Tusculan Disputations

that one which, in my opinion, Socrates himself followed; and argue so as to conceal my own opinion, while I deliver others from their errors, and so discover what has the greatest appearance of probability in every question. And the custom Carneades adopted with great copiousness and acuteness, and I myself have often given in to it on many occasions elsewhere, and in this manner, too, I disputed lately, in my Tusculan villa. Indeed, I have sent you a book of the four former days’ discussions, but the fifth day, when we had seated ourselves as before, what we were to dispute on was proposed thus:

A.	I do not think virtue can possibly be sufficient for a happy life.
M.	But my friend Brutus thinks so, whose judgment, with submission, I greatly prefer to yours.
A.	I make no doubt of it. But your regard for him is not the business now. The question is now: what is the real character of that quality of which I have declared my opinion. I wish you to dispute on that.
M.	What? do you deny that virtue can possibly be sufficient for a happy life?
A.	It is what I entirely deny.
M.	What? is not virtue sufficient to enable us to live as we ought, honestly, commendably, or, in fine, to live well?
A.	Certainly sufficient.
M.	Can you, then, help calling anyone miserable who lives ill? or will you deny that anyone who you allow lives well must inevitably live happily?
A.	Why may I not? For a man may be upright in his life, honest, praiseworthy, even in the midst of torments, and therefore live well. Provided you understand what I mean by well. For when I say well, I mean with constancy, and dignity, and wisdom, and courage. For a man may display all these qualities on the rack, but yet the rack is inconsistent with a happy life.
M.	What, then? is your happy life left on the outside of the prison, while constancy, dignity, wisdom, and the other virtues are surrendered up to the executioner, and bear punishment and pain without reluctance?
A.	You must look out for something new if you would do any good. These things have very little effect on me, not merely from their being common, but principally because, like certain light wines that will not bear water, these arguments of the Stoics are pleasanter to taste than to swallow. As when that assemblage of virtues is committed to the rack, it raises so reverend a spectacle before our eyes that happiness seems to hasten on towards them, and not to suffer them to be deserted by her. But when you take your attention off from this picture and these images of the virtues to the truth and the reality, what remains without disguise is the question whether anyone can be happy in torment? Wherefore let us now examine that point, and not be under any apprehensions, lest the virtues should expostulate and complain that they are forsaken by happiness. For if prudence is connected with every virtue, then prudence itself discovers this: that all good men are not therefore happy; and she recollects many things of Marcus Atilius,55 Quintus Caepio,56 Marcus Aquilius;57 and prudence herself, if these representations are more agreeable to you than the things themselves, restrains happiness when it is endeavoring to throw itself into torments, and denies that it has any connection with pain and torture.
M.	I can easily bear with your behaving in this manner, though it is not fair in you to prescribe to me how you would have me carry on this discussion. But I ask you if I have effected anything or nothing in the preceding days?
A.	Yes; something was done, some little matter indeed.
M.	But if that is the case, this question is settled, and almost put an end to.
A.	How so?
M.	Because turbulent motions and violent agitations of the mind, when it is raised and elated by a rash impulse, getting the better of reason, leave no room for a happy life. For who that fears either pain or death, the one of which is always present, the other always impending, can be otherwise than miserable? Now, supposing the same person⁠—which is often the case⁠—to be afraid of poverty, ignominy, infamy, or weakness, or blindness, or, lastly, slavery, which does not only befall individual men, but often even the most powerful nations; now can anyone under the apprehension of these evils be happy? What shall we say of him who not only dreads these evils as impending, but actually feels and bears them at present? Let us unite in the same person banishment, mourning, the loss of children. Now, how can anyone who is broken down and rendered sick in body and mind by such affliction be otherwise than very miserable indeed? What reason, again, can there be why a man should not rightly enough be called miserable whom we see inflamed and raging with lust, coveting everything with an insatiable desire, and, in proportion as he derives more pleasure from anything, thirsting the more violently after them? And as to a man vainly elated, exulting with an empty joy, and boasting of himself without reason, is not he so much the more miserable in proportion as he thinks himself happier? Therefore, as these men are miserable, so, on the other hand, those are happy who are alarmed by no fears, wasted by no griefs, provoked by no lusts, melted by no languid pleasures that arise from vain and exulting joys. We look on the sea as calm when not the least breath of air disturbs its waves; and, in like manner, the placid and quiet state of the mind is discovered when unmoved by any perturbation. Now, if there be anyone who holds the power of fortune, and everything human, everything that can possibly befall any man, as supportable, so as to be out of the reach of fear or anxiety,