The World’s Discourse with the Wise Man — Dimitrie Cantemir
Take an Example from Alexander the Great
The Wise Man: But I have read, and I have searched, and I have even found that a drop of wine mixed by one of his own lowly servants into a small drink brought him down, from all that greatness he had, lower than anyone — from kingship into poverty, from strength into helplessness, from beauty into ugliness and darkness, and, in short, passed him from life to death; made the living man dead, and with great sorrow moved his soul into hell. Is this, then, your kindness? Is this how you repay those who boast in you and place their hope in you? Is this the end and the final lot of those who claim and believe your goods are without end? O how worthy you are of hatred and contempt!
Not by Wickedness, but by Virtue Should a Name Remain Renowned After Death!
The World: So this is the knowledge you carry, and this is the reasoning you walk by, O you with your head in the clouds? I said my goods are without end — but not that those who hold them will not die, for even if they die, their name and glory do not die, do not pass, do not end, but remain forever. Therefore strive, all of you, above everything else, that when you die, an honored name may remain behind you.
The irony is brutal: the most powerful man on earth was brought down by a single drop of wine from a servant’s hand. No rival army, no rival king was needed — one cup was enough, and the most feared body in the world became dust like anyone else’s. The Wise Man isn’t exaggerating; this is the known history of Alexander’s death, sudden and beyond remedy, at the very height of his power. The higher fortune lifts someone, the deeper and more humiliating the fall — because nothing he has gathered can shield him at the end.
Caught by the argument, the World shifts ground: no longer speaking of the body, but of the name. She admits death, but moves the stakes to fame — “their name and glory do not die.” It’s the same trap in a different form: if you can’t keep the body alive, at least cling to the kind of immortality the world offers — being remembered by others. But this too is illusion, because fame depends on the mouths of the living, not on the actual state of the soul beyond.
St. John Chrysostom points to the real difference between sought-after glory and true glory: a man enjoys the fullest glory precisely when he doesn’t want it and doesn’t seek it. Whoever chases after a name stays caught in the same trap as whoever chases after wealth — unsatisfied, restless, measuring his worth by other people’s mouths. A good name isn’t earned by demanding it; it comes as the natural fruit of a life lived rightly — exactly what Cantemir’s own subtitle says: not by wickedness, but by virtue.
That is why the Wise Man does not leave the reader only with Alexander’s story, but turns it back on him: if an emperor was brought down by a single drop, what makes you think your own name will stand firmer than his body did? The world’s glory doesn’t last as long as a cup of wine, and a name saves no one. The only remembrance that lasts forever is the one God writes in His own book — and that one is not earned through power, but through virtue, quiet and true deeds, exactly as Cantemir says: not through wickedness, but through good works.
