Letters & Polemics (CSEL) 26 part 1/3

ON THE HAPPY LIFE. If reason well ordered, and the will itself, could bring one to the harbour of philosophy — from which one now advances into the region and land of the happy life — I know not, most humane and great Theodorus, whether I should be rash to say that far fewer men would come to attain it; though even now, as we see, exceedingly few and rare do attain it.

For since — whether it be God, or nature, or necessity, or our own will, or some combination of these, or all of them together (for the matter is very obscure, though you have already undertaken to shed light on it) — has cast us into this world as it were rashly and at random, into a kind of stormy sea, how few would recognize whither they ought to strive or by what way to return, unless some tempest — which to the foolish seems adverse — should, even against their will and their struggling resistance, dash them, unknowing and wandering, upon the most longed-for land? Therefore of men whom philosophy is able to receive I seem to see, as it were, three kinds of voyagers.

One is that of those who, when an age capable of reason has come upon them, flee from near at hand with a small effort and stroke of the oars, and hide themselves away in that tranquillity, whence they raise up for their fellow citizens — for those whom they can — a most luminous sign of some work of theirs, that thus admonished they may strive toward it. The other is that of those who are the opposite of the former: deceived by the sea's most treacherous face, they have chosen to advance into the midst and to journey far from their homeland, and they often forget it. If a wind from the stern — which they think favourable — should, in some hidden way, follow after these, they penetrate, elated and rejoicing, into the deepest miseries, because everywhere a most deceitful calm flatters them with pleasures and honours.

For these, surely, what else is to be wished than a certain unprosperousness in those very things by which they are joyfully received, and — if that is too little — an altogether raging tempest and a contrary wind blowing against them, which may lead them, even weeping and groaning, to sure and solid joys? Yet the greater part of this kind, having not yet strayed too far, are brought back by certain not-so-grievous troubles. These are men whom, when either the lamentable tragedies of their fortunes, or the anxious difficulties of empty affairs, have thrust — as though having nothing else to do — into the books of learned and most wise men, awaken as it were in the very harbour, from which no promises of that sea, laughing with all too false a smile, can shut them out.

But among these there is a third kind: those who, whether at the very threshold of youth, or after being long and greatly tossed about, nevertheless look back upon certain signs, and remember their most sweet homeland even amid the very waves; and either by a straight course, deceived in nothing and delaying at nothing, they make for it again, or — very often — either straying amid the clouds, or gazing at sinking stars, or captivated by certain allurements, deferring the seasons of a good voyage, they wander longer, and often are even endangered. These too, often, some calamity amid their flowing fortunes — as a tempest adverse to their efforts — drives into the most longed-for and peaceful life.

But for all these, who in whatever way are borne toward the region of the happy life, there is one most monstrous mountain, set before the very harbour, which even for those entering causes great straits, and is to be most vehemently feared and most warily avoided. For it so gleams, it is so clothed in that lying light, that not only does it offer itself to be dwelt in by those arriving and not yet entered, and promises to satisfy their will in place of that happy land itself, but it often invites men to itself from the very harbour, and sometimes detains them, delighted by its very height, from which they take pleasure in looking down upon the rest.

These, however, often warn those coming, lest they be deceived by hidden reefs beneath, or think it easy to ascend to themselves; and they most kindly teach by what way, on account of the nearness of that land, one may enter without danger. Thus, while they envy men that most empty glory, they point out the place of security. For what other mountain does reason mean to be feared by those drawing near to philosophy, or having entered it, than the proud pursuit of that emptiest glory — which has within it nothing full and solid, so that, with its frail soil crumbling beneath, it sinks and swallows those puffed up and walking upon it, and, when they have been rolled back into the darkness, snatches from them the shining home which they had almost already beheld?

Since these things are so, receive, my Theodorus — for toward that which I desire I look to you alone, and I ever admire you as the fittest — receive, I say, both an account of which of those three kinds of men has given me to you, and of what place I seem to myself to be in, and of what kind of help I confidently expect from you. From the nineteenth year of my age, after in the school of rhetoric I received that book of Cicero which is called Hortensius, I was so kindled with love of philosophy that I meditated at once betaking myself to it. But neither did the mists fail me by which my course was confounded, and long, I confess, I gazed up at the stars gliding down into the Ocean, by which I was led into error.

For a certain childish superstition frightened me away from the very inquiry; and when, having grown more upright, I had dispelled that gloom and persuaded myself that I ought to yield to teachers rather than to those who merely command, I fell in with men to whom this light which is discerned by the eyes seemed among the things supremely divine and to be worshipped. I did not assent, but I supposed they were concealing some great thing within those wrappings, which they would sometime disclose. But when, having examined them, I escaped them — especially after this sea was crossed — for a long while the tenets of the Academics held my rudder, resisting all winds, amid the waves. Then I came into these lands; here I learned the north star to which I might entrust myself.

For I observed, often in the discourses of our priest and sometimes in yours, that when God was being thought of, nothing whatsoever of body was to be conceived, nor when the soul was thought of; for that is the one thing nearest to God among all things. But that I might not swiftly fly into the bosom of philosophy, I confess I was held back by the allurement of a wife and of honour, so that, when I had attained these, then at last I might, as few most happy men have been permitted, sweep myself with all sails and all oars into that bay, and there find rest.

But when I had read a very few books of Plotinus, of whom I have learned you are a most devoted student, and had compared them, as far as I could, with the authority also of those who handed down the divine mysteries, I was so set aflame that I wished to break all those anchors, had not the esteem of certain men swayed me. What then remained but that a tempest, thought adverse, should come to my aid as I lingered over superfluous things? And so such a pain of the chest seized me that, unable to bear the burden of that profession by which I was making sail perhaps toward the Sirens, I cast away all things and steered my ship, battered and weary as it was, into the longed-for tranquillity. You see, then, in what philosophy I now sail as in a harbour. But this too lies open wide;

its vastness, though now less perilous, does not yet wholly exclude error. For to which part of the land — which, assuredly, is the one that is happy — I should draw near and touch, I am utterly ignorant. For what solid thing have I grasped, while the question of the soul still wavers and tosses within me? Wherefore I beseech you, by your virtue, by your humanity, by the bond and commerce of souls with one another, that you stretch out your right hand — that is, that you love me and believe yourself in turn to be loved by me and held dear. And if I obtain this, I shall most easily, with a small effort, draw near to the happy life itself, to which I presume you already cleave.

But that you may know what I am doing and by what means I gather my dear ones toward that harbour, and thereby more fully understand my mind — for I find no other signs by which to reveal myself — I thought I ought to write to you, and to dedicate under your name, that one of my disputations which seems to me to have turned out more devout and more worthy of your title. Most fittingly, indeed; for concerning the happy life we inquired among ourselves, and I see nothing else that is more to be called a gift of God. Your eloquence has not terrified me. For whatever I love, though I attain it not, I cannot fear; and the loftiness of fortune far less. For with you, though it be great, it is truly of secondary rank; for those over whom it holds sway it makes themselves secondary.

But now, I beg you, attend to what I bring forward. On the Ides of November was my birthday. After a meal so light that from it nothing of our faculties might be hindered, I called all who were dining together with me — not only on that day but daily — to sit down in the baths; for that secret place, suited to the occasion, presented itself. There were present — for I am not afraid to make known to your singular kindness by name, for the moment, those who took part — first of all our mother, to whose merit I believe belongs all that I live; my brother Navigius; Trygetius and Licentius, my fellow townsmen and pupils; nor did I wish Lartidianus and Rusticus, my cousins, to be absent, though they had suffered not even a grammarian to instruct them; and I judged their very common sense necessary for the matter I was attempting.

There was also with us the youngest of all in age, but whose talent, if love does not deceive me, promises something great — my son Adeodatus. With these attentive, I thus began. 'Does it seem manifest to you that we are composed of soul and body?' — When all agreed, Navigius answered that he did not know. — To him I said: 'Do you know nothing at all, or is this too to be counted among the things you do not know?' — 'I do not think,' he said, 'that I am ignorant of everything.' — 'Can you tell us something of the things you do know?' — 'I can,' he said. — 'If it is not troublesome,' I said, 'bring forth something.' — And when he hesitated: 'Do you know at least,' I said, 'that you are alive?' — 'I know it,' he said. — 'You know, then, that you have life, since indeed no one can live except by life.' — 'This too,' he said, 'I know.'

— 'Do you also know that you have a body?' — He assented. — 'Then you already know that you consist of body and life.' — 'I know it for now, but whether these are the only two, I am uncertain.' — 'Then you do not doubt,' I said, 'that these two exist, body and soul, but you are uncertain whether there is something else which avails to complete and perfect the man.' — 'Just so,' he said. — 'Of what sort this may be, we will inquire another time, if we can,' I said. 'Now I ask this of you all: since we all confess that a man can exist neither without body nor without soul, on account of which of these do we seek food?'

— 'For the sake of the body,' said Licentius. — But the others hesitated and debated among themselves in various talk, how food could seem necessary for the sake of the body, when it was sought for the sake of life, and life pertained to nothing but the soul. — Then I: 'It seems to you,' I said, 'that food pertains to that part which we see grow and become stronger by food?' — They assented, except Trygetius; for he said, 'Why then have I not grown in proportion to my gluttony?' — 'All bodies,' I said, 'have their measure fixed by nature, beyond which limit they cannot advance. Yet they would be smaller than that measure if food had been lacking to them; which we observe more easily in cattle, and no one doubts that, when food is withdrawn, the bodies of all living things waste away.'

— 'They waste away,' said Licentius, 'they do not shrink.' — 'It is enough for me,' I said, 'for what I want. For the question is whether food pertains to the body. And it does pertain, since when it is withdrawn the body is brought to emaciation.' — All judged that it was so. 'What then of the soul?' I said; 'has it no proper nourishment? Or does its food seem to you to be knowledge?' — 'Plainly,' said mother, 'I believe the soul is nourished by nothing else than the understanding of things and knowledge.' — When Trygetius showed himself doubtful of this opinion: 'Today,' she said, 'did you not yourself teach whence and where the soul is fed?'

'For after a certain part of the meal you said you had noticed what little dish we were using, because you had been thinking of some other thing I know not what, and yet you had not kept your hands and your bites from the very food. Where then was your mind, at the time when, while you were eating that, it was not attending to it? Thence, believe me, and by such fare the mind is fed — that is, by its cares and its own thoughts, if through them it can perceive anything.' — When they murmured doubtfully about this matter: 'Do you not grant,' I said, 'that the minds of the most learned men are much fuller and greater, as it were in their own kind, than those of the untaught?' — They said it was manifest.

— 'Rightly, then, do we say that the minds of those who have been instructed in no disciplines and have imbibed nothing of the good arts are fasting and, as it were, famished.' — 'Full,' said Trygetius, 'I judge that their minds too are full, but of vices and wickedness.' — 'That very thing,' I said, 'believe me, is a kind of barrenness and, as it were, a famine of minds. For just as the body, when food is withdrawn, is for the most part filled with diseases and scurf, which vices in it indicate hunger, so also the minds of those men are full of diseases, by which they confess their fastings. For indeed the ancients meant that wickedness itself — the mother of all vices — was so called from the fact that it is worth nothing (nequicquam), that is, from the fact that it is nothing. The virtue contrary to this vice is named frugality.'

'As therefore this virtue is named from fruge, that is, from fruit, on account of a certain fruitfulness of minds, so that vice is named from barrenness, that is, from nothing — nequitia; for everything that flows, that dissolves, that melts and as it were perpetually perishes, is nothing. Therefore we call such men also 'lost' (perditos). But that is something, if it remains, if it stands firm, if it is always such — as virtue is. A great and most beautiful part of it is what is called temperance and frugality. But if this is too obscure for you to be able to see it now, at least you grant this: that if the minds of the untaught too are full, then, as of bodies, so of minds two kinds of nourishment are found — one wholesome and useful, the other diseased and pestilent.'

'Since these things are so, I think that on my birthday, seeing that we agree there are two things in a man — that is, body and soul — I ought to set forth a somewhat more sumptuous meal not for our bodies only, but for our souls as well. But what this meal is, if you are hungry, I will bring forth. For if I try to feed you unwilling and disdainful, I shall spend my labour in vain, and vows must rather be made that you may desire such fare rather than that of the body — which will come to pass if your minds are healthy; for the sick, as we see in the diseases of the body itself, refuse and spit out their food.' — All said, by their very look and with consenting voice, that they now wished to take and devour whatever I had prepared. And I, beginning again:

'We wish to be happy,' I said. — Scarcely had I poured this out when they concurred with one voice. — 'Does it seem to you,' I said, 'that he is happy who does not have what he wills?' — They denied it. — 'What? Is everyone who has what he wills happy?' — Then mother: 'If he wills good things,' she said, 'and has them, he is happy; but if he wills evil things, though he have them, he is wretched.' — To her, smiling and delighted, I said: 'Mother, you have grasped the very citadel of philosophy. For doubtless words only failed you, so that you did not just now unfold yourself like Tullius, whose words on this opinion are these. For in the Hortensius, the book he made in praise and defence of philosophy: But behold,'

'he says, not philosophers indeed, but men ready enough to dispute, all say that those are happy who live as they themselves will. This is false indeed; for to will what is not fitting, that is itself most wretched. Nor is it so wretched not to attain what you will as to will to attain what you ought not. For the depravity of the will brings more of evil to anyone than fortune brings of good.' — At these words she cried out in such a way that, forgetting utterly her sex, we believed that some great man was sitting with us — while I, meanwhile, understood as well as I could from what and from how divine a source these things flowed forth. — And Licentius: 'But you must tell us,' he said, 'in order that anyone may be happy, what he ought to will and of what things it behoves him to have desire.'

— 'Invite me,' I said, 'on your birthday, whenever you shall deem me worthy; whatever you set before me I shall gladly take. On this condition I ask that today you feast at my table, and do not demand what is perhaps not prepared.' — When he was sorry for his modest and bashful reminder: 'Then this,' I said, 'is agreed among us: that no one can be happy who does not have what he wills, nor is everyone who has what he wills happy?' — They granted it. 'What of this?' I said; 'do you concede that everyone who is not happy is wretched?' — They did not doubt it. — 'Everyone, therefore,' I said, 'who does not have what he wills is wretched.' — It pleased all. — 'What then ought a man to procure for himself, that he may be happy?' I said;

'for perhaps this too will be supplied to this our banquet of ours, lest Licentius' craving be neglected; for that, I suppose, is what he must procure, which he has when he wills.' — They said it was manifest. — 'That, then,' I said, 'ought to be something always abiding, neither dependent on fortune nor subject to any chances. For whatever is mortal and perishable cannot be had by us when we will and as long as we will.' — All assented. But Trygetius: 'There are,' he said, 'many fortunate men who nonetheless possess those very things, fragile and subject to chances, as pleasant, abundantly and lavishly for this life, and none of the things they will is lacking to them.' — To him I said: 'Does one who fears seem to you to be happy?' — 'He does not,' he said.

— 'Then if whatever anyone loves he can lose, can he fail to fear?' — 'He cannot,' he said. — 'But those fortuitous things can be lost. Therefore he who loves and possesses this can in no way be happy.' — Nothing opposed this. But at this point mother: 'Even if he be secure,' she said, 'that he will not lose all those things, yet with such things he cannot be sated. Therefore he too is wretched, in that he is always in want.' — To her I said: 'What if,' I said, 'abounding and overflowing with all these things, he set for himself a limit of desiring, and, content with them, enjoyed them fittingly and pleasantly — does he not seem to you happy?' — 'Then it is not by those things,' she said, 'but by the moderation of his own mind, that he is happy.' — 'Excellently,'

I said, 'neither to this question ought anything else to have been answered, nor anything else by you. Therefore we in no way doubt that, if anyone has resolved to be happy, he ought to procure for himself that which always abides and cannot be snatched away by any raging fortune.' — 'This,' said Trygetius, 'we agreed to long ago.' — 'Does God,' I said, 'seem to you eternal and always abiding?' — 'This indeed,' said Licentius, 'is so certain that it needs no questioning'; and all the rest chimed in with pious devotion. — 'God, therefore,' I said, 'whoever has him, is happy.' — When they received this joyfully and most willingly: 'Nothing then,' I said, 'do I think we now need to inquire, save which of men has God; for he assuredly will be happy — and concerning this I ask what seems to you.'

— Here Licentius: 'He has God who lives well.' — Trygetius: 'He has God,' he said, 'who does what God wills to be done.' — To this opinion Lartidianus agreed. But that youngest one of all: 'He has God,' he said, 'who does not have an unclean spirit.' — Mother approved all these, but this last most of all. Navigius was silent. When I asked him what he thought, he answered that this last pleased him. Nor did it seem right to neglect asking Rusticus what his opinion on so great a matter might be; he seemed to me to be silent, hindered not so much by deliberation as by bashfulness. He agreed with Trygetius. Then I: 'I hold,' I said, 'the opinions of all on a matter truly great, and beyond which nothing ought either to be sought or can be found.'

'if only we investigate it, as we have begun, most serenely and most sincerely. But because this is a long matter for today, and they have in their meal a certain luxuriance of mind as well — if beyond measure and greedily they rush upon these things, for so they in a manner digest ill; whence no less danger is to be feared for the health of minds than from that very hunger — this question, if it seems good, will better receive us tomorrow when we are hungry. Only I wish you now to lick with pleasure at that which has suddenly been suggested to my mind must be brought in by your waiter — and it is, unless I am mistaken, such as the last courses are wont to be set out, as though confected and seasoned with a certain scholastic honey.' — Hearing this, they all reached out, as it were, toward the raised dish and pressed together, that I should hasten to say what it might be.

— 'What,' I said, 'do you think, except that with the Academics the whole business we had taken up has been settled?' — At the mention of this name, those three, to whom the matter was known, raised themselves up more eagerly, and, as it happens, with hands as it were outstretched, helped the servant bringing it in with such words as they could, showing that they would hear nothing more delightful. Then I put the matter thus: 'If it is manifest,' I said, 'that he is not happy who does not have what he wills — which reason demonstrated a little while ago — and no one seeks what he does not wish to find, and they always seek the truth — they wish, therefore, to find it; they wish, therefore, to have the discovery of the truth — but they do not find it, it follows that they do not have what they will, and from this it follows also that they are not happy.

'But no one is wise unless he is happy: the Academic, therefore, is not wise.' — Hereupon suddenly those men cried out, as if snatching the whole thing. But Licentius, attending more carefully and warily, feared his assent and interjected: 'I did indeed snatch it along with you, since I cried out, moved by that conclusion. But I will admit nothing hence into my vitals, and I will keep my portion for Alypius; for either he will lap it up together with me, or he will warn me why it ought not to be touched.' — 'Navigius,' I said, 'ought rather to fear sweet things, with his defective spleen.' — Hereupon he, smiling: 'Plainly,' he said, 'such things will cure me. For somehow this twisted and barbed thing which you have set forth — as that man says of Hymettian honey — is sharply sweet and puffs up the vitals not at all.'

'Wherefore, even with my palate somewhat bitten, yet, as I can, I most gladly pass the whole of it into my marrow. For I do not see how this conclusion can be refuted.' — 'It can in no way at all,' said Trygetius; 'wherefore I rejoice that I long ago took up enmities with those men. For, by I know not what nature impelling me — or, to speak more truly, by God, even without my knowing how they were to be refuted — I nonetheless was too much opposed to them.' Hereupon Licentius: 'I,' he said, 'do not yet desert them.' — 'Then,' said Trygetius, 'you dissent from us?' — 'Do you, then,' he said, 'in any way dissent from Alypius?' — To him I said: 'I do not doubt that, if Alypius were present, he would yield to this little argument.

'For he could not think so absurdly as either that he should seem happy who did not have that great good of the mind which he most ardently wished to have, or that those men do not wish to find the truth, or that one who is not happy is wise; for by these three things, as by honey, meal, and little nuts, that which you fear to taste has been confected.' — 'Would he yield to this so depraved enticement of boys, once the Academics' so great richness had been deserted, by whose flood this — I know not what brief thing — would be either overwhelmed or dragged away?' — 'As though indeed,' I said, 'we were seeking something long, especially against Alypius; for he himself argues, not moderately, from your own body, that these small things are strong and useful enough.'

'But you, who have chosen to hang upon the authority of one who is absent — which of these do you not approve? Whether that he is not happy who does not have what he wills? Or do you deny that those men wish to have the truth found, which they so vehemently seek? Or does anyone seem to you wise who is not happy?' — 'He is quite happy,' he said, 'who does not have what he wills' — smiling as though in vexation. And when I ordered this to be written down: 'I did not say it,' he said, crying out. And when again I nodded that it be written: 'I did say it,' he said. And I had once for all given orders that no word be poured forth except the letters. Thus I kept the youth stirred up between bashfulness and constancy.

But when with these words we jokingly urged him, as it were, to eat up his portion, I noticed that the others, ignorant of the whole matter and eager to know what was being carried on so pleasantly between just the two of us, looked upon us without laughing. They seemed to me altogether like — as very often happens — those who, when they feast among the greediest and most rapacious of table-companions, refrain from snatching either out of self-restraint or are held back by shame. And because I had issued the invitation, and you had taught me to sustain the role of a certain great man and — to unfold the whole of it — even of a true man who invites others to those feasts, that inequality and discordance of our table moved me. I smiled at my mother.

And she, most freely — as though commanding that what they lacked be brought forth from her own storeroom — said: 「Now tell us, and explain, who these Academics are and what they mean.」 When I had briefly and openly set it forth to her in such a way that none of them departed uninformed, she said: 「These men are 'fallers' (caducarii)」 — by which name those whom the epileptic disease overthrows are commonly called among us — and at once she rose to leave. And here we all, glad and laughing, broke off and departed. On the next day, however, when likewise after the midday meal, but somewhat later than the day before, we had sat down at the same place, I said: 「You have come late to the banquet;」

which I judge did not happen to you from indigestion, but from a sense of security about the scarcity of the courses, since it seemed to you that there was no great need to set to early upon what you supposed you would quickly devour to the end. For it was not to be believed that much of the leftovers remained, where on the very day and festival itself only a little had been found. Perhaps rightly. But what has been prepared for you, I too, along with you, do not know. For there is another who does not cease to furnish such feasts to all — both to all in general and most of all to such as these — but we, whether from weakness or satiety or business, for the most part hold back from eating; and it had, yesterday, if I am not mistaken, been piously and firmly agreed among us that he, abiding in men, makes them blessed.