Letter 42

Has that man now persuaded you that he is a good man? And yet a good man can neither so quickly come to be, nor be recognized. Do you know whom I now call a good man? One of this second rank. For that other, perhaps, like the phoenix, is born once in five hundred years. Nor is it any wonder that great things are produced at long intervals; mediocre things, and such as are born for the crowd, fortune often brings forth, but the exceptional it commends by its very rarity.

But that man is still far short of what he professes. And if he knew what a good man is, he would not yet believe himself one—perhaps would even despair of becoming one. "But he thinks ill of the wicked." This even the wicked do; nor is there any greater punishment of worthlessness than that it displeases itself and its own.

"But he hates those who use sudden and great power without restraint." He will do the same, when he has the same power. The faults of many lie hidden because they are feeble, no less ready to dare, when their own strength has pleased them, than those which prosperity has already laid bare.

They lack the instruments for unfolding their worthlessness. So even a deadly serpent is handled safely while it is stiff with cold; its poisons are not lacking then, but they are numbed. The cruelty and ambition and luxury of many fall short, that they should dare to match the worst, only through the want of fortune's favour. That they wish the same things, you will know thus before long: grant them the power to do as much as they wish.

You remember, when you were affirming that a certain man was in your power, that I said he was flighty and fickle, and that you held not his foot, but his feather. I lied? It was a feather you held, which he let go, and fled. You know what sport he afterward made for you, how many things he attempted that were to fall upon his own head. He did not see that through the perils of others he was rushing upon his own. He did not consider how burdensome were the things he sought, even were they not superfluous.

This, then, in the things we strive after, toward which we contend with great toil, we ought to look at: either that there is no advantage in them, or that there is more disadvantage. Some things are superfluous, some are not worth so much. But this we do not perceive, and things seem to us free that cost most dear.

From this our stupidity may appear: we think those things only are bought for which we pay money, and we call those things free for which we spend our very selves. Things which we would refuse to buy, if our house had to be given for them, if some pleasant or fruitful estate, we are most ready to come at with anxiety, with danger, with the loss of our honour and our freedom and our time; so true is it that nothing is cheaper to a man than himself.

Let us therefore in all our counsels and undertakings do what we are wont to do whenever we approach the dealer in some merchandise; let us see at what price this thing we desire is offered. Often the highest price is that for which nothing is paid. I can show you many things which, once acquired and received, have wrung from us our freedom; we should be our own, if those things were not ours.

Turn these things over, then, with yourself, not only when it is a question of gain, but also when it is a question of loss. "This will perish." To be sure, it was a thing that came from without; you will live as easily without it as you lived before. If you had it long, you lose it after you have had your fill; if not long, you lose it before you grow used to it. "You will have less money." To be sure—and less trouble too.

"Less favour." To be sure—and less envy too. Look around at those things which drive us to madness, which we lose with most abundant tears; you will know that it is not the loss in them that is grievous, but the opinion of loss. No one feels that those things have perished, but he thinks it. He who possesses himself has lost nothing. But to how few has it fallen to possess themselves? Farewell.