The Brilliant Past

'If Fortune should plead thus against thee, assuredly thou wouldst not have one word to offer in reply; or, if thou canst find any justification of thy complainings, thou must show what it is. I will give thee space to speak.'

Then said I: 'Verily, thy pleas are plausible—yea, steeped in the honeyed sweetness of music and rhetoric. But their charm lasts only while they are sounding in the ear; the sense of his misfortunes lies deeper in the heart of the wretched. So, when the sound ceases to vibrate upon the air, the heart's indwelling sorrow is felt with renewed bitterness.'

Then said she: 'It is indeed as thou sayest, for we have not yet come to the curing of thy sickness; as yet these are but lenitives conducing to the treatment of a malady hitherto obstinate. The remedies which go deep I will apply in due season. Nevertheless, to deprecate thy determination to be thought wretched, I ask thee, Hast thou forgotten the extent and bounds of thy felicity? I say nothing of how, when orphaned and desolate, thou wast taken into the care of illustrious men; how thou wast chosen for alliance with the highest in the state—and even before thou wert bound to their house by marriage, wert already dear to their love—which is the most precious of all ties. Did not all pronounce thee most happy in the virtues of thy wife, the splendid honours of her father, and the blessing of male issue? I pass over—for I care not to speak of blessings in which others also have shared—the distinctions often denied to age which thou enjoyedst in thy youth. I choose rather to come to the unparalleled culmination of thy good fortune. If the fruition of any earthly success has weight in the scale of happiness, can the memory of that splendour be swept away by any rising flood of troubles? That day when thou didst see thy two sons ride forth from home joint consuls, followed by a train of senators, and welcomed by the good-will of the people; when these two sat in curule chairs in the Senate-house, and thou by thy panegyric on the king didst earn the fame of eloquence and ability; when in the Circus, seated between the two consuls, thou didst glut the multitude thronging around with the triumphal largesses for which they looked—methinks thou didst cozen Fortune while she caressed thee, and made thee her darling. Thou didst bear off a boon which she had never before granted to any private person. Art thou, then, minded to cast up a reckoning with Fortune? Now for the first time she has turned a jealous glance upon thee. If thou compare the extent and bounds of thy blessings and misfortunes, thou canst not deny that thou art still fortunate. Or if thou esteem not thyself favoured by Fortune in that thy then seeming prosperity hath departed, deem not thyself wretched, since what thou now believest to be calamitous passeth also. What! art thou but now come suddenly and a stranger to the scene of this life? Thinkest thou there is any stability in human affairs, when man himself vanishes away in the swift course of time? It is true that there is little trust that the gifts of chance will abide; yet the last day of life is in a manner the death of all remaining Fortune. What difference, then, thinkest thou, is there, whether thou leavest her by dying, or she leave thee by fleeing away?'

So then, if Fortune were to plead her own case to you in these words, you would surely have nothing to mutter in reply; or if you have anything by which you can rightly defend your complaint, you must bring it forward. We will give you room to speak.

Then I said: "These things are indeed fair-seeming, and, smeared over with the honey-sweetness of rhetoric and music, they delight only while they are being heard; but for the wretched the sense of their troubles runs deeper. So when these words cease to ring in the ears, the grief lodged within weighs the soul down."

And she said: "That is so. For these are not yet the remedies for your sickness, but only certain soothing dressings for a grief that is still stubborn against its cure. The medicines that penetrate deep I will apply when the time is right.

But all the same, do not be willing to think yourself wretched. Have you forgotten the number and measure of your happiness? I pass over the fact that, when you were left desolate by your father's death, the care of the highest men took you up, and that you were chosen for kinship with the leading men of the state—and you began to be dear to them before you were even their relation, which is the most precious kind of bond. Who did not declare you most fortunate, with such splendid fathers-in-law, with so chaste a wife, and with the blessing of sons besides? I leave aside—for I am glad to leave aside the common things—the offices you took on in your youth that are denied to old men: I prefer to come to the crowning height of your happiness. If any fruit of mortal affairs carries any weight of blessedness, can the memory of that day be wiped out by any mass of crowding evils, however great—the day you saw your two sons made consuls together, escorted from your house amid a throng of senators and the eager cheering of the people; when, as they sat in their curule chairs in the Senate house, you, delivering a speech in praise of the king, earned the glory of genius and eloquence; when, seated in the circus between the two consuls, you satisfied the expectation of the surrounding crowd with a triumphal largesse? You paid fine words to Fortune, I think, while she fawned on you, while she cherished you as her darling. You carried off a gift she had never granted to any private man. Do you wish, then, to cast up the account with Fortune? Now for the first time she has glanced at you with an envious eye. If you consider the number and measure of your joys and your sorrows, you cannot yet deny that you are fortunate. And if you do not reckon yourself fortunate for the reason that the things which then seemed glad are gone—there is no cause to think yourself wretched, since the things now believed to be sad are also passing away. Have you only just now arrived in this theater of life, a sudden stranger? Do you suppose there is any constancy in human affairs, when a swift hour often dissolves the man himself? For even if there were rare faith in things kept by chance, still the last day of life is a kind of death even for a fortune that lasts. What difference, then, do you think it makes—whether you leave it by dying, or it leaves you by fleeing?"