WORLDLY FORTUNE.
SECTION 47.
However varied the forms that human destiny may take, the same
elements are always present; and so life is everywhere much of a
piece, whether it passed in the cottage or in the palace, in the
barrack or in the cloister. Alter the circumstance as much as you
please! point to strange adventures, successes, failures! life is like
a sweet-shop, where there is a great variety of things, odd in shape
and diverse in color—one and all made from the same paste. And when
men speak of some one's success, the lot of the man who has failed is
not so very different as it seems. The inequalities in the world are
like the combinations in a kaleidoscope; at every turn a fresh picture
strikes the eye; and yet, in reality, you see only the same bits of
glass as you saw before.
SECTION 48.
An ancient writer says, very truly, that there are three
great powers in the world; Sagacity, Strength, and Luck,—[Greek:
sunetos, kratos, tuchu.] I think the last is the most efficacious.
A man's life is like the voyage of a ship, where luck—secunda aut adversa fortuna—acts the part of the wind, and speeds the vessel on its way or drives it far out of its course. All that the man can do for himself is of little avail; like the rudder, which, if worked hard
and continuously, may help in the navigation of the ship; and yet all
may be lost again by a sudden squall. But if the wind is only in the
right quarter, the ship will sail on so as not to need any steering.
The power of luck is nowhere better expressed than in a certain
Spanish proverb: Da Ventura a tu hijo, y echa lo en el mar—give
your son luck and throw him into the sea.
Still, chance, it may be said, is a malignant power, and as little
as possible should be left to its agency. And yet where is there any
giver who, in dispensing gifts, tells us quite clearly that we have no
right to them, and that we owe them not to any merit on our part,
but wholly to the goodness and grace of the giver—at the same time
allowing us to cherish the joyful hope of receiving, in all humility,
further undeserved gifts from the same hands—where is there any giver
like that, unless it be Chance? who understands the kingly art of
showing the recipient that all merit is powerless and unavailing
against the royal grace and favor.
On looking back over the course of his life,—that labyrinthine way of error,—a man must see many points where luck failed him and misfortune came; and then it is easy to carry self-reproach to an
unjust excess. For the course of a man's life is in no wise entirely
of his own making; it is the product of two factors—the series of
things that happened, and his own resolves in regard to them, and
these two are constantly interacting upon and modifying each other.
And besides these, another influence is at work in the very limited
extent of a man's horizon, whether it is that he cannot see very far
ahead in respect of the plans he will adopt, or that he is still less
able to predict the course of future events: his knowledge is strictly
confined to present plans and present events. Hence, as long as a
man's goal is far off, he cannot steer straight for it; he must be
content to make a course that is approximately right; and in following
the direction in which he thinks he ought to go, he will often have
occasion to tack.
All that a man can do is to form such resolves as from time to time
accord with the circumstances in which he is placed, in the hope of
thus managing to advance a step nearer towards the final goal. It is
usually the case that the position in which we stand, and the object
at which we aim, resemble two tendencies working with dissimilar
strength in different directions; and the course of our life is
represented by their diagonal, or resultant force.
Terence makes the remark that life is like a game at dice, where if
the number that turns up is not precisely the one you want, you can
still contrive to use it equally:—in vita est hominum quasi cum ludas tesseris; si illud quod maxime opus est jactu non cadit, illud quod cecidit forte, id arte ut corrigas. Or, to put the matter more shortly, life is a game of cards, when the cards are shuffled and
dealt by fate. But for my present purpose, the most suitable simile
would be that of a game of chess, where the plan we determined to
follow is conditioned by the play of our rival,—in life, by the
caprice of fate. We are compelled to modify our tactics, often to such
an extent that, as we carry them out, hardly a single feature of the
original plan can be recognized.
But above and beyond all this, there is another influence that makes
itself felt in our lives. It is a trite saying—only too frequently
true—that we are often more foolish than we think. On the other hand,
we are often wiser than we fancy ourselves to be. This, however, is a
discovery which only those can make, of whom it is really true; and it
takes them a long time to make it. Our brains are not the wisest
part of us. In the great moments of life, when a man decides upon
an important step, his action is directed not so much by any clear
knowledge of the right thing to do, as by an inner impulse—you may
almost call it an instinct—proceeding from the deepest foundations of
his being. If, later on, he attempts to criticise his action by the
light of hard and fast ideas of what is right in the abstract—those
unprofitable ideas which are learnt by rote, or, it may be, borrowed
from other people; if he begins to apply general rules, the principles
which have guided others, to his own case, without sufficiently
weighing the maxim that one man's meat is another's poison, then he
will run great risk of doing himself an injustice. The result will
show where the right course lay. It is only when a man has reached
the happy age of wisdom that he is capable of just judgment in regard
either to his own actions or to those of others.
It may be that this impulse or instinct is the unconscious effect of a
kind of prophetic dream which is forgotten when we awake—lending
our life a uniformity of tone, a dramatic unity, such as could never
result from the unstable moments of consciousness, when we are so
easily led into error, so liable to strike a false note. It is in
virtue of some such prophetic dream that a man feels himself called to
great achievements in a special sphere, and works in that direction
from his youth up out of an inner and secret feeling that that is his
true path, just as by a similar instinct the bee is led to build up
its cells in the comb. This is the impulse which Balthazar Gracian
calls la gran sinderesis—the great power of moral discernment:
it is something that a man instinctively feels to be his salvation
without which he were lost.
To act in accordance with abstract principles is a difficult matter,
and a great deal of practice will be required before you can be even
occasionally successful; it of tens happens that the principles do not
fit in with your particular case. But every man has certain innate
concrete principles—a part, as it were, of the very blood that
flows in his veins, the sum or result, in fact, of all his thoughts,
feelings and volitions. Usually he has no knowledge of them in any
abstract form; it is only when he looks back upon the course his life
has taken, that he becomes aware of having been always led on by
them—as though they formed an invisible clue which he had followed
unawares.
SECTION 49.
That Time works great changes, and that all things are
in their nature fleeting—these are truths that should never be
forgotten. Hence, in whatever case you may be, it is well to picture
to yourself the opposite: in prosperity, to be mindful of misfortune;
in friendship, of enmity; in good weather, of days when the sky is
overcast; in love, of hatred; in moments of trust, to imagine the
betrayal that will make you regret your confidence; and so, too, when
you are in evil plight, to have a lively sense of happier times—what
a lasting source of true worldly wisdom were there! We should then
always reflect, and not be so very easily deceived; because, in
general, we should anticipate the very changes that the years will
bring.
Perhaps in no form of knowledge is personal experience so
indispensable as in learning to see that all things are unstable and
transitory in this world. There is nothing that, in its own place and
for the time it lasts, is not a product of necessity, and therefore
capable of being fully justified; and it is this fact that makes
circumstances of every year, every month, even of every day, seem as
though they might maintain their right to last to all eternity. But we
know that this can never be the case, and that in a world where all is
fleeting, change alone endures. He is a prudent man who is not only
undeceived by apparent stability, but is able to forecast the lines
upon which movement will take place.
But people generally think that present circumstances will last, and
that matters will go on in the future as they have clone in the past.
Their mistakes arises from the fact that they do not understand the
cause of the things they see—causes which, unlike the effects they
produce, contain in themselves the germ of future change. The
effects are all that people know, and they hold fast to them on the
supposition that those unknown causes, which were sufficient to bring
them about, will also be able to maintain them as they are. This is a
very common error; and the fact that it is common is not without its
advantage, for it means that people always err in unison; and hence
the calamity which results from the error affects all alike, and is
therefore easy to bear; whereas, if a philosopher makes a mistake, he
is alone in his error, and so at a double disadvantage.
But in saying that we should anticipate the effects of time, I mean
that we should mentally forecast what they are likely to be; I do
not mean that we should practically forestall them, by demanding the
immediate performance of promises which time alone can fulfill. The
man who makes his demand will find out that there is no worse or more
exacting usurer than Time; and that, if you compel Time to give money
in advance, you will have to pay a rate of interest more ruinous than
any Jew would require. It is possible, for instance, to make a tree
burst forth into leaf, blossom, or even bear fruit within a few days,
by the application of unslaked lime and artificial heat; but after
that the tree will wither away. So a young man may abuse his
strength—it may be only for a few weeks—by trying to do at nineteen
what he could easily manage at thirty, and Time may give him the loan
for which he asks; but the interest he will have to pay comes out of
the strength of his later years; nay, it is part of his very life
itself.
There are some kinds of illness in which entire restoration to health
is possible only by letting the complaint run its natural course;
after which it disappears without leaving any trace of its existence.
But if the sufferer is very impatient, and, while he is still
affected, insists that he is completely well, in this case, too,
Time will grant the loan, and the complaint may be shaken off; but
life-long weakness and chronic mischief will be the interest paid upon
it.
Again, in time of war or general disturbance, a man may require ready
money at once, and have to sell out his investments in land or consols
for a third or even a still smaller fraction of the sum he would have
received from them, if he could have waited for the market to right
itself, which would have happened in due course; but he compels Time
to grant him a loan, and his loss is the interest he has to pay. Or
perhaps he wants to go on a long journey and requires the money: in
one or two years he could lay by a sufficient sum out of his income,
but he cannot afford to wait; and so he either borrows it or deducts
it from his capital; in other words, he gets Time to lend him the
money in advance. The interest he pays is a disordered state of his
accounts, and permanent and increasing deficits, which he can never
make good.
Such is Time's usury; and all who cannot wait are its victims. There
is no more thriftless proceeding than to try and mend the measured
pace of Time. Be careful, then, not to become its debtor.
SECTION 50.
In the daily affairs of life, you will have very many
opportunities of recognizing a characteristic difference between
ordinary people of prudence and discretion. In estimating the
possibility of danger in connection with any undertaking, an ordinary
man will confine his inquiries to the kind of risk that has already
attended such undertakings in the past; whereas a prudent person will
look ahead, and consider everything that might possibly happen in the future, having regard to a certain Spanish maxim: lo que no acaece en un ano, acaece en un rato—a thing may not happen in a year, and yet may happen within two minutes.
The difference in question is, of course, quite natural; for it
requires some amount of discernment to calculate possibilities; but
a man need only have his senses about him to see what has already
happened.
Do not omit to sacrifice to evil spirits. What I mean is, that a man
should not hesitate about spending time, trouble, and money, or giving
up his comfort, or restricting his aims and denying himself, if he
can thereby shut the door on the possibility of misfortune. The most
terrible misfortunes are also the most improbable and remote—the
least likely to occur. The rule I am giving is best exemplified in
the practice of insurance,—a public sacrifice made on the altar of
anxiety. Therefore take out your policy of insurance!
SECTION 51.
Whatever fate befalls you, do not give way to great
rejoicings or great lamentations; partly because all things are full
of change, and your fortune may turn at any moment; partly because men
are so apt to be deceived in their judgment as to what is good or bad
for them.
Almost every one in his turn has lamented over something which
afterwards turned out to be the very best thing for him that could
have happened—or rejoiced at an event which became the source of his
greatest sufferings. The right state of mind has been finely portrayed
by Shakespeare:
I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief That the first face of
neither, on the start, Can woman me unto't.
And, in general, it may be said that, if a man takes misfortunes
quietly, it is because he knows that very many dreadful things may
happen in the course of life; and so he looks upon the trouble of the
moment as only a very small part of that which might come. This is
the Stoic temper—never to be unmindful of the sad fate of
humanity—condicionis humanoe oblitus; but always to remember that
our existence is full of woe and misery: and that the ills to which we
are exposed are innumerable. Wherever he be, a man need only cast a
look around, to revive the sense of human misery: there before his
eyes he can see mankind struggling and floundering in torment,—all
for the sake of a wretched existence, barren and unprofitable!
If he remembers this, a man will not expect very much from life, but
learn to accommodate himself to a world where all is relative and no
perfect state exists;—always looking misfortune in the face, and if
he cannot avoid it, meeting it with courage.
It should never be forgotten that misfortune, be it great or small, is
the element in which we live. But that is no reason why a man should
indulge in fretful complaints, and, like Beresford, pull a long
face over the Miseries of Human Life,—and not a single hour is free
from them; or still less, call upon the Deity at every flea-bite—in pulicis morsu Deum invocare. Our aim should be to look well about us,
to ward off misfortune by going to meet it, to attain such perfection
and refinement in averting the disagreeable things of life,—whether
they come from our fellow-men or from the physical world,—that, like
a clever fox, we may slip out of the way of every mishap, great or
small; remembering that a mishap is generally only our own awkwardness
in disguise.
The main reason why misfortune falls less heavily upon us, if we have
looked upon its occurrence as not impossible, and, as the saying is,
prepared ourselves for it, may be this: if, before this misfortune
comes, we have quietly thought over it as something which may or may
not happen, the whole of its extent and range is known to us, and we
can, at least, determine how far it will affect us; so that, if it
really arrives, it does not depress us unduly—its weight is not felt
to be greater than it actually is. But if no preparation has been
made to meet it, and it comes unexpectedly, the mind is in a state of
terror for the moment and unable to measure the full extent of the
calamity; it seems so far-reaching in its effects that the victim
might well think there was no limit to them; in any case, its range is
exaggerated. In the same way, darkness and uncertainty always increase
the sense of danger. And, of course, if we have thought over the
possibility of misfortune, we have also at the same time considered
the sources to which we shall look for help and consolation; or, at
any rate, we have accustomed ourselves to the idea of it.
There is nothing that better fits us to endure the misfortunes of
life with composure, than to know for certain that everything
that happens—from the smallest up to the greatest facts of
existence—happens of necessity. A man soon accommodates himself
to the inevitable—to something that must be; and if he knows that
nothing can happen except of necessity, he will see that things cannot
be other that they are, and that even the strangest chances in the
world are just as much a product of necessity as phenomena which obey
well-known rules and turn out exactly in accordance with expectation.
Let me here refer to what I have said elsewhere on the soothing effect
of the knowledge that all things are inevitable and a product of
necessity.
If a man is steeped in the knowledge of this truth, he will, first of
all, do what he can, and then readily endure what he must.
We may regard the petty vexations of life that are constantly
happening, as designed to keep us in practice for bearing great
misfortunes, so that we may not become completely enervated by a
career of prosperity. A man should be as Siegfried, armed cap-a-pie,
towards the small troubles of every day—those little differences we
have with our fellow-men, insignificant disputes, unbecoming conduct
in other people, petty gossip, and many other similar annoyances of
life; he should not feel them at all, much less take them to heart and
brood over them, but hold them at arm's length and push them out of
his way, like stones that lie in the road, and upon no account think
about them and give them a place in his reflections.
SECTION 52.
What people commonly call Fate is, as a general rule,
nothing but their own stupid and foolish conduct. There is a fine
passage in Homer, illustrating the truth of this remark, where
the poet praises [GREEK: maetis]—shrewd council; and his advice
is worthy of all attention. For if wickedness is atoned for only in
another world, stupidity gets its reward here—although, now and then,
mercy may be shown to the offender.
It is not ferocity but cunning that strikes fear into the heart
and forebodes danger; so true it is that the human brain is a more
terrible weapon than the lion's paw.
The most finished man of the world would be one who was never
irresolute and never in a hurry.
SECTION 53.
Courage comes next to prudence as a quality of mind very
essential to happiness. It is quite true that no one can endow himself
with either, since a man inherits prudence from his mother and courage
from his father; still, if he has these qualities, he can do much to
develop them by means of resolute exercise.
In this world, where the game is played with loaded dice, a man must
have a temper of iron, with armor proof to the blows of fate, and
weapons to make his way against men. Life is one long battle; we have
to fight at every step; and Voltaire very rightly says that if we
succeed, it is at the point of the sword, and that we die with the
weapon in our hand—on ne reussit dans ce monde qua la pointe de
l'epee, et on meurt les armes a la main. It is a cowardly soul that
shrinks or grows faint and despondent as soon as the storm begins to
gather, or even when the first cloud appears on the horizon. Our motto
should be No Surrender; and far from yielding to the ills of life,
let us take fresh courage from misfortune:—
Tu ne cede malis sed contra audentior ito.
As long as the issue of any matter fraught with peril is still in
doubt, and there is yet some possibility left that all may come right,
no one should ever tremble or think of anything but resistance,—just
as a man should not despair of the weather if he can see a bit of blue
sky anywhere. Let our attitude be such that we should not quake even
if the world fell in ruins about us:—
Si fractus illabatur orbis
Impavidum ferient ruinae.
Our whole life itself—let alone its blessings—would not be worth
such a cowardly trembling and shrinking of the heart. Therefore, let
us face life courageously and show a firm front to every ill:—
Quocirca vivite fortes Fortiaque adversis opponite pectora rebus.
Still, it is possible for courage to be carried to an excess and to
degenerate into rashness. It may even be said that some amount of fear
is necessary, if we are to exist at all in the world, and cowardice
is only the exaggerated form of it. This truth has been very well
expressed by Bacon, in his account of Terror Panicus; and the
etymological account which he gives of its meaning, is very superior
to the ancient explanation preserved for us by Plutarch. He
connects the expression with Pan the personification of Nature;
and observes that fear is innate in every living thing, and, in fact,
tends to its preservation, but that it is apt to come into play
without due cause, and that man is especially exposed to it. The chief
feature of this Panie Terror is that there is no clear notion of any
definite danger bound up with it; that it presumes rather than knows
that danger exists; and that, in case of need, it pleads fright itself
as the reason for being afraid.
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