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The eighth pleaded great losses and sufferings for the Church, and the labour he had undertaken at home and abroad; besides, he brought letters from noblemen. The ninth had married a kinswoman and sent his wife to petition for him. The tenth was a foreign doctor, recently converted, who lacked an income. The eleventh wanted an exchange: he disliked the location of his present post, could not get along with his neighbours and colleagues on any terms, and wanted to leave.
The twelfth and last was an applicant only in his imagination: a thoroughly honest, courteous, sober man, an excellent scholar who lived privately at the university. He had neither influence nor money to obtain the post; besides, he detested all such methods. He could not speak for himself and had no friends to advance his case. He therefore made no application, could expect nothing, and neither hoped for nor pursued it.
The good bishop, perplexed among this jury of competitors and still undecided what to do or whom to appoint, finally acted entirely on his own initiative and from his generous nature: he freely gave it to the university scholar, whom he knew only by reputation. To be brief, the academic had the prebend sent to him as a gift.
No sooner did the news spread than all good scholars rejoiced and took great encouragement from it. Some would not believe it; others, astonished, called it a miracle. One among them thanked God and said, “Now at last it is a joy to be a scholar and to serve God with an undivided heart.”
You have heard my tale. Alas, it is only a tale, pure fiction: it never happened, never is likely to happen, and there let it rest. Well, let it be so, then: they have wealth and honour, fortune and advancement; everyone must scramble as best he may and fend for himself as best he can—there is no help for it. Yet Cardan comforted himself with the thought that the star Fomahant would make him immortal, and that after his death his books would be found in ladies’ studies.
The Muse forbids a man worthy of praise to die.
But why should you take being neglected and tossed aside so much to heart? Perhaps you are unfit. Like a child putting on his father’s shoes, hat, helmet, breastplate and breeches, or holding his spear, although unable to wield the weapon or wear the clothes, you would be out of your depth in such an office, position or magistracy. You are unfit. As Salvian says, what is dignity in an unworthy man but a gold ring in a pig’s snout? You are a brute.
Like a bad actor in a tragedy—Plutarch’s comparison for such men—“he wears a diadem, but his voice cannot be heard.” You would play a king, but act a clown and speak like an ass. “You ask great things, Phaethon, beyond those powers of yours,” and so on: like James and John, Zebedee’s sons, you ask for what you do not understand. “You do not know, rash one, you do not know.” Like another Suffenus, you overrate yourself: wise in your own estimation, but in another, more mature judgement wholly unfit to manage such affairs.
Or suppose you are more deserving than anyone of your rank: God in his providence has reserved you for a different fortune; “so the powers above have decreed.” Perhaps you are humble as you are. Had you been promoted, you might have forgotten God and yourself, lorded it over others, despised your friends, and become a blockhead, a tyrant or a demigod: “pride follows beauty.” Therefore, says Chrysostom, good men do not always find favour, lest inflated titles puff them up and make them insolent and proud.
Injuries and abuse are deeply offensive, all the more because people think that “by bearing an old injury they invite a new one”: that accepting one provokes another. But this is a mistaken opinion, for if it were true there would be no end to our abusing one another. “One quarrel breeds another.” It is far better to bear it patiently or quietly put up with it. “If an ass kicks me,” says Socrates, “shall I strike it back?” And when his wife Xanthippe struck and ill-treated him, he told friends who wanted him to hit her back that he would not provide them with entertainment, letting them stand by crying, “Go on, Socrates! Go on, Xanthippe!” as we clap our hands to encourage fighting dogs.
Many men exhaust themselves, their possessions, friendships and fortunes over petty quarrels, sometimes at others’ instigation, with great vexation of spirit and anguish of mind. All these disputes might have been happily settled through good advice or friends’ mediation, or if patience had prevailed.
Patience is a supreme remedy in such cases: endure the injury, conceal it or act as though it has not occurred; forget and forgive, “not seven but seventy-seven times; as often as he repents, forgive him”: Luke 17:3. When we are struck, our Saviour commands us to turn the other cheek. Our Apostle urges us to repay no one evil for evil, to live at peace with everyone as far as possible, and not to avenge ourselves; thus we shall heap burning coals on our adversary’s head.
As Chrysostom comments, if you bear an injury, you win the victory: in this philosophy of ours, losing your money does not mean losing the contest. If he quarrels with you, be the first to submit; yield to him.
“Hard and hard do not make a wall,” as the proverb says: two stubborn spirits will never agree. The only way to prevail is to soften; “you will conquer by yielding.” Euclid, in Plutarch, swore revenge when his brother angered him; but the brother gently replied, “May I not live if I do not make you love me again.” This gentle answer pacified him.
A branch is bent from its tree by gentle handling; You break it if you try your strength.
A branch bends to you when gently bent; Pull hard and it breaks: you see the difference.
When the noble Colonna family were expelled from Rome by the furious Alexander VI, they therefore adopted the bending branch as their emblem, with the motto, “It can be bent; it cannot be broken,” to signify that he might break them by force but could never make them bow. Amid their harsh treatment they fled to the kingdom of Naples, where King Frederick received them honourably according to their rank.