Letter 30

I have seen Aufidius Bassus, that excellent man, broken in body and struggling against his years. But already old age weighs him down more than he can bear up against; it has settled upon him with a great, indeed its entire, weight. You know that his body was always weak and lacking in vigor; for a long time he held it together, and, to put it more truly, kept patching it up: then suddenly it gave way. Just as in a ship that is taking on bilge water one leak or another can be stopped, but once it begins to give way and spring open in many places, the gaping vessel cannot be saved, so in an aged body its frailty can up to a point be sustained and propped up. But when, as in a rotting building, every joint pulls apart, and while one part is being shored up another splits open, then one must look about for the way to get out. Yet our friend Bassus is keen in spirit: this is what philosophy provides, to be cheerful in the very sight of death, and brave and glad in whatever condition the body may be, and not failing even though one is being failed. A great helmsman sails even with a torn sail, and, if he has been stripped of his rigging, still fits what remains of the ship to her course. This is what our friend Bassus does, and he looks upon his own end with the spirit and the countenance with which you would think a man too unconcerned if he looked thus upon another's. It is a great thing, Lucilius, and one to be learned over a long time, when that inevitable hour arrives, to depart with a calm mind. Other kinds of death are mingled with hope: a disease ceases, a fire is put out, a collapsing building has set down unharmed those it seemed about to crush; the sea has cast back unharmed those it had swallowed by the same force with which it sucked them down; the soldier has drawn his sword back from the very neck of the man about to perish: there is nothing for him to hope for whom old age leads to death; for him alone there is no intervening. By no kind of death do men die more gently, but neither more slowly. Our friend Bassus seemed to me to be escorting himself to the grave, and laying himself out, and living as though he were his own survivor, and bearing wisely his longing for himself. For he speaks much about death and works diligently at this, to persuade us that, if there is any discomfort or fear in this business, it is the fault of the one dying, not of death; that there is no more trouble in death itself than there is after it. Now it is just as mad to fear what one will not suffer as to fear what one will not feel. Or does anyone believe this can come about, that the very thing through which nothing is felt should itself be felt? "Therefore," he says, "death is so far beyond all evil that it is beyond all fear of evils." These things I know have often been said and must often be said, but neither when I read them did they profit me equally, nor when I heard them from those who declared that the things were not to be feared while they themselves stood far from the fear of them: this man, however, carried the greatest authority with me, since he was speaking about a death close at hand. For I will tell you what I think: I judge that the man who is in death itself is braver than the man who is around death. For death, once brought near, has given even to the inexperienced the resolve not to avoid the unavoidable; just as a gladiator, however cowardly throughout the whole fight, offers his throat to his adversary and guides the wandering sword to himself. But that death which is near at hand and certainly bound to come demands a slow and steady firmness of mind, which is rarer and cannot be displayed except by the wise man. Most gladly, then, did I listen to him, as one delivering his verdict about death and revealing what its nature is, as though he had inspected it more closely. He would, I think, have more credibility with you, more weight, if someone had come back to life and from experience reported that there is no evil in death: those who have stood beside it, who have both seen death coming and received it, will best tell you what disturbance the approach of death brings. Among these you may count Bassus, who did not wish us to be deceived. He says that the man who fears death is as foolish as the man who fears old age; for just as old age follows youth, so death follows old age. He has not wished to live who does not wish to die; for life was given with the condition of death; this is where one is going. To fear it is therefore the mark of a madman, since certain things are awaited, but doubtful things are dreaded. Death holds a necessity that is fair and unconquered: who can complain that he is in a condition in which everyone is? And the first part of fairness is equality. But now it is superfluous to plead the cause of nature, which willed our law to be none other than her own: whatever she has composed she dissolves, and whatever she dissolves she composes again. And indeed, if it has fallen to anyone's lot that old age release him gently, not torn suddenly from life but withdrawn little by little, oh, surely he ought to give thanks to all the gods because, satisfied, he has been brought to the rest necessary for a man, the rest welcome to one who is weary. You see some men longing for death, and indeed more than life is usually prayed for. I do not know which of the two I should judge gives us greater spirit, those who demand death or those who wait for it cheerful and at peace, since the former sometimes comes from frenzy and sudden indignation, but this tranquility comes from settled judgment. Some men come to death in anger: no one has received death cheerfully as it came except the man who had long composed himself for it. I admit, then, that for many reasons I came more often to this man dear to me, in order to know whether I would find him each time the same, whether the vigor of his mind diminished along with the strength of his body; but it kept growing in him in the way the gladness of charioteers is usually most plainly marked when, on the seventh lap, the palm of victory draws near. Indeed, following the precepts of Epicurus, he used to say, first, that he hoped there was no pain in that last gasp; but if there were, that he had some consolation in its very brevity; for no pain that is great is long. Moreover, that relief would come to him even in the very tearing apart of soul and body, if it happened with torment, since after that pain he would no longer be able to feel pain. He had no doubt, however, that an old man's soul was already on the very edge of his lips and would not be wrenched from the body by any great force. "A fire that has seized upon material to feed it must be put out with water and sometimes by the collapse of the building: but the fire that lacks its nourishment sinks down of its own accord." I gladly hear these things, my Lucilius, not as something new, but as one led into the actual presence of the matter. What then? Have I not watched many men cutting short their lives? I have indeed seen them, but those who come to death without hatred of life, and admit it rather than drag it toward them, carry more weight with me. He used to say, indeed, that we feel this torment by our own doing, because we tremble only when we believe death to be near us: yet from whom is it not near, ready in all places and at every moment? "But let us consider," he said, "at the time when some cause of dying seems to be drawing near, how much nearer are other causes that are not feared." An enemy was threatening someone with death, and an attack of indigestion got there first. If we are willing to distinguish the causes of our fear, we will find that some are real and others only seem to be. We do not fear death, but the thought of death; for from death itself we are always exactly the same distance. So if death is to be feared, it is always to be feared: for what span of time has ever been exempt from death? But I ought to be afraid that you will hate such long letters worse than death. So I will make an end: yet you, in order never to fear death, think always upon it. Farewell.

I have beheld Aufidius Bassus, that noble man, shattered in health and wrestling with his years. But they already bear upon him so heavily that he cannot be raised up; old age has settled down upon him with great,—yes, with its entire, weight. You know that his body was always delicate and sapless. For a long time he has kept it in hand, or, to speak more correctly, has kept it together; of a sudden it has collapsed. Just as in a ship that springs a leak, you can always stop the first or the second fissure, but when many holes begin to open and let in water, the gaping hull cannot be saved; similarly, in an old man’s body, there is a certain limit up to which you can sustain and prop its weakness. But when it comes to resemble a decrepit building,—when every joint begins to spread and while one is being repaired another falls apart,—then it is time for a man to look about him and consider how he may get out. But the mind of our friend Bassus is active. Philosophy bestows this boon upon us; it makes us joyful in the very sight of death, strong and brave no matter in what state the body may be, cheerful and never failing though the body fail us. A great pilot can sail even when his canvas is rent; if his ship be dismantled, he can yet put in trim what remains of her hull and hold her to her course. This is what our friend Bassus is doing; and he contemplates his own end with the courage and countenance which you would regard as undue indifference in a man who so contemplated another’s. This is a great accomplishment, Lucilius, and one which needs long practice to learn,—to depart calmly when the inevitable hour arrives. Other kinds of death contain an ingredient of hope: a disease comes to an end; a fire is quenched; falling houses have set down in safety those whom they seemed certain to crush; the sea has cast ashore unharmed those whom it had engulfed, by the same force through which it drew them down; the soldier has drawn back his sword from the very neck of his doomed foe. But those whom old age is leading away to death have nothing to hope for; old age alone grants no reprieve. No ending, to be sure, is more painless; but there is none more lingering. Our friend Bassus seemed to me to be attending his own funeral, and laying out his own body for burial, and living almost as if he had survived his own death, and bearing with wise resignation his grief at his own departure. For he talks freely about death, trying hard to persuade us that if this process contains any element of discomfort or of fear, it is the fault of the dying person, and not of death itself; also, that there is no more inconvenience at the actual moment than there is after it is over. “And it is just as insane,” he adds, “for a man to fear what will not happen to him, as to fear what he will not feel if it does happen.” Or does anyone imagine it to be possible that the agency by which feeling is removed can be itself felt? “Therefore,” says Bassus, “death stands so far beyond all evil that it is beyond all fear of evils.” I know that all this has often been said and should be often repeated; but neither when I read them were such precepts so effective with me, nor when I heard them from the lips of those who were at a safe distance from the fear of the things which they declared were not to be feared. But this old man had the greatest weight with me when he discussed death and death was near. For I must tell you what I myself think: I hold that one is braver at the very moment of death than when one is approaching death. For death, when it stands near us, gives even to inexperienced men the courage not to seek to avoid the inevitable. So the gladiator, who throughout the fight has been no matter how faint-hearted, offers his throat to his opponent and directs the wavering blade to the vital spot. But an end that is near at hand, and is bound to come, calls for tenacious courage of soul; this is a rarer thing, and none but the wise man can manifest it. Accordingly, I listened to Bassus with the deepest pleasure; he was casting his vote concerning death and pointing out what sort of a thing it is when it is observed, so to speak, nearer at hand. I suppose that a man would have your confidence in a larger degree, and would have more weight with you, if he had come back to life and should declare from experience that there is no evil in death; and so, regarding the approach of death, those will tell you best what disquiet it brings who have stood in its path, who have seen it coming and have welcomed it. Bassus may be included among these men; and he had no wish to deceive us. He says that it is as foolish to fear death as to fear old age; for death follows old age precisely as old age follows youth. He who does not wish to die cannot have wished to live. For life is granted to us with the reservation that we shall die; to this end our path leads. Therefore, how foolish it is to fear it, since men simply await that which is sure, but fear only that which is uncertain! Death has its fixed rule,—equitable and unavoidable. Who can complain when he is governed by terms which include everyone? The chief part of equity, however, is equality. But it is superfluous at the present time to plead Nature’s cause; for she wishes our laws to be identical with her own; she but resolves that which she has compounded, and compounds again that which she has resolved. Moreover, if it falls to the lot of any man to be set gently adrift by old age,—not suddenly torn from life, but withdrawn bit by bit,—oh, verily he should thank the gods, one and all, because, after he has had his fill, he is removed to a rest which is ordained for mankind, a rest that is welcome to the weary. You may observe certain men who crave death even more earnestly than others are wont to beg for life. And I do not know which men give us greater courage,—those who call for death, or those who meet it cheerfully and tranquilly,—for the first attitude is sometimes inspired by madness and sudden anger, the second is the calm which results from fixed judgment. Before now men have gone to meet death in a fit of rage; but when death comes to meet him, no one welcomes it cheerfully, except the man who has long since composed himself for death. I admit, therefore, that I have visited this dear friend of mine more frequently on many pretexts, but with the purpose of learning whether I should find him always the same, and whether his mental strength was perhaps waning in company with his bodily powers. But it was on the increase, just as the joy of the charioteer is wont to show itself more clearly when he is on the seventh round of the course, and nears the prize. Indeed, he often said, in accord with the counsels of Epicurus: “I hope, first of all, that there is no pain at the moment when a man breathes his last; but if there is, one will find an element of comfort in its very shortness. For no great pain lasts long. And at all events, a man will find relief at the very time when soul and body are being torn asunder, even though the process be accompanied by excruciating pain, in the thought that after this pain is over he can feel no more pain. I am sure, however, that an old man’s soul is on his very lips, and that only a little force is necessary to disengage it from the body. A fire which has seized upon a substance that sustains it needs water to quench it, or, sometimes, the destruction of the building itself; but the fire which lacks sustaining fuel dies away of its own accord.” I am glad to hear such words, my dear Lucilius,—not as new to me, but as leading me into the presence of an actual fact. And what then? Have I not seen many men break the thread of life? I have indeed seen such men; but those have more weight with me who approach death without any loathing for life, letting death in, so to speak, and not pulling it towards them. Bassus kept saying: “It is due to our own fault that we feel this torture, because we shrink from dying only when we believe that our end is near at hand.” But who is not near death? It is ready for us in all places and at all times. “Let us consider,” he went on to say, “when some agency of death seems imminent, how much nearer are other varieties of dying which are not feared by us.” A man is threatened with death by an enemy, but this form of death is anticipated by an attack of indigestion. And if we are willing to examine critically the various causes of our fear, we shall find that some exist, and others only seem to be. We do not fear death; we fear the thought of death. For death itself is always the same distance from us; wherefore, if it is to be feared at all, it is to be feared always. For what season of our life is exempt from death? But what I really ought to fear is that you will hate this long letter worse than death itself; so I shall stop. Do you, however, always think on death in order that you may never fear it. Farewell.

[1] Bassum Aufidium, virum optimum, vidi quassum, aetati obluctantem. Sed iam plus illum degravat quam quod possit attolli; magno senectus et universo pondere incubuit. Scis illum semper infirmi corporis et exsucti fuisse; diu illud continuit et, ut verius dicam, concinnavit: subito defecit. Quemadmodum in nave quae sentinam trahit uni rimae aut alteri obsistitur, ubi plurimis locis laxari coepit et cedere, succurri non potest navigio dehiscenti, ita in senili corpore aliquatenus imbecillitas sustineri et fulciri potest. Ubi tamquam in putri aedificio omnis iunctura diducitur, et dum alia excipitur, alia discinditur, circumspiciendum est quomodo exeas. Bassus tamen noster alacer animo est: hoc philosophia praestat, in conspectu mortis hilarem <esse> et in quocumque corporis habitu fortem laetumque nec deficientem quamvis deficiatur. Magnus gubernator et scisso navigat velo et, si exarmavit, tamen reliquias navigii aptat ad cursum. Hoc facit Bassus noster et eo animo vultuque finem suum spectat quo alienum spectare nimis securi putares. Magna res est, Lucili, haec et diu discenda, cum adventat hora illa inevitabilis, aequo animo abire. Alia genera mortis spei mita sunt: desinit morbus, incendium exstinguitur, ruina quos videbatur oppressura deposuit; mare quos hauserat eadem vi qua sorbebat eiecit incolumes; gladium miles ab ipsa perituri cervice re vocavit: nil habet quod speret quem senectus ducit ad mortem; huic uni intercedi non potest. Nullo genere homines mollius moriuntur sed nec diutius. [5] Bassus noster videbatur mihi prosequi se et componere et vivere tamquam superstes sibi et sapienter ferre desiderium sui. Nam de morte multa loquitur et id agit sedulo ut nobis persuadeat, si quid incommodi aut metus in hoc negotio est, morientis vitium esse, non mortis; non magis in ipsa quicquam esse molestiae quam post ipsam. [6] Tam demens autem est qui timet quod non est passurus quam qui timet quod non est sensurus. An quis quam hoc futurum credit, ut per quam nihil sentiatur, ea sentiatur? 'Ergo' inquit 'mors adeo extra omne malum est ut sit extra omnem malorum metum.' [7] Haec ego scio et saepe dicta et saepe dicenda, sed neque cum legerem aeque mihi profuerunt neque cum audirem iis dicentibus qui negabant timenda a quorum metu aberant: hic vero plurimum apud me auctoritatis habuit, cum loqueretur de morte vicina. [8] Dicam enim quid sentiam: puto fortiorem esse eum qui in ipsa morte est quam qui circa mortem. Mors enim admota etiam imperitis animum dedit non vitandi inevitabilia; si gladiator tota pugna timidissimus iugulum adversario praestat et errantem gladium sibi attemperat. At illa quae in propinquo est utique ventura desiderat lentam animi firmitatem, quae est rarior nec potest nisi a sapiente praestari. [9] Libentissime itaque illum audiebam quasi ferentem de morte: sententiam et qualis esset eius natura velut propius inspectae indicantem. Plus, ut puto, fidei haberet apud te, plus ponderis, si quis revixisset et in morte nihil mali esse narraret expertus: accessus mortis quam perturbationem afferat optime tibi hi dicent qui secundum illam steterunt, qui venientem et viderunt et receperunt. [10] Inter hos Bassum licet numeres, qui nos decipi noluit. Is ait tam stultum esse qui mortem timeat quam qui senectutem; nam quemadmodum senectus adulescentiam sequitur, ita mors senectutem. Vivere noluit qui mori non vult; vita enim cum exceptione mortis data est; ad hanc itur. Quam ideo timere dementis est quia certa exspectantur, dubia metuuntur. [11] Mors necessitatem habet aequam et invictam: quis queri potest in ea condicione se esse in qua nemo non est? prima autem pars est aequitatis aequalitas. Sed nunc supervacuum est naturae causam agere, quae non aliam voluit legem nostram esse quam suam: quid quid composuit resolvit, et quidquid resolvit componit iterum. [12] Iam vero si cui contigit ut illum senectus leviter emitteret, non repente avulsum vitae sed minutatim subductum, o ne ille agere gratias diis omnibus debet quod satiatus ad requiem homini necessariam, lasso gratam perductus est. Vides quosdam optantes mortem, et quidem magis quam rogari solet vita. Nescio utros existimem maiorem nobis animum dare, qui deposcunt mortem an qui hilares eam quietique opperiuntur, quoniam illud ex rabie interdum ac repentina indignatione fit, haec ex iudicio certo tranquillitas est. Venit aliquis ad mortem iratus: mortem venientem nemo hilaris excepit nisi qui se ad illam diu composuerat. [13] Fateor ergo ad hominem mihi carum ex pluribus me causis frequentius venisse, ut scirem an illum totiens eundem invenirem, numquid cum corporis viribus minueretur animi vigor; qui sic crescebat illi quomodo manifestior notari solet agitatorum laetitia cum septimo spatio palmae appropinquat. [14] Dicebat quidem ille Epicuri praeceptis obsequens, primum sperare se nullum dolorem esse in illo extremo anhelitu; si tamen esset, habere aliquantum in ipsa brevitate solacii; nullum enim dolorem longum esse qui magnus est. Ceterum succursurum sibi etiam in ipsa distractione animae corporis que, si cum cruciatu id fieret, post illum dolorem se dolere non posse. Non dubitare autem se quin senilis anima in primis labris esset nec magna vi distraheretur a corpore. 'Ignis qui alentem materiam occupavit aqua et interdum ruina exstinguendus est: ille qui alimentis deficitur sua sponte subsidit.' [15] Libenter haec, mi Lucili, audio non tamquam nova, sed tamquam in rem praesentem perductus. Quid ergo? non multos spectavi abrumpentes vitam? Ego vero vidi, sed plus momenti apud me habent qui ad mortem veniunt sine odio vitae et admittunt illam, non attrahunt. [16] Illud quidem aiebat tormentum nostra nos sentire opera, quod tunc trepidamus cum prope a nobis esse credimus mortem: a quo enim non prope est, parata omnibus locis omnibusque momentis? 'Sed consideremus' inquit 'tunc cum aliqua causa moriendi videtur accedere, quanto aliae propiores sint quae non timentur.' [17] Hostis alicui mortem minabatur, hanc cruditas occupavit. Si distinguere voluerimus causas metus nostri, inveniemus alias esse, alias videri. Non mortem timemus sed cogitationem mortis; ab ipsa enim semper tantundem absumus. Ita si timenda mors est, semper timenda est: quod enim morti tempus exemptum est? [18] Sed vereri debeo ne tam longas epistulas peius quam mortem oderis. Itaque finem faciam: tu tamen mortem ut numquam timeas semper cogita. Vale.