Book: The Consolation of Philosophy

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'Besides, the straitened bounds of this scant dwelling-place are
inhabited by many nations differing widely in speech, in usages, in mode
of life; to many of these, from the difficulty of travel, from
diversities of speech, from want of commercial intercourse, the fame not
only of individual men, but even of cities, is unable to reach. Why, in
Cicero's days, as he himself somewhere points out, the fame of the Roman
Republic had not yet crossed the Caucasus, and yet by that time her
name had grown formidable to the Parthians and other nations of those
parts. Seest thou, then, how narrow, how confined, is the glory ye take
pains to spread abroad and extend! Can the fame of a single Roman
penetrate where the glory of the Roman name fails to pass? Moreover, the
customs and institutions of different races agree not together, so that
what is deemed praise worthy in one country is thought punishable in
another. Wherefore, if any love the applause of fame, it shall not
profit him to publish his name among many peoples. Then, each must be
content to have the range of his glory limited to his own people; the
splendid immortality of fame must be confined within the bounds of a
single race.

'Once more, how many of high renown in their own times have been lost in
oblivion for want of a record! Indeed, of what avail are written records
even, which, with their authors, are overtaken by the dimness of age
after a somewhat longer time? But ye, when ye think on future fame,
fancy it an immortality that ye are begetting for yourselves. Why, if
thou scannest the infinite spaces of eternity, what room hast thou left
for rejoicing in the durability of thy name? Verily, if a single
moment's space be compared with ten thousand years, it has a certain
relative duration, however little, since each period is definite. But
this same number of years--ay, and a number many times as great--cannot
even be compared with endless duration; for, indeed, finite periods may
in a sort be compared one with another, but a finite and an infinite
never. So it comes to pass that fame, though it extend to ever so wide a
space of years, if it be compared to never-lessening eternity, seems not
short-lived merely, but altogether nothing. But as for you, ye know not
how to act aright, unless it be to court the popular breeze, and win the
empty applause of the multitude--nay, ye abandon the superlative worth
of conscience and virtue, and ask a recompense from the poor words of
others. Let me tell thee how wittily one did mock the shallowness of
this sort of arrogance. A certain man assailed one who had put on the
name of philosopher as a cloak to pride and vain-glory, not for the
practice of real virtue, and added: "Now shall I know if thou art a
philosopher if thou bearest reproaches calmly and patiently." The other
for awhile affected to be patient, and, having endured to be abused,
cried out derisively: "_Now_, do you see that I am a philosopher?" The
other, with biting sarcasm, retorted: "I should have hadst thou held thy
peace." Moreover, what concern have choice spirits--for it is of such
men we speak, men who seek glory by virtue--what concern, I say, have
these with fame after the dissolution of the body in death's last hour?
For if men die wholly--which our reasonings forbid us to believe--there
is no such thing as glory at all, since he to whom the glory is said to
belong is altogether non-existent. But if the mind, conscious of its own
rectitude, is released from its earthly prison, and seeks heaven in free
flight, doth it not despise all earthly things when it rejoices in its
deliverance from earthly bonds, and enters upon the joys of heaven?'



SONG VII.

GLORY MAY NOT LAST.


Oh, let him, who pants for glory's guerdon,
Deeming glory all in all,
Look and see how wide the heaven expandeth,
Earth's enclosing bounds how small!

Shame it is, if your proud-swelling glory
May not fill this narrow room!
Why, then, strive so vainly, oh, ye proud ones!
To escape your mortal doom?

Though your name, to distant regions bruited,
O'er the earth be widely spread,
Though full many a lofty-sounding title
On your house its lustre shed,

Death at all this pomp and glory spurneth
When his hour draweth nigh,
Shrouds alike th' exalted and the humble,
Levels lowest and most high.

Where are now the bones of stanch Fabricius?
Brutus, Cato--where are they?
Lingering fame, with a few graven letters,
Doth their empty name display.

But to know the great dead is not given
From a gilded name alone;
Nay, ye all alike must lie forgotten,
'Tis not _you_ that fame makes known.

Fondly do ye deem life's little hour
Lengthened by fame's mortal breath;
There but waits you--when this, too, is taken--
At the last a second death.



VIII.


'But that thou mayst not think that I wage implacable warfare against
Fortune, I own there is a time when the deceitful goddess serves men
well--I mean when she reveals herself, uncovers her face, and confesses
her true character. Perhaps thou dost not yet grasp my meaning. Strange
is the thing I am trying to express, and for this cause I can scarce
find words to make clear my thought. For truly I believe that Ill
Fortune is of more use to men than Good Fortune. For Good Fortune, when
she wears the guise of happiness, and most seems to caress, is always
lying; Ill Fortune is always truthful, since, in changing, she shows her
inconstancy. The one deceives, the other teaches; the one enchains the
minds of those who enjoy her favour by the semblance of delusive good,
the other delivers them by the knowledge of the frail nature of
happiness. Accordingly, thou mayst see the one fickle, shifting as the
breeze, and ever self-deceived; the other sober-minded, alert, and wary,
by reason of the very discipline of adversity. Finally, Good Fortune, by
her allurements, draws men far from the true good; Ill Fortune ofttimes
draws men back to true good with grappling-irons. Again, should it be
esteemed a trifling boon, thinkest thou, that this cruel, this odious
Fortune hath discovered to thee the hearts of thy faithful friends--that
other hid from thee alike the faces of the true friends and of the
false, but in departing she hath taken away _her_ friends, and left thee
_thine_? What price wouldst thou not have given for this service in the
fulness of thy prosperity when thou seemedst to thyself fortunate?
Cease, then, to seek the wealth thou hast lost, since in true friends
thou hast found the most precious of all riches.'



SONG VIII.

LOVE IS LORD OF ALL.


Why are Nature's changes bound
To a fixed and ordered round?
What to leagued peace hath bent
Every warring element?
Wherefore doth the rosy morn
Rise on Phoebus' car upborne?
Why should Phoebe rule the night,
Led by Hesper's guiding light?
What the power that doth restrain
In his place the restless main,
That within fixed bounds he keeps,
Nor o'er earth in deluge sweeps?
Love it is that holds the chains,
Love o'er sea and earth that reigns;
Love--whom else but sovereign Love?--
Love, high lord in heaven above!
Yet should he his care remit,
All that now so close is knit
In sweet love and holy peace,
Would no more from conflict cease,
But with strife's rude shock and jar
All the world's fair fabric mar.

Tribes and nations Love unites
By just treaty's sacred rites;
Wedlock's bonds he sanctifies
By affection's softest ties.
Love appointeth, as is due,
Faithful laws to comrades true--
Love, all-sovereign Love!--oh, then,
Ye are blest, ye sons of men,
If the love that rules the sky
In your hearts is throned on high!




BOOK III.

TRUE HAPPINESS AND FALSE.


SUMMARY

CH. I. Boethius beseeches Philosophy to continue. She promises to
lead him to true happiness.--CH. II. Happiness is the one end which
all created beings seek. They aim variously at (_a_) wealth, or
(_b_) rank, or (_c_) sovereignty, or (_d_) glory, or (_e_)
pleasure, because they think thereby to attain either (_a_)
contentment, (_b_) reverence, (_c_) power, (_d_) renown, or (_e_)
gladness of heart, in one or other of which they severally imagine
happiness to consist.--CH. III. Philosophy proceeds to consider
whether happiness can really be secured in any of these ways, (_a_)
So far from bringing contentment, riches only add to men's
wants.--CH. IV. (_b_) High position cannot of itself win respect.
Titles command no reverence in distant and barbarous lands. They
even fall into contempt through lapse of time.--CH. V. (_c_)
Sovereignty cannot even bestow safety. History tells of the
downfall of kings and their ministers. Tyrants go in fear of their
lives. --CH. VI. (_d_) Fame conferred on the unworthy is but
disgrace. The splendour of noble birth is not a man's own, but his
ancestors'.--CH. VII. (_e_) Pleasure begins in the restlessness of
desire, and ends in repentance. Even the pure pleasures of home may
turn to gall and bitterness.--CH. VIII. All fail, then, to give
what they promise. There is, moreover, some accompanying evil
involved in each of these aims. Beauty and bodily strength are
likewise of little worth. In strength man is surpassed by the
brutes; beauty is but outward show.--CH. IX. The source of men's
error in following these phantoms of good is that _they break up
and separate that which is in its nature one and indivisible_.
Contentment, power, reverence, renown, and joy are essentially
bound up one with the other, and, if they are to be attained at
all, must be attained _together_. True happiness, if it can be
found, will include them all. But it cannot be found among the
perishable things hitherto considered.--CH. X. Such a happiness
necessarily exists. Its seat is in God. Nay, God is very happiness,
and in a manner, therefore, the happy man partakes also of the
Divine nature. All other ends are relative to this good, since they
are all pursued only for the sake of good; it is _good_ which is
the sole ultimate end. And since the sole end is also happiness, it
is plain that this good and happiness are in essence the same.--CH.
XI. Unity is another aspect of goodness. Now, all things subsist so
long only as they preserve the unity of their being; when they lose
this unity, they perish. But the bent of nature forces all things
(plants and inanimate things, as well as animals) to strive to
continue in life. Therefore, all things desire unity, for unity is
essential to life. But unity and goodness were shown to be the
same. Therefore, good is proved to be the end towards which the
whole universe tends.[E]--CH. XII. Boethius acknowledges that he is
but recollecting truths he once knew. Philosophy goes on to show
that it is goodness also by which the whole world is governed.[F]
Boethius professes compunction for his former folly. But the
paradox of evil is introduced, and he is once more perplexed.


FOOTNOTES:

[E] This solves the second of the points left in doubt at the end of bk.
i., ch. vi.

[F] This solves the third. No distinct account is given of the first,
but an answer may be gathered from the general argument of bks. ii.,
iii., and iv.




BOOK III.



I.


She ceased, but I stood fixed by the sweetness of the song in wonderment
and eager expectation, my ears still strained to listen. And then after
a little I said: 'Thou sovereign solace of the stricken soul, what
refreshment hast thou brought me, no less by the sweetness of thy
singing than by the weightiness of thy discourse! Verily, I think not
that I shall hereafter be unequal to the blows of Fortune. Wherefore, I
no longer dread the remedies which thou saidst were something too severe
for my strength; nay, rather, I am eager to hear of them and call for
them with all vehemence.'

Then said she: 'I marked thee fastening upon my words silently and
intently, and I expected, or--to speak more truly--I myself brought
about in thee, this state of mind. What now remains is of such sort that
to the taste indeed it is biting, but when received within it turns to
sweetness. But whereas thou dost profess thyself desirous of hearing,
with what ardour wouldst thou not burn didst thou but perceive whither
it is my task to lead thee!'

'Whither?' said I.

'To true felicity,' said she, 'which even now thy spirit sees in dreams,
but cannot behold in very truth, while thine eyes are engrossed with
semblances.'

Then said I: 'I beseech thee, do thou show to me her true shape without
a moment's loss.'

'Gladly will I, for thy sake,' said she. 'But first I will try to sketch
in words, and describe a cause which is more familiar to thee, that,
when thou hast viewed this carefully, thou mayst turn thy eyes the other
way, and recognise the beauty of true happiness.'



SONG I.

THE THORNS OF ERROR.


Who fain would sow the fallow field,
And see the growing corn,
Must first remove the useless weeds,
The bramble and the thorn.

After ill savour, honey's taste
Is to the mouth more sweet;
After the storm, the twinkling stars
The eyes more cheerly greet.

When night hath past, the bright dawn comes
In car of rosy hue;
So drive the false bliss from thy mind,
And thou shall see the true.



II.


For a little space she remained in a fixed gaze, withdrawn, as it were,
into the august chamber of her mind; then she thus began:

'All mortal creatures in those anxious aims which find employment in so
many varied pursuits, though they take many paths, yet strive to reach
one goal--the goal of happiness. Now, _the good_ is that which, when a
man hath got, he can lack nothing further. This it is which is the
supreme good of all, containing within itself all particular good; so
that if anything is still wanting thereto, this cannot be the supreme
good, since something would be left outside which might be desired. 'Tis
clear, then, that happiness is a state perfected by the assembling
together of all good things. To this state, as we have said, all men try
to attain, but by different paths. For the desire of the true good is
naturally implanted in the minds of men; only error leads them aside out
of the way in pursuit of the false. Some, deeming it the highest good to
want for nothing, spare no pains to attain affluence; others, judging
the good to be that to which respect is most worthily paid, strive to
win the reverence of their fellow-citizens by the attainment of official
dignity. Some there are who fix the chief good in supreme power; these
either wish themselves to enjoy sovereignty, or try to attach themselves
to those who have it. Those, again, who think renown to be something of
supreme excellence are in haste to spread abroad the glory of their name
either through the arts of war or of peace. A great many measure the
attainment of good by joy and gladness of heart; these think it the
height of happiness to give themselves over to pleasure. Others there
are, again, who interchange the ends and means one with the other in
their aims; for instance, some want riches for the sake of pleasure and
power, some covet power either for the sake of money or in order to
bring renown to their name. So it is on these ends, then, that the aim
of human acts and wishes is centred, and on others like to these--for
instance, noble birth and popularity, which seem to compass a certain
renown; wife and children, which are sought for the sweetness of their
possession; while as for friendship, the most sacred kind indeed is
counted in the category of virtue, not of fortune; but other kinds are
entered upon for the sake of power or of enjoyment. And as for bodily
excellences, it is obvious that they are to be ranged with the above.
For strength and stature surely manifest power; beauty and fleetness of
foot bring celebrity; health brings pleasure. It is plain, then, that
the only object sought for in all these ways is _happiness_. For that
which each seeks in preference to all else, that is in his judgment the
supreme good. And we have defined the supreme good to be happiness.
Therefore, that state which each wishes in preference to all others is
in his judgment happy.

'Thou hast, then, set before thine eyes something like a scheme of human
happiness--wealth, rank, power, glory, pleasure. Now Epicurus, from a
sole regard to these considerations, with some consistency concluded the
highest good to be pleasure, because all the other objects seem to bring
some delight to the soul. But to return to human pursuits and aims:
man's mind seeks to recover its proper good, in spite of the mistiness
of its recollection, but, like a drunken man, knows not by what path to
return home. Think you they are wrong who strive to escape want? Nay,
truly there is nothing which can so well complete happiness as a state
abounding in all good things, needing nothing from outside, but wholly
self-sufficing. Do they fall into error who deem that which is best to
be also best deserving to receive the homage of reverence? Not at all.
That cannot possibly be vile and contemptible, to attain which the
endeavours of nearly all mankind are directed. Then, is power not to be
reckoned in the category of good? Why, can that which is plainly more
efficacious than anything else be esteemed a thing feeble and void of
strength? Or is renown to be thought of no account? Nay, it cannot be
ignored that the highest renown is constantly associated with the
highest excellence. And what need is there to say that happiness is not
haunted by care and gloom, nor exposed to trouble and vexation, since
that is a condition we ask of the very least of things, from the
possession and enjoyment of which we expect delight? So, then, these are
the blessings men wish to win; they want riches, rank, sovereignty,
glory, pleasure, because they believe that by these means they will
secure independence, reverence, power, renown, and joy of heart.
Therefore, it is _the good_ which men seek by such divers courses; and
herein is easily shown the might of Nature's power, since, although
opinions are so various and discordant, yet they agree in cherishing
_good_ as the end.'



SONG II.

THE BENT OF NATURE.


How the might of Nature sways
All the world in ordered ways,
How resistless laws control
Each least portion of the whole--
Fain would I in sounding verse
On my pliant strings rehearse.

Lo, the lion captive ta'en
Meekly wears his gilded chain;
Yet though he by hand be fed,
Though a master's whip he dread,
If but once the taste of gore
Whet his cruel lips once more,
Straight his slumbering fierceness wakes,
With one roar his bonds he breaks,
And first wreaks his vengeful force
On his trainer's mangled corse.

And the woodland songster, pent
In forlorn imprisonment,
Though a mistress' lavish care
Store of honeyed sweets prepare;
Yet, if in his narrow cage,
As he hops from bar to bar,
He should spy the woods afar,
Cool with sheltering foliage,
All these dainties he will spurn,
To the woods his heart will turn;
Only for the woods he longs,
Pipes the woods in all his songs.

To rude force the sapling bends,
While the hand its pressure lends;
If the hand its pressure slack,
Straight the supple wood springs back.
Phoebus in the western main
Sinks; but swift his car again
By a secret path is borne
To the wonted gates of morn.

Thus are all things seen to yearn
In due time for due return;
And no order fixed may stay,
Save which in th' appointed way
Joins the end to the beginning
In a steady cycle spinning.



III.


'Ye, too, creatures of earth, have some glimmering of your origin,
however faint, and though in a vision dim and clouded, yet in some wise,
notwithstanding, ye discern the true end of happiness, and so the aim of
nature leads you thither--to that true good--while error in many forms
leads you astray therefrom. For reflect whether men are able to win
happiness by those means through which they think to reach the proposed
end. Truly, if either wealth, rank, or any of the rest, bring with them
anything of such sort as seems to have nothing wanting to it that is
good, we, too, acknowledge that some are made happy by the acquisition
of these things. But if they are not able to fulfil their promises, and,
moreover, lack many good things, is not the happiness men seek in them
clearly discovered to be a false show? Therefore do I first ask thee
thyself, who but lately wert living in affluence, amid all that
abundance of wealth, was thy mind never troubled in consequence of some
wrong done to thee?'

'Nay,' said I, 'I cannot ever remember a time when my mind was so
completely at peace as not to feel the pang of some uneasiness.'

'Was it not because either something was absent which thou wouldst not
have absent, or present which thou wouldst have away?'

'Yes,' said I.

'Then, thou didst want the presence of the one, the absence of the
other?'

'Admitted.'

'But a man lacks that of which he is in want?'

'He does.'

'And he who lacks something is not in all points self-sufficing?'

'No; certainly not,' said I.

'So wert thou, then, in the plenitude of thy wealth, supporting this
insufficiency?'

'I must have been.'

'Wealth, then, cannot make its possessor independent and free from all
want, yet this was what it seemed to promise. Moreover, I think this
also well deserves to be considered--that there is nothing in the
special nature of money to hinder its being taken away from those who
possess it against their will.'

'I admit it.'

'Why, of course, when every day the stronger wrests it from the weaker
without his consent. Else, whence come lawsuits, except in seeking to
recover moneys which have been taken away against their owner's will by
force or fraud?'

'True,' said I.

'Then, everyone will need some extraneous means of protection to keep
his money safe.'

'Who can venture to deny it?'

'Yet he would not, unless he possessed the money which it is possible to
lose.'

'No; he certainly would not.'

'Then, we have worked round to an opposite conclusion: the wealth which
was thought to make a man independent rather puts him in need of further
protection. How in the world, then, can want be driven away by riches?
Cannot the rich feel hunger? Cannot they thirst? Are not the limbs of
the wealthy sensitive to the winter's cold? "But," thou wilt say, "the
rich have the wherewithal to sate their hunger, the means to get rid of
thirst and cold." True enough; want can thus be soothed by riches,
wholly removed it cannot be. For if this ever-gaping, ever-craving want
is glutted by wealth, it needs must be that the want itself which can be
so glutted still remains. I do not speak of how very little suffices for
nature, and how for avarice nothing is enough. Wherefore, if wealth
cannot get rid of want, and makes new wants of its own, how can ye
believe that it bestows independence?'



SONG III.

THE INSATIABLENESS OF AVARICE.


Though the covetous grown wealthy
See his piles of gold rise high;
Though he gather store of treasure
That can never satisfy;
Though with pearls his gorget blazes,
Rarest that the ocean yields;
Though a hundred head of oxen
Travail in his ample fields;
Ne'er shall carking care forsake him
While he draws this vital breath,
And his riches go not with him,
When his eyes are closed in death.



IV.


'Well, but official dignity clothes him to whom it comes with honour and
reverence! Have, then, offices of state such power as to plant virtue in
the minds of their possessors, and drive out vice? Nay, they are rather
wont to signalize iniquity than to chase it away, and hence arises our
indignation that honours so often fall to the most iniquitous of men.
Accordingly, Catullus calls Nonius an "ulcer-spot," though "sitting in
the curule chair." Dost not see what infamy high position brings upon
the bad? Surely their unworthiness will be less conspicuous if their
rank does not draw upon them the public notice! In thy own case, wouldst
thou ever have been induced by all these perils to think of sharing
office with Decoratus, since thou hast discerned in him the spirit of a
rascally parasite and informer? No; we cannot deem men worthy of
reverence on account of their office, whom we deem unworthy of the
office itself. But didst thou see a man endued with wisdom, couldst thou
suppose him not worthy of reverence, nor of that wisdom with which he
was endued?'

'No; certainly not.'

'There is in Virtue a dignity of her own which she forthwith passes over
to those to whom she is united. And since public honours cannot do this,
it is clear that they do not possess the true beauty of dignity. And
here this well deserves to be noticed--that if a man is the more scorned
in proportion as he is despised by a greater number, high position not
only fails to win reverence for the wicked, but even loads them the more
with contempt by drawing more attention to them. But not without
retribution; for the wicked pay back a return in kind to the dignities
they put on by the pollution of their touch. Perhaps, too, another
consideration may teach thee to confess that true reverence cannot come
through these counterfeit dignities. It is this: If one who had been
many times consul chanced to visit barbaric lands, would his office win
him the reverence of the barbarians? And yet if reverence were the
natural effect of dignities, they would not forego their proper function
in any part of the world, even as fire never anywhere fails to give
forth heat. But since this effect is not due to their own efficacy, but
is attached to them by the mistaken opinion of mankind, they disappear
straightway when they are set before those who do not esteem them
dignities. Thus the case stands with foreign peoples. But does their
repute last for ever, even in the land of their origin? Why, the
prefecture, which was once a great power, is now an empty name--a burden
merely on the senator's fortune; the commissioner of the public corn
supply was once a personage--now what is more contemptible than this
office? For, as we said just now, that which hath no true comeliness of
its own now receives, now loses, lustre at the caprice of those who have
to do with it. So, then, if dignities cannot win men reverence, if they
are actually sullied by the contamination of the wicked, if they lose
their splendour through time's changes, if they come into contempt
merely for lack of public estimation, what precious beauty have they in
themselves, much less to give to others?'

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