Letter 98

Never believe anyone happy who hangs upon his good fortune. He leans on fragile things who is glad at what came from outside; the joy will go out which came in. But that joy which has sprung from oneself is faithful and firm, and grows, and accompanies us to the very end; the rest, whose admiration is among the crowd, are goods for the day. 'What then? Cannot they be of use and of pleasure?' Who denies it? But only in this way, if they depend on us, not we on them.

All things which fortune looks upon become fruitful and pleasant, if he who has them has himself too, and is not in the power of his own possessions. For they err, Lucilius, who judge that fortune bestows on us anything either good or evil; she gives the material of goods and evils, and the beginnings of things which will turn out among us to evil or to good. For the mind is stronger than all fortune, and itself draws its affairs to either side, and is to itself the cause of a happy or a wretched life.

A bad man turns all things to evil, even those which had come with the appearance of the best; the upright and whole man corrects the wrongs of fortune and softens hard and rough things by the knowledge of bearing them, and the same man receives both prosperity gratefully and modestly, and adversity steadfastly and bravely. He, though he be prudent, though he do all things by exact judgment, though he attempt nothing beyond his strength, will not attain that whole good, set beyond threats, unless he is sure against uncertain things.

Whether you wish to observe others, for judgment is freer amid the affairs of others, or yourself, with favour laid aside, you will both feel this and confess it, that nothing of these desirable and dear things is useful, unless you have armed yourself against the fickleness of chance and the chance of the things that follow chance, unless you say, often and without complaint, amid each loss: 'The gods have judged otherwise.'

Nay, by Hercules, that I may seek a braver and juster verse, with which to prop your mind the more, say this, whenever something has turned out otherwise than you thought: 'The gods judged better.' To one so composed nothing will befall. And he will be so composed if he has thought, before he has felt it, what the variety of human affairs can do, if he has held both children and wife and estate as though he were not going to have them forever, and as though he would not be the more wretched for this, if he ceased to have them.

The mind anxious for the future is calamitous and wretched before its miseries, which is troubled that the things in which it delights may last to the very end. For at no time will it be at rest, and by the expectation of what is to come it will lose the present things which it could enjoy. But the grief for a thing lost and the fear of losing it are on a level.

Yet I do not for this reason counsel you to carelessness. Do you indeed avoid the things to be feared. Whatever can be foreseen by counsel, foresee. Whatever is going to harm, look out for and avert long before it happens. To this very end confidence and a mind hardened to bear all things will contribute most to you. He who can bear fortune can be on his guard against it. Certainly in calm weather he is not in tumult. There is nothing more wretched nor more foolish than to fear beforehand. What madness is this, to go before one's own evil?

Finally, to enclose briefly what I think, and to describe to you those restless men, troublesome to themselves, as intemperate in their very miseries as they are before them. He grieves more than is necessary who grieves before it is necessary; for by the same weakness he does not measure the grief by which he does not expect it; by the same intemperance he imagines his own happiness perpetual, imagines that whatever has fallen to him ought to increase, not merely to last; and, forgetful of this springboard by which human things are tossed, he promises to himself alone constancy of the gifts of chance.

And so it seems to me that Metrodorus said excellently in that letter in which he addresses his sister on the loss of her son of the finest disposition: 'Mortal is every good of mortals.' He speaks of those goods toward which men run. For that true good does not die, it is certain and everlasting, namely wisdom and virtue; this alone falls to mortals as immortal.

But men are so wicked and so forgetful of whither they are going, whither each day pushes them, that they wonder at losing anything, who are about to lose everything in one day. Of whatever you are inscribed as master, it is with you, it is not yours; nothing firm belongs to the infirm, nothing eternal and unconquered to the fragile. It is as necessary to perish as to lose, and this very thing, if we understand it, is a consolation. Lose with even mind; you must perish.

What help, then, do we find against these losses? This, that we hold the lost things in memory, and do not suffer the fruit which we have reaped from them to fall away with them. To have a thing can be snatched from us, to have had it never. He is most ungrateful who, when he has lost, owes nothing for what he received. Chance snatches the thing from us, but leaves us the use, which we have lost by unfair longing for it.

Say to yourself: 'Of those things which seem terrible, none is unconquered. Many have already conquered them one by one: Mucius the fire, Regulus the cross, Socrates the poison, Rutilius exile, Cato death driven home by the sword; let us too conquer something.'

Again, those things which draw the crowd under the appearance of being happy and pleasant, many men and often have despised. Fabricius rejected riches when he was general, condemned them when he was censor. Tubero judged poverty worthy both of himself and of the Capitol, when by his use of earthenware at a public banquet he showed that man ought to be content with those things which the gods still used. Sextius the father rejected honours, who, though born to take up the management of the commonwealth, did not accept the broad stripe, though the deified Julius offered it. For he understood that what could be given could also be snatched away. Let us too do something bravely ourselves; let us be among the examples.

Why have we given up? Why do we despair? Whatever could be done, can be done; only let us cleanse the mind and follow nature, from which he who strays away must covet and fear and be a slave to the gifts of chance. It is allowed to return into the way, it is allowed to be restored to soundness; let us be restored, that we may be able to bear pains, in whatever way they have invaded the body, and to say to fortune: 'You have to do with a man; seek someone you can conquer.'

With these conversations and others of the kind that swelling, which has broken out within, is soothed. And I wish that it would either be cured, or at least stop, and not spread, but be content with what it is. But there is no reason why I should be anxious for him; the talk is now ours. Bassus the old man does this most bravely. He fights with his own body. He is cheerful even though far gone, even though set against his vital parts. "It is good to be sick if it is for a short time, but troublesome if it is for a long time." But Bassus is in good cheer of mind even amid the very farewells of the soul.

He acts generously in living. Another would now have ended these things, and judged it base to put off death; but our Bassus, set in the very straits, no less serene, no less friendly toward us, does a great thing: he praises life set in this very crossing. 'What then? Will he not, if circumstances advise it, go out?' Why should he not go out, if no one any longer will be able to use him? If he will give his attention to nothing but pain?

This, my Lucilius, is to learn philosophy in the doing and to be trained for the truth: to see what spirit a prudent man has against death, against pain, when the one approaches, the other presses. What is to be done must be learned from one who is doing it. So far it has been treated by arguments, whether anyone could resist pain, whether death, brought near, could bow down even great minds.

What need of words? Let us go to the matter present before us: neither does death make him braver against pain, nor pain against death. He trusts himself against both, nor does he bear pain patiently through hope of death, nor die gladly through weariness of pain; he bears the one, he awaits the other. Farewell.