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Good sir, I am a servant—to use Seneca’s words—but still your humble friend; a servant, yet your companion under the same roof, and, if you think more carefully, your fellow servant. In the world’s eyes I am your drudge, but perhaps in God’s sight I am your better: my soul is more precious, and I am dearer to him.
“Even slaves are objects of the gods’ care,” as Evangelus proves at length in Macrobius: the humblest servant is most precious in his sight.
You are an Epicure; I am a good Christian. You are many leagues ahead of me in means, favour, wealth, and honour: a Narcissus to Claudius, a Massa to Nero, a Parthenius to Domitian, a favourite, a golden slave. You cover your floors with marble, your ceilings with gold, your walls with statues, fine pictures, exquisite tapestries, and so on. What of it all? “You tread upon riches,” and so forth: what does any of this have to do with true happiness?
I live and breathe beneath that glorious sky, nature’s majestic Capitol. I enjoy the brightness of the stars, the clear light of sun and moon, the countless creatures, plants, birds, beasts, fish, and herbs: everything sea and land provide, far surpassing all that art and wealth can give.
I am free; and, as Seneca said of Rome, “A roof sheltered free men; afterwards slavery lived beneath marble and gold.” You possess Amalthea’s horn: abundance, pleasure, the world at your command. I am despised and poor. But a rash word, a blow struck in anger, a game of tables, a loss at sea, a sudden fire, the ruler’s displeasure, a brief illness, and so on, may make us equals in an instant.
Meanwhile, enjoy your moment; triumph and lord it over me for a while. “Ashes make us equal,” as Alfonso said: death will make us all equal at last. In the meantime I live frugally, dress plainly, and eat poor food. Is that a disgrace? Am I the worse for it? Does it make me contemptible? Am I to be blamed?
A learned man in Nevizzano was rebuked for sitting among gentlemen, but replied, “My nobility is about my head; yours descends towards the tail.” They fell silent. Let them mock, sneer, and abuse you: their scorn falls on the one who made you as you are. “Whoever mocks the poor reproaches their maker,” Proverbs 11:5, “and whoever rejoices at affliction will not go unpunished.”
For the rest, the poorer you are, the happier you are. “He is richer, but not better,” says Epictetus: richer than you, not better, nor so free from lust, envy, hatred, and ambition.
Happy the man who, far from business, Ploughs his ancestral fields with his own oxen.
Happy because he is free from the world’s turmoil: he seeks no honours, hungers for no advancement, neither flatters nor envies nor trims his conduct to the times, but lives privately, well content with his condition.
He nourishes neither greedy hopes nor empty care in his heart, Untroubled by how the fates may fall.
He is untroubled by affairs of state: whether kingdoms prosper better through hereditary succession or election; whether monarchies should be mixed, limited, or absolute. The Ottoman and Austrian houses are all the same to him. He does not inquire about colonies or new discoveries; whether Peter was in Rome, or Constantine’s Donation has legal force; what comets or new stars signify; whether the earth stands still or moves; whether there is a new world in the moon, or infinitely many worlds, and so on. He is untouched by fear of invasions, factions, or rivalries.
Happy in spirit, and most like the gods themselves, Is he whom glory, glittering in corrosive paint, does not entice, Nor the evil pleasures of arrogant luxury; He lets his days pass quietly and, living simply, Spends an innocent life in tranquil silence.
A happy soul, like God himself, Worn down neither by vain glory nor by strife, Nor by the wicked pleasures of that proud, swollen wealth, But leading a quiet, poor, contented life.
He enjoys a safe, quiet, blissful condition, if only he could recognise it.
But here is the misery: he refuses to recognise it. He envies the rich their wealth, splendid tapestries, and delicate food. As Simonides puts it to Hiero, the rich man has all the pleasures of the world: “He sleeps on ivory beds, drinks wine from bowls, and anoints himself with the finest ointments”; he knows nothing of Joseph’s affliction, stretching himself on ivory beds and singing to the sound of the viol.
It troubles him that he has nothing like it. There is a difference, he grumbles, between thin porridge and pheasants, between tossing in straw and lying on a down mattress, between wine and water, a cottage and a palace.
He hates nature, as Pliny describes him, for making him lower than a god, and is angry with the gods that anyone ranks above him. Although he has received much, as Seneca continues, he thinks himself wronged because he has not received more. Far from giving thanks for his tribuneship, he complains that he is not a praetor; nor does that satisfy him unless he can become consul.
Why is he not a prince, a monarch, an emperor? Why should one man have so much more than his fellows, one have everything and another nothing? Why should one man be another’s slave or drudge? Why should one gorge himself and another starve, one live at ease and another labour without any hope of better fortune? So they grumble, mutter, and complain, without considering the instability of human affairs, judiciously comparing one condition with another, or properly weighing their own present circumstances.
What they are now, you may soon become; and what you are, they may well become. Wait a little; compare the future and the past with the present, consider the outcome, and take comfort from it. This can be seen as clearly in commonwealths, cities, and families as in the circumstances of private individuals.