§ 6. CONCERNING MY VISIT TO EPICTETUS.
When I came to Hierapolis I found Epictetus keeping his bed and scarce able to move a limb. His master, he told me, had tortured him most cruelly, twisting his leg so as to force the bone from the socket; and the physician had declared that he would be lame for life. In answer to my execrations against all masters of slaves and Epaphroditus, his master, in particular, “Peace, my friend,” said Epictetus, “our masters are becoming better and not worse; and besides, ever since the sixth year of Claudius, we have a law in our favor. For, before, if we were turned out to die in the streets, and then were impudent enough to recover, our masters could claim us back again; but now the divine Claudius has decreed that if death spare us, our masters shall spare us also. However, my chief consolation lies not in the laws of Claudius, but in philosophy; for since you and I were last together, you must know I have become a philosopher.” “Prithee,” said I, “if slaves can indeed become philosophers, let me have some benefit of your philosophy; for assuredly I have need of it. Did not your philosophy fail you when that cruel wretch so wantonly injured you?” “Pardon me,” replied Epictetus, “he did not injure me, as indeed I explained to him at the time.” “Explain then to me,” said I, “this most mysterious riddle.” “I told him he could not injure me though he would injure himself. Hereon he retorted that he would break my leg. I replied, ‘In that case it would be broken, but what of that?’ At this he stared like a bull, and said that he would cut off my head. To that I rejoined, ‘And when did I ever tell you that I had a head of such a kind that it could not be cut off?’ Upon that he burst into a passion, threw me down, kicked me, and began to twist my leg. As he proceeded, I warned him and said, ‘If you continue, you will certainly break it.’ He continued; and then I said to him, ‘There, now my leg is broken; but you have not injured me, but only my leg and perhaps yourself.’”
All this seemed to me new and yet not new. Sitting down on the bench beside his pallet, I said, “Well, but, Epictetus, this differs not much from the philosophy of the Stoics or the Cynics.” “I did not maintain,” replied he, “that my philosophy was new. Nevertheless I do not perceive that it is very common in these parts.” “You mistake,” said I, “a great many in Hierapolis read Chrysippus, and not a few even in Colossæ.” “Read Chrysippus,” exclaimed my friend with a laugh. “Yes, read Chrysippus, but how many act Chrysippus? Much as if we were to go to a wrestler, and say to him, ‘Come, Milo, shew us how you can give your adversary a fall,’ and Milo should reply, ‘Nay, rather step into the next room, and feel the weight of my dumb bells.’” Then he turned affectionately to me and said, “It is not the object of life, my dearest Onesimus, to have read the hundred and forty volumes of Chrysippus, but to put the precepts of Chrysippus in use, and so set them before men in a brief form fit for use; and this is what I am endeavoring to do.” “Set them before me then,” said I, “for Zeus knows that if you have any philosophy fit for use, I can find use for it. What therefore is the foundation of your philosophy?”
“The foundation,” replied my friend, “consists in the distinguishing of things in our power from things not in our power. The things that are needful are in our power, viz. justice, temperance, truthfulness, courage and the like; but the things that are not in our power are not needful, such as wealth, beauty, reputation, health, pleasure, life and the rest. Many philosophers admit this in word, but do not carry it out in deed, partly because they talk much and do little, and being immersed in speculations are not ready for actions, when the hour for action is at hand. But if a man have this foundation once solidly built within his heart so as to be able to base all his actions on it, from that time he will be perfectly free and do all things according to his own will. Therefore make up your mind once for all what is your object in life; what it is you want. A dinner? or to escape a whipping? Well, then, you will do your master’s bidding to gain your dinner, or to escape a whipping. But a philosopher will not do this, because he does not fear hunger, nor a whipping, nor any master. ‘What,’ you say, ‘must not a philosopher fear Cæsar?’ No, for he does not fear the things that Cæsar can bring. For, mark you, no one fears Cæsar in himself, but only the things that Cæsar brings with him, such as the sword, banishment, poverty, torture, disgrace. But fetch me Cæsar here without his thunders and lightnings, and see how bold the veriest coward will be. Why then should a philosopher fear Cæsar, since he has no fear of Cæsar’s thunder and lightning?
“Distinguish therefore between what you can and what you cannot do, and in that knowledge you will find freedom. If you are thoroughly persuaded in your inmost mind that those things only are yours which are really yours and which are needful to you, then you will aim at nothing which you will not attain; you will never attempt anything with any kind of violence to yourself; you will blame no one, you will accuse no one; nobody will ever hinder you from the accomplishment of your desires; in fine, you will never be subject to the least regret. Take an instance. My leg, you will observe, is inflamed, and it has certain sensations which are called painful. Good: that is the popular manner of speaking. But it is a mere imagination. My inflamed leg does not hinder me from being honest, just, and courageous; in other words from attaining the objects of existence and the aim of all my desires. Consequently I have accustomed myself to bear always in mind that pain of this kind does not concern me and is no real evil. For it is of the nature of things that have no dependence on me. ‘But you will be lame for life,’ say you. That is very probable, and indeed our physician tells me it is certain. But what then? When I am lame, my lameness will be an obstruction to my feet in walking, but not to my will in doing what it is inclined to do. It follows that sorrow and the signs of sorrow such as weeping and groaning, are all the mere results of false conceptions and imaginations. What is misfortune? Prejudice. What is weeping? Prejudice. What are complaints, discontents, repining, fretfulness, restlessness? All so many forms of prejudice, and prejudice moreover concerning things uncontrollable by the will.”
He paused. “You have defined sorrow,” said I, “and how do you define death?” “A mere mask,” he replied. “It has no teeth. Turn it on the other side and you will find it does not bite you. It is a mere going away. Life is as it were a feast. At birth God opens the door to you, and says, ‘Enter.’ At death, the feast being now ended, God opens the door to you once again and says ‘Depart.’ Whither? To nothing terrible. Only to the source whence you came forth. To that which is friendly and congenial: to the elements. What in you was fire, goes away to the fire; what earth, to earth; what air, to air; what water, to water. There is no Hades, nor Acheron, nor Cocytus, nor Pyriphlegethon; but all is full of gods and divine beings. He who can think of the whole universe as his home, and can look upon the sun, moon and stars as his friends, and enjoy the companionship of the earth and sea, he is no more solitary nor helpless exile. Let death come to you when he will. Can death banish you from the universe? You know he cannot. Go where you may, there will be still a sun, moon, and stars, dreams and auguries and communications with the Gods.”
I interrupted him. “You say there is no Hades; are there then no Elysian fields?” “I do not know,” replied he; “but why seek any greater reward for a good man than the doing of what is good? After being thought worthy by God to be introduced into His great City, the Universe, so that you may discharge for him the duties of a man, do you still cry for something more, like a baby for its food? Do you need coaxing and sweetmeats to induce you to do what is right? Be not like a bad actor that forgets the part assigned to him, when he steps upon the stage. ‘I was sent in this world to play a part.’ Well said, Mr. Actor; and what part? ‘The part of a witness for God.’ Good: repeat your part. ‘I am miserable, O Lord; I am undone; no mortal cares for me; no mortal gives me what I want.’ What babble is this! Away with the fool. He has forgotten his part; hiss him off the stage.
“Or take another of my metaphors. God is your general, and you must be to him a loyal, obedient soldier, having sworn an oath of obedience, which you will sooner die than break. Dost Thou wish me to live? I live. To die? Then farewell. How wouldst Thou have me serve Thee? As a soldier? Then I go cheerfully to the wars. As a slave? I obey. Whatever post Thou shalt assign to me, I will die a thousand times rather than desert it. Where wouldst Thou that I should serve Thee? In Rome, or in Athens, or in Thebes? Thou art not absent from populous cities. Or on the rock of Gyarus? Thou wilt be with me even there. Only if thou shouldst send me to live where it is no longer possible to live conformably with nature, then, but not till then, should I depart, accepting as it were Thy signal of recall.”
Here he made an end, and I sat for some time silent. His words were to me as a trumpet-blast arousing within me a host of virtuous resolutions, which I at that time mistook for virtuous acts, and thought myself already an athlete or a hero; even as a drunken man supposes himself Heracles, or as the reader of the hundred and forty-three volumes of Chrysippus believes himself to be a man of virtue. Presently I arose and thanked him, saying that I went forth as it were to the Olympian contest, to put in use the precepts of Epictetus my trainer. He smiled, and as I went forth from his chamber, he called after me, “Yes, but Onesimus, for this contest you need not wait four years.”