 Hi, I'm Peter Adamson, and you're listening to the History of Philosophy podcast, brought to you with the support of the philosophy department at King's College London at the LMU in Munich, online at historyofphilosophy.net. Today's episode, Everything is Mine and Nothing, Lipsius and the Revival of Stoicism. You can tell a lot about a man by the title page of the 17th century edition of his collected works, especially if that title page was designed by the great artist Peter Paul Rubens. Rubens gave this treatment to the opera omnia of Justus Lipsius, published in 1637, 31 years after Lipsius's death. Tellingly, it shows the face of Lipsius flanked by two other busts, one of the Roman historian Tacitus, the other of the Roman Stoic philosopher Seneca. Thereby, Rubens captures something of Lipsius's humanist achievement. He gained renown as an editor and scholar of Tacitus and Seneca, and was a central figure in the revival of Stoic thought around the turn of the 17th century, which had an impact upon Rubens himself and many other European intellectuals. Lipsius was not the only figure of this period to engage with Stoicism, of course. In an earlier episode I explained that Stoic ethics were of interest to Italian scholars like Leonardo Bruni, and when we turn soon to Renaissance France, we will meet figures like Guillaume de Vare, who was powerfully influenced by Epictetus, much as Lipsius drew on Seneca. Still, it was arguably Lipsius who did the most to put the Stoics back on the map, facilitating the spread of their ideas to such famous early modern thinkers as Descartes, Spinoza, Malevanche, and Leibniz. Lipsius wrote several works that were central to this neo-Stoic movement, composing an introduction to the Stoic system that appeared in 1604, and even more consequentially, On Constancy, published back in 1584. It would be translated into numerous languages and receive more than 80 editions. In this work, Lipsius is drawing on the tradition of philosophical consolation, as we know it from such authors as Boethius and Seneca himself. But as Lipsius emphasizes in his preface, he is innovating within the consolatory genre by focusing on the problem presented by what he calls public evils. The reasons for his interest in that question are not far to seek. He was born near Louvain in 1547, and thus lived through the upheavals of the Low Countries during the Wars of Religion. These powerfully affected Lipsius' own life. After studying in Louvain, he traveled around Europe, with stints in Rome, Vienna, and Jena, before taking up a position as historian at the University of Leiden in 1579. Here he adopted the Calvinist confession only to recant after departing from Holland in 1591. His return to the Catholic fold didn't stop his great treatise On Politics from 1589 from being placed on the index of prescribed books, forcing him to make changes to the text. On Constancy takes the form of a dialogue between Lipsius and his friend Charles Languis, chatting during Lipsius' sojourn in Vienna. Actually, chatting is not really the right word. It's more like Lipsius is expressing his anguish at the state of affairs back home, and Languis is using all the weapons of Stoic philosophy to browbeat Lipsius into pulling himself together. He tells Lipsius that his travels abroad were never going to help him cope with the upheaval in his native land, you carry war with you, and a change of physical circumstances has little effect on such turmoil in the soul. The solution is instead to take what we still call a more Stoic perspective on the political situation. Part of the problem is that Lipsius, presented here as a proud native of Flanders, is simply too caught up with the events there. It is irrational for Lipsius to be more upset by what happens in Flanders than in Ethiopia or India. True philosophers should instead consider the whole world to be their country, an idea ascribed here to Socrates, though it is reminiscent of Diogenes the Cynics' claim to be a citizen of the universe. The character of Lipsius responds that it is only natural for him to value his homeland which nurtured him from birth. But Languis dismisses this, arguing that a feeling of attachment to one's country is in fact just disguised self-interest, the outcome of a historical process by which communities came together for the sake of security. So it turns out that distress motivated by patriotism is the result of mere opinion, which in this dialogue means a false supposition about matters both human and divine. In contrast to opinion would be right reason, which tells us that we should not let our peace of mind depend on having such things as wealth, honor, health, and political tranquility. If we can let go of our need for such things, we can attain the constancy that gives this dialogue its name. Constancy is defined as a right and immovable strength of the mind, neither lifted up nor pressed down with external or casual accidents. Now, this is just standard Stoic doctrine. The so-called external goods are in fact indifferent, meaning that they are not necessary for the happiness of the true sage. It may still be rational to prefer health to illness or peace to warfare, which explains how it can be that in his treatise on politics, Lipsius waxes enthusiastic about the benefits of peace and laments the destruction caused by civil wars. But according to official Stoic doctrine, even peace is an indifferent. Also classically Stoic in every sense of that phrase is the next main point made in the dialogue, all events are fated to occur by divine providence, so we should accept them with equanimity. But Lipsius updates this point for his 16th century context. For one thing, he shies away from a suggestion sometimes found in the Stoics, namely that God himself is somehow subject to fate or necessity. Even Lipsius's beloved Seneca suggested this false doctrine at one point when he wrote, Although the great creator and ruler of the universe himself wrote the decrees of fate, yet he follows them. He obeys forever, he decreed but once. This, Lipsius considers to be, said with too little elegance. He distances himself from the apparently Stoic idea that humans are violently coerced to act as they do, determined from the outside by God or the past history of the world. Instead, divine providence operates through secondary causes, and these causes include human choices. Nonetheless, the choices we make are indeed foreordained and necessary. In the terms of the modern debate over free will, Lipsius is a compatibilist who would say that we are free so long as we do what we want to do, even if it is inevitable that we will do it. In the terms of the 16th century debate over free will, Lipsius sounds not unlike the Protestant Reformers when he says, You sin necessarily, and yet of your own free will. In his later introduction to Stoic physics, Lipsius seems less inclined to criticize the Stoics for their account of fate, and some readers have thought that he changed his mind about this. But it has been persuasively argued by John Sellars that, throughout his career, Lipsius understood the Stoic theory of fate in the same way, namely as accepting the compatibility of free choice and necessity. He does speak in inconstancy as if the Stoics abolish free will completely, and he makes clear that he disagrees, but this might just be a way to distance himself from a position that could be ascribed to the Stoics by less careful readers. Whatever the case, it's clear in all these writings that he wants to go as far as possible in the direction of approving Stoic doctrine, with the bounds of that possibility marked by another kind of compatibility, namely compatibility with Christianity. He once stated outright, I wanted to adapt the ancient philosophy to Christian truth, and signs of this ambition are scattered throughout his works. Thus he says that the Stoics place happiness in nature, which can be accepted so long as we take this to mean in God, and that the Stoic belief that God pervades the universe, like a soul in a body, is mistaken, but at least monotheistic. It's a bit awkward that they make their God a fiery substance, but hey, even the Bible has God appearing in a burning bush. Clearly then, Lipsius's approach was not quite like that of the modern-day scholar of Stoicism. Even though he offered an unprecedentedly complete and accurate overview of the school's doctrines, historical accuracy was not his real aim. Instead, he wanted to present Stoicism as a coherent and attractive body of doctrines. To make them coherent, he blurred the distinctions we now more clearly perceive between early Greek Stoics like Chrysippus, and later Roman ones like Seneca. To make them attractive, he harmonized them with Christianity. What kind of Christianity? Well, as I already mentioned, Lipsius spent time on both sides of the Catholic-Protestant divide. Of course, he insisted after recanting his Calvinism that his lengthy flirtation with Reform had massed inner Catholic devotion, but his biography gives the impression of a man who chose his confession more out of convenience than conviction. Perhaps his true belief was that these sectarian conflicts, the ones tearing his homeland apart, actually didn't matter so much. The main thing was to be a Christian, not this or that kind of Christian. This brings us to his treatise on politics, and in particular, to the section of that treatise that provoked the ire of Dirk Kornhert. As I explained in the last episode, Kornhert was a proponent of toleration, who was appalled by Lipsius's suggestion that the ruler of a country should vigorously enforce, adherence to just one form of religion. At one point, Lipsius quotes Cicero to the effect that religious dissidents who express their views publicly should be treated the way doctors deal with limbs that need to be amputated—burn, cut, in order that some member perishes rather than the whole body. But, as Kornhert noted, Lipsius doesn't specify which religion should be so rigorously imposed—a figure of the text that also annoyed the Catholic Church, which naturally did not object to Lipsius's support of violence against the one state-approved religion, but was annoyed that he forgot to identify that one religion as Catholicism. Of course, Lipsius did not, in fact, forget. For him, religion was the sole creator of unity within a society, and that unity was the main thing, not the theological doctrines. It is in this sense that Jan Vassink, editor and translator of this treatise, could say that Lipsius wanted to free politics from the influence of religion, despite his approval of such measures as jailing and executing heretics. From what I have said so far about the work, you've probably gotten the wrong idea about the politica. I have been talking about it as if it were just a typical treatise of political philosophy. Instead, it is a commonplace book or patchwork of citations from classical sources. Vassink counts no fewer than 2,669 quotations drawn from 116 authors. We are apt to be staggered by the breadth of Lipsius's scholarship, yet underwhelmed by his lack of originality. But Lipsius anticipates this reaction and, in the prefatory material, encourages his readers to take a more favorable view. For one thing, why shouldn't he quote the ancients, who surely have more authority than he does? For another thing, his selection, arrangement, and presentation of the sources does express his own views. As he nicely puts it, everything is mine and nothing. It is thus entirely possible to speak of Lipsius's own political theory, even if he expresses that theory in the manner of a ventriloquist, who uses Cicero, Seneca, Aristotle, and so on as sock puppets. He was surely a big hit at children's birthday parties. Actually, it might be more accurate to say that Lipsius has two political theories, which are set out in the first and second half of the treatise. This, at least, is how Vassink reads it. He identifies the first three books as adopting a more conventional, Ciceronian worldview by promising good outcomes for those who do good. The latter three books adopt a more cynical attitude gleaned from the historian Tacitus and the notorious Machiavelli, whom Lipsius dares to praise to some extent, saying that this Italian reprobate is a valuable author who suffers from an unfair reputation. Like Machiavelli in The Prince, Lipsius unapologetically writes for a monarchical political situation. Thus, he dedicates the work to emperors, kings, and princes, and tells us in the preface that this work is for the ruler whereas Anconstancy was aimed at citizens more generally. He prefers monarchy as the type of regime that goes furthest back in human history, is most natural, and tends to be most unified in purpose. Again, his priority is social cohesion, or as he puts it at one point, the avoidance of chaos. He goes so far as to say that the ruler stands above the law, though true kingship is in the first place conferred through a legal process, and becomes mere tyranny if the ruler fails to work towards the good of his subjects. Given the lack of institutional constraint envisioned by Lipsius, it seems that good rule depends entirely on the personal wisdom and virtue of the ruler, a classic shortcoming of works in this genre of mirrors for princes. In the first three Ciceronian books, Lipsius duly piles up quotations that encourage the ruler to strive for more excellence. In particular, he or she, since Lipsius explicitly endorses the idea that women can rule, should acquire that virtue which in Greek was called phronesis and is in Latin known as prudencia. The obvious English cognate would be prudence, though a more accurate English equivalent might be practical wisdom. It's only in the fourth book that we learn about the dark side of this wisdom, which Lipsius calls mixed prudence. He follows Machiavelli in observing that strict morality is naive in the face of human evils. He actively recommends misleading others about one's intentions and tolerates deception and bribery, though he still condemns outright injustice. A Machiavellian note is also struck by Lipsius's pessimism about the general population, which he regards as fickle and ruled by emotion, and by his advice to cultivate fear and respect as well as love. Occasionally it is necessary to act against one's enemies, and when the time has come, one should make sure to wipe them all out at the same time. From our own look at Machiavelli back in episodes 349 and 350, we know that he had more to offer than mere cynicism. He was also a historian who had nuanced views about the way that the past can give us lessons for the present. Again, Lipsius agreed, so he wrote another work which is explicitly presented as a partner or confirmation for his politica, called Admissions and Examples on Politics. It proceeds on the assumption that rulers should look to history, finding exemplars to imitate and failures to avoid. If I may quote an authority of my own, namely my own grandfather, everyone serves a purpose in life, even if only as a bad example. In the politica, Lipsius emphasizes the need for rulers to adapt their decisions to changing contexts. Even the choice of Republican government as opposed to monarchial rule might be made in light of the needs of a given people. But in the admonitions, we get more the sense that the political art is fairly universal, so that one can learn lessons from the histories of very different places and times. By the same token, Lipsius seems to be suggesting that the best rulers are not those who have principled rules of conduct, to which they always adhere. They are those who have a refined judgment, grounded in long experience, whether this was acquired personally or borrowed from the ancients, with the help of Lipsius. If we had to name the least Machiavellian feature of Lipsius's thought, it would be one we've already discussed, his acceptance of the Stoic doctrine of fate. Machiavelli was mightily impressed by the workings of fortune, and admitted that even the craftiest ruler would be bound to reach the end of his luck eventually. Lipsius also emphasizes the twists of fortune that can confront a ruler, but insists that prudence can prevail over them. More fundamentally, he doesn't believe in fortune at all, strictly speaking. Whereas Machiavelli was rather taken by the Epicurean worldview, with its random scatterings and conjoinings of atoms, Lipsius is a partisan of the Stoics. So it seems to be mere fortune is, for him, the inscrutable, but inevitable work of fate, laid down by divine providence. In the admonitions, he mentions the example of the Spanish ruler, Philip II, who came to the throne because almost two dozen other people who would have been in the line of succession just happened to die. It belongs to the ruler's virtue to realize that such apparently random events are in fact chosen by God, and as Seneca says, endure what cannot be changed and follow God without complaint. This is advice that applies to us non-rulers too, as we've seen, something that could lead to a quietist position. That is, Lipsius might wind up advising us to be not only untroubled by political events, but also uninvolved with them. In On Constancy, he mentioned a significant caveat to his critique of patriotism, namely that you should serve your country's prince with a steadfast sense of duty. You should even be ready to die on his behalf, even if you wouldn't weep on his behalf, given that you will maintain an unperturbed state of mind at all times. But in Politica, he admits that it can be difficult to know whether to engage in warfare. In one of the many chapters that mount up authoritative quotations on both sides of a question, like a miniature philosophical dialogue, he gives us considerations for and then against fighting in a civil war. At first glance, this looks like a rather dry academic exercise, like a scholastic citing sources in a disputed question. But when we recall the political circumstances under which Lipsius wrote, we realize that we are reading an apparently dispassionate treatment of a genuinely agonizing question. Indeed, Lipsius seems to have been torn between two kinds of life, both of which were modeled by the ancients. On the one hand, there was the ideal of the engaged virtuous man of affairs, described in the Politica. Not that Lipsius expected to sit on a throne, but he did clearly see himself as an advisor for rulers, a character also described at length in this work. On the other hand, there was the life of scholarship and philosophical contemplation. In theory, Lipsius preferred the latter, but his life tends to tell a different story, just as in theory he thought that political troubles should leave him untroubled, but his own unconstancy shows that he had great difficulty accepting his own advice. Its attention is old as Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics, which famously offers elaborate discussion of practical virtue before suddenly recommending a life of theoretical activity in its final book. And its attention well captured by that title page Rubens made for the works of Lipsius. At the top of the page, we see profoundifications of politics and philosophy. Very appropriately, Lipsius is positioned right between them. Now I'll have to ask you to adopt a Stoic attitude by enduring what cannot be changed and following this podcast series, if not gone, without complaint, as you wait for the next episode. Or, if you're more inclined towards Epicureanism, you can enjoy the pleasure of anticipation, as you look forward to hearing more about Lipsius from a guest who has endured a far longer wait. After appearing in episode 68 to tell us about the Roman Stoics, John Sellars will be returning as an interview guest after a record-setting gap of 324 episodes, even though this is supposedly the history of philosophy without any gaps.