EPICTETUS ON PROVIDENCE
It was now almost the third hour and I was on the point of rolling up the
volume, when a fellow-student suddenly entered to borrow some writing
materials. Thrusting the book in my garment I supplied him with what he
needed, and we hastened together to the lecture-room.
We conversed, about trivial subjects, but my mind was not in them. It was
with Isaiah. I could not help marvelling that a native of so small and
weak a country should take so wide and imperial a view of the movements
of the nations. In a Roman, I could have understood it better; or in a
Greek of the days of Alexander. But that a Jew—whose people was as it
were the shuttlecock between the great empires surrounding it—that a
Jewish prophet should think such thoughts filled me with astonishment.
Then I wondered what Epictetus would say on the administration of the
world if he ever dealt with it fully. “He,” I said, “was a Phrygian and
a slave. Is it possible that he, too, like Isaiah, could speak in this
imperial fashion?” Arriving somewhat late, we found the room almost
filled; but my seat was vacant, and I was glad to find Glaucus next to
me, in the place vacated by Arrian’s departure.
Epictetus was just beginning his first sentence. I will give it as
Glaucus took it down, exactly: “Be not surprised if other animals, all
except ourselves, have ready at hand the things needful for their bodily
wants provided for them, not only food and drink but also bedding, and
no need of sandals or blankets or clothes—while we have need of all
these additional things.” He proceeded to say that the beasts were our
servants, and that it would be extremely inconvenient for us if we had
“to clothe, shoe, and feed sheep and asses! As if,” said he, “a colonel
had to shoe and clothe his regiment before they could do the service
required of them! And yet men complain, instead of being thankful!” Any
single created thing, he said, would suffice to demonstrate Providence
to a grateful mind. Then he instanced the production of milk from grass
and of cheese from milk. Thence he passed from the “works” of Nature
to “by-works,” such as the beard, distinguishing man from woman. This
(I think) was one of his customary digressions against the fashion of
smooth-skinned effeminacy: “How much more beautiful than the comb of
cocks! How much more noble than the mane of lions! Therefore it was our
duty to preserve God’s appointed tokens of manhood: it was our duty not
to give them up, not to confuse (so far as lay in us) the classes, male
and female, distinguished by Him.”
“Are these,” he continued, “the only works of Providence in our behalf?
What praise can be proportionate to our benefits? Had we understanding,
we should be ever hymning the graces He has bestowed on us. Whether
digging, or ploughing, or eating, ought we not to sing the appropriate
hymn to God, saying ‘Great is God, because He hath given us tools
wherewith to till the ground,’ ‘Great is God, who hath given us hands,
and the power of swallowing, and a stomach, and a faculty of growing in
stature painlessly and insensibly, and of breathing even when we sleep’?
Hymns and praises such as these we ought to sing on each occasion. But
the greatest and most divine hymn of all should be sung in thanks for
that power”—he meant the Logos—“which intelligently recognises all these
blessings, and which duly and methodically employs them. But _you_ are
silent. What then? Since you, like the common herd, are blind to God’s
glory, it was but fit that there should be some one herald, though it be
but one, to fill the place left empty by your default, and to chant the
hymn that goes up to God in behalf of all. What else am I fit to do, a
halting old man like me, except to sing the praises of God?”
And so he drew toward the conclusion of the first part of his lecture.
Were he a nightingale or a swan, he said, he would do as a nightingale or
a swan—that is to say, utter mere sounds, songs without words, songs void
of reasonable thoughts, without Logos—“But as it is, I am endowed with
Logos. Accordingly I must sing hymns to God. This is my special work.
This I do. Never will I abandon this post of duty, as long as it is given
to me. And I invite and urge you also to the same task of song.” From
this he proceeded to speak of “the things of the Logos,” or “the logical
things,” as being “necessary”; and he spoke of the Logos as that which
“articulates”—by which he meant, distinguishes the joints and connexions
of all other things—and also as being that which accomplishes all other
things. He appeared to mean that this Logos was reason; and he assumed
that it is “impossible that anything should be better than reason.” But
he refused to enter into the question, If the Logos within us goes wrong,
what shall set it right? His language at this point was very obscure. The
impression left upon me was that Logos, with him, meant two different
things and that he did not distinguish them. When he sang hymns to God in
accord with the Logos, I thought he must intend to include something more
than reason; but when he passed on to say that “the things of the Logos”
(or “the logical things”) are necessary, he seemed to mean “reason” alone.
Later on, he returned to his first subject: “When you are in the act of
blaming Providence for anything, reflect, and you will recognise that it
has happened in accordance with Logos.” Then, taking the case of some man
supposed to have been defrauded of a large sum of money, he placed in his
mouth the objection that, if the fraud is “in accordance with Logos,” it
would seem that injustice is “in accordance with Logos.” For, said the
objector, “the unjust man has the advantage.” “In what respect?” asked
Epictetus. “In money,” says the objector. To which Epictetus replied,
“True, for he is better than you are for this purpose”—he meant, for
making money—“because he flatters, he casts away shame, he is always
unweariedly working for money. But consider. Does he get the better of
you in respect of faithfulness and honour?” Then he rebuked us, would-be
philosophers, for being angry with God for bestowing on us His best
gifts, namely virtues, and for allowing bad men to take away from us what
was not good in itself, namely, our worldly possessions.
This view of Providence and of wealth seemed to differ from the one
assumed in Isaiah and often stated by Moses and David. For they had
taught me that righteousness, and truth, and obedience to parents,
and neighbourly kindness, tend to “length of days” and to peace and
prosperity on the earth—for the righteous man himself as well as for the
community; and they also distinguished honest wealth, acquired by labour,
from dishonest wealth acquired by greediness and injustice. But Epictetus
here made no such distinction.
The Jewish poems recognised it as being, at all events on the surface, a
strange thing that a righteous man should be subjected to exceptional,
crushing, and continuous calamities by the visitations of God. Epictetus
appeared to teach us that God had ordained some men to be restless,
pushing, shameless, and greedy, that they may take away the wealth
acquired honestly by the good and honest and just. God had made these
rascals “better” than the virtuous—in rascality! Then he called on us
to admire or accept this ordinance or law: “Why fret, then, fellow? You
have the better gift. Remember, therefore, all of you always, and have
it by heart and on the lips, _This is a Law of Nature that the better
should have—in the province in which he is better—the advantage of the
inferior_. Then none of you will fret any more.”
In his general theory, Epictetus was careful to separate himself from
those who maintain that the Gods do not interfere with the affairs of
men, or never interfere except on great and public occasions, and he
approved of the words of Ulysses to the Allseeing, quoted by Socrates,
“Thou seest my every motion.” If man, he said, can embrace the world
in his thought, and if the air and sun can include all things in their
influence, why cannot God? But this seemed to lead to the conclusion that
the influence of God is being perpetually and ubiquitously exerted on
men in order to produce knaves, slaves, tyrants, and fools: for such our
Master appeared to deem the majority of mankind.
In practice, Epictetus avoided such a blasphemy against God, by drawing
no inference as to Providence from any of the laws or institutions of
men, for he appeared to regard human institutions as radically bad. At
all events he allowed his pupils—as I have shewn above—to say that the
rulers of the world are “thieves and robbers” and that the courts of
justice are “courts of injustice.” His belief in Providence was—I seemed
to see clearly—based on nothing but the consciousness of the Logos within
himself. The Logos in the vast majority of mankind appeared to him to
have done them no good: so he could not argue from that.
When someone mentioned the fate of the Emperor Galba as disproving a
belief in Providence, Epictetus implied a scornful disavowal of any
intention to base belief on any such historical event. Nor did he ever
refer to God as controlling the movements of nations. In answer therefore
to my silent question, “Does our Master see God in the history of
individuals or nations?” his teaching seemed to reply “No, I see it in
nothing except Socrates, Diogenes, and a few other philosophers, and also
in myself. Beyond this little group of souls, though I feel myself able
to infer God in everything, I cannot really infer Him in anything mental
or spiritual. Hence I am driven to such physical instances as butter,
cheese, stomachs, and beards!”
On leaving the lecture-room I chatted with Glaucus and tried hard to be
cheerful. But how I missed Arrian! I felt inclined to turn Epicurean.
The “careless” gods of Epicurus seemed at least less unloveable than the
Providence of Epictetus. Too much depressed for any kind of study, I did
not return to my lodging but walked out into the country by unfrequented
paths, resting after mid-day in a little village inn. Coming out, toward
the close of the afternoon, I found an acquaintance of mine, Apronius
Rufus, standing in the porch and amusing himself by throwing figs and
nuts to a crowd of boys just emerging from the doors of a neighbouring
school. From scrambling and scuffling the boys had come to fighting—all
but two or three, who held aloof with an air of sulky superiority; and
one, I think, saw the schoolmaster in the distance. My acquaintance was
attending the Epicurean classes in Nicopolis. We Cynics called the
followers of Epicurus “swine,” and I could not resist the temptation
of saying, “Rufus, you are making converts. When they grow up, these
little pigs will do you credit.” He laughed good-humouredly: “Not all of
them, Silanus! A few, as you see yonder, remain of your persuasion, true
Cynics, that is to say, puppies or prigs. But we do pretty well. Nature
is for us, though you and the schoolmaster are allied against us. By the
way, I think I see your ally coming round the corner. I will be off. Two
against Hercules are one too many. Farewell!” “Farewell!” said I, “Your
wit is as much stronger than mine as your philosophy is weaker.”
“But _is_ it weaker?” thought I, as he strode back to Nicopolis, and I
in the opposite direction. Was not Apronius right in saying that Nature
was on his side? Does not Providence, like Circe, throw down figs and
nuts for us human creatures to make us swine? Is she not always saying
to us, “Push, and be greedy! Then you will get what you want”? And did
not Epictetus acquiesce in this, in effect, saying to the two or three
non-pushers, “Be content. The others, the masses of men, are ‘better’
than you are for pushing and for kicking and for fighting like greedy
swine”? But who made them “better”? Was it not Nature? And how could
I feel sure that this same Nature or Providence that made “grass” (as
Epictetus said) to produce “milk and butter and cheese,” did not make man
to produce scrambling and scuffling and fighting—a spectacle for some
amused God, who watches from the windows of heaven, like Apronius Rufus
from the inn-door on earth?
After a long circuit, returning to Nicopolis, I sat down to rest in a
copse when the sun was drawing towards the west. Tired out by my walk,
I fell asleep. When I awoke, the sun had set and the evening star was
shining. As I sat in silence gazing upon it, better thoughts were brought
to me. “Five minutes,” I said, “with Hesper teach more about Providence
than an hour with Epictetus.” Then it occurred to me, “But, were I Priam,
and were this the evening before Troy was taken, would not Hesper shine
as brightly before me? What does Hesper prove?” Presently, the lesser
stars began to appear, growing each moment in number. Then I remembered
how Moses represents the Lord God appearing to Abraham (when he was as
yet childless) and saying to him, “Look up to the heaven and number
the stars, if thou art able to number them all. So shall thy seed be.”
And what had come of it all? A nation that was no nation, a race of
captives, known to us in Rome chiefly as hating pork and strangers no
less than they loved their sabbaths. Then I thought, “Had Hesper any more
favour for Abraham than for Priam? Perhaps the stars promised peace and
prosperity to both and broke their promise! What Troy is, that Jerusalem
is. Nay, worse. Troy has produced a New Troy. Where is the New Jerusalem?
And where is the great nation promised to Abraham? A flock (or flocks) of
exiles, fanatics, and slaves!”
Just then came into my mind the memory of some words about the stars in
Isaiah. I had taken the book with me to lecture. So I unrolled it till I
came to them: “_Lift up your eyes on high and see. Who hath appointed all
these? He that leadeth forth His host in a numbered array. He will call
them all by name. Because of thy great glory, and in the might of thy
strength, not one escapeth from thine eye._” Then the prophet declared
that, even as the stars of heaven are made visible in the darkness, so
the seed of Abraham was not hidden by any darkness from God’s eye: “_Say
not, O Jacob (ah, why didst thou dare to say it, O Israel?) ‘My way is
hidden from God, and my God hath taken away judgment and hath departed
from me.’ Hast thou not even now found out the truth? Hast thou not
clearly heard it? The God eternal, the God that framed and fashioned
the earth, even to its furthest corners, He will not faint for hunger,
nor is there any fathoming of His wisdom. To them that hunger He giveth
strength—but sorrow to them that have no grief. For hunger shall fall on
the youths, and weariness on the young men, and the chosen warriors shall
utterly lose strength; but they that wait patiently for God shall renew
their strength; they shall put forth wings like eagles; they shall run
and not be weary; they shall walk erect and shall not faint for hunger._”
I could not believe all this. But neither could I disbelieve it. One
voice said to me, “The poet is casting on the God of the stars the
mantle that he has borrowed from the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.”
But another voice kept saying to me, “Wait patiently for God: He shall
renew thy strength.” In the afternoon, when I had thrown myself down to
rest, I had thought that I would give up the search after truth, get rid
of all my books, leave Nicopolis, and go at once into the army. Now I was
more hopeful. But I could not give any logical reason for my hope. Isaiah
had not convinced me. Far from it! The promise to Abraham seemed still to
me to have resulted in failure. I had broken off my study of Paul, almost
at its commencement, in order to study Isaiah. And Isaiah, without Paul,
presented many difficulties that might perplex wiser minds than mine.
“Grant,” said I, “that David the son of Jesse was a great poet. Grant
that Isaiah was a great prophet. Yet what were their poems and prophecies
except so many pillars of vapour, or, if of substance, then substantial
failures; pillars with the capital gone and the shaft broken, no longer
sustaining anything? Their temple is burned a second time, never to be
rebuilt; the rod of Jesse, cut off from the very root, with no life left
in it, ‘despised indeed and rejected’ but with no compensation of being
‘exalted’ or of ‘dividing the spoils of the strong’!”
All these things I said over and over again to myself. But still another
voice, deeper than my own, seemed to be repeating “Wait patiently on God
and He will renew thy strength! Wait patiently! Wait!” Up to the moment
of retiring to rest that night my mind was in a state of oscillation. On
the one hand, Scaurus might be right, and my best course might be to give
up the study of philosophy, and to prepare myself for a military career.
On the other hand, there appeared nothing in these poems or prophecies of
Isaiah that would make a man less fit to be a soldier. My last thought
was, “I should like to see how the modern Jew, Paul, takes up the
teaching of the ancient Jew, Isaiah. I have but glanced at his quotations
as yet.” So I decided to examine this point on the following day.