On Mercy, Book II

I. I have been especially led to write about clemency, Nero Caesar, by a saying of yours, which I remember having heard with admiration and which I afterwards told to others: a noble saying, showing a great mind and great gentleness, which suddenly burst from you without premeditation, and was not meant to reach any ears but your own, and which displayed the conflict which was raging between your natural goodness and your imperial duties. Your prefect Burrus, an excellent man who was born to be the servant of such an emperor as you are, was about to order two brigands to be executed, and was pressing you to write their names and the grounds on which they were to be put to death: this had often been put off, and he was insisting that it should then be done. When he reluctantly produced the document and put it into your equally reluctant hands, you exclaimed: “Would that I had never learned my letters!” O what a speech, how worthy to be heard by all nations, both those who dwell within the Roman Empire, those who enjoy a debatable independence upon its borders, and those who either in will or in deed fight against it! It is a speech which ought to be spoken before a meeting of all mankind, whose words all kings and princes ought to swear to obey: a speech worthy of the days of human innocence, and worthy to bring back that golden age. Now in truth we ought all to agree to love righteousness and goodness; covetousness, which is the root of all evil, ought to be driven away, piety and virtue, good faith and modesty ought to resume their interrupted reign, and the vices which have so long and so shamefully ruled us ought at last to give way to an age of happiness and purity.

I. Nero Caesar, a remark of yours especially inspired me to write about clemency. I remember hearing it with admiration and later repeating it to others. Your noble words revealed a great mind and great gentleness. They burst out without any planning and were meant for no ears but your own. They showed the conflict raging between your natural goodness and your duties as emperor. Your prefect Burrus was about to order the execution of two bandits. He is an excellent man, born to serve an emperor like you. He was pressing you to write their names and the reasons for putting them to death. You had often put off this task, and he was insisting that you complete it then. Reluctantly, he brought out the document and placed it in your equally reluctant hands. You exclaimed: “I wish I had never learned to write!” Oh, what words! How worthy they are to be heard by all nations! That includes nations within the Roman Empire and those whose independence along its borders is uncertain. It also includes those who oppose the Empire in intention or in action. Your words ought to be spoken before a gathering of all humanity. All kings and princes ought to swear to live by them. They are worthy of the days of human innocence, worthy of bringing back that golden age. Now, truly, we should all agree to love righteousness and goodness. Greed, the root of all evil, should be driven away. Piety and virtue, good faith and modesty should resume their interrupted rule. And the vices that have ruled us so long and so shamefully should finally yield to happiness and purity.

II. To a great extent, Caesar, we may hope and expect that this will come to pass. Let your own goodness of heart be gradually spread and diffused throughout the whole body of the empire, and all parts of it will mould themselves into your likeness. Good health proceeds from the head into all the members of the body: they are all either brisk and erect, or languid and drooping, according as their guiding spirit blooms or withers. Both Romans and allies will prove worthy of this goodness of yours, and good morals will return to all the world: your hands will everywhere find less to do. Allow me to dwell somewhat upon this saying of yours, not because it is a pleasant subject for your ears (indeed, this is not my way; I would rather offend by telling the truth than curry favour by flattery). What, then, is my reason? Besides wishing that you should be as familiar as possible with your own good deeds and good words, in order that what is now untutored impulse may grow into matured decision, I remember that many great but odious sayings have become part of human life and are familiar in men’s mouths, such as that celebrated “Let them hate me, provided that they fear me,” which is like that Greek verse, έμοῦ θανόντος γαῖα μιχθήτω πνρί, in which a man bids the earth perish in flame after he is dead, and others of the like sort. I know not how it is, but certainly human ingenuity seems to have found it easier to find emphatic and ardent expression for monstrous and cynical sentiments: I have never hitherto heard any spirited saying from a good and gentle person. What, then, is the upshot of all this? It is that, albeit seldom and against your will, and after much hesitation, you sometimes nevertheless must write that which made you hate your letters, but that you ought to do so with great hesitation and after many postponements, even as you now do.

II. Caesar, we have strong grounds to hope and expect that this will happen. Let your own goodness gradually spread throughout the whole empire, and every part will take on your character. Good health flows from the head into every part of the body. All its limbs are either lively and upright or weak and drooping, as their guiding spirit flourishes or fades. Both Romans and allies will prove worthy of your goodness, and good morals will return throughout the world. Everywhere, you will have less work to do. Allow me to spend some time on this saying of yours, but not because you enjoy hearing about it. Indeed, that is not my way. I would rather offend you with the truth than win your favor through flattery. Why, then, do I bring it up? For one thing, I want you to know your own good deeds and words as thoroughly as possible. Then what is now an untrained impulse may become a mature decision. I also remember that many powerful but hateful sayings have entered everyday life and become familiar on people's lips. One is the famous “Let them hate me, provided that they fear me.” It resembles the Greek verse, έμοῦ θανόντος γαῖα μιχθήτω πνρί, in which a man calls for the earth to burn after his death. There are other sayings of the same kind. I do not know why, but human ingenuity certainly seems better at expressing monstrous and cynical feelings with force and passion. Until now, I have never heard a good and gentle person make a similarly forceful remark. What, then, does all this lead to? Sometimes you must still write the words that made you hate learning to write. You do so rarely, unwillingly, and after much hesitation. But you ought to write those words only with great hesitation and after many delays, just as you do now.

III. But lest the plausible word “mercy” should sometimes deceive us and lead us into the opposite extreme, let us consider what mercy is, what its qualities are, and within what limits it is confined.

III. But the appealing word “mercy” can sometimes mislead us and take us to the opposite extreme. To avoid this, let us consider what mercy is, what qualities mercy has, and what its limits are.

Mercy is “a restraining of the mind from vengeance when it is in its power to avenge itself,” or it is “gentleness shown by a powerful man in fixing the punishment of a weaker one.” It is safer to have more than one definition, since one may not include the whole subject, and may, so to speak, lose its cause: mercy, therefore, may likewise be termed a tendency towards mildness in inflicting punishment. It is possible to discover certain inconsistencies in the definition which comes nearer the truth than all the rest, which is to call mercy “self-restraint, which remits some part of a fine which it deserves to receive and which is due to it.” To this it will be objected that no virtue ever gives any man less than his due. However, all men understand mercy to consist in coming short of the penalty which might with justice be inflicted.

Mercy is “holding back the desire for revenge when you have the power to take it.” Or mercy is “gentleness shown by a powerful man when deciding the punishment of a weaker one.” Having more than one definition is safer, since one definition may not cover the whole subject. A single definition may, so to speak, lose its case. Mercy, therefore, may also be called a tendency toward mildness in punishment. The definition closest to the truth still has some possible inconsistencies. That definition calls mercy “self-restraint that gives up part of a penalty one deserves and is entitled to collect.” Someone will object that no virtue ever gives anyone less than their due. Yet all people understand mercy as imposing less than the penalty that could justly be imposed.

IV. The unlearned think that its opposite is strictness: but no virtue is the opposite of another virtue. What, then, is the opposite of mercy? Cruelty: which is nothing more than obstinacy in exacting punishments. “But,” say you, “some men do not exact punishments, and nevertheless are cruel, such as those who kill the strangers whom they meet, not in order to rob them, but for killing’s sake, and men who are not satisfied with killing, but kill with savage tortures, like the famous Busiris,¹ and Procrustes, and pirates who flog their captives and burn them alive.” This appears to be cruelty: but as it is not the result of vengeance (for it has received no wrong), and is not excited by any offence (for no crime has preceded it), it does not come within our definition, which was limited to “extravagance in exacting the penalties of wrongdoing.” We may say that this is not cruelty, but ferocity, which finds pleasure in savagery: or we may call it madness; for madness is of various kinds, and there is no truer madness than that which takes to slaughtering and mutilating human beings. I shall, therefore, call those persons cruel who have a reason for punishing but who punish without moderation, like Phalaris, who is not said to have tortured innocent men, but to have tortured criminals with inhuman and incredible barbarity. We may avoid hairsplitting by defining cruelty to be “a tendency of the mind towards harsh measures.” Mercy repels cruelty and bids it be far from her: with strictness she is on terms of amity.

IV. The uneducated think that strictness is the opposite of mercy. But no virtue is the opposite of another virtue. What, then, is the opposite of mercy? Cruelty, which is nothing more than stubborn insistence on punishment. “But,” you say, “some men inflict no punishment and are still cruel. Some kill strangers they meet, not to rob them, but for the sake of killing. Others are not satisfied with killing, but kill through savage torture, like the famous Busiris,¹ and Procrustes. There are also pirates who whip their captives and burn them alive.” Such behavior seems to be cruelty. But these acts are not revenge, since those who commit them have suffered no wrong. Nor are these acts provoked by any offense, since no crime came before them. So these acts fall outside our definition, which was limited to “excess in punishing wrongdoing.” We may say that such behavior is not cruelty but ferocity, which takes pleasure in savagery. Or we may call such behavior madness. For madness takes many forms, and no madness is more genuine than slaughtering and mutilating human beings. I shall therefore call people cruel when they have a reason to punish but punish without moderation. Phalaris is an example. He is not said to have tortured innocent men, but to have tortured criminals with inhuman and unbelievable brutality. We may avoid splitting hairs by defining cruelty as “a tendency of the mind toward harsh measures.” Mercy rejects cruelty and tells cruelty to keep far away. But mercy and strictness are friends.

At this point it is useful to inquire into what pity is; for many praise it as a virtue, and say that a good man is full of pity. This also is a disease of the mind. Both of these stand close to mercy and to strictness, and both ought to be avoided, lest under the name of strictness we be led into cruelty, and under the name of mercy into pity. It is less dangerous to make the latter mistake, but both lead us equally far away from the truth.

At this point, it is useful to ask what pity is. For many people praise pity as a virtue and say that a good man is full of pity. Pity, too, is a disease of the mind. Cruelty and pity stand close to strictness and mercy, and both must be avoided. Otherwise, we may be led into cruelty in the name of strictness, and into pity in the name of mercy. The second mistake is less dangerous, but both lead us equally far from the truth.

V. Just as the gods are worshipped by religion, but are dishonoured by superstition, so all good men will show mercy and mildness, but will avoid pity, which is a vice incident to weak minds which cannot endure the sight of another’s sufferings. It is, therefore, most commonly found in the worst people; there are old women and girls² who are affected by the tears of the greatest criminals, and who, if they could, would let them out of prison. Pity considers a man’s misfortunes and does not consider to what they are due: mercy is combined with reason. I know that the doctrine of the Stoics is unpopular among the ignorant as being excessively severe and not at all likely to give kings and princes good advice; it is blamed because it declares that the wise man knows not how to feel pity or to grant pardon. These doctrines, if taken separately, are indeed odious, for they appear to give men no hope of repairing their mistakes but exact a penalty for every slip. If this were true, how can it be true wisdom to bid us put off human feeling, and to exclude us from mutual help, that surest haven of refuge against the attacks of Fortune? But no school of philosophy is more gentle and benignant, none is more full of love towards man or more anxious to promote the happiness of all, seeing that its maxims are, to be of service and assistance to others, and to consult the interests of each and all, not of itself alone. Pity is a disorder of the mind caused by the sight of other men’s miseries, or it is a sadness caused by the evils with which it believes others to be undeservedly afflicted: but the wise man cannot be affected by any disorder: his mind is calm, and nothing can possibly happen to ruffle it. Moreover, nothing becomes a man more than magnanimity: but magnanimity cannot coexist with sorrow. Sorrow overwhelms men’s minds, casts them down, contracts them: now this cannot happen to the wise man even in his greatest misfortunes, but he will beat back the rage of Fortune and triumph over it: he will always retain the same calm, undisturbed expression of countenance, which he never could do were he accessible to sorrow.

V. Just as religion honors the gods while superstition dishonors them, all good men will show mercy and gentleness but avoid pity. Pity is a failing of weak minds that cannot bear to see another person suffer. It is therefore most common among the worst people. There are old women and girls² who are moved by the tears of even the greatest criminals. If they could, they would release those criminals from prison. Pity considers a person’s misfortunes without considering their causes. Mercy goes hand in hand with reason. I know that Stoic teaching is unpopular among the ignorant. They consider it too harsh and unlikely to offer kings and princes good advice. They criticize its claim that the wise man neither feels pity nor grants pardon. Taken on their own, these teachings are indeed offensive. They seem to offer people no hope of correcting their mistakes, but demand punishment for every slip. If that were true, how could such teaching be true wisdom? It would tell us to abandon human feeling and deny us the help we give one another. That help is our safest refuge against Fortune’s attacks. But no school of philosophy is gentler or kinder than the Stoics. None loves humanity more or works harder to promote everyone’s happiness. Its principles call for serving and helping others, and considering everyone’s interests, individually and together, not just its own. Pity is a disturbance of the mind caused by seeing other people’s suffering. Or it is sadness caused by troubles that the mind believes others suffer undeservedly. But no disturbance can affect the wise man. His mind is calm, and nothing can possibly disturb it. Moreover, nothing suits a man better than greatness of spirit. But greatness of spirit cannot coexist with sorrow. Sorrow overwhelms people’s minds, brings them low, and narrows them. But the wise man cannot suffer these effects, even in his greatest misfortunes. Instead, he will fight back against Fortune’s fury and overcome it. He will always keep the same calm, untroubled expression. He could never do so if he were open to sorrow.

VI. Add to this, that the wise man provides for the future and always has a distinct plan of action ready: yet nothing clear and true can flow from a disturbed source. Sorrow is awkward at reviewing the position of affairs, at devising useful expedients, avoiding dangerous courses, and weighing the merits of fair and just ones: therefore the wise man will not feel pity, because this cannot happen to a man unless his mind is disturbed. He will do willingly and highmindedly all that those who feel pity are wont to do; he will dry the tears of others, but will not mingle his own with them; he will stretch out his hand to the shipwrecked mariner, will offer hospitality to the exile, and alms to the needy—not in the offensive way in which most of those who wish to be thought tender-hearted fling their bounty to those whom they assist and shrink from their touch, but as one man would give another something out of the common stock—he will restore children to their weeping mothers, will loose the chains of the captive, release the gladiator from his bondage, and even bury the carcase of the criminal, but he will perform all this with a calm mind and unaltered expression of countenance. Thus the wise man will not pity men, but will help them and be of service to them, seeing that he is born to be a help to all men and a public benefit, of which he will bestow a share upon every one. He will even grant a proportional part of his bounty to those sufferers who deserve blame and correction; but he will much more willingly help those whose troubles and adversities are caused by misfortune. Whenever he is able he will interpose between Fortune and her victims: for what better employment can he find for his wealth or his strength than in setting up again what chance has overthrown? He will not show or feel any disgust at a man’s having withered legs, or a flabby wrinkled skin, or supporting his aged body upon a staff; but he will do good to those who deserve it, and will, like a god, look benignantly upon all who are in trouble. Pity borders upon misery: it is partly composed of it and partly derived from it. You know that eyes must be weak, if they fill with rheum at the sight of another’s blearedness, just as it is not real merriment but hysteria which makes people laugh because others laugh, and yawn whenever others open their jaws: pity is a defect in the mind of people who are extraordinarily affected by suffering, and he who requires a wise man to exhibit it is not far from requiring him to lament and groan when strangers are buried.

VI. Add to this that the wise man prepares for the future and always has a clear plan ready. Yet nothing clear and true can come from a troubled mind. Sorrow makes it hard to assess a situation, devise useful solutions, avoid dangerous choices, and weigh fair and just ones. Therefore, the wise man will not feel pity, because pity cannot arise unless the mind is disturbed. He will willingly and generously do everything that people who feel pity usually do. He will dry other people's tears, but will not add his own. He will reach out to the shipwrecked sailor, welcome the exile, and give to the needy. He will not give in the insulting way of most people who want to seem tenderhearted. Such people throw their gifts at those they help and recoil from their touch. Instead, he will give as one person gives another something from a shared supply. He will return children to their weeping mothers and free prisoners from their chains. He will release the gladiator from bondage and even bury the criminal's body. But he will do all this with a calm mind and an unchanged expression. Thus, the wise man will not pity people, but will help them and serve them. He recognizes that he was born to help all people and benefit the public. He will give everyone a share of that benefit. He will even give an appropriate share of his generosity to sufferers who deserve blame and correction. But he will much more willingly help those whose troubles and hardships result from misfortune. Whenever he can, he will stand between Fortune and her victims. For what better use can he find for his wealth or strength than restoring what chance has brought down? He will neither show nor feel disgust at a man's withered legs or loose, wrinkled skin. Nor will he feel disgust at an old man supporting himself with a staff. Instead, he will do good to those who deserve it. Like a god, he will look kindly on everyone in trouble. Pity borders on misery. It is partly made of misery and partly comes from it. You know eyes must be weak if they water at the sight of someone else's inflamed eyes. Likewise, people who laugh because others laugh are not showing genuine joy, but hysteria. The same is true when they yawn whenever others open their mouths. Pity is a flaw in the minds of people who are unusually affected by suffering. Anyone who demands pity from a wise man comes close to demanding that he weep and groan at strangers' funerals.

VII. But why should he not pardon?³ Let us decide by exact definition this other slippery matter, the true nature of pardon, and we shall then perceive that the wise man ought not to grant it. Pardon is the remitting of a deserved punishment. The reasons why the wise man ought not to grant this remission are given at length by those of whom this question is specially asked: I will briefly say, as though it were no concern of mine to decide this point, “A man grants pardon to one whom he ought to punish: now the wise man does nothing which he ought not to do, and omits to [do] nothing which he ought to do: he does not, therefore, remit any punishment which he ought to exact. But the wise man will bestow upon you in a more honourable way that which you wish to obtain by pardon, for he will make allowances for you, will consult your interests, and will correct your bad habits: he will act just as though he were pardoning you, but nevertheless he will not pardon you, because he who pardons admits that in so doing he has neglected a part of his duty. He will only punish some people by reprimanding them, and will inflict no further penalty if he considers that they are of an age which admits of reformation: some people who are undeniably implicated in an odious charge he will acquit, because they were deceived into committing, or were not sober when they committed the offence with which they are charged: he will let his enemies depart unharmed, sometimes even with words of commendation, if they have taken up arms to defend their honour, their covenants with others, their freedom, or on any other honourable ground. All these doings come under the head of mercy, not of pardon. Mercy is free to come to what decision it pleases: she gives her decision, not under any statute, but according to equity and goodness: she may acquit the defendant, or impose what damages she pleases. She does not do any of these things as though she were doing less than justice requires, but as though the justest possible course were that which she adopts. On the other hand, to pardon is not to punish a man whom you have decided ought to be punished; pardon is the remission of a punishment which ought to be inflicted. The first advantage which mercy has over it is that she does not tell those whom she lets off that they ought to have suffered: she is more complete, more honourable than pardon.”

VII. But why should he not pardon?³ Let us settle another slippery question by defining exactly what pardon means. We will then see that the wise man ought not to grant it. Pardon means canceling a deserved punishment. Those specifically asked to address this question explain at length why the wise man ought not to cancel such punishment. I will speak briefly, as though deciding this point were no concern of mine. “A man grants pardon to someone he ought to punish. Now, the wise man does nothing he ought not to do. Nor does he leave undone anything he ought to do. Therefore, he does not cancel any punishment he ought to impose. But the wise man will give you, in a more honorable way, what you hope to gain through pardon. He will make allowances for you, consider your interests, and correct your bad habits. He will act just as though he were pardoning you, but he will not actually pardon you. For anyone who pardons admits that, by doing so, he has neglected part of his duty. He will punish some people only with a reprimand. He will impose no further penalty if he considers them young enough to reform. Some people are undeniably involved in a hateful offense, yet he will acquit them. He will do so because they were deceived into committing the offense, or were not sober when they committed it. He will let his enemies leave unharmed, sometimes even praising them, if they took up arms for an honorable reason. They may have fought to defend their honor, their agreements with others, their freedom, or any other honorable cause. All these actions fall under mercy, not pardon. Mercy is free to reach whatever decision she pleases. She decides not according to any statute, but according to fairness and goodness. She may acquit the defendant or impose whatever damages she pleases. In none of these actions does she see herself as doing less than justice requires. Instead, she sees the course she chooses as the most just course possible. By contrast, to pardon is to spare someone a punishment you have decided he ought to receive. Pardon cancels a punishment that ought to be imposed. Mercy’s first advantage over pardon is that she does not tell those she spares that they ought to have suffered. She is more complete and more honorable than pardon.”

In my opinion, this is a mere dispute about words, and we are agreed about the thing itself. The wise man will remit many penalties, and will save many who are wicked, but whose wickedness is not incurable. He will act like good husbandmen, who do not cultivate only straight and tall trees, but also apply props to straighten those which have been rendered crooked by various causes; they trim some, lest the luxuriance of their boughs should hinder their upward growth, they nurse those which have been weakened by being planted in an unsuitable position, and they give air to those which are overshadowed by the foliage of others. The wise man will see the several treatments suitable to several dispositions, and how what is crooked may be straightened. . . .

In my view, this is only an argument about words, and we agree on the substance. The wise man will cancel many penalties and save many wicked people whose wickedness can still be cured. He will act like good farmers, who do not tend only straight, tall trees. They also use supports to straighten trees that have grown crooked for various reasons. They prune some trees so that thick branches do not hinder their upward growth. They nurse trees weakened by being planted in an unsuitable spot. And they give breathing room to trees shaded by the leaves of others. The wise man will see which treatments suit different temperaments, and how what is crooked may be straightened. . . .

THE END.

THE END.