Letter 115

[1] I do not want you to be too anxious about words and their arrangement, my dear Lucilius: I have weightier things for you to attend to. Look for what you should write, not how; and not even that for the sake of writing, but so that you may feel it, so that you may bind those things you have felt more closely to yourself and, as it were, set your seal upon them. [2] Whenever you see anyone's discourse fussed over and polished, know that the mind too is no less preoccupied with trifling things. That great man speaks more loosely and more securely; whatever he says has more confidence than care in it. You know those primped young men, gleaming in beard and hair, fresh from the dressing-case: from such men you would hope for nothing strong, nothing solid. Speech is the dress of the mind: if it has been clipped all around and rouged and worked over by hand, it shows that the man too is not sincere and has something broken about him. Elegance is no manly adornment. [3] If we were permitted to look into the mind of a good man, oh what a beautiful face we would see, how holy, how shining with magnificence and calm, gleaming with justice on this side, with fortitude (courage) on that, here with temperance and prudence! And besides these, frugality and self-restraint and endurance and generosity and affability and (who would believe it?) that rare good in a human being, humanity, would pour their own splendor over it. Then foresight together with refinement and, springing from these, the most eminent magnanimity (greatness of soul)—how much grace, good gods, how much weight and gravity they would add to it! What authority there would be, and with what charm! No one would call it lovable without at the same time calling it worthy of reverence. [4] If anyone were to behold this face, loftier and more radiant than is customarily seen among human things, would he not halt, struck dumb as if by the encounter with a divinity, and pray in silence that it be permitted to have seen it? Then, drawn forth by the very kindness of its expression, would he not adore and supplicate it, and after long contemplating it—towering greatly, raised above the measure of what we are accustomed to look upon among ourselves, its eyes blazing with something gentle yet no less with a living fire—would he not then, fearful and thunderstruck, utter that line of our Vergil? [5] It will be present and will lift us up, if we are willing to worship it. And it is worshipped not by slaughtering rich bodies of bulls, nor by gold and silver hung up as offerings, nor by coin poured into a treasury, but by a pious and upright will. [6] No one, I say, would fail to burn with love of it, if it fell to us to see it; for as it is, many things obstruct us and either dazzle back our gaze with too great a brilliance or hold it fast in obscurity. But if, just as the sight of the eyes is wont to be sharpened and cleared by certain remedies, so we are willing to free the gaze of the mind from its hindrances, we will be able to perceive virtue even when buried in the body, even with poverty set against it, even with lowliness and ill repute lying in the way; we will discern, I say, that beauty though it be covered over by what is squalid. [7] Conversely we will likewise perceive wickedness and the lethargy of a miserable mind, however much the great splendor surrounding radiant riches may impede us, and however much the false light—of honors on this side, of great powers on that—may beat upon the one who looks. [8] Then it will be permitted us to understand how contemptible are the things we marvel at, very like children, to whom every plaything is precious; for indeed they prefer to their parents, and no less to their brothers, necklaces bought for a small coin. What then, as Ariston says, is the difference between us and them, except that we go mad over paintings and statues, fools at greater cost? Pebbles found on the shore, light and having a certain variety, delight them; us the veined patterns of huge columns delight, columns carried—whether from Egyptian sands or from the deserts of Africa—to support some portico or a dining hall capacious enough for a whole crowd. [9] We marvel at walls overlaid with a thin layer of marble, though we know what sort of thing it is that is being concealed. We deceive our own eyes, and when we have flooded our ceilings with gold, what else are we doing but rejoicing in a lie? For we know that beneath that gold ugly timber lies hidden. Nor is the thin ornament drawn merely over walls or panelled ceilings: of all those men whom you see strutting on high, the happiness is gold-leaf. Look beneath, and you will know how much evil lies under that thin membrane of dignity. [10] This very thing which detains so many magistrates, so many judges, which both makes magistrates and makes judges—money—from the moment it began to be held in honor, the true honor of things has fallen, and, become merchants and merchandise in turn, we ask not what each thing is but what it costs; for a price we are dutiful, for a price undutiful, and we pursue honorable things only so long as some hope rests in them, ready to cross over to the contrary if crimes will promise more. [11] Our parents instilled in us admiration for gold and silver, and the greed poured into us in our tender years settled the more deeply and grew along with us. Then the whole people, discordant on all else, agree on this: this they look up to, this they wish for their own, this they consecrate to the gods, as the greatest of human goods, when they wish to appear grateful. Finally morals have been reduced to such a state that poverty is a thing of curse and reproach, despised by the rich, hateful to the poor. [12] To these are added the poems of the poets, which set a torch to our passions, in which riches are praised as if they were the one ornament and adornment of life. The immortal gods, they think, can neither give nor possess anything better than these. [13] Behold his chariot: In short, the age they wish to be regarded as the best they call the golden age. [14] Nor among the Greek tragedians are there lacking those who would exchange innocence, safety, and good repute for gain. [15] When these last verses had been pronounced in a tragedy of Euripides, the whole people rose in a single surge to drive out both the actor and the play, until Euripides himself sprang into their midst, begging that they wait and see what end this admirer of gold would make. Bellerophon in that play was paying the penalty which each man pays in his own life. [16] For there is no avarice without penalty, although it is itself penalty enough. Oh how many tears, how many labors it exacts! How wretched a thing it is in what is craved, how wretched in what is gained! Add to this the daily anxieties which torment each man in proportion to the measure of his having. Money is possessed with greater torment than it is sought. How men groan over losses—losses which both fall heavily and seem heavier than they are. Finally, even if Fortune takes nothing from them, whatever is not acquired counts as loss. [17] "But," you say, "men call that man happy and rich, and they wish to attain as much as he possesses." I grant it. What then? Do you suppose there are any in a worse condition than those who have both misery and envy? I wish that those about to pray for riches would deliberate with the rich; I wish that those about to seek honors would confer with the ambitious and those who have reached the highest standing of rank! Surely they would change their prayers, while meanwhile those men take up new aims after condemning their former ones. For there is no one whom his own happiness satisfies, even if it comes at a run; they complain both about their plans and about their successes, and always prefer what they have left behind. [18] And so philosophy will furnish you with this—than which indeed I reckon nothing greater: you will never regret yourself. To this happiness, so solid that no storm can shake it, neatly woven words and language gliding smoothly will not lead you: let them go as they will, provided the mind keeps its own composure, provided it is great and secure from opinions and pleasing to itself on account of the very things that displease others, a mind that judges its progress by its life and reckons that it knows just as much as it does not crave, as much as it does not fear. Farewell.

I wish, my dear Lucilius, that you would not be too particular with regard to words and their arrangement; I have greater matters than these to commend to your care. You should seek what to write, rather than how to write it—and even that not for the purpose of writing but of feeling it, that you may thus make what you have felt more your own and, as it were, set a seal on it. Whenever you notice a style that is too careful and too polished, you may be sure that the mind also is no less absorbed in petty things. The really great man speaks informally and easily; whatever he says, he speaks with assurance rather than with pains. You are familiar with the young dandies, natty as to their beards and locks, fresh from the bandbox; you can never expect from them any strength or any soundness. Style is the garb of thought: if it be trimmed, or dyed, or treated, it shows that there are defects and a certain amount of flaws in the mind. Elaborate elegance is not a manly garb. If we had the privilege of looking into a good man’s soul, oh what a fair, holy, magnificent, gracious, and shining face should we behold—radiant on the one side with justice and temperance, on another with bravery and wisdom! And, besides these, thriftiness, moderation, endurance, refinement, affability, and—though hard to believe—love of one’s fellow-men, that Good which is so rare in man, all these would be shedding their own glory over that soul. There, too, forethought combined with elegance and, resulting from these, a most excellent greatness of soul (the noblest of all these virtues)—indeed what charm, O ye heavens, what authority and dignity would they contribute! What a wonderful combination of sweetness and power! No one could call such a face lovable without also calling it worshipful. If one might behold such a face, more exalted and more radiant than the mortal eye is wont to behold, would not one pause as if struck dumb by a visitation from above, and utter a silent prayer, saying: “May it be lawful to have looked upon it!”? And then, led on by the encouraging kindliness of his expression, should we not bow down and worship? Should we not, after much contemplation of a far superior countenance, surpassing those which we are wont to look upon, mild-eyed and yet flashing with life-giving fire—should we not then, I say, in reverence and awe, give utterance to those famous lines of our poet Vergil: O maiden, words are weak! Thy face is more Than mortal, and thy voice rings sweeter far Than mortal man’s; . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Blest be thou; and, whoe’er thou art, relieve Our heavy burdens. And such a vision will indeed be a present help and relief to us, if we are willing to worship it. But this worship does not consist in slaughtering fattened bulls, or in hanging up offerings of gold or silver, or in pouring coins into a temple treasury; rather does it consist in a will that is reverent and upright. There is none of us, I declare to you, who would not burn with love for this vision of virtue, if only he had the privilege of beholding it; for now there are many things that cut off our vision, piercing it with too strong a light, or clogging it with too much darkness. If, however, as certain drugs are wont to be used for sharpening and clearing the eyesight, we are likewise willing to free our mind’s eye from hindrances, we shall then be able to perceive virtue, though it be buried in the body—even though poverty stand in the way, and even though lowliness and disgrace block the path. We shall then, I say, behold that true beauty, no matter if it be smothered by unloveliness. Conversely, we shall get a view of evil and the deadening influences of a sorrow-laden soul—in spite of the hindrance that results from the widespread gleam of riches that flash round about, and in spite of the false light—of official position on the one side or great power on the other—which beats pitilessly upon the beholder. Then it will be in our power to understand how contemptible are the things we admire—like children who regard every toy as a thing of value, who cherish necklaces bought at the price of a mere penny as more dear than their parents or than their brothers. And what, then, as Aristo says, is the difference between ourselves and these children, except that we elders go crazy over paintings and sculpture, and that our folly costs us dearer? Children are pleased by the smooth and variegated pebbles which they pick up on the beach, while we take delight in tall columns of veined marble brought either from Egyptian sands or from African deserts to hold up a colonnade or a dining-hall large enough to contain a city crowd; we admire walls veneered with a thin layer of marble, although we know the while what defects the marble conceals. We cheat our own eyesight, and when we have overlaid our ceilings with gold, what else is it but a lie in which we take such delight? For we know that beneath all this gilding there lurks some ugly wood. Nor is such superficial decoration spread merely over walls and ceilings; nay, all the famous men whom you see strutting about with head in air, have nothing but a gold-leaf prosperity. Look beneath, and you will know how much evil lies under that thin coating of titles. Note that very commodity which holds the attention of so many magistrates and so many judges, and which creates both magistrates and judges—that money, I say, which ever since it began to be regarded with respect, has caused the ruin of the true honour of things; we become alternately merchants and merchandise, and we ask, not what a thing truly is, but what it costs; we fulfil duties if it pays, or neglect them if it pays, and we follow an honourable course as long as it encourages our expectations, ready to veer across to the opposite course if crooked conduct shall promise more. Our parents have instilled into us a respect for gold and silver; in our early years the craving has been implanted, settling deep within us and growing with our growth. Then too the whole nation, though at odds on every other subject, agrees upon this; this is what they regard, this is what they ask for their children, this is what they dedicate to the gods when they wish to show their gratitude—as if it were the greatest of all man’s possessions! And finally, public opinion has come to such a pass that poverty is a hissing and a reproach, despised by the rich and loathed by the poor. Verses of poets also are added to the account—verses which lend fuel to our passions, verses in which wealth is praised as if it were the only credit and glory of mortal man. People seem to think that the immortal gods cannot give any better gift than wealth—or even possess anything better: The Sun-god’s palace, set with pillars tall, And flashing bright with gold. Or they describe the chariot of the Sun: Gold was the axle, golden eke the pole, And gold the tires that bound the circling wheels, And silver all the spokes within the wheels. And finally, when they would praise an epoch as the best, they call it the “Golden Age.” Even among the Greek tragic poets there are some who regard pelf as better than purity, soundness, or good report: Call me a scoundrel, only call me rich! All ask how great my riches are, but none Whether my soul is good. None asks the means or source of your estate, But merely how it totals. All men are worth as much as what they own. What is most shameful for us to possess? Nothing! If riches bless me, I should love to live; Yet I would rather die, if poor. A man dies nobly in pursuit of wealth. Money, that blessing to the race of man, Cannot be matched by mother’s love, or lisp Of children, or the honour due one’s sire. And if the sweetness of the lover’s glance Be half so charming, Love will rightly stir The hearts of gods and men to adoration. When these last-quoted lines were spoken at a performance of one of the tragedies of Euripides, the whole audience rose with one accord to hiss the actor and the play off the stage. But Euripides jumped to his feet, claimed a hearing, and asked them to wait for the conclusion and see the destiny that was in store for this man who gaped after gold. Bellerophon, in that particular drama, was to pay the penalty which is exacted of all men in the drama of life. For one must pay the penalty for all greedy acts; although the greed is enough of a penalty in itself. What tears and toil does money wring from us! Greed is wretched in that which it craves and wretched in that which it wins! Think besides of the daily worry which afflicts every possessor in proportion to the measure of his gain! The possession of riches means even greater agony of spirit than the acquisition of riches. And how we sorrow over our losses—losses which fall heavily upon us, and yet seem still more heavy! And finally, though Fortune may leave our property intact, whatever we cannot gain in addition, is sheer loss! “But,” you will say to me, “people call yonder man happy and rich; they pray that some day they may equal him in possessions.” Very true. What, then? Do you think that there is any more pitiable lot in life than to possess misery and hatred also? Would that those who are bound to crave wealth could compare notes with the rich man! Would that those who are bound to seek political office could confer with ambitious men who have reached the most sought-after honours! They would then surely alter their prayers, seeing that these grandees are always gaping after new gain, condemning what is already behind them. For there is no one in the world who is contented with his prosperity, even if it comes to him on the run. Men complain about their plans and the outcome of their plans; they always prefer what they have failed to win. So philosophy can settle this problem for you, and afford you, to my mind, the greatest boon that exists—absence of regret for your own conduct. This is a sure happiness; no storm can ruffle it; but you cannot be steered safely through by any subtly woven words, or any gently flowing language. Let words proceed as they please, provided only your soul keeps its own sure order, provided your soul is great and holds unruffled to its ideals, pleased with itself on account of the very things which displease others, a soul that makes life the test of its progress, and believes that its knowledge is in exact proportion to its freedom from desire and its freedom from fear. Farewell.

[1] Nimis anxium esse te circa verba et compositionem, mi Lucili, nolo: habeo maiora quae cures. Quaere quid scribas, non quemadmodum; et hoc ipsum non ut scribas sed ut sentias, ut illa quae senseris magis adplices tibi et velut signes. [2] Cuiuscumque orationem videris sollicitam et politam, scito animum quoque non minus esse pusillis occupatum. Magnus ille remissius loquitur et securius; quaecumque dicit plus habent fiduciae quam curae. Nosti comptulos iuvenes, barba et coma nitidos, de capsula totos: nihil ab illis speraveris forte, nihil solidum. Oratio cultus animi est: si circumtonsa est et fucata et manu facta, ostendit illum quoque non esse sincerum et habere aliquid fracti. Non est ornamentum virile concinnitas. [3] Si nobis animum boni viri liceret inspicere, o quam pulchram faciem, quam sanctam, quam ex magnifico placidoque fulgentem videremus, hinc iustitia, illinc fortitudine, hinc temperantia prudentiaque lucentibus! Praeter has frugalitas et continentia et tolerantia et liberalitas comitasque et (quis credat?) in homine rarum humanitas bonum splendorem illi suum adfunderent. Tunc providentia cum elegantia et ex istis magnanimitas eminentissima quantum, di boni, decoris illi, quantum ponderis gravitatisque adderent! quanta esset cum gratia auctoritas! Nemo illam amabilem qui non simul venerabilem diceret. [4] Si quis viderit hanc faciem altiorem fulgentioremque quam cerni inter humana consuevit, nonne velut numinis occursu obstupefactus resistat et ut fas sit vidisse tacitus precetur, tum evocante ipsa vultus benignitate productus adoret ac supplicet, et diu contemplatus multum extantem superque mensuram solitorum inter nos aspici elatam, oculis mite quiddam sed nihilominus vivido igne flagrantibus, tunc deinde illam Vergili nostri vocem verens atque attonitus emittat? [5] Aderit levabitque, si colere eam voluerimus. Colitur autem non taurorum opimis corporibus contrucidatis nec auro argentoque suspenso nec in thensauros stipe infusa, sed pia et recta voluntate. [6] Nemo, inquam, non amore eius arderet si nobis illam videre contingeret; nunc enim multa obstrigillant et aciem nostram aut splendore nimio repercutiunt aut obscuritate retinent. Sed si, quemadmodum visus oculorum quibusdam medicamentis acui solet et repurgari, sic nos aciem animi liberare inpedimentis voluerimus, poterimus perspicere virtutem etiam obrutam corpore, etiam paupertate opposita, etiam humilitate et infamia obiacentibus; cernemus, inquam, pulchritudinem illam quamvis sordido obtectam. [7] Rursus aeque malitiam et aerumnosi animi veternum perspiciemus, quamvis multus circa divitiarum radiantium splendor inpediat et intuentem hinc honorum, illinc magnarum potestatium falsa lux verberet. [8] Tunc intellegere nobis licebit quam contemnenda miremur, simillimi pueris, quibus omne ludicrum in pretio est; parentibus quippe nec minus fratribus praeferunt parvo aere empta monilia. Quid ergo inter nos et illos interest, ut Ariston ait, nisi quod nos circa tabulas et statuas insanimus, carius inepti? Illos reperti in litore calculi leves et aliquid habentes varietatis delectant, nos ingentium maculae columnarum, sive ex Aegyptiis harenis sive ex Africae solitudinibus advectae porticum aliquam vel capacem populi cenationem ferunt. [9] Miramur parietes tenui marmore inductos, cum sciamus quale sit quod absconditur. Oculis nostris inponimus, et cum auro tecta perfudimus, quid aliud quam mendacio gaudemus? Scimus enim sub illo auro foeda ligna latitare. Nec tantum parietibus aut lacunaribus ornamentum tenue praetenditur: omnium istorum quos incedere altos vides bratteata felicitas est. Inspice, et scies sub ista tenui membrana dignitatis quantum mali iaceat. [10] Haec ipsa res quae tot magistratus, tot iudices detinet, quae et magistratus et iudices facit, pecunia, ex quo in honore esse coepit, verus rerum honor cecidit, mercatoresque et venales in vicem facti quaerimus non quale sit quidque sed quanti; ad mercedem pii sumus, ad mercedem impii, et honesta quamdiu aliqua illis spes inest sequimur, in contrarium transituri si plus scelera promittent. [11] Admirationem nobis parentes auri argentique fecerunt, et teneris infusa cupiditas altius sedit crevitque nobiscum. Deinde totus populus in alia discors in hoc convenit: hoc suspiciunt, hoc suis optant, hoc dis velut rerum humanarum maximum, cum grati videri volunt, consecrant. Denique eo mores redacti sunt ut paupertas maledicto probroque sit, contempta divitibus, invisa pauperibus. [12] Accedunt deinde carmina poetarum, quae adfectibus nostris facem subdant, quibus divitiae velut unicum vitae decus ornamentumque laudantur. Nihil illis melius nec dare videntur di inmortales posse nec habere. [13] Eiusdem currum aspice: Denique quod optimum videri volunt saeculum aureum appellant. [14] Nec apud Graecos tragicos desunt qui lucro innocentiam, salutem, opinionem bonam mutent. [15] Cum hi novissimi versus in tragoedia Euripidis pronuntiati essent, totus populus ad eiciendum et actorem et carmen consurrexit uno impetu, donec Euripides in medium ipse prosilivit petens ut expectarent viderentque quem admirator auri exitum faceret. Dabat in illa fabula poenas Bellerophontes quas in sua quisque dat. [16] Nulla enim avaritia sine poena est, quamvis satis sit ipsa poenarum. O quantum lacrimarum, quantum laborum exigit! quam misera desideratis, quam misera partis est! Adice cotidianas sollicitudines quae pro modo habendi quemque discruciant. Maiore tormento pecunia possidetur quam quaeritur. Quantum damnis ingemescunt, quae et magna incidunt et videntur maiora. Denique ut illis fortuna nihil detrahat, quidquid non adquiritur damnum est. [17] 'At felicem illum homines et divitem vocant et consequi optant quantum ille possidet.' Fateor. Quid ergo? tu ullos esse condicionis peioris existimas quam qui habent et miseriam et invidiam? Utinam qui divitias optaturi essent cum divitibus deliberarent; utinam honores petituri cum ambitiosis et summum adeptis dignitatis statum! Profecto vota mutassent, cum interim illi nova suscipiunt cum priora damnaverint. Nemo enim est cui felicitas sua, etiam si cursu venit, satis faciat; queruntur et de consiliis et de processibus suis maluntque semper quae reliquerunt. [18] Itaque hoc tibi philosophia praestabit, quo equidem nihil maius existimo: numquam te paenitebit tui. Ad hanc tam solidam felicitatem, quam tempestas nulla concutiat, non perducent te apte verba contexta et oratio fluens leniter: eant ut volent, dum animo compositio sua constet, dum sit magnus et opinionum securus et ob ipsa quae aliis displicent sibi placens, qui profectum suum vita aestimet et tantum scire se iudicet quantum non cupit, quantum non timet. Vale.