and me and altogether envenomed my very soul against the faith. This
man had been Philemon’s secretary during my absence at Athens; and now,
finding himself like to be supplanted, he began to alienate Philemon
from me by sly insinuations, hints, letters unsigned in a strange
hand, and sometimes also by open questions cunningly asked of me in
Philemon’s presence. As, for example, on the day when I had visited
Epictetus, he asked me, in my master’s hearing, whether Epaphroditus
was in good health, he being the master of Epictetus, and a very
dissolute man. When I said “Yes, as far as I knew,” I could see from
Philemon’s countenance that he greatly disliked my going thither;
and I at once explained that I had not gone to see, nor had I seen,
Epaphroditus himself, but only his slave Epictetus, who was sick. Yet
the cloud on my master’s brow did not altogether vanish; and he did
not forget it. For that same evening he took me aside, saying that
it was time to have done with youthful passions and caprices, and had
I considered his proposal—not about baptism, for he would not at that
season make mention of higher matters—but concerning marriage, and
was I willing to marry Prepousa? I said “No.” Hereat he became very
grave, saying that it was a very suitable match for me, and well fitted
to keep me from evil courses, such as young men were liable to; and
he bade me think further of it and meantime to be more discreet what
company I kept, for he disliked that I should so much as enter the
house of such a one as Epaphroditus, though it were but to visit a sick
slave. It was all in vain that I attempted (perhaps too obscurely, for
I could not now speak freely with Philemon as in old days) to explain
that I stood in need of counsel and that I had gone to Epictetus for
it. “That is settled”—was all he had to say, before he dismissed me to
my chamber. Only, as I was departing, he called me back, and asked me
whether I had at least given up the thought of Eucharis. I said “No.”
To which he replied that he was very sorry for that, for he could not
consent that my soul should be ensnared by such a marriage, and so long
as I entertained that foolish passion it was not possible for him to
entertain the project of emancipating me. So saying, he dismissed me to
my chamber, speechless with passion. In this mood I took up my pen and
wrote thus to Epictetus:—
“ONESIMUS TO EPICTETUS, HEALTH.
“I leaned on your philosophy, and it has proved a broken reed. No
longer can I live under the insupportable yoke of my slavery here. Yet
what am I to do? I cannot live conformably to nature. ‘Then die,’ say
you. And what then becomes of Eucharis, who would break her heart for
my departure? Your philosophy takes no account of wife, or children,
or those dear friends who are second selves. Their happiness is not in
your control; and yet how can you be tranquil in their unhappiness?
Answer me that.
“One question more. A fellow here, a Paphlagonian, one Pistus, is
poisoning Philemon’s mind against me, drops notes, in a strange hand
and nameless, accusing me of deceit, theft, frequenting brothels and
all manner of impurity. His last stroke has been to persuade Philemon
to forbid me from visiting you. I hate him, and intend to hate him.
Does your philosophy allow of hate?
“A third question. You say, We are soldiers and must die sooner than
desert our post. But who shall go bail for our General, that he is not
a fool or a knave, or anything but a name? Looking on the battle-field
of the Universe I see a conflict but the issue doubtful; no signs of
generalship, or at least of victory; in one place joy, in three places
sorrow; pleasure here, pain there; virtue sometimes prevailing, more
often vice; one master, twenty slaves; animals preying (by necessity)
on other animals; men (by necessity or choice?) oppressing other men;
everywhere conflict, the General nowhere. Read me these riddles, or be
no Œdipus for me.
“Pardon me, dearest friend and guide, but I am beside myself with
passion, anxious, not for myself but for one beyond the seas, who sits
awaiting tidings from me and feels her life to be bound up with mine.
Strong in your presence, absent from you I am most weak. Impart, I
beseech you, some of your strength to one who sorely needs it.”
§ 8. HOW I WAS ACCUSED OF THEFT BY THE DEVICES OF PISTUS.
At this time, and before I had heard from Epictetus, I received a
letter from Eucharis. After some delay, vainly hoping to be able to
impart more joyful tidings, I had written to her putting as bright a
color on the future as I could, but not concealing Philemon’s strong
objections and present refusal; and now I received her answer. It was
inclosed in a letter from Molon, in which he spoke of his class and his
pupils, and hoped that I was continuing my studies at Colossæ, entering
also into details about his recent lectures; at the close of his letter
he added that Eucharis was not in good health, and that he feared she
was troubled in her mind, being infected with superstition. Her old
nurse Thallousa affirmed that she had been fascinated by the evil eye;
but he thought the mischief had been in part caused by certain women of
her acquaintance, Christians from Corinth, who had brought to Athens
some strange rites and doctrines of one Paulus, and who seemed to have
disturbed her mind. However he trusted that her trouble would pass away
when better tidings came from Colossæ. The letter from Eucharis was to
this effect.
“Do not cease to hope, dearest Onesimus. If I grieve, it is because I
seem to see thee grieving. Could I but know that thou wert hopeful, I
also could be both hopeful and happy. Thallousa would fain console me,
when I weep, by telling me sad stories of others who have loved and
have been made sad by separation, but I am not so cruel as to be made
happy because others are sad; so I seek comfort elsewhere. Dearest,
when we were last together, some doubtful words fell from thy lips,
questioning, methought, whether there be any Elysian fields such as the
poets sing of. Yet does it not seem (this present world being so very
full of sadness) that there must needs be some Isles of the Blessed,
called by whatever name, where those whom hard fate has divided here,
but whom the good gods must surely destine to be some day united, shall
meet, again never to be parted? Dearest Onesimus, dearer to me than my
own life, what if we meet not again on this earth? May it not be that
we shall meet elsewhere? Yet, even for this life, I still trust and
hope; and do thou the like for my sake. To think of thee hopeless kills
me. O dearest friend, sweet cause of my heart’s most bitter sorrow,
think not that I reproach thee because thy love is cruel. Sweeter, far
sweeter, to mourn as I mourn for thy absence, than never to have known
and loved thee. Farewell and hope on; and believe me faithful to thy
love, whether I live or die.”
At the end of the letter were added these words:
“I see I have ended my letter with a word of evil omen. Onesimus laughs
at omens; but for my own pleasure I will avert the evil by repeating
a former question. The visions concerning Christus that thou didst
speak of, have they ever appeared to thee too in thy dreams? Because
thou didst forget to answer this same question when I first asked it
of thee, let this violet, which I now kiss, be my ambassador that thou
forget not a second time.”
While I sat with the withered flower in my hand, musing on Athens,
seeing, as if before mine eyes, the little chamber in which even at
that instant perchance Eucharis sat spinning, and Molon reading by
her side, a message was brought to me by Pistus that Philemon desired
to see me in the library; “and,” said the Paphlagonian in a malicious
tone, “you were best think of some subtle defense, for the old man
knows what you have done. But you will probably prefer to appease him
by confessing.” The man’s malice angered me, and I entered the room in
some heat. It soon appeared that a copy of the plays of Aristophanes
was missing from the library. Philemon was at that time reviewing his
books with great exactness, destroying such as seemed unfit for a
Christian household; and he had expressly enjoined on me not to take
any of the works of the poets of the Old Comedy out of the library,
and I had obeyed him. But when this book was missed, Pistus had
affirmed that he had seen me reading it in my chamber. Understanding
this I replied roundly that the Paphlagonian lied. But Philemon bade
me bethink myself whether unwittingly I might not have taken it from
the library, being always fond of the works of that poet, and having
in former times been accustomed to take freely from any part of the
library such books as I desired; and he added that, of the rest of
the household, very few could understand the book, being illiterate,
and those who could have read it would not do so, because they had
received the seal in Christ and belonged to the saints. I could but
repeat that I had not taken the book. On this Pistus said, with a
sneer, that, if that were so, the worthy Onesimus would probably be
quite willing that his room should be searched. I at once assented;
but scarcely had two slaves quitted the room on their quest, when the
villainy of Pistus was revealed to me; and I turned and took him by
the throat saying that, if the books were found in my chamber, the
Paphlagonian had hidden them there. Hereat Pistus fell on his knees,
making as if he were terror-stricken by my violence, and calling the
Lord to witness his innocence. Philemon indignantly bade me desist;
but his indignation became still greater when the two slaves returned
bearing the missing volumes, which they had found it seemed, hidden
under my couch. In the presence of all the slaves he ordered me to
return to my chamber, saying that at first he had never thought to
accuse me of stealing the books, but only of thoughtlessly or wilfully
borrowing them, but now he knew not what to think. So I went back to my
chamber under suspicion of being a thief; and entering I found on my
table this letter from Epictetus.
§ 9. HOW EPICTETUS FURTHER EXPLAINED HIS PHILOSOPHY.
“EPICTETUS TO ONESIMUS, HEALTH.
“A bad performer cannot sing alone but only in a chorus. In the same
way some weak-kneed folk cannot walk the path of life alone, but must
needs hold somebody’s hand. But if you intend to be ever anything
better than an infant, you must learn to walk alone. It angers me to
hear a young man say to his tutor, ‘I wish to have _you_ with me.’ Has
not the fellow God with him? But, Onesimus, you are not willing to take
God as your guide in practice, though you profess to do so in theory.
For with your lips you say, ‘O Lord, suffer me to go straight on for
twenty-five furlongs and a half, and then to take the first turning to
the left.’ However, let me attempt to answer your questions; but not in
order, for first I must shew you that whether there be a good God or
no, you must needs act as though there were a good God or else you must
die. First then, that there is Demeter, is it not clear to all those
who eat of bread? And that there is a Helios or Apollo, is not that
also clear to all who enjoy the sunlight? Call the former Bread, and
the latter Sunlight, if you will; still there they are, and you must
partake of them and acknowledge them, as long as you partake of the
Feast of Life.
“But you complain that the Host of the Feast is unkind or foolish, not
making proper provision for his guests. Foolish man! Then why remain a
guest? Do not be more foolish than children. When the game ceases to
please them, they say ‘I will play no more.’ So do you, if the feast
please you not, say ‘I will feast no more;’ and go. For remember the
door is always open. But if you remain at the Feast, do not complain
of the Host; for that is silly. Remember therefore that if the Host
intends you to remain as His guest, in that case He has made all
needful provision for you; but if He has not, that is a token that your
way lies towards the door.
“Apply this rule to yourself and her whom you love. As it is better
that you should die of hunger and preserve your tranquillity of mind to
the last gasp, than that you should live in abundance with a soul full
of all disturbance and torment, so is it better that Eucharis should
die and you be in peace, rather than that your betrothed (or any else
the nearest and dearest to you) should live and be in perturbation of
mind. Nay, a father ought rather to suffer his son to become undutiful
and wicked rather than himself to become unhappy. You are not to say,
‘If I chastise not my son, he will prove undutiful;’ but you are to
prefer your own serenity of mind to the dutifulness of a son and to all
other objects; and the same rule holds as regards Eucharis. Thus and
thus only will you be always at peace, and able to despise the worst of
omens.”
After this Epictetus fell to speaking in a more general way about
philosophy and philosophers, and of their duty to the multitude; of
which some part I omit, but the rest was to this effect:
“But perhaps you say, ‘The multitude has not this knowledge of the
folly of sorrow; and if we bewail not with them when they bewail, we
shall seem to them brutish, and be hated. Or how shall we explain our
theory to the multitude?’ For what purpose should you desire to explain
it to them? Is it not enough that you are convinced yourself? When I
was a boy at Rome, as I remember, and when my master’s children came
to me clapping their hands and saying, ‘To-morrow is the good feast
of Saturn,’ did I tell them (think you?) that good does not consist
in sweetmeats nor such things as they desired? Nay, but I clapped
my hands too. In the same way, when you are unable to convince any
one, treat him as a child, and clap your hands with him; or if you
will not do that, at least hold your tongue. When therefore you see a
man groaning because he, or his betrothed, is likely to be given in
marriage to another, first do your best to recover him from his evil
and mistaken opinion. But if he will not be persuaded, nothing hinders
but you may pretend some sadness and a certain fellow-feeling of his
affliction. Only have a care that grief do not effectually seize your
heart while you think only to personate it.
“You see then that I forbid you sorrow either for yourself or for
others. No less do I forbid you hate. For why should you hate, or even
be angry, with a wicked man, a thief, say, or an adulterer? ‘Because,’
reply you, ‘they take from me that which I most dearly value, my wealth
or my reputation or the affection of my wife.’ In other words they take
from you those objects which you love, and desire to excess, though
they do not depend on you. But the remedy is to abstain from loving
these things to excess. Always remember also when any one injures you,
as it is called, that the cause of the injury is ignorance or erroneous
opinion. For no one would commit a crime if he knew that he was thereby
destroying his own soul. Through erroneous opinions Medea slew her
children and Clytemnestra her husband. Why therefore hate a man merely
because the poor wretch is terribly ignorant and is doing himself the
greatest of all injuries, while he falsely supposes he is injuring you?
“Bear in mind further that everything has two faces, whereof one is
endurable the other unendurable. For example, when your brother is
injuring you, look not upon him as an injurer but rather as a brother.
Even if you cannot do this for your brother’s sake, you must do it
for your own. For in all things you must consider not your brother
nor your brother’s interest first, but yourself and your own serenity
of mind. ‘My brother’—perhaps you say—‘ought not to have treated me
so shamefully.’ Very true; so much the worse for him. But that is his
business, not yours, and you are not to injure yourself on his account.
However he treats you, you must treat him rightly. For your treatment
of him is in your power, and therefore is your concern; but how he
treats you is not in your power, and therefore concerns you not. If
therefore your enemy reviles you, try to think well of him for not
having struck you. ‘But he has struck me.’ Then think well of him for
not having wounded you. ‘But he has wounded me.’ Then think well of him
for not having slain you. ‘But I am dying of the wound he gave me.’
Then think well of him for having opened unto you that door which the
Master of the Feast has appointed as your exit from His banquet. Apply
this rule to Pistus, and if he has poisoned Philemon’s mind against
you, think well of him that he has not yet poisoned your body itself.
“But the former rule is the more important, that you are not to set a
value on the things that are beyond your own control. Does Fortune take
things away? Laugh at her then. When Philemon and his friends deprive
you of your wonted freedom, and take away your books, your reputation,
your prospect of marriage, you must consider yourself before a
tribunal of boys who are mulcting you of knuckle-bones and nuts. ‘So
Epictetus makes light of love and marriage and the bands of family
affection.’ Not so; he recognizes them for the common people but not
for Onesimus and Epictetus, nor for other philosophers in the present
war of good against evil. For as the state of things now is, the
philosopher should hear the trumpet sounding for all good men to make
ready, like an army drawn up for battle in the face of an enemy; and he
should be without all distraction, entirely attending to the service of
God.
“Finally, whatever betide, be not a slave. ‘I must go to the
ergastulum’ says Onesimus. And must you go groaning too? ‘I must
be fettered like a slave.’ Must you lament like a slave too? ‘Marry
Prepousa,’ says Philemon, ‘and become a Christian.’ ‘I will not.’ ‘Then
I will slay you.’ ‘Did I ever assert that I could not be slain?’ That
is the language that befits my Onesimus; not to look at the spectacle
of life like a runaway slave in the theatre, who shivers whenever any
one touches him on the shoulder or mentions his master’s name. Instead
of swearing allegiance to Christus to conciliate Philemon, swear rather
never to dishonor God who loves truth, nor to murmur at anything that
betides; for all things betide according to His will. At all times
endeavor to listen to His voice; for he accosts you and speaks to you
thus: ‘Onesimus, when you were at your lectures in Athens, what did
you call death and imprisonment and all other such external things?’
‘I? Things indifferent.’ ‘And what do you call them now?’ ‘The same.’
‘What is the aim and object of thy life?’ ‘To follow Thee.’ ‘Go on then,
boldly.’”
§ 10. OF METRODORUS AND HIS ADVICE.
I read and re-read the letter of Epictetus; but it could no longer
settle my doubts nor quiet my mind. What was true in it seemed to be
stale and useless, namely, that each man was able to do whatsoever
he wished, provided that he wished only for those things that he was
able to do. And again, what might have been useful, if true, seemed
not true, or at all events not certain, I mean that the Master of the
Feast was good. For all that Epictetus had said came to this, that if
we remained as a guest at the Feast, each one was bound to act as if
the Master was good, or else to depart from the Feast. But why was a
philosopher bound to suppose something that might be false, or else
to slay himself? For, all the while, there might be no Master of the
Feast at all, but only a talk about Masters, and in reality neither
Master nor Feast, but only a kind of scramble for sweetmeats. Or else
there might be not one Master, but many, some good and kind, others
bad and unkind. Or what if the Master were Himself good but thwarted
by His wicked servants so that the guests were starved and not fed? In
that case might not the guests fairly complain? And to make believe
that the Master was perfectly good and wise (and all for the purpose of
attaining for oneself calmness and tranquillity of mind)—this seemed
a kind of flattering of the Master and deceiving of oneself, that was
scarcely worthy of a philosopher.
This peace and tranquillity of Epictetus, the more I thought of it,
the less I admired it. For, in spite of his denial, it seemed to loosen
all love and friendship, as well as hate. How could I “preserve my
serenity of mind” while I was reading the letter of Eucharis? Ought
I to say to myself, “Whatever may betide Eucharis, I at all events
shall be completely happy?” That seemed to me not possible; no, nor
desirable. If Eucharis sorrowed, I felt that it would be sweeter for me
too to sorrow than rejoice. Then again, as to hating, Epictetus would
have me not hate Pistus for being bad, but speak well of him because
he was not worse. Now this perchance might tend to tranquillity, but
how could it be consistent with truth? For if a man steal from me one
mina, am I to thank him for not stealing two? As well, when a man gives
me one mina, abuse him for not giving me two! It is the duty of a
philosopher neither to speak better of a man, nor to speak worse of a
man than he deserves. Besides, Epictetus seemed to err in speaking of
all wickedness and crime as merely caused by erroneous opinions, for
to me such faults as slander, cruelty, and baseness, seemed altogether
different, and fit to be differently regarded, from such a fault as
an unskillful reckoner might commit in saying that six and seven
make twelve. In all these matters Epictetus seemed to me (and indeed
still seems) to go astray because he had wholly set his mind upon the
attainment of an object which perchance the Master of the Feast does
not intend His guests to attain in this world, I mean perfect and
unchangeable serenity of mind.
Being in a great perturbation with all this conflict of thoughts, and
inclining now more than ever to believe that there were no gods, I
determined to disobey the command of Philemon and to resort to my
friend Artemidorus that I might ask counsel of him. So I went to him
on the morrow, when both Philemon and Pistus chanced to be absent from
the city. But he had gone on some business of law to Laodicea. However
I found in the courtyard of his house a certain friend of Artemidorus,
known also to me, one Metrodorus, whom I believed (but did not for
certain know) to hold the same opinions as Artemidorus. I saluted him
gladly; and, because the sight of a friendly face was now rare for
me, I took pleasure in conversing with him (although I had not been
greatly inclined towards him in former days) walking up and down in
the portico and discoursing about divers matters and in the end about
matters of philosophy and religion. And to be brief, not having any
other counsellor to go to, I imparted to this man (although I knew but
little of him) some of my troubles and perplexities, asking what would
philosophy advise me to do in my sore strait?
When I had made an end of speaking, Metrodorus ceased walking and stood
still, near a broken slab of pavement in the portico, where some ants
had built a nest and were passing busily to and from the crevice. So
here Metrodorus coming to a stand, and looking down upon the ants and
then up at me, said, “If there be gods indeed, as perchance there are,
I will now show you what it is likely that they think of us mortals.
Certain people say that the gods being infinitely wiser and nobler,
as well as stronger, than we are, must needs have a care for us, and
rule our actions aright. Now, my young friend, here stand we two upon
this pavement, two human beings as much (I suppose) superior to these
myriads of little busy insects at our feet, as the gods are superior
to us. Well, my friend, do we have a care for these ants? Surely not.
Do we sorrow for their sins and compassionate their errors? I think
not. Do we rule their actions aright? Do we stir a finger to help them
in the storing of their food or to avert the destruction of the whole
republic of them? Nay, but we take not a single thought for all their
doings and misdoings, their virtues and their vices (for doubtless
these creatures have their virtues and their vices even as we have)
except it may be to amuse ourselves withal, or to rid ourselves of them
if they become inconvenient. But you say, men are so vastly superior
to ants. Not more, I take it, than the gods (if any) are superior
to men. But in men, you urge, there is so much more of diversity in
character and in action. Who knows? Only stoop down and look at these
diminutive beings more closely. Mark what a bustle they are in; all
working, but not all doing the same work; some, look you, are the
scavengers, carrying out the ordure, others the marketers carrying
in vast fragments of bean-shell or hastening onwards along with
pieces of barley-corn in their mouths; some also, as it seems to me,
standing still and ruling or instructing the rest. And who knows also
but, besides their architects and masons, they have their demagogues
and counsellors, cooks also and musicians, yes and philosophers too
after their manner, philosophising perhaps about us two at this very
moment, and very prettily demonstrating the truth of the theories of
the priest-ants, saying that ‘Man being a noble Being, infinitely
powerful, and wise, and good, must needs take thought for us, poor
mortal ants, and rule our actions aright, and in the end conform us
to Himself’—whereas, my dear Onesimus, so far is this from being
the case that on the contrary”—and here he stamped heavily upon the
ant-hill—“I thus with one little movement of my foot, subvert the whole
ant-universe, for no other cause but my own particular pleasure.