Happiness Lies Within

Then said I: 'True are thine admonishings, thou nurse of all excellence; nor can I deny the wonder of my fortune's swift career. Yet it is this which chafes me the more cruelly in the recalling. For truly in adverse fortune the worst sting of misery is to have been happy.'

'Well,' said she, 'if thou art paying the penalty of a mistaken belief, thou canst not rightly impute the fault to circumstances. If it is the felicity which Fortune gives that moves thee—mere name though it be—come reckon up with me how rich thou art in the number and weightiness of thy blessings. Then if, by the blessing of Providence, thou hast still preserved unto thee safe and inviolate that which, howsoever thou mightest reckon thy fortune, thou wouldst have thought thy most precious possession, what right hast thou to talk of ill-fortune whilst keeping all Fortune's better gifts? Yet Symmachus, thy wife's father—a man whose splendid character does honour to the human race—is safe and unharmed; and while he bewails thy wrongs, this rare nature, in whom wisdom and virtue are so nobly blended, is himself out of danger—a boon thou wouldst have been quick to purchase at the price of life itself. Thy wife yet lives, with her gentle disposition, her peerless modesty and virtue—this the epitome of all her graces, that she is the true daughter of her sire—she lives, I say, and for thy sake only preserves the breath of life, though she loathes it, and pines away in grief and tears for thy absence, wherein, if in naught else, I would allow some marring of thy felicity. What shall I say of thy sons and their consular dignity—how in them, so far as may be in youths of their age, the example of their father's and grandfather's character shines out? Since, then, the chief care of mortal man is to preserve his life, how happy art thou, couldst thou but recognise thy blessings, who possessest even now what no one doubts to be dearer than life! Wherefore, now dry thy tears. Fortune's hate hath not involved all thy dear ones; the stress of the storm that has assailed thee is not beyond measure intolerable, since there are anchors still holding firm which suffer thee not to lack either consolation in the present or hope for the future.'

'I pray that they still may hold. For while they still remain, however things may go, I shall ride out the storm. Yet thou seest how much is shorn of the splendour of my fortunes.'

'We are gaining a little ground,' said she, 'if there is something in thy lot wherewith thou art not yet altogether discontented. But I cannot stomach thy daintiness when thou complainest with such violence of grief and anxiety because thy happiness falls short of completeness. Why, who enjoys such settled felicity as not to have some quarrel with the circumstances of his lot? A troublous matter are the conditions of human bliss; either they are never realized in full, or never stay permanently. One has abundant riches, but is shamed by his ignoble birth. Another is conspicuous for his nobility, but through the embarrassments of poverty would prefer to be obscure. A third, richly endowed with both, laments the loneliness of an unwedded life. Another, though happily married, is doomed to childlessness, and nurses his wealth for a stranger to inherit. Yet another, blest with children, mournfully bewails the misdeeds of son or daughter. Wherefore, it is not easy for anyone to be at perfect peace with the circumstances of his lot. There lurks in each several portion something which they who experience it not know nothing of, but which makes the sufferer wince. Besides, the more favoured a man is by Fortune, the more fastidiously sensitive is he; and, unless all things answer to his whim, he is overwhelmed by the most trifling misfortunes, because utterly unschooled in adversity. So petty are the trifles which rob the most fortunate of perfect happiness! How many are there, dost thou imagine, who would think themselves nigh heaven, if but a small portion from the wreck of thy fortune should fall to them? This very place which thou callest exile is to them that dwell therein their native land. So true is it that nothing is wretched, but thinking makes it so, and conversely every lot is happy if borne with equanimity. Who is so blest by Fortune as not to wish to change his state, if once he gives rein to a rebellious spirit? With how many bitternesses is the sweetness of human felicity blent! And even if that sweetness seem to him to bring delight in the enjoying, yet he cannot keep it from departing when it will. How manifestly wretched, then, is the bliss of earthly fortune, which lasts not for ever with those whose temper is equable, and can give no perfect satisfaction to the anxious-minded!

'Why, then, ye children of mortality, seek ye from without that happiness whose seat is only within us? Error and ignorance bewilder you. I will show thee, in brief, the hinge on which perfect happiness turns. Is there anything more precious to thee than thyself? Nothing, thou wilt say. If, then, thou art master of thyself, thou wilt possess that which thou wilt never be willing to lose, and which Fortune cannot take from thee. And that thou mayst see that happiness cannot possibly consist in these things which are the sport of chance, reflect that, if happiness is the highest good of a creature living in accordance with reason, and if a thing which can in any wise be reft away is not the highest good, since that which cannot be taken away is better than it, it is plain that Fortune cannot aspire to bestow happiness by reason of its instability. And, besides, a man borne along by this transitory felicity must either know or not know its unstability. If he knows not, how poor is a happiness which depends on the blindness of ignorance! If he knows it, he needs must fear to lose a happiness whose loss he believes to be possible. Wherefore, a never-ceasing fear suffers him not to be happy. Or does he count the possibility of this loss a trifling matter? Insignificant, then, must be the good whose loss can be borne so equably. And, further, I know thee to be one settled in the belief that the souls of men certainly die not with them, and convinced thereof by numerous proofs; it is clear also that the felicity which Fortune bestows is brought to an end with the death of the body: therefore, it cannot be doubted but that, if happiness is conferred in this way, the whole human race sinks into misery when death brings the close of all. But if we know that many have sought the joy of happiness not through death only, but also through pain and suffering, how can life make men happy by its presence when it makes them not wretched by its loss?'

Then I said: "What you call to mind is true, O nurse of all the virtues, and I cannot deny how swiftly my prosperity ran its course. But this is what burns me the more cruelly as I remember it. For in every misfortune of fortune the unhappiest kind of misery is to have once been happy."

"But," she said, "that you are paying the penalty of a false opinion—that you cannot rightly charge to the facts. For if it is this empty name of accidental happiness that moves you, let me reckon up with you in how many and how great things you still abound. Therefore, if what you possessed as most precious in the whole sum of your fortune is still kept for you unharmed and inviolate by divine favor, can you, while you keep all your better things, rightly complain of misfortune? And yet that most precious glory of the human race, Symmachus your father-in-law, lives safe and sound—a man wholly made of wisdom and virtues, one whose life you would not hesitate to buy at the price of your own; secure for himself, he grieves over the wrongs done to you. Your wife lives, modest in her nature, surpassing in chastity and decency, and—to sum up all her gifts briefly—like her father. She lives, I say, and for your sake alone, weary of this life, keeps her breath, and—the one point in which I myself would grant that your happiness is diminished—she wastes away in tears and grief out of longing for you. What shall I say of your sons, men of consular rank, in whom, boys as they are for their age, the likeness of their father's or grandfather's genius already shines out? Since, then, the chief care of mortals is to keep their lives, how happy you are—if only you would recognize your own blessings—who still have at hand the things that no one doubts are dearer than life. So dry your tears now. Fortune has not yet hated all you have down to the last; no too-violent storm has fallen upon you, while anchors hold fast that allow neither the comfort of the present nor the hope of the time to come to be absent."

"And may they hold, I pray," I said. "For while they remain, however things may stand, we shall swim to shore. But you see how much of our adornment has fallen away."

And she said: "We have made some progress, if you are not yet weary of your whole lot. But I cannot bear your fussing—you who complain so mournfully and anxiously that something is missing from your blessedness. For who is there of so well-ordered a happiness that he does not, in some part, quarrel with the quality of his condition? Anxious indeed is the state of human goods, which either never comes whole or never lasts forever. This man has overflowing wealth, but his low birth shames him. That man is made famous by his nobility, but, hemmed in by the narrowness of his household means, he would rather be unknown. Another, abounding in both, bewails his unmarried life. Another, happy in his marriage but childless, builds up his fortune for an heir not his own. Another, glad in his offspring, weeps in sorrow over a son's or daughter's misdeeds. And so no one easily agrees with the condition of his fortune. For there is in each lot something that the inexperienced does not know of, and that the experienced shudders at. Add that the most fortunate man has the most delicate feeling, and, unless everything answers to his nod, he, unused to any adversity, is laid low by the smallest things. So very slight are the things that strip from the most fortunate the sum of their blessedness. How many do you suppose there are who would think themselves next to heaven if even the smallest part of what remains of your fortune came to them? This very place that you call exile is a homeland to those who dwell in it. So nothing is wretched unless you think it so, and, on the contrary, every lot is happy through the equanimity of the one who bears it. Who is so happy that, if he gives in to his impatience, he would not wish to change his condition? With how many bitternesses is the sweetness of human happiness sprinkled! And even if it should seem pleasant to the one enjoying it, still it cannot be kept from leaving when it wishes. It is clear, then, how wretched is the blessedness of mortal things, which neither lasts forever even with the even-tempered nor wholly delights the anxious.

Why then, O mortals, do you seek outside yourselves the happiness that is set within you? Error and ignorance confound you. I will show you briefly the hinge of the highest happiness. Is there anything more precious to you than yourself? Nothing, you will say. Therefore, if you are master of yourself, you will possess what you would never wish to lose and what Fortune could not take away. And, that you may recognize that blessedness cannot consist in these chance things, reason it out thus. If blessedness is the highest good of a nature that lives by reason, and that cannot be the highest good which can in any way be snatched away—since what cannot be taken away is plainly superior—then it is manifest that the instability of fortune cannot aspire to confer blessedness. Besides, the man whom this fleeting happiness carries along either knows or does not know that it is changeable. If he does not know, what blessed lot can there be in the blindness of ignorance? If he does know, he must necessarily fear losing what he does not doubt can be lost. And so unceasing fear does not allow him to be happy. Or does he think it a thing to be disregarded if he should lose it? Then too it is a very slight good whose loss can be borne with an even mind. And since you are the very man who, I know, has been persuaded and convinced by many demonstrations that the minds of men are in no way mortal—and since it is clear that accidental happiness ends with the death of the body—it cannot be doubted that, if this can confer blessedness, then the whole race of mortals sinks into misery at the close of death. But if we know that many have sought the fruit of blessedness not only through death but also through pains and tortures, how can what we have now make men blessed, when, once gone, it does not make them wretched?"