M. Yet, how desirous he was of friendship, though at the same time he dreaded the treachery of friends, appears from the story of those two Pythagoreans: one of these had been security for his friend, who was condemned to die; the other, to release his security, presented himself at the time appointed for his dying:
“I wish,” said Dionysius, “you would admit me as the third in your friendship.”
What misery was it for him to be deprived of acquaintance, of company at his table, and of the freedom of conversation! Especially for one who was a man of learning, and from his childhood acquainted with liberal arts, very fond of music, and himself a tragic poet—how good a one is not to the purpose, for I know not how it is, but in this way, more than any other, everyone thinks his own performances excellent.
I never as yet knew any poet (and I was very intimate with Aquinius), who did not appear to himself to be very admirable. The case is this: you are pleased with your own works; I like mine.
But to return to Dionysius. He debarred himself from all civil and polite conversation, and spent his life among fugitives, bondmen, and barbarians; for he was persuaded that no one could be his friend who was worthy of liberty, or had the least desire of being free.
“I wish,” said Dionysius, “you would admit me as the third in your friendship.”
What misery was it for him to be deprived of acquaintance, of company at his table, and of the freedom of conversation! Especially for one who was a man of learning, and from his childhood acquainted with liberal arts, very fond of music, and himself a tragic poet—how good a one is not to the purpose, for I know not how it is, but in this way, more than any other, everyone thinks his own performances excellent.
I never as yet knew any poet (and I was very intimate with Aquinius), who did not appear to himself to be very admirable. The case is this: you are pleased with your own works; I like mine.
But to return to Dionysius. He debarred himself from all civil and polite conversation, and spent his life among fugitives, bondmen, and barbarians; for he was persuaded that no one could be his friend who was worthy of liberty, or had the least desire of being free.
—from Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 5.22
It will be hard to convince the young go-getter that a mercenary life is a wretched life, since he sees all the glamor on the outside, and he still clings to a hope for some impending fulfillment on the inside. By the time he realizes why his urge to acquire and to consume can never be satisfied, he may no longer know how to escape from the prison of his own making; he is now nostalgic for the innocence he once shunned.
Though hardly as dramatic in scale as the story of Dionysius, I have regularly noticed how the most prosperous people can also be the saddest and the loneliest people. At unexpected moments, they can express an urgent need for the simple comforts of honest companionship, almost as if they had regressed to being frightened children. Given their wealth and influence, I may resentfully wonder what else they could possibly desire, until I remember that they miss the plain exercise of their essential humanity.
I was one of those odd children, already a rarity by my generation, who was still raised on German fairy tales and myths from the Greeks and Romans, so I was familiar with the fine story of Damon and Pythias, two Pythagoreans who ran afoul of Dionysius’ wrath.
The tyrant sentenced Pythias to death, convinced that the young man was plotting against him. When Pythias begged for the chance to settle his affairs at home before the execution, Dionysius graciously permitted the request, but only on the condition that Damon stand in as a hostage.
As the appointed time came, Pythias was nowhere to be found, and Dionysius, ever the cynic, assumed he had fled. As Damon was brought out to die in his place, Pythias suddenly arrived, apologized for his tardiness, explained how he had been waylaid by pirates, and thanked Damon for his faithfulness.
It is said that Dionysius was so impressed by their nobility, that he immediately pardoned both men. It was then that he expressed his wish to join them in their friendship, a request which the men politely refused. Even when I first heard the story, I was sure they weren’t being rude, just painfully aware of why a wicked man is incapable of being a friend, having abandoned the sacred values of commitment and trust.
We all crave fellowship, sometimes for the right reasons, and sometimes for the wrong reasons. While Dionysius briefly revealed his natural instinct to be as one with others, his weakness of character made it impossible for him to do so with devotion and constancy. By choosing to abandon virtue in favor of vice, for so many years, he had hardened himself to love, forever seeking utility at the expense of integrity.
I was moved by the story back then, and I better understand its importance right now. I will be free when I have the decency to let others be free, to treat a man as a brother, not as a tool. Considered in this light, virtue is the strongest thing I can ever possess.
It will be hard to convince the young go-getter that a mercenary life is a wretched life, since he sees all the glamor on the outside, and he still clings to a hope for some impending fulfillment on the inside. By the time he realizes why his urge to acquire and to consume can never be satisfied, he may no longer know how to escape from the prison of his own making; he is now nostalgic for the innocence he once shunned.
Though hardly as dramatic in scale as the story of Dionysius, I have regularly noticed how the most prosperous people can also be the saddest and the loneliest people. At unexpected moments, they can express an urgent need for the simple comforts of honest companionship, almost as if they had regressed to being frightened children. Given their wealth and influence, I may resentfully wonder what else they could possibly desire, until I remember that they miss the plain exercise of their essential humanity.
I was one of those odd children, already a rarity by my generation, who was still raised on German fairy tales and myths from the Greeks and Romans, so I was familiar with the fine story of Damon and Pythias, two Pythagoreans who ran afoul of Dionysius’ wrath.
The tyrant sentenced Pythias to death, convinced that the young man was plotting against him. When Pythias begged for the chance to settle his affairs at home before the execution, Dionysius graciously permitted the request, but only on the condition that Damon stand in as a hostage.
As the appointed time came, Pythias was nowhere to be found, and Dionysius, ever the cynic, assumed he had fled. As Damon was brought out to die in his place, Pythias suddenly arrived, apologized for his tardiness, explained how he had been waylaid by pirates, and thanked Damon for his faithfulness.
It is said that Dionysius was so impressed by their nobility, that he immediately pardoned both men. It was then that he expressed his wish to join them in their friendship, a request which the men politely refused. Even when I first heard the story, I was sure they weren’t being rude, just painfully aware of why a wicked man is incapable of being a friend, having abandoned the sacred values of commitment and trust.
We all crave fellowship, sometimes for the right reasons, and sometimes for the wrong reasons. While Dionysius briefly revealed his natural instinct to be as one with others, his weakness of character made it impossible for him to do so with devotion and constancy. By choosing to abandon virtue in favor of vice, for so many years, he had hardened himself to love, forever seeking utility at the expense of integrity.
I was moved by the story back then, and I better understand its importance right now. I will be free when I have the decency to let others be free, to treat a man as a brother, not as a tool. Considered in this light, virtue is the strongest thing I can ever possess.
—Reflection written in 2/1999
IMAGE: Eloi-Firmin Féron, Damon and Pythias Before the Tyrant Dionysius (1826)
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