Letter 19

I am delighted whenever I receive your letters. They fill me with good hope; by now they do not merely make promises about you, they give guarantees. Go on as you have begun, I beg and plead with you. What better request can I make of a friend than one I make for his own sake? If you can, withdraw quietly from the business you describe. If you cannot, tear yourself away. We have already scattered enough time. Let us begin in old age to gather up our baggage. Is there anything here for people to envy? We have lived in the strait; let us die in harbor. I would not advise you to seek fame from retirement. You should neither advertise it nor hide it. I will never drive you so far, after condemning the madness of the human race, that I want you to prepare some hiding place and oblivion for yourself. See to it that your retirement is not conspicuous, though it should be visible. Others, whose plans are still whole and untouched from the start, may decide whether they want to pass life in obscurity. You do not have that freedom. The energy of your talent, the elegance of your writings, and your distinguished friendships have brought you into public view. Recognition has already seized you. Even if you plunge into the deepest shadows and hide yourself completely, your earlier life will reveal you. You cannot have darkness; much of the old light will follow wherever you flee. You can claim quiet for yourself without anyone hating you, without longing for what you left, and without any bite of conscience. What will you leave behind that you could imagine yourself unwilling to have left? Clients? None of them follows you yourself; each follows something from you. Once people sought friendship; now they seek plunder. If a lonely old man changes his will, the morning visitor moves to another doorway. A great thing cannot be bought cheaply. So reckon whether it is better to leave yourself behind or to leave some of what is yours. I wish you had been allowed to grow old within the limits of the station into which you were born, and that Fortune had not sent you out onto the deep. Your swift success, your province, your procuratorship, and all that these offices promise have carried you far from the sight of healthy life. Greater duties will follow, and after them others again. What end will there be? What are you waiting for - until you no longer have anything to desire? That time will never come. Just as we say that fate is woven from a chain of causes, so desires too form a chain: one begins from the end of another. You have been lowered into a life that will never put an end to your misery and slavery on its own. Pull your chafed neck out from under the yoke. Better for it to be cut once than pressed forever. If you return to private life, everything will be smaller, but it will fill you abundantly. Now, though, the many things poured on you from every side do not satisfy you. Would you rather have fullness from poverty, or hunger in abundance? Prosperity is greedy, and it is exposed to the greed of others. As long as nothing is enough for you, you will not be enough for others either. "How," you ask, "am I to get out?" Any way you can. Think how many reckless things you have attempted for money, and how many laborious things for honor. Something must be dared for leisure too. Otherwise you must grow old amid the anxiety of provincial offices and then city offices, in turmoil and in ever-renewed waves of duty - waves no modesty and no quiet way of life can escape. What does it matter that you want rest? Your position does not. What if you allow that position to keep growing? Whatever is added to your success will be added to your fears. At this point I want to quote a saying of Maecenas, who spoke truth from the very rack of his own greatness: "The height itself thunders at the summit." If you ask in what book he said this, it is in the one titled Prometheus. He meant that the heights are struck by storms. Is any power worth the price of speaking in such a drunken style? He was a talented man, and he would have offered a great model for Roman eloquence if good fortune had not weakened him - no, unmanned him. The same end waits for you unless you shorten sail now and, as he wished too late to do, keep close to shore. This saying of Maecenas could have balanced my account with you, but, if I know you, you will bring a case against me and refuse to accept what I owe unless it comes in sound and sturdy coin. As matters stand, I must borrow from Epicurus. He says, "One should look around beforehand at the people with whom one will eat and drink, rather than at what one will eat and drink. Feasting without a friend is the life of a lion or a wolf." You will not have this unless you withdraw. Otherwise you will have as dinner guests the people your secretary has sorted out from the crowd of morning callers. A person is mistaken if he looks for a friend in the entry hall and tests him at dinner. No greater evil belongs to the busy person surrounded by his possessions than this: he thinks people are his friends when he himself is not a friend to them, and he believes his favors are effective in winning affection, although some people hate more deeply the more they owe. A small debt makes a debtor; a large one makes an enemy. "What then? Do favors not create friendships?" They do, if we have been allowed to choose the people who will receive them, and if they are placed carefully rather than scattered. So while you are beginning to make your mind your own, use this advice of the wise: judge that it matters more who receives a thing than what he receives. Farewell.

I leap for joy whenever I receive letters from you. For they fill me with hope; they are now not mere assurances concerning you, but guarantees. And I beg and pray you to proceed in this course; for what better request could I make of a friend than one which is to be made for his own sake? If possible, withdraw yourself from all the business of which you speak; and if you cannot do this, tear yourself away. We have dissipated enough of our time already; let us in old age begin to pack up our baggage. Surely there is nothing in this that men can begrudge us. We have spent our lives on the high seas; let us die in harbour. Not that I would advise you to try to win fame by your retirement; one’s retirement should neither be paraded nor concealed. Not concealed, I say, for I shall not go so far in urging you as to expect you to condemn all men as mad and then seek out for yourself a hiding-place and oblivion; rather make this your business, that your retirement be not conspicuous, though it should be obvious. In the second place, while those whose choice is unhampered from the start will deliberate on that other question, whether they wish to pass their lives in obscurity, in your case there is not a free choice. Your ability and energy have thrust you into the work of the world; so have the charm of your writings and the friendships you have made with famous and notable men. Renown has already taken you by storm. You may sink yourself into the depths of obscurity and utterly hide yourself; yet your earlier acts will reveal you. You cannot keep lurking in the dark; much of the old gleam will follow you wherever you fly. Peace you can claim for yourself without being disliked by anyone, without any sense of loss, and without any pangs of spirit. For what will you leave behind you that you can imagine yourself reluctant to leave? Your clients? But none of these men courts you for yourself; they merely court something from you. People used to hunt friends, but now they hunt pelf; if a lonely old man changes his will, the morning-caller transfers himself to another door. Great things cannot be bought for small sums; so reckon up whether it is preferable to leave your own true self, or merely some of your belongings. Would that you had had the privilege of growing old amid the limited circumstances of your origin, and that fortune had not raised you to such heights! You were removed far from the sight of wholesome living by your swift rise to prosperity, by your province, by your position as procurator, and by all that such things promise; you will next acquire more important duties and after them still more. And what will be the result? Why wait until there is nothing left for you to crave? That time will never come. We hold that there is a succession of causes, from which fate is woven; similarly, you may be sure, there is a succession in our desires; for one begins where its predecessor ends. You have been thrust into an existence which will never of itself put an end to your wretchedness and your slavery. Withdraw your chafed neck from the yoke; it is better that it should be cut off once for all, than galled for ever. If you retreat to privacy, everything will be on a smaller scale, but you will be satisfied abundantly; in your present condition, however, there is no satisfaction in the plenty which is heaped upon you on all sides. Would you rather be poor and sated, or rich and hungry? Prosperity is not only greedy, but it also lies exposed to the greed of others. And as long as nothing satisfies you, you yourself cannot satisfy others. “But,” you say, “how can I take my leave?” Any way you please. Reflect how many hazards you have ventured for the sake of money, and how much toil you have undertaken for a title! You must dare something to gain leisure, also,—or else grow old amid the worries of procuratorships abroad and subsequently of civil duties at home, living in turmoil and in ever fresh floods of responsibilities, which no man has ever succeeded in avoiding by unobtrusiveness or by seclusion of life. For what bearing on the case has your personal desire for a secluded life? Your position in the world desires the opposite! What if, even now, you allow that position to grow greater? But all that is added to your successes will be added to your fears. At this point I should like to quote a saying of Maecenas, who spoke the truth when he stood on the very summit: “There’s thunder even on the loftiest peaks.” If you ask me in what book these words are found, they occur in the volume entitled Prometheus. He simply meant to say that these lofty peaks have their tops surrounded with thunder-storms. But is any power worth so high a price that a man like you would ever, in order to obtain it, adopt a style so debauched as that? Maecenas was indeed a man of parts, who would have left a great pattern for Roman oratory to follow, had his good fortune not made him effeminate,—nay, had it not emasculated him! An end like his awaits you also, unless you forthwith shorten sail and,—as Maecenas was not willing to do until it was too late,—hug the shore! This saying of Maecenas’s might have squared my account with you; but I feel sure, knowing you, that you will get out an injunction against me, and that you will be unwilling to accept payment of my debt in such crude and debased currency. However that may be, I shall draw on the account of Epicurus. He says: “You must reflect carefully beforehand with whom you are to eat and drink, rather than what you are to eat and drink. For a dinner of meats without the company of a friend is like the life of a lion or a wolf.” This privilege will not be yours unless you withdraw from the world; otherwise, you will have as guests only those whom your slave-secretary sorts out from the throng of callers. It is, however, a mistake to select your friend in the reception-hall or to test him at the dinner-table. The most serious misfortune for a busy man who is overwhelmed by his possessions is, that he believes men to be his friends when he himself is not a friend to them, and that he deems his favours to be effective in winning friends, although, in the case of certain men, the more they owe, the more they hate. A trifling debt makes a man your debtor; a large one makes him an enemy. “What,” you say, “do not kindnesses establish friendships?” They do, if one has had the privilege of choosing those who are to receive them, and if they are placed judiciously, instead of being scattered broadcast. Therefore, while you are beginning to call your mind your own, meantime apply this maxim of the wise: consider that it is more important who receives a thing, than what it is he receives. Farewell.

[1] Exulto quotiens epistulas tuas accipio; implent enim me bona spe, et iam non promittunt de te sed spondent. Ita fac, oro atque obsecro - quid enim habeo melius quod amicum rogem quam quod pro ipso rogaturus sum? si potes, subducte istis occupationibus; si minus, eripe. Satis multum temporis sparsimus: incipiamus vasa in senectute colligere. [2] Numquid invidiosum est? in freto viximus, moriamur in portu. Neque ego suaserim tibi nomen ex otio petere, quod nec iactare debes nec abscondere; numquam enim usque eo te abigam generis humani furore damnato ut latebram tibi aliquam parari et oblivionem velim: id age ut otium tuum non emineat sed appareat. [3] Deinde videbunt de isto quibus integra sunt et prima consilia an velint vitam per obscurum transmittere: tibi liberum non est. In medium te protulit ingenii vigor, scriptorum elegantia, clarae et nobiles amicitiae; iam notitia te invasit; ut in extrema mergaris ac penitus recondaris, tamen priora monstrabunt. [4] Tenebras habere non potes; sequetur quocumque fugeris multum pristinae lucis: quietem potes vindicare sine ullius odio, sine desiderio aut morsu animi tui. Quid enim relinques quod invitus relictum a te possis cogitare? Clientes? quorum nemo te ipsum sequitur, sed aliquid ex te; amicitia olim petebatur, nunc praeda; mutabunt testamenta destituti senes, migrabit ad aliud limen salutator. Non potest parvo res magna constare: aestima utrum te relinquere an aliquid ex tuis malis. [5] Utinam quidem tibi senescere contigisset intra natalium tuorum modum, nec te in altum fortuna misisset! Tulit te longe a conspectu vitae salubris rapida felicitas, provincia et procuratio et quidquid ab istis promittitur; maiora deinde officia te excipient et ex aliis alia: quis exitus erit? [6] quid exspectas donec desinas habere quod cupias? numquam erit tempus. Qualem dicimus seriem esse causarum ex quibus nectitur fatum, talem esse *** cupiditatum: altera ex fine alterius nascitur. In eam demissus es vitam quae numquam tibi terminum miseriarum ac servitutis ipsa factura sit: subduc cervicem iugo tritam; semel illam incidi quam semper premi satius est. [7] Si te ad privata rettuleris, minora erunt omnia, sed affatim implebunt: at nunc plurima et undique ingesta non satiant. Utrum autem mavis ex inopia saturitatem an in copia famem? Et avida felicitas est et alienae aviditati exposita; quamdiu tibi satis nihil fuerit, ipse aliis non eris. [8] 'Quomodo' inquis 'exibo?' Utcumque. Cogita quam multa temere pro pecunia, quam multa laboriose pro honore temptaveris: aliquid et pro otio audendum est, aut in ista sollicitudine procurationum et deinde urbanorum officiorum senescendum, in tumultu ac semper novis fluctibus quos effugere nulla modestia, nulla vitae quiete contingit. Quid enim ad rem pertinet an tu quiescere velis? fortuna tua non vult. Quid si illi etiam nunc permiseris crescere? quantum ad successus accesserit accedet ad metus. [9] Volo tibi hoc loco referre dictum Maecenatis vera in ipso eculeo elocuti: 'ipsa enim altitudo attonat summa'. Si quaeris in quo libro dixerit, in eo qui Prometheus inscribitur. Hoc voluit dicere, attonita habet summa. Est ergo tanti ulla potentia ut sit tibi tam ebrius sermo? Ingeniosus ille vir fuit, magnum exemplum Romanae eloquentiae daturus nisi illum enervasset felicitas, immo castrasset. Hic te exitus manet nisi iam contrahes vela, nisi, quod ille sero voluit, terram leges. [10] Poteram tecum hac Maecenatis sententia parem facere rationem, sed movebis mihi controversiam, si novi te, nec voles quod debeo <nisi> in aspero et probo accipere. Ut se res habet, ab Epicuro versura facienda est. 'Ante' inquit 'circumspiciendum est cum quibus edas et bibas quam quid edas et bibas; nam sine amico visceratio leonis ac lupi vita est.' [11] Hoc non continget tibi nisi secesseris: alioquin habebis convivas quos ex turba salutantium nomenclator digesserit; errat autem qui amicum in atrio quaerit, in convivio probat. Nullum habet maius malum occupatus homo et bonis suis obsessus quam quod amicos sibi putat quibus ipse non est, quod beneficia sua efficacia iudicat ad conciliandos animos, cum quidam quo plus debent magis oderint: leve aes alienum debitorem facit, grave inimicum. [12] 'Quid ergo? beneficia non parant amicitias?' Parant, si accepturos licuit eligere, si collocata, non sparsa sunt. Itaque dum incipis esse mentis tuae, interim hoc consilio sapientium utere, ut magis ad rem existimes pertinere quis quam quid acceperit. Vale.