As London prepared for the Olympics, the most that my
friends there hoped was that they would not suffer inconvenience, at least not
beyond the increased taxation that will no doubt soon be exacted in order to
pay for the games. The worst report I have heard so far about the games’ impact
on daily life is of the severe overcrowding at the Underground station at Earls
Court, frantically busy at the best of times. But in the matter of the games,
Gibbon’s Decline and Fall has some lessons. Writing of the
Emperor Philip, “the minister of a violent government, elected for the private
benefit of the soldiers,” he observes: “On his return from the East to Rome,
Philip, desirous of obliterating the memory of his crimes, and of captivating
the affections of the people, solemnized the secular games with infinite pomp
and magnificence.”
History does not repeat itself except by analogy—and
here, it is hard not to see an analogy between Philip and former prime minister
Anthony Blair. Of course, we live, as Gibbon might have put it, in a politer
age, when crimes have to be muted, untruths disguised by rhetoric, and the
ruination of states performed by stealth rather than by personal extravagance
and outright defalcation. Still, Blair’s regime benefited only those who worked
for it, and the Olympics, for which he lobbied hard, were his parting gift to
the nation he had betrayed, a fitting memorial to a man with a soul of tinsel.
In this connection, one cannot help but note Gibbon’s account of the Emperor
Caracalla’s legacy: “The prodigality of Caracalla had left behind it a long
train of ruin and disorder; and if that worthless tyrant had been capable of
reflecting on the sure consequences of his own conduct, he would perhaps have
enjoyed the dark prospect of the distress and calamities which he bequeathed to
his successors.” Caracalla, of course, was killed; ours being an altogether
gentler age, Blair is thinking of making a comeback.
Historical analogies do break down eventually. The barbarians were external to Rome, but they are internal to Britain. Still, could any seven words better describe the soul of the London rioters than those with which Gibbon described the rude Germanic tribes: “They delight in sloth, they detest tranquillity”? For that matter, Gibbon’s description of the summons to arms that brought the German barbarian to Rome also calls to mind the London rioter: “It roused him from his uncomfortable lethargy, gave him an active pursuit, and, by strong exercise of the body, and violent emotions of the mind, restored him to a more lively sense of his existence. In the dull intervals of peace these barbarians were immoderately addicted to deep gaming and excessive drinking; both of which, by different means, the one by inflaming their passions, the other by extinguishing their reason, alike relieved them from the pain of thinking.” Exchange trafficking for gaming, and drugs for drink, and the analogy is nearly perfect.
But let us return to the games. A little later in the
fall of the Roman Empire, we read, uncomfortably for us: “The only merit of the
administration of Carinus that history could record or poetry celebrate was the
uncommon splendour with which, in his own and his brother’s name, he exhibited
the Roman games of the theatre, the circus, and the amphitheatre. . . . But
this vain prodigality, which the prudence of Diocletian might justly despise,
was enjoyed with surprise and transport by the Roman people.” As I said, no
analogy is perfect. The uniqueness of the merit, yes; the prodigality, yes; but
the surprise and transport, no—at least not if my straw poll and the empty
seats in the stadia are any guide.
No comments:
Post a Comment