There is a great deal
to be said about what, exactly, Joseph Addison was driving at when he wrote Cato, a Tragedy in 1712. Likewise, there is much
to be said about what, exactly, the likes of George Washington saw in the same
drama over half a century later. As aforementioned, Addison was writing in the
midst of a rather fraught moment in British history, and made ample use of the
talents at his disposal to communicate to prospective audiences which of the choices
then facing their country he believed they ought to embrace. Just so, while the
transformative moment which Washington himself later became a part of was
doubtless far beyond Addison’s ability to imagine, the Commander-in-Chief of
the Continental Army nevertheless had good reason to see the crisis wracking
the Anglo-American world in the 1760s and 1770s as being very much reflected in
Addison’s dramatic interpretation of the Hannoverian Succession. For the
moment, however, further discussions of each of these subjects will have to be
put aside. Before one can come to an understanding of what Addison said – and
what Washington saw – one must first attempt to grasp how any of what was, and
is, important in Cato was actually communicated. That
is to say, one must be able to answer the question: what is Cato actually about?
Thankfully – for the
sake of analysis, as well as in consideration of his audience – Addison chose
for his drama a fairly limited scope and scale. At five acts – with most acts
no more than one scene in length – Cato
is quite brief, with a cast of characters numbering less than a dozen and a
singular setting requiring the construction of only a handful of sets in the
event of a full-scale production. The protagonist, unsurprisingly, is Marcus
Porcius Cato (95-46 BC), known also as Cato the Younger to distinguish him from
his equally famous great-grandfather, Cato the Elder (234-149 BC). A Senator
and famed orator active during the twilight of the Roman Republic, Cato the
Younger – henceforth to be referred to simply as “Cato” – was notorious for his
hatred of corruption, his unshakable integrity, and his stubborn resistance to
the rising power of Gaius Julius Caesar (100-44 BC). Consider, by way of
background, the events of his life up to the moments depicted by Addison.
During the life of the First Triumvirate
(60-53 BC), an unofficial power-sharing agreement whereby Caesar, Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus (106-48 BC) and Marcus Licinius Crassus (115-53
BC) sought to pool their influence for the purpose of taking complete control
of the Roman Republic, Cato very often – and very successfully – stood in
opposition to the ambitions of the triumvirs by way of his stirring oratory and
parliamentary acumen. When Pompey, upon his return from a campaign in Asia,
wished to stand for election as Consul and celebrate a Triumph – a kind of
civil/religious ceremony intended to mark the accomplishments of a given
individual – Cato convinced his fellow senators to force the general to choose
one or the other by way of establishing that Pompey’s authority did still have
limits. When Caesar attempted to pursue the same goal – an outcome which would
have required that he break with tradition and stand for Consul in absentia
– Cato filibustered the resulting vote and likewise forced Caesar to choose
between public glory or political influence. Cato struck a blow against the
third triumvir, Crassus, when he next obstructed a tax collection scheme which
would have required the Senate to refund an overly generous bid made by a
syndicate of contractors with Crassus’s backing. Rome’s business interests were
displeased, but Cato paid them no notice. His only interest was the integrity
of the Roman state.
Having thus marked himself out as an
avowed enemy of Caesar and his fellow triumvirs, Cato’s treatment at Caesar’s
hands became increasingly harsh as the future Dictator moved with mounting
haste to secure his control over the levers of power in Rome. When Cato sought
to prevent Caesar – newly elected as Consul – from awarding land meant to
provide for the income of the Republic to veteran soldiers who had served under
Pompey, Caesar had his bodyguards physically drag Cato out of the Senate
chamber in the middle of his climactic speech. Shortly thereafter, having
succeeded in forcing the vote on land allocations to take the form of a public
referendum, Caesar had Cato assaulted when the latter tried to convince his
fellow citizens of the wisdom of voting in the negative. When Cato next sought
to oppose the appointment of Caesar as Governor of the province of Cisalpine
Gaul, he likewise met with failure. Exile followed, in the form of an
administrative appointment in Roman Cyprus intended either to tempt Cato to
betray his prior convictions – Cyprus being an exceptionally wealthy province
with many opportunities for personal enrichment – or at least keep him out of
Rome while Caesar and his allies further consolidated their power. Cato
accepted his commission, reluctantly but dutifully, and proceeded to acquit
himself with characteristic honesty and diligence. He kept scrupulous accounts,
raised a tremendous amount of money for the Roman treasury, and upon his return
was offered a lavish reception, yet another high appointment, and various other
extraordinary privileges. Considering these things to be beyond the authority
of the Senate to offer, Cato refused them all. Instead, in concert with his
remaining allies – a group of conservative Senators and statesmen broadly
referred to as the Optimates – he conspired to drive a wedge between
Caesar and Pompey in an effort to break the power of the First Triumvirate for
good.
The result of Cato’s efforts – among
other causes – was indeed the fracturing of the alliance between Caesar and
Pompey. The seed of this schism lay in Caesar’s refusal to surrender the legal
immunity he enjoyed as Proconsul and Governor in Cisalpine Gaul when his term
in office was set to expire in 49 BC. Cato’s wish – and that of his fellow Optimates
– was for Caesar to return to Rome as a private citizen to face potential
prosecution for his actions on the far side of the Alps. Pompey had long sought
to block this outcome, in recognition of his longstanding personal alliance
with Caesar, but by the time of this last request he had grown suspicious of
his fellow triumvir’s mounting influence among the common people of Rome. In
consequence – despite having previously been something of a populist himself –
Pompey gave his tacit support to the Optimates when they sought another
resolution ending Caesar’s command in Gaul and recalling him to the capital.
Caesar attempted, at length, to negotiate, going so far as to volunteer to
relinquish all but one legion and one province if it meant he could keep his
immunity, but his efforts were ultimately for naught. Pompey relented, perhaps
seeking at the last moment to preserve the alliance by which he had thus far
gained a great deal, but Cato and the Optimates remained steadfast to
the end. Caesar was recalled, refused to submit himself to the judgement of the
Senate, and proceeded to march on Rome. The civil war that would destroy the republic
had begun.
The events of the next several years
were as chaotic as they often were brutal. Having been declared by the Senate to
be an enemy of the Roman state, Caesar proceeded to chase the Optimates
– now led by Pompey and consisting of most of the Senate – out of Rome and into
Greece, where the latter attempted to raise an army and prepare themselves for
Caesar’s inevitable arrival. For his part, seeking to secure its valuable
supply of grain, Cato proceeded first to Sicily, doubtless hoping to starve
Caesar’s army into submission before it could be successfully deployed in the
east. When Caesar dispatched a full four legions under Gaius Scribonius Curio
(?? – 49 BC) Cato had no choice but to flee yet again, joining his senatorial
allies in time enough to participate in their victory at Dyrrachium (July, 48
BC), on the coast of the Adriatic. This first flush of victory was followed by
a catastrophic loss at Pharsalus (August, 48 BC) in Thessaly, wherein Caesar’s
severely outnumber legions managed to turn the tide in their favor before
proceeding to slaughter several thousand of their countrymen. Now forced to
flee to northern Africa, the Optimates next eked out a minor victory at
Ruspina (January 46 BC) on the Mediterranean in what is now Tunisia, thanks in
no small part to an alliance with Juba I (85-46 BC), King of Numidia and friend
of Pompey. Pompey himself was dead two years at this point, having fled to
Egypt after his loss at Pharsalus. Seeking the protection of another powerful
friend, Pharaoh Ptolemy XII (117-51 BC), he was instead assassinated by
mercenaries in the employ of the old king’s successor, Ptolemy XIII (61-47 BC),
in the hope of currying favor with the fast-approaching Caesar. The leadership
of the Optimates thus effectively beheaded, their final defeat appeared
to most contemporary observers to be increasingly near at hand. Another crushing
defeat at Thapsus (April, 46 BC), further up the coast of Tunisia, served to
drive this point home. With few allies left, a much-diminished corps of fighting
men, and dwindling supplies, what remained of the senatorial forces thereafter
retreated to the city of Utica, there to await Caesar’s pending arrival and
whatever result yet another battle would bring.
It is at this time and in this place
– Utica, at the end of a long and costly flight from Rome, to Greece, to Africa
– that Addison’s drama begins. Accompanying Cato in his exile are his two sons,
Marcus – based on the real-life Marcus Porcius Cato (73-42) – and Portius – an
invention of Addison – and his daughter, Marcia – based very loosely on the
real-life Porcia Catonis (70-43 BC). Also present are two of Cato’s fellow
Senators, the scheming Sempronius and the equivocating Lucius, the latter
joined by his daughter, Lucia, and the Numidian prince, Juba, joined by his
duplicitous servant, Syphax. Marcus and Portius are each in love with Lucia,
who loves Portius in return and thinks Marcus too impetuous, and Juba is in
love with Marcia, who feels the situation at hand to be wholly unsuitable for
personal declarations of love and devotion. Sempronius, meanwhile, covets
Marcia in a disturbingly possessive sort of way while also secretly despising
her father for standing in the way of his desire to join with Caesar and thus
begin to repair his fortunes. Syphax is similarly eager to throw Cato aside and
embrace Caesar as an ally and spends nearly all of his time attempting to
convince Juba that he should kidnap Marcia and ride away to the enemy camp.
Juba refuses, having become enraptured by what he sees as Cato’s particularly
Roman virtues, and instead takes every opportunity – as do Marcus, Portius,
Marcia, and Lucius – to praise the man and signal their undying devotion.
If this all sounds rather complex
and melodramatic, it most certainly is that. Love is much talked of, and
virtue, and devotion, and duty. Marcus is entirely devoted to his father, but
also something of a hothead. He leads with his heart, and sometimes says things
that are ill-considered. Portius, by contrast, is cool and composed. Much more
his father’s son, he remains stoic and resolute in the face of adversity.
Marcia is fair, kind, and equally devoted to her father. Lucia is fair, kind,
and eager to spare the feelings of Marcus by refusing to confess her feelings
for Portius. Sempronius is unfailingly selfish, deceitful, and jealous, and
Syphax is as devious and cunning as Juba is sincere and valiant. Emotions run
high, people are constantly expressing their deepest hopes, and fears, and
ambitions, and anxieties, and much is made of topics like justice, and loyalty,
and righteousness. Little of this touches Cato himself, however. Appearing for
this first time only in Act 2 – during which he attempts to hold together what
remains of his allies and fields an offer from Caesar to surrender and accept a
pardon – the protagonist of Addison’s drama first enters the consciousness of
the audience as something more like a presence than a man. He is spoken about
by his children, his allies, and his enemies, praised and pilloried, but almost
always alluded to as something more or less than human. Indeed, his is talked
about as though he is virtue rather than just a noted exemplar of the
same. He is incorruptible, immovable; a shining beacon to those who love him
and an intractable obstacle to those who hate him. And while, in the end, Cato
does eventually betray a degree of human feeling and human frailty – he worries
sincerely after the fate of his friends, and expresses great weariness at the
state of the world around him – he remains almost wholly unselfish, seeking
nothing for himself and devoting everything to his country.
The effect of this portrayal, on the whole, is that Addion’s Cato is a very static figure. Events seem to happen around him – for good or ill – without effecting him nearly as much as they effect his family, friends, and enemies. The result, as aforementioned, is that Cato is treated more like the embodiment of an ideal than a human being. His allies and his children look to him as a source of inspiration: sometimes kind, sometimes cold, but always worthy of emulation. His enemies, meanwhile, see him as a roadblock; a thing which must be removed in order that they might gain what they covet so dearly. What does Cato want? Nothing human, it seems. He rejects enrichment, rejects comfort, rejects the power and influence that Caesar could offer him. He rejects Caesar’s offer of a pardon, his freedom being something which he asserts has never been Caesar’s to give or take away. And ultimately, after his son Marcus is killed when Syphax attempts to flee, he goes so far as to reject life itself. In word and deed, and with his final breath, Addison’s Cato seeks to give truth to the notion that there are some people who are simply too good for this wicked world, and that perhaps the best they can do for their fellow man is leave behind an example worth following that can nevermore be tarnished.
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