I.
Be of good cheer, my Liberalis:
"Our port is close, and I will not delay,
Nor by digressions wander from the way."
This book collects together all that has been omitted, and in it, having
exhausted my subject, I shall consider not what I am to say, but what
there is which I have not yet said. If there be anything superfluous
in it, I pray you take it in good part, since it is for you that it is
superfluous. Had I wished to set off my work to the best advantage, I
ought to have added to it by degrees, and to have kept for the last that
part which would be eagerly perused even by a sated reader. However,
instead of this, I have collected together all that was essential in the
beginning; I am now collecting together whatever then escaped me; nor,
by Hercules, if you ask me, do I think that, after the rules which
govern our conduct have been stated, it is very much to the purpose to
discuss the other questions which have been raised more for the exercise
of our intellects than for the health of our minds. The cynic Demetrius,
who in my opinion was a great man even if compared with the greatest
philosophers, had an admirable saying about this, that one gained more
by having a few wise precepts ready and in common use than by learning
many without having them at hand. "The best wrestler," he would say, "is
not he who has learned thoroughly all the tricks and twists of the art,
which are seldom met with in actual wrestling, but he who has well and
carefully trained himself in one or two of them, and watches keenly for
an opportunity of practising them. It does not matter how many of them
he knows, if he knows enough to give him the victory; and so in
this subject of ours there are many points of interest, but few of
importance. You need not know what is the system of the ocean tides,
why each seventh year leaves its mark upon the human body, why the more
distant parts of a long portico do not keep their true proportion,
but seem to approach one another until at last the spaces between the
columns disappear, how it can be that twins are conceived separately,
though they are born together, whether both result from one, or each
from a separate act, why those whose birth was the same should have such
different fates in life, and dwell at the greatest possible distance
from one another, although they were born touching one another; it will
not do you much harm to pass over matters which we are not permitted to
know, and which we should not profit by knowing. Truths so obscure may
be neglected with impunity. [Footnote: The old saying, 'Truth lurks deep
in a well (or abyss).'] Nor can we complain that nature deals hardly
with us, for there is nothing which is hard to discover except those
things by which we gain nothing beyond the credit of having discovered
them; whatever things tend to make us better or happier are either
obvious or easily discovered. Your mind can rise superior to the
accidents of life, if it can raise itself above fears and not greedily
covet boundless wealth, but has learned to seek for riches within
itself; if it has cast out the fear of men and gods, and has learned
that it has not much to fear from man, and nothing to fear from God; if
by scorning all those things which make life miserable while they adorn
it, the mind can soar to such a height as to see clearly that death
cannot be the beginning of any trouble, though it is the end of many;
if it can dedicate itself to righteousness and think any path easy which
leads to it; if, being a gregarious creature, and born for the common
good, it regards the world as the universal home, if it keeps its
conscience clear towards God and lives always as though in public,
fearing itself more than other men, then it avoids all storms, it stands
on firm ground in fair daylight, and has brought to perfection its
knowledge of all that is useful and essential. All that remains serves
merely to amuse our leisure; yet, when once anchored in safety, the mind
may consider these matters also, though it can derive no strength, but
only culture from their discussion."
II. The above are the rules which my friend Demetrius bids him who would
make progress in philosophy to clutch with both hands, never to let
go, but to cling to them, and make them a part of himself, and by daily
meditation upon them to bring himself into such a state of mind, that
these wholesome maxims occur to him of their own accord, that wherever
he may be, they may straightway be ready for use when required, and
that the criterion of right and wrong may present itself to him without
delay. Let him know that nothing is evil except what is base, and
nothing good except what is honourable: let him guide his life by this
rule: let him both act and expect others to act in accordance with this
law, and let him regard those whose minds are steeped in indolence, and
who are given up to lust and gluttony, as the most pitiable of mankind,
no matter how splendid their fortunes may be. Let him say to himself,
"Pleasure is uncertain, short, apt to pall upon us, and the more eagerly
we indulge in it, the sooner we bring on a reaction of feeling against
it; we must necessarily afterwards blush for it, or be sorry for it,
there is nothing grand about it, nothing worthy of man's nature, little
lower as it is than that of the gods; pleasure is a low act, brought
about by the agency of our inferior and baser members, and shameful in
its result. True pleasure, worthy of a human being and of a man, is,
not to stuff or swell his body with food and drink, nor to excite lusts
which are least hurtful when they are most quiet, but to be free from
all forms of mental disturbance, both those which arise from men's
ambitious struggles with one another, and those which come from on high
and are more difficult to deal with, which flow from our taking the
traditional view of the gods, and estimating them by the analogy of our
own vices." This equable, secure, uncloying pleasure is enjoyed by the
man now described; a man skilled, so to say, in the laws of gods and men
alike. Such a man enjoys the present without anxiety for the future: for
he who depends upon what is uncertain can rely confidently upon nothing.
Thus he is free from all those great troubles which unhinge the mind,
he neither hopes for, nor covets anything, and engages in no uncertain
adventures, being satisfied with what he has. Do not suppose that he
is satisfied with a little; for everything is his, and that not in the
sense in which all was Alexander's, who, though he reached the shore of
the Red Sea, yet wanted more territory than that through which he
had come. He did not even own those countries which he held or had
conquered, while Onesicritus, whom he had sent on before him to discover
new countries, was wandering about the ocean and engaging in war in
unknown seas. Is it clear that he who pushed his armies beyond the
bounds of the universe, who with reckless greed dashed headlong into a
boundless and unexplored sea, must in reality have been full of wants?
It matters not how many kingdoms he may have seized or given away, or
how great a part of the world may pay him tribute; such a man must be in
need of as much as he desires.
III. This was not the vice of Alexander alone, who followed with a
fortunate audacity in the footsteps of Bacchus and Hercules, but it is
common to all those whose covetousness is whetted rather than appeased
by good fortune. Look at Cyrus and Cambyses and all the royal house of
Persia: can you find one among them who thought his empire large enough,
or was not at the last gasp still aspiring after further conquests? We
need not wonder at this, for whatever is obtained by covetousness is
simply swallowed up and lost, nor does it matter how much is poured
into its insatiable maw. Only the wise man possesses everything
without having to struggle to retain it; he alone does not need to send
ambassadors across the seas, measure out camps upon hostile shores,
place garrisons in commanding forts, or manoeuvre legions and squadrons
of cavalry. Like the immortal gods, who govern their realm without
recourse to arms, and from their serene and lofty heights protect their
own, so the wise man fulfils his duties, however far-reaching they may
be, without disorder, and looks down upon the whole human race, because
he himself is the greatest and most powerful member thereof. You may
laugh at him, but if you in your mind survey the east and the west,
reaching even to the regions separated from us by vast wildernesses, if
you think of all the creatures of the earth, all the riches which the
bounty of nature lavishes, it shows a great spirit to be able to say, as
though you were a god, "All these are mine." Thus it is that he covets
nothing, for there is nothing which is not contained in everything, and
everything is his.
IV. "This," say you, "is the very thing that I wanted! I have caught
you! I shall be glad to see how you will extricate yourself from the
toils into which you have fallen of your own accord. Tell me, if the
wise man possesses everything, how can one give anything to a wise man?
for even what you give him is his already. It is impossible, therefore,
to bestow a benefit upon a wise man, if whatever is given him comes from
his own store; yet you Stoics declare that it is possible to give to
a wise man. I make the same inquiry about friends as well: for you
say that friends own everything in common, and if so, no one can give
anything to his friend, for he gives what his friend owned already in
common with himself."
There is nothing to prevent a thing belonging to a wise man, and yet
being the property of its legal owner. According to law everything in a
state belongs to the king, yet all that property over which the king has
rights of possession is parcelled out among individual owners, and
each separate thing belongs to somebody: and so one can give the king
a house, a slave, or a sum of money without being said to give him what
was his already; for the king has rights over all these things, while
each citizen has the ownership of them. We speak of the country of the
Athenians, or of the Campanians, though the inhabitants divide them
amongst themselves into separate estates; the whole region belongs to
one state or another, but each part of it belongs to its own individual
proprietor; so that we are able to give our lands to the state, although
they are reckoned as belonging to the state, because we and the state
own them in different ways. Can there be any doubt that all the private
savings of a slave belong to his master as well as he himself? yet he
makes his master presents. The slave does not therefore possess nothing,
because if his master chose he might possess nothing; nor does what he
gives of his own free will cease to be a present, because it might have
been wrung from him against his will. As for how we are to prove that
the wise man possesses all things, we shall see afterwards; for the
present we are both agreed to regard this as true; we must gather
together something to answer the question before us, which is, how any
means remain of acting generously towards one who already possesses all
things? All things that a son has belong to his father, yet who does not
know that in spite of this a son can make presents to his father? All
things belong to the gods; yet we make presents and bestow alms even
upon the gods. What I have is not necessarily not mine because it
belongs to you; for the same thing may belong both to me and to you.
"He to whom courtezans belong," argues our adversary, "must be
a procurer: now courtezans are included in all things, therefore
courtezans belong to the wise man. But he to whom courtezans belong is
a procurer; therefore the wise man is a procurer." Yes! by the same
reasoning, our opponents would forbid him to buy anything, arguing, "No
man buys his own property. Now all things are the property of the wise
man; therefore the wise man buys nothing." By the same reasoning they
object to his borrowing, because no one pays interest for the use of
his own money. They raise endless quibbles, although they perfectly well
understand what we say.
V. For, when I say that the wise man possesses everything, I mean that
he does so without thereby impairing each man's individual rights in
his own property, in the same way as in a country ruled by a good king,
everything belongs to the king, by the right of his authority, and to
the people by their several rights of ownership. This I shall prove
in its proper place; in the mean time it is a sufficient answer to the
question to declare that I am able to give to the wise man that which is
in one way mine, and in another way his. Nor is it strange that I should
be able to give anything to one who possesses everything. Suppose I have
hired a house from you: some part of that house is mine, some is yours;
the house itself is yours, the use of your house belongs to me. Crops
may ripen upon your land, but you cannot touch them against the will of
your tenant; and if corn be dear, or at famine price, you will
"In vain another's mighty store behold,"
grown upon your land, lying upon your land, and to be deposited in
your own barns. Though you be the landlord, you must not enter my hired
house, nor may you take away your own slave from me if I have contracted
for his services; nay, if I hire a carriage from you, I bestow a benefit
by allowing you to take your seat in it, although it is your own. You
see, therefore, that it is possible for a man to receive a present by
accepting what is his own.
VI. In all the cases which I have mentioned, each party is the owner of
the same thing. How is this? It is because the one owns the thing, the
other owns the use of the thing. We speak of the books of Cicero. Dorus,
the bookseller, calls these same books his own; the one claims them
because he wrote them, the other because he bought them; so that they
may quite correctly be spoken of as belonging to either of the two, for
they do belong to each, though in a different manner. Thus Titus Livius
may receive as a present, or may buy his own books from Dorus.
Although the wise man possesses everything, yet I can give him what I
individually possess; for though, king-like, he in his mind possesses
everything, yet the ownership of all things is divided among various
individuals, so that he can both receive a present and owe one; can
buy, or hire things. Everything belongs to Caesar; yet he has no private
property beyond his own privy purse; as Emperor all things are his,
but nothing is his own except what he inherits. It is possible, without
treason, to discuss what is and what is not his; for even what the court
may decide not to be his, from another point of view is his. In the same
way the wise man in his mind possesses everything, in actual right and
ownership he possesses only his own property.
VII. Bion is able to prove by argument at one time that everyone is
sacrilegious, at another that no one is. When he is in a mood for
casting all men down the Tarpeian rock, he says, "Whosoever touches that
which belongs to the gods, and consumes it or converts it to his own
uses, is sacrilegious; but all things belong to the gods, so that
whatever thing any one touches belongs to them to whom all belongs;
whoever, therefore, touches anything is sacrilegious." Again, when he
bids men break open temples and pillage the Capitol without fear of the
wrath of heaven, he declares that no one can be sacrilegious; because,
whatever a man takes away, he takes from one place which belongs to the
gods into another place which belongs to the gods. The answer to this
is that all places do indeed belong to the gods, but all are not
consecrated to them, and that sacrilege can only be done in places
solemnly dedicated to heaven. Thus, also, the whole world is a temple of
the immortal gods, and, indeed, the only one worthy of their greatness
and splendour, and yet there is a distinction between things sacred and
profane; all things which it is lawful to do under the sky and the stars
are not lawful to do within consecrated walls. The sacrilegious man
cannot do God any harm, for He is placed beyond his reach by His divine
nature; yet he is punished because he seems to have done Him harm: his
punishment is demanded by our feeling on the matter, and even by his
own. In the same way, therefore, as he who carries off any sacred
things is regarded as sacrilegious, although that which he stole is
nevertheless within the limits of the world, so it is possible to steal
from a wise man: for in that case it will be some, not of that universe
which he possesses, but some of those things of which he is the
acknowledged owner, and which are severally his own property, which will
be stolen from him. The former of these possessions he will recognize as
his own, the latter he will be unwilling, even if he be able to possess;
he will say, as that Roman commander said, when, to reward his courage
and good service to the state, he was assigned as much land as he could
inclose in one day's ploughing. "You do not," said he, "want a citizen
who wants more than is enough for one citizen." Do you not think that it
required a much greater man to refuse this reward than to earn it? for
many have taken away the landmarks of other men's property, but no one
sets up limits to his own.
VIII. When, then, we consider that the mind of the truly wise man has
power over all things and pervades all things, we cannot help declaring
that everything is his, although, in the estimation of our common law,
it may chance that he may be rated as possessing no property whatever.
It makes a great difference whether we estimate what he owns by the
greatness of his mind, or by the public register. He would pray to be
delivered from that possession of everything of which you speak. I will
not remind you of Socrates, Chrysippus, Zeno, and other great men, all
the greater, however, because envy prevents no one from praising the
ancients. But a short time ago I mentioned Demetrius, who seems to have
been placed by nature in our times that he might prove that we could
neither corrupt him nor be corrected by him; a man of consummate wisdom,
though he himself disclaimed it, constant to the principles which he
professed, of an eloquence worthy to deal with the mightiest subjects,
scorning mere prettinesses and verbal niceties, but expressing with
infinite spirit, the ideas which inspired it. I doubt not that he was
endowed by divine providence with so pure a life and such power of
speech in order that our age might neither be without a model nor a
reproach. Had some god wished to give all our wealth to Demetrius on the
fixed condition that he should not be permitted to give it away, I am
sure that he would have refused to accept it, and would have said,
IX. "I do not intend to fasten upon my back a burden like this, of which
I never can rid myself, nor do I, nimble and lightly equipped as I am,
mean to hinder my progress by plunging into the deep morass of business
transactions. Why do you offer to me what is the bane of all nations?
I would not accept it even if I meant to give it away, for I see many
things which it would not become me to give. I should like to place
before my eyes the things which fascinate both kings and peoples, I wish
to behold the price of your blood and your lives. First bring before
me the trophies of Luxury, exhibiting them as you please, either in
succession, or, which is better, in one mass. I see the shell of
the tortoise, a foul and slothful brute, bought for immense sums and
ornamented with the most elaborate care, the contrast of colours which
is admired in it being obtained by the use of dyes resembling the
natural tints. I see tables and pieces of wood valued at the price of
a senator's estate, which are all the more precious, the more knots
the tree has been twisted into by disease. I see crystal vessels, whose
price is enhanced by their fragility, for among the ignorant the risk of
losing things increases their value instead of lowering it, as it ought.
I see murrhine cups, for luxury would be too cheap if men did not drink
to one another out of hollow gems the wine to be afterwards thrown up
again. I see more than one large pearl placed in each ear; for now our
ears are trained to carry burdens, pearls are hung from them in pairs,
and each pair has other single ones fastened above it. This womanish
folly is not exaggerated enough for the men of our time, unless they
hang two or three estates upon each ear. I see ladies' silk dresses, if
those deserve to be called dresses which can neither cover their body
or their shame; when wearing which, they can scarcely with a good
conscience, swear that they are not naked. These are imported at a vast
expense from nations unknown even to trade, in order that our matrons
may show as much of their persons in public as they do to their lovers
in private."
X. What are you doing, Avarice? see how many things there are whose
price exceeds that of your beloved gold: all those which I have
mentioned are more highly esteemed and valued. I now wish to review your
wealth, those plates of gold and silver which dazzle our covetousness.
By Hercules, the very earth, while she brings forth upon the surface
every thing that is of use to us, has buried these, sunk them deep,
and rests upon them with her whole weight, regarding them as pernicious
substances, and likely to prove the ruin of mankind if brought into the
light of day. I see that iron is brought out of the same dark pits as
gold and silver, in order that we may lack neither the means nor the
reward of murder. Thus far we have dealt with actual substances; but
some forms of wealth deceive our eyes and minds alike. I see there
letters of credit, promissory notes, and bonds, empty phantoms of
property, ghosts of sick Avarice, with which she deceives our minds,
which delight in unreal fancies; for what are these things, and what are
interest, and account books, and usury, except the names of unnatural
developments of human covetousness? I might complain of nature for not
having hidden gold and silver deeper, for not having laid over it a
weight too heavy to be removed: but what are your documents, your sale
of time, your blood-sucking twelve per cent. interest? these are evils
which we owe to our own will, which flow merely from our perverted
habit, having nothing about them which can be seen or handled, mere
dreams of empty avarice. Wretched is he who can take pleasure in the
size of the audit book of his estate, in great tracts of land cultivated
by slaves in chains, in huge flocks and herds which require provinces
and kingdoms for their pasture ground, in a household of servants, more
in number than some of the most warlike nations, or in a private house
whose extent surpasses that of a large city! After he has carefully
reviewed all his wealth, in what it is invested, and on what it is
spent, and has rendered himself proud by the thoughts of it, let him
compare what he has with what he wants: he becomes a poor man at once.
"Let me go: restore me to those riches of mine. I know the kingdom of
wisdom, which is great and stable: I possess every thing, and in such a
manner that it belongs to all men nevertheless."
XI. When, therefore, Gaius Caesar offered him two hundred thousand
sesterces, he laughingly refused it, thinking it unworthy of himself to
boast of having refused so small a sum. Ye gods and goddesses, what a
mean mind must the emperor have had, if he hoped either to honour or to
corrupt him. I must here repeat a proof of his magnanimity. I have
heard that when he was expressing his wonder at the folly of Gaius at
supposing that he could be influenced by such a bribe, he said, "If
he meant to tempt me, he ought to have tried to do so by offering his
entire kingdom."
XII. It is possible, then, to give something to the wise man, although
all things belong to the wise man. Similarly, though we declare that
friends have all things in common, it is nevertheless possible to give
something to a friend: for I have not everything in common with a friend
in the same manner as with a partner, where one part belongs to him,
and another to me, but rather as a father and a mother possess their
children in common when they have two, not each parent possessing one
child, but each possessing both. First of all I will prove that any
chance would-be partner of mine has nothing in common with me: and why?
Because this community of goods can only exist between wise men, who
are alone capable of friendship: other men can neither be friends nor
partners one to another. In the next place, things may be owned in
common in various ways. The knights' seats in the theatre belong to all
the Roman knights; yet of these the seat which I occupy becomes my own,
and if I yield it up to any one, although I only yield him a thing
which we own in common, still I appear to have given him something. Some
things belong to certain persons under particular conditions. I have
a place among the knights, not to sell, or to let, or to dwell in, but
simply to see the spectacle from, wherefore I do not tell an untruth
when I say that I have a place among the knights' seats. Yet if, when I
come into the theatre, the knights' seats are full, I both have a seat
there by right, because I have the privilege of sitting there, and I
have not a seat there, because my seat is occupied by those who share my
right to those places. Suppose that the same thing takes place between
friends; whatever our friend possesses, is common to us, but is the
property of him who owns it; I cannot make use of it against his will.
"You are laughing at me," say you; "if what belongs to my friend is
mine, I am able to sell it." You are not able; for you are not able to
sell your place among the knights' seats, and yet they are in common
between you and the other knights. Consequently, the fact that you
cannot sell a thing, or consume it, or exchange it for the better or the
worse does not prove that it is not yours; for that which is yours under
certain conditions is yours nevertheless.
XIII. I have received, but certainly not less. Not to detain you longer
than is necessary, a benefit can be no more than a benefit; but the
means employed to convey benefits may be both greater and more numerous.
I mean those things by which kindness expresses and gives vent to
itself, like lovers, whose many kisses and close embraces do not
increase their love but give it play.
XIV. The next question which arises has been thoroughly threshed out in
the former books, so here it shall only be touched on shortly; for the
arguments which have been used for other cases can be transferred to it.
The question is, whether one who has done everything in his power to
return a benefit, has returned it. "You may know," says our adversary,
"that he has not returned it, because he did everything in his power to
return it; it is evident, therefore, that he did not not do that which
he did not have an opportunity of doing. A man who searches everywhere
for his creditor without finding him does not thereby pay him what
he owes." Some are in such a position that it is their duty to effect
something material; in the case of others to have done all in their
power to effect it is as good as effecting it. If a physician has done
all in his power to heal his patient he has performed his duty; an
advocate who employs his whole powers of eloquence on his client's
behalf, performs his duty even though his client be convicted; the
generalship even of a beaten commander is praised if he has prudently,
laboriously, and courageously exercised his functions. Your friend has
done all in his power to return your kindness, but your good fortune
stood in his way; no adversity befell you in which he could prove the
truth of his friendship; he could not give you money when you were
rich, or nurse you when you were in health, or help you when you were
succeeding; yet he repaid your kindness, even though you did not receive
a benefit from him. Moreover, this man, being always eager, and on the
watch for an opportunity of doing this, as he has expended much anxiety
and much trouble upon it, has really done more than he who quickly had
an opportunity of repaying your kindness. The case of a debtor is not
the same, for it is not enough for him to have tried to find the money
unless he pays it; in his case a harsh creditor stands over him who will
not let a single day pass without charging him interest; in yours there
is a most kind friend, who seeing you busy, troubled, and anxious would
say.
"'Dismiss this trouble from thy breast;'
leave off disturbing yourself; I have received from you all that I wish;
you wrong me, if you suppose that I want anything further; you have
fully repaid me in intention."
"Tell me," says our adversary, "if he had repaid the benefit you would
say that he had returned your kindness: is, then, he who repays it in
the same position as he who does not repay it?"
On the other hand, consider this: if he had forgotten the benefit which
he had received, if he had not even attempted to be grateful, you would
say that he had not returned the kindness; but this man has laboured day
and night to the neglect of all his other duties in his devoted care to
let no opportunity of proving his gratitude escape him; is then he who
took no pains to return a kindness to be classed with this man who never
ceased to take pains? you are unjust, if you require a material payment
from me when you see that I am not wanting in intention.
XV. In short, suppose that when you are taken captive, I have borrowed
money, made over my property as security to my creditor, that I have
sailed in a stormy winter season along coasts swarming with pirates,
that I have braved all the perils which necessarily attend a voyage even
on a peaceful sea, that I have wandered through all wildernesses seeking
for those men whom all others flee from, and that when I have at length
reached the pirates, someone else has already ransomed you: will you
say that I have not returned your kindness? Even if during this voyage I
have lost by shipwreck the money that I had raised to save you, even if
I myself have fallen into the prison from which I sought to release you,
will you say that I have not returned your kindness? No, by Hercules!
the Athenians call Harmodius and Aristogiton, tyrannicides; the hand of
Mucius which he left on the enemy's altar was equivalent to the death
of Porsena, and valour struggling against fortune is always illustrious,
even if it falls short of accomplishing its design. He who watches
each opportunity as it passes, and tries to avail himself of one
after another, does more to show his gratitude than he whom the first
opportunity enabled to be grateful without any trouble whatever. "But,"
says our adversary, "he gave you two things, material help and kindly
feeling; you, therefore, owe him two." You might justly say this to one
who returns your kindly feeling without troubling himself further; this
man is really in your debt; but you cannot say so of one who wishes to
repay you, who struggles and leaves no stone unturned to do so; for,
as far as in him lies, he repays you in both kinds; in the next place,
counting is not always a true test, sometimes one thing is equivalent to
two; consequently so intense and ardent a wish to repay takes the place
of a material repayment. Indeed, if a feeling of gratitude has no value
in repaying a kindness without giving something material, then no one
can be grateful to the gods, whom we can repay by gratitude alone. "We
cannot," says our adversary, "give the gods anything else." Well, but
if I am not able to give this man, whose kindness I am bound to return,
anything beside my gratitude, why should that which is all that I can
bestow on a god be insufficient to prove my gratitude towards a man?
XVI. If, however, you ask me what I really think, and wish me to give a
definite answer, I should say that the one party ought to consider his
benefit to have been returned, while the other ought to feel that he has
not returned it; the one should release his friend from the debt, the
other should hold himself bound to pay it; the one should say, "I have
received;" the other should answer, "I owe." In our whole investigation,
we ought to look entirely to the public good; we ought to prevent the
ungrateful having any excuses in which they can take refuge, and under
cover of which they can disown their debts. "I have done all in my
power," say you. Well, keep on doing so still. Do you suppose that our
ancestors were so foolish, as not to understand that it is most unjust
that the man who has wasted the money which he received from his
creditor on debauchery, or gambling, should be classed with one who has
lost his own property as well as that of others in a fire, by robbery,
or some sadder mischance? They would take no excuse, that men might
understand that they were always bound to keep their word; it was
thought better that even a good excuse should not be accepted from a few
persons, than that all men should be led to try to make excuses. You say
that you have done all in your power to repay your debt; this ought to
be enough for your friend, but not enough for you. He to whom you owe a
kindness, is unworthy of gratitude if he lets all your anxious care and
trouble to repay it go for nothing; and so, too, if your friend takes
your good will as a repayment, you are ungrateful if you are not all the
more eager to feel the obligation of the debt which he has forgiven you.
Do not snap up his receipt, or call witnesses to prove it; rather seek
opportunities for repaying not less than before; repay the one man
because he asks for repayment, the other because he forgives you your
debt; the one because he is good, the other because he is bad. You, need
not, therefore, think that you have anything to do with the question
whether a man be bound to repay the benefit which he has received from
a wise man, if that man has ceased to be wise and has turned into a bad
man. You would return a deposit which you had received from a wise man;
you would return a loan even to a bad man; what grounds have you for
not returning a benefit also? Because he has changed, ought he to change
you? What? if you had received anything from a man when healthy, would
you not return it to him when he was sick, though we always are more
bound to treat our friends with more kindness when they are ailing? So,
too, this man is sick in his mind; we ought to help him, and bear with
him; folly is a disease of the mind.
XVII. I think here we ought to make a distinction, in order to render
this point more intelligible. Benefits are of two kinds: one, the
perfect and true benefit, which can only be bestowed by one wise man
upon another; the other, the common vulgar form which ignorant men like
ourselves interchange. With regard to the latter, there is no doubt that
it is my duty to repay it whether my friend turns out to be a murderer,
a thief, or an adulterer. Crimes have laws to punish them; criminals are
better reformed by judges than by ingratitude; a man ought not to make
you bad by being so himself. I will fling a benefit back to a bad man, I
will return it to a good man; I do so to the latter, because I owe it to
him; to the former, that I may not be in his debt.
XVIII. With regard to the other class of benefit, the question arises
whether if I was not able to take it without being a wise man, I am able
to return it, except to a wise man. For suppose I do return it to him,
he cannot receive it, he is not any longer able to receive such a thing,
he has lost the knowledge of how to use it. You would not bid me throw
back [Footnote: i.e. in the game of ball.] a ball to a man who has lost
his hand; it is folly to give any one what he cannot receive. If I am
to begin to reply to the last argument, I say that I should not give him
what he is unable to take; but I would return it, even though he is not
able to receive it. I cannot lay him under an obligation unless he takes
my bounty; but by returning it I can free myself from my obligations to
him. You say, "he will not be able to use it." Let him see to that; the
fault will lie with him, not with me.
XIX. "To return a thing," says our adversary, "is to hand it over to one
who can receive it. Why, if you owed some wine to any man, and he bade
you pour it into a net or a sieve, would you say that you had returned
it? or would you be willing to return it in such a way that in the act
of returning it was lost between you?" To return is to give that which
you owe back to its owner when he wishes for it. It is not my duty to
perform more than this; that he should possess what he has received
from me is a matter for further consideration; I do not owe him the
safe-keeping of his property, but the honourable payment of my debt,
and it is much better that he should not have it, than that I should
not return it to him. I would repay my creditor, even though he would
at once take what I paid him to the market; even if he deputed an
adulteress to receive the money from me, I would pay it to her; even
if he were to pour the coins which he receives into a loose fold of his
cloak, I would pay it. It is my business to return it to him, not to
keep it and save it for him after I have returned it; I am bound to take
care of his bounty when I have received it, but not when I have returned
it to him. While it remains with me, it must be kept safe; but when he
asks for it again I must give it to him, even though it slips out of his
hands as he takes it. I will repay a good man when it is convenient; I
will repay a bad man when he asks me to do so.
"You cannot," argues our adversary, "return him a benefit of the same
kind as that which you received; for you received it from a wise man,
and you are returning it to a fool." Do I not return to him such a
benefit, as he is now able to receive? It is not my fault if I return it
to him worse than I received it, the fault lies with him, and so, unless
he regains his former wisdom, I shall return it in such a form as he
in his fallen condition is able to receive. "But what," asks he, "if
he become not only bad, but savage and ferocious, like Apollodorus or
Phalaris, would you return even to such a man as this a benefit which
you had received from him?" I answer, Nature does not admit of so great
a change in a wise man. Men do not change from the best to the worst;
even in becoming bad, he would necessarily retain some traces of
goodness; virtue is never so utterly quenched as not to imprint on the
mind marks which no degradation can efface. If wild animals bred in
captivity escape into the woods, they still retain something of their
original tameness, and are as remote from the gentlest in the one
extreme as they are in the other from those which have always been wild,
and have never endured to be touched by man's hand. No one who has ever
applied himself to philosophy ever becomes completely wicked; his mind
becomes so deeply coloured with it, that its tints can never be entirely
spoiled and blackened. In the next place, I ask whether this man of
yours be ferocious merely in intent, or whether he breaks out into
actual outrages upon mankind? You have instanced the tyrants Apollodorus
and Phalaris; if the bad man restrains their evil likeness within
himself, why should I not return his benefit to him, in order to set
myself free from any further dealings with him? If, however, he not
only delights in human blood, but feeds upon it; if he exercises his
insatiable cruelty in the torture of persons of all ages, and his fury
is not prompted by anger, but by a sort of delight in cruelty, if he
cuts the throats of children before the eyes of their parents; if, not
satisfied with merely killing his victims, he tortures them, and not
only burns but actually roasts them; if his castle is always wet with
freshly shed blood; then it is not enough not to return his benefits.
All connexion between me and such a man has been broken off by his
destruction of the bonds of human society. If he had bestowed something
upon me, but were to invade my native country, he would have lost all
claim to my gratitude, and it would be counted a crime to make him any
return; if he does not attack my country, but is the scourge of his own;
if he has nothing to do with my nation, but torments and cuts to pieces
his own, then in the same manner such depravity, though it does not
render him my personal enemy, yet renders him hateful to me, and the
duty which I owe to the human race is anterior to and more important
than that which I owe to him as an individual.
XX. However, although this be so, and although I am freed from all
obligation towards him, from the moment when, by outraging all laws, he
rendered it impossible for any man to do him a wrong, nevertheless, I
think I ought to make the following distinction in dealing with him.
If my repayment of his benefit will neither increase nor maintain his
powers of doing mischief to mankind, and is of such a character that I
can return it to him without disadvantage to the public, I would return
it: for instance, I would save the life of his infant child; for what
harm can this benefit do to any of those who suffer from his cruelty?
But I would not furnish him with money to pay his bodyguard. If he
wishes for marbles, or fine clothes, the trappings of his luxury will
harm no one; but with soldiers and arms I would not furnish him. If he
demands, as a great boon, actors and courtesans and such things as will
soften his savage nature, I would willingly bestow them upon him. I
would not furnish him with triremes and brass-beaked ships of war, but I
would send him fast sailing and luxuriously-fitted vessels, and all
the toys of kings who take their pleasure on the sea. If his health was
altogether despaired of, I would by the same act bestow a benefit on all
men and return one to him; seeing that for such characters death is
the only remedy, and that he who never will return to himself, had best
leave himself. However, such wickedness as this is uncommon, and is
always regarded as a portent, as when the earth opens, or when fires
break forth from caves under the sea; so let us leave it, and speak of
those vices which we can hate without shuddering at them. As for the
ordinary bad man, whom I can find in the marketplace of any town, who is
feared only by individuals, I would return to him a benefit which I
had received from him. It is not right that I should profit by his
wickedness; let me return what is not mine to its owner. Whether he be
good or bad makes no difference; but I would consider the matter most
carefully, if I were not returning but bestowing it.
XXI. This point requires to be illustrated by a story. A certain
Pythagoraean bought a fine pair of shoes from a shoemaker; and as they
were an expensive piece of work, he did not pay ready money for them.
Some time afterwards he came to the shop to pay for them, and after he
had long been knocking at the closed door, some one said to him, "Why do
you waste your time? The shoemaker whom you seek has been carried out
of his house and buried; this is a grief to us who lose our friends for
ever, but by no means so to you, who know that he will be born again,"
jeering at the Pythagoraean. Upon this our philosopher not unwillingly
carried his three or four denarii home again, shaking them every now and
then; afterwards, blaming himself for the pleasure which he had secretly
felt at not paying his debt, and perceiving that he enjoyed having made
this trifling gain, he returned to the shop, and saying, "the man lives
for you, pay him what you owe," he passed four denarii into the
shop through the crack of the closed door, and let them fall inside,
punishing himself for his unconscionable greediness that he might not
form the habit of appropriating that which is not his own.
XXII. If you owe anything, seek for some one to whom you may repay it,
and if no one demands it, dun your own self; whether the man be good
or bad is no concern of yours; repay him, and then blame him. You have
forgotten, how your several duties are divided: it is right for him to
forget it, but we have bidden you bear it in mind. When, however, we
say that he who bestows a benefit ought to forget it, it is a mistake to
suppose that we rob him of all recollection of the business, though it
is most creditable to him; some of our precepts are stated over strictly
in order to reduce them to their true proportions. When we say that he
ought not to remember it, we mean he ought not to speak publicly, or
boast of it offensively. There are some, who, when they have bestowed
a benefit, tell it in all societies, talk of it when sober, cannot be
silent about it when drunk, force it upon strangers, and communicate it
to friends; it is to quell this excessive and reproachful consciousness
that we bid him who gave it forget it, and by commanding him to do this,
which is more than he is able, encourage him to keep silence.
XXIII. When you distrust those whom you order to do anything, you ought
to command them to do more than enough in order that they may do what
is enough. The purpose of all exaggeration is to arrive at the truth by
falsehood. Consequently, he who spoke of horses as being:
"Whiter than snows and swifter than the winds,"
said what could not possibly be in order that they might be thought to
be as much so as possible. And he who said:
"More firm than crags, more headlong than the stream,"
did not suppose that he should make any one believe that a man could
ever be as firm as a crag. Exaggeration never hopes all its daring
flights to be believed, but affirms what is incredible, that thereby it
may convey what is credible. When we say, "let the man who has bestowed
a benefit, forget it," what we mean is, "let him be as though he had
forgotten it; let not his remembrance of it appear or be seen." When
we say that repayment of a benefit ought not to be demanded, we do not
utterly forbid its being demanded; for repayment must often be extorted
from bad men, and even good men require to be reminded of it. Am I not
to point out a means of repayment to one who does not perceive it? Am I
not to explain my wants to one does not know them? Why should he (if
a bad man) have the excuse, or (if a good man) have the sorrow of not
knowing them? Men ought sometimes to be reminded of their debts, though
with modesty, not in the tone of one demanding a legal right.
XXIV. Socrates once said in the hearing of his friends: "I would have
bought a cloak, if I had had the money for it." He asked no one for
money, but he reminded them all to give it. There was a rivalry between
them, as to who should give it; and how should there not be? Was it not
a small thing which Socrates received? Yes, but it was a great thing
to be the man from whom Socrates received it. Could he blame them more
gently? "I would," said he, "have bought a cloak if I had had the money
for it." After this, however eager any one was to give, he gave too
late; for he had already been wanting in his duty to Socrates. Because
some men harshly demand repayment of debts, we forbid it, not in order
that it may never be done, but that it may be done sparingly.
XXV. Aristippus once, when enjoying a perfume, said: "Bad luck to those
effeminate persons who have brought so nice a thing into disrepute." We
also may say, "Bad luck to those base extortioners who pester us for a
fourfold return of their benefits, and have brought into disrepute
so nice a thing as reminding our friends of their duty." I shall
nevertheless make use of this right of friendship, and I shall demand
the return of a benefit from any man from whom I would not have scrupled
to ask for one, such a man as would regard the power of returning a
benefit as equivalent to receiving a second one. Never, not even when
complaining of him, would I say,
"A wretch forlorn upon the shore he lay,
His ship, his comrades, all were swept away;
Fool that I was, I pitied his despair,
And even gave him of my realm a share."
This is not to remind, but to reproach; this is to make one's benefits
odious to enable him, or even to make him wish to be ungrateful. It is
enough, and more than enough, to remind him of it gently and familiarly:
"If aught of mine hath e'er deserved thy thanks."
To this his answer would be, "Of course you have deserved my thanks; you
took me up, 'a wretch forlorn upon the shore.'"
XXVI. "But," says our adversary, "suppose that we gain nothing by this;
suppose that he pretends that he has forgotten it, what ought I to do?"
You now ask a very necessary question, and one which fitly concludes
this branch of the subject, how, namely, one ought to bear with the
ungrateful. I answer, calmly, gently, magnanimously. Never let any one's
discourtesy, forgetfulness, or ingratitude, enrage you so much that you
do not feel any pleasure at having bestowed a benefit upon him; never
let your wrongs drive you into saying, "I wish I had not done it." You
ought to take pleasure even in the ill-success of your benefit; he will
always be sorry for it, even though you are not even now sorry for it.
You ought not to be indignant, as if something strange had happened; you
ought rather to be surprised if it had not happened. Some are prevented
by difficulties, some by expense, and some by danger from returning your
bounty; some are hindered by a false shame, because by returning it,
they would confess that they had received it; with others ignorance of
their duty, indolence, or excess of business, stands in the way. Reflect
upon the insatiability of men's desires. You need not be surprised if no
one repays you in a world in which no one ever gains enough. What man is
there of so firm and trustworthy a mind that you can safely invest your
benefits in him? One man is crazed with lust, another is the slave of
his belly, another gives his whole soul to gain, caring nothing for the
means by which he amasses it; some men's minds are disturbed by envy,
some blinded by ambition till they are ready to fling themselves on the
sword's point. In addition to this, one must reckon sluggishness of
mind and old age; and also the opposites of these, restlessness and
disturbance of mind, also excessive self-esteem and pride in the
very things for which a man ought to be despised. I need not mention
obstinate persistence in wrong-doing, or frivolity which cannot remain
constant to one point; besides all this, there is headlong rashness,
there is timidity which never gives us trustworthy counsel, and the
numberless errors with which we struggle, the rashness of the most
cowardly, the quarrels of our best friends, and that most common evil
of trusting in what is most uncertain, and of undervaluing, when we have
obtained it, that which we once never hoped to possess. Amidst all these
restless passions, how can you hope to find a thing so full of rest as
good faith?
XXVII. If a true picture of our life were to rise before your mental
vision, you would, I think, behold a scene like that of a town just
taken by storm, where decency and righteousness were no longer regarded,
and no advice is heard but that of force, as if universal confusion
were the word of command. Neither fire nor sword are spared; crime
is unpunished by the laws; even religion, which saves the lives of
suppliants in the very midst of armed enemies, does not check those who
are rushing to secure plunder. Some men rob private houses, some public
buildings; all places, sacred or profane, are alike stripped; some burst
their way in, others climb over; some open a wider path for themselves
by overthrowing the walls that keep them out, and make their way to
their booty over ruins; some ravage without murdering, others brandish
spoils dripping with their owner's blood; everyone carries off his
neighbours' goods. In this greedy struggle of the human race surely you
forget the common lot of all mankind, if you seek among these robbers
for one who will return what he has got. If you are indignant at
men being ungrateful, you ought also to be indignant at their being
luxurious, avaricious and lustful; you might as well be indignant with
sick men for being ugly, or with old men for being pale. It is, indeed,
a serious vice, it is not to be borne, and sets men at variance with one
another; nay, it rends and destroys that union by which alone our human
weakness can be supported; yet it is so absolutely universal, that even
those who complain of it most are not themselves free from it.
XXVIII. Consider within yourself, whether you have always shown
gratitude to those to whom you owe it, whether no one's kindness has
ever been wasted upon you, whether you constantly bear in mind all the
benefits which you have received. You will find that those which you
received as a boy were forgotten before you became a man; that those
bestowed upon you as a young man slipped from your memory when you
became an old one. Some we have lost, some we have thrown away, some
have by degrees passed out of our sight, to some we have wilfully shut
our eyes. If I am to make excuses for your weakness, I must say in the
first place that human memory is a frail vessel, and is not large enough
to contain the mass of things placed in it; the more it receives, the
more it must necessarily lose; the oldest things in it give way to the
newest. Thus it comes to pass that your nurse has hardly any influence
with you, because the lapse of time has set the kindness which you
received from her at so great a distance; thus it is that you no longer
look upon your teacher with respect; and that now when you are busy
about your candidature for the consulate or the priesthood, you forget
those who supported you in your election to the quaestorship. If you
carefully examine yourself, perhaps you will find the vice of which
you complain in your own bosom; you are wrong in being angry with a
universal failing, and foolish also, for it is your own as well; you
must pardon others, that you may yourself be acquitted. You will make
your friend a better man by bearing with him, you will in all cases make
him a worse one by reproaching him. You can have no reason for rendering
him shameless; let him preserve any remnants of modesty which he may
have. Too loud reproaches have often dispelled a modesty which might
have borne good fruit. No man fears to be that which all men see that he
is; when his fault is made public, he loses his sense of shame.
XXIX. You say, "I have lost the benefit which I bestowed." Yet do we
say that we have lost what we consecrate to heaven, and a benefit well
bestowed, even though we get an ill return for it, is to be reckoned
among things consecrated. Our friend is not such a man as we hoped he
was; still, let us, unlike him, remain the same as we were. The loss did
not take place when he proved himself so; his ingratitude cannot be made
public without reflecting some shame upon us, since to complain of the
loss of a benefit is a sign that it was not well bestowed. As far as we
are able we ought to plead with ourselves on his behalf: "Perhaps he was
not able to return it, perhaps he did not know of it, perhaps he will
still do so." A wise and forbearing creditor prevents the loss of some
debts by encouraging his debtor and giving him time. We ought to do the
same, we ought to deal tenderly with a weakly sense of honour.
XXX. "I have lost," say you, "the benefit which I bestowed." You are a
fool, and do not understand when your loss took place; you have indeed
lost it, but you did so when you gave it, the fact has only now come
to light. Even in the case of those benefits which appear to be lost,
gentleness will do much good; the wounds of the mind ought to be
handled as tenderly as those of the body. The string, which might be
disentangled by patience, is often broken by a rough pull. What is
the use of abuse, or of complaints? why do you overwhelm him with
reproaches? why do you set him free from his obligation? even if he
be ungrateful he owes you nothing after this. What sense is there in
exasperating a man on whom you have conferred great favours, so as out
of a doubtful friend to make a certain enemy, and one, too, who will
seek to support his own cause by defaming you, or to make men say, "I do
not know what the reason is that he cannot endure a man to whom he
owes so much; there must be something in the background?" Any man can
asperse, even if he does not permanently stain the reputation of his
betters by complaining of them; nor will any one be satisfied with
imputing small crimes to them, when it is only by the enormity of his
falsehood that he can hope to be believed.
XXXI. What a much better way is that by which the semblance of
friendship, and, indeed, if the other regains to his right mind,
friendship itself is preserved! Bad men are overcome by unwearying
goodness, nor does any one receive kindness in so harsh and hostile a
spirit as not to love good men even while he does them wrong, when they
lay him under the additional obligation of requiring no return for their
kindness. Reflect, then, upon this: you say, "My kindness has met with
no return, what am I to do? I ought to imitate the gods, those noblest
disposers of all events, who begin to bestow their benefits on those who
know them not, and persist in bestowing them on those who are ungrateful
for them. Some reproach them with neglect of us, some with injustice
towards us; others place them outside of their own world, in sloth and
indifference, without light, and without any functions; others declare
that the sun itself, to whom we owe the division of our times of labour
and of rest, by whose means we are saved from being plunged in the
darkness of eternal night; who, by his circuit, orders the seasons
of the year, gives strength to our bodies, brings forth our crops and
ripens our fruits, is merely a mass of stone, or a fortuitous collection
of fiery particles, or anything rather than a god. Yet, nevertheless,
like the kindest of parents, who only smile at the spiteful words of
their children, the gods do not cease to heap benefits upon those
who doubt from what source their benefits are derived, but continue
impartially distributing their bounty among all the peoples and nations
of the earth. Possessing only the power of doing good, they moisten
the land with seasonable showers, they put the seas in movement by the
winds, they mark time by the course of the constellations, they temper
the extremes of heat and cold, of summer and winter, by breathing a
milder air upon us; and they graciously and serenely bear with the
faults of our erring spirits. Let us follow their example; let us give,
even if much be given to no purpose, let us, in spite of this, give to
others; nay, even to those upon whom our bounty has been wasted. No one
is prevented by the fall of a house from building another; when one home
has been destroyed by fire, we lay the foundations of another before the
site has had time to cool; we rebuild ruined cities more than once
upon the same spots, so untiring are our hopes of success. Men would
undertake no works either on land or sea if they were not willing to try
again what they have failed in once."
XXXII. Suppose a man is ungrateful, he does not injure me, but himself;
I had the enjoyment of my benefit when I bestowed it upon him. Because
he is ungrateful, I shall not be slower to give but more careful; what I
have lost with him, I shall receive back from others. But I will bestow
a second benefit upon this man himself, and will overcome him even as a
good husbandman overcomes the sterility of the soil by care and culture;
if I do not do so my benefit is lost to me, and he is lost to mankind.
It is no proof of a great mind to give and to throw away one's bounty;
the true test of a great mind is to throw away one's bounty and still to
give.