bonæ litteræ: occasional writing from David Rundle, Renaissance scholar

Leviathan in the Library

Posted in History of Political Thought, Libraries by bonaelitterae on 8 May, 2017

I am preparing the first of a brace of talks that I am to give this week. They are on a rather different topics from each other but they are both to be presented in the same location, the ball-room-like expanse of the Upper Library of Christ Church, Oxford. The setting is particularly appropriate for the first event, which takes place this evening. It is a speaker meeting of the Oxford Bibliographical Society and is entitled ‘More than a House for Books: collecting and Christ Church Library‘. It grows out of the work I have done reconstructing the history of the collection for the introduction to the forthcoming catalogue of the manuscripts of Christ Church, and it also is in anticipation of an exhibition that will be staged in the autumn. My intention in this post, however, is not to pre-empt this evening’s discussion but briefly to introduce something which caught my eye while doing the research for it.

I have been poring over the Library’s Donors’ Book, a hefty volume which was created in 1614 in imitation of the equivalent made for the Bodleian. Its original purpose was to celebrate the generosity of Otho Nicholson, a Londoner with no previous connexion to Christ Church, who bank-rolled the ‘restoration’ of the Library (then situated in the cloisters, behind the grand Hall built by Thomas Wolsey). After a few years of enthusiastic record-keeping, the entries became more erratic, but were kept more consistently in the 1650s. This is a striking moment: the Founder’s descendant, who had also set up his palace in its quads during the Civil War, had suffered the removal of his head from his body; the institution’s dual status as college and cathedral had been diminished by the Republic’s opposition to the episcopacy. Christ Church itself, however, survived, and in some ways (which I will discuss this evening) became a symbol of continuing royalist loyalty. This is reflected in some of the gifts the Library received but not, perhaps, in the one to which I draw your attention now. Here is the entry:

Oxford: Christ Church, MS. LR 1 (Donors’ Book), p. 108

That an Oxford library should receive a copy, soon after publication (it appeared in 1651) of a work which we consider a classic, might not seem surprising. But Hobbes’s Leviathan was such a controversial work that, only a couple of decades later, just a few hundred yards north of Christ Church’s library, the University’s authorities ceremoniously burnt copies of it. In its presentation of a ‘science’ of princely power, it was seen to undermine the very moral order that justified such power; it was considered the enemy of legitimate kingship, rather than its supporter.

It is not just this potential incongruity that struck me when reading this entry; it was also the description of its donor, Vincent Denne, himself an alumnus of Christ Church. He is here described as in supremis Regni consiliis municeps, participating in the ‘supreme councils of the Kingdom’. Is that noun simply a slip, a failure to remember that the kingdom was now a republic or is it some sort of wishful thinking? Does it hint at how the librarian would have read Leviathan?

The ‘supreme councils’ is an euphemistic phrase which presumably refers to Denne’s status as Member of Parliament for his hometown of Canterbury; he was elected in 1656. The librarian who makes this entry is rarely given to periphrasis: is this some sign that the legitimacy of a Parliament called into being without royal authority was considered problematic? Would the donor have shared such misgivings? The very fact that he was an MP and also a JP for Kent in these republican years suggests he had made his peace with the new regime. The result was that at the Restoration, he found himself in difficulties, though he himself claimed his family had shown their loyalty to their king.

So, what was Denne thinking when he offered to them this recent work on government? Did he consider it a counter-balance to the nostalgic royalism apparent in his college’s library? Or was the act of donation to his alma mater a suggestion of his continuing loyalties in new times which required new ways of acting and of thinking? And what was the Librarian thinking when he accepted and entered the gift in the Register?

Without other evidence, we will not know. The volume itself has disappeared from the library — the only copy of the 1651 edition now present was given by a grander old boy, William Wake, archbishop of Canterbury, in 1738; probably after this point, Denne’s book was considered surplus to requirements and, like many others, de-accessioned. There is an intriguing issue lying behind this short entry: how far were gifts and their recording a coded language in this unquiet years? It deserves further consideration — but I better write my paper for this evening, instead.

 

How should we read Xenophon’s Hiero?

Posted in History of Political Thought, Humanism by bonaelitterae on 1 August, 2010

Xenophon’s Hiero is a small work with a large Renaissance reputation. Translated at the beginning of the quattrocento by Leonardo Bruni, it was one of the first pagan Greek texts to receive a rendering into humanist Latin; it circulated widely across Europe, becoming the standard version until Erasmus’ re-translation. Bruni’s text now survives in nearly two hundred manuscripts, as the estimable David Marsh has shown [Catalogus Translationum, vii (1992)]. It also has a significant place within the humanist’s oeuvre: it is one of what I would call Bruni’s manifestoes – four remarkably assured works produced in a remarkably fruitful period of his early thirties, presenting his agenda for study and for action. The manifestoes include two original compositions: the Laudatio Florentinae urbis, a celebration of republican Florence; and the Dialogi ad Petrum Paulum Histrum, heralding a reform of literary scholarship, in which Bruni’s mentor, Coluccio Salutati, is presented as both the arbiter and the previous generation, while Niccolò Niccoli is given the role of radical firebrand. Alongside them are two translations, each dedicated to one of the figures in the Dialogi: to Salutati is sent a translation of St Basil on the use of reading the pagans – a highly appropriate tract considering the immediately contemporary attacks on Salutati for his ‘unchristian’ studies. To Niccoli Bruni thought it suitable to send Xenophon’s short dialogue on tyranny, the Hiero – but why? In what way is that apt? That is the question at issue.

In latter-day scholarship on Bruni’s ‘manifestoes’, interest has characteristically been concentrated on the original works. The significance of the translations produced alongside them has only recently begun to be explored. The Hiero is presently the subject of what we can be sure will be a stimulating doctoral thesis, and it is also central to a piece by Brian Jeffrey Maxson in the most recent issue of Renaissance Studies. It is an article which has left me waking up early in the morning pondering the question with which I opened. You see, Maxson describes the Hiero, without reservation, as ‘pro-monarchical’, while I have always taken the work to be subtly critical of one-man rule. My understanding perhaps owes something to Leo Strauss’s suspicious reading of the text; Strauss’s analysis, in turn, has been dismissed as being ‘as perverse as one can be’ by one classicist who would see the dialogue as an endorsement of rule over willing subjects, as is developed more fully in the Cyropaedia [V. J. Gray in Classical Quarterly, new series, xxxvi (1986)]. But, more recently, other classicists have wondered whether the Cyropaedia is as straightforwardly positive as has usually been thought [eg Y. L. Too in Pedagogy and Power (Cambridge, 1998)]; if that work can be read with suspicion, it leads us back to wondering about the Hiero. How can such a small text be subject to such diverse views?

The dialogue is deceptively simple. In a moment of leisure, the tyrant Hieron sits down with the poet Simonides, who asks his interlocutor to teach him from his experience who is happier, the tyrant or the private man. Hieron responds bemoaning his lot, enumerating how at every point his pleasure is thwarted by his status. This takes up the main part of the work. When he has finished, Simonides offers him advice on how to improve his situation and make his subjects be willing to be ruled by him – he should treat his country as his fatherland, and surpass all others in generosity and in kindness. If he does that, he will be happy and no one will be jealous of his happiness. The End. The dialogue stops there, with Hieron given no chance to respond or to thank the poet. It stops but does not conclude: this is a work which is artfully open-ended.

Xenophon’s refusal to close off the work, to declare a ‘victor’ in the debate (if it can be called that) allows and perhaps encourages the multiple meanings that have been given to the work. We could, then, simply finish here and get up from the table: the point of it is that its point is hard to define. But that still leaves two questions: why Xenophon should have wanted his work to be so open to interpretation? And if there are several ways of reading the work, what was Bruni’s? Let me focus on that second question.

The humanist dedication is itself a work of art which can often frame the text that follows and establish its relationship with the dedicatee. Leonardo Bruni does that in the preface to his translation of St Basil or in his later Plutarch dedications. In the contexts of those, the preface to the Hiero might seem odd: it has hardly anything to say about the work. Instead, it provides a brief biography of its author, praising Xenophon for his mastery of both arms and letters, describing how, after a successful military career, he was forced into exile by envious citizens and then turned his hand to philosophy. Niccoli could not but want, Bruni says, to embrace Xenophon. There is no mention in this preface of the subject-matter of the Hiero or of its characters. They are presented without introduction, as it were – except that the dialogue has been placed in a context in which what matters is the relationship between philosophy and political fortunes. In other words, Bruni does not hint at a particular political reading – either pro-monarchical or pro-republican – but does imply that reading is about politics.

It may be more usual to have a more forceful direction provided by a preface, rather than the gentle steering that Bruni masters here. But this is not unique in his literary career: take, for instance, his wonderful jeu d’ésprit, the Oratio Heliogabali, a speech placed into the mouth of a fictitious Roman emperor, exhorting the prostitutes of Rome to lasciviousness. That travelled without a preface – to the perplexity of some readers, it must said. On occasion, you will find copies with an added scribal note, explaining to the reader that this is to be read ironically and that Bruni was not, in fact, promoting vice. In contrast, it must be said, you would very rarely find such guidance notes in a copy of the Hiero – readers may not have had the same difficulty in understanding the purpose of that dialogue.

We have still not pinned down a particular meaning, a specific reading, to Bruni’s Xenophon – and that, I would suggest, is how Bruni would want it to be. He had, I suspect, no intention of closing down the open-ended nature of the dialogue. That said, he does re-weight the text somewhat by a simple act of translation. I am not thinking of his ‘straightening out’ of the text – at the point when Simonides teases Hieron about his catamite, in the Latin the young lover becomes a girl – but rather his emphasis on the word ‘tyrant’. Latin is notoriously a less supple language than Greek: the word ‘tyrannos’ could have connotations of rule that was either despotic or something less negative – the Latin ‘tyrannus’ has no such ambivalence. Perhaps a translator should consider using a different term to render ‘tyrannos’; Bruni did not. And what is more, he changes the title of the work so that it circulated not, primarily, as Hiero but more often as Tyrannus.

Bruni’s translation, then, comes in three parts: the short work itself, preceded by the shorter preface, itself preceded by the shortest, laconic (I nearly said Tacitean) part, the title. That title announces the dialogue to be about the tyrant, the evil monarch – an implicit contrast with the good citizen, Xenophon, who was its author. And yet this still does not tell us how to understand the dialogue; it does not reveal a straightforward message. But, then, how could it: if one were truly sitting in front of a tyrant, as Simonides was and as we might see ourselves as his successors, can we trust a word our interlocutor says? And can we, in turn, trust ourselves to be honest in his presence? Would we leave our conversation open-ended because we could not be open?

The necessity of tyranny: quotations of the day

Posted in History of Political Thought by bonaelitterae on 20 April, 2009

A brief post on medieval political thought. I have been re-reading Magnus Ryan’s Alexander Prize Essay on ‘Bartolus of Sassoferrato and Free Cities’, published in 2000 but first delivered as a paper several years earlier: I recall sitting in Keble in 1996 amidst bemused modernists, listening to this searingly intelligent and radical re-positioning of the thought of the fourteenth-century jurist and  his most famous dictum, civitas sibi princeps.

But what struck me today was an obiter dictum in the piece, a quotation from Bartolus’ De Tyranno that reads:

…raro reperitur aliquod regimen, in quo simpliciter ad bonum publicum attendatur et in quo aliquid tyrannidis non sit…

This called to my mind a comment of Giles of Rome in his weighty and influential (if, frankly, for the most part unexciting) speculum principis, De regimine principum:

…forte vix autem nunquam reperitur aliquis qui fit omnino rex quin in aliquo tyrannizet, esset enim quasi semideus si nihil de tyrannide participaret. Inde est ergo quod dominantes aliquid participant de cautelis regiis et aliquid de versutiis tyrannorum… [III.ii.11]

When I first read that passage, I described it as like a strike of lightning, momentarily setting ablaze the whole volume. For Giles, who is so willingly to place the prince above the laws, a little tyranny is a natural thing; he does not see that as setting a challenge to his trust in the prince. Bartolus’ world-view was sharply different, but was he consciously echoing Giles’ thought and phrasing when he made a similar comment? And, for both, is this the ultimate result of the reconciliation of classical civic thought with Augustine’s Christian critique — in the face of evil rule, to give a slight shrug of the shoulders?