The Teacher

An Interpretation of Epictetus' Discourse 1.11

It was the Teacher who spoke first.

“So, you’ve come to have a look at the Owned One?” He said it playfully, as if inviting the laughter of his students, who were sitting strewn about the room, legs tucked under them on their reed mats, their attitude suggesting this was a normal occurrence in the great Teacher’s classroom. The students obligingly chuckled, their inquisitive eyes turning toward us, but my companion and I didn’t respond. The Teacher didn’t need an answer from us—he knew why we were there. Gesturing at some coarsely-made cushions to the side of the room, he said, “Please, take a seat.”

As we sat down on our cushions, leaning our backs against the cold earthen wall, the students turned their attention back to the man strolling calmly around the room. The Teacher paced for a moment before speaking again. The young men’s eyes followed him, from one side and back to the other, waiting for his next pronouncement. He held their attention without saying anything.

We waited too, my companion and I, without knowing what to expect. We had come out of simple curiosity. We’d heard many things about the Teacher. That he was a pious old man who scorned emperors and riches. That he could talk better than anyone about anything—better about sailing than a sailor, better about eating than the most luxuriant nobleman, better about kingship than any king. That he could look into your eyes and know exactly what you were thinking, your deepest fears and desires.

And of course we’d heard about his limp. It didn’t slow him down much, but it was very noticeable, and as he completed another lap around the room, I wondered why he insisted on showing it off. He didn’t have to pace around like that. He could have just sat on a stool like every other teacher. But he seemed to brandish his disability like a badge of honor, reminding onlookers that he had truly been the Owned One. In another man such an awkward gait may have detracted from his authority. In the Teacher, it only enhanced his presence.

Finally he turned to face us, his dark eyes quick and shining above the mass of gray whiskers that almost completely covered his face. “Where are you from?”

“Syracuse,” my companion said, “but more recently Rome. We’re just passing through Nicopolis. It’s been many years since we studied with a philosopher. We just came to refresh our memories.”

“Ah,” said the Teacher. “Are you sure you want your memories refreshed? It might be painful to see how far you’ve strayed from your teacher’s directions, whoever he was.”

As the students murmured in amusement, I laughed along with them, trying to shake off this little taunt—I had been warned that the Teacher liked to provoke those who came to his classroom. “How do you know we have strayed?” I asked him. “You don’t know anything about us.”

Fixing his eyes on me now, he said, “Let’s see, shall we? You work in Rome as a grain overseer—that’s plain from the crest you’re wearing—putting in long hours with your record-keeping, traveling all over the empire checking up on people, hoping for career advancement that may never come. You return home to your wife and children, finding their company dull and longing to be on the road again. You’re restless, always longing for something you don’t have, seldom finding joy in those things that have been granted to you.”

At the mention of my family, I felt blood rush to my cheeks. His arrow had struck its target. Despite my intention to shrug off his barbs, I had to defend my honor. “That’s not true at all! My job is excellent, and I love my wife and children very much. A man does what he must to get along in the world. I may not be perfect, but I’m far from bad.”

“Oh?” The Teacher started pacing again, his uneven gait accentuating the long silence which once again hovered over the classroom. “Zeus be praised, I am glad to hear that. A man does what he must, certainly. Lording it over his family, pocketing the surplus granary fees here and there, no doubt, and cursing his fate when things don’t go his way. And you,” he said, now turning to my companion. “Do you have a wife and children?”

“Yes.”

“And how is life at home?”

“Terrible.”

I looked with surprise at my companion, who was staring earnestly at the Teacher. I had never before heard him indicate unhappiness with his life, much less with his wife and young children. Why would he say that? I wondered. Why give the Teacher any ammunition to use against us?

“In what respect?” The Teacher had stopped his pacing and was now standing quite still, his whole attention fixed on the man sitting beside me. “For people do not marry and have children in order to be miserable, but to be happy.”

“Well,” said my companion, “I’m often sick with anxiety over my children. Just last week, when my little daughter was sick and her life was thought to be in danger, I couldn’t bear to stay with her. I left home until the nurse brought me word she had recovered.” As he spoke, his arms were crossed in front of his chest defensively, as if protecting himself from the overly personal revelations coming from his mouth. His voice wavered with emotion. Leaning stiffly against our wall at the back of the classroom, he looked gloomily at the Teacher. It was as if the Owned One was drawing a confession out of him against his will.

“And do you think you acted rightly?” The Teacher turned his back and started pacing again, his heavy footsteps measuring out the slow, uneven cadence of our thoughts. Several students, sensing deep revelations on the way, took out their tablets and began making notes.

“I acted naturally,” said my companion, a defensive edge creeping into his voice.

“Ahh,” said the Teacher, pivoting at one side of the room and turning back toward us. “Naturally.” He picked up his walking stick, which had been leaning against the wall, and waved it in our direction. “Convince me that you acted naturally, and I will convince you that everything done in accordance with nature is done rightly.”

I sat mutely, watching my friend’s jaw clench, wondering if I should say something to defend him, to cast his actions in a positive light. He should have known better, I thought. What made him do it? Does he really want to match wits with the renowned Teacher? Was he genuinely curious? Or perhaps he had been entranced by the Teacher, mesmerized by his rhythmic walking and his soul-piercing stare. I wouldn’t be surprised if that walking stick were really a magic staff, with the power to force people under its master’s spell.

“All fathers feel that way,” said my companion at last.

It was a feeble defense. The Teacher raised his eyebrows, and his lips, beneath his massive beard, twisted into a half smile. I braced myself for a derisive remark, but none came. Instead, an unexpected glimmer of sympathy rose to the Teacher’s eyes. His face relaxed, and he turned the full beam of his attention to my companion.   

“I do not deny that,” the Teacher said, more gently now, “but the matter we are inquiring into is whether such behavior is right. According to your logic, we would also have to say that tumors develop for the good of the body, just because they do develop. And then we would have to say that doing wrong is also natural, because nearly all of us do wrong.” He was now talking to the whole class, and the young men on their reed mats were listening attentively, nodding along in agreement, scribbling their notes.

The Teacher glanced again at my companion, hand resting on the knob of his walking stick. “Show me, then, in what way your behavior is natural.” He paused expectantly, watching us with interest, waiting for my friend’s response.

An awkward silence filled the room. My friend was no longer looking at the Owned One, but rather at the ground in front of him. He said nothing.

I decided it was time to step in. “You’re the philosopher,” I told the Teacher, a little too loudly, but I wanted to show him we weren’t afraid—not of him, not of his walking stick, not of his questions. “It’s your job to show us how his actions are not in accordance with nature and not rightly done.”

At these words, the students all turned around and stared at me. Clearly I had said something wrong. But the Teacher’s expression was unchanged. He simply responded, matter-of-factly, “Well, if were inquiring about black and white, what criterion would we use for distinguishing between them?”

“Sight,” I said.

“And if we were inquiring about hot and cold, or hard and soft, what would be the criterion?”

“Touch.”

“Well then.” The Teacher resumed his pacing. “Since we are inquiring about things which are in accordance with nature, and those which are done rightly or not rightly, what kind of criterion do you think we should employ?”

Pause. Silence. What could I say? I didn’t know.

“Not knowing the criterion to distinguish between colors and smells, or flavors, is perhaps no great harm.” The Teacher was looking at me sternly, not with anger, but with deep solemnity, as if discussing the gravest matters of life and death. “But if someone doesn’t know how to judge good and bad, and whether something is in accordance with nature or contrary to nature, does this seem to be of no small harm?”

“It would be the greatest harm.” My companion had found his voice again and was watching the Teacher intently. He leaned forward, his head cocked sideways, absorbing the Teacher’s every word and glance.

The Teacher nodded. “Different people have different views as to what is good and right. Come now, you’re a man of the world. You’ve traveled all over the empire. You’ve seen how the opinions of the Jews, Syrians, Egyptians, and Romans vary with regard to food. Can they all be correct? Are all these opinions rightly held?”

“How is that possible?” my friend interjected.

“I suppose,” the Teacher continued, “it is absolutely necessary that if the opinions of the Egyptians are right, the opinions of the rest must be wrong. Or if the opinions of the Jews are right, those of the rest cannot be right.”

“Certainly.”

“But where there is ignorance, there is also a lack of learning and training in important matters.” My friend inclined his head in agreement. “Now that you are aware of this, in the future you will devote yourself to determining this criterion of things which are in accordance with nature. You will apply your mind to these judgements in every area of your life.”

My companion looked thunderstruck. I could tell he was at a loss for words. He had clearly never heard anything like this before in his long-ago student days.

The Teacher went on. “But in the present matter I can tell you this. Does family affection appear to you to be good and in accordance with nature?”

“Certainly.”

“Is such affection in conflict with reason?

“I think not.”

“You are right, for if it is otherwise, one of these conflicting things would be in accordance with nature, and the other must be contrary to nature. Is it not so?”

“It is.”

“Then whatever we shall discover to be at the same time affectionate and also consistent with reason, this we can confidently declare to be right and good.”

“Agreed.”

“Well then, to leave your sick child and go away is not reasonable, and I don’t think you will say it is. But it remains for us to consider whether it is consistent with affection.”

“Yes, let us consider.”

I watched their back-and-forth with increasing unease. My companion, who I knew so well as an exacting grain inspector, was clearly under the spell of the Owned One. Why was he allowing himself to be strung along like this? Why was he going along with everything the Teacher said? What had happened to his pride?

I didn’t like where this was going. I had come along to see the great Teacher, but not because I wanted to become a Stoic. I just wanted to see the big man himself. I had to admit, he was pretty convincing. But it was all a little suspect. He seemed to think he was Socrates, lining up questions and firing off answers like that. My friend may have been taken in, but I was reserving judgment. It was important to keep a clear head and think things through. You couldn’t just agree with everything.

The Teacher was now standing at the front of the room, leaning against a little table, with his stick resting alongside him. He seemed more relaxed now, in his element, carving up arguments and dishing them out cold. He was still speaking to my friend, but as he spoke he looked around the classroom, and I could see the words were really meant for his students. This was for their benefit. We were for their benefit. Two men in the prime of life, being publicly ridiculed for those young men sitting at his feet. Being made examples of—watch out, or you’ll become like them! But my companion didn’t seem to care.

“Since you are so fond of your child, did you do right when you ran off and left her? Does her mother have no affection for her?”

“Certainly, she does.”

“Should her mother too have run off too, or not?”

“She shouldn’t have.”

“And the child’s nurse, does she love her?”

“She does.”

“So should she have deserted her too? Should the girl have been left alone and without help on account of the great affection her parents and caretakers have for her? Should she have died in the charge of those who neither love nor care for her?”

“Certainly not!”

“If you were ill, would you wish your wife, children, and other relations to be so affectionate as to leave you alone and deserted?”

“By no means.”

I was growing tired of this game. It rankled because it was so true. I knew the Teacher was right, but he didn’t have to rub it in like this. I shifted on my cushion, trying to find a comfortable position, but the coarse sackcloth was uncomfortable from every angle. The clay wall supporting my back was equally uninviting. I felt an itch right between my shoulder blades, but I couldn’t reach it to scratch. I suddenly felt that I would rather be anywhere than here.

But the Teacher was just getting warmed up. “And would you wish to be so loved by your family that, through their excessive affection, you would always be left alone when ill? Or would you rather be loved and deserted by your enemies instead? But if this is so, it means that your behavior was not truly affectionate.”

My companion was by turns shaking and nodding his head, responding silently to the Teacher’s words without ever taking his eyes off him. The Owned One, at the front of the room, with his hand resting motionless on his staff, was still leaning against the little table. I had the sudden impression I was at the amphitheater, with Odysseus declaiming loudly to the audience, his massive gray beard accentuating his words like a dramatic exclamation mark. Like Odysseus’s, the Teacher’s voice floated over his audience, shaping their thoughts and emotions with his wily words. Here, though, everyone was silent, and the chorus consisted only of scratching styluses and nodding heads.

“Well then, was it nothing that moved you and induced you to desert your child?”

“How could that be possible?”

“What was your motive then? This is not the right time for a full explanation, but it is enough to be convinced that what the philosophers say is true: we must look for a motive not anywhere outside ourselves, but within. In all cases it is our internal motive that prompts us to do or not do something, to say or not say something, to feel elated or depressed, to avoid or pursue something. It is the very thing which is causing me to talk and you to listen right now, at this very moment. It is nothing other than a belief that it is appropriate to do so.”

The words washed over me like a cold, rising tide, and I shivered. The itch behind my shoulder blades was gone, but in its place was the sudden chill of uncertainty. What did this mean—we shouldn’t look for a motive anywhere outside ourselves? Was this philosophical sophistication dressed up in plain language? Or just plain sophistry? It seemed beguilingly simple. Nothing other than a belief. A belief that it is appropriate to do so. No, of course it couldn’t be anything other than that. Why else would anyone do anything? But where was the Teacher going with this?

“If we had believed something else was appropriate, isn’t that what we would be doing right now? This was the cause of Achilles’ lamentation, not the death of Patroclus. Another man might have behaved differently on the death of his companion, but Achilles acted in this way because he thought it fitting to do so.

“And this was also the cause of your running away the other day. You thought it fitting to act in that way. And if, in the future, you choose to stay with your child when she is sick, the reason will be the same—because you judge it right to do so. And now you are going back to Rome because you think it’s appropriate to go back to Rome. If you were to change your mind, you would not go. In a word, it is neither death, nor exile, nor pain, nor anything of that sort that causes us to do or not do something. It is our own judgments and opinions.”

The cold tingling that had started up my spine was now spreading across my shoulders. I felt frozen, my feet plunged in icy water, a chill creeping down my arms and legs. For a moment I couldn’t breathe. His last words were ringing in my ears. Death. Exile. Pain. Judgments. Opinions. You judge it right to do so. You judge. Do so.

My mind was both racing and refusing to move. Hot and cold. Hard and soft. Touch. Sight. The Teacher was right. I had no arguments, no words against him. The momentary coldness now gave way to heat, and my thoughts began churning rapidly through my past. This action. That word. That look, or thought, or emotion. It all made sense. Judgments. Opinions. Do so.

The Teacher was pacing again. Cla-clump, cla-clump, cla-clump. His footfall remained heavy, but the expression on his face was light, even cheerful. He turned and looked at my companion and me, his eyes now crackling with brisk enjoyment. “Do I convince you of that, or not?”

“You’ve convinced me,” my friend said—or was it I who said it? I couldn’t tell who spoke, only that our answer seemed to satisfy the Teacher. He paced on.

“As are the causes in each case, such also are the effects. From this day on, whenever we do anything that isn’t right, we will blame no one and nothing other than our own judgments and opinions. We will do our utmost to destroy and remove those bad judgments, just as we would cut out tumors and abscesses from our bodies. Now that we know it is our judgments, and nothing else, that are responsible for our actions, we will no longer blame our bad behavior on our slave, or neighbor, or wife, or children. Our behavior comes from our own judgments. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Quite so,” my companion managed. I guessed he was picturing, like me, returning to his family and smiling a new smile, greeting his son with renewed fondness, stroking his daughter’s hair with a newly-discovered attentiveness. The same as always, but different. Aware of everything beneath the surface. The thoughts, the judgments that go into a single action. Nothing more, nothing less.

“From this day forward, we will inquire into and examine nothing else—neither land, nor slaves, nor horses, nor dogs—nothing other than opinions, and whether they are rightly held, and whether they are in accordance with nature.”

“That’s my intention.” My friend was gazing solemnly, reverentially, at the Owned One, who faced his audience with both hands now resting on the staff in front of him. That staff. A sudden vision sprang into my mind—a snake leapt out of the ground, coiling itself around the staff in the Teacher’s hand. The rod of Asclepius. An instrument of healing. Not of the body, but of the mind.

That was it, I knew. The Owned One was a healer with the same restorative powers as the best physician, as Asclepius himself. He worked his magic not through potions and poultices but through words. By making you think about what you’ve done, and what you might do. By bringing your whole life before you in an instant, the same way death does. By somehow conjuring death, and exile, and distress, and then removing their power. I would never have believed it if I hadn’t experienced it for myself. It seemed like magic, but it wasn’t. It was all judgment, all opinion.

The Teacher was now looking directly at me. His mouth twisted into the half-smile again, and he gestured toward me with the staff. Although his expression was jovial, his eyes seemed to pierce directly into my thoughts.

“You see, then, that it is necessary for you to become a student, a creature whom everyone makes fun of, if you really want to examine your own opinions.” The young men around us laughed, as they were clearly expected to do. But I no longer cared. I had gotten what I came for. I gestured to my companion, and we both stood up to leave. Stepping over the coarse cushions and around the students, we made our way to the back of the classroom, where the open door beckoned.

My companion thanked the Teacher for his time. Raising his staff in salutation, the great Teacher wished us safe travels. As we left the classroom, I heard him call out, “Remember, grain inspector, this is not the work of a single hour or day, but of a lifetime!”

Shaken, my friend and I walked together silently, reviewing in our minds everything that had happened. They were right, I thought to myself. The Teacher really could talk better about anything than anyone else, and he really could look into your eyes and know exactly what you were thinking. Uncanny. I laughed to myself, remembering again the pacing, the limp, the piercing stare, the half smile. And I had a feeling that if the great healer, Asclepius himself, were to make a sudden visitation, the Teacher wouldn’t bat an eye.