Dr. Johnson described the delineation of characters in Xenophon’s Anabasis as ‘‘the first instance of the kind known.’’ The proposition is, at best, arguable, as well as somewhat imprecise in its original expression (Lane Fox 2004a: 2). One might argue that this distinction belongs instead to the dissolute and engaging parvenu pharaoh Amasis (Hdt. 2.172f.), with his adroit ripostes to criticisms of his background and drinking habits, or to some other individual in Herodotus. It is, however, worth exploring the possible grounds for Johnson’s implicit statement that Herodotus and Thucydides, Xenophon’s predecessors, do not offer vivid delineations of personalities.
It is revealing to compare Xenophon’s expatiation on the personality of Cyrus with the explicit statements about the characters of individuals which the narrator offers in Herodotus and Thucydides. The comments of the Herodotean narrator about particular people are terse, and almost invariably limited to their endowment or deficiency in two areas: virtue and intelligence. Particular quirks, foibles, traits, or proclivities are not highlighted. There are exceptions to this tendency. We learn of Amasis, for example, that he was ‘‘fond of a drink and a joke and in no way a serious-minded man, even when he was a private citizen’’ (Hdt. 2.174.2). This is the exception, though, and not the rule.
Thucydides, likewise, is sparing with direct comments on the personalities of the individuals with whom he deals. Indeed, the focus is in some ways even narrower than that of Herodotus. Thucydides’ narrator directly addresses the subject of individual virtue more rarely, and shows much more interest in analyzing the nature and forms of intelligence and competence. This is most clearly visible in his remarks on The-mistocles (1.138.3): ‘‘for by native perception and without any prior or subsequent study, he was most sagacious in his snap judgments on what was happening and the best and most forward-looking predictor of future events.’’ As before, one should note that there are certainly exceptions to this general rule of attention to competence rather than virtue. Nicias’ demise, for example, extorts from the narrator a note of regret ‘‘on account of his whole way of life, utterly devoted to virtue’’ (7.86.5). The fact remains, however, that the narrator is generally sparing of explicit commentary upon the characters of his protagonists.
The lavish obituary for Cyrus which Xenophon places in Anabasis Book 1 certainly presents a signal contrast to this austerity. The reader does not learn merely that the leader of Xenophon’s expedition was virtuous and capable. In fact, the nature of his virtues and capacities is set out in loving detail, from his skill and bravery when hunting (Anab. 1.9.6), to his punctiliousness in the observation of treaties (Anab. 1.9.8), to his sternness towards transgressors (Anab. 1.9.13).
It is also notable that, while Cyrus receives the most attention in this regard, he is by no means the only individual in the Anabasis to whom the narrator devotes a passage on his personal traits, attitudes, and proclivities. Clearchus’ doggedly martial nature (Anab. 2.6.6) and regretted outbursts of rage (2.6.9) are likewise brought under the spotlight, as are the greed, megalomania, and deceitful character of Menon (2.6.21-22).
This difference in narrative technique, perhaps, helps to explain why the portrayal of Cyrus impacted upon Johnson’s sensibility in a way in which the portraits of individuals in earlier authors did not. As we shall shortly see, explicit commentary on an individual’s character from the narrator was by no means the only way in which an ancient historian might bring out the individuality of his protagonists, and many of the various methods by which individuation was achieved preceded the work of Xenophon. Nonetheless, overt authorial assessment and analysis of a person’s traits and behavior are the most obvious manifestations of‘‘characterization’’ in antiquity.
Authorial assessment of character does not, of course, perish with Xenophon. As far as history in Latin goes, Caesar, for the most part, shows a reversion to the spareness of Herodotus and Thucydides. The most overt comment on character that can be wrung out of the lengthy introductory piece concerning Vercingetorix, for instance, is the comment that ‘‘he wedded the utmost severity in his exercise of power to his outstanding activity’’ (Caes. BG 7.4.9).
Thereafter, however, the Roman historians make particular use of the device. In the Roman tradition, too, one sees a developing fascination with paradoxical characters, individuals in whom great virtues and great vices coexist, or in whom evil is accompanied with remarkable mental or physical abilities. The most celebrated example of the latter tendency is perhaps Sallust’s analysis of the insurgent Catiline (Cat. 5.1-5):
Lucius Catiline, born of a distinguished family, possessed great force of mind and body, but had an evil and vicious character. From his youth, civil wars, slaughter, rapine, and discord within the State gave him pleasure, and in them he spent his young manhood.
His body could endure starvation, pain, and sleeplessness to an incredible degree; his mind was bold, tricky, and subtle, capable of concealing or feigning whatever he wanted, greedy for the property of others, profligate with his own, blazing in its desires, with a sufficiency of eloquence, but too little wisdom. His immense intellect continually craved the excessive, the incredible, and the transgressive.
Livy’s Hannibal is likewise characterized by the narrator at the outset of his career as a creature of extremes. His military prowess and frugality are commended, but ‘‘huge vices equalled these virtues, great as they were: monstrous cruelty; treachery surprising even in a Carthaginian; no truth; no piety; no fear of the gods; no respect for oaths; no religious observance’’ (21.4.9). The same might likewise be said for Appian’s Mithridates (App. Mith. 546-550), or Tacitus’ Sejanus (Tac. Ann. 4.1). In Tacitus, however, the narrator’s assessments of individuals - which are many and memorable - often go beyond this rather obvious paradoxography into more subtle explorations of character and its perception, but Tacitean characterization is in any event a subject which demands fuller treatment (§§4, 7).
Overt assessment by the narrator is, then, the most obvious place to look for characterization in ancient historiography. Some further observations upon the technique are in order, however. The first concerns its limitations in a work of narrative (which the historiography of the ancient world, almost by definition, is).
There is a monumental and somewhat static quality to this mode of pronouncement. The action comes to a standstill while such assessments are enunciated, with a consequent suspension of narrative flow. As a result, these analyses usually give the impression of being somewhat semi-detached from the contexts in which they stand. It is no coincidence that the longer, ‘‘set-piece,’’ analyses of an individual’s character which are collected above (pp. 105-106) all take place at obvious points of opening or closure in the narrative. In the cases of Cyrus, Menon, Clearchus, and Mithridates, the point in question is the death of the individual concerned, while Hannibal and Catiline receive this attention at the moment of their first introduction. Often, too, the assessment coincides with a division in the text itself, such as the beginning or end of a book.
These tendencies are not invariable, and the static quality of authorial assessment is not necessarily a bad thing. The foregoing does mean, however, that the wedding of characterization to action has to be achieved by other methods. In the next section, we shall examine the various means by which the historians of antiquity accomplish this feat.
World History
