Chapter I — The Apparition of Philosophy

The Text

Song I — The Prelude

Song IBoethius' Complaint.

Who wrought my studious numbers Smoothly once in happier days, Now perforce in tears and sadness Learn a mournful strain to raise. Lo, the Muses, grief-dishevelled, Guide my pen and voice my woe; Down their cheeks unfeigned the tear drops To my sad complainings flow! These alone in danger's hour Faithful found, have dared attend On the footsteps of the exile To his lonely journey's end. These that were the pride and pleasure Of my youth and high estate Still remain the only solace Of the old man's mournful fate. Old? Ah yes; swift, ere I knew it, By these sorrows on me pressed Age hath come; lo, Grief hath bid me Wear the garb that fits her best. O'er my head untimely sprinkled These white hairs my woes proclaim, And the skin hangs loose and shrivelled On this sorrow-shrunken frame. Blest is death that intervenes not In the sweet, sweet years of peace, But unto the broken-hearted, When they call him, brings release! Yet Death passes by the wretched, Shuts his ear and slumbers deep; Will not heed the cry of anguish, Will not close the eyes that weep. For, while yet inconstant Fortune Poured her gifts and all was bright, Death's dark hour had all but whelmed me In the gloom of endless night. Now, because misfortune's shadow Hath o'erclouded that false face, Cruel Life still halts and lingers, Though I loathe his weary race. Friends, why did ye once so lightly Vaunt me happy among men? Surely he who so hath fallen Was not firmly founded then.

Chapter I — The Apparition

While I was thus mutely pondering within myself, and recording my sorrowful complainings with my pen, it seemed to me that there appeared above my head a woman of a countenance exceeding venerable. Her eyes were bright as fire, and of a more than human keenness; her complexion was lively, her vigour showed no trace of enfeeblement; and yet her years were right full, and she plainly seemed not of our age and time. Her stature was difficult to judge. At one moment it exceeded not the common height, at another her forehead seemed to strike the sky; and whenever she raised her head higher, she began to pierce within the very heavens, and to baffle the eyes of them that looked upon her. Her garments were of an imperishable fabric, wrought with the finest threads and of the most delicate workmanship; and these, as her own lips afterwards assured me, she had herself woven with her own hands. The beauty of this vesture had been somewhat tarnished by age and neglect, and wore that dingy look which marble contracts from exposure. On the lower-most edge was inwoven the Greek letter Π, on the topmost the letter θ,^A and between the two were to be seen steps, like a staircase, from the lower to the upper letter. This robe, moreover, had been torn by the hands of violent persons, who had each snatched away what he could clutch.^B Her right hand held a note-book; in her left she bore a staff. And when she saw the Muses of Poesie standing by my bedside, dictating the words of my lamentations, she was moved awhile to wrath, and her eyes flashed sternly. 'Who,' said she, 'has allowed yon play-acting wantons to approach this sick man—these who, so far from giving medicine to heal his malady, even feed it with sweet poison? These it is who kill the rich crop of reason with the barren thorns of passion, who accustom men's minds to disease, instead of setting them free. Now, were it some common man whom your allurements were seducing, as is usually your way, I should be less indignant. On such a one I should not have spent my pains for naught. But this is one nurtured in the Eleatic and Academic philosophies. Nay, get ye gone, ye sirens, whose sweetness lasteth not; leave him for my muses to tend and heal!' At these words of upbraiding, the whole band, in deepened sadness, with downcast eyes, and blushes that confessed their shame, dolefully left the chamber.

But I, because my sight was dimmed with much weeping, and I could not tell who was this woman of authority so commanding—I was dumfoundered, and, with my gaze fastened on the earth, continued silently to await what she might do next. Then she drew near me and sat on the edge of my couch, and, looking into my face all heavy with grief and fixed in sadness on the ground, she bewailed in these words the disorder of my mind:

A Π (P) stands for the Political life, the life of action; θ (Th) for the Theoretical life, the life of thought. ↩

B The Stoic, Epicurean, and other philosophical sects, which Boethius regards as heterodox. See also below, ch. iii., p. 14. ↩

Song IIHis Despondency.

Alas! in what abyss his mind Is plunged, how wildly tossed! Still, still towards the outer night She sinks, her true light lost, As oft as, lashed tumultuously By earth-born blasts, care's waves rise high.

Yet once he ranged the open heavens, The sun's bright pathway tracked; Watched how the cold moon waxed and waned; Nor rested, till there lacked To his wide ken no star that steers Amid the maze of circling spheres.

The causes why the blusterous winds Vex ocean's tranquil face, Whose hand doth turn the stable globe, Or why his even race From out the ruddy east the sun Unto the western waves doth run:

What is it tempers cunningly The placid hours of spring, So that it blossoms with the rose For earth's engarlanding: Who loads the year's maturer prime With clustered grapes in autumn time:

All this he knew—thus ever strove Deep Nature's lore to guess. Now, reft of reason's light, he lies, And bonds his neck oppress; While by the heavy load constrained, His eyes to this dull earth are chained.

A new modern English rendering, made from the Latin with AI assistance — a reading aid, not a scholarly edition.

Song I — The Prelude

Song IBoethius' Complaint

I who once wrought songs in the flush of eager study am driven now, in tears, to take up grieving measures. See — the Muses, ragged, dictate what I must write, and true tears wet the elegies upon my face. These, at least, no terror could frighten away from going with me, companions on my road. The glory of a youth once happy and green is all that comforts now a grieving old man's fate. For old age, hastened by my troubles, came unlooked-for, and grief has bidden its own years to dwell in me. Untimely are the white hairs strewn upon my head, and slack skin shivers on a worn-out frame. Happy the death that thrusts itself not into the sweet years, but comes, when often called, to the grieving — yet how it turns a deaf ear from the wretched, and cruelly refuses to close their weeping eyes. While faithless Fortune favoured me with fleeting goods, one bitter hour had all but drowned my head; now that her clouded face has changed its lie, unfeeling life drags out its thankless delays. Why, my friends, did you so often call me happy? The man who has fallen never stood on solid ground.

Chapter I — The Apparition

While I was silently turning these things over in my own mind, and setting down my tearful complaint with the labour of my pen, there seemed to stand above my head a woman of a deeply reverend face, her eyes burning and keen beyond the common power of human sight, her colour fresh and her vigour unspent — and yet she was so full of years that she could in no way be thought of our own age. Her stature was hard to judge: for now she kept to the common measure of human height, now she seemed to strike the sky with the crown of her head; and when she lifted it higher still, she would pierce the very heavens and baffle the gaze of those who looked at her. Her garments were finished of the finest threads, by subtle craft, of an indestructible fabric — woven, as I later learned from her own telling, by her own hands; and a kind of haze of neglected age had dimmed their look, as smoke dims a statue. On the lowest hem was woven the Greek letter Π, and on the topmost Θ, and between the two letters steps were marked out like a staircase, by which one might climb from the lower letter to the higher. Yet that same robe the hands of certain violent men had torn, and each had carried off such scraps as he could seize. In her right hand she carried small books; in her left, a sceptre.

When she saw the Muses of poetry standing by my couch and supplying words to my weeping, she was stirred for a moment, her eyes blazing fiercely. "Who," she said, "has let these stage-struck little harlots come near this sick man — they who, far from easing his pains with any remedy, would even feed them with sweet poison? These are the very ones who choke the rich harvest of reason with the barren thorns of the passions, and school men's minds to sickness instead of setting them free. Had your coaxing been luring off some ordinary man, as is your usual way with the crowd, I should bear it with less vexation — in him no work of mine would be harmed. But this man, reared on the studies of Elea and the Academy? No — be gone instead, you Sirens, sweet until they destroy, and leave him to my own Muses to be tended and healed." Rebuked, that troupe cast their eyes to the ground and, their blushes confessing their shame, passed gloomily over the threshold.

But I — whose sight, drowned in tears, was so clouded that I could not make out who this woman of such commanding authority might be — was struck dumb; and with my gaze fixed on the ground I waited in silence to see what she would do next. Then, drawing nearer, she sat down on the very edge of my bed, and, looking into my face — heavy with mourning and cast down to the earth in grief — she lamented the disorder of my mind in these verses:

Song IIHis Despondency

Alas, how — plunged in a headlong deep — the mind goes dull, and, its own light forsaken, strains to set out into the dark beyond, whenever, swollen by the winds of earth, ruinous care grows past all measure!

This mind, once free beneath the open sky, used to travel the highways of heaven: it watched the light of the rosy sun, gazed on the stars of the cold moon, and every wandering star that wheels its turning course through changing spheres it held mastered, captured in number.

More: it would search out the causes — why roaring blasts harry the sea's calm levels, what spirit turns the steadfast globe, why a star bound to sink in western waves still rises from the glowing east, what tempers the mild hours of spring to deck the earth with roses, whose gift it is that, in the brimming year, fruitful autumn runs heavy with grapes — he would probe, and render up the many hidden causes of Nature.

Now he lies, the light of his mind spent, his neck pressed low with heavy chains, his face bowed down beneath the load, forced — alas — to stare at the dull earth.

Reading Guide

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❧ What happens

The book opens with the prisoner himself speaking. Song I is his complaint: once he wrote happy verse, now the Muses guide his pen only to dictate his grief. He longs for a death that will not come.

Then, mid-lament, a woman of superhuman dignity appears above him. She sees the Muses of poetry clustered at his bedside and angrily drives them out as “play-acting wantons” who feed his sickness with sweet poison instead of curing it. Boethius, blinded by weeping, cannot yet tell who she is. In Song II she laments how far this once-soaring mind has sunk.

⚖ Why it matters

The whole book is staged as a healing. Boethius is the patient; the mysterious woman is the physician. The drama is not “will he be freed?” but “will his mind be cured?”

The expulsion of the Muses is the programmatic gesture: emotional, self-pitying poetry (the “sirens, whose sweetness lasteth not”) is rejected. The verse that remains in the book will be Philosophy's own Muses — poetry put to the service of reason rather than feeling.

Π θ The woman's robe

Her gown is an allegory you are meant to decode. At the hem is the Greek letter Π (P), at the top Θ (Th), with a staircase of steps between them: the ascent from the Practical life (politics, action) to the Theoretical life (contemplation, thought).

The robe is dingy “as marble contracts from exposure” — Philosophy is old and neglected. And it has been torn by violent hands, each snatching a scrap: the rival philosophical sects (Stoics, Epicureans, and the rest) who each grabbed a piece and claimed to possess the whole.

Her two emblems: a note-book (her teaching) and a staff (the discipline that guides and supports).

≣ Names & terms

The Muses of Poesie: The goddesses of poetic inspiration — here, the cheap consolations of grief-poetry that indulge emotion rather than heal it.
Eleatic & Academic: Two great philosophical traditions: the Eleatics (Parmenides, Zeno) and Plato's Academy. Philosophy notes her patient was raised in real philosophy, not a common man.
Sirens: In Homer, singers whose sweetness lures sailors to death — Philosophy's term of contempt for the seductive Muses.

♪ How the Songs work

This book alternates verse (“Songs,” the Latin metra) with prose, “like dialogue and chorus in a Greek play.” Song I is the patient's voice; Song II is the physician's first diagnosis in lyric form — note how it mourns a mind that once “ranged the open heavens” and tracked the stars, now chained with its eyes fixed on the dull earth.