Book I
Chapter 2 — The Poet is speechless
“But the time,” said she, “calls now for healing
rather than for lamenting.”
Then, with her eyes fixed full upon me,
“Are you that man,” she cried, “who earlier feeding
with the milk and rearing on the nourishment which is mine to give, has grown
up to the full vigor of a manly spirit? And yet I had bestowed such armor on you
as would have proved an invincible defense, have you not thrown it away. Do you
know me? Why are you silent? Is it shame or amazement that has struck you
dumb? It might be shame; but as I see, a stupor has seized upon you.”
Then, seeing that I was not only paralyzed, but also
speechless, she gently touched my breast with her hand, saying:
“There is no danger; these are the symptoms of
lethargy, the usual sickness of deluded minds. He has forgotten himself
momentarily, but he will easily recover his memory—if only he first recognizes
me. And that he may do so, let me now wipe his eyes that are clouded with a
mist of mortal things.”
Quickly, with a fold of her robe, she dried my eyes
all swimming with tears.
Chapter 3 — Philosophy explains
So the clouds of my
melancholy were broken up. I saw the clear sky, and regaining my power I recognized the
face of my physician. Hence, when I lifted my eyes and fixed my gaze upon her, I saw my nurse, Philosophy,
whose halls I had frequented from my youth
up.
“Ah! Why,” I said, “mistress
of all excellence, have you come down from on high, and entered the solitude of this my exile? Are you,
too, being persecuted
with false accusations—just as I am?”
“Could I abandon you,
child,” said she, “and not lighten the burden which you have taken upon yourself through the hatred of my name, by sharing this trouble?
Never will Philosophy allow
herself to let the innocent to walk alone in his journey.
Do you think I fear to incur reproach, or shrink from it,
as yough some strange new misfortune
had just happened? Do you think that just now wisdom has been attacked by
danger for the first time in an evil age?
Have I not often in the olden days —even
before my servant Plato lived— waged stern warfare with the rashness of folly?
In his lifetime, too,
Socrates, Plato’s master, won with my help the victory of an unjust death. And
when, one after the other, the
Epicurean herd, the Stoic, and the rest, each of them did their best to seize
the heritage he left, dragging me off protesting and resisting. Seizing me as
their booty, they tore in pieces the garment which I had woven with my own
hands, and, clutching the torn pieces, I went off, believing that the whole of
me had passed into their possession.
And some of them, because some traces of my clothes
were seen upon them, were destroyed by the lewd crowd that mistakenly and falsely
took them for my disciples.
It may be that you are unaware of the banishment of
Anaxagoras,[i]
of the poison draught of Socrates, or of Zeno’s[ii]
torturing, because these things happened in a distant country.
Yet, you might have learned of the fate of Arrius,[iii]
of Seneca,[iv]
of Soranus,[v]
whose stories are neither old nor unknown to fame. These men were brought to
destruction for no other reason than that, settled as they were in my principles;
their lives were a stark contrast to the ways of the wicked. So there is
nothing you should wonder at, if on the seas of this life we are tossed by
storm-blasts, seeing that we have made it our main goal to refuse compliance
with evildoers.
Although it is possible that the host of the wicked
is many in number, yet is it contemptible, since it is under no leadership, but
is chaotic, and subject to the blind driving of mad error. And if at times and
seasons they line up against us, and fall on in overwhelming strength, our
leader draws off her forces into the citadel while they are busy plundering the
useless baggage.
But we from our vantage ground, safe from all this
wild work, laugh to see them making prize of the most valueless of things,
protected by a wall which aggressive folly may not wish to climb.”
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