Marcus Aurelius Antoninus

     This week my students were introduced to the gentlest and perhaps the manliest soul ever to ascend the throne of the Roman Empire.  Marcus Aurelius had been surrounded in his youth by wise instructors in philosophy and letters, as he himself gratefully acknowledges; he also lived in the household of his adoptive father, the emperor Antoninus Pius, whom he remembers for his "mildness of temper, and unchangeable resolution in the things which he had determined after due deliberation; and no vainglory in those things which men call honors; and a love of labor and perseverance; and a readiness to listen to those who had anything to propose for the common weal," and his benevolence, his temperate life, his simplicity of tastes and his comportment showing that humility could dwell even in the heart of an emperor.  Marcus managed to avoid the overheated lusts of the Roman aristocracy: "I am thankful to the gods," he says, "that I preserved the flower of my youth, and that I did not make proof of my virility before the proper season, but even deferred the time," marrying Faustina, the daughter of Antoninus Pius, at age 25, seven years after their betrothal.

     Marcus gives us a splendid definition of tolerance.  Since he took his duties as ruler most seriously, when he was not with his legions in a swamp in Pannonia engaging in the necessary but for him uncongenial duty of defending the imperial borders against German incursions, he had to meet the long series of social climbers, office seekers, bureaucrats, plaintiffs, defendants, praetors and aediles on the take, wise men and buffoons; and that would pretty much take up his day from morning till, often, midnight.  Yet he does not complain: "Begin the morning by saying to thyself, I shall meet with the busybody, the ungrateful, arrogant, deceitful, envious, unsocial.  All these things happen to them by reason of their ignorance of what is good and evil.  But I who have seen the nature of the good that it is beautiful, and of the bad that it is ugly, and the nature of him who does wrong, that it is akin to me . . . I can neither be injured by any of them, for no one can fix on me what is ugly, nor can I be angry with my kinsman, nor hate him."  But Marcus means more than that we should ignore the wrongdoer.  Since man is by nature a social animal, and only exists for the sake of his fellow men, we should conquer the wrongdoer by benevolence, "gently and calmly correcting him, admonishing him when he is trying to do thee harm, saying, 'Not so, my child: we are constituted by nature for something else: I shall certainly not be injured, but thou art injuring thyself, my child.'"  Nor was the emperor one, like the less amiable Seneca, to preach pure Stoicism and indulge himself in luxury and ambition and petty envy.  When his trusted and beloved general Avidius Cassius revolted against him, so esteemed was Marcus for his kindness that Cassius' own soldiers began to think better of their revolt, and in three months' time had assassinated the man they themselves had proclaimed as their new Augustus.  Marcus then went to the Senate, insisted that they pardon Cassius' whole family, traveled through the rebellious provinces and pacified them with his forbearance, then finally burned, unread, the incriminating letters sent by and to the traitor.

     The Meditations are a remarkable work by a remarkable man, a seeker after God who knew nothing, really, about the Christians, and who therefore allowed, or did not condemn, certain persecutions of them in provinces distant from his own person.  He is a profoundly sad man, whose tranquility of disposition is disturbed now and then by thoughts of the nothingness of death; he knew that "the gods," such as were imagined by the unlettered people, did not exist, though he did believe in a divine and impersonal mind, a force for good, unappealable and inexorable, that animated all the universe.  Yet the good Christian can learn much from his example.  I quote my edition's introduction: "The whole of the Emperor's Meditations deserve profound study of this age.  The self-denial which they display is a rebuke to our ever-growing luxury; their generosity contrasts favorably with the increasing bitterness of our cynicism; their contented acquiescence in God's will rebukes our incessant restlessness; above all, their constant elevation shames that multitude of little vices, and little meannesses, which lie like a scurf over the conventionality of modern life . . . Amid the frightful universality of moral corruption he preserved a stainless conscience and a most pure soul; he thanked God in language which breathes the most crystallinge delicacy of sentiment, that he had preserved uninjured the flower of his early life, and that under the calm influences of his home in the country, and the studies of philosophy, he had learned to value chastity as the sacred girdle of youth, to be retained and honored to his latest years."

     But perhaps the most telling part of this book, for me, was not written by Marcus or by Canon Farrar, the biographer.  It is a handwritten note on the first blank page within the cover: "Arthur J. Paine, From Aunt E----, July 18, 1901."  The book comes from the Burt's Library series, aimed at bringing the greatest classical and modern literature to the common people, in handsome and affordable editions.  Evidently Aunt Ellen or Aunt Emily had presented her nephew Arthur with this book, perhaps on his birthday, or on his graduation from high school.  In other words, it was a book that you would give a young man, maybe one that we would now call a teenage boy, because the book is wise and, to use the old-fashioned term, manly.  But that was 1901, a long time ago.  Nowadays, anybody who subscribed to the pagan wisdom of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus would be called a "moralistic twit."  Yet the pagans of his own day were sensible enough to cherish the moral wisdom that they themselves could not attain.  Marcus had erected only one temple during his entire long reign -- not to himself, nor to his beloved father Antoninus Pius, nor to any of those cheats and scoundrels the pagan gods, but to Beneficence.  After his death, though, his subjects by thousands and thousands procured for themselves images of their kind emperor, to place upon their mantels as numbered among their household gods.  How is it that the pagans of that day would do that for Marcus Aurelius, while the pagans and many "Christians" of our own day, who have been graced with the witness of One infinitely greater than Marcus, would scoff?

Comments

[jquinby]

For better or worse, I've come to automatically identify M. Aurelius with Richard Harris. Thanks for this. I picked up a bargain-basement edition of The Meditations when I started my (ever-delayed) canon reading project, and there are many passages that have been underlined and marked in the margins, including the one you outlined above. My other personal favorite is the meditation on simply getting out of bed:

In the morning when thou risest unwillingly, let this thought be present—I am rising to the work of a human being. Why then am I dissatisfied if I am going to do the things for which I exist and for which I was brought into the world? Or have I been made for this, to lie in the bedclothes and keep myself warm?—But this is more pleasant.—Dost thou exist then to take thy pleasure, and not at all for action or exertion? Dost thou not see the little plants, the little birds, the ants, the spiders, the bees working together to put in order their several parts of the universe? And art thou unwilling to do the work of a human being, and dost thou not make haste to do that which is according to thy nature?—But it is necessary to take rest also.—It is necessary: however nature has fixed bounds to this too: she has fixed bounds both to eating and drinking, and yet thou goest beyond these bounds, beyond what is sufficient; yet in thy acts it is not so, but thou stoppest short of what thou canst do.

Another, more succinct:

That which is not good for the swarm, neither is it good for the bee.

[Brad C]

"But perhaps the most telling part of this book, for me, was not written by Marcus or by Canon Farrar, the biographer. It is a handwritten note on the first blank page within the cover: 'Arthur J. Paine, From Aunt E----, July 18, 1901.'"

I checked out a copy of Butler's "Analogy" from the university library and it had a similar inscription. It said something like, "To x, with fond memories of our school days". It was dated around the late 19th century. This is what students read in secondary school then. I am a graduate student in philosophy and it took every bit of my attention to follow the argument. What a great window into another time and a lesson in humility!

[smh]

Tony, you've inspired me to re-read the Meditations. I've been wanting for years to put Marcus and Epictetus into Christian Classics, but don't think I'd better try . . . .

[James A. Altena]

Great post. The episode with Avidius Cassius shows that (while utilizing a different emperor) the plot of Mozart's "La Clemenza di Tito" is not so far-fetched as one might initially suppose.

[Bill R]

Tony, it is a bit of a puzzle for me how near to the faith so many “noble pagans” were B.C., yet how far from the faith are so many modern pagans P.C. (post Christendom). Perhaps as the great-hearted approached the moment of Christ’s earthly life they were afforded a glimpse of that which was to come and they anticipated it. But our current pagans are, or come from, disaffected Christians, and therefore reject and scorn their immediate heritage.

[Ethan Cordray]

Is it possible to hope that the true God of Beneficence called Aurelius to Himself after the good man's death? I've been reading Dante, and limbo seems like too sad a fate for such a one.

[Christopher Hathaway]

Don't worry Ethan. Limbo is an entirely human invention made to fill the gaps in their theology.

God knows who are His own, even if they didn't.

And I always associate Alec Guinness with Marcus Aurelius.

[Sue Sims]

Modern 'pagans' aren't. Remember Lewis: a divorcee isn't virgin. They're not seeking revelation but the lack of one.

Those who call themselves Pagans or Wicca or whatever are no different, save that they've bought into a 20th-century romantic myth.

[Bill R]

"They're not seeking revelation but the lack of one."

Lovely!

[Kathy B]

Does anyone know of a good currently available translation/printing of this? I want to get a copy for the kids.

[St. Gimp]

I just started reading the Meditations a few days ago, and wish I had done so a few years ago.

[Dave]

It was Marcus Aurelius (along with his stoic brothers Seneca and Epictetus), more so than antidepressants, therapy, or the Church, that pulled me out of my almost life-threatening depression.

[Ethan Cordray]

I second Kathy's request concerning a good translation. I think I may have just picked my follow-up to the Divine Comedy.

[Marty]

I want to be in your class!

[Bill R]

"I want to be in your class!"

Sorry, Marty, but Tony Esolen is in a class by himself!

[James Quinby]

For what it's worth, my edition is a translation by George Long, and I imagine that it's in the public domain, as the bargain-basement price I mentioned might attest. I think it's wholly possible that, were I totally ignorant of Christ, I might try to emulate the likes of Aurelius.

I do my duty: other things trouble me not; for they are either things without life, or things without reason,or things that have rambled and know not the way.

Beautiful.

[Marty]

Bill, you are right. He sure is.

[Tony Esolen]

Bill and Marty, thanks for the thumbs up.

On a translation of Marcus Aurelius: The one I quoted was from the old Burt's Classics series, as I said. It's not bad, once you get used to the late Victorian language; sort of puts you in a Quo Vadis or Ben Hur mood. We used a contemporary translation this year, though -- can't remember the translator's name (from Hackett Press, I think), and my daughter (who is in the class) has the book smuggled away somewhere in her room, into the which Dad does not generally go. That translation is breezy, clear, sometimes highly concrete; also idiosyncratic and deliberately ungrammatical, to affect the manner of somebody dashing off a comment without bothering to think it through. Sometimes the older translation is closer to the mark, and sometimes it's the other way around. If I were giving the book as a present to a young person, I'd pick the newer one, on the assumption that he'd never read the other (students now commonly call the language of Dickens "old English"). Otherwise, for the four beautiful essays that begin the book, if for nothing else, I'd go with the Burt's. Of course there are many others, but I'm not familiar with them.

[Bill Gard]

I remember reading a passage in Marcus Aurelius who was mentoring a youth and telling him (here I'm paraphrasing)that if he did not inform the youth of his problems he was doing the youth a great disservice, as the youth would never learn how to improve. Does anyone know the source of that discourse?