Letter 12

Everywhere I turn, I see evidence of my old age. I went recently to my country house and complained about the expense of repairing a building that was falling apart. My steward said the defects were not due to his negligence. He was doing everything possible, he said, but the house was old. This was the house that grew up under my own hands. What is going to happen to me, if stones my own age are already rotting away? Annoyed with him, I seized the next chance to vent my irritation. "It is obvious," I said, "that these plane trees are being neglected. They have no leaves. Look how knotted and dried-out the branches are, how sad and rough the trunks. This would not happen if someone loosened the soil around them and watered them." He swore by my guardian spirit that he was doing everything possible and never relaxed his care, but that the trees were old. Between ourselves, I had planted those trees. I had seen their first leaves. Then I turned toward the doorway and said, "Who is that broken-down old wreck? You have done well to put him by the door, since he is clearly on his way out. Where did you get him? What pleasure did it give you to pick up someone else's corpse?" But he said, "Do you not recognize me? I am Felicio. You used to bring me little gifts at the Saturnalia. I am the son of Philositus the steward. I was your little favorite." "The man is completely mad," I said. "Has my little favorite become a boy again? Well, perhaps he has: his teeth are falling out right now." I owe this to my country house: wherever I turned, my old age appeared to me. Let us embrace old age and love it. It is full of pleasure, if you know how to use it. Fruit tastes sweetest when it is nearly gone. Childhood has its greatest charm at its close. For people devoted to wine, the last drink is the one that delights them most - the one that sinks them and puts the finishing touch on drunkenness. Every pleasure keeps its most enjoyable part for the end. The most pleasant age is the one already sloping downward, but not yet at the cliff. I think even the age standing on the last roof tile has pleasures of its own. Or else this very thing takes the place of pleasures: no longer needing them. How sweet it is to have worn out one's desires and left them behind. "But," you say, "it is painful to keep death before your eyes." Death should be before the eyes of the young as much as the old. We are not summoned according to the census roll. Besides, no one is so old that it is improper for him to hope for one more day. And one day is a step in life. Life as a whole is made of parts, and it has circles drawn around it, larger ones enclosing smaller. One circle contains and bounds all the rest, stretching from birth to the final day. Another marks off the years of youth. Another encloses all of childhood. Then there is the year, which contains within itself all the seasons whose repetition makes up a life. The month is held within a narrower ring. The day has the smallest circle of all; yet even it moves from beginning to end, from sunrise to sunset. That is why Heraclitus, whose obscurity gave him his nickname, said, "One day is equal to every day." Different people have understood this in different ways. One says days are equal in hours, and that is true: if a day is a span of twenty-four hours, then all days must be equal, because night gains what daylight loses. Another says that one day is equal to all days by resemblance, because even the longest stretch of time contains nothing that cannot be found in a single day: light and darkness. Eternity only makes these alternations more numerous, not different. So every day should be arranged as though it were closing the column, completing and filling out your life. Pacuvius, who by long occupation had made Syria his own, used to hold a funeral banquet for himself, with wine and the usual rites, and then be carried from the dining room to his bedroom while his favorites applauded and sang to music in Greek, "He has lived, he has lived." Every day he conducted his own funeral. Let us do from a good conscience what he did from a bad one. As we go to sleep, cheerful and glad, let us say: I have lived, and I have finished the course that Fortune gave me. If God adds tomorrow, let us receive it gladly. The happiest person, and the one most securely in possession of himself, is the one who waits for tomorrow without anxiety. Whoever says "I have lived" rises each day to a profit. But now I ought to close the letter. "So," you say, "will it come to me with no little payment?" Do not be afraid; it brings something with it. Why did I say something? It brings a great deal. What could be finer than the saying I am sending on to you: "It is bad to live under necessity, but there is no necessity to live under necessity." Of course there is none. On every side lie many roads to freedom, short and easy. Let us thank God that no one can be held in life. We may trample on the necessities themselves. "Epicurus said that," you say. "What are you doing with someone else's property?" Whatever is true is mine. I will keep piling Epicurus on you, so that those who swear allegiance to another person's words, and judge not what is said but who said it, may learn that the best things are common property. Farewell.

Wherever I turn, I see evidences of my advancing years. I visited lately my country-place, and protested against the money which was spent on the tumble-down building. My bailiff maintained that the flaws were not due to his own carelessness; “he was doing everything possible, but the house was old.” And this was the house which grew under my own hands! What has the future in store for me, if stones of my own age are already crumbling? I was angry, and I embraced the first opportunity to vent my spleen in the bailiff’s presence. “It is clear,” I cried, “that these plane-trees are neglected; they have no leaves. Their branches are so gnarled and shrivelled; the boles are so rough and unkempt! This would not happen, if someone loosened the earth at their feet, and watered them.” The bailiff swore by my protecting deity that “he was doing everything possible, and never relaxed his efforts, but those trees were old.” Between you and me, I had planted those trees myself, I had seen them in their first leaf. Then I turned to the door and asked: “Who is that broken-down dotard? You have done well to place him at the entrance; for he is outward bound. Where did you get him? What pleasure did it give you to take up for burial some other man’s dead?” But the slave said: “Don’t you know me, sir? I am Felicio; you used to bring me little images. My father was Philositus the steward, and I am your pet slave.” “The man is clean crazy,” I remarked. “Has my pet slave become a little boy again? But it is quite possible; his teeth are just dropping out.” I owe it to my country-place that my old age became apparent whithersoever I turned. Let us cherish and love old age; for it is full of pleasure if one knows how to use it. Fruits are most welcome when almost over; youth is most charming at its close; the last drink delights the toper,—the glass which souses him and puts the finishing touch on his drunkenness. Each pleasure reserves to the end the greatest delights which it contains. Life is most delightful when it is on the downward slope, but has not yet reached the abrupt decline. And I myself believe that the period which stands, so to speak, on the edge of the roof, possesses pleasures of its own. Or else the very fact of our not wanting pleasures has taken the place of the pleasures themselves. How comforting it is to have tired out one’s appetites, and to have done with them! “But,” you say, “it is a nuisance to be looking death in the face!” Death, however, should be looked in the face by young and old alike. We are not summoned according to our rating on the censor’s list. Moreover, no one is so old that it would be improper for him to hope for another day of existence. And one day, mind you, is a stage on life’s journey. Our span of life is divided into parts; it consists of large circles enclosing smaller. One circle embraces and bounds the rest; it reaches from birth to the last day of existence. The next circle limits the period of our young manhood. The third confines all of childhood in its circumference. Again, there is, in a class by itself, the year; it contains within itself all the divisions of time by the multiplication of which we get the total of life. The month is bounded by a narrower ring. The smallest circle of all is the day; but even a day has its beginning and its ending, its sunrise and its sunset. Hence Heraclitus, whose obscure style gave him his surname, remarked: “One day is equal to every day.” Different persons have interpreted the saying in different ways. Some hold that days are equal in number of hours, and this is true; for if by “day” we mean twenty-four hours’ time, all days must be equal, inasmuch as the night acquires what the day loses. But others maintain that one day is equal to all days through resemblance, because the very longest space of time possesses no element which cannot be found in a single day,—namely, light and and darkness,—and even to eternity day makes these alternations more numerous, not different when it is shorter and different again when it is longer. Hence, every day ought to be regulated as if it closed the series, as if it rounded out and completed our existence. Pacuvius, who by long occupancy made Syria his own, used to hold a regular burial sacrifice in his own honour, with wine and the usual funeral feasting, and then would have himself carried from the dining-room to his chamber, while eunuchs applauded and sang in Greek to a musical accompaniment: “He has lived his life, he has lived his life!” Thus Pacuvius had himself carried out to burial every day. Let us, however, do from a good motive what he used to do from a debased motive; let us go to our sleep with joy and gladness; let us say: I have lived; the course which Fortune set for me Is finished. And if God is pleased to add another day, we should welcome it with glad hearts. That man is happiest, and is secure in his own possession of himself, who can await the morrow without apprehension. When a man has said: “I have lived!”, every morning he arises he receives a bonus. But now I ought to close my letter. “What?” you say; “shall it come to me without any little offering?” Be not afraid; it brings something,—nay, more than something, a great deal. For what is more noble than the following saying of which I make this letter the bearer: “It is wrong to live under constraint; but no man is constrained to live under constraint.” Of course not. On all sides lie many short and simple paths to freedom; and let us thank God that no man can be kept in life. We may spurn the very constraints that hold us. “Epicurus,” you reply, “uttered these words; what are you doing with another’s property?” Any truth, I maintain, is my own property. And I shall continue to heap quotations from Epicurus upon you, so that all persons who swear by the words of another, and put a value upon the speaker and not upon the thing spoken, may understand that the best ideas are common property. Farewell.

[1] Quocumque me verti, argumenta senectutis meae video. Veneram in suburbanum meum et querebar de impensis aedificii dilabentis. Ait vilicus mihi non esse neglegentiae suae vitium, omnia se facere, sed villam veterem esse. Haec villa inter manus meas crevit: quid mihi futurum est, si tam putria sunt aetatis meae saxa? [2] Iratus illi proximam occasionem stomachandi arripio. 'Apparet' inquam 'has platanos neglegi: nullas habent frondes. Quam nodosi sunt et retorridi rami, quam tristes et squalidi trunci! Hoc non accideret si quis has circumfoderet, si irrigaret.' Iurat per genium meum se omnia facere, in nulla re cessare curam suam, sed illas vetulas esse. Quod intra nos sit, ego illas posueram, ego illarum primum videram folium. [3] Conversus ad ianuam 'quis est iste?' inquam 'iste decrepitus et merito ad ostium admotus? foras enim spectat. Unde istunc nanctus es ? quid te delectavit: alienum mortuum tollere?' At ille 'non cognoscis me?' inquit: 'ego sum Felicio, cui solebas sigillaria afferre; ego sum Philositi vilici filius, deliciolum tuum'. 'Perfecte' inquam 'iste delirat: pupulus, etiam delicium meum factus est? Prorsus potest fieri: dentes illi cum maxime cadunt.' [4] Debeo hoc suburbano meo, quod mihi senectus mea quocumque adverteram apparuit. Complectamur illam et amemus; plena <est> voluptatis, si illa scias uti. Gratissima sunt poma cum fugiunt; pueritiae maximus in exitu decor est; deditos vino potio extrema delectat, illa quae mergit, quae ebrietati summam manum imponit; [5] quod in se iucundissimum omnis voluptas habet in finem sui differt. Iucundissima est aetas devexa iam, non tamen praeceps, et illam quoque in extrema tegula stantem iudico habere suas voluptates; aut hoc ipsum succedit in locum voluptatium, nullis egere. Quam dulce est cupiditates fatigasse ac reliquisse! [6] 'Molestum est' inquis 'mortem ante oculos habere.' Primum ista tam seni ante oculos debet esse quam iuveni - non enim citamur ex censu -; deinde nemo tam sene est ut improbe unum diem speret. Unus autem dies gradus vitae est. Tota aetas partibus constat et orbes habet circumductos maiores minoribus: est aliquis qui omnis complectatur et cingat - hic pertinet a natali ad diem extremum -; est alter qui annos adulescentiae excludit; est qui totam pueritiam ambitu suo adstringit; est deinde per se annus in se omnia continens tempora, quorum multiplicatione vita componitur; mensis artiore praecingitur circulo; angustissimum habet dies gyrum, sed et hic ab initio ad exitum venit, ab ortu ad occasum. [7] Ideo Heraclitus, cui cognomen fecit orationis obscuritas, 'unus' inquit 'dies par omni est'. Hoc alius aliter excepit. Dixit enim *** parem esse horis, nec mentitur; nam si dies est tempus viginti et quattuor horarum, necesse est omnes inter se dies pares esse, quia nox habet quod dies perdidit. Alius ait parem esse unum diem omnibus similitudine; nihil enim habet longissimi temporis spatium quod non ct in uno die invenias, lucem et noctem, et in alternas mundi vices plura facit ista, non <alia>: *** alias contractior, alias productior. [8] Itaque sic ordinandus est dies omnis tamquam cogat agmen et consummet atque expleat vitam. Pacuvius, qui Syriam usu suam fecit, cum vino et illis funebribus epulis sibi parentaverat, sic in cubiculum ferebatur a cena ut inter plausus exoletorum hoc ad symphoniam caneretur: 'beb’™tai, beb’™tai«. [9] Nullo non se die extulit. Hoc quod ille ex mala conscientia faciebat nos ex bona faciamus, et in somnum ituri laeti hilaresque dicamus, vixi et quem dederat cursum fortuna peregi. Crastinum si adiecerit deus, laeti recipiamus. Ille beatissimus est et securus sui possessor qui crastinum sine sollicitudine exspectat; quisquis dixit 'vixi' cotidie ad lucrum surgit. [10] Sed iam debeo epistulam includere. 'Sic' inquis 'sine ullo ad me peculio veniet?' Noli timere: aliquid secum fert. Quare aliquid dixi? multum. Quid enim hac voce praeclarius quam illi trado ad te perferendam? 'Malum est in necessitate vivere, sed in necessitate vivere necessitas nulla est.' Quidni nulla sit? patent undique ad libertatem viae multae, breves faciles. Agamus deo gratias quod nemo in vita teneri potest: calcare ipsas necessitates licet. [11] 'Epicurus' inquis 'dixit: quid tibi cum alieno?' Quod verum est meum est; perseverabo Epicurum tibi ingerere, ut isti qui in verba iurant nec quid dicatur aestimant, sed a quo, sciant quae optima sunt esse communia. Vale. Seneca the YoungerThe Latin Library The Classics Page