Onesimus

“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.”

§ 7. HOW I TRIED THE PHILOSOPHY OF EPICTETUS

Epictetus was right; I had not long to wait for the contest of which he spoke. It began on the morrow, and continued without intermission; for day by day I was constrained to be present at the meetings of the Christians, and day by day Philemon questioned me whether I had not now at last been persuaded, and whether I was not willing now to be baptized. However, I followed the advice of Epictetus, and said to myself, “Truthfulness is in my power, but the goodwill of Philemon is not in my power, therefore it does not concern me, and I will not trouble myself about it.” But, in the evening of each day, when I perceived that the breach was widening between me and my master, and when I called to mind that it depended on him whether I should be free or a slave, and united to Eucharis or parted from her for ever, then my mind misgave me that I could not honestly say, “His goodwill concerns me not.” Oftentimes I checked myself, saying that I was placed in the Universe as a sentinel by God, and that I must not neglect my post wherever it might be; but as often as these words came to my memory, there came others also, namely that “if we were placed by him where we could not live conformably to nature, then we might accept this as the voice of a trumpet, sounding recall and bidding us quit this life for another.” And said I to myself, can it be considered living according to nature, that I should live in subjection to such a servitude as this? Or is it living according to nature, to be removed from all learning, just when I have been trained to use and enjoy it? and to live apart from all friends, consorting with none but slavish dispositions? and, in a word, having many faculties trained to noble uses, to be placed in a position where all those faculties must needs rust unused?

Meanwhile the conduct of Pistus widened the breach between my master and me and altogether envenomed my very soul against the faith. This man had been Philemon’s secretary during my absence at Athens; and now, finding himself like to be supplanted, he began to alienate Philemon from me by sly insinuations, hints, letters unsigned in a strange hand, and sometimes also by open questions cunningly asked of me in Philemon’s presence. As, for example, on the day when I had visited Epictetus, he asked me, in my master’s hearing, whether Epaphroditus was in good health, he being the master of Epictetus, and a very dissolute man. When I said “Yes, as far as I knew,” I could see from Philemon’s countenance that he greatly disliked my going thither; and I at once explained that I had not gone to see, nor had I seen, Epaphroditus himself, but only his slave Epictetus, who was sick. Yet the cloud on my master’s brow did not altogether vanish; and he did not forget it. For that same evening he took me aside, saying that it was time to have done with youthful passions and caprices, and had I considered his proposal—not about baptism, for he would not at that season make mention of higher matters—but concerning marriage, and was I willing to marry Prepousa? I said “No.” Hereat he became very grave, saying that it was a very suitable match for me, and well fitted to keep me from evil courses, such as young men were liable to; and he bade me think further of it and meantime to be more discreet what company I kept, for he disliked that I should so much as enter the house of such a one as Epaphroditus, though it were but to visit a sick slave. It was all in vain that I attempted (perhaps too obscurely, for I could not now speak freely with Philemon as in old days) to explain that I stood in need of counsel and that I had gone to Epictetus for it. “That is settled”—was all he had to say, before he dismissed me to my chamber. Only, as I was departing, he called me back, and asked me whether I had at least given up the thought of Eucharis. I said “No.” To which he replied that he was very sorry for that, for he could not consent that my soul should be ensnared by such a marriage, and so long as I entertained that foolish passion it was not possible for him to entertain the project of emancipating me. So saying, he dismissed me to my chamber, speechless with passion. In this mood I took up my pen and wrote thus to Epictetus:—

“ONESIMUS TO EPICTETUS, HEALTH.

“I leaned on your philosophy, and it has proved a broken reed. No longer can I live under the insupportable yoke of my slavery here. Yet what am I to do? I cannot live conformably to nature. ‘Then die,’ say you. And what then becomes of Eucharis, who would break her heart for my departure? Your philosophy takes no account of wife, or children, or those dear friends who are second selves. Their happiness is not in your control; and yet how can you be tranquil in their unhappiness? Answer me that.

“One question more. A fellow here, a Paphlagonian, one Pistus, is poisoning Philemon’s mind against me, drops notes, in a strange hand and nameless, accusing me of deceit, theft, frequenting brothels and all manner of impurity. His last stroke has been to persuade Philemon to forbid me from visiting you. I hate him, and intend to hate him. Does your philosophy allow of hate?

“A third question. You say, We are soldiers and must die sooner than desert our post. But who shall go bail for our General, that he is not a fool or a knave, or anything but a name? Looking on the battle-field of the Universe I see a conflict but the issue doubtful; no signs of generalship, or at least of victory; in one place joy, in three places sorrow; pleasure here, pain there; virtue sometimes prevailing, more often vice; one master, twenty slaves; animals preying (by necessity) on other animals; men (by necessity or choice?) oppressing other men; everywhere conflict, the General nowhere. Read me these riddles, or be no Œdipus for me.

“Pardon me, dearest friend and guide, but I am beside myself with passion, anxious, not for myself but for one beyond the seas, who sits awaiting tidings from me and feels her life to be bound up with mine. Strong in your presence, absent from you I am most weak. Impart, I beseech you, some of your strength to one who sorely needs it.”

§ 8. HOW I WAS ACCUSED OF THEFT BY THE DEVICES OF PISTUS

At this time, and before I had heard from Epictetus, I received a letter from Eucharis. After some delay, vainly hoping to be able to impart more joyful tidings, I had written to her putting as bright a color on the future as I could, but not concealing Philemon’s strong objections and present refusal; and now I received her answer. It was inclosed in a letter from Molon, in which he spoke of his class and his pupils, and hoped that I was continuing my studies at Colossæ, entering also into details about his recent lectures; at the close of his letter he added that Eucharis was not in good health, and that he feared she was troubled in her mind, being infected with superstition. Her old nurse Thallousa affirmed that she had been fascinated by the evil eye; but he thought the mischief had been in part caused by certain women of her acquaintance, Christians from Corinth, who had brought to Athens some strange rites and doctrines of one Paulus, and who seemed to have disturbed her mind. However he trusted that her trouble would pass away when better tidings came from Colossæ. The letter from Eucharis was to this effect.

“Do not cease to hope, dearest Onesimus. If I grieve, it is because I seem to see thee grieving. Could I but know that thou wert hopeful, I also could be both hopeful and happy. Thallousa would fain console me, when I weep, by telling me sad stories of others who have loved and have been made sad by separation, but I am not so cruel as to be made happy because others are sad; so I seek comfort elsewhere. Dearest, when we were last together, some doubtful words fell from thy lips, questioning, methought, whether there be any Elysian fields such as the poets sing of. Yet does it not seem (this present world being so very full of sadness) that there must needs be some Isles of the Blessed, called by whatever name, where those whom hard fate has divided here, but whom the good gods must surely destine to be some day united, shall meet, again never to be parted? Dearest Onesimus, dearer to me than my own life, what if we meet not again on this earth? May it not be that we shall meet elsewhere? Yet, even for this life, I still trust and hope; and do thou the like for my sake. To think of thee hopeless kills me. O dearest friend, sweet cause of my heart’s most bitter sorrow, think not that I reproach thee because thy love is cruel. Sweeter, far sweeter, to mourn as I mourn for thy absence, than never to have known and loved thee. Farewell and hope on; and believe me faithful to thy love, whether I live or die.”

At the end of the letter were added these words:

“I see I have ended my letter with a word of evil omen. Onesimus laughs at omens; but for my own pleasure I will avert the evil by repeating a former question. The visions concerning Christus that thou didst speak of, have they ever appeared to thee too in thy dreams? Because thou didst forget to answer this same question when I first asked it of thee, let this violet, which I now kiss, be my ambassador that thou forget not a second time.”

While I sat with the withered flower in my hand, musing on Athens, seeing, as if before mine eyes, the little chamber in which even at that instant perchance Eucharis sat spinning, and Molon reading by her side, a message was brought to me by Pistus that Philemon desired to see me in the library; “and,” said the Paphlagonian in a malicious tone, “you were best think of some subtle defense, for the old man knows what you have done. But you will probably prefer to appease him by confessing.” The man’s malice angered me, and I entered the room in some heat. It soon appeared that a copy of the plays of Aristophanes was missing from the library. Philemon was at that time reviewing his books with great exactness, destroying such as seemed unfit for a Christian household; and he had expressly enjoined on me not to take any of the works of the poets of the Old Comedy out of the library, and I had obeyed him. But when this book was missed, Pistus had affirmed that he had seen me reading it in my chamber. Understanding this I replied roundly that the Paphlagonian lied. But Philemon bade me bethink myself whether unwittingly I might not have taken it from the library, being always fond of the works of that poet, and having in former times been accustomed to take freely from any part of the library such books as I desired; and he added that, of the rest of the household, very few could understand the book, being illiterate, and those who could have read it would not do so, because they had received the seal in Christ and belonged to the saints. I could but repeat that I had not taken the book. On this Pistus said, with a sneer, that, if that were so, the worthy Onesimus would probably be quite willing that his room should be searched. I at once assented; but scarcely had two slaves quitted the room on their quest, when the villainy of Pistus was revealed to me; and I turned and took him by the throat saying that, if the books were found in my chamber, the Paphlagonian had hidden them there. Hereat Pistus fell on his knees, making as if he were terror-stricken by my violence, and calling the Lord to witness his innocence. Philemon indignantly bade me desist; but his indignation became still greater when the two slaves returned bearing the missing volumes, which they had found it seemed, hidden under my couch. In the presence of all the slaves he ordered me to return to my chamber, saying that at first he had never thought to accuse me of stealing the books, but only of thoughtlessly or wilfully borrowing them, but now he knew not what to think. So I went back to my chamber under suspicion of being a thief; and entering I found on my table this letter from Epictetus.

§ 9. HOW EPICTETUS FURTHER EXPLAINED HIS PHILOSOPHY

“EPICTETUS TO ONESIMUS, HEALTH.

“A bad performer cannot sing alone but only in a chorus. In the same way some weak-kneed folk cannot walk the path of life alone, but must needs hold somebody’s hand. But if you intend to be ever anything better than an infant, you must learn to walk alone. It angers me to hear a young man say to his tutor, ‘I wish to have you with me.’ Has not the fellow God with him? But, Onesimus, you are not willing to take God as your guide in practice, though you profess to do so in theory. For with your lips you say, ‘O Lord, suffer me to go straight on for twenty-five furlongs and a half, and then to take the first turning to the left.’ However, let me attempt to answer your questions; but not in order, for first I must shew you that whether there be a good God or no, you must needs act as though there were a good God or else you must die. First then, that there is Demeter, is it not clear to all those who eat of bread? And that there is a Helios or Apollo, is not that also clear to all who enjoy the sunlight? Call the former Bread, and the latter Sunlight, if you will; still there they are, and you must partake of them and acknowledge them, as long as you partake of the Feast of Life.

“But you complain that the Host of the Feast is unkind or foolish, not making proper provision for his guests. Foolish man! Then why remain a guest? Do not be more foolish than children. When the game ceases to please them, they say ‘I will play no more.’ So do you, if the feast please you not, say ‘I will feast no more;’ and go. For remember the door is always open. But if you remain at the Feast, do not complain of the Host; for that is silly. Remember therefore that if the Host intends you to remain as His guest, in that case He has made all needful provision for you; but if He has not, that is a token that your way lies towards the door.

“Apply this rule to yourself and her whom you love. As it is better that you should die of hunger and preserve your tranquillity of mind to the last gasp, than that you should live in abundance with a soul full of all disturbance and torment, so is it better that Eucharis should die and you be in peace, rather than that your betrothed (or any else the nearest and dearest to you) should live and be in perturbation of mind. Nay, a father ought rather to suffer his son to become undutiful and wicked rather than himself to become unhappy. You are not to say, ‘If I chastise not my son, he will prove undutiful;’ but you are to prefer your own serenity of mind to the dutifulness of a son and to all other objects; and the same rule holds as regards Eucharis. Thus and thus only will you be always at peace, and able to despise the worst of omens.”

After this Epictetus fell to speaking in a more general way about philosophy and philosophers, and of their duty to the multitude; of which some part I omit, but the rest was to this effect:

“But perhaps you say, ‘The multitude has not this knowledge of the folly of sorrow; and if we bewail not with them when they bewail, we shall seem to them brutish, and be hated. Or how shall we explain our theory to the multitude?’ For what purpose should you desire to explain it to them? Is it not enough that you are convinced yourself? When I was a boy at Rome, as I remember, and when my master’s children came to me clapping their hands and saying, ‘To-morrow is the good feast of Saturn,’ did I tell them (think you?) that good does not consist in sweetmeats nor such things as they desired? Nay, but I clapped my hands too. In the same way, when you are unable to convince any one, treat him as a child, and clap your hands with him; or if you will not do that, at least hold your tongue. When therefore you see a man groaning because he, or his betrothed, is likely to be given in marriage to another, first do your best to recover him from his evil and mistaken opinion. But if he will not be persuaded, nothing hinders but you may pretend some sadness and a certain fellow-feeling of his affliction. Only have a care that grief do not effectually seize your heart while you think only to personate it.

“You see then that I forbid you sorrow either for yourself or for others. No less do I forbid you hate. For why should you hate, or even be angry, with a wicked man, a thief, say, or an adulterer? ‘Because,’ reply you, ‘they take from me that which I most dearly value, my wealth or my reputation or the affection of my wife.’ In other words they take from you those objects which you love, and desire to excess, though they do not depend on you. But the remedy is to abstain from loving these things to excess. Always remember also when any one injures you, as it is called, that the cause of the injury is ignorance or erroneous opinion. For no one would commit a crime if he knew that he was thereby destroying his own soul. Through erroneous opinions Medea slew her children and Clytemnestra her husband. Why therefore hate a man merely because the poor wretch is terribly ignorant and is doing himself the greatest of all injuries, while he falsely supposes he is injuring you?

“Bear in mind further that everything has two faces, whereof one is endurable the other unendurable. For example, when your brother is injuring you, look not upon him as an injurer but rather as a brother. Even if you cannot do this for your brother’s sake, you must do it for your own. For in all things you must consider not your brother nor your brother’s interest first, but yourself and your own serenity of mind. ‘My brother’—perhaps you say—‘ought not to have treated me so shamefully.’ Very true; so much the worse for him. But that is his business, not yours, and you are not to injure yourself on his account. However he treats you, you must treat him rightly. For your treatment of him is in your power, and therefore is your concern; but how he treats you is not in your power, and therefore concerns you not. If therefore your enemy reviles you, try to think well of him for not having struck you. ‘But he has struck me.’ Then think well of him for not having wounded you. ‘But he has wounded me.’ Then think well of him for not having slain you. ‘But I am dying of the wound he gave me.’ Then think well of him for having opened unto you that door which the Master of the Feast has appointed as your exit from His banquet. Apply this rule to Pistus, and if he has poisoned Philemon’s mind against you, think well of him that he has not yet poisoned your body itself.

“But the former rule is the more important, that you are not to set a value on the things that are beyond your own control. Does Fortune take things away? Laugh at her then. When Philemon and his friends deprive you of your wonted freedom, and take away your books, your reputation, your prospect of marriage, you must consider yourself before a tribunal of boys who are mulcting you of knuckle-bones and nuts. ‘So Epictetus makes light of love and marriage and the bands of family affection.’ Not so; he recognizes them for the common people but not for Onesimus and Epictetus, nor for other philosophers in the present war of good against evil. For as the state of things now is, the philosopher should hear the trumpet sounding for all good men to make ready, like an army drawn up for battle in the face of an enemy; and he should be without all distraction, entirely attending to the service of God.

“Finally, whatever betide, be not a slave. ‘I must go to the ergastulum’ says Onesimus. And must you go groaning too? ‘I must be fettered like a slave.’ Must you lament like a slave too? ‘Marry Prepousa,’ says Philemon, ‘and become a Christian.’ ‘I will not.’ ‘Then I will slay you.’ ‘Did I ever assert that I could not be slain?’ That is the language that befits my Onesimus; not to look at the spectacle of life like a runaway slave in the theatre, who shivers whenever any one touches him on the shoulder or mentions his master’s name. Instead of swearing allegiance to Christus to conciliate Philemon, swear rather never to dishonor God who loves truth, nor to murmur at anything that betides; for all things betide according to His will. At all times endeavor to listen to His voice; for he accosts you and speaks to you thus: ‘Onesimus, when you were at your lectures in Athens, what did you call death and imprisonment and all other such external things?’ ‘I? Things indifferent.’ ‘And what do you call them now?’ ‘The same.’ ‘What is the aim and object of thy life?’ ‘To follow Thee.’ ‘Go on then, boldly.’”