Letter 63

[1] It pains me that Flaccus, your friend, has died, but I do not want you to grieve more than is fair. That you should not grieve at all I will scarcely dare to demand of you - and yet I know that this is the better course. But whom will such firmness of mind ever reach, except one already lifted far above Fortune? Even such a man this loss will pinch, but it will only pinch him. As for us, we can be forgiven for slipping into tears, provided they have not run down in excess, and provided we have checked them ourselves. Let the eyes neither be dry when a friend is lost nor stream: we should weep, but not wail. [2] Do I seem to set a hard law for you, when the greatest of the Greek poets [Homer] granted the right to weep for one day at most, when he said that even Niobe gave thought to food? Do you ask where laments come from, where excessive weeping comes from? Through tears we seek proofs of our longing, and we do not follow our grief but display it; no one is sad for his own sake. O wretched folly! There is even a kind of ambition in grief. [3] "What then?" you say, "shall I forget my friend?" You promise him a brief remembrance in your mind, if it is to last only as long as your grief: presently any chance event will turn that brow of yours to laughter. I do not put it off to some more distant time, the time that soothes all longing, in which even the sharpest mourning subsides: as soon as you stop keeping watch over yourself, that image of sadness will depart. As it is, you yourself are the guardian of your grief; but it slips away even from one who guards it, and the sharper it is, the sooner it ceases. [4] Let us see to it that the recollection of those we have lost becomes pleasant to us. No one willingly returns to what he cannot think of without torment - just as it must inevitably happen that the name of those we loved and lost comes to us with a certain sting; but this sting too has its own pleasure. [5] For, as our friend Attalus used to say, "the memory of dead friends is pleasant in the same way that certain fruits are sweetly tart, in the way that in a wine too old the very bitterness delights us; but when an interval of time has come between, everything that was painful is extinguished, and pure pleasure comes to us." [6] If we believe him: "to think of friends safe and sound is to enjoy honey and cake; the recalling of those who have been is not without a certain sharpness that pleases. But who would deny that these things too, sharp and having something of austerity in them, stir the appetite?" [7] I do not feel the same: to me the thought of dead friends is sweet and tender; for I had them as one bound to lose them, I lost them as one who has them still. So do, my Lucilius, what befits your fairness of mind: stop misinterpreting Fortune's kindness. She has taken away, but she has given. [8] Let us therefore enjoy our friends eagerly, because it is uncertain how long this can be ours. Let us think how often we have left them behind when we were about to set out on some far journey, how often, lingering in the same place, we have not seen them: we will realize that we have lost more of their time while they were alive. [9] Would you tolerate those who keep their friends most negligently and mourn them most miserably, and love no one except when they have lost him? They grieve more lavishly then precisely because they fear it may be doubted whether they loved at all; they seek belated proofs of their affection. [10] If we have other friends, we both deserve ill of them and think ill of them, if they count for too little to console us for one man's death; if we have none, we ourselves have done ourselves a greater injury than the one we received from Fortune: she has taken away one, but we have taken away every friend we have failed to make. [11] Besides, the man who could love no more than one has not loved even that one too much. If someone stripped bare, his one and only tunic gone, should choose to bewail himself rather than look around for how to escape the cold and find something to cover his shoulders, would he not seem to you utterly foolish? The one you loved you have buried: seek one to love. It is better to replace a friend than to weep for him. [12] I know that what I am about to add is by now worn thin, but I will not pass it over just because everyone has said it: even the man who has not made an end to his grieving by reason finds it by time. But the most shameful remedy for sorrow in a man of sense is weariness of sorrowing: I would rather you abandon grief than be abandoned by it; and stop as soon as possible doing what, even if you wish, you will not be able to do for long. [13] Our ancestors fixed a year for women to mourn - not that they should mourn so long, but that they should not mourn longer: for men there is no legal period, because there is no honorable one. Yet which of those poor women, scarcely dragged back from the pyre, scarcely torn from the corpse, will you show me whose tears have lasted a whole month? Nothing comes to be hated more quickly than grief, which when fresh finds a comforter and draws some people to itself, but when grown old is laughed at - and not undeservedly; for it is either feigned or foolish. [14] I write this to you - I, who wept so immoderately for Annaeus Serenus, dearest to me, that, which I would least wish, I am among the examples of those whom grief overcame. Today, however, I condemn my own act, and I understand that the greatest reason for my mourning so was that I had never thought he could die before me. This one thing kept occurring to me, that he was younger, and much younger - as if the Fates kept to the order of ages! [15] And so let us constantly reflect on the mortality both of ourselves and of all those we love. Then I ought to have said, "My Serenus is younger: what does that matter? He ought to die after me, but he can die before me." Because I did not do so, Fortune struck me suddenly, unprepared. Now I reflect that all things are mortal, and mortal by no fixed law; whatever can ever happen can happen today. [16] Let us therefore reflect, dearest Lucilius, that we shall soon come to the place we mourn that he has reached; and perhaps, if only the report of the wise is true and some place receives us, the one we think has perished has been sent on ahead. Farewell.

I am grieved to hear that your friend Flaccus is dead, but I would not have you sorrow more than is fitting. That you should not mourn at all I shall hardly dare to insist; and yet I know that it is the better way. But what man will ever be so blessed with that ideal steadfastness of soul, unless he has already risen far above the reach of Fortune? Even such a man will be stung by an event like this, but it will be only a sting. We, however, may be forgiven for bursting into tears, if only our tears have not flowed to excess, and if we have checked them by our own efforts. Let not the eyes be dry when we have lost a friend, nor let them overflow. We may weep, but we must not wail. Do you think that the law which I lay down for you is harsh, when the greatest of Greek poets has extended the privilege of weeping to one day only, in the lines where he tells us that even Niobe took thought of food? Do you wish to know the reason for lamentations and excessive weeping? It is because we seek the proofs of our bereavement in our tears, and do not give way to sorrow, but merely parade it. No man goes into mourning for his own sake. Shame on our ill-timed folly! There is an element of self-seeking even in our sorrow. “What,” you say, “am I to forget my friend?” It is surely a short-lived memory that you vouchsafe to him, if it is to endure only as long as your grief; presently that brow of yours will be smoothed out in laughter by some circumstance, however casual. It is to a time no more distant than this that I put off the soothing of every regret, the quieting of even the bitterest grief. As soon as you cease to observe yourself, the picture of sorrow which you have contemplated will fade away; at present you are keeping watch over your own suffering. But even while you keep watch it slips away from you, and the sharper it is, the more speedily it comes to an end. Let us see to it that the recollection of those whom we have lost becomes a pleasant memory to us. No man reverts with pleasure to any subject which he will not be able to reflect upon without pain. So too it cannot but be that the names of those whom we have loved and lost come back to us with a sort of sting; but there is a pleasure even in this sting. For, as my friend Attalus used to say: “The remembrance of lost friends is pleasant in the same way that certain fruits have an agreeably acid taste, or as in extremely old wines it is their very bitterness that pleases us. Indeed, after a certain lapse of time, every thought that gave pain is quenched, and the pleasure comes to us unalloyed.” If we take the word of Attalus for it, “to think of friends who are alive and well is like enjoying a meal of cakes and honey; the recollection of friends who have passed away gives a pleasure that is not without a touch of bitterness. Yet who will deny that even these things, which are bitter and contain an element of sourness, do serve to arouse the stomach?” For my part, I do not agree with him. To me, the thought of my dead friends is sweet and appealing. For I have had them as if I should one day lose them; I have lost them as if I have them still. Therefore, Lucilius, act as befits your own serenity of mind, and cease to put a wrong interpretation on the gifts of Fortune. Fortune has taken away, but Fortune has given. Let us greedily enjoy our friends, because we do not know how long this privilege will be ours. Let us think how often we shall leave them when we go upon distant journeys, and how often we shall fail to see them when we tarry together in the same place; we shall thus understand that we have lost too much of their time while they were alive. But will you tolerate men who are most careless of their friends, and then mourn them most abjectly, and do not love anyone unless they have lost him? The reason why they lament too unrestrainedly at such times is that they are afraid lest men doubt whether they really have loved; all too late they seek for proofs of their emotions. If we have other friends, we surely deserve ill at their hands and think ill of them, if they are of so little account that they fail to console us for the loss of one. If, on the other hand, we have no other friends, we have injured ourselves more than Fortune has injured us; since Fortune has robbed us of one friend, but we have robbed ourselves of every friend whom we have failed to make. Again, he who has been unable to love more than one, has had none too much love even for that one. If a man who has lost his one and only tunic through robbery chooses to bewail his plight rather than look about him for some way to escape the cold, or for something with which to cover his shoulders, would you not think him an utter fool? You have buried one whom you loved; look about for someone to love. It is better to replace your friend than to weep for him. What I am about to add is, I know, a very hackneyed remark, but I shall not omit it simply because it is a common phrase: A man ends his grief by the mere passing of time, even if he has not ended it of his own accord. But the most shameful cure for sorrow, in the case of a sensible man, is to grow weary of sorrowing. I should prefer you to abandon grief, rather than have grief abandon you; and you should stop grieving as soon as possible, since, even if you wish to do so, it is impossible to keep it up for a long time. Our forefathers have enacted that, in the case of women, a year should be the limit for mourning; not that they needed to mourn for so long, but that they should mourn no longer. In the case of men, no rules are laid down, because to mourn at all is not regarded as honourable. For all that, what woman can you show me, of all the pathetic females that could scarcely be dragged away from the funeral-pile or torn from the corpse, whose tears have lasted a whole month? Nothing becomes offensive so quickly as grief; when fresh, it finds someone to console it and attracts one or another to itself; but after becoming chronic, it is ridiculed, and rightly. For it is either assumed or foolish. He who writes these words to you is no other than I, who wept so excessively for my dear friend Annaeus Serenus that, in spite of my wishes, I must be included among the examples of men who have been overcome by grief. To-day, however, I condemn this act of mine, and I understand that the reason why I lamented so greatly was chiefly that I had never imagined it possible for his death to precede mine. The only thought which occurred to my mind was that he was the younger, and much younger, too,—as if the Fates kept to the order of our ages! Therefore let us continually think as much about our own mortality as about that of all those we love. In former days I ought to have said: “My friend Serenus is younger than I; but what does that matter? He would naturally die after me, but he may precede me.” It was just because I did not do this that I was unprepared when Fortune dealt me the sudden blow. Now is the time for you to reflect, not only that all things are mortal, but also that their mortality is subject to no fixed law. Whatever can happen at any time can happen to-day. Let us therefore reflect, my beloved Lucilius, that we shall soon come to the goal which this friend, to our own sorrow, has reached. And perhaps, if only the tale told by wise men is true and there is a bourne to welcome us, then he whom we think we have lost has only been sent on ahead. Farewell.

[1] Moleste fero decessisse Flaccum, amicum tuum, plus tamen aequo dolere te nolo. Illud, ut non doleas, vix audebo exigere; et esse melius scio. Sed cui ista firmitas animi continget nisi iam multum supra fortunam elato? illum quoque ista res vellicabit, sed tantum vellicabit. Nobis autem ignosci potest prolapsis ad lacrimas, si non nimiae decucurrerunt, si ipsi illas repressimus. Nec sicci sint oculi amisso amico nec fluant; lacrimandum est, non plorandum. [2] Duram tibi legem videor ponere, cum poetarum Graecorum maximus ius flendi dederit in unum dumtaxat diem, cum dixerit etiam Niobam de cibo cogitasse? Quaeris unde sint lamentationes, unde immodici fletus? per lacrimas argumenta desiderii quaerimus et dolorem non sequimur sed ostendimus; nemo tristis sibi est. O infelicem stultitiam! est aliqua et doloris ambitio. [3] 'Quid ergo?' inquis 'obliviscar amici?' Brevem illi apud te memoriam promittis, si cum dolore mansura est: iam istam frontem ad risum quaelibet fortuita res transferet. Non differo in longius tempus quo desiderium omne mulcetur, quo etiam acerrimi luctus residunt: cum primum te observare desieris, imago ista tristitiae discedet. Nunc ipse custodis dolorem tuum; sed custodienti quoque elabitur, eoque citius quo est acrior desinit. [4] Id agamus ut iucunda nobis amissorum fiat recordatio. Nemo libenter ad id redit quod non sine tormento cogitaturus est, sicut illud fieri necesse est, ut cum aliquo nobis morsu amissorum quos amavimus nomen occurrat; sed hic quoque morsus habet suam voluptatem. [5] Nam, ut dicere solebat Attalus noster, 'sic amicorum defunctorum memoria iucunda est quomodo poma quaedam sunt suaviter aspera, quomodo in vino nimis veteri ipsa nos amaritudo delectat; cum vero intervenit spatium, omne quod angebat exstinguitur et pura ad nos voluptas venit'. [6] Si illi credimus, 'amicos incolumes cogitare melle ac placenta frui est: eorum qui fuerunt retractatio non sine acerbitate quadam iuvat. Quis autem negaverit haec acria quoque et habentia austeritatis aliquid stomachum excitare?' [7] Ego non idem sentio: mihi amicorum defunctorum cogitatio dulcis ac blanda est; habui enim illos tamquam amissurus, amisi tamquam habeam. Fac ergo, mi Lucili, quod aequitatem tuam decet, desine beneficium fortunae male interpretari: abstulit, sed dedit. [8] Ideo amicis avide fruamur quia quamdiu contingere hoc possit incertum est. Cogitemus quam saepe illos reliquerimus in aliquam peregrinationem longinquam exituri, quam saepe eodem morantes loco non viderimus: intellegemus plus nos temporis in vivis perdidisse. [9] Feras autem hos qui neglegentissime amicos habent, miserrime lugent, nec amant quemquam nisi perdiderunt? ideoque tunc effusius maerent quia verentur ne dubium sit an amaverint; sera indicia affectus sui quaerunt. [10] Si habemus alios amicos, male de iis et meremur et existimamus, qui parum valent in unius elati solacium; si non habemus, maiorem iniuriam ipsi nobis fecimus quam a fortuna accepimus: illa unum abstulit, nos quemcumque non fecimus. [11] Deinde ne unum quidem nimis amavit qui plus quam unum amare non potuit. Si quis despoliatus amissa unica tunica complorare se malit quam circumspicere quomodo frigus effugiat et aliquid inveniat quo tegat scapulas, nonne tibi videatur stultissimus? Quem amabas extulisti: quaere quem ames. Satius est amicum reparare quam flere. [12] Scio pertritum iam hoc esse quod adiecturus sum, non ideo tamen praetermittam quia ab omnibus dictum est: finem dolendi etiam qui consilio non fecerat tempore invenit. Turpissimum autem est in homine prudente remedium maeroris lassitudo maerendi: malo relinquas dolorem quam ab illo relinquaris; et quam primum id facere desiste quod, etiam si voles, diu facere non poteris. [13] Annum feminis ad lugendum constituere maiores, non ut tam diu lugerent, sed ne diutius: viris nullum legitimum tempus est, quia nullum honestum. Quam tamen mihi ex illis mulierculis dabis vix retractis a rogo, vix a cadavere revulsis, cui lacrimae in totum mensem duraverint? Nulla res citius in odium venit quam dolor, qui recens consolatorem invenit et aliquos ad se adducit, inveteratus vero deridetur, nec immerito; aut enim simulatus aut stultus est. [14] Haec tibi scribo, is qui Annaeum Serenum carissimum mihi tam immodice flevi ut, quod minime velim, inter exempla sim eorum quos dolor vicit. Hodie tamen factum meum damno et intellego maximam mihi causam sic lugendi fuisse quod numquam cogitaveram mori eum ante me posse. Hoc unum mihi occurrebat, minorem esse et multo minorem - tamquam ordinem fata servarent! [15] Itaque assidue cogitemus de nostra quam omnium quos diligimus mortalitate. Tunc ego debui dicere, 'minor est Serenus meus: quid ad rem pertinet? post me mori debet, sed ante me potest'. Quia non feci, imparatum subito fortuna percussit. Nunc cogito omnia et mortalia esse et incerta lege mortalia; hodie fieri potest quidquid umquam potest. [16] Cogitemus ergo, Lucili carissime, cito nos eo perventuros quo illum pervenisse maeremus; et fortasse, si modo vera sapientium fama est recipitque nos locus aliquis, quem putamus perisse praemissus est. Vale.