Seneca, Moral Letters 24.3

"Oh," say you, "those stories have been droned to death in all the schools; pretty soon, when you reach the topic 'On Despising Death,' you will be telling me about Cato." 

 

But why should I not tell you about Cato, how he read Plato's book on that last glorious night, with a sword laid at his pillow? He had provided these two requisites for his last moments—the first, that he might have the will to die, and the second, that he might have the means. 

 

So he put his affairs in order—as well as one could put in order that which was ruined and near its end—and thought that he ought to see to it that no one should have the power to slay or the good fortune to save Cato.

 

Drawing the sword—which he had kept unstained from all bloodshed against the final day—he cried: 

 

"Fortune, you have accomplished nothing by resisting all my endeavors. I have fought, till now, for my country's freedom, and not for my own, I did not strive so doggedly to be free, but only to live among the free. Now, since the affairs of mankind are beyond hope, let Cato be withdrawn to safety."

 

So saying, he inflicted a mortal wound upon his body. After the physicians had bound it up, Cato had less blood and less strength, but no less courage; angered now not only at Caesar but also at himself, he rallied his unarmed hands against his wound, and expelled, rather than dismissed, that noble soul which had been so defiant of all worldly power. 

—from Seneca, Moral Letters 24

 

The student may be tempted to scoff and sneer at the teacher’s stories of heroes, though I have only found myself doing so when I wish to impress others by coming across as edgy and clever. Mockery tends to be a sign of insecurity, and what better remedy for feeling small than finding a better example to follow? 

 

Whenever I begin to doubt that people are capable of such moral greatness, I remind myself how seeing the worst in others is a consequence of my own bitterness, and I reflect upon the fact that the very same power of free judgment is what permits an increase of both the virtues and the vices. 

 

If I can choose to be a cowardly scoundrel, what is stopping me from being a valiant gentleman? Whatever my dispositions or circumstances, my thinking is the sole obstacle. 

 

Cato the Younger is a paragon to many Stoics, and for very good reason. Our modern sensibilities may be offended by the self-inflicted violence of his passing, but none of that has much meaning without the context of his whole life, characterized by a constant struggle to champion justice. He could not bear greed and corruption, and he wasn’t shy about letting his voice be heard. 

 

Like most men of principle, he was therefore often branded a troublemaker—despots have little patience for conviction and integrity. 

 

I am still of the old school, one who believes that a familiarity with the classics can be a great aid in forming character, and so I would always encourage a reading of Plutarch’s Lives of the Noble Greeks and Romans. The biography of Cato the Younger has a special place for those drawn to Stoicism, and it offers a far more thorough and engaging account than any shallow textbook summary. I turn to it regularly when I feel the weight of the world. 

 

With Julius Caesar having finally won total dominion over Rome, Cato was certain the cause of the Republic was hopeless. I do not know what I would choose in such a situation, but I do understand the reasons behind Cato’s decision: at that moment, he now possessed only himself, and the last thing he would permit is the loss of his own liberty. 

 

Caesar might execute Cato, or send him into exile, but it was for more likely that he would be pardoned; a dictator hopes to strengthen his power through grand gestures of benevolence. Like any good Stoic, Cato prized being his own master, and he would refuse to grovel and beg, perhaps retaining his life but thereby surrendering his conscience. 

 

We all face our own dilemmas, and yet courage always demands that if something is worth living for, it should also be worth dying for. As is so often the case, I believe Socrates said it best: 

 

I would rather die having spoken after my manner, than speak in your manner and live. For neither in war nor yet at law ought any man to use every way of escaping death.

 

For often in battle there is no doubt that if a man will throw away his arms, and fall on his knees before his pursuers, he may escape death; and in other dangers there are other ways of escaping death, if a man is willing to say and do anything. 

 

The difficulty, my friends, is not in avoiding death, but in avoiding unrighteousness; for that runs faster than death. 

—Reflection written in 10/2012 

IMAGE: Pierre Bouillon, The Death of Cato of Utica (1797)