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Authors: Xenophon
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Hiero the Tyrant
, a supposed dialogue on the nature of sole rule between Simonides the praise-poet from Ceos and his then employer Hiero, tyrant of Syracuse in Sicily in the early fifth century
BC
(478-467), is thus in several ways the negative image of the
Estate-manager
. Simonides plays on the fact that in Greek, unlike English, the
tyrannos
was fundamentally an un- or extra-constitutional ruler, so that ‘good tyrant’ was not by definition oxymoronic. The tyrant, Simonides urges, may gain personal happiness only if he rules well, that is in the interests of his subjects.
Dialogue was utterly natural to the Greeks, and crucial for their definition of self by literary means. In poetry it was of course common enough in epic and was the very stuff of tragic and comic drama, but in prose the dialogue form was essayed first in sophistic circles, for instance in Protagoras’
Antilogiai
or ‘Contrary Arguments’. In its manner as well as its matter the so-called ‘Melian Dialogue’ in
Thucydides (5.84–113) bears witness to the genre’s sophistic origins. But the form was brought to perfection for broadly philosophical purposes by Plato during the first quarter of the fourth century. Nor was the confrontation of despotic ruler and expert layman (
sophistes
in its original, non-pejorative sense) a scenario original to Xenophon. The literary prototype was the encounter, with supplied invented dialogue, between Croesus and Solon in the first book of Herodotus, by whom Xenophon was greatly influenced. Croesus, however, king of Lydia in Asia Minor, was a non-Greek, which accorded with Herodotus’ preoccupation with representations of ‘the Other’ and added to the piquancy of autocratic tyranny the stigma of oriental barbarism. Hiero of Sicilian Syracuse, on the other hand, was a home-grown Greek tyrant, with high cultural pretensions – patron of Pindar, Bacchylides and Aeschylus, besides Simonides, and founder even of a new Greek city. That helped Xenophon firmly to focus his debate on the nature and meaning of autocracy within the context of Greek politics.
Another reason for Xenophon’s selecting Hiero as his ‘historical’ example was his contemporary resonance. Possibly the most powerful and certainly one of the most colourful of the Greeks of Xenophon’s own day was also precisely a tyrant of Syracuse: namely Dionysius I, who ruled much of Sicily and wielded considerable influence in Greece and the Adriatic between 405 and 367. Other ‘Socratics’ beside Xenophon are known to have taken a special philosophical interest in him. Plato indeed is even said to have tried to convert Dionysius into a prototype philosopher-king, and, predictably failing in that, to have borrowed from him many essential traits for his deadly portrait of the arch-tyrant in Book 9 of the
Republic
. Aristotle, who no doubt had read
Hiero
as well as the
Republic
, includes references to both Hiero and Dionysius in his no less unflattering discussion of tyranny as a mode of rule (
Politics
1313). ‘The typical tyrant’, Aristotle declared, ‘dislikes free-spirited people’ – people, that is, such as Xenophon’s Simonides, who had the reputation of being a sage and attracted numerous anecdotes.
Yet it is important to be clear that Xenophon was not against one-man rule as such – far from it: he shared to the full in the
movement of reaction among Greek intellectuals away from what they saw as the almost unnatural defects of democracy or mob-rule and towards enlightened monarchy. One means of stigmatizing democracy, as in the clever piece of oligarchic pamphleteering represented by Xenophon’s fictional dialogue between Pericles and his maverick ward Alcibiades in
Memoirs of Socrates
(1.2.40–46), was to characterize it as a form of collective tyranny, whereby the ignorant and ill-educated masses ruled despotically over the unwilling and unconsenting elite few. It was vital, therefore, for Xenophon here to draw the distinction as sharply as possible between the illegitimate and intolerable sole ruler, the tyrant, and, on the other hand, the wise and beneficent sole ruler, the legitimate and positively desirable king, who – regardless of ethnicity – might become the living embodiment of the conservatives’ ideal of lawfulness, a ‘seeing law’, as Xenophon describes his idealized Persian Great King Cyrus in the
Education of Cyrus
(
Cyropaedia
8.1.22). What ‘Simonides’ in effect sets out to teach ‘Hiero’ is how, though objectively a tyrant ruler, he can avoid ruling tyrannically.
It is one thing, however, to detect a general contemporary resonance in the dialogue, but it is quite another to argue for any one specific contemporary event having been the occasion for Xenophon’s composing it. An old suggestion of George Grote (author of a pioneering history of ancient Greece, first published between 1846 and 1856) that Xenophon was provoked by Dionysius’ arrogant behaviour at the Olympics of either 388 or 384 has been recently revived. Another suggestion, almost as old, has linked the composition rather with events occurring within the Thessalian tyrant house at Pherae in 358, described by Xenophon himself in
A History of My Times
(6.4.33–7). Neither suggested connection seems overwhelmingly compelling.
The literary confrontation of dictator and free-thinking subject has a long and continuing history. It has been exemplified in the Romanian writer Norman Manea’s
On Clowns. The Dictator and the Artist
(1994), where his grim description of the tyrant as ‘someone who manipulates, gives orders, enforces discipline, punishes and rewards according to the sovereign and sadistic laws of evil, ugliness, and
mendacity’ and his reference to ‘our sadistic national clown’ are easily seen as applying specifically to the late and unlamented Nicolae Ceausescu. However, entirely worthy of the universalizing philosophical tradition within which Xenophon the Socratic positioned his discussion is Manea’s disturbing question: ‘Is the dictator only the enemy or also the creation of the masses?’
Once upon a time the poet Simonides paid a visit to the tyrant Hiero. [1] When they had some time free from interruption, Simonides said, ‘There’s something I should like you to explain to me, Hiero, if you would – something on which you’re sure to be more knowledgeable than I.’
‘But you are such a learned person,’ Hiero replied. ‘What is this subject on which I am supposedly more knowledgeable than you?’
‘I’m aware that you were born an ordinary citizen,’ he said, ‘and [2] now you’re a tyrant. Since you have experience of both walks of life, you’re sure to know better than I how the life of a tyrant differs from that of an ordinary citizen with respect to the pleasures and pains of human life.’
‘Well,’ said Hiero, ‘you’re still an ordinary citizen, so why don’t [3] you remind me what it’s like? That will make it much easier for me to explain the differences between the two, I should think.’
So Simonides said: ‘All right, Hiero. I think I can safely say, as a [4] result of my observations, that pleasure and pain come to ordinary citizens through the agency of certain organs: the eyes in the case of things they see, the ears for things they hear, the nostrils for scents, their mouths for food and drink, and I don’t need to mention the organs used for sex. However, we use the whole body, I think, to [5] assess and find pleasure or distress in cold and heat, hardness and softness, and lightness and heaviness. And it seems to me that we sometimes use just the mind to feel pleasure or distress, as the case may be, in things that are good and bad, but sometimes the mind in combination with the body. I feel confident in my impression that [6] sleep gives us pleasure, but I’m somehow even more sure that I don’t
understand how it does so, and what organ might be involved, and when the pleasure arises. But this is perhaps hardly surprising: after all, what happens to us when we’re awake is bound to afford us clearer impressions than what happens during sleep.’
[7] ‘For my part, Simonides,’ Hiero replied, ‘I don’t see how a tyrant could possibly be conscious of any pleasures and pains apart from the ones you’ve mentioned, and so thus far I don’t know if there’s
any
difference between the life of a tyrant and that of an ordinary citizen.’
8 ‘Well, here’s a difference,’ Simonides went on. ‘A tyrant gets far more pleasure and far less pain from each of these areas of life.’
‘No, you’re wrong, Simonides,’ Hiero said. ‘I can assure you that an ordinary citizen of adequate means experiences far more pleasure and suffers far less and far less intensely than a tyrant.’
[9] ‘That’s incredible,’ said Simonides. ‘I mean, if you’re right, why is it that so many people – men of considerably more than adequate means, apparently – want to become tyrants? Why is it that tyrants are a universal object of envy?’
[10] ‘Because, by Zeus, people don’t have experience of both stations in life,’ Hiero answered, ‘and that influences their thinking about the matter. I’ll try to show you that I’m right. Let’s start with the sense of sight, which was the first item on your list, I seem to remember. [11] My reflections lead me to conclude that tyrants are worse off in this visual domain. There are things worth seeing everywhere in the world, and ordinary citizens travel around in search of these sights. They visit any state they want to as sightseers, and attend the international festivals where everything generally agreed to be especially [12] eye-catching comes together all at once.
1
A tyrant, however, is hardly concerned with going to festivals. It isn’t safe for him to go to places where he would be no stronger than anyone else, and his status at home is not so secure that he can leave things in others’ hands while he travels abroad. On top of his fear of losing his power, he would be worried about not being in a position to punish the wrongdoers. [13] “Ah, yes,” you might argue, “but eye-catching spectacles come to him, without his having to leave home.” That is certainly true, Simonides, but only of a small proportion of all the sights and spectacles there are in the world, and even then they are offered to a tyrant at
such a price that however unimpressive the show the exhibitors expect to leave the tyrant’s presence having gained in a few hours many times more than they would earn in a lifetime from everyone else in the world.’
‘All right,’ Simonides said, ‘you may be worse off in the visual [14] sphere, but you’re better off where hearing is concerned. After all, you have a plentiful supply of the most pleasing sound there is – praise – since your courtiers never stop applauding every word you speak and every action you perform. And criticism,
2
the harshest sound in the world, never reaches your ears, because no one is prepared to condemn a tyrant in his presence.’
‘Do you really think,’ Hiero replied, ‘that the fact that people [15] refrain from speaking ill of a tyrant can give him the slightest pleasure, when he knows for sure that for all their silence every single one of them is
thinking
ill of him? Do you really think this praise gives pleasure, when it looks very much as though its purpose is flattery?’
3
‘Well,’ Simonides said, ‘I do of course agree wholeheartedly with [16] you, Hiero, that the more independent a person is, the more pleasing it is to be praised by him. However, I’m sure you can see that nothing you have yet said would convince anyone that you tyrants do not get far more pleasure than the rest of us from the food and drink which sustain human life.’
‘Yes, Simonides,’ he said, ‘I know that the food and drink we [17] tyrants have is generally supposed to be more pleasant than what ordinary citizens get. This view is based on the idea people have that
they
would enjoy the meals which are served up to us more than they do their own food, since anything that is a cut above what one is used to gives one pleasure. This explains why everyone looks forward to [18] the day of a festival – everyone except a tyrant, that is. Why not? Because his table has always been laden with food and drink in abundance, so there’s nothing special about festival days for him. The first conclusion to be drawn, then, is that tyrants are in a worse situation than ordinary citizens in respect of this kind of anticipatory pleasure. Besides, as I’m sure you know perfectly well from your own [19] experience, the more superfluous food a person is served, the more quickly he gets sated, and this leads to a second conclusion, that being
served a lot of food makes one less well off than a moderate life-style does in respect of the duration of the feeling of pleasure.’
[20] ‘But surely as long as one has an appetite for the food,’ Simonides argued, ‘a luxurious meal is nicer than plain fare.’
[21] ‘Now, Simonides,’ Hiero said, ‘don’t you think that a person who finds something particularly enjoyable is also particularly desirous of this occupation?’
‘Certainly,’ he said.
‘Well, in your experience do tyrants approach their meals with a higher degree of pleasure than ordinary citizens do theirs?’
‘No, they certainly don’t,’ he said. ‘In fact, their attitude is commonly supposed to border on distaste.’
[22] ‘Of course,’ said Hiero, ‘and have you noticed all the artificial confections that are served up to tyrants, flavoured so as to taste sharp, bitter, sour and so on?’
‘Yes, I have,’ Simonides said, ‘and they strike me as highly unnatural things for people to eat.’
[23] ‘Surely,’ Hiero continued, ‘for an appetite to crave that kind of food it would have to be effete and debilitated, don’t you think? I mean, you know as well as I that people who enjoy their food have no need of such contrivances.’
[24] ‘Well,’ said Simonides, ‘I do think that the expensive perfumes with which you tyrants anoint your bodies are appreciated more by the people around you than by you yourselves, just as it isn’t the actual person who has eaten strong-smelling food who notices any unpleasant smells on his breath, but rather his neighbours.’
[25] ‘Yes, and the same goes for enjoyment of food too,’ Hiero said. ‘If there’s no novelty for a person in having a sumptuous and varied diet, he doesn’t fancy anything he is offered; it is the person for whom something is a rare treat who eats his fill with delight when it is served up to him.’
[26] ‘It’s beginning to look as though the only thing that makes people want to be tyrants is the satisfaction of sexual appetite,’ Simonides said. ‘I mean, in the sexual domain you are free to sleep with anyone you find particularly attractive.’
4
[27] ‘In actual fact,’ Hiero replied, ‘this is a sphere in which, I can assure
you, we are worse off than ordinary folk. Let’s start with marriage. The best kind of marriage, as you know, is taken to be marriage into a family which has more property and influence than one’s own; a man who makes this kind of marriage, it’s said, may feel both pride and pleasure. The second-best kind is marriage between peers, while marrying beneath one is considered demeaning and worthless. But a [28] tyrant is bound to marry a social inferior (unless he marries a foreign woman), and so the most satisfactory kind of marriage is denied him.
‘Moreover, the higher the self-esteem of a woman, the more pleasant it is to be granted her favours; there is nothing at all satisfying, however, in obtaining a slave girl’s favours, and any shortcomings in her services put one into a terrible temper and bad mood.
‘Next, what about sex with boys? Here a tyrant finds even less [29] pleasure than he does in his heterosexual relationships. The point is that, as everyone knows, desire is the element that makes sex far more enjoyable. Desire, however, is an extremely rare feature of a tyrant’s [30] life, because the pleasures of desire are not stimulated by things that are readily available, but by things that are hoped for in the future. Someone who has never experienced thirst cannot enjoy a drink, and by the same token a person who hasn’t experienced desire has not experienced the true delights of sex.’
Simonides laughed at Hiero’s words and said, ‘What do you mean, [31] Hiero? Are you really saying that a tyrant doesn’t fancy young boys? What about your love for Daïlochus – the gorgeous Daïlochus, as people call him?’
‘To be honest, Simonides,’ he said, ‘the reason is that what I most [32] want to get from him is not what is, it seems, readily available, but something which a tyrant, of all people, is hardly likely to obtain. It [33] is true that I do desire from Daïlochus those favours which it is perhaps inevitable, given human nature, that one will want from people one finds attractive, but I specifically want to obtain the object of my desire from a willing and affectionate partner. I think I’d rather do myself an injury than get them from him against his will. I mean, in [34] my opinion, there’s nothing nicer than taking things from one’s enemies against their will, but the sweetest favours from a boy are those given freely, to my mind. For instance, when your affection is [35]
returned, the glances that pass between the two of you are a delight, conversation with its questions and answers is a joy, and there’s nothing more pleasant and erotic than wrestling and wrangling with your [36] loved one. But to have your way with him against his will is more like robbery than sex, I’d say. Actually, though, it affords a brigand some pleasure to get away with his haul and to cause an enemy pain, but to enjoy the pain of the one you love, to be hated even as you kiss, to touch someone who loathes your touch – surely this is a vile [37] and pitiful affliction. What I’m getting at is that the very act of gratification is immediate proof for an ordinary citizen that it is affection that makes his beloved compliant, because he knows that his submission isn’t forced, whereas a tyrant can never be sure that he [38] is actually liked. I mean, we all know that when people submit out of fear they simulate as accurately as possible compliance born out of genuine affection. In fact, plots against tyrants are hatched, as often as not, by those who claim the greatest friendship towards them.’