Letter 77

[1] Today the Alexandrian ships suddenly came into view, the ones that are customarily sent ahead to announce the arrival of the fleet that is to follow; they call them "mail-boats." The Campanians are glad to see them. The whole crowd stands on the moles of Puteoli and, from the very style of the sails, picks out the Alexandrian ships even amid a great press of vessels; for they alone are permitted to keep their topsail spread, which every ship carries on the open sea. [2] For nothing helps a ship's progress so much as the uppermost part of the sail; that is where the ship gets most of its drive. And so, whenever the wind has freshened and grown stronger than is convenient, the yard is lowered: a gust has less force when it comes from low down. When they have entered the waters off Capreae and the headland from which [...] [3] Amid all this rush of people hurrying down to the shore, I felt great pleasure in my own laziness: although I was about to receive letters from my people, I was in no hurry to learn what the state of my affairs out there might be, or what news the letters were bringing. For some time now nothing of mine is either lost or gained. Even if I were not an old man, this was a thing I ought to have felt; but as it is, much more so. However little I might possess, I would still have more provision left over than road to travel, especially since the road we have set out upon is one we are not obliged to travel to the end. [4] A journey will be incomplete if you stop midway, or short of the place you were making for; but a life is not incomplete if it is honorable. Wherever you leave off, provided you leave off well, the whole of it is complete. And often one must leave off bravely, and not for the most weighty reasons; for the reasons that hold us here are not the most weighty ones either. [5] Tullius Marcellinus, whom you knew very well, a quiet young man who grew old quickly, was seized by a disease that was not incurable, but long and troublesome and demanding much of him, and he began to deliberate about death. He called together a number of friends. Each one of them either, because he was timid, urged upon Marcellinus what he would have urged upon himself, or, because he was a flatterer and ingratiating, gave the advice he suspected would be more welcome to the man as he deliberated. [6] But our Stoic friend, an outstanding man, and, to praise him in the words by which he deserves to be praised, a brave and energetic man, seems to me to have encouraged him best. For he began thus: "Do not torment yourself, my dear Marcellinus, as though you were deliberating about something great. Living is no great matter: all your slaves live, all animals live; but to die honorably, prudently, bravely-that is a great thing. Consider how long you have already been doing the same things: food, sleep, lust-round and round this circuit we run. The wish to die may be felt not only by the prudent man, or the brave, or the wretched, but even by the man who is simply bored." [7] He had no need of someone to urge him, but of someone to help him: his slaves were unwilling to obey. First the Stoic removed their fear and showed them that the household ran into danger only when it was uncertain whether the master's death had been voluntary; otherwise it was as bad an example to kill one's master as to prevent him. [8] Then he reminded Marcellinus himself that it was not inhumane that, just as when a banquet is over the leftovers are shared among those standing by, so when a life is over something should be handed to those who had been servants of that whole life. Marcellinus was of an easy and generous temper, even when it was his own property at stake; so he distributed small sums to his weeping slaves and even consoled them. [9] He had no need of the sword, no need of blood: he abstained from food for three days and ordered a tent to be set up in his very bedroom. Then a tub was brought in, in which he lay for a long while, and as hot water was repeatedly poured over him he gradually failed-not, as he said, without a certain pleasure, the kind that a gentle dissolution tends to bring, a sensation not unknown to those of us whom consciousness has at some time left. [10] I have digressed into a little tale that will not be unwelcome to you; for you will learn that your friend's death was neither difficult nor wretched. For although he took his own life, he nonetheless departed most gently and slipped out of life. But this little tale will not even have been useless; for necessity often demands such examples. Often we ought to die and are unwilling; we die and are unwilling. [11] No one is so inexperienced as not to know that one must die at some time; yet when death has drawn near, he turns away, trembles, weeps. Does not the man seem to you the most foolish of all who wept because he had not been alive a thousand years before? Equally foolish is the man who weeps because he will not be alive a thousand years hence. The two are the same: you will not be, and you were not; both stretches of time are not yours. [12] You have been flung into this point of time; though you stretch it out, how far will you stretch it? Why do you weep? What do you pray for? You are wasting your effort. Things are settled and fixed and driven on by a great and eternal necessity: you will go where all things go. What is there strange in this for you? You were born under this law; this befell your father, this your mother, this your forebears, this all who came before you, this all who will come after you. An unconquered sequence, alterable by no resource, has bound and drags along all things. [13] What a host of those destined to die will follow you, what a host will accompany you! You would be braver, I think, if many thousands were to die together with you; and yet many thousands, both of men and of animals, at this very moment in which you hesitate to die, are sending forth their breath in various ways. But did you suppose that you would not at some point arrive at that toward which you were always traveling? No journey is without its end. [14] Do you judge that I am now going to bring forward examples of great men? I shall bring forward examples of boys. There is the well-known Spartan lad handed down to memory, still a boy, who, when taken captive, kept crying out "I will not be a slave" in that Doric tongue of his-and he made good his word: as soon as he was ordered to perform a slave's degrading service (for he was being told to bring a chamber-pot), he dashed his head against the wall and shattered it. [15] So near at hand is freedom: and is anyone still a slave? Would you not rather your own son perished thus than grow old through cowardice? Why then is there any reason for you to be troubled, if even for a boy it is possible to die bravely? Suppose you are unwilling to follow him: you will be led. Make your own that which now belongs to another. Will you not take on the boy's spirit, so as to say, "I am no slave"? Unhappy man, you are a slave to men, a slave to circumstances, a slave to life; for life, if the courage to die is absent, is slavery. [16] Have you anything on account of which you should wait? The very pleasures that delay you and hold you back you have already used up: none is new to you, and none that is not by now hateful through sheer satiety. You know the taste of wine, the taste of honeyed wine; it makes no difference whether a hundred or a thousand jars pass through your bladder: you are a strainer. You know perfectly the flavor of an oyster, of a mullet; your luxury has left nothing untouched for the years to come. And yet these are the very things from which you are torn away unwillingly. [17] What else is there whose loss should grieve you? Friends? Do you know how to be a friend? Your country? Do you value it enough to dine later for its sake? The sun? You would put it out if you could-for what have you ever done worthy of the light? Confess that it is not from longing for the senate-house, nor the forum, nor nature herself that you are made slower to die: you leave the meat-market unwillingly, the market in which you have left nothing behind. [18] You fear death; but how you despise it in the middle of a mushroom feast! You wish to live; but do you know how? You fear to die; but, again-is this life of yours not death? When a man from the column of prisoners, his old beard hanging down to his chest, begged Gaius Caesar for death as Caesar was passing along the Via Latina, Caesar said, "Why, are you alive now?" This is the answer to be given to those for whom death would come as a relief: "You fear to die: why, are you alive now?" [19] "But," he says, "I wish to live, for I do many honorable things; I am unwilling to leave the duties of life, which I perform faithfully and diligently." What? Do you not know that to die is also one of the duties of life? You are deserting no duty; for there is no fixed number set that you are bound to complete. [20] No life is not short; for if you look to the nature of things, even the life of Nestor was short, and that of Sattia, who ordered it to be inscribed on her monument that she had lived ninety-nine years. You see someone boasting of his long old age: who could have endured her, had she chanced to fill out her hundredth year? As with a play, so with life: what matters is not how long it has been acted, but how well. It is of no importance at what point you stop. Stop wherever you wish: only impose a good closing line. Farewell.

Suddenly there came into our view to-day the “Alexandrian” ships,—I mean those which are usually sent ahead to announce the coming of the fleet; they are called “mail-boats.” The Campanians are glad to see them; all the rabble of Puteoli stand on the docks, and can recognize the “Alexandrian” boats, no matter how great the crowd of vessels, by the very trim of their sails. For they alone may keep spread their topsails, which all ships use when out at sea, because nothing sends a ship along so well as its upper canvas; that is where most of the speed is obtained. So when the breeze has stiffened and becomes stronger than is comfortable, they set their yards lower; for the wind has less force near the surface of the water. Accordingly, when they have made Capreae and the headland whence Tall Pallas watches on the stormy peak, all other vessels are bidden to be content with the mainsail, and the topsail stands out conspicuously on the “Alexandrian” mail-boats. While everybody was bustling about and hurrying to the water-front, I felt great pleasure in my laziness, because, although I was soon to receive letters from my friends, I was in no hurry to know how my affairs were progressing abroad, or what news the letters were bringing; for some time now I have had no losses, nor gains either. Even if I were not an old man, I could not have helped feeling pleasure at this; but as it is, my pleasure was far greater. For, however small my possessions might be, I should still have left over more travelling-money than journey to travel, especially since this journey upon which we have set out is one which need not be followed to the end. An expedition will be incomplete if one stops half-way, or anywhere on this side of one’s destination; but life is not incomplete if it is honourable. At whatever point you leave off living, provided you leave off nobly, your life is a whole. Often, however, one must leave off bravely, and our reasons therefore need not be momentous; for neither are the reasons momentous which hold us here. Tullius Marcellinus, a man whom you knew very well, who in youth was a quiet soul and became old prematurely, fell ill of a disease which was by no means hopeless; but it was protracted and troublesome, and it demanded much attention; hence he began to think about dying. He called many of his friends together. Each one of them gave Marcellinus advice,—the timid friend urging him to do what he had made up his mind to do; the flattering and wheedling friend giving counsel which he supposed would be more pleasing to Marcellinus when he came to think the matter over; but our Stoic friend, a rare man, and, to praise him in language which he deserves, a man of courage and vigour admonished him best of all, as it seems to me. For he began as follows: “Do not torment yourself, my dear Marcellinus, as if the question which you are weighing were a matter of importance. It is not an important matter to live; all your slaves live, and so do all animals; but it is important to die honourably, sensibly, bravely. Reflect how long you have been doing the same thing: food, sleep, lust,—this is one’s daily round. The desire to die may be felt, not only by the sensible man or the brave or unhappy man, but even by the man who is merely surfeited.” Marcellinus did not need someone to urge him, but rather someone to help him; his slaves refused to do his bidding. The Stoic therefore removed their fears, showing them that there was no risk involved for the household except when it was uncertain whether the master’s death was self-sought or not; besides, it was as bad a practice to kill one’s master as it was to prevent him forcibly from killing himself. Then he suggested to Marcellinus himself that it would be a kindly act to distribute gifts to those who had attended him throughout his whole life, when that life was finished, just as, when a banquet is finished, the remaining portion is divided among the attendants who stand about the table. Marcellinus was of a compliant and generous disposition, even when it was a question of his own property; so he distributed little sums among his sorrowing slaves, and comforted them besides. No need had he of sword or of bloodshed; for three days he fasted and had a tent put up in his very bedroom. Then a tub was brought in; he lay in it for a long time, and, as the hot water was continually poured over him, he gradually passed away, not without a feeling of pleasure, as he himself remarked,—such a feeling as a slow dissolution is wont to give. Those of us who have ever fainted know from experience what this feeling is. This little anecdote into which I have digressed will not be displeasing to you. For you will see that your friend departed neither with difficulty nor with suffering. Though he committed suicide, yet he withdrew most gently, gliding out of life. The anecdote may also be of some use; for often a crisis demands just such examples. There are times when we ought to die and are unwilling; sometimes we die and are unwilling. No one is so ignorant as not to know that we must at some time die; nevertheless, when one draws near death, one turns to flight, trembles, and laments. Would you not think him an utter fool who wept because he was not alive a thousand years ago? And is he not just as much of a fool who weeps because he will not be alive a thousand years from now? It is all the same; you will not be, and you were not. Neither of these periods of time belongs to you. You have been cast upon this point of time; if you would make it longer, how much longer shall you make it? Why weep? Why pray? You are taking pains to no purpose. Give over thinking that your prayers can bend Divine decrees from their predestined end. These decrees are unalterable and fixed; they are governed by a mighty and everlasting compulsion. Your goal will be the goal of all things. What is there strange in this to you? You were born to be subject to this law; this fate befell your father, your mother, your ancestors, all who came before you; and it will befall all who shall come after you. A sequence which cannot be broken or altered by any power binds all things together and draws all things in its course. Think of the multitudes of men doomed to death who will come after you, of the multitudes who will go with you! You would die more bravely, I suppose, in the company of many thousands; and yet there are many thousands, both of men and of animals, who at this very moment, while you are irresolute about death, are breathing their last, in their several ways. But you,—did you believe that you would not some day reach the goal towards which you have always been travelling? No journey but has its end. You think, I suppose, that it is now in order for me to cite some examples of great men. No, I shall cite rather the case of a boy. The story of the Spartan lad has been preserved: taken captive while still a stripling, he kept crying in his Doric dialect, “I will not be a slave!” and he made good his word; for the very first time he was ordered to perform a menial and degrading service,—and the command was to fetch a chamber-pot,—he dashed out his brains against the wall. So near at hand is freedom, and is anyone still a slave? Would you not rather have your own son die thus than reach old age by weakly yielding? Why therefore are you distressed, when even a boy can die so bravely? Suppose that you refuse to follow him; you will be led. Take into your own control that which is now under the control of another. Will you not borrow that boy’s courage, and say: “I am no slave!”? Unhappy fellow, you are a slave to men, you are a slave to your business, you are a slave to life. For life, if courage to die be lacking, is slavery. Have you anything worth waiting for? Your very pleasures, which cause you to tarry and hold you back, have already been exhausted by you. None of them is a novelty to you, and there is none that has not already become hateful because you are cloyed with it. You know the taste of wine and cordials. It makes no difference whether a hundred or a thousand measures pass through your bladder; you are nothing but a wine-strainer. You are a connoisseur in the flavour of the oyster and of the mullet; your luxury has not left you anything untasted for the years that are to come; and yet these are the things from which you are torn away unwillingly. What else is there which you would regret to have taken from you? Friends? But who can be a friend to you? Country? What? Do you think enough of your country to be late to dinner? The light of the sun? You would extinguish it, if you could; for what have you ever done that was fit to be seen in the light? Confess the truth; it is not because you long for the senate chamber or the forum, or even for the world of nature, that you would fain put off dying; it is because you are loth to leave the fish-market, though you have exhausted its stores. You are afraid of death; but how can you scorn it in the midst of a mushroom supper? You wish to live; well, do you know how to live? You are afraid to die. But come now: is this life of yours anything but death? Gaius Caesar was passing along the Via Latina, when a man stepped out from the ranks of the prisoners, his grey beard hanging down even to his breast, and begged to be put to death. “What!” said Caesar, “are you alive now?” That is the answer which should be given to men to whom death would come as a relief. “You are afraid to die; what! are you alive now?” “But,” says one, “I wish to live, for I am engaged in many honourable pursuits. I am loth to leave life’s duties, which I am fulfilling with loyalty and zeal.” Surely you are aware that dying is also one of life’s duties? You are deserting no duty; for there is no definite number established which you are bound to complete. There is no life that is not short. Compared with the world of nature, even Nestor’s life was a short one, or Sattia’s, the woman who bade carve on her tombstone that she had lived ninety and nine years. Some persons, you see, boast of their long lives; but who could have endured the old lady if she had had the luck to complete her hundredth year? It is with life as it is with a play,—it matters not how long the action is spun out, but how good the acting is. It makes no difference at what point you stop. Stop whenever you choose; only see to it that the closing period is well turned. Farewell.

[1] Subito nobis hodie Alexandrinae naves apparuerunt, quae praemitti solent et nuntiare secuturae classis adventum: tabellarias vocant. Gratus illarum Campaniae aspectus est: omnis in pilis Puteolorum turba consistit et ex ipso genere velorum Alexandrinas quamvis in magna turba navium intellegit; solis enim licet siparum intendere, quod in alto omnes habent naves. [2] Nulla enim res aeque adiuvat cursum quam summa pars veli; illinc maxime navis urgetur. Itaque quotiens ventus increbruit maiorque est quam expedit, antemna summittitur: minus habet virium flatus ex humili. Cum intravere Capreas et promunturium ex quo [3] In hoc omnium discursu properantium ad litus magnam ex pigritia mea sensi voluptatem, quod epistulas meorum accepturus non properavi scire quis illic esset rerum mearum status, quid adferrent: olim iam nec perit quicquam mihi nec adquiritur. Hoc, etiam si senex non essem, fuerat sentiendum, nunc vero multo magis: quantulumcumque haberem, tamen plus iam mihi superesset viatici quam viae, praesertim cum eam viam simus ingressi quam peragere non est necesse. [4] Iter inperfectum erit si in media parte aut citra petitum locum steteris: vita non est inperfecta si honesta est; ubicumque desines, si bene desines, tota est. Saepe autem et fortiter desinendum est et non ex maximis causis; nam nec eae maximae sunt quae nos tenent. [5] Tullius Marcellinus, quem optime noveras, adulescens quietus et cito senex, morbo et non insanabili correptus sed longo et molesto et multa imperante, coepit deliberare de morte. Convocavit complures amicos. Unusquisque aut, quia timidus erat, id illi suadebat quod sibi suasisset, aut, quia adulator et blandus, id consilium dabat quod deliberanti gratius fore suspicabatur. [6] Amicus noster Stoicus, homo egregius et, ut verbis illum quibus laudari dignus est laudem, vir fortis ac strenuus, videtur mihi optime illum cohortatus. Sic enim coepit: 'noli, mi Marcelline, torqueri tamquam de re magna deliberes. Non est res magna vivere: omnes servi tui vivunt, omnia animalia: magnum est honeste mori, prudenter, fortiter. Cogita quamdiu iam idem facias: cibus, somnus, libido -- per hunc circulum curritur; mori velle non tantum prudens aut fortis aut miser, etiam fastidiosus potest.' [7] Non opus erat suasore illi sed adiutore: servi parere nolebant. Primum detraxit illis metum et indicavit tunc familiam periculum adire cum incertum esset an mors domini voluntaria fuisset; alioqui tam mali exempli esse occidere dominum quam prohibere. [8] Deinde ipsum Marcellinum admonuit non esse inhumanum, quemadmodum cena peracta reliquiae circumstantibus dividantur, sic peracta vita aliquid porrigi iis qui totius vitae ministri fuissent. Erat Marcellinus facilis animi et liberalis etiam cum de suo fieret; minutas itaque summulas distribuit flentibus servis et illos ultro consolatus est. [9] Non fuit illi opus ferro, non sanguine: triduo abstinuit et in ipso cubiculo poni tabernaculum iussit. Solium deinde inlatum est, in quo diu iacuit et calda subinde suffusa paulatim defecit, ut aiebat, non sine quadam voluptate, quam adferre solet lenis dissolutio non inexperta nobis, quos aliquando liquit animus. [10] In fabellam excessi non ingratam tibi; exitum enim amici tui cognosces non difficilem nec miserum. Quamvis enim mortem sibi consciverit, tamen mollissime excessit et vita elapsus est. Sed ne inutilis quidem haec fabella fuerit; saepe enim talia exempla necessitas exigit. Saepe debemus mori nec volumus, morimur nec volumus. [11] Nemo tam inperitus est ut nesciat quandoque moriendum; tamen cum prope accessit, tergiversatur, tremit, plorat. Nonne tibi videtur stultissimus omnium qui flevit quod ante annos mille non vixerat? aeque stultus est qui flet quod post annos mille non vivet. Haec paria sunt: non eris nec fuisti; utrumque tempus alienum est. [12] In hoc punctum coniectus es, quod ut extendas, quousque extendes? Quid fles? quid optas? perdis operam. Rata et fixa sunt et magna atque aeterna necessitate ducuntur: eo ibis quo omnia eunt. Quid tibi novi est? Ad hanc legem natus es; hoc patri tuo accidit, hoc matri, hoc maioribus, hoc omnibus ante te, hoc omnibus post te. Series invicta et nulla mutabilis ope inligavit ac trahit cuncta. [13] Quantus te populus moriturorum sequetur, quantus comitabitur! Fortior, ut opinor, esses, si multa milia tibi commorerentur; atqui multa milia et hominum et animalium hoc ipso momento quo tu mori dubitas animam variis generibus emittunt. Tu autem non putabas te aliquando ad id perventurum ad quod semper ibas? Nullum sine exitu iter est. [14] Exempla nunc magnorum virorum me tibi iudicas relaturum? puerorum referam. Lacon ille memoriae traditur, inpubis adhuc, qui captus clamabat 'non serviam' sua illa Dorica lingua, et verbis fidem inposuit: ut primum iussus est fungi servili et contumelioso ministerio (adferre enim vas obscenum iubebatur), inlisum parieti caput rupit. [15] Tam prope libertas est: et servit aliquis? Ita non sic perire filium tuum malles quam per inertiam senem fieri? Quid ergo est cur perturberis, si mori fortiter etiam puerile est? Puta nolle te sequi: duceris. Fac tui iuris quod alieni est. Non sumes pueri spiritum, ut dicas 'non servio'? Infelix, servis hominibus, servis rebus, servis vitae; nam vita, si moriendi virtus abest, servitus est. [16] Ecquid habes propter quod expectes? voluptates ipsas quae te morantur ac retinent consumpsisti: nulla tibi nova est, nulla non iam odiosa ipsa satietate. Quis sit vini, quis mulsi sapor scis: nihil interest centum per vesicam tuam an mille amphorae transeant: saccus es. Quid sapiat ostreum, quid mullus optime nosti: nihil tibi luxuria tua in futuros annos intactum reservavit. Atqui haec sunt a quibus invitus divelleris. [17] Quid est aliud quod tibi eripi doleas? Amicos? Scis enim amicus esse? Patriam? tanti enim illam putas ut tardius cenes? Solem? quem, si posses, extingueres: quid enim umquam fecisti luce dignum? Confitere non curiae te, non fori, non ipsius rerum naturae desiderio tardiorem ad moriendum fieri: invitus relinquis macellum, in quo nihil reliquisti. [18] Mortem times: at quomodo illam media boletatione contemnis! Vivere vis: scis enim? Mori times: quid porro? ista vita non mors est? C. Caesar, cum illum transeuntem per Latinam viam unus ex custodiarum agmine demissa usque in pectus vetere barba rogaret mortem, 'nunc enim' inquit 'vivis?' Hoc istis respondendum est quibus succursura mors est: 'mori times: nunc enim vivis?' [19] 'Sed ego' inquit 'vivere volo, qui multa honeste facio; invitus relinquo officia vitae, quibus fideliter et industrie fungor.' Quid? tu nescis unum esse ex vitae officiis et mori? Nullum officium relinquis; non enim certus numerus quem debeas explere finitur. [20] Nulla vita est non brevis; nam si ad naturam rerum respexeris, etiam Nestoris et Sattiae brevis est, quae inscribi monumento suo iussit annis se nonaginta novem vixisse. Vides aliquem gloriari senectute longa: quis illam ferre potuisset si contigisset centesimum implere? Quomodo fabula, sic vita: non quam diu, sed quam bene acta sit, refert. Nihil ad rem pertinet quo loco desinas. Quocumque voles desine: tantum bonam clausulam inpone. Vale.