Consolation of Philosophy 3

Now she had finished her song, when the sweetness of the strain held me fixed, eager and astonished to listen, my ears pricked up. And so a little later I said: «O supreme solace of weary souls, how greatly have you refreshed me, both by the weight of your sentiments and by the very delight of your singing! So much so that I now think myself no longer unequal to the blows of Fortune. Therefore those remedies which you said were somewhat sharper I not only do not dread, but, eager to hear, I vehemently demand them.» Then she said: «I felt it, when silent and attentive you were drinking in our words, and I either awaited this disposition of your mind, or — which is truer — myself produced it. For such are the things that remain, that, when tasted, they indeed bite, but, received within, grow sweet. But as for your saying that you are eager to hear, with what ardor would you burn, if you knew whither we are setting out to lead you!» «Whither?» said I.

«To true happiness,» she said, «which your spirit too dreams of, but, with its sight occupied by images, cannot behold that happiness itself.» Then I: «Do it, I beseech you, and show me without delay what that true happiness is.» «I will do so gladly,» said she, «for your sake. But the cause that is better known to you I will first try to mark out in words and to give form to, so that, when you have surveyed it and turned your eyes to the opposite side, you may be able to recognize the appearance of true blessedness. He who would sow a free-born field first clears the ground of brushwood, cuts down the brambles and the bracken with his sickle, that Ceres may go heavy with new grain. The bees' labor is the more sweet, if first a bad taste assail the mouth. The stars shine more pleasingly when the South Wind ceases to give rain-bearing sounds. As the Morning-Star drives away the shadows, the lovely day urges on its rosy steeds. You too, having gazed first on false goods, begin to draw your neck back from the yoke. Then true goods shall enter your mind.»

Then, with her gaze fixed a little and as if withdrawn into the august seat of her mind, she thus began: «Every care of mortals, which the toil of manifold pursuits exercises, proceeds indeed by a different path, yet strives to arrive at one same end of blessedness. And that is the good, which, once obtained, allows one to desire nothing further. This indeed is the highest of all goods and contains within itself all goods; for if anything were lacking to it, it could not be the highest, since something would be left outside that could be wished for. It is plain therefore that blessedness is a state made perfect by the gathering together of all goods. This, as we have said, all mortals try by a different track to attain. For there is implanted by nature in the minds of men a desire for the true good, but error, leading astray, draws them off to false goods.

Of these, some, believing the highest good to be to want for nothing, labor to abound in riches; others, judging that to be good which is most worthy of veneration, strive, by honors gained, to be reverenced by their fellow-citizens. There are those who set the highest good in the highest power; these either wish to reign themselves, or try to attach themselves to those who reign. But to those to whom renown seems something best, these hasten, by the arts of war or of peace, to spread abroad a glorious name. Very many, however, measure the fruit of good by joy and gladness; these think it most happy to flow away in pleasure. There are also those who interchange the ends and causes of these things one for another, as those who desire riches for the sake of power and pleasures, or those who seek power either for money's sake or for the sake of spreading their name.

In these things, then, and in others like them, is engaged the aim of human actions and desires — such as noble birth and popular favor, which seem to procure a certain renown; a wife and children, which are sought for the sake of pleasantness; but the kind of friends which is indeed most holy is reckoned not in fortune but in virtue, while the rest is taken up either for the sake of power or of delight. Now as for the goods of the body, it is easy to refer them to the things above. For strength and stature seem to confer might, beauty and swiftness fame, soundness of health pleasure; and by all these it is plain that blessedness alone is desired. For what each man seeks before all others, that he judges to be the highest good. But we have defined the highest good to be blessedness; wherefore each man judges that state to be blessed which he desires before all others.

You have, then, set before your eyes virtually the whole form of human happiness — wealth, honors, power, glory, pleasures. Considering these alone, Epicurus consequently established for himself that the highest good is pleasure, because all the rest seem to bring delight to the mind. But I return to the pursuits of men, whose mind, even though with darkened memory, nevertheless seeks again its own good, but, like a drunken man, knows not by what path it may return home. Do those, then, seem to err who strive to want for nothing? But there is nothing else that can equally perfect blessedness as a copious state of all goods, neither needing what is another's nor sufficient to itself. Do those, then, go astray who think that what is best is also most worthy of the cult of reverence? By no means. For neither is it anything vile and to be despised which the aim of nearly all mortals labors to attain.

Or is power not to be reckoned among goods? What then? Is that to be esteemed feeble and without strength which is agreed to be more excellent than all things? Or is renown to be counted as nothing? But it cannot be set aside but that whatever is most excellent should also seem to be most renowned. For what need is there to say that blessedness is not anxious and sorrowful, nor subject to griefs and troubles, when even in the smallest matters that is sought which it delights to have and to enjoy? And yet these are the things which men wish to attain, and for this cause they desire riches, dignities, kingdoms, glory, and pleasures — because through these they believe sufficiency, reverence, power, fame, and gladness will come to them.

Good, then, is that which men seek by pursuits so diverse; in which it is easily shown how great is the force of nature, since, although their opinions are various and conflicting, yet in loving the end of good they agree. How great are the reins by which Nature, mighty, bends things; by what laws she, provident, keeps the immense world and, binding, fastens single things in an indissoluble bond — this it pleases me to set forth in clear-toned song upon the supple strings. Though the Punic lions wear lovely chains and eat the food given by hands, and fawn, and fear their stern master, accustomed to bear the lash — if blood once stain their dreadful jaws, their long-dormant spirits return, and with deep roaring they remember themselves; they loosen the bands from their unbound necks, and the tamer, first torn by a bloody tooth, sates his raging wrath. The garrulous bird that sings on the high branches is shut up in the cave of a cage;

Though playful human care, with sweet zeal, minister to it cups smeared with honey and lavish feasts, yet if, leaping within its narrow lattice, it has seen the pleasant shades of the woods, it tramples underfoot the scattered food, sorrowful it longs only for the forests, only for the forests it murmurs with sweet voice. The sapling, once driven down by strong force, bends its top to the ground; but if the bending right hand has let it go, with upright crown it looks at the sky. Phoebus sinks into the Hesperian waves, but by a secret track again turns his chariot back to its accustomed risings. All things repeat their own returns, and each rejoices in its own coming-back, nor does any settled order abide for any thing, save that which joins the beginning to the end and has made its own course stable.

You too, O earthly creatures, though with a thin image, yet dream of your own beginning, and that true end of blessedness, though with a vision in no way clear-sighted, you yet foresee with some sort of thinking; and therefore the natural aim leads you toward the true good, and manifold error draws you away from that same. For consider whether, through those things by which men think they will obtain blessedness, they are able to arrive at the destined end. For if either money or honors or the rest of such things bring something to which nothing of goods seems lacking, let us too confess that some are made happy by the attainment of these. But if they can neither effect what they promise and lack many goods, is not the false appearance of blessedness in them plainly detected? First, then, I question you yourself, who a little before were flowing with riches:

Amid those most abundant riches, did anxiety, conceived from some injury or other, never trouble your mind?» «Indeed,» said I, «I cannot recall having been so free in mind that I was not always troubled by something.» «Was it not because either something was absent which you would not have absent, or something was present which you would not have wished present?» «It is so,» said I. «Then you will long for the presence of the one, the absence of the other?» «I confess it,» said I. «But does a man lack that which he desires?» «He lacks it,» said I. «But he who lacks anything is not in every respect sufficient to himself?» «By no means,» said I. «So you, full of riches, endured this insufficiency?» «Why not?» said I. «Riches, then, cannot make a man want for nothing and sufficient to himself — and this was what they seemed to promise. But this too I think most worthy of consideration, that money has nothing of its own nature whereby it cannot be taken from those who possess it against their will.» «I confess it,» said I.

«Why should you not confess it, when daily someone more powerful snatches it from the unwilling? For whence come the complaints of the law-courts, except that money, taken away by force or fraud from the unwilling, is sought back? It is so,» said I. «So a man will need help sought from outside, whereby each may guard his money?» «Who,» said I, «would deny it?» «But he would not need it, unless he possessed money which he could lose?» «It cannot be doubted,» said I. «The matter, then, has slipped into its contrary; for the riches which were thought to make men sufficient to themselves rather make them in need of another's protection. But what manner is there by which want is driven off by riches? Can the rich, then, not go hungry? Can they not thirst? Do the limbs of the wealthy not feel the winter's cold? But, you will say, the opulent have wherewith to satisfy hunger, wherewith to drive off thirst and cold.»

«But in this way want can indeed be consoled by riches, but cannot be wholly taken away. For if this want, ever gaping and demanding something, be filled up with riches, there must needs remain a want that can be filled. I say nothing of how very little suffices for nature, while for avarice nothing is enough. Wherefore, if riches can neither remove want and themselves produce their own want, what reason is there that you should believe them to bestow sufficiency? Though the rich man with flowing flood of gold heap up wealth that will never fill his greed, and load his neck with pearls of the Red Sea's shore, and cleave his fertile fields with a hundred oxen, yet gnawing care will not desert him while he lives, and when he is dead, his fickle riches will not accompany him. But dignities make him honorable and reverend to whom they fall. Is there in magistracies such power that they implant virtues in the minds of those who hold them, and drive out vices?»

«And yet they are wont not to dispel wickedness but rather to make it conspicuous; whence it comes about that we are indignant that they have often fallen to the most worthless of men, whence Catullus calls Nonius a tumor, though seated in the curule chair. Do you see how great a disgrace dignities add to the wicked? And yet their unworthiness would be less manifest if they did not grow famous through any honors. As for you, were you at last able, by so many perils, to think you held a magistracy together with Decoratus, when in him you beheld the mind of a most worthless buffoon and informer? For we cannot, on account of honors, judge worthy of reverence those whom we judge unworthy of the honors themselves. But if you saw someone endowed with wisdom, could you think him unworthy either of reverence or of that wisdom with which he is endowed? By no means. For there is a dignity proper to virtue, which it forthwith pours into those to whom it has been joined.»

«Because popular honors cannot do this, it is plain that they have not the proper beauty of dignity. In which this is the more to be observed. For if a man is the more abject the more he is despised by the many, since dignity cannot make reverend those whom it exhibits to many, it rather makes the wicked more despicable. But not with impunity; for the wicked pay back to dignities an equal return, since by their own contagion they stain them. And that you may recognize that true reverence cannot be feigned through these shadowy dignities — if someone who has discharged a manifold consulship should chance to come among barbarous nations, will his honor make him venerable to the barbarians?»

«And yet, if this were a natural endowment of dignities, they would in no way cease from their office among any nation whatsoever, just as fire never anywhere on earth ceases to be hot; but since it is not their own force, but the deceptive opinion of men, that attaches this to them, they vanish at once, when they come to those who do not esteem these dignities to be such. But this is among foreign nations. Yet among those among whom they arose, do they endure perpetually? And yet the praetorship, once a great power, is now an empty name and a heavy burden of the senatorial census; if anyone had once cared for the people's grain-supply, he was held great; now what is more abject than that prefecture? For, as we said a little before, that which has nothing of its own splendor now receives splendor and now loses it by the opinion of those who use it.»

«If, then, dignities cannot make men reverend, if they grow foul of their own accord by the contagion of the wicked, if they cease to shine with the change of times, if they become cheap in the estimation of nations, what is there in them of beauty to be sought, much less to bestow on others? Though Nero, proud, should adorn himself with Tyrian purple and snowy gems, yet, hateful to all, he flourished in raging luxury. But once the villain gave unbecoming curule chairs to the reverend Fathers. Who, then, would think those blessed whom wretched men confer with honors? But can kingdoms and the friendship of kings make a man powerful? Why not — when their felicity endures perpetually? And yet antiquity is full of examples, the present age too is full, of kings who have changed felicity for calamity. O splendid power, which is not found efficacious even for the preservation of itself!»

«But if this power of kingdoms is the author of blessedness, will it not, if it be lacking in any part, diminish happiness and bring in misery? But however widely human empires be stretched, there must needs be left many nations over which each of the kings does not rule. And in whatever part the power that makes men blessed ceases, in that part there enters the impotence which makes them wretched; in this way, then, there must needs be in kings a greater portion of misery. A tyrant, having experienced the perils of his own lot, figured the fears of kingship by the terror of a sword hanging over his head. What, then, is this power which cannot drive off the gnawings of anxieties, which cannot avoid the stings of fears? And yet they themselves would wish to have lived secure, but cannot; and then they boast of their power. Or do you reckon him powerful whom you see willing what he cannot accomplish?»

«Do you reckon him powerful who surrounds his side with a bodyguard, who himself fears more those whom he terrifies, who, that he may seem to be powerful, is placed in the hand of his servants? For why should I discourse of the friends of kings, when I show that the kingdoms themselves are full of so great weakness? These the royal power, sometimes while it stands secure, but sometimes when it has fallen, lays low. Nero compelled Seneca, his friend and teacher, to the choice of his own death. Antoninus exposed Papinian, long powerful among the courtiers, to the swords of the soldiers. And yet both of them wished to renounce their power; of these, Seneca even tried to hand over his own wealth to Nero and to betake himself to leisure; but while the very mass, about to fall, drags them down, neither accomplished what he wished. What, then, is this power which those who have it dread, which you are neither safe in possessing when you would, nor able to avoid when you desire to lay it down?»

«Are friends a protection whom not virtue but fortune wins? But the man whom prosperity has made a friend, misfortune will make an enemy. And what plague is more efficacious to do harm than a familiar enemy? He who would be powerful, let him tame his fierce passions, nor submit his neck, vanquished by lust, to foul reins. For though the land of India far off should tremble at your laws, and farthest Thule serve you, yet not to know how to drive away black cares and to put wretched complaints to flight — this is not power. But glory, indeed, how often deceptive, how base it is! Whence the tragedian not without reason cries out: «O glory, glory, on countless mortals who are nothing you have heaped a great life!» For many have often carried off a great name by the false opinions of the crowd; than which what more base can be devised? For those who are falsely praised must needs blush at their own praises.»

«But even if it be acquired by merits, what has it added to the conscience of a wise man, who measures his own good not by popular rumor but by the truth of conscience? But if to have spread this very name seems beautiful, it follows that not to have spread it is judged base. But since, as I argued a little before, there must needs be many nations to which the fame of a single man cannot reach, it comes about that he whom you esteem glorious seems, over the greatest part of the earth, inglorious. Among these things, indeed, I do not think popular favor even worthy of mention, which comes neither by judgment nor ever endures firm. Now too, how empty, how futile is the name of nobility, who does not see? For if it is referred to renown, it is another's. For nobility seems to be a certain praise coming from the merits of parents.»

«But if it is praise that makes renown, then those must needs be renowned who are praised. Wherefore another's renown does not make you splendid, if you have not your own. But if there is anything good in nobility, I judge it to be this alone: that an obligation seems to be imposed on the noble not to degenerate from the virtue of their forefathers. All the race of men on earth arises from a like origin. For there is one Father of all, one who ministers all things. He gave to Phoebus his rays, gave to the moon her horns; He gave men also to the earth, as stars to the heaven; He shut up in limbs the souls sought from a lofty seat. A noble seed, therefore, brought forth all mortals. Why do you bluster of family and forefathers? If you regard your origins and God your author, no one is base-born, unless, fostering worse things by vices, he forsake his own origin. But what shall I say of the pleasures of the body, the appetite for which is indeed full of anxiety, but the satiety of repentance?»

«How many diseases, what intolerable pains, as it were a certain fruit of their wickedness, are these pleasures wont to bring back to the bodies of those who enjoy them! What of delight their motions hold, I know not. But that the issues of pleasures are sad, whoever will recall his own lusts will understand. If these can render men blessed, there is no reason why beasts too should not be called blessed, whose every aim hastens to fill up the bodily void. The pleasantness of a wife and children would be most honorable; but it has been said all too truly in accordance with nature that some man or other found his sons to be a torturer. How biting whatever their condition may be, there is no need to admonish you, who have neither experienced it otherwise nor are now anxious about it. In which matter I approve the opinion of my Euripides, who said that a man childless was happy in his misfortune.»

«This every pleasure has: with goads it drives on those who enjoy it, and, like the flying bees, when it has poured out its pleasant honey, it flees and strikes the smitten hearts with too tenacious a sting. There is no doubt, then, that these ways to blessedness are certain by-paths, nor can they lead anyone to that which they promise they will lead him to. But with how great evils they are entangled, I will show most briefly. What then? Will you try to amass money? But you will snatch it from him who has it. Do you wish to shine with dignities? You will supplicate the giver, and you who desire to precede others in honor will grow cheap by the humility of asking. Do you desire power? You will be subject to the snares of your subjects and exposed to perils. Do you seek glory? But, torn this way and that through every hardship, you cease to be secure. Do you lead a life of pleasure? But who would not scorn and cast off the slave of a most worthless and most fragile thing, the body?»

«Now indeed those who set the goods of the body before themselves, on how scanty, how fragile a possession do they rely! For can you surpass the elephants in bulk, the bulls in strength, can you outrun the tigers in swiftness? Look upon the expanse, the firmness, the swiftness of the heaven, and at last cease to marvel at vile things. And indeed that heaven is to be marveled at not so much for these as for the reason by which it is ruled. But the brightness of form, how fleeting it is, how swift, and more fugitive than the changeableness of spring flowers! For if, as Aristotle says, men used the eyes of Lynceus, so that their sight might penetrate things that stand in the way, would not that body of Alcibiades, most beautiful on the surface, seem most foul when the inward parts were looked into? Therefore it is not your own nature, but the weakness of the eyes of beholders, that makes you seem beautiful. But esteem the goods of the body as highly as you will, provided you know that whatever you marvel at can be dissolved by the little fire of a three days' fever!»

«From all which it is permitted to reduce this into a sum: that these things, which can neither bestow the goods they promise nor are perfect by the gathering together of all goods, neither lead to blessedness as it were certain pathways, nor make men blessed of themselves. Alas, what ignorance leads the wretched astray by devious tracks! You do not seek gold on a green tree, nor pluck gems from the vine; you do not hide nets on high mountains, to enrich your feasts with fish; nor, if it please you to hunt the wild goats, do you make for the Tyrrhenian shallows. Nay, men even know the hidden recesses of the sea concealed in the waves — what wave is more fertile in snowy pearls, or in reddening purple; and likewise what shores yield tender fish or rough sea-urchins. But where lies hidden the good they crave, they suffer themselves to be blind and not to know it; and what has passed beyond the star-bearing pole, sunk in the earth, they seek. What worthy thing shall I imprecate upon their stolid minds? Let them strive after wealth and honors;»

«and when with heavy toil they have procured false goods, then let them recognize the true. Thus far it will suffice to have shown the form of lying happiness, which, if you behold clearly, the order is next to show what the true one is.» «And yet I see,» said I, «that neither sufficiency by riches, nor power by kingdoms, nor reverence by dignities, nor fame by glory, nor gladness by pleasures can be attained.» «Have you also grasped the causes why it is so?» «I seem, indeed, to gaze upon them as it were through a thin chink, but I should prefer to learn them more clearly from you.» «And yet the reason is most ready to hand. For that which is simple and undivided by nature, human error separates, and transfers from the true and perfect to the false and imperfect. Do you think that what wants for nothing lacks power?» «By no means,» said I. «Rightly indeed. For if there is anything which in any respect is of weaker strength, in this it must needs lack another's protection.»

«It is so,» said I. «Therefore of sufficiency and power there is one and the same nature.» «So it seems.» «But that which is of this kind, do you judge it to be despised, or, on the contrary, most worthy of the veneration of all things?» «But this,» said I, «cannot even be doubted.» «Let us add, then, reverence to sufficiency and power, that we may judge these three to be one.» «Let us add it, if indeed we are unwilling to confess the truth.» «But what?» she said. «Do you judge this to be obscure and ignoble, or most renowned by all fame? But consider, lest what is granted to want for nothing, to be most powerful, to be most worthy of honor, should lack renown which it cannot bestow on itself, and on that account seem in some part more abject.» «I cannot,» said I, «but confess that, being what it is, it is also most renowned.» «It follows, then, that we acknowledge renown to differ in nothing from the three above.» «It follows,» said I.

«That, then, which needs nothing of another's, which can do all things by its own powers, which is renowned and reverend — does it not also stand to be most gladsome?» «But whence,» said I, «any sorrow could creep upon such a thing, I cannot even imagine; wherefore it must needs be confessed to be full of gladness, if indeed the foregoing things hold.» «And yet this too is necessary by the same reasoning, that the names of sufficiency, power, renown, reverence, and pleasantness are indeed different, but in no way differ in substance.» «It is necessary,» said I. «This, then, which is one and simple by nature, human perversity parcels out, and while it tries to obtain a part of a thing that lacks parts, it attains neither the portion, which is none, nor the thing itself, which it least seeks after.» «In what way,» said I, «is this?»

«He who,» she said, «seeks riches by fleeing penury, takes no trouble about power, prefers to be lowly and obscure, and withdraws from himself even many natural pleasures, lest he lose the money he has procured. But in this way not even sufficiency comes to him whom strength deserts, whom trouble pricks, whom cheapness casts down, whom obscurity hides away. But he who desires power alone squanders his wealth, despises pleasures, and counts as nothing both honor and the glory that lacks power. But you see how many things are wanting even to this man. For it comes about that sometimes he lacks necessities, that he is gnawed by anxieties, and, since he cannot drive these off, he ceases to be powerful even in that which he most sought. One may reason similarly about honors, glory, and pleasures.»

«For since each one of these is the same as the rest, whoever seeks any one of them without the others does not grasp even that which he desires.» «What then?» said I. «If anyone should desire to attain all of them at once, he would indeed wish the sum of blessedness. But will he find it in these, which we have shown cannot bestow what they promise?» «By no means,» said I. «In these things, then, which are reported to furnish each some one of the things to be sought, blessedness is in no way to be tracked down.» «I confess it,» said I, «and nothing truer than this can be said.» «You have, then,» she said, «both the form of false happiness and its causes. Now turn the gaze of your mind to the opposite side; there you will at once see the true happiness which we promised.» «And yet this,» said I, «is clear even to a blind man, and you showed it a little before, while you were trying to lay open the causes of the false.»

For unless I am mistaken, that is the true and perfect happiness which makes one self-sufficient, powerful, worthy of reverence, renowned and joyful. And that you may know I have observed this inwardly, I recognize without ambiguity that whatever can truly furnish any one of these — since they are all in fact the same — this is full beatitude. O my pupil, happy in this opinion, if indeed, she said, you will add this. 'Add what?' said I. 'Do you suppose there is anything among these mortal and perishable things that could bestow such a state?' 'By no means,' said I, 'do I suppose so, and you have shown it, so that nothing further could be desired.' 'These things, then, seem to give to mortals either images of the true good or certain imperfect goods, but they cannot confer the true and perfect good.' 'I agree,' said I.

'Since, therefore, you have recognized what that true beatitude is, and what things falsely counterfeit beatitude, it now remains for you to learn whence you may seek this true one.' 'That indeed,' said I, 'I have long been eagerly awaiting.' 'But since,' she said, 'as it pleases our Plato in the Timaeus, divine aid ought to be implored even in the smallest matters, what do you think must now be done, that we may deserve to find the seat of that highest good?' 'We must invoke,' said I, 'the Father of all things, for without Him no beginning is rightly founded.' 'Rightly,' she said, and at once sang in measured strains thus.

O Thou who governest the world by everlasting reason, sower of earth and heaven, who biddest time go forth from eternity, and abiding unmoved makest all things move; whom no external causes drove to fashion the work of floating matter, but the indwelling Form of the highest good, free of all envy — Thou leadest all things from the supernal exemplar, Thyself most fair bearing the fair world in Thy mind and shaping it in a like image, and bidding the perfect whole bring its parts to perfection. Thou bindest the elements by numbers, that cold may agree with flame, the dry with the moist, lest the purer fire fly away or the weight drag down the submerged lands. Thou, knitting together the soul that moves all things, of threefold nature, dost dissolve it through harmonious members; which, when it has been cut and gathered its motion into two orbs, goes on to return into itself, encircles the deep Mind, and turns the heaven in a like image.

Thou by like causes raisest up souls and lesser lives, and fitting the lofty ones to nimble chariots, scatterest them through heaven and earth; and by a kindly law makest them, turned toward Thee, return by a fire that brings them back. Grant, Father, that the mind may climb to Thy august seat; grant that it may survey the fountain of good; grant that, having found the light, it may fix the clear sight of its spirit upon Thee. Scatter the mists and the weights of earthly mass, and shine forth in Thy splendour! For Thou art the serene, Thou the tranquil rest of the godly; to behold Thee is our end, Thou our beginning, bearer, guide, path, and likewise journey's end. 'Since, therefore, you have seen what is the form of the imperfect good and also of the perfect, I think it must now be shown where this perfection of happiness is established. And in this I judge that this first must be inquired: whether any such good as you defined a little before can exist in the nature of things, lest an empty image of thought deceive us, beside the truth of the underlying matter.'

'But that it exists, and is as it were a kind of fountain of all goods, cannot be denied. For everything that is said to be imperfect is held to be imperfect by the diminution of the perfect. Whence it comes about that, if in any class anything seems to be imperfect, in that class there must necessarily also be something perfect. For indeed, if perfection be taken away, it cannot even be imagined whence that which is called imperfect could have arisen. For the nature of things did not take its beginning from things diminished and unfinished, but proceeding from things whole and complete, it lapses into these extreme and worn-out things. But if, as we showed a little before, there is a certain imperfect happiness of a fragile good, it cannot be doubted that there is some solid and perfect one.' 'Most firmly,' said I, 'and most truly is it concluded.' 'But where it dwells,' she said, 'consider thus.'

'That God, the prince of all things, is good — this the common conception of human minds proves. For since nothing better than God can be conceived, who would doubt that that, than which nothing is better, is good? And reason demonstrates God to be good in such a way that it proves the good in Him to be also perfect. For unless it were such, He could not be the prince of all things. For there would be something more excellent than He, possessing a perfect good, which would seem to be prior and more ancient than He; for all perfect things have been shown to be prior to less complete ones. Wherefore, lest the reasoning proceed to infinity, it must be confessed that the supreme God is most full of the supreme and perfect good. But we established the perfect good to be true beatitude; therefore true beatitude must necessarily be situated in the supreme God.' 'I accept it,' said I, 'nor is there anything that could in any way be contradicted.'

'But I beg you,' she said, 'see how reverently and inviolably you can prove this, that we said the supreme God to be most full of the supreme good.' 'In what way?' said I. 'Do not presume that this Father of all things has either received from without that supreme good with which He is said to be full, or possesses it so naturally that you would think the substance of the God who has it and of the beatitude that is had to be diverse. For if you suppose it received from without, you could deem that which gave it more excellent than that which received it. But we most worthily confess Him to be the most pre-eminent of all things. But if it is indeed inherent by nature, yet is diverse in reasoning — since we are speaking of God, the prince of things — let him imagine it who can: who joined these diverse things together? Finally, that which is diverse from any thing is not that thing from which it is understood to be diverse.'

'Wherefore that which is diverse by its own nature from the supreme good is not the supreme good — which it is impious to think concerning Him, than whom nothing is established to be more excellent. For in no wise can the nature of any thing be better than its own principle; wherefore I would conclude by most true reasoning that what is the principle of all things is also, in its own substance, the supreme good.' 'Most rightly,' said I. 'But it has been granted that the supreme good is beatitude.' 'It is so,' said I. 'Therefore,' she said, 'we must necessarily confess that God is beatitude itself.' 'I cannot,' said I, 'gainsay the premises set before me, and I perceive this to be the consequence inferred from them.' 'Consider,' she said, 'whether the same be more firmly approved from this also, that two supreme goods which are diverse from each other cannot exist. For it is plain that goods which differ — the one is not that which the other is; wherefore neither could be perfect, since to each the other is lacking.'

'But that which is not perfect is manifestly not supreme; in no way, therefore, can those things which are supreme goods be diverse. But we gathered both beatitude and God to be the supreme good; wherefore that very thing which is the supreme divinity must necessarily be the supreme beatitude.' 'Nothing,' said I, 'can be concluded either truer in fact, or firmer in reasoning, or more worthy of God.' 'Upon these things, then,' she said, 'as geometers are wont, from the propositions demonstrated, to infer something which they themselves call porisms, so I too will give you, as it were, a corollary. For since by the attainment of beatitude men become blessed, and beatitude is divinity itself, it is manifest that by the attainment of divinity they become blessed: but just as by the attainment of justice men become just, and by wisdom wise, so by like reasoning it must necessarily be that those who attain divinity become gods.'

'Therefore every blessed one is a god, but by nature indeed only one; yet by participation nothing prevents there being as many as you please.' 'And this is a fair thing,' said I, 'and precious, whether you prefer it to be called a porism or a corollary.' 'But there is nothing fairer than this also, which reason persuades must be annexed to these.' 'What?' said I. 'Since beatitude,' she said, 'seems to contain many things, do all these join together as one body of beatitude, as it were, by a certain variety of parts, or is there some one of them which fulfils the substance of beatitude, to which all the rest are referred?' 'I should wish,' said I, 'that you would make this plain by the recalling of the things themselves.' 'Do we not,' she said, 'reckon beatitude to be a good?' 'And indeed the supreme good,' said I. 'You may add this,' she said, 'of them all. For this same sufficiency is the supreme, this same the supreme power, and reverence too, renown and pleasure are judged to be beatitude. What then?'

'Are all these — sufficiency, power, and the rest — the good, as it were certain members of beatitude, or are they all referred to the good as to a summit?' 'I understand,' said I, 'what you propose to investigate, but I desire to hear what you determine.' 'Receive thus the discernment of the matter. If all these were members of beatitude, they would also differ from one another. For this is the nature of parts, that diverse things compose one body. But all these have been shown to be the same; therefore they are by no means members. Otherwise beatitude would seem to be joined together out of one member — which cannot happen.' 'That indeed,' said I, 'is not doubtful, but I await what remains.' 'It is plain that the rest are referred to the good. For sufficiency is sought precisely because it is judged to be good, power likewise because it too is believed to be good; the same may be conjectured concerning reverence, renown, and delight.'

'Therefore the good is the sum and cause of all things to be sought. For that which retains in itself no good, neither in reality nor in likeness, can in no way be sought. And on the contrary, even those things which are not good by nature, yet if they seem to be, are desired as if they were truly good. Whence it comes about that goodness is rightly believed to be the sum, the hinge, and the cause of all things to be sought. But that for the sake of which anything is sought seems most of all to be wished for; as if one should wish to ride for the sake of health, he does not so much desire the motion of riding as the effect of health. Since, therefore, all things are sought for the sake of the good, it is not those rather, but the good itself, that is desired by all. But we granted beatitude to be that on account of which the rest are wished for; wherefore in this way too beatitude alone is sought. From which it clearly appears that of the good itself and of beatitude there is one and the same substance.' 'I see nothing,' said I, 'for which anyone could dissent.'

'But we have shown that God and true beatitude are one and the same.' 'It is so,' said I. 'We may therefore safely conclude that the substance of God also is situated in the good itself, and nowhere else. Come hither all together, ye captives, whom earthly lust, dwelling in your minds, binds with wicked chains. Here shall be rest for your labours, here a haven abiding in placid quiet, this the one open refuge for the wretched. Whatever the Tagus gives from its golden sands, or Hermus from its glowing bank, or Indus near the warm world, mingling green stones with white — these do not enlighten the sight, but rather bury blind souls the more in their own darkness. Whatever pleases and excites the mind, the earth has fostered in its lowest caverns; but the splendour by which heaven is read and is vigorous shuns the dark ruins of the soul. Whoever shall be able to mark this light will deny that the rays of Phoebus are bright.' 'I agree,' said I, 'for all things stand bound together by the firmest reasonings.'

Then she: 'At how much,' she said, 'will you value it, if you come to recognize what the good itself is?' 'At an infinite price,' said I, 'if indeed it shall fall to me likewise to recognize God too, who is the good.' 'And yet I will make this plain,' she said, 'by most true reasoning, provided only that the things lately concluded remain standing.' 'They will remain.' 'Did we not show,' she said, 'that those things which are sought by the many are therefore not true and perfect goods, because they differ from one another, and since to one the other is lacking, they cannot bring a full and absolute good? But that they become the true good when they are gathered, as it were, into one form and efficiency, so that what is sufficiency may be the same as power, reverence, renown and delight, and that unless they are all one and the same thing, they have nothing whereby they may be numbered among things to be sought?' 'It was demonstrated,' said I, 'nor can it in any way be doubted.'

'Therefore those things which, when they differ, are by no means goods, but when they have begun to be one, become goods — is it not by the attainment of unity that it befalls them to be goods?' 'So it seems,' said I. 'But do you concede that everything which is good is good by participation in the good, or not?' 'It is so.' 'You must therefore concede by like reasoning that the one and the good are the same; for the substance of those things is the same whose effect is not naturally diverse.' 'I cannot,' said I, 'deny it.' 'Do you know, then,' she said, 'that everything which is, remains and subsists just so long as it is one, but perishes and is dissolved at the same moment it ceases to be one?' 'In what way?' 'As in living creatures,' she said, 'when soul and body come together into one and remain so, it is called an animal; but when this unity is dissolved by the separation of the two, it is plain that it perishes and is no longer an animal.'

'The body itself, too, while it remains in one form by the conjunction of its members, is seen as a human shape; but if the parts of the body, distributed and separated, have torn apart that unity, it ceases to be what it had been. And in this way, to one who runs through the rest, it will without doubt be plain that each single thing subsists while it is one, but when it ceases to be one, perishes.' 'When I consider it,' said I, 'in many cases nothing else appears to me.' 'Is there then,' she said, 'anything which, insofar as it acts naturally, forsaking the appetite for subsisting, would come to and desire corruption?' 'If I consider animals,' said I, 'which have some nature of willing and not willing, I find nothing which, with no outward forces compelling, would cast away the intention of remaining and of its own accord hasten to its destruction. For every animal labours to guard its own safety, but shuns death and ruin.'

'But what I should hold concerning herbs and trees, what concerning utterly inanimate things, I am altogether in doubt.' 'And yet there is no reason why you should waver about this too, when you observe that herbs and trees first grow up in places suited to them, where, as far as their nature allows, they cannot quickly wither and perish. For some indeed spring up in plains, others on mountains; marshes bear some, others cling to rocks, and the barren sands are fruitful of yet others, which, if anyone should try to transplant into other places, they would dry up. But nature gives to each what is fitting, and labours that they may not perish while they are able to remain. Why is it that all of them, as though with their mouths sunk into the earth, draw nourishment by their roots, and through their pith diffuse strength and bark?'

'And what of the fact that each softest part, such as the pith, is always stored in the inner seat, while outside a certain firmness of wood, and lastly the outermost bark, is set as a defender, enduring like an evil, against the inclemency of the sky? But indeed how great is the diligence of nature, that all things are propagated by multiplied seed! Who does not know that all these are, as it were, certain engines not only for remaining for a time, but also for remaining, generation by generation, as if forever? Do not even those things which are believed to be inanimate likewise, by similar reasoning, each desire what is their own? For why does lightness bring flames upward, while weight presses earth downward, unless because these places and motions are suited to each? Moreover, that which is congenial to each preserves each single thing, just as those things which are hostile corrupt it.'

'Now indeed those things which are hard, such as stones, cling most tenaciously to their own parts and resist being easily dissolved. But those which are fluid, such as air and water, yield easily indeed to things that divide them, yet quickly flow back again into those parts from which they were cut off; but fire flees all cutting. Nor are we now treating of the voluntary motions of the knowing soul, but of natural intention, such as is the fact that we digest the food we have taken without thought, that in sleep we draw breath unknowing; for not even in animals does the love of remaining come from the soul's volitions, but from the principles of nature. For often, when causes compel, the will embraces that death which nature dreads; and on the contrary, that work of begetting, by which alone the long duration of mortal things endures, which nature always desires, the will sometimes restrains.'

'So fully does this self-love proceed not from animal motion but from natural intention. For providence gave to the things created by it this, even the greatest, cause of remaining, that, as far as they can, they naturally desire to remain; wherefore there is nothing whereby you could in any way doubt that all things which are naturally desire the constancy of remaining and shun destruction.' 'I confess,' said I, 'that now I see without doubt the things which a little before seemed uncertain.' 'But that,' she said, 'which seeks to subsist and remain, desires to be one; for, this taken away, not even being will remain to anything.' 'It is true,' said I. 'All things, therefore,' she said, 'desire the one.' 'I consented.' 'But we showed that this very one is that which is good.' 'So indeed.' 'All things therefore seek the good, which indeed you may describe thus: that the good itself is that which is desired by all.' 'Nothing,' said I, 'truer can be conceived.'

'For either all things are referred to nothing one, and, deprived of one summit as it were, they shall float without a ruler; or, if there is something toward which the universe hastens, that will be the highest of all goods.' And she: 'Too greatly, O pupil,' she said, 'do I rejoice, for you have fixed in your mind the very mark of central truth. But in this there has been made plain to you what a little before you said you did not know.' 'What?' said I. 'What,' she said, 'was the end of all things. For it is assuredly that which is desired by all, which, because we gathered it to be good, we ought to confess that the end of all things is good. Whoever with deep mind searches out the truth and wishes not to be deceived by any byways, let him turn the light of his inmost vision back upon himself, and bending his long motions, force them into a circle, and teach his mind to possess, hidden away in its own treasures, whatever it labours after outside. Soon what the dark cloud of error veiled will shine more clearly than Phoebus himself.'

'For the body, bringing in its forgetful mass, has not driven out all light from the mind. Surely the seed of truth clings within, which is awakened by the fanning of teaching. For why, when questioned, do you of your own accord judge rightly, unless the tinder lived sunk deep in the heart? But if the Muse of Plato sounds the truth, what each man learns he, forgetful, recalls.' Then I: 'I vehemently assent to Plato,' said I, 'for you remind me of these things now for the second time: first, because I lost my memory through bodily contagion, then because, pressed by the mass of grief, I lost it.' Then she: 'If you look back,' she said, 'to the things granted before, not even that will be far off, that you will recall what a little while ago you confessed you did not know.' 'What?' said I. 'By what helms,' she said, 'the world is governed.' 'I remember,' said I, 'that I confessed my ignorance, but though I now foresee what you would bring forward, I yet desire to hear it more plainly from you.'

'You thought a little before,' she said, 'that this world is ruled by God, and that this must by no means be doubted.' 'Not even now do I think,' said I, 'nor shall I ever think it must be doubted, and I will briefly set forth by what reasonings I come to this. This world could in no wise have come together into one form out of parts so diverse and contrary, unless there were one who joined together things so diverse. And the very diversity of natures, conjoined yet mutually discordant, would have sundered and torn apart what is joined, unless there were one who held together what He had bound. Nor would so sure an order of nature proceed, nor would things unfold motions so well disposed in places, times, efficiency, spaces, and qualities, unless there were one who, Himself abiding, disposed these varieties of changes. This, whatever it is, by which created things abide and are set in motion, I name by the term familiar to all — God.' Then she:

'Since you feel thus,' she said, 'I think little labour remains for me, that, possessed of happiness, you may safely revisit your homeland. But let us look at the things we proposed. Did we not number sufficiency among the goods of beatitude, and agree that God is beatitude itself?' 'So indeed.' 'And therefore,' she said, 'He will need no external supports for ruling the world; otherwise, if He needed anything, He would not have full sufficiency.' 'That,' said I, 'is thus necessarily so.' 'By Himself alone, therefore, He disposes all things.' 'It cannot be denied,' said I. 'But God has been shown to be the good itself.' 'I remember,' said I. 'Through the good, therefore, He disposes all things, if indeed He rules all by Himself, whom we agreed to be good, and this is, as it were, a certain helm and rudder by which the mechanism of the world is kept stable and incorrupt.' 'I vehemently assent,' said I, 'and I foresaw, though by a slight suspicion, that you would say this a little before.'

'I believe it,' she said, 'for now, as I think, you turn your eyes more vigilantly to discern the truth. But what I shall say lies open no less to contemplation.' 'What?' said I. 'Since God,' she said, 'is rightly believed to govern all things by the helm of goodness, and these same things, as I have taught, hasten toward the good by natural intention, can it be doubted that they are ruled voluntarily, and of their own accord turn themselves to the nod of the disposer, as things fitting and attuned to their ruler?' 'It must be so,' said I, 'nor would the rule seem blessed, if it were the yoke of those who refuse, and not the safety of those who obey.' 'There is nothing, therefore, which, keeping its nature, would attempt to strive against God.' 'Nothing,' said I. 'But if it should attempt it,' she said, 'would it after all accomplish anything against Him whom we conceded to be most powerful by right of beatitude?' 'It would avail nothing at all,' said I. 'There is nothing, therefore, which would either will or be able to withstand this supreme good.'

'I think not,' said I. 'It is therefore the supreme good,' she said, 'which rules all things mightily and disposes them sweetly.' Then I: 'How greatly,' said I, 'do I delight not only in that sum of reasonings which has been concluded, but much more in these very words which you use, so that at last folly, rending itself, should be ashamed of itself.' 'You have received,' she said, 'in the fables, the Giants who assailed heaven; but them too, as was fitting, a kindly fortitude disposed of. But would you have us dash the reasonings themselves against each other? Perhaps from such a clash some fair spark of truth may leap forth.' 'At your discretion,' said I. 'That God,' she said, 'is powerful over all, no one would doubt.' 'No one who is of sound mind,' said I, 'would in any way hesitate.' 'But He who is powerful over all,' she said, 'there is nothing which He cannot do.' 'Nothing,' said I. 'Can God then do evil?' 'By no means,' said I.

'Evil, therefore,' she said, 'is nothing, since He cannot do it, who can do everything.' 'Are you mocking me,' said I, 'weaving an inextricable labyrinth with your reasonings, into which you now enter by the way you go out, and now go out by the way you entered, or are you folding up some marvellous circle of the divine simplicity? For a little before, beginning with beatitude, you said it was the supreme good, which you declared to be situated in the supreme God. You also discoursed that God Himself is the supreme good and full beatitude; from which you gave, as a little gift, that no one would be blessed unless he were likewise a god. Again, you said that the very form of the good was the substance of God and of beatitude, and you taught that the one itself was that very good which is sought by the whole nature of things. You disputed also that God rules the universe by the helms of goodness, and that all things willingly obey, and that there is no nature of evil.'

'And these things you set forth with no proofs taken from without, but with proofs inborn and domestic, the one drawing its credibility from the other.' Then she: 'We are by no means mocking,' she said, 'and by the gift of God, whom we lately implored, we have accomplished the greatest matter of all. For such is the form of the divine substance, that it neither slips away into external things nor itself takes in anything external, but, as Parmenides says of it, like in mass to a well-rounded sphere on every side, it turns the moving orb of things, while it itself keeps itself unmoved. But if we have set in motion reasonings sought not from without, but placed within the compass of the matter we were treating, you have nothing to wonder at, since, by Plato's sanction, you have learned that the discourses must be akin to the things of which they speak. Happy he who could behold the bright fountain of good; happy he who could loose the bonds of heavy earth!'

'Once the Thracian bard, mourning the death of his wife, when by his tearful strains he had made the moving woods run and the streams stand still, and had joined the fearless doe in side to the fierce lions, and the hare did not fear the dog, now made gentle by his song — when a more burning fervour scorched his inmost breast, and the strains that had subdued all things did not soothe their master, complaining of the cruel gods above, he went to the infernal abodes. There, tempering caressing songs to his sounding strings, whatever he had drawn from the chief fountains of his goddess mother, whatever his uncontrollable grief gave him, whatever love doubling that grief gave, he wept, stirring Taenarus, and with sweet prayer begs pardon of the lords of the shades. The threefold gatekeeper stands amazed, captured by the strange song; the avenging goddesses of crimes, who drive the guilty with fear, are now wet with mournful tears. The swift wheel does not whirl headlong the head of Ixion, and Tantalus, ruined by long thirst, scorns the streams.'

'While the vulture is sated with the strains, it does not tear the liver of Tityus. At last the judge of the shades, taking pity, says: "We are conquered. We grant the man his companion, his wife bought back by song; but let a law restrain the gift: that, until he has left Tartarus, it be not lawful to turn his eyes." Who can give a law to lovers? Love is to itself a greater law. Alas, near the borders of night, Orpheus saw, lost, and slew his own Eurydice. This tale looks upon you, whoever of you seek to lead your mind into the upper day. For whoever, conquered, has bent back his eyes into the Tartarean cave, whatever excellence he draws forth, he loses while he gazes on the things below.'