matter of my discourse that I noted not her countenance till I had
well-nigh made an end of speaking; but when I perceived it, I broke
off, saying that after all, it was but a Jewish superstition, and
that as for these apparitions of Christus, they were but according to
nature, if there were indeed any apparitions at all. But Eucharis,
still musing and pondering, made no answer for a while, and at last
asked my opinion concerning all dreams and visions, whether they
came from the gods or no. I said, “No, but from natural causes.”
Then replied Eucharis, “Yes, but if, as your Artemidorus says, the
twin-stars that bring mariners help, come to us from natural causes,
and yet you worship the gods that send them; may it not also be that
some dreams and some visions, though coming to us—like air and light
and the fruits of the earth—in the common course of nature, may
nevertheless be sent to us by the immortal gods?” Then after a pause
she added, “And you too, Onesimus, while studying the life of this
Teacher, have you too been visited by him in your dreams?”
Fearing to be engaged in any further discourse concerning this matter
I rose up to bid Molon farewell, alleging the lateness of the hour;
but at that moment there came a knocking at the door, and presently
appeared Chresimus, a slave of Philemon, bearing a letter for me,
and with the letter this message by word of mouth, that the old man
desired my most speedy return. I broke the seal at once, fearing that
Philemon might be sick and nigh unto death. But the latter said not a
word touching his health, nor did it give any answer to my request for
freedom, neither “yes” nor “no,” only bidding me use all expedition to
return because “something of great import” had taken place, concerning
which he would gladly have speech with me before resolving further in
the matter on which I had written to him. I wished to have tarried yet
a few days in Athens, but Philemon’s command was express that I should
return on the next day, and that Molon should excuse me to my friends;
and, so saying, Chresimus went forth to make ready for our departure
on the morrow. My heart sank within me as I turned to bid farewell to
Eucharis, foreboding that I should henceforth live without her, and
that life without her would be death. But she comforted me, saying
that her memory must always live with me, as mine with her; and that
we must take hope as our common friend; and clasping round my neck a
little amulet, which I was ever to guard with the token of my brother
Chrestus, “On thy brother’s gift,” she said, “there is written TRUST,
and on mine there is HOPE; and with trust and hope we must needs do
well; for as to love we need no assurance:” and with these words she
bade me her last farewell.
§ 5. HOW I RETURNED TO COLOSSÆ, AND OF MY NEW LIFE WITH PHILEMON.
Even while Philemon embraced me on my return to Colossæ, I perceived
that he was marvellously changed. Whereas he had been wont to wear
on his countenance an anxious and restless expression, now he was
calm and composed, with a cheerfulness that seemed to spring (not as
in the former days of his settled health when I first knew him) from
easiness and good temper, but from some deep change in his nature. The
suspicion that came into my mind on beholding him was confirmed by
the first words he uttered thanking the Lord for my safe return; and
he immediately avowed that he had become a Christian. Had he then,
I asked, submitted himself to the Jewish law? No, he replied; Paulus
(the same of whom we had heard so much while we were in Syria) who had
admitted my master into the sect of the Christians, had taught him that
it was neither needful nor fitting that he, being a Gentile, should
observe the laws of the Jews. When I asked him what Artemidorus said,
he bade me no more mention the name of the Epicurean, whose society,
said he, I have for sometime renounced. Of others of my best friends
he spoke in the same way, especially of Epictetus, and Heracleas; but
he made mention of other persons, mostly bearing Jewish names, and men
either not known to me or known to be illiterate and of the common
sort, with whom he hoped I should soon be better acquainted; “for
they,” said he, “belong to us—as will you also, my dear Onesimus, in
due time, I hope and earnestly believe—and the brethren of Colossæ are
wont to meet at worship at my house.” My thoughts being in a maze I
thought to turn the discourse by questioning him concerning friends and
kinsfolk, and I inadvertently asked whether his sister’s son—who was
wont to come in from the country to visit him each year—was intending
to come to the city at the forthcoming feast of Zeus; but Philemon,
making some hasty sign to deprecate my speech about the festival, added
gravely and with authority that he was assured I should no longer wish
to take part in the procession nor to go to any of the games or public
spectacles; “for,” said he, “it is not gods but demons that preside
over such shows.” Much more he said on this topic; and I found that
my last letter to Artemidorus (as the Epicurean had reported it,
misconstruing it, I suppose, in his passion) had caused Philemon to
think that I was already a Christian in heart. But, concerning Eucharis
and emancipation, not one word.
After waiting a long while to see whether he would be the first to
speak, I reminded him of my request. He replied that he had a good
will, yea and a sincere affection for me, and that he fully intended
to emancipate me; but he did not think it fit that I should take to
wife the daughter of a rhetorician and declaimer such as Molon, one who
was by pursuit, as well as by disposition and nature, devoted to the
worship of false gods. He had therefore arranged for me a marriage with
the daughter of a very worthy citizen, Pheidippides the wool-seller,
who, though not as yet one of the brethren, was most favorably inclined
towards them, and who was quite willing to give me Prepousa to be my
wife, if Philemon would emancipate me and give me a sufficient estate;
and this, said he, I shall willingly do.
I was speechless with anger. But Philemon supposed my silence to be
caused by excess of gratitude unable to find vent in speech. So looking
affectionately on me he said there was no need of thanks, for that he
was willing to do much more than this rather than suffer my soul to
be ensnared at Athens. Then, in the same tone of authority in which
he had spoken throughout (unusual in him and to me most unexpected
and distasteful) he said that I was wearied with travel and had need
of rest; wherefore he desired that I should consider myself excused
from my attendance and retire to my chamber. When I went forth from
his presence, a great gulf seemed to divide me from Eucharis, and from
freedom, and from all hopes of a happy future. As to the religion of
the Christians I was no longer drawn to it even so much as before.
Had I not in former time restrained Philemon from joining himself to
it? Had he not in those days acknowledged that my understanding was
superior to his, deferring readily to my advice? And now was I to
confess myself in the wrong? Was I, slave-like, to bow to one inferior
to me in mind, because he chanced to be the master of my body? How
could I meet Artemidorus or Epictetus after so great a disgrace? On
the morrow, therefore, when I attended Philemon in the library and he
asked me what I thought of his proposals, adding that he trusted I
should soon be willing to receive baptism, I with difficulty restrained
myself so far as to answer merely that at present I was unwilling, and
that in any case I did not wish to marry Prepousa. He was silent for a
while and evidently displeased. Then he exclaimed, “If only Paulus were
in Asia at this time, my hopes of thee would be speedily fulfilled.”
But as I had been often present willingly at the Christian meetings
in Antioch, he said that I could make no objection to be present at
the meetings of the brethren in his house where I should receive
instruction which, he hoped, would soon induce me to be baptized. About
manumission as before, not a word; but I perceived that it was hopeless
to ask for it.
That same day I was summoned to attend one of the meetings of the
brethren, at which were present all the slaves of Philemon, and not a
few belonging to other citizens, and many freedmen also, and some that
were free-born; but these, few, and for the most part Jews, and not men
of any breeding or education. And I, being wilful at that time, and
contemptuous of others, and given to think far too highly of myself,
looked down upon these unlearned brethren, and stopped my ears against
the truth and hardened my heart, scoffing within myself at their faults
of speech and solecisms, and at the barbarous dialect of their Greek;
and besides, to speak the truth, the discourses of Archippus, the son
of Philemon, were too much upon the prophets and too little upon him
to whom the prophets bear witness. So they moved me no more than the
discourses of Lucius at Antioch, or even less. Yet once when Tatias—the
man whom Philippus had raised from the dead—stood up and testified how
all things had become new for him since he had believed in the Lord,
and how darkness had passed away and all was full of light and joy and
peace, and how the Lord Jesus was a friend that never failed in the
hour of need: then for the first time, spite of myself, my heart was
touched and I seemed ready to stretch out my hands to the Saviour; but
at that instant methought I saw Philemon watching me narrowly to see
whether I was moved by the discourse, and thereon my heart rebelled
again and I could think of nothing but the great gulf which my master
placed between me and Eucharis. Thus was my heart still hardened
against the truth.
Being in this condition of mind, I found my new life full of dullness
and melancholy. Each day passed like the day before, and prepared for a
morrow that should be still the same. The images of the gods had been
removed from the hall and from the court-yard; no pictures, no songs,
no garlands, no feasts, nor meetings of friends; our old acquaintance
seemed to have disowned us, and there were no longer any occasions
for discourse on arts, or letters, or philosophy. Even the library
had been despoiled of many of the best and choicest books; the busts
of most of the great poets and authors had been removed; and Philemon
employed me during many hours of the day in transcribing, no longer
Euripides or Menander, but the Greek translations of the books of the
Jewish prophets. The only diversity in the circle of our daily life was
that on certain days the household met for worship; but if I profited
little from the first day of meeting, I gained even less from those
that followed; for then a certain Pistus, a Paphlagonian slave, took a
great part in the prayers and discourses, especially when Archippus was
absent, and one might as well have hoped to gather grapes from brambles
as good from the words of Pistus. If such was our life at home, it was
vain to look for change in life abroad. For I was no longer permitted
to go to any public spectacle; and the society of every friend and
acquaintance for whom I had any affection was proscribed. In this
solitude and dejection I looked for counsel, but could find none. To
Artemidorus, being so near a neighbor, I durst not resort, for fear
lest Philemon should be informed that I had disobeyed his prohibition,
but I resolved that I would use the first occasion to go to Hierapolis
that I might there ask the advice of the young Epictetus.
§ 6. CONCERNING MY VISIT TO EPICTETUS.
When I came to Hierapolis I found Epictetus keeping his bed and scarce
able to move a limb. His master, he told me, had tortured him most
cruelly, twisting his leg so as to force the bone from the socket; and
the physician had declared that he would be lame for life. In answer
to my execrations against all masters of slaves and Epaphroditus,
his master, in particular, “Peace, my friend,” said Epictetus, “our
masters are becoming better and not worse; and besides, ever since
the sixth year of Claudius, we have a law in our favor. For, before,
if we were turned out to die in the streets, and then were impudent
enough to recover, our masters could claim us back again; but now the
divine Claudius has decreed that if death spare us, our masters shall
spare us also. However, my chief consolation lies not in the laws of
Claudius, but in philosophy; for since you and I were last together,
you must know I have become a philosopher.” “Prithee,” said I, “if
slaves can indeed become philosophers, let me have some benefit of your
philosophy; for assuredly I have need of it. Did not your philosophy
fail you when that cruel wretch so wantonly injured you?” “Pardon me,”
replied Epictetus, “he did not injure me, as indeed I explained to
him at the time.” “Explain then to me,” said I, “this most mysterious
riddle.” “I told him he could not injure me though he would injure
himself. Hereon he retorted that he would break my leg. I replied, ‘In
that case it would be broken, but what of that?’ At this he stared like
a bull, and said that he would cut off my head. To that I rejoined,
‘And when did I ever tell you that I had a head of such a kind that
it could not be cut off?’ Upon that he burst into a passion, threw me
down, kicked me, and began to twist my leg. As he proceeded, I warned
him and said, ‘If you continue, you will certainly break it.’ He
continued; and then I said to him, ‘There, now my leg is broken; but
you have not injured me, but only my leg and perhaps yourself.’”
All this seemed to me new and yet not new. Sitting down on the bench
beside his pallet, I said, “Well, but, Epictetus, this differs not
much from the philosophy of the Stoics or the Cynics.” “I did not
maintain,” replied he, “that my philosophy was new. Nevertheless I do
not perceive that it is very common in these parts.” “You mistake,”
said I, “a great many in Hierapolis read Chrysippus, and not a few
even in Colossæ.” “Read Chrysippus,” exclaimed my friend with a laugh.
“Yes, read Chrysippus, but how many act Chrysippus? Much as if we were
to go to a wrestler, and say to him, ‘Come, Milo, shew us how you can
give your adversary a fall,’ and Milo should reply, ‘Nay, rather step
into the next room, and feel the weight of my dumb bells.’” Then he
turned affectionately to me and said, “It is not the object of life,
my dearest Onesimus, to have read the hundred and forty volumes of
Chrysippus, but to put the precepts of Chrysippus in use, and so set
them before men in a brief form fit for use; and this is what I am
endeavoring to do.” “Set them before me then,” said I, “for Zeus knows
that if you have any philosophy fit for use, I can find use for it.
What therefore is the foundation of your philosophy?”
“The foundation,” replied my friend, “consists in the distinguishing
of things in our power from things not in our power. The things that
are needful are in our power, viz. justice, temperance, truthfulness,
courage and the like; but the things that are not in our power are not
needful, such as wealth, beauty, reputation, health, pleasure, life
and the rest. Many philosophers admit this in word, but do not carry
it out in deed, partly because they talk much and do little, and being
immersed in speculations are not ready for actions, when the hour for
action is at hand. But if a man have this foundation once solidly built
within his heart so as to be able to base all his actions on it, from
that time he will be perfectly free and do all things according to his
own will. Therefore make up your mind once for all what is your object
in life; what it is you want. A dinner? or to escape a whipping? Well,
then, you will do your master’s bidding to gain your dinner, or to
escape a whipping. But a philosopher will not do this, because he does
not fear hunger, nor a whipping, nor any master. ‘What,’ you say, ‘must
not a philosopher fear Cæsar?’ No, for he does not fear the things
that Cæsar can bring. For, mark you, no one fears Cæsar in himself,
but only the things that Cæsar brings with him, such as the sword,
banishment, poverty, torture, disgrace. But fetch me Cæsar here without
his thunders and lightnings, and see how bold the veriest coward will
be. Why then should a philosopher fear Cæsar, since he has no fear of
Cæsar’s thunder and lightning?
“Distinguish therefore between what you can and what you cannot do,
and in that knowledge you will find freedom. If you are thoroughly
persuaded in your inmost mind that those things only are yours which
are really yours and which are needful to you, then you will aim at
nothing which you will not attain; you will never attempt anything
with any kind of violence to yourself; you will blame no one, you will
accuse no one; nobody will ever hinder you from the accomplishment of
your desires; in fine, you will never be subject to the least regret.
Take an instance. My leg, you will observe, is inflamed, and it has
certain sensations which are called painful. Good: that is the popular
manner of speaking. But it is a mere imagination. My inflamed leg does
not hinder me from being honest, just, and courageous; in other words
from attaining the objects of existence and the aim of all my desires.
Consequently I have accustomed myself to bear always in mind that pain
of this kind does not concern me and is no real evil. For it is of the
nature of things that have no dependence on me. ‘But you will be lame
for life,’ say you. That is very probable, and indeed our physician
tells me it is certain. But what then? When I am lame, my lameness
will be an obstruction to my feet in walking, but not to my will in
doing what it is inclined to do. It follows that sorrow and the signs
of sorrow such as weeping and groaning, are all the mere results of
false conceptions and imaginations. What is misfortune? Prejudice. What
is weeping? Prejudice. What are complaints, discontents, repining,
fretfulness, restlessness? All so many forms of prejudice, and
prejudice moreover concerning things uncontrollable by the will.”
He paused. “You have defined sorrow,” said I, “and how do you define
death?” “A mere mask,” he replied. “It has no teeth. Turn it on the
other side and you will find it does not bite you. It is a mere going
away. Life is as it were a feast. At birth God opens the door to you,
and says, ‘Enter.’ At death, the feast being now ended, God opens the
door to you once again and says ‘Depart.’ Whither? To nothing terrible.
Only to the source whence you came forth. To that which is friendly
and congenial: to the elements. What in you was fire, goes away to the
fire; what earth, to earth; what air, to air; what water, to water.
There is no Hades, nor Acheron, nor Cocytus, nor Pyriphlegethon; but
all is full of gods and divine beings. He who can think of the whole
universe as his home, and can look upon the sun, moon and stars as
his friends, and enjoy the companionship of the earth and sea, he is
no more solitary nor helpless exile. Let death come to you when he
will. Can death banish you from the universe? You know he cannot. Go
where you may, there will be still a sun, moon, and stars, dreams and
auguries and communications with the Gods.”
I interrupted him. “You say there is no Hades; are there then no
Elysian fields?” “I do not know,” replied he; “but why seek any
greater reward for a good man than the doing of what is good? After
being thought worthy by God to be introduced into His great City, the
Universe, so that you may discharge for him the duties of a man, do you
still cry for something more, like a baby for its food? Do you need
coaxing and sweetmeats to induce you to do what is right? Be not like
a bad actor that forgets the part assigned to him, when he steps upon
the stage. ‘I was sent in this world to play a part.’ Well said, Mr.
Actor; and what part? ‘The part of a witness for God.’ Good: repeat
your part. ‘I am miserable, O Lord; I am undone; no mortal cares for
me; no mortal gives me what I want.’ What babble is this! Away with the
fool. He has forgotten his part; hiss him off the stage.
“Or take another of my metaphors. God is your general, and you must be
to him a loyal, obedient soldier, having sworn an oath of obedience,
which you will sooner die than break. Dost Thou wish me to live? I
live. To die? Then farewell. How wouldst Thou have me serve Thee? As a
soldier? Then I go cheerfully to the wars. As a slave? I obey. Whatever
post Thou shalt assign to me, I will die a thousand times rather than
desert it. Where wouldst Thou that I should serve Thee? In Rome, or
in Athens, or in Thebes? Thou art not absent from populous cities.
Or on the rock of Gyarus? Thou wilt be with me even there. Only if
thou shouldst send me to live where it is no longer possible to live
conformably with nature, then, but not till then, should I depart,
accepting as it were Thy signal of recall.”
Here he made an end, and I sat for some time silent. His words were
to me as a trumpet-blast arousing within me a host of virtuous
resolutions, which I at that time mistook for virtuous acts, and
thought myself already an athlete or a hero; even as a drunken man
supposes himself Heracles, or as the reader of the hundred and
forty-three volumes of Chrysippus believes himself to be a man of
virtue. Presently I arose and thanked him, saying that I went forth
as it were to the Olympian contest, to put in use the precepts of
Epictetus my trainer. He smiled, and as I went forth from his chamber,
he called after me, “Yes, but Onesimus, for this contest you need not
wait four years.”
§ 7. HOW I TRIED THE PHILOSOPHY OF EPICTETUS.
Epictetus was right; I had not long to wait for the contest of which
he spoke. It began on the morrow, and continued without intermission;
for day by day I was constrained to be present at the meetings of the
Christians, and day by day Philemon questioned me whether I had not
now at last been persuaded, and whether I was not willing now to be
baptized. However, I followed the advice of Epictetus, and said to
myself, “Truthfulness is in my power, but the goodwill of Philemon
is not in my power, therefore it does not concern me, and I will not
trouble myself about it.” But, in the evening of each day, when I
perceived that the breach was widening between me and my master, and
when I called to mind that it depended on him whether I should be
free or a slave, and united to Eucharis or parted from her for ever,
then my mind misgave me that I could not honestly say, “His goodwill
concerns me not.” Oftentimes I checked myself, saying that I was placed
in the Universe as a sentinel by God, and that I must not neglect my
post wherever it might be; but as often as these words came to my
memory, there came others also, namely that “if we were placed by him
where we could not live conformably to nature, then we might accept
this as the voice of a trumpet, sounding recall and bidding us quit
this life for another.” And said I to myself, can it be considered
living according to nature, that I should live in subjection to such a
servitude as this? Or is it living according to nature, to be removed
from all learning, just when I have been trained to use and enjoy it?
and to live apart from all friends, consorting with none but slavish
dispositions? and, in a word, having many faculties trained to noble
uses, to be placed in a position where all those faculties must needs
rust unused?