Letter 49

[1] A man is indeed slack and careless, my dear Lucilius, who is led back to the memory of a friend only when some particular place reminds him of it; and yet at times familiar surroundings call forth a longing that lies stored away in our mind, and they do not so much restore an extinguished memory as stir up one that was merely at rest, just as the grief of mourners, even when softened by time, is renewed by a dear household slave who has been lost, or by a garment, or by a house. Look how Campania, and above all Naples and the sight of your own Pompeii, have made my longing for you incredibly fresh: you stand wholly before my eyes. Just now I am parting from you; I see you drinking down your tears and failing to hold back well enough against the feelings that break out even amid your effort to restrain them. [2] I seem to have lost you only just now; for what is not 'just now,' if you call it to mind? Just now I sat as a boy in the school of the philosopher Sotion; just now I began to plead cases; just now I lost the wish to plead; just now I lost the power. Boundless is the speed of time, which shows itself more plainly to those who look back. For it deceives those intent on the present, so smooth is the passage of its headlong flight. [3] You ask the reason for this? Whatever time has passed is in the same place; it is all seen alike, it lies together as one; everything falls into the same abyss. And besides, there cannot be long intervals in a thing that is altogether short. A point is what we live, and even less than a point; yet nature has mocked even this least of things by giving it a certain appearance of greater extent: from it she made one part infancy, another childhood, another youth, another a kind of declining stretch from youth to old age, another old age itself. How many steps she has set within so narrow a space! [4] Just now I escorted you on your way; and yet this 'just now' is a good portion of our life, whose brevity we ought to reflect will one day fail us altogether. Time did not used to seem so swift to me; now its course appears beyond belief, whether because I feel the finish-lines being brought closer, or because I have begun to pay attention and reckon up my loss. [5] All the more, then, am I indignant that some men spend the greater part of this time on superfluous things, when it cannot suffice even for what is necessary, however carefully it has been guarded. Cicero declares that, if his lifetime were doubled, he would not have time to read the lyric poets: in the same class I place the dialecticians; they are foolish in a more dismal way. The lyric poets play the fool openly; these men suppose they are actually accomplishing something. [6] Nor do I deny that such matters should be looked into, but only looked into and greeted from the threshold, for this one purpose: that we not be cheated by words and judge there to be in them some great and hidden good. Why do you torment and waste yourself away over a question which it is more clever to have scorned than to solve? It belongs to a man free of care, moving at his leisure, to hunt out trifles: when the enemy presses at his back and the soldier has been ordered to move, necessity shakes off whatever idle peace had gathered up. [7] I have no leisure to chase after words that fall ambiguously and to test my cunning upon them. With great courage I must hear out this uproar of war resounding all around me. [8] I would deservedly seem mad to everyone if, while old men and women piled up stones for the defense of the walls, while the armed youth within the gates awaited or demanded the signal for a sally, while the enemy's spears quivered in the gates and the very ground trembled with tunnels and mines, I were to sit idle, posing little questions of this sort: 'What you have not lost, you have; but you have not lost horns; therefore you have horns'—and other things contrived after the model of this sharp piece of lunacy. [9] And yet I may just as well seem mad to you if I expend effort on such things: and now too I am under siege. In that case, though, the danger threatening me under siege would be external, and a wall would separate me from the enemy: as it is, deadly things are with me. I have no leisure for such fooleries; an enormous business is in my hands. What am I to do? Death pursues me, life flees. [10] Against these things, teach me something; bring it about that I do not flee death, and that life does not flee me. Encourage me against hardships, against the unavoidable; loosen the narrow limits of my time. Teach me that the good of life is not placed in its length but in its use, and that it can happen—indeed very often does happen—that the man who has lived long has lived too little. Say to me as I am about to sleep, 'You may not wake again'; say to me when I have woken, 'You may not sleep any more.' Say to me as I go out, 'You may not return'; say to me as I come back, 'You may not go out again.' [11] You are mistaken if you think that only at sea is the gap that divides life from death so small: in every place the interval is equally thin. Death does not everywhere show itself so near: everywhere it is so near. Scatter this darkness, and you will more easily hand over those teachings for which I am prepared. Nature brought us forth teachable, and gave us a reason that was incomplete but capable of being perfected. [12] Discourse to me about justice, about devotion, about thrift, about chastity of both kinds—the one whose mark is abstaining from another's body, and the other whose mark is care of one's own. If you will not lead me by roundabout paths, I shall more easily reach the goal toward which I am striving; for, as that tragic poet says, 'the language of truth is simple,' and therefore it ought not to be entangled; nor indeed does anything suit less the minds of those attempting great things than that sly cleverness. Farewell.

A man is indeed lazy and careless, my dear Lucilius, if he is reminded of a friend only by seeing some landscape which stirs the memory; and yet there are times when the old familiar haunts stir up a sense of loss that has been stored away in the soul, not bringing back dead memories, but rousing them from their dormant state, just as the sight of a lost friend’s favourite slave, or his cloak, or his house, renews the mourner’s grief, even though it has been softened by time. Now, lo and behold, Campania, and especially Naples and your beloved Pompeii, struck me, when I viewed them, with a wonderfully fresh sense of longing for you. You stand in full view before my eyes. I am on the point of parting from you. I see you choking down your tears and resisting without success the emotions that well up at the very moment when you try to check them. I seem to have lost you but a moment ago. For what is not “but a moment ago” when one begins to use the memory? It was but a moment ago that I sat, as a lad, in the school of the philosopher Sotion, but a moment ago that I began to plead in the courts, but a moment ago that I lost the desire to plead, but a moment ago that I lost the ability. Infinitely swift is the flight of time, as those see more clearly who are looking backwards. For when we are intent on the present, we do not notice it, so gentle is the passage of time’s headlong flight. Do you ask the reason for this? All past time is in the same place; it all presents the same aspect to us, it lies together. Everything slips into the same abyss. Besides, an event which in its entirety is of brief compass cannot contain long intervals. The time which we spend in living is but a point, nay, even less than a point. But this point of time, infinitesimal as it is, nature has mocked by making it seem outwardly of longer duration; she has taken one portion thereof and made it infancy, another childhood, another youth, another the gradual slope, so to speak, from youth to old age, and old age itself is still another. How many steps for how short a climb! It was but a moment ago that I saw you off on your journey; and yet this “moment ago” makes up a goodly share of our existence, which is so brief, we should reflect, that it will soon come to an end altogether. In other years time did not seem to me to go so swiftly; now, it seems fast beyond belief, perhaps, because I feel that the finish-line is moving closer to me, or it may be that I have begun to take heed and reckon up my losses. For this reason I am all the more angry that some men claim the major portion of this time for superfluous things,—time which, no matter how carefully it is guarded, cannot suffice even for necessary things. Cicero declared that if the number of his days were doubled, he should not have time to read the lyric poets. And you may rate the dialecticians in the same class; but they are foolish in a more melancholy way. The lyric poets are avowedly frivolous; but the dialecticians believe that they are themselves engaged upon serious business. I do not deny that one must cast a glance at dialectic; but it ought to be a mere glance, a sort of greeting from the threshold, merely that one may not be deceived, or judge these pursuits to contain any hidden matters of great worth. Why do you torment yourself and lose weight over some problem which it is more clever to have scorned than to solve? When a soldier is undisturbed and travelling at his ease, he can hunt for trifles along his way; but when the enemy is closing in on the rear, and a command is given to quicken the pace, necessity makes him throw away everything which he picked up in moments of peace and leisure. I have no time to investigate disputed inflections of words, or to try my cunning upon them. Behold the gathering clans, the fast-shut gates, And weapons whetted ready for the war. I need a stout heart to hear without flinching this din of battle which sounds round about. And all would rightly think me mad if, when greybeards and women were heaping up rocks for the fortifications, when the armour-clad youths inside the gates were awaiting, or even demanding, the order for a sally, when the spears of the foemen were quivering in our gates and the very ground was rocking with mines and subterranean passages,—I say, they would rightly think me mad if I were to sit idle, putting such petty posers as this: “What you have not lost, you have. But you have not lost any horns. Therefore, you have horns,” or other tricks constructed after the model of this piece of sheer silliness. And yet I may well seem in your eyes no less mad, if I spend my energies on that sort of thing; for even now I am in a state of siege. And yet, in the former case it would be merely a peril from the outside that threatened me, and a wall that sundered me from the foe; as it is now, death-dealing perils are in my very presence. I have no time for such nonsense; a mighty undertaking is on my hands. What am I to do? Death is on my trail, and life is fleeting away; teach me something with which to face these troubles. Bring it to pass that I shall cease trying to escape from death, and that life may cease to escape from me. Give me courage to meet hardships; make me calm in the face of the unavoidable. Relax the straitened limits of the time which is allotted me. Show me that the good in life does not depend upon life’s length, but upon the use we make of it; also, that it is possible, or rather usual, for a man who has lived long to have lived too little. Say to me when I lie down to sleep: “You may not wake again!” And when I have waked: “You may not go to sleep again!” Say to me when I go forth from my house: “You may not return!” And when I return: “You may never go forth again!” You are mistaken if you think that only on an ocean voyage there is a very slight space between life and death. No, the distance between is just as narrow everywhere. It is not everywhere that death shows himself so near at hand; yet everywhere he is as near at hand. Rid me of these shadowy terrors; then you will more easily deliver to me the instruction for which I have prepared myself. At our birth nature made us teachable, and gave us reason, not perfect, but capable of being perfected. Discuss for me justice, duty, thrift, and that twofold purity, both the purity which abstains from another’s person, and that which takes care of one’s own self. If you will only refuse to lead me along by-paths, I shall more easily reach the goal at which I am aiming. For, as the tragic poet says: The language of truth is simple. We should not, therefore, make that language intricate; since there is nothing less fitting for a soul of great endeavour than such crafty cleverness. Farewell.

[1] Est quidem, mi Lucili, supinus et neglegens qui in amici memoriam ab aliqua regione admonitus reducitur; tamen repositum in animo nostro desiderium loca interdum familiaria evocant, nec exstinctam memoriam reddunt sed quiescentem irritant, sicut dolorem lugentium, etiam si mitigatus est tempore, aut servulus familiaris amisso aut vestis aut domus renovat. Ecce Campania et maxime Neapolis ac Pompeiorum tuorum conspectus incredibile est quam recens desiderium tui fecerint: totus mihi in oculis es. Cum maxime a te discedo; video lacrimas combibentem et affectibus tuis inter ipsam coercitionem exeuntibus non satis resistentem. [2] Modo amisisse te videor; quid enim non 'modo' est, si recorderis? Modo apud Sotionem philosophum puer sedi, modo causas agere coepi, modo desii velle agere, modo desii posse. Infinita est velocitas temporis, quae magis apparet respicientibus. Nam ad praesentia intentos fallit; adeo praecipitis fugae transitus lenis est. [3] Causam huius rei quaeris? quidquid temporis transit eodem loco est; pariter aspicitur, una iacet; omnia in idem profundum cadunt. Et alioqui non possunt longa intervalla esse in ea re quae tota brevis est. Punctum est quod vivimus et adhuc puncto minus; sed et hoc minimum specie quadam longioris spatii natura derisit: aliud ex hoc infantiam fecit, aliud pueritiam, aliud adulescentiam, aliud inclinationem quandam ab adulescentia ad senectutem, aliud ipsam senectutem. In quam angusto quodam quot gradus posuit! [4] Modo te prosecutus sum; et tamen hoc 'modo' aetatis nostrae bona portio est, cuius brevitatem aliquando defecturam cogitemus. Non solebat mihi tam velox tempus videri: nunc incredibilis cursus apparet, sive quia admoveri lineas sentio, sive quia attendere coepi et computare damnum meum. Eo magis itaque indignor aliquos ex hoc tempore quod sufficere ne ad necessaria quidem potest, [5] etiam si custoditum diligentissime fuerit, in supervacua maiorem partem erogare. Negat Cicero, si duplicetur sibi aetas, habiturum se tempus quo legat lyricos: eodem loco <pono> dialecticos: tristius inepti sunt. Illi ex professo lasciviunt, hi agere ipsos aliquid existimant. [6] Nec ego nego prospicienda ista, sed prospicienda tantum et a limine salutanda, in hoc unum, ne verba nobis dentur et aliquid esse in illis magni ac secreti boni iudicemus. Quid te torques et maceras in ea quaestione quam subtilius est contempsisse quam solvere? Securi est et ex commodo migrantis minuta conquirere: cum hostis instat a tergo et movere se iussus est miles, necessitas excutit quidquid pax otiosa collegerat. [7] Non vacat mihi verba dubie cadentia consectari et vafritiam in illis meam experiri. Magno mihi animo strepitus iste belli circumsonantis exaudiendus est. [8] Demens omnibus merito viderer, si cum saxa in munimentum murorum senes feminaeque congererent, cum iuventus intra portas armata signum eruptionis exspectaret aut posceret, cum hostilia in portis tela vibrarent et ipsum solum suffossionibus et cuniculis tremeret, sederem otiosus et eiusmodi quaestiunculas ponens: 'quod non perdidisti habes; cornua autem non perdidisti; cornua ergo habes' aliaque ad exemplum huius acutae delirationis concinnata. [9] Atqui aeque licet tibi demens videar si istis impendero operam: et nunc obsideor. Tunc tamen periculum mihi obsesso externum immineret, murus me ab hoste secerneret: nunc mortifera mecum sunt. Non vaco ad istas ineptias; ingens negotium in manibus est. Quid agam? mors me sequitur, fugit vita. [10] Adversus haec me doce aliquid; effice ut ego mortem non fugiam, vita me non effugiat. Exhortare adversus difficilia, [de aequanimitate] adversus inevitabilia; angustias temporis mei laxa. Doce non esse positum bonum vitae in spatio eius sed in usu posse fieri, immo saepissime fieri, ut qui diu vixit parum vixerit. Dic mihi dormituro 'potes non expergisci'; dic experrecto 'potes non dormire amplius'. Dic exeunti 'potes non reverti'; dic redeunti 'potes non exire'. [11] Erras si in navigatione tantum existimas minimum esse quo <a> morte vita diducitur: in omni loco aeque tenue intervallum est. Non ubique se mors tam prope ostendit: ubique tam prope est. Has tenebras discute, et facilius ea trades ad quae praeparatus sum. Dociles natura nos edidit, et rationem dedit imperfectam, sed quae perfici posset. [12] De iustitia mihi, de pietate disputa, de frugalitate, de pudicitia utraque, et illa cui alieni corporis abstinentia est, et hac cui sui cura. Si me nolueris per devia ducere, facilius ad id quo tendo perveniam; nam, ut ait ille tragicus, 'veritatis simplex oratio est', ideoque illam implicari non oportet; nec enim quicquam minus convenit quam subdola ista calliditas animis magna conantibus. Vale.