My first book, Novatus, had a more abundant subject: for carriages
roll easily down hill:[1] now we must proceed to drier matters. The
question before us is whether anger arises from deliberate choice
or from impulse, that is, whether it acts of its own accord or like
the greater part of those passions which spring up within us without
our knowledge. It is necessary for our debate to stoop to the
consideration of these matters, in order that it may afterwards be
able to rise to loftier themes; for likewise in our bodies the parts
which are first set in order are the bones, sinews, and joints,
which are by no means fair to see, albeit they are the foundation
of our frame and essential to its life: next to them come the parts
of which all beauty of face and appearance consists; and after
these, colour, which above all else charms the eye, is applied last
of all, when the rest of the body is complete. There is no doubt
that anger is roused by the appearance of an injury {77} being done:
but the question before us is, whether anger straightway follows
the appearance, and springs up without assistance from the mind,
or whether it is roused with the sympathy of the mind. Our (the
Stoics’) opinion is, that anger can venture upon nothing by itself,
without the approval of mind: for to conceive the idea of a wrong
having been done, to long to avenge it, and to join the two
propositions, that we ought not to have been injured and that it
is our duty to avenge our injuries, cannot belong to a mere impulse
which is excited without our consent. That impulse is a simple act;
this is a complex one, and composed of several parts. The man
understands something to have happened: he becomes indignant thereat:
he condemns the deed; and he avenges it. All these things cannot
be done without his mind agreeing to those matters which touched
him.
II. Whither, say you, does this inquiry tend? That we may know what
anger is: for if it springs up against our will, it never will yield
to reason: because all the motions which take place without our
volition are beyond our control and unavoidable, such as shivering
when cold water is poured over us, or shrinking when we are touched
in certain places. Men’s hair rises up at bad news, their faces
blush at indecent words, and they are seized with dizziness when
looking down a precipice; and as it is not in our power to prevent
any of these things, no reasoning can prevent their taking place.
But anger can be put to flight by wise maxims; for it is a voluntary
defect of the mind, and not one of those things which are evolved
by the conditions of human life, and which, therefore, may happen
even to the wisest of us. Among these and in the first place must
be ranked that thrill of the mind which seizes us at the thought
of wrongdoing. We feel this even when witnessing the mimic scenes
of the stage, or when reading about things that happened long ago.
We often {78} feel angry with Clodius for banishing Cicero, and
with Antonius for murdering him. Who is not indignant with the wars
of Marius, the proscriptions of Sulla? who is not enraged against
Theodotus and Achillas and the boy king who dared to commit a more
than boyish crime?[2] Sometimes songs excite us, and quickened
rhythm and the martial noise of trumpets; so, too, shocking pictures
and the dreadful sight of tortures, however well deserved, affect
our minds. Hence it is that we smile when others are smiling, that
a crowd of mourners makes us sad, and that we take a glowing interest
in another’s battles; all of which feelings are not anger, any more
than that which clouds our brow at the sight of a stage shipwreck
is sadness, or what we feel, when we read how Hannibal after Cannae
beset the walls of Rome, can be called fear. All these are emotions
of minds which are loth to be moved, and are not passions, but
rudiments which may grow into passions. So, too, a soldier starts
at the sound of a trumpet, although he may be dressed as a civilian
and in the midst of a profound peace, and camp horses prick up their
ears at the clash of arms. It is said that Alexander, when Xenophantus
was singing, laid his hand upon his weapons.
III. None of these things which casually influence the mind deserve
to be called passions: the mind, if I may so express it, rather
suffers passions to act upon itself than forms them. A passion,
therefore, consists not in being affected by the sights which are
presented to us, but in giving way to our feelings and following
up these chance promptings: for whoever imagines that paleness,
bursting into tears, lustful feelings, deep sighs, sudden flashes
of the eyes, and so forth, are signs of passion and betray the {79}
state of the mind, is mistaken, and does not understand that these
are merely impulses of the body. Consequently, the bravest of men
often turns pale while he is putting on his armour; when the signal
for battle is given, the knees of the boldest soldier shake for a
moment; the heart even of a great general leaps into his mouth just
before the lines clash together, and the hands and feet even of the
most eloquent orator grow stiff and cold while he is preparing to
begin his speech. Anger must not merely move, but break out of
bounds, being an impulse: now, no impulse can take place without
the consent of the mind: for it cannot be that we should deal with
revenge and punishment without the mind being cognisant of them. A
man may think himself injured, may wish to avenge his wrongs, and
then may be persuaded by some reason or other to give up his intention
and calm down: I do not call that anger, it is an emotion of the
mind which is under the control of reason. Anger is that which goes
beyond reason and carries her away with it: wherefore the first
confusion of a man’s mind when struck by what seems an injury is
no more anger than the apparent injury itself: it is the subsequent
mad rush, which not only receives the impression of the apparent
injury, but acts upon it as true, that is anger, being an exciting
of the mind to revenge, which proceeds from choice and deliberate
resolve. There never has been any doubt that fear produces flight,
and anger a rush forward; consider, therefore, whether you suppose
that anything can be either sought or avoided without the participation
of the mind.
IV. Furthermore, that you may know in what manner passions begin
and swell and gain spirit, learn that the first emotion is involuntary,
and is, as it were, a preparation for a passion, and a threatening
of one. The next is combined with a wish, though not an obstinate
one, as, for example, “It is my duty to avenge myself, because I
have been injured,” {80} or “It is right that this man should be
punished, because he has committed a crime.” The third emotion is
already beyond our control, because it overrides reason, and wishes
to avenge itself, not if it be its duty, but whether or no. We are
not able by means of reason to escape from that first impression
on the mind, any more than we can escape from those things which
we have mentioned as occurring to the body: we cannot prevent other
people’s yawns temping us to yawn:[3] we cannot help winking when
fingers are suddenly darted at our eyes. Reason is unable to overcome
these habits, which perhaps might be weakened by practice and
constant watchfulness: they differ from an emotion which is brought
into existence and brought to an end by a deliberate mental act.
V. We must also enquire whether those whose cruelty knows no bounds,
and who delight in shedding human blood, are angry when they kill
people from whom they have received no injury, and who they themselves
do not think have done them any injury; such as were Apollodorus
or Phalaris. This is not anger, it is ferocity: for it does not do
hurt because it has received injury: but is even willing to receive
injury, provided it may do hurt. It does not long to inflict stripes
and mangle bodies to avenge its wrongs, but for its own pleasure.
What then are we to say? This evil takes its rise from anger; for
anger, after it has by long use and indulgence made a man forget
mercy, and driven all feelings of human fellowship from his mind,
passes finally into cruelty. Such men therefore laugh, rejoice,
enjoy themselves greatly, and are as unlike as possible in countenance
to angry men, since cruelty is their relaxation. It is said that
when Hannibal saw a trench full of human blood, he exclaimed, “O,
what {81} a beauteous sight!” How much more beautiful would he have
thought it, if it had filled a river or a lake? Why should we wonder
that you should be charmed with this sight above all others, you
who were born in bloodshed and brought up amid slaughter from a
child? Fortune will follow you and favour your cruelty for twenty
years, and will display to you everywhere the sight that you love.
You will behold it both at Trasumene and at Cannae, and lastly at
your own city of Carthage. Volesus, who not long ago, under the
Emperor Augustus, was proconsul of Asia Minor, after he had one day
beheaded three hundred persons, strutted out among the corpses with
a haughty air, as though he had performed some grand and notable
exploit, and exclaimed in Greek, “What a kingly action!” What would
this man have done, had he been really a king? This was not anger,
but a greater and an incurable disease.
VI. “Virtue,” argues our adversary, “ought to be angry with what
is base, just as she approves of what is honourable.” What should
we think if he said that virtue ought to be both mean and great;
yet this is what he means, when he wants her to be raised and
lowered, because joy at a good action is grand and glorious, while
anger at another’s sin is base and befits a narrow mind: and virtue
will never be guilty of imitating vice while she is repressing it;
she considers anger to deserve punishment for itself, since it often
is even more criminal than the faults which which it is angry. To
rejoice and be glad is the proper and natural function of virtue:
it is as much beneath her dignity to be angry, as to mourn: now,
sorrow is the companion of anger, and all anger ends in sorrow,
either from remorse or from failure. Secondly, if it be the part
of the wise man to be angry with sins, he will be more angry the
greater they are, and will often be angry: from which it follows
that the wise man will not only be angry but irascible. {82} Yet
if we do not believe that great and frequent anger can find any
place in the wise man’s mind, why should we not set him altogether
free from this passion? for there can be no limit, if he ought to
be angry in proportion to what every man does: because he will
either be unjust if he is equally angry at unequal crimes, or he
will be the most irascible of men, if he blazes into wrath as often
as crimes deserve his anger.
VII. What, too, can be more unworthy of the wise man, than that his
passions should depend upon the wickedness of others? If so, the
great Socrates will no longer be able to return home with the same
expression of countenance with which he set out. Moreover, if it
be the duty of the wise man to be angry at base deeds, and to be
excited and saddened at crimes, then is there nothing more unhappy
than the wise man, for all his life will be spent in anger and
grief. What moment will there be at which he will not see something
deserving of blame? whenever he leaves his house, he will be obliged
to walk among men who are criminals, misers, spendthrifts, profligates,
and who are happy in being so: he can turn his eyes in no direction
without their finding something to shock them. He will faint, if
he demands anger from himself as often as reason calls for it. All
these thousands who are hurrying to the law courts at break of day,
how base are their causes, and how much baser their advocates? One
impugns his father’s will, when he would have done better to deserve
it; another appears as the accuser of his mother; a third comes to
inform against a man for committing the very crime of which he
himself is yet more notoriously guilty. The judge, too, is chosen
to condemn men for doing what he himself has done, and the audience
takes the wrong side, led astray by the fine voice of the pleader.
VIII. Why need I dwell upon individual cases? Be assured, when you
see the Forum crowded with a multitude, {83} the Saepta[4] swarming
with people, or the great Circus, in which the greater part of the
people find room to show themselves at once, that among them there
are as many vices as there are men. Among those whom you see in the
garb of peace there is no peace: for a small profit any one of them
will attempt the ruin of another: no one can gain anything save by
another’s loss. They hate the fortunate and despise the unfortunate:
they grudgingly endure the great, and oppress the small: they are
fired by divers lusts: they would wreck everything for the sake of
a little pleasure or plunder: they live as though they were in a
school of gladiators, fighting with the same people with whom they
live: it is like a society of wild beasts, save that beasts are
tame with one another, and refrain from biting their own species,
whereas men tear one another, and gorge themselves upon one another.
They differ from dumb animals in this alone, that the latter are
tame with those who feed them, whereas the rage of the former preys
on those very persons by whom they were brought up.
IX. The wise man will never cease to be angry, if he once begins,
so full is every place of vices and crimes. More evil is done than
can be healed by punishment: men seem engaged in a vast race of
wickedness. Every day there is greater eagerness to sin, less
modesty. Throwing aside all reverence for what is better and more
just, lust rushes whithersoever it thinks fit, and crimes are no
longer committed by stealth, they take place before our eyes, and
wickedness has become so general and gained such a footing in
everyone’s breast that innocence is no longer rare, but no longer
exists. Do men break the law singly, or a few at a time? Nay, they
rise in all quarters at once, as though obeying some universal
signal, to wipe out the boundaries of right and wrong.
{84}
“Host is not safe from guest, Father-in-law from son; but seldom
love Exists ’twixt brothers; wives long to destroy Their husbands,
husbands long to slay their wives, Stepmothers deadly aconite
prepare And child-heirs wonder when their sires will die.”
And how small a part of men’s crimes are these! The poet[5] has not
described one people divided into two hostile camps, parents and
children enrolled on opposite sides, Rome set on fire by the hand
of a Roman, troops of fierce horsemen scouring the country to track
out the hiding-places of the proscribed, wells defiled with poison,
plagues created by human hands, trenches dug by children round their
beleaguered parents, crowded prisons, conflagrations that consume
whole cities, gloomy tyrannies, secret plots to establish despotisms
and ruin peoples, and men glorying in those deeds which, as long
as it was possible to repress them, were counted as crimes—I mean
rape, debauchery, and lust . . . . . Add to these, public acts of
national bad faith, broken treaties, everything that cannot defend
itself carried off as plunder by the stronger, knaveries, thefts,
frauds, and disownings of debt such as three of our present law-courts
would not suffice to deal with. If you want the wise man to be as
angry as the atrocity of men’s crimes requires, he must not merely
be angry, but must go mad with rage.
X. You will rather think that we should not be angry with people’s
faults; for what shall we say of one who is angry with those who
stumble in the dark, or with deaf people who cannot hear his orders,
or with children, because they forget their duty and interest
themselves in the games and silly jokes of their companions? What
shall we say if you choose to be angry {85} with weaklings for being
sick, for growing old, or becoming fatigued? Among the other
misfortunes of humanity is this, that men’s intellects are confused,
and they not only cannot help going wrong, but love to go wrong.
To avoid being angry with individuals, you must pardon the whole
mass, you must grant forgiveness to the entire human race. If you
are angry with young and old men because they do wrong, you will
be angry with infants also, for they soon will do wrong. Does any
one become angry with children, who are too young to comprehend
distinctions? Yet, to be a human being is a greater and a better
excuse than to be a child. Thus are we born, as creatures liable
to as many disorders of the mind as of the body; not dull and
slow-witted, but making a bad use of our keenness of wit, and leading
one another into vice by our example. He who follows others who
have started before him on the wrong road is surely excusable for
having wandered on[6] the highway. A general’s severity may be shown
in the case of individual deserters; but where a whole army deserts,
it must needs be pardoned. What is it that puts a stop to the wise
man’s anger? It is the number of sinners. He perceives how unjust
and how dangerous it is to be angry with vices which all men share.
Heraclitcus, whenever he came out of doors and beheld around him
such a number of men who were living wretchedly, nay, rather perishing
wretchedly, used to weep: he pitied all those who met him joyous
and happy. He was of a gentle but too weak disposition: and he
himself was one of those for whom he ought to have wept. Democritus,
on the other hand, is said never to have appeared in public without
laughing; so little did men’s serious occupations appear serious
to him. What room is there for anger? Everything ought either to
move us to tears or to laughter. The wise man will not be angry
with {86} sinners. Why not? Because he knows that no one is born
wise, but becomes so: he knows that very few wise men are produced
in any age, because he thoroughly understands the circumstances of
human life. Now, no sane man is angry with nature: for what should
we say if a man chose to be surprised that fruit did not hang on
the thickets of a forest, or to wonder at bushes and thorns not
being covered with some useful berry? No one is angry when nature
excuses a defect. The wise man, therefore, being tranquil, and
dealing candidly with mistakes, not an enemy to but an improver of
sinners, will go abroad every day in the following frame of mind:—”Many
men will meet me who are drunkards, lustful, ungrateful, greedy,
and excited by the frenzy of ambition.” He will view all these as
benignly as a physician does his patients. When a man’s ship leaks
freely through its opened seams, does he become angry with the
sailors or the ship itself? No; instead of that, he tries to remedy
it: he shuts out some water, bales out some other, closes all the
holes that he can see, and by ceaseless labour counteracts those
which are out of sight and which let water into the hold; nor does
he relax his efforts because as much water as he pumps out runs in
again. We need a long-breathed struggle against permanent and
prolific evils; not, indeed, to quell them, but merely to prevent
their overpowering us.
XI. “Anger,” says our opponent, “is useful, because it avoids
contempt, and because it frightens bad men.” Now, in the first
place, if anger is strong in proportion to its threats, it is hateful
for the same reason that it is terrible: and it is more dangerous
to be hated than to be despised. If, again, it is without strength,
it is much more exposed to contempt, and cannot avoid ridicule; for
what is more flat than anger when it breaks out into meaningless
ravings? Moreover, because some things are somewhat terrible, they
are not on that account desirable: nor does wisdom wish it {87} to
be said of the wise man, as it is of a wild beast, that the fear
which he inspires is as a weapon to him. Why, do we not fear fever,
gout, consuming ulcers? and is there, for that reason, any good in
them? nay; on the other hand, they are all despised and thought to
be foul and base, and are for this very reason feared. So, too,
anger is in itself hideous and by no means to be feared; yet it is
feared by many, just as a hideous mask is feared by children. How
can we answer the fact that terror always works back to him who
inspired it, and that no one is feared who is himself at peace? At
this point it is well that you should remember that verse of Laberius,
which, when pronounced in the theatre during the height of the civil
war, caught the fancy of the whole people as though it expressed
the national feeling:—
“He must fear many, whom so many fear.”
Thus has nature ordained, that whatever becomes great by causing
fear to others is not free from fear itself. How disturbed lions
are at the faintest noises! How excited those fiercest of beasts
become at strange shadows, voices, or smells! Whatever is a terror
to others, fears for itself. There can be no reason, therefore, for
any wise man to wish to be feared, and no one need think that anger
is anything great because it strikes terror, since even the most
despicable things are feared, as, for example, noxious vermin whose
bite is venomous: and since a string set with feathers stops the
largest herds of wild beasts and guides them into traps, it is no
wonder that from its effect it should be named a “Scarer.”[7] Foolish
creatures are frightened by foolish things: the movement of chariots
and the sight of their wheels turning round drives lions back into
their cage: elephants are frightened at the cries of pigs: and so
also we fear anger just as children fear the dark, or wild {88}
beasts fear red feathers: it has in itself nothing solid or valiant,
but it affects feeble minds.
XII. “Wickedness,” says our adversary, “must be removed from the
system of nature, if you wish to remove anger: neither of which
things can be done.” In the first place, it is possible for a man
not to be cold, although according to the system of nature it may
be winter-time, nor yet to suffer from heat, although it be summer
according to the almanac. He may be protected against the inclement
time of the year by dwelling in a favoured spot, or he may have so
trained his body to endurance that it feels neither heat nor cold.
Next, reverse this saying:—You must remove anger from your mind
before you can take virtue into the same, because vices and virtues
cannot combine, and none can at the same time be both an angry man
and a good man, any more than he can be both sick and well. “It is
not possible,” says he, “to remove anger altogether from the mind,
nor does human nature admit of it.” Yet there is nothing so hard
and difficult that the mind of man cannot overcome it, and with
which unremitting study will not render him familiar, nor are there
any passions so fierce and independent that they cannot be tamed
by discipline. The mind can carry out whatever orders it gives
itself: some have succeeded in never smiling: some have forbidden
themselves wine, sexual intercourse, or even drink of all kinds.
Some, who are satisfied with short hours of rest, have learned to
watch for long periods without weariness. Men have learned to run
upon the thinnest ropes even when slanting, to carry huge burdens,
scarcely within the compass of human strength, or to dive to enormous
depths and suffer themselves to remain under the sea without any
chance of drawing breath. There are a thousand other instances in
which application has conquered all obstacles, and proved that
nothing which the mind has set itself to endure is difficult. The
men whom I {89} have just mentioned gain either no reward or one
that is unworthy of their unwearied application; for what great
thing does a man gain by applying his intellect to walking upon a
tight rope? or to placing great burdens upon his shoulders? or to
keeping sleep from his eyes? or to reaching the bottom of the sea?
and yet their patient labour brings all these things to pass for a
trifling reward. Shall not we then call in the aid of patience, we
whom such a prize awaits, the unbroken calm of a happy life? How
great a blessing is it to escape from anger, that chief of all
evils, and therewith from frenzy, ferocity, cruelty, and madness,
its attendants?
XIII. There is no reason why we should seek to defend such a passion
as this or excuse its excesses by declaring it to be either useful
or unavoidable. What vice, indeed, is without its defenders? yet
this is no reason why you should declare anger to be ineradicable.
The evils from which we suffer are curable, and since we were born
with a natural bias towards good, nature herself will help us if
we try to amend our lives. Nor is the path to virtue steep and
rough, as some think it to be: it may be reached on level ground.
This is no untrue tale which I come to tell you: the road to happiness
is easy; do you only enter upon it with good luck and the good help
of the gods themselves. It is much harder to do what you are doing.
What is more restful than a mind at peace, and what more toilsome
than anger? What is more at leisure than clemency, what fuller of
business than cruelty? Modesty keeps holiday while vice is overwhelmed
with work. In fine, the culture of any of the virtues is easy, while
vices require a great expense. Anger ought to be removed from our
minds: even those who say that it ought to be kept low admit this
to some extent: let it be got rid of altogether; there is nothing
to be gained by it. Without it we can more easily and more justly
put an end {90} to crime, punish bad men, and amend their lives.
The wise man will do his duty in all things without the help of any
evil passion, and will use no auxiliaries which require watching
narrowly lest they get beyond his control.
XIV. Anger, then, must never become a habit with us, but we may
sometimes affect to be angry when we wish to rouse up the dull minds
of those whom we address, just as we rouse up horses who are slow
at starting with goads and firebrands. We must sometimes apply fear
to persons upon whom reason makes no impression: yet to be angry
is of no more use than to grieve or to be afraid. “What? do not
circumstances arise which provoke us to anger?” Yes: but at those
times above all others we ought to choke down our wrath. Nor is it
difficult to conquer our spirit, seeing that athletes, who devote
their whole attention to the basest parts of themselves, nevertheless
are able to endure blows and pain, in order to exhaust the strength
of the striker, and do not strike when anger bids them, but when
opportunity invites them. It is said that Pyrrhus, the most celebrated
trainer for gymnastic contests, used habitually to impress upon his
pupils not to lose their tempers: for anger spoils their science,
and thinks only how it can hurt: so that often reason counsels
patience while anger counsels revenge, and we, who might have
survived our first misfortunes, are exposed to worse ones. Some
have been driven into exile by their impatience of a single
contemptuous word, have been plunged into the deepest miseries
because they would not endure the most trifling wrong in silence,
and have brought upon themselves the yoke of slavery because they
were too proud to give up the least part of their entire liberty.
XV. “That you may be sure,” says our opponent, “that anger has in
it something noble, pray look at the free nations, such as the
Germans and Scythians, who are especially prone to anger.” The
reason of this is that stout {91} and daring intellects are liable
to anger before they are tamed by discipline; for some passions
engraft themselves upon the better class of dispositions only, just
as good land, even when waste, grows strong brushwood, and the trees
are tall which stand upon a fertile soil. In like manner, dispositions
which are naturally bold produce irritability, and, being hot and
fiery, have no mean or trivial qualities, but their energy is
misdirected, as happens with all those who without training come
to the front by their natural advantages alone, whose minds, unless
they be brought under control, degenerate from a courageous temper
into habits of rashness and reckless daring. “What? are not milder
spirits linked with gentler vices, such as tenderness of heart,
love, and bashfulness?” Yes, and therefore I can often point out
to you a good disposition by its own faults: yet their being the
proofs of a superior nature does not prevent their being vices.
Moreover, all those nations which are free because they are wild,
like lions or wolves, cannot command any more than they can obey:
for the strength of their intellect is not civilized, but fierce
and unmanageable: now, no one is able to rule unless he is also
able to be ruled. Consequently, the empire of the world has almost
always remained in the hands of those nations who enjoy a milder
climate. Those who dwell near the frozen north have uncivilized
tempers—
“Just on the model of their native skies,”
as the poet has it.
XVI. Those animals, urges our opponent, are held to be the most
generous who have large capacity for anger. He is mistaken when he
holds up creatures who act from impulse instead of reason as patterns
for men to follow, because in man reason takes the place of impulse.
Yet even with animals, all do not alike profit by the same thing.
Anger is of use to lions, timidity to stags, boldness {92} to hawks,
flight to doves. What if I declare that it is not even true that
the best animals are the most prone to anger? I may suppose that
wild beasts, who gain their food by rapine, are better the angrier
they are; but I should praise oxen and horses who obey the rein for
their patience. What reason, however, have you for referring mankind
to such wretched models, when you have the universe and God, whom
he alone of animals imitates because he alone comprehends Him? “The
most irritable men,” says he, “are thought to be the most straightforward
of all.” Yes, because they are compared with swindlers and sharpers,
and appear to be simple because they are outspoken. I should not
call such men simple, but heedless. We give this title of “simple”
to all fools, gluttons, spendthrifts, and men whose vices lie on
the surface.
XVII. “An orator,” says our opponent, “sometimes speaks better,
when he is angry.” Not so, but when he pretends to be angry: for
so also actors bring down the house by their playing, not when they
are really angry, but when they act the angry man well: and in like
manner, in addressing a jury or a popular assembly, or in any other
position in which the minds of others have to be influenced at our
pleasure, we must ourselves pretend to feel anger, fear, or pity
before we can make others feel them, and often the pretence of
passion will do what the passion itself could not have done. “The
mind which does not feel anger,” says he, “is feeble.” True, if it
has nothing stronger than anger to support it. A man ought to be
neither robber nor victim, neither tender-hearted nor cruel. The
former belongs to an over-weak mind, the latter to an over-hard
one. Let the wise man be moderate, and when things have to be done
somewhat briskly, let him call force, not anger, to his aid.
XVIII. Now that we have discussed the questions propounded concerning
anger, let us pass on to the consideration {93} of its remedies.
These, I imagine, are two-fold: the one class preventing our becoming
angry, the other preventing our doing wrong when we are angry. As
with the body we adopt a certain regimen to keep ourselves in health,
and use different rules to bring back health when lost, so likewise
we must repel anger in one fashion and quench it in another. That
we may avoid it, certain general rules of conduct which apply to
all men’s lives must be impressed upon us. We may divide these into
such as are of use during the education of the young and in after-life.
Education ought to be carried on with the greatest and most salutary
assiduity: for it is easy to mould minds while they are still tender,
but it is difficult to uproot vices which have grown up with
ourselves.
XIX. A hot mind is naturally the most prone to anger: for as there
are four elements,[8] consisting of fire, air, earth, and water,
so there are powers corresponding and equivalent to each of these,
namely, hot, cold, dry, and moist. Now the mixture of the elements
is the cause of the diversities of lands and of animals, of bodies
and of character, and our dispositions incline to one or the other
of these according as the strength of each element prevails in us.
Hence it is that we call some regions wet or dry, warm or cold. The
same distinctions apply likewise to animals and mankind; it makes
a great difference how much moisture or heat a man contains; his
character will partake of whichever element has the largest share
in him. A warm temper of mind will make men prone to anger; for
fire is full of movement and vigour; a mixture of {94} coldness
makes men cowards, for cold is sluggish and contracted. Because of
this, some of our Stoics think that anger is excited in our breasts
by the boiling of the blood round the heart: indeed, that place is
assigned to anger for no other reason than because the breast is
the warmest part of the whole body. Those who have more moisture
in them become angry by slow degrees, because they have no heat
ready at hand, but it has to be obtained by movement; wherefore the
anger of women and children is sharp rather than strong, and arises
on lighter provocation. At dry times of life anger is violent and
powerful, yet without increase, and adding little to itself, because
as heat dies away cold takes its place. Old men are testy and full
of complaints, as also are sick people and convalescents, and all
whose store of heat has been consumed by weariness or loss of blood.
Those who are wasted by thirst or hunger are in the same condition,
as also are those whose frame is naturally bloodless and faints
from want of generous diet. Wine kindles anger, because it increases
heat; according to each man’s disposition, some fly into a passion
when they are heavily drunk, some when they are slightly drunk: nor
is there any other reason than this why yellow-haired, ruddy-complexioned
people should be excessively passionate, seeing that they are
naturally of the colour which others put on during anger; for their
blood is hot and easily set in motion.
XX. But just as nature makes some men prone to anger, so there are
many other causes which have the same power as nature. Some are
brought into this condition by disease or bodily injury, others by
hard work, long watching, nights of anxiety, ardent longings, and
love: and everything else which is hurtful to the body or the spirit
inclines the distempered mind to find fault. All these, however,
are but the beginning and causes of anger. Habit of mind has very
great power, and, if it be harsh, increases the {95} disorder. As
for nature, it is difficult to alter it, nor may we change the
mixture of the elements which was formed once for all at our birth:
yet knowledge will be so far of service, that we should keep wine
out of the reach of hot-tempered men, which Plato thinks ought also
to be forbidden to boys, so that fire be not made fiercer. Neither
should such men be over-fed: for if so, their bodies will swell,
and their minds will swell with them. Such men ought to take exercise,
stopping short, however, of fatigue, in order that their natural
heat may be abated, but not exhausted, and their excess of fiery
spirit may be worked off. Games also will be useful: for moderate
pleasure relieves the mind and brings it to a proper balance. With
those temperaments which incline to moisture, or dryness and
stiffness, there is no danger of anger, but there is fear of greater
vices, such as cowardice, moroseness, despair, and suspiciousness:
such dispositions therefore ought to be softened, comforted, and
restored to cheerfulness: and since we must make use of different
remedies for anger and for sullenness, and these two vices require
not only unlike, but absolutely opposite modes of treatment, let
us always attack that one of them which is gaining the mastery.
XXI. It is, I assure you, of the greatest service to boys that they
should be soundly brought up, yet to regulate their education is
difficult, because it is our duty to be careful neither to cherish
a habit of anger in them, nor to blunt the edge of their spirit.
This needs careful watching, for both qualities, both those which
are to be encouraged, and those which are to be checked, are fed
by the same things; and even a careful watcher may be deceived by
their likeness. A boy’s spirit is increased by freedom and depressed
by slavery: it rises when praised, and is led to conceive great
expectations of itself: yet this same treatment produces arrogance
and quickness of temper: we must {96} therefore guide him between
these two extremes, using the curb at one time and the spur at
another. He must undergo no servile or degrading treatment; he never
must beg abjectly for anything, nor must he gain anything by begging;
let him rather receive it for his own sake, for his past good
behaviour, or for his promises of future good conduct. In contests
with his comrades we ought not to allow him to become sulky or fly
into a passion: let us see that he be on friendly terms with those
whom he contends with, so that in the struggle itself he may learn
to wish not to hurt his antagonist but to conquer him: whenever he
has gained the day or done something praiseworthy, we should allow
him to enjoy his victory, but not to rush into transports of delight:
for joy leads to exultation, and exultation leads to swaggering and
excessive self-esteem, We ought to allow him some relaxation, yet
not yield him up to laziness and sloth, and we ought to keep him
far beyond the reach of luxury, for nothing makes children more
prone to anger than a soft and fond bringing-up, so that the more
only children are indulged, and the more liberty is given to orphans,
the more they are corrupted. He to whom nothing is ever denied,
will not be able to endure a rebuff, whose anxious mother always
wipes away his tears, whose _paedagogus_[9] is made to pay for his
shortcomings. Do you not observe how a man’s anger becomes more
violent as he rises in station? This shows itself especially in
those who are rich and noble, or in great place, when the favouring
gale has roused all the most empty and trivial passions of their
minds. Prosperity fosters anger, when a man’s proud ears are
surrounded by a mob of flatterers, saying, “That man answer you!
you do not act according to your dignity, you lower yourself.” And
so forth, with all the language which can hardly be resisted even
by healthy and originally well-principled {97} minds. Flattery,
then, must be kept well out of the way of children. Let a child
hear the truth, and sometimes fear it: let him always reverence it.
Let him rise in the presence of his elders. Let him obtain nothing
by flying into a passion: let him be given when he is quiet what
was refused him when he cried for it: let him behold, but not make
use of his father’s wealth: let him be reproved for what he does
wrong. It will be advantageous to furnish boys with even-tempered
teachers and _paedagogi_: what is soft and unformed clings to what
is near, and takes its shape: the habits of young men reproduce
those of their nurses and _paedagogi_. Once, a boy who was brought
up in Plato’s house went home to his parents, and, on seeing his
father shouting with passion, said, “I never saw any one at Plato’s
house act like that.” I doubt not that he learned to imitate his
father sooner than he learned to imitate Plato. Above all, let his
food be scanty, his dress not costly, and of the same fashion as
that of his comrades: if you begin by putting him on a level with
many others, he will not be angry when some one is compared with
him.
XXII. These precepts, however, apply to our children: in ourselves
the accident of birth and our education no longer admits of either
mistakes or advice; we must deal with what follows. Now we ought
to fight against the first causes of evil: the cause of anger is
the belief that we are injured; this belief, therefore, should not
be lightly entertained. We ought not to fly into a rage even when
the injury appears to be open and distinct: for some false things
bear the semblance of truth. We should always allow some time to
elapse, for time discloses the truth. Let not our ears be easily
lent to calumnious talk: let us know and be on our guard against
this fault of human nature, that we are willing to believe what we
are unwilling to listen to, and that we become angry before we have
formed our opinion. What shall I say? we are influenced {98} not
merely by calumnies but by suspicions, and at the very look and
smile of others we may fly into a rage with innocent persons because
we put the worst construction upon it. We ought, therefore, to plead
the cause of the absent against ourselves, and to keep our anger
in abeyance: for a punishment which has been postponed may yet be
inflicted, but when once inflicted cannot be recalled.
XXIII. Every one knows the story of the tyrannicide who, being
caught before he had accomplished his task, and being tortured by
Hippias to make him betray his accomplices, named the friends of
the tyrant who stood around, and every one to whom he knew the
tyrant’s safety was especially dear. As the tyrant ordered each man
to be slain as he was named, at last the man, being asked if any
one else remained, said, “You remain alone, for I have left no one
else alive to whom you are dear.” Anger had made the tyrant lend
his assistance to the tyrant-slayer, and cut down his guards with
his own sword. How far more spirited was Alexander, who after reading
his mother’s letter warning him to beware of poison from his physician
Philip, nevertheless drank undismayed the medicine which Philip
gave him! He felt more confidence in his friend: he deserved that
his friend should be innocent, and deserved that his conduct should
make him innocent. I praise Alexander’s doing this all the more
because he was above all men prone to anger; but the rarer moderation
is among kings, the more it deserves to be praised. The great Gaius
Caesar, who proved such a merciful conqueror in the civil war, did
the same thing; he burned a packet of letters addressed to Gnaeus
Pompeius by persons who had been thought to be either neutrals or
on the other side. Though he was never violent in his anger, yet
he preferred to put it out of his power to be angry: he thought
that the kindest way to pardon each of them was not to know what
his offence had been.
{99}
XXIV. Readiness to believe what we hear causes very great mischief;
we ought often not even to listen, because in some cases it is
better to be deceived than to suspect deceit. We ought to free our
minds of suspicion and mistrust, those most untrustworthy causes
of anger. “This man’s greeting was far from civil; that one would
not receive my kiss; one cut short a story I had begun to tell;
another did not ask me to dinner; another seemed to view me with
aversion.” Suspicion will never lack grounds: what we want is
straightforwardness, and a kindly interpretation of things. Let us
believe nothing unless it forces itself upon our sight and is
unmistakable, and let us reprove ourselves for being too ready to
believe, as often as our suspicions prove to be groundless: for
this discipline will render us habitually slow to believe what we
hear.
XXV. Another consequence of this will be, that we shall not be
exasperated by the slightest and most contemptible trifles. It is
mere madness to be put out of temper because a slave is not quick,
because the water we are going to drink is lukewarm, or because our
couch is disarranged or our table carelessly laid. A man must be
in a miserably bad state of health if he shrinks from a gentle
breath of wind; his eyes must be diseased if they are distressed
by the sight of white clothing; he must be broken down with debauchery
if he feels pain at seeing another man work. It is said that there
was one Mindyrides, a citizen of Sybaris, who one day seeing a man
digging and vigorously brandishing a mattock, complained that the
sight made him weary, and forbade the man to work where he could
see him. The same man complained that he had suffered from the
rose-leaves upon which he lay being folded double. When pleasures
have corrupted both the body and the mind, nothing seems endurable,
not indeed because it is hard, but because he who has to bear it
{100} is soft: for why should we be driven to frenzy by any one’s
coughing and sneezing, or by a fly not being driven away with
sufficient care, or by a dog’s hanging about us, or a key dropping
from a careless servant’s hand? Will one whose ears are agonised
by the noise of a bench being dragged along the floor be able to
endure with unruffled mind the rude language of party strife, and
the abuse which speakers in the forum or the senate house heap upon
their opponents? Will he who is angry with his slave for icing his
drink badly, be able to endure hunger, or the thirst of a long march
in summer? Nothing, therefore, nourishes anger more than excessive
and dissatisfied luxury: the mind ought to be hardened by rough
treatment, so as not to feel any blow that is not severe.
XXVI. We are angry, either with those who can, or with those who
cannot do us an injury. To the latter class belong some inanimate
things, such as a book, which we often throw away when it is written
in letters too small for us to read, or tear up when it is full of
mistakes, or clothes which we destroy because we do not like them.
How foolish to be angry with such things as these, which neither
deserve nor feel our anger! “But of course it is their makers who
really affront us.” I answer that, in the first place, we often
become angry before making this distinction clear in our minds, and
secondly, perhaps even the makers might put forward some reasonable
excuses: one of them, it may be, could not make them any better
than he did, and it is not through any disrespect to you that he
was unskilled in his trade: another may have done his work so without
any intention of insulting you: and, finally, what can be more crazy
than to discharge upon things the ill-feeling which one has accumulated
against persons? Yet as it is the act of a madman to be angry with
inanimate objects, so also is it to be angry with dumb animals,
which can do us no wrong because they are not able to form a {101}
purpose; and we cannot call anything a wrong unless it be done
intentionally. They are, therefore, able to hurt us, just as a sword
or a stone may do so, but they are not able to do us a wrong. Yet
some men think themselves insulted when the same horses which are
docile with one rider are restive with another, as though it were
through their deliberate choice, and not through habit and cleverness
of handling that some horses are more easily managed by some men
than by others. And as it is foolish to be angry with them, so it
is to be angry with children, and with men who have little more
sense than children: for all these sins, before a just judge,
ignorance would be as effective an excuse as innocence.
XXVII. There are some things which are unable to hurt us, and whose
power is exclusively beneficial and salutary, as, for example, the
immortal gods, who neither wish nor are able to do harm: for their
temperament is naturally gentle and tranquil, and no more likely
to wrong others than to wrong themselves. Foolish people who know
not the truth hold them answerable for storms at sea, excessive
rain, and long winters, whereas all the while these phenomena by
which we suffer or profit take place without any reference whatever
to us: it is not for our sake that the universe causes summer and
winter to succeed one another; these have a law of their own,
according to which their divine functions are performed. We think
too much of ourselves, when we imagine that we are worthy to have
such prodigious revolutions effected for our sake: so, then, none
of these things take place in order to do us an injury, nay, on the
contrary, they all tend to our benefit. I have said that there are
some things which cannot hurt us, and some which would not. To the
latter class belong good men in authority, good parents, teachers,
and judges whose punishments ought to be submitted to by us in the
same spirit in which we {102} undergo the surgeon’s knife, abstinence
from food, and such like things which hurt us for our benefit.
Suppose that we are being punished; let us think not only of what
we suffer, but of what we have done: let us sit in judgement on our
past life. Provided we are willing to tell ourselves the truth, we
shall certainly decide that our crimes deserve a harder measure
than they have received.
XXVIII. If we desire to be impartial judges of all that takes place,
we must first convince ourselves of this, that no one of us is
faultless: for it is from this that most of our indignation proceeds.
“I have not sinned, I have done no wrong.” Say, rather, you do not
admit that you have done any wrong. We are infuriated at being
reproved, either by reprimand or actual chastisement, although we
are sinning at that very time, by adding insolence and obstinacy
to our wrong-doings. Who is there that can declare himself to have
broken no laws? Even if there be such a man, what a stinted innocence
it is, merely to be innocent by the letter of the law. How much
further do the rules of duty extend than those of the law! how many
things which are not to be found in the statute book, are demanded
by filial feeling, kindness, generosity, equity, and honour? Yet
we are not able to warrant ourselves even to come under that first
narrowest definition of innocence: we have done what was wrong,
thought what was wrong, wished for what was wrong, and encouraged
what was wrong: in some cases we have only remained innocent because
we did not succeed. When we think of this, let us deal more justly
with sinners, and believe that those who scold us are right: in any
case let us not be angry with ourselves (for with whom shall we not
be angry, if we are angry even with our own selves?), and least of
all with the gods: for whatever we suffer befalls us not by any
ordinance of theirs but of the common law of all flesh. “But diseases
and pains attack us.” Well, people who live in a crazy {103} dwelling
must have some way of escape from it. Some one will be said to have
spoken ill of you: think whether you did not first speak ill of
him: think of how many persons you have yourself spoken ill. Let
us not, I say, suppose that others are doing us a wrong, but are
repaying one which we have done them, that some are acting with
good intentions, some under compulsion, some in ignorance, and let
us believe that even he who does so intentionally and knowingly did
not wrong us merely for the sake of wronging us, but was led into
doing so by the attraction of saying something witty, or did whatever
he did, not out of any spite against us, but because he himself
could not succeed unless he pushed us back. We are often offended
by flattery even while it is being lavished upon us: yet whoever
recalls to his mind how often he himself has been the victim of
undeserved suspicion, how often fortune has given his true service
an appearance of wrong-doing, how many persons he has begun by
hating and ended by loving, will be able to keep himself from
becoming angry straightway, especially if he silently says to himself
when each offence is committed: “I have done this very thing myself.”
Where, however, will you find so impartial a judge? The same man
who lusts after everyone’s wife, and thinks that a woman’s belonging
to someone else is a sufficient reason for adoring her, will not
allow any one else to look at his own wife. No man expects such
exact fidelity as a traitor: the perjurer himself takes vengeance
of him who breaks his word: the pettifogging lawyer is most indignant
at an action being brought against him: the man who is reckless of
his own chastity cannot endure any attempt upon that of his slaves.
We have other men’s vices before our eyes, and our own behind our
backs: hence it is that a father, who is worse than his son, blames
the latter for giving extravagant feasts,[10] and disapproves of
{104} the least sign of luxury in another, although he was wont to
set no bounds to it in his own case; hence it is that despots are
angry with homicides, and thefts are punished by those who despoil
temples. A great part of mankind is not angry with sins, but with
sinners. Regard to our own selves[11] will make us more moderate,
if we inquire of ourselves:—have we ever committed any crime of
this sort? have we ever fallen into this kind of error? is it for
our interest that we should condemn this conduct?
XXIX. The greatest remedy for anger is delay: beg anger to grant
you this at the first, not in order that it may pardon the offence,
but that it may form a right judgment about it: if it delays, it
will come to an end. Do not attempt to quell it all at once, for
its first impulses are fierce; by plucking away its parts we shall
remove the whole. We are made angry by some things which we learn
at second-hand, and by some which we ourselves hear or see. Now,
we ought to be slow to believe what is told us. Many tell lies in
order to deceive us, and many because they are themselves deceived.
Some seek to win our favour by false accusations, and invent wrongs
in order that they may appear angry at our having suffered them.
One man lies out of spite, that he may set trusting friends at
variance; some because they are suspicious,[12] and wish to see
sport, and watch from a safe distance those whom they have set by
the ears. If you were about to give sentence in court about ever
so small a sum of money, you would take nothing as proved without
a witness, and a witness would count for nothing except on his oath.
You would allow both sides to be heard: you would allow them time:
you would not despatch the matter at one sitting, because the oftener
it is handled the more distinctly the truth appears. And do you
condemn your friend off-hand? {105} Are you angry with him before
you hear his story, before you have cross-examined him, before he
can know either who is his accuser or with what he is charged. Why
then, just now, in the case which you just tried, did you hear what
was said on both sides? This very man who has informed against your
friend, will say no more if he be obliged to prove what he says.
“You need not,” says he, “bring me forward as a witness; if I am
brought forward I shall deny what I have said; unless you excuse
me from appearing I shall never tell you anything.” At the same
time he spurs you on and withdraws himself from the strife and
battle. The man who will tell you nothing save in secret hardly
tells you anything at all. What can be more unjust than to believe
in secret, and to be angry openly?
XXX. Some offences we ourselves witness: in these cases let us
examine the disposition and purpose of the offender. Perhaps he is
a child; let us pardon his youth, he knows not whether he is doing
wrong: or he is a father; he has either rendered such great services,
as to have won the right even to wrong us—or perhaps this very act
which offends us is his chief merit: or a woman; well, she made a
mistake. The man did it because he was ordered to do it. Who but
an unjust person can be angry with what is done under compulsion?
You had hurt him: well, there is no wrong in suffering the pain
which you have been the first to inflict. Suppose that your opponent
is a judge; then you ought to take his opinion rather than your
own: or that he is a king; then, if he punishes the guilty, yield
to him because he is just, and if he punishes the innocent, yield
to him because he is powerful. Suppose that it is a dumb animal or
as stupid as a dumb animal: then, if you are angry with it, you
will make yourself like it. Suppose that it is a disease or a
misfortune; it will take less effect upon you if you bear it quietly:
or that it is a god; then you waste your time by being angry with
him as much {106} as if you prayed him to be angry with some one
else. Is it a good man who has wronged you? do not believe it: is
it a bad one? do not be surprised at this; he will pay to some one
else the penalty which he owes to you—indeed, by his sin he has
already punished himself.
XXXI. There are, as I have stated, two cases which produce anger:
first, when we appear to have received an injury, about which enough
has been said, and, secondly, when we appear to have been treated
unjustly: this must now be discussed. Men think some things unjust
because they ought not to suffer them, and some because they did
not expect to suffer them: we think what is unexpected is beneath
our deserts. Consequently, we are especially excited at what befalls
us contrary to our hope and expectation: and this is why we are
irritated at the smallest trifles in our own domestic affairs, and
why we call our friends’ carelessness deliberate injury. How is it,
then, asks our opponent, that we are angered by the injuries inflicted
by our enemies? It is because we did not expect those particular
injuries, or, at any rate, not on so extensive a scale. This is
caused by our excessive self-love: we think that we ought to remain
uninjured even by our enemies: every man bears within his breast
the mind of a despot, and is willing to commit excesses, but unwilling
to submit to them. Thus it is either ignorance or arrogance that
makes us angry: ignorance of common facts; for what is there to
wonder at in bad men committing evil deeds? what novelty is there
in your enemy hurting you, your friend quarrelling with you, your
son going wrong, or your servant doing amiss? Fabius was wont to
say that the most shameful excuse a general could make was “I did
not think.” I think it the most shameful excuse that a man can make.
Think of everything, expect everything: even with men of good
character something queer will crop up; human nature produces minds
that are treacherous, ungrateful, greedy, and impious: when you are
considering what any {107} man’s morals may be, think what those
of mankind are. When you are especially enjoying yourself, be
especially on your guard: when everything seems to you to be peaceful,
be sure that mischief is not absent, but only asleep. Always believe
that something will occur to offend you. A pilot never spreads all
his canvas abroad so confidently as not to keep his tackle for
shortening sail ready for use. Think, above all, how base and hateful
is the power of doing mischief, and how unnatural in man, by whose
kindness even fierce animals are rendered tame. See how bulls yield
their necks to the yoke, how elephants[13] allow boys and women to
dance on their backs unhurt, how snakes glide harmlessly over our
bosoms and among our drinking-cups, how within their dens bears and
lions submit to be handled with complacent mouths, and wild beasts
fawn upon their master: let us blush to have exchanged habits with
wild beasts. It is a crime to injure one’s country: so it is,
therefore, to injure any of our countrymen, for he is a part of our
country; if the whole be sacred, the parts must be sacred too.
Therefore it is also a crime to injure any man: for he is your
fellow-citizen in a larger state. What, if the hands were to wish
to hurt the feet? or the eyes to hurt the hands? As all the limbs
act in unison, because it is the interest of the whole body to keep
each one of them safe, so men should spare one another, because
they are born for society. The bond of society, however, cannot
exist unless it guards and loves all its members. We should not
even destroy vipers and water-snakes and other creatures whose teeth
and claws are dangerous, if we were able to tame them as we do other
animals, or to prevent their being a peril to us: neither ought we,
therefore, to hurt a man because he has done wrong, but lest he
should do wrong, and our punishment should always look to the future,
and never to the past, because it is inflicted in a spirit of
precaution, not of anger: for if everyone {108} who has a crooked
and vicious disposition were to be punished, no one would escape
punishment.
XXXII. “But anger possesses a certain pleasure of its own, and it
is sweet to pay back the pain you have suffered.” Not at all; it
is not honourable to requite injuries by injuries, in the same way
as it is to repay benefits by benefits. In the latter case it is a
shame to be conquered; in the former it is a shame to conquer.
Revenge and retaliation are words which men use and even think to
be righteous, yet they do not greatly differ from wrong-doing,
except in the order in which they are done: he who renders pain for
pain has more excuse for his sin; that is all. Some one who did not
know Marcus Cato struck him in the public bath in his ignorance,
for who would knowingly have done him an injury? Afterwards when
he was apologizing, Cato replied, “I do not remember being struck.”
He thought it better to ignore the insult than to revenge it. You
ask, “Did no harm befall that man for his insolence?” No, but rather
much good; he made the acquaintance of Cato. It is the part of a
great mind to despise wrongs done to it; the most contemptuous form
of revenge is not to deem one’s adversary worth taking vengeance
upon. Many have taken small injuries much more seriously to heart
than they need, by revenging them: that man is great and noble who
like a large wild animal hears unmoved the tiny curs that bark at
him.
XXXIII. “We are treated,” says our opponent, “with more respect if
we revenge our injuries.” If we make use of revenge merely as a
remedy, let us use it without anger, and not regard revenge as
pleasant, but as useful: yet often it is better to pretend not to
have received an injury than to avenge it. The wrongs of the powerful
must not only be borne, but borne with a cheerful countenance: they
will repeat the wrong if they think they have inflicted it. This
is the worst trait of minds rendered arrogant by {109} prosperity,
they hate those whom they have injured. Every one knows the saying
of the old courtier, who, when some one asked him how he had achieved
the rare distinction of living at court till he reached old age,
replied, “By receiving wrongs and returning thanks for them.” It
is often so far from expedient to avenge our wrongs, that it will
not do even to admit them. Gaius Caesar, offended at the smart
clothes and well-dressed hair of the son of Pastor, a distinguished
Roman knight, sent him to prison. When the father begged that his
son might suffer no harm, Caius, as if reminded by this to put him
to death, ordered him to be executed, yet, in order to mitigate his
brutality to the father, invited him that very day to dinner. Pastor
came with a countenance which betrayed no illwill. Caesar pledged
him in a glass of wine, and set a man to watch him. The wretched
creature went through his part, feeling as though he were drinking
his son’s blood: the emperor sent him some perfume and a garland,
and gave orders to watch whether he used them: he did so. On the
very day on which he had buried, nay, on which he had not even
buried his son, he sat down as one of a hundred guests, and, old
and gouty as he was, drank to an extent which would have been hardly
decent on a child’s birthday; he shed no tear the while; he did not
permit his grief to betray itself by the slightest sign; he dined
just as though his entreaties had gained his son’s life. You ask
me why he did so? he had another son. What did Priam do in the
Iliad? Did he not conceal his wrath and embrace the knees of Achilles?
did he not raise to his lips that death-dealing hand, stained with
the blood of his son, and sup with his slayer? True! but there were
no perfumes and garlands, and his fierce enemy encouraged him with
many soothing words to eat, not to drain huge goblets with a guard
standing over him to see that he did it. Had he only feared for
himself, the father would have treated the {110} tyrant with scorn:
but love for his son quenched his anger: he deserved the emperor’s
permission to leave the banquet and gather up the bones of his son:
but, meanwhile, that kindly and polite youth the emperor would not
even permit him to do this, but tormented the old man with frequent
invitations to drink, advising him thereby to lighten his sorrows.
He, on the other hand, appeared to be in good spirits, and to have
forgotten what had been done that day: he would have lost his second
son had he proved an unacceptable guest to the murderer of his
eldest.
XXXIV. We must, therefore, refrain from anger, whether he who
provokes us be on a level with ourselves, or above us, or below us.
A contest with one’s equal is of uncertain issue, with one’s superior
is folly, and with one’s inferior is contemptible. It is the part
of a mean and wretched man to turn and bite one’s biter: even mice
and ants show their teeth if you put your hand to them, and all
feeble creatures think that they are hurt if they are touched. It
will make us milder tempered to call to mind any services which he
with whom we are angry may have done us, and to let his deserts
balance his offence. Let us also reflect, how much credit the tale
of our forgiveness will confer upon us, how many men may be made
into valuable friends by forgiveness. One of the lessons which
Sulla’s cruelty teaches us is not to be angry with the children of
our enemies, whether they be public or private; for he drove the
sons of the proscribed into exile. Nothing is more unjust than that
any one should inherit the quarrels of his father. Whenever we are
loth to pardon any one, let us think whether it would be to our
advantage that all men should be inexorable. He who refuses to
pardon, how often has he begged it for himself? how often has he
grovelled at the feet of those whom he spurns from his own? How can
we gain more glory than by turning anger {111} into friendship?
what more faithful allies has the Roman people than those who have
been its most unyielding enemies? where would the empire be to-day,
had not a wise foresight united the conquered and the conquerors?
If any one is angry with you, meet his anger by returning benefits
for it: a quarrel which is only taken up on one side falls to the
ground: it takes two men to fight. But[14] suppose that there is
an angry struggle on both sides, even then, he is the better man
who first gives way; the winner is the real loser. He struck you;
well then, do you fall back: if you strike him in turn you will
give him both an opportunity and an excuse for striking you again:
you will not be able to withdraw yourself from the struggle when
you please.
XXXV. Does any one wish to strike his enemy so hard, as to leave
his own hand in the wound, and not to be able to recover his balance
after the blow? yet such a weapon is anger: it is scarcely possible
to draw it back. We are careful to choose for ourselves light
weapons, handy and manageable swords: shall we not avoid these
clumsy, unwieldy,[15] and never-to-be-recalled impulses of the mind?
The only swiftness of which men approve is that which, when bidden,
checks itself and proceeds no further, and which can be guided, and
reduced from a run to a walk: we know that the sinews are diseased
when they move against our will. A man must be either aged or weakly
who runs when he wants to walk: let us think that those are the
most powerful and the soundest operations of our minds, which act
under our own control, not at their own caprice. Nothing, however,
will be of so much service as to consider, first, the hideousness,
and, secondly, the danger of anger. No passion bears a more troubled
aspect: it befouls the fairest face, makes fierce the expression
which before was peaceful. From the angry “all grace has fled;”
{112} though their clothing may be fashionable, they will trail it
on the ground and take no heed of their appearance; though their
hair be smoothed down in a comely manner by nature or art, yet it
will bristle up in sympathy with their mind. The veins become
swollen, the breast will be shaken by quick breathing, the man’s
neck will be swelled as he roars forth his frantic talk: then, too,
his limbs will tremble, his hands will be restless, his whole body
will sway hither and thither. What, think you, must be the state
of his mind within him, when its appearance without is so shocking?
how far more dreadful a countenance he bears within his own breast,
how far keener pride, how much more violent rage, which will burst
him unless it finds some vent? Let us paint anger looking like those
who are dripping with the blood of foemen or savage beasts, or those
who are just about to slaughter them—like those monsters of the
nether world fabled by the poet to be girt with serpents and breathing
flame, when they sally forth from hell, most frightful to behold,
in order that they may kindle wars, stir up strife between nations,
and overthrow peace; let us paint her eyes glowing with fire, her
voice hissing, roaring, grating, and making worse sounds if worse
there be, while she brandishes weapons in both hands, for she cares
not to protect herself, gloomy, stained with blood, covered with
scars and livid with her own blows, reeling like a maniac, wrapped
in a thick cloud, dashing hither and thither, spreading desolation
and panic, loathed by every one and by herself above all, willing,
if otherwise she cannot hurt her foe, to overthrow alike earth,
sea, and heaven, harmful and hateful at the same time. Or, if we
are to see her, let her be such as our poets have described her—
“There with her blood-stained scourge Bellona fights. And
Discord in her riven robe delights,”[16]
{113} or, if possible, let some even more dreadful aspect be invented
for this dreadful passion.
XXXVI. Some angry people, as Sextius remarks, have been benefited
by looking at the glass: they have been struck by so great an
alteration in their own appearance: they have been, as it were,
brought into their own presence and have not recognized themselves:
yet how small a part of the real hideousness of anger did that
reflected image in the mirror reproduce? Could the mind be displayed
or made to appear through any substance, we should be confounded
when we beheld how black and stained, how agitated, distorted, and
swollen it looked: even at present it is very ugly when seen through
all the screens of blood, bones, and so forth: what would it be,
were it displayed uncovered? You say, that you do not believe that
any one was ever scared out of anger by a mirror: and why not?
Because when he came to the mirror to change his mind, he had changed
it already: to angry men no face looks fairer than one that is
fierce and savage and such as they wish to look like. We ought
rather to consider, how many men anger itself has injured. Some in
their excessive heat have burst their veins; some by straining their
voices beyond their strength have vomited blood, or have injured
their sight by too violently injecting humours into their eyes, and
have fallen sick when the fit passed off. No way leads more swiftly
to madness: many have, consequently, remained always in the frenzy
of anger, and, having once lost their reason, have never recovered
it. Ajax was driven mad by anger, and driven to suicide by madness.
Men, frantic with rage, call upon heaven to slay their children,
to reduce themselves to poverty, and to ruin their houses, and yet
declare that they are not either angry or insane. Enemies to their
best friends, dangerous to their nearest and dearest, regardless
of the laws save where they injure, swayed by the smallest trifles,
unwilling to lend their ears {114} to the advice or the services
of their friends, they do everything by main force, and are ready
either to fight with their swords or to throw themselves upon them,
for the greatest of all evils, and one which surpasses all vices,
has gained possession of them. Other passions gain a footing in the
mind by slow degrees: anger’s conquest is sudden and complete, and,
moreover, it makes all other passions subservient to itself. It
conquers the warmest love: men have thrust swords through the bodies
of those whom they loved, and have slain those in whose arms they
have lain. Avarice, that sternest and most rigid of passions, is
trampled underfoot by anger, which forces it to squander its carefully
collected wealth and set fire to its house and all its property in
one heap. Why, has not even the ambitious man been known to fling
away the most highly valued ensigns of rank, and to refuse high
office when it was offered to him? There is no passion over which
anger does not bear absolute rule.
[1] “_Vehiculorum ridicule Koch_,” says Gertz, justly, “_vitiorum_
makes excellent sense.”—J. E. B. M.
[2] The murder of Pompeius, B.C. 48. Achillas and Theodotus acted
under the nominal orders of Ptolemy XII., Cleopatra’s brother, then
about seventeen years of age.
[3] See “De Clem.” ii. 6, 4, I emended many years ago ένὸς χανόντος
με ΤΕΣΧΗΚεν into ἐ. χ., με ΤΑΚΕΧΗΝεν ἄτερος: “when one has yawned,
the other yawns.”—J. E. B. M.
[4] The voting-place in the Campus Martius.
[5] Ovid, Metamorphoses, i., 144, sqq. The same lines are quoted
in the essay on Benefits, v. 15.
[6] _I.e._, he can plead that he kept the beaten track.
[7] De Clem. i. 12, 5.
[8] Compare Shakespeare, “Julius Caesar,” Act v. Sc. 5:—
“His life was gentle, and the elements So mixed in him, that
nature might stand up And say to all the world, _this was a
man!_”
See Mr. Aldis Wright’s note upon the passage.
[9] _Paedagogus_ was a slave who accompanied a boy to school, &c.,
to keep him out of mischief; he did not teach him anything.
[10] _Tempestiva_, beginning before the usual hour.
[11] Fear of self-condemnation.
[12] Lipsius conjectures _supprocax_, mischievous.
[13] I have adopted the transposition of Haase and Koch.
[14] I adopt Vahlen’s reading. See his Preface, p. viii., ed, Jenae,
1879.
[15] I read _onerosos_ with Vahlen, See his Preface, p, viii., ed,
Jenae, 1879.
[16] The lines are from Virgil, Aen. viii. 702, but are inaccurately
quoted.
{115}
THE FIFTH BOOK OF THE DIALOGUES OF L. ANNAEUS SENECA, ADDRESSED TO
NOVATUS.
OF ANGER.