Letter 66

I have seen Claranus, my old schoolfellow, after many years. You do not expect, I think, that I should add "an old man"; but, by Hercules, his mind is green and vigorous, and he wrestles with his frail little body. For Nature dealt unfairly and lodged so great a spirit in an ill place; or perhaps she wished to show us this very thing, that a most brave and blessed genius can lie hidden under any sort of skin. Yet he overcomes all hindrances, and from contempt of himself comes to despise everything else.

He erred, it seems to me, who said: "Virtue is more pleasing when it comes from a beautiful body." For it needs no ornament; it is itself a great glory to itself, and consecrates its own body. At any rate I began to look upon our Claranus otherwise: he seems to me handsome, and as upright in body as he is in mind.

A great man can come forth from a hovel, and a beautiful and great spirit from a deformed and lowly little body. So Nature seems to me to engender certain men of this kind for this purpose, to prove that virtue is born in every place. If she could bring forth souls by themselves, naked, she would have done so; as it is, she does what is more — she brings forth some hampered by their bodies, yet none the less breaking through the obstacles.

Claranus seems to me to have been produced as a pattern, that we might know that the mind is not disfigured by the body's deformity, but the body adorned by the mind's beauty. Now though we spent very few days together, we had many conversations, which I shall set down at intervals and pass on to you.

On this first day the question was asked: how can goods be equal, if their condition is threefold? For certain goods, as it seems to our school, are primary, such as joy, peace, the safety of one's country; certain are secondary, brought to light only in unhappy material, such as endurance under torture and self-command in grave illness. The former goods we shall wish for ourselves outright; the latter, if it must be so. There are besides a third kind, such as a modest gait and a composed and upright countenance and a bearing that befits a prudent man.

How can these be equal among themselves, when some are to be wished for and others to be shunned? If we wish to distinguish them, let us return to the first good and consider what it is: a mind that beholds the truth, skilled in what is to be shunned and what to be sought, setting prices on things not from opinion but from Nature, inserting itself into the whole universe and sending its contemplation into all its operations, intent in thought and in action, alike great and vehement, alike unconquered by hardship and by allurement, submitting to neither sort of fortune, eminent above all that befalls and happens, most beautiful, most ordered, both with dignity and with strength, sound and dry, unperturbed, undaunted, whom no force may break, whom chance events neither lift up nor cast down. Such a mind is virtue.

This is its face, if it could come under one view and show itself all at once. But its appearances are many. They are unfolded according to the variety of life and according to its actions; nor does virtue itself become less or greater. For the highest good cannot decrease, nor may virtue go backward; but it is turned into different qualities, shaped to suit the things it is to do.

Whatever it touches it draws into a likeness of itself and dyes; it adorns actions, friendships, sometimes whole households which it has entered and set in order. Whatever it handles it makes lovable, conspicuous, wonderful. And so its force and greatness cannot rise higher, since there is no increase for what is greatest. You will find nothing straighter than the straight, no more than truer than the true, or more temperate than the temperate.

Every virtue is without measure; measure is a fixed amount. Constancy has no place to advance to, no more than confidence, or truth, or fidelity. What can be added to the perfect? Nothing, or it was not perfect to which something was added. Therefore not even to virtue, which, if anything could be added to it, lacked something. The honorable too admits no addition; it is honorable on account of the very things I have named. What more? Do you suppose that the becoming and the just and the lawful are not of the same form, comprehended within fixed bounds? To be able to grow is the sign of an imperfect thing.

Every good falls under the same laws; private and public advantage are joined together, as inseparably, by Hercules, as the praiseworthy and the desirable. Therefore the virtues are equal among themselves, and the works of virtue, and all the men in whom they are fixed.

But since the virtues of plants and animals are mortal, they are also frail and perishable and uncertain. They spring up and subside, and therefore are not reckoned at the same value; for human virtues one rule is laid down. For right reason is one and simple. Nothing is more divine than the divine, more heavenly than the heavenly.

Mortal things are diminished, fall, are worn away, grow, are drained, are filled. And so in their so uncertain lot there is inequality; but of divine things the nature is one. Reason, however, is nothing else than a part of the divine spirit sunk into a human body. If reason is divine, and no good is without reason, then every good is divine. Further, there is no distinction among divine things; therefore none among goods either. So joy and the brave and stubborn endurance of torture are equal; for in both there is the same greatness of mind, in the one relaxed and glad, in the other combative and intent.

What? Do you not think the virtue of the man who bravely storms the enemy's walls equal to that of the man who endures a siege most patiently? Great was Scipio, who shuts in and crushes Numantia and forces those unconquered hands to turn upon their own destruction; great too the spirit of the besieged, who knows that he is not cheated to whom death lies open, and expires in the embrace of liberty. Equally are the rest of these equal among themselves: tranquility, simplicity, generosity, constancy, equanimity, endurance. For beneath all these lies one virtue, which renders the mind upright and unbending.

What then? Is there no difference between joy and the unbending endurance of pains? None, as regards the virtues themselves; very much, between those things in which each virtue is shown. For in the one there is a natural relaxation and ease of mind, in the other a pain against nature. And so these are intermediate things, which admit a very great interval; but the virtue in both is equal.

Matter does not change virtue; harsh and difficult matter does not make it worse, nor does cheerful and glad matter make it better. It must therefore be equal. For in either case what is done is done equally rightly, equally prudently, equally honorably. Therefore the goods are equal, beyond which neither can this man bear himself better in his joy nor that man better in his torments. And two things than which nothing can be made better are equal.

For if the things placed outside virtue can either diminish it or increase it, then the one good — the honorable — ceases to be the good. If you grant this, all honor perishes. Why? I will tell you: because nothing is honorable that is done unwillingly, that is done under compulsion. Every honorable thing is voluntary. Mingle with it sloth, complaint, hesitation, fear; it has lost what is best in it — being pleased with itself. That cannot be honorable which is not free; for what fears is in slavery.

Everything honorable is untroubled, is tranquil; if it refuses anything, if it bewails, if it judges a thing an evil, it has taken in perturbation and is tossed in great discord. For on this side the appearance of the right calls it, on that the suspicion of evil draws it back. And so the man who is going to do anything honorably should, whatever is set against him, even if he thinks it inconvenient, not think it an evil — should will it, do it gladly. Every honorable deed is unbidden and uncompelled, sincere and mingled with no evil.

I know what can be answered me here: "Are you trying to persuade us of this — that it makes no difference whether a man is in joy or lies on the rack and wearies out his torturer?" I might answer: Epicurus too says that the wise man, if he were burned in the bull of Phalaris, would cry out: "It is sweet, and it is nothing to me." Why do you wonder if I call the goods equal — of the one man lying at a banquet, of the other standing most bravely amid torments — when Epicurus says what is more incredible, that to be roasted is sweet?

But this is my answer: there is a very great difference between joy and pain; if it comes to choice, I shall seek the one and avoid the other. The one is according to Nature, the other against it. So long as they are valued thus, they differ from each other by a great interval; but when it has come to virtue, both are equal — both that which proceeds through gladness and that which proceeds through sorrows.

Vexation and pain and whatever other discomfort there is has no weight; for it is overwhelmed by virtue. As the brightness of the sun obscures the lesser lights, so virtue by its greatness crushes and overwhelms pains, troubles, injuries; and wherever it has shone, there whatever appears without it is extinguished; nor do discomforts have any greater portion, when they have fallen in with virtue, than a rain-cloud has in the sea.

That you may know this is so: a good man will run forward to every honorable thing without any hesitation; though the executioner stand there, though the torturer and the fire stand there, he will persevere, and will look not at what he is to suffer but at what he is to do, and will entrust himself to an honorable deed as to a good man; he will judge it useful to himself, safe, prosperous. An honorable deed, though sad and harsh, will hold the same place with him as a good man holds though poor, or an exile, or pale with sickness.

Come now, set on one side a good man abounding in riches, on the other one who has nothing but has all things within himself; each will be equally a good man, even though he enjoys a different fortune. The same judgment, as I said, holds in things as in men: virtue is equally praiseworthy whether placed in a sound and free body or in a sickly and fettered one.

Therefore you will not praise your own virtue more if fortune has granted it an unimpaired body than if it is in some part maimed; otherwise this will be to value the master by the condition of his slaves. For all those things over which chance exercises dominion are slaves — money and body and honors — weak, fluid, mortal, of uncertain tenure. The works of virtue, on the other hand, are free and unconquered, which are not therefore more to be sought if they are treated more kindly by fortune, nor less if they are pressed by some hardship of circumstance.

What friendship is among men, that desire is in things. You would not, I think, love a good man more if rich than if poor, nor more if sturdy and brawny than if slight and of feeble body; therefore you will not desire or love a thing more for being cheerful and peaceful than for being distracting and laborious.

Or if this is so, you will love more, of two equally good men, the sleek and oiled one than the dusty and unkempt; then you will come to this, that you love more the man whole in all his limbs and unharmed than the crippled or the one-eyed. Little by little your fastidiousness will go on to this point, that of two equally just and prudent men you will prefer the one with long curling hair. When the virtue in both is equal, the inequality of other things does not appear. For all other things are not parts, but accessories.

Does any man hold so unfair a reckoning among his own that he loves a healthy son more than a sick one, or a tall and lofty one more than a short or middling one? Wild beasts do not distinguish among their young, and lay themselves down alike as food for all; birds share their food equally. Ulysses hastens to the rocks of his Ithaca as Agamemnon to the noble walls of Mycenae. For no one loves his country because it is great, but because it is his own.

To what does this tend? That you may know that virtue regards all its works, like its own offspring, with the same eyes, and is alike indulgent to all, and indeed more so to those that labor — since even the love of parents inclines more to those for whom it has pity. So virtue too does not love more those works of hers which she sees afflicted and pressed, but, after the manner of good parents, embraces and cherishes them more.

Why is no good greater than another? Because nothing is fitter than the fitting, because nothing is flatter than the flat. You cannot say that this is more equal to something than that; therefore neither is anything more honorable than the honorable.

But if the nature of all the virtues is equal, the three kinds of goods are on a level. So I say: it is on a level to rejoice in moderation and to grieve in moderation. That gladness does not surpass this firmness of mind that swallows down its groans beneath the torturer; the former goods are to be wished for, the latter are to be wondered at, both none the less equal, because whatever discomfort there is, is covered by the force of a so much greater good.

Whoever judges these unequal turns his eyes away from the virtues themselves and looks round at outward things; true goods weigh the same, lie open the same. Those false goods have much that is empty. And so things showy and great to those who view them from the front, when called back to the scale, deceive.

So it is, my dear Lucilius; whatever true reason commends is solid and eternal; it strengthens the mind and lifts it up, ever to be on a height; but those things which are rashly praised and are goods by the opinion of the crowd puff up with empty things those who delight in them. And again, those things which are dreaded as evils inject dread into men's minds and harry them, no otherwise than animals are harried by the appearance of danger.

Both, then, without cause, the one expands the mind and the other bites it; neither is the one worthy of joy nor the other of fear. Reason alone is unchangeable and holds fast to its judgment. For it does not serve the senses, but commands them. Reason is equal to reason, as the straight to the straight; therefore virtue too is equal to virtue. Virtue is nothing else than right reason. All the virtues are reasonings. They are reasonings, if they are right. If they are right, they are also equal.

As reason is, so too are the actions; therefore all are equal. For since they are like reason, they are also like one another. Now I say that actions are equal among themselves in so far as they are honorable and right. For the rest, they will have great differences as the material varies, which is now broader, now narrower, now illustrious, now ignoble, now concerning many, now few. Yet in all of these that which is best is equal: they are honorable.

Just as all good men are equal in so far as they are good. But they have differences of age: one is older, another younger; differences of body: one is handsome, another deformed; differences of fortune: this one is rich, that one poor; this one in favor, powerful, known to cities and peoples, that one unknown to most and obscure. But through that by which they are good, they are equal.

The senses do not judge of goods and evils; what is useful, what useless, they do not know. They cannot pass sentence unless they are brought into the presence of the thing. They are neither provident of the future nor mindful of the past; what is consequent, they do not know. But from this is woven the order and seat of things and the unity of a life that is to proceed along the straight path. Reason, then, is the arbiter of goods and evils; it holds outward and external things as worthless, and judges those things which are neither good nor evil to be the smallest and slightest accessories. For to it every good is in the mind.

But it esteems certain goods as primary, to which it comes of set purpose, such as victory, good children, the safety of one's country. Certain it esteems secondary, which do not appear except in adversity, such as to bear with even mind a grave illness, or exile. Certain are intermediate, which are no more according to Nature than against Nature, such as to walk prudently, to sit composedly. For it is no less according to Nature to sit than to stand or to walk.

Those two higher goods are diverse. For the first are according to Nature: to rejoice in the devotion of children, in the safety of one's country. The second are against Nature: bravely to withstand torments and to endure thirst while disease burns the vitals.

What then? Is anything against Nature a good? By no means; but that is sometimes against Nature in which that good arises. For to be wounded and to waste away under applied fire and to be stricken with ill health is against Nature; but to keep the mind untiring amid these things is according to Nature.

And, to express briefly what I mean, the material of a good is sometimes against Nature, the good never, since no good is without reason, and reason follows Nature. What, then, is reason? An imitation of Nature. What is the highest good of man? To conduct himself according to the will of Nature.

"There is no doubt," he says, "that a peace never assailed is happier than one restored with much blood. There is no doubt that unshaken health is a happier thing than that which is brought to safety, out of grave diseases threatening the worst, by a certain force and endurance. In the same way there will be no doubt that joy is a greater good than a mind braced to endure the torments of wounds or of fire."

By no means. For those things which are matters of chance admit very much difference; for they are valued by the advantage of those who take them. But of goods the one purpose is to consent to Nature; this is equal in all. When we follow someone's motion in the senate, it cannot be said: this man assents more than that; all go over to the same opinion. The same I say of the virtues: all consent to Nature. The same I say of goods: all consent to Nature.

One man dies young, another old, someone besides these in infancy, to whom nothing more fell than to glimpse life. All these were equally mortal, even though death let the life of some proceed further, cut off that of others in the midst of their bloom, and broke off the very beginnings of others.

One man dies relaxed at dinner. Another's death is continuous with his sleep. Some are extinguished in the embrace of love. Against these I set men run through with the sword, or killed by the bite of serpents, or crushed by a falling building, or wrung to death little by little through a long contraction of the sinews. The end of some may be called better, of some worse; but the death of all is equal. The means by which they leap off are diverse; that into which they leap is one. No death is greater or less; for it has the same measure in all — to have ended life.

The same I say to you of goods: this good is among mere pleasures, that among sad and bitter things. The one governed the indulgence of fortune, the other tamed its violence. Each is equally good, although the one went by a smooth and soft road, the other by a rough one. The end of all is the same: they are goods, they are to be praised, they accompany virtue and reason; virtue makes equal among themselves whatever it acknowledges.

Nor is there any reason for you to wonder at this among our tenets; with Epicurus too there are two goods, of which that highest and blessed state is composed: that the body be without pain, the mind without perturbation. These goods do not grow, if they are full. For whither shall that grow which is full? The body lacks pain; what can be added to this freedom from pain? The mind is at one with itself and is placid; what can be added to this tranquility?

As the serenity of the sky, purified into the purest brightness, admits no further clarity, so the state of the man who cares for body and mind and weaves his good out of both is perfect, and has found the sum of his prayer, if there is neither heat in the mind nor pain in the body. If any allurements beyond fall to him, they do not increase the highest good, but, so to speak, season it and delight. For that absolute good of human nature is content with the peace of body and mind.

I will give you in Epicurus too a division of goods very like this of ours. For there are with him some things which he would prefer to fall to him, such as a rest of the body free from all discomfort and a relaxation of the mind rejoicing in the contemplation of its own goods. There are others which, though he would not wish them to happen, he none the less praises and approves, such as that endurance of ill health and of the gravest pains which I was speaking of a little before, in which Epicurus was on that highest and most fortunate day of his. For he says that he was bearing the torments of the bladder and of an ulcerated belly, admitting no further increase of pain, yet that it was none the less a blessed day for him. But no one can pass a blessed life save he who is in the highest good.

Therefore with Epicurus too there are these goods, which you would prefer not to experience, but, since circumstance has so brought it, are to be embraced and praised and set on a level with the highest. It cannot be said that this good is not equal to the greatest, which set the close upon a blessed life, and for which Epicurus with his last breath gave thanks.

Allow me, Lucilius, best of men, to say something somewhat bolder: if any goods could be greater than others, these — which seem sad — I should have preferred to those soft and pampered ones; these I should have called greater. For it is a greater thing to break through difficulties than to govern joys.

By the same reason, I know, it comes about that one man bears prosperity well and calamity bravely. He can be equally brave who has kept watch untroubled before the rampart while no enemies assail the camp, and he who, his hamstrings cut, has caught himself upon his knees and has not let go his arms; "all hail to your valor" is said to those who return bloodstained from the battle-line. And so I should praise the more these goods that are exercised and brave and have wrestled with fortune.

Should I doubt that I praise more the maimed and shriveled hand of Mucius than the whole hand of any of the bravest? He stood the despiser of the enemy and of the flames, and watched his hand dripping away on the enemy's brazier, until Porsenna, whose punishment he was furthering, grudged him his glory and ordered the fire to be snatched away against his will.

Why should I not number this good among the first, and think it as much greater than those secure and untried by fortune, as it is rarer to have conquered the enemy with a hand lost than with one armed? "What then?" you say. "Will you wish this good for yourself?" Why not? For unless a man can wish for it too, he cannot do it.

Or should I rather wish to stretch out my joints to be kneaded by my catamites? Or that some little woman, or some man turned from a man into a little woman, should pull my little fingers? Why should I not think Mucius the more fortunate, in that he handled the fire as though he had given that hand to the masseur? He made good again whatever he had erred; he finished the war unarmed and maimed, and with that mutilated hand conquered two kings. Farewell.