Of provocations to anger there are two sorts; there is an injury, and there is a contumely. The former in its own nature is the heavier; the other slight in itself, and only troublesome to a wounded imagination. And yet some there are that will bear blows, and death itself, rather than contumelious words. A contumely is an indignity below the consideration of the very law; and not worthy either of a revenge, or so much as a complaint. It is only the vexation and infirmity of a weak mind, as well as the practice of a haughty and insolent nature, and signifies no more to a wise and sober man than an idle dream, that is no sooner past than forgotten. It is true, it implies contempt; but what needs any man care for being contemptible to others, if he be not so to himself? For a child in the arms to strike the mother, tear her hair, claw the face of her, and call her names, that goes for nothing with us, because the child knows not what he does. Neither are we moved at the impudence and bitterness of a buffoon, though he fall upon his own master as well as the guests; but, on the contrary, we encourage and entertain the freedom.
There are two kinds of things that provoke anger: actual injury and insult. Injury is naturally more serious. Insult is minor in itself and only troubles a wounded ego. Yet some people would rather endure physical blows, even death, than insulting words. An insult is such a petty offense that the law doesn't even consider it. It's not worth revenge or even a complaint. It only bothers weak minds and comes from arrogant, rude people. To a wise and level-headed person, an insult means no more than an idle dream that's forgotten as soon as it passes. True, an insult implies contempt. But why should anyone care about being looked down on by others if they don't look down on themselves? When a child in someone's arms hits their mother, pulls her hair, scratches her face, and calls her names, we think nothing of it because the child doesn't know what they're doing. We're not bothered by the rudeness and cruelty of a jester, even when he attacks his own master as well as the guests. Instead, we encourage and enjoy his boldness.
Are we not mad then, to be delighted and displeased with the same thing, and to take that as an injury from one man, which passes only for a raillery from another? He that is wise will behave himself toward all men as we do to our children; for they are but children too, though they have gray hairs: they are indeed of a larger size, and their errors are grown up with them; they live without rule, they covet without choice, they are timorous and unsteady; and if at any time they happen to be quiet, it is more out of fear than reason. It is a wretched condition to stand in awe of everybody’s tongue; and whosoever is vexed at a reproach would be proud if he were commended. We should look upon contumelies, slanders, and ill words, only as the clamor of enemies, or arrows shot at a distance, that make a clattering upon our arms, but do no execution. A man makes himself less than his adversary by fancying that he is contemned. Things are only ill that are ill taken; and it is not for a man of worth to think himself better or worse for the opinion of others. He that thinks himself injured, let him say, “Either I have deserved this, or I have not. If I have, it is a judgment; if I have not, it is an injustice: and the doer of it has more reason to be ashamed than the sufferers.”
Are we not mad, then, to be pleased and displeased by the same thing? We take as an injury from one man what passes as mere teasing from another. A wise man will behave toward all men as we do toward our children. For they are only children too, though they have gray hair. They are indeed of a larger size, and their errors have grown up with them. They live without rule and covet without discrimination. They are fearful and unsteady. If they ever happen to be quiet, it is more from fear than from reason. It is a wretched condition to stand in awe of everybody’s tongue. And whoever is upset by a reproach would be proud if he were praised. We should regard insults, slanders, and harsh words only as the shouting of enemies. They are like arrows shot from a distance that clatter on our armor but do no harm. A man makes himself smaller than his adversary by imagining that he is despised. Things are bad only when they are taken badly. A man of worth should not think himself better or worse for the opinion of others. Let the man who thinks himself injured say, “Either I have deserved this, or I have not. If I have, it is a just judgment. If I have not, it is an injustice, and the one who did it has more reason to be ashamed than those who suffer it.”
Nature has assigned every man his post, which he is bound in honor to maintain, let him be never so much pressed. Diogenes was disputing of anger, and an insolent young fellow, to try if he could put him beside his philosophy, spit in his face: “Young man,” says Diogenes, “this does not make me angry yet; but I am in some doubt whether I should be so or not.” Some are so impatient that they cannot bear a contumely, even from a woman; whose very beauty, greatness, and ornaments, are all of them little enough to vindicate her from any indecencies, without much modesty and discretion; nay, they will lay it to heart even from the meanest of servants. How wretched is that man whose peace lies at the mercy of the people?
Nature has given every man his post, which he is bound in honor to hold, however hard he is pressed. Diogenes was lecturing on anger when an insolent young fellow spat in his face, to see if he could throw him off his philosophy. “Young man,” says Diogenes, “this does not make me angry yet. But I am in some doubt whether I should be or not.” Some people are so impatient that they cannot bear an insult even from a woman. Yet a woman’s beauty, rank, and finery are all scarcely enough to clear her of improper behavior, unless she also has much modesty and discretion. Indeed, some take insults to heart even from the lowest of servants. How wretched is the man whose peace lies at the mercy of the people?
A physician is not angry at the intemperance of a mad patient; nor does he take it ill to be railed at by a man in a fever; just so should a wise man treat all mankind as a physician does his patient; and looking upon them only as sick and extravagant, let their words and actions, whether good or bad, go equally for nothing, attending still his duty even in the coarsest offices that may conduce to their recovery. Men that are proud, froward, and powerful, he values their scorn as little as their quality, and looks upon them no otherwise than as people in the excess of a fever. If a beggar worships him, or if he takes no notice of him, it is all one to him; and with a rich man he makes it the same case. Their honors and their injuries he accounts much alike; without rejoicing at the one, or grieving at the other.
A doctor doesn't get angry when a mentally ill patient acts out. He doesn't take it personally when a feverish man yells at him. A wise person should treat all people the same way a doctor treats patients. He should see everyone as sick and out of control. Whether people's words and actions are good or bad shouldn't matter to him. He should focus on his duty, even when it means doing unpleasant tasks that might help them get better. When dealing with proud, difficult, and powerful people, he should care as little about their contempt as he does about their status. He should see them simply as people burning with fever. It makes no difference to him whether a beggar worships him or ignores him completely. He treats rich people the same way. He views their praise and their insults as basically the same thing. He doesn't celebrate the praise or feel hurt by the attacks.
In these cases, the rule is to pardon all offenses, where there is any sign of repentance, or hope of amendment. It does not hold in injuries as in benefits, the requiting of the one with the other; for it is a shame to overcome in the one, and in the other to be overcome. It is the part of a great mind to despise injuries; and it is one kind of revenge to neglect a man as not worth it: for it makes the first aggressor too considerable. Our philosophy, methinks, might carry us up to the bravery of a generous mastiff, that can hear the barking of a thousand curs without taking any notice of them. He that receives an injury from his superior, it is not enough for him to bear it with patience, and without any thought of revenge, but he must receive it with a cheerful countenance, and look as if he did not understand it too; for if he appear too sensible, he shall be sure to have more of it. “It is a damned humor in great men, that whom they wrong they will hate.”
In these cases the rule is to pardon every offense where there is any sign of repentance or hope of improvement. With injuries, repaying like with like does not hold as it does with benefits. For it is shameful to come out ahead in injuries, and shameful to be outdone in benefits. It is the mark of a great mind to despise injuries. And it is one kind of revenge to ignore a man as not worth it, for real revenge would make the first aggressor too important. Our philosophy, I think, might raise us to the courage of a noble mastiff, which can hear a thousand curs barking without taking any notice of them. When a man receives an injury from his superior, it is not enough to bear it with patience and without any thought of revenge. He must receive it with a cheerful face, and look as if he did not even understand it. For if he seems too sensitive to it, he will surely get more of it. “It is a damned humor in great men, that whom they wrong they will hate.”
It is well answered of an old courtier, that was asked how he kept so long in favor? “Why,” says he, “by receiving injuries, and crying your humble servant for them.” Some men take it for an argument of greatness to have revenge in their power; but so far is he that is under the dominion of anger from being great, that he is not so much as free. Not but that anger is a kind of pleasure to some in the act of revenge; but the very word is inhuman, though it may pass for honest. “Virtue,” in short, “is impenetrable, and revenge is only the confession of an infirmity.”
An old courtier was once asked how he stayed in favor for so long. "Simple," he said. "By accepting insults and thanking people for them." Some men think it shows greatness to have the power of revenge. But anyone controlled by anger is far from great. In fact, they're not even free. Anger can feel good to some people when they get revenge. But the word "revenge" itself is inhuman, even if people think it's justified. True virtue cannot be touched. Revenge only shows our weakness.
It is a fantastical humor, that the same jest in private should make us merry, and yet enrage us in public; nay, we will not allow the liberty that we take. Some railleries we account pleasant, others bitter: a conceit upon a squint-eye, a hunch-back, or any personal defect, passes for a reproach. And why may we not as well hear it as see it? Nay, if a man imitates our gait, speech, or any natural imperfection, it puts us out of all patience; as if the counterfeit were more grievous than the doing of the thing itself. Some cannot endure to hear of their age, nor others of their poverty; and they make the thing the more taken notice of the more they desire to hide it. Some bitter jest (for the purpose) was broken upon you at the table: keep better company then. In the freedom of cups, a sober man will hardly contain himself within bounds. It sticks with us extremely sometimes, that the porter will not let us in to his great master. Will any but a madman quarrel with a cur for barking, when he may pacify him with a crust? What have we to do but to keep further off, and laugh at him? Fidus Cornelius (a tall slim fellow) fell downright a-crying in the senate-house at Corbulo’s saying that “he looked like an ostrich.” He was a man that made nothing of a lash upon his life and manners; but it was worse than death to him a reflection upon his person. No man was ever ridiculous to others that laughed at himself first: it prevents mischief, and it is a spiteful disappointment of those that take pleasure in such abuses. Vatinius, (a man that was made up for scorn and hatred, scurrilous and impudent to the highest degree, but most abusively witty and with all this he was diseased, and deformed to extremity), his way, was always to make sport with himself, and so he prevented the mockeries of other people. There are none more abusive to others than they that lie most open to it themselves; but the humor goes round, and he that laughs at me to-day will have somebody to laugh at him to-morrow, and revenge my quarrel. But, however, there are some liberties that will never go down with some men.
It is a strange humor that the same joke should amuse us in private and yet enrage us in public. Indeed, we will not allow others the liberty we take ourselves. Some teasing we count pleasant, some bitter. A jest about a squint, a hunchback, or any personal defect passes for an insult. And why may we not hear it as well as see it? Indeed, if a man imitates our walk, our speech, or any natural flaw, it drives us out of all patience. It is as if the imitation were more painful than having the thing itself. Some cannot bear to hear of their age, others of their poverty. And the more they want to hide the thing, the more they make people notice it. Suppose (for example) some bitter joke was made at your expense at the table. Then keep better company. When the cups flow freely, even a sober man will hardly keep within bounds. Sometimes it sticks with us terribly that the porter will not let us in to see his great master. Would anyone but a madman quarrel with a dog for barking, when he can quiet it with a crust? What do we need to do but keep further off and laugh at him? Fidus Cornelius (a tall, slim fellow) burst out crying in the senate house when Corbulo said that “he looked like an ostrich.” He was a man who thought nothing of a lash at his life and morals. But a remark about his person was worse than death to him. No man was ever ridiculous to others who laughed at himself first. It prevents harm, and it spitefully disappoints those who take pleasure in such abuse. Take Vatinius. He was a man made for scorn and hatred, coarse and shameless to the highest degree, but most abusively witty. On top of all this he was diseased and deformed in the extreme. His way was always to make sport of himself, and so he headed off other people’s mockery. None are more abusive to others than those who lie most open to it themselves. But the humor goes around. The man who laughs at me today will have someone to laugh at him tomorrow, and so avenge my quarrel. Still, there are some liberties that some men will never put up with.
Asiaticus Valerius, (one of Caligula’s particular friends, and a man of stomach, that would not easily digest an affront) Caligula told him in public what kind of bedfellow his wife was. Good God! that ever any man should hear this, or a prince speak it, especially to a man of consular authority, a friend, and a husband: and in such a manner too as at once to own his disgust and his adultery. The tribune Chæreas had a weak broken voice, like an hermaphrodite; when he came to Caligula for the word, he would give him sometimes Venus, otherwhiles Priapus, as a slur upon him both ways. Valerius was afterwards the principal instrument in the conspiracy against him; and Chæreas, to convince him of his manhood, at one blow cleft him down the chin with his sword. No man was so forward as Caligula to break a jest, and no man so unwilling to bear it.
Asiaticus Valerius was one of Caligula's close friends and a proud man who wouldn't easily tolerate an insult. Caligula told him in public what kind of lover his wife was. Good God! How could any man hear this, or any prince say it, especially to a man of consular rank, a friend, and a husband? And he said it in such a way that he revealed both his disgust and his adultery at the same time. The tribune Chæreas had a weak, broken voice like a hermaphrodite. When he came to Caligula for the password, Caligula would sometimes give him "Venus," other times "Priapus," mocking him both ways. Valerius later became the main organizer of the conspiracy against Caligula. Chæreas, wanting to prove his manhood, split Caligula's chin with one blow of his sword. No man was quicker than Caligula to make a joke, and no man was less willing to take one.