EPICTETUS ALLUDES TO JEWS
I did not open the sealed note, though I was not convinced that Epictetus
had been a borrower. Paulus the Christian had begun to interest me,
because of Scaurus’s quotations and remarks on his style. Indeed he
interested me so much that I determined at once to procure a copy of his
letters. But Christus himself—whom I call Christus here to distinguish
the meaning with which I used the name then from that with which I began
to use the name of “Christ” soon afterwards—Christus, I say, at that
moment, did not interest me at all.
Moreover I was impressed by what Scaurus said about a military career.
Though too young to remember much about the shameful days of Domitian,
yet I had heard my father describe the anguish he used to feel, when
letters from the Emperor to the Senate came announcing a glorious victory
(duly honoured with a triumph) after which would come a private letter
from Scaurus informing him that the victory was a disgraceful defeat.
And even later on, even after the successes of Trajan, my father, in
conversations with Scaurus, had often expressed, in my hearing, still
lingering apprehensions of a time when the barbarians might break in like
a flood upon the northern borders of the empire—if ever the imperial
throne were cursed with a second Domitian. Patriotism would be even more
needed then, he said, than when Marius beat back the Cimbri. All this
gave additional weight to Scaurus’s remarks. “Artemidorus,” I said,
“shall be my model. I will try to be a good soldier and a good Stoic in
one.” So I locked up the note, still sealed.
Here I may say that afterwards, when I did open it, it did not greatly
influence the course of my thoughts. By that time, I had come to think
that Scaurus was right, and that Epictetus had really borrowed from the
Christians. I opened it, therefore, not because I distrusted the fairness
and soundness of his judgment, but because I trusted it and looked to
him for information. As a fact, it rather confirmed his hypothesis of
borrowing, but did not demonstrate anything. The real influence of that
little note in my cabinet amounted, I think, to little more than this.
In the period I am now about to describe, while daily studying the works
of Paulus the Christian, I was beginning to ask myself “If Paulus the
follower of Christus was so great a teacher, must not Christus have
been greater?” In those days, when taking out Paul’s epistles from my
bookcase, I used often to see that packet lying there, with WORDS OF
CHRISTUS on it, and the seal unbroken. Then I used to say “If only I
could make up my mind to open you, you might tell me wonderful things.”
This stimulated my curiosity. It was one of many things—some little, some
great—that led me toward my goal.
The reader may perhaps think that I, a Roman of equestrian rank, must
have been already more prone to the Christian religion than I have
admitted, if I attempted to procure a copy of Paul’s epistles from a
bookseller in Nicopolis frequented by my fellow-students. But I made no
such attempt. Possibly our bookseller there would not have had a copy.
Probably he would not have confessed it if he had. In any case, I did
not ask him. It happened that I needed at this time certain philosophic
treatises (of Chrysippus and others). So I wrote to a freedman of my
father’s in Rome, an enterprising bookseller, who catered for various
tastes, giving him the titles of these works and telling him how to
prepare and ornament them. Then I added that Æmilius Scaurus had sent me
some remarkable extracts from the works of one Paulus, a Christian, and
that the volume seemed likely to be interesting as a literary curiosity.
This was perhaps a little understating the case. But not much. With
Flaccus, my Roman bookseller, I felt quite safe. Rather than buy Paul’s
epistles from Sosia in Nicopolis, I am sure I should not have bought
them at all. Such are the trifles in our lives on which sometimes our
course may depend—or may seem to have depended.
Meantime I had been attending lectures regularly and had become familiar
with many of Epictetus’s frequently recurring expressions of doctrine.
They were still almost always interesting, and generally impressive.
But his success in forcing me to “feel, for the moment, precisely what
he felt”—how often did I recognise the exact truth of this phrase of
Arrian’s!—made me begin to distrust myself. And from distrust of myself
sprang distrust of his teaching, too, when I found the feeling fade away
(time after time) upon leaving the lecturer’s presence. When I sat down
in my rooms to write out my notes, asking myself, “Can I honestly say
I hope to be ever able to do this or that?” how often was I obliged to
answer, “No!”
I could not trust his judgment about what we should be able to do,
because I could not trust his insight into what we were. Two causes
seemed to keep him out of sympathy with us. One was his own singular
power of bearing physical pain—almost as though he were a stone and not
flesh and blood. He thought that we had the same, or ought to have it.
Another cause was his absorption in something that was not human, in
a conception of God, whom (on some evidence clear to him but not made
clear by him to us, or at all events not to me) he _knew_ (not trusted
or believed, but _knew_) to have bestowed on him, Epictetus, the power
of being at once—not in the future, but at once, here on earth, at all
times, and in all circumstances—perfectly blessed. Having his eyes fixed
on this Supreme Giver of Peace, our Master often seemed to me hardly
able to bring himself to look down to us, except when he was chiding our
weakness.
Passing over several of the lectures that left me in the condition
I have endeavoured to describe, I will now come to the one in which
Epictetus alluded to Christians. “Jews” he called them. But he defined
them in such a way as to convince Arrian that he meant Christians. Even
if he did not, the impression produced on me was the same as if he had
actually mentioned them by name. The lecture began with the subject of
“steadfastness.” “A practical subject, this,” I said to myself, “for one
in training to be a second Artemidorus.” But the “steadfastness” was not
of the sort demanded in camps and battlefields. The essence of good, said
the lecturer, is right choice, and that of evil a wrong choice. External
things are not in our power, internal things are: “This Law God has laid
down, _If thou wilt have good, take it from thyself_.” Then followed one
of the now familiar dialogues, of which I was beginning to be a little
tired, between a tyrant threatening a philosopher, who points out that
he cannot possibly be threatened. The tyrant stares and says, “I will
put you in chains.” The wise man replies, “It is my hands and feet that
you threaten.” “I will cut off your head,” shouts the tyrant. “It is my
head that you threaten,” replies the philosopher. After a good deal more
of this, a pupil is supposed to ask, “Does not the tyrant threaten _you_
then?” To this the lecturer replies, “Yes, if I fear these things. But
if I have a feeling and conviction that these things are nothing to me,
then I am not threatened.” Then he appealed to us, “Of whom do I stand
in fear? What things must he be master of to make me afraid? Do you say,
‘The master of things that are in your power’? I reply, ‘There is no such
master.’ As for things not in my power, what are they to me?”
Epictetus had a sort of rule or canon for us beginners, by which we were
to take the measure of the so-called evils of life: “Make a habit of
saying at once to every harsh-looking apparition of this sort, ‘You are
an apparition and not at all the thing you appear to be. Are you of the
number of the things in my power, or are you not? If not, you are nothing
to me.’” Applying this to a concrete instance, our Master now dramatized
a dialogue between himself and Agamemnon, who is supposed to be passing
a sleepless night in anxiety for the Greeks, lest the Trojans should
destroy them on the morrow.
“_Epict._ What! Tearing your hair! And you say your heart leaps in
terror! And all for what? What is amiss with you? Money-matters?
“_Ag._ No.
“_Epict._ Health?
“_Ag._ No.
“_Epict._ No indeed! You have gold and silver to spare. What then
is amiss with you? That part of you has been neglected and utterly
corrupted, wherewith we desire etc. etc.”
Here Epictetus—after some customary technicalities—turned to us like a
showman, to explain the royal puppet’s condition: “‘How _neglected_?’
you ask. He does not know the essence of the Good for which he has been
created by nature, nor the essence of evil. He cries out, ‘Woe is me, the
Greeks are in peril’ because he has not learned to distinguish what is
really his own etc. etc.” After this apostrophe, which I have condensed,
he resumed the dialogue:
“_Ag._ They are all dead men. The Trojans will exterminate them.
“_Epict._ And if the Trojans do not kill them, they are never, never to
die, I suppose!!
“_Ag._ O, yes, they’ll die. But not at one blow, not to a man, like this.
“_Epict._ What difference does it make? If dying is an evil, then,
surely, whether they die all together or one by one, it is equally an
evil. And do you really think that dying will be anything more than the
separating of the paltry body from the soul?
“_Ag._ Nothing more.
“_Epict._ And you, when the Greeks are in the act of perishing, is the
door of escape shut for you? Is it not open to you to die?
“_Ag._ It is.
“_Epict._ Why then bewail? Bah! You, a king! And with the sceptre of
Zeus, too! A king is never unfortunate, any more than God is unfortunate.
What then are you? A shepherd in truth! For you weep, like the
shepherds—when a wolf carries off one of their sheep. And these Greeks
are fine sheep to submit to being ruled over by you. Why did you ever
begin this Trojan business? Was your desire imperilled etc. etc.?” [Here
I omit more technicalities.]
“_Ag._ No, but my brother’s darling wife was carried away.
“_Epict._ And was not that a great blessing, to be deprived of a ‘darling
wife’ who was an adulteress?
“_Ag._ Were we then to submit to be trampled on by the Trojans?
“_Epict._ Trojans? What are the Trojans? Wise or foolish? If wise, why
make war against them? If foolish, why care for them?”
I doubt whether Epictetus quite carried his class with him on this
occasion. He certainly did not carry me, though he went on consistently
pouring out various statements of his theory. For the first time in my
experience of his lectures, I began to feel that his reiterations were
really tedious. My thoughts strayed. I found myself questioning whether
my model soldier and philosopher, Artemidorus, could possibly accept this
teaching. Would Trajan, I asked, have been so sure of beating Decebalus,
if he had considered the disgrace of Rome a matter “independent of
choice,” and therefore “nothing to him,” “neither good nor evil”?
From this reverie I was roused by a sudden transition—to a picture of
a well-trained youth going forth to a conflict worthy of his mettle.
And now, I thought, we shall have something more like the ideal of my
first lecture, a Hercules or Diogenes, going about to help and heal.
But perhaps Epictetus drew a distinction between a Diogenes and mere
well-trained youths, mere beginners in philosophy. At all events, what
followed was only a kind of catechism to prepare us against adversity,
and especially against official oppression. “Whenever,” said he, “you are
in the act of going into the judgment hall of one in authority, remember
that there is also Another from above, taking note of what is going on,
and that you must please Him rather than the authority on earth.” This
catechism he threw into the form of a dialogue between the youth and
God—whom he called “Another.”
“_Another._ Exile, prison, bonds, death, and disgrace—what used you to
call these things in the Schools?
“_Pupil._ I? Things indifferent.
“_Another._ Well, then, what do you call them now? Can it be that _they_
have changed?
“_Pupil._ They have not.
“_Another._ You, then—have _you_ changed?
“_Pupil._ I have not.
“_Another._ Say, then, what are ‘things indifferent’?
“_Pupil._ The things outside choice.
“_Another._ Say also the next words.
“_Pupil._ Things indifferent are nothing to me.
“_Another._ Say also about things good. What things used you to think
good?
“_Pupil._ Right choice, right use of phenomena.
“_Another._ And what the end and object?
“_Pupil._ To follow thee.
“_Another._ Do you say the same things still?
“_Pupil._ I say the same things still.
“_Another._ Go your way, then, and be of good cheer, and remember these
things, and you will see how a young and well-trained champion towers
above the untrained.”
I wanted to hear him explain why he spoke of “_Another_,” instead of
Zeus, or God. It struck me that he meant to suggest to us that in this
visible world, whenever we say “_this_,” we must also say, in our
minds, “_another_,” to remind ourselves of the invisible counterpart.
“Especially must we say ‘_Another_’”—this, I thought, was his
meaning—“when we speak about rulers. Visible rulers are mostly bad. We
must prevent them from encroaching on the place that should be filled in
our hearts by the Other, the invisible Ruler.”
Instead of this explanation, however, he concluded his lecture by warning
us against insincerity, or “speaking from the lips,” and against trying
to be on both sides, when we ought to choose between two contending
sides. This he called “trimming.” And here it was—while addressing an
imaginary “trimmer”—that he used the word “Jew.”
“Why,” said he—addressing the sham philosopher—“why do you try to impose
on the multitude? Why pretend to be a Jew, being really a Greek? Whenever
we see a man trimming, we are accustomed to say, ‘This fellow is no Jew,
he is shamming.’ But when a man has taken into himself _the feeling
of the dipped and chosen_”—these were his exact words, uttered with
a gesture and tone of contempt—“then he is, both in name and in very
truth, a Jew. Even so it is with us, having merely a sham baptism; Jews
in theory, but something else in fact; far away from any real feeling
of our theory, and far away from any intention of putting into practice
the professions on which we plume ourselves—as though we knew what they
really meant!” I could not quite make out this allusion to Jews. But
there was no mistaking his next sentence, and it was the last in the
lecture, “So, I repeat, it is with us. We are not equal to the fulfilment
of the responsibilities of common humanity, not even up to the standard
of Man. Yet we would fain take on ourselves in addition the burden of a
philosopher. And what a burden! It is as though a weakling, without power
to carry a ten-pound weight, were to aspire to heave the stone of Ajax!”
Thus he dismissed us. I went out, feeling like the “weakling” indeed, but
without the slightest “aspiration to heave the stone of Ajax.” Perhaps
Arrian wished to encourage me. For after we had walked on awhile in
silence, he said, “The Master was rather cutting to-day. I remember his
once saying that we ought to come away from him, not as from a theatre
but as from a surgery. To-day the surgeon used the knife, and we don’t
like it.”
“But what good has the knife done us?” I exclaimed. “If only I could feel
that the surgeon had cut out the mischief, a touch of the knife should
not make me wince. But the mischief within me seems more mischievous,
and my strength for good less strong, for some things that I have heard
to-day. Is a Roman to say, when fighting against barbarians for the name
and fame of Rome, ‘These things are nothing to me’? Is Diogenes, healing
mankind, his brethren, to say, ‘Your diseases are nothing to me’? And
that fine phrase in the Catechism, ‘follow thee’—is it not really a
disguised form of ‘follow myself’? Does it not mean, ‘follow the _logos_
within me, my own reason, or my own reasonable will,’ or ‘follow my own
peace of mind, on which my mind is bent, to the neglect of everything
else’?”
“It does not mean that, for Epictetus himself, I am convinced,” said
Arrian. “I believe not, for him,” said I; “but it has that meaning for
me. His teaching does not teach—not me, at least, however it may be
with others—the art of being steadfast. And what about others? Did not
he himself just now admit that his _logos_ was less powerful than the
_pathos_ of the Jews to produce steadfastness? What, by the way, is this
_pathos_? Does it mean passionate and unreasonable conviction? And who on
earth are these Jews that are ‘dipped and chosen’?”
My friend’s face brightened. Perhaps it was a relief to him to pass from
theology to matter of literary fact. “I think,” he replied, “that he must
mean the Jewish followers of Christus—the Christians, about whom we were
lately talking.” “Then why,” said I, “does not he call them Christians?”
“I do not know,” replied Arrian, “He has never mentioned either
Christians or Christus in my hearing; but he has, in one lecture at all
events, used the term ‘Galilæans’ to mean the Christians. And I feel sure
that he means them here, because the other Jews do not practise baptism,
except for proselytes, whereas the Christians are all baptized.” “But,”
said I, “he does not call them ‘baptized.’ He calls them ‘dipped’.” “That
is his brief allusive way,” said Arrian. “You know that we provincials,
and sometimes even Athenians too, speak of _dipping_ the hair, or, if I
may invent the word, _bapting_ it, where the literary people speak of
_blacking_ or _dyeing_ it. That is just what our Master means. These
Christians are not merely _baptized_; they are _bapted_. That is to say,
they are permanently and unalterably stained, or dyed in grain. They are.
We are not. That is his meaning. Afterwards, as you noticed, he dropped
into the regular word ‘_baptism_,’ and spoke of us as _sham-baptists_.”
“But he also called them _chosen_,” said I, “—that is to say, if he
meant _chosen_, and not _caught_ or _convicted_.” Arrian smiled. “You
have hit the mark without knowing it,” said he. “I noticed the word and
took it down. It is another of his jibes! These Christians actually call
themselves ‘_elect_’ or ‘_chosen_.’ I heard all about it in Bithynia.
They profess to have been ‘called’ by Christus. Then, if they obey this
‘calling,’ and remain steadfast, following Christus, they are said to be
‘_chosen_’ or ‘_elect_.’ But our Master believes this ‘_calling_’ and
‘_choosing_’ to be moonshine, and these Christian Jews to be the victims
of a mere delusion, _caught_ by error. So he uses a word that might mean
‘_chosen_’ but might mean also ‘_caught_.’ They think themselves the
former. He thinks them the latter.”
I hardly know why I refrained from telling my friend what Scaurus had
told me about the probability that Epictetus had borrowed from the
Christians. Partly it was, I think, because it was too long a story to
begin just then; and I thought I might shock Arrian and not do Scaurus
justice. Partly, I was curious to question Arrian further. So after a
short silence, during which my friend seemed lost in thought, I said
to him, “You know more about the Christians than I do. Do you think
Epictetus knows much about them? And what precisely does he mean by
‘_feeling_,’ when he speaks of ‘taking up the _feeling_ of the dipped’?”
“As for your first question,” said Arrian, “I am inclined to think that
he knows a great deal about them. How could it be otherwise with a young
slave in Rome under Nero, when all the world knew how the Christians
were used to light the Emperor’s gardens? Moreover his contrast between
the Jew and the Greek seemed to me to come forth as though it had been
some time in his mind, though it had not broken out till to-day. He
spoke with the bitterness of a conviction of long standing. If—contrary
to his own rules—he could be ‘troubled,’ I should say our Master felt
a real ‘trouble’ in being forced to confess that the Jew is above the
Greek in steadfastness and constancy. As to your second question, I think
he means that, whereas Greeks attain to wisdom through the reason (or
_logos_) these Jews follow their God, or Christus, through what we Greeks
call emotion or affection (_i.e._ _pathos_). And I am half disposed to
think that this word _pathos_ was used by him on the other occasion when
he spoke of the Christian Jews as Galilæans.” “Could you quote it?”
said I. “No, not accurately,” said Arrian, “it is rather long, and has
difficulties. I should prefer you to have it exactly. Come into my rooms.
I am going out on business, so that we cannot talk about it at present.
But you shall copy it down.”
So I went in to copy it down. Arrian left me after finding the place for
me in his notes. “You will see,” he said, “that the Galilæans are there
described as being made intrepid ‘_by habit_.’ Well, that is certainly
how I took the words down. But I am inclined to think it might have been
‘_by feeling_’—which seems to me to make better sense. But read the whole
context and judge for yourself. The two phrases are easily confused. Now
I leave you to your copying. _Prosit!_ More about this, to-morrow.”