On repentance

OT H E R S shape the man; I portray him, and offer to the v i e w one in particular, w h o is ill-shaped enough, and w h o m ,

•could I refashion him, I should certainly make very different from what he is. But there is no chance o f that.

N o w the lines of my portrait are never at fault, a l though they change and vary. The wor ld is but a perpetual see-saw. Eve ry ­thing goes incessantiy up and d o w n - the earth, the rocks o f Caucasus, the pyramids of E g y p t - both wi th the universal motion and wi th their own. Constancy itself is nothing bu t a more sluggish movement. I cannot fix my subject. He is alwajrs restless, and reels wi th a natural intoxication. I catch h im here, as he is at the moment when I turn my attention to him. I d o not portray his being; I portray his passage; no t a passage from one age t o another or, as the common people say, f rom seven years to seven years, but from day to day, from minute to minute. I must suit my story to the hour, for soon I may change, not only by chance but also by intention. It is a record o f various and variable occurrences, an account o f thoughts that are un­settled and, as chance wil l have it, at times contradictory, either because I am then another self, or because I approach m y sub­ject under different circumstances and wi th other considera­tions. Hence it is that I may wel l contradict myself, bu t the truth, as Demades said, I d o not contradict. Cou ld m y m i n d find a firm footing, I should not be making essays, but co in ing to conclusions; it is, however , always in its apprenticeship a n d on trial.

I present a humble life, wi thout distinction; but that is no

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matter. M o r a l phi losophy, as a whole , can be just as wel l applied to a c o m m o n and private existence as to one o f richer stuff. E v e r y man carries in himself the completé pattern o f human nature.

A u t h o r s communicate wi th the wor ld in some special and peculiar capacity; I am the first to do so wi th my whole being, as Miche l de Monta igne , not as a grammarian, a poet, or a lawyer . I f people complain that I speak too much of myself, I compla in that they do not think o f themselves at all.

B u t is it reasonable that, being so private in my way o f life, I should set out to make myself k n o w n to the public? Is it reason­able either that I should present to the wor ld , in which style and artifice receive so much credit and authority, the crude and simple products o f nature, and o f a weakish nature at that? Is it no t l ike bui ld ing a wal l wi thout stone or some similar material, to construct books wi thou t learning or art? Musical composi­t ions are the produc t of skill, mine of chance.

T o this extent, at least, I have conformed to the rules: that no man ever came to a project w i th better knowledge and under­standing than I have o f this matter, in regard to which I am the mos t learned man alive; and secondly that no man ever went more deeply into his subject, or more thoroughly examined its elements and effects, or more exactly and completely achieved the purpose he set out to w o r k for. T o perfect it I need only b r ing fidehty to m y task; and that is here, the purest and sin-cerest that is to be found anywhere. I speak the truth, not to the fuU, bu t as m u c h as I dare; and as I g r o w older I become a little more daring, for custom seems to a l low age greater freedom to be garrulous and indiscreet in speaking o f itself. It cannot happen here, as I often see it elsewhere, that the craftsman and his w o r k are in contradiction. Can a man so sensible in his conversat ion, they ask, have written so foolish a book? O r can such learned wri t ings proceed from one so poor in con­versation?

I f a man's talk is commonplace and his wri t ing distinguished, it means that his talent lies in the place from which he borrows, and not in himself. A learned person is not learned in aU things,

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but a man o f talent is accomplished in eve ry respect, even in his> ignorance.

Here my b o o k and I proceed in agreement, and at the same pace. In other cases, the w o r k may be praised o r b lamed apart from the workman; but here it cannot be. W h o touches one , touches the other. T h e reader w h o passes judgement o n the book without k n o w i n g the man wi l l d o himself m o r e w r o n g than he does me. But anyone w h o comes to k n o w the man wiU give me complete satisfaction. I t wi l l be more than I deserve i f I win only so much public approbation as to make intcUigent m e n realize that I could have profited by learning, had I possessed it, and that I deserved better assistance f rom m y memory .

Let me here excuse myself for sa3dng w h a t I often repeat, that I rarely repent, and that m y conscience is content w i t h itself, not as the conscience o f an angel o r a horse, bu t as the consc ience of a man; though always wi th the addit ion o f this refrain -

, which is no formal refrain but a true and sincere confession -that I speak as one w h o questions and does no t know, referring the decision purely and simply to c o m m o n and author ized belief. I do not teach, I relate.

There is no vice that is absolutely a v i ce w h i c h does no t offend, and which is not detected by a soxmd judgement . F o r its ugliness and impropriety are so apparent that those w h o say it arises chiefly from stupidity and ignorance are p robab ly in the right; so hard is it to imagine that a man cou ld recognize it without loathing. Malice sucks up the greater part o f its v e n o m , and so poisons itself. V i c e leaves in the soul , l ike an ulcer in the flesh, a remorse which is always scratching itself and d r awing blood. Fdr reason obliterates other gr ief or so r row , b u t i t engenders that o f remorse, which is harder to bear because i t springs from within, as the cold and heat o f fever are sharper than those in the outer air. I regard as vices - bu t each in i ts degree - not only those that reason and nature condemn, bu t those that are the creation o f human opinion, false and erro­neous though it may be, so long as they are confirmed as such by law and custom.

There is Ukewise no goodness in w h i c h a noble nature does

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not del igkt . The re is indeed a certain sense o f gratification w h e n w e do a g o o d deed that gives us inward satisfaction, and a generous pride that accompanies a g o o d conscience. A reso­lutely w i c k e d soul may perhaps arm itself wi th some assurance, but it cannot p rov ide itself wi th this contentment and satisfac­t ion. I t is no slight pleasure to feel oneself preserved from the con tag ion o f so corrupt an age, and to say to oneself: ' A man migh t l o o k into my ve ry soul, and yet he would not find me gui l ty o f anyone 's affliction or ruin, or o f revenge or envy, or o f offending against the public laws, or o f innovation and disturbance, or o f failing to keep my word . A n d whatever the l icence o f the age may permit or suggest to any man, I have never k i d m y hands on any Frenchmari's goods , or put my fingers into his purse. I have l ived only on what is my own , in wa r as in peace, and have never used another man's labour w i thou t p a y i n j h im. ' These testimonies o f a g o o d conscience are pleasant; and such a natural pleasure is very beneficial to us; it is the only payment that can never fail.

T o base the reward for vir tuous actions on other men's approva l is to rely on too uncertain and shaky a foundation. Especial ly in so corrupt and ignorant an age as this, the g o o d op in ion o f the c r o w d is injurious. W h o m are you trusting to see w h a t is praiseworthy? G o d preserve me from being an hones t man according to the criterion that I daily see every man apply to himself, to his o w n advantage! 'Wha t were once vices have n o w become customs. '*

Some o f m y friends have at times taken it upon themselves to school and lecture me most outspokenly, either of their o w n accord or at m y invitation: a service which, to a healthy mind, surpasses, not only in utiUty but in kindness, every other office o f friendship. I have always we lcomed it wi th the most open arms b o t h o f courtesy and gratitude. Bu t to speak o f it now in all honesty, I have often found both in their blame and their praise so much false measure that I should not have been much amiss i f I had done wha t according to their notions was w r o n g , instead o f wha t they considered right. Those o f us, especially,

* Seneca, Letters, xxxix .

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who live retired l ives , exposed only to our own gaze, sbould have a fixed pattern within us by w h i c h to test our act ions and, according to this, sometimes h u g and sometimes correct our^ selves. I have my o w n laws and m y o w n cour t to judge me , and I refer to these rather than elsewhere. I certainly restrain m y actions out of deference to others, but I understand them only by my o w n Hght, N o n e but y o u k n o w whether y o u are cruel and cowardly, or loyal and dutiful. Others have n o v i s ion o f you , but judge o f you by uncertain conjectures; they see n o t so much your nature as your artifices. D o no t rely on their opin­ions, therefore; rely on your own . ' Y o u must use y o u r o w n judgement about yourself. '* ' T h e inner conscience o f v i r tue and vice exercises a great influence; take that away , and all is in ruins . ' f

But the saying that repentance fol lows close on sin does not seem to apply to sin in all its array, w h e n it lodges in us as i f in its o w n home. W e may d i sown and reject vices w h i c h take us by surprise, and into which w e are impelled by our passions; but those which by l o n g habit are rooted and anchored in a strong and v igorous wi l l are not prone to be gainsaid. Repen­tance is simply a recanting o f our w i l l and an oppos i t ion to our fancies; it may shift us in any direction. It makes one man disavow his past virtue and continence:

Quae mm est hodie, cur tadem non puerofuit? vel cur his animis incólumes non rcdeunt genaelX

It is a rare life that remains orderly even i n private. E v e r y o n e can play his part in the farce, and act an honest role o n the stage. But to be disciplined within, in one's o w n breast, whe re all is permissible and aU is concealed - that is the point! T h e next step, therefore, is to be orderly at home, in our c o m m o n actions, for which w e are accountable to no man, and in w h i c h there is no study or artifice. Tha t is w h y Bias, descr ibing a n ideal household, § says that it is one where the master is the

* Qcero, Tusculans, i, xxiii. \ Cicero, De Natura Deorum, in, xxxv. :j: 'Why was my mind when a boy not the same as it is today? O Í why,

with my present mind," do my cheeks not become fresh as of old?' Horace, Odes, IV, X, 7. § See Plutarch, Banquet of the Seven Sages.

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same alone in his house as abroad, where he is afraid of the law and o f wha t men wi l l say. A n d it was a wor thy answer that Julius Drusus g a v e to the builders w h o offered for three thou­sand c rowns so to alter his mansion that his neighbours could n o longe r ove r look him, as they then did. T will g ive you six thousand, ' he said, ' i f y o u wi l l make it possible for everyone to see into it f rom every side.' It is observed to the honour o f AgesUaus that, w h e n travelling, he w o u l d take up his lodgings in temples, so that the people, and the gods themselves, might witness his private actions. Many a man has been a wonder to the w o r l d , w h o s e wife and valet have seen nothing in him that was even remarkable. F e w have been admired by their ser­van ts .

N o man was ever a prophet , not merely in his o w n house, bu t in his o w n country, says the experience of history. It is the same in trivial matters. A n d in this humble example you may see a reflection o f greater ones. In my region of Gascony, they think it funny to see me in print. Bu t the further from my o w n haunts m y reputation spreads, the higher I am rated. In Guienne I pay the printers; elsewhere they pay me. It is on this accident that men rely w h o conceal themselves whilst they are alive and present, to gain a name w h e n they are dead and gone. I am less ambit ious; I cast myself upon the wor ld , solely for my present advantage . W h e n I leave it - that is that!

See, after a publ ic function, h o w the admiring c rowd escorts a man to his door ; w i t h his robe he drops his part, and falls as l o w as his ascent was h igh . Within himself, all is baseness and confusion. E v e n i f there were some order in him, it wou ld take a keen and perspicacious mind to perceive it in his humble and pr ivate actions. Moreove r , discipline is a dull and dismal virtue. T o s torm a breach, conduct an embassy, gove rn a people, those are brilliant actions. T o scold, laugh, sell, pay, love , hate, and deal gent ly and justly wi th one's family and oneself, not to relax or contradict oneself: that is somelii ing rarer, more diffi­cult and less not iced by the wor ld . A life o f retirement, there­fore, whatever men may say, is subject to duties as harsh and exact ing as any other, i f not more so. A n d private persons, says

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Aristotle, do virtue á higher and more difficult service than men in authority. W e prepare ourselves to meet outs tanding occasions rather for g lo ry than for conscience ' sake. T h e short­est w a y to gain a great name, howeve r , w o u l d be to do for conscience' sake what w e n o w do for g lo ry . A n d Alexander ' s virtue seems to me to show somewhat less strength o n his great stage than that o f Socrates in his humble and obscure activities. I can easily imagine Socrates in Alexander ' s place, but Alexander in that o f Socrates, I cannot. I f A l e x a n d e r were asked what he could do, he w o u l d reply, 'Conque r the w o r l d ' ; but i f the same question were pu t to Socrates, his answer w o u l d be, 'Lead a man's life according to its natural condi t ions ' : a much more general, more important, and more legit imate undertaking.

T h e wor th of a soul does not consist in soaring to a height , but in a steady movement . Its greatness is not exercised in a mighty, but in an intermediate state. A s those w h o j u d g e and test our inner being attach no great importance to the brill iance o f our public acts, and see that these are no more tlian jets aftd beads o f clear water spurt ing from an o therwise thick and muddy bottom; so, under similar circumstances, those w h o judge us by our brave outward s h o w come to a l ike conclus ion about our inner character. T h e y cannot reconcile c o m m o n faculties, just like their o w n , wi th these other faculties, w h i c h astound them and are so far beyond their v is ion.

Therefore w e endow demons wi th monstrous shapes. A n d w h o does not picture Tamburlaine w i t h arched b r o w s , open nostrils, a g r im visage, and a prodigious stature, in accordance wi th the picture that the imagination has conce ived o f h im from the report o f his fame? If, years a g o , I had been t aken to see Erasmus, it w o u l d h a v e been hard for m e no t to take as pre­cepts and maxims every w o r d that h e said to his servant o r his landlady. It suits our imagination better to think o f a craftsman on the close-stool or on top o f his wife , than o f a Ch ie f Justice, venerable for his bearing and his talents, in the same posi t ion. F rom such h igh thrones, i t seems to us , men d o no t descend so l ow as to Uve.

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A s -wicked souls are often driven by some external impulse to per form a g o o d deed, so are vir tuous souls to do wrong . They mus t be judged, therefore, by their settled state, when they are at home, supposing that they are sometimes there; or at least w h e n they are nearest to repose and to their true situation. Natura l inclinations are assisted and reinforced by education, bu t they are hardly ever altered or overcome. In my time, a bare thousand natures have escaped to virtue or to v ice from a contrary education.

Sic ubi desuetae silvis in carcere clausae mansuevere ferae, et vultus posuere minaces, atque hominem didicere pad, si tórrida parvus venit in ora crúor, redeunt rabíesque furorque, admonitaeque tument gústate sanguine fauces; fervet, et a trepido vix abstinet ira magistro.*

T h e s e or iginal qualities are not to be extirpated; they are cove red up , they are concealed. Latin is to me, as it were , my natural language; I understand it better than French. B u t for the last forty years I have had no practice in speaking or wri t ing it. A n d yet o n the t w o or three occasions in my life when I h a v e been ove rwhe lmed b y extreme and sudden emotion -once w h e n I saw m y father, t hough in perfect health, fall to­wards me in a faint - the first words that have risen from the depths o f m y heart have always been in Latin. Nature has surged up and forcibly expressed herself, in spite o f long.disuse. A n d the same is said to have happened to many others.

T h o s e w h o , in m y time, have attempted to correct the morals o f the w o r l d by n e w ideas, have reformed the surface vices; but the essential ones they have left unaffected, if not increased; and here one must fear an increase. W e are apt to refrain from all other g o o d deeds on the strength o f these arbitrary and external improvements , w h i c h are less cosdy and earn greater honour. A n d b y this means w e b e g a cheap exemption for our other

* 'So wild beasts in captivity may forget their forests, grow tame, lose their fierce habits, and learn to endure the control of man. But if a little blood touches their hot lips, their rage and ferocity return. Roused by the taste of blood, their jaws distend, and they hardly refrain from springing on their frightened master.' Lucan, iv, 237.

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vices, natural, consubstantial, and internal. Consider for a moment h o w our experience o f the matter stands. T h e r e is n o man w h o , i f he listens to himself, does not discover within him an individual principle, a rul ing principle, that s t ruggles aga ins t his education, and against the tempestuous passions o p p o s i n g i t . For my part, I am seldom roused b y sudden impulses ; I find myself, l ike some heavy and cumbrous body , a lmost a lways in m y place. I f I am not at home, I am always v e r y near. M y ex­cesses do not carry me far away. There is no th ing ex t reme or odd about them. A n d I have s trong and v i g o r o u s revuls ions .

T h e true reproach, the one w h i c h applies to the c o m m o n run o f men, is that their very retraction is full o f filth a n d c o r ­ruption; their idea o f reformation is blurred; their peni tence is almost as faulty and diseased as their sin. Some are so w e d d e d to vice by a natural bond, or from l o n g habit, that they can n o longer see its ugliness. Others, in w h o s e ranks I be long , feel sin to be a burden, but counterbalance it w i t h pleasure, o r some­thing else; they suffer it and g ive w a y to it for a certain price; but wickedly and basely, nevertheless. Y e t it might perhaps be possible to imagine such a disproport ion be tween the pleasure and the sin that the iifst might justly bé said to excuse the second, as w e say utility does; and this no t on ly i f the pleasure were accidental, and apart from it, as in theft, bu t also i f i t lay in the very commission o f the sin, as in intercourse w i t h w o m e n , where the provocat ion is violent and, so they say, sometimes irresistible.

T h e other day, when I was on the estate o f a k insman o f m i n e in Armagnac , I saw a peasant w h o m e v e r y b o d y called The Thief. H e told us his story, wh ich was l ike this: B o r n a begga r , and realizing that if he w e r e to earn his l i v ing b y the w o r k o f his hands, he w o u l d never succeed in securing himself against w a n t , he decided to become a thief; and thanks to his physica l s t rength, he practised his trade quite safely th roughout his y o u t h . H e gathered his harvest and his v in tage f rom other men ' s lands, but at such great distances and in such great stacks that n o one could conceive h o w one man could carry away so m u c h o n his shoulders in a single night. A n d he t ook care, Ijesides, to equal-

ize and distribute the damage that he caused, so as to minimize the loss to each individual . N o w , in his o ld age, he is t ick for a man o f his condit ion, thanlcs to his trade, which he openly con­fesses. A n d to reconcile G o d to his winnings, he has made it, he said, his daily task to compensate the heirs o f the men he robbed by voluntary gifts. I f he does not complete his task - for to d o it all at once is beyond h im - he wil l , he says, leave it as a charge to his heirs, to repay them according to the w r o n g he did to each, w h i c h is k n o w n to him alone. F rom his account, whether true or false, it seems that this man regards theft as a dishonest action, and hates it, t hough less than he hates poverty. He re­pents o f it quite s imply, but in so far as it was thus counter­balanced and compensated, he does not repent o f it. This is not a case in w h i c h habit makes us one with our sin, and even con­forms our understanding to it; nor is it a case o f an impetuous gale w h o s e gusts confuse and blind our souls, flinging us for the moment , judgement and all, into the power of vice.

Habitual ly, I do wha t I d o wi th all my being, and keep step w i t h myself; I se ldom do anything that hides from and escapes m y reason, and that is not guided more or less by the concur­rence o f all m y faculties, wi thout .divis ion and without internal rebell ion. M y judgement takes all the blame or all the praise for m y actions. A n d once it takes the blame, it keeps it for good; for it has been the same almost since birth, wi th the same character, the same inclinations, the same strength. A n d in the matter o f general opinions, I established myself in my youth in the pos i t ion where I was to stay.

Some sins are impulsive, hasty, and sudden: let us leave them aside. B u t as regards those other sins which are so often re­peated, meditated, and considered, whether they are tempera­mental sins, o r arise from our profession and vocat ion, I cannot imagine their be ing implanted for so long in one and the same heart, unless the reason and conscience o f the man w h o har­bours them constantly wills them and intends them to be there. A n d I find it somewha t hard to call up a picture o f that repen­tance w h i c h , according to this thief's boast, comes on him at a certain prescribed moment .

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I do not agree with the Pythagorean sect, that men take o n a new soul when they approach die images o f the g o d s , to. receive their oracles. Unless wha t he meant to say was that it mus t b e a strange, n e w soul, bor rowed for the occasion, since their o w n show so litde sign o f the purification and cleansing needed for this ceremony.

T h e actions o f these habitual sinners are quite contrary to the precepts o f the Stoics, which command us to correct the inl-perfections and vices that w e recognize in ourselves , bu t forbid us to be troubled and disturbed b y them. T h e y g i v e us to be-Heve that they feel great inward gr ief and remorse: but o f amend­ment and correction, or o f ceasing to sin, they s h o w us n o s ign. Y e t i f the disease is not th rown oS there is no cure. I f repentance were laid on one dish o f the scales it w o u l d o u t w e i g h the sin. I k n o w o f no quality so easy to counterfeit as godl iness , w h e n the life and morals do not conform to it. I ts essence is abstruse and secret; its externals are easy and ostentatious.

For myself, I may wish, on the who le , to be otherwise; I m a y condemn and dislike my general character, and implore G o d to reform me throughout , and to excuse m y natural weakness . But I should not, I think, g ive the name o f repentance to this, any more than I should to m y dissatisfaction at no t be ing an angel or a Cato. M y actions are controlled and shaped to w h a t I am, and to my condition o f life. I can do n o better. A n d repent­ance does not properly apply to things that are not in o u r p o w e r , though regret certainly does. I can imagine numberless loftier and better disciplined natures than mine; but this does n o t make me amend my character, any more than m y arm or m y mind grows stronger by my conceiving some other man's to be so. I f to imagine and desire a nobler w a y o f conduct than ours we r e to make us repent o f our o w n , w e should have to repent o f ou r most innocent actions, in as much as w e may r ight ly suppose that a more excellent nature w o u l d have performed them more perfectiy and wi th more nobility; and w e should w i s h to d o likewise.

When I look back on the conduct o f m y youth , I find that I generally behaved in an orderly manner, according to m y l ights;

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that is as m u c h as m y powers of control can manage; I do not flatter myself; in similar circumstances I should always be the same. It is no t a single spot, bu t rather a general stain that dyes me. I k n o w o f no superficial, middling, or formal repentance. I t mus t touch me in every part before I can call it so. It must pierce m y bowel s and pain them as deeply and as completely as G o d sees into me.

A s for business, many g o o d chances have escaped me for lack o f g o o d management . Y e t m y plans have been well-chosen, accord ing to the opportunities that I had, my habit being always to take the easiest and safest course. I find that in my past decisions I have , by m y o w n rules, acted wisely, taking into account the state o f the matter confronting me; and I should do the same a thousand years hence in the same situations. I am not th ink ing o f condit ions as they are at present, but aS they were w h e n I was considering them.

T h e importance o f any decision depends on the hour; circum­stances and things ate always moving and changing. I have commit ted some serious and gr ievous errors in my life, not for lack o f g o o d judgement but for lack of good fortune. In what w e have to deal wi th , there are hidden elements, at which w e cannot guess, particularly in human nature: silent states that make no s h o w and are sometimes u n k n o w n to their very pos­sessors, bu t that are roused and brought out by circumstances as they arise. I f m y foresight has been unable to fathom and predict them, I have no complaint against it; its functions are l imited. I f the event goes against me; and if it favours the side I have rejected, there is no remedy. I do not reproach myself for this; I b lame m y fortune, not my performance; and this cannot b e called repentance.

P h o c i o n had g i v e n the Athenians some advice which was not fo l lowed . W h e n , h o w e v e r , contrary to his expectation, the affair turned out happily, someone said to him: 'Te l l me, Phocion, are y o u glad things are g o i n g so wel l? ' ' Y e s , I am very glad things have turned out l ike this, ' he answered, 'but I am not sorry that I g a v e the advice I did. ' W h e n my friends come to me for an opinion, I g ive it freely and frankly, without being

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deterred, as most peopie are, b y the fact that, the matter be ing risky, it may turn ou t contrary to m y expectat ions, and I may then be blamed for m y advice. T h a t does not t rouble m e in the leas t Fo r though they -will p r o v e to b e w r o n g , I should no t have been right to refose tìiem the service.

I have generally only myself to blame for m y errors o r mis­haps. For, as a matter o f fact, I rarely ask others for adv ice , ex­cept out of formal courtesy, unless I have need o f learned instruction or factual knowledge . In matters whe re I have on ly to exercise my judgement, others ' opinions may serve m e as con­firmation, but do not often deter mc. I listen to them all pol i te ly and gravely; but I do not remember ever, to this day, h a v i n g trusted any but my own . In my v i e w they are just flies and specks that distract m y wil l . I do no t muci i v a l u e m y o w n opinions, but I value those o f otbers n o more . For tune p a y s me as I deserve. I f I take n o advice, I g i v e still less. I a m v e r y se ldom consulted, and even more seldom heeded; and I k n o w o f n o undertaking, public or private, that m y advice has advanced and improved. E v e n those w h o , by chance, have c o m e to de­pend on it, have in the end preferred to be guided b y any other brain than mine. A n d as one w h o is quite as jealous o f his r ight to leisure as o f his r ight to authority, I w o u l d rather have it so. B y leaving me alone, they fo l low m y declared w i s h , w h i c h i s to be who l ly self-reliant and self-contained. I t pleases m e no t t o be interested in the aifairs o f others, and to be free f rom responsi­bility for them.

Once any business is over , I have few regrets, wha teve r the result. Fo r my grief is soothed by the reflection that things w e r e bound to happen as they did. I see t i iem as part o f the great stream o f the universe, in the Stoics ' chain o f cause and effect. Y o u r mind cannot, by wish or thought , alter the smallest part without upsetting the who le order o f th ings , b o t h past and future.

Moreover , I hate that repentance w h i c h is incidental t o o ld age. I do not agree wi th that man o f o ld* w h o said that h e was grateful to the years for hav ing rid h im o f sensuality; I can never

* A saying attributed to Sophocles in Plato's Republic.

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giye thanks to impotence for any good it may do me. 'Provi­dence wi l l never appear so hostile to its o w n w o r k that weakness w i l l rank a m o n g the blessings. '* O u r passions are rare in old age; and a deep satiety overcomes us after the act. I can see no sign o f conscience in that. Vexat ion and weakness impose a s luggish rheumatic virtue upon us. W e must not let ourselves be so w h o l l y carried away by our natural changes as to let them warp our judgement . Y o u t h and pleasure did not prevent me, o f o ld , f rom recogniz ing in sensuality the face o f vice; nor does the distaste w h i c h the years have brought me make me fail to see in v i c e the face o f sensuality. N o w that I am no longer in it, I j udge it as i f I were . W h e n I g ive my mind a jolt and observe it, I find that it is the same as it was in m y rnost licentious days, except , perhaps, that it has weakened and deteriorated as it has g r o w n old . A n d I find that though it refuses to embroil me in these pleasures out o f regard for m y physical health, it wou ld be n o more Ukely than it was o f old to do so for my spiritual g o o d . I d o not regard it as more valiant for being out of the battle. M y temptations are so broken and mortified that they are no t w o r t h a fight. B y merely stretching out my hands, I exorcize them. B u t should my reason be faced again wi th my old lust, I am afraid it w o u l d have less strength o f resistance than it had o f old. I do not see that o f itself it judges otherwise than it did then; nor that it has received any new light. There­fore, if there is an improvement , it is a sickly one. I t is a poor k ind o f remedy, to o w e one's health to a disease!

I t is no t the business o f our misfortunes to w o r k us a remedy; a sound judgement must do that. lUs and afflictions cannot make me do more than curse them; they are g o o d enough for people w h o can only be roused b y the whip . M y mind runs a freer course in prosperity. I t is much more distracted and occu­pied w h e n digest ing pains than pleasures. I see much more clearly in fine weather. Heal th gives me more cheerful and more effective admonishment than siclcness. I came as near as is pos­sible for me to a reformed and disciplined life when I had the health to enjoy it. I should be angry and ashamed if my sad and

* Quintilian, V, xii, 19.

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wretched decrepitude should seem preferable to m y g o o d healthy, active, and v igorous years. I should hate t o be va lued not for what I have been, but for wha t I have ceased to be.

In my opinion it is in a happy life, not , as Ant is thenes said, in a happy death, that human felicity consists. 1 never l o o k e d forward to becoming that monstrosity, a phi losopher ' s tail tied to the head and body o f a libertine; nor to hav ing this miserable remainder renounce and belie the fairest, fullest, and longes t part o f my hfe. I wish to present and exhibit myse l f uniformly, in every part. I f I had my life to l ive again, I should l ive as I have lived; I neither deplore the past, nor feat the future. A n d i f I am not mistaken, I have been much the same inward ly as o n the surface. One o f my principal debts to fortune is that the course of my physical life has b rough t each thing in its season. I have seen the leaves and the flowers and the fruit; and n o w I see the withering. A n d this is fortunate because it is natural. I bear the infirmities that I suffer much more patiently because they h a v e come at the proper time, and also because they make me re­member more Idndly the l o n g happiness o f m y past life. S o also my wisdom may well b e of the same proportions n o w as in former years. But it was more capable and attractive w h e n it was fresh, gay, and natural than it is in its present w o r n , peev ish , and heavy condition. I wi l l have no th ing to do , therefore, w i t h these fortuitous and tearful reformations.

G o d must touch our hearts. O u r conscience must amend it­self by the strengthening o f our reason, no t b y the w e a k e n i n g o f our appetites. Sensual pleasures are neither pale nor co lour­less in themselves because they seem so to dull and bleary eyes. Temperance should be loved for its o w n sake, and out o f reverence for G o d , w h o has enjoined bo th it and chastity u p o n us; what chills impose on us, and wha t I o w e to the g o o d offices o f my colic, is neither chastity nor temperance. O n e cannot boast o f despising and combat ing sensual desires i f one does not see them, if one does not k n o w them, their charms, their power , and their most alluring beauty. I k n o w it all, and have the right to speak. Bu t it seems to m e that in o ld age our souls are subject to more troublesome ailments and weaknesses than

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in youth . I said this when I was young , and they scoiFed at me for m y beardless chin. I repeat it n o w that my grey hairs g ive me authority. W e call the queasiness o f our tastes and our dislike of present-day things by the name o f wisdom. But the truth is that w e do not so much g ive up our vices as change them, and in my opinion for the worse . Besides a foolish and tottering pride, a tedious garruUty, prickly and unsociable moods , superstition, and an absurd preoccupation wi th money after w e have lost the use for it, I find in old age an increase o f envy, injustice, and malice. I t stamps more wrinkles on our minds than on our faces; and seldom, or ve ry rarely, does one find souls that do not acquire, as they age, a sour and musty smell. Man moves on­ward as a w h o l e towards his g rowth and towards his decay.

W h e n I consider the wi sdom of Socrates, and several details o f his condemnation, I venture to believe that he in some degree deliberately lent himself to it by prevarication, since, at the age of 70, he was so soon due to suffer the benumbing of his mind's rich activities, and the dimming o f its accustomed clarity.

W h a t metamorphoses do I see old age work ing every day in many o f m y acquaintances! It is a powerful disease, which makes natural and imperceptible advances. It requires a great store o f study and great precautions, i f w e are to avoid, the in­firmities that it lays upon us, or at least to retard their progress. Despi te all my entrenchments, I feel it gaining on me foot by foot . I resist for as l ong as I can, but I do not myself k n o w to wha t it wi l l reduce me at last. Bu t come what may, I am glad that the w o r l d wi l l k n o w the height from which I shall have fallen.