individuals. It stems rather from the moral pressure such a death placed upon the ruling classes through its exemplification of those virtues held to have animated the Republic of the ancestors and considered necessary to the perpetuation of the state. Its function was not to remove the Emperor, the existence of whom was generally recognized as a necessary evil by the 146 senatorial order. Its purpose was instead analogous to the role speculation upon suicide plays in the works of Cicero and Seneca. It was a “spiritual exercise” designed to increase awareness of the demands of the well-constituted aristocratic persona, albeit one undergone not as a mental experimentum, but in earnest. That aristocratic suicide should enjoy during this period a cultural centrality even greater than its (admittedly high) frequency might seem to warrant is ultimately the result of this “consciousness-raising” function. If the aim of the political suicide is to reassert the primacy of particular ethical ideals in the public life of the res publica, it is not enough merely to die virtuously. One must ensure that the manner and motives of one’s passing are recognized and disseminated throughout the aristocratic community, so that its members might better recall the nature of the aesthetic by virtue of which they are members of it. As under the Republic, the suicide of an aristocrat ideally served to establish him as one of the arbitri honorum who safeguarded the state. The apparent fetishization of suicide visible under the Julio-Claudians merely reflects the increased difficulty encountered in trying to demonstrate one’s fidelity to the ethical aesthetic amidst a political milieu from which this aesthetic was largely absent, and the corresponding necessity of doing so dramatically. If there is a paradox visible here, then, it does not lie in any conflict between the Roman notion of suicide as a political protest and the fact that political suicides were often enforced. The appearance of unjust execution, in fact, could serve only to enhance the desired effect of the death. The crucial flaw in the notion of using the politically motivated suicide as a platform for moral reform is seen rather in the over-determination and redundancy of the various techniques used by aristocratic suicides to display their virtues to their social audiences. The necessity for noble suicides to develop their own deaths into lengthy ordeals buttressed by a philosophical framework and self-conscious allusion to the death of Socrates points towards a basic contradiction operating at the heart of this form of political protest and a crucial flaw in this means of demonstrating one’s moral worth. If one compares, for instance,

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Cicero’s analysis of Cato’s suicide with Seneca’s or Thrasea’s theatrical imitations of it, the problem is immediately evident. In the De Officiis Cicero sees no need to focus on the specifics of Cato’s suicide to confirm its virtuous character. Cato’s suicide is understood as but one of an array of acts serving to prove his status as a virtuous individual, and it is this consideration that leads Cicero to the conclusion that less morally gifted individuals should not attempt a noble death. Cato, unlike most of the other men at Utica, has already demonstrated his unyielding moral rectitude and probity through a long career in public life, and it is this that confers glory upon his decision to die.147 Under the Empire, however, such previous qualifications were difficult, if not impossible, to acquire. Prolonged engagement in public life under the Emperors was far more likely to taint than to build one’s reputation. It is interesting to note that Seneca and Thrasea, the two most outstanding Stoic icons of the era, had both suffered a certain dimming of reputation through complicity with Nero’s regime,148 and that the virtuous suicides of both were effected only after prolonged and highly pub149 licized withdrawals from public life. This incompatibility between the possession of an ideal political persona and actual political practice meant that the aristocrats of the Early Empire were caught in an unhappy paradox: at the same time that suicide was becoming a crucial means of senatorial self-reflection and definition, it was equally coming to prove less and less capable of furnishing this reflection and definition with any positive content. To study the life of Cato was to discover a template of all the virtues. To study the life of Thrasea, however, could yield only two possible lessons. The first was the important but essentially negative point that one should never collaborate with a regime in which the murder of family members is routine. The second is how to die in a virtuous fashion. Despite the dramatic nature of the act, then, it was not entirely clear that the very broad moral outlines defined by the aristocratic suicide were capable of structuring the aristocratic persona in a sufficiently ethical and rigorous fashion, nor that suicide was capable of bearing the ethical and epistemological pressure of being the only acceptable means of displaying Republican virtue during this period. The danger here is obvious, and pointed to by Seneca’s statement that suicide might sometimes be undertaken in the pursuit of a mere umbra virtutis. Given the prominent role the noble suicide played under the Julio-Claudians in the self-definition of aristocrats as members of a moral elite, and given that even the most arduous suicide was easier to attain than a Catonic lifelong homology of acts, the potential existed for the political suicide to express not the realization of the ethical ideal, but of essentially unethical and dishonorable impulses. The aristocratic persona established by the political suicide might exhibit an individual’s total devotion to the values of the vetus res publica. It might also, however, serve, Phaedra-fashion, to cloak the individual’s domination by the passions of cupiditas gloriae and the desire for fame.

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In practical political terms the difference was probably often immaterial. If Tacitus is to be believed, one did not have to draw attention to oneself too conspicuously in order to arouse the enmity of Emperors such as Tiberius or Nero, the caedes continua of their reigns ensuring that politically motivated deaths were far more often granted than sought. On the ethical, intellectual and imaginative levels, however, the problem was very real, and the possibility that suicide might act not to hone those instincts which preserved the state, but to express those passions that would destroy it, is a persistent and repeated theme in the literature of the Neronian court. The depth of the crisis in which the aristocracy found itself by the end of the Julio-Claudian dynasty, then, is seen not so much in the eagerness with which its members embraced death as a means of self-constitution, as in the fact that even this drastic means of expressing one’s fidelity to the ethical aesthetic was often felt itself to 150 be insufficient.

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Chapter 9

Lucan

9.1 INTRODUCTION If the first-century Roman ‘cult of suicide’ finds its chronicler in Tacitus and its philosopher in Seneca, it is to Lucan and his epic on the civil war between Julius Caesar and Pompey that it owes its poetic voice. Lucan returns relentlessly to the theme of suicide, repeatedly exploiting throughout his epic De Bello Civili1 (“On the Civil War”) every concern his aristocratic audience nurtured regarding the noble death, and exaggerates without limit the values, self-contradictions, and anxieties attached to the idea in the thought of his contemporaries. The centrality of the noble death to Lucan’s work is seen not only in the number of self-killings it contains and the level of detail lavished upon their description, but is explicitly announced in the programmatic opening lines of the poem. bella per Emathios plus quam civilia campos iusque datum sceleri canimus, populumque potentem 2 in sua victrici conversum viscera dextra. (“Of wars fought on Emathian plains, wars worse than civil I sing—and of crime granted the status of law, and of a powerful people turning its victorious sword-arm against its own vitals”) 3

This image of civil war as self-killing dominates the work. The conceit is not original to Lucan, his equation of the two forms of self-destruction being anticipated by previous writers of both Latin poetry and historiography.4 What is new here is the extent to which the implications of this image are developed throughout Lucan’s epic and serve to define its moral structure as a whole. Lucan’s assimilation of civil war to voluntary self-destruction in the proem of his work governs the nature of the rest of the epic. As Charles Martindale puts it, the De Bello Civili is a poem that must ‘be read under the sign of self-slaughter, both individual and collective,’5 and within its

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pages are described numerous self-killings so bizarre and ethically problematic that their paradoxicality and baroque inventiveness appear extreme even by the high standards set by Neronian writing on suicide generally. Lucan’s transgressive excess with regard to the poetics of self-killing is entirely typical of his work as a whole. It is a commonplace of Lucanian criticism that he is a poet of hyperbole and paradox. While Lucan’s tendency to exaggeration has often been criticized as bombastic and excessive,6 it is also generally recognized that Lucan’s love of overstatement and incongruity has a more than stylistic significance. Central to most recent interpretations of Lucan is the observation that his inflated and often self-canceling poetic conceits are crucial to his depiction of a world in which every ethical limit has been surpassed and all moral discourse has collapsed into paradox.7 Lucan wishes to describe a world in which every value dear to his audience has been systematically corrupted and perverted, and his deployment of paradoxical and exaggerated imagery of suicide is crucial to this effect. As has been discussed in previous chapters,8 the central point of aristocratic moral reflection in the Neronian era is the means by which one might constitute oneself as a moral witness within the res publica in an age when the res publica itself appears to have abandoned its moral codes, and the forms of social perception that have safeguarded these are in danger of becoming dimmed or distorted. In Lucan this anxiety that the ethical aesthetic might become perverted is transformed into a certainty that it has become so already, and the De Bello Civili portrays the collapse of a Republic that has grown so diseased that it actively corrupts all moral values. Lucan describes the civil war as the product of an unreasoning furor that has struck the res publica,9 and so distorted social perception that the primary aim of its citizens is not the perpetuation of the state, but its complete destruction. The resulting inversion of all ethical norms is so complete and all-encompassing that even the most dramatic means by which the aristocracy of Lucan’s day sought to exemplify the honorable aesthetic—that is to say, the noble suicide—itself proves virtually incapable of enhancing awareness of its nature. In a state bent upon destroying itself, the embrace of death can no longer function as a means of inspiring others to emulation of the ethical aesthetic. It becomes simply one more expression of the perverted amor mortis (“love of death”) that has possessed the Republic.10 This is not to say that Lucan rules out the possibility of the virtuous suicide absolutely within his epic, and Lucan’s decision to place Cato Uticensis at the moral, if not the narrative, center of the work further indicates that even amidst the conflicted and depraved world of the De Bello Civili the noble death is still realizable. In addition, the mechanism by which self-killing might become a noble act is identical in Lucan’s poem to that described elsewhere in senatorial writings of the time: the individual’s acceptance of death is understood to display his refusal to participate in

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a corrupt sociopolitical order, and, through its instantiation of the honorable aesthetic, to reinforce awareness of its terms and demands amongst those who witness it. If in this respect Lucan’s understanding of the noble suicide is broadly in line with the ethical commonplaces of his audience, he is highly innovative in the extent to which he acts to undermine its ultimate value. Lucan’s writing contains an implicit but powerful critique of the practice of aristocratic suicide. That the suicide of an aristocrat derives its worth from its effects on social perception means that its value depends upon the existence of an array of informed observers—arbitri honorum11—who are capable of competently witnessing, and profiting from, the aristocrat’s suicidal exemplarity. Lucan, however, appears to be extremely pessimistic concerning the existence and relevance of these arbitri, not only within the context of his poem, but with regard to their presence amongst his audience itself. He expresses this pessimism directly through occasional apostrophes to the reader which appear to question his or her capacity to act as a moral witness of events depicted in the narrative, including acts of suicide. Lucan’s skepticism in this regard, however, is most dramatically seen in the circumstances of his own suicide, carried out, despite its apparently political function, as though the warping of social perception depicted in his epic were now realized in his day, and the binding imperatives of the traditional aristocratic ethical aesthetic now simple questions of form.

9.2 AMOR MORTIS AND THE HONORABLE DEATH IN THE DE BELLO CIVILI That in Lucan’s eyes social perception has the potential to go so far awry that it might prove incapable of redemption even by the noble death is best seen in the frequency with which characters in his epic commit suicides which are clearly undignified and unethical, but are nevertheless perceived by the suicidal figure himself and by his social audience as establishing him as a valid moral witness within the community. The clearest example of this extreme dissonance between reader and character perceptions of events depicted in the epic is found in Lucan’s description of the suicidal aristeia (“scene of victorious glory”) of the Caesarian soldier Cassius Scaeva. According to Caesar’s historical commentaries on the civil wars, the cohort to which Scaeva was attached during the siege of Dyrrachium was crucial to the successful defense of a particular redoubt against four Pompeian legions, and the shield of Scaeva himself was found after the battle to have been pierced by no fewer than 120 holes.12 As a result, Caesar elevated him to the rank of centurion, and Scaeva was quickly estab13 lished as a standard exemplum in Roman literature of military valor. Given Lucan’s strong anti-Caesarian bias, he might be expected to mute the note of admiration in his version of events somewhat, and he does in fact take care at the

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opening of the episode to make clear to the reader that Scaeva’s prowess, because directed against his fellow Romans, was a crime. Scaeva viro nomen; castrorum in plebe merebat ante feras Rhodani gentes: ibi sanguine multo promotus Latiam longo gerit ordine vitem. pronus ad omne nefas, et qui nesciret in armis 14 quam magnum virtus crimen civilibus esset. (“Scaeva was the man’s name. He had served as a common soldier before the wars with the wild tribes of Germany, and there he had been promoted from the crowded ranks through his spilling of much blood, and bore the centurion’s vine-staff. He was ready for any abomination, and did not know how great a crime virtus is in a war against one’s fellow citizens.”)

Lucan’s condemnation, however, does not end here. Lucan’s Scaeva is not just 15 misguided, or even vicious. He is inhuman and grotesque. In Lucan’s account it is not Scaeva’s shield that bears the brunt of the Pompeian assault, but Scaeva himself, and his valor stems not from his skill and courage, but from a fanatical devotion to Caesar and a blind love of warfare for its own sake. iamque hebes et crasso non asper sanguine mucro perdidit ensis opus, frangit sine vulnere membra. illum tota petit moles illum omnia tela: nulla fuit non certa manus non lancea felix, parque novum Fortuna videt concurrere bellum atque virum. fortis crebris sonat ictibus umbo, et galeae fragmenta cavae compressa perurunt tempora: nec quicquam nudis vitalibus obstat 16 iam praeter stantis in summis ossibus hastas. (“And now the sword-point, dulled and blunted by the clotted blood, no longer performs the work of a blade, but bruises enemy limbs and does not pierce. The entire mass seeks him out, and every weapon. There is no hand uncertain of its aim, no spear that does not find its mark. Fate looks upon a new match in combat: a man against an army. His mighty shield rings with the close-packed blows, and the cracked remnants of his helmet are battered in so that they injure his head; and nothing remains to defend his exposed innards but the spears quivering in the framework of his bones.”)

This description of Scaeva’s apparent imperviousness to further injury continues on for another thirty-four lines. Scaeva’s final act before succumbing to his wounds is a simulated surrender that allows him to kill one more unwary Pompeian with the cry Pompeii vobis minor est causaeque senatus/quam mihi mortis amor (“the cause of 17 Pompey and the Senate means less to you than my love of death to me”).

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Such behavior is clearly excessive and amoral: after this evidence of his duplicitous and frenzied nature, there is no possibility of considering him an exem18 plary figure. The extreme and unethical character of Scaeva’s accomplishment, however, is entirely lost upon his social audience in the epic, which perceives him as a hero. labentem turba suorum excipit atque umeris defectum imponere gaudet: ac veluti inclusum perfosso in pectore numen et vivam magnae speciem virtutis adorant: telaque confixis certant evellere membris, exornantque deos ac nudum pectore Martem 19 armis, Scaeva, tuis. (“The crowd of his men took him up as he fell, and rejoiced to place him, fallen, on their shoulders. And they worshipped the deity that seemed contained within his shattered chest, and him as the living embodiment of great virtus. And they decorated the statues of the gods with your armor, Scaeva, and gave to the bare chest of Mars your breastplate.”)

This worship of a man whose capacity for virtus has been entirely perverted by the demands of civil war arises from the possession of Scaeva’s fellows by a lust for death as great as his. When, earlier in the battle, much of the Caesarian army is ready to flee in the face of Pompey’s superior numbers, Scaeva encourages them to fight with words that emphasize neither the desirability of courage nor the necessity of resistance, but speak directly to their death instinct: confrangite tela/pectoris incursu iugulisque retundite ferrum (“shatter their spears with the onrush of your chests, and 20 blunt their swords with your throats”). This sort of hypallage, whereby men are pictured as attacking weapons with their bodies, is frequent in Lucan,21 and is a logical extension of the notion that civil war is a form of suicide.22 In the generalized lust for universal destruction that has engulfed the state, individuals do not care if the death they bring about in battle is that of the enemy or their own. As Lucan writes with reference to the Sullan proscriptions, that individuals should live is, in the frenzy of 23 civil war, cause enough for their death. And it is this furor-driven urge to indiscriminate destruction that both motivates Scaeva’s actions and structures his comrades’ perceptions of virtus and ethical action. So pervasive is the distortion wrought by furor upon the state that Scaeva’s identification of ethical exemplarity with self-destructive frenzy is not an aberration in the world of the De Bello Civili, but a norm. It is this identification, for instance, which structures the numerous bizarre scenes of suicide found in Lucan’s account of the naval battle between Caesar’s forces and the ships of Massilia in Book Three. The Massilians at first desire only to be left in peace by the clashing factions of Rome, and

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promise Caesar a Saguntum-like mass self-killing if he should attempt to force them 24 to enter the civil war. Once conflict is joined, however, the reader can see that a desire for mass self-destruction in fact governs all Massilian actions. Apparently heroic in their defense of their city, the Massilians are in fact driven entirely by a Scaevan amor mortis. Men are so blinded by their berserk state that they continue to grap25 ple with each other even as they sink drowning from their ships. One soldier, blinded in battle, elects to continue fighting on the grounds that he can at least act as a living shield for his comrades, and remarks, ingentem militis usum hoc habet ex magna defunctum parte cadaver: viventis feriere loco.26 (“This body, mostly broken, still has this great use as a soldier: it may be struck instead of a living one.”)

Nor is his reaction unusual: another Massilian stands, after the loss of both his hands in battle, before the shield of his brother, the better to protect it from the assaults of Caesar’s men.27 The paradox here is obvious. It is not quite as absurd, however, as the reasoning that leads to the death of the father of the young warrior Argus. The father, seeing his son mortally wounded in battle, promptly commits suicide, and in his lust to die he 28 not only ignores his son’s pathetic request to close his eyes, but both disembowels and drowns himself before him.29 Although his actions here are clearly frenzied and irrational, the father nevertheless does not fail to justify the manner of his death in moral terms. It was a commonplace of Roman thought that it was a great and unnatural calamity for a father to see his son predecease him.30 The father of Argus therefore seeks desperately to ensure the natural order of affairs through destroying himself as rapidly and violently as possible: letum praecedere nati/festinantem animam morti non credidit uni (“Hastening to die before his son, he did not trust himself to a single form of death”).31 The thinking here is clearly ridiculous, and although Lucan at the beginning of the Argus episode refers to his aged father as an exemplum to the other Massilians32 for his continued participation in battle despite his years, the basis of his moral actions is clearly an uncontrolled lust for death. The actions of the father of Argus, then, stand as a synecdoche for those of all the Massilians: a lust for death has not only distorted their code of heroism and ethics, but governs it, so that clearly insane and excessive acts have come to assume for them the appearance of virtue. Despite their attempts to remain aloof from the civil war, they cannot help but be infected by its furor. If the potential for amor mortis to grant self-slaughtering frenzy the status of an ethical ideal is illustrated in its most absurd form in the Massilian interlude, it finds

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its most graphic and concentrated expression in Lucan’s description of the mass suicide of a Caesarian cohort in Book Four. Under siege by Pompeians in Illyria, Mark Antony seeks to evacuate his garrison in three rafts by night. Two of these rafts escape successfully. The third, under the command of the military tribune Vulteius, is captured by underwater snares. Realizing the hopelessness of his cohort’s situation, and awaiting attack by Pompey’s forces at dawn, Vulteius encourages his men to commit mutual murder rather than submit to the enemy. Once battle has begun and the Caesarian soldiers realize they are on the verge of defeat, they therefore turn their swords away from the Pompeians and towards each other. Lucan’s description of the act is extended, and worth quoting at length. As with the Scaeva episode, the incident is historical,33 but Lucan distorts its character beyond all plausible limits so that it becomes a clear instance of frenzy rather than exemplarity. versus ab hoste furor: primus dux ipse carinae Vulteius iugulo poscens iam fata retecto, ‘ecquis,’ ait, ‘iuvenum est cuius sit dextra cruore digna meo certaque fide per vulnera nostra testetur se velle mori?’ nec plura locuto viscera non unus iamdudum transigit ensis. collaudat cunctos: sed eum cui vulnera prima debebat grato moriens interficit ictu. concurrunt alii totumque in partibus unis bellorum fecere nefas. sic semine Cadmi emicuit Dircaea cohors ceciditque suorum vulneribus, dirum Thebanis fratribus omen; Phasidos et campis insomni dente creati terrigenae missa magicis e cantibus ira cognato tantos complerunt sanguine sulcos: ipsaque inexpertis quod primum fecerat herbis expavit Medea nefas. sic mutua pacti fata cadunt iuvenes: minimumque in morte virorum mors virtutis habet: pariter sternuntque caduntque vulnere letali: nec quemquam dextra fefellit cum feriat moriente manu. nec vulnus adactis debetur gladiis: percussum est pectore ferrum et iugulis pressere manum. cum sorte cruenta fratribus incurrant fratres natusque parenti, haud trepidante tamen toto cum pondere dextra exegere enses. pietas ferientibus una non repetisse fuit. iam latis viscera lapsa semianimes traxere foris multumque cruoris infudere mari. despectam cernere lucem victoresque suos vultu spectare superbo 34 et mortem sentire iuvat.

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(“Their frenzy was turned from the enemy. Vulteius, commander of the raft, was the first to demand death with his throat bared. ‘Which one of you,’ he asked, ‘has a sword-arm worthy of spilling my blood, and will prove beyond doubt that he wishes to die by striking me?’ Before he could say another word, a multitude of weapons immediately transfixed his vitals. He praised them all: but as Vulteius died the soldier to whom he owed the first wound he killed with a blow received with gratitude. The others rushed together to recreate all the abominations of civil war in a single setting. In the same way the Dircaean cohort sprang up from the seeds sown by Cadmus, and then fell by the hands of their kin, a dreadful omen for the Thebans; in the same way on Phasian plains, the sons of Earth, born of the teeth of the unsleeping dragon, filled furrows with their siblings’ blood, driven to frenzy by supernatural incantations, and Medea herself trembled before the abomination she had caused with her magical arts, before then untested; in this way the young men, sworn to mutual death, fell, and meeting death called for less virtus than inflicting it. Equally they all killed and died with lethal wounds, and no sword-arm missed its mark, though it struck out as it was dying. Nor were the mens’ wounds owed to their unsheathed blades: swords were struck by chests, and hands forced back by throats. Although their blood-stained fate demanded that brother attack brother, and a child his parents, their sword-arms did not hesitate, and struck with all their force. The only form of pietas they knew was to make every stroke a fatal one. Then, half dead, they dragged their protruding innards across the decks and filled the sea with blood. It made them rejoice to look upon the light they had rejected and their victors, and, an arrogant expression on their faces, to feel the approach of death.”)

The terms in which this scene is depicted makes the narrator’s ethical stance entirely clear, his references to nefas (“abomination”), Medea, and fratricide all indicating beyond doubt that the scene is intended to be understood not as exemplary, but 35 horrific. If Lucan presents this material in such a way as to inspire disgust and disapproval in the reader, however, individuals in the poem itself nevertheless view the death of Vulteius and his comrades as noble and morally praiseworthy. Vulteius is himself adept in appropriating the terms of conventional philosophical moralizing to rationalize the frenzied pursuit of death he advocates. In exhorting his men, he declares, vita brevis nulli superest qui tempus in illa quaerendae sibi mortis habet: nec gloria leti inferior, iuvenes, admoto occurrere fato, omnibus incerto venturae tempore vitae. par animi laus est et quos speraveris annos perdere et extremae momentum abrumpere lucis accersas dum fata manu. non cogitur ullus velle mori. fuga nulla patet: stant undique nostris intenti iugulis cives. decernite letum, 36 et metus omnis abest: cupias quodcumque necesse est.

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(“Life cannot be short for anyone who still has time remaining in which to kill himself. And the glory of self-destruction, my men, is not less if this happens as death closes in. The length of time left to any man is always uncertain, and it is as praiseworthy to sever those years you were looking forward to as it is to cut off an instant of one’s final moments, as long as you bring about this end with your own hand. No one can be forced to wish to die. There is no escape: our fellow-citizens surround us, intent upon our throats. Decide upon death, and all your fear will dissipate: let each one of you desire what is necessary.”)

Vulteius furthermore assumes that mass slaughter before defeat is not only an acceptable moral decision, but will in fact be perceived as exemplary. He is careful to wait until daybreak to enact his mass self-killing, and much of his speech to his troops consists of reminders of the postmortem reputation for heroism they can achieve through such a death. nos in conspicua sociis hostique carina constituere dei; praebebunt aequora testes, praebebunt terrae, summis dabit insula saxis: spectabunt geminae diverso e litore partes. nescio quod nostris magnum et memorabile fatis exemplum, Fortuna, paras. quaecumque per aevum exhibuit monumenta fides servataque ferro 37 militiae pietas, transibit nostra iuventus. (“The gods have set us upon a ship visible both by allies and enemies. The sea, the shore, and the island with its high cliffs will furnish witnesses of our deed. Both sides will look upon us, from the opposing shores. Fate, through our deaths you are preparing some great and memorable example for future generations. Whatever great landmarks of loyalty and military pietas have been preserved through the ages, our body of troops will surpass.”)

Nor is this an idle boast. Vulteius, like Scaeva, is well aware of the nature of the moral standards that will be applied to his final self-destructive frenzy, and the mass slaughter of his troops serves to establish them as ethical exemplars to those around them. The enemy forces are astonished at the loyalty expressed in such a deed,38 and the fame of the Caesarian suicides does not stop there. According to Lucan, nullam maiore locuta est/ore ratem totum discurrens fama per orbem (“Rumor running throughout the entire world spoke of no other ship with a greater voice”).39 Despite the repulsive grotesquerie of the scene, then, it, like all the other furor-driven suicides Lucan describes in the De Bello Civili, is perceived by those engaged in the conflict as instantiating the highest ideals of the ethical aesthetic.40

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9.3 LUCAN AND THE VIRTUOUS SUICIDE If Lucan’s epic is concerned to portray not just individuals but an entire society corrupted by furor, there remains in the De Bello Civili one figure who remains entirely untouched by the frenzy of civil war. Lucan’s refusal to place any single protagonist unquestionably at the center of his epic has inspired perennial debate concerning the question of who its hero might be, and none of the three traditional candidates—the charismatic but utterly evil Caesar, the conflicted and ineffectual Pompey, and the austere but often absent Cato—has yet emerged as a clear favorite.41 It is unquestionable, however, that Cato Uticensis acts as the center of moral gravity in Lucan’s poem. However unengaging and remote he might seem to modern readers,42 he is the only figure in Lucan’s work who participates in the action of the poem unscathed by the polluting nefas of the civil war. Cato is the final remnant of the old order of the Republic, and both his name and words are described by Lucan as being sacra (“sacred”).43 He alone acts from concern for the good of the Republic rather than in the interest of the warring parties destroying the state.44 In the context of the De Bello Civili this is to say more than that Cato is a highly moral character. In Lucan’s poetic vision, not only the res publica but the universe itself is afflicted by furor. The ordo mundi (“structure of the universe”) is shown collapsing alongside the state, its elements exploding into conflict as the carefully balanced order of the cosmos is pushed by the unyielding demands of the Fates towards terminal chaos.45 Cato, however, operates on an entirely different plane from that on 46 which this cosmic and social tendency towards collapse is enacted. Surrounded by a universal frenzy of self-destruction, Cato alone retains the ability to act as a moral arbiter. As Lucan summarizes in a famous line with regard to the outcome of the civil war, victrix causa deis placuit sed victa Catoni (“the conquering cause pleased the gods, but the conquered pleased Cato”).47 The import of the words is clear: in a world in which the gods have abdicated their ethical responsibilities, Cato alone possesses the 48 ability to make uncompromised moral judgments. Investigation of the manner in which Cato acts upon these moral judgments indicates that the famous Stoic sage is guided by principles highly familiar to Roman aristocrats of the first century A.D. Cato, despite serving in the epic as the living incarnation of second century B.C. Roman values, thinks along lines typical of Lucan’s aristocratic contemporaries, as seen in the pivotal speech to Brutus in which he first declares his decision to enlist on Pompey’s side in the civil war. Brutus had in fact previously been urging Cato not to enter the civil war, claiming, in an argument well known in Lucan’s time if not necessarily in Cato’s, that the struggle between Caesar and Pompey was a contest between tyrants, and that the wise individual would therefore abstain from fighting at all.49 Worse, Cato’s participation in civil war will, Brutus asserts, serve to legitimize it. He asks Cato,

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pacemne tueris inconcussa tenens dubio vestigia mundo? an placuit ducibus scelerum populique furentis 50 cladibus immixtum civile absolvere bellum? (“Will you safeguard peace, holding your path steady through the tottering world? Or do you prefer to involve yourself with these arch-criminals and the slaughter of a frenzied people, and to absolve the civil war of guilt?”)

The point is dramatically reinforced a little further on in the speech, when Brutus claims that forcing Cato to unethical action will represent the final victory of those waging war. quis nolet in isto ense mori quamvis alieno vulnere labens et scelus esse tuum?51 (“Who, though dying of a mortal wound administered by another, would not prefer to die by your blade, and be the cause of your guilt?”)

Caesar himself, Brutus argues, will desire Cato to oppose him, simply for the sanction this will appear to grant civil war.52 To act at all in a political order totally overtaken by furor and scelus (“criminality”)53 would, he says, itself be a crime. Cato’s reply to these arguments will have been a familiar one to many in Lucan’s audience. First, he claims that he has no choice but to enter the conflict. As with Cicero in his theoretical writings,54 and as expressed in the Neronian practice of sui55 cide, a precise equivalence is perceived by Cato between continued participation in the life of the res publica and continued physical existence. To attempt to stand aloof from the collapse of the state, he says, would be like attempting to stand apart from the universe in its destruction. sidera quis mundumque valet spectare cadentem expers ipse metus? quis cum ruat arduus aether terra labet mixto coeuntis pondere mundi 56 compressas tenuisse manus? (“Who could watch the collapse of the stars and the cosmos, free from all dread on his own part? Who, when the heights of the sky were falling and the earth was crumbling away into a confused mass in the dwindling universe, could keep his hands folded?”)

That he should participate in the civil war, then, is a matter of necessity. The value of this participation, however, will not lie in the military aid it affords Pompey.

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Rather, Cato’s greatest contribution will operate on the level of social perception, in his demonstration of an absolute commitment to the ethical ideals of the Republic. non ante revellar exanimem quam te complectar, Roma, tuumque nomen, Libertas, et inanem prosequar umbram. sic eat: immites Romana piacula divi 57 plena ferant: nullo fraudemus sanguine bellum. (“I shall not be torn away before I have embraced you, Rome, and I shall follow the name and empty shadow of Liberty. So be it. Let the grim deities possess in full Rome’s sacrifice: I will not defraud this warfare of its blood.”)

He concludes his speech with the statement, quin publica signa ducemque Pompeium sequimur? nec si Fortuna favebit hunc quoque totius sibi ius promittere mundi non bene compertum est: ideo me milite vincat 58 ne sibi se vicisse putet. (“Why should I not follow the military standards of the nation, with Pompey as its leader? I know of course that, if Fate favors him, this man too promises himself rulership of the entire world. But let him be victorious with me as his soldier, so that he knows that he has not conquered for himself alone.”)

A persistent strand of Lucanian criticism has seen in these words a quasi-existentialist declaration of the importance of fighting for ideals, even when aware that these 59 are held irrationally. Despite the rather elevated language he uses, however, Cato’s thinking here is somewhat more pragmatic than this. While it is true that in this passage he resolves to struggle for a cause he describes as a mere nomen and inanis umbra, this “name and empty shadow” are of a more than symbolic importance to him. Cato sees his function in the civil war as being to dissuade Pompey, in the eventuality of his victory, from the notion that he has won this cataclysmic battle for his own benefit alone. The role Cato envisions for himself in the projected future Pompeian state, then, is neither political in a narrow sense, nor purely ideological. It is instead ethical: Cato believes that with a moral paragon such as himself serving in his army and state, Pompey will be forced in victory to respect the limitations set upon his own exercise of power by the imperatives inherent in the observation of the traditional Roman virtues. That the manifestation of these virtues will always depend upon the sufferance of a ruler rather than function as an integral part of government means that this libertas is largely hollow, a privilege rather than a condition of rule. To attempt to exert this kind of moral pressure upon the powerful and tyrannical Caesar, however, would

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be entirely useless. If Pompey is corrupt, he also, as Cato acknowledges in his funeral speech for him, retains at least some awareness that the state is a res publica rather than 60 his private plaything. Under his rule, then, the forms and practices which had sustained the glory of the commonwealth for centuries might still be safeguarded and enacted by the ethical elite, and it is for this that Cato elects to fight. Cato’s chief duty in the civil war, then, lies less in commanding an army against Caesar than it does in acting as a moral exemplar for others to follow. In this formulation of his role in the state the possibility of a virtuous suicide is maintained even amongst the fratricidal nefas and self-slaughtering amor mortis of civil war—a possibility which, furthermore, the reader knows Cato will eventually realize. The precise value Cato’s suicide might have held for Lucan is of course difficult to determine given that the event itself is not depicted in the extant remains of the De Bello Civili. The omission is almost certainly due to the progress of the epic having been cut short by Lucan’s premature death rather than to any intention on the part of the author. Scholars who believe that the epic is incomplete as we have it disagree regarding its intended end point. No reconstruction of the epic, however, places the ending of the De Bello Civili prior to the death of Cato.61 Even if the intriguing suggestion of Masters that the work is complete as we have 62 it is accepted, however, the fact of Cato’s eventual suicide looms heavy over the work. Cato’s status as an aristocratic culture hero endows his very presence in the epic with a powerful suicidal teleology. The hermeneutic burden Cato’s eventual destiny places upon the reader’s interpretation of Cato’s acts in the poem is further accentuated by Lucan’s multiple allusions to his coming death. In an apostrophic passage in Book Six Lucan laments that a minor skirmish between Pompeian and Caesarian forces did not lead to a climactic final battle and thus spare the res publica the loss of great men such as Cato.63 More poignantly, at lines 9.208-14 Cato himself declares that he would rather die than be complicit in Caesar’s tyranny, and shortly afterwards, in declining the opportunity to consult the famed prophetic shrine of Jupiter Ammon, he states, me non oracula certum/sed mors certa facit (“not oracles, but the certainty of death, make me certain of my fate”).64 Such statements, when uttered by the lips of Cato, point unavoidably to his own impending death, and the reader cannot help but realize at this point that Lucan’s sole moral exemplar will take his own life before the victorious onslaught of Caesar’s forces. The nature and function of Cato’s anticipated death is in the De Bello Civili painted in highly Ciceronian terms. Its value arises first and foremost as a reflection of the respect in which Cato is held by his fellow Romans. From the moment Brutus claims that Cato’s participation in the nefas of civil war will act to legitimize its carnage, it is clear that the notion that Cato is an absolute moral arbitrator is not unique to the narrator alone, but shared by social audiences internal to the epic. And it is from this social consensus concerning Cato’s moral status that the efficacy of Cato’s

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suicide is derived. If Cato can, through engaging in an activity, render it ethical in the eyes of his social audience, he can also choose to disengage from it, and thus make it appear fundamentally unethical in character, as Brutus begs him to do in the case of civil war. Cato’s suicide prior to surrender to Caesar will serve, then, to express more than his membership of an aristocratic community. It will condemn the very nature of the state that Caesar has come to dominate. Such a statement is of fundamental importance because Caesar’s takeover of the state is not only military, but also moral. The res publica, amid the furor of civil war, is already suffering from an inversion of ethical standards whereby the pursuit of death has come to be confused with the highest moral good. Caesar is of course both the instigator and the instrument of this moral tumult. From the rubble of the state’s ethical collapse, however, he also hopes to erect a new moral hierarchy, in which he alone acts as supreme moral witness through his ability to spare or execute all those beneath him. It is precisely this hierarchy which Cato’s death serves to subvert. At the crux of the issue is Caesar’s apparently benign policy of clementia towards the vanquished. The historical Caesar’s policy of clementia towards his defeated opponents created serious difficulties for his Republican enemies, as can be seen both in ancient historiography on the Late Republic and in Lucan’s epic. On the one hand, such a humane policy towards the condemned was hardly an attitude typical of a tyrant, and could only be applauded. On the other, to accept such clementia was to place oneself under obligation to Caesar and to legitimize his 65 rule over the state. Cicero was accordingly moved to write of the insidiosa clementia (“treacherous clemency”) that was slowly establishing Caesar as master of the Republic.66 As Earl notes with regard to the significance of the term clementia in Roman political thought, Clementia… denoted the arbitrary mercy, bound by no law, shown by a superior to an inferior who is entirely in his power. It is the quality proper to a rex. In the free Republic there was no place for rex [“king”] or regnum [“monarchy”]. The only body which could properly show clementia was the Roman people itself in 67 its historical role of pardoning the humbled.

The monarchical connotations of the word clementia were further defined and elaborated upon by Seneca in his treatise De Clementia, in which it becomes a quality peculiarly suited to the enlightened and absolute ruler. The implications of this contemporary ideological development are not lost upon Lucan. They are most clearly seen in the groveling words of the Pompeian commander Afranius at his surrender to Caesar at Ilerda. si me degeneri stravissent fata sub hoste, non deerat fortis rapiendo dextera leto:

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at nunc sola mihi est orandae causa salutis 68 dignum donanda, Caesar, te credere vita. (“Had Fate thrown me prostrate before some ignoble enemy, my strong sword-arm would not hesitate to end my life. And now the only reason I ask to be spared is that I judge you, Caesar, worthy of granting life.”)

Suicide was, of course, the expected response of any self-respecting aristocrat to total military defeat, a means of demonstrating that one was, despite having been con69 quered, nevertheless a member of the aristocratic community. In claiming Caesar to be dignum donanda vita (“worthy of granting life”), however, Afranius adopts a rhetorical tactic that both preserves his own status and, on the level of ideology, plays directly into Caesar’s hands: if Afranius need feel no shame at surrender, it is because his conqueror exists beyond and above the aristocratic norm. In his editorializing remarks upon Caesar’s granting of venia (“pardon”) to the betrayed Domitius Ahenobarbus Lucan further implies that this craven process of legitimization is subverting the state in its entirety. heu quanto melius vel caede peracta parcere Romano potuit Fortuna pudori; poenarum extremum civi quod castra secutus sit patriae Magnumque ducem totum senatum 70 ignosci. (“How much more mercy could Fate have shown to the Roman sense of honor if the murder had been committed! This was the greatest possible punishment for a citizen who had followed the military standards of his country, with Pompey and all the Senate as his leaders—to be forgiven!”)

Caesar’s greatest desire, then, is not to destroy the Republican forces, but to pardon them, so that even his rival Pompey might acquiesce to his power and legitimize it still further.71 As the narrator in the poem apostrophizes Caesar concerning the death of Pompey, o bene rapta arbitrio mors ista tuo. quam magna remisit crimina Romano tristis Fortuna pudori, quod te non passa est misereri, perfide, Magni 72 viventis. (“How fortunate it is that the question of that man’s death was taken from your judgment! How great a stain upon the Roman people’s sense of honor did Fate avert when it did not allow you, treacherous one, to show mercy to Pompey while he lived.”)

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With this final surrender, Caesar’s control over the state would be nearly total. The crucial act of clemency Caesar needs to enact if he is to secure his rule over the state absolutely, however, is the pardoning not of Pompey, but of Cato. Caesar’s cause gains the appearance of legitimacy with every surrendered general who receives his venia: if the aristocracy are above all a community of arbitri honorum, their collective acceptance of clementia should serve to define Caesar’s supremacy over the state as valid. Yet in the perverse world of the De Bello Civili, where both to fight Caesar and to surrender to his authority are incorrect moral choices leading either to amor mortis or to servitude, such judgments on the part of the aristocracy are not to be trusted. The only moral authority unaffected by the furor that grips the state is Cato, and it is he who must be seen to accept Caesar’s authority if the latter’s triumph over the res publica is to be complete. It is this final criterion of legitimacy, however, that Cato’s suicide will deny him. Historically, both Caesar and Cato were well aware that news of the latter’s suicide would prove Caesar to be beyond question the enemy rather than the savior of the state. According to Plutarch, Cato observed before his death: aÁsÚy d¢ oÁ lÒmom åÆssgsoy cecom°mai parå pãmsa sÚm b¤om, åkkå ka‹

mikçm ¢u´˜rom •boÊkeso ka‹ krase›m Κa¤raroy so›y kako›y ka‹ dika¤oiy. ¢ke›mom d' eÂmai sÚm °akxkÒsa ka‹ memikgl°mom. ì cår ±rme›so prãssxm kaså s∞y pasr¤doy pãkai, mËm §ngk°cvhai ka‹ peuxrçrhai.73 (“He himself had not only been unconquered throughout his life, but was now as victorious as he chose to be, and was triumphant over Caesar in terms of nobility and justice. That man was vanquished and conquered—for the treacherous acts against his country he had long denied were now revealed and proven.”)

Caesar was accordingly extremely vexed to have been denied the opportunity to pardon Cato and grant him his life.74 Lucan’s Cato shows himself similarly aware of this political dynamic when he declares, at the close of his funeral oration for Pompey, o felix, cui summa dies fuit obvia victo, et cui quaerendos Pharium scelus obtulit enses. forsitan in soceri potuisset vivere regno. scire mori sors prima viris sed proxima cogi. et mihi, si fatis aliena in iura venimus, da talem, Fortuna, Iubam. non deprecor hosti 75 servari—dum me servet cervice recisa. (“Fortunate man, whose final day came at the same time as defeat, and for whom Egyptian treachery granted the death he should have sought! Perhaps he could have continued to live under the tyranny of his father-in-law. To know how to

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die is the foremost gift a man can have; but to be forced to is second. Fate, if I should fall into the power of the enemy, in King Juba give me an enemy like this. I do not refuse the clemency of the victor—provided that it comes once my own head has been removed.”)

The words contain an obvious premonition of his own death at Utica, and supply its motive. Cato, unlike Pompey, will take care not to fall under the power of another and thus become complicit in tyranny. Cato cannot live in a regnum, no matter how friendly its face. Had he in fact met his death at the hands of the African king Iuba his satisfaction in evading Caesar’s mercy might have been a purely private matter. That he will choose to kill himself rather than wait for Caesar’s troops—that he is not forced, but knows when to die—unmistakably peels away the façade of benevolent clementia from Caesar’s rule to expose the tyrannical reality of the rex beneath. Caesar, far from standing at the apex of a hierarchy of arbitri honorum, is revealed by Cato’s death to be not even one of their number.76

9.4 LUCAN AND NERONIAN SUICIDE The virtuous suicide, then, appears in Lucan’s De Bello Civili to conform by and large to the dynamic of the good death prevalent in Lucan’s own day: in dying the aristocrat establishes himself, through his display of exemplary moral qualities, as a member of the elite arbitri honorum. If he is particularly successful in this, furthermore, he might manage also to imply that those individuals who have forced him to embrace death are not in fact members of this elite. If such an understanding of suicide was widespread amongst Lucan’s audience, however, the poet does not hesitate to cast doubt upon the capacity of such deaths to establish the individual as a moral witness within the aristocratic community. The difficulty lies, in Lucan’s work, in the composition of the aristocratic community itself. If a self-inflicted death is to be effective in constituting an aristocrat as an ethical exemplar it must, given the persona-based nature of Roman understandings of the individual and the socially consensual nature of honor, 77 be witnessed by those who are capable of appreciating the ethical aesthetic. It is not entirely clear within the context of Lucan’s epic, however, that any individual exists whose sensibilities have not been infected by the furor of civil war beyond the sage-like figure of Cato himself. The extent of the civil war’s corruption of social mores is seen clearly in the challenges Cato encounters in enforcing the obedience of Republican troops to his commands. While Cato’s moral authority and gravitas are admired by the soldiery,78 they are initially convinced that they owe their fidelity to Pompey, and not to any moral ideal such as libertas.79 Even Brutus, Cato’s most devoted follower and co-recipient with him of Pompey’s spirit,80 does not seem to share the clarity and refinement of Cato’s ethical understanding. He appears to miss, for example, much of the reasoning behind

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Cato’s justification of his entry into civil war. Although Cato’s speech is successful in converting Brutus against Caesar’s cause, the nature of Brutus’ motivation to warfare is portrayed as seriously flawed. sic fatur, et acres irarum movit stimulos, iuvenisque calorem 81 excitat in nimios belli civilis amores. (“Cato said these things, and stirred up the bitter pangs of anger in him, so that the young man was roused to too great a love of civil war.”)

Cato, it seems, is without any peer, or even near equal, in ethical perception. While his suicide might serve to demonstrate the illegitimacy and corruption upon which the Caesarian regime rests, then, it cannot, within a state seized by furor and under the sway of Caesar, single-handedly recreate the ethical understanding necessary to the reconstitution of the old forms of the Republic. If Cato’s death has the potential to act as the greatest instantiation of the Roman aristocratic aesthetic, it will 82 nevertheless also be the last. At the beginning of the epic, Cato expresses his desire to undergo a Republican devotio, his own body receiving all the wounds inflicted in the civil war so that the res publica itself might be spared.83 In the end, however, he will be able only to turn his own sword against himself and ensure that libertas remains a political ideal, even if one that is only ever dimly perceived and misunderstood. Lucan’s apparent skepticism regarding the scope of the virtuous suicide’s political effectiveness does not seem, furthermore, to be confined to the context of the civil wars. That Lucan tends to extend the relevance of his observations in the De Bello Civili to the Rome of his own day is a commonplace of Lucanian criticism. The clearest indication that Lucan intends certain aspects of his epic to be viewed as reflecting the realities of the Neronian Principate is found in his frequent editorial interjections at particularly pivotal moments in the narrative. Two passages in particular are frequently cited in this connection. The first occurs as a prelude to the climactic battle of Pharsalia itself. haec et apud seras gentes populosque nepotum, sive sua tantum venient in saecula fama, sive aliquid magnis nostri quoque cura laboris nominibus prodesse potest, cum bella legentur, spesque metusque simul perituraque vota movebunt: adtonitique omnes veluti venientia fata, 84 non transmissa legent, et adhuc tibi, Magne, favebunt. (“When our descendants and later generations read these things—whether they come down to them through their own reputation alone, or because the effort of

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my labor might be of some assistance to great names—they will inspire hope and fear and hopeless prayers. Everyone, overwhelmed, will read these things, as though they were not past, and the outcome was still undecided. And still, Pompey, they will favor your cause.”)

The second is found shortly after this. maius ab hac acie quam quod sua saecula ferrent vulnus habent populi: plus est quam vita salusque quod perit: in totum mundi prosternimur aevum. vincitur his gladiis omnis quae serviet aetas. proxima quid suboles, aut quid meruere nepotes in regnum nasci? pavidi num gessimus arma, teximus aut iugulos? alieni poena timoris in nostra cervice sedet: post proelia natis 85 si dominum, Fortuna, dabas et bella dedisses. (“From that battle, all peoples have suffered a wound greater than their own times can bear. It was more than life and security that was lost that day. We lie defeated now through all the ages of the world, and every age will yield, conquered by those swords. Why do the next generation, and the generation after that, deserve to be born into a tyranny? We were not cowards in battle, nor did we shield our throats. Our backs are burdened with a penalty owed for the fearfulness of others. If after that battle, Fate, you had to create a tyranny, you should also have given us a chance to fight.”)

Both these agitated tirades are frequently taken as proof of Lucan’s ardent Republicanism and his hatred of the Imperial system, read as rare moments in which Lucan sheds the ideological paradoxes that infect most of his writing on the civil wars and declares his true allegiance.86 While it is recognized that these statements conflict with sentiments expressed elsewhere in the epic, furthermore, they are nevertheless taken as in themselves straightforward and unproblematic. More sustained consideration of these two passages, however, indicates that Lucan is no less self-conflicted here than he is elsewhere in his poem, and that their emotive character might well be said to highlight his political inconsistencies rather than to resolve them. The second passage is particularly self-canceling in its rhetoric. Lucan’s impassioned invitation to war here might at first glance seem like an uncomplicated indictment of the Imperial system. Given that much of Lucan’s epic is spent excoriating the nefas of civil conflict, and the prominence played by the Emperor’s role in preventing the descent of the Republic into mass slaughter in Imperial 87 propaganda, however, Lucan’s exhortation is flawed not only in practical terms, but 88 ideologically as well. The first passage cited above similarly need not be read as a ringing endorsement of Pompey’s cause, nor of Pompey himself. Given the negative

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evaluation made of Magnus elsewhere in the epic, there is no reason to suppose that his elevation here stems from anything more than a recognition that, objectionable as Pompey might be, he is nevertheless preferable to Caesar as a tyrant. Despite the impassioned character of these apostrophic addresses, then, Lucan’s readers are assumed to inhabit a world no less ethically confused and complex than that depicted in the poem. Perhaps the clearest indication that Lucan expects the ethical sensibilities of his readers to be almost as distorted in their perception of the events narrated in his poem as are audiences internal to the epic, however, is found in the reflections of the poem’s narrator after he has described the mass suicide of Vulteius and his men. As discussed above, the episode stands for Lucan as a synecdoche for the entire nefas of civil war: on a single ship are enacted all the murders, fratricides, and furor that the res publica exhibits as a whole in its collapse into chaos. The social and moral corrosion that has allowed this to occur is further seen in the fact that not only Vulteius’ Caesarians, but, in a fashion typical of the world of the De Bello Civili, all observers of the deed per90 ceive this monstrous act of self-massacre as an example of unparalleled virtus. Interestingly, however, Lucan does not depict this distortion of social perception as being confined to the temporal frame of his narrative. Instead he continues on, and exclaims, non tamen ignavae post haec exempla virorum percipient gentes quam sit non ardua virtus servitium fugisse manu; sed regna timentur ob ferrum et saevis libertas uritur armis, 91 ignorantque datos ne quisquam serviat enses. (“And yet even after the example of these men, fearful races do not see that to escape slavery by the use of their own hands is not a difficult discipline. Instead, tyrannies are feared because they control the sword, and freedom shrivels at the touch of raging weaponry. They do not understand that swords were created so that no-one should ever be a slave.”)

Ignavae gentes (“fearful races”) here has a double referent. The phrase reappears at line 7.277, again associated with submission to tyranny, in Caesar’s contemptuous reference to Pompey’s forces as composed of foreign ignavas gentes famosaque regna 92 (“fearful races and notorious tyrannies”). The suspicion that the ignavae gentes of lines 4.575-6 might also be understood to refer to contemporary Romans, however, is reinforced by Lucan’s description of those who abandoned Rome at the first word 93 of Caesar’s approach as ignavae manus (“fearful groups”) at line 1.514. Lucan’s point, in any case, is clear. Societies, it seems, get the exempla they deserve. Just as, to those crazed by a love of death such as the Massilians, horrific mutual slaughter will appear to instantiate the highest ethical ideals, to the slothful

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even furor-inspired deaths such as those of Vulteius and his men will prove insufficient to arouse any awareness of their own potential for ethical action. The implications of this sentiment for Nero’s Rome, and for the practice of Neronian suicide, are striking. Self-killing here is recommended as a means of escaping servitium, and of demonstrating one’s virtus. As such it serves as an exemplary means of displaying one’s right to act as a member of a res publica rather than the subject of a regnum. If, however, one’s purpose in so dying is to foster an increased awareness of the nature of the ethical aesthetic within other oppressed members of this regnum, the enterprise is doomed to failure. While the ignavae gentes will indeed perceive such a death as virtuous, they will nevertheless perceive it as an ardua virtus (“difficult discipline”), and one that they cannot attempt themselves. The result is to render the virtuous suicide essentially gratuitous. Insofar as such a death is ethical, it will also be ineffectual. The apparently simultaneous presence in Lucan of political idealism on the one hand and cynicism or despair on the other has formed the centerpiece of several works on the De Bello Civili, the conflict being usually understood to resolve ultimately into 94 an unqualified endorsement of Republican ideology. In older criticism Lucan’s Republican fervor is generally held to increase as the epic progresses, reflecting Lucan’s growing disenchantment with the realities of Neronian rule during the com95 position of his poem. Clear-cut evidence for this shift is, however, difficult to locate within the text itself. Domitius Ahenobarbus, an ancestor of Nero, is given a suspiciously noble, high-minded, and entirely fictitious dying speech in Book Seven,96 97 while even in Book Ten Acoreus’ lengthy discussion of possible sources of the Nile might plausibly be read as flattery of Nero’s patronage of scientific investigations in this area. More recent works have as a result tended to view the epic as continually and deliberately conflicted in its voice, those passages which express skepticism regarding the attainability of Libertas being viewed as probes designed to test the depth of the reader’s commitment to Republicanism.98 In reducing the question of Lucan’s political sentiments to, in essence, a matter of faith, this “reader commitment” model of the De Bello Civili lies beyond any absolute proof or disproof.99 The highly ideological and Republican reading of the epic, however, has derived much of its credibility from the nature of Lucan’s own death.100 Lucan died, according to all our biographical sources,101 as a result of his involvement with a conspiracy to assassinate Nero and replace him with the aristocrat C. Calpurnius Piso. Suetonius describes Lucan additionally not only as a participant in, but the most vocal supporter of, this conspiracy, and refers to him as its signifer (“standard-bearer”). When the plot was detected, in A.D. 65, Lucan accordingly committed suicide at the behest of the princeps—a fate viewed, in recent analyses of the poet’s work, as being entirely in accordance with his composition of an epic often stridently anti-Imperial in tone.

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If our ancient accounts of the nature of Lucan’s death are to be trusted, however, the manner of his end was in fact remarkable precisely for its lack of discernible ideological content. To begin with, the candidate Lucan was supporting for elevation to the Imperial purple appears to have been an unlikely figure of inspiration for a radical ideologue. Piso seems to have been selected by his co-conspirators as the next Emperor less on the grounds of his moral or Republican character than for his malleability and popularity. According to Tacitus, is Calpurnio genere ortus ac multas insignisque familias paterna nobilitate complexus, claro apud vulgum rumore erat per virtutem aut species virtutibus similis. namque facundiam tuendis civibus exercebat, largitionem adversum amicos, et ignotis quoque comi sermone et congressu; aderant etiam fortuita, corpus procerum, decora facies; sed procul gravitas morum aut voluptatum parsimonia; levitati ac magnificentiae et aliquando luxu indulgebat, idque pluribus probabatur qui in tanta vitiorum dulcedine summum imperium non restrictum nec perse102 verum volunt. (“Piso was a member of the Calpurnian noble family, and his aristocratic descent meant that his connections embraced many of the most prominent families in the state. Amongst the common citizens he enjoyed a reputation for virtue—or at least a semblance of this—for he used his eloquence in the defense of fellow-citizens, he was generous towards his friends, and he was courteous in conversation and manner even towards unknown individuals. He was also fortunate in his tall stature and handsome appearance. But moral gravity and moderation in pleasure were completely unknown to him, and he indulged himself in frivolity, in ostentation, and occasionally in decadence. Many approved of him for this very reason: with the attraction of moral flaws being so great, they did not desire the highest authority of the state to be rigid, or over-severe in his standards.”)

So unsuitable a figure for Republican hardliners was Piso considered, in fact, that the well known Republican consul Vestinus Atticus was believed to have been excluded from the plot ne ad libertatem oreretur (“in case he should rise up in the cause of 103 total liberty”). Whatever drove Lucan to become the standard-bearer of the conspiracy, then, it cannot have been a rampant and uncompromising Republicanism. According to Suetonius, Tacitus, and the late witness of Vacca, Lucan’s motive in joining the plot was in fact anger at Nero’s interdiction of his literary activities, a ban apparently motivated by the Emperor’s jealousy of the epicist’s poetic talent.104 Recent scholars have tended to treat this version of events with skepticism, sus105 picious of our sources’ tendency to personalize political conflicts wherever possible. As Narducci has recently pointed out, however, this version of events is not necessarily as implausible as it might at first glance appear: should Lucan have at any point managed simultaneously to stretch Nero’s well-known policy of toleration of dissent106 to the breaking point and to trounce the Emperor in his own poetry

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competitions, the result would have been highly embarrassing for the princeps. Whatever the true nature of Lucan’s motivations, it is furthermore beyond doubt that the poet’s self-killing failed miserably as a political suicide. According to Tacitus Lucan voluntarily betrayed the names of his fellow conspirators—including that of his mother—without even undergoing torture beforehand. ex quibus Lucanus, Quintianus, et Senecio diu abnuere: post promissa impunitate corrupti, quo tarditatem excusarent, Lucanus Aciliam matrem suam, Quintianus Glitium Gallum, Senecio Annium Pollionem, amicorum praecipuos, 108 nominavere. (“Of those arrested, Lucan, Quintianus, and Senecius denied the entire affair for some time. Then, their wills weakened by the promise of impunity and anxious to excuse the delay in their confession, Lucan named his mother Acilia, while Quintianus and Senecius named their closest friends, Glitius Gallus and Annius Pollio, as co-conspirators.”)

Suetonius’ version of events is entirely in accord with this, adding only the waspish note that Lucan mentioned the name of his mother merely in order to curry the favor of the matricide Emperor.109 Both Tacitus and Suetonius condemn Lucan’s ready compliance with his interrogators, Tacitus comparing his behavior unfavorably with that of a certain slave girl who died rather than submit to torture, and Suetonius commenting that whatever Lucan’s enthusiasm for the initial stages of the plot, detecta coniuratione nequaquam parem animi constantiam praestitit (“once the conspiracy was detected, he did not show remotely the same resolution of spirit”). According to Tacitus, however, Lucan was not particularly interested in living up to the terms of the ethical aesthetic as these were traditionally understood anyway. If the last moments of life were held in aristocratic circles to reveal the true nature of an individual’s character, Lucan was clearly more interested in revealing himself to be a poet than a vir probus. exim Annaei Lucani [sc. Nero] caedem imperat. is profluente sanguine ubi frigescere pedes manusque et paulatim ab extremis cedere spiritum fervido adhuc et compote mentis pectore intellegit, recordatus carmen a se compositum quo vulneratum militem per eius modi mortis imaginem obisse tradiderat, versus 110 ipsos rettulit eaque illi suprema vox fuit. (“Nero then ordered Lucan’s death. As the blood flowed freely from him, and he felt his feet and hands growing cold with the life gradually ebbing from his extremities, while his heart was still warm and his mind still clear, Lucan recalled some poetry he had written in which he had told the story of a wounded soldier dying in the same way. He recited these lines, and they were his final words.”)

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Lucan’s attempt here to define his social persona in terms of his poetic rather than his political activities might possibly have stemmed simply from a realization that any chance of constituting himself as a moral witness in the traditional sense had been lost through his swift betrayal of his co-conspirators. Lucan’s ready substitution of the poetic for the ethical aesthetic as a standard by which to display himself before his social audience, however, is both revealing and consistent with the views expressed within his epic. Lines 4.575-9, concerning as they do the relation between ignavae gentes and the exempla furnished them by the suicides of Vulteius and his men, assert that amongst those with dulled or distorted ethical sensibilities the virtuous suicide is inefficacious. One clear implication of such a statement is that within a corrupt society the ethical aesthetic acts as no more than an aesthetic. Unable to heighten the ethical awareness or affect the actions of those who witness it, self-killing and the ritualized patterns of self-display that traditionally accompany it become essentially concerned with questions of style. This is not to say that these questions of style are unimportant. In a culture in which social persona and the individual are held to be identical, questions of form can never be questions of mere form. Any separation of ethical imperatives from social aesthetics, however, introduces considerable flexibility into the means by which one might demonstrate one’s membership of the social elite: before a social audience with a loose, ill-defined, or ductile understanding of acceptable mores a variety of means might be used to constitute oneself as a moral witness. Such a divergence between the criteria of ethical responsibility and the norms of social aesthetics is readily condemned as decadence in both ancient and modern contexts.111 A fascination with the unreliability of social audiences in gauging the demands of the ethical aesthetic and a consequent fascination with the mutability of persona, however, is persistent in Latin literature from Ovid onwards, and by the time of Nero appears to have attained the status almost of a fixation. Certainly Lucan was not the only prominent figure of the age to assume that, within the context of the Neronian court, it was better to die as an aesthete than as a philosopher.

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Chapter 10

Petronius

10.1 INTRODUCTION If it is by Lucan that the potential for catastrophic schism between ethical action and social perception is described in its most hyperbolic terms, it is left to Lucan’s older contemporary, Titus Petronius Niger,1 to voice classical Rome’s most oblique and incisive critique of the aristocratic persona as a basis for ethics. The two Neronian courtiers have a great deal in common. As is the case with Lucan, the true force of Petronius’ moral critique is most clearly visible in his reinterpretation of conventional aristocratic motifs surrounding the practice of suicide. Like Lucan, Petronius’ innovations in this area were not confined to his literary efforts, and he, like the young epicist, died by his own hand at the order of the Emperor Nero in a fashion designed to win the attention and regard of his aristocratic colleagues. As with Lucan again, this cross-over between the literary depiction and the practice of suicide displays a heightened awareness of social form as form and of Roman mores as a set of mutable conventions governed by an aesthetic ungrounded in any ethical reality. With Petronius, however, this awareness is far more developed than in Lucan, and its implications more thoroughly explored. Where Lucan’s epic and own suicide are powerfully informed by a recognition that social audiences might perceive the terms of the ethical aesthetic in a warped or distorted fashion, Petronius goes further, and implies in his writings and by his actions that social personae are incapable of structuring ethical responses coherently at all. In both his rambling and picaresque 2 Satyrica and by the circumstances of his own death Petronius repeatedly implies that social personae are not only inadequately stabilized and underdefined by social convention, but are in fact entirely artificial. The claim is a radical one, and unique amongst Latin writings during this period. Even those Roman thinkers most intensely skeptical of the aristocratic ability to perceive accurately the terms of the ethical aesthetic nevertheless tend to assume without question that a social persona structured by certain well-defined ethical norms is the innate and natural form of the individual.

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Writers with a predominantly negative view of the social order might point to the potential for debased standards of communal perception to malform social personae. Petronius, however, both writes and acts as though no single innate and natural persona exists, and while the effect of this assertion is essentially humorous, the comic mechanism which gives rise to this humor ridicules and subverts not only the excesses of contemporary Neronian Rome, but also the ethical and philosophical tradition upon which criticisms of these were conventionally based. The world of the Satyrica, in fact, might best be described as a Senecan nightmare. Petronius’ characters exist in an unstable, amoral, and continually changing milieu in which they feel free to assume and abandon varied personae at will. These personae are culled indiscriminately from literary models, and are instantaneously and spontaneously adopted by Petronius’ creations in order to rationalize and express their every passing whim and fancy. Suicide for these characters acts on one level as it always does in aristocratic Roman literature, and serves to establish the agent within some particular social role. Because in the Satyrica social personae are always transitory and ephemeral, however, self-killing becomes for Petronius’ characters an essentially trivial undertaking ungrounded in any ethical reality. As a result, suicide cannot function in the Satyrica to define absolutely the individual’s role in the res publica. Instead, suicide attempts act within the novel as simply one amongst an arsenal of techniques for a perpetually fluid self-fashioning. Petronius’ characters thus resort to the act as readily as they do to declamatory moral posturing or poetic diction in their efforts to inflate their most trivial desires into the foundation of legitimate and esteemed social roles. Far from serving to refine the individual’s awareness of his or her own innate nature, then, suicide in the Satyrica becomes a tool for its continual ungrounded redefinition. Ideologically, such behavior reflects an implicit and absolute rift between ethical and social realities running throughout the Satyrica. On a compositional level, of course, the ability of Petronius’ characters to adapt suicidal social strategies multiple times over the course of the narrative depends upon their possession of a comic invulnerability to injury. It might therefore be argued that the Satyrica’s abscission of social form from ethical reality should be viewed as a simple precondition of its extended comic fantasy. That for Petronius the elimination of ethical concerns from the definition of social persona was more than a literary technique is, however, demonstrated clearly by the nature of his own suicide in A.D. 66. In terms of the flawless efficiency with which it was enacted, Petronius’ suicide effortlessly embodied all the most crucial elements of the aristocratic noble death. Performed before an elite audience, the courtier’s death, prolonged beyond all reasonable measure by his periodic rebinding and reopening of his own slashed wrists, conformed in its self-discipline and dispassion to the highest standards set by the ante mortem heroics of Seneca, Thrasea Paetus, and Cato. In terms of its style, however, Petronius’ suicide evidently served a purpose far removed from that of these famed

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Stoic eminences. Rather than spending his last hours discussing philosophy, Petronius turned to the composition of light verse, and, eschewing any conspicuous display of self-mastery over his pain, the author attempted to make his death appear as natural as possible. In addition to these novelties, Petronius furthermore chose to forego either any attempt to shame Nero through emphasis upon his own upstanding moral character, or to preserve his estates against the fisc through flattery of him. He instead decided to taunt him by compiling a list of Nero’s supposedly clandestine sexual debauches and then dispatching this to the princeps himself. Such flamboyance was on one level entirely typical of Petronius, and was thus superficially congruent with aristocratic notions of the proper function of suicide. Known in life as the arbiter elegantiae (“Arbiter of Elegance”) for the authority with which he established the aesthetic criteria fashionable in Neronian court circles, Petronius’ manifest continued concern in death for poetry, light conversation, and licentiousness worked undeniably to establish him permanently in the social role he had occupied throughout his final years. That he could maintain the standards of a role so entirely at variance with those of the conventional aristocratic persona, however, undermined an assumption basic to Roman elite understandings of the nature of the individual. After Petronius’ transgressive suicide it was simply no longer possible to accept without reservation the proposition that the traditional Roman elite persona was either natural or innate. In its deliberate inconsequentiality, then, Petronius’ suicide strikes at the foundations of Roman ideals of the self, and of the systems of ethics associated with these.

10.2 SUICIDE IN THE SATYRICA A hint of the extent to which Petronius’ ethical sensibilities diverged from those of his compatriots may readily be perceived at Sat. 94-5, which describes one of the most unusual suicidal episodes to be found in Latin literature. The scene occurs shortly after Encolpius, the narrator of the Satyrica, discovers that he has been locked alone in his hotel room by his traveling companion Eumolpus, who has contrived to keep Encolpius out of the way in order to seduce his boy-lover Giton. Encolpius’ response to this predicament is immediate and drastic, sparking a chain of increasingly bizarre behavior on the part of the other characters present. inclusus ego suspendio vitam finire constitui. et iam semicinctio lecti stantis ad parietem spondam vinxeram cervicesque nodo condebam, cum reseratis foribus intrat Eumolpus cum Gitone meque a fatali iam meta revocat ad lucem. Giton praecipue ex dolore in rabiem efferatus tollit clamorem, me utraque manu impulsum praecipitat super lectum, ‘erras’ inquit ‘Encolpi, si putas contingere posse, ut ante moriaris. prior coepi; in Ascylti hospitio gladium quaesivi. ego si te non invenissem, periturus per praecipitia fui. et ut scias non longe esse quaerentibus mortem, specta invicem, quod me spectare voluisti.’ haec locutus

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mercennario Eumolpi novaculam rapit et semel iterumque cervice percussa ante pedes collabitur nostros. exclamo ego attonitus, secutusque labentem eodem ferramento ad mortem viam quaero. sed neque Giton ulla erat suspicione vulneris laesus, neque ego ullum sentiebam dolorem. rudis enim novacula et in hoc retusa, ut pueris discentibus audaciam tonsoris daret, instruxerat thecam. ideoque nec mercennarius ad raptum ferramentum expaverat, nec Eumolpus interpellaverat mimicam mortem. dum haec fabula inter amantes luditur, deversitor cum parte cenulae intervenit, contemplatusque foedissimam volutationem iacentium ‘rogo’ inquit ‘ebrii estis, an fugitivi, an utrumque?’ (“Trapped in the room, I decided to put an end to my life by hanging. But after I had shoved the bed upright against the wall and was just slipping my head into the noose, the doors were flung open and Eumolpus and Giton entered, calling me back to life from the brink of death. Giton, suddenly roused from grief to fury, shouted at me, struck me with both hands and threw me onto the bed. ‘You are wrong, Encolpius,’ he said, ‘if you think you can die before me! I have tried already, and I searched for a sword while staying with Ascyltus. Had I not found you, I would have thrown myself over a cliff. And, to show to you that death can never be far off for anyone who wishes it, look now in your turn at the spectacle you wanted me to gaze upon!’ After he had finished saying this, he suddenly snatched a razor from a nearby servant and—once! twice!—slashed his throat with it. Thunderstruck, I cried out, and, rushing to him as he fell, sought a path to death with the same steel. But there was no mark of any wound on Giton, and I did not suffer any pain—for the razor was blunted and untempered, so that boys learning the art of the barber would not be timid in their use of the blade; it had been encased in a sheath. This was why the servant hadn’t been alarmed at the snatching of the tool, and why Eumolpus hadn’t interrupted our feigned deaths. While this tale of lovers was being enacted, the innkeeper entered with a serving for our little dinner, and, looking at us rolling about disgracefully on the floor, he asked, ‘Are you drunk, or runaway slaves, or what?’”)

Within the space of a few minutes and lines of text, then, three attempts at self-killing are made, two of which are in earnest and one of which is deliberately staged. The chain of events depicted here is clearly extremely peculiar. Niall Slater finds the entire scene improbable, believing it explicable only if one assumes that Encolpius is here the victim of a cruel deception plotted by Eumolpus and Giton, who observe his suicidal actions through the keyhole of his room and burst in upon him at the last moment to supply a dramatic punch line to their ruse.3 This kind of conduct is certainly not foreign to Giton, who uses the dummy-bladed novacula (“razor”) in a similar fashion at Sat. 108, where he threatens to castrate himself if a violent quarrel between the parties of Encolpius and Tryphaena is not halted immediately. Even if Giton’s penchant for practical jokes sufficiently explains the comic coincidences of timing found in Sat. 94-5, however, it does nothing to account for the numerous psychological oddities the scene contains, peculiarities most visible in Encolpius’ rather hectic approach to suicide. To begin with, Encolpius’ initial

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decision to kill himself appears to be extremely undermotivated. His determination on death is apparently unaccompanied by any premeditation, deliberation, or contemplation of possible alternative courses of action. His second attempt at suicide, furthermore, is as reckless and immediate as the first. This self-slaughtering impulsiveness furthermore appears to be understood as normal behavior within the novel: Encolpius betrays no surprise or confusion at Giton’s sudden decision to slash his own throat in response to Encolpius’ failed death, and neither Eumolpus nor Giton in turn are particularly disturbed by the ease with which Encolpius can be impelled to attempt his own life. If the hypothesis of Slater is correct, in fact, the pair is depending upon this sudden inclination towards suicide for the successful perpetration of their prank. The entire scene, then, depends upon all the characters involved sharing the assumption that self-killing is a predictable response to the most trivial of provocations. Consideration of the rest of the Satyrica furthermore indicates that this assumption is in fact accurate within its fictional world. The characters of the Satyrica appear generally to suffer from a hair-trigger reflex towards self-killing, and are ready to adopt it in reaction to any setback they might encounter. At times this suicidal resolution is no more than a rhetorical ploy, as when Encolpius repeatedly threatens to 4 kill himself if Tryphaena does not grant him a truce, or offers his neck to Ascyltus in an attempt to divert him from his search for Giton.5 Giton’s attempt at Sat. 80 to bring peace to Encolpius and Ascyltus as they squabble over him is, one suspects, similarly rhetorical in character: inter hanc miserorum dementiam infelicissimus puer tangebat utriusque genua cum fletu petebatque suppliciter ne Thebanum par humilis taberna spectaret neve sanguine mutuo pollueremus familiaritatis clarissimae sacra. ‘quod si utique’ proclamabat ‘facinore opus est, nudo ecce iugulum, convertite huc manus, imprimite mucrones. ego mori debeo, qui amicitiae sacramentum delevi.’ (“This most unhappy boy stood between us in the midst of our madness, his cheeks wet with tears, and begged as a suppliant that this humble tavern should not witness a tragedy equal to that amongst the Thebans, and that we should not pollute the sacred bond of our glorious friendship with our shared blood. ‘But if it is necessary that a crime be committed,’ he shouted, ‘behold—I lay my throat bare to you. Turn your hands now against me, impale me upon your swords. I deserve to die—the one who destroyed the sacred trust of your friendship.”)

Not all references to self-killing in the Satyrica, however, arise from the agent’s simple desire for effect, and the act is frequently depicted as a straightforward response to despair. Encolpius’ drama in his hotel room is not the first time his deliberations have turned to the taking of his own life at the thought of Giton’s

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potential infidelity. Earlier, shortly after he had lost his quarrel with Ascyltus for Giton, he had briefly contemplated self-killing before dismissing it as likely to give 6 Ascyltus satisfaction, and had resolved on a wrath-inspired murder instead. Giton, despite his love of playacting his own suicide, is also capable of reference to self-killing in earnest. His first thought when he realizes that he, Encolpius, and Eumolpus are trapped beyond deliverance on the ship of their enemies Lichas and Tryphaena, is simply to end their miseries through death, telling his companions, audite, quid amenti succurrerit: praeligemus vestibus capita et nos in profundum mergamus (“Listen to the idea that has struck me, in my frenzy: let us wind our clothes around our heads 7 and drown ourselves in the depths of the sea”). The characters of Eumolpus’ tale of the ‘Widow of Ephesus’ possess a bent for self-slaughtering despair similar to that found in the framing narrative. The story begins with the widow’s decision to die of inedia rather than long survive the death of her husband.8 The seductive soldier of the fable is similarly inclined to suicide: upon discovering that the crucified body he has been assigned to guard has been 9 removed, he decides to kill himself to atone for his dereliction of duty. That individuals should readily and spontaneously seek death before consideration of any alternative course of action is considered appears, then, to be an established norm of the Satyrica’s ethical ambience in both its main narrative and inset tales. If the psychology of self-killing is unusual in the Satyrica, however, this peculiarity is derived not from the motives given for self-killing in the text, but in the fashion in which its characters express and experience these. In terms of motivation, most of the attempted self-killings in the Satyrica conform to traditional conventions regarding suicide already well developed in earlier Greek and Latin literature. That a woman might die of grief after the death of her husband, or that a soldier should choose to end his life in anticipation of condemnation, were well understood conventions within Roman ethics.10 The idea that lovers are ready to kill themselves at the least apprehension of an obstacle to their amorous plans would have been familiar to the Satyrica’s readers from the conventions of both comedy and mime.11 Two points, however, separate Petronius’ treatment of self-killing in the Satyrica from that found in previous Latin literature. First, despite the superficial plausibility, in the context of Roman norms regarding self-killing, of the reasons described as impelling particular characters towards death in the Satyrica, these attempts are always revealed to be undermotivated. The case of the Widow of Ephesus is paradigmatic here: although she begins the story resolved to die, the inconstancy of her affection for her husband is so great that she is readily seduced by a passing soldier while she stands vigil at his tomb. The soldier’s decision to die is proven to be similarly flexible. Although he claims that he will kill himself in order to mete out appropriate punishment to himself for his lack of discipline,12 his impetus to suicide

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evaporates as soon as an alternative—the replacement of the lost body with that of the husband—is found. This disjunction between the force with which suicidal resolutions are stated or formulated in the Satyrica and the realities that lie behind them is even more visible, however, in the novel’s main narrative. The conflicts Giton and Encolpius seek to resolve through reference to suicide, for instance, are never more than petty spats: the worst of these, the fight between Encolpius and Tryphaena, culminates only in fisticuffs. Even less motivated are the impulses to self-killing that descend upon Encolpius in response to the loss of Giton, for Encolpius’ attachment to his young lover is far from being exclusive. Desirable as Giton might be, Encolpius’ sex drive is prodigious and generally indiscriminate. Despite his frequent bouts of impotence, Encolpius manages within the extant text of the Satyrica both to participate in an 13 extended orgy and indulge himself in an erotically charged affair with a woman by the name of Circe.14 Reference is also made to relationships either consummated or desired with a certain Doris and with Lichas’ wife Hedyle.15 That Encolpius should view separation from Giton as a misfortune worthy of self-killing, then, appears inconsistent with his ready pursuit of sexual satisfaction elsewhere and his omnivorous approach to satiating his own appetites generally. As with the other characters of the Satyrica, then, Encolpius is propelled towards self-killing with a frequency and ease out of all proportion to his real motivations and the actual demands of the situation he faces. Despite the apparent levity with which Petronius’ creations resolve upon death, however, in instances where reference to suicide responds to more than rhetorical needs the characters in question are shown to be entirely willing to carry their self-destructive inclinations to their terminus. Here we have the second of the features that firmly distinguishes Petronius’ treatment of self-killing from that found in earlier Latin literature: at the same time that his characters’ impetus to kill themselves is portrayed as undermotivated, it is simultaneously exaggerated to an extent not found in earlier comic writing. In the comedies of Plautus and Terence young lovers might contemplate self-killing for the most trivial of motives, but they are never put to the test. The mere mention of the subject is sufficient to ensure the intervention of a wily fellow character willing to supply alternative courses of action capable of driving the comic action of the rest of the play.16 In the Satyrica, by contrast, attempts at self-killing can be simultaneous with the formulation of intent. By the time the soldier arrives with his seductive food parcel for the Widow of Ephesus, for example, her entire town has already given her up for dead.17 More dramatic is Encolpius’ double attempt at the act at Sat. 94-5, as quoted above: were it not for the intervention and foresight of Giton, Encolpius’ rapid resolution on death would presumably have culminated in his own self-destruction.

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Petronius’ willingness to depict, rather than merely allude to, attempts at self-killing serves, in a fashion unprecedented in Latin literature, to establish a clear disjunction in scale between character motivations and the actions arising from these, with the latter being revealed thereby as grotesquely inflated. When the Widow of Ephesus swiftly foregoes her mourning in favor of the manifold physical charms of the soldier, or Encolpius attempts to act upon and abandons his decision to die multiple times in moments, the reader is quickly made aware of the artificiality of their self-killing resolutions. In early comedy the potential for disjunction here is left unexplored. In the Satyrica, however, it is not only highlighted, but, as noted above, assumed also by all characters to be a norm of human behavior. The rapid and abnormal oscillations in self-slaughtering impetus the characters of the Satyrica exhibit, then, arise from more than an exaggerated comic impulsiveness. The speed with which they make, and attempt to act upon, suicidal intentions, reflects a more basic psychological flaw, unique in Latin literature to the protagonists of Petronius’ novel: these characters all lack any single or stable persona into which to integrate their experiences. In place of this unified persona, Petronius’ creations instead adopt a multiplicity of personae in sequence as the need arises. These personae are, furthermore, derived not from surrounding social practice or innate ethical imperatives, but adopted temporarily and indiscriminately from a variety of high and low literary models with which, as disreputable and itinerant scholastici (“literary scholars”), they are both infatuated and extremely familiar. 18 The importance of previously established literary genres to the Satyrica has been appreciated ever since the nineteenth century, when Heinze first noted the parodic resemblance of Encolpius’ adventures to those found in the Hellenistic ‘ideal romance.’ Subsequent researchers have been assiduous in tracing the debts owed by Petronius to earlier classical forms, ranging from genres such as comedy, mime,19 and the Milesian Tale,20 to satire, the philosophical dialogue,21 and the declamatory exercise.22 The result is that the Satyrica has been viewed in recent classical scholarship as the furthest extreme of “polyglot” composition, to which so many literary paradigms and models are relevant that ‘parody’ collapses into ‘pastiche’ and ‘intertext’ into mere ‘interstyle.’23 This sort of allusive overloading of the work as a whole, however, is a function not only of the narrative texture of the Satyrica, but additionally of the characters within it. Whether or not so amorphous a form as the Hellenistic ‘ideal romance’ is capable of providing the Satyrica with a narrative structure stable enough to integrate all its composite sub-genres coherently is, given the highly fragmentary state of the work, an open question. 24 What lies beyond doubt, however, is that even if the Satyrica is not itself governed architectonically by previous literary forms, it is through these forms that its characters nevertheless choose to structure their own experiences. It is one of the most striking features of the behavior of individuals in the Satyrica that they repeatedly and compulsively cast themselves and their actions in moulds defined

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by earlier works of literature. Eumolpus, addicted to rendering the events of his life in verse, is found in the midst of a life-threatening storm at sea composing new vari26 ants on the epic topos of the tempest; Encolpius, confronted by paintings depicting the tale of Jupiter and Ganymede, is convinced that he beholds a de se fabula (“a tale about himself”),27 and even so lowly a character as the maid of the Widow of Ephesus urges her mistress towards adultery in words appropriated from Anna, sister of Vergil’s Dido.28 For Encolpius and his excessively educated and poetically minded circle the slightest provocation is sufficient to initiate the assumption of a full-fledged persona borrowed from literary models and believed to be appropriate to the situation. Petronius derives considerable comic mileage from his characters’ infatuation with literature, and the tendency of their text-tinged perceptions regarding appropriate personae to be ridiculously askew is a continuous source of comic irony throughout the Satyrica. In one famous passage, for instance, Encolpius, smarting from his rejection by Giton in favor of Ascyltus, decides to brood upon the ocean shore in apparent imitation of Achilles after his loss of Briseis, but finds his wrath deflated when his 29 sword is confiscated by a passing soldier. Despite continual setbacks of this kind, however, Petronius’ creations prove indefatigable in their perpetual assimilation of themselves to earlier literary archetypes, apparently undisturbed by the absurdity of the undertaking. The tendency towards unreflective attempts at self-killing visible in the characters of the Satyrica is thus explicable as the logical culmination of their continual need to engage in role-play in the most dramatic fashion possible. The literary character of the Satyrica’s various attempts at suicide is most readily discerned in the character of Giton. His repeated use of a dummy blade to simulate his own death, for instance, is theatrical both in the sense that it allows Giton to stage a feigned death, and in that the motif of the blunted blade appears to have been borrowed from the plots of Neronian mime.30 Giton’s other display of suicidal intent, his attempt to end the quarrel between Encolpius and Giton through offering his own body as a sacrifice to peace, is similarly theatrical in inspiration, although here his model is tragedy rather than mime: in characterizing the spat as par Thebanum (“equal to that amongst the Thebans”) Giton configures the two rivals as the fratricidal Polynices and Eteocles, and thus justifies his apparently hyperbolic response to their petty arguments. It is Encolpius, however, who demonstrates most thoroughly the extent to which the appropriation of suicidal literary archetypes governs characters’ actions in the Satyrica. This proclivity on his part is seen most clearly at Sat. 94-5, where he shows himself prepared to commit suicide from a concern to maintain fidelity to earlier literary models. Ignorant of Giton’s manipulation of the scene, and undermotivated emotionally to die on his behalf, Encolpius here attempts to take his own life essentially out of a love of melodrama. Encolpius himself describes the scene as a fabula inter amantes (“tale of lovers”), a phrase capable of designating equally the storylines

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of comedy, mime, or romance. This explicit recognition of the literary character of the scene is delayed until after the little drama has played itself out. The realization that he has been participating in a piece of play-acting, however, does nothing to perturb Encolpius, nor does he seem to consider his attempt at suicide unusual or excessive in any way. This apparently unjustified equanimity is symptomatic of Encolpius’ general tendency to judge his own actions, and those of others, by norms not psychological or ethical, but literary, and Encolpius can be seen, in fact, to configure the entire episode at Sat. 94-5 literarily not only in retrospect, but even as it is occurring. If Giton self-consciously sets the scene for comedy, Encolpius, unaware of his deception, responds with a series of gestures largely borrowed from the Hellenistic ‘ideal romance,’32 for which the mutual attempted self-killing of lovers facing each other’s 33 loss was a conventional motif. So thoroughly have literary norms permeated Encolpius’ awareness that he not only perceives this stereotyped sequence of actions as entirely normal and natural to himself, but this sequence is furthermore predicted 34 of him by Giton. The extreme and artificial character of Encolpius’ actions here is further demonstrated by the speed with which he recovers from the after-effects of the scene. While he is engaged in playing the role of the lover of Hellenistic romance, he is ready to die in accordance with its norms. When his fantasy of the fabula-as-romance collapses into the ‘reality’ of a fabula-as-comic-mime, however, he adjusts immediately and accordingly. If, in Conte’s phrase, every situation exists for 35 Encolpius as ‘narrative bait’ awaiting reinterpretation in terms of previously formed literary models, his attempt at suicide here demonstrates that his commitment to these models is both absolute and artificial. Encolpius is willing to assume the contours of any available literary archetype, and prepared to define these absolutely through suicide. Precisely because he is capable of adopting any archetype as his own, however, any single role he assumes is revealed to be merely accidental and contingent rather than necessary and natural. The attitude of the characters of the Satyrica towards suicide, then, reveals a comic psychology entirely at odds with the Roman Stoicizing ethic that informs so much Latin writing on suicide and its assumed relationship to the nature of the self. For Petronius’ creations, as in other Latin writings on the subject, self-killing ideally acts to define the nature of one’s persona before a social audience. Whereas in our other sources this persona is presented as being essentially stable and innate, however, in Petronius it is entirely mutable and artificial. Throughout Roman thought and literature, it is consistently assumed that suicide in its ideal form is a decision taken to ensure that an individual might present a coherent persona before his or her social audience. Such a homology is, however, entirely beyond the grasp of a figure such as Encolpius. Rather than attempting to integrate his acts and impulses into some larger unified pattern and viewing suicide as a final and unassailable means of guaranteeing

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the self-consistency of this, Encolpius simply borrows and abandons previously defined patterns to suit his varying whims. For him, suicide represents simply one more aspect of some of these patterns. Figures such as Encolpius or Eumolpus, then, possess no ethical essence. Their acts are all basically artificial, serving to confirm their fulfillment of roles that in fact have no connection to, and are not grounded in, any characteristic or quality inherent in the agents themselves. This utter amorality and total mutability have led some critics to perceive in Petronius’ work a sinister undertone reflecting a deep despair at the loss of all ethical meaning and significance in life.36 Whether or not this despair is in fact to be found in the Satyrica, it is at least certainly clear that its own characters must fail entirely to partake of it. Engaged in the continual refashioning of their own personae, they are incapable of perceiving the absurdity and irrationality of their own actions. Even when adoption of some particular persona demands that they attempt to kill themselves, this most fundamental of aristocratic spiritual exercises fails to reveal anything integral, significant, or unified within them.

10.3 THE SUICIDE OF PETRONIUS The implications of the Satyrica’s peculiar comic psychology for conventional Roman understandings of the psyche are of course very limited. However “realistic” the Satyrica’s evocation of the language and social customs of mid-first century Italy might be, Encolpius and his companions are clearly comic creations.37 Degenerate and dissolute, their indulgence in relentless self-reinvention is possible only because their native milieu is populated by individuals even more dissipated than they are. In addition, they inhabit a world in which they are entirely insulated from the potentially disastrous effects of their wilder experiments in the appropriation of artificial personae. While Encolpius attempts suicide at the slightest of provocations, he never achieves it, and this effortless invulnerability both underscores his status as a fictional creation and reduces the significance of his, and the Satyrica’s, deviations from the Roman ideological norm. That the Satyrica might be read as more than an idle comic fantasy and its figures viewed instead as a reflection of the moral realities of contemporary Roman culture, however, is seen in the nature of the suicide of its author, for the death of Petronius is far more strange, disturbing, and significant in its ethical implications than are the multiple attempts at self-killing made by his fictional creations. Tacitus, writing some five decades after Petronius’ death, believed the event to be of sufficient interest to set down an account in full. de C. Petronio pauca supra repetenda sunt. nam illi dies per somnum, nox officiis et oblectamentis vitae transigebatur; utque alios industria, ita hunc ignavia ad famam protulerat, habebaturque non ganeo et profligator, ut plerique sua

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haurientium, sed erudito luxu. ac dicta factaque eius quanto solutiora et quandam sui neglegentiam praeferentia, tanto gratius in speciem simplicitatis accipiebantur. proconsul tamen Bithyniae et mox consul vigentem se ac parem negotiis ostendit. dein revolutus ad vitia seu vitiorum imitatione inter paucos familiarium Neroni adsumptus est, elegantiae arbiter, dum nihil amoenum et molle adfluentia putat, nisi quod ei Petronius adprobavisset. unde invidia Tigellini quasi adversus aemulum et scientia voluptatum potiorem. ergo crudelitatem principis, cui ceterae libidines cedebant, adgreditur, amicitiam Scaevini Petronio obiectans, corrupto ad indicium servo ademptaque defensione et maiore parte familiae in vincla rapta. forte illis diebus Campaniam petiverat Caesar, et Cumas usque progressus Petronius illic attinebatur; nec tulit ultra timoris aut spei moras. neque tamen praeceps vitam expulit, sed incisas venas, ut libitum, obligatas aperire rursum et adloqui amicos, non per seria aut quibus gloriam constantiae peteret. audiebatque referentis nihil de immortalitate animae et sapientium placitis, sed levia carmina et facilis versus. servorum alios largitione, quosdam verberibus adfecit. iniit epulas, somno indulsit, ut quamquam coacta mors fortuitae similis esset. ne codicillis quidem, quod plerique pereuntium, Neronem aut Tigellinum aut quem alium potentium adulatus est, sed flagitia principis sub nominibus exoletorum feminarumque et novitatem cuiusque stupri perscripsit atque obsig38 nata misit Neroni. (“Brief mention ought to be made of Caius Petronius. The man spent his days in sleep, his nights in the duties and pleasures of life. Indolence had raised him to fame, as energy raises others, and people considered him not a glutton and spendthrift, like most of those who squander their resources, but learned in luxury. His words and actions in fact became more popular the freer they were and the more show of carelessness they exhibited, on account of their appearance of careless simplicity. As proconsul of Bithynia, however, and shortly afterwards as consul, he showed himself a man of vigor and capable of serious work. Then, falling back into vice or affecting vice, he was chosen by Nero to become one of his small inner circle, as his ‘Arbiter of Elegance,’ the Emperor thinking nothing charming or refined unless Petronius had expressed to him his approval of it. It was for this reason that Tigellinus was jealous of him, for he looked on Petronius as a rival—and even his superior—in the science of pleasure. And so he worked on the prince’s cruelty, which dominated his every other passion, and accused Petronius of having been the friend of Scaevinus. Tigellinus bribed a slave to become informer, robbing Petronius of the means of defense, and threw into chains the greater part of his domestics. It happened at the time that the Emperor was on his way to Campania and that Petronius, after going as far as Cumae, was there detained. He decided not to suffer any longer the suspense of fear of death and hope for life. Yet he did not fling away his life with rash haste, but made incisions in his veins and then bound these up or opened them again as he wished. In the meantime he conversed with his friends, but not in a serious fashion or on topics that might win for him the glory of courage. Instead he listened to them as they repeated, not thoughts on the immortality of the soul or on the nostrums of philosophers, but comic poetry and playful verses. He gave money generously to some of his slaves, and flogged others. He dined and indulged

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himself in sleep, so that death, though forced on him, might have a natural appearance. Even in his will he did not, as did many about to die, flatter Nero or Tigellinus or any other powerful man. On the contrary, he described fully the prince’s shameful excesses, with the names of his male and female companions and their innovations in perversion, and sent the account under seal to Nero.”)

The tone of grudging admiration here is clear: if Petronius’ suicide cannot exactly be said to be virtuous, it is undoubtedly that of a virtuoso. As with the many other instances of aristocratic suicide to be found in Nero’s Rome, the death of Petronius serves to express a critique of contemporary mores. Unlike more conventional attempts to secure a noble death, however, Petronius’ criticisms here are original, elegant, and incisive. More importantly, they additionally cut in two directions at once. On the one hand, the manner of the Arbiter’s death might plausibly be read, as are the suicides of many of his contemporaries, as an attack upon the extreme decadence of the Imperial court. Tacitus is careful to emphasize in his account the fact that Petronius possessed many of the qualities most esteemed by conventional moral judgment. Prior to entering Neronian court circles, he notes, Petronius had established himself as a skilled and capable administrator, and his ability to constitute himself as a moral witness through those practices typical of the Roman elite of his day is further demonstrated through the equanimity and self-control he exhibits in the face of death. Tacitus also points out, however, that under Nero Petronius’ intelligence and self-discipline were turned to the pursuit of pleasure, and his prominence in the Imperial court was owed entirely to his status as eruditus luxu (“learned in luxury”). Such a perversion of natural talent had the potential to reflect very poorly upon Nero in the eyes of those who continued to make moral evaluations in terms of the traditional ethical aesthetic. It is possible, then, to see in the highly refined and decadent suicide of Petronius a simple variation upon the conventional aristocratic noble death, intended to raise awareness amongst a social audience of the prevailing social corruption of the ethical aesthetic. In this understanding of his death, Petronius’ most significant innovation with regard to suicide lies in his exhibition of himself as the foremost symptom of the moral corruption that had engulfed Rome. Petronius’ sardonic suicidal parody of the ethical standards of the Julio-Claudian era, however, possesses implications which move far beyond a simple indictment of Neronian excess. Considered as more than an exercise in flippant self-caricature, the manner of Petronius’ death undermines not only the entire system of aesthetics whereby the aristocratic persona was conventionally constituted, but furthermore the very notion of using the aristocratic persona as a basis for ethics in the first place. This implicit ethical stance was, in the context of Neronian culture, a radical one. The main outlines of conventional Roman thinking on the nature of the individual had remained remarkably stable over the century and more between Cicero

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and Lucan. Despite the continual anxiety expressed in Latin writing of the Late Republican and Julio-Claudian eras regarding the potential of social audiences to misinterpret or inaccurately evaluate social personae, it is nevertheless continually assumed by Roman writers that there exists in every individual some innate and essential persona that he or she only fails to perceive due to the external interference of desire or other false belief. Once the individual’s perceptions are purified of external influence, it is assumed that the true nature of his or her persona will become clear, as will the ethical imperatives this entails. The prolonged, highly self-controlled, and thoroughly amoral death of Petronius, however, entirely subverts this understanding of ethical action. In facing death Petronius shows himself capable of fulfilling all the most stringent conditions necessary to establish oneself as completely free from influence by all external circumstances. His final actions, then, are demonstrably as autonomous and rationally directed as those of any suicidal Stoic philosopher. Despite this total freedom from external influence over his acts, however, Petronius’ character entirely fails to assume the proportions and outline of the expected conventional aristocratic persona. He remains in his final moments exactly as he was in life, devoted to a continual decadent playfulness entirely at odds with the demands of the traditional ethical aesthetic. That this deliberate frivolity is a product of Petronius’ participation in the corruption of the Neronian court does little in itself to weaken the force of its implications. Petronius’ satisfaction of all criteria necessary to the demonstration of ethical autonomy and his equal refusal to indulge in the behavior considered proper to this serves to draw a moral and ontological equivalence between the voluptuous refinement he himself exhibits and the ethical stance characteristically adopted by the Roman aristocracy of his day. Each is shown to be, in the favored terms of Roman moral philosophy, as natural as the other—and, given the dissonance between them, this implies that both are basically artificial in character. The choice between the one and the other, the acts of Petronius imply, is no more than a question of style, devoid of significant ethical import. Latent within Petronius’ parodic subversion of contemporary suicidal mores, then, there lies a powerful critique corrosive not only of Neronian imperial ideology, but of the foundational principles of most previous Roman ethical thought. The manner of his death suggests that the central question of ethics can no longer concern the means by which the individual might establish him- or herself as a member of the arbitri honorum, for it is no longer clear that the arbitri honorum are any more ethically relevant than is an arbiter elegantiae. It is not even clear, in fact, that ethics in the conventional Roman sense possesses any relevance to action whatsoever, and it is in this respect that the implications of Petronius’ acts most clearly transcend the moral boundaries implicit in previous Roman thought. Of all earlier Latin writers, it is the Epicureans who are most apt to view social form as arbitrary, misleading and

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disconnected from the demands of natura. It is furthermore the Epicureans again who are most prone to see individuals as sufficiently alienated from correct ethical understanding that they are capable of killing themselves from a radical misapprehension of this.40 Even the Epicureans, however, assume that there exists in individuals a basic innate nature that, once discovered, will act as a corrective to corrupted social personae and perception, and thereby serve to structure an individual’s acts in a rational and ethical fashion. If Petronius held such a belief, however, he made it explicit in neither his works nor his acts.41 All that is visible in Petronius is a fascination with roles extended to their most artificial extremes, personae radical in action and expression, but assumed without effort and lacking all foundation. Insofar as the terms of Roman ethics are relevant to Petronius’ writings or to his death, it is as a set of conventions open to manipulation for comic effect rather than as an array of moral imperatives. Petronius is thus revealed in both the Satyrica and the Annales as a comedian, and a comedian without boundaries. His comic innovations with regard to suicide in both life and literature, furthermore, are so revolutionary that they serve to destabilize an understanding of the individual that had formed the basis of Roman moral thought since at least the time of the Late Republic.

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Epilogue

Roman Suicide after Nero

If the critique of Roman social and ethical norms revealed in Petronius’ suicide was radical and idiosyncratic, it was also prophetic. Petronius’ death expresses the culmination of an increasing elite tendency to perceive social forms as mutable and arbitrary, a perception that had been growing steadily more acute and agitated from at least the time of Ovid. As the terminal point of one tradition of Roman ethical thought, however, the death of Petronius marks also the beginning of another, in which understandings of the nature of the individual come to be informed by a profound distrust of the moral value of social convention, a transition which is accordingly characterized by various attempts to situate the epistemological locus of ethics elsewhere. This is not to say that the most extended implications of Petronius’ dying acts were ever fully integrated into Roman culture. The full force of Petronius’ comic perversion of ethical norms was largely blunted by the political realities of Empire after the civil wars of A.D. 69. In the writings of the Flavian and post-Flavian Principate, Petronius’ death stands as but one instance of an artificiality and excess held to have characterized the court of Nero and driven it to forsake all tie with reality in the pursuit of unlimited and ungrounded self-fashioning. The reign of Nero is remembered by upper-class intellectuals in later Latin literature as an age in which, catastrophically, the values of the stage came to supplant those of statecraft in political life. Writers as diverse as Tacitus, Suetonius, the Younger Pliny, and Juvenal are united in viewing 1 Nero as a stage-struck madman. He was, they agree, an imperator scaenicus (“ac2 tor-Emperor”) who had inverted all conventional ethical hierarchies in treating senators as actors, viewing the throne as a mere stepping stone to the stage, and forcing every member of Rome’s elite to participate in a vast and grotesque imperial charade. The highly aestheticized deaths of figures such as Lucan and Petronius as recorded in Flavian and post-Flavian historiography are of a piece with this general picture of a thorough-going Neronian theatricalization of the political class. According to Suetonius, in fact, Nero himself attempted a self-fashioning suicide akin to that of his 253

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most famous courtiers, exclaiming as he approached his death, qualis artifex pereo! 3 (“Such an artist dies with me!”) before collapsing into hysterical irresolution. The story is apocryphal, and likely untrue. It nevertheless illustrates what was taken by the second-century aristocracy to be the central ethical truth learned from Nero’s principate: that devotion to illusion must inevitably crumble into disaster against the assaults of reality’s harder truths. This principle furthermore operates on the level of Empire as well as that of the court: in post-Julio-Claudian historiography a direct connection is held to link Nero’s love of theatrical extravagance and self-display with the subsequent descent of the Empire into civil war. The notion had its roots in 4 Flavian propaganda, but long survived its immediate political function to become the basis of enduring aristocratic legend. There was no question, then, of any wholesale adoption of the Petronian perspective that all personae are equal, and equally artificial, by the Flavian and post-Flavian elite. In the eyes of the second-century senatorial order, some personae were clearly viable, and others were not. Certain sectors of the aristocracy accordingly responded to the Neronian crisis and its aftermath in an essentially reactionary fashion, assuming that their foremost duty was to exemplify the terms of the ethical aesthetic in the traditional manner, and to define these terms as strictly as possible. The tendency is most easily perceived in the suicidal dynasty inaugurated by Caecina Paetus under Claudius and continued by various short-lived successors until the reign of Domitian. The first inheritor of Caecina’s suicidal mantle was his son-in-law 5 Thrasea, the exemplary suicide of whom has already been discussed in chapter 8. Thrasea’s death in turn proved sufficiently inspirational to spark a succession of similar suicides: in A.D. 75 Thrasea’ son-in-law Helvidius Priscus was put to death by Vespasian for his intransigence, while under Domitian Helvidius’ biographer Herennius Senecio lost his life, as did Arulenus Rusticus, who had in similar fashion chronicled Thrasea’s demise.6 Although this particular chain of senatorial suicides consists of the most celebrated deaths of the age, the existence and fame of this suicidal clique is only the most visible aspect of a continued aristocratic devotion to the practice of the noble death. Both Tacitus and Martial write as though aristocratic suicide were a relatively common occurrence under Domitian, and political suicides continue to be found, if with greatly diminished frequency, through the reigns of Trajan and Hadrian.7 It is, furthermore, probably upon rescripts from this era that the jurist Ulpian bases his belief that iactatio, ut quidam philosophi (“showing off, as in the case of certain philosophers”) is a legally defensible motive for suicide and should therefore not lead to the posthumous confiscation of goods.8 The connection between suicide, philosophy, and political protest and subversion, then, appears to have survived the chaos of the civil wars largely intact, an impression confirmed by the Flavian expulsion of all philosophers from the city of Rome in A.D. 71 and again in 94. The influence of political suicide furthermore continues to permeate the aristocratic conscience of

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the second century A.D. to an extraordinary degree—even so staid a member of the upper orders as the Younger Pliny is found, as mentioned above, to possess more than 9 one collection of memorable deaths in his library. Nevertheless, the role of suicide in public life can be seen to have slowly dwindled during this era. The challenge posed to aristocratic understandings of the nature of the individual by the Neronian ethical collapse ultimately demanded a response more radical than the rigidification of the conventional senatorial stance. The Empire’s disintegration into civil war in A.D. 69 demonstrated conclusively that a political culture ungrounded in ethical realities could not survive. The very fact that the entire elite social order had apparently managed to lose sight of these allegedly foundational values, however, served powerfully to undermine the notion that such values were in fact innate, or provided any stable basis for a larger ethical system. Deaths such as those of Lucan, Petronius, and Nero established a pattern that dramatically exemplified the price to be paid for unbridled self-delusion. Once established as a pattern, however, they could no longer be dismissed as simple aberrations. Despite the best efforts of Helvidius Priscus and his circle, then, intellectuals writing under Trajan and Hadrian express a distinct wariness in relation to the utility of aristocratic social perception as a means of grounding ethical decisions—and in particular with regard to those forms of death associated with this epistemological assumption. This new attitude is, as discussed briefly in the introduction to this thesis, most clearly articulated in Tacitus’ dismissal of the political suicides of Domitian’s reign as ambitiosae mortes.10 For Tacitus such deaths are no more than inflated attempts to acquire for oneself an exemplary moral stature, attempts that are necessarily illegitimate because grounded in an aristocratic code that does not respond to the true ethical and political demands of life under the Principate. Tacitus is here a somewhat biased source, given his complicity in the condemnation of both Arulenus and Sene11 cio. The view that the practice of political suicide was no more than an empty senatorial pretension, however, is given voice also in the poetry of Martial, who in his epigrams praises with delicate irony only those who manage to avoid acting in so clichéd and stereotyped a fashion. Epigram 1.8, for instance, congratulates a certain Decianus for continuing to live despite the fact that he is a philosopher, a sentiment complemented at Ep. 11.56 by Martial’s claim that suicide should be easy for the Stoic philosopher Chaeremon because he has made his own life miserable through his devotion to asceticism. While Martial stops short of condemning Cato himself,12 the only contemporary suicide of which Martial approves is that of one Festus,13 who according to Martial killed himself to forestall the depredations of a mortal illness—despite the fact that he was the Emperor’s friend.14 Martial’s poetry is of course intended to amuse, but his delight in the inversion of conventional and artificial norms finds a real-life analogue in the figure of Corellius Rufus, who, though

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painfully ill, refused to kill himself under Domitian despite the ravages of a wasting disease in order, he explained, ut scilicet isti latroni vel uno die supersim (“that I might 15 survive that bandit, if only for a day”). Despite the political character of the remark, it betrays a distinctly Petronian attitude towards the value of the political death. On one level it is possible to read this later skepticism as a simple continuation of earlier attitudes. The potential for suicide to ossify into a socially stereotyped act had already been anticipated by Seneca’s remark that some individuals kill themselves in deluded pursuit of a mere umbra virtutis,16 while Tacitus’ proposal that the final criterion for the judgment of moral action should be the usus rei publicae is identical to that of Cicero. Equally, one might argue that senatorial criticism of Neronian decadence and luxuria (“luxury”) are themselves little more than attempts at aristocratic self-fashioning in a new key, a means by which Flavian and post-Flavian elites legiti17 mize themselves at the expense of the Julio-Claudian. If this view is accepted, the accounts of the highly stylized deaths of Lucan, Petronius, and Nero found in later Latin writing become no more than homogenized counter-exempla to contemporary ethical standards, paradigms of tortured artifice designed to highlight by contrast the presumed “naturalness” of the current senatorial elite’s mores and thereby consolidate its grip on power.18 Certainly some skepticism regarding our post-Neronian sources is called for. The details these sources give concerning the deaths of Lucan, Petronius, and Nero all conform exceptionally well to the imagery of Neronian decadence so often developed in Flavian and post-Flavian writings. With Tacitus in particular the suspicion that the decision to include the death of Petronius in his narrative is slightly tendentious is difficult to avoid. If the purpose of this sort of manipulation is to legitimize the power of the senatorial elite, however, it must be noted that the attempt is ill-conceived. The most visible concomitant of the jaundiced attitude taken by post-Neronian writers towards the ethical standards of the Julio-Claudian arbitri honorum and their deaths is not, in fact, the privileging of their own era’s abitri in their stead. It is rather a general undermining of the notion that innate and natural ethical standards can be derived from the collective judgment of a self-constituted aristocratic elite in the first place. Writings on suicide by the turn of the first century A.D. exhibit a general de-emphasis of the value of aristocratic male observers and social ties as necessary criteria by which to evaluate the nobility of a given death. There is, correspondingly, a tendency to privilege a range of other individuals, in particular family members, as crucial factors in the assessment of the moral value of suicide. Of the four exemplary deaths the Elder Pliny records in the Naturalis Historia under the heading of exempla pietatis, three—the willingness of the father of the Gracchi to die in place of his wife Cornelia, the death of Marcus Lepidus after the loss of his wife, and the suicide of Publius Ruti19 lius after his brother’s failure to obtain the consulship—are familial in character.

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The Younger Pliny shares his uncle’s admiration of family-oriented deaths, recording at Ep. 6.24.1-5 the mutual suicide of a husband and wife after his consultation with her concerning the appropriate response to his devastating illness. Such deaths, Pliny feels, ought to be more widely reported, and to receive more acclaim, than has typically been the case.20 Pliny, however, was not alone in his attempts to valorize social relations other than those between aristocratic males. It is in this era, for instance, that Arria Paeta, who allegedly emboldened her vacillating husband Caecina to political suicide by thrusting a dagger into her own breast before him, first becomes a significant culture hero to the upper orders of Imperial Rome: her final admonition of Paete, non dolet (“It doesn’t hurt, Paetus”) was to enter the annals of second-century aristocratic myth.21 Although all these exempla date from Republican or Julio-Claudian times, it is only in the post-Neronian era that we first hear of them. Seneca, for 22 instance, omits all mention of them in his extensive suicidal hagiography. If such 23 deaths are not new to Rome, then, they are new to Roman ideology, and in this form begin to supplant the older, purely male and political, ethic of suicide. Even with regard to the more traditional forms of suicide, however, a distinct post-Neronian devaluation of aristocratic elites as the locus of ethical epistemology can be perceived. The shift is clear, for example, in the writings of Epictetus, the most influential Stoic counsellor of the upper classes in Flavian and Trajanic Rome. Although a Greek and a slave, Epictetus in his works exalts and reinforces ethical precepts central to the Republican senatorial tradition. An admirer of both Thrasea Pa24 etus and Helvidius Priscus, Epictetus appears to have been one of the victims of the Domitianic expulsion of the philosophers, and his writings reprise many of the themes conventional in the conservative mainstream of Roman moralizing thought. His precepts on suicide, for instance, consist largely of reiterated assertions of its constant availability as an ethical option,25 tempered by frequent reminders of the Socratic near-prohibition on self-inflicted death,26 the two perspectives being reconciled by the claim that unavoidable deprivation of the goods-according-to-nature amounts in essence to a divine signal to retreat from life.27 The combination, as with much of Epictetus, is familiar from Cicero. Epictetus even includes in his works an analysis of the contribution of an individual’s particular nature to the ethical status of his or her suicide highly reminiscent of that provided by Cicero in his discussion of the four-personae theory at Off. 1.93-151.28 Like Cicero, Epictetus views considerations of individual nature sufficiently powerful to render suicide under certain conditions obligatory for some individuals and not for others. Epictetus considers it right, for example, that an athlete should choose to die rather than allow his genitals to be amputated in a life-saving operation, or that a philosopher should commit suicide rather than allow himself to be deprived of his beard.29 Significantly, however, the value of acting in accordance with one’s own inherent attributes is not, in Epictetus’ account, held to be derived from their utility in

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agonistic political competition, nor are suicides taken to preserve one’s own ethical status understood primarily in terms of their effects upon social perception. The imperatives generated by the individual’s own nature are instead viewed as simply intrinsic. When asked, for instance, whether the suicidal athlete’s decision to die is made as an athlete or as a philosopher, Epictetus replies by saying that questions of mere role are inappropriate here. The decision is made, he asserts, …y émÆr . . . soioËsom §rsi sÚ kaså prÒrxpom. oÏsxy firvhrÚm parå so›y efihir
°νoiy aÈsÚ rtνeiru°reiν §n aÈsxm §m sa›y rk°ψeriν

(“As a man… This is what it means to act according to one’s own character [proso– pon], and such is its significance for those who are accustomed to taking 30 this into account when making their decisions”). Knowledge of the nature of this proso–pon is, furthermore, not externally derived, but innate, a proposition that Epictetus appears to consider self-evident. When – asked how it is that one becomes aware of the nature of one’s own proso pon, he replies, pÒhem d’ı saËroy k°oνsoy §pekhÒmsoy
Òνoy afirhãνesai s∞y aÍsoË pararket∞y ka‹ prob°bkgkeν •atsÚν Íp¢r s∞y éc°kgy pãrgy; µ d∞koν ˜si eÈhÁy ë
a s“ sØν pararketØν ¶veiν épaνsò ka‹ rtνa¤rhgriy aÈs∞y; ka‹ ≤
«ν so¤νtν ˜rsiy íν ¶v˙ soiaÊsgν 31 pa rarketØν, oÈk écνoÆrei aÈsÆν. (“How is it that, when a lion charges, only the bull is aware of his own power, and advances forward in defense of the entire herd? Is it not clear that awareness of power comes with possession of power? And among us as well, whoever possesses such power is aware of this fact.”)

Ethical awareness, then, evolves not socially, but internally, a development in ethical thought that fundamentally reorients the focus of the Ciceronian theory32 and undermines multiple assumptions basic to Late Republican and Julio-Claudian thinking on the nature of the individual and the moral codes appropriate to this. Epictetus’ deprivileging of an aristocratic enclave of arbitri honorum as the ultimate source of moral standards here has multiple parallels in second-century A.D. Roman culture. It is most visible in the well-documented dual tendency of second-century philosophical writings to search for ethical truths through extreme introspection and in the operations of natura on a cosmic scale. The double focus here on both individual and universal nature might at first glance appear to be self-contradictory. A unifying axis for these divergent orientations, however, is found in their shared attempts to ground ethical understanding in a sphere ontologically prior to, 33 and separate from, the social. Moral reflection achieved through the mediation of

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aristocratic authorities is no longer considered sufficient for the attainment of ethical knowledge; in the moral climate of second-century Rome such reflection must be both universal in scope and intensely personal in application. The effects of this relocation of ethical authority are, in concrete terms, slight. If the aristocracy had by the time of the Flavians forfeited its moral monopoly, it nev34 ertheless retained a firm grip on the reins of power, and later Roman ethical thought proved itself highly flexible in adapting itself to existing social institutions and hierarchies: Epictetus’ devaluation of social observers in the determination of social role is, after all, achieved through simple reification of this role itself. The advice and precepts of the Roman moral philosophers, then, remain largely unchanged from the first century B.C. through the second century A.D. It is only their foundations that are understood to alter. The seismic character of this shift, however, can be gauged by the gradual disappearance of aristocratic suicide from the historical record. Once central to the self-understanding of the Roman ruling class, by the time of Marcus Aurelius any record of the practice has virtually vanished from our sources. In part this attenuation simply reflects a decline in the absolute number of documents we have from the period. Even the sensationalizing Historia Augusta, however, makes no mention of the practice. This is not to say that Roman aristocrats had ceased to kill themselves. Because the value of a suicide was no longer exclusively determined by the presence of a suitably qualified aristocratic audience, however, its profile necessarily declined: while suicide might still be a profoundly moral act, it did not require written documentation to become so. And as such, it drops out of the historical record. With the gradual waning of the upper-class tradition of self-killing through the second-century A.D., the use of suicide as a highly public form of self-definition within the Empire became an idiosyncratic practice of what was then a small and obscure religious sect, the ethical system of which was entirely foreign to the experience of the urban senatorial aristocracy. To the Christians, the existence of whom had by the mid-second century yet to register significantly upon elite pagan consciousness, the voluntary acceptance of death might still serve to demonstrate one’s membership of an elite ethical order. The relevant community here, however, was not a lost and idealized oligarchic Republic, but the Kingdom of Heaven, and the relevant moral witness an entity ontologically prior even to natura itself.

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Glossary of Terms

This glossary lists terms which are used repeatedly in this book and which are not always accompanied by translations. In instances where a large variety of options are given, translations located before the semi-colon are those which are used in this book, while those afterwards give other possible translations of the word, provided in order to convey something of the semantic range of the term being considered. Except where otherwise noted, the following terms are Latin in origin. amor: love, desire. animus: soul, spirit, mind; intelligence, imagination, sensibility, disposition, will. arbitri honorum: critics of honor, judges of honor, witnesses of honor. auctoritas: authority, power; trustworthiness, responsibility. coincidentia oppositorum: resolution of opposed forces. constantia: consistency of character; perseverance, steadfastness. eudaimonia (Gk.): the ideal emotional state, happiness, tranquility; blessedness, good fortune in regard to one’s character. experimentum: test, proof. foedus amoris: contract of love; arrangement between lovers. Fortuna: Fortune, Chance, Fate. furor: raging madness; passion, passionate emotion, frenzy. glissement (Fr.): elision. gravitas: moral gravity; dignity, presence, influence. libertas: freedom, liberty, independence. Liebestod (Ger.): death for love. mos maiorum: the traditions of the ancestors, precedent of the ancestors; custom, tradition. perturbationes [animi]: disturbances of the spirit; passions, disruptive emotions. pietas: awareness of one’s duty towards others, mutual ties and obligations; devotion, dutiful conduct.

261

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pudor: in a woman, “a sense of modesty which ensures the sexual chastity of its possessor,” and in a man, “a sense of honor”; decency, conscientiousness. ratio: reason, rationality; order, arrangement, account, motive, knowledge. res publica: republic, state. sapiens: wise person, enlightened individual. telos (Gk.): goal or purpose, of action, or, in philosophical writings, of life as a whole; end point, finishing-line. virtus: virtue, moral excellence; courage, fortitude, worth, merit, value. vitium: moral flaw; vice, fault, defect. vulgus: the mob, the common people; throng, multitude.

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End Notes

NOTES FOR CHAPTER ONE 1. See further Grisé (1982), 16–7. 2. The description is that of Van Hooff (1990), xiii, and see further his discussion at xiii–xv; also Alvarez (1971), 76. 3. On the defeated general and the condemned senator as the archetypal exponents of the Romana mors in Roman historiography, see below, Chap. 8, and esp. § 8.4, § 8.5. 4. Cf. the characterization of Griffin (1986a), 66 of the archetypal twentieth-century suicide. 5. See e.g. Alvarez (1971), xii and further 78–138; also Grisé (1982), 12; Van Hooff (1990), 82. 6. The notion that suicide is essentially an asocial private act is so well entrenched in modern suicidology that despite general acceptance of the view that acts of non-fatal self-harm, risk-taking behavior, and failed suicide attempts are often best seen as ‘cries for help’ intended to ‘achieve an improved level of [social] integration’ (Davies and Neal (2000), 42) and the existence of a well-known correlation between a history of such “parasuicidal” acts and an eventual successful suicide (O’Connor and Sheehy (2000), 94-5), the sole attempt to understand the suicidal motives of individuals in socially expressive rather than inward psychological terms—that of J. Douglas (1968)—has been met with extreme skepticism in sociological and psychological circles. See further Atkinson (1970), 76–83; Varty (2000), 63–4. 7. mente turbata, found at Tac., Ann. 4.22. Even here the phrase refers to the fit of insanity that led Silvanus to murder his wife, his actual self-killing being understood to forestall conviction for the crime. Griffin (1986a), 66 cites also Tac. Ann. 6.49 as evidence for the modern “despairing” suicide, but her reading of this passage is misguided. 8. See further Griffin (1986a), 65-6 on the ‘theatricality’ of Roman “suicide” during this period. 9. Dig. 28.3.6.7. 10. See below, § 10.3. 11. See the discussions in Griffin (1986a), 69–70; Van Hooff (1990), 79–84. 12. Alvarez (1971), 70-1. 13. That Roman aristocratic suicidal mores evolved as a response to specifically political problems is argued by Griffin (1986b), 195-6 and central to the thesis of Plass (1995). 14. See e.g. Grisé (1982), 107-9; also Van Hooff (1990), 10–11.

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15. On the reception of Le Suicide over the past century see generally Pickering and Watford (2000). Besnard (2000) gives a detailed discussion of Durkheim’s reception in the social sciences. 16. On the asymmetry of Durkheim’s categories and its influence upon subsequent suicidology see Davies and Neal (2000), 30-9. 17. Durkheim (1951), 44. 18. For the use of exire e vita to refer to self-killing see Val. Max. 9.12.1; Sen. Ep. 17.9, 72.3, 98.16; to refer to non-suicidal deaths, see Sen. Ep. 70.11, 54,10, 93.10; an ambiguous usage is found at Sen. Ep. 24.25. For desinere as self-killing see Sen. Ep. 70.5 and 77 passim; for death in general see Sen. Ep. 66.43; it is used ambiguously at Sen. Ep. 77.4, 77.20; for the ambiguous migrare e vita see Cic. Fin. 1.62. 19. Cf. Grisé (1982), 25-6. 20. See further Grisé (1982), 93–126; Van Hooff (1990), 77–8. 21. See e.g. Griffin (1986a), 69; Davies and Neal (2000), 38. 22. Cf. Griffin (1986a), 70. 23. See below, § 7.4, § 8.1. 24. See below, § 8.3, § 8.5. 25. See in particular his laudation of Aufidius Bassus at Ep. 30. 26. See Ep. 1.12 on the death of Corellius Rufus. 27. See e.g. Alvarez (1971), 92-3; Grisé (1982), 21-8; Van Hooff (1990), 80-1. 28. See e.g. Grisé (1982), 15; Griffin (1986a), 69–70; Van Hooff (1990), 91, 94-6; Plass (1995), 96. On this point, see further below, § 8.3. 29. See Griffin (1986a), 75-6; Plass (1995), 107. 30. Grisé (1982), 15. 31. Griffin (1986b), 197-8. 32. Cf. Van Hooff (1990), 6–7, 79–84, although he also acknowledges that his data has been collected and sorted according to Durkheimian criteria. 33. So the most recent Penguin, Oxford World Classics, and Loeb translations of the Agricola. 34. See e.g. Alvarez (1971), 50 on the self-immolation of Jan Palach in 1969; also Asinof (1972). 35. As in the reading of Rist (1969), 249. 36. Liv. 10.15.8. Appius Claudius’s disastrous subsequent military career, marred by constant bickering with his co-consul, suggests, however, that even here the epithet is not particularly flattering. 37. Suet. Aug. 25. 38. Cic. Att. 1.18.1. 39. Sen. Tr. 1.14. 40. See Grisé (1982), 34–53; Van Hooff (1990), 77-8, 107-19; Plass (1995), 84. 41. Grisé (1982), 15, 93–126. 42. Griffin (1986b), 197–200. 43. Plass (1995), 84. 44. Van Hooff (1990), 120. 45. See above, n. 27. 46. Van Hooff (1990), 114. 47. See e.g. Alvarez (1971), 68; Griffin (1986b), 197-8; Plass (1995) 133-4.

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48. The terminology of ‘personne’ societies is actually that of Durkheim’s student and associate Marcel Mauss, but was developed to described Durkheimian concepts; see Mauss (1987). 49. Durkheim (1951), 336. 50. Durkheim (1951), 336. On the importance of the ‘religion of man’ in Durkheim’s thought see Pickering (2000), 76–80. 51. Durkheim’s most immediate influence in the moral tenor of his theory is in fact Kant, as is made explicit in Durkheim (1969), 18–20. On the persistent association of Kantian ethics with Cartesian epistemology in modern discourse and some of the implications of this see Gill (1996), 6–13. The evolution of Kantian philosophy from Cartesian epistemology may be traced back more specifically with reference to Kant (1998), 775, citing the speculations of Hume (1998), 691-8, which form in essence a meditation upon Descartes (1911). 52. See the overviews of Solomon (1988), 5 and Mensch (1996), 44-6, 222-4. 53. Lukes (1985), 293. 54. Descartes (1911), 466. 55. Descartes (1911), 467. 56. The phrase is that of G. Strawson (1999), 136. 57. See in particular P. F. Strawson (1959), 103-5, who points out that a distinction between “self” and “other” is logically prior to any conceptualization of the “self” in the first place. 58. This line of thought is most in evidence in postmodern attacks upon all normative definitions of the self; see for example Jopling (2000), 103-5 on the philosophical works of Richard Rorty and Jenkins (1997a) on postmodernism generally, and Derrida in particular. 59. A good discussion of these terms and their nuances is provided by Rorty (1988). 60. Compare Gill (1990a), 7–10 and generally Gill (1990b) on the normative function – of the term anthropos ("human") in Greek philosophical texts. 61. Specifically Judaism and post-Cartesian continental philosophy. 62. Lingis (1981), xxiii. 63. On the concept see Lingis (1981), xxiii. 64. Lingis (1981), xx. 65. Levinas (1984), 150-1. 66. See generally Levinas (1984). 67. Cf. Van Hooff (1990), 5–14. 68. Cf. Griffin (1986b) and Geiger (1979), 63-4 on the probable mutually reinforcing relationship between the extreme stereotyping found in the portrayal of death scenes in Roman writings of the first century A.D. and the actual practice of Roman suicide.

NOTES FOR CHAPTER TWO 1. That diverse opinions were held on the nature and ethics of self-killing in the Late Republic is testified to by the pamphleteering war between pro- and anti-Caesarian factions that broke out after the suicide of Cato, each championing a radically different interpretation of his final acts. Brutus himself seems to have changed his mind during this period, originally condemning Cato’s suicide as impious, but later vindicating his action against attacks by Caesar. A useful bibliography on this phase

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2. 3.

4. 5. 6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25.

of the propaganda war is assembled in Geiger (1979), 48-9; on Brutus see Plut. Brut. 40.4 Fin. 1.6. For a discussion of Cicero’s aims in philosophical composition and a review of the various statements he makes concerning these in both his philosophical works and the letters see A. E. Douglas (1985), 138-41. See below, §2.3, § 2.4, § 2.4.2. Cf. Oiserman (1988), 155-6 on nineteenth and early twentieth century scholarly attitudes towards the Ciceronian philosophical corpus. Inwood (1986) provides an able analysis of the rhetorical ploys adopted by Cicero against the Epicureans. As Stokes (1995) points out, however, if Cicero’s criticisms of Epicureanism are tainted by bias, they are nevertheless usually accurate. See for instance his repeated insistence (later retracted) that the philosophical systems advanced by the Stoa and by Antiochus of Ascalon are in fact identical, as discussed at § 2.3, below. The difficulties Cicero has in even conceiving of an ethics in conflict with prevailing conventional mores is clear for example in his claim at Off. 1.148 that Socrates was justified in his criticism of established social mores because of his extreme virtus (“virtue” or “moral excellence”); cf. Gill (1988), 179-82. The tendency, however, is pervasive. This difficulty is most frequently perceived in the De Re Publica (“On the Republic”) and the De Legibus (“Concerning Laws”), which are often held to represent an illegitimate conflation of Platonic ideals with Roman realities. For a discussion and rebuttal of this reading see Powell (2001), 19–29. See Rist (1969), 244-6; also M. Griffin (1986a), 72-3; M. Griffin (1986b), 195; Droge and Tabor (1992), 32-4. A more nuanced interpretation along these lines is provided by Grisé (1982), 194–205. Rist (1969), 239-41; cf. Droge and Tabor (1992), 32-4. The doctrine is alluded to by Cato at Fin. 3.48. Olym., Ad Plat. Phaed. 4.403. On Epicureanism see below, chapter 3. On the general acceptability of self-killing in Roman culture see below, § 8.2. Cf. Cooper (1989), 532-5. Cf. Annas (1993), 262-3, although see Inwood (1985), 184-5 on the argument for “orientation.” Fin. 3.21, 3.23. Fin. 3.35. Fin. 3.35, Cicero’s favored translation of the Greek pãhg. Fin. 3.39, 3.75. Fin. 3.21. Fin. 3.15, 3.51-2, translating progcl°ma and époprogcl°ma. Cicero’s indifferens, rendering the Greek édiãuoro˚. Precisely why virtus should be the result of the rational pursuit of the objects of impulse is a matter of contention in recent scholarship. Engberg-Pedersen (1986) sees this as the result of a growing identification with potentially rational agents via their shared devotion to the principles of reason, an argument he develops at length in Engberg-Pedersen (1990). He is largely followed in this regard by Annas (1993),

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End Notes

26.

27.

28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40.

41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55.

267

159-79. Striker (1991), 226-8 and Lesses (1995) express doubts that this highly Kantian perspective can be held to have informed ancient ethics. As is discussed in § 2.4, Cicero himself believes the Stoics to be less than clear in describing the nature of this shift from appetitive to virtuous behavior. Translating Cicero’s vita beata. While Cicero does not explicitly state that his vita beata is intended as a translation of the Greek eudaimonia, the phrase regularly recurs in arguments concerning, e.g., the sufficiency of virtus for happiness, where it is clear that eudaimonia is the concept under discussion. Cf. Striker (1983), 290-1; for further discussion of the role of identity statements amongst these qualities in Stoic philosophy and some of the difficulties this creates in interpreting the system as a whole see Striker (1986), 298–311. Fin. 3.31. See e.g. Plut. Comm. Not. 1070f–1071b and the discussion in Long and Sedley (1987), 407-8. See e.g. Cicero’s complaints at De Or. 1.50, 2.158; Or. 65-6; Brut. 118; Par. Stoic. 3; Fin. 4.5-7; and further Atherton (1988). Cf. MacKendrick (1989), 139. Fin. 3.46. Fin. 4.26-8. Fin. 4.36. Fin. 4.46-8. See e.g. Glucker (1988). The opposing view is argued by Görler (1995), while Long (1995) arrives at a convincing compromise between the two positions. Fin. 5.95. That is, if Brutus’ remarks on his former attitude to self-killing at Plut. Brut. 40.4 are derived from Antiochus, as seems likely. Fin 4.34. – The relationship between Stoic and Peripatetic theories of oikeio sis, and, in particular, the question of which should be accorded priority, is much debated. An overview of the arguments on either side is provided by Görgemanns (1983), 166-8; Magnaldi (1991), 91-2 maintains that, given the present state of the evidence, the issue cannot be settled. Fin. 5.24. Fin. 5.37. Fin. 5.17, 5.36. Fin. 5.41. Fin. 5.42, 3–4; cf. Leg. 1.58. Fin. 5.60. Fin. 5.62-4. Fin. 5.29-30. Cf. the posited incompatibility of emotion and self-knowledge at Fin. 5.70, 5.77-81. Re Pub. 6.15. See above, n. 10. Phaed. 61a, b. Phaed. 114b, Laws 854c4-5. Cf. the discussion of the purpose of the dialogue in Powell (1996), 20-1.

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56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64.

65. 66.

67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73.

74. 75. 76.

77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88.

Suicide and Self in Roman Thought and Literature

See above, n.1. Re Pub. 1.34. Phaed. 65e–67c. A point Cicero acknowledges at Tusc. 1.49. Phaed. 67d. See Hadot (1995), 93-5. See further the discussion of Warren (2001), 93-4. Cf. Warren (2001), 103-5. The significance of the designation of the interlocutor with the letter A. is unknown. Suggestions have included Auditor, Adulescens, Atticus, and, via a misreading, didaskolos. The distinction of speakers by the letters M. and A. at any rate is unlikely to go back to Cicero; see Fohlen (1931), xviii–xix. Tusc. 1.24. On the intended function of Books 3 and 4 as an attempt to ‘rhetoricize’ Stoic tenets concerning the emotions and render them ethically efficacious, see Graver (2002), xxvii–xxix; also White (1995), 234-5. For a more detailed assessment of the use Cicero makes of Sphaerus (as against other Stoic sources) in the composition of Books 3 and 4, see Graver (2002), 143-4. Tusc. 3.11. Tusc. 3.11-29. Tusc. 5.70, 1.52. Tusc. 5.39. Tusc. 5.67. Cicero’s description of the behavior of the soul after death in the Tusculan Disputations is essentially a compressed version of that found in the Somnium Scipionis; see below § 2.4.3. Tusc. 1.75. Tusc. 1.46-7, 1.44, 1.47; cf. Phaed. 67a-c. The word is found in Kinneging (1997), 170 to describe the techniques of self-assessment typical of European aristocratic elites. The aristocratic tenor of the concept is relevant here; see below, § 2.5 On the vexed issue of the concept of the “state” and its relation to Ciceronian studies see Schofield (1995), 67-9. Cf. Schofield (1995), 64. Cf. Wood (1988), 127-9; also Schofield (1995), 71-7. Re pub. 3.33, 3.41; cf. Ferrary (1995), 71. On the innate conservatism of this kind of aristocratic ideology see Wood (1988), 193; also Kinneging (1997), 221. See e.g. Wood (1988), 135. On the “utilitarian” streak to Cicero’s political thought and its relationship to the whole see also Atkins (1990), 272. Wood (1988), 120. Cf. Wood (1988), 82. Atkins (1990), 272. Wood (1988), 79. See for instance Leg. 1.18, 2.8, 2.18, 2.11; cf. Ferrary (1995), 66–73. See further Schofield (1995), 63-4 on the reception of the De Re Publica in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. As Powell (2001), 22–32 observes, the view

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End Notes

89. 90. 91.

92. 93. 94. 95. 96. 97. 98.

99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108. 109. 110. 111. 112.

113. 114. 115. 116. 117.

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that the De Re Publica is intended to describe the best imaginable state is inaccurate. Cicero is concerned here with the best kind of state constitution which is practicable, and views the Roman Republic as one instance of this. The De Legibus is another matter: here the tension between abstract ideals and concrete practice is much more apparent; see further Powell (2001), 37-9. See also Cicero’s discussion of decorum at Off. 1.110 - 161; cf. §2.5, below. See e.g. Wood (1988), 77; cf. Moatti (1999), 293-5. Wood (1988), 77; cf. Brunt (1975), 15, 17-8; Perelli (1990), 1–2, 157, and passim. For a discussion of this tendency as characteristic of aristocratic societies as a whole see Kinneging (1997), 24–30. De part. Orat. 90. Re Pub. 2.39; cf. Off. 1.150-1. De part. Orat. 90; on the reception of this ideal in the West see Kinneging (1997), 185. Cf. Kinneging (1997), 154. Off. 1.14; the same theme is explored further at Tusc 5.62-3; Off. 2.37, 2.34. Tusc. 1.109. The fundamental role of ‘honor’ in the ideology and exercise of Roman power has recently been subject to a great deal of analysis. See e.g. generally Lendon (1998); Barton, C. (2001) 10-7. Long (1995), 238. See in particular Off. 1.64-6, 1.93, 1.157, and below, § 2.5. See for instance Gill (1988), 180-4 on the evaluations made by Cicero on his exempla for the four-personae theory. Off. 2.37. See Tusc. 1.110, 3.3; Pro Sest. 96-8. Cf. Leg. 3.29. Re Pub. 6.13. Re Pub. 6.29. Re Pub. 6.17, 6.20, 6.20-2, 6.23-4. Re Pub. 6.25; see also Cicero’s treatment of the same theme at Leg. 1.58–62. On the “recapping” function of the Somnium Scipionis in relation to the dialogue as a whole see Powell (1990), 124. Cf. Powell (1996), 17. Cf. Powell (1996) on the function of Scipio’s statements in the De Re Publica as a means of characterizing the mindset and outlook of the ideal statesman. Such is the interpretation advanced by Rist (1969), 242-4 and Droge and Tabor (1992), 31-2 with regard to the self-killings of both Zeno and Cleanthes as reported by Diogenes Laertius. Assessing the accuracy of this interpretation with regard to the Early Stoa is beyond the scope of this study; it is, however, undoubtedly incorrect when attributed to Roman sources, as is done by both authors. See further Cooper (1989), 517-20 on the concept of “euthanasia” in the ancient world. Brunt (1975), 15. Rist (1969), 245; Droge and Tabor (1992), 33-4. Gill (1988), 171; the point is also found, less explicitly, in DeLacey (1977). Gill (1988), 179.

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118. 119. 120. 121. 122. 123. 124. 125. 126. 127. 128. 129. 130. 131. 132. 133. 134. 135. 136. 137. 138. 139. 140. 141. 142. 143. 144.

Cf. the discussion in Ioppolo (2000), 17–19. Off. 1.107. Off. 1.115. Schmekel (1892), 39–41. DeLacey (1977), 170-1. Gill (1988), 185. DeLacey (1977), 170. DeLacey (1977), 171-2. Off. 1.108, 1.109. Gill (1988), 181, 186. Off. 1.72. Off. 1.15, 1.19; cf. Atkins (1990), 258-9. Off. 1.64, 1.66, 1.68. Off. 1.101. Off. 1.102. Off. 1.93, 1.157. Off. 1.99. Off. 1.14. Brunt (1975), 13, citing L. Labowski (1934) Die Ethik Des Panaitios. Off. 1.129, 1.104, 1.130, 1.127; the evident arbitrariness of Cicero’s precepts on nudity is pointed out by Gill (1988), 197. Off. 1.146. Cf. Off. 1.129, 1.133, 1.135-7, 1.144. Gill (1988), 194. De Lacey (1977), 172. Cf. Fin. 5.31. See above, n. 1. See below, § 7.4, § 8.1, and the Epilogue.

NOTES FOR CHAPTER THREE 1. For an account of the foundation and rapid growth of Epicureanism in Late Republican Rome see Boyancé (1963), 7–8. 2. See in particular his claim that Epicurus was incapable of vindicating his own undoubtedly high moral character in terms of his own system at Fin. 2.69 and 2.99. The same argument is deployed against Torquatus at Fin. 2.118. 3. See in particular the influential views of De Lacy (1957); similarly Foucault (1984), 51–85. 4. See above, § 2.4. 5. ı d¢ sofÚw oÎse paraise›sai sÚ f∞m oÎse uobe›sai sÚ lØ f∞m. oÎse cår aÈs“ pror¤rsasai sÚ f∞m oÎse donãfesai kakÚm e‰mai sÚ lØ f∞m. Àrper d¢ sÚ ris¤om oÈ sÚ pke›om pãmsxy ékkå sÚ ¥dirsom aflre›sai, oÏsx ka‹ vrÒmom oÈ sÚm lÆkirsom ékkå sÚm ¥dirsom karp¤fesai. (“The enlightened individual does not deprecate life, and he does not fear death. He does not set his mind against life, nor does he consider it an evil to die. And, just as we choose, not only and simply the largest portion of food, but

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6. 7.

8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26.

27. 28. 29.

30. 31.

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that which tastes better, so the enlightened individual chooses not simply the longest life, but that which is most pleasurable”). Gnom. Vat. 9; cf. Sen. Ep. 12.10. ékk’ofl pokko‹ sÚm hãmasom ıs¢ l°m …y l°cirsom s«m kak«m uetÄ cotrim, ıs¢ d¢ …y émãpatrim s«m §m s“ f∞m kak« aflroËmsai (“But many men at one moment abhor death as the greatest possible evil, and at another choose it as a refuge from the evils of life”). The idea, however, was not peculiar to the Epicureans—see for instance Xen. Kyr. 3.1.25, Dio. Chrys. Or. 6.42. Cf. Fin. 1.49. See e.g. Cic. Fin 2.87-8, 92-3. An overview of Cicero’s criticisms here, and an assessment of their validity, is provided by Striker (1983). Fin. 1.38; K.D. 9, 29; Gnom. Vat. 69. Gnom. Vat. 33. Ep. Men. 130-1; Fin. 1.37; Non Posse 1089d. Gnom. Vat. 69, 75. DRN 3.935-9; 1003-10. Cf. Görler (1997), 196-9. Diog. Laert. 10.22; cf. Fin 2.96; Sen. Ep. 22.5-6. Fin. 2.96-7. It is for instance enshrined in the famous tetrapharmakos (“fourfold remedy”) against fear; see Herc. Papyr. 1005, Column IV, lines 10–14. Eg. Fin. 2.22, 2.92-100. On the fear of death as arising from its epistemological ambiguity see Konstan (1973), 15-6. An Epicurean topos; see for instance Diog. Laer. 10.133; Tusc. Disp. 1.11; DRN 3.92-830. See e.g. DRN 3.870-93. See e.g. Diog. Laer. 10.81 DRN 3.902-5. See for instance Plut. Non posse 1104c; Furley (1986), Silverstein (1988); Nussbaum (1994), 208-12. According to Nussbaum (1994), 196–201 the Epicurean understanding of the psychology of timor mortis (“the fear of death”) forces such a radical scission of individuals’ beliefs about themselves from their true natures that it stretches the bounds of rationalist psychology and begins to approach the boundaries of modern psychotherapeutic practice. For a convincing rebuttal emphasizing ancient ideals of self-consistency over Freudian psychoanalysis as the relevant term of comparison see generally Gladman and Mitsis (1997). DRN 3.65; cf. DRN 2.20ff and Bailey (1949) ad loc.; see also K.D. 14. DRN 3.64-6. The exact nature of this linkage has been much debated. Heinze (1897), 57 maintains that the association is based on the tendency of poverty and contempt to lead to death; for Schrijvers (1970), 286-90, on the other hand, the two are associated simply because both are inimical to the dulcis vita stabilisque. See the discussion in Konstan (1973), 14 n.32. See above, § 3.2. Cf. Konstan (1973), 13-4.

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32. DRN 3.37-3.75. 33. DRN 1054-6. 34. DRN 1.943-4. Compare Seneca’s protreptic Stoic adaptation of the paradox at Tranq. An. 2.13-5; see also Toohey (1988), 162-4. 35. DRN 5.988-1002; cf. Konstan (1973), 37. 36. K.D. 33. 37. See e.g. K.D. 7, 34, 37, 40. 38. See for instance Fin. 2.78-85; Mitsis (1988), 98. Even some Epicureans appear to have had difficulty harmonizing the two tenets; on these see Fin. 1.69 and Algra (1997), 144-7. 39. Algra (1997) posits that the basis of the Epicurean social contract is an ahedonistic capacity for mutual affection between humans. Against this see the alternative account provided by Long (1986). 40. Fin. 2.79, 2.82. 41. Denyer (1983), 135, citing K.D. 33, 34; Usener frag. 530. 42. Cf. Fin. 1.66. 43. Cf. Diog. Laer. 10.11; Gnom. Vat. 28, 39. 44. Cf. Fin. 2.78. 45. Gnom. Vat. 56-7; K.D. 35. 46. An Epicurean saying preserved by Seneca, Ep. 19.10. 47. Fin. 2.52-9. 48. Mitsis (1988) 124-9, for instance, considers the objection valid. 49. Long (1986), 296-7, citing K.D. 6, 7, 40 and Plut. Adv. Col. 30, 1124d. 50. Long (1986), 291-3 provides a good discussion of the nature of these communities and their relationship to the poleis upon which they were dependent. 51. Long (1986), citing Diog. Oen. 21 col. 1, 4ff. See also D. P. Fowler (1989), 135-45 on the relationship between the De Rerum Natura and the contemporary political turmoil of the Republic; also Sedley (1997), 41 and 46-7 on the perceived compatibility of Epicureanism with political activity at Rome; see further Inwood (1986) 143-4, 163-4 on the tendency of Late Republican Epicureans to view Epicurean philosophy as a bulwark of conventional moral standards. 52. See below, § 7.1.

NOTES FOR CHAPTER FOUR 1. See below, § 4.2. 2. See below, n. 10 and n. 11. 3. As with the Cistellaria, in which the amans (“lover”) begins the play betrothed to a woman whom he does not love but is of equal status with him. 4. As in the Asinaria and the Pseudolus. 5. See Asin. 605-15; Cist. 641-9; Pseud. 85–95. 6. RA 17–19. 7. Cic., Fin. 5.29; Sen. Ep. 4.4. 8. See above, §2.3, §2.4.1, § 3.2. 9. See below, n. 61 and n. 62. 10. See in particular Segal (1968), 70–98 on ‘Puritans, Principles, and Pleasures.’

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11. See e.g. Slater (1985), 163-78; Sharrock (1996); Moore (1998), 8–23. This approach has also been extremely popular with elegy; see below, § 4.3. 12. The remark is reported by the Pseudo-Acron, In Hor. Sat. 1.2.31-2. 13. Cael. 10. 14. Cael. 42. 15. Asin. 617-43; Pseud. 95–106. 16. Cist. 644. 17. Cf. Rosivach (1998), 8–9. 18. See Konstan (1983), 24-5 on the socially transgressive character as the main target of ridicule in Roman Comedy generally. 19. Off. 1.104. 20. On the resemblance between the protagonists of New Comedy and the self-presentation of the elegists, see Martin and Guillard (1981), 111-3. A plausible pathway for this process of generic assimilation is given by McKeown (1979), 76-9. 21. There are of course exceptions to this generic norm. The ‘Sulpicia’ poems of the Appendix Tibulliana depict the love of a woman for a man, and Tibullus’ ‘Marathus’ poems deal with the poet’s unreciprocated love of a young man. These remain, however, exceptions, and are tangential to the main concerns of this chapter. 22. Cf. Tib. 1.1, 1.10, 2.6, 2.7; Prop. 1.7, 2.1, 2.10, 3.1, 3.3, 3.9; Ov. Am. 1.15, 2.18. 23. For ius see e.g. Tib. 1.6.7; Prop. 3.30.25; lex, Tib. 1.6.69, 2.4.52; Prop. 3.20.16, 4.8.81; Ov. Am. 2.17.23; foedera Cat. 64.335, 337, 76.3, 109.6; Tib. 1.6.7; Prop. 3.20.4-8. For the theme of the militia amoris (“military service imposed by love”) see e.g. Tib. 1.1; Prop. 1.6, 2.7, 2.14, 3.5, 4.1b, 4.8; Ov. Am. 1.9, 2.12, 2.18. 24. On the appropriation of ‘political’ language for ‘erotic’ purposes see especially Ross (1969), 80-9. His treatment is still influential in current scholarship; see for instance Miller (1994), 129 on Catullus’ need to ‘misappropriate’ political terms to describe affective relationships. As Lyne (1980) points out, however, much elegiac diction simply reflects the aristocratic vocabulary of mutuality and reciprocation and is neither political per se nor necessarily exclusive of affective overtones in its ‘original’ context; cf. the cautions voiced by Powell (1995), 43-4 regarding the supposedly ‘political’ function of the term amicitia (“friendship”) in Roman ideology. 25. Cf. Kennedy (1993), 31-2 on the mollitia (“softness” or “feminity”) of elegy. 26. For the theme of the servitium amoris (“slavery of love”) see e.g. Tib. 1.5, 1.6, 2.4; Prop. 3.11; Ov. Am. 2.17. On the precise resonance of this metaphor in Roman elite society see Fitzgerald (2000), 71-4; the metaphor is harsh, but again, not as harsh as is sometimes assumed by modern commentators; see below §4.4. 27. Cf. Veyne (1988), 134 on elegy as a philosophical ‘ethical fantasy.’ 28. Prop. 2.24; Ov. Am. 2.18, Ars Am. 2.353, 3.38, 460; Rem. 55, 591, 606-7. 29. Prop. 1.15. 30. Prop. 1.15; 3.13. 31. Prop. 2.8. 32. The general absence of the suicidal stereotype from the poetic self-presentation of the Latin elegists has been noted before. Suits (1965), 430 n. 9 cites Propertius 2.17.3-4 as the sole exception. Even here, however, the poet’s emphasis on the iterative character of his suicidal speculations—quotiens desertus amaras / explevi noctes, fractus utroque toro (“as often as I spend the bitter nights abandoned, bruising my limbs on either side of the double bed”)—confirms the hypothetical nature of his fantasies

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33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39.

40.

41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55.

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and indicates that the suicidal imagery is being deployed here to lend weight to the rhetorical claim that mentiri noctem, promissis ducere amantem / hoc erit infectas sanguine habere manus (“To deceive me about the night to come, to lead a lover on with empty promises—this will pollute your hands with blood”), with which the poem opens. The sole elegiac poet known to have actually killed himself is the mysterious Cornelius Gallus. His death, however, appears to have been the result of a falling-out with Augustus rather than anything to do with an elegiac amata. The phrase is taken from Adler (1981), 5. An overview of the implications of this kind of ‘individualist ideology’ for the reading of Latin love poetry is provided in Kennedy (1993), 36. Cf. Feldherr (1998), viii on Romantic assessments of Catullus. See e.g. Lyne (1980) on the elegists’ discovery of a ‘whole love.’ Blacklock (1959), 23. Miller (1994), 2. Miller (1994), 1. In his footnote to these passages (184, n. 4) Miller claims that he is not in fact asserting the presence of any ‘reality of the self’ which pre-exists, gives rise to, and corresponds with, that given in the poetry. He maintains rather that it is one of the effects of this poetry to create an impression of such a self. He does, however, hold that elegy reflects a certain historically existing mode of reflexive self-constitution, and his view should thus be read as forming a continuum with the others presented here. On ‘intensity’ as a criterion of veracity in modern poetry see Veyne (1988), 181. On the impression that a work is produced purely for self-consumption as crucial to certain types of Romantic poetry, see Rudd (1976), 165-7. Cf. Stahl (1985), 147; Miller (1994), 130-1. Blacklock (1959), 23. Ipsitilla, Cat. 32; Aufillena, Cat. 110, 111; Juventius, Cat. 48, 99. Prop. 2.22a, 4.8; Ov. Am. 2.4, 2.9b, 2.10. Veyne (1988), 163. Cat. 43.2 Prop. 2.16, 2.34, 3.11, 4.6 On the background and sources for this theme in Tibullus see generally Bénjéman (1979). Cf. Feldherr (1998), viii. The above terms are taken from the list compiled at Maleuvre (1998), 3. Veyne (1988), 151–168. Veyne (1988), 158. Cf. Kennedy (1993), 96-8, followed by Lee-Stecum (1998), 13. See Myerowitz (1985), 34-8. See in particular Veyne (1987), 232, where in a revealing statement he maintains that only an emphasis on “inner life” allows ‘man to . . . [cease] to be an elegant fool, a purveyor of empty advice.’ On stylistic distinction as a means of emphasizing the distance between the aristocratic male and his assumed rhetorical roles see generally Bloomer (1997), and especially 65-9. Observation of these norms was considered de rigueur for poets; see for instance Hor. AP 114-24.

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57. The most famous text in this connection is Apul. Apol. 10, where the sophist appeals to the ‘precedent’ of Catullus, Tibullus, and Propertius in defense of his concealment of his beloved’s name in his own love poetry; see also Prop. 2.24a1-2 and Ov. Am. 3.1.5. On the ‘biographical assumption’ as typical of ancient reading practice see generally Clay (1998); on the Roman elegists in particular see Skinner (1997), 132 and Clay (1998), 28–34. 58. Cf. the arguments in Clay (1998), 33-4 that the conventional Roman poetic distinction between a sordid page and a sordid life—asserted in e.g. Cat. 16, Ov. Trist. 2, Mart. 1.4—should be viewed as a function of, rather than detrimental to, the poet’s unitary elegiac persona. 59. On elegy’s use of both oral and written media see generally Gamel (1998); also Clay (1998), 29–32. 60. See above, § 4.2. 61. Cf. the criteria advanced by Miller (1994), 1–2 for the development of a ‘lyric consciousness.’ 62. See above, § 2.3, § 2.4.2, § 3.4. 63. See also e.g. Ep. Gnom. Vat. 51 64. Tusc. Disp. 5.25. 65. Tusc. Disp. 5.25, 5.18. 66. On the fundamental importance of public/political concerns to Lucretius’ philosophical programme see Fowler (1989), 136-42; Segal (1990), 187–227. 67. See above § 2.4.2, 2.5, 3.4. 68. See above, § 2.5. 69. See above § 3.5. 70. On this see Moatti (1997), 51-3. 71. See the references in n. 21 and n. 22, above. 72. Cf. Wyke (1989), 41-3; Skinner (1997),141-7. 73. See above, § 1.4 74. The view is most concisely expressed in Vergil’s famous amor vincit omnia; et nos cedamus Amori (“love conquers all things; let us also yield to love”) at Ecl. 10.69. Whether or not the line is in fact by Gallus, as argued by Skutsch (1909), 99, the elegiac tenor of the sentiment is undoubted; cf. Kidd (1964), 414-5. 75. See above § 4.3. 76. See e.g. Cat. 64.192–206; Tib. 1.5.57-8; Prop. 3.20.22. 77. White (1993), 87–91. 78. Antigone appears to have been the most popular Sophoclean drama in Republican and Early Imperial Italy. Little survives of the version by Accius, but the myth as presented by Hyginus makes Haemon and the tyranny of his father central to the tale; cf. Anto (1980), 249-51. 79. Cf. the debate between Haemon and Creon on the purposes of rulership at Soph. Ant. 683–765. The extent to which Propertius understands Haemon’s suicide as political (i.e. as a reaction against Creon’s injustice) and/or erotic is debated; see for instance Suits (1965), 429–432 and the note by Giardina (1977) on 2.8.24, 143. The debate is probably irresolvable: the allusion, after all, is only glancing, and the ambiguity is present even as early as Sophocles—the Messenger, for instance, views Haemon’s motivation as mênis (“anger”) [1177], while the Chorus speaks of eros [781-2].

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80. 81. 82. 83.

E.g. Prop. 2.20.18, 2.28.42. E.g. Prop. 1.19.19-20, 3.16.21-4. Cf. Prop. 2.28. The relative ‘reality’ and ‘ficticity’ of the various elegiac dominae (“mistresses”) is a perpetually revisited and insoluble issue in scholarship on elegy; see e.g. the ruminations of Lyne (1980), 19–20, 62, 159-61, 164-5, 174-5, 239-40; on Corinna in particular see Boyd (1997), 133-4. 84. Although see Kennedy (1993), 74 for one plausible reconstruction of the effect of elegiac rhetoric on its putative addressee. 85. On the beloved’s existence as a simple enabling condition and the materia (“subject matter”) of elegiac discourse see Greene (1998), 37–66, 93–114.

NOTES FOR CHAPTER FIVE 1. Ovid in Heroides 7, on which see below, § 6.2, § 6.3, § 6.4, and Seneca in his depiction of Phaedra, on which see below, § 7.3.1; see further Fantham (1975). 2. Savage (1998) provides an outline of the literary reception of Dido through the ancient, medieval, and early modern periods. 3. On historiography and Dido see e.g. Pease (1935), 16-7, Paratore (1947), v–xi, Davidson (1998), 65–72; for the influence of the Neoterics and elegy see Paratore (1947) xxx–xxxi; on Dido as Epicurean philosopher see Pease (1935), 36-8; on Dido-figures in folktale and myth see generally De Luce (1997); on Vergil’s indebtedness to the Medea of Apollonius Rhodes see the summary by Braund (2002), 247-9; on the relationship between Book Four and the works of Naevius and Ennius see Pease (1935), 18–21, Paratore (1947), xi–xiv, Davidson (1998), 69–70 and particularly Horsfall (1973-4), 139-44; on tragedy and Dido see e.g. Pease (1935), 18-9, generally Harrison (1972-3), Rudd (1976), Wlosok (1976) and Moles (1984), also Gill (1997), 228-9. 4. On the ‘Harvard School’ and reactions to the Harvard interpretation see Harrison (1990a) 5–10 and the summary in Braund (2002), 15-6. 5. See Juv. 6.434-5. 6. 4.450-553; 4.575-705. 7. The view goes back at least to the time of Servius, who notes that videtur . . . post amissam castitatem etiam iustus interitus (“her death seems a just one, since her chastity has been cast off”). Most recent commentators attribute this sentiment to Dido (or Vergil) rather than claim it for themselves: see for instance Prescott (1927), 290; Pease (1935), 9, n. 550, 448-9; generally Rudd (1976); Moles (1984), 155; Keith, 115-6. 8. Aen. 1.340-426. 9. Aen. 1.504. 10. For a discussion of the obvious similarities between Dido and Aeneas and the differences these occlude see Horsfall (1973-4), 134-5. 11. Aen. 1.499, 4.144. 12. Hellegouarc’h (1963), 276. 13. For a discussion of pudor and its importance as a moral quality, particularly with regard to women, see Treggiari (1991), 232-7.

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14. Aen. 4.322-3. 15. That a woman should refuse to marry after her first husband’s death was considered laudable at Rome, but was hardly expected; on this point see Rudd (1976), 42-8 and Treggiari (1991), 225-6. 16. The extent to which the sexual mores of Dido’s Carthage are meant to mirror those of Vergil’s Rome has been much debated. As Monti (1981), 34 points out, however, univira status is clearly not the norm in the Carthage of the Aeneid or Dido would scarcely seek to excuse her affair with Aeneas by labeling it a coniugium. 17. Flammae: 1.67, 4.23, 4.66; ignes: 1.660, 1.688, 4.2; sagittae: 4.69; vulnera: 4.2, 4.67. 18. Aen. 4.365-8. 19. Aen. 1.683-8, 1.717-22. 20. Aen. 4.90-128. 21. See above, § 4.2, § 4.4. 22. Aen. 4.15-9; on the implications of this oath for Dido’s later fate see Moles (1984), 155. 23. Aen. 4.31-2. 24. Aen. 4.34. 25. For the concept of ‘extraspection’ see above § 2.4.2, § 2.5. 26. Aen. 4.10-3. 27. The same rhetorical ploy appears to lie behind Venus’ decision to send Cupid to Dido in the guise of Iulus; see Nuttall (1997), 93. 28. Aen. 4.40-51. 29. Aen. 4.55. 30. Aen. 4. 35-43. 31. Aen. 4.86-9. 32. Aen. 4.295. 33. Cf. Lewis (1952), 414, n. 168. 34. Cf. Moles (1984), 157. 35. Freyburger (1979), 113. 36. Freyburger (1979), 114. 37. Freyburger (1979), 116. 38. Aen. 4.172. 39. See above, n. 7. 40. Aen. 4.19, 4.552, 4.596; for an argument that Vergil expects this to be the view not just of Dido but of the reader as well see Moles (1984), 155. 41. Aen. 4.435-6. 42. Aen. 4.392-8. 43. Aen. 4.450-65. 44. Aen. 4.474-5. 45. Aen. 4.460-1. 46. See further Van Hooff (1990), 120–121 on the absence of attributions of suicide to motives of ‘guilt’ in antiquity. 47. Thus Austin (1955), 163-4 ad 550f; also Tilley (1968), 140 ad 150-1. 48. So Ogle (1925), followed by Pease (1935), 449-51ad 551. 49. Aen. 4.412-4. 50. Aen. 4.651.

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51. In the Greek literary tradition, at least, a woman killing herself in fidelity to her marriage vows would normally be expected to resort to hanging. See further Loraux (1987), 15. 52. See e.g. Moles (1984), 159, Oliensis (1997), 307, Keith (2000), 115-6. 53. Keith (2000), 116. 54. Aen. 4. 598-9. 55. Hellegouarc’h (1963), 267. 56. Monti (1984), 76; cf. Buscaroli (1932), 142. 57. Aen. 5.5-7. 58. Mackail (1930), n. 6, 167. 59. Aen. 4.393; See the extended discussion by Pease (1935), n. 393, 333-6. 60. On the significance of the Punic wars for the Roman reception of Book Four see generally Horsfall (1973-4). 61. Aen. 4.534-552. 62. Aen. 4.533, 4.553. 63. Aen. 4.520-1. 64. See for instance Cat. 64.192-206; Tib. 1.5.57-8; Prop. 3.20.22. 65. See for instance Cat. 70; Tib. 1.4.21-6, 9.1-6; Ap. Tib. 3.6.50; Prop. 2.16.47-56, 2.8.5-8. 66. Pichon (1909), 249. 67. On Dido’s suicide as an aition (“origin-myth”) for the Punic mlk-ritual see Davidson (1998), 73-4. 68. Aeneas’ death is not described in the Aeneid itself, but the notion that the Trojan hero died ignobly and in an unknown location in Italy appears to have been well-established in the mythological tradition; see Fairclough (1999), n. 6, 464. 69. Aen. 4.532, 4.564. 70. Furens and cognates: Aen. 4.465, 4.474, 4.501, 4.646, 4.697, 5.6 ; demens: Aen. 4.469 71. Aen. 4.696-7.

NOTES FOR CHAPTER SIX 1. On the tendency of Latin readers and authors to view Aeneid 4 as a self-standing narrative, and to take this narrative of being of more intrinsic interest than the rest of the epic see e.g. Ov. Trist. 2.535, Macr. Sat. 5.17.5-6, and the survey of evidence supplied by Savage (1998), 17–21. 2. Paratore (1947), xxiii. 3. Savage (1998), 7. 4. Keith (2000), 114-5. 5. On the original and transmitted titles of the text see Palmer (1898), x–xi, who argues convincingly that the works were originally entitled Epistulae (“Letters”) but were later referred to as the Epistulae Heroidum to avoid confusion with Ovid’s epistolary exile poetry. 6. The authenticity of many of the Epistulae, and in particular of the double epistles, has frequently been called into question. In the skeptical view of Lachmann (1848) all letters not directly referred to in Am. 2.18, and Heroides 15 (the problematically transmitted Epistula Sapphus (“The Letter of Sappho”)) are spurious, leaving only Epistulae 1–2, 4–7, and 10–11 as authentically Ovidian. Subsequent scholars have

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7.

8. 9. 10.

11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

17. 18.

19.

20.

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been less suspicious. Knox (1995), 5–13 and Kenney (1996), 20-6 defend the view that all the letters are genuine except for the Epistula Sapphus, the stylistic incongruities cited by Lachmann being explicable in their view through differences in date of composition rather than authorship. Reeson (2001), 2–3 rejects arguments for interpolation at 2.18 and accepts the Epistula Sapphus also as genuine. The question is not likely to be settled any time soon, and is at any rate of only tangential relevance to the argument of this book. Discussion here is confined largely to those works agreed by consensus omnium to be authentic, and even those critics who argue for the spuriousness of many of the Epistulae accept that interpolation must have occurred extremely early in the text’s history, and certainly within the confines of Julio-Claudian Latin. The argument advanced here, then—that the Heroides witness the beginning of a profound shift in the Roman understanding of the individual—is thus minimally affected by questions of authorship. Cf. Jacobson (1974), 6–7; on Ovid’s broader tendency to use his reinterpretations of earlier literature as a ‘bid for teleological control’ of the literary canon see Hinds (1998), 104-7. Hypsipyle: Am. 2.18. 33, Ars Am. 2.483; Phyllis: Am. 2.18.22,32, Ars Am. 2.353, 3.3, 3.8, 3.460, Rem. Am. 55, 391, 606-7; Evadne: Tr. 4.3.64. Alcestis: Tr. 5.14.37, Ex Ponto 3.1.106; Laodamia: Rem. Am. 724, Tr. 1.6.20. Lucretia: Fast. 2.815; Ajax: Met. 13.384-98. Hill (2000) 149 ad 13.382-98 maintains that the most relevant precedent here is Sophocles. See however the arguments of D’Anna (1958) for the influence of Pacuvius; Polyxena: Met. 13.440-83. Met. 10.1-85. Ovid’s treatment of the myth here is closely related to that of Vergil’s at Georgics 4.453-537; cf. Hill (1999), 65 ad 1-85. Met. 1.313-415; the story is known to us outside Ovid only through handbooks; cf. Anderson (1996), 181 ad 1.313-415. Met. 4.55-166. Ovid forms our only source for this story; cf. Anderson (1996), 417 ad 4.55-166. Met. 11.291-345. Hill (2000), 193 ad 11.291-345 claims the story is original to Ovid; see however the arguments of Griffin (1976) for Hellenistic predecessors. Met. 12.393-428. The story is probably original to Ovid; cf. Hill (2000), 213 ad 393–420. Met. 14. 698–764. Iphis was a well-known figure in Hellenistic literature who appears in all extant mythological handbooks. His only appearance in Latin poetry, however, is in the Metamorphoses; cf. Hill (2000), 194 ad 14.698-764. Met. 10.86-142. Ovid forms our earliest source for the tale; cf. Hill (1999), 169 ad 86–142. Met. 11.749-95. The story of Aesacus appears to have entered Latin literature with the now lost Ornithogonia of Aemilius Macer, but our only extant source remains Ovid; cf. Hill (2000), 201-2 ad 11.749-95. Met. 10.312-502. The story of Myrrha was a well-worn one in Latin literature by Ovid’s time, having been treated exhaustively in particular in Cinna’s notorious Zmyrna, itself building upon a significant corpus of Hellenistic poems devoted to the topic; cf. Anderson (1996), 175 ad 10.312-502. See also Ovid’s allusions to alternative versions of the myth at Ars Am. 285-8 and Rem. Am. 200-1. Met. 9.450-665. The story of Byblis was a popular one with the Hellenistic poets, and appears in numerous variations; cf. Hill (1999), 155 ad 450–605.

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21. Met. 11.291-345. Daedalion appears to have been an invention of Ovid’s; cf. Hill (1999), 197 ad 291–345. 22. The exceptions are Epistulae 1, 6, and 9 (the letters of Penelope, Ariadne, and Medea respectively). 23. The exceptions are Epistulae 3 (Briseis), 8 (Hermione), 14 (Hypermnestra), and possibly 15 (Sappho). 24. Met. 13.390. 25. See above § 4.5, n. 80 and n. 81. 26. On Ovid’s abstract and literary approach to character as an obstacle to appreciation see Wilkinson (1955), 443-4; Frécaut (1972) 14-6, 358. 27. On Ovid’s formalism as a flaw in the Heroides see e.g. Palmer (1898), xiv; Frécaut (1972), 284; Jacobson (1974), 4–6; Hine (1991), ix; Conte (1998), 348. 28. Palmer (1898), 399; cf. Kennedy (1984), 416; Knox (1995), 201-2. 29. The description is that of Barchiesi (1987), 66. 30. On irony as central to appreciation of the Heroides see Knox (1995), 19. 31. Cf. Holzberg (2001), 258. 32. Cf. Reeson (2001), 6–7 on the difficulties of assessing Ovid’s contribution to the myths of Canace, Laodamia, and Hypermnestra in the Heroides. 33. Cf. Jacobson (1974), 76-7; Desmond (1993), 58; Knox (1995), 201. 34. pace Austin (1955), who erroneously takes 7.133-8 to signify that Ovid’s Dido is in fact pregnant with Aeneas’ child; Knox (1995), 20, notes the error. 35. Austin (1955) 98 ad 305-30. 36. See e.g. Jacobson (1974) 76; Fantham (1975), 1. 37. Barchiesi (1987), 83. 38. Her. 7.1-6. 39. Her. 7. 184-6. 40. Her. 7. 191-6. 41. Palmer (1898), 339; Barchiesi (1987), 66; Knox (1995), 201-2. 42. Aen. 4.449-51. 43. The discrepancy is noted by Knox (1995), 202 ad 1–6, who asserts that this is ‘not merely a trope.’ The issue is not, however, a decidable one, as I hope the rest of my analysis will show. 44. Her. 7. 141-4. 45. Her. 7.12-14, 7.149-52. 46. Her. 7.75, 7.153-4, 7.101-2. 47. Her. 7. 41-50, 7.169-80. 48. Her. 7.9. 49. Her. 7.57-60. 50. Her. 7.36-9. 51. Her. 7.83-4. 52. For reflexive self-reference to the epistolary status of the poems see Her. 1.1-2, 3.1-2, 4.3, 4.175-6, 5.1-2, 6.7, 7.183-4, 10.3, 11.1-5, 13.1-2, 65-6, 14.1-2, 131-2, 15.1-4, 16.1-2, 13-4, 17.1-2, 265-8, 18.1-4, 15-21, 215-8, 19.209-10, 20.5-6, 171-2, 229-30, 241-2, 21.15-21, 245-8. 53. Ovid’s apprenticeship in the declamatory schools is referred to by the Elder Seneca at Contr. 2.2.8 and 9.5.16-7. On the Heroides as versified rhetorical set pieces see e.g. Palmer (1898), xiv–xv; Wilkinson (1955), 5–10; on the influence of the suasoria

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54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83.

84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92.

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on the Heroides see generally Sabot (1981); for the influence of the e- thopoiia see Arnaldi (1958), 26. An overview of the issues involved in such assessments of the Heroides is provided by Jacobson (1974), 315–30. The phrase is used with reference to the Heroides in Verducci (1985), 8. Bardon (1958), 81. Barchiesi (1987), 67. Jacobson (1974), 329. The phrase is used with regard to the Heroides by Bardon (1958), 81. See e.g. Jacobson (1974), 329; Verducci (1985), 30-2; Barchiesi (1987), 69; Conte (1994), 350. Cf. Wilkinson (1955), 86-7. See e.g. Higham (1958); Jacobson (1974) 323-31; Verducci (1985), 30-2 See for instance the approaches of Wilkinson (1955), 95-9; Frécaut (1972), 200-2; Hine (1991), 9. Jacobson (1974), 329. Desmond (1993), 56-8. Barchiesi (1993), 344. See above § 4.2. Or. 99; cf. Brut. 233; Rhet. Her. 3.22; Quint. 11.3.44-5. Cf. Bonner (1949), 69. Jacobson (1974), 85. Knox (1995) 230 ad 174. Jacobson (1974), 143-4; Knox (1995), 21. Cf. Knox (1974), 92. Palmer (1898), xx; Knox (1995), 207 ad 23–36. Knox (1995), 209 ad 37–74. Knox (1995), 217 ad 87-8. Knox (1995), 221 ad 111-38. Palmer (1898), xvi, n. 3. Jacobson (1974), 86-9. Barchiesi (1987), 87. Knox (1995), 213 ad 61. Palmer (1898), 350 ad 192; Wilkinson (1955), 87. Knox (1995), 233 ad 191; cf. Jacobson (1974), 92. See for instance the reaction of Palmer (1898), xvii–xviii to the analogous passage at Her. 8.63-80, which he judges the most affecting and pathetic of the whole piece; also Wilkinson (1955), 101-2. See above, § 6.2. See e.g. the repeated point/counter-point structure of 7.11-24 and Dido’s climaxing arguments at 7.47-60; cf. Jacobson (1974), 83. Her. 7.85-8. Her. 7.89-92. Her. 7.93-6. Her. 7.96-104. Her. 7.108. Her. 7.109-110. Her. 7. 69-70; 7.22.

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93. Cf. Knox (1995) ad 169–180. 94. Cf. Conte (1994), 354. 95. See above, § 6.1.

NOTES FOR CHAPTER SEVEN 1. Cf. Conte (1994), 402-4 on the ‘spectacularization’ of literature in this epoch. 2. In older criticism this focus upon extreme or unusual behavior and reasoning is frequently dismissed as itself degenerate and/or decadent; see for example Fowler (1923), 169–780 and Duff (1927), 21-2. More recently Boyle (1997) generally and Slavitt (1992) in his introduction concur with this assessment, although the value judgment attached to this evaluation is positive rather than dismissive. 3. On the meaning of the term dialogus (“dialogue”) and the tendency of first century literary critics to treat it as synonymous with the sermocinatio (“disputation”) see Costa (1994), iv. 4. The extent to which Seneca encodes philosophical principles in his tragedies is a vexed issue in contemporary scholarship, and the proportion appears to vary from play to play. Philosophical interpretations, for instance, may be applied fairly readily to the Hercules Furens, on which see for example Lavall (1983) and Rose (1979/80). In other plays the precise philosophical tone is difficult to assess, with even philosophically minded commentators tending to assume that certain aspects of the plays are inexplicable in any strictly philosophical sense; see for instance the approaches of Croisille (1964) and Davis (1989). The difficulty of straightforwardly reading off the doctrines of Stoicism from the texts of the plays has led some critics, notably Lefèvre (1981) and Schiesaro (1997) to view the tragedies and the philosophical works as in fact opposed to each other. Nussbaum (1993), 146-8 argues that the tragedies might plausibly be read as a means of addressing philosophical concerns intractable to more direct approaches. How one might answer this question unequivocally is at any rate unclear; what is of interest in this chapter, however, is the observable continuity between Seneca’s writings on suicide in his philosophical works and in his tragedies. 5. On Seneca’s tendency to inconsistency between his philosophical works due to his need to address the immediate concerns of his recipients see for instance Grollios (1956), 62-4, and, more favorably, Grimal (1955), 5; Manning (1974), 72-5; Griffin (1976), 374-6; generally Wilson (1987). For the argument that Seneca’s philosophy amounts to a coherent system despite its allegiance to no single school see Grimal (1978), 323–352. 6. Thy. 1043-4. Seneca apparently believes this incident also to have had historical analogues: see De Ir. 3.15.3-4. 7. Ep. 24.1. 8. De Ir. 3.15.6. 9. Rist (1969), 248; Droge and Tabor (1992), 34. 10. For a discussion of Cynic and Stoic concepts of eleutheria and the argument that this understanding of “freedom” predominates to the exclusion of all others in Hellenistic philosophy until at least the second century A.D. see generally Brancacci (2000b). 11. See above, § 2.2. 12. Griffin (1976), 388; Sorensen (1984), 198; Droge and Tabor (1992), 36.

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13. See above, § 2.2. For the elucidation of the doctrine in Seneca see in particular his – treatment of oikeo sis in Epistle 121; also Ep. 20.5-6, 85.22. 14. See above, § 3.3. 15. Cic. Tusc. Disp. 4.10-24. The distinction appears to go back to at least the time of Chrysippus; cf. Fillon-Lahille (1984), 96-7. 16. See below, § 7.3.2. 17. See above, § 2.4. 18. Seneca does seem to accept the possibility of the existence of the Forms, but doubts that knowledge of these has any relevance to the domain of ethics; see e.g. Ep. 63.18, 25-6. 19. See e.g. Alvarez (1975), 89. 20. See above, § 2.2. 21. See for instance Ep. 30 on the death of Aufidius Bassus and Ep. 77.6-9 on Tullius Marcellinus. 22. See e.g. Tro. 568-77, 1090–1102, 1152-9; Ep. 24.9, 66.13. 23. The pre-eminent example here is Cato, on whom see Ep. 11.10, 14.13, 71.10, 82.12, 95.69-71; Ad Helv. 3.15; De Prov. 2.10-1. See also Seneca on the death of Socrates at Ep. 24.4, 67.7; Ad Helv. 13.5; also the flippant defiance of Julius Canus before Caligula at De Tranq. An. 14.17. 24. As in the case of the multiple exemplary slaves and gladiators who commit suicide to escape degradation in Ep. 70 and 77. 25. See for instance Seneca’s contempt at Ep. 70.7 for the maxim of Telephorus in response to his imprisonment by Lysimachus: omnia homini dum vivit, speranda sunt (“a man can hope for everything, as long as he is alive”), a sentiment Seneca holds to be absolutely unworthy of a free individual. 26. Ep. 4.4, 30.15. 27. Ep. 78.2-3; cf. Ep. 104.3-4. 28. Her. Fur. 1030-42. 29. Ep. 9.10. 30. Ep. 36.8; cf. Ep. 82.15. 31. Cf. Griffin (1976), 378. 32. De Ir. 3.15.4-5. 33. See above, n. 23. 34. Ep. 14.13. 35. Cf. De Ot. 8.3-4. 36. Ep. 91.18, 53.10, 57.12. 37. See for instance the Nurse’s sententious assessment of Phaedra’s dilemma at Ph. 215: quod non potest vult posse qui nimium potest (“Those who are too powerful desire that which is beyond their power”). 38. Cf. Ph. 518-9, 1138-9; Thy. 453; Ep. 90.43. 39. Brev. Vit. 4.3. 40. Brev. Vit. 5.2. 41. Brev. Vit. 2.2. 42. Ep. 31.3; 66.16; 7.12. 43. Brev. Vit. 13.2; 10.4. 44. Cf. Wilson (1997), 64-7; also Wright (1974), 41.

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45. See in particular his discussion of the relationship between decreta (doctrinal

philosophical teaching) and praecepta (instructions given by philosophers regarding how one should behave in particular circumstances) in Ep. 94 and 95. Although Seneca does not here dismiss the value of praecepta entirely, he limits their usefulness to the earliest, pre-philosophical, stages of ethical training. For a useful summary of Seneca’s thought here and its relationship to other traditions of Stoic thinking on the matter see generally Ioppolo (2000). 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74.

See e.g. Ep. 7.8-9, 52.13-4. See below, § 7.3.2. Ep. 49.2. Ep. 27.3. Ep. 49.10. Ep. 91.12. Ep. 27.3. Ep. 101.12-4. De Cons. 8.3. De Cons. 8.3. Ep. 24.13. Ep. 91.21. De Ir. 3.15.3-4. Ep. 24.1. Tranq. An. 1.1. De Ir. 3.15.5-6. Ep. 24.5. De Prov. 3.9; Ep. 67.7-12, 71.17. Troa. 1152, 1093-1102, 1099-1100, 1144-6. Tro. 1154. Ad Helv. 13.15. Cf. Ep. 50.4, 75.12. Med. 910. Thy. 887-8. See Toohey (1988), 163-4; Toohey (1990), 156-8; Toohey (1992), 273-5. Ad Marc. 1.7. See above, § 4.2. Eur. Ph. 600, 687, 728-31; cf. Loraux (1987), 29–30. Cf. Fantham (1975), 2; for specific reminiscences of the Heroides see ‘Appendix 1: Borrowings,’ in Coffey and Mayer (1990), 197–203. 75. Cf. Davis (1983), 121. 76. The view that Senecan tragedy is fundamentally motivated by a ‘concern with the complexities of human psychology’ [Boyle (1997), 26] is common in recent scholarship. The most radically psychologizing reading of the Phaedra is undoubtedly that of Segal (1986), who attempts to interpret the play in terms of Lacanian psychotherapy. More conservative critics, however, have also viewed Seneca as a ‘psychological’ playwright; see for instance the judgment of Coffey and Mayer (1990), 28 and the ease with which Roisman (2000) slips into discussion of the ‘sexual repression’ of Hippolytus and his tendency towards ‘unconscious revelation’ in his tirades.

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77. Friedrich Leo, Seneca’s first great modern editor, famously described his plays as declamationes . . . in actus deductae (“declamations drawn out into acts”). For a nuanced recent restatement of the rhetorical character of Seneca’s dramaturgy see generally Hook (2000). 78. See e.g. Boyle (1997), 89 on the alleged struggle of Seneca’s characters against the ‘determinism of the literary past,’ anticipated by the comments of Shelton (1980), 72 n. 55 on Medea 910. See also Schiesaro (1997), 95-6. 79. Barker (1949), 827. 80. Coffey and Mayer (1990), 97 ad 85–273; 189 ad 1179-80. 81. Davis (1983), 122. 82. Roisman (2000), 75. 83. Ph. 250-4. 84. Ph. 271. 85. Ph. 256-7. 86. Coffey and Mayer (1990) 115 ad 250. 87. Coffey and Mayer (1990) 115 ad 250. 88. As cited in Croisille (1964), 288. 89. Slavitt (1992), 95. The original lines runs sic te senectus nostra praecipiti sinat / perire leto? siste furibundum impetum. / haud quisquam ad vitam facile revocari potest (Literally: “and should my old age allow you to die some impulsive death? Force back this raging urge—it is not a simple thing to be summoned once again to life!”). 90. Zintzen (1960) Analytisches Hypomnema zu Senecas Phaedra (Meisenheim), 34, as summarized in Croisille (1964), 288. 91. Croisille (1964), 289. 92. See the prolonged interrogation of Phaedra by both the Chorus and the Nurse at Eur. Hip. 266–361. 93. Coffey and Mayer (1990), 8. 94. See above, § 5.2. 95. Ph. 177-9. 96. Ph. 154-7. 97. Ph. 163. 98. Ph. 184-94. 99. Ph. 242-4. 100. Ph. 246-7. 101. Ph. 267 102. Ph. 221-2, 255-7. 103. Ph. 269-70 104. Ph.386-403. 105. Ph. 583. 106. Ph. 589-90. 107. Ph. 619. 108. Ph. 617. 109. Ph. 632. 110. Ph. 634. 111. Ph. 640-1. 112. Ph. 645. 113. Coffey and Mayer (1990), 151 ad 671-83.

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114. 115. 116. 117. 118. 119. 120. 121.

122. 123. 124. 125. 126.

127. 128. 129. 130. 131. 132. 133. 134. 135.

136. 137. 138. 139. 140. 141. 142. 143. 144. 145. 146. 147.

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Ph. 682-4. Ph. 710-2. Coffey and Mayer (1990), 154 ad 712. Ph. 718. Ph. 891-7. Davis (1983), 122-4. Seidensticker (1969), 149. Particularly curious is Davis’ claim that the words labem hanc pudoris (“this stain upon my pudor”) refer not to the alleged rape nor to Phaedra’s furor (“raging madness”) but to the fact that she is lying as she makes her claims: although Phaedra is undoubtedly under a great deal of strain at this point, it hardly makes sense to justify one’s suicide by reference to the fact that one is telling a lie, the truth of which falsehood the suicide will serve to confirm; see Davis (1983), 123-4. Davis (1983), 123-4. Croisille (1964), 295-6. Ph. 827. Ph. 734. See also her choice of Jupiter and Phoebus at 888-9 to act as witnesses to her oaths, precisely those deities whose fidelity to the marriage oath she has earlier impugned at 18-7 and 192-4. See above, § 5.3. Coffey and Mayer (1990), 168 ad 902. Phaedra reappears in the action still clutching Hippolytus’ blade at 1155. Ph. 1192-7. Ph. 1197. Ph. 1175-6. Ph. 1184-5. Ph. 1188-9. Cf. the comments of an unnamed Stoic philosopher at Ep. 77.6: cogita quamdiu iam idem facias: cibus, somnus, libido, per hunc circulum curritur. mori velle non tantum prudens aut fortis aut miser, fastidiosus potest (“Think for how long you have been doing the same things now: food, sleep, lust—this is the circuit that life runs. One is able to wish for death not because one is wise, or brave, or unhappy, but because one is bored”). Tranq. An. 2.1. See e.g. Ep. 1.8, 1.11, 1.14; Sat. 2.7; Car. 2.16. Ep. 24.22. Tranq. An. 2.8-10. Tranq. An. 2.10. Ep. 24.25. Ep. 74.21. Tranq. An. 16.2. Ep. 4.5, 30.12. Ep. 104.28; cf. Cic., Off. 1.90 on Socrates’ dispassionate expression. Ep. 30.3. Ep. 77.9.

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148. For an account of the process by which Cato came to be enshrined as the pre-eminent example of Roman virtus see Geiger (1979). 149. Plut. Cat. Min. 70.4-70.6. 150. Ep. 70.19. 151. De Prov. 2.10-11. 152. Ep. 41.4. 153. See for instance Griffin (1976), 376; Griffin (1986b), 66; Droge and Tabor (1992), 50 n. 87. 154. Gill (1973) points out that Socrates’ symptoms in the Phaedo are notably at variance with the pronounced effects hemlock poisoning in fact has on the constitution. 155. Cf. Griffin (1986a), 65-6.

NOTES FOR CHAPTER EIGHT 1. The phrase is found in Griffin (1986a), 68. 2. See further Plass (1995), 84 on the role of political suicide as an ‘ad hoc institution . . . expressive of longer-term arrangements in political power’ during the early Principate. 3. Cf. Griffin (1986a), 65-6. 4. See above, § 1.1. 5. Van Hooff (1990), 4. 6. Cf. the list of characteristics typical of Roman suicide during this period given by Griffin (1986a), 65-6. 7. Tac., Ann. 16.16. 8. C.D. 60.16. 9. Cf. Griffin (1986a), 64; Grisé (1982), 54-7, 284-5; Van Hooff (1990), 14-5. 10. See the full list of suicides found in our sources provided by Van Hooff (1990), Appendix A. 11. See Van Hooff (1990) Appendix A. Van Hooff admits to having encountered difficulties in defining precisely what constitutes a ‘case’ of self-killing (see Van Hooff (1990), 5–10), but whatever fuzziness there might be around the margins, the leap in frequency remains obvious. 12. Although the only indication we have that Thrasea’s final deliverance will be a painful one is Tacitus’ lentitudine exitus gravis cruciatus adferente (“the slowness of his death bringing with it grievous torment”), Roman suicidal typology as sufficiently well established by this point to assume a fairly extended suicide scene for the Stoic hero. Cf. Geiger (1979), 63 n. 60. 13. Flor. 2.17. 14. On Petronius’ death as proof of the extreme stereotyping of suicide during this period see Van Hooff (1990), 52 and Plass (1995), 10. Other instances of the stereotyped suicide during this period are found in Jerome’s description of the death of Mesalla Corvinus (Iero. Chron. 197) and, probably, Tacitus’ claim at Ann. 15.71 that Statius Proxumus wasted the pardon he received from the Emperor through vanitate exitus (“the pretentiousness of his death”). 15. Tac. Ann. 11.3 and 15.70. 16. See e.g. Sen. Tranq. An. 14.7. 17. Geiger (1979), 61.

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18. 19. 20. 21.

22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40.

41.

42.

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Cf. Geiger (1979), 62. Sen. Ep. 74.6; Per. 3.45. Geiger (1979), 71. That senatorial “Republicanism” at this time aimed at moral reform rather than institutional or concrete political change has been exhaustively demonstrated by Wirszubski (1950), 121-50. “Republicans” of this period might clamor for an increased role in government or be prepared, as in the Pisonian conspiracy of 65 A.D., to replace one emperor with another who might better respect senatorial prerogatives. They did not, however, generally advocate a return to the unfettered oligarchic competition and civil war of the Republican era. Plin. Ep. 8.12.; 5.5. Cf. Geiger (1979), 63-4 on the stereotyping pressure of Cato’s example on Imperial suicidal etiquette. 19 out of 74, or roughly 26%. Van Hooff (1990), 269 n. 77. Plut. De garr. 508a. Tac. Ann. 6.46. The notorious pretium festinandi (“reward for speed in self-killing”) referred to at Tac. Ann. 6.35. Tac. Ann. 11.2. Suet. Gaius 26, 49. C.D. 58.15. On the perceived “paradoxicality” of the enforced suicide, see below § 8.3. Rist (1969), 245-50. Grisé (1982), 216-8. Griffin (1986a), 74-5. Van Hooff (1990), 85. See above § 2.1, § 2.4. Grisé (1982), 223; Griffin (1986a), 223; Van Hooff (1990), 184-5. See Grisé (1982) 54 and further Versnel (1976), 365 n. 1. For the argument that the suicidal ritual of the devotio ducis (“devotio of the general”) is a Decian improvisation of the more common devotio hostium (“devotio of the enemy”) see generally Versnel (1976). CIL 1.1418 records to gift of land for a graveyard by one Horatius Balbus to his civitas (“city-state”) on the express condition that the bodies of gladiators, suspendiosi, and other infames be excluded from it. A second inscription, published in Bove (1966), prohibits all but a specifically designated manceps (“contracted worker”) from handling the corpses of the hanged. For a discussion of the implications of these and of literary treatments of hanging in Latin literature see generally Voisin (1979). On the “untouchable” status of the hanged see Voisin (1987), 261-3. Claims that Roman religion maintained a total taboo on all forms of suicide have tended to rest upon four pieces of evidence. The first is Caesar’s display of placards at the triumph celebrating his victory over Pompeian forces in Africa which depicted the mass suicide of the defeated forces. These are cited by Bayet (1951), 35-7 and MacMullen (1966), 5 as proof of an ancient taboo on self-inflicted deaths, but as Griffin (1986b), 194 points out Appian (B.C. 2.101) records the response of the crowd as one of grief and pity, and Caesar’s demonstration was probably an ill-judged

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attempt to illustrate the overwhelming character of his victory rather than to smear his opponents with the charge of sacrilege. Griffin (1986b), 192 believes that if there is any evidence for a general taboo on suicide in the imperial era, it is in Claudius’ attempt, attested at Suet. Claud. 16, to remove a man from the Senate rolls in the (mistaken) belief that he had stabbed himself in an unsuccessful self-killing. Hurley (2001), 132 ad 16, however, observes that Claudius was probably motivated less by any hypothetical antiquarian injunction against suicide than by the pervasive use of suicide in the Imperial era to evade criminal prosecution, and hence by the belief that the man had been guilty of some heretofore-undetected crime. The third and fourth pieces of evidence sometimes interpreted as reflecting a general taboo on suicide tout court under the Julio-Claudians are a pair of inscriptions mutilated in a fashion indicative of a postmortem damnatio memoriae (“condemnation of an individual’s memory”). The first inscription, CIL 2.2703, was erected in honor of Cnaeus Calpurnius Piso, a man mentioned by Tacitus as having killed himself in A.D. 20 amid rumors that he was responsible for the death of Germanicus. Tacitus, however, describes in part the debate in the Senate regarding a posthumous damnatio memoriae for the accused at Ann. 3.18, and the issue of his suicide is never raised. It seems reasonable to suppose, then, that the mutilation of his monument is connected more with the extreme opprobrium that descended upon Piso in the wake of Germanicus’ death than with the fact of suicide itself. The second effaced inscription, CIL 5.540, is a monument to one P. Clodius Quirinalis, miles leg. XV Apollinaris (“soldier of the 15th Apollinarian legion”), in whom some scholars have seen the father of the praefectus classis (“Prefect of the Naval Fleet”) Publius Palpellius Clodius Quirinalis, recorded in Tac. Ann. 13.30 as having killed himself under scandal-ridden circumstances. The tenuousness of the identification and the fact that an intact inscription to the suicidal praefectus himself survives, however, might seem to indicate that whatever motives led to the effacement of the inscription, an abhorrence of suicide is not among them. For a review of the scholarship relating to these two inscriptions and a lucid argument that neither can be used as evidence for the posthumous damnatio memoriae for all suicides see Voisin (1987), 267-72; cf. Van Hooff (1990), 67. 43. See e.g. Plaut. Trin. 496-9; Liv. 42.28; Hor. Ep. 1.19-30; Luc. 4.653-4; Pliny NH 16.45; cf. the summary by Van Hooff (1990), 70. 44. Attempts to explain Rome’s idiosyncratic abhorrence of hanging are necessarily speculative and inconclusive. Grisé (1982), 146, following Matzeneff (1965), 105-43 mentions the unappealing appearance of the hanged, a consideration which, as Voisin (1987), 263 observes, is likely to hold little weight in a culture in which disembowelment by the sword is highly valued. Various anthropological arguments—that suicide by hanging was a characteristically lower-class form of self-killing (Grisé (1982), 134-5), that it represented an inversion of sacred religious rituals (Bayet (1922), 294-99), or that it was held to confer upon the animus morientis special magical powers (Jobbé-Duval (1924), 77-8; Grisé (1982), 144-5)—are simply unsupported by any evidence, as Voisin (1979), 428-32 points out. His suggestion that the horror with which the Romans regarded hanging is derived from the suspendiosi’s lack of contact with the ground is elegant in its explanation of Pliny the Elder’s unusual claim that Tarquinius Superbus crucified the bodies of those who hanged themselves in order to escape forced labor, but has little else to recommend it.

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45. 46. 47. 48.

49.

50. 51.

52.

53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64.

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Garnsey (1970), 116-7. Wirszubski (1950), 3. Cf. Grisé (1982), 67. See most spectacularly the case of C. Licinius Macer who, according to Val. Max. 9.12.7, committed suicide just moments before being found guilty by Cicero of extortion. The story is apocryphal—an alternative account, whereby Macer dies of shock at being convicted, is found at Cic. Att. 1.4.9 and Plut. Cic. 9—but Maximus’ assumption that the tactic would have been efficacious indicates that the principle of crimen mortalitate extinguitur (“any crime is extinguished by the death of the defendant”) was generally felt to apply even in extremis; cf. Grisé (1982), 250-1. The principle that the suicide of a defendant might in some cases act as proof of guilt appears to have been established at some point during the reign of Tiberius. See Tac. Ann. 15.35, Suet. Gaius 26, and the comments of Crook (1967), 267. See Grisé (1982), 249-58. The extant works of Livy, Tacitus, and Cassius Dio record, according to Grisé’s count, 56 separate instances of pre-emptive juridical suicide from the foundation of the Republic to the end of the reign of Nero. Excluding the mass suicides of suspected Bacchantes in 186 B.C. (Liv. 39.17) and those accused of the murder of Marcus Postumus Regillensis in 413 B.C. (Liv. 4.51.3), these instances account for the self-imposed deaths of 66 individuals; see the table compiled by Grisé (1982), 34–53. Cf. Grisé (1982), 249-51. The exact legal mechanism governing the Emperor’s decision whether or not to refrain from the confiscation of goods in the aftermath of political suicides has been much debated. Hands (1962) summarizes the arguments on both sides, and more recent contributions to the debate have included Crook (1967), 275-7; Veyne (1981), 228-40; and Grisé (1982), 252-7. Despite the quality and quantity of scholarship devoted to the topic, no consistent principle underlying the decisions of the various principes has been found, and Plass (1995), 93 is probably correct to see the application of the treason laws in this regard as basically ‘extra-legal’. C.D. 53.23-4. Suet. Gaius 38. Tac. Ann. 6.35. See above § 7.3.2. Grisé (1982), 70; Plass (1995), 225 n. 5. Griffin (1986b), 197-8; Van Hooff (1990), 52-3. See above § 8.1. See e.g. Tac. Ann. 6.25, 11.5, 12.81; Suet. Tib. 45. Grisé (1982), 127-41. It should be pointed out that Grisé cites no evidence in favor of this interpretation. See Grisé (1982), 201; Griffin (1986a), 68, 74; Griffin (1986b), 195; Van Hooff (1990), 129. Grisé (1982), 81-3; Plass (1995), 232 n. 6. The level of raw data collected in recent scholarship is impressive. Grisé lists 320 instances of suicide from the foundation of Rome to the end of the reign of Nero, while Van Hooff tabulates 507. Although Van Hooff’s scholarship has been more assiduous than that of Grisé and the accuracy of his references is far superior, much of this quantitative difference is accounted for by Van Hooff’s self-admitted greater willingness to include mythical or marginal material in his analysis. That the majority

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65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71.

72. 73. 74. 75. 76.

77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84.

85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92.

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of additional suicides examined by Van Hooff tend to confirm patterns originally identified by Grisé would furthermore seem to vindicate his claim that most of the important research in this area has been done; see Grisé (1982), 34–53 and Van Hooff (1990), Appendix A. Van Hooff (1990), 11. Griffin (1986b), 194-5. Grisé (1982), 15. Plass (1995), 96. Suet. Tib. 54.2; Luc. 4.484-5; Tac. Ann. 11.3, 16.33. Liv. 4.58.6. If, however, Veyne (1981), 218-20 and Grisé (1982), 249 are correct in their belief that the convention that suicide suspended all legal proceedings had its origins in complications arising from the difficulty and undesirability of prosecuting a dead person, then the “principle” is as old as Rome itself. For the persistence of the notion that crimen mortalitate extinguitur in later Roman legal codes see Ulp. Dig. 28.3.6. App. B.C. 1.3.26, Tac. Ann. 11.3. Tac. Ann. 11.3. Ulp. Dig. 48.19.8. See for instance the voluntaria finis (“voluntary end”) of Gaius Silvius when his trial for extortion was suddenly elevated into a treason hearing at Ann. 4.19, and in particular the voluntaria mortes (“voluntary deaths”) of Drusus Libo at Ann. 2.3 and of Poppaea, who at Ann. 11.2 is said to have been driven to embrace death [a] terrore (“by terror”).

Cf. Haskins (1887), 136 ad 4.484-5, and below § 9.2. See The Concise Oxford English Dictionary (1990), “free”, defn. 3d. Cf. Wirszubski (1950), 8. For an overview of the evidence here see Wirszubski (1950), 5; Hellegouarc’h (1963), 562-3, 599-60. Wirszubski (1950), 8. Cf. Wirszubski (1950), 7–9; Hellegouarc’h (1963), 546-8. Wirszubski (1950), 8. On the aristocratic view that commoda (“material goods”) were ultimately more important to the lower orders than libertas, see Hellegouarc’h (1963), citing Cic. Quir. 24, Rab. Perd. 22, Sall. Iug. 87.2. Cf. Wirszubski (1950), 7–8; Hellegoarc’h (1963), 557-8, citing Cic. Sest. 103; Liv. 23.2; Tac. Dial. 40.2. Cf. Wirszubski (1950), 15-7 citing Cic. Phil 1.34, Tac. Ann. 13.27; Hellegouarc’h (1963), 549-55. For a brief history of the repeated Optimate/Popularis clashes over this issue see further Wirszubski (1950), 31–65. Cf. Hellegouarc’h (1963), 553-5. Cf. Wirszubski (1950), 40-4; Hellegouarc’h (1963), 557-8. See above, § 8.2, § 8.3. Cf. Van Hooff (1990), 109–117 on pudor as the dominant motivation for suicide given in our ancient sources. See above § 8.2.

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93. Tac. Ann. 6.29. 94. Liv. 22.57. 95. On the extent and type of punishment effected upon the bodies of the convicted, along with the purpose of such punishment, see generally Richlin (1999). 96. Van Hooff (1990), 90, discussing Liv. Per. 89. 97. See e.g. Liv. 3.58; Val. Max. 6.1.11; C.D. 58.15, 63.17; Tac. Ann. 4.22, 6.9, 6.18, 12.59; cf. the summary by Grisé (1982), 112-4. 98. On sensitivity to considerations of honor as a specifically aristocratic attribute see above § 2.5, § 8.3 n.84; also Lendon (1997), 36–55. 99. The first of these, recorded at Liv. 3.58, is the case of Appius Claudius, whose abuse of decemviral power to attempt to enslave and rape the daughter of a centurion led to a serious plebeian/patrician rift in 449 B.C. The second, described at Val. Max. 6.1.11, is the case of M. Laetorius Mergus, who, having forced himself upon a young cornicularius (“junior military officer”), escaped ignominia and infamia amongst the upper classes, but was nevertheless convicted of impudicitia (“shamelessness”) by the universae plebis sententia (“unanimous judgment of the plebs”). The case of Brutulus Papius, described at Livy 8.39 and cited by Grisé (1982), 249-51 as another exception to the general rule, is not relevant here. The decision of the Samnites to hand both his body and his possessions over to the Romans after his suicide clearly stems from a desire to compensate for the fact that, as a violator of the Samnite/Roman peace treaty, he himself should have been delivered over to the enemy. It is unlikely to be, as Grisé seems to think, connected to any charge of perduellio laid against him. 100. Liv. 22.59-60. 101. Val. Max. 3.2.12. 102. See e.g. the mutual suicide of Caesar’s troops in anticipation of capture by Ambiorix (Caesar B.G. 5.37) and the self-imposed deaths of Crassus’ troops at Carrhae (C.D. 40.25.2). The practice was frequent in the civil wars of the Late Republic—see for instance Pompey’s troops after the fall of Corfinum (Caes. B.C. 1.21.6), Caesar’s after Coructae (C.D. 41.40.2), and the acts of the Caesarian commander Vulteius recorded at Liv. Per. 110; cf. Van Hooff (1990), 10–11. 103. Tac. Ann. 1.61. 104. On Mithridates see C.D. 37.13; Ptolemy of Cyprus, App. B.C. 2.3.23; Hannibal, Liv. 39.51; Cleopatra, Hor. 1.37.22-32; Boadicea, Tac. Ann. 14.37. 105. On Saguntum see Liv. 21.14.2; Capua, Liv. 26.13-4. 106. Quint. 8.3.67-70. 107. See the survey of evidence provided by Ziolowski (1993), 80-9. 108. Liv. 28.22; Tac. Ann. 12.51. 109. Tac. Ann. 2.14, 4.44. 110. Liv. 26.15. 111. Hor. Car. 1.37.31-2. 112. Liv. 26.23. 113. Tac. Ann. 2.63. 114. Tac. Ann. 12.20. 115. See above, § 1.4. 116. See above, § 1.4, n.40. 117. Lendon (1997), 9. 118. See above § 2.5

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119. 120. 121. 122. 123. 124. 125. 126. 127.

128. 129. 130. 131.

132. 133. 134. 135. 136. 137. 138. 139. 140. 141. 142.

143. 144. 145. 146. 147. 148.

293

See above § 8.2 n. 41, n. 42, n. 43, n. 44. See above § 2.4.2. See above § 2.2, § 2.3, § 2.4.1. See above § 2.5. See above § 2.5. Cf. Grisé (1982), 60–73; Griffin (1986b), 194; Van Hooff (1990), 113-4; Plass (1995), 84-5. Van Hooff (1990), 60, 114. See e.g. App. Emph. 4.8.62; Tac. Ann. 4.22, 6.49. See for instance Tacitus 2.31 on the suicide of Drusus Libo, who, having knocked over a lamp, reportedly mistook in his panic the resulting darkness for the ferales tenebrae (“shadows of the underworld”) before managing a clumsy self-execution. See e.g. Tac. Ann. 4.28, 4.50, 5.8, 14.59, 16.18. Tac. Ann. 15.68. See above § 8.4, n.101. The possibility of evading the death penalty through simple flight beyond reach of the court’s powers was generally open to the well-placed aristocrat under the Republic; with the coming of Empire the tenability of this option was much restricted. Cf. Van Hooff (1990), 94-5. See n.113, above; cf. Van Hooff (1990), 113. See above, § 8.4. See above, § 2.5. See above, § 2.4.2 and § 2.4.2, n. 101. See also Lendon (1997), 35-8. See above, § 8.2. Cf. Kinneging (1997), 157. On the Late Republican/Early Imperial shift from person-based to post-based rule see Wallace-Hadrill (1997), 20-2. See further Lendon (1997), 22-7. As in the execution of Plautius Lateranus, as recorded at Tac. Ann. 2.31. According to Tacitus a favorite ruse of Tiberius; see Tac. Ann. 2.31. See Tac. Ann. 6.35. The exact legal basis of the treason charges of Tiberius and subsequent Emperors is not known. Grisé (1982), 256 maintains that the charges of perduellio and maiestas were broadly assimilated to each other during the Early Principate. Given that our chief sources on the issue, Tacitus and Cassius Dio, are inconsistent on the point, this is probably as close to a definite conclusion as is possible. For an overview of the problem see generally Hands (1962). Cf. Plass (1995), 93. See above, § 2.4.2. On the importance of maiestas in Imperial honor-relations see Lendon (1997), 256. Cf. MacMullen (1966), 32. See above § 2.5. On the contemporary controversy surrounding Seneca’s character and the charges of hypocrisy leveled against him see C.D. 61.10 and Tac. Ann. 13.3; for evidence concerning Thrasea’s errors of judgment with regard to Nero and subsequent Stoic attempts to conceal or rationalize these see the summary given in Murray (1965), 51-6.

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149. On Seneca’s retirement from public affairs see Tac. Ann. 14.52-5; on Thrasea’s intransigence and eventual refusal to attend the Curia (“Senate-House”) see Tac. Ann. 13.48, 14.11, 16.18-28. 150. See above § 7.3.2.

NOTES FOR CHAPTER NINE 1. In referring to Lucan’s epic as the De Bello Civili I follow the current scholarly preference for the evidence of the manuscripts over the disputed witness of Lucan’s own allusion to nostra Pharsalia (“my Pharsalia”) at line 9.985 and Statius’ reference to Lucan’s Pharsalica bella at Silv. 2.7.66. Ahl (1976), 326–332 argues at length in favor of ‘Pharsalia’ as the original title of the work, but his conclusions have met with little enthusiasm. Subsequent scholars have tended either to abandon reference to the title ‘Pharsalia’ entirely or to consign it to parentheses. 2. 1.1–3. 3. See also 8.556-7. 4. See e.g. Virg. Aen. 6.833; Flor. 1.34; Manil. 4.43-4; Calp. Sic. 1.46-50. 5. Martindale (1993), 480. 6. See e.g. the overviews of common criticisms of Lucan’s poetics provided by Haskins (1887), lxxvii–lxxviii, Martindale (1976), and Narducci (1979), 9–11. 7. The earliest and most important work in this vein is Henderson’s 1988 article ‘Lucan/ The Word at War,’ which argues that Lucan’s ‘cultivation of absurdist paradox’ and use of ‘tropes . . . pushed into self-defeat’ serves to disfigure the Imperial ‘discourse of power’; see Henderson (1988), 136, 140, 126. The influence of this approach is clearly visible in Masters (1994) and Bartsch (1997). Leigh (1997) does not list Henderson in his bibliography, but his analysis, although based upon issues of narratological focalization rather than any supposed linguistic or ideological self-contradiction, is similar to his in its emphasis upon Lucan’s use of paradox as a goad to the Republican conscience; see Leigh (1997), 4–5, 292–306. 8. See above, chapters 7 and 8. 9. This is not to say that Lucan does not simultaneously see the civil war as arising from a series of specific historical factors. Brisset (1964), 35–50 outlines the essentially Sallustian understanding of history that underlies the De Bello Civili. Furor is, nevertheless, the proximate cause of the war; see e.g. Luc. 1.8, 2.249, 7.95. 10. For amor mortis (“love of death”) as the impulse driving the nefas (“abomination”) of civil war see Luc. 1.456-465, 4.146, 6.246, 8.364; see also the related amor belli (“love of war”) of Luc. 1.21, 9.228, the amor ferri (“love of the sword”) of 1.355, and the overview of these themes provided by Rutz (1960). 11. See above, § 2.4.2 and Chap. 2, n.101. 12. Caes. B.C. 3.53. 13. See e.g. Val. Max. 3.2.23; Flor. 2.13; Suet. Caes. 68. 14. 6.144-8. 15. On the importance of grotesque imagery to Lucan’s battle scenes see Bartsch (1997), 36–40. 16. 6. 186-94. 17. 6.245-6.

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18. Of all recent commentators on this passage, only Marti (1966), 247-57 sees Scaeva’s aristeia as a serious attempt by Lucan to capture the ‘greatness and . . . pathos of war,’ and even she acknowledges that the quality of his heroism is gravely flawed. The excessive character of Scaeva’s valor and physical endurance are more frequently seen as reflecting the power of the furor that drives him. See for instance Rutz (1960), 474; Hardie (1993), 68-9; Bartsch (1997), 24; Leigh (1997), 186-7. 19. 6.251-7. 20. 6.160-1. 21. See e.g. 4.561-2, 3.619-20, 5.326-7, and further the comments of Conte (1974), 40-1 ad 6.160-1. 22. Cf. Leigh (1997), 219-20. 23. 2.109: satis est iam posse mori (“it is enough now to be able to die”). 24. The comparison with Saguntum is explicit; see 3.307-55, and particularly 350. 25. 3.694-6: saevus complectitur hostem / hostis, et implicitis gaudent subsidere membris / mergentesque mori (“the raging enemy embraces his enemy, and rejoices that they sink and drown, their limbs entangled”). 26. 3.719-21. 27. The description of the aristeia is extended; see 3.603-34. 28. 3.739-40: tacito tantum petit oscula vultu / invitatque patris claudenda ad lumina dextram (“he pleads for a kiss with his expression only, and asks that his eyes be closed by the hand of his father”). 29. 3.750-1. 30. See e.g. Hor. Epod. 5.101-2; Cic. Nat. D. 2.72. 31. 3.750-1. 32. 3.730. 33. See Liv. Per. 110; Flor. 2.13.32-3; Comm. Berg. ad 4.462. 34. 4.540-70. 35. Cf. Ahl (1976), 118-21. 36. 4.478-487. 37. 4. 492-9. 38. 4.571-3: bustisque remittunt / corpora victores, ducibus mirantibus ulli / esse ducem tanti (“the victors place the bodies on the funeral pyres, their leaders marveling that any leader should be worth such a price to anyone”). 39. 4.574-5. 40. Commentary on the Vulteius episode has been extensive. All scholars are agreed in viewing the episode as analogous to the aristeia of Scaeva and as acting to illustrate the potential for virtus to be disastrously misdirected in conditions of civil war. See e.g. Thompson and Buere (1968), 16–18; Johnson (1987), 57; Leigh (1997), 182-3, 218-9; and particularly Saylor (1990), who pays particular attention to the extent to which Vulteius’ ideas of heroism are conditioned by the nature and presence of his social audience. 41. Haskins (1887), liii–lvi, lxii, favors Caesar, ‘despite Lucan’s attempts to blacken his character,’ on account of his intrinsic moral greatness, a view echoed by Malcovati (1940), 65-7. More recent critics have tended to accord greater weight to the narrator’s interjected moral judgments upon his characters, and Caesar has thus largely been dropped as a plausible option here. Many scholars now see in Pompey the true ‘hero’ of the epic. This is generally either because he is held to develop through the

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42. 43. 44. 45.

46. 47. 48. 49.

50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61.

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course of the epic towards a state of Stoic enlightenment—see e.g. generally Marti (1945); Brisset (1964), 114-5; generally Rambaud (1955)—or because the figure of Pompey is held to be portrayed in so conflicted a manner by Lucan that he acts to spur the reader to make an ungrounded ethical commitment to the cause of Republicanism; so Bartsch (1997), 73–100. The absence of Cato throughout most of the epic means that he has not generally been seen as a strong contender for the title of ‘hero,’ although it is generally admitted that he is the figure most positively portrayed by Lucan. On this latter point see e.g. Haskins (1887), lix–lx; Ahl (1976) 231-79; Narducci (1979), 30-2; Bartsch (1997), 122-3. As pointed out by Ahl (1976), 153-6 and Braund (1992), however, neither generic convention nor the thematic concerns of the epic demand that Lucan in fact have a single central hero for his poem, and the multiplicity of Lucan’s protagonists might best be read as serving to illuminate different paradigms of heroism rather than as a failure to define it uniquely. See the negative judgments of e.g. Malcovati (1940), 71; Johnson (1987), 37-8; Braund (1992), xxii. See 2.285, 9.409. See 2.390. For the connection between civil and cosmic dissolution see 1.72-80, 5.632-6, 7.134-7, 7.812-5. For further discussion of Lucan’s use of the urbs/orbis (“city/ cosmos”) analogy and its connection to Stoic thinking see Lapidge (1979), 350-70. On the role of fatum (“Fate”) in the collapse of the res publica and the mundus (“cosmos”) see Ahl (1976), 297–305. Cf. Ahl (1976), 238-9. 1.128. Cf. Ahl (1976), 304. Scholars have frequently noted the connection between Brutus’ speech and the ideological debates of Lucan’s Rome. A good overview of the relevant primary texts is provided by Grimal (1970), 96–105; see further Ahl (1976), 236-7; Fantham (1992), 122-3 ad 234–325; Leigh (1997), 143-8; Narducci (2002), 370-3. 2.247-50. 2.264-6. 2.272-3: quam laetae Caesaris aures / accipient tantum venisse in proelia civem? (“How joyfully will the ears of Caesar hear that so great a citizen has entered battle?”) 2.249. See above, § 2.4 on De Re Publica 3.34. See above, § 8.4. 2.290-2. 2.301–305. 2.319–323. See e.g. G. Pontiggia’s introduction to Griffi, L., ed. (1967) Lucan: Farsaglia (Milan) as cited in Narducci (1979), 14 n. 11; Bartsch (1997), 114; Loupac (1997) 205-6. See 9.190-216. An excellent overview of the main arguments concerning the planned final form of the epic, to which more recent scholarship has added little, is provided by Ahl (1976), 306-26, who believes that the De Bello Civili was originally intended to end with the death of Cato. He is followed in this by Braund (1992), xxxviii–xxxix. If, as seems likely, the De Bello Civili was originally envisioned as comprising twelve books

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62. 63. 64. 65.

66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75.

76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89.

90. 91. 92.

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composed in parallel to those of the Aeneid, this is almost certainly the case. The epic might also plausibly be held to have been intended to terminate with the assassination of Caesar, the battle of Philippi, or the battle of Actium. See Masters (1992), 216-59. Masters argues the case at length; his conclusions, however, are highly tendentious. 6.311. 9.582-3. On the efficacy of the clementia Caesaris (“clemency of Caesar”) as a means of stifling opposition to his rule see e.g. Cic. Att. 10.4.8; Phil. 2.116; Sen. Ben. 2.20.3; and further the discussions of Ahl (1976), 190-7 and Leigh (1997), 53–68. Cic. Att. 8.16.2. Earl (1967), 60; see further the discussion of Dyck (1996), 225-6 ad 1.88 concerning the monarchical flavor of the word during the Republican era. 4.344-7. See above, § 8.4. 2.517-21. See e.g. the sentiments expressed by Caesar at 9.1066-8 and 9.1100-1. 9.1058-62. Plut. Cat. Min. 64. Plut. Cat. Min. 72; cf. App. B.C. 2.99. 9.208-14. See further Leigh (1997) 56-9 for a discussion of the perceived connection in Roman thought between ‘servare’ in the sense of ‘to spare’ and the noun servus (“slave”). The evidence he cites for the existence of this link (Just. Inst. 1.3.2-3) is, however very late, and of doubtful applicability to the Julio-Claudian era. Cf. the discussion of Ahl (1976), 321-2. See above, § 8.7. See for instance their response to his funeral laudation at 9.215-7 See the extended speech of an anonymous soldier defending his decision to depart from Africa at 9.227-51. 2.246-7, 9.17-8. 2.323-5. Cf. Ahl (1976), 322. 2.306-14. On the ritual of devotio, see above § 8.2. 7.207-13. 7.638-46. See e.g. Ahl (1976), 43-4; Bartsch (1997), 81–100; Leigh (1997), 12–15, 19–20, 81-2; see also the more cautious analysis of Narducci (2002), 92–106. As Narducci (2002), 96 notes. Cf. Braund (1992), xix–xx. See e.g. the ambivalence expressed by Cato regarding Pompey at 2.321, echoed by both Roman citizens and the narrator of the poem at 1.126-7 and 2.40-2; the pointless bluster of Pompey’s speech at 2.531-95; his flight into nostalgia before the battle of Pharsalia at 7.7-14; and his subsequent military failings at 7.669-79. See the discussion above, § 9.2. 4.575-9. Given the context it appears virtually unquestionable that famosa here must mean ‘notorious’ rather than ‘renowned’; cf. Haskins (1887), 240 ad 277.

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93. Cf. Viansino (1995), 380 ad 4.576: ‘come se parlasse di populari stranieri’ (“as if he were speaking of a foreign people”) (italics mine). 94. Cf. the survey of recent scholarship on Lucan given in Bartsch (1997), 5–6. 95. See e.g. Ahl (1976), 43-5. 96. See 7.597-616, and contrast the accounts of Caes. B.C. 3.99 and Cic. Phil. 2.71. 97. 10.193-331. 98. See generally Bartsch (1997), and in particular 101-30; also Leigh (1997), 4–5, 305-6. Narducci (2002), 98–100 is more cautious, and sees Lucan’s idealism as often muted by political and pragmatic concerns. Nevertheless, ‘il lettore non è lasciato privo di ogni orientamento di fronte a questa aporia’ (“the reader is not left entirely without direction when faced with this aporia”)—Lucan’s apostrophes are held to ‘fornire un modello alle reazione emotive del lettore ideale’ (“furnish a model for the emotional reactions of Lucan’s ‘ideal reader’“). 99. See in particular Bartsch (1997), 101-3, 120 and the use made here of Richard Rorty’s concept of ‘moral irony,’ whereby ideological commitment entails that the individual (here, Cato) commits him- or herself irrevocably to a course of action while ‘understanding . . . the impossibility of any meaningful justification of . . . participation.’ The analysis of Leigh (1997), 5 is more nuanced, but his claim that the De Bello Civili lays upon its reader an imperative towards a ‘constant emotional intervention against history’ likewise posits a fundamentally Republican reader who will remain unswayed by Lucan’s portrayal of the corruption and unattainability of Republican ideals. 100. See e.g. Ahl (1976), 36-9; Bartsch (1997), 5; Leigh (1997), 2–3. 101. The fragmentary Vita (“Biography”) by Suetonius and the Vita traditionally attributed to the fifth-century A.D. grammarian Vacca are collected in Haskins (1887), xiii–xiv. 102. Tac. Ann. 15.48. 103. Tac. Ann. 15.52. 104. See above, n.101, and below, n.108. 105. See e.g. Braund (1992), xiii–xiv; Leigh (1997), 2–3; cf. Narducci (2002), 9–11. 106. See Suet. Nero, 36. 107. Narducci (2002), 11. 108. Tac. Ann. 15.56. 109. facile enim confessus et ad humillimas devolutus preces matrem quoque innoxiam inter socios nominavit, sperans impietatem sibi apud parricidam principem profuturam (“He confessed readily, and having lowered himself to the most humiliating pleas, he even named his own mother amongst the conspirators, hoping by this lack of devotion to recommend himself to an Emperor who also killed members of his family”) . 110. Tac. Ann. 15.70. If the relevant text here is extant, Lucan’s final words were most likely to have been Luc. 3.635-46; cf. Furneaux (1907), 408 ad 15.70.3. 111. The condemnation of the later Julio-Claudian Principate as steeped in a decadence reflected above all in Nero’s default from the demands of rulership in favor of a focus on artistic self-presentation appears to have been widespread as early as the Flavian dynasty, and to have persisted well into the modern era. On the moral basis of Roman attacks on the Neronian court see generally Ripoll (1999); a representative nineteenth-century appraisal can be found in St-Ybars (1867), 241-9, 410-28.

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NOTES FOR CHAPTER TEN 1. That the praenomen of Petronius Niger the Arbiter is Titus, rather than Gaius as given by Tacitus, is convincingly demonstrated by Rose (1971), 49–55. 2. That the texts that have come down to us under the title of Satyricon are properly attributed to the Petronius Niger whose death is described at Tac. Ann. 16.18-9 is now, despite the reservations expressed by Martin (1975), almost universally accepted; for the arguments in favor of this hypothesis see generally Rose (1971). Müller (1983) 491-2 argues persuasively that the manuscript heading ‘Satyricon’ is based upon a misunderstood plural Greek genitive, i.e., that the original heading would have been something like libri Sattrik« ˚ and the original title hence Satyrica. 3. Slater (1990), 103. 4. Sat. 108. 5. Sat. 97. 6. Sat. 80: et attulissem . . . mihi manus, si non inimici victoriae invidissem (“and I would have killed myself, had I not begrudged my enemy this victory”). 7. Sat. 102. 8. Sat. 111. 9. Sat. 112. 10. For the suicides of exemplary wives see above, § 4.4, § 6.1; on suicide in the face of imminent condemnation see above, § 8.5. 11. On the generic resemblance between many scenes in the Satyrica and those of Plautine comedy see Laird (1999), 233, 245; for a discussion of the multiple reminiscences of mime in the novel see Panayotakis (1995), xii–xxv, 31–31, 122–135, 136–156, and passim. 12. Sat. 112 : exponit nec se expectaturum iudicis sententiam, sed gladio ius dicturum ignaviae suae (“he explained that he was not going to await the judgment of the courts, but render justice for his lack of discipline with his sword”). 13. Sat. 19–26. 14. Sat. 126-32. 15. Sat. 126, 106. 16. See above, § 4.2. 17. Sat. 111. 18. On Encolpius, Eumolpus, and Ascyltus as well-born itinerant scholastici and the ‘lumpen intelligentsia’ of Imperial Rome see Rexroth (1969), 101. 19. On comedy and mime, see above, n. 12. 20. On the sub-genre of the ‘Milesian Tale’ and its relationship to the Satyrica see Anderson (1999), 54–63. 21. Petronius’ dependence upon narratively understructured genres such as satire, the philosophical dialogue, and diatribe, is noted in Laird (1999), 256. 22. See Schmeling (1999), 26 on the ‘artificial tone’ with which Petronius’ use of rhetorical speech modes colors the work as a whole. 23. See in particular Conte (1996), 62-4; also Laird (1999), 223. 24. On the under-structured and ‘improvisatory’ nature of Hellenistic novel plotting see generally Nimis (1999). Geiger (1991/2), 130-1 sees the ancient novel as itself a chaotic farrago of generic conventions, a conclusion endorsed by Jones (1991), 117-8 with regard to the Satyrica.

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25. Cf. Conte (1996), 37–72 on the Satyrica’s ‘mythomaniac narrator’ and its ‘longing for the sublime.’ 26. Sat. 115. That Eumolpus’ subject here is the poetica tempestas (“epic storm”) is argued by Conte (1996), 58-9; compare Ov. Tr. 1.11.7. 27. Sat. 83. On this scene as characteristic of Encolpius’ tendency to project himself into the narratives of mythology and the ‘high’ genres see further Elsner (1993). 28. Sat. 112: conciliante gratiam ancilla ac subinde dicente: ‘placitone etiam pugnabis amori?’ (“while her maidservant won her over, and then said, ‘Will you struggle even against a pleasing love?”), echoing Aen. 4.38. 29. Sat. 80-2; on the reminiscence of Il. 1.348-9 see Conte (1996), 1–2. 30. Panayotakis (1995), xviii. 31. Cf. Hofmann (1990b), 5–6 on Macr. Ad Somn. Scip. 1.2.7. 32. The ‘ideal romance’ is not necessarily the only relevant model here. Encolpius’ un-Roman preference for hanging as a means of death appears to be derived from classical tragedy; cf. Panayotakis (1995), 127 n.14 and Conte (1996), 126-7. Panayotakis (1995), 122-35 also argues for mime rather than the ‘ideal romance’ as the template for the scene as a whole. Given, however, the considerable overlap between mime and novelistic motifs and the importance of the ‘ideal romance’ to the Satyrica as a whole, Petronius’ debt to mime, however great it may have been, could not have been exclusive, and it is typically his practice to mix numerous generic conventions into single scenes; see above, n.23. For the sake of simplicity the scene will be discussed as though its primary referent were the ‘ideal romance.’ As always with Petronius, however, this must be tempered by the recognition that his compositional methods were eclectic. The point here—that Encolpius tends to assimilate his actions to the emotionally elevated demands of literary prototypes—remains unaffected. 33. Our extant Hellenistic romances almost all postdate the Satyrica. That the form was already well established considerably earlier than the composition of extant works, however, is virtually certain, and the convention of the failed Liebestod is so thoroughly entrenched in the genre that its ancestry too must reach back well before Petronius’ day. On questions of chronology generally see Reardon (1989), 322-38; and cf. Coffey (1976), 182-3 on the Satyrica specifically. Examples of the ‘aborted suicide’ in our extant corpus include Char. 1.5.2, 1.6.1-2, 3.3.1, 3.5.6, 5.10.60-1, 6.2.8-11, 7.1.5-11; Ephes. 2.7.1, 3.5-8, 5.8.8-9; Leuc. 3.16.5-17.1, 7.6.3-4; Eth. 2.2.1, 2.4.4-5.1. 34. Cf. the reading of Conte (1996), 76-8. 35. Conte (1996), 50. 36. Slater (1990), 241, Jones (1991), 119-20, and Rimell (2001), 12–21 all number amongst the principal themes of the Satyrica an ontological despair at the final aporetic uninterpretability of text and reality. Conte (1996), 44-6 differs in seeing the motivation towards despair here as lying rather in nostalgia for a lost potential for sublimity, but is similar in seeing the Satyrica as depicting a world drained of meaning in a postclassical age. 37. Petronius’ depiction of the speech of the freedmen in the Cena Trimalchionis (the episode of the “Dinner of Trimalchio”) is widely admired as the sole surviving attempt to reflect colloquial speech patterns in a work of classical Latin literature; see Herman (1970), 27-8. Beyond this, assessments of Petronius’ “realism,” and in fact what

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38. 39. 40. 41.

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might be meant by the term in the first place, vary widely; for an overview of the problem see generally Jones (1991), and in particular 108-10 on ‘comic realism’ as the characteristic mode of the Satyrica. Tac. Ann. 16.18-9. That Tacitus is correct in the character, if not necessarily in the details, of the death of Petronius is confirmed by Plin. N.H. 37.20. See above, § 3.3. See above, § 3.5. Arrowsmith (1966) views the Satyrica, and in particular the Cena, as informed by a pervasive awareness of the misery with which timor mortis and luxuria can infect individuals, an awareness that he characterizes as Epicurean. What precisely he means by ‘Epicureanism,’ however, is left undefined, and he does not cite any philosophical text in this connection. That Trimalchio and his associates might be fools in an Epicurean sense furthermore does not entail that this is the only sense in which they are fools. On Trimalchio’s anxieties as a reflection of his precarious social status rather than the author’s putative Epicureanism, see Bodel (1999), 44, 46-7.

NOTES FOR CHAPTER ELEVEN 1. For an overview of the development of Nero’s image as an actor-prince in subsequent Latin literature and the implications of this in second-century moral thought see generally Edwards (1994). On the theme in Tacitus in particular see Rubiès (1994), 39; on Suetonius see Barton (1994), 52-3. 2. Plin. Paneg. 46.4; see also Juvenal’s disparaging reference to the princeps citharoedus (“lyre-strumming Emperor”) at 8.198. 3. Suet. Ner. 49. 4. See further Ripoll (1999), 140, 146-8. 5. See above, § 8.1. 6. For a prosopographic diagram of this circle see MacMullen (1967), 41-2. 7. See e.g. Plin. Ep. 3.9, Spart. Hist. 15.4, 15.23. 8. Dig. 28.3.6.7; cf. Vandenbosschle (1952), 479 on Dig. 3.2.11.3. 9. See above, § 8.1. 10. See above, § 1.3. 11. Agr. 2–3. 12. See the laudatory note of Ep. 1.42. 13. Possibly Calpetanus Rantius Quirinalis Valerius Festus, a general known to have been close to Domitian; see Griffin (1986b), 201 n.16. 14. Ep. 1.78. 15. Plin. Ep. 1.12.8. 16. See above, § 7.3.2. 17. Both Rubiès (1994) and Barton (1994) emphasize the extreme difficulty of recovering any “historical” portrait of Nero from the accounts of Suetonius and Tacitus due to the thorough ideological coloring of the texts. Cuirea (1999) goes further, and argues that Nero’s principate was governed by a coherent political strategy, the details of which have been distorted to the point of fabrication by Tacitus for political reasons. The hypothesis is an unlikely one—as Barton (1994), 52 points out, whatever the exaggerated nature of Nero’s portrayal in Latin historiography, his attributes are not those of the stock declamatory figure of the tyrant.

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18. 19. 20. 21.

22.

23.

24. 25. 26. 27. 28.

29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

34.

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Cf. the cautions of Edwards (1994), 92. Plin. NH 7.122. Ep. 6.24.5. See Plin. Ep. 3.16.3; the remark is reported by Martial, Ep. 1.13 as vulnus quod feci non dolet, sed tu quod facies, hoc mihi, Paete, dolet (“Not the wound which I have made, but the one you are about to make, Paetus—that wound hurts me”). Some of these family-oriented self-killings may have appeared in his lost De Matrimonio (“On Marriage”). That such deaths nevertheless fail to infiltrate his other philosophical works, however, is indicative of a degree of separation between “public” and “private” virtue that narrows perceptibly in the post-Neronian period. The argument of Veyne (1974), 33–63 that the increased emphasis on family life visible in the philosophical writings of the late first and second centuries A.D. represents the birth of a new ideal of conjugal love has been largely refuted by Dixon (1991), who traces expressions of this ideal in Latin literature and inscriptions at least as far back as the Late Republic. Foucault (1984), 104-5 is thus probably correct to see the shift as operating more at the ideological than the emotional level; see further Swain (1997), 9–22. See Arr., Epict. 1.126, 1.2.19. See e.g. Arr. Epict.1.2.1-4, 1.24.20, 2.1.19. See e.g. Arr. Epict. 2.1.15-7, 2.19.13, 1.29.29. See e.g. Arr. Epict. 3.13.4, 3.24.101-2, and further the discussion by Long (2002), 203-4. For Cicero’s views on the matter, see above, § 2.5. The resemblance between Cicero’s persona theory and Epictetus’ theory of rv°reiy is probably not coincidental, the two being likely to have a common ancestor in the doctrines of Panaetius; on this point see further Dyck (1996), 271 ad 107-21 and 107. Arr. Epict. 2.1.26-30. Arr. Epict. 1.2.26, 28. Arr. Epict. 1.2.31. A more detailed comparison of the use made of the four-personae theory by Cicero in De Officiis 1 and by Epictetus is found in Gill (1988), 189–93. On the increased “introspection” of later Roman philosophy see Foucault (1984), 51–85, who views this as the realization of a potential latent in Hellenistic philosophy as a whole. The tendency of the later Stoa to emphasize the primacy of the individual’s universal human nature over that of his or her own particular social role, and to define this “human nature’ in terms of the operations of the cosmos as a whole, has been noted in almost every study of the philosophy. Passages frequently cited in this connection are e.g. Mus. Ruf. 9.68.21, 12.86.29-32, 19.122.26-39; Arr. Epict. generally 1.2, 1.9, 2.9, 4.10; Dio Chrys. Eub. 14–15; Aur. Med. 3.6, 3.11, 4.4. The complementary character of the two trends here is discussed in Hadot (1998), 212-14. Firm, but not absolute—it is probably no coincidence that the slackening of the aristocratic tenor of Roman ethics occurs synchronously with the growth of an administrative “middle class” and the influx of Eastern entrants into the Senate under the Flavians; see Hopkins (1983), 179-81 and Jones (1992), 160-79.

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Solomon, R. (1988) Continental Philosophy since 1750: The Rise and Fall of the Self (New York and London). Sorensen, Villy (1984) Seneca: The Humanist at the Court of Nero (Edinburgh). Stahl, Hans-Peter (1985) Propertius: ‘Love’ and ‘War’: Individual and State Under Augustus (Berkeley and London). Stokes, Michael C. (1995) ‘Cicero on Epicurean Pleasures’ in Powell (1995b): 145-70. Strawson, G. (1999) ‘The Sense of Self’ in James and Crabbe (1999): 126-152. Strawson, P. F. (1959) Individuals: An Essay in Descriptive Metaphysics (London). Striker, G. (1983) ‘The Role of Oikeiosis in Stoic Ethics’ in Striker (1996): 281-97. Striker, G. (1986) ‘Antipater, or the Art of Living’ in Striker (1996): 298-315. Striker, G. (1991) ‘Following Nature: A Study of Stoic Ethics’ in Striker (1996): 221-80. Striker, G. (1993) ‘Epicurean Hedonism’ in Striker (1996): 196-208. Striker, G. (1996) Essays on Hellenistic Epistemology and Ethics (Cambridge). Suits, Thomas A. (1965) ‘Mythology, Address, and Structure in Propertius 2.8,’ TAPhA 96: 427-37. Swain, Simon (1997) ‘Biography and Biographic in the Literature of the Roman Empire’ in Edwards and Swain (1997): 1-38. Thill, Andrée, ed. (1979) L’Élégie Romaine: Enracinement—Thèmes—Diffusion (Mulhouse). Thompson, L, and Bruere, R. T. (1968) ‘Lucan’s Use of Vergilian Reminiscence,’ CPh 63 (1): 1-21. Tilley, Bertha (1968) P. Vergili Maronis Aeneidos Liber IV (London). Toohey, P. (1988) ‘Some Ancient Notions of Boredom,’ ICS 13: 151-64. Toohey, P. (1990) ‘Some Ancient Histories of Literary Melancholia,’ ICS 15: 143-61. Toohey, P. (1992) ‘Love, Lovesickness, and Melancholia,’ ICS 17: 265-86. Treggiari, Susan (1991) Roman Marriage: Lusti Coniuges from the Time of Cicero to the Time of Ulpian (Oxford): 232-7. Vandenbosschle, A. (1952) ‘Recherches sur le Suicide en Droit Romain’ in Mélanges Henri Grègoire, Tome XII (Brussels): 471-516. Van Hooff, Anton (1990) From Autothanasia to Suicide: Self-Killing in Classical Antiquity (New York and London). Van Nortwick, T., and Hallett, S. P., ed. (1997) The Personal Voice in Classical Scholarship (New York and London). Varty, J. (2000) ‘Suicide, Statistics, and Sociology’ in Pickering and Watford (2000): 53-65. Verducci, Florence (1985) Ovid’s Toyshop of the Heart: Epistulae Heroidum (Princeton). Versnel, H. S. (1976) ‘Two Types of Roman Devotio,’ Mnemosyne 29: 365-410. Veyne, Paul (1974) ‘La Famille et l’Amour Dans le Haut Empire Romain,’ Annales: Économies, Sociétés, Civilisations 23: 33-63. Veyne, Paul (1981) ‘Suicide, Fisc, Esclavage, Capital, et Droit Romain,’ Latomus 40 (1): 217-68. Veyne, Paul (1987a) ‘The Roman Empire’ in Veyne (1987b): 2-234. Veyne, Paul, ed.(1987) A History of Private Life, Vol. 1: From Pagan Rome to Byzantium, trans. by Arthur Goldhammer (Cambridge, MA, and London). Veyne, Paul (1988) Roman Erotic Elegy: Love, Poetry, and the West, trans. by David Pallaver (London). Voisin, J. L. (1979) ‘Pendus, Crucifiés, Oscilla Dans la Rome Païenne,’ Latomus 38: 422-50. Voisin, J. L. (1987) ‘Apicata, Antinoüs, et Quelques Autres: Notes d’Epigraphie sur la Mort Voluntaire à Rome,’ MEFRA 99 (1): 257-80.

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A Accius, 275n.78 Acharistia, 77 Aeneas, Ovidian, 123, 130 in Roman literary tradition, 121 Vergilian, 107–11, 112, 113, 116–17 Aesacus, 124 Afranius, L., 226–27 Afranius Quintianus, 205 Afterlife, in Plato’s Phaedo, 52, 54, 56 in writings of Cicero, depiction, 48, 53, 56–57 thematic function, 51, 56–57, 62–63 Agricola, See under Tacitus Ajax, 123, 124–25 Alcestis, 123, 124 Alcyone, 124 Alexander the Great, 153 Alvarez, A., 3 Ambiorix, 292n.102 Amor, See Eros Amor mortis, 214, 215–21 Anangke-theory, 34–35, 189 Anaxarete, 124 Annales, See under Tacitus Antigone, 93, 103 Antigone, 275n.78 317

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Antiochus of Ascalon, emotion, 47–48 epistemology, 43, 45–46 –

oikeiosis, 43–45, 47 suicide, 42, 43, 46–48 virtus, 43–45 Apollonius Rhodius, 276n.3 Appian, 288n.42 Appius Claudius Crassus Regillus Sabinus, 194 Appius Claudius Pulcher, 9, 201 Apuleius, 275n.57 Arbitri honorum, 62, 205, 250, 256 Aristocratic aesthetic, See Honorable aesthetic Aristotle, 17 Arria Paeta, 185, 186, 257 Ars Amatoria, See under Ovid Arulenus Rusticus, 254 Astyanax, 157 Ataraxia, 98 Atticus, 10, 84 Aufidius Bassus, 179, 180 Augustus, 10, 153, 188, 191

B Bacchantes, 198, 199 Barchiesi, Alessandro, 126 De Bello Civili, See under Lucan Boadicea, 28, 200, 206 Brutulus Papius, 292n.99 Brutus, M., historical, 51, 186, 265n.1, 267n.38 Lucanian, 222, 223, 229–30, 296n.49 Byblis, 124, 125, 142

C Caecina Paetus, 254 Caligula, 188, 191, 201 Caninus Rebilus, 205 Cannae, 199

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Capua, 201–2 Cassius, C., 84, 186 Cassius Dio, 185, 189 Cassius Scaeva, 215 Cato the Elder, 90, 98 Cato Uticensis, See Cato the Younger Cato the Younger, cultural influence, 6–7, 51, 186, 187 Lucanian, 222–26, 228–30 as sapiens, 65, 70, 179–80, in writings of Cicero, 35, 49, 51, 63–67, 70–71 in writings of Seneca, 150–52, 157, 179–82 Catullus, 92, 94, 95 Ceyx, 124 Chaeremon, 255 Cicero, Marcus Tullius, cultural influence, 22–23, 203–4 philosophy, assimilation with cultural norms, 22, 33, 59–60, 69 criticisms of, 31–33 decorum, 68–69 emotion, 54–55, 89, 98–99, 203 epistemology, 53, 55–57, 68–70 De Finibus, 33–34, 36–48, 74–78 ‘honorable aesthetic’, 60–62, 69, 71 iustitia, 58 De Legibus, 268n.88 lex naturalis, 59 De Officiis, 34, 35, 64–71 persona, 53, 64–71 purpose, 22–23, 31, 41, 51 relation to Epicureanism, 32, 33, 51, 73, 77 relation to “New” Academy, 32, 42 relation to “Old” Academy, 42 relation to Stoicism, 42, 54 relation to writings of Plato, 52, 54, 68 De Re Publica, 34, 48–49, 57–58, 62–63, 268n.88 res publica, 58–62, 203 Somnium Scipionis, 34, 57–58, 62–3 Tusculan Disputations, 34, 48–9, 50–51, 54–57, 98

319

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utilitas, 58–60 virtus, 52–53, 55, 58–62, 67–68 Pro Caelio, 90 Cinna, C. Helvius, 279n.19 Claudius, 188, 202, 208 Claudius Senecio, 205 Cleanthes, 269n.112 Clementia, 209, 226–29 De Clementia, 226 Cleopatra, 28, 200, 201 Cnaeus Calpurnius Piso, 288n.42 Corellius Rufus, 255–56 Cornelia, mother of the Gracchi, 256 Crimen maiestatis imminutae, 209, 293n.142 Cyllarus, 124, 142 Cynthia, 93 Cyparissus, 124, 125

D Daedalion, 124, 125 Damnatio memoriae, 191, 288n.42 Decian gens, 189–90 Decianus, 255 Decorum, 68–69 Delia, 94 Demetrius the Cynic, 185–86 Deminutio capitis maxima, 190, 191, 206, 209 Demophoon, 93, 102, 122 Denyer, N., 82 Descartes, Rene, 14–15 Deucalion, 124 Devotio, 189–90, 288n.40 Dido (Ovidian), persona, artificiality, 127, 141–43 paradoxicality, 127, 137–38 psychology, 132–36 relationship to Vergilian precedent, 126–27, 129, 141 rhetoric, 129–36

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suicide, ambiguous foreshadowing, 128 motivation, 136–40 Dido (Vergilian), elegiac topoi, 108–9 generic precedents, 106 influence, 121–22, 159, 164 ‘marriage’ to Aeneas, 110–11, 116–18 persona, 107–11 pudor, 107–10, 113 self-delusion, 109–11 suicide, as atonement, 106, 113 as magical rite, 106, 118–19 paradoxicality, 24, 105, 111–12, 115–6, 120 as social display, 106–7, 116–17 Domitian, 8–9, 254, 256, 257 Drusus Libo, 291n.76, 293n.127 Durkheim, Emil, 4–5, 13–15

E Earl, D., 226 Elegy, and deconstruction, 95–97, 101 as impersonal poetry, 94–96 as ‘individualistic’ poetry, 87–88, 93–94, 98 and persona, 88, 92, 101, 102–4 ‘political’ language in, 92, 273n.24 as social critique, 99–100, 102 suicide, exemplary, 102–3 limited role, 101–4 topoi, 92 militia amoris, 92, 101 recusatio, 92, 100, 101 servitium amoris, 102 Emotion, ancient theories of, Antiochean, 47–48 Cicero’s, 54–55, 89, 98–99, 203

321

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Epicurean, 89, 98–99 Stoic, 38–39, 89, 98–99 in writings of Seneca, 148, 157–58 Epictetus, 27, 257–59 Epicureanism, acharistia, 77 ataraxia, 98 emotion, 89, 98–99 friendship, 81–83 as individualistic philosophy, 73 ‘nothing to us’ argument, 79 oikeio–sis, 81 pleasure, 77 res publica, 81–82, 84, 85, 99–100 suicide, and pleasure, 78 precepts concerning, 23, 74–76 and society, 81–82, 84, 85 and timor mortis, 78, 80 synthesis with Stoicism, 85, 148 telos, 76–77 timor mortis, 75, 78–79, 80, 84 Epicurus, Letter to Idomeneus, 77 Principal Doctrines, 77–78, 79, 81, 83 Vatican Sayings, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 81, 82 See also Epicureanism Epistulae Heroidum, See Ovid, Heroides. See also Dido (Ovidian) Epistulae Morales, See under Seneca Eros, in the Aeneid, 24, 105, 111, 119 in elegy, 88, 92, 98, 100, 102 as motive for suicide, 7, 23–24, 87 in Roman Comedy, 88–91 Roman moralizing tradition and, 90, 98 in Roman philosophy, 87, 89, 90, 98–100 Ethical aesthetic, See Honorable aesthetic Eudaimonia, 39–40, 54, 59, 153 Euripides, 159, 161, 163 Evadne, 93, 102, 123, 124, 125

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Exile, 190, 194, 206 Extraspection, 57, 70, 109

F Facta et Dicta Memorabilia, See Valerius Maximus Fasti, 123 Fastidiosi, 39, 70, 148 Festus, 255 De Finibus, 33–34, 36–48, 74–78 Flavius Scaevinus, 186–87 Floronia, 198 Foedus amoris, 102–3, 111. See also Dido (Vergilian), ‘marriage’ to Aeneas Fortuna, 66, 155 ‘Four-personae’ theory, 65–67 Freudianism, 271n.26 Friendship, Epicurean theory of, 81–83 Fulvius, 188

G Gallus, C., 274n.32 Germanicus, 288n.42 Gill, C., 65–66, 70 Glissement, 111 Griffin, Miriam, 12, 189, 191, 193 Grisé, Yolande, 3, 12, 183, 189, 191–93

H Haemon, 93, 103, 275n.78, 275n.79 Hanging, 6, 190, 278n.51, 289n.44 Hannibal, 200, 201 ‘Harvard School’, 106, 117 Helvidius Priscus, 187, 254, 255, 257 Hercules Furens, 151, 282n.4 Herennius Senecio, 254 Heroides, See under Ovid Historia Augusta, 259 Homologia, 39, 70, 148 Honor, in Heroides 7, 138–39

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as motive for suicide, 6, 10–11, 184, 197–202, 203 political function, 60–61, 204, 208 and virtus, 60–61 Honorable aesthetic, as motive for suicide, 6, 10–11, 184, 197–202, 203 perceived disintegration, 208–9, 214, 236, 237, 249–50 role in Roman culture, 18, 184, 204, 207 in writings of Cicero, 60–62, 69, 71 Horace, 176, 201 Horatius Balbus, 288n.41 Hume, David, 265n.51 Hyginus, 275n.78 Hylonome, 124, 125, 142 Hypsipyle, 93, 102, 103

I Iactatio, 2, 254 Iarbas, 112, 128 Indifferentia, 40 Inedia, 179, 242 Interdictio aquae et ignis, 190 Iphis, 124 Iunii Blaesii, 188 Iustitia, according to the Epicureans, 81 in writings of Cicero, 58

J Jason, 93, 103 Julius Caesar, Lucanian, 222, 224–25, 226, 228, 229 in writings of Cicero, 61–62, 71, 207 in writings of Seneca, 152, 157 Julius Canus, 283n.23 Jupiter, 165 Ammon, 225 Liberator, 181–82, 185–86 Juvenal, 106, 253 Juventius, 94

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325

K Kant, Immanuel, 265n.51 kathe–konta, 65 Katorthmata, 65 Kuriai Doxai, 77–78, 79, 81, 83

L De Lacey, Philip, 66 Laodamia, 123, 124 Leander, 124 De Legibus, 268n.88 Lepidus, M., 256 Lesbia, 94, 95 Letter to Idomeneus, 77 Levinas, 16–17, 18 Lex naturalis, 59 Libertas, 196–97 Liberum mortis arbitrium, 7, 183, 188, 193 perceived paradoxicality, 7, 193–97 political function, 207–12 social logic, 196–97, 203–10 Libido moriendi, 7–8, 9, 177 Licentia, 196 Licinius Macer, C., 290n.48 Livy, 185, 186, 194, 198, 199, 201 Love, See Eros Lucan, De Bello Civili, amor mortis, 214, 215–221 Cato the Younger, 26, 222–26, 228–29 ending, 225 Julius Caesar, 222, 224–25, 226, 228, 229 natura, 222 Pompey, 222, 224–5, 231–32, 295n.41, 297n.89 res publica, 214, 226, 230 social perception in, 214, 215, 216–17, 220–21, 229–30, 232–33, 236 suicide, 213–15, 217–22, 225–26, 228–29 title, 294n.1 virtus, 216–17, 220, 232

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political allegiance, 230–31, 233–35 suicide, 26, 215, 233, 235–36 Lucretia, 28, 123 Lucretius, 23, 75, 77–79, 80, 98, 176. See also Epicureanism Lysimachus, 283n.25

M Marcus Laetorius Mergus, 292n.99 Maroboduus, 202, 206 Martial, 254, 255 De Matrimonio, 302n.22 Medea, 132, 158 Medea, 158 Mental illness and suicide, in the ancient world, 2 in the modern world, 2, 9, 12–13 Metamorphoses, 123–24, 142 Militia amoris, 92, 101 Miller, Paul, 94 Mithrades of Bosphorus, 202 Mithridates Eupator, 200 ‘Moral witness’, self as, 16–20 in elegy, 99–101 in Epicureanism, 74, 85 in writings of Levinas, 16 Mucius Scaevola, 157 Mutilus, 198–99 Myrrha, 124 Myth of Er, 57

N Natura, individual, See Persona and the state, 22–23, 53, 57 in Stoicism, 39–41 Nature, See Natura Nero, 145, 208, 253–54, 255 New Comedy, See Roman Comedy ‘Nothing to us’ argument, 79

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O De Officiis, 34, 35, 64–71 Oikeio–sis, Antiochean, 43–45, 47 Epicurean, 81 Stoic, 38–41 Olympiodorus, 37 Ontology, 14, 17 Orpheus, 124 Ovid, Ars Amatoria, 96 as elegist, 92, 94 Fasti, 123 formalism, 124–26, 142 Heroides, authenticity, 278n.6 and deconstruction, 132 as monologues, 131–33 relation to earlier literary tradition, 125–26, 132 as rhetoric, 131–33 title, 278n.5 See also Dido (Ovidian) influence, 143 Metamorphoses, 123–24, 142 Remedia Amoris, 89

P Panaetius, 65, 69, 302n.28 Perduellio, 209 Persius, 187 Persona, as basis of ethics, 17–19 Durkheimian perspective, 13 in elegy, 88, 92, 101, 102–4 Epicurean, 83–85 ‘four-personae’ theory, 65–67 and natura, 17, 53 and Ovid’s Dido, See under Dido (Ovidian) Petronian perspective, 237–38, 244, 246–47, 249–51

327

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potential artificiality, 122, 127, 141–43, 237–38, 247, 253–54 and Seneca’s Phaedra, 160, 169, 174–75 social perception and, 18, 69–71 and Vergil’s Dido, See under Dido (Vergilian) in writings of Cicero, 53, 64–71 in writings of Epictetus, 257–58 See also ‘Moral witness’, self as Petronius, praenomen, 299n.2 Satyrica, literary precedents, 244, 245 nature of personae in, 238, 244, 246–47 suicide in, 238, 239–47 title, 299n.2 ‘Widow of Ephesus’ tale, 242, 243, 244, 245 suicide, described, 247–49 as social critique, 26–27, 237–38, 249–251 Phaedra influence of Dido upon character, 159, 164 persona, 160, 173 ambiguity, 161, 169–73 as ‘psychology’, 158–59, 160–61, 163 as rhetorical construct, 160–63, 165–66, 169, 172 self-contradictions, 166–167, 168–69 suicide, paradoxicality, 172–75 as result of self-delusion, 160, 169, 174–75 Phaedrus, 145 Pharsalia, See Lucan, De Bello Civili Philo of Larissa, 32, 42 Philosophy, ancient influence upon Roman suicide, 34–35, 189 relation of Roman to Greek, 27–28 See also Antiochus of Ascalon; Cicero, philosophy; Epicureanism; Plato; Seneca, philosophy; Stoicism Phyllis, 93, 102, 122, 123, 124 Pietas, 108, 116, 125 Piso, Calpurnius, See Pisonian conspiracy Piso, M., 42. See also Antiochus of Ascalon

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Pisonian conspiracy, 233–34, 288n.21 Plass, Paul, 3, 12, 184, 189, 191–94 Plato, Laws, 49 Phaedo, 34, 49, 51–52, 54, 56, 179, 182 Republic, 57 suicide, doctrine concerning, 49 Plautius Silvanus, 2, 263n.7 Plautus, 88–91, 243 Pleasure, Epicurean theory of, 77 Pliny the Elder, 256, 289n.44 Pliny the Younger, 7, 187, 253, 255, 257 Plutarch, 51, 179, 188, 228 Political suicide, 26, 71, 184, 192, 229 social logic, 196–97, 203–10 Tacitus on, 8–10, 193, 255, 256 See also Plass, Paul Polyxena, 123, 214, 157 Pompey, historical, 197 Lucanian, 222, 224–25, 231–32, 295n.41, 297n.89 Principal Doctrines, 77–78, 79, 81, 83 Pro Caelio, 90 Propertius, 93, 94, 102, 275n.79 Proserpina, 120 Ptolemy of Cyprus, 200 Publius Clodius Quirinalis, 288n.42 Publius Crassus Mulianus, 199 Publius Palpellius Clodius Quirinalis, 288n.42 Publius Rutilius, 256 Pudor, 108 Pyramus, 124 Pyrrha, 124 Pythagoreanism, 49, 52, 189

Q Quintilian, 200 Quintus Fabius, 198 Quintus Fulvius Flaccus, 194

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R Ratio, See Virtus, ratio as Recusatio, 92, 100, 101 Relegatio, 190, 194, 206 Remedia Amoris, 89 De Re Publica, 34, 48–49, 57–58, 62–63, 268n.88 Republicanism, See Roman aristocratic culture, political ideology De Rerum Natura, See Lucretius Res publica, as analogue to natura, 22–23, 53, 57 in De Bello Civili of Lucan, 214, 226, 230 in elegy, 101–3 in Epicureanism, 81–82, 84, 85, 99–100 and the ‘honorable aesthetic’, 60–62, 203–4, 207–8, in Roman Comedy, 91 and virtus, 58–61, 70 in writings of Cicero, 58–62, 203 in writings of Seneca, 146, 152–53 Roman aristocratic culture, alienation from historical suicidal norms, 4 as basis of ethics, 17–18, 22, 59–60, 69, 255–56 political ideology, 196–7, 207 transformation under Empire, 8, 191–92, 207–8 See also Decorum; Persona Roman Comedy, 88–91

S Sapiens, Epicurean, 23, 75, 76, 83 Stoic, 37, 39, 40, 65 Satyrica, See under Petronius Scipio Africanus, See Somnium Scipionis ‘Self’, ancient concepts, See Persona. See also ‘Moral witness’, self as modern concepts, 13–16, 265n.51 Self-knowledge, epistemology, Antiochean, 43, 45–46 Cartesian, 14–15

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according to Cicero, 53, 55–57, 68–70 according to Seneca, 148–50, 157–59 social perception and, 18, 69–71 Stoic, 38, 48 suicide as failure of, according to Antiochus of Ascalon, 46–47 in Epicureanism, 79–80, 176 in philosophy of Seneca, 149–50, 158–59, 175–78 and Seneca’s Phaedra, 160, 169, 174–75 and Vergil’s Dido, 24, 109–11 Seneca the Elder, 280n.53 Seneca the Younger, philosophy, De Clementia, 226 coherence,147 death, role of, 154–55 emotion, 148, 157–58 epistemological crisis, 148–50, 157–59 Epistulae Morales, 25, 156, 157, 175–76 fastidiosi, 159, 175–78 influence of Epicureanism upon, 148 influence of Stoicism upon, 148, 150, 151 De Matrimonio, 302n.22 public sphere in, 146, 152–53 relationship to Platonism, 149 relationship to thought of Cicero, 146 relationship to tragedies, 282n.4 suicide, precepts concerning, 147, 151 suicide, result of self-delusion, 149, 150, 157–78 suicide, role of, 149, 150, 151–57, 178–82 De Tranquillitate Animi, 176–77 virtus, 153–55 suicide, ‘obsession with’, 146–47 own, 180–82, 183 tragedies, 146, 282n.4 Hercules Furens, 151, 282n.4 Medea, 158 Phaedra, See Phaedra (main heading) Thyestes, 158

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Troades, 157 Servitium amoris, 102 Servius, 190, 276n.7 Shame, 11–12, 198, 202, 204–5 Silvius, C., 291n.76 Somnium Scipionis, 34, 57–58, 62–3 Sophocles, 103, 275n.79 Sphaerus, 54, 55, 98, 99 State, See Res Publica Stoicism, emotion, 38–39, 89, 98–99 epistemology, 38, 48 homologia, 39, 70, 148 indifferentia, 40 kathe–konta, 65 katorthmata, 65 natura, 39–41 oikeio–sis, 38–41 suicide, precepts, 37–38 theory, 36–41 telos, 40 virtus, 38–40 in writings of Seneca, 148, 150, 151 Style spirale, described, 131–32 Suetonius, 193–94, 195, 198 on death of Lucan, 233, 234, 235 on Nero, 253–54 Suicide, Christianity and, 13, 192, 259 definitions, ancient, 10–11, 184 Durkheimian, 5–6 modern and ancient contrasted, 1–4, 6–7, 7–11, 202 modern, See also Durkheim, Emil mental illness, 2, 9,12–13 perceived individuality of act, 1–2, 263n.6 Roman, decline, 255–57, 259 defeat in battle and, 198, 199, 200–2

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emotionlessness, 2, 178–79 female, 28–29, 256–57 honor and, 6, 10–11, 184, 197–202, 203 laconic, 186–87 Latin expressions for, 6 legal implications, 190–91, 198–99, 288n.41, 290n.52, 291n.71 as method of execution, See Liberum mortis arbitrium motives, See Eros; Honor; Iactatio; Political suicide; Shame political, See Political suicide. See also Plass, Paul previous scholarship, 3–4,12–13, 189–92, 193–94 religion, 189–90, 288n.42 as social critique, 19–20, 157, 229, 249 statistical analysis, 20, 185, 188 stereotyped character, 2, 183, 186–87 Le Suicide, See Durkheim, Emil Suicide salvateur, 191, 199, 206, 207 Summa supplicia, 198 Suspendiosi, 6, 190, 278n.51, 289n.44

T Tacitus, Agricola, 8–9 Annales, 184–85, 187, 198, 212, 301n.17 on the Pisonian conspiracy, 233–34 on the suicide of Lucan, 235–36 on the suicide of Seneca, 180–82 on the suicide of Thrasea Paetus, 185–86 perspective on suicide, 8–10, 193, 205, 255, 256 Tarquinius Superbus, 289n.44 Telephorus, 283n.25 Teleutai, 187 Telos, Epicurean, 76–77 Stoic, 40 Thisbe, 124 Thrasea Paetus, 6, 7, 187, 192, 211 influence, 254, 257 suicide, 185–86 Thyestes, 158

333

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Tiberius, 108, 202, 212 Tibullus, 92, 94, 96 Tigellinus, 248–49 Torquatus, 33, 74; See also Epicureanism De Tranquillitate Animi, 176–77 Treason, See Crimen maiestatis imminutae; perduellio Troades, 157 Tullius Marcellinus, 180 Tusculan Disputations, 34, 48–49, 50–51, 54–57, 98

U Ulpian, 2, 254 Utilitas, 58–60

V Valerius Atticus, 186 Valerius Maximus, 145, 199 van Hooff, Anton, 3, 12, 189, 191–92, 193, 199, 204–5 influence of Durkheim upon, 13, 203, 264n.32 on the liberum mortis arbitrium, 183–84 See also Suicide, statistical analysis Varus, 200 Vatican Sayings, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 81, 82 Vellius Paterculus, 145 Vergil, See Dido (Vergilian) Vespasian, 254 Vibius Virrius, 201 Virtus, according to Antiochus of Ascalon, 43–45 according to Cicero, 52–53, 55, 58–62, 67–68 in De Bello Civili of Lucan, 216–17, 220, 232 and honor, 60–61 as ratio, 40, 55, 100 and the res publica, 58–61, 70 Stoic account, 38–40 in writings of Seneca, 153–55 Vitellius, 194–95 Vulteius, historical, 292n.102 Lucanian,195, 219–21,

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Index

W ‘Widow of Ephesus’ tale, See under Petronius, Satyrica Wood, N., 59

Z Zeno of Citium, 269n.112 Zmyrna, 279n.19

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