THE GAME OF LIFE.
1. This above all is the task of Nature--to bind and harmonize together
the force of the appearances of the Right and of the Useful.
2. Things are indifferent, but the uses of them are not indifferent.
How, then, shall one preserve at once both a steadfast and tranquil
mind, and also carefulness of things, that he be not heedless or
slovenly? If he take the example of dice players. The numbers are
indifferent, the dice are indifferent. How can I tell what may be thrown
up? But carefully and skillfully to make use of what is thrown, that is
where my proper business begins. And this is the great task of life
also, to discern things and divide them, and say, "Outward things are
not in my power; to will is in my power. Where shall I seek the Good,
and where the Evil? Within me--in all that is my own." But of all that
is alien to thee call nothing good nor evil, nor profitable nor hurtful,
nor any such term as these.
3. What then? should we be careless of such things? In no wise. For
this, again, is a vice in the Will, and thus contrary to Nature. But be
at once careful, because the use of things is not indifferent, and
steadfast and tranquil because the things themselves are. For where
there is aught that concerns me, there none can hinder or compel me; and
in those things where I am hindered or compelled the attainment is not
in my power, and is neither good nor evil; but my use of the event is
either evil or good, and this is in my power. And hard it is, indeed, to
mingle and reconcile together the carefulness of one whom outward things
affect, with the steadfastness of him who regards them not. But
impossible, it is not; and if it is, it is impossible to be happy.
4. Give me one man that cares how he shall do anything--that thinks not
of the gaining of the thing, but thinks of his own energy.
5. Chrysippus, therefore, said well--As long as future things are
hidden from me, I hold always by whatever state is the most favorable
for gaining the things that are according to Nature; for God Himself
gave it to me to make such choice. But if I knew that it were now
ordained for me to be sick, I would even move to it of myself. For the
foot, too, if it had intelligence, would move of itself to be mired.
6. For to what end, think you, are ears of corn produced? Is it not
that they may become dry and parched? And the reason they are parched,
is it not that they may be reaped? for it is not to exist for themselves
alone that they come into the world. If, then, they had perception would
it be proper for them to pray that they should never be reaped? since
never to be reaped is for ears of corn a curse. So understand that for
men it is a curse not to die, just as not to be ripened and not to be
reaped. But we, since we are both the things to be reaped and are also
conscious that we shall be reaped, have indignation thereat. For we know
not what we are, nor have we studied what concerns humanity as those
that have the care of horses study what concerns them. But Chrysantas,
when just about to smite the enemy, forbore on hearing the trumpet
sounding his recall; so much better did it seem to him to obey the
commander's order than to do his own will. But of us not one will follow
with docility the summons even of necessity, but weeping and groaning
the things that we suffer, we suffer, calling them our doom.[1] What
doom, man? If by doom you mean that which is doomed to happen to us,
then we are doomed in all things. But if only our afflictions are to be
called doom, then what affliction is it that that which has come into
being should perish? But we perish by the sword, or the wheel, or the
sea, or the tile of a roof, or a tyrant. What matters it by what road
thou goest down into Hades? they are all equal. But if thou wilt hear
the truth, the way the tyrant sends thee is the shortest. Never did a
tyrant cut a man's throat in six months, but a fever will often be a
year killing him. All these things are but noise, and a clatter of empty
names.
7. But let us do as in setting out on a voyage. What is it possible for
me to do? This--to choose the captain, crew, the day, the opportunity.
Then a tempest has burst upon us; but what doth it concern me? I have
left nothing undone that was mine to do; the problem is now another's,
to wit, the captain's. But now the ship is sinking! and what have I to
do? I do only what I am able--drown without terror and screaming and
accusing of God, but knowing that that which has come into being must
also perish. For I am no Immortal, but a man, a part of the sum of
things as an hour is of the day. Like the hour, I must arrive, and, like
the hour, pass away. What, then, can it matter to me how I pass
away--whether by drowning or by a fever? for pass I must, even by some
such thing. Now, this is what you shall see done by skillful
ball-players. None careth for the ball as it were a thing good or bad;
but only about throwing it and catching it. In this, then, there is
rule, in this art, quickness, judgment: so that I may fail of catching
the ball, even if I spread out my lap, and another, if I throw it, may
catch it. But if I am anxious and nervous as I catch and throw, what
kind of play is this? how shall one be steady? how shall he observe the
order of the game? One will call "Throw," "Do not throw," and another,
"You have thrown once." But this is strife and not play.
8. Thus Socrates knew how to play ball. How? When he jested in the
court of justice. "Tell me, Anytus," he said, "how say you that I
believe there is no God? The Dæmons, who are they, think you? Are they
not sons of God, or a mixed nature between Gods and men?" And when this
was admitted--"Who, do you think, can hold that mules exist, but not
asses?"[2] And thus he played with the ball. And what was the ball that
was there thrown about among them? Life, chains, exile, a draught of
poison, to be torn from a wife, to leave children orphans. These were
the things among them that they played withal; yet none the less did he
play, and flung the ball with proper grace and measure. And so should we
do also, having the carefulness of the most zealous players, and yet
indifference, as were it merely about a ball.