Was that what you went abroad for? Was it for this that you sought to meet someone — that he might do you good? Good indeed! That you might analyse syllogisms more readily, or run down hypothetical arguments? It was for this reason, was it, you left brother, country, friends, and those of your own household — so as to return with this kind of learning? And so you did not go abroad to acquire constancy of character, or peace of mind; not to become secure yourself and thenceforward blame and find fault with no man; not to make it impossible for another to do you wrong, and so maintain without hindrance your relations in society? A fine exchange of goods this which you have achieved, syllogisms, and arguments with equivocal and hypothetical premisses! Yes, and if you see fit, seat yourself in the marketplace, and hang out a sign, as the drug-peddlers do. Ought you not rather to deny that you know even all you have learned, so as not to bring your philosophical precepts into ill repute as being useless? What harm has philosophy done you? How has Chrysippus wronged you that you should prove by your own conduct his labours to be useless? Were not the ills at home enough for you, all that you had to cause you grief and sorrow, even if you had not gone abroad, but did you add yet others in addition to them? And if you get other intimates and friends again, you will have more reasons for lamentation, yes, and if you get attached to another land. Why, then, live? Is it to involve yourself in one grief after another that makes you miserable? And then, I ask you, do you call this natural affection? Natural affection forsooth, man! If it is good, it is the source of no evil; if it is evil, I have nothing to do with it. I am born for the things that are good and belong to me, not for things evil.
What, then, is the proper discipline for this? In the first place, the highest and principal discipline, and one that stands at the very gates of the subject, is this: Whenever you grow attached to something, do not act as though it were one of those things that cannot be taken away, but as though it were something like a jar or a crystal goblet, so that when it breaks you will remember what it was like, and not be troubled. So too in life; if you kiss your child, your brother, your friend, never allow your fancy free rein, nor your exuberant spirits to go as far as they like, but hold them back, stop them, just like those who stand behind generals when they ride in triumph, and keep reminding them that they are mortal. In such fashion do you too remind yourself that the object of your love is mortal; it is not one of your own possessions; it has been given you for the present, not inseparably nor for ever, but like a fig, or a cluster of grapes, at a fixed season of the year, and that if you hanker for it in the winter, you are a fool. If in this way you long for your son, or your friend, at a time when he is not given to you, rest assured that you are hankering for a fig in winter-time. For as winter-time is to a fig, so is every state of affairs, which arises out of the universe, in relation to the things which are destroyed in accordance with that same state of affairs.
Furthermore, at the very moment when you are taking delight in something, call to mind the opposite impressions. What harm is there if you whisper to yourself, at the very moment you are kissing your child, and say, “To-morrow you will die”? So likewise to your friend, “To-morrow you will go abroad, or I shall, and we shall never see each other again”? — Nay, but these are words of bad omen. — Yes, and so are certain incantations, but because they do good, I do not care about that, only let the incantation do us good. But do you call any things ill-omened except those which signify some evil for us? Cowardice is ill-omened, a mean spirit, grief, sorrow, shamelessness; these are words of ill-omen. And yet we ought not to hesitate to utter even these words, in order to guard against the things themselves. Do you tell nie that any word is ill-omened which signifies some process of nature? Say that also the harvesting of ears of grain is ill-omened, for it signifies the destruction of the ears; but not of the universe. Say that also for leaves to fall is ill-omened, and for the fresh fig to turn into a dried fig, and a cluster of grapes to turn into raisins. For all these things are changes of a preliminary state into something else; it is not a case of destruction, but a certain ordered dispensation and management. This is what going abroad means, a slight change; this is the meaning of death, a greater change of that which now is, not into what is not, but into what is not now. — Shall I, then, be no more? — No, you will not be, but something else will be, something different from that of which the universe now has need. And this is but reasonable, for you came into being, not when you wanted, but when the universe had need of you.
For this reason the good and excellent man, bearing in mind who he is, and whence he has come, and by whom he was created, centres his attention on this and this only, how he may fill his place in an orderly fashion, and with due obedience to God. “Is it Thy will that I should still remain? I will remain as a free man, as a noble man, as Thou didst wish it; for Thou hast made me free from hindrance in what was mine own. And now hast Thou no further need of me? Be it well with Thee. I have been waiting here until now because of Thee and of none other, and now I obey Thee and depart.” “How do you depart?” “Again, as Thou didst wish it, as a free man, as Thy servant, as one who has perceived Thy commands and Thy prohibitions. But so long as I continue to live in Thy service, what manner of man wouldst Thou have me be? An official or a private citizen, a senator or one of the common people, a soldier or a general, a teacher or the head of a household? Whatsoever station and post Thou assign me, I will die ten thousand times, as Socrates says, or ever I abandon it. And where wouldst Thou have me be? In Rome, or in Athens, or in Thebes, or in Gyara? Only remember me there. If Thou sendest me to a place where men have no means of living in accordance with nature, I shall depart this life, not in disobedience to Thee, but as though Thou wert sounding for me the recall. I do not abandon Thee — far be that from me! but I perceive that Thou hast no need of me. Yet if there be vouchsafed a means of living in accordance with nature, I will seek no other place than that in which I am, or other men than those who are now my associates.”
Have thoughts like these ready at hand by night and by day; write them, read them, make your conversation about them, communing with yourself, or saying to another, “Can you give me some help in this matter?” And again, go now to one man and now to another. Then, if some one of those things happens which are called undesirable, immediately the thought that it was not unexpected will be the first thing to lighten the burden. For in every case it is a great help to be able to say, “I knew that the son whom I had begotten was mortal.” For that is what you will say, and again, “I knew that I was mortal,” “I knew that I was likely to leave home,” “I knew that I was liable to banishment,” “I knew that I might be sent off” to prison.” And in the next place, if you reflect with yourself and look for the quarter from which the happening comes, immediately you will be reminded of the principle: “It comes from the quarter of the things that are outside the sphere of the moral purpose, that are not mine own; what, then, is it to me?” Then comes the most decisive consideration: “Who was it that has sent the order?” Our Prince, or our General, the State, or the law of the State? “Give it to me, then, for I must always obey the law in every particular.” Later on, when your imagination bites you (for this is something you cannot control), fight against it with your reason, beat it down, do not allow it to grow strong, or to take the next step and draw all the pictures it wants, in the way it wants to do. If you are at Gyara, don’t picture the style of life at Rome, and all the relaxations a man had who was living there, as well as all that he might have upon his return; but since you have been stationed there, you ought to strive to live manfully at Gyara, as beseems the man whose life is spent in Gyara. And again, if you are in Rome, don’t picture the style of life at Athens, but make your life in Rome the one object of your study and practice.
Then, in the place of all the other relaxations, introduce that which comes from the consciousness that you are obedient to God, and that you are playing the part of the good and excellent man, not ostensibly but in reality.
For what a fine thing it is to be able to say to oneself, “Now I am actually performing what the rest talk solemnly about in their lectures, and are thought to be uttering paradoxes. Yes, they sit and expound my virtues, and study about me, and sing my praise. And of this Zeus wished me to get a demonstration in my own person, while at the same time He wished to know whether He has the right kind of soldier, the right kind of citizen, and to present me before all other men as a witness about the things which lie outside the sphere of the moral purpose. ‘Behold,’ says He, ‘your fears are at haphazard, it is in vain that you desire what you desire. Do not look for your blessings outside, but look for them within yourselves; otherwise you will not find them.’ These are the terms upon which now He. brings me here, and again He sends me there; to mankind exhibits me in poverty, without office, in sickness; sends me away to Gyara, brings me into prison. Not because He hates me — perish the thought! And who hates the best of his servants? Nor because He neglects me, for He does not neglect any of even the least of His creatures; but because He is training me, and making use of me as a witness to the rest of men. When I have been appointed to such a service, am I any longer to take thought as to where I am, or with whom, or what men say about me? Am I not wholly intent upon God, and His commands and ordinances?”
If you have these thoughts always at hand and go over them again and again in your own mind, and keep them in readiness, you will never need a person to console you, or strengthen you. For disgrace does not consist in not having anything to eat, but in not having reason sufficient to secure you against fear and against grief. But if once you win for yourself security against grief and fear, will there any longer exist for you a tyrant, or a guardsman, or members of Caesar’s household; or will some appointment to office sting you with envy, or those who perform sacrifices on the Capitol in taking the auspices, you who have received so important an office from Zeus? Only make no display of your office, and do not boast about it; but prove it by your conduct; and if no one perceives that you have it, be content to live in health and happiness yourself.
CHAPTER XXV
To those who fail to achieve their purposes
Consider which of the things that you purposed at the start you have achieved, and which you have not; likewise, how it gives you pleasure to recall some of them, and pain to recall others, and, if possible, recover also those things which have slipped out of your grasp. For men who are engaged in the greatest of contests ought not to flinch, but to take also the blows; for the contest before us is not in wrestling or the pancratium, in which, whether a man succeeds or fails, he may be worth a great deal, or only a little, — yes, by Zeus, he may even be extremely happy or extremely miserable, — but it is a contest for good fortune and happiness itself. What follows? Why here, even if we give in for the time being, no one prevents us from struggling again, and we do not have to wait another four-year period for another Olympic festival to come around, but the moment a man has picked himself up, and recovered himself, and exhibits the same eagerness, he is allowed to contest; and if you give in again, you can enter again; and if once you win a victory, you are as though you had never given in at all. Only don’t begin cheerfully to do the same thing over again out of sheer habit, and end up as a bad athlete, going the whole circuit of the games, and getting beaten all the time, like quails that have once run away. “I am overcome by the impression of a pretty maid. Well, what of it? Wasn’t I overcome just the other day?” “I feel strongly inclined to censure somebody, for didn’t I censure somebody just the other day?” You talk thus to us as though you had come off scot-free; just as if a man should say to his physician who was forbidding him to bathe, “Why, but didn’t I bathe just the other day?” If, then, the physician is able to say to him, “Very well, after you had bathed, then, how did you feel? Didn’t you have a fever? Didn’t your head ache?” So, too, when you censured somebody the other day, didn’t you act like an ugly-spirited man, like a silly babbler? Didn’t you feed this habit by citing the example of your own previous acts? And when you were overcome by the maid, did you escape scot-free? Why, then, do you talk about what you were doing just the other day? In my opinion, you ought to have remembered, as slaves remember their blows, and to have kept away from the same mistakes. But one case is not like the other; for with slaves it is the suffering which produces the memory, but in the case of your mistakes, what suffering is there, what penalty do you feel? Why, when did you ever acquire the habit of avoiding evil activities?
CHAPTER XXVI
To those who fear want
Aren’t you ashamed to be more cowardly and ignoble than a runaway slave? How do they, when they run off, leave their masters? in what estates or slaves do they put their confidence? Don’t they steal just a little bit to last them for the first few days, and then afterwards drift along over land or sea, contriving one scheme after another to keep themselves fed? And what runaway slave ever died of hunger? But you tremble, and lie awake at night, for fear the necessities of life will fail you. Wretch, are you so blind, and do you so fail to see the road to which lack of the necessities of life leads? Where, indeed, does it lead? Where also fever, or a stone that drops on your head, lead, — to death. Have you not, then, often said this same thing yourself to your companions, read much of the same sort, and written much? How many times have you boasted that, as far as death at least was concerned, you are in a fairly good state? — Yes, but my family too will starve. — What then? Their starvation does not lead to some other end than yours, does it? Have they not also much the same descent thereto, and the same world below? Are you not willing, then, to look with courage sufficient to face every necessity and want, at that place to which the wealthiest needs must go, and those who have held the highest offices, and very kings and tyrants? Only you will descend hungry, if it so happen, and they bursting with indigestion and drunkenness. Did you ever easily find a beggar who was not an old man? Wasn’t he extremely old? But though they are cold night and day, and lie forlorn on the ground, and have to eat only what is absolutely necessary, they approach a state where it is almost impossible for them to die; yet you who are physically perfect, and have hands and feet, are you so alarmed about starving? Can’t you draw water, or write, or escort boys to and from school, or be another’s doorkeeper? — But it is disgraceful to come to such a necessity. — Learn, therefore, first of all, what the disgraceful things are, and after you have done that, come into our presence and call yourself a philosopher. But as the case stands now, do not even allow anyone else to call you one!
Is anything disgraceful to you which is not your own doing, for which you are not responsible, which has befallen you accidentally, as a headache or a fever? If your parents were poor, or if they were rich but left others as their heirs, and if they give you no help though they are living, is all this disgraceful to you? Is that what you learned at the feet of the philosophers? Have you never heard that the disgraceful thing is censurable, and the censurable is that which deserves censure? And whom do you censure for what is not his own doing, which he didn’t produce himself? Well, did you produce this situation? did you make your father what he is? Or is it in your power to reform him? Is that vouchsafed you? What follows? Ought you to wish for what is not given you, or to be ashamed when you fail to get it? And did you really, while studying philosophy, acquire the habit of looking to other persons, and of hoping for nothing yourself from yourself? Very well then, lament and groan, and eat in fear of not having food to-morrow; tremble about your paltry slaves, for fear they will steal something, or run away, or die! Live in this spirit and never cease to live so, you who in name only have approached philosophy, and, as far as in you lay, have discredited its principles by showing them to be useless and good for nothing to those who receive them! But you never desired stability, serenity, peace of mind; you never cultivated anybody’s acquaintance for that purpose, but many persons’ acquaintance for the sake of syllogisms; you never thoroughly tested for yourself any one of these ex
ternal impressions, asking the questions: “Am I able to bear it, or am I not? What may I expect next?” but just as though everything about you were in an excellent and safe condition, you have been devotingyour attention to the last of all topics, that which deals with immutability, in order that you may have immutable — what? your cowardice, your ignoble character, your admiration of the rich, your ineffectual desire, your aversion that fails of its mark! These are the things about whose security you have been anxious!
Ought you not, first, to have acquired something from reason, and then to have made that something secure? Why, did you ever see anyone building a cornice all around without first having a wall about which to build it? And what kind of doorkeeper is placed on guard where there isn’t any door? But you practise to get the power to demonstrate; demonstrate what? You practise to avoid being shaken by sophisms; shaken from what? Show me first what you are maintaining, what you are measuring, or what you are weighing: and after that, and under those conditions, show me your scales or your bushel-measure. Or how long will you keep measuring ashes? Are not these what you ought to be demonstrating, the things, namely, that make men happy, that make their affairs prosper for them as they desire, that make it unnecessary for them to blame anybody, and to find fault with anybody, but to acquiesce in the government of the universe? Show me these. “See, I do show you,” a man says; “I will analyse syllogisms for you.” Slave, this is a mere measuring instrument, it is not the thing measured. That is why you are now being punished for what you neglected; you tremble, lie awake, take counsel with everyone, and, if your plans are not likely to win the approval of all men, you think that vour deliberations have been faulty.
And then you fear hunger, as you fancy. Yet it is not hunger that you fear, but you are afraid that you will not have a professional cook, you will not have another servant to buy the delicacies, another to put on your shoes for you, another to dress you, others to give you your massage, others to follow at your heels, in order that when you have undressed in a bath, and stretched yourself out like men who have been crucified, you may be massaged on this side and on that; and that then the masseur may stand over you and say, “Move over, give me his side, you take his head, hand me his shoulder”; and then, when you have left the bath and gone home, that you may shout out, “Is no one bringing me something to eat?” and after that, “Clear away the tables; wipe them off” with a sponge.” What you are afraid of is this — that you may not be able to live the life of an invalid, since, I tell you, you have only to learn the life of healthy men — howthe slaves live, the workmen, the genuine philosophers, how Socrates lived — he too with a wife and children — how Diogenes lived, how Cleanthes, who combined going to school and pumping water. If this is what you want, you will have it everywhere, and will live with full confidence. Confidence in what? In the only thing in which one can have confidence — in what is faithful, free from hindrance, cannot be taken away, that is, in your own moral purpose. And why have you made yourself so useless and unprofitable, that no one is willing to take you into his house, no one willing to take care of you? But when a whole and useful implement has been thrown out, anyone who finds it will pick it up and count it gain; yet not when he picks up you, but everyone will count you a loss. You are so unable to serve the purpose of even a dog or a cock. Why, then, do you care to keep on living, if that is the sort of person you are?