Letter 26

I was telling you only the other day that I was in sight of old age; now I am afraid I have left old age behind me. Some other term fits these years of mine by now, or at any rate fits this body, since old age is the name for a time of life that is weary, not broken. Count me among the decrepit, among those touching the very end. All the same, I give thanks for myself in your presence: I do not feel age's injury in my mind, though I feel it in my body. Only my vices and the instruments of my vices have grown old; my mind is vigorous and rejoices that it has but little to do with the body. It has laid down a great part of its burden. It exults, and it picks a quarrel with me about old age: it declares that this is its own season of bloom. Let us believe it; let it enjoy its own good. It bids me turn to reflection and examine how much of this tranquillity and moderation of character I owe to wisdom and how much to my age, and to sift out carefully which things I cannot do and which I do not wish to do, treating it just as though I did not wish to do whatever I am glad I cannot do. For what complaint is there, what hardship, if whatever was bound to leave off has failed? "It is the greatest hardship," you say, "to be diminished and to waste away and, to put it precisely, to melt. For we are not struck down and laid low all at once; we are nibbled away, and each single day takes something from our strength." But what exit is better than to slip gently apart into one's own end, with nature undoing the bond? Not that there is anything evil in a blow and a sudden departure from life, but because this is a gentle road, simply to be drawn off. For my part, just as if the trial were drawing near and that day had come which is to pass sentence on all my years, I watch myself and address myself thus: "It is nothing," I say, "that we have so far displayed in deeds or words; these are slight and deceptive pledges of the mind, wrapped up in many enticements. I shall entrust it to death to judge what progress I have made. And so without timidity I compose myself for that day on which, with all tricks and paints removed, I am to pass judgment on myself, whether I speak bravely or actually feel it, whether all the defiant words I have hurled against Fortune were pretense and a piece of stage-acting. Set aside the esteem of men: it is always uncertain and splits in both directions. Set aside the studies pursued throughout a whole life: death is going to pronounce upon you. This is what I mean: disputations and learned conversations and words gathered from the precepts of the wise and cultivated discourse do not display the mind's true strength, for even the most timid have a bold tongue. What you have accomplished will become clear only when you are giving up the breath of life. I accept the condition; I do not shrink from the verdict." This I say to myself, but consider that I have said it to you as well. You are younger; what of it? Years are not counted out. It is uncertain in what place death awaits you; therefore wait for it in every place. I was already wanting to stop, and my hand was looking toward the closing line, but the accounts must be settled, and travel money must be given to this letter. Suppose I do not say where I intend to take the loan from: you know whose strongbox I draw upon. Wait for me a little while, and payment will be made from home; meanwhile Epicurus will lend it to me, who says, "Rehearse death" or, if this sense can pass over to us more conveniently in this form, "It is an excellent thing to learn death thoroughly." Perhaps you think it superfluous to learn what must be used only once. This is the very reason why we ought to rehearse it: we must always be learning that which we cannot test whether we know. "Rehearse death": he who says this bids us rehearse freedom. He who has learned to die has unlearned slavery; he is above all power, certainly outside all power. What are prison, custody, and bars to him? He has a door standing open. There is one chain that holds us bound, the love of life; and just as it is not to be thrown away, so it is to be lessened, so that, if some occasion ever demands it, nothing may hold us back or hinder us from being ready to do at once what must one day be done. Farewell.

I was just lately telling you that I was within sight of old age. I am now afraid that I have left old age behind me. For some other word would now apply to my years, or at any rate to my body; since old age means a time of life that is weary rather than crushed. You may rate me in the worn-out class,—of those who are nearing the end. Nevertheless, I offer thanks to myself, with you as witness; for I feel that age has done no damage to my mind, though I feel its effects on my constitution. Only my vices, and the outward aids to these vices, have reached senility; my mind is strong and rejoices that it has but slight connexion with the body. It has laid aside the greater part of its load. It is alert; it takes issue with me on the subject of old age; it declares that old age is its time of bloom. Let me take it at its word, and let it make the most of the advantages it possesses. The mind bids me do some thinking and consider how much of this peace of spirit and moderation of character I owe to wisdom and how much to my time of life; it bids me distinguish carefully what I cannot do and what I do not want to do. . . . For why should one complain or regard it as a disadvantage, if powers which ought to come to an end have failed? “But,” you say, “it is the greatest possible disadvantage to be worn out and to die off, or rather, if I may speak literally, to melt away! For we are not suddenly smitten and laid low; we are worn away, and every day reduces our powers to a certain extent.” But is there any better end to it all than to glide off to one’s proper haven, when nature slips the cable? Not that there is anything painful in a shock and a sudden departure from existence; it is merely because this other way of departure is easy,—a gradual withdrawal. I, at any rate, as if the test were at hand and the day were come which is to pronounce its decision concerning all the years of my life, watch over myself and commune thus with myself: “The showing which we have made up to the present time, in word or deed, counts for nothing. All this is but a trifling and deceitful pledge of our spirit, and is wrapped in much charlatanism. I shall leave it to Death to determine what progress I have made. Therefore with no faint heart I am making ready for the day when, putting aside all stage artifice and actor’s rouge, I am to pass judgment upon myself,—whether I am merely declaiming brave sentiments, or whether I really feel them; whether all the bold threats I have uttered against fortune are a pretence and a farce. Put aside the opinion of the world; it is always wavering and always takes both sides. Put aside the studies which you have pursued throughout your life; Death will deliver the final judgment in your case. This is what I mean: your debates and learned talks, your maxims gathered from the teachings of the wise, your cultured conversation,—all these afford no proof of the real strength of your soul. Even the most timid man can deliver a bold speech. What you have done in the past will be manifest only at the time when you draw your last breath. I accept the terms; I do not shrink from the decision.” This is what I say to myself, but I would have you think that I have said it to you also. You are younger; but what does that matter? There is no fixed count of our years. You do not know where death awaits you; so be ready for it everywhere. I was just intending to stop, and my hand was making ready for the closing sentence; but the rites are still to be performed and the travelling money for the letter disbursed. And just assume that I am not telling where I intend to borrow the necessary sum; you know upon whose coffers I depend. Wait for me but a moment, and I will pay you from my own account; meanwhile, Epicurus will oblige me with these words: “Think on death,” or rather, if you prefer the phrase, on “migration to heaven.” The meaning is clear,—that it is a wonderful thing to learn thoroughly how to die. You may deem it superfluous to learn a text that can be used only once; but that is just the reason why we ought to think on a thing. When we can never prove whether we really know a thing, we must always be learning it. “Think on death.” In saying this, he bids us think on freedom. He who has learned to die has unlearned slavery; he is above any external power, or, at any rate, he is beyond it. What terrors have prisons and bonds and bars for him? His way out is clear. There is only one chain which binds us to life, and that is the love of life. The chain may not be cast off, but it may be rubbed away, so that, when necessity shall demand, nothing may retard or hinder us from being ready to do at once that which at some time we are bound to do. Farewell.

[1] Modo dicebam tibi in conspectu esse me senectutis: iam vereor ne senectutem post me reliquerim. Aliud iam his annis, certe huic corpori, vocabulum convenit, quoniam quidem senectus lassae aetatis, non fractae nomen est: inter decrepitos me numera et extrema tangentis. [2] Gratias tamen mihi apud te ago: non sentio in animo aetatis iniuriam, cum sentiam in corpore. Tantum vitia et vitiorum ministeria senuerunt: viget animus et gaudet non multum sibi esse cum corpore; magnam partem oneris sui posuit. Exsultat et mihi facit controversiam de senectute: hunc ait esse florem suum. Credamus illi: bono suo utatur. [3] Ire in cogitationem iubet et dispicere quid ex hac tranquillitate ac modestia morum sapientiae debeam, quid aetati, et diligenter excutere quae non possim facere, quae nolim, proinde habiturus atque si nolim quidquid non posse me gaudeo: quae enim querela est, quod incommodum, si quidquid debebat desinere defecit? [4] 'Incommodum summum est' inquis 'minui et deperire et, ut proprie dicam, liquescere. Non enim subito impulsi ac prostrati sumus: carpimur, singuli dies aliquid subtrahunt viribus.' Ecquis exitus est melior quam in finem suum natura solvente dilabi? non quia aliquid mali ictus <est> et e vita repentinus excessus, sed quia lenis haec est via, subduci. Ego certe, velut appropinquet experimentum et ille laturus sententiam de omnibus annis meis dies venerit, ita me observo et alloquor: [5] 'nihil est' inquam 'adhuc quod aut rebus aut verbis exhibuimus; levia sunt ista et fallacia pignora animi multisque involuta lenociniis: quid profecerim morti crediturus sum. Non timide itaque componor ad illum diem quo remotis strophis ac fucis de me iudicaturus sum, utrum loquar fortia an sentiam, numquid simulatio fuerit et mimus quidquid contra fortunam iactavi verborum contumacium. [6] Remove existimationem hominum: dubia semper est et in partem utramque dividitur. Remove studia tota vita tractata: mors de te pronuntiatura est. Ita dico: disputationes et litterata colloquia et ex praeceptis sapientium verba collecta et eruditus sermo non ostendunt verum robur animi; est enim oratio etiam timidissimis audax. Quid egeris tunc apparebit cum animam ages. Accipio condicionem, non reformido iudicium.' [7] Haec mecum loquor, sed tecum quoque me locutum puta. Iuvenior es: quid refert? non dinumerantur anni. Incertum est quo loco te mors exspectet; itaque tu illam omni loco exspecta. [8] Desinere iam volebam et manus spectabat ad clausulam, sed conficienda sunt aera et huic epistulae viaticum dandum est. Puta me non dicere unde sumpturus sim mutuum: scis cuius arca utar. Exspecta me pusillum, et de domo fiet numeratio; interim commodabit Epicurus, qui ait 'meditare mortem', vel si commodius sic transire ad nos hic potest sensus: 'egregia res est mortem condiscere'. [9] Supervacuum forsitan putas id discere quod semel utendum est. Hoc est ipsum quare meditari debeamus: semper discendum est quod an sciamus experiri non possumus. [10] 'Meditare mortem': qui hoc dicit meditari libertatem iubet. Qui mori didicit servire dedidicit; supra omnem potentiam est, certe extra omnem. Quid ad illum carcer et custodia et claustra? liberum ostium habet. Una est catena quae nos alligatos tenet, amor vitae, qui ut non est abiciendus, ita minuendus est, ut si quando res exiget, nihil nos detineat nec impediat quominus parati simus quod quandoque faciendum est statim facere. Vale.