Thomas More - Dialogue of Comfort Against Tribulation

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But yet that they be not matches, you may soon see by this: For no
one can conform his will unto God's in tribulation and give him
thanks for it, but such a man as hath in that point a very
specially good disposition. But he that is truly wicked, or hath in
his heart but very little good, may well be content to take wealth
at God's hand, and say, "Marry, I thank you, sir, for this with all
my heart, and I will not fail to love you well--while you let me
fare no worse!" _Confitebitur tibi, cum benefeceris ei._ Now, if
the wealthy man be very good, yet, in conformity of his will and
thanksgiving to God for his wealth, his virtue is not like to that
of him who doth the same in tribulation. For, as the philosophers
said very well of old, "virtue standeth in things of hardness and
difficulty." And then, as I told you, it is much less hard and less
difficult, by a great deal, to be content and conform our will to
God's will and to give him thanks, too, for our ease than for our
pain, for our wealth and for our woe. And therefore the conforming
of our will to God's and the thanks that we give him for our
tribulation are more worthy of thanks in return, and merit more
reward in the very fast wealth and felicity of heaven, than our
conformity and our thanksgiving for our worldly wealth here.

And this thing saw the devil, when he said to our Lord of Job that
it was no marvel if Job had a reverent fear unto God--God had done
so much for him, and kept him in prosperity. But the devil knew
well that it was a hard thing for Job to be so loving, and so to
give thanks to God, in tribulation and adversity. And therefore was
he glad to get leave of God to put him in tribulation, and trusted
thereby to cause him to murmur and grudge against God with
impatience. But the devil had there a fall in his own turn, for the
patience of Job in the short time of his adversity got him much
more favour and thanks of God, and more is he renowned and
commended in scripture for that, than for all the goodness of his
long prosperous life. Our Saviour saith himself, also, that if we
say well by them or yield them thanks who do us good, we do no
great thing, and therefore can we with reason look for no great
thanks in return.

And thus have I showed you, lo, no little pre-eminence that
tribulation hath in merit, and therefore no little pre-eminence of
comfort in hope of heavenly reward, above the virtues (the merit
and cause of good hope and comfort) that come of wealth and
prosperity.

XX

And therefore, good cousin, to finish our talking for this time,
lest I should be too long a hindrance to your other business:

If we lay first, for a sure ground, a very fast faith, whereby we
believe to be true all that the scripture saith (understood truly,
as the old holy doctors declare it and as the spirit of God
instructeth his Catholic church), then shall we consider
tribulation as a gracious gift of God, a gift that he specially
gave his special friends; a thing that in scripture is highly
commended and praised; a thing of which the contrary, long
continued, is perilous; a thing which, if God send it not, men have
need to put upon themselves and seek by penance; a thing that
helpeth to purge our past sins; a thing that preserveth us from
sins that otherwise would come; a thing that causeth us to set less
by the world; a thing that much diminisheth our pains in purgatory;
a thing that much increaseth our final reward in heaven; the thing
with which all his apostles followed him thither; the thing to
which our Saviour exhorteth all men; the thing without which he
saith we be not his disciples; the thing without which no man can
get to heaven.

Whosoever thinketh on these things, and remembereth them well,
shall in his tribulation neither murmur nor grudge. But first shall
he by patience take his pain in worth, and then shall he grow in
goodness and think himself well worthy of tribulation. And then
shall he consider that God sendeth it for his welfare, and thereby
shall be moved to give God thanks for it. Therewith shall his grace
increase, and God shall give him such comfort by considering that
God is in his trouble evermore near to him--for "God is near,"
saith the prophet, "to them that have their heart in trouble"--that
his joy thereof shall diminish much of his pain. And he shall not
seek for vain comfort elsewhere, but shall specially trust in God
and seek help of him, submitting his own will wholly to God's
pleasure. And he shall pray to God in his heart, and pray his
friends pray for him, and especially the priests, as St. James
biddeth. And he shall begin first with confession and make him
clean to God and ready to depart, and be glad to go to God, putting
purgatory to his pleasure. If we thus do, this dare I boldly say,
we shall never live here the less by half an hour, but we shall
with this comfort find our hearts lightened, and thereby the grief
of our tribulation lessened, and the more likelihood to recover and
to live the longer.

Now if God will that we shall go hence, then doth he much more for
us. For he who taketh this way cannot go but well. For of him who
is loth to leave this wretched world, mine heart is much in fear
lest he did not well. Hard it is for him to be welcome who cometh
against his will, who saith unto God when he cometh to fetch him,
"Welcome, my Maker--spite of my teeth!" But he that so loveth him
that he longeth to go to him, my heart cannot give me but he shall
be welcome, albeit that he come ere he be well purged. For "Charity
covereth a multitude of sins," and "He that trusteth in God cannot
be confounded." And Christ saith, "He that cometh to me, I will not
cast him out." And therefore let us never make our reckoning of
long life. Let us keep it while we can, because God hath so
commanded, but if God give the occasion that with his good will we
may go, let us be glad of it and long to go to him. And then shall
hope of heaven comfort our heaviness, and out of our transitory
tribulation shall we go to everlasting glory--to which, good
cousin, I pray God bring us both!

VINCENT: Mine own good uncle, I pray God reward you, and at this
time I will no longer trouble you. I fear I have this day done you
much tribulation with my importunate objections, of very little
substance. And you have even showed me an example of patience, in
bearing my folly so long. And yet I shall be so bold as to seek
some time to talk further of the rest of this most profitable
matter of tribulation, which you said you reserved to treat of last
of all.

ANTHONY: Let that be surely very shortly, cousin, while this is
fresh in mind.

VINCENT: I trust, good uncle, so to put this in remembrance that
it shall never be forgotten with me. Our Lord send you such comfort
as he knoweth to be best!

ANTHONY: This is well said, good cousin, and I pray the same for
you and for all our other friends who have need of comfort--for
whom, I think, more than for yourself, you needed some counsel.

VINCENT: I shall, with this good counsel that I have heard from
you, do them some comfort, I trust in God--to whose keeping I
commit you!

ANTHONY: And I you, also. Farewell, mine own good cousin.

______________________________

BOOK TWO

VINCENT: It is no little comfort to me, good uncle, that as I came
in here I heard from your folk that since my last being here you
have had meetly good rest (God be thanked), and your stomach
somewhat more come to you. For verily, albeit I had heard before
that, in respect of the great pain that for a month's space had
held you, you were, a little before my last coming to you, somewhat
eased and relieved--for otherwise would I not for any good cause
have put you to the pain of talking so much as you then did--yet
after my departing from you, remembering how long we tarried
together, and that we were all that while talking, and that all the
labour was yours, in talking so long together without interpausing
between (and that of matter studious and displeasant, all of
disease and sickness and other pain and tribulation), I was in good
faith very sorry and not a little wroth with myself for mine own
oversight, that I had so little considered your pain. And very
feared I was, till I heard otherwise, lest you should have waxed
weaker and more sick thereafter. But now I thank our Lord, who hath
sent the contrary. For a little casting back, in this great age of
yours, would be no little danger and peril.

ANTHONY: Nay, nay, good cousin--to talk much, unless some other
pain hinder me, is to me little grief. A foolish old man is often
as full of words as a woman. It is, you know, as some poets paint
us, all the joy of an old fool's life to sit well and warm with a
cup and a roasted crabapple, and drivel and drink and talk!

But in earnest, cousin, our talking was to me great comfort, and
nothing displeasing at all. For though we commoned of sorrow and
heaviness, yet the thing we chiefly thought upon was not the
tribulation itself but the comfort that may grow thereon. And
therefore am I now very glad that you are come to finish up the
rest.

VINCENT: Of truth, my good uncle, it was comforting to me, and
hath been since to some other of your friends, to whom, as my poor
wit and remembrance would serve me, I did report and rehearse (and
not needlessly) your most comforting counsel. And now come I for
the rest, and am very joyful that I find you so well refreshed and
so ready thereto. But this one thing, good uncle, I beseech you
heartily. If I, for delight to hear you speak in the matter, forget
myself and you both, and put you to too much pain, remember your
own ease. And when you wish to leave off, command me to go my way
and seek some other time.

ANTHONY: Forsooth, cousin, if a man were very weak, many words
spoken (as you said right now) without interpausing, would
peradventure at length somewhat weary him. And therefore wished I
the last time, after you were gone (when I felt myself, to say the
truth, even a little weary), that I had not so told you a long tale
alone, but that we had more often interchanged words, and parted
the talking between us, with more often interparling upon your
part, in such manner as learned men use between the persons whom
they devise, disputing in their feigned dialogues. But yet in that
point I soon excused you and laid the lack where I found it, and
that was even upon mine own neck.

For I remembered that between you and me it fared as it did once
between a nun and her brother. Very virtuous was this lady, and of
a very virtuous place and enclosed religion. And therein had she
been long, in all which time she had never seen her brother, who
was likewise very virtuous too, and had been far off at a
university, and had there taken the degree of Doctor of Divinity.
When he was come home, he went to see his sister, as one who highly
rejoiced in her virtue. So came she to the grate that they call, I
believe, the locutory, and after their holy watchword spoken on
both sides, after the manner used in that place, each took the
other by the tip of the finger, for no hand could be shaken through
the grate. And forthwith my lady began to give her brother a sermon
of the wretchedness of this world, and frailty of the flesh, and
the subtle sleights of the wicked fiend, and gave him surely good
counsel (saving somewhat too long) how he should be well wary in
his living and master well his body for the saving of his soul. And
yet, ere her own tale came to an end, she began to find a little
fault with him and said, "In good faith, brother, I do somewhat
marvel that you, who have been at learning so long and are a doctor
and so learned in the law of God, do not now at our meeting (since
we meet so seldom) to me who am your sister and a simple unlearned
soul, give of your charity some fruitful exhortation. For I doubt
not but you can say some good thing yourself." "By my troth, good
sister," quoth her brother, "I cannot, for you! For your tongue
hath never ceased, but said enough for us both."

And so, cousin, I remember that when I was once fallen in, I left
you little space to say aught between. But now will I therefore
take another way with you, for of our talking I shall drive you to
the one half.

VINCENT: Now, forsooth, uncle, this was a merry tale! But now, if
you make me talk the one half, then shall you be contented far
otherwise than was of late a kinswoman of your own--but which one I
will not tell you; guess her if you can! Her husband had much
pleasure in the manner and behaviour of another honest man, and
kept him therefore much company, so that he was at his mealtime the
more often away from home. So happed it one time that his wife and
he together dined or supped with that neighbour of theirs, and then
she made a merry quarrel with him for making her husband so good
cheer outside that she could not keep him at home. "Forsooth,
mistress," quoth he (for he was a dry merry man), "in my company no
thing keepeth him but one. Serve him with the same, and he will
never be away from you." "What gay thing may that be?" quoth our
cousin then. "Forsooth, mistress," quoth he, "your husband loveth
well to talk, and when he sitteth with me, I let him have all the
words." "All the words?" quoth she, "marry, than am I content! He
shall have all the words with good will, as he hath ever had. But I
speak them all myself, and give them all to him, and for aught I
care for them, so shall he have them all. But otherwise to say that
he shall have them all, you shall keep him still rather than he get
the half!"

ANTHONY: Forsooth, cousin, I can soon guess which of our kin she
was. I wish we had none, for all her merry words, who would let
their husbands talk less!

VINCENT: Forsooth, she is not so merry but what she is equally
good. But where you find fault, uncle, that I speak not enough: I
was in good faith ashamed that I spoke so much and moved you such
questions as (I found upon your answer) might better have been
spared, they were of so little worth. But now, since I see you be
so well content that I shall not forbear boldly to show my folly, I
will be no more so shamefast but will ask you what I like.

I

And first, good uncle, ere we proceed further, I will be bold to
move you one thing more of that which we talked of when I was here
before. For when I revolved in my mind again the things that were
concluded here by you, methought you would in no wise wish that in
any tribulation men should seek for comfort in either worldly
things or fleshly. And this opinion of yours, uncle, seemeth
somewhat hard, for a merry tale with a friend refresheth a man
much, and without any harm delighteth his mind and amendeth his
courage and his stomach, so that it seemeth but well done to take
such recreation. And Solomon saith, I believe, that men should in
heaviness give the sorry man wine, to make him forget his sorrow.
And St. Thomas saith that proper pleasant talking, which is called
_eutrapelia,_ is a good virtue, serving to refresh the mind and
make it quick and eager to labour and study again, whereas
continual fatigue would make it dull and deadly.

ANTHONY: Cousin, I forgot not that point, but I longed not much
to touch it. For neither might I well utterly forbear it, where it
might befall that it should not hurt; and on the other hand, if it
should so befall, methought that it should little need to give any
man counsel to it--folk are prone enough to such fancies of their
own mind! You may see this by ourselves who, coming now together
to talk of as earnest sad matter as men can devise, were fallen
yet even at the first into wanton idle tales. And of truth,
cousin, as you know very well, I myself am by nature even half a
gigglot and more. I wish I could as easily mend my fault as I well
know it, but scant can I refrain it, as old a fool as I am.
Howbeit, I will not be so partial to my fault as to praise it.

But since you ask my mind in the matter, as to whether men in
tribulation may not lawfully seek recreation and comfort
themselves with some honest mirth (first agreed that our chief
comfort must be in God and that with him we must begin and with
him continue and with him end also), that a man should take now
and then some honest worldly mirth, I dare not be so sore as
utterly to forbid it. For good men and well learned have in some
cases allowed it, especially for the diversity of divers men's
minds. Otherwise, if we were also such as would God we were (and
such as natural wisdom would that we should be, and is not clean
excusable that we be not indeed), I would then put no doubt but
that unto any man the most comforting talking that could be would
be to hear of heaven. Whereas now, God help us, our wretchedness
is such that in talking a while of it, men wax almost weary. And,
as though to hear of heaven were a heavy burden, they must refresh
themselves afterward with a foolish tale. Our affection toward
heavenly joys waxeth wonderfully cold. If dread of hell were as
far gone, very few would fear God, but that yet sticketh a little
in our stomachs. Mark me, cousin, at the sermon, and commonly
toward the end, somewhat the preacher speaketh of hell and heaven.
Now, while he preacheth of the pains of hell, still they stay and
give him the hearing. But as soon as he cometh to the joys of
heaven, they are busking them backward and flockmeal fall away.

It is in the soul somewhat as it is in the body: There are some
who are come, either by nature or by evil custom, to that point
where a worse thing sometimes more steadeth them than a better.
Some men, if they be sick, can away with no wholesome meat, nor no
medicine can go down with them, unless it be tempered for their
fancy with something that maketh the meat or the medicine less
wholesome than it should be. And yet, while it will be no better,
we must let them have it so.

Cassian (that very virtuous man) rehearseth in a certain
conference of his that a certain holy father, in making of a
sermon, spoke of heaven and heavenly things so celestially that
much of his audience, with the sweet sound of it, began to forget
all the world and fall asleep. When the father beheld this, he
dissembled their sleeping and suddenly said to them, "I shall tell
you a merry tale." At that word they lifted up their heads and
hearkened unto that, and afterward (their sleep being therewith
broken) heard him tell on of heaven again. In what wise that good
father rebuked then their untoward minds--so dull to the thing
that all our life we labour for, and so quick and eager toward
other trifles--I neither bear in mind nor shall here need to
rehearse. But thus much of that matter sufficeth for our purpose,
that whereas you demand of me whether in tribulation men may not
sometimes refresh themselves with worldly mirth and recreation, I
can only say that he who cannot long endure to hold up his head
and hear talking of heaven unless he be now and then between
refreshed (as though heaven were heaviness!) with a merry foolish
tale, there is none other remedy but you must let him have it.
Better would I wish it, but I cannot help it.

Howbeit, by mine advice, let us at least make those kinds of
recreation as short and as seldom as we can. Let them serve us but
for sauce, and make themselves not our meat. And let us pray unto
God--and all our good friends for us--that we may feel such a
savour in the delight of heaven that in respect of the talking of
its joys, all worldly recreation may be but a grief to think on.
And be sure, cousin, that if we might once purchase the grace to
come to that point, we never found of worldly recreation so much
comfort in a year as we should find in the bethinking us of heaven
for less than half an hour.

VINCENT: In faith, uncle, I can well agree to this, and I pray
God bring us once to take such a savour in it. And surely, as you
began the other day, by faith must we come to it, and to faith by
prayer.

But now, I pray you, good uncle, vouchsafe to proceed in our
principal matter.

II

ANTHONY: Cousin, I have bethought me somewhat upon this matter
since we were last together. And I find it a thing that, if we
should go some way to work, would require many more days to treat
of than we should haply find for it in so few as I myself believe
that I have yet to live. For every time is not alike with me.
Among them, there are many painful, in which I look every day to
depart; my mending days come very seldom and are very shortly done.

For surely, cousin, I cannot liken my life more fitly now than to
the snuff of a candle that burneth within the candlestick's nose.
For the snuff sometimes burneth down so low that whosoever looketh
on it would think it were quite out, and yet suddenly lifteth up a
flame half an inch above the nose and giveth a pretty short light
again, and thus playeth divers times till at last, ere it be
looked for, out it goeth altogether. So have I, cousin, divers
such days together as every day of them I look even to die, and
yet have I then after that some such few days again as you
yourself see me now to have, in which a man would think that I
might yet well continue. But I know my lingering not likely to
last long, but out will go my snuff suddenly some day within a
while. And therefore will I, with God's help, seem I never so well
amended, nevertheless reckon every day for my last. For though, to
the repressing of the bold courage of blind youth, there is a very
true proverb that "as soon cometh a young sheep's skin to the
market as an old," yet this difference there is at least between
them: that as the young man may hap sometimes to die soon, so the
old man can never live long.

And therefore, cousin, in our matter here, leaving out many things
that I would otherwise treat of, I shall for this time speak but
of very few. Howbeit, if God hereafter send me more such days,
then will we, when you wish, further talk of more.

III

All manner of tribulation, cousin, that any man can have, as far
as for this time cometh to my mind, falleth under some one at
least of these three kinds: Either it is such as he himself
willingly taketh; or, secondly, such as he willingly suffereth;
or, finally, such as he cannot put from him.

This third kind I purpose not to speak of now much more, for there
shall suffice, for the time, those things that we treated between
us the other day. What kind of tribulation this is, I am sure you
yourself perceive. For sickness, imprisonment, loss of goods, loss
of friends, or such bodily harm as a man hath already caught and
can in no wise avoid--these things and such like are the third
kind of tribulation that I speak of, which a man neither willingly
taketh in the beginning, nor can (though he would) afterward put
away.

Now think I that, just as no comfort can serve to the man who
lacketh wit and faith, whatsoever counsel be given, so to those
who have both I have, as for this kind, said in manner enough
already. And considering that suffer it he must, since he can by
no manner of means put it from him, the very necessity is half
counsel enough to take it in good worth and bear it patiently, and
rather of his patience to take both ease and thanks than by
fretting and fuming to increase his present pain, and afterward by
murmur and grudge to fall in further danger of displeasing God
with his froward behaviour.

And yet, albeit that I think that what has been said sufficeth,
yet here and there I shall in the second kind show some such
comfort as shall well serve unto this last kind too.

IV

The first kind also will I shortly pass over, too. For the
tribulation that a man willingly taketh himself, which no man
putteth upon him against his own will, is, you know as well as I
(for it was somewhat touched the last day), such affliction of the
flesh or expense of his goods as a man taketh himself or willingly
bestoweth in punishment of his own sin and for devotion to God.

Now, in this tribulation needeth he no man to comfort him. For no
man troubleth him but himself, who feeleth how far forth he may
conveniently bear, and of reason and good discretion shall not
pass that--and if any doubt arise therein, it is counsel that he
needeth and not comfort. And so the courage that kindleth his
heart and enflameth it for God's sake and his soul's health shall,
by the same grace that put it in his mind, give him such comfort
and joy therein that the pleasure of his soul shall surpass the
pain of his body.

Yea, and while he hath in heart also some great heaviness for his
sin, yet when he considereth the joy that shall come of it, his
soul shall not fail to feel then that strange state which my body
felt once in a great fever.

VINCENT: What strange state was that, uncle?

ANTHONY: Forsooth, cousin, even in this same bed, it is now more
than fifteen years ago, I lay in a tertian fever. And I had
passed, I believe, three or four fits, when afterward there fell
on me one fit out of course, so strange and so marvellous that I
would in good faith have thought it impossible. For I suddenly
felt myself verily both hot and cold throughout all my body; not
in one part the one and in another part the other--for it would
have been, you know, no very strange thing to feel the head hot
while the hands were cold--but the selfsame parts, I say, so God
save my soul, I sensibly felt (and right painfully, too) all in
one instant both hot and cold at once.

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