Letter 18

It is December, and the whole city is sweating. Public permission has been granted for luxury. Everything rings with enormous preparations, as though the Saturnalia [a December Roman festival of gift-giving and public celebration] were any different from an ordinary business day. The difference is so slight that I think the man was right who said, "December used to be a month; now it is a year." If I had you here, I would gladly consult you about what you think we should do. Should we change nothing from our daily habit? Or, so that we do not seem at odds with public custom, should we dine a little more cheerfully and put off the toga? What used to happen only in civil disturbance and dark times for the state - a change of clothing - we now do for pleasure and holidays. If I know you well, you would take the part of an umpire. You would not want us to be exactly like the crowd wearing liberty caps, nor exactly unlike them. Unless, perhaps, these are the very days when the soul should be ordered to abstain from pleasures just when the whole crowd has collapsed into them. A person gets the surest proof of his own steadiness if he neither goes toward the things that flatter and pull him into luxury nor is dragged off by them. It is much braver to stay dry and sober when the people are drunk and vomiting. But it is more temperate not to set yourself apart, not to make yourself conspicuous, not to merge with everyone, and still to do the same things in a different way. A festival day can be kept without extravagance. Still, I am so pleased by the idea of testing the firmness of your mind that I will give you the same lesson great men have given: set aside a few days when you are content with the cheapest and plainest food, with rough and coarse clothing, and say to yourself, "Is this what I was afraid of?" The soul should prepare itself for hardship while it is secure, and fortify itself against Fortune's injuries while Fortune is still kind. In the middle of peace, the soldier runs drills, throws up earthworks though no enemy is present, and tires himself with unnecessary labor so that he will be ready for necessary labor. If you do not want someone to panic in the crisis, train him before it comes. This is what those people have done who imitate poverty every month and come almost to want, so that they may never be terrified by what they have often practiced. Do not think I mean Timon's dinners, or display huts for the poor, or any other device by which luxury plays with boredom in the homes of the rich. Let the pallet be real; let the cloak be real; let the bread be hard and coarse. Endure this for three or four days, sometimes more, so that it is not a game but a test. Then, believe me, Lucilius, you will leap for joy when you have been filled for pennies, and you will understand that peace of mind does not require Fortune. Even when she is angry, she gives enough for necessity. There is no reason to think you are doing something grand. You will be doing what many thousands of slaves and many thousands of poor people do every day. Credit yourself only for this: you will do it without being forced, and it will be as easy for you to endure it always as to try it now and then. Let us train against the practice post. Let poverty become familiar to us, so that Fortune does not catch us unprepared. We will be richer with greater security if we know how light a thing it is to be poor. Epicurus, that teacher of pleasure, kept fixed days on which he barely satisfied hunger, so that he could see whether anything was missing from full and complete pleasure, how much was missing if anything was, and whether that difference was worth paying for with great effort. He says this in the well-known letter he wrote to Polyaenus during the archonship of Charinus. In fact, he boasts that he fed himself for less than a whole coin, while Metrodorus, who had not yet made as much progress, needed the whole coin. Do you think there can be fullness on such food? Yes, and pleasure too - not the light, fleeting kind that has to be renewed again and again, but pleasure that is steady and secure. Water, barley-meal, and a crust of barley bread are not cheerful fare. But the highest pleasure is being able to find pleasure even in these things, and to have reduced yourself to something no injustice of Fortune can take away. Prison food is more generous. Even those set apart for execution are not fed so narrowly by the person who is going to kill them. What greatness of soul it is, then, to descend willingly to a condition that even the condemned do not have to fear at the end. This is how we get ahead of Fortune's weapons. So begin, my dear Lucilius, to follow the custom of these people. Set aside certain days when you withdraw from your affairs and make yourself familiar with the very least. Begin to have dealings with poverty. Dare, my guest, to despise wealth, and make yourself worthy of God. No one is worthy of God except the person who has despised wealth. I do not forbid you to possess it. I want you to possess it without fear. You will achieve that in only one way: persuade yourself that you can live happily without riches as well as with them, and always look at them as things about to leave. But now let us begin to fold up the letter. "First," you say, "pay what you owe." I will direct you to Epicurus; he will make the payment: "Uncontrolled anger gives birth to madness." You must know how true this is, since you have had both a slave and an enemy. This passion flares up against every kind of person. It rises from love as much as from hate, in serious matters no less than in games and jokes. What matters is not how great the cause is, but what kind of soul it enters. So too with fire: the question is not how large the flame is, but what it falls on. Solid material has rejected even a great fire; dry and easily kindled stuff nurses even a spark until it becomes a blaze. So it is, my Lucilius: the end of great anger is madness. Therefore anger must be avoided not for the sake of moderation only, but for the sake of sanity. Farewell.

It is the month of December, and yet the city is at this very moment in a sweat. Licence is given to the general merrymaking. Everything resounds with mighty preparations,—as if the Saturnalia differed at all from the usual business day! So true it is that the difference is nil, that I regard as correct the remark of the man who said: “Once December was a month; now it is a year.” If I had you with me, I should be glad to consult you and find out what you think should be done,—whether we ought to make no change in our daily routine, or whether, in order not to be out of sympathy with the ways of the public, we should dine in gayer fashion and doff the toga. As it is now, we Romans have changed our dress for the sake of pleasure and holiday-making, though in former times that was only customary when the State was disturbed and had fallen on evil days. I am sure that, if I know you aright, playing the part of an umpire you would have wished that we should be neither like the liberty-capped throng in all ways, nor in all ways unlike them; unless, perhaps, this is just the season when we ought to lay down the law to the soul, and bid it be alone in refraining from pleasures just when the whole mob has let itself go in pleasures; for this is the surest proof which a man can get of his own constancy, if he neither seeks the things which are seductive and allure him to luxury, nor is led into them. It shows much more courage to remain dry and sober when the mob is drunk and vomiting; but it shows greater self-control to refuse to withdraw oneself and to do what the crowd does, but in a different way,—thus neither making oneself conspicuous nor becoming one of the crowd. For one may keep holiday without extravagance. I am so firmly determined, however, to test the constancy of your mind that, drawing from the teachings of great men, I shall give you also a lesson: Set aside a certain number of days, during which you shall be content with the scantiest and cheapest fare, with coarse and rough dress, saying to yourself the while: “Is this the condition that I feared?” It is precisely in times of immunity from care that the soul should toughen itself beforehand for occasions of greater stress, and it is while Fortune is kind that it should fortify itself against her violence. In days of peace the soldier performs manœuvres, throws up earthworks with no enemy in sight, and wearies himself by gratuitous toil, in order that he may be equal to unavoidable toil. If you would not have a man flinch when the crisis comes, train him before it comes. Such is the course which those men have followed who, in their imitation of poverty, have every month come almost to want, that they might never recoil from what they had so often rehearsed. You need not suppose that I mean meals like Timon’s, or “paupers’ huts,” or any other device which luxurious millionaires use to beguile the tedium of their lives. Let the pallet be a real one, and the coarse cloak; let the bread be hard and grimy. Endure all this for three or four days at a time, sometimes for more, so that it may be a test of yourself instead of a mere hobby. Then, I assure you, my dear Lucilius, you will leap for joy when filled with a pennyworth of food, and you will understand that a man’s peace of mind does not depend upon Fortune; for, even when angry she grants enough for our needs. There is no reason, however, why you should think that you are doing anything great; for you will merely be doing what many thousands of slaves and many thousands of poor men are doing every day. But you may credit yourself with this item,—that you will not be doing it under compulsion, and that it will be as easy for you to endure it permanently as to make the experiment from time to time. Let us practise our strokes on the “dummy”; let us become intimate with poverty, so that Fortune may not catch us off our guard. We shall be rich with all the more comfort, if we once learn how far poverty is from being a burden. Even Epicurus, the teacher of pleasure, used to observe stated intervals, during which he satisfied his hunger in niggardly fashion; he wished to see whether he thereby fell short of full and complete happiness, and, if so, by what amount he fell short, and whether this amount was worth purchasing at the price of great effort. At any rate, he makes such a statement in the well known letter written to Polyaenus in the archonship of Charinus. Indeed, he boasts that he himself lived on less than a penny, but that Metrodorus, whose progress was not yet so great, needed a whole penny. Do you think that there can be fulness on such fare? Yes, and there is pleasure also,—not that shifty and fleeting pleasure which needs a fillip now and then, but a pleasure that is steadfast and sure. For though water, barley-meal, and crusts of barley-bread, are not a cheerful diet, yet it is the highest kind of pleasure to be able to derive pleasure from this sort of food, and to have reduced one’s needs to that modicum which no unfairness of Fortune can snatch away. Even prison fare is more generous; and those who have been set apart for capital punishment are not so meanly fed by the man who is to execute them. Therefore, what a noble soul must one have, to descend of one’s own free will to a diet which even those who have been sentenced to death have not to fear! This is indeed forestalling the spear-thrusts of Fortune. So begin, my dear Lucilius, to follow the custom of these men, and set apart certain days on which you shall withdraw from your business and make yourself at home with the scantiest fare. Establish business relations with poverty. Dare, O my friend, to scorn the sight of wealth, And mould thyself to kinship with thy God. For he alone is in kinship with God who has scorned wealth. Of course I do not forbid you to possess it, but I would have you reach the point at which you possess it dauntlessly; this can be accomplished only by persuading yourself that you can live happily without it as well as with it, and by regarding riches always as likely to elude you. But now I must begin to fold up my letter. “Settle your debts first,” you cry. Here is a draft on Epicurus; he will pay down the sum: “Ungoverned anger begets madness.” You cannot help knowing the truth of these words, since you have had not only slaves, but also enemies. But indeed this emotion blazes out against all sorts of persons; it springs from love as much as from hate, and shows itself not less in serious matters than in jest and sport. And it makes no difference how important the provocation may be, but into what kind of soul it penetrates. Similarly with fire; it does not matter how great is the flame, but what it falls upon. For solid timbers have repelled a very great fire; conversely, dry and easily inflammable stuff nourishes the slightest spark into a conflagration. So it is with anger, my dear Lucilius; the outcome of a mighty anger is madness, and hence anger should be avoided, not merely that we may escape excess, but that we may have a healthy mind. Farewell.

[1] December est mensis: cum maxime civitas sudat. Ius luxuriae publice datum est; ingenti apparatu sonant omnia, tamquam quicquam inter Saturnalia intersit et dies rerum agendarum; adeo nihil interest ut <non> videatur mihi errasse qui dixit olim mensem Decembrem fuisse, nunc annum. [2] Si te hic haberem, libenter tecum conferrem quid existimares esse faciendum, utrum nihil ex cotidiana consuetudine movendum an, ne dissidere videremur cum publicis moribus, et hilarius cenandum et exuendam togam. Nam quod fieri nisi in tumultu et tristi tempore civitatis non solebat, voluptatis causa ac festorum dierum vestem mutavimus. [3] Si te bene novi, arbitri partibus functus nec per omnia nos similes esse pilleatae turbae voluisses nec per omnia dissimiles; nisi forte his maxime diebus animo imperandum est, ut tunc voluptatibus solus abstineat cum in illas omnis turba procubuit; certissimum enim argumentum firmitatis suae capit, si ad blanda et in luxuriam trahentia nec it nec abducitur. [4] Hoc multo fortius est, ebrio ac vomitante populo siccum ac sobrium esse, illud temperantius, non excerpere se nec insignire nec misceri omnibus et eadem sed non eodem modo facere; licet enim sine luxuria agere festum diem. [5] Ceterum adeo mihi placet temptare animi tui firmitatem ut e praecepto magnorum virorum tibi quoque praecipiam: interponas aliquot dies quibus contentus minimo ac vilissimo cibo, dura atque horrida veste, dicas tibi 'hoc est quod timebatur?' [6] In ipsa securitate animus ad difficilia se praeparet et contra iniurias fortunae inter beneficia firmetur. Miles in media pace decurrit, sine ullo hoste vallum iacit, et supervacuo labore lassatur ut sufficere necessario possit; quem in ipsa re trepidare nolueris, ante rem exerceas. Hoc secuti sunt qui omnibus mensibus paupertatem imitati prope ad inopiam accesserunt, ne umquam expavescerent quod saepe didicissent. [7] Non est nunc quod existimes me dicere Timoneas cenas et pauperum cellas et quidquid aliud est per quod luxuria divitiarum taedio ludit: grabattus ille verus sit et sagum et panis durus ac sordidus. Hoc triduo et quatriduo fer, interdum pluribus diebus, ut non lusus sit sed experimentum: tunc, mihi crede, Lucili, exultabis dipondio satur et intelleges ad securitatem non opus esse fortuna; hoc enim quod necessitati sat est dabit et irata. [8] Non est tamen quare tu multum tibi facere videaris - facies enim quod multa milia servorum, multa milia pauperum faciunt -: illo nomine te Cuspice, quod facies non coactus, quod tam facile erit tibi illud pati semper quam aliquando experiri. Exerceamur ad palum, et ne imparatos fortuna deprehendat, fiat nobis paupertas familiaris; securius divites erimus si scierimus quam non sit grave pauperes esse. [9] Certos habebat dies ille magister voluptatis Epicurus quibus maligne famem exstingueret, visurus an aliquid deesset ex plena et consummata voluptate, vel quantum deesset, et an dignum quod quis magno labore pensaret. Hoc certe in iis epistulis ait quas scripsit Charino magistratu ad Polyaenum; et quidem gloriatur non toto asse <se> pasci, Metrodorum, qui nondum tantum profecerit, toto. [10] In hoc tu victu saturitatem putas esse? Et voluptas est; voluptas autem non illa levis et fugax et subinde reficienda, sed stabilis et certa. Non enim iucunda res est aqua et polenta aut frustum hordeacii panis, sed summa voluptas est posse capere etiam ex his voluptatem et ad id se deduxisse quod eripere nulla fortunae iniquitas possit. [11] Liberaliora alimenta sunt carceris, sepositos ad capitale supplicium non tam anguste qui occisurus est pascit: quanta est animi magnitudo ad id sua sponte descendere quod ne ad extrema quidem decretis timendum sit! hoc est praeoccupare tela fortunae. [12] Incipe ergo, mi Lucili, sequi horum consuetudinem et aliquos dies destina quibus secedas a tuis rebus minimoque te facias familiarem; incipe cum paupertate habere commercium; aude, hospes, contemnere opes et te quoque dignum finge deo. [13] Nemo alius est deo dignus quam qui opes contempsit; quarum possessionem tibi non interdico, sed efficere volo ut illas intrepide possideas; quod uno consequeris modo, si te etiam sine illis beate victurum persuaseris tibi, si illas tamquam exituras semper aspexeris. [14] Sed iam incipiamus epistulam complicare. 'Prius' inquis 'redde quod debes.' Delegabo te ad Epicurum, ab illo fiet numeratio: 'immodica ira gignit insaniam'. Hoc quam verum sit necesse est scias, cum habueris et servum et inimicum. [15] In omnes personas hic exardescit affectus; tam ex amore nascitur quam ex odio, non minus inter seria quam inter lusus et iocos; nec interest ex quam magna causa nascatur sed in qualem perveniat animum. Sic ignis non refert quam magnus sed quo incidat; nam etiam maximum solida non receperunt, rursus arida et corripi facilia scintillam quoque fovent usque in incendium. Ita est, mi Lucili: ingentis irae exitus furor est, et ideo ira vitanda est non moderationis causa sed sanitatis. Vale.