But for the present I can give you the following assistance toward the attainment of what you desire. Does family affection seem to you to be in accordance with nature and good? — Of course. — What then? Is it possible that, while family affection is in accordance with nature and good, that which is reasonable is not good? — By no means. — That which is reasonable is not, therefore, incompatible with family affection? — It is not, I think. — Otherwise, when two things are incompatible and one of them is in accordance with nature, the other must be contrary to nature, must it not? — Even so, said he. — Whatever, therefore, we find to be at the same time both affectionate and reasonable, this we confidently assert to be both right and good? — Granted, said he. — What then? I suppose you will not deny that going away and leaving one’s child when it is sick is at least not reasonable. But we have yet to consider whether it is affectionate. — Yes, let us consider that. — Were you, then, since you were affectionately disposed to your child, doing right when you ran away and left her? And has the mother no affection for her child? — On the contrary, she has affection. — Ought then the mother also to have left her child, or ought she not? — She ought not. — What of the nurse? Does she love her child? — She does, he said. — Ought, then, she also to have left her? — By no means. — What about the school attendant? Does not he love the child? — He does. — Ought, then, he as well to have gone away and left her, so that the child would thus have been left alone and helpless because of the great affection of you her parents and of those in charge of her, or, perhaps, have died in the arms of those who neither loved her nor cared for her? — Far from it! — And yet is it not unfair and unfeeling, when a man thinks certain conduct fitting for himself because of his affection, that he should not allow the same to others who have as much affection as he has? — That were absurd. — Come, if it had been you who were sick, would you have wanted all your relatives, your children and your wife included, to show their affection in such a way that you would be left all alone and deserted by them? — By no means. — And would you pray to be so loved by your own that, because of their excessive affection, you would always be left alone in sickness? Or would you, so far as this is concerned, have prayed to be loved by your enemies rather, if that were possible, so as to be left alone by them? And if this is what you would have prayed for, the only conclusion left us is that your conduct was, in the end, not an act of affection at all.
What, then; was the motive nothing at all which actuated you and induced you to leave your child? And how can that be? But it was a motive like that which impelled a certain man in Rome to cover his head when the horse which he backed was running, — and then, when it won unexpectedly, they had to apply sponges to him to revive him from his faint! What motive, then, is this? The scientific explanation, perhaps, is not in place now; but it is enough for us to be convinced that, if what the philosophers say is sound, we ought not to look for the motive anywhere outside of ourselves, but that in all cases it is one and the same thing that is the cause of our doing a thing or of our not doing it, of our saying things, or of our not saying them, of our being elated, or of our being cast down, of our avoiding things, or of our pursuing them — the very thing, indeed, which has even now become a cause of my action and of yours; yours in coming to me and sitting here now listening, mine in saying these things. And what is that? Is it, indeed, anything else than that we wanted to do this? — Nothing. — And supposing that we had wanted to do something else, what else would we be doing than that which we wanted to do? Surely, then, in the case of Achilles also, it was this that was the cause of his grief — not the death of Patroclus (for other men do not act this way when their comrades die), but that he wanted to grieve. And in your case the other day, the cause of your running away was just that you wanted to do so; and another time, if you stay with her, it will be because you wanted to stay. And now you are going back to Rome, because you want to do so, and if you change your mind and want something else, you will not go. And, in brief, it is neither death, nor exile, nor toil, nor any such thing that is the cause of our doing, or of our not doing, anything, but only our opinions and the decisions of our will.
Do I convince you of this, or not? — You convince me, said he. — Of such sort, then, as are the causes in each case, such likewise are the effects. Very well, then, whenever we do anything wrongly, from this day forth we shall ascribe to this action no other cause than the decision of our will which led us to do it, and we shall endeavour to destroy and excise that cause more earnestly than we try to destroy and excise from the body its tumours and abscesses. And in the same way we shall declare the same thing to be the cause of our good actions. And we shall no longer blame either slave, or neighbour, or wife, or children, as being the causes of any evils to us, since we are persuaded that, unless we decide that things are thus-and-so, we do not perform the corresponding actions; and of our decision, for or against something, we ourselves, and not things outside of ourselves, are the masters. — Even so, he said. — From this very day, therefore, the thing whose nature or condition we shall investigate and examine will be neither our farm, nor our slaves, nor our horses, nor our dogs, but only the decisions of our will. — I hope so, he said. — You see, then, that it is necessary for you to become a frequenter of the schools, — that animal at which all men laugh, — if you really desire to make an examination of the decisions of your own will. And that this is not the work of a single hour or day you know as well as I do.
CHAPTER XII
Of contentment
Concerning gods there are some who say that the divine does not so much as exist; and others, that it exists, indeed, but is inactive and indifferent, and takes forethought for nothing; and a third set, that it exists and takes forethought, though only for great and heavenly things and in no case for terrestrial things; and a fourth set, that it also takes forethought for things terrestrial and the affairs of men, but only in a general way, and not for the individual in particular; and a fifth set, to which Odysseus and Socrates belonged, who say
Nor when I move am I concealed from thee.
We must, therefore, first of all enquire about each of these statements, to see whether it is sound or not sound. For if gods do not exist, how can it be an end to follow the gods? And if they exist, indeed, but care for nothing, how even thus will that conclusion be sound? But if, indeed, they both exist and exercise care, yet there is no communication from them to men, — yes, and, by Zeus, to me personally, — how even in this case can our conclusion still be sound? The good and excellent man must, therefore, inquire into all these things, before he subordinates his own will to him who administers the universe, precisely as good citizens submit to the law of the state. And he that is being instructed ought to come to his instruction with this aim, “How may I follow the gods in everything, and how may I be acceptable to the divine administration, and how may I become free?” Since he is free for whom all things happen according to his moral purpose, and whom none can restrain. What then? Is freedom insanity? Far from it; for madness and freedom are not consistent with one another. “But I would have that which seems best to me happen in every case, no matter how it comes to seem so.” You are mad; you are beside yourself. Do you not know that freedom is a noble and precious thing? But for me to desire at haphazard that those things should happen which have at haphazard seemed best to me, is dangerously near being, not merely not noble, but even in the highest degree shameful. For how do we act in writing? Do I desire to write the name “Dio” as I choose? No, but I am taught to desire to write it as it ought to be written. What do we do in music? The same. And what in general, where there is any art or science? The same; otherwise knowledge of anything would be useless, if it were accommodated to every individual’s whims. Is it, then, only in this matter of freedom, the greatest and indeed the highest of all, that I am permitted to desire at haphazard? By no means, but instruction consists precisely in learning to desire each thing exactly as it happens. And how do
they happen? As he that ordains them has ordained. And he has ordained that there be summer and winter, and abundance and dearth, and virtue and vice, and all such opposites, for the harmony of the whole, and he has given each of us a body, and members of the body, and property and companions.
Mindful, therefore, of this ordaining we should go to receive instruction, not in order to change the constitution of things, — for this is neither vouchsafed us nor is it better that it should be, — but in order that, things about us being as they are and as their nature is, we may, for our own part, keep our wills in harmony with what happens. For, look you, can we escape from men? And how is it possible? But can we, if they associate with us, change them? And who vouchsafes us that power? What alternative remains, then, or what method can we find for living with them? Some such method as that, while they will act as seems best to them, we shall none the less be in a state comformable to nature. But you are impatient and peevish, and if you are alone, you call it a solitude, but if you are in the company of men, you call them schemers and brigands, and you find fault even with your own parents and children and brothers and neighbours. But you ought, when staying alone, to call that peace and freedom, and to look upon yourself as like the gods; and when you are in the company of many, you ought not call that a mob, nor a tumult, nor a disgusting thing, but a feast and a festival, and so accept all things contentedly.
What, then, is the punishment of those who do not accept? To be just as they are. Is one peevish because he is alone? Let him be in solitude! Is he peevish with his parents? Let him be an evil son and grieve! Is he peevish with his children? Let him be a bad father! “Throw him into prison.” What sort of prison? Where he now is. For he is there against his will, and where a man is against his will, that for him is a prison. Just as Socrates was not in prison, for he was there willingly. “Alas, that I should be lame in my leg!” Slave, do you, then, because of one paltry leg blame the universe? Will you not make a free gift of it to the whole? Will you not relinquish it? Will you not gladly yield it to the giver? And will you be angry and peevish at the ordinances of Zeus, which he defined and ordained together with the Fates who spun in his presence the thread of your begetting? Do you not know how small a part you are compared with the whole? That is, as to the body; for as to the reason you are not inferior to the gods, nor less than they; for the greatness of the reason is not determined by length nor by height, but by the decisions of its will.
Will you not, therefore, set what is for you the good in that wherein you are equal to the gods? “Wretched man that I am; such a father and such a mother as I have!” Well, was it permitted you to step forward and make selection, saying, “Let such-and-such man have intercourse with such-and-such woman at this hour, that I may be born”? It was not permitted you; but your parents had to exist first, then you had to be born as you were born. Of what kind of parents? Of such as they were. What then? Since they are such, is no remedy given you? Again, supposing that you were ignorant of the purpose for which you possess the faculty of vision, you would be unfortunate and wretched if you closed your eyes when men brought some colour before them; but in that you have greatness of mind and nobility for use for everyone of the things may happen to you, and know it not, are you not yet more unfortunate and wretched? Things proportionate to the faculty which you possess are brought before you, but you turn that faculty away at the very moment when you ought to keep it wide open and discerning. Do you not rather render thanks to the gods that they have allowed you to be superior to all the things that they did not put under your control, and have rendered you accountable only for what is under your control? As for parents, the gods have released you from accountability; as for brothers, they have released you; as for body, they have released you; and for property, death, life. Well, for what have they made you accountable? For the only thing that is under your control — the proper use of impressions. Why, then, do you draw upon yourself that for which you are not responsible? This is to make trouble for yourself.
CHAPTER XIII
How may each several thing be done acceptably to the gods?
Now when someone asked him how it is possible to eat acceptably to the gods, he said, If it is done justly and graciously and fairly and restrainedly and decently, is it not also done acceptably to the gods? And when you have asked for warm water and the slave does not heed you; or if he does heed you but brings in tepid water; or if he is not even to be found in the house, then to refrain from anger and not to explode, is not this acceptable to the gods? — How, then, can a man bear with such persons? — Slave, will you not bear with your own brother, who has Zeus as his progenitor and is, as it were, a son born of the same seed as yourself and of the same sowing from above; but if you have been stationed in a like position above others, will you forthwith set yourself up as a tyrant? Do you not remember what you are, and over whom you rule — that they are kinsmen, that they are brothers by nature, that they are the offspring of Zeus? — But I have a deed of sale for them, and they have none for me. — Do you see whither you bend your gaze, that it is to the earth, that it is to the pit, that it is to these wretched laws of ours, the laws of the dead, and that it is not to the laws of the gods that you look?
CHAPTER XIV
That the Deity oversees all men
Now when someone asked him how a man could be convinced that each thing which he does is under the eye of God, Do you not think, he answered, that all things are united in one? — I do, said the other. — Very well, do you not think that what is on earth feels the influence of that which is in heaven? — I do, he replied. — For how else comes it that so regularly, as if from God’s command, when He bids the plants flower, they flower, when He bids them put forth shoots, they put them forth, when He bids them bear their fruit, they bear it, when to ripen, they ripen; when again He bids them drop their fruit and let fall their leaves and gather themselves together and remain quiet and take their rest, they remain quiet and take their rest? And how else comes it that at the waxing and waning of the moon and at the approach and recession of the sun we see among the things that are on earth so great an alteration and change to the opposite? But are the plants and our own bodies so closely bound up with the universe, and do they so intimately share its affections, and is not the same much more true of our own souls? But if our souls are so bound up with God and joined together with Him, as being parts and portions of His being, does not God perceive their every motion as being a motion of that which is His own and of one body with Himself? And yet you have power to think about the divine dispensation and about each several item among things divine, and at the same time also about human affairs, and you have the faculty of being moved by myriads of matters at the same time both in your senses and in your intelligence, and at the same time you assent to some, while you dissent from others, or suspend judgement about them; and you guard in your own soul so many impressions derived from so many and various matters, and, on being moved by these impressions, your mind falls upon notions corresponding to the impressions first made, and so from myriads of matters you derive and retain arts, one after the other, and memories. All this you do, and is God not able to oversee all things and to be present with all and to have a certain communication from them all? Yet the sun is capable of illuminating so large a portion of the universe, and of leaving unilluminated only the small space which is no larger than can be covered by the shadow that the earth casts; and is He who has created the sun, which is but a small portion of Himself in comparison with the whole, and causes it to revolve, is He not able to perceive all things?