How Seneca became Ancient Rome’s
philosopher-fixer.
By Elizabeth Kolbert
Sometime in the spring of the year 59, the emperor Nero decided
to murder his mother. As you can imagine, the two were not on good terms. In a
gesture designed to appear conciliatory, Nero invited his mother, Agrippina, to
join him at a festival in Baiae, a resort town near present-day Naples. During
the festivities, he treated her with great affection. Then, when it was time for
her to leave, he presented her with a gift—a beautifully appointed boat to ferry
her up the coast.
The gift was supposed to be a death trap. But just about
everything that should have gone wrong didn’t. The deck of the ship fell in,
yet, rather than killing Agrippina, it crushed one of her attendants. The hull,
too, had been crafted to break apart; in all the confusion, though, it failed to
do so. The rowers tried to overturn the ship. once again, the effort fell short.
Agrippina and a second attendant, Acerronia, swam free. Acerronia—“rather
unwisely,” as Tacitus puts it—kept screaming that she was Agrippina and needed
help. The rowers rushed over and bashed her on the head with their oars. The
real Agrippina slipped away. She was picked up by a fishing boat and deposited
safely onshore. When Nero learned that his mother had survived, he sent his
minions to stab her.
This series of unfortunate events put the emperor in a pickle.
The whole point of the affectionate display and the gift of the boat had been to
make Agrippina’s death look like an accident. (Even in imperial Rome, matricide
was, apparently, bad P.R.) Now this was impossible. And so Nero turned to the
man he had always relied on, Lucius Annaeus Seneca, better known as Seneca the
Younger, or just plain Seneca.
If poets and philosophers dream of influencing those in power,
Seneca was uniquely positioned to do so. He was a celebrated rhetorician, a
satirist, the author of several books of natural history, and a playwright. He
was also what today might be called an ethicist. Among his many works of moral
philosophy are “De Ira” (“On Anger”), “De Providentia” (“On Providence”), and
“De Brevitate Vitae” (“On the Shortness of Life”). Seneca had been Nero’s tutor
since the younger man was twelve or thirteen, and he remained one of his closest
advisers.
After the botched boating accident, Seneca set to work. Writing
in the voice of the emperor, he composed a letter to the Senate explaining what
had happened. Hungry for power, Agrippina had been planning a coup. once the
plot was revealed, she’d taken her own life. As for the shipwreck, that was a
sign that the gods themselves had tried to intervene on the emperor’s
behalf.
At least in public, the response of Rome’s élite to the letter
was jubilation. Tacitus reports that there was “a marvelous rivalry” among the
senators in celebrating Nero’s narrow escape; they held games, made offerings at
shrines, and proposed that “Agrippina’s birthday should be classed among the
inauspicious days.”
Most of the letter comes down to us in paraphrase, but one line
has survived verbatim. It is considered an example of Latin rhetoric at its
finest, though clearly it loses something in translation. “That I am safe,
neither, as yet, do I believe, nor do I rejoice,” Seneca had the newly orphaned
Nero declare.
All writers’ reputations have their ups and downs. In the case
of Seneca, the highs have been very high and the lows pretty low. Early
Christians so revered him that they faked an exchange of edifying letters
between him and St. Paul. During the Reformation, both Calvin and Zwingli turned
to his writings for inspiration. Montaigne wrote a “defense” of Seneca, Diderot
an essay on his life.
Then Seneca fell out of favor. Among the Romantics, he was
regarded as a poor philosopher and a worse playwright. Even his brilliant
epigrammatic style was ridiculed; the British historian Thomas Macaulay once
observed—epigrammatically—that reading Seneca was “like dining on nothing but
anchovy sauce.”
These days, Seneca is again on the upswing. In the past year,
two new biographies have appeared: “Dying Every Day: Seneca at the Court of
Nero” (Knopf), by James Romm, a classicist at Bard College, and “The Greatest
Empire: A Life of Seneca” (Oxford), by Emily Wilson, a professor at the
University of Pennsylvania. The two volumes are admiring of Seneca’s talents
and, to varying degrees, sympathetic to his pedagogical predicament. Romm and
Wilson, both teachers themselves, suggest that Nero was, from the start, a lost
cause. But they also acknowledge that this leaves a tricky question unresolved.
The letter “explaining” Agrippina’s murder is just one of the ways Seneca
propped up Nero’s regime—a regime that the average Julius, let alone the author
of “De Ira,” surely realized was thoroughly corrupt. How to explain the
philosopher-tutor’s sticking by his monstrous pupil?
Seneca was born around 4 B.C. in the capital of the Roman
province of Hispania Ulterior, now the city of Córdoba. He was, it appears, a
sickly child and a pampered one. When he was still quite young, he, his father,
and his two brothers moved to Rome for the sake of the boys’ education.
Presumably, Seneca studied rhetoric, which was the one “R” of Roman education,
but in all his extant writings he never mentions this. By contrast, he makes
much of his training in philosophy, from a Greek named Attalus.
Attalus was a Stoic, and Seneca became one, too. In his many
works of moral philosophy, Seneca consistently maintains that the key to a
virtuous life is freedom from passion. Virtue, in turn, is necessary for
happiness and also sufficient to produce it. Very little survives of the Greek
Stoics, whom Seneca must have read, but the tradition placed great emphasis on
austerity and self-mastery. Seneca praises poverty and argues that the wise man
will allow neither joy nor grief to affect him, for both are mere distractions.
Such a man, Seneca writes in an essay titled “Of Peace of Mind,” will
go directly in the teeth of Fortune, and never
will give way to her. Nor indeed has he any reason for fearing her, for he
counts not only chattels, property, and high office, but even his body, his
eyes, his hands, and everything whose use makes life dearer to us, nay, even his
very self, to be things whose possession is uncertain; he lives as though he had
borrowed them, and is ready to return them cheerfully whenever they are
claimed.
When Seneca was in his thirties, his writing against “chattels,
property, and high office” began to attract admiring notice from those with lots
of chattels, property, and high office. Among his rich and powerful friends was
Julia Livilla, a sister of the emperor Caligula.
In 41 A.D., Caligula was assassinated and replaced by his uncle
Claudius. The new emperor accused Julia Livilla of adultery with Seneca. Whether
the two were actually lovers or whether they were just unlucky is not known.
(Claudius was, all evidence suggests, less benign than Robert Graves makes him
out to be.) Julia Livilla was exiled to an island—probably Ventotene, off
Naples—where she died within a few years. Seneca was sent to Corsica.
Most of Seneca’s works can’t be dated; two essays that must
have been composed during his years of exile are the “Consolation to Helvia” and
the “Consolation to Polybius.” In the first, Seneca addresses his mother, who is
heart-stricken over his banishment. Exile, he tells her, is no big
deal—basically just a change of address. Wherever we go, he writes, “two most
excellent things will accompany us, namely, a common Nature and our own especial
virtue.” In the second, he addresses one of Claudius’ top aides, who has
recently lost a brother. Polybius should stop grieving, Seneca says, because his
brother, like everyone else, was destined to die: “The seven wonders of the
world, and any even greater wonders which the ambition of later ages has
constructed, will be seen some day leveled with the ground. So it is: nothing
lasts forever.”
The two “consolations” are exemplary Stoic works. Both advise
indifference toward what might seem, to the untrained mind, terrible
misfortunes. But they also betray a certain lack of stoicism. Already in
Seneca’s day, Corsica was a spot renowned for its beauty and was home to a
community of sophisticated Romans. (A contemporary analogue would be, say,
banishment to Martha’s Vineyard.) And yet, Seneca laments to his mother, “What
other rock is so barren or so precipitous on every side? . . . Who is more
uncultured than the island’s inhabitants?” Even as he consoles Polybius, Seneca
makes a point of buttering up Polybius’ boss. As long as Claudius “is safe all
your friends are alive, you have lost nothing,” he writes to the grief-stricken
brother. “Your eyes ought not only to be dry, but glad. In him is your all, he
stands in the place of all else to you: you are not grateful enough for your
present happy state . . . if you permit yourself to weep at
all.”