Book: The Consolation of Philosophy

B >> Boethius >> The Consolation of Philosophy




'What need to speak of the forged letters by which an attempt is made to
prove that I hoped for the freedom of Rome? Their falsity would have
been manifest, if I had been allowed to use the confession of the
informers themselves, evidence which has in all matters the most
convincing force. Why, what hope of freedom is left to us? Would there
were any! I should have answered with the epigram of Canius when
Caligula declared him to have been cognisant of a conspiracy against
him. "If I had known," said he, "thou shouldst never have known." Grief
hath not so blunted my perceptions in this matter that I should complain
because impious wretches contrive their villainies against the virtuous,
but at their achievement of their hopes I do exceedingly marvel. For
evil purposes are, perchance, due to the imperfection of human nature;
that it should be possible for scoundrels to carry out their worst
schemes against the innocent, while God beholdeth, is verily monstrous.
For this cause, not without reason, one of thy disciples asked, "If God
exists, whence comes evil? Yet whence comes good, if He exists not?"
However, it might well be that wretches who seek the blood of all honest
men and of the whole senate should wish to destroy me also, whom they
saw to be a bulwark of the senate and all honest men. But did I deserve
such a fate from the Fathers also? Thou rememberest, methinks--since
thou didst ever stand by my side to direct what I should do or say--thou
rememberest, I say, how at Verona, when the king, eager for the general
destruction, was bent on implicating the whole senatorial order in the
charge of treason brought against Albinus, with what indifference to my
own peril I maintained the innocence of its members, one and all. Thou
knowest that what I say is the truth, and that I have never boasted of
my good deeds in a spirit of self-praise. For whenever a man by
proclaiming his good deeds receives the recompense of fame, he
diminishes in a measure the secret reward of a good conscience. What
issues have overtaken my innocency thou seest. Instead of reaping the
rewards of true virtue, I undergo the penalties of a guilt falsely laid
to my charge--nay, more than this; never did an open confession of guilt
cause such unanimous severity among the assessors, but that some
consideration, either of the mere frailty of human nature, or of
fortune's universal instability, availed to soften the verdict of some
few. Had I been accused of a design to fire the temples, to slaughter
the priests with impious sword, of plotting the massacre of all honest
men, I should yet have been produced in court, and only punished on due
confession or conviction. Now for my too great zeal towards the senate I
have been condemned to outlawry and death, unheard and undefended, at a
distance of near five hundred miles away.[C] Oh, my judges, well do ye
deserve that no one should hereafter be convicted of a fault like mine!

'Yet even my very accusers saw how honourable was the charge they
brought against me, and, in order to overlay it with some shadow of
guilt, they falsely asserted that in the pursuit of my ambition I had
stained my conscience with sacrilegious acts. And yet thy spirit,
indwelling in me, had driven from the chamber of my soul all lust of
earthly success, and with thine eye ever upon me, there could be no
place left for sacrilege. For thou didst daily repeat in my ear and
instil into my mind the Pythagorean maxim, "Follow after God." It was
not likely, then, that I should covet the assistance of the vilest
spirits, when thou wert moulding me to such an excellence as should
conform me to the likeness of God. Again, the innocency of the inner
sanctuary of my home, the company of friends of the highest probity, a
father-in-law revered at once for his pure character and his active
beneficence, shield me from the very suspicion of sacrilege.
Yet--atrocious as it is--they even draw credence for this charge from
_thee_; I am like to be thought implicated in wickedness on this very
account, that I am imbued with _thy_ teachings and stablished in _thy_
ways. So it is not enough that my devotion to thee should profit me
nothing, but thou also must be assailed by reason of the odium which I
have incurred. Verily this is the very crown of my misfortunes, that
men's opinions for the most part look not to real merit, but to the
event; and only recognise foresight where Fortune has crowned the issue
with her approval. Whereby it comes to pass that reputation is the first
of all things to abandon the unfortunate. I remember with chagrin how
perverse is popular report, how various and discordant men's judgments.
This only will I say, that the most crushing of misfortune's burdens is,
that as soon as a charge is fastened upon the unhappy, they are believed
to have deserved their sufferings. I, for my part, who have been
banished from all life's blessings, stripped of my honours, stained in
repute, am punished for well-doing.

'And now methinks I see the villainous dens of the wicked surging with
joy and gladness, all the most recklessly unscrupulous threatening a new
crop of lying informations, the good prostrate with terror at my danger,
every ruffian incited by impunity to new daring and to success by the
profits of audacity, the guiltless not only robbed of their peace of
mind, but even of all means of defence. Wherefore I would fain cry out:

FOOTNOTES:

[C] The distance from Rome to Pavia, the place of Boethius'
imprisonment, is 455 Roman miles.



SONG V.

BOETHIUS' PRAYER.


'Builder of yon starry dome,
Thou that whirlest, throned eternal,
Heaven's swift globe, and, as they roam,
Guid'st the stars by laws supernal:
So in full-sphered splendour dight
Cynthia dims the lamps of night,
But unto the orb fraternal
Closer drawn,[D] doth lose her light.

'Who at fall of eventide,
Hesper, his cold radiance showeth,
Lucifer his beams doth hide,
Paling as the sun's light groweth,
Brief, while winter's frost holds sway,
By thy will the space of day;
Swift, when summer's fervour gloweth,
Speed the hours of night away.

'Thou dost rule the changing year:
When rude Boreas oppresses,
Fall the leaves; they reappear,
Wooed by Zephyr's soft caresses.
Fields that Sirius burns deep grown
By Arcturus' watch were sown:
Each the reign of law confesses,
Keeps the place that is his own.

'Sovereign Ruler, Lord of all!
Can it be that Thou disdainest
Only man? 'Gainst him, poor thrall,
Wanton Fortune plays her vainest.
Guilt's deserved punishment
Falleth on the innocent;
High uplifted, the profanest
On the just their malice vent.

'Virtue cowers in dark retreats,
Crime's foul stain the righteous beareth,
Perjury and false deceits
Hurt not him the wrong who dareth;
But whene'er the wicked trust
In ill strength to work their lust,
Kings, whom nations' awe declareth
Mighty, grovel in the dust.

'Look, oh look upon this earth,
Thou who on law's sure foundation
Framedst all! Have we no worth,
We poor men, of all creation?
Sore we toss on fortune's tide;
Master, bid the waves subside!
And earth's ways with consummation
Of Thy heaven's order guide!'


FOOTNOTES:

[D] The moon is regarded as farthest from the sun at the full, and, as
she wanes, approaching gradually nearer.



V.


When I had poured out my griefs in this long and unbroken strain of
lamentation, she, with calm countenance, and in no wise disturbed at my
complainings, thus spake:

'When I saw thee sorrowful, in tears, I straightway knew thee wretched
and an exile. But how far distant that exile I should not know, had not
thine own speech revealed it. Yet how far indeed from thy country hast
thou, not been banished, but rather hast strayed; or, if thou wilt have
it banishment, hast banished thyself! For no one else could ever
lawfully have had this power over thee. Now, if thou wilt call to mind
from what country thou art sprung, it is not ruled, as once was the
Athenian polity, by the sovereignty of the multitude, but "one is its
Ruler, one its King," who takes delight in the number of His citizens,
not in their banishment; to submit to whose governance and to obey
whose ordinances is perfect freedom. Art thou ignorant of that most
ancient law of this thy country, whereby it is decreed that no one
whatsoever, who hath chosen to fix there his dwelling, may be sent into
exile? For truly there is no fear that one who is encompassed by its
ramparts and defences should deserve to be exiled. But he who has ceased
to wish to dwell therein, he likewise ceases to deserve to do so. And so
it is not so much the aspect of this place which moves me, as thy
aspect; not so much the library walls set off with glass and ivory which
I miss, as the chamber of thy mind, wherein I once placed, not books,
but that which gives books their value, the doctrines which my books
contain. Now, what thou hast said of thy services to the commonweal is
true, only too little compared with the greatness of thy deservings. The
things laid to thy charge whereof thou hast spoken, whether such as
redound to thy credit, or mere false accusations, are publicly known. As
for the crimes and deceits of the informers, thou hast rightly deemed
it fitting to pass them over lightly, because the popular voice hath
better and more fully pronounced upon them. Thou hast bitterly
complained of the injustice of the senate. Thou hast grieved over my
calumniation, and likewise hast lamented the damage to my good name.
Finally, thine indignation blazed forth against fortune; thou hast
complained of the unfairness with which thy merits have been
recompensed. Last of all thy frantic muse framed a prayer that the peace
which reigns in heaven might rule earth also. But since a throng of
tumultuous passions hath assailed thy soul, since thou art distraught
with anger, pain, and grief, strong remedies are not proper for thee in
this thy present mood. And so for a time I will use milder methods, that
the tumours which have grown hard through the influx of disturbing
passion may be softened by gentle treatment, till they can bear the
force of sharper remedies.'



SONG VI.

ALL THINGS HAVE THEIR NEEDFUL ORDER


He who to th' unwilling furrows
Gives the generous grain,
When the Crab with baleful fervours
Scorches all the plain;
He shall find his garner bare,
Acorns for his scanty fare.

Go not forth to cull sweet violets
From the purpled steep,
While the furious blasts of winter
Through the valleys sweep;
Nor the grape o'erhasty bring
To the press in days of spring.

For to each thing God hath given
Its appointed time;
No perplexing change permits He
In His plan sublime.
So who quits the order due
Shall a luckless issue rue.



VI.


'First, then, wilt thou suffer me by a few questions to make some
attempt to test the state of thy mind, that I may learn in what way to
set about thy cure?'

'Ask what thou wilt,' said I, 'for I will answer whatever questions thou
choosest to put.'

Then said she: 'This world of ours--thinkest thou it is governed
haphazard and fortuitously, or believest thou that there is in it any
rational guidance?'

'Nay,' said I, 'in no wise may I deem that such fixed motions can be
determined by random hazard, but I know that God, the Creator, presideth
over His work, nor will the day ever come that shall drive me from
holding fast the truth of this belief.'

'Yes,' said she; 'thou didst even but now affirm it in song, lamenting
that men alone had no portion in the divine care. As to the rest, thou
wert unshaken in the belief that they were ruled by reason. Yet I
marvel exceedingly how, in spite of thy firm hold on this opinion, thou
art fallen into sickness. But let us probe more deeply: something or
other is missing, I think. Now, tell me, since thou doubtest not that
God governs the world, dost thou perceive by what means He rules it?'

'I scarcely understand what thou meanest,' I said, 'much less can I
answer thy question.'

'Did I not say truly that something is missing, whereby, as through a
breach in the ramparts, disease hath crept in to disturb thy mind? But,
tell me, dost thou remember the universal end towards which the aim of
all nature is directed?'

'I once heard,' said I, 'but sorrow hath dulled my recollection.'

'And yet thou knowest whence all things have proceeded.'

'Yes, that I know,' said I, 'and have answered that it is from God.'

'Yet how is it possible that thou knowest not what is the end of
existence, when thou dost understand its source and origin? However,
these disturbances of mind have force to shake a man's position, but
cannot pluck him up and root him altogether out of himself. But answer
this also, I pray thee: rememberest thou that thou art a man?'

'How should I not?' said I.

'Then, canst thou say what man is?'

'Is this thy question: Whether I know myself for a being endowed with
reason and subject to death? Surely I do acknowledge myself such.'

Then she: 'Dost know nothing else that thou art?'

'Nothing.'

'Now,' said she, 'I know another cause of thy disease, one, too, of
grave moment. Thou hast ceased to know thy own nature. So, then, I have
made full discovery both of the causes of thy sickness and the means of
restoring thy health. It is because forgetfulness of thyself hath
bewildered thy mind that thou hast bewailed thee as an exile, as one
stripped of the blessings that were his; it is because thou knowest not
the end of existence that thou deemest abominable and wicked men to be
happy and powerful; while, because thou hast forgotten by what means the
earth is governed, thou deemest that fortune's changes ebb and flow
without the restraint of a guiding hand. These are serious enough to
cause not sickness only, but even death; but, thanks be to the Author of
our health, the light of nature hath not yet left thee utterly. In thy
true judgment concerning the world's government, in that thou believest
it subject, not to the random drift of chance, but to divine reason, we
have the divine spark from which thy recovery may be hoped. Have, then,
no fear; from these weak embers the vital heat shall once more be
kindled within thee. But seeing that it is not yet time for strong
remedies, and that the mind is manifestly so constituted that when it
casts off true opinions it straightway puts on false, wherefrom arises a
cloud of confusion that disturbs its true vision, I will now try and
disperse these mists by mild and soothing application, that so the
darkness of misleading passion may be scattered, and thou mayst come to
discern the splendour of the true light.'



SONG VII.

THE PERTURBATIONS OF PASSION.


Stars shed no light
Through the black night,
When the clouds hide;
And the lashed wave,
If the winds rave
O'er ocean's tide,--

Though once serene
As day's fair sheen,--
Soon fouled and spoiled
By the storm's spite,
Shows to the sight
Turbid and soiled.

Oft the fair rill,
Down the steep hill
Seaward that strays,
Some tumbled block
Of fallen rock
Hinders and stays.

Then art thou fain
Clear and most plain
Truth to discern,
In the right way
Firmly to stay,
Nor from it turn?

Joy, hope and fear
Suffer not near,
Drive grief away:
Shackled and blind
And lost is the mind
Where these have sway.




BOOK II.

THE VANITY OF FORTUNE'S GIFTS


Summary

CH. I. Philosophy reproves Boethius for the foolishness of his
complaints against Fortune. Her very nature is caprice.--CH. II.
Philosophy in Fortune's name replies to Boethius' reproaches, and
proves that the gifts of Fortune are hers to give and to take
away.--CH. III. Boethius falls back upon his present sense of
misery. Philosophy reminds him of the brilliancy of his former
fortunes.--CH. IV. Boethius objects that the memory of past
happiness is the bitterest portion of the lot of the unhappy.
Philosophy shows that much is still left for which he may be
thankful. None enjoy perfect satisfaction with their lot. But
happiness depends not on anything which Fortune can give. It is to
be sought within.--CH. V. All the gifts of Fortune are external;
they can never truly be our own. Man cannot find his good in
worldly possessions. Riches bring anxiety and trouble.--CH. VI.
High place without virtue is an evil, not a good. Power is an empty
name.--CH. VII. Fame is a thing of little account when compared
with the immensity of the Universe and the endlessness of
Time.--CH. VIII. One service only can Fortune do, when she reveals
her own nature and distinguishes true friends from false.




BOOK II.



I.


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.'



SONG I.

FORTUNE'S MALICE.


Mad Fortune sweeps along in wanton pride,
Uncertain as Euripus' surging tide;
Now tramples mighty kings beneath her feet;
Now sets the conquered in the victor's seat.
She heedeth not the wail of hapless woe,
But mocks the griefs that from her mischief flow.
Such is her sport; so proveth she her power;
And great the marvel, when in one brief hour
She shows her darling lifted high in bliss,
Then headlong plunged in misery's abyss.



II.


'Now I would fain also reason with thee a little in Fortune's own words.
Do thou observe whether her contentions be just. "Man," she might say,
"why dost thou pursue me with thy daily complainings? What wrong have I
done thee? What goods of thine have I taken from thee? Choose an thou
wilt a judge, and let us dispute before him concerning the rightful
ownership of wealth and rank. If thou succeedest in showing that any one
of these things is the true property of mortal man, I freely grant those
things to be thine which thou claimest. When nature brought thee forth
out of thy mother's womb, I took thee, naked and destitute as thou wast,
I cherished thee with my substance, and, in the partiality of my favour
for thee, I brought thee up somewhat too indulgently, and this it is
which now makes thee rebellious against me. I surrounded thee with a
royal abundance of all those things that are in my power. Now it is my
pleasure to draw back my hand. Thou hast reason to thank me for the use
of what was not thine own; thou hast no right to complain, as if thou
hadst lost what was wholly thine. Why, then, dost bemoan thyself? I have
done thee no violence. Wealth, honour, and all such things are placed
under my control. My handmaidens know their mistress; with me they come,
and at my going they depart. I might boldly affirm that if those things
the loss of which thou lamentest had been thine, thou couldst never have
lost them. Am I alone to be forbidden to do what I will with my own?
Unrebuked, the skies now reveal the brightness of day, now shroud the
daylight in the darkness of night; the year may now engarland the face
of the earth with flowers and fruits, now disfigure it with storms and
cold. The sea is permitted to invite with smooth and tranquil surface
to-day, to-morrow to roughen with wave and storm. Shall man's insatiate
greed bind _me_ to a constancy foreign to my character? This is my art,
this the game I never cease to play. I turn the wheel that spins. I
delight to see the high come down and the low ascend. Mount up, if thou
wilt, but only on condition that thou wilt not think it a hardship to
come down when the rules of my game require it. Wert thou ignorant of my
character? Didst not know how Croesus, King of the Lydians, erstwhile
the dreaded rival of Cyrus, was afterwards pitiably consigned to the
flame of the pyre, and only saved by a shower sent from heaven? Has it
'scaped thee how Paullus paid a meed of pious tears to the misfortunes
of King Perseus, his prisoner? What else do tragedies make such woeful
outcry over save the overthrow of kingdoms by the indiscriminate strokes
of Fortune? Didst thou not learn in thy childhood how there stand at the
threshold of Zeus 'two jars,' 'the one full of blessings, the other of
calamities'? How if thou hast drawn over-liberally from the good jar?
What if not even now have I departed wholly from thee? What if this very
mutability of mine is a just ground for hoping better things? But listen
now, and cease to let thy heart consume away with fretfulness, nor
expect to live on thine own terms in a realm that is common to all.'



SONG II.

MAN'S COVETOUSNESS.


What though Plenty pour her gifts
With a lavish hand,
Numberless as are the stars,
Countless as the sand,
Will the race of man, content,
Cease to murmur and lament?

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