Having herein described certain aspects of Addison’s hero more than once, and cited choice quotations by way of his response to other characters, it would now seem to prudent to finally discuss Cato directly. What kind of protagonist was Addison attempting to draw? What were his virtues? His vices? His purpose? As argued previously, Cato would seem not to have had a parallel in contemporary British political life. He was not a stand-in for George of Hannover in the way that Caesar was arguably a stand-in for James Stuart. Nor did he seem to represent any the contemporary Whigs in particular, that role being left to his various children. Rather, he seemed to be something of a cipher. Not a nonentity in the conventional sense of the term, but a figure who resembles a living human being in only the most basic sense. He has children, yes, and friends, and he hopes, and even despairs, at times, for the fate of his country. But his responses tend to be something more – or perhaps less – than human. Cato never shows fear, even when confronted by mutinous soldiers. He bids his children to willingly give their lives in service of Rome, and sheds nary a tear when his son Marcus does exactly that. And in the end, when all hope seems lost and the forces of Caesar draw ever nearer his camp, he determines that the best course of action is to deny Caesar the privilege, by way of suicide, of pardoning one of his most ardent opponents. These, taken together, are not the actions of a normal, fallible, relatable human being. They are rather the actions of a paragon; someone from whom people will feel compelled to draw inspiration while knowing for a certainty that they will never measure up. Cato is virtue, in Addison’s hands, and doubtless this is exactly what Addison intended.
Not every line that Cato speaks in the drama that bears his name is as impossibly virtuous as his most memorable quotations, of course. His introduction, for example, in Act II, Scene I, mostly just shows him playing the part of moderator between Sempronius and Lucius. The former, as previously discussed, gestures at outrage, and calls for revenge upon Caesar. The latter, being far more earnest, laments the destruction that has so far accompanied the Roman civil war, and begs his colleagues to consider laying down their arms and leaving things in the hands of the fates. Cato, for his part, strikes a balance between these two extremes. While he claims to find Lucius’s diffidence unbecoming, he, too, is deeply troubled by the slaughter that has accompanied Caesar’s rise to power. And though he thinks Sempronius to be overly zealous in seeking a confrontation, he nevertheless seems to agree that the deaths of so many worthy Romans at Caesar’s hands should not simply be forgotten. Patience, he accordingly counsels to both men in turn. Hold fast, summon a modicum of courage, and wait for the moment that truly demands decision. Unsurprisingly – dramatic conventions being what they are – this is almost exactly the instant in which Addison introduces just that. A messenger arrives bearing word from Caesar to Cato. His name is Decius. Cato knows him and trusts him. He has come to ask for Cato’s surrender.
The situation that Cato finds himself in changes rather drastically, it bears noting, with the sudden introduction of Decius. A moment prior, the senators assembled in Utica were attempting to determine how they should proceed in spite of a relative dearth of information. They don’t know where Caesar is, or what he intends. They don’t know if that have months to prepare for the next engagement, or mere hours. For his part, Cato seemed to understand very keenly what Caesar had done thus far. It is a matter of some anguish to him, in fact. But he does not attempt to guess at what he might do next. This, indeed, is rather the crux of his position. While Caesar remains distant, and while Utica remains in the hands of what was left of the Optimates, there is still reason to hope that all is not yet lost. “‘Twill never be too late [,]” Cato avows, “To sue for chains, and own a conqueror.” But then, quite unexpectedly, Decius arrives with an offer that is both simple and unmistakable. Surrender to Caesar, he says, and all will be forgiven. In that moment all the uncertainty vanishes, and Cato’s choice is clear. Surrender, or resist. Live, or risk death. Cato’s response essentially forms the first line of Addison’s thesis – namely, that virtue often requires a person to rise above human frailty, though the reward for such efforts very often entail further suffering.
Cato does not waste time in making plain the depths of his disdain for what Caesar has done and for what Decius offers. To the messenger’s simple greeting – “Caesar sends health to Cato” – Cato responds, “Could he send it / To Cato’s slaughter’d friends, it would be welcome.” Thus are Caesar’s crimes – lately discussed by what remains of the Roman Senate – foregrounded once more, both for the audience and for Caesar’s chosen agent. But while Decius proceeds with his assigned task as though undaunted, Cato maintains a distinctly confrontational attitude. Not only, it seems, is he intent on refusing Caesar’s offer, but he wants it known to all concerned that he did not so much as contemplate accepting for even an instant. When told that Caesar, seeing the dire straits to which Cato has been driven, fears for Cato’s safety and wishes to spare him harm, Cato answers accordingly. “My life is grafted on the fate of Rome [,]” he says.
Would he
save Cato, bid him spare his country.
Tell your
dictator this; and tell him, Cato
Disdains a
life which he has power to offer.
Decius, to his credit, again appears untouched by this response, though it would seem cast the whole purpose of his errand in doubt. Caesar wants to save Cato’s life, for whatever reason and to whatever end. Cato claims that he will live and die with the Republic. Caesar wishes to pardon Cato for taking up arms against him. Cato avows that a life which may be spared by Caesar is not one which he would deign to live. Caesar’s offer, by way of Decius, is supposed to appeal to Cato’s fear, his anxiety, and his sense of self-preservation. But Cato, as written by Addison, cannot be reached in these places. He does not fear death. Indeed, he does not seem to fear much of anything.
The one thing which Cato might actually be afraid of only becomes evident as his conversation with Decius continues. Told, by the former, that,
Caesar is well acquainted with your virtues,
And therefore sets this value on your life.
Let him but know the price of Cato’s friendship,
And name your terms [,]
Cato’s response is tellingly blunt. “Bid him [,]” he says,
Disband his legions,
Restore the commonwealth to liberty,
Submit his actions to the public censure,
And stand the judgement of a Roman senate.
Bid him do this, and Cato is his friend.
Having said all of this – and doubtless in earnest, for Cato is never
anything less than earnest – Addison’s hero must nevertheless be aware of the
fact that what he asks is impossible. If Caesar was willing to submit himself
to the judgement of the Senate, he would not have felt the need to raise an
army and march on Rome in the first place. But while the reaction of Decius
would seem to be appropriately dismissive – “Cato,” he says, “The world talks
loudly of your wisdom” – Cato continues quite unheeded in the same guileless
tone as before. “Nay, more,” he says,
Though Cato’s voice was ne’er employ’d
To clear the guilty, and to varnish crimes,
Myself will mount the rostrum in his favour,
And strive to gain his pardon from the people.
What is arguably
revealed by this exchange between Cato and Decius is the thing that Cato most
disdains about Caesar. It isn’t just that Caesar has laid waste to the Roman
Republic or put the sword to an alarming number of his countrymen. Nor is it
that he has brought low some of Rome’s greatest living statesmen and soldiers. Certainly,
Cato is bothered by these things, and says as much, but they are clearly not
what’s animating him in this moment. Rather, it’s that Caesar has done all of
these things in pursuit of personal ambition. This is something which Cato
evidently abhors most of all. His life, he says, is grafted to the fate of
Rome. He lives for the Republic, serves it in every capacity that he can, and
would prefer to perish with it if perish it must. To act as Caesar acts – to
hold his person and his fortunes above everything else in the world – is thus
anathema to Cato’s very being. Not only does he reject the notion, but he
rejects even being associated with those who hold it paramount. Caesar would
spare his life, seemingly asking nothing in return but Cato’s surrender, but
even this is too much for Cato to accept. To live in a world where Caesar’s
ambition is the guiding light? To agree, if only tacitly, that such a man holds
the power of life and death, guilt and innocence, in his hands? Cato would not
stand for it. He would fear to live that life; to sanction that behavior; to betray
himself and his honor so completely.
As to what Cato holds
dear, beyond his own sense of self-respect, his exchange with Decius reveals
that as well. Asked what price Caesar would need to pay for Cato’s friendship,
Cato’s answer is essentially a paean to the institutions of the Roman Republic.
He wants Caesar to disband his legions, as he was commanded to do 49 BC,
restore the government of the Republic, and submit himself to the judgment of
the Senate. Do that, Cato declares, and he will defend Caesar’s actions
himself, though it has never been his custom to defend someone he knows to be
guilty. Reading these words, one is reminded of the events of the Catiline
Conspiracy (63 BC), during which Caesar himself implored his fellow Senators
not to pass a death sentence on a group accused of plotting the overthrow of
the Roman Republic. At the time, Caesar seemed to believe that it was more
important to follow the custom of merely exiling Roman citizens accused of
treason than to give in to the passions of the moment and break with tradition.
The sanctity of Roman justice was evidently more important to him in those days
than the severity of the crimes that the accused men had supposedly committed. This,
as Addison writes him, is Cato all over. His sense of honor – perhaps like
Caesar’s in 63 BC – is almost completely bound up in the institutions,
procedures, and practices of the Roman Republic. What gives him comfort is to
see men beholden to the laws of Rome. What makes his life feel as though it is
worth living is to enforce and defend the basic tenets of the Roman
constitution. So long as a man will submit himself to the mechanisms of the
Roman state – and, in turn, to the ideals which they claim to uphold – then it
matters not what crimes he has committed. Cato will defend him, and in so doing
defend the Roman Republic itself.
As the exchange
between Cato and Decius continues, Addison further develops his hero’s sense of
honor by way of an argument about the very nature of what is right. Responding
to Cato’s rather stark ultimatum – that Caesar lay down his arms, submit to the
justice of the Senate, etc. – Decius disapprovingly observes that, “A style
like this becomes a conqueror.” Evidently Caesar’s messenger has no sense of irony
at all, and genuinely sees Cato’s moral rectitude as a kind of tyranny in
itself. But Cato does not chuckle, or even attempt a cutting riposte. As ever,
he is purest sincerity. “Decius,” he says, “A style like this becomes a Roman.”
“What is a Roman,” Decius counters, “That is Caesar’s foe?” “Greater than
Caesar [,]” Cato responds, “He’s a friend to virtue.” Doubtless frustrated by
this back-and-forth, Decius makes a final attempt at forcing Cato to face
reality. “Consider,” he says,
You’re in Utica,
And at the head of your own little senate:
You do not thunder in the capitol,
With all the mouths of Rome to second you.
Cato, as it happens, does not need reminding where he is or why he has
been driven there. On the contrary, he is acutely aware of his circumstances
and utterly resolved that he has chosen the correct path. “‘Tis Caesar’s sword
has made Rome’s senate little,” he avows,
And thinn’d its ranks. Alas! thy dazzled eye
Beholds this man in a false and glaring light,
Which conquest and success have thrown upon him;
[…]
I know thou look’st on me as on a wretch
Beset with ills, and cover’d with misfortunes;
But, by the gods I swear, millions of worlds
Should never buy me to be like that Caesar.
The position herein
adopted by Decius is many ways a combination of those given voice by Sempronius
and Lucius. Like the latter, Decius is more or less resigned to Caesar’s
victory, and believes offering further resistance to be somewhat graceless. But
like the former, Decius also seems to look up to power. The fates have favored
Caesar, to be sure, in battle after battle, but so have many of the Roman
elites. He may not have Cato the Younger as a friend and supporter, but he has
Rome itself, and the Forum, all of Italy, all of Greece – all the trappings of
legitimacy, in essence. Far more than Cato, in the eyes of Decius, Caesar looks
as though he has the right to decide the fate of the Republic. To be Roman,
then, to his thinking, is to be a friend of Caesar. And to be a friend of
Caesar is to be a good Roman. Not only is this a very practical outlook, but it
is also undeniably logical.
Cato
will have none of this, of course, his personal conception of “Roman-ness”
having a very different foundation. Whereas Decius seems to identify the
essence of Rome as being most closely related to power, Cato conversely relates
it to the notion of virtue. Rome, to him, is justice, law, tradition, and
restraint. It is magistrates, and trials, and elections, and assemblies. Far
from embracing conquest as the truest source of legitimacy, Cato thereby favors
procedure. Victory in battle does not interest him, especially when the victims
are his fellow countrymen. Why should he respect a man who has made himself the
master of Rome by tearing Rome apart? Why should he allow himself to be dazzled
by the glare of Caesar’s victories when he knows at what cost these victories
were gained? Caesar does not care for the things that have made Rome something
that Cato loves. For this reason, no matter what the master of Decius might
claim to achieve, or how outwardly pathetic Cato’s situation might become, he
will never be won, or swayed, or cajoled in this way.
In truth, of course, there is more to what
Decius is arguing that Cato would care to admit. The Roman Republic, as Cato
knew it, was built on a series of conquests which steadily expanded the
territory under the control of a single city in central Italy across Spain,
North Africa, Greece, and Southern France, resulting in untold destruction and
loss of life, the enslavement of countless men, women, and children, and the
enrichment and glorification of generations of soldiers, statesmen, and
merchants. Not only that, but the specific era in which Cato lived – the “late
Republic,” as it were, from about 140-48 BC – was notorious for the extent to
which corruption and political violence had become the norm, military strongmen
rose to positions of unparalleled power and influence, and conflicts between
competing power brokers more than once devolved into civil war. This was the
age of slave uprisings, the public lynching of the populist Gracchus bothers,
Tiberius (163-133 BC) and Gaius (154-121 BC), the rise of ambitious reformer
Gaius Marius (157-86 BC), his fall at the hands of arch-traditionalist Lucius
Cornelius Sulla (138-78), the failed conspiracy of the aforementioned Cataline
(108-62 BC), and the creation of the informal, extralegal cabal known as the
First Triumvirate. A man who served in the Roman Senate at nearly any point
during this period would be hard pressed to claim that the republic which they
served was a paragon of justice, temperance, or virtue.
Recall,
to that end, that Cato’s own faction, the Optimates, had been at the peak of its power under Sulla, a man who used the authority
granted him as Dictator in 81 BC to strip the popular assemblies of much of
their influence and summarily execute hundreds of his political opponents. And
consider, as well, that this same party’s nominal leader at the time of
Caesar’s march on Rome in 49 BC was none other than Pompey
the Great (106-48 BC), a man who first rose to prominence as one of Sulla’s
lieutenants and made a name for himself as a fabulously successful general who
laid waste to entire nations during his campaigns in the Near East. Cato
naturally would have taken pains to distance himself from some of these things.
Political violence was plainly not to his liking, and he would doubtless have
spoken against its use even when it was directed at people – like the Gracchi
and their followers or the supporters of Gaius Marius – whose beliefs he
considered to be dangerous to the integrity of the Roman state. And while he
did not appear to disdain the idea of taking up arms for one’s country, he was
not one to equate military glory with political influence. Unlike Caesar, whose
path to power led straight through the barracks, Cato most assuredly favored the
traditional approach to public service
whereby men gathered prestige and experience over a course of many years spent
occupying many official positions until finally ascending to the office of
Consul. Again, his love of procedure should be kept very much in mind. All that
said, however, it would be patently inaccurate to claim that Cato did not savor
Rome’s preeminent position in the ancient world. He took no issue with the
conquest and enslavement of foreign kingdoms and foreign peoples and seemed to
hold no reservations about embracing a warmonger like Pompey the Great when the
circumstances seemed to demand it. Does all of this serve to make Cato
something of a hypocrite? Yes, in truth, it rather does. Does this necessarily
rob Cato’s arguments of their intended moral force? No, in point of fact, it
rather doesn’t.
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