In the first part of this treatise I deduced our moral obligations from the Four Cardinal Virtues,1 ons of right. So let us now apply the same classification in order to emphasize this conflict between what is right and what displays the false appearance of advantage. I have discussed wisdom – which cunning seems to mimic. I have also dealt with justice, which can never fail to be advantageous. So there remain two Cardinal Virtues. One of them can be described as heroism or fortitude; and the other as the shaping and regulation of the character by temperance and self-control.
First, fortitude. Ulysses believed that the trick he played was to his advantage. So, at least, say the tragic poets1 - thought in Homer, our best authority, this reflection on his conduct is not found. The tragedians, however, represent Ulysses as deliberately evading military service by simulating madness. Such a scheme evidently cannot be described as morally right! But it could, perhaps, be interpreted as advantageous, seeing that it enabled him to keep his throne and go on living at ease in Ithaca with his parents, wife, and son. A life so peaceful, the argument could run, is better than any of the glory which days filled with toil and danger might provide.
My own view, however, is that peacefulness of such a kind must be spurned and rejected, because it is wrong and therefore cannot be advantageous. Imagine if Ulysses had persisted in his pretence of madness; how he would have been criticized! Even as matters were, in spite of his subsequent deeds of heroism in the war he was attacked by Ajax in the following terms:2 know, Ulysses was the man who instigated the leaders to swear their oath – yet he alone broke that oath, when he began feigning madness to avoid joining up! And if Palamedes, with his shrewd sense, had not seen through this deceitful effrontery, Ulysses would have evaded the fulfilment of his vow for ever!’
Ulysses’ battles against the enemy, and even his battles against the waves, were nobler than this abandonment of the union of all Greece against the barbarians.
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But we have had enough of myths, and of foreign parts. Let us turn to our own country, and to real history.
In Africa, while Marcus Atilius Regulus3 the second time, the enemy captured him by a trick; the Carthaginian commander was Xanthippus the Spartan, serving under Hannibal’s father Hamilcar.1 thorities then dispatched Regulus to Rome. His instructions were to meet the Senate, and request the return of certain aristocratic Carthaginian prisoners. In case, however, he should fail in his mission, he placed himself under oath to return to Carthage.
When Regulus arrived in Rome, the superficially advantageous course was obvious enough to him. But he rejected the advantage as unreal: as subsequent developments were to show. His interests seemed to require him to stay in his own country, at home with his wife and children – retaining his high position as consul, and treating the defeat he had suffered as a misfortune which anyone might experience in time of war. And what do you think refuted the supposition that these were advantages? I will tell you: his heroism and his fortitude. And no more impressive authorities could be imagined. For the whole point of these virtues is that they reject fear, rise above all the hazards of this life, and regard nothing that can happen to a human being as unendurable.
So what did Regulus do? He entered the Senate, and reported his instructions. But at first he refused to express his own opinion in the matter, because, as long as he was still bound by an oath sworn to the enemy, he refused to consider himself a member of the Senate. What happened next will cause him to be criticized for foolishness in acting against his own advantage. For he then proceeded to advise the Senate that the Carthaginian prisoners should not be sent back, since they were young men and capable officers whereas he himself was old and worn out. His advice prevailed, and the prisoners were not released.
So Regulus returned to Carthage. Even his love for his own homeland and his dear ones was not strong enough to hold him back. Yet he knew full well the refinements of torture which a ruthless foe had in store for him. Nevertheless he believed that he had to obey his oath. When he rejoined his captors, they gave him no sleep until death came to him. But even so he was better off than if he had stayed at home – an aged ex-consul who had fallen into the enemy’s hands and then perjured himself.
The opposite thesis runs like this. ’still, to argue explicitly against the release of the prisoners was foolish of Regulus. He would have done enough if he had merely refrained from advocating their release.’ But how could what he did be foolish? If his advice furthered our national interests, where is the foolishness then? No course which is harmful to the state can possibly benefit any of its individual citizens.
People who argue that advantage is one thing and right another are uprooting the fundamental principles laid down by nature. Obviously we all aim at our own advantage: we find that irresistibly attractive. No one can possibly work against his own interests – indeed no one can refrain from pursuing them to the best of his ability. But seeing that our advantage can only be found in good repute, honour, and right, priority and primacy must be accorded to these. The advantage that goes with them should be interpreted as their indispensable accompaniment rather than as a glorious objective in itself.
But here are further arguments against Regulus’s action. ‘What is the significance of an oath, anyway? Surely we are not frightened of Jupiter’s anger! We have no reason to be, since all philosophers maintain that God is never angry and never hurtful: on this point those1 at God is himself free from cares and does not inflict them on others, and those who hold that he is ever active and at work, are in full agreement. Besides, even if Jupiter had been angry, how could he possibly have damaged Regulus more than, as things turned out, Regulus damaged himself? So there could be no justification for allowing scruples to overrule the advantages of the opposite course.’
Another criticism is this. ‘Was fear of doing wrong his motive? If so, he was misguided, for the following reasons. First, the proverb rightly insists that one should “choose the least among evils”, and the breach of faith which he would have committed by staying was not so bad as the torture which he suffered because of his return. Secondly, remember those lines from Accius: “Have you broken your faith? But I never pledged it – to the faithless I pledge no faith.”2 Though the king who spoke those words was evil, the sentiment that they record is none the less admirable.’
The next point raised by Regulus’s detractors goes as follows. Just as we maintain that certain things seem advantageous but are not, so they maintain that certain things seem right but are not. ‘In this case, for instance,’ they say, ‘it looks as though Regulus did right in going back to be tortured for the sake of his oath. But his action proves not
to be right all the same, because an oath extracted forcibly by an enemy need not be honoured.’
Then their final objection is to the effect that something exceptionally advantageous often turns out to be right, contrary to first appearances.
So these are the principal lines of attack on Regulus’s action. Let me deal with them in turn.
First, the argument that there was no need to be afraid of anger and harm from Jupiter, because Jupiter is never angry or harmful. Now this is only valid as a criticism of Regulus in so far as the same argument applies to any and every oath. But when we swear an oath, what we ought to have in mind is not so much fear of possible retribution as the sanctity of the obligation we have incurred. For an oath is backed by the whole force of religion: a promise you have solemnly made, with God as your witness, you must keep. This is not a question of the anger of the gods, which does not exist, but of right dealing and good faith. ‘Gracious Faith, borne on wings; and oath sworn in Jupiter’s name,1 is the fine phrase of Ennius. So whoever breaks his oath violates Good Faith: for which – as a speech of Marcus Porcius Cato the Censor tells us – our ancestors chose a dwelling on the Capitol itself, next to the Temple of Jupiter the Best and Greatest.
One of the other objections was that even if Jupiter had been angry he could not have damaged Regulus more than Regulus damaged himself. Correct – if pain were the only evil! But philosophers of the highest authority2 assert that, on the contrary, pain is not even the greatest among evils: in fact it is not an evil at all! Regulus is our witness to this truth, and let us not disparage the force of his evidence. On the contrary, he seems to me the best of all possible witnesses. I can think of no more significant testimony than that of a leading Roman who insisted on doing his moral duty even to the extent of submitting to torture.
Then there was the criticism, choose the least among evils. But surely that cannot mean ‘do wrong to keep out of trouble’, seeing that the worst of all evils is wrongdoing. For since even an outward blemish such as a physical deformity is not very agreeable, a degeneracy of the soul itself faces us with something that is truly hideous and repellent.
That is why the more rigorous school of philosophers go so far as to say that moral one is the only evil – and even those who are less strict1 do not hesitate to call it the worst of evils.
Well, as to that quotation, I never pledged my faith: to the faithless I do not pledge it. The poet found the phrase apt because he had to make the words fit the character of Atreus2 who appeared in his play. But anyone who sets out to argue that a pledge given to someone who is faithless need not be honoured should take care, or he may, by his proposition, merely be opening the door to perjury.
Indeed, even warfare has its legal obligations: an oath that you have sworn to an enemy very often has to be honoured. That is to say, if you swore with the clear intention of keeping your word, then you must do so. If, on the other hand, you had no such idea, then breaking the oath is no perjury.
Imagine, for example, that you have been captured by pirates, and you agree with them to pay a ransom for your life. Yet even if your agreement had been on oath, your failure to deliver the ransom would not count as fraudulent. For a pirate does not come into the category of regular enemies since he is the enemy of all the ‘world – as far as he is concerned, good faith and oaths do not come into the picture at all.
For perjury is not simply swearing to what is false. It is the failure to honour an oath which, according to the traditional phrase, you have sworn upon your conscience. About the other sort of oath Euripides aptly writes:’ With my tongue I swore: my mind remains unsworn.’3 Regulus, on the other hand, was not entitled to perjure himself by renouncing the terms and conditions of warfare agreed with the enemy. For our operations against them originated from a regular, formal declaration of war, and relations with enemies thus defined are governed by our whole code of warfare as well as by many international laws.
This is proved by the action taken on certain occasions by our Senate in handing over distinguished Romans, manacled, to our enemies. During the second consulships of Titus Veturius and Spurius Postumius we were defeated by the Samnites in’ the battle of the Caudine Forks.1 Our legions were compelled to go under the yoke, and the consuls made peace. But because neither the Assembly nor the Senate had authorized them to do so, they were handed over to the enemy. So, at the same time, were Tiberius Numicius and Quintus Maelius, then tribunes of the people, since they had favoured the conclusion of peace: which their delivery to the Samnites was intended to repudiate. Moreover, the handing over of these men was actually urged and supported by Postumius himself, although he was one of their number.
Many years later the same thing happened to Gaius Hostilius Mancinus.2 He had made a treaty with the people of Numantia without the Senate’s sanction. Lucius Furius Philus and Sextus Atilius Serranus moved that he should be given up to the Numantines – and Mancinus himself spoke in favour of that proposal. The motion was passed, and he was surrendered to the other side. Quintus Pompeius Rufus acted less honourably, on another occasion, when he spoke against a similar proposal and secured its rejection. This was a case of abandoning the right course in favour of an apparent advantage. In the former instances, on the other hand, the false appearance of advantage was outweighed by what was right.
Another argument against Regulus was that an oath extorted by force need not be honoured. As if force could influence a hero!
Again: ‘If Regulus only proposed to urge the Senate not to release the Carthaginian prisoners, why did he make the journey at all?’ There you are complaining about the finest feature of his action! He subordinated his own judgement to the Senate’s; the purpose of his mission was to enable the Senate to judge the matter for itself. True, without his advice, the prisoners would certainly have been returned to the Carthaginians, and in that event Regulus would have remained safe in his own country. But he did not think this was to his country’s advantage, and he felt it right to say so – and suffer accordingly.
And then his critics argued that what is exceptionally advantageous often turns out to be right. However, they presumably mean ‘is’ right, not ‘turns out to be’ right – seeing that nothing can be advantageous unless it is right already! Things are advantageous because they are right.
So all the exemplary actions of the past could hardly supply a more splendid and noble deed than that of Regulus.
However, probably the most praiseworthy feature of the whole glorious incident is his own initiative in arguing against the release of the prisoners. True, his return to Carthage also seems to us admirable; but at that epoch he could not have done otherwise, so the merit belongs to the times rather than to the individual. For our ancestors believed that no guarantee of good faith was more powerful than an oath. That is proved by the Twelve Tables, the Sacred Laws,1 and the treaties insisting on good faith even with an enemy.
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Inquiries and penalties from the censors2 tell the same story: cases relating to oaths were those for which they reserved their most rigorous judgements. The dictatorship of Lucius Manlius Capitolinus Im-periosus,3 son of Aulus, provides an instance. Marcus Pomponius, tribune of the people, announced an indictment of the dictator because he had prolonged for a few days his tenure of office. Pomponius also accused Manlius of banishing his own son Titus (Titus Manlius Torquatus, as he was called later), and compelling him to live in the country away from all human society. But when Titus heard of his father’s predicament, he hastened to Rome, the story goes, and early one morning called at Pomponius’s house. When his presence was reported, Pomponius assumed that the motive for the young man’s visit was an angry determination to bring fresh evidence against his father. The tribune rose from his bed, cleared the room of witnesses, and gave orders that the visitor should be admitted. But Titus no sooner entered than he drew his sword and vowed to kill Pomponius on the spot unless he promised, on oath, to withdraw the charge against the elder Manlius. Terrified, Pomponius did as he was told. Later, reporting the incident in the Assembly, he explained that because of what had happened he was obliged to abandon the case; and so he withdrew the charge against the dictator.
Such was the reverence felt for an oath in those days!
The young man in that story was the same Titus Manlius who at the battle by the Anio1 was challenged to single combat by a Gaul. He killed the Gaul and pulled off his collar (torques), his acquiring the surname Torquatus. Later, when consul for the third time, this exceptionally distinguished man defeated and routed the Latins near Veseris. He had shown remarkable indulgence towards his father -although to his own son he behaved with ruthless severity.
When we praise Regulus for keeping his oath, we must censure ten Romans concerned in another occurrence. After the battle of Cannae Hannibal dispatched ten of his Roman prisoners on parole as envoys to the Senate. If the story that they omitted to return to the Carthaginians is true, they were gravely at fault, since, in the event of failure to arrange an exchange of prisoners, they had sworn to go back to the camp and to the enemy who were now its occupants. Their subsequent behaviour is variously described. Polybius,2 an outstandingly reliable authority, reports that nine out of the ten aristocratic envoys duly returned to Hannibal when their mission to the Senate had proved unsuccessful, but that the tenth found a reason for remaining at Rome. Shortly after his initial departure, this man had turned back and re-entered the camp on the pretext that he had forgotten something; and now he argued that by this ‘return to the camp’ he had released himself from his oath. But he was wrong. Far from rehabilitating perjury, deliberate deception makes things worse. So his cunning was merely foolishness, perversely masquerading as intelligence. He was a sly rogue – and the Senate directed that he should be taken back to Hannibal in chains.
But the most significant part of the story is this. The eight thousand prisoners in Hannibal’s hands had not been captured by him in battle, and had equally not fled from the battle to save their lives: the consuls Marcus Aemilius Paullus and Gaius Terentius Varro had left them behind in the camp. Their ransom could have been cheaply arranged. Yet the Senate did not take this step, owing to a desire to implant in our soldiers the lesson that they must conquer or die. Polybius described the effect of this news on Hannibal; such heroic courage displayed by the Senate and people of Rome in the face of disaster plunged him into despair. Here, then is another case of right outweighing apparent advantage. (However, Gaius Acilius1 the writer of a Roman history in Greek, gives another version. According to him, not one but several of the envoys played this trick of re-entering the camp in the hope of releasing themselves from their oaths, and they incurred the deepest ignominy from the censors.)
So let us conclude this discussion. Obviously, no action performed in a timid, base, degraded, crushed spirit can be a source of advantage – because such actions are immoral, offensive, and wrong. And that would have been the proper description for what Regulus had done if his advice concerning the prisoners had been influenced by his own seeming advantage, and his desire to stay at home, rather than by the interests of his country.
There still remains our fourth Good Quality. This comprises propriety, moderation, decorum, restraint, and self-control.
How can anything which conflicts with such a chorus of virtues possibly be advantageous? Yet the Cyrenaic followers of Aristippus, and the philosophical school named after Anniceris,2 used to interpret pleasure as the one and only good. Virtue, they held, is praiseworthy only to the extent that it produces pleasure. These doctrines are out of date nowadays; but Epicurus is in fashion, and the view which he strongly advocates is very much the same as theirs. And yet if we are determined to maintain and stand up for what is right, these beliefs must be resisted by main force. Metrodorus,3 too, identifies advantage, and indeed a happylife in general, with good physical health and the firm expectation of its continuance. But such an interpretation of advantage – and what is being defined here is the supreme advantage -cannot escape clashing with what is right.
Take wisdom first of all: where can a system like this possibly find room for such a quality? I suppose wisdom will be assigned the function of hunting up pleasures wherever they can be found! But what a depressing servitude for wisdom, the synonym of virtue – slaving for pleasure. Its job, I suppose, will be to make an intelligent choice between one pleasure and another. But granted that this prospect has its superficial attractions, would not such a task be degrading in the extreme?
And then if people argue that pain is the supreme evil, I cannot see what role they can assign to that other Cardinal Virtue, fortitude -seeing that this means disregard for pains and troubles. It is true that Epicurus, in his observations concerning pain, frequently displays a respect for fortitude. But such sayings lack significance beside the fundamental question: what place can fortitude logically occupy in a system which identifies good with pleasure and evil with pain?
The same applies to restraint and self-control. Reading Epicurus one finds, scattered about his works, many references to these good qualities. But the stream is clogged, as the proverb goes. For instance, if he regards pleasure as the highest good, how can he recommend self-control? – seeing that pleasure is served by the passions, and self-control is their adversary.
So when they come to the three Virtues of wisdom, fortitude, and self-control, these Epicureans have to hedge; though they do it ingeniously enough. Wisdom finds a place in their system as the knowledge by which pleasures are procured and pains removed. For fortitude, too, they make some sort of a case, as the quality which enables people to make light of death and to endure pain. They even bring in self-control – not very easily, one must admit, but as well as they can – by claiming that pleasure in its highest form amounts to the absence of pain and nothing more.
However, the fourth Cardinal Virtue, justice, makes only a tottering appearance in their doctrine – or rather, its condition is one of collapse. And so are all the other good qualities which are concerned with our daily lives and with the association between one human being and another. Integrity, generosity, and courtesy: these, and friendship too, cannot exist if they are pursued, not because they are desirable in themselves, but for the sake of pleasure and self-interest.
Let me recapitulate briefly. First I tried to show that nothing opposed to right can be advantageous. Then I pointed out that this wrongful category includes all sensual indulgence. That is why, in my opinion, Calliphon and Dinomachus1 deserve particular censure for their attempt to solve this problem by coupling pleasure with right: which is like coupling a man with an animal! The highest good, being of necessity homogeneous, cannot be a composite mixture of contradictory qualities.
But I have dealt with the highest good elsewhere – and it is a large subject! So back to our present discussion. I have treated in some detail the problem of deciding what to do when right and apparent advantage conflict. A place among apparent advantages may certainly be claimed for sensual pleasures. Yet with right they have nothing in common. To pleasures of such a kind, one concession only can be made – perhaps they add a certain spice to life! But they certainly provide no real advantage.
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Here then, Marcus my son, is your father’s present to you. Personally I consider it a substantial one! But that will depend on the use you make of it. I should like you to think of these three parts of my work as three welcome guests among your notes of Cratippu’s lectures.
I should certainly have come to Athens myself, if my country had not unmistakably called me back when I was already on my way2 If I had come, I am sure you would, from time to time, have given me your ear. Instead, I have to be represented by my voice: in the shape of these volumes. So do please give them as much time as you can -which means as much as you want to. And when I have heard that. you are enjoying your study of these subjects, I hope we shall soon be discussing them together. Meanwhile, we are separated, and our talks must be at a distance.
Goodbye, then, my son. My affection for you is very great, as you know. And it will be a good deal stronger still if this sort of advice and instruction meets with your favour!