MANUEL PALAEOLOGUS TO HIS SON JOHN. SEVEN ETHICO-POLITICAL ORATIONS. ORATION I. An exhortatory oration on the study of eloquence, and concerning virtue and the good prince.
A Those who wish to be good princes, and who possess some weight of mind, who look to the public utility and are lovers of good things, and who prefer nothing above truth, for them nothing can be more useful than the science of speaking correctly. For this is for them, without any controversy, something better than a wealth of resources; it has more protection than the treasures of King Croesus; more strength than that immense army of Xerxes; more power, along with honor, than that fabled spade of Gyges; and, in short, it is both more effective and of greater value than these things, to an extent that cannot easily be explained even in words. B Let us therefore consider each of these men mentioned, and what, precisely, they were able to accomplish through those things by which they thought they could achieve some great and noble deed. Then, let us compare the ruler who is accomplished in these speeches, and who is, in other respects, such a ruler as we immediately sketched out at the start. For if such an examination is instituted in this way, I do not think we will easily wander from the truth.
That massive amount of gold, therefore, deluded Croesus—who bore a high spirit because of it—by frustrating his expectations; and the hope he had placed in money, which, being of no use, lay there as if dead, became for him nothing but a flimsy protection. C Nay, on account of this very gold, in addition to bringing about none of the things he had expected, he even perished. Nor is it, in my opinion, anything new or unreasonable that the matter should have turned out differently than the expectation of the man who had placed his trust not in virtue, but in metals. For these, when used by those who handle them rightly—as is proper and with the prudence that befits a man—appear to be the most beautiful ornament of this life. But those who look only to the collection of treasures, and set that up as both happiness and the end itself, for them riches serve for their destruction and provide a cause for the greatest disgrace.
Our Croesus, who—if I may say so—had more regard for the gathering of D wealth than for God himself, and who depended solely upon gold—that gold which was like those stones hidden in deep waters, which are useful for nothing unless perhaps to provide an occasion for shipwrecks—boasted that he would achieve everything. For since he was blinded in the eyes of his soul by the disease of avarice, he could not see anything beyond what was lying at his feet. Whence it was that he considered the vast amount of gold he had buried to be his salvation, his luxury, and the source of his kingdom. He was for this reason puffed up against everyone, and never sleeping, nor even intoxicated with wine, he was almost obsessively muttering...
A to that man with whom, for the sake of true happiness, gold was a manifest joke, even if someone had cast whole rocks turned into gold at his feet. This Athenian lawgiver, who was called Solon, was admired in those golden Athens, which at that time were full of admirable men. And yet, how is it not worthy for all to admire him? For in the midst of so many noble and good men, filled with many noble and good things, that one person should have surpassed all the others in every way almost risks being beyond belief. But this man, even among them, was venerable next to God, not because he possessed and provided gold. For he did not abound in gold, nor did he hold silver in high value, unless it were gathered rightly and spent better, and each were done in due time. Indeed, neither for that man himself, nor for those who were obedient to his word, were those nuggets of gold—of which Croesus, being a slave, thought himself the master—so highly sought after. Hence Solon did not seek to discover any art for his citizens by which they could become rich in every way; neither this metallic art, nor that one, I suppose, B which is named after its method of working gold. It was not, then, because of these things that he was considered the best among the best, and the greatest among the greatest men, as he still seems to all today; but rather because he established good laws for citizens who had already attained to many noble things, all for their good. And the works of law which had been produced by this man surpassed the former laws by as much as they were the latest to come into existence, and endured for the city throughout all time. For they seemed to those for whom they were passed to be more illustrious, by far, than their public ornaments, although those exceeded the ornaments of other cities, and notably more fortified C than the citadel itself—which they considered to be the most secure of any on earth—and, in short, better by a great margin than those things of which they boasted. In this way, then, this man reached the pinnacle of wisdom, because it was valued above any gold. But Croesus, so tipsy from that vice of his, could not perceive what manner of man he was, and before what kind of person he was boasting. For when this vice once occupies the minds of men, it instills in them a kind of perpetual thirst for itself; a thirst which, by the very thing which is perceived, always grows more and more—just as material for fire and flame—and ruins the minds of those who have been seized by this disease. For it is not possible for one who is sick in his soul to have a healthy mind. This is what happened to Croesus. And the proof D is that he rejected the admonitions and counsels of Solon, which even Ulysses, or Nestor, or anyone else who far surpassed others in political wisdom, would rightly have revered, in my judgment, and placed before his own decrees. But Croesus did not so; but he all but laughed at the old man, and deemed the hopes conceived from money—which were entirely useless—and empty, to be superior to those truly golden admonitions, which provided the means for salvation and glory. Thus he was ensnared by gold, and he was one to admire only that, until from experience itself he learned, and recognized himself to have been deceived.
A And, I think, not much time passed before that same gold brought him useless regret, both for his error concerning it and for the foolish words he had used when he would not obey the one who sought to sober him. For he who but yesterday or the day before was boasting of his wealth, raising his eyebrows, walking on tiptoe, stretching his neck toward heaven, and altogether exalting himself against those better than him—even while conversing with the Athenian Solon—the same man, after a short time, I think, was seen weeping aloud on account of those very heaps of metal, calling to mind the Athenian Solon, when the fire leaped against him. And he who had been reproached by Cyrus—who had secured the goodwill of his subjects, and maintained safety, treasures, and whatever else a king needs for preservation and success, based on greatness of wisdom—for trusting in his wealth, was then in a different state. B Indeed, it became manifest what the difference is between wisdom and wealth. For on account of the latter he who possessed it was being burned, but the name of Solon rescued him from the flames, having been spoken as something peripheral. For Croesus did not shout "Solon, Solon" for the sake of salvation, but rather because he greatly admired the man when he was lying on the pyre, about to be consumed by it. For he saw in him a wisdom that was even prophetic. It is possible for you to know these things more clearly if you wish to go through them, and if anyone else has written about them, and the Muses of Herodotus. This, then, is sufficient for us, both to praise wisdom a little, and to prove that wealth is nothing, if it be not gathered for some other purpose, and again dispersed for that same purpose; and that both of these are done not through anger, nor wrath, nor an intemperate desire, but through reason. For I think I have said enough for the proposed purpose, so that, as the saying goes, having seen but a claw and the hem of a garment, one who has a mind would be able to recognize the lion and the fabric. For the last thing said appears to me as a kind of rule for properly storing up treasure, or for failing to do so. And so, having spoken this final word both about wealth in general and about the character of the king of the Lydians, I desist from further speech about them.
It is necessary, however, to shift the discourse to the great army of Xerxes, D and to those forces which, by their reputation and threats, compelled all borders to tremble and shake; which, having been cast like a thunderbolt in many parts of the earth where there was no virtue, how much confidence, I ask, did they provide to him who had gathered them with glorious hopes? And what useless regret did they subsequently bring? And deservedly so; for they simply allowed one to conjecture from successes already achieved that even greater things were still to come. But because these were of fortune, not of virtue, they showed those who exalted themselves against the latter to be not at all true prophets. For how could fortune prevail over virtue, unless God be angry and look away? And this has become manifest, no less from the previous successes of the Greeks; yet especially from...
the time the entire Persian force attacked the Athenians. Fierce indeed they were, as a lion is to stags, yet later they used their feet like stags fleeing from lions, unable to endure even their barking. The king then learned well, from what he had suffered, that it is not numbers, but virtue, that everywhere prevails; and that one should not weigh the many against the good, even if the latter are few, even if they should conquer all the ends of the earth in order. For poverty joined with virtue is more honorable than those who abound in wealth without it; and those born of obscure parents are in this way far more brilliant than those who pride themselves on their nobility. And in sum, all things joined with virtue are brilliant; and things that do not share in it, the opposite. Let us examine closely, if you like, that army—superior in every number, if one were to count it—which, since it could easily rush upon many nations, at the last, by its own worst fate, entered the land that nurtures men who preferred everything to what is honorable and to virtue. B Yet this power, so great and of such magnitude—the entire strength of Asia, or rather Asia in its entirety, if indeed Libya was not also present—which thought it fitting for itself to march infantry across the sea, and did not shrink from sailing over solid lands and continents, and measured cities like bushels, and was so ambitious for novelties that it considered it a small thing if it did not hold sway over the whole world under the sun (for it would be most disgraceful if it should require any war against whomever, or even against all mankind in succession)—this barbarian multitude, then, whose every thought was inferior, was defeated by a very few soldiers, yet soldiers worthy of many rewards. These were the sons of the Athenians, whom the same war did not deprive of the many and brilliant crowns they had obtained in times past and in those near to us, through skill in arms and nobility of spirit. Indeed, this battle adorned their heads with far more beautiful and greater C honors than those which had come before. For it was fitting that the battle which had been more beautiful and greater than all those fought previously should confer similar rewards, both to its leader and to the soldiers who had achieved the work so brilliantly: out of regard, on one hand, for true magnanimity, which shines with remarkable generosity; and on the other, for extraordinary fortitude, which was also adorned by the greatest modesty and was conspicuous for similar prudence, ever the companion of justice, together with the virtues subordinate to it. For that which is particular must need be embraced by the more general and kindred. In this way, the Athenians, being disposed toward every virtue, prized peace more than the acquisition of many acres of land; and at the same time they repelled the Persians, those authors of injuries and the avaricious, not only from their own soil and ancestral seats, but indeed from the whole of Greece. And this they ceased not to do with the greatest moderation, which they had received D long ago from their own ancestors along with the previous successes in things
A of every kind, for which it was devolved by merit upon their descendants as a heritage, as they were emulators of the good. For they knew that if this were lacking, not even the whole power of virtue could profit a man. Concerning this moderation, we shall speak more conveniently at our leisure, when the better part of the time allows, with the help of the divine will. For now, let us remain with the matters proposed to us. For it was fitting, even if all the Barbarians were unaware of the excellence of virtue, that the king himself ought not to have been unaware, nor to have thought that he would bring into his power by the number of his troops those who would prefer to die in battle rather than admit to anything shameful. For time itself has shown that to these men it was far more precious to fall in battle, armed and fighting for their own interests, than for others who are given over to pleasure and sloth to spend their days in the festivities of games. B Xerxes himself, driven as if by the intoxication of his successes and by an irrational fury concerning the hope of managing his affairs successfully—just as he had ordered the sea to be beaten because it yielded to the winds against his will—so also did he think (O intemperate audacity!) that a little smoke from the fire that burned in his heart, that is to say, from his wrath devoid of reason, would suffice to consume the Greeks utterly. But the excessive force of his absurd desire brought him no honor, but rather gave him a contrary result. For he who had perturbed the spirits of many with the thunder of his rumor, and had driven them to the point that, anticipating his commands, they would prostrate themselves at his feet—while he imagined that without labor he would add Greece also to his domains, and intending to capture the whole Greek nation as if they were certain children, children who indulged in delicacies in the marketplace and were intent upon toys, having tasted no work worthy of men, but having only learned to dance and to act lasciviously, being womanish in nature, in mind, and in education—he, I say, arrogant and lifted up above the clouds, and prideful, he who was invading the goods of the Greeks with such haughtiness that he was already distributing their territory to his satraps to be held with authority, as if he had long since occupied it; he, therefore, with as much haste as he had set out from C home, went seeking Greece, where he had dreamt of victories for himself and of trophies to be set up over his enemies, so much did he in turn with equal haste beat a retreat backward, being unable to withstand even the first encounter. For by as much as he sped toward them with most rapid impetuosity, by so much did he depart from them in a shameful flight, having become now another man altogether in body, as well as in judgment and soul, and to all he was intolerable by reason of his haste. He desired the land of Persia; he desired its smoke, after the example of that wandering Homeric Odysseus. Even if there were something worse than smoke, he would have been eager to accept it, provided only that he were at home. Wherefore I believe that this man had been so changed that, letting go of crowns and triumph and all the splendor of victory, he admired nothing else but flight, which is not even becoming to slaves. Nor is it unlikely, in truth, that if anyone had shown him to the maidens in the women's quarters, he would have been content to be struck D upon the face by them because of his womanish flight. For his soul and his reason were immediately turned, and he felt such dread,
A thinking that he had no need of feet for his flight homeward, nor of horses outstripping deer in the excellence of their course, but rather of wings, and indeed the wings of those birds which surpass all others in lightness. The nobleman would have been happy to cross the Hellespont on a raft, as he could not swim. He had changed from one extreme to another, or rather to the very opposite. For he who, with a dense assembly of ships and their precise joining, had bridged such a great sea, and by that same crossing had passed from Asia into Europe, refusing as he did before to consider his passage to be like those of his predecessors—who, being more insignificant and humble, were driven by the flight of silver-bought men and baggage-carriers—now kept his course without ever looking back. He wished, I believe, to slip from the hands of his pursuers, and about all other things he was B lightly troubled. This very thing he was pursuing: to escape, to flee, to make his journey toward the sunrise intense and incessant, not to sleep, not to rest, not to stand still. For how do you think he hated at that time the Europe that was once dear to him? His whole mind was at home while he was running; he was crying out for home, he was straining toward home in his course, directing his hands forward and applying great force to them, and all but raining blows upon them. He was rousing them with his voice as if with a lash, because he was entirely content with nothing that could not translate him to his fatherland in that same hour, as if by a sling-shot. Whence it came about that, whereas he ought to have admired them for the singular zeal in the course that allowed them to be left behind by him who was hurrying so much, he did the opposite and C severely rebuked them. For his own eagerness for flight made their speed appear to him as a kind of slowness. He was always exhorting those running with him, performing that which was superfluous without perceiving it. For it was in no way tolerable to him that they should not complete the same course as the king, those whom the same fear had driven into error and who had fully committed themselves to the flight with him from the beginning. Ordering those who could not keep up to go to the crows, the nobleman thought he was doing something worthy of his own person; for he was wholly given over to his flight, he had given the reins full slack, looking only to the moment, and not looking toward anything else. And yet, instead of a plain, he drove over the mountains; instead of sandy ground, over that which was full of rocks; instead of a smooth path, over the rough and crooked one, considering the night to be day, and the deep darkness D to be brilliant light. And who, pray, was this man? He who, in the steady midday, with the sky clear, would barely cross a level and flat plain, where there was nothing difficult, by walking slowly and step by step, out of magnificence and pride. But if there was a need to eat or to do some other necessary thing, he did it, I believe, while riding, if it was urgent. To such an extent had he lost his mind as it were through cowardice, and cared nothing for what was noble or for his duty. Thus having failed in good judgment in every way, with such a bearing, besides not being ashamed at all, he did not even count any of the terrors; neither fire, nor wild beasts, nor slippery ground, nor mud, nor a peak, nor a cliff, nor hunger,
nor infamy itself. He considered all troublesome things as a festival, and all terrible things as a public celebration; nothing was frightening to him, except the Athenians; there was nothing, except for them, that one ought to flee; to them alone he felt all were bound to yield the first place in everything, and those who did so should not be ashamed in any way. What need is there of many words? Everything indecent he counted as honorable, and every loss as gain, provided he could return home safely. Therefore he did not blush that he showed himself to be one person entirely different from another; nor did he think it serious if he suffered in the eyes of men things even worse than those he had shortly before threatened against those from whom he was now suffering these things. But what could be called more shameful than this extreme transformation, brought about so suddenly? If nothing inspires them with terror, frogs do not dive into the deep, so that they might appear nowhere, hidden in the marshes. But this man, who was equal to no mortal who has ever existed in the fantasies conceived by his own mind—a thing which not even hares do—he endured doing this: he fled, he ran, he did not rest, though he saw neither his pursuer, nor saw his shadow, nor heard any voice at all. Perhaps this consoled the man suffering these things, and I believe it even encouraged him toward this supreme and incomparable madness: seeing that those who had previously been his partners in arrogance were now no less eager in their flight than he was. For nothing was more ancient to them than to return home. With this return, the king would not have exchanged those things without which he would not have previously desired even to live. Everything else he placed after this, and the kingdom itself, a most legitimate inheritance which had descended to him from his father, and which was most great, he held as second to this. For as it seems, fear, once it has taken hold of the soul, has an admirable power to drive out of it every good thing, unless the mind acquires this in a way consistent and appropriate, and then also spends time with it, which, by circuits and lengths of time, fixes and confirms this within it, rendering it immutable. When cowardice has wounded the mind, having been seized by unadulterated fear, it easily exchanges great and very brilliant things for vile and ridiculous ones, and things full of difficulty, hatred, and execration, as if they were contrary to them, it receives with pleasure, looking only to the warding off of that which causes pain. Having suffered this, the king, B counting the kingdom itself as a trifle, and regarding being worshipped as small—a thing which was considered as nothing by almost all nations—and the being served by those under him as if equal to God, having become negligent of the festivals and public celebrations in which he used to delight, and having looked past his palaces, his baths, and those paradises which he used to prefer to everything, and—in my opinion—even those islands which the madmen of that time assigned to the blessed, C the meadows of asphodel, and the Elysian plain, and everything of that kind, he praised the lot of the private citizen, and was ready to embrace servitude, and to bear everything, if only he might be saved. And of those stones, so many and beautiful and great, with which he had been adorned, and of his clothing of gold, and indeed of all vanity, he became forgetful, and he embraced poverty, and proposed a way of life that provided him with everything up to immortality. D
A And one might reasonably say this too: that he believed, when he was being flattered by everyone, that he would share in this [immortality] on account of his kingship. For he deemed that it would be for him, ever yielding better things through his own care and virtue, a bridge and a ladder to the immortality awaited; and it [the soul] in its turn [would be] a prize for his kingship after his long sojourn here. But it was not possible for one whose soul had been transformed to keep his mind unmoved; so that he immediately cast out of his memory his kingship and whatever matter rendered it august; and as for its pleasant and delightful things, which I suppose he formerly preferred even to ambrosia and nectar, he cast them out of his reason entirely; and he remembered his former foolish and indeed insane state not at all, as I for my part judge, so that if anyone had discoursed to him of kingship and the goods of kingship at that time, it would have been most tiresome to him, and perhaps he would have incurred some rebuke from him. B And yet he formerly received, and welcomed, and rewarded bountifully, those who honored him with a dignity equal to those who live in heaven and who enjoy the grace that is there. But he was no longer that Xerxes of before, having been moved from his earlier ways to the opposites—he who was then performing these things, the great, the grand, the bold, the arrogant, the insolent, the one who was in danger, as it seemed, of struggling even against the Divine; no, he was another than that former Xerxes, and altogether a stranger. For indeed, that bowing of the head toward the earth under the weight of repentance was not of that former arrogance to which he was accustomed from his first years, and without which he could not be seen for even a moment of time. So that while the same Xerxes remained as to his essence (for it was not possible to change nature), yet having changed his appearance to the extreme, he gave everyone the greatest reason to admire him—not by philosophizing, not by conducting himself moderately—for how [could he do] that?—but on the contrary, because he had not tasted philosophy, the mistress of moderation. C Being destitute of this, he conducted himself so unseemly in the change of his circumstances that he eclipsed the octopuses and made all the chameleons seem like mere trifles. For that hero, or rather he who thought himself to take the lead of the heroes themselves, thought with a mind more dejected than Irus the beggar of that time. Thus, from the ether he fell to the abyss, having brought down his brow, and having brought down his pride and haughtiness; having cast off the lion's skin, and having cast off his gravity; and in short, having changed so completely from one to another that he loathed his own life, and in a certain way took punishment upon himself for his former madness and vanity, even if he did not do these things with a pure and spontaneous mind. D But in his manner, and doing things that even a slave would have been ashamed of, he appeared as a strange monster. For having never learned to honor the measure as one should, nor to pay heed to himself as a man, he ran aground, having been transformed from arrogance and insolence into a humility becoming to slaves, [an humility] extreme from an extreme, accompanied by disorder. Thus, everything barbarian and uneducated, if it prospers, is unbearable to those of lower status; but if it should grow weak, that which provides
for its own safety, it becomes, as it were, a source of insolence and easily endures the mockery of slaves. B So too this king, begotten of such a race and ignorant of true instruction, being led only by a desire for his own preservation, labored under grave vices and fell into extreme discord. For he did not believe he could live unless gifts were brought to him, unless he were worshipped both by those from the immediate neighborhood and all his own people—both those situated all around Persia and those nations dwelling farthest away. This man, then, stripped in war of almost all his resources, soon even gladly cast aside those brilliant arms and the entire royal equipment so that he might be lighter and more easily carried by horses, which were being severely afflicted by the intense pace. Sometimes he even easily tolerated the reproaches of his own people, whom, on account of his arrogance, he often did not even deign to look upon before. To such a great extent had his former status turned to the opposite. For the fact that a man of this sort feared for his soul and his life persuaded him to bear gladly whatever bitterness one might conceive in his mind, and whatever might cause trouble and gnaw at him: C it persuaded him to desire to be seen naked by those who had remained at home, and to consider this more illustrious than all the spoils he had ever obtained. Returning with these to Susa (by what words, I ask, could anyone explain the madness with which he used them?), he used to triumph not moderately, as those who met him cheered and applauded, all but offering him everything equal to a god. For because he considered great prosperity to be his own virtue, and because of his unexpected success—not feeling his own softness at all, but trampling upon those who were better than himself but who were yielding to the multitude of such great forces and were deluded by a hostile and envious demon—he felt like some giant or Hercules, or one who had descended from Olympus, magnificently looking down upon others; there was nothing great or august that he did not think became him. For, possessed by extreme madness, lifting his head on high, and wishing as much as possible to appear as if he were flying, whenever he sat upon the royal throne, he thought those daily honors, so great and exceeding his own worth, were altogether befitting the excellent endowments of his body and soul. For he considered that saying, "Know thyself," to be a mere fable, or rather he had neither heard it nor wished to hear it. He knew, indeed, that he walked upon the earth (for how could he have been ignorant of that?), but he imagined, I believe, that his head was not far from the heavenly vault. D For the life of this man itself makes us think such things; and so be it, for perhaps that is enough on these matters.
It will be time, however, to bring forth that famous deed of Gyges into our midst and submit it to examination. He, therefore, was a shepherd by fortune, but became tyrant of the Lydians by a turning of a ring, as they say, if at least we are not to despise the fable.
A Yet, should we be right to admire the craft of the ring, even if one concedes this Lydian fable should be accepted as most true? And should we think the one who achieved and brought this to pass by the device to be happy and enviable? Why? Because the outcome of the device is neither truly good, nor happy, nor enviable to those who possess understanding. For that which does not come from virtue is not truly good, a fact to which even all inanimate things would cry out. Even if he who is devoid of this, having ruled even to beyond the Pillars of Heracles, were to gather all wealth, and gather all slaves, and all the delights of life; and then were to grant himself as much time as he pleased to enjoy them, these are trifles to those who possess virtue. For whatever is done, or is experienced, if it is with virtue, it is good; but if not, the opposite. Gyges did not win his tyranny through virtue. And this is clear from this very fact. For there is nothing in common between virtue and tyranny, nor can a tyrant rule the wills of those oppressed by his tyranny. How so? Because he rules those forced by violence. And where there is violence, there is no will. So that, by some device and craft, he has mastered the bodies of one nation, even against their will; and they are not men stronger than their neighbors, unless one were to say the opposite. But this is neither honorable nor durable, as those oppressed by tyranny have arrived at that state against their will.
B Furthermore, apart from what has been said, if one were to consider the matter accurately, Gyges was not at all a king of men; since the will is of the soul, and the soul is properly the human being. But he, being a tyrant, was so far from winning the wills of the oppressed that it was much more in accord with nature that he should be hated by all, and be targeted by their plots in every way. These, indeed, are the goods of tyranny, which are born and grow alongside it in whatever way, and when they dissolve with it, they end in something most foul. Indeed, if the form and reason of this speech allowed us to simply weave a history, I could have proven much more rightly than by the narratives instituted—and he who places great faith in gold, and he who boasts greatly in iron and the gathering of peoples, and he who trusts in machines, and he who sets his mind only on these, and if anyone is like them; that he, unless virtue is present, is deceived and led astray.
C But since we did not institute this from the beginning, but only to prove through comparisons that for those rulers who wish to be good, nothing is better than wisdom for accomplishing what they desire, we have deemed it to accord with our purpose neither to bring all such men into the midst, lest we weary the theater by introducing an ineffable number, nor to use these histories of theirs without measure, lest what we proposed, carried like a ship into a sea of infinite narratives, should suffer shipwreck. And indeed it seems to me to have been successfully concluded according to our initial wish. For having taken these men as a sort of example, [from] all those who are similar to them, and having sufficiently discharged the histories regarding them, setting aside all supererogation, we depart in due time, as I think regarding this. For indeed we have correctly mimicked the
A money-changers, whose custom it is to know the whole from the part. And I believe it is necessary to be content with this method. For if those who were thought to excel others by far in all matters, nevertheless, as they say, altogether finished their brilliance toward nothing, and to some even toward the contrary, because they did not pursue the matter of virtue either genuinely or well, then others of lesser standing could hardly be thought truly blessed by being wealthy, by ruling a multitude, and by ensuring that men—unwilling as they were—should, by whatever device, be enslaved to them. B Therefore, one must leave aside the histories, since it is possible for you to know these from those who make it their business, and attempt to compare with these men that truly excellent man whom we proposed to ourselves right from the start; I mean, the prudent, the good, and the wise. Such a king, or indeed any ruler of others, having a strong soul, and, as is right, loving those he rules, and wishing to see them become better in their minds in whatever state they might be, and seeking every way by which they may be well persuaded by him—and then also persuading them by the power of his words, touching neither on arrogance nor on hypocrisy at all (for both, mark you, are bad), so that he may be as he is, and wish for what he wishes—such a one, I say, will escape no one among good men, as he is to them both father, and steward, and friend, and pilot, and shepherd, and physician, and all such things. C For he will be to them a savior, and will be beneficial in every way, in all times and circumstances, knowing what will be more beneficial to all than all of them do, and wishing this for them, or rather, for themselves. And toward accomplishing what is deemed better, he possesses knowledge, gathered by zeal and natural talent, which not even the multitude, I mean those under his hand, could easily surpass, if they were to gather all their skills together to form one thing. Wherefore we ought to assume that which those who have a necessary mind must assume. What is this? That if the subjects are truly persuaded regarding their ruler that he is a good and noble man, and that matters concerning him, and matters concerning them, are well, there would be nothing to prevent them from sharing in many and very great goods. I D say this, however, regarding good and decent men. For not even the virtue of the Savior, which, according to the prophet, covered the heavens, benefited Judas and those like him. Thus, as the matter proceeds—not limping on either foot—it will not be slow in arriving at a more excellent end. And I say this not as one divining or prophesying. For that would be of Tiresias of old, and this of King David. To me, however, may neither the one nor the other befall (for it is not pleasing to God), and the one is indeed the greatest, but it is not necessary to demonstrate it, as it is beyond us. For this is clear. Nevertheless, we do not infer this as if it were possible to be deceived. For many such things could happen to those who insist upon the matter based on proofs. But we say this of necessity by logical reasoning. And let someone consider this. For in any case, they will fare badly by one of the two alternatives; for in truly being sick in both respects, to not fare badly will not be possible; but rather they will perish with all speed.
A Or, because they have not enjoyed the good providence of good rulers, or because they have determined to disobey them. Now the first of these is extremely difficult: to find a ruler who is altogether good. The second, however, we might call minor and necessary: that those who have been placed under him obey the ruler, knowing him to be good. For if he holds the place of a father, and a friend, and a helmsman, and the like, toward those under his hand, how will he not have them persuaded, if they were to know these things rightly? For surely animals, which are about to enjoy the providence of their caretaker, will follow a shepherd, a groom, or a cowherd who leads the way, wheresoever he might go. And a helmsman, and a physician, and whoever is a benefactor in general, will most certainly have the power to persuade those whom they appear to have saved. "Even a blind man," says the comic poet, B from whom the sophist has just now transferred you to other books, so that he may not oppose the Divine by reason of sin, will be rightly persuaded to be submissive to such a master. And they will obtain the truest happiness, through long sweats and toils, and no less through the dangers of him who struggles on their behalf and with skill steers the ship. For if a good ruler, having good subjects and seeing them hanging upon his nod, and wishing and praying for the finest things for him, what good work would he not accomplish? How would he not necessarily become the cause of the greatest blessings, both for himself and for those who obey him, while all follow him as he advances along the straight path toward what is advantageous? Who, not being utterly insane, would not, in admiration of his generosity and his character, honor him above all things? C So that their happiness is self-evident. But I think, and everyone will agree, that while one must blame virtue—in whose absence what seems to be prosperity is a ready evil, for success is not profitable for the unworthy—one must blame speech no less than virtue. For those who persuade know how to enjoy the good things of virtue. For if they should not wish for this, they will not be benefited by it, not having partaken of its good things; for how could they, against their will? So it is necessary that a good ruler, and one presiding over certain goods, also be good with regard to speech, so that he may have the power to persuade them to do what is better; so that he may not be a good man, yet rule over good men who are nevertheless unbridled and do not yield to what he knows to be for their own benefit, for he will profit them nothing. For even if the sons of physicians D were good in their craft, if they were not also skilled and did not know how to persuade others to accept the medicines offered by them, they would profit no one at all. For I think that persuasion must lead the way to a good reputation, and the power of speech must lead the way to this, if someone is to be necessarily benefited by another, who is able to do this and, moreover, is willing. So that words and persuasion, and the act of judging the good subject to be good concerning good rulers, are clearly shown to be the cause. And they would be better for the benefit of rulers than gold, and the labor of many hands, and machinery, which were set before us at the beginning for comparison. And the ruler who is now being depicted for us, in the virtues of his soul,
surpassing those leaning upon external powers, as has been said to us from the beginning. It is good for you, therefore, my dearest son, while you attend to virtue, not to neglect the study of letters in any way, as they are simply excellent and cooperate toward good things in a way that, I think, nothing else does. But indeed, if the things said seem to you to be well-stated, keep hold of these fine principles, and do not despise the things you admire. For whoever praises a thing, yet is careless in his disposition toward it, and unwilling to pursue it with all zeal and in every way, will bring upon himself a charge of folly and will earn the derision of everyone with a right mind. B
ORATIO II. That what is good is by nature loved by all. That the evil man is hateful even to himself. But sometimes we also love what is evil, because we think it is good. And concerning happiness and virtue.
I think, and I believe everyone agrees with this opinion, that not only the virtuous and good man, but even the base and wicked man, is by his very nature a hater of evil and a lover of what is good; even if someone has been carried away into such a degree of wickedness that he can advance no further, as having arrived at its furthest limit, such a man nonetheless loathes himself for that wickedness; or rather, even in irrational and senseless things, the nature is good, having received its existence from the Good. C And this is that common saying, that all things desire what is good and akin to them. This, then, would be the beginning of all things and the nature above all beginning, the creator of all things, and the power that holds together and benefits them, drawing the whole toward itself by a certain attraction of genuineness, excellence, and goodness; for it wills that the created and fashioned thing, moving according to its nature, should not be found far from its creator and maker. For everything that has an origin loves to retreat toward the first cause, and never to depart from that which provides for it and holds it together, since it cannot exist without it; and that which is lesser desires, in the presence of that which is greater, the expectation of attaining a greater degree and order; and that which is more material desires to share in that which is more divine, so that it might be illuminated by that participation. And, in general, that which is inferior to the whole hastens from its own source to run toward that which is able to add to it and complete it. For just as the preservation and survival of things, and their participation in the good, comes about through their nearness and intimacy with God; in the same way, through the distances and the
A separation, they suffer decay and exist no longer. The cause of this is the admirable harmony of things which have proceeded from and been founded by the Author and Creator: a harmony ineffable in the manner of its communication and its outpouring of goodness, and indissoluble because of the Author of that bond and union, and the greatness of the union; it is now only slightly perceived, as the clay stands in the way of the contemplating spirit, but it will appear more clearly to those who have been made immortal by the resurrection. I say, therefore, that it is worthy of love, not only that infinite good, and the lightning flash of beauty, and the grace which is naturally inherent in Him, but also everything which shares in the good and the beautiful, because of that very supreme goodness and supreme beauty, and the kinship of our nature with it. For because of this common relationship and state, B if one may so speak, everything is made good and is loved in relation to that first and supra-perfect Good, having a relative connection to one another. For things that are akin to something simple are also akin to each other. That akin things are to be loved needs no proof in words. Therefore, I say that all good things—those created by the Good and for the Good—tend toward one end (for I now return to my subject), which is to love the good and to hate what is not such, to pursue the honorable and to flee from what is otherwise. Or rather, the contrary often happens. For we love the evil at times, and we flee from the good as it were—not that anyone who has known the good to be good, as it is good, opposes it, or loves the evil, as it is evil, knowing it to be such (how could that be? Not at all), but because they think that C what is evil is good. For we have proven that our nature is from the Good and is good, and it seeks what is akin and flees from everything alien. Yet, even though the truth is thus, one may see the majority of men choosing the worse over the better, and passing more easily from good to evil than from evil to good; they admire the former and proclaim them blessed, while they pity the lot of the latter, those who have not correctly tasted of the true goods, but have acquired a habit of evils, and, because of the continual drunkenness of these, cannot even return to sobriety in a sincere manner; no, even when they are freed from this intoxication, they are ready once more to stumble because of the lingering dissipation and the dizziness arising from the residual heaviness. These same people also think that base men are good, and that the D wretched are happy. For they are mistaken in their judgment, and their goal does not conform to the goal of those who form their conclusions rightly, concerning the judgment of the honorable and the good. For among those called drones—I mean those who make their own ease their happiness—these are judged to be the happiest of all and the most excellent of all men, those for whom everything goes easily and well, and who are free from the cares that eat at the soul like moths; yet, if they were somewhere together continuously, they would be free of tasks that can exhaust both mind and body; they are unused to labor, and their life is luxury, and nothing more. And they consider it a great thing to have wonder-workers, and mimes, and dancers, a swarm of flatterers, and insolent men...
and a herd of parasites, and to be able to bestow benefits upon such as these, who are held in admiration by them, since they are able to provide this because they abound in wealth. B
These, then, are the judgments of the more depraved concerning human life, and thus they define happiness. And the man who lives his life in every kind of wickedness—or rather, the man who lacks the ability to perform those things from which he might always derive pleasure, either because poverty does not allow it, or because the bloom of youth has passed, or because some external calamity prevents it—seems to them to be miserable and pitiable. But among the "half-depraved," as one might call them, who also share in a certain love of glory, he who is devoted to luxury and ease is surely thought more blessed: the man who, by means of crowds of slaves and throngs of servants and an abundance of other goods and much silver spent without restraint, emerges superior to his enemies and tramples upon their power—his plans succeeding by some turn of fortune, or by chance, or perhaps because he happens to have a less vigorous adversary. For they judge matters not by the character and noble spirit of those enjoying such success, nor by their great courage, nor by their prudence, nor by their zeal and industry in practical affairs, nor by their remaining virtues (to speak briefly), nor even by their deeds and character, nor by the nature of the business in hand, nor by examining their adversary—to see in what virtue, science, or what sloth and ignorance he may be invested—but they judge things by the outcome alone, measuring virtue by successes, and touching things merely with the tips of their fingers (as the saying goes). C
And even if you were to show your soul to be beyond comparison—such that it were wiser than the mind of Nestor and Solomon, and braver than the soul of Achilles and Samson, and filled with virtues of which any single one would suffice to adorn its possessor—and even if you were to perform your practical tasks in such a way as to strike terror into an adversary, bring joy to a friend, and win the admiration of all; yet if fortune should then turn, or you should fall into poverty, or lose the glory you had acquired, or be overcome by someone—things which may often happen in this revolving life, in which it happens most often that one who is at that time gifted with virtue and mind is conquered by someone who does not even correspond to the statues carved in the form of a brave man—those men who are in reality such things themselves will call you a fool, a coward, and a wretch. And those who, while admiring someone performing illustrious deeds and looking up with great reverence to his nobility, heap long praises upon him, once the pot has been overturned (as they say), change their minds and revile, with excess, the man who has not changed his virtue, whom a little before they were praising, and were troubled that they could not bestow heavenly honors upon him. They also deem him worthy of mourning who loses glory—not that truest and durable glory which departs along with the spirit from this place, but this empty one, which
is believed to be something, yet is not, and which is dissolved with the body if it lasts well; or, not rarely, it flies away even before the man himself, as the events of worldly things carry it, or rather it is turned into the contrary in infinite ways. A They think, indeed, that they are pursuing virtue because they seek it too ambitiously, and for this reason they attribute their activity in no way to fortune, but to virtue. Yet by their very deeds they show that they do not at all attribute the actions performed by good men to virtue, but attribute everything to fortune. And thus, while they deem the one who happens to be simply in a prosperous course of navigation a "great man"—and not the one who steers the ship skillfully—they wander in error.
But these men feel in this way, and not without reason, as those who are neither excellent men nor capable of understanding the reason for being excellently good, because their mind cannot penetrate further than their eyes; or, to speak more truly, they do not even look upon mere appearances with sincerity and purity. B But truly good and more prudent men attribute happiness in general to the choice of the will and to a virtuous upbringing. For to use or not to use prosperous successes is not thought by them to be the primary thought aiming at true beatitude, since the vicious rather than the excellent and outstanding men enjoy the greater part of prosperity. Assuredly, the blessed man is blessed in respect of the soul. The soul, indeed, remains in its state through virtue, or returns to it. Virtue, moreover, is situated in our power and our choice. As, therefore, he who wishes to be bad necessarily becomes bad—for this very thing, the act of willing, makes him so immediately, as will be explained more clearly in the following discourse—so also he who wishes to be good (for the act itself follows the true, desire-filled will) cannot but become good. C Wherefore, if good men—in my opinion—ought to pass judgment on life and virtue, they would say that person ought not even to exist who is devoid of virtue. But he who wishes to be good will necessarily become good, even if he experiences fortune as being not at all propitious, resisting him and his efforts everywhere. For what is good is not a fruit of fortune, nor of any mishap, nor of time or other such things; rather, it is the fruit of virtue and of free agency, which nothing in all the world is able to hinder. For there would be no choice or liberty in it, as far as the soul is concerned, if it could be hindered by any thing. D Yet, nevertheless, even to good men the loss of acquired glory seems to be among those things that we would shun. For it can bring pain and, as it were, nettle those who are still bound to this life, the chief dignity of which is situated in the occasions for seeking a good name. By glory and a good name, I mean that of Alexander, of Cyrus, and of those like them, whose name, even after their bodies have long since been dissolved, has not been surrendered to oblivion. For that glory, which has lasted until now, was a certain fruit of their struggles, and labors, and of the great magnanimity displayed in those matters in which it was necessary for them to show themselves as men who...
A would not spare their bodies, nor admire riches, nor desire pleasures, nor prefer their own life to an honest reputation. And these things are, as it were, branches of virtue, which, to those who genuinely attain them, does not unworthily preserve the immortal fruits of their sweat, since it is itself, first of all, of such a nature. For virtue is an immortal thing.
Therefore, for good men, who desire to live well—provided that wisdom and knowledge are present, which are able to bring this desire of theirs successfully to its intended end—that which is akin [to virtue], and that which is not so, is easily recognized. But to those who do not partake of the good, the discernment of this is not so easy; whence it comes that the one whom they themselves call blessed, others count miserable; and what they admire, these shun. B Be that as it may. But he who is not himself good, and who corrupts many, and who, on account of the constancy of his wicked deeds, neither wishes to become good nor is able to change this habit into a praiseworthy and noble one, seems to such [people] most worthy of many tears, and of all men most [deserving] of all such. This man, being thoroughly nurtured in wickedness, finds pity from some—I mean those who are not worthy of pity, but of praise—while he is hated by others—those who perform deeds worthy of hatred—and they hate themselves, if it be not a strange thing to say. For indeed, the utterly wicked man, besides the fact that he is hated and slandered by those who know him, is also [in] hatred toward himself, in a certain way, as one whose conscience hates his own baseness. For every man cannot but hate what is wicked as if it were something foreign (for wickedness is adventitious), just as, when he has rightly discerned virtue to be some good C and akin to himself, he cannot but pursue it with love. Therefore, he who lives in the company, as it were, of wickedness, is affected in a wonderful and absurd way, as he is split in two by the opinions of his mind; and so far as it concerns himself, he is almost like a riddle. For he loves himself at the same time, as he cannot deny his [own] nature, and in another way he hates himself, because of his perverse choice; and he forces upon himself a life of perpetual repentance. For what is not good, at the time it is performed, must necessarily bring forth pain; for after it has ceased, the opposite follows, as Plato says. And the sorrow is more lasting than the pleasure. For that [pleasure] comes to an end with this life, even if it lasts for a very long time; D but the sorrow remains together with the soul. So harmful is it to surrender ourselves to this evil, to vices; for if I did not surrender myself to things that will not profit me, those things could in no way harm me. But the good man both loves himself with sincerity, on account of the judgment which he possesses concerning things, and enjoys perpetual pleasure together with what is honorable, and not without the reason of what is right; he is not divided by his thoughts, after the manner of that wicked man, but is always the same, and is in agreement both with himself and with those who know him. For those who admire him, also confirm their opinion of him. Furthermore, the entirely good man stands above envy, and is outside of hatred, and does not possess any enmity from any of the temperate men; but he has all of them, one after another, both wishing and praying for the most beautiful and most precious things for him, on account of the perfection of virtue, which becomes for him an ornament, and by which it [his soul] receives its equal measure. And the greatest and
...and is thus affected, that both the best and most honorable things are desired and sought by him, on account of the perfection of his virtue, which, as it is an ornament to him, so it also receives in turn an equal ornament from him. Finally, A that which is the greatest and most distinguished thing is not only loved by himself and by good men, but also by the wicked; and this is not at all surprising. For just as the wicked man is hateful even to himself on account of his depravity, in the same way the good man is loved by the wicked as well, when he is seen by them as he truly is. Nor can it be that a city situated upon a hill should be hidden. For God does not permit virtue, once revealed, to remain unknown to anyone, desiring, as I believe, to honor both it and its foster-child, B and also, furthermore, to exhort all men toward the good. For He compels in every way, so that He might fill His house with guests, that none might be deprived of that noble feast. And indeed, if virtue were not revealed, it would neither be loved at all, nor would it be admired by any of all men; just like bright gold, while still mixed with earth, or a translucent gem, lying in the darkness—or rather, not even then would anyone at all be able to gain anything from it, if it were not brought out into the middle; for virtue is ineffective and lacks all ornament, just as a well-tuned lyre is of no use at all if there is no one who can skillfully play its strings. For virtue is an C excellent thing, and the cultivator of virtue is an excellent thing; but each has need of the other, after the likeness of the axe and the hand. This then is virtue in the true sense: the good which is performed according to knowledge, and intention, and habit; and a man endued with virtue, who considers virtue to be the most excellent thing of all, and who loves the most excellent, and who does what he loves, and does it gladly. He is truly happy; he is a zealot for those who think correctly; this is a man, this is perfection in our view, the blessedness of this life; because it is venerable, because it is great. And if these things are true, how is man not a great thing, to use the words of Sacred D Scripture, in delighting in good works? And, on the contrary, he is a base thing who makes vice his way of life; being hateful and abominable to all who know him, and having his own thoughts as accusers, and his conscience as a judge, incorrupt and severe. Since, therefore, these things are so, it is clear that every man is naturally minded to be a hater of evil, and to be a lover of the beautiful; and all agree that virtue is a good thing and wickedness a bad thing. But in their judgments they err, and they make distinctions between lives, with some considering that which is evil to be good, because vices have attached themselves to virtues, and because the basest things partake of the good, as if they were established by God. This is what deceives the many, and leads astray those who are not attentive, and, drawing them toward their own destruction, pulls them along and ruins them,
ORATION III.
On choice and the voluntary; and that the wicked man is not so by nature or from external
causes, but is the cause of his own evil.It has been shown, as I believe, sufficiently that which was proposed to us, and the discourse has reached its proper end;
A it remains for us to explain why this befalls some of us, and that other thing befalls others, even though we are of the same dignity and nature. And we say that this comes to pass by reason of the election alone. For to him who wishes to be good, and pursues the good, nothing at all in all the world shall be a hindrance to his being good. And there is no just excuse for him who has not become a good man. For that does not happen to anyone who is willing. For even if many terrible and grievous things befall us, as if spontaneously and of their own accord, yet none of them would be so violent and tyrannical as to exercise authority over our own will; for otherwise our liberty of will would, in this manner, be somewhat destroyed for us, as has been said by us in the discourse before this. But if the faculty of choice is not diseased, nor has it been enslaved at all, then even if the body should suffer any evil, nothing will be an impediment to our being good. The struggles of the saints, which have overcome every violence, are proof of this. The contrary to this also confirms my argument for me. For to do good involuntarily does not bring a crown to those who perform it. Therefore, to force one, or to suffer something involuntarily, makes us neither good nor evil; but by voluntary will, which is of those things in our power, and is not constrained from without, nor brought in from anywhere at all, each person becomes good or not such. Wherefore the whole matter is from the faculty of choice. Except that he who wishes to be bad has become so immediately by his will, even if he does not perform any of the evil deeds. For it would suffice to be bad, by wishing to be absent from the good. And this, I think, is reasonable. For the evil itself is thought to exist entirely by the absence of the good, and as it were consists only in privation, it will not have B any existence. But the good man, since the good is perfect (for God is good, in whom there is nothing imperfect), will not stop at the mere wishing, but will proceed further, and will show the man by his very deeds, proving by the things themselves that the intention is true in him, possessing no falsehood. For otherwise he might seem good, but he is not so in every respect. Surely those who are striving to be good must by no means be deficient in the good; but the impulse, the enthusiasm, and the will toward it must be vigorous in them, and they must also show a manner of life in the very deeds that is brotherly to their faculty of choice, so that they might not limp in the better part. Wherefore, merely to wish is not sufficient to make one good. But if it were true and pure, it would suffice to make those who are well-disposed into good men. And that he who wishes to be a good man should not be one is impossible. For the acting will follow. But he who wishes to be a bad man (the discourse, however, is not about those who are insane or deranged) has become so immediately in his very heart by the very act of deliberating and wishing, as the Savior says. For this would be C just as if he himself were calling for evils, and meeting them as they approached, and receiving them with open hands. For looking with the intent to desire, this is frankly to wish to be evil. But not even that is free from blame, to have in mind—
A a good, yet for it to be so fragile that it is shown to be easy for those who attempt to subvert the thought of it; or, on the contrary, not to be ready to stand firmly against that which harms, and to show by one’s deeds that what is in our power and in our choice has more strength than all that is brought against us from without. For if someone desires the good in such a simple way, and then when it is necessary to act, is disposed carelessly and lazily, falling far short of perfection, he is no longer in the good, which is surely perfect. But how, someone might say, could I easily escape these things? For the things that deceive and entice us through pleasures do not lack a certain power B of their own, as we know from the things themselves. For one person is caught by one thing, another by another, no matter how much he may wish to philosophize. And no one is above all these. Nor do I say that evils can be easily avoided, but that they can be avoided by the greatest study and endurance, as much as is permitted to a human being; and this to such a degree that, if at some point one were to suffer and fail, he would not be evil on that account. But, he says, as for many of the things that deceive and allure us, I might perhaps slip away from them by giving myself over to constant struggles; but if matters are extremely painful, violent to the highest degree, and so naturally fearful that they shake the very soul by their mere memory—through which we are deprived of wives, children, and our most cherished possessions, even life itself—if these should rush in with vehement force, how could I always withstand them, and not yield completely, following them wherever they might lead, C like one bound? Someone might perhaps object to us with such things. But to this, in turn, he will hear from men living according to the prescription of reason and fortitude: You neither sense nor say anything of which a man endowed with reason and a strong soul would not be rightly ashamed, even if he saw it in a dream, and for which, upon waking, he would not inflict punishment upon himself. For those who are truly men think nothing more powerful and fearful than that which is truly powerful and fearful; just as for those who love with moderation, nothing is more lovable and desirable than what is truly beautiful and good. For such things are indeed terrible, and beyond terrible; but let us grant that they are able to terrify and shake the many, to destroy D all present things together with life for those who resist them—so that we may not strip away any of your exaggerations—yet even if they are like this (and let them be even more so, if you wish), they are not worthy of the soul and of the truest glory, for the sake of which one of sound mind would gladly give up even life itself. For this pair surpasses everything else by a long distance. But those difficult things which you seemed to shudder at while mentioning, even if one were to concede that they rush in with extreme bitterness, yet they bring no detriment to the soul—if indeed they do not even greatly benefit it—nor do they bring disgrace, if one is correctly crowned. For all painful things, when turned back upon themselves, like the waves of the much-roaring sea, are dissolved. And if they should take hold and continue for as long as one might describe with whatever force and excess, yet all the present loss belongs to the day already passing, or if you prefer, to a moment; and it happens in an instant, if one carefully considers the state of these things. And they grasp me
A with this thought, as do the wise men of earlier times and certain holy men of our own day. You have heard something about these matters more clearly stated by us in the sixty-second of the chapters which I have written down for you. The power of these grievous things is either to frighten with expectations, or to bite with what is present; and the greatest evil is to have life taken away. And when this happens, it has done nothing more, as it surely comes automatically and inevitably. For we must depart as naked as we were born, according to the words of that Job, which are celebrated to this day. Indeed, we cannot even take the body itself with us when we depart from here; but it is necessary at last, until the time arrives to reclaim it, to return it to the earth, our mother. For those, then, whose course is hastening rapidly toward decay—and this, perhaps, to happen at any moment—what is permanent in them, what is fixed, what is secure? How could any of the grievous things seem great to those who are wise, or any of the pleasant things seem preferable to the soul and to glory, which remains immortal from good works? B And so, against those people who possess an understanding and mind like children (for I shall use the words of those who contradict us), there is by no means some noble power, as we are able to know from the facts. For one is caught by one thing, another by another. Therefore, he who says such things has me agreeing and concurring with him, so far as such people are concerned; yet not so as regards those who wish to be good. For to those who decide not to be easily caught, nor wish to collapse readily, nor to have the better and higher part of the soul enslaved to the lower faculty in the union (I speak of the desiring and irascible parts, which it is fitting should be subject to and governed by reason), all frightening things are clearly a mere game and the ultimate mockery, terrifying them like a mask and turning them aside from the path and from true judgment. For to those who wish to defend themselves like men, and who consider it the most shameful thing of all not to undergo sweat and labors for the sake of what is noble and for virtue—so as not to betray and see trampled the nobility of the soul, which is an image of the Creator—how will they not be able to overcome all things, having God as their helper?
C But of these things, enough, one might say; for it has been concluded as it should have been, I think. But what is done from pure ignorance, or from deception coming from without, or if anyone, forced by great and insurmountable power, has yielded—that, without doubt, would be involuntary, and would free the offense from all blame. Perhaps someone might say this in response to what has been said. And since, in my opinion, it has been suitably stated, it compels us entirely to divide our discourse, and D more clearly
A to distinguish what is also mixed and ambiguous, and in what ways these things come to be, and what we deserve for doing these things, and by what we are admired, and by what we are hated, and by what we are pitied, among those things which in any way come from us. But if I were to do this, the discourse, carried out to infinity, I well know, would weary the youth and cause dizziness. For to attempt to explain in detail everything that can happen in this multiform and theatrical life, and everything that it shows us—frequently changing its mask, and acting almost like a play, with different things happening to different people, by reason of different occasions and persons, and furthermore with the times themselves changing in every way, so that it does not even allow us to think continuously about the same things—this, in my opinion, would be entirely outside the bounds of propriety. For we would seem to be ambitious to philosophize rather than to instruct you in virtue. For the very sequence of the speech compels one to show many divisions and subdivisions, and to create many steps, and to present as it were a ladder of them; but the abundance and the great sea of necessary things to be said deters me. Whence, considering it the task of Aristotle, and Plato, and others of that sort to speak at length about such things, I shall leave these men in turn to philosophize about such matters, since there is no one who can speak better than they. We, however, having fulfilled our duty as best we can regarding these matters, will proceed to others. For both the structure of the conversation, and the initial impetus of the discourse, prevent us from extending ourselves so much, following all the digressions, even if they are necessary to be spoken of in their turn. We must begin, and endeavor, as far as possible, to deliver the discourse in few words. B Sins partly proceed from complete ignorance, and these would indeed be free from any punishment or blame whatsoever; but others are committed by those who are knowing and prudent, and with deliberate will; these do not need proof to show that they are entirely voluntary, since they proceed from a pure choice of mind. For such things are manifestly voluntary; and nothing prevents the converse from being said, that everything that is voluntary pertains to choice. For it is not required in every case that there be a reciprocal relationship; for things that are broader are considered and offered together with their own parts; but parts are no longer considered with what is more universal. That such a thing as the voluntary is the same as choice seemed so to those who have been exercised in this field, men who are in all respects good and virtuous. For they say that choice is not the same thing as the voluntary, but a part of it. But those things will be subtly considered voluntary, C which anyone whom a sane person would never want to desire—for which reason he neither loves them nor desires to do them; nay, he considers it a significant gain never to have been involved in such things at all, nor to have had even the slightest fantasy or notion or calculation of them. If, however, one is forced to do something, while not desiring it at all...
A by being led by excessive power, or by some thing or person harshly compelling, he is indeed afflicted with grief at the progress of the evil; but he seeks in every way the end of the troublesome matter and moves every stone (as they say), and brings machine after machine to bear, and is pained when he achieves nothing. And when he encounters a correction for the evil that is now tyrannizing, how, imagine you, how much he rejoices? How much he exults, leaping with a bright countenance and clearly showing to all that he is frustrated because he was not delivered of it sooner? And he would value the speed that leads to this above all things. If any of these are missing, men cannot be free from blame, even if they put forward the causes for which they do not perform their duty perfectly. And these things are concerning the involuntary. Regarding the voluntary, however, we say that not only those things which we do with joy are voluntary, but certainly also those which we do not wish to do, but which we bring upon ourselves for the sake of another pleasure. For indeed, if someone—let us grant this—is moved by great force and tyranny to do those things which, had it been absent, he would not have done B, it is not the case that he does them unwillingly, but on the contrary, quite clearly willingly, if they willingly cast themselves into this violence, introducing from home the very start of being forced. And this could be clear from the following. For he who serves a tyrant for pay, knowing that it is necessary to do what seems good to him, or else to be deprived of life with shame and blows; then to kill the innocent, to rob, to commit sacrilege, to do every unholy thing—being forced by him to such a degree that he even sees a sword being brandished over him for two reasons: either to slaughter with his own hands those unjustly hated by the tyrant, and to perform all unlawful deeds, or for his own sword to be stained with blood C—if he deeply abhors the murder (let this indeed be granted), but nevertheless performs the murder and carries out the pollution of the hands, how has such a one not willingly become an executioner? And indeed I had heard another example, which is not very far removed from what we have just said, unless it be that it is much worse than that one. And the matter itself, I know well, will appear new and unusual; but he who told it maintained constantly that it was true. For he related that a certain man, starting from anger, had desired to insult a man greater than himself, and since he feared the eminence of the man, he did not dare to do it. But he discovered how to carry himself into a state of frenzy and unrestrainable boldness. For, having filled himself with much unmixed wine for the sake of D destroying his senses, and thereby gaining boldness, he washed away the superior man with insults, and had as his retreat—if anyone prefers to call it either obtuseness or drunken madness—he performs what he decided without fear, but carried everything to excess like a thunderstruck and arrogant man. But when the punishment was exacted for the shamelessness after the drunkenness and the hangover, weeping and wailing, he perceived that he had truly decided and acted very badly. Does such a man as this not seem to you to be a drunkard, having become this very thing by plan and intent? I think so entirely, and I think that all would agree with this opinion. And not only this man, I think, who made it his business to insult, and then to become drunk on this account
A but also one who does not desire even this, yet has frequently become drunk, and having insulted others after his drunkenness, then once again abandons himself to drunkenness just as he did before, he too would be considered a drunkard and an insolent man. For even if at the very hour when he was insulting others, he was nearly out of his mind, with his reason having been engulfed and submerged by the flood of wine, yet through the occasion of the insult he quite willingly approached it, and he himself filled the mixing-bowl and the cup, and brought them with his hands to his mouth, and drank—not being greatly thirsty, nor even as much as would suffice to slake the thirst of one who was sated, but as much as seemed sufficient for madness and raving. So that he brought about the whole thing by his own deliberate intention. And he who provides the seed is himself the author of the things that grow from it; for of all ends, and of all outcomes, and simply of all conclusions, one must attribute the cause to the beginnings and the occasions. If therefore this reasoning holds for all things, much more does it have a place in those things regulated by reason. And these things have been said concerning matters that are clearly voluntary and involuntary.
Concerning those which are not entirely voluntary (thus speaks Aristotle, B who so named those things that incline toward both sides and which are not entirely purely either voluntary or involuntary), I say this. I shall make mention of a certain matter previously set forth, as a foundation for what is to be said. For because I said earlier that some things are done by us according to precise knowledge and will, and others quite otherwise, it is necessary to distinguish these as well. For in this way the discourse will be clearer. There are, therefore, not a few things, neither honorable nor good, which are done voluntarily indeed, but without their nature being understood; while others are done by one who is knowing and prudent, yet not from a purpose moved by the soul of itself, so to speak; and these, in turn, are divided in two ways. For they are either done by us ourselves, having the free power of either performing them or not performing them (concerning which it is not necessary to speak, because C I think they were sufficiently declared before), or they are imposed from without by someone else, having equal strength to the will; and then they are perpetrated by us, though we would not have perpetrated them if the greatest force were not applied. These things might truly be "mixed-voluntary," if one grants us the license to use such terms, or rather, to innovate a little in these terms. For those things which are forced upon us, and then are performed by us, would truly be mixed, and not purely voluntary, as has been said, since they do not incline wholly to one side or the other, but to both. All those, therefore, who have in no way contributed anything of their own toward the necessity arriving—the necessity compelling them either to suffer or to do some evil—and then some unbidden calamity descends, being altogether most violent and most tyrannical, and threatening a calamity not to be despised, or a life that allows no room to consider that life is desirable, and having no D ground to put forward that offers no remedy, they shall attain the forgiveness that is granted, and sometimes they are even just to be thought worthy of pity; I say, when
that which excuses them is something great, and such that it almost prevails over all. For the fact that one or another individual happens to appear differently from the rest does not make these persons deserving of blame. For he who flees from countless enemies will not immediately be judged a coward, if someone has indeed decided to die rather than to resort to flight. And it demonstrates that, too. For those who are oppressed by poverty, or worn down by some disease to the point of being entirely unable to procure even their daily sustenance, since they are unable to earn a living with their hands, if after enduring a hunger that is all but unbearable they attempt to beg, no man of sound mind will be angry, but everyone will sympathize, at least he who understands human nature and the lot that is common to men, and who is not ignorant that the future is uncertain, and that the only thing clear about it is that it is destined to confuse everything and stir it up, turning it upside down, like a wheel. B Nay, even were someone in a night battle to kill his own son, I do not think that anyone who is of sound mind would hate him, but rather that he would consider him worthy of great pity. And if one must speak briefly concerning these ambiguous faults, just as what we have recently said regarding the involuntary is naturally apt to free one from ignominy and blame, so the opposites are wont to produce the opposite effect, and render the one who commits them liable to many evils. But nevertheless, since it also happens that some of the things that are naturally apt to clear a man of guilt are absent, what is done by force will almost be considered as if it were the result of the will; for in my opinion the scale inclines towards the voluntary just as much as we introduce knowledge or choice into the things that lie within our C power. For in so far as the will and the intent of the soul are present with us, to that extent will release from guilt also be present. It follows, therefore (for I think we shall act rightly if we finally summarize it), that what is done from the intent, will, and choice of the soul, the beginning of which is in us and in our own power and authority, this is what is accurately and strictly our "voluntary" act; but that which is done through total ignorance, this is what essentially is "involuntary"; likewise whatever is done spontaneously that is honest and good, this is virtue; but that which is done spontaneously that is in every way contrary to the honest, this is vice. And in so far as what has been committed did not proceed from the intent of the soul, to that extent it is not even to be considered a fault; D but in so far as it did proceed from it, to that extent it is worthy of punishment. Indeed, a small evil that is committed from the intent of the soul will be something sufficiently great that, by its very quality, it exceeds even much greater faults that occur beyond the will. And thus, by the rule of censure, a small evil admitted through the choice of the soul is rendered significantly greater than what happens to us against our will, even if this latter should seem to be very great. Therefore, the whole matter depends upon the choice and the resolve of the soul, just as was said by us from the beginning; and he who is evil is so neither by nature, nor from without, but is the cause unto himself. For of the two, the one or the other
A is necessary: either he is evil of himself, as we said, or he is not evil at all, not even one of all men. And how, one says, could a man who seems to be wise be the cause of evils unto himself? By not loving the good as much as it deserves, but by rejoicing in evils. And let no one be surprised at this; for it is not by men choosing evil as evil over good, or the basest thing as basest over the most beautiful, or indeed even the harmful over the advantageous, that we are made from good into the opposite. For how could that be? It does not seem to me that even the most simple-minded men who have ever existed could have suffered from such a malady. But this evil grows from deception and error, and having ignorance and sloth as its root and irrigation, being fed and extended by time B, and hardening into an opposition to the better, it becomes for those who have already been mastered by it difficult to shake off. For to have one’s soul, and especially that of the young, preoccupied by passion, nothing could be worse, nor more difficult to correct. For it is pleasant and easy for those preoccupied to remain in evils; but to be rid of the evils and to be changed is laborious and difficult, and could hardly be the work of a most noble soul. And in this way, I think, worse things prevail over better things, and he who was good from the beginning is not always found to be such, but often turns to evil, with nature remaining always in the same state. And if these things are so, it is manifest that each one becomes the cause of evils unto himself. But let us consider it: is it possible for one to know the good but not desire it? Or to desire it, but not as much as is sufficient? Or he knows it even C very well, but does not flee from evil? Or he flees it while doing well, but not with both feet, as they say, nor continuously, but is sometimes seen prevailing, and sometimes being prevailed upon; and sometimes superior to the lighter passions, and sometimes inferior (for regarding the more grave and powerful evils, perhaps it should not even be spoken of). How is this man not strictly responsible for the evils unto himself, inclining with his own disposition toward the things capable of causing harm, and in every way preparing himself to be easily captured by them? And when it was at hand to avoid them, he is captured by not applying any effort, thinking it to be something easy and light to withdraw himself from the good and to adhere to base things? But consider this also with me. If someone, having admitted a D crime that is deemed to be the lightest, which has insidiously crept into the soul at the beginning, since it appeared good and, as it were, uttered a voice promising that it would be easy for anyone who wished to make trial of it to be set free from it; then this man, having been deceived and walking on that path, abandons himself to the worst things—in whose number, I ask, shall he be recorded? Is it not among those who have become evil by their own choice? Such a conclusion seems to me to be appropriate. For otherwise, if we did all evil things, we would all be irresponsible. Since no one does evil perfectly from the start; but we begin from small and base things, thinking we will sustain a small and base loss, and that we will reap pleasure, and quickly return to our previous state. Then
A we are captured, so to speak, in an unforeseen danger, exposing ourselves to it and committing those acts which, if we were free from the vices that already hold sway over us, would cause us to blush even to hear them mentioned. For we easily perform those vicious deeds which seem lighter, deceived by a certain hope that shows correction to be in our own hands, just as has been said before. But this is not the case, it is not; rather, the whole matter is the opposite. For after we have given in a little, having neglected our duty, constantly enticed and tyrannized by these evils, we depart from the thoughts that would preserve us, not even sparing those which are extreme in excess; and that I may speak of the excess of evils, we pride ourselves on using what is unholy, and what we ought to be ashamed of, we instead boast about, just like those who are overcome by melancholia. With good reason. For it is not unlikely that one who has turned away from what is proper, and has completely surrendered his own mind to things that do deep injury, should have his reasoning faculties blinded and stumble wherever he may go and walk. B Are we, therefore, human beings who are so very negligent regarding our duties, if we subsequently suffer or do something that is among the things that are not good, perhaps to be considered by you as being under compulsion against our will? By no means; for this does not happen to prudence, even if one has not yet reached manhood. For if our passions do indeed come upon us with a great deal of, as one might say, stage-play and hypocrisy, this itself does not entirely escape our notice, how it comes stealthily and creeps little by little into our souls. And having entered in a servile manner at the beginning, it then rules in a masterful way; and he who knows the end, and does not hold back the beginning, would justly be held accountable also for the end.
It appears true, then, I think, to all men, that things which are considered evils, if they are truly evils, have their beginning in the `proairesis` (choice of the soul); but if they do not proceed from `proairesis`, they do not exist at all. Yet it is evident that evils do surround this mortal world, according to Plato. D Therefore, it is necessary to refer the cause of these to the `proairesis` alone, not because mortals choose the evil before the good, but because imposture and error intervene, as has been indicated by us at greater length before, and will be explained again now. Ignorance, indeed, is an evil; it is a certain kind of ignorance, if the matter ought to be explained briefly; and this word of ours, "ignorance," must be explained more clearly, lest we seem to ourselves to be falling into the trap of asserting things we have previously denied—that is, having previously declared that evils are the product of `proairesis` alone, now saying that "ignorance is evil." But this is not a vice, it is not here, even if it seems so, unless I am entirely uneducated and unskilled. And indeed, the argument must be reconciled in this way, which is not, even before this, inconsistent to those who have contemplated it well. I say, then, that "sinning through ignorance" is, in fact, twofold.
Both occur because the things ignored surpass either human nature, knowledge, and skill in general, or the individual faculty of someone who might have learned or known this or that. For example, we are all equally ignorant of the nature and magnitude of the heavens, and of what is above the heaven and what is beneath the earth. Again, a certain person is not constituted such that he can be an orator, or dance on a stretched rope with his eyes blindfolded with a cloth, just as we see some people doing. Regarding those things that are not placed in our power, there is no need for us to speak; for even to a blind man, as the proverb goes, it is clear that they are neither in our power nor are we to be held by the name of ignorance. But whatever is ignored by some while being known by others, it is evident that these things are in our power. In all these cases, I do not believe that common nature, knowledge, science, or skill is in any way to be blamed, but rather the ignorance and contempt of some for that which is excellent and good. For not being trained in doctrine, nor being studious of noble things, but ignoring what is profitable—those things, I mean, which are not unknown to our peers—this is usually what makes a person negligent in cultivating good morals and the causes of knowledge; I speak of intent and instruction, which can benefit those endowed with them; and likewise of such study as is sufficient to make our soul better, while gathering the best things from all sources. Now, if from the lack of skill and the neglect of collecting what is better, an ignorance of the best things arises; and from this ignorance, the choice of what is worse; but the judgment itself belongs to the soul's choice; and if finally it is proven that choice is a part of the voluntary: then it follows that evil arises from ignorance, arises from lack of skill and negligence, arises from a certain inconsiderate madness and the disposition of the soul, and is voluntary. For if we come to the analysis, starting from ignorance, which is like the peak, and proceed through the intermediate stages, we will clearly arrive at the choice and the voluntary, which are truly the root of evils. We, however, did not set out from the beginning to speak about people bereft of their minds, but only about those whose faculty of choice is intact and for whom the incorrupt power of prudence remains. Nor will he be subject to blame and reproach who does not know everything, even if he is wise; nor will he be ascribed to those worthy of punishment if he is not equal to others in all powers; just as neither is one who does not have the same knowledge as those who are objects of admiration on account of their knowledge. For he who cannot attain the height of expertise, which has only fallen to those exceptional men who alone ascend to the summit of goods by every means, will not be guilty of any crime. For that which is imputed to us as a crime is not what exceeds our nature, nor whatever D the life of man has not given us to learn, nor what time or chance and accident have not permitted; but we will all have to render an account hereafter only for those things that it was in our power to know or learn, both through our own diligence and through instruction from others, yet we neither exerted ourselves to know them by our own labors nor wished to learn them from those who knew. For those of such a sort, failing through ignorance will not be excused. For it is not of nature, nor of any external accident.
not allowed for us to learn, or which the opportunity of time did not grant, or some chance and lot; but we are entirely going to render an account only of those things which, when it is permitted to know or learn them, both by our own study and by the instruction of others, we have neither cared to know by our own labors, nor have we wished to learn from those who know them. For such persons are going to have no excuse from this, that they sinned through ignorance. For this is a crime not of nature, nor of any external accidental thing, but of the choice of the soul. Indeed, nature remains within its own limits, and will clear us before God, towards men, and before each man's own conscience, if we are unable to do this or that thing; but the choice of the soul could be changed and varied. B For this reason it causes some to be joined to the choirs of angels, and others to evil spirits. For the same reason the same things are done by these, and are not done by those. Nay, they are even in the same fashion objects of admiration, and at other times the reverse. And I think these things proceed either from a strong soul, or from one that is womanish and soft, which refuses to undertake work in those matters where it ought. But nature is common to all, and what belongs to it is likewise common to us: nor will anyone on its account either obtain a crown or be accused as a defendant. And I now call nature that which is considered in the universal species, the universal man, the whole human race; for the differences that are in individuals are not referred to nature, but arise entirely from the judgment of the soul C and from many and multiform causes. Wherefore, in those things where the power is free for everyone to act rightly or otherwise, for those only, in my opinion, will one justly be condemned, if by chance his state of mind was not as it ought to have been. And let it be so indeed. But since the whole matter has been explained in a composed and direct manner, I think the course of this oration should be checked here; and so we say that, while what is evil is done by ignorance, it is nonetheless voluntary, and proceeds from the soul’s judgment having choice and from its own affection. Whence it comes about that for him who has become evil by the judgment of his own soul, the whole mass of what are called circumstances, every occasion, and every excuse, along with all other such things, becomes a mere pretext; and it contains nothing sacred, nor sound, nor anything to which credence should be given. For one should scarcely forgive even a madman or one who is delirious, who sins purely against the will of his soul. And if we do not seem to reason and argue in vain, our discourse is consistent with the truth, and it does not overthrow itself. These things needed to be demonstrated by us, and the matter has been accomplished as far as our strength allowed.
ORATIO IV. Concerning pleasure: that it would be better for it to be altogether absent from this life.
D Sedenim, it is fair and consistent with reason that the opinion of certain people concerning pleasure should not be passed over in silence. For I myself think that these men also stray from the right opinion, and that it is necessary for us to explain what seems to us concerning this, both for your sake, and for the benefit of those who will perhaps read this oration. Therefore, some men—and indeed of that number who seem not in the least vile or contemptible—think that pleasure is so tyrannical and imperious that all are dragged by it after the manner of captives. Then they assert constantly that it is not good for the life of mortals, nor useful...but on the contrary, that it is a certain great evil A and one that is injurious to all in succession. And if any should ask them, "Why?" they will immediately say, "Because it corrupts morals, and changes many who are admired for virtue from good men into base ones." But I consider it more fitting to set forth at greater length the things said against it. They dare, therefore, to say—and this reaches even to God—that it would be better if pleasure were not at all, nor present in this life, nor even existed in principle. For it fills human life with disturbance and great despondency, and possesses our souls with much bitterness. For because of pleasure we desire to obtain many and great things, and we hope straightway to attain them. For from the intensity of our desire, that which is often B diametrically opposed is thought to be in our hands, and each of these things is assumed to be sufficient for supreme delight. Yet we obtain but few and small things, and those too with difficulty, and even these are feeble and cheer us only for a short space of time. And it is no small trouble to us that such things present themselves. And these things all happen deservedly: for it is easier in all matters to desire than to acquire; and when the things themselves are present, they appear inferior and more worthless than our expectations. Likewise, to be much frustrated and deceived in one’s hope is miserable. Though these things indeed happen to us, we do not at all extricate ourselves, but we seek pleasure with the greatest zeal that can be named, every day, every hour, by whatever efforts, in every way; and soon, when we wander most from the mark, it is C necessary for us to be altogether vexed. And as this evil happens to us continuously, if someone were to call it slavery, he would surely speak correctly: though liberty is to be desired and immunity eagerly sought after, we are nevertheless held fast by the search for the thing that entices us, and to our former zeal we always add another that is more ardent. This passion indeed seems to us a dire evil, and we all blame a slothful life, and call total surrender to pleasures manifest madness; yet meanwhile we do not easily return to a sound mind, nor do we desist of our own accord from this madness which is rightly termed voluntary. For in what way would this not be manifest madness, if we boast in the name of evil, and while insisting upon its tracks we congratulate ourselves, when it would be more fitting to retreat D with a covered countenance in shame? Now, what deserves to be condemned most of all is that we do not gain wisdom even when we have suffered, which Hesiod attributes even to the foolish, when he says: "The fool, having suffered, has learnt." And the saying, having appeared sound, and being constantly repeated, then having been established by time and walked on the beaten path, has passed into a proverb. Yet we strive at totally unattainable tasks, seeking to check our desire. And this, I think, is unknown to none of all men. For truly, as it is impossible to disobey some cruel and inexorable master who brandishes a sword and gives various orders, so it is necessary for all to yield and to run wherever pleasure dictates. For, with the passion standing over us and giving commands to that which is naturally inclined within us toward the enjoyment and sharing of things that appear to be desired, and drawing us to itself, and further threatening us with pain if we should not be willing to consent, there is nothing left to do but to follow and be led, according to the
manner of those horses which are restrained by a curb and twisted by a piece of wood. For as to that which already gnaws at us (since the one who desires feels a biting in the very act of desiring), and to the threat of evils (for the thing desired threatens to strangle us if it should be completely departed from), and to the force of pleasure (for what is more violent than this?), and to the entreaty of the things that appear good (for everything, as it were, yields of its own accord to the sight of beautiful things), and to summarize, to the impulse of nature, which so many things drive onward, who would be so iron-hearted, who so adamantine, that he would appear to remain firmly established and not rather collapse and wish to lie fallen forever, having completely despaired of any amendment? But why should I not mention a thing that is even graver, and beyond all comfort, and an incurable evil? B For when we do happen upon pleasant things and imagine that good fortune has visited us, it flies away very quickly, even if this happens only with difficulty and after a long time, and it pains us by its departure far more than it gladdens us by its presence. But if it should last for a very long time, it pains us with satiety. For, as someone has said, the satiety of all such things is a source of trouble. It is reasonable, then, that with our opinion changed to the opposite side, we should find from the very experience that pain is greater than joy, and that the repentance which has followed the pleasure that preceded it is more profound, and that the former is far surpassed by the latter. For what is pleasant becomes, after satiety, as we have said, troublesome and wearisome, and that excessive surfeit brings more pain than moderate pleasure delights. Finally, C the duration of absence brings us more sadness than the presence of the good bestows, as it passes us by very quickly. Thus it happens that what delights—doing nothing else for us except being sweet while it is present—afflicts us in return with double trouble, both because it did not arrive sooner, and because it breeds satiety as soon as it has arrived and remained: or if it does not, it pains us by departing and going away quickly. And in each of these cases there is more that gnaws at us than there is of what is pleasant in the delight itself. D And these things, to be sure, concern those pleasant things which are placed in anticipation, or those which are not altogether certain, even if they are present. But what could one say concerning those which have already been with us for a long time, and therefore are thought never to depart, but to be stable for as long as life shall extend? For if it should happen that those who possess them lose some of these things (and this happens frequently), oh, how intolerable that matter is to them, and how grievously it exhorts them, so that they, unable to bear the loss, invite ruin upon themselves through their sorrow! Whereby it happens that pleasure turns into the opposite for us, and through it, it usually happens that we experience sadness. Furthermore, even the act of envying mortals who have done us no harm, except that they have a greater capacity than we do to use delights—if they wished—by abusing their own goods, clearly arises in us from this same source. For [E] the pleasure-loving spirit is very jealous, and thinks itself to be deprived by the enjoyments of others. But this passion
A usually brings with it a sharp sorrow if it once possesses a wretched man. For it makes him weep doubly, as he neither endures the prosperity of others with an even mind, nor ceases to lament his own miseries. Many would even gladly drink the blood of those whom they envy, revering neither the laws of nature nor those established everywhere among nations, which uniformly command one thing—namely, the love of one’s neighbor—even if in many other respects men differ from one another. Indeed, if anyone, moved by love, should stand in the way of our desire—which is not at all a noble one—when we ought to be most grateful to him, we harass him with slanders, and we wish to tear the man apart, so much so that we are not far from desiring to devour one who truly loves us, and who for that very reason uses great frankness with us; in this, we act in the opposite way to what is proper. We are angry B both with him who loves us and uses great frankness, and with the one who admonishes us with restraint; perhaps because we do not readily accept admonitions. And if any one of all men be merely suspected of opposing our desire, what might that wretch not suffer at our hands, if it were in our power to execute such a thing, and to dispose of him and his affairs in the worst possible way? Yet it is very easy for a man to be held suspect, even one who is by no means such a person, nor conscious to himself of anything of the kind for which that suspicious lust among us accuses and traduces him. For he who gasps after pleasures C thinks that even a friend and a man who is truly excellent can easily be attacked with slanders; for this disease blinds a man greatly and does not permit his reason to form a right judgment. Moreover, it is sometimes not at all burdensome to us to amass gold, both unjustly and outside the prescriptions of virtue, so that we may provide what is suited to our pleasure. For he who is a slave to pleasures necessarily needs money, and he who makes the amassing of money his primary concern puts everything else after the desire for wealth; which, I believe, is the source of infinite evils. But there is also this other evil that befalls us. We do many things D befitting slaves for the sake of obtaining those objects which are pleasant; and likewise, we endure certain biting things. We often act impudently against those whom it was not even appropriate to look upon, nor would we ever have dared to act so before this disease had reduced us to servitude. Now, it is also altogether evident that anger arises from the frustration of desires. And that we may not give some people material for controversy, it suffices to say only this much: that either all anger, or the greater part of it, exists on account of pleasures. And all these things we all know to be pernicious, and in agreement with what preceded. For those for whom pleasure is taken as the end, it easily persuades them, while they dare any absurd acts, to endure all painful and grievous things, even if they are very harmful and lead to a bad reputation. And if it is just that the truth should prevail everywhere, this also must not be passed over in silence. We have, at any rate, what is pleasant and delightful in our hopes. For this is how it happens for the most part. But we reap the sorrows on account of these pleasures in the things themselves. And this also happens frequently. For we are more gladdened by hopes than when we have arrived at the things themselves. So if anyone were to say that this which is pursued by us is vanity and a reasoning of this sort, he has not altogether fallen away from the truth. But the contrary is not so. For the pleasant, when it arrives late and for a time
after long intervals and protracted circuits, flies away from us as if it were being driven out; and that which is expected is extinguished before it can be perfectly seen. Such is its speed in departing, leaving, as they say, nothing sacred. But whatever brings pain and molestation falls like rain, and is present more durably, B and penetrates more heavily, and adheres more accurately, and subsequently declares its power and performs its function with as much bitterness as not even the most pleasant thing ever offered in the way of delight. Indeed, if it is not an insolent thing to say, with what great molestation do we again, for the sake of the pleasant thing itself, receive it, if we use accurate consideration? For I do not think it is unknown to the mind that pain is necessarily the companion of pleasure, according to Plato, son of Aristo. To such an extent does pain surpass pleasure in all things. Furthermore, all of us who choose a softer life, deceived by a certain imposture, pursue some things but are caught by others, which we see happening in the fishing of certain gluttonous and greedy fish: for they wish to delight their mouth and throat with delicate food, but on the contrary, they attach their throat to the hook. So greatly does pleasure fall back upon us in the opposite direction. Thus, longing for luxury is harmful to us in all things. And to disclose the whole matter, we are all prompt and eager to undergo anything and to undertake everything for the sake of frequent pleasure, since we do not sustain the bearing of even the slightest thing on behalf of what is right and just. And finally, if through such great troubles and such great evils we at length, and indeed barely, acquire it, it immediately returns to us quite clear C rewards. For it brings upon us both the envy of others and sometimes diseases, and infinite other evils. For it does not compel us to look towards what is best, but simply towards what pleases. So many and even more things can one hear from those who, having been attacked and wounded by many arrows of pleasure, criticize it. The same ones, if they should hear the contrary arguments, bring forward in turn various objections, while they call it a most violent disease, and a multifaceted beast, and one so wily, as is none other. For it always rejoices in frauds and impostures, by which it is accustomed to be harmful to all in the first place. For, painting it as if with a picture, they frequency say that it puts on the mask D of the honorable and the useful;
A it associates in a friendly manner. It is not ashamed to command in a despotic way. There is nothing that hinders it, nothing that restrains it, nor does it stand in the way of its jumping over to the most opposite things. It does not know how to blush. It does not even remember shame; for what does impudence have in common with shame? It cannot be still; for its nature does not allow this. It recognizes no quiet, nor leisure, nor tranquility, nor anything of that kind; for it has learned nothing at all. It surpasses in savagery crocodiles, lions, whatever is not moderated by anger or held by rage, every bloodthirsty beast, goading, poisonous, and wounding with an incurable bite. It cannot be tamed or made gentle, and it turns away from reconciliations. For it does not like to make a peace pact on equal conditions. Wherefore, while it uses both force and fraud at the same time, it has cast down and defeated many who seem, because of the nobility of their spirit, to be great, and who are objects of admiration to all for their virtue, B and it has put them to shame and refuted them. And if it does not overturn them at the first attempt, and sweep them away in the manner of a torrent, it itself shows great endurance, and takes great delight in a singular effort of diligence. And indeed it seems to be untiring in those things which it plots against us. For the very intensity of its will does not allow it to feel any labors. Scarcely at last, and after a long time, does it yield to the strongest athletes. Has one sometimes seen it yield the first prizes to boxers, to those boxers for whom sweats and labors undertaken in the contests are considered as nothing; not that it followed the fortitude of the victors with any reverence (for what is common to shame with that which is devoid of redness and shame?), but that it might offer them an occasion for laziness, for rendering them more negligent in establishing their own affairs, as if those troublesome matters had already been removed from their midst. C When these things have thus been accomplished, soon, suddenly rushing in, it accomplishes the thoughts of its mind more easily. This is manifest from experience itself: for after those truces in the war (for I like to still cling to the image once instituted), if it seems that it is an opportune time for making an attack and attempting the matter, immediately from what is D overlooked, it enters, and accomplishes its wishes more easily. It is clear from experience. For after the intermission of the war (I will still hold to the figure), when it seems opportune to attack and make a trial, it stands by immediately, unlooked-for; and having fallen in, more sharply and madly—at least as far as that one is concerned—it works all the terrible things; for that one, as it seems, does not fear those who have often prevailed over it. It does not dread those who have been victorious, nor those who have long ago exacted a penalty for this madness against them; but counting the falling over and over again as child's play, and being quickly found upright, it attempts the same things again, as if it had not been defeated in any way. And just as children in the case of toys, if they were cast down by the habit of those playing together, they stand up again for wrestling, and are ready to be grappled with those who have thrown them down many times; so this one also is not satisfied by being cast down, but always exults in the struggles of those who are constantly wrestling it down. Oh, would that we also in the same way accomplished the struggles against it! For so it contends against our interests, as not to consider life worth living, unless it is also able to lead the better men obviously like slaves. And if anyone yields a little to its impulses, or seems to nod somewhat toward reconciliations, it, having snatched at this little thing, immediately dreams of the whole, and practices some trick against the interests of those who have neglected them.
A And as for how, its account is brief: it leaves no stone unturned, utilizes every resource—one might justly apply the entire proverb to its schemes. For it brings forth, quite simply, anyone you could name who is perverse and ingenious in wrongdoing. It brings upon us an undeclared war, wishing to wound before it is seen; it loves night-fighting, so as to set upon those who are asleep, so as to overtake the enemy before he has drawn his sword. For how could it have escaped notice that it is B worth so much to be taken by surprise? For this is a fearful thing, capable of shaking even the souls of the most noble. And even if what falls upon one is light, it would have more power to alarm even those who would not easily suffer this, than something known to the less noble. For the little thing that happens contrary to expectation is more startling than the great thing expected. It loves the darkness, the moonless night itself. It takes joy in thick mist, which makes the visible invisible to the eyes. I think it rejoices in the conjunctions of these most brilliant stars, because in this way, the body of the moon, intercepting the eyes and the sun, prevents it from being able to exert its own rays upon us. In short, whatever causes pleasure—which is its friend—is the reason it is able to secretly inflict harm upon us. For it is very accustomed and akin to C letting fly a dart in secret, and to letting fly everything that smites; and to let fly, which it gives one to hope, that it will be very well able to inflict a timely wound. And, in short, it does everything against us in secret, whenever it is permitted to do so, and nothing stands in its way. But if it is detected before it has acted, it turns immediately to the opposite; it does everything brazenly, behaves shamelessly in the open, and, while behaving shamelessly, speaks boldly, as if it were someone who has great pride in its deeds. And henceforth it brandishes its spear in the sight of all, sends a pike against the mouth, and stones from both hands, and shakes the club of Heracles. There are times when it also brings this down upon a head that is totally unguarded. Then, perhaps, letting go of the reins, it leaps forward very boldly and attempts to anticipate the engagement and to carry it off by storm. In such a way is it not at a loss for methods, all D tending toward its goal. And what is most fearful of all, and what creates almost despair in souls: for having once turned its back, when all its enterprises have seemed to it to be in vain one after another (for to be completely unconquerable would be God’s alone), it does not collapse, does not neglect, does not despair, nor does it stand far off, but it circles round and plots—how, do you think? With how much zeal? It never ceases weaving snares, nor will it ever cease, not even in any way whatever. For it does not lose heart, whatever may happen to it; nor does it grow dizzy from its failures, even if they become more numerous than can be numbered. It watches for the opportunities, and whenever some terror comes from outside, that is when it too stirs, having considered the occurrence a godsend. For just as mice, and cats, and every such thievish thing, and wolves, and everything predatory, rejoices in trouble and turbulence, and in violent rains, and lightnings, and monstrous thunders, and whenever they infuse the souls with a triple-wave...
B of anxiety, because at such times it can easily do evil, while those who are on guard against them are looking toward other things. There is ferocity in bears and things of that sort. And what of this [other] bane? There is hot-temperedness in tigers, and whatever is comparable to these. But what gentleness is there in this? There are some guileful beasts—I mean those that are more contemptible, such as foxes, monkeys, and things of that kind. Yet pleasure has far surpassed these in [the talent of] being elusive. It becomes a chameleon, another Proteus. It emulates everything that is wicked and capable of immediate transformation. It mocks those who consider themselves wiser in this regard, whether they swim, fly, or walk on four feet. If any creature endowed with sensation has been celebrated across the globe for wickedness and malice, compared to this, that reputation is seen as mere trifles in comparison. For it admires only this: that it can deceive a rational soul most swiftly. Perhaps it even stands in awe of the serpent, as one which was once capable of this. Yet it seems to me that pleasure is stronger even than that. For since there were two things on account of which our first parents fell—I mean the serpent and the fruit—in my judgment, the fruit was the C primary and greater cause of the fall; for had the fruit not been present, nor invited the eyes to gaze upon its own appearance and contemplation, what, I ask, could the serpent have accomplished? What could it have advised? What could it have counseled? And had it held back from this, those who trusted the beast, which offered some hollow advice, would easily have been tempted by the beauty of the fruit. For it was not likely that the Creator would envy His own creation, nor that the one formed from clay would become like God by consuming some fruit. That is utterly implausible. But the fruit was beautiful, and very capable of beguiling, and it promised pleasant things to those who would consume it. For it promised that, if brought to the mouth, it would cause delight, and D that it would, in every way, be sweeter than all pleasant things. And it promised nothing strange, nor new, nor implausible, but that it would accomplish a work that was proper, easy, and natural. For it is not a matter for wonder if that which appears beautiful to the sight is expected to seem better than others to the taste. So, the pleasure expected from the fruit contributed not a little to the fall of our first parents. But consider well along with me here, regarding pleasure, and how
A great is its strength against us for deceiving, for persuading, and for compelling. For I say that it is far fiercer against us than it was of old against our ancestors. For if it could achieve so much against those who had not yet been defeated by it, so as to bring them into its power as if they were our slaves, what might it not do against us, who were born, so to speak, from its captives and have been reduced to the worst condition through the succession of those who brought us forth? Thus, the power of this, and of the passions, having from the beginning mastered the people who were first created, and then descending through those in between to those at the end, is able to mock the latter more easily than it did those who came before them. For human passions maintain the form of enemies, against whom victory is achieved only with the greatest dangers. But if it should once occur that one manages to overcome one's opponents, it no longer seems difficult to strike terror into them again, to turn them back, to make them turn their backs, and to pass on this cowardice with additions to one's descendants. Hence, B its power against us is greater and more effective than it was against our ancestors, and against theirs as well, until you arrive back at the first authors of our race. But indeed, further to what has been said, this thing—I mean pleasure (for I am still holding on to the image)—imitates the physicians. It urges that one should pay attention to health, so as to provide the body with occasion for indulgence and to relax the tension of the soul. Even if it is driven away, even if it is beaten back, even if it receives a cudgel to the head, and even if such things happen, these are trifles to it; even if you spit upon it, and this a thousand times over, you are merely strewing it with frequent roses. In general, as often as it is insulted, C just as often it launches an attack against us. It strives to imitate the hydra; and with what excess, I ask? If its head is cut off, it appears at once as many-headed. And even if it is overcome by force and a trophy of victory is raised over it (for this excessive expression should be allowed for me), it tries to appear all the more fierce for that very reason. Even if it becomes a wanderer and a fugitive, even if it goes to waterless places, it returns again in numbers multiplied, in accordance with the image of that unclean spirit. It does not cease from doing these things, and even worse. Thus it is shameless, and impudent, and frantic, and malicious. It does everything with audacity. It has the eyes of a dog, but not the heart of a deer, but of those in whose breast there is a great deal of rage. It looks to one thing, it focuses on one thing: D to overthrow those who have shown themselves to be better than it is. It strives to reverse its defeat and to greatly excel to become stronger than those who themselves were stronger than it. It puts all other things second to these, and if only it may have success, it holds none of the terrible, none of the frightening, none of the sorrowful, or even the most shameful things together as worthy of consideration. And yet, why do I say "most shameful"? Since it takes pride in these very things, and rejoices in them more than it would in being victorious without them. And it is worth saying also this: it brings grief upon those souls, when indeed it should
A be fitting for us to dance as though crowned. For with its defeat, it is fitting to sing hymns of victory and to leap with cheerfulness. We, however, are meanwhile grieving, and suffering a certain strange affliction, gathering grief from a victory. Or rather, we are not suffering something strange. For what has been said must be corrected. We are not grieving because we have been victorious (for if that were the case, the affliction would be plainly absurd), but rather because we see its madness against us, and its unpronounceable anger, and its incomparable contention, and how it would easily suffer everything and do everything, looking toward our destruction—and so we are not rejoicing as much as we are justly vexed. For we know, we know that it will by no means cease from the war against us. For surely it will always wage war, and after its defeat will join battle more openly and fiercely. We are therefore pained by the fear of the things we suspect—which we know it will constantly present—rather than rejoicing because we have won. For everyone justly judges the future by the things that have already come to pass.
On Pleasure
Thus far, let what is said concerning pleasure suffice, since it is not necessary to proceed further. For it seems to me that it is not easy for one who speaks about it to attain to an accurate account, nor for one wishful to avoid prolixity to explain clearly all that is to be said about it. At least this one thing must be added to the rest: it becomes a multiform monster, deceiving and harming as much as you can imagine by its varied guises. And that I might omit the lesser things, you would find pleasure, if you should investigate its nature from its origin, to have been variedly transformed into a cause for bringing about destruction. This rained down clouds of fire upon the Sodomites of old; this opened the abysses of the earth, and the very sky, so that even nature devoid of reason was inundated by B a deluge of waters, though, as it was our nature, it was not guilty. Weigh for me, I beg, those Jews who fell and perished in the wilderness; everywhere one may see the traces of its wicked deeds, that we may not dwell again on recounting them. But this is worst in it, that although these things are known to us, we cannot leave it, even though we greatly wish to; or, on the contrary, when we perhaps could, we do not wish to. Wherefore such is the nature of pleasure, that on either side it is an evil and a most certain detriment, for those, I say, who are not endowed with a firm and stable soul, and with experience of various things, and an excellent education, and a mind undefiled by vices, and a character desirous of glory, and a will exciting itself and always inclined toward whatever is most beautiful and best, and which has altogether enough strength to understand whatever things lead us as chief causes toward divine virtue; nor less also of desire, to persevere in those things which they have known to be most beautiful and best. Who then could those men of such stature be, as to have been able to avoid the excesses of pleasure by a C right use of it? I think that we shall find very few of this kind, and these indeed having surpassed the others by a long way. For since it blinds the eye of the soul, and the goad of pleasure softens its tension, how is its power to lead on and charm not almost stronger even than nature itself? And
A If by the excesses of the things that are most pleasant we all become the worst of men (for it is not, it is simply not possible for those who use them to be good), whereas the moderate is everywhere best, and yet it is so difficult, and most especially in this instance, as the discourse has just shown us; how is pleasure not an outright evil for life, by which we are both called and forced toward those excesses of it, for the sake of which we all fall away from both noble things and good things, both of the present and the future? It would have been better, therefore, had pleasure of such a sort as the discourse has described and shown us—not I think with complete accuracy, but as far as it was possible to delineate it—never to be, nor to be present in this life, nor to have existed from the beginning, as has been said at the outset. In this way, some who are otherwise haughty and arrogant, but who, when it comes to intemperate luxury, are forgetful of everything in sequence, and wishing to hide themselves, and not even knowing how to judge properly what is proper, I think, disparage pleasure, putting forward arguments and fashioning images, other things perhaps not ignobly, but as regards one thing, harmfully, as I would say. For they do not blame themselves at all for their own vice, or only slightly, acting wisely, but they blame pleasure in all respects, not even sparing God, as the discourse will show as it proceeds. This seems to me to be the worst of all the things said by them. Thus, we are all wise for our own destruction, as many of us as prefer sloth, as many of us as prefer the ease of the good itself, and prefer the immediate freedom from pain over the greatest goods that follow later. B But the majority of such persons cannot even persuade themselves that some human being has ever been seen who was stronger than pleasures. For we judge by our own experience the things that are mostly foreign to us, and we judge that what appears to be beyond our own courage is beyond the courage of everyone.
ORATION V.
On pleasure; an opposition to the preceding discourse.
These, then, are the things put forward by those who find fault with pleasure; but I shall attempt to defend it, considering that I am doing what is just; and how, will soon appear. For since, regarding pleasure, some hold one opinion and others another; and some turn aside completely from the path that leads rightly to the truth, thinking it to be something evil and disadvantageous; and these have been deceived, as I for one would assert with much confidence; how should assistance not be brought to them, as much as is possible? For if to be deceived is a great evil, and to attempt to correct those who are deceived is to provide help, and to provide help to those of the same race is a common duty for all to the best of their ability; he is doing what is noble and just who defends pleasure with reasonable arguments, D to the extent that it should not have been attacked. For he who brings help in this way brings help to those who are deceived, and pays a debt owed to all men. So to me
A this is appropriate, not only as it is to others, but with a double addition: this by reason of the form, and this also because of you, for whose sake I have surely cast myself into this contest, even though the times did not at all permit it; unless someone might say that no time could justly prevent the struggles that arise for our benefit. B I wish, however, to free some from a certain error, already trying to protect my listeners beforehand, so that they might not fall into another error, both from the things just said and from the things about to be said. For perhaps some, though not correctly, might still think that, wishing to show myself superior to pleasure and to act arrogantly in a base manner, I have undertaken to discuss this argument. And if they should take what is simply said by us with unjust suspicion, having received one incorrect opinion heaped upon another—to us they will do no harm (for what could they do?), but I think they will be able to do no greater harm to themselves. For they will not be healed, but will undoubtedly be seized by a more serious disease; and that too, which will be difficult to cure. Therefore, I thought it proper first to clear the way for us, and then to walk upon it. C Let everyone know, and all together, whoever shall encounter these speeches, that we do not speak for the sake of showing off, nor, desiring to declare ourselves noble while disparaging pleasure, have we undertaken these words. How so? Unless I had lost my mind and had entirely forgotten myself. For no one, I think, has experienced the darts of intemperance more than I, nor has anyone departed from it as wounded as I. Indeed, I know myself well, just as I also do not know well how much I am lacking in showing moderation in all things. Therefore, I will speak not for my own sake, but as I have the strength, simply for the sake of utility. I say, therefore, that pleasure is a good thing for those who wish to be good, and—for those who use it correctly and honorably—it is a clear, good, and honorable thing, and D a preserver of our life, and a procurer of nothing of the evils, if we only wish it so. And it certainly had to exist and be present in the life of mortals, and extend along with the life of living beings. For I declare the very opposite to the speech spoken against it immediately before this one. And if these things are true (and they are indeed true, as our discourse will soon show us in a brief summary, if it has met with divine favor), the whole of the thesis will have been worked out, and the matter of pleasure will have been proven to us to be good and excellent. And to this end, even one very brief point, in my opinion, would suffice. For if we consider that He who is truly good has implanted this into the nature of living beings, and that of whatever He is the author, this can never be an evil, nor to be rejected, but on the contrary is clearly good and highly desirable, it will appear entirely that pleasure is a good and honorable thing in itself, according to the promise of the discourse. But that pleasure is from God, I think no argument will be needed. Since, indeed, all things [are] for us from
just as for the universe, have been bestowed by God—which is accepted by common opinion—it follows that this common judgment also holds: that pleasure is a good thing. And this is clear from the premise: for either there is no pleasure at all, or else it comes from the same source from which all things come. But pleasure is indeed a thing that exists for all; therefore, it is from God. And the things from Him are good; therefore, it is good. Hence, I think you will not need many words for the fulfillment of the promise. For it is not permitted—it is not permitted for a faithful man to dare to open his mouth to the contrary; and indeed, not even for an unbeliever, in my opinion, provided he possesses a mind capable of forming a judgment; let him consider that the excesses and the abuses are to be attributed to those who do not use them rightly, but that the foundation of pleasure itself consists in the moderation of perception. Wherefore, it is permitted for me to say: "Before you began the journey, you have arrived," which a certain divine man said, wishing to demonstrate an excessive swiftness.
But I think that some who are present wish to hear these things more clearly, and I believe that it is necessary to provide for them as much as is sufficient. Wherefore, by explaining the whole argument through more points, I will show that the judgment is well-founded, by reasons B that are, I think, appropriate and necessary. And yet, I believe I am attempting to establish what is already very clear. Nevertheless, it is good to state that which exists by itself, from the things already said, through a common (so to speak) notion and principle, and even more to establish it by the sequence of arguments in various proofs. For that which consists of two things, and has, so to speak, two feet, is somewhat more stable than that which stands by one thing, which is like standing on half of one’s footing, as it were on a single foot. And if it is supported by more, this is, by far, better still. And let our consideration be instituted in this way. Let us begin again from the antecedents; for "no other foundation can any man lay than that which is laid," to use the words of Paul. And the discourse, proceeding by a certain way and method, with God’s help, will briefly set forth what is right; having demonstrated those things which, if not shown, might make what is to be said appear not sufficiently well-established, and having left many things in silence, which, although they were not brought forth for the sake of avoiding tedium, will have brought no detriment, I think, to the proposed goal. C
If, therefore, the nature of things is from God, and desire is implanted in all living creatures, as has also been said before, and the faculty of desiring does not come from outside anywhere, nor is it a later development, nor acquired, but is a certain innate and inseparable faculty of the soul and a part of it (if you wish to speak this way), which is both tri-partite and without parts (I speak now of the soul that is participant in reason and is ours), it follows that desire is a good thing, as being given by God to the soul no less than its sister parts, the rational and the irascible. And if someone grants this—that desire is a good thing (and everyone, I think, will grant it, unless he be stubborn and perverse)—then pleasure also appears as a good thing, because of which we desire, and without which it is not D reasonable, I suppose, that desire itself should have been innate in the soul in the first place,
A for it would have arisen in vain from the beginning, there being nothing in which the soul might have been active for us in this respect. But to say or to think that anything has been produced by God in vain is blasphemous. And so it follows either that the soul itself was not made by God (which who would say, possessing a soul and sharing in intellect?) or that we must believe that pleasure also was granted to the soul from God. For since it has been demonstrated that desire also should not have existed, no object at all existing upon which this very desire could have been rightly shown, it would be clear to everyone in succession that, pleasure not existing in any way, desire itself ought not to have been established at all. For it is evident that desire has its motion for the sake of joy and pleasure. For there is nothing else in all of existence for the sake of which it could possibly be moved. B And thus with desire removed, and completely taken out of the way, even the reality of the soul would not remain. For it is not possible for the soul, being deprived of any of its own characteristics, to remain in the state in which it was created. And this is clear from the contrary. For it is neither probable, nor possible, for the soul to take something from outside itself so as to become "more" of a soul. Therefore, neither is the other alternative possible, I mean the discarding of something. For both are equally absurd. For souls—both in relation to each other and to themselves—are perhaps always and in the same way possessed of whatever belongs to their very substance and their original creation. Therefore, C a soul can neither become worse nor better than another, nor indeed than itself, according to its nature; thus, it can neither receive anything from without, nor discard anything of its own. For if the soul, remaining in the state in which it was created, is in a healthy condition, it is clear that it would not be in a healthy condition if it were to discard something of its own, or receive something from the outside. But as it is, remaining in that in which it was created from the beginning, it remains at the pinnacle of the good. So it is clear to all that it would then be in a worse state (I speak purely from hypothesis) when it receives something from outside or discards what is its own. For by acquisition it would become excessive; by deficiency, it would undergo a kind of mutilation. And yet, if the soul could be found intact and good, destitute of desire, then through the addition of desire it would become somehow superfluous and base. But if we now see it as beautiful and whole, it would be manifestly clear that it would be most base and deficient through the removal of a part. D For contraries are demonstrated by contraries no less than likes by likes. Therefore, neither of these contraries—I mean the discarding and the acquisition—will be consistent with the good. Indeed, it is rather clearly necessary that both be hostile to the soul, both the addition and the removal, so that it may neither receive something superfluous nor have its wholeness mutilated. Wherefore, this having been explained—that it is impossible for the soul to be unscathed without desire—I believe it has been proven by the same reasoning that neither can desire
A exist, if there be no pleasure; and therefore if there be none, the mind itself cannot be safe, since we have proven that desire is taken away along with pleasure, and the mind along with desire. These things, however, have been spoken and established by me so that it might be manifest that pleasure is innate to the soul through its appetitive part, which is a substantial and altogether inseparable faculty of it. And thus, with God’s help, the good has been brought to an end in but a few words, which I promised to show. But if more were needed, it would certainly have been possible to accomplish this with great ease. For truth is of such a nature that it pours forth the occasions and causes for its own establishment as if from a fountainhead. But since the matter has been sufficiently explained, and it has been proven that pleasure is implanted in the soul by nature and granted to us by God—and therefore is necessarily good (for such are the things that proceed from God)—come, let us demonstrate its goodness from the very things themselves, with reasonings, if indeed we are able to do so.
B Much evidence will make it clear that pleasure can be found to be free from vices, if one uses it as it ought to be used. For, as I believe, to both seek and desire those things which are truly desirable and right to be desired, and to delight in the pleasures that arise from these, deserves no just censure, but rather, on the contrary, many praises. For if pleasure is sought by us as that which comes unbidden in the investigation of matters, and for this reason alone—that it was given by nature from the very beginning to be sought, namely, God, virtue, and its own preservation—how could that pleasure not rightfully be considered good, creating as it does good men in all who properly partake of it? For instance, in the heavenly hosts, in which it is impossible for anything not good to exist, one might find both—I mean desire and pleasure; for it is written: “which things the angels desire to look into.” And that pleasure is called endless and ceaseless which is always present with the incorporeal beings. This is called by holy men C both delight and joy, and whatever else of the kind. This will also be present with the souls of the just forever, having received from thence the good pledge of the pleasure that is there. But if anyone thinks it a great thing that we are to have the same delight as the incorporeal beings and to enjoy what they enjoy after the life here, let him hear this, that even in this life it is possible for us to partake of this good. For to those who are once pure, or have been purified, grace shines down from thence, which they are to be with for all time, even if it happens here in a somewhat more sluggish and dim manner. For because of our body, which now obstructs the soul’s contemplation as if by curtains, and because of the passions that arise from it and the cares that follow, we cannot purely contemplate the objects of contemplation D nor enjoy the objects of desire. But to the eternal ones, since nothing of this kind is troublesome, it is permitted to seek the desirable and to be delighted by the things that produce joy—that is, the pleasant—more purely. And therefore they always behold that royal beauty as best they can, and become partakers of the radiance from thence, and enjoy that wondrous season. And they have not had, nor will they have, satiety. Blessed
A will we be if we wish to partake of the fruit of this pleasure, and pursue it with all our strength, insofar as those things lead us to it alone. And if any other pleasure should appear moderate, it would be permitted to enjoy it in a moderate fashion; for since it is moderate, it will be enjoyed moderately by those who are moderate. And whatever things it is permitted to do in such a way that they bind us to no fault, but bring joy and utility, and have no impediment worthy of censure, these things those who are endowed with a mind consider to be honest, and good, and praiseworthy. For pleasure is something of this kind: for as many as have used it moderately and soberly, besides the fact that it affects them with no distress or detriment, it provides something pleasant and useful in this life, in the other, or in both. Wherefore pleasure, as we were affirming that we would prove, is a good thing. But if it should be harmful to anyone, let this be referred to his own abuse, who does not keep the measure or is unwilling to keep it. For those who desire to live according to the prescription of reason ought, every abuse being rejected, to take as much pleasure through all the senses as is sufficient to satisfy necessity, and not proceed B further. For if one should use it badly (and evil is whatever is excessive), it is not that which was given to us for right use, but intemperance itself, and he who uses it badly, that comes to be blamed. Therefore, if anyone wishes to use me as a counselor, let no one attribute his own vices to pleasure. For indeed I would redeem it at a great price, if for the sake of pleasure I had no fault to sustain; for this would be advantageous to me above all others. But now the matter does not stand thus, but rather in the contrary way. For if it were permitted to ascribe the blame to pleasure, as often as we sin, and thus be delivered from all liability, not even one of those who are to be punished would be chastised at all. Indeed, if even this had a place, that those who sin through intemperance were deservedly excused, yet not even in this way would this evil be light. For to one who designs some evil, this very thing is an evil, even if he pays no penalties, nor is held under that name. Truly, it would benefit me not to be summoned to the tribunal of the judge to plead the cause of evil deeds. For since we hear David himself entreating that Judge, that He not wish to proceed into judgment with him, who, I ask, is so bold as not to tremble at the very mention of the judgment? It would be desirable for those slaves of pleasure (I am presently addressing my adversary) that the matter were so D affected, just as you were saying, namely that the force of pleasure were such as to prove that those who desire to avoid its excesses are senseless. But I greatly fear that the truth is of a different account than some suppose; for I say that the matter is constituted in a completely different way, since that tyrannical force of it is sheer delirium, if anyone wishes to call it so. And this is the reason why that just Judge exacts penalties from us, as often as we place it before His own commands. For if its force were invincible when it breaks into souls, neither would God the Judge take a penalty from us if His will were slighted for the sake of pleasure, nor would He ever have...
armed us from the beginning with His marvelous commandments and admonitions. A I assent, indeed, to the first part of your discourse, that pleasure is a most tyrannical passion, and I by no means blame the image you use for it. For it is not at all inconsistent with its character. Yet it does not possess such power against all men in succession as the speaker would have it; rather, it is only so against those who do not bravely resist its assaults and attacks. This is evident: for when it falls upon men with sharp force, it strikes like a breaker against a protective mole constructed of the largest stones with the highest skill, and is dissipated, having achieved nothing. But when it has once seized the souls of others with a variety of desirable things, nothing remains but that it should command and they should obey, leading them wherever it might send them, even to the most shameful places, as if to the Atlantic ocean, beyond the Pillars of Hercules, which is immense. For it drags and suffocates those souls, like torrents that are driven by violent rain, providing horror by their sharp and formidable impetus and by their roar alone. For it is sufficiently manifest into what a chasm we fall whenever we loosen the reins of the appetitive part B of the soul. But for those who are armed with virtue and reason, its dart will not wound any of them in any way. For you should know, excellent man, that those who enjoy moderate and necessary pleasure at the proper time, laugh at this unbridled and excessive pleasure, as having nothing sacred about it, since it is manifold, and holds out with art and variety whatever is most beautiful and pleasant to the senses of the body, by which means it gains strength and prevails, unless men perceive these sensible things with moderation and enjoy the most pleasant with reason. So the whole matter lies in excess, and in the neglect of moderation and measure, which is indeed our own fault, as has been said before, not as it seems to you. For you, my good man, seem to free yourself from blame and minimize intemperance, and you consider C voluntary motion as nothing; but you toss pleasure alone up and down, simply attributing to it whatever things have ever been done by you for the sake of defiance and wantonness. I advise you to refrain from such judgments, and to keep such thoughts far away, for they are far from the truth. For you act in a way similar to if you had to drink a medicine, prepared by excellent doctors, and then, having used the medicine at the wrong time, with the result turning out contrary to your intention, instead of blaming yourself, you find fault with the medicine and those who wisely compounded it. And not only the medicines of doctors, but all things which we use, if one does not use them well, nor with the proper measure, can become harmful in every way—either immediately, or hereafter, or even from the beginning to the end. But there is no thing D that is not of this kind in regard to all things. Since even fire, by misuse, is so. Pleasure, then, is not the evil, but the misuse
A of all things whatsoever. For these very things, which are otherwise necessary, and without which no one could remain safe and sound, just like things that are harmful by nature, destroy if they flow in great abundance beyond what is fitting. Tell me, I beseech you, what is better than light, what is better than air? Yet if we should misuse even these, a great evil comes about, and we suffer the same fate as those who do not partake of them. For the harm from both is unbearable for us and for them. And how so? I will tell you. A ray of light, the most delightful of all things, provides the eyes with the power of sight in operation, and provides the visible objects with the ability to be seen and to be what they are. For beautiful things and the eye itself would be in potentiality only—that which they are by nature, namely beautiful and an eye—without the ray in any way contributing its own property. But if one were to receive this whole and entire directly into the eyes, they would easily lose their power of vision. And yet, if it did not appear to the eyes for a long time, no harm would come to them from that. But if it has joined with them beyond measure, suddenly something B strange happens, if that which is most delightful to us should end in pain, and if, through the very thing by which it is possible to see, we should lose the ability to see. Without air, however, we cannot last even for the briefest moment; for I shall leave aside for the moment saying that all would perish immediately if it did not wrap around us. But if this, too, should blow upon us more violently, and with great force rush through the ears, through the nostrils, through the mouth, so that we were unable to expel it—warmed by the natural heat of the viscera—nor, in turn, to draw in fresher air to cool the innate heat, we would all easily perish. Thus all things are good when done at the right time, and nothing is good without this. For the members of the body, and all things that these serve, are good in themselves and have been made for good. And indeed, they maintain their state through moderation; for it is only by the excess or the deficiency of that which ought to have been done C that both the members themselves that act, as well as the things effected through them, are thought to be evil, when they are by no means so. For that which is too much, and that which is too little, is harmful everywhere, as has already been said before. Now, these things sometimes occur through these instruments, and sometimes by reason of the material, which provides to the instruments—that is, the members—the power to act; and sometimes it is from the judgement of the soul itself. Yet no one, I think, could justly blame those things in any respect; for neither the material, which is devoid of soul, nor the members, are to be blamed, but the soul that moves them; which is moved by its own choice toward better things when it is governed by reason, but toward worse things when it has its inclination toward the more irrational. So one of two things D must follow: either pleasure is not to be blamed, whenever the measure is neglected by us, as we have advanced further than was fitting; or else all of creation, in the same way, must be blamed. Or rather, letting this aside, let us find fault with the Creator Himself. For if the creator of things that cause harm is strictly the cause of the evils which necessarily arise from them, and if we are to blame creation because of the harmful things, it is right also to blame Him for the harmed things themselves.
A If this strikes you as absurd, and you would not accept saying it (for you will claim that all things from God are good), it is also absurd to disparage pleasure, which was wisely given to us for our good. For without it, nothing that is in sense or life could have subsisted. All things that help life are laborious; and if you remove the pleasant, nothing of those things will be touched by anyone, because it involves labor. My argument is confirmed by our own affairs. For we neither eat nor drink unless pleasure prompts us. And what is to be wondered at is that, when we are over-satiated with food, we turn away from even the most pleasant things, and we would rather accept lashes on the body than food in the mouth. And if the impulsive and attractive force within us should turn away from its natural state, even with physicians advising, friends encouraging, and relatives doing everything, there would be no device sufficient, nor fear, to be able to persuade the sick person to yield to the exhortations of those who care for him. But although we know that we shall die if we do not take food, we yet die rather than take it.
B When, therefore, such is the state of affairs among rational beings, how could the fish, the bird, and the horse do anything laborious or work-like without pleasure urging them on? For the irrational creature eats, not in order to live (whence would that be? It is very far from it, of course), but because it feels pleasure in feeding, as the throat, by a certain natural disposition, makes sweet what is sent down through it into the stomach. And it happens that they derive life from the food. And in like manner, it makes use of sexual union. It does not do this so that its race may not fail, but because it is charmed by pleasure, whenever want has preceded, but satiety has not yet been reached. So it is possible to declare that the consistency of pleasure exists in the interval between want and satiety in every matter thereafter. C And indeed, it is not only for the sake of my pleasure that the race is well-ordered for us, but also because of the pleasure latent in irrational creatures. For since these were made for our sake, and are preserved because of pleasure, it is clearly evident that the pleasure of irrational creatures D has also turned out for the good of our own life. For those things which provide us with help from outside are in best condition because of it. Who could explain in words the foods, the clothing, and the other things we have from them, which we use immediately, while we make long journeys, engage in trade, wage wars, hunt, and till the fields? And [who could explain] gathering the fruits of agriculture, and other things, without which we cannot live well—I mean houses, ships, harbors, and cities themselves? So it has been well said by us regarding the pleasure that is in irrational creatures. For since we have lost that self-sufficient and simple life, and for this reason stand in need of many things, a large part of these the animals serve and provide for us from themselves, and these very animals are themselves preserved by pleasure; thus it becomes entirely clear that our own life is sustained, and also...
A adorned by their pleasure: and if this were utterly abolished, there is no doubt that the brute animals would be abolished, and along with them those things which are necessary for the life of creatures endowed with reason would be abolished, and nothing would remain for us except to lead a wretched and precarious life. And why do I say this? Our life would be entirely similar to the life of the brutes if those things were removed from the midst; indeed, if it be permitted to say so, we would live much more miserably than they do without them; for their well-being is nothing other than living as they now live. But our life would be badly affected if our manner of living corresponded to that of beasts, with the things that were made for our sake having been removed from the midst. Nor should this be passed over in silence: since pleasure is twofold, it is possible to derive some benefit from both kinds. For even that pleasure (I speak now of the dishonest and most base pleasure, which is ill-spoken of by better men, as if it were a certain fountainhead of vices), if we should be willing, could procure for us eternal and sober enjoyments with glory. B Thus, in either aspect, pleasure can be an advantage to those who wish it so. If it is good, it is profitable by that very fact; if it is evil and treacherous, since it is of such a nature, it will have accomplished nothing. For if it should hurl against us the spear, and find us armed accurately and rightly with attention and the endurance that comes from it, besides the fact that it will have done no harm in any way, it will even have greatly benefited those against whom it was laying snares. For when the weapon sent by it has been repelled by the solidness of the breastplate and shield, of which virtue is the artificer, and has recoiled by its own force toward the one who sent it, it itself receives a wound from the deadly blow, but to us, against its will, it provides that we, adorned with a wreath that never withers, may enjoy pleasures that will have no end. And with good reason. For if pleasure has raised its horn against us, and has acquired the sting of death because of our gluttony, which we have inherited as if by succession from that first intemperance, it follows that those who have shown themselves immune from insatiable lust through self-restraint C will justly be crowned and will partake of immortal life and of pleasures that do not fade with that life. And it would be just for God to do this. For if He exacts punishment from those who have lived intemperately, it is much more fitting for Him to give just rewards to the good, who have known how to set a limit to necessities, and who abstain from anything that exceeds these, since they do not admire any delights and are not affected indiscriminately toward anything that has the appearance of a good beyond necessity. Finally, according to the arguments set forth thus far, it is fitting to consider pleasure to be good for some and, on the contrary, evil for others. For those who are carried along by an evil impulse, like ships lacking their rigging, however the desire of their appetite may happen to blow, it is undoubtedly a terrible enemy, bold and at the same time treacherous, and tempting them with infinite arts with which it engages in struggle, and simply retaining the form of all those things which that image of pleasure has shown to us by those who have painted it. From all of which it is gathered that victory is clearly in the possession of the prototype of the image, in return for the fact that it strips for battle against an opponent that is easily attacked and sluggish; but for those who make an account of the truly real life, and for D only...
A those who make proper use of it, living in a manner fitting to human beings and directing their affairs with reason, it is good in itself, and to them it is the cause of the greatest goods once they have passed from this life, and furthermore, it is the cause of a most true and lasting pleasure, accompanied by the glory that comes to them in the life thereafter. For indeed, the present goods, and all splendor, and pleasure, and glory, are certain empty names and small things, and they barely endure for the sake of utility and necessity. And all those things which we must seek are not so much for their own sake as they might be for the sake of others. To these things, the matter of pleasure is likewise coordinate. We think it good, therefore, to sum up the discourse at this point, giving an account as if in a conclusion.
I say, therefore, that the soul, and all its members, as one might call them, and its faculties, are from God. For how could they not be? And they are beautiful and good, as being from God. For this is by all necessities. And the appetite, in turn, as that which brings the soul to perfection in its own part, is also good according to this; for that which is incomplete is not good. So too, it has pleasure, which sustains our life, and through which the appetitive faculty is active within us, and not as if dead and lying inert, possessing its power only in potentiality. And since these things are so, and the end of the inquiry has been reached, and it has been demonstrated that the object of pleasure is a good thing, both for other reasons and because it has been granted by God to a nature that is participant in both reason and B sensation, what then do you say, you who simply denounce pleasure? For if you are silent, I myself will tell you at the last what you would gladly hear, I think. Having confirmed with my own suffrage your arguments, by which you briefly sketched the image of pleasure, I abrogate only this one thing: that you consider it to be so powerful against everyone that any human effort of those wishing to struggle against it is almost in vain. If, then, these things also seem so to you, and you think pleasure is beyond necessity, disorderly, and altogether harmful—though indeed C powerful in those whose power of soul is weak in choosing, but powerless in those who are able to rightly estimate things and wish to do what they judge to be good—you will behave fairly, I think, and will be moderate, as indeed you are in part, imitating my example, as I neither praise your whole discourse, nor denounce it in all respects. And indeed, if I were to agree with yours in part, and you in turn did the same regarding mine, we would be found to agree with one another, proclaiming and declaring that pleasure to be most beautiful, and good, and useful which is necessary and orderly; and conversely, that which is excessive and disorderly is neither beautiful, nor good, nor useful; and that those who use it not at the proper time, nor in measure, do not receive the harm from it, but rather from themselves, D as they have surrendered themselves to excesses. Since even all the goods of life would, so to speak, turn into evil, if one were
all things which are good in life, if one uses them beyond necessity, turn into evil, as I might say. Come then, if it seems good to you, let us agree in words, since I think our reasonings tend toward the same point. For what you attribute to pleasure—the excess and surplus in all things whose enjoyment is sought—that I on my part say is ours. Wherefore we differ in words, not in sentiments. If it pleases you to call what is good pleasure, and to call the same thing abuse, I shall not disagree; only grant me that I too may profess moderate pleasure to be a good thing. B
ORATION VI
That sin is the worst of everything; that one ought to despair of no one, neither of oneself nor of another; but to judge oneself, and not another; and not to hate those who have sinned, but to pity them; and concerning repentance, the providence of God, love, and humanity toward men.Having discoursed upon pleasure as far as we were able, we have set forth the speech intended concerning it. And let it be that we did not depart entirely from the path of decorum, but have appeared at least to our hearers to have completed the navigation of this undertaking with moderate success. But I think we ought, now that the argument regarding this has been fully explained, if we wish to perform our duty, to discourse also upon desperation. C For from intemperance, which abuses the pleasures, sins emerge in our souls; from frequent sin, desperation comes into being, which is then accompanied by another greater one; and thus, as the evil itself progresses, it is necessary at last for it to extend to infinity, and for the final wound to be inflicted upon the souls, while the corruption always tends toward the worse and the more difficult to escape. Pleasure has laid many prostrate, and has afflicted many with wounds. And some, because they had not determined to contend manfully for their own soul, did not even withstand its first assault, but, having become captive at once, were hissed at by the spectators. Then, having willed it, they not only wiped away the stain of the disgrace they had received, but were also crowned with the due wreaths of victory. But as for those who have been struck by the D sword of desperation, not one of them can be cured; for that wound is lethal and in no way curable. Wherefore necessity itself demands what I said, that as I have thus far discoursed upon pleasure, I should now speak words about desperation, and bring help with all my might to those who are in danger of desperation. For if those who think wrongly about pleasure were not on any account to be passed over in silence, as was done by us, much less do I think anyone will consider that help is not to be brought to those who are placed in such danger, lest something even worse befall them. For from some other long-standing error, many have been recalled, but no one from constant desperation. And we do not think we are undertaking anything vain, nor that there is any arrogance or boldness in this effort of ours. For we judge it right that we should by no means pass over in silence that disease which undoubtedly brings destruction to those to whom it attaches itself for any time.
A It is necessary to apply a suitable remedy to the wound, provided we wish to soothe and heal it, and not by letting it swell and fester of itself, to make it even worse through contrary treatments. In short, all must be aided in this way by natural remedies, and by such as the one who is in need of our assistance does not recoil from. For otherwise it would be better to attempt nothing at all, since those whom we wish to treat would receive a detriment, not an advantage. Nor do I think it difficult to find that suitable medicine. For the very clemency of the Savior toward us provides it from its own source; it alone heals all diseases of this kind, and human transgressions are so much less than it, that they cannot even be conceived of by thought. Therefore, from the very threshold, as they say, that which we were seeking has been found.
B But, someone will say, that man was torn from the heights and cast down, and has become a terrible spectacle of ruin to all who see him. And what has this to do with despair? There is need only of will, by which it comes to pass that, once washed of vices, he might ascend to the very summit of good things even faster than winged creatures. I mean now the will that is witnessed by deeds; for it is not possible, it is truly not possible for those who truly will it to miss the mark. For it is because we do not will to be healed that the passions of the soul are accustomed to remain in us; as, if we were to resist them bravely, they would not even begin to enter. For both to have become and to remain wicked, and again to be good and to persevere in good, is clearly in the power of men themselves. For it is not possible for those who wish to be good to be forced by any external thing to become evil; nor for those who have become wicked through their own basest choice, not to be corrected afterward, if they will it. C And if this is true, the medicine has been found, and the disease of despair has departed. Truly, someone will say: but this wretched man has become subject to every vice in order, and having been healed many times, he has been wounded again many times. How then could he be corrected? Let us not despair of the man. For if the fatal wound—I mean despair—has not arrived, the disease is curable for those who wish to receive the treatment gladly. For if our affairs were not in this state, not even one would have been saved at all. For no one is good, according to that divine oracle, nor indeed free from sin, even if he excels others by far in virtue. All therefore will be in need of this medicine; and having obtained this, which is suitable, good health will straightway follow. And if any man should surpass by a great measure those who are and have been renowned for wickedness, such a one is truly worthy of many tears, because, having been created good and for good things, he has voluntarily filled his own soul with more evils than anyone else. But nevertheless, if this same man should thirst for his own correction with a certain frantic zeal—if indeed he despairs, he is foolish, or rather senseless, considering the infinite philanthropy of God to be inferior to a sin that has an end. But if, having placed his trust in God, he might withdraw from evil things, and cling to good things with all his might, nothing will prevent him, as he returns, from recovering his former state, or even surpassing it by far [if indeed even that excess...]
provided that some do not think this statement of ours too extreme. "If thou shouldst mark iniquities, who shall stand?" he says. "Who shall understand sins?" and "If we say that we have not sinned, we make him a liar; and there is none good but one, that is, God." And throughout all the Scriptures you would find many such things if you searched. But he came that we might have life, and that we might have it more abundantly. And, "If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins." For the Father gave him up to shame, and suffering, and death, in place of those who were liable to undergo these things, that everyone who believes in him might not perish. And, "His blood cleanses us from all sin." B Therefore, as often as we look at ourselves and what is ours, it is just for all to despair, when we read what is written: "Enter not into judgment with thy servant, for no one living shall be justified in thy sight." But when we look at God and his clemency, I say that no one who at least wishes to be saved ought to despair. For God both loves the being whom he fashioned with his own hands from clay—which he had previously even brought into existence from nothing—and wills that all be saved on account of his own goodness, for which reason he also became man and suffered for us, being at once like us and devoid of passion. And such were his sufferings that by their mere recollection they are able to instill a tremendous amount of fear and horror C into the souls of all. If, therefore, he wills all who have repented to be saved, and has the power to do whatever he wills, then nothing is lacking for those who are established in sins to be saved, except that they wish to repent and show forth the fruits of repentance. How then is he not bereft of his senses who despairs of the salvation of those who, because of themselves and their deeds, have indeed despaired, but nevertheless live in good hope on account of the Savior himself and because of what he suffered for our sake, having been crucified? Let no one, therefore, who hopes in him despair of his own salvation. For he will not judge our deeds according to our custom, nor in his judgment will he have regard for human justice and benevolence, but for his own; D requiring nothing from us now but true repentance—which he seeks, looking to our own profit and not for his own sake—for what results from those who are of no account would never be useful to him. Yet we all would have immediately been reduced to nothing, if anyone were to remove our mutual assistance. So that if anyone were to examine our justice and benevolence closely, and compare them with those of the Savior, I truly believe he would not even grant that these of ours deserve the names of justice and benevolence. But let us consider this in the following way. To us, some law of benevolence is established, to forgive those who have made satisfaction for an offense. But if one cannot pay, there are blows, and chains, and the prison, and all such things. And there is perhaps even death, for those who are hard-pressed are overcoming the strength of those who oppress them! And I pass over insults, reproaches, and everything that brings shame, which come about by a great store of anger towards the wretches.
A Indeed, to those who are hardened, it seems much more biting than slaughter itself and death; unless, perhaps, there are some among those who have learned to bow down from below, once they have received a blow on the cheek. Thus, our human kindness and justice are nothing great or pure, but are small, confused things, looking more toward our own advantage than toward those for whom they are performed.
But God's justice and kindness, I think, would be this: that when we repent as we ought for those things in which we have outraged His law by the transgression of the commandments, He immediately receives us, and does not seek to punish, unless we are able to render an equivalent honor to Him; since, in any case, this is impossible. For it is easy to insult God, but to honor Him is impossible. Why? Because the very ability to honor Him comes to us from Him. So that even to be able to offer something that is considered to redound to God's glory would, by rights, not be the cancellation of a debt, but an addition.
Generally, when a debt of the least is given to the greatest, if it brings dishonor, it is considered small and unimportant; but if it is offered with the greatest and most manifest honor, even with all the excess one might wish, it cannot add anything to His glory. But God, being good, accepts the eagerness to bring this forward, just as if we were able to accomplish it. For when we are eager to pay the entire debt, if that which is owed exceeds our own strength, He does not count this against us. For He requires nothing from us except what we are in charge of.
How then is it reasonable that those who have cast themselves upon His kindness through pure repentance will be punished? And yet it is unnecessary to say "pure" repentance. For it is not possible for there to be repentance that is not altogether pure, since it is through it that B we are purified. And how could purification come about through that which is not pure? Repentance is, therefore, to change one's mind about what has been done and to show that repentance by deeds—to run to Him who is able to save, from your whole heart, and from your whole soul, and from your whole strength, as the old law says.
God is so good that He accepts even an imperfect repentance with kindness. For He looks to the will and to that which is in our power, as has been said before. And there is also this other good: for when we bring forward even a little of a good will, immediately, in some way, the impetus of God comes to us, and the perfect willing is given by Him. And why do I say "when we have brought it forward," since the Maker of all things, in all ways, leads even those who are not willing toward the good, without, however, using force, as it does not befit Him to act in that way? For the healing of the soul requires a physician, God alone; but it also requires something on our part. For it is necessary first to perceive the sickness, and to know the physician, and to wish to run to Him, at least for those who desire health. So that those who will experience punishments (and the argument is not now only about believers) are entirely responsible for this themselves, not C God. He allows this to take place not only for the sake of justice, but also for those who— D
because some hidden utility is mixed into the punishments. For His goodness towards us compels us from every side to believe these things.
If, then, these things appear so (and they must surely appear so, for is it not an opportune time for even the lowliest and worst person here to despair, when he has in his hands the medicine, that saving repentance, as has also been said by us in what preceded? Since the Savior also promises us that He will be present to those who call upon Him immediately, and is present from the unseen, and overtly assists towards this saving will all those who seek Him out—who, unless he were utterly insane, could ever rightfully despair, even of those lying in the very abyss of evils, if they repent, trusting only in the mercy and power of Him who saves freely? So that we should despair of no one at all, unless those who have despaired of themselves in great madness. For because of a heap of manifold sins it is altogether foolish to despair, so long as we have not laid down this present life. For it is reasonable, I think, that God, moved by mercy, is willing to use His power on behalf of those who call upon Him; but that He should ever be powerless to perform something He has willed—that is altogether impossible. There is nothing, then, lacking for those in sins to be saved, except that they truly wish to repent.
Therefore, He who snatched Jonah from the belly of the beast and from the abyss of the sea is able also to pull these ones forth from the belly of the enemy and from the bottom of the abyss of vice. Although the miracle of Jonah was a marvel, and it was not a necessity for this to be done; for we shall not demand of Him that He do all things that He is indeed B able to do. But for Him to reach out a hand to those who have been cast down by sin and then wish to be set aright—this is a clear necessity. How so? Because He Himself promised this, in those places where He exhorts everyone to ask, and to seek, and to knock. For surely He did not urge us towards these things while keeping silent about what would result from them, leaving our thoughts in uncertainty; but He showed us this too, adding to the asking the giving, to the seeking the finding, and that the doors are about to be opened to the knocks of those who strike.
The promise is grace, then, yet it has a more certain payment than all debts among men. For as far as we are concerned, who are afflicted with many vices and do not infrequently repent, but are often too weak for a just payment, it is likely that neither grace nor debt is paid, since this evil also accompanies it. For when we can at times perform what is fitting, we do not wish to. But such things have no place with God. Where God is the one promising, there is no way He will not accomplish it, and give to His promises their perfection C; so that no one is in despair, unless he considers himself worthy to despair. Let no one, therefore, knowing these things
A and being wise, if he will obey me, despair; but rather let him either rejoice, living in good hopes and always engaged in good works, or, having come at the eleventh hour to the beautiful vineyard, let him expect to receive the reward which is justly given to those who have borne the burden of the day and the scorching heat. I, who have surpassed everyone in wickedness, will not despair of myself; and for that reason, neither of anyone at all. Would that you, who are free from such falls, would do the same, so that neither, by judging others, might you yourself be judged, and by condemning inexorably, might you yourself—as in the oracle—be condemned by God. For if it is not right B to despair of oneself, and therefore not of anyone at all, even if one is given up by everyone, how could someone justly judge others, knowing neither their transgressions accurately, as he does his own evils, nor the disposition of the soul in each person at that time, nor the things occurring to them internally or externally? And for this reason, the best of men neither despair of those who have not despaired, nor do they readily condemn. For they have judged it reasonable that they should condemn themselves when they depart from what is proper—desperation, which rages against us in all ways, being kept far off—but as for judging others, they yield to the Creator, C to whom nothing of the creation is inaccessible. For He is a judge of the thoughts and intentions of the heart, as the blessed Paul said. Do not judge, says the Savior, and you shall not be judged. Do not condemn, and you shall not be condemned. Always mindful of these words, they condemn no one, nor do they hate them. Far be it from them to do so. For they will not fight against common nature so intensely, as if in a pitched battle, even if anything happens through one's own choice, but they will abhor the wickedness itself, while they will weep for those who sin; which is what we are accustomed to do when a member of our body is festering with an evil ulcer, or when one of our closest friends or relatives is sick. D Knowing also that Christ prayed for those who crucified Him, and in every way encouraged toward repentance the one who sold Him for a few silver pieces, the one who betrayed Him, the one who handed Him over with a kiss, the one who, whatever should happen, was destined to remain evil: having these and such things before their eyes, they are both anxious for those who have sinned and try to heal the pain, and they become and do everything for the alleviation of the evil, and they rejoice when they succeed, and they grieve when they accomplish nothing; and rightly so. For if, after much care and salutary remedies, the malady continues to spread, there is no small fear that, having gradually prevailed, it may cast the souls of those who have been ensnared into the abysses of despair, from which no one who has fallen in has ever returned. Thus act those who possess virtue unstained. But those who have it, yet corrupted, do not weep for those caught in sins as if they were distressed, nor do they defend them as if they were sick, nor do they pass by to teach what is beneficial, nor do they go about seeking from where they might introduce help to them; but as if something...
A of the whole body, and become dead and stale, they forbid and cast it off, to be a tearing for dogs and ravens; or to speak more appropriately, a food for demons; The poet might have said:
. . . And delivered them to be a prey to dogs and to all birds.
But what kind of men, I ask, are these? Those upon whom even an enemy might have taken pity, and held out a hand to them lying on the ground. And yet, it is the custom of men to honor the dead, and it is necessary to render unto them many of the things that are customary; and even a limb that has been cut off from them—and which has died in some way—sometimes obtains both compassion and burial from those very people who cut it off. And surely it was necessary to remember these laws B much more in the case of the living and the sick, than in the case of those who are utterly devoid of all sense of help. But these people forget these noble laws where they ought most of all to remember them, even if they were to forget all other things put together; not only because they should care for the living—who are for the most part curable—but also because these people are suffering from a disease that threatens a death not to the body (which we are necessarily forced to undergo, and which comes of its own accord, and will one day be undone by the resurrection), but to the soul, for which death is immortal; for it is eternal. For one must understand the death of the soul to be the being separated from God. And if God C is the true life, those souls that have been altogether deprived of God have lost the true life, to which it is utterly impossible to return. Moreover, it is not possible that when the body has died, the soul should die along with it. But when the soul has met that most miserable death, the body itself, after the resurrection, will be as if it were dead and miserable in every way. For how could it be otherwise, since it has lost that which gives it life—truly the life, I mean God? The case of the demons is the same. For having lost the true life, it is not possible for them to return to it by repenting. As if this were also still open to them, they would have been able, by being corrected in the same way, to have D attained that life.
Therefore, the death of the soul is the most fearful thing of all; and those who serve a disease that leads to this terrible state are not to be hated by those who are in their right mind, but rather deserve pity. Indeed, it was fitting, I think, that those who possess both virtue and vice, and who possess both as it were indiscriminately, should not exalt themselves against others on account of that one better part, nor, because of the vice, cast their gaze toward the ground. But these people behave in a manner contrary to what is fitting. For because of a portion of virtue, believing themselves all but in heaven, they are burdensome and intolerable, considering others to be nothing; yet they neither rightly recognize the vice itself that is in them, having their minds corrupted by it, and, having acknowledged it, they consider it a light matter. And they do not even perceive that they are suffering these things. Whenever another person is caught by these same passions,
A the virtues themselves are consigned to oblivion, and a judgment filled with mockery is brought against those who possess them. And why do I say more of passions? For if anyone is convicted of serving one single passion—and that one even appearing to be among the lighter ones—they immediately hear from them: "O wretched man! O unfortunate one!" and many other things. And: "O you, by what punishments are you not sinking yourself?" Nor do they leave off before they have shown the man to be deserving of ten thousand punishments, employing an admirable eloquence to this end. For whether it is sloth that is being condemned, or lack of zeal for what is good, or whatever else may not be good in any way, they exaggerate it with hyperbole; but the virtues that exist within him, even if they are among those most difficult to attain and most hard for men to achieve, they know how to call corrupted because of the admixture of vice.
Then, how is he wicked, he who inclines to both sides, while you, being his equal in all things—both in virtue and in wickedness—are considered best and good? B For either he is also good, being like you; or you are also completely evil, being equal to that man who is condemned by you. And what is more, even in this you advance in wickedness, because you hate without being hated, and you condemn those who do not do the same to you. But, as it seems, we are more inclined to evil than to its opposite. For we see the faults of others sharply; but as for our own evils, we have neither an eye, nor an ear, nor intelligence—nor do we even wish to have them.
Moreover, there is also another thing to be seen happening in us, no better than the former, if not even much worse. For we generally do not even recognize the outstanding qualities of others. But many things—from which we are further removed than the regions beyond the Hyperborean mountains are from the Pillars of Hercules—we claim for ourselves C and, lifting our eyebrows as much as possible, we think we have gained D the advantage and do not even imagine that we are among human beings, but in some part of heaven. And what is worst of all, the vice itself that is in us—perhaps even surpassing the vices of others—we call virtue, and we even try to prove that this is set above the virtues of everyone else.
Nor do we stop at this, but we even envy good men, and we call their virtues vices. And there is added something abominable, that we do not even blush, but advance so shamelessly in those things of which we ought to be ashamed, as if someone who did those things were speaking freely, by means of which he was about to be crowned. And we seem wise in judging others, but in doing things against ourselves we are diligently occupied, and we have no sense of it at all. What could appear worse than this? For since it is both inexpedient and harmful to judge our own transgressions and those of others on an equal footing (for "no one knows the things of another," and "each shall bear his own burden" [Galat. vi, 5]), whenever we are burdensome to others and are inexorable judges of those who have strayed even slightly from what is done, while we take our own evils—which perhaps are not even bearable—and graft them over into advantages, how are we not acting as if deliberately against ourselves?
A Indeed, some people seem to me to suffer a terrible malady, afflicted with a zeal not according to knowledge. For they are moved by a cruelty and inhumanity full of hatred, when they hate and turn away from those who are wicked, instead of having pity on them and trying to set them straight. For I believe they limp in the better part of themselves, if to be haters of evil is something they do well and rightly; but to hate and neglect one of the same nature is the opposite. And yet they ought, while remembering their own transgressions (which perhaps are many and great), and looking also at the common essence of this mixture, to consider it nothing strange if someone has fallen, nor to take a sort of pleasure as if from a terrible misfortune having happened to one of their own kin. For in no way can it be a mark of virtue not to show oneself gentle toward those who, being of the same nature, have become miserable. And indeed I cannot know whether this excessive harshness is something religious or rather the opposite; or rather, I know correctly that there is nothing religious in it, but rather something plainly opposite. For it is just and consistent to feel some sting on account of those who commit offenses, and in some way, being instructed by their transgressions, to become more modest and not to exult, not to innovate, not to rejoice, as if the one who had fallen were of a different nature. But I think these people do the opposite of what is fitting, and suffer this absurdity: they reason that, while others fall and are suffused with shame and suffer terrible things, they themselves will appear better and more splendid before God and judges who possess understanding. And yet, one must reason the exact opposite about them here. For such people have become much worse even than those they judge. B For where envy has settled into the soul, it is a greater evil than the zeal itself; and how great a pit it is to envy those who have been dragged down into that state is, I think, clear to everyone. They ought to forgive, instructed by their own evils, by that slippery clay and mass which has its existence from the composition and conflict of the four elements, which are eternally opposed to one another. For this reason, Paul also seems to me to have described them almost like a tragedy, calling them "miserable elements." But these people are so pure that they are eager to surpass even the noble zeal of Elijah with a certain evil ambition, since it is not possible to do so with a better one. But these men may be disposed however they wish; we, however, shall never judge them. For we will not usurp the judgment seat of Christ. But if they should deign to accept our view on this, let them at least condemn no one at all, since they are unwilling to grant pardon. C For let them not be so ferocious as to think themselves immune from those vices to which they see those born of the same clay and mixture serving, as some divine man has said. But even let this be granted, and let us suppose they have committed no transgression at all, neither great nor small. In what, then, will they trust, as if they were going to guard their morals in the future and remain in good things? Who is the seer? What prophet has revealed that they will maintain the best conduct until the end? And yet, those who are mar-
- A veled at for virtue have almost all, in some respect, not avoided everything which they ought to have avoided. For some have stumbled in this, others in that, and all together have attempted to overcome all things in turn, so that they might all know themselves to be mere human beings. Therefore, it is the mark of a child or a madman to assert confidently that he can avoid those things in which all have been ensnared. For if the most divine Paul, who was conscious of no fault in himself, yet feared ignorance and said: "I am not justified in this," how then should all not tremble, fearing lest they be unaware of themselves, and while they think they stand, they have actually fallen? For I shall use his own words again. That man had ascended even to the third heaven, yet he was nevertheless buffeting his body and enslaving it, as he says, lest, having preached to others, he himself might be disqualified. Who, therefore, is so bold, who so foolish, as to boast about uncertain things and feel confident that he will remain stable at every time and in every circumstance? This life is a sort of path, and it contains many slippages and many stumbling blocks; and errors frequently arise in it, containing many obstacles. And it would be good for you, I think, to be conscious of no fault in yourself and, with Paul, to say: "I am not justified in this," and to forget the things that are behind and reach forward to the things that are before, and not to be bold or arrogant toward your brothers, nor to despair of them; but if you must judge both your own affairs and those of others, leave that to Him to whom the Father has given all judgment. For if there is a path contrary to these, one must consider whether it is not the straight one toward virtue, as Plato would indeed say.
B But why do I say these things, when we often grow angry at our brothers in vain, and in no way reach out a right hand to them as they lie on the ground, needing our help? That word is terrible: "Out of your own mouth I will judge you, wicked servant." For when even those people succumb to those evils which they reproach in others (and they will succumb, of course, being clothed in flesh and living in this world), what, I pray, will they do, what will they say, when commanded to give an account of their own wickedness? By the Savior, they will ask for pardon. But this cannot be, it cannot be; but as they judged others, so it will happen to them too. For if this were not so, where could one assign that just measure, the one pressed down, shaken together, and running over, which men will pour back into our bosom? Let everyone observe this accurately. For the Judge Himself has pronounced that "if one does not forgive, it will not be forgiven to him," and he shall not escape the just penalty. And yet, why do I mention just penalty here? For he who attacks those who are like himself will judge himself; for conscience itself becomes a conviction of the soul, and, in my judgment, does not easily permit them any excuse, since they have already cast away every pretext D that could serve to justify them.
B For sentences pronounced against peers, by those who are not their judges, being full of cruelty, remove their refuge in pretexts, and the verdict brought forth by them against others stops their own mouths; for "in that you judge the other," says he, "you condemn yourself; for you, who judge, do the same things." If you were wise, you would never judge another man’s servant, except for those matters in which you have received authority from those from whom it was proper—namely, from God and the Church. How then do you persuade yourself that he who has fallen, this poor wretch, will not one day rise again? For that he should rise from his fall, and that he should fall no more, is not within the power of your might or authority, but is the work of the Creator of all things and the will of him who lies fallen. Nor is it unlikely that he will also rise and no longer risk falling into evils, having learned by what he has suffered what things are to be avoided and what are not. Believe me in this also, when I say it to you who so rashly condemn others: you are unable to know even your own affairs, let alone those of all men. Wherefore, it would be better if we were attentive to our own evils rather than to the faults of our neighbors. For although it may be granted that we know accurately some good or evil that has been done by us, we do not at all perceive the quality of the act itself, what kind it is, nor its magnitude; whence it happens that we know only in part. C But when that which is perfect comes, then that which is in part shall be abolished, as the divine head Paul has said. Indeed, we do not even understand our own capacity, and how could we be able to rightfully know that of others? For "each shall bear his own burden," we know the same Apostle to have said. This is to show that, according to the education, prudence, life, and discipline of each, and according to the courses and chances of time, and indeed all those things that happen from without, the Creator and Lord will impose the burden on each, and will judge, and looking toward these things, will demand an accurate account of his life. For "to whom much has been given, from him much will be required," says that living and active word, and "sharper than any two-edged sword, and piercing even to the division of soul and spirit, of joints and marrow." For he is a judge of the thoughts and intents of the heart, D to whom no part of creation is unknown, but all things are naked and laid bare, to speak with the sacred Scriptures. Led by these things, I for my part persuade myself that although all mortals born from Adam until the end of the world may be involved in the same things, whether good or evil, they shall not however obtain the same result, but to each shall happen such a reward or punishment that it corresponds to no other. And this is, of course, what those "many mansions" are, of which the Savior has spoken. Wherefore, this is what should be chosen: that, having dismissed the curiosity of prying into the sins of our brothers, as things placed above human perception, we should examine our own evils, and compare our own with ourselves, not the affairs of others with our own; for if we were to do this, in truth...
we should not wander far from the truth. But we do the opposite. For we see sharply into the affairs of others, but we are dim-sighted toward our own evils. For most men, says the golden Tongue, become advocates of their own sins, but accusers of the sins of others. And for this reason, many among us are weak and infirm, and many sleep, as the voice of Paul A says; who also added this, establishing something more sublime: "If we would judge ourselves, we should not be judged. But when we are judged by the Lord, we are chastened, that we may not be condemned with the world." Do you see what a great good is self-accusation? It frees the guilty man from condemnation. "For we should not be judged," he says.
Do not therefore, my dearest friend (for I return to you again), investigate curiously whether any evil has been done by anyone, like the Laconian dogs that track down wild animals by the scent of their nostrils, and are therefore called "keen-nosed" by Sophocles; and let us not hold ourselves to be just, B thinking that we have lived rightly, lest we be condemned with the world, or experience the rod of God, if we should happen to incur divine punishment. For then God treats those who sin as sons, when He Himself performs the office of chastiser toward them. It is good, then, for those who have sinned to obtain the medicine of chastisement; but it is best not to have fallen, so as not to need it. And for this reason it is good for us to attend to ourselves alone, as the Scripture exhorts, and not to be puffed up when our brothers sin; and let us not see the splinter in our neighbors' eyes, while bearing the beam in our own; C or rather, it is not possible even to see the splinter while having the beam obstructing the eyes. Besides these things, the Judge is He who created us, not we; and the time of judgment is not the present, but the future. Let us not, therefore, seize what is another’s, or rather what is God’s, if we wish to obtain what is our own; nor let us judge those who seem to be evil before the end of life, while we consider ourselves blessed, even if we are among the blessed. For as long as one lives, he does not know how his affairs will end. The blessed man is established not from the beginning, nor from the middle, but from having finished the path well. D I shall multiply my speech, seeing that the passion is strong. For one must fight more strenuously against the stronger of one's enemies. For we do not know our own affairs, and by much more do we judge and condemn the affairs of others, and despair of them, and easily follow them with hatred when they sin, while often being worse affected ourselves. But God does not hate them. Even if someone were to surpass in every sin all men who have ever existed, and I will add, all who will exist until the end of the world, it is impossible that he could be hated by Him. For in the God of all, standing far above all passions, how could one find hatred, which is the best among the worst of passions? Let us also examine this by a certain natural reason.
A For since God is love, according to the beloved Apostle, what could there be in common between God and hatred? And do not offer me these clever arguments, that while one might pity those who are evil from the beginning, not even God would pity those who have lived in virtue and then turned aside to evil. It is indeed true that the latter are worse than the former. For those others do not even know accurately the path that leads to the best, nor have they tasted of good things so as to yearn for them greatly; and this provides them with an excuse by no means to be dismissed. But these others have been trained from childhood in good works, and have passed their lives in the practice of virtue even to old age. Then, having cast aside the good things with which they had lived and which they had cherished as though they were some curse, and setting naught by their own shame, nor by their evil, nor by the harm resulting from it, they have exchanged the service of God's grace for servitude to pleasures; and for this reason they have become much worse than those who were not good from the beginning. B Yet, even for this reason, they have not become hateful to the compassionate God. "But I cannot be persuaded," says the adversary, "that these men, who have changed from good to evil with a most wicked resolve, are not abominable to God, who hates evil; since when these wretched men become objects of hatred and abomination even to their kin, and friends—and I believe also to their parents and children—and to all men in succession, solely on account of their wickedness and depravity, they are surely much more worthy to be hated by God for all these reasons. For what participation or communion could one who wallows in the mire have with God? For it is not permitted, as a certain excellent man says, for the impure to touch the pure." Nay, but it is clear that what has been said holds true in this way as well. He who is hostilely disposed toward someone who is especially beloved will certainly be hostilely disposed toward the one who loves him; and this is evident from the contrary. For he who loves your friend is, of course, clearly a friend to you yourself also. And since these men hate virtue, which is dear to God, and have willingly run toward evil, they are no longer friends to God, but clearly enemies. You have not reasoned soundly, my good sir. For while the premises themselves are true, the conclusion will be found not to harmonize with these premises in matters concerning God. C For in our own affairs such things might rightly be said; but regarding those things that pertain to God, we must both speak and think of them in a manner worthy of His dignity. And it would be consistent with God’s dignity that He should never hate one whom He Himself fashioned with His own hands into His own image. For by changing his own intent, a man has not changed his nature as well, however much he may have fallen. Moreover, those men who hate depravity seem to me to act in the same way. But as to those who hold the opposite opinion, and—while not hating wickedness itself—intensely hate those who have been overcome by it, when they ought to pity them above all others—are they not more deserving of being hated than those whom they unjustly know how to hate? D For instead of hating the cause of their turning astray, and seeking diligently to remove the pretext for their evils and to uproot the source of such passions, and to spare the one who is sick, however he may have fallen ill, they turn towards the opposite, just as...
A a different opinion is held by those who do not hate the vice, but vehemently hate those infected by the vice, when they ought to have pitied them above all others—are not these men more worthy of hatred than those whom they themselves unjustly hate? For instead of hating the cause of their aberration and diligently applying themselves to removing the occasion of their evils and uprooting the root of such diseases, and sparing the one who is suffering, whatever the disease might be, these men usually tend toward the opposite. For they have no reasonable excuse, not even a slight one, as their own deeds clearly demonstrate; but with what indignities, I pray, do they afflict and harass the man himself? Wherefore, they are themselves culpable who, for whatever cause or pretext, have decided to pursue these people with their hatred. For I think it is so far from the case that what has been put forth by you proves these men worthy of hatred, that it even clearly proves they are deserving of pity. For if they have willingly, as you say, B rejected the happiness which comes from virtue, and have pierced themselves with the fiery darts of that evil one, through which the death of the soul enters, how are they not altogether more miserable than all others, just as those who, in another way, kill themselves are, and in turn those who are sane in mind, yet perish in this way? Unquestionably, to suffer such things is the extreme of misfortune, and we duly weep with tears for such as these. For their evils, filled with misery, are not only able to show that they should not be pursued with any hatred, but even to extinguish previous hatreds—and many, indeed, formerly held against them. But if some who spend their lives in works that are not good are hated by some (for I have even seen some who were hated by their own parents, as being wicked), do not on that account mistakenly think that it is necessary for God also to hate them far more, as one who hates evil. For God, in hating wickedness—which is an invention of the evil one, or rather, if you prefer, abominating it—and loving virtue, which is proper to Him, loves him who is endowed with virtue, but as for the one who has fallen into the abyss of wickedness, He does not hate him, but pities him; and He does not turn away, but by all means secures his salvation. Yet it is not fitting to think that those who, because of the wickedness within them, are held in hatred among men, are to the same extent hateful to God, inasmuch as the opposite is reasonable: I mean that they obtain pity. For this very thing—that they are vehemently hated by those by whom they least ought to be—is what provokes God to look more mercifully upon them. C So that the rejection by those who are related to them becomes for them a provider of mercy from God, for that very reason, that they appear unworthy to obtain it. For how is it not equitable that one who has strayed so far from what is appropriate for him, one who is pitiable and not at all pitied, but on the contrary is hated and given up for lost, so that he is not even judged by them as being worthy of the highest philanthropy—how is it not right that such a man should obtain mercy from God, the Judge? As God says through Isaiah the prophet to Jerusalem: "Because of thy being abandoned and hated, and there was no one to help thee." And if it were fitting for them to pay a penalty, they have already paid a very great one to these burdensome judges. And what confirms the excess of this is that even those who receive this from them do so unjustly, and there is no ground at all for them to judge those men. For this is the portion of God alone. But rather, if one wishes to examine it accurately, their own conscience will judge them even then. However, one single verdict has not been passed upon them by everyone in succession. For those who walk a righteous path toward the happy life, these very people who are hated by the many D
A for their not-good way of life, do nevertheless pity them, how think you? And they deem them worthy of the greatest care, looking toward their correction, and at once thinking more deeply and far more loftily than the others. Wherefore, as I said, they are worthy to receive pity and care from God, who judges, not only because of those harsher ones who judge them unjustly, but also because of those who employ philanthropy—as it does not befit one to pass by their goodness, which is beyond every limit. And against this, no one will contend. For if the best of men would easily endure every hardship, provided it were possible to correct them, what think you that B the infinite goodness and philanthropy determines and desires concerning these? Or do you perhaps not grant that he who is pure and sinless [can] even perform this, in equal measure to good men? Perhaps you wish that he—having imitated the depravity of some (for I do not speak of your own)—should use some cruelty; and contrary to what he is called, to act in a way that least befits him. But that does not apply to him, but know well that he will assist these, and will offer every help, in that he has assigned to himself the task that leads to this. And if they persist in their evils, God will persist much more in his kindness. For he cannot deny himself. The one who is truly a guardian and good does not behave thus toward some, and at some time, and toward others never; but always, and toward all, he will continue to do what is his own; and he will be through all things consecutively this very thing which he is by nature: good and a guardian to all. And his part is to save everyone, leading them through all things C toward repentance and salvation, without, however, the use of force and coercion, which has also been said by me before. Since now he has come, not that he might judge, but that he might save the world. But if he is not yet judging, but is awaiting the time—knowing all our affairs far better than we ourselves do—do you, who both anticipate the time and usurp the office of the judge, neither rightly recognizing your own evils, nor those of them whom you condemn, how are you not performing a deed hateful to God? And into what faction will anyone place you? Not among the totally foolish? For if, having received from God the authority to judge, you yourself were to clash with those being judged, not even so would you be doing entirely the things by which you might have been admired by the one who gave the power to judge, for he is kind toward the ungrateful D and wicked. But since you have seized this power from yourself, if indeed you were mixing into it some humanity and kindness, not even then would the undertaking be holy or good for you; how could it be? It is very far from it; for men must not, on any pretext of philanthropy, plunder the things belonging to God. If you had at least some excuse before the merciful and philanthropic one, as being one who does those things in which he himself is wont to rejoice! But as it is, neither having taken the judgment from God, nor [doing so] while clashing with those who are being judged, you appear to be acting contrary in both respects. Furthermore, you, if your own property were plundered, or even a very small part of it—let it even be by your most beloved ones—would not bear it, but would shout out immediately: "The parricide,"
and the ruined man! Yet, regarding those things which pertain to God, you do not even grant an equal measure, but, acting wickedly both toward Him and toward men, what judgment, I ask, would you wish A to receive from God, or even from men themselves? Not a sympathetic one? Not a gentle one? Not one full of many mercies? But you, perhaps, will even hate yourself; yet from the philanthropic God, it is not possible for you to suffer this; and therefore, neither from men who are more reasonable. For it is truly terrible, truly terrible, if those things which others now cast in your face—you who everywhere praise severity—those very things should be suffered by them, should they come to judge you. Therefore, can he who sees in men a trace of philanthropy, even the smallest, think anything but what is fitting concerning the unsearchable majesty of God, unless he should be someone deranged, and of the number of those who have lost their minds?
B But let us, my dearest friend, bidding farewell to all such things, proceed with the discourse set before us. No one is cast away by the Creator; no one is in the forgotten state of the One who provides for all things in order; no one is in the hatred of the Impassible One; none is in any neglect, none in anything of such a kind. Everyone is in the care of the Guardian; everyone is in the love of the One who is properly called by this very name; everyone is acceptable who has at some time repented of his evils. But if someone has also led everyone into evils, one might reasonably say that such a person has become useful material for the manifestation of the goodness and philanthropy of God toward Himself. Thus also children of physicians, and all who possess a science, even if they are good in potentiality, yet if the material is also present, then they further demonstrate their C science in actuality, and being what they are, they appear good to all; and the excellence of the wonder is on their part, since they heal the more difficult cases. Therefore, this is the greater demonstration of the ineffable philanthropy: to show a vessel of that philanthropy—whose outpouring toward all surpasses the ocean, as much as this does a mountain torrent—the man who was once a vessel destined for the grace of God, and then became a vessel of the operation of the Evil One through a most wicked choice, now showing himself to be a vessel full of that philanthropy. And one might dare, I think, to call this man also a vessel of election, well distinguishing him from Paul. For that man was called by this name because of the grace he received for the sake of the preaching of the faith; for, "to bear," He says, "my name before Gentiles, and kings, and the sons of Israel." But this man might rightly be called by this same title, as there is no one else more suitable to receive the mercy of God. For "there are many vessels," he says, the vessel of election, D "in a great house, but not all are for the same use; but some are prepared and fashioned for other needs." And indeed, for the receiving of ointment are alabaster jars and things of that kind, and from such hotly-contested
of some metals are made of one kind, those of others from excellent metals: and for lower uses, vessels suitable to them. There are also other vessels unto dishonour, in no respect inferior in material to those more precious ones. And all these things happen by the just judgment of Him who possesses the vessels. B And let the good man be one chosen by God, as a certain precious vessel to receive His grace. But he who has become evil, and then through repentance has returned to where he ought, is more capable of that mercy which comes from clemency than all others. The vessels unto dishonour, I think, would be those who have spent their lives in infidelity and evil dogmas, and to whom this one thing was perpetually at heart, that they should live viciously, and not that they should repent; since those who have done the worst things, and then have departed from this life with repentance, are not in dishonour before God, but in the highest esteem, that there might be made known, says Paul, unto the principalities and powers the manifold wisdom of God. C He might have added clemency as well, had there been a need to say it.
And these things have been explained thus far. But for us it is surely better not to need a second purification, but to stand firm within the first, according to the words of the Theologian. For it is better, as he also declared, to remain perpetually healthy than to be healed after having been diseased. For it is also a very terrible thing, as that same one pronounced, to measure out correction for sin. Indeed, there is need of fervent tears, and one must strive with all one’s might so that the disease of vice may be stripped away; since it is altogether uncertain whether the end will bring about amendment. Yet let those who labour under some very grave disease be in good hope, casting themselves upon God, who is the physician of all, and bringing with them the desire to be healed. And I say this confidently, looking to that insurmountable goodness, to His love toward us, which beyond measure and mind and reason and every thought fills one with wonder, and finally to the immutability of the divine will and nature. D For it cannot happen that the love of that immovable nature should change from this to that, and that two things should befall God, repentance and motion; for the divine numen is immovable, and the things that are done by Him are entirely free from repentance. Therefore, that very goodness and clemency and charity itself will never pursue with hatred, nor turn away from, a work so beloved by Himself, to a degree that cannot even be conceived. He who is devoid of all affection will not experience any affection, and with Him there is no change or shadow of turning, as the divine James speaks, whose voice also is this: "God is untried by evils, and He Himself tempts no one." This is a human evil, to be changed, that is, and to hate those previously beloved. For most men, as the saying is, when the earthenware is overturned, we are immediately moved; and those for whose sake we would easily have faced death, for their sake, when necessity calls, we do not pay even an obol. For I refrain from saying that there are some who would even gladly drink their blood. The cause
A of our friendship—if indeed we must call it friendship and not rather a trade fitting for some hucksters—is rooted in such things, and such is its state.
But God, who fashioned us, takes more delight in giving than we do in receiving. Nor will satiety in doing good ever seize Him, for He is impelled by His own goodness. For He does not do this so that anything might accrue to Him from His own creations, nor as if they had previously conferred any favor upon Him—for how could they? For such reasons, it is impossible for His love toward us to be moved or changed. For since it is nothing other than His own infinite kindness and goodness that impels Him to love and to do good, and since it is absolutely necessary for this B to remain the same and unchanged, it is evident to all that His dealings with us will be of the same nature as that which impels Him. And this is obvious to everyone.
But I will say something more. For when the things that move us to love are not stirred at all, then it is obvious that we, too, remain altogether stationary in our love. And if this happens in our case, it happens by much more in the case of God. Since the love of God toward us does not proceed from anywhere outside, but is moved by itself, it must of necessity remain the same for all time, and the things that proceed from it toward us must be C more in accordance with the sublimity of His nature than with our own worthlessness.
Therefore, our Savior, besides other good things, offers to all in succession that treasure which He brought with Him when He came down from heaven. And so far as He is concerned, no one of humanity has ever been deprived of so great a benefit; but this good flows and is poured out everywhere throughout the whole world, and it is possible for all to be enriched freely and to be filled with good things without toil. For He gave them, He says, the power to become children of God. But if anyone sees the good as if it were coming toward him of its own accord, and then spurns and turns away from it, the blame is not to be imputed to Him who gave the grace, but to those who did not accept it in the first place, or, after having received it, dishonored it and pushed it aside—so good, so great, D and furthermore so lasting and easy to increase, if one should wish it.
Such, therefore, is the Lord, and He will never despise either the one who has that great beam or the one who has the small splinter—for I will repeat the words mentioned at the beginning—but He will do and devise everything for their salvation. For He becomes our helper in many ways, and now He applies this medicine, and now that. Those of whose wounds are inflamed, He soothes with comfort; the putrefaction, however, He cuts away, that He may prevent it from creeping into something worse. Nay, indeed, He will also rebuke the sick, and through chastisement, if there is need, He restrains
A them. Perhaps He will even use harsher remedies with His customary goodness and love for mankind. He surely does not desire that those whom He brought forth from nothing and fashioned with His own hands should fare ill; but He will do them good continuously through all things—I mean both through the right hand and the left, as the divine Apostle says—whether they live rightly or otherwise; just as, of course, He provides both rain and sun for them, and again, looking to their advantage, He holds these back for a time. In sum, not by one way, but by many and diverse ways, and sometimes through contrary things, He leads us to one end, B that we might be able to live rightly. And how else would it be reasonable for Him to act, who died for the sake of all, having endured the cross and nakedness—a thing reserved for evildoers—and, having regarded shame as nothing, and having endured countless things toward a myriad of injuries devised, fitting only for those who outraged Him? Knowing these things, then, O you who are present, let us judge him the most foolish of all, who condemns easily, forgetting that supreme clemency, that incomparable goodness, that insurmountable kindness, and Him who took away all the sin C and the death undergone for us, the reproaches, the torments, the injuries, and all that then accompanied the irrational wrath of those who thirsted for His murder out of envy—the scoffing, the vile outrages, the blasphemies, the spitting, the blows, every species of mockery; and indeed the crown of insult, and the reed striking against His head. For surely the blood of the divine head, wounded, in my opinion, as much by the reed as by the thorns, trickled down from that blessed face, from which the saving crown for us was woven by the hands of murderers. Oh, how much He did! How much He endured! And that for enemies, D for condemned men: for whose sake He also became man, born of a woman, having accepted our flesh and poverty, so that He might be able to suffer; so that He might free us from torment and eternal evils of both soul and body, to which the whole race of man was subject, being causes of many and great sins. But all these things demonstrate an ineffable love of His toward us, placed above the understanding of the mind. For He could, while dwelling in heaven, and in no way having assumed our nature, have freed our race from the bonds and tyranny of the devil by word and nod alone, and have benefited us in all things; but He would not have been able to suffer, not having become a participant of the same substance with us. But in order to show the love toward us—oh, how great!—He was not content with one thing, that is, to do us good, but He also added the other: namely, those torments of His for our sake which He suffered in the flesh. For such is true love. It does not allow the lover to restrain himself, if he does not suffer for the sake of the beloved. And this seems to me to be the head of the Savior's condescension and communion toward us. For if it is possible to find this love even among men, and not for the sake of God only, but even for the sake of men, we know that some have died cheerfully, having suffered many
A things before, how would this not be appropriate to the love of supreme goodness? For the Savior could have saved man in many other ways, but He saved him by becoming incarnate, as it was fitting that this should come to pass for many and great reasons, but especially because of His love for us, which is supernatural. And knowing this, let every one of those sheep which belong to the Lord’s fold leap with joy and be gladdened. For if it is dwelling in the fold, and filling the number of the proverbial hundred (for the discourse rightly leads us to this parable already), it shall be led by the Shepherd Himself, the good One, who purchased the sheep at a great price. For He B Himself laid down His soul for them, and poured out His own blood, and made His own manner of life such, that they were never foreign to Him even before. For what could escape His lordship? For He is the Lord of all by a triple reason: by having brought them into being and created them, by providing for them and doing them good, and by the ability to destroy them with a nod. But the terrible mystery happened, so that what belonged to Him by nature might also be ruled by His will. For I think that the saying, "The Lord reigned," leads to this. For that which was subject to His reign, though unwillingly, because of ignorance of the Creator, now that the knowledge of Him has shone upon the world, comes of its own accord and desires to be ruled by Him. Whoever, therefore, knows the voice of the Shepherd, and follows the footsteps of Him who goes before, shall encamp in green grass, and shall be fed by the water of rest; and he shall not fear evils, not even if it should happen that he journeys in the midst of the shadow of death. But if he should be tempted by wandering, and should ever become lost (for I shall hold to the parable), not even then will he be neglected for a time; but he shall be sought with haste, and having been found, shall be carried upon the shoulders, and shall be aggregated to those who have not wandered. And yet He rejoices more over this one than over those many who are in the fold, those who always remain with Him. C He Himself has said this. And He confirms the word by the deeds themselves. For He showed such great affection for the one that had wandered, that He left those many, and went out for the seeking of the one; so much does He deem the salvation of one worth the whole. And this proves that He entrusted this matter to no one. For He did not send many whom He had hired, nor did He impose the care of the work on any, neither to servants, nor to friends, nor to the angels themselves, but He entrusted the whole matter to Himself alone; instructing us, I think, not only to do what is necessary, but also in a better way; and not to prefer perishable glory, nor luxury, nor security, to what is noble and fitting. Moreover, by showing in this way the excess of the love which He has for each of us, He also kindles greatly the love between one another. For the affection for the one so flourished in Him, that every mountain, every grove, every impassable place seemed passable to Him, and He deemed it very light D to bear the burden, in order that the one that had wandered might be numbered with the many. One might say, I suppose, while marveling at this deed, that while the search is necessary, and the things in it...
A in seeking it one does not without reason encounter trials—which, in a way, one who is searching has to endure—yet what was the urgent necessity that, once found, the sheep should not be led as the others are, but carried upon the shoulders, even though B by itself it had caused so much trouble for the rest of the flock? This seems to demonstrate how greatly He prizes our safety. Furthermore, one may also discern from this that the wandering sheep, when found, was thoroughly worn out from the evils—I suppose—of its wandering, and was as it were unable to return easily, but stood in need of the good shepherd’s assistance for this. Perhaps it was not even as eager as it should have been for that excellent return; for it would have used its feet as much as possible. Since, however, we learn that it had not walked even a little, it would reasonably seem that its thoughts were still, in a way, divided. For habit often makes evil pleasant, and because of this, He who wished to save it, carrying it on His shoulders, eagerly made use of His own feet on its behalf. And, in sum, regarding all those things which the sheep ought to have done, but had no strength to do, He Himself contributes the effort from His own store. A B
Therefore, let anyone who trusts in repentance approach with bright hopes this good Shepherd, who also sought the lost drachma, and labored greatly for its recovery, and when He had regained it, showed such great signs of joy—as much as not even those who find treasures while digging, by some good fortune, experience, even when the gold is abundant and they are poor, though suffering from the grave disease of greed. Let him approach, I say, to Him who could not endure for that prodigal son to come home, but when He perceived him coming, did not wait, but went out to the sight and meeting of him, and received him with great honor, and by frequent embraces declared a certain admirable love and longing for him, and instituted a common festival for his salvation. Let him approach Him who by no means loathed that once-notorious harlot, who was both looking at Him and touching Him, and kissing His unstained feet, and watering them with many tears, and in her great reverence wiping them with the hairs of her head—even though, through all those things by which she was then rightly demonstrating that chaste love, she had, while formerly burning with lust, ruined many, and perhaps even some who seemed to be of consequence. Nevertheless, He did not spurn her, nor call her shameless and bold; but He even preferred her to that Pharisee, who was thought to be of great virtue, and furthermore spoke certain praises of her. And this same One, setting the humility of the publican—if it is right to call the acknowledgment of one’s own evils such—against his many transgressions, led him down from the temple justified, above him who had indeed lived rightly, but was proud on account of a life lived well. He accepts the tears of Hezekiah, and the conversion of his son, which happened in a similar way, as if He had gladly received the excellent works D of others. For
He seeks from those who repent an equivalent compensation for their sins, A measured by their disposition; but works according to their strength, as has been said in what precedes. If, however, it is in no way possible to bring even these, the intention alone will suffice for Him. Thus, He even received the thief on the same day, or rather, at the same hour, or if you will, in a moment of time, by the mere confession of his mouth, on account of which he suffered nothing grievous, nor was it likely that he should have feared anything. For what greater thing could he have feared than what he was then suffering, and the very sentence of death itself? But since at that time He was Lord of the voice alone, by faithfully offering this, he gained for himself Paradise, the prize destined for the blessed: which those first ancestors of ours lost, not because they sinned against their Benefactor, but because they despaired of their own salvation. For if this had not been the case, B Adam would not have shifted the cause of the transgression onto his wife, nor she onto the serpent; but they would have confessed the evil, and proclaimed themselves [guilty], and would have demanded correction in every way.
But lest time should not suffice for the needs of the discourse, while I investigate the abysses of such inquiries, I pass over many things that contribute to this, since I believe that what was proposed to us from the beginning has been sufficiently shown by what has already been indicated. This, however, I would counsel to all, and before all, to myself: to run in repentance and tears to Him who invites sinners to repentance, who invites those who thirst to the living water, those exhausted and burdened by the pain and weight of sin to the easy yoke and the light burden; to Him who provides to our souls remedies for our evils not only freely and without price, but who even shows gratitude if any receive them; C who, not staying at home, waited for those who would come for the sake of obtaining help, or at least for someone to call and send for Him, after the manner of those physicians who are able to aid those who are suffering, but who Himself always going forth, would invite, exhort, and make those who stood in need of His help partakers of every good; and after having done good to all in turn, He would immediately depart from them, lest He should receive a reward against His will. What was that? Their auspicious acclamation with applause. Let us, therefore, all rejoice together. For to those who have believed in Him, sins are not imputed, D as the apostle Paul said. This grace, indeed, Baptism itself bestows once, but repentance also bestows it, assisting that laver, as often as anyone makes genuine use of it. Thus He is good both to the good and to those who are not such. And how is it not fitting for all to rejoice, having such a Master as the discourse has shown us? Or rather, as no discourse could show, not even if all the tongues of angels and men were to come together in one? Yet there is one thing that not without reason brings grief to those who have repented from sin, and have become partakers of His infinite clemency. What is this? The remembering against what kind of Being they have acted so wickedly. And what would they be, I beseech you, if they had not done this?
had they not done so? For those who have not lived piously, and then, repenting of these wicked deeds, have experienced God—whom they had offended—as propitious through that very inclination toward the good, and have obtained as much good from Him as they had hoped for; I ask, what honor would they not have been deemed worthy of, had they not been stained in the first place? If it is possible that in the next life also their souls might feel any sorrow at all, this, in my opinion, will sting them: that by sinning they caused trouble to One who loved them deeply, and stained themselves with evils. On account of this, I would advise everyone, and first of all my own soul, not to choose to do those things for which we shall have to pour forth many tears and groans when we have returned to the best path; but rather to cling to those things from which pure joy can be gathered, by living purely, to be sure, and by hoping that we shall obtain those eternal pleasures: which eye has not seen, and ear has not heard, and which have not entered into the heart of man, as that divine Apostle says. Since, however, I believe that an end should be put to my discourse here, I will say something concerning that supreme clemency—something very brief indeed, yet such as will correctly display, in my opinion, the entire scope of the matter. B
I say that the clemency of our God toward the human race, which is absolutely infinite, cannot be equaled by anything, nor compared with it, much less by the failings of men, which have their own limits entirely. Since this is so, it would in no way suffice for an accurate manifestation of the divine clemency to have abolished the sins of all men, that is, of those who have truly placed their hope in God; in no way whatsoever, I say, not even if it were possible for those sins to become thousands of times greater than they are. The human mind does not reach anything of those things which are contemplated regarding God, nor is it even close. Therefore, everything that is great and august, whether it be a thing, or a name, or whatever else it may be, which is able by the power of the mind and by its nature to be formed and perceived, is shown to be positioned below the accurate perception of the Savior’s clemency. To Him be glory, together with the Father and the Holy Spirit, unto the ages. Amen. C
ORATION VII. On humility, and also in part on love.
The last chapter of those which have been delivered to you by us for the cultivation of praiseworthy morals discoursed on humility. And so, it is not without reason that our final oration should be established by us in such a way that it is in harmony with that one in the preaching of the same virtue. Indeed, even in that oration in which I was exhorting you toward the pursuits of eloquence, I spoke in passing, as it were, something about moderation, while the very impulse of the speech carried us along with it. But I could understand that the ears of those who were present were then pricked up, as if they were expecting to hear something more at length about that good. But I did not then gratify them, lest I should recklessly be carried away, as it were, sideways; but I proceeded toward that which was necessary,
and promised to speak of that matter in its own time. Now that the preceding course is finished, time itself demands that I should both satisfy those requirements and fulfill my duty to you as well. A That we speak of humility, a thing absolutely most excellent, in the final place, was not done by chance, but because it appeared to us to be so consistent. For since in those chapters, and in the orations preceding this one, I fashioned your nature, so to speak, and, like an athlete anointing himself, spurred your will toward better things, and in every way imprinted upon the faculties of your soul a love for good works; yet that man who has acquired all good things has gained nothing for himself, if he has not also acquired humility, as it is this alone which is truly the lamp of all virtues, and the guardian of all good things. Since, therefore, these things are so, it was fitting that, having spoken of the other things by which you might become a man and a good king, I should finally discourse also on this most beautiful of virtues. For it is clearly and by far more difficult to keep and preserve the good things to the end than it was to acquire them in the beginning. And this opinion was expressed by one of those long ago admired for wisdom (this is Demosthenes, whose name the time that has intervened between him and our own age has preserved with honorable remembrance); and it appeared from the facts themselves to be most true, and no one could contradict it. Nor, indeed, do I think it a matter for surprise that I have descended into the struggle which I ought to have avoided. For we have not, having been driven by recklessness, lost our senses so as to attempt things that cannot be performed, and to think that an earthly tongue can utter something worthy of that virtue which flies on high, and lifts on high those who, while they perform what is right, yet know not how to be puffed up in their minds. I do not say this because I am ignorant of the magnitude of the attempt, or because I am ignorant of myself. B Nor am I ignorant of Phaedrus, unless I have forgotten myself, according to Plato, the son of Aristo. But you, my dearest son, and the great love I have for you, have been the cause of my daring in this matter. For unless I saw you in all things an excellent man, nothing in life would ever be pleasant or agreeable to me. But this love is so great that it has been able to impel me to attempt things altogether beyond our strength. This love has fashioned these many orations and those chapters for me, along with the letters; it has hurried me, urging me with a certain excessive force, with which a plausible reason was joined, to these contemplations, and that, too, in times which by no means permit one who sits at the helm to turn his eyes anywhere else than solely to the onslaught of the waves. For he, C "To whom peoples are committed, and such and so great cares [are entrusted]," as the poet would say, cannot easily use his time as he wishes. For occupations on behalf of the state, drawing his mind toward themselves, and holding him as if he were some prisoner bound in fetters, keep him closely occupied.
A And fetters, I think, and bonds, one might justly call those necessities which are always pressing. Although many great men have spoken on humility both in ancient times and in our own, no one as yet has said everything. Yet, with the speeches they have given, how highly do you think they have adorned it? And yet, since it dwells with the angels, it is, by a great degree of excess, elevated above all the praises that are attributed to it. We know, therefore, that those men spoke well, if one looks to the power of human beings and of speeches, but we know also that this virtue reveals those who attempt to say anything about it to be far behind their own enthusiasm. So it becomes manifest to us that no one whatsoever will be able to speak of it according to its worth. For, virtue being in itself so fair, so resplendent, so altogether good and excellent, what speech could ever be balanced against it? Yet it is not for this reason that all should fall silent; rather, on the contrary, one should say everything and contribute what one can according to one's power. Perhaps someone, even among those not reputable in oratory, will say something about it not altogether discordant with its height; and another again likewise, and perhaps yet another. For it is not unlikely that a certain person might adorn it in one part better than those who are superior. I have seen this happen in all things: a wild beast, even one not very skilled in archery, having met with a [good] shot, [does] better, I think, than Teucer, or the ancient Idaean, or whoever else has attained the greatest glory in archery. So all must contribute, when the words of the greater are not enough to manifest the whole; and if each adds what is gathered from themselves, and the words of all are brought together as if by a collection, and the mouths of the orators themselves seem to be one mouth, perhaps those who have spoken of it might come closer to the goal of being considered to have said something at all worthy of it. Thus it happens that what occurs regarding this virtue seems to be a kind of enigma. B For they do not show it to be the greatest by admiring it worthily, but by the fact that all, when they fail together to give the fitting praise, show that no one is able to attain to the height of its eloquence. So it is clearly like an enigma, if indeed it garlands itself with the crown that arises from the praises that do not happen. And so we entreat the listeners to harbor no harsh thoughts regarding us, nor to write us a charge of rashness—we who have been eager to speak about such a subject, possessing as we do feeble strength. For what was said before rightly excuses us C and provides the plea, and I judge this excuse to have been made by us with justice. For, in the first place, that which compelled us to cast ourselves into this sea has sharp powers of persuasion, so that we attacked the task boldly and considered every labor and danger light and bearable: for it is the love of a son, one who is both outstanding in virtue and carries the scepter in his hands. Then, one must also consider this: for it was not for the sake of ostentation that we undertook this contest, nor was our goal from the beginning to admire humility D (for that, at least, has no need of praises from us), but so that this virtue might become dear to the son, appearing most beautiful to him, and be sought after because it is loved, and be found somewhere, in any case, by him, [and that he] might earnestly track it
down, to be diligently guarded for all the reasons mentioned. For the privation of that which is found by chance is not very biting or distressing, even if it were to depart quickly—which is also what often happens. And if the possession be spiritual, it often flies away from the soul like some bird, and he who has not acquired it with longing does not even feel that he has suffered anything terrible. May it come to pass, my dearest one, according to our hopes, that those things we have said be fulfilled for you. And if we seem to have neither found the things that needed to be said about this subject, nor to have fittingly arranged what was found, nor to have spoken these things in a manner worthy of the theme, so that they might have strength—things upon which I labored greatly—to use a Homeric expression, we shall not only bear it calmly, but we shall also give thanks to Him who granted you such grace, B so as to be able to derive benefit from all things, and even from things from which another might not gain fruit. But as we have arrived at this part of our discourse, a certain wondrous fear comes over us, and it bids us pull back, as we look to our own strength and to the magnitude of the matter. For here the difficulty reigns to such a degree C that it exceeds all others. For it unstrings the tension of the soul, weakens the reasonings, and renders the mind enervated. For what child is so foolish, or carried off by unrestrained boldness so far beyond the bounds of propriety, as to think that a terrestrial tongue could ascend to the height of humility? And by saying what about it, since it is so magnificent, would anyone seem to have spoken nearly as is fitting? For there is, I think, nothing so august, or great, or brilliant, that can be said by anyone, which would not fall into its contrary for one who wishes to adorn it—that ethereal, celestial, heavenly, super-celestial thing, which now dwells D in the bosom of the Father, if indeed the Savior for us, the treasure of all that, is truly super-celestial and dwells in the bosoms of the Father. For it is of absolute necessity that wherever Christ may be, there also this must be perpetually. And indeed, the love for it was in Him supernaturally even before He became like us. For if this were not true, He would not Himself have visited us with the flesh, having bowed the heavens, according to the prophet, but by no means having been separated from the paternal bosoms; nor would He have endured for us all things, which are not even bearable to slaves. So, as I said, the matter of humility is demonstrated to be super-celestial. It is clear also in that manner. For having gone up above the heavens, it brought down the Super-celestial to us, or rather, accompanying Him, it is wherever He is. If, then, anyone were to look accurately, from the very exordia he will find what this is, and to what height it has ascended; but let us now speak about it at greater length, so that we might adorn it through more points. For that which appears to more people is deemed more worthy of being loved, and it is loved even more. The divine, therefore, and much-praised matter of humility...
A being charming in every respect and moving about with incomparable beauty, draws everyone to itself and makes them its lovers with a sober madness, even if these two terms, being utterly contrary to each other, seem unable to come together. And this, I think, ought not to be surprising. For many things that appear to be contrary to one another come together in it, just as they do in that vice which is opposed to it, namely, elation. For while this [vice] is "sublime"—using the term to denote its name—there is nothing more humble or more groveling than it, to the point that it casts down the souls of those in whom it resides and sends them off to the lowest abyss; and the few words that brought that Pharisee to ruin make this clear—words that indeed contained thanksgiving to God for the virtue he possessed, but that nonetheless also contained something arrogant, silently mixed, as one might say, with those just and right acts of thanksgiving. But the name of humility is present in modesty, and what could be more lowly than this designation? Yet, dwelling on high, it raises the needy from the earth and lifts the poor from the dunghill. And that which befell the publican by divine favor is testimony to my argument. B Therefore, even the most frantic love can exist in this [humility] with the greatest prudence. For all the things that belong to it seem, as it were, paradoxical. And indeed, I think this also is something new. For when this [humility] is present to its friends—if they so desire—the opposing vice slips into those who do not wish it, against those who possess this [humility]. For we are so far from wanting this [vice] to be in us that we deem it the ultimate insult if someone says we are addicted to pride.
But as I wished to discourse at greater length about its properties (for this also seemed appropriate for one speaking about humility), another thought came to mind in the meantime, and it seemed more compelling. The thought was that there was no need to construct a longer oration about this vice, since one can satisfy the requirement with a few words. For while we weave together the praise of humility, we are also at the same time completing the vituperation of elation. For since these two are mutually opposed, the things said about them are also C necessarily opposed. For to adorn the one is to bring shame upon the other. And likewise, vice versa, the vituperation of the one is a clear praise of the other. Humility, therefore, which we have decided to adorn, drives the vices out of souls, and indeed, when it is present with faithful men, it works wonders and becomes a certain destructive force and an expeller of the evil spirits. It preserves the powers around God in their own state; for they would not have remained in that light if it had departed from them. Proof of this is that Lucifer fell because his mind was elated beyond the condition of his dignity due to his excessive splendor. Wounded by this spear himself, he constantly hurls it against us as well, thinking it will serve his purpose against everyone, drawing this opinion from his own evils. And indeed, this spear is more harmful than any other, unless D the modest [virtue] is cast as a shield, its force being nullified...
Thus, while pride ruins even the angels, its opposite, humility, necessarily works the contrary effects and restores men to their Creator, whose first parents were destroyed by the vice opposed to humility. For having imagined themselves equal to God, they fell from both [the] paradise [of God] and from God, and what happened to them follows in sequence for their descendants as well.
But let us bring the colt back to the goal. Humility, therefore, [is] better than even the shield of Ajax when used as a defense. For that [shield] was indeed of such a kind, fashioned from seven hides, [so as] to show the missiles of the enemy to be nothing B at all. Yet not even that [shield] could provide confidence that there would never be any device capable of harming it. Humility, however, being a uniform and simple power of the soul—or if one prefers, a habit—preserves those who possess it from all the fears that can be conceived by thought. And not only will all the things previously mentioned fall to those who trust in it, but also all the fruits, in succession, which the labors of virtue produce: if they are joined with it, they will be good; without it, they are no longer so, since they can also become harmful to those who harvest them without the fitting self-restraint.
Moreover, it is a bolt [or bar] that is entirely unassailable by thieves. It compels C those who plot against one in every way to be temperate even against their will, producing despair in them. To robbers, brigands, and all such most impudent people, it does not even allow them to attempt to steal what has been acquired with moderation. It declares every device discovered against it throughout all time to be manifest nonsense and a laughingstock. It is a precise mark, a most admirable seal, well-engraved into the depths. And altogether, preserving the form of all the things mentioned, it keeps safe the treasures collected from good works, driving away those who spend their effort in every way to do harm like geckos.
And indeed, one might also wonder at it in this way. For it is not only a most fitting image of those [guards] by which one might secure himself and D all his affairs, but also of those men who stand fortified around those in power, holding every kind of weapon in their hands so that they might be able to defend [themselves] valiantly if any should ever come against them. For this [humility], too, when the evil spirits attack us, comes against them and does not allow them to plunder the gains we have acquired from virtue. If these are well-stored, having been gathered into those fair storehouses of modesty, their attacks and schemes are mere nonsense. Humility has hidden away [its] shield-bearers—those who accurately maintain their formation and do not allow themselves to stand idly at such times—and it has surpassed [its] bodyguards, in whom there is an ambition to bring forth a heat of soul, and through frequent experience of war, the impulse and strength of lions. It has left the regiment behind, for whom it is not permitted to sleep, [as] they have the position of sentinels. And if one must summarize the whole matter, it has surpassed everything in [the] total and entire [sense], whatever might defend any matter whatsoever,
A strongly beloved by those who possess it, and very desirable to all others. Yet, if it were possible for a soul to be clothed in purple, and by this means to reign over the passions, I think this could not happen in any other way than by putting on humility itself. So it is permissible to say, when discussing this, that it is truly by far superior to those things that were devised for the security of men, and is for those to whom it is present an exceptional adornment; and it lightens the whole array of virtues with its own character and nature, with much solemnity and magnificence. Reasonably, then, would it accept all the titles spoken of regarding it. Yet if it were also possible to discover and assign to modesty as many solemn, good, and lovely titles [as exist], perhaps he who did this would have achieved something not inconsequential; but to humility, which is like a foster-sister to the Saviour himself, he would have contributed nothing great. For what is great to one would not be great to all. Thus its height and magnitude surpass all things, as many epithets as there are, or will be, or can be thought of, concerning security, beauty, and honesty. Who, therefore, having purchased this with a price, would not have made an excellent gain? Or what other virtue could one say is more excellent than this? And if one also wishes to prefer this above all, such a person, in my opinion, would not justly receive blame. For my part, I judge this virtue to be more worthy than the others, and equal in honor to love. B One might say, not unreasonably, that these two are so akin that they may almost seem to be the same thing to those whose mind more perspicaciously penetrates higher matters. For love is, I suppose, the beginning of the circle of virtues, and modesty is the end. And the beginnings and ends of circles are the same. Moreover, since it is a beginning and an end, and therefore one of the things related to one another, for this reason also they could not be entirely separated, and where love is, there also will be modesty; and likewise vice versa. Wherefore this also is clear. D For where the one is not present, it follows necessarily that the other is also absent. Therefore, it is impossible for either of these to exist, or even to be conceived by the mind, however much one might try, if the other is not present or is not perceived by the mind. If, therefore, humility is absent, love is also absent. But if this pair is absent, one can never acquire the entire body of virtues. For if neither a beginning nor an end exists, the intermediate things might perhaps have this, that they seem to themselves to be, but not that they truly are. It follows, therefore, that love is absent if modesty is not present; and if we should lack this conjunction, [it follows] that there is no virtue left to man: and if these were absent, that he would not be a participant in virtue, even if what was done might seem to be according to virtue. That these things are so, has now become clear from what has been said; but we must [consider] blessed love
A to be a bedrock and a secure foundation, resting upon the rock, which is Christ himself; and the root of all good things one after another, reaching down to a great depth, and to a height that is truly unsearchable, if indeed the things of God are such. And it is so much in God, that it is even called that very love itself. And if one must say the whole thing, the collection of virtues is directly like a chain, and they all hold onto one another, but they all depend solely upon this love. So that all the greatest, best, most beautiful, honorable, and venerable things would be fitting, if someone gathered them and brought them together to it. For I think there is nothing, nothing at all among all the good things, that would be at variance with the properties that belong to it; just as there is nothing at all, if it is from the portion of good things, that will not very much fall to the excellence of humility. B Since, therefore, that is as it were the head of good things, the magnitude of temperance is no less humble than the height and dignity of love. For humility is a good thing in itself, and has been proven a treasure of the good things gathered by us from the straight branches of love. Wherefore it is most excellent in both respects. For whether we consider it as an end, nothing is better than it; or whether we use it as [a means] toward the end, we cannot fail of the goal. For it is good in itself, since it is peaceful and most gentle, which is indeed proper to God. And it is good, again, for many other reasons, and for this cause it is called, and is, a treasure of all good things in succession; since without it, it is absolutely impossible for anyone who is a man to persevere in being good, or even to have become so in the first place. And we know that it also provides us with this good. For it lifts us up most quickly C toward our most peaceful and most gentle guardian and master. For he, having miraculously completed this course, moved by immense love, pulled us up from the pit of the earth to heaven, following in his footsteps. For if someone safely travels the same path as he, how will he not easily reach him? For what could more blessedly happen to a man than this? And because of these things, if I deliver my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing. And I have been taught by the Savior, who taught me modesty more by his deeds than by words, to acknowledge myself an unprofitable servant, even when I am found to have fulfilled all his commandments. That the nature of love and temperance is thus, is manifest.
If, however, it is also required of us to say in summary, as it were, the office and property of each of the two, D love is at once the mother, and nurse, and root, and bedrock directly to the system of virtues, and a beginning for all who are journeying toward virtue, and a fashioner, and an anointer, as one might say, and simply everything of that sort, without which it is not possible for any of the good things to exist in our souls; but humility is as it were a way, and an end, and whatever could come to be or be conceived as a stay and guard
a precise foundation of all things good in succession, and a boundary of the virtues, and a rest, and a saving harbor, and a secure place, beyond which it is by no means lawful to progress further; but victors standing firmly here might delight themselves in the hope of the rewards laid up for them. And furthermore, according to this same principle, this pair is equally balanced. For just as if love were absent, nothing good could come to be, so too if humility were to stand apart, none of the good fruits of love would remain for us, but rather would at once perish, having fallen away from them, like winter flowers, whose splendor does not last long, and whose fragrance is scant, and whose fruit, if it should ever come at all and ripen, is untimely, very small, and unpleasant, and cannot endure. A These things, as I at least opine, would correspond to the properties of these. But if you desire to know what is common to them, that, in my opinion, would be this first of all, as it appears to me regarding these matters.
They seem to me to be the wings of that excellent dove, namely of the Spirit, which David longed for, that he might fly away and find rest. But perhaps some of us will blame us, as those who did not prefer fear to love. For divine teachers say that pious men, beginning to be led toward virtue, start from fear of punishment, as if from a starting line. Then, passing through other thoughts, they arrive at a certain wonderful love for the rewards laid up. And in this way, B having laid aside fear, they grasp the love toward God. For it is not possible for both to be present, but it is necessary for the one to withdraw, if the other is to arrive. These things, then, are what they, philosophizing about these two, teach, and much more and many more beautiful things besides; but I would address with words of this sort those who might perhaps blame our discourse: "Hark, good sir, this also comes to be considered. My intention from the beginning was to discourse somewhat cursorily about the virtues and their kinship with one another, not to speak of passions." And because I know fear is not a praiseworthy passion in itself, even if it cooperates toward the best things if it comes to be according to God, I did not judge it worthy of C being placed in the chorus of the virtues. Naturally, therefore, it has been passed over in silence for these reasons. With God, then, aiding you in undertaking struggles for the sake of virtue (for it is necessary that he be a partaker with you in these labors, if you are to achieve anything outstanding), being endowed with the other virtues, and beginning from love, cling stubbornly to modesty; which indeed will grant you this, that having become truly good, you may persevere in the good, and be and appear such, as one worthy to receive upon one's head and keep the crowns laid up for good men, which are incorruptible; of which the much-vaunted matter of love provides the material, and the other virtues weave them, and D modesty places them upon the heads to which they are fitting. So that it is also demonstrated that modesty alone among all the virtues is the one that crowns us. By modesty, indeed, I mean doing things that exalt, but meanwhile thinking very modestly; and performing great deeds, yet in no wise being puffed up; and the...
A one who ascends to the heights, appearing to stand among those who are lowest; not because we are unconscious of any good work performed by us (for how could that be?), but because we rightly know that the virtues themselves are loftier than our own deeds. For this, I think, is the way of the humble: not that they cast down their eyes and do not raise their brows, as if designating something evil and worthy of many tears. For he who is so affected, I judge, would not be of sound mind, if he considers himself with such magnificence. Nor would that be modest or good: to do something good either without knowing it, or without a pure intention of mind, for the one proceeds from ignorance, the other from a certain constraint. But neither of these is good; therefore, neither is modest, since what is modest is good. B
But you will say, dearest son, addressing us with such words, and rightly so: that having greatly admired humility, you have admired that which deserves admiration. By extolling it so exceedingly, you have greatly increased the love of it, which was already implanted in your soul, even more now. For surely by your own arguments, you have—how shall I put it?—made me a most frenzied lover of it. Yet you do not seem to me to have fully satisfied our need for this reason. It is necessary to add the ways by which it might come to pass that we attain this wealth in accordance with your prayers. For it seems to me to be entirely difficult to acquire, even for those who go about hunting for it with some vehement love. For it does not necessarily follow that because one loves and seeks, one also attains the things that are loved; rather, many things are not easily found by those who seek them, while others come to some, who have not endured any labor at all. But, especially in the case of those things which are most beautiful, it is not accustomed to turn out that way; rather, the more they appear to be sought after, the more difficult they are to acquire. Wherefore, I assume you deem it necessary that I explain how one might acquire it. It shall be pointed out to you, diligent son, who bring forward such matters, what it is fitting to point out. You will do what is in your prayers regarding me; for me, it is certainly a difficult thing to say what must be said. And I could, I think, demonstrate this difficulty in many ways, but in order to avoid weariness, I shall only offer this. A certain great man said, whose name was John C (he was, moreover, of the number of those who live for God and not for themselves), that pride is similar to the briar; and here, having first bestowed this name upon it, he then rightly showed why this word was uttered by him. For if I perform, he said—and I will indicate his intention, not his words—any good deed, pride—that one coming forth—applauds, and with a clamor extols the deed. And if the thing performed was indeed difficult to accomplish, it places me above all mortals. And if it is rejected from the beginning, it does not desist; and even if defeated, it frequently returns, worse than itself in many ways, bringing with it nothing that is not deceitful. For as for the souls of those who have become eminent through good works, and then conceive no lofty thoughts about themselves, but keep themselves within the limits
A of these, they have repelled pride. But this very thing, that they are not proud, and that they are—almost, one might say, better than those who are healed—is indeed a difficult state. For what is worse for one who is suffering from the disease of pride than to believe that he is humble? Or how shall he seek a cure, who does not even suppose that he is suffering from an illness? Thus, even if I am humbled, I am raised up again, knowing that I have been humbled; and when I have played the part of one who thinks highly of himself, I do not even notice it. And if I immediately recognize the pride and—hating it intensely—drive it away, and reproach myself for the pride, I shall not be ignorant when I am humbled again, and I shall praise myself for having acted rightly. Having suffered these things, as I ought not to have, I have arrived exactly where I began, as if in a circle. Therefore, it is a thorn, having a sharp point, which even those who possess a great weight of mind can only with difficulty avoid. B And I could have brought forward many witnesses to this argument, those very people who have been struck by this thorn. But since the matter is clear and manifest, it does not seem to require demonstration, especially to you who have previously said that humility is wealth difficult to acquire. Therefore, the discourse must be moved on to the manner in which someone, having done what is good, might escape conceiving a great opinion of himself, and, thinking modestly of himself, not be puffed up—something that has been shown to be even more difficult than the former.
I think, therefore, that there is one way that leads us up to humility: namely, to refer things rightly done to God Himself. For it is not, it is absolutely not possible for us, by attributing to ourselves what has been done, to rise above this vice in our thoughts. For the opinion that we have acted rightly is, without a doubt, the greatest occasion for pride in us, as the discourse has already shown. And this is such a great evil that C Chrysostom has somewhere taught that it is clearly better not to do any good deed at all, and to consider oneself guilty of the greatest punishment, than, while doing excellent works, to think that one is set above all others. Wherefore, he who intends to be modest should attribute good actions to God, and not to himself. This opinion is free from all error, and leans most highly upon the truth, being placed equally outside the dangers and the weapons which pride shoots at us. For neither is he deceived, nor can he come into danger, who relies on any truth whatsoever. And what is more true than to think that God is the giver of all good things, and that all mortals receive good things from Him? The proof of this is what was said by the Savior to the disciples: *Without me ye can do nothing.* D As to the fact that this saying is demonstrated to be most true, it suffices to say only this: that it was uttered by the Savior. I shall have no need of arguments, neither those of the ancients nor of the moderns, by which it would be permitted to prove this sentiment to be true. I shall not use examples, nor syllogisms; I shall seek nothing at all that might argue in my favor in this matter, if the situation so demanded. For where Truth Itself determines something as if by an oracle, it is flatly blasphemous to attempt to defend that word of His.
A For those whom we perceive to be in need of our assistance, being in some way deficient in strength so as to be unable to provide for themselves, are the ones who must be defended by us. But what weakness is there in God, such that He should require our assistance? Indeed, I also consider it superfluous to have used these few words here. For who does not know that if a thing is human, it is not good, but if it is of God, it is good? I call that human which is completely devoid of the inclination of God, and divine that which is His favor toward us. For to be abandoned and to experience His wrath is our lot; it is not, however, the work of God. He is untempted by evil and tempts no one, according to the Brother of the Lord. Thus, doing good is, strictly speaking, from God to men, while doing evil is from men and from their own choice alone. If it is most beautiful to be humble in good deeds, it is clearly so for us all the more, since it is an exceedingly great good. And since this is agreed upon (for how could it not be?), he who succeeds must not be lifted up. B For if among us, no man would ever think highly of himself because another has excelled (how could he? There is truly no reason to), how could it be right to think highly of ourselves when God has brought about through us that which is for our benefit? But perhaps someone, seizing upon that word of ours, "through us," will say that we also contribute something of our own. You do contribute, my good man, but "you have nothing," as it is said, "that you did not receive." For all things are from God. And it is He who works in us both to will and to work for the sake of His favor. And, "In Him we live, and move, and have our being." In short, our souls, our bodies, our actions according to God, and whatever else might partake of anything good, come—to speak precisely—from nowhere else but God. C Thus, that which is contributed, and the very eagerness to contribute, is given to us from God. And we must be grateful for these things, not puffed up. And why do I say these things? Since even regarding death endured in martyrdom, God must be considered the cause, and we are obligated to be most grateful to Him for this, if one would consider the matter accurately, and one should not think that for this reason He is made a debtor to us. For all things are from God, as the arguments before us have clearly shown. For if it seems to the orator that the author of those things which are born is the one who provided the seed—and this argument was not about God, but about men—why should God not be considered the author of all the good things in us, being both our Creator, our Guardian, our Provider, and the Giver of all things that are always happening to us? D Nevertheless, one arrow still remains for those suffering from the disease of pride; and this is the last one (for their quiver has been emptied), yet it is one that they hope might provide some wound, as if it were to be released. Therefore, if this too follows the previous arguments and appears to have no strength, but is brought forth in vain by those who are fishing for arguments against us, then this discourse will have been well concluded by us. And indeed, the arrow for them—their argument, I believe—is to say that if one were to compare the things accomplished by men with the graces from God, one would find that those human works are nothing. For otherwise, one could not
call them what they are, namely, graces. But if my works are compared with another's, and yours with his, and thus ours are compared one with another: a great difference, they say, we perceive in these. For some things lead to A gehenna, as other things, which are good, lead to that place where there is endless joy and the chorus of the blessed around the Savior. Therefore, it is impossible that, whatever I may eventually have done, nothing of it should happen to me. For if I have performed an evil deed, I shall cast down my countenance to the earth; but if I have performed something good, I shall be lifted up in spirit. For since we are all from the one mass, molded by the one hand of God into one single form; yet afterward some are like birds and exhibit an angelic life, while others crawl upon the ground among the serpents, and even surpass their fury against men: since these things are in this manner compared, and these latter are wicked, following a different path from the others, how is it fitting that they should think the same of themselves, when they do not perform the same deeds? For those whose life is diverse, their minds also are not affected in the same way. Wherefore, those who eagerly seek after vices and those who love good things shall recognize themselves; the former as inferior to good men, and the latter as better than the wicked, and this from the deeds themselves. This, however, is nothing else than that the former should be dejected in spirit, and the latter elated. For how could the matter be otherwise? Yet I would not say that these things which are brought forward by you in opposition to my speech are entirely of no moment, but that they do not all quite square with the question being asked. For that the deeds of this man differ greatly from the deeds of others, and that he who does good works becomes good, and likewise he who does evil works becomes evil, is clear to everyone. It is also true that such men are recognized by themselves; and that gehenna receives the one sort, and the chorus of blessed men the other. But as for the conclusion drawn from this, namely, that the very thing of a man being either elated or dejected in spirit consists in his knowing himself to be good or evil; I say that this is not necessary, although it is found in some who are enslaved to no slight error. B For if this were necessary, and the things you premised were correctly concluded, by no means could any humility be found in any man. For all know what has been done by themselves, whether it be good or evil. And if it were the case that those who cultivate virtue are elated in spirit because they know themselves, as you indeed say, then all who are endowed with prudence, recognizing themselves, would surely be greatly puffed up, and the very thing that is humility would be utterly destroyed. But you yourself are not unaware that humility and modesty are found in not a few of those who, while in mortal bodies, exhibit a life almost befitting incorporeal beings. Wherefore your conclusion is false, and furthermore entirely absurd. For if those who are lost are awaited by punishment—I mean those who are wicked from the beginning—and those who have lived in virtue, then, recognizing themselves to be virtuous, [you argue] it is not in them to be humble, and you will again inscribe these among the wicked: then one can find neither humility in life, nor among men anyone who is to be saved. For once humility no longer exists, surely not one of men would be saved, as it is possible to know clearly from what has been said before. But
A those who are saved even exceed the number of the stars in their multitude. And you yourself have said that punishment awaits the wicked, while the choir of blessed men awaits the others. So your position is even at odds with itself, where you seem to defend it, and it becomes clear from every side that it is possible to do good and not be high-minded. Your conclusion, therefore, is absurd on this account as well. And even if you have many who agree with you, their alliance is of no help to you. For these very people happen to be those who are accused by the present argument, so it is not possible for them to be your assistants, either, in these arguments. Having said such things, however, you have revealed the passion to be most powerful; toward which I declare that I think the same as you do. Yet I would not call it utterly invincible, since you have not even proven that it prevails by a reasonable power; for neither does it prevail over those constrained by it—provided they are innocent and just. Otherwise, it would prevail over all things in succession. B
Well then. But as for you, my dearest of all, if ever one of your neighbors does something pleasing to God, and you do not, be humble and grieve; for you ought to know in this that you do not desire to be good. But if he does the contrary—living basely and carelessly while you are doing all things well—do not be high-minded. For you have not become a virtuous man because of his wickedness, but simply because of your deeds. And this is clear from the following: for people do not become crowned through the downfall of their neighbors, but from their own upright actions. It appears, therefore, that it is not possible for those who have stripped themselves for the struggle against pride to be compared with one another. For those athletes, for whom the olive-branch is the prize, and whose struggle is against blood and flesh, as the divine Apostle rightly C said, it is plausible to compare them well with one another. For certain singular gifts, exposed to the eyes of the spectators, demonstrate the one who excels above the rest: I mean strength of body, and exercises, and experience in such contests. But even if the judgment passed were not altogether accurate, this error is not very dangerous. For it does not bring destruction to souls, but bestows a certain small and immediately extinguished glory either upon those perhaps unworthy to receive it, or withholds it from those to whom it should have been rendered. But as for those who have to fight against the principalities and the powers, how is one to regard them, and with whom at all are they to be compared? Whether with those who have stripped themselves for the same contest as they, or with those powers that are drawn up against us? But to me it seems that it is not in the least possible for either of these situations to exist. For it is reasonable to think and call those wicked forces our most hostile enemies: but they can in no wise hold the place of D rivals against us. For they neither desire glory, nor do they look for a prize: but rather destruction.
A Indeed, they contend and strike from the shadows, while we are seen struggling against one another. Therefore, there is a dreadful war between us and them. It is not strife, nor a match, nor do prizes lie before both parties. Although, should we emerge superior in our mutual struggles, for us there is the prize of brightness and immortality, but for them, in place of these, there is Gehenna, and darkness, and the outer fire.
Thus, there is no spiritual contest proposed for any men—I speak of temperance, and humility, and such virtues—nor is it reasonable to call them rivals. Why? For many other reasons, but especially because in their attempts to achieve anything, they neither obstruct nor oppose one another, as rivals and adversaries are wont to do; and furthermore, they often supply mutual aid with all their might. It is not consistent with reason, therefore, that from a comparison of spiritual works, the best athlete should be found among any given individuals. For in what way could this be? Indeed, if it could be done, it should not happen in this way—that is to say, that the same individuals should be both the dispensers of prizes, and the athletes, and the judges, justifying themselves to the detriment of their neighbors; but there ought to be someone else to judge the athletes, someone who sits first upon the throne, and then commands them to commence the contest. B But you, my good man, wish to suffice for both roles: you sit as the self-appointed dispenser of prizes, and you engage in conflict against one who has not stripped for battle against you; and you wreathe your own head with a crown by your own hands, with a certain pride; and you do not perceive that you are decorating yourself in the most shameful way of all men—if indeed it ought to be called an ornament, that with which one adorns oneself beyond all sense of propriety and justice, and not rather an outright disgrace.
Who, I ask, would deem himself worthy to evaluate and crown the souls of his fellow men, a task which everyone would admit pertains to God alone? For in bodily and visible contests, the judge, I suppose, would be one who possesses an accurate experience of such things, and is far superior to those who are struggling; for this reputation is what raises him to the judgment seat. But in spiritual and invisible contests, the Savior alone is the dispenser of prizes and the judge. To wish to demonstrate this is surely superfluous, for it is evident even to a blind man, as the saying goes. And knowing this, the divine Apostle spoke these words: "We dare not class or compare ourselves with some of those who commend themselves." C Therefore, it is good and safe to commit the judgment of all things to the Savior alone, and not compare ourselves with one another. And since, as I would say, it has been demonstrated in every way that no one ought to be of a haughty spirit, even if he were among the number of those who have reached the highest summits, and even if he had attained to the very ends of all virtue—and I believe that anyone endowed with a sound mind would admit that this has been rightly set forth by us—I stop my argument here, having added only this: even if some men are very earnest, let them not mock others, nor deem themselves
to be good. For He who examines me, he says, is God; who indeed knows all things accurately, but does not give the prizes if someone has surpassed others by running—but to those to whom it happened to reach that place where the prizes stand, and where the Savior, sitting upon the royal throne, offers Himself as the crown-giver to the victors. May He crown your beloved head, O Emperor and son, not only here, but also there, with the beautiful crown of the blessed; for the sake of which I also undertook these many struggles, though I know not if they be noble ones. A
EPISTOLARY EPILOGUE
These things, my dearest one, have been said now for your sake; and the love that persuaded us to speak is wondrous. For were it not so great, I would not have set myself to this struggle for your benefit, nor would such eagerness have sustained me with such vigor until the end. Rather, I would have leaped away at the very beginning, with the many obstacles pressing upon me, or somewhere in the middle, with difficulties constantly arising. But may this labor prove pleasant to me, and worthy of my toils—something that will turn out well, provided you are willing. For if you yourself decide not to despise these exhortations, and all that is contained in these discourses for the adornment of your character, but instead honor us who begat you, and those from whom we ourselves sprang, and honor yourself and all your teachers, in this one thing alone—by not appearing worse than the hopes which, while you were still given to childish pastimes, all nurtured concerning you, prophesying the best for you—if these things, then, should happen with God’s help, you will make the remainder of my life pleasant (how can you think otherwise?), and you will render me splendid rewards: not just for these labors, but also for your being born of us, and for having been raised in a royal manner, and educated, and kept in honor, and, simply put, for all things I have done for your sake, which are perhaps neither few nor of light weight. B And these things will indeed have the outcome I mentioned, if you fulfill our expectation. And you will fulfill it entirely, if you are willing to obey these things said for your sake, and prove by deeds themselves that you have truly obeyed. And if this good outcome should come to pass, and by the virtue of your character you do not put my prayers and exhortations to shame, I know well that you will be beloved both to God and to men; and the ruling of men, being a man yourself—which, because of the common nature, is difficult—will become for you, in every way, most easy, and will lead to goodness and glory. For he who obeys his parents, clearly obeys God also. And to such a ruler, those under him would rightly obey. For the leading of them in accordance with his purpose works all that is good; just as the contrary happens if they do not obey. Do not, therefore, prove us to have wasted these words for your sake, nor seek to find this in me: that I both claim to do and teach. Know that I am— C D
A not possessed of such power either. But it is permitted to me, by this manner of address toward you, to speak even of those things, and to be very persuasive, from which I have indeed remained far distant. For it is not right that even you should disobey the things that have been established. For if it was not right to disobey the priests and Pharisees of old, as they sat on the chair of Moses, although they did nothing of what they taught, then it is much more becoming to obey me, who tell you what is beneficial, even if I should not do these things well myself. For I, too, am now sitting and setting forth exhortations to you, which are as much better than those of that time as the old legislation and grace are surpassed by the new; or, if you prefer, as the legal shadow is surpassed by our own, which belongs to the preaching of the truth. But the chair upon which I currently sit is better than that former one, and surpasses it by a large margin, inasmuch as it—if it be not too bold to say so—is an icon of the divine chair. For, to pass over any other authority that might have some eminence, a father is prince and lord to his child by nature itself. By the same reasoning, God also is our prince and Lord. But let the matter be declared somewhat more clearly. B What, then, is God to us? Is he not Creator? Is he not Father? Is he not King? Is he not Provider? Is he not Teacher? All these things, as far as you are concerned, belong to me as well. Wherefore, I specifically sit, as has been said, on a throne that is an icon of the divine throne, while those priests and Pharisees sat on the chair of Moses. But that is inferior to ours. And let no one condemn me for rashness or arrogance. For I am not comparing myself to the one who beheld God (heaven forbid! Far from it!), but simply [comparing] the chairs themselves. And let us examine the matter more accurately, if you like. For even if both originate from God—I mean my rule and that of Moses (for he, too, was a leader and teacher; and these things necessarily come from God, since all authority, according to the Apostle, is from Him)—nevertheless, the royalty is better than the leadership, and the teachings of this present time are far more perfect than those of the ancients, inasmuch as they depend on the New Covenant, which perfects the Law. So that the position I have toward you is far superior C not only to that of the priests and Pharisees toward the Jewish people, but also to that of the superiority of Moses toward all of them. And even if Moses was a prophet and we are beset by a multitude of sins, yet fatherhood is a more certain thing for those who are fathers than the gift of prophecy is for those who possess it. For the latter has flown away from many, but the former cannot possibly be extinguished; and for this reason, Moses, as one not speaking to his own children, persuaded nothing, even though he was prophesying and performing wonders. But disobedience toward fathers does indeed occur, yet rarely, and [only] among infamous men, not [among] those who possess good sense and character. But you know well, as I know, this superiority and this throne. For you are a sensible man, and it is easy, I think, for you to calculate what is reasonable from the piety and affection toward those who have begotten us. But it is impossible to know accurately how great fatherhood is for sons, for one who has not yet become a father. For we know those things better by taste—by having experienced the facts themselves—than by examining them with our reason. May God grant you also