So also in our own case, we picture the work of the philosopher to be something like this: He should bring his own will into harmony with what happens, so that neither anything that happens happens against our will, nor anything that fails to happen fails to happen when we wish it to happen. The result of this for those who have so ordered the work of philosophy is that in desire they are not disappointed, and in aversion they do not fall into what they would avoid; that each person passes his life to himself, free from pain, fear, and perturbation, at the same time maintaining with his associates both the natural and the acquired relationships, those namely of son, father, brother, citizen, wife, neighbour, fellow-traveller, ruler, and subject.
Something like this is our picture of the work of the philosopher. The next thing after this is that we seek the means of achieving it. We see, then, that the carpenter becomes a carpenter by first learning something, the helmsman becomes a helmsman by first learning something. May it not be, then, that in our case also it is not sufficient to wish to become noble and good, but that we are under the necessity of learning something first? We seek, then, what this is. Now the philosophers say that the first thing we must learn is this: That there is a God, and that He provides for the universe, and that it is impossible for a man to conceal from Him, not merely his actions, but even his purposes and his thoughts. Next we must learn what the gods are like; for whatever their character is discovered to be, the man who is going to please and obey them must endeavour as best he can to resemble them. If the deity is faithful, he also must be faithful; if free, he also must be free; if beneficent, he also must be beneficent; if high-minded, he also must be high-minded, and so forth; therefore, in everything he says and does, he must act as an imitator of God.
Where, then, ought I to start? — If you enter upon this task, I will say that in the first place you ought to understand the meaning of terms. — So you imply that I do not now understand the meaning of terms? — You do not. — How comes it, then, that I use them? — Why, you use them as the illiterate use written speech, as the cattle use external impressions; for use is one thing, and understanding another. But if you think you understand terms, propose any term you please, and let us put ourselves to the test, to see whether we understand it. — But it is unpleasant to be subjected to an examination when one is already somewhat advanced in years, and, if it so chance, has served his three campaigns. — I realize that myself. For now you have come to me like a man who stood in need of nothing. But what could anyone even imagine you to be in need of? You are rich, you have children, possibly also a wife, and many slaves; Caesar knows you, you have many friends in Rome, you perform the duties incumbent upon you, and when a man has done you either good or harm you know how to pay him back in kind. What do you still lack? If, therefore, I show you that what you lack are things most necessary and important for happiness, and that hitherto you have devoted your attention to everything but what was appropriate for you to do, and if I add the colophon, saying: You know neither what God is, nor what man is, nor what good, nor what evil is — if I say that you are ignorant of these other matters you may possibly endure that; but if I say that you do not understand your own self, how can you possibly bear with me, and endure and abide my questioning? You cannot do so at all, but immediately you go away offended. And yet what harm have I done you? None at all, unless the mirror also does harm to the ugly man by showing him what he looks like; unless the physician insults the patient, when he says to him, “Man, you think there is nothing the matter with you; but you have a fever; fast to-day and drink only water”; and no one says, “What dreadful insolence!” Yet if you tell a man, “Your desires are feverish, your attempts to avoid things are humiliating, your purposes are inconsistent, your choices are out of harmony with your nature, your conceptions are hit-or-miss and false,” why, immediately he walks out and says, “He insulted me.”
Our position is like that of those who attend a fair. Cattle and oxen are brought there to be sold, and most men engage in buying and selling, while there are only a few who go merely to see the fair, how it is conducted, and why, and who are promoting it, and for what purpose. So it is also in this “fair” of the world in which we live; some persons, like cattle, are interested in nothing but their fodder; for to all of you that concern yourselves with property and lands and slaves and one office or another, all this is nothing but fodder! And few in number are the men who attend the fair because they are fond of the spectacle. “What, then, is the universe,” they ask, “and who governs it? No one? Yet how can it be that, while it is impossible for a city or a household to remain even a very short time without someone to govern and care for it, nevertheless this great and beautiful structure should be kept in such orderly arrangement by sheer accident and chance? There must be, therefore, One who governs it. What kind of a being is He, and how does He govern it? And what are we, who have been created by Him, and for what purpose were we created? Do we, then, really have some contact and relation with Him or none at all?” That is the way these few are affected; and thenceforward they have leisure for this one thing only — to study well the “fair” of life before they leave it. With what result, then? They are laughed to scorn by the crowd, quite as in the real fair the mere spectators are laughed at by the traffickers; yes, and if the cattle themselves had any comprehension like ours of what was going on, they too would laugh at those who had wonder and admiration for anything but their fodder!
CHAPTER XV
To those who cling obstinately to the judgements which they have once formed
Some men, when they hear the following precepts: That one ought to be steadfast, and that the moral purpose is naturally free and not subject to compulsion, while everything else is liable to interference and compulsion, subject to others and not our own — some men, I say, fancy that whenever they have formed a judgement they ought to stand by it immovably. And yet the first requirement is that the judgement formed be a sound one. For I want vigour in the body, but it must be the vigour of the body in a state of health and physical exercise; whereas, if you show me that you possess the vigour of a madman, and boast about it, I will say to you, “Man, look, for someone to cure you. This is not vigour, but feebleness.”
The following is another way in which the minds of those are affected who hear these precepts amiss. For example, a friend of mine for no reason at all made up his mind to starve himself to death I learned about it when he was already in the third day of his fasting, and went and asked what had happened. — I have decided, he answered. — Very well, but still what was it that induced you to make up your mind? For if your judgement was good, see, we are at your side and ready to help you to make your exit from this life; but if your judgement was irrational, change it. — I must abide by my decisions. — Why, man, what are you about? You mean not all your decisions, but only the right ones. For example, if you are convinced at this moment that it is night, do not change your opinion, if that seems best to you, but abide by it and say that you ought to abide by your decisions! Do you not wish to make your beginning and your foundation firm, that is, to consider whether your decision is sound or unsound, and only after you have done that proceed to rear thereon the structure of your determination and your firm resolve? But if you lay a rotten and crumbling foundation, you cannot rear thereon even a small building, but the bigger and the stronger your superstructure is the more quickly it will fall down. Without any reason you are taking out of this life, to our detriment, a human being who is a familiar friend, a citizen of the same state, both the large state and the small; and then, though in the act of murder, and while engaged in the destruction of a human being that has done no wrong, you say that you “must abide by your decisions”! But if the idea ever entered your head to kill me, would you have to abide by your decisions?
Well, it was hard work to persuade that man; but there are some men of to-day whom it is im possible to move. So that I feel that I now know what I formerly did not understand — the mean
ing of the proverb, “A fool you can neither persuade nor break.” God forbid that I should ever have for a friend a wise fool! There is nothing harder to handle. “I have decided,” he says! Why yes, and so have madmen; but the more firm their decision is about what is false, the more hellebore they need. Will you not act like a sick man, and summon a physician? “I am sick, sir; help me. Consider what I ought to do; it is my part to obey you.” So also in the present instance. “I know not what I ought to be doing, but I have come to find out.” Thus one should speak. No, but this is what one hears, “Talk to me about anything else, but on this point I have made my decision.” “Anything else” indeed! Why, what is more important or more to your advantage than to be convinced that it is not sufficient for a man merely to have reached decisions, and to refuse to change? These are the sinews of madness, not health. “If you force me to this, I would gladly die.” What for, man? What has happened? “I have decided!” It was fortunate for me that you did not decide to kill me! Or again, another says, “I take no money for my services.” Why so? “Because I have decided.” Rest assured that there is nothing to prevent you from some day turning irrationally to taking money for your services, and that with the same vehemence with which you now refuse to take it, and then saying again, “I have decided”; precisely as in a diseased body, suffering from a flux, the flux inclines now in this direction and now in that. Such is also the sick mind; it is uncertain which way it is inclined, but when vehemence also is added to this inclination and drift, then the evil gets past help and past cure.”
CHAPTER XVI
That we do not practise the application of our judgements about things good and evil
Wherein lies the good? — In moral purpose. — Wherein lies evil? — In moral purpose. — Wherein lies that which is neither good nor evil? — In the things that lie outside the domain of moral purpose. — Well, what of it? Does any one of us remember these statements outside the classroom? Does any one of us when by himself practise answering facts in the way he answers these questions? “So it is day, is it?” “Yes.” “What then? Is it night?” “No.” “What then? Is the number of the stars even?” “I cannot say.” When you are shown money, have you practised giving the proper answer, namely, that it is not a good thing? Have you trained yourself in answers of this kind, or merely to answer sophisms? Why, then, are you surprised to find that in the fields in which you have practised you surpass yourself, but in that in which you have not practised you remain the same? For why is it that the orator, although he knows that he has composed a good speech, has memorized what he has written and is bringing a pleasing voice to his task, is still anxious despite all that? Because he is not satisfied with the mere practice of oratory. What, then, does he want? He wants to be praised by his audience. Now he has trained himself with a view to being able to practise oratory, but he has not trained himself with reference to praise and blame. For when did he ever hear any one say what praise is, what blame is, and what is the nature of each? What kinds of praise are to be sought, and what kinds of blame are to be avoided? And when did he ever go through this course of training in accordance with these principles? Why, then, are you any longer surprised because he surpasses all others in the field in which he has studied, but in that in which he has not practised he is no better than the multitude? He is like a citharoede who knows how to play to the harp, sings well, has a beautiful flowing gown, and still trembles when he comes upon the stage; for all that has gone before he knows, but what a crowd is he does not know, nor what the shouting and the scornful laugliter of a crowd are. Nay, he does not even know what this anxiety itself is, whether it is something that we can control, or beyond our powers, whether he can stop it or not. That is why, if he is praised, he goes off the stage all puffed up; but if he is lauglied to scorn, that poor windbag of his conceit is pricked and flattens out.
We too experience something of the same kind. What do we admire? Externals. What are we in earnest about? About externals. Are we, then, at a loss to know how it comes about that we are subject to fear and anxiety? Why, what else can possibly happen, when we regard impending events as things evil? We cannot help but be in fear, we cannot help but be in anxiety. And then we say, “O Lord God, how may I escape anxiety?” Fool, have you not hands? Did not God make them for you? Sit down now and pray forsooth that the mucus in your nose may not run! Nay, rather wipe your nose and do not blame God! What then? Has he given you nothing that helps in the present case? Has he not given you endurance, has he not given you magnanimity, has he not given you courage? When you have such serviceable hands as these do you still look for someone to wipe your nose? But these virtues we neither practise nor concern ourselves withal. Why, show me one single man who cares how he does something, who is concerned, not with getting something, but with his own action. Who is there that is concerned with his own action while he is walking around? Who, when he is planning, is concerned with the plan itself, and not with getting what he is planning about? And then if he gets it, he is all set up and says, “Yes, indeed, what a fine plan we made! Did I not tell you, brother, that, if there was anything at all in my views, it was impossible for the plan to fall out otherwise?” But it the plan goes the other way, he is humble and wretched, and cannot even find any explanation of what has happened. Who of us ever called in a seer for a case of this kind? Who of us ever slept in a temple for enlightenment about our action? Who? Show me but one, that I may see him, the man that I have long been looking for, the truly noble and gifted man; be he young or old, only show him!
Why, then, do we wonder any longer that, although in material things we are thorouglily experienced, nevertheless in our actions Me are dejected, unseemly, worthless, cowardly, unwilling to stand the strain, utter failures one and all? For we have not troubled ourselves about these matters in time past, nor do we even now practise them. Yet if we were afraid, not of death or exile, but of fear itself, then we should practise how not to encounter those things that appear evil to us. But as it is, we are fiery and fluent in the schoolroom, and if some trivial question about one of these points comes up, we are able to pursue the logical consequences; yet drag us into practical application, and you will find us miserable shipwrecked mariners. Let a disturbing thought come to us and you will find out what we have been practising and for what we have been training! As a result, because of our lack of practice, we are ever going out of our way to heap up terrors and to make them out greater than they actually are. For example, whenever I go to sea, on gazing down into the deep or looking around upon the expanse of waters and seeing no land, I am beside myself, fancying that if I am wrecked I shall have to swallow this whole expanse of waters; but it does not occur to me that three pints are enough. What is it, then, that disturbs me? The expanse of sea? No, but my judgement. Again, when there is an earthquake, I fancy that the whole city is going to fall upon me; what, is not a little stone enough to knock my brains out?
What, then, are the things that weigh upon us and drive us out of our senses? Why, what else but our judgements? For when a man goes hence abandoning the comrades, the places, and the social relations to which he is accustomed, what else is the burden that is weighing him down but a judgement? Children, indeed, when they cry a little because their nurse has left, forget their troubles as soon as they get a cookie. Would you, therefore, have us resemble children? No, by Zeus! For I claim that we should be influenced in this way, not by a cookie, but by true judgements. And what are these? The things which a man ought to practise all day long, without being devoted to what is not his own, either comrade, or place, or gymnasia, nay, not even to his own body; but he should remember the law and keep that before his eyes. And what is the law of God? To guard what is his own, not to lay claim to what is not his own, but to make use of what is given him, and not to yearn for what has not been given; when something is taken away, to give it up readily and without delay, being grateful for the time in which he had the use of it — all this if you do not wish to be crying for
your nurse and your mammy! For what difference does it make what object a man has a weakness for and depends upon? In what respect are you superior to the man who weeps for a maid, if you grieve for a trivial gymnasium, a paltry colonnade, a group of youngsters, and that way of spending your time? Someone else comes and grieves because he is no longer going to drink the water of Dirce. What, is the water of the Marcian aqueduct inferior to that of Dirce? “Nay, but I was accustomed to that water.” And you will get accustomed to this in turn. And then, if you become addicted to something of this kind, weep for this too in turn, and try to write a line after the pattern of that of Euripides:
To Nero’s baths and Marcian founts once more.
Behold how tragedy arises, when everyday events befall fools!
“When, then, shall I see Athens once more and the Acropolis?” Poor man, are you not satisfied with what you are seeing every day? Have you anything finer or greater to look at than the sun, the moon, the stars, the whole earth, the sea? And if you really understand Him that governs the universe, and bear Him about within you, do you yet yearn for bits of stone and a pretty rock? When, therefore, you are about to leave the sun and the moon, what will you do? Will you sit and cry as little children cry? What was it you did at school? What was it you heard and learned? Why did you record yourself as a philosopher when you might have recorded the truth in these words: “I studied a few introductions, and did some reading in Chrysippus, but I did not even get past the door of a philosopher? Since what part have I in that business in which Socrates, who died so nobly, and so nobly lived, had a part? Or in that in which Diogenes had a part?” Can you imagine one of these men crying or fretting because he is not going to see such-and-such a man, or such-and-such a woman, or to live in Athens or in Corinth, but, if it so happen, in Susa or in Ecbatana? What, does he who is at liberty to leave the banquet when he will, and to play the game no longer, keep on annoying himself by staying? Does he not stay, like children, only as long as he is entertained? Such a man would be likely, forsooth, to endure going into exile for life or the exile of death, if this were his sentence.