書信集 第 1 章 第 3/7 段

but now I have admired him all the more, having come to know him by experience.

And on seeing him, I thought I possessed you in another body, and though you were far away, you seemed to us present through another likeness of yourself.

To Sosianus: It was fitting, then, that I too should take courage and ask a favor of you, and that you should give it readily — a thing befitting us both: for me to say what I needed, and for you to carry the word into deed.

For Strategius reported to me that such was the zeal you showed toward him, that, so far as it depended on you, the case has reached its conclusion, and we have prevailed.

But may this indeed come to pass in deed as well;

for such is my confidence in hoping for the outcome through you, that even before its conclusion I am already seeking words with which to acknowledge the favor.

To Ulpius: You have escaped a great accusation that was being prepared against you by us.

For when Strategius arrived but had no letter, he blushed to approach me — how could he not? — and though he many times eluded me, at last he was with difficulty caught; and indeed I called him vile and hateful to the gods, because, having come to us, he reported nothing about you, dearest of friends, of whom I had many times prayed to hear.

But nevertheless he made his defense sufficiently;

for he said the cause of his flight was that he was not carrying a letter.

And I granted him pardon, since he blushed over this, but I said to myself:

how many things time knows how to bring about and to change!

For the good Ulpius, when he shared our former fortune, both was and seemed a friend, and I would never have thought that he would change;

but since he has risen to splendor and become great, he is insufferable in his good fortune, and forgets those former things.

Yet may he only prosper, and we shall bear being overlooked with moderation. Saying these things and others like them, I was gathering a great accusation against you.

But when someone came and delivered your letter, first, before even opening it, I kissed the letter many times;

then, having encountered what was within, and finding the excuse for the delay, I was delighted beyond measure, and I repented of my former words.

and I said rather, alas, how many things men suspect in vain!

For neither time nor fortune has changed our admirable Ulpius, but he is grateful, and knows me as his former benefactor.

But take care that you do not, by falling silent again, once more bring us to such accusation.

To Silanus: You have dashed us from a hope so great that you could not say how great it was.

For when I took your former letter into my hands and learned from it that a little later you would return to us, I was delighted, and, drawing a deep breath from pleasure, I said:

O Zeus, may this come to pass!

And so I was in suspense day after day, and walked upon a light hope, saying repeatedly:

Shall I ever see him again and greet him after so long a time, and once more be together with him?

But when the time dragged on beyond my hopes, I did not even deign to write — making this, as they say, a goad of love, so that you, thinking yourself scorned, might press on toward us all the more; for I wished to reproach you for not remembering your friends.

And you seem to me to have become our own Stratocles the orator.

For that man, when the Athenians had been defeated and did not yet know their fortune, announced to them a victory.

At once, then, the city rose up, and gave itself over to sport, and though in misfortune, the people rejoiced.

Stratocles [replied]: 'Did I do you wrong, if because of me you were the happier for two days at least, and it was a gain merely to seem so?' But since Pindar holds that concern for one's mother takes precedence even over other business, may your fatherland see you the sooner — and after her, may we.

To Philip, brother: Behold, once again a letter from us to you, and again I know well that you will remain silent.

And if you will grant me pardon for saying this with reluctance, your character has shifted toward arrogance, and you are unwilling to remain such as you were before.

But it is well that I did not sail across the sea of the Bosporus and arrive at the emperor's city;

for perhaps I too, on seeing the great emperor, and the robe of the consuls, and some office called the very greatest, and all those solemn things among you — whether you wish to call them realities or mere titles — would have raised my brow and grown proud, being lifted up by the fortune of what I beheld, and to me our old friendships would have seemed mere folly.

For since you were captured by these things, I could not easily say that I would have escaped suffering the same, were it not that some reasoning stole in upon me: that judgment and fortune, my good friend, are not the same thing — the one moves as it pleases, and often shifts, and mocks our affairs; but of the other it befits the man of sound mind to be master, neither rising up together with it when it rises, nor changing along with it when it falls.

To Zacharias, brother: What am I to become, having received a lover and brother who accuses me, and thinks I have nothing at all to say in reply? For what indeed do you say? That we orators are fathers of many daughters?

for it seemed right to you to call our letters by this name.

'But,' you say, 'these things were true once;'

'for now no longer — instead we are somehow insolent men, dishonoring the law of love.'

But if I were some kind of poet, I would surely call upon Apollo and the Muses, saying: 'Grant that I may speak and persuade, and that our little ones may not appear to have been wronged;'

but as it is, I shall at least imitate something poetic, and swear a great oath — let the gods stand as witnesses! — that our affairs do not stand as it is somewhere being said, but that we still hold reverence for friendship and remembrance of our dearest ones.

'What, then,' you say, 'is this silence?' I fear lest some unjust fortune revel against my offspring, and carry off, now this one, now that, of my daughters as they hasten toward you;

and perhaps the hands of strangers have carried them off somewhere, not knowing who these are, or whence.

But indeed, being unfortunate in their case, I have also been thought ungrateful, and I am now being judged.

As for the others, why should one grieve to speak of them? But just recently — yesterday, so to speak, and the day before — one daughter was dispatched to you, recounting my struggles, and now, it seems, she wanders about, a stranger and forsaken.

But may she at last come into your hands, and may I rejoice on hearing of it.

And having received your roses, I rejoiced in them no less than Odysseus did on beholding the generosity of Alcinous;

for there, the pleasure lay only in receiving, but with us it is twofold: for you give, and I receive.

To Epiphanius: Are you still silent? Am I still among the discarded, and has no thought of our old affections stolen upon you at all? You are indeed a pitiless and implacable man.

Recall for me that memory — how you did not depart from us with such hopes as these, but you wept, alas, and departed with difficulty, and you promised, almost even before setting foot on land, that you would write.

But now those things are gone, you only keep silent, and there is no thought of us at all.

And if you continue to be silent, I shall cry out something tragic, saying: 'O Zeus, and Friendship, and Letters — you have been wronged, and I have been wronged!'

And the one doing the wrong was he who once called me friend.

To John: If silence proves friendship to be false, then friendship must always consist merely in words, since it is disproved whenever these are absent.

It follows, then, that one must consider even an enemy a friend, so long as he speaks.

But let us not be such judges of friendship.

For what prevents one, even while silent, from beholding friends in memory? This indeed is our case even now, and it shall never cease.

Let us rather consider that it is not given to us to do all things as each one wishes; rather, the external cares of life and the uncertainty of what is to come sometimes prevail over reason, and these lead, while reason serves and obeys.

So too for me: since I entered upon the work of teaching, unceasing struggles and the cares attending them beset me from the very beginning, and have not left me even to this day.

But O Zeus, and Loves, and all who watch over friendship — may you persuade my accusers that I have never come to forget them, but I remain with them in thought, and I seem to speak and to hear them speaking, and that if I am ignorant of them, then I have also forgotten myself.

To Hieronymus(?): Do you still dwell beside the Nile? Do you still disregard those who long for you? Tell me, what has so come over you? For if you think that delay kindles our longing all the more, know well that it has already reached its height, and you would have nothing further to add to the matter.

But if the city of the Macedonian draws you on account of its graces, and because it seems already to possess Helicon itself, then emulate Odysseus, and having passed by the Sirens, remember Ithaca.

For indeed, longing now to see you wearing the golden cicada in the ancient fashion, I gape at the sea and scan the merchant ships, on the chance that I shall ever behold you present.

But you seem to me to have rivaled that famous son of Theseus — and this while you are a teacher of the young — 'Bridegroom Demophon, unjust guest ...,' you who no longer wish even to remember your child, fair as he is, and who, were you present, could already be called father by him.

To Zachariah and Philip, brothers: How greatly I am overpowered by longing for you — how could I possibly set it forth in words, unless perhaps you yourselves happen to have experienced something similar? For it is the one who has experienced it who knows how to judge such matters.

But I am persuaded that you are indeed such men, and that you preserve the law both of friendship and of nature — as is evident from the fact that you write and console me with your letters.

Yet nevertheless, to me, at a loss in my suffering, some such thought as this has often occurred to say:

Would that I might become Perseus, and appear winged, cutting through the air and borne over the sea, so that no sooner should it seem than I should actually be with you, and enjoy the fruit of my longing. Contrary to nature indeed, yet not far from the mind of those who yearn, which easily wanders and dreams of things that cannot by nature come to pass.

But if you will bear with me telling tales again, I have often envied Abaris too — a Scythian and a barbarian, yet wise in other respects;

or, if you prefer, blessed, in that, having an arrow to serve his purpose, he was carried to whomever he wished, and no length of road ever troubled Abaris.

But why should I seek far-fetched things contrary to nature? Only letters remain to us for consolation; let Perseus and Abaris be left to the poets and to myths.

To Philip, brother: If both ancient sayings and the law of nature bid us render to our parents what is due, how much gratitude is it fitting to repay to one's fatherland, from which even the parents themselves took their beginning? To her the present occasion now summons you; and imagine that she, who bore you, is sending forth this very voice to you through me:

For thus you will both have fulfilled your duty and will grant us cause to remember the matter, in proportion as the need concerns things of the greatest moment.

But expect nothing burdensome; rather, for you it is a very easy thing to give, while for those who receive it, it is a great thing to obtain.

We wish the petitions on behalf of the city to be submitted to the great emperor through the bishop among you, or through the emperor's brother, so that the dignity of the one presenting them may lend some added weight to what is presented.

For by doing this he will lay up a common favor both for us who have asked and for those of whom it was asked.

To Epiphanius: If, when we speak, you are silent, but write when we are silent, then I am afraid, in writing, that it should be altogether necessary either to speak to the voiceless or, while silent, to listen.

And yet, as is reasonable, men devised the practice of letter-writing precisely so that, in absence, they might preserve a likeness of presence, and might say something through their letters just as if they were together.

As for me, when I had read your letter, I even wept for joy, and I seemed to hear you present, speaking as you were accustomed, and, breathing forth something sweet, I said this: 'that most beloved voice!'

But, ah — by that very love and by that friendship, if indeed you still know and remember it — do not, through your letters, absent yourself from me, nor take away my sole consolation, lest perhaps I come to envy those who have never loved at all, who never suffer such things as to have cause to lament them.

To Zachariah and Philip, brothers: I earlier recommended a certain man to you in my previous letter, not knowing him precisely, but supposing him, from what he pretended to be, to be that which he was not;

for he had concealed himself, making use of a fair pretense, while being in reality such as experience has now shown him to be.

Being about to set sail, he lodged, as was natural, with one of his acquaintances until the voyage should take place.

But having been trusted according to the law of friendship, and having received this favor in addition to many others, he broke into the house of his host and stripped him of all the money he had.

And in order that he might escape suspicion, he had a key ready prepared for his treacherous scheme;

with this he opened the strongbox and took whatever he found there, then restored to the chest its former appearance.

When at last he himself had set sail, and need called the owner to what was supposed still to be lying there, the whole drama came to light, and there was no gainsaying the evidence.

Such was also the hospitality that Menelaus enjoyed, when, in return for it, Helen was taken from him.

I have been moved to write these things so that he may not, being trusted on your account, do other such things to the one who trusts him — and so that the one who suffers may not blame you, nor you in turn blame me altogether.

To his own brothers: Once again the season comes demanding letters to you, and once again we have counted ourselves fortunate.

For what kind of life could we have, deprived of speaking to you and writing? But if we should obtain the like from you in return, by Heracles, how fortunate we shall be!

Therefore do not delay to translate your longing into deed, lest, having dishonored the law of Love, you should have to experience his arrows;

for the god is fearsome both in launching his shafts and in raising his bow, and he makes a target of those who dishonor a lover.

To Athenodorus: Having received the book, I naturally acknowledged my gratitude to you, and I rejoiced with myself that I had been fortunate enough to find in you, being such as you are, a friend.

And may Envy not cast a rough stone at me, as it seemed good to Pindar to say.

And I prayed also to Fortune that I might one day be able to repay you a favor befitting you.

And she has swiftly granted the occasion — just such as you yourself desired, and such as I, having long sought it, have now at last obtained;

for I have persuaded the man who possesses the whole to sell you that portion of it which you happen to need.

If, then, you should come to us, you would obtain the property the sooner, persuading him on some points regarding the price and being persuaded on others, as the law of commerce demands;

but if not, he himself will come to you when the occasion calls, as he has promised us.

To Sosianus: The admirable Alphaeus has reported to me that you proved yourself toward him just such as he himself wished, and I expected, and as it was fitting for you to be seen to be.

Now when I heard this I was pleased indeed — for how could I not have been? — yet the matter did not for that reason seem to me anything marvelous;

indeed, if you wish, I had already anticipated it and was describing beforehand, sketching just what sort of man you proved toward him — so that he, at a loss what more to say, fell silent amid laughter and called me fortunate in my friendship.

But do bring the same zeal to bear on the matters concerning which he entreated you in person, so that he himself may feel gratitude toward me, and both of us in turn may feel gratitude toward you.

To Zachariah: I received your letter — a thing which ought indeed to have happened long ago, yet, even coming now, it has in no way blunted the edge of its charm.

Such indeed is the passion of those who love:

whenever they are unfortunate, the matter seems grievous to them, and they cannot bear it;

but when they attain the object of their longing, they forget their former sufferings as though they had suffered nothing at all.

But see to it that, now that you have learned this, you do not again grieve us with silence before writing something further;

for I myself would not wish, after suffering so much, then to rejoice again in the same manner.

For neither would the Delphians choose to have the Pythian god altogether absent from them, even though, when he is present, they straightway keep festival for the sojourn of Apollo.

To Nestorius: We have been cheated of a hope that was long and, by its very duration, painful — since it never reached its fulfillment — yet which nonetheless gladdened us and made our grief more moderate;

for, bringing your letter to mind, it kept giving us to suppose that you would soon indeed return to us.

But now, having fallen even from that very hope, how could we bear it with moderation? Ah, Fortune, Fortune — for I shall indulge in a little tragic lament, for the consolation of my grief — why does our anguish give you such delight? You ought either not to have brought men together into mutual longing at all, or else to have allowed them to enjoy one another, and not to take pleasure in their separation.

But indeed, dear Nestorius, it is nothing strange that we, being human, should undergo such things; rather, we must bow the neck and willingly endure the yoke of necessity;

for labors willingly borne prove more bearable to those who toil under them.

Stephen — nor do I think this escapes you — is unable so much as to place the hope of his livelihood in his own hands, having been robbed by Fortune of, well-nigh, his very eye as well.

Whence, contriving some remedy for his want, he has exchanged his former condition for the guise of a deacon.

But this contrivance is in danger of profiting him nothing, unless he should obtain the assistance that comes from you — assistance which, I am persuaded, lies open to all who wish to obtain it;

for if you should ask, I think one of the bishops among you will consent either to have him serving in the liturgy, or, at the very least, simply to have him maintained.

But know that, even when he gains nothing by it, he does not cease his idle chatter;

but if he should obtain some kindness, where would it not be natural for him to proclaim the favor? For he will, I think, expend his innate garrulity in the remembering of the kindness.

To Thomas: Of good men, even without the sight of them, the mere memory knows how to give delight — and then all the more, when those who have made trial of them, having been filled with the whole of their love, are no longer present to supply, by their continual sight, the pleasure of it.

For then, at a loss as to what has become of them, they have their longing continually supplied, in place of sight, by memory.

For they fashion for themselves an image of those who have departed, and contrive a semblance of their presence.

I utter these reflections having myself fallen into just such a passion — one whom, having made trial of, I came to admire, and whom, now absent, I seek again; and I pray that Fortune may contrive some new device, and at last bring together lovers so far separated from one another.

To Palladius: Your Wisdom's letter, merely being seen by all, stirred, as usual, delight;

but when it was necessary also to learn what had been written, we came near to filling it with tears.

For those whose good fortunes are shared in common must of necessity also share in whatever brings grief.

But behold, by the gods, how wantonly Fortune behaves, unwilling to make any distinction, whether she is eager to strike the wicked, or lets fly her arrows against the virtuous.

For if human affairs were measured by virtue, be well assured you would never have made trial of unjust Fortune.

But as it is, you mourn a wife — a chaste woman, as was fitting, and such as it befitted a wise man to have as consort — and, most terrible of all, a mother of children, children who still have need of a mother.

On hearing these things, who would not weep? And having suffered them, who could endure, without the good fortune of your own resolve? For I am persuaded that, obeying Isocrates, before suffering anything you had already schooled yourself amid such events — seeing many such things yourself, and hearing many recounted by others.

For what harsh thing does not visit our life? And what does it show more temperate than the sea? One man rises to greatness; another, having reached the height, found Fortune turn traitor, and has fallen—

and one man grows old, begging death as a consolation, while another has been snatched away before his youth.

One man marries, while another laments the wife who once dwelt with him.

Such things fill up our life, and hasten to confirm Homer's judgment, that earth nurtures nothing feebler than man—

for from every side the divine power decrees that nothing remains as it came to be; but if anything is according to men's desire, it says, wait but a little, and it will surely be gone.

Let suffering, then, be given over to God's providence and to the nod that in every way guides our affairs well; but to bear nobly whatever God gives is to conquer by virtue, and not to surrender everything to Fortune.

For this is the ornament of good men, that their judgment does not shift together with their circumstances.

So let there be an end of tears—

"for you will not raise him up, before you suffer some other evil too."

But to your children you yourself will become a mother, and God, by his will, will bring to fulfillment the hopes set upon them.

To Nestorios: I took delight in your fine and most welcome letter — in part apologizing for the long silence which, even though you had often written elsewhere, you had nonetheless kept toward me until I received your letters; and in part also rebuking me sharply, because from the outset I had charged you with silence.

I rejoiced at both these things, by the gods.

For the one showed that you had not erred against friendship, the other, that you did not even wish to seem such.

I am therefore defeated, having accused you of silence, and I should wish always to be defeated in this.

But I received your letters after a long time and with difficulty, and indeed the first you sent to us arrived second.

It would be for you to consider that, if merely thinking myself wronged I accuse you so much, what would I become were I truly to suffer it?

To Stephanos: You are still silent — and this while dwelling in Daphne, beside that talkative and oracular water!

For a long while now I have been scanning the merchant ships, ever kept in suspense toward what is to come.

But they put in, a second and a third, and prove that, as far as I am concerned, these were nothing but hopes.

I ponder the cause of your silence, and am utterly at a loss from every side.

For if I have grieved you in anything — though I have grieved you in nothing — let this be gone, and let the winds carry it away.

Yet still I undergo a penalty greater than any accusation, if I am not to hear you speaking.

But if you are merely playing coy, claiming you cannot express yourself with elegance, we are the judges of such matters, and we find fault with the excuse.

But now perhaps I already divine the matter, even without having drunk of your Daphne.

You will say you blush, as one who has broken his promise and disregarded the agreement, holding the book now some third or fourth year, though you had pledged not to keep it even a third month.

Now if you say these things with genuine distress, you will prove it by not keeping the book any longer.

And accepting your silence as the token of modesty, I set the matter down to necessity — although I gave you a book whose price I myself have not even now paid, so that it is unclear whether it belongs to the seller or to me who gave it.

But nevertheless I have set nothing in the way of your need — not the uncertain ownership, not the necessity of learning something from it — but overlooking everything, I would have supplied it to you together with many other things, had you also consented to accept them.

Still, there is no great harm, if you set the limit of the delay at the present moment.

But if you draw it out still further, this much I shall gain from the matter, that I shall reckon all men untrustworthy—

for what could I hope for, having suffered such things from you? But the most wise John is not such a man, who, having received one book from me, before long sent back a second besides.

So much did he wish to seem grateful, rather than to possess a book.

And do not tell me that you kept it without wishing to defraud me.

For of this I happen to be already convinced, and I would swear a great oath to it.

But you ought not to have dragged out the delay, since to give back after a long time and grudgingly amounts to the very same thing as defrauding.

But, by the god of Friendship, wait no longer for other letters, nor for any ship but the one bearing you this letter.

To Diodoros: The bearer of this letter will not now for the first time have experience of your goodwill; rather, while still recounting the first instance, he will receive a second proof of it, and, as I think, perhaps an even greater one—

for he enjoyed the former favour while about to be called our kinsman by marriage, but he will receive this one now that the matter has actually come to pass.

But you, who honored him when he was still only to be my kinsman — what will you become, now that you see him actually made so? For I think you will at once set in motion the treasuries of the laws, and, having sharpened your tongue, will let loose fountains of words against the wrongdoers.

And indeed, what else will you do but bring the beholder to remember the Attic tribunal? These things I have to say; these things the young man stands here hoping for.

And so neither shall I be convicted of falsehood, nor shall he be shown to have hoped in vain.

To Kastor: Many things exact your goodwill on behalf of the bearer of this letter—

kinship joining him to me, marriage confirming the close relation, and — what is indeed greatest — my own letter.

And this is not the speech of boastfulness, but rather of one who is confident that what is mine, small though it be by nature, is able to be great in your eyes.

He needs a just tongue, and a fluency of words able to quench calumny.

I know, then, that you will prove yourself greater than my hope—

for it is ever your ambition to prove yourself, when put to the test, greater than whatever one might have hoped of you.

It remains, then, for you either to surpass my hope by your deeds, or at the least to show your actions no less than it.

To Ilasios: The estate you have seems to bring forth good fruits, but to be hostile only to bodies—

for it grants wonder to those who behold it and does violence to the nature of the season, but the bodies it received robust, a little later it has rendered pale and sickly.

Wherefore I would not choose, having enjoyed a few fruits, to fall ill, and then, when asked the cause, to be ashamed and remain silent — which indeed is what you are accustomed to do, adorning your estate with silence.

But you I wish both to enjoy the very greatest of good things, and by the vigor of your body to conquer the nature of the estate.

To Nestorios: "Chremylos has suddenly grown rich," says the comedy.

And you too now seem to be rich, though you never before experienced this, having always been poorer than Iros.

From that, then, your homeland has become dearer to you — the homeland you formerly used to call "the pit of the inhabited world" — and you have become wholly given over to material things, having bidden philosophy farewell.

And that mild and gentle character, which I with difficulty instilled in you before, and the hopes for your advancement — all this you have made vanish into nothing.

Now, as is fitting, you have become a mountain-dweller, and such as the custom of the country would have you.

Such is what you have enjoyed at Fortune's hand, you who once philosophized amid poverty.

Whence you now cling to your homeland, and consider not by what means you might grow wiser, but by what means you might see the crops standing luxuriant.

But I, longing for you, find fault with the Loves, if they are not able to make one soul love in return those who so long for it.

To Zacharias and Philippos, brothers: Your letter both showed goodwill toward us and was not without prudent judgment; and each quality appeared purer by the addition of the other—

for you did not wish us to be so disposed simply because you longed for us, but you consider the visit superfluous unless advantage also attend it; nor, made overly fearful by the uncertainty of the future, did you forbid our coming to you again — but the manner of your counsel was novel and fitting to a rhetorician's mind, having neither boldness in its invitation nor open dissuasion, yet quietly guarding against it.

But I am so far removed from boastfulness, from loving worldly affairs, and from envying the good fortune of others, that although things here have not gone according to my mind, I have nevertheless endured so long a time.

And now, since indeed they promise to do what is reasonable for me, I do not count it a godsend simply on light hopes to see the imperial city — especially since I love quietude and account this my one happiness, and have come to think of Byzantium at all only that I might find provision for someday being free of worldly affairs and enjoying a more divine life.

Yet it is not out of love for worldly affairs that I set down this resolve.

For nothing is truly to be chosen which does not receive God's assent, and whatever does not come to pass shows that it does not have God's approval — just as, if anything should come to pass that is not bound up with mere passion, it was assuredly approved by God, and so it came to be.

And neither can anything come to pass that is not approved, nor can what has come to pass be unapproved; so that if any of the things promised should go forward, it seems I must remain here, and I have nothing to say against it.

But if these prove mere words, and the necessity of their not coming to pass departs, it will show God's verdict to be bidding me to come to you.

For if it were not so, there would certainly have arisen those very things on account of which I would have had to remain.

To Diodorus. I thought that you would keep the festival of the martyrs with us, and would grant us, however grudgingly, the good fortune of your presence;

but you, it seems, are vexed even if you merely dream of Maiuma, and fearing the omen, you call the day inauspicious.

So long ago, and from so far off, has this hatred been instilled in you, that on its account you are unwilling even to see your friends; and you prove that time knows how to increase resentment rather than to refute it.

This I always used to foretell, and this has indeed come to pass.

For seeing you turn away even from the place itself, because of those who grieved you, I often cried, "Alas, alas!"—fearing that once freed from us, you would never wish to see us again.

But not even Achilles remained wrathful against the Achaeans so long a time; rather, having grieved them by his absence, he in due course yielded again, as he ought, and relented.

Yet still I am grateful to Fortune, that you do not have Thetis for your mother;

for long ago you would have made your prayer against us, and we would have perished.

To Irenaeus. Toward those of Zonaeus' circle, my goodwill was instilled at first by you, but after experience of the young men, by their own nature.