Fortune's Caprice

After this she fell silent a while; and when, by her modest stillness, she had drawn my whole attention to her, she began: "If I have rightly grasped the causes and character of your sickness, you are pining away with longing and desire for your former fortune. It is the change in her — or rather, the change as you picture it to yourself — that has overthrown the balance of your mind.

I know the many disguises of that prodigy, and how she keeps the most caressing intimacy with the very people she means to dupe, until she breaks them with unbearable grief by deserting them when they least expect it. If you call to mind her nature, her habits, and her true worth, you will see that in her you possessed nothing lovely and have lost nothing. Yet I think I need not labour much to recall this to you: even while she was present and fawning on you, you used to assail her with manly words and drive her off with maxims drawn from our own sanctuary.

But every sudden upheaval of circumstance brings with it a kind of storm-surge in the soul; and so it has come about that you too, for a little while, have slipped from your old serenity. It is time, then, for you to drink down and taste something mild and pleasant, which, once carried within, will open the way for stronger draughts. So let sweet, persuasive rhetoric lend its aid — rhetoric that keeps to the straight road only so long as it does not abandon our teaching — and, together with it, let Music, the home-bred servant of our house, sing now lighter, now graver strains.

What is it, then, O man, that has cast you down into grief and mourning? Something strange, I suppose, and unheard-of, you think you have seen. You believe Fortune has changed toward you: you are wrong. These have always been her ways; this is her nature. In her very inconstancy she has kept toward you a constancy all her own. She was exactly like this when she flattered you, when she teased you with the lures of a counterfeit happiness. You have merely caught sight of the blind goddess's two faces: what she still veils from others she has now shown to you entirely. If you approve of her, make use of her ways and do not complain; if you shudder at her treachery, scorn her and cast off the one who plays so ruinous a game.

For what is now the cause of such grief ought to have been a cause of calm. She has left you — and no one can ever be sure she will not leave him. Or do you really prize a happiness that is bound to depart? Is a present fortune dear to you when it cannot be trusted to stay, and when its going will bring you sorrow? But if it cannot be held at will, and leaves men ruined when it flees, what is such fleeting fortune but a kind of forewarning of the disaster to come? For it is not enough to look only at what lies before your eyes: prudence weighs how things will end, and this same two-edged changeableness makes Fortune's threats not worth fearing and her flatteries not worth craving.

In the end you must bear with an even mind whatever happens within Fortune's ring, once you have bowed your neck beneath her yoke. But if you would write a law of staying and leaving for the mistress you yourself freely chose, will you not be doing her wrong — and, by your impatience, embittering a lot you cannot change? If you committed your sails to the winds, you would travel not where your will desired but where the gusts drove you; if you entrusted seed to the fields, you would balance fruitful years against barren ones. You have handed yourself over to Fortune to be governed: you must submit to your mistress's ways. And yet you try to halt the force of her spinning wheel? Why, most foolish of all mortals — the moment it begins to stand still, it ceases to be chance at all."

Thereafter for awhile she remained silent; and when she had restored my flagging attention by a moderate pause in her discourse, she thus began: 'If I have thoroughly ascertained the character and causes of thy sickness, thou art pining with regretful longing for thy former fortune. It is the change, as thou deemest, of this fortune that hath so wrought upon thy mind. Well do I understand that Siren's manifold wiles, the fatal charm of the friendship she pretends for her victims, so long as she is scheming to entrap them—how she unexpectedly abandons them and leaves them overwhelmed with insupportable grief. Bethink thee of her nature, character, and deserts, and thou wilt soon acknowledge that in her thou hast neither possessed, nor hast thou lost, aught of any worth. Methinks I need not spend much pains in bringing this to thy mind, since, even when she was still with thee, even while she was caressing thee, thou usedst to assail her in manly terms, to rebuke her, with maxims drawn from my holy treasure-house. But all sudden changes of circumstances bring inevitably a certain commotion of spirit. Thus it hath come to pass that thou also for awhile hast been parted from thy mind's tranquillity. But it is time for thee to take and drain a draught, soft and pleasant to the taste, which, as it penetrates within, may prepare the way for stronger potions. Wherefore I call to my aid the sweet persuasiveness of Rhetoric, who then only walketh in the right way when she forsakes not my instructions, and Music, my handmaid, I bid to join with her singing, now in lighter, now in graver strain.

'What is it, then, poor mortal, that hath cast thee into lamentation and mourning? Some strange, unwonted sight, methinks, have thine eyes seen. Thou deemest Fortune to have changed towards thee; thou mistakest. Such ever were her ways, ever such her nature. Rather in her very mutability hath she preserved towards thee her true constancy. Such was she when she loaded thee with caresses, when she deluded thee with the allurements of a false happiness. Thou hast found out how changeful is the face of the blind goddess. She who still veils herself from others hath fully discovered to thee her whole character. If thou likest her, take her as she is, and do not complain. If thou abhorrest her perfidy, turn from her in disdain, renounce her, for baneful are her delusions. The very thing which is now the cause of thy great grief ought to have brought thee tranquillity. Thou hast been forsaken by one of whom no one can be sure that she will not forsake him. Or dost thou indeed set value on a happiness that is certain to depart? Again I ask, Is Fortune's presence dear to thee if she cannot be trusted to stay, and though she will bring sorrow when she is gone? Why, if she cannot be kept at pleasure, and if her flight overwhelms with calamity, what is this fleeting visitant but a token of coming trouble? Truly it is not enough to look only at what lies before the eyes; wisdom gauges the issues of things, and this same mutability, with its two aspects, makes the threats of Fortune void of terror, and her caresses little to be desired. Finally, thou oughtest to bear with whatever takes place within the boundaries of Fortune's demesne, when thou hast placed thy head beneath her yoke. But if thou wishest to impose a law of staying and departing on her whom thou hast of thine own accord chosen for thy mistress, art thou not acting wrongfully, art thou not embittering by impatience a lot which thou canst not alter? Didst thou commit thy sails to the winds, thou wouldst voyage not whither thy intention was to go, but whither the winds drave thee; didst thou entrust thy seed to the fields, thou wouldst set off the fruitful years against the barren. Thou hast resigned thyself to the sway of Fortune; thou must submit to thy mistress's caprices. What! art thou verily striving to stay the swing of the revolving wheel? Oh, stupidest of mortals, if it takes to standing still, it ceases to be the wheel of Fortune.'