Quomodo historia conscribenda sit

They say, my dear Philo, that in the reign of King Lysimachus the people of Abdera were smitten by an epidemic. These were its symptoms: at first every one of them fell ill of a fever, violent and obstinate right from the start; about the seventh day it was broken, in some cases by a copious flow of blood from the nostrils, in others by heavy sweating; but their minds were left in a ridiculous state; they all went mad with tragedy, shouting iambics and creating a din; and they mostly sang solos from Euripides’ “Andromeda,” [*](Or “sang as a solo Andromeda’s part in Euripides’ play.”) rendering Perseus’ speech in song; the city was full of these seventh-day tragedians, all pale and thin, roaring,

1. “Love, you tyrant of gods and men”

To make as they say a comparison, that Abderite complaint has now taken hold of most of the literary world. They don’t act tragedy—they would be less out of their wits if they were in the grip of other men’s verses, not shoddy ones at that. No, ever since the present situation arose—the war against the barbarians, the disaster in Armenia and the run of victories—every single person is writing history; nay more, they are all Thucydideses, Herodotuses and Xenophons to us, and very true, it seems, is the saying that “War is the father of all things” [*](A saying of Heraclitus.) since at one stroke it has begotten so many historians.

As I saw and heard all this, friend, I was reminded of the story of the man of Sinope. When Philip was said to be already on the march, all the Corinthians were astir and busy, preparing weapons, bringing up stones, underpinning the wall, shoring up a battlement and doing various other useful jobs. Diogenes saw this, and as he had nothing to do—nobody made any use of him—he belted up his philosopher’s cloak and very busily by himself rolled the crock in which, as it happens, he was living up and down Cornel Hill. When one of his friends asked: “Why are you doing that, Diogenes?” he replied: “I’m rolling the crock so as not to be thought the one idle man in the midst of all these workers.”

So in my own case, Philo, to avoid being the only mute in such a polyphonic time, pushed about open-mouthed without a word like an extra in a comedy, I thought it a good idea to roll my barrel as best I could; not to produce a history or even merely chronicle the events—I’m not so bold as that: don’t be afraid that I should go that far. I know the danger of rolling it over rocks, particularly a poorly baked little barrel like mine. Just as soon as it hits against a tiny piece of stone we shall have to pick up the pieces. I shall tell you then what I have decided to do and how I shall take part in the war in safety, keeping well out of range myself. “From your spray and surge’’ [*](Homer, Od. xii, 198, describing the whirlpool of Charybdis.) and all the cares that attend the writer of history I shall keep myself aloof and rightly so. In fact, I shall offer a little advice and these few precepts to historians, so that I may share in the erection of their building, if not the inscription on it, by putting at any rate my finger-tip on the mortar.

Yet most of them think they don’t even need advice for the job any more than they need a set of rules for walking or seeing or eating; no, they think it is perfectly simple and easy to write history and that anyone can do it if only he can put what comes to him into words. As to that, I’m sure you know as well as I do, my dear friend, that history is not one of those things that can be put in hand without effort and can be put together lazily, but is something which needs, if anything does in literature, a great deal of thought

Advice works in two ways: it teaches us to choose this and avoid that. So first let us say what the writer of history has to avoid, from what contaminations he must in particular be free; then what means he must use in order not to lose the right road that carries him straight ahead—I mean how to begin, how to arrange his material, the proper proportions for each part, what to leave out, what to develop, what it is better to handle cursorily, and how to put the facts into words and fit them together. These and kindred matters will come later. But

But as to faults in historical writing, you will probably find by observation that they are of the same sort as I have noticed in many attendances at readings, especially if you open your ears to everyone. But it will not be out of place in the meantime to recall by way of example some of the histories already written in this faulty manner. To begin with, let us look at this for a serious fault: most of them neglect to record the events and spend their time lauding rulers and generals, extolling their own to the skies and slandering the enemy’s beyond all reserve; they do not realise that the dividing line and frontier between history and panegyric is not a narrow isthmus but rather a mighty wall; as musicians say, they are two diapasons apart, since the encomiast’s sole concern is to praise and please in any way he can the one he praises, and if he can achieve his aim by lying, little will he care; but history cannot admit a lie, even a tiny one, any more than the windpipe, as sons of doctors say, can tolerate anything entering it in swallowing.

Again, such writers seem unaware that history has

I do not say that there is no room for occasional praise in history. But it must be given at the proper time and kept within reasonable limits to avoid displeasing future readers. In general such matters should be controlled with a view to what posterity demands; I shall treat of them a little later. Now some think they can make a satisfactory distinction in history between what gives pleasure and what is useful, and for this reason work eulogy into it as giving pleasure and enjoyment to its readers; but do you see how far they are from the truth? In the first place, the distinction they draw is false: history has one task and one end—what is useful—, and that comes from truth alone. As for what gives pleasure, it is certainly better if it is there incidentally—like good looks in an athlete; but if it isn’t there, there is still nothing to prevent Nicostratus, the son of Isidotus, a true blue and a stouter fellow than either of his rivals, from becoming “a successor of Heracles [*](A title or quasi-title awarded for victory in both wrestling and the pancratium on the same day. Nicostratus was the seventh to do this (Pausanias, V, 21, 9–18). The young Quintilian saw him in his old age about A.D. 50 (Quint. II. 8, 14).) though he be ugly to look at, while his opponent is Alcaeus of Miletus, the handsome fellow who, they say, was loved by Nicostratus. So it is with history—if she were to make the mistake of dealing in pleasure as well she would attract a host of lovers, but as long as she keeps only what is hers alone in all its fullness—I mean the publication of the truth—she will give little thought to beauty.

Moreover, this too is worth saying: in history

The majority will possibly applaud you for this, but those few whom you despise will laugh delightedly till they are sated when they see the incongruity, lack of proportion, and loose structure of the work, for each part has its own peculiar beauty and if you alter that you make it ugly and futile. I need not say that

That is what happened to Aristobulus when he wrote of the single combat between Alexander and Porus; he read this particular passage in his work to Alexander thinking to give great pleasure to the King by ascribing falsely to him certain deeds of valour and inventing achievements too great to be true. They happened to be sailing on the River Hydaspes at the time, and Alexander took the book and threw it straight into the water with the remark: “You deserve the same treatment, Aristobulus, for fighting single-handed duels for my sake like that and killing elephants with one throw of the javelin.” Indeed it was certain that Alexander would be angry at such a thing—he had not put up with the effrontery of the engineer who had promised to fashion Athos into his portrait and shape the mountain to the King’s likeness. Alexander at once realised that the man was a flatterer and had no longer employed him.

Where then is the pleasure in this, unless a man is so utterly stupid as to enjoy praise that can be proved groundless there and then? Take the case of the ugly men and women, particularly women, who ask the painter to make them as beautiful as possible, thinking they will be better looking if the painter bedecks them with a richer red and mixes plenty of white into his pigment. Most of our historians today are like that, courting private whim and the profit they expect from their history. One might well loathe them as blatant flatterers of no ability in their own time, while to posterity they make the whole business of written history suspect by their exaggerations. If anyone supposes that giving pleasure has to be mixed into all historical writing, there are other refinements of style that combine pleasure with truth. The run of historians neglect these and pile up tasteless incongruities one upon the other.

Well then, I’ll tell you what I remember hearing some historians say recently in Ionia, and indeed only the other day in Achaïa, when they were describing this very war. And in the name of the Graces let no one disbelieve what I am going to say. I would swear to its veracity—if it were in good taste to attach an affidavit to an essay. One of them began straightway with the Muses, summoning the goddesses to help him with his work. You see how appropriate this opening was, how apt for historical writing, how suited to this type of book! Then a little further on he compared our general to Achilles, and the Persian King to Thersites, not understanding

1. “and one far greater pursued him.” [*](Homer, Il. xxii, 158. The quotation is not quite accurate.)

So much for him. Another, a keen emulator of Thucydides, modelling himself closely on his original, like him began with his own name—the most graceful of all beginnings, redolent of Attic thyme. Listen: “Crepereius Calpurnianus of Pompeiopolis wrote the history of the war between the Parthians and the Romans beginning at its very outset.” [*](An adaptation of the opening sentence of Thucydides’ History.) After a beginning like that why should I tell you the rest—the sort of speech he made in Armenia (he brought in the Corcyrean orator [*](I.e., he took the speech from Thucydides I, 32, where the Corcyrean delegation addresses the Athenian assembly.) in person for that) or what sort of plague he brought down on the people of Nisibis who declined to take

Another of them has compiled a bare record of the events and set it down on paper, completely prosaic and ordinary, such as a soldier or artisan or pedlar following the army might have put together as a diary

If I have to mention a philosopher let his name remain unknown. I shall speak only of his general views and his recent writings in Corinth. They went beyond all expectation. Right at the beginning in the first sentence of his introduction he used dialectic on his readers in his eagerness to show off a very clever argument. This was to the effect that only the philosopher was fit to write history. Then a little later came one syllogism, then another. In short his introduction was sheer dialectic in every figure of the syllogism. His flattery was nauseating: his eulogies were vulgar and downright low; even they were syllogistic and dialectical in form. I certainly thought it in poor taste and not at all

Again it would not be right to omit the one who began as follows: “I come to speak of Romans and Persians,” and a little later said: “The Persians were foredoomed to come to grief,” and again: “It was Osroes, whom the Greeks call Oxyrhoes” and many more things of this sort, all in Ionic. Do you see? He was like Crepereius, only Crepereius was a wonderful copy of Thucydides, this man of Herodotus.

Another, renowned for his powerful eloquence, was also like Thucydides or a little better. He described all cities, mountains, plains, and rivers in the most detailed and striking way, as he thought. May the Averter of Evil turn his detail and vigour against the enemy, so much frigidity was there in it, worse than Caspian snow and Celtic ice! For example, he only just got through his description of the emperor’s shield in a whole book, with its Gorgon on the boss, her eyes of blue, white, and black, her girdle like the rainbow, the ringlets and curls of her serpents. The trousers of Vologesus and the bit of his horse—Heavens! how many thousands of words on each, and his descriptions of Osroes’ hair as he swam across the Tigris, and the cave where he fled for safety, with its jungle of ivy, myrrh, and laurel making it completely

Because of weakness in matters of importance or ignorance of what to say, they turn to this sort of description of scenery and caves; when they chance on a host of great doings they are like a newly-rich servant who has just inherited his master’s fortune: he knows neither how to dress nor how to take his meal in the proper way: no, he plunges in, when for instance birds and pork and hares are put before him, stuffing himself with a soup or kippers until he bursts from eating. Well, this man I mentioned described incredible wounds and monstrous deaths, how one man was wounded in the big toe and died on the spot, and how Priscus the general just gave a shout and twenty-seven of the enemy fell dead. And in the number slain he even contradicted the officers’ despatches with his false figures: at Europus, he said, the enemy lost 70,236 killed, while the Romans lost just two and had nine wounded. I do not think anyone in his senses would accept that.